post paciffic

i sit
my truck is warm
so i don't mind waiting for the train
a friend once said that
"There is a certain romance to trains."
i agree fully
watching the behemoth pass by with predetermined grace
all the rust built up from across the continent
along with the brave one's art
also from across the continent
all here right now
in front of me
me.
me and my warm truck.
just like that train
we are about depart
to travel across borders
bridges and rivers
who no one knows the name of.
i'm leaving soon and i am up for the journey
i hope Lou Ellen is as well.

so this is christmas

sleep?
barely.
i have been awake for a few hours
and my eyes still feel heavy
couldn't this have waited til noon?
i guess not.
the present's wrapping was torn off
like the flesh of animals that we feast upon
this weather is suiting me very well
mostly temperate
i like that

blue xmas

i miss you
like i have gone to war
i long for you
like the desert longs for water
i need you
like the writer needs his pen
i vaguely remember most of the things in my life
except for you

$5.26

the man started to light up his first cigarette of the day
thanks to sleep, his body was deprived of nicotine
and this will feel good
it was one of his few remaining joys.
its about twenty seven degrees Fahrenheit he reckons
his hands were cold
the lighter is colder
he has trouble getting a flame from it
but he gets it and in turn lights his cigarette
the nameless face hands the little yellow lighter over to his lady friend
her luck isn't as good as his
she gives up
they turn towards each other making the ends of their cigarettes kiss
passing on the flame.
windows open
with hopes for the smoke to make its way out
not the cold to make its way in.
goddamnit!
he burnt his finger on his cigarette.

something horrifically vulgar

i find it so hard to care.
apathy.
it is a fucking disease.
and it comes in waves, sometimes strong
sometimes i can fight it
but i dont even give a shit most of the time
i only feel near to anything when someone pisses me off
the old cunt walking in front of me at the grocers
taking her fucking time while taking up the entire aisle
god damnit.
pulling up to a red light next to a cop.
those fucking pigs.
nothing but a bunch of grown up bullies.
whatever.
i have spent my life under the radar
under the machines and systems that are in place
for our protection, for our convenience, for our entertainment.
but this keyboard in front of me is the reason for my disease.
this machine opens up the flood gates
and drowns me with shallow nothings
i cannot concentrate like i used to
i cannot read like i used to
i cannot truly see things like i used to
whatever.
why should i care.

salvation army

its very cold out here
i pull open the door covered with bits of paper
its just as cold in here
i go through the racks of clothing
used and un wanted
like a dumpster baby left in the back alley
perhaps someone will take it inside
and it will be loved in the future
but now it is idly un owned
everyone else here is because they have to
I'm here because i want to
both reasons have the same outcome
does it really matter then?
i give the woman behind the counter the dollar six that is owed
wishing her a merry Christmas
i feel like people appreciate that more that happy holidays
i don't believe in god or in celebrating the birth of Christ
but i do believe in pleasing people when it's easy
whatever. im sure they care.

sunday the 13th

the thoughts came quicker than the reactions
but that's how its always been
ways to say i love you are stuck in my mind
but not a single way to say i need you
I'm not that selfish
but i am that miserable


"i knew this would end this way."
"why is that?"
"things just never work out for me."
"same here."
"well I'm glad we're back to status quo."


i saw that you were looking at me
you thought i didn't see you
i know i was looking down at my feet
but i saw your gaze reflected in a puddle

diamond cut

diamonds only have worth because so few exist
worn down over time

nothing beautiful happens over night
not the whores in the magazines
that isn't beauty
that is taking sex and turning it into an ad
that is perverting reality
that is
cheap

no. beauty takes time.

look at this river along with it's nameless canyon
no its not the grand canyon
but it is grand none the less
a relentless map of floods and droughts etched upon the walls
continuously changing
never the same
but always beautiful
although separate in nature
they are nothing without each other
the waters may flood
the walls may crumble
it's beauty remains defiant

you are a gem.

so it goes

the hawk sees everything
nothing escapes its gaze as it is perched upon its streetlight
this includes seventeen year old Emily as she puts one foot in front of the other
right into the street
and right in front of a speeding SUV
you know.
the kind that rich folk buy to let you know that they're better than you.
the kind that are meant to take on the worst backwoods.
the kind that are mostly just on suburban rodes.
yeah, that kind.
the man and his hound inside of the vehicle were unscathed
the same cannot be said for Emily
her frail body didn't stand a chance.
within minutes
calls are made
the man's lawyer is alerted
the authorities are alerted
the paramedics arrive
she is pronounced dead on the scene.
her family stops by the morgue to identify the body
the body that had once enchanted most every single boy
the body that contained an active mind that was always thinking above and beyond her classmates
a body free of drugs. confirmed by the autopsy.
as plans were being made for the funeral and the wake
people talked
why would she do such a thing?
what was she thinking?
was there someone that had hurt her?
did you do everything as parents to make her feel loved?
was she running with the right crowd?
what made her feel like this was her only option?
did she leave a note at least?
no one could understand.
why. did. she. do. it.
well no one at the funeral was at the scene.
no one saw it.
not even the man behind the wheel as he reached for his dog's chew toy.
only the hawk truly saw what happened.
as he always does.
that day emily was having one of those perfect days
the sun is out
no responsibilities to worry about
just enjoying the day
before crossing the street she had crossed a hundred times before
her luscious hair fell before her eyes
but she kept on walking
walking to her death
taking her last steps
taking her last breath
completely un aware that she wouldnt be able to enjoy the rest of the day
she died.
perfectly happy.
perfectly content.

highway drive

Riding in the passenger’s seat while mom drives. It’s an extremely familiar thing for most children. I’m eighteen and its no different, the radio off and random chatter and updates are what is in the air. Rain falls mercilessly, drop after drop after millionth drop pound the vehicle with all their might. Soon traffic begins to slow to a sub average crawl. We’re not even out of town yet.
Of course.
Up ahead the image of crumpled cars are visible like a toy a forgetful or uncaring child left out in the road one too many times. Car. Car. Car. Finally one last car. What a way to begin the thanksgiving holiday. Hurry kids we have to get to grandmas house tonight! All Ruined. After passing them all you’d think that things would begin to pick up a bit. Nope. Oh yes, the piece de résistance. We see now, a behemoth moving truck flipped over on its side as if it was a hunter’s bounty. All of the contents strewn across the median like a freshly laden snow. Everyone just stares. What can you do? Nothing. It is so beautiful. Such a peaceful scene, no one knows how to react so no one does. We go on our way, slightly inconvenienced but not thinking or worrying about it half an hour later. Maybe not even half a minute later.

balance

one foot after another
the resounding feel of making progress
i try and keep that feeling in my head
i am making progress
the rain falls heavy and merciless
while the wind leaves a desire to burn alive
this feeling is un-shakable
inescapable nothingness
the cold is stuck in my bones
i try and focus on anything
anything besides my shoes taking on water
this is hell
this is life
just try and focus on the things within reach
any farther and you are sure to lose hope
once hope is lost, all is lost
so may i always take small steps
and focus on whats within my grasp
happiness will not elude me
i grip the handle of the front door
as if i could lose it like a fallen comrade in battle
pulling the door open
my prize waits on the other side

416

dark room.
bright computer screen.
last. one. awake.
once more everyone has beaten me to sleep.
this always poses an awkward situation.
i am on the third bunk.
i must scale the giant heap of cheap interlocking dorm furniture.
and hope im not being too much of a noisy jackass.
oh well.

good old days

as i sit in my desk chair,
the ones that come standard in all dorm rooms,
i think.
of my back that hurts due to the chair in question
about the town
about my writing
mainly what it used to be
it is now merely the ramblings of an angry man
it has lost its heart
along with its guts
whatever.
maybe its because ive lost some anger
maybe im just more apathetic
i hope im not more apathetic
but a quote from the polak comes to mind
"i keep writing not because i am so good,
no,
because everyone else is so much worse."
so im not a good writer,
but i can settle for you being an even worse one
thats what comes to mind
while sitting in my standard issue dorm room desk chair

what happened to the old days

its late.
once again
and i am left awake looking out my window
the town just sits there
idly
asleep
like the one who drunkenly passed out
with no idea that i am here
and i am watching
and. oh.
i. am. judging.

thirsty thursday

always end while your at the top
better to do so then wait
holding onto the cards
ending in nostalgic sorrow
no
its always best to end while in first
that is how you cheat happiness.


staring at you
smiling
looking through your hair
like a lion looks at his prey
through the tall grass
in sweltering heat
eye to eye

sunshine

i am feeling aesthetically pleased
it is five oh seven on the dot
in the morning that is
and i am about to prepare for sleep
i look out of my fourth floor window
i see some of the campus
some of the surrounding area
in darkness
but amongst the darkness
there are streetlights
and windows
the headlights of drunk drivers
advertisements
the light from my screen pours out the window
adding to it all
i am just a single star in the night sky
we are all stars in the night sky
it is five fourteen on the dot
in the morning
that is

are we there yet?

this will hurt.
you will bleed.
we are all human
and play the same game
some have been given advantage
others have had a leg lopped off
this.
is.
life.
just a long drawn out trip
a trip to our grave
so stop worrying about getting there
and finishing
think about prolonging it
taking a break once in a while
to stretch your legs
and explore
just for the fun of it

gas pump blues

the light is on once again
warm and reassuring
letting me know that i need to fill Lou Ellen with gas
once again
it must come on almost every day
i hate spending more than eight or so dollars on gasoline
so ill keep up with it
the quick fix method
the seat belt latch is jammed
so i don't wear it
if she were to just up and die in the road
id get her fixed in a heart beat
but when we watch someone slowly go
go to their grave
we feel helpless
the course is plotted
and we are no cartographer
it will end well?
no.
its so obvious we cannot lie
no even to ourselves

nanni

the air comes out the vents
onto my skin
as do the words come out the speakers
onto my ears
into my mind
"are you feeling happiness?"
i sip my five dollar shake
and think of my grandmother
and how her prayers for me
come from her everyday
into my mind
onto my soul
the thought is greatly appreciated
that is for certain
but i do not believe in god
but the words of a young thief resound in my head
and so i say:
"she believes in god, and i believe in her"

drive

the basketball courts
the jungle gym
all the lonely swings
just as deserted as the neighboring cemetery
no children laughing
no high school kids shooting hoops
on a rainy day
its just as popular as the cemetery
the hundreds that have passed on
no longer get company
their relatives have stopped grieving
emptiness
its just a slight drizzle outside
not even enough to be a bother
have
fun

Trap doors connecting to the central nervous system
Short cutting through
And in between
And around

I-57

we're all strangers together
on the road
typing these words is more difficult than usual
due to a keyboard once used rahter robustly
but on the road
the words come easy
more than normal even
nothing to do but think
the poor man robbing the liquor store
he has power for once
power to kill
power to take
judge.jurry.executioner.
the hammer falls
just like the gavel
with all the same permanence
but thats not me
of course
im the kid over here
in the left lane

hip hip hip

foot by foot
one after another
i feel each foot fall in the base of my head
pound
pound
pound
each one resonating within
until the next
my knees absorb it in
so inefficiently
now
however
i feel lifted
my failures by the wayside
apathy
how trendy of me
but it works
for now at least

library letter

desperation runs through the veins in my body
desperation for hope
for truth
for loyalty
love and lust
like an overdose injection of heroine
i feel it burn through my body
driving me forwards
pulling the breath through my nostrils
and out my gaping mouth
i survive for now
but i must live
i must know
the doors of disgrace are down on me once more
no longer do i carry myself with respect
and arrogance is long gone
for now
continuance
one foot in front of the other
one
at
a
time


if i don't know my family
what do i know about me

Just A Brief Collection of Ideas Strewn Upon Paper

Every time I put ideas to the pen, and then the pen to paper. I write left to right. Right? At least that’s how it seems to me. Last night while I was writing it seemed rather odd to be doing so, writing right to left that is, like I was using the wrong hand. Well I shall disregard the feeling just like one disregards the homeless. Just ignore them and they’ll be clothed and fed. How does the homeless look upon one as myself? They are always peering up at you, as if they got up from they’re square of cement some other bum will take it right from under them, everyone has something to lose. But that’s all this is. Life. We go through life, living in our lonesome cubicle. Separated from the world but still somehow a part of it. This is a collective nation of the homeless. We are born, bred, and raised in our little square of the universe. We are not connected to the world, rather we distantly participate in it. I see the grass and call it green. You see it and call it green. Perhaps we are seeing the same thing. In my cubicle of life green looks one way. And in yours it sounds another way. Maybe the racists have just been born with wicked eyes and natural cruel intentions. It’s not necessarily their fault. But they are wrong, from my perspective that is. And the feeling of love is simply terrifying for the masochists. And every time that cheerleader literally spills her guts after eating, does she feel like I do after thanksgiving? I do not know. Nor do they. Our cubicles are not the same but they may be somewhat similar. Those who commit murder and terrible acts against themselves and theirs own, they are the ones whose universe sets their mind ablaze with madness.

Mark Twain stairs at me from my newly acquired mug. I purchased it from the thrift store for forty cents. All the effort and materials that went into it. Forty cents. It wasn’t even worth a dollar to whomever no longer wanted it. Well I want it. And I wouldn’t sell it for mere cents that is for certain. I value worthless things sometimes.

Zachariah is walking through the forest that he walks through everyday after a long, tedious time at work. This particular day is no different, the trees are still in bloom, the squirrels scamper up and down trees after one another, and birds leave their nests. September never looked so good. “Warm today, gonna have to bring a jacket soon though,” Zachariah thinks to himself out loud, “fall is on the horizon.” Somewhere in between thinking about dinner plans and appreciating a robin’s nest a large oak tree wavers in the wind. This tree was planted ages before Zachariah was even born, there’s no way anyone could have foreseen the events that followed. The weakened tree begins its journey down towards the earth with the help of gravity pulling it down ten meters a second. Nobody had heard it coming. It hadn’t been anything personal; it was simply the tree’s final resting place. It also just happened to be Zachariah’s as well. Vital organs are crushed; his lungs struggle to take in necessary air. With his hands at his side he is pinned to the ground, like a note reminding one to check his email stapled to a corkboard. He yells for help. He yells until blood pours from his raw throat and into his mouth, he no longer forms words but animalistic cries. This is true desperation. Everything starts to get a bit fuzzy and hazy as if it was the morning after a hard, warm rain. Out of the fog and the blackness he starts to see something different. The warm forest is no longer itself, trees start to look like white pillars, bushes are really counters and desks, an IV is in his arm. A more familiar image is at the forefront of his vision. And he didn’t think, he knew who it was. It was his family. Here they all are, half-circled around him and his hospital bed waiting. Waiting for him to die. The sound of the forest is completely gone now, replaced by that of mankind, crying, yelling, some persistent beeping. This beeping was barely even noticeable at first, now it dug into Zach’s skull, at least it was slowing now…

Lindsay watched her weakened brother in his hospital bed for the last time; this had been one of many hospital trips she and her family had made in the last few months. Zach had been suffering from some sort of cancer, she really didn’t know too much of the details, all she knew was this was the last time she would say goodbye to her older brother. The last few months had been especially hard, every time they visited it seemed Zach lost more weight than last time. Walking into the same hospital room, the same dead smell of cleaning products and piss mixed equally, the same motionless body of her former brother, the same countless tubes and machines. More of a shell of a former self, than a real human being she thinks casually. But today he finally gets to finish living and move on. Luckily everyone else had made it today, Lindsay thought to herself. We’re all going to miss him very much, and as this thought crosses her beautiful mind it begins. One of the machines amongst the mass of electronic nonsense begins to make a sound that you wouldn’t need a doctor to tell you was malevolent. They all knew what was happening. Just then she saw something that she hadn’t seen in months, it was something human in Zach’s eyes. Some sort of realization, like the kind you get when you skip to the end of the book before you finish it. And then it was gone. He was gone. A moment of silence, and just a moment before everyone began to talk. Talk and talk, about arrangements, about bills, nonsensical things. But before that, all it took was a moment. Just a moment was all it took to appreciate the beautiful September day outside of the window. Fall is on the horizon.

II. Nothing can be predicted. Prophecy? No such thing. The time beyond this very moment is intangible. Do the limitations of the human mind exist only within the mind? I think so. It is impossible to cross over to the grave while still being even partially alive. We all are only partially alive. And we walk one plane at a time, and beyond that, there is blackness- there is nothing at all.

An estimation of what happened to Zachariah's body when he died is of little significance. This is because his soul will most likely spend eternity in purgatory, right alongside everyone else who has fallen to death. It is a place that negates any sort of progress, any sort of forward motion- it is an eternity spent in inaction. So much like this life. So much like what was once life.

Zachariah's state of being, or what Lindsay assumed it was, came to her in a vivid dream. Zachariah was trapped in a room full of mirrors; every piece of glass was seamless and disguised the wall entirely. There was a door to this room, but as soon as it closed, it was impossible to see the exit- what was once the entrance. Human instinct told Zachariah that he needed to escape, as he was placed in this room against his will.

Each panel of glass in the room refracted and reflected the image of a sole body in the middle of the floor an infinite amount of times. The images seemed to go so far back that they appeared to become someone else. The only light came from a single space in the mirrors where glass did not properly align. Outside it was daylight. By this Zachariah kept time. But the daylight was just as intangible as the state of the soul in purgatory. And it didn’t take long for the reality to dawn; that in this place the only element that was able to be controlled was Zachariah’s own mind. Everything else existed outside of his control and could only be materialized if he was consciously aware of it. Because of this principle, we all exist alone and mostly purposeless- as ships that have never sailed. “Reality” is truly just a state of mind. And although two people’s vision may intersect, their entirely separate realities can never be grafted.

So many people question and debate whether there is life after death. But who wonders about whether there is life before death? The only reason death tempts some is because life- true life- was never existent to begin with.

Morning came the day after Zachariah’s death in the most non-descript manner. Nature doesn’t mark time in the lives of humanity- that is our own doing. Lindsay had slept a black, dreamless sleep, and when she woke up, there was nothing. No empty space that someone’s life had once occupied. Lindsay glanced at her alarm clock, the product of someone else’s, or many people’s, estimation of time- and decided to give up on tracking the time for that day. Eventually she found herself out of bed, and standing in the doorway of what once was Zachariah’s bedroom. That place certainly resonated with emptiness. But to Lindsay’s surprise, the room was filled with a lighter sort of emptiness- with sunlight. The curtains were held back and the bed was stripped. The closet doors were wide open and Zachariah’s belonging were strewn across the room in plain sight. Covering his bed and desk were notebooks, letters, and loose paper that had all been retrieved from the closet.

Lindsay sat down at his desk to read a page that was full of Zachariah’s handwriting. The words took her to the same state of mind he was in when he wrote them. They contained no prophecy, but they did tell of the past. There were no traces of sadness, but maybe some nostalgia. Lindsay remembered what Zachariah was describing in his random, misplaced sentences. No purpose. Just writing for the sake of memory. She remembered the day, and everything they had felt and what had occurred. She was with him. And for a second being alone in existence was not the case. For a moment, Zachariah and his sister’s thoughts collided in space, in the same way the seasons go from one to the next. The thoughts passed. The memory was embraced, and soon after, released.

often i awake

he wakes in the morning
or in the afternoon
never in the evening, unfortunately
when the time for the day to begin comes
it is accepted in silence
like the man walking to his noose
the shower is much too cold today he thinks
this shouldn't be
one should gently ease into waking
and confronting the day
he never remembers his dreams
of course he remembers very little of the real world
just it's crimes
but if he did remember his dreams
he would never want to wake
for he would find suitable substitutes for the truth
he would find

it is close to dusk. it has been for the past couple hours. it looks gorgeous along with the hills and this path they have been following. here and there some bird takes off or lands near by, i sure hope they appreciate the beauty of their home, he thinks. his company that he walks with, they are all faceless and no one, but all are great friends and great company at that. and as they were all talking have good community, a siren rips through the evening sky like a man into a woman's blouse. the talk amongst the group quickly turns to that of the invasion. not knowing but remembering about it, he thinks that its highly likely that that is it. the planes make no noise nor make any warning as they pass within spitting distance of him. others in the group are taken away somehow. he cant tell how, though he saw it. he feels no fear, he feels acceptance. and like that it is back to the beautiful evening that is was moments ago. the group has been reduced to a smaller number, but it is still beautiful outside regardless. maybe even more so at that. the sunset seems more brilliant somehow. after hardly any walking they are coming upon a house. this house is spectacular at the least. but while walking up to it he sees a drop of dew on some leaf. and he sees this drop of dew. truly. seeing all the light refracted within it breaking it into all and every colour. this happens so briefly that he doesn't even bother mentioning it to the rest of the group, they wouldn't understand or believe so why waste the beauty on them. he is different.hefeelsdifferent. his surroundings seem. different. every step he takes he can feel gravity pulling on each individual cell in his body. he feels how the earth longs for him ever so much to return to it. like the woman longs for her captain of a husband to return to shore. the inside of the house is more magnificent than they could have anticipated. but somehow the beauty of the marble counter tops, jade door nobs, cedar doors, the gold faucets, etcetera, etcetera, is lost on him. somehow it is nothing. a small stair set of about three are in front him he leaps down them. it is as majestic as a fighter jet take off and landing. leaving the earth, breaking its spell momentarily. and gracefully returning like a true lover. one of the bathrooms is the entire basement apparently. he goes to the spiral stairs and before embarking down them turns both faucets next to the stairs all the way. he isn't sure which one is which but he turns them both all the way anyway. the tub is all the way down stairs so he'll find out soon enough. before doing so he is sidetracked in something or other, i don't quite remember you see, its unimportant. but when he pulls away and heads towards his bath he finds an entire room of water waiting for his arrival. oh, to feel the bonds between the water molecules and feel it all as separate entities instead of one large substance.... this must all have to do with the invasion he thinks. sure

morning will come.
it always does.
but one must go to sleep now.
not so that one may awaken some morning in silence.
but so they may dream.

september evening

Finally
i have finished
so that i can begin again
hours were spent finding the perfect words
hours hunched over the computer screen
dimly lit in the dark my face grew weary
trying to make a brief second of perfection
but then it ended
now i lay in bed
thinking of other things
things that have importance
some that have none
powerful Russian voices fill my ears
it is dark
remember, remember the eleventh of September
the terrible deceit and self dismember
don't ever be quiet
don't ever be still
for they took your freedoms
with fear they instilled

apollo 11

off in the distance

in the dark

you can make out a figure

or perhaps many

but you know

someone.

is.

there.

certain of it

there has got to be

others have told you of their walk in daylight

but you know your strong

and persistent

you walk a bit more

with a certain steadiness about you

as you draw nearer

your vision hones

you know now what it is

that you have been making you strides towards

hoping

i am laying in bed

listening

to the music

my own

my neighbors

that of the cicadas

out of all this i hear you

all the way across the state lines

your whisper is above the noise

i wake

second day

standing in front of all those judgmental eyes

the same feeling as struggling for the surface and sunlight

some asshole in the crowd sneezes

quite loudly during the so called "speech"

sorry

that's some inspirational shit, man

fixda fernback

vile chemicals

corrupting

killing

it's a cancerous sport really

like Connor said,

im "trying to balance my brain"

but he's human too

why take advice from another one?

all i have are questions

no answers

no eloquence

not even some wool

to pull over your eyes

nothing is new

i say this over and over

but i realize

it's because nothing has been

ever

energy. matter. creativity.

it is all just transferred

from one to another

passing it on later

borrowing it for now

if this is the case

thank god Bukowski passed

intro

a big bad football player

tough as hell

except now standing before us

telling us his story

watch

him

squirm

on the verge of tears?

oh i hope

his discomfort is my joy

at least he can form words

and wrap his mouth around sentences

worth less

seventy one

the air conditioner
the fucking air conditioner
is one foot away from my computer
and my face
it
is
cold

pence

i sit on a stone bench
it is quite cool
the sun on my shoulders however is not
a meter away from me are two long legged blonds
talking
about everything and nothing
classes being too hard for their pretty little heads
what they think of dress slacks
its all the same
i want them to leave
eventually they do
i wonder what the ones who work full time
are doing
right
now
bicyclists ride past me to and from
as i ponder how to spell bicyclists
a concerned man stops by
briefly that is
to tell me words
and pat my shin
but the stairs await me
standing there steadfast
like a true lover
longing for my return

good god?!?

i find myself wondering what i am living for

the people close to me?

fuck them

they know nothing

nor feel anything

what am i doing

here

now

tomorrow

i am living for nothing

i am dying for nothing

now i speak aloud in one word sentences

because the frills of the sentence do not matter

nor do the recipients of these words

let them live

let them burn

death to prophets

we drive in circles

never beginning or ending

always in pursuit with no final destination

what. is. the. point.

take yourself out of the race kid

you'll be right here

right where you are now

in a year from now

ten years from now

sixty

a donkey with a carrot hung before it's eyes

im a fool

your a fool

gun in my mouth

gun in your mouth

why do we continue our search for treasure

there is no x on the map

drink

drink for forgiveness

drink for fun

drink to forget

drink with none

all an

pray for war

pray for plague

this is mandatory abortion

we must cut off the dead ends

you must die

so i may prosper

sworn solider

left vs. right

right vs. left

kill all your enemies

no ones left

jumps tart

a continuos tear runs down the side of my un crooked nose

from a perpetual yawn that plagues my morning

lies laminate their reality

people lament in being used

this. is. fucked. up.

how inappropriate. mixing reality with emotion

this is training to train the future

lies to spread more lies

N64

alex is sleeping over tonight

he will regret this

his back is sure to be aching

from our shoddy excuse of a couch

my dorm

once again my mind is focused on my eyes

and how they hurt

and somewhat burn

bitch bitch bitch

my ears are littered with the conversations

amongst my room mates

the bulls game

now the history channel

then national geographic

i can not concentrate

not

one

bit

i do not think of the future

or of the present

but of the past

goddamnit

doubt

doubt
is humble
doubt
is blind
doubt
doesn't assume

your certainty is sickening

sleepless

my mind is doing fine
working extravagantly inside and around itself
somewhere between my mind and my mouth though
it gets fucked
scanning the room
im recognizing things before i see them
acutely hearing seven different sounds
at the same time
at maximum volume by the way.
seeing things this way
its
its different
thats for sure
but im not certain of what it is
or who it is
or why it is

ball and chain

a mother loves her child.
a child loves it's pet
or it's doll
sure. whatever.
a dog loves its master.
what do i love?
nothing, id have to say.
i like and enjoy things.
but i wouldn't say love.
so i apologize, for when you say you "love"
whomever it is this week
or month
or whatever,
if i seem a bit
skeptical.
i don't think your loving.
your in love with the idea of love.
love has you seduced.

botched revolt

at this second
someone else is probably having the same thought
right this moment
actually its more than likely
why should we believe that we are inventors of purity
how fucking arrogant of us
we are filth creating more filth
its all the same haughty trash
look at me trying
to be a whistle blower and spread some truth
that no one else apparently sees
couldn't be farther from the fucking truth
somewhere else
across the street
down the road
around the world
some other cunt is hating the world
hating humanity
thinking he has to be heard
at this second

escape

today i started the process of evicting myself out of the house ive lived in for the past nine years
nine years of oppression and ignorance
nine years of tears and hatred
a third degree felon only gets five years of imprisonment
i go through the cluttered drawers filled with shit that once was treasure
through a mountain of old used school supplies in the back of the closet behind the full hamper
youd think that id reminisce about the good times id had in high school
or at least how much i royally hated that institution and those in it
but no
my heart had been filled with hate for another reason
every bit of worthless fucking trash i threw away reminded me of who i was
reminded me that there was nothing worth saving from my past
but with that blistering hate began a vivid realization
with this cleansing i was properly starting over
rebirth through fire

hey kids, lets huff some glue

my home is haunted
empty cups litter the bathroom sink
fake laughter fills the house
no one lives here
a thin layer of dust encompasses every item
cords without any use lay scattered about
people just exist inside this place
no purpose
the junk drawer has invaded entire rooms
nothing and everything is out of place
so not a thing belongs
we wear masks now
to hide our dread and disgust
no longer do we speak to one another
for we cannot stand each others voices
everything here reminds us of our own shortcomings
notes from the past that no longer have meaning litter desk space
clocks disagree with each other and refuse to budge
we are all fuck ups reflecting each others fuck ups

grandslam

they sit across from each other at the cheap seedy restaurant
they entered with the intention of ordering coffee
and coffee alone
but something happened and now they find themselves ordering food
lots of it in fact
no one is surprised however by the un intentional feast
this is actually what happens most nights
sitting across from her he complains about working
working a job he hates
but he has to make money somehow
right?
there is his cantankerous truck that he needs to maintain vigorously
he needs that.
the random purposeless purchases at the store
that instant gratification.
he needs that.
eating out.
he needs that.
if only he didn't have to work he'd be happy
that job.
he needs that.

acting

the actor plays his part

flawless and elegantly

he goes about saying the right things

doing what is expected of him

looking handsome for the crowd

but off camera 

he's a sly devil with a sharp tongue 

cutting into ones emotion like a bastard sword

damaging. scarring. burning them.

no remorse for his actions

when returning to the act though

he puts it on like a cap

without difficulty he switches mindsets

and this is him

the actor.

Fiction

gripping the pepper spray as if it were the edge of a cliff before a sheer fall, Michael walks out his front door. Richard is waiting there. waiting there in the Cadillac that his dad and his drug money has bought him. there it is just like he said he would bring, an aluminum baseball bat. armed with the bat and a torrent of false accusations, richard blindly rushes up michael's driveway. the aggressor uses the next twenty seconds to point at Michael with the bat and describe what he's going to do using the word fuck gratuitously. however during these twenty or so seconds he doesnt take time to note his surroundings, or the lack of sirens in the air, or the pepper spray for that matter. half way through the first swing Michael unleashes a blast of fiery liquid into both of richard's retinas. the thought of gripping the bat is massively over powered by the thought of clawing his own eyes out as mike stands above him on the driveway emptying the bottle into both of this presumptuous asshole's blue eyes now gone red as the devil's dick. grabbing the bat in one hand and rich's foot in the other he drags both into the garage, looking around to make sure that the neighours hadnt been disturbed by the forty second confrontation. of course they weren't. nothing bad happens here in b town. as the garage door closes Richard regains his ability to spew wild threats backed up by nothing. "fuck you man, im gonna beat the fuck out of you!" apparently he wasn't aware he no longer had a baseball bat, or that he had a whole can of mace in his eyes. whatever the case, the man had done nothing his whole life but try and intimidate otheres. this whole time mike hadn't said a word, finally he decides he shall grace him with some wisdom "you disrespected me...". "fuck you!" richard interjects, but is quickly silenced by a blow from the bat to his knee cap. you can almost hear the months of a squeaky wheel chair that would be positively necessary. mike embarks on a second try (doesnt this kid want to learn something?) "you disrespected me, and believed that shit lie that your whore of a girlfriend spun. now, i told you what the truth was, but you decided to believe the whore. so all this; the obliterated knee cap. the permanent loss of some vision(didya know your only supposed to use one spray to stop someone? guess i should've read the can....) and for whats about to come. this, you can thank your harlot of a girlfriend for. while pontificating all of this to Richard, mike had been restraining his slightly crippled captive in an old lawn chair. the ones that look like they're made out of wood, but the truth is that they're plastic. just like the truth is that richards life will be drastically changed. changed becasue he "loved" his girlfriend. because he was enraged with jealousy. because mike was done taking shit. richard starts to plead and beg as mike explains quite graphically what is going to happen to him. there is more fear in his tone and eys than that of a middle school kid standing before his classmates giving an oratory report on stem cell research or abortion or whatever. mike decides to not say anymore to let fear set in like mold sets into a house. slowly it takes hold, then once it gets set in, it blitzkriegs. salvation from it is impossible. you can not reason with silence. mike picks up two bricks, setting one near richard. the other he holds firmly in his fist. its held firmly with rage and anger and fear. but all this gives him strength to do what normally one would not think about. he forcibly places the one brick in Richards mouth and continues to hold it in place, the shouts turn into animalistic cries. humming a few bars from some pop tune that's on the radio at nearly any given moment, mike picks up the other brick. the left hand firmly holding the the one in place and the right held down at his side, in and under hand motion he swings his right hand. arm fully extended. he swings with all his rage. with all his anger. with all his fear. the brick connects to the bottom of richard's chin. immediately bone is reduced to fragments. teeth are swallowed whole. a fine last meal for this piece of shit. "you see the problem with curb stomping" mike begins " is that although despite its gruesome nature, it doesn't make the victim suffer enough. they die much too soon." Richard no longer cries out, nor does he shout copious amounts of threats. its more of a whining sound, similar to the sound that dogs make when they hurt their foot or are swiftly kicked. his mouth will never form words again, let alone consonants or vowels. "with the entire bottom part of your noggin bleeding like that" mike says in a voice he would use to talk to children "youll probably die within the hour. let me know if its due to blood loss or suffocation form drowning in your own blood, ok can yah do that for me? thanks buddy." mike leaves the garage, turning off the lights to save energy. you know, reduce, reuse, recycle. its important stuff, saving the earth. unlike whatever happens after that this whole ordeal. it is unimportant.

maybe i wont wake up tomorrow

strung out on the couch, boredom sets in like it has so many times before. my eyes ache more than usual from reading for the past hour or so, im not too sure. sometimes my clocks get reset from power failure, and i decide not to correct them. what would you call someone who loathes self improvement to the point that its nearly counter productive to properly living? would you call them a masochist? more than likely not. i mean, i have burnt myself with a cigarette before but that was a mere isolated instance of male machismo, truly to never repeat itself. so what would you call it? like anything matters anyway. improving ones self is a lie, its a quest for perfection that will never end. the idea of perfection varies from one mind to another, just like the idea of god varies from one person to another. the one truth to them both is that they both are impossible to find. perfection and god. god and perfection. they go hand in hand. hand in hand down the street like the lesbian couple that all the men fantasize about, and truly think that they could somehow get that. how arrogant. slowly my eyes shut, the feeling is exactly like lowering your sunburned body into a pool while there's no one around to ruin your enjoyment with their self centered stories and interjections. not actually listening just waiting their turn to talk. no one likes an interrupting asshole. my eyes open and the clock says its near eight o'clock in the p.m., obviously this is not correct judging by the sunlight, ive been asleep for a couple of hours though. not refreshed. pissed off that i awoke more than anything. but i do remember my dream if that's any consolation. remember it more or less, the way one remembers a fairy tale. sure i know the majour points of the three little pigs but i never actually saw that shit go down. it had something to do with religion and how if theres a hell im going straight there or something. actually it may have been about bowling, who knows? when will these times end? these times of waking up tired. tired of waking up. tired of the whores. tired of worrying about the future. do we dream because our mind needs an escape from reality? i think it could easily be true. our bodies block out excruciating pain by passing out. the idea of sleep is the same. we cannot take a full twenty four hours of this shit hole. we must get around eight hours of fantasies a night to keep on living. if we didn't have one third of our day removed, we might find some truth. once that happened, once people started to see how pointless their lives were, how idiotic the things they worship were; football, television, facebook, rappers. well, suicide would be more trendy than fucking skinny jeans. today, my truck started and continued to do so. my money hasn't run out yet. that drug dealer never jumped me like he said he was going to. i am relatively healthy. i have friends. so i continue to live.

haiku

window blinds are shut
blocking out all the real light
lamps will serve fine now

reading bukowski
on the couch in dead silence
perfectly content

09:11

i over slept
but it doesnt matter
the blinds are barely cracked to let in enough light to keep the computer monitor from burning my eyes
i thought that would help
it doesnt
all i want right now is for everyone making noise upstairs to die of heart failure
immediately
thats not too much to ask

paintin paintin paintin

at least a half hour
at work i try to get at least half an hour of sleep
when your painting your never finished
there will always be something else to paint
when you finsish the bitche's office you then move onto the prick's wash room
and so on and so on
etcetera etcetera
there are no true accomplishments.

garbage day

another morning walk to my truck, hoping that it'll start at least one more time
not even eight o'clock and the dew is already burned off the grass
its a Wednesday
im certain of this because of the garbage I'm taking to the curb
an older couple walks down the street
not holding hands, but still gravitating towards each other
not touching, but still somehow connected
they slowly ramble down the street
methodically picking through the trash and by products of strangers
treasure seekers seeking out of necessity or perhaps just boredom
i don claim to know which
by the time i get my truck started, after a few attempts that is,
the aged treasure hunters are loading up their relatively new green dodge Dakota
as i drive by in my relatively old red dodge Dakota
i wave to these fellow adventurers

-Reilly

Atheist

every day of the past three years has been a lie
one thousand ninety five days of deceit
i have pulled the wool over the eyes of friends and family
just in fear of their rejection

the look of disappointment in every eye of every other lalumendre
it is more than one could imagine
children have gone to war to to avoid such a look
because of course they are patriots just like their father damnit

the friends grew up knowing this truth
it was expected. it was inevitable.
we started in the same race, lined up neatly ready to go
but somehow ended up scattered about the lanes. barely breathing.

-Reilly

drowning

motionless and beautiful below the surface
as if a gem behind glass
this is by far her greatest moment
the way i will remember her
always

ill keep calling them poems if you do

the ground beneath my feet is that white gravel you see everywhere
cheaper than pavement, better than dirt i suppose
ive been walking a while when a woman starts upon the same trail
roughly ten feet ahead of me
we must have a similar destination
because i appear to trail her,
and i assure you it's merely coincidental,
in the dark for a good thirteen minutes
no sounds but the rhythmic clink of my knife against my pocket change
oh and of course her controlled breathing
to maximize her hearing abilities
the cunt probably thinks i wish to rape her
how vain of her
she stops a moment by a camp site
pretending to check her phone
of course i just walk by
she is nothing
she is a body of pre conceived notions
we all are
making assumptions of our worlds
other people. ourselves. "god".
deciding what someones else's fate holds
like a crack babies fate is already decided for it on day one

battle for seattle

eyes water and burn as the mob meets resistance
just a vast assortment of desperation
we've been backed into a corner
so we're turning vicious
you shouldve seen the signs
you knew it was coming to this
we had all the ingredients for riot
and in turn police brutality
instigators.
anonymity.
scapegoats.
trash cans and flaming dumpsters fill the streets
just like the economical cars that once did
everyone using anything as a weapon
but few muscle through the pepper spray and tear gas
those who do are beaten to death
the life of an outcast
the death of a martyr
middle class workers pitted against middle class cops

-Reilly

slaves with no masters are as good as dead

my generation
our generation
is nothing but service workers
a sea of slaves
cooking your food
answering your calls
watching your children
all with the same blank smile.
and meaningless tone.
all declaring our submissiveness
we know nothing
but following orders
when the time comes for decision making
we will look to another for direction
and await some sense of direction
and wait
and wait
and...

-Reilly

family tree

a tree with deep roots
it is steady and firm
running and retrieving life from every opportunity
slowly but surely
we branch out
we gain strength
strength from other's true solidarity

-Reilly

sodexho

morning comes like a tire rolling over you foot
the perpetrator driving the vehicle doesnt notice
nor would he even care
no one does
my eyelids are much too heavy to bare
but it must be done
we must fight every battle no matter the size
resist the urge to pull the trigger
to keep going just in curiosity
for whats next

-Reilly

i guess ill give them a chance

people never fail to surprise me
once you think you have them figured out
once you got them quaintly categorized
perfectly placed and labeled
they go and do something un thinkable
something insane
something compassionate
something sympathetic

-Reilly

road trip

hours of open space
a van full of angst headin east
we spot three cops
with the accelerator squeazed gently like the way you strangle a lover
i go five over the limit
look at us
arent we all rebels
the road is often changing
from the grand four lane luxury
to the shitty poorly paved back road
people never change however
when one passes
encased in steel
you can practically see the boisterous glow
honking.
yelling.
giving the finger.
fuckem.whatdotheyknowanyways.

-Reilly

back to basics

i had come to find out that writing
like any other activity requires preparation
preparation of the mind of course

one should not write with an empty mind
it would be worse than perhaps
trying to lift weights with a starved body

first the writer in question should ask themselves
what mood am i trying to convey here
to the reader

they should fill their mind with whatever they wish
whatever they wish to get out of it
not necessarily what is good but what is true

there is no way in hell that i can write
when i am having a good time
it will cover up the truth and blind me to the big picture

the solution
a little bit of Bukowski
and a handful reality

-Reilly

a quick thought

the screen of the computer burns my eyes while my music
pounds my ears near to uselessness
better to be painfully aware of yourself
rather than being blind
the lies stain my heart
but i know i have one
and it still beats
day by day.
night by night.
-Reilly

the crutch is finally breaking beneath you

the eve of my graduation
its hot today
the kind of heat that makes you want to sit inside
watching television
the lights off
blinds shut
im not doing any of that though
im sitting. then standing. sitting. standing and walking.
its like a god damned catholic mass
rehearsing our march of affirmation
unmindfully marching like swine to the slaughter
not seeing whats truly happening here
we are baby birds being kicked out of the nest
most will hit the sidewalk with a finalizing smack
i plan to spread my blood soaked wings
i vow to live. not to survive.
-Reilly

employed

the third time this morning
i walk to the facilities not making eye contact with any of the customers
over-wait and worthless
the men's room is small
another rushed man opens the door hurriedly
the way one exits out of a burning building
sees me.
abandons hope.
leaves.
finally alone, acidic bliss is wafting to my nostrils
what is this art i'm looking at?
one of those pieces sold at target
every Victorian style bathroom and sewing room has shit like this in it
fuck. how original.
done. zip.
the sign reads "EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS."
not even a please or thank you
thinking of the customers that had watched me walk by like a homeless that you don't want bothering you
i push the hand dryer button for effect and leave
what are these, new tiles?
self improvement. a quick fix.
crappy art, new floor tiles, whats next?
employees that wash their hands perhaps

-Reilly

you say democracy. i say dictatorship.

you will all bow down one day in fear
"it won't come to that" you scream "never"
look around at these people worshiping something that doesn't exist
im very much real
and ill make you all kneel before your newly acquired master
i am my own god
i'll be yours soon enough
im converting the strong to enslave the masses
none will be safe
all shall fear
i wont kill you for disobedience
that would be kindness
we'll burn you alive for entertainment
children's laughter will fill your ears while your skin sears and fat melts
with so much pain you cant form consonants
no syllables
just animalistic cries
for death
all will realize my power over humanity
and all will realize
i am god

destruction

nothing is original anymore
all the artists are just ripping off the other artists who ripped off someone else
this stuff thats called music is only influenced by money and corporate sponsorship
we will never create anything beautiful again
we are a society of infertile minds

we are working towards a future without meaning
will our children know of anything pure?
no.
everything will be owned and paid for in full
music. film. art. "free speech". whatever.

so i say destroy
if you want to create something new and pure, shake the foundation of this society
destruction is our future form of creation
this cant be owned by anyone
lets destroy something beautiful

writers block

i sit at my office chair
one those chairs that probably cost around ninety dollars
sitting and thinking
thinking about how much i cannot truly think
and this lack of thought structure makes me angry
i can remember once having original thoughts
its the same as the athlete who is now on an oxygen tank
unable to walk up stairs, let alone run or swim
so now i sit
i sit scratching at my head hoping that it'll begin to bleed
bleed copious amounts of blood
and stain my ninety dollar chair