pakalolo

london is friggin awesome.
If you haven't already, please write to me. If you have, please continue.
That is all, thank you.

Two women, scarves dangling,
are luxuriating in
cobblestones, soft darkness, smokey breath.
Are defiant-street-walking, sidewalks bare.
The cars are all asleep.

One man, chest heaving,
is digging unshaven through black bags.
Eyes gleaming, alcohol breath,
dirty hand holds up triumphant can.
Aluminum on aluminum
resounds through the streets
Three sets of eyes don't see each other.

Fourth eyes, up high, fire-escape smoking.
One girl is no-coat-shivering, late-night-smoking,
unseen-seeing with feet bare on fire escape metal.
Four sets of eyes watch watch watching
in the solitude of the midnight silence.

Do you read this? Well...obviously. My point is, if you do, you should tell me.

Someday, i think, my life will make an excellent memoir. Right now, i wish it would all just stop. How many of the people that i know now will remember my name in 15 years? How can everything that seems so important now really be so inconsequential? I wish i could write down every moment so that someday, i could stand back and watch it happen with a fuller perspective. But if i spent all my time writing, there'd be nothing to write about other than "i am writing".
I wish i could say I'd made enough of an impact on enough people for my existance to be justified, but i haven't. In fifteen years, will you remember me?

Also, the snow turned to rain. What happened to Tietel's "Emergency Procedures"?

It's so much easier to see you now that i'm not standing so close.

Is it better to tell myself the truth and let it hurt, or lie to myself to spare the pain? And how do i tell which it is i'm doing, really?

flitting through the bright night,
the teenagers have stepped into a world not altogether their own.
The pounding music sings of the gap between the years.
But tell me: what is a world without awed outsiders?
The teenagers wrap themselves in cocoons of cigarette smoke to sheild against the cold.
They pull the cloak of smoke tighter, to sheild against the wary glances.
They flit through shards of violent music, careful not to cut themselves on the condscending laughter.
They weave self-consciously through crowds of unseeing eyes.
They wish, oh how they wish, to blend seamlessly into this foreign scene.
And yet they hold back, a careful step away, afraid that once they've stepped outside they'll never find their way back into these not-quite-butterfly bodies.
But tell me: what is an awed outsider without a world to long for?

I keep thinking of things to write, but then....what if people read it? How do other people do this? All these sites, these oximoronical public diaries, sitting online like open wounds, exposing themselves. How can people stand to leave these entries lying vulnerable to infections from the harsh judgements of unseen readers?

I care too much what people think of me.

silly you...why are you reading my blog? its all bad poetry, and don't you have better things to do? good...go do them. (not a friendly blog, this blog of mine)