Poetry 50 - The Fits

Here's a poem I'll hate in two days:

The seas seizing epileptic passengers,
drowning the disabled rebellion,
Octaves of time deafen the ever-afters,
casting graves from former medallion.

Tape rolls in pieces.
Fuzzy screens convey nothing,
but abandoned dreams.

Life, a caliper on an empty cup,
serving only to measure the emptiness.

The Second Reflects #2 - Return of the Jedi

I am getting better, and if anyone, that makes me happy. The waters of futurama (the concept) feel cleansing. There's no particular catharsis, as washing a wound does not heal it, but I have been easily moving forward. After meetings with my guidance counselor and attendance that is close to restored, I believe that things are getting better.

No, I didn't finish the fucking novel, but I did give it a shot, and I don't foresee my writing to cease as it is now December 1st.

There are good things ahead, even for the optimistic depressive.
Consistency is key.
So it goes.

The Second Reflects #1 - Numb and Dumb

I don't smoke pot or drink.
Every couple of weeks, I'll smoke one cigarette if I'm in the mood.
I'm not a druggie, and I've never been on a long-term medication.

Despite this, I feel like a junkie that's falling apart. I wrote more poems last month than I did the entirety of the 2015-2016 year. These poems have mostly been marked with the time and date they were whipped up.

My writing is deteriorating at an alarming rate. My WPM is down to roughly 25-30. It's like my fingers just don't flow the same. They were these liquid wands that were randomly dammed. I have not attended school in roughly one month. Things just aren't what they used to be. My brain is the Detroit Auto Industry. In an effort to combat this, I have decided to take a serious jab at NaNoWriMo for the first time in three years. The title of my novella is "Confessions of a Tranny Slut." I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere. I will keep you (all two of you) posted.

Friday is the day that I will seek help.
Until then, Godspeed.

Fucking Films

Please just put Jonah Hill and Michael Cera on the same screen again.

Poetry 49 - Spoken Word Rehab

We're getting worried about you

You seem to be focusing
More on your smoking
Than your breathing

I haven't seen you in...

literally six weeks.

You used to limit yourself
to one cigarette a day,
stopped smoking for months,
and now you smell like an ashtray.

We just don't know what to do

Your words were once so intoxicating.
Release. Refresh.

You can let the wine breathe,
but that's only before the roaches slide down
and make it smell like vomit and pee.

You used to say that beer was just ethanol and piss and I don't know how you let yourself become that.

I saw the lights were out at your house,
and I'm scared it's the same for your head.

Come home
Come home
Come home

We miss you, damn it.

Your girlfriend misses you.
Everyone misses you.

Come home.
Come out.
Open up,
we're here to help.

Believe it or not there is food
other than hungry howies delivery.
And there is life
outside of the TV.

Poetry 48 - Goodbye

Goodbye
is the shopping cart quarter.

Goodbye
Goodbye
Repeat
Process
Repeat
Goodbye

The words you vow to never say again,
cut-outs of which will literally be buried.

Seventeen misfortunes
in angry longevity.

Misfortunes
will not cease,
though privilege will not ease.

Story Time 2 - Tonight

This is a short story I've been writing since December of 2013, and I find vastly underwhelming. However, this post is celebration of its completion as of tonight.:

Tonight: A Story About Music and Jesus

Tonight’s the night, behind which centuries of thought crammed into months lay inside.

From a young age, I’ve been told it’s childish to undermine the sanctity of marriage between two lovers. However, I will always choose to stand on the playground than sit in a box, hiding. I pick to be a child over a coward. Dressing up and dancing and inviting your peers to watch. That is what marriage is. I can’t pull through them without thinking, who are they trying to fool?
            I’m not even going for them, I’m going for her. My tie is blue with off-white stripes, matching the theme of this winter wedding. My thin, black hair is slicked back and parted from the right. This is attire is not native to my life. Slacks, a white button-up shirt, and a tie to match my surroundings. She’ll like the way I am tonight. I check my breath for the pleasant presence of mint, smell my body to only detect only a modest sense of cologne. I glance at the mirror, see no inconsistencies in the flow of my hair. I dig the white on this suit, Ditrac is the best pocket square.
            I grab a flask filled with acai vodka from my cabinet, slip the euphoric container into the pocket of my black suit jacket. I look in the mirror again. I look about the same. I step outside. I amble perfectly to this streetlight lit Camaro I’ve rented. It is black, noticeably yet incrementally darker than my suit jacket. I turn the radio to the modest sound of older music. Delilah.
            The ceremony does not begin until 9:00PM. I needn’t deal with anything before – oh, let’s say… 8:20PM. I drive aimlessly around the little city of Newark. What people would wed in a swamp? The clouds are barely visible when the city folds into night. My car is consumed by it, only my lights are visible once the sun takes its daily break.
            She slips into my mind as I fall into the night. I cruise through Main St. and pass a barber shop and an adult movie store. I want to stop for coffee, but I am turned off by the craving for it. I spot a church ahead; lit with Christmas lights and a plethora of smiling children. Out front is what looks like a handmade table, probably by the congregation. Above it there is a sign in a bubbly, neat cursive:

Hot Chocolate – fifty cents
Warm up, love Jesus

I pull over on the grass.
          There is a little girl wearing a jacket with the same blue and off-white color scheme of my tie. My eyes fall to it, and I see it so calmly laying on my abdomen and snug around my neck. She is spinning in circles and singing a song. Her boots light up as she spins and the adults running it let a smile come to their faces and shake it off with their heads. It was so peaceful and beautiful.
            I get out of my car. The music, Come ye, come ye Emanuel. “Emanuel,” is sung but I keep hearing another name. Delilah. I make my way to the stand of hot chocolate. I smile at the old lady running it as I place two quarters in her hand. She is shaking by nature as she gives me my small foam cup of heat. Her former skin is what an average Caucasian person’s would appear, but there are spots all over her that is white as the dot of whipped cream in my cup. “Thank you,” I hold a happy eye contact, nod, and walk back to my car.
            I start it up and spot the time on my dash. 8:39PM. I wait until 8:40 to drive away, for God’s sake. The oldies play, the world is set on fire, and I make my own kind of music via melodically beating the steering wheel and tapping the foot that doesn’t drive. It feels like we were just fantastic yesterday, though it was years ago.
            At 8:58, I mostly arrive on time.
            A series of suited supporters slip into the holy domicile. The pure tables provide a shoulder for the drink and the happy drunk at this grand occasion.
            On these tables, fresh boxes of Marlboro for everyone. The groom greets and points to the bar, plates of cupcakes and treats. Their table stands untouched and ignored by the shroud of congratulating companions brought in by the families and friends in search of the man of the hour and the woman of his eternity.
            To that table I slip, a flawless arrangement had I not tripped over a chair. A gentleman with rough hands pulled me up, her father was also so nice to me:
            “It’s lovely to see you could make it,” the man tells me.
            “Always show where I can,” I show him a genuine smile.
            “Don’t be a stranger, Son.”
            He walks over to Delilah and they have a kinful chat, typical of marriages. Meanwhile, I spread the rat poison on each of those cigarettes.
            My love ambles to see me, a distant friend – romanced by nostalgia. She gives me a solid hug, reflective of former friendship. I offer her a smoke, to which she respectfully declines. Her father is beckoned over, and he – respectfully – accepts. And – in sighing respect –  I light one to match this bond.
            The small talk ensues.

Poetry 47 - Cappuccino Blues

I'm sure these might-time cappuccinos
will amount to something.

If not, a dozen shitty poems
make a solid portfolio.

Please make the Static stop.
The pulses don't rest,
and they're high as a Colorado Castaway.

It sizzles around the heart in bacon grease
and gasoline.

Electric fires are pleasant.

Poetry 46 - 70 Sheets

If writing is anything like time,
then these seventy sheets might as well be one.

The countless files of thoughts
is just a paper ball.

I'm sure the purpose of all my words
is to lead to the next.
And I know most won't make sense.

That is irrelevant.

Poetry 45 - Chronobullshit

I am offended that everyday
runs together so inconsiderately ,
and laughs
at each pit-stop of nightly rest and death.

Everything fast-forwards in retrospect.

Time is the dog that shakes its cat friend
with every intention of good fun
until it dies.

It doesn't know what it's doing,
so I guess I can forgive it,
for the lives it destroys.

Chronophobia is an earned title.

Poetry 44 - Where Have All the Stoners Gone? Pt. 2

Where have all the stoners gone?
Those psychology majors and music school drop-outs,
bonsai growers and such.


That apartment houses someone else,
dogs are gone,
and the place smells much cleaner now.


Voices I haven't heard since middle school
are dwindling into Facebook posts and nothingness.


Pot smells like waterboarded nostalgia.

Mini Review: Scott Pilgrim vs. The World

Decent film with a good cast (Allison Pill, Aubrey Plaza, Michael Cera). It balanced the visual appeal with the generally quirky dialogue associated with Michael Cera films. That being said, it would not suffice to just listen to this film. You can't easily watch it walking in and out of the room and rest your eyes while still enjoying the film in its entirety.

What I really liked: the kinetic typography and other effects that refused to let the viewer forget the film was based off a comic series.

What I really hated about it: Michael Cera played the same role as an awkward teenager as he does in literally every other film.

Verdict: 7.5/10

Poetry 43 - VICE

Too ADD
to read arbitrary articles
on VICE about crippling thoughts
and moral bamboozles.

The elipsis is leading the pen,
the lines are built for Ford,
and there are no theatrics going on.

Emo poetry is unrevised misery.
I have no time for that here.

Poetry 42 - I Wrote a Better Poem

I wrote a better poem than this
a few years ago.

It was a slick explanation
about missing files and
ineffective communication.

I don't remember it much,
but I'm sure it was more accurate than this.

You can't ask for much
when you're talking in retrospect.

This is not appropriate,
but I will not find that file.

It may have been shredded.

Poetry 41 - A Cat Named Didact

Naming my cat Didact,
I may have unfairly held her
to unattainable standards.

Typical male.

Well, Didact was a furry, brown creature -
like an amiable bear who meows.

When someone came in,
she would meow, and continue to meow,
until I got up and pet her.

This poem is not a metaphor.

I don't lock my door at night.

Someone came in, and Didact sounded the alarm.
They pressed snooze, just as I was.

A TV, a camera,
a case of Blu-rays,
and all nine lives.

Poetry 40 - Unrevised

An artist who doesn't accept criticism
is not an artist.

They are a genius, or reserve the right to be
in their hyper-reality.

They are weeds without a fence,
foundations with no house,
lost wanderers
who will not be found.

Thank you.

Poetry 39 - Change is Coming, I Swear

Keep in mind, I was a sober mover in the sun,
hot coffee, no A/C.
I'm sure there's a story behind the bullshit.

Jingle-jingle-jingle,
a one dollar coin,
reminds me why
I wouldn't pay
a penny for my thoughts.

Keep in mind, we were moving and I never cleared out my desk,
my emails or my dresser,
heavier to lift than the thoughts with which I weighed them.

Nickel and dime me
to the breaches of sanity.
Call the night sticks,
and beat me morning sick -

Keep in mind, I have an awful tendency to repeat the same spew,
send double emails, reuse dirty clothes,
putrid as a sleepy rose in a hospital gift shop.

for being out of my quarters.

Poetry 38 - Where Have All the Stoners Gone?

Where have all the stoners gone?
And why is this shed so empty now?

The only items burnt out
are the Christmas lights once
illuminating these experiences.

Contact highs, water bottle bongs,
have faded with the smoke -
into the air,
thin as Ana in Auschwitz.

Where have all the stoners gone?

Poetry 37 - Edgy First Sonnet Back

Rustic writing, off quiet vacation -
Writing sonnets, still a pain in the ass.
Like literary asphyxiation.
Fuck, man, I gotta pick up some more grass.

Nah, I'm not really a burnout just yet,
but I can't say I don't know any though.

If you came here for art,
you should be disappointed.

Poetry 36 - The Violin

Shaven wood.
Polished wood.
Colored wood.
Acoustics
of wood.

I quit.
It's a violin,
polished to a sleek,
dark brown texture -

Darting sound,
with a charming balance
between violent and silent.

The state of sophistication,
the smooth placement,
eloquent bow.

The bow -
reeking of rampant,
gentle progression.

I wonder if it tastes as good as it sounds...

Poetry 35 - Analogical Ladder

Writing sucks - no
It is cruel.

“It’s getting something off your chest,”
except it stays.
It is
the bitter cranberry juice stain on a white dress.

Nothing removes, rather
writing wiggles the dagger inside.

Grooving,
it doubles as a ladder.

Blood spurts, then climbs
the analogical ladder,
to leap from the roof
to the paper.

Wounds remain,
after forceful claws to communicate.

A hostage situation -
waterboard me ‘til I speak.
I’ll cough it all up,
and I’ll feel it shoot.

“Poetic,” projectile vomit.
More stains.

Poetry 34 - The First Caucus

Iowa is today:
Compton vs. the Sandwich.
I'm feeling hungry.