my cousin, hannah, a hairdresser in oklahoma, just staightened my hair.
I look like Jesus.

on the welcome mat
standing the whitewashed kitchen
table chair under the entry way awning
blocking the rain of everything
'cept my toes
smoking and reading reading and smoking thoughts raining raining on thinking
"I had a bad night" --bad, worse, I'm sorry
   can't want to
   wouldn't without you
too short: missing too much
hiding, waiting for nothing
hiding: doesn't work
      runalongnow

                         Limbo

Two Worlds Collide and Nothing Happens

Four guys slept on my floor Friday night. Two of my friends from home, Amos and Andy, yes, their names are really Amos and Andy. Neither of them went to college, so I was sorta wondering what it would be like to have them here, not only was it their first time at hillsdale, but their first time at any college. All college atmosphere's are very different than the atmosphere of living at home and working full-time, and hillsdale is even weird when compared to other colleges.

Dan's friend Mike, who is cooler than dan, but don't tell dan I said so, was also on the floor along with Mitchell, a very happy classicist.

Well, Andy and Amos were totally freaked out by the whole 'dale thing. I mean, they weren't like, "You guys are a bunch of weird dorks, who haven't worked a day in your lives." which was one of the responses that I feared, but instead they were really intimidated, being like, "You guys are really smart and boring. How can you have so much fun doing so much boring stuff?" So they decided to leave after lunch on Saturday to make it home in time for the local football game. They would rather hide in the world they know. It all helped me to realize how different I am at home than here, and made me also realize that most of the things I am interested in I am interested in only because the people around me are.

But before they left, we went to a gun and knife show, and I saw a bumper sticker that read, "Guns kill people like spoons made Rosie O'donnell fat"

The remainder of the weekend was a lot of fun, especially the Pink Panther run last night. I was able to hide in my hillsdale world after it battled with my other world until the other said uncle, and went to the high school football game.



"the swan sang himself to sleep crying over his transistor... radio, but the signal dropped of as the clouds rolled in, the signal dropped of as the clouds rolled in, to cover over the clearing" --Holopaw

My graine

it feels like someone is trying to remove my right eye with a melon baller like my hair is concreted to my scalp and a nail is being driven into my right temple every time i blink when i close my eyes the pain focused on these three spots spreads evenly throughout my head and neck when i stop moving my momentum flows to my brow to add to the pressure applied by the still air

My Selfishness


I've been thinking about selfishness a lot lately. I wrote a poem this week to try to explore it. What is the most selfish act?

I just finished watching The Hours. It came to the same conclusion that I did. Suicide? The most selfish act? No. While in suicide one runs from one's duties in life, one's responsiblities to sacrifice one's self for others. In suicide one ends all that one cannot stand, that one cannot live with. Yet in suicide, in taking the life of one's self, one is selfless in that particular respect, selfless enough to kill one's self. It may be the most cowardly, but not the most selfish.

The most selfish act, then, must be to run away. Hiding from it all, but not ending anything, saving one's self at the expense of others. With strength, not cowardice, loving one's self more than all others. Loving one's self enough to abandon everyone else just to be alone, just to hide, just to live off of the sacrifice of those one ought most to love.

I want a remote control Ricochet, you know, the remote control car that can flip upside down and keep going. It costs $69.95 at Toys ‘R’ Us. I got 20 dollars from grandma and grandpa K. for my birthday, and then they gave me 50 dollars for Christmas. Grandpa H. only gives me 50 dollar savings bonds. Some day, like when I am in college they will be worth fifty dollars, but now they are in the strong box, which is fire proof.

It is three days after Christmas. For Christmas I got some cool stuff, and lots of candy, but I really want a Ricochet. It’s ok that mom and dad didn’t get me one. I didn’t think they would. They spend about a hundred dollars on each of us for Christmas. The commercial shows a Ricochet going real fast with the car side up, then the kid reverses it and it flips over all by itself with the dune buggy side up and keeps going. The dune buggy side is rear wheel drive. Out the side window the street lights are going by making funny squiggly lines in the side of my eyes. The road is wet. There is brownish slush in between where the tires go on the road. Levi said that the slush is brown from the car exhaust. You can die if you breathe car exhaust.

There are a lot of people in Toys ‘R’ Us. Stuff is on sale after Christmas. Mom always says that she and dad should just give us money for Christmas so we can go shopping the day after and buy twice as much stuff. I think that would be sad. We have to walk past the computer games to get to the remote control cars. My stomach hurts. I wonder if the Ricochet can drive through the snow. I want to get the black and grey one, not the purple and orange one. Levi and Ivan say that purple is a girly color. I can see the sign that says $69.95. There isn’t anything underneath it.

They are all out of Ricochets. They are all gone.

My stomach hurts. It hurts different than before. This hurt won’t be gone today. I won’t be able to make the Ricochet flip over in the snow. The man that works at Toys ‘R’ Us says I can put my name on a list and they will get more by next week. Next week. The worst possible thing that could happen, is happening. I never even imagined it. How? Why? My tears are soaking into the paper the man gave me to sign. My brothers think I am being a baby. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don't care. The ink of the pen is chunky at first from the lint in the man’s pocket, and it is making my block-lettered signature look sad, like it too, is choking on the lump in my throat.

I’m never going to do this again, I’m never going to get all excited about something, dream about it, hope for it, until my stomach hurts.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That was a long time ago. It really did happen. I really didn’t long for anything like that again. I never really enjoyed anything again either, except for one thing. I would let myself long for one thing. It is right to do that. You are supposed to do that. They say you can’t live without them, and sometimes they say you can’t live with them either. But every time I want something that much; every time it makes my stomach hurt, it slips away. Then the butterflies in my stomach turn back to caterpillars, and it makes my stomach turn inside out.

The sad part is that I haven’t found a better cure for this disease, or is my cure a disease itself, my suppression of passion, my fear that it will slip away? Is that the disease, the problem? Or is the problem in some sort of selfish, childish longing that I still have? Someone please answer my questions.

          Blank light forces my emotions
               through a screen.


We were   so close;
 I was        so close;
  not          close enough.



                         You didn't understand,
                         or at least trust.



We were I was so close,

     I stared at you with a pitiful look of cowardice.
You looked at me with masked confusion and pity.


          I froze.




You/I made a fool of me by misunderstanding me.


               You left.
               I     left
                     walked
                     vertigo
                     nausea
                     vomiting
on
   the
       curb.




     I didn't get a (second) chance.