a date with the family

The moon is made out of

Shards of broken glass

That reflect beams of sunlight

Into the atoms underneath

My skin.

I carve, “die children die”

Into your right hand

So you can look at it

Every time you masturbate

With a hard cock.

Afterwards you flush the toilet,

Thinking about whirlpools at sea

And drowning.

Thinking about being eaten

By hundreds of small mouths,

Or maybe just a couple big ones,

And what it would be like to exist in something else.

Something unknown with sharp tongues

And dull teeth that grind you into

Tinier and tinier pieces.

Turning you into a poison,

That makes the earth sick.

So sick that it pukes and shits

What’s left of civilization

Into the solar system

Bringing about the last great mass extinction.

The earth is alive,

Just like you or me,

And it’s gasping for air.

The effects of the causes

We believed in and fought for

That amounted to nothing.

We are not heroes, nor martyrs,

But what we are is aware

That our vision is skewed,

Images are blurry,

And our ear drums have ruptured

Because they always had to listen to the

Sounds of our voices.

Filling our skulls with lead or chemicals,

So we can tattoo what’s wrong with us

All over our insides:

You don’t know.

And neither do I,

As we devour what’s left of us

And ourselves.

Becoming something unrecognizable.

Something non-existent.

Clipping our wings

To make us tame.

no thank yous

when we talk on the phone
a spider made out electrical wires
and computer chips
crawls out of the receiver
into my ear
and connects with my brain
taking over every bodily function.
i can't think.
i can't breathe.
nothing to say.
no time to say it.
the spider lays its eggs
in the wrinkles of my brain
then dies.
when they hatch,
my head explodes
and fills the world with
garbage, stupid ideas, and parasites.
bringing on a new age of shit and piss
that seeps into everyone's pores
and eradicates all living cells.
no thank yous are needed,
no thank yous are ever needed.
but you're fucking welcome.

for an hour tonight, i thought about losing an arm and dying because i thought i had a blood clot in my left arm

this word is a tyrannosaurus rex composed of crumpled up balls of loose-leaf paper, containing scribbles and sketches of embarrassing artwork, notes from college, and failed to-do lists, the childhood toys covered in dust that we used to play with, cellphone parts, legos, double a batteries, arteries, veins, and blood, attacking corporate skyscrapers of steel, glass, black ink, and ashes, located in the epicenter of the borough of the frontal lobe in a city called, "my mind."

burn.

the definition: chaos returns to order, and order is chaos. out of the destruction: growth.

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.

if every day is like today then wake me up tomorrow (prologue) {rough draft and to be continued}

last night you told
me, "we need to talk."
as we drove
back to my aunt's
house up
luzerne mountain.
in the darkness,
my mind was
a rung out washcloth
that was already starting
to become cold.
i lit a cigarette,
and told you,
"can we talk tomorrow?
please i just need one day,
one day without stress,
and bullshit. i'm sorry,
but i just need a day.
one day, cause i don't
think i can take a
serious discussion today.
it's just too much.
every day is just too much.
i just need a break."
standing at the edge
of a cliff kicking rocks
into free fall with
the tips of my sneakers,
i thought putting it
off would coax me
away from the ledge,
but the world keeps spinning.
i couldn't see your
face. i was blind.
i didn't even know
you were standing right
behind me;
i thought you were
still in the car.
you quietly said,
"okay."
i was deaf.
i heard you,
but missed
the sadness sewn into
that one word.

okay.


when we got home,
i smoked a g-bong,
then a cig out of
my bedroom window,
as you were by
yourself in bed
on the computer.
after i finished smoking,
i ate a bowl of cereal,
and laid down next to
you.
tired,
we decided to watch cartoons,
instead of having sex.
i kissed you goodnight,
and passed out next to
you, in your arms
because there is
always tomorrow.

tomorrow.
tomorrow
we were driving to philly
to get your stuff
so you could move out.
tomorrow
was going
to be one day closer
to moving into
an apartment in vermont,
getting jobs, getting clean,
swimming in the lake,
paying bills, going on walks,
and grocery shopping together.
tomorrow
i would cook you dinner,
and do the dishes with you.
tomorrow
i would scratch your back,
and use my tongue and lips
to massage your skin.
tomorrow
we would talk
about our past, present, and future.
tomorrow
your hand would still be in mine.
tomorrow
you would still be here,
and we would still be together.
tomorrow
i would be happy
just because you
will be at my side,
and will be there
every tomorrow
after that,
which is
all i need in life.
tomorrow
is exciting,
and i'm looking
forward to it.

my dreams were filled with
fireworks, endorphins,
your naked body in mine,
and your words, in the time between.

tomorrow became today
when i opened my eyes.

you were already awake,
preparing for what i asked you
to put off.
for something
i had completely forgot about
when i was unconscious:
the talk.

my mind isn't a rung out washcloth anymore;
it is a tea kettle filled with water,
and your words are the flame.
the water comes to a boil,
and the whistling sound
never stops.

i am on my side
with my back towards you
as you wrap your arms around me.

"we need to talk..."
is never the start
to anything good.

your voice sounds like
a piano that is out of tune.
shaky, nervous, and sad.

tomorrow is now today,
and tomorrow is unpredictable,
and never goes as planned.

"first, i just want to say
i love you, and always will.
you are everything to me, mv.
you are my life, my soul, my world,
my happiness. i never thought i would
love anyone until i met you. i want
to spend the rest of my life with you,
and be with you forever,
but,
right now this isn't going to work out."

i am back on the ledge with
one foot ready to put its
weight down on thin air.
ready for my body to follow.

you grip me tighter,
as the tears start to metabolize
in the corners of my eyes.

"i can't go to vermont.
i can't stay here with you any more.
this just isn't going to work.
you can't keep supporting me;
it isn't practical.
and i can't just run from my problems.
i talked to my mom yesterday.
she talked to my p.o.,
and she's not going to put me in jail.
if i go back to philly,
they are going to put me into a program to get clean,
i have a job set up that is going to pay really well,
and my mom said she's going to send me $100 a week
if i do what i have to do, and stick with it."

the whistling sound gets louder and louder
inside of my head and there is no way to stop it.

the dam breaks and the tears start cascading
down my face into my pillow.
i keep my eyes closed;
i don't want to remember the visuals
of this moment in time.

"plus, i have to go to those court dates,
and take care of that whole situation
with my roommate after she robbed me.
it's just not going to work,
no matter how much we want it to.
we can't just hope that will get jobs,
and be able to support ourselves,
pay off our debts, and make it.
i want it to, but it's not.
when we go to philly today,
we are not getting my stuff.
you're just going to drop me off,
and go back home.
if you still want to go to vermont, you can.
i'll try to come and visit once a month,
but i can't go.
or you can stay here, and i'll visit as much
as i can. or you can look
for a place in philly because after my roommate
robbed me, my landlord won't allow anyone else live here.
we can make it work.
it's going to be hard,
but we can do it.
i have never loved anyone as much as i love you,
but like i said, i need to do this."

i start to shake, as the tears
and pain come faster and faster.
i wipe the snot dripping from my nose
into my spaceman sheets,
trying to pretend that this isn't real,
even though i can't escape the fact that it is.
i am not a magician.
and don't know any miracle workers.

"no matter what i love you.
please don't forget that.
please don't stop loving me."

you are crying now too,
still holding me in your arms.
trying to hold me together,
even though i'm completely falling apart.
shutting down.
this is what hurt.
this is what pain feels like.
riding a bike with
a collapsed lung is nothing
compared to this.

"so what do you have to say?
what are you thinking?"

silence.

minutes pass, that feel like years.

i am in total freefall,
watching the ledge i was standing
on with you grow smaller and smaller,
farther and farther away,
waiting for the impact.

more time passes.

at this point we are both crying
as much as two human bodies can.

"please just say something."

your words have dissolved my tongue,
all that comes out of my mouth is hot moist air.

"i need to take a shower."
is another way of saying
i need to leave.
i need to get out of here.
so i grab my keys, wallet,
and a fist full of drugs
while i'm in the bathroom,
and turn the shower on.
i look at myself in the mirror,
and see the shattered visions
of the future i planned
in the reflection of my eyes.
it resembles the half eaten corpse
of a decaying elephant
dead in the tall green grass of the serengeti
being consumed
by vultures and flies.

i tried to escape out of the other bathroom door
that leads into the hall,
and avoids the bedroom entirely,
but you opened the bathroom door
and walked in before i got out.
shit.
i was caught. 
but it didn't matter.
nothing mattered.
shut down.
and numb to the world.

"are you seriously going to leave right now?"

i can't even look you in the eyes.
i can't communicate my reasoning,
how i feel, or what i'm thinking.
i can't even say yes or no.

so i just leave.
i leave without saying a word or where i'm going.
i leave without my phone because phones are useless in times like this.
i leave you standing in the bathroom
crying hysterically in the unknown.

i run down stairs, still in my pajamas,
grey penn state sweatpants and a yellow t-shirt,
hop into my car, snort a line, drive five minutes
down the road to frances slocum state park,
and heading for the solitude of the woods.

"I wish one of your guys had children so I could kick them in their fuckin head or stomp on their testicles for you can feel my pain - because that's the pain I have, waking up every day..." (villains are always more interesting than heroes)

photo source

i am
a construction paper
third grade art class project
that didn't turn out right,
but my mom hung on the fridge
because of the effort.

i can't figure out
how to walk.
how to use my lungs.
how to get a job.
how to save money.
how to gain weight.
how to keep friends.
how to meet people.
how to help the world.
how to eat healthy.
how to assimilate.
how to fix my brain.
how to attain nirvana.
how to be happy.

i try,
but no superhero
will be able
to save me;
they aren't real.

i can't figure out how to live,
which is why i've doused myself,
and the earth in gasoline.

i flick a white plastic lighter
with my thumb,
and watch the flames
blitzkrieg my skin
and the rest of the planet
watching it burn.
turning us red,
we will remain motionless.

it feels warm,
like sitting around
a campfire, wrapped
in a blanket, next
to someone who cares,
and is willing to listen.

mummified in white ash
like the people of pompeii,
the sun will erase
the remains of our existence
with its breath
like the daughter i will never have
scattering the seeds of a dandelion,
and making a wish.

i am going to clone myself, have the clone stick a javelin through my head, then make sure i survive.

"you look like crap."

"thank you. i think i'm just a little down."

i am eating shards of glass
mixed with gummy bears
out of a sandwich bag
for dinner;
i haven't slept in four days,
and my eyes are weathered tombstones
missing names.

staying up late at night,
watching alien close encounters
on tv, as i wait
for my phone to ring.

smoking a cigarette
every hour,
while i let spiders
crawl up my legs
crossing the anatomical terrain
up to my head
where they stick their fangs
in my scalp,
and lay their eggs
in my brain.
bad thoughts
festering in
silence.

my pupils are shot
like warped records
warbling up and down.
i see shadows
out of the corners of my eyes,
and think about dialing
phone numbers for help,
but i don't want to bother anyone
because, unlike me,
most of my friends are busy,
and spend their free time
talking to people they love,
and care about.

so i drink warm milk
laced with holy water,
and don't feel any different
throughout the rest
of the night.

tomorrow, i hope for the best.

“lots of nightmares again. guess that’s freedom for you.”

i've been incapacitated,
bedridden,
for three days in
the back of a wagon
with the modern day version
of scurvy
clutching a bottle of vodka
under nascar blankets
from childhood.

(they make news stories
about this disease these days,
in the papers.
on the tv.)


self-medicating.
masturbating.
easing the pain.
the sadness.
the loneliness.

(my wife and daughter died three months in.)

dreaming of westward expansion.
manifest destiny.
gold.
a homestead.
boiling the bones of fish i caught,
with pine needles,
and bacon,
making a stew,
and only seeing my own grave.

two dollars in change
left in my dusty jean pockets,
i smoke my last cigarettes,
and clutch a picture
captured in my mind
close to my heart.

in idaho,
the oxen stopped
because they were exhausted,
and wanted to graze on some grass.
another 4-7 day delay.

cue the six shooters.
cue the cannibalism.
cue the tombstone.
cue the funeral music.

i am breathing dirt
and coughing blood.

a fact about myself; a fact about ice cream; a fact about romantic relationships; a fact about sex:

 source.

i can't eat ice cream out of a cone without
smearing it all over my face,
dripping it on my clothes,
and having it melt
in my hands,
which makes my fingers
sticky for the next 4-5 hours.

i spin the cone around
to the sections that are melting,
but my tongue just isn't quick enough.

the beginning of a longer piece that i don't have time to write because i have to share a computer with 12 different people. (excerpt.)

The only person you know is yourself, and it is a relationship you can't get out of.

You buy one of those plastic cube mind teasers with the metal balls, then smash it on the ground, and call it solved. 

You pull your teeth out by tying strings around every single one, and a door handle, then slam the door. Totally comfortable with gumming mash potatoes for the rest of your life.

You want to pull your covers over your head in the morning and disappear every time you wake up, saying to yourself, "Not now."

You pick your nose and make sure someone is always looking.

It's amazing how quick you can love something in a short amount of time. 

It's amazing how quick that something can break your heart.

You try to imagine the outlines of what something is, but you always come up drawing a blank.

You are a fucking idiot.

You only get hard at inappropriate times, which makes the people you care about uncomfortable.

You are perpetually uncomfortable, and build a graph to chart your uncomfortably over the years.

You will never understand people, and that bothers you for some reason.

You will never understand yourself.

you haven't had much to live for, which is why you spend most of your time pretending.

you calculate the pros and cons of each action, in the hopes of stumbling across a treasure that will save your life or buy more time; all you find is scraps.

broken pieces of something that was once whole.

the thought of another person finding any treasure, not even this specific one, infects your stomach with butterflies that have serial killer tendencies, and coats your skin with layers of sweat.

you haven't showered in weeks.

you haven't earned a living, which means no two story house, no in-ground pool,  no heated toilet seat, no sports car at 50, no outdoor patio, no backyard barbeques, just yellow teeth, blood in your spit, a runny nose, frostbitten toes, pinned pupils, late nights alone, high, distracting yourself with sad piano music, free games on the internet, chocolate bars, a dull pocket knife, and porn; the text message and phone calls stopped months ago, and never resumed.

your heart is misfiring, and beating irregularly.

you haven't fucked a pussy or sucked a dick in years.

you have been in love, but in love with imaginary friends who are based off of real people that don't talk to you anymore.

real people scare you.

you're talking to yourself in an elevator, and the people around you suspect that your brain was lost in a storm drain a long time ago.

spitting up yellowish green shit out of your lungs and onto the floor.

trying to show off to everyone around you, while you think about tying an ethernet cord into a noose, and drowning in a dirty bathtub.

try to predict what will happen after you close your eyes tonight.

just hanging around without any inner drive or ambition.

replacing hellos with goodbyes.

unhappy.

down.

no fun.

you're not brought up at family functions anymore, your parents' explain how your older sister is to interested relatives/family friends.

you haven't done anything important ever, so why should you start now?

sorry mom.

sorry dad.

 

homemade remedy for headaches.

sticking a string up my nostril and tying it around my brain, then attaching the other end to a car bumper, the car drives off, my brain pops out, and bounces off the road as it is dragged until there is nothing left.

this is my come up.

Mental Stability

I went to a psychiatrist and handed him a buzz saw and the jaws of life in the hopes he could save whatever good is left inside of me.

Instead, he wrote me prescriptions for Xanax and antidepressants.

High

I will collect an ounce of blood in a Dixie cup from the paper cuts on my hands, look cool, drink it, and then duct tape myself to ceiling with a opened canister of tear gas under my chin.

The Phobia of Phone Calls

Curled into a "C" on the bed with the cellphone pressed against my ear, and my spaceman sheet half across my torso.

Paralytic like the bodies belonging to feet that have stepped on rock fish.

I hear the sounds coming from the receiver, but can't process their true meaning.

So I bury my face deep into the sheet to hide the fact: I'm losing my mind.

I don't want to burden you.

I just want to be there to help you change your facial expression.

Your were there, but the voice I cared about was missing.

And the words and stories you told drilled tiny holes through my brain.

Old school torture.

My stability is escaping like carbon monoxide and I'm slowly starting to lose consciousness.

Until someone wakes me up to explain to me how your going through serious shit, and makes me feel guilt for the inability to understand.

Your still on the line, telling me that you don't want to talk to me if I keep misspelling your name, I'm sorry I didn't realize.

You have to go.

"I love you"

You have to think.

You hang up, and don't know when you'll be able to talk to me again.

And I'm exhausted, which is why I pull the trigger of the gun made out of my hand, and watch the bullet pass through what's ever left of my head, and crawl into a tub of ice water with no expectations for the next couple of days.

Post-Masturbation Thoughts

                                     Photo Source: (polaroidlens)
                                                                                           

You want to pose with celebrities.
You want to ruin their hair with a hand grenade.
You want to smear their make-up with a knife.
You want to dickride.
You want to get an autograph.
You want a purpose in life, and this is it.
You want a sink, some sandpaper and a bar of soap to smooth your skeleton clean.
You want a rehearsal.
You want proof.
You want people to like you.
You want to be expatriated from your body into a First World nation.
You want to be one of them.
You want to mix their blood into a cocktail, and drink it in hopes of a transformation—ice cubes cracking in harmony like bullets penetrating glass.
You want to smile without faking it.
You want to bring this up in any conversation you have over the next six to seven months.
You want to make an impression like an atomic bomb, quick and long-lasting.
You want to commemorate this, one of the best moments you've had in your life, with a statue, plaque, photos, and a status update.
You want to pay attention.
You want to cry, and scream, "WAIT! DON'T GO! Please...I just need a little more time."
You want to kidnap them—million-dollar wrists writhe and chafe against the scales of venomous snakes.
You want to suck the precum off the tip of a gun barrel of a tank.
You want someone to fire an artillery shell into your head, sending pieces of skull and brain through the layers of atmosphere, straight into orbit. Straight into fucking orbit.

After the climax, clean yourself  with some toilet paper, light up a cig, and pray for validation.



  

I Am Stretch Armstrong Deflating.

I am shotgunning the words coming out your mouths:
Binge drinking.
High sociability.
Tepid living rooms and chairs
Becoming more uncomfortable
With the passing time.
Looking out windows,
No one understands brain waves;
Evolution never presented us with antennas.
On all fours,
Searching for meaning while muttering the gangster rap lyrics:
"I'll shoot y'all in the motherfuckin face with a blue steel nine
While blowin the finest trees
Click-clack in my hood and you niggas will come out looking diseased."
Not making any sense.
Slurring speech stumbling into family portraits on the walls.
Broken glass coating smiles.
Dust sticking to vomit.
Too ashamed,
Thinking of past delusions while driving reckless
In a Pontiac through a downpour of foreign limbs
Coated in grease.
Hydroplaning into the grill of an 18-wheeler.
I couldn't wait.
Five months.
I apologize for speeding in hazardous conditions
Containing low visibility.
Exhausted.
I am Stretch Armstrong deflating.
Rubber burst.
Bits of teeth rotting in bad breath. 
Drowning, 
Face down in green goo.
Thinking about what it's made of
And not coming up with an answer.
I will stay silent.
I will not move.
Spaceman sheets over my head in quarantine.
Flippant and uninspired,
The room will spin and lose definition
Until I forget the contours of the earth,
And I believe that is the best I can do
Right now.

Bildungsroman

The Human body can perform extraordinary feats under dire circumstances. Some people have fallen out of planes from ten thousand feet in the air. Fallen at 9.8 meters per second squared. Reaching terminal velocity before hitting the ground. Bodies bouncing off the earth from the force of the impact. Still alive, heart beating, they come out of the fall with only minor cuts and bruises, and maybe a broken bone or two. Most humans who have fallen out of a plane die during the landing.

Some people, after being trapped, have flipped two ton boulders or heavy pieces of machinery over their heads, and off their bodies.  Muscles, joints, nerves, and synapses, under the influence of adrenaline, precisely synchronizing for milliseconds; never attaining nirvana again. Energy is efficiently spent, but it’s painful. Extremely fucking painful. Legs and fingers splayed and immobile, embedded in patches of sand or dirt. Overused, and worthless. Missing, but not trapped. The lull in between failures.  A portion of these survivors were discovered, life-flighted to a hospital, and nursed back to health. The other portion of survivors are never discovered and die from such an exhibition of power. Emaciated skeletons tanned. Epidermic leather hugging bone, forcing parched lips and mouths into the shapes of shit-eating smiles. They are going nowhere, and will never learn from their past mistakes, which is the root cause of why they are here in the first place.   

The Fencing Response

A missing mouth.

Missing momentum.

A phantom frontal lobe.

Cracked teeth.

Exposed nerves,

Dangling loosely,

Bathing in blood,

Spurting out of

An open gash

On my tongue. 

"I bit it on the way down."

"You were out before then."

She said.

Elbow to the jaw
Brain matter crashing into skull

The SMACK transmitted through 

Sound waves bouncing off the

Garage walls and neighboring houses.

Blood.

Twisted pupils and irises.

Bulbs of orange light suspended

In air.

The fall.

Pavement.

Another SMACK.

More blood.

Pooling.

Forming a puddle

In a depression on the driveway.

Resembling chocolate syrup mixed

With tar from a collapsed lung.

Unconscious.

Breathing.

Spine tense,

Before gradually slipping

Into a supine position.

Sensory receptors congealed with stress.

Arms stiff,

Rising towards the sky,
Unnaturally.

Inert from the forearm shiver.

"I'm sorry, it was an accident." 

She said.

I shrugged my shoulders,

"Don't worry, I can't remember what happened anyway."

She turned away

In the direction of the orange glow

Emanating from the street lights,

Igniting the end of a cigarette with a plastic torch.

Smoke dispersing into the hot, languid air.

"Someone got a video of it on their phone,

And posted it online. It has over 15,000 views already."

"Fuck." I said

Before curling into the fetal position

And resting my head in the center her lap. 

Her delicate fingers were skimming 
Through strands of hair.
Massaging the scalp in circular motions,
My arms went up; 

I pretended to be unconscious.