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.