"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.

the teddy bears we were given at our birth won't save us from the inevitable

so it goes,
i'm filling up a styrofoam cup
with brown snowmelt and debris,
and slamming it down.
sure i'm poor and thirsty,
but there is no reason behind this.
trying to construct a life
for us
made out of ice in
a sub artic climate
and watching it fracture and crack.
nothing is permanent
is a sure way to
DEATH.
i haven't seen sunlight
in weeks
except for video recordings on
television.
spinning around in the dark
seeing flashes of light,
dizzy,
throwing up in the toilet,
this is how i've chosen to spend
my time:
peeling skin off my fingers
alone in a room
locked in my head.
sorry,
but i can't let myself off
that easy
because destroying something can be fun
beautiful, and terrifying
all at once.
because i'm not a good person,
and people's lives are happier
when i'm not included in them.
not compatible,
out of date,
and smelling like four week old
laundry covered in stains.
bind my wrist
with a spaghetti covered t-shirt.
then lick my cheek
to get the taste
of blight.
swirl it around your mouth,
and spit it down the drain.
i can talk for hours
about random shit
that isn't important.
i can glue cigarette butts
to my lips so any offensive words
are filtered out into
old fast food bags
with moldy hamburger buns
and cold fries.
there will be nothing left to interpret.
there will be nothing left to say,
except,
"hi, how are you?
that's good.
im fine.
im okay.
that's cool.
oh really?
wow.
uh oh.
what are you doing?
word.
hahaha.
i understand."
no you fucking don't.
fluently thinking
before speaking
is what we call a
conversation.
DEATH.
this is supposed to be natural?
normal?
snapping wires
that connect
something to something,
someone to someone,
by clenching my jaws.
i haven't eaten
or brushed my teeth all day.
i plan to kill every flower
in your house
by breathing on it.
i plan to make you
submit by breathing
bad breath into your face.
i plan to make you submit by swapping spit
with a radioactive tongue.
side effects may include
nausea, shortness of breath,
loss of limbs, wrinkles,
an erection lasting longer than sixteen hours,
infection of vital organs,
suicidal thoughts,
cancer,
DEATH.
DEATH.
DEATH.
DEATH.
DEATH.
DEATH.

the way it always works out

there is
always
a space
between
you
and
me.

good moments are easy to forget sometimes

my coworker ria encouraged me to write some smut. 

"like sex. like write something that will turn people off and get them off. mv, i know you have it in you to write something like that." 

she told me about how earlier this week her son referred to his balls as "those brainy things down there," after he was describing his doctor visit to his older sisters. 
we laughed and had a full conversation about how balls, should from now be called and referred to as brainy things, "because they do kind of look like brains," and kept shouting "brainy things" back and forth to each other while cutting meat and cheese for customers.

then she told me my deli manager always says, "a dildo never asks, 'is it okay to stop?'"

i described to her what going into the projects is like. and told her that im going to be going away.

she then told me how much she and other people love me:

"like that elderly couple who i just waited on. they were seeing if you were here. but you weren't yet. then you showed up and their faces lit up. and they started asking how you were, and how you're a good kid, and to take care. then that other guy comes up and tells you how you're such a nice kid, cuts his meat perfect, then you asked about his wife and how she is doing. people love you mv."

right after, a guy walked up to the counter.

"hey dude how are you doing? i haven't seen you in awhile. you've been doing okay?"

i told him, "i'm surviving. and alive. what about yourself?"

he smiled, which made his beard move and said, "the same. at least trying to."

i handed him his pound of american cheese, "it was good seeing you, have a nice night."

"you to man. hang in there. and take care."

he walked away.

ria pointed at him as he walked away, looked at me and said, "see. people do care. there is hope."

i said, "yeah, it's just easy to forget sometimes."

then we proceeded to talk about dicks.

and how she doesn't like huge dicks. "like they're not all that they are cracked up to be. shit's intimidating. do you got a big dick?"

"7 and a quarter."

"not bad. but you might be too big for me. hahaha."

i snapped my fingers, and said "aww shit." then laughed, thought of a sam pink reading on youtube, and sang "big dick hustlers. we're fucking awesome." 

i pointed at her, then myself, and laughed some more. but felt kind of shitty because we know there won't be many shifts like this left because she's getting transferred to the duryea store, and i'm going to be put away. "don't worry mv. you gotta stop thinking. and just do it. i know you can do it, you can get through this. i'll miss you. but remember write me and other people something that will turn them on. just try out that sex shit, and make it hot and raunchy!"

"oh baby! i will try. but i suck at sex in real life, so i'll have to pretend. i'll mention people getting wet and big dick shit. haha. thanks. i'm going to miss you a lot too."

it's moments like this is wish i could save, and crawl back into when bad things happen, until they pass. because good moments are easy to forget sometimes.

Another Failure At Trying To Help Someone Out In Life.

I was smoking a cheap cigarette outside of work next to all the shopping carts, at nine o'clock.

The front end manager, Joyce, who has short, you know it's dyed brown hair, and is considered a bitch by all of the cashiers but likes me for some reason, walked outside, lit up a cheap cigarette, scanned the almost empty parking lot, then looked at me.

"Mv, is that my truck?"

There was a white, beat up, late 90's Ford pickup truck with a dented quarter panel in the corner of the parking lot next to the entrance with its lights on and engine running.

I knew she drove a pick up truck, but never paid attention to the color, make, or what it even looked like.

We have been working together now for two years.

I took a drag from my almost finished cig.

"Maybe, I mean it could be your pick up truck, but I'm not really sure."

Smoke coming out of my mouth along with the words.

She looked puzzled. Face scrunching up creating more wrinkles. Eyes confused. Upper body wrapped in a bright pink zip up hoodie with white flowers that a twelve year old would wear.

She hacked up a cough on her next exhale, and look at me again.

"When the hell did my truck get here?"

I snubbed out my cig. I didn't have an answer.

"I don't know. Really wasn't paying attention. It could have just pulled in. Or maybe it was here for like five-ten minutes, maybe longer. I don't know. I'm sorry."

I snubbed out my cig and started to walk back inside towards the deli, while she put her bright pink hood up, hands in pockets, with the her cig dangling out of the corner of her mouth as she made her way to the truck in question.

We didn't say good-bye. And I was back in the deli before either of us knew the answer.

I didn't see her for the rest of the night. Or the truck.

I never have any answers.

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

Not A Good Person.

I have the ability to make someone upset when I say, "have a good day," and mean it.

Getting To Know Each Other Slowly And Casually Will Be The Best Thing For Both Of Us. (Maybe You Should Slow Down A Little More?)

Tonight before we talked, I laid on the driveway thinking about what you said and how it made sense because it was true.

Because I fucked it all up like my third grade self's art class projects: never doing enough or always doing too much.

Confused and not knowing what to do, which is something I am familiar with.

Wanting to weave the right words into a blanket keep you warm on a cold windy night in October without suffocating you in the process.

Before we talked I felt paranoid like I was going to disappear within the next week and because of that you wouldn't remember my face.

So I got up, bolted through a series of thorn bushes, and came back to my house.

I whispered poisoned seeds into my cuts, which were created in my brain by my own thoughts and the advice of others.

One by one, I watched them roll off my tongue and into a wound, until they were planted across my entire body.

I took a shower and watched the different weeds sprout through the skin and grow; it wasn't special.

My body became a living garden, which I harvested after drying off with a towel, and turned them into a bouquet, tied all together with a ribbon, that I was going to give to you as a gift.

When we talked, I realized all the plants were light brown, and withered.

I threw the bouquet in the garbage when you weren't looking.

Then mumbled, told you how much I loved your hair, and made you uncomfortable.

Unconsciously performing the actions you said you didn't want to see or hear, yet.

And hating myself for it because in those moments, I had the realization that I didn't deserve you; the proof was in the shit floating around my head.

You are a wonderful person who shouldn't be having to experience my temperature swings created by my mental problems.

You shouldn't have to come up with something to say afterwards.

For the rest of the conversation, I wanted to put the hood up on my sweatshirt and hide behind it, but instead showed you items I bought earlier in the day and went through a foot/shin cramp.

You said I needed to eat more and take some B12, even though, at this point, I don't think it would help.

You said you were tired, we hung up, then I saw indistinguishable objects with secret meanings floating around my bedroom, and got depressed thinking about outcomes, instead of processes.

I knew none of these objects were actually there, and it was just another case of my brain fucking up.

Misfiring.

After we talked, I spent the rest of the night chain smoking cigs, practicing my speech, nodding off, and getting in touch with my feminine side.

Hoping that would help since I was out of B12 and cereal.

I'm sorry.

Before I went to bed, I forgot to brush my teeth; I'm going to wake up tomorrow with bad breath and a dry mouth.

Padlock Tongue Ring

You swallow glue whenever she talks over the phone about drunk ex-boyfriends, gunshots, parents, insomnia, starvation, silence, and near death experiences.

Just to have an excuse. 

It's not that you don't care, you're just unable to express it.

Near But Not Enough By Benjamin James Spurlock (MV Swydersky Remix)

 

 

Outside the rain came down.

A wall of endless white noise.

Footsteps on the sidewalk.

Hurry.

Anywhere dry.

In one room a woman screams.

Louder.

And louder.

“Excuse me… Sir. Do you have any Tylenol? My head hurts.”

Outside, a joyless dance speeds past; cars maneuvering around one another, desperate to get home. 

Observing from the fifth floor:

Screams, questions, and fluorescent lights accented by the darkness of night.

 Inside the flurry, a tireless tapping.

A lone elderly woman stands with her back to the wall, glassy eyes absent of life. Not staring at anything.

Almost all the old folk have been put back into their rooms.

Almost.

Repeat.

Screams.

Louder.

And LOUDER.

Transforming into a gurgle.

“Excuse me… Sir. Do you have any Tylenol? My head hurts.”

No one will come to her aid.

The nurses, inhuman, more concerned with the remaining time on their shifts and lukewarm cups of coffee in styrofoam.

 

Me.

In the dining room.

Mop head moving back and forth.

Back and forth.

Thinking about a dead MP3 player, and the walk home.

 

A slight pause.

 

The lone elderly woman with glassy eyes absent of life notices him.
 

Me. 

“Excuse me… Sir. Do you have any Tylenol? My head hurts.”

She no longer has her back to the wall.

“No, you have to ask an LNA.”

Dead MP3 player.

“I asked somebody. But, I’m not sure where they went.”

“I’m sure they’ll be back soon.”

The walk home.

 

My answer doesn’t register.  She looks confused. Off.

A chair. She needs a chair. 

Slowly, very slowly her limbs drag forward, muscles straining with every effort. Hands shaking grasp the chair’s arms. Finally, her weight finds relief.

I stand still, watching.

Observing.

             Forgetting the most important details instantly.

“Have you seen my daughter? She was supposed to visit me today.”

“No. I’m sorry.”

But not really.

            

…

“I’m not sure where I am.”

Either am I.

…

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I have to go clean another floor,” but she doesn’t hear me.

 Her head turns away back towards the wall, eyes relax. 

Lost.

Alone.

She rubs her shaking hands against her temples in little circular motions and mutters, “My head hurts.”

Slowly i push my cart past the sparse rooms and the nurses’ station. I walk toward the elevator doors, and the lone elderly woman with glassy eyes absent of life lets out another scream. I make a left at the elevators, and down the adjacent hallway. Looking out the fifth floor’s windows at the sidewalk below, I feel a slight pressure inside the frontal lobe, which turns into a sharp, sullen pain. I turn around and walk back to the nurses’ station.

 

“Hey, my head hurts. I was wondering if anyone has some Tylenol? Feels like I’m in the process of getting a headache.”

 

One of the nurses, a forty year old soccer mom, starts digging through her black leather purse and pulls out a small sandwich baggie filled with round orange/brown pills.

“Sorry hun, I don’t got any Tylenol. But here’s some ibuprofen. Hope it helps.”

“Thanks.”

 

The shitty thing is, it didn’t.

 

Waking Up At 2pm On A Sunday

You open your eyes, and immediately realize that it is a mistake.

You press your face into your pillow, which forms a general shape of the contours of your face, before balling your fist up and punching it out of existence.

Cover your ears, because the sounds you are hearing transform you into the perpetually unhappy person you actually are. See also worthless. See also fuck up. See the little man located in the center of the earth, making it spin and orbit. Tell him to slow down. Or to take a day off because he looks exhausted and gaunt. Or about how you want to watch the world stop so you can see everyone fall and hit the ground at the same exact moment. Ask him, the worst he can say is no.

"No."

Stand still, let your legs become sore, stiff, and cramped; you are not ready for today, and never will be. This is the reason why the words coming out of your mouth are tied together in a never ending sequence, stretching back to the point of origin, the day you were born. You assume you're pretty offensive after listening to the criticism of what the fuck is wrong with you. Like you wish you were mutated, green bubbles popping on the skin, so your physical appearance can reflect your inner-self already described.

Pull the covers over your head, close your eyes, and let the darkness under the covers absorb you.

Suffocate on carbon dioxide comfortably.

You don't feel like eating, so you pick the scabs off your back to pass the time, and let the wounds bleed.

Always hoping to bleed out, but never reaching the goal you set for yourself.

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. No Mercy. Hanging from a drop ceiling. Fish hooks exposed through your bottom eyelids.

Gettin Wavy Off Quarts Of Iced Tea

Someone today told me that they are swimmin in bitches and if I want to get hooked up to just let him know because he's at least gettin head every night.

I politely declined.

Thursday Afternoon 5/16/13

Smoking a cigarette out my bedroom window at my aunt's house, I saw two girls, late teens or early twenties, in floral sundresses and bug-eyed sunglasses walked down my aunt's driveway and through the backyard to the upper middle class mansion across from my bedroom window.

My aunt lives in a rich people development, where fences, inground swimming pools, decorative shrubs, flowers, and hedges, and yellow "no trespassing" signs guarding private acres of woods are the norm.

It's one of those places where residents wave at you while walking their well groomed dogs, even if you've never met them.

The flowers on bottoms of their dresses swished back and forth with each step like the flags outside a fast food chain, as their flip flops pressed down the freshly manicured grass— one of my uncle's favorite hobbies is keeping a pristine front and back lawn, but him and my aunt are currently on vacation. Some cruise to the Caribbean to get away from me, and Wilkes-Barre, or something.

They both started screaming, "OW! OW!" before disappearing into the guest house/garage which is connected to the mansion via covered brick walkway.

I rolled the remaining tobacco out of my cigarette, and watched the cherry tailspin and crash land next to a dandelion.

I closed my window, and thought about calling the cops, but decided to take some xanax and go for a walk in the woods instead.

A Facebook Response Addressing The Comment : "preach on brother swid." (Injecting Snake Venom Cocktails Could Prolong Your Life And Might Cure Cancer.) For Richard Vargas.

 

Okay.

 

So im not preaching as much as im taking it all in and regurgitating chewed food mess back onto the kitchen floor. And you’re down there taking it all in.

Im sick. Not talking, really just moving my jaws lazily up and down as I watch thoughts pass through the spaces between teeth. Getting lost and distracted as they float on the currents of warm air drifting through my bathroom— yes, my bathroom has its own weather patterns, which include hurricanes, tornadoes, droughts, and floods. Im sitting on the plastic toilet seat observing their slow, smooth movements. Like grape jelly filmed splattering against a white wall in slow-motion. Like it all made sense. But it never makes sense.

Nonsense: without logic; void of meaning.

Still, it feels important to capture and package these thoughts for food into plastic vacuum sealed containers. Preserved morsels of the past to be enjoyed at a later date.

I think im going crazy, but we all tend to second guess ourselves when we’re in the process of “losing it.”

Am I going crazy?

No. But I guess I have to pass some assessment. Because everyone has a voice, which means everyone has an opinion.

I am feeling fuzzy, like Im in a daze languidly exploring the parameters of this comment box with reckless abandon. And it’s dark and rocky like an underground cave or a concrete pipeline. I feel like I will either fall into a hole or discover a room decorated with gigantic crystals at any second.

I will go to bed tonight after witnessing a cigarette self-embalming itself (the ancient Japanese practice: sokushinbutsu), which is why it takes me three days to process the messages posted on/in my digital space.

But, for argument’s sake, Im sick, which is why Im taking it all in, and regurgitating chewed food mess back onto the floor—not preaching—but you’re still down there taking it all in, eating partially digested fragments of space and matter. So what does that make you?

It’s an interesting question to pose.

Who are you? And why do you care about me?

I thought it was en vogue to stay 50 feet away from anyone with any kind of disease, ranging from the common cold all the way to cancer, no?

And it feels like our breaths’ importance is equal in really cold weather, which is why they reveal their physical appearance, instead of remaining invisible.

Snot dripping from our noses. Cheeks red and chaffed. This notion will remain true ad infinitum.

Just like the notion that I could have done something more productive on my day off like learning how to play an instrument, depositing other people’s money in my bank account, or shoveling the backyard clear of snow so my neighbors could really understand the beauty of a well-cut lawn.

Oh well.

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.



  

Put Your Friends In a Shopping Cart And Push Them Away, Straight Into On-coming Traffic.

A chirp. A peep. A squawk. A click. Clicks—plural. A head seasick. Green. Hair spreading out in the wind. Take a picture. Paint a picture. Study the anatomy of the human body while wearing a zombie mask made out of latex. Fake blood tearing from half-open eye sockets; pupils nonexistent. White. Yellow. Teeth wiggle free from their holsters and jump out of the mouth like business men/women plummeting from the top floors of skyscrapers. Shattered and spread out across the floor. You can design a mosaic consisting of only one color to hang in a public bathroom.

Currently, bats are the only mammals that can fly. Membranes drooping off arms and echo location. Your jaw muscles snap the exoskeletons of winged insects. A crisp pop like a stick cracking under a sneaker. Then juice, puss, and guts sloshing back and forth, side-to-side—this is what health food tastes like. Red. Black. Purple. Sticking to enamel, a mash-up of other people's ideas swallowed. Digesting. Your stomach is a sound collage playing organic music for a singles bar on the outskirts of civilization.

A pile of body parts stacked unevenly, teeter-tottering to the thump of each bass note.

Put your friends in a shopping cart and push them away, straight into on-coming traffic.

Terrible? Sometimes.

Recently, I have been contemplating sawing my head off, and replacing it with the head of a mascot from a sports franchise or a big business corporation, or a cartoon puppet from a children's show so more people will like/believe me when  I'm apologizing for being a terrible person, sometimes.

I probably say the words, "I'm sorry ____" or "I apologize_____" at least 100 times a day.

Because I'm a terrible person who ate a box of locally made chocolate peanut butter candies in the shapes of apples + A Weekender sized bag of locally made BBQ potato chips. I bought them for the greatest/coolest person in the world, who is currently living in Washington this summer. I ate them because I was stoned and hungry at 4 in the morning, and there was nothing to eat in my aunt's house. I also got her a t-shirt and wrote her a letter. (I didn't eat it either of them— I wasn't that stoned) But I'm lazy and wasted too much time and too much money doing meaningless bullshit with people I kind of care about (okay not really), and now she's gone, and coming back home, and might not like me as much before she left because I'm a TERRIBLE PERSON who is unreliable piece of shit. Sometimes. It's a proven fact.

I'm the worst.

Multiply anything by zero and you get zero.

And I'm sorry for the times I was late in the past.  (#101)

And for eating all your peanut butter chocolates and BBQ chips. (#102)

And never sending them out in the package with your letter and t-shirt before you left. (#103)

And for driving by roadkill without even acknowledging its existence. (#104) 

And for not erasing best friends who only give a shit about themselves sooner. (#105)

And for not attemping to cure AIDS or cancer. (#106)

And for being a TERRIBLE PERSON sometimes. (#107)

I want to bake myself into a tray of cookies, which resemble nothing in particular so people that care about me will be able to hold me gently in their moist palms before tearing me apart with bleached mouths, and digesting me with alcohol stained stomachs. Afterwards, rinsing the parts of me, which got stuck in between teeth out with mouthwash. The last of my sugary shapelessness dissolving or being spit and sucked down a drain because I am a MOTHERFUCKING success. Self-proclaimed. BFA: Class of 2011. Smoking bowls at work in the cooler with a coworker who is a former crack addict; her sixteen year old daughter, our lookout.

I will enjoy baking in the oven. Watching the people I know talk in the kitchen. Not understanding words, nonplussed expression of boredom with occasional fits of laughter. I will enjoy it because at least this time, I don't have to awkwardly stare around the room at people and assault them with funny faces. I have nothing to say. Or no one to say anything to. Listening to the mechanical sound of convection humming from the oven as I turn a golden brown. It's comfortable. I guess.

Except for the plethora of frowns reflecting off the windows. And the melodramatic buzz of text messages broadcasting unhappiness throughout the room. 

I can make coffee, but I don't think that will improve the situation.

Fuck, I'm a horrible host, but I'm trying my best. Making eye contact. Smiling. Asking, "Is everyone is okay?" Mingling. And looking concerned.

But I don't clean. My room is filled with a random assortment of garbage, loose body hair, and boxes of shit that have yet to be unpacked. 

And with five people in here it's cramped.

I'm sorry, I am terrible person sometimes, but you'll have to adjust.

Because I really don't think I'm that bad.

I don't have cable.

I do have Netflix, an iPod + iPod boom box dock, and a N64 and some weed.

(I guess it's all relative.)

But please don't forget  me. 

Because everyone is a terrible person sometimes. 

I'm alright with that even though my fingers are hidden and crossed.

And I will try as hard as I can never to forget about any of you.

Untitled 8/31/12

"Black."

When your tongue is uttering syllables,
Which form convoluted sentences
Describing the both of us,
I am focused on whatever 
Image is on the TV screen.
I'm not really paying attention
But it's a good cover when imagining
A murder/suicide.

"White."

Slinking lower.
Spine crooked.
I am a victim
Responsible for the ulcers
Leaking blood on the floor
Of my stomach.
You are the catalyst
Erasing my chapped mouth 
With perfunctory statements.
I will never talk about myself because 
It's narcissistic.
I will never tell you anything about myself
Because you're not my biographer.
And never will be.


"Grey."

In the lull in between a smile and a frown,
I see a B-17 flying behind the backs of our eyes
Dropping bombs on strategic Nazi war factories
Located in our frontal lobes.
Avoiding flak.
Absorbing bullets from the Luftwaffe fighters.
Painted metal encrusted in flames falling from the sky 
Down the hole in your throat.
The resonance of self-defence
Is lost somewhere
In the acquiescence 
Between my mind 
And vocal cords.

Hi, I'm Not Happy and I Don't Know if This is Going to Work Out (Wilkes Barre: July 2012)

No fun.

Every night,
The same texts 
Promising a good time
Are sent 
Into an outdated object  
With wires, plastic, 
A one megapixel camera,
And a SIM card.
It feels more like a guilt trip.

Every night.

I respond 
Enthusiastically
Using general statements, like:
"Word," 
"That sounds awesome," 
"Oh," 
"Yeah def,"
"Uh oh,"
"Ok,"
Or  "Can't wait to see you in 15."
But I can wait,
Which is why I am about take a shower
And procrastinate through the whole process.
Forgetting cell phones exist.
Forgetting the outside world.

No fun.

You should be here 
Cleaning the film of dissatisfaction
Off both of our skins.
Faces frowning under the shower head 
In the streams of placid water.
Breathing in steam.
This tub is too small
for the both of us to take a bath
Together. 
Standing.
In close proximity.
I'm probably going to get hard,
Look down, look at you, and look down again
Skin stretching.
Distorting emotions.
Fuck.
Embarrassed, because I wasn't even thinking about sex;
I was thinking of a scene from this tv show
Where this puppet ape gets pulled over for a DUI
And tries to get out of the ticket 
By pointing out that fleshies started every war in the world.
It made so much sense.
Not the hard-on.
Or your reaction to it
Because none of this is even really happening.
I'm a compulsive liar.

Every night.

Someone should cauterize my mouth 
With a superheated belt buckle in the shape of an eagle
In mid screech.
Beak open.
All talons and wings.

No Fun.

Someone should unplug the ethernet cord 
From the backs of our eyes so 
our minds' wouldn't have to process as much information.
We can finally disconnect.

Every night.

Someone should break my legs against the bed post with a sledgehammer so I don't have to worry if my yellow t-shirt will match my black cut-off shorts.

No fun. Every night.
Every night. No fun.

"How was your past month?"

"It was rough, man."