Thanks Mars Volta for letting us come out and play...
Music festival in the desert. Driving back, pulled over and giving a hard time. Breathalyzer. "I'm not trying to be rude at all." That feeling of helplessness when they find what they looked for and destroy our well being. We were just kids having fun. No danger to the road whatsoever. The friend in the passenger seat is too high to know what's oing on and stays mostly quietly. Poorly timed jokes every now and then. We paved our own road.
The unfinished tree-fort. The zipline and the abandoned swimming pool. The snow angel. The neighbor's dog. The belltower (of the university). The pocket knife. The DUI. The Car accident. The hookah table. The snare drum. The chirstmas tree. The grand piano.
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nearly died in the heat. The stereo pauses and skips again and again on new cds. The heat of this room when I leave is destroying my electronics. The blonde wants nothing to do with me. I imagined receiving head on a cliffside somewhere. Something ridiculous and intangible because of the generational gap and our busy busy schedules. My god. (stereo just stopped all together).
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My mind is squirming in this undying heat, like a fever running through all points in my entire body, science fact and the skin won't grow back together right in places where the nerves are singed shut. Everything works in slow, fascinated, movements. I cannot piece together a concern for this french man anymore. I don't care to let it crash again and hear him hire people to make his art for him.
Follow those leading lines to poison vines
we are all an assortment of wrong and right angles, acute observations from the underground space museum. write down those stylistic syringes. keeping notebooks of words and phrases, beloved. killing the legs of the beast to watch it crawl back into bed with a bottle of rye. killing brain cells much quicker by simply smashing the bottle on her head. knocking herself into a coma, a sort of paralysis.
Wake up just in time for the meteorite
lava flowing hot across the countryside
inhaling directly from a smoke stack
tearing off the plastic from a fresh pack
water rising above the pier
last days spent buying beer
freshly 21
so much fun
All I can think about to write about is the soreness in my legs. I feel like horrible things have happened inside of them and I limp to communicate this. They are not used to the grind of 9 to 5.
I watched to drink Red Stripe on the beach with an umbrella, a pretty girl tanning sharing the same towel/blanket over the hot sand, and a book to read. Waves crashing and nap-taking in the crazy moment.
