I live in a hotel
must keep writing
if I’m to be better than everyone else
like figure skating
like asphyxiating
on your own seeping fumes
you’re just waiting
living in a hotel
but I’m not traveling
between two points, in mid air,
I’m levitating
above the earth
beneath the sky
eyes like static
in my three feet
from bed to wall
there sleeps a genius
leave me here to my devices
the call could come at any time
they’re playing love songs on the radio tonight
I can’t relate to that right now
note to self : no one cares. your voice is average
in worried piles I typed for miles and you just stood there
I will begin
I will put right
this morning terror
I have been kissed
between the ears
by human error
leave me here to my devices
I need a word to change my life
I’ve tied my ankles to the table legs with wire
he can’t write so much as type
leave me here to my devices
I can’t think with all this noise
they’re playing love songs on your radio tonight
I don’t get those songs on mine
you keep fucking up my life


Jets to Brazil - Sea Anemone




Jets To Brazil - I Typed For Miles 

There are fantods that come from, more than anything, slipping up. Not the slight-of-hand, err-of-tongue mistakes but the too-soon/too-late-turn, wrong exit, six-hours-wasted-so-give-up-and-go-home mistakes. The ones that start from rotten ground and grow crooked. The ones where the wrong answer comes from input overlooked, and the results are like like rabbits. Rabbits or insects or some kind of new math germinating into restless self-abuse. Where, afterward, proportion disregards perspective and the whole thing weighs you down in ways that seemed unimaginable when you thought you had the answers - not all of them because I doubt anybody really thinks they have it all, but enough to get by.

I was going to start this month out with a much less known song by a band from Connecticut but I guess this one probably works better because it more directly relates to the rest of the songs I’d like to post, and the things I want to talk about: writing, connectivity, people, apologies, music itself. Maybe we’ll get to the other band tomorrow.

Note to self: No one cares.

I am 23 years old and from Rochester, New York. I tend to live like a hermit and when I am let out into public I have this embarrassing habit of to talking too loud for too long. My name is Brian Latimer.