It's hard,
but I'll be able to accept it after a few more shots,
a couple more hits,
and maybe a line,
but as I am in a semi sober state
it is hard to believe.

Hard to believe that you chose him over me,
hard to believe you swoon around him,
and don't bat an eyelash at me.
It's hard to believe he's my best friend
and I'm letting him do this.

Thank you
for lighting up this room
just by entering.

And thank you
for talking to me;
I know it can be hard to do.

Thank you
for loving me
and all my faults.

Yes,
I've been thinking about you
and yes
I've been drinking
and yes
it is a lovely combination.

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 guess you got tired of
the drugs
and the poor treatment
and the lack of responsibility
so you left.

I see you,
running with your new crowd.
We prefer shrooms,
so the feelings we experience can be stronger.
They prefer alcohol,
so they will not be held responsible for their actions.

That boy you're spending all your time with,
do you know what I heard him say?
In simple language,
without flashy adjectives,
I heard him announce that he got drunk,
but he made sure not get as drunk as her
so that she would do whatever he wanted.
I heard him,
through a closed bathroom door,
apologizing to a girl he had been rude to years ago,
but now she was hot,
so they should hangout.
I heard her exhale loudly
and watched her leave the bathroom.
She saw me and asked if I wanted to join her for a cigarette.

Looking back on it,
I wish you would join me.
For anything.

But you run with the self proclaimed nice guys
and I run with the equally as lame,
self proclaimed stoners.

I know this:
what goes around comes around.
The trespasses that I have committed unto others
have been committed unto me in equal measure
and I'm sure one day
those nice guys will get theirs,
and I only hope you
realize how to get yours
on your terms.

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.

He stood with his hands in his pockets,
J-Crew haircut perfectly resting atop his head.
He stood with his hands in his pockets making sure it was still there.

He could feel it, which reassured him but until he was rid of it he could not be entirely sure.
Sure of himself, sure of his love,
sure that life was good and that he would make it.

He loved this thing but it was not his love.

And so he stood, waiting for the boy.

The boy came.
He came like lightning with no thunder; tremendous at first, but increasingly lackluster the closer he came.

He motioned to the boy and the boy increased his pace.

From one pocket to another the thing was exchanged.

He finally breathed once the boy was gone.
For the first time in three years he breathed.

He got in his car.
On the highway he felt an odd sort of peace.
An endless stream of cars passed him, yet none followed and none were in front of him, they were all entering, he was leaving,
for good.

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

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

'Tis well.

Oh my God, I love you so much.
It's killing me, it really is.
The strings of your being are constantly interfering with my life.
I can't think of anything but you.
The sound of your voice on the phone is soft and sweet
and your laugh is richer than kings.

You are too ******* yourself and not critical enough of those around you.
You are a wallflower and I'm sure you understand.
The energy field that your love creates is overwhelming and I let it swarm over me.
I can feel it in my heart and my fingers.
I cannot feel you though.

You are distant and vague.
A figure that my loving self conscious emits to keep me occupied.
I think of you as I go to sleep and as I start each day.

Do you think of  me?
I'm sure sometimes you do but they are more important things.
Prepping for school,
not killing everyone,
living.
These things are hard but especially for you.

You don't have time for me but that's all I got for you.
We can share.
Look at us and look at them and look at the strings of our being softly caressing the loneliness that is living.
Why? do we do this?
Why? are we so afraid?
Why? do I feel this way?
Why? can't you see the way I do?
Why? do we continue to suffer?
Why are you here and why am I there and  why can't we be somewhere together?

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.

You'll occupy my bed,
for a day or two,
regardless of whether or not
I am in it.
//
Then you'll leave.
For a few days,
a week,
a few weeks.
//
While you're gone
the coffee will still be made,
the showers will still be taken,
and bed time stories will still be read.
//
However,
my body will shiver
without your heat,
and I'll go to bed earlier,
without your heat.
//
I may not play my guitar,
and I may not memorize my lines
while you're present.
But God ******, you're present.
//
//
The sun shines
and it will continue to shine
and the clocks tick
and they will continue to tick
and my love yearns
and it will someday cease yearning.
Cease burning.
Cease.
/
Just as your presence has
ceased.

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

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

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

Her heartbeat
is playing a song.
jump! it says,
run!
*love!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sure,
I'm sad you're gone,
but I'm happy you can be anywhere at all.
And sure,
I miss you,
but I'm happy your first breath of the day is no longer in this town.

Holidays have always been a tricky thing for me.

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

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

I stole glances at you as we walked
under the moon and grey clouds.

You smiled when I did,
and I like to think you were smiling when I wasn't looking too.

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

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

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

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

People are uncomfortable with truth.
There is truth in silence
and people are uncomfortable with silence.

When asked how one is doing, the proper response is 'fine' or any indicator of greater ease.
One is expected to participate in class activities, team building exercises, and other meticulous, tedious motions of repetition.

One should shake hands, smile, participate in pagentry when only putrescence is felt.

One should not look at walls, there is no social status in looking at walls.
One should not have problems unless they are desirable. Anxiety, but too bad. Depression, but not too bad.
One should appear clean and well slept,
one should claim one received very little sleep, regardless of how much sleep one actually received.

If one is female, one should show skin but not too much skin.
If one is female, one should not resist ****** advances, yet one should not have multiple ****** partners.

If one is male, one should be in fit condition, one should not cry, and one should not show interest in a member of the opposite gender except for those of a ****** nature. One should not acknowledge the existence of more than two genders, ****** orientations, or trains of thought.

One should be socially and politically aware, but one should not raise their voice on these issues unless others of a high social status are.

One should be happy, but not too happy.

I look into the mirror.
Into my Cold blue eyes.
Is there anything more?
Any longing? Desire?
The laughter is hallow, the light is dim.
There has got to be more than this.
What am I missing.

I place my hand on my chest.
Onto my Cold, beating heart.
Is there room for more?
Anything other than this constant Frost.
The love is shallow, the strings are frail.
There needs to be more than this.
Where (when) did I go wrong?

I hold onto her tightly.
Wrapped in my Cold, meaningless arms.
Where is the love?
Where is there anything but myself? My Chilling thoughts.
The friendships are weak, the love is withering.
There needs to be some way to fix this.
Why are we like this?

Death seems almost appealing.
What lies beyond is scary.
Maybe Hannah's right?
Perhaps there is a constant nothingness.
Maybe my mother is right?
Perhaps there is a place in Heaven for those who pray.
Or maybe there is Hell?
How bad could it be.
Oh yeah, I know.
I've been living there for the past year.

"After your dreams have all died and morning isn't mourning, what are you?"

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

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

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

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

I 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.

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

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

Maybe
three more won't hurt.

I'm not blaming you.
Please don't let it come across as that.

Today I saw a picture of you that a friend posted.
You were at the river and you looked beautiful.
You told me to forget about you.
I did.
For about 3 hours.
And they were nice.
But then I saw that photo
and it drove me crazy.
I used to have you.
You used to be mine.

What I really need to forget is how much I love you.
All the good times we had.
All the love we made.
I need to forget it.

It's not your fault all of this happened, really.
I don't know who or what is at fault and I honestly don't care.

I just want to know why.
We were so good.
We were so happy.
We were so in love.
Now we hate each other.
You hate me.
And I hate you.

I'm not trying to blame you so please don't let it come across that way.
Please.

I want you to forget about me and be happy. Like you were today, if that picture is any indication.
So please
forget about me,
move on,
and be happy.

If you were to call
and say
"Let's get out of here"
Baby, I'd be gone.

If we
were to hop on a train
the tracks could never
be too long.

If we
were to sit atop a hill
and kiss, my only wish
would be to never see the setting sun.

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate you.
I hate you too.
Why did you let this happen?
Me? This was all you, baby.
Oh come on, don't give me that *******. From day one I said this was a bad idea but you kept pushing us along.
*******, you had just as big of a part in this as I did.
I guess so. But still, if you weren't such an emotional ******* train wreck this wouldn't have happened.
True, but if you weren't such a cold hearted **** we could have let her in. We could have loved her.
I know. Now stop making me feel bad you *******.
I'm sorry.
I love you.
I love you too.

Cast your eyes down from the shooting stars;
I am everything you have been wishing for.

I am everything your father does not want you to bring home
and everything your mother wishes your father was.

I **** like you wish your boyfriend could
and my tongue will sing you a song until your abdomen explodes.

My writing causes girls to cry like all the boys wish theirs could
and the pain in your chest will recede with every kiss I give you.

I fight better than my father and his father, all the way to Cain.
only, God won't see what I've been doing and He will not forgive me for it.

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 ****** 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."

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

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.

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

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

If I had a cigarette
for every time a teacher, parent, or loved one told me I was worthless,
I'd have enough cigarettes
to clear my head.

And that's it,
that's all I need to do.
Maybe if I could clear my head and get some ******* sleep I could stop being so worthless.
Just give me a break, and something to distort reality and I'll be fine.

Friends have often asked me what's my drug of choice.
They say they've seen me ******, tweaking, drunk, numb, but they can't tell which I enjoy most.
My answer hasn't changed since I started using.
My answer simply remains: anything that gets me high.
Anything that allows me to think in a different way,
anything that mercifully allows me to not think is my drug of choice.

I'm sick, I have a disease, but I don't need your help.
I don't sleep or eat, but I don't need your help.

I think of her body,
of her curves
and curls
and I blow a line as long as my finger to think of something else.
Anything else.

I think of Freud and how wrong he was,
I think of Clapton and his false credit,
I think of the ringing in my ears and how I wish it would stop,
anything but her hips and her blonde hair and her fat ***.

Help, I've fallen and I can't get up,
and god, it was hard enough to stand up the first time.

Heat waves and the summer is tangible.
Lazy days
Lazy guitar
Lazy daisy.

You are a daisy,
not mine,
not anyone's.
You belong to sappy heat,
you belong to the Yuba River.

And perhaps we intersect for a reason.
Perhaps our paths cross on a cosmic scale.
And perhaps not.

Laying in the sun,
not a worry in the area,
still, you never met a cooler ***.

And the heat is tangible,
naturally so are your fingers.
You hands were sticky with sweat
and I really didn't mind, I mean it.

I would never lie,
not to you,
not to my mother,
not to god.

Well, mayhaps I would lie to god.
After all, the heat is tangible.

I see my God in you.
I see him in your eyes
and hear him with your ears.

Through you he speaks to me
and with you, he shall know me.

The wind rustles the leaves on the tree
and causes the sleeping child to stir.
For reasons she does not know, she feels warm.
But she has seen the good and the bad and was given a choice.

The daylight streams through the window
and the kettle is boiling
and in the next room, my love is stirring.

Awaken! her heart sings to her.
Go! Enjoy the light, the shade, the sounds and the silence!
Go and enjoy all of this I have laid before you!
Go and kiss your lover, through each other you have found me!
*Through each other, you have found love, and that is all I want of you

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.
.

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 *******.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i
I have always loved you.
You're my best friend you big beautiful idiot, what do you expect?

ii
You remind of words written on fog on a mirror. You can be beautiful and ugly but you will always be fleeting.
You told me that i remind you of corn flowers,
and I never really told you much.

iii
You are forgiven and I hope you are well.

iv
You came into my life at a weird time and I came into yours at an even weirder time.
We're both actors, so we were pretty good at pretending.

v
I kissed you when I shouldn't have and your mother disapproved. We've both grown so much and I love you exponentially.
You're a combination of Audrey Horne,
and a desert flower
and I wanted to kiss you so bad by the creek last week but perhaps your mother would still disapprove.

vi
You were my green hair muse,
I have so much to say about you
and I'm embarrassed to say I miss you.

Everything about you is wonderful to me.
Everything.
I want to know everything about you,
I want to know what the kids called you in 4th grade on the playground
I want to know who your first boyfriend was and what your dad wanted to do when he broke your heart
I want to know who your favorite 80's synthopop band is
I want to know what you think of when you wake up at 4:26 in the morning with a stiff neck
I want to know what color you wish your softest skirt was
and I want to buy it for you.
I want to pick every single flower on earth and fill your arms with them.

I want to hear your voice when you're sick in bed
and I want to know what kind of tea to bring you
I want to know what movie you watch when you can't do it anymore
because that boy in your history class wouldn't stop calling you that word and ******* it you are not that word but this movie makes you feel better and it always has (it did in 4th grade when they called you that name on the playground)

I want to know which side of your face you prefer to have photographed
I want to know who you pray for
and if you think anybody is listening.

I want to know what your mother wanted to name you before your father convinced her otherwise because "Honey, do you really want our daughter to grow up being called that and have her know that we are responsible?"

I want to know if you like the feel of cold hardwood floor on your feet in the morning or the feel of carpet when you first take your rain boots and socks off after stomping puddles.

******* it, I want to know everything about you
so I can love every single one of those things with an intensity
the devout Christian envies.

I want it to be like it used to be.

Like it used to be before you kissed me on the front porch.
I'm not sure what triggered it but
you grew distant,
and I grew needy.

And now, here we are,
our short conversation last night our first in weeks,
with me blinking away tears,
and you,
apathetic,
smelling of jasmine
as if nothing were wrong.

You hold him as if to mock me.
Wait! I know it is not so.
I know you do not spite,
you do not stab with cold daggers,
you simply love and love
and I want some of your love for me.

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.

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.