lines lies lines lines lines

stranger's stares and grass footsteps--

so strange how new music can smell like
a toothy whiskey-soaked grin.

i am poised to journey to Minneapolis for the second time ever tomorrow
or not
to (perhaps) see Black Moth Super Rainbow
(it's a maybe since i'm only familiar with their first album, and it would be a 5+ hour round-trip).

also, divining secrets of resumes
with the thought of submitting to job lists in New York
to become an "editorial assistant."

maybe.

truth is,
i am writing more consistently than i ever have--
only about a thousand words a week, but also revising with my perfectionistic habits.

still on the periphery of moving forward with my novel,
once it starts i expect to flow like clouds assaulting mountains.

how are my similes? last night, i finished dinner with my parents somewhat upset
for calling the winning american idol (as far as i could gather) "generic."
my father quipped angrily about my pretension,
and

what could i say?

nothing that would help. so i locked my door and let the turmoil pour over me:
i do not particularly want to be here.
i do not particularly want to start a professional career, either.
what i want is to have the space to perfect my art--
but then, so does every other artist, and most of them don't mind pretending they are career-oriented.

i thought:
i could ride off into these dark forests,
i could disappear for a week or two--

but that won't work either. too impractical.

so i just keep dreaming wearily, my eyes altogether strangely tired for every sunset.

what i would most like to do is to say . . .
something these lips won't whisper here.