MAX,

It was a rainy day in Portland Oregon,
And all I wanted
was to remember what it was like to be a kid again,
to build a fortress of blankets and forget everything.

My blankets used to matter.
They were enormous castles on a sunny day at the beach,

or an overcast afternoon in the foothills,
hunting rodents.
I remeber that day,
It was the first day I took a life.

My blankets are transforming,
my blanket draped castles are now over crowed cathedrals.

My blankets have turned to bricks.
Big bricks, beautiful red bricks, bricks surrounded by stained glass.

Red, Blue, Green, Yellow.

Mother mary is sitting there surrounded by my bricks,
trying to break free.
Because my blankets are now bricks,
and they are piling up. up. up.

And they are about to crash down hard,
about to crush my lungs.

Im preparing for my final exhale,
And I need to decide if im going to breathe out smoke,/
if Gods real and if she feels the same way about me,
if all this really matters, and if I want to wake up in the morning.

Maybe ill just keep from sleeping,
stand tall untill I crumble along with my bricks and my blankets.
I'll slowly turn to dust.

And I dont even know what comes after dust.

Thank you MAX,

feeling alone,

That sure is one beautiful picture,
the lense flare just right,
leaving your face a vacancy.

Your sundress draped past your waist.

Feeling alone in this prolonged winter,

tu es tout ce que je veux vraiment,
tout ce que j'ai besoin

You, are why I dont sleep at night.

qui êtes-vous?

worthless, smoke.

I can still smell the burning cigarette on my skin,
But it isnt enough.
I will never be convinced,
that you held me so tight.

A word about Alaska,

Its starts with, "I just want to be in Alaska"
thats the first hint that its no good.

I just want to be in Alaska,
I just want to be there while the smoke rises out of the cabins,
while the salmon and the trout fight over who can jump out of the water first,
only to be eaten by a bear.

I want Alaska and alaskan wolves,
I want Alaska and those large pine trees,
and those glacier filled lakes.
I want Alaska and craggy stones covered in moss,
those impossible snow filled roads.

I want Alaska and those fishnets,
I want Alaska and those cabins.

I want you, in that cabin,
wearing fishnet tights.

I never want to write a poem about sex.

But I want Alaska,
I want my escape,
and I want it now.

I found out what love is,
Love is Alaska,

and those tiny airplanes,
love is my moccosins and my peace pipe,
love is a rotting seal carcass on the beach.

it doesnt make sense to me,
but love is a rotting seal carcass on the beach,
and fishnet tights.



Love is a waste of time,

the carcass will leave nothing but bones,
the fishnets will snag on the bones and unravel,
and shes going to be depressed and hes going to talk,
and they're going to stare,
and shes going to stare back.

the bush pilots in the planes look down,
the triabl chiefs with there head dresses,
made of feathers,
feathers,
feathers.

They didnt need to find out what love means.
But I needed made up facts about Alaska,
I needed made up facts about Indian Chiefs.
I needed to dishonesty
to exlain the most honest thing I will ever know.

I needed Alaska.
I need Alaska.
And Im going to want alot more Alaska.
Im dreaming of a seal smoking a peace pipe,
And a bear dancing around a fire,

An Indian Chief dead on the beach,
with an arrow through his heart,
and a smile on his face.

Because thats what Love really is.

something you should check out,

I dont know how to do widgets,
and I apologize for that,
but I dont really think I need extra credit,

follow these links though...

Joel Barish,

http://baronvonbullshit-ridesagain.blogspot.com/

read all of them,
especially the ones that seem too long,
and the ones that have pretty pictures

Every one knows The Devastation Diaries,
All I can say is... Anatomically correct hearts.
Read on.

http://ankleswristselbows.blogspot.com/


and theres Emma Swan...
such a lovely style,
similar to the Deavastaion Diaries,
but not as dramatic.

http://nostalgicskylines.blogspot.com/


but really,
just read my blog,
because im conceated... if thats even how you spell it.

A jealous poet,

I have to decide on a poem that im jealous of,
one that im jealous of the poet who wrote it,
and on where the words are so outstanding,
and one that makes me want to cry.

Well here ya go,
Im sorry its not from our little book,
and im sorry I dont have much to say about it,
but every time ive read this its made me cry,
the words in this poem mean so much to me.

 

 

Once on a yellow peice of paper with green lines

he wrote a poem

and he called it "chops"

because that was the name of his dog

and thats what it was all about

his teacher gave him an A

and a gold star

and his mother hung it on the kitchen door

and read it to his aunts.

that was the year Father Tracy

took all the kids to the zoo

and he let them sing on the bus

and his little sister was born

with tiny nails and no hair

and his mother and father kissed alot

and the girl around the corner sent him a

Valentine signed with a row of X's

and he had to ask his father what the X's meant

and his father always tucked him in bed at night

and was always there to do it

once on a piece of white paper with blue lines

he wrote a poem

he called it "Autumn"

because that was the name of the season

and that's what it was all about

and his teacher gave him an A

and asked him to write more clearly

and his mother never hung it on the kithcen door

beause of the new paint

and the kids told him

that Father Tracy smoked cigars

and left butts on the pews

and sometime they would burn holes

that was the year his sister got glasses

with thick lenses and black frames

and the girl around the corner laughed

when he asked her to go see santa claus

and the kids told him why

his mother and father kissed alot

and his father never tucked him in bed at night

and his father got mad

when he cried for him to do it

once on a paper torn from his notebook

he wrote a poem

and he called it "Innocence: A Question"

because that was the question about his girl

and thats what it was all about

and his professor gave him an A

and a strange steady look

and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door

because he never showed her

that was the year Father Tracy died

and he forgot how the end

of the Apostles's Creed went

and he caught his sister

making out on the back porch

and his mother and father never kissed

or even talked

and the girl around the corner

wore too much make up

that made him cough when he kissed her

but he kissed her anyway

becuase it was the thing to do

and at 3 am he tucked himself into bed

his father snoring soundly

that's why on the back of a brown paper bag

he tried another poem

and he called it "Absolutely Nothing"

because that's what it was really all about

and he gave himself an A

and a slash on each damned wrist

and he hung it on the bathroom door

because this time he didnt think

he could reach the kitchen----

dormir, sofa, schlafen, sleep,

Maybe it was you I was writing about this whole time,

J'ai pense que vouse avez oublie de moi

11:11 PM

Je ne peux pas souhaiter plus,
Je viens de pleurer

11:26

12:06

12:12

3:00

Je serais endormi

3:14

4:27



Si j'ai utilisé le mot insomniaque

je serais sans originalité

Did you forget about me darling?

s'il vous plaît dites-moi ce n'est pas vrai

So you want to break someones heart,

Im here to tell you how,

step by step.

1st. The first, and the most important step to a broken heart,

is to wake up in the mornin... that means you have to fall asleep at night.

1st. The first and most important step to a broken heart is falling asleep at night,

but not just falling asleep, but taking hours and hours to fall asleep.

Think about everything, or think about nothing, this should take at least 3 hours.

1st. the first and most important step to breaking your heart,

is to fall for someone elses.

And I may not know a whole hell of alot, but I do know something of a broken heart.

here's my heart, I hope its good enough

I crack my heart over a burning skillet,
I attempt to serve it sunny side up,
my failed attempt,
turns to a pile of scrambled eggs.

I hand them over,
and what do I get in return?

too salty,
not enough cheese,
pass the pepper over here.

well,
I guess my heart just isnt good enough.
but its all I have,

and its bleeding

for you,

because sometimes I need to keep my mouth shut,
and let others do the talking.