i could be possessed,
or
i could be a person with a number of neurological disorders,
but
maybe i'm neither.
maybe i just am who i am.
bullshit.
hot then cold.
always restless.
my problems have no shape.
no outline.
no definition.
unable to explain
i stare up at the night sky
with my mouth open
to get a taste of the wind.
thinking about the atoms that bind me
together.
thinking dissolve.
scatter.
transform
or
disappear.
stop making sense.
screaming
stop
just fucking stop.
time is eating all of us alive.
i will control my end.
i will be eaten by birds with sharp beaks,
not by the passing seconds
measured with late night tv.
broken into basic elements.
not alone
not okay.
not happy.
not sad.
not excited.
not moving.
not conscious.
not thinking.
not functioning.
not whole.
not breathing.
not beating.
not anything.

take an eraser,
rub it across the wrinkles of your brain
that contain memories,
avoid the trauma,
and the cost for a casket/tombstone.
call it a funeral.
call it whatever you want.

my fetish

all i can fantasize about recently is choking on celebrity tabloids in an alley, while two stray cats fuck next to an orange dumpster, immersing myself into puddles of stale rain because i haven't showered in days, before emptying out the contents of my brain with a .38 special.


the sirens. wasted tax dollars. missing children. missing teeth. wasted potential. the sound of water dripping into water. infected. a long sleep. and empty pockets. is what gets me off.

cj: "you know you wear more thongs than me."

underwear project piece. this week.

And here is an update on some art that I am working on all pieces still in progress

two great artists who deserve a shit ton of recognizion

so my girlfriend c.j. parlante and my best friend elly dallas are both really good artists.

they also post really cool shit that you should check out.

c.j. paralante (blog link: http://bottledselfesteem.tumblr.com/):

elly dallas (link: http://ellydallas.tumblr.com/):

both of you are so talented and you're art makes my entire body bend into a smile. i would feel the same about it even if we weren't friends. please keep creating. please keep inspiring me. thank you for existing.

elephants' graveyard

i am on auto pilot;
legs taking tired steps,
pores and wounds
dripping sweat, blood, and lactic acid,
which are absorbed into the earth,
stumbling across dirt, to asphalt,
to sidewalks,  over welcome mats,
across beige tiles, down wooden stairs,
to a carpeted plain, which calloused feet
traverse, until they can't go no more,
and reach the navy blue fabric couch,
where splintered bones, and yellowed skeletons 
are scattered across the floor.

collapse.

my thoughts about the future have changed:

no longer thinking about
how much money
i'll need for cigs, credit card bills,
medicine, rent, fines, new shoes,
and moving to philadelphia.

no longer thinking about
what animal i'll have to kill
or plant i'll have to harvest
because empty stomachs
have stopped crossing my mind.
the same can be said about
personal appearance, and hygiene.

no longer thinking about
what could've been,
or what i could've done.
what doctor or shrink
i could have seen.

no longer thinking about participating.

no longer thinking,
just doing because
different parts
are shutting down
one by one by one.

wheezing, instead of breathing;
my lungs have become frayed nets
that are losing there ability to
capture oxygen
with each passing second.
with each attempted breath.

this is a personal experience,
which is why i have to go
alone, because this legend
is a reality.
it is a well kept secret
that each of us learn through
instinct.

the hazy glow
from a late night
reality tv show
about people competing
to be deep fried food masters
illuminates my mottled
grey skin; this is
the difference between
life and death.

i feel the sinews of my biceps
and the joints in my fingers
snapping like branches
under foot, as i check
my cell phone.

no new messages.
no missed calls.

i realize it's uselessness,
and break it by slamming
it against a wall
watching one utile piece
multiply into many dysfunctional ones.
all different shapes and sizes
now exposed to climate controlled air.
useless.

it's impossible to be perfect all the time.
it's impossible to make good on every promise.
it's impossible to not have regrets.
it's impossible to go back in time.
it's impossible to live forever.
but
it's possible to love.
it's possible to apologize.
it's possible to forgive.
it's possible to not be a shitty person for your entire life.
it's possible to change.
it's possible to live.

as i close my eyes,
i have one last thought:
i see a warm smile
slowly expanding across
your sullen face
that is unable to
stop the tears
tumbling down
your cheeks;
you kiss me on the forehead,
then my right cheek,
and finally on my mouth
with your saline soaked lips.
i wrap your body in my arms,
and squeeze as hard as i can
you into me,
me into you,
meld together
until we become one.

thank you for teaching me the definition
of love, meaning, and happiness
without the use of a dictionary and worksheets.

the wind will erase my footprints,
while the lions, dogs, worms, beetles, and vultures
erase my physical existence,
disassembling my anatomy
one bite at a time.

no one will know what happened to me,
but it won't be a mystery
because
all of us have to die sometime.

there are plenty of reasons
to fix my brain
after being told
by experts, family, and friends
that it is malfunctioning.

i realize this now,
and have tried to
fix it with power tools,
hammers, screwdrivers,
ratchets, glue, razorblades,
sleeping pills, heroin,
late night tv, text messages,
tears, cigarettes,
beef jerky, controlled breathing,
and epoxy,
but i can't
pinpoint what's wrong,
because shit just keeps
getting worse,
and it keeps ruining
other people's lives
so i painted
a smile on
my face to
try, and hide the problems.