Paintings of Christmas

Tree tops tips of leaves cracks on my windshield cargo shorts and heavy duty hoods-- warehouse worn jackets covering faces; shadow dwelling drug dealers-- excuses, family functions, smile till you make it fake it till you love it masturbate and hold your breath oral sex from strangers parking lots and work parties, cigarettes and gratuity; alcohol and sedatives-- cool red and yellow flashes picture frames falling dull onto a tarnished wooden floor, creeking croaking shimmering glistening stars and there's no trees in my backseat-- blacked out and passed out, half past 6, half past a full stash of a pay checks worth of a needle and works and i'm not worth the twenty dollars I just paid for the 20 minutes I have left to cry to this hooker about how much nothing-ness the rest of my life is becoming--- war stories? more and more and more and more war stories--- "yeah once in new york; once in georgia," once in newark stories, once in my bedroom I overdosed on ecstasy, "once in my dreams I overdosed on Lexapro, I woke up happy for the rest of eternity!" what a funny thought, said the thought and I can tell this Xannax is already wearing off-- Seasons greetings, they know I'm totally discouraged, or uncourageous, a coward-- no, lapse in rhyming, yes yes, I'm terrible in these situations, these circumstances leave me growing roots against the wall, sprouting pedals with my stems in my pockets, "Jay Jay the wallflower" I've relapsed every day since I got out of rehab-- "How are you doing Jay, keeping your nose clean?" I shower everyday-- "Haha-- definitely a character, gotta watch those quiet ones" conversing about college-- shoot the breeze chew the shit and force it out like i haven't slept in days, I have, but it feels much like I haven't. "I'm majoring in english, gonna be a writer" mother vouches, "he's always writing those poems" the kids all run down the stairs and they laugh-- even my laughs are forced-- those chesty gritty jaw clenching smiles-- worse than the white smiles, the white smiles atleast make the back of your throat feel good--- the back of my throat, i have my keys in my pocket, "I'll be back," the bathroom is upstairs, the carpet is filthy these fucking kids splitting their skulls metaphysics hours and time and patience and consumption-- wonder what they got, a christmas story again, I'm tired of this routine. I have my keys-- snorting benzos and that concrete blocked cinder sinus seizure sorta stroke high gets me every time-- blood from my throat swirling around my xyphoid-- thoughts from my higher brain dying as sparks suffocate, and Christmas seems a little more satisfactory. From the waist down I can't feel my dick or my feet, and I can't piss or walk so I glide outside and sit on the step-- imagining i'm in a movie-- hands against the cold ground dusted by-- well, a dusting, haha, elbows pressed against the railing "i'm in a movie, the camera's in that tree over there" -- eyes rolling looks so flattering-- before i grew up i idolized this image-- the children would strive to be me-- puking in the bushes, smoking of a cigarette-- burn my eyes burn my brain eyedrops drip drop atleast its not sped up tonight-- relatively relaxed-- stumble inside, plop on the couch, "long day Jay Jay" yeah, we should watch a christmas story-- from the back of the room, I'll have quite a story to tell.. My vest has no more bars inside of the pockets-- but I got100 dollars more and atleast a holiday is gone, 100 dollars and a pair of socks, she'll masturbate me inside of the socks so I don't make a mess and I can pass out in my work parking lot-- she'll take the bus home, just throw out the socks when you're finished-- and all the sounds around drown me out, but I manage to sleep, and I manage to dream, and I manage to breathe, and I manage to be, me, and that's just all right with me.