callin myself back from under the spell

you will disappear.
or maybe you already have.
and maybe i have too
because we are part of
this thing called, "the world,"
stuck in this thing called,
"life."

people.
relationships.

the process:
particles becoming unglued.
swirling in the wind.
bored and disconnected
with the properties of
gravity and attraction.
scattered unaware
of how sorry
they are for themselves
and what they've seen.

just killing time, while
we wait for the fire.
sinking in silence,
pretending nothing's wrong,
since we haven't figured out
the words to describe it.

too busy with our toys,
the present, and our histories
cutting

the pull.

drifting helplessly
along
in the path of fate.
living free?
always searching for
right words,
or actions,
before
a deep breath,
swallowing,
then walking away.
maybe out of
habit or addiction.

doing nothing.

because something's
missing that
we can never define,
which would make our lives
complete, or at least bearable.
replaced by a nervous bug
or twitch telling us how to live.

so we stretch open until it hurts
always binding our time for
a set of shifty observant eyes
giving
the second opinion we've
been wanting to hear.
thinking,"not much longer now,"
until it becomes
a useless personal mantra,
said because so many universes
have burnt out in the meantime.

there's nothing left to hope for,
nothing left to say,
and no time to say it.
"it's only a matter of time."
"it's only a matter of time."

it's only a matter of time
until everything disappears:
you,
me,
all our memories,
other's memories of us,
all the people, places, and things
we have touched in life
(together and separately),
words of wisdom,
all the way down to
the final,
most minute
particles of matter.

but who am i to say?

i'm just another cynical smack filled
homeless lazy-boy professor with
a college degree, a broken head,
and an occupation as
a late night pizza delivery driver
drowning in radio silence,
tied down with the words
sewed into my skin by your tongue
creating promises that lock me
into an immovable position.

i am a trustworthy
person listening to what
you and other people have
to say, believing and caring about it,
which never makes any sense
to me.

i just have one question as we go through this,
when will you be through with me?

i'd like to know.
because i'll donate
whatever shit i have
left to anyone
who wants it.
...

"because i'm alienated."

how i won multiple championships for penn state football without ever joining a football team

From ages 6-12, I was the starting running back, quarterback, linebacker, wide receiver, defensive end, cornerback, safety, kicker, punter, kick returner, and head coach for the Penn State Nittany Lions every August to January.

I would play the highest ranked teams in college football every two days in my 20 by 10 yard backyard each afternoon, and in the early mornings before school in my kitchen to living room.

Against Michigan in 1999, I led my team back from a twenty point deficit, by tossing three touch down passes to myself in the final minutes of the game to tie the score with a 1:30 to play, grass stains streaking my jeans from having to lay out full stretch to catch the game tying pass in the back of the endzone. With :35 seconds left in the game and Michigan driving to take the lead, I picked off their quarterback, Tom Brady, and return the ball to with in field goal range.

The final kick came down to an 11 year old kid as the announcers alluded to, which was the biggest kick of this young superstars career, even though he had never played a down of  pee wee football, or any organized football in his life because his mother felt it was too dangerous, and he would never be able to play because he was allergic to grass. The pressure was immense because ever since the age of three his father made him study the history of Penn State Football by watching the 1982 and 1986 national championship games, which he had on tape, and through a computer program he bought off the local ABC news station, WNEP, that he would have look at for an hour each day that went through each Penn State Football season from the late 1940's all the way up to the 1994-95 season, which was the last year included on the program. Memorizing the great players, plays, and games that had taken place before he was born, as well as going through each season and listening to the lectures of what went wrong and right for each and every season. Then taking him to games at Beaver Stadium starting at the age of 6, and every year after, since he has owned season tickets since the early 1970's and every year after even to the present day. And being quizzed on random bits of information to make sure he had taken in, and retained this sacred knowledge, and information. This kid, this kicker with the weight of my families, as well as every Penn State fans hopes and dreams on my shoulders, was me.

In my family, Northeast, and Central Pennsylvania, Penn State Football is a way of life. Penn State Football is the dominate conversation for every family function no matter if it's March, August, October, or the end of January.

The most important moment in my eleven year old life came down to this. And I missed the first attempted, except miraculously Michigan called a time out to freeze me to make me miss, but oh did that backfire. Because on the second attempt: the snap was good. The hold was down. The kick was up, and good, right down the middle, over the two clotheslines hanging across the middle of my parents' backyard, which sent the imaginary Penn State fans into a state of wild delirium because Penn State was now into the national title game against the number #1 ranked Florida State Seminoles, which would be held in the same backyard three weeks later, that would be covered in 8 inches of snow.

Needless to say Penn State repeated as national champions for the fifth year in a row, after blowing out Florida state 45-16 in the snow bowl, with myself getting, the special teams, offensive, defensive, and most valuable player of the game, but sadly I had to miss the trophy presentation ceremony, gatorade shower, and post-game interviews, because it was already dark, and my mom had called me in five minutes earlier to wash up and get out of my ski pants, boots, gloves,and winter jacket, because dinner was on the table, and, "you know how your father is: when dinner is ready, you better be there or there's hell to pay." There were no congratulations or pats on the back because he never did get to see the greatness of the accomplishment where for once in my life I was able to succeed.

thought: 8/26/16

seriously considering if i can transform into a passable, attractive girl before the start of every shift at work with help at first before learning how to do it on my own so i can get more and better tips on my deliveries, instead of getting nothing on around 65% of deliveries, which is the current rate i'm running at now.

sex sells right?

and being a skinny white boy with a jovial attitude and smile isn't working.

false advertisement

after reading dunkin donut's new advertising slogan on a poster hanging on the window inside the store, i wonder if their new bakery sandwiches are as addictive and euphoric as hard drugs, which is what they are making them out to be.

In this parking lot,

The silhouettes

Of dead children

Trapped in cages

Hang from

Buzzing streetlights;

Their featureless

Corpses creak

In the warm

Summer breeze

Unnoticed,

Except for the gulls

And pigeons

Who pick their

Stiff flesh

Down to the bone.

In this parking lot,

Security cameras

Capture disenfranchised

Faces whose frustration

Expands like

Puddles of piss

Across the asphalt

Leaving damp trails

That lead nowhere,

Until they are erased

By the white hands

Of the morning sun,

And are forgotten

Before noon.

In this parking lot,

Apathy bubbles

Under the skin

Before it permeates

Out of pores

Due to heat, humidity,

And a lack of shelter—

Sweat coats

The body

In a slick

That forms

Mountain ranges

Of pimples

That are clawed open,

Instead of popped,

By dirty gnarled

Fingernails

To release

The pressure

Built up by

An infection of

Warm blood

And thick viscous

Yellow puss

Caused by

The passage

Of today.

In this parking lot,

The congregation

Sits on curbs,

Praying to

Lady luck,

Receiving the holy communion—

Tallboys of cheap beer,

Bars of Xanax,

And shots of smack

Always chased with

A half smoked cig

Found on the street

—As they hide from police,

And beg store patrons

For food or loose change.

The process

Repeating itself

Again

At the same time

And place

Tomorrow.

The ritual preserved

In this holy land

For an endless

Succession of days,

Until it is

Accepted and practiced

By the mainstream

As a religion.

In this parking lot,

There are no locked doors,

Shackles, keys, or iron bars

On the windows—

There doesn’t have to be.

In this parking lot,

Blessed are the forgetful,

Because

There is no

Escape.

the only cool heroin addicts are kurt cobain and sid vicious, the rest of us are just asshole junkies

"dude seems like a genuine asshole"
maybe he's right.
i haven't taken
enough time out of
my life to get a degree
in ethics,
which would
qualify me for the career:
judge, jury, and executioner
of people i've never
met or known.
the modern inquisition.
fuck the context.
i can't slice the throats
of fucked strangers
with ten fingers
and a keyboard
until i am pre-approved
and qualified by
members of society
who think and act like me.
like i said,
fuck the context;
it doesn't matter
and never will
because
i am
a genuine asshole
because
i am
a genuine asshole
who will never have
a profile photo
including my two children
so other people
know they are
the center of my
life
(along with
the pittsburgh steelers
and penguins,
and a variety of
cable television series.)
i am
a genuine asshole
because other people
never make
mistakes.
i am a genuine asshole
and are okay with
that, i've always
been more comfortable
in the role of
the villian.
you should
always believe
the critics
instead of
the author.