Listen, I know you’re not going to understand this, but ladykillin is tough business. I know, I know—it’s always about me, I’m such a fucking asshole—I get it, I really do. Truth be told, you are better off without me. But how would you feel if you didn’t have a choice; if there were no option?

            That’s the sort of predicament I’m in, you see. You are free to walk out of my life whenever you please, you are free to go on without me. I don’t have that luxury. I have to spend each and every day, in and out, with me. I must live with the things I’ve done. Time only moves forward. Sadly, this is what I’ve become.

            There are things I long for with women. For starters: smiles, laughs, attractions, companionship; memories, arguments, joys, love; the building of something greater than ourselves; something sturdy, worn, timeless; something which transcends time and space; something drenched in alexithymia, hyper-saturated in it even; a wish, a spell, a dream; a past, a present, a future; a truth, a lie, an in-between; someone to read books with (good ones only) and watch X-Files and Twilight Zone alongside of late at night; someone to drink with and write poetry and prose and whatever else we please; someone to travel with, adventure, explore the vastness inside of us as well as out. Yes, these are the things I long for. But there are things I desire as well.

            Beginning with: the thrill of initial contact, the excitement of the question, the pleasure of not knowing someone and not realizing how awful and human they are after all; the diversity of personality, talents, hobbies; the preferences of music, fashion, tastebuds; the cohesive chemistry, or lack thereof, causing us to bond covalently or explode outrageously; the looks, the lust, the lack of liability; the scent, the soul, the surprises. Yes, these are the things I desire.

            Maybe time less spent keeps things fresh, maybe things stay new, maybe we don’t get comfortable with each other. That’s when things are at their best, that’s when we are at our peak! From there it’s nowhere to go but down! It’s the rudimentary rush we seek—not complacency nor devotion!

            I’d like to meet a girl, kiss her, then say it’s over—because we’ll never be able to do better than that! (Thanks be to Robert McLiam Wilson for that one.)

            Sex is cheap, I couldn’t give a fuck less (no pun intended). What I seek is friendship, what I seek is more, what I seek is forever… but it’s hard to convince anyone of that, especially myself, when I know I’m pulling her pants off for all the reasons except the right ones. If the magic’s gone, it’s gone. I’ll take full responsibility. But I have a secret for you. You know what?

(idontthinkitis)

            For the record: I’m jealous of anyone who gets to talk to you, see your smile, smell your skin, be within a hundred feet of you, or receive your attention—no matter how short, no matter how small or trivial. You are a Georgia peach, sweet as lemon pie! You are a complicated little creature, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Maybe someday I’ll want to settle down, but that day is not today. Until then: polygamy is the life for me. Either that, or growing writhen into a miserable, lonely old man—except I won’t be miserable or lonely. I can’t believe I even had you in the first place. I can’t believe I buttered you up and won you over. I can’t believe you ever gave me the time of day. For that, I am eternally grateful. I can look back on my accomplishments with pride—only the trophies are in my head rather than on a shelf. 

            I want them all. 

            I tried to hold myself at bay. I tried to do all things right. I did, too, but I did them at all the wrong times, with all the wrong intentions. I know this is a violent, vulgar word—diseased and despised—however, I am filled with (what can only be described as) love for you. 

            I’ve become a sinister, soul-snatching monster. An uncouth, cunning creep. A horrible, handsome human being. I’ve built them up to destroy them. I’ve given them a glimpse of light in their pitch-black lives then I’ve taken it away. I’ve spoken of romance with a heart of coal. I took your heart and ate it. 

            What can I say? 

            Better you than me.

I swear; I
saw her:

over trees and
through ivy,
under clouds and
down waterfalls

the thunder
never stopped her
I swear,
she sleptwalk—

through silver meadows
and up plateaus,
in rushing rivers
and drying suns
climbing nothing
on her way up!
to everywhere…

she sleptwalk,
with a seductive smile
of porcelain bone,
eating berries and
breathing air,
trekking cliffs
like shaken soda
falling down
like dirty water

falling, falling
falling—

below the waterline
falling, falling
below sea level
falling, falling

where the governor
of all this mess
is struggling to
send people up
without the call
from his comrades,
his cabinet, his
custodians to
make damn sure they
have all their
legal papers and
boarding passes—
there’s just too many
to fucking count! and
it’s getting late
and we’re far behind
and send ’em!

I swear,
she sleptwalk to the moon
she sleptwalk to the stars
she sleptwalk to the galaxies
tiptoeing all around us;
to the person who holds
true love,
to the god who
makes it real,
to the boy who
isn’t born,
to the beach where
time stands still,
to the mouth that says
ok! to the jaws that
clamp her whole…

she sleptwalk,
I swear

but what do I know?
I only wrote this while
she slept.

            The surgery had gone terribly wrong, and now his memories were leaving him just as he left her. Circumventing with every fleeting breath. Pouring from him quicker than his blood. There was no evaporation to the flood.

—

            Everyone told him he would be something one day. He remembered his mother pushing him along. His father taking him to school. His teachers telling him he was special—gifted was the word they preferred. Most everyone he met knew he was different.

            Yes, he was different all right—different enough to prove them all wrong.

            Yes, he would be something one day: dead.

            He failed to see the difference.

—

            He was 26 years old and never gave much thought to if he’d make it that far—to if he’d make it another day, another hour. He was worn and wispy and blew about with the wind. He knew right from wrong yet chose neither. His blonde hair once hung over his hollowed eyes—now he dyed it darker and combed it back, dressed in custom-made suits, making money while he made them laugh.

           
            “Why don’t you come out more, Alex?” asked one of his best friends. They had been friends half their lives.

            “I don’t know,” Alex replied, “I guess I just don’t like it.”

           
            “Alex, why don’t you go out less?” asked one of his best friends.

            “I suppose I should consider it,” Alex responded. Half their lives was only half enough.

           
            They stayed in touch while they drifted apart.

—

            If it wasn’t one love it was another, crowding his chest and clogging his skull, just as they had years ago; just as they did now. Some he won, some he lost, but this was no way to think of such things—and even if it were, neither outcome was flawless. The results were beneficial to neither party involved.

           
            “What gives you the gall?!” she sputtered. “What makes you think it’s ok to make it so goddamn hard to leave you?!” she caught traction and ran. It was an early morning in late November. Her shape made geometry professors drool from their lips with stupefied gazes, incapable of finding a coherent thought, let alone the words to attempt to apply a rule, a meaning, a definition.

            “I’m not the one leaving,” Alex told her. She had only been his girl for a couple illustrious months, but he never thought he loved anyone more. “You are.”

            His eyes blinked heavy with goodbyes.

—

            Sitting in a hospital bed, he couldn’t tell if it were then or now. Both, for all he knew; for all he knew it didn’t matter. He was bleeding out of many places, a cheap prop juggled by his consciousness.

            He had lost her. She was gone.

—

            It wasn’t as bad as the night with those kids. The night of St. Patrick’s Day when he was duped and beaten. It was hard to compare the two to be honest. They were in such different categories. One, the dilapidation of the heart and the soul and the mind; one, the destruction of the body.
            It was easy to compare the two, to be honest. The early morning in late November was much worse.

            He supposed the night with the kids ran a close second only because it came after the early morning in late November. It was a reminder of where he came from. It was a beating on top of a beating. It was rather refreshing really, a breath of nostalgic air. He found he couldn’t beat it.

            They rained down on him with blows. They dropped down on him with feet. They smothered him with tumbling drunken bodies. He couldn’t help feeling it was their best imitation of precipitation, and therefore, entirely natural.

            Being out of place, he saw how it fit.

—

            “College was fun,” he blurted at last.

            He was thinking of so many things to say to break the silence, he was ranking them from best to worst, and this little gem—this little ‘college was fun’ number—rang out involuntarily, and it was then he knew without doubt it ranked dead last.

            It came from under one of his last breaths to leave him. It swirled about, making friends with his forlorn air. There weren’t towels enough to soak up his leaking fluids. They let them drip or they lost their jobs.

—

            “The cottage was fun,” she mentioned without meaning, flipping the page in her paperback, trees passing on both sides. Pavement passing underneath. Her feet were on the dash, her socks warm and fluffy leading up to her thin, bent knees, her hair wandering down to the words on the page, to where she really wanted to be. It took only a glance for him to notice this, and to notice his hands. His appendages. His breathing and longing and the beating of his heart, closer to bursting out of his chest with the further they became.

            Q: How do you miss someone who’s right next to you?
            A?: It’s a hell of a trick.

            She missed his glance because she looked nowhere near him. She turned another page.

—

            It’s not that college wasn’t fun; it was that he hated it. And he hated the word hate—even more so, the feeling. So when he had to hate something, he found he did not know how to feel. How to speak. He chose silent delusion and considered it to be just as well.

            “Alex, how do you find your life to be so much fun?” asked one of his best friends. He had not seen him in half his life.

            “I don’t know,” Alex told him, “I guess it’s just that I never find any of it to be much worthwhile.”

            “Why don’t you find any fun in life, Alex?” inquired his greatest friend.

            “Mostly because you’re always asking me that, Guy,” Alex answered. “The less you’d do it the more I’d like it.” Half their lives was twice too much. “The less you’d do it the more I’d like you.”

            Feet rained down upon him. Blows fell all over. These were not his friends at all. As his face bounced off the ground, a cranial basketball off a concrete trampoline, he couldn’t wait to tell Sadie how it all happened. How it all went down. He was already thinking of the words he’d use and the words he wouldn’t. Of how he’d build it up and break it down. Of every pause. Of every breath.
           

            He realized—on the seventh or eleventh bounce—that Sadie wasn’t his girl anymore. She had left him on that early morning in late November.

            Time was slow between the pounding. He was able to think between each blow. They put such effort in. They cared so much. He tried to thank them—with every muscle, with all his will (which was more than he could say about anything in months; years; ever?)—but time was faster than he imagined. They were not having it. They did him his favor with none in return. He sent RSVPs to no response. The ‘thank you’ cards were left unsigned. His guests left without satisfaction.
            They stomped the thoughts out of his head.

—

            When he woke up, Sadie was by his side. She glistened with tears. She heaved up and down, oh so delicate. She was beautiful.

            “Please make it please make it,” she sobbed incoherently. Her head down, his right hand in both of hers. “Please make it please make it.” Her hands were frail and scarred and pasty white. She brought his hand to her face. “Please make it please make it.” Her tears soaked his knuckles. Salt sneaked into his wounds.

            He cried out as he came to. Her tears hurt the cracks in his hands. He looked around and took it all in (well, as much of it as he could at the moment): existence! and all its little known yet overwhelming absurdity! He thought for the first time. He did not know who she was:

            “Alex! Alex!” she wriggled down to her core, “Oh, my God—you’re alive!”

            He shook his head all over, shaking it into and out of all sorts of things. He shook harder; he couldn’t sort it out. He shook his head like he was trying to empty something out of it, like a child with the last few coins of their piggy bank.

            He knew her from somewhere. Her name was something like the number 80. It reminded him of violence. It reminded him of—

            “What…”

            “Alex, it was awful! We left the bar and—”

            “is…”

            “—and they were beating you and I tried to stop them and—”

            “this?”

            —a road trip of lust and loss.

            He got up and stepped forth. He put one foot in front of the other. He left the hospital and taught himself to read and write.

—

            Every breath reminded him he was alive.

            He breathed.

            “I’m just getting started.”

you ain’t nothin new, kid
you ain’t nothin new:

you wanna drink
you wanna smoke
you wanna shoot guns at people

you wanna talk
you wanna write
you wanna blow yer brains out

how fucking cliché
(it wouldn’t even make a bang)

well, ya know:
fuck basquiat, and fuck bukowski
those dirty drug-ridden dogs
they know nothing of the howls i’ve heard
of the pain the torture
of the weeping weaved in the wind
—woven
and oh so coolhardwarm

the harder it is, the softer it makes me
and why does it seem all i do is work
yet i have no goddamned money??

i don’t know and i don’t care
because i’m not done yet;
i’m not dead

the alcohol washes over my brain
it scrubs and it scrubs
works over the tainted stains—triple time
irons out the wrinkles and imperfections—
makes me, me

sad happy
miserable jubilant
fucked up lucked out
confused focused
me

alley walkin
bullshit talkin
shitty car
at the bar
no cash no food
no head no hope
lots and lots of booze
me

and that’s just how i like me, baby—
and that’s just how you like me, too

go figure.

An Alternate Preparatory Checklist for Writers:

1. Sit the fuck down and write □

A Preparation Checklist for Writers:

1. Wake up, late □
2. Lie in bed for an unseemly amount of time □
3. Get up, pound water, brush teeth □
4. Eat a light breakfast, drink coffee w/cream □
5. Check news and mail, read a bit, get brain churning □
6. Come up w/some ideas in the shower, forget them by the time you’re out □
7. Dry off, get dressed □
8. Get ready to sit down and write □
9. Look over notes, reread what you have, think it’s great □
10. Realize there’s not enough time before work, not worth getting invested; waste more time before you leave □
11. Speed to work so as not to be late (you’re late anyway) □
12. Work □
13. Start drinking □
14. Think about how you’re going to go home and continue the masterpiece □
15. Continue drinking □
16. Get home, brew strong coffee, have it black this time even though it’s way too late for that □
17. Look over notes, reread what you have, decide it’s awful □
18. Fall into bottomless pit of existential despair □
19. Masturbate □
20. Go out to clear your head □
21. Return home, too tired, too drunk □
22. Go to sleep thinking about all the great writing you’ll do tomorrow □
23. Repeat □

(Alternative Writing Preparation Checklist found at link at bottom right)

            of technology,

pouring in your eyes
            and ears,

ever so tempting to the
            touch,
always but a reach
            away

taking your every thought
            and skewing it,
replacing it with another,
            unprofound—

leaving your head
            ajar, but not your
spirit—

            it’s a new
                        addiction
(the most dangerous yet,
            more dangerous than
heroin, because with this
            one, you live)
            and the more you
                        suck in,

            the more you’re
                        rewarded
            with hollow golden
                        stars.

(aka: don’t be so dramatic, it’s only 1/? anyway)

no sirens no warnings no red
lights whirling in the air

it’s not nuclear nor flying
through space—no screaming
you can hear;

but, make no mistake!

this thing will eat you alive

IT:

slowly takes hold with malevolent grip—
one hand inked with “disbelief,” the other
with “fear” tattooed across its knuckles,
the trivialities of paper and politics non-
sensical, yet still reigning supreme

lines drawn in the sand with waves
washing over them, each side still standing,
now improvising demise

some sort of dystopian nightmare come to life,
à la Bradbury or Huxley, Orwell or Rand?

            (truth is stranger than science-fiction?

                                  —no:

what good were all those “brilliant” novels
if’n they ain’t amount to nothin?

what use was all they foretold if it happened anyway?

—oh, yet genius they receive from beneath their graves:
“wouldn’t be one if it didn’t come true,” one proclaims
with a pointed pen, reprimanding, half-moon eyeglasses,

[more like a crescent, the most arrogant of phases]

a tweed shoulder-and-elbow-patched blazer, unabashed and unafraid,
translucent with all their recent losses)

barely breathing through some primordial orifice at first,
now drawing heavy, heaving breaths through its ever-growing gaping hole…

us, as powerless and docile as ever;
reverse (r)evolution, a mitotic backlash

                      (“be kind, please rewind”
           “be warned, don’t fast forward”)

until we’re all single cells in our single cells,
still and subservient unless told otherwise;

(handshakes are gone)
(get-togethers are gone)

intimacy is gone;

HUMAN CONTACT IS GONE

……………………………………………………
…………………………………………
…………………………….
……………………
…………….
………..

…the breeze still blowing
    the sun still shining
    the birds still singing—

    same as they always have,
    same as they always will—

it’s not the end of everything, my darling—
    oh, no! hardly!—
only the end of us.

(don’t forget to wash your hands)