hey giiiiirrrrrrrrrl

i called it being a sad bastard once a long time ago. it wasn’t meant to chip one’s confidence, just a descriptive mode for which focus is appointed. something the matter? chalk it up to behavioral shift. that’s point two, one should bring up when apologizing to someone else but is not a requirement. here i sit, indian style and weaving the general stability of the human psyche and peace of mind. i saved things. collected things. put things off to the side. energy, feelings, gravity… thoughts go bumper bowling, while my contract fears the unknown. the unknown waits. i made the unknown seem cooler than it actually is.

“feelings of inadequacy.” 

the unknown now feels a bit more familiar. some things i don’t know. for sure. right on. just this air of failure that is my life, (i’m just saying that because i don’t have any money right now.)

:because he was masturbating, like y’know servicing. but it got all complicated. plus, he was poking fun at the situation but remembered how serious anyone else was. he had lotion! but didn’t clear his cookies or search history.

i don’t exactly know what’s going on. war. i think a big fight or something stupid is coming. so here’s a joke; the jesus hippie stuff was the wick i guess. peace and love and understanding, ethics common sense and moral carrots. [like how fucking foolish i must’ve looked at my desk. a guy in a ki in a kind of line, lying sitting standing up, look up, ha! and the help. the great big care. unspeakable things happened. steadily.]



the songs are slowing down with a warm scarf caressing graze over soft hellos and how many you miss before it hits you. that’s when.

his favorite outfit was the one he looked at mid-day later. how sweaty would his pits be in this shirt or sweater, managed the way he walked. you didn’t have to worry about that in life normally, but abnormally he had a particular fear of having a pleasant conversation with someone and suddenly noticing that cold wet spot directly under the pits, then nervously trembling your next words because you wondered how long it would be until the other person smelled it. i took care of that by not wearing underwear, and wondering what people with underwear felt like. i want to talk to a person and look at their crotch by accident and ask, “how does your underwear make you feel?” cold breezes sail by familiarly, and once in a while i forget to zip my fly. sometimes, i didn’t bother to zip it up and wait how long it takes for someone to tell me. shoes tell the earth how bad it drunkenly spins on a night out. you look out the window and turn away hurting the windows feeling. then the window wonders why it sits there doing nothing about it either.

the painting included brushes made out of recycled cans, computer chips, pieces of old classic playskool toys by the side of the road. “it looks ambitious,” shouted a gust of wind to the rattling piece of candy wrapper just over to the side. clouds do not look like fluffy cotton balls! the one actual paintbrush said arrrrgh, this isn’t even paint! but the painter had the proper set up.

an easel made from scratch accurately measured and cut. all his tools and paint mixes organized within easy grasp. and the hugeness of the rest of the blank canvas to fill. ambitious with only that which told him this would be his only painting. he stood, motionless and counting the one sweat drop down the side of his water bottle. everything else was busy hushing each other so the could hear the first stroke.

auspicious gold penis artifact lazer cut with purpose appears in the outlands of lazers trauma from doing actual regular shit make me flinch for no reason or mystical things!

doing something like this with a different backdrop and a life i didn’t get any time to daydream, but boringly just about the same. somewhere else to get to, would linger. real life and death stuff, i’m the right kind of rich asshole to fund some crazy idea to look like i give a shit. that’s money. that’s wasting time. i’d go out all night and work real lazy during the day, but generosity isn’t about money. it’s about balance of what you are prepared to do when it gets to you. kindness was one thing, and courteousness is another, and those are airs of civility that wear like a durable pair of boots. you keep the age or keep it’s trust, or keep both if greedy enough to learn the fall of throwing them out like any old pair you never had another of. worn, aged, weathered worthlessness is a scar you ignore. sense and sensibility tumble dry your fucking face when the time says something to you as it runs off without stopping. who are you? what’s going on? blank moments spent pretending to care turn over into all the training you need when you’re asked to be human. the rest of the time is spent under appreciating the dumb shit you accidentally bumped into and if you’re a thinker, you’re fucked when it gets quiet and you can’t shut off the alarm to dreams you didn’t make. you shout, “what the fuck!” to the tiny moment you didn’t miss and nobody gets madder than you allow. allow, sounds like a real douchey thing anyone could ever say about their generosity. but allow is all you do when you die. when you live. the dead and the gone and the puppy dog eyes you joked around with were glad to be there with you later to say some line or nod of acknowledgement nobody but you had the right to.

sssssssstair at stars that don’t know your name
step heavy into each tock that ticks you not
step light at notice, for fear, for hate, for all the things you don’t have time to think about
when those ambiguous words come to collect your statement
give a smart ass answer and huff to say, go ask when it mattered
darkness darkness. you were gentle. white is just another already there doing something else

i sold the value of what i think a soul is worth but i think everyone looked at the price.
lots of words, bump the value but stock options tip and it’s black market item
you treading on dangerous ground not making sure you didn’t tap the market
but where’s the fun in buying up what was just left behind.
you gotta step over the shiny ones still glistening if you the only one
asking about gay spiritual stuff looking like a fed.

is it remembering that’s the crime, or the construct constipated
from chinese takeout. made in china, is what everything says it’s made from
nobody gives a shit. but if words and shit have power in repetition,
made in china’s all like, “oh shiiiiiieeet,” for the motherland! nobody laughs
in different american dialects. poor china.
remember trust is the first thing they hit.
that’s how you know they lost.
echoed some strange screaming dissipation of reality talked about
behind it’s back.

what the heck’s going on? who’s writing this??
is this a poem or a rhetoric?




valonetin kin of o’face

They had me put back in pieces. Brevity was always encouraged when I attempted to do actual work. Kept me here longer. Betrayed myselves because they had me like a girl that walked into the wrong tentacle filled alley. Made me do things I did not like and the repercussions were worse. Whiling before my capacities, in gradual increments my tiny comforts were dismantled and held as a reward after I did something else against my character. My daily routine was already deathly boring to begin with as though life and any lust for it seeped away from my spirit. A cell within a cell.

Silently sneaking around trying to get outta here, my priorities were an illusion. My focus was a drill they used to bore through any hidden virtues I may have had. Without my consent they dug into me. They took the pages I wrote to document modern human condition and made me eat them. Turned my life’s sorrow into a game above a paper shredder. Plus the computer screens were acting funny, my friends faces started showing up in pornos. I watched on, intrigued and yet violated. My personal thoughts and privacy seemed merely like a stepping stone to them. Psychology with terrabytes.

Always picking up after my being mauled. I was like an emotionally traumatized rape victim. I kept going. The promise of mortality and the the old saying, ‘it could be worse,’ kept breaking, gradually. Like downloading songs, to downloading movies. The world is sieving through innocence much to fast and I just happened to fall in with the worst bunch. The only saving grace I had was my writing to help me cope through this corruption of the spirit. And any other person would have a fit and called their local congressman or pastor.

Because they knew how to level off my friendliness, I went down deeper into the abyss as a knockoff Jesus. I spun past where a living person should know about their souls, and about the things only known to the departed. I learned to speak and communicate with different beings, and even helped translate. Of these things, I was not in control of the situtations as I was in chains myself, but of the things I DID do, I always did honestly and with a good heart. I upheld any silent virtues I had with a code of conduct my soul would have approved. And when I discovered the darker things that were happening behind my back, I worked to stop those too. However, that also meant that I would become privvy to that world of darker dealings. And it brought me a heavy sadness that no living person my age should have experienced.

I was worlds apart and in between and there wasn’t anyone I could call in the white pages for help. I had some cheap tools and skills I came with, but were quickly mocked and confiscated. I was quite literally running out. Oddly, it was like I had to keep trying. Justice and good seemed scarce, but I kept getting hints. I was to do something else with my time here in this life, and it was done. and was done again. I don’t get on with religious tones, not when I was younger because I was listening to them all. How to be a person was the underlying goal, and there was no correct one. And stars aligned or misaligned and pooped me into existence, old and new, broken and self sustaining, dreams and nightmares but always kind enough to listen to someone nobody else wanted to listen to. I don’t belong anywhere really, but they say the angels kissed me before I came. What’s everything and all alone? I’m something like that, I think.



that not picky just a lil’
where’s the girl?!
where’s the bomb?!
like the old coin cannon machine
best spot in the pile
saw no target
hear at the end with  a drag
the girls gone, the drinks, finish up glasses fro

you move the targets around,
sorta. looking for them, in a calm manner
careful. an opening, an opportunity,
like you’re waiting.
that’s why elbows!



stretching a buck

where songs use to talk to me
when no one did. i walked alone with
night stars and aeroplanes and headlights
Now taps and trains rustling leaces
flickering lights and shutting doors

sounds in the sunset of a hurricane calm
does it bring whispers of those
lost at sea. possibly. possibly
why does it seem to land on me
special? why so.

Does it change the air when it fizzles out
or does it close in on the one that listens
is this a shield or a prison, cell
a specialist or just a little all-a-round
A blank wind still of air. the wail
mother of whispers. the collision
of galaxies in particles, ingredients

waiting for the fucker,… all things
considered… purpose after the punctuation.
the fuckist. fuckoidal reassignment.
pockets. look like pockets.

andalusion unicorn

fair seramist plead bien ca-va
son’t il meure h’iste
homework notebook lead pencil, pancakes syrupt maple!
foggy seafoam ferris moonthrone lightningen quicking
lefts lake leggs vein skyfire black
meander daring dormant roseblosom rise rasengan episodes

glass flood of pale-frost titans bleed bloom avalanche spats

sugar tears watch old wristwatches
knots nocked and loosed
blue soap suds stair irons walk/run/gallop/gust fwooosh!

plastic silverware recycled… nah, not really,
battlegrove suburbs affluent war of life and fucks fly
papered softdrinks extra ice and free refills when the straw rumbles
dirty gutters sometimes. clouds roll in gangs

obsidian mirror quiet behind
emails, deepweb, spacey searches, favs, junk, trashed, spam, stars
gangbangs, cheerleaders, fetishes galore, incognito, cognito, we know
mailboxes like abandoned homes
gusty gale epiphanitis


“…it’s you…”

he secretly boasted himself  by making it seem like he was talking about someone else. he was just trying to break the ice. then someone else gave him back his wallet after googling his address. Not omnipresence but you could find specific porn on purpose. Which kinda made omnipresence come off like a kinda creepy ’cause you can’t snoop around that search history.

Hid a lion inside of a guitar case once, and it pissed inside. sowwie. Always thought it was kinda cool how he knew when animals rolled their eyes at him like he’d told a cheesy joke. he was surgical when it came to making jokes. he’d have you dissected and stapled back up with your own breath and you’d laugh and ask him to do it again with a smile. Not a superpower like x-ray vision, but walked on dark air once over a park. sober.


he spoke like a sailor timidly born with sea-sickness. walked through cities in the dark in a heavy rain and was glad he didn’t have underwear on at some point as he found his way home. Angels, demons and longed spirits hadn’t whispered creepy satanic cliche’s in his ear. they scared him with “boo!” and teased him when he flinched, like bullies or  bratty siblings. they hounded and howled through his sanity and left it holy forged like a moth-eaten sweater. pressed him like a knuckle to the brink of cracking and he cried because he went ahead and finished with a snap, like he had stayed calm for nothing and kiled his own friends. then he started pressing himself before they came back to haunt. he just became calm, like something in him had died or transformed. when he got bored sometimes and there was no one left around to believe in him, he’d whisper creepy satanic shit and tried to frame it on another spirit. Like farting in an elevator, which, he never did. farts were personal and he didn’t share them openly with strangers, clutched them tight like a lady was present. He told his secrets away and sang jokes instead, and sharpened his honesty like a shiv.

When he began a sentence with, “i think,’ he was lying and stalling for effect. Nobody started the next sentence with the name of the only other person they spoke with. you can’t proclaim something is funny before you say it, that don’t work! (he practiced stabbing in front of everyone) he held his breath when he heard one of his names move. they tried to smoke him out by poking him. he was buried in an unlucky month on the last day of water bearers. grew up drowning and filling up drinks for people that needed it like that waiter with an extra napkin earning that tip. he smelled of fermented junipers, bacon and pizza. he stayed fit by getting trashed and rehearsing jokes into a mumble as he blacked out. then he bought a cute watch he noticed later, and ran through time to find a reason not to kill himself because he picked his nose as he watched the scythe close through the air at him again like a rhetoric. *walks away.* nowhere specific.

waltzed to the apocalypse after a few bus transfers on the bus. the last line of the night. he walked straight down the middle of the street with light steps over the black asphalt like a rolled out black carpet. he’d tumbled on it not long ago and misplaced the color of his kidneys as he dusted himself and straightened up ironically, because he watched how hard it was to cheer himself up like he used to, and shouted at a woman that looked like his mother. the street still dark with streetlamps flickering like gossip as he lit the other half of a cigarette he’d saved, like he was gonna try introducing himself to the girl in the other aisle.

a breath. and people fell in love behind him in the rear-view and how in love by how grateful they are to have plans with someone. I wasn’t the right kind of clumsy. sorta tip-toed around it with an “excuse me,” twitched as i stepped over the heartbroken. “I said, ‘excuse me! kinda.'” i testified as i was afraid they thought i was ignoring them.

One time i started a sentence with, “i know i’m not jesus!” instead of “argh!!!!” or “fuck!!” or “shit!!” and forgot what to say after. knew a jesse once but they stopped asking about him after a while. everyone that knew that name drifted somewhere until. (oh yeah, i flipped the record over the other day.)

*note; spotted a detonator earlier, by the secret trap door we used to use to get off-campus



on the tips of tongues

romance keeps time. kept me going when i didn’t have it, i’d imagine strange scenarios and cutemeets with a girl and think of a pick up line and imagine laughing with them about the silliness. loved romcoms. that made me seem pleasant and friendly when i walked into your group. like “he looks like he was just laughing about something nice, what’s his deal?” that was the kind of air i had when i was that guy. i didn’t know it then, of course and that’s perfect now. thank you.

here, i’m remembering in a strange way. like levees popping into place. always wanted to be that cute little ship, but that cute little ship was a secular countdown. that masses are usually fools but they speak the same language. An amalgamation of my surroundings is what i’d said about what i was. but the fools tell me the time. we’re wound so tight everybody is pretending to be okay and lovey dovey with exasperated smiles. sugar makes us hungrier and we feed the homeless candy. ‘weekend warrior’ is what’s left to call me when i bother to be called.

so deep in tune so heartbreakingly detached. another exasperated smile? no, a reminder for a tiny part of me. but one that barks rather than bytes. …to that place where ‘fuck you’, is like saying ‘you’re dead’. and wondering about up where? and what stick?!

i rode past her on my bicycle and shouted,
marry me or i’ll fall of this bike! I’ll tell
you all the dumb little things about me like
no driver’s license, bad credit, credit reports?
but i’ll guarantee when i leave you’ll miss
me because you’ll not be logically able to explain
why you feel the way you do about me,
and more time will only confuse why.

that way you looked off to the side, waiting
for the crosswalk light to change.





trashbag tumbleweed

Not role model material. Moi. Nearing the end of my line and that’s usual. Some people out there think if you just put it out there, our hopes/dreams, it’s out and about in the universe, and who knows..? It’s something typically let out with a side of prayer/pleading (sorry, i’m unclear on the difference.) because you’re gambling… believing. We hail from different regions so we might cope a little different. what? Don’t have that kind of conscience to encourage others to believe, though, had to run tests and mods. Here we are in this galactic quadrant, dawn to dusk looped, and once in a while, countries war, traject probes on comets, Amelia Earhart, the 60’s, a man had a dream once and a call to arms for civil rights is still ringing and peeps are iffy about penises in the girls room. Everybody copes all the same, just in different spaces because we have to look out for ourselves first and foremost. It’s not making an impact on the world and imprinting your shoe on a drying sidewalk. Yeah, kind of have to save the world now because, well, let’s just put that near the top of the list and see how far we can get. Go team, earthlings! I’m serious. I just made it sound corny because saying it aloud is different. I’m not a role model. Maybe a foot model, I got feet. Weird feet. Fetish level stuff.  

The crap that swirls around my head reads poetically and sounds deep, so naturally I inflate that to throw at women by appearing deep and burdened so they can dig me back up. While that’s true, it never works and my stuff reads at least somewhat witty. I got that, at least I got that. It makes me feel better than you. I don’t chug gin on the daily anymore so I have to trick myself into staying alive. Like how I try tricking women into talking to me. Never works. I live, if it can be called that, with my parents, pay no rent and spend money on illegal drugs in place of those I’d get legally if I was medically insured like a pu*sy. Copa Cabana! I can’t get my pecker working normally for a while now and keeps me from confidently trying to meet someone instead of just being a weirdo. I’m a regular at the f*cking friendzone. I bring flowers and wash behind my ears when I masturbate, it’s the closest I can get to dating without booking a table. I’ve never wanted to book a table at a mediocre place more than I do now. I’m basically a virgin, but I don’t know if they’re treated better than I treat myself. Or a pool cleaner, I don’t know how much better they’re treated than I am either. I’d suggest a virgin pool-cleaner as a role model over me by default.

Role models are people you try to emulate. Like a molding cast you stuff all your experiences into so it can shape you into something that appears to have their shit together. I don’t know who you are, a curious sort if you’re this far along. The things swirling around my head gather momentum and it takes everything apart in terms of emotional and neurological stability, the command center that balances and regulates my stability goes offline, everybody screams panics and the city is in ruins. It’s never the same when rebuilding, but I don’t even remember what the original looked like. I just rebuild. But that once in a while smooth one-liner that pops up while I’m cleaning, I shine it up, nurture it, and I’m alive again. I forgot who I was before I got here and that’s that. Then the sentence breathes resuscitate some old part of me submerged. That pisses me off somewhere. It pulses a shape of my existense. Like all the pieces of Mr. Potato head scattered and waiting to be reunited. I lost a boot once. I don’t know how to fix this place… my study/sleep area, my lack of vitamin D and potassium, my credit score. I’m fairly up to date on my pop culture references but don’t have the drive to socialize. And I definitely don’t know how to fix the things that went another way than I’d have liked. I want to make up for lost time like the next person but I’m not yet ready. I’m generally chivalrous, but even that’s chipping away because it’s a sweater and it gets warm around noon. One time I gave half my money away to a homeless guy. It wasn’t much, but I needed it. An old part of me smiled somewhere. I used to make fun of hippies. I had my own flower power, like sunflowers leave no scent. But I left it in my coat pocket, turned to dust, but it didn’t matter.

Things aren’t like the movies because we watch the movies. It shifts in real life because we fret easily over misunderstandings and it’s easy to blow the proportions. Squashing beefs or old grudges is hard to approach and it’s more convenient to just not attempt it. circulate next bff. In the movies, you kinda see where it’s headed unless it’s some arthouse piece. In life, we generally have the storyboard in our heads, except have to improv the plot, script, budget and breaks for evermore. Cast/crew; family/friends. Your life airs live on location. Sometimes we play back scenes that keeps us rolling through hard times because your friends and family back you up. They’re right there with you and you gotta pull yourself off the ground because. Still not that guy that’s gonna say, “believe you can do it!” Tons of those, just elsewhere and of bred better maybe. Because sometimes we remember that time where nothing went right anymore and your palms sweaty palms becomes a thing and don’t show up for air. A future comeback always an option. You can’t edit anything out of life, they happened. The extras, bonus features, easter eggs and even director/producer commentary is going on. It’s not like a movie. Movies could be like role models. Movies and virgin pool boys. I watched Mission Impossible: II twice in a week once, nobody cared. Same storyboard as Face/Off. Same director. Vanilla Sky.

Yep. I never get the girl in the end, and the costumes are usually snug. I didn’t aim mine, come to think of it. A role model…