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.
...

you are two hours away, and my call has been forwarded to an automated voice message system, which means i have to figure out what i'm going to do today

instead of going to the beach.
instead of going for a swim in the pool.
instead of getting a tan.
instead of eating steak off a paper plate at a family cookout.
instead of telling my grandparents about how i'm broke, lonely, depressed fuck up that can never achieve the future i want, and tell them about because of my selfishness, and poor choices; i'm not the good person they think i am, nothing special, just a piece of shit.
instead of taking a shower.
instead of hanging out with friends, who fight all night, get fucked up, and lose their ability to talk.
instead of hanging out with friends who i have to drive around because they don't have a car, money, or a house/apartment we can go to.
instead of playing video games.
instead of going for a walk in the woods.
instead of clubbing.
instead of going to the bar.
instead of meeting a couple from mississippi that is on their honey moon.
instead of going to the casino and wasting loose change on slots.
instead of slamming a bottle of tequila.
instead of brushing my teeth.
instead of ordering the perfector fusion styler off an infomercial at 5am so i can get salon results at home, and forever change the way i style my hair.
instead of saving money.
instead of looking for an apartment, and job in south philadelphia.
instead of moving.
instead of making plans to move.
instead of paying my credit card bill, and debt to my parents.
instead of saving a child in africa for twenty cents a day.
instead of writing a novel.
instead of putting my faith in the promises of other people.
instead of quitting smoking.
instead of turning my dream into a reality by working on it with my hands.
instead of looking forward to tomorrow.
instead of looking forward to today.

i stay in bed,
while waiting on a phone call,
or making them, and failing.
so i settle for texts,
and express how i'm feeling
through abbreviations,
and emoticons,
as i swallow
pieces of wood
and gallons of gasoline,
while i run a fuse
down my throat,
and into my stomach.

i light the fuse.
it crackles and hisses,
as it disappears into my mouth,
and ignites the fuel into flames.
burning from the inside out,
you won't understand
what's happening
until you are sweeping
the ash into a dustpan,
and dumping it in the garbage.

you find a charred note
on a piece of loose leaf,
written in black ink,
and stuck in between
the bones on the left side
of my ribcage.

"the only thing i ever
wanted to do was to be with you.
ps: sorry for overreacting." 

if i win the lottery...

if i win the lottery, the first thing i'm going to do is walk in front of a moving bus, feel the metal caress my rib cage until it breaks, and punctures my heart and lungs. when the driver gets out, i will thank him, by handing him the winning ticket, and ask him to finish me off by running over my broken head with the tire of the bus. telling him to enjoy the rest of his life. telling him to smash my brain like a watermelon. and he will oblige because money is money. money is the only way i can get somebody to do me a favor.

if only i was so lucky.
if only it was that easy to solve all my problems.

it's fun to dream.

Pussy

A loose eyelash embedded in milky bodily fluids.
Red spiderwebbed and irritated around the pupil, which is permanently pinned.
Or blue and unwell,
teardrops have started to erode the skin on my face,
forming smooth lines, which your fingertips study:
Some call it the path of least resistance.
Others call it being lazy.
Some call it perspective.
Others call it sensitivity.
Someone called me a pussy.
And, yeah, they're right,
Because I am a pussy
Going nowhere.

Smoking cigarettes on Carrie's porch after work at 11pm on a Monday night, we see a guy on the corner of South Welles and Northampton. He took his white t-shirt off, and started to twirl it above his head, like a sports fan in the stands with a towel, as he screamed at the passing headlights: "I GOT NOTHIN. AWWW MAN. NO FRIENDS. NO GIRL. NO JOB. I'M COMPLETELY FUCKIN BROKE. I GOT NOTHIN. AWWW MAN. NO CAR. NO BEER. NO FOOD. CAN'T EVEN AFFORD A FUCKIN BIG MAC. N-O-T-H-I-N. I EVEN SPELLED IT OUT FOR ALL Y'ALL IN THE CARS. NOTHIN."

The shirtless guy on the corner of South Welles and Northampton crossed the street, almost being hit by two cars in the process, then disappeared behind two houses, presumably into The Terrace.

Someone on the porch says, "Shit, that dude is going to probably get shot. Too bad I couldn't understand what he was sayin, I don't speak nigger. Hahahaha."

I remain silent; others laugh.

For the remainder of the cigarette, I imagined shirtless guy who was on the corner of South Welles and Northampton coming back and strangling all of our privileged, middle class throats, one by one, with his t-shirt.

"NOTHIN. I EVEN SPELLED IT OUT FOR Y'ALL."

It's what we deserve for never doing anything important for anyone else. It's what we deserve for never helping out. It's what we deserve for never speaking up against someone, especially when that someone is a fucking racist asshole. It's what we get for always trying to keep the status quo, instead of fighting for what feels inherently good.

The path of least resistance.

"Pussy."

prematurely giving birth behind bars while witnessing something that has never been seen before (This Could Lead to Divorce)

My bra feels like a piano wire.

Tangling around a neck.

Becoming taught.

Rubbing jugular skin raw.

It feels like I’m starting to hallucinate:

Your eyes are onions

And I’m pulling thin translucent rings

Out of your pupils

Because I hate the taste

And the smell .

That’s why I got all teary eyed

When I threw them in the garbage

*

The water broke. And he put me in handcuffs. Tightening  them way too tight. And carefully shoved me into the backseat of the car.

An amalgamation of fluids

Churning

Rustling back and forth

Against my belly button

Feels like indigestion

And I’ve taken recommended dosage of antacids

For a woman of my size

But it’s not helping.

And there’s no stopping it now:

PAIN.

“That’s it push!”

Latex gloves molesting my expanding vagina.

PAIN.

Relief?

PAIN.

Life.

I vomit out a fully formed child covered in a viscous film of half digested mash potatoes, shreds of buffalo chicken, specks of lettuce, and pieces of my personality saturated in stomach acid.

You smile behind your handheld video camera. Documenting every moment as carefully as an anthropologist in an unexplored region of the world.  Not missing a millisecond. Not paying attention. And you never held my hand or helped me breath.

“THIS HAS TO BE SOME KIND OF WORLD RECORD! WOW! AND I GOT IT ALL ON TAPE! THIS IS GOING TO BE AN INTERNET SENSATION FOR SURE!”

The doctor tries to hand him a sterile pair of scissors, but he was uploading the video on his smart phone. I grab the scalpel on the tray next to my bed and slice through the umbilical cord like it was a piece of paper.

PAIN.

“I still can’t believe I fucking got that on tape. What a fucking miracle. Right?”

The doctor tilts his grey hair down and exclaims, “Congratulations, it’s a girl.”

I readjust my body so that my back is representing my place in the conversation. It was terror twilight and rain was lapping against the pane of the hospital window before it dropped to the pavement below.

He inches closer to the doctor, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I mean, have you ever seen or heard of anything happening like that in your entire life?”

“No.”

“So this is the first documented case?”

“Yes.”

He rubs the outside his index finger over the scrubble on his chin. BINGO!

“You know this is going to make all of us fucking rich. Rich and famous! The rest of our lives our set my friend.”

He, the doctors, and the nurses, joined hands and began dancing and jumping up and down because they just won the lottery.

They put my baby in a plastic box, and left it as is because they couldn’t tamper with the evidence. It can’t be contaminated.

My husband posts the video on the internet, and it receives 50,000 views in the first three hours.

The best doctors from around the world are flying in on their private planes in order to study this strange reproductive phenomenon.

I think about the future: hours of medical tests and studies, syndicate talk shows, movie documentaries, parenthood, control, responsibilities, PTA meetings, and where I fit into all of this.

It was all his idea. And so far, he’s only touched his daughter through the movie screen.

“We are RICH! HONEY! RICH! RICH! RICH! No more office job. I can finally get whatever I want. And so could you!”

I peek over at our daughter motionless in the hodge-podge of fluids it was birthed in.

She isn’t crying, yet.

But I am, because I never wanted her.  And I never wanted to get rich. I wanted an abortion.

“I’m sorry, but she will be a carrot for the rest of her life,” the doctor said popping the cork off a champagne bottle. Foam raining down the plastic sides of the life support machine.

They go outside, imagining sports cars, awards, recognition, gold teeth, television specials, private jets, stacks of benjamins, and the American dream coming true in 2012.

Distracted.

I quietly sulk out of the bed in my hospital gown, and tiptoe over the linoleum, leaving footprints of DNA for forensic investigators to discover and collect later.

I look at my daughter. My baby carrot.

I love her, but she doesn’t deserve this:

I pick her up and cradle her close to my breast, swaying back and forth, humming a soft lullaby into her orange ear. 

I pop her into my mouth with a little bit of ranch, swallow and choke.

I will choke on her for the rest of my life.

*

Here’s some advice:

1. You’re life is not important because you get married. (The divorce rate in America is over 50%.)

2. You’re life is not important because you have the ability to reproduce.

3. You’re life is not important because you raise children.

4. You’re in jail, along with me. Life sentence.

5. And overpopulation is the number one problem in the world.

*

The jovial smell of jubilation masks the smell of bodily fluids drifting off the dirty linens in the hospital room. I bury my head in the pillow to escape the smell, and start tunneling through the center with a homemade tool made out of five scalpels and an ice cream scooper searching for daylight.

i didn't go to my college graduation (i got my diploma in the mail)

It doesn't make me happy when people shake my one hand and put piece of paper in the other, especially on stage. What would make me happy is if I could load my roscoe with my college tuition, cock it, pull the trigger, and pop the stacks of bills through the proud eyes of my parents/guardians. Through the sanguine mouths of my class. Through the clapping the hands of the audience, who is properly dressed for the occasion. Through the empty briefcases of job recruiters. And through the elaborately decorated robes of the faculty. 


Doing this, swallowing k-pins and smoking a Camel.

The body count is high.

It ruins the pageantry of the ceremony.

And no one outside this room gives a fuck.


A handshake and a piece of paper that has letters, printed in a fancy font, and signed by a person who is the president of a college, doesn't mean shit.