Me and Kenny shot junk and decided to rob the hardware store.

We got so fucked up we broke into the TV repair store next door by mistake.

We broke into the wrong goddamned store.

So by the time the cops showed up, we were in the back alley blacking out and laughing.

Breaking windows, escaping into the night.

We ran.

Their flashlights cast long weird shadows on the alley walls.

Me and Kenny made it back to his moms house.

Under the fence and in through the first floor window.

We laughed about the broken glass, the botched job and the dumb fuck cops.

Then Ken's mom yelled at us to shut the fuck up.

We sniffed some more dope and got quiet.

Real, real quiet.

eating fish in bermuda.

Quick, catch the high-heeled running switchblade!

Put a skirt on her and let her get paid to ignore me.

I'm having so much fun that I couldn't tell you about

the time I watched her shoot the TV.

Chasing glamour is a run of the roughest route

because there is no path, reason or rhyme.

That woman's crazy -

You've got a rifle.

My Oil.

I will not let anything short of death stand between us.

And if her bell's vibrations are up for the taking

they're mine.

They're mine so that you may live as long as your little heart chooses to.

I can't decide which side of the barrel I'm more terrified of.

We're all doomed to die with homeless hearts.

Dead meat wrapped inside of garbage.

Mummified sad facts reanimated by radioactivity.

We are all just ideas forgotten by a god who forgot to remember why we are.

Night Terrors

5.14.010


Last night a blinking red traffic light came before me in a dream and told me

that I was gonna die one month before my ninety-ninth birthday.

It even asked me if I was okay with the fact.

All I know is that my sleep is so lonely

& that pulsing crimson bastard reminded me of some weird torture -

like being tied to a board.

The rest is just details.

Painful details all so bloody and violent

like let downs shot straight into the vein.

Doomed to ninety-nine?

No -

that's like you're saying you're condemned to life.

So bring it harder.

It's gonna take more than ten tanks to kill this

beautiful monster.

Vivian was a seamstress. She was a friend of a friend and I would take my clothes that needed mending to her. Her method was immaculate. Even the most tattered junk I would throw at her would come back good as new; her stitching was invisible. It was almost like the clothes had repaired themselves. I always wondered how she did it but, hell, I don't know square one about sewing so I decided not to really not care.

It was on a Saturday afternoon in late April when Janice, our mutual friend, called me on the phone and told me that she and Vyvian were going out for dinner and drinks. She asked if I would come along. I had just been sitting around my apartment all day and now, in the early dusk, was starting to develop a mild case of cabin fever. I told her 'sure'. We agreed to meet at the place at 7. I walked from the kitchen, through the living room, and into the bedroom. After setting out some clean clothes, I reached across the bed and took 30 bucks out of the nightstand. After a brief moment of hesitation, I turned the 30 to 50. Hit the bathroom, disrobed and showered. I put my fresh clothes on, a button up for the crisp night air.

It's alive

just

flightless birds

or

seeing eye dogs

our braile-tipped dew claws stroke

the venomous end we all seek

blind and joyous

like seeking a trinket you never wanted

but thought someone else might

enjoy

so you bought it anyway &

gave it to them

they never wanted your love

and your love wasn't worth taking

so you parked your car in the dark somewhere

and gave your love away unto yourself until you were a monster

a horrible, horrible monster.