A Novel Idea

Fuck it, let’s get the fuck it.

And let’s feel the flying feeling, fleeing from caved-in emotion; freeing ourselves from ourselves and releasing ourselves from the masked commotion that follows us in every second, followed by the notion of — what was I saying? Sure, let’s just go on like nothing [n]ever happened, and nothing ever did happen, and nothing ever meant more than when you inhaled and —

damn, that was like the magician’s work of making things appear and disappear again and again, and there you are again, staring me down with your middle-last name threats and instantaneously, I’m feeling the rush in my veins, in my chest, you send me into a spiral of thoughts, into a spiral of ‘was I supposed to say that, was that too much or not enough, or fucking God, let’s inhale another —

fuck. that feels like a lessening — I’ve lost my train of thought through lines of words and emotions, flowing through my veins, through my body like this magical shivering, like a cold front, like that moment when you go numb from the frozen air, the frozen commotion, everything just simply stands still. 

And how long has it been since we’ve met at this corner of fuck-it and don’t-even-try-it. And I’m half way from each point and both look so appealing, both look so pleasing, easy-release. 

I didn’t even scream fuck me.

The drug stings.

And when did we get here, from there, to this place where we’re not even sure who we are and what we are, but we know what we’re doing and not doing, and finding ways to describe what we’re feeling… which is usually an emphasis on what we’re not feeling. 

It’s over. 

And the world seems lighter at night, but only once the anxiety describes the light-life, 

Truly. I love my mom. 

BUT SHUT THE FUCK UP. 

Since I woke up 50 minutes ago, I’ve had FIVE minutes of silence and all you’ve done is tell me over-and-over again to 

• clean my bedroom before I leave for my trip
• make sure I have my phone charger
• take a shower before 11
• finish my laundry so I can pack
• get a bag for all my medicine and liquids

I’M 22 FUCKING YEARS OLD. SHUT.THE.FUCK.UP.

I don’t like when people cross RNJ.

I need to be so far from alone.

My A Team

The hazy daze cycles memories of used-to-be days,

where flowers met with lightbulbs

and sound checks meant seeing things:

see me for who I am, and be me with me,

and fall in love with this daze that I am in

so we can experience love from a tin can;

from open relationships and

dysfunctional family feuds,

to lying next to you in bed on nights that mean perfection.

And by open I don’t mean out,

I mean open as in I’ll love you

and pretend to love someone else at the same time

while you’re out screwing the mail man

who will hopefully give us a child someday.

Someday, I’ll give you promise rings

that you’ll explain as a gift to me, from me, for being me;

and I’ll smirk and giggle as people ask if I’m single

and I’ll just tell them I’ve got this girl

from the Lou who’s got me smitten,

but we don’t believe in commitment,

so here we stand, exchanging I Love You’s

and pretending we’re in love with other (wo)men.

It’s the easiest way not to be broken hearted,

and it’s the easiest way to feel love

with someone miles away.

Good night, my A Team. 

I wanna write you in and out of songs that don’t matter in speakers that are never played. The crowd reeks of horrid taste, and by horrid, I mean things like Slim Mathers and grammy award winners. 

Hallucination/ShrinkSpeak

Seeing shrink-speak at three-am

means the world’s cues fall into a rhythm: 

one of which creates the notion that 

night falls when the day rises, 

and it seems like an impossible feat

to destroy the lack of serotonin. 

See the things that don’t exist, 

hearing shrink-speak at three-am

is deafening to my mind’s 

continuous notion of sanity-driven

contemplations, 

contemplate, fake, break 

the streak of “it’s not happening,” 

be the hope in the speakers, 

be the hope in his near perfect streak

of never touchin’ that shit again. 

Can’t wait to be alone, 

to breathe alone, 

to feel alone 

so you can create alone

in a bottle; 

in a line; 

in a mispronounced, 

unannounced story

of how it happened. 

This is shrink-speak for 

“breathe in, breathe out, slow down,” 

from people who aren’t even presence; 

and at 3AM, being alone is harder 

than imagined in a house 

shared with five creatures 

and a dismissed hallucination. 

The feeling machine of not feeling the reality means I must be, surely, I am crazed.

Indeed, I am bipolarly-diseased. 

ThreeSixtyEight

And 368 days later, we’re sitting, waiting for the world to change into something magnificent; waiting it to change into something manageable. But 368 days later, it’s like the world has been achieved; it’s like the world has been mastered and captured into a tiny bronzed chip that I gave to you in some place named Omaha, Nebraska. 

And in those 368 days, I fell in love with a woman I’d never be able to keep; and I swooned her with a raspy voice that only shook when I spoke; I wept when I said the most powerful three words you can ever feel; and six weeks later, it was all over and to this day, I’d slip a ring on her (middle) finger with my initials engraved so she’d never forget the way I pleased her. 

And when I was heart broken, an unborn BabyGirl kept saving me from myself in that Colorado rain. And when I found out about your beautiful little heart beat, I smoked down 11 of them cancer sticks, and called your mama after the fourth to tell her I’d love you from that day forward. The repetition of those significant six weeks, led you to my arms for the first time, and one day, you’ll know how much I love you. 

And somewhere along the way, diseases plagued the family to the point of endless medicating and the listless trips to some pharmacy where I’ve been forced into cheaper fixes and quick releases for the absentee feelings of never taking that high road again. And we continuously see the way a world with numb limbs can be felt and helped and thrashed and trashed from mental fatigue. 

In those 368 days, I fought for the moment in something called Omaha where I gave you everything you worked for; for me, because when you worked it, I worked it, and it only works when you work it… and we worked it until today, where I’m left wondering if the working has become too tiresome, and if I’m left without a sense of security for surviving. And I couldn’t be more exhausted with the art of existing, and with the tired soul I encompass, I’m wishing on something far less realistic, and I’ll continue wondering when you’ll receive your 368 day disaster.

“that moment when”

the darkening hour promotes the sideways-shower; down-pour; pour-down the aching hand, the shaking man who breathes in his accidental poison. 

me, that man, the man before me and after me and in-between what is me, is craving the release, the exhale; an easy-feeling, i need to breathe the freshness, release the bleeding wrists. 

an alternative side of me; an alternative side of you of us of what is never seeming to become a ‘love’ story; and i’ll carve you into my heart, into my arms, the cracked metal chip that i threw against walls, against hardened cement that symbolizes every struggle turned (a fake-coated) gold.

i crave the moment when i feel the blood leaving my veins into air; breathing— that is our oxygen; “that moment when” you smile at every lady that walks past you, following her curvy body behind you; “that moment when” you realize you hate every second that you’re awake because your dreams are so much more interesting that the monotony of your life; “that moment when” you realize you’re much crazier than you ever thought and it took some blue, October day to realize it. 

“that moment when” this makes more sense on screens than in your head; and now you’re even crazier since this makes sense and every soul around you will be wondering, “was that the moment when…” and they’ll imagine whatever fraction-of-possibility comes to mind and shake it off like this is just a figment of their imagination. 

I need it to be October. I need it to be a Blue, October Day.

Firing Writes Wrongs

The tragedy with honesty is one that rings true when it’s personalized to keep your name in my mouth, but I’d rather be true to me, than true to you, and true to me means idolizing my honesty. But the tragedy, you see, isn’t the honesty that is spoken or written or processed within — the tragedy is the reactive energy that strikes matches against dry fields of grass and gasoline-entrenched wood followed by poured liquor that encompasses a soul filled with honesty, love, care, and a bit of fight that matches Mohammed Ali’s name. I won’t back down to save your sorry-smile, but I will back down for the sake of that reactive energy that only causes some minor burns on my emotional status.

The back and forth, uncertainties; obscure and misled rhyming schemes meant to tell me and you and that kid in the corner something important. Like when and why and how life meant something, but nothing that will answer the all important question that everyone’s asking, or not verbally speaking, but seeking to be understood and known and unknown is what we’re remembering. 

But when days fall into early summer’s eve, and we’re waiting under skies, by watery fronts, and coolers filled with beer and hands with blunts, you might as well pass over the questions and say “fuck it,” because you’re not even living when in comatose by some ridiculous substance. Can’t understand, or learn, or breathe, or function without a buzz or something to mask over what you can’t grasp or capture.