fuck with us. wilkes-barre we are doing it! only twelve spots to go.

177 out of 189 (and an honorable mention to allentown at 157.)
to my burlington friends, your shit is weak.

same goes for lancaster. i know you got that huge mall and a cool downtown, but you also have the amish mafia.

wilkes-barre.

you build fences around the projects, while getting drunk and shooting dope on week nights.

there are no jobs, unless you want to huff natural gas, and poison the water supply.

the exterior of the beehive has been taken out by bears, and your people have been killed by hornets.

bring the violence in 2014.

that feeling you get when you're chopping vegetables, and notice all your fingers on your free hand are missing, fresh blood all over your parents' granite kitchen counter, but you keep going because it doesn't seem like that big of a deal.

because you're hungry, and people make mistakes. right?

you'll have to find creative ways to get off when you masturbate from now on.

"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.

i will never be an astronaut because it is too late, and i'm missing part of a vital organ.

smoking a cigarette by myself on my parents' downstairs patio at 4am,
and looking into the night sky at constellations,
i realize i will never make it into space,
even though people are up there on a space station right now
orbiting earth.

i settle for pictures, books, and tv shows.

i never get laid because of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head

my stomach is full of plane crashes, derailed subway cars, and fatal automobile accidents.

things that malfunctioned.

things that hit walls and buildings.

things that hit each other.

things that are now classified as missing.

things in black body bags.

things being digested in stomach acid.

broken things.

disasters.

pieces of painted shrapnel covered in smudges of grease, and exposed wires, still shooting sparks, are stuck in the gaps between cavities.

my teeth are black nubs, and my gums are swollen/bleeding.

i am trying to become a better person.

the passengers' funeral processions march up the vertebrae of my spine embedding sad songs in the swirls of the wooden planks that make up their pineboxes.
 
they are:
former best friends.
deceased family members, who were coal miners that died before i was born.
and girls who wanted to hold my hand, and kiss me, then forgot about me because i couldn't decipher the signals of their bodies, voices, and words.

i loved them all, even though their faces are unrecognizable, and pay homage to them with a moment of silence before they are lowered, and buried in the wrinkles of my brain.
  
i am trying to get a girlfriend by brushing my teeth, cutting my hair, wearing a tie, eating wintergreen breath mints, and dousing myself in cologne.

but i never get laid because of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

wilkes-barre,

it's all because of me and you.

i am mortally wounded
in the band stand
on public square
covered in bee stings,
missing a chunk of my torso
with my hair singed
by the never ending mine fires,
no amount of heroin can resuscitate me.

in and out of consciousness.

pale.

open wounds.

bleeding out.

my body on display;
this isn't a sacrifice.

i am not a martyr.

there is a black handgun
in a army green holster on my leg
with only one round left
in the clip.

i am left with two options:

i can bury the bullet in my brain.

or shoot you right in the fucking face.

i love you, and i'm sorry,
but we cant live together anymore,
and this break-up is going to be messy.