a drink of water, maybe. Or some day’s reflection.
But it’s only the time passing.
I sit down,
I want to leave tomorrow.
But we
never do. Just imagine what life might
be like if we left in the
morning.
But we never do.

Darkness comes,
the most assured function
on Suydam Street. A window,
a mirror

a window. A mirror.

I find anything two-
dimensional to make a house out of.

but the seeming, too, has slipped away from

my little, tinny hands. tinkering.

what is at all left, survives and waits perilously

in the cracks of our self-construction.

the trees that we protect, selectively

grace the Raritan. their reflection, bright and stinging,

covers up the hollow plastic shores.

The black birds, rolling under bridges on the

Parkway; a man, calling up every one of those

unverified fears–

I realize he is crazy. Just a man

who finds in himself a civilization.

But the most real things always happen when he drives.

A wooden stove in the basemet,

tax exemptions, business ventures

wrench apart the tear in the fabric of the black, black universe

a millimeter, a syllable at a time. Meteors the size of

Monmouth County.

The black birds, the yellow leaves,

their reddish spume, or maybe berries.

So what does it matter?

The population might live on

but the population–Humanity–

it never thought of you.

These grand illusions never included anything

but a pantry underground,

a shivering imagination that will fall

to death as quickly, as quietly

as you.

I just had a funny thought. What happens to my blogs and stuff when I die? (Or when my generation starts dying off..?) An odd way of thinking about *history*

I’m thinking in the .2 hours of spare time (even though I really steal more) this week, I’ll start a slouch beanie hat for fall.

Desperately poor. It’s really bad;

The independent study is going well… I just wish I had more time to devote to it without feeling like a kid eating all of the cookies and none of the veggies. I also have to get over feeling like I’m a complete and uneducated idiot. I admire all of my professors so much, they seem to know everything (well, some more than others..) and I wonder how I will ever do that.

I wonder if I will ever feel like I know what I’m talking about concretely in terms of abstracts, or if I’ll always be a sophomoric creatin who should have stuck to the “literature” end of the English Major. (We all know that doesn’t really mean a damn thing.)

That brings me to another point, graduate school. Uhhhhhh, what if I really don’t stand a chance? I’m terrified. But, I try to console myself with the fact that everything that means anything to me terrifies me. But the mathematical odds are against me. In less than two years, how the hell am I supposed to solidify the extremely shaky (back)ground I’m on and turn it into a solid foundation?

And another thing, I want to study theory primarily, not literature. I don’t even know what that does to my chances of getting in anywhere (I have a feeling it makes it really flipping hard).

And all the while, I just want the people I look up to to think that I’m worth a damn! So I don’t ask these pressing questions for fear of being to personal.

But what can I do? Everything is personal, and I never saw the use hiding it.