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.

if every day is like today, then wake me up tomorrow

my first response to waking up,
is closing my eyes.

i know the potential is there
to get out of bed,
to explore the surface of the earth,
to make french toast and sausage,
to expand my vocabulary,
to clean the dirt off my skin and brush my teeth,
to make money,
to clean my bedroom,
to drive two hours down 476 to 76 to oregon ave to you,
to have fun,
to love and feel loved,
to feel fulfilled,
to be content,
happy,
excited for the next sunrise, sunset,
and the time in between;
instead i choose motionlessness.
unconsciousness.
numbness.
i choose to do nothing.
i choose to dream.

i've become immune to alarm clocks,
and the pinging sound my phone makes
when it receives a text message from
someone who wants to hang out with me.  

my veins are filled with mud.
my brain and heart are dead batteries.
that i haven't figured out how to replace,
and i can't afford new ones
so i'm stuck with what i got.
stuck in this situation:
under the covers,
and shivering from an overdose
of air conditioning,
and the presence of your ghost
trying to coax me out
from under the white drywall sky,
loneliness of this room.
and into the sun.
into your warm arms.

i wish i was a stronger person, but i'm not.

curled up
on the blue tile,
knees scrunched into my chest,
in front of the vent
blowing hot air
over the landscape of my body
onto the bathroom floor
illuminated by the blue light
from the tv
in the other room,
watching the reflections of
young actors pretending
to be amish kids
kissing each other,
and slamming liquor
in a cornfield
on educational tv.
i am searching for comfort.

eyes watering,
isolated,
ignoring the people
i love the most.
feels like
i am at the bottom of the ocean
watching aspca infomercials
wrapped in a blanket of sand
even though i'm allergic to cats and dogs.
i feel guilt.

day four,
and i'm contorting my body
into a particular position
to disappear.
and failing.

restless legs.

my left hand is
reaching towards the surface,
icicles sloping off
hangnails and cuticles,
growing cold,
begging for a xanax,
and/or a sub,
and/or a bag of heroin.

waiting for a savior.

nothing.

my right hand grips it
hard
causing fissures,
cracks,
and blisters,
pulling my head above the surface
for one last breath of oxygen
mixed with nicotine.

it's uncomfortable,
but there is no way out of this.
i can only save myself.

i drink shots of saltwater for nourishment, 
and hope for a better future.

i feel like squeaky fromme
trying to assassinate
president gerald ford
with an unloaded gun.

Keeping Pressure On Open Wounds That Are Insecure

you can't see it,
but my throat
has been slit
numerous times:
layers of scar tissue
built up
layer
after
layer
split open
like broken threads
of string
cut open
with a pair of orange handled scissors
frayed.
covered with
a brown wool scarf
my mother
crocheted for me,
the first time she used
her hands
those delicate slender hands.
a christmas gift
keeping pressure
on open wounds
that are insecure;
they have the potential
to become
fatal.
blood soaking into
the fabric
turning it
crimson
more floods out
turning it maroon,
i take it off.
you can examine
the decaying words
lodged in my throat.
but i don't know
if i'll ever remove it.
my shaky hands show
i'm scared and nervous.

part one and the first two paragraphs of part two of an unfinished untitled short story

Today is different than yesterday, the sun is smaller, and no one seems to notice.

Two years ago, some scientists in Switzerland discovered that the earth has started to move farther away from the sun; it's regular orbit has been broken. A perfect circle has now turned into a spiral that's unfurling outwards.

After 730 days of studies, observations, and experiments, no one has been able to determine what caused this. All they know is that it has something to do with gravity, and that the earth is now being pushed farther and farther away from the sun, which means it's going to get colder. No one knows if the earth's orbit is ever going to stabilize again, or if it will be flung out of the solar system. And it's still too early to determine the future timetable of events or the severity of the situation.

The day the earth broke it's orbit, was the day the voices started.

At first, they were just whispers; soft syllables that blended together to form sounds, not words. I heard them while laying in bed. I thought it was my girlfriend humming a melody, while she read the paper and ate scrambled eggs for breakfast at the kitchen table, but I realized the sounds were too disorganized to form a song, and didn't have a rhythm. It was just noise. But, as the days passed the syllables evolved into words: sad, run, cold, alone, leave, no, love, shiver, die, end, sad, no, hope, fucked, shit. In a few weeks the words evolved into sentences:  

"In three years, you will need to build a fire and wrap yourself in a blanket. No one will be there to hug you. You will start to eat parts of yourself to survive the hunger, which is okay, as long as they are unimportant. Study what's unimportant."

I wondered if it was just me, or if this was an undiscovered side effect connected to the distance between the earth and the sun. I didn't know. I asked my girlfriend, Kim, "Hey, have you been hearing anything weird lately? Like have you heard any sounds even when it is completely quiet?"

A look of concern conquered her calm facial expression.

"No. Why? What have you been hearing?"

Kim and I met on the internet over four years ago. I was hearing voices back then too. They told me to kill myself with pills, razorbaldes, falls out of windows, baths in the deep fryer at work, and nooses made out of ethernet cords because nothing will get better; there is nothing to live for. She said she was worried, and frustrated because I had a problem that could be cured, if I just sought help. I didn't. She stopped talking to me for four months because she said that whenever we talked, it made her depressed. So I went and got help, then they put me on some meds to balance me out after a short spell in the mental hospital. We started talking again. I drove nine hours to meet her, and never left.

"Oh, nothing...I think the water heater might be fucking up again. Maybe we should call the landlord tomorrow to come, and check it out? It could be nothing, but it could cause us to catch pneumonia, which has the potential to kill, or we could abstain from showers, and get fired from our jobs. Either way, he won't be getting his money. Yeah, I'll call him tomorrow. The situation can become severe at any second."

Kim shook her head from side to side, which cause her brown hair to move back and forth.  She laughed, caught her breath, and sighed.

"Okay. And make sure you explain it just like that. I'm sure he is going to be very sympathetic with our plight, and send the best water heater repair man in the county over to investigate these weird sounds, which have the potential to kill us, and/or not pay rent on time. Plus,I don't think my body can survive another week of artic showers, after the last time. I was born in a warm weather state remember? Unlike you."

"Haha. True. Well now we are in the warm weather state you were born in together. I'll get right on it."

"Bullshit. I know that phone call will be made in a month. I think you would have a decent shot at the gold if procrastination was a competitive sport at the Olympics."

"My track record doesn't lie; I've never been a punctual person, so I can't argue with you there."

The muscles in her face relaxed. She sat on my lap, and we kissed.

Before she got up, Kim stared straight into my eyes, looking for any little clue that could lead her to believe that I was hiding something. My past has always made me suspicious, and I was never a good liar.

My eyes looked left for a spit second. I didn't notice. Kim did.

"I actually think I'm going to take a shower right now. See you in 15."  

Crisis averted.

Kim stopped before the bathroom door, and stared at me sitting there eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes with milk dribbling down my chin.


"Are you sure you're okay?"

Just kidding...BUSTED. She knows somethings up, just tell her the truth. Or at least a part of it. Like fuck? How'd you get a girlfriend, as amazing as Kim again? I'm surprised she's puts up with all you bullshit. For fuck's sake say something! I'm trying to help here. That's all I'm trying to do. I just want the best for you.

I close my eyes, drop the spoon, put my index fingers on my temples, and softly start rubbing them in small circular motions. My mom used to do it to me when I was little kid whenever I got upset with something. It always seemed to calm me down, but my fingertips have never been able to replicate, the feeling of relaxation and bliss.

"Honestly, I don't know."

"Maybe you should call your therapist, and schedule an appointment later this week. You know it would be for the best. Everyone needs a little help now and then. And it could also be something with your meds? You'll never know unless you go." she said in a motherly tone.

"Yeah. I'll do that."

I looked down into my cereal; the flakes were starting to break apart because they were becoming more and more waterlogged with milk, as Kim shut the bathroom door, and turned the shower and the radio on. I could her her whimpering in between songs and commercials, trying to hide her tears.


Over the course of the first three months, the temperature dropped ten degrees below average. Orange crops in Florida and California were in the midst of a genocide. 20 people committed suicide because they were unable to go on living in a world without orange juice. Most people were just mildly disappointed and able to adapt to artificial citrus flavoring.

The general public was unable to observe the sun shrinking in the sky because you had to be wealthy to afford sunglasses powerful enough to shield a person's eyes from staring directly into the sun. Majority were still looking at the ground, or at the screens of their cellphones. They knew what was happening, but it wasn't really affecting them so it didn't really matter. Some people actually thought it was kind of cool. Just another reason why earth was the most awesome planet in our solar system, and hell maybe in the entire universe.  I mean what other planet just breaks its orbit for no apparent reason, and has life on it? Earth's just a trendsetter; the moon it's bodyguard.

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.

 

The First Positive Step Towards Improving My Life

I pierce my tongue with a red hot nail, install a rusty padlock through the hole, then swallow the key; it's weight will prevent any true thoughts, and misinterpreted words from escaping, and imprison all of my secrets.

The lack of movement leads to bedsores and paralysis.

The lack of cleanliness leads to infection.

The infection leads to death.

Rigamortis.

Muscles spasms held in check under that heavy metal weight: my last words won't make any sense.

My words never made any sense.

In high school, my fingertips started to form little mouths that have grown throughout the years, and became fully functional. which meant they are the next to go.

They don't deserve the luxury of a sharp kitchen knife, a meat slicer, saw, or even an ax.

I don't deserve that luxury; I deserve pain because it has been proven that I am a terrible person.

Which is why I'm walking out to my $700 Oldesmobile, opening the front door, placing one hand in the door jam and the other, cocked, on the outside of the door.

Slam! Slam! Slam!

Then walk around the car and repeat the same process in the passenger side door with the opposite hands.

Slam! Slam! Slam!

"FUCK!!!" is the only thought I have until I look down at the mutilated digits that are cracked and splintered (bones sticking out of lacerations in the skin, pointing in all different directions, smashed fingernails, snapped joints, blown out knuckles, blood, tiny missing teeth scattered across the driveway, and  miniature broken jaws.)

Never able to speak again.

Never able to text, email, blog, or instant message.

Never able to unintentionally ruined someone's night again.

Never able to insult anyone without even realizing it.

Never able to be kind and empathetic towards anyone ever again.

Never able to wear an engagement ring or friendship bracelet.

From now on, all I can do is listen, and give yes or no answers with a nod or a shake of the head.

From now on, everyone who come into contact with me has the opportunity to be happy.

It's all for the best.

Positive Thinking 2013

Document1 (Autosaved) March 26, 2013 9:37 pm

Thought about throwing a ball of venomous snakes onto a middle-aged woman wearing glasses and a sweater, and carrying a James Patterson novel as she walked past the deli counter. A taipan gets a grip on her neck, bites, and drops her, face exposed and bloated pressing against dirt covered linoleum.

Thought about people giving up handguns, and strapping up with balls of venomous snakes.

Bustin. All scales and fangs.

Smokin blunts while neurotoxins and/or hemotoxins tear up vital organs.

And we all got some shit to say just for the fuck of it.

And this is my medium/fetish:

Watching a black mamba rub its belly across middle aged lips turning blue

While crouching down with palms on knee caps.

 

Thought about serrating my gums with a toothbrush,

And using the blood for facepaint

Then going to the dentist,

And saying, ‘Yeah, I made a complete mess of it.”

 

I’m not taking a shower this morning.

Thought about smelling really bad at work,

like head cheese bad.

 

Sorry for being self-indulgent.

I have zero confidence.

Thought about helping you rig up

Instead of wasting my time

In front of the computer.

 

Yes my gums are still bleeding.

Thought about giving up because what’s the point?

91513

You don’t want to go to work at your part-time job.

You want to lie on the couch all day covered in blankets, watching mind numbing daytime game shows, and popping k-pins in the fetal position hoping a giant boot crashes through the ceiling flattening your body.

Hoping it twists, grinding your bones into the broken couch parts, for good measure.

Skin and bodily fluids oozing under rubber.

Five minutes pass.

And nothing happens.

You decide against taking a shower and brushing your teeth.

You decide that smelling like shit and having bad breath will help you avoid social interactions.

You decide that having social interactions when you smell like shit and have bad breath proves to strangers that you have no inner-drive or initiative to do anything important ever.

It’s important for other’s to understand this because it feels good to be honest.

You want to be alone, but you don’t want to be by yourself.

You want to be able to do something amazing, but “something” and “amazing” are such broad, general terms that are too complicated for you to understand.

So you put your blue polo shirt on with the company logo on the sleeve, and arrive at work ten minutes late instead.

Upon your arrival, you become a different person who is constantly smiling, laughing, and taking an interest in other people’s lives by asking questions about their jobs, sons, daughters, grandkids, pets, sports teams, vacations, and church functions while slicing ham, cheese, and/or salami.

Just another version of yourself to hate.

They talk and talk and talk and complain and complain and complain as you nod your head.

Always ending the conversation with, “Have a great night!”

Not really giving a shit.

More concerned with the tools you have at your disposal to kill yourself (slicers, ovens, knives, deep fryer, saran wrap + a full bowl of potato salad.)

Only to shut the lights off to go home and do it all over again tomorrow.

The daily $8.05 grind.

Teaching you to talk to yourself, because on your shift you receive no new messages.

She told you to wait because she needs time to think.

And the books you took out and studied to interpret those words have left you with a bad feeling that can be compared to a stomach ache that expands to encompass an entire body.

So you’ve started destroying yourself, instead of being patient because you are a fucking idiot proving everyone who has called you smart and talented wrong on a minute to minute basis.

Which is making you forget about how fucked your life really is until tomorrow.

Then you watch a documentary on people living in the sewers of Bogota, Columbia and realize the whiny pussy you actually are.

And how little you actually matter.

Always second guessing the words coming out of your mouth in comparison to the emotions you’re feeling.

 

 

 

Dream Description/Apology. (I Might Be Developing Crossdressing Tendencies.)

We were in bed half-clothed
with our legs locked together.
My face
was burried in
your shoulder notch,
while you skimmed
your fingertips
through the hairs
on the back of
my head.
I pulled away
to look at you,
tears start welling up
in the folds of
my eyes.
Your hand
raised, waving
back and forth
in front of
my face,
saying,
"No! Wait!, not yet."
before it wipes a tear
from of the corner of
my eye.
The tear
smeared on the outside of
your index finger.
Then you picked up a tube of mascara
off the bed stand,
and started applying it to
my eyes/eyelashes.
I didn't object.
Or try to stop you.
I just let it happen
because it seemed like
you knew what you
were doing.
"Boys/men don't know how
to cry because thevy've been
told not to their entire lives
because they're supposed
to be tough.
So fucking tough.
Even though you're
all a bunch of pussies,
yourself included."
You finished the last streak,
and kissed me on the forehead.
"Beautiful. You're ready to go
whenever you feel like it.
Your physical appearance
has to match
your inner appearance,
which is why
you have to look like a fucking mess
when you cry."
So I did.
I looked like a fucking mess.
Black watery lines started crisscrossing
across my cheeks down to my chin.
You drew abstract images with them.
I instanstly believed what you had to say
and felt better;
I didn't need a mirror
to see recovery.
"I should do your make-up more often.
I mean you have a lot to learn,
and I have a lot to teach.
Once you get this down,
we can move on to dresses,
lingerie, shoes, accessorizing,
and how to protect yourself from getting robbed
by kicking your assailent in the balls.
Plus, it'd be hot if we both made out in real glossy lipstick.
Hahaha"
We laughed, hugged, kissed,
and then i woke up in my bedroom alone
900 miles away from you
wondering if I am developing crossdressing tendencies.

"I'm sorry for being a shithead for the past week. I love you. And yeah, I'm in serious need of a makeover. How's Thursday sound?"

A Fact About Identifying A Dead Body

Whenever two people play the game Guess Who? at a morgue, the winner never smiles.

My Mom Says The People I Hangout With Don't Stimulate Me, Which Is Why My Life Is Stagnant.

"We should go over Kayla's and play Mario Kart. I would rather do that. You remember her MV? She went to the hookah bar with us that one time. Plus, she's hot and I want to hook up with her. Like, why do you want to paint anyway? That sounds stupid."

radio contest idea

i am going to saran wrap my dick to your face with a christmas tree air freshner (or vice versa), and we will stay that way until you either rip my dick off and run away, or until you or my dick asphyxiates, or until we both die of dehydration.

i hope we stay like this forever with both of our skeletons locked together.
i hope they build a museum around our skeletons, and tastefully put a twister board underneath us, matching our body positions.
i want elderly people to whisper to their grandkids outside the exhibit, "now, shut up, pay attention, and don't touch anything, and maybe you could learn something."

this is my only future aspiration, besides scoring some heroin, wearing a lacy bra, and making Stephen Chapasko uncomfortable by flashing him as many times as possible before he joins the navy.

The Krokodil Effect

 

A half-eaten stump dripping thick brown fluids into the layers of dust, used plastic bottles, and empty bags of potato chips, my arms have become strong after the years of dancing to electronic house music with the assistance of aluminum crutches.  I move from side to side, wiggling hips to the bass thump as the skin disintegrates leaving trail of breadcrumbs for emergency services to follow.

I will never get lost in a forest, but I can/have been lost in a large crowd of people at a social gathering, which is why I have chosen to rot from the inside-out. Missing the vein on purpose. Two years to live.

There is no hope, only optimistic lies which lead to suicide and gingivitis. I have yellow teeth. Luckily, I saw a commercial for whitening toothpaste and an electric toothbrush.  The woman in it had perfectly white teeth and looked genuinely happy. I went to the Rite Aid and bought the toothpaste and the electronic toothbrush as a way of turning my life around. I used them every night. Brushing each quadrant for 30 seconds. Watching plaque swirl in the pulsating bristles, as the foam gathers in the corners of my mouth—this is rabies. After three months, my teeth were still yellow, and numb from heroin. But not numb enough, which is why I switched to krok.

 

I don’t care about celebrities, just cigarettes and cannibalism.

 

When we kiss, I will slit your gums and watch them bleed like a fountain in front of a national monument. I will jump in before security comes, and steal the loose change at the bottom of the rubicund pool with a hand missing digits because wishes never come true—I am a realist.

 

My lips are lined with knives, which slice tongues neatly in one smooth motion, eliminating auto-pilot compliments, self-centered sentences, conceited words, and narcissistic syllables—I hate my friends and relatives. I can sell them to you, but, just to let you know, they are worthless and defective. Planned obsolescence.  I will dry them in a wooden oven. I will grind their bodies down into a powder with a mortar and pestle, and mix it with household chemicals, then you’ll be ready to get fucked up.  Reaching cloud MOTHERFUCKIN 10! Yes, I can cook. Thank the internet because in the past, specialists diagnosed me with a low IQ, anorexia, ADHD, and you’ll never amount to anything syndrome.

 

You will receive a twenty dollar medal engraved at a trophy shop.

You will receive a twenty dollar medal engraved at a trophy shop when you sleep with one of my best friends.

 

When you sleep with one of my best friends, I will wrap myself in a blanket made out of the mantle of the earth and cook until I’ve reached the proper temperature for consumption.

 

When you sleep with someone else, I will listen to a self-help tape while balancing on the edge of a guardrail in meditation like an emaciated Buddhist monk.

Bust me out on this and it will be okay. I just need something temporary that will bring me closer to death to make it through this.

Turn up the volume because I’m not listening to the words you’re saying; I’m just drinking a warm beer in the bath tub, and holding my cell phone just under the limpid surface of the water until it malfunctions.

Lately, I’ve been thinking of becoming a porn star. Some straight up S&M shit. Ass red from leather smacks. With cat o’ nine tails etching abstract images into the skin on my back, I have the potential to own a mansion and an SUV with 24-inch rims, and a metallic green candy apple paint job.

Lately, I’ve been thinking I’ll become a rickshaw driver with just enough money to scrape by living in a tarp house in the slums of India, or a homeless man drinking a forty out of a paper bag, telling my life story to random twenty year-olds on the street as I ask them for loose change and a spare cig + a light.

 
Lately, I’ve been thinking removing my brain from my skull, marinating it in ice, frying it in oil, and selling it for $.99 a pound even if it’s past the expiration date.



No one cares.



I don’t care.



So alone.



Pushing away anyone who tries to understand my motives on a daily basis.

 

 

 

 

In Russia, they call it krokodil because your skin corrodes until it resembles the hide of a crocodile and falls off. Nothing left but a portrait of decaying skin and nicotine stained bones resembling frayed rope and bent pieces of oxidized rebar embedded in concrete.

I fucking hate all of you. I fucking hate myself.

My calling in life is disintegration.

 

 

(photo source: here)

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.



  

The Glow, Pink Pills, and Unused Condemns

I can be a good girl, but I'd rather bite deep into your lower lip like a mother bear in love with her cubs encountering a stranger in the middle of a gas station parking lot. The pitter patter of ruby pooling in a plastic cup;I will use your blood as a dipping sauce for my french fries. I will not share any of them with you because I had a slumber party with them last night. An all night fuck-a-thon. Now, I am covering the evidence. Chewing. Burning old love letters from high school in my parents' backyard garden during the terror twilight, I am creating a forest fire that will engulf all of Wilkes-Barre, and eventually the rest of Northeast Pennsylvania.

I have been inhaling fog late at night to forget about all the terrible shit that is about to go down in the next couple of days under a crescent moon. The glow, pink pills, and unused condemns on a three-topping pizza. Are we having a party? Or just fucking around like two dogs flashing teeth and snarling? Matted fur flying into the air, I hope you get a good grip on my neck because you owe me one. 

The earth will rotate from right to left scattering my thoughts into the whirlpools of the Susquehanna. Sucked down into the Knox Mine disaster, which we have completely forgotten about. I hope the effort of fracking the layers of my head for natural gas have paid off in net profit because our water supply is poisoned.

I wish we could fuck on a bed of nails without any trepidation. I have dwelled on this daydream for a very long time now. But it's withering. Becoming nothing more than a passing thought. I am unsure of my political affiliation, so I have stop paying attention to what's going on in the world. You can call it a hunger strike if you want.

And all my animosity and paranoia is condensing into a cloud floating through the sky: Indian Summer 2012. It will capsize and sink into the vacuum of space because I'm solidifying my place in history as the loneliest person involved in this city-wide project,which is failing. Because you're disinterested in studying the capillaries in my eyes. So broken and raw, you bury your face into the darkness in my shoulder. Yawning. Sucking it all in. Sucking it all in. I am brainstorming a list of animals that might exist, and I'm sorry, but a plesiosaur isn't one of them.

Try to perform fellatio on the erect barrel of a .22 rifle. Or eat out the remaining nuclear weapons in the world. Because I'm sick of the friend zone, and you need more practice, which is why I am joining a dating site for asian women who are christians. I am neither asian, nor christian, nor a woman. I am a caucasian male buddhist in a sweat stained wife beater bucking the trend on a wide variety of chemicals, which I googled online. 

You're in love with someone else; torturing the both of us in the process of revelation. Wrist tangled in shackles at four in the morning, all you want is the solitude of modern technology falling apart in your finger tips. All I want is a body infected with infatuation, and maybe leeches.

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.   

Let's Get Something to Eat Because I'm Still Hungover From the Argument We Had Last Night (Food Chain)

I am sharpening my teeth with the file on my Swiss army knife in the corner of our bedroom.

You are in the bathroom fixing your hair, and staring into the mirror. All frowns.

Teeth transforming into daggers. Hungry.

Waiting to drop you after one bite. 

Lacerating your wrinkle face, my stomach will digest your scrunched nose, and pursed lips before it disembowels itself.

Gutted.

The void will become a black hole, which will dine on our atoms as our bodies slip past the event horizon, and become long strung out streaks of color fossilized in time.

I will annihilate the earth unintentionally because I am irresponsible.

I will annihilate the earth unintentionally because your smile was concealing weapons of mass destruction.

Everything will dissolve into a single, solitary point, which will never be seen again because even light can't escape it.

The next few weeks are going to be interesting, but I'm not excited because 

I'd rather be sleeping.

a secret santa exchange before an unnatural disaster that affects two people

I know I gave you a portion of the left side of my brain

And you gave me a bag of peanut butter cups and words of encouragement,

But

You should sever my hand.

And I should sever yours.

Seriously. Hear me out:

The end is coming. The separation is coming. We don’t have a lot of money. Because we’re young and poor, which means I can’t come with you. And I probably wouldn’t be able to due rules and regulations.

I know you leave tomorrow. And that you’ll be FAR away. HAPPIER. Because you’ll be there instead of here, which means you have a better chance at being the first person to document a squatch. Becoming famous. And winning NOBLE PRIZE + a lifetime supply of tv show on nature channels (excluding PBS.)

Or just finding a job out there and never coming back.

But you should chop off my hand and let me do the same to you.

We can sew each other’s hand onto the other person’s body.

That way we’ll have something to remember each other by before you’re gone.

And I know most people want oral sex.

Or roses, red wine, and a fancy restaurant.

 Or even a kiss goodbye.

But

I want your hand sewn onto my body because then we can interlock our fingers together even though your 2782.57 miles away. I could massage the base of your index finger with the tip of my thumb. The friction of between finger tips. The warmth of another person’s body heat.  Will make me feel less alone.

But it will never be the same. Because it isn’t spontaneous.

Thanks for Writing In.

Thanks for writing in.  Thanks for poking holes my torso with a knife made of ivory and doing it in public.

I want you to light the fuse coming out of my spine with a BBQ lighter because it’s impossible for me to reach. I want you to taste the explosion like a master chef sampling his new creation, which will ultimately be a failure. The tip of my rib cage embedded DEEP in your right cheek.

Have a GREAT day! (Fuck Yourself.)