I buy the gluten-free protein bar, peanut butter and chocolate, because this is who I am now. This is me. This is me as a lighthouse of personal fitness, a man of discipline, of a principle or two. And I surf only the most densely populated dating apps, looking—somewhat feverishly, I must admit—for a likeminded woman, a scholar, a child of the moon, a frequent quoter of the Dhammapada, an insatiable and acrobatic lover, and I imagine her driving the dark streets seeking me. Polly in a Prius. My future muse, near but out of reach. We'll reclaim the arts district. She'll piggyback to the open mike, her ****-me shoes clicking in her hand. We'll spend a year politicizing every ****** encounter. Consensual assaults in perpetuity. And she'll say I'm a white man. And she'll say I think this is my privilege. And she'll say she's into leather and she finds my *** offensive and she'll hold my head against the wall. And at the end, if there's an end, I imagine our naked bodies wrapped in a stained comforter, all of the desire spent. I imagine our minds sober and clear, wondering how we could have ever been so kinked out, so on fire for something, and yet so ******* unable to remember a single ****** or whether or not we transcended. I'll vacuum the apartment. Polly will take her Warhol prints, pack up the Prius, and go anywhere, anywhere not here. Seattle. Maybe Portland. A few weeks will pass, and I'll find a note in whatever book I'd been reading before she left. It'll say: I loved you to the max. I loved you to the max. I loved you to the max.

Two bottles of Southern Comfort, Black Keys on iTunes, profile picture with sister, stir-fry, 30 Rock, Gorillaz poster, pancakes at 3 am, spontaneous lunch at Barone, friends with benefits, need a hug, Columbus Day, touch my ****, too much tongue, crumpled into wall in the morning, Urban Outfitters for a t-shirt, silver medal, free Dominos, Workaholics at 12, secret sleepover #2, ******* because i thought that's all he wanted from me and i wanted him to stay, hickey on my neck, studying in a room with the round table, drew a horse on the whiteboard, fill out a police report, Redgates from Firehouse, he looks cute today. Tackled into metal, did I break my back? Jump on it, it's not funny, I'm crying, cold beer, kiss on the porch, stop kissing me in 12, *******, more kissing, blood everywhere, come over, comb through hair. you can stay over again, skips class, uses my shower, makes the bed, come with me to doctor. Vermont secret, Batmobile, on Prius, dune buggies, Phantom Menace, brother-in-law, supermarket in Newfane, stir-fry, statement at 6am. Hurricane, in my basement, halloween at the fire station, knitted scarf headpiece, mother's phone number, red gate sandwiches by Citi Bank across from library. Confirmation party, Chartruese, Coldplay at Mohegan, Torches, enchiladas, screaming, stuffed wolf, comic book finishing touches at 1 am, new roommates, L.O.L., I was going to propose to you - in the hallway, 3 month long orchids, Vermont trip #2, no riding allowed, nap by the fire, bare butts touching over unscented blanket, sapphire ring too big under lamppost in parking lot, happy. Sarasota, hide my eyes with Mosley Tribes, take a walk without me, Game of Thrones, cold sand, hair dryer joke, need eye drops, Ringling Mansion, gator bites, silent walk by traffic, kayak in shallow water, families too different, bike ride to tune of Star Wars, nervous about the summer, panic into shoulder on flight home. ******* in the middle of the night, drive around campus, leave me alone, pack up N-64 games, fight before final presentation - only one group gets an A, instant milkshake and magazines to pass the time, make a pizza, here let's make out again - apparently that isn't so bad, almost forgot my friesian mug and vase by the trailer. Texting *****, sick stomach, Lord of the Rings, try smoking, Magic: The Gathering, first communion, wedding, Chip's Family restaurant, high school graduation that I couldn't sit at, Miya's with the mini *****. Fireworks on hill through trees. Retna laptop with blue cover, HGTV's Next Design Star, I have to leave. this is where I stop.

I chew Nicorette gum -
I don't smoke cigarettes

I use safety razors (not for their intended purpose),
I draft suicide notes in an app

I won't overdose - reuse my organs,
I'll drive off a bridge in a Prius

I'll turn the lights off before I go,
Turn my ashes into a tree

Somewhere in your wardrobe, I'd be willing to bet
There's a t-shirt probably bearing the silhouette of Che Guevara

He was revolutionary, yeah, he wore a cool hat
But behind the design I think you might find it's not quite as simple as that

Che was a bit of a homophobe, Che was a bit of a homophobe,
I think... apparently.. who knows?
Che was a bit of a homophobe, Che was a bit of a homophobe

This is my song in defence of the fence
A little sing along, a anthem to ambivalence
The more you know, the harder you will find it
To make up your mind, it, doesn't really matter if you find
You can't see which grass is greener
Chances are it's neither, and either way it's easier
To see the difference, when you're sitting on the fence

Somewhere in your house, I'd be willing to bet
There's a picture of that grinning hippy from Tibet - the Dalai Llama

He's a lovely, funny fella, he gives soundbites galore
But let's not forget that back in Tibet, those funky monks used to **** the poor, yeah

And the Buddhist line about future lives is the perfect way to stop the powerless rising up
And he tells the poor they will live again, but he's rich now so it's easy for him to say

I'm taking the stand in defense of the fence
I got a little band playing anthems to ambivalence
We divide the world into terrorists and heroes
Into normal folk and weirdos
Into good people and ****'s
Into things that give you cancer and the things that cure cancer
And the things that don't cause cancer, but there's a chance they will cause cancer in the future
We divide the world to stop us feeling frightened
Into wrong and into right and
Into black and into white and
Into real men and fairies
Into status quo and scary
Yeah we want the world binary, binary
But it's not that simple.

And your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive
Yea your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive
And your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive
And so does your baby, maybe you oughta trade HIM in for a Prius-
ROCK!

I'm taking the stand in defence of the fence
I got a little band playing tributes to ambivalence
We divide the world into liberals and gun-freaks
Into atheists and fundies
Into tee-tot'lers and junkies
Into chemical and natural
Into fictional and factual
Into science and supernatural
But it's actually naturally not that white and black

You'll be
Dividing us into terrorists and heroes
Into normal folk and weirdos
Into good people and pedos
Into things that give you cancer and the things that cure cancer
And things that don't cause cancer, but there's a chance they will cause cancer in the future
We divide the world to stop us feeling frightened
Into wrong and into right and
Into black and into white and
Into real men and fairies
Into parrots and canaries
Yeah we want the world binary, binary - 011101!

The more you know, the harder you will find it
To make up your mind, it doesn't really matter if you find
You can't see which grass is greener
Chances are it's neither, and either way it's easier
To see the difference
Cause it's not that simple...

Sitting on the front stoop in a cool spring breeze,
Counting cars like shooting stars,
Simple children's games not to be taken literally,
But focus on the passengers,
And perhaps you'll see,
The story behind the passing Prius or rushing Range Rover.

Perhaps you'll see,
A cobalt jaguar which holds
the tired lawyer in tight rimmed glasses and tweed jacket,
Driving to a large four bedroom,
three and a half bath house,
five kids and stressed stay at home wife.

The bills are getting harder and harder to pay as the economy crashes,
The couple is divorcing soon,
his law firm is going bankrupt,
The bills are becoming impossible to pay,
And all the stress is ******* him,
In a month he'll take his life.

Perhaps you'll see the pretty young,
16 year old blonde,
driving the second hand Subaru,
She is on her way to her high school now,
She is peering in the rear view mirror,
Trying to wipe the mascara trails off her face,
And hoping that her friends and teachers won't see the ghosts that haunt her,

Her mother died last month,
from a drug overdose,
And she was beaten again by her drunk father this morning,
and she will keep being beaten until she has the self confidence to stand up for herself,
but in the meantime,
she'll keep covering the bruises with foundation,
And wiping the tear trails,
apply  more mascara.

Perhaps if you look close enough,
You'll see the little red headed girl,
No older than four,
With large green, curious eyes,
Gazing out the window of a Honda pilot's door,
She is on her way to pick up her brother from soccer practice,
With her doting mother,

What nobody knows yet,
Is the little girl suffers from schizophrenia,
And she hears all the voices,
That tell her to do terrible things,
She has no friends in her neighborhood,
and her parents ignore her,
Focusing their energy on her all star brother,
she is all alone in this world,
just her,
The other her,
And her imaginary friend.

Looking at the passing cars,
And staring briefly at the passing passengers,
who never spare a second glance at me,
I can see these things,
or at least,
Pretend I can,
because perhaps it is easier to see the world this way,
Perhaps it is easier to agree upon the fact,
That we all have our own stories,
we face every day,
Our own struggles,
that lead us through a twisting plot,
perhaps we could all take the time,
to read other's stories,
Instead of trying to perfect our own fairy tales.

So you may say i'm like a child,
Sitting on this stoop,
but i'll just tell you,
To take a seat next to me,
and together we can,
count cars like shooting stars,
and read the passing stories.

hit with the brush of heat and the super likes
i light my cigarette and lean on my phone and
a 90s volkswagen parked next to a brand new prius
tell me don't make me wait forever, superman
is this what you want, things are changing all around us
and i could have sworn i was doing okay (finally) when
i was without you, before i even noticed your eyes
i was with trevor after class and i could've sworn
you opened your locker after i caught you staring at me

today i walked outside without your hand in mine
and i didn't know what to do with it at all
not speak of such conviction that i think the same thing
that i could be better not knowing what you're doing
who you're seeing, who your sleeping with in cold calculation
the revenge of symbols rearranging themselves
into a broken heart, summer's round the corner
and i'm wasting away thinking about you again and again

01004    (N18>N25>N86>N365)

i guess it was just one of those days that managed to be split
between two:
get up at 7am: shower, get dressed,
head out for the first shift as a supervisor at the London
stadium: starting at 9am... work until 4:30pm...
shake hands with the stewards at the end of the shift
for making my job all the more easier...
calling control (of the stadium) on my radio telling them:
there's a limping crow on the pitch, could we please remove
him? not so easily done, but done nonetheless...

finishing the shift having to master the art of moving
through spectators also leaving,
heading toward Wembley stadium,
starting the shift at 6pm and working until 11:30pm...
leaving the stadium trapped by more spectators
leaving the stadium... being | | this close to getting into
Wembley Park station: i was already planning
a swift return home... on the metropolitan line
to Liverpool St. then a quick train ride back to Romford...
obviously that wasn't going to happen...
**** man: i love this change of plan...
i watched as people were rushing to Wembley Central
station while i walked into a shop
and bought myself a bottle Coca-Cola for mixing
with whiskey at home, a packet of Sterling cigarillos,
a packet of 10: only £5.30...
a packet of crisps and a magnum milk and white chocolate
raspberry ice-cream... walked to the first bus stop...
PACKED... chicken-brain: hatch a man...
absolutely necessary to walk up stream to the origins
of the bus route... passed one bus-stop back:
packed... passed a third: packed... the fourth
at Wembley Central was empty: for a while...
before i noticed that Wembley Central was closing
and people started congregating...
oh **** this... i walked back to the fifth bus-stop...
or maybe it was the sixth...
no... no way am i going to get on a bus:
watch it get packed like a can of sardines
and stand there like a clueless *****!
i have walk back a mile and sit in the front seats
of a double decker on top: SIT... relax... after a long day...
than stick around with these sheepish folk
that would rather stand at a bus-stop with about
50 other people than figure up what salmon do...

ha! plan worked... sat up-stairs on the front two
seats... now i said to myself:
this is my favorite bus journey: from Wembley
to Romford...
first the N18... then the N25... then the N86
and finally the N365...
                                    mind you: north London grime
architecture is very different to east London
grime architecture... i prefer the London grime architecture
to the east London grime...

as i sat down i thought to myself: what i really now
for this to be an "Emirates" journey back home
is for some pretty girl to sit down next to me...
hey presto! i'm a firm believer in luck of late...
i was lucky today...
she sat down... a sort of Camila Cabello lookalike:
but much prettier... Spanish... i can decipher Spanish
when i hear it: d'uh... i could never find a Spanish girl
i found attractive: Spanish feminists and French
feminists put me off from looking...
but there she was... sitting pretty... raven hair...
glasses... blue-grey eyes... skin tone: mocha with a hint
of cinnamon and bronze...
i felt an Adam's apple in my throat choking me...
will i speak to her?
a little nudge of the leg on her part...
a little bristle of arm against on arm...
then dozing off her head almost rested on my shoulder...
i just couldn't help admire the difference in size
of our two bodies...
by thumb alone i had a thumb 1.5x larger than hers...
i looked at my shoulders in the reflexion
in the glass lit up by streetlamps...
  then i looked at her petite exposed details...
she kept flicking her hair: at one point the detailed
a style that i greatly admire: no partition down the middle:
although she pulled it off stunningly because
her raven hair was slightly bouncy: not curly:
bouncy... but then she flicked her hair to one side...
so feminine details any woman could wish to have...
naturally gracing some ancient altar of
man's admiration...

  a crescendo came when some ******* came on the bus
and was playing some ****** rap music
for us to listen to... turns out he wasn't a *******...
he ended playing Coldplay's Paradise...
the entire bus erupted in song... everyone was
singing... she was singing: me? i was just smiling...
she then asked this guy who was standing over her
(because the bus was that full that people were
also standing on the upper-deck) about whether
the N18 stops at St. Paul's...
my throat loosened and i turned around to her:

no... what you have to do is get off at Oxford Circus
and turn left onto the Oxford St. and catch
the N25 bus to St. Paul's... and as i did what i instructed
her to do... i got up and realised:
she came a magical puff of smoke never to be seen
again...
          i knew this was going to happen...
make your heart small... make your heart small...
dangerous daydreaming to begin with...
i knew nothing would come of anything like this...
do people still meet people of their dreams
in random locations in life? on buses?
or is the whole dating experience all about profiling
yourself on the internet so that people
have a boring a priori knowledge of you?
that's why dating is so ****... there's nothing to unravel...
there's nothing to discover: absolutely no thrill...

but this is most certainly my favourite route...
esp. at night... and if you can time it perfectly...
you jump on one bus... jump off it then jump onto
another and a maxim you have to wait for the third
is about a minute: enough time to take off your shoe...
pull up your sock, put the shoe back on and not have
time to do the shoelaces...
i was going to get off the N25 at Stratford bus station
but as the bus was circling the station
i noticed a blackened N86 waiting...
the driver just managed to go down from the second
deck to his cabin and pour himself a coffee from
a flask... so i stayed on the bus to Ilford Hill...
but... i started to watch my back...
yep... just before Manor Park i saw the ******
speeding... quickly got the N25 and jumped
straight onto the N86...
i was in lucky... from Goodmayes there were
only three people on the bus...
we sped past Chadwell Heath and entered Romford
without anyone at bus stops or anyone
trying to get off...

walked to the last bus-stop and caught the N365
to Collier Row... then... talked to myself for a while...
literally... i talked to myself...
i only do this "talking to myself" when i tired
of thinking it... then thinking has absolutely no effect
on me: when i can't do any ego-tripping:
i talk to myself when i've exhausted all avenues
of feeling all "high and mighty"... i bring myself
to a level of conversation: since i can talk to myself:
but i can't think to myself... how can i?
i'm not even myself when i'm thinking: all that ego-*******:
shrapnel thinking...

did i hear my company manager just tell me
he gave me an extra hour of the second shift?
call me a legend... because i was the only person in the company
willing to do a double-shift? i must have:
that's why i started talking to myself: i think i misheard
him...
and wasn't i a supervisor today, even though modern
security standards require you to have an NVQ level 3
while i only have a level 2?
and my treating stewards with the utmost respect
having than talking down to them: gaining their trust
and mutual respect, isn't that something?
that golden rule: treat others like you'd like to be treated?

and to think: i was in the trenches and pitfalls
of madness for so long... my 20s are a blur
or psychiatric pharmacology and psychological
scrutiny...
while most people lost their minds during the Corona
virus lockdowns: i regained mine:
i guess people were a given a taste of the sort of medicine
i was prescribed for so long...
i returned like a phoenix... i exploded back into
the realm of human interaction with shedding
my straitjacket... why could it be so weird
that i hear a choir either ascend or descend in a church
and then in a heat of panic hear a great wind
disperse the choir?
what's so weird about that? doesn't anyone who fasts
and smokes marijuana conjure up such auditory
hallucinations daily? sure... sure... blame it on the ****:
i actually gained while others lost...
i returned to a state i remember myself as being
in high school: not-two-faced... just chameleon like...
i can be liked by almost anyone these days...
one guy who's prone to wearing finger-less leather
gloves and that famous Palestinian bandana takes one
of his gloves off and is so happy to shake hands
with me...

even today i walked into a chicken shop before the second
shift and met up with two stewards i've worked with
before... i ordered a spicy five wing meal...
they were waiting for their meal...
we talked about Miranda (the strawberry drink)
was any good... shift times... blah blah... i stood next to them
and ate... they were perched on stools...
we ate together... Somalis?! who cares...
it's not like England is America....
race is a descriptive investment: not a prejudicial
aspect... i need to say if someone is either Somali
or Samoan or Eskimo... it just paints a certain picture
that a white boy can be on level ground...
my greatest concern whenever dealing with
someone is... respect... the surest sign of respect
is: i'll eat with you... i finished my chicken wings ate
some of the fries... i noticed one of the guys
ordered a burger and a wrap... i couldn't finish
the chips... so i asked... hey...
there's some unopened mayo pouch...
i can't finish these chips: do you want them?
you sure: he implored... mate... i'm full...
he gladly took them thanking me...

of the two best quote i have yet to topple:
Bukowski: some people never go mad...
what horrible lives they must live...
and?
there are variations on this one...
quos deus vult perdere, prius dementat
ha! those whom god wishes to destroy,
he first deprives of reason...
there's a double take on that...
point in mind: to destroy: not... to be destroyed...
meaning? if a deity requires a change of pace
for humanity... it's not a maxim directly related
to Hercules...
  to destroy doesn't imply: to be destroyed...
quem Iuppiter vult perdere, dementat prius
is more precise in that assumption...
those whom Jupiter wishes to destroy,
he first deprives of reason... then again? no!
destroy what? himself or the world around him?!
i've seen the world being destroyed...
if the gods truly wanted me sulking, mumbling...
in some mental institution... i would be just there...
but i'm all in the open... i've regained my strength!
i haven't destroyed destroyed myself...
i've regained myself: perhaps it's not the old me
i remember with a rich cognitive-narration lodged inside
my head: but? instead it's lodged in my read:
that's how the Cartesian dynamic works...
you can begin with the "solipsistic" res cogitans...
but end up after a psychotic transformation
as being a res extensa: what you think about in sketches
you write about in a narrative that's "escaped"
the hell of your supposed "thinking"...
couple that with experiences of auditory hallucinations...
letters, words... are better coupled to writing
than anything the Beatnik attempted with exploring
language with hallucinogenic additives...
believe me... first comes music: then music notation:
then... the ambiguities of what's being spoken...
after all: you can speak language in a rainbow of accents...
but you can't exactly play an instrument
idiosyncratically: it has to be universally arrived at...
otherwise it's particular, i.e. out of tune...
whereas music is universal: language is particular...
sure... the strict obligations of the written tongue
being universal... but? how it sounds? there's nothing
universal about language beside the fact that language exists
per se... English is not a universe language:
it's a modern version of the medieval Lingua Franca...
but... how many versions of English are there?

there's a version of English in every language
that already exist...
on the N25 bus i overheard some Hindus giggling
and dropping loan-word-bombs prompto:
chicken... nuggets...

hmm... something strange happens when you strart
leaning on the res extensa (extended thing)
rather than focusing on the egocentric (cogito)
of the res cogitans (thinking thing)...
a res vanus (empty thing) is spawned...
of course in the realm of res extensa you can
mix-up your own thinking with strange hallucinations
that are cognitive in nature and can be misunderstand
as sensual: on the basis that "thinking" is "audible"...
for example:
Matthew: you're a genius.... a strange expression
for an ego to have: given there's a denotation
of a noun, a given name:
a chair doesn't reply to: you're a great table,
does it?
ergo? an "i" doesn't respond to: you're either genius:
or a Matthew...
an i is an i... a hammer is a hammer...

oh god no... Descartes is yet to be properly invested
in intellectually...
he gave the really proper antithesis of
Christian trinity theology...
Freud just created cages for modern modern
to be behaviour-ably: un-stimulating....
predictable: all that ego super-ego id schematic
is ****-pants worth when pointing a finger back
and telling people: just do what as i do:
do some Cartesian-revisionism...
it will do you much good...

you heard that joke about a bilingual "schizophrenic"?
apparently he's exponentially squared and squared root
of a quadratic...
i think i regained my senses by going mad first...
second came the destruction:
given the damage already done:
i had nothing else in me to destroy... the world needed
a fire... so great that it would have to experience
a shackling to either luck, fate, or? circus...
or all three! ha ha!

it was truly a bountiful day... that N18 bus ride
with that pretty Spanish girl gave me flickers of hope...
heavenly Islamic harems exist...
if only... wait... she did have one or two "awkward"
flickers of freckles.... freckles? moles... those "puns"...
i terribly hate people who make millions
scribbling sensibly guised never-good-byes...
i'm supposed to be picking up a second bicycle i'll
be using to go off the road today...
5:30am... i'lll sleep until 1am then thinking about it...

n'ah... two bicycles... i always loved the idea...
one day i ride on the roads...
the other day i ******* into the woods...
chances are i'll come across a blind rabbit..
as you do...
mind you... even with todays? yesterdays!
yesterdays! shift... i was mostly dealing with the early
leavers..
but it's Coldplay... it's not like the Red Hot Chilly Peppers...
if they're doing a world tour...
and they have the same set-list?
i already heard their two best songs
when they play them first... Paradise and
Adventure of a Lifetime...
  Yellow? i couldn't care less... Fix You...
fix constipation first fix diarrhoea thirst...
don't panic, no? we all live in a beautiful world?!

Lol Failure

Too much time to change your mind on the way down. Plus your scared of heights

Bandages and shoe laces stop that ****. hide it with tattoos on the wrist

Too violent, big mess, GSW fail now a vegetable and someone's burden

A lynching? Quit it! KKK gets no favors

Peace and quiet in the car, garage door closed. Then your favorite song comes on. Took too long after all. Don't you drive a prius?

Like you don't know how to swim. Sharks don't live in lakes

Nissan, lexus, most new GMC all have auto detection braking. Get back on the side walk dummy.

Too high of a tolerance you druggy and every Corner has an ER. Now your on the list with diarrhea

Police knows the world is watching they'll pepper spray before they draw now. Now your blind and got your *** whipped with a. Night stick

Honey? Bears? Really?

Circuit breakers homie! Now you have soggy toast.
Smile and shovel the pastries maybe you'll get lucky and cholesterol will stop ya.

Insensitive? Yes,but none the less,
Guess That's my LOL Failure.
-Xin-

He is a man among men
no equal has there been
named Kyle not a pile
been friends for quite a while
Not in the Prius, I just said that, makes sense it does not
Long gazes, pauses, Madden, ******* IT SCOTT
I love you always and forever
One day we'll live together
It will be so **** great
As long as you don't hear me *******.
With an opening of hand,
we can change fates plans
Best friends forever yo,
You my favorite **.

Here's one for all the suicidally depressed people.
First of all, if you're thinking about ending it,
Please know that I love you, and I really hope you don't
I've been there too, and sometimes all it takes is
One more day to think before you decide that it
Really isn't worth it... BUT: if you've thought long and hard
About it, and you decide to follow through: be creative.

Don't just say "goodbye cruel world" and swallow a
Bottle of sleeping pills, or slit your wrists in
The bathtub, so that your landlord finds you
A week later after wondering about the smell.
Instead, rent an exhibition space in a trendy art district,
Hire a PR team, and pour your investments into,
A highly publicized event, that will be billed as
"The Performance Art Piece of the Century".

Don't worry about how you'll afford it, either.
You can easily take out several loans from
Various banks and payday lenders,
Max out your credit card, bounce cheques etc. etc.
It's not like you'll ever have to repay them.
Once you follow through, you'll default by default!
Then, well, that's their problem, huh?
Meh, serves those greedy ****** right for
Crashing the whole **** global economy
every few years, like they seem to like to do.

Instead of a suicide note, write a manifesto,
Complete with a detailed statement of purpose,
Instructions for preserving your work, and
An incisive aesthetic critique which decries  
"The subversion of artistic autonomy by
The market society", and the uninspired
Throwaway commodity form
That art has become as a result.
Blame Andy Warhol, people will get it.

Then, when the big day comes, and
You're surrounded by those pretentious
Clove smoking, soy latte sipping, Prius driving,
Tofu eating, turtleneck wearing, Soho art district types,
Get a gun and put a canvas behind your head, so
That when you pull the trigger, it splatters an
Aleatoric masterpiece that even ******* would fawn over.
Now, for maximal effect, you're gonna wanna use
Hollow tips, dum-dums, or buckshot in a sawed-off.
If you really wanted to play on the chance operations thing,
You could line the cylinder of a revolver with both
Full metal slugs and hollow tips, so that there's an
Equal chance of the shot creating
a controlled burst or wide array splatter, but
These are just suggestions, It's your art, you decide

This spectacle would make headlines, for sure.
Then, instead of being just another statistic,
To be neatly lumped into a sheet of numbers,  
Stuffed into a folder, and quickly forgotten,
You'll be remembered for generations to come
As that tragic visionary, whose passion was so
Uncompromising, and whose artistic integrity,
Was so utterly unyielding, that you were
Even willing to give your life for it.

Now, one last point of contention, to
Add a bit of weight to the argument:
You remember Thich Quan Duc?
He was the monk who set himself
Ablaze, during the Vietnam War,
In an act of protest. Of course you do.

Nobody knew him the day before,
Except maybe his fellow monks, but
Now his image is immortalized, and
Immediately recognizable decades later, as
The picture that defined a generation.

...but,

Do you remember the man, who was
Fed up with his dead end job, and one
Day finally decided to end it all?
Which one? Who's that? Exactly.
Now, perhaps I've made my point.

Just a thought...

it goes on and on like this
a hundred hours
of attention grabbing
feeling you up
life goes on and on
like this is it
a whole game
in my hands a computer, strange
I’ve got a virus
world pollution can’t be fixed with a Prius
numinously vetting
editing, all the Love I don’t know how to give
selfishness
it isn’t what it is
please restore me to factory settings

In greying room sits my idle stare
glassy I outside see Baltie air
foggy white whiskers, a comely face
Smiling mouth vacant. A circle lace,
Within contact eyes sparkling fair
Uneasy on moving teeth despair.

Zoom, zooming a Prius black streaking there
in between Baltimore, heaven's stair
up collective vibe, woodie brown palace trace
knowledge bit worker, foe uncommon hairy race
Discovering an escaped boar upon hidden lair
Greasy lit padding with dollars flare.

After the end
she wore the beige bra that she bought for him
because he liked plain things  
under a dark turtleneck that meant she was mourning
their loss even if maybe he wasn't

she shivered into the street
and watched the palm drop on the moon,
the stars pop out like street lights whose bulbs you couldn't change,
their high up light bleached the night,
falling over the Prius, bouncing off the half-bumpered Honda, sliding down the metal window connector of the neighborhood's only El Dorado before ending up on pavement like most things do
the garage seemed to radiate and
other people's windows glowed yellow

as she turned to go
a cat rolled across the four lane road
like it was a meadow

did we know that today
in 2016 we'd be reading the future
about the Great American
soft
depression interlaced
August 16 with Lehman
Goldman
Sach King David
how this time it will be
different but the bubble
starting
in 1995 always burst
even if its only two years
later Elizabeth Montgomery
died we were joining the Academic Mafia
around Circle Drive
Korean BBQ
Blues Caravan and
cruising around East Los
in a Blue Toyota pickup truck
now
there's a parked Prius
because we're too busy
running
numbers a racket
in Cambridge that leaves us
just a bit of fried egg in the morning
with coffee vorleser-ing and documenting
just
as any moral Hannah would do
in 1939 to say hey this is the way
we wanted right boxcars leading
to abattoirs today we do our best
imitation
of a weak McNamara
mea culpa

When I was young and needed wheels
my father helped me buy my first.
He worked then in a funeral home
and got a great deal on a hearse.
When first he handed me the keys
I thought there must be some mistake;
A Station Wagon for the dead-
Most dates would do a double take.

True, it had low mileage,
but a ghastly MPG.
It was very roomy in the back
where the coffins used to be.
I thought it would be hard to park,
and in that, I wasn't wrong.
Dad said the horn was customized-
when pressed it played "the Munsters" song.

Its capacious bay proved useful
when transporting beer and wine.
It even helped me to get "lucky".
a "Goth" girl thought it fine.
Pale white skin with tats and piercings'
those memories still can thrill.
Though I found it disconcerting
that she liked to lie so still.

These days I drive a Prius
in an effort to be "Green"
I work out and eat "healthy"
as I'm no longer quite so keen
to be caught lying in the back
of a flatbed limousine .

When you come of age
among Camaros, Mustangs,
GTO's and Challengers,
it seems somehow sad
to hear the pussified sound
of a Prius go puttering by
like Death driving
something sensible.

  ~mce

This morning we drove to work and argued. You were wearing your Starbucks shirt that you washed last night and I was in my oversized sunglasses and my green pants. The Prius go-karted through the trees and the mud puddles but you sat still and moped while I listened to my favorite music.

The mountains around us jammed out with me. They knew the words coming out of Stevie's mouth before I did, landslide was written about them.

I have decided that you have no desire to stand out or enjoy yourself. That you would rather go through life without ever being embarrassed, too afraid of rejection to put yourself out there, to roll the windows down and listen to your music as loud as you want. Someone might see you, maybe the mountains wouldn't approve?

well, WHO ******* CARES?

I think you think that the world would explode if you didn't go through your day exactly the same as you did yesterday. That if you didn't put lotion on in the morning your legs would spontaneously combust or maybe if you made toast in the toaster instead of on a pan the house would catch on fire.

I took my meds today.

No one should get mad, but I'm still on fire. My limbs are mobile and vibrant and alive, and I want my fingers to pound and scream but I'm in a quiet room and that would be disastrous.

I cannot focus, my mind is only on the words, the little dancers in my head, the heroes in my horror story. If only typing was silent, I would flutter my fingers across the keyboard, making a frenzy of frightfulness that create my creative heart.

Shaky shivers spread on my shoulders, like too much butter on too little bread, the twitches are real, the quaking is real, disrupting my system and destructing my thoughts.

I want to write. These distracting classes with their loud voices and their incessant questions, I just want to sit back, type away, and write. I want to be happy, but I'm stubborn and manic and me. I'm happy doing what I want to do, and in the zooming car chase between the semi truck that is life and the little Prius that is me, the semi-truck is winning by magnificence.

Blue ring around my finger, beckoning me to do its will, do what it wants, be the me I want to be and forego all the consequences.

I'm tired and alert and a dying sun in a body made of stars, and I wish only to be a moon, changing and waning and growing and loving, just something different. That would be nice.

Guess pills or no pills, I will feel what I feel. Manic, depressive, level, whatever, its all muddled in the puddle that is my brain.

Time to fly and forget it all.

Suburbia greeted me with pale hands in my late teens.
She was a wasteland in a mini skirt; in its’ own right it could be called a Cave with Plato egregiously driving his brand-new Prius 90 miles an hour saying “this is really living as long as you don’t look back” and all you can do is nod your head vigorously because the twisted **** that had settled surreptitiously in your baby lungs was giving you daylight hallucinations. My endeavors didn’t end there when they should have.
There was something uncanny about the way streetlights gave you the eternal glare. Of creating ordinary neighborhood streets appear like you’ve been there before in a dream, in another body. In a dazed stupor the sounds of a television and a light coming from a garage is forgiving in your misguided attempts to be comfortable in a foreign space. It could almost feel like home when your repressed trauma keeps resurfacing while you’re trying to introduce yourself. Almost.
In these polite badlands with everything uniformed the people I met were always trying to stand out from the serene landscapes. Sitting in plaid couches I was giddy playing the nihilist. Rerun episodes of Portlandia playing but all I remember from that smoky room were brown pants that looked extremely crisp to the touch and I wanted to reach out my hands and see if they would crunch under the paperweight of my heavy palms. I didn’t but I’m sure they would’ve emitted the sound of potato chips being eaten in a frenzy.
When I wasn’t walking through dark rooms feeling through what could have been hallways, a family’s living room or the cool gates of hell I was meandering my way through drowsy parties where boys with the names like Dusty and Slaughter were prevalent. Each with their own bizarre story about how they stole their parents’ money one night and took off spontaneously. Driving all the way to Nevada with nothing but half a tank of gas and one pack of cigarettes. You could almost pinpoint their personalities by the type of cigarettes they smoked. Most of them holding different colored American Spirits. Had I been smarter I would have asked for a light and a smoke. Never mind that I was always deadly afraid that I had some undiagnosed lung disease and that asphyxiation was my biggest fear or that I had a pack of Marlboro black menthols in my purse that were over a year old. I found my corner sitting in a worn outdoors chair. The ones where the armrest comes built in with a cupholder. My beer ice cold sitting awkwardly sideways while I tried to consider why the host of the party was wealthy yet so hostile. My favorite party game was the one where I took hit after hit of joints being passed around until I was crazy glued to my chair and my brain started to feel like a lagoon that continued to melt into a Campbell’s soup I once had as a child. Everyone completely unaware of the horror that the house had become to me. Somewhere in the distance I was acutely aware of who I would go home with, why my ventures into the suburbs had sparked my intrigue in the first place. The only reason why I had endured feeling like a spider watching a **** film and why I had lost my virginity just a day before. I was a displaced specimen thinking about her ***** in a room of 30 people or more.

Today –-
I think I’ll go
play in traffic
like I used to when I
was a kid

...just for old time’s sake.

I wonder
without my
wide eyes
bushy tail
and dimples
will the headlights
even bother to swerve
this time?

the underside of
a ******* prius
being the last thing
I’ll ever see

at least it gets better mileage
than I ever did

my guts
spilled out across
boiling asphalt

they belong there
they were wasted
inside me

someone should waste me too

Don't tell me about Long Distance.
I have known Long Distance
since the day I saw you waving out of the back window of that silver Prius.
The snow banks insulating my car
because i spent the last 47 hours with you
and held you while you cried
because you weren't ready to leave for the marines yet.
But your body said other wise,
your muscles sharp and deadly.
It's been a while since you've written,
and it's been 8 months since my blankets have stopped smelling like you.
I couldn't help but notice
the way my body drowns in these sheets
because you were my life vest
but you were not there when i jumped in.
I looked back at the dock before my head went under
and i saw you just sitting there,
watching me struggle.
I tore you apart in my head
every single strand of thread and love was separated
until every bit of silence that was woven in has been exposed.
But these strands don't hold any value when you're drowning,
what I have done is destroyed the only thing that could give me buoyancy.
Now I am left with extra weight on these shackles
i bear and water filling up my lungs
like a measuring cup to a recipe from Hell's kitchen.
In your last letter you asked
"Are we okay?"
but you don't just tell someone you love them then let them drown.
I have known Long Distance since you came back home today.
You are so close to me
but I still feel like you are not present.
There is something to be said
about missing someone who is right next to you.
Usually it is the person at home
who gives up on the one in the military,
but you found your home inside of those bunks and those guns.
You have only taught me to never make homes out of human beings.
I have to keep reminding myself
that you are a woman to never be slowed down
because you will leave everyone else behind
and I never wanted to come last to you
but i never wanted to beat you either.
I have known Long Distance
when I reach my hand out
and you've always been just slightly out of my grasp.
You were a goal to work towards,
a beautiful woman sitting on a pedestal waiting to be won
and I've always been too inadequate to be the one to have you.
You are the Epitome of Long Distance,
and I have known you for much longer than I would have liked.

We walk down Steiner street after we eat. The food was decent. Not worth the price, but good enough where we didn't have to talk about it afterward. Olivia was nice to look at. I liked the way her upper thighs rubbed together as she walked. That was something I noticed but said nothing of to him. Her silhouette in the window was shaped like a fresh picked pear. And that smile. I could sit there and drink water with lemon and order nothing all day and just look at that smile. I would have to go back. She was beautiful and I wish I'd never met her the way I did. Not that it wasn't a romantic kind of way, but to order from someone you admire is a kind of awkward thing. It puts one in an uncomfortable position. You want to take that person out of their place and put them into someplace better. Who am I to judge? Maybe she enjoys it there. He didn't seem to show any signs of care or wear.
We continued to walk down Steiner until we passed over Lombard street. The traffic was already thick with cars and their horns. A hummer, lazy and rolling, has a driver inside with thick black sunglasses and all the windows down. It's not even very hot yet. The music inside is loud and is a mix of rap and mariachis. After we cross the street, I notice a pizza place standing on the corner and a long line is coming out of it. It looked very busy for being so early in the morning. It is only 11:15. He looks at the line too, but says nothing. He's been very quiet and moves with very light footsteps. I hope nothing is wrong.
"Jesus," I say, "Look at that place." I point at the pizza joint.
He nods, "Who needs pizza at a time like this? It's so early."
"It is Saturday," I shrug, "All bets are off."
"They'll be in bed by 1, guaranteed."
We cross chestnut street, which is bustling with people already. A few joggers **** by us as we pass a pair of miniature pugs. Their tongues are both out, dangling like a worm on a hook. In front of us, two women walk in their skin tight yoga pants and I force myself to look away. Too tempting. I can see every curve. He sees them to and steals a few glances, pretending he's looking at a parking sign or the details of a lime green Prius parked next to a fire hydrant. There are many people out and I wonder where they all came from and why they are all up so early. I wonder the same of myself and shut up.
I stop. "You ever eaten there?" I ask, pointing to a hole in the wall taco stand. It's closed, but we can both see the chefs and front of house people moving around inside getting ready for the lunch rush. "Their best is the fish taco with freshly picked cilantro, some kind of spicy, thousand island, grilled red onions, and lime on the side. Very good."
"I'll have to go there the next time I'm in the city," he says.
"Definitely," I say, "The next time you're in, we'll go there."
I ask myself what I'm really doing here in my head. Not out loud. I don't hear an answer, so I try again. You want to talk to him about the phone call. Why? Because she called you and he knows that she called you and you two haven't once spoken about it since. Can't it just be one of those unspoken things where we both know what happened and never talk about it? Sure, it could be. You could leave it in the dirt and let it rot there like a dead rat, molding and boiling in the sun for another little rat to come along and eat it. That's graphic and grotesque. Well, it's what I see. You see a lot of things. Yes I do. Well, that is a very graphic thing to see that perhaps is not really even that big of a deal. It sounded like a big deal to her when she called you. I don't want to get involved. That's fine. They have their own problems just like I have my own problems. I can respect that, but it wouldn't hurt to say something. What will he do? Get offended or something that you picked up her phone call? You didn't have any choice after you picked up the phone. She started weeping and bawling hysterically. What would it look like if you just hung up on her?Yeah, you are right. That would've looked pretty bad. Very bad. Alright, I'll say something. Thanks. Thank me later. When then? Later.
At the ocean front, we sit on a bench and look out at the water. The waves rise, peak, froth, and fall reflecting the sunlight in their marble surface. A gull passes over us and squeals. It startles me, the little ******. I look up and catch a glance into its blank, black eyes. Their brains are the size of peas. Did you know that? He doesn't notice me jump. He is looking out at the water, silent. There's something powerful in not feeling the need to say anything and wading in true silence. It takes a certain amount of vulnerability, humility, and ***** to sit with another and admit that sometimes there just isn't a **** thing to say.
"She called me two weeks ago," I say.
"I know," he says, like there's no more words that need to be said.
"I called you also, but you didn't pick and didn't return my call."
"I know," he says again.
A female jogger passes by us in those skin tight, jet black yoga pants and we both steal a glance. Her **** is so firm it barely bounces as she runs.
"I don't see you guys that often," I tell him, "I don't need to get involved."
"She called you," he sighs, looking at me, "So she got you involved and I really wished she hadn't."
"I see that," I nod, "I don't like people getting in my **** either."
He turns his head side to side, stretching his neck, trying to crack it. I can tell he's getting nervous. I can sense it. Something gets released into the air when someone starts feeling like that. Some people call it tension or anxiety or some fancy name, but there isn't one. It's a feeling and he was feeling it everywhere.
"We're fine," he says, "We're actually doing better than we were."
"I don't need to know what's going on with you guys. She called me and just didn't know where you were. Naturally, I got worried about where you were because you're my friend."
He turns his hands face up. They are resting on his thighs. He opens and closes them, staring into his own palms. His breathing is short, silent and his eyes very soft, yet focused. There has always been something array with him and he knows and I know, really everyone knows it, but what this it is is mysterious, unnamed, uncategorized. There are labels that people give other people and he never had one. Not really. None that stuck and stuck. He was always changing. He was too quick.
I get up and walk to the edge of the waterfront. I look down and see the clear, jade blue water lap against the concrete. It slaps lightly against the wall, breaking the reflection of the sun into a million diamonds when it hits. There's no fish I can see, just some driftwood and scattered trash. He comes up beside me, but says nothing. There's no need to say anything. Silence rests in between our shoulders like a birds nest. I don't want to move for fear of dropping the eggs inside. We stand like that for a while.
"You can do whatever the hell you want," I tell him, "I'm just your friend and I would hate to see something happen to you."
"I know," he nods, tightening and relaxing his jaw.
"You have friends in town, not just me. If you need anything though, same with her, I'm always there. I'm always around."
"I appreciate that," he says. He turns to look at me, "I really do."
"It's true. I've known you a long time."
"Same here," he smiles, "I've known you as long as you've known me."
"That's true. That is very true."
"Where to from here?" he asks. He turns away from the water and slides his sunglasses up onto his forehead.
"I don't know the area that well. Let's walk back up and see what we can get into."
He puts out his hand, stopping me, "Thanks Roger."
I take his hand, "You don't have to thank me, but you're welcome."
"It's hard to a find a friend you can truly rely on. Everybody's got their own agendas nowadays."
"Well," I say, "Its part of my agenda for my friends to not do anything ******* stupid. Don't know why, but that's just the way it is."
"That's good," he chuckles, letting go of my hand. We start to walk up the hill and he's still laughing a little to himself, "That's real good."
"Let's get a drink?" I ask.
"Let's get a drink," he says.

11/20/2012

Fifteen years will not find me a suburban home.
Not minivan nor prius in my driveway.
You see, I need space to roam.
I was born for the open highway.

All I need is a 'vette and a Jeep.
Just a cabin in the mountains,
A condo on the beech,
A suite above the Vegas fountains.

I'll never settle, not when old,
And I'll not be tied down by any wife.
I refuse to fill the common mould,
I was meant for the free life.

Dear Rebeka,

Is it the same for you?

Anxiously bouncing your knees
while furiously scribbling notes.
Always taking glances
out the library windows.

Looking for nothing.
Nothing in particular.
just anything... ANYTHING OTHER
than a laptop screen
or another ******* lined piece of paper.

Upon exiting the prison, you find the outdoors enticing.
The sharp breeze flushing your cheeks,
The soft glow of evening
soothing the afterimages of fluorescent lighting.  

So cold your breath is tangible,
Hands tucked safely in your pockets,
Inhaling the night's air
like your drinking a tonic.

Thinking about home, and it's all so romantic.
Trying, but failing, to be more pragmatic.

**** it.
**** it.
**** it.  

Let's drop everything...
... and hop in the Prius.

All my love,
Jill

The sunset was fantastically accurate to my mood as we laid in the plush grass and listened to lyrics that told us the hearts of saints are the hardest to love and that we should stay away and I, being a saint in your eyes, became the one poison you could not swallow. You left me that night.

2. Pushing rocks off the overhang to the sea which used to crash high onto the surf but now only just reaches the sandy banks of our backyard, I tossed rocks into that water for months waiting for you to come back.

3. Fact: there was a period of time where I would sleep off your special brand of liquor
    Fact: you called it love
    Fact: I thought of it as ***

4. If I had told you I loved you for the 186th time would you have finally accepted it?

5. Towers of lies like skyscrapers, every floor filled with the lies I've told (What floor ma'am? Oh deceit? Yes see, that's floor 23)

6. Excessive bleeding of my heart caused by the incisive ends of your sharp words.

7. You think I don't understand the flow of your mind and I think it's silly because I do - the flow isn't quite unlike a river near a stormy city, overflowing half the time I rain information on you, information that dries up on the banks of your brain like a salamanders back on a steamy beach, it runs in one ear (maybe) and out the other because you don't care about me anymore.

8. Never did I see a moon shine like it did the night I caught you sipping moonshine with my neighbors' daughter - the one who was 15, not the oldest - which would have hurt me less but I suppose my pain was your goal.

9. Making assumptions doesn't suit me well, but half the assumptions I made about you we're true like when I assumed you we're really out are Pinky's the night of our 1 year anniversary when you told me you got caught up at work. How do you get caught up at a 9-5 desk job?

10. Or the one time I assumed you were at work the time my sister went into labor really late on February 29th. I assumed, when you said the only car we had wasn't working and you were stuck at work, but when I drove by your job (in our neighbors car) under the direction of my very pregnant sister, I saw what I assumed - you ******* the floor tendant in the back of our Prius.

11. Her name was Becky, right?

12. My sister named the baby (a girl) Adelaide. You always called her Addy, knowing she hated it

13. The last night we went to watch the sunset I had you wait until the sky was an ink blot and explained to you that you made me like this, like the sky looked then. And even though I couldn't see your face I knew I'd hurt you because you'd picked me up 2 years ago by asking what my favorite color of the sky was.

14. I don't love you anymore, but I still miss you. If that doesn't make you want to just kiss the holy ground I walk on then I suppose I'm just wasting time and breath.

Diner was calm.
The tv off not on.
We sat there like statues.
Pretending everything was fine.
Yes pretending was something you've always been good at dad.

I knew you lost your job.
I knew your car capped out.
Never once did I speak.

You knew I had relationship problems.
You knew I was becoming sicker.
Yet never once did you speak.

You were a homophobe.
You didn't want to believe half of it.
I didn't want to see your life go downhill.
Especially now.

So to ease the tension, I picked up the baby and got in the Prius and drove to my girlfriends house.
Just for you I kissed her like there was no tomorrow.
I'm sorry.
Me too.

The baby cooed.
She smiled gently.
Yes everything was okay.
But at the same time it wasn't.
I guess that's alright.
At least I have her and I'm still alive.
The tiny life will keep her company when I'm gone.
The tiny life will need her when I'm gone.
I can't be sad.
Looking back on the life I had.
A happy, for the most part, family.
Beautiful baby girl.
Beautiful significant other.
Beautiful childhood.
Surrounded by beauty.
Yeah life was good.