The holidays aren't meant
For the lonely.
Imagine,
Going to a department store
Alone
To only buy cheap gifts
For your grandma
For your siblings
For your mother
No lovers
No friends
Nobody exceptional.
Insanity.
And they all are expecting
Nothing or
Cheap knick-knacs
From you.
Nobody to impress.
Then working 10 days straight
Up until christmas eve
To make sure everyone else
Has a memorable christmas.
Christ.
I open the 3rd
From the 2nd 12 pack
Of the week
I open the book
Celine says:
"People don't deserve the restraint we show by not going into delerium
in front of them."
I smile
Dog-ear the page
Hold the brown ale
Up to the light
It is pretty
Like a poisonous flower
I **** the bottle
And time moves like its suppose to.
A fast uncontrollable blur
I am one with the spinning earth
Thoughts and words flow freely
There is no past
There is no future
Just a distorted
Present.
I walk outside
For a cigarette.
I stand swaying
Becoming
Intolerable
To the people
That pass by
Rubbing them
The wrong way
Like a poisonous
Flower.
Christ.
Bring me the
New year.

I watched a cat
Tense up
Spit and hiss
At the sight of
Itself
In the mirror.
The bird will believe
That he is not alone
In his cage
If you place a mirror in it.
The mirror
That cruel *****.
I looked into it
And did not like what was there
But I did know
That- that-
was me.
Man recognizes his own reflection
Then believes he has a right.
A right over everything else.
A right that is not
Fought for or learned.
A right that he
Is simply born with.
The mirror
That cruel *****
Murdered humanity.
We are slaves to the sights
Of ourselves and others
While the cat
Searches only
For a spot of sun
Then lies
In the grass.

The mother feels
Accomplished.
Finished.
By the the birth of the child.
Then the rest of the life
Weighs down on him.
I have seen it.
I have felt it.
And on her death bed
At least he will
Be there.
And that idea will be passed
Through generations.
But I do not like children.
I do not like putting others
Under pressure.
So who will hold my hand
When my time comes?
I carry
All the love
In the world
With nowhere
To place it.

Yeah.
I often drink 10 beers
Alone
On nights like these.
And shadow box
Morales style
In the corner of my room
In the moonlight
Singing Lorca's screaming poems
And feeling Sartre's
Nothingness
I walk the streets of
Los Angeles
Like its ******* Ask The Dust 1939
Ignoring droids and hover boards
Flying right past me
All the good writers are dead.
And all the words are just ******* now.
Especially
Mine.

He was a new guy
He said he was a writer
And ****, at first I believed him
He did have a degree in journalism
He had a miserable look
Greasy hair, greasy face
Greasier than mine
But then he told me
His misery
Came from politics
He only wanted to write
About politics
His constant frown
Depressing stride
Defeated personality
Came from politics?
A strange woman once carved a heart
Into my arm
With a rusty
Swap meet Indian knife
Then we ****** after.
Who the hell has time
For politics!?
They canned that *******
And I felt jealous.
He had a lot more time
To write.

It was our lack of
Sanity
That brought us together.
At the beginning it was
Good
We quit our jobs
Applied for food stamps
Stole from grocery stores
Drank and made
Love
All day.
When the money and food stamps
Ran out
We fled the state
Ripped off banks
Traveled
Then got jobs
And died a little.
When we returned to California
We worked
Drank
Fought
And died some more.
She would leave home
For days
While I sat in our apartment
Drinking,screaming, punching through walls
I was gonna leave for good one night
Until she ripped a hole in her arm
To show me
How much our love meant to her
I stayed.
Until finally
It was dead.
I always wonder
What she thinks about when she
looks down
At that self inflicted
Love scar now.
I shake my head and laugh
When I look down
At mine.
I'll treat the next one
A lot better.

They often ask
"Did you see _ last night?"
"Do you watch _?"
"No."
I don't have a ******* television.
There are enough
Actors acting
At work
On the street
At mom's house
At the grocery store
At parties
At the bar
I don't want to watch more when
I'm alone.
The dancing spider on the wall
The paralyzed lines of the book
The breathing notes of the music
The slow pour of cold beer
I sit here and stare
At nothing
Just like you