The Devil's Music

I have this spontaneous, childish feelings that days are today are what save my life over and over again.

It's beautiful out and you can tell we are living on the border of better times because I rode my bike everywhere today listening to "Never Forget, Ever!"by Defiance, OH on repeat:

We held our legs parallel to the ground - urethane cartographers of this small mid-atlantic town.
You were stuck in the mid-west making signs for opposing teams.
Do our lives now live up to all our dreams?
Do we write it in our skin, indelible?
"SK8 or Die," "Fuk'n Go," "Don't Give Up Hope,"
I guess I don't know.
Or maybe we'll assert in binary.
Dear diary, I wonder if words can make things real.
I hope they might.

You can tell things are getting better because I'm wearing sleeveless bike punk t-shirts and the other education majors call me Pippi because I roll my jeans up to reveal an inch or two of striped socks. I'm drinking a Dr Pepper with the window open and I'm looking down on the Western Campus. I've been listening to folk punk all day and feel stupidly hopeful about everything.

This afternoon I read poetry out loud to myself alone in my room and thought about the argument I got into with some other students this morning about sound poetry and whether or not poetry needs to be made up of "real" words. I think that sounds are real and that there's a performative aspect to sound poetry - it may not look like a whole lot on paper, but man, when you hear it...