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doggo ate yr consolation prize

Long night. Pointless flight from nothing in particular. Too spooked by my own shadow in this shattered mirror. Bits and pieces of myself. Reflections of the exact same way I've always been seen. Quiet, austere silence and scorn. A reflection of your valient attempt to hate me more than I can ever hate myself. Something of a fool's errand when my pockets overflow with self-loathing. Thought I was ghosting to save you from me, yet I ghosted to save us from me. Eat the bullet. Leap of faith onto a scythe. Walk alone. Plead and pray for photogenic tinder mates. Choose someone else. Just not me. Please not me. You're better than this. Above what you won't ever miss. I'm the obituaries and classified sections you stick to your fridge til the page browns and crumbles onto your kitchen floor Fast past my purpose, I burn well. Ash, dust, remnants...of course. Go on. Curse yourself hoarse at my having sullied your existence. But you can't wake what's already been dead at the source.

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Loma Prieta - Trilogy: Momentary / Half Cross / Forgetting (I.V., 2012)

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Destination Flights, Exit Times

How do you live when there is no home but the one you fake into making your own? Crumpled train passes and plane tickets to squeeze out of your pockets. Porcelain-type lifestyle running yourself ragged to and from final boarding/last call. “Fucking anywhere but here”, words your quivering lips struggle to purse together, choking back tears. Always choking back tears. Taste them on the rim of your last beer can. New city, new timezone. Because distance is all it takes to embrace the unknown. Find course in being lost. Rolling stoned and gathering moss. Run your hands down your wrists. Made coarse from nights of abandonment and loss. And when find yourself in remnants of bruises you find you never truly had anything to lose.

Managed to squeeze out this poem in between a cavalcade of rolling rocks and whiskey shots…and during what was a downer of an afternoon where I looked inside against myself in spite of the loneliness and isolation I feel from time to time, reminded myself of certain things I needed to remind myself of.

Home is an address, but when you live in a town that you’re increasingly indifferent about…home is wherever couch, floor, bathroom, bus terminal, airport, bunk bed…home fast becomes the last place you laid your head down last night.

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Shit flight/Shit landing.

Finishing your last last beer. Something you said for the 3rd time tonight. Look up to the sky, no answers found. Crumple to the ground, embrace the drain to swallow you whole. The most profound insight of your night was your bank card still fucking works. It survived the great wallet purge of this year. ATM at 711 to piss away on steel reserve and shitty beer. Something heavy, rock bottom to erase yourself, forcequitting disgraced loves and losses. Such horrible rotgut to a disgraced 2016. Make yourself sick. Another tallboy. Who gives a shit? Kneel. Vomit. Repeat. But refuse to admit defeat. For defeat is for those who keep drinking and remember where they landed beyond the puke on their maps and plucked shards from the last call crash.

Edit (3/3/17, 8:10pm): Bit of an old poem (actually from December 26th last year), but I felt inclined to finally find the motivation to share it. In sum, shitty year...flush it all away with shit beer. Also, I somehow was given the name of Raindrop and told someone who decided to chat me up that I was a male stripper in between dos equis and tequila shots. Life.

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Writers' Glock

Another late night adrift in the malt liquor river. Too frightful to let myself fade into whirs of bro bars and stupid fucking chodes drunk dialing for car service.. Open my notebook to take a stab at writing, let myself speak my mind. Allow myself chance a look thru the words and accompanying emotions I’ve grown to resent. Realizing I regretted more of what I let go but co-opted myself to playing dead on the high road instead. So I pointlessly twirl on this writer’s block hamster wheel. Choke this pen. Press to paper. Vulcan grip to squeeze these malevolent thoughts out of me. I go cold. The page remains blank. All I hate in myself won again. Hatedrink. Pretend I’m too wrecked to self-express. Depress myself upon knowing I was fucking worthless and without purpose.

Fall into a psychological wormhole that lasts weeks, or months…like who gives a fuck to count something that spans into hundreds of days and couple years of calendars? Circle the drain and start again…writing some shit about writing when you feel like you’re devoid of motivation and purpose to continue doing so. Also we are the collective drain, and we are the kind of shits that require multiple flushes.

And in the tire fire, here’s a purposeless poem about purposelessness…and promising myself I’d shit something out for as long it took me to finish this steel reserve tallboy, of which I’m still drinking because nothing ever really ends, even death.

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Fifteen years from now you’re going to look back on this. With a sigh, you’re going to ask yourself, “Why?” Fifteen years from now you’ll find yourself sitting in that same darkness you’ve always feared. But this time you’ll be quietly watching as your daughter’s chest rises and falls as she sleeps. You’ll smile and think to yourself, “My god, I almost missed this.”

Ashleigh Campora, “A Response to the Suicide Note I Wrote 15 Years Ago” (via twloha)

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Arctic Circle of Trust

I wander these winding streets. My breath frosts and I hope this jaded sneer I’ve worn freezes onto my face. I crave the stillness of the frigid, deathly quiet night I’m enveloped in. Welcoming the bitterness of gusts whistling into my headphones. I’ll fade into a whirlwind of sound in my ears and my footsteps. Ever drifting towards a purpose that’s escaped me. Forever deceived by a haphazard reason to simply “be”. When you saunter towards your end, All you’ve ever wanted is arms’ length distance from anything of meaning. Edited this fucking thing while celebrating steel reserve day; and I’m not completely repulsed by the drivel I just puked onto my computer screen. Probably the first poem I’ve posted in the new year. Oops. I suppose this poem is about the odd comfort that comes in being alone and taking a walk along streets made desolate by the welcoming harshness of winter. FFO: BRRRRRRRRR, isolation.

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Liquid Sweater

I never quite know what to say anymore. Spending what’s left of my days staggering through passing phrases and hollow clichés I pissed all on so long ago. I feel the oncoming winter needling through my slacks. A reminder of nights to come as the wind chill and my morale plummet. Vagabond in my own hometown. Dicking around from dive bar to dive bar. And always a last, last drink away from figuring out whatever I’m trying to find. Yet I’m too far behind to ever catch up. So I down another round and keep losing ground. An expected fate for a life built on a river whose banks overflowed with cheap malt liquor, comically bad decisions, and a lack of grission.

I finally wrote something to post on here. It probably sucks. Ffo: getting polar vortex wasted, last call at the same hour as the temperature outside during the dead of winter, seasonal affective alcoholism.

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Steel Reserve & Sleeping Pills

You chose you at the end of the day. I dont blame you for it. I’d have chosen you too, for as much as I hate myself for admitting such. I’ve slit my own throat enough times with unattainable goals, wishful thinking and got drunk off the blood spilled from my sliced larynx. Hanging myself blue from wit’s end for the last time. Left hoarse from countless nights spent drunkenly cursing at the sky. Betrayed all remorse in the wake of burned bridges and severed relationships at my feet. Drinking myself fast past the point of finding a cause to live for because I can’t stand to stay standing anymore. 1% battery life’s all that saved me from drunk dialing suicide hotlines. I hope I’ve taken my last breath as I glare at this medicine bottle and the ‘ol 211. Old friend, 'ol faithful. You were there til the very end. My very end. Farewell. Just let me drown in Steel Reserve and sleeping pills. Steel Reserve and sleeping pills. Steel Reserve and sleeping pills. STEEL RESERVE AND SLEEPING PILLS.

The last year of my life. ffo: steel reserve, forever alone, last call, fuck it buckets during the 2014 NLDS.

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My Heart Carries Home

Turning to the open road and the blur of highway signs to salvage refuge. Peace of mind listening to the hum of the bus and the highway moving under my feet. I grip the familiarity in unfamiliarity like best friends I haven’t seen in so long. Ignoring bloodshot eyes and cursing this fucking hangover for a bus across the state for your loving arms and a futon to devour us both. An idea hatched by too many beers and too little fucks to give. But these haphazard plans remind me that I live for my own impetuousness. Escaping onto a Megabus and down I-95 to drink all the Yards, to the mock surprise of of my better halves waiting to see me again. I come bearing gifts: Single malt scotch, Steel Reserve, or Wild Irish Rose. Or just me, a backpack, and my laundry list of flaws. A show of my appreciation for our friendship. From my heart to your shot glasses and koozies. Forever indebted to the kindness of all who dusted me off after 3am swan dives onto pavement; a wayward soul who always found wonder in where home shouldn’t be.

Sometimes you feel more comfortable with yourself and our own wreckage whilst caught up in the inherent chaos of traveling than you do grinding away through the routine of your home life. Something about the sense of wonder of spending time with friends who live varying distances apart from you that you can’t ever see as much as you’d hope.

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Ending Without an Ending

I’ll leave these last words unsaid. Not every end requires a final act. Losing sleep over lack of closure cemented the obvious. Distance as is its own conclusion. Resistance answers the questions we fail to ask ourselves when peaceful sleep lies beyond our grasp. What we have loved and held on to can never crash and burn if it never took flight in the first place. Conviction in the face of endless, futile contradiction solves fucking nothing as long as we ride that dead white horse into battle we already lost instead of saving ourselves.

Closures and conclusions are sometimes not as important as they’re made out to be. We can’t always find logic in the illogical. To waste time chasing answers to questions and hoping to ask the same questions different in order to get the answers we want is to cheat ourselves out of devoting time and energies to things that are deserving of our searching.

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Huggles/300 Miles

We are bruised, we are beautiful. Flaws worn on rolled up sleeves like badges of honor. Fading scars, reminders of where we’ve been. Writhing in each other’s arms. Making peace with the skeletons in our closets. Finding the comfort to embrace the monsters under our beds. We’ve brought our demons to light to slay them one by one. That fire still burns in your eyes- A pyre to light our way through the darkness. Our sadness, nothing that snuggles couldn’t solve. Shared empathy; knowing we’re not alone in this journey. It’s enough to absolve us of the burden of never being perfect. Given the ability to forgive ourselves for lives lived off script. 300 miles, no sleep, and a shot in the dark. Finding it completely worthwhile to give us all we’ve got. Though we ended up passing like ships under a moonless sky, there’s nothing I wouldn’t give to forever hold on to memories of disappearing into your futon. And penning pretend narratives of broken down cars in parking lots. Spotting ourselves in its wreckage. No matter the distance, I carry your warmth through the coldest days. We are bruised, we are beautiful.

I fancy myself a generally unempathetic person sometimes capable of writing empathetic things about those who I’ve only met on a fleeting basis and count the hours til I can cross paths with them again. Isn’t it cool to have only spent a weekend eons ago with someone whom you felt like you were worth a shit around, in effect, feeling as worthwhile as you’ve felt around people you’ve known for much longer, yet in a thanks-for-nothing, addition by subtraction type of way?

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Heathers (1988)

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maybe I’ll reach this point. maybe.

Always love @rupikaur_

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empty bottles/empty hearts

I’ve found rock bottom at the bottom of a bottle. I’ve drowned my shame in road sodas. Cold shoulders for loved ones in favor of cheap booze in band koozies. Staggering down desolate streets chugging steel reserve from juice bottles. Hidden who’ve I become from everyone other than this wreck of a man. Disgrace cuts too deep to ever steal a gaze at my defeated reflection. I’m a mountain of the whitest lies. Choking back bullshit talltales like rotgut burning holes in my chest. I’m a trainwreck of half-ass excuses and nonsensical fictions. To hold fast the secret of where I was last night and why I never called. Kind of a self-explanatory one. Ironically, I hatched the idea for this one while drinking the last can of steel reserve out of my fridge at 3 in the afternoon during a self-imposed mental health/SR recovery day from work. When challenged with the inevitable disappointment life deals us, we revert to familiar vices to dull the edge of the bullshit we’ve put up with...but vice never comes without a price.