I can't touch my face because my hands smell like popcorn
and I can't paint my nails because the smell is too strong.
I keep dancing with my arms and my head while I sit in my chair,
and I keep thinking it's okay, but I know it's not.
I want to paint a picture and tape a cats head onto a humans body,
and I want to light it on fire and take a picture of you naked and send it as a postcard to my best friend, (that I sort of have a thing with).
I'm not sure how many times I've called you this past week,
probably none, considering I don't like talking to you, (especially on the phone).
I'm not even sure if I remember your phone number or not, the numbers just keep mixing up in my head and then I end up calling my hair dresser or the pizza place down the street, (you know the one, with the salad bar that we never eat from).
I don't want to have to keep this up any more, I just want to put white out on those things I said and write over it with something funny or beautiful.
I don't want to have to worry about making the bed either, because it's really hard when you do it by yourself.
So please don't make me leave another message,
pick up the phone and tell me you love me already,
wait,
I don't want you to say it unless you mean it,
so just,
call me back.

you always said smoking would **** me,
but I never knew you meant it would be karma for stealing cigarettes from my mom.
I cut the pizza into thin pieces,
so I wouldn't feel bad when I said I ate three.
I was going to rhyme home with phone, but they don't rhyme,
and I was going to quote some famous person,
but I don't know any famous people,
so I couldn't ask permission.

Last night, you said you would call,
but you didn't.
I feel fine because I didn't feel like talking anyway.

So, uhh, when you get this,
just know I called because I knew you were gonna call,
and I wanted you to know I'm not mad.

ok, bye.

The day I learned what zero gravity was,
I went to the fair and I rode all the rides,
and I followed people that I didn't want to be with.

We all ate the same food with the same forks,
spinning until it hurt our cheeks to smile anymore,
then we tried to walk, even though we knew people were dying for our country.

When I got hurt you gave me two generic band-aids
and they wouldn't stick onto my ****** hands,
the shaking might have had a little to do with it,
but not that much.

I'm sorry that I got the phone wet when I was shaving my legs,
I just didn't want to stop laughing,
it felt too good.

So, I hope you get this message,
okay, bye.

i was two leonard cohen albums and three cigarettes in.
the night was falling in ribbons around me
and my empty passenger seat.

the windows were gracious,
hosting an onslaught of wind
that carved at the cool, contained
nature of my hair.

i was lost.

there was no meaning in the pavement
my tires demeaned at high speeds,
though i wanted there to be.

i took up two lanes,
as i fumbled the lighter.
i attempted to light the fourth,
only to find the fluid was far gone.

i felt just as worthwhile as the unlit
cigarette,
and cohen's phony sentiment.

driving pointlessly into the darkness.
looking for meaning that would
cling to me.

i wanted individual soul.

a holy moment where you know your life stands for beauty.
a holy moment where you aren't thinking about
***,
cigarettes,
ex-girlfriends,
and parental expectations.

i put on swordfishtrombones,
let mr.waits howl as my cancerous thoughts
ate away at my remaining humanity.

just night.
just a lonely interstate
with an empty passenger seat.

the markerboard on the fridge read:
sleep tonight.

the only thing i promised myself i'd do.
the day went something like this:

i woke up thirty minutes late,
i made do with only washing my hair,
ate an apple, yogurt, drank a cup,
****** myself to clear my head,
ignored the neighbor as i stepped out the door.

went to a dead-end, data-entry job,
where the girls aren't pretty, nobody is funny,
because everybody is a CPA and i'm not pleasant because i
don't give a good ******* about the
world of finance.

the highlight of the workday (as it is everyday),
was the break room chatter during lunch.

the earth-shattering conversations
revolved around:
how good the nutrisystem desserts taste,
how there was low voter-turnout in the midterm,
and how that one girl is a lesbian.

i got off work,
ate a sandwich, a banana,
put on sweatpants and a thrift store t-shirt.
i wrapped some fitness contraption around
my belly, whose sole purpose is to make
my abdomen sweat profusely.

no pretty girls at the fitness center.

i got back to my apartment.
wrote some phony poetry full
of half-baked sentiment
for no worthwhile reason.

i smoked.
i watched a foreign film, but couldn't find my glasses.
meaning: i have no ******* clue what the plot was about.

i went to the gas station.
made small talk with the long haired indian man.
i bought two smirnoff 40s.
something about smirnoff gives me really cohesive dreams.

my roommate tried to give me a lecture.
i told him christ was a myth.
a simple summation of earlier religious figures.
slammed the door,
lit some incense called "*****".

i fell asleep, woke up an hour later in a fright.
turned on the fan,
lit some more "*****",
closed my eyes,
and dreamt a complex novel,
containing:
me missing church,
my mom calling me,
getting lost in canada,
finding my way back to
my hometown only to find
two dudes with heavy machine guns
killing everyone in the cozy, local shops,
then somehow i got a line in a movie
directed by none other than keanu reeves.

at least i finally got some sleep.