we only live .000000000001% of this whole thing, much much less than that, in the span of the timeline of all universal existence. the other 99.999999999999% of the time, we live within the pure euphoria of Afterlife. our body may rot, the disintegration of shell, in & out our graveyard coffins, or we may cremate into ash, but our soul will dissipate in a brand new form in a whole another similar realm. we never really die — feeling destroyed… crumpled like that extra soft worn paper. on Earth, we are secretly dead & in hell. we’re already dead. when you die, you awake. no longer in Hell, you realize you’ve been dead a long time. maybe it’s been Hell anyways, God’s way or the highway… which way? that way. please shine a light on the whole thing & police shine a light through the tinted windows of these petty thief reefer thugs. but then it’s just the security guard at the bar… what happened to getting by & being one of the cooler guys around? guess this world broke me, the women & jobs, the waiting room of it all… i’m dependent upon my family and this organization or that paycheck or disability from the government & the cigarettes flowing in, the income only leading to the day figured out, jot it out in your checking book, nothing working out. tired, the gloom of not walking out like a high class citizen on the street with all of the strolling freedoms in the world — to move & smoke & sip this and that to the music of it all… it’s all we ever needed, dear Lord. save me from dying under a white hot sun… you know, i need the bright side & the bad side as well. always just enough dark to see.
settling in, the whole thing’s a done deal. that guy Walter, and Muska too, really cruise at high speed — a Usain Bolt sprint — right on by. all of these girls at the market, smoke shop, local neighborhood low key culture camp site street joints, whipping up in the kitchen, and all turnt up with the music on full blast — Mac Demarco: ‘turn the volume all the way up… baby — and this coffee shop and that bar are all so hot, raising the vibrational frequency and wavelength all of the bum yard rat militia and mob moms and street dads are existing within. the galactic abode in this milky way cosmic universe spins. it spins and spins and spins like a top shot spun then flipped quarter, heads or tails? both please, just from the road dome. it’s all been written in a Nas or Outkast or Felly album. but don’t tip small change, it’s rude, ludicrous even. Chip 3 $1s on the bottle of bud light, leave a dime in the extra change collection side bin thing — the little tray — at gas stations, put a 5 down on a mixed drink at Tackle Box, leave a 10 on a diner lunch for two, a 20 on dinner with nostalgia ultra fairy garden gem stone palace princess bae, and spend the 100 on 6 pitchers, leaving all excess cash for the cutest or most handsome (to the dash-in-a-splash-slay-these-boys up girls) or to simply the entire crew of the dopest & most efficient bartenders. they’ll probably split the extra 60$ 3 or 4 ways. it’s high manners & courteously pleasant to handle your affairs respectably in bars, where you’ll probably be making rounds to over and over and time and time again on routine trips back to, if only to take the edge off. remember, you shouldn’t really tip change: maybe a dime, but you’ll need that, i promise you, things get tight and there’s a bizarre little tax on everything. at times you’ll need 10.39 or .49 extra and you’ll just have a 10 and luckily now, some change. you could be 30 cents shawty short on the fun size skittles bag and they won’t even let you walk out with the good good. the 5 finger discount is highly frowned upon in almost all Utopias. it just isn’t really straight up so pocket all loose change. money may be the root of all evil, but lucky pennies, dimes & 25c are not. it’s nice, the jingle. so, this is where my money is going and then i climb on stones down to the sandy scenic crystalized patch of limestone creek to catch a quick breadth of cold cigarette infused air while drinking out coffee, scoping out the spot and smoking as i ponder how the next year in rehab is going to go, the dilapidated bike, me and the boys, all lost and rejected and dejected, CD ejected to make room for another blazing like doja in my ears, the rhythmic drum beats and cool flows and cadences and style with which they swing to the bass, rocking in the underground bridge street locale, tiny BMX bikes dilapidated and all, all sorts of skate tools and mechanical little nifty pieces posted up and laying around scattered about. here we are, then i meet up with the ceramic camel crush minded bruh bruh to go grab one more pack of cigarettes — i had already bought a carton, but still… just in case — and a lighter before we made our way with wind-blown-high-soaring-flitted-hair-beeline-Britney-is-back-bitch kind of spirits down to the organic foods store in which the cutest most down to Earth Aquemini girls work to buy 2 subs — BLT and what he got in his depressed yet still altogether uniquely compassionate and chipper and gently soft spoken way — as well oh well as 2 ‘high quality Evolution’ Orange Juice drinks, a ‘Mela’ ultra refreshing electrolyte water beverage and a quaint Sweet Vanilla prebiotic desert-for-breakfast smoothie. the day felt everlasting, like Tuck meets Winona meets a Lily in Neverland. off to rehab, it’s already been all planned out. i’ll smoke and drink coffee and work and get down to business with all of my writing. here’s a pack for her, tell her to save a piece of her heart and safe space to regroup when i get out, and here’s a pack for each of you two boys. thanks for hooking it up and always being there in the nick of time. in a way thanks for the farewell letter and send off down by the icy sprinkled dip and dots water reservoir picnic shack. the architecture on that one really brought it all together. signing out, see you all on the outskirts. i open my arms to Nirvana. say hi sometime…
damn energy… built up to nothing in the whole lot of the middle of frozen tundra eclipse vibe totalities of utter still cool edge of the nether world, some combat boots Swiss army knife alright kind of underdog underground. we got the energy… the citizen listening chill posse of shits vile, u.s.a. but it’s too mandated, well more the chilling out of the God-fearing God-loving chaos of pure freedom, yet still keeping some semblance of joyous ecstasy in a theoretical sense, like feeling bliss. i don’t hit on girls too much anymore, none of the white girls like me much… well sometimes, we all get along at times, someday, somewhere… nothing, nowhere? hopefully they’re still making hits, not necessarily starting dark magic or dark arts cults for real. there’s light on here. that has to be enough: a light house in the sea of deserted mis fit youth — warmth of some kind & angelic youthful exuberance, the light of ably doing what you want… but we can’t, we really can’t. sorry nah, i’m alright man. best be on my way. maybe rehab in a few. really? don’t go through that torture, they say. nah it’s okay, really, torture would be some kind of lack of ability to just be finding zen highs in a land of opportunity, chambers of reflection, some catholic schoolyard Nun saying i’m damned forever. rehabs going to be alright. been clean for long enough… well then, don’t go. nah i get it, but that’s the point: the only way to stay clean currently is to keep the light on for as long as possible. the streets would eat me up alive. shelters and all of that are all the same: wolves prey on the dogs just making it out the gutter. i can’t save a girl, any one guy, i can’t. all i can do is rest easy, rest easy. please dear sir & behavioral health specialist & high priest & this guy & his bitch & lonely girl & sad boy, just let me enjoy another cigarette, another sip of actual caffeinated coffee, and sip on some nice chamomile or green tea… one more day in paradise, again and again to the moon and back, infinity xxx, and here we are. wherever you go, there you are. it’s nice to see old friends, i just don’t want the party to end, for any of us. for that reason, i see what you got, but that just comes naturally. it’s more fun to get high off not playing that game… that kind of game killed Adam or was it Kane. Allen Ginsberg’s mom wrote to him on her deathbed, her final days: (something like) ‘the key is in the light at the edge of the window. stay away from hard drugs or any kind of thing that will take away the key of light… not the key dipped in the bag’ i’m only exaggerating a bit, but God gave us two legal substances — coffee and cigarettes (and a little glass of wine or bottle of bud light never hurt anyone). but i promise you, you, and you, adieu, adieu, adieu, good bye farewell, so long to the hard shit… hello to the pure highs of life from pimping out the light side, the bright side of sesh sad boy crybaby sad girl season forever ghetto O.C. emo black and white diamond squad gem level trash low key actually dope baby bone paradise in the little thickets of nowhere…
i see how the style should be, the steez in this present day and age: the baggy white hoodie with the black ink tarot card print and the baggy black overalls over a longsleeve emo tee, emo on grunge on goth with the hip hop extra large sweet flowy hobo-chic drab kind of whiskey pimp drug lord looking shit. you little piece of shit. i love you. just rock better attire. i swear you’re only as dope as the latest drip you’re stepping out in the world fucking with the whole damn thing in. you’ll walk out on asphalt feeling as dope as the heights of Everest & Alaskan glacial peaks, bus down from the floor up to the iced out wrist & studded belt hoodie head. it is on demand, most essential to head bang to the dopest shit like an indie grunge punk slut west coast cyber emo bitch degenerate.
what i’d refer to as “being minimalist and pimping out nothingness” could pretty much be called the meaning of life. i only do four things, really, in this life: drink caffeine, smoke nicotine, listen to music & write. i do all 4 things heavily. i’m a broken record. it doesn’t cost too much to do this. writing is only as much as the typewriter & paper costs. i pay a monthly subscription for SoundCloud. i get the cheap pack of smokes for $7-11 & coffee and tea i get in boxes or containers. it doesn’t take off too much pocket weight. it doesn’t burn a hole in the wallet. today, i went to Cigarette City and got a pack of silver somethings — some brand i never heard of, off brand but still class A — for $5. when i found out that was the price, i also got the homie a pack too, this nice fellow who was pretty legit back in the day, pretty cool. he’s still a rad sort of person, aged like fine wine. he used to ride dirt bikes & do all that X-games type shit: a real pro who knew how to throw down. we were both down to next to nothing. he had 4. i had 10. i threw the whole 10 down for 2 packs. 39 cent card tax. i had 10.45… perfect, smoking never made me regret money spent. i was never worried about blowing a bag, so to speak, on smokes, caffeine & music & all that. the best thing is listening to music and writing doesn’t cost a thing. then i got a 20 pack of some chamomile tea for cheap, too, and coffee for just over a dollar at SnS, a dope little nook market, some cool all organics store with enough kombucha and tea and coffee and produce and butcher meats to carry you steadily & happily into the next year. God grant me the serenity to accept the things i cannot change, the courage to change the things i can, and the wisdom to know the difference… also please give me enough free time to dwell on life, writing, listening to tunes, smoking nicotine & sipping tea & coffee in a subtle punk zone, contemplative & subdued & zen in thought.
black ashen gray cotton sweater covered frozen hands making their way under graffiti painted underbellies of bridges & scenic route waterfalls & aqueducts. the river flows tidily right on by, the stream bumping and bruising along a beaten stone cripple creek ferry wilderness, the path of slashing splash. we smoked a cigarette under the bridge, aching, finding warmth in the shade under the dungaree & weeping wilting willow tree, all withered to the core, robbed bare of its stark leaves. autumn golden brush & amber rose gold turned to bitter brown & snow white, the black tar on asphalt mud, making way for shaved ice spring sunsets, rainbows giving enough wiggle room for the sweat of fine working men & women in bikinis at the car wash — utter white hot pale moonlit rosy tinted white shirt wet bleach stained sun-kissed youth. the seasons pass to and fro… just enough dark to see, the cold retreats just in time when it seemed 7 below for too long. finally, the sun bathes the window in rays of long overdue glowing warmth & just as the heat wears on for far too long, the taste of fall and the dew of the first rain and pumpkin fairs bring about the engaging sound stilling cold weather snowy plumes of feathers on birds falling as they migrate in early Winter. dawn to dusk, the farmers wait for the harvest. dawn to dusk, they’re are people fucking & dying & rocking and rolling & shaking and baking. the heat closes in near a place to camp out: the inner backstreets of the wayward bound. find a way to find solace in the Bob Dylan mantra, “the times, they are a-changing…” it’s all so different now, it’s all so the same. and the weather is the most bipolar creature. but at least it’s cyclical and sticks to a routine schedule. some of it’s boring and some of it’s monotonous. but right when you feel like you’ve had enough, things change up. the pot always gets stirred up. the potion is all tossed and mixed up. one piece of advice: just don’t dive into deep into the sauce. at some point, the degeneracy smothers the worst of them & self righteousness sends even the best in combat to the grave. the weather causes some to act up on a full moon, dancing in the rain, making angels in the snow, forming witch circles in the dead of the night, right before sunrise around 3 or 4 a.m. the seasonal element makes me dismissive. if i ignore you today, it’s not you. the sun just beats down too heavily & i’ll feel kind of like i’m slumming it up in glum unless i escape to my own personal quarters to find reprieve. i’ll recharge the old battery in the howling moonlit interludes in the middle of propane infused nowhere and find a little hole in the wall: a place to catch a breeze & a little time away from time. cool air against the skin makes me feel alive again, blooming in winter. summer, for me, is more meditative. in a summer cocoon, i’m a winter butterfly. ps: i never got the ‘it’s a dog eat dog world’ phrase… in my mind, it’s a boy-meets-girl world. if you’re a bird, i’m a bird. but we’re all just dogs trying to find a mate at the little neighborhood meet-and-greet doghouse. she was pretty cute… damn, what should i say. i’ll say what’s up. i never was too good at small talk, though. i’m more of a quick cute little endearing kick it & dip type. hey just wanted to let you know you’re pretty cute. you got good energy. what’s your sign? maybe we could grab coffee sometime? i don’t know could be fun. anyways, hi, i forgot to introduce myself, i’m drew, let me buy you a drink, then i got to head off on my way. maybe i’ll see you around though, here’s my number. anyways, let’s get margaritas. yeah, you’re cute though. catch you around one of these days… and it goes on and on, the tiny charming niceties work sometimes. other times they don’t, but Wayne Gretzky was right, “you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take…” and seven shots later, deep in a pit of ash & smoke & first dates & ties & promises & fall outs, i’m fucked up… to infinity & beyond.
my uncle — well kinda more my dad’s sister’s husband… oh, so yeah, my uncle, Uncle Tom — noticed i was having some anxiety, about being new in town, not having a lot of friends yet, not having much to my name, no kind of thing going for me, and all that. he saw me in the backyard smoking too many cigarettes, at some level kind of losing touch with my reality or too in touch with it, a little faded emotional wreck not entirely self aware at the moment. i hadn’t taken up the hobby of writing yet. i didn’t have a girl around my arm. i had no way to process this fickle little life… feebly not knowing what to do… cold cold cold world & i’d already lost so much. i ran away from my step dad’s vicinity into the arms of my dad in Nebraska. but his girlfriend kicked me out. she told him i couldn’t even tie my shoes… some excuse because i always could, but i was kind of a dipshit in those days, a good for nothing low life. i’m still a low life. i just engage a little more than i used to. i like to write. therefore i engage with the world without engaging, i observe & romanticize all the little things that go on throughout the day. maybe that’s all writers are — jaded intellectual romantics. we love people, we hate the world. we love shooting the shit, but we hate small talk. maybe it’s all small talk… weather’s alright. well Uncle Tom sat down with me as i pulled out another cigarette from the box. he sat down on a lawn chair. i had been on one smoking for hours. we were in some slightly gangster Lincoln suburban hood community. i’d walk all over town & buy smokes at gas stations & go to vape shops & coffee shops. i’d ask for employment opportunities, but got no job offers. i had no money. but i still went around & walked from place to place with little to no money. the cops & locals knew I was a California kid. they were on my trail, sneering at me for going into shops & not buying anything, just looking around & asking for a job looking like a bum. i was living at my Uncle Tom’s place, but my homeless appearance & chain smoking reality, hobby, appearance & activity was frowned upon & i was viewed as an outsider who arose suspicion in people. Uncle Tom had a wife — Alice. she was a sweet lady, but she was a huge gal & slightly off her rocker & she was a hoarder. but she was super sweet & he loved her. he would never leave her. she was his one & only no matter how lazy or despondent or unseemly she got. he loved her more than anything. i need that kind of love — the ride or die kind. angels. demons. curb side little ditties, little talks together. i crave the bond, the intimacy cherished. she could be in any state — ‘oh that’s just Alice being Alice… don’t mind her’ — he would love her undoubtedly till the day both of them died, side by side, in each other’s fated arms. he had his wits more about him, though. she was always just plastered to the couch, eating what seemed to be fast food or in the same vein, watching TV & buying things online. he was always handling business, but still pretty much retired from any enterprise. he used to be a cop or something, she drove a soccer mom car, he drove one of those old taxi smelling patrol type cars, coupe de ville, carella d’evil type ‘suicidal thoughts in the back of the cadillac’ kind of whips. he’d pick me up from God knows where — I got lost, a lot… Nebraska was an unknown territory & foreign state to me then, I’d be out & about wandering & slumming adrift & aloof, drifting on skid row gang occupied streets. he’d be out driving. he’d spot me on one of his frequent drives — his favorite past time, just mobbing through the locally friendly Lincoln neighborhoods & cross streets & high ways. he knew his way around, Uncle Tom was a mentor — guardian angel — to me… he knew where i’d be, right where i’d be, stranded on this block or the other. he’d cruise & pinpoint where i was. ‘hop in!’ he’d say & we’d chill & bump music, pimping out in the old beamer, all the way back to the crib — home sweet home. except it wasn’t home, i lived in the basement, but it was still comfortable. live somewhere long enough — 2 months tops — and any place could feel very well like home. my dad still felt bad. he’d check in on me. he’d try to get me signed up for general aid, unemployment and all of that. Tom and my dad were like brothers. He’d visit & they sit close by, but give me my space as I sat in the familiar chair in the middle of the lawn, them on the backyard steps or somewhere of that nature. they’d talk about how out of it Alice was, how not all there she was, about how out of it I was, how not all there I was. they’d talk & shoot the shit. my dad & me could always bullshit our way through the ordinary spontaneities & trivialities & street talk & chatter & banter in town, this local spot or that beach or this street or alley or another. we had wit & goofed off with a sense of humor. but i was losing my way a bit to drugs and really to the tragic comedy that is life. my dad confided to Tom that he thought i may be some sort of faggot… i mean he still knew i was straight, even though i never brought girls home, but i think he was more making a passing comment that i was basically a tiny afterthought by most of society, a dud, a burn out, a broken head case lost in the mud of a mess i entirely made in this nonsensical smoke pit of midwestern ass crack. i’d laugh as i watched my hopes & dreams get burnt & flushed drowning down the drain before my very eyes, a piercing american wasteland filled with raw bare freeze dried obscenities. the land of opportunity. yeah, right? right! nah there’s nothing really to live for, after all, but if you can find a piece of zen fueled bits & sparked lights of Nirvana in this flash pan existence — the little wins & come ups & ground scores & good fucks & bright spots. & hook ups & fast lane moments & mini prized possessions & substance pleasure (all that good good leisurely sort of activity… the things like retail therapy which help us cope)… all that jazz… seinfeld — jerry on that commercial: ‘do you like jazz?’ really, if you can just catch your breadth for a moment a midst a 10 minute smoke break on your 9-5, life’s not all that bad. we need more Nirvana. more Sonic Youth. more dirty grunge boots. more joy in the rotten underground. if we can look around and laugh at all of this shit, get stoked at how uncivilized things really are behind the mask society puts on, then we can grasp the sublime trivial silver linings. life is pain. life is suffering. bob marley once said, ‘everybody is going to hurt us, we just have to find the ones worth suffering for’ (or something like that). so anyways, i’m just sitting at my spot in the middle of the lawn one day. Alice is watching too much TV again. i’m sipping on coffee i’d make cheap pots of daily, offering some to Uncle Tom & Aunt Alice as a poor man’s way to contribute & count towards my contribution for rent. it was more for myself, but it was a nice thought. Tom grabbed a coffee too (maybe?) and he sat next to me. I offered him a smoke. ‘quit years ago, when i was around your age, around aged 30 or near that’ he continued, ‘son, i get what you’re going through…’ i jumped in, a little too quickly, going through it, interjecting, trying to cope in my own way, rushing to smoke my 7th cigarette in a row… ‘tom, i just don’t get this life shit. i get all paranoid & everything gets to me. i listen to music all day, but can’t dull the sharpness of life. it’s all too real & i have no money except to blow through my credit on cigarettes. i don’t drink. i don’t do drugs. which also means i can’t numb the pain. and i have no girl whatsoever by my side so i have no one to talk to except for you and Alice. sadly it never seems like enough’ i was unloading now. ‘and i can barely even talk to my dad, his girlfriend doesn’t seem to like me, at least yet, she hasn’t warmed to me and i talked to the other half of the family — mom, step dad & sis — a blue moon ago. bad blood right now.’ he could tell i was worked up… riled. ‘son,’ he’d say in a soothing, warm settled understanding & friendly masculine way, ‘just remember this: ground yourself in reality. don’t stress out too much. tune out every now and then. think of the senses: what do you see? what do you feel? what do you hear? be one with reality & all of its bitter sweetness & be in touch with the way things actually are in this life. if you can focus on & observe your surroundings, you’ll be better able to deal with everything it throws your way. you’ll be able to see it coming.’ i owe Uncle Tom a lot. for finally telling me things my family never woke me up to. i’m always working on little grounding techniques & just being accountable & trying to focus on the little sad funny thing of it all. in fact, that’s why i write. that’s the only way i’m able to write at all. i see some shit. i put it down on paper. i recognize it. i work through it. and then it’s not so bad. its not so bad. so to the universe: namaste — the divine in me sees the divine in you. you’ll be alright, son. i flew back home to my mom & made amends with my family, for the most part, as i always do. it’ll be alright, take care, things are starting to work out. in time, in time. it’s all getting better. love you Uncle Tom. you taught me the greatest skill in fluid Siddhartha-by-the-river stream of consciousness: ‘what do you see? what do you hear? what do you feel?’
what the fuck ever… i’m going to get along. music banging lately. got a new pair of shoes to impress her. i told her i loved her without actually saying as much. i got a bag on me. just a bag of tea. chamomile nicotine fiend. what good is life when you’re numb? when you’re over the whole thing… i want the dopest clothes, sitting in a minimalist white space open room listening to dope music, dressed to the nines, vaping a bit, stepping out for a cigarette & sipping on the finest liquors, beers, coffees, cold brews, sodas, etc. i just like that basic stimulant substance. i want a skinny bitch. hopefully she doesn’t bitch at me too much. is it too much to expect some type of love. fuck it, i’m not dating. just going to pimp out the big nothing. she says i romanticize drugs a bit. i romanticize escape from this bullshit living thing we do each & every day. the whole thing’s tired — tired of itself. it’s all so very played out. bruh, really all i need to do is go camping, listen to music out in solitude, maybe light up a campfire & get high on life away from it all. just get high off a few cigarettes & coffee out by the rolling streaming river & the fall of rain & snow, chunks of crystal, stone, rocks, gems & leaves tossed & rolled about all over on the ground, littered with pure unadulterated absolute pristine beautiful original natural elements, the substance of this universe… i’d smoke & listen to music next to the fire & think damn, there’s nobody to fuck this up. like walden by Thoreau, except the dope dope dope on a rope rope rope. hope the pope’s aight life kills us anyways. pope pope pope… smoke.
some of this i will send in a manuscript. some of it’s half assed though. if only i could do more, i think. but i can’t ever do much. we can never really do much… i’m not a poet, i’m just a guy trying to ignore the world, writing about what i see. most of it is so commonplace, like a bum drinking some liquor, or probably a 40 oz of malt liquor, out of a brown paper bag. i don’t have the answer to your problem’s m’am as i sit one leg crossed over the other like a therapist & she tells me all of her hopes, dreams & failures. m’am i studied psychology at the university, but i don’t really know what to tell you… i’m not a therapist. the weight you are handing off is quite burdensome & heavy on my shoulders. i need to sip tea & meditate then drink coffee with baileys as I go about therapeutically coping… then have one shot of whiskey & one shot of vodka, then smoke & smoke some more. that’s what I have to at all costs do. if you can guess the amount of people who felt the need to confide in me their own internal feelings & baggage. i should get paid for this. i should at least become a counselor. maybe i’ll just write. i want to observe from afar. i love people. but i’m sorry m’am i don’t like small talk & i could care less about the little chit chat you care to invest yourself in. i’m not your new friend. it’s a pleasure to meet you, but i’d rather be alone on my own. bye bye baby bye bye.
damn, she was the finest girl around. the masochism in me wanted her to slap me & slam the door in my face, as i watch her out the window walking back out on the street looking as hot as ever in a hoodie… watching her ass beneath the mini skirt. nobody said a girl couldn’t wear a hoodie over a mini skirt. girls always made me feel like gold & dirt: gold rush & dirt pit… back to this bitch, back in this bitch — back in my bag about a bitch. let me tell you one thing: life is stupid… so don’t waste it on women. just use it for knowledge & the music of the whole tragic thing. romanticize the funny tragic parts…
skyscrapers & city lights beaming: on the streets, out of most windows in buildings. i want to walk the streets, lost in the crowd, some faces filled with glee, others somber. i notice 3 huddled near a magazine stand, drinking coffee, one reading a playboy, the other 2 reading sections of the Sunday paper. the news, the girls wild & loose.
how’d all the cement — all the pavement — get laid on the ground? how’d they have all of that time. all of the roads & parking lots & side streets & sidewalks that used to be dirt. skaters skate the streets… spinning wheels. cars shift into gear… spinning rim Escalade. so… Teslas drive themselves now. first time riding in one the other day. it knows every road, stoplight & stop sign. teslas feel like they get up to 100 mph with no engine sound. locals in tahoe hate Teslas, they symbolize out-of-town bay area folks. but Teslas aren’t too bad. Elon Musk is for sure on some next level shit. fuck X though (f.k.a. Twitter) & all social media. it’s bullshit. all of this current day stuff just preoccupies us. it distracts us & gives us ADHD. people can barely read these days. reading’s important. low attention span. back to self driving cars. is that the current day innovation we really needed? maybe. you could hop in your car after the bar closes drunk as a skunk & make it safely to your house without even touching the steering wheel, brakes, or gas. speed up. slow down. it does it all. does this mean less crashes? only time will tell…
smoke shows, snow moke, dime piece, dime bag, dope smoke, tote rope, joke nope, coke eyo yayo, slope cope, flow brotha, slow bruh duh, joe mornings, grief mournings, slut drawers, smoke stash, cash stack, three little lines… little stories to pass the time. what more? no more sick liquor, rad skater scene, friendly fiend, another lucid dream, troy boy m.d.m.a., dreaming Demarco, cigarette daydreams, hazy vision, little friction, pulp fiction… worth the mention. pulp casket, blown gasket, gas kit, total package, smack absolute… that’s aight; could be phenomenal… what’s it all cost? 22 & a quarter. call that a night; pay the tab, dip out — souped up Subaru: burn outs, drifting in snowy paradise… two smoke shows at home — dope smoke, coke nose, dime piece & a dime bag… but it’s just me, home alone. i only got this lonely pack — 10 smokes, no smoke show. maybe i’ll see some cute girls on a walk later… bitches? nah. sight for sore eyes? yea. tomorrow, tomorrow. Good morning Vietnam…
i went out. i had a ball. but no 8 ball. it was a fun time. i saw a dime. had about 8 or 9. she was cute. really cute. she spoke about this & that. what she had been through. we all had been through a lot. these people were cool. cooler than me. where was i? some kind of place. i won’t get into details. could’ve been at the club or a bar or class or detention, for all i knew. as it was concerned. there was a lot to talk about. it felt pressing. the stupid cravings, needs for the non necessities. i wanted a bump. i walked down the street to the liquor store. just a gas station really. i’m off liquor though. but i needed a pack of smokes badly. badly. i needed to chain smoke a whole pack. i was getting a little loopy, a little ditsy, a little antsy & spun out. i crossed the street three or four times & crossed over the bridge. the bumps came. in time, in time. but not a line of any sort. i crossed a double line. bumps from a car passing by. they were bumping MUSIC. i needed that. because my headphones broke. i was having trouble getting my lighter to flare up, spark up, keep a slow steady burn. my hands were shaky. it was cold & i hate noticing cars passing by me on the road, them thinking ‘damn why’s he shaking’ all because i feel like i look like a god damn idiot because i can’t get my lighter to work. ‘what’s he tripping out about’ they probably think. ‘maybe he did some dope, he’s sketch, he’s burnt’. ‘i swear, i’m all good, just need my headphones, i need music bumping, i need some sort of energy, my headphones broke, just got my lighter, but i’m anxious as fuck. forgot my hydroxozine. social anxiety. seeing a girl soon. my lighter won’t fucking spark.’ i’m trying to telepathically communicate. some car notices i pull out my next cigarette nicer, cooler, smoother. they pull up. the window winds down. they got Latina trap music playing. something about some sort of party happening. Somewhere. It’s dope. my lighter works right away, out of the shoot, off the bat, out of the jump. i smoke. i had just crossed the bridge — a bridge with a low rail & high fall onto the freeway so it’s kind of a wild time, lots of noise from cars flying by below & beside you. the car bumping music was at the stop light. i bang my head & throw some sort of ‘rock on’ faux gang sign up as i cross the street. i got two gatorade zeros at the gas station. i got camel black series at discount. on sale for people with membership. the guy had told me who worked there. a kind of cranky hard working & overly quick employee — probably the boss of the god damn gas station. he was cool enough. he just always seemed like he had something better to do, somewhere better to be. i felt that. so i had asked him, got montegos? no. got anything cheap like that. he said the new non-methol camel crushes — the black series. why were they discounting camels? maybe because they were the new variety. well i just had to enter my number & that would make me a member. i typed in the number. the camels were $6… maybe? damn. good deal. good branding. good business: big tobacco. asked for a bag. bag? they said… not that kind. for the gatorade zeros & the two canned cold brews. i drank the cold brews out of the can fast. i made my way back. lots of cars. lighter still finicky & janky. i got back home. across the bridge. crossed two or three or four streets. smoked about 4 cigarettes. hid my stash. nicotine on me. then nothing. that’s how cigarettes go. needed to chain smoke about a girl. about girls. i read a line out of my book. a girl picked me up. had got her #. it felt like a date. then she dropped the bomb. her boyfriend would be meeting up with us. ‘let me introduce you to my friend, Jay. is jay a girl, i thought… nah, it was some guy. does she think i’m gay… maybe. but then some others arrived. mostly guys, but a few really hot girls arrived, too… in time, in time. i’ll make my rounds, get a few rounds, sober martini mixer, i’ll talk to the girls… in a few, in a few. in time, in time… this other guy, not jay, started talking to me (who ended up actually being hilariously witty, this guy as well as jay & the girls & everyone that arrived) about drinking & 8 balls getting flown & getting it right off of the plane & all that. pure cocaine. can’t find this girl. he couldn’t find her: crystal? molly? Mary Jane? so he hit the bottle. i could use a drink. there’s coffee in the kitchen. unless that caffeine whore drank it all. whatever. oh good, there’s still some left. i nearly drained the pot into my recyclable little paper cup. pure black diesel. better than heroin. practically the same thing. caffeine never let me down. coffee. good. cigarettes. stoked. girls. dope… so sick, so rad, i need my dad to read me a bedtime story. i need my mom too. really i need to cry on a bad bitch’s shoulder & cry to her about my daddy issues — he didn’t have to do that. i miss her. so i smoke. i’ll smoke 100,000 more cigarettes simply because i miss her. i miss you, the angel from my nightmare, the shadow in the background of the morgue. i miss you. 100,000 times xx 100,000 fold. you always knew the right words to say, just what to do. stay together for the kids. life is a tom petty & blink 182 & nirvana & sonic youth & mickey avalon song. i need to have a sense of humor. or just 2 cents… about my anorexia in the past. being abused & strangled. the drugs. so much childhood neglect. long overbearing trauma. solitary. dusted pcp angel dust weed. did i survive? barely. overdose attempt(s). burning my wrist. ash my cigarette on my hand. head banging. quiet the pain. quiet the pain. i need relief. at least the girls were cute tonight, tonight — i’m definitely straight… if they’re pumpkins, i’m smashing pumpkins all Halloween weekend long. like where i met your mother? southwest. where do you get off. i need a stiff drink, good smoke & even better book on my lap where every word sears & brims & burns with overwhelming undeniable truth & unarguable & irrevocable total relevance. good night, i’ll dream well… tonight, tonight.
listening to the old wind chimes. time is so damned. we all are damned. the weather is alright today. the small talk. the banter. i lit my cigarette & thought of where i’ll be at in twenty years. i’ll be lighting up a cigarette. i’ll still be bored. i’ll howl at the midnight moon. i’ll look dejectedly around a little room. who knows? maybe i’ll have published a book. or one or two, a few… i kind of crave boredom. morning time. the cigarette. the coffee. i’ll look around my room, pretty much vacant. i’ll vape a bit. i’ll still have SoundCloud. life is pretty much like a stick in the mud. it doesn’t amount to much. i can’t change much. i’m homeless right now, though. hopefully by then i’ll be on social security disability & have a place of my own, but not much will change. i can write well & got a B.A. in psychology at University of California, Davis, but I sadly have Bipolar I Schizoaffective Disorder so I definitely qualify for disability. Substance use has also always been an issue. I got a drug problem — an addictive personality. i’ve been sober about a month now: God knows. i’m a minimalist. i like writing just to write. i like music. it’s all about my writing & music. as long as i can do those things, i’m stoked. i got to dress in high fashion. i’m gonna be skinny. i’m only eating a meal a day from now on: got to shrink my stomach to nil, nil, nil. if you look good & your music’s dope & on point & you can process it all through writing, you’ll most definitely feel as good as all hell. there’s a time & place for everything. that’s what this guy, Howard, from Chico Rescue Mission — a place I may go to Rehab at — told me. There is a time & place for everything. that’s true… more often than not though, it’s all just pointless. i like to skip about 98% of life. more than anything, i just want to smoke. Kurt Vonnegut said smoking cigarettes is the most honorable form of suicide. you could vape, but that’s like smoking a usb drive. it’s too electronic. i like the routine of stepping out for a smoke. lighting it up & all that. it hits more direct… more potent & satisfying. Vapes are instantaneous relief at all times, but after vaping a while, it’s impossible to just sit at a bar & not vape at the booth. it seems like you need to hit it all the time or it won’t do the trick. on the other hand, cigs tide you over for at least an hour. if i had one piece of advice: smoke cigarettes & drink coffee. avoid other drugs, vapes & alcohol.
honey you’re finally alone
just a nicotine fiend
with a dope dream
i get why writers
sit at the typewriter all day
it feels like i’m onto something
let’s get to the bottom of it all
drown your sorrows
down the bottle
all falls down
it’s never been about publishing
the writing, i mean
i’d write for the sake
of writing in & of itself
a little way to process
i sit, contemplative in solitude
nothing new, nothing new
so i write underneath
cloudy skies & rain drops
we exist
send me anything
s.o.s.
where’d the time go?
been dead a long time
back to it
i need a way out
it’s music & ink on paper
i’ll die to a cure song
i’ll die with the cure in my head
a cigarette in my hands
a girl on my mind
the good side of ecstasy
the brightest side of light
melancholy sits in with age
i’m 30. i already feel like
i’ve been here too long
sonic youth is a forever mood
your moms are my heroes
my mom is my hero
my sis is my hero
ultimate angels
i am sad to be alive
but there’s beauty in the struggle
listen. love. learn.
coping. writing. coping. writing.
numb & dead inside.
the only thing i like
is poetic words, fiction & music
as well as dressing in cool clothes
wearing good shoes
i like lots of things
i dislike a lot of things
the drugs, i could take them or leave them
except for coffee & cigarettes
i need both of those
fuck… fuck cocaine. fuck crystal.
i need to be back at Delta Venus
it was this coffee shop
in my little college town in Davis
on B Street
the main Ski or Snowboard Club house
& my own apartment
they were all on that street
I could smoke on any of the front porches
at any of those places
and sip at coffee, beer & just chill
i want a place to call my own
i’m a homebody
without a permanent home
call me a turtle without a shell
tired, idle hands & thoughts
i need to cope with these stupidly
passing feelings
relapse is eminent
so is rehab
i want to chain smoke
and drink coffee
this place i’m at
restricts my freedom
can you imagine
how rehab would feel?
i’m in a crisis shelter, right now
thank God for my typewriter
at least I can write
about the feelings
chipping away at my brain
brain cells depleting
lost friends, past lives
9 lives, but I’ve burnt through
most of them
i got over my own story
i’m tired of this little biz
what the fuck are people
even doing anyways?
what are they on about?
i don’t want to write…
…the same damn old tired thing
i want to write…
…with an edge & slant
the euphoric wisdom
beckoning the unknown
out of the dust
we are born from ash
to ash we’ll return
life is pretty much
a goth boy clique music video
i’m just a crybaby
sad boy season forever
maybe the beginning of Nirvana
is the realization we are nothing
dwelling in the miracle of life
within & without
it’s not magnificent
but it’s also not meaningless
we are tiny specks
this society is not a microcosm
it stresses the importance
of minute details
but the little things aren’t important
& the big things aren’t important
we as creatures & enlightened beings
are a microcosm, on the other hand,
of this galaxy as a whole
put me down like a dog
so i can say hi to the afterlife
maybe i’ll live forever at this rate
life feels like a toss up between
Heaven & Hell…
permanent purgatory?
i don’t view that as a tragedy
i view that as the biggest blessing
don’t view things as the end of the world
this too shall pass
remember: it’s okay to be sad
i read this somewhere:
“i’m not anti-social,
i just dislike socializing”
i need a drink like Bukowski
i need a woman like Bukowski
i need someone to knock
the living daylight out of me
like Bukowski, like Bukowski…
Aren’t we all…
instead of a drunk
i chase the high
the dope, the nicotine
i’m down & out
i’m high on the low
i tweeted a while back:
“when i’m low, i’m high
when i’m high, i’m low”
it’s all the same
it’s a lose-lose situation
either lose with dignity
or lose without it
but, hey at least you’ll go out
in a blaze of beaming light
with the stoke of the midnight ember
high on the essence
of substance infused magic
crystalized diesel daydreams
the slut fetches the coke
8 ball sunk, final shot of the night
the lonely old man slinks off to the cabin
i trade a pack of smokes for God-only-knows
Dear Lord, I wish I was strong
you’re stronger than you think
Jesus Christ spoke to me
only once in my life
…a few weeks ago:
“you got lucky,” he said
i sure as hell did
he must have a sense
of facetious humor as well
because my whole life has been
a sequence of the
best & worst luck ever
FML, thank God I’m still alive
Why the fuck do I exist?
This is the best feeling ever…
Paradoxical shifts
Ride or die highs & lows
Feeling extremes of polar opposites
The Lord was right, though
I escaped utter hell
back in 2014
in a way
i’m lucky i’m manic-depressive
i could have nothing
and feel like the dopest person in town
i could feel better
than the old man down the street
him & all of his wealth
i could be stuck on the street
but as long as i have a pack
of cigarettes, i’m stoked
bipolar is a superpower
Yé said it himself
and I haven’t been locked up
in spite of drugs & fuck-ups
drugs got me fucked up
sluts got me drugged up
over & over & over again
the sound of music
just an old man
at his typewriter
this world threatens
to steal your soul
preserve it at all costs
the devil always
had a certain misfit kind of vibe
something alluring
just stay true to your vision
sway with the rhythm
don’t read too much into it
got caught up in the fuss
hot fuss, dirty slut
knuckle puck
fuck you
sonic youth
dirty boots
middle finger
100%
punk tat
we really all know nothing
nobody dwelling somewhere
grim reaper blues
weeping willow
melancholic truth
chilled bottle of bud light
ice breaker potion
going through the motions
ode to my first love
ode to my last cigarette
ode to nothing left
man who sold the world
where’d he hide out
old railroad town
sedated on the tracks
gasoline fracked
under the bridge
old money, new cash
stacks on stacks
paper trail
online currency
it’s all there
Kurt Cobain wrote about Nirvana
The lyrics poetic & self-evident
‘would you like to hear my voice
sprinkled with emotion…’
something like…
‘don’t have to think
just have to do it
the results are
always perfect’
you’re so stupid
she says
i know i am
that’s why i love you
you’re pretty dumb too
i’m the dumbest
that’s why i want you so bad
we’re just two dumb fucks
fuck us up world
we got nothing to lose
fires in LA
God had a bone to pick
at least with Hollywood
maybe the Vatican’s next
if Satan has a bone to pick
Elusive Nirvana 