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.
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.
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
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.
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
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
i shaved my balls for another girl yesterday. another girl who wasn’t you. it made me really sad.
I shaved my balls for another girl yesterday.
Another girl who wasn’t you.
It made me really sad.
I didn’t even wanna really be doing it.
I just felt forced to for some reason.
It felt a lot like homework in that way.
Shaving my balls for another girl who wasn’t you felt a lot like homework and I never, ever gave a shit about homework.
The overall ball-shaving job I did on my nutsack yesterday looked like I had hurriedly copied all the answers from my best friend in the hallway two minutes before class.
My overall ball-shaving job when I shaved them for you never looked like that.
More like I had been up all night painstakingly looking through my text books for all the right answers.
Check ++ kinda work.
Well… at least that was the way I hoped my ball-shaving looked for you.
I remember yesterday as I hovered and squatted over the toilet and solemnly ran the electric razor over my nutsack like a sad Hank Williams song that all I could think was, I should be shaving my balls for her right now. Not someone else. I should be manscaping for her. Why aren’t I manscaping for her?
This is bullshit…
All I want is her.
I don’t ever want anyone else around my cock and balls but her…
It just didn’t make sense.
It still doesn’t make sense.
Your lips and tongue shoulda been kissing my balls until they were so old and wrinkly that they dangled down to my knees.
And I shoulda been kissing your boobs until they were so old and saggy that they drooped down to your knees.
You kissing my old, wrinkly knee-balls.
Me kissing your old, saggy knee-boobs.
That’s the way it coulda ended up.
We coulda had that.
And that’s the kinda love you carve into an old-ass oak tree with a heart around it.
You kissing my old, wrinkly knee-balls and me kissing your old, saggy knee-boobs carved into an old-ass oak tree with a heart around it.
Fuck yeah, man…
That was what I wanted.
My biggest fear used to be dying alone but now it’s become kissing some other girl’s knee-boobs and secretly wishing during the entirety of our 30 years of marriage that her knee-boobs were always your knee-boobs.
This makes me shit my pants because of how totally plausible it seems.
Whatever you were, you affected me so profoundly I can’t ever imagine anyone else moving me in the simple/complicated/unexplainable ways that you did.
I know so because I heard poetry and punk rock in everything you did.
The way you ran your fingers through your hair after we had had sex.
The way you whispered “Ninja…” to yourself before stealthily running bare-ass naked from your bedroom to the bathroom hoping your parents or brother wouldn’t see you.
It was all good.
It was all so, so good.
Like those desserts we used to get at The Olive Garden but made outta a human.
Made outta you.
When I was finished doing my half-assed ball-shaving job I stared down at my pubes sitting on the surface of the toilet water like little, black pubey ducks.
I couldn’t bring myself to flush them.
In a weird way they belonged to you.
I went into the kitchen and grabbed a loaf of white bread.
I walked back to the bathroom and tore up the slices of bread and fed the pieces to your little, black pubey ducks.
They weren’t hungry though, your little, black pubey ducks.
I looked down at them peacefully co-existing with the torn up pieces of bread.
I wanted to cry.
What killed me was that it coulda been different.
That I didn’t have to be standing there looking at my shaven pubes that I had shaved for another girl, and not you, awkwardly floating next to bread crumbs.