you can let go of me whenever you like…
my fingers are too fat for silly rings anyway…
i am tired of being underwhelmed and over-enthused.
sleeping in my bed will be a one of a kind pleasure;
you’ll have to beg to indulge.
i am always raising stakes
and i’m letting go of my own wicked desperation
to be fulfilled by
y o u.
my worth is a platinum and
gold crown with ruby points
so sharp they’ll stab out whole corneas.
i see everything so clearly now.
have i found the third eye?
i could fucking thrill you.
you wouldn’t believe the sheer power i hold in my hands.
when i pick up crystals i can feel their harmonies and vibrations and
give them things they didn’t possess before.
i am an all mighty amethyst boulder with titanium lining i got from my faggot forefathers.
my soul is shelved in a container made of water and cartilage
but it transfers energies faster
and more frequently
than the new york stock exchange.
i am many more, layered heavily, and i am feeling full.
There is so much in this world I know nothing about. I don’t know anything about anything when I really stop to think about it. I am not a good person. I can never be a good person and I’m having a baby panic attack in this starbucks just thinking about it. I am sipping on fucking Aloe Vera water and writing a screenplay, meanwhile there are people struggling to survive on these streets. Strugglilng with their hardships and emotions and past and present pains. And while all this is going on I’m still trying to construct a plan to get me to NYC so I can be a fucking actor. There is no god but I can look up to a pack of cards for my answers? As if cards are a more logical way of reasoning than an invisible being? Have I morphed into a typical cliché LA spiritualist? What’s next? Organic granola?
I can’t keep up with my emotions and theories and thoguhts. I can’t keep up with the world let alone a book. I’ve stopped school and therefore must’ve stopped thinking along the way. Stopped being smart anyway. It’s like after you workout for six months, you start eating eggo waffles and Cheetos and before you know it you’ve gained weight. Well, I haven’t gained weight I’ve just lost brain cells. Who am I going to be in six months? An alcoholic? A stoner? An emotional cripple? A narcissist? Oh I feel like each of those already. Where did the days go when I could run outside in sunshine and feel complete after a dip in the neighborhood swimming pool? Why do I cling to substances and the New Age section in Barnes and Noble for moral support? I’m a fucking scholar for Christ sakes!
Jesus, what even is there for me in this life? I don’t believe in anything but running away. Art is a pass time. It means little more. Self-loathing is my screenplay, my forte, and everyone is tired of it. Even me.
The more I dwell the more I slip into pathetic inertia. I hate who I am becoming. I hate so many little details of me that the big picture is hardly visible and all I see are specks of my own stupidity that keep others in their states of suffering.
Inertia and latent sexual experience. This is what it means to be me.
I don’t know you well at all, but this brief acquainting is telling me tall tales of who we could be someday. Sure, we all know I’m a psychotic freak when it comes to lover potentials, but when I’m with you I don’t over think it. I just run with it - with you - and you run with me too. You greeted me out in the rain with a mug of whiskey and a smart phone and, just like that, we ran off to Silverlake in our taxi chariot. Drunken, foolish, and desperate to flirt, we spent a wad of cash on more alcohol and McDonalds.
Tempted to be bad, we split a pack of cigarettes and smoked under street lamp light, stealing kisses and caresses outside of the bar. You kissed my purple hands which I found endearing and the sincerity of the moment made me feel like a prince. My scars almost faded from view as the only thing in that moment was you and your hands and your eyes.
Your lips feel like soft pillows and they fit perfectly with mine. I love your brown hair and the scratchiness it has when you rest your head on my shoulder. I love that I can make you laugh, and that you order whiskey doubles on ice at the bar but don’t judge me for choosing something queeny like margaritas or long islands.
You instagrammed my blonde hair, when I had my back turned, it was the cutest thing to wake up to. Just a white boy in a dark bar with bleached platinum hair. You are someone who appreciates the details of me even in drunken infatuation. I love that we can watch HBO and you feel safe enough to fall asleep on me even after 9pm; the typical booty call hours. You don’t expect anything from me either which is nice because it’s rare to find a man without night tunnel vision. But you’ve seen me in broad daylight and even brought your dog along with you.
This is all so crazy to me. I feel like I’m floating atop a serene summer lake. I have always ridden solo and I was just beginning to get comfortable in my own skin (just like they said I would) but then you had to squash my world with gentle kisses and a firm grip on my ass. You are wrecking my world in every delicate way. This has to be more than a mid-month fling.
He poured himself a glass of red wine and nursed it slowly; He swished it around in his mouth and then swallowed it. Hurry up, motherfucker, pour me my shit before I lose all consciousness! My skin was cracking red. I was cold and clammy and seconds from a scream. My impatience reveals my alcoholism. Give mercy.
Like grandmother, like grandson. I could’ve killed him on the spot for just another glass of that sweet pain-delusion. And 88 bucks was a small price to pay for a false sense of stability. I feel sick that I’m with you, Mr. Popular and Wiseguy.
There is no place in the party for a spaghetti noodled artist like myself. I don’t even have the cute emo hair to flip. What I would give to have a body all muscled and clean. What I’d give to have the ‘answers’ to everything just swimming around Quietly in my head. Illusions saved your lives. But I am, sadly, a man of Little body mass; I am full, instead, of a useless liberal arts education, of insecurities, of secret fears, and a self-hatred that spreads like wild fire…
– God, it hurts. I need all the wine I can get in this world to feel just a smidgen of its love. I counted down the minutes until tonight, and I barely even got two glasses out of the bottle before it was drained. I have this reoccurring impulse to pop the Xanax I’ve never tried and gulp down as many vodka sodas as it takes to feel the comforting buzzing of serene nothingness and quiet. But, Vodka sodas are not meant to be chugged…
in front of my mother.
With the subtle spins of drunken pleasure pulsating within my blood stream, I am able to feel warmth from alcohol that I never could receive from family. It hums in my hands and toes and wraps my skull in a cozy afghan blanket. As plain and scapegoated as it sounds to say, they will never know the loneliness that befriends me on a daily routine. It sees me for me and it punishes me by setting off bonfires in the back of my throat. They scald my tongue for thinking that I can speak without lisp and scorch my Adams apple until my manhood is nothing more than ash and dust. But, despite everything, I’m still somehow alive. There was one time in my life that I was actually in love with my own reflection. It was just for a moment but it was bursting with beauty.
I wish to be as reckless as my grandmother, god rest her soul. I would raise a living hell for all the faggots everywhere who never found their voices within their conservative families, hell for the bloodthirsty governments who chopped all the faggots up into little pieces for finding the secret to true love, and I’d let loose again and again for everyone held in cages; kept from seeing the great world that could’ve bloomed wild roses (without the thorns) in their honor…if they could’ve escaped their indignities.
One day I will stand back proudly in front of the mirror again. I will look at my body and I will be grateful.With these half-toned arms and a third glass of deserved Merlot, I will raise my identity in the air and toast to the harsh lessons that pelted new ridges into my brain, harsh lessons that only remind me now of worthlessness and faithless nights. Dead in the eye, unblinking, I will one day be brave enough to look back into the mirror and say,
“Well, buddy boy, you’ve done good. Now get out there, and show the monsters that you are a man and a half. You’re a glittering brute, a diamond dirt clod.”
And despite the roaring of the great white wonders of the earth, that will have been enough to feel whole inside. Only the strong can survive a night at the Star Bar. Sail onward, oh bleak night! The mo(u)rning will bring new hope.
There is a house in Glendora where all the people are sad.
They work in hospitals and coffee shops
and they bathe their feelings in liquor and carcinogens from blue colored smoke.
You can’t tell them to stop being sad.
You can’t hug them to make them feel better.
They’re just sad and angry and that’s the way things are.
You can join them and they’ll welcome you kindly.
They’ll cover you in clean towels and PBRs
and they’ll let you dwell in their “love” hut.
In the house of sadness, it is okay to be gay.
It is okay to be black,
to be brown,
to be wrong,
to be right.
It is good to be different.
But once you’ve realized that it is good to be different,
because you may not have known it before,
you can’t stay in the house of sadness anymore.
Not even for short visits. Because their sadness poisons you,
just like inertia poisons everybody.
I won’t say that living in Glendora is wrong or right.
I will just wrap up my towels and place them away in the laundry room,
and i will give up smoking indefinitely, for the new year.
take those sexy ass men out of your bed!
you don’t deserve them with your muppet face
and big ass appetite.
i’m alone in bed,
curled up in sweat pants,
listening to radiohead.
and you’re spooning a stud.
probably thinking about marriage right now,
well so what, I am too.
and how it’s never gonna happen to me because i am a miserable sack of shit selling for my weight in gold.
can’t pay the price you’re worthless too.
who the fuck am i?
well, i’m pretty important. more important than a bunch of fat muppets.
my romantic life has always been pretty fucking miserable. i look at it for what it is and it consists of a few measly dates in all of my existence. there’s been some kisses with guys I’ve genuinely hoped to know better (less than a handful), there’s been a fair amount of random club/street/party make out sessions, and the longest relationship i have ever had has been two dates.
at first i thought, oh you know i’m picky, that’s why i’ve been single my entire life.
then i thought, well you know, i don’t really put much effort into relationships like i do my career. that’s why i’ve been single my whole life.
then i realized, what if i’m just fucking crazy. i get weird when i talk to guys. i don’t know if it’s noticeable to them but i think things that i do or say spontaneously are cute when in retrospect they’re really fucking weird or so not who i am. they seem to stem from thin air. i bet…the more i think about it…i bet i scare men away.
i bet i scare all the interesting and hot guys off with all my weird vibes, words, and attitudes. all i’m left with are the freaks and desperate peeps and the guys who don’t mind putting a bag over my head or tape over my mouth just so they can stick their dicks in one of my body holes.
fuck it. i’m single and i’m going to stop looking. i don’t need this constant state of searching. it breeds my insecurities and unhappiness.
so what if i’m weird? i’m also really interesting and nice. i’m going to stop putting so much pressure on myself to fall in love and/or simply lose my fucking virginity.
just fucking stop it already. live in the moment and don’t get so fucking wrapped on who you’ve never met yet….
I need to learn to take risks.