Sleeping*

I'm falling asleep like its waking up; like its the dreams I'm rushing to. I'm going to bed with it all, making up stories in my eyelids that were never ever there.

Forgetting all at once, something not yet made to exist. Beginning suddenly, like the first two words...and then...stop p i n g. It's unfound, so unbound, when my sore stomach aches and hunched back hurts. 

---------You begin the prose already written-compose nothing fresh-telling yourself the same tired tales already told. Weren't you there anyhow? ....but ah, the difference. The difference is there's lies on top the lines that you made. And they feel so much warmer, and you begin to forget you made up what was never ever there.

I'm not quite anywhere. 

       So Lie to me a little. Lie like the words of the song you drink, when it lurches within the spot beneath the collarbone, and you feel every sense of every note. 

Lie to me a little. For brand new Lies that I can tell myself. I need Lies to create-I'm an Artist. 

                                                                                 -------------------------------------------------------

My fair City seems detached somehow, so I can lose my point tonight. (Funny that when I get the news I'm staying a bit longer, the place looks a bit boring. It leaves my grip.)

Blame it on the sighs everyone is making, as we sit within our piles. Our preparations that make us leave in the morning. Our STUFF. 

          "that's what happens when we lose our poise-we search for a fixed point way off in the distance; in the vague hope that'll keep us from drowning..." ~first you have to row a little boat 

 So I search all the calendars for what's to come in the coming days. The springtime and the flowers that are just barely breaking through. We're just barely making it through.

And suddenly there's everything to come! Dwell in all the dreams of what the nights could hold, cause I still believe in certain nights. I still believe in something good, it's a damning little critter digging into the spot on my neck beneath my curls. The place I'll tattoo. Mark forever on where I felt the words that never existed...

Sleep is waiting; but I'd rather make it a nightmare. I'd rather scar my rest with inspirations. 

I'd rather rush to keep you.    Where do you sleep?

Daily headphones: unknown

weekend events: 

-Fri-Sun "Songs for a New World" at TU, call ahead for free voucher ticket(s)

-Sat 3.28 The Everlove, Dialogue, Fairgreen, Halfway to the Moon, and Dropout Year at St Johns Hamilton 

-Fri 3.27 Towson University's Relay for Life!, Burdick Gym

-Sat 3.28 Loyola University's Relay for Life! ...............................support the ACS!

(art) Link Break #1

In the process of researching for a digital design project, and feeling a little disgruntled with project drafts for my other two design classes...I discovered the website of artist Boris Muller. If you have a chance....click the title of this post and check it out! 

It's amazing how much experimental design is going on out there, and the way technology is becoming a grandfather patron of millennium creation. 

Is there really a marriage between science and art after all? 

....It may not be the destruction of us anymore.

(image courtesy of http://www.esono.com/boris/projects/poetry08/, via the route through visualcomplexity.com)

from 3 great nights

Sitting on the slanted pool table; with $60 gone, in the same clothes from 14 hours earlier, and so reunited. I thumbed the edges of a couple books, a few plays, and a textbook of poetry. And there were seconds where it got quiet, and everyone listened to some literary genius's words being spoken. 

Radiohead playing too loud, and I wanted to curl up-feeling the pressure of so much inspiration that wouldn't BUDGE. 

So many things of greatness; it whispered "wow".
           So I met my same tan carpet for the countless late-night time, motionless and just...chilling out, as they moved about (upstairs). Laid on my back w/ legs propped; parked like a child. I listened to the low twattle of the boys' third guitar and wished the cork ceiling tiles were a moonlit sky, ...I wished I was high; because it felt high-above something all alone. 
Tomorrow I'd be sick. 


Because baby, I met my soulmate a long time ago. And nothing perfect ever happened.
Nothing happened.
I see him every other day, and he says "I love you" to her. And I walk everyday and say nothing at all. (Or, maybe way TOO much....?) Oh, Matchmaker, matchmaker. 

    SO then what next? You move on-and feel so fucking tragic for yourself...like hiding, like screaming, like...loving...Loving the unattainable. It's all lies for someone else's ears. (eh, but we survived).

And at night we realize there's Life still in this suburb city. It keeps surprising me.

I see my friend's faces in all those pictures of theirs; up on stage, with so much talent.

Some nights, those are the people I'm going home with, when no one really knows where each other goes home-and the memory of roaring applause-and amps-makes us awake, and ache, ...even closer to morning. 
I could memorize all your lovely faces and still forget to say hello, ....but its sorta our place. 
With the cake on that table we'd seen broken and repaired. Familiar chuckles in the other room. Tilted cap and bright scarves. Our dark cotton fabrics, and everyone else's tattoos.
           Goodbyes and gossip, and smelly strangers.
           "Floor party" at half past what it starts to feel like; hours before we think to check the time. 
Each guest billowing their space with such an "interesting, interesting", taste for whatever goes on inside those heads. I can't ever reach them all, or ever entirely share my own.

We're friends somehow-off the road, and it keeps us over this scene's decaying vibrance-into one another-missing it ahead of time. Where everyone is a little awkward, a little distant. A little ready to party hard....it's home shows and kept traditions. It repeats too far apart....
so fall too soon away. 

                  Look in every audience. And afterwards we'll all grow weary with reality bites, and take shots---Toast to Life! It'll bite. And I'll sorta wince. Swear under the breathe...everytime we shouldn't have driven, every story that gets repeated, and every text I know comes before doors @ 6:00. 

Another couple weekends in Bmore, where it goes in a rush and looks like a gush...ing smile thatll keep on lingering around the neck of stretch-cotton tshirts.
When Thurs morning makes for desperate and sleepy-when nothing specific makes nothing at all-when my soulmate is dead.

It'll all sorta be there.

I remember all those lovely friends long enough....Long enough to forget-that you and I have been here too long. You and I are moving in this world that someone else can really change. And yet, there's still so much time, and so much more (they say). We feel old too young.Let me just lie with my back on the floor...and imagine that we did everything we're promising. Someday it might be Austin.

Tomorrow it might be 70.

Daily headphones: Radiohead's "Romeo & Juliet", Lady Gaga's "Poker Face" and Alanis Morrisette's "Ironic"