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.