Hey! and I have bones too.


Late at night with the dimly lit rooms, or during my favorite part of the day (when the light is still light enough to see, but luminescent light is brighter) (when it's blue out and the flamed end of cigarettes are the lighthouse of the street walker) (when it's dark gray out and lightning bugs light up nothing, but everything)we begin to chase away the grinding of the bones in "useful" ways. What amount of distraction can cull the blues out of our bones? Basically it seems like the drive to do this will never end. And, Hey! I have bones too.

Out of all the things we make out of our bones, bread is the most useful. Giants first gave us this idea. Giants called out to us in a threatening manner and said: "You down there. Yes, you...you with the bones surrounded by the flesh. I'll grind your bones to make my bread." We thought it a threat, but what we thought was threat was really feat.

We grind them down to a pulp. We grind them down to a pulp we mix into a glue slurry and make them into weapons. We're throwing darts at our pain, mostly. Hoping to hit that bulls eye, hoping one of our sharpened tools will stick to the spot we need it most. Hey! and I have bones too. I grind them down, and offer them up to you.

Went to Australia, everyone became an atheist:

Left, met you, existed to create, lived by my wits, never drove a car, saw beaches, drank coffees,worked for my pay, bought new jeans, bought new shoes, changed my way of thinking, never cut my hair, grew my beard long, thought about you, decided to never think of you again, listened to Moby in a car, drank coffees, created, realized myself, decided myself, followed a path, created, created, created, found my way back, found a party, observed it from the outside, mourned my friends, had some beers, talked to good people, ate pizza, met new people, decided myself, working to realize myself, missed you, missed a good opportunity, poured love into someone else.

'Ana

I always said I hated you. Or that you weren't good enough. Although, tellingly enough...I was the first to admit and admire your beauty. And I'm not saying I'm in a sad state of mind, but would it be too much to ask for you to come to me again? In the beginning: there were days where we both woke up together in the blazing sun. Our first summer together, I was altogether lost. I didn't know where my hands belonged, or if they had worth. I remember, though that they were put to work each day. I never knew what a blessing you were then. But each day began with the sun, and waking up in a room with a squeaky couch, and wondering if I'd need a sweatshirt for the morning. After a few days in May, I didn't. It turned out to be one of the hottest summers I've ever experienced. Two things stand out from that summer: heated bike rides from home to work at 6:50am, and scorched pavement to and from my house to my friends house.

I don't think I'll ever be one of those guys who screams "take me back to that place!" but I can admit I was a confused person during our tenure. But give me a chance to say my peace here. I cursed you so many times for all those freezing nights. When I thought I was living a tough life in my one bed room apartment. That was the time everybody called me a hermit, but they didn't know all I wanted was some visitors. I used to get home at 11:45pm, take a shower, drink a beer and watch a movie until 12:30am. Then I'd freeze on that couch until morning and go to another day of work. Was I so hell bent on leading that life that I closed my heart to you? Why did I always think those thoughts alone in the dark? What once was red and beating for some reason changed to bruised and stunted.

Yes, there were times I found solace in you. Mostly down south where your beauty shown in obvious fashion. I valued the clean streets, the valleys and peaks of you, and of course your sunsets. Your sunsets are the best I will ever see. Must be something about the lay of the land, but I can see it for miles, and I always-always-always stopped to admire them. You flooded me in once and it was an adventure. The next few days I saw what Noah saw, I traversed waterfalls, and drank in the light shining through your leafy trees.

Why-why-why do I always want to be somewhere else? So I left you alone. I blamed you for my problems, and I didn't get involved. I always thought you were a one night stand, but in reality you were 8 years of living. When everyone moved on I lost a lot of hope in you. So eventually I decided to leave too. Oh I know if I were to return right now all my ill will would come swimming back through my mind. But it's my goal to remember you fondly. Like every other ex, with each new hardship I regress in my mind and see you as the illuminating-angel-saviour-ghost breathing sweet breath blessings on me. Waiting to swoop in, and take care of me. And since it has always been my habit to remember only good times I now dedicate all memories of you in the highest regard. Even though most of the time I was surrounded by my own doubt...but I suppose it was only doubt in myself.

Do you want to become an American? I'll only paint your fingernails for you if they can be painted black. I'm happy to get silver in my mouth to look like a pirate. I have greedy teeth.

Go to New York you young ones. Go to the city which is larger than a city and is so large no one sleeps. "The city": it rears the sun for us. Listen to you, complaining and with nothing at all to do. In New York, the fun finds you, and the fun you'll find is the kind to write home about. Write home to forgotten friends, and ill motivated countrymen. Tell them of the tales. Those tales of money spent in low lit clubs. In New York young ones try to impress the girls. Provided in New York: a clever hat, a top coat and walking cane. Oh how the girls go wild for men with a clever hat and a neat hair cut. It can only be achieved in New York!

The newspaper men will write about you. They'll say: "Look at that man in his top coat. He had 88 women in one night" All of New York will read the headline. In taxis, in trains, in torrential downpours...when they use the paper as a makeshift umbrella...they will all read the headline. Later in life, the man or woman who runs the Smithsonian in Washington D.C. (District of Columbia) will gild that hat and with what will it will be gilded.

It's a life well lived in N.Y.C. It's not like in the wilderness, in the forrest, in the outback or on the sea. You'll do no chopping, no foraging, no fishing, you'll see. When you retire, honored with hat gilded may your silk slippers warm your city feet. Prop them high atop the Empire State building's observation deck, and shut your eyes. Sleep off life's hang over.