Half dreams like creamsicles under your fingernails

Friday lies the day of jubilees. I am not in New York, but one of my favorite professors is. He has a soul patch. Does he doubt the idea of a soul? That's a private concern. Too heavy for a day that smells like sneaky rain.

Last night, cold and attempting to fall asleep, I felt strange and happy, like a child injured in a perfect way, like the Victorian word queer. It had nothing to do with thoughts or translating my body into other situations -- it was all blankets and two cocked windows. Weird shit, yo. Friday fun day.

I cleaned up my site, chucked a bunch of crap. Here is another old poem:

Phil From Hawaii Sees His First Snow (At Eighteen)

In a world this white, nothing can burn.
No attic can soot a bucket of old Barbies.
Headaches I limped through last night on
MSN Messenger, as we both shirked truth,
are erased in favor of Amber by the elms
in third grade, little pecks for who gets the
soccer ball first, a recess that strips any
concept of bells. The eight million aches
of eight am are erased by drapes that part
like the first skirt I convinced to faint.
Outside in the hall, a seven foot Hawaiian's
like a teddy bear hopped up on lollipops,
singing for something he's never before seen:
"and since we've no place to go, let it snow!
let it snow! let it" on and on and down the
stairs, and suddenly it's as though there
are still uncharted oceans of my own skin,
my own hair rising white as sails across.

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