Head on the desk day. Depression standing behind me air humping my neck, drawing dicks on my face.
That’s not me being arrogant. I find her a bit weird looking tbh.
i have nothing
because i no
oh, i do yes
of course, i do
it always does
but it’s a thing
that happens as
at your face
covered by the ugly
something that makes
me reach for you, but
you remind me of this casually,
dropping it like a feather
you expect me to watch float
between us—a miracle,
something benevolent you’re
bestowing on me—wisdom—
or maybe it’s the money you
think I’ll be grateful for, well
bitch, you can keep it—
and you can keep your cocaine,
your pants like baggy pajamas,
your hunched shoulders and your
love you goodbyes—I know
you too have your outside interests
(8 balls in the bookshelf)
but no one tries to
punish you for them, no one slips
an AA booklet into your purse,
smells too closely at your lips
but I reek of my own words and what
I’d like to do with them
so you palm your waist and shake
your head—nothing openended—and
suggest another city, a cheaper life
My dad called to inform me that he’s sending me an article about the rise of murder in the north Bronx.
“But, I added some jokes in there to lighten things up.”
I very much admire my brother. He makes me wish I could do the music thing (as in had, primarily, talent).
When I was home for Easter, he asked if I wanted to go to band practice with him so I did. It was in this huge kind of awesome apartment above Amy’s Place in a vaguely (optimistically?) soundproofed room (continent-shaped bits of rug on the walls next to pictures of Scarlett Johansson). My brother’s bandmate handed me a giant jar of earplugs, a chair and a Genesee Cream Ale (idk if it’s just a Buffalo thing, but I’ve heard a lot of people there call it Genny Cream Ale). Then they started playing. Loud. Fast. Muscles moving tightly in their boyarms and my brother’s glasses steaming up as he kept the fast hardcore beat. And I just thought what am I DOING with my life? What am I doing sitting alone with my computer writing melancholy stories when I could be bobbing my head in a messy room with two or three other people making so much SOUND, bleeding out of blisters on my hands? The energy made me feel fucking manic—like I couldn’t help but not only move but grin crazily. I just felt like THIS is it, man—raw energy like a hundred hands on your body, like, idk, the suddenly exposed pulse of (lame/histrionic sounding but yes) life.
Collaboration is hard interpersonally (I’ve heard my brother talk about this enough to get a sense of the toll that can take) and, in that sense, writing is “easier,” but it’s just not immediate like music. Stories build and take fucking forever and are generally best enjoyed alone, even after they’re finished. And y’know a lot of music bores me, but that hard and fast variety (hardcore/punk/whatever the fuck) gives me a kind of high, this fuck everything! but, also, fuck! everything! feeling. I’m describing this so poorly. Basically, I felt a kind of (maybe incredulous? surprised? shittiness-letting) joy, which I was not expecting, and it made me admire my brother even more for being part of it.