Outside of a bar in a North Carolina strip mall, stone cold sober because I am scared to use my fake, I feel drunk as you sit next to me. Perhaps I am. I'd have to be to think maybe, maybe, maybe, when I know, I know, I know.

Your hand brushes against mine, and you're saying the most beautiful words I've ever heard, and the fire in my heart spreads up, down, left, right. But it cannot spread just four inches outside of my body. It cannot set you on fire, too.

We listen to each other and hear two very different things. You are birdsong outside of my window that I am eager to hear; I am traffic outside of your window you've learned to tune out at bedtime.  

If there are nine million bicycles in Beijing, then Beijing is my insides and bicycles are your name, because it is written on my insides nine million times. But there are no bicycles on Antarctica. There is no use for them there, just as there's no use for my name to be perched on a straight girl's ribs.

You tell me my weird hobby of listening to French rap music is awesome, that it's so cool that I'm teaching myself three languages, and that you want to be me when you grow up - I laugh, because you're several years older than me. Selfishly I catch every droplet of your praise.  I ruminate on it for hours, for days. It means more to me than it should.

My name sounds like a compliment from your mouth. I try not to say yours too often, so you don't grow tired of me being around. If I can't set your insides on fire, I want you to want to be my friend. Even that feels like I ask for too much.

In every scene, I see you in the foreground of the narrative. For me, it would be on honor to be one of your background characters. Narratives are richer with them anyway.

I look at you and you are the Harry Potter movie marathon I wait months for. For you, I am the 2 am infomercial you fell asleep to. But I don't mind half as much as I should. Even white noise has its place in someone's life.

people find it hard
to believe happiness
because for many,
it’s much more of a myth
or a hazy recollection
than it is something real
and rational and
to be aspired too

love and hope
and dreams
have taken on this air of
imagination
in recent generations

for a brief moment,
they were truly believed in
by the adults
by the people in charge
by the whole wide world
even as everything they knew before
had crumbled and wrecked
to a state beyond
their power to
repair

but it was that desolate place the world was
that drove the people to believe in such fancy
and frivolous thoughts

because if they had not,
the world would’ve withered
and died, like a cow so old
you know there’s no hope
or a flower so far gone
that you don’t mind to let it
wilt

those times went though,
like a leaf upon the wind,
as the children began acting
as the adults and followed
their dreams to a land so
few actually reached


and as the adults saw their failure
and the children saw the adults flee
the belief in love, in hope, in dreams,
in morals, in rites, in traditions, in
togetherness, in family, in belief-

failed

and

sunk

the last tip of the ship leaving the surface
with the first person who believed in the
infomercial

we do not know what we can do
because we do not believe we can
do anything

happiness, as I started this all out with,
is not a bed-time story

it is very real
and it is very
powerful

but in each average person’s life
they get to experience only once
or twice, seeming like a random
occurrence, and thus cementing
in so many people’s minds that
it is

but it is not

happiness comes from knowing how to be happy

it’s not about sacrifice
or faith
or hard-work
or dedication

it’s about knowing who you are,
what the world is,
and how you
can make
the best
of it

this is not some secret art

it is a simple idea:
that happiness can be controlled

and it’s execution is even simpler:

how can I be happy?
how can I be happy,
forever?

The dried petals of a once green love
snake through the beige carpet--
along with potato chips,
along with icy *****,
along with grey ash of cheapshit incense,
my empire soles trample in after work.

Susan smiles and tries to reheat the leftovers.
Our bulging bellies match from a marriage of coping strategies,
stretch mark'd and daydreaming of
other seasons; sweat on foreign sheets,
other napes; Mediterranean baby's breath,
other scents; a choice between gardenia and gasoline,
Susan's a liar.
Of deceit--I've grown tired.

Newspaper, newspaper bring me a bullet.
Doorbell, doorbell bring me a blushing nomad in need of bruising.
Ringtone, ringtone bring me DHS and an actual Friday.

Susan tucks me in to the Lullaby of the Infomercial,
her fingernail seeps into my lower lip.
I roll onto my side.

I come with an empty bottle guarantee
Take all of me.
If you're not happy with what you received
send me back empty
no questions asked.
And I'll return all our memories.

Eating hot dogs in D.C.
Late night breaks at truck stops
during our 28 hour round trip to see what made me.

You can play me like a violin
or use me to wipe your tears away.
If I am out of tune
or if I'm not absorbent enough
send me back used.

Treat me like a balloon
I'll be there when your kidneys fail
with a message of hope just for you.
But if that is not enough
send me back deflated.
I'll pay the postage.

Unfortunately, if you order now
I come with nothing else.
Just me, and what you see.
If I don't fill you up
send me back empty
and I'll return all our memories.

The sky is solid, gray, motionless.
Shuffling bodies with obscured shadows
Make haste for shelter
From the stark, lifeless outside
With its grass that only lives if watered,
The always leafless trees,
And the carcinogenic air.
Looking upward,
Through the smoggy haze,
One sees the neon silhouettes
Floating in the sky,
Atop the glass and steel monoliths.
They speak to those below,
Of subtle, clandestine oligarchy.
Subconsciously belittling the anonymous masses,
"We are Titans, you are rats."
Say the towers,
As the populace quietly passes over stained concrete and asphalt,
Wearing breathing masks,
Saying not a word to the thousands they pass.

We make haste in this world.
We cannot afford to help a stranger,
To make a detour with a view,
To get your child that gift they really want.
So fiercely we have been strangled
That empathy is illogical.
"What a world" we all say,
As we avoid eye contact with the hungry;
As we change the channel from the melodramatic infomercial
About starving, disease-ridden children somewhere else;
As we console ourselves with hollow entertainment and intoxication,
To keep the guilt at bay,
To keep the thoughts at bay,
"Just do what's best for you,
Don't step out of line,
Shuffle in,
Follow the queue.
That's all you can do."

There are moments in life
Experiences
Where the minutes feels like hours
The days feel like years
The weeks
A lifetime
Looking up at the sky
Or the clock in the watershed
While it was done to you
To me
The strangling, the fighting
The crying, screaming, tossing and turning
Over and over again
They say it’s the last time
That they’ve changed
Born again
But
No
It’s not true
And here they are again
The daddy and the mommy
Names given to flesh-tearing monsters
And lusting jackals
Gleeful devils and
Shadows on the wall
Laughing and *******
Pulling knives and nails form their womb
To bury us in an keep us there
Fiends wrapping themselves in avarice
And sweltering babes roasting over the iron fire
Where fingers and tongues push and pull
Your insides
Thrusting and moaning to weekly
Mixed tapes and infomercial gurus
Batting eyes to static gods and god haters
Feasting in my tears
For the last time before my very own fingers
Become jagged spears and
Raging teeth
To pull apart the wolf in sheep’s clothing
Jerking his **** over your face and whispering
Bibles verses to an invisible
Congregation
Who holler and praise
The almighty lord
Who watches over us and
Places bets with the Devil in the aftermath of
Melting, dissolving, sacred bond
That is till death does them part
In sickness or in health
With broken bottles, wheel jacks
Kitchen blades, handguns, bare-knuckle fists
And those friends wonder why
Why I’m alone and
Why I can’t do the same things they do
Speak the way they speak
Understand what is so easy for them
School is a foreign concept that plagues our life
Its mere system mocks us
Saying I’m
We’re different, special, needed attention
Counselling, treatment, guardians
Medications.
Lost
So lost are they
For not seeing the truth
But the lies are more convenient
To the slothful ignorant
The fearful cowards
Wrathful misguided
Wrongful accuser
Lustful solicitor
All groping, kissing, grabbing
Slapping, hitting, tearing, bleeding
*******, licking, copulating
Red-eyed mongols throbbing over and
Drooling and spitting
Beating and killing
Flinging bodies against the wall and
Smashing the heads of children over the
Burning bridges of sycophant minds
Taking away the innocence
Laced with birth
Where our loveless bodies harden
And become blank and
Emotionless
And see the painted veil
That hid the original art
Of the first painter of the sky


The thing about being suicidal is,
No one knows you are till you’ve already done it.

And people say those who off themselves are selfish
When all they want is a release.

They still love you,
And are assured others love them.

But it’s not about love.
It’s when vengeance and fate aren’t enough

When tears dry up

And distress runs it course

My first-aid kit drys up in the sun, but everything important still works after I shake out all the love.
The words I need to release next can dance a seizure in your chest.
A prom of the heart.

It feels strange to whisper caving secrets across a desert.
Like how I fear that I'll run out of skin before patience.
How lots has been bleeding since we last spoke.
And how it feels better to rain over an aqua covered Monday, than to drown my lobes into infomercial.

Good morning miss,
how do you do?
I have something very special today to offer you!
Oh, wouldn't you like to know what it is?
I know you're busy, ma'am-- it won't be but a bit

Thank you, ma'am.

Now, take a gander at this--
We live in a very advanced age,
With much to do that cannot be missed!
With television and telephones and magneato-static tape,
We can easily forget-- get lost-- frequently lose our place!

But with this brand new...
eh..
thingermadoo!
You'll find your worries quickly erased!

..Well yes ma'am, if you'll let me finish.

Now see, its easy!
All it takes is a tune
a look, a whistle, even a fingertap'll do
This magic machine
listens to your needs!

It's small, and light,
and shatters quite
easily.
So you'll want to have it on hand.
For safekeeping!

It listens to you,
like no man would do
And ensures you are the best you can be!
Once you pay the price,
you won't need think twice--
Yes ma'am!
all the knowledge you could want in the world, to a T!

How does it do it?
Well you really needn't ask
It works through the mutual human task!
Every man, woman, and child comes together to contribute
It does not discriminate, you do not pay tribute
No ma'am no, this machine seeks no gold
Just you, is what it wants. It simply wants you.

You'll take it? That's great! I'll get you in next shipment
they're sourced from a faraway place, but it won't take but an instant!
With boats and planes and automobiles,
We'll get it to you
We'll make sure of that, words true.

We're excited for this!
You won't believe what you've missed!
And very quickly you'll find the world just doesn't do
without constant supervision from the...
eh..
thingermadoo.

Now if you'll excuse me, miss--
you have a nice night.

I thought it was me
The whole time.… it was you.
Convincing me that I had been the enemy
Tearing down all that’s familiar around me
Accepting too much
Placing things too high for reaching…
I have yet to find the stool
You are only seeking perfection
Is that not too farfetched?
Amid the worlds imperfection?
A glory that I, myself, have not yet attained
I am only seeking what’s worthy
Surely, I am deserving of that
The enemy…
Feeling like I must conform
To the ways and for the likes of you
When I don’t even know you…
So for now on, I’ll be sleeping
With the t.v. off.

-Sydnē Deon

I wanted to write a poem
about the incessant discomfort
I always feel in my left eye
whenever my contact lenses
become old and dry
I thought about how it tickles
but scratches at the same time
and starts off alright
just a minor annoyance
but quickly, overtime
becomes almost unbearable
like my pre-school bully himself
is folding down one of my eyelashes
just enough for it to poke me
at the slightest movement
then I thought about how
I'd sooner write a poem about my life
and how it started out equally alright
and quickly, overtime became almost unbearable
as if my pre-school bully didn't do it right

so I found him in his adult life many years later
wife, two kids and a mortgage
yappy staffy-cross, two cars
and an alright job as a graphic designer
his garden full of gorgeous flowerbeds,
a full head of hair and a fading right hook
"MAKE ME FEEL **** LIKE YOU DID THEN."
a puzzled look on his face,
garden hose flooding his drive and the yappy
staffy-cross still yapping away
at the living room window
"I'M DEAD SERIOUS ANDREW,
NOTHING HURTS LIKE IT USED TO."
so he called the police
and I never got to feel young again
unless you count scurrying away from
a council estate under the threat of
a poor meal at Parkside police station
the rekindling of my youth

so this is my infomercial poem
about how not to confront someone
always be fully clothed
that's very important
avoid being drunk
any mind altering substance
is best avoided in my opinion
remember just because you care
just because you remember
does not mean anyone else does
oh and
don't eyeball craft beer when
you still have your contacts in
you know what?
-just don't eyeball craft beer

Your bony knees, like shovels,
bury themselves into your tummy.
Your hands clasped before your heart;

You've taken the shape of a praying child,
while you sleep on the couch.

The glow from the television bounces off
the sharp lines of your face.
blue,
and black, then fully lit,
and dark again.

The host from this infomercial
explains why my life is incomplete,
in three volume notches higher
than anyone should ever speak;  

It chops, dices, and something or the other,
"Satisfaction guaranteed!"

It is the first week of winter
and my limbs have turned to icicles
to prove the calendar right.
I'd like to slither my way under your blanket,
I'd like to tell you that I love you,
but I should not wake you with such
ordinary words.

I tuck my cold hands and inadequate feelings
into my sweater sleeves
and continue watching just about the ******* TV.

A well worn path in the grass
A permanent smudge on the bell
Both put there by U.P.S.
Bringing me more of which I delve

Whether Infomercial or Shopping channel
Maters not they're both the same
I have both they're 800 numbers
They have both my number and name

My family thinks I have a problem
It's plain to me they don't understand
Shopping and T.V...the best of worlds
With remote grasped firmly in hand

And the deals, why they keep on coming
3 easy payments are done in a snap
I might have a bit of a habit
But it's not like I'm addicted to crack

Of course I only purchase what's needed
Though every so often I do have to splurge
But only if the object is shinny
On that you do have my word

Now if you'll pardon me, here's a new item
And they're getting ready to spill the deal
By the way, I'm also expecting a package
Would you kindly listen out for the bell

leave the tv on switching channels every minute
for something you have not seen,
then lose the remote somewhere in the bed,
now, you stuck on an infomercial for fulfilling
a need you did not know you were needing

play ka-glom, an older version,
of candy crush
while not watching tv,
but hearing the sounds as warmth, comforting

read poetry, write some,
trivial sit puff stuff,
like this or
stuff about suicide - argh
and every pandora ballad
rhymes with everyone sad

poet up to take a ****,
visit the vast emptiness
of the refrigerator cause
you ate it all, and was
consumed thereby


The two concessions to
Pretend
is you leave her side of the bed
undisturbed
and the lights off

and when she calls
and asks how ya sleeping,
you say fine, for what else
can you say,
you already wrote
so exquisitely,
re life without her here,
sad mad bad

the boss knocks into your chair,
around three in the sleepy afternoon,
thinking
"that boy, what a party animal!"

*ain't that the truth...

Real life isn't like T.V.
It doesn't cut away to commercial.
It doesn't end always end in resolution.
Real life is messy and it's loud.
Its watching a marriage of several decades
Snuffed by the end that takes us all.
It's being more empty then you've ever felt.
It's music played loudly and substances abused.
It's poor choices and poorer results.
It has more problems then fit in to a thirty minute slot.
Life doesn't get resolved at the end of the season.
Sometimes it breaks you.
Real life isn't a hero saving the day.
It doesn't get a clear antagonist.
The villain is the never ending eternal grind.
Real life is full of broken promises and lost dreams.
Full of half people and drifting hearts.
But every now and then, as it will
When the chaos adds up just so
and the events cascade in the right way
Real life is just like T.V.
Once in a moment
You find everything you need.
Because long after the reruns turn infomercial
Real life continues on.
It lasts forever but for us,
It's over in the blink of an eye.
But that's not scary.
Endings are ok.
Because if you have that someone.
You never have to fear closing your eyes.

Our love was like an infomercial
The closest we came to connection was the wifi we once shared
But what can I say
I'm yours and my heart waits for the day the torrent will guide you back to me

ive dodged bullets bigger than my head
fired by guns in the hands of the lost & lonely
by all rights i should surely be splattered, dead
the gray matter lodging in my skull is my one & only
my neuro-circuits are a circus blaring classic jazz
emanating from my ears and causing a regular razzmatazz

my heart, i know it beats only for a limited time
like an infomercial, superficial in the way it teases me
but my head, it knows the differences between reason & rhyme
money equals madness and the line between land & sea
at the same time, i feel it disintegrating as it sits worriless
and I ask myself, "could you really care less?"

but when the day comes when my heart & head agree
i know it will be near the end and i'm okay with that
no longer will i scurry like a hungry squirrel, endlessly
i will not walk around with the curiosity of a newborn cat
looking for my head, examining this hypothetical ****** mystery
for it won't be dead like my heart will claim it to be

I will be okay
If for Christmas I get what I want,
I don't want an iPhone, those new boots or any of that infomercial junk.
I want to be together again,
I want to be a family,
But I don't think that is something Santa can bring me.
It used to be okay, I mean, it was never great,
But it was definitely better than this.
You were supposed to be family, always there for me,
You used to be there for me and I want that again,
But I don't think that is something Santa can bring me.
You haven't talked to me in over a month and I wonder,
Where are you Daddy, why haven't you called me?
Call me, Dad
That is what I want for Christmas.
Forget those neon guitar picks
Because that is something Santa can bring me.
I want you to call and be honest
Honest
And to be honest... that is something Santa can't bring me.

If i was here to make you happy
Then we should probably cancel this infomercial because you're never going to be convinced to enjoy my existence
It's in the way you speak
Trying to pillage the core
Make me feel weak
That's the best you got?
We're about to reach extra innings
Come to bat

I have a switch.
Won’t someone turn me on?
Push my buttons.
Listen to me hum.

How lonely I have been
upon this counter top.
Remembering a time
when my motor never stopped.

Once so indispensable,
saving money, space and time.
But my faded almond housing
says that I am past my prime.

I curse Ronco and Popeil.
I curse China and Taiwan.
I curse the girl who had to have me.
Her fascination quickly gone.

Can you hear me crying?
Where is my infomercial now?
My three-easy payments over.
Guarantee void anyhow.

Won't someone push my button?
Won't you listen to me hum?
Here I sit, just waiting
for that yard sale sure to come.

they tell us from a young age
to be ourselves
yet we're expected
to be like everyone else

I made my own
snowflake world
special to me
yet others found strange

they stalked their celebrity crush
and listened to rap
while obsessing over shoes
expecting others to do the same
why do I get looks
for being in my own world?

bzzrtt
-here comes loud obnoxious infomercial voice-
stop diverting
hide yourself
conceal away your desires

you are flawed
we can help
you're just one payment away
from sheep like happiness
bzzzrtt

falling under their spells
i was doomed from the start
i'm like every other teenage girl
dealing with this lipstick chaos
now I am jejune

and saying,
"You signed up for this."
I only speak to myself.
Like most artists,
I barnacle stories out of friends,
without any return discourse,
until they are deflated.
I discard them and search for
the next inspiration.

I go for walks with a dim moon
and shy stars for company.
I see faces through apartment windows,
lit by infomercial-spouting television sets.
I pass neighborhood after neighborhood
bearing rustic names, Pine-this-or-that,
Cedar Bend, or some similar ****;
yet the natural world hasn't been tangible for sometime.

Joy is a mirage that passes with the night and the liquor.
Sunshine turns it to vapor,
as readers crash cars into fellow readers to
better understand empathy.

My collection of the arts does nothing aside from gather dust-
a conversation piece, an aesthetic to allude to-
but nothing of worth or personal weight.

We write to change the world,
to melt swords; to further the slaughter,
but the blood in my mouth has left a bitter taste.
There are always too many mirrors,
and I'm sick of my own face.
If all is vanity,
how is it all capable of breaking me?

each night
he would enter his boy's room  
Bobby's tomb, he had come to call it  
and turn the TV off  

before remotes, 24/7 programming
and the infomercial, plump with desperate promises
the tube gave a final hail, the stars 'n stripes whipping, the national anthem screaming, and an anonymous promise
to return tomorrow in a perfect world

it would not be perfect for Bobby,
no matter how much thoughtless Thorazine,
hazy Haldol, or mesmerizing Mellaril
they shoved down his throat

now and then
before flipping the **** to off
he would sit with his sleeping son
stare into the screen, listen to its hissing;
he would swear he saw something  
in the gray ocean of static  

not trillions of senseless electrons
busy bouncing, but a lone sailor, rowing away
in a foaming sea, riding raging swells,  
bound for a black horizon

one his tormented son
had reached long ago

If i was here to make you happy
Then we should probably cancel this infomercial because you're never going to be convinced to enjoy my existence
It's in the way you speak
Trying to pillage the core
Make me feel weak
That's the best you got?
We're about to reach extra innings
Come to bat

It's a sight everyone at the party sees
A man tries to dance
Then he fails, and runs from the party
with a missing shoe and hunched stance

He doesn't show himself again
He no longer 'let's loose'
Than he finds he's given up
As he ties the noose

He was an an idiot, now he hangs
In the dark, the abyss, in blight
He looks for a way from this dark
And sees the light...

HI, BILLY MAYS HERE WITH THE HANDY SWITCH

The television turns on, and an infomercial for him to see
Then he cuts himself down, realises this isn't his destiny

He goes to the store
Barges through the door
And than he walks in and stand proud
two feet firm on the floor

He buys the switch
Goes back to the party
He confronts the crowd, such a b__

With a spring in his step, a flare in his eyes
He pulls off the greatest dance sequence ever seen
No lies

The man impresses the crowd, gathers the attention
Though proving his worth was his main intention
He's cracking, under this pressure again
But than he realises, it's time a message is to be sent

He delivers an encore, Left, Right and ends with the Moonwalk
And than he becomes the star of the part, centre of the talk

A kid, years younger, asks him how he dug himself out of his embarrassment ditch
And he credits his abilities all to the handy switch