Tomorrow is Doomsday

February 1, 2010 is going to suck some royal ass.

I'm done with the cigarettes. Or so I hope. I have this deal with Julia. I'll quit smoking and she'll stick to her diabetes diet.

We may end up drawing blood by the end of the week.

I've quit before. A few times. I always turn the car back around, though. For one reason or another. A breakup. A stressful day at work. A family member dead.

Why is it that I cope with life by putting smoke into my lungs? Does that even make any sense? I get the whole nicotine is more addictive than cocaine shit, but, essentially, all I'm doing is dealing with my issues by breathing in smoke.

And I absolutely love it. LOVE IT. God, it feels amazing to light up that cigarette and just breathe, watching the rich orange coil burn at the tip and into my cells.

When I say it like that, it doesn't seem so disgusting, does it?

That's just the brooding poet lurking inside of me.

It's going to suck. Suck ass, as I said above. Royal. Fucking. Ass.

Wipe.

How am I going to do this? I have no fucking idea.

5:30 a.m. is gym time. Then drive Julia to the train, Mason to school, and back to the gym at 11 a.m. for my free personal trainer session.

Then what the fuck is my nicotine-craving, aching veins going to do?

Sleep.

That's what I've heard is the best way to handle the screamies, the crazies, and the dummies. Cuz that's what you get in the first 48 hours. You go crazy. You scream. You become completely DUMB.

No diggity. No doubt.

The thing that lasts the longest: the dummies. I will be, literally, a fucking mentally disabled human for at least two weeks. I will have to relearn everything. Relearn how to think and write and breathe without the act of smoking a cigarette.

Oy.
Ugh.
Bleh.

I need a cigarette.

A bit of my sound

Fuck... I HATE COMPUTERS.

So, I write my first post and as soon as I go to publish it, the fucking thing decides that it doesn't want to connect its electrons with the other electron or neurons or protoconicalfuckingpiecesofshits that it needs to in order for the fucking post to post.

So, all I'm doing now is posting up a poem as opposed to a poem and a rant. Oy. Yinz'll get more more rant later.


Blame it on Gravity

I.
There is a graphic violence in that stare of hers. So, I stare back. Elbows on the island. Palms cupping my chin. “What?” She sings to me as she chops the shitake mushrooms, lips curled up or down or sideways. I smile.

I turn to the family room that I will always call a living room. I don’t give a fuck what Emily Paste or Puste or Pissant dumbass bitch, thinks; it’s a goddamn fucking living room.

Fluffed pillows. Vacuum streaks. Dustless. Centered. Re-centered. Censored.

Fox News continually pelts out nonsense on my love’s new 52-inch flatscreen.
Something about the Korean prerogative and Chinese authorities and pedophiles on Twitter.

I cannot breathe and I cannot listen. I roll my eyes and shake my head.

“What?” I raise my eyebrows in that way that gets her going. “What was that look for?”

There is never a look. Just a looking.

Sometimes it’s so fucking hard being in a love with a republican.

“Nothing, dear.”

I find the clicker and click up.

“… in It’s A Living, starring Ann Jillian in the original episodes. But those were the days leading up to her battle with breast cancer. She did bravely return to help push the show towards syndication before…”

It didn’t take me long to learn how to hang my shoulders and walk the other way.

II.
when i dream i dream subtly and there’s never an ounce of reality but the mixings of real aspects i hate the goddamn number 11 and i fucking hated life when i was openly heterosexual i don’t understand why anyone would want a life openly and to be openly forever openly naked and openly

fuck that shit

i will give you a dream about dreams of becoming

that sexy dyke was in that sexy car and times got lost on Blackberry Road so she turns to me without a face without a name with only existence she tells me to do this and that and of course i fucking like it that way without faces and without names so i entered 40° 40 hours 0 minutes North, 74° 7 hours 4 minutes West into the GPS which are of course the coordinates for…

my dreams prefer the ellipses at the beginning of things

i would have fucked her

fucked her

teased her

felt her

tasted her

but i can’t be a douchebag in this dream not when i cannot even see her face and Casablanca plays in the background and then back to back to back commercials on flame retardant facial hair dykes can buy in porn shops and how to get doped up on Red Bull and 5-hour energy shots without crashing down into a river and she disappears and i’m on a corner in Rochester, PA where football is played to win bridges and the hobo the thumber from my childhood is walking outside of his grave in a new French cuff shirt and he’s waving a crushed pocket watch in the air and he’s screaming down into the water and he’s screaming up into the rusted bolts swaying with the wind and he’s screaming as lines break and he’s screaming

white space
water

and that sexy dyke without a face is staring at me
with rings in her eyes

everything

is in
its place

The First Draft of the First Post

Fuck.

So, it didn't work.

I tried uploading a file of me reading the poem that is published at the link above.

Fuck.

I hate computers. I've heard this before...

Fucking hate em.

I just finished up reading a teen's book by Sherman Alexie. He's a cool dude. Way fucking talented in the poetry realm. He blows me outta the water. He's a Native American writer and totally needs to be given more props than he does. I hate it when the talent gets squashed by the shit that numb (notice, I didn't say dumb) people read.

It pisses me off.

Read Sherman Alexie.

If anything, read at least SOMETHING of his. The Business of Fancydancing is amazing if you like poetry. If you want to read a book, read The Indian Killer. Fucking isanely good.

On all fronts. Storytelling, theme, plot line, imagery, metaphor. Even the numb folks in the world can appreciate it.

Shit, if my previous students who read it thought it was amazing, anyone can read it. And they don't read. No. Correction. They didn't read until they had to be in my class. Now they'll never read a thing the same way again. Ha. Now they actually read.

Here's Alexie's site:

http://www.fallsapart.com/

Fuck...

I'm trying to get some pictures up here of his books and Explorer is deciding not to work.



Anyway... that's a funny picture of the man himself.