The silence grows louder each day than the last.
It's time.

I've only talked to you once.
We were in the school library.
I was cutting out on Biology and you were working ******* finishing a Chemistry lab write up.
I noticed how beautiful you looked as you walked up to the Librarian's desk and asked for a tissue to blow your nose.
Your dark hair was pulled back and your tights wrapped perfectly around your legs and you lipstick was the perfect shade of red and your boots came a quarter of the way up your shin and I never felt so emotionally detached from the world around me as I did in that moment, watching you blow your nose.

As you walked passed I said in a hush only you could hear "Love is more thicker than forget; more thinner than recall; more seldom than a wave is wet; more frequent than to fail."

And you stopped there, in that moment. You did not turn around but simply said "It is most mad and moonly, and less it shall unbe; than all the sea; which only is deeper than the sea."

And in that moment I never felt so found. I never felt so infinite.
We were connected by the meaning of our recitals
as well as by the soles of our shoes.

And when something is so truly beautiful it is lost.
And it must never be found.
And so we have not spoken again.
Yet we know so much about the other.

Being as the clouds is a marvelous way to be.
So light, so free.
Way up in the air, without a single care.
They'll drop their rain when they **** well please.
And they'll skip over the mountain without bumping their knees.
The sun will shine through them, casting it's noble rays upon earth.
The sunsets will be of a golden shade: A beautiful, natural art.

Fluffy and soft.
Whit and clean.
Being as a cloud
is a majestic way to be.
Being as free and unwavering as a cloud
sounds alright to me.

Being as the clouds
is a marvelous way to be.

I may not be happy.
But I can always chase down some Tums with a bottle of wine.
And I know I've changed a lot over the past year so you can stop pointing that out every ******* minute. I know you know I'm in love with you and I know you know how much I hate myself.

Four years ago I promised myself I would never smoke cigarettes, I remember it clearly.
Now look at me, smoking a pack a day when I can, re-lites when I can't.

On the other hand, I used to be happy.
On yet another hand, I used to be ignorant.
Ignorance is bliss.

/
Sick of people.
Sick of these self diagnosed depressed teenagers.
Sick of these self proclaimed hipsters.
Sick of these self prescribed med ******.
Sick of life.
/

I don't wish for you, it would not be fair.
I don't wish for us to fall in love, you might not want that.
I don't wish for my own happiness, that would be vain.

I wish that I could write beautiful poems for you.
I wish that you would cry after reading them.
I wish that you would keep them folded up in your back pocket.

I don't wish that you will be happy forever, where would that leave me.
I don't wish for all the money in the world, I could not buy talent.
I don't wish for a cure for cancer, there would still be death.

I wish that I could make you happy when it's raining.
I wish that money would cease to exist solving a pretty amount of problems.
I wish for a cure for life.

I've never seen the sunrise as beautiful as the one I watched rise over you.
You had fallen asleep.
You had told me to wake you up if you did, you really wanted to see it.
But you're just so **** cute when you sleep.
The suns first rays shown through your golden hair, refracting the light into a beautiful spectrum of colors.
I leaned back on our blankets and sat up. Criss cross apple sauce, I took a pack of Luckies from my coat pocket. We had smooshed them at some point in our late night adventures but they were still intact.
With a unlit cigarette in between my lips which had grown so accustumed to kissing yours I looked at you. You were lying on your side, facing me with your back to the sun. The dew on the grass was surrounding our mound of blankets much like heart break had been circling our love; Threatening to precede but not truly troublesome.

The
worst
time to
have an
existential
crisis is when
you're home, broke
and out of cigarettes.
The smoke can still my
mind and it can clean my
soul. It's funny, the cleaner,
the more sober I get the dirtier
I feel. I think it's because
in these sober moments
I learn more about the
crystal I sniff into my
nose and I learn
more about
myself
and I
learn
more
about
the
world.

I've begun to question the very purpose of my existence.
Which is really just a fancy way of saying ''I've been reading too much Albert Camus.''

The only way to enjoy one's life is to accept the Absurd.
To accept that life has no meaning except for the meaning I give it.
No purpose other than the purpose I wish it to have.  
Belief in God is absurd because there is no way to verify his existence.
Belief in the absence of God is absurd because there is no way to verify it.
Trying to believe anything spiritually is absurd because spirits are not science and anything that is not science cannot be verified and is therefore absurd.
Life is absurd.
The purpose of life is reproduction, survival.
Or so it has been verified by science.
Spiritually though, there is no purpose because everything is a purpose.

//

Burning
out brighter than the rest.

Trying
hard but it ain't my best.

Dying
may hurt but I'll finally get some sleep.

Wishing
on a group full of stars.

Clearing
my mind, my soul, my heart, my palms.

Piercing
skin.

Destroying
all in my life that is beautiful.
If I write a beautiful essay I must burn it.
If I continue to do so I must chop off my hand.
If I have a beautiful friendship I must end it.
If I have a good looking haircut I must ruin it.
If I'm getting good grades I must ditch.
If my parents start to trust me I must sneak out.
If I start to sober up I must drink mouthwash.
If I start to love myself I better **** up more gloriously than all before me.

Recently, I have fallen asleep desiring never to wake up.
Recently, I have been waking up desiring going back to sleep.
Recently, I have found myself thinking more and more of you.
Recently, I have discovered that I think less and less of her.
Recently, I have wondered what it would be like, to be with you.
Recently, I have dreamed of you and I of you and I of you and I.
Recently, I have not been as sad.
Recently, I have been happy.
Recently, you.
Recently, you.
Recently, you.
Recently.
You.

My heart beats at a standard pace.
Sitting here on my bed, nothing is real.
You're face crosses my mind and that standard pace becomes a rapid clip.

I wish you were here, so I could hold you close.
I wish you were here, so this aching would cease.
I wish you were here.

I pull this old blue hoodie over my head, tie up these frayed laces on these old boots and began a journey.
I step out the door, breath in the cold November air and smile.
I see your car parked in the lot next to my house.
I see you leaning on the hood, also smiling.

On the ride to the park the rain picks up.
Neither of us have an umbrella so we decide a cup of tea from the local cafe will be just as nice.
It really doesn't matter to me, I tell you, I'm here, right now, and so are you.

all of my dreams have been about kissing you
                                                                         or dying.
it's haunting to know that these two things are what i have been craving most.
even more haunting is the fact that i cannot have both,
                                                                                        i have to choose.
                                          theme
there has been a common             in my life:
                                                                       choices have been
                                                                                                    my downfall.

since i have had this terrifyingly awesome power of choice i have abused it.
i have used it for nothing but personal gain,
                                                                      personal harm.
once i learned of the ability i posses to harm
it has overwhelmed me.
when i cause another grief it haunts me,
                                                                pursues me to my dreams and beyond.

guilt is a motivating factor in my life.
not more so than love,
                            hate.
but it is still powerful.

                                  i am not able to function properly.
                                  i get drunk
                                  i pass out on the couch
                                  i fall asleep with cigarettes burning in my hands
                                  i break my own heart, but watch out
                                  i'll break yours too.

Two Lucky Strikes. One
for now and one for the ear.
Can not get enough.

I am a liar,
I lied, I lied, I lied, I
lied. I am lying.

November parties
last longer than all others.
Yet they always end.

The party, although there we only 9 of us, 12 at one point, was very loud.
People seemed to be forever in motion.
The bottles, shot glasses, and cups went soaring into the sky, only to crash into our moths.
The love swirled, the fun was endless, the memories will last, and the bottles, shot glasses, and cups went soaring.
The envy magnified, the arguments broke out, the memories will last, and the bottles, shot glasses, and cups went soaring.

I was down stairs watching a game of drunken pool when you came down, boyfriend in arm.
I was enjoying myself, laughing when the tip of the pool sticks missed the cue ball.
I laughed until I cried when Dylan knocked in the 8 ball, two shots after the break.
I laughed until I ****** when Fritz attempted to shoot from behind the back only to fall over.
Now, I've heard rumors that he, your boyfriend, treated you like ****. I didn't truly believe them; he was a nice guy.
But when I saw him with the pipe, smoking and smoking, ignoring your begs for him to stop, I got very made. Now, it might have been the Barcardi or it might have been my life for you, but I hated him.
He started to pack another bowl and you told him you would leave if he smoked it and he told you to get the **** out of his life then.
You looked like you were about to cry.
You continued to beg him, plead with him,but he just continued to tell you to shut up.
This was when I stood up and crossed the room. Tyler said "Nolan, you look really high."
I just nodded to her, my eyes intent on your boyfriend. I stood right in front of him and asked him what kind of man treats a girl that way.
He laughed and told me to shut up.
I looked at you and you told me to stop.
I looked at your boyfriend once more and began my walk towards the door.
Before I got their he said "God, your almost as much of a ***** as my girl."
I had enough.
I turned around, socked him in the mouth and preceded to have the **** kicked out of me.

I took my hands of my eyes and looked up from my day dream. He was smoking and you were trying to take the pipe from him.
God, how I hated him.
God, how hot I felt on that cold November night.
God, How I love you so.

"It's ****** depressing, when you think about it."
I looked up from my cigarette, which I had been admiring soberly in the dark moonlight.
"When you think about what?"
"When the person you're talking to is more interested in their stinkin' cigarette than your "spilling of the heart.""
"I apologize, sincerely. How may I make it up to you?"
My partner sighed.
"I don't know Nolan, tell me one of your horrible stories that always make me feel better."
I thought for a few minutes before I stumbled upon an ill fated November morning in my thoughts.
"Well Tyler, this one time I was fishing with my dad and his friend, Todd, on Todd's boat. We were out on this ******* chilling lake at 6 in the morning and I had fallen asleep. Todd's boat was small and only had two seats, the driver and the passenger. So, being the youngest on the boat I had to sit on an ice chest by the motor. It reeked of oil and nasty stuff yet I somehow managed to fall asleep. When I woke up, my dad was yelling, telling me to stay awake. I figured, seeing how I was on a boat, I might as well fish. I picked up a pole and cast it out of the end of the boat. On my first ill fated cast I got tangled with Todd's line. So, we reeled in and untangled them. On the next cast the same thing happened, only I dangled with my dad's line. They told me it might be better if I stopped casting out so I returned to my ice chest throne and almost instantly fell asleep. I woke up to my dad yelling at me again. We were at shore and they were telling me to get off and sit on shore until they were done. So, I went on shore and fell asleep almost, again, instantly. I woke up via my own devices and I started throwing rocks into the water, trying to make them skip. I watched my dad and Todd fish from their tiny little boat. They were right out in the middle and a leak had sprung. They started coming back to shore but, as if on quee, the motor died. Long story short, the boat sunk. My dad and Todd were fine. Todd wasn't even that made because his boat was a ******* floating stick, basically. I just find it funny that my ableness to fall asleep and my patrons impatience caused me to be warm and dry while they ended up wet and pissy."

We will all die alone.
It is a simple fact of life.
Beings, human or not, die alone.
But I don't want to be alone, not even for an instant.
Not even for that one instant in which I die, in which I am gone.
I've never been alone, truly alone. Sure, I've had the house to myself.
But I had the phone, and I had the computer, and I had my books and the cat.

It's not death I'm scared of. I have years, and I don't believe that one just ends. There has to be something more. But that's for another day.
I'm not too scared of what comes after death, in all honesty.
Whatever shall happen to me shall happen and there is nothing I can do to change whatever it is.
If I became convinced of any specific deity's existence I would not pray to them. I would not change who I am, only to change the results that come from who I am.
I believe in personal growth.
I believe in the perfection of self.
I believe in meditation
and I believe in love.

But I want to drink your mother's tea.

The sun shines upon Earth, and upon me.
It looks down on me, from blue skies of hope.
It says "Why do you destroy yourself in this way?
Why do you pollute yourself, and myself, and my Earth when you can be protecting us?"
"Because," I say, looking up at the white clouds of smoke, slowly drifting towards the sun, from my lungs,
"Life is too long, and too painful."
The sun sighs, as black dots begin to appear around the sun.
"Life is just long enough, my friend. You have all the time you need to find love, happiness, and yourself.
You have just enough time to do all of this, and then die.
There is no reason to be upset, no reason to harm.
Recite the three virtues as was told to you, by myself, by all around you."
"Eternity, happiness, true self, and purity. These describe the true nature of Buddha's life and of my life and of the life on all around me."
The sun smiles as I put out my cigarette, in a wastebasket.
"Good, my friend. Do you feel better now? Do you wish to recite them again?"
"No, my friend. Thank you, you are a true source of guidance when myself is lost."

Time and Distance was always the recipe for disaster.
These two little words can move mountains of hate. Merely shove them aside.
They can do the same to love. Brush it off like a father will when his kids plead for him to at least look at the menu on the ice cream truck.

Love does not fade as easily as we all wish it could. As you and I wish it would.
Love is a tender flower that needs to be nurtured and be kept in a well lit, well watered garden.

Hate does not fade as easily as we all wish it could. As you and I wish it would.
Hate is a brutal **** that will grow in any garden. It will strangle love of the nutrients that so rightfully belong to it; the tender flower.

Time is a killer, a stone cold killer. It some how manages to find love and destroy it. Time is the Antichrist.
One thinks they can conquer it, when indeed, they cannot.

Distance is an enzyme. Much like the ones found in the human stomach. As everyone knows enzymes are reaction specific. They can only help in one chemical reaction, one minute, tiny reaction.
One thinks they can subdue distance, make it their friend, when indeed, they cannot.

Rant like a pig.
Go ahead, I want to hear it.
You cry wolf, really, I'm interested.
Cry like a wolf. Cry like the wolf who is always at fault.
Cry like the wolf who is alone and who is scared and who is not sacred at all.
Rant like the pig who is constantly threatened by wolves. Who cannot leave the watchful eye of the Sheppard.
Cry.
Cry some more.
Smoke a cigarette.
Smoke until your stomach is upset, please.
Smoke until your pack is all gone and your painful stomach is replaced by a piercing headache.

Be hypocritical. Trust me, you can.
Do exactly to me what you'd hate for me to do.
What you hated me for doing.
Treat others the way you want to be treated or else treat others the way you were treated; hypocritically.

Lie naked with me.
Forget everything, we are
the most important.

1
The water crawled up
her legs like an angry fire.
Stop! For she likes it too much.

#2
Franny and Zooey
Speaks to me like no others.
Happy, yet so sad.

#3
It has been said, when
darkness comes light lives. Yet, all
joy dies as love leaves.

#4
Sound is a constant.
It is always heard. You can-
never unhear sound

#5
Up above the sun
it does not rain nor do they
cry for there is no sadness.

#6
I live again yet
The best part is yet to come
I feel beautiful.

Lost love, where are you?
How long must we pretend (lie)
that we are happy?

Jeremy Duff woke up as he usually does on a Tuesday morning.
With the alarm clock blaring he lifted his right arm from off his wife's chest.
He stood up, covered his wife's bare torso with the purple, fuzzy, comforter and walked to the bathroom, naked.
He turned on the sink so hot water would begin to pour out.
After completing his usual morning routine of shaving, dressing, smoking, and eating, respectively, Jeremy began his walk to work.
It was, on a typical day, and this was a typical day,  a twelve minute walk.
He lit a cigarette the moment his feet hit the sidewalk. It was the first of, on a typical day, thirty-eight.
Jeremy worked on the 27th floor, which he thought of as funny as he pressed the "27" button, as he did on any typical day. His job was to edit spelling on essays before they would be turned in for final inspection. Then, as his boss put it, if the writers were lucky, they would see the essays in the next issue of Story Magazine.
He sat down in his office, lit his third cigarette of the day, and looked at the large stack of papers in front of him. If he was lucky, Jeremy thought, he could get halfway through the stack and take his 10 early, to see his wife. The first one on the stack was entitled "The Young Folks." It had a blue sticky note on it reading "Vignette, Salinger, Jerome David, 1,794 words."
Jeremy read it, purely aesthetically, looking only for spelling mistakes. Finding none, he put a quick check on the blue sticky note. Mr. Duff lit his 5th cigarette and read the story again. It was phenomenal. He read it a third time, while smoking his 6th cigarette. Jeremy finished the first half of the stack and lit his 9th cigarette. He grabbed the story by Salinger and began his walk home. His wife greeted him at the door with kisses. He showed her the story. She read it, read it again and told him it was great. She just didn't understand, Mr. Duff thought.

As every phony girl would say: It's time to look on the ******* bright side. I had a good day today. I have the most amazing friends who I love and who love me. I have plenty of good music filling my ears and plenty of yummy food in my stomach. I have a nice comfortable house and my room isn't as ***** as it has once been. I have an awe inspiring family that is very diverse. My hometown is beautiful and the people aren't as bad as they have once seemed. Maybe it's just that Friday night jazz but I can really dig it. Maybe it'll last to next Friday and the one after that and the one after that. But only if I make a conscious decision to let it. And I love you all and I love myself more than I've ever had in my life, right at this very moment.
And here's some wise words from Dumbledore: “Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.”

The one constant in life is the opposite of it.
Death.
Lives come and lives go.
People are dying on the East coast right now
and people are being born on the West coast.

The one constant in the mind is the loss of it.
Insanity.
People find themselves and lose themselves.
People are being reborn on their journey's
and people are destroying themselves with their bottle's.

The one constant in love is the loss of it.
There is no word for it.
People create love out of thin air and destroy it just as quick.
People are falling in love with those around them
and those around them are tearing it down in the meanwhile.

The one constant in poetry is the lack of it.
Rants.
People spill their hearts or they spill their guts,
People are writing right now, as I am writing
and I'm also just talking to myself: Poetry.

"Ezekiel saw de wheel; way up in de air
And de littl' wheel run by faith, oh yes, an' de big wheel run by de grace of God
'Tis a wheel in de wheel in de middle of de wheel way Lawd in de middle."

Choir songs are fun and catchy and I have to sing them every ******* day.
They are all written by some funny looking black guy named James in the earl 1900's.

"John said the city was just four square, walk in Jerusalem just like John
and he declared he'd meet me there, walk in Jerusalem just like John,
Oh John oh John what do you say, walk in Jerusalem just like John."

Most of them are about God and faith but sometimes you actually feel them.
It's weird, they make you feel spiritual. A whole class full of students singing can do that to you.

"All this night shrill Shaunteclear, days proclaiming trumpeter,
claps his wings and loudly cries, "Mortals! Mortals! Wake and rise!
See the wonder days are under, and through his will good be done!""

Sometimes you don't even know what they're about, no kidding, but they still feel nice to sing.
The ringing of the Sopranos and the roar of the Baritones is awing, it really is.

"And the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,
how the twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle,
in the crystal lime-de light."

It's cool when you sing poetry, like Poe or something like that. It doesn't give you the same
feeling but it's still cool, if you can get into that kind of stuff.

I wonder
If I were gone
Who would care?
I'm not saying nobody would care.
I'm merely asking a question, so get over yourself.
I have a shrink to talk to when I feel like killing myself.
He's a nice guy, really. Old, and Jewish. He doesn't know what it's like to hate yourself.
But I'm not kidding, would you care if I died? I would care if you died. I might cry.
I don't cry very often. I used to a lot. Back when I was heartbroken.
Back when I was in love.
But you're not going to die.
Because too many people love you.
Trust me, loved ones don't die. It's in the Bible or something.
Loved ones don't have scars on their wrists. They don't drink their lives away.
Trust me.
I never lie.
I know what I'm talking about.
I read it in the Bible.
Don't listen to a word I say.
The only thing that matters is that you are loved.
And I would miss you.
And nothing happens when you die.

-

     Have you ever seen that movie or T.V. show where there's a guy who recently split up with his girlfriend and he's all love sick and sad and won't leave his room or stop playing Xbox or stop drink beer or stop crying? And his buddies all take him out to a bar or something to meet a girl that he can give the time to in the bathroom because it'll make him feel better. And at the bar he meets some girl and they fall in love instantly and she's all hip and they just stare at each other while their respective groups of friends talk and joke right around them. You know what I'm talking about right? Well, **** those movies.
        They're phony and unrealistic and when you feel down about a boy or a girl or whoever you might be in love with you don't fall in love. You don't meet some sloot at the bar and fall in love with her. You don't stay in your room and drink and mope. You live you're ******* life. You live your miserable, fake life even more miserable and fake than you normally do.

It's funny how no matter where you go
everything is the same. No kidding.
I've been to San Fransisco and everyone is pretending to not be fake,
and I've been to New York and they're even bigger phonies.

I walked into town once, two miles from my house to the park.
I walked along the highway and stuck my thumb out the whole way.
No one stopped until this man on a motorcycle did.
He asked me where I was going and I said into town.
He asked where in town and I said the first thing that came to mind.
Charlies Cafe, I said. We rode to Charlies Cafe which was only a 20 minute walk from where we were but whatever.
He didn't have a helmet but that was fine.
He dropped me off. I never even went into Charlies.
I walked a half block to the gas station and went inside.
I grabbed an Arizona and walked up to the counter.
"Anything else for yah?"
"Yeah uh, a pack of Natural American Spirits."
I slapped a ten on the counter and the man asked to see identification.
I told him I didn't have any but I also wouldn't need change.
He sold me the cigarettes and the Arizona and didn't give me change. It's that kinda stuff that ****** me off.

And that's what I mean. You ask someone for something and they act like they're doing you a hell of a favor and then you waive some money under their noses and they're shining your ******* boots.

I got off the subway and to the venue.
There were people filing in and smoking flowing out.
I stood in line, bought my ticket and went in. Some ******* band a friend had told me about who was playing. I was meeting him there in 30 minutes but wanted to scope it out early. A girl wearing fishnet stockings was looking cute in a booth all by herself. I sat down in the booth next to her and ordered a drink. The waiter was nice enough to forget to ask about my non existent ID. I leaned over and asked the girl if I could refill her drink.
She looked at me disgusted and said "I will let you know, that I have a boyfriend."
Jesus, it's not like I asked to **** her or anything.
"Jesus it's not like I asked you to **** me or anything."
I returned my lean to my booth. I'm usually not so curt with women but this ****** me off.
My friend never showed up and I bailed during the opening act.
I walked all the way back to my apartment and smoked.
It started raining.

Cute girls, gas station clerks, weather, they can all be *******.

Chance upon my hand,
may hap we shall forget the
bottle for just a moment.

I'm going to marry a writer.
How could I not?
She won't be Holden Caulfield because I'm too much of a phony.
She won't be Gatsby because I'll never be a Daisy.
She won't be the moon because I'll never shine as bright as the sun.

I won't be Caulfield, but she won't be a phony.
I won't be Gatsby, but I'll fall madly in love with her.
I won't be the moon, but she'll shine brighter then the sun.

We'll drink too much coffee, smoke too many cigarettes, stay up to late.
We'll wear sweaters and carve pumpkins and listen to Tigers Jaw.
We'll read books and we'll write poetry and we'll live our lives.
                    with each other                  forever.
We will live                            happily

Unlock the door, I
know not life, yet do please
lock the door: **** me.

We walked,
we smoked,
we talked,
we choked.
We skipped,
we spoke,
we enjoyed
each others company.

You did my makeup.
A friend of ours said 'Kiss him!'
And you laughed and said no.
I wanted you to.
It scares me.

"Life is weird" I said.
"I know, it horrifies me." you reciprocated.
"I think it's beautiful."
I think you're beautiful.

One Cuil = One level of abstraction away from the reality of a situation.

Example: You ask me for a cat.

One Cuil: If you asked me for a cat and I gave you a rhino.

Two Cuil: If you asked me for a cat, but it turns out I don't really exist. In the place where you perceived me to be standing is a picture of a large cat. On it's collar are the words: "I am a large rhino."

Three Cuil: You are a cat. You begin to scream, only to realise that you are meowing. You scratch just under your ears and begin to purr.

Four Cuil: Why are we wearing dinosaur outfits? A light breezes rolls over our bodies but you only have one arm. Suddenly, the wind begins to howl and an alternative universe is created where we are dinosaurs wearing human outfits. I have cats for arms, and as you notice this you meow again.

Five Cuil: You ask for a cat; and I give you a cat. Your pull it to your chest and begin to pet it. Your nose begins to run and you wipe it on the cats tail. On the other side of the world a bank is robbed by a woman who has 7 sisters. In her wallet is a picture of you, in your human form. Your ears are pierced in this picture and they were in your human form as well, but something is different about them. The cat purrs and grabs a hold of your earring, ripping it from your ear. Milk drips out of you wound and the lady robbing the bank is arrested. Her oldest sister is climaxing while having *** with my brother. I give you a cat and it is poisonous. I am dead.

Six Cuil: You ask me for a cat. Mark Whalberg tells me he will not **** and he hands me a cat. The cat is smoking a cigarette, I develop liver cancer. I die. The wind blows on you again and the cat does not have a left rear leg. It puts its cigarette out on my eye. MGMT plays softly and you meow to the moon which is a pizza. The pizza has olives on it which displeases you. Your displeasure causes the woman to rob the bank so she can buy you Hawaiian pizza.  The gravitational pull of the olives causes a flood to reach your house. You cry and your tears become lakes. The Earth is flooded. Uranus ignites suddenly, engulfing Neptune in flames. A civilization of Nicolas Cage's living there are destroyed. Obi Wan says that there has been a disturbance in the force. A cat hands you me.

Death seems closer than it ever has.
Just as the moon did in March 2011.
Just as my family felt before I used.

At the end of the day, when I'm all alone, I wonder who I am.
Where am I?
When I'm in my room.
These posters are boring.
These paintings make me sick.
These letters bring it all back home.
Go away, go home.
Be gone, evermore.

You ask me what it's like to hate a human being.

You're so sweet and innocent and you need to be punched in the face.
You where your cute fall clothing and smile your deceiving smile.
I shove my fists in my pockets and shove my anger down my throat
whenever you speak.
You may have friends but they're as fake as you.
When they push the knife in your back they won't be able to twist it as much as the one twisted in back.
You're just a liar; and I guess I've always known this much is true.

Hating a human being is stepping in a puddle and getting your socks wet.
Hating a human being is having your shoe lace untied in a busy hallway.
Hating a human being is finding your pack of cigarettes empty.
Hating a human being is me thinking about you.

One single minute ago it was yesterday.
But now it's today.
Minutes are a funny thing.
They can go by in the blink of an eye when you want them to last forever.
They can take forever to pass when you just want the next one to arrive.

Hours are an even funnier thing.
Just one hour ago I was shivering.
I was cold and I was alone and I was sick and I was thinking about you.
Now, an hour later I am uncomfortably hot and I am thinking about how to get my next pack of cigarettes.
One hour someone could be in love and the next they could be hateful.

Days are odd as well.
One day ago I was happy.
I was in a place that I love and I was enjoying myself.
Now, one day later I am home and yet I am home sick.
One day someone could be alive and the next day they could be dead.

Months are ridiculous.
One month ago I was carefree.
I smoked anything I could get my hands on and I was the highest flying bird in the sky.
Now, one month later I am recovering and I am paying the price.
One month someone could be scared for their life and the next they can be living without a single thought.

Now years, there's some tricky business.
One year ago I had morales.
I was strong and I stood by my beliefs and I was surrounded by love and friends.
Now, one year later I am intolerant and in need of a soul search.
One year someone could be the king of the world and the next they can be the one shoveling ****.

But lifetimes, don't even get me started on those.
One lifetime ago I could have been a priest. I could have been a king. I could have been a drug dealer and I could have been a drug addict.
Now, one lifetime later I am myself and I am happy and than sad and than happy and confused.
One lifetime can see a lot but it can also be blind from what's going on.

Time is a man made concept.
It is not real and it will never be real unless you let it.
You can let it control your life and make you decide on subjects you are not ready to.
Or you can **** on time and live your ******* life however you please.

"The past is a liar, the future a *****."

Now, there is this thing called distance...

I don't have to tell you things are bad. Everybody knows things are bad. It's a depression. Everybody's out of work or scared of losing their job. The dollar buys a nickel's worth, banks are going bust, shopkeepers keep a gun under the counter. Punks are running wild in the street and there's nobody anywhere who seems to know what to do, and there's no end to it. We know the air is unfit to breathe and our food is unfit to eat, and we sit watching our TV's while some local newscaster tells us that today we had fifteen homicides and sixty-three violent crimes, as if that's the way it's supposed to be. We know things are bad - worse than bad. They're crazy. It's like everything everywhere is going crazy, so we don't go out anymore. We sit in the house, and slowly the world we are living in is getting smaller, and all we say is, 'Please, at least leave us alone in our living rooms. Let me have my toaster and my TV and my steel-belted radials and I won't say anything. Just leave us alone.' Well, I'm not gonna leave you alone. I want you to get mad! I don't want you to protest. I don't want you to riot - I don't want you to write to your congressman because I wouldn't know what to tell you to write. I don't know what to do about the depression and the inflation and the Russians and the crime in the street. All I know is that first you've got to get mad. You've got to say, 'I'm a HUMAN BEING, ******* it! My life has VALUE!' So I want you to get up now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the window. Open it, and stick your head out, and yell, 'I'M AS MAD AS HELL, AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE!'

The skies are blue and the clouds look fluffy.
The air is crisp and the water is chilling.
The mountains appear to touch the sky
and the leaves are rich shades of green, red, and orange.

I walked along out of service train tracks that cut through this mountain. Literally, through it.
The tunnels started on the West Shore of Donner Lake and followed the ridge of the mountain all the way to Truckee. I hiked a half a mile from the highway up to an opening in the tunnel. For a few hundred yards the tunnel was riddled with broken bottles and worthless graffiti. As I walked further in, the garbage began to disappear and the graffiti became thoughtful, artful. It became darker and darker until I could only see the circle illuminated by my pin flashlight. On one spot of the wall someone had written the entire first chapter of Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone. Someone had drawn a white line. Just a white line and I was so intrigued by it. People wrote stories of the lives. "Im kevin, my gf broke up w me now im gay" or "Im pat. i got dmt and then i got aids" and "im kaylene. thats it."
Someone sprayed a **** pipe on the wall of the tunnel and it was green. They paid very good attention to the crystals in the bowl and the smoke rising from it. A young girl with black hair had her lips on the pipe and she was breathing in. Written under it was "Remember, remember, the 5th of November."
Some one else had sprayed a cowboy. One half of him was black outlined with white and gray detail and the other half was white outlined with gray and black detail. Next to it was written "Childe Roland to the dark tower come."
Some one else had sprayed a devil. He was red with pure black eyes. It was signed "Self Portrait."
Halfway through there was a drain and creepily enough a faint light was shining from underneath the thick grates. Above it some one wrote "I stashed my **** here for three years."
Under that someone had wrote "Gateway to hell."

The rocks jutted out in straight lines.
Some were smooth and others rough.
The mountains cleansed me.
They wiped away some of the grime
this small city has polluted me with.
The crisp air exfolliated some of the
smoke from my lungs and the water
pulled the dirt from my skin
and the hike massaged my sore
feet and the graffiti swept through
one eyeball and took all the garbage
in my brain out through the other
eyeball. The mountains saved me.

The cold spot doesn't chill like it used to.
Now, it feels like stepping on broken glass.
Now, it feels like the weight of the word is in this place.
Now, it feels like I'll never be able to leave.

Before it was dazzling and it made me feel the blue.
Before, I could see myself.
Before, I knew who I was.
Before, it was lighthearted and fun.
Before, I knew I would never be able to leave.

Time goes slower now.
Seconds pass by at what used to be minutes.
Minutes on hours.
Hours on days.
Days on lifetimes.

The universe ceased to expand, the scientists say.
This act defies all laws we've taken for granted.
We know what is outside our universe, they say.
More universes.
Infinite amounts of universes.

In a different universe I could be the sun.
And in a different one I could be the ocean.
And in yet a different one I am the moon.
It's spectacular.

God doesn't interest in the way he used to.
The leaves all look similar.
The songs all sound the same.
The fingertips feel like needles.
The kisses bring plagues.

--Unfinished-- 10/19/12

It's two am.
It's snowing outside.
Cars drive by more frequently then they should.
It's Christmas morning.
I'm at the 7/11.
I'm standing under the awning outside.
I'm smoking a cigarette.
It's my 19th since my shift started.
My shift started at 9 pm Christmas Eve.
I'm getting paid time and a half to enjoy the snow and the cars and the cigarettes.
I hear the bell ring.
I'm alerted to a customer.
I put out my cigarette.
I step inside.
Inside it is warm.
The customer is a young man.
The young man has dark orange hair.
He is wet and he is not smiling.
He asks me if we have any one gallon containers.
I tell him no, we do not sell those here, we have a payphone out back if you need one.
He says no, thanks.
He walks over the soda machine and grabs a 72 oz cup.
He asks me if he needs to pay for it.
I say no and ask him if he is broke down.
He says yes, about a mile and a half down the highway.
I tell him I'll give him a ride.
He appears to think about it for a moment.
He says thank you.
While I lock up the station he fills his 72 oz cup with the cheap gasoline.
I finish up and walk to the car.
I unlock the car and sit down.
He sits down.
We drive and he says stop, there's my car.
I pull over and he gets out.
He pours the gas into the tank.
He starts his car.
I drive back to the gas station.
He follows.
I open up the gas station.
He purchases $36.79 worth of gas.
He says Merry Christmas and drives away.
I go outside and light up a new cigarette.
It's now 2:24 am.
The snow is coming down harder.
The cars appear unchanged.

And my body has ceased to act in the way I want it to.
My legs feel like rubber
and it's hard to concentrate
and my fingers move slowly.

But hey,
my constant headache is gone
and all the worries that clouded my mind are gone
and my back isn't sore.

Maybe
three more won't hurt.

There is a beautiful girl who wears blue dresses and has golden blonde hair and picks apples and reads George Orwell and listens to Bob Dylan and lives on the north side of Texas.
Today is her birthday and the best thing I could do is give her a phone call but I lost her number months ago and she hasn't called me yet.
Instead I'll sit here and think about her. Maybe if I think good things about he she will feel good.
That's all I could really ask for, isn't it?
That's all I want for her anyway.

I, on the other hand, want to hold her strong body in my arms and be whispered to sleep by her warm voice. I want to run my calloused hands through her soft hair and read her some E.E. Cummings and nap with her out in the warm Texas sun and drink some of her mother's sweet black tea that is eerily famous in that small town.

I remember the first time she came to this side of the country, the first time I met her.  
She came to visit a friend (who we had grown accustomed to calling Tex) who had moved to this side of the country three or four months earlier.
I met her, the girl who wears blue dresses (Anna) at a market that this town has weekly.
Her golden hair shown against the California sun in a dazzling manner and her blue dress stood out among the short shorts and tank tops. She was eating an apple and walking with Tex. When Tex spotted me she yelled and beckoned me over.
"Nolan, this is Anna," she had said "You're the first native Californian she has met."
I took Anna's hand and told her that I was honored and that it was good to have her in this small town and how sorry I was that I am the first Californian she met and not about how warm her hand was and not about how beautiful she looked in the Autumnal aura surrounding us.
She smiled and told me, in her minute Texas drawl, that it was quite alright and that she liked my sweater.

The second time she visited, we were all sitting in Tex's living room with Tex, her boyfriend Lukas, and Anna. Tex had forced me to come because she felt bad for third wheeling Anna and that "Hey, Anna thought you were cute."
Nervously, I somehow managed "So, uhh, '50/50' is in theaters and it looks ******* awesome. Plus, it's got JGL in it... oh, pardon my language, Anna. But uhh yeah, we should go."
Anna placed her hand on my wrist, "Oh, I would love to! It could be a double date!"
It took me a second but I blushed a darker shade of red that I had ever seen.
Tex clapped her hands "Oh lordy why aren't we on our way now?" Her accent had mostly gone away but she still said 'Lordy' and 'Ya'll' and it was funny.
Lukas was down and we all piled into my old, green Ford Ranger and were on our way.

At the Theater Lukas was on my left and Tex was on his left. Anna was in the seat to my right.
At one point in the movie, I can't remember when, Anna placed her hand on my wrist and I sat there scared halfway to hell.
At another point Anna started crying and I put my arm around her and she cried into my shoulder.
The movie ended and Anna looked up at me and smiled.
She said something and now I can't remember what it was but I can still hear it.

I dropped Tex and Lukas off at Lukas's and drove Anna over to Tex's place.
I walked her to the front door and today she was wearing a dark pink dress. Or maybe it was light red. She had her hands gripping the sides by her thighs as we stood on the door step.
I started to tell her that I had a good time and it's okay, the tears would probably wash out of my shirt when she leaned up and kissed me. Her hands stayed gripping my sides during the quick kiss.
We stood there facing each other for a few seconds before she shoved her finger in my chest and said "I'm going to invite you inside and we're going to kiss some more but I am going back to Texas in a week so you better not make me fall in love with you, Nolan Fillman, or I will be very angry."

We fell in love.
I drove her and Tex to the airport on the day she had to leave.
Tex and I sat with her until the moment she had to board.
As we stood up she kissed me, longer than on the doorstep a week before and I could feel tears against my face. She stuck her finger in my chest again and said "Well this is just peachy, Nolan Fillman, I will probably never see you again."

That was two years ago. It was her birthday and I spoiled it and now two years later I can't properly wish her a happy birthday.

"It is a bad religion to love someone who can not love you back"








-

I couldn't tell you why the loveless are more likely to read love poems then those smitten with love.
It doesn't make sense. A man starving to death is not going to enjoy reading a cook book.
Yet, I, personally, do not read or write poems about love when I have it.
Coincidentally, I write about sadness when I feel sad.
The loneliest poet writes about loneliness.
And it is beautiful.

Being able to live in a cabin in the woods sounds wonderful.
I would grow a beard and I would drink pine tea.
Everyday I would go out and chop wood,
or fish or hunt or pick berries.
I would return to my cabin,
and my wife will be there.
She is beautiful and
earthly and we
love one
another.
She would stay at home and cook a nice homely dinner for us. She would read books and knit and paint and do whatever she wanted to. When I walk in the door I would kiss her cheek and tell
her that she is beautiful and I would mean it and she would believe it. Our house would
be warm in the winter and there would be an ice cold lake for the summer. We
would have a dog that has golden hair and doesn't need a leash he just
comes when we whistle and he would eat our leftovers and he
would be fat and lazy and he would make us laugh and
we loved him like a child and eventually we would
have a child but that isn't even on our minds
at this point. Everyday would be the same
but the would also bring us great
discovery and love and worth.
Eventually we will have
a baby boy and he
will look more like
his mother but
he'll still have
my blue
eyes.

Love.

The young boy stuffed his hands back into his pockets and looked down.
His black shoes looked nice against the moldy, rotten, floor of the boat.
Water splashed up onto the back of his neck just as he pulled his hood up.
He had forgotten it was there and his ears instantly felt warmer.
Him, his old man, and his old man's friend had launched the boat 15 minutes ago.
After some trouble they got it started and began across the frosty lake.
The sun was still not up yet, and the temperature was below freezing.
"See the steam rising off the water?" the second old man had asked,
"The water is warmer than the air."

And so they had began their journey.

"Stand up for a sec, James, I need to get to the tackle box."
The boy complied and was surprised to find that it was warmer standing up.
Even with the wind slapping at his face.
Just as his father retrieved the box he shouted "Rich! Stop!"
There was another boat not 10 feet in front of them, running perpendicular to there boat.
Rich slammed the engine into reverse.
He smacked his head on the small windshield in front of him, knocking him out.
The boy's dad fell over and smacked his head on the side of the boat, almost knocking him out.
James went flying. He flew straight over the front of the boat and into the water.
Not even a second later the underside of the boat smacked into his back.
Not even a second after that the propeller from the boat sliced off his left hand
and also chopped down to the bone in his neck.

Time of death was estimated to be at 6:07 A.M.
Rich was alright, the crash causing a minute fracture in the second disk of his neck.
The boy's father was also alight, only re breaking his long ago broken left shoulder.
The single child's mother killed herself six days later.
His girlfriend never dated another boy ever again.
Until she met Bobby, who took her pain away with the knuckles on his strong right.
His father never returned to work, instead drank away his welfare and later his life.
Rich lived almost normally until his daughter was diagnosed with a rare bone cancer,
killing her within weeks of diagnosis.
Then, he moved to Arizona and was killed by a **** dealer.

And the world went on.