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I try to go back to my freshmen year high school mindset before I traded black spikes for hemp dresses, in the endless sugared coffee residue circle mornings when inspiration was served as a side salad for madness, when they were both parts of the same phenomenon before they split, like my internal voice, like the wooden chopsticks that leave splinters in my two dollar chow fun, when short black skirts, fish netted legs and high boots were my masquerade before I was proud of my inexperience, when naivete dribbled from my dimples back when I fronted "I'd seen it all," before my Massachusetts mountain paradise re-found, my graduating class defined by its virginity, breaking the stalemate, hibernating since the fifties, showing original sin for its paradox, because in god's playground even blow jobs are holy, back from that Cinco de Mayo from the heavenly dynamo when the tyrannosaurus day was spent scripturizing with the fervor of my last un-self-recognized youth, through the thunderstorm classes when I was and I am both beat and slam, long before I was with you in Rockland, when my green, budding poems, bloody with violent birth, like D Day, like my grandfathers WWII tales, always redder then red, before I mistrusted the internet's web, when I traded my boiling instant messenger for signed picture postcards that would never see the light of mailrooms, before I didn't write books chaptered "the orgy that wasn't" based on drunken decorating parties, when a voice growing like jack's been stock, finally screamed, informing me what colors the facedown cards were, before firework's green explosions on St. Patrick's day, also unrequited love's birthday, when my sister's phone call re-laid her engagement to bald-fat-ugly-republican with two kids divorcee, when I gave you burnt CD narratives of the New York spring break I spent with eject button you that I labeled on my laptop "get angry," before it was tapped by space alien agents of the CIA, before my phone was being broadcasted in surround sound from the campus station to it’s private apartments of acquaintances, before I couldn't cross roads for it would conjuring the devil and the color of your sandals told me you loved me, before I placed my soul in my confessors bowl, who handed out reed crosses like condoms in the city.

But I've seen a generation of minds, squandered, plundered for diagnoses, the love-childs of hope and psychosis, kindergarten social skills and self-help books sold as psychotherapy, our cognitive behaviors set in the background of abusive fathers, indifferent mothers and siblings going chartreuse with confusion, un-grasping the illness, like wings that wont fly, like Icarus's prototypes somehow organically inherent in out genes, days put on the edge of sanity, circling the rim, like children's fingers, too dirty and rough to make the wineglass sing, grime and callouses made of ruminating embarrassment, micro scoping endeavors, labeling as failures, guilt and shame flavoring the whole thing, sprinkled like a foreign spice over a meal that leaves us hungrier then we were and keeps being replenished out of the saucepan of simmering experience, hearts like the lead out arms are made of, rusty, like migraines from mis-shuting brain neurons ,twitching like our legs, sore, like our throats left dry from avelanching medication side effects, that block serotonin and dopamine from reaching our sandy cactus receptors, keeping us from the purple acid and light pollution peyote hallucinations, growing in us like how our breasts rounded or balls dropped, this puberty of the consciousness, distracting and all encompassing like 14 year old hormones or gossip, running shootingly a muck, unable to tell if our suicides were successful because surly this couldn't be living, when death is our breakfast and hell our dinner, with a luncheon of nostalgic regrets and conclusions from the patterns we find in memories, as if spelled out in alphabet soup, our girlfriends are self-proclaimed Cleopatras and Joan of Arcs, our compatriots are Benjamin Franklins, I've met as many Virgin Marys and Jesus' as door to door Jehovah's Witnesses; so get me to the Wizard of Oz, my dog is hungry and I want to go home.