31

I spent your birthday in self imposed bed exile.
16 hours of much needed dreaming.
I say this for two reasons:
I had so many dreams.
I haven't dreamt this much in awhile.
Dreams of psilocybin mushrooms.
A tooth abscess enclosed in the tissues of my jaw bone,
 the apex of an infected tooth's root spewing puss like a fountain.
The arena
of joy and sorrow happily cascading streams of vivid pictures
against my sleeping eyes
as in all to be a symphony singing
something special for something 
that happens just once a year. 
Something like a birthday that is at once so celebrated
and so deceivingly nostalgic
that it hurts too much
and you feel that you've been robbed of true beauty, 
but then the puss recollects in your mouth- and the 
beauty of fighting a true fight resurfaces all over again
and you feel as right as rain as right as rain as right as rain.

Quick! Somebody pull the e-break!

Stop the ride! I want to get off! I don't want to remember that your birthday is this Friday. I don't want to think about how you should be turning 31. You were 29. Dead at 29. In less than two weeks I turn 32. You are dead at 29. You should be 31. This Friday.
The other day, I logged into your facebook, and an old friend of yours commented on the most recent profile pic I posted of you- the one where you are holding your niece Elianna. He sent you a message saying something along the lines of, "Hey hey, long lost friend, feels like yesterday we were getting into trouble, and now it looks like we're both bouncing babies on our knees, heh heh, ha ha, lol..." I hate him. I don't know him, but I hate him. I'm sorry.
I love you too much to get over you sometimes. I hate birthdays.
I promise to write a nicer post before month's end. Just let me rant for a little first, okay?

sounds

nemenemenemenemnemenemenemenemenemenemene

oh. Oh. OH.  oh.

nemenemenemeneme

I want to hear a whistled "yes" so bad. 

Spring is here.

As you know, it's been a rough week for me. Missing you. Wishing you were here. Waking up in the morning with your death so very fresh, and at the very start of my day- everyday. I get tired. I get lost. I wonder what the hell I'm supposed to be doing. Am I doing okay? Should I be doing something else? It's hard to make up my life- to fill in all that time. What should I fill it with? What kind of stuffing do I put into this cavity of where my joy used to be?
Life is hard.
And I'm not just saying that.
It is, hands down, hard.
It is a strange blessing. A weird fish.
Detroit is unseasonably warm- just like New York, and everywhere else.
Spring has arrived.
Another season without you.
I get it, but how do I get over it? 
Stuffing. Lots of stuffing.

The notebook

it has many features.

6-20-2011

Manifest destiny is a wooly mammoth, a dodo bird, a saber toothed tiger.
Manifest destiny is the space between a woman's breasts. 
Manifest destiny is heroin, cocaine, opium, hashish, and rum. 
Manifest destiny is an oasis filled with flowers, and shade trees, manna and spring water. 

manifest destiny is your infant child learning to focus on your smile
manifest destiny is a toddler crawling towards the horizon

Manifest destiny is a lawn mower filled with shards of glass. Manifest destiny is a set of gold teeth. Manifest destiny is a one way Greyhound ticket and a flask of whiskey. 

What is the call of the wild? What is the name of your daughter? What is the name of your son? Where did we put all our hopes and dreams? 
Who came over in the middle of the night, and stole the last of our salted pork? Who left like a thief in the night while I slept? 
Where do the souls of all the prairie children go? 
What does one call the sickness that possesses the heart and entrances the brain? 
Who stole my dreams? Who stole my last piece of cake? 
What do you get when you cross a coyote with a bull? 
What's the name of that bar in New Mexico where the tequila is on the house? What's the name of that steak house where the kids eat free? What's the name of that city where nobody dies? 

Intervals and the basement kitchen

I'm sitting in the basement kitchen. It's cold and there is snow on the ground outside.

I'm eating a pasta salad and waiting for my water to boil.

14 hours later.

I'm sitting in the basement kitchen. It's cold and there is less snow on the ground outside.

I'm roasting beets on the stove top.

20 minutes later.

I'm sitting in the basement kitchen. Drinking a cold beer.

I'm waiting to turn the beets.

35 minutes later.

I'm sitting in the basement kitchen. I'm waiting to turn the beets again.

The cold beer in my mug is gone.

I cup my eyes with my left hand and release an audible sigh.

68 minutes later.

I'm sitting in the basement kitchen. I just ate some roasted beets with caramelized onions and feta.

I am drinking a cold beer.

48 hours later.

I'm sitting in the basement kitchen. I'm waiting for the lentils to boil.

The sound of a basketball is heard in the distance.

It's not New York's fault.

It took me months to miss New York. I had to leave, travel to many cities, cry in different places- feel bitterly alone, incurable sadness, and utter hopelessness in order to miss it- my home. I should be mad at you really. How dare you die in my hometown? How would you like it if I was found in a Riverside ditch? Would you still enjoy your jog up a mountain? How long would it take you to love your home again? Forgive it? Visit it, and maintain a pleasant demeanor? I guess we'll never know, now will we? 
I get these sudden glimpses of you. Moments from the past. Your eyes, your smile, your ridiculous sayings flash through my mind. It's sudden heartache. I imagine that this is what migraines must feel like. Flashes of sudden pain- uncontrollable. I grab my temple. My heart is broken over and over again. My eyes squeeze shut. 
Accidents happen everyday and I forgive you. 
Of course I forgive you. 
I'll love you endlessly.
And I'll love New York, flaws and all.  
What else can I do?
Your death remains a mystery. I have to forgive you, as well as, every last possible suspect from Brooklyn or beyond. Every last motorist that drives like a douchebag- I forgive you. 
I also have to hold myself accountable for any shitty driving I do on my part from now until forever, and then I have to forgive myself. I also have to forgive the BQE. I have to forgive everything.                  
Everything must be forgiven.