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iamjoesrebirth
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Name: Dominic
Metro: Reading
Birthday: 7/10/1985
Gender: Male
Interests: listening to music, playing video games, reading, writing, walking in graveyards/haunted places at night, anything star wars, football, making things, destroying things, writing poetry, and trying to find a way through this blind stumble of mass confusion we call life
Expertise: HA! expertise... well... i know more about star wars than anyone i know... i... umm... well, screwing things up and then smoothing them back over... putting things off entirely too long... offending people... i think you get the idea
Occupation: Student
Message: message meEmail: email me
AIM:  iamjoesrebirth
Member Since:
1/22/2005
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| 799 days since i joined, they tell me, and the greedy fucks are still asking for my nonexistant money. oh life. anyway...been a little while, hasnt it? life has been crazy, crazy good, well not good but the parts that suck dont matter because of the good bits. ive discovered this weird optimist inside...and with that came happiness. real true happiness. granted, the drugs played a pretty decent role early on, but they were also clouding everything. i was dumb stupid and im lucky i stayed relatively sane throughout the entire binge. amazing, really. but through the haze and rose tinted glasses she strode into the room and...well, the rest is history. there are bad times, sure, but even those are good, perhaps even necessary. but enough on that for the moment. just remember the golden rule and always hope, the rest will work itself out somehow. i have a couple new poems for you...the first is about this kid named koch back home who had a brief but profound effect on my life and outlook. rest in peace boy. the second sort of sums up how im thinking now. enjoy. do i do songs next? i will today...
songs: Parabol
Parabola
Reflection
(listen to tool, or check the lyrics. holy shit.)
Wal Mart, midnight, December something
Driven by urgency
brought down on us by lazy
pot dealers, we abbreviate—only bare
essentials, the bare
minimum, memories of bare
flesh and violence, they were fucking
on Chip’s bed, fucking
in Chip’s house, actively fucking
with Chip’s head, and this kid, Koch,
he was drunk and just trying to
help, ‘cause that simply isn’t right, it just isn’t
right.
So we’re walking through Wal Mart,
just grabbing shit now,
we hardly care. Glass
bottles and hairspray and anything that explodes
and cigarettes and we’ve already got
whiskey and trees in the car
and a gallon of gas, ‘cause we’re pissed
off, pissed
at the world, pissed
like this Koch kid that night
when he tried to climb
those stairs to bust
skulls, and nearly busted
his own skull when he couldn’t
stand.
the drive is long, we
get there 2am and find
some tires for fuel and Fuck!
We forgot a t-shirt, Fuck!
What do we use for fuses? “Fuck,
man,” Koch said to me, “Fuck, I’ll fucking
kill ‘em, that just ain’t
right, help me up
the stairs, just help me
up, I’ll take care of them
it just ain’t right, just isn’t
right.”
we don’t have fuses, so we improvise
with cardboard. I kill the
whiskey and fill the bottle with
gasoline, cigarette lit and hanging
over the whole time
because I simply don’t care
any more, just don’t care
because life is stupid,
it’s not worth
it, “Dude it isn’t worth
it,” I told him. I took this
kid and Chip outside
and we played with fire, it was July fourth,
and even then, high
school I’m thinking open
revolt, revolution, and now I’m seeing
everything is revolution, it all comes full circle.
Koch was thinking
revolution too, Fight Club style, and
even though he was younger, he
knew, would have jumped in if it
started. His hair was
fire, like the
fire to bottled gasoline, my makeshift Molotov, as I whisper, “Deliver me from Swedish furniture,” and think how Koch could have been my Tyler Durden or maybe I was his, and I’m drunk and flipping out, and he was drunk, he flipped his car and all I can think as my cocktail of destruction sinks to asphalt is how we need more good people but they always die can’t handle the world or maybe the world rejects them and maybe nothing positive can happen and maybe it wasn’t meant to and I’ll die young too or maybe not and maybe nothing really matters and glass shatters on the ground and flames spread as gas catches so maybe all it takes is one
small
spark.
as yet untitled
being god must be very strange
looking down on creation and
knowing everything
but wondering why
with all these gifts and
beauty we still insist on more.
and somewhere bombs are falling
but i'm staring at my fork
in a diner, trying to glean
some story or mystery from
the myriad dents and scratches
covering its surface, wondering
why the third tine is bent
slightly. i hold it closer, run
my finger over the dents.
"listen," the fork whispers,
"and i shall tell all.
once i was held by a man,
heavyset and balding, red face,
whose diamond ring cut deep
into my side as he drove me
repeatedly into a bloody steak
like a nail into an innocent hand.
an ardent non-smoker, he preached
christ's love and how we need
to kill muslims, as they would
like nothing less than to kill us.
that is why my tine is bent."
and i wonder what it was like,
being god and watching it all happen,
knowing why this pen is precisely
here, that lighter there, knowing
every story behind every
mark upon every
object in the world, knowing every
side to every
tale.
and somewhere a child dies from hunger,
but i'm watching it on the news and
it all seems so unreal, so
far away. i have never really been
hungry, have thrown away more
food than i have eaten probably,
so maybe i'm the problem, but
i know others, worse, paying seven
dollars to have water delivered
while someone prays for mud
to drink.
small steps, though.
i no longer throw away
what i can later eat,
and if we can but remember
that someone else's pain is
worse than our own
inconvenience, well-
baby steps are still steps.
and god is watching
and god knows about our
seven dollar water
and flashy cars for driving
just a few blocks.
but god also knows
about the pennies for orphans
and how the television
makes it all look
fake.
and somewhere a woman is raped and cannot testify
but in her forced silence
an angel came to me.
i had resigned myself
to ignoring all problems
by whatever means i could
and making my own little
corner of the world to live
and die in ignorance,
but she helped me open my eyes again.
the world may be a rotten place, sure
but it is also beautiful.
i breathe deep, tasting sweet
air as it fills my lungs.
i listen to my heart's rhythm,
feel the warmth of blood coursing my veins,
and she dances
and i smile
and god is watching
and i think god is smiling, too.
maybe love won't heal the wounds,
but it will not hurt us more.
and somewhere volunteers shelter refugees
and somewhere a mother bandages a bruise
with a kiss
and somewhere a man wipes a tear from a woman's cheek
and somewhere the sun sets on hatred
and somewhere it rises with love.
I am Joe's inner music.
| | |
| all this talk of revolution and change, but all i want is a muse or siren to follow as best i can, a great black man with a saxophone and a wonderful beard, my image of god, and his hands, those glorious hands all tattered and cracked and warped and stained from an entire life of pain and work and america-look at him there on the corner, begging for some change, and i wonder, where else would god appear? where else could god appear? i offer the man a cigarette, for i have no change to spare and i know what it means to need a smoke more than food. he gladly accepts and plays a sweet crackling melody-he has the music in him clearly but was never taught how to hear it, get it out, like young poets who all sound exactly the same. i love this man i never met before, love him from the bottom of my heart because he knows the truth, or knew it,, why else would he stand on the corner begging for scraps with a saxophone he doesn't know how to play? and i wish he would just lead me somewhere, show me how to find the light he saw, but i know he won't and perhaps can't but i still want it, still want something to fill the hollow void inside, a stone idol to give my prayers to because none of my idols ever take my prayers, but instead of forming prayers or kissing, these lips wrap around hateful paper and smoke, a painful centering so i can try to write more, and i wish this man or god could show me, show me how to write and give me things to write about and teach me how to dance beneath the sky, to dance upon the earth with feet and skin bare and not caring about the world or what they think, because i love them all, they love me too. i want to follow the music, to feel it in me and be blasted apart to bare atoms stripped of electrons so i am billions of tiny positive forces at work in the world. we share another cigarette without speaking, but the time has come for leaving lest i miss the train. wordlessly we shake hands-we traded maybe five words the whole time, but still i feel i know this man, perhaps better than i know myself, and i know that we will never meet again but that's ok as there is nothing to be said, i know him and he knows me-perhaps he was me when he was my age, me in a different world or different time, so maybe i will be him someday. maybe i will find my music and see the light and play meandering staccato jazz and miss half the notes but make it beautiful anyway while i share a cigarette with another younger me and try to show myself the light but know i can't even if i should. help me find the music, jazz man.
(this is an example of the pointless meandering writing ive been spending a great deal of time with recently. i just sort of go and see where i end up. i sort of really like this one.)
songs: the light (common)
like a stone (audioslave)
helpless (faith no more)
I am Joe's busted knuckles. | | |
| surveying the past is always an interesting time. used to be i would look back and get all depressed and full of regret at what i saw as mistakes i made or neglected to make. any more, though...something is different. i look at my past and, while i still regret some and might change others given the chance, i accept it all as necessary steps in getting to where i am right now, which is happy. sure, i have a lot to be depressed about. i suck at school anymore, and relationship with the parents leaves some to be desired...but that all fits somehow, is essential, is perfect. you can go ahead and tell me that nothing is perfect, or that nothing can ever be perfect, but i dont think i believe it anymore. everything is perfect, perfectly now. this moment, right now, every single thing on earth is coming together to make it this moment, and there is no way this moment could be more than this moment. everything that ever happened so that right now could happen just as right now is happening, and right now is happening the only way it can possibly happen. you probably need to have done drugs to have any idea what the fuck i am talking about, i guess. but...i dont know...life is beautiful.
on a side note...were you aware that the song "semi-charmed life" by third eye blind is about doing crystal meth?
life is full of imperfections. i will accept that...sort of. like...people should not be starving right now, but they are. however, it is still beautiful, beautiful because it is not and cannot be perfect, beautiful because it is always changing and always will be changing and anyone who wants to can change it. i think we are all artists, and life is one giant canvas we all share, and our goal, nay, our duty is to change it however we want as best we can. some changes will be bad, some good...but your obligation as a human is to do what you can to make it yours, even if that means going off into the woods and living on your own because everything is too fucked up.
another side note...what if none of this is real? what if humans are animals with large brains who dont know how to live without using most of their thoughts solely for survival? what if all our problems and questions and societal pressures are nothing more than idle minds creating problems because they need to be doing something? what if i only imagine everything exists? do i even exist? my response to all types of questions like that is this: punch yourself in the face. ill give you a second to get your bearings back. now...did that hurt? was there some sort of negative response? then it happened. whether or not it objectively happened or whatever doesnt matter...it happened and you need to deal with the fact that it happened. life has a lot of shit to deal with, and you need to deal with it. it doesnt matter if none of it is real or if it is all constructs...it still affects you.
there was something else...but i seem to have forgotten it. i think its been about a year, so i guess it is time for a layout change again. im going to miss the fork...and boot camp...just wow. i dont know...we shall have to see.
songs:
boot camp
jesus christ pose
outshined
this is the final version. monster. the format got all fucked, though, and i dont care to fix it. whatever.
Oh What a Night
(A series for Whitman and Ginsberg and the journey)
The Setting:
college house, lived in by college types
coffee cups in the sink
and cigarette butts scattered about the porch;
dozens of books sitting idle on the floor, spines broken
the moon is full and overlooks a hallowed playground,
and a hallowed porch
and a hallowed Cage
and a hallowed coffee shop
and a hallowed cemetery with a hallowed tree.
The Cast:
The poet and his demons and memories and books and icons.
Hazy recollection of some female poet or groupie type.
Act one.
Poet:
all my life
in search of something, higher truth, higher power, higher planes of existence, and
all i found in all my life
is empty eyes and empty hearts and baser pleasure,
no truth there, no
life, and now i’m here and you are there and
all are all together on this wonderful night, and all those words
in all those mouths and in all those minds and on
all those pages, words of garbage heaps, words of condoms, words of a talking rose alone on a faraway planet, words to mock, to stab, glorious words.
and all the day with talk of thoughts of life, concerned with matters of ******* and ******* and talk of *****, strange words, painful words and anecdotes and memories, jokes and inside jokes and mental masturbation, talk of suicide of death of mental worse-than-death of theft, no more (well, maybe some) and all the time thoughts of heaven and of sex and breasts and breasts and breasts and tell me, what exactly is an eyeball kick?
(note: for asterisks, poet can say “asterisk” or insert a censored type sound)
Poet picks up a bottle, half full.
(shouting, between deep swigs)
Wild Turkey,
(blackout)
Act two.
Poet fumbles through books, suddenly looks across the room at a photograph of Whitman
Whitman, you narcissistic fuck, you keep telling me i am not alone. (violently turns toward photo of Ginsberg) And Ginsberg, you sad old half-baked fool,
i look at your picture and all i see are your crazy eyes and all i can think of are suicides and asylums and more drugs than i could imagine, gallons of whiskey and thousands of cigarettes and
i’m looking at a picture of myself through a window, burning ball of cancer in my mouth, scribing words of nothing to an empty page, and all that eye shadow, black sky, what a cliché.
apparently she likes clichés.
(insert gratuitous fuck scene here)
(blackout)
(lights up. Poet on porch, smoking and looking into the distance and mumbling)
so many mind bending substances on the way
to holy Chicago, so many
bends in the road
and will i ever see sacred Seattle?
a Beaver gave me my first bag of grass,
a gift for sharing among friends.
it was at the Cage i learned to smoke in a smoky room,
and i loved it ever since.
in the coffeehouse i learned to breathe and write,
and on this porch i learned to walk again after
my first drink of life, whiskey sours,
right before the playground,
i’ve cheated death and the law before,
what’s one more time?
(blackout as Poet stumbles toward door)
Act three
(lights stay down. Poet uses dramatic, over exaggerated voice reminiscent of old T.S.Eliot recordings)
where are you, poets and scholars and livers of life of yore? you said you would return one day, in dreams or deer or the green grass below, but i cannot see you.
oh see-ers give me eyes to see! oh talkers give me tongues to talk! listeners give me ears to hear, feelers give me hands to feel, hands to heal, and hands to destroy.
casting stones is easy, why not try to call them back?
(pause)
where are you, my lost saints? where are you my loves? where have you gone? everyone i ever knew now gone, replaced by another, fragments and splinters are all that do remain, and dust shall return to dust and all the world shall cease to be.
(long silence until end of act)
Act Four.
(lights up on poet, back on porch with another cigarette. he is looking at the ceiling)
the peeling paint on the ceiling reminds me of my peeling skin, peel it away and leave the bone bleached in the sun and cracking from the dry air, i must return myself to the dust on the ground, then i may be free.
poet jumps up, runs through audience to back of theater, opens door, exits
after a moment, Poet re-enters
to audience:
write this down, there will be a quiz later.
come, the door is open.
breathe.
relax.
let go.
forget.
hold my hand, for you hold the hand of God, and when i hold yours i also hold the hand of God,
and if enough of us can hold the hands of God, perhaps we can learn how to be free.
walk with me.
I am Joe's rebirth. | | |
| life is beautiful. this is a fact. sometimes, though, we lose track of why and how and get lost in whys and hows of our own and think of woulds and shoulds and get depressed and empty and lost in misery for absolutely no reason at all and cant figure out why. personally, this happens mostly with women. i dont or cant or wont understand the whys and hows and get lost and depressed and insecure and it always leaves me empty and wanting something i can never grasp, and maybe thats because i dont know what it is i want or why, but it doesnt change the fact that i dont have it and want it. something is broken with the world. men and women cannot communicate and i dont know that they ever could but everyone seems unhappy because they dont understand their mates and potential mates. i blame insecurity and this stupid goddamn game of hard to get and coyness that places unnecessary confusion on an already pointlessly confusing situation. why, then, do we do it? because of some societal demand? maybe. that doesnt make it right. but the fact is, we do. we...ah fuck it. fuck it all. love is stupid bullshit. love is a deadly addiction. love is...healthy and wonderful and all we have in life. love is jumping and falling and forgetting you are falling and forgetting you are falling and flying instead. love is. that is all. love just is. what a bizarre and stupid and wonderful beautiful thing. oh, contradictions. i like to think this is going somewhere, but when it comes down to it all i am doing is bitching and moaning about nothing. what else is new? thats all for now, folks.
songs...
boot camp
i never came
milk it
poem...this is the totally unrevised stream of consciousness thing i eventually turned into a fucking monster
Life
(for Whitman and Ginsberg and the journey and my soul)
I.
all my life in search of something, higher truth, higher power, higher planes of existence, and all i found in all my life was empty eyes and empty hearts and baser pleasure, no truth there, no life, and now i’m here and you are there and all are all together on this wonderful night, and all those words in all those mouths and in all those minds and on all those pages, words of love, words of lust, words of light to penetrate the darkness, words to mock, to stab, glorious words.
II.
oh life, i thought i found you this wondrous night, this night of alcohol, of strange feelings, of movies too bad to be anything but good, this night of chain smoking, this night of tears.
III.
old dead men with grey beards tell me i am not alone, old dead men with grey beards and crazy eyes and suicides and more drugs than i could imagine, gallons of whiskey and thousands of cigarettes and looking at myself through a window, burning ball of cancer in my mouth, injecting into skin of trees from a vial of lifeblood, eyes black, sky black, what a cliché.
IV.
and all the day with talk of thoughts of life, concerned with matters of monkeys and bananas and talk of kings, strange words, painful words and anecdotes and memories, jokes and inside jokes and mental masturbation, talk of suicide of death of mental worse-than-death of theft, no more (well, maybe some) and all the time thoughts of heaven and of sex and breasts and breasts and breasts and tell me, what exactly is an eyeball kick?
V.
themes of intelligence and television, all these lost souls and writers and listeners, one great stream of consciousness lovefest nightmare.
VI.
a door is open, can’t be closed, mental doors and physical doors all gaping wide and let the light shine in!
VII.
the time is now, let the movement begin, take my heart and soul and fight and fight with me, die if need be, we cannot lose if enough are on our side.
VIII.
thousands of hours wasted and longing and yearning for lost love, lost time, but was it wasted?
IX.
all i need is here tonight, all these voices, all these screaming clichés, not an original moldless being among us, yet here we are now, and we demand retribution for what you stole from us.
X.
perhaps i just project myself on others, hear my voice in yours, be kind with your heart for it is mine as well, all these different minds sharing the same body, the same heart, and think and feel and breathe the same breath different, who can stop us, who can even stand?
XI.
so many men and women, none of them real men and women, but real enough to feel pain, to love, to write and oh so much inspired.
XII.
i want to break this shell of what a poem is, what grammar is, jazz did it for music and Whitman did it once, so why not me, why not us?
XIII.
the moon is full and overlooks a hallowed playground, and a hallowed porch and a hallowed Cage and a hallowed coffee shop and a hallowed cemetery with a hallowed tree.
XIV.
so many mind bending substances on the way to holy Chicago, so many bends in the road and will i ever see sacred Seattle? a Beaver showed me the way once, a whim the second time, it was in that aforementioned Cage i learned to smoke in a smoky room, and i loved it ever since, in the coffeehouse i learned to breathe and write, and on the porch i learned to walk, my first drink of life, how bitter and sour and sweet and life-affirming, was before the playground, i’ve cheated death and the law before, what’s one more time?
XV.
talk of romance and I DON’T KNOW HOW TO LOVE and all my wildest fantasies and greatest fears realized and brought to life night after night.
XVI.
oh fly sweet bird, oh fly my soul! i flew in waking dreams before, was paralyzed in waking nightmares, and my coffee spoons are cigarettes.
XVII.
where will you take me next, oh my spastic mind, back to the days of high school, the days of Nirvana and magical quests, those empty days so full of dark and life, i knew to cry then, and love, two lost skills so instrumental, but in return i now know how to live, so many scattered memories and even the present is hazy anymore.
XVIII.
where are you, poets and scholars and livers of life of yore? you said you would return one day, in dreams or deer or the green grass below, but i cannot see you. oh see-ers give me eyes to see! oh talkers give me tongues to talk! listeners give me ears to hear, feelers give me hands to feel, hands to heal, and hands to destroy. casting stones is easy, why not try to call them back?
XIX.
such strange thoughts on this night, this night made for walking and smoking and howling at the moon!
XX.
where are you, my lost saints? where are you my loves? where have you gone? everyone i ever knew now gone, replaced by another, fragments and splinters are all that do remain, and dust shall return to dust and all the world shall cease to be.
XXI.
the peeling paint on the ceiling reminds me of my peeling skin, peel it away and leave the bone bleached in the sun and cracking from the dry air, i must return myself to the dust on the ground, then i may be free.
XXII.
the door is open but i lack the strength to leave, eternity beckons but i am not through with the finite.
XXIII.
so many have come and gone and started wars and made their peace, and they call, the call of the dead too loud to be ignored, the oceans and rivers so full of blood and ink and tears, all shed over ink like the ink on this paper and burned and burned and burning, the fire engulfs us all in some way so let it burn. let it burn! let it purify, wash away the sins of man, burn the scarred and tattered flesh, burn the used up bits of paper so we can use it again.
XXIV.
tear down the castle walls, free yourself from your mental prison, drink the waters of life and strip off those clothes of civilization, run naked in the streets and scream a halleluiah! halleluiah! the eternal war has come and gone and we are all that is left.
come, the door is open.
breathe.
relax.
let go.
forget.
write this down, there will be a quiz later.
hold my hand, for you hold the hand of God, and when i hold yours i also hold the hand of God, and if enough of us can hold the hands of God, perhaps we can learn how to be free.
walk with me.
I am Joe's wasted youth
| | |
| holy fuck, it has been a long time. too long, maybe. or too short, or cryptic.
whatever. i am back in school again, slacking and hating myself. its different now, though, because i have a house and i can drink and i smoke. but same ol' same ol' really. life goes on and life goes on until it ends. there really isnt all that much to say...updates on life i suppose can be made, but who the fuck cares about that? uh...i am single now, i guess...still reeling from that one. my fault entirely, too. i was the cause and the catalyst. and then came the depression and the substance abuse and the chain smoking, but i am working my way out of that. so it goes. the world is still fucked up, but i discovered ginsberg and kerouac and thompson over the summer and now i am motherfuckin inspired. road trip, over a month, no real plans, go when the great spirit moves us, big ass convertible, copious amounts of substance abuse, concerts, whoring, gambling and generally raising hell in a sorry-assed attempt to find america or god or some other such bullshit. not to say that god is bullshit, but the concept of finding him or her or it on a road trip under the influence and whoring seems kind of silly to me. but yes...find something and write and write and write and market the shit out of it. what do you think? does this spell early retirement? shit, man...any ideas or interested parties? if it happens, and i wind up in your neighborhood, your ass better be ready to be sought out. fuck...itll be wonderful great superb fun. i have many stories to tell, but none of them are fit for the likes of xanga, so find me some other way to hear them. i forget how i did this. i think it was... songs?
songs:landslide (smashing pumpkins), over my head (the fray), eric's trip (sonic youth).
a poem:
I am Lazarus
There are empty bottles of beer
All over my house,
Empty tubes
For cheap cigarettes
About the porch.
The beer was cheap too.
Not bad,
But nowhere near good.
I am not a connoisseur.
And it has taken me
The better part of a gallon
Of cheap whiskey, two cases of beer, and a carton
Of hand rolled cigarettes
To realize that it is not the bottles
Or the tubes that are
Empty, it is me.
I walk around and look at my collection of memories.
There are video games and movies and cds in a
Shrine around my television.
There is a fine sheen of dust over them all,
Because despite the fact that they are fun
And kill those countless dull hours
From dusk to dawn
And build friendship,
I do not care to use them anymore.
I am empty.
Books and papers lie scattered on the floor.
I am too tired to read them,
Too apathetic to clean them up.
There was a time once,
I swear it happened,
When I would have cried at such a mess,
Spent hours lovingly organizing and reading,
Reading and organizing.
But that is in the distant past;
Those days are over.
I am empty.
Boxes, posters, knick-knacks
All remain untouched.
I run a numb hand over them,
Remembering.
Remembering the times when they would soothe me
In my sorrow.
Nothing soothes now, I reflect
As I take another swig of cheap beer,
Another hit of cheap cigarette.
Something is wrong here,
I can tell that much.
Something has changed, and I can no longer be
Certain that the change was good.
I am empty.
The paint on the ceiling is cracked
And peeling, the dishes should have been
Washed long ago.
The garbage is piled up and ready to be taken out,
But I have too much mental garbage to take out
To care.
Too much
And too little.
Another shot of cheap whiskey
And I won’t notice anymore.
Another couple cigarettes, and I won’t feel
The little I still do feel.
Not that it matters.
I am empty.
She said she loved me once,
Would love me forever.
But she is gone, long gone,
And the nights are somehow longer,
Somehow colder.
I thought I was empty before,
But she managed to pull out the little that must
Have been there.
I don’t feel it anymore, though;
I don’t care.
I am empty.
There is a mountain of
Unused cheap tobacco on the porch.
Many brands, many styles.
A month ago I would not have touched it,
Would have retched at the thought
Of even throwing it out,
But now it doesn’t seem so bad.
I roll another cigarette,
Crack open another beer.
My eyes don’t focus too well anymore,
So as I survey my kingdom
Everything looks pretty good.
Those old photos on the chair,
Smiling happy me and smiling happy
Her. It seems a lifetime ago.
And then I realize
That it was a lifetime ago.
I died, and am now coming back to life.
I am Lazarus.
I am Joe's scorched lungs. | | |
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