{the world just screams and falls apart.}

i had a dream you were still alive.
playing Mozart records in the basement
and you whistle like you always did
when it hit your favourite part.

i had a dream you were still alive.
like i could feel your stubble on
my face when you kiss me
and we do our special signals together.

i had a dream you were still alive.
wearing your brown plaid shirts.
wearing your brown plaid shirts.
wearing your brown plaid shirts.

cloud destruction experiments.
orgone energy. yeah.
Ether, God and Devil.
Charles R. Kelley.

+

at any rate. that image as a whole is visually gratifying to me. i don't know about all this "orgone energy" or "life force", but it's all pretty interesting to read about if you have nothing better to do than waste time and not drink.

what to do.. treat my days well. and use them wisely. i have a hard time being productive at my house. and writing about it now, as in, the simple act of writing about my inactivity or inabilities, makes me feel right lame. i'm not a fan of excuses, and i feel like i'm making them. justification is a joke. a joke. but seriously. i don't like being at home. except for when it's time to sleep. someday i will live alone. it will be best that way. but what do i do now? every time i have asked someone where i should go to college, they always say "how about Puppy University?" or "Dog College." who are these people? and why is it that every time i ask that question there is an canine around, stealing attention, to such an extent, that people make up fake colleges somehow affiliated with puppies/dogs. am i hungry or sick. i can't tell anymore. i feel discomfort. let's lay down my needs:

megan elizabeth henry needs:

- save money.
- to live alone.
- to finish college.
- to decide.

i don't even know what i want to do. film? or writing? or both... yeah. cigarette. d dddd. hello. my name is megan. i am the embodiment of distraction. where am i going. what am i doing. in case you haven't noticed. i very rarely am one for question marks. i love boards of canada. orange. ok. there's a lot to see. and i'm still young enough to contain within myself the sense that i can do anything. and i would like to retain that mentality. bitterness is for bastards. and cynicism for suckers. feed me with a fork and fold me forty times over. the brick roads are begging. and my car is dying. christ is calling on his royal telephone. burl ives. bogdan raczynski. bangladesh. (there goes anton on his bicycle.. i just saw him in a red hat. there he go. "there it go".) what it all boils down to is where i am going. denver it seems. fake cancer. i just have to maintain my focus. i tend to not do that.. and what the hell kind of a name is "burl"?

{just another shitty day in paradise.}

whatever happened to my coffee mug. i stole this picture from lisa. but it was so nice to see a picture of the Grill. the g-rill. i was brought back to so many instances. like closing on sundays, and hiding my bottle of gin in booth one. or playing biscuit baseball. or larry being a drunken asshole who made me cry. i miss it. i think it was probably my favourite job. larry aside. when leo was there, and traviss, who i rarely got to see, but was always happy to see, because i never saw him ever, and lisa, who at this point i don't even recall whether she was working there when i worked there, or was, or just hung out all the time, and cooked. and helped me wrap tatter boys. mmm. i'm getting intestinal cramps just thinking about home fries. with green peppers. and onions. and spiciness. and dan-o. and e-bar. that was short lived. peter. lauren?! i almost forgot. that bitch. her grama made her cool waitress dresses. and she didn't even ask me. i suppose we weren't talking a lot at the time. that's definitely the place that got me to drankin. i only had one beer tonight.


i just drank milk. because i'm stupid. also. i can't sleep. because i ate a lot of chocolate covered espresso beans. because i'm still stupid.

{is it an android you are? or are you a quasar?}

preface: these words are nothing of consequence. or are they....


i have a serious bone to pick when individuals make beautiful things and are themselves beautiful. in the face. that is. mileece, is an example of this phenomena. i just got a lot of titillating music. my mouth waters. also, i think i may need to be medicated. what's the cure for hypochondria? were i ever to make an album, i might call it "mouth sore", but probably not. maybe i'd call it "fake cancer". hah. that's funny to me. does anyone remember "fake carl the cat"? probably not. i had forgotten until about fifteen minutes ago that green tea is awesome. Automaton.

"once upon a midnight, in the planet land of X, a young boy being lay dreaming."

i've taken my things, and come to the algebra tea house. there is something very specifically different about writing outside your own home. and despite the fact that i have nothing dire to say, this feels very pleasant, and i needed to do it.

"an electric blue glow seemed to fill his heart like star light. not moving. not wanting to destroy the moment."

when i was in mississippi, i did this every day for months. i feel like i used to have something to say. presently, i feel very cluttered. like a junk drawer. i'm sure there's some really useful or at least interesting things inside me, but i can't find them. they're hidden under lots of confusion and fear probably. i never saw myself as a fearful person before, but i do now. that's kind of sad. we will have to do something about that, shan't we. cigarette. the amazing sound of orgy. i love it when that bass hits.

"nothing made any sense. what did it mean? it's important. it has a meaning!"

tiredness creeps on masculine feet. and grabs a hold with heavy hands. of course i might think to myself that lethargy and death might be the same thing. of course. there will always be a day of reckoning. eventually if not today. it seems that on another hand i sleep in order to avoid thought, and therein ignore death and reckoning. my penance. my self-imposed earthly purgatory. the days are days are days. and it is always what it is, nothing more, only speculation. i am fine. and if not, will be.

"for that was the young boys name. end."

it's time for a thunderstorm, children.

{approaching anniversaries.}

mostly when i have to go i do. but not now yet. it kills me slightly. and draws me to my limits. listlessly listening. i have reached a fickle Fahrenheit. the desire to collect the ways in which i gauge my own illnesses is obsolete it seems. as i gather my worldly treasures in my lap, my heart. and wait to die alone with them. there is always the voice i come crawling back to. with all the best pitiful pleas. that's just like me. i can tell you that i don't wish to sleep tonight or ever. but inevitably, i will.

{fear is in the chest.}

i've been really good. especially good. for the past few months i haven't even thought about disease or cancer. i may have made a comment or two about terminal illnesses. but i know that within myself i haven't been afraid. rather, i haven't obsessed about infirmities to the point where i become nauseated, dizzy and consumed by fear.

last night at five in the morning i was brought back. i have two lesions on the hard palate of my mouth. it began on saturday as one lump, which gradually became two parallel lumps. they grew slightly, felt hot, and now are two small, warm, open wounds. nothing too painful. i'm assuming they're fever blisters or canker sores. but why leave it at that. so last night i decided to read numerous medical documents, definitions, and articles, as well as look at all sorts of unearthly, horrific, bloodcurdling cancer images. of all the great ideas. i seriously convinced myself that i have oral cancer. and had to call my mom at five am and have her talk me down. i woke up and felt much better, fine even. but why let the issue rest. about an hour ago i looked up more pictures, and read about more symptoms of mouth cancer, and have convinced myself yet again that i am going to die a slow and painful, cancerous death at the young age of twenty-two. because, you know, it can happen. there are so many things you can die from. i called my mom again, she talked me down again, and i ask her "how to you know that i don't have cancer? how does any doctor know if all he or she does is knead my breasts or poke my lymph nodes?" at any rate. the moral of the story is that i am ridiculous and exhausted now from all this fear. and i really wanted to have a vodka/o.j. and a smoke, but one article specifically pointed out the fact that smoking and drinking simultaneously makes it incredibly more likely for someone to get cancer. thanks science. thanks for taking the things that make me happy and peaceful and turning them into demons. thanks for ruining my fun.. and my life.

{the clubbed left foot.}

i was born with a clubbed left foot. which is funny because i don't remember having one at all. but i have seen pictures of an infant megan with a cast on her leg. i went on a walk today for the first time in weeks. when i walk, i lead with my right foot. i've been paying a great deal of attention to this lately. when attempting to lead with my left foot, i tend to limp, or hobble, which probably isn't as noticeable as it seems to me. when i try to lead with both feet, i strut. but strutting exhausts me. so eventually i just fall back into my usual steps. but it was a wonderful walk. i've felt so lethargic lately, very anxious and manic. but two days ago it was almost as if i consumed some sort of toxic elixir. i feel myself mutating, becoming more energetic, and less hoe-hum. the music i listened to on said walk made me happy. for the first time in a long while i felt the need to dance while walking. i didn't, and never do, but the thought of it always amuses me. so the walk was peaceful and pleasant, and stomping through the half-icy snow with my boots felt like how i'd imagine it feels like to eat cap'n crunch with plastic teeth. (i thought that at the time.. although i don't much care for the cap'n.) needless to say, i enjoyed myself. after a while however, on account of my left foot, my left knee and hip began to hurt. and gradually my left foot turned inwards to alleviate this discomfort, which it always does. in addition to that pain, my left shoulder is killing me. right now i am drinking cheap red wine. and really wish i had some green olives to eat. the ones with pits.

{i should have prefaced this writing with a warning. everything i'm going to say tonight contains no actual reading value. i'm just talking, because i need to right now. i really with i had some olives..}

guess who just found olives.. that's right. it's me. they are the called "green pearls" and are the pitted, pre-sliced ones. but it's good enough for now. mm, luxurious. while walking tonight, i almost stepped in a large pile of dog poop. in my head i comprised an open letter to the person who let their dog shit on the sidewalk. it went something like this:

An open letter to the person who let their dog take a crap on the sidewalk and just left it there:

Seriously guy. What the fuck. Asshole.

that's about it. i mean, what else is there to say really. i feel very pleasant right now. maybe five hours ago my brain was a paradoxical mess. i sometimes think two completely contrary things simultaneously, and believe in both. it pains me. and on that note, i'd like to add that i am making a pact with myself to live alone from here on out. i think that is the only way to do it. i can't function when there's someone else in the house. and i dread coming home, because my privacy is depleted by at least 53 points. i don't know what that means. additionally, i really like vinegar lately, but it makes me lips feel swollen. tomorrow i am going to swim laps for the first time in maybe four years. which is very exciting. i like the smell of chlorine pools. i keep having dreams with specific songs in them. on saturday i had a dream with the song vogue by madonna. probably because it played on the radio at work, and sonny was singing along to it, which was very funny to me at the time. but either last night or today, i had a dream with the, oh yeah, it was today, with the song moondance by van morrison in it. and later, whilst walking, i put my music on shuffle, and it played at least four van morrison tracks. maybe my dream was prophetic. pointlessly prophetic. but in the dream this afternoon, i remember singing the words to moondance while leo deboe sat in the bottom of a kitchen sink, and rob keys' omnipresent voice suggested things that i don't remember. and my chest was on fire because of these little confetti crabs that you put into water so that they dance for you. they danced like a spirograph. it was completely awesome. i thought that maybe i'd gotten these little guys, reminiscent of sea monkeys, on my skin, which was why my chest was burning. also, you can't put a mermaid in the water with these crab things because the crabs will swarm and kill it. that's the information leo read from the packaging the crabs came in. and i said, "leo, are they alive?" and he said, "well, for now they are." and then looked at the neon drawing of a mermaid on the package and said, "you can't go in there." and i swear to god, in the dream it was his exact intonation. there were also wicker chairs around a wicker table in this room. (which was an underground apartment, don't ask me how i know that, i just do.) but all the furniture was lined with white wire hangers. which i imagined was the keep the from getting all banged up. i also recall an instance in the dream where leo, rob and i, needed to call opie, because no one knew where we lived. maybe because it was underground. and all the while, moondance was playing. so that's the dream i had while sleeping on the floor in front of my space heater in my bedroom. wow- my right leg just fell asleep and i really thought i was about to lose it.

and by the way, these olives suck. i'm gonna have a cigarette.

{a song.}

oh i'm just a little black rain cloud
hovering under the honey tree
oh i'm just a little black rain cloud
pay no attention to little me
oh everyone know that a rain cloud
never eats honey no not a nip
i'm just floating around
over the ground
wondering where i will drip

{the wolves won't make us better.}

she warms up and laughs hollow alone in a room on the east side of a town growing fonder. shadow-boxing herself into a corner. where the computer is. where the wine is. where the words are. there's no smoking this one out. not ever. she's making secret plans and counting money. taking things too seriously and always considering who the fool might be. if only they knew how much i didn't want to love them. she thinks in silence. they will eat you alive and not even know it. you'll throw yourself into their breakfasts. and they will blindly swallow without glancing. this is the new dimension of self. where ideas aren't solidified. every coin is double-headed. there are no erasers. and all the pages have to be filled before the sun is allowed to come up. but it's never under control. she thinks of secrets that can't be kept. and now says .:memories remember me:. wishing that she didn't and knowing full well of the desires. if only i were better. for now my house is mine. and i must keep quiet. i'm sorry for that. but it will make me better. if only i'd recognized fear when it came to my door with all that alcohol in hand. i would have called that man a liar. not that he was a man. i don't remember.

{le côte devoire.}

there's ink on the sheets.
and my jaw is shifting to the right.
so i know i've had too much.


dear eli,
i'm in the middle of the ocean.
i haven't left my room in four days.
i've never been so lonely in my life.
and i think i'm in love with margot.

new paragraph..

{no.}

the way your mouth folds
when you say no
is so secretly enticing

the drunks meander
they plod down town
up the street stumbling.
i can't tell if it's endearing
but i know i like it.

i remember names.
and i have visions.
alcohol eventually makes you
lean across the bar
{in subconscious desperations maybe}
or slide under.

i love the handsome men.
i'd like to be their friends
and see their naked backs.
but i'm too shy to whistle
and too afraid to strip.

when they're drunk
their lips are swollen
necks hang
sophistication is a constant challenge.

the way a face is put together,
all the facets gathering
never ceases to enchant me.

let's be ghosts together
because of my mind supposedly
i seek in soulmates
and i'd like you to know who i am
and all that i stand for.
you won't meet anyone
who loves like me.

i'm a drunk when i can't love.
because i need something
to be dedicated to.

and for some strange reason
that brings me hope.

{dastard.}

i'm the man who looks in the mirror
and forgets what he has seen
maintaining the heavy task of daily redefinition
but there is the undertone
of a certain single self surviving
like the dwindling embers of specific existence
most days i don't feel much like making things matter
especially that and after
spending so much time trying for nothing
my realizations are just passing thoughts
epiphanies, petty.
the truth of the matter always escapes me
or eludes me
samething.
eitherway
if i could grab a hold of it
i'd probably just let go anyway
these are the heavy days
these are dastardly days
and lately i'm just another sucker for them

{i hate this.}

that pretty much sums it up.





{drawing from:explodingdog.com}

{yerr-ah girl-drink-drunk.}

i understand that everyone is crazy in their own respect. and i appreciate that for what it is. pause. i should really just leave it at that. but i'd like to add that there are some things people do that completely leave me speechless. just. speechless. and i'm sure i elicit the same emotion in others. but man. MAN. i don't get so many things. seriously. there are so many things i don't get. how many different ways can i write that. in order to get the point across better. oh boy. like marriage. say it in your head once. now say it aloud. marriage. people love getting married, thinking about getting married. planning weddings. buying dresses. how many ladies do i know who peruse the wedding magazines in the check out isle. and i know there's nothing wrong with that... i'm excited to see all the people i grew up with getting married. i'd like to thank them all in advance. for providing me with massive quantities of alcohol. you can bet your bottom dollar i will be at the most spectacular day of your life. to shake your hand. and take over the bar. one of my most satisfying memories involves a wedding i attended two summers ago. at that point in my life i was looking really good. i'd been sad a while, and on account of it was very slim. so i went to this wedding on a hot july day, and found the bar was serving wine. a decent wine at that. except they were handing it out in these shot sized plastic cups. i had three or four, and then decided the portions were ridiculous, so i asked to be upped to the pint glass. three or four of those later. i felt the need to simply ask for the bottle. in the midst of casually snatching it, while the bartender wasn't looking (or maybe he just let this happen) a wonderful thing occurred. the dj, who had been sucking it up all night, as they tend to do, made a marvelous decision, possible sparked by some cosmic... thing, to put the song "danging queen" on. at thing point, a large portion of the crowd had left. and the dance floor was empty. with the exception of myself. dancing the night away. clinging closely to my bottle. it was one of the most glorious things that have ever happened. the end.


also:

au revoir, les enfants. do yourself a favour and watch it. it's good. and i'm a sucker for anything french.

{Eiszapfen.}

the rats get cold and come inside. i sleep in my coat. and there's ice on the sheets, frozen to the wall. we are all waiting. for summer. sleeping naked, i don't care to put on clothes and venture out into the wilderness. so smoking out my window, leaning out as far as possible in a bathrobe, i watch the cold from comfort. attaining just enough of its bitterness, so that i'm filled with thoughts. the chain link fence in front of me is frozen, laden with murderous icicles. the kind that kill. and trees crack, brittle in the breezes. seemingly intentionally. i blow smoke hard away. to not let it enter my house. i smoke furiously and emotionally. closing window i collapse on sheets and pillow. thinking i'll fall right into dreaming. the negative image of a metal fence is ingrained behind my eyelids. gradually abstracting and sinking in on itself, i slide right in. like living in a kaleidoscope. folding in while duplicating. i softly chew my tongue. and open my eyes. i know i won't sleep yet.

{drivel.}

i'm hungry. don't feel like eating. cheese sandwich. most nights i sit in my car and listen to good songs i like that make me lonely. i'm lonely. and hungry. not the kind of lonely i used to be. different this time. i think too much. i'm just a person being human. driving down that hill making myself cry. listening to old love songs. swooning. i don't think i'll eat for several days. it's just something i have to do. don't tell me anything about it. i don't want to hear it. and i won't take any heed. time is standing still for us. the things you say always captivate me. but i try to grow new skins. harder steel and armor. let nothing pass through me. let nothing take me over. except sleep and death. not even sleep. i can deny anything i want. i can control anything i like. because i am so weak, and my compulsions are all i have. my addictions are all i have here. at this time.

it's exciting when separated from the context of my own life. it's part of the memoir i have yet to write. it's already being written. but i still try to absorb the moments i find myself living. knowing i'll miss them later. i always do.

{willow trees and codeine.}

i like the truth. i like it when it's hard to take. the truth i know presently, and have know for some time, is that cheap red wine will fuck anyone up. i laugh at people who drink wine like juice. like it's kool-aid. wine will hand your ass to you at night, and your brains come morning. and cheap red wine will make you realize that because of your poverty, tomorrow isn't just another day, it's the day of your crucifixion. it's the poor man's burden. you can't bounce back.

i just ate some pasta, about eighteen green olives, and a teaspoon of codeine "elixir". i'm forcing myself into sleep. and if i die tonight, let it be known, i want no funeral. just to be buried underneath that willow tree on conneaut avenue. i know it's someone's front yard, but that tree and i had a moment once. it was four in the morning and raining, and i'd lost both my shoes somehow. we held each other and wept. i couldn't begin to tell you the circumstances that led to that point. i just know that we'd loved each other, as i've taken to loving inanimate objects. finding it to be emotionally safer.

this is some life to be living. i've been told to live it like a cancer patient. there are many people i have loved. who don't call. or who i've never told i love them. all the things we'd like to say, "so what oh well," to. but as far as i can tell, this is fucking all there is. so i'd better make the best of it.

{acidophilus.}

pulling my glasses off to rub my eyes in frustration. i remember i put makeup on today. i don't know why. i just feel like it sometimes. like painting my face. the notion is so strange to me that i enjoy it. and often wonder who's idea it was to add colour to particular places.

how many times have i walked down that hill and taken my clothes off in sub zero weather. calling out to no one and crying to myself i'm asking for help. not to anyone in particular. and had someone walked past and offered to lend a hand or call the police, i would probably freak out and start running. apologizing profusely as i sped off. the whiskey has found me again. and on my walk home, listening to music that i know pleases, i wrote your name in the untouched snow with my shuffling feet. i stepped back to admire my handiwork. later down the street i spelled an abbreviation of my own name. which also pleased me. and the entire way back i drew curly-ques in at least fifteen stranger's front yards. it was delightful. but now i'm home, and have recently eaten another tuna melt and some acidophilus. which is good for your intestines. i've been perpetually nauseated. which makes me think i am terminally ill. and have been attempting to take my thoughts captive a bit better. sometimes when i go to sleep i dream about how i might kill myself, and how beautiful it would be, aesthetically speaking. or i think of the day i'll end up in the state home, and wonder who will visit me. i don't know why i dwell on such things. but i do believe these thoughts depress me, so i'm trying to avoid them. i'm going to take a bath now. as this is part of my pre-sleep routine. tomorrow i'll wake and forget that i drank the night before. but will remember that a handsome man referred to me as "cool." and i don't see why i should care. just leave me alone.

{anything you say, baby.}

okay. this is what it all boils down to. i feel anxious. and very. very. cold. someone come visit me. but let me warn you, it's relentlessly frigid here, however, my warm heart and spirits will compensate. that and all the booze.

while driving dangerously down a snow covered road the other day, lacking the ability to see clearly out my windshield, and almost running over some strange man who thought it was a smart idea to walk in the middle of the road instead of on the sidewalk, i made a pact with myself to avoid public whiskey drinking at all cost. you see, whiskey and i are like abusive lovers. i get angry sometimes and start pounding down shots, and before you know it i'm drawing pictures of accordions and giving them to people i think might become my friends. this is why i don't make friends.

so i'm walking home and singing whatever song is playing on my headphones, thinking about how all the expensive yards i'm passing look nice when covered in lots of fresh snow. they look good enough to take a nap in. so i lie down in someone's well groomed lawn, and watch the clouds overhead gently float past the tops of trees. it's the loveliest thing i've seen in a long time. i hum along to the music, and puff away at my cigarette, which is starting to make me nauseated. standing up, i toss the smoke, and head home.

the next day i experience no hang over. i am never ever hung over, which is nice, but it also enables me to be a drunk more often than i could ever want. oh well. the moral of the story is that whiskey and i beat the shit out of each other, and in the end whiskey always wins. when i go to the bar, whiskey always seems to whisper in my left ear, "baby, you know i only hit you cuz i love you." and i inevitably drink more of it. more accordions are drawn. less friends made. i know that vodka really loves me. much more than whiskey ever could. but when we were together, vodka and i, it got old after a while. the relationship became bland, and i was always spending so much money on it, and vodka never even batted one beautiful green olive. but i know that it loves me more than words could ever explain. even more than red wine. who's bitter, cynical, yet warm qualities, always brought out the most romantic side of me. but after a time it was all just about sex, and i began felt so cheap. i don't know. and don't even get me started on beer. talk about sloppy disasters. and it made me feel bloated for days.

i'm going to the bar now, with my heart set on telling vodka that i want to get back together. but i know the moment i enter the door whiskey will be there eyeballing me. offering to warm my insides. and i will inevitably give in to its sharp, biting passion.

{yeah. i'm watching. and you don't know my name.}

is that unfortunate
will i ever find the ones to live with.
why am i talking to myself.
all the time. and writing
things about how i'm
fucked up or something.
silly. that's stupid.
i don't play games.
and i don't
mingle.

{weird among the weird. drunk among the drunk.}

you just ain't right.
and you can't stop drinking.
why do you say that

like it's a bad thing.

they almost made me cry today.
almost broke down.
but right now i'm thinking about boys and booze.
efficient alcoholic.

i love my life
stop kidding yourself.
at the bar
i sit in front
of my own beautiful ocean
it beckons in Burgundy
it calls to me in thick copper coloured liquids.
and the blood in these veins flows clear
and inebriates those who drink it.
no one ever has.

along this sweet shoreline
find me bobbing on the surface
some times drowning
on dry land
but always basking.

even when it pulls me under
and kicks me in the teeth
until i'm screaming.

{you know who you are.}

you had better keep writing.
or i'm going to find you.
and beat your ass...

{truly.}

at night i lie in a grey scale room looking to the left, out a window. on my back, i listen to headphones. eyes open i imagine my beautiful brothers dancing under aphotic, murky water laughing. while milky streams of light course across their taut young bodies. so full of little fleshy facets.

i fall asleep and dream. i am watching a family of whales swim across the sky, subtly aglow with shades of orange and pink and turquoise. i am lying in an endless marshland, very sparsely vegetated. somnolently floating on my back. and the whales moan a mournful harmonious tune as they drift towards the west with the seagulls. several stars present themselves in the great expanse.

sometimes i go home and rub my father's feet. he is a tired man. i clip his nails and sooth his calloused hands with lotion. with fingertips i massage his temples. my palms lie flat against the parietal bones of his skull. and my fingers gradually make their way along the temporal plates. soon enough he is sleeping, and i admire the manner in which the sun has broken down his face. his eyelids puffy, wrinkled. and underneath them remains the china blue.

i imagine myself older. going grey, my skin losing hold of the bones. i lie down with my mother. put my right arm around her, and say nonsensical, whimsical things to her, until she says that she is tired. we are wrapped in down blankets. she smells like her own skin, and i remember being very small, smelling her slips when i missed her. the shade of her lipstick.

i picture my parents underwater dancing and kissing each other. their bodies are old, scarred, and filled out. they are dancing underwater.


at night sometimes i pray for myself. not to be so disenchanted. not to be so sour. i begin to understand the biology behind family. the desire for it. and why not create something that loves you back. beyond biology. when they are gone. when i leave them. and every day will be like having hands in boiling water. i'd like not to be so disillusioned. don't let me stop writing. because during the dissatisfaction of days a fool sometimes sits outside embarking on specific delinquent thought patterns. sparked by unsubstantiated feelings of loss. and allowing the presumed bad deck of dirty cards to be taken in gusts gradually. timely winds devour. one by one, or handfuls, all the same. and the witness stares passively ungratified. at times, frustrations well up right behind the eyes, as they dance like unaffected leaves down the red brick roads. and pining, i do nothing. seeking the still and quiet voice, i do nothing. and so at night i lie in the bed i've made for begging saying please. don't let me die of nothing.

{family ties.}

I made
you
and I
can destroy
you

{drinking harder in our own personal dimensions.}

self placement
there you go.
skinny somewhere town.
you've got that grin again
a snide sideways smirk.
like you know something i don't
like the ghost of true alcoholism
has transcended up on you.
your cranium tilts forward
and you look at me
from the tops of your eyeballs.
i can almost see a sliver
of your off-white set of teeth
slipping though your upturned lips
when you smile like that
i know that you could watch me die
and get over it.
i know
that really
we are strangers.

and in the dismal dingy here
i can smell your breath
in my left ear
come crashing down
on the tender kidneys within.


i start to think-
on average-
how unfortunate are we really-
as individuals.
and how does time impact decisions.
or desire.
trying. swaying hips and pointing fingers
to and at the rhythm of the world

i fold.


(+)


{good form.}

the beauty of secrets is silence.
but i
can't ever
seem to keep mine.
they form delightful fortitude
in the
forefront of my
brain
lying comfortably shallow for a time.
gradually they force their
way up
into the crust
of my mind.
make a home of my eye sockets
i see nothing else.
and my tongue
becomes their doormat.

{Gewölk. Geister.}

clouds. ghosts.

in the air coasting
like a jet engine sometimes
crashing like a jet engine smoking
there is a constant mechanical failure
noticed and disregarded
circling amongst the clouds
and always over the thick ocean
which is continually calling
sitting pretty and deadly desirable
sometimes she comes down
but rarely. anymore.
only when she allows herself the plummet.
most days surrounding smoking clouds
floating passionately and misunderstood
she looks upon her loved ones
down and always over wanting.
grieved that they might be so distant.
accepting painful satisfaction
that at least they are there.
in some ways.
but never all.
nor could they be.

ocean. ghosts.

in the water treading
like drift wood sometimes
sinking silently so water logged
there are the every day attempts to stay afloat
going limp and giving up.
letting the gulls have their fill
or falling deep into muffled quiet water
turning into seafoam or salt
being devoured by the beasts
sometimes she goes down
but rarely. anymore.
only she controls the darkest dives
and most days being drift wood
choosing battles and where her heart goes
she reaches for her loved ones
eyes up with arms and desperation
mourning the faces she cannot touch
with her hands weeping
into water daily
she gives the sea its salt
a body
and a name

trees. ghosts.

in the bark basking
while gentle breezes from the sea
sweetly blow into these little leaves
made for gathering the salts
to crystallize for consumption and sustenance
planted firmly in the land
overlooking the ocean
and the vast sky above
taking care and bringing back
sometimes she calls to them
more often. than before.
there is a righteousness in her roots
and the rich soil sustains her
so she can stabilize the rest
but without the water there is no growth
and with no sky no messenger
she turns patiently towards her loved ones
and kisses them softly
on the eyelids
she gives them rest
watches them sleep
lets them go.

forever i have only had an audience of one
in mind
who is ever changing, but always and only one
who i'm aloud to pick, and do so choosing
and often times i do so foolishly
either way, i scream in cryptic phraseologies
and if you pick it up, you'll know what i mean
like some kind of cheap shot at my own emotions
always changing
like myself, but always never really
we all have our bags of tricks we wish
to put away from us
sometimes they are given
come as presents
and always unwanted
impossibly unacceptable
so maybe that's why i'm writing this to you
i'm always straight up
cat's feet don't tip toe around
and i will bust up those egg shells
but when it comes to speaking loving
i can't help but try you out
and wonder if you're hearing

now the world is run
on gasoline, blasphemy
and hooded sweatshirts.

everybody out.
i'm warning you.
a halfhearted stickup.
blood flows out like strawberry molasses.
i should be so melted down.
my ashes mixed with rubber
to make bicycle tires.
sprinkled into pancake batter.
i am a holistic remidy
turned into tablets.
take twice daily
before a meal.
or with glass of milk.
call me in two weeks.
we'll see how you're feeling.


+


i've been staring for a while now
at this plastic skeleton of a reindeer
adorned with christmas lights
the mechanical gears in its neck click away
and make its head flop jarringly back and forth
back and forth backandforth
as though it were alive and moving
it almost topples eveytime
i can't think of something more eerie
and recognize myself mimicking the motions
moving my hand to my drink. to my mouth.
sipping. as the ice chimes in a heavy glass.
placing back.
my hand quickly and clumsily falls to lap.
while the other holding cigarette is lifted. to my lips.
and puffs. then ash.
back into the lap.

we aren't much different
this plastic reindeer and i
and how disturbing.
plug me in.
let me go.

it goes. and it goes. always all the time. and i couldn't begin to explain to you what that means. my mother says to me, maybe you're just venting, but you don't seem to like anybody. ohidontknow. i've done it again. that's something i can agree on. and sick of self. every action ever made has led up to this point. where i am right now. all the choices. ever sense of determination. ever passive limp-wristed gesture. and here. drinking up all afraid like fine wine. that's not a metaphor. and it doesn't work. but seems like consuming fears. for an hour. maybe two. thinking about different things. i'm going places. in my head. back to where i was once. or forward to where i'd like to be. one of my biggest secrets is the amount of time i spend pretending. no that's not you, because i said so, you will decidedly be this person, because i said so. you hear. no not lonely. i'm a secret agent. and this is the life i chose. it's cold and hard. but when i was young. and those gypsies came and killed my parents. took away the family farm. i knew, even then, that this would be a solitary life. bad hand those fuckin cards. the only things that cling to me are time and death. i have no control. i lack it completely. don't laugh itsnotsofunny. seriously. i can't. i can't do it. my face is caving in, while i bloat and cringe at the present deterioration of my self, who i once knew so well. when people say, what you see is what you get. i don't think they really mean it. i said it about a month ago (i've been gone about a week) and the moment the words left my lips i knew they weren't true. and i am not a liar. the veins under my tongue have swelled. there are abscesses forming in my sinuses leading through the roof of my mouth. soon i won't be able to talk. my trachea is just a honey comb. easily crushed. ripped out and apart. ulcer. ulcer. ulcer. come on. give it to me. come on come on. i want it now. i don't want it now. that was a lie. i am a liar.

baby's always cryin to be better than she is
reachin out to online fortune tellers
spendin time alone
watchin the weather and waiting
always wanting
seeking out distractions
prayin for them to come callin

she leans out winter's window half naked
wrapped in a blanket

in the snow smokin
she says
we should do this more often
but with someone else
with a pretty mouth
oh my how i'd like that

instead she keeps to crying
barging through the days like maple syrup
that don't stick
she'll just keep thinkin through the hours
about stuff that ain't hers to be havin

i want to live alone
and be consumed
by every one of my self-loathing
self-indulgent whims
secretly succumb to my silent vulnerabilities
become skin and bone
transcend even myself
and not know where to go
no one knowing
but wondering if they do
while i sit in the closet
in the dark
drunk and telling myself i'm beautiful
everyone cares sort of
drink bottle after bottle
until i'm gripping the carpet
trembling with my own deep frustration
and curiosity
making the neighbors wonder
folded over in the bathroom
for hours on end staring into the mirror
watching my hair grow long and unkempt
thinking of everyone i've ever met or loved in my life
and how i don't know them now
and don't know myself
and don't particularly care to
despondent and catatonic
getting dressed
stepping out
into day
and pretending like none of that ever really happened

my face feels long
but i realize it's as round as a moon melon
i like to walk home in the wretched cold weather
while the wind beats my face into burning
everyone is too hung up on the heat
but feeling the cold against me
makes for far too much goodness
i dance down the sidewalk listening to something bells
and almost wishing i had someone to share any sort
of stupid moment with
ain't no thing
has no meaning
it's just a life i'm living alone
while the rest watches sometimes
most times they don't even bother to look
which is fine
everyone i work with thinks i'm half dumb
i say things that only make the sense to me
i get drunk in the tub and talk to myself
i pick up trash and eat from dumpsters
and am okay with all these things
but the moments where my brains goes eighteen different places i wish i had someone to just distract me for a bit
so i could collect myself
and not be so congested with unreal notions of nothing
or write stupid things for people to read
and wish they hadn't wasted so much time on words
not like they had anything better to do
believe me, i know
i'd like to not be so distracted
by my desire for a physical distraction
i can't turn myself off
and escape into my thoughts
so as not to deal with the world as it is
i'd like to make my own, thank you
and out of desperation
for something i can't quite wrap my knuckles around
i bake blueberry muffins
and eat them all at once
wishing i had more than powdered milk
which i'm developing a taste for gradually
when you're broke you'll eat just about anything
when you're alone, you'll take long walks
just the exhaust yourself into the absence of thought
you will take too many baths so that you feel warm
on the outside and not on account of your own heat
you'll lay on the carpet and stare out windows
or into space and question the cosmos
because clearly, things aren't working out for you
ask me how i know
you'll drink too much and ramble confusing topics
into stranger's faces
until they walk away
or threaten to call the police
it only meant something to you anyway
i'm really just talking to hear my own thoughts
because there are so many of them
i can't seem to make any coherent sense anywhere
within my own life
and like i've said so many times over
everyone is trying so hard
and sometimes they aren't even striving
towards a particular end
they are simply in a vicious loop
of their own creation
telling themselves that they are trying
and they don't know where the end is
because they aren't making it for themselves
just waiting on something that doesn't exist
until you breath your own life into it

i miss them more when they leave first
an upper hand against me
never
even the ones i don't know
they hold the heaviest longing
i feel like i could be alive again
or at least myself, who i had never thought of losing

back to the fickleness of nights
everything will die down outside
and within me be so terrifying
changing bad habits
into worse ones
letting the days go
and giving up
my sidewalk on the face, just staring
i'm tired of the baths and thebooze
cigarettes because even if i lost myself
at least that would be something

i don't know you. i don't know what's going on. i only recognize my own familiar ache that has lost its original contact. and the empty, confused nights of substance abuse. i have no idea where i am. idontknowwhatsgoingon.

misplaced inhibitions
a milky muttering fills the space behind
my head, so lost and soft
secretly stark naked in the dark
drinking quickly on accident
eating vertebra
like so many moments
always out of place and shrill
i am getting to the point where
i cannot stand my own processes
or anyone else's
while the flashing lights
make memories i feel are already dead.
can't help it
still shots for wild animals
don't mean much to me
when are we not so wild
it seems everyone is aching to live
prey and capture
i'm not sure what that means actually
for me either, unmemorable
but always aching too
it makes me want god so badly
something to take me
out of dissatisfaction and substance
or to have strip mall babies
or a forest to live in
the dirt will eat me up
all the books will end somewhere
the sounds will stop
and breath forgotten

the differences between this day and that day aren't at all substantial. with the oncoming winter i am slowly saying goodbye to most everyone. but it's always my secret. i watch them from car windows and empty lots as they pass by oblivious. being sick of constantly questioning what the fuck is with you. makes me question myself, and i don't care to do that. not at all. i'll only keep the ones who sit around my table gladly laughing enjoyably eating when i've made a meal for them. we put on french records. and i resent your distaste for eggs. i'm finished. done. i don't have the tolerance within me. quiet stormy eyed sleepiest of sleepers. i'm in it for the long haul. i've got no one to keep well. no one to fill me full of semen. or spill it on someone else's sheets. i don't like the smell of it. a hard head. be quiet, i'm thinking.

at almost three in the morning we are eating turkey with white wine and watching movies. i can see my breath in the room. but we won't turn the heat on. it's a test. and poverty. i like to be challenged, which is why i plan on becoming a farmer next summer. i want to work the land. wake up at five. in the morning. and watch the sun rise. plow and sew seeds. bake bread and eat eggs. become taught and tanned. glisten. that is exactly what i want. in the northeast by the ocean.

you are never forgotten in the night time
as i dizzily drink up the tomatoes
the night is beastly and as much as i
try so very hard to subject myself to drunkenness
it remains night
just as day is day and always inevitably so

i fall asleep to the realities that aren't my own
i take myself somewhere else during consciousness
only to be abruptly brought back by the belligerent bellows
of people i only know for now
and will soon forget these instances in which we corresponded
too bad or something

the fact that everyone is trying too hard
make me want to break my skin
and bones away
from everything that is the world
but where
does one go
to do such things i wonder most times

there is here and now
the pointless ramblings
the handsome men
there is here and now
but these two things are overlooked by all
the fanciful ideas of whatever might be

so everything is irrelevant in the end.
always and forever negating itself
and we're always only trying

the inevitability of my own wet feet. each day molests me secretly. and this world i care nothing for. there is a fine line to live in. between where i am. and the world, but i can't seem to get there. the unimportance of myself. and the vastness too, which only escapes itself, becoming an unsurpassable aloofness. i often wonder why death won't take me now. not to sound so dramatic. but what has man to offer me. what does the earth give. i expect nothing from the world. and desperately try to amputate myself from it. but when that starts to work, i feel a failure. there is no place for me in this world.

it was half and quiet light through the kitchen window. and i sat basking in all the silence life had to offer, while straddling your lap. as we sat on a wooden chair, in our underclothes. the room sparse and dim with the oncoming morning. my head on your left shoulder. absorbing pleasantries, and dark hair. and thoughts of absolutely nothing.

you will grow a man's face. and i will live in the woods delightfully alone. secreting little ditties about nothing in particular. out in the woods with old oaks and maybe some birch too. i always loved birch especially. and willows will surround me, because i have to tell them it's all going to work out just fine. i like the way they mope lazy like, very sad in the wind. with their heads down. and maybe cedar can join us, to make the air smell nice. in a forest for myself. with an accordion, and some assorted amount of other things, all very useful. a year maybe? i don't know how long. some sort of eternity out there. a completely different loving life, to nurture and be nurtured by the sky and cotton ball clouds. i'd like to see a river, or creek, spring. the summer prime, with red sun dresses. always and only red. everyday. a washcloth and some wine. i ride my blue bike into town for cigarettes and oats. perhaps a kitten named kleine fräulien. or "touchknife." olin slaughter will be there. along with rhonda metroux. we will avoid corn at all cost, as it may be a lot smarter than initially given credit. let us see. now. we have the oak, the birch, the willow, the cedar, the creek, the cat, and the accordion. and the assortment of other useful things. very sparse, you have to understand. minimal and pleasant. the birds will be there anyway, so there's no need to invite them. but i do hope that the red-winged black birds get wind of this. and show their pretty faces.

she had to stop. to cleanse herself she soaked in silence. if life were to be made into a math equation. stripped down into theorems and logic.

there really isn't a whole lot to be said. in fact. i don't think i have to say anything at all. i'm very afraid that any audible noise might adulterate my affection. it's a careful stupid game no one knows about. and the idea that there are a vast number of thoughts i keep to myself delights me, and at the same time, makes me wonder what exactly is the point of thinking them. how are these profitable. what is the value in them. when one has thoughts that seem so affectionate, and tender because they are truthful, precious because they are secretive, and worthless because they are irrelevant. i would like to say that nothing bothers me. but what does is my inability to avoid my fruitless thoughts. the daydreams that go nowhere. just fanciful stories i make for myself to keep me wanting more of life. so they are fruitful? where exactly would i be if i didn't have them. probably saved from the world, which i do not like. which, for the most part, i cannot stand. the way it moves around, and the other half that stagnates. please don't stagnate. all my loves are sparrows, and nightingales, mockingbirds and chickadees. all very aloof. paying no real attention to my hands or my eyes. no more than they pay to their own. i'm being arrogant. but i'm frustrated. because i've always had the greatest in mind for the ones i care about. and it doesn't even matter. you get lonely. sometimes you feel better, and other times you don't. i guess it's all a matter of how you look at it.

i made my own bed today. for the first time in years. normally, i make my bed right before i disappear for a while. but today i simply made my bed.

i'm not afraid of death. that is to say, i'm not necessarily concerned about the non-existence of myself. but as of late, the act of dying is consuming me. my body deteriorating, while simultaneously developing lumps and boils. my hair falls out. my teeth come loose. and gradually my breathing ceases to be. i'm everyday eaten away by a sense of impending doom. which sounds so simple. sounds like something someone stupid would fear. but most nights i spend some odd amount of hours reading all i can about disease. about my body. when i walk around i imagine coughing up my own epiglottis. my breasts may be small but that doesn't me they won't rot off. it stresses me to such a degree i end up smoking endlessly. wondering where the cancer will begin. maybe it would take months. or years. to die. i'm not afraid of any plane crash. but cervical cancer sounds so terrifying. i feel myself fighting the world, the flesh and the devil. and i do believe in the last especially because i hear him. right behind my left ear he's always talking. i know that all the horrible notions i have about myself are all seeded in his influence. he's figured out the things that cripple and everything that makes me fall down. he uses them against me. everyday, everyday he does this. and i want to cast out all these thoughts like demons into a fire. be rid of them and watch the trees instead. sometimes i remember that deep within my body is myself. and i feel safe. the solace always comes from singing.

maybe the second time around is better. but everyone tends to forget the important parts. equally, they forget the most simple. i don't recall asking for this. actually. i don't remember asking for anything at all. it was just given to me. hand fed. for whatever reason. we didn't think to use spoons at the time. which i am very grateful for. had we thought of it then, i don't think i would be as delighted by that presence of being as i am now.

during that time i would drive ten miles to a specific cemetery surrounded by nothing but agriculture, trees and a questionable creek that came and went as it pleased. the creek fed a moderately sized chocolate lake. at least it looked like chocolate to me. and several times while living there, i contemplated drinking that water. but it was mostly stagnant, and i couldn't look past that aspect of it. one should never drink from anything that is stagnating. instead i would sit under a strong tree and read william carlos williams, while drinking a forty. i would get drunk and cry over words and thoughts that weren't mine, along with the ones that were. why did william carlos williams have to be dead now. and why weren't the words he'd left me enough to satisfy. i wondered if i too would leave words to someone who would live much later than myself. and i would dread the eventual time that would come in a few hours. when i had to enter the world again. eventually, i would fall asleep. sleep was solid state around that time, but still no solution. and i would wake to the same day, that bore the same quandaries. my mouth dry and sticky.

when i was a child i lived out in the country. about five miles north of town. close enough that at night i could see the dome of light encasing the city. and the myriad of lights, varying in size, shape and colour, that were tossed on the horizon line. seemingly as casually placed as the location of the city itself. i would stare at the town and imagine all the tiny people milling about inside its supposed borders. there had to be thousands of little souls in that tiny place. just living lives. and i wondered what they were thinking. and what they were doing. kind of like when you are lying in the grass, and happen to notice a plane gliding dreamily overhead. for as long as i can remember, i have watched these planes fly by and imagined all the tiny people inside that tiny cylinder. but they aren't tiny at all, just distant. headed somewhere for some reason. and when i'm alone, and it is quiet outside except for the faint sound of jet engines, and this fragile looking ship trailing white smoke is passing me by, i find myself weeping. the notion of it, the sight of it, stirs up some vast and incomprehensible perspective of life. i am a slight speck of time. so tiny. and very very small. i can't help but cry happy tears. over the beautifully and infinitely temporary instances i don't understand.

but because i lived so far from town, and had no neighbors within my age, i formed a deep trust in my imagination, as most children placed in a similar circumstance are forced to do. i played with my brothers. but when i wanted to be alone, i would ride my bike to the cemetery. it was one of the oldest in ohio, i may have just made that up, but it was really old. it was across the cornfield from our house. and after the harvest, one could see portions of it in the distance. i rode my bicycle down the rocky road, where i always assumed older kids would go to have sex and do drugs. i did both of these things in that place later in life. maybe namely because of this childhood assumption. but there were two parts to the cemetery. a hill and a "forest." at least i liked to think it was a forest. and along the southern edge was a slummy trailer park. i was partial to the hill. it was the older portion. and i would sit. and speak with the dead people who lived there. we would watch the sun go down. and despite how dreary the day had been, the sunsets were always wonderful. the sort of beauty one mourns over. as it passes. in fact, the gloomiest days brought about the most luminous sunsets. so the dead and i would sit. and talk. because i felt, they were just as lonely as i was. we would watch the sun go down. and from time to time, the trailer park kids would come around and knock down the tombstones. my mother and i would do our best to restore the damage done. it always made me so sad. that they would do this to my friends. but they didn't know. that we were friends.

knock it off, cut to the quick
all washed up, makes me feel like clean
breaks don't exist
there's no nurse without a patient
that passes understanding
and we write our own prescriptions
for the ailments
whether or not they exist
at this point it doesn't really matter
and no one works the same
so don't be disappointed
or expect correct salvation
it doesn't exist
everyone's a misunderstood liar
a liar nonetheless
misunderstood nonetheless
preoccupied by justification
the oldest fucking joke
next to love