the fake interview

“what are you even writing about?”

I don’t know. I just strike the keys
with such violence that words populate
from the force; besides removing staples,
it’s the only other thing that makes me
feel
useful.

“what do you want from your writing?”

I mean, I do this for my mental health.
If I had to choose one thing, I’d say
I want a trillion dollars.

“what would you do with a trillion dollars?”

I’m assuming that’s a rhetorical question,
but nonetheless, I’ll answer. I’d do trillionaire
things.

“who would you say are your biggest influences?”

I appreciate the question and it’s an easy one for
me to answer (in no particular order):
Shawn Norris, Delana Richie,
Jessica Colon, Jilian Kolesa, Sophine Wade,
Andrus Bennett, Mike Fortenbery, Lynda Ferrari,
and many
many
more…too many to mention.

“i’ve never read any of these folks; who are they?”

Oh, well, I just needed to tag a few people so
that my website hits 5,000 views today. That
should do the trick.

Love y’all!

her, at work

she turned the corner, walking quickly,
bumped into me, stopped, stared,
smiled, and moved on;
not uncommon at the workplace.

two days later, she emailed me
with a question to which she already
knew the answer; i kindly replied with
a smiley face emoji.

three days after the email…

actually, instead, let’s fast forward
six months
to the first of 14 abortions;
what can i say; i’m fertile.

firsthand glimpse of the Pacific garden

i want that Northern California garden
with the small picket fence down
the road on the way to the Pacific
to watch the surfers feel the power
of the water and the adrenaline rush
when the sharks hunt them to the shore.

not being from the west coast,
i thought a dip into the water would
be refreshing, warm like the Gulf of Mexico,
but truth be told, it was fucking freezing,
and i only dipped a toe into the water before
running back up the stairs to the street where
onlookers, sitting on the worn green benches,
smirked at my naivety or skinny pale calves;
i guess it didn’t matter, but i did tell them
that a shark almost got me (in that inch of water),
which was the reason for my jettison; i felt
like i saved some face, before i headed to the nearest
bar
where i got completely wasted and then
fell
flat
on my face; ironically enough, in front of
those worn green benches.

i woke up, walked by that garden,
stopped, and looked for the face plant.

things

there are no angels and demons;
there are only ourselves and ourselves;
the everlasting dichotomous struggle.

i want to be bad; i want to do bad things;
i want to inhale those bad things;
i want to feel those bad things;
because they make me feel good things,
and they bring around great things.

without those bad things,
there can’t be these good things,
and without these good things,
no sense in having those bad things.

i haven’t solved anything;
typical; i don’t understand anything,
especially those things.
i just wish i had something…anything.

in a different time

something about your contagious chortle
tosses me into a black hole portal,

to a time when i used to smile
and my language wasn’t so vile.

when i used to laugh and love
without the necessity of a drug.

when i didn’t hurt so much
and i wasn’t such a lush.

you were a blip on my journey;
and since i’ve finally flatlined,
won’t you please join me on the gurney?
…please.