Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in leavemetoday's LiveJournal:

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Sunday, November 29th, 2009
5:54 pm	if i had heroin lips if i had heroin lips i'd kiss the morning sun-glow with an apprehensive smile, a heavy memory of yesterday's and a hungering desire to be a little more like the winds that chase each other through my blanket of unwashed hair. i'd whisper into fantasies that roll through the fire of my thoughts, "nothing can keep these clouds from drifting. i just want to be pure." if i had heroin lips i'd kiss everything off in a moment, and i'd lie in the heartbeat of a wilting sunflower and listen to every piece of the world around me fade into the last flickering thought of the only human being still completely alive. (Comment on this)
Thursday, September 17th, 2009
11:46 pm	pompous bitch she wanted to listen to pavarotti smoke cloves and drink red wine. she saw i had some tolstoy and the collected works of richard aldington and she asked me about my childhood, what i thought of lucid dreams. she said she talks to rainbows, feels their sadness in the heat; they remind her to remain gentle - silent water in a crystal glass - because she's an arrow with perfect steadiness heading for palitana. she wanted to hold my hand and tell me that if i wanted to cry the moon would understand. i wanted to listen to petty and drink pbr til' i was drunk, stare up at the hanging stars - paralyzed by nightfall - and tell her about the time i drank with a homeless man at a greyhound station in blythe. i told her i talk to myself when i feel my sadness crawl on me; it reminds me to keep laughing - a hyena in the twilight - because i'm a bullet with a melting shell heading for bullhead city. i wanted to go inside and watch full house until i fell asleep. some girls are so fucking immature. Current Music: townes van zandt (Comment on this)
Friday, September 4th, 2009
8:54 am	preface i'm sure i was drunk, because it was a weekend and i was in tucson visiting some friends, well not really visiting friends but driving through the desert and checking out the desert winds and sunsets, but even though i was drunk i'm sure i remember it happening this way. but even if it didn't happen exactly this way the undertone of the story is just the same. the bar had cowboy doors, the kind that both push forward and pull back and swing to and fro and bounce like curly hair, and dust settled on the ground both inside and outside the entrance, picking up in the wind that came from late afternoon storms. im pretty sure the dust was collecting itself in the drinks that sat on the bar but nobody really cared, or nobody said anything anyway. i guess the bar had a name but i don't quite remember it on account of me being drunk before we ever made the entrance, we being myself and an old friend of mine whom i had met in tucson a year or so earlier. the inside of the bar looked like a half breed between a fishing bait store in south carolina and a jukebox joint in rural oregon, and people played pool on a shaggy table with two-toned felt and a broken triangle. "well how the hell does someone rack the sons of bitches?" "same way you rack your momma every night!" the howling and cackling of the smoke-filled room rose like prairie dust and didn't seem to take any civilization over the illogical statement, reserving more air for meaningless and puerile puns towards whoever was either willing to take the punishment or new enough to the bar to overlook it and not understand it as territorial seniority, which indeed it was. when met with a blow to the confidence like that, a newcomer always backed down. but indeed the locals thought it was a damn funny retort, and even after the initial roar died down, there were a few snorts and chuckles amidst the crowd, and as straws circled through cold drinks and sweaty palms brushed through dirty hair, each patron took time to inwardly reminisce about the time one of the locals gave a newcomer a good ol’ jab with the momma and the rackin’ joke. now like i said before, i was drunk when this all happened and i couldn’t possibly be able to reconnect all the dots and clarify the details, so all those little nooks in the paragraphs that make you scratch your head and say “that’s a damn good recollection considering he couldn’t spell his name at the time” are probably entirely untrue. in fact, the whole story is most likely more or less untrue. i never really knew how to tell a sincerely honest story, never knew what it was like to say ‘honest to god’ and it really and truly be honest to god. and the worst part of it all is my stories aren’t that good. there’s no real climax or character development, no turning point or emotional conflict, so it’s hard to say whether or not it was worth making up in the first place. it’s a justifiable act, in my personal opinion, to tell implausible fables for the benefit of one’s entertainment. i met a man with a smile so big people would tell him to wipe that face off his smile. it was a huge deranged smile, the lunacy of it bright enough to wake a baby in the womb. anyway i met this man at some bus station in new mexico, i don’t quite remember where but it doesn’t matter considering it was new mexico, and he told me that the bible was written by lawyers. i asked him what business lawyers had writing something like the bible. “can’t you see man?” he asked. “it was the fucking sophists! lawyers didn’t wanna stand up to that shit so they had to find some sort of control!” “hence the bible?” “hence the fucking bible!” i never went to school to be a philosopher, and i never studied much theology, but the ludicrous statement left a stale taste in my mouth like a copper lollipop. i still didn’t understand where the lawyers came in. “i still don’t understand where the lawyers come in.” “the greeks! didn’t you learn anything in school?” “christian school.” “ah.” “so you mean greek lawyers?” “yeah.” “like, ancient greeks?” “yeah, man.” “oh. i thought you meant suits and ties.” “huh?” “suits and ties. like what lawyers wear. you know, to work.” “ain’t no ancient greek wears a fuckin’ suit and tie!” “oh.” “so anyway, the greek lawyers wrote the bible to keep the sophists in check!” “i’m confused, though. i thought the sophists were greek.” “yeah but they were a minority!” “and i thought the greeks weren’t christians.” “of course they weren’t christians! what the hell are you thinking?” “then why would they write the bible?” “the bible?! what are you talking about?” “the greek lawyers? who wrote the bible? why would they have written the bible if they weren’t christians?” “you’re a weird dude, man.” and so, when five minutes later my bus pulled into the station and i boarded to go wherever it was i seemed to be going, i left my friend who’s name i never got and sat on that conversation for a little while, at first laughing it off as unmistakably drug-addled spittle. but the more i pondered my unidentified friend and the longer i spent reflecting on the absurdity of our talk, the funnier the whole thing became, and i found myself becoming more and more entertained by the thought of the whole thing. sitting on that bus to what city i don’t remember, i concluded that the best stories are those that spark images and provoke absorption. and to this day i don’t quite know if at some point in that man’s life he concluded the theory that a religion could be man-made just for the purpose of spiritual suppression, or if he built up somewhere in his dancing mind the desire to make an impression. but really, and i don’t mean to offend, the more people you meet in new mexican bus stations and the more stories you read in the bible and the torah, the more the agglomeration of the two seem apparent beyond words. but anyway, like i said before, i'm no philosopher or theologian, and this story isn't about any of that stuff. it's above me, frankly, and i realized long ago that i'm only here to tell people about the crazy situations i've gotten myself into. and if i'm not mistaken, i believe i was in the middle of telling you about the bar in tucson, arizona. now, i don't know if you've ever been to tucson, but the thing about that town is it's broken up into pieces that don't have anything to do with one another. tiny worlds, really, because one is black as asphalt while another is clear as water while another is thick as a lion's mane while another is transparent as a child's soul. i heard somewhere that that town was recently named one of the most dangerous cities in america, yet there are something like 36,000 students who don't know a damn thing about it. except for that poor girl who got herself stabbed something like seventeen times by her dorm-mate for stealing her cellular phone. coroners said she had the damned phone gripped so tightly in her hand they had to massage her blood spattered fingers with a warm washcloth for nearly half an hour before she'd let it go. some people have a funny idea of what is worth dying for. "from my cold, dead hands", indeed. when the police asked the girl who did the stabbing why she had done it, she said that she had been waiting for a call from her boyfriend. her voice was calm, silent as a night breeze, and if i was told correctly her siberian heart didn't even skip a beat when they told her that she could spend the rest of her adult life in prison. but for the most part, as i was saying, the students in that town reside in one half, where debauchery runs rampant and alcohol strips virginity and then some. but just on the other half of that seedy little shadow the youthful debauchery antiquates and rusts and manifests the repercussions of the abandonment of conscience. to put it plainly, where the laughter of the college parties ends, the cackling of the underbelly begins. it’s a line between classes, separating the kids who think they’re roaming wild from the creatures who long ago stopped roaming wild and are now just plum dead in the heart. and this bar that i’m talking about happened to lie in the part of town where the creatures roamed. now i don't want you to think that i frequented this bar, was by any means a regular; nor do i want you to think that i'm bragging about the fact that i was drinking in the socially cloudy part of town. in fact, it all kind of happened on accident, to be truthful. you turn left when you're supposed to turn right, and the alcohol you've already ingested is floating around your brain and making everything seem familiar, and eventually you kind of just end up places. and i'm not trying to sound philosophical, throwing metaphors for life at you, i'm just saying literally, you're drunk and driving through the desert, and east is no damn different from west. so that's the truth as to how i got to this bar. and i really wish to god i could think of the name of the dump, because every story is a much prettier picture when you've got a name to associate everything with. the young love of the maiden by the sea sure as hell ain't a better title than annabel lee. annabel lee sounds awful pretty, which i suppose is why i still remember the poem, not being much of one for poetry myself. so my friend and i are driving through the desert, the tucson skyline looking like a crystal ball and the few thin clouds within reaching distance of my long, thin hands, but of course unattainable because of their emaciated figures. if it weren't for the bug-stained windshield i'd swear on my life i was heading straight for the end of the world; the field of sand before you is vast yet seems limited, like eventually you'll fall into oblivion the way all men did before eratosthenes; the beats of your heart rolling like a crescendo until, finally, you realize that you have passed the landmark that you were sure was going to eat you alive. and somewhere between the anxiety of knowing that you're slipping into nothingness and the tranquility of knowing there's nothing but sand and sky to crash into, there is a feeling of bizarre evolution in the way you breathe; it is a simple agglomeration of any perception you thought you had before. now it is simply everything. if it were your last breath, so be it, you feel alive; if it were your first breath, you'd finally feel alive; if it were just one more breath with many left to follow it...right now you are so fucking alive. if you roll your windows down the wind hits you the way your drunken girlfriend would; you'd flinch, maybe even stumble backwards a bit, and then grab her by the ass and shove her down onto the bed. tbc (Comment on this)
8:54 am	it's hard not to remember i remember when i met you, and all the cards on the table and the drinks at the bar couldn't keep you away from the clouds you took pictures of. you told me you had met every silhouette worth capturing, and i told you that i had considered skipping town to find my own. i remember when i met you and your glass was half full of whiskey tonic, and your smile shot through my liver like the drink that i hadn't yet ordered. i think i told you your skin looked like the face of a westward storm, and since you were from arizona i thought it was a clever play on words. later that day there was a windstorm and i felt myself searching for your voice. i remember when you were beautiful and i couldn't believe i was kissing your lips, like every ghost and apparition was just an inclusion of your reality. do you remember when we made love and the bedposts shook like my vernal heart? i was just one more kiss away from becoming everything you made it easy to be. (Comment on this)
Monday, June 22nd, 2009
11:46 pm	tearing at a 4 1/2 year barroom orgy i will pick at my skin, scratch and tear at it until a corner gently folds up, and i will peel it back like a crinkling plastic wrapper until it lies on the dirty carpet like a pile of regurgitated sin. i will hand wash it from the inside out - making sure any remnants of lonely nights of forfeit are torn from the pores like the faith of a widow, and i will feed them to the ground that lays beneath my feet. i will hang it outside the window and let the rhythm of the breeze that sweeps through the valleys put it to sleep as it dries out and becomes comfortable; as it becomes beautiful to wear. i will tear at my skin for you, in hopes that you will love me again. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, April 7th, 2009
1:36 pm	creations in my dreams my creations are as arbitrary as those found in Genesis. "Let there be love!" and so she wraps me with arms and we roll through the hills like honey bees in the wind, stinging tongues that speak ill of the landscape we have paved, loving no scent like that which rises from our wings. we are fortified episodes of our longing impulses, deep breaths of resuscitation entering our lungs, and ours alone. in my dreams we show mercy to each other's skin, familiarizing ourselves with the tenderness of combined selves. as arbitrary as those in Genesis, my dreams are formed by desire. in waking life my creations are those like the Bible some pages beyond, turning paradise to temptation and the downfall of my own testament. she wraps me with arms until i am choking in my thoughts, and i will condemn myself with metaphors and turn myself to salt, and after the humiliation of my crucifixion, i will rise from the soil where i buried my hopes and fell to my knees, and i will be left as nothing but a man of mistake. i will mourn and i will wait for her to love me again. i will wait for some kind of rapture. (Comment on this)
Friday, April 3rd, 2009
7:17 pm	TWINKIE TIME! what time is it? it's twinkie time! what time is it? it's twinkie time! what time is it? it's twinkie time! i said what time is it? it's mothafuckin twinkie time! that's right! i got my twinkie packed! mom packed my lunch in a paper sack. an apple, some celery, and a juicebox, too. ma, does it look like i wear perfume? i oughta slap you! bitch, you know you would die but i ain't had no twinkie yet, i ain't got no sugar high. you got lucky but you better hold your breath, cause when i get a twinkie, bitch i'm beatin on my chest like king kong! i got a fat gorilla dick! my fructose nut oughta make yo' titties stick! try to hand me that lunch like i'm some little kid. i eat twinkies and pussy, not that bullshit shit! TWINKIE TIME! right about now my blood's as thick as sperm like a bucket of butter just waitin to churn. but i ain't makin margarine, i'm explodin on yo' chest. bitch, fuck the necklace! you're gettin a pearl dress! mmm, bitch, i can't believe it's not butter! i told you what time it is, i know i didn't stutter! it's twinkie time, ho! go grab me a treat! suck on my toes while you massage my feet. with your mouth full i shouldn't be able to hear you speak. let me know how your blood tastes as i kick in your teeth! TWINKIE TIME! um, let's see... beer, titties, and a handful of twinkies and maybe if you're lucky i'll go down on your stinky. but i prefer twinkies over chocodiles. i only go for brown eye once in a while. either way you'll get creamed like a bavarian; in your pussy or your tushy, that's your decision. i ain't here to ask question, just to cause infections, pussy annihilation and twinkie ingestion. so next time you see me walkin down the street, you better give me a motherfuckin twinkie to eat! (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, February 23rd, 2009
1:07 pm	everyone in seattle is in love everyone in seattle is in love, chasing shadows in alleys where they stand kissing and freezing moments, the rain crashing on their eyelids that flutter like butterflies against each other while their wet cheeks still manage to stay warm. they walk, all bundled in scarves, holding hands and breathing in thick, foggy air, and i watch them count their blessings as they whisper into each other's ears, their mouths like steam train engines and their words windy mountain roads. everyone in seattle is in love, pressing effortlessly into their palms the skin of a comforting reminder. everyone in seattle is in love, and i disappear into the backdrop of this beautiful washington fog and get swept away off the pier that overlooks the ocean that they stare at while falling more and more into each other's eyes. (Comment on this)
Friday, January 30th, 2009
12:46 am	my guiltiest piece of happiness every time you saw me as golden, a burnt satisfaction, penetrating your lungs like a virgin's dreams, you saw me at my highest - my proudest moments of sin. i was nothing but a catheter in the pants of the world dissolving, a mist of cigarette smoke trapped between your bed sheets. i swore to you i loved you, and i still swear that i do, but my love gets in the way, and you are an ailment - my sweetest failure; my purest distraction from everything. you stir the violence in a heart that could easily fail, and you are such an angel - my guiltiest piece of happiness. (Comment on this)
12:45 am	todays ashes quietly she sleeps - this bundle of piss warm nostalgia - and every hour that the clock sees is sent screaming through your gut, twisting its way through your liver each time that glass touches your lips. and the stinging in your bladder tells you you've killed the night, that you've consumed away your ability to call someone over to sing you to sleep. that alarm clock on the nightstand has been beeping for a year, and the shit they put in these drinks these days could kill the intentions of a whore. this nostalgia will kill you if it continues to run through your liver. and because you used to stomp on the shores of salted waves and shoot smiles through your teeth that shattered through weeping swamps, they call it a true tragedy and say things like "todays empire, tomorrows ashes." but like Lazarus you'll emerge from the vomit of your past, and hell will be your tagging spot when the other children won't dare play, crying into their shirt-sleeves when that friday-night poison rips through their intestines, as they swear to Jesus Christ that their lesson has been served. and you will dig yourself up and rise, because todays ashes are tomorrows phoenix. (Comment on this)
Sunday, January 25th, 2009
9:40 pm	what is your memento mori? "what is your memento mori?" a friend of mine asked as we sat with our coffee in the corner of the restaurant. "you work in a morgue so it must be strong." she wondered if it was in their eyes when i closed them shut for the last time, or on the corners of their mouths that we wipe little dribbles of drool from. i'm sure she wanted to know if it was in the way their flesh feels warm when we lift them from their beds, how it sinks into our arms like a lover who's had too much to drink, forming around our fingers like a child's mouth around his thumb. and that once beautiful face that turned heads and pressed lips - now a moonless sky hours after sunset - it falls through the dreams it once held behind its fist; it curls beneath the wake of years taken advantage of. "no, it's not the morgue", i tell her after i give it some thought. "because while you are reminded of the emptiness of a body, it's like being told by your mother that you should really quit smoking. i guess, thinking about it now, i'd have to say it was in the way she kissed me. when we'd lie in bed watching a movie, or hold hands while i drove us home from a late night with friends, complete silence being pardoned only by the sound of the cracks on the freeway. when she told me that i made her comfortable and that she hadn't felt that before, and when months after she left i finally realized how much i love her - i think that's about the time i realized that i was brittle." i went home that night and dreamt of my memento mori - my reminder that you can die once you have loved. (Comment on this)
Sunday, January 11th, 2009
8:21 pm	'til the last sunset while i don't believe that love is all we have, it's nice to let the covers dance atop our skin and the wind from rushing traffic speak over our rhythmic breathing. when our bodies lay like corpses - so still and descriptive - it's hard to discern life and everything you haven't touched. and i smile at the way you shiver when the window shoots forth gusts of winter, my hand holding onto your promise that we'll never be too old to love. the clothing on the floor and the whispers in the sheets blush when our hips explode into a dust of eternal youth, and as my breath becomes the fog that hangs over our heads on late night walks through downtown, i tell you, i swear to you, that i'll love you 'til the last sunset. (Comment on this)
Monday, December 8th, 2008
6:06 pm	let's not drink tonight "let's not drink tonight" she said as she started the car and pulled away from my house. we drove along the streets all lit up with christmas lights and inflatable snowmen, each house looking bright but just as desperate as last month. i rolled my window down and let the december air rush in and i was quite underwhelmed with how flushed my face remained. "it's starting to get colder", she said, and i just nodded as we drove through the hills and thick smog. "let's not kiss tonight" she said when i tried to hold her hand as we pulled up to the spot that overlooked the city. i decided not to ask why, but put my hands in my pockets and looked out over the freeways jammed with insects and the lights of all the stores and the streaks of dispersing clouds. we sat there in silence until she finally cleared her throat; "let's not make this hard". i gave her a smile and a nod of cooperation and then looked back to the skyline and the stars that hung like hope. she whispered my name and put her hand on my leg, her voice a silent reminder that i had retreated within myself. she took me home and asked me if i'd had any regrets, if i thought the year had stood still and we'd be gray with season come morning. i didn't know how to respond, so i looked her in the eyes and told her i wanted a drink. "let's not sleep tonight" i said to myself as i laid under the covers and waited for the sun to rise. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, November 19th, 2008
9:55 am	she was a traveler she was a traveler, an asthmatic breath of beauty, on an episcopalian journey renounced by the courts of Christ. she had scars on her wrists, prison cages of paint, stained and stuck to bandages that made her eyes look bleak. and though she had a tremor every time she took a breath, she always inhaled deeply when she stood by the oceanfront. and though she cried in her sleep, she didn't hesitate to laugh when she woke. she was a traveler with nowhere to go but home. the world was a bookmark, splitting her conflict and climax, and each word in print was mistaken as a closing point until further down the line. and with fingers that shook like wildflowers in a wind that flew from behind, she traced the outlines of surrender and threw them to the wind. the world was a bookmark that changed pages every day. she was a traveler, and the world was miserable with her beauty. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, November 10th, 2008
6:17 pm	Humanity is a funny thing humanity has a funny way of looming over its own absurdity, of finding a way to stab its way through existence. it towers over kindness and turns soft words to barks - shouts of malevolent hysteria, snarls of crying torment. humanity can chase its own tail with lust foaming at its mouth, and then collapse to the ground with fatigue at the mention of lending a hand. humanity is a beautiful creature bitten by a rabid God. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, November 4th, 2008
5:55 pm	If I die today if i die today, don't feed me to the ground like a cold rain; don't lay me in the soil, for there will be no more growth. i'd rot within your attempts at keeping me to your knees. let me be remembered as the ash that rose like poetry, a ringing in your ear that you may not have understood, a temptation in your bones that may not have served with grace. if i die today, don't lose your voices with desperate cries, nor stop your hearts with choking wish, but know that i love you more when you are drunk and making music. let the wild laughter rise to an Arizona sunset, the thickness of your smile to the salt of ocean air. let all of your memories come exploding with insanity, and clutch your heart and pray that my spirit may never drown. if i die today don't let be mourned, for i always loved you more when you were dancing in the moonlight. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, October 28th, 2008
1:52 pm	were we human... there are monsters in this house - they fade in the noise of the hallelujahs and shouts, forcing tongues to go wild in the presence of hope and fear, creating doubt where there's youth and fire where there's concern. they cling to the curtains as they wave in the windows, reflecting the rays of the sun into the eyes of orphans, showing them a light they may never understand. are we human? or are we just animals led to the river by monsters? there are fairytales in this ocean - splitting the waves with wands and cryptic text of dogma, shooting down from the surface every ship that transports change. they absorb rhetoric like poison and wring it out deep within the soil, suffocating roots to anything that may blossom. are we human? or are we just grains of salt in a great ocean of fairytales? i see phantoms in these minds - these parasitic reminders that souls have been recycled to dust, and no one can expand their tolerance to the warmth we need to melt. while countries burn by the dozens and children cry for answers in the temple, we look on through telescopes and sink within ourselves. our fairytales wouldn't want us to intrude. we are not humans, but phantoms that carry on with a prehistoric exorcism. (Comment on this)
Thursday, October 9th, 2008
10:27 am	daddy's home my brother came home from work one day, where he'd been for the last 12 months. he'd gained weight in his face and his arms looked strong. he spoke like an actor and told me he enjoyed the books i had sent him. he brought a toy for his son and hugged him for hours. my mother and i smiled as we watched the reformation, and later that night we stuffed ourselves with the kind of food he didn't get to eat at work. every now and then i have to remind myself that we're still telling robert that his daddy was at work, and i wonder how old he'll be before he wonders why he never had a day off. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, October 7th, 2008
11:23 pm	Aerial Hunter when the wool turns red with the fire of a Hades sundown, some stop to wonder if we may have lost our innocence; immobilizing a nation with a lust for inferior blood. sure, you can attack another's confidence with the aversion of a wink and charm, knowing the blindness of the people who have spent years suffocating their own intelligence with a stream of pollution, but how many times do you expect to be rescued as the girl who shot wolf? (Comment on this)
Tuesday, September 30th, 2008
10:36 am	57 exit I saw a car on the 57 freeway swerve across four lanes in an attempt to make the exit. I looked to the passenger seat at the girl whom I'd been sleeping with and wished to myself that I had that kind of courage. (Comment on this)