Tile floor on my face and knees to my chest, I call for my mother, who happens to be in the same position on a bed. This dependent relationship started out being as easy as asking the man for a piece of his roast because you wield a fork and knife. Since the era that brought Y2K we were doomed. At thirteen you may carry some wits about you, but without a mentor there is a tendency for anger. A rant and a rave, or some wit coupled with rage.

Two planes crashed into two buildings.
New York City was in disarray. I'm buying a video game the day before I start high school. Thankfully I caught the news before the game was powered on. People jumping from buildings. A mayor covered in dust, turning sharply at the corner of each city block, being inquired by reporters and journalists. But a man that is as surprised as his city can only keep walking. Four years later people still grieved. Some never boarded a flight again. By that time I left school.

Seventeen was drugs. That led until twenty-one. Those are lost years, or ones I wish to not account for. The years that came back felt like before Y2K, a recession that was only going to become worse, and depending on which side won the battle would there be more bodies falling from buildings. Ignorant to an economy that was already set to topple over, I went to school with partial loans. Not as bad as iron shackles, but with interest rates that ensure the need for a second industrial revolution.
People can speculate.
Oh, what you know is ignorance!

There aren't many outcomes to this predicament...
Old bankers can be sealed in their vaults. An older generation can retire without worry. And the "Millennials" will inherit the workload of two previous generations.
No.
That is the last thread holding embellished dreams. Before the ignorant generation is attacked, let's say that what credit was in the nineties to our parents and scheming developers is what a full glass of champagne was before the Great Depression. But this intelligent, idealistic, young generation that is crippled from the start will not succumb to rationed goods and bread lines.

Department of Defense says you're going to die. That Government is too big to fail. And they're wrong. On more than one front. Their military is for us, but the corporations are exclaiming, "Charge!" How easily you can become a mannequin to a department store. How quickly a baton can break your forearm.

They say that the Statue of Liberty was once copper. They say over time copper turns green, from weather, and I suppose time. Yes, it's scientifically explained, but imagine a statue with only tarnish by the eyes. That might be the symbolism we need, but no, a woman made of copper does not cry.

So, thirty is approaching. Not within the next few Sun rotations, but soon enough. Many people my age want change. More than pocket change. We were raised on accountability and morals. Now being adults this isn't a "Do what I say, not what I do" argument. These are lives. This about saying, "Sliced bread isn't the best thing!" It's standing up for your dignity and integrity. Something that isn't found at a computer screen.
Maybe at one time it was.
Now the truths you speak are chastised. Capitalist societies adopted Martin Luther's Catholic Church. Now a notice on a door is sent to a screen.

Laying on this tile floor is tiresome. And working two jobs gets in the way. The hardest part is ignoring the demon involving work. Knees to your chest may be safe behind a closed door. But the outside world is monitored. You can only get up, kiss your mother on her forehead, hoping hers knees descend, and hope that finishing your work happens in time for you to create your art.
Hopefully that is something that can never be taken away.

The firewood kept beside the fence post was soggy, surly was the evening weather, and Mother Nature was redefining the word torrential
A drop to the eye, rendering it senseless. On one side of the spectrum, a crystal or a rock comes from dirt. Although that other side, the side of the spectrum that enlightens by color. A yellow or a blue or a red are useful.
So by that exploitation will become the
puzzle pieces of which the artist creates. Imagine having a thought cross and be ignored. Saying that, maybe the Earth isn't flat, and maybe a Christmas card is not as commercial as it is ceremonial. Perception is one side to say, but the gentleman pouring gasoline on a fire is far from the man asking for a drink shaken, not stirred.
When the fire becomes everlasting, water will not quench a thirst for destruction, and that is because there has never been an accident that could ever be everlasting. The man that knows that does not exit the house with a helmet. He simply raises the proverbial glass and swallows what is in front of him. At times the end brings a sweetness. The only other times are consumed with a bitterness. One that an artist knows as he takes his shot of whiskey, but not of the man that is readily available to set himself on fire. That is a drop of rain on your tongue. At the beginning it is too fragile to become a warning, but at the end it is what separates lands and lives. That is why saltwater and tears aren't that much different.

The handle
to the front door won't budge,
but it can still be locked
from the inside.
The overgrowth is five years
in the making, vines took over
this home of once improvement.
I don't believe we ever
owned a gas can.
A boarded up pool.
The one in which the dog died.
His body was as bloated as my eyes. The puppy in the pictures still hung in the basement beside the kicked in window.
Leaves and insects rest
on the linoleum floor, a cohabitation that was formed out of vacancy.
A long dresser left ajar from wood paneling, insects crawling around,
not that one would know how they
got there. Old paperwork and letters survived. The assumption is that the moths never arrived to join the spiders nestled in their leaves.
Both longhand and typed sentences that spoke of longing, love (young love), happiness, direction, and lastly evaluation. Broken glass fixed against the dresser, a reflection shows.
The dirt and grime is of a
subconscious level.
One that exceeds the proximities
of the appropriate metaphor.
So what is seen is loss.
And although this occurrence
comes as a new beginning, the best solution at the given moment may perhaps be a broom and a dustpan.

It was raining.
On this damp May evening, my mother turned to my sister and asked her to refrain from speaking to me.
Pensive is the word she used.
My sister heard the word "pencil" and thought I was sick with lead poisoning.
I remember her checking the room for different writing utensils, she was looking to hide them as you do the knives when the depressed family member comes for a visit. Such a sweet girl to take the graphite and leave the eraser. I'm sure it was a subconscious gesture, or made with complete disregard, but nevertheless I was smiling.

The first time I fell in love, I was standing up straight, head over heels. A web browser was open before me, asking the difference between love and anxiety. Later did I come to find that the former and latter are more similar than most know or care to know. One night while looking at her lips and glancing at her eyes, she told me I was adaptable. That was the first time I questioned love for lust.

My grandfather started crying.
His hands, those of a carpenter, were holding his face. There I sat across from him, hairs on my neck standing, praying for him to speak first. He always spoke first. He would also tell me to stop him if I've heard the story he was going to tell, although I never did. But the story happening before me was one I wanted to stop but couldn't. Never have I seen this man cry, and that would be the only time I ever would. Two years later he had passed on peacefully.
By then it was my turn to cry.

Some remember the words they've spoken. Others the words they've heard. But I can recall all of the times I've sat in silence. The moments and memories I hold in the company of the ones I love or have had love for are some of the more quiet times in my life. The only quiet which can rival that told above are the times that I've spent putting word to paper. And those are the quiet times I can't remember offhand, but I can always revist. Those quiet times are kept in the walnut filing cabinet.
Right beside the
photograph of the cabinet maker.

You can't date a writer.
For lack of a better term, or phrase,
or whatever the writer will have you
believe. He will introduce you to
many artists, some like him, others not,
and that will ultimately build intrigue.
By his side, you will feel as if you're
the apple of his eye, but when alone together
his eye will be fixated on blank pages
or ones filled with the right words.
Don't fret, by the second
month you will know which
words are right and which ones
are wrong. He will tell you to
mind the binding on the books you borrow.
And you will, until the first fight happens.
You'll think that the fight is over,
but don't think that the words shouted at each other
weren't written down.
The day you find these words, the oh-so-familiar
words will start the next fight.
And be prepared to tighten up once more,
because this next fight will be just as embellished as the first.
Before the third fight he will buy you a journal,
possibly lend you a pen,
lend being the keyword,
because he will expect it back.

He will ask to read what you've written,
as he saves his work on his laptop and closes
the top, because it locks right away.
If and when you open his laptop it will bring
you to a home screen.
If you're lucky your name will appear under his,
if not you have his permission to log on as a guest.
This will eventually become the pebble
that rolls down the mountain,
albeit those pebbles don't necessarily
mean that an avalanche is on its way.
Only time will tell.
Or breaking into his laptop might.
But right now his eyes are on you,
because he would like to read...you.

And isn't that the reason you wanted
him to begin with?
To read you like one of his books?
Or maybe it's your fascination with artists,
because who doesn't want to be
drawn like a French girl.

After my first hospitalization I began writing. I signed my name, about five times, proving to the staff and myself that I was ready to be discharged. The envelope held against my chest contained reading material, a diagnosis, and copious sheets of paper with lightly drawn animal sketches. Two weeks in a hospital, sitting at a desk by a caddy-cornered television, holding a styrofoam cup of decaf coffee, I'd sit listening to news stories while skimming through piles of xeroxed copies of coloring books. This became the precursor to many more manic months that would eventually and periodically follow.

Adolescent behavior is uncertain, but a child that runs off into a wooded enclosure to scream until collapse is significantly more uncertain. More often than not, when a child screams, an adult comes running. But when the source of the scream is just as misplaced as the child, it will only become an echo lost to the wind. When feeling lost becomes a constant what else is there to do but draw a map, or in this case, animal sketches.

Have you ever cried hysterically while laughing? Not producing tears from a belly ache caused by momentary elation, but two conflicting emotions? Imagine dowsing yourself in gasoline and running into a burning home to get a drink of water. Picture yourself flying through the air, wind caressing your face, but you can't fly, and right before you hit the ground you only just realized that you jumped. No child can prepare for this, as much as an ignorant parent can help their child clean wounds that will not scab over. Medication will become a bandage, and if the wound can never heal, the bandage will eventually be ripped off.

Art therapy before therapy was introduced was sitting on the bedroom floor, fashioning little cut-out rectangles, hole at the top, and string pulled through and wrapped around my big toe. A blanket pulled over my face, just to know what it was like to rest in peace. But you know, kids will be kids, or so they say.

Aspirations to be an artist should have been the first clue that mental illness had come and was here to stay, but the dreamers of the world ruined that. You start painting happy little trees, and two months later you're medicated in a hospital room with the faintest idea of what a tree even looks like, let alone the fact that because of these unimaginable trees you are able to breath. But you are breathing, and slowly you are able to grasp a pencil, and soon after you are able to draw these trees, these happy little trees that you not so long ago had forgotten about. And you lean your face down, nose touching the sheet of paper, and you inhale. You feel reborn. Not exactly home, because, well, you're not home, but you're comfortable in your new skin. This new skin leads the doctors to explain to you that you are manic. You nod your head, obligatory nodding, seeing as how your mind is elsewhere, many places in fact, thinking of all of the ideas you'd like to put on paper. And soon enough you're signing your name, multiple times, being discharged with your diagnosis. This is your enlightenment you're told. This is the first day of your new life.
But it's not. The cycling wasn't explained. And you failed to read the paperwork given to you that was sealed in the envelope. Instead you tore it open to procure your drawings and discarded the rest of the contents.

Those drawings lead you to college. To be the artist you know you are.
You bleed for your work. Figuratively, at first. Until you decide to find a new medium. You put yourself into your work. Red smeared all over a canvas. Curled up in a ball on the floor, losing blood quickly, eyes slowly closing. And when you wake, with tubes in your arm, and hands secured to a bed, you wonder what season it is. And what the trees look like, whether they are barren or blossoming.
Then you smile.
You smile because you remember what trees are.

If only you could find a pencil.

Wake up. You need to get up and do something. All you have done is slept. Get up. Wake up. You're wasting time. You're wasting yourself. You're useless. Get up. Wake up.

How many sleeping pills does it take to end this? Where can you purchase a gun, illegally?

Wake up! Get up!

Remember that time you were a child. The phase you had with melting pen caps on lightbulbs? I'd walk in your bedroom and hear a sizzle. You standing in front of the source. Black-handed. Sometimes red-handed. Really depending on which pen you tore apart.
My poor peculiar, special little boy.
It's time to wake up.
You must get up now.

A shot of Jack and a lager.
Thanks.
Ravenous gulps.
Scribbling on napkins.
Little one box ideas.
Multiple pens. Different ink.
Couple notebooks.
Exacto blade, one that looks like a carpenter's knife.
Some masking tape.
Never deny the importance of masking tape.
Keep drinking. Keep producing.
Try sleeping in the morning.
No need to wake up from this high. Walk home. Keep procuring ideas.
Take a nap on a desk.
Buy a bus ticket.
Wake up six hours away from home.
No bag.
Some money.
Look for a terminal.
Look terminal.

A heart is most likely a bed.
It stays asleep.

Home, in a bedroom.
Curtains drawn. Shoulders carrying the weight of the world. I'm tired and I can't move and my body hurts and my eyes keep tearing. And I'm curled up and I don't want to feel like this. And the incessant ringing of the phone is unbearable. And I'm being told to wake up, but I think I'm dreaming. And this reality is absurd. Any reality is absurd.
And maybe I'm not sleeping.
Who's to say I'm even laying here.
My eyes can't be open.
Both eyes are ******* closed.

Why can't I get up?

Concerning man and what he makes,
other than scrupulous laws, is that time is of most importance. And as any morally ethical man will tell you, or not tell you, is that time is money.

Now because time nor money grows from trees, it is essential to value them
as entities of the Earth. Valued like trees and plants. Well, some plants. Usually not plants referred to as "tree."
Man made are the laws that produce
a moral oral. Remember, Lady Justice is blindfolded, not gagged.

Time does not exist.
Money is not real.
Only was real when measured in gold, but note the age of the dollar,
and see the change.
Hands on a clock were assembled with hands and a smock. Built in a factory that produces black clouds to join the natural white. When the white clouds drain, the different smells of ground enter the air, and sometimes you get mud, and sometimes that peculiar smell of blacktop on a warm summer's day enters the nostrils.

Whether man is suppose to steal the fruit of this land, or become nutrient for the fruit of this land will never be agreed upon, because of ego over Eco, but I'd like to think that that is a constant and everlasting reminder that this is a cohabitation. Maybe what is natural and taken from this Earth will always be plentiful. But maybe we will pile too much on our plate.

Contain too much in jars.

We can write.
Educate and enlighten.
Hope that ego
never destroys Eco.
Concerning man and
what he makes.

It must be this third cup
of coffee that has me on
edge. But not to confuse
anxiety for indigestion.
I'm sick to my ******* stomach.

Maybe you could be a little sweeter?

I said, maybe you could pass the sweetener.

I'm not one to stir the ***,
but I need something fresh.
This is stale, and the grinds
taste like pennies.
My spit is red.

The best part of waking up,
is having a *** to **** in,
to have a glass half full,
but who is the fool?

The fool is the man,
that runs out of coffee filters,
and uses toilet paper,
instead.

I drink my coffee black.
It's an absolute.
Why mix cream?
When I don't believe,
everything is so black,
and white.

When the emergency room
is at maximum occupancy,
the nurses will lay down
their clipboards and utensils,
clear their throats, and ask for
women and children
to approach the desk first.
To ensure proper care,
forms still must be completed promptly,
and as patiently as possible for the
patient to be processed.

There's the occasional backwards R.
But all is acceptable with a
signature by the X.
Adrenaline coursing
through veins may perhaps lead
the cause of instability,
some instances coarse skin.
A child with the heart of a lion,
shell of a turtle, will always overcome;
rest assured, an insured child,
prints their name with the
unmistakable yet
innocent backwards R still
knows that words are as powerful
as excruciating pain.
Sticks and stones and words alone
have been known to break through bone.

With the twitch of a finger
even Danny Torrance made
the word "Redrum" seem
like a word to reflect on,
if not only a feeling
of constant déjà vu.

Intensive care is a surgeon
not leaving a wristwatch
inside of a patient,
if not a cadaver
whose time ran out.

The best advice I was
given about writing was:
write appropriately, suit the reader,
don't make the assumption that they're careless enough not to notice sentence after sentence of redundancies. Most of all, avoid confusion.

And even though I'm young, I try to write for
a younger generation, my generation, one that produced the notion that it is feasible to aspire to write without having the will or desire to read. Welcome this juxtaposed generation with delight. They were born to dream, and there isn't a need for articulation when you keep your eyes closed.

What words will make a bigger impact?
Because what is wit to a man that only
finds enjoyment from himself. The outsider
at this point would rather listen to a person's
complete hatred of napkins. Because they're
just a paper towel folded twice.

Kids want money and fame and respect.
And who doesn't to some degree.
So maybe I must act accordingly.
I smacked a ***** to know
what it feels like. And I keep a gun in my glove
compartment. Don't even ask about the trunk,
because you already know it's locked.
I do drugs because they make me feel good,
and when I feel bad everyone else will, too.
When I crack open a beer I pour some out.
That's for my friends that have passed.
When I pop champagne I pour it on ****.
Because a two-thousand dollar shower
doesn't require clothes.

If that's not what's normal, I don't know what is.
But it's almost as if this generation is
too ignorant to care. Being underprivileged
isn't ironic when talked about wearing
thrift shop clothes, but that changes when you
hop on private airplanes to deliver the message.
And I'm not trying to say I'm different,
I have twenty dollars in my pocket, like most,
although I'm only looking for a come-up.

He has this nervous tick.
When a person is lying he will open his mouth.
Sometimes his jaw will hit the floor.
Sometimes words will come out.
And sometimes there are consequences,
if not only a sore jaw.

He is an affable man.
Many would say he's a good sport
and in good nature, even though he's not
athletic and has severe allergies.
Handshakes are important to him.
And he understands the appeal of a thumbs-up.
Hugs are reserved for holidays,
and tears were only had at funerals.
Sunglasses optional, but the only pair
he owns he keeps
in the jacket of his black suit.

Any man that has a tendency to speak too freely,
or too much, will have to learn to talk their way out of a potentially harmful situation.
The "Gift of Gab"did not die with the smock.
It evolved with the suit.
It became five words said in three.
It is in relation to political correctness.
It's knowing that government is not *******,
but many representatives are mentally challenged.

He tries to stay ahead of his mannerisms.
Raised eyebrow.
Twitching eye.
Clenched teeth.
But some things cannot be hid.
Like the vein in his forehead.
And of course his verbal diarrhea.
But he would rather expell insight
and opinion rather than hold
it in only to force it out later in privacy.

People involved in Fine Art are shot on site.
Possession of a canvas brings a life sentence.
The art departments are born from advertising.
False pretense is considered flexible.
When the program used is for the sole purpose
of manipulation you aren't expected to become angry. Government turns the clocks back, stretching time and truth,
with knowledge of a man who has done
the same, and was considered a master.

Metaphysics and a mustache,
he changed the world with a canvas,
and with an open mouth he expelled truth
and injustice to a contemporary audience.
He applied his paint with a poetic eye.
Soon he learned that you don't need
to start a fire to melt a clock.
All you need is a brush,
and sometimes a barren tree.

Today, I'm going to **** them with kindness.
I'll walk the streets with a skip in my step,
corners of my mouth arched, skin tough.
I will be rubber. I will not be glue.
I will avoid sticks and stones.
I will be Teflon.

Yesterday, I killed someone, with kindness.
I created art, in many ways, I created Hell.
A page filled with gestures may seem ageless, however,
a spectacular self-awareness occurs.
There is closure. There is completion.
Unlike the manipulation of one's face.
There too is completion, but closure is not
always certain. Some leave with last words
that linger. Some lift their arms to The Lord,
Lord hear their prayer. And others find
themselves at peace, living on in the hearts
and minds of others, loved or not.

Is a legacy more important to an Atheist?
That's speculative, I suppose. But if what they
say is true, and most CEO's are psychopaths,
then I would assume that it is. Monetary value
will always triumph over theoretical morality.
And I say that morals and ethics can be theory
to a man certain of his faith, because in the end,
sin can be absolved. Faith in a higher being, in
something bigger than yourself, often leaves
thought of peers as dismissible. For they have
their own demons to overcome.

How do you accept indifference in a system
that is above natural law? Omnipotence should
never be exposed to have a grey area, especially
when it is considered to be set in stone. Oxygen
and gravity aren't, but tell that to a man who
is falling and trying to catch his last breath.

Lastly, consider art.
As the creator, the mastermind hidden in
the clouds to let his work speak volumes.
The divine grace that is told in brush strokes,
in notes placed to play, to be presented.
That's a beauty that is foresaken.
Another key representation of something
seen but not seen.

Even a deaf man delivered notes he could not
hear, rivaled ones able, and challenged normality.
The difference between an artist, and
a person producing art, is that an artist
will use blood, whereas the latter
searches for a comparable color.

A vehement deity,
father of a carpenter,
and proprietor of creationism,
looked down upon his work,
both literally and figuratively.
When an ecosystem falls to the
egocentricity of man, a vessel
will be sought, and contained is
the righteousness of a mortal.

Serenity became inclination, and
with loss of the feminine beauty
came regret. For sin masqueraded
as black clouds, and whether
change occurs, torrential rain begets
growth in an environment. Wash over
the sins of the ******; what is current
can only be exposed as a fallacy when
revelation is prevalent,
and save for the innocent:
innocuous.

Even in Hell a cyprus tree would be
surrounded by wildflowers.
Noah knew not of damnation, and
with calloused hands raised to the sky,
a hammer came crashing down.

Not unlike stone tablets
etched with command,
the world lay on granite,
with a universal epitaph.
For Noah to ignore his destiny
would be blasphemous.

It takes three days to pick up a habit.*

How sound this is, I'm not sure,
because some habits seem as inconsequential
as a statement regarding time and vice.
It makes one wonder how long it takes
to believe a statement to be true.
Possibly as long as
a *** of coffee to be brewed.

Surely the amount of time will
vary by the weight of the statement.
But even a measurement is prone to
be thrown off by unforeseen additions.
Eight cups of water, and four scoops of grinds,
you're bound to have a little too much or
a little less than expected.
It becomes harder to tell
when dealing with a slow drip.
Brewing coffee may be completely divisible
when dealing with a recipe, but
hardly unequivocal when
the time comes to measure up.
This follows suit with patrons
and their proclivity.

Only in fiction is the coffee shop patron enigmatic.
Only in fiction can the patron enjoy a cigarette indoors.

Men and women wake and
head to their cubicles,
coffee in hand,
five days a week.
By the third day
a habit has formed,
and maybe that is why
acceptance is had midweek
and why the first day of the
nine-to-five seems so everlasting,
if not inscrutable.

"It's good, but maybe you should write shorter," I was told.
Granted this was told to me by a man that believes the word artistic
to be closely related to the word autistic, but I can only assume that riding any
unfamiliar wavelength is terribly confusing, if not immeasurably difficult.

Knowing that you can confide in yourself, whether or not I'm misinterpreting
individual delegation for conscience, I believe altruism to be fundamental to
a person before growth can occur. Unless of course you're writing short poems.
And if you're curious enough to implement apathy, sarcasm is a fine starting point.

They say that if you want to master something you need to perform daily.
Accompany this with the old adage, "Love what you do," and you can imagine the potential.
Mastering an activity with love is transcendent, calm although sometimes piquant.
Passion and pleasure aren't identical, but imagine the potential.

I don't bleed ink.
It has to be an attempt at benevolence, to say that.
Extreme literary pretensions you must have to bleed out.
Writing should have a pulse. It. Should. Make. Each. Word. Count.

Yet, when this man told me that my words are good, but I should keep it shorter,
knowing not if I could or would, I became curious as to why he worried more about
length and not the content and story as a whole. Then I had to rationalize this to myself, and thought: It would be easier to convey words with images, like a film or animation.

But I don't bleed ink,
and I guess I don't bleed popcorn.

Buckled at the knees, face in the dirt,
one can only pray for enlightenment, but
at a time when morality is valued by
silver and gold,
a baton twirled
is mightier than the sword dipped in ink
and sprawled across ancient parchment.
Men march in unison, into foreign lands,
while chanting words of a dead language:
Democratia Sit Virtus

Flag inserted into the land, the
obligatory explanation is written
on paper, covered with black marks, in soot.
Erupt in glory, a city once was.
Redacted sentences are had for
good reason:
to keep characters in the dark.
Transparency is only a concept that
belongs on the back of a bookmark.
Dust covers
clouds and envelopes the sky,
as dark and as black as superstition.

We speak with symbols, because subliminal
advertising becomes cogitative rather than
entering one ear and leaving the other.
What belongs in the border is bold, as we
marginalize open space, although the occasional
proverbial foot will cross the line. A slash of the
throat will tell you that all eyes are dotted,
just as some lines are crossed.
Like an olive branch exposed as thorns.

A proper medium is exploiting
vulnerability under rule.
Hot air is expelled when converting oxygen,
or exclaiming honesty and integrity;
lest we forget land comes from sea.
It is in their nature; our nature to build
roots underground.
Better to keep intricacies hidden.
Never is an iceberg fully exposed.
A brain.
The Temple.
Certainly a vault.

What you keep from the people
is for the people.
And common ground is neither
left nor right,
despite what you've been made
to believe.
It's about the courage
to think before you speak.
It's the courage it takes
to gather strength and
beseech the weak.

An hour out to sea, by land, and as early as the sun rises, the thumbs hit the road looking for a way into town, out of town.

Gulls speak in vowels,
melodious as wind carries the sounds
under the pier, through nets being cast
to sea. Glimmer in the fisherman's eye,
staring at the waves that crash below.
Erosion is the fear of councilmen and
the faces plastered on billboards,
but nature isn't a mistake. We have only
wrapped ourselves in a blanket we call
chemistry. A beach turned to glass,
we still wouldn't see the ocean clearly,
and we would still ask why the sky is blue.

Driving down roads, ten miles in between
each town. I've never seen so many thumbs out.
In cities, from which I've seen, a ******* is customary. But not here. A thumb is an absolute,
and a blinker on a car pulling to the side is a
flash of compassion. Ocean from side to side, pastel houses scattered on land beside sea shells
and surf shops.

And the hitchhiker walks,
with a backpack,
and one can make out a peace sign,
and long, sun spotted hair. Someone that
knows the land.
Businesses hang "Going Out of Business" signs,
but that is embellished. That is because the pastel
houses only flourish during seasons. For people
who want a taste of a simpler life. Who call out
to an ocean breeze, with hopes of casting away
a stress level that would change a footprint
on sand into a window to the soul. And here I sit with my feet in the sand, tear running down my
cheek, because men do cry, especially when staring out to sea. I've seen shore, but I would
not ask a local what coastal means to them,
I wouldn't understand.
Where I come from, people hold out their hand.
A thumb is a rarity.

There have been orientations
I've attended
that hit home, hard.
Ones that were held in auditoriums,
which brought outstanding projections.
Of voice and talent,
speaking to talentless voices that seek
increments of the number ten.
Tens of hundreds, speaking excrement.
Cause ****, even a ten is divisible by the number two.

There have been orientations
I've attended
that hit home, hard.
Ones that were held in back rooms,
with walls plastered with common sense.
Of apologies and service,
speaking to employees that service apologies
to miserable men waiting for change.
Tens and hundreds, purchasing excrement.
Cause ****, even the box that holds an engagement
can be discarded.

Orientations are set up.
They're made to entice and integrate,
but in all actuality they're erroneous and agitate.
They speak fate,
but hinder the great.
They mark you.
Like I've previously stated:
Orientations are set up.
They're not a debate.

An idiot makes the same mistake twice.*

That "fatherly advice" is trapped
within my head,
bouncing back and forth,
causing a headache,
but who's to say that
the mistake isn't the cause
of pulsating temples and closed eyes.
In one ear and out the other,
one could hope for.
But these days it's in
one nostril and down the throat.
Down "****'s Creek" in a soluble boat.

But don't call home.
The heart left.
The telephone has been off the hook--
inanimate objects have it easy.

My family doctor suggested bed rest.
If that was a statement rather than a suggestion,
I wouldn't know, because the redundancy of those
two words was enough to keep me idle,
awake, agitated for days.

It was around the time he carefully
scribbled his script onto the blue pad
that I began to chuckle. This prefixed
prescript was only a temporary solution
that was barely legible. Whether or not
a scribe in this profession is meant to
be as erratic as nomadic cavern canvas,
it speaks volumes that the DSM IV considers
substantial. Until a once thought preconceived
notion becomes precedent in the ongoing
sought after expansion of knowledge.

A continuation of disorder and disease,
the facts and fallacies,
all become testing.
The standard practice is only as strong
as its weakest hypothesis.
More so when it becomes general practice.
I would like to believe
this to be an emergency,
but the white-coat before me
felt the need to sidetrack,
and thought it appropriate to mention
youth in Asia.

The deadpan humor
was disconcerting.
But not as unnerving
as the redundancies that
were given to me as a solution
for my sporadic sleep.

Some insurance!
Reassure me, doctor!
So, he did,
through his proclivity
for pharmaceuticals.

In 2005, I had $101.
Sweet Blue,
eyes green,
waiting.
Dilating.

In 2005, I had $101.
Sweet Blue,
is what I called you.
God of Euphoria.
Mother's Milk.

In 2005, I had $101.
Sweet Blue,
had a street
value,
of twenty-five
a pill.
I bought four,
and thankfully
the dollar bill,
was crisp enough to roll.

A different world together,
holding hands.
Greedy for the feeling of calm,
I would grasp tighter,
hand eventually crushing hand.
Morose disposition spirals through a cut straw.
A last straw; an unwanted kiss.

Hand holding hand is a symbolic image,
but don't confuse the inflection of these words.

This is about
the deteriorating hands.
This is about
the deteriorating nostrils.
Not so much about cheap thrills.
Not so much anything,
forgetting,
drugs ****.

No late fees.
Low interest.
Borrowed money,
on loan, on their time.
Credit to the blue collar
workers who pays their bills
on time.
Save minimum wage or
incur a fine.
To keep big business profitable,
they must nickel and dime.

People are in the practice
of pinching pennies,
with hopes of avoiding
suited enemies.
Prosperity and posterity
is now a foreign concept,
or spoken in a different language.
The idea of it is sent overseas,
as third world countries
receive a taste of a marketable life.
Some assembly required.
Passivity admired.

Independence goes in the vault.
Lock and key.
Land of the fee.
Well, free with an
additional purchase
or the start of a new account.
Better to have you accounted for.
Better to put all of their eggs in one basket.

A basket that is fashioned
in another country.
For a country
that is going to hell,
and can't afford
the casket.

Tables have turned.
Seas have parted.
Cracks filled.
Edges filed.

Tempestuous weather
has been bestowed
upon the misanthrope.
Red, once white bandages,
cover up the cut throat.
Naivete is labeled onto
those who seek hope.

Never showing is worse
than time taking its course.
Hoping that a course
is precedent in the time
of a foreseeable corpse,
of course.

Eyes closed,
a young man close by
exclaims, "Fresh to death!"
Rotting flesh, covered
by a Maker's Mark,
or a Target,
never something seen Beneficial.
It's not like we could ever
Shop Rite.

But as this young man
exclaims a new age adage,
I close my eyes,
and hope and pray
that he's right.

Everything became interchangeable.
Words of wisdom,
which weren't welcoming,
were washed willingly.
Only now knowing
that the definition of a "wash"
is a sensitivity.
An appropriate metaphor
would have been a description
of an undertow; hands over feet,
because a cartwheel is superfluous  
underwater.

It's interchangeable.
The fact that the
white whale can
signify the tepid tactic
of the once sought
suitable soul.

It's tangible.
The decisiveness of another party.
A warm body to lay beside.
Another to lift the veil.
To speak love and hate
with full confidence.
Understanding that love and hate
is reachable.
Aloof to the fact that
you are
the love and hate.

It's manageable.
Although, *******
teeth has become customary,
the prospect of "******* face"
still lingers.
It's only until the lack of movement
with fingers...
It's the lack of *******.
But, it's manageable?

It's interchangeable.
It's knowing that what was
sought after was temporary,
that a sealed kiss will
eventually lead to an
opened envelope.

Then after time has taken its course,
you will be inside of another,
and another will be inside of her,
but the difference isn't the physicality.

It's the emotion that kills you.

When I said, "I write,"
essentially what I meant is:
I wrote.
The proceeding lines,
and the breaks that follow,
have been thought out,
from the apathetic hollow

There is a place inside,
of me,
and you,
mind you,
that you know is darkened,
and sheltered.
There is a "Manson for Ransom"
that screams Helter Skelter.

Oh, persuasive wink!
Keeping one eye open,
holding promises known
to be broken.
Speculation runs fluent about
this perpetual black hole,
knowing the higher we rise,
the harder we fall.

Slow down there, buddy.
Getting ahead of yourself
And all
Is
Of no help to us
Or you.

You might throw your back out.
If not
We can make that happen.

“It’s three in the morning. Are you drunk?” Larry asked me. “No, I just had to talk to someone and couldn’t think of anyone else,” I replied with desperation. “Can’t this wait until the morning, dude?” Larry asked, “I have to get up in six hours for work.” He sounded angry, but mostly tired so I pressed on. “No, this can’t wait, seriously. I’m sorry, but this is urgent.”

“Okay, what’s wrong that you had to wake me up?” Larry asked, and I was ready to talk. I was ready to talk until I couldn’t utter another word. I was distraught and scared. Larry was my best friend, and I knew he’d listen. I wasn’t sure if he could give me the right advice, but I knew he’d listen.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Try the beginning. Come on, man. It’s too late for this.”

“Alright, but have a little bit of patience.”

“Yeah, just start talking before I hang up.”

“Okay, I ****** up,” I replied and paused for a response, but Larry didn’t respond so I pressed on.

“I got off work at ten and had to close the store. My manager was in a tight spot and left me with the keys,” I said, took a breath, and continued,”I was kind of ******* when he asked me to do it, but he said he had no other choice. He even offered to give me an extra day off with pay.”

“So what’s the problem?” Larry asked.

“The problem is what I did before I left.”

“And that is?”

“Well, I was getting the store all shut up. I let most of the employees go, and I left one cashier with me so I didn’t have to run around like a maniac. There weren’t any problems, so I locked up and got ready to count down the last till so I could get the hell out of there.”

“Can you speed this up, man? I’m falling asleep,” Larry said impatiently.

“Sorry, so I count down the last till and leave it by the register. I let the last cashier go for the night and locked the door. I go back to the register and grab the till so I could put it in the office and start the deposit. My manager left me instructions for the closing procedures and the combo to the safe. I counted everything and wrapped the deposit so it could be taken to the bank in the morning. I followed the instructions perfectly.”

“So what’s the problem then?”

I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth. I was having trouble finishing my story, and even though I paused I knew Larry wouldn’t hang up. He wasn’t the kind of guy that would let a story go unfinished. The only problem was that I didn’t know how to get to the next part of the story. I was like a comedian without a punchline. It was hard enough to make the phone call to Larry, let alone get this far into the story. But I did wake him up, so the least I could do was finish my story.

“Are you there?” Larry asked.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m just having trouble explaining this.”

“Take a breath. Just breathe and try to start again,” Larry said with a comforting tone.

“I left with it,” I said. I was being vague on purpose so Larry would ask me what I meant instead of me telling him. And that’s exactly what he did. “You left with what?” He said sounding confused.

“I left with the deposit and everything else in the safe,” I said in a hurried tone.

“You did what?” Larry said sounding confused as if he heard me wrong.

“I left with everything. I took all the money and locked up.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I robbed my store and left. It was an impulse. I don’t know why I did it, but I did. I ****** up.”

“I hope you’re joking,” Larry said.

“I’m not joking. I just up and left with everything,” I said.

“What the **** were you thinking? How much did you take?”

“I wasn’t thinking, man. I took everything, which was a little over ten grand.”

“This isn’t good. What the ****, dude. This is bad, really really bad.”

“I know, but I don’t know what to do. That’s why I called you,” I said, sounding more desperate than when Larry had first picked up the phone.

“What do you want me to say? You just called me at three in the morning to tell me you robbed your store for a **** load of money. This is beyond a **** up, man. Where are you?”

“I’m out front of your place.”

“What? How long have you been here?” Larry asked. He sounded like he was shocked to hear me say that, but deep down I knew he understood. I didn’t know what else to do, and he was the only person I could turn to. He might not of agreed with what I did, but he would help me through anything. Whether that be good or bad; he would be there for support.

“I’ve been here since I called you. I didn’t know what to do. I’m freaking out. Like beyond freaking out. I’m so ******, man. I am absolutely ******.”

“Alright, first off get the hell inside. I’m unlocking the door now,” Larry said and hung up. I closed my phone and shut the engine to my car. I still sat in my car with my head on the steering wheel. I was emotionally drained and knew the night wasn’t over. My night was only going to get worse, and facing Larry was going to drain me. Larry knew how to give that look of disappointment only a parent could give. He wouldn’t belittle me, but the look in his eyes would be enough to make me feel small. It was already past the point of no return with Larry. I had to face him now, and he was waiting for me. I lifted my head up and rubbed my eyes. The light on his front porch was on when I lifted my head. So I got out of my car, locked it, and made my way up to his house. The door was open a crack and I stepped inside and locked it behind me. Larry’s foyer led to the kitchen, and the light was on. He was in the kitchen waiting for me.

“Is that you?” Larry yelled from the kitchen.

“Yeah.”

“In the kitchen. I just put on a *** of coffee.”

The ten second walk to the kitchen felt infinite. My legs were shaky, along with the rest of my body. I was more nervous about seeing Larry than I was about the consequences that were to follow my recklessness. I turned the corner into the kitchen to find Larry sitting at his kitchen table, staring at the coffee ***.

“Hey,” I said, being at a loss for words.

“Sit down. The coffee is almost done.”

“Okay, I think I might need a cup.”

“You and me both, bud.”

Larry and I both stared at the coffee ***. He was waiting for the coffee to finish. I was hypnotized by the drip. In a weird way it was calming and gave me time to think. I’m not sure if Larry ever took the time to glance at me, as I was only fixated on the drip. I didn’t want it to end for a few reasons. Not only was it calming, but it also prolonged the inevitable: Our conversation.

“What do you want?” Larry asked.

“What?”

“What do you want in your coffee?”

“Oh, just a little cream and a little sugar.”

Larry fixed two cups of coffee and placed a cup in front of me. He took his seat and sipped his coffee. He didn’t say anything, and I wasn’t sure if he was waiting for me to speak. Before I could he cleared his throat.

“What the **** were you thinking?” He asked, as only a friend could when you make a mistake.

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“Yeah, you said that, but what could possibly make you do something like that. Really, what the **** were you thinking?”

“I don’t know. I just did it, and it didn’t cross my mind until I left and set the alarm. At that time I couldn’t do anything. I already took the money and left. I couldn’t go back in the store without sounding the alarm.”

“You set the alarm. You couldn’t just go back in and shut it off?” Larry pressed.

“No, I couldn’t. There are two different codes for closing and opening. I told you it was last minute, and my manager only gave me the code to close up.” I said in all honesty.

“You couldn’t of just put the money back and let the alarm go off? I’m sure they wouldn’t of been ****** about the alarm going off. It wasn’t your responsibility in the first place to be closing the store.” Larry said, making a valid point.

“I didn’t think about that, and I told you I was freaking. I thought I was already ****** so I left. I just got in my car and got out of there. I didn’t know where to go so I drove around for a few hours, and I didn’t want to go home so I called you.”

“Yeah, well thanks for that,” Larry said sarcastically.

“I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry, really I am.”

“No you’re not. If you were sorry you would of turned yourself in.”

“Are you serious? The last place I want to be is in jail.”

“Well you should of thought about that before you committed grand larceny.”

“What do I do then? What can I do?” I asked

“For right now just enjoy your coffee. Go pour another cup and relax. I’m going to call my work and call out. There is no way I’m going to make it in after all of this ******* you brought me.”

“I’m sorry, Larry. Really, I am truly sorry.”

“Just relax, there’s nothing you can do now.” Larry said. He got up and left the room. I also got up and poured another cup of coffee. He was right, I needed to relax and just stay calm. There was nothing else I could do, and freaking out was not going to help. I sat back down, took a sip of my coffee, and rested my head in my hands. It was the most at ease I’ve been the whole night. This is why I turned to Larry. He knew how to calm me down and was my only true friend. He always had my best interest at hand, and I loved him for that.

Ten minutes later Larry returned and sat back down. He took a sip of his coffee and spit it back in the cup. “I hate cold coffee,” Larry said and got up to pour another cup. “What are you thinking about?” He asked. I didn’t respond. I couldn’t respond. Although I was calmer my mind was still racing. It felt like my head was going to explode. Thankfully it didn’t, but it sure felt like it.

“What do you think you’re going to do? Larry asked

“I’m not sure yet. I think I might just take off. What else can I do? I can’t go to jail.” I replied through my strained throat. Larry didn’t say anything. His back was faced to me as he poured another cup of coffee. “I can’t.”

“You can’t what?” He asked.

“I can’t go to jail.”

“Okay, so then what? You’re just going to flee? Just get up and go?”

“Yeah, that is the only thing that seems plausible right now.”

“You don’t expect me to go with you, do you?”

“No, not at all. This is my mess.”

“You’re **** right it is,” Larry said sounding angry for the first time.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing to me. You have no reason to say sorry to me.”

“You’re right. I think I should just go,” I said

“Where are you going to go?”

“I don’t know, but I can’t wait around. I have to do something. And I should leave before anyone gets to the store to see the safe empty. What time is it?”

“It’s quarter after six.”

“Okay, the store opens in almost two hours. I should get going soon if I’m going to be out of the state before someone gets there.”

“Okay, if that’s what you think you got to do. Have another cup and calm down before you leave.” Larry suggested.

“Okay,” I said, accepting his offer.

I got up and walked to the coffee *** to make my last cup of coffee before I left. I knew I had to get going, but I wanted to make this last cup of coffee last. This would be the last time I would see Larry. And after all, he was my best friend. I would have many regrets when I was gone, so I tried to make this last encounter last as long as I could.

As I was pouring my last cup Larry’s doorbell rang. I looked back in a hurry and Larry put his hand on my shoulder. “Relax, it’s my neighbor. He comes over early on Tuesdays. He’s an older guy that comes over for coffee. He’s lonely and his wife passed recently. It’s the least I can do.” Larry said, and made his way to his front door. I sat back down and put my head in my hands again. The two cups of coffee I drank had me jittery. I sat and waited for Larry to return with his neighbor. When he came back in I would leave and be on my way. I had no choice, and I had to be leaving as soon as possible anyway. I didn’t need to intrude while he had company. I just rested my head, and I heard footsteps. Larry was on his way back in the kitchen, and I’d be on my way out.

A hand rested on my shoulder. I still kept my head in my hands.

“Mr. Kofta?”

I looked up and nearly fell off my chair.

“I’m Officer Shandie, and I’m going to need you to come with us.”

There were three police officers in Larry’s kitchen, and Larry was standing right beside them. He looked at me in disappointment, like only a parent can look at their child. Officer Shandie pulled me up and put my hands behind my back. He cuffed me and led me to the front of the house. All of the police officers followed, along with Larry. I was being put into the back of the police cruiser when Larry stopped them and spoke up.

“I can’t keep bailing you out. You’re not running from this mistake.”

Larry stepped aside as I was put in the back of the car. The door was shut, and my fate was sealed. Officer Shandie got in the cruiser and backed out of Larry’s driveway.

The only similarity Larry and I had that night was when I leaving to be taken to the police station. We both had our heads down.

It starts to happen when the bad days outnumber the good days. At least that's what I'm told. Or maybe I have told myself that.

I've had this peculiar tick since I was a child. I rub my hands. It has become more prominent as I've gotten older. I'm sure it goes unnoticed, but I'm also sure that I'm not sure of much these days. On the good days I don't think of my hands. On the bad days I seem to be on the verge of clapping. If only enthusiasm came from this anxiety driven mannerism. On the really bad days I know that rubbing my hands together is keeping me from pulling my hair out. The really bad days are the days I get my headaches.

"If you're going to excessively ask questions I'll need a new server," Dante stated, purposefully avoiding eye contact. You don't make eye contact with the help, he was once told.

The shades are covering the windows of the restaurant, and the sun that gleams through the oil stains looks fresh. The coffee I ordered smells burnt. It may or may not be the fault of the server. But seeing as how I received two creamers when I specifically asked for three certainly leaves me to be speculative. A bell jingles at the entrance, I turn my head, nod to my friend, and pour my two creamers into my coffee. Two should suffice, although I did ask for three. It's the principle.

Being introspective and witty, and being objective and authentic was once seen as a form of normalcy. To clarify: if the latter is factual, it will usually coincide with the former. We are a parasite to information. Our senses are forces. We are forced to see, to hear, to taste, smell, feel. No matter how we perceive our sense, we are forced to experience it. How do you satisfy yourself, when one, there is too much to consume --mentally omnipotent, perhaps, considering our infinite curiosity regarding research in the field of neuroscience (Over the top sarcasm). And two, when the ability to retain information is slowly escaping our grasp; or becoming obsolete due to the convenience of technology. Narrow thinking. Black and white. Left or Right. Right or wrong. Our sense is our higher power. Maybe, just maybe, that feeling of being watched, the possible "sixth sense," is why we seek solace. Answers evade us, and we become irritable rather than theoretical. Is there a God? Is religion formidable? Are we God's children; are we the abandoned children of a martyr that is still seeking resurrection and resolution? Maybe our specie is the homeless man looking for sanctuary resting atop the church steps. Kneel at the altar. Seek Christ. Stare at the cross. An everlasting reminder that we have failed as a whole. We look for a sign, while we craft them to gain attention, or recognition. Are we the homeless man? Or are we the worker that pays to sin? What are we now? Where are we?

What are we now? Where are we?

Ignore the cracks in the sidewalk. To Hell with the sidewalk. To Hell with the path of righteousness.

Our days are borrowed.

Wednesday is lent to us. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

{MW} exhaled in annoyance. "Where's all this coming from, man? I get having an opinion or being bias, but c'mon. Some things you shouldn't bring up in conversation. You know people say there are certain topics that are never good to bring up, and I'm sure religion is in the top three."

"Don't you send weekly emails to politicians?" Dante asks passively.

"What are you getting at?"

"Nothing, forget it," Dante says, trying to pull himself out of the hole that is already dug.

"No no, continue with your point. Unless you need time to conjure one up."

"I don't need time. I believe I have everything well thought out. But you...better to instigate than participate."

"Get to the point." {MW} says.

"Okay, listen. What I am saying is that being blunt is now regarded as being closed-minded. If you say or write anything that conflicts with a person's morals you're going to be seen negatively. Sent right down the ******' river. People are sensitive. And we're conditioned to be this way. Our governments need order, as do we, so we set our own codes to coincide with black and white moral issues. As for religion, the only concept I can agree with is The Ten Commandments."

Our server walks by our table. Our eyes follow.

"That's it?" {MW} asks.

"What do you mean that's it?" Dante asks in return.

"Mr. ******' opinion and you give the most vague answer."

"Thank you peanut gallery."

*You become close with a person over time, now speaking first hand, we can sometimes adapt to their nature.

That is what I saw her doing with me for a long time. Simple as repeating things I've said in conversation. Her drink taste, until she evolved into this retroactive aristocrat. There were a lot of things that I had seen. I am guilty as well. I became interested in her reading habits. So, I started to read books she liked, little things like that. And so it goes. I would excel in social situations, and she would inadvertently expose me to a lot of great literature. I was always attracted to her books, and to her features, I suppose. And after time invested, concerning our friendship, it seems like in this situation there is a connection. Now, I know we just handle our relationship differently. And that's how I know we are different. There is a difference between not being empathetic, and being apathetic. I'm content. She's in a gray area.

This is far too complicated for me to speak verbatim. As bad as that sounds, I think after I explain myself you might be more sympathetic toward me.

My eyes were running.
Thoughts, too.
Whatever this was
that had taken over me
was...confusion.
Overall confusion.
Of course counter that with anger,
vulnerability,
mostly adrenaline,
and you get whatever this is:

A disconcerting wetness.

The story I've been telling is becoming less close to the chest.
Curious nature is that of a private man openly speaking tragedy.
Delivered with an uncomfortable smirk, because humility is foreign.
At this time, respectively.

It began with short sentences. Small worked because it was never enough to give insight into
the whole picture. Of course there was source material. Coincidences occasionally, but my sources were
always kept hidden. My skeletons, some would say.

Then the sentences became longer, if not, the paragraphs would.
Every now and then a hand cramp would delay the process, but
the mind kept going. What else did it have to do, but think?

But back to misplacing a humble way.
As soon as you state that you are,
you have become a contradiction,
a liar,
a cheat,
a thief,
the **** of the Earth.

But what do I know?

I'm only trying to be humble.

Take into consideration that I've never
hurt an innocent man, but I've been known
to be less empathetic than most.
Counter that with an intuitive sense of *******,
calling it and speaking it, mind you, and you
will start to relish in the quiet nature of a
man that is fully invested in his environment.

BUT

What do I know, if I don't act.
Blame age?
Say that I'm young and I will learn from my mistakes?
Completely feasible, but it will only hinder development.
Blame yourself, I say.
Call yourself on your *******.
Know that your instinct should be followed through.
Get the feeling and act on it, however,
hold it in,
and everything goes to waste.
Your instinct becomes ****.

The room: never aired out.
Smoke hung high, creating its own atmosphere.

Pun intended.

Box of cigars sitting on the coffee table, always within reach.
Glass ashtray to smother your butts, when a forearm wasn't intended.
Burning flesh, each circle telling its own story of a mistake.

That's why I prefer long sleeves.
They hide my stories
about Grandfather's house.

The day you taught me how to cross a street was
the first time I remember my anxiety.
Lungs expanding, mouth shut
and seemingly everlasting.
Pulse rising, brow moist,
too young to know the innuendo.

"Look both ways," you said.
And I did.
At the time I listened to you,
your words; guidance bestowed
upon me, not only because of your
responsibility and obligation,
but because of love.

As time went on,
it was easier to disregard
your words.
I would look both ways,
and after a while I knew
you weren't behind me.

After a while, I was glad
that you weren't.
You never took my training wheels off,
because I had never rode a bike,
but I learned how to cross a street.

I would look both ways,
cross,
setting my own direction.
And when I learned to
ride a bike at twenty-two,
you still weren't behind me,
and I was drunk.

Wind in my face,
eyes closed,
light shining through
my eyelids.

With closed eyes,
you can't look both ways,
or appreciate the innuendo.

I killed myself.

A Tuesday. Fresh cut grass, the smell welcoming, as if to announce Spring and rebirth. Then you think of Hay Fever and laugh at the simplicity we hold for nature. Leave it. Don't branch off. Knock on wood.

I coughed on a stranger. It was unintentional. My apology was sincere, as was his vulgarity. Made me think: This ******* probably eats with his mouth open. Food flying. Spit soaring. An intentional imbecile. To be noted: If I see this man again, I will sneeze on him.

Fast food is absolutely disgusting, but there is an occasional craving. When you lift the top bun of a cheeseburger and it gets stuck to the cheese. That's all I have to say about that. The quality of the food has put us in a pickle.

I'm tired. I'm sure there is a mattress salesman close by to sell me a dream. What is my most comfortable thread count? Futon it is!

I haven't killed myself, yet, but I've died a long time ago.

But, dying and killing yourself
aren't one in the same.
The dead walk.
Ones who ****
idolize permanence.

Hating yourself
was familiar to us,
but I wanted
more.

Clock in with a swipe. Slash of the blade. Prefixed, eventually to become routine. God based routine. If any routine at all. Slash of the blade. Ring of the bell.*

We knew the Blue Marble was Hell. We created Hell. We needed it.

Time progressed, the swipe no longer needed; detached and vulnerable, time became an entity.
No one had time to swipe.

The axis the Blue Marble spun on, circulating, cultivating, breathing.

How does a marble breath?

How does a marble die?

Parasites.

We created Hell. We needed it.

A power struggle between animals is natural.

The exception is ego.

We lost eco over ego.

We created Hell.

And I needed it..

Through the day,
until the end,
I stare at you,
my on loan friend,
I can't relate,
I feel displaced,
you are the worst of the human race,
I stand and stare,
and pull my hair,
us together just isn't fair,
but we have to work,
though you'll stand and lurk,
you're just a misplaced quirk,
annoyance throughout my day,
my vehemence barely stays at bay,
and all I can think to say,
is that...

*You can go **** yourself.

She's coy and passive, but I don't underestimate her.
A statement would be to say that she's methodical.
A bolder statement would be to say that this is all
premeditated.

Why be terse when my words are plentiful?
After all, the coffee you hold
was bought by me with a motive.
I did not buy you a coffee,
but your conversation.

An empty cup speaks
two volumes.
Some left to be discarded.
The others wait
for change.