(via i-lost-my-pants)

I keep my high beams flicked on.
They throw their yellow onto the face
of the soggy, hanging cotton stepping in front of me
And although it’s blocking my view
at least I can see it in detail.

And after the grille parts the fog,
the V6 breaststroke rattling,
I am driving through the town we love to hate.
I’m thinking how narrow it can get, this
road of slimy mirrors, watched by darkened
store fronts, whose eyelids droop.

Strings of disembodied white lights
slither through dead and naked branches -
Trying in vain to offer some holiday spirit
to the oldest summer resort in America.

I’ve driven this road a thousand times
but never reminisced like this -
back to the days of humidity -
the smell of puberty and the taste of you.
How you would toy with the tourist boys,
until they pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
The days I still worshiped you,
When we didn’t mind that the only thing
to do was get ice cream and drag our toes through
the oily water below the end of the dock.
I don’t even like ice cream.

That was the plastic summer,
During which if anyone had told me I’d be here
in this pocket of time and space
and rain and bleeding light,
I’d have turned on my heel
and walked swiftly away.

Weekends plus Monday nights, I soaked it in the glow of street lights
and the smoke of cigarillos, dribbled poetry down the front of it
when the humid air was too stuffy,
its arms hugged my waist like a grunge rocker.
It never let go. I was in the nineties again.

Weekdays you wore it to class,
got ink from your notes on the elbows
rolled up the sleeves with a rattle of wrist-beads.
While you walked home you hugged yourself
squeezing the straps of the overflowing backpack.
The wind was no match for the comfort of wool.

It didn’t get a hanger, it was too proud
draped over the chair at the kitchen table
or waiting on the bedpost for whichever
one of us was leaving the apartment first
and desired the smell of the other.

(via waiting-for-wonderland)

The Beatles in 1957.
George Harrison is 14, John Lennon is 16, and Paul McCartney is 15.

(via stage-of-fools)

The other night I went to the Brewster Academy basketball game. They’re number one in the country, donchaknow. Right in my hometown! None of the players are from this state but it’s still fun to watch them dunk on other recruited postgrads who probably also have a GPA less than one.
So I’m at the game right, with several of my friends, from different friend groups. You ever have your worlds collide, with close friends from different circles in the same place at the same time, like some sort of fucked up social Venn Diagram? That was kind of happening but it wasn’t bad cause my friends are cool, that’s why I’m friends with them. There were two black girls on the bleachers in front of us (which is pretty rare in my neck of the woods, just saying, even at a basketball game) so i was being very conscious of what i was saying, else a mistimed Chappelle’s Show quote slip out or something. I find racial stereotypes to be funny, not because they’re necessarily true but because they are so exaggerated and it’s funny that one can attempt to generalize such a huge group of people with one characteristic. But yeah racist jokes are funny i’m not going to lie to you, that’s just how i feel. But i watched my tongue. I’m from new hampshire give me a break.
SO on to the story, just had to set the scene for way too long. “Does anyone smell pickles?” I say, quite loudly. Several of my friends were outside smoking so it was just me and a couple other kids still inside. One of em goes, “Yeah I kinda do smell pickles, that’s bizarre.”
So i felt really validated; I was like okay good I’m not smelling weird things. I read somewhere that smelling weird things - like having smell-hallucinations is a sign that you’ve been poisoned. So keep that in mind, cause it’s a thing. The smell went away after a little bit.
Later on, after half time, I mention that we should all go get sandwiches at the sub shop after the game. I call in an order and it’s a huge clusterfuck cause there’s like six different sandwiches with very specific fixin’s that i have to shout into the phone at a crowded rich-kid highschool gym to this poor guy at a sub shop hating his life. He says give us at least fifteen minutes and I say you got it guy and I hang up the phone, and there is that goddamn pickle smell again. Now that everyone is around me and not outside smoking the reefer, I pretty much shout, “Does it smell like pickles, or is it me?!” someone says they smell it too and the whole thing blows over, pretty hush-hush.
Five minutes later we moved down a row cause some of the bros-in-training that attend this fine academy had vanished. So we took their spots and we’re stretchin out our elbows, it’s great. And my friend next to me tells me discreetly that he saw one of the two black girls that are now next to us, smuggling a pickle wrapped in a napkin in her pocket. Like this girl was just taking bites in between plays and then stashing the pickle back in her jacket. And i looked at my friend, stunned, and could not say a word, just, “Whuuah?”
And man did i feel silly.
But who does that, right?

(via waiting-for-wonderland)

(via fuckyeahdemetrimartin)

My handsome friend John and I playing a bit of music, just for you

We’re working on new music. Who’s excited?!

Anonymous asked: You are amazing.

lfkajasdflkf I just melted. thank you so much, I love you!

The eloquent elegance of a man standing alone on a beach
tuned in to the whispers of his heart, lost in sad and lovely thought:
He steps to the edge of the unsure tide,
and sinks in the wetness as the fickle foam changes its mind once more.
It recedes, tickling his ankles as it passes,
withdrawing its reach, having satisfied its wanderlust.

But as soon as the water gets home it again aches for distant places
and once more pokes its nose out onto the gingerbread dampness,
scooping the dough from around the man’s feet and gluing his spirit to the
space where ebb and flow overlap.
This is where the air is most pleasant, warm and smooth and heavy
and it pours into the man effortlessly while his toes wiggle merrily.

All the flat rocks around him are gone, hurled sidearm,
skipped over crests or perhaps having pierced the abdomens
of the yawning waves sitting up lazily;
so that there is nothing left for the man to do
but sink and inhale and watch the gulls bob gracefully on the
predictable surface of the calming saltwater,
and it’s unclear whether the man’s fatigue
is setting in comfortably
or being lifted away
by the quiet swirling updrafts.

Seeing you cross-legged on the bleachers,
thin lips smiling and
delicate fingers grasping
the new camera you got for Christmas,
snapping shots of him and his beard
as he runs up and down the court -

Is it as weird for you, as it is for me -
That we have nothing to talk about?
Words so easily plucked from the shallows
two years ago, now scatter like frightened minnows.
It’s such a shame that flirting was our only

excuse for communication. And now I just don’t
Have it in me. That night, that text, that sadness
Hollowed me out; scraped the fool’s gold from
the cavern which I thought had already
been mined dry by your predecessor.

Now,
All I can do is sigh quietly and say,
“New camera?”