Friday, August 31, 2012

Untitled 8/31/12





"Black."

When your tongue is uttering syllables,
Which form convoluted sentences
Describing the both of us,
I am focused on whatever 
Image is on the TV screen.
I'm not really paying attention
But it's a good cover when imagining
A murder/suicide.

"White."

Slinking lower.
Spine crooked.
I am a victim
Responsible for the ulcers
Leaking blood on the floor
Of my stomach.
You are the catalyst
Erasing my chapped mouth 
With perfunctory statements.
I will never talk about myself because 
It's narcissistic.
I will never tell you anything about myself
Because you're not my biographer.
And never will be.


"Grey."

In the lull in between a smile and a frown,
I see a B-17 flying behind the backs of our eyes
Dropping bombs on strategic Nazi war factories
Located in our frontal lobes.
Avoiding flak.
Absorbing bullets from the Luftwaffe fighters.
Painted metal encrusted in flames falling from the sky 
Down the hole in your throat.
The resonance of self-defence
Is lost somewhere
In the acquiescence 
Between my mind 
And vocal cords.


Monday, August 27, 2012

Ideas for New Spaces to Introduce in "The Game of Life"

Cheated on your wife/husband when you were fucked up with a stranger who wasn't really that attractive and now you have herpes. Miss your next three turns.

Uh oh, rehab. Miss your next six turns because you're a fucking drug addict.

Killed yourself by stabbing your heart repeatedly with a steak knife you got from the kitchen. You lose, so put your pieces away, and leave the room.

A major car accident caused by a drunk driver, and now your kid is a vegetable. Lose 90,000 dollars every turn for the rest of the game.

Joined a gang, shot someone in the face during an attempted armed robbery, got arrested after popping a few rounds off at the cops, and have to do fifty years in the state pen. Wait until everyone finishes the game, then you can start playing again, except you can't make over 40,000 dollars.

Oh no, you've been laid off. Lose job and salary. Collect unemployment of 5,000 dollars on each turn until you can find another.

Heart attack! And diabetes due to a fast food diet. Pay 120,000 dollars every five turns. Collect 200,000 dollars on this turn  from impending lawsuit against a burger chain.








Saturday, August 18, 2012

Bildungsroman



The Human body can perform extraordinary feats under dire circumstances. Some people have fallen out of planes from ten thousand feet in the air. Fallen at 9.8 meters per second squared. Reaching terminal velocity before hitting the ground. Bodies bouncing off the earth from the force of the impact. Still alive, heart beating, they come out of the fall with only minor cuts and bruises, and maybe a broken bone or two. Most humans who have fallen out of a plane die during the landing.


Some people, after being trapped, have flipped two ton boulders or heavy pieces of machinery over their heads, and off their bodies.  Muscles, joints, nerves, and synapses, under the influence of adrenaline, precisely synchronizing for milliseconds; never attaining nirvana again. Energy is efficiently spent, but it’s painful. Extremely fucking painful. Legs and fingers splayed and immobile, embedded in patches of sand or dirt. Overused, and worthless. Missing, but not trapped. The lull in between failures.  A portion of these survivors were discovered, life-flighted to a hospital, and nursed back to health. The other portion of survivors are never discovered and die from such an exhibition of power. Emaciated skeletons tanned. Epidermic leather hugging bone, forcing parched lips and mouths into the shapes of shit-eating smiles. They are going nowhere, and will never learn from their past mistakes, which is the root cause of why they are here in the first place.   

Let's Get Something to Eat Because I'm Still Hungover From the Argument We Had Last Night (Food Chain)

I am sharpening my teeth with the file on my Swiss army knife in the corner of our bedroom.

You are in the bathroom fixing your hair, and staring into the mirror. All frowns.

Teeth transforming into daggers. Hungry.

Waiting to drop you after one bite. 

Lacerating your wrinkle face, my stomach will digest your scrunched nose, and pursed lips before it disembowels itself.

Gutted.

The void will become a black hole, which will dine on our atoms as our bodies slip past the event horizon, and become long strung out streaks of color fossilized in time.

I will annihilate the earth unintentionally because I am irresponsible.

I will annihilate the earth unintentionally because your smile was concealing weapons of mass destruction.

Everything will dissolve into a single, solitary point, which will never be seen again because even light can't escape it.

The next few weeks are going to be interesting, but I'm not excited because 

I'd rather be sleeping.



Sunday, August 12, 2012

The Fencing Response

A missing mouth.
Missing momentum.
A phantom frontal lobe.
Cracked teeth.
Exposed nerves,
Dangling loosely,
Bathing in blood,
Spurting out of
An open gash
On my tongue. 
"I bit it on the way down."
"You were out before then."
She said.
Elbow to the jaw
Brain matter crashing into skull
The SMACK transmitted through 
Sound waves bouncing off the
Garage walls and neighboring houses.
Blood.
Twisted pupils and irises.
Bulbs of orange light suspended
In air.
The fall.
Pavement.
Another SMACK.
More blood.
Pooling.
Forming a puddle
In a depression on the driveway.
Resembling chocolate syrup mixed
With tar from a collapsed lung.
Unconscious.
Breathing.
Spine tense,
Before gradually slipping
Into a supine position.
Sensory receptors congealed with stress.
Arms stiff,
Rising towards the sky,
Unnaturally.
Inert from the forearm shiver.
"I'm sorry, it was an accident." 
She said.
I shrugged my shoulders,
"Don't worry, I can't remember what happened anyway."
She turned away
In the direction of the orange glow
Emanating from the street lights,
Igniting the end of a cigarette with a plastic torch.
Smoke dispersing into the hot, languid air.
"Someone got a video of it on their phone,
And posted it online. It has over 15,000 views already."
"Fuck." I said
Before curling into the fetal position
And resting my head in the center her lap. 
Her delicate fingers were skimming 
Through strands of hair.
Massaging the scalp in circular motions,
My arms went up; 
I pretended to be unconscious.


Wednesday, August 8, 2012

"Duuuuddde, she's so hot." "Like the hottest fucking girl in the valley!"

When I am at work or a party or out with friends and someone attractive walks by and/or chats with us for five minutes and walks away, I can guarantee that a friend or coworker or random person who I'm next to will blurt out the statement, "Yo, she's so fucking hot! I would love to be up inside of that. Tappin that ass." as he/she points down at his/her sexual organ and humps the air. Or something similar to that. Then he/she will turn to me, and ask me, "Duuuuuudddde, like isn't she like the hottest fucking girl in the valley?" I think an outside party is required to confirm this fact for the local historian in order for him/her to record and preserve in the file cabinet of county records for future generations to enjoy.

Usually, I will nod my head in agreement like an intellectual attending a lecture, which he/she does not understand, and will never comprehend. Or I will just walk away, because questions or compliments using the word, "hot" to describe someone who is physically beautiful are fucking stupid. They also make the speaker look fucking stupid. Which means that the person who was humping the air a few minutes ago is a fucking liar. Because he/she is never going to get laid. Because he/she will never walk up to the hottest girl in the valley, and say, "You are the hottest girl in the valley!" Which is why they are talking to me about it in a secluded corner or on a lonely bench or in the next room, outside her earshot.

FUCK THAT SHIT! 


Here are some synonyms for the word, "hot":

Seductive
Addictive
Voluptuous
Ravishing
Poisonous
Potent
Symmetrical
Attractive
Stunning
Picturesque
Magnificent
Enlightening
Heavenly
Radiant
Comely
Sublime
Alluring
Exquisite
Cute
Ideal
Intoxicating
Fascinating
Astonishing
Breathtaking 
Pretty
Viral
Wondrous
Beautiful



Feel free to add more.





Monday, August 6, 2012

Hi, I'm Not Happy and I Don't Know if This is Going to Work Out (Wilkes Barre: July 2012)

No fun.

Every night,
The same texts 
Promising a good time
Are sent 
Into an outdated object  
With wires, plastic, 
A one megapixel camera,
And a SIM card.
It feels more like a guilt trip.

Every night.

I respond 
Enthusiastically
Using general statements, like:
"Word," 
"That sounds awesome," 
"Oh," 
"Yeah def,"
"Uh oh,"
"Ok,"
Or  "Can't wait to see you in 15."
But I can wait,
Which is why I am about take a shower
And procrastinate through the whole process.
Forgetting cell phones exist.
Forgetting the outside world.

No fun.

You should be here 
Cleaning the film of dissatisfaction
Off both of our skins.
Faces frowning under the shower head 
In the streams of placid water.
Breathing in steam.
This tub is too small
for the both of us to take a bath
Together. 
Standing.
In close proximity.
I'm probably going to get hard,
Look down, look at you, and look down again
Skin stretching.
Distorting emotions.
Fuck.
Embarrassed, because I wasn't even thinking about sex;
I was thinking of a scene from this tv show
Where this puppet ape gets pulled over for a DUI
And tries to get out of the ticket 
By pointing out that fleshies started every war in the world.
It made so much sense.
Not the hard-on.
Or your reaction to it
Because none of this is even really happening.
I'm a compulsive liar.

Every night.

Someone should cauterize my mouth 
With a superheated belt buckle in the shape of an eagle
In mid screech.
Beak open.
All talons and wings.

No Fun.

Someone should unplug the ethernet cord 
From the backs of our eyes so 
our minds' wouldn't have to process as much information.
We can finally disconnect.

Every night.

Someone should break my legs against the bed post with a sledgehammer so I don't have to worry if my yellow t-shirt will match my black cut-off shorts.

No fun. Every night.
Every night. No fun.

"How was your past month?"

"It was rough, man."