Explosion

There was a time that I came close but I suppose we always think we're close.

Moving and reaching and grabbing and shoving...

Always forward, it's always so close.

Getting closer and closer.

Can't quite grasp it.

It nearly touched the fingertips but was just out of reach.

Crawling and inching.

On the belly.

In the dirt.

Covered in mud.

Slithering and burrowing.

So close now.

Closer than you've ever been.

So close now, so fucking close.

Can nearly feel it.

On the brink.

Can taste it.

Salivating.

Explodes.

Trapped underground.

Farther than you’ve ever been.

A Blurred Slip

In my drunken wooze I miss you.
A couple of whiskeys and a few beers digesting,
providing me with exalted delirium.
Your face would be distorted by my hazed eyes
but when closed,
crisp and beautiful.

The smile is all mine.
And the eyes,
those fucking eyes see and know me.

Whether the whiskey or sentimental thought,
I am warm.

It’s brief.

A part of me knows this.
An even smaller part knows the nature of nostalgia.

Lament for My Empty Bottle

My kind companion is gone and I couldn’t feel any sadder.

I lament your loss my dear friend. Your boozy disposition has provided me with great pleasure. You’ve brought me down, deep into myself. Places I could never tread without your distinguished guidance. You’re physiological blurry effect has cleared my mind. I know what it is I desire and crave because of your helpful hand. My daily vision was blurred until you graciously let me consume you. I thank you my dear friend. This place is a lot less awful because of you and I would like to tell you that even though I killed you I will always love you.

Bliss and the Other Side

I: Bliss

Lying on my bed naked while enjoying a beer and listening to music. What can be more blissful? I hear noises from outside, people going about their busy DO-filled lives but right now I’m calm, relaxed, and have nothing to DO. I remain there, still, and enjoy my current state of stagnation. It’s a form of meditation, my mind is blank and I have an overwhelming wave of clarity. “This is it! This is the bliss I’ve been looking for! No worries, pure calm emptiness. Absolutely nothing on my mind.”

Only, to be empty in this time or have the desire to achieve a state of emptiness is rarely valued. We should always be nice and full of something: food, money, or endless quantities of stuff. I currently lack that ambition. My mind is blank and I’m naked staring at my white ceiling. I’m not focusing on anything, only fixing my gaze on a particular point that I’m not even really looking at. It’s this slight little bump, incredibly small, but I lay there, barely even blinking, keep on staring, and there’s nothing that could make me happier.

The rest of my Saturday carried out this bliss. I bought some affordable cigars and seafood and enjoyed them in the company of friends. Over a bottle of wine and my cigar I contently sat outside watching an orange dusk sky that was surprisingly beautiful for New York pollution, while listening to Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day.” My only unsatisfied urge was a slight hunger that I managed to slate with a pound of mussels I bought for less than $2.50. After steaming them I finished what was left of the wine and indulged in my cheap sea dinner.

There is very little that can top such moments. It’s never planed or pre-meditated. It’s simply a moment of life that is lived and savored. I don’t believe in substantial meaning or higher purposes but I do believe that there is great pleasure and beauty in instances such as these. The most you can do is recognize when you feel such contentment and joy. To sit somewhere and have the thought, “I am happy,” is what makes this whole damn thing worth living and truly special.

Who knows what the future has in store for us. Life can be a beautiful thing. Every morning you awaken, you have no idea what may happen. You may fall in love, get hurt, get drunk, witness something that causes a significant change in your life, or nothing may happen. It may very well be a casual boring day. But who knows? I have realized that I should be thankful to experience life. I am mostly a miserable, misanthropic wretch, but I’ve begun to stop caring. I am glad to be sad; if that can possibly makes sense. For as confusing and scary as this place may be it’s often all right. It’s fine to be scared, it’s fine to be sad, it’s fine to be happy, horny, intelligent, or idiotic. Every moment, every second of our lives we are changing through all of our experiences, whether big and profound or small and insignificant. I am happy to be me and live in a world where there are people that I can love and hate. It is such a wonderful concept to be able to feel. There are times when we simply wish to cease to exist desiring to find some crack in the wall that we can disappear into. But to feel that low only means that at some other point in your life you were distinctly happy: enjoying blissful paradise

II: The Other Side

Constantly darting around the corner hoping no one saw. Finding a place to hide where I know no one can reach me. Often it turns out to be a lonely bathroom stall in some isolated scarcely trodden corner of a building. A moment alone. Away from the others. I just want escape, people have nothing to offer me. They make me weak. I feel out of breath and helpless around them. They seem so strong as passing faces. Shelled exoskeleton creatures, scurrying around, accomplishing their little tasks. But I’m sure most are like me. Frightened, pathetic children who are only trying to get some solid footing on this world they were thrown in.

But I have this heckling demon that’s always dangling around my neck. He never lets go and gives me all the hell he knows, making life terrifying. He sits there on my shoulders smiling his nasty shit-smeared grin, mocking me as I cower from my few duties and responsibilities I’m supposed to accomplish in my days. He laughs and laughs as he clings tighter to my body with his jagged cracked nails, digging into my flesh, giving me his hell. He throws me into small shadowed corners, making me silent and unseen.

There is no helping. He’s always been there. I become locked away, alone in myself only with raving thoughts of anxiety perpetually crashing into my skull. He flings regrets, shames, and any shortcomings from my brief 20 years. He has had me isolated for all of my existence. I only live inside. The world beyond me, the outside, makes no sense to me. It frightens me and the most I can do is squint out through the small windows of my eye sockets, the long narrow tunnels that I sometimes peer through. Life through a fucking window? What kind of existence is that? I see people who seem free on the outside, not held back by a clutching demon, strangling you with every breath. He may seem a small pest but there is no overpowering the beast, he’ll wrangle you and thrash you with no end, forcing you to your hands and knees, leaving you at his bestial mercy. He has you by the neck and testicles and only knows how to squeeze tighter, tighter… Eventually you give in, you can only imagine the fucking pain that would await you otherwise. There’s no peace.

He makes you lonely and becomes your only company, that extra beer while sitting alone in your little room doesn’t drown him away like you were hoping for. He makes all your needs a gapping void, the beer, the whiskey, the books, all your means of escape slip in. Nothing solid or substantial can be grounded because of this void, all moments of your days are only passing blurs of distraction. Nothing in your day is good enough, it either angers you or just wears you down. You can wrap up all your emotion into a clean single package and pound it into the wall with your fist but all you gain is either another hole or a broken hand. You try to find that safe warm place, have your drink and only realize you’re naked on a freezing concrete floor. Rough, jagged cold and isolated. If you move you bleed. There’s no point screaming for help. You know you’re alone, a place not even Satan would envy. You remain still and quiet, a helpless soft lump of shit that can only sit there awaiting its inevitable decay.

You’re too far from anyone or anything at this point. All you can do at best is have another drink and hope it numbs you enough to sleep or a state of indifference. All that booze filled excitement is an attempted side step from what others call reality. We’re all needing, hungering, longing, lonely creatures, dragging our little bodies across this shit encrusted earth. This is all that existence consists of. We are all ceaselessly crawling about this place devouring what we need to get along for another day. All this energy, all this enthusiasm, all this pretend structure! For what? It makes no difference. We all will end as dust. Time will get you if nothing else comes first. You can be certain of that, and before it erodes and seeps into all the crevices and corners of your mushy lump of a body the worms will be there. They’ll writhe and wiggle through all your sockets and holes: you’re eyes, nose, asshole, and cunt. They will consume you. They will conquer you.

If I’m not hiding I’m drinking and if neither I’m petrified. My only solace is this pad and pen. It’s the only thing that the demon can’t touch with his gnarled claws. But even these writings can only accomplish so much. Beyond these pages, back to life, I awake trapped in a hole. The walls are steep and ragged and I’m so far down I can’t even see the day sky above. My deep prison burrowed by my little demon, he makes a safe place for me to hide. The ground below me is soft and easy to dig. I can only make my hole run deeper, deeper to a place where I’ll never be found. Just as the demon wants, his sole ambition and purpose, to have me completely isolated, bound to no one, to nothing, completely free in my small imprisoned hell.

Romans 7:14-24

^"14 We know that the law is spiritual; but I am unspiritual, sold as a slave to sin. ¹⁵ I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. ¹⁶ And if I do what I do not want to do, I agree that the law is good. ¹⁷ As it is, it is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me. ¹⁸ For I know that good itself does not dwell in me, that is, in my sinful nature.^[a] For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. ¹⁹ For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing. ²⁰ Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it, but it is sin living in me that does it.

^"21 So I find this law at work: Although I want to do good, evil is right there with me. ²² For in my inner being I delight in God’s law; ²³ but I see another law at work in me, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within me. ²⁴ What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death?"

to the bleeding hearts

I look down
and see my toenails
long jagged and yellow
I feel sweaty
my hair is greasy
I’m breaking out with acne on my forehead
I haven’t exercised in weeks

it’s 12:06 am
wednesday
early
early morning
and I feel sad
and drained
but couldn’t sleep if I wanted

my days slip by
falling into some blur
I can’t recollect
even if I wanted

my neck is stiff
asshole itchy
and there’s some drips of urine
I feel
on the side of my leg
I’m not wearing underwear
and didn’t shake

a lump of worthless shit
but calling this thing
me
shit doesn’t matter because
you’re
shit too

a worthless
breathing
waste of oxygen
you
can kill yourself
and will be forgotten soon enough

TRUST ME

time
inevitably
makes us all worth
shit

you’re an
organ-
puss-
blood-
greasy-
mucus-
filled-carcass
and wont be missed
for long

do you miss
the children
who starved to death
during your last meal?

NO
you don’t.

THROWN INTO THIS

you never had a say

you just

appeared

that’s it

and eventually

go away

everything in between

makes no difference

to me

to him

to her

to you

it happens

you can’t will otherwise

go ahead

make some changes

make your difference

for yourself

for others

just know

time will get you

nuclear doom

2012

end of days

oooh! how scary!

FUCK YOU

all days will end

no matter what

whether 1,000,000,000 years

or 5 seconds

everything’s slipping away

do you feel it?

do you feel the world

pulsating beneath you

around you

inside you?

every pulse is closer

to the last

it’ll be there soon

time is neither friendly

nor malicious

but unfeeling indifference

it’ll move persistently

nothing can deter it

it’ll crawl and seep

into every crevice

writhing and gnawing

gestating

you

into nothing

just like before

you

were ever here

Cigar Smoke Whisper

Clouds of my own smoke surround me. The end of my cigar is nice and moist, just how I like it. I enjoy having it linger in my mouth as I keep it clenched down with my teeth. The taste and heat of the tobacco smoke along with the leaves themselves give me a feeling of comfort and contentment. There is no greater joy than being well-fed, having some whiskey and beer, and toping it off with a cigar or two. Music and sex could only make this moment better. Unfortunately I am without the latter. Although the music keeps on playing, so I can’t complain. Right now it’s the Doors’ “Alabama Song.” It’s a song on my newly created playlist I gladly titled “Whiskey Fuck it All.” I do enjoy my whiskey and finding music that obliges with my slow stupor only gladdens my drunken-soul.

I feel as though I’m a whisper, like the cloud of cigar smoke I release from my mouth. It has no grasp and is only briefly noticed as it disseminates into the cool air. It lingers for a bit, moves and swirls through the air until it slowly creeps off to places I’ll never know. But as this whisper, I know the words I create may be profound but the voice will always be too weak and subtle to be carried far. As the smoke is a vanishing blur the words will be faint and nearly inaudible. My days drift away too quickly, slipping away through my clenched fists; the harder I squeeze the quicker they seem to disappear. I can’t gain a solid footing anywhere. But I’ve never been able to. We all tend to create groundings for ourselves. We use ideologies, God, people or anything else we can make of permanent substance in our minds. But all of these are either non-existent or erode away from us through the natural passage of time. We can only cling to impressions. The imprints and marks that life presses upon you; the fleeting smoke of a cigar.

However, despite all of this, we are all passengers in this messy uncertain lot together. And even though you’re thrown into this alone and depart alone there are people between your entrance and exeunt that can leave you truly marked, making this thing not seem so damn bad. Most will be faint passing blurs, just like that whispering-smoke I perceive myself to be. Not even capable of eroding away the dust particles of your being, an unnoticed and meaningless impact that can only gently pass over you. But there are some, who at least for a brief moment, will obliterate all your loneliness and vacancy you feel to the depths of you. It’s never a frequent occurrence but there are some that manage to seep into those narrow deep empty nooks you may find yourself unaware of. Often it is only the smoke that can find its way through. Booming excitement and loudness is too wide and dense to finagle in, it’ll never breech the surface. Such exuberance is frequently forgotten over time. These encounters only touches the cloaked veneer you display to the world outside, unable to ever impact your true being.

But the trickling whisper that seeps in as smoke can cling with you for a lifetime. It is this soft voice that truly reaches you, passing through whatever rough exterior you maintain, caressing you to the dark crevices of your soul. Those who carry such a voice that permeates your interior don’t have a simple image of you. You’re not some dense bland single object only to be stared at. They see your quirks, the peccadilloes that distinguish you and make you beautiful. You become distinguished from the rest and for a moment don’t need to feel alone. That faint whisper has reached you, to the core of you, smashing the cold walls of isolation you constructed for your own self-preservation. Only it never lasts. It’s momentary. A fleeting puff of cigar smoke, that at best, can only remain as a vague whir of memory.

If you’re fortunate, you’ll carry these memories for your brief time here, before you too disseminate into the cool air.

White Room

I spent most of the day in my room and only briefly went out for a cup of coffee and a sandwich. It’s a fairly good sized room for a single but it’s bare right now. The high white walls can feel entrapping. I have large windows but can’t open them. I’m not sure if they’re jammed or weren’t meant to be opened. Regardless, the air in my room is stuffy and stagnant. I do enjoy my solitude but spending too much time in this bare white room is beginning to make me into more of a madman. It’s the worse when I wake up and for the first few disoriented moments I can’t tell which way I’m facing. It’s just a white abyss. It’s not awful but it sure as hell isn’t pleasant: it’s purgatory.

It’s now night. I spent my whole hungover day lounging, masturbating, and reading The Sun Also Rises in my maddening white room. It’s strange to go a whole day without having at least a brief conversation. Limited human contact can make you numb. There are a few people I could contact but I don’t want to force interaction. Sometimes it’s best to sit alone and deal with yourself. It’s much harder than you would imagine. With constant accessibility to everyone (at any time) most people never have a moment alone. Even watching television or going on your computer gives the illusion of company. This is why I sometimes turn off my shit non-smart cell phone and put my laptop into a drawer, placing it out of sight. Communicative technology can be a social shackle. The responsibility of being in potential contact with everyone that I know at every moment of my life is too much a burden. I know I’m a lazy misanthropic sort of creature but it’s painful to always wear a social façade. There are days that I would rather spend alone feeling numb and blue than force a social situation that would be nothing more than meaningless chatter: retarded monkeys yammering on about absolutely nothing, only wasting air. At least when alone I can indulge in myself. I can masturbate until my dick is sore, have a few swigs of some moderately priced booze, and read all I want. My own vice filled paradise.

I’m now lying on my bed. The bed stand itself is flimsy and rocks whenever I hop onto it. It’s fairly high up but I don’t particularly mind. I previously tried to lower the mattress, as there are several varying notches that it can be adjusted to, but it wouldn’t budge. I eventually gave up, feeling too damn lazy and stopped caring.

Still lying on my bed, the lights are out. I can only see some glimmers of light from the courtyard outside. There’s about an inch and a half of space of remaining window that my large white blinds didn’t completely devour. I had an impulse to crawl out of bed and completely shut my blinds so that I can have a sense of total isolation but that bare inch and a half of window makes the night a bit more bearable. I’m already stuck with a perpetually racing mind and with such a condition lonesome nights that only follow lonesome days can make you a frightful combination of low and stressed.

I am someone who often prefers the night but there are times I would much rather have it be day. Nights can be fun or relaxing but it is often the nights, typically in the middle of the week, that can be outright cruel torture. After a monotonous uneventful day filled with generic movements, actions, and quickly forgotten conversations your night becomes all you have. But the night can be a worse time. In the day you’re remotely busy, surrounded by others, and trapped in the illusion of momentum and productivity. At night it’s only you. The illusion is gone and you’re only left with slow, quiet stagnation. And if you’re anything like me you’re damned with that anxiety-induced, racing mind that no thought or action can soothe. You can distract yourself with television or music and it often makes everything all right for a while. But it’s usually right when you lay down in your bed that it hits you. It rolls on you like a heavy wave, crushing you and sinking you low. An overwhelming weariness drowns you. You don’t even always need a reason; it’s only all your days and life catching up with you in your few moments of quiet solitude. You try and brush it off with reassuring thoughts but it never works. You’re only left weepy-eyed with your face pressed against a pillow while maybe clutching a second for some imaginary emotional support. The eyes sometimes water but they’re not crying. Rather, it’s a slow build up that after some time gently trickles across the crevice of your nose. It drips down the side of your face past the sloping lines of your lips becoming absorbed into the pillow that your face is currently mashed against.

Some nights are worse than others while some are unnoticed blurs fitting into the spectrum of your life. Eroding to forgotten moments and occurrences that you’ll probably never recollect. They are only the many passing instances that nonetheless equate to the creature that is you. Nights slip from us and pass to the recesses of our minds, at least during our days, until we’re alone again in our little white rooms where everything is silent and there’s only the abyss and you.

Flat Eyes

I roll over, nearly on top of her and try to look at her face. Fair skin, natural sweet-smelling soft brown hair covers her forehead. I push it back because I want to look at her big, beautiful, blue eyes. I see them look back at me only they’re flat. They don’t really see me they only see some large hairy object.

She smiles at me but I can tell it’s only muscle reflex. I try to gaze a bit longer but I can tell there’s no one in there, at least no one who wants to see me. I ask her, “What’s the matter baby?”

“Nothing, why?” She gives a fain smile and annoyed laughs, “You always think there’s something wrong, stop asking.”

“Sorry, I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

…

I’ve come to figure out over the past few months that there has been nothing between us. There’s only a numb sensation and comfort in the ritual of having some company. After nearly three years time it’s hard to see clearly. You have a vague blurred vision, which is nothing more than your projected expectations and love you impose on the object of that person you once knew before.

Time drifts us apart and often drags us to many places we don’t want to be. I don’t know a whole lot about love and romance, but damn does it drag you down. Our fling was wonderful in the beginning. We became close to each other only after a few weeks. Closer than either of us has ever been with any other being.

We loved hard and with such love there was no choice but to be consistently bruised and hurt. But we always took it. The love seemed worth it. We were intensely drawn to one another, not having any option to resist. Yet, when we came too close we collided, persistently crashing headfirst. It was never due to either of us wanting to be malicious; desiring to hurt each other. Rather, there was almost no choice. There was an overwhelming magnetic pull but once pulled together there was a lack of connection. The love was never properly received it only transferred as blurry static, never registering. No matter the yearning or desire the love was lost amongst us. Communication is integral, I suppose. I was expressive she was subtle. I know there was always love there inside both of us but we could never understand and only drove each other to anger, madness, and finally to a state indifference.

Indifference is worse than hell in regard to love. It’s much better to be hated. Hate is merely a sidestep from love. It’s the same passion but only a different transference. But indifference is absence: a state of non-existence where you cease from one’s mind. Many fear the idea of hell but what I believe to be more frightening is the void. Total annihilation.

I find it much better to lay in bed alone and feel blue than to gaze into flat eyes. It’s falling into a vacuum. Eyes that don’t see you but only see some object. That gaze is more crushing than your most nasty or brutal fights. You become nothing.

…

I now climb on top of her and kiss her neck. She turns away and looks up toward the ceiling. I get the point and roll off. It’s been like this for some time now. Despite feeling frustrated and once again rejected, I can’t blame her. Although she can’t bring herself to admit it she’s been looking at me with those large, blue, flat eyes for quite some time.

We lay in bed for a while and now she’s lying on her stomach on the verge of falling asleep. I try to put my arm around her with the hopes of at least snuggling in bed but by now she’s either asleep or at least pretending. I roll on my back, put up the volume on the television and pretend to watch whatever is on. I think it’s Pawn Stars or some other bullshit History Channel show. I’m not paying attention I just need distraction.

I space out and let my mind go blank for a good ten or fifteen minutes. By now I trust that she’s actually asleep and if she’s not I don’t care. But due to either habituation or my desire for affection I kiss her on the forehead and tell her I have to go to the bathroom and will be right back. She only responds by making a slight mumble. She’s actually asleep. I go downstairs and hang around the kitchen for a while and pour myself a drink of vodka from the freezer and chase it down with a beer.

Bored, horny, and numbed I actually now go to the bathroom and masturbate. I fantasize of all the things I would’ve loved to do with her and feeling a bit bitter I also fantasize about people I know she hates. It’s my own quiet yet pathetic form of retaliation. But after the release my excited distraction is gone. I’m back to my previous state of numbness that’s now beginning to drift to sadness. Not wanting to tear up alone on a toilet with cum on my hand, I wash up and head back to the kitchen. I pour myself another drink and down two more beers while listening to Kanye’s “Lost in the World.”

Feeling buzzed, sad, but mostly indifferent I go back upstairs, undress, and climb into bed with her. I put headphones into my laptop and keep listening to some music for a while. I hope the music will lull me to sleep since I have to get up fairly early in the morning but it doesn’t help. It’s about 3am and despite the heavy drowse from the alcohol and late hour my mind will not let go and allow me to drift into sleep. I decide I might as well be remotely productive so in my stupor I write a silly little rant I title A Fart. I find it to be fitting for my mood. It seems to work as a mild form of therapy. After finishing the short rant I manage to stop thinking of those flat eyes long enough to fall asleep.

Thursday

Seated in my small 10 by 12 bare room I felt bored. I was reading stories of sad old men and it only made me feel worst. Feeling weary and a bit hungry I was too lazy to go out and grab any food so I ate the four rotting bananas that were decomposing on the back right corner of my empty desk. And to wash down that overly sweet browning mushy substance I gulped down a few swigs of gin. Bananas and gin: my 9 o’clock dinner.

I began to listen to some music. I just downloaded some songs from this guy Tom Waits; the songs were from his 1985 album “Rain Dogs.” I got into him after searching Youtube for readings of Bukowski poems. Waits gave a few good readings; “Nirvana” was particularly beautiful. I now like his music though; he has this distinctive gruff voice. It makes me think of a lonesome dog barking at life, something I can begin to understand sitting in my tiny bare white room eating rotting bananas that I’m washing down with modestly priced gin; it was about $14 for a 5th. There’s cheaper gin out there but I don’t find myself that desperate or broken yet.

After finishing the mush of those four bananas that were on my desk and gulping one more swig I began to feel pent-up and a little crazy. I decided to go out to the gritty bar I frequently find myself stumbling into.

It was maybe 10 when I got there and my middle-aged bartender friend was sitting outside. He’s a bit overweight and was wearing his usual black t-shirt and jeans; it seems to suit him. He also has this large scar across his face, I’m not really sure what its from; I’ve never asked. I figured it’s one of those personal things that someone might someday confide in you, but I’m in no particular hurry to unfold all his secrets. I was just looking for a beer. I think he only likes me because, so long as I’m not too drunk, I always give him a $1 tip for every drink I get. It adds up but I like him more than most of my acquaintances. I can’t really say why.

I noticed the bar was empty when I walked up to him. It was a Thursday night after all. So we talked for some time. Actually, he mostly talked, as he usually does, and told me a few more pieces of his life I haven’t heard yet. He was telling me about his days in his twenties when he worked as a roofer in the city. I briefly bitched about my few days of hard work and labor but he was able to grasp a beauty of it that I missed. He talked about finishing this big job; seated on a roof and watching a dusk New York sunset enjoying a beer with all the guys he worked all summer-long day with.

Sometimes you’ve got to stare real hard to see something of true beauty. He was able to get a good look at something that skimmed right over my eyes. It’s a little piece of experience I can’t help but envy; he saw something I couldn’t and in the end that makes me have a bit less of life I know he’ll always carry with him.

After we bullshit with each other for a few minutes longer he offered to go inside and let me get a drink. He can tell that’s why I was really there.

The two of us hung-around for a while having casual conversation and watching WWE wrestling. I absolutely hate it but the bartender loves it so I choose not to be rude and pretend to be interested; asking pointless questions about the program that I don’t really care about: “What’s up with that guy?” or “Why’s he so pissed at him?” “Did he really do that?” You get the point. And all the time during the commercials he excitedly answers my questions but as soon as WWE comes back on he’s entranced and wont say a single word. I like that time. A moment to breath easy in company I don’t mind, but mostly enjoy being alone with my beer.

A little while later this large group of kids, probably in high school, came in. The boys strut about, clearly the tough bros of their time and place, while their ditzy girls giggled, drank feminine shots, and fawned over their young aggressive chimp-like mates. I found them all revolting. Something about that sort of breed doesn’t sit well with me. Regardless, I did nothing but took another sip of my beer and annoyed them all by playing the song “Bukowski” by Modest Mouse on the jukebox. I don’t think the song is particularly great but it does pay homage to a man I grossly admire.

My bartender only pretended to care about their age for a moment but since they were a fairly large group he was more than excited for me to not be his only business that night. His other middle-aged friend, Juan, who also frequently stops in on off nights stumbled in shortly after. He’s fairly short and Mexican and despite being belligerently blunt is also very quick-witted and potentially hilarious, so long as you’re not his target. I talked with him for a minute or two and then he hopped behind the bar and helped bartend while getting himself fairly drunk in the process. The bartender always gets annoyed when Juan gets drunk behind the bar, he gives away free shots to any girl he finds remotely attractive.

A little later in the night Juan managed to persuade these two young girls to make-out for free shots; they must’ve been no older than 17 if even that. Juan was clearly excited and I saw the bartender look over, he had a huge grin across his face. He saw me looking at him and could tell I thought something wrong with the sight and felt guilty. He averted his gaze and went back to work.

Soon after around 12 the kiddies grew tired and left. They all seemed pretty drunk and went back and packed into the two cars they came in. I was surprised that I felt any concern. I guess even if some people can be ear-bleedingly irritating they don’t deserve injury of any kind. But I washed down my concern with the few remaining gulps of my now warm beer and a final shot of whiskey. I was temporarily numbed. I paid for my drinks, thanked the bartender and said goodbye to him and Juan. I was tired and had my fill of Thursday.

2am Thought

I am sitting on the toilet at 2am shitting and drinking a Bud out of a large plastic cup. Despite this situation, my only regret is that I already finished my stash of Jack. I am a man currently without whiskey and couldn’t be sadder because of it. But at least I have some beer. I do like the plastic cup. It can hold two whole beers and in addition it has little engravings of fish that go around the whole fucking thing! The sight of these fishies as I am getting myself progressively more intoxicated gladdens my semi-drunken soul.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I do some of my best thinking while on the toilet. I believe many of us do. Apparently some scholars believe that Martin Luther had his revelation of reforming the church while taking a shit. I’m not particularly religious but that has to strengthen my point: sitting in an isolated room while taking a shit provokes some profound ideas. And adding a bit of alcohol can’t hurt either.

There’s something that’s so wonderfully personal about taking a shit. It’s a moment where you can really be alone with yourself and get a good whiff of some of the nastiest stuff you’ll ever produce and you never cease to love it. I’ve always been fascinated with the process of shitting. No one ever minds there own creations but even the idea of someone else’s production disgusts us. We wipe our own fucking asses everyday (I hope) and come within millimeters of contact with our own shit. And I’m certain many of us have at one time or another accidentally got a little shit on one of our fingers. I always wonder how many thoroughly wash their hands after such an encounter.

Regardless, we share an intimate bond with our shit. Just like a child, it is something that our bodies have produced and expelled; we are fond and frequently proud of our shits. Although there are those shits you find yourself happy to flush down, usually the ones that ached your asshole to push-out or burningly erupted in an explosive furry. But even after the catastrophe and pain has subsided you still have to get a good glimpse of your bodily achievements. You stare down as you proceed to (hopefully) wipe your asshole. “I made this! This is something I have brought forth into this world. And God does it smell wonderful!” Even our foulest most rancid shits still satisfy our nostrils; the ones that smell as though there has been a dead rat decomposing in your colon. Sometimes you can even smell the heat from the more powerful gems.

Everyone loves their own shit. Despite how revolting it may be to everyone else. We’re all such shameful fucks.

Democracy, the True Kind

“All our moments, actions, thoughts and anything else that manifests from us is only leading us toward our inevitable death.” This is what I was thinking while walking to the liquor store to buy myself a bottle of whiskey. I already knew it was going to be Jameson, I really enjoy Jameson; it goes down smooth and is damn good for its price.

The people walking in the South Bronx seem wretched. Haggard, overweight, and seemingly ill, it’s really an eyesore. But I don’t mind them. In fact I really don’t mind anyone. Besides being an indifferent fuck, I find individuals from the Upper Eastside of Manhattan to be just as disgusting, but usually for different reasons of course. And despite our clothing, various accessories, physical physique, mental capacity, or simply the veneer we carry, we all still certainly do two things: shit and die. There’s not a single thing that you can do otherwise.

I bought my bottle and then bought a small container of tuna salad; I really love tuna. Sitting back here in my little room I’m now regretting not having bought myself coffee. My head is throbbing and it has been three days without any. That wonderful black nectar is practically my life source. Naturally being quite lazy I need its chemical stimulation.

I walked out and just came back to my little room with an extra-large iced coffee, I chose iced because I didn’t have the patience to sip it slowly and I also had a good swig of my whiskey. I now continue to write.

God am I a friend of the devil.

While walking back with my coffee on Fordham road I saw a man clearly deformed, suffering of some growth disorder. He was maybe a bit over four feet tall and had a large head with a very sullen look. He was dark skinned and old. He was casually walking along but when I took a moment to look at him he awkwardly crossed his arms; he seemed ashamed. What kind of life has this man lived? Some people are strong and can make something of a life setback but if I know anything about most people they’re insecure and weak. This man must’ve lived a hell compared to the fucks we envy on television. He will seemingly be nothing but a passing misfit and eventually drift away, ending his days scarcely ever known. He’ll be nothing more than that strange sullen creature who, at best, we might pity once dead. What foolish fucks we all are.

What makes me glad is the realization that whether it is this particular man or the Kardashians they will all be forgotten within the limited capacity of the human mind’s-eye and eventually erode to nothing, nada! Not only the bodies of these animals but the ideas or knowledge of them will eventually disappear too. This is natural true democracy at its work. We all die and are forgotten, what sweet wonderful equality. The fools, the wise, or the forsaken all shit and die and nothing could ever be more true or beautiful.

Beauty

It’s only there at first glimpse. You catch it only because your eyes trick you. You’ve only seen nothing but ugly for some time. It’s like being in a dark room for a little too long and then stepping outside. Things seem extraordinarily bright but only for a few moments. It’s not that the world is any brighter; your eyes had some adjusting to do before things became clear.

Many things seem beautiful and may always remain so, at least until you really get to know it. A flower may seem bright and vibrant, emitting sweet fragrances when you encounter it for the first time in it’s flourishing state. It’ll be beautiful. But if you know it, care for it daily, give it your time and energy, it’ll still have no choice but to eventually wilt and decay. Its beauty will certainly die along with its body and be nothing but a brief memory.

A woman can be the same. She may seem a beauty from a distance but once you truly know her she becomes as ugly as you. She shits and farts and everything sweet sours with time. Of course, it’s not one sided. I must always be fair; she sees you in the same way. For some strange reason she decided to give you her heart and time (she was most likely too insecure for anything better but who ever thinks otherwise?). She initially saw some beauty in you. You had a halo radiating light, blinding her for some time. She didn’t see you but only that halo. Eventually, that halo grew dimmer and dimmer with time, until it was gone. There was only you. And by now you could see her too. Your eyes were adjusted and you tried to squint as hard as you could to see if that can really be the same creature you found beautiful. But it never is.

Maybe you’ll see some flickers of brightness but it’ll only be after you’ve spent a bit in your little personal cellar. That tiny dark room you creep into when everything outside doesn’t seem right. You spend a while in there and after enough time has passed you grow lonely. You open the door and step out. She has that glimmer again! But you’ve already learned too much and with all of your expectations that radiating glow slips away much faster than ever before. Your eyes don’t need to be fully adjusted. They know what they’re about to see.

Your eyes will always adjust. There’s no doubt about that. Some can seem brighter at first glance and maybe they’ll glow for a bit longer but it’ll soon enough disappear. I would recommend to always find the next bright and shinning thing as quickly as possible so you could see nothing but beauty. But then again I don’t enjoy being blind either.

Beer Shits

Drinking a beer while taking a shit is wonderful. Consuming as you expel, what could be better? Feel good and only feeling better. I find my life at a current standstill. Things are flying by at extraordinary speed but I’ve seemed to temporarily shut down. I can only crawl if I want to keep moving but I would rather sit for a bit. Enjoy the moment and savor my shit with my fresh beer.

I’m tired and only 20. But I’ve always been tired. Maybe it’s due to my loud snoring, at least that’s what some people tell me. It could be apnea but who really knows. I just always want to sleep, sit back comfortable and warm and just let all the days roll by. That’s a sin in our time though, to not be a busy DO-er. To not DO is an indication of a bad individual and to be one who enjoys drinking is even worse. I can understand DO-ing to survive or just get by, people need to be fed but there seems to be a worship of this “DO” that I’ve seemed to miss. Perhaps there was some sort of meeting I was never invited to. Maybe I was too hung-over that day and slept through it, who knows?

I just don’t have an ambitious bit in me. And cheers to those who are ambitious, there’s nothing wrong with DO-ing. In fact many people I care about are good DO-ers. It’s just all that DO-ing seems so silly to me. It’s a game I have no interest playing. I would rather lie in bed and masturbate. It seems to make me feel better.

I guess I’m a lazy sort of guy. Being busy and moving around all day makes me nervous and gives me anxieties, there’s something wrong with such intensely busy lives. Maybe I’m defective. I’m like some kind of lazy bee who doesn’t want to cooperate and work with his hive. He would rather wake up late and instead of collecting pollen just zip around and shit on all the bright flowers. I’d be some doofy fucking bee and all of the bee-ciety would point and either hate or mock me: “Look at that asshole! Just a drain on us all!” or “What a doofy fuck! Look at him shitting on all those flowers!” I wonder if such a bee ever existed. I’d enjoy watching him at his work.

Actually, I’ve got some DO-ing I should be getting at but I’ll let it go for now. I’ll have another beer instead. I’ve got two left from the pack so I’ll get to those DO-ings later. It’ll be rushed and half-assed of course. But that’s me, how I’ve always been. I don’t totally fuck-off, I don’t have the balls for that. Instead, I do what I have to or at least what’s expected to not deal with the repercussions. But at the end of the day, when no one’s around and not expecting anything, I always end up on the toilet, shitting and drinking my beer.

This sort of life, this clean-cut, pre-fabricated, parentally expected, apparently busy, bleach-whitened teeth, work till you die existence doesn’t make me particularly happy. I don’t want work to be the cause of my death. I evade work whenever I can. I find that to be the healthier choice. Why DO today what I can consider DO-ing tomorrow? It’s not that working is so awful, it’s only that being drunk or asleep is better. I could go out and DO or lay in bed naked and finish my beers. I’ve got Buds today and since I can’t reach my clothes I’m not going to move for awhile, at least until my bladder is nice and full and needs to expel some more.

I must confess that I love good food and often the expensive sort, steaks, lobster, Italian cuisine, what have you. But other than that and drinking, which is never cheap, I don’t care for the big house, fancy car (I know nothing of cars) and all the things that are supposed to go in these objects. George Carlin went off about STUFF and it’s stupidity. He’s right, all life becomes is a pathetic attempt of finding a place to put all your insignificant STUFF. I don’t care for STUFF like the way most people do. If you have some void to fill and food or sex or alcohol isn’t enough then I suppose you should go on ahead and get all that STUFF. There’s nothing wrong with obsessive material hunger. In fact, its what drives our whole culture, the cornerstone of our economy. Our wellbeing is rooted on that sweet, sweet vice ENVY. I find myself suffering of sloth and gluttony so who am I to talk. Those sins aren’t nearly as productive, if only I had a little more greed in me too, then I could be DO-ing something worthwhile. The only problem is that I’m currently too busy drinking a beer, I can’t be bothered with such practical matters right now. The word itself, “practical” or its cousin “pragmatic,” makes me nervous and hurts my head.

In the end I suppose we’re all fucked up anyway. The only difference is that too many don’t realize it. So many try to burry those things called vices, those deadly sins that we don’t want our fellow mouth-breathing companions to find out about. “Know thyself,” something left dusting over in the corner, forgotten, not valued for our very important, busy, DO-filled contemporary lives. There’s nothing to KNOW, only things to be DONE! All these people frantically running, DO-ing as fast as their little bodies can move so no one can ever get a good glimpse of them bare and still.

Maybe they’re right. What if there is something to that all important, soul-consuming resume. A piece of paper that lets you know everything you should about me. “Yes, that’s me! I’m all there, all my DO-ings. Aren’t I just so amazing!” All that phony bullshit, I should just send potential employers a piece of my shit. It’s certainly truer to me. “Look and see what my body made. That particular odor you’re whiffing is my own fresh brand. I hope you see and smell my potential! Can I get the job?” At least my piece of shit is authentic, I’ll even let you DNA test it to be sure its mine (if that can be done with shit). Nothing fake there, no BULLSHIT! It’s all me and all I have to give. I’ll even give you a fresh one, right after I finish this beer.

A Fart

From hell to heaven and now somewhere stuck between, I can’t seem to gain a footing anywhere. My moments slip to seconds, to minutes, hours, days, and so on… My body goes through some changes just as my mind alters; growing and sinking through this time, discovering and forgetting, accumulating to this thing that I have come to know as me.

I feel lost. I feel occasional and brief moments of certainty but they always fall through my fists. I clutch nothing, nada, bare skin, only my dick. But I am not exactly sad. It’s just a passing phase. All moments of intensity and sincerity within some time, whether days, weeks, or years become meaningless farts. Within a greater scheme, beyond our waking minds, we really are as valuable as a fart. But that’s no reason to be morbid. Farts have their place within this thing known as existence too. I fart and it makes people cringe or laugh; the fart had its effect. Good or evil that fart is done and forever gone. Most likely it wont be thought of again but nonetheless it impacted existence in a very specific way. I can’t quite define how that fart altered existence but it certainly did. Without it life would be one moment less, a certain aspect of life would be absent without that fart. It may seem worthless or a nuisance but it’s there, whether remembered or not. It has altered you or me or any fuck and there’s nothing we can do about it.

Just remember, you’ll never amount to anything greater than a fart but farts are all we can ever be.