drunken, eeek, no second read allowed

you read like salinger scripted your moves, every word directly from franny and zooey. i hear your intention burst through the eye skirting and the nostalgic moments of remembering - it's all clouded through cigarette smoke and tub water and late night catharsis. can I hear anything beyond the godamns and the decoratively painted commentary though i was never truly there? I hold most everyone up to your narrative you know, which is a hard standard even for salinger to handle. so they let me down; how could they not? just wanted to let you know, you always spoke like someone outside of you scripted it before you exhaled and entered. and i jumped suit. thank god we never spoke without scripting on our own. i wish, more than ever, that you'd do that thing that you always seemed to do, and contact me now. but salinger never would allow it. it simply wouldnt be literary, because it's been my move for a while now, i guess. i just can't seem to move.

Fleetwood Mac Rumours on repeat

Don't you dare tuck me into a poem, i'm running away with all our memories. Don't narrate a word of this, you didn't earn it, never deserved it. Don't spin me into a lesson - yours were always too trite anyways - so what have we learned? Expression finds those who live it, seek it, form it, fill it... Fuck It, after this you'll have nothing to express: i'm robbing you of your thoughts on the matter. I'm plotting the worlds largest heist, stealing back all the conversations we ever had. And, my dear, I'm setting some of them on fire like the catalyst i had always wanted, ripping some to shreds in the way i always needed to be spread, eating sections of some to give me back that insight that i was so severely lacking, handing the more bizarre ones out in quarter-page fliers on campus streets to unsuspecting students, washing the uncomfortable ones in a load of darks, heavy duty to get them to bend or fade where necessary. You don't get them. This is your alimony, these are my winnings. A fools winnings, and i'll be damned if i don't fritter them away as i so foolishly please. So go on, expressionless, empty, unaffected, unresponsive, because i'm ridding you of that pesky pseudo-guilt-inducing burden that is meant to come with endings. No need to rationalize this to yourself. No need to excuse things done or said. No need to question all that was left undone or that had gone unspoken - you are hereby pardoned of all these obligatory steps towards "moving on". Because i'm stealing all our memories, and they have no place in your fucking poems.

I wish i could write, but i've been listening intensely to this fucking silence for weeks on end now, long before any of this incompatibility and derailing was well earned. Unfortunately, nothing comes out when you yell into a vacuum, but all the better, because i'm sure it would be shit content-wise if at all audible. Found this unpublished entry from many a moon ago, when things were flowing...

A letter to the many women I have known and further fictionalized:

I write a pleading pardon for the thousands of thoughts hinted at but never actually uttered, the self-righteous claims of bold and balled courage, scarves and gloves and matching hats fashioned of faux bravery, I stay darkly cloaked in false security even on the sunniest, muggiest, sweatiest of humid summer situations. I write out all my worry for all that was miscommunicated, most of which I never actually said but - like a story that you hear enough times to insert yourself in as the protagonist - simply convinced myself of saying. This suspended circus act of eye-defying self-exposure flies perfectly fine from thousands of miles away and even more so when poured into thousands of cyber particles sloppily assembled, but wears quickly thin when I’m actually asked to go back and re-read.

As I hyperbolize myself into a surrealist conception of love and truth and bone-baring honesty, life comes tramping in, all horns of reality, clamoring and running amok. It knocks books off shelves, shatters picture frames, tears up essays graded and stained. It turns stereos to full blast playing all the songs that you - the very women to whom this letter is addressed - had sent me in days passed. Songs that may very well have been charged with that same, steaming, shameless intention that I have in all of my avoidance. It's stupid and drunken, all with the hope that these tunes might slip into my ears and slide deep into the crevices of my mind late at night and be the last thought - that sexy resounding ultimate note, that launching pad for 6 more hours of dream play. But they all play too loudly and simultaneously, not even allowing me those vital moments of narcissism assuring myself that you are reminded of me when you hear them too.

Do I miss or resent all the distance? It ripped us apart in the very moment that we had what my skewed measuring stick might mark as potential. And it kept us separated from getting to know each other, from moving past electric moments of eyes meeting, bodies touching, jokes made and laughed at. It stole loads of nerves like fistfuls of jewels and left us poor and confused at how quickly things end. But maybe this was also the basis of all the potential in the first place. That distance could very well have been the throbbing heart of everything we ever had together. Not just physical distance but also personal distance. It gave me the chance to make you up as I have – the less I know the more I fill in on my own. It wraps everything in glossy surprise, all under the pretense that one day you will be there and undo everything I have transposed onto you. And that distance allowed me to keep every one of you, dear women, separate, innocuous, living in functional harmony.

Dear women, I’m sorry for all of the rash decisions I’ve made, and even more sorry for those I those that I did not. I’m sorry for everything I never said aloud but continue to imagine saying. I’m sorry for scripting rather than speaking because it lets me dramatize both you and me and we’re played by sexy celebrities while thousands of people are watching. I never even gave you the chance to say what I know to be true, which is that you don’t and never felt the way I pretend you do in my head. I darken the outer edges so the plotline seems to thicken. In doing so, then I never have to admit that I may very well have already been forgotten.