and then there were words

he was an average citizen worried about average things like gas prices whats for dinner whats for lunch balding early politics the meaning of life losing a few pounds and holding the elevator for attractive strangers in hopes that they may reward him with sex nobody ever did

In contempt of consciousness there is an itch in my throat, a weakness of the musculature I cough again, richly, pulmonic, melodious to the funeral home attendant as my cortex whispers tenderly "you're gonna die this time, in all the pain imaginable" deep breaths would be ideal instead I do the things I know will work: drown it with hundred proof tequila and sus yay with hints of ajax. it burns savage, on the way in, inside, the eyes water, chest tightens. i feel much worse, but at least i'm alive and loyal my to mistakes, to the poem, the pussy, the thread I hold on to in the dark. the best things in life-are bottomless or free, and often both-is health.

a man goes to buy cigarettes he finished the pack of camel silvers he asks for tobacco that you roll yourself but the cashier is confused his english is poor and he stares a blank stare he reminds the man of a dull cow lowering its head to graze he takes the pack instead and walks out with disgust at himself for buying again and not resisting harder. a man has tried to quit more than a hundred times. he only succeeded once this was a painful reminder of that statistic

breathe in the heavy, turgid, capitalistic fumes, and let your eyes roll to the back of your head, where they’re designed to be anyway. allow your mind respite from the pressures of conformity. let your body overflow the aesthetic confines you imprison it into. nobody looks that good all the time. it’s filters and angles supported by likes and follows. its someting to pass the time, on our way to a slightly better grave.

and there are times when i feel original, smart, and amusing but then i see my ideas in the prose of a man who died in 1967 and i think why even try? it’s all been written, all been done, and by far better writers than ill ever be.

in my younger days I danced with words for three, four hours at a time. I'd load up on the bottom shelf stuff and bust out 15-20 poems a session before I'd call it quits and let the self-pats on the back commence. I reveled in the lengthy content. I felt like a king. sobriety grays the page these days. today I fiddled with a poem, just one, one poem, an old work, for two straight hours and it's still not right. it no longer bursts from me, it looks odd on the paper, I'm not sure why I wrote it to begin with. I thought I had developed a good system with the drinking and the writing drunk because so much shit poured out and I never questioned why it came, or if the tenses were good, or what the punch line should be. i just wrote shit down for the sake of writing shit down. it was great for everyone involved. I was young and full of life, vodka-fueled fires scorched existence, searing memories to pages, consuming all. the words waited for me back then. now, it seems that, I must wait for them.

you’ve got to learn a great many words. crack open the dictionary and memorize them all; the more obscure the better. you can’t write good before you know words like iconoclast or truculent, you can't make witty puns. your jokes will fall flat like rectal zephyrs. don't listen to the drunk fools who tell you to drink before you write. alcohol dulls the senses and clouds the mind fuels the erection but only half chubbed. dont gamble with your future poetry is like a puzzle - an equation with precise variables to be tuned: length, stanza, rhyme wit, humor, and nobody can do math drunk. with time you learn the formula and when you so do it will flow so easily. good poetry isn’t about suffering its just about discovering the formula. only a handfull ever have and whence they did they guard it with utmost fervor spewing garbage about how to be a writer to throw the plebs off track.

The last time she calls you and The last time she calls you drunk

with some there was a lot of talking not me talking just mostly them talking but little being said everything discussed had already happened and you had to be there to get it they liked to relive things this way the men talked of women and the women talked of women too everyone talked of drugs late times “dope things” bad hangovers and the people who never got them always talked the most. this is why, i think to myself, i’d rather stay at home the conversation was always good

there are days when all the wounds open simultaneously: when your favorite food tastes of cardboard and masturbation is just a pastime, when you want to leave the house but it’s twenty degrees outside and seamless exists, when you’d rather be six feet under than running on a treadmill, when the last drop of hope squeezed from stale future evaporates into nothingness. there are days when no netflix show will make you smile.

For me what works is simple: lean eggs in the morning, white, coke zero, toast, butter, home fries and onions, a little snuggle before exit. A good scent is of utmost - le labo. lunch optional. I believe in taking care of my liver. I do this by drinking wine, white and green, and rarely do I chase with meth, yet superior connection does consist of similar predilection to narcotics. a large clittoral hood helps; small egos and long legs do too. dinner always from the icos. and good cuddling: a must. it makes possible good sleep.

the only thing worse than too late is never tried and even worse than that is finding three white beard hairs