Glorious Nonsense

A pal of mine (and a smart cookie) once used the phrase "return to glorious nonsense." He used it abstractly, perhaps before flinging his shirt off the rails in ecstasy, but the words stayed close. Lately, I can't help but think of that night on the balcony and of college--that messily constructed clapboard house filled to the gills with beer cans, books, basements, and debasements. College, the all consuming fire, the bullshit mess, the utter bliss of giving into our worst selves.

I know, I know: our futures are burning bright with success, discovery, piety. And college had to end. The luster of youthful splendor, idiocy, and Andre champagne had to come to a close and we're all growing up. And yet, I'd give my firstborn for one more night in a state of "glorious nonsense," for the peculiar paradise I called home.

I miss the shit out of college and I dare any of my college professors to challenge my grammar, the content of my prose.

Made in America

"Sweet baby Jesus, we made it in America." When it smells like piss on the 22 and my shoes won't keep me upright, I think of that. Am I making it? Everyday is a land mine, a discovery of Spanish streets and the realization that life is the time between Caltrains. Am I making it really? I think yes, if only by trying.