Adder-riddled garden;
Ritalin-addled brains;
Adderall-enlightened
hipster bitchcakes go tripping, tromping through the rain.

the longer the time spent apart
and the greater the distance between:
the further I regress; the further I retreat.

the old patterns of thought repeat.
my mind is an abscess, though my fingers still bend
and my eyes still blink.

there is a lantern above.
its light: reflected in his glass of elixir
(imbibed, constantly);

the sick puppy trips over its own
too-big ears, too-big paws
as it hurtles itself towards Love.

(as though It were some end;
as though It held Answers;
as though It would Hold the poor animal)

there are hot gobbets of saltwater
oozing from a place adorned with secrecies;
paroxysms like a viole(n)t fluttering

shudder their way
through the spaces between
rib-bones and brain-stones

and muddled thoughts: trapped and languishing
in the empty space where a life--
where dreams and a childhood and

some misguided Hope for the Future--
once flourished so brazenly;
there is a lantern above.

Not warm, like magic;
but cold, like starlight.

XXX.10.008 : Pan's the name. Petering out's my game.

"I'm so sick of tests.  Go ahead and flunk my ass."

I'd really like to get away from it all-- there's something about the closed door that tells me 'The decision's been made.  You have no part in this.'

I feel like I need to pack up and take off.  I want a clean slate.  No ties; I want to take the raw materials and tie them together myself.  I want to do it my own way and I don't care anymore what others think.  I don't care to be flexible; I don't care to be a good boy.

I don't need college to make me smarter-- I'd thought I'd proven myself already through twelve years of litany; I don't get this.  I don't want to be doing this.  I want to be alone; I want to hovel and hermit away and build my own metropolis, my own Utopia.  I think I just might.

Here I am again-- trying to defy the indefiable.  Writing in the EXACT SAME notebook I gave up on a year ago.

A ghost of my past sits to my right-- and yet, it was I who chose to sit here.  I left the present, and found myself again in the past.  It seems I can not run forward if I am constantly denying the present; this leaves nowhere to flee but into the past-- and therein lies dementia, schizophrenia, and cyclical, self-fulfilling prophecies of impending doom.

The ghost in my play has spoken.  He says he thought I'd left town.  I did.  I've never been in this world.  He says school's not supposed to be fun.  He says he procrastinated until the last weekend, like me-- and he pulled it off with a 99%-- like I could have.

'Good luck to you.'

This your last year here?

Yes.  No.  Maybe.  I don't know.

He is gone now-- should I be sitting where he was just moments ago?

All that is left is the dissipating warmth.

I want to run away again, and
(Burned out, turned off)
I say I don't know why, again.

'I thought you were a pretty good student-- that you couldn't have left for that reason.'

I don't like this world.  I don't like my role in it, I don't like for the path to be so heavily-tread.

He's going to Chicago-- living with his parents is a joke.  Work will be full-time.  School is part-time.

Can we be the Film Noir anti-hero and anti-heroine together?
Can we be the drifters, the ghosts, the unseen?
I want to run away again;
I say I don't know why again.
I'm rememb'ring and forgetting again.
I'm lying and slowly dying again.

But ah, oh-- flight of fancy!:
to be lying and slowly dying--
this is the dream I live.
These are the worlds I create.

My cloak, my dagger, my doomsday
clock, ticking away--
this is the day to thrive.

Yet I choose to hide away.
A long distance to run, today.

Burned out; turned off--
no place is secret or sacred.

Ribs plied open-- empty space bare;
feast for starving eyes.

And I:
chained, immobile-- I:
witty specimen.
Pick my brain apart again.

Leave me to seep and evacuate;
shuck off oldskin--
rise from the carpet of dead leaves and ashes
all cloaked in loam and permafrost.

Frightful, speeding
flight to the North--

to dens and caves of watery ice.

Here is Home for now--
until I'm found alive again.

We artists must slyly craft our guise
to fool unfettered, probing eyes--

until we're found alive, again.
Breathing and thriving outside, again.

Until we're found alive.

There's a voice inside my head
(liar; flick'ring, sliver-tongued serpent)
which tells me to pursue, pursue--
capture, intrude, defeat--
but I ignore him.

Instead, I choose
to lavish upon you--
instead, I elect
to lock gazes with you,
communicate some torrid message
of communicable autocorruption
(sparks betwixt irises brown, blue--)
I want to share experience with you.

Nothing left to extrude.

September reminds me of my mortality:
every year, it begins again.

When the Winter months come, I huddle down, ready:
come the gloom, come the solitude--
we wait, we convalesce,

I alone protrude
into some darkness, that
"certain kind of sadness"
to which we've all become addicted;

Call me crazy, call me a loon,
but
all I want is you.
All I want is your joy,
your cavorting, thrott'ling

seizures of metered, allotted
reverence, complacency; your
sanctuary of arms and loving embraces

(understanding)

:

taut, toned, muscled finely and with
purpose,
portent,
and all things manly
(all things sane and clean and lovely)

:

I want to be resolute.
Please love me for a moment

(or two).