roll up in a ball
you know those little clear maybe plastic containers you squirt condiments in with your fast food at mom and pop shops? so two guys' length away, if they're horizontal, the guys, like lying down in the air, on the counter sits one little container maybe half an ounce in size, thinner, more cyclical, and in it is a sauce resembling thousand island, but it's not thousand island, it's some specialty secret hot sauce that just tastes like spicy mustard, which is basically, horseradish. atop the more cyclical container sits a round one ounce container, larger but not as much as a golf ball, and in it are yellow chilli peppers with their little tails. staring at a prominent member of the pack i see a red dot in its core and for some reason the chili pepper resembles a green olive in a martini glass, and from this distance, the whole thing kind of looks like an ice cream cone.
two scorpios
Guess at this point I'm too invested not to tell you I broke open her morning.
I don't care enough about ____ to stay. Bitches always come up with the best lines.
Fuck ___!
That was mine. But I left like a gentlemen to allow her to come back in and have the room then I walked out and down an alley in limbo until I realized I'm smoking in the middle of a gas station. I figured I had to just walk back the other way.
ty
kyit's not finished yet. i dont have all the colors,
and figure out how to make the rest of the shapes
march wrap-up
It almost got me, it almost got me
my eyes slipped shut, just for a moment
this world is going to get me
i reached for the blanket
in chills this world is going to get me
lets hide under this blanket
just then the doorbell rang
my who the hell can this be
i keep hearing it in this dream
but i made a pact to live free
love, and not listen to my head speak
so let me see, who the hell can this be
and on the way back to my dream
my head, it said
sugar, sugar
give me some sweets from the bakery
not again, i said
and stopped that luring state
then walking as im writing
i almost trip and break my head
champions league
they're texting each other
i can't help it
bundled within the group;
get out of the way
so i can see my game,
i gesture him to move.
my apologies
says he, our mr. nice guy.
frozen cold lest an emotion may show,
i watch them amongst the others;
still the interloper,
nuances and their gestures,
what intrigue staring at my screen
for their sympathy.
my tv's the only thing what understands
the extent
- the fixture on our couch
my mom lent me a car to drive. at the top of the hill were the cemetery gates. the hill was shaped more like a brown pyramid but closer it was round with long steps. at each step that I would drive up, there was a stop sign. closer to the gates, driving up felt like rushing down and i kept sliding past the stop signs while dirt would fly around. either i forgot, froze, didn't move the other leg fast enough or the brake wasn't there i feared what i might run through or break the door down....
...…………
………………
…………………
……he's gotta find a job!
another fleetwood mac night
- Did you get a nice run in?
- How'd you know I went?
- (nodding deliciously) Your socks.
- Oh, (blushing) You had me at "your."
- I like this pair on you, especially on your feet.
- What else do you like?
- Oh, well, let's see. I like the time I was sitting across from you on the couch in the morning—
- Yea?
- Doing my make up—
- I'll never forget it.
- Then you brought out your socks...
- Oww Yea—
- ...to wear in front of me...
- I thought you didn't notice.
- Oh, it almost killed me. Darling, open the window a little...And when one pair ripped as you pulled it up—
- Yea?
- You said—
- "That socks, get it?"
- I'll never forget it.
- Do you like the movie Ladybugs?
dre^e^e^e^em dream dream dream oh
dre^e^e^e^em dream dream dream oh
dre^e^e^e^em dream dream dream oh
these days, when people walk by my car on the sidewalk and i'm inside, there's only classical music playing. i'll step outside to stretch my back, serene—i'm not looking around, afraid. i don't particularly have a passion for the arts; i don't mind it, i've found i've heard every song on the radio. i put it on 91.5, it takes three or four minutes adjusting to, like reading over the start of a play, then it fades into the background of my thoughts like the soft pang of acceptance, hearing the sweet voice of an old flame
- (smithers) that was pretty good, sir
while they're out flirting at the beach, I guess I'll check the P.O. Box
Dear EatKhash,
When you read me your writing assignment and likened the impulse you feared you may fill in our "situation," to the time you wrote Erika an 8-page love letter a week after sitting behind her in English class, I knew what you meant. You didn't look up to hush me with your eyes; you did me that mercy with your sweet rambling words. She didn't talk to you the rest of high school, you revealed. Then you went on, about a year from now, most of it about women. And here I was, stuck behind you, I'm embarrassed to admit, but I admit it now. I listened to you, ramble some more, confessing it was like middle school all over again, while caught on a tightrope, dangling in the air of a tension I shan't speak. While trying to convince you you're good looking, I meant it, but tried the utmost, the most I could, anyway, to maintain my professional shield. I was just as taken aback by your confessional insight, that even dating back to your school crushes you were objectifying girls through innocent fantasies—yet false identities—as I was with your passion when you fired your sponsor after he said you should pray your ex has the best sex of her life. All the while, though, I couldn't let on, how could I, the question my little heart wants to be asked, from me to you, the question it knows it's true, I'm so much littler than you, how would it be, what would they say? I ask you, then, was it that you were on guard about your fear, your vulnerability, or were you protecting me from mine? Since then, you've been the little secret growing in my head, and I guess I understand why you argued with me when I revealed I quit being a ballerina after I grew cobweb feet, even though you wouldn't let me show them to you. I became a drug and alcohol counselor, like all other drug and alcohol counselors, and moved into the city full of our kind, those who will later become drug and alcohol counselors. Last night someone unfortunately broke into my car. He—and this is why, I'm assuming—didn't find anything of value, so the individual decided to urinate in the vehicle. He was kind enough to do it on the floor mat, though. C'est la vie. But I'll leave you with this. While taking pictures for the insurance—I'm considerably alarmed by your acting out. Until our next meeting, I don't want to have to lose you. Try eating more vegetables. It might not be worth the effort.
Sincerely,
Your Counselor
When you read me your writing assignment and likened the impulse you feared you may fill in our "situation," to the time you wrote Erika an 8-page love letter a week after sitting behind her in English class, I knew what you meant. You didn't look up to hush me with your eyes; you did me that mercy with your sweet rambling words. She didn't talk to you the rest of high school, you revealed. Then you went on, about a year from now, most of it about women. And here I was, stuck behind you, I'm embarrassed to admit, but I admit it now. I listened to you, ramble some more, confessing it was like middle school all over again, while caught on a tightrope, dangling in the air of a tension I shan't speak. While trying to convince you you're good looking, I meant it, but tried the utmost, the most I could, anyway, to maintain my professional shield. I was just as taken aback by your confessional insight, that even dating back to your school crushes you were objectifying girls through innocent fantasies—yet false identities—as I was with your passion when you fired your sponsor after he said you should pray your ex has the best sex of her life. All the while, though, I couldn't let on, how could I, the question my little heart wants to be asked, from me to you, the question it knows it's true, I'm so much littler than you, how would it be, what would they say? I ask you, then, was it that you were on guard about your fear, your vulnerability, or were you protecting me from mine? Since then, you've been the little secret growing in my head, and I guess I understand why you argued with me when I revealed I quit being a ballerina after I grew cobweb feet, even though you wouldn't let me show them to you. I became a drug and alcohol counselor, like all other drug and alcohol counselors, and moved into the city full of our kind, those who will later become drug and alcohol counselors. Last night someone unfortunately broke into my car. He—and this is why, I'm assuming—didn't find anything of value, so the individual decided to urinate in the vehicle. He was kind enough to do it on the floor mat, though. C'est la vie. But I'll leave you with this. While taking pictures for the insurance—I'm considerably alarmed by your acting out. Until our next meeting, I don't want to have to lose you. Try eating more vegetables. It might not be worth the effort.
Sincerely,
Your Counselor
you're my meaning
Had an interview today. I popped into a random office and asked for the restroom key, and they gave it to me because I was wearing a nice suit. What privacy. I should have thought of that back in the day. There was some purple in my tie to match my shirt, and my slacks were black, not purple, like my mom would probably wear. The position calls for writing and marketing the brand. I have to research then send him an article about the industry for the website to show him my skills. There were M&Ms in a jar on the coffee table and a small partition wall separating his desk from the lobby. Maybe he's selling some shady product based on vanity or fear, and if anything his applicants can do his research for him. It's a small office with no tag at the door. I don't know if I'm cynical or afraid of being a sucker—but I am a sucker, that's why there's a big budget behind the blog to prop me back up. Maybe it's a fear of being seen as the sucker in this world, so you try to put out love, instead, to compensate. And all you can hope for, in the end, is they use the last line before the opening scene of some really touching foreign film in translation that I'll watch some other day—of course, she knows the language.
I'm not going to the beach with them tomorrow, no fuckin way. They can write me up. Her in a bathing suit? Ay maron! My trunks are really short, dad trunks, from over a decade ago, the early 90s, straight out of Czechoslovakia. I can fit into my slacks though, real good—they'll look and nod, nod sternly. I couldn't a few days ago. I'm still afraid of food. It's like recovering from a small car crash. It was like taking shots, in the bathroom—and spite, while they were at the meeting. I was in grade school in my head. Yesterday I had chicken noodle soup from Subway and immediately felt fat. I was a walking concrete trash, bag...container box, near a bus bench, a freakin bus bench, man. The only difference between us was that I couldn't move. I had an extra cracker and caught myself then caught myself catching myself. None of it adds up though, because it was the prospect of another night of binge impulse remorse and her not checking me out during family group, that preceded the first episode.
I was totally vibing her when she talked about her mom's mental illness, but nothing, I was getting nothing, none of her cat-burglar eye. Then it was my turn to speak. I couldn't believe the fluency and gentle elegance of my tone. It was the most profound English my parents had ever heard. I felt like an angel was speaking through me, but she got up to get more Gatorade. There were still three slices of dried Tombstone pizza left on the counter. I heard her in the kitchen from the back of my voice, and felt my tone getting worn like that of a wounded soldier. She had no more reason to return to group, and I had no reason to listen anymore. C'est la vie, Pierre. In 6th grade I watched Heather and Chris sing "Basket Case," face to face by my desk, and I knew she liked my best friend. Then they went on to hold hands. Now I've come around to that acceptance again. He's a taurus and she's a scorpio like me. Everybody likes him, both of us do—it's in the books. I watched him cooking when he had a girl over. He's older than her. And he's a good man. Maybe it hits home, and everything comes back to me again. They helped me season my french fries while they cooked together that evening, then they went off. Now you'll excuse me, I have to go write the best damn article I can.
She's brain candy for me,
She's all the faces I've seen;
she don't look at me.
She's all that I am—all my years
come into light.
I don't know why I'm so bothered.
I'm used to seeing them talk
a little standing by the candy jar
-playtime
A little spec of a dream I can recall. Not all were morbid like this so one, though. First night of non-using I can recall, as well. First dream I can actually somewhat describe, too. enough with the toos! as in too many posts? Thus it was a dream of gang warfare. Let's see what it means. Two rival gangs were setting up, tooling up, if you will, across from one another, directly, separating them was a fence. One crew had more bodies than the other. Each lined up across the ground, a wheelchair ramp, around the trees. They began psyching each other up, face to face; I waited a few moments, wondering which flank would began firing first. I looked through the crowd of hostile shaved heads spewing hatred, and seemingly Hispanic faces, and I knew if shots were fired some of these guys would get shot in the face. Then the violent yellow sparks flew through the air. The scene changed. The crowd changed. They were computer programmers. Maybe production assistants, some had bellies, short hair or yet shaved, maybe balding. There could have also been in the mix good-natured curly haired Jewish kids from SLAA meetings, still behind a fence, still taking cover. The fence was a lot taller now—no, much, much taller. Much is more literary. Thus, the fence was much taller now and covered by a lot of green stuff. From the view visible through my perspective, the group had their backs to me, and each stood on the shoulder of the person below him. I watched them from above—hovering over them, as though a spectator or a director viewing the dailies. The participants were in good spirits as the mayhem ensued, certain they had survived the battle. They turned to their buddies and smiled, some with shaved heads, but were unaware, in the adrenaline, of the bullet already implanted red at the back of their heads. A large gaping hole splattered fresh into his brain, and moments later his face went blank. Black and white were his eyes big, black and white—such were his eyes. He was frozen past surprise. The body fell, back, stiff—with him, he took down another on whose shoulder he was standing. There were shots on the ground of torsos and legs contorted, eyes blank and blood splattered
she'll save a seat for him. she didn't even ask me what my drug of choice was. she asked him but not me. it's obvious. i wish i wasn't such a good poker player. i knew she liked him before she even knew she liked him, when she asked him about his kids. that's why they send me home in stretch limos from casinos. ialways ask a woman about her kids even though i'm like oh great this bitch has kids. but one time i called someone's kid it. used to dogs.
too hard to delete anything
do i really have to delete all these? that's actually my biggest concern, how it looks, what it's turned into, mimics my mind or my mind can't rest can't stop talking. i used to cuddle with my phone at night after you walked me home. all of a sudden each time i eat it doesn't make sense not to. if i delete all this it'll clear up, i believe so. but you gotta admit, "skidmark in me worn through time" that's hot!
i get it. i sense it too. but hey, the dream wasnt sexual or anything. she was talking, me some other people and this guy in a car were listening to her and her talking started becoming like a river where it became so fast i couldn't understand what she was saying but just see her voice as the body of a sea and where it would pause and continue, and it was okay, i didn't need to understand because i realized what she was doing she was hypnotizing the guy in the car with her voice as she walked into his little hatchback in the passenger seat. and that makes sense for two reasons. to a lesser extent, last night someone told me of a movie he saw on a date where a white family kidnap's with their daughter their daughter's black date and cuts up his brain or hyptnotizes him—some horror flick, whatever, doesn't matter. the main one is that in the morning i was smoking outside listening to the girls talk. there has been news of a rehab owner who got arrested for years of having sex and providing girl clients with drugs, and these girls knew him—i run with some hardcore addicts. they talked about failed hypnotizing attempts on girls. and an la weekly article coming out—and it clicked! during a doomsday experience, i had read that article! thinking it was planted for me! somehow related to me! so that was the guy!
one time my sis and whats his face baked cookies and passed out flyers for samples, but no one would come. i really hate that neighborhood. he would walk around door to door, what did they have to do with us, if that's their logic? granted, on free sample day, there was a huge construction project blocking the intersection. she wouldn't change the day. she's so stubborn. felt so bad though. they packed up and left. same personalities in the family.
i don't care anymore. i don't want you reading my blog anymore. don't read 2013 of a bug either.http://onbrownpaperbag3.blogspot.com/2013_12_01_archive.html?m=1
The Monster
i'm going to be honest with you about my plan for the day. so im really depressed. firstly, in terms of friends and housemates, i think everyone likes me and that makes me happy, but inside, issues with masculinity, girls, and blog, my reaction to my projecting, im feeling real low. im convinced no one finds me suitable, and i really i know no matter how skinny i get thats not going to change. just some skidmark in me worn through time. so what im going to do, what im going to do is, i ordered a horchata, 4 taquitos, two taco, a quesadilla, and i think a potato taco too, carrots and radishs, im going to throw it up, then relax, have a monster—that's what she used to call my thing, just so you know—for energy then go to the gym and have a healthy exercise. sone circuit pushups pullups chin ups maybe light squats and run a couple two three miles if my legs permit, listen to tool or radiohead live. then just go back to eating reasonably and relaxed. how is it a bad idea? it's just a rough patch. i thought about it on impulse and it sounds like the perfect idea after i overslept depressed. it's like getting away with murder. i don't want anybody watching me at the gym today.
it used to go to work, clock in and everythin'
jersey mike doesn't dream about her, i'll tell you that much. girls don't want guys who dream about them.
- What happened to your counselor.
oh, I'm going to love her on tuesday or wednesday.
girls don't want guys who hide in their skirts. i need an ashtray for my slab. i've been literring like a, well like a bug. that's not fair, man. bug's have a nasty reputation. that day we were at skid row, i was was thinking over me putting my butt out in the garbage container in front of the residents amidst all the trash and i almost wanted to laugh embarrassed, if i wasn't so anxious or paranoid about my world possibly deciding to end me
that was so beautiful that night night on the radio, the west central night one, we can't come out, the no gotcha talk. i liked her voice. that was real. no head talk...i think. i kept messing up. here's what i think. i think you lost patience with me around november. somehow things changed, or you decided i didn't value or deserve or value—i smell i haven't taken a shower for a few—or would change and perhaps you've been trying to tell me that lately
women are my problem. i wake up in the morning and when i open me eyes first thing i see yes it does is this girl sitting across from me in the living room, so when they leave and i go back to sleep with my eyes i'm dreaming of her! she liked jersey mike though, i could tell. who doesn't.
whatever
i want to be close to you when i'm sick.
i want to look to you
for you not to
never to feed me
(because you know you can't)
then when you're lying alone
for me to jump
to sleep with you
moving a mattress in the rain with jersey mike
i have decided to become thus a philosopher gentle heartburn
sometimes I wake up panicking with suck anxiety that what sounded good...
Microwaved mom's pot roast at 5am.
why be in a burlap sack if you can't get beaten?
I have a writing assignment to hammer out by Monday for my counselor. A vision of my life in a year. I don't believe in rough drafts, as they don't provide instant gratification. I can't even move on from the first two sentences without clawing at the skin of my nails, frustrated at where my writing's gone. The idea comes at the end of each sentence. That reminds me, I'm going to go to the 99 cent store, pick me up a little ruler. I've always wondered, but I don't want you seeing what I'm searching for the day. I told her, if I can't impress you, I'm not going to write it. She laughed and asked if I'm a perfectionist. I'm debating whether I can't get anything out of leaving the assignment to its own weight. I'd have to stop for a moment. No.
Or how far is it to follow through on the impulse to profess my love for her? I could do it in a clever way. Regardless of the outcome, what I get out of it is a shockwave through my day; for after all, at this stage, me telling her I love her is like me telling her I've started throwing up after binge meals as a way to cut corners on gym milage, which I have, and I'll tell her that. Before or after, I don't know. Though I may lose the excitement and anticipation seeing her gives my days, the meaning the fantasy somehow holds, like God came up with dreams, and Man with pseudonyms.
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