The psychics were breathing smoke,
rummaging through my roommates collection of abstract art,
they told me what my favorite Modest Mouse album was,
they told me about my personality,
I told them I was a psychic,
they told me to *******.

Everyone assumes an original identity
in the self-inflicted apocalypse
provided by that old friend, alcohol.

Kevin was the smooth-talking,
drink-mixing extraordinaire.

Kara was the cynic.

Shawna was the kindhearted.

Evan was sober.

Tyler was in and out.

I was the ******* that took a party pill,
bounced off everyone with a handshake
and an apology.


We **** ourselves to resurrect,
piece together the discordance,
the chaos,
the girls.

While the psychics were breathing smoke,
while Kevin was collapsing,
while everyone was worried about me,
all I could say was,
"This is the happiest night of my life,
and that depresses the hell outta' me."

I longed for the sirens in the distance,
I took another drink,
I longed for renewed innocence,
I took another drink,
I longed for someone to lay beside me,
I took another drink,
it was finally enough.

I took off my shirt,
made war with the remnants of stability,
of sanity,
told my friends I loved them,
and hoped that my time ended in sync
with the sunrise.

Her eyes fell to the floor
His hands were twisted
And he looked away
And she folded her arms
And I drank my soda
And regretted even coming

She got mad at him
And he looked lost
And looked at me past her shoulder
And I shrugged
And drank my soda
And pretended I was invisible

Even though she yelled at him
And he looked so sad
I didn't know what to do
So I fiddled with my keys
And pet the dog
Because my soda was gone.

A few weeks later on the car ride home
She cried and smoked her cigarette
And asked me how she managed to lose him
And I thought of that night
And how lost he looked
And told her I didn't know.

He asked me if I believed in god today
And I smiled
And stirred my coffee
And shrugged off the question
And avoided his gaze.

I walked home today
Twisting the ring on my finger
Listening to the music in the distance
Someone's playing a piano on the street
And I sat next to an old man and listened.

He drew on his pant leg with a marker
And looked wistfully at the sky
Holes in his hat and
No shoes on his feet
And I asked him if he believed in god

He looked at me
With a wrinkled face that had seen many lives
And pointed to the ******* the piano
And smiled at me
And said "This is god", and nothing more

So there I sat
With an old man and a little ******* the piano
And my feet were hot
So I gave him my shoes
And bid him adieu

So I walked back home
And looked him in the eyes
And said I met god
And he looked at me
And we went on with our lives

I mean,
I'm not terrible;
not too terribly timid or brash
sometimes I'm cruel
sometimes I'm rash
but I can be kind, and generous too.
It's just, horrible...
seems to be what I do.
It could be I'm just too bold
or in conversation, exceedingly cold.
I'll lift you up like a king with this mouth
just to ****** you down on your snout.
With one hand I've given my heart...
given compassion and hope and art...
with the other I've squandered my gifts like a like a gambler.
Sold myself as a rambler,
a free spirit itching to fly,
an unchained lover ready to die.
I gave all of what I wanted to be...
but never gave me.
And what good can one be
if one cannot give of the self... to the self... to the world... to a cause... to a God...
to something unselfish
to something un-self-ish....
But, you know,
like I said,
I'm kind of a horrible person.