no subject

I'd rather die alone than live with an understood vision of love.

Reminiscing Richmond

I was playing quarters in a Port Richmond bar after hours while finishing out the final stretch of sad songs on the juke box. Underage, I was watching patrons faces swell and wrinkle with each drag they took. I skipped the 2:30 bus to have a few more drinks with a few less friends than the night started out with. We payed our tabs, and grabbed a few forties and stumbled our way back to Earl's house where I found myself smoking joints in the backyard, and watching Pat devour an 8ball off the dining room table. The wind was frail that summer. The drugs were just the same. They weren't the strongest things we had, but we didn't need them to keep us warm.

10/25

streaked and smeared. pilliars of light form across the wet asphalt connecting me and everything. the cuffs of my jeans hug my ankles as i walk parallel with the blue line below. a grainy fog coats the sky with a slight hint of a merky moon glowing in the distance. the homeless stretch along market street under scaffolding. lifeless, yet restless. My head is still ringing from the rebel love songs of past generations that infiltrate my headphones and speak to my heart. Waits, Dylan, and Bragg- thank you.

Pitchers with Pete

Our voices harshed and open. we reconnect over overpriced pitchers and underrated clash songs in the newest hipster bar to reach northern liberties. the table: cut from an old bowling alley lane, still had the marks of the bowling balls that put smiles on faces. we disucussed our individual madness, and distorted perceptions on the way things were. Our smallest sentences spoke volumes to our souls, and for once- I felt okay.

add your own ending.

Engines remain calm in single file lines outside midnight toll booths where the enlightened and disenchanted meet. the bright lights reflect off arrows freshly painted directing where to make your exit. The bitter smile of the teller shows how welcome you really are, but neither of you are happy to be here.

Changing radio stations is like pulling teeth. The arguments are the most exciting part of this four hour drive. Passing through county lines, the medians are the only sights worth seeing. The fast food wrappers and cigarette butts make up stories of hopeless commitments and the lost art of addiction.

when it rains...

brick walkways are glazed the same way my eyes are from the sleet, and this Irish Cream and coffee. A dismal Thursday night. Not worth the ink my pen. I can feel the romance in this park. The love that's left it's mark here. The smell of sweet nothings whispered from the hearts of the soul-less and the souls of the heartless. Weather beaten, I've grown too comfortable being lonely. My engagements to my possessions are nothing more than my pathetic attempts at looking important to the pathetic. Chances are, I'll write this down. Make a quick attempt to finish this horrible concoction i've made, commute home, drink an over dose (or two) of nyquil, and wake up and do it all over again. now can you see where I'm getting at?

Route 25

I caught the shower of petals and leaves just before the bus picked me up to take me home. Typical people. Typical conversation. The restless complaining, but rise bright and early to make sure they're miserable on time. There is a slight stench of stale coffee, and half smoked cigarettes. The grave like seats that we have jumped in are warm from the asses of the last batch of poor saps that rushed home to prepare their TV dinners in hopes the programming would be as satisfying. The fear I had that I would end up like this grows deeper with each pull of this yellow cord. Bitter strangers break my concentration on soaking in the scenery of the car cluttered streets that only soundtracks can explain.