Dreams of living life like rappers do...
Just trust the world, trust love. Except the world is
fucking killing you. How can you say that everything's gonna be ok, when it
never turns out ok for anyone?
Fell in love with this chick, drunk-frat-boy-crowd bar on a
Saturday night, Saint Paddy's day, too, so you know they were blitzed, but I
wasn't so drunk. I was studying before, reading, mind all anxious, wound up and
tangled, starved. She swooped me out the coffee shop, drunk-green-gargoyle
night with the lames--it's a language I don't speak, that frat language, but we
grab the jukebox and she leans on me. And we pick songs and we dance. Nobody
dancing but me and her and it's beautiful. Gargoyle dudes all looking, and the
most beautiful girl just wants to dance.
And I think the worst kind of loneliness is being lonely
when you're with someone. When you're around people, talking to people,
connecting to people, and they can't speak to what you're speaking. It's that
deep loneliness, and you can't party your way out of it, or smile your way out
of it, or even fuck your way out of it. But sometimes a girl can lean on you at
a jukebox, and pick a song, and make you believe for a second that these
cracker-jack snapshots that are supposed to add up to a life might actually get
their weight up, might actually be worth cashing in at the end of it, that the
constant becoming might move, that what we shall be, has not-yet-appeared, that
we can lean on some fiery truth in this world and trust in its goodness.
But I think my heart is too big, and too closed, so that
when it opens it feeds on everything and dies on nothing. I think my heart is
too fucked up. And what it wants might not be real, might be corrupted. Dark
nights and high hills, master-plans and fairytales. Dreams of a ghetto kingdom,
dreams of acceptance from the universe. But I think the universe might hate me.
Rock n roll visions before sunrise
and even the saints can't save you
