Dear Asphalt,
Thank you for reminding me that low points are relative.
Sincerely,
Non metaphorical scraped knees, hands, shoulder and chin.
P.S. Gravity, Youz a bitch.
Jellyfish
For all the bad and mediocre I have undergone by the thrusts of many, I have also found levels of intimacy in honest exposures.
Someone once asked me what I thought jellyfish dreamt about. He told me that some jellyfish have 8 brains and 7 shut down while one kept them moving. He wanted to know if I thought each brain dreamt the same thing or if they had their own dreams.
I told him I wanted to believe that jellyfish are actually the center for old people’s thoughts. Kind of like satellites for life to be processed and sent back to us in new codes. Each brain taking on different memories—playing around with them, trying to paste things together. Dreaming of people’s memories. Working like an assembly line. Basically I imagine jellyfish as creating the film The Tree of Life for old people to find some peace about their exsistence.
Every time I see pictures of jellyfish I think of them piecing together the good of my life. The love, the laughter, the intimate. I imagine the lust turned affection of a different boy who shared with me the numbness he felt after a father lost. A tumultuous relationship I could never pretend to understand. In passing, he told me he grew up thinking he was a mistake. I knew more about that subject. After cradling him in my thighs I told him that I hoped he didn’t still see himself as a mistake. ”You may have come here unplanned like I did. But I see purpose in your smile.” He kissed me thank you and embraced me. We slept on and off that night never letting go just mangled in sheets. I think of jellyfish piecing this for me now. And I hope they peace him something great.
6 days ago - 
1
1 We are torn between nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange. As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.
Carson Mccullers (via spokenwordacademy)
(Source: blua, via adoseofrevolution)
“Before our white brothers arrived to make us civilized men, we didn’t have any kind of prison. Because of this, we had no delinquents. Without a prison, there can be no delinquents. We had no locks nor keys and therefore among us there were no thieves.When someone was so poor that he couldn’t afford a horse, a tent or a blanket, he would, in that case, receive it all as a gift. We were too uncivilized to give great importance to private property. We didn’t know any kind of money and consequently, the value of a human being was not determined by his wealth. We had no written laws laid down, no lawyers, no politicians, therefore we were not able to cheat and swindle one another.We were really in bad shape before the white men arrived and I don’t know how to explain how we were able to manage without these fundamental things that (so they tell us) are so necessary for a civilized society.” — John (Fire) Lame Deer, Sioux Lakota, 1903-1976.
(Source: girlinboyclothes, via tutankh4mun)
Saints have no moderation,
nor do poets,
just exuberance.
Anne Sexton, from “The Saints Come Marching In” (via rabid-glow)
(Source: litverve, via iamapatientboy)
1 week ago - 27
27
Sometimes I miss my nightmares.
Tonight let the night mar me with plagues and midnight sweats. I want to sweat in thoughts of you. Ache in places you’ve touched. I want to hate you all over again. Remind me what it was to loose myself in wasted infatuation. I miss being crushed by you. Life seems so boring with out it. Paint my dreams tonight. Dream my pains tonight. I want to mar your night. Just like I want you to do mine. I’ve never done too well with boredom. But I’m doing well. I just lust the nightmare sweats. It replaces our bedroom sweats.
1 week ago - 1
1 
2 weeks ago - 8
8
