The Nice Things

Why can't I have all of the things that I want?
A pretty girl, a bunch of money, a new phone, a big apartment, a friendly dog, a hand to hold,
a friend to see, a place to be,
nice things...
That lucid, trance-like state of mind in which every problem is discarded in the right way.
Drinks on a beach somewhere too hot
and eying girls with graciously less then half covered ass'
dragging their tanned feet through the sand on by me
in pink and blue and white bikini's.
Just strolling along as I sit in my dream
Living
Why can't I have nice things?!
You know why?
You want to know WHY I can't have those things?
Well...
I would get bored far too quickly.
I would have nothing real to say or write.
Not about a single thing
Not about you
I wouldn't even listen to me.
You see,
It isn't the people that force me to rip word's out of my head
and scratch them down onto paper
Just the states of mind I have gathered from something,
somewhere.
My ambition to make all the wrong choices
With no accidents
So...
the worse off I am, the better I write
and the more I write, the better off I am
and even the birds outside perched on the high wires of the streets
hungry,
Up there in 11 below
know,
that I couldn't possibly be ripe for the picking
Just a sad sack of words and carefully timed breathing
Oh yes, and thinking
FAR too much thinking
and damn!
do bikini's ever sound good
when I'm forgetting about dreaming.

We Gave Up On Love

I think we all decided
One day
Somewhere
To give up on love

Not the idea or the newness of it
But on the real deal
The ever-lasting part of it

We gave it up when we shot Lennon near that hotel in New York City
We gave up on it when we plowed that sad bullet through Kennedy's head
and all that beautiful love we thought we had was scattered over the pavement with the blood
and the pieces of his skull
I knew the love was gone when Morrison, and Hendrix, and Joplin, and Bonham, and Cobain, and Marley
and Bukowski with those drinks,
and Thompson with that gun,
and Vonnegut on those stairs,
and Terence McKenna with that brain cancer
Hicks and Carlin,
They all met their deaths head on
We gave up on love when we assassinated Lincoln
Jesus...
We didn't even want it back then

"The amount of times I thought I was in love" she said
"I definitely wasn't, ha ha"
And you never will be
I thought to myself
"Or perhaps you were in love every time" I said
"You just blindly chose to disregard it."
She stared into her glass blankly and then replied
"That's a good way of thinking."

But clearly there had been no thought process
None, zero, zilch, zip
Sometimes that also gets tossed away with the love
The thinking
and its full on impulse from there, baby!
Holding hands and tonging and cuddling and touching
At first like a fine painting held in front of all the faces of the world
and then with time
like torment
Everywhere

Fingers like sickly tentacles
Moist and clammy
Lips like filthy concrete
and no more sex
Just poor body language
Hell and fire
A lot of drinking and cigarettes
Whining
Left once more with the choice of leaving or staying
and then
again
"The amount of times I thought I was in love..."

But that's not love that's just something to do in place of it
Over and over
to hopelessly drag on the illusion of love
Fornication
Weird decisions
But I know we all decided
One day
Somewhere
To give up on it

I also know I wasn't there

The Poem

It wasn't true or, benign, or black, or maroon
It wasn't about love, or sun, or experience at all
It wasn't in English, or German, or any language
Death hadn't found it,
Yet neither had life.
It certainly was not about the snow falling for the first time this year
Nor was it about the checkered print my shoes left in it
It wasn't even about me
I have no doubt in my mind that it wasn't about you
It didn't have eyes, or legs, or ears
and because of this it was not human
It was untouched by human nature all together
One like me would think that this must have made it beautiful
but it held no beauty
it held no attraction
It wasn't about the single mother throwing herself at the mercy of
hungry men to find the comfort of stability
or the teenage boys behind bleachers slipping their hands into a pair
of pink panties for the first time
It wasn't about the homosexual getting his ass whooped by barbaric neanderthals
There were also no crack addicts or whores screaming at you for change
No babies crying
No guns fired
No suicide
and no religion
Not at all
It was void of feeling
It shed no tears
It hadn't felt remorse, or heartbreak, or regret
It had never been drunk to lighten the weight of its choices
or to take the sting out of its over worked brain
or to welcome pain
Maybe because it had no liver in the first place
Moral-less and heartless
There were no words to describe it
There were no words at all
It wasn't prejudice
or impartial
or naked
or inspiring

it was nothing.

and it was not any thing.

yet.

It's a Mess

This is a god damned mess!
It is all one big god damned mess
Its the hands of the clocks that move with repitition
Its a place that comfort is closing your eyes to the television in the daytime
with tough men and children pretending that they don't cry
and its the roads that lead only onto others
Littered with homes and apartments
to store and fill up to the top with our idea's of what we believe it is like to be perfectly alive
Undershirts and empty soda cans
End tables and lingerie
Our complexion behind sateen embroidered curtains
Its the longing for a phone call
From some creature of distraction
To try and make the time push faster
So you can get to bed and dream up ways of how you will do it all over again tomorrow
Its a mess
It's standing outside in 10 below zero to make an honest dollar
and spending it on people who will always be there to let you know it isn't enough
And SOMETIMES
Its even the music now, that sounds like white noise and synthesisers committing suicide
and ill-shapen teenybopper's raving on about sex and love
Spiritless art
A fucking mess...
I read a poem just the other day about writing becoming a dead format
Apparently nobody likes to read anymore
and it went on as if words were at war
and I knew deep down in the back of my mind that my words have always been at war
and I could hear the disdained voices of my father and of his father
Telling me that pessimism isn't very becoming
That there is wisdom in being pleasant
and so much light in the world that I claim to know
and hey... That's okay.
These are the discretion's of war

Its a god damned mess
and it keeps piling up and we keep cleaning
Until the floors sparkle in the light and you could eat a meal off of the toilet seat
Thinking that we are always one step ahead by doing so
Too clever for fate
Until the shit comes piling back in
Its the man walking by you on the sidewalk holding his head down so as not to make eye contact
Its the fear of death when only the dead are smiling
Its a mess
and you live it
Feel it
Breathe it
Know it
and you make love to it in the dark
Out of sight and out of mind
and don't you know,
Ive got to be alright with this every now and again
Because if words are at war then our everyday lives have become the battlegrounds
Our downtown's and shopping mall's are the Vimy ridge's and Auschwitz's of today
Sharp shooters hidden away in book stores
Mortars planted in our backyards
pummelling us all to the ground with ideologies and conviction
The mess is you and I
Making all the wrong choices
Considering the fact that we could possibly live for 50 years
or 60 years
or 100 years
or forever
When the verity of the matter is distant at best
and some of you deserve the death
and the ones who do never die
and the shit pile grows bigger
and the Hitlers and sadists and backstabbers become your friends
Because there are no seraphim's left
None beside you
But there are words to express this type of segregation
Words at war
and even those are a mess

The Drink He Had To Buy

"There's gotta be some easier way to die!"
Tony blurted out after staring at the bottom of his empty glass for some time.
He had been sitting at the bar all night long moping about and trying to suck sympathy out of anyone who thought for a second that they gave a damn.
"Yeah. Yeah. Tony." Jake mumbled.
Jake had been bar tending there for 5 odd years now. He'd seen it all. All walks of life crawled into that bar. Bum's, cheat's, Guido's, harlot's, angel's, stranger's, musician's, mother's, father's, liar's, business folk of all kinds, etc. Lefty also crawled into that bar.
   Lefty was a hard looking man. A real drunk. They called him Lefty because one of the only stories he liked to tell was about an obsession he had with beating his dick off with his left hand. Lefty was right handed but he'd say "25 years... 25 years with my right hand. Longest relationship I ever had and within' keepin' up the tradition of things I thought I'd pay a little more mind to my left."
He was a regular at the bar back when Jake was still wearing pull ups. It seemed as though his
age had been beaten into his face with a meat mallet. His eyes were all sunken in and hollow but there was wisdom in there...
Somewhere.
He normally kept to himself. Had the casual conversation with Jake, and some of the oddities that rolled into the bar but he went in there night after night for the booze and if they would have him, he'd take a woman back to his $500 a month bachelor apartment. The apartment consisted of a bed with stained old sheets, empty, cheap beer cans resting on his decade old television set and dresser, and scattered boxes of macaroni and cheese beside their powder packets. If he had taken a woman home for the evening he would walk into the bar the next day just as broken as he was the night before and Jake would always say something like "How was she Lefty?" and laugh a bit to himself.
Lefty always had the same meaningless response.
"Jake...She was a cold bitch and a warm fuck."
 
"Tonight's the night! I'm sick of this shit" Tony yelled out.
"So get it done ya coward!" Lefty howled.

You see, This was Tony's routine. He'd stumble into the bar around 4 o'clock in the afternoon everyday. Right as rain. Calling out to everybody. Shaking everybody`s hand's and buying people drinks. There were some regulars who would make sure they were there for Tony's arrival just to siphon off a couple of the free shots of whiskey but they would always make sure to leave after Tony would hammer down about 6 or 7. This is when the act would start to take hold. Tony would get quieter and start to shy away from the people at the bar and grab a seat. Always somewhere near Lefty. Lefty didn't usually mind. He was to hard and didn't care for fools like Tony, until that night.
"He does this every god damned night." Lefty spoke up.
"Yeah so what! The timing just wasn't right Lefty. I'm going to do it and nobody's going to stop me."
"Nobody is going to stop you because nobody gives a GOD DAMN! Asshole." Lefty's temper had drained from his alcohol withered body, finally. You could almost see his pale face turn a subtle shade of beige.
"Alright. Alright." said Jake trying to keep as much peace between the two as he could.
"Buy me a round and I'll show ya Lefty. Well... How bout' it?"
    In all his years Lefty had never seen a man die. He was asked to go to war when he was just a teenager but got out of it due to a serious case of asthma. It was about a year or so after that he started drinking, and with the drinking came the smoking only further worsening his condition. He woke up some mornings coughing up handfuls of deep purple blood before his beer and toast with peanut butter. Lefty didn't give a shit. He knew he was going to die. He just hadn't the slightest idea of when it would happen. He thought of Tony's request as not so much of a cry for help but as a gift of insight he could give.

"You're on hot shot. Get him a scotch and water..." Lefty demanded.
"Now Lefty are you so sure that this is a good idea?" Jake asked.
"Hell! He's not going to do the damn thing. The man's just trying to sucker me into buying him a free round. I'm just pissin' my money away on this deal." Lefty said to Jake reassuringly.

        So the three of them had a round of scotch and water's wondering what exactly Tony had up his sleeve to get out of this one. There was a younger couple at the end of the bar drunk and blissful, kissing each other and staring deep into their partners eyes. There were two or three other fellow's that had popped in the occasional time for a few drinks sitting at a booth in the quite bar as well. Lefty, Jake and Tony finished their drinks.
"Everybody! Follow me." Tony yelled out to the whole bar.
"This should be rich." Jake proclaimed.

They all put on their coats and walked out into the cold winter air. It had been snowing for a few weeks now and everyone was just settling in to their new winter skin. They trudged through the snow, up three or four blocks to where the overpass just above the highway was.
"Come on man! Lets go back inside. I'm freezing my balls off!" Jake yelled to Tony who was just up ahead of the group.
Lefty was first in line about ten feet behind Tony. They got to the overpass. Without saying a word or a final goodbye of any kind Tony threw himself over the railing. His body fluttered through the air, weightless and at ease. It was at that moment that Lefty felt time stand still. He thought Tony looked like an angel, or a mystical bird just flying through the snowflakes in the winter cold before the aggressive... Thud.
    Lefty had never seen a man die before that day. He thought about the war he could have been sent to and all of the years he had spent coughing blood out of his lungs. He even thought about all of those women he cared so little about and that shitty littered apartment he used to never want to go home to. They all stood there at the top of the overpass with their cigarette's and their beer in silence looking down at what was left of Tony's body on the pavement below. Jake, Lefty, the drunk men from the booth, and the happy couple from the end of the bar. They all stood there in silence and the only thing that passed through Lefty's brain in the strange silence was that suspended moment in time. The fool of a man that he could not stand had now become something else, at least in his eyes. He saw something real, something that even beauty itself probably could not feel. He saw an angel that night and it was worth every penny of the drink he had to buy.

Blurricane Sandy

Everyone is still babbling on about Hurricane Sandy. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying the hurricane wasn't
a terrible 'fuck you' from mother nature but what I AM saying is
that most of you are full of shit. Shit up to your God damn eyeballs. Complete
with a shit grin and you also have a shitty way about you. You do not live in Brooklyn, you do not
live in Washington, Maine, or Jersey Shore. You people just like to hear yourselves talk. You are emotionally effected by
what does not effect you. You have an insatiable need to show people you care by posting Facebook status', by Tweeting and twatting,
and by heralding terms like "Lest we Forget." It is not kindness. You have a deep seeded need for subjective validation
and you are sick. If you do live in those places however, well... Hats off to you
for hanging in there, I guess. The shit, the destruction, the real death is still where it has always been... In our
street's, shopping mall's, bar's, and living room's. I've seen it sleeping next to me and I have shared drinks with it
on numerous occasions. Sometimes it looks like a hurricane. Sometimes it looks like
the face of a newborn baby. A good percentage of the time it looks exactly how you imagined it would. Trashed, broken,
poor, and lost. So... Let me offend you. Just don't worry about it too much. You'll get over it in a day or two just
as you will get over Hurricane Sandy in two months, just as you got over Hurricane Irene, the earthquake in Haiti,
that broken levee in New Orleans, Vietnam, WWI, Occupy, George Bush, Pepsi Blue, and your freedom.
Hurricane Sandy to us, here in Ontario, was nothing more then a sad one night stand. She came at us hard late at night
and when we woke up in empty bed's with empty wallet's in the morning, we were left with no phone number and a mediocre hangover. Oh.. And maybe a tipped over garbage can. But seriously, I'm sure I've had more miserable evenings sitting up
in my bedroom at night, alone. Staring out of the window at all of that boredom and traffic outside, salivating over
the idea of some flood or chaos tossing everyone into a primitive frenzy just to see a little colour in the morning.
If you care so much
then stop
talking to me about it. Grab a big white plastic bucket swim on over to New York City and bilge out those now
flooded subway tunnels. You do not care. You care enough to talk about it and that is as far as you are willing to push it
and talking these days means as much as a hard kick to the balls.
Pain, Puke or Recovery.

"Hey Elvis!"

"Mmmmmm... It tastes like early death." She said as she took a drag from her freshly lit cigarette. I thought
to myself, well, so does breathing or eating a sugar cookie, I'm sure. I guess the point I'm trying to get at here
is to do whatever makes getting through the day easier on you, whether it be eating fruit or drinking poison. She
sucked the smoke into her lungs like she was in love. I had woken up at 8pm that evening, still drunk on rum and
beer. I had received good news the day before then. I got hired at a book store and I guess, because of it, I had to celebrate
real hard. Too hard.
The first night my friend James and I drank a 60 of rum. When I woke up at 8 o clock the next
evening there were already people coming over to his apartment. His brother Andre had purchased some CLIT (as we
called it all evening) Coors Light Iced T beer. What a treat. The only thing I could really fight down and I blabbered on drunkenly
about why my Iced T was beer flavoured. James got another 60 of rum. I almost vomited every time I watched them all take shots again and I could hardly stand up straight when I went out for a cigarette. Piss poor shape.
I went at the thing dreadfully. Choking down CLIT after CLIT and making wise cracks at how I was going to pass out and
expire if I kept this up. 6 down. Music on. Buzz getting strong. Line up the shots!
Flashback!
8:00am that morning.
James' hand was on the back of my neck and he was holding me up straight by the collar of my shirt. We were
staggering down a busy street by a high school. Kids were getting ready to go to class. Some were outside
talking to each other and gossipping, and trying to smoke, whatever high school kids do. James and I were
still awake and yes, oh yes, we were more intoxicated than most people should be if it were a Friday night
and it was your birthday. I needed a coffee, or so I had thought. So we decided to carry each other to the
nearest Tim Hortons while I tried to order a cup of coffee without throwing my guts up standing there in line.
We made it. I was wearing sunglasses so as not to show anyone the shifty black holes that had exchanged
places with my eyeballs. The entire place was spinning. There were high school kids all around me and I could feel them all staring at me. Giving me these horrid looks. I felt clammy and ethereal. James was talking to some girls behind us and I jolted around to say something. The words never came. So I stared at them for a bit, wobbling and swaying and trying not to drool
before I turned back around to figure out what in the hell the reason was that I came into this place for.
I thought about it for a while glaring at a case of soda and attempting to hold my legs stiff.
"Hey!"
"Hey Elvis!" I heard faintly in the background of my thoughts.
"Hey Elvis!!" One of the employee's was yelling at me to place my order.
"Hmmmm?" I mumbled back.
"What are you having?!" she yelled at me.
"Mmmmm Uhhhh Mmmmm regular..." I replied.
She laughed and poured me a coffee not knowing what size I had wanted. I actually don't quite recall how I even
paid for the thing but I got it and it was mine.
I toppled my way out of that store like I had just held it up at gun point.
"James! ... James... Hold my coffee man, Just... Just hold my coffee for me." I couldn't keep the fucker straight for the
life of me. I had managed to spill half of it all over my hands and shirt.
So there we were... Walking down the street at 8:00am in the morning. James' hand on my collar holding me up straight
and a coffee in his other hand while I stammered over figuring out the mechanics of my lighter to get my
god damned cigarette lit.
"Uuuuuuhhhhhhhh" I proclaimed as I slammed back another shot.
This was no longer drinking for fun. This had become drinking for sport. I had more rum in my body than blood.
But sometimes this is just what we do instead of eating fruit, ya know?
Why do I do these borderline psychotic things to myself?
Why do we?
Its like anything else, really. Its an experience. Something to live through. I could write to you all about beautiful things. I could write about how wonderful
the hot sun felt today beating down on my face. I could write about the happiest times and the portions of my life when
I had been completely content. When it comes down to it, I find a concrete sense of realism in the nitty-gritty. I find
truth in the muck and that getting covered in mud only means you'll have to find someway to get clean again. This isn't about solving world hunger, or an in depth perception of our world's politics and greed. This is about the other guy. The guy just getting by with what he has. His art, his drink, his music, and his stories. This is blatant
beauty. This is the only rose in my garden....
She exhaled and coughed a little as the second hand smoke poured back out of her lungs. She looked at me and her face cringed
just a little bit.
We both shared a good laugh...

The Happiest Time of The Year

                  Tuesday October, 23 2012. Tell me you don't feel that cold. That hard driven wind.
The birth of winter. Who in their solid mind's enjoy opening their eyes to this?
I'm somewhat of a summer guy. A real reptile. I'm savvy with the idea of sunglasses
and bikini's, patio's and shirtless walks down the main drag. Drinking mickey's on
sandy beaches. Sun burns and hot sweat. Maybe the sunshine state is the place for me.
A place where I can sleep on rooftops all year round. Yet here we are Canada. Frosty
cold! It reminds me of Rachel...
                  Around this time last year I tagged along with a few good friends of mine to a party
deep in the heart of Gatineau, Quebec. I went with very good friend's of mine Dan and Mandy,
an inseparable couple, something rare, and my big ol' teddy bear of a native man, Lewis.
It was a friend of Lewis' birthday party. I can't say I quite recall his friends name
but once this thing is all typed out and read over the reason for that should become
blatantly clear. We got there and had a drink. After that drink we had another and
after that one, another and this of course went on in succession for some time. The
socialising cracked through the room like thunder and the time dragged on. Then
she arrived.
She showed up with one of my best friends Busey and her friend Jessie. The very moment she
strolled her stuff into the party she had immediately sucked the adoration and
attention of every swinging dick in the room. I asked Dan who this girl was.
"Uh, I don't know man! Ask Busey!" he replied in good spirits.
Fuck it, I thought. This is neither the time or place to be giving up on introducing
myself to a beautiful girl. But I had to make an impression. I had to let her know
that although she could have any guy in the room she wouldn't be able to find
one like me. I walked to the fridge and cracked open a beer. I finished that one and
opened another and I walked on over.
"You are fucking beautiful."
She lit up like fireworks.
"I just wanted to let you know that." and I walked away slowly to make sure that this
mysterious facade I had encompassed for myself held strong.
I heard her say "Who is that guy?!" to Jessie as I walked away.
"Oh, That's Jaden. He's a real cutie that guy."
I took my beer into the kitchen and started up conversation about music with a few of
the guys standing in there and I glanced over to asses the damage control.
Without hesitation, she stood up, waltzed into the kitchen, looked me straight in
the eyes and said "I'm Rachel."
She grabbed my face and shoved that tongue deep into my mouth. I moved with the thing.
I was adored and hated by every guy at the party and I could feel the excitement drain
out of their bodies like a flushing toilet. I didn't care. I had won. And not a single
fuck was given by me.
We kept going outside to have a 'smoke' and we would make out harder and harder every
time, moving closer to the big game. We went outside again and Jessie kept on coming outside
to make sure I wasn't taking advantage of her friend, which was highly understandable.
But this wasn't going to stop us. No... Not us. So, when she went back inside we kept going at it.
I moved my hand down her inner thigh and she pulled back. She looked at me and said
"Before we do anything I need to know one thing..."
Fuck. I mean. I thought everything was going alright here or maybe I was completely
misjudging the situation.
She slammed me up against the wall. Her hand shot down my pants and wrapped around my cock
like an Anaconda. My fiery red haired amazonian woman...
"Find out what you wanted to know?" I asked with grave hesitation.
"Oh... Yes I did."
She slammed her face into mine again and our tongues moved in sync. She had a firm grip on it
and she gave it a few tugs. I mean, she really had a hold on things, pardon the pun.
She took her hand off of my cock and pulled it back into the cold night air.
"My place or yours?" I asked.
"Yours."
Dan, Mandy, and Lewis had already left and I asked Busey if he minded driving Rachel and
I back to my place. When we got back to Ottawa Busey's car broke down right in the middle
of Elgin street. Right there in the cold. We thought we were done for. Police everywhere. Booze on our breath. A real terrible vibe. Rachel and Jessie jumped out of the car and flagged people down in the street. I mean who wouldn't want to stop for two smoking hot damsel's in distress? It worked. They had caught the attention of a car full of good ol' boys. They jumped the car and got us out of
our hell for a pack of cigarettes and a hand shake... Good ol' boys.
        Rachel and I got back to my place. We fucked for hours. A fuck to be proud of. We woke up the
next morning and I watched that ass and we went at it again. We went out for coffee, shared cigarettes, exchanged numbers and Busey picked her up and drove her home. That was an evening! I thought. Real grit.
   After that night Rachel and I hung out every now and again. She would go over to Busey's and message me and I  would walk over to see her. She would come back to my place and we would fuck and I was getting  used to it. Over time she stopped messaging me as much and I would do stupid things like buying her gifts, things like a copy of one of my favourite books, One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest and she would come over and pick it up and leave. One day I had asked her what she had done after visiting me and she said she was with Busey and Lisa. My brain shot to a previous conversation I had had with Busey a day or so earlier.
"Man! You wouldn't even believe what happened to me the other night bro!" He exclaimed excitedly.
"Let me guess. You had sex with another gorgeous girl?"
"Not just one Jaden.. Oh no. Not just one." and he chuckled to himself.
Busey was and is the master of all that is getting laid and picking up women. Don't let this at all discredit the person he is. He is one of the most caring and trustworthy people one could know and he is a true friend. But this is how things happened.
"How in the flaming hell do you do it man?!"
"I DON'T KNOW!" he laughed.



"You fucked Busey and Lisa!"
"Uhmm. Yeah. It was alright. No big deal or anything." She replied.
         What a raging cunt I thought but I did one of the most unintellectual things I ever could have done and I shrugged it off. Like a pushover. Like a little bitch.
         Valentine's day rolled around and for some reason I thought to myself "Hey! Why don't I do something nice for this girl." But as we all should know now nice guys finish last, folks, every god damn time and this will always be a constant reminder of that. I went out and I got her what
any girl who has an attraction to me would admire. A book, a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes.
She told me she would be at my house for 7:30pm. 9:00 rolled around, and then 10:00 and then 10:30. The messages got subtly cruder until finally the last message read something like "I'm hanging out with my friends! I can do whatever I want."
         Fuck it. I had lost all admiration for this girl. I had exhausted every morsel of kindness left in my body. I called my friend Dunlop over. We drank the bottle of whisky and smoked the pack of cigarettes,
and hell... I had a nice new book to read.
We went to the bar after that and we had a beer and I threw
up and had another beer. I went home and I changed as a person. I became something else. Something stronger...
and hey! That's alright. Wisdom is bred of experience. Knowledge is harvested from inhibition
and unintentional stupidity. Life is only won by warriors. Warriors who have been through it all.
Shed blood and spilled it. Immortalised forever in literature and film, and in statues and song.
Soul-diers.
         Damn this cold. I went outside this morning bundled in multiple layers of clothing. A long sleeve shirt,
sweater, jacket and scarf to shield my cold blooded interior from the savagery of the weather. I put on
my sunglasses and wore them like a memory of a time when it was warm. That one time of the year when I
am happiest.

Hard Times for Hard People

Its dark in here. The moon is again hovering somewhere in the sky, hiding itself on and off behind deep black clouds. There are no birds chirping and the wind has
been rolling over the outside of my bedroom window with a strong determination to once again turn frigid and Ive suddenly gotten used to it. Its very quiet here.
I stood outside in the backyard to have a cigarette and I could hear the tobacco and paper slowly succumbing to the process of heat. It made a sort of crackling sound.
With every drag I took I thought to myself "Hell. Its quiet here."
and I don't think I remember the world ever being that quiet. I tip toed around the back yard so as not to disturb its innocence and I gave the earth one night
to itself. I finished with my cigarette and I heard it bounce off of the dry leaves on the other side of the fence. I wondered, If the thing ever did catch fire,
would it even make a sound?
So. Now.
Here I am. Wide awake in my room. Telling myself yet again that sleep is good. Repeating it over and over again inside of my head as if I were subconsciously
trying to cheer lead myself into slumber. It doesn't work. It never works and I let that thought sneak its way into my wannabe optimistic bedtime banter and
I'm wide awake again. Counting to ten used to help. I'd start with a solid rhythmic pace and as my eyes began to weigh themselves closed and my body became progressively
more like a large mound of dough, I would count each number slower in my head. Onnnnneeeee... Twwwwwwwooooooooo... Thhhhhhrrrreeeeeeeee...
And into the sleep. Maybe I'm just not used to the quietness of it all. Maybe I just need a drink.
These are hard times for hard people and word's are only word's if you do not live and feel them. In this isolation, in this soundless place, I feel them the most.
I used to live in the city and who knew that noise could cover up other noise? I can't say I did until now. I can almost hear all their drinking and rambling from here.
All the people sitting alone or with friends in the bars on a Monday night telling themselves that one more drink is all they'll have and by the end of the night
they'll have sucked six more down. In the morning they wake up hungover and late for work and they cradle the notion that they will never do that to themselves on a
Monday evening ever again with pride-less integrity. When the work day is over they do it again. An endless cycle of easing boredom. Hard people. Hard souls. Hard
like me.
That is just the world we live in now. Too loud or much too quiet. No in between. Purgatory for all of the real people with aspirations of grandeur and when
that cognitive time bomb finally does pull back and fire off, we are all doomed. Doomed to realise that there is no pushing forward from this and that contentment
is just a cup of coffee in the morning or a cigarette in the back yard. Or maybe it's just that sleep is a time killer only meant to single out the weak and the
tasteless and the ones void of any real insight into these strange lives of ours. Oh yes... I feel the words now.