utter crap

Dreams have been tormenting me this week, but not as much as words. There comes a point in depression that it ceases to be a catalyst for semantics and instead sits on you until you can’t form a syllable, much less a sentence.

This week I dreamed that everyone in my life vehemently rejected me because they all found out I was a fake. Everything about me is fake. My laugh, my stories, my ideas (are not mine), my words. Fake, fake, fake, lies, lies, lies. I don’t recall how it all unraveled, but it did. It ended with me walking in the rain, defeated, going to pay my rent. Even my landlord, Mark hated me. He snatched my money and told me that if he had enough dirt on me he’d have me evicted in a second. He then stated, “you just keep hanging out with people that swear, and I’ll have my evidence soon enough.” Even Mark hated me. I woke up and wanted to die. Mostly because it’s all true and I think people are figuring it out. Denial only works for so long.

i heart NY

But I hate civilization

u + me

I squish your boob like you squish my brain
Some say we go together like pleasure and pain
Others say we go together like peas and carrots
(even when we fight like possums and ferrets)

FATH3R 0F F1SH

I don't think that satan is good.
he eats pancakes with no syrup and drinks room temperature tap water.
what is the spookiness in his eyes?
he is no janitor.
ding-dongs are his breath.
static his bath tub ring?
tough stuff.
God totally has a better emoticon

--MEPHASTOPHOLIS

this isn't poetry,

its just how it happened. of all of us in the crowd, it was the goth girl who stopped to help the guy who spilled a ludicrous amount of tuna in the middle of the 4th and morrison crosswalk.

the rest of us watched from the other side of the street, feeling like complete terd monkeys.

and we were.

i wanna roll you up in to my life

you may have rolled me up like a dung beetle rolls crap,
but i rolled you up like a booger wiped on a baseball cap

you stuck me to your katamari of household wares
but i locked you into my ball of woes and cares

you got me stuck in the 5mm mess
but i got you, and you're the best

your ponzi scheme scammed my heart

and left me with nothing but these knickers and
dreams of a warship shopping mall, docked next to
my mitral valve and geometrically unsound
business practices, assuring me that i will
never mix capitalism and romanticism again goddammit

the difference between me and this old woman

on my arm is that she doesn't understand the value of a penny. she stops every few feet, strikes her cane against the concrete and exclaims "is that a penny?!" as if she'd won the damned lottery.

"no ma'am, that's a rock,"

the only reason i rain on her parade of fortune is that i know she'd throw out her back, hip, neck or entire damned central nervous system to claim it. or make me get it.

"no ma'am, that's just a flower petal."

"no ma'am that's a piece of trash."

that last one is closer to the truth. i try to explain to her that in the world these days pennies cost more to make than they are worth and there is a movement to get rid of them altogether. her winkle-covered eyes squint at this.

i continue.

the only resistance to this completely logical idea is an issue of race. to a significant part of the country, you take away lincoln, you take away the only bastard on a coin that wasn't a slave owner. you get rid of the penny, you shoot honest abe again along with martin luther king jr., malcolm X, tupac, and biggie smalls.

her eyes unsquint. because if its anything that her generation understands, its racism. i might be saying that because of my own predisposition to ageism, but i might be saying it because i've heard more creative and insulting racial slurs from the elderly than all other age-groups combined.

she starts another story about how the house on the corner was different in the 50s, and how many more "niggies" there are in the neighborhood than there used to be even 20 years ago.

we shuffle in every convenience store on the street and she buys a pack of cigarettes at each one, forgetting she just bought a pack at the last two. she dumps out her purse on the counter and its all change. she just assumes the guy at the counter will count it for her. he does and she's short.

she tells him he only counted the silver ones and to count the pennies, and that she has enough.

before he can respond i hand him two dollars and give the guy a "aren't old people funny" look.

right before i finally get her to her door, she, against all odds, successfully spots copper gold.

she taps it with her cane and asks me one more time.

"its your lucky day," i say as i pick it up and give it to her.

this is not a bill

then why the fuck does it look like one?

distrust

smells like rust
works a lot like lust
makes work a must

I say:
"to LA or bust"