The Most Mondayish Tuesday in Centuries

im probably famished
berries for lunch
coffee for breakfast

but what I’m hungry for
i cannot eat
i just want to read

eight and a half hours
right down the drain
not a bit of fuel for my brain

to bed at six
that’s the dream
just me and ckucky p

bukowski, salinger,
plath, burroughs,
and a pack of cigarettes


“it aint no fun if the homies cant have none.”

this was written right after the donald was sworn in for his reigning over great, white America. some days are easier than others. this was a difficult one to say the least. the title of this post is from a conversation i had recently with a friend about great, white, rich, racist America. its my thank you. without Ian i wouldnt currently be attempting to write again. thank you ian.

I haven’t written anything in a while. most days it doesn’t feel worth it. I know just what the incessant complaining and never ending rambles sound like, I know what they read like. no one should be put through that.

it’s a fit. that’s the best way to describe my writing. just a fit being taken on paper. not much different than every other aspect of my life. most days just feel like giant fits. I wish I got any sort of cash for every time I ask myself how old I am. I would take pennies if someone would offer, that’s at least a couple free coffees a week. I mean it. it’s not an exaggeration… though I’m sure it’s hard to believe given what I just shared. I wish I could confidentially assure you that this isn’t part of one of those moments where I act out. I promise this isn’t my ego talking. I swear I know it’s not a competition. seriously, truly, honestly- I mean it.

what were we talking about? my head is so cluttered lately that I don’t know what I care about. “it’s just that everyone’s interest is stronger than mine.” this line has been playing endlessly in my head these last couple of weeks. every time others laugh and my lips stay pressed,  shut, sealed. is that funny? is anything funny? I want to remove my head.

instead I numb myself. with alcohol. with pot. with reruns of Animaniacs. with Obama and Biden memes. with extremely loud music to block out the rest of everyone and everything. with cigarettes. by doing my makeup even though I don’t care. with straightening my hair even though I’d rather shave it all off.

I can make myself feel tremendous amounts of guilt for things that other people will tell you, “only make you human”. what if that’s the problem? what if I want to be more… what if I want to be better than human? something similar that always knows what it wants and how to confidently and gently deal with any obstacle its faced with. what if I just want to be satisfied? like, I’m half convinced but how do I fully commit to satisfaction? I’ll never know. just running in mental circles over here, don’t mind me.
in kindergarten I was excellent at patterns. some things never change. the teacher made it a point to show my parents at an open house. my blocks all connected in a colorful overabundance of reiterating. over and over. colors.

man, life is kind of fucked. guilt, guilt, guilt.  whine, whine, whine. please forgive me. im sorry i wasted your time.

One more shot and I’ll be on my way.

​When you think about something for an hour and a half before falling into a very uncomfortable sleep odds are you will dream about said thing. If you’re drunk you will most definitely dream of this thing. You will probably also wake up early- an ungodly hour. Before six am if you’re so unlucky. Your eyes will be crusted with yesterday’s make up and sleep. Your stomach will have lava bubbling inside of it- loud, demanding. Your head will be pounding. And once you have an understanding of your surroundings, you’ll more than likely wish you were still in your dream. The residue of something so brilliant and soft and perfect- fading away the longer you keep your eyes open. If you just closed them, if you tried really hard… maybe you could get back there. Maybe.

But it’s never the same. There’s something more magical about your subconscious creating your thoughts and pictures than your normal brain going, “hm yes. I think I’ll torture myself with this. Why not?” That bullshit is meant for before bed. Before bed only. 

I need coffee so I can wash away the remainder of that. Coffee or alcohol or gasoline or fire. Whichever. Get rid of this. There’s so much guilt. Why does my drunk head leave me with this? Its whatever. You’re whatever. None of it means anything. I’m not a bad person. I just think too much about too much. I just think. Can I get a switch? Something to help shut off what I can’t forget? Whatever. You’re whatever.

No. I’m whatever. 

You’re brilliant. You’re soft. You’re perfect.

I’ll be perfect when I’m dead.

Serving the Devil in My Daydreams

Sometimes I write songs
And I think they sound real nice
I include important things
Like times I’ve caught your eye
Still I never seem to share them
With anyone at all
The truth is a sad journey,
A shameful, honest crawl

Where I admit I’m just as bad
As everybody else
Where I conclude I’m just as bad
As everybody else

I’m not perfect in the slightest
I must dare to be so glib
I could make the same mistakes
If I knew how to live with them
I try to not entertain
These tired, useless thoughts
But these must be the hardest demons
I have ever fought.

I admit I’m just as bad
As everybody else
Yeah I am much, much worse
You can’t even imagine
Im a monster at heart
I’m the worst
(I’m so so so)
I’m so much worse
Than everyone else

Until death due us (a)part

​Last night I had a dream
At least I think it was
Where we just laid and died
Beneath the summer sun

Wasted and drunk again
You tried to take my hand
But due to the decomposing
My skin just turned to sand

I’ll never know the feeling
Of your skin or the degree
At which your body dies
With secrets we chose to keep

What I’d do to sleep forever
Sleep forever in the dirt
In the dirt beside you
Beside you

​If I write one more shitty sentence for the beginning of this I’ll cry

She licks her paper lips slowly, lets her eyelids peel back and stares into the abyss. A whole inky black sky splayed out vastly above, decorated with tiny pinpricks of stars. “How strange.” The words leave her mouth before she knows she’s speaking and it seems to cause a jolt through her entire body as if she’s shocked herself. “How truly bizarre that something so beautiful is already extremely dead by the time we have our moment to wish upon it.” No one speaks like her. No one holds the same comforting tone that her velvet tongue and throat produce when working together. The word choice is key. They aren’t normally extravagant or large in letter count, she just tends to cherry pick the ones that sound like they simply belong strewn together.

“I mean, we as people get so worked up over funerals and having to see those we care about die, but no one seems to be weeping for the death we’re consistently surrounded by due to the harsh reality that is life. It’s all. Just. Nature. Running its course.” My head rolls instinctively toward her to to watch the end of her sentence leave her lips. Watching someone’s thoughts and words end at exactly the same time is something pure and couldn’t be traded for any amount of money. There’s a look in a person’s eye that says “yes, that was what I wanted for that moment. I actually did it.”

“Does that make sense?” Her head lulls to the side and her eyes bore holes into me, begging for some sort of response. I have been too distracted narrating her every move in my exhausted, broken mind to come up with something interesting or equally macabre but honest. Even now I’m slightly astounded by how she chooses to tuck some hair behind her right ear when there’s just as much hair flowing freely in her face from the left side. It dances along her jagged cheek bones and stops to dance at her thin lips like gentle brush strokes. I imagine it adding a little color to her otherwise neutral pallet. I have next to nothing in my arsenal. Stars. Death. Loved ones. Uuuh…

“I have a feeling most people don’t think on the level that you do. Your acknowledgement of other beings existence and how they’re just as important as yours is something special.” A sigh I had been holding on to dribbles out and I allow my head  to swivel freely back to its previous position, staring blankly into the stars. “Not to feed the ego you don’t have but I think that’s truly a big part of it. Life is a ride and you take it for exactly that. It’s not as easy for some.”

I listen as leaves crunch wildly beneath her skull, littering the grass and creating a chorus beneath us. She seems to glow in the nights cloak, her pale skin vibrant against everything except the stars she’s talking about. Her eyes flutter shut again and I am left disappointed in myself. “I have such a hard time taking comfort in that though. I wish it were enough. I really do,” and I believe her because again her thoughts and words come together. Simultaneously she is thinking and speaking and it’s just too. Honest to not hurt. The words fall in the moment and there’s something about the way the end of them sound like a tiny exhale that feels all too real. Too vulnerable and soft. Too truly sad.

The space between us falls silent and cold, a breeze picking up as the night around us grows darker. My coffee is cold but I bring it to my lips regardless, resting on my elbows to sip at it. When in doubt, do something that prevents you from speaking at a time when nothing you have to say matters. That’s what I always say…

I can’t comfort her the way her voice comforts me. I wish I could. I wish it were enough.


“The only thing that brings emotions to the surface anymore is music. My feelings anyway. I’m good at feeling things for others. It’s easy to be sad or happy or disappointed for others. It’s easy to relate and mimic properly. I can read faces nearly as well as I can read books. And I’ve been reading bible sized books about death and monsters since I was in the forth grade. I just don’t naturally feel unless I’m influenced by some outside source. Give me a crooning voice wrapped loosely about the sad poetry of men that drink equal parts coffee and liquor. Give me the warm, soft thoughts of someone more hopeful than I. Give me anyone else’s story packaged sweetly, thoughtfully for me. And perhaps others but I am selfish, so… Sweetly and thoughtfully for me.”

As the words left her mouth she raised her mug. The crooked smile on his face fell and slowly years slowly collected in the corner of his eyes. His tear ducts began speaking for him and her own mimicked his, just so he didn’t have to be alone. That’s how a conversation works.

I’ve Been Moody.

If it hasn’t become terribly obvious, everything I do is extremely calculated. Perhaps the equation isn’t always right but the thought is always there. Lots and lots of thinking goes into every movement, decision, glance, word. Each individual key stroke, the witty banter, the way I sit so my legs are equal parts away from the people on either side of me, the way I don’t make eye contact or the way I choose to, how I will wait until everyone is done speaking to add in the smallest of comments, how I carry myself, the way I may hold my breath, what to do every second of the day, so on and so forth- all of what I do is churned through some mind gears repeatedly until everything I do is premeditated or on the verge of phony. Rehearse something a billion times in your head and eventually even you start to wonder if you feel the sincerity.

For what it’s worth, I mean the things I say, I mean the things I do, and I mean the things I feel. Maybe not forever but for a long while at the very least. I try so terribly hard to not only appear convincing through my worrying, but also sincere through my convincing because its not that I need to be convincing- I should already appear as much because I am- but if someone ever called me out on not being so, I would be hurt. For whatever reason when people accuse me of not caring it crushes me. Yeah, its a goddamn tangle of bullshit that seems absolutely irrational but if I could get it all under control and just be comfortable around everyone, if I could just exist among everyone without feeling the pressure to make them not only satisfied but truly happy, I would most definitely choose that option.

I don’t know if that’s part of what people call anxiety. I don’t have any idea what you would call it. I’m curious because there’s not a whole lot of anything else I love more than picking the stupid brain inside my cranium apart until I’m left with mush and a self diagnosis that I keep to myself. A lot of people seem to think the main reason I don’t share my short comings or mistakes is because I’m too proud but it’s hardly the case. I’m terrified. I don’t like admitting to the bad things Ive done, its true. They humanize me sure, I think a lot of people would be able to relate and forgive- but I also think there are a lot of people that enjoy running their mouths. And I guess you can thank them for not getting some really interesting stories out of me.

There are some people that have gotten close enough. No one gets them all. They all have specific ones chosen for them. Because as I said, everything I do is fucking planned and hokey like a fucking uncomfortable late 80s, cheesy, comedic, teen, after school special, something or other. I can’t believe this is my fucking head. Some days man…

Have you ever drank so much coffee that you become a paranoid schizophrenic? Yeah, neither have we… I’m joking. I just don’t sleep and see things in my peripherals that aren’t truly there. I’ve never been diagnosed and I never will be. Pay for health insurance that I don’t bother to use. I have dreams where teeth grow in through the middle of the roof of my mouth. Or they rot and fall out. Or they shift until they all need to be ripped from my sensitive gums. From their roots. My whole mouth weeping in pain. I think my wisdom teeth are coming in.

My irrational fears are always grotesque. I’m a mess. Schroedinger’s dumb little sister who is the picture of health or a decrepit old hag if you never open the box, never bring her to a physician. Without a professional opinion I can be both while also being neither. Everyones dying to figure out what’s wrong with them. I’m just hoping to die before I do. Call me a positive Percy, an oblivious Oliver, ignorant Ingrid, either way to me it’s just another thing you’ll call me. Like Libra, female, Caucasian, Irish, they’re all just noises you make with your mouth.

“What’s in a name anyway?”

Milo’s First Cigarette

“Why do you think people desire such unimportant, useless shit?”

My name is Milo. I’m a twenty something, miserable, constantly exhausted, curmudgeon. If I didn’t look my age then I would probably be a seventy something war veteran with a leg missing along with a lack of willingness to ever come off as anything but. I am comparable to the incessant wind of autumn in Chicago. I am as unpleasant as the alcoholic burn of the morning that follows an evening, no, neh an entire day and evening of becoming heavily inebriated. Everything that leaves my mouth paints that exact picture.

“Mmm. What’s that?”

Her name is Ginoveve. Every bit of her perfect, slender, soft. Her hair hangs in her face at all times. It takes part in a brilliant juxtaposition with her naturally outgoing personality. If people are willing to move past the heavy veil of hair to find that there truly is no mystery then the surprise is pleasant and its worth the endearing dance of discovering who she really is. Once the hair no longer mentally exists a beautiful, loving, caring, flower presents itself, perhaps even exposes itself to be loved. To be cared for. And to reciprocate such actions. Ginoveve is forever a better person than I.

The room around us stinks like both fresh and stale cigarette smoke as well as some of those cheap, knock off, clean scented Yankee candles. The ones from Target. Fresh cotton. Clean linen. Cool breeze. Beach morning. Summer’s eve. All of these open and assaulting the air. The slightest bit of sunlight floods through each small, individual slat between the blinds hanging in front of the third floor, apartments bedroom window. In the light the smoke dances delicately.

“Why do you think people desire such useless crap like being accepted by a specific demographic? Or… Or, I don’t know- the easy ones. Why do they desire marriage, children, a nice car? Why do people want so much garbage that doesn’t change their end result?”

A pause. “We all die.”

The words fall out of her mouth so simply, so gently, that it doesn’t seem to quite cut the air the way it would have if I had been the one to speak the words. Or if absolutely anyone else had chosen to say it. This fact does not at all change the slightly uncomfortable silence that falls over us. Comparable to the kind of silence that comes with a snow fall far away from the city and just as overwhelming. Silent, overwhelming, reflection. We all die.

“I’m not sure. Why do people want in the first place? I think that’s the real question. Nothing really matters. When you think about it thoroughly and without outsider opinions, nothing does. Nothing is anything. It both is and isn’t. It exists and doesn’t exist. Everything is a concept or its not at all. It’s both everything and nothing all at once or never at all. An even better question, why do anything ever?”

Another puff of smoke dances past her pale, paper lips- cracked and sad from the resilient February air. Her placid blue eyes roll over to me with a seemingly dull, uninspired glance. This lasts a beat before the same thin lips pull smoothly into a lazy, tired smirk. Deep in my chest I feel a twinge of well. Something. Just another feeling I can’t put a name to.

“If we did nothing at all ever it would make life seem so much longer and that much more pointless.”
“Oh?”, she breaks her lingering gaze to eye her smoldering cigarette between middle and pointer finger. ” I suppose it’s all in how you choose to look at things.”

In a moment her smirk falls slowly from her face and I’m left baffled. I am the glass half empty. I am the fifty percent bullshit in this friendship. I’m the pessimist. I’m the dark storm cloud. I am Robert Smith, Morrissey, and Elliott Smith. I am- Oh. Right.

“Are you trying to make me learn right now?” Without meaning to my jaw tightens shut, my molars press down and grind together miserably. My exhaled breath comes out dramatically heavier than normal and I now sound like an agitated bull. Embarrassing. I close my eyes and try to focus on anything.

“Just proving a point,” her long piano key caressing fingers tap at the filter on her nicotine stick, dropping ashes off the burning end. “You get out of bed every morning to go to work, to pay for gasoline, to play dungeons and dragons with your friends four of the seven days out of every week- to what? Give your life purpose, hm?”

The tightly clenched muscle in my jaw relaxes. Unclenches. A sigh escapes without effort. A sure sign that anyone usually recognizes as defeat. I nod once, my head moving heavily up and then down.

“Well. Some people need to fuck like rabbits. They like spending their time pumping or getting pumped full of that white juice until the lady rabbit shits out a screaming, wailing, sobbing, leaking tiny version of her and her male rabbit counterpart. Some people like being the center of attention, the alluring pretty thing in the room. Look at me. They also enjoy pretending their relationship is somehow more important, more put together, more special than anyone else so they need to have a big party to say as much. They need everyone to look at them and only them.”

Exhale. Smoke. Dancing.

“Then there’s people that believe they are what they own. From their cars to their clothing, hair products to restaurants. It’s either a superiority thing or a substance thing. As in they believe they lack it so they fill that void with brand names. And others that want love so badly that they try painfully hard to be loved by people they assume would love them back because of something they share, something they have in common.”

Another sigh from me. Completely and utterly defeated. Shut down. She snuffs out her cigarette and lets pass one last milky release of a carbon dioxide infused nicotine cloud.

“These are all things that people other than yourself choose to do to give their otherwise meaningless lives meaning. These are the things they do in an attempt to just get by. If you’re not willing to grow old while sitting around stagnantly then how could you ever ask such a thing of someone else?”

My head moves up and then down once again, registering her words, taking in everything the best I can. Once my head has caught up to the conversation at hand, once my mind comprehends the idiocy I just spewed all over her, I reach for her cigarettes. Her eyes watch my fingers fumble pathetically, maneuvering my very own cigarette from its packaging. My first very own cigarette. It’s smooth and astonishingly white against my clammy, pallid skin.

Between my lips the filter is soft but not crushed in its current position. The tobacco smells warm and inviting. She offers her small book of matches but not without question. Of course there needs to be something there. Always inquisitive. Forever inquisitive. No surprise.

“What are you doing?”

Striking a match against its home, the reaction between the two is nearly instantaneous and I’m bringing it to the extra paper of a finely packed Marlboro red.

“I suppose I’m giving my life more meaning.”

Oh Annie.

“I’m over it.”
“You’re over it?”
“Yeah,” she pauses and I listen. As agonizing as it is. “My feelings aren’t normally this fleeting. It’s a little strange to me too.”

She must have forgotten about the last ten times we’ve gone through this. They must have just slipped her mind. I’ve been the ‘it’ myself before,she must have forgotten that as well. If only I could be so fortunate. As she slips hair behind her ear I catch some stupid new tattoo on the side of her neck, right behind her lobe. Some stupid symbol with a triangle. If I spent more time on the internet maybe I’d get it. But I don’t. I don’t get it and for the first time in eighteen years, I don’t get Annie. I don’t even try to get her. The act itself just seems like a waste of energy.

“How do you know?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Then how do you know for sure that those feelings are gone?”
“That isn’t an answer nor a reason.”
“I don’t suppose you’d accept the fact that I can just tell.”

Annie doesn’t realize it but I don’t just accept most things she tries to pass off verbally as conversation.

“Could we change the subject?”