I’m in a hole and the six feet of dirt over me is the refuse of every project I half-heartedly take on. This is my circular dream and I am a square inside of a square inside of square inside of square. My dream is circular:
naked before rust-stained flannels and jeans faded by months of weathering life in the street: sidewalk-trawlers, wide-eyed and dreary for a drink of something sane; bum-wine and molly and verse raw it will peel your skin, lyrics with grit to break your teeth – before this naked I stand
they see the skin moisturized by gentle body-wash, flesh well-nourished and the carseat-carrying Jetta I’ve parked on the curb, free from dent or blemish or a winter spent without heat. Here I am with circular façade asking to be accepted: “Hi, I blog about your scene, will you accept me?”
I’m trying not to be self-loathing. Bulwark my sense of self – Hey, man, you’re probably more real than they are – I tell myself. And this is stupid, because what the fuck does it matter?
Here is what you do: your shirt looks cool if you make it look cool.
What you are doing is genuine if you make it genuine.
Be genuine; it’s not superficial: it’s what you feel and what you exude.
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