I want to rip off your face; i don’t mean remove, i mean copy and reproduce and mass-market for far less money than you’re worth.

i envy him his her

        i died on tuesday, january 29th. i was predeceased by my mother, joan betsherd, and sister, katya. both died of cancer, the former breast, the latter lymphatic. breaking the family pattern, i went out with a bang. literally. my two-person mini cooper stood no chance against the monster suv curving too far out on a no-shoulder two lane road.
        if i’d had it my way, i would have eaten nothing but fruit loops and shellfish, both of which began irritating my bowels after I’d passed the tender age of twenty-three, for the last weeks of my life. after countless bowls of colored sugar, i would have polished off a full jar of cashews and dropped immediately into anaphylactic shock. as the walls of my respiratory passages closed in, lungs struggling to pass those few last oxygen molecules through my narrowing channels, i would have groped aimlessly for my bag. with tears blinding my clouded grey eyes, i would have seen the strap just out of reach of my non-responsive fingers. as i’d have fallen, screaming wordlessly, i would have cursed myself for indulging and thought briefly of my epipen, where it lay nestled comfortably within my trendy messenger bag. my last thoughts would have been something along the lines of “whoops.”
        i called joan— girlfriend, not mother— again last night, and we played dirty mad libs with Neruda poems; Neruda, whose name is automatically capitalized in microsoft word; Neruda, who brings her to orgasm faster than i. joan, mother, raised me to be a thoughtful man, but I envy Neruda his influence. over joan and over me, for if Neruda hadn’t called himself a writer i suppose i couldn’t have called myself one either.
        what is a writer? i ask myself. what I crave is to be a nude model. I saw an ad recently, hung on a drugstore doorframe, requesting in small crooked handwriting men and women from age eighteentofortyfive, nude modeling for figuredrawing class. Payment upon request. if only i hadn’t died. i could have seen my flaws painted by amateur artists in shaky pastels. if only!
        i sucked up my sloth and thrift last week and bought myself a gym membership; my beer belly had dropped over my waistband (wasteband?)—that was another $180 stolen from my will. i’ll bet Neruda never had this problem.

A LIFE
I was a quiet boy a little sleepy and-- amazingly--
unlike my peers-- who were fond of adventures--
I didn't expect much-- didn't look out the window
At school more diligent than able-- docile stable

Then a normal life at the level of a regular clerk
up early street tram office again tram home sleep

I truly don't know why I'm tired uneasy in torment
perpetually even now-- when I have a right to rest

I know I never rose high-- I have no achievements
I collected stamps medicinal herbs was O.K. at chess

I went abroad once-- on a holiday to the Black Sea
in the photo a straw hat tanned face-- almost happy

I read what came to hand: about scientific socialism
about flights into space and machines that can think
and the thing I liked most: books on the life of bees

Like others I wanted to know what I'd be after death
whether I'd get a new apartment if life had meaning

And above all how to tell the good from what's evil
to know for sure what is white and what's all black

Someone recommended a classic work-- as he said
it changed his life and the lives of millions of others
I read it-- I didn't change-- and I'm ashamed to admit
for the life of me I don't remember the classics's name

Maybe I didn't live but endured-- cast against my will
into something hard to govern and impossible to grasp
a shadow on a wall
so it was not a life
a life up to the hilt

How could I explain to my wife or to anyone else
that I summoned all my strength
so as not to commit stupidities cede to insinuation
not to fraternize with the strongest

It's true-- I was always pale. Average. At school
in the Army in the office at home and at parties

Now I'm in the hospital dying of old age.
Here is the same uneasiness and torment.
Born a second time perhaps I'd be better.

I wake at night in a sweat. Stare at the ceiling. Silence.
And again-- one more time-- with a bone-weary arm
I chase off the bad spirits and summon the good ones.

-Zhigniew Herbert

Happy Thanksgiving
Today i learned the origin of umlauts, and sang christmas carols, and talked about christianity, which i will probably never understand. and believe me, i try.

strumming my pain with his fingers
singing my life with his words
killing me softly with his song
killing me softly with his song

india has killed me. i am dead.

Today i killed my english teacher
i tried to get people to bake with me, but they were silly
i spilled chemicals on my hand, and finished early, and spoke french
i was annoyed and tired and better
i forgot to eat lunch
later i will make brownies, maybe, and watch one tree hill
and go to sleep early
goodday.

i would love to talk to noah berman. why do so many people i love have curly hair?

would you rather have loved and lost or never have loved at all?

seriously.

what a day. thailand's booted out their prime minister. bangkok is flooded with tanks. Thaksin Shinawatra himself is in New York. go read up on it.
it's already been updated on wikipedia. i'm impressed.

my sketchbook is at school and i want it back.

edit: OH MY GOD LIVEJOURNAL IS TALKING IN PIRATE TALK! aye aye!