the driving snow that drives me home to you

was listening intently to nothing and finding my way back and forth from a dozen cigarettes on the porch and tattered copies of jeanette winterson novels and thought about loving people. what it mean, what is takes what it says to say a thing like that and the responsiblities of that. should there be responsiblilites? does there need to be reasons? order? logic? not only does there not need to be, but there shouldn't be. so i just wanted to bounce off in a sort of wall-ball frenzy contradictory to what you may know of me thus far and serenade the world, serenade the ones that sit at home alone typing, the ones out dancing, the ones out laughing and telling stories, the ones that have to be drunk to smile, the ones that lie all the time, the ones that cheat on their husbands, the ones that always play the top-40 songs in the juke boxes, the ones that wear halter tops so everyone can see their rebellious belly button ring, the ones with tatooes chosen from the wall of a tatoo shop, the ones that sit alone and act depressed all the time, the ones that laugh at jokes that no one else gets or that aren't even jokes, the ones that smile when you lie to them and you know they know, the ones that steal money from the bank in monopoly when you're not looking, the ones that hit us in the face when we fuck up, the ones that never mean harm, the ones that only mean harm, the ones that last through it all everyday, every winding breath and take it all in, greenhouse effect, opium streets, war in middle east again, neighbor kicked my cat, etc. you are the ones i love. thanks for being.

2002-09-20 | 11:12 p.m.
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