he was forty but lied about his age,
told everyone he looked young for his age,
and still shopped at hot topic

he is in late forties now, still thinks he looks young,
and still shops at hot topic

he buys the same stuff that people were buying
in the 80's before hot topic existed

he describes himself as having such a brilliant mind that he is easily bored with people. he is an intj, so this means that he knows everything. he is very intelligent according to the re-occuring craigslist misc. romance ads he has been posting for the last decade.

when he gets inspired, he updates his fetlife profile
(or his ok cupid profile)

i met him when i was too alone, but not numb enough yet
he kept on telling me that depressed people were really just narcissists who couldn't stop thinking about themselves

i couldn't tolerate him, but had nothing else to do, so i had to be drunk and ****** at all times in his presence and i don't drink very often
prior to that i was only a weekend stoner,
but that changed real quick

he made himself too comfortable
and bought me a bob dobbs book for my birthday
because he thought and still thinks bob dobbs is hilarious

he kept on using my bathroom for long periods of time
and bringing the bob dobbs book in with him every time

i told him he could keep the bob dobbs book
but he said, "no, it's more the kind of book that i want to read when i come over and use your bathroom"
so i swallowed the throw up in my mouth, asked him to leave, threw the book away, and never had anything to do with him after that.

shortly thereafter, he started diagnosing me and every other woman who is not attracted to him as having borderline personality disorder via craigslist missed connections and/or his fetlife profile (which i still read for laughs).

then he broke into my apartment through the back door the night before he got married to a woman who needed a green card. i'm not sure why he did that, i'll never know. he broke the door, so it wouldn't shut properly anymore and i smashed my fingers in it once while trying to shut it. my fingernails fell off.

and this is why i have been celibate for the last 7 and half years.

hit the road
i’ve been bold
talking in my sleep
i grit my teeth

walking the streets at night
i’ve decided that everything is emptiness
everything as i know it, is emptiness
how refreshing life is
how incredibly refreshing my mind is

my mind is emptiness
my heart is emptiness
my lust is emptiness
my love is emptiness
my thoughts, my theories, my ambitions, my abortions, my cheating, lying habits, my dreams, my girlfriends, my world, my room, my hate, my anger, my joy, my pain are all emptiness

nothing happens
nothing is a word and words don’t exist
the way that i am tied to words is emptiness
the alcoholism is emptiness
the drugs are emptiness
the friends are emptiness
my family is emptiness
i am emptiness

there is no support, no conflict, no harbored poor emotions, no bold ideas, no sympathy, no death, no life and no person.

thank god, allah, buddha, shiva, abraham, dalai lama, bob dobbs, the cosmos, myself and all those other wonderful concepts that don’t exist because they are mere words.

WHO knows what I know
when I have asked the night questions
and the night has answered nothing
only the old answers?
  
Who picked a crimson cryptogram,
the tail light of a motor car turning a corner,
or the midnight sign of a chile con carne place,
or a man out of the ashes of false dawn muttering "hot-dog" to the night watchmen:
Is there a spieler who has spoken the word or taken the number of night's nothings? am I the spieler? or you?
  
Is there a tired head
the night has not fed and rested
and kept on its neck and shoulders?
  
Is there a wish
of man to woman
and woman to man
the night has not written
and signed its name under?
  
Does the night forget
as a woman forgets?
and remember
as a woman remembers?
  
Who gave the night
this head of hair,
this gipsy head
calling: Come-on?
  
Who gave the night anything at all
and asked the night questions
and was laughed at?
  
Who asked the night
for a long soft kiss
and lost the half-way lips?
who picked a red lamp in a mist?
  
Who saw the night
fold its Mona Lisa hands
and sit half-smiling, half-sad,
nothing at all,
and everything,
all the world ?
  
Who saw the night
let down its hair
and shake its bare shoulders
and blow out the candles of the moon,
whispering, snickering,
cutting off the snicker .. and sobbing ..
out of pillow-wet kisses and tears?
  
Is the night woven of anything else
than the secret wishes of women,
the stretched empty arms of women?
the hair of women with stars and roses?
I asked the night these questions.
I heard the night asking me these questions.
  
I saw the night
put these whispered nothings
across the city dust and stones,
across a single yellow sunflower,
one stalk strong as a woman's wrist;
  
And the play of a light rain,
the jig-time folly of a light rain,
the creepers of a drizzle on the sidewalks
for the policemen and the railroad men,
for the home-goers and the homeless,
silver fans and funnels on the asphalt,
the many feet of a fog mist that crept away;
  
I saw the night
put these nothings across
and the night wind came saying: Come-on:
and the curve of sky swept off white clouds
and swept on white stars over Battery to Bronx,
scooped a sea of stars over Albany, Dobbs Ferry, Cape Horn, Constantinople.
  
I saw the night's mouth and lips
strange as a face next to mine on a pillow
and now I know ... as I knew always ...
the night is a lover of mine ...
I know the night is ... everything.
I know the night is ... all the world.
  
I have seen gold lamps in a lagoon
play sleep and murmur
with never an eyelash,
never a glint of an eyelid,
quivering in the water-shadows.
  
A taxi whizzes by, an owl car clutters, passengers yawn reading street signs, a *** on a park bench shifts, another *** keeps his majesty of stone stillness, the forty-foot split rocks of Central Park sleep the sleep of stone whalebacks, the cornices of the Metropolitan Art mutter their own nothings to the men with rolled-up collars on the top of a bus:
Breaths of the sea salt Atlantic, breaths of two rivers, and a heave of hawsers and smokestacks, the swish of multiplied sloops and war dogs, the hesitant hoo-hoo of coal boats: among these I listen to Night calling:
I give you what money can never buy: all other lovers change: all others go away and come back and go away again:
I am the one you slept with last night.
I am the one you sleep with tonight and tomorrow night.
I am the one whose passion kisses
  keep your head wondering
  and your lips aching
  to sing one song
  never sung before
  at night's gipsy head
  calling: Come-on.
These hands that slid to my neck and held me,
these fingers that told a story,
this gipsy head of hair calling: Come-on:
can anyone else come along now
and put across night's nothings again?
  
I have wanted kisses my heart stuttered at asking,
I have pounded at useless doors and called my people fools.
I have staggered alone in a winter dark making mumble songs
to the sting of a blizzard that clutched and swore.
It was the night in my blood:
  open dreaming night,
  night of tireless sheet-steel blue:
The hands of God washing something,
  feet of God walking somewhere.