Tuesday, February 9, 2016
Breakdown of a Breakdown, Anatomy of an Autopsy
1/3/15, 4:25 am
Get up again
a thousand thousand times
to piss
but when
you've pissed
the bed as I have
you can never be
too sure.
Three times was I drunk,
yes,
and tonight I am not.
Returning to my room,
it smells of my father;
smoke and farts.
----------------------------------------------
Which want with which will,
will want with what
which witch?
>Things $$$$$$$$ past year I can never tell you about $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ all alone, by myself, awful yawning bloody things, desperate and ripping and shameful $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ and if we are ever to grow and surround each other in trunk, branch, and bough $$$$$$$$$$$$$$ for I am massively incapable without your knowing, and dangerously undefined thus without your love.<
----------------------------------------------------------------
Oceans of ink
usher from beneath my fingernails,
I finding finally
an ear which will listen
but me now lost
the heart to say.
1/3/15, 3:08 pm
Were there never a place left for me, where the doors shut in the dawn but the shades drawn in the twilight? I was allowed to wrap myself in olive skin and offer great slabs of myself, but fed only morsels tossed to a dog distant chained. I know it not to be true, or want to know it, but time again do I resign myself to angry haunches, as anger is so often poison and anodyne to an embarrassed and shrunken spirit.
What I carry for one else
is taken as something
to be held for me.
Such is love; unjust.
-------------------------------------
Have you ever felt, walking even in the wide open, that all the air were suddenly sucked from the room?
To think that I thought that there were no need for me to even love again. I see now that you never espoused such an idea of luxurious liberation from within another. Not a lie from a liar, but a cold and distant shoulder nonetheless.
The loving and living I once claimed wrote my pledge to you, love carved upon the canvas of my life, once more will be used for vengeance and spite. I've been here before. We are nothing new, we two.
Is it really any surprise that angels from afar be as villains when they speak? Harsh words as I write them bely only harsh nettles driven once more by bored hands.
I suppose I'll climb down from this cross now.
---------------------------------------------------------------
"a poem I've been trying to write for years (still sucks though):
'Watercolors'"
There was a watercolor exhibit at the local museum,
and my mother and I
softly padded from canvas to canvas;
our voices were low and not without reverence.
We had differing likes of them all,
my mother and I;
I found no merit in the realism of Airstream teardrops.
them belonging only on walls of bad-food cafes
and above moth-lit hotel beds,
or maybe only thrown to a fire.
The figures, though, nude and haunting
or haunted and staring from frame;
I could not fathom, never,
and never will I fathom,
how these artists apart,
each by age or latitude,
all knew you, and held you a muse.
and so all each captured your hair and eye,
each differed and varied,
all you, all same, all muse,
all knew what I knew and know,
and each painted you
in watercolor.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
taking out a Sun Kil Moon cd
to put in a Sun Kil Moon cd
hello, there I am
----------------------------------------
Thus far, the worst day of 2015. It was, I think, unfortunate; a series of "episodes", each stranger than the last. I am lost in a neurotic servitude. Have reached "hiding liquor in sock drawer" level of shame. Lord will me be a phoenix, please Lord. I am so small, and shrinking.
I will die burned alive after dragging my space heater too close to my bed, and catching aflame a book of fucking Stephen Crane short stories. Fuck. They will say, "[Andrew] knew [Crane] only as a journalist." Fucking hell.
Bradbury bradbury bradbury. Here's another episode.
1/4/15, 1:21 am
I am forgetting now which have been writ and which have been transcribed.
"Transubstantiation"
---------------------------------------
Do we all join hands
and understand
what waits my weight
upstairs?
-------------------------------
"Leave some for yourself"
Trouble is, see?,
what is the difference?
Falling apart, together.
But some will not.
So we go,
falling apart before those better than us.
As a bluff,
I call each the same;
Bluff, bluff, bluff...
cuz you're all too scared.
-------------------------------------------------------
ok: early morning now;
were cigarettes once a scandal?
And obviously nothing is my scandal
except those reported to me
by screaming fire and let blood,
by easy trips to the morgue or
a quest for a "Plan B" pill;
I offer not much;
my hands are spread and I am nailed so often.
But look!
How handsome!
In his coffin,
now sobbing, yes,
a fine tune with which to sing the mess;
whose tomb I borrow is ne'er; I's fancy,
but pharaoh's skin put cat aside,
never, doth he wish
w'in death reside.
Rather let him be a noodle,
or at very least a string unfound;
purposeless without a neck,
oft doth his cries fell days,
a satan's laff 'tween sultan's sleep.
Go to bed, our ringing numbers,
and let all once taught resound with slumber.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I love that I
write scritching verse
in free-hand something balanced vicious
and all eyes seek only the worst
punk among the glooming
Bitches bitches bitches
-------------------------------------------------------
How often I end up at The Flea, alone with notepad. Come for the free wifi, stay for the crippling addiction. Don't bring it home with you. Leave demons at doorstep. "He's a worthless motherfucker," says a bearded old dude in coveralls.
-------------------------------------------------
Everyone is an apologist. Everyone has some stock in the future of the system. Trust no one. Death to those who wish for "better"... apparently
"We shall be allowed one tear an hour, hanging from some cave ceiling, stalactite tears." - Anais Nin, "Elena", Delta of Venus
1/7/15
bar notes:
Eavesdropping (accidentally) is painful. Balefully boring, all of it. Forced; listen to them perpetuate within the context of this their "first date". Terrible.
bar notes:
Now that I know better the relevant subject matter, "Delirium Tremens" is a most unfortunate and gross name for an alcoholic beverage.
bar notes:
This girl, woman, girl, once forced her tongue down my throat and up into my sinuses until my eyeballs threatened to pop from their sockets. Never trust a girl (woman) who spits. I don't care if this is perceived as some sort of patriarchal archaism. I just plain don't like it.
To be fair, if a man (boy) spit as much in front of me, I wouldn't trust him either.
1/8/15, 9:13 pm
(pipes froze in my netherworld bathroom, pipes burst in the cellar, flood and mud, all things blur and run and become shit in the end)
What a Castle of Shit I've built for and around myself. Little room for others' sympathy, not that they come in droves to offer me such, and besides I act disdainfully when they do, seeing falsely it as a sign of my own weakness.
I was wrong! I was, and am, wrong. What a Fortress of Shit I've built about myself! What vile treason I've borne kept even from myself, knowing these walls would crumble and agonizingly plodding on in willful ignorance. This is my fault! Everything, all, my fault!
The last warm water I know festers in a sink of scummed dishes, stained knives and rusting steel wool, rotting kale and sodden crumbs of bread uneaten.
And if I am scorned, or am evicted, or die, I will be scorned, evicted, and dead exactly as I am, as I have been deep backwards in a memory whose elasticity dries and weakens with each grinding hour.
Get up again
a thousand thousand times
to piss
but when
you've pissed
the bed as I have
you can never be
too sure.
Three times was I drunk,
yes,
and tonight I am not.
Returning to my room,
it smells of my father;
smoke and farts.
----------------------------------------------
Which want with which will,
will want with what
which witch?
>Things $$$$$$$$ past year I can never tell you about $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ all alone, by myself, awful yawning bloody things, desperate and ripping and shameful $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ and if we are ever to grow and surround each other in trunk, branch, and bough $$$$$$$$$$$$$$ for I am massively incapable without your knowing, and dangerously undefined thus without your love.<
----------------------------------------------------------------
Oceans of ink
usher from beneath my fingernails,
I finding finally
an ear which will listen
but me now lost
the heart to say.
1/3/15, 3:08 pm
Were there never a place left for me, where the doors shut in the dawn but the shades drawn in the twilight? I was allowed to wrap myself in olive skin and offer great slabs of myself, but fed only morsels tossed to a dog distant chained. I know it not to be true, or want to know it, but time again do I resign myself to angry haunches, as anger is so often poison and anodyne to an embarrassed and shrunken spirit.
What I carry for one else
is taken as something
to be held for me.
Such is love; unjust.
-------------------------------------
Have you ever felt, walking even in the wide open, that all the air were suddenly sucked from the room?
To think that I thought that there were no need for me to even love again. I see now that you never espoused such an idea of luxurious liberation from within another. Not a lie from a liar, but a cold and distant shoulder nonetheless.
The loving and living I once claimed wrote my pledge to you, love carved upon the canvas of my life, once more will be used for vengeance and spite. I've been here before. We are nothing new, we two.
Is it really any surprise that angels from afar be as villains when they speak? Harsh words as I write them bely only harsh nettles driven once more by bored hands.
I suppose I'll climb down from this cross now.
---------------------------------------------------------------
"a poem I've been trying to write for years (still sucks though):
'Watercolors'"
There was a watercolor exhibit at the local museum,
and my mother and I
softly padded from canvas to canvas;
our voices were low and not without reverence.
We had differing likes of them all,
my mother and I;
I found no merit in the realism of Airstream teardrops.
them belonging only on walls of bad-food cafes
and above moth-lit hotel beds,
or maybe only thrown to a fire.
The figures, though, nude and haunting
or haunted and staring from frame;
I could not fathom, never,
and never will I fathom,
how these artists apart,
each by age or latitude,
all knew you, and held you a muse.
and so all each captured your hair and eye,
each differed and varied,
all you, all same, all muse,
all knew what I knew and know,
and each painted you
in watercolor.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
taking out a Sun Kil Moon cd
to put in a Sun Kil Moon cd
hello, there I am
----------------------------------------
Thus far, the worst day of 2015. It was, I think, unfortunate; a series of "episodes", each stranger than the last. I am lost in a neurotic servitude. Have reached "hiding liquor in sock drawer" level of shame. Lord will me be a phoenix, please Lord. I am so small, and shrinking.
I will die burned alive after dragging my space heater too close to my bed, and catching aflame a book of fucking Stephen Crane short stories. Fuck. They will say, "[Andrew] knew [Crane] only as a journalist." Fucking hell.
Bradbury bradbury bradbury. Here's another episode.
1/4/15, 1:21 am
I am forgetting now which have been writ and which have been transcribed.
"Transubstantiation"
---------------------------------------
Do we all join hands
and understand
what waits my weight
upstairs?
-------------------------------
"Leave some for yourself"
Trouble is, see?,
what is the difference?
Falling apart, together.
But some will not.
So we go,
falling apart before those better than us.
As a bluff,
I call each the same;
Bluff, bluff, bluff...
cuz you're all too scared.
-------------------------------------------------------
ok: early morning now;
were cigarettes once a scandal?
And obviously nothing is my scandal
except those reported to me
by screaming fire and let blood,
by easy trips to the morgue or
a quest for a "Plan B" pill;
I offer not much;
my hands are spread and I am nailed so often.
But look!
How handsome!
In his coffin,
now sobbing, yes,
a fine tune with which to sing the mess;
whose tomb I borrow is ne'er; I's fancy,
but pharaoh's skin put cat aside,
never, doth he wish
w'in death reside.
Rather let him be a noodle,
or at very least a string unfound;
purposeless without a neck,
oft doth his cries fell days,
a satan's laff 'tween sultan's sleep.
Go to bed, our ringing numbers,
and let all once taught resound with slumber.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I love that I
write scritching verse
in free-hand something balanced vicious
and all eyes seek only the worst
punk among the glooming
Bitches bitches bitches
-------------------------------------------------------
How often I end up at The Flea, alone with notepad. Come for the free wifi, stay for the crippling addiction. Don't bring it home with you. Leave demons at doorstep. "He's a worthless motherfucker," says a bearded old dude in coveralls.
-------------------------------------------------
Everyone is an apologist. Everyone has some stock in the future of the system. Trust no one. Death to those who wish for "better"... apparently
"We shall be allowed one tear an hour, hanging from some cave ceiling, stalactite tears." - Anais Nin, "Elena", Delta of Venus
1/7/15
bar notes:
Eavesdropping (accidentally) is painful. Balefully boring, all of it. Forced; listen to them perpetuate within the context of this their "first date". Terrible.
bar notes:
Now that I know better the relevant subject matter, "Delirium Tremens" is a most unfortunate and gross name for an alcoholic beverage.
bar notes:
This girl, woman, girl, once forced her tongue down my throat and up into my sinuses until my eyeballs threatened to pop from their sockets. Never trust a girl (woman) who spits. I don't care if this is perceived as some sort of patriarchal archaism. I just plain don't like it.
To be fair, if a man (boy) spit as much in front of me, I wouldn't trust him either.
1/8/15, 9:13 pm
(pipes froze in my netherworld bathroom, pipes burst in the cellar, flood and mud, all things blur and run and become shit in the end)
What a Castle of Shit I've built for and around myself. Little room for others' sympathy, not that they come in droves to offer me such, and besides I act disdainfully when they do, seeing falsely it as a sign of my own weakness.
I was wrong! I was, and am, wrong. What a Fortress of Shit I've built about myself! What vile treason I've borne kept even from myself, knowing these walls would crumble and agonizingly plodding on in willful ignorance. This is my fault! Everything, all, my fault!
The last warm water I know festers in a sink of scummed dishes, stained knives and rusting steel wool, rotting kale and sodden crumbs of bread uneaten.
And if I am scorned, or am evicted, or die, I will be scorned, evicted, and dead exactly as I am, as I have been deep backwards in a memory whose elasticity dries and weakens with each grinding hour.
Sheva
Catacylsm
gism
end
It was right THERE, and we lost it.
So close,
a mist 'pon waterfall's mawing jaw
gism
end
It was right THERE, and we lost it.
So close,
a mist 'pon waterfall's mawing jaw
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
silent car rides
His eyes sagging in their corners, he rubbed the back of his wrist across them and blinked into the smearing traffic lights. Silent car ride, she next to him, no music on the radio. He dreamed lazily about the silent car rides of his life, memories that came from that fount that tugged at the edge of pain and loneliness, the dull toothache of nostalgia and memory that he could not help but prod with the tip of his tongue. Silent car rides with angry parents on frost-bitten mornings, or with angry girlfriends on cool teenage autumn evenings, or he the angry one, strangling the steering wheel with one hand and massaging his grimace with the other. There were sounds within these silent car rides; the rustling and cracking of vinyl or leather jacket sleeves being bent by their silent wearers, a nauseating sound, or the exaggerated nasal exhalation with chainsmoking billow lungs. The turn signal was obnoxious, a smug metronome.
Sometime in the midst of all of these infuriating tactile memories, smells of the hollow past and its forgotten sins, he had driven into their driveway, and he sighed, the silent car ride finally over.
Sometime in the midst of all of these infuriating tactile memories, smells of the hollow past and its forgotten sins, he had driven into their driveway, and he sighed, the silent car ride finally over.
Monday, December 1, 2014
My Pyramid
It is the king's laughter, here and now,
it is the king's holy gizzards by which I clamber
so clumsy and so loudly mute,
stumbling upon feet of miles of sentence;
the last mile
the HOLY mile.
I miss my challengers,
I miss the dust between us
of which we are too busy to speak.
And so I wait,
wait wait
with darkened pencil and sharpened room
and capture all of the deep fates
with looms a-spinnin' and wrapped
to beg some grace to come lurching to my bedside.
Naught else to do;
wrapped in papyrus,
brain ajar,
heart preserved.
Ah, my pyramid, my unfair,
my long journey to be unhurt and unafraid
ends here,
and I am left
October sometime, 2014
it is the king's holy gizzards by which I clamber
so clumsy and so loudly mute,
stumbling upon feet of miles of sentence;
the last mile
the HOLY mile.
I miss my challengers,
I miss the dust between us
of which we are too busy to speak.
And so I wait,
wait wait
with darkened pencil and sharpened room
and capture all of the deep fates
with looms a-spinnin' and wrapped
to beg some grace to come lurching to my bedside.
Naught else to do;
wrapped in papyrus,
brain ajar,
heart preserved.
Ah, my pyramid, my unfair,
my long journey to be unhurt and unafraid
ends here,
and I am left
October sometime, 2014
bad vibes, last month or so
10/31/14, 7:30 am
If I were to be asked
to be lashed to the tracks
in the name of you and your eyes,
my hesitation would naught,
only welcoming knot
to be bound wrist and ankle to morning,
and sung through the night,
sung as bards sing their knights,
I who lay down my bone to stone,
hot blood splash cold steel,
I make known the deal
forever dreaming I die
in you and your eyes.
Verde, te quiero verde,
Te quiero en la noche verde
y la mañana ya verde,
y sí comprendo que estas palabras
son ya en los canciones
de los muertos.
------------------------------------------------------------
Halloween morning blows smokey blue, a gentle rapping of skeletons in all the gutters and leaves trickling down Campbell Avenue. No rest for the wicked, weary, nor Wiccan, and here me still nursing a bottle of red (red?) and all three; a vampiric thirst for blood and breastmilk moistens my lips and dries my throat. Imagine toads, trampled beneath hooves. Imagine dolphins and chimps, both dirty rapists, their skull-meat dripping from the end of my pirate's rapier. Imagine there's no Heaven. It's easy if you try. Certainly a Hell. Certainly more than sky above. John Lennon was an asshole and a wife-beater. George is the way-2-go.
Had I known this marker yet (ya) held such vitality, long would I have been abusing it, long would it have since ran dry! I mistook it another limp cock drained for my Dylan Thomas portraits yet here it goes a-scratchin' and a-bleedin' 'cross the fucking page. Dylan Thomas, I will draw you this morning!
[here I draw a terrible sketch of Dylan Thomas, and then proceed to spit wine all over it, purposely]
11/3/14, etc
Sooner or later, all luck runs out, and when you've been as fortuitous as I, have slipped by for thirty years generally unfazed and largely indignant, never wholly without a jangle in my pocket nor a teat in my mouth, that final fall from grace is a steep one, that straw-broken plummet bound to be screaming and bloody.
I remember leaving the bar, or so I tell myself, and I remember coming home, making it home I should say, in what felt like twenty long, cold minutes. But this is too easy, and not the case at all. There are at least three hours missing, and at a little past 4 K found me standing in her doorway, swaying. "Your room is beautiful," I apparently was able to mutter, and she bolted out of bed in time for me to crumple into her arms, my face a mess of blood and swollen flesh.
Sleep was blessedly without dreaming, and I awoke at 9:30 (by the grace of Daylight Savings) to make it to work only about eight minutes late. There were panicked calls to my mother the night before, K wondering if I should need an ambulance, she and my mother not understanding the full story, wondering if I had fallen or maybe beaten the shit out of myself, but the knuckles on my right hand are swollen, and the tell-tale marks of where someone else's teeth broke my skin riddle the back of my hand in a soft semicircle.
But none of this occurred to me while walking to work, and I did not remember speaking to my mother, certainly did not remember her telling me to "Fuck off", believing as she did that it was but the latest Fuck-Up in a long series of Fuck-Ups from her eldest and prodigal son. Instead, I am distracted, you could say, by my left eye swollen completely shut, by the purple bruises turning both temples into a Quasimodo brow, the long deep scrape from right eye to right ear that was surely my head hitting and then dragging across rough sidewalks, the blood matting my eyelashes like goth makeup, the blood oozing in my mouth where the inside of my lip broke against sharp teeth.
Sharp teeth, I am nothing but sharp teeth, a golem of sharp teeth. The world owes me a living, doo-doodle-doo-doodle-doo. I've learned nothing. Fuck this.
_-_-_--------_-___-__-_-_-__-_-_-_-_-------_----_-_-_---___-_-___-_-__-
Went for one of my evening walks, face swollen and discolored, found myself staring at a beer-and-a-shot on the cool patio of a local alcholic's haunt. Got beef jerky, pack o' smokes, my trusty notepad and trusted pen, and a crippling affliction with motherfucking devil-ass cunt-mouth alcohol. Help?
Haven't really eaten in two days; my mouth hurts too bad. This beef jerky ("Sweet n Hot") is a godsend, sweet protein and sodium.
My bones move by the grace of grudge and guilt alone. It's a lonely way to be. Someday, I'll be rid of both. Not today.
And now I can control my phone without touching the touch-screen. Am I psychic, telekinetic? Am I dead, a ghost? Can ghosts operate Android smartphones?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I don't know much,
but I know the sound
of bone knocking bone,
chiming wooden in the breathless wind.
I am routinely surprised and impressed
with the strides I take upon this stale earth,
at the path of fire behind me
which explains with great shudderings my guilt,
which does nothing to assuage fears,
which bolsters my inability to admit defeat.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-
Goat's breast,
who says?
Cock-cup,
a chalice
to suck,
stroke vein
with
tender tip
and
tooth'd lip
--------------_____________-------------------____________---
Dream about Nyquil.
Dream about storage,
dream about chortling
with chunks of spent amoeba
running our assholes ragged
on some alien planet
costa rica
Dream you are who she wants you to be
for once be
who she wants you to be.
(He, shaking hand, extinguishes another cigarette and laments the evening's follies)
"This is horseshit.
I want to go to bed, early rise, impress my benefactors
and nullify my contrarians.
I, myself, am not a contrarian.
Yes I am, of course I am,
no I am not."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''_______________________----------
He took one final drag from his cigarette,
and proceeded to slip backwards upon his heels.
The wife had dripped butter on the floor earlier
and had neglected to give much of a rat's ass
when it came to mopping it up, the greasy spot.
He had meant to quit, that day, finally quit smoking.
Walking to the bank, he had his second-to-last.
Upon arriving home that gently late afternoon,
he had his last, and enjoyed it.
If I were to be asked
to be lashed to the tracks
in the name of you and your eyes,
my hesitation would naught,
only welcoming knot
to be bound wrist and ankle to morning,
and sung through the night,
sung as bards sing their knights,
I who lay down my bone to stone,
hot blood splash cold steel,
I make known the deal
forever dreaming I die
in you and your eyes.
Verde, te quiero verde,
Te quiero en la noche verde
y la mañana ya verde,
y sí comprendo que estas palabras
son ya en los canciones
de los muertos.
------------------------------------------------------------
Halloween morning blows smokey blue, a gentle rapping of skeletons in all the gutters and leaves trickling down Campbell Avenue. No rest for the wicked, weary, nor Wiccan, and here me still nursing a bottle of red (red?) and all three; a vampiric thirst for blood and breastmilk moistens my lips and dries my throat. Imagine toads, trampled beneath hooves. Imagine dolphins and chimps, both dirty rapists, their skull-meat dripping from the end of my pirate's rapier. Imagine there's no Heaven. It's easy if you try. Certainly a Hell. Certainly more than sky above. John Lennon was an asshole and a wife-beater. George is the way-2-go.
Had I known this marker yet (ya) held such vitality, long would I have been abusing it, long would it have since ran dry! I mistook it another limp cock drained for my Dylan Thomas portraits yet here it goes a-scratchin' and a-bleedin' 'cross the fucking page. Dylan Thomas, I will draw you this morning!
[here I draw a terrible sketch of Dylan Thomas, and then proceed to spit wine all over it, purposely]
11/3/14, etc
Sooner or later, all luck runs out, and when you've been as fortuitous as I, have slipped by for thirty years generally unfazed and largely indignant, never wholly without a jangle in my pocket nor a teat in my mouth, that final fall from grace is a steep one, that straw-broken plummet bound to be screaming and bloody.
I remember leaving the bar, or so I tell myself, and I remember coming home, making it home I should say, in what felt like twenty long, cold minutes. But this is too easy, and not the case at all. There are at least three hours missing, and at a little past 4 K found me standing in her doorway, swaying. "Your room is beautiful," I apparently was able to mutter, and she bolted out of bed in time for me to crumple into her arms, my face a mess of blood and swollen flesh.
Sleep was blessedly without dreaming, and I awoke at 9:30 (by the grace of Daylight Savings) to make it to work only about eight minutes late. There were panicked calls to my mother the night before, K wondering if I should need an ambulance, she and my mother not understanding the full story, wondering if I had fallen or maybe beaten the shit out of myself, but the knuckles on my right hand are swollen, and the tell-tale marks of where someone else's teeth broke my skin riddle the back of my hand in a soft semicircle.
But none of this occurred to me while walking to work, and I did not remember speaking to my mother, certainly did not remember her telling me to "Fuck off", believing as she did that it was but the latest Fuck-Up in a long series of Fuck-Ups from her eldest and prodigal son. Instead, I am distracted, you could say, by my left eye swollen completely shut, by the purple bruises turning both temples into a Quasimodo brow, the long deep scrape from right eye to right ear that was surely my head hitting and then dragging across rough sidewalks, the blood matting my eyelashes like goth makeup, the blood oozing in my mouth where the inside of my lip broke against sharp teeth.
Sharp teeth, I am nothing but sharp teeth, a golem of sharp teeth. The world owes me a living, doo-doodle-doo-doodle-doo. I've learned nothing. Fuck this.
_-_-_--------_-___-__-_-_-__-_-_-_-_-------_----_-_-_---___-_-___-_-__-
Went for one of my evening walks, face swollen and discolored, found myself staring at a beer-and-a-shot on the cool patio of a local alcholic's haunt. Got beef jerky, pack o' smokes, my trusty notepad and trusted pen, and a crippling affliction with motherfucking devil-ass cunt-mouth alcohol. Help?
Haven't really eaten in two days; my mouth hurts too bad. This beef jerky ("Sweet n Hot") is a godsend, sweet protein and sodium.
My bones move by the grace of grudge and guilt alone. It's a lonely way to be. Someday, I'll be rid of both. Not today.
And now I can control my phone without touching the touch-screen. Am I psychic, telekinetic? Am I dead, a ghost? Can ghosts operate Android smartphones?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I don't know much,
but I know the sound
of bone knocking bone,
chiming wooden in the breathless wind.
I am routinely surprised and impressed
with the strides I take upon this stale earth,
at the path of fire behind me
which explains with great shudderings my guilt,
which does nothing to assuage fears,
which bolsters my inability to admit defeat.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-
Goat's breast,
who says?
Cock-cup,
a chalice
to suck,
stroke vein
with
tender tip
and
tooth'd lip
--------------_____________-------------------____________---
Dream about Nyquil.
Dream about storage,
dream about chortling
with chunks of spent amoeba
running our assholes ragged
on some alien planet
costa rica
Dream you are who she wants you to be
for once be
who she wants you to be.
(He, shaking hand, extinguishes another cigarette and laments the evening's follies)
"This is horseshit.
I want to go to bed, early rise, impress my benefactors
and nullify my contrarians.
I, myself, am not a contrarian.
Yes I am, of course I am,
no I am not."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''_______________________----------
He took one final drag from his cigarette,
and proceeded to slip backwards upon his heels.
The wife had dripped butter on the floor earlier
and had neglected to give much of a rat's ass
when it came to mopping it up, the greasy spot.
He had meant to quit, that day, finally quit smoking.
Walking to the bank, he had his second-to-last.
Upon arriving home that gently late afternoon,
he had his last, and enjoyed it.
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