where will the wicked run to, on that last day?

the january silence is quiet, not deafening like december. if you breathe in deep enough you can feel clarity in your lungs. ice cold like mentholated cough drops. hock up any debris, coated sheets of dirt from my core. collected in small pools and spat out, to make way for health, for open airways and the ice cold.

my thighs ache with a pain only felt when i have been bent out of shape. placed in positions i never requested. and from this contrived position i begin to question every last one of my actions. wonder how i can sift through values that lie deep beneath years of telling the wise one in me to keep quiet. how it is those ideals that make me happier, how i refuse to bring them forth into the real world. eliminate the excess, the meaningless interactions, the feeling of drunk eyes burning into mine that bare no emotion. only small glimmers that fizz out from way beyond the retina. from a place behind the eyes that the looker refuses to agree with. to look at himself. so i am left looking at empty pockets and blatant disappointment. the even sharper sting of knowing it would execute this poorly, this void of satisfaction, no coherence, nothing stitched together. and i am left aware that i am even more isolated. standing atop piles of dirt and scattered clothing and trash and tissues and i face everything individually, in my own skin. these relationships built on bare skin and nothing else entirely, not even a penny contributed. just explicit and excruciating closeness, but never extend your heart out, never extend anything from the waist up.

and if i begin looking at you from the waist up i see two large hip bones, a smooth muscular uprising to the navel, the thick hair leading up your center, clavicle, strong but not protruding collar bones. a firm, outstanding neck and a face. a face where the birth of life lives. in lips i wish could say the truth of the dark past we all swam in. in eyes i wish could not be black holes leading nowhere, to lands with no possibility. how i wish they were open and bright and led to a togetherness. a collaboration, a violent splattering of paint on the bland walls that surround me so we can color it all in. with our own views, our own imagination, the stories we will tell and create and fasten tightly around our wrists, like cuffs keeping us together. how that chaining could fix one of us, which one of us i am not sure. or neither becomes healed, just temporarily ameliorated. silenced. a sore throat fantasy.

like a trashcan fire in a prison cell

like the search lights in the parking lots of hell

air is crisp and holidays drip past me. lack of significance in ancient miracles and fantastical figures, maybe a glossy compact mirror will make me care. but apathy is a gripping condition, it lives dormant and mute behind the breast-bone. silently awakening to let you know these things don't matter. it is not these things that matter.

let's live on coffee and supplemental neuro-transmitters. let's keep self medicating until our blood is no longer pure and the pressure that exists within us is ready to explode. let's keep writing and reading and walking and running until we have any clue as to what we are walking towards. what concept we are approaching. what dream sits at the ledge waiting for me to arrive. like a girl sitting at the edge of a cliff looking out at a landscape hugging her knees into her chest, glancing behind her, chin to shoulder blade to quietly acknowledge I am finally there.

does the dream wait for the dreamer or does the dreamer wait for the dream? who is it that is perched at the edge of this terrain? more unsolvable questions. kept in my back pocket. wrinkled paper warm and damp of ideas i will never follow to their potential. uncertainties that will be solved only in death. i try not to self destruct, in these moments of profound, omnipresent confusion. where the only thing i know for certain is that i know nothing at all. that the pursuit of truth is a trivial path. that answers will never come. only more moments to ruminate on lack of concrete atonement.

so i protest against pollution. against the ache in my lungs, contracting and gasping for air. fresher air. higher altitude. is this what matters. this is what matters. attempting to craft goals for the new year. to replace the old. shed a layer of skin and exfoliate until the dead cells drop off and a new coat is revealed. more toned, even texture, smoothed over and unified. if only i could push this weight off of my body and back into the atmosphere. no lingering shadows of darkness that follow behind me. it is what it is and i must allow myself to move independently from the burdens i have come to know all too well. to swim with strong and large strokes through whatever waters i travel and glide towards who i want to be, or rather who i know i am underneath the bitter coatings. to better myself with each breath, head turned sideways out of the water, preparing to propel forward. it is not in finally approaching land or arriving to any destination, time reveals that the glory is in the swim, or in the pursuit, and rarely in the achievement. i will believe in the process, in a rhythmic pattern used to exist more peacefully than this. to know this process is my own task, and whether or not the weight is shared, i will bear it. i must bear it on my own and find the reward in every corner turned. maybe then i will come to terms with this nightmare. maybe the nightmare will return to a dream.

i've made amends

in the general sense, but the devil's in the details.

The magic exists in early fall days. Where the sun sets quickly. Orange burnt sky dust. Where a shooting star is a visual reality. Two stationary locations. An arc of shinning, splintering silver light leaping from point A to point B. Fluid movement. Make a wish now or forever be luckless. Throw your change. Throw everything you have into making this life worth living. Into finding joy in unexpected corners and strength and progress in the crevices of your own eyelids. In the crease of your stomach folds. In your own wrong doings and shortcomings. In everything you wish you could be.

The glory in the juice of an orange. Dripping from my bottom lip onto my chin, onto my chest, down my clavicle, to my navel, to the spot adjacent to my right hip bone that sends electricity through my core. Hair standing up on its ends, shivering, make me weak. Yet I am not weak and will not let overbearing, calloused hands push me down to a manipulated position. Weak. Knees bend and head cocked looking upwards.

So I carry my days out alone. In the whirlwind speedway that is my own condition. Living just to figure out what in God's name it means to be living. Searching for salvation. Trying to save myself from all of the worms, the dirt, the earthly and unearthly corruption. Always present. Always a devil around the next corner, behind an ajar door. Waiting for me. To suck me in and rid me of all of my progress. How to learn to be stronger. To open the door look the devil in his black brown eyes that seem to lead nowhere and walk the other way. There need be no fight. No guns. No rise of arms. The only thing needed is my own will to turn my own heel. Worn down heel. Flat. So flat my feet practically glide across the cement. Dry skin. Another callous. I refuse to be callous.

The shooting star was a sight my eyes never saw before. A virgin experience. New witness to extraterrestrial pleasure. A real instance of the supernatural bleeding into the human sky. Glancing at it the burst of light looks like a diamond. Of infinite carat. Infinite worth. Glowing and glittering without delay or resistance. Like its only purpose is to shine. And to die. And in the magnificent streak of evanescence its emanating glory is more than I can fathom. It cannot be apart of my life time, the same system I exist in. unless that dying star also lies within me. Leaping light years away as a flashlight of hope in the dark polluted night sky. A lightning strike gallop that lit up my insignificant slice of. A message. A faint, flickering stream, fountain of majestic beauty. Untainted and pure, radiant and speckled, how it shined, how it shined.

thirsty

but your appetite gets chased away

october's air is far more pleasant. in the morning mist lies relief from the overbearing california sun. more relief comes with accumulative strength. with each step i begin to feel better. more comfortable in my healing, less scarred skin. engaged abdominals. learning how to live this life with clearer intentions.

i am escaping a debilitating depression. and as i crawl out of this dank, dark hole i am blinded by the light. i fear it. with two hands pressed firmly at the opening i do my best to hoist myself up and begin to climb out without getting weighed back down. without a brick on my chest it is easier to make decisions, easier to say no to what will damage me, what will set me back and prevent me from reaching a euphonic rhythm. the gray outlined figure i am trying to color in. to become a part of a life long projection of wants and wishes. to eliminate materialism and lack of depth in that vision. to see it for its core and ignore the amenities.

i am doing my best to adhere to my first instincts. to practice what i preach. ever confident in each word of advice but seldom act upon my own values. take each let down with a grain of salt. knowing very well there are greater things in this cosmic construction than i could ever foresee. a myriad of miraculous possibilities that exist not in my mental capacity. the drive to achieve a blissful state where mind is eliminated. meditate. concentrate. find a way to make this work. find a way to put out the cigarette and see daylight more clearly. to cough up every ounce of toxins from my lungs, my blood, and stand up straight in facing my fate that will deliver me from evil. deliver me to infinity. to the grandest most specific dream anyone could ever have. a dream too big to hold in my own hands. my open wounded cuticles. how they are starved from moisture. how i am starving but never do seem to fill myself up. looking for nourishment in other sources. do not give me food give me something of truer substance. something i can sink my teeth into and bite down on with all of my will, something psychologically digestible. satiating and fulfilling. a gratification i have yet to find. something that can overcome me, become me, something i can become.

fills my mind with jumpropes and slit wrists

bust through the firewall into heaven

from the outside. it seems like i live in a cloud of smoke. as i arrive, when i arrive, i am circled by a wreath of a white milky air, curling out of my mouth and into my surroundings. it seems as if without such an entrance, time goes by slower. dragging its feet.

depression never leaves me. i can ignore it in brief moments of vacuuming or folding. in driving. i find it hard to identify a home. my home is transition. my home is the ten freeway, the left lane, the 80 mph blinding speed i achieve, rhythmically to get from one transient abode to another. i create a relationship with the gas pedal, the firm smooth leather of the steering wheel and the music that propels my four wheels. the poetic and disturbing words of my favorite artist. his believable philosophy. how riddled i am with existential musings. the who am i what am i where do i go from here circular thoughts that never do seem to end.
and i find myself more isolated than ever. living in a wash of chemicals and endorphins that never do their job. never communicate properly to my neurotransmitters to tell them to lighten up. breathe easy and free of tar. to laugh at the bad and rejoice in the few moments of good. of bliss. that i know are still attainable.

and my attention span is shrinking. cannot finish a book, a day without feeling insanely bent up and frustrated. my lips are cut from a different kind of self distruction. one that takes place when my mind slows down and forgets depression and gets absorbed in the darkness of evening. with my head pressed firmly against my pillow i pray never to leave. do not take me away from this earth. i pray i will accomplish something. even if it is just getting out of bed on-time or kicking a bad habit. i pray i will craft talent and turn this misery into art. that there must be a reason i suffer so profoundly, so suffocatingly that i cause myself to be short of breath. awaking with a respiratory ache that can only come from damage. from living too hard at a young age. from not appreciating my youth and attempting to damage, quite severly my young and resilient body. but i feel 45. i feel older with each step i take as my bones hit the ground and my spine continues to curve, downwards, closer to whatever exists below this life. or above.

i feel thin. frail. eating as much as one meal a day. coffee. nicotine. nothing good for me. i search for comfort. affirmation. never reached such a self depricating place. i cling to the past but thank god i am done with my abysmal summer. thank god he is gone. out of sight out of mind. finally realizing you are not worth my time.

i am slowly but surely working on arriving somewhere. crafting my talent and harnessing damage into productive, coherent thoughts. to bring me to a solid ground to stand on. where my bones aren't crushed by gravity. where there is nothing keeping me down. i will shake this. this growing leeching darkness that no longer sits on my chest but exists in my veins, in my tendons and muscles and every inch of my body. that crawls through me while i sleep and manifests itself in parasitic dreams. how i am abusing myself as a host. how there are trecherous jungle animals in places they don't belong. how they try and seize me and become me, take me down with them until there is no crack of light. but i am the watcher. i am observing this depression and it is not me. i will eliminate it by having faith that i am above it. that it is an aspect of me and not my total self. that i have a chance at happiness. at freedom. that death will be salvation and a conclusion to this painfully transient and incomprehensible existence. how it will be a relief. how i will accept it when it comes as i have learned to accept all changes in this life. how i will continue to grow and age and love every wrinkle on my forehead as evidence that i have lived. and learned and loved and enjoyed this very fragile blessing. this miracle. the wonder.

a four wall reflection

My room is filled with blank checks, empty birth control packs, a compact mirror, cropped tops. A chaotic sea of adolescent belongings. Novels and handbags scattered among a half unpacked suitcase, open supplement bottles and empty cups, plastic bottles. A hair diffuser, needle and thread. Enough nail polish to paint the town red. A pink and white journal from years passed sits collecting dust under my desk. My dog licks her leg on my plush white bed and the naked overhead light is glaring and unflattering -- casts this room in a more harsh and unforgiving light. There are socks, vomit-soaked gowns yet to be dry cleaned and my cracked, unnourished lips. There are prescription pill bottles, some empty, some half-filled with substances that are supposed to fix this cursed condition. This chemical imbalance that makes my esophagus red with anger and my brain riddled with fears. A chipped, unglazed ceramic cup I made at age four sits with three mint leaves and ample water. It gives off no smell. Hand cream, face cream, copious amounts of chap stick containers, lip balms, carmex, Blistex. A book shelf filled with stark and depressing titles, how people rarely stop to acknowledge how bleak the names are, Being and Nothingness, Paradise Lost, The Waves, In Cold Blood. The case filled with the truth of human existence, Crime and Punishment, The Razor’s Edge, One Hundred Years of Solitude. How these men and women knew how dreary this life really is. In a mess of noise-cancelling headphones and magazines adorned with Chanel poster adds. Some attempt to achieve beauty. Leather and faux-leather purses. A dog breathes heavily in the night and I love her. More than I love the coat hanger siting on my desk chair and more than I love, in many ways myself. More pills, receipts, empty shopping bags and earrings. For freshly pierced skin. New breakthroughs, needles dug deep. An open drawer of unmatched socks. Nude mesh leotards and rabbit ears. Dress up. How I do not know how to move on from here. How I do not know where I want to go. My left gland is swollen and my lungs are bruised, damaged from too much smoke. Drawers filled to the brim with crushed empty cigarette packs, Marlborough Lights, American Spirit Blues, Parliments. I am never quite ready to go to sleep. Sitting half up half awake not ready to face the night. The pre-dawn surrender to daily darkness, collective lack of light. My toe throbs and pulses through infected skin. A damp towel rests on the edge of my bed and I doubt I will move it. Doubt I will hang it up to dry where it belongs. Im seeking joy in vindication, disorganization and appreciation of this chaotic summer. Im seeking joy in the potential relief from my undeniable self loathing. How everything begins to feel like a rejection, when anyone says my name. how its so strange to hear the syllables spoken outloud, recogniton that I do indeed exist, in this unspeakably unfathomable life. How no words could ever come close to describing the hourly struggle I face of attempting to confront my doom. The foreverness of death. The lightness and sand like quality the ones we love have of slipping through our fingers, out of our grip. And seep out like fireflies into the night sky, away from us. Too far to touch. But how I hope we all light up the sky, in a thousand little pieces, radiant speckles of neurons, brain cells, flesh, skin flakes and neon veins. How I hope to light up the sky.

sorrow found me when i was young

sorrow waited and sorrow won

sitting in a strangers room in portland, oregon listening to the national. his caramel voice washing over my body like tapioca, like some kind of taffy. too many metaphors. no way to pin point anything i am ever describing. my body aches for something more rewarding, for fulfillment. a constant state of either dissatisfaction or depressive apathy. released from your chains. the high hoped let down and not-good-enough. whether that label belongs to you or i - i am still unsure. my eyes itch from new-state allergy. finally got on the plane. finally broke my biggest physical fear. so what is the residual anxiety? the leaky washed up faded heart attack. half-forced.

no words left on my chest. everything held inside of me taken out. i am a walking zombie. life force taken away. no desire. no trust in the future. bleak. the scalp-itched discomfort of physical new place. without you. without the desire of you. without the crutch of the possiblity to shrivel and croutch next to.