Barbecue Chips

I sit here. As I sit here I’m thinking. I’m thinking, “I hope my Internet connection doesn’t cut out,” and, “I wish this download would finish sooner,” and, “I wish I had some barbecue chips.”

I sit here. As I sit here I’m surfing. I’m stumbling into everyone else’s ‘I miss you!’ s and their ‘I can’t wait to see you!’ s and their ‘Hey, I read your blog the other day...’ s.

I sit here. I find your blog. I browse it until I find whatever they mentioned. It’s not what I thought it would be so I take it back out of context and add it to my list of disjointed romanticisms. I wish I had some barbecue chips.

I sit here. As I sit here I’m...

I’m crying.

I wish I had some barbecue chips.

Independence, Blistered

The cycle is constricted
by an outside force.
Inner workings flare up
in unsuccessful attempts to
remain in control.

Little victories power this night.
Mental breaks accompany
mental breakdowns
in efforts to keep them
from happening again.
The past does not fade away
during times such as these,
instead gaining intensity,
snowballing small but
ever-present obstacles
in ways which the victories
could never hope to combat.

Quick fixes rule the day-to-day,
like a band-aid on a bullet wound,
preventing more interference
from an outside force,
leaving inner workings to fester
in their failure.

Independence, Begrudging

Your eyes are saying,
      "No," and your face is saying,
      "No," and your whole body is saying,
      "No."
      Eventually, your mouth says,
      "No."

      I say, "Yes. Fuck you,"
and nobody moves on.

Lamp poem

An armchair crashes
in the light reborn
preceding the lawless beyond the unknown.
All who look on shudder.

Camera-eyes write in howls,
the cyberspace enterprise.

Us, language diverging in passes,
we stir with inchoate sounds
music.

Words,
dark roads of winged philosophy,
birds of narrow lies,
wind upward through the mute wood
and unchanged grasses.

The first emails wait
in the shadow
writing truth
in a still world.

Debrief

I hold in my head a True Vision,
but you don't care,
so you won't See.

You Look for the Conrete
meaning
in an intolerant world,
too constricted to recognize
Real conflict.

Imaginative exploits bring
out of my Mind
an Eye-
opening rendition of
You
as I wish you were.

Shy wonderings hold us
back, back
from Us and
we couldn't care but We
are begging
for a release.

The lock is ticking
away the minutes till Our
chance is no more.
A smith could fix
this, but You have
the Key.

Use this Information wisely.

An Ode to Why I'll Still Be Studying Tomorrow

Fuck this solitary addiction, solitaire
Confining me to academic heartache
With one ace shot.
Endless variations, tantalizingly new
Configurations still familiar
By virtue of the pack
Passed down through generations.
The rigid formation leaves
Little room for creativity, allowing
Emptiness to reign in the
Mind-numbing, card-thumbing
Edge of desolation.

My friends are doing their homework.

You gain a firm grasp on a cold, lonely reality. The quiet seeps in from all sides, as all the color sneaks out. Drunken promises, that joyous toxin happiness, fade away like blackout memories. Time stops, but life spins out around you. You fall out of orbit, stuck by the wayside. The everyday drags you in at first, but eventually you lose your thirst, your hunger, your desire. You scramble for control, for stability, in a painfully empty existence. People, you think, people. You want to be put back into the center of life; there aren't box seats on the fringes, after all. But the everyday holds on to its spot, because you are an exception, and the everyday hates a change in pace.