Memories loom before me through the darkness like a sea of translucent jelly-fish; a sweltering fog of tentacles - a billion tiny syringes rife with mind-numbingly lethal poison. I foolishly reach out, hesitate, and bring my hands safely to my sides, unable to act like some impotent fuck.
I absently stir my coffee. Silence except for the soft rhythmic “clink, clink” of the spoon ringing the sides of the cup like a church bell. “ I don’t know, I can’t seem to get my shit together.” I sharply inhale, rapidly shake two packets of sugar, tear the ends, and pour the sweet contents into my mug. I continue... “ Every day I think I wake up and I think I’m strong and then like a fragile house of cards, I’m reminded of what happened and predictably it all collapses around my ears again and again and again.”
My younger, stronger self sets down his spoon, pauses, carefully choosing his words in his mind. “ Are you good at math?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
He looks into my vacant eyes with a piercing gaze. “ If, for every step forward, you are knocked two steps back… where would you find yourself after taking ten steps?”
I sniff and quickly respond, with a raised eyebrow: “ Ten steps back.”
“ O.K, now say you were to simply… turn around. Where would you find yourself then?”
“ I get it. But I don’t want to go there again, you see, that’s my point, I don’t want to be in that place again.”
He smirks as he gazes out of the diner window lost in his own thoughts now. His voice sounds distant. “ You’ll never know the closet is empty until you gather the strength to crawl out of your bed and check for yourself. The monster will always be there kid.”
The future. It's so elusive like a shimmering hummingbird. It hovers, suspended in the darkness, waiting for me to open my eyes and shake away the dust. Inviting me to reach out with an unsure hand, so it can quickly flit away and leave me alone with nothing...
... save you.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Friday, July 7, 2006
junk puppet
Weak in the knees junk orgasm floods my brain washing away stinging pain. My eyes flutter and I need to catch myself from falling as the syringe flops about my scabby forearm. A pin-prick hollow needle nosebleed and I recline into a soft ratty couch and my eyeballs roll and lolly gag around the top of my skull like googly muppet eyes.
“ Titanic.” “ Dead End.” “Last Dance.”... Street junk... always so appropriately named.
I turn to a blank wall and ask “ H-Hey Gia. Thirsty? I-I think I have some orange juice in the fridge. He-help yourself to some.” I nod away losing my train of thought and settle into blank skeleton smile as I stare at the raindrop lite-brite pattern on the window. Complete silence except for the incessant “pink, pink” of dripping water in the rusty porcelain bathtub. Alone except the company of roaches scuttling along walls and barren cabinets.
“ D.O.A.” “ Final confession.” “ Last rites.”
I took Extacy to escape the thought of you. I’d lose myself in the music, the touch, the lights, smells, and the scene. I tried to escape you and ironically it brought me closer to you. I obsessively thought of you every time I would lose myself. I remember how you told me you wanted to bear my children once when we were rolling. You knew their names even. Who told you, God? I wish I could disappear in that moment forever. Anyways.......... brutal comedowns every night tossing and turning under sticky sheets cold sweat torturous thoughts of you… of us. One night a friend of mine offered me junk cause he knew how hard the comedowns took their toll on my brain and body. Beginnings leading to ends leading to more beginnings.
“ Body Bag.” “ White lady.” “ Silence of the Lamb.”
Death is an escape from life. Numb is an escape from pain. Sometimes I’d rather be numb and dead than face the consequences of misguided (in)action.
Skin and bone shit-sack too tired to bathe or take a whores bath even at least to wash away dumpster grime and dried piss. Folgers coffee tin can sits in dark corner watching. It's full of buzzing shit coiled maggot filth and my asshole burns with unholy fire. A scabby itching all along my spine and scalp. Too tired to scratch or eat or dream. Too numb...
I close my eyes and I remember your manicured fingers and the beautiful salvation they brung.
“ Titanic.” “ Dead End.” “Last Dance.”... Street junk... always so appropriately named.
I turn to a blank wall and ask “ H-Hey Gia. Thirsty? I-I think I have some orange juice in the fridge. He-help yourself to some.” I nod away losing my train of thought and settle into blank skeleton smile as I stare at the raindrop lite-brite pattern on the window. Complete silence except for the incessant “pink, pink” of dripping water in the rusty porcelain bathtub. Alone except the company of roaches scuttling along walls and barren cabinets.
“ D.O.A.” “ Final confession.” “ Last rites.”
I took Extacy to escape the thought of you. I’d lose myself in the music, the touch, the lights, smells, and the scene. I tried to escape you and ironically it brought me closer to you. I obsessively thought of you every time I would lose myself. I remember how you told me you wanted to bear my children once when we were rolling. You knew their names even. Who told you, God? I wish I could disappear in that moment forever. Anyways.......... brutal comedowns every night tossing and turning under sticky sheets cold sweat torturous thoughts of you… of us. One night a friend of mine offered me junk cause he knew how hard the comedowns took their toll on my brain and body. Beginnings leading to ends leading to more beginnings.
“ Body Bag.” “ White lady.” “ Silence of the Lamb.”
Death is an escape from life. Numb is an escape from pain. Sometimes I’d rather be numb and dead than face the consequences of misguided (in)action.
Skin and bone shit-sack too tired to bathe or take a whores bath even at least to wash away dumpster grime and dried piss. Folgers coffee tin can sits in dark corner watching. It's full of buzzing shit coiled maggot filth and my asshole burns with unholy fire. A scabby itching all along my spine and scalp. Too tired to scratch or eat or dream. Too numb...
I close my eyes and I remember your manicured fingers and the beautiful salvation they brung.
Wednesday, July 5, 2006
ignis fatuus
Who could have known things would have ended the way they did? Everything seemed so perfect - so true. The future was optimistic and rife with brilliant possibility but then it all came to a screeching, grinding halt. And here I lay shattered and broken in the bloody aftermath, a gasping heap of mangled flesh, haplessly tossed 100 feet through a splintered windshield.
I really didn’t see it coming.
I just can’t stop thinking about us. I’m perpetually haunted by these flickering ghosts, fleeting images of you and me together “forever.” My pitiful life is empty. My soul helplessly drifts afloat in an endless, tumultuous sea of the broiling past. I cannot breathe for I am impetuously overcome by wave after churning wave of painful memory. I am so fucking hollow, truly empty. Every day I pretend to go through the (e)motions that come with day to day living. I pretend to work. I pretend to fuck. I pretend to be there, to be strong, for others either as a friend, lover, son, confidant, etc.
I pretend to stay clean.
We met on April 20th, 2002. I remember this because our anniversary was 04/20. 420 is a very easy number to remember, and needless to say, I never forgot it. It was at a club. You were out on the dance floor when our eyes locked. I had seen you plenty of times before this at various places but I never had the courage to approach you, you were too intimidating. I found out later you felt the same way about me
On that night, April 20th 2002, I finally mustered the courage to approach you and speak to you. And right from the moment I tapped you on your shoulder and caught your attention with a heart-meltingly genuine smile, we were inseparable. We spent that night together. We didn’t make love, though, you held out for several weeks, and I respected you more for this. Rather, we softly spoke and clung to each other in the dark, tenderly kissing like love-struck teenagers. We spent every night thereafter in this fashion. Those days were a blur. I’d count down the minutes at work until I’d finally get to see you.
I was truly alive.
I weep daily, either outwardly or deep within somewhere in the cavernous shadows of my broken heart. I mourn as though you are dead. I roam the world as a specter... an indifferent spectator. I slowly creep along the shadows careful to keep my face hidden from sight. I no longer participate in the dealings of men.
Yes I mourn for you. Ironically, it is not you who is dead
I really didn’t see it coming.
I just can’t stop thinking about us. I’m perpetually haunted by these flickering ghosts, fleeting images of you and me together “forever.” My pitiful life is empty. My soul helplessly drifts afloat in an endless, tumultuous sea of the broiling past. I cannot breathe for I am impetuously overcome by wave after churning wave of painful memory. I am so fucking hollow, truly empty. Every day I pretend to go through the (e)motions that come with day to day living. I pretend to work. I pretend to fuck. I pretend to be there, to be strong, for others either as a friend, lover, son, confidant, etc.
I pretend to stay clean.
We met on April 20th, 2002. I remember this because our anniversary was 04/20. 420 is a very easy number to remember, and needless to say, I never forgot it. It was at a club. You were out on the dance floor when our eyes locked. I had seen you plenty of times before this at various places but I never had the courage to approach you, you were too intimidating. I found out later you felt the same way about me
On that night, April 20th 2002, I finally mustered the courage to approach you and speak to you. And right from the moment I tapped you on your shoulder and caught your attention with a heart-meltingly genuine smile, we were inseparable. We spent that night together. We didn’t make love, though, you held out for several weeks, and I respected you more for this. Rather, we softly spoke and clung to each other in the dark, tenderly kissing like love-struck teenagers. We spent every night thereafter in this fashion. Those days were a blur. I’d count down the minutes at work until I’d finally get to see you.
I was truly alive.
I weep daily, either outwardly or deep within somewhere in the cavernous shadows of my broken heart. I mourn as though you are dead. I roam the world as a specter... an indifferent spectator. I slowly creep along the shadows careful to keep my face hidden from sight. I no longer participate in the dealings of men.
Yes I mourn for you. Ironically, it is not you who is dead
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