i wrote your name down on my hand for motivation two days ago in black permanent marker, but it faded and disappeared after i took a shower

i gather my thoughts together
with a glue gun,
and start shaping your features
with a pocket knife,
widdling the excess material away;
i keep occupied,
but it is
coming out all wrong
because i am not very talented.

i sculpt a replacement:
it is an inanimate object.
it doesn't breathe.
it doesn't eat.
it doesn't talk.
it doesn't send out care packages
with wooden weightlifter knick-knacks.
or rewashable neon green sticky hands.
it isn't alive.
it isn't you.


it doesn't look like you,
even if i squint my eyes;
i'm trying my best.

we texted each other
earlier tonight,
but we haven't actually talked in a week.

i'm having a two hour conversation
with myself while
drinking a fifth of rum,
and watching two girls make out
in my passenger side mirror,
i look at my reflection in the rearview,
and realize i miss you.

but i can't tell if
i'm just being a bitch,
and overreacting.

 

thoughts before bed 3/18/14

laying in my bed,
i close my eyes,
and draw pictures of your face
with my imagination,
and hang them on my wall
with scotch tape.

"the only real friend i had was this lady i paid for handjobs at the library."

brian allen carr reads in morehead, ky

brian allen carr writes stories that get stuck in my brain like chewing gum that never loses its flavor. his characters are people that i know because they are people that i encounter every day. they are people that live inside of me. i would want them to be read as the eulogy for my funeral. watch this video to understand. then you should buy:

vampire conditions

motherfucking sharks

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.

“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.

you lose matthew. sorry, man.

this is who i am.

back in the best of times,
which isn't really much different
than the worst of times;
i am trying to tread water
to keep my head above the surface.

i want to see the sunrise tomorrow morning.
i want to close my eyes and look forward to it.
i want to sleep in the ocean's waves, and be warm and comfortable.
i want to be less lonely.
i want to become someone i would enjoy being around.
i want to kiss your forehead when you're sick, make you chicken noodle soup,
and tell you, "there, there darling. you'll feel better. you're going to feel awesome soon.
do you feel awesome?"
i want to sleep next to you so i can pick out the melodies under your breath,
and hum them at a later date.
i want to stop being a disappointed disappointment.

i want to stop wanting so i can start doing.
but every morning when i wake up,
i look for a reason to open my eyes,
and come up empty handed.
resting my head on the grey, oil stained cushion
of an abandoned backseat from a mini-van
thrown out in a dumpster
from a post-apocalyptic society.

i'm sorry.
sorry for being so lazy darling.
and for being such a coward.
if i discovered bigfoot or a ufo
i would give all the credit to you
because you are the only thing
in the world that matters.
the meaning behind all the metaphors in nature.

i nurture so many regrets as i tear the pages out of the calendar,
one by one; time is passing,
and it's sad to see it pass sitting alone
in an empty bedroom overflowing with empty beer cans.

i'm trying to rearrange all the individual pieces
to form a limpid picture that
makes sense to the both of us,
even though it never will
because i am too far gone.

so i am left with a choice
between death or insanity.

i am laughing hysterically
while shooting bb's into my white teddy bear
with a blue ribbon around its neck
that i hugged after i was born,
and can't explain why.

i apologize in advance love.

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.