Monday, August 24, 2009

Rock Star Wives And Their Noise Tape Collections

I walk in circles like everyone else these days. Making money money money and wasting what little time I have left. I can't help it. I see no other option. So kill me.
The other day I walked to the store to buy a pack of cigarettes and ran into my old friend Dave from East Boston. He was standing on the corner in front of the store, smoking a cigarette. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. We did a little small talk and then we got around to the topic I can't seem to avoid these days.
"So how you doing," he asks.
"Generally? Or how am I DOING?"
"How you DOING?"
"Pretty good. I'm in the Suboxone program, ya know. Whatever. Clean. Whatever."
"Good, man, good. I'm on my way to get high right now. Sorry. Hope I'm not tempting you."
I wanted to grab him by his throat a rip his larynx out, the fucking prick. Sorry? Hope I'm not tempting you? What kind of junkie piece of shit....cunt.....? I guess I have to get used to these situations. The mere mentioning of getting high makes me want to do it. It's strange cause standing there looking at Dave should make me feel the opposite, ya know? His hair's greasy from the sweats. He wipes the clear liquid that pores out of his nose every five seconds on the back of his filthy sweatshirt, leaving crusty trails on his sleeves. He sneezes every two minutes in violent outbursts. His eyes dart in every direction other than towards my eyes and I bet if I placed a naked, begging Patricia Arquette(True Romance era) in front of him, he wouldn't be able to summon the blood to his dick. But still, I wish I was him right now. I wish I was going where he was going.
"No, you're not tempting me."
Fucking bullshit. Why can't people like Dave go die already? Why can't all the junkies go buy plots of land in Chernobyl and stay the fuck away from me? Go take over the noise scene and scare all those pretentious think tanks with too much time on their hands. Do something constructive at least, just stay the fuck away from me and let me stay alive, for whatever that's worth. Fucking asshole.
"Dave, it was nice to see ya. Take care of yourself."
"Yeah, you too, man."
I walked away. I didn't bother to shake his hand. On the way back from the store I took a different way so I didn't have to see his face again. I guarantee that he would've still been standing there waiting for his dealer.
Lou Reed was right.
"The first thing you learn is that you always gotta wait."
I got back to the house and smoked four cigarettes in a row thinking about Dave and how much I never wanted to see him again. The urge to get high was eating my chest. I took an extra Suboxone and swallowed the wretch down with a sip of coffee.
"What have I done to myself," I thought. "What have I done to my brain?"
I wanted to kill myself. I wanted to scream. I wanted to lay waste to the entire house and tell my sweet old grandmother to go fuck herself if she complained about the mess. I didn't ever wanna hear about dope again. Fuck, I didn't ever wanna hear about asprin again. Petty people and their petty chemicals trying their hardest to kill me. Well, go fuck yourselves. You're not gonna get me again. I don't care if I'm bored for the rest of my life. I don't care if I gotta lock myself in my bedroom with 50,000 Snickers bars and a constant Twilight Zone marathon going, I'm not going down that road again. Ever. So Dave and everybody else that's trying to kill me, go fuck yourselves, OK?
"Hey, that Twilight Zone thing doesn't sound to bad, does it? I might do that."
Finally my anger had strengthened my resolve. I felt better. I guess I just needed to work myself into a Fuck The World type lather. I was practically sweating.
I turned on the television to VH1 Classics. In the darkness, before the picture came on, I could hear a woman's voice vibrating like a hyena and a man's voice that I recognized. As the picture came into focus, I could see a woman in a white suit and a man with a beard, also in a white suit singing into a microphone together. My heart sank. I knew what they were singing.
It was John Lennon and Yoko Ono singing "Cold Turkey."
What the fuck?

Monday, August 17, 2009

You Bet That I've Got Something Personal Against Hippies

I was reading the Phoenix today and I came across an article about the last Woodstock, ya know the one with the burning, the raping, the 7 dollar bottles of water and Limp Bizkit breaking stuff? As I was reading it I was waiting for the two words that piss me off more than any two words in the English language and I wasn't disapointed. I just KNEW they were coming. If some old hippie is writing an article on his "glorious" generation and making us relive that same story over and over again, like as if Woodstock was the 60s version of Normandy and not just 3 days of bad music, bad drugs("don't take the brown acid, man."), and hairy pussy, you will eventually get around to this fossil degrading your generation by refering to you as...."Generation Entitlement."
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!
I hate that title more than I hate the 60s. These cryptic fucks make it seem like nobody in our generation has any idea what hard work is. Like we all just expect ipods to drop out of the sky like digital manna and jobs just get in the way of kegstands. Out of any generation since the sixties, our generation has had the LEAST handed to them. Try finding a job. Try buying a house and keeping it. Try to buy an innocent product like bottled water and NOT find out that it's tap water from Detroit. Try to spend your entire twenties under the shadow of some fucked up death trip. Try to reach twelve without being drugged by your family doctor for some imaginary "disease." Try to find a top 40 band that means anything. Try to turn on your television and not get mind raped by corporate advertisers trying to sell you hope in the form of a cheeseburger. Try seeing everyone you know addicted to SOMETHING. Inner city kids killing each other constantly. Eight years of a psychopath in office. A new president that talks BEAUTIFULLY but says and does NOTHING. Try to even THINK about retiring. Try to think about making ends meet. Try to fuck a stranger without a condom and not catch a disease that was started by some tye dyed hippie pig fuck.
"I wouldn't wear a tye dyed t-shirt unless it was soaked in the urine of Phil Collins and the blood of Jerry Garcia."
Kurt Cobain
You might be able to do all of those things, I know plenty of people my age who don't agree with a single thing I'm saying, but my point is that nobody I know feels entitled to anything. The hippies are the ones who invented all this entitlement bullshit in the first place. Fucking therapy, fucking drugs, fucking fucking, fucking me me me me me me me you selfish bloated relics you. The hippies took everything that their parents believed in and pissed on it. Their parents killed Hitler for fuck's sake. Saved the world from the hands of a maniac so their children could get stoned and fuck and call it enlightenment. I get stoned and fuck too but I've never once thought that I could levitate the fucking Pentagon or something. I mean, what the fuck? Am I the only one who gets sick when David Crosby gets on TV and starts getting all blubbery about the days before he started impregnating rich lesbians with his hairy semen? Why are these people even still around? Really! These people act like they actually did something! What did they do? They all turned into drug addicts or CEOs of the corporations that run your life. These are people who actually spit on soldiers coming back from war. We could talk about Vietnam for days, right, wrong, whatever, but think about what kind of person would do something like that. What, seeing their best friends head explode wasn't enough? Who would do that?
"Me, me, I know!"
"Yes, you with the tumor in your neck from some faulty baby boomer product."
You see what I'm saying? I started this rant cause the guy writing the article was talking about how the burning of Woodstock was this example of how our generation reacts so violently at the slightest offense and how we're such a violent generation who feel entitled to everything blah blah blah. I don't disagree with the violent reaction part, really, I mean, Columbine was kinda extreme I guess, but ya know those kids got picked on so what were they supposed to do? But who gives a fuck if Woodstock gets burned down? The writer makes it seem like our generation is burning down the hippies idea of peace and love and not that some genius kids realized that it wasn't really Woodstock, water shouldn't cost 7 dollars, and Limp Bizkit(sorry, I can't help but giggle everytime I hear that bands name)said it was ok to break stuff. I mean, it's just so clear to me. Does this guy really think that that festival meant something to anyone? Anyone who walked into that thing thinking it was about anything other than money is a fool. A total fool. I can just picture some 19 year old neo hippie chick all decked out in her hemp skirt and Grateful Dead t-shirt walking around the field twirling her arms around in weird shapes, fingers clasped together with her eyes closed, under the influence of psilocybin mushroom, spinning around in a circle, totally oblivious to the fact that Limp Bizkit has just taken the stage and that six fratboy meatheads are about to rape her in every hole in her body, break her jaw, piss on her, and leave her to be trappled by the crowd because the sheer masculine horror of the whole event has taken over. That's what Woodstock was about. Men completely out of control. Frat boy heaven. Unfortunately, those people have always been around. It has nothing to do with a generational sense of entitlement.
I want to go to bed so I'm gonna wrap this up. All I want to say is that I've read this same story at least five times over the years and I can't believe people still have the balls to refer to me with those two words. I've always worked, my parents never gave me a fucking dime and I never expected them to. I'm glad they didn't. I'm out of work right now cause I just spent two months in the hospital and I've been fortunate to have friends and family to lean on and help me out and I appreciate every bit of help that's given. I've never once felt entitled to it. I know that my friends can tell me to fuck off at any time and to go fend for myself.
But they wouldn't do that.
Cause that's what a baby boomer would do.

Asian Bore

This asian girl I was talking to, at a party I went to last night, said she wanted to go swimming somewhere. She asked me about the conditions of Wollaston Beach, wondering if the water was ok to swim in, and since she wasn't from Quincy, she had no idea as to the conditions. I told her that the water was filthy and that the only people who go in the water are poor black and latino families. I said,"No self respecting middle class white man would stick a toe in that water."
She said,"What's that supposed to mean?"
I told her it was true. I've never seen a white man in that water.
She walked away in disgust. Totally pissed.
All I'm gonna say is that if she didn't catch the sarcasm, humor, and the socio political satire in that statement....who gives a fuck about her? She's a humorless bore. It was just a joke. That's all.
No, but seriously, white people don't swim in that water. Never have. Never will.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Possum Pussy

"I don't do well," I think to myself.
Nothing more. Just a quick flash in my mind as I walk a stretch of asphalt I may, or may not, have walked a million other times. One foot in front of the other to bring me home and to bring this night to it's logical conclusion.
A car full of drunken bully boys drives by and yells, "Hey," out the window. I throw my hands up in the air like a crossing guard. Elbows slightly bent. Fingers spread apart.
No response. The boys race to the horizon to continue their masquerade, completely oblivious to what everyone else knows in their hearts to be true.
It's hot tonight. I wish I wasn't walking. I wipe the sweat from my forehead as two possums run across Burgin Parkway, dragging their hideous tails behind them, mocking my horror at the whole situation. I start to feel queasy.
"Never get off the boat."
It feels like the night is swallowing me. All around me the little critters scurry and the shadows look like pools of death. I hate myself. I don't know why I left the house in the first place.
"Party at the Marriott! Come on down!"
Bullshit! Why even bother? I've lived this same night a million times. Parties leave me completely terrified. Scared of my friends. Scared of my girlfriend. Scared of every substance in the room...I've really had it. Let the bully boys stomp me out and leave me for the possums.
I had to get out of there. Everybody looked like a corpse to me. 30 people drinking their medicine and remembering that time....baby cakes in the corner performing her mock overdose.
I wanna cut myself. I'm gonna stick my fingers down my throat till I'm empty and then I'll do it some more. I wanna stick a needle in my arm for the last time, let IT do me in. Lick the back of a dollar bill and stick it to my forehead before I turn blue. At least the needle responds when you touch it. There's no messy pre game.
Quincy Center's empty except for two drunk micks singing "Evenflow" arm in arm like two pre school lovers. They'd probaly stab me if I blew them a kiss.
I walk past the graveyard and sing softly to myself.
"I really don't know why I came here/I really don't know why I'm staying here/Oh oh oh oh oh/I am walking the cow."
I take a left on Quincy Shore Drive. I reach the top of the hill. My grandmother's house is right across the street. I take out my keys and walk around back, completely craving my bed. I walk up the steps to my porch and turn the corner around the deck. Two possums in front of the back door scurry back on their hind legs and start shreiking at me. I fall backwards down the three steps and scrape my elbows. I get up on my feet and run to the front of the house. I don't have a key to the front door. I ring the bell. My grandmother sticks her head out the window.
"Hello?"
"Nan, it's me. Can you let me in? Two possums out back just tried to attack me."
"One second."
She opens the door. I fall inside and start to cry on the floor. She leans down and puts her arms around me.
"Honey? What is wrong with you?"
She rubs my back with both hands as I pour tears all over her purple bathrobe. I'm hysterical.
Between sobs I muster up the ability to say, "I just really hate possums!"
She doesn't say a word. She just rubs my back and shushes in my ear. Soothing sounds coming from her mouth calm me down.
She takes my face in her hands and says,"You ok?"
I nod and let out a deep breath. She half giggles and says,"Ok. I'm gonna go back to bed now. Ok?"
I nod and she walks back upstairs, each step creaking to remind me of what I've just done to this old woman's bones.
I stay kneeling on the carpet, letting the tears stream down my face like little rivers running towards my chin. I feel embarrassed for myself. I want to burst into flames right there on the floor. I want to apologize to my grandmother for creating a scene like that. Whatever, though. I'm sure she just thinks I'm THAT terrified of possums and nothing else is wrong.
Which there isn't.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Rumors Rumors Rumors

"The reports of my demise have been greatly exagerated."
-Mark Twain.
I was drunk the other night. Stop spreading rumors please.
Your's truly,
Sid.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Head To Toe Black

He never made you feel attractive. In fact he always made you feel just the opposite. Whenever he walked into a room, he always looked like he was supposed to be there and that somehow made everyone else feel a little less put together. The last time I saw him, about two weeks ago, he looked so striking that it was hard to believe that he had come out of the womb like everyone else. He walked into the waiting room of the Shattuck suboxone clinic,where I was waiting, with the glide of a fog and all the lunacy of a laughing hyena. He wore a tattered black leather jacket that hugged his body like a loved one, black leather boots that went right up to the knee of his black jeans, black wraparound sunglasses, a perfectly fitted black Bratmobile t shirt, and as if his outfit wasn't perfect enough....he was wearing fuzzy gray earmuffs in the dead of August. He was perfect.
After signing in at the desk, he saw me and walked over. He stood in front of me, looking me up and down, smiling like a cat.
"Shawnie Brando,"he said. "It's nice to see your chemistry again. I'm glad they still let people like us in here."
"People like US? Man, if I had that outfit I'd feel alot more comfortable about that statement."
He sat down and we shook hands. I was glad he was there.
"So what's going on, Mike. I haven't seen you for awhile."
"Aww, you know how it is. No rest for the white man. People always trying to get at ya and shit. You know?"
"Yeah I do. Yeah I do. Fucking...ahh... so what's up? You in the suboxone program?"
"Yeah, I've been clean for 6 months now. Haven't done shit since, ya know? I broke up with Jen and, well, she broke up with me cause I was getting high so much and I just decided I needed to get my life back together, man. I mean, I was out all the time, sleeping in shitty motel rooms, not seeing the baby for days, not going to work, ya know, just...losing it, ya know. I mean, I lost it basically. Lost her and the baby anyway. I'm trying to get back in her life but, ya know, she's kinda skeptical, which I understand, ya know? What's up with you? How long you got?"
"Uhh...two months."
"Two months? Good for you, man. Good for you. Bugs and Rats still playing? Last time I saw you I was so fucking jammed. It was at the Middle East and all I remember was that I was waiting in line for the bathroom with,like, 20 other people and everybody was bitching about how long the person in the bathroom was taking and then all of a sudden the door burst open and you and your bass player come crashing to the floor with ,like, these weird glasses on. Both of you got up, looked at everyone in line, and ran away. Man, that was the funniest fucking thing I've ever seen. Seriously."
We both started laughing. I remembered that show. Barely. Me and my bass player Radek were in the bathroom doing coke and had no idea that we'd been in their for about 20 minutes. No one bothered to knock. As to why we fell, I have no idea.
I told him that we hadn't been playing cause my drummer moved to Philly. He told me that he really liked seeing us and that made me feel good. I liked talking to this kid. It's not everyday that you can find someone where the conversation flows naturally and laughter isn't difficult.
"So how's staying clean for you," I asked. "You having an OK time with it?"
His whole demeanor changed. He didn't answer me right away and all the lines in his face smoothed over. I could tell he was having a hard time with it.
"You know how it is, man. You have OK periods but most of the time it's just a constant struggle. You got that little voice just....uggh. It's brutal. It really is. I don't know, man. I just really wanna see my baby again, man."
"How longs it been since you seen her?"
He suddenly got real quiet. He started rubbing his hands together and he lowered his head to his chest. I thought his eyes would pierce the floor.
He took a long breath and said,"I haven't seen her for 6 months. Jen won't let me see her until I start giving her child support, which is understandable but I'm having a really hard time getting a job. Any job, ya know?"
"Tell me about it. I just called my old job to see if I could come back. I couldn't find anything else."
"They taking you back?"
"Yeah. I start in two weeks though."
"Do you think I could get a job there?"
"Yeah, totally. They're always looking for drivers. I can put in a good word for you too."
"Yeah, definitely. If you could do that I'd really appreciate it."
"Hey, no problem."
The door to our left opened. A nurse walked out and called out,"Mike."
He stood up and raised his hand.
"Listen, Shawn, I gotta go but let me get your number and I'll call you in a couple days about that job."
"Yeah, no problem."
I gave him my number and watched those earmuffs glide through the doors, hoping that he'd give me a call. I really liked that kid.
Two minutes later they called my name. I walked through the doors and did my thing.
Two weeks have passed and I hadn't heard from him. I hoped he was doing all right. I wondered if maybe he had found a job or if I accidentally gave him the wrong number.
This morning,as I was getting ready for work, I got a phone call from a number I didn't recognize. I picked it up.
"Hello?"
A woman's voice said,"Hi, is this Shawnie Brando? Am I saying that right?"
"Yeah, this is him."
"Hello, this is Mike Hetson's sister Pam. I'm afraid I have some bad news. Mike passed away last night."
"What? What happened?"
"Well, we're not 100% sure yet but, it looks a heroin overdose. There was a needle next to him and he had dried blood on his arm so we're pretty sure that's what it was. We'll need the toxicology report to be sure but it looks pretty obvious. I've been up all night calling everyone in his phone so I can't talk long but when we know everything and make the funeral arrangements we'll let you know, OK?"
"Uhh...yeah. Thanks for calling. I'm sorry. He's a really great guy."
"Thank you."
She hung up.
I sat there for a few minutes thinking about the last time I saw him and then I went to work. Today was really hard. I had to keep from crying in front of customers all day. One customer I didn't even try to hold it in. I just started bawling as I drove him to the airport. He didn't say anything.
All day I've been picturing him in that outfit. It wasn't an outfit that most mortals could wear. Head to toe black and fuzzy earmuffs in 90 degree weather. He looked stunning. I mean stunning. When he walked into a room, you knew that he had arrived, that he didn't give a fuck about you and your weak ego. Most guys can't hang like that. You better not turn around cause he might steal your woman. He really could.
But he never would. He was a really nice guy and I had a lot of respect for him with or without the drugs. Makes me scared for myself. He had a lot to live for and he blew it, ya know. Where the fuck am I going? Where am I gonna end up?

There Are No More Pharmacys. There Are No More Airplanes.

There are no more pharmacys. There are no more airplanes.
I'm whipping through the streets wondering where the fuck I'm going. I've got my Xanex coat on so I could be going anywhere.
"Hands up! I've got something to do."
I spin around in a circle and pretend delirium is taking me over.
"Where are the pills and how do I get the fuck out of here?"
No one wants to help me. They all stare at me with their hands clutching briefcases or tissues.
"My bib collects saliva/My sleeves collect the blood/I got cyanide for the end/and my pants are pegged for the flood."
FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK FUCK.
I can't believe they took the airplanes away. Why why why? Don't they understand that we need travel? They sit on ant farms and breed till their genitals rot and their organs turn to coffee grinds. Their children lay larvae in my brain.
I hate them all. They can't do this, it isn't fair. I drop to the heated sidewalk, my green trenchcoat shrouds my whole lower body as to make me look angelic. I start to bite and punch my onlookers feet.
"If I can't leave, then you fucks aren't gonna move another inch!!!"
It's 12 noon. A woman in a minivan pulls up to the scene and asks,"Where do you have to go that's so important?"
"To bed," I reply.
I've had it for the day. I push past my onlookers, some writhing in pain from my foot lashings, others chopping off their own feet. I walk past a guitar shop and see a 76 sunburst Fender Jaguar in the window for $10, but I don't care. I could never touch a guitar again. I hate music. Blah blah blah blah. Commerce captured on tape. Why the deception? Artists are worse than real people. I hate them all. I pick up a trashcan and smash the shop window. Glass flies into children's faces. Women pick up the glass and start masturbating with it. Red death flows from between their legs. I grab the Jaguar and smash it over one of their heads. She starts having fits so I stab her in the neck with the Jaguar's broken neck.
No one on the street seems to care. I don't feel like I care.

Years of Experience

I was bored. Half an eighth wasted last night, then Jules walked in with his 15 years of experience and shut everything down. I groped for attention but each little debutante I reached out to let me fall on my face like a crab. I moved to the kitchen where I worked on the whiskey but it was a futile attempt. Nothing was easy like it used to be. One moment you know you're name and the next you're playing with a lecherous character. I'd fall to the floor if I had the courage to be rejected by it. Each tile is a dare and I can't tell if I've got what it takes to jump.
More words do me harm but I stuck around to wait for myself. Each voice was leaning and burning like my mother's voice. She used to scream till every dish in the house gave in and killed itself. She was a bitch. She's a monster that's oblivious to it's destruction and the eyes of those watching it.
I spoke to a hipster about music but he didn't seem to care. Those people never do unless you have something to give them.
I broke into the living room with a disgust out of the bible.
"Tight jeans anyone? Apathy anyone?"
Mute rejection and the knowledge that I'd been beaten by lesser men.
"How old are you," someone asked me.
"20."
"Then why don't you act like it?"
That's funny. I thought I was the shining example of my particular age. Character and grace. Experience and beauty. More presence than a sunbeam with a lot more to say. I found my friends and said I wanted to leave.
"Why don't you just relax? I wanna stay for a little bit."
"Fine. I'm walking home."
I put my whiskey down and walked to the door, overwhelmed by the fact that no one tried to stop me. Even as I walked down the bike strewn hallway, I half expected some beautiful girl to beckon me back into the room, but the other half knew that no one cared and that was more true than the former.
I fucking hate parties.
I walked out of the door into Mission Hill summer. The street was filled with spoiled hipsters and date raping frat boys, as well as their victims. I watched each face with the presence of a ghost.
I started walking up Calumet to my apartment on Hillside. My room was a tent in an apartment with 6 other people, all of them couples. When they fucked it would shake the whole house as well as my pathetic nature.
"God, I hope no one's home," I thought. "I don't think I can deal with that right now."
My steps were sloppy but I wasn't that drunk. I felt like a lobotomy case and I walked accordingly. More ugly than sexy. Less smart than just plain dumb.
I saw the house and saw that Spanky and Audrey's bedroom light was on. My stomach turned. Right before I had moved into the house, a couple of months previous, I had sex with Audrey on my mother's couch. I resisted at first but gave in, thinking it might have something to do with me. Walking into the house, I knew she could hold it over me if she wanted to. I thought that if Spanky found out that he would kill me. Two years later she did tell him. He didn't kill me but looking back on it, he should have. I definitely deserved it.
I walked in. "Hello?"
Audrey poked her head out of the kitchen.
"Hey, what's up," she said. "Where you coming from?"
"Oh, just some party down the street."
"Who's party?"
"I don't know."
"Was Spanky there?"
"No."
"Oh, cause I haven't heard from him. We were supposed to hang out tonight but he hasn't come home."
"Yeah, I don't know."
"Ok."
"I'll be in the tent."
I walked up the wooden stairs and pulled back the tarp to my room. The room was a wall and three tarps used to simulate home. Anything can feel like home if you get used to it. Tents, prisons, girlfriends....whatever.
I ran my hand through my sweaty hair and sat down on the bed. I hit the eject button on my tape player and pulled out a bag of dope. I always used my tape player as a stash box. I just figured no one would look there. Not that anyone would be looking anyway. No one in the house knew that I did dope. They wouldn't have liked it. They'll sniff three 8 balls with you but the second you switch to dope you become a cancer patient. No one knows if it's a subject they should talk about, at least not to your face anyway. They always just seemed like hypocrites to me.
I dumped the bag out onto a Mazzy Star CD, cut it into two lines with my library card, rolled up a dollar bill and sniffed one of them. It only took about 30 seconds for the warm electricity to come over me. At the time I remember feeling sophisticated, like I was in a special club with all of my heroes. Me and Lou Reed were like THIS. Only 20 and I understood all the beautiful things in the world, where one minute before I didn't even recognize it. I was made only to expire and I didn't even care.
I leaned back and pressed play on the CD player. I waited for Fade Into You to come through the speakers.
"I wanna hold the hand inside you/I wanna take the breath that's true/I look to you and I see nothing/I look to you to see the truth."
I wondered who she was talking about. It didn't matter. All I wanted was to close my eyes and sing a simple song in my head. A simple drone to leak from my subconcious in blue, fuzzy, opiated drops. "Then this night will mean something. This night will have had purpose." All I needed was the drone. It came with a quiet hum from the back of my head and a few blurts of a trumpet from the middle. I wished I had something around to duplicate it. I couldn't play trumpet and I had nothing to record it on anyway. I told myself that not all things need to be documented and to just enjoy the sound in my head. That's how I justified my procrastination. I didn't want to get off the bed. I had talent with the simplicity of my drone, I just didn't have the ability.
If only I could show what was in my head. I wanted to speak with melody. I wanted sunshine rage. I wanted to cum like an animal and leave my victim for dead. I wanted everything I could have, right then and there, I just had no ability and didn't know if I ever would. I was doped up and content to be stuck to a bed. Totally content.
As the drone faded I sat up and sniffed the second line. More pleasure. More music.
Downstairs I heard Audrey's door open. Her footsteps were coming for the stairs. I hid the CD case and the dollar bill and tried to look human. I could hardly keep my eyes open.
Her feet were like rocks on the wooden steps. She reached the top and ripped open the tarp, exposing my opiated divinity.
"Wuz up," I said.
"Spanky's in the hospital. He got in a fight and got his ear ripped off. I guess he got bashed in the head with a free weight and it ripped his ear off. I gotta walk down to Brigham and Women's right now. You gotta come with me."
"Are you fucking kidding me? I don't wanna go anywhere. I'm too tired to even stand right now."
"C'mon. Please. I don't wanna walk through the neighborhood alone."
"Really?"
"Yeah! Spanky's really hurt. Don't you wanna see if he's alright?"
She was breathing heavy and looking right at me with her big swimming pool eyes. Who knew what this girl was capable of? She could ruin my life if she wanted to. All she had to do was tell our secret and Spanky would stab me in the neck. I had to go with her. I sat up knowing that my night was ruined. The drone was gone. I shut off Mazzy Star and put on my shoes. I looked at her. She looked good. I couldn't help but admire her potential viciousness.
"Alright, let's go."

Visiting

I already know about the time I've lost and I already know what it means. It means that I can't be patronized. It means that every tooth I have serves a purpose besides my tongue. I means that everything I've made up can't be taken down. Boring thoughts have to be dealt with and the ones that have escaped me are gone forever.
No one knows I'm here. I feed myself undetected. Water bowl slop. Cold meat. Delightful.
Yesterday I heard the little girl scream from the outside. I wanted nothing more than to help her.

Dead Orchid

She walked through my front door and crawled into my bed. I asked her how she got there and she said,"This," as she held up a glass of red wine. She took a sip and then a deep breath. She put down the glass and fell asleep. When she woke up an hour later I asked her how she got there. She took another sip of wine and said,"This." I didn't ask again.
I grabbed her by her hair and kissed her. She put her hand under my shirt and put a freezing cold finger into my bellybutton. She pushed it in as far as it would go until I started to cough. She asked if that was the only way to get inside of me. I told her that my mouth was probaly alot easier. She said that my kiss didn't work and I should probaly see a doctor and have him cut a hole in my stomach so she could crawl in.
"Why would I do that," I said.
"Cause I want the fruit that grows in there. Cause I know you have a delicious apple in there that won't make my gums bleed when I bite it. You have a lot of good stuff in your belly."
I told her the only thing in my stomach was a dead orchid and a quarter that I swallowed by accident when I was 5.
She asked me how the orchid got there. I told her that all boys are born with orchids in their bellies that are put there by their mothers. We're supposed to take care of them but most of us don't, so that's why mine is dead.
She asked me if I missed it. I said I didn't.
" It was too much work trying to keep it alive. Eight glasses of water a day, ya know? It's too much. But...I don't wanna talk about my orchid anymore. Can we talk about something else?"
"We can talk about anything you like," she said.
She crossed her legs and fixed her green eyed death glare on me. I could tell that she was laughing at me on the inside. Every crevice of her face screamed out death. She wanted to posses me. She wanted the apple inside of me. She wanted my dick. She wanted me dead.
"So what are we gonna talk about," she giggled at me.

Monday, August 10, 2009

better hours

"I think I've got the hang of this now."
Been staring at a leaking faucet for about twenty minutes. Each drop of water hits an overflowing pan and joins its fellow bretheren. I haven't been able to sleep for the past two months. I catch little pieces here and there but outside of the occasional crash every three days, I'm left completely jittery and on edge.
It's 3 in the morning and everybody is waking up. My father, my grandmother, even my 10 year old brother is walking around right now.
"You haven't gone to bed yet," he says.
"No. What are you doing up?"
"I can't sleep."
Oh.
Don't stick around here too long kid, I think I'm catching.
My father walks in to the room and grabs his neon BFI clothes so he can go to work. I can hear the comment before he makes it.
"Kid, you gotta staht keeping bettah hours."
No shit?
"Ya stay up all night, ya gonna probaly sleep all day, I mean, what tha fahk?"
I resist the urge to reason with him. He's on his way to throw trash for 10 hours. There's no way that I could look anything but lazy to him right now.
He gets dressed and heads out the door. I turn back to the faucet and imagine myself diving off a hundred foot cliff into a pitch black ocean. Falling too fast to know what to do and exploding right before I hit the water. I think about my blood mingling with the white foam on the tips of the waves and what kind of fish would be eating me. I resist the urge to start playing in the sink.
My grandmother heads back upstairs while my brother pours a glass of milk. He comes over and sits at the kitchen table with me. He looks spent.
"What have you been doing this whole time you've been up," he asks.
"Uh...watching TV. What about you?"
"I just couldn't sleep. Dad kept rolling over on top of me and he wouldn't stop snoring his loud snores. It's so annoying."
"In the future you can sleep in my bed if you want. I'll just sleep on the couch so...feel free."
"No that's ok. I miss Dad lately and I wanna hang out with him. Thanks anyway."
"Ok. Whatever you want."
He grabs his milk and walks back upstairs. I start to feel lonely almost instantly. 3 to 5 is dead time no matter what I'm doing. Nothing helps at that time. Not lectures, not sympathy, not empathy, not even the sleepy face of a 10 year old makes me wanna stay up to see the sun rise. Not anymore. Not after 3 day drug binges and 3 day bouts of insomnia that leave me guilt ridden and cold. The sun turns into a cop's flashlight shining in my face, asking me where I'm coming from.
I hate to say it but it's true...
I've ruined the sunrise.
I'm gonna go play in the sink.

Carry On My Wayward Son

and then go fuck yourself.