I'm Going This Way

The plan is set.

I'm leaving June 5th and coming back August 18th.

More on this later.

Memo for Morning.

Dear morning,

I've yet to talk to you or even look you in the eye. Yet, I feel it necessary that we console our spats and call this a truce. You see, I've been doing a lot of thinking lately and my minds been a blur. Grenade explosion, mine seething, projectile hammering: it's all I've been through. Not really, but something like that. My decisions have been all my own but I still wonder if they're right or even plausible. Has this all been a dream? Have I yet to fall out or wake up?

It seems that while those X's lost on the boxes spread my calendar I am slowly shrinking. I'm losing my consciousness because I know that all that seems to wait for me is summer in the east. Fuckin' east. In summer I mean endless treks across barren cornfields, the blasts of the humid east coast air and water, burritos for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, windows misty while the august sun sets, my age blossoming in wrinkles of apathy and reflection, missing holding someone's invisible hands, and no bed for three months. The way I see it, the worst part of a hospital is the waiting room. Give me something to hope for morning. Give me something to wake up to before I leave.

Your long lost friend,

Henry

Anti-blog

I think I'm losing it.

After intensive thought and thought and thought, I've begun my trek towards the realization and the acceptance. Both of which pertain to this: That everything has changed. I go through this every so often; I would give it 4 to 5 years for each cycle to bite its ass. Turn you're head and I'm gone like fucking batman.

For one to change face, you have to go through the reality check of who you were, what you are, and how you're going to be. Sure, the purgatory allotted between the former and latter steps are always a hassle, but never like this. If this is my time to change, hell, I might be just as well off biting my own ass.

This is what you're thinking: 1) Oh, Henry you don't need to change, are you fuckin' insane? 2) Stop bitching you idiot. Or, my favorite, 3) those two thing you listed don't even pertain ala come close to what I think.

I've pushed myself to my safety net and a brick wall won't allow any further movement. The only way around is through a different direction. Who knows, who cares, who will. Hopefully you my friend.

Spring Break kicked me to the curb and I've decided to kick back. Like when you were a kid (or a young male/female/sasquatch, whatever) and you run into a door, you kick that fucking door like you were Chuck Norris' left bloody fist. On a tangent, I caught the end of the movie Bloodsport with Jean Claude Van Dam, and DAMN (oh me) was it corny. I was expecting at least some sort of action, but it end up with just Jean and this juiced up Asian flexing their pecs as hard as they could; the loser ended up being the one who pulled the sports hernia first. Anyways, I've lost track of what I was saying, even if I did start my blur(b) of a thought above.

Please write me this summer. I promise I'll write you back.

Damn, I think I'm losing it.

Sticks and Sticks and Sticks

My eyes glue shut.

I can't see a thing.

That doesn't remind me of blue, sandpaper things.

And I lie on my back and open my mouth.

I taste raindrops of honey and poke at my eyes with tongue tied black ties.

This Is Fiction Right?

In case you're wondering, I've grown accustomed to this hour: these hours, I mean. When nothing quite moves, yet that shadow fancies a shiver the instant you turn face. I can't quite help it, yet I might have put my finger on it. It's because I wait. I don't know what or who I wait for, but I do. How this works, don't ask me. Ask my shadow. Or my change of face.

In fact give me a big push. Punch me in the stomach real hard. As hard you can. Really. Do it. I love a good kick. Shove comes to shove as I view you from above. I can't help but spill my guts, but being awkward seems to come natural. And the funny thing is that no one will see the gimp in your step but yours truly. Sock it to me shadow. Sock it so the stinging feels like honeycomb bees.

P.S. Go to sleep dammit.


Back and forth,
of stills that paint the taxi cabs,
Of summers gone,
and friends that smile in the past.

She remembers only theirs,
as she breathes the winter air.

I Won't Remember This.

I've found this hidden door
with locks and broken shades
of glass that had been slithered
into lime of cocktail raids

and let me show you what I've found
inside this hidden lamp
of nothing left and nothing else
behind this plastic camp

I'll let you look and let you peek
but promise you will not peep or speak
of mystery things and silent scenes
of what else I've yet to find.