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.