he opened his book, and i smiled.

"i can't write verse," i say, "typically."

then i add, "unless it's as catharsis, to get something out of my system."

he nodded.

"i used to do the same thing," he says, passing the spiral bound notebook across the desk to me.  "now, though, i do it to sound good, rather than just release feelings."

words, glorious words, laid out like an ambrosial feast before me.  my proverbial mouth waters.  his words sustain me.

her name is scrawled across the top of the page, i notice.  "these are from last year," he says.  i wonder if they were written for her, with her on his mind.  i make no reference to the six letters there.

"these," he says, the page turning, "are about finding out that someone you thought had feelings for you doesn't give a shit."

i nod.  the feeling is familar to me, is familar to all over-sensitive, teenaged-boy poets, the most feeling of all human beings.

"these," he says, "are about drugs."

the landscape of his verse is lush and brings back memories of lying alone in bed, a tablet before me, my blood on the tracks/loaded/protection mix playing on my disc changer.  i remember seven pages filled with random scribblings, total stream of conscience, pen flowing freely, emotions and words purged entirely, laid down on the paper, a record of things i never even knew i felt.

when all was said and done, i would lay on the bed, not totally certain of what i'd written, a complete numbness settling over me.

i look at him and smile.

and know that i'm going to go back to writing poetry again sometime soon.

___

spiderman tomorrow, then prom saturday, and i can't even begin to say how cool this weekend is going to be.  nor can i begin to verbalize how excited i am for it to come.

i thought i might have a crisis on my hands after meredith mentioned fias by name on the show this morning, but things went according to schedule.

currently, i'm waiting for v and s sandwich shop at the amoco to call me back.  i've pretty much got the job opening, if the lady i talked to speaks the truth.  if so, i'm going to make a fool out of rick before i leave bob's.  serves the fat bastard right.  lou wants to work register at the gas station itself, i think.  word.  if he does, that shit'll be clerks, for real.

in other news, the skin on my back is peeling off.  damned sunburn.  lindsay's been putting lotion on it for the past few days, but it doesn't seem to do any good.  it makes my shoulders smell good, though.