Happy

William would turn in his grave when he reads this and Hunter would return to shoot himself again, these were the words etched at the bathroom stall the young buck was sitting in. He kept on reading them over and over trying to grasp sense and enlightenment with the beatific, why his eyes itched with tears and mascara, why his knuckles are soaked with blood, the smell caked in his fingertips, his shirt ripped into shreds, pieces of broken down sympathy and dignity scattered the bathroom floor with the sections of his cashmere sweater that can’t be stitched back in the story, left for mere evidence. Glancing at his wristwatch the face tells him its 9:15, 2 hours too late for his chance meeting with his father, the man that isn’t proud of him one bit, not proud of his fake eyelashes and inconsistent swagger, because oh dear God he wouldn’t want to be cursed with a son like his.

He smeared his bloodline across the writing on the door and every 5 minutes lets his eyes wonder around the cubicle, his own private world with his own private theme song, channeling the Golden Girls and Cheers and Friends, feeling nostalgic for a decade past that he wasn’t even born in to be nostalgic for. And he died that night for the 5^th time only to be reborn again in misery and nostalgia and his goddamn paper trails all over place, everything was his, but at the same time it wasn’t worth spit, not worth it when the only person you value the most in your life turned back and walked out like there wasn’t any door there to begin with. So he sits there and he bawls his little eyes out, messing up the blush he just put on an hour ago, his feet scraping the drenched floor, his knees aching and he’s praying for it to stop shaking uncontrollably, the blisters in his palms are small targets like burnt cigarette holes in his tattered frame. Betty Davis can’t help you now, kiddo. Just take those deep breaths the best that you can.

Just take those deep breaths the best that you can.

That blanket quilt muffled the sound, the walls all held their tongues, not even blinking to pass certain judgment, and those ribs bruised from kicking and screaming wants attention from white coats, memories hid behind truths uttered to no man. 1 word and it was all over, but his teeth and gums bled royal blue, the camera lens, unforgiving. He shoved it away and tried to stand at his own volition but his beaten down body, scarred for life, wouldn’t want to cooperate, like his bowels and human urges, and it made him dirty and disgusted with his own skin, his own flesh and blood, his own insides. So he just sat there condemning himself, promising he’ll never come out, what’s left of his mandible clenched. The ghosts are already haunting him this fast and this early and this ruthless. His heels broken in two, it was the Earth’s worst color scheme.

He read the words etched at the bathroom stall, the world empty when he howled back at it, forever those words would be imprinted on the walls of his cerebral cortex, it shall be engraved on his headstone, damning himself when he didn’t die the 6^th time that night. He kept repeating to himself, with a crawl to the sink, a sigh into the dark, “Just take those deep breaths the best that you can.”

And with his own blood he scribbled on the floor: Oh, Allen. Where are you now?

.040108.

Summer Solstice: A Story of Longing

Here's the skinny... years from now, when every speck of memory of the Internet is forgotten, a man's aching heart bursts into flames and gathers dust. He mouths words of gypsy tongues longing for a good, sometimes collected, voice of this doe eyed girl (with make-up of course). "There was this time when everything fits the molds and crevices, I don't want those days over," he says.

Stories about parks and malfunction.

She wakes up drenched with sweat and the smell of wires. Another dream of tubes and codes in break neck speed. There's a cauldron of doldrums next to her bed, she stews it, mixing fragments of dreams about foot wars and trying to skip stones over the river; taking a deep breath she remembers. "Those who forget lose so much," she says.

She remembers fragments. He struggles to remember anything at all. Let's not make this happen.

Those same two people were walking at different time zones but staring at the same sky that evening, quietly sighing to themselves about lost space and life and love. "Their eyes speak volumes but what you don't topple over doesn't spill," the Moon says to the bright star of Summer.

"I have faith in them. She prays," was the star's only reply.

Sometime around June, the planets missing collision for the 4653216 time, still singing the blues with the most red dancing shoes, the momentum surging forward; the time came. Santa Claus just quit his job and he's giving away presents earlier this year.

"Bahamas may have sunk, but that doesn't mean we're sinking with it," he whispers. His voice is as hot as the season. He remembers.

"When day breaks, we'll fix it," she whispers back. Her breath is as cold as the season... and as close as humanly possible to his ear. She remembers.

At least, even for only this June day, they were together.

(Let's not make this happen.)

And at the soft whisper of the wind, listening to them, it whispers back, "Lifespan is their new forever."

A boy's choir sings. The walls speak. Shoes tap. The cross still hangs. The power turns off.

.0507.

(The Ballad of) Maria and Tin

I am a hex in hyperspace. Unabashed quadcore. Stop listening to my late night drivel of pro-socialist diatribes.

But hark! Here’s to the both of you!
Embed me – then I’ll embed you.
Here are my fancy words – rich and eloquent – and they mean nothing at all.
But let’s pretend that they do and at least it’s for you. More than I can give to most people bastardized by time and age and Mother Earth and Father Sky.
Literary confines be damned! Literary jerks, purists, sellouts, professors, scientists, hobby fuckers be damned!

And we damn them all to hell.

This is yours, to the both of you, as well as mine. Neither a song nor a poem, neither a literary piece. No, not at all. Just words and drivel and fragments. Because boredom, along with revenge, is best served with words.
(I rather not dispense bullets into heads for the benefit of all)
Promising intentions, darlings. And from some junkie motherfucker made out to be like he’s angry with every goddamn situation, wouldn’t you feel fucking special?

So here’s to you Maria.
Cheers.
And to you too, smoke quitter Tin.
Cheers as well.

Also, to me. For being bored and a fuck up at best and above everything else.

Hey at least we’re not a bunch of silly cubeheads twirling around boxes. At least we could masquerade as intellectuals late at night… amirite?

.032408.

Untitled #1

I walked the cold streets of the city, hugging myself against the cackle of the lightning and beggar smiles, toothless grins made by the machines, deus ex machina. On far away corners of the alleys, the far away crevices of brain neurons and its activities, shadows lurk like cliché gothic anecdotes from pagan songs about heartbreak and self-mutilation. They dance longer and more intricate when time elapses into a slow rhythm, a tempting image of boys kissing girls kissing boys and not telling their parents or lovers about these indiscretions, what they don’t know won’t hurt them, what they think would soon eat the apple’s core, spit out seeds of fucking werewolves and the vampires, cleverly named with internet handles. I walk the streets alone but the streets are not empty, it’s a barren land of fever dreams and flowers jutting out on concrete and soot and dirt and malice.

And these thoughts haunt me. Apartment Building A is so long away, too far and too pricy not to hear that voice at the back of my head, a voice with clear statements about overdue conversations and horny teenagers – rhyming trust with rust like a kindergarten poet of the playground. It amazes me how long I could stomach all the weaved excuses, all the falling down and getting back up, the scabs and bruises on my knees are maps of a cord torn from a mother’s womb to a fetus’ belly, showing great strength of conviction on being blinded, revolving around the sun too close for comfort. Who’s comfort? Certainly not mine for I cherish every moment the sun burns the wax on my wings, sending me to deep pits – only to get back up and stitch myself with Styrofoam and hopelessness as freedom.

The lightning claps and the thunders roll, but the rain won’t drop to wash away all these insubordinate clauses of distance and I miss yous. The beggars with the war torn eyes try and hand me moonshine to dull away the sun burnt wounds etched and traced on my figure, they say its nothing but an empty bottle to fill, I tell them my tear ducts are as empty as this glass ornament they hand me, rage is not an emotion I hide quite well. Footsteps echo into a poorly lit sidewalk, the streetlights don’t provide any sight, we are blind in this masquerade of pitiful human emotions, we hurt ourselves more than we hurt others and I take into account that I’m nothing but a pawn in a chess game, a rat shocked again and again if it grabs the wrong cheese, we hide away in masks, that we are not evil men. Checkmate.

I ask the voice not to talk to me like a friend, I’m not your friend, right this moment of time slowed down to a halt, nothing but a verbatim of crud in our feet, the dirt left at this same street we thread. Their words echo like the footsteps, laughing at the expense of the gap that grows bigger or smaller, a glass half-empty or half-full depends on the way you look at it really. I light a cigarette and clutch it close like it’s a shield from the unwavering anxieties of the early morning parade of wistful moments, an exhale of “its best not to say anything right this instant,” the air filling with smoke like a mist so we could pull away from punches thrown like curve balls. It’s unhealthy to talk to oneself when you can release frustrations by leaving a wall bloodied and squealing like a stuck pig.

Drawing closer, nearly out of breath from walking or swimming with the ghosts of the pavement, maybe we are better off with friends. All the pretenses of bearing everything out in the open is killed and mauled by words without merit. All the thoughts that cloud judgments would keep hanging around like teen suicides, I could only hope these could be swept at the welcome mat before I enter my one bed room apartment of claustrophobic proportions. I want to sleep well come day break. And if day breaks, the only recourse is to fix it. The city lights are brighter at night for a reason, but amongst the back ways we could see better, the passages are darker but there is no hindrance in sight – we are blind but we can see clearly. A man I admire once said: “It’s never anything, until its something.”

.121107.

We're Picking Up the Peices of a Broken Record and Other Kitchen Table Encounters

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