life could be a dream, if I could take you up to paradise up above, if you would tell me I'm the only one that you love, life could be a dream sweetheart --- the crewcuts (who were, by the way, canadian. yes, yes.)
spring is here, the perverts are out. and me. i'm out too. sunshine is strange. the weather is rolling over and showing it's sunny cheek, it's wiggin' me out, bra. the blossoms are all gone, sadly (is it too much just to wake up every day and turn your lips to the sun? or is there something else you require?) but the tulips are in full drag and the great big windows at my work remind me, as the hours happen one after the other, that i'm missing all the sunshine as i shelve self help books and browse indiscriminately. seriously, management at chapters is damn slack. i stood by my shelving cart - which looked, by the way, as though some sort of crazy literature bomb had just gone off on it, it was fuckin' dying with books that need to be shelved - and read "starving children, perfect daughters" for an hour today. an hour, mind you. where are the people to keep me in line? who's out there slacking, when they should be curbing my youthfulness? god dammit, people, we only have so much time.
essays! they must be written. on abstract expressionism and minimalist sculptures and paratactical prose and the political environment of the 14th century in western europe. what a grab bag of bullshit. game plan: finish school work, get hair extensions, then part-ay.
Ah ha ha ha by god i'm losing it. I'm going to run away to L.A.
--
Dear Neighborhood
left last night on a bicycle
sure to return
don't worry
past the ravine that vees us in
where junkies hunt syringes
by night
veining schizophrenia, the poor
families board up their windows,
disappear when
government intervention ensures
the area around Lakewood
is nice
all green and white, the dignity
of stone parsing it's
boulevards
we call it Stonehenge and walk
our dogs around it, it is art
by committee, art
that has no mommy. Aren't I supposed
to be gone by now? You cling
to my heels
I used to play here but
now I just write
letters, sent
up Broadway which is not really a street,
until it hits Granville, and until then,
it is like me, just going
to where it will be. In fits
of voyeurism I sit
on my roof
illuminate and pause, wait
for someone to see me
and notice
someone to descend, a boy
yes a boy in Vans, winged
paper and taped
lowered on wires, operated,
to deus ex me, to fly
me away
our ascent shall be swift and
lateral, they will turn our
palms to us
naked and gleaming, waving
like flags, and we'll show
them, we'll show them
spring is here, the perverts are out. and me. i'm out too. sunshine is strange. the weather is rolling over and showing it's sunny cheek, it's wiggin' me out, bra. the blossoms are all gone, sadly (is it too much just to wake up every day and turn your lips to the sun? or is there something else you require?) but the tulips are in full drag and the great big windows at my work remind me, as the hours happen one after the other, that i'm missing all the sunshine as i shelve self help books and browse indiscriminately. seriously, management at chapters is damn slack. i stood by my shelving cart - which looked, by the way, as though some sort of crazy literature bomb had just gone off on it, it was fuckin' dying with books that need to be shelved - and read "starving children, perfect daughters" for an hour today. an hour, mind you. where are the people to keep me in line? who's out there slacking, when they should be curbing my youthfulness? god dammit, people, we only have so much time.
essays! they must be written. on abstract expressionism and minimalist sculptures and paratactical prose and the political environment of the 14th century in western europe. what a grab bag of bullshit. game plan: finish school work, get hair extensions, then part-ay.
Ah ha ha ha by god i'm losing it. I'm going to run away to L.A.
--
Dear Neighborhood
left last night on a bicycle
sure to return
don't worry
past the ravine that vees us in
where junkies hunt syringes
by night
veining schizophrenia, the poor
families board up their windows,
disappear when
government intervention ensures
the area around Lakewood
is nice
all green and white, the dignity
of stone parsing it's
boulevards
we call it Stonehenge and walk
our dogs around it, it is art
by committee, art
that has no mommy. Aren't I supposed
to be gone by now? You cling
to my heels
I used to play here but
now I just write
letters, sent
up Broadway which is not really a street,
until it hits Granville, and until then,
it is like me, just going
to where it will be. In fits
of voyeurism I sit
on my roof
illuminate and pause, wait
for someone to see me
and notice
someone to descend, a boy
yes a boy in Vans, winged
paper and taped
lowered on wires, operated,
to deus ex me, to fly
me away
our ascent shall be swift and
lateral, they will turn our
palms to us
naked and gleaming, waving
like flags, and we'll show
them, we'll show them
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
rin:
walk down w 7th between granville and cambie tomorrow, i promise you'll see cherry blossoms aplenty.
rin:
well, i kind ofo wish i was gonna be here in a squid kitchen, but i'm not gonna make too much of a fuss.