Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Your Old Diary

My favorite nights are staying up with Anna, with music, with Southern Comfort and with adderall still coursing through us. Those nights made it seem like everything mattered. Everyone was beautiful and everyone was fun. And for some reason, those nights made us want to be with one person we never could. One person we've never met but we felt such a strong connection with. This is my Uncle Frank. He took his life because of the absence of love and the presence of drugs too many years before I was born to even be a distant memory, but we have his diaries and through them, we know him. So we stay up until 3 or 4 or 5, not worrying about how tired we'll be the next day. We read out loud his entries and talk about how brilliant and creative and how much like us he was. How his ideas and his brilliance should somehow live on.

I was sitting in Phoenix coffee shop with stolen moments for myself and I started to think about Uncle Frank. He deserves a great poem and this is a start, but I want to work hard to write a better one someday.

We read a dead man's diary

and thought about how we could bring it to life

so's not to waste his ideas

b/c we wouldn't want to be wasted.

Turned into nothing but ink on paper.

Nothing but the result of acid and a diseased mind,

they say.

But that night made me realize

that night the drugs kept us awake

and brought us tears and laughter and dreams but no sleep

that we are the same.

We are all the same.

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