say ‘no’ to fake shakes

The only real difference between college life and life after college is that now I drink alone. Other than not having my friends around to get meals with, go out drinking with, chill and hang out with, there really isn’t much difference. Classes were a job much like any other. You could just skip them with less consequence. Eh.

I have half assed my way through life. Finally I have come to a point where it might get me into trouble.

I surround myself with absurdity. It seems fitting, in the end.

I shamed my family and disgraced my name. And so I gave up my name and took another. I am the Prophet. I have no honor. I am here none the less…
Come, let us drink. And forget.

Turtle: You can’t kill the Devil, boy. Oh, no. The Devil, he can’t die. If you kill the Devil, boy, you’ll become the Devil. That story never ends. And there ain’t no other way about it.

There is a code to our lives. A code that divides us from the barbarians. A code that sets us above the commoners as paragons and allows them to trust us; to submit to our rule. The warrior is the code or he is nothing. I have abandoned the code.

The world ended years ago. We’re what’s left.

***

For S____

if I had an ocean
(or even a beautiful horizon)
to watch the fading of
day into the dark and welcoming night
to help me forget her
I would.
I would.
but all I have is reality television
and a bottle of Jack.

***

possibilities

the blurred (glasses-free) vision
of the coffee shop lets me
see things that might not
really be there. But if
my future is to be like these
ass-dragging fucktards writing their
masterworks at the surrounding tables
I should just
give up now.

***

transition

Fuck:
one of the most
powerful words
in the English language
is, slowly,
losing its power.
Shit.

***

poetry is for assholes

poetry is for assholes;
posturing fools so ready
so willing
to bare their poor (but oh so creative) souls
for the ravaging (be gentle, he’s fragile)
of the ignorant masses
that they
don’t even consider
the consequences.
Bastards.

***
“If you drink, you will die.
If you don’t, you will die.
So you might as well say, ‘What the fuck’
And drink until you die.”
- a Kappa drinking song

a desperate bid for freedom

Ah me.  Ah life.

“No liquor?  Da svidaniya, comrade.”
- Bender Bending Rodriguez

People worry about me.  A lot.  Or I get all kinds of people (mostly with only the slightest most tenuous relationship to me to begin with) asking me if they need to worry about me.  Because I would say if I really needed you to?  Would you worry if I told you I needed you to?  Would it matter?  Aren’t you going to worry anyway (provided that you actually care at all and aren’t just talking to make yourself feel better)?  To clear it up: no, I don’t need you to worry about me.  I need you to ask me to go out and do things with you.  I need you to get me away from myself.  I need you to give me something to do with my time other than sit at home with all that lonely booze just begging me to drink it.  That’s the fucking problem.  So instead of being a douche and asking me if you need to worry (since worrying won’t fucking solve anything) why don’t you just solve the problem by giving me something better to do?  You bastards.

The things I need to make my life satisfying are few: friends, drinking buddies, a wingman, some spending money left all the bills, and some intellectual stimulation.  It is just that I have no real way of making them happen.  I can’t magic my friends here.  Or miracle my loans away.  It’s not that much to ask.  And yet…  Yeah.  That.

It always was and it always will be: me. on my own. against the world.

I’m not angry anymore.  Just…sad.

I am in my element.  I have a glass of rum, 2 beers, and a third of a fifth of jack.  I have half a box of kung pow chicken.  And I am surrounded by the story of my life – empty bottles, boxes, trash, scribbled notes, unfinished “art work” and all the rest.  I’m just not feeling it.  I am drowning in books and I can’t find the one that tells me what I need.  I am getting to the end of my rope.  Soon I might not even have enough to hang myself.  And then I’m really fucked.  Sometimes the words just aren’t there.  And there’s nothing to be done.

Argh!

“I swear on my unborn fishboy’s life: she will pay!”
- The Janitor, Scrubs

There is nothing quite like taking a nap on the edge of a razor.

Consistency is the burden of simpletons and fools.

When nothing is secret, nothing is free.

Perfection is impossible. You can always do better.

It (whatever that should prove to be) isn’t just going to happen to me. I am not going to wake up tomorrow or the next day and find that everything is different. That I am different. That the world isn’t the way it was when I went to sleep. Shit doesn’t work like that. And it is more than just “making it happen” or whatever the bullshit phrase is. It is more than going out there and showing the world you passion. Because any two-bit asshack can do that. It isn’t about passion. It is about talent. You can’t teach talent. You can’t force talent. Either you have it or you don’t. And no one can tell you. And you can never be sure. So what the fuck makes that obscure revelation so fuck damn important? Shit me. I don’t fucking know. I am certain of very few things. 1. I am unhappy with my life. 2. I am not sure things can get better.

I am coming closer and closer to the bottom. I don’t know how far I will fall in the end. Hopefully I will learn something from the experience. I am sure all writers go through this. So I know there is a way out. Two, really. I can either crawl my way to the surface struggling through my anonymity until I ultimately succeed in finding myself (or whatever it is that I am doing here) and publish my master work (or at least get something published and get myself started on a professional writing career). Or I will give up and silently slink off into the dark with only my broken dreams and shattered hopes to keep me company.

Instead of complaining that the glass is half empty or rejoicing that it is half full, I just wonder why the glass is so big.

***
I feel like giving up all the time. But not yet. I have to tell myself that it isn’t time yet all the time. It is one of the inevitable realities of my life; one of the many disappointments that I have come to deal with as my routine.
There is a picture next to my computer (my couch, whatever) of a palm tree on a sandy beach with a little bungalow in the background. As far as the picture goes, it isn’t very good. I bought it in the grocery store. I wasn’t expecting much. And that isn’t the point.
The point of the picture is what it represents. It is my dream to live out the rest of my life on a hammock in the shade on a beautiful white sandy beach surrounded by the bluest of oceans and the bluest of skies where the extent of my daily decision making process will be to decide between daiquiris or margaritas. That is my dream and as of right now it is pretty poorly articulated.
The thing about that dream is that it is symbolic of my having given up. Once I am on that island, on that beach, on that hammock, there is no going back. That is the end of my life. The rest is just ignorance, bliss and laziness. Which suits the dream just fine. What a perfect way to go out.
But it doesn’t suit me just fine. Not now anyway. I am not ready for that. Not yet. I am not ready to give up yet. I haven’t accomplished anything yet. I can’t retreat to the blissful anonymity of the ocean until I feel that I have done what I have set out to do. And I haven’t yet. I haven’t written my manifesto. I haven’t written my masterpiece. I haven't finished my magnum opus.
That’s why I am content for the picture to be such a lousy one. It serves as an adequate reminder of what I am reaching for while still allowing me to focus on the problem at hand. The problem of not giving up. Not saying ‘fuck it’ and tossing the dream to the fucking shit heap. Because as much as I fear that I don’t have what it takes, I know that I will never make it to my island if I give up and settle for average.

Establish Dominance!

To do list:

• Buy beer and assorted booze


• Drink to excess


• Try to feel feelings and fail


• Watch Super Bowl


• Lament the good old days


• Buy black pants to match sport coat


• Touch myself while thinking of you


• Drink myself to sleep


• Other stuff not worth mentioning

If you should ever find yourself rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic, be sure to make them look pretty.  No one wants to die surrounded by an unpleasing arrangement of deck furniture.  I know I don’t.  It just doesn’t sit right, you know, in the gut.

Man in the Dark Suit: But that’s absurd!
Billy Prophet: Isn’t it just.

Ron: Happy Christmas, Harry!
Harry: Happy Christmas, Ron!

No roads lead to Freethought.  It isn’t an accident.  Freethought seceded from the US a few years back and since then all roads have been rerouted.  I suppose that’s the price you have to pay.  Most of us see it as a blessing.  Keeps the fucking tourists out.  If you have ever met a tourist, you can see why we like not having them around.  And that’s just one of the crazy facts about our sweet fucking town.

Money, Fame, and Power.  Everything else is just bullshit.

All we are saying is “Give anarchy a chance.”

More at 11.  Stay tuned for these important words for our sponsor…

“People don’t drink the sand because they are thirsty.  They drink the sand because they don’t know the difference.”
- President Andrew Shepherd, The American President

yesterday and the drought

Dear Class,

     I can’t teach you shit.

          Thanks,
          The Professor


Maybe I should pretend I am a poet.

At what point
do you give up on a Dream?
say ‘Fuck it’ and
stop trying?
And then go back
to your shitty job knowing-
really knowing-
that it isn’t temporary
Anymore.


Is there nothing more to it than just going on; maintaining for the sake of not giving up?  Is that it?  Is that fucking it?  What a goddamn waste.

Man in the Dark Suit: But I don’t know what to do…
Billy Prophet: About what?
Man in the Dark Suit: About life about what.
Billy Prophet: Oh.
Man in the Dark Suit: Oh?  That’s all you can say?
Billy Prophet: I suppose I could say more.
Man in the Dark Suit: … And?
Billy Prophet: Well, nothing’s coming to me.
Man in the Dark Suit: Oh, fuck it.
Billy Prophet: Ok.
Man in the Dark Suit: Yeah.  Fuck it.  I mean, what’s the point of it all anyway?
Billy Prophet: The point?
Man in the Dark Suit: Yeah.  The point of it all.
Billy Prophet: I didn’t think there was a point.
Man in the Dark Suit:  No point?  But then what?
Billy Prophet: … But then what what?
Man in the Dark Suit: If there is no point, then what’s the point?
Billy Prophet: … ? … Didn’t I just answer that?

It was nice to have someone to talk to.  Now I understand why people would talk to wrong numbers.  Human contact.  We get little enough as it is.  What with being hermetically sealed in our own little lives.  Worthless, but we’re not telling.  And then?  Unfortunately that’s were we get off.  There is no and then.  Just loneliness and desperation.  But I still won’t answer the phone.

Her: Live like you mean it.
Me: That’s good advice.  But…
Her: But nothing.  Just do it.  Live every moment as if it really really matters.
Me: Yeah, except that I don’t mean it.  The moments don’t matter.
Her: What?
Me: I don’t mean it.  This is all accidental.  And someone else’s fault…
Her: Well that’s depressing.
(Not really, I thought, but there’s no way for me to convince her of that.  Great, now I have another bleeding-heart bitch worrying about my pathetic ass.)

I have never really hated anyone.  I wonder if I am missing out.  I wonder if I should buy some new pants.

If only I had a cause to fight I might have some more passion to behind all of this.  But that is the thing: I don’t have a cause and that is why I fight.  I fight because it’s that or sit in front of the TV and die slowly with each passing commercial.  And I am too young to die.  And I am too good to die that way.  It’s just that it’s so much harder this way.  Finding a path where there is no road, where no one has gone before.  In relentless pursuit of an end to the boredom.  

“but one can never be sure whether it’s good poetry or bad acid”
from “my groupie,” Charles Bukowski