Better grab some while you can.
Remember when you said "no, you ain't my man?"
Years from now you'll be alone,
and I'll be writing novels, my talent full grown.
A single tear from your eye will fall,
but don't even bother wasting time making a call.
You made a decision, now you gotta live by it,
and they'll be paying me to speak, tv and ****.
Someday, your boyfriend will by a book,
he'll read you one line from it and you'll know its me without even a look.
You have a man, he's on your arm,
when you see my name on the shelves, I'll be long gone.
You'll realize what you had,
but you threw it all away, you must've been mad.
Someday, you'll see that it's all true,
no need to debate, I'm the best at what I do.

You might be thinking "****, this boy's arrogant"
but you gotta fake it 'till you make it and then a little more.
But for now, I'll sell my **** to buy drugs
and when I'm all out of **** I'll start stealing
and when I've stolen everything, I'll start earn it.
And when I've earned the highest accolades
I'll just smile
because I told you so,
and you told him he was the one.

Someday you'll cry because there won't be a sunrise,
and you'll realize the mistake you've made.
I may be a loser ****** right now,
but the next bump will be last
just like the one I blew five minutes ago
just like the first time I ever tried it a high school bathroom
just like every bump in between.

I know you can see that I'm angry.
You can see it in my eyes,
hear it in my words,
and feel it in my touch.
Sure, I'm angry because you rejected me,
are continuing to reject me.
No, I'm not angry at you,
how could I be.
I'm angry at myself.
I have nothing to offer you,
I'm broke, unemployed, addicted.
I don't have a car, or good looks.
I don't have a big house, or presents to give you.

But I have dreams and a heart that I'm begging you to take.

It is all that I can give to you that you do not already have.

Even though I've been writing for years
(not that it's any better than when I started)
the title still holds true.

Words don't spill out,
thoughts don't process
like they used to.

Pieces need second checks for meaning,
thirds for grammar,
and a fourth for meaning.

Maybe it's the absence of physical affection;
certain chemicals aren't being triggered to release in my brain
but I decided if I couldn't keep my unspoken promises,
if I can't touch with a deep understanding of love
I will not touch at all.

It was shocking,
the impact one night could have
and so I have not had a second try
(or a six or seventh if we're counting).

I let the words of Thom Yorke
and Ezra Koenig say all that I cannot.

"Slowly we unfurl as lotus flowers
'Cause all I want is the moon upon a stick
Just to see what if, just to see what is
I can't kick your habit
Just to feed your fast ballooning head
Listen to your heart"

Faith falls out
of the lottery winning man
just as it is absorbed
by the cancer ridden man.

Nothing makes sense
in this world in which we live
and everything is gray in the relationship
we allow to live.

God creates man,
man creates God,
sheep live blissfully ignorant
without a need for a god.

The fastest man on earth
partakes of the green,
and the fastest man on water
partakes of the green,
yet the laziest men on earth
criminalize that which is our birth right.

Freedom's legality is a matter of discussion,
it's a matter of luck and
place of citizenship.

Depending on where you are
you may speak your mind.

You boop my nose,
and kiss my mouth.

You hold my hand,
and put my mind at ease.

You leave bruises on my neck,
and make me happy.

I do these things for you too,
and it makes you happy.

Two weeks drug free.
I did it for myself,
I did it for my sister
for you
and for her.

Cravings don't wake me up at night anymore.
I can hold a cigarette without my hands shaking
and I can look my mother in the eye.

Where are you to share in my sobriety?
Where are you to help me through it?
(Where are you?)

The old man sighed and jammed his freshly rolled, freshly lit cigarette into the ash tray.
"Too many cigarettes before bedtime oft' keep an' old man like me up all night."
The young man put out his cigarette as well, gently weeping inside over the wasted tobacco.
"Aye, a youngin' like myself as well."
The conversation had been going slightly south ever since the young man made the mistake of asking about his counterparts first wife. "She died," he had said "One of them December o' 2012 suicides that plagued the big cities such as this."
The young man remembered how he had looked out the window at this point a bit too nostalgically.
"She was crazy," he had added "I knew it the day I slipped the ring on and I know it now."
They dropped the subject and began talking about The War, coincidentally another touchy subject.
"Most of my friends died, and if you've read your history books you know it was not courage or chivalry that killed them but the ignorance and fear that our country breathed when drafting all the young men."
He had escaped with his life, which he believed was garbage. he told of how he had hid in the sewers while the long thought peaceful Canadian's swarmed over the East coast. While his friends died he ate rats. While the war machine chugged he was cowering.

"Aye, I see how you looked at that stoke, though."
"Pardon?" The young man had been deep in thought of the conversation they had been having.
"How old are you anyway?"
"19 on the 9th."
"And still not a whisker on your chin, aye?"
"Aye."

He told of many more battles. Some he fought in, others he cowered under.
"And one, that I cowered over. I passed out in the helicopter, do-it-please-yah."
He told of his second wife, a bit more fondly and romantically than his first wife.
She had passed away not 8 months before the young man visited him for the first time and that was 6 months past.

He showed scars, from the prison camps.
He rolled cigarettes from his poke pouch.
He admitted forgetting the face of his father.

Stomachs fill
and bottles empty
and pictures are burned
along with bridges.

To be a second choice is not good.
To now you are a second choice
and being happy that you are a choice at all
is not good.

I came to her with a heavy heart
and a poem
and I asked her if she could hold me up
and for a moment she did
but falling to the floor
I realized her heart was heavy enough for her.

She sought refuge by sleeping with sleepy men
and by drinking although she was already drunk.
And now that her bed is unoccupied
and her stomach pumped and her heart not so heavy,
she wishes to help hold me up.

But I have realized that I don't need her help.
I don't need the help of someone who
wishes only to help those who can help her.

I try not to paint it in a pretty light because there is nothing pretty about it.

It is strong and it is beautiful and it will knock you on your *** but it is not pretty.

It is black and cold and poisonous, and it practices it's art with extreme prejudice.

Whether you say its your last time or whether you say nothing, you are lying to yourself.

******, the dark mistress, whom I fly towards like a moth to a light on a dark night.

******, the cunning sorcerer, who has caught  me under his deadly spell.

I am not powerless to my addiction.
No, I am wrong, it is not MY addiction, I am the addictions user. But I will break free. Jeremy Freeman, the fastest gun west of the Sierra Nevadas.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was one of those days
when the sun was like,
"I'm gonna be real hot today....extra hot"

I saw some birds fly underneath a truck.
by their banter,
I could tell they were excited;
"Ah dude, this shade's sick"
"Yeah dude. This shade's tweet"
And it's crazy cause those
blaring days sometimes turned
into vicious attacks by fanatical
rains. They always wanted my face.
The drowning plants under my
Econoline shoes place their infants
on my laces. I'm afraid to open the door
because of the black widow near the
doorbell.

I once broke one.

Strings.

Our world is never going to be enough.
We want to know what's beyond,
what comes after,
what was before,
and I 'm no different, don't get me wrong.

So, we have a robot flying threw space about to land on Mars.
We have Christians praying to their God and Muslims to theirs.
We have Atheists being Atheistic and Satanist being Satanic.
Punks are acting punk like and triple X-ers are passing the blunt right back.
We have scientists trying to cure cancer and theoretical physicists trying to understand dark matter.
We have you and I trying to work things out.

why.

What really is the point.
There are a select few things I am absolutely sure of.
I am alive.
I am going to die.
I love you.

why.

Why don't I just die already?

But I want to drink your mother's tea.

A boy named Jake was so obsessed with finding a different reality where he was truly himself that he created it in his brain and entered it through a doorway while he slept.

He knew he didn't need to knock but thought of it as polite.
The door wasn't answered with an opening, rather
an invite to open.
So the boy opened.

Inside he found himself in a desert. It was almost time for the sun to begin its setting.
He realized that his hand was still on the door **** so he released and then shut the door.
He turned back around.

There was a small house a football fields length away. He could see a well just to the left and a stable holding no animals on the right.
He began walking over.
He was thirsty.
And hungry.
And full of questions.

Arriving at the house he found water in the well.
Cold, dusty water.

Inside the house he found a pantry full of corn, bottled sunflower seeds, and a odd yellow grass wrapped in pouches.
He ate sunflower seeds and walked outside.

There he looked back to where the door is.
Or was.
At first he was alarmed
but then liked the idea.
He was stuck here.
He was free.

He slumped down against the house and began to doze off.

His dreams were filled of memories of this desert. Of growing up in this house and occasionally visiting the town some miles away.
This became his reality.
He was himself.

A man dressed in black approached.
He pretended to sleep.
The man came and went.
There was no food left in the pantry although the yellow grass was still there.
There was no water in the well.

He waited for nothing for days.
He slumped against the wall and fell asleep again.

He awoke to find a new man approaching him, from the direction the other man had came.
The direction of town. DOOR, his conscious screamed. He pushed it aside.

The man came.
He was on a quest for a tower.
He was nice.
Jake grew fond of him.
The man said he would stay, only for a little while.
He was pursuing the Man in Black.
He was pursuing the Dark Tower.
Jake knew the man would stay, however.
And he was happy.
He was *himself.

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

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.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about using every day.
I have dreams about those little yellow pills,
they don't speak to me,
or appear any different than they are in reality,
I just dream about holding them in my hands.

I couldn't do it,
recreational drug use.
I never could
no matter how many times I told myself I wasn't addicted, the truth remained
that I was.
I would tell myself "what kind of ******* is a drug addict, you're not, you're fine."
But I wasn't.
And everyday I have to tell myself "no, you cannot take those pills because you will not be able to stop"
Some days it ends there,
others I get as far as dialing my dealer's number.
Most days it's in the middle.

Being an addict is about having habits;
wake up, take three, (don't eat breakfast, the high will fade faster). Take four once the feeling leaves your legs, and four more before you go to sleep, so you can sleep.
Rinse and repeat; rinse and repeat.

Sobriety is the same way;
wake up, convince your self you don't need it.
Rinse and repeat as needed.

She helps, but she can't replace my addiction.
Although she gets me high, I can't become addicted to her, her lips do not have opiates hidden within,
but they have something better.

I don't think about getting high when I'm with her.
The high I get from her kisses is not dissimilar to that of methodone,
only their is no crash.
The high I get from caressing her thighs shares a likeness with *******,
except it costs love, not cash.
The high I get from hearing her gasp my name as our love making intensifies is very similar to that of hydrocodone,

only much, much better.

It's a Thursday night
and I'm higher than I've been
all week.

The boy told me this was the good stuff (as he does every week) so I took it on faith that he was exaggerating.

Two blows later
and I can barely read the late Mr. Vizzini's words.
My body feels warmer than it has
since November of 2012,
and my face is itchier than my last year in Boy Scouts, circa 2008.

The walls of my room seems a lighter shade of purple than the have in years
and my carpet is not as stained as it was this morning.

Old Polaroids of my parents' wedding are tacked on my wall,
and in those pictures my grandmother is the most beautiful women in the world.

Thank God for muscle memory,
and thank God for compulsive *******,
and thank God unsharpened pencils,
and thank God for everything else that my body knows how to do and everything that I can see in my room and put down in this poem.

There is no purpose to this,
but today I asked a friend of mine
why she is always looking at the sky
and she told me because if she looks at it long enough
it isn't the sky at all.
It is her
and she can speak to herself
and she can thank God for compulsive ******* and ****** science fiction literature.

We watched a movie today.
It was lovely, full of pastels and romance.
The plot was immense, the casting, superb.

I enjoyed the movie a great amount.
My favorite part was the part I missed because I buried my face into your neck.
I didn't want to leave.

"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."

All my life I've chased happiness through herbs and manufactured substances.

Occasionally the touch of a womanly body would spark life in my heart.

And six months ago to the day I asked you to be mine and you gladly accepted.

I got clean (I used by choice and not habit, I can honestly say) and I loved with all my heart but not all my mind.

I am not a body, I have one.
I do not have a soul, I am one.

And I'm thankful I continue to collide with you, no matter how seemingly hard I try to ***** it up. I swear, I've only ever tried to bring you happiness and you have no reason to believe me but I'm happy down to the very core of my being that you do. That you're trying to.
And that you return my love tenfold.

I met you tonight.
You smelled nice
and I sat next to
you for two hours.
Sure, there was a
fifteen minute break.
But so what? Your
bangs hung straight
across your forehead
and you skirt lay
loosely around your
thighs. Your sweater
clung to you body
and you clung to my
mind. I know your
name and I know
your face but I know
not you.

It was your first time going to a show and you told me you felt like a white crayon.
It was my thirteenth show and I told you white crayons looked very nice on any color paper but white. So why limit yourself?

You had your legs
crossed and your
foot kept touching
my calf and instead
of recoiling I let it
happen. I talked to
you and when I took
my coat off it flailed
in your face and I
said "I'm sorry, sorry."
And you curled your
mouth into a cute
smile and told me it
was really okay, and
then the show was very
good and how many
have I been to. It's funny
how you're cute and I'm
me and you laughed
when I said stupid
things and I let our
legs touch and I even
held the door open for
you and said "Goodnight,
Lady. See you next Monday."
And you said "Goodnight,
Nolan. If fate wills it,
so it shall be." And we
laughed and I begged fate
to will it.

She writes poetry .
I'm not sure,
I'm not one to judge,
but I think it's very good.

It makes me laugh and smile.
It makes me stop and think.
It makes me happy to be in the same room as her.

She listens to hip hop
and reads J.D. Salinger.

He finally nodded his head and everything became white.
White sheets.
White pillow cases.
White girl with light blonde hair.
White skin naked in the white sunlight.
White curtains.

She was sitting on her knees by his side as he lay on his back.
She noticed he had awoken so he kissed him.
Not a passionate, love filled, **** kiss. Simply a good morning kiss.

He awoke with an absurd sense of wetness.
His family thought it funny to roll down the window and allow the cold rain outside to splash upon his face as the landscape rushed by.
Good morning sleepy head, they said.

He imagined the white girl with blonde hair saying that after kissing him into consciousness as he nodded his head back and again, fell asleep.

We came
together,
joined at the hips
and the lips.

With our words we shared stories
and with our mouths
we opened up to each other.

We were aware of each other
for quite some time,
at least me of you,
but we shared only a few
memories
and only two
nights.

One was spent in the cold.
On a couch,
with alcohol
and sweat
and nicotine
and only one blanket,
but you had me to keep you warm,
and you kept me plenty warm.
You left early in the morning,
and I kissed you before you left.
I tried to go back to sleep,
but it's hard to sleep when you're smiling.

The second time was warm,
in a bed,
with marijuana
and nicotine
and my best friend in the next room.
We kissed
and we kissed
and we kissed
and we slept
and then we kissed some more
and in the morning it was my turn to leave early,
but you kissed me before I left
and I hope you were able to sleep.

You're out of sight
but not out of mind.

Lounging on my windowsill are the two most beautiful plants I have seen.
One has half of its leaves chewed off, the other half are wilting but it is full of life.
It is full of good intentions and affection.
The other is a thriving Cactus Collection,
although they are better classified as succulents. Deep shades of green specked with reds, they are the apple of my eye for when the giver of these gifts is not present.

She is beautiful,
let me tell you,
she is stunning.

I once compared the feelings she gives me to the high of various drugs,
but that sad attempt of expression is a bastardization of how she makes me feel.
Of what she makes me feel.

She makes me feel the entirety of the cosmos painted onto her lips.
She breathes the life of earth into my neck and ***** passion out of my pores.
Her fingertips are a skeleton key to a chest containing any hint of beauty a human could possess.
She is magical, mystical,
beauty personified.

She is an essence.
Of what?
Of moons, stars, and birds.
Of elementary school playgrounds,
of Chinatown jasmine tea.

Her legs are soft beyond comprehension,
like the feeling of silk in a dream.
Her laughter is vibrant beyond comparison but let me try;

With words? I cannot! But with a kiss, I may attempt.

She is my favorite book,
she is French existentialism,
she is freshly cut grass!
She is the Yuba River!
Her beauty is measurable just as each drop of water in the Russian River is measurable.

She is immense and powerful.
She kisses tenderly and ***** wholeheartedly.
She speaks genuinely and loves truthfully.


Their will be no ending to this
because their is no end to her beauty.

You bought me a wooden pipe
on my last birthday.
I had it for a few months until I lost it.
Now, you're not here to spend the day with me
and neither is the pipe I named after you,
my lovely Lady L.

On a whim, however, I purchased a new pipe.
Inside a gold box,
long and brown,
like something Gandalf would smoke,
my mysterious Wizard.
Just like the girl I share tonight with.

I don't want
my life
to be the worst joke in all of history.
I just want
you
to spend the rest of your days living with me.
We could build
a house
a pretty little cottage right by the sea.
We'll spend
our days
taking walks on the beach and kissing tenderly.
We won't fret
or fight
over the petty little things, we'll live comfortably.
And at the end
of the day
we'll lie in bed, let the night rot away,
while we,
kiss
and laugh
at all the things that troubled us so long before
we met
and loved
and began our lives.
At the end
of our lives
we'll sing each other to sleep, so softly.

And so I'll like your selfie,
and I may send you an encouraging message.

Digitalized and marginalized
you exist upon a screen.
To me and my solipsist mind,
all that is real is all that is before me.

All that is after me is fiction,
something I, and millions of other poets may attempt to write,
but realness is lost.

It can be compared to trying to relay a first hand experience to another,
it is impossible to do completely.
I can tell you that the trees swayed nonchalantly and that the water was crisp and welcoming but you will never know what it was like to be on the lake that day.

If Jesus Christ himself were to tell me change my ways...

Put the music on repeat,
put the *** in the pipe,
pull the covers over your chest,
put your tongue inside my mouth,
and wake up,
I will do the same.

The thought of you,
the idea of you,
the digital image of you and everything you've said to me excite different parts of my body.
All these things excite my mind.
Your words excite the blood vessels in my cheeks and your body excites my groin.
I drink a tall glass of water,
I ******* thinking of you,
and I fall asleep hoping to dream of you.

I dream of you putting your tongue in my mouth.
My body excites in my slumber,
and though I only kiss you in my dreams,
I ******* in my shower.

I'm a mountain man dreaming of the desert,
and you're a Midwest girl dreaming of the ocean.

I want to feel your legs around my neck,
your hands held in mine,
and your tongue in my mouth and around my ****.

I want this of her and her and him and her and you but I cannot have it.
So I've masturbated 3 times today and if the son of God told me to change my ways I might need to ******* twice, thrice more.

Red shoes on black carpet.
She skips across the floor, hands together pulling her small body forward.
From room to room she hustles, skirt all about her, not bothering to fix her hair.

I can see her in my dreams, with unclouded eyes she looks back at me.
She smiles at me in my dreams, and when I dream of her withdrawls do not wake up.

She is my *****.
She is more beautiful than the flower
and has the *** appeal of the powder.

Withdrawl means different things for different drugs.
For my drug it means irritability, headaches, and hunger.
There are ways to prevent it.
I could chew sunflower seeds or **** on a lollipop or ride a bike.
But I'd rather smoke.
I'd rather pick a half smoked cigarette out of an ashtray, lightly burn the end of the filter (to **** germs. Gotta keep it healthy.) and smoke it, than chew sunflower seeds.  
I'd rather jump out my window at two AM, walk two blocks, reach into the cab of a pickup and take a pack of cigarettes than **** on a lollipop.
I'd rather ditch school, say I'm too sick to go, stay home and smoke cigarettes and read a book all day, than ride a bike.
And I do.
And I do.
And I do.
Yes, I do.

I told you a
while ago that I listen to sad music
when I'm happy
and happy music when I'm sad,
but my friend,
that simply is not true.

at the time I believed it,
because, to put it simply,
I was in a numbing state of sadness,
emptiness and drug use.
But oh God how happy you make me
and how happy I've been.

Now, with a sober mind
and I happy heart I realize
that I wasn't happy,
but I listened to sad music so I could be sad.
Let me explain;
I went to school (high)
and needed to appear happy
so nobody would question my heart.
It's something I learned when I was alone
and had nobody to question my heart.
and then when people started coming back into my life
I wasn't able to stop.
I put on a mask,
smiling,
constantly smiling,
joking, smoking,
loving.
and i only took it off when I was alone,
listening to my music
about love's lost
and hope's crushed.

The truth is that you make me happy,
I'm not wearing a mask,
and I haven't listened to Bright Eyes in weeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two words,
that don't mean much.

Put them together and you
gain a little more meaning.

These words,
nor any other i could write,
would ever be able to describe
that which i feel for you.

You make me happy,
and adding a title to our happiness
makes it all the more sweeter,
and i could not tell you why.

But i don't need to,
because i can feel it,
and i try my best to make you feel it
and ******* it, i think i do.

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

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

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.

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 *******.

Maybe someday I will be good at writing and good at skating and good at studying and good at loving you.
Maybe then I won't have to live in this ****** town, in this ****** two bedroom rut.
I won't have to live off of minimum wage, and 9 to 5 every ******* day except for Wensdays.

Maybe some day I can make you happy.
I might quit smoking and I might start listening to happy music.
****, I might even be happy.
you might even be happy.
what a plot twist that would be.

But for now, I know I cannot change where I am.
I am a ****** skater and a ****** lover.
I work at a ****** job and make ****** pay.
The only thing not ****** in my life is you and you have your bad days.

I imagine a day when people will give me money for doing things I like.
Maybe for skating or writing or singing or just being me.
Other people do that.
People make fortunes by doing that ****.
Maybe if I did that I would be happy.
****
maybe even you would be happy.
someday.

"I'm seventeen already sniffing blow; Tell my friends it's asthma every time I start to itch my throat."

When I cough it shakes me and I cannot stop.

Sometimes phlegm comes up.
Yellow, and brown, and gross.

My teeth are yellow, even though I brush them twice a day. I even floss.

My fingers nails crack and my left eye droops when I smile.

My teeth are too small for my mouth and my acne is inconvenient in all the wrong ways.
My eyes that were once dazzling and electric-blue are just a shade of gray.
My hair is starting to tint gray, mostly in the back; that's why I cut it.

My lungs ain't what they used to be.
My knees are knobby, misshapen and sore.
My vision is less then perfect, especially in my left eye and I drink too much soda and not enough water.
My **** is always yellow, my throat always soar, and my head always aching.
My tonsils are swollen so much that they block off half of my throat.

My shoulder hurts when I lift it above my head and my back tells me I always slept in a weird position.
My dreams are always nightmares and my thoughts are always self harming.

My cigarettes are always smoked too quick.
I'm too stubborn to smoke ****.
"No, I don't need it man, that **** is stupid."
But, it really is stupid.

My neck pops when I look up and locks when I look down.
My feet become soar after walking from one class to the left.

My heart hurts whenever I think about The Girl I Once Had.

I cry when I watch One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest.
(I'm only human.)

My life has been going on for only a little while, but my strings are frayed.
I mean, Jesus Christ, my back's sore.
What kind of old man garbage is that.

I mean, shoot, I even complain like an old man.

Seeing you
makes me homesick
for a home that was never mine,
but one that you allowed me in.
And welcomed me in,
and ushered me into.

I smoked my cigarettes slower around you.
I don't know what that means but I know
that I like it more than being around
someone who subliminally makes me
smoke quicker.

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

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

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

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

I thought having a cigarette break
would allow my heartbeat to return
to a standard clip
so I stepped outside
and had one or five smokes.

The winter night was
crisp and it was cold
and the air I returned to it
was polluted and poisonous.

Noticing a star in the sky
I decided to follow it
and it took me to Greenland
and there I met
a beautiful little boy
who told me it was time for him to go home.

He invited me into his home.
standing on the doorstep like a
succubus, his mother greeted
me with sanguine lips
and rosy cheeks.

After dinner
they told me it was time for me to go home
and so I followed the first star that caught my eye
and it brought to the place where we
fell out of love
and there on the ground
I found a circle of wine bottles
that sparkled, containing their dry fluid
they beckoned me to sip
and harshly I did.

The trees barked
and the bark whispered
and the willows
never wanted to be alone again
and so I drank and I drank and I drank
until my body was full
of heat.

I followed the smallest star I could see
and it brought me to your back porch.
Covered in snow and *****
from the winter clouds
I stood, not ready to knock
but more than ready to see you.

I sent out an invitation to you,
via the wind
and you answered with a demonic growl telling
that all is well and I should not be treading here.

Softly
and solemnly I returned inside
to the place I was before,
smelling of cigarettes and apathy.
Distraught,
she asked me where I had been and I told her
I saw an old acquaintance outside
and just needed to recollect.

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

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

The water is always warmer than you expect it to be.

She taught me to shut the **** up and think. Think for a minute before I say something. Think for ten before I do something.

The grass may be greener over there but that doesn't mean you shouldn't enjoy the green grass you have over here.

She taught me how to treat others and how I deserve to be treated and how those aren't always in the same way.

You should always drive safely because people love you and they know you're seat belt is broken and it's not hard to keep in touch so stop getting high and text her back.

I torture myself in many ways.
Be it these cigarettes,
that bottle,
those songs,
or your letters.

When the sun goes down
my little sister asks
"Can I see the moon?"
So I hold her hand and take her outside
and sometimes we don't see it
but on nights like tonight
it shines brighter than it should.
Brighter than it has any reason to.
Yet Audrey thinks it's pretty
and I guess that's reason enough.

I remember the night,
when Guardian Angel, My Best friend, The Girl Who Fancies Scared Faces and myself drove up to a moonlit
little place called Sugarloaf Mountain.
And at the top
we drank cheap wine,
smoked cheaper cigarettes
(Hey man, they're all we got)
and each took turns playing a song.
My Guardian Angel started with Neutral Milk Hotel,
then My Best Friend played The White Stripes,
then The Girl Who Fancies Scared Faces played Atmosphere,
and finally I used my turn on Clapton.

We drank more beer
and smoked the last cigarette,
and laughed,
and laughed,
and marveled at how beautiful the moon was and how it doesn't need a reason to shine.
I ended up in My Guardian Angel's bed, after some more cigarettes and beer and ****.
We shared kisses and cuddles and laughs and sweat.

~

Color me in dark red apathy.

Surprisingly enough,
this little vile of some
horrible stuff
called "Pink-Pink"
is actually rather
musky.

And to think,
after three months
and then two more,
I would get six checks.

Micky Mantle captivated
the nation,
and Lars Montannaro
is captivating
this town.
All the while
Michael Moore is killing God
and God is killing us.

One must ask oneself,
did God create me,
or did I create God?
Is God within me,
or am I God myself?

Throughout John Carpenter's life
many questions plagued him,
most remained unanswered,
few allowed him to live
and one killed him.

He lies dying,
gasping for air,
with nothing but
Steinbeck and brandy
to bid him farewell.

On a bed without sheets,
in a motel without a kitchen,
in a town without a theater,
in a state without a king,
in a land without hope,
God lays dying.
With nothing but the prayers of
Mary Stein to bid him goodnight,
he prays himself.

Every man is a believer in the foxhole,
just as he is a saint.
Praying and praying,
the fire rallies
around a man,
his emancipated guts
lay spewing blood in the dirt.


Without a clear objective man is nothing.
Nothing is everything,
and everything is unexplainable
just as nothing can be explained.

The Dark sings a song it believes to be beautiful,
and the Light finds it discouraging to it's attempts
of what it believes to be beautiful.
So the Light chases away the Dark
and the Wanderers wonder where it went.

Wandering this world,
they try
and try
and try
to find it.

They are looking in the wrong world.

The man with a gun
runs to the store and back
and back
and back again.

The willows whisper a tune for their god
that the oaks find blasphemous.
The oaks chant louder and louder
so as to please their god.

Life goes on
and life goes on
and life goes on
and then it doesn't.
Then suddenly it  begins
in a thousand more forms
and in a thousand more lungs
it breathes.
Life will continue to exalt God
and God will continue allowing life to breathe.

For as long as there is air,
breathes shall be taken.

I think we could be a good couple.
Yeah, I think we could make it work.
Is there something wrong with that?
I think you're pretty.
You think I'm pretty.
I want to kiss your face
and you want to kiss my face.
I want to hold your hand
and you want to hold my hand.
You're cute
and yeah,
but also,
and kinda,
you know?

Your dark brown eyes pierce through the burdens of everyday life and appeal to me.
Your dark red lipstick is teasing and yells "hey let's be more than friends."
I want that.
I want to stay locked onto your eyes and I want to forever have your red lipstick smeared on my neck.
I want you.

You're blue dress is beautiful and stands out from all these slutty leopard spotted rags.
Your face is radiant and shines over all these *******, makeup caked ******.
I'm not afraid to tell you I love you and I hope you're not too afraid to love me.

I want to hold you and smoke cigarettes with you until we're tired of them and  then I want to kiss you until we're tired of that and then I want to talk to you about  e e cummings because we'll never get tired of that.
and I want you.
Just you.
you.
.