Friday, October 31, 2008

Untitled #2

Lined from head to toe
In frills
Flowered patterns
Department store smells

The cloth was laid out on the guest room mattress
I was the only one who wasn't running late
I think this got to them
Even before everything obvious did

They had to cake on the colors
Suck in their guts
Paint their faces bright yellow
Lock shoulders
And wrap extravagant boxes
With bows
And silk paper

You gave me the same kind of look I was giving everyone else
I would later find out that this wasn't you
But rather the you that you felt forced into

I would hold onto it, though
Marking it in time as the first of many looks you probably wouldn't think about
Nearly as much as I used to
Before the robes
And similar symmetrical lines

I bet you forgot the dance too
And the kiss that followed
Before you passed out in one of the metal folding chairs
And I stole sips from the forgotten glasses at the head table

What bliss I felt as the warmth continued to spin
Around my stomach
Until dad said mom was taking a cab home



- Dreamt that I watched teenagers being murdered outside my window. My only thoughts? "Better them than me."

- Winter seems to be coming early. While walking home, I tried to formulate a winter survival list. No. 1: A reliable fuck. I didn't get any farther than that. My mind wandered.

- You aren't consistent.

- Fuck. I have to leave my house.

- I'd like the direction to get darker. Less voice. Don't want to rely on feminine qualities.

- I feel sick. My window's optimism sickens me. My most natural state of mind is disgust. Is this just a bad day? Hard to determine what's a clear mind and what isn't.

- You have to leave the house.

- I think I should go to bed, but I most likely won't be able to fall asleep. I'll watch some tv.

Thursday, October 30, 2008

*This is for you*

Is it you? I ask myself, sitting here listening to yet another sad song...

Should I risk everything and tell you? Do I throw myself out there and hope you catch me?

How do I know...even if it doesn't change anything at all...I need to know, before this darkness completely overtakes me...I'm scared.

Hold me in your dreams...

Untitled #1

We used Gram's silver dollars to fill in for the missing black and white pieces

That was at the old house
With the rusted front porch swing
And dangling address numbers on the mailbox

It was before we turned upper class
for their sake
the voters liked expensive clothing

It was before I wandered downstairs
and found him on top of you
Then gasps,
Then shouts

You would try to explain it all to me later
Like an older sister is supposed to
I would ignore it
And you would again get lost in your cellphone screen

I would realize that we were done smiling the same way for the camera,

I would long for the times when we were bored on rainy days
and the only thing worth doing was rummaging through Gram's closet,
hoping we didn't get caught trying on her ugly dresses

Amongst all the new laughter, I'm still nostalgic for hand-me-downs

- C.W.
is it insecurity or vanity that makes us all think we're talking about each other?
My Forbidden Fruit...Will I ever taste you?

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

I will ascend the mountain and pull you forcibly from your throne,
A throne of purgatory and squalor, you sit on high in pestilence.
I crave your mouth, serpents tongue lashing fervently.
I want to get inside you and make myself at home within your misery.
Spew forth the filth that keeps your heart from mine,
Cut out the parts of you she killed and I will spill into them with amorous skill.
There is a lust and simple hope gnawing at me internally making way for your eyes,
You speak in codes and I have no mind to interpret what you have not said.
A matron of masochism I lie awake waiting for you,
And in the night, I conjure images of unspoken desire.
Flesh upon flesh, your large hands exploring my every hill and valley,
Mouths warm and moist searching.
My voracious lust is consuming me night by night
And my mind is tortured by thoughts of you.
Will you ever know, and if you do, will you rescue me from this hell, a concubine of infernal nights?
the more you're around the more i have to close my eyes to touch him.


Beautiful Skeletons In My Closet...

I can no longer hide...

Can you hear my whispers? My eyes call for you across the room…Listen

What is your name my tantalizing secret? How shall I call for you in my dreams?

Like two notes embracing each other in a chord, when will our curiosities intertwine?

Will I ever feel the ecstasy of your touch?

Will you ever see past my crumbling facade? Will you ever tear yours down?

With each breath I exhale, a poem is born...For You

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

The Space Between the Window and My Bed

When I was a bit younger, I had a job at a daycare in Pittsburgh. At the time, Pittsburgh was, if you factor in the traffic, about an hour and a half away from me and I started work at 8:00AM on the dot, Monday thru Friday. If you didn't feel like doing the math, that means that I would have to leave my house by no later than 6:30AM and earlier than that if I wanted to remain in the owner's good graces. I got up every morning around 5:00AM so that I could have time to sit down with a bowl of oatmeal, collect my things and have a moment to think of what I wanted to accomplish that day with the children.

Prior to this job, I was a night owl. It had never been easy for me to get to sleep at any decent hour and coupled with the underlying fear that I will not be able to function without at least seven hours of sleep proved to be a problem. I scoured my brain for any hint of a solution to this conundrum and compiled a list. Each night I would refer to my list around 9:00PM and prepare the next potential sleep aid and each night I would lie awake, hoping that I was just one sleepless night away from finding my remedy.

When I was seventeen, some friends and I bought some pot off of a girl we knew, sat in a garage and smoked out of a bowl stolen from a brother. I remembered really liking pot, but I was so sick with guilt after for smoking it that I never even dreamt of that sort of foolishness again. I also remembered that it made me tired. So, as they say, desperate times call for desperate measures and I contacted that same girl, many years later, and was still able to get some pot from her. Nothing ever really changes, you know. She explained to me that it was "the real deal" and that I would "lose my mind". I told her that I hoped that didn't happen. I went home that evening around 5:00PM and putzed around the internet for a spell looking for DIY smoking apparatuses while eating a Hot Pocket. I settled on the toilet paper roll steamroller and got to work on building one.

To be continued. Soon.

A conversation with my boss.

"It's a wonder I can even sleep at night. I mean . . . I've done some shit, ya know? But now - I just - I don't know, you forgive yourself for things. And if you don't then you do your absolute best to avoid thinking about them. There are some things I've done . . . that when I think about them I get this really strong taste of blood in my mouth and I imagine bashing my head against the closest wall. Just fucking bashing it until there's not a thought left in my head. Just empty, black pain, ya know?"

"Sure, I think so," I said, looking up at him from the napkin I'd been pretending to fold for the past five minutes.

"Yeah, well you'll know exactly what I mean some day. The irony is: by that time it'll already be too late. One day you're handsome and young and your pecker's got steel in it and you're pullin' some pretty quality tail. But then - and it all happens so gradually that you never see it coming, like a cat sneaking up on a dumb fucking bird, ya know? - the rock starts to get a little harder to push up the hill, ya know? Then your knees start to ache a little and you think: Shit, I should've listened to my dad when he told me to stop jumping off the swing set. But I didn't care about that shit then, ya know what I mean? All my life I've just been fucking over my future-self.

"Anyway, your knees start to hurt and your abs turn into a bit of a paunch, but you tell yourself you can hide it. And for the most part, you do, but you're just living in denial; you're only prolonging the inevitable. Before you know it, every hot broad is a lesbian and they're making jeans smaller than they used to. You know what I mean?"

lights out.

In a dark room, we hum from opposite corners.
Forced breath traveling to the middle of the room, we see color.
Should we look? Should we?
I don't know.

From a rustling bush, we stare straight down at the ground,
Underneath it, we lie on our tummies.
You tell me about worms going deeper,
I listen and watch ants building hills higher and higher,
we laugh for the sky and cry for the earth.

In our underwear, we lie on our backs, on a rug.
You reach for my hand which is resting on the floor.
You bring it up to your mouth, our elbows bending in unison.
You whisper into my palm; it feels good.
You put my hand back down and let go.
I don't know what you said.

In a crowded street we steal looks from one another
and get embarressed.
I wait for you at the end of the block every day and
only half the time, you show up.
"Hello, hello, my lovely love, you're everything."
I say to you and you look down at your feet and kick
around a pebble.
It's blue. From paint.
"I don't know," you say, "I'm just a fuck up."
I know you are, I don't say this, but I know.
I will not say it, but I love you, you stupid fuck up.
We all just long for some companionship. We could be in a relationship and still be so lonely. Is it from getting rejected too many times? There could be someone right next to us and we want to hide, the want to be close to someone, from them. I'm guilty of it myself. I'm addicted to the feeling of new relationships, I'm in love with the power alcohol gives me to forget, I like the idea of just holding someone close. I don't like being lonely, but don't mind dealing with it if I can brush hands and get that feeling for just one minute.

I live for that feeling.

*Naked Soul*

Penetrate my naked soul...

Give me life from the warmth of your touch...

Time stops as you look into my eyes, allowing you to take a look into the secret window of my universe. You see my lips tremble at the thought of my secrets being so vulnerable, so you gently caress your fingertips over them...tears form. As you read my deepest, most sacred thoughts I can't help but wonder what you are thinking...You grab my hands and like the wind gliding over a blade of grass you rub little circles into the palm of my hand...I exhale. As you look down into my hands in yours, a glowing smile that erases all my insecurities forms on your face. Dancing melodies erupt into my chest, I can't help but smile too, warmth floods my heart skips a beat.

I close my eyes and in a whisper I say "I love you" but when I open them you're no longer there...You never was. I blow a kiss into the air as I say goodbye...

Rescue me from devastation...
i keep having these dreams where you are obviously in love with me. then the next night i discover something i can not explain. i wish i could tell you how wonderful it was, but i would ruin it. but i can't have both. it's either the beautiful scenery or your admiration. on the night with the scenery, last night, i sit in your kitchen and you tell me to hold on. i keep my eyes fixed on the window and what's behind it. the first thing i see at the end off the hall is your hand holding a braceleted wrist. you don't introduce us, she and i just start talking and you make a toasted peanut butter and jelly. she stands really close to me. she's blonde. she is very thin with ver small breast. she has classes and a pretty mouth. i talk to her over my shoulder, back turned halfway. it is so awkward, i'm aware, but i cannot seem to face her. she doesn't know what happened last night in my dream. and they are all dreams so why does it matter? but it does.
i can't be this person who some other girl was to me, but i am.
i don't even know if you have a girlfriend, but i know what she looks like.
the two of you talk openly, and with that slight tension that only couples who have been through the winter together can create.
i wake up in the morning and crumple the letter i wrote you last night.

*Daydreams and Nightmares*

Do you ever sit and wonder what the hell you've gotten yourself into?

How can a person be married yet be so utterly lonely? How can a person have so much to say but nobody to say it to? How can a person give so much love but get nothing in return?

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

Am I allowed to feel this way? Am I allowed to write these desperate cries from my dying soul?

I don't think listening to Staind's "Epiphany" and "Outside" are helping me at all...but their lyrics speak to me in a way that I'd never be able to explain...Thank you for your amazing music **********************************************************************************

My mind is a huge clutter fuck right now...A million random thoughts, speeding around every fiber of my body, trying to get out through my trembling hands as I type.

Why are these desperate tears escaping from my eyes? Am I finally at the low I have been trying so hard to avoid? Is this where I tell her that I'm dying inside, to allow her to see me at my most vulnerable? It's a double edged sword...Am I willing to risk it all with the numbing fear that it will change nothing? Not Yet...I can't do that to myself right now.

I just want to let go of all my inhibitions and cry and be held for ONCE. To close my eyes and drift away to her soft but firm touch on the back of my shoulders. A starless universe created simply by the warmth of her lips on my neck.

Back to reality...No matter how much I cry for help, she will not answer...nobody will. So I smile and try to live through another day...alone

Is there a tomorrow worth waking up to?

Can you hear me?


Sunday, October 26, 2008

Your room mate's brother is in Turkey

I saw the inside of your house tonight for the first time. The three of us sat across from you. We ate peanuts and you gave us bowls for our shells. I looked at your records and held up every one for you and let my mouth hang open in a happy mess. You would tell me a story or say "Yeah" and laugh excitedly and sincerely. You said you couldn't believe that Graceland existed. I can't either but all I could manage was, "Yeah, I know."
You said you listened to it once and I made you cry. And then you laughed, not nervous, but somewhat comfortably. "Not cause it's sad," you said, "but because it's redemptive. I think things like that make me cry more than sad stuff."
I'd like to see you so down you can't talk about what is bothering you and you just stare straight ahead into nothing.
I want to see you as every different character you play.

I couldn't handle tonight. I couldn't handle your face but there was not a time that I denied your eye contact. There is no way not to be there when you are calling me.

Saturday, October 25, 2008

Perfect Timing

What if I could stop believing I am so ugly? I would produce light.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

awaking from bad dreams

Awaking from bad dreams

You had on headphones attached to your radio. They were the kind that are supposed to cancel out all noise, but evidently didn't because you spun around when you heard him say hello to me. I continued to talk to him about really trivial things like his band and PBR and that orange-flavored cream ale I was so fond of every Monday night all summer. You ripped off the headphones and asked when I'd stop. The dream ended right there. I felt weird and pulled myself into your warmth.

I had a dream about you back before I knew you and the air conditioning made my bones shiver. In it, you came out of the mail room and asked if I had any other prospects other than you. At the time, I did. Now, not so much. But it's like the ghost of the two weeks that I did aren't going away. Is it guilt? Is it that I still want that freedom? I'm really not so sure.

I think the only reason I'm so defensive is because I'm absolutely into you and when you don't seem to believe it I just want to scream that I had the option of not choosing you in the first place. "He wrote a song for me! Look how lucky you are!" I want to exclaim until you say "thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you" over and over again.

Of course that's assuming I think I deserve something great. Well guess what? For once in my always-hoping-for-the-best shell of a life, I think I do. And you are great. Even when you're impatient with me and ask how old I am. It's all in the subtle ways you express yourself and every time the softness shines, my own insides melt even more. I don't think you're fucked up and I don't think you're a fuck up either.

I told you last time you should trust me. When you left this morning, I had the endless option of discovering all your secrets. But I didn't. I'm not so sure if that means you do now but considering the possibility of it prompted me to celebrate the quiet victory in my heart the entire drive home.

The Last Year of Life

Day 27. Sixth St. 8:45AM
I see the homeless man, Ozzie I call him, as I’m walking up the steps to the office building. We probably haven’t showered in the same amount of time. I look like shit, unkempt with a taste of soot in my sticking mouth. I feel like shit ran over twice from all the strong drink still swirling down in my guts. Oz-man has streams of snot that are frozen beneath his nostrils like lines on a road map. He smiles my way, recognizes me as one of the good ones. I’ve brought him a few stray pastries in my tenure at the company. I look at his face, study it. There is an actual numeric ratio that determines beauty in a human body, and, specifically, a human face. It’s 1:1.618. It is a universal truth that people displaying that ratio in their facial features are more appealing to other humans. They are usually the ones that are more successful, too. The nose to mouth ratio is 1:1.618. The mouth to cheek ratio is 1:1.618. The forehead to jaw ratio is 1:1.618. And you can keep going. Check it out, it works. Numbers explain things. Ozzie’s facial ratios are moderately askew, certainly enough for it to matter in the grander scheme of daily existence. I would say that he has been naturally disregarded for the majority of his life. Tossed aside. He’s curled up in some stray cardboard, laying prostrate, looking like a dirty burrito. There is a large vent spewing warm air directly above him, otherwise he would not have survived the sudden freeze that came upon the city in the past couple of days. He was forced to move his ‘home’ across the street to be in front of the vent. What luck for him to find it, though! He has succeeded. He has adapted to change like every other creature has to adapt. His fight reflex is not dead, even despite his meager situation. Am I as strong as Ozzie? Could I survive? Would I find the vent? I am not trivializing his position in the least, but rather praising him as a surviving, sustaining being. Why does he keep going? I feel like switching places with him. I hear a nag that starts in the back of my throat; it says to ask him if he would like to sleep in my apartment when I am gone. I hear my mother and my school saying don’t talk to strangers, as mothers and schools say. I walk in and close the door behind me, hear the staccato chirping of the paper copiers, catch a whiff of a strawberry frosted one burning in the employee toaster. I’ll draw a blank expression and will be harshly reprimanded for missing work yesterday without providing any sort of excuse. And I will be dead in less than a year. Something must transform.
There aren't many alone time things that I enjoy more than doing my laundry. The process of getting something clean and organizing, and putting it in its right place makes me feel very calm.
While my legs were freezing and drying up, I looked down at the sunny grass. There was a purple clover flower and a yellow ginko leaf sitting side by side. I almost picked it up to give to you. There would be a note attatched with a piece of plain, white string. The note would say "Don't these colors look nice together?"
You would probably be very flattered and it would most likely change your entire day all together.
Instead I sat and smoked my cigarette and watched cars pass. Watched bikes pass. People on bikes and people in cars. In pods. On wheels. Moving. Slow and fast.
I will do my laundry when I get home from work. It won't all fit but I'll stuff it.

our dads' things.

i've got a sleeping bag
where i lie as long as i can
like he did.
pissy yellow and starting to smell.

there's a flashlight
that he'd probably like to have back,
but i keep it.
i'd like to wear it around my neck.

i listen to his records without thinking of him,
and i smoke from a bag which he does not know i found.

she's got his t-shirts and she makes them fit.
sometimes for days at a time.

two drunk drivers don't make a right

It started like any other girls night out. We went to a passions party, had a glass of wine and a "sex on the beach", but had fun.

We're walking out and Carrie says to me, "Tony", her husband,"said he wants to have a 'sex party' because we're married and are going to have to have sex with only each other for the rest of our lives." I laughed because I didn't know what to say. I didn't know if she thought it was rediculous or if she was just feeling me out. I wouldn't be completely against maybe making out with Tony.

Carrie and I go to our homes and check on everyone then I go pick her up for OUR night. We know this guy called hawk that works the dowstairs door for The Crown. Hawk let us in for free, we watched people dance, I had three beers and she had 2 beers and a jager bomb. She reminded me to get my debit card from the bar and we left.

We decided to go to Two Bar/Bowl and I drove. I was on the boarder of not being able to drive, but she said, "I trust you", so I went with it. We got to Two Bar and put in our paper claiming "paradise by the dashboard lights" as our song. We ran to the bathroom and when we came out I asked her if she would use her boobs to get me a cigarette. She did, but when the boy turned around Carrie and I looked at each other and took a deep breath in. If only Ryan were there! It was "Tesla"! He used to go to karaoke all the time, but we hadn 't seen him in so long. Carrie, the gays, and myself used to come in to watch him sing. He had a nice voice, danced funny, but cute, wore a tesla shirt, and was cute... So he gives me a cigarette and wont stop talking to us. I had 2 or 3 more beers with carrie and "tesla". Tesla wants to buy us one so he asks Carrie what she likes to drink. She says she only drinks jagerbombs, haha. So rack 'em up. We each put one down. Tesla gets called up front to do "purple rain" I liked him even more. The three of us had one more beer and then headed out. Tesla and I walked with his arm on my shoulder and my arm around his hip. There was something about even his zip up hoodie, unzipped flapping around, as we walked faster and faster to my car that made me feel so comfortable like I was home holding a large stuffed animal. I loved ever second of it. I was 17 again. We round the corner of my car and I look back to see where Carrie is and only for a second wonder why she was so far behind. He pushed me, only a little to get me off balance, against the car and kissed me. I'm getting that butterfly feeling in my chest and stomach just thinking about it. carrie rounded the corner and saw us, and I wish i could say the ring on my left hand did something to make itself known, but it didnt. So "Tesla" who has now told me his name is Josh opens the door to get in. Carrie laughed and said something about having to squeeze between the child safty seats. Josh said he, "didn't mind". We got to the other bar and they had already done last call. We loaded back up and I got Josh to where he wanted left off. I didn't get out to kiss him bye or anything. I don't know if I even said bye. Something makes me think I said something about "see you next week". I wish I would have got out and had just one more kiss or gotten to hold onto all that extra fabric one more time, but I had too much to drink to think about how to double park a car and get out.
We drove to our friend Ryans house, got some silvermine subs and he drove us to Carries house. Tony asked if Carrie and I would kiss as payment for the ride to my house. We couldn't make ourselves think it would make the night any weirder...So we did. Ryan and I got to yell out the words to "Pink triangle" on the way to my house, and he took my brandi carlile cd.

Being drunk made tesla think I was more attrative than I really am, and I'm sure it made me think he was cooler than he really was, but if I can think about the feeling I got, and am still getting, from the walk to my car before he kissed me... none of that other stuff matters.
I thought about not getting out of bed this morning if it meant I could daydream about you forever.

I think about almost every day we spent together, but this one memory keeps coming up. We had already broken up, I didn't hold your hand enough, you reached back and touched me leg as i rubbed your back. When I play that back i grab your hand, say I miss you, and we lay together for the rest of the night.

I would kill for one more night.

The Last Year of Life

Day 26. Bed. 10:34AM
I woke up got drunk with jack. a lot of it, started thining about all that I had lost its been a lot too much for one guy to handle, a love a love so strong but its gonenow and twisted into some haunting sycophant that doesn’t know her own name - tells me when she kills herself it will be because of me, a mother who cant get through a sentence without worrying you too off of the hook – your father isn’t doing well why can’t you get married why can’t you why can’t you why can’t you, a nothing that you go home to, a nothing at all that you can look forward to except your daydreams and doing the just dreams during the hours when you are supposed to be conscious. I wonder how I look today I wonder if anytone will notice me today, I wonder if anyone witll take note that I am trying to have a good time with them??? I hope they do because I am lonely and I cant stand too many nights where I don’t curl up with someone else or something else I get drunk by myself and I don’t have any fun any more. I need something more. Because my time is ending. And I am afraid and I am afraid and I am afraidaafraidafraid afariad I am afraid. I am afraid to die.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

watching wind

His room was in the attic. I walked slowly up the small stairs, the ceiling getting lower as I went upwards.
"Come in."
He was sleepy. I lay down next to him and we watched the great green pine sway from an open window. The wind was strong, and cold and his chest felt warm with my hand placed over it, palm open. His skin was smooth. Very little hair, I wanted to kiss the concave. I pressed my smile into the pillow instead. It smelled like mixed nuts, like his morning saliva.
"I'm going to take off my pants." He giggled a little bit.
"Okay." I was wearing a dress with a slip underneath. I thought about taking off the dress, but memories of bad massages with only a slip between his hands and my hips stopped me.
We watched the pine and the dark sky and breathed loudly, together. We were so warm under there, under the blanket his ex girlfriend gave him for his birthday. It had bears and trees and totem poles on it.
He made me laugh quietly all night. Our sides touched and we snuggled our faces into pillows, seperate.
He held my hand under pink lights while we listened to ice break and whales call to one another. I remember our socks. Both white, but pink with the lights. He was on the floor. I was on the couch above him. We were both on our backs, smiling stoney at the ceiling. His girlfriend coughed like a waiting mother in the bedroom.
He reached for my hand and I let him hold it.
I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.
I cannot help this. I cannot stop myself.
I held his hand.
My father would let me pet the baby raccoons before he went to the woods to chop them up. I knew.
I was thinking of him right before I saw him one day +++++

I saw it. Heart beats louder than any thought I could have had in my head at the moment. Seeing that girl stand up and walk out. Right in the middle of those railroad tracks, that beer bottle. Thinking of Josh and how much he didn't want anything serious. And trying to make myself a less-serious girl. One who only shares her feelings every other time and not every time.


Terrified on the 4th of july. Neck craned back. Still couldn't see the fireworks. His insides were dry and breaking up slowly. "Forget it, honey. It'll never happen. It's far too engraved."

oh honey, it's a lie!!!!


wandering around by myself dressed as pretty as i could, no camera, no flashlight, day or night, breeze or heat, alone walking, picking flowers, getting lost feeling in love with every piece and part of the forest. taking boys to the forest to show them how alive i was and waiting to see if it worked. sometimes it worked. others the boys pointed out the ghostly clouds. like dark riders, they'd say. and they told me they felt like something bad was going to happen and asked if we could go back into the abandoned log cabin i used to live in. feeling very sad in my parents room, noticing tiny mouse corpses in the closet, they shushed my love. and my pain.

# 7

- A lightbulb went out today. That makes it number three. Two more to go. Soon, the only light I'll have is from the computer or the television.

- I left class early today so I could spend more time alone. I will have to leave soon, I have a mandatory meeting.

- Your apartment isn't much different from Pink's hotel in "The Wall", just less obvious.

- During the first half of class, I wrote down pictures I wish I had taken and the titles I would have given them:
"Uniform" Boy Scout Camp Seph Mack, July 23, 2005
"New Years" Winebiddle St., December 31, 2007 11:52 pm
"Self Portait" Big Run, 1991
"Announcement" Pantall Hotel, November 1998

- You didn't talk a lot this weekend. Conversations were forced. You're letting yourself watch too much television and buying too much pre-made food. You haven't read in a week and haven't written for even longer. This is the most you've done in the past two days. Or at the very least it's the least mechanical thing you've done in two days.

- I think I'll buy a gallon of milk now.

Bequeathed reveries.

The boy was sitting on the wooden porch steps watching his father dig a hole for a fence post in the backyard when he heard a sound like a thousand worker ants running in a tight, frenzied circle; each of them compelled solely by a staggering sense of misplaced purpose. The mysterious noise continued in a steady, but urgent cadence. The boy looked at his father, but the man didn't seem to notice the sound; he just kept shoveling at the same mechanical rhythm, pausing only to take long, desperate drags on the cigarette protruding from his beard-covered face. The sound stopped as abruptly as it had begun and his father looked up at him and smiled knowingly.

"Don't worry about it, bud. That one's not for you," his father said, returning his attention to his work. Looking up again, the boy's father added: "You'll know what I mean in a minute."

As if his father had divined it to happen: the sound suddenly broke out again, startling the boy. Looking around, the boy saw nothing that could be making this terrible din and, trying his best to ignore it, he went back to watching his father who had somehow aged significantly in the few moments since he'd looked away. His skin sagged with resignation, his once brilliant blue eyes had paled, and his beard was now gray with only one defiant, black patch on the right side of his face, like a man who had fallen asleep mid-letter and awoke to find his letter ruined and his face stained. The low, rumbling clamor continued, as did his father's shoveling. The former still reporting of dubious alarm; the latter now slower and dispirited, like a man bored, but nevertheless biding his time against inevitability.

The sight of his withering father was inexplicably familiar, but overwhelming and lachrymose, so the boy looked away and went back to searching for what might be causing the sound. Surveying the sloping, lethargically undulating yard, the boy found nothing and, with fixed, pedantic eyes, he scanned the horse's meager pasture and the dog's trampled patch of dead earth; he studied the fallow garden his mother had attempted summers ago, and, finally, he looked as deeply as would let himself into the forest surrounding the house's periphery, rampant with banshees and werewolves and other horrors his sister had imbued in its darkness. But still he found nothing. Giving up, he asked his father what he should do. The man looked at him from behind a thin, bluish veil of smoke and paternal amusement and replied: "Wake up and go to work."

Nice skank teeth, deady

I've been that person before. I know how it feels to make desperate calls to your former lover at hazy, inappropriate hours of the night.
Today I picked up a world map that is nicely colored in with your basic green, red, orange, yellow and purple. North America is green, south of that is red. The Pacific Ocean, like Antarctica, is purple. There's some significance behind one ocean being covered in crayon.

My napping has been fantastical. I turn on an electric heater and put my face beside it until that part of me warms up, usually at the same rate of the heater itself. Then I move my limp body to my normal sleeping position. It's cold there at first, but the comfort of the position outweighs the temporary problem. (!) I set the alarm on my phone to wake me in 30-45 minutes and I place it behind me without turning away from the wall. When I wake up, an hour or so has passed, my room smells toxic and I'm surprised. If I masturbate, a few things are different. Mostly, I find my underwear tangled on one foot, and my sleep time is increased by 30-45 minutes.

When Dad calls, I'm usually not home. I'm at a bus stop or in class or at a birthday party. It's easy for me to remove myself from that situation, though, so it's not horrible. I can expect to smoke anywhere from 3-6 cigarettes, depending on how long it takes for him to repeat himself many times. (About one hour) I ash on the ground and make a little pile that I often carry away at the end. At least one corner of my new dress gets soaked in snot and tears. To the public, if there is any, I bet this looks sad. I tell my dad things like: "It's better to feel this." and "I know you love us." and often, " ." If I am home, a few things are different. Mostly, I ash into a full glass and prick my fingers on the cactus the whole time.

Somehow I can still relate to strangers and spirits. I think it's because our realms touch, corner to corner.
If we could listen to all your motown records I'd be happy. We could talk about how we weren't meant for today and I'd marvel at your simple style. You could speak about being lost in all the words they tell you to believe in everyday and how people just mostly ask where the classic fiction section is. We're meek, the two of us. At least I think you are as least i think I am. We'd just look at eachother's faces and wait four months to only kiss.
I want to hear you shout your name so loud and then hide for days.

The Last Year of Life

Day 25. Bedroom. 7:43AM
You see, I work in a tiny office building with blinds that cover the sparse widows where the sun slinks through, highlighting the swirling dust. The dress of the building is said to be lax, but everyone, myself included, wears tall suits, because they want to be better than everyone else in the building. It’s a silent contest; a constant competition in cocksmanship. Who’s got the bigger one? The company makes popular breakfast pastries. When I tell that to someone, that the company I work for makes popular breakfast pastries, they know who I am talking about, and who I work for. Then, in automated voices, they say ‘your company makes delicious breakfast pastries and I have come to rely on them at the start of every day.’ And I say ‘if I had a nickel….’ to them.
My job is to make sure the numbers of the place add up. Does the number that represents the money that the company spends directly correlate with the number of breakfast pastries distributed over any x, given amount of time? Is the number that represents how much money it will cost for the company far less than the number that represents how much the consumer will pay? And what will that number build to over any x, given amount of time? The company introduced the Monster Moonberry series a month ago, well in time for the scary holiday, and there was a collective holding of breath as everyone waited for the numbers to come in. Fortunately, it was a success, due to the surge in sales from the ‘tween’ demographic (10-14). Theirs is the hardest data to extrapolate. One can never know which side of the coin they will be compelled to, the child’s lust for bright colors and rudimentary comedy, or the more adult desire for the sleek and healthy. I’m not in charge of that, and thankfully so, given my poor connection with the outside person. I tried that before. Before this job with the numbers. I tried to know people, understand them. You can’t know people. Their minds change too often. The man who is walking down the street with a smile is not always happy. The man who is crying into his hands is not always sad. When a smile, which in its default denotes happiness, does not mean happiness, and when tears, which in their default denote sadness, do not mean sadness, how is one to understand with any certainty? People are not reliable. Numbers are reliable. I have found that out. They can define anything. And that is why I do this; because I needed something reliable. I put numbers together and they always add up to the same sum they did last time. They do not suddenly change. They are not temperamental. They are reliable. I put them together, take them apart; I study them. And I scratch my chin while Degrand wheezes through his nostrils at me. Then, I make a decision, always with the best interests for the company emboldened in my mind. (I have come to presuppose that Degrand’s job is solely to make sure that my judgment never lapses and I never forget the best interests of the company. But why not eliminate the middle man?) I do something important so that someone else doesn’t have to; so that someone else can think themselves to be important and they can sit back in their chair and have their feet on their desk. I do it so that they don’t have to, but if I did not do this, there would be someone else who would do this. And the man would stay reclined, feet on desk. I am a calculator that can get a drink of water with you. I am nothing that can’t be replaced in a mere moments. I am in no possession of any special skills that make me valuable in any sense of the word.

Monday, October 20, 2008

The Last Year of Life

Day 24. Couch. 7:04PM
Another abrupt awakening. I put myself into a coma with a couple gulps of NyQuil when I woke up this morning. Dread filling the entire expanse of my head now. Complete, like when you are a lost child at the county fair and the lights are bright and the people are laughing maniacally and you are shaking just wanting to see your mother again. You'll never do anything bad again. Unbridled panic. Sweat soaked through my thin shirt, labored breaths. Am I alive? What am I doing here? Why am I here right now? Why am I alone? I can’t shake the feeling of fleeing. Getting the fuck out. Getting out. Getting the fuck out of this place. Off of this couch. Out of this dank apartment. Getting out of this exact room, the frozen stone, at this exact time. Where could I go? Where would I go? I would like to go to the beach and drink icy beer, die there and be gently washed out to sea- my body torn apart and eaten by tiny crabs; I would like to go to the city and feel small, die in a dumpster and be compacted into a small cube. No, not at either of those places.
I wanted to go to a hotel, a hotel in a small town. I wanted to go to a shit hotel and buy a large amount of some drug, one that I have never tried before. I wanted to drive to the hotel with beer my hand, slugging it down casually as I passed the other motorists. It would have to be in a shitty town, one that I could feel better than; a place like the place where I grew up. I got out of there as soon as I could so I could feel better than it. Like I was victorious and I didn’t let it beat me like it beat everyone else. I wanted to feel like it didn’t suck me into its vapidity like it sucked everyone else in; They became stale parents going to elementary school sporting contests on cold afternoons, and they all got married to each other, and they all got jobs working with children because the children keep the town from sinking into the surrounding lakes. Everyone stayed but I didn’t stay, I went somewhere else. I got out. I didn’t get out. I just changed the scenery. I got a shitty job that I hate with people that smell terrible and I smell terrible now, too. I am just like everyone else, only I am here and they are there. I reek worse than all of them. I am lonely. I am unsure how it got like this. I am unsure how I could undo the things that I have done with the definitively concise time I have left. Like disbanding my own interests in favor of this city. I was supposed to propose to the girl that I worked in the amusement park with, the girl that loves me. On the day that I moved, we had red eyes from crying together in the bright sunlight.
The town I wanted to go to now would have to have been a shitty one that I could feel better than, and I would have done this drug that I never did before. And I wanted to turn off my cellular phone and leave it in the room where I am writing this right now. I wanted to toss it into the toilet and vomit all over it. I wanted no one to know where I was except for a girl that I don’t know who it could be right now, not the girl who I left who loves me, but a girl, a girl who might understand me, would be down for this sort of thing. I would ask her to come with me, and we would take the drugs together and jump on the bed in the room of the hotel in the shitty town that I’ve never been to. We would sleep curled in each other, two crescent moons. I watched Sunday afternoon infomercials until it was time to go to sleep because I have work in the morning.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

An open letter to the muses.

I was sitting on the couch - wrestling with the cat over a bowl of Grape Nuts - when I got to thinking about you. You, whoever you are anymore. What are you doing now? Are you in your new charming city hanging out with your new charming friends? I told that photographer your name, I know. And I know that I told him you're the most beautiful girl in the world, but I spoke of you as an anathema, a black witch!, the lowliest, rotten cunt on the pock-marked face of this shit-house planet, so if he looks you up - his throat is mine.

Maybe that's not true, though. Maybe I don't believe that anymore. Maybe you're not you anymore. Maybe you're at your brother's house, watching the game, eating that pasta you made, and had me try, and then looked at me pedantically when I told you I liked it. Maybe you were lying abreast to me in bed yesterday. Remember? I asked if you had any ambitions and you turned your head, showed me those full, monastic eyes and said: "no." Of course I can't ever tell you this, but I nearly let three foolish words slip out of my mouth in that moment. I doubt I would've really meant it in the poetic/despotic way, but I would've really meant it in that moment. Sometimes you're you, but only for a moment. Oh! how wonderfully trite: the ephemeral you!

There is a cruel, ironic reality I must face: I can only write well when I'm fucking miserable. And the moment I realize this another epiphany drops from the sky like a crashing piano: I love these words and these lines far more than I'll love anything else. They are me: clumsy, barely understood, heinously temperamental and existing only in short-lived, sporadic bursts of decadence and full-blown schizophrenic egotism. But most of all they're just dying to get out.

Not quite ready to be yours,
These things were not supposed to happen. I can only struggle with my curiousities and my obligations for so long before buckling into one or the other. It could be all random, as sometimes I believe I have a sicker heart than I let on. I am not an absolute. I am not a rock, you're right.
I am not a very nice person. I'm just a person, and I'm far too suffered by remaining apart. That worm crept in last night on the car ride and I really was afraid of it. I wasn't joking. I give everything a fair chance to affect me; that means even the bad; that means even the good (maybe). I had a dream I lost 3 teeth last night and that we were all wandering through a large, scary house, which we were told was haunted. Everyone went up the stairs anyway, but I lingered on the first step and lost everybody. If you set out to be a loner, you're going to be one at the end of the night.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Divinity in a broken bed.

The whole night was like slow music played on new strings still learning to use their voices. Red wine sucked the moisture from our mouths, and with parched lips we rationed our spit, and she let me eat her, face first. We played Lady and the Tramp with licorice, and then I watched her undress in the light seeping through her blinds, wan and covered in verdigris. I peeked at her shapes and curves and felt the knot in my throat tighten and threaten to choke me when the firmness of her austere buoyancy held even after the support was removed. Her skin was a flower's petals, delicate and tasting of natural birth. I played the only song I know on her ribcage; my pinky making her ass tickle and twinge with bit-lip anticipation every time I hit the high note. I didn't sleep very well as I had a bone in my prick all night, strangling me of my blood-flow and pressing into the small of her back, like a warm, pulsating lumbar support; a seven inch elephant between us, all trunk and balls with indefatigable persistence. I'd pull down her shirt, and kiss her neck and spine, and bite at the feathers on her shoulders, and - tracing the dips in her loins with my index finger - I 'd write her little poems in the space between her belly-button and my desire. All the while, her little creature was scurrying disapprovingly across the hardwood floor. Its shadow - giant and deceiving - cast upon the wall by the glowing basement light escaping through the expanding cracks of the cold floor. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick - stop - tick-tick-tick-tick-tick - stop -- all night long. I didn't mind. The little thing is neurotic and has crooked nipples from what she tells me. I doubt it'll ever like me.

The Last Year of Life

Day 22. Bathroom. 6:13PM.
A gnawing pain at the base of my brain made sleep uncomfortable. Mouth stuck together from the wine sapping the moisture from it. An arduous day at work. ‘You look like shit,’ said Bo with a mouthful of a complimentary greeting pastry. I say, ‘Fuck you, buddy.’ Show him my middle finger.
I cut my neck while shaving in the bathtub during a shower after getting home. I faintly believed that I was going bleed until I died from the blood loss. It happened in a quick burst- a stray stroke, a sting as my skin sliced, and then the red stream spilling down to my feet. The blood churned with the running water to make it lavish. Poetic. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve cut myself shaving before, and none had ever been this serious. My mind immediately darted to the impending fate I am to soon face, the quickly depleting ‘time I have left’, and I launched into a exasperated panic. Struggled to squeeze my hand around the slice to stop the blood dripping down my neck and chest. Heavy, labored breathing. And just as suddenly as it started, it ceased. I wiped the steam from the mirror and examined the wound. Nothing but a small nick much akin to the paper cut on my pinky that I got the other morning from Boris handing me a marginal printout too quickly. Fettered by mere paper. I looked back into the tub. The liquid in the bottom was swilling pink. I had seen that pink shade before in a tub. My brain recalled it through the billowing steam. It was the first time I was asked to perform oral sex. I was 19 and living alone in a small apartment. Not like my place now. It was dingy, had low ceilings and a smell of dirt and old bread that never faded. One wall was red brick and never warmed up. Cast the coldness about the whole place. Her name was the same name as a pretty flower and she was older than I, by three years, which made me afraid. She visited me from a far away city that I had never been to. One where they make movies and the people walk around with their heads down. She told me about all of the tall buildings, and how sometimes a guy yells for her to fuck herself from his window. We had sex the night she came in, and I could tell that she was not particularly impressed by my proficiency, but pretended to be enthralled anyway. Coached me the entire time- like a mother crouches in the corner of the room and calls for her pudgy toddler to waddle across to her, legs quaking, drooling. At one point, I dripped some sweat into her eye which stalled things greatly and inflated the already awkward aura of the act. I resumed, and then I ended. Uneasy and sparse conversation followed. Sleep came quickly and, soon, the morning. It was my hope that the discomfited night before would be washed away in the new day’s glow, but much to my dismay I would find myself bearing its crippling weight around my neck just the same. I woke up early to get a shower before work, and it wasn’t long before she joined me in the process. A second chance. Perhaps I might redeem myself. I was afraid again, but lapsed into the part. She was on her back and I was between her legs with the warm water straining against the back of my neck. I tried to go rhythmically and in bursts. I read that was what they wanted in a magazine in the supermarket checkout line one time. She told me I was doing everything right, but I have never had that confirmed nor denied. When I was finished she looked at me with big eyes. She was breathing heavily. I was breathing heavily. I saw the large pink stain from where her head was resting. She had dyed her hair two days prior and the excess color had washed out during our mingling, soiling the white porcelain. We laughed together nervously and I felt the electric of life sprinting through the middles of my bones.
I didn’t take the ride last night. She was pretty. I am lonely. She had tight curls and thickly lacquered lips. I could see boots that went up to her knees. I was drunk as shit. It would have been easy. The thick music coming from her car was inviting and loud inside my head. I was afraid.
It would have been appropriate had I died from shaving earlier. It is the most interesting thing I have done in the shower since I was 19.

the love party for jonathan's girl

he had a party tonight. a love party.
for the woman he loved.
the woman he loved was not there.
she was in texas or some other state that is not pennsylvania.
it was her birthday.
she did not love him.
she does NOT love him.
he made his friends sing happy birthday
and they sang with all their lungspace and all their hearts the
song. happy birthday song. and he sang loud, too.
not loudest, but loud.
they were there, his friends, and they sang for his
brokenness and his stupidness.
they loved him for it and he loved their love but he
did not feel any love other than the love
for the woman
who did not love him.

Friday, October 17, 2008

1 and 5 and 2 and 5 with

12-16. harpsichord.


vibraphone 3, 5, 7.

and then.



up and touch and up and touch.


September 27, 2008
-In the land of Dirt McGirt, remember the white horse.

OCTOBER 1, 2008
Today everything tasted like lead and milk./Welcome, all. Always.

OCTOBER 2, 2008
I saw that beautiful woman peering out from a shop window and the elderly man dressed in bright colors, as if shit out of a rainbow.

-garbage man
-back-up dancer

1. I'm starting this collection to remind me of the many times it has all hurt so much. Little things that have been starved will almost always turn this way. So, a second reminder: do not starve yourself, do not starve others.

October 14, 2008
It turned pink, purple and green today.

there is peanut butter in everything i do.

i woke up this morning in my new room, and my mom told me she'd lost her job.
a girl walking by all of my windows took my mind off of it long enough for me to put on some shoes and get out.
i saw them painting on the corner, and i saw two men standing outside of a funeral home.
i saw two people who'd just had an accident.

the lines and the people in the grocery store were all pointing one way.
i thanked them and made my way.

now there were new men standing outside the funeral home, and this time i noticed them smiling.
i saw them building on two other streets, and i took pictures of each.
one was a church.

a kid at work told me about his breakfast:
some eggs with feta and oregano and some bacon.

a girl almost broke her ankle and then apologized for being in our way.

this is how some days start.

The Last Year of Life

Day 21. Winburn Ave. 2:30AM
I drank a lot of drinks at this bars that had a lot of cheap drinks and loud nmusic to make things go away i walked there it was atough walk i followed a lot of people there they ususally go there on thursday nights to sing and laugh at aeach other i followd them there and i just drank and watched them they wwree really good to each other and made each other laugh a lot and that was the most important thing. i was walking homw whne they told everyone to get out and i was approached by a woman in a car and she said get in and i didn't know what to do i could smell smoke and exhaust and hear the loud music blasting in my ear drums i started to run and i threw up on the side of my house before i unlocked the lock and went inside and i am standing in the living room and about to cry

Thursday, October 16, 2008

Wednesday, October 15, 2008


I can remember when my family used to get along and we'd string our jugs on a piece of thirty pound fishing line that reached all the way down to the darkest and dampest depths of our cellar. I can still hear Roo's shrill calls for food, or play, or attention or just out of sheer, crepuscular boredom. We kept him on a chain because this was years before I knew anything of empathy. But he taught me the real meaning of empathy when he broke free from his ceiling-hung moorings and drank his weight in anti-freeze. Painfully, over the course of two days, his innards crystallized and hardened as that poison sucked dry every drop of warm blood in his entire body. When it became too much for my mother to handle, she had me pick him up and carry him outside - an act she couldn't perform herself due to Roo's large size. His coat, which was usually surprisingly soft and thick, felt like the dry, dusty grass beneath a large, dying pine tree, crawling with ants and bleeding sap. His soft, warm palms which once held grapes in curiously familiar delight were cold and callused with anxiety, and when I picked him up, his weight was already spilling out on its own whims, no longer held together with the rigid attentiveness which any living thing typically has when picked up and carried without its consent. He lay almost entirely limp in my arms. Not at all like when he was just a cub, still feeding from a bottle of milk and wrestling with the cats, already dwarfing most of them. And when I reached the summit of the outside basement steps and saw Roo's large, aluminum tub sitting beside Xena's house, I swear I felt him breathe a sigh of relief. He seemed to let go of the last bit of stoic reserve he was clinging to, probably only to appease all of us who couldn't quite bear letting him go yet. But still holding him in my arms, I dropped him level to Xena and they touched noses and said good-bye to one another in their own universal animal way. I could see that it was hard on Xena as she whimpered and ran around nervously, but when Roo reached the rim of the tub, she sat still and my mother - crying and kissing the center of his masked face, now more gray than ever - said good-bye as well. I lowered him slowly into the cool water, shattering the bright noon sun shining placidly on its still surface and, when he was all the way at the bottom, I kept my hand submerged and rubbed his neck until the heaving stopped.

The Last Year of Life

Day 19. Bedside. 6:48AM
This morning I arbitrarily woke up at 5 in the AM and knew that it was an awakening which would not provide me the opportunity to return to sleep. I turned in my bed for a couple of quick moments, decided that combating this certain feeling would only hang a crippling weight of misery around my neck for the entire day. I got up and immediately lit a yellowed joint of marijuana that I found underneath the television set the night before. Mindy had probably rolled it in ancient times, but we were too inebriated to smoke it in the moment. And it probably slid out from behind her ear where she wears all of her joints and cigarettes. And it probably got pushed under the television set when she was dancing to a song that she liked and I didn’t like. I smoked the joint and I put on some ethereal music by an artist with a name that I can’t pronounce. I smoked it quickly, slurping in heaving breaths, sat on my bed in the still darkness, hands on my knees. I didn’t think of anything. I didn’t think of one thing. My head was empty. There were no thoughts, no memories, no aspirations, no feelings. I was hearing the music, but I was not experiencing it. I did not perceive it. The sense data from the music and the enveloping environment around me was entering and it was exiting without interpretation. The moment existed. Then that moment did not exist anymore. And there was not a single trace of its existence in my mind. Everything was mechanical, like breathing, like aging. The alarm clock beside my bed that I still set just as a precaution let out a piercing tone at quarter till seven and it snapped me from this unplanned meditation. That was the first time in my life where my thoughts were completely stopped, my brain completely vacant.
oh, the things i'll never say.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Yeah, I feel that way too.

However, I'm drunk at the moment. Which is and isn't embarassing or important. The important thing is, I've said FUCK YOU to my exam tomorrow.

It should be noted that I have a 3.54 GPA, and that up until now, I've used my career/grades/achievements to define who I was in my own mind. This IS a big deal in this little world.

MIOF blog was/is my little outlet. My reminder. I don't take my art too seriously, and I don't ever expect to. But it's nice, you know? To try. To expriment. To remember. To forget. To feel, really, anything other than something formulated, expected. I don't describe myself as an artist, but you know, I don't think there is any harm in developing. I thought I killed creativity a long time ago, but I'm trying again. I think there might be something admirable in that. It's hard for me, it really is. I don't know when or where the fear originated, but it did and now I deal with it. It's crippling.

I tried a project. That's a big step for me. It may or may have not failed. I tried collaborating. I thought the dynamic was perfect. I don't think it is anymore. It breaks my heart I think. We'll see.

Most days these days, I'm happy. I'm trying. I'm being my own, which is something that women talk about quite a bit, but it's liberating. It is. I've tied myself to something or someone for so long, used it as a crutch. Now, there's just me, and I have to work with that. And... it's scary and it's new and it's hard and sometimes, I'd love to give up, but I'm not. And I think that's something.

Monday, October 13, 2008

whatever. right?

So, sometimes it's really easy to just look around and get really excited about whatever you see. That's the case here. I don't really have anything to say, but I'm going to say something anyway, because I'm excited about it and I want to be a part of things, too.

I was always under the impression that that's what this "site" was all about: adding small things to a larger pool - becoming a collective work. The anonymous posts of what could be seen as one really fucked up person, when this is read as a whole. So that's why there are splinters of things. That's why there are little rambles. That's why there are posts that are clearly being made up as they are typed. That's why there are photos and inside jokes and clever/lame/whatever one-liners and lyrics and this and certainly, that. And that's why there are really fleshed-out works of literature. But as a whole, imagine someone just stumbling upon this site and not knowing it's a bunch of posters, but rather that it is just one person posting everything. That's the point of this, right? That's the excitement, right? Being a part of one big thing, one un-nameable thing.

At least that's what I always thought.

Whatever, right?

The Last Year of Life

Day 17. Office. 12:58PM
Crushed cotton drapes hanging there in the stale air. Degrand wheezing at his humming monitor. I etched a tiny sketch on the bottom of my desk drawer with my letter opener, inscription 'You've Got Mail!'. The engraving was of two heads and they were kissing and their tongues were intertwining and their tongues were forked like lizard and snake tongues.
I spent most of the previous night on the phone with Kenny. He had called me to tell me about a car accident he had witnessed. He was with his mistress and she was drunk. They were driving on a stretch of road, the main pass to get out of the city. It was late. Her name is a weird name. It starts with a 'Sha' something. She has a lazy eye when she gets drunk. It hangs there, dead in its socket as she spits and yells. Kenny said he was trying to console her because they had seen a flattened cat, freshly run over. She had lost it when she saw that cat. She was yelling and crying, spitting in the car. Kenny said he put his hand over the middle console to stroke her hair and she bit him. He flicked his hand and it struck her cheek, and that was the point where she jettisoned all remaining logic.
'You fucking hit me!' She had tear paths burned into her cheeks.
She fumbled around in her purse and pulled out a vial of pills and she cursed his name and swallowed a handful of them. Kenny didn't know what they were and he was afraid. He was pulling his own hair at the roots and screaming at her. "What did you take," he asked. She did this before. She would take a lot of sleeping pills or she would take Xanex til her head burst. It was all for attention. It was all to make him feel as bad as he could about everything. Kenny told me that it was at this time when a line of stopped cars started forming in front of him. He looked in front and he could make out a car that was flipped over, wheel still spinning. His attention was now split, half on her, half on that. So many thoughts swirling around in his head. She was doubled over, feigning unconsciousness and spitting on herself. Kenny told me he got out of the car and was met with a teenager with a large hooded sweatshirt on.
'You don't want to go up there, we have fatalities. Decapitation,' the teenager said. People, children, barely acquainted with high school, they were wailing at the flipped car's side. Kenny said he put his hands over his face and started to weep because that was all that he could do. Said he was frozen in that instant for a lifetime. His mistress was what snapped him out of it. She had gotten herself out of the car and was stumbling through the line of cars in front of Kenny's car. She started yelling and she started screaming at the people around the flipped car.
'He hit me! He-fuck-ing-hit-me!' She was pointing at Kenny. People looked at her, palpable grief spewing from their faces, but no one said or did anything. She stumbled over to Kenny and collapsed in his arms. 'He fucking hit me!'
A woman rushed by, wanting to observe the crash scene. Kenny's mistress lunged herself at the woman and begged her to keep Kenny away from her. The woman replied that she was a nurse and had to attend to the accident. She let Kenny's mistress collapse to the wet pavement. Kenny said she looked like the flattened cat that had caused the entire episode. He walked over and picked her up, put her into the passenger seat of the car, turned the car around, and took an alternative route. He told me that he put the car in park and phoned for an ambulance, but the dispatcher said all of the ambulances were tied up with the accident and it would take several hours before they were able to respond to his call. They suggested that he drive her to the hospital himself and he said that he would comply. He hung up the phone and wept quietly to himself. He told me that he guided her to the guardrail on the side of the road, stuck his fingers deep down her throat, made her throw up the contents of her stomach and all of the pills that she had swallowed. He had looked at the vial when she was passed out and saw that they were only mild nerve pills. He took her home and laid her on her couch. He tried to sleep on the floor next to the plaid couch, but was unsuccessful. Said he cried most of that night.
I did not know what to say to my friend. He had been there for me in my time of need, but I did not know the words that I should have said to him. He wept on the phone and he sounded like an injured animal. I did not know what to say to him. I heard his sobbing and the static of the phone line.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

An Essay Explaining the Undeniable Faults in this Website as far as representing my Personal Idea of Fun

An Essay Explaining the Undeniable Faults in this Website as far as representing my Personal Idea of Fun

This is an essay written as a response to a post on this blog thrown into existence at 11:58 P.M Thursday October 9th, 2008 aptly titled: A title would only make this like everything else. I am writing this because I too wrote the previous aforementioned post and as of right now, as a living and breathing person supposedly wrapped up in this elaborate web known as the my idea of fun blog, I must say that I can no longer pretend that these randomized thoughts and portraits of seemingly exhausted attention spans are going anywhere. I know that I am at least justified in saying such an almost truly degrading comment about said website, for several reasons, my main one being that I wrote the post mentioned above for this very reason, in order to respond to my own lack of an effort and hopefully call to light what I think the most significant problems are with this blog.
The five paragraphs thrown together and posted on Thursday night October 9th, are in my opinion, as the writer of them, absolute garbage. While seemingly personal and meant to sting some sort of mysterious spectator who daily checks the new entries, they were written in order for me to get some kind of response because I figured they would, simply because such paragraphs are some variation of shocking and unsettling (everyone’s head running rampant all of a sudden as they think about which one of their supposed friends, fellow artists and cohorts could be so goddamn disturbed)
Well let me just clear the air for a second. We’re all disturbed, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s just a matter of how one takes such feelings of inadequacy or hate, love, loss etc. and uses them to their advantages. In my case I usually write fiction, interlocking various aspects of my life and bending them into a more pleasing manner. I feel as if my works are highly personal and the people that I write about, that I seemingly crafted out of thin air, are almost more reliable then say somebody who expects me to be a certain kind of someone given a specific, sometimes recycled situation.
That said, it is for this very reason that I feel my works as well as most likely those of some others are either being completely overlooked by seemingly more throwaway forms or even sometimes posts that are as random as my own made on October 9th, 2008. I wrote said work in fifteen minutes, grabbing from pieces of other posts I had read, tossing in some dirty little words like abortion and semen, and out of thin air, I made something that is given more attention and probably read by more people collectively simply because it’s short and to the point, and yet complete and utter bullshit.
To prove my point further I will briefly call to light specific faults in the post that should have been picked up on, at least if we’re all subscribing to the idea that we’re on the same page here. The second paragraph is written specifically from a male perspective, as it talks about his supposed lover’s abortion plans and then about how he would masturbate to images of his lover on other people’s bodies (more of a male attribute than a female one at least as far as I’m concerned.) Yet by the fourth paragraph, the viewpoint instantly shifts to that of a female when the narrator discusses shopping for dresses that remind her of those covered in semen, thus once again proving my ultimate point.
Crap like this seems to get more recognition, thought and opinion simply because it’s quick and digestible. People don’t have to waste their precious time with it, but rather like a quick and flighty snapshot, it’s a moment in time for them. It’s a thought at any given instant, everyone seeming to fall into the available, trend drowning themselves in the concept that their own personal thoughts will somehow magically turn them into artists. I mean, why not, right? Everyone has them, and a lot of them for that matter, and then suddenly what’s that? Oh, that’s right, now there’s a blog where you can post them and hope that your fake friends and former lovers read them.
Now given, I’m not calling out everybody here, nor am I going to say that I haven’t done the exact same thing on occasion, hoping that somebody will read what I’ve written and systematically put two and two together. At the same time, though, I feel as if My Idea of Fun is supposed to be more than that, because to be honest, I don’t think too many of these random ideas are turning into much of anything. Furthermore, if some bored wanderer was to track the progress of the posted ideas from last October to this October, they would only find out that a handful of them have actually fleshed out into something more, and by that I mean an actual release given a number, something that, logically speaking, everybody who posts on here and has the drive to do so, could very well do.
Then of course yet another problem arises. How does somebody go through the motions to put a chunk of their artistic expression into somebody else’s hands? Well, I have to say that this is probably the easy and hard part depending not only on the person, but furthermore what exactly they want to make. I would hope that people on here would want to say and create works of art that are more than just a passing thought or something that will only exist for roughly a week before getting thrown back to the next page, and I’m not saying that an overload of randomness is a bad thing, I’m just saying that sometimes things need to stretch past the normal confines of not only a blog, but also the people who read it.
I have written and posted something in every month since this blog came into existence and I have to say there have been many times where I was pleased with it as I felt as if it was going somewhere that was somehow bigger than what we had all originally intended. I don’t believe that anymore simply because a year later, nothing has really changed in the grand scheme of things. The people who normally work on things are still doing so, while others are simply latching onto the trend. All of a sudden it’s that time to be creative and slowly lose yourself in everything and everybody you’ve ever known.
Following my post on October 9th and all the ones that subtly built up to it, I feel that as of right now I can longer pretend that this is going anywhere, and that’s not to say that My Idea of Fun isn’t going anywhere because it definitely is, and I want everyone to be a part of it to the best of their ability and hopefully find exactly what it is they’re looking for in the grand scheme of things. All I’m saying is that I’m not finding what I’m looking for here and so this is my fond farewell so to speak, and it’s not meant to dissuade anyone from stopping what they’re doing, but rather simply think about where all of this is going.
Finally, I will say that I know or at least think I know everyone who posts on here, and I hope to one day work with all of them on some kind of project in some varying form, a parade of ideas already running through my head at this very moment in time, so hopefully if nothing else that should mean something. Collaboration is probably the best thing ever, and we need to do more of it, and get whatever it is out there, away from the bubble of own personal agendas and so forth. Also, I wouldn’t think any of you would simply expect for me to up and stop posting without some kind of rant, if for no other reason, then because it’s what I hope all of us expect of each other: to make a statement that is a complete representation of themselves.
So until the day occurs when all of our thoughts turn into paperweights, I remain affectionately yours,

Christopher S. Bell
While my days feel like rain, I see my friends shine.
There is more anger directed towards me than the most logical of persons would understand. Perhaps anger isn't the word, in fact I'm certain it isn't. Frustration. Why I am here, why I am there, why I don't speak for months at a time and when I do, it's nothing of importance to you. My movement is different towards you, and you're upset. Fairness doesn't enter into the equation apparently.

I decided, that night, more than I could fully comprehend at the time. An abuptly closed book, never to be picked up again. The push sent me farther than you would fully comprehend. Sent me to follow the winds, to travel using any means possible -- pages, chutes, cars, songs, hems, balloons, bracelets, marijuana, resumes, spanish moss, campers, jets, photo albums, candles, poker chips, saute pans, lesson plans, puppets, scholars, construction, and constellations.

But there's never an ending, is there?

I asked you not to get personal.

motorcycle drive by

On any given Saturday night in my "past life," I was having the time of my life. Last year at this time, I was probably drunk. Or dancing. Or both.

Now it's 1:15 a.m. and I'm alone and so not tired. Usually I'll sit outside and admire the clear view of the sky I get from my driveway. I lie down on the pavement and wonder why people pave driveways in the first place. I also hope no animals come and startle me. I got home from work after drinking a beer with a co-worker. It was not that busy of a shift despite the fact that the streets were packed with people visiting for the weekend; the marathon is tomorrow.

In the last hour I spent outside hugging myself for warmth, the only thing that intercepted the silence in my neck of Penn's Woods were the rumbles of four motorcycles that drove by. Thirty minutes later, my dad came outside because he had a fire call. He asked what the hell I was doing in the middle of the driveway, told me to go to sleep and said that two motorcycles just crashed in a tree down the road.

What's strange is that I swore I heard it. What's stranger is my lack of tears at the notion that I might've witnessed the last minutes of someone's life when they whizzed by my house going faster than they should've been going.

Saturday, October 11, 2008

yea, fuck those wanna-bes...

A break and then the fall.

Yesterday, my boss told me he was going to take a swim in the Allegheny. His last swim, he said. He confessed this all to me in short, emphysemic breaths over a half-eaten raspberry Crème brûlée, the other half still aflame in his guts. Meeting his still, unyielding stare, it was plain to see he was not bluffing. As a man, he'd by no means lived a full, passionate life. He hadn't given it his all and lost. He made no futile attempts at reconciliation or return. He was not resigning after a long, arduous battle against which he no longer had the strength to fight. He left no legacy; no mark on this world. He was born feet-first and clinging desperately to his umbilical cord. He wasn't aware of the deterioration of society. He knew nothing of the cesspool in which he floated, prostrate and blowing bloody, phlegmy water from his rectum. He had not given up, as he'd always been down. He had no clear motive for his decision. He simply found himself buckling beneath the weight of this world. Most who knew him would say he had never borne more than one could usually bear, but in a few weeks, he said, he'd tie it all around his ankle and, holding it close to his chest, he'd test God's faith in him. He looked at me with grave disconsolation and had another spoonful of the dessert. I asked him if he'd set a specific date yet and he told me he had: November 3rd, this year. When I inquired if that date held any kind of significance he said no, he just wanted to do it after the weekend. Mondays suck, he said. I told him he only had a few more to worry about and he laughed capriciously, sending specks of creamy, white spit flying into the air between us. They lingered, with balletic defiance, like the first eager snowflakes of a colder-than-usual early November and, finally, fell with precocity and self-assurance. But the moment they hit the ground they disappeared and it wasn't long before they were forgotten entirely.


Friday, October 10, 2008

Keep your admiration still and hold your damn tongue. Look at the blue sky with blue-er stars. Hush your drippy sweet thoughts, they're too grand. In high school they said you were an idealist and that just won't fly. "Good luck, kid. Buckle your shoes, don't trip, you'll fall."
So, fine, then. You're on the ground. It smells good, like where you came from. You think about standing up going very fast by every face you know and do not yet, or will never know. So pretty, your face. So charming, your smile. They love you because you don't stay long.
Stay, he said. Stay, he didn't say, he just made you listen. You did not believe, but you stayed. You handed in your change for some layers and some boots that lace, no buckles. You felt small in his room. You felt comfortable on dirty sheets, not presently dirty, just stained. You saw pictures of her naked and she was beautiful. You didn't mind.
You just told him it was okay and role played. Now his father's ringing you night and day. "Is he okay?" Now his mother is miles away. "Are you okay? Are you okay?"
She saw you there, in brown and black and green and she loved you and your pretty smile and your sad eyes. "I know you, girl."
We traveled by foot, by our perfect shoes with holes and earth tones. We loved our shoes and I told us so. You ran fast and I touched the ground sometimes, and other times I just looked up, scanning the top half of the sphere.
You hid in the bushes by our house and I screamed for you. You pulled the blankets around, once inside, "come here, my sweet girl." you put me in them. I was small and so soft, you made me stay inside, warm.
"I don't want this."
"I can't do this."
"We are still us."

Nobody knows me. Nobody knows you. When people have voices that show their hearts are strained and all for show, I say "I hate them." You find their parts that work right, right enough for what you want, and you revel in their blindness.


"Hey dude where r that for you..we can kiss for it if u want ha"

"But she never told me that's who you were.We gotta learn 2 talk more."

"Lungsmen unearth the creed of Hasheeshian Lebanon."

"i'm just the kinda person that has trouble loving something other than myself, but i could def love you"

"He waz naked the whole time!lol"

"tell me something good cuz nothing feels good now, okay?"

"Go! you know that at least chrissy suz and me will go - hah - hopefully thats not more discouraging than encouraging"

"If you moved away, idduno, i wouldn't know what to do with myself, where would my hands go? and if they found a different place, idduno"

"I love you so much.why do we live so far apart?listen to j'ene connais pas, i did som on the bus and it was so sad and"

"im comin home this weekend.i hope you got drugs. haha."

"you drank all of my wine you pervert"

"when r u comin? cant wait to see that dress on my floor lol"

"It's not that bad. Actually, it's pretty good. All the time."

"Fuk u fagget"

"do you tink youd pick us up from work? ill cook u dinner? plz?"

The Last Year of Life

Day 15. Turnpike. 1:03PM

Thursday, October 9, 2008

a title would only make this like everything else

I’ve been searching the back of my head for answers as to the why and how, and the only logical and almost understated explanation I can come up with is that love had nothing to do with this. It was a clear shade of gray that kept us cemented in our outside views of one another. We were good at looking in, at hiding from what we considered logical for the sake of these enlarged portraits we had of each other. They were more than just those posted on throwaway backgrounds or cropped with modern machinery to look like Monet paintings. They were us faking it at a time, and now I know the truth. We were seasoned professionals.
I should have known that the abortion was just another shallow attempt at flattery just like the late-night phone calls and supposed suicide watch before it. It was just the way you were once; the way we both were I guess. I would systematically masturbate to mentally pasted pictures of you on other naked bodies and vice-versa, because I couldn’t bear to think of how you really looked, sprawled out on my creaky mattress, your hands tied behind your back while I tried not to remember the time I was the last one standing on my side of the dodgeball line, all the other students waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Maybe our entire relationship was like that, or a variation of that image.
We were hopping around with rubber objects in our sweaty palms, trying to aim accurately without any logical direction to throw the balls. Just so long as the round spheres struck and made a loud and abrasive thumping noise before each of us individually walked to our separate benches and searched for other tight and sweaty bodies in logo clothing to lick and suck once the right amount of thick jungle juice was in our systems, twirling around our insides to an improper degree.
But I guess it was just like everything else now, that’s in the past and you seem to enjoy fucking all the other saggy and affection imbeciles far too much. I saw that new one offer me up a fake smile the other day while I shopped for new dresses, all of my former multi-colored fabrics either stained white from semen or black from coffee. In any case, both had a nice and woody kick to them. They helped me to wake up in the morning, and the thoughts of such elongated tastes helped me get through the day. They were Christ-like, helping in epiphanies and above everything else, perfecting all of the available explanations at the time. We were perplexingly alive while still inside one another.
I just hope you post something back soon or comment with something quick and easy like that breakfast at your mother’s dinner table, the embroidered cornucopia placemats always out before the thought of holidays had even filtered into both our minds. I wasn’t thinking about what gifts to buy, but rather just ways to pleasure you after work, so thoughts of killing myself outside your bedroom window subsided. I hope this Christmas is better than the last, considering how quickly blood changes color in white snow.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Two warnings:

I have no problem slitting your fucking throat while you sleep.

Don't ever touch me again.
All I thought about today was leaving work to go fuck you. Except, I couldn't do that, and I wouldn't do that. It would be so bad. But it would be so good. But it would be so bad.
it begins to stale
watch the glitter fall from me
from it you ripen

I'd like to be freer, please, to say what I want to say. People would be upset or angry with me if I said things more. Sometimes people don't listen so I don't try at all. Sometimes there is so much a b a b a b that i begin to feel nothing I would ever say would make a difference.
This is not because I feel I have less to offer, but because sometimes nobody really wants anything anyone else has. People are always wanting to be most present. And I always just assumed I was an extrovert. Oh, fuck.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

An excercise in over-writing a vacuous moment in a boring life.

"We're all just a bunch of queers, anyway," he said to her over a mess of ketchup and home fries. He shoved another fork-full into his mouth, took a half-chew and reiterated himself, this time with immuring sincerity. She looked at him, mostly amused, slightly puzzled; she believed him more than she wanted to admit, especially to herself. He went on: "I mean it. We're all just a bunch of fucking faggots. I'm just wondering when we'll all finally admit it to ourselves and stop breaking so many hearts. It's a wonder I can even sleep at night. Jesus, I've got so much blood on my dick!"
"Uh . . . how's everything going over here? Yinze alright?" the spavined old waitress asked. She had obviously showed up in time to hear him say that he had blood on his dick and now she stood there with a contrived air of insouciance, smug and yet so oblivious to the world around her. Rather than respond he simply glared at her. She raised her eyebrows with mimed inquisition and false concern and then, after finally grasping her imposition, left them alone.
"Ugh! Don't you hate that shit?" he asked her. She was texting. She was always texting.
"Hate what shit?" she asked without bothering to look up from her phone. He didn't answer her. Instead he closed his right eye and imagined stabbing her head off with a giant fork. She caught him doing this, "Real mature, Everette."
"That fucking attitude that old waitresses give you. First of all, she stinks of fucking cheap cigarettes and you can see the fucking stains on her sleeves from jerking off her fat-ass, loser boss in the handi-capped shitter! She's a fucking wreck and she comes over here, barges in on our conversation, and then acts like she's got some kind of social upper-hand because she heard me say that I have blood on my dick. I wasn't being literal, but that dumb cunt doesn't know that. She thinks only in literals and absolutes! and paychecks! and gossip! She's a redundancy; too fucking dim to even battle against her own obsolescence. God, I hate that shit! Fucking look at me like I'm some kind of back-alley rapist. What a dumb, old cunt."
"You know, I think I like you better when you're calling your friends faggots."
"Ha ha ha! I think I like me better then, too."

The Last Year of Life

Day 12. Bedroom. 2:20AM
I was looking over Mindy's brother's cat this weekend, they went out of town together. Went to slide some coins into some slot machines in New Jersey. The cat is named after a laxative he used to take when he was growing up. His hair is falling out, the man's not the cat's, and his skin is thin parchment that cracks with every step. He smokes more than life smokes and his laugh sounds like it was rattled straight from the sewers. He's 36 years old. Looks twice that. He takes her, his sister not his cat, out every now and again. He doesn't have anyone to spend his money on. He works as a waiter, actually one of those guys who orders around the waiters, like a graduated waiter. He claps his hands and they clean up the dirty plates in front of them. Then he twirls two bony fingers in a circle and they hoist the soiled trays on their shoulders and walk out in a single file line behind him. He knows where they are coming from, so he treats them like people. He follows the system. He is assimilated but it has not failed him. He's a good man. He is lonely. But so am I. The cat ripped apart the plastic tree in the corner of the room. It will have to be replaced.

Monday, October 6, 2008

after all this time. after all of the encounters. there i was, feeling like a sad, helpless fucking child all over again and not understanding why. why i always cared so much. a long time. me, the pessimist? but after all this i still can't give this up? i can't stop hoping for the best? i always kind of hoped if i ever really got to know you (which i thought i never would,) i would figure out i wouldn't really like you. like all of that feeling would disappear and i would write it all off. and now i know you. i know you. and i shouldn't have let this happen and why do i constantly let other people have all of the control. why i accept that everyone fucks up and why do i have to understand the underlying meaning behind every fucking shitty thing you do to me and tell you it's okay. i say it's okay because it's safe to say i don't care that much about me until it gets this bad. it's so sad. i am willing to put myself through all of this to actually feel something for once. i haven't felt for so long. i don't know what's real. nothing is real. everything is real.

the cat slept in between us. my eyes were closed but i didn't sleep.