I wish Jesus would talk to me like he does others.
I wish he could tell me how he fought boredom those three days.
If I had read the Bible more than once I would know he spent them in Hell.
And if Bob Dylan can make young girls swoon simply by saying "You're the prettiest **** girl I've ever seen" then why can't I by telling one she looks pretty everyday.
Maybe if I added guitar and harmonica to it, it would work.
But I can only play three chords on my guitar and I can barely play 'Mary Had A Little Lamb' with my harmonica  but it's a start.

I walked through a long, dark, and wet cave with some friends early today.
******, I stumbled through the cave, falling  over only once, at the end.
On the other side of the mountain, the cave lead out.
Seeing how it did eventually lead out, I guess it's a tunnel.
On the other side of the mountain, the tunnel lead out.
Opening up to the river and the sun.
Letting the current lead us downstream we met two nice young ladies.
One giggled at me when I introduced myself.
And I'm not sure if she thought I was cute or if she could tell how high I was.
Either way, it was nice to hear her giggle.

And Mark, John and Luke and all the other prophets are gone,
and I try not to lie,
so let me tell you about Jesus.

What bad could happen to a boy of sixteen, walking through the woods trying to find a nice spot to smoke and read Slaughterhouse-Five?
But now that I'm thinking about it, Stephen King may or may not have written a book about this exact question, more or less.
And as everyone who has read The Gunslinger Volume Six: Song of Sussanah, knows, everything Stephen King writes happens. Stephen King is God, in this sense.
Nevertheless, I found a nice spot, next to a dried out creek bed, complete with a gallon bucket and the scent of lavender.
And so I sat, and rolled a couple cigarettes, and dove into the mind and time traveling of Billy Pilgrim.

Sitting there, on that bucket, old Kurt spoke to me.
The previous owner of this copy of Slaughterhouse-Five also spoke to me.
With highlights and underlines he allowed me into his mind and thought processes while reading this book.
He underlined every passage that had to do with the Tralfamadorians views on time and the coexistence of every moment.

Soon, it became dark and I could no longer read, having only one cigarette left, I headed home.
Fifteen minutes later I was home, and if Stephen King had written about this event he wrote it as it happened. With no harm and no foul.
And maybe I dislike him for that
and maybe I don't understand why he did that,
why he would wrote a boring tale of a boring boy going on a boring walk in some boring Northern California forest.
And this writing does not feel complete but the Pabst is starting to kick in so I think I'll leave this one alone for now.
And Stephen King **** it, I can't even think of a title for this *******.
Nevermind, I got it.

And what a slap in the face it is
to keep my father's old driver's license
tucked nicely into my cigarette pouch.
Because every son wants to slap his father's face
and also to be just like him.

Nothing complements a cup of Earl Gray tea
quite like a walk around Nevada City
and a few cigarettes.

Of course
knowing I will see you tomorrow
and complement your outfit (because it will be nice)
will do fine.

I asked for a dance and you promised me two
and I won't think of much more until the second one is done.
And even after that I'm sure I will think of little more.
Until we dance again.

The football players will still get "pumped up" on four or five EPI pens before a game
and I will still hate them
and the girls will still post on Instagram
and I will still hate them
and she will still laugh at my jokes
and I will still love that laugh.

This has all happened before.
To me, my grandfather, and a boy named John who lived in 1970's New York.
It's all been done before,
it's all a copy of a copy of a copy of  Jesus
but it will still never cease to amaze
(occupy)

Shock and Awe was a failure, some will tell you
and 40 percent of the Central African peoples will be infected with ***
and Jesus will never leave the cross.
And you laugh will never cease to amaze
(occupy)

When the hard cider is all gone
and the pabst is all stale
and the ***** makes you gag
and the drug testing doesn't let you smoke ****
what do you do?
You have a ******* good time
with some great people
and you pack bowls for them
and roll joints for them
and hate the frat boys with them.

You laugh at the funny jokes
and duck call at the bad ones.
You smoke too many cigarettes
and give away your only lighter.

You fall asleep with one of them in your arms.
But don't worry, next weekend it will be someone else.
This time it was a tenacious blonde who's taking you to prom.
Next week it might be the lovely red head who wears his heart on his sleave
or it may be the funny Jewish kid who plays beer pong by himself.
Maybe it'll be the girl who shows up when all the ***** is gone
and sits next to you and lets you hold her close.
But never by yourself,
they're all to lovely to let that happen.

A few days from then you'll go on a walk and bring a few cigarettes and a book
but the cigarettes remind you of them and the book reminds you of her
so you leave Leaves of Grass in the grass and smoke the cigarettes
thinking of the Before.
thinking of the Then.
Not worrying about the Now
and forgetting the When.

You sleep like a baby,
in the sense that you wake up every few hours and struggle to fall asleep without your mother's breathing to sing a lullaby.
She's outside,
falling in to old habits,
throwing two years into a bottle and downing it.
She's smoking her last cigarette so she sneaks into your room careful not to wake your seemingly sleeping Self and digs in your backpack until she finds your cigarettes.

In the morning she will magically have those two years back
and she will have forgotten those cigarettes she took from you.

But you'll throw her empty bottles away before your sister can find them and Understand.
And she won't lend you that twenty bucks she said she would because she spent it on two bottles of Jägermeister.

And the girl who lives down the street knows none of this because to her it's not real.
She only knows that your mother has a two year NA chip
and she only knows that you used to Hate yourself.
She knows that you like her
and she thinks she likes you.
And she lets you put your arm around her
and she snaps at Satan with you.

And you love the lovely red head and you hope he reads this
and is happy  because he is in one of your ramblings.
just as your heart smiles
when you find yourself in one of his.
however more poetic and sensitive and lovely they are.

There is a small patch of forest just next to my house.
When I was little my sister and I would go there and dance and sing.
Today I decided to visit. Beer bottles and empty cigarette packs littered the ground.
I had been there in a while but someone had. I sat down on a rotting log and pulled out my own pack of cigarettes.
I stayed there, sitting on that log, accompanied by my thoughts and the sound of the wind rushing through the pines above.
It's as if the trees were speaking to me.

In an ancient and eminent language they whispered.
They told me stories the Moon wanted to remain unknown.
They sang to me songs the birds first whistled.
And with strength the river envied they swept me away.
The innocence of the pines was obvious in this serene place.

Press your lips together
and press them on mine.
Feel my tongue on yours
and close your eyes.
See my face
imprinted on the back of your eyelids.
Kiss me long
and kiss me deeply.
Don't dare to pull away;
not yet.
Let's stay here,
you and me,
and etch our names into a tree.
Let us lay in the grass
and touch our feet with our feet.
Let us stay in this place
until the moon rises.

Place your hand
on the small of my back
and feel my hand
on the small of your back
while my other touches your face.
Let us be swept away
by the love in this place.
Let our hips come together
as the sun comes to horizon.
******* neck
and I'll bite yours.
Worry not about the marks,
we will grow to love them.
Run your hand through my hair
while mine holds your face on mine.

Let us not separate.
Let us not evaporate.
Let us not leave this place.

The star doesn't shine
(no candle is inside)
The wind doesn't blow
(no switch has been flipped)
The words mean nothing
(no book has been opened)
The bed isn't made
(no person slept there)
The heart doesn't long
(no heart beats)
The phone doesn't ring
(no one questions)

The cigarette burns aren't fading
only become less painful and more scabbed over.
When I first saw her, I was happy, please understand.
I saw her entering the cafe from my position opposite the door.
Brett Shady was playing the center of the room but my attention was not on him, not entirely.
She and her boyfriend took the only standing room still available in the far corner.
I'm not sure if she saw me but I think she did.
I think she kissed her boyfriend after she first saw me, which is fine.
I would have done the same, had our rolls been reversed.
After a few more songs I could no longer bear it. I stepped
outside.
I walked two blocks up the rode from the cafe to Bonanza Market.
I bought a pack of cigarettes and walked even further up the hill.
There, I found my favorite spot, one which I had found with a dear friend.
There is a swing hanging under a big tree, surrounded by flowers.
I must have went through half the pack before deciding to move on.
I figured I'd catch the rest of the show from the door.
Walking back however, something caught my eye.
A play was just beginning at the Nevada Theatre and I heard it was semi decent.
I snuck in through the side as I had done many times before and took my seat.
On stage, performing a small girl was another girl who I had kissed.
Who I loved.
When I first saw her I think she saw me too.
I looked down feeling a tear in my eye.
When I looked up I was sure.
She was looking at me with a sort of pleasant smile on my face.
As if she'd known what I was feeling.
The regret, the sadness, the longing.
All these things came rushing up inside me so quickly that I had to leave.
I again went to my favorite spot and finished the pack, saving a few cigarettes for that night.
Oh God, how I would need them.
I walked back to maybe see the end of Brett Shady's set. The show was over however.
Walking out was a friend of mine who I had not spoken to in a while. I waved her down and we began talking. About what I remember not. But it took my mind off things.

A while after a girl I had onced kissed and had once kissed me walked out of the cafe with her boyfriend.
She smiled at the friend I was with, not sparing me a glance.
My friend turned to me
"How could you let her go, Nolan? Why would you let her go?''
I turned my back to her and began walking.
Two or maybe three ours later I arrived home, all my tears shed.
I didn't sleep that night.
The face of the girl and her boyfriend came flooding into my dreams as the tears had off my face.
The face of the ******* stage came flooding into my mind as the nicotine had done my blood.
Regret was sharing my bed that night.
Whispering in my ear accusingly "How could you have let her go?"
Pain was in my room that night.
Roughly fondling my heart as if it were a stone.
Sadness was kissing my mouth that night.
Only allowing whimpers to come out.

I moved my bed today
to another corner of
the room and as it went
a small business card
was revealed and
written on it was
"Nolan Fillman has an appointment with
Eric Schlanger, L.C.S.W.,
Tues, 11-22-11 at 5:00 P.M."
And I remembered what I did that day.
I talked to Eric about my life
about how I wanted to **** myself
and about how my grades were
slipping and about how alcohol
tasted better when I was drunk and
about how I hated myself.
He told me that he was my friend.
And that I could call him
instead of killing myself
or getting drunk.

And later that night I did.
When my father yelled at
me about my
grades
I called Eric and told him I felt
like drinking and
that I hated my father.
He talked to me.
I can't remember about what.
I think it was about a trip
he took to
Spain the
summer before.
He and his wife had spent two weeks there
and they ate good food
and met good people.
I slept well that night.

And I want to call Eric Schlanger, L.C.S.W. right now.
I want to call him and have him tell me about Spain.
His number is written on the card right under where
it says TELEPHONE.
And I remember where his office is.
On Spring Street, Suite C2.

But I have to give 24 hours notice to avoid a late cancellation fee.
And it's been eleven months.

A talking dog and
a girl in flowers and
an old man in a suit and
a wolf with arrows in his eyes and
two bodies entwined and
a girl ascending stairs and
Why? and
the Empire State Building and
a young man smoking and
a house tilting over a cliff and
a lost paradise and
snow falling on lamps and
two teenagers floating in a pool and
waves crashing and
dilapidated house in Berkshires, MA and
the Devil and God and
boys in jackets and
young men singing and
fans blowing air on a bed and
nothing.

These are the things I see.
These are the things that haunt me.

Holidays have always been a tricky thing for me.

On Father's Day I stole my father's vicodin.
On Easter I got black out drunk.
On my sister's third birthday I smoked Salvia.
On Christmas I stole my Aunt's brandy.
On New Years I stayed home alone and smoked cigarettes 5 hours into the new year.
On St. Patrick's day I saw a lot of green. And smoked a lot of green as it happened.
On the first day of summer I was in summer school.
On the first day of school I ditched.
On Valentines Day I bought myself chocolate and cried.
On Halloween I dressed up as myself and got my stomach pumped.
On my birthday I stayed home from school sick and watched TV all day.

But on the day I first spoke with her I was in a black box.

I love baseball.
The smell of the grass, the crack of the bat, the pop of ball hitting mitt.
I love baseball.
The friendship, the camaraderie, the seed shells littering the ground.
I love baseball.
From behind home plate, to the on deck circle, to the bullpen in right center field.
I love the fist bumps I recieve, entering the dug out after a well placed sac-bunt.
I love the hollers and cheers when the ball flies over the fence.
I love seeing the other players and knowing they love the same things as me.
Standing on the top step of the dug out, impatiently waiting for my spot in the lineup.
I love watching my shortstop tag out runner after runner.
I love my pitcher hitting his spots and I love our left fielder diving for pop flies.
I love catching and blocking ***** in the dirt.
I love the bruises I find on my body after every game.
I love keeping my foot on home plate before throwing over to first on a double play.
I love seeing the lights and hearing the cheers, knowing they're for me, my team, my sport.
I love baseball.

I have a strange relationship with my across-the-street neighbor.
Every morning, after the coffee *** is brewing and the bed is made,
I enjoy a cigarette or two just outside the front door.
I look across the street and I see him.
Bearded, usually wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and slippers.
On a typical morning he is out before me, about half way through his cigarette.

Although I've lived across the street from him for the better part of two years, I do not know his name.
I know that he smokes Marlboro 100's, just from the way his pack, generally in his cigarette holding hand, looks.
I know he has a wife, and a what seems to be three year old daughter.
I love this man.
I love him and his wife and his daughter and his Marlboro 100's.
Every morning that I see him, it is a sign that I am awake, that this is all real.
For if I were to not wake my mind would not be so cruel as to trick me.
My mind would not be so cruel as to deceivingly use my only sense of comfort against me.

Before daylight savings so rudely interrupted my subconscious schedule, the sun would just creep above the low tree line behind the man's house as he put out his cigarette and go inside.
On some days, I imitate him shortly after, dropping my cigarette and returning inside.
On other days, days when I need all of the tobacco in my cigarette, which have been occurring more often than they used to, I follow him more slowly. I stay outside until the sun is completely out from behind the tree line. Some days, as was the case this morning, I need two cigarettes to properly prepare me for the day.
And on these days, the man returns outside, with his baby girl in his arms and his wife following behind.
They all pile into his grey Toyota pickup and are off.
Where to, I know not.
All I know is that I will see him tomorrow.
And I love him for that.

I'm not feeling regret or bitterness
I just wish you'd stop embarrassing yourself.

And if this will only make you sad, for God's sake do not read it.
I miss the way I thought of you before I really knew you.
I miss the way I perceived you to be.
As this beautiful, mysterious, intelligent thing.
I don't miss how you turned out to be.
How you were all along.

And if this is making you sad, I beseech thee; do not continue.
I miss the way your hair smelled in my mind, before I ever smelled it.
I miss the way I imagined your hands touching.
The soft elegant strokes would run across my back and neck.
I don't miss how they turned out to feel,
only how they felt before you ever stroked my skin.

And if this will only make you angry, avert your eyes, please.
Because I do not need you.
Least of all angry.
I need to do this though.
I need to put these words out there.
Just as I did before I met you.
Just as I did while I had you.
Just as I do now that I lost you.

If you want people to like you write them a poem.
If they still don't like you, nothing you can do will change that.

Every time, I pass by an In-N-Out I remember that night we went to a show in Sacramento.
You, driving your van full of people and hopes and laughs and drugs,
pulled up in front of the school around 5 o'clock on a rainy January afternoon.
I hopped in, immediately overwhelmed by the love I took the back seat to myself.
In front of me was Jena, wearing her blue and purple sweater that I always will remember by.
Next to her was Fritz, dressed in his usual attire consisting of a hoody and jeans.
Next to him was Shelby, a girl I had not had the pleasure of spending time with before that night.
She didn't say much throughout the whole night nor has she since then.
Riding shotgun was Dylan, another person I had not hung out with before. He was busy mixing shisha and hash oil and I don't blame him for not saying hello.
And you, Tyler, you were driving. And as we drove with the windows down, your hair whipped around.

Almost as soon as we were on our way, I was packing spliff, courtesy of Shelby into a pipe, courtesy me.
We got it burning, just as we reached the highway and not long after that the hookah, courtesy Fritz, was slowly burning the hash-shisha concoction, courtesy Dylan.
I remember not saying much, except when we sang along to some rap song that I could not tell you the name of now.
And at one point, after the spliff had all been smoked and quick hooka session  had concluded Dylan turned around and asked me something I could not make out.
I replied back to him with a what and he again asked an non-understandable question, only this time I said "Sorry, I can't hear you, I'm really high."
Everybody in the van laughed and Tyler said she loved me and Fritz patted me on the back and Shelby turned around and smile at me.
Maybe a half hour after we left we stopped at In-N-Out for some beautiful Double-Doubles.
Once we got our food we began to understand that we had ordered not Double-Doubles but regular hamburgers. Albeit we were very put off by this, it did little to ruin our night.

I can only remember brief portions of that night.
I remember being dropped off at the curb of a punk rock show Shelby and I were attending.
I remember meeting our friends Lukas and Dakota, who are dating, inside.
I remember standing watching the bands, thinking of God knows what.
I remember walking two blocks to a parking lot the van was parked in.
I remember getting in, again overwhelmed by the love and this time, smoke.
I remember Lukas and I went outside to smoke a cigarette.
I remember a local coming up to us and asking us for a light.
I remember talking to him about something. The weather, perhaps.
I remember hugging Lukas good bye and getting in the van.
I remember falling asleep.
I remember waking up at a gas station where the tank was filled, courtesy Fritz.
I remember getting home.
I remember the laughs
and the smoke
and Lukas
and Fritz
and Tyler
and Jena
and Shelby
and Dakota
and Dylan.
I remember the love.

I can almost picture it,
you, so small and so powerful,
scratching the words of an angry night
with no cigarettes on a wall.
And I can almost picture it,
but not quite.
Was there a lamp on?
I imagine so.
If so, then what color?
In the scenario entrapped inside my brain
it is a small purple lamp,
place upon a desk, or a night stand.
A bed is also in my dream of your room,
as there undoubtedly is in real life.
And in my dream it is covered with a light,
soft green that goes uncannily well with the shade of the lamp.
And the walls, well in my mind they are white.
And those words,
the words of an angry night with no cigarettes
are scratched upon that white wall with a charcoal pencil.
In a neat handwriting that angles down a bit as it goes from left to right.
And this is probably not so in real life
but that matters not.

Tonight, is a happy night,
spent with many cigarettes.
Therefore,
I this poem will not be written on a wall.
It was not be cast upon by a purple hue.
Nor will it be highlighted by a white wall.

'Tis well.

My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
The smoking and drinking and snorting and fighting and drinking and crashes and drinking were not good for him.
My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
One summer, when he was 16, everyday he would take a bottle of wine from his mother's liquor cabinet, buy a pack of cigarettes at the corner store, meet up with his friend Mario, who also stole a bottle of wine, and together they would ride down to the river and smoke and drink and swim. Everyday, for a full 1970's summer they did this.
And now he tells me, that at the time they were having fun and they were not worried about money or addictions or the future.
They were just having fun.
My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
One day, in the dead of fall 1981, he and his friends Mario, Mark, ****** and John all got together at Mark's apartment on the corner of 51st and Diablo boulevard. They hit the town, drank, snuck into movie theatres, harassed girls and had a good time. They returned to Mark's apartment at 2 am and thought it a good idea to steal Mark's mom's new car. They decided to go to Reno.
Driving, as my dad put it, well above the speed limit on Highway 49, they collided head on with a big rig. There were no fatalities but my dad broke his shoulder and suffered a minor concussion. Mark's mom chose to not press charges nor did the driver of the big rig. The next day my father was back at work, refusing to adhere to the doctor's orders of taking it easy and wearing a soft cast, entrapping his left arm against his chest, climbing under cars, changing oil, and repairing engines.
My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
One cold winter's day, in December of '82, my father's ever faithful companion, Mario, picked my father and his dog, Wimpy, up and they drove over to a small burger joint named Big A's. My father ordered two bacon cheeseburgers and a large rootbeer. Mario got the same, only with a single bacon cheeseburger. My father father gave his second bacon cheeseburger to his pitbull Wimpy.
My father was better to his dog than he was to his own body.
Now, my father coughs himself to sleep every night, and has chronic bronchitis. His liver and kidneys are shot and he plans to not live passed sixty. He will be turning fifty in two weeks.
My father was not good to his body when he was younger.

Dedicated to Bobby Trice, Willem Cole Traupel, and Haley Ristow*

Spilled sodas
and spilled hearts.
Smoked cigarettes
and smoked days.

The snow has ceased falling, and my mood has continued climbing.
What used to be a dark shade of orange, an orange haze,
is now a light, gentle shade of white.
Crisp and clear.

And as I shoveled the drive way,
I thought of the less than extraordinary Sunday
and how extraordinary it was.

And as I looked into my cigarette pack, finding it empty,
I remembered a quote the director of our school play had said
"Do not cry because it's over, smile because it happened"
And I guess it's silly to think of a pack of Organic American Spirits in the same shade of white that others think of a school play.
Maybe it's not so much the cigarettes but the people I shared them with.
The people I love.
My bestfriends.

I used to lie in bed at night thinking about the time we could spend together.
It soon switched to thinking about the time we had spent together.
And somewhere along the line it changed again,
this time into negative thoughts.
Resentful thoughts.
And recently, I'm not sure when
they became fond memories.
I could see passed the fog of loss
and into the ocean of happiness that we swam in together.

There still is that fog, I guess.
Somewhere along the line
I saw only your flaws.
I saw all the things people say when they talk about you.
I see the lies but I also see the fun.
And I'm not sure, I haven't decided yet, but I think you used me.
I'm not sure why you chose me,
or why I chose you,
but we chose to use each other.

Recently,
I can see everything clearer
and recently I've been seeing things in a brighter shade of orange.

When I looked into the crystal ball
hoping to see my future
I saw only my face, twisted and swirled out of proportion.
And at first I thought maybe it's not the right kind of crystal
or maybe there is no way to see the future
but then I thought maybe there is.
Maybe I did see the future.
And I'm just too scared to realize it.

Last night,
I lost myself.
I became twisted and swirled.
As the smoke came out of my lungs so did my convictions.

As the hash burned gently in the hookah
the snow fell gently from the sky.
As the laughter poured heavily from our hearts,
the general disbelief fell heavily from our heads.

And as I looked into the crystal ball,
I laughed.
I knew the ball was really like water,
always changing, always shifting.
And just like water, it refracts light in strange ways.

This kid I go to school with told me his “Perfect way to be a nice guy and get girls to like you” today in math class.

He said to find a girl who tends to get drunk at parties and sleep with random dudes and regret it later.

He said to go to a party with them and get them drunk and then instead of sleeping with them let them sleep in your car and take care of them if they get sick or whatever.

He said than you had to make sure to tell her about it when she sobers up and how it’s “no big deal”

He said doing the right thing makes you a good guy.

I guess what he doesn’t understand is that setting yourself up for personal gain by using people with personality flaws is not what makes you a good guy.

A name
                A face
                              A memory
                                                 Or Two.
                                    No life
                  No story
No hope.

-
Yesterday at school,
as I was walking through the halls,
a girl, (who I do not know the name of for sure, but that's not important right now) before walking past me looked up and into my eyes as they were already intent on her.
She was beautiful,
you must understand.
And her eyes pierced through the fog that the melancholy environment of the school had left upon the halls.
And when she smiled, I swear all else around me stopped,
all things inside me rapidly expanded,
filling my body with an awkwardly warm feeling.
When I smiled back to her without meaning to I remembered looking into the mirror that morning and seeing my face, with it's too large nose and it's skin invaded with acne and a few scars and even fewer whiskers.

All these vain trifles of mine own face quickly evaporated from my mind as her eyes made their way back in.
I looked down at the ground around her feet and noticed nothing but her feet.
Covered with black China flats which were covering black tights that wove their way up her calves and thighs where they disappeared under a brown backed floral dress which again, stood under a denim jacket.
******* my short casket of knowledge when it comes to women's clothing
but God ****** if I don't know a stunning girl when I see one. If I see one, and I saw one.

My eyesight slowly wandered up again to her eyes
and thinking back on it now I am wondering how I had enough time to take such a clear mental picture and save it in my smoke filled brain.
And as I looked up I found her eyes again, looking back at me.

She continued smiling and said hi.
I continued smiling and more or less grumbled hi.

We each continued walking in our own, opposite directions.
I don't know her name.

And I have a friend named Fiona who played a tree in our school's production of Wizard and Oz.

-
today,
I was offered the chance to buy
two 40 mg Adderall pills.
At first I though,
"Eh, a nice dime bag sounds better to me"
But then I remembered my school's mandatory drug testing,
and then I remembered this horrible writer's block that has been plaguing me.

I had heard from friends in the past that the amphetamine-salt combo worked wonders for students.
I had heard that the wonder drug made you do stuff. Any stuff. Anything.
You can not sit still after popping over the dosage of Adderall.
You clean your room, you read a book, you write an essay and for me, hopefully, write.

Enough with the *******.
It's been about forty minutes since I swallowed one and half pills and ground up and snorted another half of one. Okay.

I feel as though I maybe breathing louder than normal.
Also, I'm not writing one line and then switching over to tumblr as I usually do.
Also, my room is really *****.
Also, I've drunk two sprites and ate some leftover Chinese food.
Also, it's really ******* quiet. It's eery.
Also, yesterday in my English class this really nice openly gay kid named Connor walked across the class and as he did so this other kid sitting next to me whispered quite loudly "******" and I did nothing but sit there and angrily stare at my desk.
Also, it's been eating me up inside ever since.
Also, about an hour ago my mom took my (half) baby sister so see her (**** of a) father. She said she'd be home around seven thirty and it's seven twenty eight but she's usually late.
Also, I wish she would buy me cigarettes.
Also, it's Thursday and I have a D- in Biology.

****.

Also, I might hangout with my friend Ryley tomorrow.
Also, I might become a methamphetamine addict.
Also, I spelled that without using spell check.

I would say I've lost my touch but that implies that I had a touch.
I would say everything I now touch turns to rust but that would imply that it once turned to gold.
I would say I'm going crazy but that would imply that I was once sane.
I would say I still love you but that would imply that I once loved you.
I would say I wish I had a cigarette but I wish I had a cigarette.

I don't understand.
I don't understand.
I don't.

Why am I here?
Why am I typing?
Is it to solicit a response?
Is it a desperate plea?

I am falling and I will never be caught.
Not by ground, not by mitt, not by death.


I'm getting bad again.
I'm breaking bad.
I'm breaking ties.

Maybe a change would be nice.
Maybe I can cut all of my ties and form a new life.
It almost sounds appealing.
But *******, I've loved my friends for too long to cut them out.
But I've hated myself for longer.

If I'm not sad, I can't write.
If I can't write I become sad.
If I do write I become more sad.
I'm sad,
why can't I write.
I'm writing,
why aren't I sad.

I wonder what I could do to make you smile  at me like the way you did today.
Could it be something as simple as smiling at you?
Could something so beautiful be brought on by something so simple?
Could you smile forever?
I would give all I could and more to just have that.
I would suffer for a thousand years just for a brief second of seeing your smile.
Because it would erase my scars and clear my head.
It would send my heart beating, and in my stomach the butterflies would be released.
So please, just tell me what it is that I could do.
Because honey, I'll do anything.

I can feel it.
Falling into old habits.

I don't know how to feel.
I can actually feel the depression.
I can feel the self hate and the angst.
I can feel it all coming back.
And it scares the hell out of me.
I might just as soon be in hell
than be here.
than be me.

I once heard that "One perfect night's not enough"
and it's really ******* coming true.
It will never be enough
I will never be enough
this will never be enough.

I can feel it.
I can feel the depression pooling behind my eyeballs.
Maybe a bottle of brandy will chase it away.
Or maybe a few pills will cover it up.
Or maybe it will stay there forever
until mixed with a pool of blood
it seeps through the floorboards.

Just  by the method in which you breath
you create a sort of paradise for me to live in.
You're just my kind of man,
you're a stand up kind of guy.
Now yell at me until my eyes bleed
and stare at me until my ears pop.

Breath life into this breathless song
and breed the love until it is of pure blood.
God knows I'm bad with habits.
They pile up and I can't properly feed them.
So try to be cool.

It's funny how last Sunday, I had a full pack of cigarettes.
Now, I have a nothing but the entire Joyce Manor discography .
And a horrendous headache.

I'm the only one who could ever have any fun
but that was only when I was with you.

So be cool.

They say stress can cause headaches
and nausea
and cramps
and they say that stress can lower your bodies ability to fight infection and viruses.

But I'm here to tell you that it's not stress that causes those things for me.
Stress is partly to blame.
It's a combination of stress and lack of cigarettes
and alcohol
and laughs
and love
and they say that too much of anything is a bad thing but I'm here to tell you that not enough of some things can be just as bad.

A lack of water can cause headaches
just as a lack of cigarettes will.
A lack of sleep can cause stress
just as a lack of cigarettes will.
A lack of purpose can cause depression
but a lack of cigarettes will not.

I would try to write something good
but I've been using **** all day
and my dopamine levels are suicide victim low
just as the amount of cigarettes in this pack is low
just as the amount of money in my wallet is low
just as I am low.

I am a burning candle and I have burned out.
There is still a lot of wick left, though.
But I'm too drunk to find my lighter.
And who really gives a **** anyway.

People want to do something great.
They want to write novels and join the army
and cure cancer and raise a family.
But when all is said and done,
the greatest thing you could ever do
is volunteer at your local soup kitchen.

In a town full of good people
I have to be bad.
I have to smoke cigarettes behind the church during lunch.
But in a world full of bad people
I have to be good.
I have to carry to butts in my pocket and throw them in a dumpster.
I have to be bad.
I have to steal handles of ***** from Safeway.
I have to be good.
I have to recycle the bottles when I'm done.
I have to steal my fathers Vicodin.
I have to buy him coffee at least once a week.
I have to sleep during math class.
I have to stay up 'till 4, studying.
I have to be loud when I'm drunk.
I have to keep my mouth shut when I'm sober.
****, I forgot  which ones were good and which ones were bad.

Roaches litter my ashtray
and empty bottles litter my room
and burnt out incense litters my nightstand
and hollow memories litter my barren landscape of a mind.

Maybe this will be my year.


*Maybe not.

I burned the only memories I had of you.
I also burned my fingers a bit, before I threw the paper on the ground.
And later when I got home,
I started to think of you so I took a couple strikeouts
and watched The Fellowship of the Ring.

Looking past Gilman St.
and looking across the
Bay to the indescribable
beauty of winter's hold
on San Francisco, I
couldn't help but
think of the world I
had forsaken to come
here and the troubled
life I will soon be leading.
Free of any masters, free
of God, free of judgement.

This old VW van is full
of smoke, full of hope,
and also full of memories.
And as I recall this we drive
past a small accident. Only
a fender ****** but there
still is a woman crying
in the rain. I imagine she
is not crying because of
her baby's health, which
appears to be fine, but
because of the hand she'll
to dip into the college funds
that she set up for her
daughter to pay for
the damaged. Not the
damages on her car,
she can live with those,
but the damages on the
2012 Ford Focus she
bumped into.

And I imagine that 16
years from now when
the now a baby girl
applies to Berkeley
and gets in her mother
will have to tell her that
although she got in, their
is no way they will be
able to afford to send her
there. The daughter says
I know mom, its more of
a pride thing. The mother will
then remember how she had
said nearly the same thing
to the daughter's father as she
kicked him out.

Later that night, she will
drink half of a fifth of *****
and take seven 200mg Vicodin.
She will not write a note. Just
as she will not wake up.

Berkeley will give her daughter
a full ride scholarship. Not because
she is the most qualified student.
Its more of a pride thing, they won't say.

Oh you're face,
oh so full of beauty and so full of grace,
and oh how i hate your graceful ******* face.

I once heard a man say
If i don't go to hell when i die then i might go to heaven,
but probably not
and it has always stuck with me.

And i have made it a habit of mine to not capitalize my i's.
Because really, what's so important about me that i should be capitalized?
And what's so important about God that "He" may be capitalized?
And what's so important about Jesus that he should have a book written about him?
It's not like Jesus even had a biological father, anyway.

And why are we here?
And why does Santa live in the North Pole?
It's so inconvenient.
Why would the man who gives toys to all the kids in the world live in one of the few places on Earth that has no kids?

The word that really should be capitalized is Earth.
Earth is everything.
And Stars should be capitalized as well.
After all, we are all made of Stars.

And just one final thought, before i click save poem and shot my laptop and try to get some sleep,
why do people say The Universe?
As if they aren't more.
Why does ours get to be called "The" Universe with a capitalized T and U?
And one final thought (I promise this is the final thought) what's so important about capitalizing anyway?

/~~\
fakest of the fakes.
tell me a story.
about reality
and unreality.
\~~/

If someone wrote a book about me,
about my life,
it would be boring.
It would be the same thing everyday with occasional flare ups of happiness and love.
The ending would be good though.
The part where the main character kills himself, that will make the book.
Up until the final chapter it will be boring but you have to read it.
You have to understand.
You have to understand why the book must end.

Today, I had an urge to tell you that I will write a poem about you.
I told you and you embraced me. I held you tight, careful to not get my burning cigarette in your hair.

You make me happy, which is something I haven't been able to say to anybody in a long time.
And it's constant, it's everlasting. It's beautiful.
I'll giggle and I feel like I'm high.
I am high, but I have not smoked.
Yeah, that's corny and I do not give a single care.
But I give two cares about you.
And I give three cares about holding your hand, not squeezing it too hard.
And I give four cares about holding your body close to mine.
And I give five cares about kissing you.
And I give six cares about us.
And I give seven cares about your hair, not lighting it on fire, or touching it too much.
And I give eight cares about nothing. I'm just not capable.
But if I could, I think they would be about you.

I hung mistletoe
I heard you were in town
visiting your parents,
or something.
I cleaned my house
and I shaved
and I bought three packs of cigarettes.
I sat in my room,
by the phone,
smoking cigarettes,
waiting for you to call.
Finally,
4 packs,
and two days later you did
and I picked up
before the first ring ended.
And the second I heard your voice say "hello"
I hung up.

The smoke curls towards the sky.
At a different point in time our bodies curled together.
But, that was, indeed, a different point in time.
And trembling on  the remembrance of the past is silly.

As I was saying, before the past rushed in like a wave,
A wave that crashes over the sea barriers,
and sweeps away the fleeing tourists,
that the smoke curls towards the sky.

It slowly diffuses into the foggy, white air.
Diffuses isn't the correct word though.
We are not talking about liquids moving from
an are of high concentration to one of low concentration.

As I was saying, before scientific vocabulary interrupted me
just as the attacks on towers interrupted to 2001
Major League Baseball Season, the smoke slowly crept
up into the sky, into the wet November air.

As it combines itself with the fog, just as we
combined our hearts through our hands in the hot July
dog days. Although the dog days really weren't
as bad as they have been in previous years.

Anyway, as I was saying, before remembrance of old loves
snuck into my mind, much as the thought of you does
in History, while I'm trying to learn about the French invasion
of Russia. Or the **** (Or the Roman) invasion of Russia.

Oh, **** it. This is pointless.
I'll never get anywhere with this ******* smoke
curling to the ******* sky.
So, **** it. I'll just watch the smoke curl
and be content.

Will this pain go away if I **** myself?
Will I finally get some sleep?
Will my headache finally go away?
Will my addictions go away?
And will my hate leave me?

Will this pain go away if I **** myself?
Will there be anything for me?
Will this world miss me?
Will this world follow me?
And will death welcome me?

Will this pain go away if I **** myself?
Will there be love in my heart?
Will these meaningless trifles disappear?
Will the world ever be good?
And will my death help?

I'm one pack of cigarettes away from being broke.
Color me broke.
Color me smoking.