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the go-getter
31 December 2012 @ 08:30 pm
what i'm listening to: Gogol Bordello - Wonderlust King | Powered by Last.fm
the go-getter
06 August 2010 @ 03:29 pm
This is how today feels:
Stale cigarettes, rotten booze, gangrene eyes and swollen hangnails.
Homicide, rancid milk, blunt knives and shadow stabbing.

I keep thinking about all of the things we did, all of the things we will never do again and it makes me feel like burning, like telling you about everything that has ever crossed my mind about what we were, who we became, who we won’t ever be because life has stopped us dead in our tracks.
(We’re the road kill people pass on the highway.)

Your hands feel like chalk. My heart feels like an empty tomb. Your words feel the way your mouth tastes: the essence of the past, things that have already been consumed, fragments of every moment we’ve ever spent looking for something we didn’t need.

I keep having this dream where we both get skinned alive.
All I can see is her name all over you.
All you can see is his name all over me.
All we can see is the gap that stands between us.
We’ll never make that leap.

I don’t know how to finish this because I don’t know how it ends. I won’t know until you turn your back for the last time, until I get back to the point where your face meant nothing, until we play hangman and run out of letters, until we turn into Greek myths and Roman gods, until we are both fact and fiction, until there’s nothing

Alright, you got me - I’m the dragon.
So slay me.
Maybe then I’ll start to live.
what i'm listening to: Arcade Fire - Half Light II (No Celebration) | Powered by Last.fm
the go-getter
03 August 2010 @ 03:24 pm
Tell me a story.
Tell me about something that makes you want to get out of bed in the morning - be it her face, the sky, the voice that tells you to keep going when your limbs want to stay put.
Tell me why life is worth living for, why the sun is yellow, why there are no such things as right answers or wrong questions.
Tell me what it feels like to let him slip through your fingers time and time again, like sand in an hourglass, like rain on a window, like bodies falling off of cliffs.

There is something about Nat King Cole that makes me want to cry.
Maybe his voice reminds me of a feeling I don't remember, but it might just be the fact that he's dead and all good things have to die sometimes, and what if death isn't a great adventure after all - what if death is like the waiting room at the DMV, or like sitting in Saturday afternoon rush-hour traffic? What then?
Then nothing.
Our bones will still crack and our hearts will still shrivel up like raisins and our organs will still be harvested like summer fruit when our lids decide to fall.
So thanks for nothing, Nat. thanks for the cockroaches and the dirt and the coffins hidden behind your sweet melodies and glossy smile.

I keep writing things down, things that mean everything and nothing, things that scream of light and dark and all of the scoured corners of whatever this is, if this is anything at all, if it ever was. Maybe it wasn't, but I am not the judge. I don't make decisions.
I just rip things apart and let you put them back together if you so choose.
So choose.
Or not.
(It makes no difference. The sun will still rise in the morning.)

Sure, I am a creature of the night, of microchips and puzzle pieces, of forgotten keys and shoelaces, of caves and infinite closets - but you and me, I and you, us, we... there is something that will tie us together, something we haven't even discovered yet, something that lives beneath our skin, something we will spend the rest of our lives looking for, only to find that we knew what it was all along.
We've always known.
But we'll still burn every bridge we've ever crossed because it's what we do best;
It's all we can do.
It's all we've done.

There is no reason for this, but is there ever a real reason for leaving?
We can't figure it out, not now, not ever -
But until never comes, my hand will keep telling my heart things it may or may not mean and you'll keep watch over both because
It's all you can do.
It's all you've done.
what i'm listening to: Weezer - The Sweater Song | Powered by Last.fm
the go-getter
30 July 2010 @ 10:51 pm
(I know my place, but it doesn’t know me.)

This is not for you, or for me, or for us.
There is no us, but for tonight I’ll say that we are because I have tried everything else and nothing matters as much as this sentence will matter when all is said and done.
I don’t need closure. I don’t want it. The things I want, the people I want, the lives I want – they don’t even have names.
They aren’t even real.

Here is the definition of my life:
the minutes I spend looking for things in the dark,
the moments with you I refuse to remember,
the moments with you I cannot forget,
the times my heart sings for something that doesn’t exist,
the hours I waste searching for the right words to say the wrong things,
the days I bury myself in the labyrinth
and the days I dig myself out.

So this is how it ends and begins and ends again – that feeling I get when one me dies and another chooses to live, when a chapter reaches its conclusion, when the last page is blank, when the pen runs out of ink and the song proceeds without a note left to spare, fading into the vast space of nothing that sucks the world dry, your bones dry, my soul dry.

I just can’t seem to forget enough.
I could write a whole ocean’s worth about the person I was, the person I became because of you; I could rip it all to shreds and burn the scraps of everything that mattered, everything that didn't, everything that felt somewhat right and mostly wrong…
It would be the same.
I can still see your face when the lights go out,
but the lights are on and you’re not there, you won’t be there, you weren’t there to begin with and I can’t settle for the crumbs or the dreams gone dead.

Today, I am Cortés. You are the last Aztec. I will shoot an arrow through your lungs, but you will not meet your end and I will not meet my beginning.
We’ll still meet on the same line.

Here’s to where we are.
what i'm listening to: Band of Skulls - Cold Fame | Powered by Last.fm
the go-getter
05 July 2010 @ 10:57 pm
You never get yourself back from the people you love. You just leave something behind, like a broken fingernail in between their teeth.
The nail grows back, but it isn't really the same, is it? It feels different - more crooked, more jagged - so keep filing it away.
Keep filing it until you have nothing left.

Hey, look, here’s a feeling you’ve probably forgotten. You know, the kind of feeling that makes everything seem less shitty, the feeling that makes you feel like you’re in a goddamn musical – that feeling you can’t describe without using veiled similes and empty metaphors because it’s too good for words.
You know that feeling.
Don’t make me spell it out.

The truth is I need a bigger closet for all of my skeletons. And the truth is you have skeletons too – they’re just hiding under your clothes. And the truth is you’ll end up naked soon enough, dead or alive – I don’t care which. And the truth is I want to launch all parts of myself in every direction possible like an atom bomb. And the truth is I find myself here every time, rereading the same lips, rewriting the same words in a different way. And the truth is I wonder how it will end.
(And the truth is I already know.)

Okay. Enough bullshit.
What I’m saying is this:
I want to light myself on fire.
I want to die in an awful crowd-surfing accident.
I want to listen to Fleetwood Mac until the sun turns into a black hole.
I want to drive to the end of the world and drive back and see what is and isn’t different about me or you or the whole universe.
I want to abandon all hope, only to have it thrust back at me when I don’t want it.
I want you to read this and not think I’m weird or on drugs.
I want you to disconnect all the dots.

We are oil and vinegar, the tree and the chainsaw, the ocean and goddamn BP.
We aren’t supposed to exist together in this same fuckhole, but here we are.

Let’s shake hands and call it a day.
what i'm listening to: Ryan Adams - Wonderwall | Powered by Last.fm
the go-getter
24 June 2010 @ 10:50 pm
(my hand thinks i'm an artist, my heart thinks i'm a poet, my brain knows i'm a street rat. just call me Aladdin.)

i could write about how you make me write things that i don't mean to mean, 
or i could write about the fact that you make my skin crawl every time i see your name or notice all of those small things that will always remind me of you,
but i think i'll write about that other thing. you know, the thing about how your face is a freshly dug hole:
hollow, dirty, full of shit. 

it's been a while since the world first turned into a pile of madness, but it's only been a month since i last heard your voice. 
i'm still here, i'm still here, i'm still here and i'm crossing that line over and over again and you're not and 
nothing happens.
nothing keeps happening.

the truth is, i want to know what makes you tick.
i want to know how many pillows you sleep with and why you wear socks to water the plants. i want to know what days you wake up on the other side of the bed, what days you wake up at 2:34 a.m. to take a piss. i want to be there when you're too drunk to remember your middle name or your morals.
i want to know your past,
                your future,
                            your in-betweens. 

i cry when people die in movies.
i cried when you stopped wanting me.
i want to cry at the thought of you marrying the wrong person.
sometimes i cry for no reason.
yeah, so what, i cry a lot.
and no,
you can't have that book back or that CD back or all of those fake smiles back, 
but you can have back all of the bullshit you fed to me on a silver platter.
take all of that back.
(don't worry, it's free of charge.)

i know you don't get it.
i know.
but you can feel it, can't you?
(don't answer that.)
just tell me that we have a few miles before the stones inside of us hit

this is me without you:
i'm not even a parenthesis. 
what i'm listening to: Laura Marling - I Speak Because I Can | Powered by Last.fm
the go-getter
18 June 2010 @ 04:17 pm
first, it's a sound that makes another sound, a taste that makes you gag.
then, the voice of space becomes a shout, a roar - everything shudders, nothing fades, but we all leave feeling different; 
more dead than alive. 

we outgrow love like clothes.
you're the only thing that really counts, but it's not just this - it's everything.
it's the dirt under the fingernails, the hair on the backs of our necks, the teeth that grind in the middle of the night. 
it's the severed dandelion and the way it forgives your hands when you tear it apart like meat from the bone. 

medically speaking, you're perfect. all of your bones align, your mouth makes the right shape when you smile.
your eyes share the same hue, your ears do what the rest of ours do. 
you think with your brain, but you feel with your heart - that's the only problem. 

i'm giving up soda.
i'm giving up tylenol.
i'm giving up church and chemistry and everything else in between. 
i'm keeping you.

i can tell you, from this moment, the telling gets old and there's no way to make this story interesting.
what i'm listening to: The Morning Benders - Excuses | Powered by Last.fm
the go-getter
21 May 2010 @ 12:18 am
for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. 

there is the way your face sinks when i don't want to look at you. there is the way your hands feel when you hand me the breakfast of weaklings, not champions. there is the way our words keep fading until there's nothing left to put on the table but an empty glass, a fallen star, a broken egg, a fractured wrist and maybe, if we're lucky, some polarized glimpses of sunlight.

the sky is actually violet. not that you ever chose to look up or anything.
you only watch your feet and listen to the sound they make as they hit the floor. 
(linoleum, porcelain, redwood - their frequencies don't matter, the same way our voices don't matter when we say what we don't mean or don't mean what we say.)

i am a child soldier without a gun. i have a cocaine smile and shit for brains. i have stale flowers in my living room - they smell the way i feel. i keep the window closed, not because i hate oxygen, but because i love carbon dioxide. i have a wallet that makes me think of you. i know i'm ugly, but i glow at night.

i wake up. i say hello to death. i step on landmines and blow myself to pieces. i am six years old again, drawing dinosaurs and watching sesame street. i hit rock bottom for the 7th time in 2 days. my body cells are replacing themselves at this very moment. most everything you know about me merely a memory.

merry unbirthday to me. 
what i'm listening to: My Morning Jacket - If It Smashes Down | Powered by Last.fm
the go-getter
10 May 2010 @ 07:41 pm
for the record, the blues are still blue.
the moon still falls behind the earth's shadow every once in a while and 
you are still an asshole.

the price of a limousine is approximately nine-hundred dollars, tip not included. 
the price of my happiness is currently unnamed, but i know you'll wait until the charge drops before you stake a claim. 

men are from mars.
women are from venus.
monsters are from those forgotten nooks and crannies of the soul.
you are from the 10th circle.
i am from the waiting room. 

freedom is a breakfast food and so is oppression.
(we still serve both with a spoonful of sugar.)
i keep waiting for the tea to get sweeter and i keep waiting to hear that thing that you should've said to me and not to her and
i keep waiting for the cement wall to get closerclosercloser but it doesn't. 

sometimes the bread doesn't rise for dinner.
sometimes the things that are meant to grow just stay flat, like the way your words sound when you don't mean them and the way the sun sinks at the end of the day. 

rise and shine, 
plunge and fade. 
what i'm listening to: Coldplay - Shiver | Powered by Last.fm
the go-getter
21 April 2010 @ 09:54 pm
I want a Thursday kind of love, the kind that lasts past
Saturday night,
               Sunday night,
                           Monday night,
                                      Tuesday night and
                                                    Wednesday night.

I guess you'll just keep pouring salt in the wound. What else are you supposed to do? It’s not like you’re going to change.
     Weather changes. Feelings change. Light bulbs change. Words change.
                                                                 People stay the fucking same.

Good afternoon, fellow citizens. I am President of the United States of imploded planets and black holes. I am here to tell you about the time I could’ve saved you from me and me from myself, but I’m not well versed in the ways of the world. Until the sun makes up its mind, I’m going to keep this a secret.

Of course, I may die in the next 20 minutes, and I’m ready for that,
but what I’m really worried about is the seal that keeps getting bludgeoned to death in Canada.

Thanksgiving dinner summarized:
I laughed. You carved the turkey and carved out your heart. Your husband passed the pumpkin pie and passed me a kiss. He really cared about my cello-hands. I only cared about the all-seeing eye that doesn’t all-see at all.

I bet even God would’ve cracked a smile at this.
what i'm listening to: Laura Marling - Blackberry Stone | Powered by Last.fm