It was 98'.
No, it was 99'.
That was the year.
Yeah, that was the year.

I had just landed abroad and knew no one.
Well, I was there with my girlfriend, Page.

I knew her.

We had to get out of the states.
There was nothing for us there.
We were drowning in that nothingness - that lacking future.

Cookie cutters everywhere.

Everything I saw was like an outline of something that had already happened.
I couldn't sleep.
I couldn't ****.
I could barely call my parents to let them know what I was doing.

Nothing really.

Floating downward like a leaf broken from its stem.
I was scared.
I'll admit it.
I was terrified of the next four years.
Twenty-five seemed so far away and so close, all at the same time.

We had a found an apartment to live in while in the U.S.
We were lucky because people we met later on said it was hell trying to find a place after arriving.
I was never too good at that stuff anyway.
I always felt like people were trying to cheat me or something.

It was small.
You would have said you loved it, but secretly hated it.
One could barely stand in the shower.
Want to spread your arms wide?

Forget about it.

There was a balcony though and you could watch the street traffic from above.
People look so small when your high up.
Down the street, there was a large theatre where they filmed movies.
I rarely saw them shooting, but I could tell it was a good place to.
It was beautiful at night when the lampposts would flicker on, orange spilling on the street.
Everything was damp in the Fall when we first arrived.

"What do you want to do today?" I asked her. She was laying face down on the bed.
Whenever she was hungover, she would do that.
All the covers and pillows over her face, blocking out the world and its light.
I did the same thing, so I couldn't really say much.
We were hungover a lot those first couple months.
Then came the jobs and everything changed...mostly.

She moaned something that I couldn't understand.
I was standing by the window, staring at the pigeons and crows perched on the roof across from us.
They had made a little nest under one of the shingles.
Clever little ******'s.

"Look at those things," I said.
The coffee I was drinking was bitter and made from crystals.
It gave me a headache, but it was cheap and we were broke.
I stepped back to get a better look at their nest and knocked an empty beer bottle around.

She moaned again and rose up from bed, kind of like a stretching kitten or a cat.
Her back was arched like a crescent moon and she stunk of ***** and Sprite.
The blankets were twisted and crumpled and she was tangled in them like a fly in a spiders web.
I went into the kitchen and poured out my coffee, thinking of what to do with the day.

"Breakfast?" she asked me from bed.
My back was to her, but I knew she wanted me to make it.
I put the electric stove on and opened the refrigerator.

"No eggs," I said back to her, "I'll be right back."

She moaned and slithered back into bed.
I threw my jacket and slippers on and made my way downstairs.

"Dobry den," I said to the cashier.
He was a tiny vietnamese man with a extremely high pitched voice.
I struggled to stifle a laugh every time I came in.

"Dobry den," he said back, sounding like air escaping from a balloon.

"Dear God," I thought, "How does his voice box do it?"

I went straight to the eggs, pretending to cough.
All around me were packaged sweets and rotten vegetables and fruit.
There were half loaves of brown, stale bread wrapped lazily in thin plastic.
Canned beans, noodle packets, and cardboard infused orange juice lined the shelves.
Where were the ******* eggs?
We needed milk too.
Trying to drink that crystalized coffee without it was torture.
I don't even know how I did it earlier.
"I must be getting used to the taste..." I thought.

I opened the single refrigerator they had in the place.
It was stocked with loosely packaged cheese, milk, beer, and soda.
There they were, those ******* eggs, right next to the yogurt.
I looked at the expiration date of a small carton of chocolate milk and winced.
"Someone could die here if they weren't careful," I whispered to myself.

"Everyding O.K.?" I heard the cashier squeak behind me.
I turned and nodded and showed him the eggs.
He was suspicious I was stealing something.
It was ironic.
I put the eggs on the counter and handed over what the cash register told me.

"There you go," I said and handed him the 58 crown in exact change.

"Děkuji," he peeped.

His voice sounded like a stuffed animal.
I nodded, smiled, and quickly got the hell out of there.

"You know the guy that works at the shop across the street?" I asked the body still in bed.
Well, she was up now, back up against the wall with her laptop on her lap.
"You mean the guy that has the voice of a little girl?"
"Exactly. I was just in there - getting these eggs - and I nearly laughed in his face."
"That's mean," she frowned, staring at her laptop.
Many of our conversations were with some kind of electronic device in between us.
We needed to work on that.
"I didn't laugh at him directly."
She smiled and nodded and moved down the bed a little more.
Only her head was resting on the pillow.
I cracked two eggs and let them sizzle there in the butter and the salt.

"So, what do you want to do today?" I asked Page, "It's not too cold out. We could go on a walk."
"Where?"
"I don't know. Over the bridge and maybe down by the water."
"It's going to be so cold," she shivered.
"I was just out there in slippers and a t-shirt and I was fine."
"That's because you're so big. I'm tiny. I don't get as much blood flow."

I flipped the two eggs and looked down at them.
Golden and burnt slightly around the edges.
******* perfect.
Now, just gotta wait a little on the other side and make sure to not let the yolk harden.
I hated that more than anything in the world.
Well, that and hearing **** poor excuses like it being too cold.
It was nice out.
She'd be fine.

"Come on," I sighed. I did that a lot. "It'll be fun."
She looked up at me from her computer with a dead look in her eye.
"What?" I asked her.
"You're such a...nerd," she said.
"No I'm not."
"You're so weird. Some of the things you say sometimes..."
"Like what?"
"Let's go on a walk."
She exaggerated the word walk.
I laughed and knew I was being a little too excited about a walk.
"Yeah. So? What are you doing? You're just laying there doing nothing."
"It's my day off," she scoffed, jokingly.

We were unemployed.
Everyday was a day off.
This was not something to bring up.
It was touchy subject.
One had to go about it...delicately.

"We need to find jobs," I stated, "And we can probably ask around or look for signs in windows."

"Oh JESUS," she gagged, coughing and diving back under the covers.

"I'm just thinking ahead so we can stay here. There's got to be something out there we can do."

"Like what?" she asked, her voice muffled by blankets.

"I don't know...something," I mumbled, trailing off as I flipped one of the eggs, "Perfect."

After breakfast, Page finally got out of bed and took a shower.
I tried to sneak in there with her, but, like I said before, one could barely fit themselves in there.
We compromised to have *** on the bed, though I did miss doing it in the shower.
As Page got dressed, I watched her slip those thin black stockings on, half reading a magazine.
I had gotten a subscription to The Review because I was trying to become a writer.
I thought, maybe if I read the stuff getting published - even the bad **** - it'll help.
Later, I realized, this was a terrible idea, but I enjoyed the magazine all the same.
Page finished getting dressed.
I jumped into whatever clothes were on the floor and didn't stink.
Then, we were out the door on Anna Letenske street, looking at the tram, downhill.


"I can see my breath," Page said, "It's cold..."

"Alright," I said as both of us ran across the street, "It's a little cold."

"But it's ok because I'm glad were out of the house."

"If we would have festered there any longer, we would have stayed in there all day."

"And missed this beautiful day," she said mocking me, putting both of her arms in the air.

The sky was gray and overcast and a single black crow flew over us, roof to roof.
No one was out, really.
It was Sunday and no one ever really came out on Sundays.
From the few czech friends I had, they explained to me this was the day to get drunk and cook.

"Far different then what people think in the States to do," I remember telling him.
"What do you do, my friend?" he had asked. He always called me my friend.
It was a nice thing to do since we had only known each other a couple weeks.
"Well," I explained to him, "Some people go to church to pray to God."
He laughed when I said this and said, "HA! God? How many people believe in God there?"
I had heard through the news and some Wikipedia research Prague was mostly atheist.
"A good amount, I'm pretty sure."
"That's silly," he scoffed, "Silly is word, right?"
"Yep. A word as any other."
"I like that word. What else do they do on Sunday?"
"A lot of people watch football. Not like soccer but with..."
"I know what you talk about," he said, cutting me off, "With the ball shaped like egg?"
I nodded, "Yes, the one with the egg shaped ball. It's popular in the Fall on Sundays."
"And what is Fall?" he asked.
You can see our relationship was really based on questions and answers.
He was a good guy, though I could never pronounce his name right.
There was a specific z in there somewhere where one had to dig their tongue under their teeth.
Lots of breath and vibration that Americans were never asked or trained to do.
Every czech I met said our language was a high contradiction.
Extremely complex in grammar and spelling, but spoken with such sloth.
I don't know if they used the word sloth.
I just like the word.

As we waited for the tram, I noticed the burnt orange and red blood leaves on the ground.
"Where had they come from?" I wondered. There were no trees on the street.
Must be from the park down the block, the one with the big church and the square.
There were lines of trees there used as leaning posts for the bums and junkies as they waited.
What they were waiting for, I never knew.
They just looked to be waiting for something.
I kicked a leaf into the street from the small island platform for the tram.
It swept up into the air a couple inches, and then instantly, was swept away by a passing car.
I watched as it wavered in the air, settling down the block in the middle of the road.

"Where's this trammm," Page complained.
Whenever it was cold out, her complaining level multiplied by a million.
"Should be coming soon. Check the schedule."
"Too cold," she said, "Need to keep my hands in my pockets."
I shook my head and looked at the schedule. It said it would be there at 11:35.
"11:35," I told her, still looking at the schedule. There was a strange cross over the day of Sunday.
"You mad?"
"No," I said turning to her, "I just want to have a nice day and its hard when you're upset."
"I'm not upset," she said, her teeth chattering behind her lips.
"Complaining I mean. We can go back home if it's really too cold. It's right there."
"No," she looked down, "Let's go out for a bit. I just don't know how long I'll last."
"Ok," I shrugged.
I looked up the street and saw our tram coming; number 11.
"There it is," I said.
"Thank God," Page exhaled, "I feel like I'm about to die."

Even the tram was sparse with people.
An empty handle of cheap liquor rattled in the back somewhere.
I heard it rock back and forth against the legs of a metal seat.
"Someone had a night last night," I thought, "Hope that's not mine."
We had gone to some dark bar with a lot of stairs going down - all I really recall.
Beer was so **** cheap there and there was always so much of it, one got very drunk easily.
I couldn't even really remember who we met or why we went there.
When everything's a blur in the morning you have two choices:
Feel guilty about how much you drank, lie around, and do nothing or,
Leave it be, try not to think about it, and try and find your passport and cell phone.

We made our transfer at the 22 and rode downhill.
Page looked like she was going to be sick.
Her sunglasses were solid black and I couldn't see her eyes, but her face was flushed and green.
"You alright?" I asked her.
"I'm fine," she said, "Just need to get off of this tram. Feel like I'm going to be sick."
"You look it."
"Really?" she asked.
"Yeah, a little bit."
"Let's get off at the park with the fountain. I don't want to puke here."
"Ok," I said, smiling, "We'll get off after this stop."

We sat down on one of the benches that circled around the fountain.
It was empty and Page was confused why.
"Maybe to save money?" I suggested.
"What? It's just water."
"Well, you gotta' pump the water up there and then filter it back out. Costs money."
"Costs crown," she corrected me.
"Same thing," I said, putting my arm around her, "There's no one here today."
"I know why," she stated, flatly.
"Why?"
"Because it's collllllllld and it's Sunday and only foreigner's would go out on a day like this."
I scanned the park and noticed that most of the faces there were probably not Czech.
"****," I muttered, "You may be right."
"I know I am," she said, wiggling her chin down into her jacket, "We're...crzzzy."
"We're what?" I asked. I couldn't hear her through her jacket.
She just shook her head back and forth and looked forward, not wanting to move from the warmth.
Dogs were scattered around the brown green grass with their owners.
Some were playing catch with sticks or *****, but others were just following behind their owner's.
I watched as one took a crap in the center of the walkway near the street.
Its owner was typing something on their phone, ignoring what was happening in front of him.
After the dog finished, the owner looked down at the crap, looked around, then slunk off.

"Did you see that?" I asked Page, pointing to where the owner had left the mess.
"Yeah," she nodded, "So gross. That would never fly in the states."
"You'd get shoulder tackled by some park security guard and thrown in jail."
"And be given a fat ticket," she said, coughing a little, "Let's get out of here."
"Yeah," I agreed, "And watch for any **** on the way out of here."

We made our way out of the park and down the street where the 22 continues on to the center.
"Let's not go into the center. Let's walk along the water's edge and maybe up to the bridge."
"Ok," I said, "That's a good idea." I didn't want to get stuck in that mass of tourists.
I could tell Page didn't either. I think she was afraid she might puke on a huddle of them.
We turned down a side street before the large grocery store and avoided a herd of people.
The cobble stones were wet and slick, glistening from a small sliver of sunlight through the clouds.
Page walked ahead.
Sometimes, when we walked downtown in the older parts of Prague, we would walk alone.
Not because we were fighting or anything like that; it was all very natural.
I would walk ahead because I saw something and she would either come with or not.
She would do the same and we both knew that we wouldn't go too far without the other.
I think we both knew that we would be back after seeing what we had wanted to see.
One could call it trust - one could call it a lot of things - but this was not really spoken about.
We knew we would be back after some time and had seen what we had wanted to.
Thinking about this, I watched her look up at the peeling paint of the old buildings.
Her thick black hair waved back and forth behind her plum colored pea coat.
Page would usually bring a camera and take pictures of these things, but she had forgotten it.
I wished she hadn't.
It was turning out to be such a beautiful day.

We made it to the Vlatva river and leaned over the railing, looking down at the water.
Floating there were empty beer bottles and plastic soda jugs.
The water was brown, murky, and looked like someone had dumped a large bag of dirt in there.
There was nothing very romantic about it, which one would think if you saw it in a picture.
"The water looks disgusting," Page said.
"That it does, but look at the bridge. It looks pretty good right

there are so many places to hide,

in my home at 17th and South screaming death threats at my roommates laughing diabolically playing  videogames and Jeopardy cooking quinoa stretching canvas the dog going mad frothing lunging  spastic to get the monkeys or the wookies or whatever random commandments we issue forth  drunken while Schlock rampages the backdrop,

at my uncle's row house on 22nd and Wallace with my shoes off freezing skipping class to watch March  Madness unwrapping waxpaper hoagies grimacing with each sip of Cherrywine or creamsicle  soda reading chapters at my leisure,

in the stacks among fiberglass and eternal florescent lima-tiled and echo-prone red-eyed and white-faced  caked with asbestos and headphones exhuming ossified pages from layers of cosmic dust  presiding benevolent,

in University City disguised in nothing but a name infiltrating Penn club soccer getting caught after  scoring yet still invited to the pure ***** joy of hell and heaven house parties of ice luge jungle  juice kegstand coke politic networking,

at Drexel's nightlit astroturf with the Jamaicans rolling blunts on the sidelines playing soccer floating in  slo-mo through billows of purple till the early morning or basketball at Penn against goggle- eyed professors in kneepads and copious sweat,

in the shadow tunnels behind Franklin Field always late night loner overlooking rust belt rails abandoned  to an absent tempo till tomorrow never looking behind me in the fear that someone is there,

at Phillies Stadium on glorious summer Tuesdays for dollar dog night laden with algebra geometry and  physics purposely forgetting to apply ballistics to the majestic arc of a home run or in the frozen  subway steam selling F.U. T.O. t-shirts to Eagles fans gnashing when the Cowboys come to town,

at 17th and Sansom in the morning bounding from Little Pete's scrambled eggs toast and black coffee  studying in the Spring thinking All is Full of Love in my ears leaving fog pollen footprints on the  smoking cement blooming,

at the Shambhala Center with dharma lotus dripping from heels soaking rosewater insides thrumming to the  groan of meditation,

at the Art Museum Greco-fleshed and ponderous counting tourists running the Rocky steps staring into shoji screen tatame teahouses,

at the Lebanese place plunked boldly in Reading Terminal Market buying hummus bumping past the Polish  and Irish on my way to the Amish with their wheelwagons packed with pretzels and honey and  chocolate and tea,

at the motheaten thrift store on North Broad buried under sad accumulations of ramshackle clothing  clowning ridiculous in the dim squinting at coathangers through magnifying glasses and mudflat  leather hoping to salvage something insane,

in the brown catacombed warrens of gutted Subterranea trying unsuccessfully to ignore bearded medicine

men adorned with shaman shell necklaces hawking incense bootlegs and broken Zippos halting conversation to listen pensive to the displacement of air after each train hurtles by,

at 30th Street Station cathedral sitting dwarfed by columns Herculean in their ascent and golden light  thunderclap whirligig wings on high circling the luminous waiting sprawled nascent on stringwood pews,

at the Masonic Temple next to City Hall, pretending to be a tourist all the while hoping scouring for clues in the cryptic grand architect apocrypha to expose global conspiracies,

at the Trocadero Electric Factory TLA Khyber Unitarian Church dungeon breaking my neck to basso  perfecto glitch kick drums with a giant's foot stampeding breakbeat holographic mind-boggled  hole-in-the-skull intonations,

at the Medusa Lounge Tritone Bob and Barbara's Silk City et cetera with a pitcher a pounder of Pabst and a  shot of Jim Beam glowing in the dark at the foosball table disco ball bopstepping to hip hop and  jazz and accordions and piano and vinyl,

in gray Fishtown at Gino's recording rap holding pizza debates on the ethics of sampling anything by  David Axelrod rattling tambourines and smiles at the Russian shopgirl downstairs still chained to  soul record crackles of antiquity spiraling from windows above,

at Sam Doom's on 12th and Spring Garden crafting friendship in greenhouse egg crate foam closets  breaking to scrutinize cinema and celebrate Thanksgiving blessed by holy chef Kronick,

in the company of Emily all over or in Kohn's Antiques salvaging for consanguinity and quirky heirlooms  discussing mortality and cancer and celestial funk chord blues as a cosmological constant and  communism and Cuba over mango brown rice plantains baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies,

in a Coca Cola truck riding shotgun hot as hell hungover below the raging Kensington El at 6 AM nodding soft to the teamsters' curses the snagglesouled destitute crawling forth poisoned from sheet-metal shanty cardboard box projects this is not desolate,

at the impound lot yet again accusing tow trucks of false pretext paying up sheepish swearing I'll have my  revenge,

in the afterhour streets practicing trashcan kung fu and cinder block shotput shouting sauvage operatic at  tattooed bike messenger tribesmen pitstopped at the food trucks,

in the embrace of those I don't love the names sometimes rush at me drowned and I pray to myself for  asylum,

in the ciphers I host always at least 8 emcee lyric clerics summoning elemental until every pore ruptures  and their eyes erupt furious forever the profound voice of dreadlocked Will still haunting stray  bullet shuffles six years later,

in the caldera of Center City with everyone craning our skulls skyward past the stepped skyscrapers  beaming ear-to-ear welcoming acid sun rain melting maddeningly to reconstitute as concrete  rubber steel glass glowing nymphs,

in Philadelphia where every angle is accounted for and every megawatt careers into every throbbing wall where  Art is a mirror universe for every event ever volleyed through the neurons of History,

in Philadelphia of so many places to hide I am altogether as a funnel cloud frenetic roiling imbuing every corner sanctum sanctorum with jackhammer electromagnetism quivering current realizing stupefied I have failed so utterly wonderful human for in seeking to hide I have found

in Philadelphia

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and
     sat down under the huge shade of a Southern
     Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the
     box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron
     pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts
     of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, sur-
     rounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of
     machinery.
The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun
     sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that
     stream, no hermit in those mounts, just our-
     selves rheumy-eyed and hungover like old bums
     on the riverbank, tired and wily.
Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray
     shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting
     dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust--
--I rushed up enchanted--it was my first sunflower,
     memories of Blake--my visions--Harlem
and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes
     Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black
     treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the
     poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel
     knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck
     and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the
     past--
and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset,
     crackly bleak and dusty with the **** and smog
     and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye--
corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like
     a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face,
     soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sun-
     rays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried
     wire spiderweb,
leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures
     from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster
     fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O
     my soul, I loved you then!
The grime was no man's grime but death and human
     locomotives,
all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad
     skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black
     mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuber-
     ance of artificial worse-than-dirt--industrial--
     modern--all that civilization spotting your
     crazy golden crown--
and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless
     eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the
     home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar
     bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards
     of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely
     tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what
     more could I name, the smoked ashes of some
     **** cigar, the ***** of wheelbarrows and the
     milky ******* of cars, wornout ***** out of chairs
     & sphincters of dynamos--all these
entangled in your mummied roots--and you there
     standing before me in the sunset, all your glory
     in your form!
A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent
     lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye
     to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited
     grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden
     monthly breeze!
How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your
     grime, while you cursed the heavens of the rail-
     road and your flower soul?
Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a
     flower? when did you look at your skin and
     decide you were an impotent ***** old locomo-
     tive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and
     shade of a once powerful mad American locomo-
     tive?
You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a
     sunflower!
And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me
     not!
So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck
     it at my side like a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul
     too, and anyone who'll listen,
--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread
     bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all
     beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're bles-
     sed by our own seed & golden hairy naked ac-
     complishment-bodies growing into mad black
     formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our
     eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive
     riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sit-
     down vision.

                              Berkeley, 1955

.              Part One               .

January
I wake up in a hungover haze that seems
Irrevocably unending. All the places I threw up,
That stiffness in my neck, the emptiness in my love;
There is too much to feel
So I feel numbness
And I feel remnants
Of ***** in my throat, only manifested fully
When my friends and I make fortune cookies,
Singing along to songs that we’re hearing for the first time
Amidst the chaos of exploding poinsettia plants and nascent tattoos,
All of which litter your mom’s otherwise bare counter.
I don’t make much mention, in my fortune cookies,
Of that girl who still leaves me hungover;
I fill them instead with cruel jokes
That send me cackling
Until my dehydrated headaches pass into

February
When I’m moonlit tipsy stumbling
Through a campus-wide coniferous forest in Washington State
With two strangers that I soberly think
Might be my future.
We arrive at the clear polluted waters
Of the Puget Sound, our boots all
Sinking into deep-mud as we walk past broken bits of shells
To low tide.
Even as the full moon sinks and I realize
That those two strangers can never be my future
(That Athens, Ohio is my future)
I still walk forward
Into the Puget Sound
Knowing that the water will stay with me
In my lungs, on my skin,
In my mind, and although I don’t tell a single person, I fear,
So rightly,
That the water from the Puget Sound,
Set to perpetually accumulate in my lungs,
Will one day come to drown me.
Even as I cry to my mom in our kitchen,
Relieved from that seemingly endless indecision
I’m not surprised. I’m not surprised
By the choice I’ve made, I’m not surprised
By the fears I still have, all that surprises me
About any of this
Is the immediacy with which
My conclusion’s future culmination begins, as I begin
And continue
While always feeling like I’m concluding,
An infinite

March
In spirals, spirals, spirals, leaving trails
In subconscious sands, someone paints
Blue spirals on my body, and when
I drive back to Lake Erie later,
To retrieve abandoned items and moments,
The road looks much different.
Less swirly, less threatening at first, and when we get there
We eat pineapple/onion pizza on my ****** cottage’s front porch,
Just barely shielded from the snow, and just barely
Shielded from one another. And even those
Slim shields between us begin to fall
When we stand on our melting Lake Erie.
Because the whole world
Calls to us.
The sky screams, the wind explodes,
The thin layer of water above ice rushes
Blissfully, almost hallucinogenically, towards you and towards I
And I am howling
Into the face of it all,
Fearing nothing—not even
The absence of that girl’s palm in mine
Or the water from the Puget Sound
Or the cold of the air
That is tearing at my scalp; that is tearing
At my whole being and

April
Is best described by a rampage
Home from a campsite
That I only ever saw
Drunkenly, in the dark, and under the pressure
Of Allan Ginsberg’s poetry and an ultimately failed ****.
On that rampage we steal tombstones,
We steal memories for ourselves,
And we steal crass glances
With crass jokes that sound sort of
Like the crass fortune cookies which somehow
Never went bad.
Someone notes during that drive
That the air is getting warmer
With regularity now,
And while I somehow can’t bring myself to cry when my cousin is shot to death,
I have to struggle to hold back tears
In our high school’s only classroom when you tell me
That you’re quitting that play we signed up for together.
I guess it’s cuz I’m concerned—
Cuz I’m deeply
Deeply
Deeply concerned—
That it’s a lack of dedication
To me, to what we do together, to everything
That will prevent my rampage from concluding quietly
Amidst the smells of Indian food and the soft light
In your future dorm room
Where I will hug you
And where I

May
Finally
Let all the tears
Flow freely.
I guess it’s the unnecessary intensity
Of this collective celebratory anticipation
That preemptively reveals to me
That the moment of walking across a stage
To receive my high-school diploma
Won’t be quite as transformative as I’d hoped it might be,
And when I make out with that girl who still has me hungover
In the bed at my dad’s house where I lost my virginity
Almost exactly one year prior, I realize that in fact,
I’m still marching the same march, and
Both magic moments of idealized transformation in that bed
Were just as illusory.
Somehow though
Your no longer nascent tattoos have not yet faded
And I can’t help but worry,
(As sweat pours from my forehead and drenches these bedsheets;
As my finger nestles itself tiredly between the folds of her ******)
That I have, and in

June
When all my anticipation is realized,
People clap in the audience despite the fact
That it’s the same stream of sweat
That’s trickling down along my spine
To reach my ***.
I stare into the spotlight
For just a moment, amidst those stale applause
And in my squint, I think briefly
That none of it ******* mattered. I mean,
Despite this perspiration, I’m
Dehydrated. Hungover. I guess
Drinking more alcohol
Isn’t the best way to get over it, but I can think of nothing else,
So even when I acknowledge
That all my attempts have not even been half-assed,
But, like, one-quarter-assed
The only resolve I find is in distraction, in
******* my other ex-girlfriend instead
And not until that distant

July
When I’m ascending through Never Sink,
Does my head finally
Feel clear, yes,
In that glowing blue pit
Of bioluminescence,
I feel the whole world slow to a stop,
Embrace my body with its taproots
And whisper
Playfully and
In a child’s voice,
“You are the whole world” and I know that I
Am the whole world.
I breathe heavily, the only sound for miles around,
And for a moment I feel that the Puget Sound,
Along with everything else that is so ******,
Has fallen away.
For it is not my body
That is climbing on-rope through the stars and galaxies of this great sinkhole
But my mind,
But my soul,
Because Never Sink
Is not a landscape
But a mind-scape,
A soul-scape,
And it is one which is never dark
Thanks to the blue lights of soulful- (not bio-) luminescence—
A glow that is strong enough to see
Finally
A singularity
In the form of an unlocked lock,
Appearing with grace upon my driveway
After I return home
From ******* my other ex-girlfriend
For the last time.
It is only when I stop the car,
Open the door,
And hold that unlocked lock in my hand that I realize the extent to which
I am being
Un-defined.
The ethereal being in Never Sink’s soul-scape,
Alone in the blue grace of the night,
With nothing in my breath.
The thought is terrifying.
So in

August
On the night of my eighteenth birthday,
The girl I’m hung over and I
Send magical, sparkling lanterns into the sky
With a wish so brilliantly bright and simultaneous
That even I am able dismiss the slurring drunk words spoken next to us—
“Here’s hopin’ that you two get married some day”—
As superfluous.

.                Part Two               .

The winds above Lake Erie carry me,
Along with that lantern, into the foreignness
Which Never Sink foreshadowed.
But with the lantern as my very being
And the Puget Sound in my every breath,
Athens, Ohio does not become my soul-scape;
Even its gorgeous autumnal rolling hills
Are just land-scape, and I don’t know
Whether things would have been different
Had I not walked into that stranger’s party
For that terrible beer
On one of my first nights there, but regardless in

September
I walk up endless hills and stairs daily
To get around this hellhole where the only genuine people I’ve yet found
Were prepared to leave from day one, like I
Wasn’t. I wasn’t preparing for that at all, but the Puget Sound,
Lingers like phlegm in my lungs and distorts my regular refrain
Of “I can be happy here, I can be happy here,” keeping it
From ever loosing its hypothetical but eventually forcing it
To loose its conclusion:
I can be…
I can be…
I can be anything that I want to be and I am still here,
Sitting on the top terrace of this weird-assed biker bar with some girl
I just met, with some guy
Who seems cool, but in both cases
I drink one too many Blue Moon’s because I know
That neither of these people
Will ever loose their hypotheticals and will only ever
Loose their conclusions.
Gazing upwards towards the stars in the fading summer,
I try to ignore the physicality of all that’s around me,
But the alcohol churns in my stomach like violent waves, like in

October
How I rock like tides between the shores
Of two continents, of two
Acid trips.
One, on the floor of my dorm room, staring at my ceiling
In an attempt to make patterns
Out of patternless white paint, all the while holding hands
With that guy who seems cool, who has been dancing
In and out of hypothetical.
And the other acid trip with you,
Who somehow in the face of everything
Became one of my only certainties.
You, with whom I stood on Lake Erie
Howling into the wind in an unrealized epiphany.
An epiphany
That is now realized
Because the beers on that top terrace didn’t matter.
The white speckles on my dorm room ceiling during that first acid trip
Didn’t matter.
Hell, that girl I am in love with
Didn’t (doesn’t, can’t, won’t) matter.
What matters to me,
As I’m dressed in drag on Halloween,
Lying in your dorm room that smells of Indian food
With 120 dollars of drug money in my pocket,
Is what’s ultimately present. Right there.
Right here. But then, lying there, the time
Clicks over into

November
And at two in the morning it becomes
One in the morning.
I don’t know which of those hours wasn’t real
But when I hug you and cry in the soft light
It is a moment too brief.
It is a moment from which I am pulled straight
Into a hotel bed halfway to New York City,
Where I lie with that girl who I guess I’m in love with
And I’m kissing her, and I realize
That blue spirals still linger on my body, but when she groans,
So softly
That “we shouldn’t be doing this”
I pause before saying “I know,”
And in that pause, my pixelated, televised, and falsified image of reality
Briefly turns to fuzzy grey static, its finite infinity like the trance
Of meat on a rotisserie; I’m waiting
For this turkey to cook
In my friend’s mom’s home—funny
Because I’m still a vegetarian
Who sometimes likes to think of himself, in quest for definition,
As a vegan, but man
I’m beyond definition, I’m beyond anything,
I’m beyond even my darkest imaginings of myself, so when I get wasted
At a 2am that doesn’t click back on Thanksgiving morning,
I have a slice of that ******* turkey,
Cuz the vegan chili my friend and I made at school was good and all,
But I had to bike through freezing rain to get the peppers
And even though I’m starting to feel
Like I’ve found a few people who I can take in with permanence
Nothing feels more like permanence
Than this home-cooked meal
Of turkey and cranberries and sweet potatoes at a granite counter
Where, on January 1st when the ball dropped,
We all took shots, leaving me drunk, stumbling
And eventually
Hungover.
And of course in

December
I’m still
Hung over it all.
Part one, part two,
The futility of that division is so obvious now.
It’s the same poem, same sentence,
And when two not-so-new-anymore friends and I sit on a rooftop in Athens
With a bunch of still so-new I-guess-friends
Right before exam week,
Right before this emotionally excruciating semester comes to a close,
Right before I prepare to head home,
I realize that even though this place
Hasn’t quite become home yet,
My ‘home’ isn’t really at home now either.
I am without a bed in which I feel comfortable,
Without a body next to which my whole life makes sense,
And I am driving to go swing dancing—
An activity I can’t believe I’m still trying to like—
When I finally tell her that I’m in love with her:
Words that don’t matter despite
How much they do. Ultimately,
To me, to her, it’s just
A quick red-light phrase
And this poem is, without too many layers of resonance,
Not even addressed to her,
But to that girl with whom I stood on Lake Erie,
Howling into the wind,
Imagining part two but preparing
For part three, so
With that lantern still floating skyward, “here’s hopin’ that”—
                                         (No. No. No. Start over.)
Here’s hoping that
At midnight
On this New Year’s Eve,
When the ball drops and when we all take shots,
Perhaps around that same granite counter-top,
These clocks
Won’t click back again.
These spirals
Will fade.

I am not an alcoholic,
I just like beer.

I am not an alcoholic,
I'm just a little hungover.

I am not an alcoholic,
I just want to drink with my friends.

I am not an alcoholic,
I am just bored.

I am not an alcoholic,
I just can't sleep.

I am not an alcoholic,
I just like to feel warm.

I am not an alcoholic,
I just like to feel dizzy.

I am not an alcoholic,
I just want to feel brave.

I am not an alcoholic,
I just want to feel something.

I am not an alcoholic,
I just want an excuse to tell someone I love them.

I am not an alcoholic,
I just feel better when I drink.

I am not an alcoholic,
I only hide it because my parents would yell.

I am not an alcoholic,
I am only sixteen.

I am not an alcoholic,
I just need something to cling to.

If I ever get the chance to love you forever I promise you I will do it to my greatest capacity. I promise to listen to you when you get so invested in conversation you ramble for hours. I promise to accept you when you're being stubborn, and fight you when you're wrong. I promise to learn how to make your favourite meals from your mother, I know her cooking will always be your favourite. I promise to find every freckle on your body. I will kiss every single one. I promise to always say see you later rather than goodbye. I promise to protect you from heartache to the best of my ability. Actually, I promise to help you through heartache when it comes our way. You'll never be alone. I promise to kiss you when you first wake up even though we both know you get smelly. I promise to be your biggest fan and greatest supporter. I promise to scratch your back and pop your back pimples. I promise to watch your favourite television show even if I could honestly care less. I really don't care about zombies. I promise to never let us become your parents. I promise to never let you be like your father. I promise to never let you be like my father. I promise to be the best mother if you let me. I promise to tuck you in when you're drunk and give you water and Advil when you're hungover. I promise to be your home. I promise to make our house as home-y as possible. I promise to race you up the stairs. I promise to keep myself positive. I promise to let you pick me up when it feels like I can't do it myself. I promise to laugh at your baby photos with your sister and to talk to your father about his hobbies. I promise to make fun of you for being a mama's boy. I promise to love you for it, too. I promise to love you with every bone and muscle in my body. I promise to love you more than I did the day before. I promise to love you and love you and love you and lo

We don’t really understand

How atoms behave;

Or infinity;

Or how winds carry the seasons -

Like ‘Olde April ‘ with it’s 'showers sweet' !

Yes, I’ve felt them...



The clean stinging scent of rain

Scratching at the earth,

Pelting aromatic plants,

Condensing the smells of seas, winds, continents;

Infusing the sum of all these aromas in its perfumery,

Marketing it: April, again.



And Eliot said,

There be April,

'The cruellest month'.

Oh my (!)

Appealing April, with its sunny flavours,

Cascades of cats & dogs,

And dead-eye jack,

Firing frosts that just might spend the tender herb.



It was snowing in April,

And Easter was early, that year

When I took Schrödinger’s cat walking

On a leash, And April was still new,

And capable of shocking...



Now any month - could bring pitiless ruin.

The year annually

Out of step with migratory designs,

Throwing epithets out of its greenstick pram,

Its months in disarray ,

No-one knows what’s going on...





The drunkard earth sups up it’s own tears,

Reeling in its spin,

Until,

Saturated,

It can drink no more,

And every dip fills,

Every meadow spills,

Banks overflowing,

Its resolve drowning,

Questions washing

Up like a tide of interrogative curiosity.



OK – so I am really hiding in my acres...

At least I can tell - it’s April !



Enquiring lily-of-the-valley,

Puts up green periscopes.

Peering through the sodden grass,

The remnants of last year’s soggy leaves,

Cosset primrose & ramsons.

Daffodils are past their best, but soldier on

Like hungover squaddies,

Snowdrops have fat capsules where white drops shone,

Hellebores have been up since the crack of time -

Good movers - they could dance all spring!

Dingles are glinting green with native bluebell leaves,

And their mophead mates have muscled in the garden,

Quiet violets lounge on the field’s chaise long,

Coy, understated,

How British!

Oxlips and cowslips join the brave primroses

Who have been on the razzle for weeks.

White & purple lilac in green cassocks,

Will soon burst out

Like kiss-o-grams.

Boughs hung with clematis,

Still tiny shoots like birds on wires.



I am giving a prize for the first celandine on my patch;

Each little celandine - Rannunculus ficaria - is

A miniature sun uttering: Oi! You up there, old currant bun!

Here’s the template for a perfect summer sky !

i can't get hungover,
yet somehow i know the feeling.
i know the feeling because you were like
alcohol to me.
i am fatigued and weak,
when just before you came around i was
becoming strong again.
i became thirsty and
i really believed that you were
the cure.
in reality, i needed more water...
not more of you.
my decreased need of sleep makes sense.
after all, how can i sleep with the
pains that you bring me
constantly?
concentrating is so difficult,
whether its on a movie I'm watching or
even my school work.
everything has become a chore,
and the sunlight burns and i can't seem to
keep myself focused for more than a few seconds before
i go back to nowhere land.

even though I've never been hungover,
i know that i am with you.
hungover on the thought and the wishes that you
would become something more than a poison to
me.

Swaying
side to side.
Head bobbing
up and down.
Nice warm feeling
freezing your chest.
Agree to anything
and everything.

Conscious afterwards,
hungover, wondering
What did I do last night?
Until the police arrive.

I want something other than ****
with the short shorts showing
everything
the low-cut crop top
exploring eyes wander over
on countless evenings
my imagination having nothing
left

I want smokey flannel
a two-day-old pony tail
boots stained by the dirt and grass
a hole in your jeans
that wasn't there when you found them

I want hungover-fastfood-drive-throughs
with my shorts and your tank top
wrinkled from your floor
your hair still wet from the morning shower

I want leggings, a t-shirt
and a backwards ball cap
while we sing loudly out the open window
tapping the dashboard off-beat
hand raised fingers pointing at the moon
laughing at the man that sits watching us drive

Mickey Mouse

When Mickey Mouse comes home hungover
He throws up ice cold Coca-Cola

He lives in a spherical house in the sky
Which he enters and exits with telescopic stilts
Which grow or shrink with every step

He is a good vertical neighbor
I live just to the right of him down below

He always stops to say hello
Or to make me laugh with a joke or pose
(One time he even stole my nose)

Sometimes I get so mad at Mickey
That I take it out on my kid
And then spent, I wonder what Mickey did?

I see the way you look at her.
You can't deny the attraction.
Why don't you do the honors?
Subtract me from that fraction!

Cause our relationship is only half of what
it was.
You had me drunk on love but now I'm just
slightly buzzed.

City rush me
Pretty push
Did he see?
The wish on
*******
Sunday I thought
A rush of pluses +++
He won
Be on time if not - - -

Monday be
good to me
Rumors
Fantasy thoughts
I am
What I am
Not Popeye
Going day back
I need a third eye
I am
All free
Robin
Bird
From
everyone

Wait!!

Don't rush me
I love everyone*

Newspaper's
Sunday
Daily
News
Poem
touchdown
My poem stood
With the others
I bowed ((Gladly))

Waking up
To a Racers- mouth
Ray_ speed lover
No homework

All game
Sunday_
Candles burned
The House flamed

"Procrastinator"
I'll be back
"Destroyer-Terminator"
Coffee drug me percolator
He April fools her
Shopping Sunday
right up magnifying
dress

He is back
Not the future
Smart *** tricks
On the Escalator
He Jeremy irons out
her clothes
That's it!!!

Never rushed
on Sunday
To make
a mob hit

The call girls
Busy- tight pants
So Panicked Monday's
religiously
Hooked in
Scientology

So ****** in
Not to ever kiss
her on a
Sunday
He bunked into ((God))
Poem ritual bunk bed
Well NYC
Cabbie, he
will
never
take it
on Sunday

The big game
crazies
The flower
shops
of horror
Emptied
out with
Moms
Tiger
Lillies
Smelling

Mad Men hungover

Rush hour
Tv movie
Hangover
Jet game
Sprinkler
shower

Opening up
The door to his
apartment
Big Girly
hoarder mess
After a
long talk
night

Saturday Night
Brooklyn
The Disco Queen
bridge-sight
His Mom
is still oiling
His BMW Racecar
with
Hot fire Crisco
he
will never
be
rushed
out the door
His car
never
starts
Sunday
or a
Monday

Teased on
Tuesday
Wednesday
shes wild
Thursday
Ladies
drink
for free_

She got
her husband
to buy
her cushion
cut square
On Sunday
Do it or dare
She's
hanging
low

Times Square

Girly rough
Brooklyn
tough
Channel
blush
On Sunday
he is so
wired bushed

Fill my glass
  of vintage
    pleasures,
  top it til the
bubbly overflows,
   as memoirs
    & recollections
    effervesce
     beyond lucid
         drunkenness,
   hungover midst
       an endless
         toasting of
            intoxicated
               sensibilities

Standing with Marshal Gebbie

No trumpet sounds.  
No banner bleeds.  
Just the quiet hum  
of satellites watching  
what we dare not name.

Power does not sleep,
it drips  
from trade routes,  
from whispered sanctions,  
from the tremble  
of a diplomat’s hand  
hovering over the red phone.

We are not at war,  
but we rehearse it  
in algorithms,  
in tariffs,  
in the way maps  
shrink and swell  
without consent.

The empire is hungover,  
but still it walks,
barefoot through proxy fields,  
cloaked in plausible deniability.

And we,  
the breathers between borders,  
write poems  
on the backs of embargoes,  
sing lullabies  
in contested airspace,  
and pray  
that silence  
is not mistaken  
for surrender.

In response to the text: "who wants to get ******* this weekend?"
I reply: I'll bring donuts, Gatorade, and Cards Against Humanity.
I tell the girls that the snacks are for them, so they don't get too drunk or hungover.
But really I know myself too well, and I binge when I feel lonely.
Its hard not to feel lonely, when you're the only sober one there.

At the Party:

Never Have I Ever reveals more than I ever thought it would.
I might be the oldest, but I am by no means the most mature.
Things I have never heard of, things I could have never thought of are things of which they speak.
Two donuts are gone.

Their alarms all go off at 10:00 for birth control. They take out their mini purse packs of 30 pills, no bigger than a credit card.

I don't take birth control, because my periods are regular, and well:

Depression+antidepressants+confusion of sexuality= no *** drive at all.
I mean zip, zero, nothing.

Leaving me to be the only ****** of the six girls here.
Three donuts are gone.

Hours ago though, I took my 300mg of Seroquel XR.
I timed it just right.
This time I won't fall asleep hours before everyone else

'Pong' requires drinking so I sit their and watch.
Four donuts are gone

Shots are taken.
I pour more tea into my mug.
Five Donuts are Gone

Drunk face-timing old friends who have moved away results in much yelling, and her hanging up.
I start a new group text where I talk only to myself.
All Donuts are gone

*There is no wonder why alcohol and depression don't mix

Everyone’s sleepwalking through city square
It’s twelve fifty seven
And seventy families have bled black against Israel’s rockets

Come Sunday morning
The drunks in my hometown
Will be too hungover to recognise their own faces
While Palestinians across the world
Will have to sort through the bones of dead relatives

This country was built on colonial empathy
Freedom from suffering through self-absorbed apathy

We’re all sewn to our seats
Caring for nothing

One is seemingly more impressed
by the less endowed or blessed
when somewhat incapacitated
and borderline inebriated;
the monstrous unconscious
disregards the likelihood
of fathomless undergarments
in other dubious departments.

Disregard the random blotches
or the involuntary discharges
instead revel in model tonsils
and almond shaped parcels
the comets of multi-notches
like a strange attraction
for disheveled carpets.

The blossoms of toxins
a libation ensemble
almost near horizontal
each movement a bent nozzle
like a prehistoric Narwhal
dancing like a jackhammer
with the elegance of a cement mixer
a broken leaking fissure
seeping vapid glamour
and indecipherable grammar.

The paraphrased clichés
and communiques of praise
like lost prophets put on display
caught in the ricochet of overplay
making an exit with the grace
of a stumbling ballet
down a poorly-lit
nightclub passageway.

Ultimately this can only lead to
the face-plant moment-of-tomorrow
the flooded memory of the-night-before
feeling utterly spent
hungover and hollow
with ill conceived consent.

The: Oh. My. God!
The: He/She is still here,
what do I say?
Hoping inexorably
they would just get up
and silently fade away.

Beer Goggles:
remember to drink sensibly,
or run the risk of
nasty STD's
or unwanted pregnancy
or breathless infidelity
or reckless insincerity
or if you're really lucky,
just another
session in therapy.

The Rules of Online Dating Poem
(8/5/2014)

Rules start the moment we decide to do online dating.
You can't choose Christian Mingle, because things get too spicy there.
You can't choose JDate, because they all want to sign pre-nup's.
You can't choose Plenty of Fish, because who wants to date a fish?
... I mean, I'm pretty sure that's illegal in most countries.
Grindr is great, but we're talking about the rules of online dating... Dating.

Now, OkCupid is where it's at.
Okay see here, you need a username.
Something quirky.  How about 'Quirky?'
Oh, that's taken, so add numbers!
The website suggested 'Quirky 69' ... okay, maybe no numbers.
Quirky_Cat, because everything on the internet is better with cats.

Let's move on to selecting several profile pictures.
Dust off your digital archives, and find one from that time you tanned.
Ever take a funny photo eating food?  Perfect, feed it to your fans.
Is it Halloween?  Because I'm thinking Headless Torsoooo!!!
Annnnd for good measure, let me take a selfie.

The hardest part is answering the match-making questions.
My soul is searching for its soul mate, and there can only be one.
It's like the heart hunger games.  
Who can shoot their compliments with the precision of a bow and arrow,
right through the wall of cats I've accumulated from being single so long?
The first one to make me feel so alive I want to die,
but not before devouring a pint of ice cream, wins!!

SO ANSWER THESE CRUCIAL QUESTIONS:
1, Is astrological sign important to you in a match?
YOU BETTER NOT BE A GEMINI
2. Are you a cat person or a dog person?
I DON'T DATE CAT-DOG HYBRID PEOPLE, JUST BE A PERSON PLZ
3. If you turn a left-handed glove inside out, it fits?
MY ****
4. Would you be willing to meet someone from OkCupid in person?
IF YOU ANSWER NO, *** ARE YOU DOING HERE
That concludes today's question answering.  
Stay tuned for rules on writing the self-summary.

Rule #1 - Bang your head on the keyboard for 12 minutes.
This is a mandatory, required start to every OkCupid profile.
Rule #2 - Use a lot of cliches
Don't worry if you don't know any, just copy some from someone else.
Rule #3 - Say you are bad at writing self-summaries in your self-summary
That's a good one.
Rule #4 - Say what you are good at... which duh, is your writing skills.
I mean you have a liberal arts degree after all.
Rule #5 - Tell them you are a real person, not fake.
Some folks need to hear this to get over the imaginary people they dated.

Rules require structure, and structure is built by bullet point lists.
So first bullet point, favorite books:
- Quickly go find the titles of everything you had to read in high school.
Second bullet point, favorite movies, and variety is key here:  
- Include musicals, rom coms, at least one low-budget indie film,
    a foreign film or two, and throw in a few Disney flicks for good measure.
Third bullet point is what will make or break you, music:
- For gay men this will mean you're only allowed to pick female divas, so...
To the tune of 'Kokomo' by The Beach Boys.
There's Britney and Whitney, ooh I wanna take ya,
to Rhianna, Madonna, ooh and then there's Robyn.
But Queen Bey, J. Monae, Miley, and Christina,
Katy Perry, and Coldplay, because they count anyway.
Cher, and Cher, and Cher, and Cher, and Cher.

Alright alright.  We've had our fun, but now it gets serious.
The profile is going to ask us to advertise ourselves like products.
Of course we are going to comply.
5 foot 6.  145 pounds.  Brown hair, Hazel eyes.
Bi-lingual and knows how to use a tongue.
Annual income?  More like outgo, as in out goes my money.
Do I use drugs?  Only if they're free.
Do I diet?  As in drink diet soda, as opposed to regular?
Slightly hungover on Sundays.
Can send more pictures of cats I wish were my pets, upon request.

Alright, start stalking people for endless hours,
sending messages sporadically.
Good news!  We're ready to do online dating.

But...  what if I don't really know what I want?
Maybe online dating isn't for me.

I'm sorry I stole your *****.
I'm sorry I texted you drunk.
I'm sorry I yelled at you.
I'm sorry I always forget to take my medication.
I'm sorry I still haven't told you I've been seeing her.
I'm sorry I fell asleep.
I'm sorry I cried on the phone.
I'm sorry I texted you on New Year's Eve.
I'm sorry I can't love you back.
I'm sorry I sent you pictures.
I'm sorry I sent him pictures.
I'm sorry I blamed you for my heartbreak.
I'm sorry I only come to you with heartbreak.
I'm sorry I forgot to water the plants.
I'm sorry I got blood on your jacket.

In a desperate attempt to  save hello  from near destruction the evil man ****** but yet charming in all togather strange way.
Elliot had a moment of true brillance   To get the anchors of hello togather  in a nice beach house.
Okay it  was a soon to be condemed rat trap hotel  on the Jersy shore and film it.

My worries were alerted already  for I was  really  wasnt up for making a **** .
Who am i kidding  sure i am.
But like when momma  gonzo told me that fat *****  in the red suit
wasnt really santa  just a child  molester.
I was wondering why santa  was  giving out candy in july
And why that candy cane was never in his pocket .
So the **** thing was off  it was to be a reallity show.

Freee ***** a chance to act up like a three year old hyped up on cookies    and crystal **** or whatever the kids were into these days.
They had me  sold so like a flock of segulls we ran   we ran so far away  eventhough  probation  said no my    gonzo sense said yes hey  lindsy lohan told me it sounded like  great idea  and who can argue with a crazy coke head.  

So we gathred in the bleek hope of saving hello from total boredom  and thoose hiku  writting nazis   from poetry soup.
Jack, Baths, Chris,Eileen,Gary,Paula,And that ***** Gonzo  
really  im so insecure  must just be that time of the month.

The rooms reminded me as a cross between the bates motel
and something outta the shining yes charming indeed.
We had the top floor  I always liked being on top but enough with the
forplay children.

The rooms  were picked  okay guys over there   girls come with me it was worth a try.  
The rooms were picked the honey moon suite  
going to me and Jack   ahh ****    there were strobe lights  stripper pole heart shapped  hot tub   jesus it was like  elton john had thrown  up in here  at least it smelled like it.

elliot had made it clear the bar tab was on us but knowing what a true sweetheart  he was he had somehow  left me his credit card
in my wallet maybe without knowing it.

One thing bout  are weird kinda umm  well  funny smelling digs  
there was a true blessing there  a bar   for what is a gonzo without his bar   much like a samuri  without his sword or a mean twig model without her cellphone  to throw  and finger to put down her throat to puke   memories   all alone in the moonlight dam you cats.

With some simple calls  the party was in full swing  and are shuttle bus slash   pinto had us at the hotest club slash retirement  home.
The music blasting so low as to not cause   bowel problems.
Me and Chris showing the old farts  how to play beer pong.
Missed shot  drink up grandma and please put your clothes on
****** you gravity.

Jack  kept the dance floor jumping  with his  fake mustache  little captians hat   and some other leather gear  once told me one thing that ****** was fahasion forward  you go girl.

Paula, Baths and Eileen   worked the newly  started  card game. You dont know how to gamble?  
Well are girls are happy to show ya gramps
Gary had disapeared  to the rest room  for some odd reason.
How he did put a smile on thoose  old ladies faces  seinor care
aint it grand they were were just glowing  what a odd place to be giving reading.

After we had hustled i mean  helped thoose old folks outta there life savings  it was time to party  really  they were almost dead  anyways
and a  funeral plot is overrated   just do what my  uncle did with his ex wife  tell everyone  one she went on vacation and bury her in backyard.

I'll never go tressure hunting again.
We hit the club like  like a hurricane that was laced with wild turkey   and   and a few rational thoughts.

The night was magic   for the money dissappeared   in seconds so like  any broke ***  writers  would do when facing  a fifteen thousand dollar bar tab.
We got the **** outta there.
Thank  god for a restroom window never mind me miss
im with security  and may i say you have a great rack.

The hotel reaked of mayhem and  a old winos ****  and maybe a dead
corpse or two.
HaAHahaha they'll never find you Drew.

It was like the cover of Sgt  Pepers lonley hearts club band  you know by   that classic group the backstreet boys.  
Yes drinking it doesnt effect the mind at all   now who the **** are you?

Dwarfs  junkies   men wearing sailors hats and **** straps did Jack have a dance  troupe?
Hookers drag queens  holy bat crap wonder woman   Lady Ga Ga.
Seems she had crashed into are pinto parked in the the street ******   Chris  i told you park it on the side walk  like me.

Jack  as  if  in a trance  was on stage with the  space alien ******
known as Ga Ga   it was a match made in a state   thats probaly filled with crazy people  like  Utah  or Canada.
Okay im kidding i love Canada  and i just learned it's a country
oh no wonder they hay have fences  I just thought they was a gated  community.  

Paula hit the floor after her third drink   and would probaly question   why somone  had written this space for rent  on her forehead
But like a true man that i was i would  blame that on Gary.

Chris and Eileen  danced laughed I had this odd feeling they were close   as Baths replied no **** sherlock  now pour me another  wine
befor i kick you in the *****   she is a charmer.

The crew fliming are madness  as togather we all danced apon the bar  but for some odd reason the ground had tilted and only effected me  dam UKs and there ninja abiltys and Garys knack for floating  on air.
I went down like a cheerleader on prom night hitting my head apon the floor.

Out like a stripper at a frat boys party after she had   beer and roofie
cocktail.
I was taken to a magical place  were  whiskey  flowed  like water
and you didnt have to pay for ***.

I awoke  in a hospital bed   head taped up  surrounded  by friends
the doctor asking many questions puzzled I made no sense.
Dear Lord this man has   brain dammage the doctor said.

The nurse leaned over  her  low cut top hey it's my write okay.
Brought a gleam to my devilish eyes   hey i mouthed   to Chris
I can see her *******.

Well  Gonzos fine  Chris replied.
As From the restroom there was a clatter
so i did turn my hungover head to see what  the **** was a matter.            

Jack appeared from the rest room Ga Ga in arm.
naked as bald eagle   void of feathers.

Gary.  Hey  i always herd  she was a .

Chris  Thats just ******* weird.

Paula. Who's the ***** who wrote on my forhead?  

Eileen.  it wasnt Chrisey poo.

Baths. Jesus  Gonzo your   long winded  crazy   and good looking
yeah i added that       hey don hit me i just had a near sober experience.
dam gaga is really a.

Jack  yeah and im in love my my my  poker face

FIN

Back we go, again and again
into that void of
hangovers, bitter-sweet,
and bruised arms and legs.
Melancholic, involuntary smiles
wash away in the shower
with sleep dusted eyes that
barely caught a doze.
Headaches that make walls
quake and rooms spin
whilst cooking greasy breakfasts
and shaking heads.
But back we go again,
how many times now?
Hoping to forget;
dive into that beautiful void.

Recall when you feel
of course you don't
don't mean to interrupt
it sometimes makes me forget

when the nights have been so numb
you don't even remember routine
a vicious cycle of not remembering
when even vicious is not visceral.

Person per person
Have told me their ruts
It takes time to get out
For me, fruitless yells of 'get out.'

Instead of ruminating, you stew
Instead of contemplation, you fester
Instead of crescendo, you ******.
Through hoops of negative feedback loops.

You sink until beyond your point of bearing
Every cell in your body becomes saturated
with pale thoughts that make the water dry
so dry, you become breathless of a different kind.

Except it is known well, and only you know
you hide it, because these thoughts crave isolation
don't show among people so they won't be affected
but its because these thoughts know you're far worse

You can't function during nights
yet it still knows how to engineer
the perfect circumstance to keep descending
to that nadir which has no bottom.

People make you sick
Things once enjoyed, tire and bore you
Ideologies are far away on a plane
You could never catch

Because the fever you caught
Makes you see the ends
Don't justify the means
It all seems so pointless.

bombardment, attrition, unrelenting.

And for once, you are granted a small reprieve.
The morning hungover from intense thoughts
Happy that for once
I don't despair to just be.

Spitting up the mucus lining
the back of my throat
binding my gag reflex
to every breath.

I hope I don't choke.

Stomach lining
forcing it's way up
and out my throat.
Sliding it's way back down
into my lungs.
Coughing and burning
my air ways. The pain is profound.

It looked like cold bbq sauce at first
but as the forced
contractions became less dispersed
Every thing became more clear.
Whiskey had put me here...

*It didn't hold you down and make you drink it.