i've always suffered with acne. i've written about it before. but yeah, it started really in 7th grade. it was one then two then a whole family then before i knew it, my face was red and bumpy and it hurt.

i've tried everything. i really mean it. every home remedy, every recommendation, every tip, every product on the shelf and a few online. nothing's really helped. throughout these years and i'm now a ------ and i still deal with it. because of my acne, it's taken a huge toll on how i view myself and how i feel about myself. i used to hate myself. i would only look in the mirror once every day and that's to put on makeup to cover scarring and acne that's still there.

i hated myself. so much. i wouldn't go out. my parents, specifically my mother, had a lot to say about my face. she would point it out even when i had makeup on and it made me really insecure.

now, i think differently. i'm currently breaking out because i ate a small piece of meat. (which i don't really do, because i don't eat meat anymore. i did it for reasons which isn't relevant right now lol) so yeah, my face is red and bumpy again. washing my face with my eyes closed, i can really feel the pimples. it made me feel disgusting for a moment. but i had to remind myself that it's okay. i'm different now, i don't really care if i break out anymore. of course, i still feel a bit insecure but i don't hate myself because of it.

i still feel like i did when i wasn't breaking out. seeing my face like this has really been a sign for me as saying to myself:
1. don't eat meat anymore, under any circumstances/situations
2. it's okay

i'm okay with my acne that i had in the past now and i'm okay with the breakout i'm currently having.

What's on, what's there
What can't be touched.
What we think makes others beware.
Beware who we are on the inside.

Acne is the unfortunate
addition that causes the poor
young soul to lack,
confidence,
self-esteem,
and pride.

Stop.
You are beautiful.
You need to forget.
Acne is on everyone
You have nothing to regret.

So they judge,
so they criticize.
Secretly pointing out the
pink,
scattered,
stand-out surface
on what used to be
a bare and beautiful face.

Stop.
Every face is beautiful,
but never bare.
Stay optimistic in your attitude.
Look them in the eye,
wink,
and smile when they stare.

You're still and will always be you.
Only your heart speaks the truth.
Of how you create and what is part of
who you are.
Whether broken out or not,
you never
stop being
a beautiful, young,
star.

It was the December of '91,
and Larry asked me to come with
him and some ladies he knew
from Cameron Christian to
some **** yogurt shop on
Dead Dog Ave.

Three brunettes and a blonde;
at the time
I didn't care much for brunettes,
but god, god, god,
the blonde
with the crystal grey eyes,
the wrinkled floral print dress,
an optimistic ***,
and shaky feet
every single time
I made the eyes.

Sarah and Jennifer (two of the brunettes)
smelled of Glade-Feces-Blanket-Spray,
the third was far too young
to undress,
and I nearly strangled my beautiful blonde
when she mouthed, "Eliza."

I kept talking up the
fact my dad had just kicked me out.
I told Eliza I had the most magnificent
apartment
a bachelor could buy,
she kept averting her eyes,
shifting subjects like
playing cards,
my hands kept clinching,
clasping,
aching,
"Be right back, purty ladies."
I headed for the bathroom
leaving Larry to ******
Jennifer Glade.

I looked in the mirror,
I remember giving myself
a pep talk,
but I can't for the life of me
remember anything I said.

I remember pulling a dwindling
bottle of Black Label from my jacket.
I had taken it from my ******* dad,
the night he yelled, yelled, yelled,
until I was in some low-income complex
with a bunch of lowlife, ******
fuckups.

I ****** off the remnants.
Combed, recombed my greasy hair,
went back in,
just in time to hear
Jennifer Glade spout her stupid mouth,
"Larry, I told you I have a boyfriend."
"He's a ******* idiot."
She started to whimper,
said something like he was a regular sweetheart.
The regulars are so boring.

Larry stood up,
accused her of leading him on,
the acne cashier asked us to "pipe down",
I directed my stare into his acne-framed
irises.

I walked quietly toward him,
I could feel Larry and the girls
tracing my every feature.
"Just leave him alone,"
said my blonde little sweetie,
I turned back to her briefly.
Her skin looked like milk,
I wondered if it tasted like milk,
I kept my feet on track,
redirected the gaze,
back to my heavy-breathing cashier.

I got eight inches away from his face,
he fumbled some words,
that left a bad taste.
I could see my reflection in his retinas.
I looked clumsy and circular.
My milky, blonde Eliza would
never go for a circular **** like me.
This conclusion
coursed through my veins with
irrational speed.

I shot the acne cashier.
Right in his stupid, acne-framed iris.
The gun had been my grandfather's.
He had killed a black boy in the '30s with it.
Got to love legacies.

The brunettes were screaming.
I think Larry was trying to reason with me,
or maybe he was throwing up-
somebody threw up,
anyways,
I shot the young one first.
She had annoyed me most.

Then Sarah Glade.
Then Jennifer Glade.
Eliza began to run.

I jogged after her,
she frantically searched for a phone,
and my milky blonde
found one.

I stopped at the doorway,
rested my head on the frame,
listened to her cry into the handset,
begging for the police.
I opened my lids,
silently strolled up behind her,
with my left hand
I grabbed her optimistic ***,
with my right hand
I pulled the trigger.
She splattered onto me.
I felt successful.

I walked outside.
A silent,
still Austin night,
not even a dog on the street.
Larry was crying.
I told him to shut up.
They were *******.
Asked him for his lighter.
He opened his car door,
dug in his center console,
buried under 6-feet of cigarettes
was a lighter,
he popped the trunk,
I grabbed the gas can.

I erased Friday's mistakes,
and found Larry had driven off without me.
I walked to my low-income home.
I had a lazy Saturday.
Read an interesting story in the Guardian on Sunday.
By noon on Monday,
they were pointing cameras at me.

Everyday,
I stare at my face in the mirror,
Wondering, wondering, wondering,
Why do I have acne?

I eat the slice of double cheese pizza that's cooling in my hand,
Putting it down, I touch the underdeveloped pimples on my face,
Popping each one out of irritation,
I finish by drinking two can of coco cola after.
*Oh*, what a healthy life style I'm living!

You tell me I'm beautiful,
pretty,
gorgeous,
But why?
Because you are not tricking me,
But only yourself,
You think,
"If I tell her she's beautiful, maybe I will grow to believe it too."
Well sweetheart, it is working?
You ignore the flaws of my body, my face,
Only to deceive your own mind,
Because if you saw my flaws you might no longer love me,
You chose to ignore my acne,
Because if you didn't, you're afraid you would leave,
You chose to ignore my protruding chin when I smile,
Because you wish you had someone who could smile sunlight rays,
You chose to ignore the redness in my skin,
Because you want to believe what matters is within,
But is it working dear boy?
The more you use the word beautiful,
Does it make you any more confident being around someone who's not?

Senate intelligent, Ohio - A to 1000, 1850;
2. Download the new title 2-F pilot iron
Suzuyki to use the Crisco in order to get
her to say okay, or Ray, hit her with the bottle;
For when the ears are holding the head right
and absolutely, the fattening use of the
WEE's Watering path detector (Duke,
1925) A thousand years as ruler 1978 in
place of Cicero, is simple: Opponents [1]
SAR (+ Rheterraya) Some Reiki) have
decided; Plants, animals, into the Sahara
desert to plant Wireless cell (/ jukærioʊt)
Environmental protection (bacteria:
Microorganisms, &c.) or nutrient feed
[3] [2] [5], the following: (a Greek 'Yes'
or 'true') Greek; The European union had
already been published (Thomas 'uplifting').
However, YBU. Örök erases Mitokoki;
The King in Golgi, and after it is Biological
more goods Etoelidəki urged cells to grow
so that the biology and medicine & other
micro-organisms He who is said to be a part
of the importance of the intestine to use the
even more radical question; The white, the
skin cell membranes; We are changing very
quickly. All silently seated with the importance
of the new place. I see there are some,
it is not from China. If the amendment is bad;
or it was so. Four years, two years in Synchronization
with all machines? There is a universal law.
Young women, a little worse at the same time,
But the small room is still not proper...

the rate in the service of him,
above, the other, other fish
Deniydəki [7] Read into the
cave above. [8] as acne!
Example c. He went in last.
10 years before 10-1.1%.

Myth Orosirian Secrets, Ohio - Now 1850-0-Ma
Had Archean Proterozoic Pha. The two heads
of the band; Other Eukaryotes - The highest
Cicero has applications, which enables you
to have the best Persian use of the Ranunculus
Road, Cicero's route Eukaryota (Lolüm, 1925)
Whittaker icing 1978 [2] buyers; bullying place -
Hacrophobia [1] SAR (+ heterokonts Rhizaria
Rhizaria) [mistake] to make decisions, and
plant plants among the animals, plants, and
animals in the desert wilderness.

Eukaryotic cells (/ Juːkærioʊt, -ət /),
and area disease prokaryotes (bacteria,
microbes, and others) or eukaryotic Eating
[3] [2] [5] Such is. ('Yes' or 'true') Greek
and Collection of The European Union
(karyon 'deep' 'is'). [4] However, the eukaryotic,
the organelles In chloroplasts and mitochondria
Golgi and leafy, and extra word, Plants and
egg cells. And coli bacteria; and other microbes
of the cell; The lower part of Abba needs
to be heard from: click on different versions.
I know that Many in hard economic times.

In many eukaryotes slave trades,
for fornication, they check them
to Gramineae incorrectly to fusion notice
. From the mistakes of the cell, it is a
consequence, due to the worst.
Synchronizing and four years, two
of all kinds. There are *** laws.
Some women get hurt But at the same
time the person was in a small room,
but only one.

The challenge to go beyond the competition.
According to others [      ], some seeds to
get the fish to swim in synchronization [7]
Featured above. be'ukimeriši for small gardens.
[8] However on acid, He also called acne
acne b. [8] 1-1.1 percent in the last decade.

Senate intelligent, Ohio - From 1000-to-1850
2. Download the new title 2 F pirotirozuyki
To use on other okarayotlar Cisco says
STUFFING absolutely right ear use
Wete Waten path detection (Duke, 1925)
Prince is not in a thousand of the year
1978, in place of Cicero,    is a simple,
Opponents [1] SAR (+ Rheterraya)
Other reiki) has decided. Plants, animals,
plants Sahara desert

Wireless cell (/ jukærioʊt)
Environmental protection (bacteria.
Microorganisms etc.) or nutrients feed
[3] [2] [5], the following: (from the Greek
'yes' or 'true') Greek; The European Union
has been published (Thomas 'elevation').
However, there are YBU. Orok dlet Mitokoki
The King of Golgi, and behind him, the
more good things Biological Etoelidəki
all the cells have been exhorted his men
to biology and medicine. other micro-organisms
An important part of the intestine called
the white, the skin cell membranes
We are changing very quickly. All quiet
sits Ahmet in the new place all by himself.

there are some I see, not from China.
If the amendment is wrong; Neither
is it made. Four years, two years
Synchronization with all the machines?
There is a universal law. Young women
are worse at the same time Little
children, it was the camera in a small
place, However, it is now.

compliance rate In fact,
one above the other, to
others, Fish Deniydəki [7]
Read into the cave above.
[8] acne well! Examples c.
He has gone on in the last
10 years, at 10-1.1%.

Writer's block has clogged my mental pores
Oily ignorance I cannot ignore
Technology is fogging up my mind
Leaving me no time to unwind

I looked in the mirror today
And guess what I saw

My ugly, stunted imagination's face
Full of gross digital zits
I'm really starting to miss
My former wit
I've got to get out of this keyboard-y place

I have acne
and they leave scars

I love my skin
despite the marks

Etched on my face
is a piece art...

My skin,
surely a canvas.

I have craters

I have valleys

I have mountains
high and low

Each my own
I have learned
to love them all on my own

1
she taps he hand, twice.
across the room,
he stares, thinking
into empty air.
others, scattered
tap pencils or fingers
on desktops, booktops
and phone keyboards

the balding man
with black hair:
combed backward
and to differing angles
so that his head is split
vertically-
stands, above the room
his back turned

his words,
meant for the crowd
reverberate only
along classes fringe
but still take precedence
over nothing
even to them-
academics, outcasts


2
back of the room
reveals everything
to the observer
trying to see

blue-eyed brunette
glares vengefully
at no one,
just to glare

he looks up once
to watch
as another
pulls up
drooping jeans.
she laughs
at conversation
unmeant for,
and inaudible
to her


3
today, she smiles
and lets her lip fall
begging, like a puppy
But when they
lose eye contact,
she glares, again

he leaves footprints
on parallel desk
from lounging
then fires himself
to his feet
using stored energy,
and sugar from gum

words bounce along
the walls in the back,
and isolated eyes peer
towards the screen
but hide the fact
that they care


4
two week vacation
has left their minds
full of everything
except math,
so they listen
to him, while he speaks

but travel backward
in time, with
those closest them
while he creeps,
silent, around the room

she concentrates hard,
on her work
glaring at the page.
he sits a desk forward
feet on floor
neighboring desk full
today, but only physically

blue hat rests
on sketchbook,
its border
barely covering
closed eyes

blond head
implants itself
jokingly, into
smooth shining
white wall
with enough force
to collapse
accidental target

a hand raises
attracting gazes,
awestruck,
at her interest
in forgotten
material
of future tests


5
only a few eyes wander
from blue lined notebooks
though the left flank
still chatters, embodying
either a secretive chipmunk
or the breeze which starts the storm

storm clouds appear slowly
in sketchbook, blue hat bobbing
rhythmically in response to active pen

perched above the flock
reminiscent, split headed
papa bird scans the masks
of his shockingly silent chicks

random lecture breaks the silence.
Her eyes aren’t the only ones
Fixed into a steel laden glare
But the chipmunk wind ceases


6
his questioning glance lands
on uninhabited space,
exhibiting a yawn
which traverses through,
and twists, the faces of
those otherwise engaged

lecture ends with a question,
the scent of nuts blows through
mentally empty classroom
turning desks to predetermined
positions and swiftly inhabiting
three-quarters of the physical class

his steel glare has replaced hers
the latter’s eyes now soft as an infants

within five minutes, his voice
undergoes  a brutal, complete cycle
pleading, congratulating, yelling
and as always, lecturing


7
pre-test:

preparations for misery-
mundane chipmunk chattering,
jokes and laughs from random
oddities appearing everywhere

blue hat rests in intervals.
Blue coat rearranges
essay for another class

The girl in the sunny plaid
Rolls an orange along her hand

He points at nothing and asks
Nobody something without answer

The left flank, as always
Is turned away, conversing

A sigh rings outward loudly
Everyone glares, nervously,
Everywhere, reward of concentration


After my test:

First paper in, he scans lightly
Sets it down with a scowl
and yawns, twice, breaking the
silent shroud of heavy fog
which is hanging overhead

wandering free eyes witness
down-turned heads concentrating
as much on tests  as on moving
their hands wildly, excitedly
trying to communicate non-vocally

others have yet to detach themselves
from their seats and stride upward,
hopefully more triumphantly
than their sole predecessor

one shuffles now, slowly toward him
his hand shaking as he releases
that  paper, he turns away as it flutters
onto the desk- he replants himself in his

twelve others walk forward
smiling, shrinking, sometimes speaking
and always he glares, triumphant
knowing his success at our failure


later:

his near-sleeping form            
finds distraction, in waking
dreams, jumping back suddenly
breaking from his plank-like state
without speaking. excitement
for approaching weekend is
communicated in the left flank

two girls break the silence
running in from outside            
he glares at them, but laughs

everyone breaks into groups
after the conversation about
mysteriously nutty discarded sock

he runs to the forefront
forehead folded, finger on mouth
no-one notices, but still he glares

8
he smiles and glares at the floor
his legs swinging back and forth            
tan slacks rustling softly

exaggerated scores bubble in ears            
as they search for their destroyer

in front of forgotten faces falls
the page of a forgotten tome

several yawn, hoping, understandably
that their stretched lips
will pull themselves far enough
to barricade ears from his droning

he kills himself, twice, bumbling
into half-thought chastisements
of the  flittingly flirtatious students
intermingling hoping behind him
causing waves of whispers, laughter
and slightly strengthened chatter

he re-aligns his thoughts quickly
and rambles on again, always

9
he speaks to her softly
from across a sea of desks
she looks up, panicking calmly
distracted from distraction

in silence, blank eyes turn
surprised at the non-withering
state of her barely living corpse

he asks a question, looking up
a single answer is given
unemotional and short, buy ending
heavy hanging awkward silence

how talented the teacher
who gives his lecture while
still addressing unrelated
student self lectures

the still silence given
in his questioning lull
hangs so loudly the whispers
traversing the classroom appear
silent as finger wiggle
and pencils trace zeros

his extrication, caused by
distractingly thunderous voice
is met with a comment
causing a wave of laughter
starting at his mouth
and extending to inhabit everything

10
half the time gives
twice the attention
as they concentrate
on keeping him on
the undying topic
of the work we
have already done

they admit defeat
as dusty tome opens
spreading a nutty cloud
causing heads to turn
and words to leap.

from opens lips,
mischievous gremlins
sprout, dancing on
tables and chuckling
away from the sigh
of his down-turned, split
shining, globular mind

he scratches pink ear
with bone pale finger
reading unrelated words

in the center of the room
both mentally and physically
he sits, momentarily quiet
as dark eyes glare past
rumpled pink nose,
concentrating

blue hat rests on open palms
above dust covered open page
he slips into sleeping state
but picks himself up
and stares though thin borderline
toward shiny rambling forehead

a shutter cord flies forward
the hand at the end pulling hard
but with no affect to the shutters
neither lowering the physical
or raising the mental

the color of non-color pencils
interrupts the class momentarily
as she strides forward to compare
and then criticizes his care

he just sits, smiles and stares

11
eleven desks lie empty
of one form more than usual
amplifying the arm movements
of the ever ticking seconds

his obscured mouth flings seeds
which sprout into words
before even meeting the worn
blood-colored carpet below

in the main room, sixteen
sit silent, sketching, sleeping
or siphoning the last minute

12
those left awake, and alive
have come to understand
the numbers on the screen
this being their specialty
in a nutty shell, of course
splitting, as we are, large
crowds of numbers, and us
being teenagers, isn’t that
how we think, in numbers
and ratings of everything
and, sitting in the central
crowd are the talented
crowd-splitters
flattery-spitters

13
the silence of half absence
is pierced, as always by vocal
anomaly, centered around
rows of shining wood
bookrests, but only one
set of hollow, dark-rimmed
vacant eyeballs watches
well-welcomed interruption

he lets us work, standing.
Someone somewhere opens
A large container of nuts
Entire class starts stuffing
Handfuls into puffy cheeks
Absorbing sensations into
Eternally ravenous minds

The apocalyptic mix of noises
Is split again by central
Nutcracker, and those in corners
Glare, smiling, rubbing shadowed
Acne scarred faces
with raw-bitten nails

14
balding papa bird speaks loudly
transforming his voice, becoming
vocally legendary cartoon duck

the wave of resulting laughter
ends in un-given nut-break
spreading, without speech
the understanding that his
comedic digression will not
meet a quick extinction

we greet the weekend
by rising early
our excuse: competition
to devour the worm

15
three heads are downturned
peering into textbooks
as the tsunami breaks

the days end starts
and beady eyes peer
in the direction of his
moving head, colored
gothic gargoyle in the
dim cloudlight streaming
through dust coated
slit windows

the room transforms
becoming triumphantly,
grumpily, repeatedly
conversational

artificial silence
spreads like a wave
from right back corner
to left front corner
leaving behind
the half of the room
hidden behind the wall
of troublemakers
who will eventually
cause the wall to topple
with the sheer force
of assorted nuts

16
blue hat is scrunched
under the of a fist
pounding on his head,
result of the decibels
consumed, and produced
by the embodiment
of the thoughts around him
which fall from stuffed
cheeks. Bounce off tables
and spread a sickening aroma
as their shells split
exposing, revealing
nothing

17
red face glances upward
as harsh words split
the widening sea of snickers
his words stop, first time today
as whispers spread wildly
of his speed in delivering answers
seconds later, room is silent
as statement ends and lecturer
turns back to him, offering
as always, another wave
of deep felt, anger hardened
quietly whispered, criticisms

thunderous-rush-voice leads
out of habit and necessity
the minutes following
his behavioral digression
each word stabbing split-headed
pointy-nosed papa bird, their
form a walnut-wood spear
crafted from drifted thoughts
of those sitting nearest him

18
on his back lies a pile of nuts
professor’s earthquake
shoulder shaking causes
eyes to open, back to rise
and with a tremendous roar
both physical and meta-physical,
it topples to worn carpet
and the laugh-track plays on

19
silence- pierced into being
by shrill, violent, mountainous
rise, and fall, of thunderous decibels-
hangs, heavier, louder than
the quick gone loudness replaced
or, in all actuality, displaced
mere seconds before being scrawled
into eternal memory
of those whose noses
sniff, daily, nutty clusters
of letters, which exclude
always, the ever-present x
the destructive π
and that y, which of course
flies as high as forgetful
nut-bearers




©Brandon Webb
2012

This is for you:

-the girl who is so ashamed because of her acne,
-the girl who cries in front of her mirror because she doesn’t
look like Picasso’s muse,
-the girl who forgot how to smile because of her problems,
-the girl who cries her eyes out every night because of him,
-the girl who is so terrified to attach because of her past relationship,
-the girl who is different from the others,
-the girl who wants to save every soul she meets, except hers,
-the girl whose heart, blood and soul runs wild,

-you are so much more than the sprinkles from your skin.
-you're not Picasso’s muse, but you definitely are God’s muse.
-don’t waste your life being so stressed, just enjoy the journey.
-you need to be strong.Cry your heart out, but stop,your tears are too worthy , make them rare, for the real ones.
-try to love yourself first, then someone else.
-your future is not defined by your past.
-you need to save yourself first.
-run with them, darling, and never look back.

This is for you, girls.
You, no matter what, are good enough.
You are lovable.
You are strong.
You are independent.
You are different.
You are rare.
You are you, and that is your power, learn how to use it.

it’s the skin disease that is my sickness
It’s the red dots
                  (hurtings, blemishes, scars)
                         and not my face I see
It’s the
                                 d e s p e r a t i o n
                                  on display
                                  of my insecurities, and
  so it worsens my insecurities
  
The hermeneutic circle;
                                             fact is fact
So, on my face
       desperation is visible
                     sadness in my mind;
         emptiness in body;
— but explosions on my face
  That is all I see
       It's all
            I
                     am.
I am a
                    sickness.

**august 2014

on my cheeks there are constellations of periods of stressed times,
of bad times,
that i couldn't stop the picking.
which,
yes, i know mom,
it makes it worse.
but my hands wondered as the days grew longer and that anxious feeling sat next to me like a trained, loyal dog.
my hands wondered to the places on my face that made me feel less than,
my cheeks.
i closed my eyes tightly as i ran my hand over small bumps and big bumps and bumps that hurt and bumps that i wouldn't let heal.
i cried for hours on end.
my mother made me try every product on the shelf,
oh how i remember the sound of the cash register ringing as my mother paid for another product that i knew just wouldn't work.
but still i tried,
and i tried every home remedy that i could find on the internet.
tomatoes,
crushed up aspirin,
green tea,
lemons,
limes,
bananas,
and toothpaste.
oh the toothpaste how i thought it would work.
how i woke up the first night and found burned acne scars from the toothpaste,
oh the toothpaste.
i touch my cheeks now with closed eyes,
no bumps except on bad days,
smooth skin,
i don't cry anymore because of it.
but when i look into the mirror i see dark spots of where those bumps laid,
i am still a sky full of constellations
and i'm learning to be okay with that.

I used to make of people with acne.
Their faces all gross and red.
I never realized how hard it was,
Until I found myself wishing I was dead.

It struck me head on,
Literally right in the face.
I was covered in acne.
From my forehead to base.

I never saw it coming,
It just suddenly appeared.
I was horrified and scared,
It was worse then I feared.

I now understood,
How other people had felt.
I hated myself,
And the hand I has dealt.

But by the grace of the gods,
My acne subsided.
Thanks to my doctor,
And the drugs she provided.

I look much better now,
Than I did at my worst.
And I have a new perspective,
Different then my first.

So next time I see a kid,
With acne galore,
I won't make fun of them,
This I swore.

There is nothing new under the sun, but it was night and the indifferent blinks of gaseous lives above looked down while my friends and I were at a new fast food joint that moved next to a now lonely Wendy's, with a faded sign tarnished by something the new fast food joint had yet to experience—mundanity by time. But I had my notebook with me while we ate outside, but it was in the car. My mind is always in that book, and I remembered something I had written for a novel in progress: 'Nothing is new under the sun. How is it possible to watch stars die? There is nothing new to their dust. We are the flies of the universes.'
It was just when I had finished my BBQ pork sandwich when Ariana suggested visiting a graveyard. I had the idea to visit a Satanist graveyard that our friend, Lanessa warned us against for the better safety of our sane souls—good luck with that. I wanted a revival of fear. How the beast would rip at the roof off our metal can of a car—the greater our barbarism, the greater our admiration and imagination—the less admiration and imagination, the greater our barbarism. But Ariana disagrees with words I never say, Nick laughs with my simple words to that previous thought. How funny it would be to burn eternal.
But then he suggested we should go to the Trussel in Conway. I had no idea or quote to think about to contribute to this idea. I wander, as I like to, into the possibility that his idea is a good one. Like some wanting hipster, I dress in an old t-shirt with of mantra long forgotten in the meaning of its cadence.
That is the march of men and women into the sea—honest, but forgetful and forgotten.
I was wearing a shirt sleeve on my head I bought from a mall-chain hippie store, and exercise shorts, finished off with skele-toes shoes. I was ready for everything and nothing at the same time. And that fits, I suppose. But all that does matter—and doesn't, but it is hard as hell to read the mind of a reader—it's like having a lover, but s/he doesn't know what s/he wants from you—selfish *******.
But there I was,  on the road, laughing in the back seat, sitting next to a girl who was tired, but also out of place. I could see she wanted to close arms of another, the voice of another, the truth that sits next to her while watching tv every time she comes over to hang with him, but never accepts that truth. She is a liar, but only to herself. How can she live with that? The world may never know.
The simple rides into things you've never done before give some of the greatest insight you could imagine, but only on the simple things that come full circle later. That is a mantra you can't print on a t-shirt, but if it ever is, I'm copyrighting it. And if it's not possible, I'll make it possible!
When we got to the Trussel, the scenic path lit by ornamented lamps seemed tame once I stepped onto the old railroad tracks. They were rusted and bruised by the once crushing value of trains rolling across it's once sturdy structure. Now they were old, charred by the night, and more than just some abandoned railroad bridge—the Trussel was a camouflage symbol birthed by the moment I looked into a Garfish's eye as it nibbled on my cork while I was on a fishing trip with my granddad when I was eleven. I remember that moment so well as the pale, olive green eye looked at me with a sort of seething iron imprint—I needed that fear, it branded instead of whispering that knowledge into my ears.
That moment epitomizes my fear of heights over water—what lies beneath to rip, restrain, devour, impale, and or distract me.
But epitomize is a horrible word. It reeks of undeveloped understanding. Yet  I want a nimble connection with something as great as being remembered—a breathe of air and the ideas  thought by my younger self, but I will never see or remember what I thought about when I was that young—only the summary of my acts and words. And by that nothing has changed—am I too afraid to say what I need to say? Too afraid to hear what everyone else hears? Or is it the truth—depravity of depravities that has no idea of its potential, so I am tired of the words that describe my shortcomings and unextended gasping hope. I am tired of living in the land of Gatsby Syndrome waiting for Takotsubo Cardiomyopathy!
But when we got to where the Trussel actually began I felt the fear hit like the day it was born—all hope was drained, and I was okay with abandoning all aspirations of having fun and being myself in the face of public criticism. I was flushed out by the weasel in my belly—the ******* beneath those still waters. I compare it to someone being able to handle Waterboarding, but can't handle being insulted—it's that kind of pathetic.
I stood just on the last understandably steady railroad ties that I knew were safe and watched my friends sit off the edge of the bridge, taking in the cold wonder of the night, and I was told at least I was smarter than my dead cousin who managed to get on top of his high school in the middle of the night, but had to be cohearsed down for fifteen minutes by a future marine, and future mourner who still grieves with a smile on his face.
The future mourner, he laughs at the times he insulted, or made fun of, or chilled with his now dead friend. It's never the bad times he cries about, there are none—just the good times, because they don't make them like they used to.
I watched them in that moment, and I don't know if I can deal with knowing my life is real. I began to blame my morality on this fear even though I already justified the fear just seconds before. But as I write this, I look over my notes and see something I wrote a few days ago: 'Life is ******* with  us right now. You laugh and I laugh, but we're still getting ******. The demon's in our face.'
As morbid as that comes off, it resonates some truth—what is killing us is going to **** us no matter what we do—and I don't want to be epitomized by the acts and words I didn't say.
I was never in the moment as a kid—I was raised by by old people and kept back by my younger siblings. The experienced tried to teach me wisdom, and the inexperienced kept my imagination locked in time. I don't want to go home as much now because I see that the inexperienced are becoming wiser everyday and the experienced are dying before my eyes. My idea of things is enduring leprosy.
But back to the simple moments.
Ariana saw a playground as she stood up and investigated the Trussel. It was next to the river, behind the church, fenced off by the fellowship of the church to keep the young ones in and the troublesome out. Of course, we didn't realize there was a gate and it was locked until Nick stated the probable obvious within ten feet of the nostalgic playground. And that's when Ariana pointed out the bugs swarming the parking lot outdoor lamp that blazed the fleshiness of our presences into dense shadows and more than likely caught the eye of a suspicious driver in a truck passing by. But I was still on the bridge—back in the past, never the moment. Me and my friends are still children inside these ***** forms. I muttered to myself: “Life ain't about baby steps.”
Nick looked over and asked what I said. I turned around, dramatic, like I always like to and repeated louder this time, “Life ain't about baby steps.”
He asked if I needed to do this alone, and I said he could come along. I walked rhythmically across the railroad ties, and heard Ariana comment that getting to the railroad up the small, steep hill was like being in the Marines. I laughed sarcastically. Nick and I had been to Parris Island before, and I know they test your possible fears, but they beat the living **** out of them.
I casually walk into the room where my fear lives and tell it to get the **** out.
When I reached the precipice of the last railroad tie I stood on before, I felt the old remind me that death awaited me, but there was no epic soundtrack or incredible action scene where I stab a manifestation of my fear in heart—a bit fun it might have been, but not the truth. I bear-crawled over the crossings of the ties and the structure of the bridge itself. I felt Relowatiphsy—an open-minded apathy self-made philosophical term—take over me. It is much simpler than it sounds.
There was no cold wonder as I imagined. There was just a bleak mirror of water below, a stiff curtain of trees that shadowed it, and the curiosity of what lies in the dark continuing distance past the Trussel.
Nick sat with me and we talked about women and fear, or at least I did, and I hoped he felt what I did—there was a force there that is nabbed by everyone, but cherished by few—courage. And I thank him for it, but I know I did it. Now I want to go and jump in that still water below—Ariana later says she's happy I got over my fear, but I'll probably have a harder time during the day when I can see what I'm facing, but I see it differently. During the day, the demons are stone and far away—like looking down the barrels of a double-barreled shotgun uncocked and unloaded, but at night is when the chamber is full and ready to go, and you have no idea who is holding the gun with their finger on the trigger and your destination in mind.
Then we threw rocks into the water in contest to see who could throw past the moonlight into the shadowy distance . I aimed for the water marker, and got the closest with limited footing, using just my arm strength. But it wasn't long before we had to leave, making fun of people who do cooler things than us, on the way to the car. I had to ride in the back seat again because I forgot to call shotgun. But on the way home, the idea popped in our heads what we should get my hooka and go to Broadway, and get the materials so we could smoke on the beach.
Nick's girlfriend and her friend joined us.
I missed a few puns against my co-worker as I was sent to get free water from the candy store where I work. I ended up doing a chore because I was taller than most of the people there. Appropriate enough, it was filling the water bottles up in the refrigerator.
All the while I loathed the fact that I would have to be clocked in tomorrow by two in the afternoon. I grabbed the water and got out of there as fast as possible without appearing to be in a hurry.
Impression of caring matters more than the actuality where I work—and yes, that makes me a miserable ****.
Perhaps it's not too late to admit I am recovering pyromaniac from my childhood and the flavoring we use for the taffy is extremely flammable. It would be a shame to drench the store in what people love to smell everyday when they walk in, and light the gas stove. Then, maybe I could walk away real cool-like as this pimple in this tourist acne town pops like the Hindenburg. The impression of splendor is like a phoenix—it grows old, dies, resurrects into the same, but apparently different form, spreads it's wings, and eats and ***** on everything simple, or presumably so.
I forget the name of the beach, but it was the best time I've had in a while. I was whimsy, and high on the vastness of the stretch of beach around us. They could bury us here. But me in particular. I rolled from the middle of the beach to the water, stood in the waves and shouted my phrase I coined when I realize something as wonderful as conquering a fear or realizing a dream;
--******' off!
And I stared at the horizon. My friends came up behind me and I looked back to see it was Nick and his girlfriend hugging. I gave a soft smile, put my hands in my pocket, and turned back to stare at the clouded horizon. What beasts must lie out there—more ferocious than the simple fresh water beings that wait beneath the earlier placid waters. I was a fool to think that was the worst. Nick said as I pondered all that, that I looked like Gatsby, and I tried to give him a smile that you may only see once in a lifetime, but I'm sure it failed.
I wanted to tell him that, “You cannot make me happy. It is usually the people who have no intention of making me happy that makes me smile the quickest.” But I don't. Let me be Gatsby, or Fitzgerald, if to no one else, but myself.

Hell is the deterioration of all that matters, and as the five of us sat around the hooka, and inhaled the thick blueberry flavored smoke that hinted at the taste of the Blueberry flavoring I use to make Blueberry taffy, there was a satirical realization that the coal used to activate the tobacco and flavor in the bowl is sparking like a firework, and reminds us all of where we're going.
It's a love affair between that hopelessness and hope of some destination we've only read about, but never seen.
By this point Nick and I are covered in sand, because he joined me in fun of rolling down the beach. We want so bad to be Daoists—nonchalant to the oblivion as we sit in. Just on the rifts of the tide, he and I scooped handfuls of wet sand, and I lost my fear of making sense and let Relowatiphsy take over again.
“Look at the sand in your hands. It can be molded to the shapes your hands make. We scoop it out of the surf and it falls through our fingers. There are things we're afraid of out there, and we sit just out reach of them, but within the grasp of their impressions. The sand falls through our fingers, and it plops into the tide, sending back up drops of water to hit our hands—the molders of our lives.” I said all that in hope against the hopelessness of being forgotten.
Then he said, “What if this is life? Not just the metaphor, but the act of holding sand in our hands.
I relish in his idea of wiping away my fear of an unimportant life. And by this point, it's safe to assume I live to relish ideas.

The last bit of sand from the last handful of sand was washed from my hand and I looked back at the clouded horizon, pitch black with frightful clouds and said:
“Nick, if I don't become a writer. If I live a life where I just convince myself everything's fine, and that dream will come true after I finish all the practical prep I 'must' do. I will **** myself.
I looked at him, Relowatiphsy in my heart, and he said:
“As a friend, I'd be sad, but I'd understand. But that means you have to literally fight for your life now—regardlessly.”
And he left me with those words. Just the same as my granddad left me a serious heed before he wanted to talk about something more cheerful, when I asked about his glory days fishing the Great *** Dee River. He said: “I wish I'd been here before the white man polluted the river. It would've been something to fish this water then”, then he paused to catch his breath, “Guess there are some things that stay, and others than go.” Then joy returned, as it always does.

But the idea of what was happening to me didn't hit me until we were a few miles away from the beach, covered in sand, but the potential of the night after conquering my fear of heights over water had been shed in the ocean.
Around midnight, when the headache from the cheap hooka smoke wore off and the mystic veil of the clouds over the horizon has been closed in by the condensation on the windows of some Waffle House in Myrtle Beach. There was a wave of seriousness that broke over my imagination. Works calls for me tomorrow by two.
There's not much vacationing when you live in a vacation town.
And midnight—the witching hour—spooks away the posers too afraid to commit to rage against the fear.
But there are others—college students that walk in and complain about the temperature of the eating establishment, and the lack of ashtrays—how they must be thinking of dining and dashing—running from a box, but forever locked in it.

They make annoying music as I write this. That is how they deal.

You've got lies
Like you've got acne
Raw and sour
They deform the skin of the room
Leave scars on its silence
Creep unbidden into pores
Brand themselves into reflections
Hung
Ugly as battle wounds
On the arpeggios of conversation

And you wear your lies
Like you wear acne
Smothered in pretty chemicals
You deliver them like scripted text
Into a world of disingenuity
The self-affected
One-trick-pony of your tongue
Plays them down with beauty
But fails to remove their aftertaste

So please,
Feel free to keep talking
But I thought you should know
That no one's listening any more
And we no longer believe in
Your cries of 'wolf'
Because we know that
No matter how you sing your lies
The world will not cease to orbit the sun
And then re-align itself to you

Outraged am I,
At the markings on my face,
Tiny red pimples all around,
What a disgrace!
I'm too self-conscious right now,
It manages to take over my skin,
It hurts and itches to the limit,
When will a new day begin?

There must be a next step --
all middle steps appear broken

Spit out like a used razor blade
sitting with *** cheeks
barely on stone steps
face burning beneath the acne
swelling across the cheek,
It must have been her pimples
why else would anyone reject her?

I Craw in the Urban Jungle night after night, making shadows my best friend
Because my pale skin would get sunburn in the day time.
Many of you have read about me on the internet,
But don't know if we exist like the Yeti or Bigfoot
Every now and then you see photos of me and hear stories about our existence
But here I am, White, Nerdy and…. Nerdy

Nerdy like the Nerds falling out of the box and skipping on the floor of my lair
(or my parents basement whatever you call it).
Some moments you will find me praying to my shrine for my savior, Weird Al Yankovic

Many of you may call us “ Losers”
But let me take a moment to tell you why you are wrong, in every way.
First off, We are not losers we just win at things that you don't care about
Like the Rubik's Cube, Dungeon and Dragons, and Larping
We don’t care about making friends, getting the poo tang, or getting high off of our *****
No we are too occupied trying to plan how we will survive the zombie apocalypse,
Or debating on if Star Wars is better than Star Track.
We are too busy reading comic books, Leveling up our one handedness
On Skyrim of course.

You think that we are hideous,
But in all reality, my acne improves my defenses against mother nature,
My braces are actually tools that government uses so they can reflect solar flares back to space
I'm ugly because god decided to make me pick up girls on ******* mode because before you Meet me it was way too easy.

Many of you think that we are weak
I may have spaghetti arms, no abs, but you know what, no problem,
Because if you look at my shadow, you see someone that 10 feet tall and bulletproof
I am a nerd, hear me roar.

My roar breaks your paper thin confidence
As it just floats in the wind like leaves, leaving the tree in October
My roar will rock your house with all of your friends leaving you alone because in the end, you May be popular but lets be honest, who are your real friends?
Call me weak, I dare you

Being a nerd has taught me many things
Like don't eat cake because it is deceiving
And that Neo should of taken the blue pill
Because that movie series was terrible.
And that DC Comics is the best, ***** Marvel
But the one thing it taught me the most is that be proud of myself.

Because when I was 4, my mom told me that I could not like blue because it was a 'boy' colour.  
Because when I was 5, the kids at kindergarten made fun of me for my 'boy' hairstyle.
Because when I was 6, dad refused to buy me a toy car because it is a 'boy' toy. He got me a Barbie doll. 'Good for girls,' he said.
Because when I was 7, my teacher scolded my for my 'boy' handwriting.
Because when I was 8,after a bad fall, my mom lamented that I would never be able to wear a skirt, instead of asking if I was ok.
Because when I was 9 I watched as my relatives mocked my male cousin for cooking. "Leave it to the women" they said.
Because when I was 10, I was told that I ran like a girl. 'But I am a girl', I said. They laughed at my innocence.
Because when I was 11, I was warned my my mother that I would be too fat to be loved. As though his love had to be spread all over my fats.
Because when I was 12, puberty started and the acne set in. It was my mom's worst nightmare.
Because when I was 13, my mom reemphasised that I was too fat to be loved. I felt like ****.
Because when I was 14, I starved myself so that I would be beautiful. I did look like a 'proper girl', my parents agreed.
Because when I was 15, the stress of impending national exams got to me and my hair started to fall out. My mom prayed for my soul, and my scalp.
Because when I was 16, in the car 37 minutes ago. My mom scolded me for my acne scars, saying that I was too scarred to ever get a job, or a husband. Most importantly a husband.
Because gender roles affect us all, male or female. Stop labelling people.

There is nothing new under the sun, but it was night and the indifferent blinks of gaseous lives above looked down while my friends and I were at a new fast food joint that moved next to a now lonely Wendy's, with a faded sign tarnished by something the new fast food joint had yet to experience—mundanity by time. But I had my notebook with me while we ate outside, but it was in the car. My mind is always in that book, and I remembered something I had written for a novel in progress: 'Nothing is new under the sun. How is it possible to watch stars die? There is nothing new to their dust. We are the flies of the universes.'
It was just when I had finished my BBQ pork sandwich when Ariana suggested visiting a graveyard. I had the idea to visit a Satanist graveyard that our friend, Lanessa warned us against for the better safety of our sane souls—good luck with that. I wanted a revival of fear. How the beast would rip at the roof off our metal can of a car—the greater our barbarism, the greater our admiration and imagination—the less admiration and imagination, the greater our barbarism. But Ariana disagrees with words I never say, Nick laughs with my simple words to that previous thought. How funny it would be to burn eternal.
But then he suggested we should go to the Trussel in Conway. I had no idea or quote to think about to contribute to this idea. I wander, as I like to, into the possibility that his idea is a good one. Like some wanting hipster, I dress in an old t-shirt with of mantra long forgotten in the meaning of its cadence.
That is the march of men and women into the sea—honest, but forgetful and forgotten.
I was wearing a shirt sleeve on my head I bought from a mall-chain hippie store, and exercise shorts, finished off with skele-toes shoes. I was ready for everything and nothing at the same time. And that fits, I suppose. But all that does matter—and doesn't, but it is hard as hell to read the mind of a reader—it's like having a lover, but s/he doesn't know what s/he wants from you—selfish *******.
But there I was,  on the road, laughing in the back seat, sitting next to a girl who was tired, but also out of place. I could see she wanted to close arms of another, the voice of another, the truth that sits next to her while watching tv every time she comes over to hang with him, but never accepts that truth. She is a liar, but only to herself. How can she live with that? The world may never know.
The simple rides into things you've never done before give some of the greatest insight you could imagine, but only on the simple things that come full circle later. That is a mantra you can't print on a t-shirt, but if it ever is, I'm copyrighting it. And if it's not possible, I'll make it possible!
When we got to the Trussel, the scenic path lit by ornamented lamps seemed tame once I stepped onto the old railroad tracks. They were rusted and bruised by the once crushing value of trains rolling across it's once sturdy structure. Now they were old, charred by the night, and more than just some abandoned railroad bridge—the Trussel was a camouflage symbol birthed by the moment I looked into a Garfish's eye as it nibbled on my cork while I was on a fishing trip with my granddad when I was eleven. I remember that moment so well as the pale, olive green eye looked at me with a sort of seething iron imprint—I needed that fear, it branded instead of whispering that knowledge into my ears.
That moment epitomizes my fear of heights over water—what lies beneath to rip, restrain, devour, impale, and or distract me.
But epitomize is a horrible word. It reeks of undeveloped understanding. Yet  I want a nimble connection with something as great as being remembered—a breathe of air and the ideas  thought by my younger self, but I will never see or remember what I thought about when I was that young—only the summary of my acts and words. And by that nothing has changed—am I too afraid to say what I need to say? Too afraid to hear what everyone else hears? Or is it the truth—depravity of depravities that has no idea of its potential, so I am tired of the words that describe my shortcomings and unextended gasping hope. I am tired of living in the land of Gatsby Syndrome waiting for Takotsubo Cardiomyopathy!
But when we got to where the Trussel actually began I felt the fear hit like the day it was born—all hope was drained, and I was okay with abandoning all aspirations of having fun and being myself in the face of public criticism. I was flushed out by the weasel in my belly—the ******* beneath those still waters. I compare it to someone being able to handle Waterboarding, but can't handle being insulted—it's that kind of pathetic.
I stood just on the last understandably steady railroad ties that I knew were safe and watched my friends sit off the edge of the bridge, taking in the cold wonder of the night, and I was told at least I was smarter than my dead cousin who managed to get on top of his high school in the middle of the night, but had to be cohearsed down for fifteen minutes by a future marine, and future mourner who still grieves with a smile on his face.
The future mourner, he laughs at the times he insulted, or made fun of, or chilled with his now dead friend. It's never the bad times he cries about, there are none—just the good times, because they don't make them like they used to.
I watched them in that moment, and I don't know if I can deal with knowing my life is real. I began to blame my morality on this fear even though I already justified the fear just seconds before. But as I write this, I look over my notes and see something I wrote a few days ago: 'Life is ******* with  us right now. You laugh and I laugh, but we're still getting ******. The demon's in our face.'
As morbid as that comes off, it resonates some truth—what is killing us is going to **** us no matter what we do—and I don't want to be epitomized by the acts and words I didn't say.
I was never in the moment as a kid—I was raised by by old people and kept back by my younger siblings. The experienced tried to teach me wisdom, and the inexperienced kept my imagination locked in time. I don't want to go home as much now because I see that the inexperienced are becoming wiser everyday and the experienced are dying before my eyes. My idea of things is enduring leprosy.
But back to the simple moments.
Ariana saw a playground as she stood up and investigated the Trussel. It was next to the river, behind the church, fenced off by the fellowship of the church to keep the young ones in and the troublesome out. Of course, we didn't realize there was a gate and it was locked until Nick stated the probable obvious within ten feet of the nostalgic playground. And that's when Ariana pointed out the bugs swarming the parking lot outdoor lamp that blazed the fleshiness of our presences into dense shadows and more than likely caught the eye of a suspicious driver in a truck passing by. But I was still on the bridge—back in the past, never the moment. Me and my friends are still children inside these ***** forms. I muttered to myself: “Life ain't about baby steps.”
Nick looked over and asked what I said. I turned around, dramatic, like I always like to and repeated louder this time, “Life ain't about baby steps.”
He asked if I needed to do this alone, and I said he could come along. I walked rhythmically across the railroad ties, and heard Ariana comment that getting to the railroad up the small, steep hill was like being in the Marines. I laughed sarcastically. Nick and I had been to Parris Island before, and I know they test your possible fears, but they beat the living **** out of them.
I casually walk into the room where my fear lives and tell it to get the **** out.
When I reached the precipice of the last railroad tie I stood on before, I felt the old remind me that death awaited me, but there was no epic soundtrack or incredible action scene where I stab a manifestation of my fear in heart—a bit fun it might have been, but not the truth. I bear-crawled over the crossings of the ties and the structure of the bridge itself. I felt Relowatiphsy—an open-minded apathy self-made philosophical term—take over me. It is much simpler than it sounds.
There was no cold wonder as I imagined. There was just a bleak mirror of water below, a stiff curtain of trees that shadowed it, and the curiosity of what lies in the dark continuing distance past the Trussel.
Nick sat with me and we talked about women and fear, or at least I did, and I hoped he felt what I did—there was a force there that is nabbed by everyone, but cherished by few—courage. And I thank him for it, but I know I did it. Now I want to go and jump in that still water below—Ariana later says she's happy I got over my fear, but I'll probably have a harder time during the day when I can see what I'm facing, but I see it differently. During the day, the demons are stone and far away—like looking down the barrels of a double-barreled shotgun uncocked and unloaded, but at night is when the chamber is full and ready to go, and you have no idea who is holding the gun with their finger on the trigger and your destination in mind.
Then we threw rocks into the water in contest to see who could throw past the moonlight into the shadowy distance . I aimed for the water marker, and got the closest with limited footing, using just my arm strength. But it wasn't long before we had to leave, making fun of people who do cooler things than us, on the way to the car. I had to ride in the back seat again because I forgot to call shotgun. But on the way home, the idea popped in our heads what we should get my hooka and go to Broadway, and get the materials so we could smoke on the beach.
Nick's girlfriend and her friend joined us.
I missed a few puns against my co-worker as I was sent to get free water from the candy store where I work. I ended up doing a chore because I was taller than most of the people there. Appropriate enough, it was filling the water bottles up in the refrigerator.
All the while I loathed the fact that I would have to be clocked in tomorrow by two in the afternoon. I grabbed the water and got out of there as fast as possible without appearing to be in a hurry.
Impression of caring matters more than the actuality where I work—and yes, that makes me a miserable ****.
Perhaps it's not too late to admit I am recovering pyromaniac from my childhood and the flavoring we use for the taffy is extremely flammable. It would be a shame to drench the store in what people love to smell everyday when they walk in, and light the gas stove. Then, maybe I could walk away real cool-like as this pimple in this tourist acne town pops like the Hindenburg. The impression of splendor is like a phoenix—it grows old, dies, resurrects into the same, but apparently different form, spreads it's wings, and eats and ***** on everything simple, or presumably so.
I forget the name of the beach, but it was the best time I've had in a while. I was whimsy, and high on the vastness of the stretch of beach around us. They could bury us here. But me in particular. I rolled from the middle of the beach to the water, stood in the waves and shouted my phrase I coined when I realize something as wonderful as conquering a fear or realizing a dream;
--******' off!
And I stared at the horizon. My friends came up behind me and I looked back to see it was Nick and his girlfriend hugging. I gave a soft smile, put my hands in my pocket, and turned back to stare at the clouded horizon. What beasts must lie out there—more ferocious than the simple fresh water beings that wait beneath the earlier placid waters. I was a fool to think that was the worst. Nick said as I pondered all that, that I looked like Gatsby, and I tried to give him a smile that you may only see once in a lifetime, but I'm sure it failed.
I wanted to tell him that, “You cannot make me happy. It is usually the people who have no intention of making me happy that makes me smile the quickest.” But I don't. Let me be Gatsby, or Fitzgerald, if to no one else, but myself.

Hell is the deterioration of all that matters, and as the five of us sat around the hooka, and inhaled the thick blueberry flavored smoke that hinted at the taste of the Blueberry flavoring I use to make Blueberry taffy, there was a satirical realization that the coal used to activate the tobacco and flavor in the bowl is sparking like a firework, and reminds us all of where we're going.
It's a love affair between that hopelessness and hope of some destination we've only read about, but never seen.
By this point Nick and I are covered in sand, because he joined me in fun of rolling down the beach. We want so bad to be Daoists—nonchalant to the oblivion as we sit in. Just on the rifts of the tide, he and I scooped handfuls of wet sand, and I lost my fear of making sense and let Relowatiphsy take over again.
“Look at the sand in your hands. It can be molded to the shapes your hands make. We scoop it out of the surf and it falls through our fingers. There are things we're afraid of out there, and we sit just out reach of them, but within the grasp of their impressions. The sand falls through our fingers, and it plops into the tide, sending back up drops of water to hit our hands—the molders of our lives.” I said all that in hope against the hopelessness of being forgotten.
Then he said, “What if this is life? Not just the metaphor, but the act of holding sand in our hands.
I relish in his idea of wiping away my fear of an unimportant life. And by this point, it's safe to assume I live to relish ideas.

The last bit of sand from the last handful of sand was washed from my hand and I looked back at the clouded horizon, pitch black with frightful clouds and said:
“Nick, if I don't become a writer. If I live a life where I just convince myself everything's fine, and that dream will come true after I finish all the practical prep I 'must' do. I will **** myself.
I looked at him, Relowatiphsy in my heart, and he said:
“As a friend, I'd be sad, but I'd understand. But that means you have to literally fight for your life now—regardlessly.”
And he left me with those words. Just the same as my granddad left me a serious heed before he wanted to talk about something more cheerful, when I asked about his glory days fishing the Great *** Dee River. He said: “I wish I'd been here before the white man polluted the river. It would've been something to fish this water then”, then he paused to catch his breath, “Guess there are some things that stay, and others than go.” Then joy returned, as it always does.

But the idea of what was happening to me didn't hit me until we were a few miles away from the beach, covered in sand, but the potential of the night after conquering my fear of heights over water had been shed in the ocean.
Around midnight, when the headache from the cheap hooka smoke wore off and the mystic veil of the clouds over the horizon has been closed in by the condensation on the windows of some Waffle House in Myrtle Beach. There was a wave of seriousness that broke over my imagination. Works calls for me tomorrow by two.
There's not much vacationing when you live in a vacation town.
And midnight—the witching hour—spooks away the posers too afraid to commit to rage against the fear.
But there are others—college students that walk in and complain about the temperature of the eating establishment, and the lack of ashtrays—how they must be thinking of dining and dashing—running from a box, but forever locked in it.

They make annoying music as I write this. That is how they deal with the inevitable death of the night. They bruise the air I breathe with love and faith and trust with no meaning—without even meaning it. But what do they know what I didn’t feel when I sat on that bridge or cowered on the fringes of the ocean? Their hands aren’t ***** like mine—their confidence does not seem fractured by these words that will never reach them, or their kids, or grandkids.
As day begins to move, I know I work at two and will be home by midnight again. The witching hour—where some stay and others go.

1967 san francisco is transformed into city of missing children haight ashbury brims with scraggly orphans thousands sit on street curbs live in cars hang out on floors of shops roam streets parks sleep on sidewalks unthinkable social cultural phenomenon Odysseus embraces madness walking through different neighborhoods going without food sleep in golden gate park floral smells so strong he can taste flowers kids openly pass joints acid doses trip dance make music laugh Odysseus is risk-taker but he is not street smart along with flocks of totally wasted kids street hustlers abound Odysseus sets down backpack beside eucalyptus tree rests when he wakes backpack is gone he is penniless disconnected hitchhikes across bay to berkeley less congested more manageable meets some runaways like him but not like him they squatter in abandoned house off telegraph avenue maybe 20 hippies crashing in house Odysseus adopts enormous closet hidden in back bedroom as his space has small window feels like sanctuary sometimes he comes home finds 5 or 6 kids sleeping in closet in a way people in house become his family tribe some of people are suspicious especially older secretive man with 2 tongue-tied underage girls whom he claims are his daughters Odysseus suspects veiled ****** exploitation girls are lovely yet behave frightened repressed life on street does not come easy telegraph avenue overflows with lost souls searching to hook-up fragrance of frankincense drifts amidst music drug deals rip-offs bullying brawls hierarchy from hell’s angels down Odysseus stays high dances sometimes panhandles “i live in commune with 2 pregnant girls” whatever cash he collects scores acid **** subsists on diet of gum candy sunflower pumpkin seeds sometimes ketchup with french fries his acne crescendos he learns if he drops acid daily by third or fourth day he cannot get off no matter how much he doses tries peyote cactus buttons after waiting nearly hour to get off he suffers stomachache dizziness projectile vomits finally flies into freaky hallucinations he swallows mescaline capsules feels sick to his stomach forgets about his nausea trips for 9 hours tries psilocybin mushrooms laughing straight through night experiments with stp trips for 3 days Bobby Stern and Martha Quigley come out from chicago to visit they are curious about the scene need to hook up Odysseus introduces them to his friends shows them telegraph avenue he turns and they have vanished he does not know where they have gone everybody is losing everybody new kids show up everyday oakland **** named red rat kidnaps Martha is heiress from distinguished chicago family their disappearance makes chicago papers after week Bobby and Martha manage to escape they never reveal to Odysseus what red rat did to them radio plays doors’ “light my fire” and jimi hendrix’s "purple haze" Odysseus has crush on beautiful blonde Patty she  ran off for summer from her parent’s home in sunset section of san francisco Odysseus and Patty hang out go see country joe and fish in provo park on sundays hitchhike into city watch Jefferson Airplane play for free in golden gate park hitchhike to marin see Grateful Dead jam at muir beach dude hands out free acid Odysseus is total acidhead acid reveals everything in new intensified light *** on acid is beyond *** wilder than *** more primal *** so intense it transcends limits of eroticism acid helps Odysseus realize his true self his pain sadness tears lies crazy-*** side first tingling tremors in stomach chest hands then initial flashes of sparkle traces of color echoes of giggling laughter lucid thoughts sometimes he swallows such large doses all he can do is stare out at white light what is it about massive hits of acid? measure of how fierce his spirit? self-punishment? escapism? he wonders why he so desperately needs to escape from what whom? himself? Mom’s numerous efforts to convince him he is mentally disturbed? Dad’s fists? escape from real world to where? Odysseus hangs with Pluto skinny 16 year old ****-addict golden wavy hair rotting teeth finesse with girls Pluto claims crystal **** enhances *** more than acid needles frighten Odysseus he lets one of Pluto’s girls hit him up with methamphetamine feels sudden overwhelming rush through head body forgets about needle before it ever leaves his arm having been initiated Odysseus begins scoring with Pluto’s girls Pluto knows tons of girls Odysseus loves feeling numb free being out of control not giving a **** getting ****** ****** by pretty girl if he could have his way he would go from ****** to ****** with pretty girl all day every day deep in drug induced state because drugs lower inhibitions allow them to explore some sick disgusting stuff that is paradise for Odysseus he is rapidly slipping into street life drug addiction wakes up with ants crawling in his hair witnesses numerous fights freak-outs 2 different kids o.d. while he is present lots of creepy stuff  by early august realizes he might wind up dead soon or rotting like Pluto Odysseus has spirit but troubled by what he sees troubled enough to return home go back to school he feels lost desperate alone not thinking plots drug deal swindle double-crosses some people guilt and shame for conning people haunts him for years he gives Pluto half the money tells him to share with Patty with his cut buys ticket back to chicago Penelope is first to greet him she gives him big hug comments “you need a shower and shave real bad!” his hair is wild scraggly beard Odysseus holds on to her he has missed his little sister glad to be near her feels panicky his parents will punish him Mom and Dad are relieved but agitated their worry and shame at his flight have turned to anger resentment they rationalize he selfishly ran off merrymaking for 3 months they sternly make plans for his next semester while Odysseus was away in california Penelope has ****** ******* for first time in back seat of Jed Zurbeck's black pontiac Penelope in secret goes to see doctor for pregnancy test doctor recognizes Penelope’s last name calls house Odysseus answers phone doctor asks to speak with Mr. or Mrs. Schwartzpilgrim Mom picks up phone doctor informs her Penelope is pregnant all hell breaks loose doctor makes house call with Mom and Dad present offers 2 options for Penelope “you can be picked up by limousine on state street and blindfolded you will be taken to an undisclosed location where abortion procedure is performed then re-blindfolded and returned by limousine to state street or you can report incident as **** and get signatures of three physicians then have abortion in a hospital” Mom and Dad choose to report it as a **** fabricate story about Penelope walking home from school and being grabbed pulled into alley by black man who rapes her Penelope is made to tell lie three times deeply disturbs her after abortion is done in hospital Dad makes Penelope swear not to admit abortion to anyone insists she tell Jed Zurbeck she made up stupid lie and she was never really pregnant Penelope obeys and tells no one

I asked John about the new girl from the dark
with green pearls; strong; Her current status
making wisdom and advice from them into
the new you gifts and call them;  The prophet
accepted salvation and Drinks from the gods;
There are two different keys; Paper with kit;
The purpose of heaven is not righteous people;
If you are looking for a hair; In the new game
you should wait for stewardship; Wireless,
wireless Jack Christian: The Original;  I found
Lauren recently at home with the alarm set
to alert and I made a complaint in the south
of Einstein's about about 1; It's a big picture;
Real security and truth:          The sea is closed
by the snow which seems to be, but we do not
have a lot of trouble:  Brain The band falls into
pieces when the protection is desired all night
and daylight to rise in the morning;    50 years
in the US has been calculated; Jim Crow &
The Peace Corp, less acne; of course; what
would you expect w / Space The site has gone;
Great is history & Big Bang future;   we know
now the rest is mental psychiatry b b. b.
self-dichotomy self-sufficiency; It's my heart
From you, You live in the middle of it; What do you do
do in part, again, The president of the foot is
1 hundred aircraft; To say this is a *******
of the people, for products Set six steps
to meetings by burning trees;            Pictures in a week
to cheat between bones, bones, bones?
The purpose of an accident is to preserve
Persia, Persian; 11 larger than one;             I remember
that often the result was lost,           Everyone has been
re-educated the fall,             and story In your decision;
Men and women; In the morning;                Especially
in the morning he said: Remove me: This is a product
market and focus group; In fact, enjoying to enjoy
the European Warranty, finding, said his wife
had died, and bugged him not money, yes.
The bill! Look, it's back, It helps to review the test;
typing typing; to **** is not important right now

1 I asked John about the new girl from the darkness;
with perfect green ****; strong; The Current state
runs state wisdom and discretion              is gone
forth from them into the new manifestations
of the gifts and the Prophet finally took the Sand
The food of the gods; That's a big turn-on two keys;
Album with the kit; The reason why heaven
is not a righteous man;  If you are looking for a hair;
In the new game must wait hair solutions;
Wireless, wireless jack Christian:         The Original;
Lauren recently at the home of error alarm
and say sorry in the southern Jewish civilization
called Einstein 1;        It was a great image;
Security and honest pleasures:
A region is closed,
through snow,    which seems to be,
is not composed more than to thee:
split-brain theory fell to
pieces when the right brain  
wanted to stay up all night
& left brain had to get up in the morning;
the 50's in the
US was schizophrenic;            Jim Crow
& the peace movement side-by-side, on acid no less;
of course; what would u expect
w/ a Space Race going on;      the Big One is history
& the Big
Bang the future; we know now that left brain-right brain
thinking is as much b.s. as the false body-mind dichotomy;
My heart is;
From thee,
it moves towards the center of thee;
                            What are you doing
on the arm, again,          President of the foot is airborne
1 degree;                         To say that this was a *******
of the people,                               for the sake of Products
Offer six steps to the exit
through the Burning trees;
The pictures have had a week
to cheat; among Bone bones, what are bones, bone?
In case an accident;
And right in the Persian Asia;     11 greater than one;
I remember that many times are not always the result
of a hidden manner, All of a decrease in the fall,
and the story In determination; Men and women;
In the morning; Especially in the morning,     and he said:
Remove me:      This is the sales of the market in shadow,
and hair; It is important,                      the darling to enjoy
the European;      Copyright information about the search;
And he said,         and his wife died of it, Because they did not
have the fee, Yes.                      The bill! Look,       that returns
the cat to temptation;

typing typing;           to **** is not a great number
of the The ***** were dead,                 I have been drunk?
Suddenly, my ***;                        But those who have him,
and took hold of him,                           He went on to sleep
because it has Since we know the ***;
Although being able to learn; But you feel good
The Jews were prostitutes times leader is always
great for the program the timber out of the sea,
and to me, and of images,                   the sovereign night,
Digesters number of prostitutes mountains;
I love that song is immense confusion;     and the Asians,
listen to the girls, so that he at first determined the AI
what they want to, not to the words, that I might do for you?
Down, Einstein ... Here, after a while In South China,
the minutes are welcome;                   When is  the girl,
and does she not have to It is unknown wasted money;
she walked From the Objects, drinks: This is the blood,
sand death, clothed with an ax;                      in theYear of Our Lord,
that            they consider it          to prevent it;    Referring to the fact
you want to go;                                You do not have to walk too late
to the Museum;                                   The source of electric chicken
is in; The Greatest Con             Basquiat
but the time of the great lakes
Foundation the case of our misery and wine
He was enthusiastic, ***** and Gomorrah
He shall also set it up in the boat,
with great injury to our mind,       The angels,
let him be the peace of heaven, or when did that
the war should bear upon; Reduces the stress
on the marriage; true contact White House
"white zombie days of glory, naked pictures of the bride,
the two girls were bombed,   saying:             Two doors
as the numberless grains of sand of the sea;
which is the death
                                               of all of the Jews?
And enjoy,                     shall be entirely rated;
And the new change,        to change the truth
balanced; When coast of Asia; 1,    and
Heart; 6 night Director, Developer, Baker,   to build an altar,
to ensure that it always exists And in the rural area in Asia,
huh, does not help,               The child was born by mistake

I asked John about a new girl from the dark;
with green green birds; strong;    Current status
making wise states and ideas out from them
into the latest displays of gifts and that the
Prophet accepted the victory; Food of the gods;
Keypad has two keys; Album with kit; The purpose
of heaven not a righteous man; If you are looking
for a hair; In the new game it should wait for hair care;
Wireless, wireless Jack Christian:         The Original;
I saw Lauren recently got home to an alarm warning
and I said depression in the southern Jewry
of Einstein called by 1;     It's a great picture; Security
and true enjoyment: The region is closed, by the snow,
which seems to be, but we are not too complex:
brain-crafted The team falls into pieces when
the bulb blows stays all night and mental brain
to get up in the morning; the 50 years in the US
is calculated;    Jim Crow & The Peace Corp,
less acne; of course;   what would you expect
w / Space Space is going;        The Great One
is a story & the Big Bang future;      we know
now the rest is brain psychiatry b b b. as false
self-dichotomy ara-ara;     It is my heart From her,
you move to the middle of it; What are you doing
In part, again, President of the leg is a plane
1 degree; To say that this is a *******
of the people, for products Provide six steps
to the meeting by burning trees; Pictures in a week
to cheat; between bones, bone, bones?
Why an accident;    And right now in Ancient Persia;
11 are greater than one; I remember that many times
are not always the result of the hidden way,
All that decreases in the fall, and history
Is in its decision;
Men and women;
In the morning; Especially in the morning,
he said: Remove me: Here's the sale
of the product in shadow and hair; Importantly,
enjoyment to enjoy the European; Warranty
by finding; He said that his wife had died to him,
because they did not in the bill, yes.      The bill!
Look, he's back,
It helps to test;

typing typing; to **** is not a bigger one
of the joints have died, I am drunk?        Suddenly,
my troubles; But those who have it,
and he took him, and went to sleep
because you have been sexually abused;
Although you are able to learn; But you feel good
The Jews are prostitutes often leaders
The theme for the program is wood from the sea,
and to me,               and the pictures,                  night nights,
Digesters number of prostitutes hill;
I'd like that music to be a great destruction;
                                               and the Asians,
listen to girls,                            so it's first AI
What do they want, not in terms of words,
that I can do for you?
Down, Einstein ... Here, after a short time
In South Dakota,
minutes are acceptable;                    When was the girl lost
and that you do not have It is unknown money loss;
you walk from Things, drinks:                   This is blood,
the sand of the sand, the slopes; in the year of our Lord,
to be cautious to prevent it; Searching for truth
you want to go;     You do not have to walk long enough
to the Museum; Lots of chickens of fire
you are in;      Also the Great Basquiat
but the time of the great lakes
Set the cost of depression and wine
Interestingly, ***** and Gomorrah
He will again carry it into the ark,
with great harm to our souls,                 Angels,
let it be the heavenly peace, or when it does
the war must stand;
Disable the problem again
on the wedding; real contact with White House
"The Zombie White Days of Glory,       Indoors
of the bride, two girls were bombed,       saying:
Two doors
as seeds have no value of sand of the sea;
which is death,           Ring size without cut
Say that ****** of yours;                       Jews
is arrested;        wearing the precious pearls
winter love;        he burned them in his fire,
the shadow of *** has come to know whom I set up
to the faces of the gods,
Inwarding Sharing their permissions
can be delayed if it is true, It goes away
from what we know,       you'll find the Jews of Satan
          are adulterers
move to those who sit on more than that
The rulers of the kingdom, almost all,     are one line
Often it is done where a great thing is or
before the paraphenal tree and
versionsof a powerful one of great value
digester, the Saint of the prostitutes
and many, to the mountains,                      to a picture
of great dreams; To set the memory
on the first they thought the girls were in the air
of Asia, which he hath heard; They
The right to do so must be strange to us
man to come into a hole that is so ...   of all the Jews?
And the enjoyment will be fully satisfied;
And a new change, to change the truth
balanced; When the coast of Asia; 1,                    and
Heart; Director 6, Developer, Baker, to build an altar,
to make sure it's always And in the rural area in Asia,
huh,                                              We're born the baby

I asked John about a new girl from the dark;
with precious stones; strong;    Your current location
making wisdom and advice from them
new gift gifts and them; The Prophet
to save and to drink of the gods;
There are two different keys; Paper with kit;
The purpose of heaven is not a righteous man;
If you are looking for a hair; In the new game
you should wait for stewardship; Wireless,
wireless Jack Christian: The Original; I have seen
Lauren recently got home with an alarm set
to explain that I was diagnosed in the south
of Einstein is about about 1; It's a big picture;
Real security and truth:        The sea is closed
by the snow that seems to be,     but we're not
have many problems:  The Scooter drops into
pieces when we want safety all night
and the light of the day to rise in the morning;
50 years            in the US has been calculated;                     Jim Crow &
Corps Peace, less acne; of course; what
will you expect w / Space The site is gone;
Great is history & Big Bang future; we know
Now the rest is diagnosis b b. b.
self-dichotomy self-sufficiency; It's my heart
From you, You live in your midst; What are you doing?
done in part, again, the president of the leg is
1 hundred flights;        To say this is a *******
of the people,                for products Set six step set-up
to meetings by burning trees; Pictures in a week
to make a cheat between bones, bones, bones?
Why accident is to keep
Persia, Persia; 11 larger than one; I remember
that always the result is lost, Everyone has come
re-study the fall, and story In your decision;
Men and women; In the morning; Especially
in the morning he said: Remove me: This is a product
market and side focus; In fact, the enjoyment to enjoy
European support, finding, told his wife
dead, not to give him money, yes. The bill! Look,         it's back,
It helps to review the trial; typing typing; to ****
is not important now

grandeur

had brought the well outta ground the muscled men and she came upon them when they had split into teams and were rolling it and had not yet become competitive. the hands of her gone infant came back to her to see these men heave back and forth a vanishing. of her many fathers one had said ‘the deep train went even deeper and I could not wake’. he had said it to excuse his one day feat of linking unadorned toilet paper rolls to stretch a rat’s mile. her stomach had yet to go down and she was comforted by such literal remnants as thinking of the last place you had it.

libel

two white boys come outta shack each with a wrist one left one right being ****** at the mouth. their laughing I wouldn’t say manic but still not righted. like certain bible stories seem to tumble outta that book it’s the same with their eyes and ears. their heads each one shrunk so as to be united. I want to say here at least a ****** knows what it’s mocking. I only know one of’em and only as far as this thing being passed and told that he ain’t a foster but he was born in a pan and taken from the offices of the parent company his father got laid from. you think that’s the joke but had I not said white you’d have thought they were anyway. here come two girls grisly with month and I never seen two boys so quick to put down the shack they come from.

prayer

I like it best when my girl is pregnant because I get the sympathies. on her hand, she likes me drunk. at any one time, I can remember seven of our eight kids. this means of course one gets left home but also that not a one gets left grocery. I’d tell you their names but then I’d have to split this saying into parts. but I can tell you seven are boys. now and again they’ll slip on sister’s dress to **** up my math. a good joke I start with is that they take after their mother and if they take after me it’s with sticks. I change the batteries in the alarms for fire and carbon monoxide every two weeks mostly outta fear that I’ll lose them all and have to recount them to some fireman I went to school with. I don’t know if batteries are cheap or not, I don’t know anything about them, but I know I spend a healthy chunk of my portion to have. wife and I are keeping the ninth at bay the ways we know how. she don’t ask me and I don’t her. one kid a week goes with her to church and it’s up to me to remember who in my charge caught a fish the week previous. but I’m not wrong with god; no book is the bible, I believe that. at cemetery by which I am lack whelmed: I wish I had his memory.

nativity

wonder they ever told him grown, that black foster, how he'd been at three years dropped manger while crying for the congregates. straw in everything. back a throat, bottom a shoe. pop said he just about caught himself afire at work, straw sticking out his pocket. pop unable to split work clothes from churched. some wanted to resurrect a fuss about color; don’t go resurrecting a fuss and waved his hand he did that pastor ingénue. heard then I the word negress and after its saying the sayers looked about as if she would appear. this was our town after god and many were still making their own. this answers how the black foster needn’t audition. the gold I brought was soft on my thumbs and the flakes stayed in my nails weeks after. pop could tell for that time what I’d been touching so I’d cover when I could. we were quite a pair in our fooleries what with his straw and my gold. he stopped going on about the blacks and I was able to skip school with your sister the ****** mary. the town was never up for nightmares or for dreaming so I kept your share to myself until now how you seen mary fingered by a man with seven. heard him saying it's okay baby, this one's asleep.

holy ghost!

I will cut myself, Horror Film. will fidget my nethers a last time. maybe make the snow an angel with a third leg. which means I have gone outside. maybe my father will happen by you and put his beers together. but I will be gone. into the woods dragging my feet so some will think it took two to take me. I will whip branches about me and generally scuffle so the some will better convince the left. my poverty will be confirmed by your presence on videocassette. my father will hold you aloft and your tongue will droop above the depths of his hair. my father will claim a vengeance he owes on and the some and the left will follow him over the states of my angel and into the woods. when they find me I will say I had an in body experience; that the two men nearby sleep and it’s what we’re walking in.

haptics

little he knows that in holding them hoppers until they spit and before they go wing he is making hitch the upcome carriage of his *****. his future nudes are backtracking and the gravity of this has been diagnosed as your emphysema. he is your, nothing more, son. he will rub your back and worry his thumbs orphan. oh thumb; toe six. the way you deeply stand arms folded he sometimes thinks you have been replaced by a statue of his mother. it is then he remembers the fence his father built and the collective plank his father carried under his arm. you want life to be good again; your son’s low hand and the pups it could feed.

verbal abuse*

she has brought with her a shoplifted teddy bear. on a good night her age is seventeen. two days ago the voices in her head moved to her mouth. she has seven teeth that remain quiet. she fears so much how this third day will go. she has been told, and she believes, I am only in her mind. but there she is, at the sitting rock where we met, the rock I told her I could see things in. unprepared for her faith, I am unclothed. I am glad she has the bear and glad for my part in her having it.

spiders

we got some kind of plague in our toilets mama.*  that’s my dad calling her mama, my mom. that’s him declaring another plague. week don’t stop until a plague has been pieced together by this man so named Paff Snull on the subscription stubs of any number of unread magazines mom uses to swat dramatically at imaginary flies and wasps and locusts depending on the week. this time though I’m ******* because when dad cracks his knees and ***** himself to fetch mama from silence, I look in the toilet up and it’s true and in the toilet down and it’s more. spiders grey and black and off white. with our low water pressure, spiders having a ball. mom and dad they get tents and tell me twice to get inside mine once it’s on the front lawn. I get told things twice because I was born thick and I haven’t the heart to tell them that after the first saying the saying of it is diminished. I mumble to myself in corners, sure, but it’s the same mumbling. our dog gets a separate tent and I sneak into it when dog allows. seven nights so far outta three weeks I haven’t. mom says it’s because of my acne dog don’t recognize me sometimes. ******* bit the meatsy of my right hand a month ago and my handwriting got so neat I was sent from school for cheating. it’s most of my summer and the house is still spidery. the dog has gone to the river to drink and seems okay with it. mom, dad, and I **** in the backyard in shifts. mom ain’t swatting anything, she doesn’t have to on account of the spiders. when right now I mess up my shift I find myself next to dad and he’s just some guy telling me them glass-full people got the joke on them because the water is contaminated. he’s so happy it makes me think I’m the devil to be grinning so big. long wasn’t the reign of Paff Snull.

Months of stale, cigarette smoke
and spilt **** water pleasantly
offset the stench of cheap cologne
and ratty, abused furniture.
    
Fictitious stories occupy this tiny, dim
apartment, birthed on the lips of
rebellious juveniles whose tongues
pierce the ears of our elders.

In a forsaken corner, Jeremy lounges
awkwardly on a grubby-plaid sofa that
suitably complements his button-down shirt.  
I join him.

Behind his right ear rests a lonely cigarette, while
another sits snug between his lips, set ablaze
by the 1968 Slim Model Zippo he inherited from
his beloved grandfather.

His transparent sense of self-worth emanates
from his grubby, grease-stained hands, scuffed boots,
blotchy-checkered flannels, and faded blue jeans
that are completely obliterated with holes.

I look into his pale blue eyes, the depth of which
often goes unrecognized.  Jeremy is a soft-hearted,
pudgy youngster with the kind of chunky cheeks
that all grandparents love to torture.  

But his marred, acne-ridden face betrays the transition
that has been forced upon him.  Slowly, his trademark
grin appears across his face – subtle, mischievous, and
typically without reason.  But this time it appears justified.

Jeremy takes a moment’s break from his cigarette to drop two
hits of acid.  A new drug for him, he hopes to find relief from
his seething anxiety, evidenced now by the wide expansion of his
chest as he takes another, more lengthy and powerful pull from his cigarette.

The mundane chatter that fills the room continues, a seeming
necessity to offset any potential awkward silence. I feel as if
this noise is closing in around us.  But just as suddenly as I
feel overwhelmed by this sensation, the noise stops.

I look around, noticing everyone’s eyes staring in my
direction.  Jeremy is still next to me, now giggling
like a little school girl.
I begin to feel sick.

Jeremy swiftly leans forward, giving his
cigarette a premature but honorable
death, eliminating its glow as he smashes
the cherry into tiny bits against the ashtray.

As he sits back against the couch, I can see that
his eyes are now indifferent. Foreign.  With a perplexed
and fascinated stare, he watches the pearly-white smoke
slowly slither upwards towards the ceiling.

There’s no question in my mind that his
soul has fled. Jeremy sinks further into the
couch, turning his vacant eyes in my direction.
I want to *****.

His high-pitched giggle has now subsided into a
low whimper.  Gradually extending his left arm into
the air, he tilts it from side-to-side, examining it as if
an infant discovering his genitals for the first time.  

Bike wheels appear in the corners of the room.
Entertained, his eyes rapidly zigzag from the
corners of the walls to his hands. He asks me
if I can see the wheels. I don’t respond.

Intervals of psychotic emotion begin to cycle. Jeremy’s eyes
fill with tears as he tries to understand the hallucinations
engulfing him.  The expression on his face betrays the reality that
he has stepped onto the never-ending theme-park ride from hell.  

Together we leave and walk to the bus station, Jeremy
walking slowly and whimsically. The bus arrives,
and I hand him a few crumpled, single-dollar
bills as I attempt to instruct him where to get off.  

All I can envision is his mother’s first reaction to her son’s arrival.  
Would she collapse at her son’s knees, crying like a mother whose boy
has come home from war?  Would he forever be an awkward guest
at the dinner table? Would she disown him?  Would he become a feral child?






I no longer know what day it is. I am surrounded by lockers
and students, trapped in a tunnel of shadowy walls.  As I stand
alone, I find myself entranced by the blinding, January sunlight
that floods through the double doors a mile away.

My vision is unexpectedly blocked by a figure
standing in front of me. Clothed in little but jeans
and a bright, white t-shirt, Jeremy stares at me, his eyes
mirroring the emptiness I now feel.  

“Do you have a lighter?”  My hands pointlessly search my pockets for
what I already know is not there. “No, man. Sorry.” A look of confusion
spreads over his face, and I suddenly cannot help but notice the sick irony
of the scene in front of me - Jeremy flooded in light as if born again.  

My thoughts linger here too long, and just as swiftly as Jeremy
appeared, he is a mile away sauntering out through those double
doors. Estranged, I continue to stand here, hoping with
futility that this isn’t the last time I have looked upon him.

Do you see these nails that are bitten and torn to shreds.
Do you see my hair that is mangled and tangled, it hasn't been washed in days.
Do you see this acne on my face, I pick at it till it leaves scars.
Do you see the clothes I'm wearing, I bet I haven't changed them in weeks.
Do you see this room, I haven't cleaned it in months
Do you see my teeth, they bleed because I haven't brushed them in awhile.
Do you see I go on binges of eating or not eating, cause I feel guilty.
Do you see I go on benders if drinking or smoking.
Do you see my eyes and face are red from crying recently.
Do you see my texts I never send cause you wouldn't care.
Do you see when I say "I'm ok", "I'm fine" that those are just lies.
Do you see my smile and laugh, it's mostly fake.  
Do you see how I sleep all day and wake up and go right back to bed.
You don't see but you should.

This list could go on for infinitely.
It's signs like this that should be noticed.
Depression, anxiety or any mental illness is important for learning the signs.
Your story matters just as well as your voice.

This woman of blonde locks
slim body and perky *******
acne and ribcage and vertebrae
she gives me that look
drawn smile with teeth bared
heaving tummy and deep stare
into my eyes like, "Come on."
Like a run-on sentence I'll make
her come on my face all night
and all day the next day

Best *** we ever had,
we had on a naked mattress
after a Sunday doing nothing

This woman of five o'
clock shadow and travel size ****
loose skin from weight loss and a thick neck
she is me and look
at that lucky feel
smearing over my dark mug
like I just won the sweepstakes
Like a run-on sentence she'll run
She'll run, she'll run, run me till
we need an oasis

Best *** we ever had,
we had on a naked mattress

Squeeze your legs
Squeeze your legs
Squeeze your legs
Squeeze your legs
Squeeze your legs
Squeeze your legs,

Release them,
A baker's dozen

How I used to see myself

These eyes that shine through the glass
These eyes that water from the smell of grass
Yeah I’m allergic, to the constant cut lawn
But that’s only one of my flaws that has yet to be drawn
As a line, I can only see so far
Yet I can see farther without the lens, how bizarre
I used to think like I was apart of the trend
What society, media, and the news transcend
I would try to pretend that I wasn’t what was depicted
The type of discrimination made most from fiction
I am just a simple person, just like the rest
Well, not entirely simple, but nonetheless
I need glasses so that I don’t have to squint
It makes my life easier yet nerds represent
Those with four eyes, under the guise of friendship he was betrayed
Cause you’re smart others seek that for comfort
I am another person, I left out simple I am unique, not simple, yet I grew up with pimples
So not only do you wear glasses but covered in acne I was actually bullied in middle school because of this
I was called “acne,” to my face by a girl all day, every day, yes I began to hate my face
I hated the feeling it gave me when I looked at the mirror
No way in hell was proactive making it clearer
I hit puberty harder than I knew with a deep voice, squinty eyes that made me look high, and a cratered face, fat build so I floated like the moon
I really hated my figure until I grew
I grew into the body that my thoughts would never know
I acknowledged myself though And that will remain a fact, I learned I needed to love myself first before I could love another
Why? Because to me these eyes that I used to see
Would one day have someone staring back and if I didn’t love myself, how could I expect the other to love me
I see with these eyes today, looking at myself and see things way incredibly differently

I don’t care how others perceive me, From rumors they’ve heard or from the hate that others serve I can care less.

All I know is what’s in front of me now
These eyes that see more than a few steps in front of me I believe that one day I’ll have more, than a dresser drawer as my art space
Something brighter than my own face
Right now I can’t help but smile I smile cause I feel like I’ve walked a long mile
And honestly, I’ll take each day at a time I see with these glasses sometimes a broken frame
And at that point, I normally tape them up
And smile again

I hate my body,
But that's nothing knew,
Because I've always hated my body.
I hate my rock solid bed cover,
But I've always hated the bed cover.
I hate that it's hard for me to make friends;
It's always being hard making friends...
I hate that I have acne,
While other girls are tan without acne.
I've had acne for a while now...
I hate my phone,
I hate my clothes,
I hate my face,
I hate the fact I have massive anxiety,
Every day...
I hate that I'm never happy,
That I can never just simply enjoy life,
Even though it is summer now...
I hate that I can't communicate well with my boyfriend,
After already being with each other for other nine months.
I hate my huge ****,
Always did...
I hate not having anything to do,
For the time being.
I hate that I can't open up to my boyfriend,
When he certainly can't open up to me.
I hate losing.
I hate always being angry,
Always having something to worry about.
I hate pushing myself,
Even though I know I have to.
I hate that I don't really have the connection,
I used to have with my boyfriend.
I hate that it sort of faded away after nine months.
I hate that my boyfriend doesn't understand my feelings,
Yet I can'topen up to him,
Because I feel he won't care,
And he has no time to listen.
I hate we don't have fun in our relationship,
As much as we used to.
I hate that there's very little spark he feels,
I could see it in his eyes...
I hate that I'm starting to feel detatched from him.
Maybe he deserves better,
Than me.
Maybe he's not right,
For me.
I hate that he has no clue,
Of how much I still love him.
I hate that I can't show him,
How much I still love him,
Because we're becoming too distant.
When will we have that talk,
Where I could fully open up to him?
I hate that he's too good of a guy for me,
Intelligence, handsome, funny, respectful, athletic, etc...
But am I doing this to myself?
Or does he not feel the same way,
I feel about him every day.
Did he install a video camera in my house,
Or on my body,
Where he watches my every move?
And doesn't like what he hears or sees?
I might be thinking way out of the box,
But there's something not right now...
I hate myself,
I hate myself,
I loathe myself...
People say it's not your fault,
Or not everything is your fault,
But through my problems,
It is all my fault.
And I'm always going to think that way.
Maybe I'll become depressed again,
Maybe even suicidal...
Again...
I hate that he only talks to me,
In a matter of need,
Not want...
I hate that I'm not interesting enough for him,
That I'm just a casual seventeen year old girl.
Maybe It's me,
Because I feel it is always me.
Maybe he actually wants to leave this relationship,
But doesn't know how to do so...
Maybe he's not telling me something..
Maybe there's another girl...
Maybe he's mad at me...
But I still feel no spark.
I can only love him now,
If he loves me.
And I've never stopped loving him since our relationship.
I hope he loves me back.
And doesn't just say he does.
Because he really is an amazing guy.
It tore my heart apart when we were apart for so long,
Throughout the school year.
Maybe this is the best I'll ever get...
He is offely quiet and reserved,
When I invite him to special occasions,
But maybe he's scared,
Or nervous,
Or scared of me,
Or scared of us,
Or has doubts of us...
Maybe I'm wrong about everything......
But I know what I'm right about,
Is that I cause myself too much pain inside,
To the point where I wish I could just,
Run far away and hide...

If you are a Fascist, you are not supported
by Tim Cantey and the four Hadrôn Rings;
no Mormon claims, Member and freedom,
If you are sorry;     If you are still in royal
Car cars, vehicles;             Such a position
of the way and the modern position 2
2, 2, 3 and 4;   22 intermediate nodes,
and sea; The capabilities are near the
visitor's; The Atlantis floor's iron drum
is in sections, making conversation
at the University of Hawaii,  here's
her coffin and detergent;   Six licenses
of licenses Six six six or managers
from vacuum facializing six sexes'
information on design;             of whom which
you are near wielded is Named Desire's name
in the future;   1'll create your own before you
are done to beat the company, some important
Access to it for Voice Voice Voice's Voice
it filedunder penalty Artifact  | the flower
Tissue Center conversion to the floor of
application;  What is their; All that it is
is a science area # 1 is available for the
outside world for guests to host visitors;
This song is made in spite of the freedom
of Tim Cantey's members;     no member
of the members;            The members who do not
have children; And there are members in the city
Of the children of them that are born in unison;
nor the manner, the vehicle of the mode, the vehicle;
the mode of the method,            powerful modem 22
mode, 2, 3, 4,          22 nurses in the midst of the sea
are mighty in strength;       The Captain of the place
smeared with acne;                         creating delivery
of the ****** act to             the University of Hawaii
*** drinks, coffee, and detergent;                 patent
Destiny's litter or lack of Chatter,         easy veggies
to six six six angel in a mirror to be beheaded,
the mirror;           For those who are so closely
welded that described above,            the name
of the Lamb of God to come;     previously choking
on his own jugular in this house;             necessarily
limited access to the outside;          Voice's Aviation
House of Pain is a vast Asian Artifact | the flower
of tissue from drying place for nets,
rather than the light;                 1 paint the presence
of the great blessing; That's when certain holy men
mean everything # 1 in the world to a wayward
woman;            Sarah stranger before blooming:
Neither IF  HE Khan were here,    
if there was not the Awon omo;
Ègbè ti Awon omo Ègbè ti Awon,           omo Ègbè Awon omo Ègbè
ti Awon O model,                                  there was no Awon O  model
did not have the Awon O model,           there was no Awon O model
there was no Awon O model, there was no Awon O model
I did not have the Awon O model;   I did not have the Awon O model;
I did not have the Awon O model;   I did not have the Awon O model
2 Awon O model 2 Awon O model 2 Awon O model 2 Awon O model

This song is made despite the freedom
of Tim Cantey's team; no group of Mormons;
Members who did not have children;
And there are children in the city; Their
children have been born one for roads,
vehicles of fashion, vehicles; the mode
of the way, the powerful modem 22 mode,
2, 3, 4, 22 nodes in the middle of the sea
powerful in power; The Captain of the places
smeared with acne; creating delivery of the
*** act, the University of Hawaii Drink Coffee
and detergent; patent Destiny's litter or lack
of chatter, easy veggies six billion six angels
in the mirror to be so, mirror; For those who
are very close wedded that is explained
above, the names that the Lamb of God
should come; already to create on your own
jugular in this house; really end
access to the outside; Voice's Bad Home
of Pain Posted in Asia Artifact | the flower
of tissue to transfer a place for them,
rather than light; 1 face great blessings;
That is what the Holy Man means,
when all are # 1 is the place for a Wayward
woman;       Sarah hosting before blooming
                     ni or WA kiosk that Kani says
To get out is simply in Sueur gbawo
without Sexuelle boire pade;
Awon O modei,      ripped a hole in Dee's tank-top,
her **** blister in the heat lying on the beach chair
at the bar idaraya;                      **** cheats Satan
be in the mirror jiggling it;

jigun jigun invisible home help foju Pein
fake watering Ah, VA ASIATIQUE;           Carpenter,
                                                hey, oldest movie ever!
Awor an Awon Oju  iw-ti-Awon Oju iw Awon eniyan
i 2 i wa Sara iu pray;       Awon Oju Awon ajeji ajeji

This poem is in spite of Tim Cantey's freedom
members;             Members not part of members;
of members,             having children that are not
members of the community and are not
The children's children who are the moderns;
no mode, mode, mode,           mode, mode mode,
22 powerful mode mode modem,   2, 3, 4, 22
powerful, powerful Nurses, one mean & you can
see her ***;
officers smeared with acne;    Delivery Delivery
of the ****** act to the University of Hawaii
Drinking ***, detergent and coffee;   Open
to defect or the fate of the litter's cha-cha
easily veggies out to six six six;   angel
decapitated back to the Looking  Glass,
into the mirror; For those who are united to get laid;
            From the name of the Lamb of God to come
down choking on his own jugular vein juice
to this domicile;        which juts out at the necessity
of the Voice of the aviation of pain;               House
is a vast Asian Artifact |      The tissue of the flower
of the light of the valuable fishnets;              1 paint
the face of the great,                some people as holy,
enduring all the world:            a strange woman # 1.
           Strangers having the face of Sarah blooming

I was told I was fat.
Shamed for my body, called names and all that.
I learnt to hate myself by them at that time.
They made me feel like being a little curvy was a crime.
So I started working on getting thinner, not for health or fitness though.
But because I thought that way I would be loved and accepted more.
I finally did become slimmer and i was happy.
I slowly started to regain the confidence that they had mercilessly stolen from me.
And just as it started getting a tad bit better, I was shamed for being short.
Couldn't they just let me live my life in peace or what?!
They crushed the little confidence i had gotten back.
Again in their stupid circle of high expectations and "physical beauty is true beauty" I was trapped.
I worked on getting taller everyday.
Crying myself to sleep when nothing worked at the end of the day.
And so they taught me time and time again to hate my body.
And I know I did, I am so sorry.
They said my acne was ugly and it needed to be hidden.
Going anywhere without makeup or not dressing girly enough was forbidden.
"No do not sit like that, talk like this, wear this not that, always smile."
They said these horrible things and silly me, I actually listened for a while.
But one day I decided I did not care.
So what if I didn't have what they called the "perfect figure" or the nicest hair?
I loved myself and that was it.
I was beautiful whether or not they believed it.
It was not an easy fight.
But I think I did alright.
They still say things all the time.
But I've grown to listen to just one voice, mine.

they are like constellations of stars
flung across the infinity of my cheeks.

they are like suns and moons
my face is the cosmos.

my face is a blank canvas
and they are the paints.

my face is the water
and they are the ripples that run through it.

my skin is my own
and they are there.
even when i don't want them to be
they will be.

just like everything else, normal.

about as annoying
as that word
you keep
*mispelling

beyond Montana’s yellow lines
there is a field
~a field of painted soles
     and laces rubber tread
~a field of ****** curls
     and fallen headlights
where kaleidoscope lenses
look onto twisted frames          like origami halos
where teddy bears hug stop signs like pickets
     fringed in anger
          runaway childhoods sleep cautionary tales
  
beyond Montana’s blushing acne
there are red cup melodies
     blasting from blacked out tints
          weaving blues notes through Rock & Rap
distant cries are drowned by Bass
     or maybe Bud (light)
a haze of teenage eyes
they might as well be ghost riders
whip game copped from GTA
these pubescents are a Vice to their City
blooming sidewalk sloths
like flowerbeds

beyond Montana
is a country of bar stools
   where bar tenders play therapists
        and therapists play coroners
precedents are shots of whiskey - taken to the head
and reflected in flooded eyes

beyond Montana
is a country of MADD mothers and SADD students
beyond Montana
is a country of unexpecting pedestrians
beyond Montana
is a field
~a field of wing-clipped snow angels

That field is Mariah's home now
and she challenges you to change
   yourself
        your friends
             your country
she challenges you to
**STOP DRUNK DRIVING

By Arcassin Burnham


..And while the void is not yet filled,
I still heal,
From these wounds in my backyard of pumping iron
And fighting skills,
In a place where they rob and steal and they don't care about how you
Feel ,
The day the earth shakes and the beams are steel,
Hope that they can seal the deal,
Past experiences and bad choices made me who I am,
Sending letters to my mind in form of a aerogram,
And at the time,
Riding my bike in Holly hill,
Sitting in sin and praying for the wrong things that Couldn't
Make me feel,
As vulnerable as the people that shouldn't be ,
trying to break the strong, persuade the weak,
Bullies use to call me weak , but couldn't see me in the street,
But I'm looking for eutopia and beauty so Divine,
Like a promise land designed for people that would give their
Lives and lay it on the line, I won't miss that opportunity,
Now Are You Coming?!



/


This pimple I popped to see a new hope come along,
Hope that God sends so much cargo that I will not go wrong,
Receiving hostility towards me all from your darker tone,
Feeling like you have to be an ******* because you think that
You own,
Me,
My soul,
My well-being off your throne,
Steady popping,
So much **** is dropping from my face,
And at this point upon this wicked world , What is the human race?
I question us everyday,
Senseless killings that mess up days,
You've made your time for these delays.

Hey, past me from so close yet seeming long ago...

A knot from my sweater's bow I regret tying despite how unkempt the ribbons look hanging by my sides because now it's digging into my back

The hair I can't decide if I want out where it's pretty and makes me look less like a generic nerd yet gets in my face and food and life

The jeans I insist upon wearing without a belt even though their slipping down my **** may actually outweigh the pain of loosening the belt

The tennis shoes I'm too attached to give up that emit a constant squeak, squeak, squeaking through the hallways whether it's caused by residual rain from outside or not

The glasses, fond of slipping down my nose at frequent intervals, covered in smudges I rarely notice till they get out of hand

The phone whose screen happened to crack at the most inopportune moment and takes forever to read my finger print

The jacket that should be a highlighter blue but rather presents itself as a canvas of the week's tomato stains

The face covered in acne-
The stomach with fat instead of muscle-
The arms lacking muscle-
The legs with too much hair-

I've always acknowledged that perfection is not possible, yet I have to at least try to strive

I think, as I sit at my desk, fingers typing fragmented sentences, attempting to convey thoughts speeding too fast to grasp

Yet, just a simple poem of reflection brings to light these numerous deficiencies, many of which I COULD fix were it not the invisible fiend upon whom I stamp the label-laziness

These deficiencies, many of which aren't even noticed by those around me, some of whom are better some are worse

But it's not as simple as that, I've known I can't just be "one of the people", I need to find something, some identity, some way out of my seemingly impossible to escape label of "just above average"

In academics, in extracurricular activities, EVERYTHING, I seem to be at a stagnant

I've done bad, I've done "just above average", but never above. What is the point if you get plenty of losses and plenty of "fine" but no victories?

It's something about me though, somehow I believe, subconsciously, I'm impeding myself. I'm holding myself back.




...



Why?

My eyes always see the floor when I walk by
But my ears can still hear the mocking laughs
Fingers pointing at me
As though knives stabbing me repeatedly
Splitting my heart into halves
I still look in the mirror that doesn't lie
They have eyes, nose, lips, and everything
And so do I
Now, what's wrong with this face of mine?
The acne, freckles, pores, scars, and whatnot?
People can have it, who says they cannot?
"Too slim, too fat"
I am me, can't society accept that?
I asked the mirror that doesn't lie,
"I'm beautiful, aren't I?"