Attempting Poetry: Robin Williams, Conor Oberst, and Sliced Meat


Everybody feel alone and have no place to go. Plug in the helpline, please.

When I was younger (I’ve just gotten to that number – a quarter century – where I’ve begun fake-lying about my age) than I am now (twenty-three, twenty-four…) I thought that everything in my life needed to be somehow poetic – and my friends and I were constantly conscious of moments that seemed or felt “poetic” to our teenage sensibilities. Hiding in the bathroom stall at school (no CD players allowed, yo), listening to Bright Eyes? Poetic. Drinking black coffee at 9pm in Seattle with the lazy canal moving slowly westward? Poetic. Waking up alone in a hotel room, with your clothes folded neatly on a chair – stacked in order, bottom to top, with your bangles and earrings over your socks and underwear? Tragic, but also, poetic. 

Smoking cloves on the curb outside 7-11 was poetic and being a soul-eaten, if somewhat failed novelist was poetic, and certainly that…

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