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Austin

The world has left me alone today

Because it knew I’d be here with you.

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It’s very quiet up in my head. It’s calm, which I didn’t expect. But why ask for a fight, why go in depth in what sucks. Just pass and be alone again.

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We’re not grabbing wine to make use of the complimentary

We’re not sharing a tub in a bathroom without a door.

We’re not placing any pins in the maps that envelop us.

We’re not both staying here anyway.

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But you’re still as cute as you’ve always been

So goddamn cute as you’ve always been.

Smart and ever watchful.

Better than 

Where I am.

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But there ain’t no other place I’d rather be. Even rain soaked in the nosebleeds as the tempest and the memories roar. Life just ain’t the same without.

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But you’re a woman, that never lets me feel like a man. Never feels quite right like a man. Even though I rile like it.

Not the kind of man you’d want anyway.

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Your cheeks are always so playfully round. It kills. And you’re always so monochrome.

&rogenous.

I love all your stupid curves. 

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Yeah.

Let’s start the show.

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Diary of Repair

Reznikoff

I came here to spout my imagination of Objectivist poetry, before being sidelined by a new piece of literature I feel like chasing off.

I’m not sure what part of my life is supposed to be work. That is a very problematic statement; it is one that I am working on, along with piecing together what a non-perverted form of Love is supposed to be. If I have any shred of an assignment on this Earth, it will be to be that, to do that, Information Officer.

& if I am going to be a writer I don’t seem to be a very good one.
There doesn’t seem to be much dependability on it, no idea of when it will come and go.
It’s a rather uncontrollable form of anxiety, I admit.

I can not assume to be of any comfort to anyone: in this state::
This is not what hard work looks like: anywhere on earth.

;

But this place is very much a drug for me.
It is very much my escape, like I have sometimes been,
unbridled honesty,
a perfect divertissement-

An Infinite Jest of sorts.
It’s an uncontrollable pursuit of enjoyment;
I very much seem to enjoy being here, talking with you.
Even when it’s bitter,
I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,
right?

;

The truth is I need to write. I need to gird myself and get it done,
I need to find focus.
:
This is very much twitter to me,
and it makes me feel better
to see how many views I get;
even if it is through inflammatory things
that cunt war widow
telling me i’m being rude?
doesn’t that nigger
know I’m the President?

;

Christ almighty.

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I’m pretty sick and tired of hurtin’,
active and passive voice;
I’m pretty sick and tired
of not knowing.

But really I’m just not sure how to ask for that thing that I need most.
Part of me’s just afraid you’ll run away.

That’s an irrational fear, is it not?
I am being irrational.
& as much as I enjoy coming here, and spilling such things, these blabbering confectionery confessions, mellifluous and babblingly sweetly softly so, sing-song y with please;[ or tri& brāk;-.....……. i don’t know. this is a diversion for me too.

;

Our president has no impulse control,
and I admit I fear I do too.

& a litany of other things about myself
i need to work on.

I’m not so worthless I can’t admit to myself there are no excuses,
or at least, nothing so immense that I can not handle it.

I think that’s enough on the inner workings aspect,
that’s only partially why I’m here.

;

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Alright. 460 words.
Let’s do a thou’.

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I went to the chapel that day to find peace, and instead felt myself under extra auspicious watch. It’s one thing to be watched by the monoliths, because there is a definite “deadness” to them, if not “non-existence,” than at least a gratitude that they do not move; the Guardians instead have eyes as free as their wills, and the shifting in their seats and calculating eyes staring back made the sudden entrance of two decently attractive college girls perusing the art suddenly feel like a perverted performance piece. There was no comfort when the unassuming imaginations of numerous adults were now living and breathing each other in a given space that resonated each quiet movement into definite sensorially tangible vibrations though the air; emotional shockwaves?

But I had lost the sense of belonging I typically maintained within this space, of being home. I felt that I had come and disrespected the sacred chamber; not unlike dragging muddy shoes through the living room and putting my hole-ridden socks right up on the entertaining table. It was as if judgment was collecting evidence for a future case.
So I left.

;

 

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It 

It was quieter in the Byzantine. It’s calmer there, and I’m not sure if that’s because no one even knows about it. But the lighting is more austere. The architecture itself is aptly brutalist.

I love the Byzantine because it’s not about me. It’s not about dad or god or heaven and hell and the world. The Rothko can have all that.

That day I sat at the Byzantine and just kinda wondered to myself about it. Would it look good in the living room? Could I build a home that suited it? Would we stare at it all day, instead of the TV? Could I afford this chapel to get married in? Would I? No.

I sat and considered the two other marriages now in my family, their dichotomy, and winding paths. This room wasn’t about children, it was about an us.

& even now in retrospect, it suddenly becomes too many things again; too many warning signs of dumb respect, rapids on the river matrimony, wedding things and all the underlying symbolism that could slowly chip away feliz façades to the empty canvas underneath.

And I have to ask myself if I really have to ask myself
if that’s what I want in life.

And I tell myself- really tell myself-
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— – — – – – – —  -8< — – – – –

some other night..

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It’s 2:47, The Astro’s Won it in the 11th,
AJ Celebrated his 2nd
and the family sleeps well.

Indictments come tomorrow.

oh baby!

goodnight.

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oh baby

ohh baby-

you’re having a bad dream.

here in my arms…

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Uncategorized

It’s Thursday. I’m listening to couples therapy. I think I wrote about it earlier, but never published.

I couldn’t confess this anywhere else though.
I wouldn’t want to tell anyone else. 

It’s a pretty nice day to spend alone, here in space city. Pull up a chair and watch me screen print, and let’s talk if we feel the same. 

Hmm. 

Idk. 

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Uncategorized

Save it.

Music.

It’s 2:03 in the a.m., I’m not a fan of the usual textual breakup when I try and write verse. So forgive the formatting.

It’s 2:04. I am alone. When last you saw me, when last I came into this little space it was a manic version of myself. Bristling with anger, and sadness, fear- like a hedgehog. Defense mechanism. Lashing.

Better will come hard. I have no disorder. I can not empathize. Nor soothe, sufficiently. It’s 2:06, and I ain’t been to the beach in a while, but I’m not ready to rewrite certain memories.

It’s 2;06, and I could cry, because it has been very easy to do so, and I like it. I don’t mind it, bringing myself to the brink at every moment of the day, constantly reminded. Pricked. Bristling.

I feel, after the wedding of my sister. I felt the shadow of marriage lurking- the reality of it. And now it’s the spectre of divorce, & kids. I’m going through the motions of changing diapers and fearing debt and disappointment of not being the best mom, of not being Pinterest worthy. Of all the suburban shit.

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I vibe through my family. Me and dad fight, but banter, but without the separation anxiety. I’ll make him proud yet, but he’ll have to face how I’m willing to do it. Hell and high water. 

& Mom writes. Someday I’ll flex this space. Someday they’ll see their son. I can wait. 

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But I very much am my sisters. And now I have brothers. And I have gained more brothers. 

& i can still feel dreadfully alone. 

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And right now I’m.not the best son. I’m not the best anything. And maybe you’ll see me trying, and give me the credit. Maybe the people who should see it aren’t- but does it change much?

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And someday my family will deal with this space. With my _____, or otherwise. Someday they’ll have wanted to know who I really was, even when I barely was. 

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It’s 2:15 and I still can’t sleep. 

& making peace with it.

Because someday you won’t be able to sleep either, they won’t be able to sleep either. Some day it’ll help to know it’s never really any easier.

So save it. 

Because this is still something too. 

So save it
& Be present.

 
 
outro

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Diary of Repair

The Long Goodbye

It is 5:30 in the a.m. and I am curing a screen, about to drive it to the local car wash to try and power wash it through, because this is the 4th set screen and 4th goddamn attempt and if the methods I have tried so far are still futile then yes I will need to adapt and improvise.

It is 5:30 a.m. and the same fear is slowly growing in me. The terror, I should clarify.

When she came down on the weekend of my sister’s wedding, (had I mentioned that?) I got night sweats. Twice in the middle of the night I found myself completely drenched in what my immediate fear was nocturia- before realizing the total body extent of my expressed anxiety.

;

I feel it in me already

Like little AJ wailing incessantly

Succumbed to separation anxiety.

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I can’t divine whether the level of honesty I excrete on here could be considered as valorous as it can be qualified infantile. There again by my conundrum, “But it reads a little desperate. Like you’re gasping for air and swallowing pride.

…Absolutely. You don’t write like a scorned lover. There is a tenderness.

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And maybe that’s enough.
So long as this is never read with mal intent,
that all these lacerations are inwards facing,
barbed jabs to keep you out
like giant two story black and yellow Caution signs
trying to maintain the strictest, starkest
black and white communication
that this hurts.

;

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I don’t think I like this pain. I think it’s fair to say (and agree) that whatever relationship she and I have was a heavily twisted one, that began from an abused power mechanic in it’s infancy that has warped to longstanding emotional S&M game a decade long.

It can very much be argued I bring it on to myself (for the sake of the human condition!), yes I do believe all power exists and resides in me to make positive change; & i think (know) that’s where the terror stems, facing that irrefutable, how absolutely broke we are.

& I wish we weren’t
& I know we won’t be forever.
I’m counting on it.

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can we not just end the book here?
how many times this kid gonna break his own heart
this year?

no, the rest is just epilogue really.
it actually ended quite a while back.

hmmm/ guess all those tapes are non-canon.

i don’t know
and who’s got the energy
to want to know?
just let them rest in peace.

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e-.

-end transmission-

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Diary of Repair

Post Fabiola.

I guess this is what having Twitter is for.
Man is it busy at Menil

Guess this is the LA part of Houston. 

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so much street wear

;

God , judging couples at the park like this is so much fun. The You’re The Worst part of me is just curled up with depression watching it.

;

The Houston part of me wants to be a yoga couple too.

Right outside

The Surrealists.
;

Yeah I’d rather spend my days alone with hou.

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