Saturday, October 26, 2013

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.





Sunday, October 20, 2013

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.

Saturday, October 19, 2013

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.





Thursday, October 17, 2013

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.

Sunday, October 13, 2013

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.











Saturday, October 12, 2013

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.

Friday, October 11, 2013

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.

Sunday, October 6, 2013

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.

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

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.