I hear adults talking about the end of the semester blow out coming soon. I can't wait for the raunchy Cleveland Low Life winter parties. PBR and salt stained jeans.

I saw real people today. At any given moment - still - an album cover. I belong here, I feel comfortable here, inside myself. Cigarette in yr ear. My ear gill spores being compressed.

It's so picture perfect and all the characters are characters who live in homes.

Maureen's songs play tribute... All the lovin. Swaying inside and down through the tunnel of my being.
Twisting through Ben. Transcend self and become part of something larger.
Can't be objective tonight? Can't be objective ever!
"I'm with her"

Represent... Drinkin cold beer in winter time is heinous, only; it doesn't feel cold for long. Sway inside LIVING music.

Here's to the Cleveland Junkie:
To an entire generation of kids who ate so many mushrooms they can't concentrate on anything productive by anyone else's standards -
only LOVE.
Here's to the incestuous circle of high school friends, graduates.
To the old man who wants the teenage girl to sit on his face.
Here's to those kids dancing so hectically to the mellow music that it would make any stiff-jointed adult nauseous.
To fitting u-locks in yr back pants pocket.
Here's to Sachsenheim and Davis' fresh avocados and cilantro in the middle of winter in the middle of the rust belt... (oh globalization!)

Here's to creativiity .
To the manifestations of your subconscious - that we rediscover (dusty on the basement floor) and flip through with our majestic, nothing fingers.
To the girl who only feels distant enough from her consciousness to read her words out loud when she's stoned. But she's practicing and I'm practicing (the affection and the smiles and the rubbing of arms - surrounded by tulip petals.)

Here's to the better half (of the better half) of intoxicated time: when we forget about the guilt and the obligation and nothing IS a bad idea.
Stepping outside to the abandoned night time ghost streets with ice silently falling and the orange haze street lights.
Playing a theremin. Watching Picasso make his layers.
Here's to old boyfriends, who are 1/2 a velvet underground album cover and 1/2 a cartoon turtle.
Here's to ganja making us buy 3 gallons of powdered electric lemonade.
Cellos to slide fingers down,
memories to destroy.

Spiralling down the vortex of music and installing new cogs in yr brain.

I'm fucked up when I'm not and I'm not when I am.
So, here:
is to discovering how to sit inside of music. Here's to fucking yr pursuits and feeling ok about it.
To integrating maternal love with that forced time spent with people your own age.
Drunken, head-phoned, night-time bike riding... watering yr roots.
To seeing lumps of nouns and neurons and mnemonics float through space.
To arriving at the redwoods, but more for the hoping and the planning and the dreaming.
Here's to forgetting the sober, dry truth and living what you want every now and then.
Here:
is to the surreal, granular movement in the trees
(which are my dresser)
and to the present, time-lapse growth of jades.
Here's to the empathy and
to the day you cried because you didn't mean to decapitate the dandelion!

Here's to the family that can take seriously: YR REPENTANCE.

-brain solo of my best friend