Walking down main street, not worried about the rain, was John Carpenter.
Sure, he had on his hat and coat, but he had not remembered to grab his umbrella.
Luckily his sister had not been with him or else she would have had a fit. She was always talking about how he needed to bundle up more, he only got pneumonia twice  year, and seemed to always have a cold.
He didn't mind though. More often then not, a nice hot cup of coco, or brandy would clear his sinuses and he'd be fine.
Today he did not have a cold and today he was walking down mainstream, letting the rain fall gently upon his face and shoulders. He passed the bar he so often frequented in his younger years, and saw a familiar face across the not so busy main street. He stopped then, rather suddenly, and slumped agaisnt the wall.
My, it had been years since he had seen her. Years since he had talked to her. Looking across the street, through light traffic and light rains he remembered the other times he had looked upon her face.
He remembered the last time he had done so while seeing her. They had woken up in bed, him before her as was usual. They had woken up to kisses and squeezes and the smell of cigarettes and brandy and parchment.
Looking across the street he remembered everything about her, The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair.
He remembered the way she squeezed him tight, tighter than any other girl.
He remembered the way she laughed after they kissed
and he remembered how it had ended.
A shameful night in March, two years ago.
Drunkingly, he laid his hand upon her. Not in the nice way, but in the way his step father used to unto him. He did it because she would not go to the store to pick up more brandy.
That is why he hit her.
It was not the first time, though.
The first time he had been drunk as well and it had been because she talked back to him, the way he would to his step father. Now, you must understand, she gave him a second chance. She swore that if he were to every lay a hand on her ever again she would be gone. He swore to her that he would never again do so. He would lay off the brandy and he would be the man he should be. The man his real father was, before he died. He would be a husband and a lover and a healer and a man. He promised these things.
Then, two months later, he hit her again.
This was the last time.
She followed through on her promise and he did not see her until that moment, right then, as he looked across the street. He thought he should go over to her and say hello.
He though maybe he should cry at her knees, God knows he wanted to.
He thought he should beg for her back.
No, he had not gotten off the brandy, but that's only because she left.
He would though.
Oh God, he would.
Just as John Carpenter had worked up enough courage to cross the street and talk to Mary Stein, The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair, a man emerged from the building and grasped her arm. And she huddled close to him and looked up at him in a trusting, loving way. The way she used to him. Not the way John's mother did his stepfather. Not the way Mary did the last time she looked at him.
The strode, Mary and the Man,
arm in arm up the sidewalk.
Into a taxi, that sped away, up the street and away from John.
Oh God, how he would quit the brandy.

Put out a cigarette.
Lite a new one.
Take a shower.
Drink some coffee.
Quick brush of the teeth.

This is how John Carpenter starts his day.

Start the truck.
Lite a cigarette.
Drive.
Drive.
Lite a new cigarette.
Drive.

This is how John Carpenter goes to work.

Check in with the boss.
Sit down at typewriter.
Lite a cigarette.
Think.
Type.
Type.
Lite a cigarette.
Type.
Type.
Lite a cigarette.
Type.
Type.
Type.
Think.
Stretch.
Lite a cigarette.
Type.

This is how John Carpenter spend the first hour at work.

Repeat seven times.

Check out with boss.
Start the truck.
Lite a cigarette.
Drive.
Drive.
Lite another cigarette.
Drive.

This is how John Carpenter drives home.

Take off his coat.
Lite a cigarette.
Feed the dog.
Cook a steak.
Drink a beer.
Eat the steak.
Drink another beer.
Lite a cigarette.
Watch the ballgame.
Lite another cigarette.
Lite four or five more throughout the game.
Quick brush of the teeth.
Lite a cigarette.
Read.
Read.
Read.
Lite another.
Read.
Read.
Drink some brandy.
Fall asleep.

This is how John Carpenter spends his evening.

Repeat all of this 7,304 times.

This is how John Carpenter spends his life.

And when he has smoked enough cigarettes for a lifetime
and read enough for a life time
and eaten enough steak
and drank enough brandy and beer
and written enough novels
for a lifetime
he will die.
And only Mary Stein will miss him.

Etched across my back,
each one about a fingers width apart,
and red, horizontal lines.
One set starts at the center
and spreads in either direction.
Another set starts in the same way,
yet spreads at an angle,
as though to make a triangle
with the ground,
if they were to continue.

Left by the nails on your fingers,
these marks will linger
for a while
and then fade.
Just as everything does.
Just as everything must.

Usually
when I get any sort of late night feelings
and decide to write
the outcome, the product
is clean,
crisp,
but most importantly,
cold.
The feelings are typically harsh;
self hatred,
self loathing,
loneliness.

But tonight, oh God tonight,
the feelings are warm.
After a self performed heart palpitation
I have concluded that I'm at risk of a heart attack.  

Hours ago I met a girl.
Tall.
The first thing that struck me was how tall she was.
Almost as tall as me,
I didn't have to avert my eyes down to meet her own.
Which was refreshing.
The next thing that I noticed was her face.
More so, the beauty held within.
The beauty held above and below her eyes.
The freckles that dotted her cheeks,
her nose,
her forehead.

Although we did not exchange numbers, only names,
my heart rate sped up to an alarming speed
when I received a call.
Checking it quicker than I normally would have,
I **** near fell out of my chair to wrangle it from my pocket.
It was only a friend calling.
Asking if I had any dope
and if he could come over.
I said no and no and goodnight.

With my heart still beating fast
and my face comfortably warm
I lay down
and looked at the roof.
Usually
the white paint makes me sick
but this time I could only see the outline of her face.
I drew in her freckles with my fingers
and created a beautiful piece of art.
Only to have it fade from my mind.
Gasping, I reached for it.
I erased all thoughts and all memories other than those of her.
For the moment that it lasted I was at ease.
While it was not true meditation I reached enlightenment.
I felt peace.

And while it still resonates in my mind and heart,
I cannot seriously believe it will last.
I beg God to let it stay.
I ask God for this one thing,
I promise him I will do no more wrong,
I will not pick up my pipe tonight
or tomorrow
or ever again.
I promise to never taste alcohol again,
if only he will let this feeling last.
That's the least he can do.
The very least.

I lied to my friend.
I have plenty of dope,
for now,
as the feelings are already leaving.

~

Today, a family friend marveled at how much I remind him of my father.
You must understand how much this scared me.
Nothing scares me more than addiction,
yet I perpetually submit myself to addictive behavior, substances, feelings.

These holes I've been digging cannot be dug forever.
There is a bottom and that is excommunication, prison, death.
No person will dig me out,
no person can.

The clock may move slower
after I use this,
and it may move quicker
after I use this.
It doesn't matter to me,
as long as moves in a way other than it does in sobriety.

The sun will rise and the sun will set,
all according to plan.
For hundreds of years into the future
astrologers have predicted at what time which stars
can be seen from certain locations on Earth.
Yet I do not know where I will be tomorrow.
I do not know who will be with me.
I do not know if my father will still love me,
or if we will still share a home, a family, blood.

I cry ***** the color of Christ-blood.
It stains these linen sheets
and gets me drunker than Uncle Jim at a Christmas party.

Lonely thoughts breed lonely feelings
and lonely feelings hurt.
They hurt in the same way you do, because they're made of the same stuff.
Mixed in the same kitchen;
the recipe is the same.
One part brandy to one part cola to seven part tears.

A little girl who believes in love is much better off than the one who does not.
Much in the same way as a child believing in Santa Claus.
Belief can only set you up for disappointment,
but the feelings at the time of belief run deeper than the feelings after revelation.

Today,
at a street festival,
I watched a girl I have never met,
have never taken notice of before,
dance for about an hour.

I sat there,
begging God for the courage to get up
and dance alongside her.

After more than a few chance eye contacts
I decided to not look away when she looked at me.
Not missing a beat or a step we held one another's gaze
for a while.

Spinning and smiling she motionlessly
and wordlessly
beckoned me forth.

Denying myself a simple pleasure of
human interaction
and dancing, I remained seated.

After everyone had left,
and the band had stopped playing,
there, in the middle of the street she stood standing.

There, under the orange glow of the streetlights
atop a small coffee table
I sat, imagining her reflection in my eyes.

If God would ever be so generous as to allow it,
I would do it different.
I would dance next to her and then with her.

If God would ever be so generous as to allow it,
I would do it right.

We had a list of movies we were going to watch together.
Ranging from The Iron Giant to The Princess bride
and all the way back to James and the Giant Peach,
but we only watched three movies together,
two of which weren't on our list.

You have your permit to study abroad,
and I have six cigarettes left in my pack.

God, how I hate the stars
and how these blank walls drive me insane.

May 17th was the first day I wrote about you.
Many times since then have I written about you.
This will be the third time today I have written about you.

If all went according to script this would have been a deadpan comedy where the jokes on me, the main protagonist, because this is a low budget indie film and ha-ha it's funny because I don't get what I strive for during the two hours the audience watched and the 3 months the characters lived it.

We always hear that life is a stage
but we were never prepared for the stages we would be thrown through.

I remember the before.
When we had never talked,
only noticed each other in the halls,
around town,
and at the theatre.

I remember the during.
When we'd purposefully get lost in the city we were both born in.
When I'd treat you to tea
and you'd to treat me to a kiss and sometimes a hundred more.

Now it's the after.
Thank God you're leaving town.
It will save me the embarrassment of those times I called with no response.
And it will save you the harassment of having to see me.

My upper body becomes uncomfortably hot.
My lower body doesn't seem to want to move.
My hands become sweaty and a bit shaky.
My eyes dart around, not content to rest in one place.
In my mind there are many memories of your touch.
There are many memories of your smile,
but there is only one memory of the last time I saw you.

~

Destructive thoughts may only cause harm.

~

How wonderfully convenient this all is.

I watched the film
not because she told me to,
but because she told me she enjoyed it.
You must understand how important this is.

It's dizzying how much misunderstanding there can be
between a father and son.
He thinks I'm out having ***, smoking dope, getting in fights, stealing cars and shoplifting.
When I all I do is chain smoke with my friends and ***** about our respective fathers.

So much trust has been lost in such a little time
and it's not him, it's me.
Coming home high, smelling of cigarettes, two hours late,
that'll do it.
I can't tell him that I was two hours late  because I was trying to sober up,
finding it disrespectful
to be high around my own old man.

He's afraid.
Because I'm just like him, and he sees it.

The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout

Soaring high.
The reds,
the blues,
nothing could ever be more different than those two colors right now.
It's beautiful and so are you,
my lovely friend.

Down came the rain and washed the spider out

Feeling low.
The headaches,
and the sleepless nights,
nothing can ever bring me back to where I was before.
My horse has a name and he is loyal,
he is my friend.

Out came the sun and dried up all the rain

Thirsty.
The sun,
combined with the noise burns me,
how long was I asleep for?
My enemy will put up a fierce fight,
but not for long.
I can fight this.

The itsy bitsy spider climber up the spout again*

The chain is addiction
and the links are euphoria.
One end is a bent steel pole.
Me.
On the other is a needle.
My lovely horse.

It's like this:
You sit in your bedroom and the fan is on, the window is open, yet it is still hot.
You have your laptop open and music is playing.
On your walls there are numerous posters, a world map, and a dartboard.
On your nightstand there are letters from last year's World History teacher, empty bottles, a switchblade and an ashtray.
There are books on your shelf written by many great authors, poets, playwrights, and philosophers.
In your hand there is a cigarette, and in the other there is The Stranger by Albert Camus.
You sit alone, smoking and reading and drinking and suddenly you stop doing all of these things because inspiration has struck.
Although you prefer a pen and paper, you begin typing on your laptop.
The words come out and form sentences.
The sentences form stanzas
and eventually the stanzas form a finish a finish product.
That is what it's like to be anything at all.

~

Oh, how I miss you so.

~

Please get out of my brain

~

She is not smiling much anymore.

~

I'm not pretty enough for cornflowers.

~

This has happened before. Love fades.

my{ perpetually you shall remain }heart.

~

Don't you ever stop. Continue eternally.

~

Remember? Please God, say you do.

~

She prefers black and white films.

~

Color me in dark red apathy.

~

The lovelorn boy desperately hung mistletoe.

I have a few unhealthy habits that my therapist wants me to shake.
Chewing my nails is a nervous habit, he says.
Smoking cigarettes is only a crutch, he says.
Gorging/starving is a personality flaw, he says.
Drinking alone will cause problems, he says.
Falling for those who are leaving, have left, or are simply out of reach is a death wish, he says.
Hating yourself simply won't do, he says.


Tonight,
a hot summer night,
spent cigaretteless,
loveless,
and sleepless,
teach me more about myself
than Doctor Eric Schlanger, L.C.S.W.
ever could.

I know not about the feelings I have,
and the urges I get.
I know not when they'll come,
how long they will last,
and what my actions shall be.

I'm a mess.
This is the only way to describe it.
I'd rather breakdown in your arms,
than be at ease alone.

~

However often Steely Dan says
all that I am thinking,
he never says
all that I need to say.

I guess that's why I'm putting this into writing.
I guess that's why I'm taking this from my heart,
which will die,
and putting it on paper,
which will die as well,
only much later.

I want to matter.
I want to relate this to you,
my friends,
in a way that is worth something.
In a manner that is in no way resembling
my usual upheaval
of mismatched,
poorly chosen words,
spoken in a drunken
and sobering
slur.

To You:
However often and warmly I think of you when the sun is out, my midnight thoughts of you are always cold, always confused, and always sickening. I'm truly sorry for this. It's always been me.


To The First:
You entered my mind at about the same time you entered my life,
which is uncasually unusual for matters such as these.
I believe this to be the first of many mistakes we made.


To The Last:
We've all been hurt.
We've all cried and
we've all hated the same person that we love.
But no one deserves to be whole more than you do.
No one deserves a friend more than you,
you,
the one named Robin.
I know not your life,
nor the story you wrote about,
on a desperately, obviously rainy day in March.
All the best to you.

Discovery can lead to hurt feelings.

This isn't the first time it's happened to me
but for some reason it hurts more than the other incidents.

It's how a baby must feel,
breathing in second hand smoke
from an unthoughtful,
yet seemingly loving,
father, to discover
that one who is held by me
is simultaneously enough
being held by another.

Color me selfish,
but when I hold a beautiful body
in my arms
and I kiss them for who they are
and I kiss them for their soul
I wish for the feeling to be mutual.
I wish for it to have meaning
and I wish for it to be
a singular couple.

This poem was birthed by two things:
My own distaste for confrontation
and you're lack of judgement
to fool around with him,
while fooling around with me.

And you're gone now,
you're opening a new chapter in your life,
but you get away with selfish ******* too much
and it's time you heard about it.



Hold on my dearest friend,
I'm not done yet.
I never knew you to be selfish,
but before I kissed you,
I wish you would have stopped me
and told me you were being kissed by another.

I guess that's all I really want to say.
Although it may not be all that should be said,
and it may be more than what's right.

My wine is on the top shelf of my closet, inside a suit case.
One pack of cigarettes rests inside of my nightstand.
My Vicodin lies in the back of the same nightstand in a small red envelope.
My **** is in an Altoids tin sandwiched between my two mattresses, by the window.
Another pack of cigarettes is in the front pocket of my backpack accompanied by a lighter.
Another lighter is in clear view on my nightstand.
Three 70 mg Oxycontin are in an allergy pill container underneath my bed.
My tobacco pipe and tobacco are in an old medical kit on the second shelf of my book shelf.

I love you mom.
More than all these things
and the fact that I feel that I have to let you know that makes me very, very sad.

It's nights like this
and it's girls like her
and it's wine like my father's
that make me enjoy drinking alone.
The taste of the locally produced wine
and the failure of love despicably drawn out
and the dry heat of scorching July nights that validate my drunken state.

Understanding that no two headed boy will save me tonight
and the acceptance of lost cigarettes makes this night
even more painful and forlorn.


The shadows envelope the tip of the Tree around nine o'clock this time of year.
The heat stays
and so will I.
Drunken,
nervous,
longing,
afraid.
With no two headed boy to save me tonight.

When the nights are hot
and the doors are locked
and I'm not with you
I begin to wish for
a thousand more kisses
and a million more songs to remind me of you.

I wish for it to be November again.

Once a girl told me I kiss like I'm in a hurry
and I wasn't sure how to feel about that.

When I kiss you I feel as if
you're trying to fit a lifetime of kisses
into one single breath
and I feel as if
I never want to breathe again.

After years and years of ceaseless grinding,
the inner workings of my heart are stripped bare.
Just like the screws
that hold my aging coffee table up.

Just like the love that so meticulously held us together
has faded away,
washed up,
disappeared.

Aubrey doesn't come around anymore
(she never was around)
and the lake bed dried up
(just as it was in the first place)

The memories hold strong.
For as long as the sun burns
as I will have these memories of you.
How I view them and how fondly I hold them changes as does the sea.

The weather cannot make up its mind
in regards as to how this small town shall be treated.
Treated with sunshine and warm days,
or with overcast and a light rain.

However hallow you presume my heart to be
I must assure you, my body is not the same.
Nicotine courses through these veins,
and brandy fights in vain with my head.

I wish for you,
I wish for you to be held by me.
I wish for you to be with me
and I wish for you to belong with me.

Every soul wants to belong as if it were written in the stars.
What makes you and I so different?

I don't know why it's been hitting me so hard these past few days.
Maybe it's the amount of time I've been spending with you,
or the realisation of how little time I have left to spend with you.

You keep telling me I'll survive and I know I will.
It's just that I don't want to.
And I hate that I have to.

5 cigarettes left and 12 hours to go.
I can't imagine that I will make it
to the next time I see you
with a stable mind and heart.

Reflected onto the face of the sun is you.
You, who shine so bright
are an everlasting symbol.
A symbol of what?
Of the moon, of the stars.
Of it all.

And at the end of the day when I think about you
and I think about all of them,
The Boy With The Sunshine Face,
The Boy I Love More Than All Others,
The Boy With The Bandanna,
The Girl Not Named George Lopez,
The Girl Inconveniently Wearing Boots,
and all the others,
I think about love.
And I think about this group
and how we will undoubtedly fall apart.
And I think about how there's nothing we can do about.
Things change.

*I'm the same, trust me. It's only that everybody else is different

I've already smoked most of my cigarettes while the night (along side my six pack of Angry Orchard Hard Cider) is still young.
The stars are outside
and in a few moments
when my head clears a bit I will join them.
I have so many places I could go.
In fact, the options are limitless.
There's the church parking lot across the street,
or the forest beyond it, hiding pleasant little benches to sit upon.
There's my favorite spot as of late
which is simply a bucket which sits next to my truck which sits in my parking spot on the street.
There's always my truck, which could take me to many far away places but I've already had a few beers and don't trust myself to that.
I could stay inside, and not greet the stars.
I could simply stuff a towel under my door, turn the fan on, face it out the window and smoke
but the house is stupidly hot and the stars, I would miss.
I could also stay inside,
write what i call ****** poetry
and what one beautiful girl cried about
and not smoke.
Bud *******, I want a cigarette.
Looks as if the bucket will be seeing me soon.

Everything, unfortunately, that has happened to us holds weight.
We are what we have done and what has been done by others.
The mistakes that we are all stereotypically bound to make will undoubtedly have been made by others and hopefully we may recognize them for what they are and avoid them.
Past relationships help us make current ones better.
Past relationships can help us not get into a relationship that will be toxic.
And however obviously the facts stare me in the face
I cannot resist falling in love.
I cannot resist falling for a girl
who shares many of the same circumstances that my partner in a previous (toxic) relationship.

As appealing as it may be, never let your heart make your decisions for you.
Not when you have a perfectly stable brain allowing it to beat.

Above all I hold this principle to be true:
Do all the good you can do
and good will find you.
Albeit in a roundabout way, typically.

The arrival of June ushered in a new era of heat.
The river, instead of being a place to have fun
became a mean of survival.
To escape the heat is clear your mind.
To dive deep and sink your fingers into the cold sand beneath the crest of the water
is to reach a state of true peace.

I would never tell a human being to smile more.
Smiling is something that when forced, holds more negative effects than not smiling.
A boy I love isn't smiling sincerely as much as he used to,
and I'm not going to tell him to smile more,
only that he deserves to.
The only thins this boy does is spread love and happiness.
Whether or not he has his guitar he creates music.
The manner in which he breathes causes love to occur.

"It's Toasted"*

Something about that red circle calls to me.
Something about R.J. Reynolds appeals to me more than Phillip Morris
and Santa Fe Tobacco Company.

Maybe all it is is the classic red circle.
Or maybe it's the nostalgia.
Maybe it's knowing that 4 out of 5 of my dead ancestors smoked Lucky Strikes.

But oh boy, to get one burning and in my lungs is bliss.
Whether it's in the morning, accompanied  by a cup of coffee
or during school after sneaking out of class.

The smoke that fills my head clears the smoke that filled my brain.
And shadowed my eyesight.
And made me shake.

Any cigarette will do it
save for maybe those God awful Fortunas.

How about this weather we've been having.
And how about them Yankees.
But boy, oh boy, how about those Strikes.

I guess the reason I text you drunk at 3 in the morning is because I have so many things to say to you and I don't have the courage to say them without the aid of 151 Proof Everclear grain alcohol.

And the boy I was sharing the ***** with didn't mind me talking about you.
The Boy with the Sunshine face didn't mind hearing all about that one time you and I danced.
He didn't mind hearing about the one time you kissed me
and he didn't mind me texting you.

In the morning I laughed it off unlike my hangover.
Just like the day before,
the first thing I reached for was my pipe
and after that it was my phone.
And at 11:30 in the morning I read the text you had sent at 9 the same morning.

I guess all I really want is you.
And that's dumb to say
because I want a job
and a ranch
and maybe a dime bag.
But out of all these things I want to hold you most.
And I want to kiss your face
and touch your waists.

As much fun as I had receiving this hickey
it would be nice to have one from you.

To the Girl who Gave Me This Hickey:
Thank you,
it was fun.

The Boy with the Sunshine Face came back today.
He was never really missing, he just needed a break.
And in the few days he was gone I realized how much I love him.
How much I love his hands on my back
and his laugh in my ears.

God knows his parents were worried
and they don't know I could have told them
where he was staying.
But I missed his face just as much as they did.
And no one should be forced to be somewhere
if it's killing them.
Even if that place is home,
with those who love them.

But now he is back but I still haven't seen him.
Except for last night, in my dream.
He was sitting on a bench by the school,
but he was different. His face didn't
have that smile I have grown so accustomed to loving.
Hiss words didn't have the same ring to them.
And when I kissed his face he didn't kiss mine back.

This is all just some weird front my brain is putting up
because I'm sure he's the same he always has been,
just a little more tired.
Still,
I miss The Boy with the Sunshine Face.

I made a mistake and even Daski can't help.
The combination of it all makes me sick,
the revelation, the lack of cigarettes
and the fact that I unintentionally opened up our old Facebook chat.
And I read the last message you sent and every single one before that.

Nothing has been more Absurd
than everything is right now.
The one question that
every man has asked himself is
why
The only question that is worth answering cannot be answered.
*why

I don't know how I feel about all of this
anymore.
I don't know what to think.
I hardly know how to think.

I only know that you kissed me once
and that you are moving many miles away.

-
Nothing
is more
scary than
realizing
you still love
the person
you told
you no
longer
want to
talk to.
-*

I've been thinking about all the wrongs
I did to you and did while we were together.
And maybe it's that I want to apologize
and maybe it's that I've been feeling weird
all day and this is why.

I don't know what I want.
I want to not want you.
How terribly inconvenient attraction is.
How terribly inconvenient your beauty is to me.
I may regret this later,
after your eyes have chanced upon it
but that's only if you take it the wrong way.

Don't ask me how I feel
because I'll say the same thing I say ever day
I'll say I'm feeling fine
yeah
I'm feeling great
better than I did when I hated myself
because yeah
now I love myself.
And I'll stand there and lie through my teeth
because the smile it puts on your face
makes everything okay
up until the second it fades away
the second everything comes unglued
just like it used to.

No matter how well defined the border lines are
I'll walk all along, and cross the ocean
into a barren land of wasted emotion
from the best and the worst of intentions.

No matter how tightly the blinds are drawn
light will peek through and shed light
upon a bleak urban interior landscape
complete with cigarette butts, Vonnegut, and everything in between.

Nights in White Satin may be gone off the charts
but not from our hearts.
In this case, white satin is the plain, unmade bed belonging to my sister.
I thought I told you to stay away, yet you linger on the backside of my eyelids.

Constant blue lights
gently illuminate this bedroom, untouched by the night.
Be careful what you wish for because Jesus saves
but he'll also ******* over for the **** of it.