there are certain detrimental things i spend my time doing. these things are what make me a bad person. i don't mean overtly bad. or evil. just secretly and quietly bad. the kind of things that make me feel my life is a complete waste. yesterday i watched a dog eat vomit. at first, upon initially witnessing this, i told the dog to stop. still staring at the little animal gobbling up some other animals regurgitate, at least i think that's what it was, i realized that if this little fellow ate up all that vomit, i wouldn't have to clean the carpet. or feed the dog. so it was settled, and i continued doing whatever it was i was doing. later in the day, this same dog, smaller than a cat, started humping its friend, a very large dog, about the size of a fat goat. or a shetland pony. i told him this other dog was far too big for him, and he should quit while he was ahead. do himself a favour. but he must have been having a good time, because he continued , and had a particular dog elation written on this bland face. sometimes he would try to hard and fall over, but get right back up again and continue where he left off. about the same time this was all happening a swarm of bees surrounded us and we all ran about trying to escape. i still have a bone to pick with those bees. and i told them they were going to pay severely for what they did. i'm going to get a drink now. i'll be right back.

well, i'm tired. time to go to sleep in a strange lady's bed. in her lonely house. it feels very lonesome in this house. just the sense of a sad lady lives here. and you can justify these feelings based upon the set up of the home. and the stupid little poems she has taped to her bathroom mirror.

out of context by now. psychoanalyzing the parts of myself that shouldn't exist anymore. or tampering with thoughts too much, turning them into problems. these city sidewalks so full of every hope ever had. and all the footsteps bring it back. i am slow going these days in such a bad way. self-inflicted lethargy and disappointments are my bed mates, my adulterated conscience. conning the science of good thought. i slowly build glass boxes around happiness. shut it out away from me and turn it into observation. i'm looking in these windows at what i don't know how to touch. now there are no attempts. just something pretty. brings me back to my contrived times. to beg for solutions. a last chance salvation by something human. medications can't stand to be afforded. for two reasons. you're much smarter. much stronger. conclude that i'm a bad memory, and i'll die. decide that i'm as i think i am. can i ever manifest my good. be what i am. the expectation in my head. and not my myriad of false starts. saying what doesn't need to be said. thinking like a washing machine. feeling sorry for it. all the time. cowering inside when in the room. disappointing everyone. letting them down. to be nothing nowhere seems so much nicer than being someone somewhere. having nothing to prove. give me this time to cultivate my worth, and when it's enough, present it. truth be told. i don't love myself because i don't think anyone else does. my self-worth is solely based on others affirmations. a giant anticipater and high expecter. that's right. it's true. the absolute. behind every word is desperation. i speak two separate stupid languages. and perpetually feel like no one's listening. only one heard every word i said. at least i thought so. that one time. i can't smoke my way out of this one. it's all changing, maybe ever, i can't tell too much anymore. and that's okay as long as i know i'm just this person. this one time. i'll try a little harder.


{do you remember that night in context.} i'm not making up shit. and the prettiest skies lie at night in oklahoma. space is much larger there. {can you see the moon that i saw hollow what's the use when i can see right through you.} i drove down the highway almost lacking light pollution. completely. got distracted and listened. let's go find distraction and listen. by ourselves remember. this may just be for me. my way of doing. and sometimes i hate it. how i have to do. {it makes no sense.} to me.


i'm not going down that road. i'm sick of you people. seekers. there's a way to live and a way to exist. both are different things don't forget or be confused. whatever makes you happy. go ahead tell yourself your happy. the way you want it. there's always something you don't really need that you can't let go of and it consumes you more than you'd like to let on. be stupid your heart out. let something stupid suck your heart out. i'm not going down that road. you think i'm jealous? let's all burn out justifying our causes. let's crumble self-deprecating blaming others. why don't we frame our compassionate achievements? how about it, let's compare heartache. who can whine so lovely and more often. who drank to excess during sickness. smoked with more conviction. i don't have time for this anymore. and if i choose to so lightly lend myself, that belongs to me. don't go grabbing for appreciation. i'll do what i do. i don't have time for anything else. having already wasted so much. and you won't really see me anymore. i don't want you to. i'm not ashamed or sorry. it's eating up my time in such a detrimental way. fuck this world's fair. it doesn't mean that i don't love you.

out with it
you win
i'm at your tender mercies now
humiliated and hungry for more
hating selves secretly
with many miles to go
before any so-called final blow
and i'm aching masochistic

filthy-
call me baby

my great misfortune
i'm not good enough
even for myself.
between love and blood
i've always bought my own drinks.

be quiet and good
you're my favourite song
good morning to the bugs
and bicycle rides

southern story.

vicious cycles of stranger awkwardness. the gaunt gas station beard man has been bombarded (after touching my back and kissing my fingers) by the tanned crystal meth queen cadaver. speaking to herself and everyone at once. kissing the rim of her coffee mug she throws her hair and hands back into the air towards the ceiling stretching strangely. only then to be a delicate lamb, sipping quietly daintily on sugar water. with care asking. if the hurricane hit yesterday.

whispers around, i'm pretty don't you think. back straight both hands upon ceramics shakes her head slightly sets the cup down and laughs tossing back a heavy skull, then drops it on the counter. still it shakes from side to side. putting on sunglasses fist on the chin a finger extends to the lip melodramatically thoughtful. and from her mouth comes muttering. eyebrows down to look confused. straightens up again and throws a hand behind her. lights a mentholated cigarette. takes the glasses off, with eyes alarmed and opened widely, her mouth puckers as the distant deep questions excrete from a brain, supposedly. she's asking. about the existence of a so-called "johnny cash."

she looks put together and clean. a pretty little woman with small hands that move with grace when not flailing. scrunches her nose, she is chuckling. to herself and no one else now.

stepping outside she is standing there asking me for bandages. pouring peroxide on her blood soaked foot i ask a name, and am apologizing for the pain as her toes begin to foam and bubble over infection. hesitating looking towards the sky as if she can't remember proclaims her name is "sun" suspiciously then says, what is pain, but a feeling. i say lady i guess.


+++++


loved too much to talk anymore.
this is the last supper
for now i fast
to find a final resting place

of sorts

be at ease
lie down in a new body
a brighter mind

reiterating
i know what now is
and don't enjoy it
in so many words
this is loneliness
self-reliance seems so far from here
justification a joke
and often times the thief of truth
what a cloud
a haze this life is
i see it so clearly
taking place before my eyes
and why is grief
its cause and existence
the daily threats of nothing
in particular
here with simple folk

i feel shame. the kind that comes from just existing.


+++++


suzy after

nothing substantial
just talking
you don't even have to read this
pathetic lamenting over past nothings
a giant glass of gin at the table
next to the phone no one calls
i am nobody's no one
and know they are there
at their parties with their people
laughing and such
even when they've dismissed it
say they hate it
despise that little town
at their parties
with their people
i'm lamentic
that's not a real word
being bitter
wishing i had the gumption
to off myself
knowing i never will
whatahack
why does this seem so never-ending
why am i so impatient
i don't get it
and all its shadowy sadness
i don't even have a drinking buddy
cultivating contrived better times
my eyes close so tightly
my heart aches
there's a dead man
inside this chest cavity
rolling in his grave
over how i'm reacting
he'd be so ashamed
were he still breathing


+++++


they say they don't mean anything
these tornado dreams
i believe them
but am under the impression
that there's more to it than i think
either that
or these thoughts simply make for more


+++++

my great misfortune
i'm not good enough
even for myself.
but between love and blood
i've always bought my own drinks.
give us this day
our daily inadequacies.
my greatest misfortune
yes i know.
i'm not good enough.
even for myself.

one thousand cups of coffee. the dirt is deep in my eyebrows. have i been foolish? the array of diners, motels and bad directions makes me feel more misplaced within such a vast land, filled with so many people. eating from the buffet table where steam is rising from the fried chicken breasts. people pick at them with tongs. i'm no better. what a large world to wander around alone in. wanting to turn to my right and say something to someone. about nothing, the way one speaks to a loved one, someone very close to talk with, about nothing. whatever comes to mind, spouting random thoughts and observations. not bullshit, it's not bullshit. it's the most warm and loving dialogue. simple and open. to be so close to someone else's mind that your mouth harbors no hesitation. simply saying, and knowing everything is accepted. every word considered in a simple way, a gentle manner. even when they aren't cohesive. cognitivity need not exist between true and trusted friendship. that is to say, it is irrelevant due to deeper understanding. here there are only strangers. delightful strangers coming and going, smiling and giving me coffee. but strangers are like masturbation, as sex is to actual friendship. the brain requires social interaction, and these strangers don't provide complete gratification. but i love to watch them eat.

i had just rented an exorbitant amount of film from the local Blockbuster. the change handed back was enough for a pack of smokes, so i plodded through the ridiculous heat, contemplating my addictions, fifty paces to Kmart. while waiting in line to make my purchase, i stared at the woman in front of me. she was older, chewing gum forcefully, herself buying cigarettes. the skin around her mouth failed to efficiently cling to the bone any longer, making her appear much older than she probably was. from behind she could pass for thirty. i watched the folds surrounding her furiously moving mouth, hoping i could quit smoking before this happened to me. the cigarettes were $3.84. camel filters. full flavour.

as i headed for the door, lost in thoughts about nothing particular, i glanced quickly at some children sized bikes on clearance. they were schwinns. pink with white tires. my lack of thought was interrupted by a voice to my left saying, "fun fun!" i quickly turned to address it, saying "huh?" and witnessed an older man, red-headed and freckled, with a red, lemon-sized goiter on his neck. i only looked at him for a moment, as i was confused, and slightly taken aback by his deformation. he said again, "fun-fun!" i had no idea what he was talking about. "yeah." was the only response i could muster. was he speaking of the cigarettes? trying to shame me for being a smoker? maybe he was once a smoker, then he got the goiter, so the comment was the jealous revenge of an embittered, sickly man. was he talking about the bikes? reminiscing over the days of his childhood, when he too owned a pink bike with white tires? was he even talking to me? as i walked through the field of asphalt i contemplated this heavily. was it a sign? an evil prophecy or sarcastic prediction. the vague flashbulb memory of his potato shaped head consumed my thoughts, as i crossed the busy southern street towards home.

and every night before bed, thoughts come back, like a bad dream i had once,
or a really pathetic story i hated so much.


fuck you for all false starts. your backwashed ideas
supposing going nowhere neverletting
while sitting up in dirty rooms drinking expirations
cheap beer
just barely chokingdown for no good reason
i hope you see the joke you're making
the self squabbling moments when you say
i'm just a person justaperson for that and
for that reason
the world is here
there have been heavier hands
brows have been furtherfurrowedfucking shit
how can you call yourself
and i don't care just how you do
at all when you wake up alone and the day is yet another
but seemingly so new

you ruin

again comes the millionth chance
to just
andtojust nothing ever happens
the days wear on and you wear yourself thin in broken shoes
i wonder what you're sorry for i wonder why everynight
when you go home
now
when you've completed so-called productive breathing patterns
for the day
why you do
not how
you sorry
piece of shit
i'm sorry
for the both of us
you are just aperson faking it for real
and just
doing is for nothing
at all
in the whole
you're going nowhere.

Jackson Town.

waiting for the gunshots. keep the money in the icebox. my two companions are woody guthrie and herman hesse. one is made of plastic, the other, paper. before i left again, i was sent a french press and a bag of coffee from a local roaster. using both now, i realize the water wasn't hot enough, but there is a delightful grainy taste that does not upset. the deluxe inn. actually "the" doesn't even exists in the title, simply "deluxe inn." thirty-five dollars. and if i return the key, i get five back. the room smells of rot. stale cigarettes and the cheap cleaners used to try and make it smell like cleanliness. coat ugly aromas. why do people assume clean has a smell. and why is there an association between chemicals with this nonexistent fragrance called cleanliness. the notion of how many people have fucked in this bed makes one neurotic. question secrecy and infidelity. rotten old hairy genitals, with matching bodies excreting personal odors. sweat.

i've made a picnic for myself on the hotel floor. using the bathroom towels, which need never be used against clean skin. the soap smells like old plastic ladies, and i feel sorry for the hands that will use it. a chair has been placed in front of the door and the couch has been moved in front of the window. overlooked by a large mirror, the desk is arranged against a wall, ideal for my needs, but its placement adjacent to the door and window makes me uneasy. so i've set myself up at a range where, if there were shots fired in my direction, i'd be too low to the ground for a direct hit, hence the picnic. the bathroom was considered, as it is farthest from the entrance, but after close examination, its condition is wary. i can almost see the bacteria multiplying. and it had no outlet.

after lying on the bed for a time, it became disturbingly clear that the five foot by three foot horizontal mirror at bed level was not placed just so for the purpose of people looking into it with their clothes on. and left of center on the mirror itself is a large smudge of sorts. i stared at it for some time wondering what part of who's body had created this smear. and why were they here and with whom, never thinking such thoughts are none of my business. maybe because they are only thoughts. so the money's in the icebox, wrapped in a floral handkerchief. the air conditioner is on. and night is decidedly a strange and funny time. nine miles from jackson there was an angry black man yelling at a vending machine. the phone rang and a man with a thick middle eastern accent asked if a wake up call was desired. ten thirty a.m. are you sure? is everything okay? everything is just fine.

a converted house coffee shop. outside, on the porch, tiny fire ants deconstruct a piece of food. the air has thinned, and a fresh wind blows the giant oak. smoking a cigarette, my body wishes to succumb to this deep exhaustion. and the sadness subtly speaking behind it. all the feelings of loneliness and grief that come simply from being alive. i need a newer water.

somebody's in here.
scratch all those plans.
onto phase two
onto phrase infinity
again
everything is changing now
defiantly.

"
i had opinions
that didn't matter
i had a brain
that felt like pancake batter
i got a backyard
with nothing in it
except stick a dog and a box with somethin in it.
"

what now so much
from time to time i still stumbled around
like a drunk looking for what i have
intentionally misplaced

so i don't find it
but its absence makes its presence
that much more obvious
knowing if i found it
i would forget that it was mine

stop distracting me

now the actual drunk calls
i say okay why not
and i do
make
opening eyes wide
with an affectionate disdain
stare down great loneliness
scowling
sitting back and grinningsayingfine

and how vast because of it
the sense of solitary life so powerful
so quiet
the sky is mine
alone

there is some stuff i saw, while in mississippi. the first picture is, without a doubt, the best. i often wonder what crazy things people do when they're alone. or with someone very close to them. just weird stuff, like talking in funny voices, or making ugly faces. just being completely stupid. things they wouldn't ever do in front of other people. these are usually my favourite moments i share with lauren. just being stupid. instances where she is the only person in the world who i know won't judge me. and when she says, "you're crazy." i know she means it. in the best of ways...

(this is reminding me of "schizopolis," steven soderbergh, a movie that must be seen.)

anyway. i will be gone soon.

i don't know these people..

{new orleans.}



















{the washboard incident.}



















{lewis the pirate.}



















{outside the cowboy gay bar.}



















{something about secret agents.}



















{i smoke too much.}



















{river phoenix.}



















{kiddo.}



















{lovely lauren.}



















{?}

"well, megan, i hate to have to tell you this, but we need you moved out by sunday." i wasn't shocked. it seemed like an inevitability. i told him i understood. pointlessly explained the details of my life that had slightly led up to this point. he said he was sorry, and good luck. i stood to go, and for whatever reason, simply started bawling. i sobbed some words to him about how i was very grateful, and i knew they were busy people, kind people, "for christ's sake, you let me come to your easter lunch. i'm sorry. goodbye." i walked down to the piece of shit trailer i so temporarily called home, to call my mother. the church was hiring a new staff member, which meant i got the boot. that and i hadn't been volunteering as much as they would have liked. my mother didn't answer. just as i was attempting to phone her again, knowing she usually doesn't answer because she can't find her phone, lauren step inside. to console me. i tell her the story.

somehow my confused sorrow turned into the two of us trying on my new sundresses, taking pictures of ourselves, and me making some short film upsidedown on the bed, while she brushed her teeth. we discussed how "diarrhea" might not be such a disgusting word, were it not for the meaning. but the word itself is almost pretty, and very fun to say.

so it's homeless again. and i don't even care. i'll be gone in a week. i don't even bother about my job anymore. for the most part i sit in the back room drinking either coffee or chocolate milk, smoking and reading david sedaris, while chaos reighns in the restaurant. lately his stories have kept me alive. or at least in better spirits. the portion of my job i do care about, in the sense that it is the only part of my job that impacts me, is the constant feeling of objectification. when a man slaps your ass to make some sort of masculine point i wish with all my little girl heart that i could vomit on demand. because i would puke in his face. this happened to me the other night, after i spent a half an hour telling this man i didn't want to give him my number, i didn't want to go out with him, i didn't want to have sex with him, and i am not "freaky" like he so unfoundedly assumed, after all i had done was give him coffee. somehow, through this fifteen second act, his judgment call was accurate, not to mention his super power brains could tell i have "a really nice personality." he proceeded to say, "i like the way your built. you look sporty. and that ass, you could make a black man so happy." call me crazy, but do people actually get persuaded by such statements? do people like that? because when someone walks up to me for the first time and informs me they think i have a nice booty, and would like for me to have sex with them, my initial instinct is to vomit. actually, i would probably just raise a confused eyebrow, which, my luck, would be completely misconstrued. what does "freaky" even mean.


upon leaving work i found a kitty. it wouldn't come to me when i called, but we meowed back and forth for about twenty minutes. i left it some bacon i stole from someone's plate in the backroom. i think they were still eating it, but obviously, there were more important kitties at hand.

has this life become so boring? i feel it is when i talk on the phone. when i tell my stories. i am constantly questioning my own pettiness. someone told me that i would stop feeling so anxious and depressed if i just recognized that life isn't constantly exciting. but i find that advice hard to grasp. for as boring as my days are i still find so much pleasure in them. maybe not minute after minute, but there are always interesting things happening. always strange social interactions and instances. i find myself forever in this state of quiet fascination witht the world around me. why it acts in such a way. why people say the things they do, or insert strange antecdotes into conversations with complete strangers. everyone is searching for common ground. everyone strives to be different. or they don't. either way it intrigues me. and i feel like a satillite. just orbiting, unnoticed. most days i feel completely invisible. except for on the rare occasions where someone asks me if i'm gay because i have short hair. i've begun to tell them, "yes, but only when my hair is short. when it's long i'm completely straight. because i base my entire sexual orientation on the length of my hair. the other day i was walking to the movies and some teenage boys in a beat up buick rolled down their window to call me a faggot. i turned to look at them, and upon doing this they realized i was a girl, laughed and drove away. the world is funny to me. and i for the life of me, i couldn't understand why they would even bother to make any remark at all. as though it were some concern of theirs. like they had to defend their masculinity by demeaning my own. assuming i were gay man. which i would like to add, i completely felt like the other day. i'm sure that statement doesn't make any sense, and i accept that. honestly i have no explanation for the feelings i had. and even if i were to try an elaborate, it wouldn't make any sense. sometimes i wonder where my head is. and being alone so much probably doesn't ground me any. i've become a complete hypochondriac. having no one to tell me i'm not dying. what if i have a brain tumor the size of a tennis ball, and that's what's causing all these strange thoughts. what if i've had it since infancey. i miss my doctor. they tell me it's just the bad air down here, but i'm beginnging to think there is a blood clot in the back of my head. all this to say, mississippi is a terrible place. containing lots and lots of sad people i contend with on a daily basis. they tell me their stories in tears. and i have lost my sense of apathy. i trust no one. i let no one in.

i step into this room and open my mouth to talk
but seem to have forgotten all the thoughts i've had over the past twelve hours
so instead of saying anything
i just put on some music
and blow my brains out
i mean
literally
i sit like a drug addict
staring off not blinking
listening to this
so happy i'm almost dry heaving



two people
one man stands up midsentence and asks me, are my pants on backwards
he turns and i see the zipper in the back and say, yes sir they are
he tells me he's tired his wife is out of town and he needs coffee
i give him coffee

an engineer talks to me for twenty minutes straight, no breath
telling me an array of engineering tales, with terminologies i don't understand
he assumes i do
yeah.. yeah.. oh!.. yeah.. wow.. huh..
i become so awkward within myself i begin stabbing my thumb into my side
as hard as i can.
the only word i remember him saying is mathematics.
mathematics.
and i thought, that is a really good word
repeating it in my head quite a few times
amidst saying, yeah.. hmm..
mathematics.



now i'm electric
motherfuckahs
you can't stop this
mc suckahs

get your damn hands off my microphone
give it to me
it's gold chains property.

oh! gold tooth in several days.
bitches.

letting life be what is wanted
i hear what i need
aint nobody else gonna lay it all down
aint nobody else gonna tell me the truth
all i've found is the world is a liar
when it lies i say
how do you do
shaking hands and i'm
full well and aware.
praying more for myself
sleep less than i should do
they say
you done loss your mind
i say jesus.
integrity
and where is the wisdom
all i want is to be still.

{i keep a close watch on this heart of mine

i keep my eyes wide open all the time}