july 15

The volume of cars passing by grate my ears like children screaming on airplanes, or even like fox news, or like parents yelling back at their children in airplanes. The morning after, a sickness of distraction, we thought we knew what we were doing, with tears in our eyes and with departure on our minds, this summer will last forever. Just once. Tires squealing, breaking rhythm of words and realize the desire to be alone rises above the desire to be around an old friend. Sad to realize such a gigantic cracking earth. This is pangaea and we are all islands forming from volcanic soot and rock. Sitting pretty with keyboard in front and drummers replacing drummers all of the time. The percussionist is a behind the scenes mad man with a heart full of despondent words. They come from foreign places and desire to be removed from stereotypes and the southern american species devours diversity like it is a fucking pot roast. Singled out even more for my desire to understand. I have no questions to ask in this setting. I am a silent observer. I feel like I'm trying to give nice, loving compliments to a new lover, some seductive, beady eyed girl on her back, cooing for attention like a baby kitten scratching posts that hold up the foundation of ignored marriage, and failed attempts at love, at love, at lust.