Emotion Sickness

Thread the needle-- poison patches, ink blots and haha, scalp scratching.. I lost the color in my face but I found it in a woman's coat pocket; mesmerized on the Q train; you came because I said I was going too, that's why, I think and thought and throw up in a plastic bag.

"You," it begins; the onslaught of my character-- I have no defense against her because she is a witch.

"didn't tell me you had Johnny go in for you-- why didn't you tell me? He's really sick now and I'm terrified he's going to fall out." I can almost hear the delight forming in her voice as her conscious catches the tricks perception is playing; and doing so naturally where as she's now imagining that her lies are true and what what they would look like if they were.

Should I? Could I? No, I'm sweating way too much to smile at her--- write her a poem, fold it up like a note and read to her while we stroll down the road; something about her jacket-- red plaid with big black buttons. I wanted her to love me and maybe I have a chance because she doesn't know who I am yet. 

"You lie so much. I don't get why-- there's no reason to lie, when will you get that?" I told her I wasn't lying, even though I was. She takes me bags away whenever I pick up. She feels like I owe it to her because she's the one who got me hooked-- meanwhile the driver takes four bags himself; so for me to get a decent high I spend about 100 dollars-- 30 on him and 20 on her. Bags are only five dollars each in New Jersey where I live and they're cut with so much phetinol that the highs are really intense and cheap, if you can handle it.

"You don't trust me? You know what, I don't have time for this. Everything is fine, okay, go and fuck yourself really good because I'm not going to anymore. Goodbye." We're talking on cell phones so there's no door to slam in my face; though I imagine her slamming her proverbial oak flip phone case.

Hot bodied-- dripping; why am I dripping? Amphetamines won't help but I'll take them anyway and write about withdrawal; it's all endorphin-- it's all neurological; but then why does my stomach hurt? Why can't I keep my eyes open?

Her jacket still taunts me; dauntingly hung a piece of thread below her breast pocket so I keep staring at that trying to prove to myself that I don't have to give in and look at her chest-- bleach white; primer grey; oh, I love pale girls; stop scratching; scrrrraaatching; sccccccccccccrrrrraaaaaaa---it feels so good to scratch my scalp; then I mess my hair up with my palm and swirl it around like bed head; dead head; led med, one leg broke and, broken-- see my rhyme scheme I speak slyly; or shyly, because no words come out when I open my mouth just a clicking nose that pops from my jaw; my ear has been un-pressurized for over four years now from TMJ, that's a disorder you get from grinding your teeth or clenching your jaw; grit your teeth and change your sheets, one of the two will work out for you in the end.

When I woke up this morning, I couldn't get out of bed. Panic; immediately my mind struck noon and the panic bell signaled that it was actually only 9 am and that I had 3 more hours of a day to survive than originally expected. Fuck. Don't cry though--

I bury my face in my pillow sometimes so that I can cry without anyone hearing me. It sounds a lot more like a whimper, and all I ask is that if you hear it you won't say anything; just pretend you're still sleeping and that it never happened-- then let the thought peck away at your brick wall until it crumbles into bread crumbs and the thought gobbles them up and you're left to think about it-- wonder what sort of tragedies led to it; "I wonder what his child-hood was like; what's his family like? Why doesn't he ever let me in the house when anyone else is home? Why do we fuck in the car and sneak up to his room? Is it me? Maybe he's embarrassed of me-- he's a good looking kid, and I'm not that great looking."

It's not that-- my mother once told me that she really liked Kelly-- I brought Kelly around a few months when I was seventeen and she adored her-- Kelly loved my mom and they'd talk about me and my mother's Sunday dinner and which salons gave the best manicures; their brains were identically configured as far as priorities went-- take care of their family, take care of their man, take care of their home, then take care of themselves. Kelly stopped seeing me because I told one of my friends that some of the things she did for me were so amazing that she must have had practice from somewhere else. Kelly took that in a girl way and went to New York and denied a man the right to have sex with her. Instead, she had him perform a favor for her and sent me a picture of her thighs-- the back of his head; a picture of her throat and his lips and then a cup of coffee half emptied.. We met at a cafe, and so I took this as incredibly brilliant symbolism that I should sleep with one of her friends to get even.

My mother asked about Kelly for a month-- and finally I brought home Nancy, and my mom finally started warming up to Nancy around the same time I started warming up to Veronica. My mom told me after Nancy left that I wasn't allowed to have any girl over that I hadn't been dating for at least 3 months. I have never dated anyone for at least 3 months.

Then the thoughts come out; the great ideas-- the piecing together memories like a puzzle where the picture flashes only every so often and you need to memorize the figures and shades in order to complete it. 

Write her a letter-- I know we were 15, but you were my first love-- it's because of my mother; I thought she didn't want to have me; I thought I was a mistake, and in my family abortion is a sin-- it's taken me 23 years to realize that my mother did want me; I just wanted so badly to be a mistake so I could live up to my own failing expectations. So you see, I'm sorry I never said I love you-- I'm saying it now, that I love you..

Cross over-- and it didn't go over so well as in my brain. My imagination is a plague that has swept through the different analytically functioning parts of my head and replaced them with imagery and "what if's." It's a terrible way to think because then everything has a much deeper meaning than in actuality. 

If you're going to get out of bed, you need to take your medicine-- don't shoot it though, that'll only make things worse. You're back to snorting it-- HOLY FUCK my back is on fire; so is my gut; maybe it's a heart attack because everything hurts in this radiant expansive pain; not a throb; a stab-- heart throbs are from other drugs; dry sand paper eyes looking at me in the mirror looking back at them thinking, "who the fuck do you think you are with all of that grey hair?" There are strands falling onto the dresser; onto the floor; carpet the living room and vacuum the carpet because linoleum is so outdated-- it's a lot harder to make mistakes with carpet than it is with linoleum; carpet conceals particles; carpet even absorbs some particles; spill something on linoleum and it's outlined in chalk for the whole fucking water wagoneers to see.

I'm straight now though; brushing my teeth with cold water because my teeth have been fucking killing me and the warm doesn't seem to help-- the taste of batteries, ahhh drink coffee and the feeling of swallowing battery acid comes up from the drugs I've snorted; I'm going to be sick-- sweating and white, pale horseman running up and down the stairs to meet my sponsor from Portland-- I'm supposed to be there at noon-- it's ten o clock and I can't even fucking wash my face; I'm going to be sick again-- eat a banana, potassium helps some thing or another, I always hear people suggesting that a banana will help whatever ailment I have-- migraines, cramps; withdrawal, cancer, the "this will kill you instantly if you eat a banana" disorder; what a strange western world we've developed. 

I'm not straight anymore-- I'm a question mark I'm a squiggle; I zigged too many times when I should've zig zagged and then zebra striped and stepped my way onto a freeway somewhere; side swipe the side of a pick up truck, I've got insurance it'll pay for any damages. Can you take out life insurance policies on your kids? My parents would make one hell of an investment on me--

One more bag; okay, one more and a half-- I'll trade the four I have left for actual medicine so when my legs start kicking I can take a half and dig in; oh, but the nausea sets in and finally I give in and I do that bag and a half and then take a pill of something else and then forget my sunglasses so everyone on the bus can see the bags under my eyes are more defined than my eyes-- brown eyes are questionable but black pupils are only a spectacle; like blue pupils; or green eyes; brown is normal but black is absurd yes? Yes, so I'll close my eyes-- but the comfortable way to sleep on the bus is with your back against the window and your face facing the aisle; everyone can see-- put your head phones on and you can still feel whispering-- strange sensation you know what they're saying it's something derogatory about drug addicts; bump bump--- I tried to open my eyes when the bus stops and again when it's turning and I can feel the abrasions in the shoulder touching the circumference of the tires; wheels, whatever--

Pretty girl in the red jacket-- you cross your leg and I can't help but notice the way your calf is somewhat thick-- not in a bad way, I just assumed they would be skinny and tiny-- nothing to notice but your pant leg hangs about 3 inches below your knee, giving me a whole shin to look at.. I can see your socks which is sexy because you've thought so much about your appearance except that you're going home alone tonight because otherwise you'd have worn something open showing your feet-- you're going home alone tonight but  please get out of work on time so I'll catch you on the Q train when this whole thing is over--

We get to the city; take a shot of espresso; we're getting sick, but we can do this-- port authority and every old person with a bobby pin stuck in their blue hair buzzes in front of the tops of the escalator; even at the bottom-- taking up the entire step?! really-- it's etiquette to leave a side open for the people who are late and whose dates are worth keeping. You've lived the majority of your years, death is knocking on all of your neighbors doors looking for you and you're spending your days doing as little as possible-- brilliant, I suppose I've lived far too fast already to make it to half of your age and at this rate you will still out live me.

100 degrees-- thanks businessman, your wife was probably asking you so you'd say it out loud for all of us passers by to hear; re-iterate how miserable today will be based on the weather report you've given; mr. meteorologist-- where has Kevin been? Ever since our road trip he's been avoiding my phone calls to him-- I can't blame him-- he knew I would use the moment I got home; I made it two weeks and watched a friend shoot painkillers at a party where everyone else snorted painkillers-- they looked at him like a scumbag so I snorted painkillers too and helped him stir his pills in his spoon while he bent his elbow and tied a belt in a knot and loaded up his harpoon. 

I'm going to make it-- 1 train-- nobody's going to let me sit; so close to the Asian woman that I feel like she's sweating my sweat and I am eating her granola bar; gnawing away; I should've put the radio on a better station, this song is getting old. 102nd street- I've been here before-- I need to look for a garbage can so I can puke before I see him. a 6 dollar sunglasses stand right outside of the 109th street station-- sold, white sunglasses it is; hide my eyes please don't see what my pupils look like-- I'm puking, asshole, throw your can in the recycling can not the garbage; I have to walk away because the smell of my insides reminds me that I should've eaten that entire banana; ugh mouth mints taste like tooth paste and there are so many people outside of Columbia University who have no idea what crazy amounts of drugs I am on-- and I say drugs in the very most endearing sense of the word-- not the "this is a great party-- there's coke and weed; doing drugs haha, get a picture of me drinking this beer-- get the top of my shirt so that the S and the H in Clash are showing just enough so people know that I like the clash and that this is a clash t-shirt but make it look like I don't care enough for them to see the entire thing-- you know what I mean? Just get the beer in the shot though-- haha doing mad drugs." Sweet; I load up a water bottle cap with heroin and water; I'll leave the intricate ingredient and step out, and then I plunge it into my vein, pull back so that I've made sure I hit a vein, and then....

But I can't do that today, I'm going to be sick again-- two blocks left, Jesus Christ; everyone's walking so slow; I hope they can't see my eyes; my heart feels funny-- my legs and head and chest do too; I hope he doesn't make me take my glasses off-- maybe he won't notice; he probably won't notice; not many people do, especially if he isn't a junky. 

"Hey Jay-- the infamous street kid--" I'm not a street kid because I grew up in an affluent county; I am a street kid because I've searched my entire life for things that make me feel good; laws are not one of them and so I've created my own; by creating your own, you need to atleast co-create yours by a moral standard; I chose the Ghetto of Paterson, New Jersey as experienced in Paterson, New Jersey and Frankford, Philadelphia-- the fight club house; bullet holes in the living room wall; it's okay-- my bedroom window was a black garbage bag because the rest of the window was shot out too many times; yes, with a gun.

"Hey Jo-Jo-!" There he is-- and the look on his face is as welcoming as that "welcome to Columbia University" sign.. He knows I'm high, and he still hugs me-- he sees me sweating, and he still smiles; he puts his hand on my shoulder and says, "I supposed we've got a lot to talk about-- you're going to let me buy you lunch, yes?" And I nod. I start whimpering-- but he can't hear because of the traffic passing; I'm going to puke when we get into the restaurant; I'm going to make myself puke so I can have room to eat whatever food he orders-- I'm going to do that for him.

We talk-- I tell him everything; we walk around the park and he tells me his favorite book is about the Hudson River; I tell him the lady sunbathing has a beautiful body; she doesn't-- her body is ugly and too thick for her face but it's beautifully contrasted against the grass in Riverside park-- I love you, whoever you were; we talk conversations for a while-- all of which lead us to the top of the hill where he has to go back inside to work; we hug, and I feel like this is my father; this was my real father-- the man who teaches you how to grow up, not the one who is the example while you grow up-- this is the teacher; the mentor. 

All of this leads to Brooklyn to sell drugs to my friend who is standing in the rain waiting for triple A to come jump start his car-- I got sick on the Q train coming out, but I took a pill of some sort so now it's all okay again-- we get the car started; we're soaked; he's used the umbrella more than I have but I offered because it was his-- Bushwick, hey?

We agree on a price, we go to buy cigarettes and he buys me a redbull; I expect him to break his hundred to give me my money and instead he gives me my cigarettes and a redbull; he's shorted me 13 dollars.

I'm depressed; sick, angry-- hating the people I know are holding on the corner-- yeah you can spot them; their eyes are always scanning for the same body language as them-- the same dead give away fiddling with something and dirty finger nails; sweating*, greasy hair-- a nasally voice; a raspy voice-- usually smoking a cigarette-- I see them and I hate them; fucking junkies all come around when you're at your worst and need to be away from the shit.

All of this led to seeing the girl with her headphones on-- a perfectly even face with big brown eyes, puffy lips and that red jacket. Her pants are skin tight-- I'm going to be sick but I'm so in love that it's okay-- I write her a poem, I write her a note-- I imagine her name is Angela-- I think of a girl I saw on the train last time I was on the Q train and she doesn't even compare to Angela-- we make eye contact; I looked up the see what stop was next and I saw the back of her coat blending into a crowd of other shirts and pull-overs. The train pulled away and a blur of colors and fixed poles and structures all meshed together like an ink blot-- like faded graffiti in passing on the highway; I'm sick on the grass outside of my house; the front lawn hasn't been watered during the drought and it is a palish yellow-- my cheeks and eyes are the same color; I'm watching the sky-- clouds pass in all formations; fast, slow, fat, yellow-- then I see, much like the ink blot-- I see my bed, I see my Sponsor; I see a Q-- I see one cloud float like a train-- speeding away; and if I stare long enough I see what looks like a red jacket-- I'm still not feeling well, and tomorrow I'll go and meet my Sponsor from Portland in the city.

Family Dinner

Triangle ceilings in a squared off room--- moans next door--a hooker is banging her feet into the wall as I'm sure that her lover's feet are planted firm; "How can I sleep when they haven't given me clean sheets?" Ignore the hooker, she's only doing her job; should've snuck pills in; rummage the room-- someone else snuck pills---There are transvestites 7 floors to the street corner begging to be the one who takes it tonight; they take turns, and I break the pills-- powder and pores-- I talked to my mother today and explained how I'm doing quite well-- 6 months clean, serene and everything she'd ever dream that I'd be--- my nose starts to bleed and I travel to see tempted and teased by the junkies in the lobby; half-life hookers saying "come on daddy-- I'll do it half price with you-- come on cutie" and they look sort of half-priced. I grab a soda; or a syringe; I can't remember, somebody says something about "shooting off at the mouth" and a black kid pulls a gun; Swearing; swarming bodies; swarms of swearing swinging fists and fits and tricks; explanations are only given in bits--- someone is shot up; "they shot him," or, "shoot me up daddy let me see what you're hiding down there" 

It's really hard to remember which conversation goes where and smoke that does not look like weed passes through a circle in the hallway of this hostel/motel. Two ladies leave--lovely, though relieving because now as I leave the circle becomes a triangle and I am squared off once more in my room.

He's Not That Into You..

And it's because you're predictable. Any other girl would suffice, and would perfectly match with my bed spread. When I wore shorts to your father's birthday, it was to tell you nicely, "I now am superior to you. You are no longer my equal, nor will I pretend to be anything other than the man who pretends to love you. Your father is now a sentiment in my mind; not as much a person as he is a marker to compete with. Once I have contained your admiration for him, I will exploit the fact that you're embarrassed to do the things that we do, because you know how little he would care for it.

Oh, love is the loneliest noun. When you're in love, you're actually in limbo. Things will go up or down, they will not stay magical and interesting. You can learn to grow, which would excel your relationship but hinder your individuality. When you grow with somebody, you're learning to accept your conflicting behaviors as less important than when you were single. For example, you might love football. You might be a Giants fan, until you meet, swoon and fall in love with a Cowboys fan. Of course you'll have witty jokes aimed towards your discontentment in front of your friends with your new love's rival team. "Ah, this is my better half except she's a Cowboys fan." Something like this would surely make your friends laugh, it would make you laugh, and light heart-edly you'd be setting a perfect precedence for allowing other seemingly un-attractive preferences to surface without much protest.

You're losing the battle of soul vs. sole. The sole purpose of life is to be true to yourself granted football rivalry isn't a pressing topic, it is none the less where losing your soul starts. Solely singular, as born into the world alone and leaving this life alone, we learn who we are gradually and it's with practice that we're able to use our traits to our benefit. Chameleon's though are great examples of the social aspect of living that we're not really focusing on. A chameleon pretends to be so many shades-- it's actual exterior never changes, though its shade adapts to its environment. When you wear a nice suit to cover tattoos, you're giving the impression that you're a gentler person than you may actually appear. This isn't a judgement of character, it's an observation and an unfortunate social stigma.

After you have mastered the art of positive placement (as in, wearing light clothing to a dim bar, or combing your hair as a joke,) you'll learn the most important thing about your opposite sex. Love is success. Love is the big bonus after working grueling hours of grinding. The important thing to remember about your love interview is your approach to conversation. Because we're at the advantage intellectually in the days where everybody is at a conversational handicap, you're going to have to think deeply about what angle you'd like to play. You'll be able to tell instantly what type of person your interest is by talking to them. Even approaching somebody and sitting with them invites them into a stimulating conversation of sorts where the topics are endless. Buying your partner a beer says one of two things. One would be that you're un-interesting and via movies you've learned the most common way to break the ice is by lubricating your interest's mind with alcohol. This shows weakness and also shows point number 2, which is that you're nervous. It's okay to be nervous, but remember that every guy that buys your lady a beer is potentially better looking, has a better paying job or might just be their perfect match. Your approach says everything. Luckily you don't need to swan dive into a puddle to find out that it's shallow or not. You simply need to dip your toes in and feel for yourself.

Commercial of steel roses

real Moses timed poses

creative sales,

we hated sales of our souls

half price discounts and loans

oh my favorite athlete.

suggests his favorite actually

not quite the top, but it's better than not

being mentioned at all.

I don't really feel comfortable typing in this blog, but I don't really feel comfortable sitting here either. Dear Women, I'm not crazy, you're just not interesting. I feel as though most of the words you will try to impress me with are from one of your "eccentric" friends, and he or she has probably searched vigorously through dictionary.com to impress you. Most of the topics you talk about are predictable and boring-- your opinions on art are all the same. Music, well, I happen to be the most arrogant music lover ever; as well as the worst musician. The problem is, I can categorize which person you fall into, based upon what music you listen to. You probably will say you like The Clash, but will fail to tell me one decent song besides "London Calling." You'll tell me then that you like the New York Dolls a little, but can not name a song. Throw in an obscure artist, namely someone whose voice is a little unbearable or whose music is ridiculous--- to the point where they are not anyone's favorite artist, but someone whose song plays and you bob your head to. The sad thing is that I know who you really are. It's unimpressive.

I take amphetamines and think of myself as a character from a novel; everything I think is pure but everything that you think is dull and tainted. I meet bartenders and fall in love, because I have now taken more amphetamines and feel so intelligent that I'd be a privilege to meet, let alone get to know. I talk to random people at the bar, and drive them to get food-- I've now had more than I should've had to drink, and I will miss last call because I'm trying not to appear as lonely and desperate for friends as I really am. I tell them about my life-- one girl is a photographer from Germany, the other is much too old for me. For a moment, I'm convinced they'll invite me back to their place and pretend they don't realize I am as lonely and desperate for friends as I am.

I take more amphetamines while my car is backed in and they re-join the party. The bartender is now gone, and the rowdy crowd bobs and jerks through the exit. I go to bed, most likely to take more amphetamines and pretend that I am asleep dreaming of more interesting things than I have to write of.

blacked out and looking for god

you know the one you forgot

decided complications hurt

im gonna have to break it off

if things are ever gonna work

nobody chooses their role

nobody loses their soul

its just that even flowers dry and rot

hearts can forgive but hearts can also stop

and if you want to look back,

to pick up clues from the trash

then i could follow the tracks

like sunshine shining in the past

to feel okay just one time.