the crusade of apocoloyptic christians and the study of man.

we're anticipating the arrival of something.
we'll know it when it arrives.

we don't know what it looks like
we don't know what it smells like
or how it feels
but somehow,
when it arrives
we're gonna know it.

we're waiting here
with open arms and high hopes
we've even got our Sunday's best on

we're all waiting for the arrival of something

what it looks like
how it arrives and when,
we don't know

but its gonna save us
from ourselves

somehow.

for Hank.

this sickness,
we all have it
inside of us
growing like a baby in the womb
destined for doom

but its not all heavy
its not all war all the time
but more betting on the muse

its easy to misinterpret
something that seemed so ugly on the outside
but was really just careful beauty
on the edge of a raw wound

thats whats wrong with most people
(but not all)
you give them something
and they translate it to their own vision
just like the bible

what can you do,

but roll the dice
drink your beer
and dont up a fight.

sunday's dream.

when the ship started to sink
they all jumped overboard

except for the captain
who sat in the corner
and whistled a tune
to himself
and to all the sea creatures below
and to the angels he'd meet
and to the hell he'd probably get to see
and for all the women he loved before
and the women he'll never get to touch again

he whistled that tune
until his death

'to live by the sea and die by the sea'

was what his tattoo had said.

automatic midnight with boy wonder

he was pale and very thin, with long limbs and jagged boned hips. he wrapped his thin arm around me and kissed me on the forehead. we had been drinking since 10pm and now it was 3am. his blue eyes are beautiful still, even when the redness in his face gives away his severely inebriated state.

i fell asleep somewhere between our last conversation and when the room started to turn that calming, peaceful blue. it must've been 5am.

when i woke up again, he was asleep, lost in a dream. and when we woke up again, it was 11am. he started to have the shakes. i was both terrified and sad to see him in such a state. i fed him breakfast: an ice cold tecate with lime, and he seemed better again; he seemed himself.

so this was how the weekend came to be. and i couldnt help myself to join in, because i am just as much addicted to what he called 'Mother Booze'

we both described that warm embrace as soon as the booze kicks in. we had this thing, we had found eachother although temporarily, we atleast had this. everyone picks their poison..and i confess to choosing mine.

"mother booze. both my curse and my muse" i recited to him as we cheered eachother and drank our fears, our fucked up childhood memories, our loneliness, away with every bottle.

bring on that warm embrace as the alcohol takes place-swirling swiftly through our blood, casting that magic spell making us reach that destination we're always trying to find sober and never can. i know, its the problem we have but everyone chooses their poison and at 10pm on a saturday night, we are lost inside the bottles and in our own made up dreams.this make believe life we create so that we are allowed to exist, to manage all the painful shit.

and at 8am, when we woke up again still drunk and light headed, he asked for more beer before the shakes set in again. i gave him another and watched him down the can head back and eyes closed, his body naked, pale, and thin. a boy and a man, far ahead of me traveling down that grimy road.

sometimes, some people gotta travel their own dark roads alone.

judgement day.

false friends
and future lovers
im pleading
can you hear me
inside this celluloid womb?

i watched as
a billion faces turned to dust
shining bright lights like glorious diamonds
straight into my skull

desert trips embraced
by my memories
squandered by emotional catastrophes

and im singing loud
to drown out the sound
of all the bridges collapsing
around me

there was a purpose
to this disguise
ripping myself open, deep & wide

youre gonna know the trigger happy girl-demon inside apocalyptic dreams
falling apart straight from the seams

remember me
dont forget me
write me
when you wake up
from your poisoned sleep!

this that and something else.

left the house this morning feeling optimistic. no idea why. these things just happen. Been trying to move past certain things that have felt like anchors, emotionally. everything once familiar, now gone. all swept up in one full motion. maybe things are best that way? forces you to think on your feet.

i arrive at work, already one cup of coffee in. i sit in front of the computer from 11am to 6pm or 8pm and sometimes 9pm when i really don't want to go home.

went out last night. been going out almost every night. not sure what i'm trying to find. but, overheard a close friend's conversation about me:

"yeah, her? she's rad. she's so tough! dont mess with her..."

makes me sad a bit. i understand i've done my part to uphold this image of a totally insane girl throwing punches and all that.

Although, its really all crap. anyone smart enough to look past it, can easily see a very confused girl, an ultra sensitive girl.

too damn sensitive, matter of fact. i wonder sometimes how i even make it through this world, when my heart weighs so heavy. its too much sometimes. these feelings are like tides, sweeping me up in its arms and carrying me away. i often feel tangled up in other people, lose myself and not being able to figure out whats true and whats false.

but this is the truth, as far as i can see (or feel for that matter)

and today i'm feeling optimistic.

void.

after she managed to fuck all of her close friends
she moved on to picking up strangers at the local bar.

she'd find courage after a couple shots of tequila
stumbling her way across the dimly lit bar
while cheesy R&B songs played in the background,
her eyes would settle on a unsuspecting lucky stranger

and we all know
it doesn't take much convincing
for a man to take a woman home.

and so it goes

night after night

of unfamiliar faces

the smell of booze and sex
clouding up her room
like familiar ghosts

she was trying to escape something
or trying to find anything
that would make her feel alive
or worthy
or perhaps it was just nothing
but the simple pleasure of fucking

bruises on her inner thighs, like badges of honor were just little reminders of tuesday night with so-and-so.

its just so easy to be so easy, see?
no one expects anything.
no conversation, no emotional revelations.

its just on your back
or on your knees
or skirt pulled up and against the wall
or on top and head in a dream

she explained this all to me
and i was jealous for a second
because she learned how to extract her heart out of it everything.

but i just could never get over how
lonely and vacant her eyes had become.

(to be continued)

word play. my way. i cant write today

this is the structure of things.

strong foundations. warm covers. steady and ready. gone in a flash. personal matters filed away in complex folders, and hidden away forever.
escaping the mundane. flesh for an equal exchange. cash value, no value. dropping out.


my baby died so long ago, she cried. collapsed into nothing. sweet derision and emotional collision. stay fierce, stay strong, say nothing.

these are personal matters, let me remind you. as the clock announces our demise.

i cant write today or i cant find a subject. im writing through it. working it out, working it out. its a process

a process
in finding where you fit inside of all this

adjusting, redirecting, shifting focus, find a new perspective. start again
win the war
claim your place

ugh

i'm laying it all out for you
i have no clue
what else to do.


-end-

custom made.

another night and i'm attempting to lose myself inside a stranger's kiss. His arms are wrapped around my waist, he's pulling me in, but i'm not there. he's pressing up against a false myth.

another night and i'm drifting away while being hugged by a stranger and his arms feel like ropes and his feelings for me feel like anchors. theyre weighing me down, holding me back, keeping me from

something.

another night inside this crowded place, that is my head and i'm attempting to drink my way out of it. but there's not enough alcohol to burn away these emotions. so i'll hold on to them in hopes that they'll expire while i accept these substitutions...
these empty illusions
this constant emotional confusion

theres a world outside
fighting to stay alive
breathing through my skin
a movement waiting to happen

collapsed ideas
burned out hopes
sliding down the death ropes
im a dealer of false romantic notions
making love inside my self made corrosion
I'm sending you images telepathically
creating these over-dramatic tragedies
destroying lives and
adoring the abnormalities
staying dry & open wide
here comes the memories
wrapped up in clover
and its spilling over
in this Styrofoam death cup
Pouring over fresh cuts
I yelled loudly across the room to myself:
SHUT
THE
FUCK
UP

hopping the night train.

empty bottles litter the floor. static on the tv and dinner, cold on the stove. you won't be coming by and i'm drinking my last bottle of wine. sanitizing my heart and annihilating these thoughts running rampant inside my head.
i'm going all the way.
watch me laugh again.
prying open the screens and letting out the enemies. inner demons, watch out! you made this a fun ride, a black hole vortex and a slip n slide. i'm digging out the worms, bit by bit and loving every minute of it.

take the bottle to my lips wash it down with a prayer i memorized when i was a kid. with every drink i am lost and found then lost again.

its a war i can never win.

Craig Burns who lives on Normal St.

Craig Burns told me i was pretty, smart, had a nice rack and could rule the world if i wanted to, at 11:59pm on a friday night while we sat inside a small karaoke dive bar on Virgil st. I remember his tired but shockingly blue eyes staring me straight in the face as he said it.

Craig Burns was built like a lumberjack. He was thick handed, slim waisted with long legs that i already imagined being wrapped around. I don't usually like blond boys, but there was something wildly erotic about his dirty blond hair laying unkempt and unwashed atop his precious skull.

While the 100lb disheveled hipsters ripped apart Otis Redding and Tom Petty songs at Karaoke, we talked about music:past & present. Everything from New York 70s punk to the lonely and brilliant songwriting of Bruce Springsteen's Nebraska. The conversation was climbing to such intensity, that it was clear this was some sort of mental foreplay.

Craig Burns' eyes glistened underneath the red bar lights and my smile, while giving away my mental state, would not leave my face. He was 10 years older than I and more experienced and knew he could easily take me home that night without a fight. Hell, he could have thrown me over his shoulder and walked out of the bar carrying me like some kind of captured & clubbed animal.

But at the peek of our banter, Craig Burns took a swig from his Miller Light, then turned to me and announced he was going home to listen to his records. Then he got up and walked out the red velvet curtained doorway. Leaving me at the bar with his ghost and a scream in my heart.

Craig Burns said many things to me at 11:59pm on a friday night while we sat inside the small karaoke dive bar on Virgil st.