Oh baby –
We were doomed from day one.

Though we weren’t in the Jazz age,
and we weren’t in the modern age,
We were in the age of us.

Wings on my eyelashes,
A silky robe around my shoulders,
You wore a vest and a tee shirt—
Indulged in cowboy bohemia;
God, it was ****.

Oh baby, we thought we were unstoppable
We drank too much
Met new people by liquid courage
And found fearlessness suited us well.
We harnessed the trade winds
and went where we wanted.

Interest and innovation embedded in curiosity;
In art and newness and literature and truth.
Calling ******* like we saw it
We were entitled and young and free
No restraints
And hey, maybe that was the problem.

The problem with freeness
Is running and running and running
Until you forget what you’re running towards
And instead find
You’re actually running from.

Oh baby-
We were doomed from day one
We just didn’t know it yet.
I’m just too tired to run anymore.

I could have been like Zelda.
Tired from the facade,
Strong and petrified at the same time,
Finding distractions in every part of life
That made me forget we weren’t as free as we thought we were.

God, Baby—
Didn’t you know we were doomed
From the very first day we met?
I suppose I should thank you:
Thanks for breaking my heart;
You saved me from breaking my own.

I could have been like Zelda.

I am the Zelda.
The manic Fitzgerald,
Not nearly half as good as my other half,
but supposedly,
Awash with many enviable traits,
Beauty, Clarity and Limitless talent, abound.
or so they tell me.

a brunette gone blond,
with a green hat to match,
they called me link,
after the hero in the game.
just a quiet lad,
wandering the earth,
i came across a small girl.
she was around my age,
my mates called her zelda,
after the princess that needed saving.
she was a honey blonde,
cherry lips and a doll face.
fate brought us together,
and death separated us.
if i were the actual hero,
i could have saved her.
but in turn it's the hero
that needs the saving in the end.

If I'm a plumber then she's my princess peach,
if she's Zelda, then I'm her Link.
If my life was Contra, then she's my Konami Code.
Can't you tell ny Lady is the subject of this ode?

If she's Curly Brace then I'm her counterpart Quote,
Seriously, I'm in love with her if you didn't catch it I left a few notes,
If I'm the Belmonts, then she's the vampire killer,
if I'm Michael, she's my thriller.

If I'm Pac-Man, then she's my Miss
If I'm Alucard, then she's my transformation into mist
If I'm Kirby then she's waddle Dee,
quite frankly this is getting sappy so I'll get to the point.
I love this girl more than a stoner loves a joint.

(bonus points if you can name all the games referenced, and the Konami Code)

I was the girl from the woods,
The one that didn't hide under a hood.

I saw his face, the boy with no fairy,
When his came to him, he was so merry.

But I knew that he was bound to something besides me,
I knew that as soon as I saw him head to The Great Deku Tree.

Before I knew it, he was crossing that bridge,
I knew that we would be forever seperated by that ridge.

When he left I tried so hard to forget,
My feelings towards him, and that we never met.

But he found me one day, in my place of peace,
He had a sword and a Hylian shield, He wore dark green fleece.

We played our ocarinas, and made our own song,
We could call each other if anything went wrong, and it kept me strong.

7 years passed.. he became the hero he was ment to be,
And it was on that day that he forgot about me.

He stood there with Princess Zelda, they gazed into each others eyes,
Everytime I think of it, apart of me dies.

I've spent nights trying to forget my feelings,
But all I can see is my tree trunk ceiling.

You deserve Zelda over me,
There can't be three.

I want you to be happy with Zelda, this is my choice,
If thats the thing that will make you rejoice.

I will be waiting, and maybe someday we will be,
My name is Saria.. Please Link.. don't forget about me.

Stick with me, friend.
I’d like to make a distinction:
I revere writers but do not deify them.
My heroes and role models must be grounded,
Must have so-called feet of clay.
And there’s always something more in my craw,
Whenever I see scribblers carved in marble,
Glorified to the point of divinity and magic.
Because in my heart of hearts,
Reverence for writers,
Is an odyssey of disillusionment and

I fancy myself a man of letters,
Although “Humanoid of Keystrokes,”
Might be more apt; an appellation,
Digitally au courant.
I am a man on verbal fire,
Perhaps, I am of a Lost Generation myself.
And don’t you dare tell me to sit down, to calm down.
You stand up when you tell a story.
Even Hemingway--even when he was sitting down--knew that.
Let us go then you and I.
Moving our moveable feast to Paris,
To France, European Union, Earth, Milky Way Galaxy.
(Stick with me, Babaloo!)
Why not join Papa at a tiny table at Les Deux Magots,
Savoring the portugaises,
Working off the buzz of a good Pouilly-Fuisse
At 10:30 in the morning.
The writing: going fast and well.

Why not join that pompous windbag ******* artist?
As he tries to convince Ava Gardner,
That writers tienen cajones grandes, tambien—
Have big ***** too—just like Bullfighters,
Living their lives all the way up.
That writing requires a torero’s finesse and fearlessness.
That to be a writer is to be a real man.
A GOD MAN!
Papa is self-important at being Ernest,
(**** me: some lines cannot be resisted.)
Ava’s **** is on fire.
She can just make him out,
Can just picture him through her libidinous haze,
Leaping the corrida wall,
Setting her up for photos ops with Luis Miguel Dominguín,
And Antonio Ordóñez, his brother-in-law rival,
During that most dangerous summer of 1959.
Or, her chance to set up a *******,
With Manolete and El Cordobés,
While a really *******,
Completely defeated & destroyed 2,000-pound bull,
Bleeds out on the arena sand.

Although I revere writers,
I refuse to deify them.
A famous writer must be brought down to earth--
Forcibly if necessary--
Chained to a rock in the Caucasus,
Their liver noshed on by an eagle.
In short: the abject humiliation of mortality.
Punished, ridiculed and laughed at.
Laughing himself silly,
******* on one’s self-indulgent, egocentric universe.
If not, what hope do any of us have?

Writing for Ernie may have been a divine gift,
His daily spiritual communion and routine,
A mere sacramental taking of dictation from God,
But for most of us writing is just ******* self-torture.
The Hemingway Hero:
Whatever happened to him on the Italian-Austrian front in 1918
May have been painful but was hardly heroic.
The ******* was an ambulance driver for Christ’s sake.
Distributing chocolate and cigarettes to Italian soldiers,
In the trenches behind the front lines,
A far cry from actual combat.
Besides, he was only on the job for two weeks,
Before he ****** up somehow,
Driving his meat-wagon over a live artillery shell.
That BB-sized shrapnel in his legs,
Turned out to be his million-dollar wound,
A gift that kept on giving,
Putting him in line for a fortunate series of biographic details, to wit:
Time at an Italian convalescent hospital in Milano,
Staffed by ***** English nurses,
Who liked to give the teenage soldiers slurpy BJs,
Delirious ******* in the middle of the night,
Sent to Paris as a Toronto Star reporter,
******* up to that big **** Gertrude Stein,
Sweet-talking Sylvia Beach,
At Shakespeare & Company bookstore,
Hitting her up for small loans,
Manipulating and conning Scott Fitzgerald—
The Hark the Herald Jazz Age Angel—
Exploiting F. Scott’s contacts at Scribners,
To get The Sun Also Rises published.
Fitzgerald acted as his literary agent and advocate,
Even performing some crucial editing on the manuscript.
Hemingway got payback for this friendship years later,
By telling the world in A Moveable Feast,
That Zelda convinced Scott he had a small ****--
Yeah, all of it stems from those bumps & bruises,
Scrapes & scratches he got near Schio,
Along the Piave River on July 8, 1918.
Slap on an Italian Silver Medal of Valor—
An ostentatious decoration of dubious Napoleonic lineage—
40,000 of which were liberally dispensed during WWI—
And Ernie was on his way.

Was there ever a more arrogant, world-class scumbag;
A more graceless-under-pressure,
Sorry excuse of a machismo show-horse?
Look: I think Hemingway was a great writer,
But he was a gigantic gasbag,
A self-indulgent *****,
And a mean-spirited bully—
That bogus facade he put on as this writer/slash/bullfighter,
Kilimanjaro, great white hunter,
Big game Bwana,
Sport fishing, hard drinking,
Swinging-****, womanizing,
*** I-******-Ava-Gardner bragging rights—all of it—
Just made him a bigger, poorer excuse for a human being,
When the chips were finally down,
When the truth finally caught up with him,
In the early morning hours,
Of July 2, 1961, in Ketchum, Idaho.
I can’t think of a more pathetic writer’s life than
Hemingway’s last few years.
Sixty electric shock treatments,
And the ******* still killed himself.

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In the U.S., call:  1-800-273-8255  

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So why am I still mesmerized by,
The whole Hemingway hero thing?
That stoicism, the grace under pressure,
That real men don’t eat quiche,
A la Norman Mailer crap?
I guess I can relate to both Hemingway the Matador,
And Hemingway the Pompous *******,
Not to mention Mailer who stabbed his second of six wives,
And threw his fourth out of a third-floor window.
One thing’s for sure: I’m living life all the way up,
Thanks to a steady supply of medical cannabis,
And some freaky chocolate chip cookies
From the Area 51--Our Products are Out of this World—Bakery
(“In compliance with CA prop 215 SE 420, Section 11362.5,
And 11362.7 of CA H.S.C. Do not drive,
Or operate heavy equipment,
While under the influence.
Keep out of reach of children,
And comedian Aziz Ansari.”)

So getting back to Hemingway,
I return to Cuba to work on my book.
During the day--usually in the early morning hours--
When “the characters drive me up there,”
I climb to my tower room,
Stand up at my typewriter in the upstairs alcove.
I stand up to tell my story because last night,
Everyone got drunk and threw all the ******* furniture in the pool.
By the way, I’m putting together my Nobel Prize acceptance speech.
I can’t decide between:
“I may be defeated but I’ll never be destroyed,” or
“You can destroy me but you’ll never defeat me.”
The kind of artistic doublespeak they love in Sweden.
Maybe: “Night falls and day breaks, but no one gets hurt.”
God help me.
I need to come up with a bunch of real pithy crap soon.
Maybe I’ll just smoke a joint before the speech and,
Start riffing off the cuff about literary good taste:

“In my novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls, for example, I had Maria tell Pilar that the earth moved, but left out the parts about Robert Jordan’s ******* and the tube of Astroglide.”

Stockholm’s only a month away,
So I’m under a lot of pressure.
Where’s Princess Grace under Pressure when I need her?
I used to work for the Kansas City Star,
Working with newspaper people who advocated:
Short sentences.
Short paragraphs.
Active verbs.
Authenticity.
Compression.
Clarity.
Immediacy.
Those were the only rules I ever learned,
For the business of writing,
But my prose tended to be a bit clipped, to wit:
A simple series,
Of simple declarative sentences,
For simpletons.
I’m told my stuff is real popular with Special-Ed kids,
And those ******* that run
The International Imitation Hemingway Competition,
AKA: The Bad Hemingway Contest.
The truth is: I always wanted to get a bit more flowery,
Especially after I found out I got paid by the word.
That’s when the *** and **** proved mighty useful.
        
I live at La Finca Vigia:
My house in San Francisco de Paula,
A Havana suburb.
My other place is in town,
Room #511 at the Hotel Ambos Mundos,
Where on a regular basis I _
(Insert simple declarative Anglo-Saxon expletive)
My guantanmera on a regular basis.
But La Finca’s the real party pad.
Fidel and Che and the rest of the Granma (aka “The Minnow”) crew
Come down from the mountains,
To use my shower and refresh themselves,
On an irregular basis.
At night we drink mojitos, daiquiris or,
The *** & coke some people call Cuba Libre.
We drink the *** and plan strategy,
Make plans for taking out Fulgencio Batista,
And his Mafia cronies,
Using the small arms and hand grenades,
We got from Allen Dulles.

Of course, after the Bay of Pigs debacle,
You had to go, Ernesto.
Kennedy had the CIA stage your suicide,
And that was all she wrote.
And all you wrote.
Never having had a chance,
To tell the 1960s Baby Boomers about class warfare in America.
Poor pathetic Papa Hemingway.
Lenin and Stalin may have ruined Marxism,
But Marx was no dummy.
Not in your book.
Or mine.

I'm considered to be nerdy
Awkward, not flirty.

They call me gay,
Because I Cosplay.

I must be a dork
Because Zelda's my lord,
And she's way cooler than any sport.

Could someone love me?
That couldn't be.

I watch too much anime,
And BBC.

I praise The doctor and Spock.
Even Sherlock.
Cause in my opinion
They're better than jocks.

Being nerdy is quite fun,
But you make me sound dumb.

We're accepting and caring
But please stop staring.

Am I making this boring?
Don't start snoring..

Just give me a chance.
I'll make it last.

We could play Skyrim or league.
Wait, don't leave!

I can be cool,
Just like you!

I can calculate big numbers in my head,
Or make a fortress out of my bed

I can be an ork, elf, or spy.
Just as long as it's allowed by the die.

I can cast spells online.
Don't worry, you'll be fine!

I can role play to the extreme!!!
That's right, I call it d&d.;

I'm proud to be a geek.
Yes, we're very neet!

We know our facts!
We're anime maniacs.

I'm good at mtg!
It takes skill to be like me.

I'm cool I tell you!
I'm grand.

But at the same time,
You don't make me feel great.

I'm a loser,
A dork

No, I don't like baseball, football, or hockey
I can't bench and I don't lift.

But I go to some pretty intense parties...
On Xbox.

My heart is bigger than my head..
No, not literally.

I'd bring you a rose
And write you a poem

You'd be my Rory.
This isn't the end of the story.

I'd love you more than
video games, Star Wars, and D&D.;

In the end,
You're always my MVP.

You don't have to lie,
I know you'll decline..

but my feelings won't change.
They'll always be the same.

Maybe I'd be cool..
If I were with you.

But that'll never be
Because you fail to see OTP.

Then again,
It's all good in the end
Because..

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Manga costs less
Than dinner for two.

Pixelated space,
Unspace,
Speed of the slow down-
Timeout.
Automatic space,
Hyppereal pace,
Nonspace,
Pixelated room,
In an 8-bit mansion
Mario and Princess
Zelda and Princess
Platform Romance
Pitfall jumping
space to space
Electromagnetic Consciousness
Conscience and Love
Compassion for the pixels

Beyond your television
Lies vast hills,
along with many jumps and much thrill
Mario jumps
Zelda swings
As Kirby swallows
Donkey kong beats,
Star fox flies ever so high
While niko goes bowling
Roman started to cry
Meta knight stares ominously
As a goomba cautiously walks
A turtle shell turns blue
While the Mario kart racers get mad too....
We all know sleeping dogs don't lie
We joined a guild during an MMO war
Where we smashed every single one of our keyboards

She blew into town like a hurricane.

Back into our lives after a long excursion into the world of modeling and amateur wrestling. She showed up at our door after promising to arrive six hours earlier, negating whatever plans we had planned for the night and putting us on the edge of a bad mood that would prove to be harder to recover from as the night proceeded to move along.

She brought us food from a local cafe where a client of hers had wined and dined her for showing him an hours worth of affection, the kind of trade she had sworn she was moving away from but old habits die hard. She wrapped her arms around us in a bear hug a person of her stature seemed would not be possible to do but did anyway and planted one of her too soft tender kisses on both of our cheeks. Small talk ensued before she sat down at the kitchen table and rolled a blunt while We ate slivers of chicken and salmon with rice. Washing it down with some *** flavored lightly with coca cola and lime.

She rambled upstairs and perused thru my vast book collection noting in the way that she does that I have very few feminist authors. I am a guy was my typical response. She smiled and giggled. Talked of her love of names and two-stepped the steps back down the stairs where she picked up her blunt and waved it around as one does when they capture the flag in childhood war games. Shall we smoke she inquired and we agreed with a certain amount of hesitation that went unnoticed.

The truth was that we had weaned ourselves off of addiction only a few months before and while eagerness was bound we were still weary of smoking particularly with such a manic woman in our presence but we followed her down the stairs anyway and as she chose her seating we chose ours. She tore a piece off the end of the blunt and handed it to me to light for old time sakes.

I took another long sip of my dwindling drink and lit the end of the piece while inhaling and filling my lungs with poorly flavored mango smoke. I held it in for a few seconds while the blunt finished its lighting and blew the smoke at the tip to put out the flame that had grown and passed the blunt around, right to left.

We were short on words having spent all our day in wait but she was long winded and had a hell of a time on the road and proceeded to tell us a story of her adventures on the west coast using obscene hand gestures when needed and punctuating certain words with her voice while doing her best to imitate Zelda Fitzgerald at her craziest moments.

She nursed her drink and we drank our drunk as the blunt smoked and dwindled down to a stub she asked my opinion on a matter which I had nothing relevant to say so I went to the garage for a pair of pliers for use as roach clips but decided I had had my fill of crazy so stayed upstairs instead, finishing my drink and pouring another one.

My peace lasted for only a few moments before they came upstairs and sat down on the leather couch and flipped thru the television channels before stopping on some show that would have been canceled years ago had it not been for the beautiful girl keeping it and the cast still working. I lied down on the couch while they messed with their phones, one looking at food recipes and the other playing some of the worst pop music that I had ever heard.

She asked if we were hungry and tho we had already ate the effect of the **** sat heavily on us and our stomachs growled. She suggested pizza. I said we had some in the fridge. she said she would buy some from a place that delivers.

We contemplated about toppings. She said she likes weird toppings. We settled on half pepperoni and half pineapple. Her choices were not weird but i let it slide. She ordered a pizza using her prize money from some wrestling match or **** photo shoot she had done the previous day.

We ate.

We drank some wine to wash down the taste. We talked a few more hours, ending the night with glasses of water to cure the early headaches and speed up the feelings of sobriety so that the night would come to an end because we all had an early start the next day.

We said our good byes at the door and muttered a good riddance beneath our breaths and sighed a sigh of relief as we realized that some people no matter how great and mad can be intolerable to be around for longer than a very short night.

I just heard a poem today

About a man who was heart broken
And how he only thought about
The next guy kissing his ex;
Or how he wouldn’t lock the door
In case she came back.

And the people cheered..
He was amazing actually
So much emotion in his voice

And the people cheered..
There’s a fellow who entertains!
I could never do that;
So I envy him.

But;
I hope that person never has to suffer
Through sleepless nights
Hoping she finally calls,
Or seeing that new Facebook picture
Of her with another man,
Cuddled in the same bed I was in a
JUST a week prior
Kissing those lips, that tasted so sweet
When we last said goodbye,
Less than seven **** days ago!

I hope that person never has to heal
And spend his next 3 years, rejected
Rejected and rejected
By every single girl he finally falls for.

I hope that person doesn’t spend his days
Hoping that even once a week he can play
His favorite 2-player video game
With a woman who only wants to
Order some pizza afterwards; while
Cuddling up to a horror movie and a kiss,
Goodnight.

It’s easy to find a drinking partner
Or somebody who will take their clothes off
at midnight and be dressed fast enough
To catch the last train.

But wanting to hear about the person’s day
Or what their favorite novel is;
Their desires,
Their fears
Or why she has those scars
On that beautiful body.

Or why she doesn’t think she’s pretty
When to you she’s the prettiest girl
That you’ve ever cuddled up in bed with
While you watched her play Zelda.

Finding that is tough.

I hope that person is never me
Ruining every conversation going his way.
Trying so hard to keep her smiling,
While forgetting that he’s an *******
Who doesn’t know when to stop talking.

That he doesn’t make enough money
To take her out for a romantic dinner
Or that he can’t drive when she’s stuck
In the middle of nowhere; in minus 20 weather

I hope that person realizes
Writing at 4:30 AM, on a work night
Because another man’s poetry
Made someone else think of a girl
That he doesn’t deserve
And can’t have
Is exactly how some writers live.

And we just wish we were entertaining.

I'm just a collector of lonely hearts.
I'll use you as a pawn in my lifelong work of art
I gave you a chance to run, warned you of the consequence,
but you took the chance, discarded every form of defense.

The scores came up in favor of me. Now you're broken, I just left you there to bleed.
It hurts to watch you suffer on my behalf.
My apology will be on my epitaph.


Know I would try my best to fix you if I could.
But when they programmed my heart they were misunderstood.
My sense of direction leads my head to my hands
As I constantly jump in hopes I don't land.

So excuse my heart for not beating right.
Excuse my eyes for not seeing your light.  
Forgive my senses when they lead me astray
But here in your arms, I can never stay.

Where do you think we're gonna be,
twenty years from now?
when I'm a deadbeat daughter
and you're a drunken *******

and if I'm being honest, I don't really care
I just wanna be where your light is,
I wanna be where you face the dark,
I don't care, I could break down anywhere

'Cause I don't think we broke each other,
I think we broke ourselves

and I'll be Zelda, you be Scott
and I'll paint and dance ballet
and I'll watch you destroy yourself
while I'm wasting away

as long as I'm,
your deadbeat girl

dilapidated memories of
porters holding luggage
pointed north, south, east, west
till above greasy lighted seas
a semblance poses:
broken windows hanging in
melancholic cadences of
dank repair and
doors of half remembered cabarets open and
close on treacherous gardens seething
tiny bones of lost dreams
a lover's whispered kiss hiding betrayal
a ballerina's advent through billowing pink clouds
a yacht moored to the docks of a mansion
slow winter sunsets kindling false yearns
naked summer skin now
expanse of cautious smiles and tender smokes
beneath the azure skies of
answered praise and fall
to each gathered day

For ninety years or more
Zelda’s family owned her home.
Generations born and died there,
She never felt alone.
The spirits of her parents
She always felt close by
And sometimes she would talk to them-
to gossip on the sly.
Most ghosts are rather lonely.
Regard it from their point of view-
To wait unseen, unbidden,
with no one to talk to.
It makes the loneliness we feel
While incarnate seem a sham.
We need only to make a call
to reach our fellow man.
But ghosts can not dial telephones
And rarely get attention.
Few master apparition
hardly any I can mention.
So take your cue from Zelda
and the next time you’re at home
have a spirited discussion
with any ghosts who chance to roam.
(To avoid two years in therapy
Make **** sure that you’re alone.)

At the end of this time with ????, I will look back on my emotions and force myself to believe they’re lies; this is in order to save me the burden of missing him but no, they’re the biggest lies I will ever force myself to tell. I think I love him. I love him like a friend. No. I love him like a…I’ve never loved someone before so I cannot make a comparison. I don’t know my limits or boundaries. Love is a limitless emotion. We have the capacity to love all with no end. I love everyone. I love ????. I want him to drown me with his presence, but I don’t want to dominate his time. I see him rarely in comparison to, most of the people that go about this relationship business- even those long-distancers with their Skype.
Whenever I do see him I want to hide in his arms, his kiss, his passion, his slumber. I want to lie on a space of grass with him, smoke and stare at the sky. We will look at the blue for so long that when we come down and look at each others faces we can see the sun circles fill our pupils. Then they will clear, revealing the space in our eyes. Unlimited life, galaxies and possibilities. We will claim we can see the future, our souls intertwined in a dance of laughter and stumbling. We ignore the stumbling, unsure of what disagreement may do to us. We debate, but on meaningless things which just spark our conversation and ends up in heated kissing.
I’m scared of his eyes. I will die in those eyes, when he inevitably leaves me for a pretty girl with a smaller **** and bigger rack. But then I see us bumping into each other in town later; he left the girl and wants someone less vapid. I giggle, he chuckles. We look at each others eyes, and like blinking back the burning sun spots we blink back our old, shared feelings. Our terrestrial sphere. Our insides whine, we ache, and we leave, part. A weeknight later I go to a party, I get drunk, I see him. Sun circles. I sit in the garden in my solitary hallucination, smoking the hell out of a pack and imploding into ash-ened lungs. I see him again, meters away, smoking. I call his name, he wanders over; and then we drink ourselves blind and make out. It starts again the same way. I worry.
I love to say his name, it’s like my tongue has turned to smoke and is floating away from my mouth in dissipating curls; I don’t say his name often. If he says my name I disintegrate, my shell chips away, my love for him increases. When he laughs and his face cracks into light, I want him. I want him to want me. I want him to think about me when I’m not around. I want to make him happy. I want him to love me. I want him to lust for me. I don’t want him to hurt.
He used to hurt himself when he was a small kid. He burned and he cut his neck. He was hospitalized a lot. He moved from Scotland when he was young. His favorite color is purple. His ex was…I just don’t want him to hurt. I ache when he tells me about everything that hurts him and I don’t know what to do. I don’t want him to hurt…I want him to skin me alive and use my layers as a blanket; if that means I can comfort him then, so be it. If that was the only way, I would let him, just so long as he can drown and suffocate his hurt. I will strip and hold the blade against the flesh myself if it spare him the damage. It’s such a ****** way to think, but my heart and brain agree that I would do anything to make him happy.
I would time travel, and cuddle him before he even started entertaining the thought of harming himself. I will dress up as one of the main ***** fairies from Zelda – I don’t ******* know, those fairies creep me out. If one of them told me not to hurt myself I wouldn’t out of fright towards that face. Argh those fairies faces…
...????….
You’re turning me obsessive; I smell your scent and I feel like you’re wrapping yourself around me. You’re so, so, so intelligent; I don’t care that you think you’re not…you are okay. You are the most intelligent guy I’ve ever met and ever will meet. You’re a sucker for keeping people happy, and that’s adorable as ****. You will never leave someone looking a bit sad, you will strive to make them smile and spark their inner fire. You’re a lighter. You’re someone everyone needs in their life at some point. Those who are lucky enough to share your time own the world, you are the greatest honor to accompany. I will continue to praise you because you are the embodiment of good. I would say perfect but, you’d argue against it. Why? No-ones perfect, but people are amended, think karma…yours is balanced. You’re perfect for your friends, your elders, your peers and me. I am an unrequited love for your entity. You drive me mad; mad with every emotion I can think of. I feel so happy. With you. Happy. Light. Sun circles. Usually I’m empty. Passive. What I know for sure is that, I love you.

You ask me if having a baby in this world is selfish.

I imagine two stout bodied genderless dwarves.
with beards.
hand pumping a minecart down
subway tracks in Boston.

Hear the rattling
cart wheels along iron tracks.
the crackling fire of a lit torch
Illuminating an obvious macguffin
a glimmering maguyvery boulder
in the side of the tunnel.

This vision is a testament to how well I pay attention
When I have tunnel vision.

One pulled lever slows the minecart to a screaching stop
the dwarves zelda bomb their way inside

There is a man behind it
the size of a mountain
hooked up to a bypap machine
umbilical corded to a television

he does not know whether he is nocturnal,
trusts his wristwatch to tell time
Which was over $5,000 dollars.
trusts this watch
about as far
as he can throw his money away.
So He collects watches.

I ask you.
Does this man sound alive?

Do you think he more closely
resembles a metaphor
For children zombied into media leashes.
another pet to pitch in the graveyard
of working class
blades of grass leaning on the T
nodding off to sleep?

Or is he more like us.
escapists
wandering eyes
With roots in our mattresses
Shackled in the entertainment
Always breathing
inflating never creating.
or breathing out.

Would a child help us out?
would that be selfish?

breath can we still
tubes of oxygen up our noses.
can we rip out the catheder
save with will power
would a child somehow spin
eugenic honey
royal bee propaganda jelly
Would we see the world without sepia
no more screen filters
less headaches
less screen time
advil addiction.
Two less pills taken
comitted to attention.
stuck in tunnel vision
smoke and mirrors
are so shiny after blue pills

This mountain of a man
said to ask the man on the mountain
and I was so deep in my grave
I decided to dig down thinking
If This is hell I must be at the earths
molten core, so the road up
is just as long as the road
in any direction so long as i went straight.
But I change directions all the time.
And I still haven't hit the surface
And I keep building boulders
to keep out the cave rats
and making them obvious,
glimmerig macguffins so adventurers
will zelda bomb them open
and find me sitting here
watching the world go by
losing track of time
But always checking the clock on my wrist.
Because it's so beautiful
and biological.
The ticking is so loud
I'm deafened to the humming
of my oxygen machine.
the television,
screaching minecart breaks
My front door being blown open.
By zelda bombs

I'm stagnant with nothing but
my dreams and a metranome
Counting down to the day
I hate this television enough
To turn it off

Trust this clock enough to turn it back.

For a breif moment hear the
screaching subway tracks
The whirring of my bipap,
The bombs going off
not just at my front door
but all over the world.
blowing open my eyes to see finally

that life isn't worth a bomb shelter.
If I can't be selfish,

**** repopulting the earth.
I am going to paint drooping clocks
eat non-parishables ironically
and Die an honest man.

I still write you
As a part of everything
A thousand characters
With the same heart in my mind
This heart of mine
Beats in time with yours
You'll be my everything
My ceilings and my floors
And my bed
Where I fall asleep to dream
You'll be my love
My understanding of god

Dearest Zelda
I could give my life
And it never could be as much
As you deserve
So I'll give you the next one
I'll give you all the stars I come from

I still dream you
I still am thankful
You found a way to save me
When nothing ever could
The beginning and the end
Of everything
I love you
I am you
And we are the rain
Born from our tears before
We fall together
Holding hands

Sweet Isabella
I keep on throwing parties
That I can't enjoy
Because you're not there
And one day I won't need wine to drink
One day I won't need drugs to get high

I may be great
Gatsby dies for Daisy
My soul can't be complete
If not for you
Its as though our broken pieces
Put together make a perfect whole

I hope you hear the hopes in my words
That they speak to you
I hope you feel the sorrow in my handwriting
That I'm not with you now

They taught me to swim the same way they taught me to ride a bike.
lets see what happens when we push her down a hill, will she balance or bite through her lip?

They locked me in the closet, a suitcase, the trunk of our Toyota Corolla and a cardboard box all because I fit ;)

I walked through her room while she studied for her Calculus Final because it was the only way to get to my room (over and over for attention).

They held me down 3 at a time to play piano on my tummy while I shreked for pure joy and fun.

He gave me a boxing name on our trampoline and let me win. I ate his chocolate in her bed. They thought I was a cat licking itself under the covers.

When he came off the streets he gave me video games, Spyro, Pokemon, Zelda, and Sonic At first I didn't know we were related.

She chased me and my best friend around the house Screaming
     Squeeze my buns of steal baby
     he never came back.

They held me upstairs while things flew and crashed downstairs forever breaking the lemon squeezer. I cried and he held me, my first memory of him being nice.

She had me live with her 5 days a week 6 years because our parents didn't want to deal, even though she was bulimic. She took care of me but in truth I kept her alive.



They were my first memory, they were there for me, when I was little they were my parents. I jokingly tell people that all my good traits were learned from them.

When they left there was no one left to protect me. All alone, too young to understand them being gone was what made me sad. I was used to having 8 parents and now I have the two that actually gave birth to me.

Haha I say you only have 2. I gave up on them long ago, why would I pick 2 when I have 8?

Forever the 8 of us.

Let's stand around and talk about taxes and crime
Or watch it on t.v
Cool people only getting cooler
As alcohol leaks

I think I remeber leaving a party with you and falling asleep
on a dew covered hill

But I woke up in my bed

The shirt you had warn
Was pink and white through the haze
Remebering your face
But I still couldn't think your name
...I remember that you said you liked only
The old starwars
And your favorite Zelda
Ocorina of time
You got high with me and watched adventure time
And talked to me about the effects of ether on the human mind
You liked ska and doc martens
With only black laces
Japanese tea pots
BC ***
Black Jack Davey
Tattooed on your neck
You told me you were fourteen
When you last wore black lipstick.
"Far out"  
Yellow Submarine
Mushroom picker
The
Tingling of your spine
As it creeps up your neck
I was about to fall away to oblivion
Until I saw your smiling teeth




I got all the way to work without noticing
Jen
And your number on my wrist

Leong and I are at a party, a graduating-high-school-senior throw-down. Their school year is over, and they are ready to darty. We’re at a lake house, well away from parents and neighbors.

These are the kids I high-schooled with - I just got promoted a year early. I get a lot of nods, waves and winks from some guys but none of them approach, like a mysterious inversion of attitudes has occurred - as if Yale were a nunnery and I’m a known novitiate. It’s just as well, I’m not looking for a hookup.

It’s Friday night, about 11:30 pm, the party started long ago and it’s britney-spears-2007. There are drunk girls in the pool in their underwear (Ok, that’s just exhibitionism, who comes to a lake party without a bathing suit?).

We’ve been here for about a half an hour, long enough to dance a couple of times. It’s hot and we’re sweaty but we can’t swim - Leong and I are moon sisters tonight - it’s our trauma bond. Our ad hoc solution, rubbing our arms and necks with ice, is congroovesive.

Leong is loving the bash, she keeps saying, “crazy,” like when large football players jump from the second story roof into the pool. It’s a huge pool, a huge party (with maybe 150 kids), a sound system that Led Zeppelin would envy and the house is a beach.

Everett, the host for tonight’s decadence, comes over and takes a seat by Leong and my lounge chairs. He’s a handsome guy, but there’s a cocky, entitled edge there that’s off-putting. He can be nice when he’s not trying to impress anyone.

There’s a break in the music. “You’re traveling this summer, I hear - me too - what games will you be playing?” He asks,
“I have my switch with me,” I say, “it travels well - not the whole console mind you - that seemed too extra - just the switch. So I’ll be playing Animal Crossing and Zelda - what about you?”
“Oh, I’m gonna play Grand Theft Auto - It was my favorite as a kid,” he says.
“You played GTA as a KID??” I gasp, “Why has THIS never come up?”
“I don’t know.” He admits
“How did your parents let you have that?” I ask, astonished.
“My dad’s the one who turned me onto it,” he confides, “he wanted a partner.”
“No wonder you love ******* music!” I say, making new connections.
“I DO.” He laughed. “You do,” I confirm, knowingly.

He holds a bottle of deep red something near my glass and raises his eyebrows.
“You can gas me up,” I laughed, “I’m not driving, I’m ok with it.”
Leong holds up her glass as well and he pours generously into our Sprites.

“What song can I play for you?” He asks, as a reward.
“I’m going to go basic,” I announce, after thinking about party music, “Beat it, by Fall out boy”
“You got it,” he nods, taking a moment to text the request to the DJ, before moving on to the next table.

After a moment, “Beat it” begins, there are a few cheers, but conversation becomes impossible.

Congratulations seniors everywhere!

The moment you graced my presence, my mind switched to 16-bit mode.

You was a classic type of adventure, one evolution rarely shows.

All these side quest chicks you made me put on pause soon to be ended.

Cause playing sandbox style wasn't the type of image you've given.

Hips more curved than a sonic loop makin me want to do a quick run thru.

But your eyes told no lies they made me more than see.

That your quest was bigger than any final fantasy

So I'm taking my time to learn this pattern

To figure out how to beat your robot masters

Stage 1 your name Stage 2 your number skip to stage 6 make sure I'm the thoughts in your slumber

My mind's so focused my inputs gotta be right

One wrong move and I lose my last life tonight

No save points just passwords you say I gotta learn your codes

Wouldn't dream of cheating ya besides I don't know what buttons to hold.

Well **** baby you say that I made it to the end?

What's that? To see the true ending I gotta... Beat it.... Again?

But there's somethin about you that just seems worth the hassle.

Cause you got me jumping like mario racing to bowser's castle.

You're as cunning as zelda, as sweet as peach

As scary as you want when you feel your inner sheik.

You got a smile more connected than the perfect tetris

An old school star that's leavin me feelin rather hectic.

Cause you see it's so easy playing for the highscore

But when ya add a lil passion you don't get as easily bored

So I see this challenge as straight 2D

No circular levels just a series of puzzles between you and me

Let's make this purely one on one a street fighter thing.

No crossover tag action hyper fighting fling

See you got it all twisted just check my guide book

A good portion of character data is written on your look

Quick call doctor mario I think I got the flu

I need help tryin to convey these abstract thoughts to you

See you're like 16-bit beginnings hand drawn and expertly crafted

drawn so precisely each movement in action

So I'm focused on this quest like them double dragon twins

Ready for whatever final boss you got at the end

It makes everything worthwhile when I see your beauty on the go

And I drop my ps3 world to switch to my 16-bit mode

you were never an artist;
I'm sorry but it is true.
once, you sketched me
(sharpie on loose leaf, 2013)
and while I was touched by the gesture
[labor of love that it was]
it really looked more like your older brother.
now, your art is shared for mere
moments
(stylus on snapchat, 2014)
but you are still no artist.
you are an auteur, a lover, a curator,
finessing your homages to your youth
[pokemon, zelda, batman]
you may not be an artist
but I love you all the same.

Everyone is talking about their candidate
Everyone is at election night parties
Except me
I'm sitting here eating Italian food
And playing Zelda
With my indie rock Pandora station playing
Yes, I voted
Yes, I care about who wins
Yes, I'm an adult
I'm just the fun kind

I was asking around for poem ideas, and one of my friends told me to write about past relationships. I was looking through an old box of notes and cards and stuff that I still have, and this poem just kind of bubbled up inside of me. I'm not sure that I like it, I was just kind of writing to write and then FEELS.



When I was young
and my family told me boys (or girls) would be
"breaking down the door to date me"
I didn't realise quite how many people
would say they loved me
and how many people I'd say I loved
in a lifetime.
It's amazing how love can be given away
so freely,
so willingly
yet so painfully...
I have memories
of each one.
Lucas will always be my Percy Jackson.
Devon was a constant "babe" and "baby",
"you and me,"
and a Valentine's card/stuffed bear that I still have.
Evan was "1... 2... 3"
playing Doctor Who with my little brother,
I wonder if he still keeps that 4th grade picture
of me in his wallet?
Derick was "#dickerdoodles"
and a Valentine's card/stuffed Pikachu that I still have,
Netflix, a rainy day, a pack of cigarettes
a notebook
and a promise of New York City in a year.
Hannah was a bass
duct tape wallets
carmex,
a song lyric or three, and
"How do I love thee?"
Ellie was the Tumblr Accent Challenge
cigarettes, alcohol
a homecoming dance
and incredible music.
Magus was Zelda, movie nights, and
"I love you with all my heart,
with all that I am, with
everything I have."
Jayne was (and is) "kiddo," and now "baby girl"
JannaLee was "Stay strong, babe, and burn bright.
You're my fire; I'm your hurricane.
Those nights belong to us."
Jason L. was "Aw, butts..."
Scooty is "John SNOOOOWW",
"Groot..."
heart-to-hearts, and
Jekyll and Hyde,
#TeamApplesauce.
Travion was "Hey, let's face battle"
a note on yellow lined paper
and Hotel Transylvania.
Andrew was a lick of the lips,
my 9th Doctor,
"Hey, Nii-san."
Randi was "honeybabe" to me;
I still think that's a cute nickname.
Matt F. was "You're DIGAUGFN... I <B you."
(and I still don't quite know how to say
how much the jumble of letters "DIGAUGFN"
still makes my stomach flutter.)
I've made sure not to replicate
with current lovers things I've done
things I've said
special phrases, special actions
with past lovers
Memories are sacred, see.
I don't believe that any men or women
have hindered my ability to love
but at the same time I want to hold
the ones that I've loved
(or maybe don't want to admit to myself
that I still do love)
in the back of my brain,
in the bottom of my heart,
in my palms, rolling them into joints
and inhaling them until all that's left
is a labyrinth of white smoke and a smile,
lightheadedness and a moment of peace
I want to make this explicitly clear:
Just because I have loved many
and still hold many dear to me...
That does NOT hinder my ability to love
any given person at a time.
After breaking up with my boyfriend of 3 years
for a man whom I didn't know I could love
as much as I do
I realise that with all the people in my heart
I still have room
and as awful as it sounds,
I live in the past
as well as the present.
I can't let memories of people
things, places go
but please do remember that
I do know how to be faithful
in mind and in action.
I know how to hold only one,
how to kiss only one,
how to date only one,
how to marry only one,
how to live with only one,
when I say I'll never leave,
please believe that my words ring true
but I'm sorry...
I do not know how to love
only one.

This isn't a poem. This is more like a letter about a girl I knew.
Her name is Christina Grimmie. When she first started out on YouTube, I found her and I loved her. I commented on her video; something about the Zelda poster in the background. We bonded over that. And we talked for a little while, but then we lost touch. For a long time.
In 2014, she was on the voice. I was so proud of her. I sent her a Snapchat congratulating her and telling her how proud I was of her. And after that, we continued to talk. She was there for me when she could be. Sometimes she couldn't answer because she was on tour, or because she was recording, or simply because she was tired. We weren't best friends, but we were close enough to be considered friends. She lost touch with me again. The last thing we said to each other breaks my heart.
I don't know what to do. I'm so mad at everybody. Got any advice?
John 13:34- "A new command I give to you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another." Yu have to love people in order to be happy. If u sit here and resent them, yu wont be happy at all girl! Love yuuu.
She was shot and killed about a month or so later. And I was heart broken. I was so mad at the world. I deleted her from my phone because it was too painful. I regret that decision. I had lost someone so dear to me. I think about her every day. But one day I saw her brother, Marcus, pop up in my friend suggestion box on Facebook. I added him and he added me back. Now we talk all the time and its like I'm talking to her. It's like if you look behind Mark's eyes, there she is smiling back at you.
I don't talk about her much. It feels awkward. But I miss her a lot.

Sitting in my home
The power hasn't gone dead
I'm writing in a storm
Letting the wind carry thoughts from my heart
Up the spine down to my pen

Thoughts like... You and I snuggled together our bodies United against the cold or more accurately, me sitting on this couch alone, playing a video game that's old

Or wondering what it would be like if Zelda went cyberpunk or if banjo kazooie was an rpg,
Or if pokemon was a platformer, these weird daydreams interest me

Do you remember the apple cider?
Your house was always cold, every-
thing was always apples. I never
did get the matching triforce tattoo
with you and that is okay because I
don't like tattoos anyway. You didn't
ruin the Legend of Zelda for me, I
just said that. Remember to drink water.
Remember that everyone you ever meet
is responsible for their own feelings and
their own problems. Remember that lots
of things provide temporary fixes but
never solace.  

How about those frogs? Never a silent moment
until I yelled out your window and you lamented
over the amphibious life you stole with the lawn
mower. (I noted that I had caught frogs at my
grandfather's funeral).

Here's to your earliest memory. Standing in a hamper looking out
the window until your mom picked you up. Was there a bucket
involved? Here's to your scars, your split finger, right next to your pinky the red
on your cheeks, the rough texture of your triceps. That other chris in
kindergarten, Mercer? Did he steal your first love? Haven't smelled
your stomach for a year but I am pretty sure it still smells like
leather. Your hair, soft in the middle, rough around the edges.

Will I ever have enough documentation?

You taught me that tap water doesn't **** and that
all you have to do to make anything perfect is add
an egg or two.

Deep breath
Deep breath
Deep breath
Deep breath
Deep Breath