the oxidation of Joan of Arc.

the mind drinks less and less.
impatience.
highways full of crowds going somewhere, somewhere, somewhere, nowhere.
The gasoline refugee.
Towns turn into motels,
people in nomadic surges from place to place,
following the moon tides,
living tonight in the room where you slept this noon and I the night before.

part two (i forget so much of what i write its beginning to scare me).

hes a lonely planet
dont stir and wake
everythings ok
give or take
the cats got the canary spinning in its ribcage
did i mention i came dressed for the intervention
(and if you were dying soon would you try to find snow in the deep summer
the june bugs dancing in wonder
and i still wonder now
if my words will stil turn you inside out)
hes a honeyjar
with that pretty face, lets never lose the lid
and keep those rosey lips in
(he breathes wet through insect eyes)
in multiples of four, no less than sixteen
mr. sandmans been showing his beam
when he walks into a room the walls lean in to listen
keep a calendar this way youll know the last time you came through
oh.
"i know what youre going through"
well i dont- its more of a "paper or plastic" grocery store choice to me
but ill sympathize with anything to get through to you
do you know what its like to watch reruns of yourself night after night
to offer nothing and expect everything in return
to cock your head just right to appear arrogantly humble
if we hurry well make the morning edition
cos everybody likes to read the bad news
theyve tapped the phone be very careful what you say
speak in code about singing birds and sleepy eyed women
his heads a junkyard for rusted midnight thoughts
hes criminally carefree
when the pills swallow the worry
hes digging like forty nine
hes making you press rewind
hes a thunderstorm so bright you shut your eyes
he is a hurricane

honestly, afraid. i cant ever sleep either.

Put the the planets in swing
Make jupiter sing
The afternoon light
Ignites
The back of my head
Spend years trying to cloud our head and not feel a thing
Just to turn around and erase the clouds so we can remember everything
Throw handcuffs on that boy
When the check comes he never pays
His cheekbones carve my moods
He shakes like a leaf
He's clicking like an old answering machine
He howls at the moon
He's breathes wet thru insect eyes
Canyon lights at night chase away the boring days

And I don't worry about death because I've seen the date I'm gonna die and its so far away.

Try lying for a change, it's the currency of the world.

its oddly haunting the way that sometimes entries from a year ago can reflect perfectly how i feel today.
its like an echo sent out over the weeks and months and pages of the calendar.
not always but sometimes.

a few weeks ago i considered mentioning the fact that while i once wrote "every new years is worse than the last" i didnt feel that way anymore
oh eight had broken the january curse
now im glad i didnt
cuz i realized it might not have
it may have just pushed it back a month
or extended it, depending on how this all looks on play-back

i find it a bit odd to be waiting for retrospect