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.