somehow I missed june through october.  a story and a memoir - - -

11/01
He took a shaky step forward, and then another and another. Beyond him, the sky was a dark gray void that ate up the horizon. The nothingness was impossible to look into; it burned one's eyes and gave a horrible feeling of emptiness that clawed at one's insides. It sent a strange shiver through his thin body. With slender, china white hands he clutched at the hood of his jacket and drew it closer to his face; pulled it tight around him as if to hide. The long fur brushed against his cheeks, a stark contrast his unfeeling, pallid skin.


11/02
His bare feet sank in the freezing sand with each awkward step; his ragged jeans wet with spray from the black waves. The water had numbed his exposed skin far beyond feeling.

As he made his way, each step became more labored. The barren wasteland around him seemed to waver and slide as though he stood on a swiftly tilting plane. He wrapped his arms around his torso, trying to stave off the sinking feeling in his stomach. Static slowly started to creep its way into his vision, falling in vertical bands as though the sky was a broken television.


11/03
Something stung his face and he reached to touch his skin, feeling a vague wetness against his deadened fingertips. He looked toward the sky and squinted into the storm; tiny droplets of rain pattered against his skin, stinging like needles. It beaded up on his shoulders and clung to the fur on his collar as dew, forming a glistening halo around his colorless skin and vivid eyes.

Quietly and suddenly, something snapped beneath his toes. He stopped and looked back at the endless, meandering trail of footprints he'd left in the sand; down at the unforgiving cold beneath his feet.


11/04
There was nothing there but black drifts of seaweed that had been torn asunder and thrown to land. With a start, he dropped to his knees and came to rest on his ankles. He sat with his hands crossed in his lap for a moment, staring down at the blue veins that showed through. A gust of wind whipped sand into his eyes and he bowed his head until it passed, raising his vacant stare to find that the ridges of silt beneath him had shifted.

A wispy bit of something stood out against the sand, swaying with each flurry.


11/05
He pushed his fingers into the ground and pulled back handfuls of grainy mire, away from the treasure he'd found. Slender bone began to protrude as he dug away the sand, small bits of feather and tendon still clinging to it. The frame of a bird emerged, flesh rended away from its body by the elements. Gingerly, he lifted it from its tomb and held it up against the dim, rapidly darkening sky. The bones were delicate and lean, weightless in his numb hands. He stretched out its wings; examined the damp, tattered feathers and ligaments holding together the skeleton.


11/06
It was a sea bird, beak long and hooked at the end, wingspan wide and narrow. Tenderly, he bent its wings and hooked them over his shoulders. It hung weightless across his chest, dripping water and reeking of salt and earth. He rose to his feet, legs numb from the lack of blood. Before he could fully right himself, everything started to slow down and he tried to focus on the black clumps of decaying matter mapping out the beach in front of him. He lurched forward and the gray expanse where there was no horizon turned on its side;


11/07
He barely caught himself on his hands and knees. The gull brushed against his face, smearing sand and salt across his mouth. With conviction, he struggled to his feet again; the world reeling. Eventually, wearily, he resumed his arduous steps into the violent, encroaching sea. As he struggled, the wind picked up and waves began to crash into the dark shoreline; breaking on rocks hidden beneath the water. Water cascaded down over his head and poured straight through his clothing; plastering his jet black hair to his face and working its way to his skin like so many cold fingers.


11/08
Waves rose up around his ankles and the water pulled at him as hard as it could, threatening to drag him under with each step. Though the ground was fast disappearing beneath his feet, he kept pressed on, focusing on one foot at a time.

He began to feel a firmness below him; the sand gave way to rock. It was jagged and cut into his flesh despite his weight. He turned and stepped out into the water. Took a footstep forward and then another. Waves clawed at him from all directions, stinging his skin and pulling at his clothing.


11/09
Blindly, he pressed forward; slipped on the rock, but managed to right himself.

Suddenly there was no ground beneath his toes and he stood still, gazing into the vast nothingness that was once the ocean. The water sprayed all around him, tugging at his arms and legs. It ripped the bird from around his neck and he clutched at his neck in its absence; crossed his arms to replace the vacant space it once occupied. A black wave loomed over him, seeming to stretch forever into the sky. It moved toward him in slow motion, gaining ground and becoming monstrous.


11/10
His violently green eyes opened as he realized he was underwater, slowly floating toward the surface. The light from the sun filtered through the murky water around him; forming shimmering little rays. When his face finally broke the surface he breathed in deep, pulled himself from the water, and stood. Ancient cypress trees towered above him, their weighted bows dripping with leaves and moss and beads of dew.

A vivid blue sky shone between the tangled branches letting in sunbeams that danced around him on the water. He began to walk; the swamp water rippling gently beneath his silent footsteps.


11/17
It was the summer after we all finished school. I was eighteen and free of the normal societal restrictions that has been placed on me for all my life. I didn't hold a real job, was living in and out of my car and on older friend's couches. I slept all day and spent an inordinate amount of time obtaining, doing, and selling drugs so I could make it through the hours upon hours of stagnant time with which one finds themselves when suddenly presented with absolute freedom. Doing absolutely nothing is not easy, especially when you have no occupation.


11/18
You get stir crazy, restless.

Mainly it was just me, my friend James who has been by my side for near eight years now, his sidekick who was simply called Jono, though I call him by his real name these days, and his best friend Brady, who had actually been my drum major in marching band, though he never showed up at school much.

We had started the rest of lives with absolute debauchery. Every day was something else illegal, something bad, something wrong. We spent most of our time all pilled up or insanely drunk. Lots of drugs, lots.


11/19
I barely remember most of the things we did, though I get brief flashes. Walking on the river with James, cutting pills in his dad's condo with expensive knives, stealing liquor from boat houses and drinking it from coconuts; nodding out on the seawall and being woken up by the tide. Us driving around all night in my battle-tank car, doing a buck twenty down the middle of US1, to find Krystal so we could get a giant pack of burgers which we would inevitably vomit all over the parking lot because we were so junk sick and messed up.


11/20
The parts I remember vividly, however, are the parties. The Hotel Parties, as they're simply referred to these days. We had decided that, in the name of living the american dream and having watched Fear and Loathing far too many times, we were going to rent out an entire floor of this little hotel on the beach and have "the" party. The party you read about, the party you see in movies, the party that everyone talks about for the rest of their lives. And we did. And we did. And we did again. And even some more after that.


11/21
There was no guest list, no invitations. We simply said, "this is going to happen and it's happening here." And somehow, just like the movies, it did happen. Hundreds of strangers and unexpected friends just showed up, bringing along their friends and party favors of our usual variety. If you were there, you can claim that you have seen a dinner plate full of cocaine, that you've seen real heroin; partied with rock stars who weren't famous at the time, namely Evergreen Terrace and Dr. Acula, and tripped out with sea turtles when there was no horizon on the ocean.


11/22
That was one of my favorite things, one of the only things I can remember. The sea turtles. We'd find them as we were walking down the beach, or rather, stumbling and feeling like we were floating because of how much scag we'd done. They’d drag themselves up on the beach and wait near the dunes and we’d sit and watch them, run our fingers along their barnacled shells and alien skin, then be on our way. They never seemed to be bothered, and carried on with their business as well. Oh, and Sunshine; he’s something, someone, I’ll always remember.


11/23
I found him just as he was going to drown himself on the beach, and would have if he wanted to or not, as he was far too inebriated to swim. I saved him and sat on the beach holding him all night as he cried and was sick and sobered up enough to remember his own name. Turns out he was only fifteen. Oops.

It was insane. James and Jono would smoke some weed with the hotel managers and they’d give us the keys to all the rooms on the top floor, except Crackhead Bill’s, because he lived there.


11/24
We moved the furniture, filled the minibars with ice, did a few lines of scag, Jono and Brady did a lot of coke, and then we went down to the beach and waited. By the time we dragged ourselves up the flights of stairs there was usually a little party going. We joined in, partied all night, watched the sun come up over the beach, woke everyone else by running around the hotel screaming “room service,” made everyone clean, and then went to Steak ‘N’ Shake for greasy, horrible hangover breakfast which we always ended up puking over the guardrail.


11/25
We went for breakfast after one especially crazy party involving a knife fight and some kid getting thrown off the balcony and that was the last time the three of us ever saw Brady. The last time I hugged him goodbye was that Sunday morning in June. It must have been the sixteenth, because on the eighteenth was when I got the phone call.

I was at Steak ‘N’ Shake again, screwing around with the servers and probably all loaded up on pills. The only words of the conversation I remember, the only words I actually heard were; “Brady’s dead.”


11/26
I don’t remember leaving or driving to Tyler’s house, the one we called Jono. We started calling him by his real name after everything happened. All I know is we never made it inside his house; he just started crying and then I did, too. We stood on his front porch holding each other like that for a long time, maybe hours, ever after the tears stopped coming. Neither of us said anything, eventually we just let go and I followed him inside. We sat on the couch, cut up a lot of percocet, and days of our lives vanished.


11/27
Myles had found him, on Father’s Day. He’d locked himself in his room and overdosed. It was that simple. Myles broke down Brady’s door when he wouldn’t answer and found him cold and blue on his bed in a pool of cold, stale vomit. The empty bottle of pills sat neatly on his bedside table. There was no note, no warning except for the sinking feeling we’d all had that something was terribly wrong inside. That was it. No “sorry I can’t go to the Maylene concert in a week with you, I’m going to die before then.” The end.


11/28
There must have been more than a thousand people at the funeral service. All of them eyed me, Tyler, and Myles suspiciously, stayed clear of James and Vernita. Somehow they knew that we were the last people he’d ever been with, the last people he’d ever spoken to. None of us could say a thing, no eulogy; we tried, but no words could escape our lips. I stood in front of the podium in a room filled with people and stared blankly at all and none of them at once. All I said was “I’m sorry,” and that was that.


11/29
The night after, the five of us who were closest went to some house with a fire place and drank whiskey and did pills all night; passed out in front of the lit fireplace and woke up to a pile of ashes. After all, that’s what Brady would have done. We simply emulated what we agreed he would have been doing, would have wanted, until eventually none of us woke up at night crying; nobody had symbolic and frightening dreams about watching him die in various and graphic ways. Nobody stopped mid-sentence when the word “Brady” accidentally escaped their lips.


11/30
On the one year anniversary we went to the beach where we used to party, where I saved that boy from drowning, and had a vigil. We sat with candles in the sand and looked for sea turtles and passed around a giant bottle of Seagram’s and brandy that we swore to finish.

That same night, one of the kids who was at the vigil went home and shot himself in the head.

We all sighed inwardly and took another swig out of the bottle, popped a few more pills, and carried on; gave him a nod out of respect.

things have changed since 07:

+ I do pills all the time.  I'm comfortable with it, so I hope you are too.  I'm not going to attempt to hide it or tell you otherwise.  oh, and I love dong them with you.  

+ I'm only nineteen years old.  god, I'm only a child.  and I'm likely going to be homeless starting in march.

+ my car is my only important worldly possession.  without it I could not function. if I was suddenly without it, I would not know what to do. 

+ I'm not confused, but I am confusing.  I usually mean what I say, but I usually never say what I mean.

+ I feel like a lot of bad things that happen to other people are my fault.  I know this is simply not true is most cases, but I am still apologetic.  I think it's because I have a lot of guilt I can never confess.  

+ I'm getting more in touch with my spaced out weirdo side as time goes by and this goes on.  expect me to be spacey and strange as a norm.  it's how I cope with stress.

the beginning of the house on white cloud - - -

02/06
I want to find a road that goes on forever and walk until I find the end. I don’t know how I’ll make it that far, but I’m sure there’s a way. I’d like to think I can exist beyond normal conventions; food, water, rest, sleep. I want to live on forever and do as I please when I please. never feel hungry, never feel tired, never feel pain. once I get there then I will be able to walk down that road forever.

the only problem is I’d want someone to come along. I don’t know who I want.


02/07
the needle slides into his protruding vein and his expression turns from a grimace to a smile. I see red swirl into the liquid ecstasy and then disappear back from whence it came. words completely escape me. my eyes water a little as I watch him lean back and drift away. it's happening again, history is repeating itself. I don't know what to do but cry a little and take the needle gently from his fingers; brush his sentient hair behind his ear and trace my hand along his bluing cheeks. tonight will last forever, I am sure of it.


02/08
I walked and listened as he talked; walking down the dirt road, talking with his hands and skipping a step now and then: talking about never catching up -- the black coffee burned to the bottom of the cup.

he told me: "oh, it's the end of the world. I see it in my cracked cup of coffee; I see it in the sleeping city's skyline; I see in in the lights. lights like little jewels and pearls, jewels pearls and little white pills."

reports are sketchy at best. it's over. I'll try to hold out as long I can.


02/15
I opened the pantry and stared at its contents; boxes of pasta, cans, soup, crackers, sauces, vegetables, fruit. I shut the folding doors and stood for a moment, daring myself to open them again. they wouldn't win this time. I walked across the kitchen, ignored the refrigerator and the pans on the stove.

my cup of coffee called for my attention and I took a sip. no cream, no sugar; perfectly black. it was hardly nourishing, but the mildly warm liquid was filling and I forgot all about the shelves and shelves of food behind me.

five days and counting.


02/16
smoke from his cigarette coiled between the snowflakes that were starting to fall. the streetlights blurred into obscurity in the distance, casting a warm orange hue on the buildings and lighting up the snow in the air like little fireflies.

he uncurled his fingers and smiled at what he found there; and handful of tiny yellow pearls that failed to shine. the fir on his jacket brushed his face tenderly and the snow lined street was inviting and kind. his pale fingers closed and even though they were blue with the cold he didn't mind.

he was finally alive again.


02/18
I’m becoming bored of this, I think. I need to find something new to do, or somewhere new to go to. I don’t see how this house full of people can be content to simply sit and become inebriated, smoke all day and rot away for the rest of the night. it becomes boring, trite. they are always listless and stagnant.

this is not how I am used to and not how I planned on being. I feel like I’m wasting away here, watching them settle into a rusted repose.

boy, your joints are soon going to become rusted shut.


02/21
once again I find myself at a turning point. I am in a house full of people I barely know, but they are my friends. I don’t have a job or much to give to anyone except for kindness, yet I am offered endless drugs, food, money, clothing; anything I need. these people are the rejects and subclasses of society, the reason the bourgeoisie locks their doors at night; yet, they are the nicest, most generous people I’ve ever encountered.

I know that I will never be alone and when I am in need someone will pull me to safety.


02/24
there was another party last night, like the night before. the same little boy with cappuccino colored skin and dark hair stayed up with me. we sat in the kitchen, sipping on nectar and watching the children drink themselves into a stupor. it occurred to me then that he really isn’t a little boy; he is my equal.

everyone left and hugged me goodbye, because I am their mother and it’s customary.

when he left he held on and didn’t let go. I held him tighter and let him nuzzle into my neck, wondering; my god, what have I done?


02/28
I don’t know just where I’m going, but I’m gonna try for the kingdom if I can. I can’t feel my toes or the chair I’m sitting in. the room gets a little burry around the edges and the light filtering through the dusty blinds nearly stings my eyes. I want to be in absolute stillness and silence; a dimly lit room with dark curtains and light walls. smoke filtering through the air curls away from me and settles in a fog above my head. I am under a dense fog that will never clear and never evacuate this room.


02/29
you’re thousands of miles away and have been for quite some time now. you still cross my mind from time to time; sneak into my subconscious when a certain image filters through my myopic pupils and reminds my brain of something that I’ve been missing.

but it’s not as often as before. daily turned to weekly and weekly will turn to monthly and then yearly and then not at all. even when I’m cutting up pills and there’s powder strung out across the dining room table you slip my mind.

is this finally moving on or am I just forgetting?

I was lonely, working full time, sleeping in a car, and confused - - -


11/01
sometimes I just get this horrible sinking feeling for no reason at all. I'm not sure if it's boredom, or discontent; depression or idleness. for all I know it's a signal that there is something terribly wrong with me, myself.

it gets all down in my chest and my lungs and sort of makes it hard for me to breathe. it is not the feeling one gets when they are in imminent danger or in trouble; not a jittery physical manifestation of some emotion or anything like that.

I sort of get the feeling that it's nothing but acute anxiety.


11/02
there are only three rooms in this house; a bed, a bath, an everything else.

when he walks, his hair nearly brushes the plaster ceiling. when I walk, I narrowly avoid falling through the cracks in the floor. there is one table in the center of the room, only it is not really a table. there are two chairs and two windows, a book case filled with books that are not mine. no food, no carpet, no dishes, no paint, no curtains, no protection from the cold.

but I am happy here. it is ours and I am not alone.


11/04
he stares at me though his glasses. I hate when he does that, because it is not he who is looking at me. it is a scary monster, not a boy. I reach to take them off of his face, but he pulls away before I can.

for a moment I am scared, before I realize that he is only hiding behind them. regardless of the fact, I am still uneasy. the monster is sometimes its own entity, he does not always control it.

I can't help but flinch. I would look away, but I dare not turn my back.


11/05
no matter how fast I saw it coming, how much I braced myself, I was never prepared. but I suppose one can never get used to excruciating pain.

my face, arms, wrists, shoulders, ribs; all bruised and sore from the last time. they only kept getting worse. he was to big for me to fight back, I could never hold any ground of my own. as soon as he got a hold on me, as soon as his knuckles touched my skin: my fight was over.

I always lay still until he finished, since retaliation only made him swing harder.


11/10
I sat on the cold concrete, found myself watching the water rush past beneath my feet. it roared through the open gates, flowing downriver as nature wants. I looked up toward the horizon. the sky was a dim gray, growing ever lighter as the minutes passed. the sun was creeping up upon us, threatening daybreak. he was still, non-responsive; lost on another opiate nod like the one from which I'd just awakened. he was still breathing so I didn't worry. I looked out again, only seconds had passed but the sky shone a bright white.

the light stung my eyes.


11/15
when I work so much I don't have time to think like I used to. I am no longer able to mentally enrich my life when weighted down with the burden of prolonged manual labor and the necessity of working to survive.

I work ten hour shifts; come home tired, sore, drained; sleep all day; wake up with enough time to get clean, ready, and leave again.

my hands are so sore I can barely write and when I have free time I am forced to spend it resting, as I never seem to get enough of it these days.


11/16
I realize that I've not touched a pen to paper in quite a long time.

I've written, but the words have been groceries and numbers. I've drawn, but the lines have been road maps and diagrams. I've held a pen between my fingers, but it was simply in place of a cigarette. ink has stained my skin, but it was simply smudged there from a poorly printed box.

god, everything is disappearing. I have trouble finding the cypress trees and floating lotus flowers. telephone poles are ceasing to sprout from the ground and I simply can not find that boy.


11/27
the lights on the water were beautiful. bright, white, reflected into infinity like strings of pearls in a room full of mirrors. they danced and wavered about, waltzing with the stars. the horizon was nothing more than distant lights, jewels and pearls. jewels and pearls and little white pills.

it was cold outside but it didn't matter, because nothing but the light on the horizon is real, and even then it drifted around and slid in and out of view.

the flats behind us stretched into infinity, another sea of lights, one on top of the other, imitating the sky.

musings to myself, I missed my own birthday - - -


05/02
I’m afraid the kingdom is losing meaning to me. I never thought it was spiritual before, but now I’m changing my mind.

the cypress trees and lotus flowers blooming in the water are more important than pictures and shapes. the way the mist hung in the background and the way the smoke curled upward from the hotel room floor had a meaning. my identity got lost in there somewhere along the way. it’s stuck in a beam of light in a swamp full of tall trees; shining through the water as a star in the sky on the other side.


05/03
we used to drive at night when everything was still. everything was dark save a dim orange glow and tiny lights reflecting off the polished paint. the cold air floated through the windows and smoke from his cigarette drifted lazily into the night air. the engine growled, humming underneath the faint music on the radio and the wind whipping past. neither of us said a word because we didn’t have to.

we were prowling the streets in a red shark, eating up the pavement as we drove and leaving behind nothing but dark, fear, and cold.

we were absolutely terrifying.


05/04
my dear little boy with skin like coffee with cream. my dear little boy, my idle dream: I need to let you know this before you hold me too close, before my fingers in your hair mean more to you than they’re allowed to, supposed to --

it isn’t very hard to get close to me. you’re a beautiful boy, a sweet little kid, but I do as I please and I lie through my teeth and someone will get hurt but it won’t be me. I’ll make you feel cheap, but I’ll just feel free.

and a little bit empty.


05/08
my coffee seldom melts through the floor when I spill it these days; but when it does, it’s strong enough to eat clear through the stories beneath me and into the middle of the planet on which I reside. it starts sizzling against the wood grain and then little holes start to appear. then suddenly the floor disintegrates and I can see down beneath me. there’s a dirty apartment with paint on the walls and another hole in the floor. sometimes I climb down into the apartment and look further. there are swamps full of purple flowers and cypress there.


05/09
from the third floor everything looks distant and yet, impossibly, very large. the lake below me stretches distantly away and sparkles like a field of diamonds in the sun. there’s a little breeze and it rolls the water around gently, making little black and white spots in the water. the trees beyond it seem to stretch into infinity and never end. they’re a vibrant stunning green and I want to walk toward them and then into them and get lost. the color is so bright that I feel like I could get lost in it forever and never get old.


05/10
there’s someone in the room with me, but I don’t know who it is. we’re sitting on the bed and it’s dark and I can’t feel much of anything because of the methadone that’s thickening my blood. a candle light comes on and it flickers across the ceiling. I don’t know if I could look behind me or not, for fear of the person I know is sitting there. it’s not a friendly presence; it’s more of a looming, threatening one. the bed creaks and there are hands covering my mouth, stifling out anything that I could have possibly said.


05/13
the city is burning down. I can see the orange and red haze of fire on the horizon and bits of ash are falling around me, forming drifts against fences and telephone poles. the street is empty and the houses look abandoned. all of the people have fled and left their things behind. sometimes I think I can see flames in the distance, jumping from tree to tree, building to building.

I tighten the bandana over my face. the smoke is too thick to breathe and the ash burns like chemicals.

I hope this is the end of the world.


05/14
traveling in it at night was like passing through hell.

at first there was nothing but pitch black and embers everywhere, heat seeping in through the glass windows and smoke too thick to breathe. all the trees were aflame and the houses were all nothing but geometric outlines in the dirt; little more than shadows of what used to be the city. pools of molten steel littered the sidewalk; what used to be cars and trucks were hollow shells, stripped of their paint and melting into the softening asphalt.

I have been to doomsday and back. I feel like death.


05/22
I wish that I had never listened to myself. I wish I would have stolen that car and driven to Tennessee to chase down what I should have. I wish I’d done better in high school. I wish I would have gotten a legitimate job sooner. I wish I’d have developed my real talents instead of wasting time in school doing nothing. I wish I wouldn’t have slept every day in German class and I wish she wouldn’t have passed me anyway. I wish that my bad habits were more than habits. I wish I’d have met certain people sooner.


05/23
I wish I would have listened to myself more. I wish I wouldn’t have lied to my mother the entire time. I wish I would have gone out of my way to stay in touch with him. I wish we didn’t get into such silly fights. I wish I never threw that rock at your face, James. I wish I would have gotten in a worse car accident than I did. I wish I would have punched that man in the face. I wish this didn’t have to be a part of this because it makes me think too much.


05/24
I wish I was sober more often. I wish I could write legibly. I wish I could find that little house down in Indian River County again. I wish I was still as smart as I used to be. I wish I didn’t think so much. I wish I never stopped watching television. I wish I still had more things from my childhood.

if I could live my life all over again I probably wouldn’t change anything, because that’s my nature.

If I could live my life all over again, I couldn’t change it no matter how hard I tried.


05/25
it’s been a year exactly since I became famous.

a year since I leaned across that table and his lips met mine. a year since his liprings clicked against my teeth and his breath was warm in my ear. a year since his sweat was salt in my mouth and the taste of his skin and cigarettes lingered on my tongue. I’ll never forget the taste of cheap beer and marlboro reds, the way snakebites press against lips and the way that only a rockstar can nonchalantly set aside boundaries, reason, and articles of clothing.

here’s to you, timmy darling.


05/26
it went like this:

I reached across the table and whispered in his ear, let my tongue slip a little between my lips, said a few words that nobody knows but him and me. I barely had time to think before his face was against mine, the wonderful taste of booze and lust in my mouth. hands reaching out to press skin again skin. his feet firmly planted between mine for no time at all until they were moving and pulling me away, leading me somewhere toward the dark rooms full of mirrors and smoke, shag carpet and plush upholstery.


05/31
I was out all night. driving around in the dark with Claudio by my side, being a cynical douchebag and good company. we watched the sun rise on the beach and it was all of yesterday’s parties and then all of tomorrow’s. we sat together with salt in our long hair and sand between our toes until the sky lit up and the water turned silver. until the tide pooled up around our ankles and washed away the very ground we stood upon. he stopped talking, watched transfixed.

the cult of the rising sun is upon me again.

its summer.

me, rotting away - - -


03/04
hunter s thopmson once said; you can turn your back on a person, but never turn your back on a drug.

his broken glasses glittered in the low candle light, hiding his myopic pupils and broken stare. I sat with my back to the wall, waiting. wait for it, just wait for it. he stood and turned, looked to the wall and back to me, turned again. I didn’t know what to make of it.

but this time was no different than any other. I caught his hand the first time, but after the initial shock he didn’t care anymore.


03/08
this hobby is quickly turning into a habit the more I turn into a liar and a thief. the money I steal buys me the expensive crescents that never cease to impress me no matter how many times I undress them and break them down.

I’ll soon have a problem on my hands. we can’t both be like this. I steal for him and his sake, but the more I steal for myself the less I do for anyone. I will regress into my off-white coma once again and forget this place despite my residence here.

I have to stop.


03/09
the incandescent light was casting strange, flickering shadows and she turned her gaze to the inert coffee in her hands. the liquid shone black in the darkness of the place, immeasurably deep; an abyss punctuated by tiny stars made of artificial light. they shone like city lights on the horizon, like strings of jewels and pearls. the little flecks of light seemed to dance amongst themselves and she watched them intently. they formed constellations and patterns, fine lines and images. she blinked to clear the fantasy from her mind, but the tiny lights remained steadfast, painting a picture amongst themselves.


03/11
I used to live here.

the air is sort of stale. the house is empty and something is missing. it no longer smells like me or my clothing. my room contains meaningless belongings and somehow all of it makes me want to cry. it’s as though I’ve left everything behind even though I’ve left nothing and lost nothing.

but I have lost something. I’ve lost my welcome in the house I used to call a home. nobody greets me or opens the door. it’s silent and I shiver though it isn’t cold at all. the dust keeps on getting thicker.


03/13
word of the day; tantric:

these tantric thought processes
my absentee psyche possesses --
they allow me to obsess
over trite and trivial things,
to regress
into that -
sinking feeling. -
-- and regress
into nothing, nothing at all.

and melt slowly
into the walls from whence I came.
or perhaps melt into the
sea of floors that call my name --

beg me to join them again
in my existentialist ventures
with lascivious voyeurs,
peering [like vultures] through cracks
at my junkie friends.

sometimes I don't realize
that I am not a vulture;
that I am a voyeur-ee.


03/16
 it’s never if; it’s always when. you'll always leave, I’ll never win.

I fall back asleep no matter how hard I fight it so my mind can pass the time how it chooses. I never used to dream but these days my head never stops reeling. it’s always preoccupied with what it wishes I was doing. I wish it would stop but I’ve lost control of what I can wish for.

some people would call this blaming my problems on outside forces. I call this being a realist.

good thing I can type with my eyes closed: they won’t open.


03/19
they hammered off all of his toes and then all of his fingers and then all of his teeth. the monsters that lived beyond the end of the pavement covered his mouth and held it shut so he couldn’t scream and choked on the blood that was pooling where his teeth used to be. they pressed the gun to his head, pulled the trigger; but he didn’t die. he lay in the dirt and drank his own blood until it stopped flowing from his forehead.

I found him a day later before his eyes had been plucked from their sockets.


03/20
where the sidewalk ends is supposed to be a magical place for a child; a place where the world ends or there’s some sort of undiscovered, unattainable treasure.

when I was little, there was no sidewalk. the road simply terminated itself into a barren, dirt wasteland. beyond was nothing but barbwire fences and swampland. swamp from which monsters with indescribable faces rose and dragged themselves across the mire, creeping into the fields and underneath the dilapidated fences. across the barren dirt to the jagged precipice where the pavement terminated; to lie on the ground and reach upward for my hand.


03/21
I never reached to help them. they clawed and wailed at me from below and beyond, the feet and inches somehow stretching into an ever widening gap. soon enough they began to sprout legs and crawl on all fours to haunt me instead of lying on their faces.

I would turn to face an empty space where eyes should be; wake in the dark to their muted breathing beside my window as they desperately sought a way to melt through the glass or seep in through the walls.

they covered our mouths until we couldn’t scream and then couldn’t breathe.


03/27
he's got sallow, paraffin skin;
ashen, off-white like dirty sidewalks
soot and grime stained, with oilslick puddles:
purple, blue, green -- contusions in peacock array.
proof he's zenlike, enlightened.

the sidewalk talks, begs him to stay.
provisional reality flickers like a kerosene flame.
filth coats the bruised street --
the oil floats away in smoke-filled bubbles,
popping and spilling on cracked parquet floors.

the mirror splits his vision double.
he walks in an unnerving sort of way,
crawling as insects do: out of the gutter.

the secret has got him pinned down.
it escapes in the lilt of his words.


03/31
word of the day; ratchet.
about a boy who doesn’t exist, like usual:


across the field of gray lies a concrete sea,
lotuses, pearls, white webs of string --
lashing him down to his provisional reality
with pins and rivets and ratchet teeth;
no matter how hard he pulls
it only tightens down --
with a vindictive sort of creeping,
the walls and floors beneath him crawl;
the blackness while he's sleeping sprawls
out across the empty plains
and fills them with pictures again.
he sings so as not to give himself away,
since only the troubled, the wounded scream.

recounting my drug use and my homelessness for a while - - -
the inky blackness that had crept upon him swiftly retreated to a dim gray -- dappled white. he lay on hard tile; his face cold in a pool of bile and blood and saliva, his fingers bluing and numb. he got shakily to his feet, matted down his black hair; trying to hide from the filthy sunlight filtering in the windows. the room spun around him, blurring around the edges. he dropped to his knees and his thin frame shook, arms barely supporting his weight; retched, coughed, watched the blood run from his nose, drip to the floor. every morning.