this, what i am feeling,

is what so many others have felt

and are feeling.

i am not unique.

discontented with "the system"

while enjoying its best benefits

i want to be a farmer and a

vagabond up and down the west coast

of this "repressive" country.

i am lazy and uninspired

and looking for some adventure.

these words i am writing and thinking

have been written and thought

forever. why does that feel like

a curse, a trap, a cringe?

i am not unique. no person is unique.

acknowledging it, a blow to

my ego which i thought was gone.

it's more that i feel stupid. we make

ourselves feel stupid.

white people who become enlightened

from a week-long visit to an

african orphanage.

the problem isn't the people, it's the system.

who is right in their actions and who is not?

who can wear dreadlocks and not be called a racist

ignorant fool?

how many people can conform to the counterculture

before it is no longer counter?

i am a white person, stuck inside this white box

i keep trying to come out but

there are scary voices that keep me inside, tortured with guilt.

000000

it's been real, April.

to the 3 people who know this blog exist, I hope you enjoyed reading!

it was sure interesting to see what came out every day.

to less snowy may days!

30

warning: this is really emotional, filled with cliches, unedited.

it's 4 o clock in the morning in Minnesota and

my phone is suddenly ringing and though

I have a slumbering canine on my body I reach over hers

to open that electronic device because

it is YOUR name I see.

Max.

I have always enjoyed your name, enjoyed

that one playful syllable and the way

the "x" sound tickles the roof of your mouth

and becomes a smile.

I am so surprised it is you, floored, even,

that your brain in its drunken state would

trace through its pathways, deciding which

person connected to which number connected to

which finger you press--

that I was that destination in your mind.

I hide in the secret parts of your mind

which only come alive once the floodgates have been

knocked down by a flood of alcohol.

I haven't thought of you in weeks, months, even.

other people ask me how you are, if we still talk, and

your name comes as a shock.

"Max?" it takes a few seconds to dust the cobwebs,

to oil the rig so my voice doesn't squeak

(but it still does):

"...Max?"

I have tried for some time

to make your name a foreign language to my ears.

We talk for an hour.

You describe your collegiate woes,

(which is not to belittle them, only to label them accurately)

it sounds as if certain ratios are askew--substance abuse : fulfillment.

We talk about your "friends from home"

as if I am not one of them.

I feel for you Max.

But I also cannot help but feel

an awful twinge in the pit of my belly

as you describe the girl you first had sex with

and how you feel especially connected with her

because she was the first one.

Subtext: it was not me.

Subtext: why the fuck are you calling me Max?

Using me as your diary after

so many of my own entries are filled with your name

alternating between

writing it because I liked the sound of it

and that I could use it so often, with a reason

--and writing it as an explicative, to be cursed.

You sit at your desk feeling strife about

others and your own internal twistings

oddly mirroring where I was exactly

one year ago today,

sitting at my desk

hating you and loving you and my insides

turning themselves inside out for you.

Subtext: I am still wounded from you,

and I am not sure if this is helping me heal or

ripping off a freshly formed scab

It's 5 o clock in the morning and there are

one hundred things I should be doing with my

time instead of talking to you.

But, here I am

and there I was

and there I

might be

later.

I am here, for you,

because I love you

but you should really learn how to read between the lines.

29

i must not ignore my core.

it is my center, my focus, my balance,

my centripetal force, the place where

all of the parts of my body converge, where my

organs dwell and my heart swells and

usually i forget it is there and

how to use it. it's like forgetting

your tongue can taste as you

swallow down the particles of food

someone labored to flavor.

my abdominal muscles

need me, and i need them.

28

i used to be a good runner.

then i knew that pain wasn't a trap door

but a vehicle, and i wanted to go places.

it takes momentum to be in motion:

every step is a conscious decision

to keep moving

but lately i've been running backwards.

humans are meant to run long distances

but we are apparently good at

ignoring our nature.

27

though i am so weary

as to seem narcoleptic, falling

asleep suddenly while seated in a chair,

i "look so happy"

and i suppose i am,

but really inside is a

pleasant emptiness,

a vague sense of boredom,

a vague sense of excitement

yet somehow my muscles tend to

relax in a smile

26

feeling nostalgic

about entropy:

what did not happen

in the past, and

what will not happen

in the future.

the subtext to every

conversation; the words stored

in the front of your mouth

ready to be spoken but

the moment passes

and you swallow.

the emotions which

coat your organs, begging to converse

but you seal them in mason jars,

an afterthought, for next year maybe.

they perish.

why is it that we focus on

negative space:

we see the white vase,

not the darkened faces.

ideas have a peculiar way of

stiching themselves into the pathways of

your mind, so that when they

do not emerge from there

either a thick thread remains

constricting your blood vessels

or you rip it out quick and the pain

comes all at once.

imagination can be a wretched curse.