imaginary bluets
14. After imagining his bower-house built, he built another one. A rage of feeling plinking like a needle on the bathroom floor. A rage so precise, so clear, it was gone so soon as to barely notice. In his colored dreams, laying on his side, he produced the natural consequences of his other side. Installments for another day, another time.
23. I confess to some friends how I married, in a private way, the notion of used bookstores and oranges.
28. There, in the bleat of the beat of it, lies a quick liberation; a love that doesn’t really exist except in Edeax.
33. If anger were painted right, it wouldn’t have a shade. It would be, in essence, an essence that was wholly unpaintable. It would develop as an attraction to the worst parts of yourself, having nothing to do with anything outside of it, and would be captured as a sexual depression molted by weather. Were it was the worst of it.
42. That is, in my mind, the worst of it.
51. I’m sort of a borderline egomaniac. I was able to maintain myself for two years or so, but then got into some problems. Basically what I was doing was some visually oriented activity. Something I really, really didn’t want to be doing.
59. “Kill the fuckers.
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All of ‘em.”
68. It was common for young men to mature from among boys.
77. My friend was a prodigy when he was young and now that has done him well. I will often think of how I used that imaginary, impossible competition as a motivation, and still do, but only to a slightly lesser degree.
To see these far-off places, now, is to see blue, but only in his eyes.
86. Someone pouring the entrance to mine. How do you like it? What’s the difference, you tell me. Parked in pink nuts and the smell of puke around the reaches of the corner. Patience is eating right.
96. All the rest of the white people get off here. I used to get off here, sometimes, coming the wrong way. Now I just can’t get off. I never wanted to get off anyway. I read the faces of the walls like they weren’t meant for me.
This stop always sucked anyhow. It leaks liquid like a horny teenager.
I took a picture of a kid who didn't get off either. [See above].
103. Later some ladies give some peanuts to another lady who is dancing for peanuts.
She accepts cash, too, of course. But also eats her peanuts, dancing, leaving the shells behind her like it was her job.
Whenever I see her, I love her, and feel bad I don’t have any peanuts on me, or cash for that matter.
And then I feel bad. And then I feel bad for feeling bad. And then I don’t know what to feel other than bad, and so I put my headphones back in and let the music let me feel, whatever.
110. Hues of home and a not-yet-dark sky. The snow stopped. The streets, now with more neon than before I moved here, makes me think how change is unstoppable, in waves. When my voice changed, I was too young to realize what was actually going on, bodies changing, always changing, and I read books about cancer secretly in the basement. I felt my chest and knew I had breast cancer. I spent hours in the shower feeling my balls for a lump, confused about how it felt, because it didn’t really feel like cancer ‘cause cancer felt bad.
My grandpa had just died of cancer. By the end, he felt really bad and you could feel it just by sitting there with him.
Back home, I look in the mirror I had just installed by the door to make sure I left looking okay when I left and to confirm that nothing had changed when I returned.
Nothing had changed since this morning, in any visible way.
I’ll check again in the morning.
