Apocawho?

Man
often thinks of
the end.

Where everything is
dead or
dying or
drowned
in an endless sea
of ash,
of yesterday.

He prepares
everyday
for this
demise.

Forgetting about how
blessed
he is
to be alive
and how
everything is
perfect and
divine.

Immaculate.

His only vision
is
the great
death.

Such horror
ruins
his life,
his family's,
his dog's.

However, these
preparations
are
short lived.

The end never comes.

He will
once again
remember
how sweet it is
to be alive
in the here
and now.

Forgetting about
anything
to do with
the apocalypse.

Just simply enjoying
a cup of tea
on a nice spring day.

That's when
God
arrives.

On a golden pig
with wings that
block out
the sun.

Hooves will
dive down
and knock over
his cup
and spill hot tea
all over
his lap.

The end
he gave up on
soiling
his pants.

Looking For Love

I told her,
I loved her bones.

She laughed.

I told her,
I loved her organs.

She smiled.

I told her,
I loved her blood.

She smirked.

I told her,
I loved her veins.

She was quiet.

I told her,
I loved her so much,
I wanted to be
inside her
and use her like a quilt.

She remained quiet.

I told her,
I'd love to live
inside her
and make her do
awful, evil things
like
set the elderly
on fire
and throw her feces
at infants.

She ran away.

Damn, I thought,
what did I do wrong
now?

I was about to
ask her
to marry
me.

She wanted
to be married
ever since
she was a
child.

I guess
my love
is not
for everyone,
especially those
without
a sense
of humor.

Recess

Leave me in a playground.

Let the kids

poke me

with sticks

and throw rocks

at my head.

Let them 

talk

to me

and become friends

with my corpse.

Let them 

do

whatever

they want 

to me.

What would I care

if I'm dead?

Keep your money.

Spend mine.

I don't need

a fancy funeral

with hundreds of

starving for attention

mourners

crying,

disturbing my soul's

beauty sleep.

No embalming either.

Let the worms

clear me out.

Let the kids

dig the worms

right out of me

and use them

as bait 

to catch fish

with their pedophile uncle.

Do 

absolutely

whatever

you

wish.

Just don't waste anymore 

time

over something 

as useless 

as my corpse.

Another Morning

This morning
was the greatest morning
of my life.

I was hungover,
on the verge of
puking
in an empty bed.

That's when
I saw
the most
pleasant
face
anyone
could ever
wake up to.

She was smiling
and that very
smile
took away all
my sickness.

Her smile,
I'm convinced,
can take away
all
of the sickness
in this world.

Her smile
is the only reason
I want to live
forever.

There is no
greater feeling
than when
her smile
is genuine,
heartfelt,
and directed
right
at
me.

Not only that, but
that smile also
brought me breakfast.

So,
when they assk me
on my death bed
to describe
the greatest morning
of my life,
I'll tell them
to read this poem.

Blind Date

You smell
like a dead person's
fart.

That's what she told me.

I took a whiff.

I did.

I regurgitated
a lil
in my mouth.

Not now,
I thought,
being dead is shitty.

Can you get me some cologne?
I asked politely.

Sure,
she said,
and ran off
inside her house.

I sprayed some on.

Is that better?

She said so,
and took me by the hand
to meet her mother.

She's really nice.

I didn't believe her.

I don't like
blind dates,
dead or alive.

Mommy,
my friend wants to meet you!!

Who is it?!

He's my good friend,
I just met hit
by the train tracks,
his name's Ray.

He's really, really cute.

She came down
and saw me.

I guess I still smelled
because she fainted.

Mommy?

She was obese,
but cute.

I picked her up and carried her
to her bed.

I stuck my tongue
in her mouth.

She moaned.

I groaned.

She opened her eyes,
panic possessed her mouth.

She separated my tongue
from my rotting mouth.

I began to bleed
all over her
rolls.

She liked it,
or at least,
this
is what I told myself.

I pulled down my pants
and tried jerking it
for her.

My skin peeled off.

She ran away in horror.

Anti-whore.

Damn,
I continued in my loathing,
I hate blind dates.

I pulled my pants up
and went to her daughter.

Where's the computer?

Thank you.

I punched in
Match.com
and started filling out
my profile.

Now this is more like it.

At least,
they can't
smell
me.

Picture time!

The Way I Was Meant to Live

My face isn't right.

I need a new one.

One that won't
wrinkle
and only
expresses happiness.

Then,
I can finally
feel good about myself.

I also need a
new dick.

Mine's much too small.

Well I'm at it,
might as well get a new
butthole.

Mine's
much too stinky
and it's
far
too heavy.

I don't like my toes either.

Same with my back.

It has
too many scars.

I might as well
get a new
life.

This one's boring.

There's only
one way
to solve this.

Where's my computer?

Here it is,
google,
ok,
search,
hot air balloons.

Perfect.

Where's my phone?

Here it is,
666-2013,
hello...

Today at 12?

Perfect.

Honey,
I'll be back,
trying something new today...

Excuse me sir,
how high
does this balloon
go?

8,000 feet?

Perfect.

Do you think anybody can
survive?

The fall.

No?

Perfect.

I'll see you miserable fucks
in my next life,
when I'm famous
and beautiful and
rich.

The way I was meant to live.

The Voice

It's strange the way people
talk
to themselves.

They listen
to what they say,
but not really.

They put themselves down
everyday.

It doesn't register,
until
someone else
says the exact same thing.

The words hit them.

Hard.

They don't like it.

They get angry.

Furious.

They fight back.

An explosion
of rage
flies out.

They feel good,
standing up for themselves.

They should.

The next day, however,
they're back at it.

Their voices
stronger.

They say nothing.

No rage,
no pride,
just silence.

Letting their voice
eat away
at their happiness,
their dreams,
their lives
and wonder
what happened,

Not knowing,
the strongest force
in this universe:

Their voice.

I'm Staying

Her neck grew out
longer than
her arms.

Her skin
began to burn
uncontrollably.

I was doing
everything
I could for her,
but nothing worked.

Everybody noticed her
diseased skin
and deformed
neck.

They asked me
why
I'm still
with her.

Leave her.

She's holding you back.

You can do
soooo
much better
than her.

She's changing you.

What's wrong with you?

Nothing.

I love her.

I love her skin.

I love all of her flaws.

They're all I see
and I don't mind.

She doesn't mind either.

We live without any worries,
why are you
so concerned about
us?

Are we somehow
making
your life
worse?

Do us a favor
and stay out
of our business.

We'll be just fine
without you.

Perhaps,
even better.

Is that
clear enough for you?

Good.

I have to go
and rub ointment
on her skin
and massage
her neck.

ER Talk

They're barbecuing my grandpa's eyeball.

What?

He was squirting blood
everywhere,
so they have to burn it
to stop the bleeding.

I have methadone
if he wants some.

I'll ask him,
why are you here?

My teeth are falling out.
They hurt so fucking bad.

Maybe it's you
who needs methadone.

I took a vicodin
and I have a valium
when that wears out.

You're all set,
I guess.

Yeah, but it still
hurts.

You have insurance?

Yes,
but not dental.

Say goodbye to your teeth.

Jessie,
is Jessie here?

Right here.
Listen man,
nice talking to you.
If you need any
weed or meth or methadone,
let me know.

Sure dude,
thanks.

Take care.

You too.

On the Side of the Road

Here's the keys.

You can have them.

You can
control
my life.

I'm tired of it.

I'm tired of hearing that
you know
what's best
for me,
I'm tired of hearing that
you know
the right
answer.

Have the fucking keys.

Shut the fuck up
and drive.

Things will be
a lot
easier.

Keep driving
until you find
someone else
you can
control
and leave me
on the side of the road.

Where I belong.

Eliminating Darkness

The sun didn't rise today.

It forgot about us.

The darkness didn't.

It's
addicted
to us.

It wants our souls.

To eat our
precious
happiness
alive.

To suck up
our smiles
and spit
back out
waste.

To make us
believe
the sun
will never
rise
again.

But it will take
a millennia of shadows
to stop us.

We are indestructible.

We
have the power
to destroy
the darkness.

To shit
on its face
and remove it
from the sky.

We don't even
have to try.

We'll just breathe
and the wind from
our
breath
will do
the rest.

The sun will rise.

Simple as that.

The End of The Road

Somewhere
someone's
searching.

For love,
for a fight,
for peace,
for a father,
for nothing,
numbness.

I'm searching too.

I'm lost
in a maze
of my own
clouded
judgement.

It feels as if
I know everything,
but I know
I know
nothing.

Nothing.

That's what I should be
searching for.

It's so easy.

It's time to give up.

Call in the bloodhounds.

The search is over.

It's time to appreciate
the smallest, greatest
wonder
in the world:
LIFE.

Just An Idea

She's the nicest
racist
I've ever met.

She once gave me
20 bucks,
with tears
in her eyes
just because
I was
working hard.

That same night,
she was talking to me about how
a black girl
got in front of her
and blocked her view
at a concert
20 years ago.

She's still
holding a grudge.

Still.

Seems
ridiculous
to me.

But,
there's no judgement
here.

She's taught me
invaluable lessons
like how to enjoy
where you're at
instead of
being miserable.

Now,
partly because of her,
I have fun
at work.

I never thought
I'd every say that
and I've got
the nicest racist
I've ever met
to thank for this.

Who knows
where
my next life lesson
might come from?

Maybe a blind albino
might
teach me how to
bird watch
and the miracle behind their
flight.

Maybe...

I just have to be
open
to it.

Maybe you should
too...

It beats keeping yourself
in a
self loathing
misery camp.

Just an idea.

Peace For All

Entering
her vagina
is like
entering
into the gates
of heaven.

Angels
strum on harps,
the sun
shines
eternally,
pure bliss
enters
my scrotum.

When I'm done,
I cum
on the angels
and
the clouds
and
soak them
with love.

I want her heaven
to get
pregnant.

I want her
to have
thousands
of heavens.

Just so
everyone
can experience
the same
ecstasy
I get to
experience
for a couple of
minutes,
or maybe
just a minute,
each and
every day.

Describing You?

Never fear being
out-casted.

Never fear being
different.

Be as weird
as you can be.

So strange,
you scare
the shit
out of them.

Soon,
they'll have no idea
how to deal
with you,
let alone their
misconstrued
judgments
of you.

They will do
everything
in their power
to make you
conform.

It's preposterous.

Don't give in.

Let them suffer.

Let yourself soar.

It's the only way
to live.

Try another way.

I dare you.

You will fail.

Listen to me,
listen clearly,
it's better to be
humiliated,
than it is
to actually
be
one
of these
terrified
addlepates.

Look it up.

Earwig Eggs

It's happening.

Depression crept into
her crib.

Disguised as an earwig,
it crawled into her
brain.

There,
it laid its eggs.

18 years later,
they are now
hatching.

Blossoming madness.

Eating away
her happiness.

I took her
to the hospital
last night.

We laughed
and played around
just like
when I used to
babysit her.

But,
I could
feel
them.

I could actually
see them
behind her eyes.

Feasting.

There's still time
to get them
out.

I have hydrogen peroxide.

I am ready.

I will burn those
fuckers out.

I'd rather see her
go blind,
then see her
go mad.

I'll have to do
it
in her sleep.

But there isn't
much
I can do
now.

Another egg has just
hatched.

Changing Faces

I bet you
she's tired
of the faces.

But
she doesn't
show it.

Everyday
she watches
as the couples
come in.

They're in love,
completely in love,
overwhelmed with its
intoxication.

She imagines them
contorting in
temporary ecstasy
behind thin walls,
behind thinner lies.

The faces change.

Drunk with misery
and jealousy,
eyes glossed over,
slurred remarks
of delusional memories.

The faces turn
their ugliest.

The mask of love
removed.

The couples leave,
sometimes together,
back behind their thin walls,
their thinnest lies.

She closes up,
tired,
only to go back
to her own
misery.

She returns
the next day
to do it over
again.

I bet you
she's tired
of the faces.

But,
she's a pro.

I've never seen her
show it.

The Dying Dream

There's a constant
threat
of murder
in my sleep.

An unknown evil
that lurks
inside me.

It's hands
strangle me
when I dream.

I don't mind.

I'd rather
perish
in my sleep,
fuck
getting sawed in half.

But,
please don't kill me
when I'm dreaming
of work.

I can see my afterlife:
Me
in lingerie,
sticking hypodermic needles
in my veins,
filling them with
scolding hot oil,
feeling it
as it runs
through my body
and come out
of my
cock,
ass, mouth, nose,
and eyes.

Customers yelling at me,
telling me
they want to see
the manager
and tell him how
unsatisfactory
my customer service skills are.

Still I try to help,
but the pain is so
excruciating
I can barely
move,
I just stand there
watching myself
die
this morbid
death.

Then,
the manager finally comes
and tells me
I'm fired.

But I can't leave.

My feet have melted
to the ground
and I begin to
defecate
and urinate
all over myself.

The dream never dies.

Neither do I.

On second thought,
wake me up
and saw me
in half.

The Way

We asked him
to take us
to a nice bar,
one where
there'd be
loose women
and strong drinks.

He knew the perfect place.

He dropped us off
and sped off
with our money
in hand.

We walked in,
the place looked
decent
enough.

There were
women
in there,
it just so happened
they all had
dicks.

We were very
fortunate though,
the drinks were
strong,
so we stayed
and very seldom
used the bathroom.

But we ended up
having a blast
there.

Hell,
I'd live there
and give a few
handjobs,
here and there,
I'd even
dress up
and parade and puke
around the bar.

I guess I'd live
anywhere
there wasn't much
drama
around.

Just me and the boys
drinking,
laughing,
not giving a fuck
about tomorrow
or whether or not
we're catering
to someone else's
expectations.

The way
it should
always
be.

Lost Dreams of Rain

I remember the
north.

The first time.

I remember hearing suicide
rates
and how unbelievably
high
they were.

They still are.

Though,
I had my doubts.

Sunshine wasn't
that
good.

Until,
depression replaced its
rays.

Heavier than oceans.

Upon my precious skull.

The rain
kept it
there
for 90 days
straight.

Fucking 90 fucking days.

I got used to
the darkness.

My heart
held it
close,
stitching it
inside
itself
and feeding it
life.

When the sun
finally
broke through,
I wanted it
covered
and hidden away
from my darkness.

It's rays made me
depressed.

I
no longer
longed
for its comfort.

And now,
I dream of rain
washing my soul,
drowning my
illusions.

And now,
I know
I will never
taste its
purity
again.

The stitches are
sorely
coming
undone.

Better Than Death

Hangovers are amazing.

I enjoy
everything
about them:
the puking,
the headaches,
the bodyaches,
and
going to work
with one,
makes 'em
that much better.

I wish
I was hungover
all the time.

Some people
would rather be
dead
than to endure
the torture
that comes after
drinking all night
and through the next
day,
shot after
shot,
beer after
beer.

NOT ME.

If I'm alive
in the morning,
then give me
some aspirin
and coffee and
bring
it
on.

Yeah,
you bitch,
bring
it
on.

Embrace the Mystery

I should have worked less.

I wish I could have spent more time with my family.

I regret not making up with her.

I wish I never took him for granted.

Why am I so alone?

I could have done more with my time.

I spent too much of my life in front of the tv.

I would have done something significant if I wasn't constantly on my computer.

I could have had a meaningful conversation with a stranger, if I wasn't so consumed with texting.

Should a, would a, could a,
all the same
last thoughts
of dead fools.

None of these thoughts will enter
my mind
when the lights
go out.

If I die young,
if I die old,
if I die violently,
it's the only way
I was meant
to go out.

That's perfectly fine with me.

There's absolutely nothing
we can do about it.

Stop trying,
quit complaining,
forget your regrets,
spit on your sorrows,
embrace the mystery
hidden inside
each and every moment.

Now.

Visiting Soon

Politics is in the air.

My eyes, ears, and dreams
are being suffocated
by this bullshit.

I already
have enough on my plate
to even
begin
to give a fuck about
who's gonna be
the next president
or mayor.

Either way,
we're fucked.

What matters?

They say love...

The madness
of everybody's
obsession
only eats away
at my flesh.

I'd rather die alone.

Others say money...

The debt collectors
haunt me.

They want me
to live in the streets
and drink my own piss
for supper.

No thank you.

What does really matter
to me?

I've been trying
to figure that out
all my life.

Maybe I'll take up
male prostitution
or maybe
I'll come to your house
and...

Such Shit

He was short,
extremely shy,
and pretty wide.

He smelled of petroleum jelly.

Not exactly
what I was expecting a
heavy weight champion
to look like.

Well,
he used to be one.

Anyway,
the whole
situation
was weird.

It's always bizarre
when you meet a
celebrity,
especially one as infamous as
Mike Tyson.

What do you say to the guy?

I mean,
he has this
ridiculous
tattoo on his face
and he could kick
the living shit out of me
if I said
anything
about IT,
to top it off,
he just got out of
Wal-Mart,
of all places.

I mean
seriously,
what the fuck
do you say
to these people?

Television
and actors
and actresses
are GODS,
IMMORTAL.

To most.

Such shit.

The Last Option

Poisoned
by everyday
life.

They even say
love
can make me
forget.

It only
makes it
worse.

My woman can
barely
afford to take the bus
to see me.

When we do see
each other,
all we want to do is
drink,
to try and
forget
our sorrows,
but we just end up
screaming our love
away.

Taking the madness
of the world
out
on each other.

There's no rest
for us.

Only struggle.

We need a break.

We need
a cure
for this
poison.

It's not going to happen.

They're looking
for new ways
to poison
us
everyday
and they're very
creative.

We might as well
quit trying,
quit fighting
all the time,
and start
celebrating.

It seems like
the only
good
option
left.

Don't you agree?

My Grandmother's Cry

Never
have I ever
heard
her cry
before.

It was so sad
and hopeless.

The phone had just
rang,
it was someone
from the hospital.

My aunt died.

"They said,
she was getting
better."

She didn't have a chance.

None of us do.

We all
have to watch
each other
die.

We have to live
with these tragedies
for the rest
of our lives.

Not me.

From now on,
I'm unplugging the phone
and if someone
dies,
I'll pretend as if
they have just moved
to Mars
and have gotten themselves
an alien queen
with 12 vaginas.

That way,
I'll never
have to ever
hear her cry
again.

She Only Said One Thing

She loves me.

She accepts me
for who
I
am.

She even loves my
uncircumcised
cock.

It loves her back.

My cock
wants to
marry her.

Now I do.

It's the strangest
feeling
I've ever
felt.

But it's the greatest
I've ever
felt
too.

The world makes sense
with her,
even when we are
both
confused.

Everything is beautiful
because of her.

There is no more
time
to waste.

I must die
now
before it all
ends.

Only a fool
would believe
it could last
forever.

But never
have I ever
wanted anything
more.

The next chapter
awaits us
and the fear
of it all
is behind
me.

She only said
she love me.

Please

Bodybag,
he said,
put me
in a bodybag and
drop me
in a hole.

He had the right
idea.

No sense
dragging on.

No sense in
living old
and constantly
complaining,
habitually making
everybody's
ears
menstrate.

He was right,
I believed him.

Die
when the time
comes.

Live
right here
in this moment
with me
n
o
w.

Complain
when they
zip
you
up.

Please.

I'm running
out of
rags.

This Dream's Not Over

In the night sky
a galaxy
explodes.

The bright fire shines
in my eyes
and disappears.

Like that.

I think to myself,
we could be here
and gone.

Like that.

All of our mistakes,
murders,
and miscommunications,
erased.

Sounds nice.

Then again,
I want to continue to
make mistakes.

I don't want
this dream
to end.

We have no choice.

We must let everything
go.

All lives must
be
erased.

Others can watch
in silence
and think,
for a second,
they
still
have a chance
to make
one last
mistake.

I walk on
pursuing
mine.

They Had Snake Eyes

My idols were
madmen.

They fucked every woman
they could.

Some men too.

They submerged their hearts
and souls
in vices
and flames.

They even destroyed lives.

But I had no one
else
to turn to.

My father was fictional
and just like fiction,
I made up
everything
about him.

Never once
seeing
into his eyes.

But these men,
were not made up.

They were there.

For me,
for countless bastards
wandering alone
in dirty underwear.

They never let
anybody
down.

They knew
what is what like
to be lost.

They knew what
failure
was
and they laughed
at it all.

That's the only
way to live.

Just a roll
of the dice.

Snake eyes
is what I
prefer.

The First Time

The room was green,
the smell of incense
covered my hands,
which were holding
a nudie magazine.

I stole it.

From a dumpster.

There was mold
on the pages,
and women,
naked and real,
or paper,
exposing their most precious
parts
to me.

I worked at it,
sweat began to appear,
I worked and worked,
until,
I felt
very
strange.

I felt like I was
dying,
like my soul was
elevating.

Pools of white
shot out
of my floating
wiener
and mixed in
with the mold.

I was finally
at peace.

Then,
reality
struck.

My mom called out for me.

Dinner was ready.

I didn't even know
how to clean up
the mess.

Sunday Funday

It was early.

We were all hungover.

The only cure:
hair of the dog.

Mimosas to be exact.

We went through pitchers.

I don't remember
past noon.

Here's what I've been told-

I was stumbling
downtown,
climbing the streetlights,
scaring the sober and innocent
with threats of
beheadings and castrations.

I was a monster.

Allegedly.

I eventually made it
to my friend's house.

I was talking
nonsense,
just being a drunken fool.

I decided to leave.

I had to pee.

Her neighbors stopped me
for a nice friendly
chat.

I still had to pee.

I did so
in my pants
right in the middle
of our conversation
and didn't stop
till
I was finished.

I acted as if nothing was happening.

It was.

They were appalled.

I ran off.

To where?

I don't remember.

I just recall
waking up,
in my cousin's room,
and my friend
came up
and we laughed
and watched
It's Always Sunny.

Because it always is
on Sunday
Funday.

The Songs of a Sad Child

I've been dreaming
of her
since
I was a boy.

I'd imagine her
cooking me food,
naked.

I'd create fantasies
of her
licking my balls
and massaging my back
after a hard day's work.

I'd dream every day
of her
and search and search
and search.

I'd find girls
and I'd cry and listen to
sad, sad songs
every time
some young slut
broke my pathetic heart.

 But....

I'd also be
excited
because I knew
she was getting
closer.

I could feel
her
in my heart.

Every step of my life.

I knew
I was with her
this past weekend.

We've been together
for three years now.

We've gone through
many, many
sad and
bad
and some of the best moments
of our lives
together.

This time,
we were in
San Francisco,
staying in a cheap motel room,
right above a
cheap strip club.

She cried
just like I dreamed
when I was a boy.

I put my arms around her
exactly
like I remembered
I would.

I knew
right then,
she was
the woman
of my dreams.

I smiled
and it seemed
like an odd time
to do so.

She just didn't know.

I knew.

I could see
the future
just like
when I was young.

We fought
again
later,
but I didn't seem
to mind
as much as I
used to.

I knew
that every fight
we've fought
has brought us
closer
to our dream:

Our marriage.

It's all I've ever dreamed about
since I was listening
to those
sad, sad songs.

It's Time For a Change

I went outside
to get a drink.

I saw my uncle, Mike,
sitting there,
staring at me.

He was smiling
like I've never seen him
before,
as if
he didn't have
a care
in this world.

He didn't.

Because in my dream,
he was a ghost.

It didn't make any sense.

I was completely shocked.

I couldn't take my eyes off him.

He laughed
and gave me a hug.

Our souls connected.

For, what I felt,
was the first time.

I could feel his energy,
his entire being
warming up
my sad soul,
telling me,
everything's gonna be alright.

I believed him.

Never
have I ever
felt such a joy,
such a wonder,
such comfort,
from a simple
touch.

It was just a hug.

We don't do this,
now.

It makes me wonder,

why?

This is our life.

This is our time.

We need to connect

NOW.

Not in some dream,
or at a funeral.

RIGHT NOW.

We can and
we will.

I will make it
MY
responsibility
to make sure
this happens,
to make sure
ALL
of those around me
feel loved.

We owe ourselves this much.

Not much will come
from the way
we've been acting
so far.

It's time
for a change.

The Last and Only Birthday Card

The ocean
is the greatest wonder
of life.

In death,
it is our home.

The great migration
to the other side
is in the
deep blue.

I have not witnessed this.

Many
with an unfortunate
curse
have.

They watch
as thousands
with their heads split open,
stomachs torn out,
souls mutilated,
dive into the waves.

Right now,
I wonder,
is this where my aunt
is heading?

Is she making
her final journey
with the rest?

I don't know.

I don't have
the curse.

I don't want it.

But, if I did,
I'd follow her
and make sure
her final view
of this world
is the most gorgeous sunset
she's ever seen.

It's the least
I could do,
considering
I never once
gave her a
birthday card.

Screaming at the Universe

I was hungover.

Bad.

I felt like puking
everywhere,
covering every inch of
sunlight
with my bile.

Instead,
the sun scorched
my skin
and fried
my idiot brain.

I kept on.

A tunnel was coming up,
a break from the heat,
but I could hear
madness
escaping from its
shadows.

There was no way around it.

I entered...

His name,
I don't remember,
his face,
red,
his eyes,
red,
his breath,
worse than mine,
his hands
bloody
and holding a beer.

He offered me one.

I accepted.

His words were
incoherent,
but I got the message.

Life is worthless.

Yet we keep going.

To what,
I don't know.

I threw up
after we departed.

I could hear him
screaming
at the universe.

There's really
not much else
anybody
can do.

Eternal Agony

All their lives
they had to struggle
through a miserable
existence.

Now this...

Their souls
held prisoner
in
eternal agony.

There is too much
I do not
understand.

How could
such a horrifying
dimension
exist?

What does it all mean?

If the afterlife
is
worse than our
horrible jobs,
credit,
prisons,
then,
why on earth
would anybody
want to
die?

I no longer want to die.

I love this place.

I love my life.

I love that
I
have the power
to create
eternal bliss
right here
in this dimension.

This much
I do understand.

Nothing else really matters.

The Stoned Comedian

I remember
the first time
I smoked out of a
bong.

I threw up.

My friend packed
the whole
bowl.

Weed to the brim.

Good shit too.

He lit me up
and told me
to
suck.

I did.

It was relentless.

I couldn't breathe.

My eyes were ablaze.

The sound of the water
bubbling
drove me
fucking nuts.

The bowl
at last
snapped.

I coughed
and coughed
and coughed.

My lungs were smoldering.

It was awful.

I was as high
as a motherfucker.

I immediately
ran to the sink.

I drank
and drank
and drank.

Straight from the faucet.

I threw it back up.

I threw up again.

And again.

Somehow hiding it
from my friend,
or whatever he
claimed to be.

Next stop:
Taco Bell.

I threw up again.

This time,
in front of
everybody.

Their laughter shook my puke.

The whole place
stood up
and applauded my
act.

I was the stoned comedian.

Always will be
to them.

I hope
they are
still
getting a good laugh
now.

If not,
I can make myself
throw up.

It's no big deal.

It's my forte.

I Have a Stapler, If You Need Assistance

Colored people,
she called them.

They hold a grudge.

She pointed to the
colored man
with her wrinkled
finger.

I could feel it
through her
light
blue eyes.

She was serious.

She always is,
but this time,
she meant
business.

She even went into
a rant,
of course,
after he left,
about how a
colored lady
got in front of her and her family
at a show
in Venice Beach.

30 years ago.

The colored lady
gave her a
look,
as she said it,
and danced
as if to
mock her.

30 years ago.

Talk about holding a grudge.

I really didn't
pay her
much
attention.

My only curiosity was,
I wonder what
she is
really
saying?

I had to deal 
with one of 
them
today.

A nigger?

Yes. 

I 
fucking 
hate 
them.

Maybe she doesn't.

My overactive imagination
can get the best of me
sometimes.

But I will never know.

Never want to.

There's no more room left
in my mind
for any more
stupidity.

On that level.

So why doesn't
everybody
who thinks
like this,
do us all
a favor:

Shut your mouth.

I have a stapler,
if you need
assistance.

Thinking Positive

What do
the homeless do
when they have
cancer?

I honest
don't know.

Do they just
die?

What about
the poor,
the struggling,
those with
2 jobs
and bills
piled high
above their crumbling roofs?

They lose their hair
even without chemo.

What's next?

Their precious sanity?

How the hell
do they keep
it
anyways?

There's a lady
I work with,
have been
for the past 3 years.

We've grown close.

I'd consider her
my good friend,
someone I care for
and love
and now,
she has a rare form
of tit cancer.

She's had it for 5 years!

She's never had enough
time,
between 2 jobs and
2 kids,
to go to the doctor
to get examined.

Now it's here.

Along with her
diabetes,
heart condition,
worsening knees,
and wounded soul.

Did I mention,
she's just become a
new grandmother?

At the rate
she's going,
she won't live long.

She won't see him grow up.

I will make it
my personal responsibility
to make sure
he knows
about his grandma.

About how hilarious
she is,
about how wonderful
she is,
about how she never
took any shit
from anybody,
about how much
she will be missed
if she loses this fight.

She won't.

She loves him too much.

She's a tough fucker.

I won't have to
tell her grandson
anything.

She will do it
herself.

Mark my words.

I know it.

I hope.

My Decal

They have decals
for everyone
when they die.

The decals
can be seen
on the back of
loved ones' or friends'
cars.

They might say something like,
"RIP Bob Cock 6/6/06-6/7/06,"
or
"In loving memory of Chave N. Twat,
you were a good whore."

Not mine.

My decal will have
a picture
of a pencil
sitting on a toilet,
taking a massive shit,
with eraser dust clouds
around it
and above
it will say,
"Ray Gay."

That's it.

Nothing fancy.

It sums up
my life.

It may be sad
to some,
it might be stupid
to others,
but to those
who know me,
know
I never really
gave a fuck
about
any of that.

Hence,
my decal.

Read it and weep
while I laugh
and shit
in my own
grave.

Ha!

A Pro

Have you ever been
woken up by
raindrops?

Lightly kissing your skin
and wetting
your pants
while you
wet them
as well?

Above
clouds meet your
rusted, hungover,
opening eyes?

You see your phone
perfectly set
next to you
without a sign of life
in it?

Dusting yourself off,
realizing the reality
of the entire situation?

You've slept outside
right next to your house
in a small patch
of grass and bugs?

What happened last night?

Are you dead?

It sure feels like.

It's a preference anyways.

How is it that
nobody
saw you
or thought
you were
dead?

Maybe you really are...

Now you're dreaming
you're still alive
and drunk?

There's nothing
you can do about it
now.

Just keep on
keeping on,
I guess?

Maybe
have a jerk
and take a nap
and try to
forget
to wake up?

Maybe quit drinking
for awhile?

Maybe not?

Get in your bed
and sleep it off
the way
a real pro
would do it...

Can I Borrow $20?

They denied me.

A loan
for $20.

Not much,
but they wouldn't
give it
to me.

Reasons being:
My outstanding
delinquencies.

Loans
on top of
loans.

Money
never meant a thing
to me.

Just an
insurmountable
burden
that has caused me
much sorrow and
depression.

I just
don't seem
to get
it.

I thought
I might
go to college
get an education
and be able
to pay these fucking things
off.

With ease.

I can
barely
afford to buy
beer, even then,
just enough
to make me forget,
just enough
to make me feel
rich
in my mind,
just for a moment
or two.

Just once
I'd love
to not worry.

I can't.

They denied me.

A loan for $20.

$20.

I guess
I have to
put things into
perspective.

I have to be
thankful
for what I have.

Right now,
all I have
is you,
my paper,
my pen.

And if I keep up
my cheap, fucking stupid
lies,
I will have
nothing.

The ink will run out,
the pages will stay blank,
the love we had
will vanish,
completely.

Everything will perish.

Just like my credit.

What am I waiting for?

Let's do this.

Get it over with.

A bum
is what I'm destined
to be.

I'll just be a goddamned
bum
with nut cancer
and a horrible outlook
on life.

That's all I'll ever be.

The best I can hope for
is to keep you
around.

But I have to keep
my mouth
shut.

Who knows
for how long?

I can't keep
that act up.

I have to
accept
my fate.

Until then,
I'll have to make
every second
with you
last
an eternity.

That's really all I can do,
that's really all I'm good at,
is loving you.

By the way,
can I borrow $20?

I need gas money to come and see you.

I Will Keep the Torch

I could see it
in his eyes.

The forbidden pleasure.

I could smell it
on his penis.

The lotion of lust.

I could not tell you
what I was doing.

I do not
want to recall
the sickness
that spewed out
onto my hands
and into my mind

forever distorting
any promises
of having a normal
sex life.

Now,
they tell me
there is no wrong
or right
and I want to believe
them,
but it seems
impossible.

There must be some
exceptions?

Right?

It appears as though,
I still have
no clue
as to what I am doing.

I have no answers,
but one thing
I do know is,
this torch
will not be
passed on.

It will, however,
burn inside me.

It will burn me
in my grave.

It will burn me
until I see his eyes
again.

Only then
can I tell you
the true meaning
of a horrible
daydream.

The Sprinter

The bathroom was occupied.

He went back
to the bar.

He said
he could wait.

There was no way
I could.

Not after
that
many beers.

When I finished
and flushed
and came back out,
he was running,
sprinting
as if the cops were trying
to murder him.

"Was that your friend?"
asked the bartender.

"I don't like
black people,"
was my response.

I saw the puddle
he left.

His piss
glistened
on the floor
and the bar
and everyone's eyes.

It made the night brighter.

I finished my beer
and decided to send him
a text saying,
well I now know how
you train
for the Olympics
and what it takes

to be a champion.

Retribution

We spit on him.

It was cruel.

It was wrong.

We knew it and
didn't care.

He was caught
in our path
of hate
and drunkenness.

We also kicked in
and dented his truck.

What did he do to deserve this?

Nothing.

What did he do in retaliation?

Nothing.

He could have,
should have,
ran us over.

He just drove away.

He's one of my
life long friends.

Still is.

I can't believe
he forgave us.

We most certainly
didn't deserve
any
of his mercy.

I'll forever be in debt to him.

He can return
the hatred
anytime he wants to.

I'll even let him
spit in my mouth
after he's chewed tobacco.

He deserves that much.

So do I.

Maybe I'm Wrong

The playground is full.
The playground is full!
The playground is full!!!

The monkey bars are filled
with monkeys,
lil dark people,
laughing and smiling.

Makes me sick.

Why aren't they picking fruit or
cleaning the toilet I just used?

My dad told me
that's all they're good for
anyways.

Why don't they just leave?

They're making everything filthy
with their dirty lil hands.
They're making everything ugly
with their disgusting faces.
They're ruining everything!

Shit!!

Darn brown fucker
kicked my sand castle!

I'll show him!

I'll poop in his mommy's mouth.
I'll cut his sister
and pee in her boo boo.

On second thought,
maybe I won't.

They might like it.

I have something
much better
planned...

Here he comes,
ugly brown turd,
down the slide,
with a smile that breaks
mirrors.

I'll break something for his!

1,2,3...

Bam!!

My foot caught him
right in his smelly teeth.

Nananananana!!!!

I'll take his teeth too.

"These are mine fucker."

I have a nice souvenir
for daddy.

He ran off,
they wimp...

Daddy and me made a necklace out of them.

It was both of ours' idea
and I look good with them
around my neck
and daddy says
he's proud of me.

Knock, knock.

Who can it be?

hmmmm....

"We've come for your son.
He has our son's teeth.
We want his skin.
It's a fair trade."

Oh no,
they're going to kill me daddy,
mommy,
I want to live,
I won't hurt anyone anymore.

"It's too late boy.
Better make your peace
with your maker,
though I doubt he'll listen."

His huge brown hands touched me,
they didn't feel much different
from daddy's,
maybe I was wrong,
maybe we were all wrong.

Help...

Charlotte's Husband's Wrath

Baby,
I'm black and I'm mean,
get what I'm sayin?

See these eight legs,
bitch look,
you see them?

They're stronger than
any one of their lil shit legs
down there,
yet I can crawl all over them
and they would not feel
a thing.

Yeah,
I can sneak up
on those ugly fuckers
when they're having their
precious dreams
about lollipops and playgrounds
and turn their lives
into a fucking nightmare!

I can do it!
I can do it in one bite!!

Hairy whore,
you don't believe me?!

I'll show you!

I'll show all of you cocksuckers!!

Pathetic humans,
I'm the size of
one of their disgusting moles,
yet I'm much more beautiful
and have enough poison in me
to kill all of them.

I'm going to do it too
and creep away
as if
nothing has happened.

No! No!! NO!!!

I won't just walk away,
that wouldn't be enough!
I'll vomit,
and shit,
and jerk off on them too!

And then they'll fucking die!!

A horrible, horrific death,
the way they were suppose to go.

I'll show them Charlotte!

Those hideous pale bastards will pay
for destroying our home!!!

You hear me cunt scab?!

They'll all suffer!!!

But first,
get me a damn fly
and come toss my spider asshole!!!

It's supper time!!!!!

Through My Dreams

came a vision
of the future
or was it
the past?

Well,
either way,
it was a glimpse of
what could have been
if my brother
was still alive
today.

It was pathetic.

He was a fat junkie.
I was even more of a drunken idiot.
My cousin was miles beyond worthless.

Together,
we brought down the family.

We used them,
we used each other,
we used everybody
at every chance.

Nothing was sacred.

Our reality was a nightmare.

It's not now.

I don't want to say it,
but maybe,
just maybe,
this was all
meant
to happen.

He was destined to die
young,
to become a star,
to guide us
through our suicidal nights,
through our painstaking days,
through all of our depressing dreams
and impossible reality.

Through my dreams
I think
I can believe

the truth.

Hermit Covers

Danger was in the air.

I could taste its bitterness
in the winter winds.

I could feel its strength
pushing me over the edge,

but I kept on driving.

A stop sign came up,
I was hesitant
to push on the brake,
but a woman pushing a stroller
and walking her poodle,
decided to cross the street.

I had to stop.

Dammit, I thought,
just let me get home
and hide under the covers
for a few days.

Is that so much to ask for?

Just then,
she stopped
right in front of me,
to tie her fucking shoes.

Honk! Honk!

Dammit bitch, I muttered
under my breath,
get the fuck
out of the way.

I honked again,
its loudness frightened
the poodle.

It growled.

Its eyes turned a dark blue.

Foam began to crawl out of its mouth.

It jumped up
and into the stroller.

Its teeth and claws
dug into
the baby.

Blood squirted out,
hitting the mother in the face.

She tried to stop it.

It bite her in the hand.

The baby was crying and struggling,
I could see
its tiny hand
reach and grab
the dog's tongue
and rip it out.

The dog fell
and convulsed
on the ground.

Its blood and foam and mucus
made a puddle,
the woman slipped on it,
panicked.

She got back up.

She must have loved that dog
more than her child
because she picked him up
and began to slam
its tiny head against
the street.

I sped off.

I had had enough
for one day.

Dammit, I said to myself,
I knew
I should have stayed home
under the covers.

Before I made it back,
I saw an old man
trying to cross the street
in front of me.

I sped up,
just in case.

He jumped under the wheels.

I felt them go over
his head
and body.

I left him there.

I left everything
behind
and went home.

I hid under the covers.

I've been here ever since.

I don't plan on leaving.

Another Bullshit Barroom Story

I was flying.

I crashed through the window,
waved goodbye to my grandpa,
and was off.

Out in the great blue sky
the sun was shinning, but
the wind was chilly,
and the birds and dragonflies looked at me
strangely.

Of course,
I knew why
their beedy lil eyes
were judging.

I was half naked,
shitting
on a flying toilet.

There was no explanation for this.

There was no stopping it.

I continued on,
going wherever the wind
blew me,
enjoying the view
and laughing at my own farts.

Then, the toilet
stopped,
hovering
right above a police station.

Hello officer,
I said,
can you get me down
from here?
I seem to be
stuck.

Fart, plunk.

My poop fell on his bald head.

I looked down.

He seemed to be mad.

I tried to get away.

That's when he reached
for his gun
and shot and fired.

The toilet was bulletproof.

I laughed,
wiped,
flushed,
and flew to the nearest bar,
where I retold this story
just as I have
told it
to you.

I'm full of it?

Fuck you.

Fart. Plunk.

Not anymore!

Give me another beer!

Answer Me

Were we meant to suffer?

Everyday,
I'm concerned
about
whether or not
I can buy lunch.

My usual response is,
I should just starve,
I shouldn't be wasting
my money
on food.

I have too many bills to pay.

I feel like I'm grinding my teeth
to the gums.

I feel like stealing money.

I feel like this is not
the way
we were meant
to live.

It seems as if
all of our dreams
revolve around
MONEY.

I wish I no longer had any.

Fuck these dreams.

I wish I was lost
on a deserted island
talking to a narwhal
or just staring into space
for hours on end,
losing myself between the stars.

I wish,
I wish,
I wish
this world
didn't exist.

It one blink,
it was all gone.

Drop the bomb,
suck us into a black hole,
God,
for once in your almighty existence,
help us please.

Answer me!

Make it end. Make it end.

Pleasing Nightmares

Our nightmares
touched us.

We were only kids.

Our nightmares
didn't care.

They still follow us
to this day.

They come alive
when we are working,
when we are feeding our pets,
when we are doing nothing.

They still touch us.

They force our hands
on their genitals.

Over and over again.

We make them
cum
everyday.

They are addicted
to us.

There's no use
trying to open
our eyes.

They want to
haunt us
forever.

They will.

Remember to Bathe

His sickness was his cleanliness.

His ultimate goal in life
was to be
the cleanest human being
possible.

You see,
the value of his corpse,
his soul,
depended on this.

They told him so,
in his dreams.

He could sell his body,
if it was clean
enough.

Either to heaven
for eternal peace
or to hell
for eternal pleasure.

What was his choice?

What would yours be?

There's only one way
to find
out.