Hollywood got something right.

She She She She's a Bombshell

It was the one perfect moment of my life.

The sun gleamed down hard, bright, above me. The smell of pollen from roadside plants in the air, the breath of the wind pulled back my long, care-free child hair, which my mother adored, which I grew annoyed of from constant attempts to push away from my eyes. The sun and the wind pulled me up from my seat on the Schwinn, brilliantly purple and blue, as I heard the rhythm of the Schwinn, the rhythm of my life, a gliding pulse. The back of my shirt making circles of sweat, I pulled lightly on the breaks as I approached traffic ahead. Riding up onto the sidewalk, I hopped off, kicked out the kickstand, and popped out my Sony cassette player from the back pocket of my torn Levi's, scorned at by my mother. My finger lay rested upon the plastic projected triangle pointing distantly to the right. The slightly faded silver glint of my cassette player's plastic shell was covered in my own sweat, beginning to bother me. I grabbed the bottom of my brown and red horizontally striped Guess shirt and wiped the dirty sweat off with the front side of my shirt. If it had been three summers later, the time at which I began to worry of stains and dirt, about looking nice and smelling clean, I may have been bothered by this. But, seeing as the summer sun of '98 left my forehead perspiring and aforementioned cassette player sweaty, and being the worry free child of my past I so longingly miss, I wiped the bothersome perspiration away, allowing the silver cover to shine. I pressed down on the triangle, clicking it into place, playing the beginning of track six, side one, on The Rocket Ship Tape, or as my mother called it, Bela Fleck & The Flecktones. Fitting it back into my back pocket, I kicked in the kickstand of the Schwinn, stepped back on, and rode a ribbon through the stalled traffic on Los Gatos Boulevard, on the beginning of a gloriously hot day, summer of '98.

By Calvin

The thoughts of the man on the bench/the unspoken mind.

Eyes closed
viewed asleep
wide awake
he tells the stars he has no answers
lying on a bench.
Fingertips dipped into his pockets
heart resting
full of deadly silence
in his chest.
Knees high in the crisp air
spirits low against the cold bench
tears prowling behind his eyes
waiting for the signal
to launch their strike.
As the moon creeps
the ideas which have him on this bench
carry their shovels over their shoulders
preparing for a long night of digging ahead.
Blueprints for mile long trenches
and bottomless pits
never to be filled
are sketched into this night's plan.
Mouthing his emotions
sending them to the stars
not trying to act spiteful
just trying to find meaning.
They crave so much and return so little,
he explains.
I want to just be, I want no trouble, to just be.
They won't let me have even that. Just that.
The stars ask,
Why do you wrestle all of your feelings?
Shrugs,
he answers
as he lays
on the cold concrete bench
(knees high,
spirits low).
You don't need to. You're the only one who understands,
explain the stars.
He closes his eyes
resting on the bench
viewed asleep
wide awake.
I'm the only one who understands what?
he asks.
Yourself,
replies the moon.
And it'll always be that way,
finish the stars.

It'll Always Be That Way by Calvin

I started to think I wasn't being taken seriously

Patiently
she waits,
sitting in the dark,
watching from a distance,
as the scene unfolds.
It'd be nice if
someone would say "hello"
to her.

In The Dark by Calvin

A sellout doesn't value his own song

Jacob Golden - Zero Integrity


Jacob Golden - Revenge Songs
http://www.myspace.com/themusicofjacobgolden

Because it was I who created you.

Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip - Letter from God (to man)

Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip - Thou Shalt Always Kill
http://www.myspace.com/lesacvspip

Last thoughts before sleep & why they'll vanish before I wake

Cutesy symbols defining
length of feelings,
perimeter of your heart.
Credits roll as dreams engage,
waking kisses disrupt
nearly-nothing.
Please come wrapped in
great abounds.
Warmth and arms sleeping
resting on my chest reinforce
comfort; can't keep eyes open.
Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
Never sent pictures of squirrels.
Family success meals.
Meals grasping love.
Remembrance?
Distance?
Over-qualified positions
never taken.
Heart broken sob storries drowning
in own tears taste like
salt to those
around.
Attractive warmth
glow
body beauty body.
Thoughts left adjacent; thoughts left never said.
Will I die tomorrow?
Love.
Who would I call
or
who would call me?
Friends speaking out
muscles tighten; no sound.
Don't mess this up.
Natural beauty body beauty.
Red lines drawn
enveloping clouds
and brain lines meant
sent
to remember your thoughts.
What did I even.
Imbued scent.
Concerts
skiing by
dreams of gods touched by aligned stars
meant to be?
Meant to be.
Floating falls of clouds
gather existence and broken livers.
Worth putting together values for
problems left.
Unseen
problems left.
Can you taste it?
Listen. Listen. Listen.
Qualified for love dreams
separated from
sad ones
and I've never felt better to take in all of this.

Perimeter of My Heart by Calvin

There is more knowledge in this writing than you choose to remember; there is more depth to this writing than you choose to know.

Some people, perhaps, don't "hit their stride" until their twenties, when the growing-up business is over and women appreciate other things besides wisecracks and teasing and strutting. Peter didn't have one-tenth the imagination he had, not one-tenth. Peter did this naming-their-children thing as a joke, making up names like Aloysius and Murgatroyd, but Ambrose knew exactly how it would feel to be married and have children of your own, and be a loving husband and father, and go comfortably to work in the mornings and to bed with your wife at night, and wake up with her there. With a breeze coming through the sash and birds and mockingbirds singing in the Chinese-cigar trees. His eyes watered, there aren't enough ways to say that. He would be quite famous in his line of work. Whether Magda was his wife or not, one evening when he was wise-lined and gray at the temples he'd smile gravely, at a fashionable dinner party, and remind her of his youthful passion. The time they went with his family to Ocean City; the erotic fantasies he used to have about her. How long ago it seemed, and childish! Yet tender, too, n'est-ce pas? Would she have imagined that the world-famous whatever remembered how many strings were on the lyre on the bench beside the girl on the label of the cigar box he'd stared at in the toolshed at age ten while she, age eleven. Even then he had felt wise beyond his years; he'd stroked her hair and said in his deepest voice and correctest English, as to a dear child: "I shall never forget this moment."
But though he had breathed heavily, groaned as if ecstatic, what he'd really felt throughout was an odd detachment, as though someone else were Master. Strive as he might to be transported, he heard his mind take notes upon the scene: This is what they call passion. I am experiencing it.
...
His son would be the second, and when the lad reached thirteen or so he would put a strong arm around his shoulder and tell him calmly: "It is perfectly normal. We have all been through it. It will not last forever." Nobody knew how to be what they were right. He'd smoked a pipe, teach his son how to fish and softcrab, assure him he needn't worry about himself.
...
The day wore on. You think you're yourself, but there are other persons in you. Ambrose gets hard when Ambrose doesn't want to, and obversely. Ambrose watches them disagree; Ambrose watches him watch. In the funhouse mirror-room you can't see yourself go on forever, because no matter how you stand, your head gets in the way. Even if you had a glass periscope, the image of your eye would cover up the thing you really wanted to see.
...
In a perfect funhouse you'd be able to go only one way...; getting lost would be impossible; the doors and halls would work like minnow traps or the valves in veins.

Lost in the Funhouse by John Barth