Follow up to tonight:
I was sitting in my car in a constant state of boredom. woke up, turned around, made that hip hop bag a waggady lag a dip bop doop of a trip to the library and once inside, submerged my essence into edward weston and alan watts. we're all watchers, spectators of life, and when we make art, we are just creating things we see in creative, jazzy flavors that other little beams of light can look upon and smile and dance to. you can not give a fuck too and hey badda doop thats alright too.

Rat-a-tat tat shit knocking on the door Neal Cassidy’s there kissing Allen and there’s nothing I can do but quiver and look at them with a queer eye – allen’s still a fairy I yell! ee cummings hated the way I punctuated in heaven but that didn’t seem to lessen his poetry any. Jesus was a good guy, and was the son of god, but in the way that we are all sons and daughters and little tiny snow children of god. In the way that god isn’t really a being but an external force that governs our lives and provides a sense of unity between mankind, between you and me and her, the golden place where silence is golden and poetry exists.

The reason I say so: Bart Paugh, a substitute for my AP Literature class asked us to ponder where poetry exists, if it is just words on a page or if it exists in the mind or is in the air floating around as spoken speak as beats on a drum as little dust particles that we can smell as oxygen we breathe as a way for our hearts to sustain themselves. I thought that poetry exists everywhere, and that we are poetry ourselves, we just haven’t looked at it that way. I took a terrific picture of Dasha’s little lips the other day, tried to make it look gorgeous, but she already was, all I did was time the exposure, turned it in when it was done, had scratches but I didn’t care, was content. Poetry hugged me when I was sad about the dust spots, and made me happy again. Poetry hugged me and smiled with me when I heard the loner kid in photo class smile and be happy with everyone. I hugged poetry when I found a world where I can read or see or feel something and feel elated. I’m in that world right now, listening away to what my fellow ants have made with their cosmic voices.

Oh no! A break in the eternal light shining down on me on us from heaven above! Even if Alan Watts was right about how we’re all petals on the same flower, how we’re not even the goddamn petals we ARE the flower, I still believe in heaven I still believe my grandfather is looking down on me, seeing my negative smoking habit, and throwing basketballs at my soul and laughing anyway. I believe he’s watching over my sister and me and my hardworking sweatdripping lifegiving timewasting artfulnessforgetting mother and my grandmother who cried next to me when we went to visit his grave the other Saturday when the sun was shining down on us. I tried wiping my grandmother’s tears with my hand, but lightning struck my heart, and I started crying too. My sister was asleep in the backseat, but that was okay. Kurt Vonnegut was probably crying somewhere too, but most likely for all of us ants and not just one that a few feel was one hell of a spirit.

This morning state of ennui but shit, all that changed when I got to AP Lit, happiness when I heard Bart Paugh speak of his youth so innocently! He wrote one of his poems on the board from college from sophomore year about the moon and how he cusped it in his hand, then told us about how he remembered MaryAnn whenever he saw the poem and how a girl he gave a poem to thirty years ago still has it in her goddamn drawer. In my life rat-a-tat tat I want to write beautiful things and give them to lovely flowers and make love to you and you and maybe allen, and have you tell me about them in thirty years. I would probably cry! My heart would tug and it would be fine! Alan Watts is trying to tell me “I” don’t have a heart, my heart is part of the world’s, and that’s okay by me. If my heart is beating with happy strawberries and jam, I’m sure your heart is, and their heart is and our heart is.

My lonely drum set my lonely guitar my lonely pad of paper all staring at me. My camera was stolen the other day, I didn’t mind, I hope the fucking klepto became a millionaire for all I care! Too much loneliness, too much noise! Material wealth has taken over some of my deepest thoughts and it worries me! W O R R Y E E C U M M I N G S A TWIG? STICK? TREEFALLINGyouONthereHELLO! WORLD! ? 123 WORLD? . Oh!

To speak in another’s voice:
Be eloquent.

I’d like to add something to that.

Be eloquent! Be mellifluous! Be youthful! Don’t let things worry you! Be like the dolphins and swim and dance all day do it anyway you can! Eyes aren’t the windows to the soul! Bullshit! We don’t even have souls! We’re just cosmic beams of light waving hello at each other, smiling all over the place when it’s innocent and frowning when it’s not! Starve for attention! Everyone will look at you but really look at themselves but really look at us what ee cummings hello! Everyone wave hi to him! Hello Zelda Fitzgerald! What a beautiful lady!

Um. Have I gone crazy? I don’t even know what that is.

I was sitting there looking at myself, laying dead in that goddamn coffin. I sort of wondered what the hell I was doing when I became the CEO of something Rupert Murdoch made up. That SUV didn't really comfort me when I had lung cancer.

I laughed when I saw Allen Ginsberg in heaven. He was still a fairy.

Cell phones have ruined the art of conversation. Things used to be so PERSONAL when you had to wait to talk to that special person. Things used to be so interesting!

I'm drunk on worldly pleasures!

So I was in line at the post office today, and there was a man behind me who was in his fifties, with white hair and an old man stomach (I wish to GOD I could say tummy or belly here), dressed as if he had just gotten off from work. And there was a skinny Asian kid behind him about twenty or so wearing a shirt that had something to do with computers.

Anyway, the old guy started jangling his keys around with a big smile on his face. He then turned to the Asian kid behind him, pointed over to a baby in a stroller a few feet away and said, "Isn't it amazing? No matter what's happening, kids can always hear the sound of you jangling your keys. I mean, no matter how loud it is, they'll still sit there smiling and trying to reach for your keys." The Asian kid sort of stood there smiling as best he could while the old guy kept on talking. "I was at the mall the other day and I was messing around with my keys, and God, I don't even hear my keys anymore when they're by my side and everything, but this baby about twenty feet away was grabbing at them and laughing. It made him so happy!"

And I was looking at this man, and I thought to myself, "How perfect!" I mean how wonderful of a way to describe innocence in children. I mean not kindergarteners, not preschoolers, not toddlers, but infants. Infants he called children! Isn't that amazing? It really made me think about how kids really grow up so fast, and how everyone gets so damn accustomed to the noise around us that they just stop being human for a while.

And then he started talking again. "You know, come April 15th this place is gonna be filled. You think the line is long now, just you wait, people will be lining out the door in a couple of weeks." And the Asian guy smiled and said that he already did his taxes and said something about how the nation is in debt. And the old man replied, "Well, we're always going to be in debt. That's something we're never going to change. I mean, we bring in so much stuff we don't need just to make people happy. I just wish in your lifetime they do away with all the nonsense in our government and with money. It's too much."

And I thought to myself again, "How perfect!"