The Hill;

in boulder is filled with a rowdy party scene. i’ve been taking a slight part in it, but mainly drinking on my porch and reading in the mornings and at night. i start my job tomorrow, and i only have 20 hours a week until college starts and more hours open up. i’ve been looking for another part time job, some work, but until them i’m trying to write more and read more. camus’ “exile and the kingdom” has been doing me well and will soon launch an attack with it for sundayandwednesday. until then, and until i start formatting my posts a little, i will keep them sporadic and rough. for the writings i have been doing and posting lately, i have wanted them to be soft, and if they appear cheesy, then you have misread, or i have fucked it up. love is a bitch and a hard one at that, and misery is soft and starving.

1:32 p.m.
Last night I sat
as the keeper of
misery; high
upon
my porch
watching a silver
bronco
kick
and rock with
young eager love, echoing
along with tremendous
thumps-
claps!
of terror

the lighting poured down
and thunder
collided
along side it.
heavy storms-
those of like my
childhood
spent by the clam
lake

and two kids
ran
past me-
up
the hill;
stopped with a lustful
smile
a few feet
up
from the bronco

holding hands
then
each other
then eachother’s
smile
and their hips met-
barefoot in the
street
in the
rain
they embraced
and left like the
lighting that
had beckoned them
their.

They were gone.

Running further
and faster
like a
fleeting smile-
I could hear their
laughter
and screams
playing with the
wind.

Their summer storm
was short
and
sweet

as mine
had
lasted me
for years
and only bitter
tasting-
like the salt
from the oceans; back
east.

and I shook with
the wind,
lighting
and
thunder
and the
storm

alone and on my
porch;

alone and in my
bed

they lone keeper
of
misery.

9:00 a.m. on the 5th
I hate when they leave
and it smells like them.
Everything smells of
them.
The stuffed sweatshirt
of others’
shirts, I use as
a pillow &case and the
sheet-less bed I don’t own
but rent out with
the room.
and the morning cold red brick
that are my walls
and the five fingers
and hand that laid
under
her hair all night
and the other five fingers
and hand
that held her
as we wept with
one another
confessing-
of wanting to hate
wanting to love
of not wanting to fuck you up
because you fuck everyone up
and not caring; to wanting
to be hurt
to need it-
because you were better
with it.

it helped you.
and you scared her

and she,

you.

and it continued on
like that
for
quite; a
while.
They

could do
nothing
else
but stare
and
laugh at one another’s
smug grim.

and i have been asking myself and others, concerning an idea for a new story.
can one’s life, be a hate-filled one and still find happiness? can one not be happy if one hates?