Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in 13inchesofboyd's LiveJournal:

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Wednesday, October 8th, 2008
8:37 am	after the blast Follow me through shadow alleys, around blown-apart fallout shelters and down sinkhole valleys. The wind burns. The wind swelters. It circles like a hungry shark around blown-apart fallout shelters. Let the wind carry us through the dark for I am dust now, and you also. Circle with me like a hungry shark, bathe me in your radioactive glow. Let's decay. Let's smolder. For I am dust now, and you also. sun is dimmed, air grows colder. Coat the ruins, and I'll coat you. Let's decay. Let's smolder. What's left to do but blow through shadow alleys? Coat the ruins, and I'll coat you: let's fill up those sinkhole valleys. (Comment on this)
Saturday, October 4th, 2008
4:22 pm	The Old Black clouds dim the city. Dissatisfied faces of old women pass behind small windows— brief apparitions, stonily foretelling the storm in their bones. (Comment on this)
4:21 pm	Romances I Evening hesitates over the glade: this is the time of darkening indigo, and early stars. Night will pass softly, and we'll meet morning's dew. II Snowfall coaxes the landscape toward white oblivion. Let it never stop: our poems will be about nothing but us. III A white petal falls among raindrops; not one has touched her yet. IV The haunt of light enchantment and also enchantments of light: A gilded valley with a shy girl in one corner. V Our passions move like a mantis on a branch: in sudden jerks, unexpected after much stillness. (Comment on this)
Monday, September 8th, 2008
11:05 pm	Neva The voluptuous snow piles dotting St Petersburg resembled benign growths springing forth from the concrete, clumped around protruding and worn down buildings which issued out tenets incessantly: for work, a drink, or just a walk carefully avoiding the snow piles. -I can't imagine dying, I confessed. Yuri shrugged. Some of the steam from his breath clung to his Ray-ban sunglasses. -Well, he said slowly, imagine that you can't imagine living. That's all. He fell silent, and we watched the river Neva carve out its icy path. It was faster than I remembered. On the other bank, another pack of brown buildings held hundreds teeming in its cramped innards. -Some imagine it all in darkness, Yuri spoke again, although more to himself now. -But darkness would be gone too, right? He sounded uncertain. We bought a new pack of menthols and smoked it all over dinner, joking and talking as before but inauthentic now: our minds had retreated far from us. (Comment on this)
Monday, August 4th, 2008
10:54 pm	During dry sleepness nights I can't help but imagine a dead astronaut floating through outer space in his immaculate white suit through swells of blackness so still time is frozen solid, lost in nothing, all sound and fury forever etherized. I don't notice myself going to sleep, drifting off like the dead into space. Earth turns into memory then myth becoming impossible and indistinct. I hang limp, lifeless in suspension like an unanswered question in air: "It sure gets lonely, doesn't it?" Every night, I set my alarm clock. This is my prayer, my Hail Mary of interlocking cogs and wheels, a ritual of faith that I'll come back the next morning, though I drift deeper into space and remember where I came from less each time. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, July 30th, 2008
12:13 am	Sight The truth is, all angels are blind. The world intimates itself to them by feel alone: grass under fingers or a cool wind pouring over skin, trickling through hair. They only navigate by following rivulets of feeling like Theseus's gold yarn. You and I, we're bound to earth by the burden of our eyesight. The future a threadbare bridge extending before us, teetering over chasms of silent nothing. The past a garden of mirages, a caricature 1960s of fantasy. An eternity of you and me feels stretched out as a satiated cat yet I have seen the night skies, studied the incessant shifting of stars to a more comfortable position. The heavens ordering change down below, in short. Still, I won't surrender my eyes, not for shock-white Athena and all of the secrets shimmering under the surface of bird song. Niether of us are angels, but that connection percolates through the sordid set of all things real. (Comment on this)
Friday, July 25th, 2008
12:10 am	New Year's Eve The clink of glasses sounds in the muffled distance, far removed from the trembling midnight pine and the moon hanging like a punch of amber wreathed in deep violet-black tones. Date falls upon day as eulogies on the impotent ears of the dead, an insubstantial signet slapped on the freeze of unaffected winter, as the disinterest of the snow falls over all things like a condemnation to white-washed obscurity. (Comment on this)
Friday, July 11th, 2008
2:13 pm	History i saw a shirt on sale in Maine which said, "well behaved girls rarely make history."                     technically true, but forgetting to add that                    poorly behaved girls don't make any history either. men make history- but rarely for things by which you would want to be known,              mostly for war                                 or religion. the world dreams of making history                                 while the history must dream only of unmaking itself. (Comment on this)
2:13 pm	Funeral Hollow-faced mourners tide over the crest of a small stone bridge and the ever-evanescent number of funerals I've left to see ebbs down to one less, a dark sea retreating, the future's unknowable calculus in motion all around as the nightly dance of two clothed all in black, rich in incomprehensible swirls which melt into each neat step in fluid elegance, punctuated by the occasional shock of sudden bone-white skin, nude and terrible. (Comment on this)
Thursday, July 3rd, 2008
1:16 pm	death of an old man he sheathes his passion and rolls up his philosophies. the future is depleted, dried up as yellowed parchment which dissolves when touched. he puts his fighting spirit to bed with a slow lullaby his mother had once sung. he crumples photographs of himself, leaving them under bright lamps to fade them, and tucks what he kept from each love into matchboxes- runs his fingers over them. its almost time now, after all its playing hard-to-catch time has come to meet him. he breathes out each candle with a secret he's protected: that he never believed in god and who kissed who under the bleachers. time arrives. he sits in his rocking chair, holding a wooden box with his only legacy inside: an empty space. (Comment on this)
Monday, June 30th, 2008
4:04 pm	Parade The photographer bounces around the parade like a dropped marble or a cast ribbon in frenzied wind, with every click he births another tiny mystery, wrapped in a puff of black smoke like a blanket: why does the twirling girl's smile ebb before reaching her eyes or why does the man in the purple mask look off into the distance? But then the moment shatters, the photographer moves again, the parade's chaos all around like a continuously-crashing wave. This must be what dolphins feel like: the overwhelming insanity of the moment leaping into air, then the crushing stillness and quiet of past and future beneath the ocean surface. (Comment on this)
2:00 am	Not Meant To Be we're there, in that dusty old attic, lying among the rest of the world's discarded ideas: title-only poems and blank books that framed those I've plucked from the store shelves, the teleportation machine that takes you only where you don't want to be and a cloak of invisibility you can't see out of, lying on the floor under glass bottles, the kind you'd expect to maybe hold homemade maple syrup, but instead containing the aborted imaginary friends of child soldiers floating in suspension, dreaming- and there, in shadows, behind a beam of light issuing from a small square window, unwanted gods creep and cringe: ugly harvest goddesses and protectors of villages where no one settled, an old sun deity who doesn't see the point of getting out of bed anymore, a war god with a dog's head who'll fetch a stick if you throw it. We'll make some small sacrifice to them, asking to be together if only in the minuscule dimensions curling into themselves, forgotten. (Comment on this)
Saturday, June 21st, 2008
12:39 am	Smitten There’s an unspoken conversation mingling with the mist on the moor and a silent longing draped around the railroad bridge, now only a relic- or perhaps she is only imagining it, perhaps her thoughts are seep into her surroundings, accenting them, permeating them with their milieu. He, on the other hand, is not here, save for maybe in the currents of secret thought that run just under the delicate white geographies of her face, illuminating them for a few seconds, like a breath of fire caught under fresh snow. She moves through the still world, the delicate grace of early morning becoming one with her features, flowing uninterrupted through the pores of her face and tracing the somber contours of her bare legs. She is alone with the mist, the old railroad bridge. Wandering aimless, testament to an unfinished universe. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
12:38 am	The President There is a moment, a small moment, between when the President wakes up and when he realizes that he is, in fact, the President. An immediately forgotten instant in which he does not yet know his name, or where he is, or the year: just a second when the most powerful man in the world could be anyone at all. It's that moment that's plastered on her eyes when I catch her off guard, speak her name while she's writing or zoning elsewhere. She looks up in a quick jerk, liquescent grey eyes go wide, her face impassive and radiating possibility, like a misshapen puppet expecting someone to pick up the strings at any moment and say 'well, this is the play, here's your part.' I will not tell her that I look to her for me. One day, we'll have a daughter, who will ask if she can be anything in that eager over-ripe future of children. Yes, I'll say, even the President! It's a lie, of course, but might contain something more real than the truth. (Comment on this)
12:36 am	Nightfall The moon only sees the world dreaming, its hallucinations flickering behind half-closed blinds like so many old movie reels Here are geysers of the surreal. Here are time and space nude, having cast off their duties and enjoying the delights of themselves, legs wrapped around another in incomprehensible arrangements. The moon watches through perforations in stratus clouds, noting each small change. Infant dreams blossom- just flashes of color, really- while a familiar motorcycle ride through what wasn't always city curls in and becomes dark, becomes nothing, like paper in fire. In some black, distant ocean which may only be a dream fluorescent jellyfish surface to bask in moonlight fields of them, rabid violet inflating, deflating. the moon sees towns too populations undulating the chests and ambitions of their people inflating deflating but ultimately floating in place. (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, June 9th, 2008
1:50 pm	Nostalgia A girl I don't know whispers to me through the klaxon-clamor chaos of another pulsing Royal Street bar. I remember whispers on your porch keeping still, warm nights company years ago. How you thought maybe "whisper" came from the word wisp: wisps of voices, of our conversations. Bathed in a laptop's sympathetic glow we traced the thread all the way back to Norway. "Hviskra," to speak softly. I always pictured Norway in its winter, people finally unfurling themselves in the quiet privacy of one another their anxieties and apathies undone like so many paper cranes unfolded. Each pair connected to every other by the song of whales, drifting over the sleeping country from the sea: an invisible and ethereal spider web. Whale songs are older than the words used to describe them. Forged in the deep, black blackness of the oceans back when the continents were blank and nobody had thought of a god yet. Imagine the first whale song, a primal melody rising from the crushing depths, its echoes reverberating across the sea ever since, the ages moving to its tune like a divine plan. But it grows fainter, just a whisper that night on your porch. Back on Royal Street, we're superheros. Handgrenades impart gifts of teleportation. Flash! bar. Flash! teeming Canal street. Flash! the streetcar, and then off to bed, moving as if swept by a tide from behind, superheros finally unmasked. This unknown quantity nuzzles her nose on my chest and sigh-purrs a satiated "mmm," as if she was humming a song she had heard a long time ago. Her hair feels like your hair. I close my eyes and drift into dreams. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
1:48 pm	Trotsky, By Evening It must have been an error of design. Surely that hunched frame was sculpted for the Siberia splattered across his hair? Surely the harsh realism of Mexican landscapes and surrender nudgings of the heat, the folk fables, the siesta can't impact the careful orchestrations of humane intent and higher learnings rising as naturally and inevitably as steam from those old tea sipping days? (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, May 30th, 2008
3:42 pm	Each December falls alongside slaughters of trembling stalks and ornate petals: Casualties of silent romances spun from ethereal arrangements of snowbanks and earth Perhaps not silent; Perhaps what each sees in the other lives inside whispers, tucked away in the infinitesimal space between cold and ground (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, May 4th, 2008
1:18 am	Reason and Logic, that faithful vanguard Impervious to both blade and arrow Unaffected by the portents of devilish art Strut in livery knowing no harrow But when she breaks over me, like the flood Then the wings of these proud angels molt For from their breast and brow issues no revolt But when she breaks over me- (Comment on this)
12:18 am	In bestial throes, in ravenous fire Here passes the last heathen king Pierced and penetrated in the pyre His flesh consumed, and thus him Smoke and yelps rise into naked night Let rot the paths to unsheathed winter The cracked citadel, the muted river Smoke and yelps rise- (Comment on this)