new year's kiss 2014

alone in my bathroom,
cumming into the toilet an hour before the ball drops,
i wipe the tip of my dick off with a piece of toilet paper,
and flush after i am finished.

i fill up the bath tub,
smoke a g-bong,
remove my tongue by pulling it
out of my mouth with my fingers,
and hang it on the towel rack next to the tub
just like an old lady taking out her dentures
before bed.

i won't need it tonight.

there is no one to talk to.
there is no one to kiss.
there is no one to sleepover, and play video games with.

tonight:
people are busy.
people are doing things.
going out to parties,
going out to bars,
spending time with family/friends/lovers,
people are grown up.
getting drunk,
chewing gum,
sucking on breath mints,
counting,
making out with strangers,
making out with boy/girlfriends,
dancing,
screaming,
peeing their pants,
laughing,
grinding,
snuggling,
vomiting,
bonding,
confident,
brave,
hopeful,
having fun.

i shut my cell phone off.

i'm taking a bath,
and watching cartoons on my laptop.

bringing in the new year nude.

i will put my tongue back into place tomorrow.

submerged under the water,
my body looks like a sunken battle ship
covered in coral
resting in the sand on the sea floor.

earlier tonight,
when i was sitting on the toilet,
i used my imagination to get off
instead of looking at porn.

little red riding hood meets the big bad wolf's dick

then gets pregnant, eaten alive, and slices her way out of the big bad wolf's stomach with a pocket knife, before cutting his balls off.

the big bad wolf bleeds out and dies on the wooden cottage floor.

little red riding hood aborts the half wolf, half human hybrids, and everyone lives happily ever after, except for little red riding hood who is traumatized by the whole experience, and becomes an alcoholic pill popper who works as a part time cashier at the local grocery store during the day, and as a call girl for pale businessmen in dry cleaned suits at night.

the end.

i can't answer your question honestly with a yes or no answer.

i don't know where to put next year
or the year after that.
or the year after that
or the year after that.

i don't know where to put the soil, wildflowers, worms, and multicolored leaves.

i don't know where to put all the unfinished projects, and ideas.

i don't know where to put my daydreams of what i think would make me happy.

i don't know where to put my lack of trying.

i don't know where to put the guilt.

i don't know where to put the friends that i will lose,
or the friends i've already lost,
or the people i have forgotten
or pissed off
or hurt
or made upset.

i don't know where to put the bad parts of me.

i don't know where to put the tears i have shed and collected in a mason jar.

i don't know where to put the nervous breakdowns, and suicidal thoughts.

i don't know where to put my childhood toys— rubber lizards, a broken gameboy, pogs, legos, uno cards, board games, and marbles.

i don't know where to put my baby teeth
or the weight i'm losing.

i don't know where to put the songs that have been stuck in my head.

i don't know where to put all of the old letters from people who said, "i love you."
or the late night long distance phone calls.

i don't know where to put my heart if it is still beating.

i dont know where to put the unspoken words i will never say.

i don't know.

my closet and bedroom drawers are already filled from the last time i cleaned my room.

trying to be attractive.

licking black dope snot off my upper lip,
and flashing yellow teeth and bloody gums.

yeah, i've never been in a long term relationship,
but you can marry me if you want
then chop me into pieces with a hatchet later.

i've got nothing better to do anyway.

homemade remedy for headaches.

sticking a string up my nostril and tying it around my brain, then attaching the other end to a car bumper, the car drives off, my brain pops out, and bounces off the road as it is dragged until there is nothing left.

this is my come up.

opprotunities

i'm not looking to open doors, just slamming them shut with my free hand in the way, breaking fingers.

i will send you a picture.

hands looking like blue, purple, and green pieces of coral that are snapped, oozing blood.

you can put it on your desk at work.

or set it as the wallpaper on your phone.

the teddy bears we were given at our birth won't save us from the inevitable

so it goes,
i'm filling up a styrofoam cup
with brown snowmelt and debris,
and slamming it down.
sure i'm poor and thirsty,
but there is no reason behind this.
trying to construct a life
for us
made out of ice in
a sub artic climate
and watching it fracture and crack.
nothing is permanent
is a sure way to
DEATH.
i haven't seen sunlight
in weeks
except for video recordings on
television.
spinning around in the dark
seeing flashes of light,
dizzy,
throwing up in the toilet,
this is how i've chosen to spend
my time:
peeling skin off my fingers
alone in a room
locked in my head.
sorry,
but i can't let myself off
that easy
because destroying something can be fun
beautiful, and terrifying
all at once.
because i'm not a good person,
and people's lives are happier
when i'm not included in them.
not compatible,
out of date,
and smelling like four week old
laundry covered in stains.
bind my wrist
with a spaghetti covered t-shirt.
then lick my cheek
to get the taste
of blight.
swirl it around your mouth,
and spit it down the drain.
i can talk for hours
about random shit
that isn't important.
i can glue cigarette butts
to my lips so any offensive words
are filtered out into
old fast food bags
with moldy hamburger buns
and cold fries.
there will be nothing left to interpret.
there will be nothing left to say,
except,
"hi, how are you?
that's good.
im fine.
im okay.
that's cool.
oh really?
wow.
uh oh.
what are you doing?
word.
hahaha.
i understand."
no you fucking don't.
fluently thinking
before speaking
is what we call a
conversation.
DEATH.
this is supposed to be natural?
normal?
snapping wires
that connect
something to something,
someone to someone,
by clenching my jaws.
i haven't eaten
or brushed my teeth all day.
i plan to kill every flower
in your house
by breathing on it.
i plan to make you
submit by breathing
bad breath into your face.
i plan to make you submit by swapping spit
with a radioactive tongue.
side effects may include
nausea, shortness of breath,
loss of limbs, wrinkles,
an erection lasting longer than sixteen hours,
infection of vital organs,
suicidal thoughts,
cancer,
DEATH.
DEATH.
DEATH.
DEATH.
DEATH.
DEATH.

the way it always works out

there is
always
a space
between
you
and
me.

imagining yourself dissolving like sugar in a bath tub

alone, and isolated
in your bedroom.
on your knees
with your forehead
pressed against
the white drywall
listening for sounds
and noises coming
from something
or someone
that's alive.
staining that spot
yellow
with your sweat,
tears, apathy, and patience.
this is as close as you come
to prayer.
you want someone
to save you from
yourself.
you want to save
yourself from yourself,
but can't.
you listen,
and only hear
unspoken words mixed
with silence.
your computer and cellphone
died
a long time ago.

when i wake up

two miniature women
scale my face,
and sit next to the corners of my eyes
resting their backs on the bridge
of my nose.
each one takes out a crowbar.
they pry
each eye out
to donate to
a blind five year old boy
who wants to be able
to see his mom, his dad,
his friends, the color green,
the world around him.
they want him to be happy.
the miniature women 
replace my eyes
with glass ones.
like changing
an burnt out 
light bulbs.
when they finish,
they pull out sledgehammers
and smack them against
the glass pupils until
they shatter.
i blink.
embedded glass shard teeth
forming two small mouths
ready to consume anything
that's in front of me.
there is nothing in front of me.
the two miniature women
hop off my face.
they don't leave yet.
they want to observe.
i'm crying blood.
two warm salty 
red streams.
my hands lead me to the tub,
i fill it up,
slip into the hot water,
and do nothing.
nothing to do.
nothing to say.
nothing to consume.
nothing in front of me.
no where to go.
nothing to look forward to,
which was the case before 
i lost my eyes—
tomorrow never has had anything to offer.
hopeless.
miserable.
frustrating.
a waste of time.
and boring.
the two miniature women leave,
on their way to 
the blind five year old boy's house,
wiping tears out of the corners of their eyes
with the back of their hands,
not regretting their decision.
i wish i could tell them,
"i'm sorry for being a disappointment
i'm sorry for being a bad person."
in the end,
i want that little boy to be
happy.

"Wouldn't it be nice to get away?"

good moments are easy to forget sometimes

my coworker ria encouraged me to write some smut. 

"like sex. like write something that will turn people off and get them off. mv, i know you have it in you to write something like that." 

she told me about how earlier this week her son referred to his balls as "those brainy things down there," after he was describing his doctor visit to his older sisters. 
we laughed and had a full conversation about how balls, should from now be called and referred to as brainy things, "because they do kind of look like brains," and kept shouting "brainy things" back and forth to each other while cutting meat and cheese for customers.

then she told me my deli manager always says, "a dildo never asks, 'is it okay to stop?'"

i described to her what going into the projects is like. and told her that im going to be going away.

she then told me how much she and other people love me:

"like that elderly couple who i just waited on. they were seeing if you were here. but you weren't yet. then you showed up and their faces lit up. and they started asking how you were, and how you're a good kid, and to take care. then that other guy comes up and tells you how you're such a nice kid, cuts his meat perfect, then you asked about his wife and how she is doing. people love you mv."

right after, a guy walked up to the counter.

"hey dude how are you doing? i haven't seen you in awhile. you've been doing okay?"

i told him, "i'm surviving. and alive. what about yourself?"

he smiled, which made his beard move and said, "the same. at least trying to."

i handed him his pound of american cheese, "it was good seeing you, have a nice night."

"you to man. hang in there. and take care."

he walked away.

ria pointed at him as he walked away, looked at me and said, "see. people do care. there is hope."

i said, "yeah, it's just easy to forget sometimes."

then we proceeded to talk about dicks.

and how she doesn't like huge dicks. "like they're not all that they are cracked up to be. shit's intimidating. do you got a big dick?"

"7 and a quarter."

"not bad. but you might be too big for me. hahaha."

i snapped my fingers, and said "aww shit." then laughed, thought of a sam pink reading on youtube, and sang "big dick hustlers. we're fucking awesome." 

i pointed at her, then myself, and laughed some more. but felt kind of shitty because we know there won't be many shifts like this left because she's getting transferred to the duryea store, and i'm going to be put away. "don't worry mv. you gotta stop thinking. and just do it. i know you can do it, you can get through this. i'll miss you. but remember write me and other people something that will turn them on. just try out that sex shit, and make it hot and raunchy!"

"oh baby! i will try. but i suck at sex in real life, so i'll have to pretend. i'll mention people getting wet and big dick shit. haha. thanks. i'm going to miss you a lot too."

it's moments like this is wish i could save, and crawl back into when bad things happen, until they pass. because good moments are easy to forget sometimes.

Another Failure At Trying To Help Someone Out In Life.

I was smoking a cheap cigarette outside of work next to all the shopping carts, at nine o'clock.

The front end manager, Joyce, who has short, you know it's dyed brown hair, and is considered a bitch by all of the cashiers but likes me for some reason, walked outside, lit up a cheap cigarette, scanned the almost empty parking lot, then looked at me.

"Mv, is that my truck?"

There was a white, beat up, late 90's Ford pickup truck with a dented quarter panel in the corner of the parking lot next to the entrance with its lights on and engine running.

I knew she drove a pick up truck, but never paid attention to the color, make, or what it even looked like.

We have been working together now for two years.

I took a drag from my almost finished cig.

"Maybe, I mean it could be your pick up truck, but I'm not really sure."

Smoke coming out of my mouth along with the words.

She looked puzzled. Face scrunching up creating more wrinkles. Eyes confused. Upper body wrapped in a bright pink zip up hoodie with white flowers that a twelve year old would wear.

She hacked up a cough on her next exhale, and look at me again.

"When the hell did my truck get here?"

I snubbed out my cig. I didn't have an answer.

"I don't know. Really wasn't paying attention. It could have just pulled in. Or maybe it was here for like five-ten minutes, maybe longer. I don't know. I'm sorry."

I snubbed out my cig and started to walk back inside towards the deli, while she put her bright pink hood up, hands in pockets, with the her cig dangling out of the corner of her mouth as she made her way to the truck in question.

We didn't say good-bye. And I was back in the deli before either of us knew the answer.

I didn't see her for the rest of the night. Or the truck.

I never have any answers.

Holiday Shopping

Don't Create.

Just Buy.

Thank You Benjamin James Spurlock For Actually Giving Me Good Advice That I Think Is Going To Save My Life And Keep This Blog Going. Shout Outs Also to Jay, Eli, Elizabeth, Shannon, My Mom, My Aunt, And Lone Coug (All of You Are The Only True Friends Left In My Life.)

"Some people are just fucking crazy. I know you're going to say so are you and so is everyone, but I mean, some people are actually really fucking crazy, and pretend like they have their shit together because they think they are content or normal now because of the prescribed drugs their on or because they have made a change in their life or have never done anything wrong. That's bullshit, because no one has their shit together, and from what I can tell they are just as fucked up, if not more fucked up than you, because at least you acknowledge your issues and take responsibility, instead of blaming everyone else, or just being that narcissistic by believing that they have no problems or that the fucked up shit they do isn't a problem at all. I know your empathetic but sometimes people are just actually FUCKED UP."

"Fuck'em."

"Fuck'em."

"Fuck'em."

"Fuck'em."

"Fuck'em."

The hardest part is seeing/listening/experiencing the positive qualities of these people. And even through all this shit, I still enjoy their company and miss not being able to talk with them. Because deep down I'm scared to lose anymore friends. Deep Down, I'm scared to be alone.

The First Positive Step Towards Improving My Life

I pierce my tongue with a red hot nail, install a rusty padlock through the hole, then swallow the key; it's weight will prevent any true thoughts, and misinterpreted words from escaping, and imprison all of my secrets.

The lack of movement leads to bedsores and paralysis.

The lack of cleanliness leads to infection.

The infection leads to death.

Rigamortis.

Muscles spasms held in check under that heavy metal weight: my last words won't make any sense.

My words never made any sense.

In high school, my fingertips started to form little mouths that have grown throughout the years, and became fully functional. which meant they are the next to go.

They don't deserve the luxury of a sharp kitchen knife, a meat slicer, saw, or even an ax.

I don't deserve that luxury; I deserve pain because it has been proven that I am a terrible person.

Which is why I'm walking out to my $700 Oldesmobile, opening the front door, placing one hand in the door jam and the other, cocked, on the outside of the door.

Slam! Slam! Slam!

Then walk around the car and repeat the same process in the passenger side door with the opposite hands.

Slam! Slam! Slam!

"FUCK!!!" is the only thought I have until I look down at the mutilated digits that are cracked and splintered (bones sticking out of lacerations in the skin, pointing in all different directions, smashed fingernails, snapped joints, blown out knuckles, blood, tiny missing teeth scattered across the driveway, and  miniature broken jaws.)

Never able to speak again.

Never able to text, email, blog, or instant message.

Never able to unintentionally ruined someone's night again.

Never able to insult anyone without even realizing it.

Never able to be kind and empathetic towards anyone ever again.

Never able to wear an engagement ring or friendship bracelet.

From now on, all I can do is listen, and give yes or no answers with a nod or a shake of the head.

From now on, everyone who come into contact with me has the opportunity to be happy.

It's all for the best.

Positive Thinking 2013

Not A Good Person.

I have the ability to make someone upset when I say, "have a good day," and mean it.

Convienent

At work, the razorblades are across from the pens, paper, spiral notebooks, and art supplies in aisle 12.

A Piece of Literature About Love

Someone told me, "Yo, Mv. We gettin' you some pussy tonight. There's these hot bitches comin' ova tonight to da crib. We hookin you up. WE GETTIN' YOU LAID! WE GETTIN' YOU SOME HOT ASS PUSSY! Y'all need it bro. You pick the bitch tonight. We'll make it happen. We got your back bro. We tight nigga."

Then came in and gave me a handshake, which turned into a hug, (but that someone would like me to clarify that it was "no homo, just a sign of respect.")

I wanted to say, "Thank you for the offer. I really appreciate you trying to get me some pussy, but I'm not really looking for that right now...no homo."

But instead nodded my head and said, "Yeah, totally. It's all about the pussy." then came in gave that someone a handshake and a hug (no homo.)

I stayed at da crib for another twenty minutes before I made up an excuse about my aunt needing help at the house with the laundry and dishes because she broke her foot the other week.

"Yeah man, shit sucks. Sorry maybe another night."

Someone says, "I feel you bro. HaHA, just means more PUSSY FO' US. AND HENNY! HAHA!" and smiled.

"You enjoy that. Peace dude"

"Later bro. I'll hit you up tomorrow."

We came in and gave each other a handshake, which turned into a shoulder bump, and then a hug, (for the last time, no homo.)    

Then I got into my car, drove home, and spent the night in my bedroom at my aunt's house alone, but not alone because I spent the rest of the night talking to someone else on the phone about all my failed sexual encounters, which was every sexual encounter. .

Walk A Day In My Underwear: Yellow, Blue, Mint Green Polka-Dot Cotton Disco Boyshorts (Underwear Series Project #1)

I want to run a marathon.

I want to dance on the top of my bed listening to Donna Summer alone in my room on Youtube. Or maybe with the boy I have a crush on. Ruining the folds on the bed with rhythmic steps, and chaotic choreography, while I swig glasses of white wine sprinkled with molly, and pull all the black heads out of the pores on my nose with nasal cleansing strips.

I want to jump off a cliff. Not because I'm suicidal, but because I want to learn how to fly. I mean, doesn't everyone? Not all of us have the time or the money to learn how to fly a plane at this point in our lives; most of us are just trying to get from point a to point b, and have fun while we are doing it (at least I know I am.)

This morning, after I got out of the shower, I looked at my ass in the mirror. The green elastic bands lifted it up and made it look plump in a good way, which brought a smile to my face because it made me feel attractive.

Now, at work, in the office, sitting in an gray swivel chair, I feel my butt deflating. I feel the pattern of the threads being etched into the skin on my cheeks.

One of the truck drivers pulls out a full pill bottle of Xanax and asks me if I want any.

"How much?"

He looks around then back down at me and whispers,

"A blowjob."

A smirk stretches across his face exposing yellowish green teeth, this morning's cigarette, and last night's beer.

He leans in, and the smells of what he has recently consumed become more prominent.

"Sorry don't take money."

I want to become a boxer, and learn how to make someone eat out of a straw for three months with a wicked left hook.

I look down and pick up a piece of paper on my desk that said, "138 Ridgewell Avenue" and hand it to him.

"No thank you. Here's the address for your next delivery."

His smirk transforms back into a straight line, as he shrugs his shoulders, pockets the pill bottle, takes the paper, and walks out the glass front door of the office.

At the end of the day, my boss, who's thirty years older than me, with dyed black hair puts his wedding ring on my shoulder and asks me if I want to go out to dinner, a movie, a drink, and then the hotel room this Friday night.

"No thank you, I got plans to bake some chocolate chip cookies with my mother, but here's that business memo from corporate that you wanted before I left."

"Oh....ummm, thank you."

He pauses and scratches the grey stubble on his chin. He realizes he forgot to shave this morning, but it doesn't matter.

"Well, hey, my friend's got this yacht and next weekend he's throwing a party, you know. Open bar. Great seafood. Wonderful people. The crème de la crème of the rock quarry industry will be there."

"Maybe. I'll have to see. But just to let you know, I'm a vegetarian."

"Well a 'maybe' is always better than a 'no.' I'm sure they'll have salad. Come on it'll be a good time."

I don't move or say anything. He scratches the stubble on his chin again. Maybe it's a nervous tick?

"Just keep me posted. Alright?"

"I'll let you know, but I gotta go to the restroom before I leave, excuse me."

He pinches my deflated ass as I walk by with his right thumb and index finger.

I look back at him over my shoulder, and see him staring at me with a shit-eating grin.

"Just let me know. You have my number. You know where to find me."

In the bathroom, I turn the faucet on cold and splash some water on my face, then wipe it off with a paper towel, and throw it in the trash can.

I look at myself in the mirror. I see myself in a hotel room, wrapping a hundred dollar bill and his wedding ring around a strap-on dildo, and depositing the valuables in my boss's colon without any lubrication, then having the truck driver suck my boss's ass juice off the tip of the dildo. Ass to mouth.

Looking in the mirror, I see that I have the potential to become a dick too; I choose not to.

When I got home, I take my dress off and prance around the house in my underwear listening to, "Brick House" by The Commodores, as I cook Kiwi tacos for dinner. He will never get to me. These men will never get to me. Because they are the toys, and I'm the human being. Because this is only temporary. In a couple of years, they will be alone on their death beds trying to pleasure themselves with wrinkled hands, but it's not working because they can't get it up without the assistance of pills and money. I'll be the one still dancing, but not alone. I'll be the one dancing with the boy who's sensuous fingertips massage the knots out of the notches in my spine, just because, just because, just because.

We both believe in true love.

"She's mighty mighty lettin it all hang out,"

Tonight, I am sexier, stronger, and more confident then I ever have been before.

Two weeks later, I handed in my resignation from the rock quarry.

Two years later, everything I just described to you came true.

This wound above my knuckle on my right index finger is infected and is leaking yellow/brown fluids.

Please pray that it get's worse.

I will try as hard as I can to make it worse.

Goin' Nowhere Fast

Yesterday at work while I was throwing empty cardboard boxes in the bailer, I noticed a giant mechanical spider with a broken left front leg, and an abdomen empty, opened, and exposed, missing two double D batteries, which made its whole body lifeless.

It was two days after Halloween, and plush snowmen, reindeer, and santas have already replaced its ass on the shelves.

Two days after Halloween, and its smiling sewn on mouth and plastic eyes are suffocating in trash.

Right then, I made a wish to anyone or anything.

I made a wish to switch places, to give the giant mechanical spider my life, so it could do something better with it than what I'm currently doing (nothing.) I want it to experience life after Halloween. To fall in love. Get a good paying job. Be attractive. Suave. Sophisticated. Have sex. Have children. Earn medals and plaques. Get handshakes from old men. You know, actually accomplish something, instead of dragging other people down.

After this week, after this month, after this year, getting thrown out and crushed by a trash compactor is something I can actually look forward to.

But nothing happened, because nothing ever happens; both of us were still stuck in the same shitty positions.

Crying and embarrassed.

I went to my car and did some drugs and smoked a cig to collect myself because I can't have my coworkers thinking that I'm crazy.

When I got back to the deli, my coworker Ria asked me, "Mv, what's wrong?"

I looked up at here with tears swelling on the edges of my eyelids and told her about another failed attempt at love, about the spider, about how I can't take it anymore, about the surge in drug use, and about the reality of what it feels like to lose my sanity.

She tilted her head, looked at me with her powder blue eyes and said, "Awwww, Mv it's going to be okay. But you can't lose yourself in your own thoughts, and in pills. You can't change people, or how the world is. I know it seems like every time you try and put yourself out there, you get shot down. But you gotta keep going."

I started to cry, and she leaned in, gave me a hug, and pressed my face against her shoulder.

"You know, if it was 15 years ago, and I didn't have kids and wasn't married, it would be deli love between you and me. I'm sorry things never seem to work out, but I know this girl at the Duryea store who works in the deli, who would be perfect for you. She's real skinny, cute, and likes books just like you. I wish I had her number so I could hook you guys up."

We broke our embrace.

"It's okay, I'm just too much trouble. Too much emotional baggage. No one is attracted to a crazy person."

"Mv, it's going to be okay. You're going to be okay. You working Wednesday?"

"Yeah."

"Cool. You like plants? Cause I got this plant I want to bring in and give you. It'll help take your mind off all this shit. You know? Give you something to do."

"Yeah that be great. Thank you. Sorry for acting this way. I'm just so fucked in the head."

She grabbed my shoulders.

"Mv, look at me, it's going to be okay. If you let it get to you it will. You just gotta let go. You just gotta move on."

Later that night, still dwelling on facts I can't change in my bedroom, I hear the sounds of the mechanical spider's body being crushed in the back of a garbage truck. Sitting next to the window, listening. Heartbroken. Still crying.

It got to me.

Looking At The Graves As You Drive Past A Cementary

You think: "Lucky."

You think: "It's only a matter of time."

You think: "Just another thing I want, but can't have."

You think about jumping into an empty, freshly dug hole, burying yourself, and putting a sign out in front of it, which says, "Sorry. Occupied."

Then you go home, feel like shit, and flush yourself down the toilet because you don't want to be a burdened to other people.

Malnourished

The only nourishment I wanted to consume was your love, and I know that will never happen.

The only thing to look forward to is starving to death.

I Have Stopped Wearing Seat Belts.

I have stopped wearing seat belts.

When I'm driving, I hope my tire explodes, or something important malfunctions as I'm going 70mph.

Turning my car into something that resembles a crushed aluminum can.

If I somehow survive, I will ask the paramedics and emergency crews to use the jaws of life to pry what's ever left of me open, so people can see how worthless I actually am.

A New Year's Resolution Two Months Early

I am going to hire a hitman to kill me by pushing me into a moving bus, or concealing razorblades in a cucumber I'm about to eat because I'm too much of a pussy to commit suicide.

Nothing makes sense.

Nothing is starting to look more enticing then living.

I can't cope with the confessions or arguments.

I can't cope with myself.

Self-Esteem nil. Fuck up. Loser. Terrrible. An asshole. Ruining everything important. Never understanding. Narcissistic. With a low I.Q.

I am giving up on hope.

This poem sucks; it's just another way for me to ruin 30 seconds of someone else's life with my own mental problems.

Please Sleep In With Me

Please sleep in with me.
Be okay with doing nothing.
I made some phone calls
And was able to get in touch
With some construction workers.
I spent the last of this week's paycheck.
I hired them to mend the cracks
In between both of our eyelids
With concrete
So the light of day
Doesn't enter our brains
And make both of us
Conscious.
I will plug your ears,
Half-awake,
So the scraping sounds
the trowels make
Smoothing the lumps
In the patchwork
Don't interrupt your dreams.
When they're finished,
They will leave.
When they're finished,
I will wrap my arms around you,
And you will wrap your arms around me.
Locking our fingers together
Will form a straitjacket
I never want to be let out of.
Instead of taking a bath,
We can lick the dirt and oil
Out of each other's pores
With our tongues.
This is not a sexual advance,
Just a chance to grow into
One another.
Listening to the lullabies
Of our exhaling breaths.
Please sleep in with me.
Please smash your snooze button
With a fist made out of hammers.
Warm blankets are wonderful,
But bodies are better.
Less itchy.
Less alone.
I wish two giant hands,
The hands of a seamstress,
The hands of our mothers,
Would descend from the sky
With a needle and thread,
And hem the miles separating us
Transforming the geography
Of North America,
Just so we could be closer together.
So we could listen to the whistles
Of the wind against the bedroom windows.
Because this blurry computer screen
Can never give an accurate depiction
Of what you actually look like.
Or of the teddy bear that covers
Your face in bed.
Please sleep in with me
Because I can't think of anything else
I'd rather do today.

Getting To Know Each Other Slowly And Casually Will Be The Best Thing For Both Of Us. (Maybe You Should Slow Down A Little More?)

Tonight before we talked, I laid on the driveway thinking about what you said and how it made sense because it was true.

Because I fucked it all up like my third grade self's art class projects: never doing enough or always doing too much.

Confused and not knowing what to do, which is something I am familiar with.

Wanting to weave the right words into a blanket keep you warm on a cold windy night in October without suffocating you in the process.

Before we talked I felt paranoid like I was going to disappear within the next week and because of that you wouldn't remember my face.

So I got up, bolted through a series of thorn bushes, and came back to my house.

I whispered poisoned seeds into my cuts, which were created in my brain by my own thoughts and the advice of others.

One by one, I watched them roll off my tongue and into a wound, until they were planted across my entire body.

I took a shower and watched the different weeds sprout through the skin and grow; it wasn't special.

My body became a living garden, which I harvested after drying off with a towel, and turned them into a bouquet, tied all together with a ribbon, that I was going to give to you as a gift.

When we talked, I realized all the plants were light brown, and withered.

I threw the bouquet in the garbage when you weren't looking.

Then mumbled, told you how much I loved your hair, and made you uncomfortable.

Unconsciously performing the actions you said you didn't want to see or hear, yet.

And hating myself for it because in those moments, I had the realization that I didn't deserve you; the proof was in the shit floating around my head.

You are a wonderful person who shouldn't be having to experience my temperature swings created by my mental problems.

You shouldn't have to come up with something to say afterwards.

For the rest of the conversation, I wanted to put the hood up on my sweatshirt and hide behind it, but instead showed you items I bought earlier in the day and went through a foot/shin cramp.

You said I needed to eat more and take some B12, even though, at this point, I don't think it would help.

You said you were tired, we hung up, then I saw indistinguishable objects with secret meanings floating around my bedroom, and got depressed thinking about outcomes, instead of processes.

I knew none of these objects were actually there, and it was just another case of my brain fucking up.

Misfiring.

After we talked, I spent the rest of the night chain smoking cigs, practicing my speech, nodding off, and getting in touch with my feminine side.

Hoping that would help since I was out of B12 and cereal.

I'm sorry.

Before I went to bed, I forgot to brush my teeth; I'm going to wake up tomorrow with bad breath and a dry mouth.

Homemade Books For Sale (Again)

I'm poor, and want to make it to Toronto. But I also want to start making books again for people if anyone wants to buy one.

Too tired to post all the details now, but will do so later today/tomorrow.

 here are some photos of a book made for Becca, called I Would Rather Spend My Night On the Phone With You Instead Of Hanging Out With Anyone Else.

Allergic to Latex (Too Faded)

Instead of having sex, we take turns throwing up mostly water and bile in the toilet in your bathroom, or listen to the comforting sounds of two cats fucking on the weatherstripped awning outside the window.

And then there was mostly self -loathing and silence until we passed out.

You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.

I am willing to have someone bash my skull in with condensed soup can in a parking lot. Then lean over my body. Open the can with a swiss army knife. Pour the soup into my skull, replacing the water with blood. And enjoy a healthy lunch at 4 in the morning.

No I will not like your photo.

No I will not be your friend.

The leeches and ticks already have latched onto you and have gorged themselves fat.

Enlarged.

Beware of plastic bags. I have been collecting different sizes and shapes, for any type of occasion.

So whenever you turn your back, you’re fucked.

Gasp for air all you want; it won’t help.

Because I hired the someone and fed him.

And don’t worry, when you look over at me I’ll be in the same position

Eyes open spoon sticking out the back of an empty skull.

Love. True. Love. In the dumpster behind the strip club. True Love.

Swallowing Your Own Breaths In An Attempt At Asphyxiation

You eat the first waterlogged words of the day for breakfast with a plastic spoon after they start to disintegrate into smaller and smaller particles in the small puddle outside the place you are currently living.

You wish you were your words, but instead use your fingers and the sunlight to make different shadow puppets that don't remind you of anything in particular, just dark blobs.

You should be a dark blob, sinking deeper and deeper into the ocean so no one can pick you out in the darkness.

Maybe then you'll be able to relate.

Or just develop a taste for seawater and allow it run down your throat.

Allow it to revitalize/corrode your vital organs so you can feel naturally happy for a moment, but only a moment.

Because you can't escape this shitty motel room life, which is why you are pulling your teeth out and carving statues out of them.

Carving statues of the people you aspired to be, but they are all coming out shitty, and unintelligible.

Broken.

You're not avoiding people, you just are scared to run a razor blade down the center of your skull because it would allow people to peek inside, which will make them hate you.

So you stitch yourself up with some neon green fishing line, and tell them what they want to hear because you're not in a position to give advice.

Because you can't even remember your own dreams, just random facts accrued from late night television, which are as useful as a hole punched into drywall to relieve the pressure that built up behind the center of your forehead.

And you want there to be a reason behind everything you're experiencing; there isn't.

So you rake the hot coals out of your eyes and accidentally set the entire world on fire.

Don't worry, everyone will be invited.

Direction

I wasn't lying about hijacking a ferry and meeting you in the middle of Lake Eerie; you waiting for me in a speed boat.

We're poor.

I am always late.

And am in need of a mathematician to solve all my problems.

But I think it would be nice to camp in a homemade shelter made out of logs, trees, and branches with a campfire in front of us.

Laying low, but cherishing each second.

Warmth is a feeling I had forgotten about; the damp cold seeped through my fingertips and into my vital organs.

Everything seems to be thawing out and coming back to life.

But when I become an asshole, and tell you "GO FUCK YOURSELF!  Please just leave me alone." because of the throwing up and cold sweats, break a branch off a tree, and smack my face with it.

We will both feel better about ourselves and make bloody marys out of my blood for breakfast and garnish it with a stalk of celery.

I hope you accept my apology.

Cloaked in the campfire perfume.

This will be the start to a brand new life.

Benzos

Doing nothing.

No recollection.

This isn't supposed to entertain or make you feel anything except numb and forgetful.

Although, I did just find my last bit of weed and fixed a computer virus.

Think I'll watch a documentary about the lives of deportees in the slums of Tijuana, feel worthless, and go to bed.

I'm not really good at anything, and neither are you.

Mental Stability

I went to a psychiatrist and handed him a buzz saw and the jaws of life in the hopes he could save whatever good is left inside of me.

Instead, he wrote me prescriptions for Xanax and antidepressants.

Padlock Tongue Ring

You swallow glue whenever she talks over the phone about drunk ex-boyfriends, gunshots, parents, insomnia, starvation, silence, and near death experiences.

Just to have an excuse. 

It's not that you don't care, you're just unable to express it.

Driving Home 3.23.13

You’re driving home

On a Friday night

At 1am

When a white astro van with rusts spots

Speeds past you on the right

Before cutting in front of your shitty sedan

With its perpetual check engine light

Glowing in the dashboard,

His/her front driver side tire close to

Touching the median.

 

You both get on the cross valley onramp towards Kingston,

The body of the white astro van with rust spots

Rocking side to side

Turning right

As it crosses over the white line on the right

Almost clipping the guard rail,

Kicking up a cloud of dust.

 

You follow.

 

The white astro van with rust spots had

A yellow and black sign

Reflecting headlights

Under the windows of the back doors,

"SCHOOL CHILDREN."

 

You imagine the white astro van with rust spots

Filled with drunk middle school kids,

(ages 7-13)

Wearing colorful puffy winter jackets

And stocking hats,

Small wool mittens gripping beer cans

And pints of cheap gin and whiskey

Covered with brown paper bags.

On a booze cruise

With the school van driver

Earlier in the afternoon,

After school.

 

 

The white astro van with rust spots gets off at the Plains exit

As your shitty sedan heads towards the Luzerne exit,

Five miles ahead,

 

No Intention of calling the cops,

And nothing seems out of the ordinary.

A One Sentence Conversation Between Two People In One Body

 

 

It’s not unreasonable to consider replacing my skull with a microwave.

Power 10.

Wrapping my brain in tin foil.

Setting it for life.

 

After I’m done,

I will show you how to fake a smile.

How to trick people into thinking  you’re a kind-hearted happy person,

When you actually are a total shithead.

Or maybe in actuality, you are a combination of the two,

And that’s what bothers you/me the most: not having a definition.

So you and me artificially inseminate ourselves with opiates

Through our left nasal passage

And lay back into navy blue couch cushions and throw pillows,

Listening to the same thoughts on repeat for the rest of the night.

Not doing anything important.

Never doing anything important.

 

“We can make it through this.”

 

What’s left unspoken between us is:

“Maybe we won’t.”

You Close Your Eyes Knowing That They Might Not Open So You Stay Up And Sit In A Dark Bedroom Listening To The Sounds Of Your Own Breath.

You taught me to sleep naked.

Anymore, I prefer to go to bed with a hoodie on.

Never falling asleep due to a home movie with you and me projecting onto the white screen embedded in the inside front wall of my skull; neither of us remembers owning a camera.

I'm paranoid of phone calls sucking out whatever's keeping me alive
(you alive inside me)
with a fast food straw so that my corpse will resemble a crushed fountain drink cup that was already finished weeks ago.

But I still believe.

The silence late at night just makes it harder to.

302

Earlier this morning, I came in my underwear completely unconscious.

I woke up, removed my spaceman sheet, and allowed the climate controlled air to do cartwheels over the affected area, which uncomfortably lowered my dick/underwear's core temperature.

Sitting there, I thought about making a career change from deli man to serial killer, and how my first target would be a newborn baby whose face is swaddled in a plastic bag; I'm going to make a statement like a hand descending past a waistband, and it is as sanitary as a men's room stall cover with piss.

thoughts i had before bed, while trying to take a shit, and failing.

my dick smells like a decaying mushroom.

hope thousands of hands rub me out of existence with pink pencil erasers.

seems fitting to have a spider that was crushed by a napkin sleeping beside my head tonight.

imagining the crushed napkin spider coming back to life to scale my mattress, (front legs dragging the rest of the indented exoskeleton, oozing fluids across my bed, sheets, and face) poisoning me with a venom causing an excruciatingly long, drawn out, tortuous death over many days/weeks/months/years. bubonic plague style. then the spider heroically dying after it's last act of revenge.

i'm a bastard.

it's all so fucking overwhelming.
it's all so fucking embarrassing.

i cant write right now but felt i had to do something; i promise i will later tonight. (i'm not sure if i'm talking to an audience or myself.)

I like mount eerie/microphones. oh, and cat power, danny brown, grouper, modest mouse, and death grips.

High

I will collect an ounce of blood in a Dixie cup from the paper cuts on my hands, look cool, drink it, and then duct tape myself to ceiling with a opened canister of tear gas under my chin.

Document1 (Autosaved) March 26, 2013 9:37 pm

Thought about throwing a ball of venomous snakes onto a middle-aged woman wearing glasses and a sweater, and carrying a James Patterson novel as she walked past the deli counter. A taipan gets a grip on her neck, bites, and drops her, face exposed and bloated pressing against dirt covered linoleum.

Thought about people giving up handguns, and strapping up with balls of venomous snakes.

Bustin. All scales and fangs.

Smokin blunts while neurotoxins and/or hemotoxins tear up vital organs.

And we all got some shit to say just for the fuck of it.

And this is my medium/fetish:

Watching a black mamba rub its belly across middle aged lips turning blue

While crouching down with palms on knee caps.

 

Thought about serrating my gums with a toothbrush,

And using the blood for facepaint

Then going to the dentist,

And saying, ‘Yeah, I made a complete mess of it.”

 

I’m not taking a shower this morning.

Thought about smelling really bad at work,

like head cheese bad.

 

Sorry for being self-indulgent.

I have zero confidence.

Thought about helping you rig up

Instead of wasting my time

In front of the computer.

 

Yes my gums are still bleeding.

Thought about giving up because what’s the point?

You are making different shapes with your hands to distract yourself from the words other people are pegging you with.

Too lazy to bolt off the couch and jump through the window into the hands of the car hoods below.

The Phobia of Phone Calls

Curled into a "C" on the bed with the cellphone pressed against my ear, and my spaceman sheet half across my torso.

Paralytic like the bodies belonging to feet that have stepped on rock fish.

I hear the sounds coming from the receiver, but can't process their true meaning.

So I bury my face deep into the sheet to hide the fact: I'm losing my mind.

I don't want to burden you.

I just want to be there to help you change your facial expression.

Your were there, but the voice I cared about was missing.

And the words and stories you told drilled tiny holes through my brain.

Old school torture.

My stability is escaping like carbon monoxide and I'm slowly starting to lose consciousness.

Until someone wakes me up to explain to me how your going through serious shit, and makes me feel guilt for the inability to understand.

Your still on the line, telling me that you don't want to talk to me if I keep misspelling your name, I'm sorry I didn't realize.

You have to go.

"I love you"

You have to think.

You hang up, and don't know when you'll be able to talk to me again.

And I'm exhausted, which is why I pull the trigger of the gun made out of my hand, and watch the bullet pass through what's ever left of my head, and crawl into a tub of ice water with no expectations for the next couple of days.

91513

You don’t want to go to work at your part-time job.

You want to lie on the couch all day covered in blankets, watching mind numbing daytime game shows, and popping k-pins in the fetal position hoping a giant boot crashes through the ceiling flattening your body.

Hoping it twists, grinding your bones into the broken couch parts, for good measure.

Skin and bodily fluids oozing under rubber.

Five minutes pass.

And nothing happens.

You decide against taking a shower and brushing your teeth.

You decide that smelling like shit and having bad breath will help you avoid social interactions.

You decide that having social interactions when you smell like shit and have bad breath proves to strangers that you have no inner-drive or initiative to do anything important ever.

It’s important for other’s to understand this because it feels good to be honest.

You want to be alone, but you don’t want to be by yourself.

You want to be able to do something amazing, but “something” and “amazing” are such broad, general terms that are too complicated for you to understand.

So you put your blue polo shirt on with the company logo on the sleeve, and arrive at work ten minutes late instead.

Upon your arrival, you become a different person who is constantly smiling, laughing, and taking an interest in other people’s lives by asking questions about their jobs, sons, daughters, grandkids, pets, sports teams, vacations, and church functions while slicing ham, cheese, and/or salami.

Just another version of yourself to hate.

They talk and talk and talk and complain and complain and complain as you nod your head.

Always ending the conversation with, “Have a great night!”

Not really giving a shit.

More concerned with the tools you have at your disposal to kill yourself (slicers, ovens, knives, deep fryer, saran wrap + a full bowl of potato salad.)

Only to shut the lights off to go home and do it all over again tomorrow.

The daily $8.05 grind.

Teaching you to talk to yourself, because on your shift you receive no new messages.

She told you to wait because she needs time to think.

And the books you took out and studied to interpret those words have left you with a bad feeling that can be compared to a stomach ache that expands to encompass an entire body.

So you’ve started destroying yourself, instead of being patient because you are a fucking idiot proving everyone who has called you smart and talented wrong on a minute to minute basis.

Which is making you forget about how fucked your life really is until tomorrow.

Then you watch a documentary on people living in the sewers of Bogota, Columbia and realize the whiny pussy you actually are.

And how little you actually matter.

Always second guessing the words coming out of your mouth in comparison to the emotions you’re feeling.

 

 

 

Passing Time In-Between A Decision That WIll Lead To Either Happiness Or Suicide.

I stuck my fingers into the surface of the parking lot pavement in an attempt to reverse the orbit of the earth so I can go back to the four days I spent with you because my eyes are unable to make out the shape of the future without you in it.

Blurred with tears.

Of course it was a stupid idea, I am not special or strong, which is why my fingertips have been sanded down to bloody nubs reminding me of broken pencil tips.

And the tears fell into the wounds causing them to sting.

But the stings felt good. Deserved. Like someone who cuts themselves to relieve the pain.

I'm a piece of shit who has failed once again at something important.
I deserve worse.

I passed a dumpster and felt the urge to climb in, close the lid, and put a plastic bag over my head so I wouldn't have to trouble anyone with the clean up — yes, sometimes I can be considerate.

Instead, I checked my cellphone for any change in the screen but all I kept seeing was that stupid fucking clock and today's date.

(No new messages.)

I started punching the teeth out of each passing minute and collected them in an old shoe box that I will give to you when I'm ready to show you I can be patient.

Alone in the silence, I learned how to have conversations with myself.

I learned that I hate having conversations with myself.

Because I'm so fucking predictable.

And I'm causing us to both suffer from my predictability.

Whenever I have a knife in my hand, I think about slicing my tongue off, and afterwards, anyone I have ever known will form a line, come up, shake my hand, congratulate me on a job well done, and say, "Thank you. Seriously, you don't know how much this means to all of us. Thanks again."

Same shit happens whenever I use scissors.

I should have told you to wait instead of letting you drive off, I just felt bad because you said you had to do homework. And in retrospect, I know that sounds so fucking stupid.

I should have hugged you in my arms and locked our fingers together forever, if you agreed.

I should have never left that Waffle House parking lot to go back to Pennsylvania.

I should have never left you, which is why I use the dress you gave me as a blanket, and pretend like it's your body, wrapping it around my self before I go to sleep.

But like I said, I pretend: Your dress isn't you; it is an inanimate object unable to talk, kiss, or touch.

Unable to feel or give off warmth.

It doesn't get me hard.

Or love me.

Nor can I give it a back rub, and take it out to a Mexican/Caribbean restraint, after going shopping.

I'm sorry for leaving.

I don't have a religion, but I will dedicate myself to you because it feels right.

It feels good.

And good is a word that hasn't exist in my vocabulary.

I don't know what the common thread is because my thought processed is so scattered, illogical, and fucked up.

Making no sense.

You said you need time to think, which has never been a good sign in the past.

Usually means: OVER.

I fucked up, so I've been getting fucked up by not taking showers, and injecting ice water into the veins in my forehead to pass the time in-between a decision that will lead to either happiness or suicide.


But I will wait, punching seconds, collecting teeth, until my whole body goes numb.