10/17/17

a head like a smashed in jack-o-lantern
base filled with melted wax
cranial walls blackened.
the facade collapsing
in on itself like the core
of a dying star—
rot and old age
showing.
mouth
kicked in.
eyes
insect eaten.
scalp missing.
what was once
an attractive
orange face
eminating
a warm inviting
glow
now:
shriveled,
deformed,
unwanted.
just ugly.
organic,
not plastic,
and always
afraid
of mornings.

a power outage in dallas

it's okay.

in the dark
i still check my phone
for a missed call
or a new message.
check my computer for
a new email
as you talk to new friends
in person;
i talk to my silhouette
on my bedroom wall.

your friends are
a lot cooler than me.

it's okay.

some nights you
make out
with probably some cuties
while i sensually french kiss
the palm of my hand
with my eyes closed
and in the morning,
each of us might
regret this.

it's okay.
i'm okay.
i think.

i got a 14 year old pregnant

her mom watched a lot of daytime tv,
which is why she decided to forgo 911
and straight to the talk show studio.
she cries in her chair, while her mother
answers the authoritative host's very
personal questions about our relationships
origins, who i am, and what i do and dont with
my spare time in a not so nice tone,
passionate but uninformed.
and the audience is like, "wow!"
and im backstage getting my make-up
touched up staring at the monitors,
listening to this and seeing the title,
i got a 14 year old pregnant 
saying, "what the...huh?"
while being prodded toward the
main stage entrance
by hands and heads wrapped
in headsets
being reassured that
ill be okay as i wonder
if i will be okay.
if i have any downers left
in the hotel room.
coming out to a chorus
of boos thinking,
"you have to be kidding me guys,
oh man."
i dont really remember what happened
before the reveal, the results,
the climax and resulting falling action,
just that no matter what i said
no matter how true or untrue it was
i was just met by razor sharp words and
insults hidden in reactionary questions.
i was all entertainment and we all had
our part to play, we all had to do that
dance like good little sluts
except we just did it because of exposure
or in my case circumstance.
so i just sat there after a couple of minutes
scratching the fake wood on the armrest
of the chair with a worn down fingernail
not really paying attention to what i was saying
just saying things when im supposed to
for the sake of saying something.
because that was what they wanted.
but i knew i really didnt
have to do anything
just sit and wait
because
god sent me here to rock
them and you,
and in a couple minutes ill make
it hot, and in a few minutes even hotter.
it's up to them to
figure out whether or not im
good or bad
because ill never know.
when the results are read,
she is not pregnant,
but i am.
two years ago we met through an internet forum.
he wanted to be a teenage girl,
and i wanted to be an older teenage boy.
so we switched places,
which wasn't hard because
with a little make-up
and hair dye he passed
as a 12 year old she.
he passed as me or who i used to be.
my mom never paid enough attention
to notice.
the producers with shocked
faces asked for close ups
of all faces involved
and audience reactions,
speaking into their microphones,
"where else will the story go?"
but in my mind the story had already reached its
conclusion: the topic was ass to begin with.

i'm sorry for asking but please come take me home

i channel my inner television monologue
staring into the bathroom mirror in the dark
at 2 am on a practice run for spending
the rest of the night with my eyes open.
eating a bowl of pinecones patiently
waiting for the forests of christmas trees
to grow and bloom inside
until they are consumed
by an electrical fire.
just a bottom feeder
on the lower end
of the food chain
scraping by.
just creeped out
because i can't
feel my hair.
i don't think
i'll ever
figure out
what happened
to this place.
i don't think
i'll ever
get over
it.
waking up
not being able
to fall back asleep
is just wasted potential:
everybody needs friends,
but i've never been able
to stand up straight.
i think i like you a lot
only cause i'm so good
at hurting myself.
so lock all the locks,
take all the keys,
and keep yourself clean,
cause i'm alone again
and i don't like the things
i see.

severed skulls swapping vomit

when i woke up this morning i felt cheated that the kitten i was dreaming about didn't follow me.
wasn't there lying next to me in bed.
i couldn't fall back asleep.
just stayed up watching videos online all day about people playing soccer video games, fast food reviews, wrestling, and pranks without any actual interest in the subjects.
just passing time.
wasting the day next to a phone that stopped ringing years ago.
whatever.
light even turns to dark with the blinds down:
bluish grey to black,
the colors and their duration are the only difference.
i read emails from a correspondence a couple years ago with a girl from north carolina, and another with a girl from ohio.
was embarrassed.
not because of the content, or how those relationships played out.
was embarrassed because i shouldn't have said anything.
shouldn't have gotten involved.
should've stayed silent.
other people are scary,
and the person i'm scared of the most
is myself.

aborted my great grandmother with a gasoline douche and random office supplies just so i would never exist.

😻

my goal in life

is to be put into a coma

for the rest of my life span

so i could start over

because i
can escape
everyday
without
having nervous
breakdowns.

and in my dreams
i go over to a illiterate obese
girl's house
who offers me
twinkies and cherry cola
and wants to
fuck.
richard simmons
is on the tv
talking about
the secret to 
"perfect buns"
as she pulls
her panties
down
and picks up
a chainsaw.
her pussy smells bad
which makes me vomit
on her collection of 
childhood dolls
and teddy bears.
so she saws off 
my left hand
and
claims my right eye
from its socket
as recompense,
making us even,
before i walk out the door.

i make it to the train tracks
and get drunk
under the highway
alone in the dark.
i haven't eaten in
three days but 
nothing 
really
matters
anymore.
i smash a couple empty
bottles against the concrete
wall
guilty for fucking
up the earth
a little worst
than it already was.
i lay across the tracks
with my legs
spread open
like some
unconscious
16 year old girl
about to get stripped naked
and
raped
in an unknown bedroom
at a party
by some dumb fuck jock
who's a senior
and is going to get away
with it
because he's the star running back
on the football team.
as the twelve approaches
with two large stones 
on my chest
and a lit cigarette
smoldering 
between my lips.
i wait,
waiting for
the warm sensation
of being cleaved in two
my body penetrated
by heavy steel.
but the wheels of the train
miss
and squeal past
in a incomprehensible
blur
on the other set of tracks next to me.

always the fuck up.

i get up
with the understanding
of my hatred towards people,
even the people in my head,
and my longing to be
with at least one 
of them.

😻

to richard vargas

sometimes
i
feel
life is
like
an elevator
you're
stuck
in
while
d r u n k
and in
the possession
of
a backpack
full of weed.

and instead
of
hitting the help button
you have to
kick the
SHIT
out of the door
and have
someone you know
pry the doors open with
a hockey stick
so you can escape
then
a couple days later
someone who lives on your floor
rats on you
and you and someone you know
gets stuck with the
bill.

love is a...

in the meaninglessness of her life at 18 years old, she hoped that void would be fulfilled  with a boy or a girl and love on a computer screen.

so she could have a purpose: a core just like the center of the earth that kept it functioning and supporting life.

when she was younger, she was bullied at first for not having clothes bought from department stores in malls that were advertised in magazines, television commercials, and music videos. clothes are clothes, but these clothes had some particular type of animal sewn into them like a deer, a horse, or a elephant, or had the name of the brand strewn boldly across the shirt so everyone who passed and saw knew where it was purchased and how much it costs, which meant something.

she shopped at thrift stores or got hand me downs from her older brothers, sisters or cousins, which were noticeably faded and not brand new.

her peers would take photos of her without her noticing or permission, and create meme's or posts on social media sites using those pictures of her on how one should never dress, with titles like, "how to never attract a boy", or "2017 freak show aka failed science experiment" or "worst dressed/ugliest bitch/thing at soloman high march 2017." "faggot" the responses by her fellow classmates from both female and male students did not defend her, but supported the post or meme's message:

"i mean can't even try to look at that. scumbag. lol. it's not that hard try lookin in a fucking mirror!"

"it has nice ass but it's all fake, and i ain't fuckin that unless there's a bag on whatever you want to call it's head, strip it nude and drove its stanky ass through the nearest car wash, triple wrap my dick, close my eyes, try not to puke, and get paid a million dollars. na fuck that 200 million. haha"

each day was hell. she was taciturn and a recluse, and never told her parents about anything because they had their own bullshit about: working, paying the normal bills and her therapy, and trying to hold their marriage together in the meantime. They already had put up with enough of her problems; they couldn't be bothered anymore. so she started searching the internet not for fashion tips, like she used too, but on ways on how to commit suicide. most people don't realize this section of the internet exists, but it does, and is visited by more troubled teens and adults than a normal person can imagine. for some it's just a cry for attention, but for others it is a way to learn and how to teach.

suspension hanging. drug overdose. cutting the wrist deep into the arteries and vertically so they can't be stitched back together. procuring a lethal dose of nembutal from the internet. jumping off a bridge, or any tall building. a bullet to the binary.

she studied the methods, and the only three that were doable were hanging, cutting, or jumping since she didn't know where to buy drugs, didn't have a credit card to order any off line, and her parents' were against guns and hunting all together.

each night she practiced hanging ethernet cords from the beams in her closet, trying to cut off her carotid artery, which stops blood flow to the brain, and will make a human being go completely unconscious in 5-15 seconds, becoming braindead without medical assistance in 10 minutes, and completely dead in around 20. but each time she tried, she messed up, cutting off her jugular causing her head to swell with blood, and a violent headache, which lasted for an hour or so after each practice attempt—the failure pulsing along with her brain. she tried new materials (scarfs, shoelaces, ropes, bungee cords, and even a twisted up bedsheet) and variations on the technique, but to no avail.

"wow, i'm such a fuck up i can't even figure out how to kill myself properly," she muttered to herself before she went to bed, staring up at the fading glowing stars that hung from her ceiling thinking how she is not made for this world but is too inept or maybe too scared to escape it.

but one day, she checked her social media page, which she was in the midst of contemplating deleting, and there was a message notification, and from a boy no less.

"hey i know you dont know me, but i came across your profile through a mutual friend pop up notification thing on the people you may know and clicked on your profile. i dont know if you have a boyfriend or anything, but if you dont i just wanted to say i think you're really cute. and i was able to see some of the art you drew, and think you are really talented. and like a lot of the bands you like. i hope im not being a creep but msg me back if you want to talk or anything. i go to scranton, which is  a couple of school district away duh you probably know that but okay ill be waiting. have a good night."

she reread the message over and over again, trying to think of some way to respond that wouldn't make her sound stupid, desperate or like an idiot.

his name was lucas. he had short black hair that was kind of messy and neat all at the same time. from his pictures he looked semi popular, and got invited to parties. there were pictures of him holding beers, and plastic handles of bottom shelf vodka. her favorite one was of him with his eyes closed hugging a black cat's paws around his shoulders completely at ease.

for the first time in weeks, nooses, hanging off bridges, and razorblades slicing skin weren't at the forefront of her mind, it was lucas's tawny face, lip ring, and brown eyes.

she responded a day later:

"hey sorry for the delay. just been busy with homework and stuff. but i dont find you creepy at all. i actually think you're really cute and sweet. thank you for the compliments on my drawings, i mean they suck, but i'm glad you like them. i love your lip ring. when did you get it? oh yeah, definitely send me some bands, im always looking for some new good music. and to answer your question, no i do not have a boyfriend, but am currently looking for one if he's the right guy (-; if you're not busy sometime maybe we can get together. msg me back if i didn't scare you off and you’re interested."

the school week went by with the same bullshit, as she sat by herself at lunch with her hoodie over her head, headphones in, reading ned vizzini's it's kind of a funny story, and the oregon trail is the oregon trail by gregory sherl eating an apple and a xannie bar for lunch. ignoring the outside world, and just thinking of what lucas was up to right now.

he messaged her a couple times throughout the day, the last one being a skull emoticon = high school.

it kept her distracted, and her mind at ease.

she asked him if he wanted to hang out and go see a movie this weekend or something, but lucas messaged back saying he had to go out of town with his parent's, "you know, just another dumb family function. sry. but send me a pic of what you look like tonight, and we can pretend we're hanging out lol. i'll do the same. (-;"

she was somewhat disappointed, but hey with technology today you can still see each other and sort of hang out, just in a digitized manner. but fuck it something is better than nothing.

so she did her eyeliner, green/teal eye shadow, soft pink lipstick, and rest of her make-up, slipped on a tight black dress trying to show off the best of her features without being too forward or slutty, and did her hair up to the best of her ability.

after ten tries, she finally took a pic she liked, her head to to the side, with her chestnut eyes looking away, but still big, bright, and enticing, hair and pose as perfect and attractive as she could be, and sent it to lucas with the caption, "wish u were here." even though she preferred to use real words in text messages then abbreviations because they seemed childish, but in this situation to her, it seemed cute.

two minutes later, she got a response, "youre so hawt. i wish i was too," with a pic of his straight black bangs covering his one eye, his other blue eye visible, and pale white face in a frown.

she felt a warm glow inside as if someone stoked a fire, and started cooking marshmallows over the warm red coals.

"it's okay. you're so handsome. dont be sad. we will see each other soon!"

over the next couple of days the bullying still continued, but so did the conversations and pictures with lucas. she still had visions of a noose hanging from a tree limb, od'ing on drugs, or a bullet passing through brain matter, but they were less frequent cause now she also had visions of infatuation, attraction, and what could be the kindling of love.

as she lain in bed after taking two xanax, she touched herself through her teal lace thong and masturbated scrolling through the pics of lucas before passing out, falling into her unconscious dreams and fantasies.

hospice

i miss the hosiptal.
my bed.
the tubes
sewed into my side
draining blood
and
the sympathy
they brought
because when
i was close
to death
i wasn't
alone.

Father

I wish  I could dye my hair
to feel better about myself
because somebody thought
I looked like you,
but my darkness
is more complicated
than that.

6/14/17

i cant concentrate on my mood swings,
they're just something i have
no control of.
sitting around,
in a bedroom
after watching a eighteen
year old sucking
a hard cock,
face covered in come, just
feeling alone
and guilty.
what can i do?
except put it all behind me,
and absorb
the chemical deficiencies
until they become something beautiful
that i can tolerate.
an explorer splunking
the depths of his own
neurochemistry
until he dies from
the pressure.
not feeling
a goddamn thing.
consumed by angels
flying to heaven
with my guts
dripping fluids,
locked in their jagged
teeth.

the examined life is not worth living

splashing cum stains on a washcloth as i waste away in the night

when i studied
the geography of her body,
i became hopeless.
i am not
a cartographer;
i am shit.
sitting in the dark,
stuck in the routine,
i will tongue kiss her ring
to demonstrate my
dedication
as a busy body
coming down.
trying to control
her breathing.

fuck that

"That there was no such thing as a 'drug problem' or even 'drugs'- unless anything anyone ever did or thought or felt was considered a drug and a problem" -tao lin

total abstinence

i wish i was eaten on t-rexplanet.com

i whisper,
"words are just words,
and promises are just promises.
just a sleight of the tongue
and language. and the people who
say they care about
and love you
are the ones who can least be trusted.
friends.
ex-lovers."
as i close my eyes
feeling the time pass
while i can't fall asleep.
always believing they
are as empathetic
to me as i am to them.
playing the generous
sympathetic shoulder
to cry on, acquiescent
to all her/his demands
after one guilt trip,
and pluck on my heart strings.
i put them above yourself.
deluded.
i am shit.
a stupid cliche.
repeating the same mistakes
without any reward.
without feeling better.
like being at a party
where everyone is super fucked up,
you don't know anyone,
and even though you want to leave
you stay cause there is
nothing better to do,
but if i were you i'd still be throwing up.
tomorrow, if i get up, i won't be motivated
to masturbate, and will probably sit in silence.

4/16/17

in the beginning
it was just
a couple of mosquito bites,
scraped elbows and knees,
a fever, and chicken pox.

now life is
running
from a pack
of sharp teeth
consisting of
people,
places,
obligations,
ideas,
words,
and
problems.

running
as hard
and
as fast
as i can
until
the lactic acid
builds
and
my lungs
and
muscles
give out
to exhaustion
then a set
of canines
sinks into
my throat,
followed by
another
and
another
and
another
and
another
until i
lose count.

tearing in.
ripping
chunks of flesh
off my body
and
out of my psyche.

but i continue to fight
out of sheer natural instinct
to survive.
to continue to exist.
but like every prey animal
you've watched get attacked,
caught, and torn apart,
at some point there will
be no will left
due to fatal wounds,
blood loss, and/or
just accepting fate:
giving up.

the only difference
between
me
and
them
is that in the end
i will be disemboweling
myself with my own set
of teeth and maybe
i have the entire time
along with the others.

maybe there never was any others
and at some point
i was the one disemboweling myself
all long?

suicidal tendencies

i carve the same words
about love, loss, isolation,
lack of purpose, repetition,
regret, stagnation, sadness,
fear, anxiety, and hurt
with a sharp tongue
into my thoughts
and the brains of others
causing uncontrollable
bleeding, loss of
consciousness,
boredom, and finally death.

i'm sorry to everyone i hurt
that i care about and truly cared
about me.

i'm a fuck up.
a burden.

every chronic disease
can only be prolonged
by the hands of fate for
so long before they tire
and cramp because they've
done all that they've can
and what was meant to
happen, happens,
and no amount of luck,
prayer, money, treatment,
or technology can prevent
my destiny, or yours.

two shorts i enjoy:

Black Hole:

based on the graphic novel written by charles burns that for not being a huge fan of graphic novels a high;y enjoyed reading.

and even though it's passed christmas, a junky's christmas is a funny, relative tale of what a junky day to day to struggle, hardships, and weird bullshit that happens in that desperation of being sick, and trying to get well and high, hell even on christmas or any holiday. narrated by the only beat writer i ever really enjoyed: William S. Burroughs.

4/9/17

when you have no plans.
when you have nothing to offer.
when your atm always says "insufficient funds."
when you are told you can't sleep here again in an empty parking lot.
when you don't have a vagina or breasts to tease old perverted men with to send you money.
when your plans made yesterday always fall through and all you here is silence.
when you're all alone, unable to think, unable, to see the stars, unable to fall asleep trying to piece together where it went wrong. wishing you had a time machine, but knowing that would probably be useless to because you'd repeat the same mistakes.
when you go to work and fantasize about hanging yourself in the bathroom, while your coworkers serenade you with popular hip hop songs written and sung by artists you don't know because you're behind the times.
waiting on a response to an email where you poured your heart and soul to the only person you ever cared about so deeply outside your parents, and seeing no new messages.
taking medicine to cope.

tonight i hope someone tries to rob me at gunpoint, instead of coming across a nude women at a hotel grabbing my dick because i would rather be shot in the head then have an orgasm.

(ps. to the people who ask me to give them free pizza when im on a delivery, please stop. this happens at least 10 times a shift. 70 times a week. 280 times a month. if i could i would, but i cant which i'm sure you already know. i laugh along with you after you say it, but in reality i wish you wou either just give me some money or leave me alone.)

4/4/17

i pull my black denim jacket over my head at 6;30 in the morning in the hotel parking lot next to the professional baseball stadium in some major city, locking the doors, and hoping no one bugs me or calls the cops for the next 6-7 hours as i try to get some sleep.

before going to bed, the dj on the radio talks to a caller about how the friendships you make in your childhood, these bonds, last forever. that these people will be there with you from your childhood until the day you die. and that his kids will experience these same bonds with the friends that they are growing up with now. the caller wholeheartedly agreed, and talked about how he was just the best man in his childhood best friend's wedding. they talk about it as it was fact. something everyone will experience, cherish, and never lose.

reclining my driver seat back, my head full of dope, xanax, and false promises of hanging out with a "friend" today/yesterday/the day before that, their words echo off the walls of my skull keeping me awake for longer than my body expected. theses echos made me wonder what went wrong in my life, or am i just an anomaly? my childhood friends are locked forever away in memories like boxes of old teddy bears and comic books that used to mean something to me that are now stored away in boxes in my parents attic that will either be thrown away, donated to the salvation army, or sold at a garage sale in the future.

if i for some reason come across a picture of them on some social media site, i realized the people who i used to be willing to lie for in front of our principal or parents so we didn't get in trouble, or even imagined taking a bullet for are now complete strangers, who still live. still exist just like i do, but i know as much about them now as the homeless person outside dunkin donuts asking me for an extra cigarette or spare change.

as i start to lose consciousness, i realized all the unanswered phone calls, text messages, and emails, are just a preview of what's to come, and even though i've gone through similar experiences before, i am still never prepared or able to cope with losing someone i care about, and who i thought cared about me. maybe it's part of growing up, but if it is, that part of growing up is bullshit. and as many times as i tell myself it doesn't matter, it does. and no matter where i move, i am still unable to relate.

i shut the radio off, close my eyes, and sit alone in the silence trying not to think about it.

tax return dreamin while my new coworker talks about how he used to deliver tampons, condoms, soda, and plan b

i don't want love.
i don't want a brain.
i don't want a job.
i don't want bodily fluids.

i talk too much about blood and death.
and when the world is spinning
nothing makes sense.

jumping fences with
the ghosts of my friends.
vomiting in storm drains
with a desire to rent
mortal kombat the movie,
and beetle bug racing
for the n64 from the video store
and order a pizza on a friday night.

now: life is too complicated.
now: i just feel bored.

3/24/17

life is war, and when you're born you join the army of humanity. of exisiting.
and most of my comrades i grew up with and trained together didn't die by bullets from machine guns, bombs, dropped by planes, or artillery shells.

no.

most of my comrades died because they became focused on the busy tedium of existing and focusing on their lives, and in the process forgot about me, and i them.

we are no longer comrades, but strangers who stopped caring for each other, and couldn't even recognize one another if we happened to pass by each other randomly on the street.


but at certain moments, i remember them. i remember the times we shared, and memories we created that had an impression on me like two hands squeezing a lump of clay. i remember the foxholes we shared together in meaningless battles against rival factions, and authoritarian dictators who had us under their control. i remember, and in these moments i mourn. but there are no graves or memorials to lay flowers, or a trinket that held a special meaning between us on the concrete or marble facade. to shed a tear and reminisce getting lost in our shared nostalgia.

no. there are no physical reminders of the times we shared except for maybe a photograph or home movie of us together that maybe one of our parents saved.

no there is nothing for me but these moments, and they will come back spontaneously  into my life at certain times, in certain places, in certain thoughts, but for now this moment will soon come to an end, and i'll move on.

the only chance i have of saving my life is if the irs or whatever government agency deals with tax returns deposits mine in my bank account by saturday

wash your hands.
you're fucking filthy.
tangling yourself by spinning
a web of doing the same activities
every day.

you don't speak any more because
your mouth has become a gaping wound
that hasn't been tended too for too long,
so it's sutured closed and silent
to stop the spread of infection.

and there isn't much left to do
except wait for the
inevitable to come.
that bus is on it's way.

you dream of burning houses and robbing banks.
but you don't and never will.

surviving when your
life is in pieces
trying to put it back together
with glue and a keen eye,
but you always been terrible at puzzles.

and today you'll be told something,
which tomorrow you'll forget to do.

you don't know if you'd rather travel back
to the past or forward to the future
but right now anything is better than the present:
waking up to an oversize man talking about
how the government is poisoning the water supply
with all different types of shit and it's safer
to be drinking from puddles,
how rocky balboa was actually gay,
and how a cup kentucky fried chicken's gravy
is actually healthier than a bottle of that kombucha juice shit.
to which you say, "what?"
as you try to figure out something that will resemble
a relative response
until you realize
you are in your car
all alone.
it's 10am.
you can't feel your toes
anymore
cause of the cold.
so you have to turn the heat on,
which will cut into your
gas,
money,
and
future drug supply.

you close your eyes
while smoking a cigarette
before trying to fall back asleep,
get up,
get money,
meet your dealer,
get well,
go to work,
wash your hands.
repeat.

you've already accepted you've lost your mind.

fuck advertising. fuck selling yourself, fuck making earnings off your blog or what you create through advertising. fuck all that bullshit.

if you choose to do it i don't hate you, because we all have to survive and make a living.

i'm just saying fuck the people, society, company, government, or system that made it this way.

to all the lovers that will never love me and friends who stopped talking to me.

maybe it was just bad timing

or you were 

there

and 

i was

here.

i don't have much to offer

except some pennies i picked off the ground

jangling around in my pocket

along with a lighter,

a pack of smokes,

some scraps of papers,

old faded receipts for 99 cent cans of iced tea,

pepper spray,

car keys,

and a pocket knife.

i suture my mouth shut whenever

i had an important heartfelt message

or statement to say.

and you can't save me

when i can't save myself

or even know who the fuck i am

so how will we ever get to know each other?
how will we become friends?
go on adventures?
reminiscence about unforgettable days or nights spent together? 

or fall in love?

have sex?

make plans for the future?

make it through a job interview without having a full blown panic attack?

get a well paying job?

buy a house?

have a family?
reunite with people from the past at back yard barbecues,
talking about the days gone by as our kids do cannonballs
off the diving board into our in-ground pool, or have pretend wars on rafts
with water balloons and squirt guns, before drying them off, putting them to bed,
and talking about our current lives over beers in the flickering lights of citronella candles?
growing old together?
going to each other's funerals shedding tears while giving eulogies?
finally dying in peace life fulfilled?

i'm sorry.

i have problems,

and the answer is we won't.
i won't.

i am just a burden to the people i care about,

and the people that care about me.

it's only a matter of time before i go past the edge of your event horizon.
it's only a matter of time before i become a hole in your memory
and disappear forever without a trace.

i'll never get better after all, and i guess that's just part of life.

skin thin slices.
peel with a pairing knife
bought off an infomercial
discard into a compost heap.
and watch it grow nothing.
where is the epicenter?
the inner knowledge?
what makes it function?
what causes it to move?
what causes it to live?
what makes it want to live?
why live?
questions
that have answers,
which turn into more
questions.
after falling on snow that turned
to ice looking up
at the starless sky
with a pizza
and two chocolate lava cakes
strewn around you,
you realize you are just a manipulation,
and as much as you don't want to be,
this world
is real
and
it does exist,
and
yes you are a part of it.
and
criticisms always seem
more important than compliments.
but i have to stop here.
i need to get a fast food hoagie
and got work in less than a half an hour.
i got a free gift card and haven't eaten
an actual meal in 4 days.

underwear project: orange boxers/black lace thong, black push up bra

confusion.

that is the word my neural impulses have etched into my brain since i became conscious of what the world was.

who am i?

in the morning i wake up, i am a bad ass who's occupation is a bounty hunter like in the days of the wild west, body covered in scars from bullet wounds and slashes where i've been previously stabbed and slashed in the line of duty, covered in a navy blue suit jacket with matching trousers, in yellow button down shirt, with two leather holsters draped off my shoulders holding two 9mm glocks. quiet and cool. sitting at a bar drinking glasses of bourbon on ice, smoking cigarettes without ever showing any signs of being intoxicated.

just suave and sophisticated. confident. able to take care of myself. courageous and confident with the ability to pick up the mysterious woman in the black dress at the end of the bar without any trepidation or self consciousness. she sips a vodka tonic, hiding her complicated life with down turned hazle eyes that stare into her half full glass, and through her ability to turn down drunk assholes in gelled spiked hair, tight designer brand t-shirts, and drenched in a mixture of axe body spray and $50 cologne bought at some department store in some mall in some town in america with a sharp tongue and carefully poignant words that flow out her mouth effortlessly.

and if these men can't take no for an answer, and get violent i step in and handle the situation with a numerous amount of martial art kicks and punches. laying them out before we both escape in a taxi cab, while the cops are on there way. making out in the back seat, before sleeping together all night, and telling our life stories to each other in the intervals in between with our clothes strewn across the bedroom floor of the hotel room we held up in for the night. falling in love, in a single night, with each of us knowing due to one reason or another if will never last, because she's pregnant with her second child, her husband's in jail, and getting out soon, but until then, on top of her day job, she now has to work as a stripper at night just to support her three year old son, and soon to be newborn daughter. so we both move on never forgetting about each other, and this night for the rest of our lives. hoping maybe fate can intervene but knowing it won't. so we move on. we deal with it. and live out the rest of our lives in our own separate ways.

then the next morning i wake up. i am an anxious woman, who classifies myself as less of a woman and more of a mixed up girl. who looks in my bathroom mirror in the morning ashamed of who i am because of how other people defined me when i was growing up. No one ever taught me how to do my make-up when i was younger, or what color goes with this or that. or any female fashion sense. so i did my best to figure it out on my own by experimenting with this and that, and yeah sometimes it would come out horrendous, looking like some hideous clown slut, but other times i actually felt cute, beautiful. sexy. but, even then, i never had the courage to go out in public because i was too scared about what they would think: the few people i knew, my handful of "friends," coworkers, family, and even for some stupid reason strangers. the only time i felt confident was behind closed doors. the only time i felt happy was behind closed doors. when i would slip my black lace thong on with matching bra, curly brunette wig, tight black dress, strappy high heels, black stalkings over shaved legs, and choker around my neck, after my only friend did my make up in a way that actually accentuated my features and made me feel sexy, for the first time i felt like a woman, not a mixed up girl. ready to go out in public without apprehension. ready to have fun.

the next morning i wake up...

who am i?

who the fuck am i?

know my name and all my hideous mistakes

(art by: elly dallas)

i complain.
late at night to no one.
in the dark alone.
"why don't you know my name?"
tomorrow something else will.
come up.
even though i
haven't dealt with what happened today.
time has no breaks/brakes.
so i curl up on the driver's seat
with a black denim jacket over my head.
waiting.
for what?
i don't know.
just something.
to pull me up.
to shake me awake.
to kickstart my lungs
into breathing.
it's so quiet
when you spend
most of your life trying
not to make a sound.
and no,
i don't trust you.
and no,
i will never believe a word you say.
and no,
i will never understand people who are happy.
but maybe there's a cure.
every night before bed,
under my breath,
i rejoice
and simultaneously
curse your name.
it's quiet.
and
i'm tired.

2/25/17

on her own time.

she couldn't think of anything better to do, after drowning herself in a heroin bath, so she just did the first thing that popped into her mind.

after shooting up in a porno store parking lot, wishing she had the means to take care of a stray cat or dog (she doesn't have a place; she doesn't even have personal space), wanting a friend, she smelled a scent that she never knew.

it cut through the stench of piss and shit that stains her body and this city.

it cut through her short sighted dreams and her loneliness.

it cut.

it cut deep into her senses.

her anatomy.

carving her up until she was single minded without any future plans or purpose.

he reminded her of someone she used to know with more direction, moral fiber, and a will to live.

he walked by. she chased. she caught him. and explored his naked body with a rusty crooked switchblade plunging it into all of the places she felt pain in her own body. drinking it in. that scent. that aroma.

she slept with him for nights, not even noticing the hours roll by, lost inside his dreams. lapping it up, while looking deep into his sunken eyes. knowing nothing in life is permanent except a beginning, a middle, and ending. as the scent that made her feel something nice dissipates. knowing it can't be preserved. she takes a pair of scissors, snips his tongue out and sews it to hers because she's tired of the sound of her own voice. she gouges his eye out with an ice cream scooper, and replaces her eye with his because she wants to see what he saw. she chops her hand off with a cleaver, than his, and sutures it to the bloody stump on her arm with a needle and thread so she can feel what he felt. and with a pair of pliers plucks the fingernails off her remaining hand, then does the same to his, gluing hers to his and his to hers so she will understand how he used to scratch the napes of his former lovers necks, just like she used to do to her own.

she forgot to take her medicine today, which makes her think of all the lovers that never loved her.

she looks up.

the sky is starless tonight, and the hum of television sets projecting late night talk shows to people sitting alone in their apartments creates a soothing lullaby that is putting her to sleep.

it's two am on a tuesday night.

it's last call.

with her head down.

she has switched off safely.

both are still there and won't be discovered for a couple of days.

before the service before the papers. the interpretations by other people.

you can check it out for yourself if you want,  but for now let's leave it alone.

it's time to rest.

2/23/17

the only girl he loves he will never be with. each day he is cover in flecks of tobacco, dried splotches of blood, and the stench of fast food pizza. each day he carries multiple ink pens taken from banks, loose change, car keys, a pocket knife where only the knife, scissor, and saw portions are not permanently stuck in the contraption, and two bottles of pepper spray. he doesn't like other people. he needs protection from them, but he also knows he needs to interact. he needs friends. interaction. he can't forever be alone.

he thinks money wouldn't make him happy, but would make life easier.

he realized recently that he is more or less dead already. or a better way to put it is the difference between his life, and being dead is minuscule at best. get up. work til close. go to the doughnut shop to use the internet and eat two bavarian cream doughnuts. drive to the hotel parking lot. then sleep. wake up sleep. wake up. sleep. until it is time to work again. listening to sports talk radio in order to figure out how people can host a radio show or even call in without having a full blown anxiety  attack. seven days a week. he wishes he could to talk to the only girl he loves but will never be with every day but she is busy, and also likes to be alone. she is productive, and actually makes a difference in other people's lives and the world; he does not.

she lives what he would guess is seven to eight hours away.

they have never met face to face.

she has the habit of disappearing for sometimes years, and then contacting him again, but it's okay because the only time he truly feels happy is whenever they talk.

due to surreptitious life he lives, he lies to people, and some of the times he can't explain why.

due to the repetitive surreptitious life he lives, and his inability to cope, he doubts they will ever actually meet in person.

listening to the sounds of people socializing on cellphones, in person, over the internet, radio, or on tv mixed together with the natural sounds of the world and cars passing by, he knows it won't be much longer now.

coming soon:

a piece about a band i like, my last time in vermont, how three of their members hate me, how one is one of my best friends, a lesbian goose that also hates me, a person named natty who acted nice but hates me, james spurloc, kombuk, how much i love him. sucking dicks of bands who are on record labels, kombucha juice, the basement that phish played their first show in, being different to be different, which makes you the same, anxiety, depression, suicide, survival, appreciation, and why i will never be a successful artist. cigarettes, drugs, beer, and stray kitty cats will be included. sorry no sex or twitter, facebook, snapchat or any other social media.

and maybe a ghetto bible of self loathing for people who liked to be by themselves except for every now and again.

2017 is the time to die.

or maybe none of it will.

maybe it's time to quit.

just look at facebook posts, or twitter (even though i don't do that or any other social media.)
watch commercials.
watch people's lips turn gray in your car while making gurgling sounds as your driving while trying to give sternum rubs, and contemplate calling 911 before they come too after five minutes.
work a pizza delivery job 60 hrs a week.
realize you are alone most of the time, hate most people, but still want some human contact.
the few people you care about have their own lives, are busy, and don't owe you anything.
sit at dunkin til 5 am and observe. people falling asleep and getting kicked out. or getting into arguments and getting kicked out. or just absorbed in their smart phones battling over the sigle two outlets then leaving.
then go sleep in a hotel parking lot for the next six hours.
never being productive, or have ever created something that mattered.
it's all bullshit.

maybe it's time to quit.

when something is bad most people just state the obvious, and repeat that what is bad is bad. no one ever offers solutions. and the smart ones that do, their solutions will torn apart by some bullshit that really doesn't make sense so they fall on deaf ears, and nothing is done. open mindedness is dead. it's all about confirmation bias.

so hard to cope anymore. so hard to create.

maybe it's time to quit.

because the two questions i ask myself everyday that i find harder and harder to answer are: what's th point? and why does it matter?

role model

i've always aspired to be burroughs' wife.

dancing in a bathroom after successfully shooting up, jacking off thinking about killing yourself, and realizing you're transgender while giving blood at age 43

listen to more madonna.

complete life.

and scribble in the blanks.

because life is a mystery,

and i hear you call my name.

take me there.

in dirty clothes.

to strip clubs that smell awful

where i can fall asleep

and drink cherry cola.

i'll be alright awhile

because

it's like a prayer.

"i swear on my..."

your father's ashes really don't mean shit.

you always have told the truth
even though
you're the
biggest
fucking
liar.

1/5/17

You are at a family function: it's Christmas Eve dinner at your parents's house, the place where you grew up, but you're not allowed to say the night. So when the house is distracted as it is being filled with family, cookies, and presents, you take the screen out of your old bedroom window, hide it in the closet under some blankets, and prop it open so you can climb through later in the night unnoticed. Just like a year and a half ago when you snuck in, stole mom's gold necklace, sold it for money, and shot that into your veins. She always told you each piece of jewelry held a memory, and you murdered that one.

It still bothers you.

You are a murderer.

You understand why, but you just can't sleep in your car tonight.

Not tonight.

You think about yesterday and tomorrow, instead of savoring today, as you say hi and make small talk with your cousins, uncles, aunts, and grandmother, before you dart outside, snagging a bottle of bourbon and a couple cans of beer. They slosh around in the pockets of your coat as you walk through the backyard to the patio by the swimming pool.

You don't drink.

You try to forget.

It isn't working.

Your depression is amplified along with the loss of your motor skills as your stomach fills and mind drowns.

You tumble inside trying to avoid humanity because you feel so alone around the people you love, but your house is full so trying to camouflage yourself is impossible.

The room is spinning.

You vomit some Manhattan clam chowder onto the living room wall, but are able to keep the rest in your mouth before swallowing it back down your throat. Then you fall into another wall. Unable to stand, your family can't ignore you any longer, as the tears start to stream down your face.

Your cousin's kids: scared.

Your cousins: disgusted.

Your aunt, who has taken care of you like a second mother sits in her wheelchair: betrayed.

Your sister and her husband: embarrassed.

Your grandmother: heartbroken.

Your father: beyond pissed.

And your mother.

Your mother.

She rushes over with a glass of water, and a plan to gather you up into a bed. She hands you the glass and tries to pick you up, but she doesn't have the strength after all the years you put her through. You start to really cry like you used to when your were an infant as you're both stuck to the floor on your knees in the center of the room. You drop the glass and the water pools on the hardwood floor then soaks into each of your pants.

Wake up.

It is 4:30 am.

You are in a Dunkin Donuts in South Philly in front of your laptop with an empty brown paper bag and a flat half dunk can of diet vanilla cola on the table with a film of powdered sugar smeared into your black work pants. Under your hood the tears are still streaming down your face, as the Indian lady, who you trade pizza for doughnuts with, laughs and takes an order for a poppy seed bagel with cream cheese and a caramel coffee from a man in a teal tie and navy suit with white piping who is holding a brown leather satchel bag.

It was all a dream, but, for some reason, you can't stop crying,