fuck with us. wilkes-barre we are doing it! only twelve spots to go.

177 out of 189 (and an honorable mention to allentown at 157.)
to my burlington friends, your shit is weak.

same goes for lancaster. i know you got that huge mall and a cool downtown, but you also have the amish mafia.

wilkes-barre.

you build fences around the projects, while getting drunk and shooting dope on week nights.

there are no jobs, unless you want to huff natural gas, and poison the water supply.

the exterior of the beehive has been taken out by bears, and your people have been killed by hornets.

bring the violence in 2014.

that feeling you get when you're chopping vegetables, and notice all your fingers on your free hand are missing, fresh blood all over your parents' granite kitchen counter, but you keep going because it doesn't seem like that big of a deal.

because you're hungry, and people make mistakes. right?

you'll have to find creative ways to get off when you masturbate from now on.

"I wish one of your guys had children so I could kick them in their fuckin head or stomp on their testicles for you can feel my pain - because that's the pain I have, waking up every day..." (villains are always more interesting than heroes)

photo source

i am
a construction paper
third grade art class project
that didn't turn out right,
but my mom hung on the fridge
because of the effort.

i can't figure out
how to walk.
how to use my lungs.
how to get a job.
how to save money.
how to gain weight.
how to keep friends.
how to meet people.
how to help the world.
how to eat healthy.
how to assimilate.
how to fix my brain.
how to attain nirvana.
how to be happy.

i try,
but no superhero
will be able
to save me;
they aren't real.

i can't figure out how to live,
which is why i've doused myself,
and the earth in gasoline.

i flick a white plastic lighter
with my thumb,
and watch the flames
blitzkrieg my skin
and the rest of the planet
watching it burn.
turning us red,
we will remain motionless.

it feels warm,
like sitting around
a campfire, wrapped
in a blanket, next
to someone who cares,
and is willing to listen.

mummified in white ash
like the people of pompeii,
the sun will erase
the remains of our existence
with its breath
like the daughter i will never have
scattering the seeds of a dandelion,
and making a wish.

i am going to clone myself, have the clone stick a javelin through my head, then make sure i survive.

i will never be an astronaut because it is too late, and i'm missing part of a vital organ.

smoking a cigarette by myself on my parents' downstairs patio at 4am,
and looking into the night sky at constellations,
i realize i will never make it into space,
even though people are up there on a space station right now
orbiting earth.

i settle for pictures, books, and tv shows.

i never get laid because of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head

my stomach is full of plane crashes, derailed subway cars, and fatal automobile accidents.

things that malfunctioned.

things that hit walls and buildings.

things that hit each other.

things that are now classified as missing.

things in black body bags.

things being digested in stomach acid.

broken things.

disasters.

pieces of painted shrapnel covered in smudges of grease, and exposed wires, still shooting sparks, are stuck in the gaps between cavities.

my teeth are black nubs, and my gums are swollen/bleeding.

i am trying to become a better person.

the passengers' funeral processions march up the vertebrae of my spine embedding sad songs in the swirls of the wooden planks that make up their pineboxes.
 
they are:
former best friends.
deceased family members, who were coal miners that died before i was born.
and girls who wanted to hold my hand, and kiss me, then forgot about me because i couldn't decipher the signals of their bodies, voices, and words.

i loved them all, even though their faces are unrecognizable, and pay homage to them with a moment of silence before they are lowered, and buried in the wrinkles of my brain.
  
i am trying to get a girlfriend by brushing my teeth, cutting my hair, wearing a tie, eating wintergreen breath mints, and dousing myself in cologne.

but i never get laid because of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

wilkes-barre,

it's all because of me and you.

i am mortally wounded
in the band stand
on public square
covered in bee stings,
missing a chunk of my torso
with my hair singed
by the never ending mine fires,
no amount of heroin can resuscitate me.

in and out of consciousness.

pale.

open wounds.

bleeding out.

my body on display;
this isn't a sacrifice.

i am not a martyr.

there is a black handgun
in a army green holster on my leg
with only one round left
in the clip.

i am left with two options:

i can bury the bullet in my brain.

or shoot you right in the fucking face.

i love you, and i'm sorry,
but we cant live together anymore,
and this break-up is going to be messy.

"you look like crap."

"thank you. i think i'm just a little down."

i am eating shards of glass
mixed with gummy bears
out of a sandwich bag
for dinner;
i haven't slept in four days,
and my eyes are weathered tombstones
missing names.

staying up late at night,
watching alien close encounters
on tv, as i wait
for my phone to ring.

smoking a cigarette
every hour,
while i let spiders
crawl up my legs
crossing the anatomical terrain
up to my head
where they stick their fangs
in my scalp,
and lay their eggs
in my brain.
bad thoughts
festering in
silence.

my pupils are shot
like warped records
warbling up and down.
i see shadows
out of the corners of my eyes,
and think about dialing
phone numbers for help,
but i don't want to bother anyone
because, unlike me,
most of my friends are busy,
and spend their free time
talking to people they love,
and care about.

so i drink warm milk
laced with holy water,
and don't feel any different
throughout the rest
of the night.

tomorrow, i hope for the best.

i wrote your name down on my hand for motivation two days ago in black permanent marker, but it faded and disappeared after i took a shower

i gather my thoughts together
with a glue gun,
and start shaping your features
with a pocket knife,
widdling the excess material away;
i keep occupied,
but it is
coming out all wrong
because i am not very talented.

i sculpt a replacement:
it is an inanimate object.
it doesn't breathe.
it doesn't eat.
it doesn't talk.
it doesn't send out care packages
with wooden weightlifter knick-knacks.
or rewashable neon green sticky hands.
it isn't alive.
it isn't you.


it doesn't look like you,
even if i squint my eyes;
i'm trying my best.

we texted each other
earlier tonight,
but we haven't actually talked in a week.

i'm having a two hour conversation
with myself while
drinking a fifth of rum,
and watching two girls make out
in my passenger side mirror,
i look at my reflection in the rearview,
and realize i miss you.

but i can't tell if
i'm just being a bitch,
and overreacting.

 

thoughts before bed 3/18/14

laying in my bed,
i close my eyes,
and draw pictures of your face
with my imagination,
and hang them on my wall
with scotch tape.

"the only real friend i had was this lady i paid for handjobs at the library."

brian allen carr reads in morehead, ky

brian allen carr writes stories that get stuck in my brain like chewing gum that never loses its flavor. his characters are people that i know because they are people that i encounter every day. they are people that live inside of me. i would want them to be read as the eulogy for my funeral. watch this video to understand. then you should buy:

vampire conditions

motherfucking sharks

i wish i was a stronger person, but i'm not.

curled up
on the blue tile,
knees scrunched into my chest,
in front of the vent
blowing hot air
over the landscape of my body
onto the bathroom floor
illuminated by the blue light
from the tv
in the other room,
watching the reflections of
young actors pretending
to be amish kids
kissing each other,
and slamming liquor
in a cornfield
on educational tv.
i am searching for comfort.

eyes watering,
isolated,
ignoring the people
i love the most.
feels like
i am at the bottom of the ocean
watching aspca infomercials
wrapped in a blanket of sand
even though i'm allergic to cats and dogs.
i feel guilt.

day four,
and i'm contorting my body
into a particular position
to disappear.
and failing.

restless legs.

my left hand is
reaching towards the surface,
icicles sloping off
hangnails and cuticles,
growing cold,
begging for a xanax,
and/or a sub,
and/or a bag of heroin.

waiting for a savior.

nothing.

my right hand grips it
hard
causing fissures,
cracks,
and blisters,
pulling my head above the surface
for one last breath of oxygen
mixed with nicotine.

it's uncomfortable,
but there is no way out of this.
i can only save myself.

i drink shots of saltwater for nourishment, 
and hope for a better future.

i feel like squeaky fromme
trying to assassinate
president gerald ford
with an unloaded gun.

“lots of nightmares again. guess that’s freedom for you.”

i've been incapacitated,
bedridden,
for three days in
the back of a wagon
with the modern day version
of scurvy
clutching a bottle of vodka
under nascar blankets
from childhood.

(they make news stories
about this disease these days,
in the papers.
on the tv.)


self-medicating.
masturbating.
easing the pain.
the sadness.
the loneliness.

(my wife and daughter died three months in.)

dreaming of westward expansion.
manifest destiny.
gold.
a homestead.
boiling the bones of fish i caught,
with pine needles,
and bacon,
making a stew,
and only seeing my own grave.

two dollars in change
left in my dusty jean pockets,
i smoke my last cigarettes,
and clutch a picture
captured in my mind
close to my heart.

in idaho,
the oxen stopped
because they were exhausted,
and wanted to graze on some grass.
another 4-7 day delay.

cue the six shooters.
cue the cannibalism.
cue the tombstone.
cue the funeral music.

i am breathing dirt
and coughing blood.

you lose matthew. sorry, man.

this is who i am.

back in the best of times,
which isn't really much different
than the worst of times;
i am trying to tread water
to keep my head above the surface.

i want to see the sunrise tomorrow morning.
i want to close my eyes and look forward to it.
i want to sleep in the ocean's waves, and be warm and comfortable.
i want to be less lonely.
i want to become someone i would enjoy being around.
i want to kiss your forehead when you're sick, make you chicken noodle soup,
and tell you, "there, there darling. you'll feel better. you're going to feel awesome soon.
do you feel awesome?"
i want to sleep next to you so i can pick out the melodies under your breath,
and hum them at a later date.
i want to stop being a disappointed disappointment.

i want to stop wanting so i can start doing.
but every morning when i wake up,
i look for a reason to open my eyes,
and come up empty handed.
resting my head on the grey, oil stained cushion
of an abandoned backseat from a mini-van
thrown out in a dumpster
from a post-apocalyptic society.

i'm sorry.
sorry for being so lazy darling.
and for being such a coward.
if i discovered bigfoot or a ufo
i would give all the credit to you
because you are the only thing
in the world that matters.
the meaning behind all the metaphors in nature.

i nurture so many regrets as i tear the pages out of the calendar,
one by one; time is passing,
and it's sad to see it pass sitting alone
in an empty bedroom overflowing with empty beer cans.

i'm trying to rearrange all the individual pieces
to form a limpid picture that
makes sense to the both of us,
even though it never will
because i am too far gone.

so i am left with a choice
between death or insanity.

i am laughing hysterically
while shooting bb's into my white teddy bear
with a blue ribbon around its neck
that i hugged after i was born,
and can't explain why.

i apologize in advance love.

a fact about myself; a fact about ice cream; a fact about romantic relationships; a fact about sex:

 source.

i can't eat ice cream out of a cone without
smearing it all over my face,
dripping it on my clothes,
and having it melt
in my hands,
which makes my fingers
sticky for the next 4-5 hours.

i spin the cone around
to the sections that are melting,
but my tongue just isn't quick enough.

maybe we don't hate each other as much as we think, but maybe we do.

i want to argue politics with you until our tongues wrap around each other.
until they are tied together.
until we are stuck making out.
this is all unintentional,
but at least we're accomplishing more,
than when you and i were talking.
we can stay like this,
brushing our fingertips upwards
against the bumps
of each other's ribs,
in between the intervals
of our breaths.
in a compromise.
or i can get the scissors.

sitting around a campfire, trying to remember the moment that saved my life.

source.

looking at the horizon
of knee highs meeting your thighs,
i come to grips
with sea lice
erasing my flesh
from my bones,
and i'm okay
with it.

the sleight of hand is noticeable,
ruining the prestige:
now,
are you paying attention?

the set-up:

i am infected
with serpentine thoughts
wiggling their way
through the wrinkles
of my brain.

the abyss.

my empty grave
is in the forefront,
but it's all about the
illusion.

is it really empty?
or is it fill with body parts?

i don't know.

i can't explain the world to you;
i can only tell bedtime stories
that will make you forget
about your worries
for a couple hours
longer.

so sink into a deep sleep with me,
and forget the reflection
of your facial features
in the bathroom mirror
until tomorrow morning.

because
the bad feelings will pass
if we can swim
through their cold currents,
and breathe
because it's all all wrong.

tonight,
looking at nothing in particular,
we will bow,
then leave the stage
to an audience's
standing ovation.

always thinking of you
you always thinking of me.

25,
and trying to pull a rabbit
out of a hat
without killing it.

"every thing is broken again, but sometimes there are things to replace the broken things. things that are not broken yet, but will be."

Scott McClanahan: Last Reading

my past includes broken chairs and punching/kicking holes in walls so i can relate. just read scott and watch his live readings because you'll laugh, cry, cry, laugh, cry, think, reflect, and feel catharsis for an event in your past that you've never experienced.

buy here.