-pistols on my hip, bullets in the brain

Stab and stubborn my way out of
this city for an education
hard-headed, I know
Ow! (I'm hurting people
as I speak)

I haven't been me since
we delved into each others' pictures books
(being a teacher blows man!) I don't want them to see
themselves in me, being perverted

red correction ink
drenched
all over
my notebook, crimson
I made so many errors
"fuck education"

I know: I'll spend my day
talking with weather-worn-street-men
city-slickers like them, I hope they make
an outlaw of me
so that one day I can Billy The Kid myself
a nice job 

-the ugly butterfly that learned to love itself

Young as I wish to be, aging as I am
I say yes to weaving trails with my hands
I say yes to kite flying, the spirit of aviation
is in me too

I am petrified
you say it too
"I hope we don't turn into money-people".

never laying lame
learning to use the loo
a lopsided smile showed where
my teeth weren't

holding her hand has calloused my fingers
now they do not cross
of their own will

warm souls, warm shoes
even have a mother that makes beef stew
I go to school and everything is alright
I learn to make paper planes, I learn to cuss up a storm,

-yesterday's walk

I lay prostrate in the dust and the glamor
waiting for rapture
in the botany where
a leaf disturbed,
draped itself across
cold wet shoulders, sticky ones at that
reminded me about early morning cocaine mindsets
can't escape the rawness of it all, at all
I'd much rather dig a hole and talk about
how I'd let that blood dry if I were you
and how all the lights, I'd sleep with the lights on
and how the light is you, and
fluorescent smile calm
me down,
you didn't know that-

-on a bright warm day I

on spring days I disintegrate
all of the poignancy that I cannot bear to hold
memories of, memories from
games consummated, accelerating towards
the conclusion days of my childhood
crooking my head downwards and spin and spin and spin and spin and run clumsily
drop the bat
and spin
with all my joy as fast as
I can
clumsily running to god knows where
I don't know, I did care
it had to suffice

-can't you just sit a while? and try your hardest to smile.

Nostalgia is about the fleeting moments in our life. A throwback to when times were easier, play was innocent; when light actually illuminated all of the room. We hold these memories in high regard, we try our hardest to not let those moments slip away. Eventually, all that is left is a warm distant haze that leaves you wondering if it all really happened. It's like how Haruki Murakami wrote, ""Memories are what warm you up from the inside. But they're also what tear you apart." I can't escape the feeling that up until the present moment, everything that's transpired over the course of many years occured while I was in a stupor. Even the present moment is deceiving. The present moment offers feelings of clarity that are dulled the very next moment. The next day it is realized that you weren't very much lucid at all in being, that in fact you are very much blinded by prejudices and emotion. The feeling of not ever being fully conscious while living in the moment accompanies me on a daily basis. Monks have long understood that meditating allows them to reduce the toll that time takes on humans. I yearn to be lucid as they are, to see things as they really happened. The past belongs in the past, it would be wrong to wish for it to be any other way. Yet I wonder, is there any way I can bring the past with me and embody it instead of looking wistfully back at it? I don't want to spend life longing for my childhood. I want to be that child, scampering through the bushes, trying desperately to fly my pale-yellow cheap paper kite, bubbling with vitality. I want to be that child at eighty. Feeling nostalgic?