the absolute worst part about
being locked up
in the psych ward was having
no access to guns

No greater torture
for him

He spent his creative hours
in the workshop
drawing chicks with guns
and jerking off to them

“You're pretty good at this,”
said one of the
nurses

He snorted. “I'm hella good at
everything that involves
shooting, babe.”

“Oh sir, I didn't mean... I
meant drawing. You're pretty
good at drawing.”

“Yeah, **** drawing. I wanna
shoot ****. Say, could I
at least get some gunpowder. I just
wanna snort it. Nothing more,
I swear.”

She gave the usual answer. “I'll
check with the doctor
and see what
can be done.”
and was gone

He wasn't mad enough to believe
her
He was just mad enough to
use the tools in the workshop to
shape a wooden gun handle from
a small log
and staple it to the
base of his *****, to make the whole
thing resemble a pistol

He held the wooden
handle and moved it
up and down while staring at
his drawings
until he shot his load at them

He went nine years without doing
it. Five of those
were spent in prison so it
was just normal
but the other four he spent
desperately trying and failing

He did look fine before
he got into ******* drugs
and crime

Well, there was this
cute drug dealer
down the block
from whom he kept buying
only to get to see
her and try to strike up a
conversation

He didn't care that
she was pregnant
He called up almost daily to
meet up and
buy but he wasn't too
good at
conversation. Had no game,
as others would put it

And on the other side
she wasn't so
good at putting the products
together
She constantly laced the **** with
some other ****
and one such **** was so
bad that
when he smoked it
he got all ***** and creative
and desperate

He grabbed a black
permanent marker and
drew a **** across his
left forearm

It wasn't good enough so he
cut it open with
a razor and began to
lick at it and finger it
around the bone
and eventually **** it until
he came

He came about four, five
times until
he passed out

Here we go
open the beer can
bring it to the lips
have a sip
and...
There it is
that PSA starts running on TV
about a great part of the population
caring for nothing but how to get high
The numbers are alarming
Getting high has become
as much a science as it is an art
and a banal thing
Everyone seeks to escape reality

with desperation

therefore
the strongest drug of all
is suicide

so potent it can get you high
even if you just think about it

I had my share
but managed to change my mind early
I no longer think of suicide
but make others do it
and that still counts as getting high
since they're all characters in my writings

he deliberately chose
the nastiest
sound for the alarm clock

Zeeeehhweeeehhchhh

and there it went
again
Every four hours. Announcing that he
had to start the
engine again lest he
froze to death

The phone had 17% battery left. He
would need to visit
the library again
for a recharge but it was becoming
increasingly
harder as the smell of homeless
was growing more
potent on him

He checked the time again
turned off the phone
turned on the engine
wiped the windshield with his gloved hand
watched his breath leave his mouth
fumbled around for a cigarette

no luck

He took out the lighter and
struck it
and all it produced were sparks

It's been quite a lot of
no luck
lately

At the library he took small
chapbooks
with him to a desk and pretended
to be studying them
while the phone charged besides
him
but not having anything
better to do he
read some of the poems in
those chapbooks. He didn't understand
poetry, didn't know
how to read it to
make sense. He was simply not
a man of writing and reading,
didn't understand why
the lines were so choppy
and didn't go all the way
to the right margin of the page. Why did it
have to look so
intentionally wrong? Also
why didn't it rhyme if
it was called poetry? He resigned himself
eventually. He'll never understand
this part of literature

but still, there was
something
he read in one of those deranged
verses with words all
over the page. One poem that
ended something like this:

"then something else in me said, no, save the tiniest
bit.
it needn’t be much, just a spark.
a spark can set a whole forest on
fire.
just a spark.
save it."

His English wasn't the
best but he
understood the message well enough

the spark was
there
still

there's nothing good on TV
when you're in
a crap mood

"****," he thought. "Nothing's gonna be
good on TV for
the next 18 years. At least."

he sighed
and shifted his position on
the couch

four days till New Year's Eve
and he already
got the greatest
gift one could wish for. A positive
pregnancy test from
his girlfriend

Oh, he was over the
moon
and everybody knew

"Meh, I don't need TV. I'm
the best actor
I've seen..."

Robots at sea

the sun shines, it always shines, on the portholes
on the ships in the bay looking enticing.
To be a mariner is not a natural form of life and
should be run by robots can tie a ship to a port.
As it is an engineer can sit in a control room
and press the relevant buttons no need for an oiler
to walk around seeing if something has to be done
and cleaning the floor.
On long journeys by the young especially is not
healthy, too much time spent reading *******
and getting a wrong view of what *** is.
Visiting prostitutes thinking women are like this.
Come to think of it robots could be used as soldiers
and the interest in armies would lessen.

so badly I wish to be poetic
I drink my tea in the moonlight
take evening strolls in the rain

I bring a tattered notepad with me
to the café
to the museums
I choose my words so carefully

But I'm sitting alone,
at three in the morning
writing this "poem"

and I don't feel poetic at all

you say the things
i want to say

but lack the mustard
to voice

we are guided by crazy trumpet
playing

there's a method
but

even if it's deceptive
does that mean

there's
no madness

Whit Howland © 2020