Diary of Repair

The Shop.

 // 
(Field testing.)

— — — — — — –

I run this game shop quite good if I do say so myself, and a pity what this place would be without me. Oh I know that’s tootin’ the ole horn quite a bit, but I can read a room like a sundial- yeah it might take a second but that overall aesthetic is going to stay quite set for all intents & purposes, for the duration of the session of the hour; I vibe throughout this room just fine.

. . . . .

I’m home again. Meaning to write to you from work, meaning to fill you on my day;
meaning to think of you through it.

But I’m home now,
figuring out the mood.

♪♫

-Of course there’s a part of me that fetishizes every part of her.
Of course there’s a part of me that can’t separate her from sex.

Of course her signifier has gone and gobbled up all these other signifieds.

& of course I want to not be that
to let her be her.
To leave alone.

Space, aint it?

& so what if she’d rather live and die alone
than be with you?
Hey white Nationalists!
Hey Stunted Hitler Youth.

Hey can’t you just live and leave alone?
Or does it terrify you still
that thought of death and hell
that fear your dad put in you?

Are you afraid to die alone?

— – —

They say the best memories are the ones you forget.
The most preserved, all those you don’t mess up
trudge your muddy shoes of recent nostalgia all over
the untouched crystal of your memory.

I drag all my current loneliness
with me to view old memories.
Like babies behind the glass
and my whole ancestry beside me
only seeing bundles of joy
and not the raging hurling shit and chaos
nestled underneath.

You’re right, ain’t you?
That I should go and make my own memories.

It’s right, ain’t it?

S/A/N P.2//
& where i am now.

I am saying goodbye to my baby sister
and walking by my eldest
over the tightrop’d chasm of divorce.

I am watching my company not need me
and fly the coop;

I’m lying here naked
thinking about the GRE.

I’m telling dad not to worry about who won the argument;

I’m telling you not to worry.
I’m telling you not to listen to the noise.

This world has not stopped fighting for itself
and neither should you.

Because I very much believe in you still.
I always will.

.

.

night âm.

Standard
Uncategorized

Saulus.

On the Road to Memphis
that same shadow appeared to me.

;

I battle other things now.
I don’t battle loneliness, as much as I used to.

-She was never lonely for me.
I think that threw me–
suplexed me,
really knocked the wind out of me.

.

She stopped reading me and really that’s what did it.
It was you instead, and whole weeks of memory and expectations were suddenly erased, rewritten; rasped from the membranes of the frontal cortex, just kinda joyfully tossed about like an etch-a-sketch.

Suddenly empty again.

hmm.

.

.

.

She doesn’t read me now.
Which is important, because this is no longer the voice of whispers in the night,
crumpled little heart shaped notes back and forth across the aisle,
tin can songs through fuzzy red string
from one tree to the next.

.

It’s an actual voice to the crowd.

.

.

 

;

She’s gone now,
but to be fair,
ehhh was she ever really there?

;

.

.

.

.

.

.Man I really got scrambled up
asdf

Man I really got scrambled up back there.
Man I really lost that work ethic.

Who’s gonna love a guy that can’t even keep up a sentence?

 

Standard
Uncategorized

Move to California.

What do I do from here?

.

I quit writing for a while because I just didn’t have anything left in me. No love nor god to guide me.

On the love end, well. She was off in some other city, having late night LCD Soundsystem nights into her city, riverwalks and city parks strewn from tip to toe in lights, No curfews, no lack of rights.

She said not to take it personally, that she was leaving the city, not me.

But I am this city.
These streets are my streets,
these potholed veins my blood streams
these bars the future haunts-

my
broken obelisk.

This whole goddamn time* reeks,
you know?

.

She was abusive,
though in this warped mind I’d argue
she wouldn’t have been if I didn’t let her be
and maybe she just didn’t want me to let her be
anymore.

There seems to be something rotten in that, huh?

.

My sister asked why she was here
i didn’t really have much an answer.

“So that we know what bad looks like,
for when I finally find good?”

.

.

hmmm.

 

.

.

.

.

 

 

*town.

Standard
Uncategorized

Hello Stranger.

I don’t know you, I know of you, but I can not say that I could tell you your own favorite songs from the radio, or your favorite place to be. I don’t know you.

And yet, here I am, day in day out, asking you to know me.
Asking you, bringing myself out here, pleading (essentially)
for you to obsessively consume whatever I put out here,
to hang on to every word and dissect while digesting
pulling out my strands of thought to dance in the limelight of your eyes.

.

.

Isn’t that selfish?
and yet, how do I repay the kindness shown?

Not very well, that much is true.

.

She doesn’t want riddles
she want’s the mexican work ethos.

.

That ain’t me tho, huh?

nah.

I was the kid that made room in his heart for you.
The dad had the work ethic,
he worked and slaved harder than any of em,
built this house with his own two hands
for me,
grand column pillars and resonant tiles
and white as heaven’s clouds.

And what have I done?
Where are my grand deeds upon this earth?

.

.

.

When I was a child
my aunt’s spoke to me,
all of them, some of them, one in particular,
the brother’s lover on my father’s side
said this to me:

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

“Don’t be a Martinez.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

 

Standard