Saturday, October 31, 2015
Notes at 4:30am 10.15.30
Notes at 4:30am 10.30.15
searching for a noncosmetic solution to
this financial dilema. Nothing coherent is waiting in my conscious
mind. I'm chasing shadows of dusty dreams and rusted shut doors of
perception.
Nothing matters as much as
the words, the meaning
Nothing matters as much as
the words, the meaning
some shady back room plot
to open eyes, open ears
open hearts, welcoming.
such a rare thing: audience
at times more precious
than gold
at times more precious
than gold
The lowly and lonely of us need love.
It's an innate need. Built into the spine of the human experience.
That light. That desire to be accepted. Not by the masses. But by the
peers. Our freak lights have led to us....
Monday, October 12, 2015
Friday, June 12, 2015
I gots...
I g o t a c h a i n s m o k i n m o n k e y o n m y b a c k . I g o t s o r e , r e d e y e s a n d a
d e c a y i n g s m i l e . I g o t p o c k e t s f u l l o f l o n e l y l i n t . I g o t a s t o n e d g a z e a n d
n o w h e r e t o b e a n y t i m e s o o n . A n d I g o t y o u & p a r t t i m e . I g o t y o u w h e n t h e
w a t c h e r a i n t w a t c h i n a n d t h e l o o k e r s a i n t l o o k i n , w h e n t h e r e s t o f t h e
w o r l d i s s o u n d a s l e e p w i t h d r e a m s o f b e t t e r d a y s . I g o t t h e f e e l i n I m b e i n g
u s e d . I g o t b a d n e r v e s a n d n e r v o u s e y e s e y e i n g m y b a c k . I g o t a n a c h i n g i n
m y s w o l l e n l o i n s w i t h y o u r s h y p r e t e n s e p a i n t e d p r e c a r i o u s l y a l l o v e r i t . I g o t
s o m e l i q u o r a n d a p i e c e o f r o p e . I g o t a l e a t h e r b e l t a n d a b o w l o f i c e . I g o t
a h e a d f u l l o f b a d i d e a s , d y i n g t o b e t r i e d . I g o t a n a m b i v a l e n t s t a t e o f m i n d ,
a n a m b i g u o u s t r a i n o f t h o u g h t , a n d a n a m b i e n t l i q u i d d a y d r e a m & o f
y o u & a n d m e . I g o t t i m e o n m y h a n d s , t i m e t o t h i n k a n d r e c o n s i d e r . I g o t
n o j o b , n o c h e c k , n o r s c h e d u l e . I g o t n o p a t i e n c e f o r p e s k y p o n d e r i n g , n o
t o l e r a n c e f o r t a s t e l e s s t a k i n g , n o r m i n d f o r m i n d l e s s m a s o c h i s m . I g o t a
d i r e c t i n t e n t i o n t o l e t y o u p l a y . I g o t a n o p e n d o o r a n d d i r t y f l o o r s . I g o t
h a r d w o r d s t o s l i p i n y o u r e a r . I g o t e a g e r h a n d s , o p e n a r m s , a n d a n
o b s c e n e o r a l f i x a t i o n . I g o t a c o u p l e o f n o i s y d o g s a n d a l e s b i a n r o o m m a t e .
I g o t a q u i e t r o o m , a n d a s o f t b e d a l l t o m y s e l f . I g o t a s i x t h s e n s e , a f i f t h o f
J a c k , f o u r l i t e r s o f C o k e , t h r e e h o u r s b e f o r e d a w n , s e c o n d s i g h t , a n d o n e
s l o w , s e d u c t i v e s e n s a t i o n s e e t h i n g s o m e w h e r e j u s t i n s i d e . I g o t a n e m p t y
s p a c e & i n m y e m p t y l i f e & f o r p a r t o f y o u .
Produce was his Life
Produce
was his life
“This
is a little different than stocking.”
the
store manager told me as his hands quickly rearranged potatoes.
He
moved as if on auto-pilot,
like
produce was his life
at
one time or another.
“You
can put your own personality into produce.” he said.
“It’s
kind of fun if you ask me but you’ve got to
stay
on top of things. See, this is called grading the rack.
I’m
weeding out all of the bad stuff.”
I
watched with wanton interest as his hands moved like
a
machine. All the potatoes moved into a neat pile as
his
fingers passed. He talked as he worked making his
movements
seem effortless.
“Have
you ever seen a green potato?” he asked.
“No,
I can’t say that I have.” I replied.
“You
see, the potatoes actually start to bloom under
the
lights.” he continued, “Their skin begins to turn green and the
potato
will go bad soon after. There’s nothing worse
then
the smell of a bad green potato. The stench will
linger
in a room for weeks. We’d never be able to get
it
out of here. You’ve got to stay on top of things like this.”
I
didn’t see the severity of the situation but his words
hung
heavy with serious undertones. All the potatoes looked
brown
and healthy. The store manager worked from the bottom
of
the rack to the top, talking the entire time. He wanted me to
feel
his passion for produce, the kind of team spirit found only
with
a job at a corporate grocery chain.
The
problem was, I just didn’t feel it. I never would.
My
ambitions in life far exceed middle-management.
I
have marvelous dreams that may never come true,
but
they’re my dreams and they carry me through the
passing
years. They carry me through endless work shifts
amounting
to nothing more than sore feet and short-lived
paychecks.
And maybe I am a good worker now that
I’m
out of rehab but I still don’t care about this job.
It
was as simple as that. But I couldn’t tell him how I felt.
Not
when he was sharing so passionately his lust for produce.
I
did need a job. I couldn’t jeopardize it by interrupting his
diatribe
with my true feelings about job security.
Finally,
he was to the top of the rack and towards the
end
of his speech. I listened as I watched his hands as
he
watched me. Suddenly my eyes caught the glimpse of
the
ugliest spud I’ve ever seen. It was standing out at the
top
of the rack like stepchild with a kool-aid moustache.
It
was way up in the corner of the rack, forgotten or overlooked,
for
god knows how long.
“Well,”
he sighed, “None of these are green but you’ll see one
sooner
or later.”
Just
then I pointed at the lone potato hiding up in the corner of the
rack.
The
manager’s eyes followed my finger and mute words towards the
potato.
When he spotted it I think he immediately achieved an erection.
“Yes!”
He exclaimed. “That
is a green potato!”
He
went on to tell me more about the dangers of the green potato while
mixing
in his philosophy of produce. I listened still, my interest growing
fainter
with the passing of each word, my need for a cigarette growing
stronger
with each reference to freshness.
I
suppose he thought I did care. Drug addicts are good at
pretending.
I’ve had a lot of practice looking attentive after living with three
I’ve had a lot of practice looking attentive after living with three
different
women. But deep down I feel like an outcast. I feel like a misfit
in
this world, who wasn’t born with the innate ability to care about
his
financial
future. I feel like a drifter, a discarded cigarette butt slowly
rolling
down the open interstate never to be loved again. Come to think of
it,
I
feel like that ugly, green potato standing out amid the flock of
healthy, vibrant
spuds
who will eventually find homes. An ugly green potato that will be
thrown
out
of the pack, left to grow old as its stench builds and all its eyes
become blind.
One Way Street
I woke up on a one-way street
dying from addiction.
You were there,
with hopeless care,
still framing forms of fiction.
I looked above and saw the sky
spread wide and overcast
I lent an ear,
with reflex fear,
and listened as you asked:
"What is this, this game we play?
When will it finally end?"
I said, my dear I do not know
though odds are we'll depend
on higher hopes,
and strands of faith,
on nights unending
pending fate,
and this is how we'll come to cease
when least expected, vexed with grief.
dying from addiction.
You were there,
with hopeless care,
still framing forms of fiction.
I looked above and saw the sky
spread wide and overcast
I lent an ear,
with reflex fear,
and listened as you asked:
"What is this, this game we play?
When will it finally end?"
I said, my dear I do not know
though odds are we'll depend
on higher hopes,
and strands of faith,
on nights unending
pending fate,
and this is how we'll come to cease
when least expected, vexed with grief.
Lost in Endless Night...
days run together like buoyant blobs of watercolor...
penniless, jobless, stuck steady to my slapdash bed
staring blankly into the tv
watching make-believe lives that seem so much more appealing than mine
wondering when the violent waves of catastrophe
will wash down upon us all
It's not that i wanna die,
(maybe part of me does).
It's that, as selfish as it seems,
even to me.
i didn't ask to be here.
There, i said it.
I'm the asshole.
I'm the son of a bitch that can't accept the beauty of his existence.
I've been called worse things.
It doesn't matter
and i don't know if anything does
right now.
The thing is,
I'm stuck in this southern hell,
this redneck oasis in the middle of nowhere,
where the meek breed ugly babies,
and violent beasts roam the vast wasteland of strip-malls,
looking for bargin discounts on versatile solutions for modern trailer park living...
weed-whackers, gun-racks
mechanical singing fish to mount on the wall
welcome matts for the front door
although not everyone is welcome,
especially 'the blacks'
and 'faggots'
and intellectual know-it-alls that read 'books'.
This is where i am trapped.
This is my purgatory,
my private prison,
the bane of my apathy,
and the penalty for all my past trangressions.
I can feel the world breathing
within the darkness and death of endless night.
I sense life seething out there, somewhere.
In the vastness of metropolitan skylines,
the city whispers to me,
'Nathan, we're waiting. Waiting for you. Waiting for your voice to echo throughout the iron jungle."
I can feel the loneliness of empty souls
all waiting for that one voice to sing to them,
to tell them what's going on,
to say the things they can't
loud and resonant.
All those lost sheep leading desolate lives
waiting for that special someone
to reach into their souls and turn on their passion,
to remind them what it feels like to be alive.
You wanna know something?
I am the chosen one.
I am that special someone,
the sleeper cell
waiting within the pinetree kingdom...
Waiting for that day to lash out at the world,
to get up on stage
under the lights
in front of the camera
and speak,
say something that the whole world will listen to.
I am the one.
I just wonder
if the wretched rulers of this world,
the ones wielding the power with iron fists of greedy green,
will destroy this race
before i have my chance,
before i find my way
out of this southern hell,
and into the minds and hearts
of those listening.
penniless, jobless, stuck steady to my slapdash bed
staring blankly into the tv
watching make-believe lives that seem so much more appealing than mine
wondering when the violent waves of catastrophe
will wash down upon us all
It's not that i wanna die,
(maybe part of me does).
It's that, as selfish as it seems,
even to me.
i didn't ask to be here.
There, i said it.
I'm the asshole.
I'm the son of a bitch that can't accept the beauty of his existence.
I've been called worse things.
It doesn't matter
and i don't know if anything does
right now.
The thing is,
I'm stuck in this southern hell,
this redneck oasis in the middle of nowhere,
where the meek breed ugly babies,
and violent beasts roam the vast wasteland of strip-malls,
looking for bargin discounts on versatile solutions for modern trailer park living...
weed-whackers, gun-racks
mechanical singing fish to mount on the wall
welcome matts for the front door
although not everyone is welcome,
especially 'the blacks'
and 'faggots'
and intellectual know-it-alls that read 'books'.
This is where i am trapped.
This is my purgatory,
my private prison,
the bane of my apathy,
and the penalty for all my past trangressions.
I can feel the world breathing
within the darkness and death of endless night.
I sense life seething out there, somewhere.
In the vastness of metropolitan skylines,
the city whispers to me,
'Nathan, we're waiting. Waiting for you. Waiting for your voice to echo throughout the iron jungle."
I can feel the loneliness of empty souls
all waiting for that one voice to sing to them,
to tell them what's going on,
to say the things they can't
loud and resonant.
All those lost sheep leading desolate lives
waiting for that special someone
to reach into their souls and turn on their passion,
to remind them what it feels like to be alive.
You wanna know something?
I am the chosen one.
I am that special someone,
the sleeper cell
waiting within the pinetree kingdom...
Waiting for that day to lash out at the world,
to get up on stage
under the lights
in front of the camera
and speak,
say something that the whole world will listen to.
I am the one.
I just wonder
if the wretched rulers of this world,
the ones wielding the power with iron fists of greedy green,
will destroy this race
before i have my chance,
before i find my way
out of this southern hell,
and into the minds and hearts
of those listening.
The Fill-In Dentist
fill-in
dentist
“You’re
such a nice boy,” said the dentist,
“I
can’t believe you used to be a doper.”
He
says things like that, to calm me down,
when
I start jumping out of the chair.
He’s
in his late fifties and still thinks
‘doper’
is correct street lingo for a
drug
addict.
He’s
not my real dentist. My real
dentist
is in the hospital battling
his
cancer. I know
it
sucks for him but
it
sucks for me too. I don’t
like
this fill-in dentist too much.
Before
I went to rehab, going to
the
dentist wasn’t bad. I’d just
swallow
five Hydrocodone beforehand
and
never feel a thing. But now, every
visit
is mentally tormenting. I loathe
this
nerdy, fifty-something man staring
at
me through thick glasses, with his
needles
and drills and funny-smelling
body
odor.
He
hits a nerve and I come out of the
chair
once again.
“Oh,
stop it.” He says jokingly, “I’m
almost
done. Boy, you’ve got big arms,
you
must workout!”
I
know he’s just doing his job, like a
nazi,
like the guy at the pound who puts
the
unwanted puppies to death on Tuesday
morning.
But my first sober reaction is to
grab
that drill and shove it up his ass.
“There
we go!” he says at last, “We’re all
done!
That wasn’t so bad was it?”
I
agree with him using garbled words
slurred
by cotton wads and Novocain,
just
for the sake of leaving sooner.
If
someone would have told me about
this,
maybe I would’ve brushed a little
more
during the ten years I spent staying
intoxicated.
I doubt it, but it doesn’t change
the
fact that this dentist is truly a sadist.
And
maybe I do have cavities,
but
I didn’t get sober for this.
Boredom, blood, and bones to pick
condensation on my diner window has me
lost within a drip-drop paradox, fallen further
than this high I’ve found this morning
jobless, hopeless, feigning forms of
flawless thought that’s like no other
how have I found so much comfort
within these walls of dull fluorescence?
take me down where wild things play so
I can witness something more than my
forsaken endless night that never finds
the sun awake but
this may take awhile
this may hurt
a little
this may take my disillusion and
crumble up my needless want
finding flightless foreign tongues I
kept a heaven to myself for
no one deserves this contrition
no one has to be like this
no one should ever
bleed like this
secreting needful apathy
eviscerating inner ties
do you read me?
am I coming through?
I hope so
I hope so
Form and Function
she finds me in the dead of night
finds me here in my secondhand home
always alone and always waiting for her
my roommates ignore this situation
they turn their heads and pretend that
they don’t know she has
a husband and
two kids
asleep
at home
sometimes she wakes me up
I like that
I like that a lot
I can kind of image I’m waking up to
a woman who lives here
with me
we find things to do in the dead of
night
games of sadist form and function
nudity
oral
sex
things that make us feel alive
things that make us forget
where we are
who we are
ourselves
she doesn’t smoke
but doesn’t really mind that I do
sometimes the smoke gets in her face
but she’ll move before she says
anything
I notice this and put my cigarette out
I try not to smoke around her now
I didn’t used to
but she has become
important
to me
recently
I want to please her in every way I can
I want to be a better person for her
even though she isn’t mine
even though
I could never have er
all to myself
she said she’d try to come over
tonight
she knows I depressed because the pills
are all gone and I’m feeling too
sober
she could help that
she can intoxicate me with her sensual
ways
at first it was just a fling
a sexual excursion that was naughty
forbidden
taboo
but it’s become something so much
more
I feel myself needing her here with me
I feel my heart aching for her touch
for her flesh
for her evil ways
but I’m not a fool
this can’t last for ever
it’s all going to end badly
and I can never have her
but I can pretend
for a moment
that she is mine
completely
if she would just come by
and lay with me for a while
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