At One Time

At one time I wanted to be
a rock and roll poet
like Lou Reed.
But heroin scared me
after watching Gary Oldman
and Chloe Webb disintegrate
a thousand times over
in Sid and Nancy.
So, back to this I went.

At one time I wanted to be
a drunken Bukowski poet
arguing with the moon
to please fill my veins with Truth
as I walked the dog
down Broad Street
in my underwear.
But instead I sank
like a rock to the bottom
of a tiny glass fish bowl
stained with the opacity
of my secretions.
So, back to this I went.

At one time I wanted to be
a mystic poet scrawling
metaphysical verse
across the clear blue sky
like Thomas Merton.
But my Tourette’s would not be
well accepted by the taciturn monks
in Gethsemane.
So, back to this I went.

At one time I wanted to be
a Zen poet, a human
mirror, a clock with no hands
and no feet
and no face
and no numbers
and no frame
and no glass
and no gears or inner workings.
I would have measured the sound
of the Sun’s reflection
like Thich Naht Hahn.
But I lose myself
to day dreaming and the moment
dissipates like smoke from
my dead uncle’s pipe.
So, back to this I went.

Now,
here
I am.
I should be sleeping,
but I’m sniffing through debris
of my life
looking for survivors
or, at least, a body to recover
and lay at the feet of my Master.
Or maybe I should just howl
when I find it
and beckon the searchers
\to come to me.
I have what you want.

8 notes

Things Rique Says

Rique says, “We’re all just a cunt
hair away from losing our minds
anyway.” After telling me of
the granny who blew two boys
to smithereens with her pistol
because they teased her.

These are the types
of things we say
to each other.
This is how we have always
related.

You would never know it
to look at him today
that there is blood
on his hands
from kid pranks
that today would mistake
a future of serial killing.

"I couldn’t make it
a day in school without jacking off.
Sometimes nothing
but a puff of smoke would come
out.”

I was the Catholic altar boy
drinking Blood
in the sacristy
when only God was looking.
He was raised
an atheist, but,
somehow he is the one
who was touched
by a priest.
“He understood
what the voices were like.
The others just crammed
pills down my throat.”

Many years ago
when Rique was sick
with voices and visions
and trying his best
to die
I dreamed his mother
called me before
the sunrise.
“Come eat supper
with my son.”
I went.
We all went,
all who knew him in those days.
There he was.
Spread out on a table.
Cold. Stiff. Blue. Naked.
His mother handed me
a knife and said
to begin.

"They gave me antibiotics
and I shit myself.
Nothing humbles you
like shitting your pants.”

We were both crazed,
mania the bond
nobody else could fathom.
17 years old.
No car on the expressway
except Rique’s Astrovan
slowly fish tailing along
It was almost dawn, snowing, and a school
night. But we just had to see
the ocean in a snow storm
even if it was 2 hours in each direction
on a good day.
Rique wore a vest
and a 10 gallon hat.
I donned a mask
of a clown face
and smoked every last one
of his mother’s Salem Lights.

"I like hospital gowns
Because my bare ass hangs out
the back”.

We both survived
our seasons of madness
by the Grace of God.
We both landed
on dry ground
by miracles beyond our understanding.
He has a wife
a house
a good job helping
mental health consumers
navigate their own orbits
in deep space.
I became a monk
in a factory
churning out piece by piece
of product from the sterile cave
of Limbo.
“It’s an honest job”,
we both can say.
“We’re all just a cunt
hair from losing our minds
anyway.”

2 notes

Football Americano

She pulled out her hair
as she screamed
at me. She looked so sexy
so virile as her heart throbbed
beneath her breast
and the veins in her forehead
stood like protective sentinels.
“You’re not a man!” she said
because I hadn’t taken the trash
out in 2 weeks,
the front lawn looked like
Cambodia, and our bedroom
window was still
broken.
“You’re right, you know”, I said
as she waved a frying pan
over her head.
“I’m not a man.
It’s true, but you’ve got your reasons
all wrong, baby.
I’m not a man
because I traded my man card
in for a pony tail
in high school.
I’m not a man
because sometimes I enjoy
abstract art.
I’m not man
because I could never kill
an animal
or even a fish
or an insect.
I’m not a man
because guns don’t make me
feel secure
at all. In fact
they make me
quite nervous no matter
who’s hands they are in.
I’m not a man
because twirking embarrasses me
and I’ve never gotten hard
from watching a stripper dance.
I’m not a man
because I’m ok with you
making more money
than me or being
on top
or driving even when I
am in the car.
I’m not a man
because I sit down
to pee when I’m tired.
I’m not a man
because whenever I have
seen American football played,
all I saw was
a bunch of men
in tight shiny capri pants
rolling and sweating
in the grass together,
smacking each other’s asses
when they are pleased
and finally taking a
hot and steamy
shower together when it’s all over.
It is almost Shakespearian
in it’s homoeroticism.
Not that there is anything
with that.
Those guys should be
allowed to marry each other
and be as miserable
as the rest of us.
It’s just not my thing.”

4 notes

Something is Wrong with Al

Nobody knows
how many times Al has fallen
asleep at the wheel
on his way home
from work at night.
Though everybody knows
he has crashed a few cars.
He worked late every night
but never wrote up
the OT on his time card.
He moved like cooling
tar and always had his head down
as if someone was hollering
at him. He had once been quite fast.
A basketball player even.
Nobody knew that
now. The rest of the crew
was half his age.

Al always spokesoftly like he was in a library
or a church.
Not a single unkind word
ever broke his general rule of silence.
He was a monk.
He was our monk.
But, as kind as he was,
Al was fucking gross too.
He had bad breath
and greasy hair.
Whiskers poked by the bushel
from his ears and nose.
When he sat back
snoring in his narcoleptic chair
a hernia or tumor or alien lovechild
stood at attention poking it’s head
through his shirt just above
his navel.

Al had been written up
several times for sleeping
in the plant
with the cacophony
of production screaming profoundly
at him. He didn’t hear it
I guess.

"Please, Al. See a doctor.
If you have a note
I can tear all of these
write-ups to pieces,
but I need proof
that it’s your health
and not your fault.
I need a note.”

Al smiled and signed the yellow paper
that was so thin you could see your fingers
through it.

When he mopped the floor
he liked to use nitric acid
first. He would sit at the door
to stop anyone from walking
on it. The cloud of vapors
rose around him and he
watched the acid denature
the grime. Eventually, he invariably
nodded off wondering
how far down his throat
he could send a swig
of acid if he
took it like a shot
of tequila.

Al was a warm ghost.
Everywhere he went
was haunted.
Is there a difference
between the Holy Surrender of
the saints
and this?

The night they had
to fire him
was nothing out of the ordinary
which is why it was not ordinary
that anyone should care
that Al was sleeping
on a chair in the office.
It was Woronko,
the young new superintendant
trying to make a name
for himself.
Woronko told Al to get his things
and be escorted out
by security.
Al didn’t bother
collecting anything.
He just left.

When the car hit the tree
it didn’t make as much noise
as one might expect.
Like everything Al did,
the crash was quiet
and unnoticed.
He got out of the car
and surveyed the damage.
The entire car was crumpled up
like the foil wrapper of chewing gum.
He saw the smoke rise from under the hood.
He saw the turn signal blink on and off casting
Halloween orange light onto the surrounding trees.
He saw a body slumped over the driver’s wheel.
His body.
His spiritless body
finally resting and no supervisor could ever wake him again.
That is when the boy came
from the shadows.
A young boy,
gentle as the night.
He took Al’s hand
“I never left you”, he said.
Al just looked down into the boy’s eyes
and smiled.

4 notes

At One Time

At one time I wanted to be
a rock and roll poet
like Lou Reed.
But heroin scared me
after watching Gary Oldman
and Chloe Webb disintegrate
a thousand times over
in Sid and Nancy.
So, back to this I went.

At one time I wanted to be
a Hank Bukowski drunken poet arguing with the moon
to please fill my veins with Truth
as I walked the dog
down Broad Street
in my underwear.
But instead I sank
like a rock to the bottom
of a tiny glass fish bowl
stained with the opacity
of my secretions.
So, back to this I went.

At one time I wanted to be
a mystic poet scrawling
metaphysical verse
across the clear blue sky
like Thomas Merton.
But my Tourette’s would not be
well accepted by the taciturn monks
in Gethsemane.
So, back to this I went.

At one time I wanted to be
a Zen poet, a human
mirror, a clock with no hands
and no feet
and no face
and no numbers
and no frame
and no glass
and no gears or inner workings.
I would have measured the sound
of the Sun’s reflection
like Thich Naht Hahn.
But I lose myself
to day dreaming and the moment
dissipates like smoke from
my dead uncle’s pipe.
So, back to this I went.

Now,
here
I am.
I should be sleeping,
but I’m sniffing through debris
of my life
looking for survivors
or, at least, a body to recover
and lay at the feet of my Master.
Or maybe I should just howl
when I find it
and beckon the searchers
to come to me.
I have what you want.

2 notes

Happy Birthday

She wore a jacket to bed.
“Don’t touch me. I’m cold.”
“But it’s your birthday”.
She rolled over and went
to sleep. “This is marriage”,
I thought as I returned
to my reading.
Or, this is love.
Or, this is comfort?
A night with no complications
and nobody’s heart is racing.

2 notes

686,139 plays

teenagemutantninjaslut:

“What Schizophrenia Sounds Like”

For the last couple of weeks I have been looking up information about the mental illness, schizophrenia for a research project for my psychology class. During my research I found an interesting project that some scientists had put together called, “What Schizophrenia Sounds Like.” After interviewing many people with this illness the scientists compiled a short clip of what a schizophrenic might hear during an episode, or just day to day. I listened to this from my laptop speakers, not the recommended head phone approach (Which I’m glad that I did!) When I pressed play on this sound clip I instantly got chills and had to turn down the volume before proceeding. Honestly, it creeped me out to the point where I had to turn something funny on the TV to keep from weirding myself out. This sound clip really is interesting. Have a listen!

195,679 notes

Don’t you dare
hold your pain
inside of you
like a rolled up
handkerchief.

Don’t you dare
wipe your tears
with what you think
you deserve.
© 2013 Maza-Dohta  (via maza-dohta)

192 notes

This Is How Easy It Really Can Be

samueljamesobrien:

He sits,
his gaze fluctuates momentarily,
not knowing where his focus
is needed

She is above him,
but only by a matter of feet,
elevated by both her
ego
and the sheer gradient
of the architecture
below her heels

As she moves,
his eyes follow,
focusing only on the thin layer
of veneer
covering that which she dares not
expose

He questions his decision
whilst the bucktoothed
vermin
throw their childrens’
future
towards the object
of their desire

19 notes

Hard to Kill

The goose stood in the center of everything.
Between the factory and the fence.
Somewhere her eggs lay in wait for
her fat feathery ass to come keep them comfy.
Jim froze while
I kept going.
“Those things will attack you, Fucker.”
Arm’s reach. Mother Goose looked at me
then turned to Jim 15 feet behind and hissed.
“It’s OK. She knows I wont eat her.”
For once, nobody here was going to bust my balls
for being a vegetarian. Mother Goose darted
in my partner’s direction and he ran. 
Took the long way around the building.
That’s funny, I thought. Too many tours
in Iraq but it’s a goose that finally ends him.

I’ve known Jim forever. His mom
babysat me when we were 6.
I knew Jim when his mom divorced his “grumpy” dad.
I knew Jim when his dad drank himself to death when we were 12.
Then, I didn’t know Jim for quite a while.
I didn’t know Jim when he started beating everyone up.
I didn’t know Jim when he started selling drugs.
I didn’t know Jim when he dropped out of school in 9th grade
or when he enlisted to find Bin Laden on 9/12/2001.
I didn’t know him when he came home years later
a father, a drunk, disillusioned, and afraid.

Here they call him Mad at the World
and he is. He even got mad at me once
because I couldn’t get mad.
“You gay fucking retard. You are pissing me 
the fuck off.”
Jim doesn’t like Zen.

It eats management up that he is so good
at his job. They would give a limb for an excuse
to fire him. He fights. He refuses. 
He lives by the book of Jim,
which has one line on a single page that reads, 
in black & white block letters,
“FUCK YOU ANYWAY”.

Jim and I are the only ones who work
12’s here. The weekend coverage. Everyone else
is on 8’s and each shift hates all the others.
Our hours touch all 3 shifts. Nobody knows where
our allegiance lies. So they disregard us entirely.
We are like 2 sons of an abusive parent.
We only have each other
to look out for each other.

"Be careful, Fucker" I say.
“They got their eyes on you.” I say.
“Fuck ‘em” he says
and he means it.
He is hung over.
He is tired.
His body aches from foot to skull.
He goes on.
He has never ever called out of work.
I think he shows up just
to punish management
as they comb his file looking
for a reason.

Every year he refuses
to sign his performance review
stating he ought to take the whole department to HR.
Every year he and I get missed for a promotion
off the floor. They just can’t get him to quit
so they try to work him to death like John Henry.

In the parking lot I often mock
the guy from production who followed
another guy from production home to kill him.

"I’m gonna follow you home and kill ya’." I say.

"Go ahead and try, Fucker.
I’m pretty hard to kill.”

"That’s not what the goose said."

4 notes