Sometimes I become sad, almost depressed even, because I know I’m eventually going to forget certain things I never wanna forget. Like the extra friendly way the cashier smiled at me in Dunkin Donuts one morning. Or that time I sat alone and watched a fly that had landed in front of me mischievously rub it’s front legs together like a super villain plotting the end of the world. And then I think of the millions of small wonderful things I’ve already seen and forgotten and feel this insane amount of loss. And the only thing that ever brings me outta the sadness I feel, of knowing how much I’ve lost and forgotten, is knowing that I have a million more moments of small but perfect happinesses ahead of me. And that all I have to do in order to see them is keep living and keep my eyes open.
last night i stood on a rooftop overlooking NYC and talked with my friend about life
i told him life was pain and that’s all life was
i told him i could prove it
he said how
i said because every human being ever born is a doomed creature
doomed to feel pain
and doomed to feel mass amounts of pain
and that from the beginning of time there hasn’t been one person who has escaped pain
and not only pain but mass amounts of pain
he asked me what about love? what about laughter?
i told him love and laughter were not life only reprises from life
i told him love and laughter never last but pain is always there in ambiance because even as we are loving and laughing pain is hiding underneath it all
because we are put here to suffer
and love and laughter are just these things to make sure we don’t quit
love and laughter are those cups of gatorade they hold out to joggers at marathons
that’s all love and laughter are
they are not why we’re here
we are not here to love and laugh
we are here to try and then fuck up
and then we’re supposed to learn from our fuck ups
and we’re supposed to keep going and all for some reason i’ll never care to understand
we are here to hurt i told him
we are here to cope with the fact that breathing air feels like being a walking, talking open wound that someone is sticking their hands inside of and then stretching apart while humming an old timey popular song from the 30’s and that there’s no cool Batman band-aid big enough to cover it and “make it all better.”
we are doomed creatures I told him.
every last one of us
beautifully doomed from the water slide out of our mother’s vaginas to when death knocks on our front door like a cop busting up a house party
and the people who hurt the most are the people who know this truth
because pain is the truth in its birthday suit
and i wanted to be like “If you don’t believe me just ask Robin Williams or Richard Brautigan or Ernest Hemingway or Kurt Cobain or Sylvia Plath or even Chris Farley or John Belushi or any of the other millions of people who have seen the truth in its birthday suit far too often.”
i thought about throwing myself off of the rooftop numerous times during our discussion
not because the topic matter was so heavy but because i’ll never be able to see a building or look off of one without picturing myself swan diving off it
the pain is always there
i always feel it
even on my best days i always feel it
i don’t think my friend does though
even though he’s a doomed creature too i can guarantee my friend didn’t think about leaping off the building as we talked
i fuckin’ love the kid but sometimes i’m really amazed we’re best friends
The reasons for me loving to lick her asshole were twofold really…
1) Her asshole tasted just like a really, really good chocolate milkshake/ the scene from the movie “Titanic” where Jack draws Rose wearing nothing but the “Heart of the Ocean” necklace.
2) Whenever I licked her asshole I felt at home. Or, like, my tongue felt at home.
Like my tongue woulda received all of its mail there.
Like my tongue woulda moved in with its wife and then had kids and then raised its family there.
Like two Jehovah’s Witnesses woulda knocked on the door of her asshole at, like, 8 A.M. one Sunday morning and then my tongue woulda answered the door and began screaming, “Are you serious? Are you fuckin’ serious? Knocking on my door and waking me up at 8 in the morning on a weekend? I work all week, God dammit, and when the weekend finally comes I wanna be able to sleep in! Get outta here! Get the shit outta here!”
But my tongue doesn’t lick her her asshole anymore.
My tongue is homeless.
It lives in a cardboard box inside my mouth and sometimes people open my mouth and cram change inside of it and then they go, “Promise me you’re only gonna buy food with this…” and my tongue goes, “Yes, I promise you I’m only gonna buy food with this.”
But my tongue never does.
It just buys booze.
Booze, booze and more booze.
I miss licking her asshole.
I miss my tongue not being homeless.
I miss how even the dirtiest/ most “disgusting” parts of her felt like home to me.
And they say home is where the heart is.
And, if that’s true, a large part of me is still inside her asshole
When I got out of my car, I saw a white plastic spoon on the gas pump.
It was a windy day and the wind was making the spoon shake.
But the way the spoon moved it didn’t look like it was shaking.
It looked more like it was shivering.
Like it was cold despite it being a swamp ass-warm summery day.
“Grab it and put it in your car so it won’t be cold,” an old, half dead piece of my brain told me. A piece I don’t hear too much from anymore.
“Okay,” I said to my brain.
But then as I reached for the spoon I stopped myself.
I was scared someone was going to see me and be like, “What’s with the weird guy grabbing garbage and throwing it into his car?”
So instead of saving the spoon I just paid for some gas and began filling up my tank.
As I filled up, I watched the spoon helplessly shiver.
I imagined it as Tiny Tim.
As a Tiny Tim spoon. With a old ratty scarf and hat and crutch, coughing over and over.
“Fuck it,” I thought and, when I was done filling up my car, I grabbed the spoon and threw it in my bag on the front seat and quickly drive off as if I had just done something wrong.
I arrived home, took the spoon out of my bag and stared at it.
It wasn’t shivering anymore and this made me happy. Like I had done the right thing by grabbing it and taking it with me.
I went into the kitchen, found a permanent marker and drew a face on the spoon - two x’s for eyes and a smile that looked like it was sewn on.
Then I stared at him for a bit again.
He was smiling.
I was smiling.
Both of us smiling.
I named him Forky the spoon, then put him back in my bag.
I see Forky just about every day now when I rummage through my bag for a tissue or my headphones or a piece of gum. And whenever I do see him, he isn’t shivering.
He’s just smiling.
And his smile makes me inwardly smile too.
Essentially over nothing.
But still, it feels good.
It feels really good smiling over nothing.
Especially when you have no reason to smile over anything.
And sometimes I think about how I woulda missed out on all those inward smiles, those moments of feeling good for no reason, if I had ignored that half dead piece of my brain that spoke to me. And I also think about how it’s not dead yet, that piece of my brain. That it’s just buried under 30 years of bullshit. And, if I ever wanna be truly happy again, that I need to start listening to it more often.
people are a flock of self-absorbed, stupid birds sitting on a telephone wire and you are the car parked underneath them that they are unknowingly/knowingly shitting on
The world would be a much better place if people spent more time alone.
The world would be a much better place if I were allowed to walk around with a shovel and just bash the shit outta all these scared, cowardly people constantly forming fake “friendships”/ “relationships.”
Did you know that 90% of the world’s “friendships”/“relationships” are birthed from people’s constant inability to tolerate the silence and/or mad, cackling, laughter inside their heads?
Did you know you need a license to drive a car or practice medicine or carry a gun or sell alcohol or drive a big rig because licenses are these government-issued pieces of paper that entrust people with a certain amount of responsibility?
I wish I could get a license to walk around with a shovel and just bash the shit outta all these scared, cowardly people constantly forming fake “friendships”/ “relationships” and then proceed to bash the thousands of poisonous, baby spiders scampering outta the corpses of their fake, dead “friendships”/ “relationships” with my shovel as well.
I feel like I would be really good at this.
A real natural
and I would strut around town like a sheriff, wearing a really shiny, star-shaped badge pinned to my shirt and with a holster around my waist holding my trusty shovel.
And I would whistle while I worked.
And whenever people walked up to me and asked me, “Sheriff Calvero, why do you do what you do?” I’d stop whistling and simply reply to them, “Listen here, partner… Someone has to stop these fake “friendships”/ “relationships” from forming and, inevitably, ending badly, leaving these two people angry and pissed off and lashing out at one another and, consequently, forcing them to lash out at the world
because that’s what people do when they’re pissed off and angry - they take their frustrations out on innocent people. Like the cashier at CVS, or the person standing too close to them on the subway, or a parent who sincerely and genuinely loves them.
Fakeness inevitably breeds anger
and anger inevitably breeds hatred,
so fakeness must die by my hands,
by my ultra sexy, shovel-wielding hands,”
and then I’d begin whistling again and walk away like the bad ass mother fucker I am.
Imagine a world where I walk around like a sheriff, bashing fake “friendships”/ “relationships” as well as their poisonous baby spiders to death with my trusty shovel.
Imagine a world where people interact with one another based out of connection, genuine interest and love rather than just outta convenience, boredom and fear.
Imagine a world where people seek acceptance from themselves and not from groups of people.
You don’t know who you are until you’ve let the silence inside your head lecture you for five hours straight while sitting all by yourself inside a Taco Bell.
You don’t know who you are until you’ve listened to the mad, cackling, laughter in your head for so long that, eventually, you begin laughing too, and you laugh along with the mad, cackling laughter until hours later when the mad, cackling laughter inside your head finally dies down, and so your laughter dies down along with it, and then there’s a few moments of silence and, completely puzzled, you’re all like, “Wait… What were we laughing at again?”
Today I saw four really, really, really, really pretty girls (all co-workers) sit down and have lunch with one another in the mall food court.
Here is the subtext of their conversation…
“I’m gonna pretend to be your friend(s) but only so I don’t look like a bitch to everyone and also because, at this current moment, I don’t know how to fuck you over, and I until I do, until I do know how to fuck you over, I’m gonna pretend to be nice to you, like we’re all cool and shit, but then, the first chance I get to stab you in the back, I’m gonna take it.
So get ready to have a back full of knives, bitch(es)!”
I sat there eating my tacos while laughing at the four of them,
these four thoughtless, brainless, phony idiots
until they got up and left and a guy holding a Panda Express bag came and took their spot.
He ate lunch all by himself and, when he was finished, he did the most courageous thing possible;
he just sat there and blankly stared ahead of himself.
He didn’t go on his iPhone.
He didn’t put on headphones and listen to music.
He just sat there and let the silence within lecture him
or he was silently laughing along with the madness cackling inside his head.
Either way he looked like a pair of big, hairy nuts to me.
Mr. Testicular Fortitude, I named him inside my head and, even though he didn’t have a pretty face or a tight ass or a nice pair of perky breasts, I found him far more beautiful than the four girls who sat at the table before him.
The most beautiful people in the world aren’t the ones you’re gonna find in People’s magazine.
They’re gonna be the ones who look like a big, hairy nutsack,
the ones you look at and think to yourself, Finally…
Someone I don’t have to beat to death with a shovel.
If, for some reason, you need to buy someone you really can’t stand a Christmas present this year, just get them a copy of my book someday i’m going to marry Katy Perryand I promise they’ll never speak to you again.
you’re welcome for the shit-war paint i will slap onto your face. and, in case you were wondering, i will be accepting advanced thank yous in the form of muffin baskets, barnes and noble gift cards and microsoft points. (straight fuckin’ through the loneliness)
I’m gonna do you a favor.
I’m gonna smear shit on my hand,
alllllllll fuckin’ over my hand,
in which case I will proceed in slapping you across your face with my shit-covered hand.
And the shit I smack onto your face will be the greatest thing that ever happened to you.
It will feel like a spiritual raise.
A spiritual raise made outta shit slapped across your face.
And the fresh shit slapped across your face will be the war paint you will wear in the much needed and long overdue process of you finally un-murdering yourself after, unknowingly, having spent your whole life silently murdering your most beautiful impulses, slaughtering them like spiritual calves, in order to fit in with groups of mass peoples.
The shit-war paint will intimidate and scare every person you meet.
It will silently scream war cries like, Hi-YI-YI-YI-YI-YI, howwwww-AH-heyyy-EEEEEEEEEEEE! because you will be at war.
At war with the world.
At war with your murdered self.
People will walk past you on the streets and have thoughts like, What… the… fuck?
Does that dude really have shit-war paint on his face?
I better leave him alone…
If he’s crazy enough to wear shit-war paint on his face who knows what other kinda crazy shit he’s capable of…
And the world will leave you alone because it will be scared of you,
because it will not understand you and your shit-war painted face.
It will not understand your war.
And the shit-war painted induced loneliness will hurt at first but, ultimately, it will be the best thing that ever happened to you.
Because the only way to begin the long, overdue process of learning how to un-murder yourself is through loneliness.
Not over it. Not under it. Not around it.
Straight fuckin’ through the loneliness.
And so you’ll do all the lonely things that lonely people do while in the process of going straight fuckin’ through the loneliness.
You’ll count the empty jugs of wine all around you in the voice of The Count from Sesame Street inside your head…
Vun!!! Vun empty jug of vine! AH-AH-AH! Two!!! TWOOOOOOOO empty jugs of vine! AH-AH-AHHH!
You will begin watching weird-ass fetish porn in order to spice up your masturbating as you feel Her combing her hair 2,000 light years away from you.
You will sit in McDonald’s all alone for a six hour period of time and, around the fourth hour or so of sitting in McDonald’s all alone, you’ll begin swinging an imaginary trident at some hipster-looking guy’s head as he eats his McDonald’s salad. You’ll make WHOOSH! noises each time the trident swings by his face always coming up just centimeters short of smashing off the hipster-looking guy’s nose.
This dude has no idea how close he just came to having his nose smashed right off his face by a fuckin’ trident, you’ll say to yourself. He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t… even… know!
And then, one day, after having done all these lonely, lonely, lonely things, you’ll wake up and be all like,
and you will be on the other side of the loneliness.
And you’ll roll outta bed and finally look at your warrior-self in the mirror, you with your shit-war paint still smeared all across your face, dried up and crusted and gross and slowly eating itself into your skin, making itself a physical part of you, and you’ll think in a really gruff and macho tone of voice, I’m just glad s/he’s on our side…
You will finally be on your own side.
Your own side
and not theirs.
You will have finally un-murdered your true self.
From here on out you will progressively regress into a childlike state of living where you do things simply because you enjoy doing them and where you don’t worry about what other people think about you when you do these things.
You will do these things simply because doing them makes you happy and because you are a lonely adult with shit-war paint on your face that the world doesn’t understand, or wanna understand, and so you might as well do whatever it is that makes you happy.
You will understand that in order to fit in with large masses of people you need to degrade yourself into a lower, generic form of yourself. That you need to think on the same level that the group does. Talk about the same stupid shit that they do. That you have to surrender your free mind to a group way of thinking because, if you think too far outside of the group too often, then you will remove yourself from the group.
The shit-war paint will grow hands and undress you from the cleaned-up citizen you murdered yourself into being and allow you to finally run around bare-ass naked like the little kid you used to be.
You will see the world through the unbiased, truth-seeking eyes of a child.
You will hear the silence that comes along with having gone straight fuckin’ through the loneliness and, because of this silence, you will hear the violence rioting in the streets of your heart.
(They have violence rioting in the streets of their hearts too but they’re incapable of hearing it because they’re too busy watching/ talking about Teen Mom and 16 & Pregnant and Duck Dynasty and The Super Bowl in order to hear it.)
You will be an individual.
You will be “you.”
And “you” is who you need to be.
“You” and not “everyone else.”
It’s no wonder I feel so alone all the time.
I’ve been looking at these murdered faces for wayyyyy too long now
and some days I don’t know whether to hike up my skinny jeans and go on or to just throw myself in front of a speeding bus because these people with murdered faces are not my people
and the older I get the more I only prove to myself that there’s nothing here for me on this planet,
nothing but this one, exact, same universal person I’m supposed to love
and who I don’t wanna.
And I’m just so tired of it…
…I’m so tired of looking at all of these murdered faces without shit war paint on them.
I’m so tired of feeling alone because the rest of the world is so terrorized by the idea of being alone.
that feeling when your heart is beating somewhere else, like somewhere totally outside of your body
The first time she and I had sex she told me to put something romantic on TV and turn it up loud so my parents wouldn’t hear us having sex because having your parents hear you having sex isn’t very romantic.
At least I don’t think so.
Having your parents hear you having sex isn’t like lighting candles or her wearing lacy lingerie or sultry music playing in the background so, in a hurry, I flipped through some channels and found some gardening show. I left it on, thinking it was a little bit romantic, and then she said, “This isn’t romantic,” and so she took the remote control from me like some kinda really weird, yet really pretty bird and then she flipped through the channels and found Batman Returns and, upon finding Batman Returns on TV, she smiled and said, “Oh, this is lovely. This is perfect. How romantic…”
We sacrificed a rose and scattered its rose corpse over my bed.
She sucked on my cock for almost half an hour (romantic) and then we made love all over the scattered rose corpse (romantic) which had, unbeknownst to us, turned my bed into a graveyard.
We could hear the bones buried beneath us rooting for us,
cheering us on,
wanting to be us,
or, at the very least, if not able to be us, really wanting to be the bones inside our bodies,
but, for once, the people on this planet, the emptiness I’m always aware of but can’t learn to love or even accept, the mounting failures, the chemical imbalance inside of me, all of these things that always seemed to forbid any real chance of happiness ninja vanished from inside of me and, for once, I wanted to keep my bones where they were.
I wanted to keep my bones inside me.
Total mind fuck, man.
You have no idea…
As she began cumming, I looked into her eyes (romantic).
She had teeth in her eyes.
The teeth in her eyes were green and yellow and blue and they were these colors separately but altogether too.
(Total mind fuck, man.)
As I looked into her eyes, and as she looked into mine, her eye-teeth took two big bites outta something inside me and then devoured that part of me whole.
Now I am being digested inside of her while totally and physically outside of her.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been digested before, but being digested feels a lot like dying, except you feel it happening at a much slower pace and you’re also exponentially more aware of the fact that you’re dying too.
Like always aware,
always conscious all the time of the fact you’re dying.
I am dying right now and so are you but I am more aware of it than you are because I am being digested and you are not.
Haha, I win…
It’s been awhile but I can remember her face and I can still hear her voice, but as she slowly digests a big part of me I’ll never get back, the more I begin to feel like the whole thing never really happened to begin with…
(Total mind fuck, man.)
Every night I fall asleep watching reruns of “Friends” on Nick At Nite.
Sometimes I think of how nice it would be if I could fall asleep to reruns of a sitcom where in every episode she gets her head cut off and then there’s a laugh track and then that’s it.
The episode’s over.
I feel like I could fall asleep to that even easier than I fall asleep to Friends.
Which isn’t so easy.
At least not anymore.
It’s hard/scary falling asleep in graveyard all alone.
readin a poetry book by http://calveropoetry.tumblr.com/ at work. Seems great so far. Seems like Calvero is an ‘unsung hero’ of poetry/alt lit. I’ll probly post a full rvw of the book later maybe if work is slow today