Every leaf withers, some still upon the tree
I understand dance music, it’s almost spiritual ability to lift you
up & make you feel transcendent, in the youthful moment, the energy,
the whatever. But not dance itself. The compulsion isnt in me.
——What is it about dance clubs, then? Am I just trying
——to be ostentatious as a scholar? R[…]. But I swear,
——something about writing/reading feels better here than silence.
If I wasnt self-conscious & didnt know & looked stupid
I’d be more inclined to go do or attempt. But I feel no compulsion
for enjoyment other than that it’s attribute I dont have.
——’I drink, I write, I fuck.’ But words are my dance.
Ever since fifth grade, I’ve been more comfortable watching than doing.
——It hurts just to exist, sometimes. The not
——of that makes less the fright in death.
Why am I still the shy nice boy
when called on by strangers?
——Why cant the dance of my conversation
Legs must rhythmically move entangled while vertical
in order to be rhythmically more tangled horizontal.
——Shit, my handwriting is too sloppy.
I blame the chemicals in my brain.
——I chew straws for no reason good.
How can it be such? How could it
——Could you work on a cruise ship?
Every leaf withers, some still upon
——My failure cuts needlessly deep.
My unnatural lusts perhaps a self-ruse are.
——Fuck this cis earth.
——Stripes on the ocean like wrinkles on folded paper.
They snatched up my notes as tho it they trash. How did they know?
——’What are you, a student?’ ‘Only of human life. …. I’m a poor student.’
Reflective, everything is. Some on the countertop, some on the channel water
some in the brain, only.
The Skywalker Lounge, and after