a sad social media post about a dead person you hardly even knew

dont believe words
that leave other people's
mouths because
the truth
is
the biggest
fucking
liar.

i spend days under the covers...
falling in love,
then watching it die.
growing young
while becoming old.
getting eaten by spiders.
chased by a never-ending
pair of tattered outstretched
arms and hands.
trapped under tidal waves.
in a place covered in leaky rusted pipes.
listening to music boxes ping
notes from childhood
off damp swollen walls.
protected and secure:
i'm too lazy
to rise up.
exploring all types
of possibilities
and potential
in a car seat bed.
just a small speck
blowing along
in an oversized world.
a single solitary dot
drawn on a piece of paper
meeting new friends,
reacquainting with old ones
over dozens of ice cream cones
and
bavarian cream donuts
in a castle made of clouds,
or a spooky laboratory,
or on the decorated branch
of a christmas tree
next to a plastic fire place
drenched in warm orange
flickering light.
making a lifetime of memories
forgotten by morning.

wake up.

all alone.

same daily routine.

over
and
over
again.

going to sleep
even when it
isn't really
that dark.

i spend days under the covers...
but i can't escape
my little nightmares.

Pizza Delivery 11/10/16

Ordered one large pepperoni pie and one 8 piece hot wing.

Reason why delivery was not made: pepper sprayed in the face.

General Manager: Did you save the money?

Me (head under faucet): Yeah, And the pizza too.

Throws wad of $20 one dollar bills at the General Manager.

General Manager: Good job!

Cop: Open your eyes to wash it out. I've been sprayed too. Nothing you can do, but, I mean, at least you got pizza right?

(General Manager walks away and talks to store manager.)

General Manager: It was his fault he almost got robbed. At least he didn't lose any of the money. That's what he gets for not calling the person before he made the delivery.

(General Manager leaves.)

Cop: Did you get her phone number?

Me: Yeah, I called her and she said she was walking up the street and would be at the address in a minute, so I waited in my car until she waved to me and walked up to the front stoop. I got out, walked up to her, which was when she sprayed me, then I ran to my car threw the wings and pizza in the passenger seat and locked the door. Waited a minute as she ran away, then another kid in a black hoodie started walking up the street toward me so I took off and drove back to the store.

Cop: So you drove two miles back with a face full of pepper spray to the store? That's pretty bad ass, but don't do that next time cause you can get charged with reckless driving for putting other people's lives in danger. Dial 911 and wait for the police to arrive. Alright whenever you're ready we will head down to the station and get a statement.

Conclusion:
Was sprayed by a 15 year old girl, who got charged with assault and attempted robbery. Sentencing or name unknown. Restitution: $5. Court parking fees, not covered by the city for two days in court $75.

"Just looking for a protector

God never reached out in time

There's love that is a saviour
But that ain't no love of mine
My love it kills me slowly
Slowly I could die

And when she sleeps

She hear the blues

Sees shades in black and white"

spending every night in a coffee shop to avoid today becoming tomorrow is becoming an addiction instead of a habit.

avoid the cold.

avoid people.

blah blah.

it's over.

then you wake up.

another day.

another bavarian cream doughnut.

another idea.

another complaint.

wasted.

um.

people.

can't be trusted.

5 am again.

time to smoke.

time to sleep.

wash.

rinse.

repeat.

not living.

not dead.

aimlessly 

floating

along.

dont let inner peace get too close

cry about it if you want,
but i wouldn't worry,
because you'll never understand
what anyone is saying.

callin myself back from under the spell

you will disappear.
or maybe you already have.
and maybe i have too
because we are part of
this thing called, "the world,"
stuck in this thing called,
"life."

people.
relationships.

the process:
particles becoming unglued.
swirling in the wind.
bored and disconnected
with the properties of
gravity and attraction.
scattered unaware
of how sorry
they are for themselves
and what they've seen.

just killing time, while
we wait for the fire.
sinking in silence,
pretending nothing's wrong,
since we haven't figured out
the words to describe it.

too busy with our toys,
the present, and our histories
cutting

the pull.

drifting helplessly
along
in the path of fate.
living free?
always searching for
right words,
or actions,
before
a deep breath,
swallowing,
then walking away.
maybe out of
habit or addiction.

doing nothing.

because something's
missing that
we can never define,
which would make our lives
complete, or at least bearable.
replaced by a nervous bug
or twitch telling us how to live.

so we stretch open until it hurts
always binding our time for
a set of shifty observant eyes
giving
the second opinion we've
been wanting to hear.
thinking,"not much longer now,"
until it becomes
a useless personal mantra,
said because so many universes
have burnt out in the meantime.

there's nothing left to hope for,
nothing left to say,
and no time to say it.
"it's only a matter of time."
"it's only a matter of time."

it's only a matter of time
until everything disappears:
you,
me,
all our memories,
other's memories of us,
all the people, places, and things
we have touched in life
(together and separately),
words of wisdom,
all the way down to
the final,
most minute
particles of matter.

but who am i to say?

i'm just another cynical smack filled
homeless lazy-boy professor with
a college degree, a broken head,
and an occupation as
a late night pizza delivery driver
drowning in radio silence,
tied down with the words
sewed into my skin by your tongue
creating promises that lock me
into an immovable position.

i am a trustworthy
person listening to what
you and other people have
to say, believing and caring about it,
which never makes any sense
to me.

i just have one question as we go through this,
when will you be through with me?

i'd like to know.
because i'll donate
whatever shit i have
left to anyone
who wants it.
...

"because i'm alienated."

how i won multiple championships for penn state football without ever joining a football team

From ages 6-12, I was the starting running back, quarterback, linebacker, wide receiver, defensive end, cornerback, safety, kicker, punter, kick returner, and head coach for the Penn State Nittany Lions every August to January.

I would play the highest ranked teams in college football every two days in my 20 by 10 yard backyard each afternoon, and in the early mornings before school in my kitchen to living room.

Against Michigan in 1999, I led my team back from a twenty point deficit, by tossing three touch down passes to myself in the final minutes of the game to tie the score with a 1:30 to play, grass stains streaking my jeans from having to lay out full stretch to catch the game tying pass in the back of the endzone. With :35 seconds left in the game and Michigan driving to take the lead, I picked off their quarterback, Tom Brady, and return the ball to with in field goal range.

The final kick came down to an 11 year old kid as the announcers alluded to, which was the biggest kick of this young superstars career, even though he had never played a down of  pee wee football, or any organized football in his life because his mother felt it was too dangerous, and he would never be able to play because he was allergic to grass. The pressure was immense because ever since the age of three his father made him study the history of Penn State Football by watching the 1982 and 1986 national championship games, which he had on tape, and through a computer program he bought off the local ABC news station, WNEP, that he would have look at for an hour each day that went through each Penn State Football season from the late 1940's all the way up to the 1994-95 season, which was the last year included on the program. Memorizing the great players, plays, and games that had taken place before he was born, as well as going through each season and listening to the lectures of what went wrong and right for each and every season. Then taking him to games at Beaver Stadium starting at the age of 6, and every year after, since he has owned season tickets since the early 1970's and every year after even to the present day. And being quizzed on random bits of information to make sure he had taken in, and retained this sacred knowledge, and information. This kid, this kicker with the weight of my families, as well as every Penn State fans hopes and dreams on my shoulders, was me.

In my family, Northeast, and Central Pennsylvania, Penn State Football is a way of life. Penn State Football is the dominate conversation for every family function no matter if it's March, August, October, or the end of January.

The most important moment in my eleven year old life came down to this. And I missed the first attempted, except miraculously Michigan called a time out to freeze me to make me miss, but oh did that backfire. Because on the second attempt: the snap was good. The hold was down. The kick was up, and good, right down the middle, over the two clotheslines hanging across the middle of my parents' backyard, which sent the imaginary Penn State fans into a state of wild delirium because Penn State was now into the national title game against the number #1 ranked Florida State Seminoles, which would be held in the same backyard three weeks later, that would be covered in 8 inches of snow.

Needless to say Penn State repeated as national champions for the fifth year in a row, after blowing out Florida state 45-16 in the snow bowl, with myself getting, the special teams, offensive, defensive, and most valuable player of the game, but sadly I had to miss the trophy presentation ceremony, gatorade shower, and post-game interviews, because it was already dark, and my mom had called me in five minutes earlier to wash up and get out of my ski pants, boots, gloves,and winter jacket, because dinner was on the table, and, "you know how your father is: when dinner is ready, you better be there or there's hell to pay." There were no congratulations or pats on the back because he never did get to see the greatness of the accomplishment where for once in my life I was able to succeed.

thought: 8/26/16

seriously considering if i can transform into a passable, attractive girl before the start of every shift at work with help at first before learning how to do it on my own so i can get more and better tips on my deliveries, instead of getting nothing on around 65% of deliveries, which is the current rate i'm running at now.

sex sells right?

and being a skinny white boy with a jovial attitude and smile isn't working.

false advertisement

after reading dunkin donut's new advertising slogan on a poster hanging on the window inside the store, i wonder if their new bakery sandwiches are as addictive and euphoric as hard drugs, which is what they are making them out to be.

In this parking lot,

The silhouettes

Of dead children

Trapped in cages

Hang from

Buzzing streetlights;

Their featureless

Corpses creak

In the warm

Summer breeze

Unnoticed,

Except for the gulls

And pigeons

Who pick their

Stiff flesh

Down to the bone.

In this parking lot,

Security cameras

Capture disenfranchised

Faces whose frustration

Expands like

Puddles of piss

Across the asphalt

Leaving damp trails

That lead nowhere,

Until they are erased

By the white hands

Of the morning sun,

And are forgotten

Before noon.

In this parking lot,

Apathy bubbles

Under the skin

Before it permeates

Out of pores

Due to heat, humidity,

And a lack of shelter—

Sweat coats

The body

In a slick

That forms

Mountain ranges

Of pimples

That are clawed open,

Instead of popped,

By dirty gnarled

Fingernails

To release

The pressure

Built up by

An infection of

Warm blood

And thick viscous

Yellow puss

Caused by

The passage

Of today.

In this parking lot,

The congregation

Sits on curbs,

Praying to

Lady luck,

Receiving the holy communion—

Tallboys of cheap beer,

Bars of Xanax,

And shots of smack

Always chased with

A half smoked cig

Found on the street

—As they hide from police,

And beg store patrons

For food or loose change.

The process

Repeating itself

Again

At the same time

And place

Tomorrow.

The ritual preserved

In this holy land

For an endless

Succession of days,

Until it is

Accepted and practiced

By the mainstream

As a religion.

In this parking lot,

There are no locked doors,

Shackles, keys, or iron bars

On the windows—

There doesn’t have to be.

In this parking lot,

Blessed are the forgetful,

Because

There is no

Escape.

the only cool heroin addicts are kurt cobain and sid vicious, the rest of us are just asshole junkies

"dude seems like a genuine asshole"
maybe he's right.
i haven't taken
enough time out of
my life to get a degree
in ethics,
which would
qualify me for the career:
judge, jury, and executioner
of people i've never
met or known.
the modern inquisition.
fuck the context.
i can't slice the throats
of fucked strangers
with ten fingers
and a keyboard
until i am pre-approved
and qualified by
members of society
who think and act like me.
like i said,
fuck the context;
it doesn't matter
and never will
because
i am
a genuine asshole
because
i am
a genuine asshole
who will never have
a profile photo
including my two children
so other people
know they are
the center of my
life
(along with
the pittsburgh steelers
and penguins,
and a variety of
cable television series.)
i am
a genuine asshole
because other people
never make
mistakes.
i am a genuine asshole
and are okay with
that, i've always
been more comfortable
in the role of
the villian.
you should
always believe
the critics
instead of
the author.

broken promises in the midst of radio silence: the people who say they care about you are liars.

"I was running around like a but trying to get the money and I knew I would see you at Acme. I know you have doubts because of what happened that one time but I've had your back here since day 1 and i wont fuck you over. just have a little faith I won't screw you over. today was impossible

I understand your points. I am about to lay down I had a terrible night not enough time to talk now better for phone. l will call after court and rectify everything and answer all questions I love you M__t for real I wouldn't screw you in your position. don't hold my past indiscretion against me"

i've never met another heroin addict at barnes and noble part 4: "in the privacy of his home jesus wore slacks."

Sitting in a chair at the mall, charging my computer and looking up the number for the pennsylvania dmv, the patches of dirt on my skin look like camouflage.

I don't want to talk, just blend into the background, and not be noticed.

Wearing the same blue and gold flannel button down shirt, faded black jeans, beat up teal nike's (no socks), and black ski cap with greasy brown strands poking out from the front, and the back tied in a ponytail, I look up.

My eyes meet the limpid blue eyes a blond haired girl around the age of 11 or 12 walking with her mother and younger sister.

The girl smiles, and immediately says, "I really like your hair," before I can severe the contact.

"Th-thanks," I mutter out as sweetly and nervously as I possibly could.

She walked by.

She didn't say another word.

Her mother and sister didn't even seem to notice, too distracted by the near future and what lays ahead.

I stayed at the mall for another two hours, and didn't see them pass again, but today, I remembered what it was like to be an awkward kid in middle school again.

"The Barre"

i dont want to live til im 30

today, im sick.

tomorrow, im sick.

the next day? sick

yesterday? i was sick.

sick.

boohoo.

im sick.

dont come near me.

marinating in the shit

to gain an unique flavor profile,

i dont want to be touched.

or loved.

or have a conversation.

or babies.

i want to be like that

dead kitten, skull

crushed 

and 

sizzling

in the middle of 

the street

covered in 

a buzz of 

flies,

lapping up whatever

nutrition they can

from

the rotting body.

ew.

im sick.

but you're sick too.

don't you realize it?

it's what happened after

you and i were born.

but we can never be sick 

together.

so we lie in cigarette butts,

dirty dishes,

glass,

used needles,

fingerprints,

discarded tumors,

unspoken words,

dishonesty,

and darkness.

with blank minds,

and our backs turned;

two sets of eyes 

facing opposite walls.

im sick.

you're sick.
the times are sick.

it's hard to move,

but impossible to

fall asleep.

the moon is not 

our mother,

neither is the sun.

the shit is starting 

to pile up,

and you're afraid 

we will drown;

im afraid we might

learn how to swim
and save ourselves.

sick 

sick 

sick

so fucking sick.

sick of you.

sick of me.

sick from life.

i run my nails

down resurrected

veins and feel

excited but,

even more alone,

because there is 

no cure.

there are only decisions

and circumstances

that we mix 

together

in a blender,

and call existence.

i laugh,

and 

you say,

"it's not funny."

even though,

being alive totally is

in that sadistic kind

of way.

sick.
the future's sick.

im sick.

you're gone.

oh well.

it was expected.

the cross 

i will be crucified

on will not be made

of used works, dried blood,

and hiv.

no, my cross will

be made by illuminated letters

from the signs of fast food chains,

a.a./n.a. meetings,

boredom,

the low fuel light on my dashboard,

and name brand plastic shopping bags

filled with useless shit that means 

something to someone

who isn't me.

everything held together

with masking tape, saliva,

and pieces of my brain.

why eat healthy

when the end is

always so

fucking 

predictable?

reviews from a homeless junkie part 2:

Review of hanging out with other people:

Sucks. Straight up. It always starts out with the promise of being okay, and maybe, even a fun time, but eventually takes a turn for the worse. This turning point usually happens when other people start talking about their lives. You know, budgeting, relationship problems, parents, what to wear, the ethics of organic lettuce vs regular lettuce, what they hate about their new job, meditation, and the benefits of positive thinking. At this point, I need to be on a substance. At this point, I nod, smile, and agree while using the phrases, “Oh,” “Wow,” “That’s crazy,” “Yeah,” “Totally understand,” “I see where you’re coming from,” and “Interesting,” to seem like I care even though I’m not paying attention. A concerned expression in combination with the phrases above is even more convincing that I am invested in their bullshit. All this work to avoid confrontation is exhausting. And as they talk, using the phrase, “Yeah, I’m going to be roughing it over the next two months on two grand,” I compare their dreams and troubles to my own, and realize they are pussies I will never be able to relate to, and want to curb stop their skulls with my boot. I realize I wish I had xanax. I realize this world is stupid, life is pointless, and I wish I could just be a basic bitch. I realize they’ve never pawned or sold something that they loved with sentimental value. I realize they’ve never pawned or sold something that someone else loved with sentimental value. I realize it’s 12:30, I have a warrant, my car has one headlight, I’m a little drunk, and have a 15 min drive to the closest parking lot I can sleep in for the night. Oh yeah, and waking up with a hangover from hanging out with other people (not alcohol) is the fucking worst. Realizing that yes, last night did actually fucking happen. Which is why I have stopped trying and keep interactions to a minimum. Because if I didn’t I would totally have killed myself by now, which makes me think maybe I should. Shit, who knows?

1 out of 5 stars.

Review of walmart cashier in lane 17 on Sunday June 26,2016 at 9:03 pm:

Cool. Not overly friendly, and didn’t say much which I appreciated. Was patient when I was counting my change out for my purchase. And immediately reached for the hand sanitizer after our transaction and interaction was complete cause I am a dirty sweaty smelly bitch at the moment—smart move. The only negative was him saying, “Have a nice night.” I certainly cannot meet those lofty expectations, sir; I’m sorry.

 3.5 out of 5 stars

Review of the tan teenage girl in the coral pink halter top and dark blue skinny jeans with a fountain drink in one hand, and an iphone in the other walking down the middle of the university mall:

You probably didn’t notice that I thought about how to successfully rob you without getting caught, before realizing you probably don’t even carry cash, just cards. You’re lame.

1.5 out of 5 stars.

Review of the university mall security guard:

You’re cool as fuck for not kicking me out, but I just really wish you wouldn’t say shit like, “Welp, I guess I’ll be seeing you here all day again tomorrow.” Because, yeah you probably will unless you’re off or something, which makes our next interaction even more fucking awkward.

4 out of 5 stars.

Review of bon ton perfume counter workers:

Do you seriously have to check everyone’s bag or purse when they set off the military grade shoplifting alarms? Why does it matter to you ladies if someone is shoplifting? You’re still getting paid, it’s not hurting the bottom line, and they probably are shoplifting for a reason. But even if they weren’t who cares? Well except you. Never seen you catch anyone either, so that shows how good of a job you’re doing. You all suck. Fucking hate you.

0 out of 5 stars

reviews from a homeless junkie part 1: sex, heroin, and chef boyardee

Review of sex:

Overrated.

.5 out of 5 stars.

Review of heroin:

Literally the best. The FUCKING BEST!!! It will change your life forever. Take you to places you’ve never been before with people you would never speak to, and doing things you could’ve never possibly imagined. Nothing beats shooting up in a public gas station restroom or in a bathroom at your aunt’s house during a family function. Or scoring in a parking lot after waiting hours and hours for that call, and puking all over yourself on the drive up. Oh, the memories. A lot of people give it a bad rap, but all the problems I’ve ever encountered in my own experience are due to a lack of heroin, never because I have too much of it. Sure you could OD, but I mean who cares? I certainly don’t! I see it as an added bonus, because who wants to live until they’re 50? Not me!  And if you ever even consider hitting me with narcan, I will stab one of your eyes out to thank you. Anyway, the other benefits? It teaches you how to be resourceful. How to use a syringe, and find a vein better than a doctor. How to go without food and shitting for days at a time. How to burn yourself with a cigarette when you’re on the nod. How to become a better liar, which is an important quality in today’s society. And, in general, what is really truly important in life. If you have the means, I recommend you go out and get some heroin (junk, dope, down, horse, tickets, H, cheeseburgers, brown, tar, scag, blows, dark) now. Drop whatever the fuck you’re doing—I don’t care if you’re going on a run to stay fit, or tending your garden, or watching your football team lose game after game, or doing yoga, it doesn’t matter. Drop whatever the fuck you’re doing and go out and get it now!

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999⁹ out of 5 stars.

Review of chef boyardee beef ravioli:

Every time I buy this 80 cent gem, I imagined a MC coming out with a can to fog machines, bright lazer lights, and pyrotechnics at a rap concert, then screaming into the microphone, “YYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOOO THE CHEF IS IN DA MOTHERFUCKING BUILDING!!!!”( or in my case my car), and the crowd going berserk like a bunch of caged reptiles on molly in the midst of a twenty four hour orgy. Ha ha. Okay, but always choose the ravioli over any other of the chef’s products, and never fuck with spaghetti-o’s—that’s pussy shit. Why? Chef’s ravioli’s are 15oz, compared to the 14.5 oz you get with the lasagna, spaghetti, and/or mac and cheese; I cannot speak for the beefaroni since they do not carry it at my local grocery connection. Also the ravioli has meat in the sauce as well as in the pasta, which I assume is a bit more nutritious and satiating. The last reason is the can is mostly stuffed with raviolis and the sauce is not used as a filler cough cough spaghetti-o’s with meatballs. They’re just great, and no stove, fire, or kitchen appliance is required, except for a fork or a spoon, but I guess you could just eat with your hands if you have to. The perfect meal for the broke hungry homeless person on the go.

4.5 out of 5 stars.

sucked into a black hole on date night

when you slap my ass

in public i think:

SEXUAL HARRASSMENT

in bold black capital letters.

when you take me to the

new big summer blockbuster in theaters,

and make out with me in the dark,

i hope i have bad breath.

i hope you notice.

i hope my bad breath infects your good breath

because i haven't brushed my teeth in three weeks
and contracted gingivitis

exactly for this very special occasion.

when you tell me,

"i love you,"

i start to peel

strips of skin

off my body

until there

is nothing left

but a smaller skeleton

resting inside a larger one;
you don't even notice.
instead, you just talk about how
bad you want me.

when you get hard

i pretend i'm high on

heroin and crack

so i can get wet

to get through this.

when you're naked

and ask me to strip,

i plan to steal 

your wallet,

and shitty family sedan,

then drive off a cliff 

in the country.

when you're inside me

sweating and moaning,

i want to abort

your cells from my body
in a bloody nebula that
swirls around the water
of the toilet,
and flush
because i have
the ability to both
create and destroy.
and sometimes
creation and destruction
are synonymous.

when you come,
i realize i never
have fun when i'm around
other people.
i realize i am only squirming

because i have to pee

and am in the mood for pizza/chicken wings,
which you mistake for an orgasm.

when you are asleep,
i tell you i'm pregnant,
and ask you to marry me
because i will only marry
someone i don't love
and never will.

deal with it.

How I Check Someone Out

With a razorblade.

i've never met a heroin addict in barnes and noble part 2: "as a sober member of society i am crawling along trying to get somewhere that i really don't care for, but as a junkie I had a purpose"

I've never met a heroin addict in barnes and noble, and today will be no different.

I slake my dehydrated bones at the faucet of the bathroom upstairs, behind the westerns/detective section.

The water fountain is out of order, along with the escalator that transports you back downstairs, but at least the air conditioning works, and no one has kicked me out of the store for reading and completing five books there in the past five days without any intention to buy anything #adulting.

Emerging from the bathroom, my feet lead me through the fiction section where I stalk my sixth victim. There is a promotional display at the end of one of the aisle's for bobby flay's barbecuing addiction. It is a memoir about bobby flay's crippling barbecuing addiction. How, at first, it was purely innocent, just enjoying some hot dogs and cheeseburgers at his adolescent daughter's friend's parents' backyard/swimming pool, but quickly spiraled out of control with him losing his job, his wife, his fortune, custody of his daughter, overdosing on some combination of burnt ends, pulled pork, and potato chips 11 times, and, finally, sucking 50 year old dick for a intravenous injection of BBQ sauce, and a rib. Eventually, he is able to stay out of jail and cure his addiction by becoming a jehovah's witness, and reclaim some of his dignity through the teachings of christ.

Instead, I pick up another book and sit down in the big beige cloth chair like I have everyday for the past six days.

Across from me is a girl with red frizzy hair who is passed out with her head in her knees with a partially opened copy of Death of a Salesman.

Must be interesting!

On my left is a young man with a tribal tattoo on his right calf who is researching how to start up and run a small business for dummies.

I wonder if he is insulted by being called a dummy by the yellow and black cover of the book.

Like pissed.

Like gets up, rips the cover/every page out of the book to shreds that falls like snow onto his feet, and looks around at all of us with bulging bloodshot fighting bull eyes, saying, "Fuck that bitch. Totally deserved it. I ain't no dummy!" before abruptly leaving.

Or maybe he is an employee of that company sent to figure out who is or isn't a dummy in barnes and noble, then kidnap, tag, and send everyone he deems are dummies to a concentration camp for dummies..

Shit. Who knows?

I certainly don't, but now with each passing second I am more convinced I am a dummy. That the word, humanity, is just a synonym for dummies.

After twenty minutes of uninterrupted silence, except for  the two gentlemen clangin and bangin away at the faulty escalators, the red haired girl wakes up, and the young man that may or may not be a dummy takes a break from his studies.

He looks at her before saying, "Wow, like you were really out of it. I thought about putting a blanket on you or something. Long night?"

He has the grin of a sociopath marking his next victim.

She laughs before readjusting her posture.

"Oh thanks for your concern. Yeah, I work at night in this Bosnian restaurant, and didn't get out until 3 in the morning," she pauses and gnaws on her bottom lip a little, "I really don't go out at night around town that much. Most of the bars are just like crowded with old people or college kids. The only one I go to is this like higher class dive bar that has karaoke from 10-1 every night. I'd much rather go to the beach or something, especially now since I have some free time because I just graduated college."

"Oh cool. Yeah, I like the outdoors. What do you do at the beach?"

I think about asking them for a bundle of junk, and taking both their wallets.

"I go kite surfing. I just started learning it from this guy named Zebulon who lives in St. Albans. It's really fun, but dangerous I guess if you don't know what you're doing."

I think about putting them both in a headlock, then say, "You both smell bad, but I smell worse, which means that I'm the master. Now come my children there is work to be done."

"Wow, that sounds like really fun. What's that guy's name? But yeah I want to learn maybe we can go sometime. Do you have a facebook?"

I think about prying one of my eyes out with a dirty fingernail, turn to each of them, say, "Ta da!" and showcase the white ball with its severed nerve still moist in the palm of my hand. Then explain how that was the trick, as I hold them down and baptize each of them on the forehead with the blood dripping from my empty eye socket. Making the sign of the cross in the blood with my thumb.

I am the master. I am the magician. I am the holy father.

Fuck you.

Embrace me sons and daughters, and I will deliver you to a paradise of bad feelings and excruciating anxieties.

Praise be to me motherfucker.

Now get on your knees, suck my dick, and pray.

(Actually, on second thought, I don't want my dick sucked, and never want to have sexual contact with anyone ever again. Just buy me a soda and two slices of pizza instead cause shit's expensive and I'm broke as fuck.)

"Uhhhhh...yeah I do."

The man who is certainly a dummy quickly looks down at his feet, then back at her, scratching the stubble on his chin.

"I mean like do you want to add me on facebook? If not, it's cool. I get the whole stranger danger."

The red haired girl laughs. They exchange names. They send friend requests. They are now friends on facebook, but not in real life. They are both sitting at barnes and noble not reading books. They talk. She talks about cheap places to eat, where the cheapest meal is $10. More kite surfing. More Zebulon. She mentions how downtown is the meeting spot for all her friends. He nods. The muscles in his face twitch as he feigns interest. He mentions how he was in the military. She likes organic vegetables and community oriented production and stability. His favorite hamburger is from mcdonald's but he keeps this to himself. She smiles. He smiles. They talk. She talks. He talks. People are trying to read. The earth is still a speck of dust in a vacuum that will be emptied into a wet viscous trash can any day now. Any day, we will be surrounded by more garbage than we already are before suffocating to death. And the word, dummies, is a synonym for humanity. And the definition for humanity is dumb motherfuckers.

Getting up to leave, I turn to the red haired girl.

"Just to let you know, he wants to fuck you, and I'm pretty sure you two will never be friends. He will be gone in the morning. Actually, it might be you who's gone. I don't know, (I can't predict the future) but there will be a locked door involved. You have to make a choice, and doing nothing is also a choice. But yeah, it's all bullshit. Or drug shit. Or piss. Or vomit.  Or period blood. Or dick sweat. Or violent orgasms. Or awkward good night kisses. Or being alone at night even though you're with another person, and that person may or may not be inside you. Probably it's all the above, so just slay the small talk, go for the jugular, and get straight to the point. Do you want to fuck him or not? I don't care, either way we will always be prostitutes. But I'm leaving cause I can't stand this shit anymore. You're both assholes, but I will always be the king asshole. I will always be the king. Fuck off."

I am a liar with plastic bones that melt under a giant magnifying glass being held up to the sun by the what ifs of today. My body spreads out across the pavement like an oil slick spreads across the ocean. Killing every thing that it touches. Always killing everything it touches.

Short Play

In a mall at noon. The sun is coming through the sky light, and a man in a blue dress shirt and tie is walking next to the janitor. The man in the blue dress shirt and tie points up at the sky light, and grins. The janitor stops, frowns, and writes something in a notepad with blue ink, before they both walk off. Mechanical children's laughter can be heard coming from a roller coaster simulation ride. A man wearing a red baseball hat walks past the roller coaster simulation ride with a toddler in a plaid navy blue and white button down shirt. The toddler takes off and sits in the seat of the roller coaster simulation.

MAN IN RED BASEBALL HAT: Yo, we gotta go!

The toddler laughs and screams as he pretends he is going down a huge hill.

MAN IN RED BASEBALL HAT: I ain't playin! Ya wit me, not yo mom remember?

The toddler puts his arms up towards the ceiling and sways back and forth.

MAN IN RED BASEBALL HAT: Not goin to tell ya again, LET'S GO!

The toddler stares into the screen and keeps laughing.

MAN IN RED BASEBALL HAT: Aight. That's how ya want to do it little homie.

The man in the red baseball hat shrugs his shoulders, then grabs the child's forearm, yanks him out of the roller coaster simulation, and starts walking dragging the toddler behind him. The toddler looks back.

TODDLER: Noooooo!

The man in the red baseball hat leans down closer to the toddler while still walking.

MAN IN RED BASEBALL HAT: Na I ain't puttin up wit this shit. Ya don't know who ya fuckin wit. I'm the king! Not ya! Don't let no kids run me.

The man in the red baseball hat walks the toddler out of the mall's front entrance. Mechanical children's laughter can be heard coming from the empty roller coaster simulation ride.

job interview #2

I Will Hammer Nails Through Your Feet Into The Ground, Bind Your Arms, And Tie A Ligature Around Your Neck From The Taught Rope Dangling Above So When You Decide To Rest It Will Be Permanent.

i've never met a heroin addict in barnes and noble part 3: "i only survive because i exist."

Read a review of the holy bible: king james version, on my laptop in the mall next to an old lady with a red aluminum cane, a soft drink in a foam cup from ihop, and a bright pink iphone, who was sleeping.

The review said, "hated it."

Which made me feel a little bit better about the state of the world for a couple of seconds, before i went to mcdonald's, and got a dollar cheeseburger.

ive never met a heroin addict in barnes and noble (Part 1: I kind of hate wal-mart, but at least they let you sleep in their parking lots overnight for free)

The orange light starts coming through the windows at 5:30 am, which is when I cover my eyes, and turn over onto my right side away from the driver's window. In those few moments of semi-consciousness, I think in pictures: a hamburger, chef boyardee beefaroni, a rope, pinched carotid arteries, natty daddys, broke in 5 days, budgeting, speed, xanax, gas, haven't showered in a week, the beach, unemployed, applications, left leg's asleep, cops, warrants, piss slamming against asphalt, brown teeth, american club cigarettes, spoons, needles, teddy bears, nembutal, stage 3 ovarian cancer, sand in my shoes, missed texts from last night, Eleven Kinds of Loneliness, knives, and death, and death, and death. And death. AND DEATH!

I close my eyes, and then my eyes open.

It's 8:30 am. The wal-mart parking lot has filled in like ink between the lines of a children's coloring book in progress. I reach down the left hand side of the seat, pull the lever, and lean forward, which returns my seat back to its normal upright position. The air is heavy and humid even with the windows down because the sun has wrung every last drop of coolness out of the translucent body with its clammy hands. I roll a cig, light a match, and let the tobacco add another flavor note to my rotten palate. A little blonde haired girl in hot pink shorts and a tangerine tank top peeks at me through short skinny fingers with swimming pool eyes, then hides behind her father's khaki shorts as they walk into the mouth of the store. I throw the rest of my cig out the window, point at my face in the rearview mirror with a fingergun, and pull the trigger. 

In the store, my tendons in my legs feel like ratty elastic straps ready to snap. This is the after-effect of sleeping in the front seat of a compact car for the past couple of weeks and being 6'2". I walk through the aisles and pick up a can of chef boyardee beef ravioli, holding it in my hand like a zookeeper holding the last panda bear cub on earth.

I never knew wal-mart had a radio station with a morning show, but they do, and we, customers, employees, drifters, children, are forced to listen to it. The two radio hosts, a southern man trying to cover up his accent and the typical token black man, assault each other with trivia questions about different products, Taylor Swift, and what sushi is wrapped with (surprise! they don't know.) After a discussion on why they dislike sushi, it's time for shout outs to random employees at wal-marts all across the country, possibly the world—I'm unsure if wal-mart has expanded and started the process of conquering other nation's population with the promise of low low prices. The shout outs all consist of saying the name of the person, their position in the anatomy of wal-mart, the store they are working at, reason for the shout out, and always end with the phrase, "keep on working hard," implanting it in everyone's brain so we all keep working hard at whatever we do so we can continue to shop at wal-mart for the rest of our lives.

This one goes out to Jim, the meat cutter, at supercenter 361 in jackson, mississippi, who just became a grandfather today. Congrats Jim, keep on working hard.

I go up to the register where a balding man with a broken ring of slick dark grey hair circles around the sides and back of his head. He has a name tag stapled on his blue polo shirt with a holographic purple smiley face sticker on it. His name is Red. Red smiles showing off his broken bottom teeth before saying, "Heya, howz it goin?" with a soft muffled voice. And Red looks so fucking beautiful.

Here's a shout out to Amelia, the cashier, at supercenter 147 in pittston, pennsylvania, whose 31st birthday was 2 days ago. Happy birthday Amelia! Keep on working hard.

"Not bad...how about you?"

His smiles grows wider exposing more bits of teeth.

"Ga-reat. Like really good. Yeah...really good. Hehe. Ga-reat."

Red grabs the can squishing the picture of chef boyardee with his thumb, and runs the can over the scanner.

beep.

"That's 98 cents, my man," he says.

I giggle and dig through my left jean pocket and hand him a dollar bill, while subtracting .98 from 62.37 in my head.

"Out of a hundo," he laughs at his own joke before thinking about it more seriously, "Like wouldn't it be ga-reat if ya had that. Like you'd be doin all right. Nawt sayin ya are nawt alright, but, like you'd be doin even better."

The register clicks open.

Shout out to Murray from the electronics department at store 233 in meridian, id, who is celebrating his seventh anniversary on the wal-mart team. Good job Murray, keep on working hard.

"Yeah, I'd be doin great. I wish I had that. Would totally give you some of that, and get you your favorite soda, or snack or whatever. But sadly I don't, sorry my friend."

Red slides two pennies out of the till with his index finger and into his palm then turns back to me.

"Heya it'z okay. It'z okay. You're really cool fa offering that to me. Hehe. Would totally take ya up on that offer if ya had it," he says while handing me my change, then points at the dunkin donuts located behind him. "But yeah, don't go to that place, theya just take ya change and don't give it back."

"Well fuck them. I need my change!"

He cackles like a little kid who just said his first dirty word on purpose.

"Yeah, fuck them. Fuckin theives. Would ya like a bag?" 

"Na, I'm good, but thanks though."

We looked at each other like two friends that are unsure if they will ever see each other again and don't know whether to shake hands or hug. I wonder if he will get a wal-mart shout out, probably not, but I would rather see Red get a raise instead.

Then in an overtly corporate training video voice says, "You are very welcome sir. Have a wonderful day. And thank you for shopping at wal-mart," before he switched back into his relaxed regular tone, "Haha. but yeah take er eazy, and yeah fuck them. And yeah if ya do get that c-note, don't fahget about me, jus come back here and get me a mountain dew and um some gummy bears and doritos, that'd be chill."

"Will do my man. You too. Peace."

We bump fists as I pick up my can of chef boyardee, and exit the store.

When I get outside an old man with a pot belly in a neon green shirt, glasses, khaki shorts, and white shin length socks asks me if I want to make a donation towards alzheimers research.

I think about my Nana, who I haven't seen in over a year, and doesn't remember me anymore. I think about how the last time I saw her I was getting a hundred off my uncle for heroin, but saying I needed that to pay the electric bill that's past due, and would pay him back in a few days; I never did. I think about how she used to feed me a big bowl of rice crispies with milk after school when I was a kid, while watching cnn on the kitchen tv. I think about how she used to make christmas dinner from scratch: ham, kielbasa, roast beef, green beans, potatoes, carrots, gravy, dinner rolls, tiramisu, chocolate pie, lemon pie. I think about how my mom, uncle, and aunt take turns making her dinners, while she is taken care of by a nurse. I think about how she has lost most of her memories.

"Sorry, I would, but I'm kind of broke, and need the rest of my money. Sorry."

"It's okay."

He approaches someone else with the same enthusiastic vigor, unfazed.

"Hi, would you like too..."

I think about scoring, and shooting up. I think about the blood rushing into the needle.  I think about never waking up. I think about killing myself. I think about how my life feels like it started in media res, even though it didn’t; there was clearly a beginning, a middle, and, eventually there will be an end. I think about Red. I think about gummy bears and mountain dew. I think about keep on working hard. I think fuck them, fuck all of them.

And then I think about death, and death, and death. And death. AND DEATH!

I get in my car, drop the can of chef boyardee ravioli on the passenger seat, and drive to barnes and noble.

take me somewhere nice

in the morning,
i wrap my cold body
in sheets of rain
and onyx thunder clouds
that are outside my window
passing by
like people walking down the street.
the puddles and branches
shiver in the wind,
as the grey ice water
flows through
the rivers in my body,
while i think about
what it means to die
in the dimming yellow
glow of the streetlights.
watching the firewood,
pile up against a stone
wall without
a flame, cannot shift
my shape from this permanent
rigor mortis.
awake and indifferent,
smelling like an
unwashed dog,
i wait for the light
to die
so i can bury today
in the cobalt dusk
under ashen fog.
fingernails digging
through a chest covered
in moss
looking for a heart
that's still thumping,
never at peace.
i've been around
other people,
had friends,
lovers, and
even sex, but
i know no one.
and i hold nothing.
beating back
blue rogue waves
that capsize ships
with supple palms
the size of cliffs,
i can feel the erosion
from a succession of days
breaking boulders
into tiny specks
before being swept
away by the exhaust
after a deep breath.
the warning signs
are in the smoke signals
drifting through the sky.
dripping wet,
sliding in between
photographs
and
dreams,
i lie next
to a low comforting
sound that has culled
me to sleep
for so long,
because it's familiar.
because it's mine.
because it's something you'll
never hear or understand,
which is what keeps my body
warm in the darkness
when my eyes
see nothing.

#adulting vol. 1

locked myself in a public bathroom stall for the last 20 min, and had a nervous breakdown. #adulting

had to dig through swollen bags of trash in a green dumpster behind a grocery store for dinner tonight. #adulting

stepped on an ant. #adulting

drunk dialed my ex while making mac and cheese, and told her i cant forget about the past, but if she wants to hook up sometime that's cool. #adulting

Couldn't figure out a children's puzzle with colorful plastic shapes that are supposed to slide through matching holes, so i picked it up and smashed it to pieces against a wall, that way no one can play, and i win. # adulting

was able to cut my tight pinky off with a pair of scissors to save my daughter who was being held hostage by a serial killer, but couldn't save my son from falling in love with another man. #adulting

learned how to give up my dreams and aspirations for a flat screen television and a cushy recliner. #adulting

havent had my period in six weeks, and i dont know who the father is. # adulting

got a job as a life coach even though i still havent figured out the meaning of it all. #adulting

bought a fleshlight for "educational" purposes. #adulting.

explained to my father that i was never molested by a priest when i was a child, but didn't mention how i remember him pegging me with baseballs when i was six. #adulting

ate a lunchables pizza for lunch, then look at the calories. went to the bathroom, and stuck my index finger down my throat before washing my hands. #adulting

put pebbles in a bottle, and sold it for $20 on etsy. #adulting

told my grandson that if you point only your middle finger towards the sky and extend your arm out towards a person, it means: peace be with you. #adulting

hung an ethernet cord from the rafters and tied it around my neck before levitating. #adulting

still breastfeeding after 30 years. #adulting

i worked out as i took selfies of myself working out, and tweeted about it. #multitasking #adulting

29, and still afraid to go into the basement of my house at night. #adulting

high school reunion coming, and i don't care what anyone thinks. but what should i wear?#adulting

just got trapped in a new group text, while contemplating my existence in the universe. #adulting

talking about my past so i dont have to think about the future. #adulting

started making restaurant reviews on youtube only about fast food items. #adulting

sold my soul for a paycheck at an advertising agency. #adulting

spent my afternoon on the couch watching a college football game instead of changing my newborn's diaper. #adulting

my french poodle's manicure is more important than a donation for syrian refugees. #adulting

told my mom not to vote for trump instead of saying i love you. #adulting

i secretly like nirvana, but tell people they suck cause they are too mainstream. #adulting

working at a drug rehab center as a counselor to support my crippling heroin addiction. shooting up in the bathroom on my lunch break. #adulting

pierced my septum so people can think im cool. #adulting

i strip on a webcam for middle age men because its easy money. #adulting

i shop at victoria secret because where else would you get bras and panties? not wal-mart! #adulting

walk in on my dad watching softcore porn on hbo before he scrambled for the remote and changed the channel. #adulting

being an escort is different than being a prostitute even though i tested positive for chlamydia. #adulting

making america worse than it already is. #adulting

a doctorate in cryptozoology. $$$. #adulting

sitting in a doctor's office watching ellen with terminal disease. #adulting

blaming gangs and video games for drugs and violent crimes when deep down i know it was me and my children. #adulting

posting an inspirational quote about how im empowered and over my ex on facebook before crying in the shower listening to celine dione. #adulting

od'd in a mcdonalds bathroom and never woke up. #adulting

i surround myself with people, but i am always alone. #adulting

i buy certain clothing brands to help me get laid. #adulting

pulled out a tooth with a pair of pliars and a pint of tequila, then placed it under my pillow to see if the tooth fairy is actually real because i just lost my dental insurance .#adulting

no love

don't get too close

because my sweaty dick

is a repeat offender

holding a buzzsaw

that's ready
to slice
you

into two messy pieces,

which can never be put back together.

straight down the middle.

clad in tight black leather chaps,
a white butcher's apron,

and a gas mask.

i am an infection.

i am the friend that's

worse than you're most hated enemy.
i am chernobyl.
i have the urge
to devour
anyone who
passes me
in the street
with one bite
then swallow,
pieces falling
into a bottomless
pit.

on my knees

begging you to take me out

with whatever's on hand,

as i absolve you of past sins

with greasy fingers,

tattooing bold oily x's

on your eyelids

in permanent marker.
blessed child

drowning in tainted holy water.

disarmed.

at my funeral,

i want my corpse

to be turned into a puppet,

strings tied to individual digits

that are able to control

my movements and expressions,

so everyone can take selfies

with a lifeless body in action
before the shovels dig
a hole into molten rock
surging in rivers
underneath the ground
and bury me within.

the sound of falling dirt,
lulling me to sleep.

icanhearyouhavingsex

when you closed your eyes,
i planted suicide bombers
in between your teeth
while waiting for the
light to creep over the horizon.
they splunk deeper into
the dark moist caverns of your body,
taking up tactical positions in the heart,
lungs, brain, stomach, and sexual organs;
nuzzling into the fleshy parts of yourself,
making themselves comfortable,
drinking liquor out of aluminum flasks,
just waiting for the command
to detonate in a large crowd
at a social gathering,
like at your sister's wedding,
or at your best friend's band's final show
or on your facebook newsfeed.
or maybe they will detonate
while you're sitting
alone on the toilet
taking a shit.
kamikaze love
menstruating blood
that i harvest
with a purple plastic bucket,
and dip the earth in
so i can pop it in my mouth,
and suck on it like a jawbreaker.
because everyone in this town
wants to be different,
which makes them all the same.
wearing longjohns under shorts
while eating molly
and organic vegetables
makes no fucking sense.
i want to be this generation's
flood, shoving a waterlogged
smart phone
down every throat
i can get my hands on.
gouging out my eyes
with pink/white french manicured nails,
and pouring bleach in my ears.
you will eventually leave just like
the stars in the morning
so i will feel less alone,
and that's perfectly okay
because i am
a smoldering campfire
killing time before i eventually burn out.
sitting around smoking cigarette butts
i found on the street,
while digging kitchen blades
into the abdomens of spiders
scuttling underneath my skin
then exhuming their punctured bodies
before taping them to my bedroom wall
and watching their spindly legs twitch.
trying to find any evidence
of what it means to be alive,
but only finding a speck of dirt in a vacuum,
and a scorched atlas.
cutting off different parts of myself,
thumbs, fingers, arms, toes,
legs, a tongue, fragments of skull,
a hard cock, an elbow, and
a pair of chapped lips,
then super gluing them
on the faces of your children,
as they squirm around
in pink embryonic fluid.
slicing the womb open with
surgical precision,
as i bite down
with fangs gripping
a peach colored chunk,
and pull back,
tearing open an opening,
so i can wash them with strings
of alcohol laced saliva,
before sewing the flaps
of skin back together
with a hypodermic needle
and green dental floss.
making them feel special
and cared for.
so i can get a piece
of funfetti cake
at a future ninja turtles themed
birthday party.
because i am the angel of death
embalmed in chaos,
and just to let you know,
even with the windows closed,
i can still
hear you having sex.