Tuesday, November 15, 2011

stacks of paper

The yard was big. Then they took a chunk out of it. And surrounded fence with single-family homes. They left the chunk there though. Eventually it would be shaped and decorated and admired. But for months it was dirt. And some of those days it was mud. Mud that caked my skin, covered my eyes, and kept me from slipping away.

The room was small. They painted it colors and made sure it would stay. There were locks on the doors, doors for the closets, spaces under the beds, but those things soon stopped working. I cut little notches into the carpet in a corner of the room. And everyday they sewed it back together and took a picture.

It was boxes. Then it was bags. Then it was trunks. And cases. And casts. And books. And characters that were supposed to be apart of your life. The bags turned into baggies. The boxes turned into coffins. The books turned into stacks of paper.

So I building a home of things I know. I brought a window to look out of and a mirror to look into. There is a door knocker to replace the bell. There are no doors. The floors are made from the wooden shelves that held books, cups, records, and trophies. The one set of curtains is from the map of the world my grandparents used to have. It is going to have a fireplace fueled by pictures I haven't yet thrown away. And a bar.

Thursday, October 20, 2011


It is probably some minor chord. That is how all those start. The ones you pick third for the jukebox. There is the long one that has a funk bass line that you pick first so you have a good soundtrack for picking the rest. Then there is the second one. Which is the one you really mean. It is loud. It is mean. It is sloppy. It hasn't showered. It hates at least one of it's parents if not both. It is broke. It smells like the bathroom back there late Tuesday morning. It drinks coffee from the day before and smokes the butts of cigarettes from the neighbor's lawn. It is just there. And most of the time we are lucky it even showed up. It is you. In a song. Then there is the third one. With the minor chord. That one is the real you. But you don't tell them. You just let it play while you do a shot and that woman in the corner counts to ten.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

second or third hand

I keep drug addict hours. When the sun is out my eyes are blank, half-grey, and surrounded with sweat. My nails are kept long to remind myself I am scratching at the surface. My fourth or fifth borrowed car collects parking tickets in front of my building. I found myself standing alone on the corner two nights ago. The power was out so I could see the stars for the first time; the first time from this spot. I yelled and shook and surprised a stranger that wasn't there when I opened my eyes. I take my glasses off when I smoke those menthols my roommates scatter around. I trace a tag on the ground with one of my bare toes, skipping over the a in the middle. The money is all gone. Yawns bookend floods of creativity and resentment. I find churches to say I used to visit, forge receipts for tithes I make in my head, and keep the pastor's card in my wallet. My phone battery dies every twenty minutes. That is why I keep missing these calls. I write the phone number to the house I grew up in on all these liquor store receipts and but them in a green whiskey bottle.The hall closet holds a wedding dress and two vacuum cleaners. They have all been used once. Waves of sleep crash into the building. Sometimes I can stay up long enough to catch the last light go out. Then the hallway is dark. All of my furniture comes from a sober living house a few blocks over. It all has to be changed when they get a new addict. The manager gives me a heads up of what will be on the curb when. I got a necklace that way once. It was taped to the underside of a desk. It has the name of a gentleman on it. I got his desk when he couldn't take it anymore and stood on his chair with rope. I didn't get his chair. I have my own.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

10 things about this night

that song we used to sing
about those records she all scratched
played on my tape deck
for the first time
since I had all those records shipped down south to someone else's she

these little notes
i keep pulling out of my pockets
scratched onto pieces of receipt from taco bell
never feel like money but i keep holding my breath

i turned my bed into a desk
my desk into a tv stand for a coworker
my coworker into a pusher

my pupils are growing sensitive to the florescent lights in my house
in that they consider 
the feelings
and shadows
those lights cast on all they see

when i
walk into
my house
with a bag that is brown
i feel
like that
kid from
with all the porno tapes

instead of the beer in the freezer being left in for too long
i drank it warm

i told myself
before you go to bed
and that was hours ago

the skin is all back
on the tips of my fingers
in case you were wondering

standing in the desert
is only worthwhile
to see all the stars that remind me of her freckles

i used to write this
to the melodies of songs
that i did not write
but claimed as my own
sloppy handwritten thoughts on suicide

Monday, September 12, 2011

Couple Skate

Randy is over there, by the bathroom. You can hear him knocking his bottle against the wall. Some kid just asked him what it was like when flannel was cool the first time. He keeps kicking the ground with his boot and asking the kid if he had ever heard why it rains all the time in Seattle. The kid repeats he doesn't know shit about the rain or Seattle or why they go together; he just wants to know what it feels like to be old. But he draws out the O for way too long. And Randy chuckles, he isn't that old, but it was great to always be warm, to always be prepared to chop down some tree or pose with some paper towels. Randy's voice sounds the same as it did back then. I remember laying in the bed of his truck one night in his back yard. He barely smoked the cigarette in his hand. He was counting the number of times he had said Truman that day. Randy had given a tour of the school to out of state prospective students and kept pointing out the spots that the old president used to smoke at. Truman didn't go to our school and he probably didn't smoke. Randy just wanted to give these kids something special to tell their parents about. A girl joins the kid and Randy now. They all look at me and shout something I can't make out. I'm picturing what it would look like to recreate the cover of that first Clash record with them. The girl walks up and says Randy told her I knew a guy who could help her out with this problem she has. I'd ask what it is but I can feel her staring at my hands so I don't bother.

Thursday, September 08, 2011


A few blocks away, over on Mission, there is a liquor store called Don's. It is ran by a man named Randy. I walk over there whenever the president speaks on television. Randy has a small TV set behind the counter and he puts the speech on it for me. I get a Styrofoam cup from next to the soda fountain and dump Christian Brothers into it. Randy doesn't like it when I drink in the store but he turns his head when the president is on TV. Sean sits outside chain smoking and drinking Old Crow. I get tired of hearing the same things so I sit on the curb with Sean drinking during the applause and laughing at the kid begging for change.

Thursday, September 01, 2011


There is this tall building on the way into Glendale. I saw a gentleman fall from it tonight. It is the one on the right. The tall one. Before Glendale College. Before Glendale Blvd. Before the Glendale Freeway. Before the Glendale Medical Center. Before all of that there is the tall building I saw the man fall from.

The song on the radio kept telling me that life went on, long after the thrill of living is gone.

I heard a rumor, that up there on some desk, there is a note that explains all of this. Personally, I am hoping it is just a highlighted paragraph from a book a lover gave him a couple of decades ago. That would keep with the theme, the motif, and the whole motivation of the evening.

His coffee is still hot. There are little lines of steam forming some sort of tower to heaven, or at least someplace with more room to breathe. The picture frames have all been put face down. No witnesses. No explaining. He took his second favorite pen with him; no reason to keep everything nice to himself.

A red light blinks on his phone. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.

He left his shoes. Light brown. Untied. In a drawer in his desk. That desk with the note, or the page from the book, or the matchbook with the phone number inside; whatever it was that we decided explained all of this. In that desk, where the folders alphabetized by last names used to sit, that is where his untied light brown business shoes stay. The left heel is worn more than the right.

He must have something wrong with his legs.

Otherwise he would have jumped.

But I am glad he didn't If he had jumped, instead of falling, I might not have seen him.

I might have kept driving home, to lay in my empty bed, to trace a route on a map, to start a book I started a hundred times.

Instead I turned the stereo up, stopped for dinner, a beer, and sent kisses from my lips into the air, that they might find the perfect cheek to land on, to keep safe somewhere else.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

chasing god

It is somewhere between 6 and 7 am on a Monday. I don't know. The clock in my car isn't working. I mean it works. It keeps time. Some time. But not here. I haven't bothered to change it. If it is wrong and I am late somewhere then I am late. Fuck it. Because I can't rely on my internal clock. I've thrown that off balance with pills, lines and stories that make me blush.

It is 6:34 am. Monday morning. I am driving east on the 101. There are clouds all above me. I am covered. But there are two spots, two holes far off in the sky that push me back to looking at the cover of my bible studies book in sixth grade.

See, god gets two things. He gets sun rays. And he gets early morning orange.

At least from me, that is what he gets...

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Fuck you and the blog you rode in on...

(What do you want to know about? The weeks of quiet? The changes of opinion? The new drugs? And where they come from? Some pussy? Or no pussy? Or why it is suddenly pussy? Is that it? Or is it the new towns? Or the new beds? Or the conversations I keep all to myself? Do you want to hear about the jokes that didn't work, the faces that don't show, or the corners that now make up my days? Well fuck you.)

I borrowed a lamp from my old roommate. We haven't talked in weeks. And the lamp has one working bulb, out of the three, that I use at night while writing. I gave up cigarettes for a lay a while back. But she doesn't know anymore so I'm back to smoking. I pulled a fan from my trunk. It has been hot as shit the last three days. So I use the fan to blow smoke out of my window. My new roommates don't know. Most nights I leave the living room without saying a word. I retreat to my room. Some nights I wrap a belt around my neck to make sure I cum. Some nights I watch Japanese wrestling matches from the early 90's. The last few nights I use my phone to bore someone to death, or sleep, and jerk off to compilation videos of blonde women blowing black men.

I sleep for minutes at a time. When I am not asleep I am grinding my teeth, counting sirens outside of my window, and praying for some stray bullet to find my heart.

Because everyone needs an unexpected funeral.

I think of stories to write, anecdotes to explain away the last few paragraphs.

But that doesn't really bother me anymore.

Friday, May 13, 2011


Once a week I wake up in the middle of a carnival. There are twinkle lights and dreams of elephants. A couple of times small bits of neon snuck out of their hiding spots to sing me to sleep. But I needed more than that. A clenched jaw and racing mind don't make a tired man. And still all those mornings I woke in that carnival. It used to still be dark; the sun not making any effort to get itself out of bed. Now the sun beats me to the punch. I heard it was to help the farmers. How? The sun still beats down on their crops and it still beats down on our souls. I lay beaten, exhausted, worn out but aware of her routine. Our routine. I shut off five alarms. One is actually a stand alone clock. It confuses parts of me they still exist. She climbs down from one carnival to another. I know if she will shower based on the numbers at the end of the stand alone clock. If she does I grab a bit more sleep and wait for the next step. Makeup. Or a hair appliance. Or scrubs. Or sneaky kisses on my sleeping forehead. I pretend to sleep but could draw from memory, with one eye, the curves highlighted by the matching underwear and her tendencies to stand on her toes. She says I keep her on her toes. She says it's good. Once or twice I've let her get to me and had to sneak out before the sun even had a plan to attack the east coast. I have no plan. I drink too much. I medicate too much. I worry too much. I lie too much. I fall to fast. I don't sleep enough. Not here at least. I've squeezed enough sand through my hands to know I can loose enough to build a beach. But I still keep one arm around her all night. If she slips away, I want to see it happen. I don't want miss it. Not again.

Thursday, May 05, 2011

third time is the charm

Your mother called tonight. I couldn't care to drag myself out of bed. So I just rolled my naked body over and answered the phone. These calls always start out the same. She is bragging about some party, some man, or some place she went with her friends. They used to be my friends. But now it's just me in some room with a box full of dishes she was supposed to take last Christmas and a bed I bought to forget her. There are pictures and postcards for her in some drawer; I keep them there so I have an excuse to see her. But I never take them. And she never asks for them.

I didn't mean to laugh when we decided to kill you. If you read this then we didn't. Maybe we had a change of heart. Maybe we didn't have enough money. Maybe we sold you to the highest bidder.

I don't even know why I am telling you this. You don't exist. Or you do. But I don't care.

Because yesterday I walked out of work and it smelled like summer. It smelled like last year when I spent nights with either a beautiful artist, a soul sucking mother figure, or someone else. It was calm, still, warm, happy; the things I hadn't been until recently.

So I sucked in the smell and remembered how it felt to be in love, in awe, and in the grip of drugs.

And today it was sucked back out of me. Someone spun circles and crashed into a wall and as I drove by I saw the clouds of smoke leave their car.

And I knew I would die. And you would die. And me, and your mother, and those other women, and her friends, and my coworkers, and every other relationship I worked on for so long, they would all die too.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

3:33 are you kidding me?

There was a band once, that I played bass in. The singer wrote this song that shared the title of this entry. He was up at some apartment that was either full of women, men, or both. He looked at the clock and couldn't believe the time.

This was almost 10 years ago.

I look at the time now and don't even think twice. I'm drunk or high or both. I'm working on finding a bed, finding a couch, or finding my own. Or either. I'm telling stories of lost friends, him, lost ways, mine, and lost hopes, ours.

The clock on the bookshelf is counting away my heartbeats; it's inching me closer to death. I leave and the counting stops. It moves to the next one in the room. Or the bookcase goes to a new apartment, a new room, a new hall. And that things holds books I've never read, from people I will never know, but leaves spots for the books that you gave back.

Those books sit on my counter and I have no space for them; I have no bookcase. But I'll keep them, and find a spot for them.

I got a new bookcase today.

I hope she has room for my books, my life, my shit, and me.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011


Another mid-afternoon in some poorly lit watering hole. The sun shines under the door. Ray takes off his hat and props open the door with a barstool. This makes you feel less then you did. Someone in the corner is fishing for pills. Orange. The same color as Ray's beer, or what is left of it. The sweat on your glass keeps piling on. So you take the forty-three steps to another bar she has always wanted to go to. A farmhand sleeps in a recliner. Some lady stumbles and shows pictures of her family which might be missing, or she might just miss them. It's a blur of rum and cigarettes. You take her hand and lead her back to the first bar. Not the woman with the pictures, but the woman the small feet and a taste for vodka. You spin her once halfway between the two doors being held open. The sun reflects off the windshields of passing cars. You lead her inside and play a song she wants to hear. An old woman finds a place to hang her purse.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Texas Plates

Another long day. Nothing to mull over, or try to fix, just a long day. The sun set hours ago and nothing will be better today then this tall can I am holding.

I can see your skin between your shirt and your jeans; enough to put my hands on, to push them up towards your breasts if we are pressed full against each other in the corner of a dirty club/bar/parking lot/bed.

But I'm behind you in line at AM/PM. You almost drop your H&M sweater three times while trying to pay for your cigarettes. Camel Crushes... You say them like you've never bought them, like some poor kid outside has enough money for them but not the dignity to get Newports and save the difference for booze.

But you never drop the sweater. Because if you did I would totally pick it up. And you look briefly at me; me and my can of beer. I smile. You don't. Or might.

I'd ask your name but forget and the whole non-exchange would be ruined.

So take your Texas plates and drive out of my life.

This hasn't gone where it was supposed to. Parts are true. Parts are lies. Parts are shit. I'm just working on getting things out of my head. I need space for new things. Let us try this again. From somewhere else.

Your clutch purse holds very little space for
the 8 quarters
I am going to use to buy this beer that will just put me more into the spot in my head where
forget to tell you that
I would have probably thought that
you were beautiful had
I not been so concerned with if
you were going to drop that sweater and if
I was going to pick it up.

There. That is a little better.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Time to close the window

For the second time today I opened this thing and let it sit here.

I don't have anything to say.

Maybe tomorrow.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

My own bearded lady

The only explanation for
that can of man's shaving cream sitting so
on your shower ledge is
that you are a bearded lady.
That's why you are always
first up
naked in the dark
growing your hair out
and so proud of that flannel.

Or you are fucking someone else.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

death and my feet still on the carpet.


Two weeks late the phone rings and I think I hear
tears or mine just start to fill that spot in sound
where you know there should be sound but something involved just cannot hold their end
of the bargin that is grief
and news
and condolences
and a map to someplace where it makes sense.
I fall back on the shit couch made to a bed and let me feet hang from the end and they didn't quite touch.

This is what you drank.
This is what you had me make you.
When I couldn't have a voice.
When I couldn't have a space.
When I had to wrap my own presents.
Those fucking overalls never fit and it wasn't your fault and that was how it had to be.
That wasn't your fault.
This wasn't your fault.
But I sat there with my best friend and toasted and drank to a man fifteen years gone.
I let my feet hang from the end of the barstool and they didn't quite touch.

Random bathroom before a set of songs I felt I had to rip my skin open to get out, I'm pissing and breaking pills in half for time and chasing with beer and I get in front of a mic and sing about how all of this won't ever fucking work and you smile from wherever you are. You always smiled from that chair that you needed help out of and you fell from and yelled and screamed and cried and lost something that you could never get back. I could map that room. All I wanted was that fireplace to burn. Something. It never happened. I walked out on the deck and looked into yards of families that were what television said families were and I hated them and now I know my family was it. My family was life. Me wedged in one of those chairs, feet hanging from the edge, not quite touching.

if all you ever need is
and booze.

You were the ultimate Booth.
Your son and grandson rolled into some sort of superhuman with shaky steps and strong opinions.
I admire your taste
I admire your swing
I admire your contentment.
But that was after the clubs, the cigarettes, the pussy, the booze, the service, the wives, the crazy secret foreign country marriages, the surveys, the second (first) family, the lies, the damage and then finally the three times I saw you a year.
What I really admire was the way you pointed, while holding your vodka drink, at whatever was wrong.
You always meant those points.
And I always mean to keep my feet where they reach.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

They are mostly gone. 1 & 2.


Some television with knobs
sits in the corner and protects me
from the poodle that is going to attack while
I dig my nails into a carpet that runs
under a wall and into a house where
decide I need pink chalk bullshit medicine for my tummy
and the oozy insides of some long prickly leaf to dull the burn on my skin from being outside
chasing cars
little girls in skirts
and this boy who has a toy I want
and a nest of wasps that some poor kid would die from fucking with in the movies.

Don't make fucking eye contact with the poodle.

Steal the soap from under the sink and pour it into the gas tank of my lawnmower
cuz we all need some goddamn bubbles
and that girl in the blue skirt will only look at me then.

Blonde hair.
Big grin.
Boy muscles.
Pushes that lawnmower so fast the bubbles don't even fucking show up.

The blue skirt girl doesn't either.

She is mostly gone.
They are mostly gone.

"What about your frustration levels?"

Buy a lunch you can't afford and steal
french fries from a guy you admire for reasons you will never
admit or understand but appreciate that his plan is a plan and your plan is not dying.

"Or you'll have an emotional breakdown..."

Let tears well up enough that if you didn't have glasses on someone would ask about them.
The glasses, of course. Not the tears.
Keep the glasses.
Avoid the questions.

"We're good on trips, right"

There was a video of a river from really high up with no sound.
Be that river.
Be that video.
Be that answer to the question that says which person you know will be the mostly like to..

"You call at the worst times."

You can count on your arm the things left from that very first
Some combination of money, love, cat poison, personal safety, old age, the environment, social improvement systems and your own bullshit ideals leave just you.

That house is mostly gone.
You are mostly gone.

Wednesday, March 02, 2011

A New Month

It is 6 in the morning. There is some sort of snoop dogg joke that fits in here, but it's not worth it. 

There are friends on a couch, maybe the angriest man I know, and this woman who wants nothing but to take care of him. I admire them both, for different reasons, and some of the same. 

There is this other man sleeping in a chair that used to be his. But he owes another guy money so it sits more than a hundred miles away. He used to nurse in this chair. Now he snores every twenty minutes. 

There is a birthday boy, officially joked about being a man now. And there is the woman he spends most of his time with. She is crying. Apparently things aren't the way they are supposed to be. 

I don't care. 

I sit on a chair without a back. The sun is rising outside. I can't sleep. I don't want to. I've spent hours waiting for fights to break out. For things to happen that someone regrets for seconds. For things we, myself included, blow up to be better, more interesting, more exciting, more important then they actually are. 

And that is my life. 

When you write, or blog, if you will, for so many years you forget that the only things that make you different are the words describing what happens. I'm loud. I'm obnoxious. If you know me you know what I did last night. 

But sometimes I want to be quiet. I don't want to be the couple in the other room. I don't want to be the guy with the emo heart exploding. I don't want to cry in public. 

Because it's hard to be on the otherside of that door. It's hard to sit on this chair and hear walls being destroyed or built up. It's hard to listen. It's hard to be. 

I'm going outside. I'm going to watch the sunrise and figure out how to make it through the rest of Wednesday. 

I'm not sad. 

I'm not lonely. 

I'm not warm. 

I'm not content.

Monday, February 28, 2011

1225 or 7994

I used to fuck this guy. We met outside of this club a mutual friend was dancing at. He had an Altoids tin full of various pills. He told me to take what I wanted; I only took one. I was pretty fucked up on vodka sodas and key bumps. I remember I wouldn't shut up about how I wanted to be a writer. He just listened. At the end of the night we exchanged email address so I could send him some work. Two days later he made me breakfast in bed.

I had just gotten out of this pretty intense thing that I was way to conservative in expressing my opinions about and led to me just getting destroyed. In hindsight I probably overreacted, jumping from barstool to stall to cab to bed, but it was the only thing that felt right. Sometimes I would be floating out of my body, watching and trying to figure out what exactly was happening in these dark corners I was spending so much time. This guy tried his best to pull me out of it. And he did pretty well. I still had some intense self destructive tendencies that would come out. There was a night in his apartment when I cut my feet up pretty bad walking on some wine glasses I had broken in an argument. I bled and bled on his hardwood floor while he begged me to let him help me. I just kept drinking vodka.

He was no boy scout either. He always had pills. All sort of things. Some nights we would pick a color pill based on how well it matched what I was wearing and we'd snort as many of them as we could. Sometimes my entire face would go numb and we would fuck and take shots of irish whiskey till I blacked out or wasn't numb.

And I heard about some of the things he did when I wasn't around. There were always whispers about one of his exes and what they did together when he was supposed to be working. After the third or fourth time I heard this I took one of his friends home to show him that I wasn't waiting around, that I didn't need him.

But I did. I wouldn't hear from him for a day or two and be convinced he was finally gone. Someone else would get his breakfasts. Someone else would get his text messages. Someone else would get him. I would sit around my place with a couple bottles of wine and whatever sad bastard music I could find and just fucking cry.

In the morning he would always show up. Everything was fine. There was work. Or a friend needed him. Or he got to drunk at happy hour after work and took a cab home and left his phone at the bar. I believed him every time.

Until the last time.

He didn't come over.

He didn't give a reason.

He didn't call.

He was gone.

I spent two weeks stuck in my apartment. I would go out for fruit and wine. I had a friend drop off pills. I broke all my light bulbs. I threw out the shirts he had left over. I took bath after bath after bath. I watched war movies and cried the whole time.

Then one morning it hit me. He was just a fuck. He gave me drugs and booze. He bought me dinner. He'd say nice things. But I wasn't the only one. I knew that. So I stopped caring. I stopped giving two shits about running into him, hearing about him at bars or seeing him move on.

That night I went back out. I made out with some nameless stranger in a corner booth. I bought myself shots. I danced with some friends. And I went home alone.

Monday, February 21, 2011

The taller the can...

It's not every day I sit in a booth at my job and talk to a coworker about if you had a plan for suicide. Today was one of those days. I like that she asked if there was a plan. Like my house was on fire and I had to get out. Or everything finally caught up to me and I had to explain to everything to everyone. A plan. Well, there are plans. There are scenarios, situations, dance step charts, and assembled pieces of puzzles. But it is no big deal. I also have a plan for the money I'll win in the lottery. And a map of places I want to take the pills I've collected. There are a lot of push-pins in that map. I'm not one to waste. Sometimes. I've been most comfortable drinking in bed. It feels easier then drinking in an empty living room with no tv on. I keep waking up thinking I'm in my old house, the last one, the last day. The day I slept in the living room on couch cushions. The day I burned a bunch of things and cried because all that was left in that fucking house was me and the pots someone else bought for us. I keep looking at my hands and seeing the blood of that guy I punched in the face repeatedly. I was protecting a friend I just made. I was getting out the things I was going to pay a man one hundred dollars a week to listen to. Fighting in the street is free. And doesn't ease your soul. I keep putting money in a box next to my bed that I'm going to give to the county because they caught me drinking and driving. I also keep whatever drugs I am stockpiling in this box. It's a poor-man's version of the drawer I remember as a kid. My bed frame is wide enough hold all the bottles and cans I've been having. So I put them there. The stack of boxes in the corner of the room is slowly collapsing. It makes noise in the middle of everything. I could probably leave it there for years. I just might. There is never enough of anything on a daily basis. I run out of all of it. My skin is dry. My hands don't shake. My tears only show up in bars and booths talking about places and procedures to making things right, atonement, or a cure for boredom. I drive at night, and at day, and bite the insides of my mouth to keep me awake, alive, and interested. I spit blood into a cup from a sandwich shop in the valley. I smoke menthol cigarettes that aren't mine and ash onto a freeway that isn't either. I don't shower for days. I'm an experiment in the unexamined life that is documented. I scream and punch and pout and throw tantrums. I borrow money and spend it on snacks. I sit in the cabs of trucks testing drugs for quality and price, suddenly more knowledgeable then I ever thought I'd be. I sneak. I steal. I lie. I beg. I decide my own fate on minutes of sleep and liters of booze. I listen. I bleed. I write a bunch of self serving statements that may or may not be true. I exercise.

Friday, February 11, 2011

New Clothes

It isn't so much the feeling of looking down at your hand and seeing your blood mixed with the blood of someone you just met. And it isn't quite this desire to rip open your own face in hopes of some dramatic releasing of crows. And I don't even think it is the possibility of someone making a crown out of newspaper and putting it on your head and letting you lead a parade of one down an empty street.


It is about being comfortable. Being selfish.

I am not treading water anymore.

I am actively pulling myself down
I am actually going to shore
I am not standing still.

These things always start one place and end another. They are shit with directions. They are shit with sympathy. They are shit.

I am sorry I broke your heart.

Sunday, January 30, 2011


The first time I met your mother it was overcast. She was sitting alone on a swing set. I was walking around the park, the one across the street from the middle school, thinking about picking up smoking again. It was never really a habit up to that point, but I was giving a series of other things in my life a serious push and cigarettes were about to join them. I had on that red flannel, the one you used to wear to bed in the winter, and some hand-me-down jeans. When I stopped to light that first smoke I noticed her. She had her feet crossed in front of her and was using the heels of her boots to make circles in the sand. Her hair was covering her face and when she tried to pull it back some of it stuck to the corner of her mouth. She smiled and pulled a small bottle of schnapps from her inside vest pocket.

There was a day when I was half your age that I was at the same park. My great-grandmother and I were there. Some middle school kids sat at the top of this rocket ship that stood in the middle of the park. You would climb ladders to the different levels, the second highest had a metal slide that burnt your skin in the summer. Those kids were on the top level, drinking schnapps and smoking cigarettes. My great-grandmother kept muttering under her breath about them as we walked around the park. At one point she bent down to my ear, and pointing at the rocket said "Don't you ever be like those kids".


Monday, January 17, 2011

Lost and Found

The train smells a certain way. This one smells different then the others. Everything references drugs lately. Today, this second between the inhale and exhale is full of minutes from the summer. I stop trying to find it. I just let it wash over me and think about how it could be so much easier. Instead I'll drink malt liquor, tell stories about people I don't miss and ride this train alone.