betting on the muse

satan gave me a taco- by beck

2009-06-16T06:39:00.000-07:00

Satan gave me a taco and it made me really sick
The chicken was all raw and the grease was mighty thick
The rice was all rancid and the beans were so hard
I was gettin' kinda dizzy eatin' all the lard
There was aphids on the lettuce an' I ate every one
An' after I was done the salsa melted off my tongue
Pieces of tortilla got stuck in my throat
An' the stains on my clothes burned a hole through my coat
My stomach was a-tremblin' and I broke out in a rash
I was so dry and thirsty and I didn't have no cash
So I went and found a hose, tore off all my clothes
Turned on the water and it shot right up my nose
Some old lady came along and she thought I was a freak
So she beat me with a handbag till I could hardly speak
I was lying there naked, my body badly bruised
In a pool of my own blood, unconscious and confused
Well, the cops came and got me and threw me in their van
And I woke up on the ceiling and I couldn't find my hand
They took me to the judge, his eyes a-glowin' red
The courtroom was filled with witches and the dead
Well, the sheriff was a hellhound with fangs and claws
The prisoners were tied up and chained to the walls
The air was gettin' thick; the smoke was gettin' thicker
The judge read the verdict: said, "Cut off his head!"
Well, they placed me on the altar, and they raised up the axe
My head was about to explode when I noticed the Marshall stacks
I noticed all the smoke machines, cameras and the lights
Some guy with a microphone, runnin' around dancin' in tights
And I noticed the crew and the band playin' down below
And I realized I was in a rock video

So I went and joined the band and I went out on tour
And I smoked a lot of heroin and I passed out in manure
I made out with the groupies, started fires backstage
I made a lot of money and I gave it all away
Well, the band got killed, so I started a solo career
And I won all the awards and I drank all the beer
I opened up a taco stand just to smell the smell
cookin' with the devil; frying down in hell

part 1 of 1

2009-06-15T12:35:00.000-07:00

2:06 am is always a

poignant way

to start

a poem

maybe i mention

how i was scared

shitless in a well lit

restroom

maybe i mention

how i was dozing

off,

as i wrote,

addressing my audience

next to my bed

i wish i could lock

the door

locking things makes

me feel

better.

leonard cohen

2009-05-02T10:18:00.001-07:00

you won't make me jealous if I hear that they sweetened your night:
we weren't lovers like that and besides it would still be all right

number time's the charm

2009-04-20T07:18:00.000-07:00

i always knew
somehow, i could hear the whisper

he will break your heart

i could waste time asking why and
searching for a pulse
i could waste time asking you why
and digging up threads and seams
that just
end

maybe, even better,
i can make my body swell
with love and grief
and try to forget you and all the others
happened

it's a kind of dreaded cycle
i'm still on rinse and repeat

easy on the eyes

2009-04-09T19:35:00.000-07:00

i need a storage bin for my wiped out soul

my dirty, spinning mind has tumbled out of control

i've been waiting for it to hit me:

i want this. i want to be better.

but the ball swings toward my face

and then quickly

drops away

you were the flash of sun, burning hot

gristle

strong arms, weak in the knees

now i'm left alone

and i want it to hit me

who the fuck am i?

i thought i knew

but i realized somehow that i defined myself with you

lay me down & don't give in

2009-04-04T05:08:00.000-07:00

you whispered, cat

we would lay there with a blanket

and nothing else mattered

it's all dust

silt on life's gleaming dashboard

you thought yourself out

with tumbling words

shitfaced excuses

all week,

i thought about

you

made me feel beautiful

now i am ugly and alone

maybe you think you can find

another me

another girl who will stroke

your smooth chest,

and make you smile when you couldn't

dream of it

meet another girl who sends you love poems,

who writes notes to you,

another girl who loves you

so unconditionally

who wants to make you happy

make things work.

maybe you're right,

but i've never met a girl like that

except one

i don't know who i can talk to now

2009-04-04T05:04:00.000-07:00

7:o4 am

what a shit time to be awake

my eyes are puffy

cramping up

shaking hands

don't want to eat

tears filling my eyes

i can't get anything out of this yet

"the coming of christ" or "american idol is on"

2009-03-31T17:31:00.000-07:00

i am inside the lone

moment

of silence

nonchalant noise from other hotel rooms

dim lights, stripped bare

here on the edge of my seat

i am finally alone

american idle

family leans in to

watch

believe

as blood pumps through my veins,

the world is slowly turning

more than anything in the world

2009-03-27T22:19:00.000-07:00

thursday

seems like a leap year day that never comes

here we are,

and i'm telling you, i haven't felt like this

for two years

i haven't felt like this,

maybe,

ever in my life

to be honest, with you

2009-03-25T18:59:00.001-07:00

we wasted

this world

like cigarette

smoke wasted

smooth

family

pearls

and this living room with a tv set

is full of wasted potential

and eventual regret

your bedroom lamp is out

the light is gone

but it really never shined that bright to begin with,

to be honest

we will think about the days gone by,

where the sun never went down

don't know why

and the moon set the standard for the shining stars

but we forgot our own standards

where are we now?

limbo

i guess we can't wait

no point in hesitation

well behaved actions aren't actions at all

and you rarely hear people

who got nothin to say

this is what a feminist looks like

2009-03-24T08:04:00.001-07:00

she's haunted
haunted by the girl she wishes she could be
you might know her
she's as alive as a barbie
her cold bony skeleton envies skinny men, skinny women
trapped inside her body like it's a guantanamo prison
watching blank thin faces, washing tears from her cheek
knowing no one will listen if she bothers to speak
she likes to think that feminism is coming back
and winding pro-choice women's prophecies into pop culture
digital crap
she likes to think that one day
she won't be a symbol for sex
and that men and women themselves
will realize she's complex

PASSIONATE!!!

2009-03-18T22:08:00.001-07:00

after one of our rough nights,

i lay awake and think how much happier we would be

if we'd cuddled and watched a movie

i wouldn't trade any of it, that used plastic

that you rolled on to keep me safe

second to turning my head

in those moments

and looking into your

sleepy

eyes

i don't want to get hurt

i'm delirious

i can't tell where i'll be in a year,

and i'm scared

tell me

you'll always be there for me

that is bleak

2009-03-16T18:39:00.000-07:00

monday morning

gray

silence

whispers in your

ear

feel it down your

back

prickling skin

dry tongue

only the poets

prod the day with the whites

of their eyes

(unstained, cherry red)

the rest mutter

faithlessly

and settle back into the gloom

tender in its place

2009-03-15T20:00:00.000-07:00

i'm gonna lay it out for you

i'll push the corners neatly into place as i explain

how i tear myself apart

so scared to say i need you

when tears keep sliding down,

down the corners of my eyes

i washed my hair for you

wore lace thongs

sprayed perfume on the nape of my neck,

tenderly spread strawberry chapstick over my lips,

curled the blonde lashes that hold tears like a ladder,

like i'm waxing poetic

and then, it all seems to go to shit

i realize that none of that matters when

i don't matter

no scintillating, orderly routine can make me

good enough

no powder

no rose sparkles spread on my cheeks

there are a million ways to comfort yourself

but they only last until you say,

what do you want from me?

and i can't supply an answer

except to say,

love. replacement.

it's just so

2009-03-12T08:35:00.000-07:00

"i don't wonder why i love you i don't have to know.
it's just so.
i adore you from your head down to your baby toe.
it's just so.
sometimes i get scared and hesitate because it seems strange to be so intimate.
it makes me uncomfortable but i'll get used to it.
i don't want to hide it now i need to let it show.
it's just so.
when you hold me close i feel a warm and happy glow.
it's just so.
somtimes i'm unsure if you're the one or my best friend who i'm clinging to.
my feelings change so quickly so i'll trust you to lead me."

the teeth behind kisses

2009-03-05T07:02:00.000-08:00

"i'm practicing my plane crash face in a first class lav
coughing up my words like a sullen kitten

i'm rolling my cuts in the dirt to keep them from showing

guess who's coming to dinner?
(that's what the ghost of someone's dad might say)

if you've got plastic tits, grills,
or some kinda bling, i don't know you.
if you wear first hand clothes and get your hair cut by somebody you don't know,
i'm below you."

placing bets, pt. 2

2009-03-03T16:58:00.000-08:00

how can i even begin to explain what you do to me. should i describe where i am and what i look like? i'm sitting barefoot in the closet with the lights off, typing thoughts with cold fingers and feeling breathlessly alone. my shoulders are hunched, my thin ribs and crooked spine promenade themselves across my back like my skeleton wants to break free. I have called the ones i love most, the ones i care about the most, and i'm not sure what part of me is grateful, but that part of me is very, very grateful.

You may not understand that i am trapped in a thin cage,

that as i describe where i am and how i look, the tempo of my shaking body increases ever so slightly,

you may not understand that

but i never thought you would

and i'm glad you don't

part of me is glad you don't

just come and take me away. i've decided what i want. some people might be hurt, and i might feel the scratches of karma on my soul, but i have done what i needed to do. i have rolled my dice into a dark corner

and i have no choice, i must go pick them up

you used to be forbidden fruit

2009-02-26T15:30:00.000-08:00

when the desperate sunken breaths
begin to quell
and the
clenching freedom
is gone
i search my chest
cavity, for your exact definition

naive obsession
you are the apple
outside the garden

where do i lay my head in sadness
when i only have the warm crutch
the space between your shoulder blades
and the nape of your neck

i am defining love
tonight
holding you close

how do i scribble at small punctures
when i've only ever known a black hole

placing bets, pt. 1

2009-02-23T16:36:00.000-08:00

"I walk alone, but I feel ya there,
smiling upon me, I wonder
what you have drawn on your hands today,
runes to show you remember."

I walk alone, but I feel ya inching your way

along,

inching your way

you lightly caressing the bruises of

every pain i've ever felt

cup your hands around my soft

chin,

sometimes i worry about the

mess

i put you in

the curve above my jeans,

gentle belly with hip bones

(expletive)

cup your hands around my soft

skin,

lover,

lover

you are the muse

just some lyrics

2009-02-23T08:30:00.001-08:00

"Was I in your dreams, I'd like to know.
Did I touch your hand and did it feel like snow?
Try to understand while I've got you on the phone.
Did I hurt you like I know I can?
Tell me why you'd ever wanna leave your lovin' man.
Try to understand, please try to understand.
Was I in your dreams, was I in your dreams?
This dreamer died when his dreamed died too.
But I don't really mind if I dream about you..
I can't say what any of that means.
Oh, was I in your dreams, late last night.
Did you hold your pillow, did you squeeze me tight?
I just wanna make everything all right.
Was I in your dreams, was I in your dreams, was I?"

soft little tears

2009-02-23T07:18:00.000-08:00

there is a tear
from so much use
i still see the rip,
raw
white and naked it
lays there
buried with a sea of
warm blue all around
i still see the rip,
exposing the edges of my
panties...
beautiful
imperfection
the latest fashions have
been ripped
for
us
it must be excellent
to have not
"imperfections"
but perfect,
inumerable little flaws
because that's what
they want
to
see

sigh

2009-02-21T19:38:00.000-08:00

i can forgive so easily

but it's much harder to forget

because it makes talking about the future

a little more scary

which direction you headed?

2009-02-20T06:41:00.000-08:00

don't fucking read this

2009-02-19T21:18:00.001-08:00

this is a waste of time

BUT YOU STILL LOOKED AT IT

let's lock our parents out for good

and do our goddamn jobs

let's lock everyone the fuck out

and do our goddamn jobs

let's be honest with ourselves

and do our goddamn jobs

let's write about sex we never have

let's curse and complain while we change the things that stay the same

let's throw in our love like it's fucking dirty laundry

let's clean this up

let's make this fucking work

let's do our goddamn jobs

and not waste a fucking moment worrying about whether or not we care

THIS IS MY JOB

2009-02-19T21:14:00.001-08:00

staring ahead

with paper

in my veins

i slowly drink

each word

you say

like a

terrible

medicine

is this

supposed to

make me

better?

maybe

this is the

best thing

that ever

happened

because of this poem

maybe i won't cry about this

because of

this poem

in the back of my throat, there lies...

2009-02-19T21:10:00.001-08:00

it's hard to explain

why

i need this

but

i need this

when every little thing

seems impossible, improbable,

i find myself here

wishing i wasn't

here

knowing

this is where i belong, near a

blank lined page,

with nothing but my kneecaps

to support me

nothing to hold the paper,

i shiver here in the dark hole

i am not a child

but i still want you to hold me like the day i was born

bones of our fathers

2009-02-18T09:10:00.000-08:00

bones are bones my friend
and you won't find flags
in a million years
in the fossil record

act 2, scene 3

2009-02-18T09:05:00.000-08:00

"Shirtless, sheetless and sleepless
on the edge
of your queen-sized bed, Last night
I didn't wanna move you,
You said I'd be the one you remember as self-obsessed

every fucking word that I tell you is self-addressed

Sure you saw me naked but I never took my make-up off,
You don't need me, And plus my eyeballs occupy the sockets like a half-dead doll,
So maybe you could kill me off in one of your songs?

Cause I'm not thrilled about anything, anything at all..."

resist

2009-02-15T16:51:00.000-08:00

resist?

you want me to stop this

madness, wipe out these

bold eccentrics i

cherish?

not knowing whether to cross the line

i straddle it

to put a bit of

character in it

suck it up?

you want me to suck this up

as if it were a bowl of yesterday's soup

well i'll tell you what

i can't help but feel

i can't help but try and stay numb

so don't tell me i can't touch that

or that i can't hold onto this

because i'll prove you wrong as long as the veins flow through my

wrist

resist?

you wish

the damn cookie crumbles

2009-02-12T08:26:00.000-08:00

i am completely useless right now. i am basically a worthless piece of shit, except even a piece of shit serves some purpose. what am i doing right now? i'm not doing my homework, because i can't. i just fucking can't. every time i try my head explodes and i'm pretty sure all my happy cells are slowly dying off as i sit here in the school library, the last place i want to be.

get me the hell out of here.

get me the HELL out of here.

I NEED to get out of here.

if i don't leave, something else will. some part of me will.

can you make me quiver?

2009-02-10T21:06:00.000-08:00

maybe they'll leave you alone

2009-02-10T21:00:00.000-08:00

teenagers scare the shit outta me, cause every day i see a new one crawl down the ladder and into some deep- but surely profound- darkness.

their hands don't shake from sympathy, they don't even smirk in apathy it's a pale unhappy scent, like a prostitute who reads Nietzche but can't understand.

yeah that's the kind of scalding breath of ecstasy i watch for, a crumpled body reading about why everything is equal to nothing, living dead by my front door,

washed out faces, dirty places, no one needs anything from you anymore.

PSEO start of an essay

2009-02-09T07:16:00.000-08:00

Sitting down and asking, "Who do I want to be?" had usually never been a very difficult question. Of course, I wanted to be a lawyer. Both my parents were lawyers. It makes sense that I should be one too, I'm surely gifted in that respect. Then, throughout a process in which I needed several years to grasp the concept, I realized that the transcendentalist within me was crying out at the notion of law school wiping out my creative writing talents and forcing me into 9-5 slavery. The first step in asking myself what I really needed to become was counting the times in your life when I felt truly self-worthy. Perhaps for you it was when you recieved a foster child's photo and realized that your help was making that person stronger. Or maybe it was when, after months of practice, your fifth grade teacher congratulated you on your exemplary multiplication skills. Yes, both of these have happened to me, but the final question, and answer, is what do I want to be? A writer.

It feels kind of self-deprecating to write about why I want to be a writer, because I'm trying to explain what I think I do best with the thing I believe I do best. Frankly, that leaves a lot of room for pompousity to set in if I allowed it to. But I'm not going to say I'm the greatest poet since Charles Bukowski, because that leaves me in a horrible position to have to live up to that, and deal with the fact that I propounded myself as greater than I really am. Being humble is no virtue in my eyes- to some degree it's even more ostentatious than the alternative. I can recall plenty of times where people would have you think they were selfless and caring, only to reveal later on that they only acted this way because they wanted the sweet reputation of being this way so they might lord it over you, feeling superior. Anyways, although I can say I'm a better writer than your average American angst ridden teenager, that's not much of an accomplishment to throw in peoples' faces.

dammit

2009-02-06T07:39:00.000-08:00

sometimes i mix up my words.

and then i feel like a failure.

and then i want to punch someone in the ovaries. then i would succeed in life.

moby dicks

2009-02-06T07:23:00.000-08:00

books
surrounded by books
and here are the pounding heartbeats
of students marching
away
they melt off the windshield like
frozen snow, they
curse, they complain,
but they all just... go...

in the end, i wait
wait for my escape

crushed by the bulging masses

hey charlie...

2009-02-03T17:49:00.001-08:00

the cool cliche

2009-01-31T20:36:00.000-08:00

let's elope to san tropez
and be the lonely cool cliche
we'll dance on sheets and wooden floor
we have this music, nothing more

your smile lights up my blushing face
i'd rather not be anyplace
but here
where you're near...
your hands are warm
my toes are cold

baby we'll be a little stereotype
and i'll stroke your hair
and you'll hold me tight,
and you'll say my name
so soft and smooth....
and i will write songs
about you...

beautiful yet brief moments

2009-01-27T08:33:00.000-08:00

and i'm alone

2009-01-26T21:20:00.000-08:00

somewhere, there are clenched fists that shine pale in the moonlight

somewhere, there are the warm sighs of lovers

and i am alone

"Bluish" ~Animal Collective

2009-01-24T17:46:00.001-08:00

When you claw me like a cat, I'm beaming
I like the way you squeeze my hand
Pulling me into another dream,
A lucid dream.

I'm getting lost in your curls
I'm getting crushed out on the things
that only I should see
not for boys, they're just for me
Hurry to talk, from far away

Put on the dress that I like
It makes me so crazy, though I can't say why
Keep on your stockings for a while
Some kind of magic in the way you're lying there

life is priceless, talk is cheap

2009-01-23T23:39:00.000-08:00

I really don't feel poetic tonight, but I definitely feel like I have something to say...

Tonight was amazing... and not amazing in a completely good way, just amazing because I realized things about myself I never even thought of before... The thing is, what if you had a refuge from that one thing about yourself you absolutely hated? The one thing that tears you up inside. If you could forget, I'm positive you would jump at the chance. And I'm not sure who you are, reader, but if you're anything like me, you would become obsessed with this because you feel like it frees you...

Well... the thing that frees me is knowing someone cares about me. And actually, no, not in a completely cliche way... I actually like knowing that someone who I think is beautiful thinks I'm just as beautiful too. And that gives me an opportunity to share some of my favorite lyrics:

"I want to write something beautiful,

Something so beautiful that I just can't sing it

Cause its the only thing I have, it's the only thing that makes my life worthwhile.

So I was watching your eyes, in case they just might say something...

I want to think someone's beautiful,

That they're so beautiful it's a thrill to be near them,

fill my stomach with butterflies, have me floating on air,

Bring something out of me I didn't even know was there

But it's such a torturous thing, that I am not excited by anyone."

That's exactly how I feel in so many ways.... there have been so many times where I've talked to someone I thought was beautiful- perhaps on the inside, perhaps on the outside- and then I have realized that this person did not shake my heart. They didn't fill me with that passion- maybe even because of a few things they said.

But... I want to share some things with you reader... right now I'm with this guy... and I'm almost too excited. I'm so afraid sometimes that I'm going to completely destruct this, even though this guy is the only boyfriend who has made me feel less broken in a long, long time. I don't know him perfectly, I guess... but that's one of the things that makes me so excited. I want put your troubles in a little pile, and sort them out for you. I want to make you feel real. All the time, even when you might not be thinking about me, guy. And... I will adjust to all these things we talk about, because I care about you. And I think I love you. Scoffing? I hope not... but if you are, here's a Chuck Klosterman quote I think about a lot:

"We all have to potential to fall in love a thousand times in our lifetime. It's easy.... THere are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are the most important people in your life, and you'll meet maybe four or five of these people over the span of 80 years. There is always one person you love who becomes that definition, even if some of these loveable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. They are not inherently different from anyone else, and they're often just the person you meet when you really, really, want to love someone. But that person still wins. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else."

~Chuck Klosterman

Klosterman always makes me wonder if I really love the people I love, or if I just love them because they're there. Some of these people are not "inherently different". But... this guy is different. It's not hard to explain why... it's not because of his sweetness, or sense of humor, or really any of those things. It's because my heart is shaken when I read those poems he writes... my heart is completely shaken. And I just want to talk and find out everything about him because of it. I just want to know that he's ok, even if he's angry at me, or doesn't want to talk to me at the moment. That's why I think I love you. And this is going to define how I feel about everyone else, because I don't know if I can be right with someone who I can't talk to about this... I feel too alone.

And now I have to end this. Because it's long, and because I'm tired. My friend is over at my house, and I just had a talk with the guy. By the way, guy, if you read this, I want you to know that I will listen to everything you say, even if I don't agree and even if it hurts me, and I will make it something good. Goodnight, ladies and gentlemen.

age quod agis

2009-01-19T13:54:00.000-08:00

owned by this, consumed by this

2009-01-19T13:50:00.001-08:00

soft swelling beneath my
eyelids
my head says
you need to go
back
but your pot laced
face,
crackling hair lain against
my shoulder
a warm reminder in
the dead of winter,
a cold sip of water
a hot innuendo
my reminder that
i am
part
of reality
you make me
real
but then, a faint trace of
my enigmatic
nightmare
my hand-sewn, bitter dreams
comes rushing back to
fill the spaces with
dripping tears
and i curl away
and
i fade
for the
last
time

not a color yet, not a home anymore

2009-01-14T16:44:00.000-08:00

you are branches of a better tree,
a road beyond recognition that i
search for meaning
search for pieces to the endless puzzle
i struggle to find
my own
soul
the curvature in this pavement
suggests
i may rest, i may try to start again
but i will never reach the end
because this beauty is only
sweet
when you're young
when you don't have to pretend
i might have grown past
that stage
with wilting flowers in
aging hair

i am a little girl
but i still want you to hold me
in your arms

rat

2009-01-09T22:17:00.000-08:00

Read this, you said:

I never thought I'd die alone
Days when I still felt alive
We couldn't wait to get outside
The world was wide, too late to try
The tour was over we'd survived
I couldn't wait till I got home
To pass the time in my room alone

but..

You won't die alone,

not as long as I'm here to cry when you cry

and hold you

things

might just be

ok.

beer pong

2009-01-07T17:03:00.000-08:00

and maybe the world is supposed to keep turning
but i don't know what to say
or if i should stay here with you

i don't know exactly what i should do, but
i'll probably be back to do it again
sometime next week

maybe it's too early for this. but fuck it, i feel it so here it is.

2009-01-04T14:47:00.000-08:00

maybe i'm acting this way

cause i don't wanna lose you, maybe

cause i can't get enough of you

maybe i already feel like this is my world

and i'm paranoid

scared that i'm not the right girl

i want to show my shadow and

we can hide in the dark

move out to the ocean and live in a van

under the stars

all i know now is that you

make me real

you make me feel your words on the page

and that's exactly what i wished for

and when we're in your car

drivin straight to nowhere

my lonely hand touches your palm

and i'm reading scripture

and i'm saved

i'm out of patience for this

shit around me, this pointless

absence of muse, these

outskirts of misery

we feel each others bones

like they were were meant to collide

inside,

beneath a blanket

i give you the best poems i've ever read-

the very thing i identified

first and said

THIS is living

breathing

SAVIOR WRITING

it makes me feel

and now i met someone

who makes me feel without my pen

to the page

snotty comment

2009-01-04T11:39:00.001-08:00

if this is a test, then i'm failing- the curve is against me,
with cold mangled hands i grasp to make ends meet,
beneath my feet, pavement and the words,
words i hope you heard.

i'm pounding the keyboard for the wrong reasons tonight
would it kill you to kill me, cuz that'd be alright
every day is a fight, struggle, burned into my past
and i just don't know how much longer through this pain i can last

would it kill you to kill me?
otherwise i might have to take my foot outta my mouth
hah- see? that's the way it has to be

i might be over-thinking it, when the both of us are online
and i see your adorable picture, wishing you were mine

bunch of cats on my heart just squeezin their claws
kneading with their hangnails,
chalkboard screech across
if this is what i get, then i gotta get more
the way i feel can he healed when you walk in the door

charlie olson in cat form :)

2009-01-04T11:02:00.000-08:00

Indecision at high speeds can be fatal- lyrics

2009-01-04T10:56:00.000-08:00

The city people move to the suburbs
And the suburbs spill into the country
But a lotta kids these days deny their birth-right
White kids, ashamed of their parents trunk,
Attempt to abandon their moneyed-ways
They move to the ghettos and the communes
Searching for the guiltlessness of poverty
They wanna sit on the stoop when the night is hot
And not be stuck inside by the AC
They wanna treat their house like a fish tank
They wanna share water with the neighbors when the night is hot
But the struggle that pulls doors off their hinges in a good way
Also leaves a slow murder in the air

All your life you've been waiting for someone to hold you like the day you were born. To look into those eyes and know that we are all the same. And you're so beautiful in every way. I'll be okay...

lyrics by cloud cult & why?

the view, taking in you

2009-01-03T14:07:00.000-08:00

I.
this breath is like a fucked up puzzle
with pieces spread
mangled and
torn
on a rusted lawn table, the thick
film of
dying white paint
clutching at
stiff shards
o! you are broken
this twisting
escape going in
every direction, with
movement as if it could
see
as if it could
move
move me to throw away
everything i
don't want, but keep in
compounded piles
like dirt beneath fingernails
like this rust on living tables
if there were one sweet
release-
then let me find it
let me find it in
you

II.
ha, you wondered where
the time went
well i'll tell you it
didn't sift
through piles of
sweet revenge
the learned population's
smothering
weak beat,
work bent
smiles
that unfed
core that
rots so clearly
before us
that twinges so nearly relaying that
message:
you are unborn
and as parents we shove you back
to the womb
to cradle your
eyes, from everything we
once
were
becoming lost in
thought is nearly the only
escape
from the twelve-step program you
foster to
kill us before we could
have the chance
to
live.

your silent voice

2009-01-03T14:04:00.000-08:00

i read your poem
the one you put in my pocket
and i'm being honest when
i say
i can't tell you
what i thought

i read your poem
with my lazy, sleepy eyes
you told me exactly
how things were
and i felt
nothing

i'm looking for
the poet
whose inner voice catches my heart
by the sleeve, and
pulls me under its
warm coat, on a cold night
i've never had those
sweet moments with you
we can't talk about everything
that ever crossed our minds

i touched your jacket and
brushed your hair from your face,
but i still felt lonely when
you were there

so i sent you a reply,
on a poem i otherwise would have kept
sacred.

2008-07-03T18:21:00.000-07:00

Mr. E

Arriving at a school at 6:00 in the morning is like coming to church on a weekday. There’s no one there, and the toilet water is still blue.

Eli was standing in a room at West Terrance Flipperman High School. The only sound he could hear was the rustle of papers, earsplitting in comparison with the hush of the school. He had a strong sense of doubt when it came to whether it was necessary for him to be there or not, but as a new student English teacher, it wasn’t his job to ask questions.

“This is your office, Eli,” The stodgy Mrs. Nettle spoke loudly- pointing one gnarled finger at a desk adjacent to her own in the classroom. The desk was falling apart, and Mrs. Nettle wasn’t getting any younger either. Eli wondered if her parents had ridden in a horse and buggy to work. She pronounced Eli’s name with care- wrongly, of course. His name was Eli Edison, or as he’d asked her to say, Mr. E. After all, even a young student teacher deserved a little respect. What was more respectful than not uttering his peculiar and embarrassing name aloud?

Mrs. Nettle was glaring a hole in Eli’s shirt. He liked it and had worn it because the proceeds went to charity. Already unbearably uncomfortable, Eli resisted the urge to scamper back to his Jeep, drive far, far away, and never come back (unless he got hungry).

“Teaching takes time, Eli.” Mrs. Nettle sneered. So, he guessed, he’d gotten the same kind of evil teacher he’d always had back in high school. Mrs. Nettle’s hardened face, jeopardizing frown, and frumpy wool outfit gave the impression that she’d been teaching for much, much longer than Eli had been alive.

There was a distinct smell of pot smoke wafting out from under the apartment door. Eli plugged his nose and barged in.

A circle of giddy twenty-something’s glanced his way and cackled almost as one. Funny how drugs did pretty much the same thing to everyone.

“Hey, I’d say come on over here but maybe the next round,” said Jack, an old friend of Eli’s- and consequentially, his roommate. He indicated an empty bag which had previously been filled with illicit depressants, and turned back to his circle of doting druggy friends (mostly, Eli observed smugly, girls).

They appeared to be engaged in some sort of Hare Krishna-like chanting ritual. Not one to impose (not that he wanted to join this group), Eli passed them and pitched his backpack- something he’d expected to get rid of but kept anyways- down on the kitchenette tile counter. He sniffed the smoky air curiously. Eli had never tried marijuana himself, despite countless encounters with it at college and high school. Now, sharing a small apartment with Jack, he hadn’t expected to still be under that large magnifying glass that was peer pressure. But there they were, huddled around the rug with legs folded like pretzels. The decisions you made at school stayed with you forever.

Especially in Eli’s case. He was leaving school as a student and coming back as a student teacher. Excited as he was about his first job, he wasn’t positive this was the one for him. This morning’s meet-and-greet before school with the teachers presented a staff that was made of crumbling, flaky individuals with fading hair color and sloppy wardrobes. He dreaded becoming like them, but was it unavoidable?

After opening the fridge and weighing his options, Eli selected a Red Bull- it was either that, or an opened can of Budweiser. Not exactly sure what the beer contained other than beer, he thought it best to stick with identifiable beverages. As he popped the tab, there was a rapping at the door. Eli looked at Jack. He was leaning back, looking nervous, from the circle. Apparently no one else was invited to this shindig, Eli thought. He had the drill memorized.

Jack sprung from the floor with agility and clamorously rolled up the rug, drugs inside. His woozy friends became alert- some sprinted to the window and climbed down the fire escape; others just crawled to the nearest hiding spot. Eli watched, amused. It was like an incredibly messed-up game of hide-and-seek.

Jack stuffed the rug in the hall closet and looked through the glass spying device thing they had on their door.

“Yeah?” He asked the door. There was more rapping. Jack opened it. It was Ally, his most recent slutty girlfriend. She was, Eli admitted to himself, much more beautiful than Jack’s previous feminine endeavors. Ally had long, shiny auburn hair, wasn’t nauseatingly skinny, and didn’t make the room smell like a strong tea bag when she came in. Actually, she smelled sexy, Eli thought, as a casual observer of course.

Whatever. She must have been interested in Jack, whose Grecian profile and dark hair classified him as everyone’s type. Modest as he pretended to be, Jack must have secretly known that he was on every girl’s wish list. Ally, however, didn’t seem to be impressed at the moment.

“Why does it smell like Amsterdam in here?” She demanded. Stepping over the threshold in green Converse Chucks, Ally sauntered over to the closet and stepped to the side as she opened it. The carpet roll tilted and fell, exposing the contents Jack had tried to conceal. Smirking proudly, Ally, now being watched by everyone left in the apartment, including a shell-shocked Jack, came into the kitchen near Eli. He involuntarily gaped as Ally took a pen and Post-It, wrote something on it, and pressed it into his hand.

She bit her lip and smiled, something Eli would contemplate the rest of the night, and said,

“Bye, Eli,”

Then before Eli could blink or become violently spastic (which he tended to become in the presence of females), Ally was out the door again, as quickly as she’d come.

The Post-It was still clutched in Eli’s hand. As he was coming to terms with reality, he didn’t realize he hadn’t read it yet. After a second, he opened his palm. In red pen the note clearly said “Chubby’s. 8:00”. About two seconds later, either from the Red Bull kicking in, or simply testosterone, Eli gave a whoop in disbelief.

“What? What’s it say, man?” Jack asked impatiently. His brow was furrowed. Eli never got a girl’s attention. This was a phenomenon, indeed.

“It says ‘Chubby’s. 8:00! What the hell?! She’s asking me out!” Eli whooped again and shook his Red Bull in the air with vigor.

Jack glared at the Post-It as if it was a note from the doctor saying he was physically unable to ingest alcohol.

“Ally’s supposed to be my chick,” Jack growled. He ripped the note into confetti, “If she’s really asking you for pizza, it’s probably ‘cause she thinks you’re manorexic.” Jack snatched Eli’s Red Bull and chugged the rest irritably.

As if to prove his point, Eli’s pants arbitrarily dropped around his ankles. He looked down awkwardly at his exposed boxers.

“Oops. Forgot to wear a belt.” he said sheepishly. Eli hopped over to the bedroom to find one. The other spare bedroom in the apartment was being used by the two as space for their band equipment, and a room for their lesser observed roommate, Boris Osborne. Boris took up little space, being four foot seven. B.O., as he was more affectionately known, was a devout Buddhist, and spent most of his time meditating. When he did emerge from the spare room, he would come wearing a biodegradable hemp sweater, some navy socks, and a pair of white boxer briefs that left little to the imagination. He would go outside dressed that way, and as such had been arrested for inappropriate exposure, thus earning him Jack and Eli’s friendship. B.O. was the only dude they knew with enough guts to challenge society like that.

Besides Boris’s few possessions, there was a drum set, a bass guitar, an acoustic guitar, and a keyboard. Eli played the acoustic and the keyboard in his spare time, while Jack practiced the drums and bass all day. Since he didn’t have a job (yet) all Jack did was eat, sleep, and play, which, thought Eli, was pretty cool.

Eli grabbed one of his Baker Skateboards belts with a chrome buckle, and weaved it through the loops in his jeans. He couldn’t help being nervous that Ally, a hot girl he really knew nothing about, had asked him to go with her to get artery-clogging food on a Monday night. Really, he thought, who did that?

It’s not like you’d know, Eli reminded himself. He fished his cell out of his pants pocket and read the time- it was approaching 7:30, and Chubby’s was a five minute walk. Eli raced to the bathroom, past Jack’s buddies who were resuming their previous activity, and hopped in the shower. After dressing himself in the same clothes, plus a belt-matching black Baker sweatshirt, Eli slipped on his checkered Vans and headed on over to Chubby’s Pizza.

There was no denying it, Eli thought. He’d become a stud.

If you’ve never seen John Travolta walking down the street in Saturday Night Fever, then you can’t imagine how Eli looked as he strutted down the block. With his baggy, quasi-skater clothing, his shaggy, unkempt hair he never brushed, and his pigeon-toed walk, he looked more like a Nickelodeon cartoon character than a stud. Or perhaps a really retarded college grad attempting an infamous Hollywood walk down an alley in Minneapolis. Either way, he stuck out like a weed in a sidewalk crack. As he approached Chubby’s, all he could think about was his impending date. A date with Ally. A date, he mused quite cheerfully, with a sexy-smelling whore.

Eli bent to examine his hair in a car-mirror.

“Do you mind?” asked a couple kissing in the car. He headed into the pizza parlor with no clue what to expect. Chubby’s was unfamiliar territory to him. It was essentially, the pizza of the elite. He was never invited to Chubby’s, where as Jack was invited practically every day, many times by more than one group. Jack, deep down being the nice guy he was, had vaguely offered to get him asked along too, but Eli wasn’t one to impose (or join in where he wasn’t wanted).

Now, he thought, he was one of them. One of the chosen. It was exhilarating. He pulled on the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. He pulled harder. Nothing. Finally, with all his strength he heaved the door towards him. The exit door opened, and a giggling group of dolled-up college girls emerged, leaving for the night. One pointed at a sign above the handle.

“Try pushing it.” she suggested. The rest of the party laughed briefly at Eli’s expense, and then disappeared into a waiting yellow cab. Eli, determined not to let anything spoil the night, defiantly pushed the door open and continued his Travolta swagger from the front waiter podium into the main restaurant. He glanced around with attitude, looking for Ally.

“Edison!” called a girl’s voice. Ah, it was her. Eli turned and saw her, expecting a breathtaking sight to behold. Unfortunately, Ally didn’t appear as glamorous as she had earlier at his apartment. It seemed she’d removed the majority of her eye makeup and concealer, and her once skimpy clothes were substituted with a college letter jacket and loose jeans. On top of all that, her sexy perfume smelled about ten times less strong, leaving him to breathe the duller aroma of feminine deodorant. She looked (and smelled) like the girl next door. Frankly, Eli was pissed. He’d been expecting a slut, and damn it, he wanted a slut!

He resisted running back the way he’d come- his better nature told him to stay and act like he was happy to be there.

He plastered a phony grin on his face and asked pleasantly, “So, whose letter jacket are you wearing?”

“Oh, this?” Ally smiled with innocence that was laughably fake. “It’s Jack’s.”

Eli’s grin faded. His resolution to stay positive had been rolled over by an extremely heavy steamroller. All he could do was let the cushy booth soften the blow of his fall. He sat down opposite Ally and sighed with disappointment.

John Travolta would’ve been laid by now.

The date was a horrible flop, and the pair hadn’t even ordered dessert.

“What the hell?” yelled Eli, mouth full of BBQ-chicken, “You only liked me because you thought I was related to Albert Einstein?!”

Ally glared at him, “No, I thought you were related to Albert Edison, but you keep telling me he doesn’t exist!” She turned away in contempt and then added, “I know he’s dead, but that doesn’t make him not you’re ancestor!”

“I said Albert Edison didn’t exist! His name was Thomas Edison!”

Ally looked instantly turned off. “Oh,” She said, “Well, your ancestors weren’t as smart as I thought they were then.”

It was Eli’s second day on the job. He had been sitting at the same desk in the same squeaky chair for three hours. Somehow, he had to wait another before he and Mrs. Nettle could head to the teacher’s lounge. He’d brought leftover pizza from his pathetic date with Ally. The delicious cheesy chicken topped pizza was, truthfully, the only reason he’d dragged himself out of bed. The only thing helping him sit through the long morning classes. He stared at the clock roughly every forty-five seconds, alternating between that and grading A.P. papers.

Mrs. Nettle was pacing the room, scrutinizing the faces of her students. Stopping, she prepared to write. She spat into the palm of her hand and wiped the muddled chalk board clean. She wrote the class’s assignment in almost illegible handwriting on the board. It looked like the class needed to “Ruddle the Shbook on Cerebrals”. Eli tilted his head to the side- or “Read the Book on Communism” he guessed.

One boy raised his hand tentatively. “Mrs. Nettle? I don’t want to be a bother, but are we doing debates on this subject this year?” He looked hopeful.

Mrs. Nettle glared, “Did you read your schedule?” It was a rhetorical question. He had read it, and it wasn’t on there; which they both knew. The boy lowered his head, deflated.

Eli looked at the time. Fifteen more minutes before he could enjoy chickeny pizza bliss.

The teacher’s lounge (which was suspiciously damp), was on the lower floor of the building, between the janitor’s office and the Esperanto Club. It was a hallway that was rarely entered by students- unless they were ordered by a teacher to enter “the lounge” and get said teacher a coffee or caffeinated beverage. Most of the lights in the room were burned out except for the ones over the tiny counter by the fridge, giving the room an eerie ambience. Eli opened the fridge and found the leftovers. He removed them, bought himself a Diet Coke, and chose a table conveniently placed as far from Mrs. Nettle as possible.

Eli looked around at the fellow staff members with whom he was about to dine. Only one he recognized- the student counselor, Mr. Kroch. Needless to say, Eli had already heard nasty comments about him between classes. The others, Eli hadn’t had the pleasure (ha) of meeting. One haggard-looking woman seemed to be in her early forties, and was chunking out. She was ripping apart pieces of lettuce to make herself a dressing-less salad. The man across from her was vainly trying to explain his trigonometry lesson for the day.

Another girl was wearing a paint-splattered smock and thick-rimmed, colorful glasses. She must have been the art teacher. She was really young; not much older than Eli, if older at all. He decided she was the most interesting of the bunch. Eli watched her heat up a Tupperware filled with pasta of the Asian persuasion. She sat down next to him and popped the lid. Eli couldn’t help thinking a few less carbohydrates might do her waistline some good.

“Don’t believe we’ve met,” she observed cheerfully. “I’m Angie, the artist.” Then, without shaking hands, she gave him an awkward, rather uncalled-for hug. She began digging into her noodles.

“Doesn’t this school just make you want to eat? I can never wait for lunch!” Angie kept eating as she talked. Who was this person? Eli wondered. She had all the characteristics of a fussy art teacher, but she didn’t look old enough.

“Do you teach art here?” he asked.

Angie looked up, an un-slurped noodle hanging from her mouth. “Not yet,” she whispered. “I’m a student teacher. But the old teacher is retiring.” Angie seemed to think this was classified information, so Eli went along with it. He leaned in and whispered,

“I’m Mrs. Nettle’s student teacher.” he waited for Angie’s reaction, and continued once he’d received an apologetic look, “It sucks!”

“I know!” she said, waving her fork. “Why can’t we just teach? I mean, I’m not even that good of an artist! What else am I supposed to do with my life?” she laughed and continued eating. Eli smiled. Talking to Angie at lunch was the best part of his day so far.

After school, Eli headed to Chubby’s and sat down at the bar. After ordering three beers and drinking each of them slowly, he began to feel sick to his stomach. He decided he didn’t feel like puking yet; he called for another round. Working at the high school felt like a tedious reminder of his academic days- which had come and gone all too slowly. He’d graduated, and gone back to school- it was wearing on him. He wanted a job with other adults- ones that didn’t pray for capital punishment to be reinstated on their students. Or maybe a job where there was a bit of excitement and a little less monotony. He thought of Angie, and her sparkly glasses. He was beginning to see sparkles himself- not good.

Eli watched as someone hopped on the bar counter. Looking up, Eli recognized the dejected senior who’d asked about debates from Mrs. Nettle’s class. He stood tall and cleared his throat amidst the groans of the people around.

“Marx, shaddup!”

“Go back to Prussia where you belong!”

The boy began to speak. “People of Chubby’s Pizza: Unite within a single union class! Abolish the wage system!”

Some of the other employees rolled their eyes.

Eli glanced at the guy sitting next to him. “What’s this guy doing?”

He shrugged plaintively, “This moron’s been trying to start a union for the last two or three years. We call him Marx- he’s the biggest commie that ever walked the face of the earth.” The guy looked away, took a big swig from his mug, and pounded on the bar. “Marx, shut up and get me a beer!”

“Less talk, more BEER!” shouted another.

Marx was still making his speech- now singing shrilly. Eli made a mental note to check if his schedule included choir, and if so, personally apologize to the teacher.

A burly guy came from the kitchen and pulled Marx from the counter, tossing him over his shoulder. As he carried him into the kitchen, Marx screamed, “Workers of the world; unite!”

“Oh, jeez! How can he still be around?” asked one guy.

“Bar owner’s a socialist commie himself. He’d kiss Fidel’s dirty foot if he had the chance.”

Bewildered, Eli paid the bartender and stumbled out. He was drunk, his pants were falling off again, and he smelled like cafeteria food. Maybe he could take a sick day from work- play hooky.

He walked back to the apartment. As he entered the building, he saw Boris in the lobby. He looked irritated, but Boris always kept his composure.

“B.O.! How’s the air down there, short stuff?” Eli had difficulty putting a sentence together. How was he supposed to explain his inevitable hangover to Mrs. Nettle?

“I’m afraid I must find myself a singular abode. It’s our mutual friend, Jack. His abuse of illegal drugs is deterring me from my definitive goal. It may seem unachievable to you, but I can just about see the light!” Boris went on, “However, my comrade, the light is presently shrouded by a substantial smoke- I think we both understand what I mean.”

He’d lost Boris at enlightenment. About the closest Eli would ever get to enlightenment was discovering why the hell he’d ordered and drained four beers in the last hour.

“At least take my pants, Boris,” Eli said firmly, “You need them more than I do.”

Eli removed his belt and jeans, and handed them to Boris, whose last words to him were,

“Thank you, Eli Edison. I shall never forget you, or this charitable donation you have made at my revenue. And now, I bid you farewell.”

The last thing Eli saw before passing out was Boris leaving the building. With the pants tucked beneath his tiny arm, he hailed a cab in his underpants.

Dream-land is a spectacular place. One can dream about perfume, The Gilmore Girls, salmon, and feet, and then wake up to find that their TiVo broke and their feet smell like fish. This was the case with Eli, who’d been dreaming about his own band, in which he was the lead singer, opening for The White Stripes. He was just meeting Meg White- and she was doing a drum solo she’d composed just for him and-

“Morning, sunshine!” Someone whistled.

Eli awoke to a horrific realization. Sitting up, he instinctively looked down at himself. He was wearing a dress. He’d passed out next to the building’s laundry room. Someone must have dressed him in the girly outfit while he was asleep. His face looked like carpet, his breath smelled like bread, and to a passerby, he appeared to be a cross dresser.

This was interesting. Now what? He wondered. Well, he assumed suicide wasn’t currently an option. He estimated the amount of force he’d need to fatally fling himself off one of the tables in the lobby. Okay, maybe not.

He hoisted himself into a standing position, and then the second sequence of the cruel joke came into play. The dress was made for a very small, very skinny girl. It didn’t even cover his butt.

He looked around for where the prankster may have hidden his boxers and clothes. Then, something caught his eye. Outside, hanging limply far above the ground from a flagpole, was his previous day’s ensemble.

Shit.

Better to leave them, he promptly decided. So now he needed keys to the apartment. Which were…in his pants pockets. That he’d given to Boris. And his cell? Pants pockets.

And his dignity? Lost forever. He sank to his knees and raised his fists in frustration. Is this what I get, God, he asked almost sarcastically, for helping a friend?

Double shit. He remembered: Buddhists were atheists.

Eli’s alarm clock went off at 5:15 in the morning. The sun hadn’t made a complete appearance yet, and only a thin gleam of moonlight was shining through the window. Eli, in a particularly bad mood, didn’t even have to step out of his bed to wake up on the wrong side. He screamed and rolled over, and began viciously beating the clock, aiming to shatter it into oblivion. Once he had succeeded in stopping it, the clock, now utterly worthless, lay in a broken heap on the carpet.

Thankfully Jack had let Eli in. He could have had to sleep in the lobby.

He cursed and swore like a sailor. Irritable and exhausted, he rolled out from under the sheets, landed on his knees, and crawled over to the dresser to throw on the first thing he found without a stain. The ensuing thirty minutes were spent dolefully munching Pop-Tarts, and driving to school in gloom.

Eli was pissed to be pissed. Did that made him pissed squared? He thought about it, but math was lost on him. His math skills had hit a dead end at algebra, and he even had difficulty understanding that. What was the point? They always said, “Solve for x” but what was “x” and why should he waste his time trying to figure it out? Why should he waste his time trying to figure out why they wanted him to waste his time figuring it out?

Everything was looking like crap until third period. Eli was reading an optimistic paper on the virtues and triumphs of communism- written by none other than Marx (whose actual name, believe it or not, was Marcus).

Marcus claimed to be a “Marxist humanist”. He insisted that it was not the 12-hour work-day that enslaved man, but the very conditions behind capitalism. The working man himself would never be able to decide the conditions of his job; they would always be determined by the employer. This, he deemed, was quite unfair unless you were the employer yourself.

Eli read this and felt empowered. Communism! What an excellent idea! He read it over and over, not bothering with the other thirty papers he was supposed to grade. It made him want to take a stand against waking up at ungodly hours.

But not abolish the wage system, because then he wouldn’t be able to pay his share of the rent.

The bell rang and Eli sprinted to the art room to catch Angie. She was snacking on Reece’s peanut butter cups and sipping iced tea, but Eli knew that wasn’t her lunch. She resembled Boris’s old jade statue, where a very content, roly-poly Buddha sat and meditated while eating cakes and croissants.

Talking to Angie was very calming; she hugged a lot, and tended to murmur at random. Fortunately, Eli didn’t have to pay her or lay on a couch while they talked, but he did look at ink blots. Or at least, they appeared to be ink blots; but they were Angie’s “art”.

After they walked to get their food from the fridge, the pair came back over to the art room to eat their meal together. Angie had her Asian noodles; Eli had his Diet Coke and leftovers.

“May I have this dance?” Angie asked, twirling like a ballerina in the hall. He accepted reluctantly, her floppy physique embracing him with a width twice as wide as his own. He noticed that he could probably fit both of his string-bean legs into one side of her pants.

Eli self-consciously waltzed with Angie, fearing that at any moment a student would turn the corner and find them. The waltz was an elegant dance, but he and Angie performed it with as much grace as a break-dancing Sumo. It wasn’t over till the fat lady sung, but the fat lady obviously had no dance experience either.

Angie stuck out her tongue at Eli. “My tongue is incredibly flexible,” She revealed, still boogieing. “I can roll it, bend it, fold it,” She let go of Eli. This situation was weirdly random.

“It must make you an excellent kisser,” Eli said matter-of-factly. They reached the art room, and Angie finally stopped bobbing around like a fat jack-in-the-box. They entered and sat on a decrepit sofa. They ate. They drank. They exchanged hugs and pleasantries.

Then, they ran out of things to say.

“Eli, I think I like you as more than a friend.” Angie blurted.

Eli wasn’t shocked. She probably didn’t expect a quick reaction, but Eli’s thoughts slipped out:

“Angie, you need to lose twenty pounds.”

Angie, also quick to react, responded by bursting into tears and pitching her noodles in Eli’s face. She then made like a banana, and split.

Clouds of smoke and flickering lighters seemed to follow Eli home. The sky was getting dark; Eli could tell from the reflections of the sunset on his greasy brown shoes. He stared at them as he walked along. Society had screwed him, he thought, as a mourning hippie belched and begged for a few cents. Eli bent to give him a five dollar bill- it landed in the man’s outstretched coffee cup.

“Hey, fuck you man- that was my only cup of coffee!” cried the hippie. He dragged the soaked cash out from his cup and glared at Eli suspiciously. Eli decided that he didn’t really care that much. Plus, he knew the man would finish the coffee anyways and then use the fiver to help finance his “habit”. The sky continued to dim as his feet plapped at the pavement.

He reached his decidedly humble abode after a difficult climb up the stairs- made more difficult by the fact that Eli hadn’t exercised since he was a high school student himself.

“Jack? You in there?” called Eli. He noticed excess smoke rising from under the door. “Jack! Jack! Open the door!” Eli called, this time more frantically. Shit! He had no keys! He still hadn’t found his keys! Crackling smoke rolled across the floor as Eli hopped around near the threshold, becoming increasingly desperate.

A moment later, a jiggling fat man came pounding down the stairs. “Uh,” he grunted, “What’s cookin’?”

Eli thought fast. He charged up the stairs, not quite aware of what he was doing. “Ai-iiiiiii!” He screamed as he crashed full on into what must have been the enormous man’s bladder, because he erupted in a fart rivaling the Krakatoa volcano. The fat man grunted and writhed as they snowballed down the stairwell and smacked into Eli’s apartment door. The door crumpled and the next thing he knew, Eli was in his own burning residence.

The fat man screamed and made like an egg as he scrambled away from the door. No longer continuing at his leisurely pace, he rumbled away without bothering to call the police on Eli for assault. Eli had more important things to worry about as well. His head whipped around, scanning the room for Jack.

“Jack! I’m not kidding around here, where are you?!” His voice was cracking and his face was starting to turn red from the hot flickering flames. They seemed to come from Jack’s open door, and were spreading out toward his room. After hesitating, he screamed his friends name once more. When there was no answer he knew he had to leave. There was clearly no chance of him putting this out with a little fire extinguisher.

Nonetheless, he sprinted back after getting one from down the hall. The building was starting to evacuate with frightened faces, instead of the bored and pissed-off looks they had when there were false alarms. As the flames began to lick the kitchen pillars and the pot-storing rug, Eli extended his arms and torso into the apartment to quell the blaze.

The extinguisher made a squelching squeak and poured white liquid everywhere. Soon, the liquid was gone and there was nothing left for Eli to do. He listened to crying babies from parents running down the stairs and shrieking girls scared to die before they lost their youth. It was a terrible sound, and it made Eli remember his need to leave. He had to leave the apartment, or he was asking for death. Asking for death, he thought, with a laugh. And then, what a strange thing to laugh about.

The croaking railings of Eli’s apartment fire escape teetered treacherously as he began to lower himself down the ladders. He wondered with a cynical chuckle why they hadn’t bothered to update the ladders to stairs, before stumbling once and smacking his nose on the side of the building.

“Fuck!” He exclaimed, wiping the dripping blood above his mouth. That was what he got for trying to find humor in an utterly desolate situation. He thought of all the cool characters in movies who like him, had escaped a building the same way and decided then and there that he would never go to the movies again. If someone had written his descent into a scene, if would have been the most boring shit ever to air on cinema.

He reached the second floor, where he was hoping there was another ladder to take him all the way down. Unfortunately, there was not. Below him, the wind blew a trash bag through an empty alleyway. He calculated that the only way to safety was in fact, not very safe. If he was Jason Bourne, he would have simply jumped into the opposing building’s window, but he figured there were cooler ways to die than attempting to crash through glass and failing miserably. He could already imagine the coroner’s amused face.

With a precarious sigh, Eli decided it was probably best to just wait. The burning building would just have to fuck itself.

Eli couldn't recall a time in his life where he'd felt more like a piece of shit.

He was propped up waiting to die, fire-extinguisher soaked hands somehow clung to a stale cup of coffee he'd taken and run off with without paying. He looked like a coal mining bum- his hair sticking up like an inpatient on narcotics. He sat with his legs folded, facing a greasy hot dog stand and staring blankly at the frying griddle rolling sausages. Flames seemed to hungrily lick the stainless steel lips in motion with munching night-goers. Eli was near Chubby's Pizza, where the two AM crowd was beginning to dwindle. A lone, gruff-looking bartender glared out the window and flexed his muscles as he closed the blinds. Eli wanted to watch every person passing by; to know each huffy woman that sidestepped around his gangly legs; every warbling college kid crooning like a choirboy in the cool Minneapolis air. There was no one he didn't want to be. Every misfortune seemed like a lucky break from where he was seated. Somewhere, thought Eli, some lucky bastard was having a heart attack.

The bitter coffee stuck to his tongue like tar, and with a grimace, he rose to his feet and walked a few steps before he spat, unluckily, on some poor guy's shoes. He looked down and saw the legs connected to burnt rubber soles. They wore familiar pants. Leather, and so worn in it seemed a set of kneecaps had been included in the price. Eli instantly recognized the womanizing features of the one and only Jack.

Jack was in a pot-induced stupor, his mouth hanging open lazily as he grinned like a retarded chimpanzee in a cage full of monolithic monkeys. His eyelids drooped, and then shot open as he noticed the caffeinated spit dripping down the side of his charred sneaker.

"Hey!" He barked, somehow managing to spray the air with a dry mouth. He contemplated. After a brief moment of consideration, Jack scooted with difficulty to make room for his friend to sit, slapping the ground with one free hand. The other clutched a brown paper bag, carefully tucked beneath an auspicious overcoat. With a sigh of satisfied ignorance, Jack faced Eli and frowned. It almost made Eli want to forgive him- but not quite.

They sat for a while, but Eli couldn't really bear looking at Jack. He was tired as hell, and still he watched the arrogant people pass him on the street, some without a care in the world. Besides, there was nothing to say. But they both continued to sit- neither had a place to go.

However, one of them did have something to do. Jack reached into his precious bag and slipped out a joint. With a quick flick of the wrist, it was lit. Jack was flying high.

Eli stood, disgusted. "You stupid, fucking idiot. What do you think you're doing?"

"Nothing man, nothing at all." Jack stared at the ground. His dark hair, Eli noticed, was encrusted with debris.

"Jesus Christ, what do think is gonna happen, Jack? How is this gonna end for the both of us? Put the goddamn thing out!" Eli snatched the burning thing with fear and stomped it out. Jack leapt to his feet.

"Don't do that! Give it back!" He hissed, eyes gleaming dangerously.

"No. Go to hell!" Eli began to clamor away and then turned, "Look at us! We're homeless! I've got no place to go, you've got no place to go- what are we going to do?!"

Jack turned his back and stooped to gather the remnants of his joint, tearfully sniffing the last of the billowing smoke that was fading into the sky. There was no hope. Eli resumed walking away. This time, he was determined not to look back. The first thing he did with the last few cents snuggled in his pocket was make a call on the nearest pay phone to the police. The hell if he was going to watch his fuckup of a friend burn himself to death in another fire. Someone needed to clear the haze in Jack's idle brain- and Eli could think of no better justice than that.

Soon, Eli found himself habitually returning to the bar. Almost every day he would enter the door with attitude, but his morale had seemed to fade. With every swig of alcohol, his work-ethic weakened a few shades.

Marx’s communism papers in class were becoming less confident, and he had given up asking for support in his revolt at the bar. His sanguine attitude was diminishing to a dull acceptance of failure. Despite the fact that any wise mentor would tell Marx to keep up his efforts, no matter how pointless, it was obvious that Marx had no mentor whatsoever.

When there was no helpful guide, there was a bigger chance that someone was coming into school on a Monday with a pistol, hoping for a taste of sweet revenge. Kids like that had just snapped.

It was one of those days, and Eli was once again slouching around at Chubby’s, taking extra-large swigs of beer. The bar smelled stale from the un-bussed tables stacked high with plates of food and the breath of alcoholics’ doing shots in the corner booths. He had no place to go, since his apartment had been boarded up.

“Where’s Marcus tonight?” Eli asked the stoic bartender.

“He’s supposed to be here in a few minutes.” He replied, flippantly scrubbing a soured mug.

“‘Another beer, please.” Eli burped.

“Why don’t I just get you a keg and a straw?”

Eli shrugged, but he took the hint. Standing, the room spun, but Eli knew the way out drunk or sober. He staggered into the street. For whatever reason, Eli decided it would be a fun little game if he were to go the opposite direction that night, and see what was in the alleyway behind Chubby’s.

As Eli turned the corner, gripping a grimy alleyway wall for balance, he caught sight of someone near an exit. It was dark, but Eli recognized Marx right away.

“Marcus,” called Eli, “Marx! Guess who?”

Marx was unresponsive. Eli approached him and saw, with shock, that Marx’s bloody palms were facing towards the sky. His wrists were lying across his lap, slit from end to end.

Eli couldn’t believe it. He half ran, half fell, to Marx’s side and listened to his heart for a pulse. The only pounding he could hear was his own heart in his throat, beating twice as fast. But Marx couldn’t be dead- he couldn’t be! He was so young, too young!

He had no idea how to handle this. Defeated, Eli retreated from into the burning lights of the city surrounding him.

Stumbling out into the street, Eli slowly wound his way away from the alleyway behind Chubby’s. There was cold and slimy, mud from the building’s walls on his hand; as he wiped the sweat from his forehead he felt it drip down his face. He didn’t care. He was so confused that being drunk was making him delirious. Shaking, he dropped down to his knees near the same hot dog stand he’d sat at cross-legged a few days before.

Eli must have passed out for quite a while. He woke to find Boris Osborne standing over him, shading the sun. Eli’s body was comatose, and for some reason- he couldn’t remember exactly- he was shaking all over. It was like he’d had something awful slipped in his drink. But then, he mused, it was probably just the drink itself. Drinks.

Boris shifted and the afternoon sun blasted Eli’s face. It was 12 o’ clock noon and the world was slowly churning.

“I heard what happened,” Boris said, his voice thumping in Eli’s ears.

Eli grumbled, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You never tell me about your job, but Angie does. She told me about that boy, Marcus.”

“Leave me alone. I don’t want to know what happened.” Eli could already imagine the words he would hear.

Marcus is dead. You did nothing to stop it. You didn’t call for help.

But Boris didn’t say any more. He helped Eli, and together they made it into the shadow of a tall building.

Then he spoke. “I suppose you’ve got nowhere to live, then.”

Eli nodded; correct.

“Why don’t you come stay at my place, then? I don’t have a lot of space, really, but if you’re comfortable with a couch, then-”

“Better than what I got now,” he interrupted. Boris smiled in a way that was satisfactory. They walked to the corner curb and hailed a cab.

Eli still didn’t know if anyone had come to collect the body.

Eli hated arguments. Frequently, and if at all possible, he did his best to avoid them. Now he was having a very unpleasant one with Boris about himself. Another thing- himself- that he hated at the moment. Both debaters were unshaven and ugly-looking, with haggard stares and gaping fishy mouths. They both needed a good night’s sleep; Boris for lack of it, Eli for excess of alcohol. And so they fought.

Boris raised his cup of tea that could’ve used caffeine, slamming it down on the counter. The liquid sloshed over the edge and spattered slightly on the rough texture of his hemp ensemble.

“Eli, can’t you see that what happened to that boy, and what’s happening to Jack, is beginning to happen to you?” Boris stared him down and said, “How can you watch this self-destruct, and not scrutinize the similarities between them and yourself? You’ll end up dead just like Marcus- and you’ll go to hell, like Jack is certain to!”

“When I die,” Eli’s voice was low, “I want to have lived- no matter how screwed up my life happens to be.”

Eli could see Boris was struggling to find the right words. Eli knew that suicide was considered a dishonorable act to Buddhists. They sat in the small kitchen together. Each pondered their next move. A ray of light spread out from under the pulled shade, and Boris stood to open the blinds. The cascading light shined on Eli’s face, reflecting in his teary, toffee-colored eyes.

Death was something people could choose, not knowing if there was another life afterwards. Eli didn’t understand why he had to be the one to discover Marcus’s suicide. The one to find out that this teenager had ruined himself. Marcus had lost his hope; lost his dream.

And Boris didn’t understand why Eli was so affected. Boris could find solace in religion, Eli couldn’t. His agnostic beliefs led him to believe that Marcus was gone, and there was nothing they could do to heal the hole he’d left behind in their hearts.

The hands on the clock kept turning, but neither of them got the last word.

There were panties on the floor of Boris’s apartment.

Eli stared dumbly at them as they sat tauntingly in the corner, as if thrown there by accident. Like someone was in a hurry. He blinked. They were pretty big, too.

Under auto-pilot in the early afternoon haze, he trudged solemnly into the next room to find something to read. He needed to take a crap, and wanted a magazine. His nerves were at an end and his apartment was boarded up; he was useless. He’d taken so many sick days from teaching that he’d have to shave his head and tell his coworkers he had cancer just as an excuse. Or he could just tell them the truth.

Fuck that. They wouldn’t understand. Eli sighed and pulled a flask from his pocket. There was no time like 11 am to get a little drunk. He looked around Boris’s apartment again. His bloodshot eyes trained in on the lone panties. They looked so sad and forlorn that Eli almost let a tear slip down his cheek. Not unless I want to kick my own ass, he thought. Stupid panties.

Whose were they, anyways? The place was hardly a place to get it on. As a result of many years of Buddhism, Boris had opted to decorate his musty, subsidized living space with Asian flea-market purchases. There was a dysfunctional lantern swinging from the ceiling, and woven mats covering the cold, concrete floor. It was all fluorescent and adolescent- there was no way Angie would do it here.

Angie.

God damn it! Eli’s face crumpled like there was smelly blue cheese under his nose. He thought of Angie’s twinkling smile and smart glasses perching on her up-turned nose. The short, peachy fuzz on her cheeks you could only see under a good light. He glared at the canned bulbs humming above him. He wondered if you could even see that fuzz in here.

A lock clicked, a door swung, and in walked Boris. Thankfully, he was wearing pants today. He smiled at Eli as he returned from a hard day at… wherever he worked. Eli wasn’t sure.

Boris stroked some pubescent hairs on his chin. Eli decided to make like a band-aid with the question. Rip it off.

“So, whose panties?”

Boris froze. His eyes whipped to the lacy undergarments relaxing perpendicular. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Mine,” he replied.

His panties? Somehow, this was doubtful.

“I didn’t know you shopped in the plus-size section of Victoria’s Secret.” said Eli.

“Yes, well. More coverage” Boris scuttled over and snatched them, hurrying into his bedroom. He shoved them into a small dresser and reemerged. He was sweating. “Any calls from Jack lately?”

“Why?” Eli stiffened.

Boris shrugged, “He called me the other day.”

“What,” Eli’s mouth dropped like an oiled hinge. “From prison?”

“No, from his new place.” Boris look surprised. He must have figured they were on good terms. Eli hadn’t spoken to Jack since he’d called the cops on him. “He tells me he’s doing well. He’s met a lot of new people. He put me on hold to talk to one of them- a neighbor or something.” Boris walked behind the counter and poured himself a glass of tap water, sipping patiently.

Eli looked around for his coat, and remembered he was still wearing it. He hadn’t changed his clothes for at least two days. His pits smelled like rotten trash roasting over an open fire.

Boris was so naïve. He really believed that Jack had turned his life around in less than a week? That, what- the cloud of pot smoke had vanished like the apartment he’d burnt to the ground because of it? The world was no merry-go-round. It was a bleeding maze bubbling over with disappointment and despair. Eli could just imagine Jack toke up as he sat on the street. He must have spent a considerable chunk of change wasting his time talking to Boris. Eli wanted to find out why.

He slammed the door on his way out.

Out on the street the sun was shining, which surprised him. Walking up a couple blocks, Eli couldn’t believe life was going on without him. There was garbage in the gutters, and businessmen in monkey suits. But there was no Jack.

His cell began to ring.

He answered. “Hello?”

“Eli Edison?” asked the low voice of a woman lacking estrogen.

“Yeah?”

“This is Sharon from the Minneapolis Police Department. I have someone here I think might know you- a mister Jack Moriarty. He’d like to speak with you.”

Eli’s hands had begun to shake like a hula dancer on speed. The phone crackled as Sharon took Eli’s stunned silence to mean that he would speak to Jack. Eli waited.

“H-hullo?” Jack’s voice seemed far away, as always. He hadn’t changed. Eli hadn’t expected him to- Boris had been fooled.

“Is there a way you can spare me a couple hundred bucks for bail, ol’ buddy?” Jack asked. He was forlorn.

Eli considered it. A moment too long, apparently.

“Please, man, I’m begging you. I need it so bad. They’re gonna send me to rehab.”

This made Eli answer quick, “I’m not giving you the money, Jack.”

“But these people-” Jack began, sounding like a whining puppy.

“Fuck these people,” Eli said firmly, “I’m sorry. This is for your own good.”

He hung up the phone and continued walking- toward Chubby’s Pizza. Now he had no one to find, no responsibilities.

His feet looked good moving along the pavement.

School was going to be hell. Eli drove up the driveway of the high school and rounded the corner sharply, almost speeding into a pedestrian crossway sign. The sun was sleeping like the rest of the sane world, and there were ten folded dollar bills in Eli’s pocket. It was likely they’d be gone by the end of the day. It was the last of his money.

To quit or not to quit. The idea flashed in his mind. This job didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. Marx was dead, Jack was in jail, and Boris was in love with Angie. These thoughts condensed into a migraine headache. Eli’s head began to pound as he slouched up the sidewalk to the east entrance.

No one in the hallways was mourning Marcus, their deceased classmate. Life was continuing as normal, and the only words of kindness were coming from pimp-like seniors with odd mustaches talking to giddy freshman. The world was fucked up.

Eli made a pit stop at the teacher’s lounge with a container of Boris’s cold vegetarian shit packed for lunch. He shoved it in the fridge and looked around for Angie. Other than a few crusty gentlemen in faded fleece sweats, Eli didn’t see anyone. He groaned inwardly and bounced on his heels. This was his worst fear. Now he had to face the day alone.

Bolting out of the lounge, the door made a sickly smack as he swung it open.

“Shit!” he heard someone say loudly. Someone continued to cuss as Eli peered around the door. It was Angie- hair spread out sloppily on the floor under her head. Her hand was rubbing a bruise. He rushed to help her up.

“I’m so sorry,” He blubbered, gesticulating with his free hand. He discovered he didn’t need both hands to pull her to her feet- she had lost weight. They stood face to face. Angie was glaring.

“Angie,” Eli breathed. He didn’t understand his urge to press his face against her bruise- as if he could heal it himself. He wanted to undo the pain he’d caused her.

“Eli,” She said snippily. She glanced at him and began collecting her things. “What brings you here or a weekday?”

“I, um, just coming back to my job,” He said.

She snorted, and began to walk toward the art room. Guess she wasn’t in the mood to dance today- her leaner physique sauntered away, leaving Eli behind. He ran to catch up.

“Angie, we need to talk.”

She looked up at his mournful face, paused, and turned. With a click, the art room was unlocked and they walked in together. They sat down on the same couch they’d sat on before, this time there was no fat from Angie’s legs hogging all the room. She looked pale. And sick.

“Where’s your lunch?” He asked. She pointed at a salad-filled container. Eli sniffed. No Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups. This wasn’t the Angie he knew.

Eli sighed and looked at her. “Angie, I wanted to apologize for everything I said to you. I know I hurt your feelings. I mean, you were my only friend at this school and-”

“Friend?” Angie said, “Friend. I see how it is. You’re just going to pretend that you had no idea about…any of it.”

Eli was confused, “Any of…what?”

“You know what! You always knew- how could you not know. I was pathetic!” Angie was breathing hard and choking back angry tears. Eli tried to guess.

“You- you had a crush on me?” He looked at her pretty, thinning face.

Angie’s eyes were blurred, but she stared at him with conviction, “I loved you.”

They both gasped a little. And then waited.

Eli felt a shiver run up his spine. He felt himself say, “I love you, too.”

Angie’s head shot up. Her mouth hung open slightly, glistening. Her cheeks flushed. Then, without another thought, Eli grabbed her around the waist and felt his lips on hers. They were kissing. Angie. It felt so right.

She pulled away guiltily. “What about Boris?” she whispered.

He didn’t care. Neither of them cared. They could feel it. Everything was right. There was nothing they could do about Boris now. Eli slid his hand behind her head and there was nothing more to it.

Eli saw Boris walk into Chubby’s Pizza and head for the bar. Hallucinations didn’t happen to him often. He wasn’t crazy, but he couldn’t believe Boris would ever go anywhere near a bar unless it served nothing but water and wholesomeness. Eli slipped in unnoticed and took a seat at a small booth near the counter. Boris was pounding down drinks like Bukowski’s muse. He looked tense; but the drinks slowly began to loosen him up and he sat there and swayed.

Eli watched. He felt terrible. This was his fault- no doubt Angie had told Boris everything and they were finished. He stood, resolved to go home and pack his shit in a suitcase. He’d be gone before he had the chance to stab another person in the back.

But he didn’t get far. Angie came in the door and saw Boris at the bar. She ran to him.

“Boris!” She cried. He looked at her like she had duplicating heads. He wasn’t used to consuming alcohol like this. At all, for that matter. Somehow Eli remained invisible, and bore witness to all.

“Boris, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did it. I never meant to hurt you.” Angie pleaded with Boris.

Boris didn’t answer. Instead, he groggily stepped off his stool. He then proceeded to remove his pants; underneath he was wearing Angie’s old panties. Angie gasped.

Eli laughed. Nice, he thought. Apparently, Angie was forgiven for the moment. Boris suddenly began smacking himself.

“FIRE!” He screamed. Boris saw Eli, “You asshole! You and Jack started a fire again!” He got on the ground and slowly began rolling himself around amid the muddy shoe-prints. He was crazy. Angie seemed afraid, but she saw Eli. They moved together and watched Boris put out the imaginary flames around him.

Angie matched Eli’s laughs with sobs. She grabbed Boris and tried to calm him into submission. Boris wouldn’t have it. He pointed at Eli.

“You- I know a guy like you. Lives ‘n my apartment now. ‘S names Eli,”

Boris grimaced and his cheeks bloated. He leaned over Angie’s kneeling body and hurled a tremendous wave of liquid. He’d had nothing to eat.

Eli had an idea, “Well, look buddy- let’s go find this guy! Beat him up!” He enthused. Boris looked up, nose and lips dripping.

“No. He’s a good guy. Good guy. Leave him.” Boris frowned. He looked down, “Gave me these pants.”

Angie chimed in, “It might make you feel better, Boris.”

Boris wheeled around, “Where’d you come from?” He screeched at Angie, “I’m broken hearted and I didn’t even get drunk like I was gonna.”

“I think you’ve accomplished more than you think.” Said Eli, “C’mon- let’s go beat the shit out of Eli Edison.”

Angie and Eli helped a staggering Boris to his feet and rested his slacked arms around their shoulders. They began down the street, their middle partner wailing in drunkenness.

Eli glanced at Angie’s pained countenance- she cared so much about this psychopath. It made his heart crack in two being the fence between their pastures of love. He imagined them briefly as frolicking sheep, and then stopped because it was slightly creepy.

Boris was light enough to be carried by one person. Eli stopped; Angie looked up. His face was white and his eyes were cracked with red lines and a certain sparkle. She smiled and held Boris around the waist, and they stumbled away together.

They looked so unalike- Boris a mere four foot seven, Angie a foot taller. They were like salt and pepper. And yet he’d never seen either one of his friends so completely happy.

Boris would have his very own life-sized Buddha. Although Angie was still the only girl he could imagine being with and Boris was his best friend, Eli knew he couldn’t stay mad at either one of them for long.

He watched them for awhile until only their faded silhouettes could be seen, and finally turned away when they were out of sight.

Chubby’s was there- quietly coaxing him to come in and get drunk like every other time he came. He entered obligingly, and sat down in his seat at the bar. The same seat he’d been in when Marcus had made his speech. The same seat- he laughed- he’d sat at every time he’d gotten trashed there.

Some things never changed. He called for the bartender, and then stopped.

“Just a Diet Coke, thanks.”

Yes, Chubby’s was the scene of many memories, some good, mostly bad. In fact, he thought, he had no idea why he still came there. The grubby bar had stains on the walls and doors swinging from squeaky hinges. Every person in there had two-digit IQ’s. The only thing semi-modern was the shiny bar. If you looked at it, you could see your reflection- or the panties of anyone standing on it.

Suddenly, almost mechanically, Eli climbed up on the bar counter, and stood tall. The people in the restaurant didn’t look up until he started to speak:

“People of Chubby’s Pizza- I am quitting my job!” Eli announced triumphantly. He waved over the same bartender that had manhandled Marx, who just watched him, amazed. “My good man- bring drinks for everyone!”

There was a collective cheer, and when the bartender had obliged, Eli raised his non-alcoholic drink and said, “A toast to Marx- live fast, die young! Drink up!”

“To Marx!” They shouted. Drinks were chugged, and belches rang from all around.

And on that night, everyone at Chubby’s was equal. Whether they were stupid or smart, skinny or fat, evangelical or agnostic, drunk or sober; they all united as one.

Eli may have lost everything, but there was no better way to start over. Who said it was wrong to make mistakes? If you never dig yourself into a hole, there’s no way to learn how to climb back out of one. That, decided Eli- pausing to belch himself- was an excellent philosophy to live by.

Hey guess what?

2008-06-22T12:34:00.000-07:00

Yeah so my book of poems has been out for a few months now on Maverick Duck Press' website. It's called "P.S. IOU".
It costs five bucks.
Product placement?
Maybe.
The point: Do It.

problem of reaching out

2008-06-22T12:16:00.000-07:00

what's your
cause and
affect
when you cry
out
cry wolf
spatter tears
to get you
noticed
some of us
believe
your lies
and
some of us see
it's wrong
in itself

(c) Caitlin C.

devotion is dead

2008-06-15T14:35:00.000-07:00

when did my ardor

surprise you?

did it leap forth in the

calm

of the night

or spindle its way into

your mind

your useless head

cracked like an open seam

in my eyes

only the shattered remnants

of love remain

you are my cold Michelangelo

looking up

while I stare mercilessly down

on you

a thin cage

2008-06-15T14:33:00.001-07:00

dignity stomped

under the balls

of defeat

America was being crushed

by a thin

cage

while page after

page

of glossy

ghosts

mocked my slow

heart

red hands

white noise

blue eyes

a quiet evening in hell

2008-02-06T20:14:00.000-08:00

I hung up
my life was slowly going
nowhere
and I wondered where the
time went
I had a vague feeling that
I’d been
screwed by life
by everything
so I walked out of there
heard the
epiphany
in my head
said
goodbye on my part
all stopped abruptly
while death trembled
to take me

(c) Caitlin C.

goodbye is only we’ll see

2008-01-11T20:11:00.000-08:00

when I sat up you were
there, waiting for me
and I shadowed the
smile on your face
so now we both smile
with each other
a wave that rolls
around a bank
there is still the sand of the country
in your toes
the sun, the
poverty,
and clicking bugs you
avoid as you step
I am the clean pavement
a luxury
I crush
roaches
squeal in motion with the
water
this wave has
rolled right over
your sobered eyes
are still squinting
I can almost see the
crows feet
it breaks
and crashes
on the shore

(c) Caitlin Crowley

I don’t know, please

2008-01-11T20:09:00.001-08:00

why do I clean the messy
rat-tails in the evening
when all I want to do is
lie in the cluttered piles of
papers with your name and smell
steam blend with your hair
the shy girl never fades away,
your desperate friend forgiving our speechless grip
there are moonlit nights when my voice is raspy and
I am awake and jeering
there it is
the ugly reminder of what happened to us
I’m shaking my fist at some
sick cusp of reality
you’ll never know that
I keep these things on a
lockdown with the key burnt dead
we could be wasting time
together
but instead you fish sadness from
the pools of your eyes and I waste it
alone
don’t
leave, don’t turn away
just stay, just be here
one time is all
I have courage to ask for

(c) Caitlin C.

this strange name graffiti

2007-12-09T10:54:00.000-08:00

so you scraped your name
into the wood
on this table
i’m sitting at
why
the
hell
would you do that?
and on the door
on my
way out
somewhere else-
there it was again!
you have a knack for
irrelevant graffiti
and
damn,
your name seems to be
wherever I go

(c) Caitlin C.

"We don’t notice any time pass" and "the abstract pelvis"

2007-11-30T21:47:00.000-08:00

I can’t relate
I can’t relate
and sometimes I just
miss everything we were
I want to tell you everything
but I don’t
want to scare you away
stay here
with me together

You are the flash of sun under my eyelids
A tea light’s kiss of flame
I wish my bones could show
you the sky
And each hole show you
the moon
instead of this flesh that
I rot with my own eyes
Rocking back and forth on my heels I see
girls with skintight
faces and no room
to breathe
flowing before me,
I know my eyes
are rolled back
like their heads
eating away at me
eating
burning myself with the
hot tip of
gritting teeth
splitting hairs
shrinking muscles in my
arms, end
this cry of my
stupid ignorant soul

(c) Caitlin C.

it’s just that sometimes I feel

2007-11-24T21:17:00.000-08:00

I felt the blood
spreading and cracking over
my arms and legs
it was warm like
skin
and I felt it inside without
a pulse, it sat and
waited like
a constricting scarf
on my waist
on my chest
all along my body,
it was wrapped
and his breathing corpse felt
weary and wrongly tied my
wrists to the ground
struggling out a
sputtering, wet cough
never finishing this thing we left
unsaid, and everything unraveled
things were over and
not one thing had happened
inconclusive, our bodies lay
moonlit and mangled and
we never knew

(c) Caitlin C.

Heart of a lusty survivor

2007-11-20T22:25:00.000-08:00

They were puzzled
and lists poured from their faces
reasoning why and how
but certainly never
who
they pondered the
Stabs in the lungs
And words after the last breath
there seemed to be specialists
in every trade
but try as they might
they couldn’t explain
bed sores from a terrible
dream and a soul
that readily would
palpitate
for no one in particular they
dissected
no one in particular thought of
respect
the heart laid on a table
smelling like scent of regret
shook as it undressed its remains
for nothing but one struck-
one embrace and forget
a last minute
love, and a
speechless transplant

(c) Caitlin C.

mind games are for one player

2007-11-18T14:25:00.000-08:00

i am
speeding on a
white train to nowhere
i want my voice
while your
head
screams of
confusion
i want words you
see, alighted in smoke
i want ashes on your pillowcase,
sprinting in a circle
crying out emotion!
i want
you can
look in my head
i put you there to be
alone with me
so we blind reality
curtains on our eyes
mirrored faces in the grave-
slope of a crevassed brain encased-
not even a haze can show through
i am speeding
but it’s getting me
nowhere
somehow i am you

(c) Caitlin C.

Speaking of those who copy John Lennon

2007-11-11T18:42:00.000-08:00

The amazing think about life is: you can do pretty much whatever you want. Albeit, somethings will get you killed, like if you decide to try and fly, or swim in a pond filled with particularily pissed-off pirahnas. But my main point is, I can do what I want. And today I've decided to take a risk and put two, count 'em, two posts on my blog. What now?

It seems like every day
I write about the past
It gets worse and
You get
Worse
and my friends
Swear about the
ugly boys who broke their heart
and I smile and
Think
About
You
for a while,
and defend your every
move
even the moves
that seemed play out like wizard chess
and crush me as such
but friends don’t understand
everything
especially when they all care more
about their own lives and
secret love
for sheep-dog
Asian boys
so while I cynically comment
on your life
and all
I usually just smile
and write about
the past
that keeps getting worse
as the future looks better

(c) Caitlin C.

if you have to ask, you'll never know

2007-11-11T18:29:00.000-08:00

we are in the burning prairie
dying in the burning prairie
as evil girls with brown
curls cry about the jello in their hair
and the chlorine in their brain
accustomed to a
stalkerish following and
a need for dirty
fingernails
what doesn’t make sense
what only makes you feel
and you’re not sure if that’s ok
or if you’re ok
or what ok really means
but if we sit together in these flames
and die holding hands cracked with cold
we can’t be forgotten
you won’t even remember
the time, it’ll go faster
as we breathe with the heat
when we’re among this ranting
spur of characters
who want us to live
who lead us to die

(c) Caitlin C.

THIS IS NOT A TITLE

2007-11-07T22:11:00.000-08:00

Actually it is a title. I needed this out of my system, I guess. So here we go.

I’m a girl
who
will settle
rather than
deal
with
conflict
you’ve seen my side with
bouncing legs, crazy
and serene-
you wrote that to
me on the outside
of my note
to you
and you’ve read
every
pleading
poem
they are addressed
and mailed to
you
you, who never
replied but to say a
kind word
what if I
wrote “I love you”?
I can’t imagine
how you
would respond
or even
us, anymore
I write this
so as
not
to confuse
to
you
you
you

(c) Caitlin C.

"Baby, remember on the bus and my hand was on your knee? When you love somebody it's hard to think about anything but to breathe. Baby, I am the cub who was washed out in the flood. When you love somebody and bite your tongue, all you get is a mouthful of blood."
~Fruit Bats

you know, trees probably do have rumps somewhere under there

2007-11-06T21:17:00.000-08:00

This is about my best buddies from school. When (if) they read it, it'll make sense. Many inside jokes. Or just inside things that aren't very funny. You know what I mean.

a circle of
crossed legs and
binders against
chicken
nuggets
near afro men
to Ben & Jerry's
the
tree hugger-
who transposes Beatles
songs
conned by the Amish
a manic
blonde problem
child, by some definition-
hair resting on
my shoulder,
my sister
I never had
and
a rhyming girl,
who can’t conclude
rhythm and
misses lines
who still thinks
maybe things will work
when her flesh
her blood knows
it won’t
and they
tell
her
so
but in the end
laugh when the
wall hermit
pounds back

(c) Caitlin C.

ps- read the part about you-know-who (and I don't mean Voldemort) in the previous post!

either life has failed me or I’ve failed life

2007-11-05T20:32:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure if I like this one yet... we'll see. There will be changes.

creeping
frictionless atoms
that stalk and walk around
strike hope
with Bukowski’s words of booze
and collapse
I
try to focus
a mind
made up
without success
meat eaters
need rides from
her, she stops
as she finds her
mocha- tainted-
and resolves to drink
the waste
life has not brought up
the topic of it’s
selfish divorce
it’s undermining mind
melting
deflation
but sometimes you just
know,
you’ve been built up
to fail

(c) Caitlin C.

hey look! it’s you without me. drive!

2007-11-04T13:05:00.000-08:00

Chilling! By the way- if you didn't figure this out, the poem titles are the titles of the post... yes yes!

On the cold nights
of clichéd spasm
They pulsed together
in a
hallway they
called
big and long
when they were
fresh inmates in
a cell block
rolling eyes of failed
worshippers
dead lips of pathetic
girls, boys who were
chicken
and men who needed
to grow
The world would stop
that cold night
would become
a fairy tale
and they would rest
In time things would
never
change

(c) Caitlin C.

persona grata paramour

2007-11-02T19:51:00.000-07:00

I think of this poem as an envoi- also known as the end of a poem where the poet addresses the person about which it was written. I know what you're thinking- where's the first part? Answer: I have no idea. An ending... with a missing start!

As unrequited
wretched people
we
mime each other
sinking and shifting
although I hope
we can disregard a minor schism
I can’t stay away
when I love each breath
you draw
pensive stares
see you
pulverized and incomplete
with clear-cut affinity
in a lonely
state of
frenzy
a backward
regress to me-
you have a rogue soul
the ego
of a painted women
but still you are
my heart’s
inamorato

(c) Caitlin C.

worryingly realistic movie plot

2007-11-01T17:37:00.000-07:00

sitting in a boring hour of
calculations and
contemplations
not
on
task
the animal kingdom
leaps to slash the air with
a scratch
I start-
vault from my chair
and launch at a
water buffalo.
she is now
a carcass.
in reality it’s an undercover
job, and much more akin
to homicidal
rumors than
homicide
itself
it surprises me how
literal “social suicide”
becomes in the
wild

(c) Caitlin C.

Hooray for tree metaphors!

2007-10-31T20:36:00.000-07:00

Accusations and Defense

I am not who you
Said I was
I am weak
But you knew that
And instead of letting
me grow like the bark
around a tree
You snapped me while
I was a twig
And when the leaves
Finally fell
Tears stung my face
And chopped like an ax
While you said good bye
You hoped we could- but My hope was crushed
and hacked away
The anticipation was
Perhaps the reason
I never brought it up
Until we ran out of
Things to say
That was when you
Trod over me and I split
Down the middle
But you didn’t, no
You didn’t
Miss my heart
Crack! went that twig
I am broken
I will never grow

(c) Caitlin C.

dreams made of I wish I knew what

2007-10-31T20:25:00.000-07:00

This is a strange poem... basically a compilation of really strange dreams that I somehow remembered enough to write down. Here it is.

they speak
in waterlogged
whispers, squeezing
tightly, stubborn
syndications
stand
reciting words of
spite in rhythm
skim lattes
hot breath
cracking ridges
with no bones
finally a happy member
recalls my psychotic
creeping, closer to
the end
and
the morning spits in my eyes
to clutch with
force perverse
happiness
left to scour a
melting pot
so full
of fish
that
they’re right
and left
alone

(c) Caitlin C.

revolutions on the dance floor

2007-10-27T22:58:00.000-07:00

just when I’ve
finally let a gasp of air
escape, the claws of
your soul
scratched me with a smile
buried within acid
marching men
my heart is filled with
curved corners
retching in
delight, and miserably
blinking over my
confirmation candle
a swerving getaway that led
to the confinement of that air,
that whisp of wind and air
now enclosed and remembering
the faint essence
your weakling smile
that melts me
my downfall
like a moth that burns
over a heinous flame

(c) Caitlin C.

Elm Tree Statistics

2007-10-23T21:14:00.000-07:00

Four letters were
Carved into the trunk of the elm
A scraggly, narrow heart
Closed around them like a cupped palm
Other calligraphy seems to blossom
When the sun
Shines on the page
And soaks in each teardrop
Of rain
I slam the weeping door,
Barefoot walk across
The grass
To the trunk of the elm
Until the old promise seems
Like a statistic
When a couple became a crowd
When the letters spread
Into a page

(c) Caitlin C.

Algebra II

2007-10-22T18:00:00.001-07:00

This has nothing to do with Algebra, although it does have to do with my Algebra class. I was incredibly bored today- too bored to focus on applying properties of roots with rational exponents, and yet somehow focused enough to write a rather random poem.

Make room for Jesus!

An excess of styrofoam
whitewashed and
frantic
crazed students with
lonely eyes scribble and
tear papers
due in
five minutes
shaking as they’re passed
hand to hand
information to scarf and forget
Hey,
Did you
hear?
A venomous intermission
They were grinding
at a church
dance
Not surprised
heads roll back to cram
Unused dishrooms
hide them-
with one eye
drifting
towards the
other side

(c) Caitlin C.

Anyone interested in sending me some poetry?

2007-10-21T14:13:00.000-07:00

Hey, people- if any of you are thinking you want to send me some poetry I would love to read it and post it. The email you should send it to is csquaredpoems@yahoo.com with the poems pasted into the main body of the email.
Great!

~Caitlin C.

The janitor is eavesdropping

2007-10-21T14:02:00.000-07:00

It's always interesting for me to write a poem and not really know where I'm going with it. Sometimes I'll think I have this brilliant idea, and then when I write it down it sounds like shit. Poems like this one are cool to look back on and think about what it meant to me when I wrote it and what it means to me now. It can be completely different. Hopefully you'll find some meaning in it.

I told you a story
There were sharp corners
dark hallways
And scuffed vans
battles turn to blisters
white eyes bleed red
forgive me
just listen

Now thousands of seconds
I can count them all
The lights have gone out
I stay and wait
tables turned
feet cocked high on a stool
pound down the stairs
I’ve been here for hours
losing track of the hours

paperback
Money’s expense
dreams I feared to lose
you don’t need anyone
They need me that way
I can’t finish without knowing
what it all means
I can’t finish
So I’ve
been counting
the hours

I am to him what McDonalds is to her

2007-10-20T10:09:00.000-07:00

Before you read this poem, you should just know what it's about, because I'd like the readers to know. Generally I enjoy chuckling to myself as you all fumble with the underlying meaning of my poems, but this one merits some explanation. I just renamed this poem "I am to him what McDonalds is to her" because 1) I think it's a more interesting title, and 2) I fooled you, the title doesn't mean what you think it does. Unfortunately for you, McDonalds is not a restaurant. Rather, he is not a restaurant *nudge nudge*. Anyways, if I don't shut up soon someone is likely to pop up and ninja-kick me, so without further ado, here's the poem. Have fun with that!

I am to him what McDonalds is to her

It all gets to me
and seems a little
condescending
forgive me for
my presumptions
I call ‘em
like
I see ‘em
you put up a
wall of
defense like
a master of the
dojo
spontaneity confuses
all the
watching
eyes
and they glare
with each
shrug
of reaction
and each bead
of stubborn perspiration
but still
it gets to me
you seem to
have this
planned
I
mean
to
find
out

(c) Caitlin C.

To My Friend

2007-10-19T22:01:00.000-07:00

An incestuous shine in the white of your eye
The barefaced manifesto takes place
Before it begins
Without reflection
Hasty lies travel to an ear
And what I hear isn’t pretty
Waiting for praise like a sad dog
Thought, though it doesn’t occur much, rids
A bitch of purpose
To ruin a conversation
An affiliation
An association, or relationship
Peeling it away like chips in the gutter
Burnt like crumbled sparks
Pieces of bark in the flickering flames
And yet a puppy is so innocent,
So complacent that another
Nearly as smug never existed

Swans are nice; however I prefer ugly ducklings

2007-10-18T21:56:00.000-07:00

You see her weep
hanging onto that black swinging note
the crest toppling beneath the lines
her hunched shoulders
those raspy noises
She cries for her own selfish reasons
Torn up beatniks ramble on
And they all say they love her
but she’s like
a ghost that wants
to go home
Registers and a
Corelli trade off
tired of feeling a pin prick
like a useless sense of pain
Sweeping fermata, nightlong
All the world waited for her as
she played that
last minor scale
they pause to reflect on
her effervescent beauty, her
shaking fists
fingers hobbling on a cold clarinet
a crying soul with
no place- barely even an
ear to borrow

First Blog Post- hope this works!

2007-10-18T21:18:00.000-07:00

Why hello there, whoever happens to be reading this! I'm C^2, and this is basically where I'm planning to paste some of my poems. I'm a young poet, and I've recently been published at a few places including: The Cerebral Catalyst, Thick With Conviction, Chantarelle's Notebook, and I think like two more places but I'm drawing a blank. Anyways that's basically all I can think of right now so there we go! First blog post- woo hoo!

~C^2

betting on the muse

satan gave me a taco- by beck

part 1 of 1

leonard cohen

*number* time's the charm

easy on the eyes

lay me down & don't give in

i don't know who i can talk to now

"the coming of christ" or "american idol is on"

more than anything in the world

to be honest, with you

this is what a feminist looks like

PASSIONATE!!!

that is bleak

tender in its place

it's just so

the teeth behind kisses

placing bets, pt. 2

you used to be forbidden fruit

placing bets, pt. 1

just some lyrics

soft little tears

*sigh*

which direction you headed?

don't fucking read this

THIS IS MY JOB

in the back of my throat, there lies...

bones of our fathers

act 2, scene 3

resist

the damn cookie crumbles

can you make me quiver?

maybe they'll leave you alone

PSEO start of an essay

dammit

moby dicks

hey charlie...

the cool cliche

beautiful yet brief moments

and i'm alone

"Bluish" ~Animal Collective

life is priceless, talk is cheap

age quod agis

owned by this, consumed by this

not a color yet, not a home anymore

rat

beer pong

maybe it's too early for this. but fuck it, i feel it so here it is.

snotty comment

charlie olson in cat form :)

Indecision at high speeds can be fatal- lyrics

the view, taking in you

your silent voice

Hey guess what?

problem of reaching out

devotion is dead

a thin cage

a quiet evening in hell

goodbye is only we’ll see

I don’t know, please

this strange name graffiti

"We don’t notice any time pass" and "the abstract pelvis"

it’s just that sometimes I feel

Heart of a lusty survivor

mind games are for one player

Speaking of those who copy John Lennon

if you have to ask, you'll never know

THIS IS NOT A TITLE

you know, trees probably do have rumps somewhere under there

either life has failed me or I’ve failed life

hey look! it’s you without me. drive!

persona grata paramour

worryingly realistic movie plot

Hooray for tree metaphors!

dreams made of I wish I knew what

revolutions on the dance floor

Elm Tree Statistics

Algebra II

Anyone interested in sending me some poetry?

The janitor is eavesdropping

number time's the charm

sigh