JULY 14 2010
Hey. I hate it when my hands smell like pennies. Do you think we’re too sad for each other? Last night I dreamed the richness of gasoline, ropes of hair, canvas, that dead bird. I mean almost everyone is lonely. Almost no one’s amazing. I know—how about we ride into a time that hasn’t been invented yet. Then we’ll invent music.
JULY 18 2010
You know that things become stories about other things. Everyone I used to love lives in my mouth. I let them out when I am afraid. I am afraid. You know that everything good goes away. The great function of poetry is to give us back the situations of our dreams. Nothing is ever the way you think it’s going to be. Lately I have been hoping up. I mean, what’s the future gonna do? People disappear outside my window all the time. Alone at night, I think of where you used to live. Transitive. In song. It’s scary walking around in other people’s intentions.
