For he's a jolly good fellow,

adorned in yellow and love,
it was hard to see his face through the smoke of a three blunt rotation, but I could feel his heart beating from across the trailer.

Worn out eighties music was the unofficial theme of the night and I think we lived up to the expectations Eddie Murphy set for his.

Alcohol, marijuana, and opiates just weren't enough,
I had to breathe deeply and slowly and snort some white dust.
Boy, that did it; rubbed clean my brain, got rid of that rust.
Cause it's get high or bust
and alcohol, marijuana, and opiates just weren't enough.

Now I'm wondering what's left;
a broken promise or three,
I'm sorry I didn't mean it,
but I meant it at the time.
I'm trying my best but I really need some rest.

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.

I need feminism
because men are more upset about people saying "all men"
than they are about the fact that 1 in 4 women will be ***** in their lifetime.

Not harassed, not catcalled,
*****
And that is not okay.

I need feminism because out of the four women
I speak to everyday
two of them have been *****
and all four of them can't walk to their car
without sticking their keys through their fingers to
feel the slightest inclination of safety.

I need feminism
because the other day in my math class
a student said "She was asking for it"
and the teacher agreed.  

I need feminism
because when my father wasn't drinking
he was telling me to be a man.

I need feminism
because the way my father taught me to treat women
was to get them drunk.
It's not his fault,
he knew no better.

I need feminism
because my father knew no better.

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

Timmy got a bike,
Timmy ******* died.
Timmy's mother drank,
Timmy's father cried.

And it rained.
It rained for five days and six nights,
and although it stopped raining on the sixth day, the sun did not shine.

It's the movement,
iOS7, download tonight,
Timmy's bike was red,
his friends thought it was tight.

Timmy got a bike,
(Each day we all feel a bit more like Bukowski, a bit more cynical)
Timmy ******* died.

Body

Two bodies,
in a bed,
on a quilt in a field,
in the backseat of an '88 Nissan Pathfinder.

Two bodies,
touching,
squeezing,
caressing,
biting.

Blood,
pooling under the skin,
rushing to the brain,
rushing to the genitals,
sticky/hot.

****** candy,
the curve of lips around a lollipop,
the drinking of whiskey from the bottle,
the burning sensation of MDMA insufflation.

Clothes strewn across your mother's kitchen,
ice cubes traced down spines, *******, *******.
Oral *** with ice cubes in the mouth.



Frequent ******* and a sense of unwellbeing, if you'll allow me this one usage of an unword (I can't help myself)

I'm just a pool table floating through the cosmos,
a snail racing in the indie 500.
I'm a mess, ******* on dirt, lying in a basement,
the Click! Now that I have mastered the click I can free my mind of all misconceptions.

I'm a grubby snail person.
Dos Bros Tacos,
served with a hard shell.
I'm a cigarette, trying to hold water in my mouth, and you're a jar, trying to make me spit it out.

I'm a vegan, with primordial urges,
a user, with blood rush surges.

I'm matter, quickly vibrating,
an organic compound, slowly decaying.

I like you.
Yes, quite a bit I do.

Just about as much as I like the stars,
and quite a bit more than I like cars.

I like you as much as a like the trees,
it's safe to say that you're the bees knees.

I like you more than I like drugs,
and one of my favorite places to be,
is wrapped in one of your hugs.

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.

Imagine there's a vitamin you can take that makes you feel euphoric and free of pain and any thoughts other than warmth. Imagine that the vitamin's effects will wear off rather quickly. Imagine the vitamin is rather costly. Imagine after weeks of taking the vitamin you begin to notice that the good feelings it gave you are no longer present and you are only taking the vitamin so you won't feel sick and cold and alone and depressed. Imagine the vitamin is making you steal money from your mother's purse to buy more. Imagine the vitamin is making you hold up your local corner store. Imagine you only desire the company of the vitamin, your friends and family no longer matter. Imagine being done with the vitamin but knowing that the vitamin is not done with you, not until it has destroyed every meaningful relationship in your life, ****** your soul dry and killed you.

Now, you are offered a choice: this imaginary vitamin, or your life.

Choose your life, choose your friends, choose football in the street, choose walks in the park with your sister but whatever you do, don't choose ******.

Sell your dope.
Sell the last of it
and the first of it.

No, don't rail it tonight,
you know you'll just end up
shooting it tomorrow.

Sell your dope.
Sell it cheap
and sell all of it.

Buy roses,
buy chocolates,
buy gas.

Ask her on a date,
to the movies,
to dinner.

Sell your dope,
and kiss her.
What is more important?

You know what is more important.
Your high will last 4 hours, maybe five.
The feeling of her lips will linger.

The feeling of her lips will linger.
Sell your dope,
fall in love.

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.

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'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.

I was always a needle kind of ******.
My friends thought I was crazy, and I suppose I was.
They say to take baby steps,
but addiction never works like they say it should, does it?
I went from *** to pills to blow to needles just like that.

It was nice though,
seeing how I've always been a fan of instant gratification.
Tie the knot, heat the junk, wet the cotton, **** it up, slap the veins, stick it in, get high.
Easy as pie, nothing can be simpler.
Nothing could be more complicated.
I've been home for ten minutes,
and I promised myself this score would last me through the week.
I'll be happy if it lasts the night.

My track marks were starting to fade,
due in part to probation,
and also in part to the love I've been surrounded with.
Who needs to shoot up when you have people to love you?
Me.
A ******.
A loser.

I would like a million things,
and a million more,
but why would I want things,
when I can score.
Nothing could be simpler.
Nothing could be more complicated.

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.

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"








-

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.

Listen:
I say today is a beautiful day to exist.
You're existing;
you're waiting for the bus in the heart of San Fransisco.
You're painting a landscape of Penn Valley.
You're selling hashish in Portland.

What a beautiful existence!

I'm washing my sheets,
I'm smoking a cigarette,
I'm reading The Return of the King,
and I'm about to go to work.

Listen:
The cars on the highway are going somewhere.
There are people in those cares who are existing just as gracefully as you and me.
Listen:
They are existing just as harmoniously as you and me.
Listen:
They have no idea what happens to them when they die.


I jumped off a forty foot cliff into the Yuba River a week ago and my last thought before hitting the water was:
'Either I'll live and that will be one hell of a jumping rock or I'll die and be free from ignorance.'

Listen:
I don't want to die, but I'm excited to.
I'm more excited to live and I get to see you tomorrow! I get to hold your tiny hands in mine, a barista and a norcal gardener (if you know what I mean)

Listen:
I love you and I love you and I love you and I didn't lie, I didn't, I told you I'd see you again and here we are two hundred and thirty seven miles away and tomorrow I will see you.

Listen:
Praise automobiles, praise gasoline,
praise hip hop music and praise hashish, I get to see you tomorrow!

Let's hangout,
old friend,
you, me, and Ellis D. Martini.

Let's roll in the grass and pretend we're six again, let's release our imaginations from responsibility.

I once saw a black widow
so I killed it.
I found its eggs and killed them too.
I found its sister and brother, mother and father, I found its lover and I killed them all. I used a broken broom handle and woke with bites on my ankles, the broom handle cared not to be used for ******.

Let's drink all the orange juice we can find,
and call me Nancy from now on, you can be Shirley.

Surely, Shirley, I'd love to hangout;
You, me, and Ellis D. Martini.

I wonder if they're happy.
They sure do seem so.
They're always talking about stealing their daddy's Jaguars and having beer blasts and getting in to fights and being bros and getting tan and buying new swimsuits and getting a call from different modeling agencies and crashing cars and smoking cigarillos and drinking fancy wine and going to their beach house and deciding between Harvard and Yale or Porsche and Mustang and did we win the football game and making new friends and oh my God Stacy actually said that and dude, I totally ****** her and my math teacher is such a ***** and my parents are putting me into boarding school and check out my new Jordans and did you watch the sunset last night?

I don't know if they're having fun, but it sure seems like it.

*I wonder if they're having fun. It sure seems like it.
They're always talking about hitch hiking to the next city over and going to shows and drinking PBR and sneaking out at night and yeah dude, that party was sick and my tumblr is so famous right now and check out my new denim jacket and smoking **** and getting in to fights and lifting cigarettes from stores and Austin and Katie slept together and Kyle broke edge and I'm still working at McDonalds and yeah I'm still driving my '93 Ford Ranger and smoking hookah and watching Mean Girls and yeah I love the ocean and check out my new Kicks and did you watch the sunset last night?

I don't know if they're having fun, but it sure seems like 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.

I collect scars.
I show them to people rarely.
Sometimes I think of them fondly,
sometimes I think of them coldly.

I write a lot about the place where (we) met.
Where (we) fell in love.
Where (we) grew apart.

I guess in a way, my memories are scars.
I collect memories.
I share them with people rarely.
Sometimes I think of them fondly,
sometimes I think of them coldly.

-
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.

~

The lovelorn boy desperately hung mistletoe.

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.

Call me Oedipus and let me call you mommy,
**** me hard and kiss me lively.

Act like Freud and dream about my ****,
spread your legs and let me have a lick.

Kiss me like Hemingway, short and sweet,
like the sun and the horizon, eternally we shall meet.

I guess this could be a romantic poem
but I quit smoking a week ago,
and a poem ain't romantic unless the poet is sitting alone, in the cold, smoking a cigarette and wishing his memories of her could burn with the cigarette. Which is, coincidentally, the last cigarette in his pack.
And besides, my insides have been feeling more hollow than ever, and a poem is only romantic if the writer is feeling romantic.

But I remember, about two weeks ago, not wanting to be trapped in the confines of these blank white walls, I went for a little walk. It was cold and I was smoking the last cigarette in my pack.
My eyes chances upon the stars and a deep unrest fell within my stomach. I thought of you, as I had been often doing, as I always do when I look at the stars. Not desiring life, and only wishing to sleep forever, I began walking home.
I crushed the cigarette under my boot and wished I could do the same with the small part of my heart that you still mercilessly hold.

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.

whenever
people would ask me if i knew you
I would say yes,
i know her very well,
she is my bestfriend
and i love her more than anything.

somewhere along the line
i added,
but i haven't talked to her in a while,
and i thought nothing of it.

i want to kiss you,
like we've done before.
i remember every kiss you've ever given me,
because they meant more than any kiss i've ever received.
i remember every kiss you've ever given me,
because they tasted sweater than any kiss i've ever received.

i want to kiss you again,
but i'm so afraid of losing you.
i'm afraid of losing you more
than i already have.

i'm jealous,
i'm jealous of every boy you've ever kissed.
i'm jealous of that boy you talk to me about on the phone.
i'm losing you
and you don't know how jealous i am.

i kiss other girls because i want to,
i kissed you because i love you.

It's a laser light show!
Fit for all ages!
Just don't look too hard at people's faces,
you'll see how strung out they are.
Pick your poison, smack, speed or stress,
we got it all.

Bring your daughter!
Bring your grandma!
Just don't look down the back alleys,
you'll see kids shooting dope,
and mother's selling their bodies.

Inbreds!
Racists!
We got them all,
come and see them before the city locks them up.
But wait!
For a limited time only,
get a free half gram of baking powder with any order of ******* (you must purchase at least one gram for the offer to apply).

Oh California!
How my heart burns for you,
how beautiful you are!

The greenest trees and the most picturesque beaches.
The soft sands of the desert,
and the rolling slopes of the foothills.
My body, my mind, my spirit, all belong to you, oh Great and Wonderful! California.

Your hills are on fire,
scarring the beauty of your curves.
Your rivers run dry,
suffocating the green into brown.
How my heart cries for you! Oh dry, oh burning, oh how relentless this war against you, oh California! And there is no relief in sight, winter promises no respite, and the summer will be long and tough and dry like the ones before and before and before.

Oh California!
How I tremble, how I shake in awe,
your sun burns a bright orange,
smoke fills your sunsets,
even fire cannot detract from your beauty!
Oh cleansing rains!
Oh cleansing El Niño!
Oh how I beg you to save California!
My California!

My roots go deeper than that of the greatest redwood, California is my home, and not the most fearsome of fires could cause me to leave, not the fiercest and most ruthless of droughts could scare me away!

Oh California!
Let my tears be absorbed by your thirsty soil!
Let my body one day feed your hungry crops!

Oh California! I am yours, to the very last.
God bless California!
God bless the desert and the mountains!
God bless the foothills and the valleys!
God bless the beaches and the forests!
God bless my home and spare it from the relentless.
California is my God, and I hope she hears my prayers!

I'm a vampire girl and you're my meal,
you know that you are.
I'm ******* on your neck,
like it's happy hour at the bar.
Wait, that doesn't make sense,
who drinks alcohol through a straw?
To each their own, just as long
as your quick on the draw.
Gunslinger,
shooting down clouds like *****,
popping pills,
turning fake nerds into mince-meat.
Shepard's pie,
with extra cheese,
thank you very much,
did I forget to say please?
Where are my manners?
You know I adore you,
I'll do that thing with tongue
and you know I'll show you.

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

"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.

my{ perpetually you shall remain }heart.

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.

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.

Angsty feelings portrayed with unflashy adjectives.
blah blah blah
Hateful words directed at people in general.
blah blah blah
Ranting about cigarettes like a pig.
blah blah blah
My music is better than yours because no one else likes it.
blah blah blah
Society *****.
blah blah blah
Quotes from pop-punk songs.
blah blah blah
Depressed ramblings.
blah blah blah
*****.
blah blah blah
Love *****.
You *****.
I ****.
******* *****.
blah blah blah blah...

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.

A boy named Jake and a girl named Lexi had never met before.
They had a class together last year, but neither one knew it at the time.
They both walked into their Sophomore Drama class for the first time, scared and apprehensive.
Lexi there five minutes before the final bell and Jake, seconds before the final bell.

Jake entered the class and quickly took the only seat on the floor not occupied by an unfamiliar face.
They all introduced themselves, all 27 of them, mostly Sophomores with a few Freshman, Juniors, and a single Senior.It was then, when Lexi said "Hi, my name is Lexis Marilyn Manchester and I go by Lexi," that he first noticed her.
She was cute, shoulder length blonde hair, a floral shirt and jeans, although Jake didn't notice those things at the time. Only her dazzling pale blue eyes, and angelic voice.

The guy sitting next to her didn't say his name at first, even though it was his turn. She tapped his leg and motioned toward the center of the circle the class had made in the Drama Room. Room I7.
He said "How.. uh, my name is Jacob Turner. I don't have a middle name, but I go by Jake."
He was cute. He had short, yet unruly brown hair, a white shirt with the letters "LDTA" on them and nice fitting black jeans. The only thing she noticed about him however were his mysterious pale blue eyes, and for some reason, lack of middle name.

Jake didn't even care that the class had laughed at his lack of middle name. The only thing of importance to him was that when he looked over, the cute girl named Lexis Marilyn Manchester, who went by Lexi, was looking at him. He quickly looked away as did she.

The class went on and neither Jake nor Lexi, made an attempt to talk to the other although they did steal careful looks often. The bell finally rung. It was a seventh period class, so school was over.

On his way home Jake thought of nothing but Lexi, and driving.
He stopped at a sign, only blocks from home. The traffic rushed by. The car behind him did not see his car. They pushed him into the oncoming traffic just as a big SUV hybrid drove by. The driver slammed the breaks but still did not manage to avoid hitting the drivers side door of the small, blue, beat up, Toyota.

The doctors say he was killed on impact.

That's what the school told the small group of friends who were asked to attend a quick meeting regarding the accident. Lexi went.

She thought about him everyday for the yest of the school year.
Even some over summer.
He never faded.
She wouldn't let him for some reason.

He was killed on impact but he never faded.

The fine sands,
the Mullen fields,
the Wurm Cave.

Lone beast sought,
One beast discovered.
Thrice, sights found.

Aboard! haste!
Drink thou Mead slow,
the Wurm will enjoy you antonymy.

Land **!
the beast is high,
can thee hear him?

Crawl and creep,
the beast moves
silent under the water.

To his cave three men
brave the cold.
'While the Wurm follows

One sight found,
the soft sands of time,
beneath thy and thou's boot.

Feel the grains in thou palm,
beg ye Lord for salvation
and continue.

Second sight found,
the endless fields of Mullen.
Embrace them.

Feel the grains in thou palm,
beg ye Lord for forgiveness
and breath.

Third sight sound,
the end of the journey,
The Cave of the Wurm.

Steal thyself men!
felt, the Wurm's presence,
steal thyself.

Did I hear you say,
Wurm?

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've been busy
too busy to write.

I'm too busy loving you to write you the love poems you deserve.

I'm too busy working so I can have money to buy you the things you like to write you the love poems you deserve.

But I'm going to continue loving you,
continue kissing and holding you,
I'm going to continue being yours.
I'll never be too busy to love you.

Who needs love poems when you're in love?

A purple liquid drips
and with each drop the sound of discontent grows louder.
     Forming a puddle on the the carpet that grows and grows and grows
and soon I will drown in it, soon I will drown in her.
     Soon, her green eyes will be all I see and not just all I yearn to see.

The purple liquid
creates an audible thump as it splashes down on the carpet which is now covered with an inch and a half of the stuff.
     The thump makes it easier to sleep at night; it slows my heartbeat.
Her lips whisper to me as I sleep and I long for them to be upon my neck.
      My fingers grasp the sheet but in my mind they are running through her hair and down her back.

Now, my bedroom is filled with the purple liquid, only two feet of air separating the ceiling and the top of the purple swimming pool.
     As I sleep, she sleeps with me and as our fingers touch
she exhales a blast of the cool purple liquid.
     Without cease it fills my lungs and her whispers grow fainter
and her touch sweeter.

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."

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.

Your parents hung mistletoe.
And we obliged to the tradition.

Your lips screamed lust
louder than my head begged reason.