A Night on the Corner

I'm thinking about crack. (Is that cocaine?)
Not as a substance but just crack.
The word crack.

The C and the R make a tasty CRRRRR noise that involves me pursing my lips,
that involves me jutting my jaw out slightly,
that involves the closing of my throat.

The soft A makes a refreshing note as I reopen my throat and release the AHHHHH sound.

Finally, it's brought all together with a whip-like noise that the C and the K bring home from a long day of work. A guttural sound that brings the whole mesmerizing word together.

I'm thinking about Crack.

And Fishnets.

Because that's what I picture Crack-Whores in.

Fishnets, chipped nail-polish, and crack.

Fishnets to catch those flopping ivory legs.
To contain them and make sure they don't escape from those threaded bonds.
Scaly and slimy, those swimming calves containing skin, the gastrocemius, the tibia.

Now I'm thinking of Fish Prostitutes.

And it's not a pretty picture...

And for some reason those Halibut Hookers are making me think of Mr. Peanut because he looks like the type of fellow who would hire a Fish Prostitute.
He looks like the type who would take them to a cheap motel with a flickering sign and he would pay them in saltines and used cigarettes.

Then after they make sweet, Peanut, Fish love, they would sweat colors and eat crack cakes.
They would talk about each others mothers and how Mr. Peanut secretly hates top-hats and wishes for a head of hair.
The Fish, named Cinnamon, would tell of her aspirations to become a singer and how her daddy promised that he does love her.

The word mouth is fun to say as well.

Mouths are disgusting. Vessels for bacteria to grow and spawn. A place for them to start a rebellion and turn that orifice into home base for infection.
We kiss with our mouths.



Happy Sunday

Whoa. That's a Good Poem...Feeling Jelly.

Stop. Read this poem. The Road Not Taken
It's also the first freaking poem in the Bracket Book. Now I promise you, I didn't pick this poem because it was the first one and I was too lazy to read any others. I actually read about a third of the poems. I just happened to like this poem with an exceptional amount.

Now then, let's get to honesty.

When I first read this poem...I thought it sucked.


I thought this was the dreaded boring poetry from an "old, dead, white guy" that was just some superficial bull poopie.

Then I read it one more time.
With FEELING my friends.

The Road Not Taken.


I suppose I need to be in the mood for poetry to truly enjoy it. The first time I read the poem I was in class and I was so brain-dead from school I couldn't even count to zero. The second time I read it I was at work and my mind was waaay to jittery from all the coffee I had right before that I couldn't stop counting to zero.

The third time, I was bored.
I was waiting for my friend outside his house (yup, stalking him) and he was taking forever so I pulled out my handy-dandy notebook and got too it.

I even read it out loud in a fancy accent.

After finishing this thought-provoking poem, I knew right away that this was going to be the Chosen One for the Jealousy prompt. Together we had a baby and it was called Whoa. That's a Good Poem. And so far he is growing up so fast and so far he is 278 words and so far he is 1,131 characters and so far he's still a little shy and won't tell you why he's jealous of his Daddy.

Come on sweetie, let's be honest.

"And sorry I could not travel both."

That's why I had a baby with Robert Frost.
He gets me man. Groovy man. Get me another coffee man. Babies all around...Man.

Okay, let's get honest. He speaks of decisions, of choices, and how we never know how the other one would have led us and how we are constantly being strangled with WHAT IF'S.

What if I took the other road. "Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back."

What happens, happened.
I doubt I'll go back and choose differently.

I'm scared of the unknown.
I'm scared of the other path.
"I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."


And that has made all the difference.


Robert Frost my darling, I'm jealous of you because you know how to make a poem that makes me think and that makes me relate and that makes me wish I could write like a fancy, old, dead, white guy.

Instead I just had a baby with you.



I'm still waiting for my child support check.



 Happy Sunday.

Rambles.

Sleep.
Holy corn chips I love sleep. I love to dream. It's like a movie but not. Not rhymes with snot.

I hate when people say their favorite color is green because I assume they mean the color snot.
Last year my favorite color was green.

Wait, sorry, we're talking about sleep. What was the question Nelson? Nice sweater vest.
I really appreciate a good sweater vest.
I would wear one but I think it would make my face look fat.
Fat rhymes with cat.

My cat sleeps a lot.
One time, when I was sleeping, I woke up and she was laying on my face.
I'm allergic to cats.
I'm also allergic to grass which sucks because one of my favorite places to sleep is outside, on the grass, under a tree, in the Summer, but wait, I can't do that.
Because now I have hives on my lower back where my shirt lifted up just a crack and now I look like The Thing from Fantastic Four.

How lame was it that The Torch is the same actor as Captain America?
Granted, he did a wonderful job in both rolls and he is hella attractive but you can't be two super heroes.
It's kinda like how Liam Nelson is only in action flicks and Taylor Swift only sings about her childhood romances which she makes it sound like it was forever ago but in reality it was last year.
Stop singing about the good ol' days when you were fifteen, try again in a couple of decades.
Maybe then I'll listen to your country crap.

Question: Where do you go when you sleep?


I sleep in my bed.


But wait, I want to talk about my cat again. Her name is Starchild like from the band Kiss.
I got her in the third grade and I didn't sneeze when I touched her.


Happy Sunday.

I Hate My Dreams.

Where do I go when I sleep?

I go to a place I hate.
Because I go to a place where everything went right.
I go to a place where we can't stop smiling.
I go to a place where I'm happy.


I hate that place.


Because eventually  my bleary eyes have to open.
Because eventually paradise needs to disappear again.
Because I need to wake up again.
I need to wake up to a world where idealism isn't true and hope runs dry.
I'm forced to be torn away from happiness, my glorious paradise, my own utopia.
The utopia I hate because it vanishes right when I remember how to smile again.
My heaven disappears and is replaced with filth and lies.
Lies.


But I'm addicted.
That world is my nicotine and I can't seem to function without it.
So I rush back.
I become a hero, I fall in love, I learn to laugh again, and I wake up.
I wake up and Sadness, she creeps in like a poison.
Starting at my stomach and slowly clawing her way up to my throat and through my eyelids.

The dream lingers on the fringes of my mind, but along with that previous and brief elation,
The paradise vanishes and I'm left grasping the air for a shard of memory.
A small friendly piece of what I had.

My dragons and unicorns slowly melt away.
My true Love's face is smeared to a blur and I forget their name.
My kingdom crumbles to pieces and I'm left with the familiar dim glow of my alarm clock.

I'm left with an unbelievable disappointment and rage.
A rage at the place that makes me happy.
A place I hate.


Happy Friday.

Am NOT, roBOT

I know I'm human because I'm selfish.
Robots, machines and computers serve. They have a purpose from creation and I did not.
I know I'm human because no one had to buy me, put me together, and push the "on" switch.

I know I'm human, but I might be robotic.

I have an instruction manual for how I work and how to fix my fraying fuses.

Sometimes I don't feel.
Sometimes I don't eat.
Sometimes I don't sleep.
Sometimes I don't breathe.

I know I'm human, but I might be malfunctioning.

I have a routine and a constant flow of how I'm supposed to work.
I have duties and I grew into that purpose I wasn't born with.
I'm now a piece of this clockwork world and help make it run smoothly.

Sometimes I cry.
Sometimes I bleed.
Sometimes I laugh.
Sometimes I hate.

I know I'm human, but I might be outdated.

A newer generation of me is constantly being created.
A newer, better version of this vintage model.
It seems like I just came out but there's always something better coming after me.

I know I'm human because that's what other humans told me, that's what my instruction manual told me, and that's what my programming told me.

I'm a functioning human.
Because that's what I told me.


Happy Friday.

Stop Smiling at Me.

The idea poisoned my mind.
A relentless toxin, violating all that I am.
You want to talk about courage?
How about we talk about strength.
I was always the last one picked in gym class.
I was never strong enough for dodgeball.
What makes you think I'm strong enough for inevitable disappointment?

Courage? Yeah, sure I got courage.
I'm brave enough to get hit by those laughing dodgeballs. I'm brave enough to talk to you.
But I'm not strong enough to take the hit.
I'm not strong enough to be disappointed.
So I ditch class and imagine leading my team to victory.
I ditch class and imagine you skipping it with me.
I ditch class so I can imagine you.

Imagine? No, your real.
You have skin and eyes and veins. You walk, you sing, you smile.
That smile...
Here I am imagining again. Imagining you smiling. Smiling at me.
Smiling at the hilarious joke I just told.
That smile...
That toxic smile that shreds my heart into scattered tears.
That despicable smile that makes me hate myself. Hate you, for doing this to me.

I skipped class for you and now I have an F and now I'm Fat because I didn't get the usual exercise P.E. provides me.

I'm scared of dodgeballs and I'm scared of disappointment and I'm scared of your smile.
You love her and you love your smile and you love dodgeballs.

Don't even try to smile at me because if you do I'll have to start all over again and talk myself out of this once more.

I was the last one picked in gym class. What makes you think this won't be the same.
Think? I don't think. I think too much!
Much as in an un-healthy amount of much.
The amount that makes me want to Supersize that and get Fat all over again.
Much as in, oh wait, I can't finish that sentence because I'm thinking of your smile again.

Okay, I'll go to class.
I'll get beat up and pummeled and disappointed and get picked last again.
Just so I can see you smiling while you throw those dodgeballs at me.

That Smile...


Happy Thursday. Or whatever.

Aching Bones

My bones said to try.
They told me to man-up and get over it.
My bones transitioned from cartilage, to marrow, to melted wax, to steel.

My bones screamed to try harder.
Giving up is for muscles and skin, bones are eternal. Steel is everlasting.
What's to cry about?
We're steel and immortal, we're selfish and arrogant.
What's to be worried about?

I have a few ideas.

Arthritis. Osteoporosis. Leukemia.
Things that can kill your bones and turn them into mush.
Turn your steel into rust.
I'm worried now.
Mush is unstable. Mush can cry.

But can't I be steel and mush at the same time?
My bones tell me to try while my mush says it's fine to cry.
Balance is irrelevant.
It all depends which one makes me more giddy.
What makes my mush talk and my bones walk.

You turn me into steel. You make me melt.
Do what you want with this sticky metal. I'm yours to create.

My bones say don't touch me. My mush says I'm all yours.
That I love you and that your all I think about and that your the reason why I walk.
My bones say to stop it.

I listen to my bones because I need them to walk.
But it's my mush that makes me want to in the first place.



Happy Thursday.