Drift Road

On the shelf sat a little gray fox with wide eyes like a four year old. He gathered dust for years, the memory of a long lost friend taken from a vicious animal.
I often sat with him on a leather couch, talking in a low voice and scratching his ears. I'd pick at torn bits of the couch from the big dog that laid there most nights. He was soft like the spring grass in our back yard filled with clovers. I looked for years for a four leaf clover to give to my parents but never ever found one.
Now the fox gathers dust on a shelf near an unused bed, a mattress from yet another person that left the world; the only to leave on his own terms.
He has lost his happy purrs and no longer hisses back at the cats. I grew and misplaced it where hiding places in stairwells full of pillows were a common thing and snow was beautiful. When the leather couch sat in that small living room and fluff sandwiches meant bloody arms.
The house is empty. The Malibu that brought romance and images of the past is long gone.
The raspberry bushes have died.

Until I've digested and the cold stops affecting my health,

the wolf is asleep

memory 2

underneath our dining room table was a little trap door that hid a basket dessicated and in the basket was a key, maybe- and some dust; maybe there had been gold, once upon a time.

It's Me Typing...

We use to think of it like thumps. Like yelling through the ceiling, back up to the people you only imagine watch lifetime movies and sit, toothbrushes in mugs, old teeth, pressing weights. Babies unborn, and all mysteries dead.
Don't let it rise. The doubt sounds pathetic coming out. You should know better. Refrain. Settle down into the night, suddenly getting fatter, wear more layers to the gym. She said, eat more. I'm sure I don't need more grains, sinking, into the thighs of, tight tiny spandex. Who told her that was a good... idea.
Live big and now. Grab what you want. But I'm old. Falling apart. Fingers explode and leave bruises. I slip in the tub and my neck should be snapped and I should have a broken hip, back, ego. Buy I trip, trop out and put on heels and pretend.

Nope.

I was only there hours.

You were only here hours?

I mean I only slept with you twice and it should take longer for you to feel it...

He laughs.

super_frog

i was reading about being eleven and trying to remember just what that was like; when i was a little kid and didn't know things about the world, or didn't presume to know things about the world and the things i did know were the important things, like dirt and earthworms or meatloaf or cloud formations and the distance of half an hour and how much time my life was wasting. i'm pretty sure eleven was the time i was aware of the innumerable sillinesses of playgrounds and halloween, and before i was cynical about things like war and i wanted to be president, astronaut, cowboy, soldier all rolled into one. it was before writing seemed like a good (bad) idea. it was before school seemed like a good (bad) idea.

it was a time when weekends seemed like the one moment of freedom you were afforded because the rest of the time was braindrilling and dentist chairs and talking-tos and time-outs. it was a time when i was legitimate for praying those snowdays here, and watching the skyslush skies for some sign of please, please, please snow. when i was eleven i had shoes that lit up on the back and sides and tickered away my walking stepds. and there was those hopskippit things that counted my joys. there were the woods behind houses with trees that looked like ficuses growing up allover.

now i find myself looking out the window and its grey skies and i wonder why i bothered to come back. there is talk of leaving work early and i wonder if under ice and snow there will be school tomorrow and i wonder why i bothered to come back. i wonder why i bother to come back. i wonder wonder wonder wonder wonder why. why why why. i wonder why. i wonder why i bother.

For Emily

No one here judges you, but we all think you would be better off trying to expand upon your experiences with us here.  And we dont think that all it hopeless, you have come out dancing with us on Raggae night, youve joined our festivities more and more often.  We all think that is great, but still, you're in Florence Italy, studying art, so take advantage!  Its fantastic that you enjoy doing your artwork, but primarily its indoors, in our apartment.  If this goes on, the only thing you'll look back on is the small weekend trips we try to attend.  

We know you dont really have a lot of control over your life back at home, and we can all sympathize, and thats precisely why we dont force you to attend things with us all.  The best we can do is invite and offer, but we wont perpetuate the cycle here in Florence.  This is a different life for all of us, and we want you to have the freedom and power that you're entitled to whilst you are here.  The LAST thing you need right now is more people telling you what you should do with your time, which is why Im writing this all down here, so I can get these thoughts out without hurting you or exerting control over you life.  

I have hight hopes for you during the second half of this semester.  You seem eager to travel more, to hang out more, and thats great.  And thats another reason I'm not telling this to you to your face, because you are getting better, so whats the point in rubbing it in when recovery is approaching?

That night you told us about your mom, I was legit sorry for bringing it up.  Frankly, I admire your courage to go on.  I would be a wreck.  Yet you paddle onward, and look where you are now!  Art in Italy.  Keep on Keeping on Emily.  You'll always have me, Scott, Jess, Rachel, and all the rest of us here in open arms for when you need us.  And even though you'll never read this, I hope you can sense it.

nonchorus

that greek chorus gathers and as one voice the y ebnlighten you. they piss the truths away into your rears and with those grubby groping hands they tear waway at you and dig in their diryt fingernails under your clothes an d you'll haer the voice of ythe gods naked and unbound like the power oof a prayer. agamemnon didn't knoew any better and his ewiman gihis own woman founder her way between his ribs with a sword that was made, like mercury, to run and poison; was made like rthte words to b e poison and undone; apollo is drivibg her crazy

its been cold here lately

the weather has been biting at my shoulders for the past week or two now.
half of my shift is done here, and it will be exciting to live out the remaining months as an italy dwelling artist. foundations for a permanent future for exploration growth and movement have been set, and now that they have, I find myself missing home.

I wake in the night and get the urge to wake my parents up and tell them stories of this past.

I dream of talking to friends young and old about their dealings with 09

I found myself having feelings for people I didnt think about before I left it all behind.

Im so eager to return, to impress, to reminisce, to travel when I get back home.

I imagine my second first encounters with pals when I come and visit.

I look forward to critiques again, to trade artworks like baseball cards. cause who knows, that stuff could be made into history someday soon, assuming worlds dont end, and oceans dont raise above the mountains and make everything I've learned pointless.

but even if it did, and we are all doomed to drown, at least I feel I can die without any regrets
but if it doesnt, and the worlds exhale in relief, then Id like to do something with my life for others. Visit africa, or south america, do a peace corp run through or something. Because I cant think about how pointless my crap is when compared to the crap of others. I'll work to help.

I think this is enough now, I cant really feel my fingers.
Its cold in this building.

The little engline that could... derail and kill hundreds

Got to keep moving, got to keep moving, there's nothing to do but keep workjing. Its not toil if you love what you sdo nd its something you feel rewarded for when you do it right. Still sleep isn't bad now and then.

The principles of light

Jesstical transformers under the heat of all that his holy describes.
Well that didnt make much sense now did it?
nope. not at all.

Blue shirted H is how he used to be, how he saw himself, sad, pitiful, whiney
Red shirted H is how he wants to view himself, the cool one, the HP
Green shirted H is actuality, when he sees him self like the birds do. Not impressive
=
White shirted H is H as H can be

What I would have said to those jerks if I weren't sick and outnumbered

You call everyone else elitist but you know what's funny...

I only hear one person talking down everyone else.

Strange how it works.

Bought the Carpet and the Drapes

Orange fizzle down and out to the center stage corner of the courtroom like fire like honey slip through the valley to the belly of the beast where center run down to the tick tock redock the ship and go on leave.

Like recorders on repeat, no one would buy this music and no one ever changes their tune. The weasel, the arrogant, the twisted, the whore.

Stain your lips. Lipstick leaves a mark.

And I've followed you all over town.

Boon this.

to hell with all of this reborn shit. I know who I am. Im harper and nothing in this world, not people, not food, not drink, not substance, not location can change any of that. im disgusted with myself most of the time ow, I just dont know when to say no. My head swims when drunk, and I love feeling sober and straight far more than the alternatives/. So fuck it all. Im here to find myself while taking artsy fartsy photos here in Italy. Well Im taking the artsy fartsy photos, and I've found myself!

I was stuck in that horrible place between the past and the future, and I shook myself, slapped myself silly until I understood that life needs to be moved. So I brought myself to the present.

No more "HP" no more experimentation, no more "im the coolest shit to enter florence" I hate seeing myself from the third person. I'm always someone I dont recognize, someone I dont think I'd like very much If i ever got a chance to meet him. This persona will negatively effect my dealings with people when I return, and I cant let it. People back home knew me as Harper. and so Harper I shall remain. I dont need to ditch him in favor of being HP, I just need to realize that Harper's life is different now. Like I told her, "if you're not making mistakes, you're not learning anything; so right now, given last year, I feel pretty knowledgeable" I know more now as Harper than I ever could as HP.

I think I just found my gold rubies and emeralds. I'll bring THAT back home for sure.

memory 1

the evergreen bark tastes distinct, but not sweet, more bitter and tonguetwisted.

i used to chew it when i had headaches.

Loser at first sight

So I met someone today in Salem and made a fool out of myself, at least in my mind.

I stopped by the borders in the mall even though I didn't really have the need or money. Out of curiosity I spotted a few books that reminded me of ones I needed for class so nI went to the front counter to ask. Sure enough the girl there saw my chester shirt and mentioned she went as well, a comuter I had never met before. She seemed interested in striking up small conversation for a second or two but a customer came up and she quickly went back to work. I stood there for a second like an idiot thinking that maybe she'd be done quickly but then realized how awkward it was I told her "well I'll see you around campus then" and quickly left, I doubt she heard.

I didn't even get her name.

I wanted to go back and talk some more but I knew it would only be awkward and weird. I mean what the hell do I know abouther, she could be with someone, or we might not even be closely compatable. Still, of all the people to bump into it just so happened to be someone like that. Sometimes I really wish I believed in shit like fate.

After a few minutes of aimlessly walking around i remembered there was something in the bookstore I forgot to ask about. I got excited, maybe I could use the inquiry to strike up more conversation with her. Pathetic, yes, but I'm not exactly a swooner now am I. So I wnet back, checked the aisles and tried my luck at the desk again only to get someone else and the girl I met before too busy with other customers. I bullshited a reason to be up there and then left again.

sometimes I remember why I don't believe in shit like fate.

Whatever you are, be a good one

It happened. just like that. A scandal. A whisper in the back of the classroom. Someone waiting behind bookshelves, pressed up against the wall in an office. Sneaking up the sides of mountains. Right under their noses. Like weasels. Like easels leaning up against eachother. Gross. Sick. Disturbed I turn the page.
Years. One year. More than. Thankgod. Like time washes out wounds. And if only that damn school had a confessional I could turn in my unborn fetus, whispered threats and trashy pictures and start new. Wear white. Clean my teeth. Buff my nails.

The microwave dings. Its past bedtime. Past foodtime. Replace this moment with Obama staring, peering in my doorway, mask next door begging for a body to run away with.

And your scandal is nothing to my scandal. And we scandal like predetermined second story rules on sedentary rocks. collapse and beg one more time for sex. Rolling over, happy, so damn happy and coming back for one more kiss, one more kiss, one more kiss. one me. more. you. Us. We are the center of a wonderful world where random chest hairs and hairy bellies are lovely lovely lovely and we might just be the best damn...

Chewable. No she didn't... No.

I smile at Orion's Belt. Almost as if he forced my head down there like you do. I'll string beads on anything and take directions, for pretend. I'm a dinosaur. A BrontioRex,I bite ankles. You're voo-doo gets stronger by the day and I stare out windows in cars and sing love until it steams the place up.

The frill shark upset my stomach and I got engaged to myself as a distraction. Any time I think of how cool I am, "rock the casbah" starts playing in my head.

Handprint Sun Beams

concrete as hard as mud mountains dripping out of hands. children playing curtsy and bows christmas presents that will never get to the receiver.
spider bite finger tips surrounded by blues and reds.
rolly polly pencils sliding to and fro like your nails on a chalkboard that time i just wouldn't shut up about the paint on the walls.
my stomach hurts from all this walking walking no where. walking to rooms with tigers in grass and handprint sun beams. no where you would remember. no where we ever went. mushrooms growing out of white sheets.
grass.
empty. empty empty. pens and paper down, up up we go to the clouds. soar and forget the nights when i hit you because mother was mad. i didn't mean to break your favorite horse when the shoe flew. it was your nose.
freckles and fingers etching black paint on walls. dreams in acrylic.

Analogies without epiphanies

Folk songs echoing down the hall as I think about the many walks of life my friends come from, like them, like the guy i just ran into in the bathroom, all of them distinctly different and in some cases they have no ties between one another and yet here they are all marked by at least a lukwarm positive relationship with me. I like them all for either the songs, or dances or even the not dances they do. I'm not making any sense I guess but for sake of stream of conciousness I'll keep this whole thing going.

Maybe it'll help me out in some way. Got a whole story out of a little writing exercise, hell, I got an idea for a longtwerm project just by playing too much video games over break. I wonder how long I can stretch an idea until it gets too warped. That analogy thjere just kind of came out, biut it worked pretty wrll. Gah, now here come missed keys and spelling errors again.

Wonder what some of the people back home are up to. I really hope they visit again, maybe more of them will come too. I don;t want them gone from my life so easily. I grew up with them all and I count them more family than the one with blood relations to me. For the most part at least.

How's that for a stream? More like a trickle with little tributaries and runoff to diverge from the main flow but at least more places are covered, even if only on the surface. Hah, there's those anaologies again.

flying tandem and alone

translate this you punk ass know it all. Non one knows about the slow demeaning relations taht the bluejays have with thr stone walls that forbid tresspassing. Only jogging can sway the branches of the cresent moon over to my side of the valley. only hope reigns over the pale sun when its hidden by the dark clouds that bring the moist hatred of a sour mother earth.
not anohther day dgoes by when things dont arise in memoryt aht can only bring pain and and despair like I try to forget. things are making sense now. must be doing something entirely wrong, ar all too right. But who would really notice? no one notices the dead pancaked pigeon on the way down the street. I do. I should. no one notices, and it really pisses me off.
But what can any of ask of the toher 6 billion things that undulate around theis orb?
No hope to single. Only hope to cope.
Ive got the hope I think.

Slip, Stand, Stretch

Chip it. Wet like towel wet. Scream and stand behind the screen. Chip it. Wake up, damp, dull detrimental, and damned. Before the sun, sing it. Your joints need oiling. Your lips, lubrication. And you sit in the treetops and sing a song that sounds like, "sex sexxxx seeeexxx sex sex." Rejoin, rekindle, reconstitute that bad attitude. Let's sew buttons on your bad layers and bundle you up, new fashion, high fashion. We could all lose some weight, and the song repeats. Smudges, eyeliner, night before on wrist, hip, red hair, blue star. Crime scene, life before coffee.
You've got an ugly mug and I can paint anything gold.

the lakota whispers

the spider tried to trick the woman and the man; he gave them the bags that had the winds of the gods and with those winds their wishes came true- they had eternal life and their children eternal life and their children eternal beauty but the winged one and the unknowable and the sun berated the spider and sent it out so it would have no friends; and man was wizard, and woman was witch, and the children became the directions that point us- a compass- we read into their souls the names that we ascribe and follow; so they knew

okaga knew beauty but he had no tongue and his eyes followed the stars but longed for only one. yata knew only beauty and had a tongue but rough and coarse and it lapped at skin like the dog's tongue- it tore at flesh like the cat's tongue with its barbs; eya and yanta were but brothers but fools and knew nothing more of the world then where it ended before the point of their nose. okaga played the flute for her who was her sister but would be her wife. okaga played the flute and sang the star song but his father though that she smiled for yata and frowned. the father thought that the star smiled for yata, and he frowned, and he wept.

that was depressing

down to the last straw the empty hald sideways chorus of tears. bring brign bring the forest forest forest of of of ofo the end endly shimy time. shimy shimy. neurotic nerotic finger fucking asswhole. fine wine soft curves. buble buble pop, chery lips and giggles. spider webs and lassos. guns blasing high tide the surge of foam adn spice. empy hollow hole, jagged like a cavitiy. sponged red and senstive. picton timed and light light light light pasign of the cat. fire ont he board west. fire adn the timeing titmouse. twittled giant surgling back to back to gorgeous faltering casm. fist of the north star end of the last crusade. high up on the totem pole she waitr and waits and waits for faith and fire and the clear eyes oifthe one who can see the clouds behind the sun the sun the sun the clouds of the high half fork of twins on fire by the lake the lake the lake the withteh fire and the death of jason. the lie the image of untruth that huants me. the bitch I want to kill. with this and that and watch her drown and gurgle and sigh. the ghost of the lost. the ghost in the lake. sake for hte ashes on the roseary, wipe it on your jeans. snow. hides it in the winter when i pass.

Like Michelangelo's David was like for my Dad

I first saw her in Art History Class with Nanette. It didnt seem like such a big deal at the time, but maybe if I thought her so special to begin with I wouldnt have been as psyched when I finally encountered her here at her home.
I speak of Donatellos wooden statue of Mary Magdalene. On the art history screen she looks like a small figurine, nothing more than 20 inches tall. The detail and expression are pretty mute when put into slide form.
But now, I see her in a different light.
Shes not a figurine, shes life size. That was shock number one.
Shock number 2 was the life like quality.
I looked into her eyes, I wanted to speak to her. I thought she could hear my thoughts and could respond.
I wanted to embrace her, wanted to lock fingers, hers and mine. I wanted her to no longer suffer for her beliefs. Her hands never touch, they come close to a prayer, but theyre just mere centimeters apart. Her matted dirty hair is her clothing, I wanted to wash it for her and make her look presentable. I could see her breathe, hear her silent moans as she constantly prepared to pray. I could see as folds of her hair shifted along her shoulders and back. I could hear her old bones creak.
I looked into her eyes and FELT her look at me. I started to then just admire the craftsmanship of it all. Donatello did a hell of a job. And I swear, it was slight, but she shook her head at me. As if to say, nonono, Donatello didnt carve me. You cant carve a living being such as me.
I was completely overwhelmed. Far more than I thought I would be. She wasnt even protected by glass. She was completely open to see, to hear, to touch almost. Open to all elements. Im sure Im not the only one who has fallen in love with her on first sight, I cant have been the only person to visit her that didnt want to take her away from her sorrow and pain.
Her eyes
Her eyes spoke of unmovable faith. Her beliefs were stone, and stone they shall remain for eternity. Shes not just a woman made out of wood, shes a symbol of hope, of redemption from corrupt and sad life to one of faith, gratitude, and love.

Swirling blue cocktails

energizer legs streams of hair empty chords blissful bliss mine can't shake it hard pressed hands on cheeks smoky entrails swirling blue cocktails head injuries hiding secret empty memories grasping at the air for something just a little more meaningful burning sage burning pink hair burning burning the way home no more masks no more palaces of ice and stone trees are growing thoughts are dying and I'm not sure that it matters anymore when Carolina is so far down the fear of moving to see the north star and the curves oh the curves and how one day I would have those curves and mix drinks for men that have always loved me for who I wasn't no one knew that no one could count the times drawings on napkins and character sheets made pools of vodka on the bar with grenadine and blue ribbon nostrils the size of wine screws scars left from something once desired and held back to please parents that never once saw the truth in aches and pains my ankles my hand and the cat can't die now when all we have left from the house on the hill is her and daffodil graves for each little memory slowly fading off onto that tree where we sat and talked about rich princes coming to take us away hand to ice bruises hot cocoa and cracked glass a family was until I left in search of something already in front of my face bare feet on cold tile something growing inside with every single step

What a difference a month has made

I wasnt exagerating before. I feel like a new person in a lot of ways, some good and others bad. I drink now, a lot more than a responsible guylike me sbhould. I'm eager to drink again on my birthday, as my roomies will ost likely pick up the tab.
I've been involved in many shiffty and illegal transactions thus far, and I'm not proud of that, especially since my folks told me to promise them I'd stay away from the dangers of drugs and alcohol. But what can I say other than the usaul excuses? If I treat this like a differnet life, than I have to LIVE it like a differnet life. And life is not balanced without discord, and theres nothing like shaking the very foundations of your beliefs and morals to cause internal discord.
If its any consolation, reader, or to me, I definitely WONT be involved in these particular discoordinating things when I go home. I promise that.

On the flip side, I feel more confident in my walking abouts. I'm planning on skdiving twice over mid term break, that should be fun. the cool part about if though, for me, is thaat a month ago, I had NEVER booked ANYTHING myself, let alone plane tickets, bus traspo, hotel arrangements, jump booking and all the reast.
I'm socailly comfortable with everyone I encounter, even those who speak different languages,. and trust me that happens an awful lot.
THe semester applies no pressure on my life, I feel the only stress so far has been planning for the break, and what I'll do about seeing everyone Chesterside upon my return.
Everything seems different now, and the more I'm here the more I believe that this is a different LIFE all together. I'm not Harper anymore, at leaszt not while I reside here in physical history.
My roomies haved dubbed me HP, for HarPer. Its an odd name, with a dull but funny story behind it, but its also a symbol. I'm no longer Harper, but I hope in some ways to become him again, or at leazst to merge with him when I come back. I'll act different, talk different, look different, BE different, buit I WONT BE different either,. Deep in myh skull, Im still Thinking like bharper, Being harper in thought.
I suppose thats true even here, so harper has already merfged with HP, and the merge will happen again in late april.

I guess that was the point all along, I needed to escape from the person I was before. I dont know how much I showed it, but I hated a lot of things about last semester, and most of this agony was self inflicted, or self directed. Not anymore. I know that what has happened to me to which Iàve been so fixated was unfortunate and sad, but not tragic. Not nearly as tragic as I let on to believe. I look forward to going home, and going back to school, and not thinking about the stresses and riggers of the soap opera I created last year.
Anyway, thats why I came here, cause I hoped I would be able to forget the past harper.

I truely have rotated 270 degrees.

Now easy living is running amok in a safe way till the sun shows
Boon is waiting in the old school flavors
gold rubies and emeralds
across the sea and south of the cold where nothing from this home can follow

However, the head can only be in the clouds a short time
for sorrows have proven
there are
some things worth coming back for.

the half way nowhere sagging tit race

here int eh nows of this that the other tip tap and another rat and or of somethign else other than what shes looking at. fury round small large brooding. large cage int eh center of the smaller ever smaler room of luxuruy paid with sweat and tear for soemthing to far aoof. to much the later to near the want the want of thing the want the wan the wanting that need to be in you the fear of ascertatin of illumination of not wanting after tyou have, thinking poetry adn asthetics to teh tick of a clock with the day all done echoes of other things of birthdays and episodes and miriad miriade miadie mairiade of thing yet unspoken in the depth or of things aproaching in the nearnes of the future or in the pastness of the far off long time ago don't want to think about purle and blue and wavering too if all was a peny a shoe and a pidgeon if life were a stream and chinchillia gold. bring the back beat to teh future up to nine bring the shadow of a doubt down to the line. shining brightly in teh sun under hte underhanging baloon figurine tangerine illumination illuminatillumination is a fun word. bringing up teh last of the first the best of the last the for more hesitant beast of the labours of man in the coiled rumigated entrance of the fleeting filly's nostril in the feild beyonf the barn where they once shot my dog I feel the tiny pull of incest covered in that lie. the tiny feeling of hay fever traped inside a fly. the last of the first born ready to die in teh last wave of the first war fought with in the soul. this is the first day of forever in the happy happ happ happ happ happpy place called home in the inner workigns of the tick tocking of the buzz rocking atmosphere below the moon in the righteuos exclusion of the baffled and the torturous forever of the illumination of the sun this is the first of the last of the first in the last of the half way nowhere sagging tit race of the last ever ever ver near so far. la te da.

Letter to Elise

Rain drop rhythms pouring over photographs of memories where you once made me smile. Matching school outfits and playing Disney movies. You were always Jasmine, Cinderella, Pocahontas. I was always Rajar, the mice, Meeko. Or the Prince. Yo were my princess after all. I didn't mind the hand holding and the singing A Whole New Woooooooooorld. I pretended to pretend to want to kiss you. We both knew it wouldn't last. Don't try to bring up the past. Don't try to bring me back to the big canopy bed in that old house by the river. Rambo can't come up on the bed anymore. Rambo died. And you weren't there. You left me back then for Aeropostle clad boys and girls with dye jobs. I never wanted to leave, but eyeliner and Julian Whitney called me closer. With every new friend cloaked in blues, blacks, and plaids, you looked at me less. That photo album you have doesn't show the abandonment, the ridicule. Pictures are taken, smiles are faked.
My princess died in 8th grade, when you chose the apple over your drawf.

There we go

Seagulls over an all blue ocean, and I'm living in the setting sun, giving last light to that boardwalk with the video arcade.

My back isn't bothering me right now, so I'm taking advantage. The moon is low. It's smiling at me like the Cheshire cat. It could take me to wonderland at an time. I think I'll walk towards it. See where things take me.

I write in the red glow of Darkness. My photographs now pulsate and undulate at the pace with which a heart beats. I'm giving life now, to the paper. I feel more like an artist every day.