last wednesday i moved from boulder, colorado to lower allston, massachusetts. three weeks before that, the girl i had been living with in colorado, the girl that i had fallen in love with, wanting to do anything and everything for, broke up with me and kicked me out. the night before she did that, i had spent over a hundred dollars on making my nose bleed, meeting up in a blue 80 something bronco in an old block buster parking lot, outside of an ice cream stand.

these things got me to leave. back home in boston now, i realize it was the best decision. after three weeks of self torture and blame, shame to the most wild and vivid ideas. she had told me at work over the phone, as i stomped around back stock punching wood beams and brick walls, that  i was narcissistic,  too self-destructive, spending money i didn’t have on drugs she said i shouldn’t use. i was a child and she was sick of being my mother. tired of taking care of my mess.
i begged and told her when i think of her, even now i can smile; and she told me in an even and steady beat, as i could hear her crying, that when she thought of me she no longer did.
that struck me in the chest and i almost threw up. i choked and got a headache. she said goodbye and hung up. i left work stumbling home into our sun room with a giant mirror under one hand and my typewriter in the other. i stayed up and there for a few days. i didn’t bother to sleep or go to work. i got drunk and high and wrote a lot of sad poems about why no one could ever love me like her. it didn’t matter. she was gone a few months before that, i had just been talking to and fucking a ghost.

i can say now that i’m beginning to appreciate myself again. i had gone threw a long transition of hating myself and becoming completely dependent on another body. seeking all my happiness in her. it was selfish and unjust. i know that now. but here in the city, i can feel life and love. there is hate here, people are angry. you can walk down the street and see someone and hate them. you don’t need a reason for it. it’s how this city works but i love it. at least it isn’t a dull wash of emotion where people are happy for the sake of being happy. life isn’t like that. colorado was a falsehood that i am beginning to understand.

talking with matthew i have begun to get over a creative slump. i packed up my writing from colorado and have a nice fat stack of a few hundred pages of poetry. i wrote a short script titled The Idle Argument and a longer one i’m still working on called Two Houses. I’m writing of relationships, between husbands and wives, parents and children and destroying a suburbian dream.

matthew asked me to draw some pictures for him, ones that he had lost. i hadn’t drawn in a while told him i couldn’t promise anything that amazing. to my surprise i fell in love with them. i found old porn in a dumpster from the 70′s and 80′s and used the women as my models. i didn’t want to use a face in them. i didn’t want any personal connection. i wanted naked bodies and cigarettes in their asses. i had always wanted to draw the female body in these simple and easy lines. i was unsure if i wanted to show the vagina. i had never really drawn them that much and when i started to i felt like i was a kid doing something bad, like writing swear words on the walls when i was in kindergarten and getting yelled at for it. this isn’t how a man should feel when he is drawing something beautiful. this shame of sex and women. these drawings have helped me start to understand and get over this. i showed my mom this when we got into the car off the plane driving back up to boston. we got into an argument about whether this was sexist or not, if i was defiling and objectifying the woman body. i disagreed, if anything i am objectifying the human body. women and men should not be separated.  i’m sorry if this is a jumbled mess, i am still waking but needed to get this off of my chest. here are the pictures and a few poems i have been writing, i might share some old ones as well. i have felt uncertain about my writing lately, but exploring again.

reading dostoevsky;

Born a brute
I drink not for joy
I weep with each sip
and in an empty cup
I can find sorrow.
Only do I lay my head
to be pitied.
Son of a thief-
and father of shame,
I hold my lines of mirrors
so I can see my true self.

about Joshua.

Tired and talking
Lazy, we’re floating
like yellow canaries
draped soft in a cream cloak
you were always there
smoke drifting
through the cracks of your
calloused fingers
open hands and dried eyes
the circles lift
and spin towards the
ceiling.

more poems tomorrow. work today.

thank you.

oh and for yer ears.

of me!
.
I surrender to the
masses!
.
I lay in defeat.
.
I will write a story of
war.
..
..

I felt her on my cheek. I didn’t dare to open my lids still too heavy and sore with sleep. “I left two cigarettes and a few dollars on the corner of the bed. I’ll be back in a few days.”
.
PARADOXICAL LIVING
.

MAURICE – Why would you dare to sleep?
.
CYNTHIA – How could I not? The days have become whirlwinds. I am lost inside the gusts and swirls of colors. That is all I see. A shadow moves and I go blind.

.
MAURICE – You have to understand that it’s all part of the process. You must remember to give and take!

.
CYNTHIA – Give and take? I take nothing!

.
MAURICE – You take everything! All that you need to give is, you! And when you do, you will see CYNTHIA, you will see amazing and beautiful things!

.
CYNTHIA – I am tired of seeing MAURICE! I’m tired of these eyes and what they show me. It’s nothing!
.
MARUICE – No!     CYNTHIA! –

.
CYNTHIA – It’s nothing MAURICE!  Nothing!   These eyes are as good as false gods and misspoken prophets.

.

The Cambrian explosion marks a time frame in which there was a sudden burst in new complex living organisms.. where is our Cambrian Explosion in our art world? In our literature? In our people. We are lost without it. But now we have it. It is here, we are it.
..
..
the Drought

Sometimes I can hunt all night. Alone, high in the trees – I am king! Conqueror of the dark and the trampling. You can hear horrific things sometimes at night. The things that make you want to stay high in your trees and I try but I get curious. I am beckoned to fall. To see the forest floor in the pitch of night, you must feel your way around. The surrendering to the beasts! It makes your blood pump. You are alive!
..
..
Black HOWLER
He often called to himself when no one was around. He liked it better that way. The echoes in the house reminded him of his youth. When his mother would leave with his sister and he would be alone for a while, standing shirtless in the dining room, bare feet on the hardwood floors, calling to the walls with screams of young anger and confusion. He would let his mouth throw ripe words across the rooms until saliva ran from the corners of his mouth, drooling to the floor and collapsing- exhausted.
But he was not to be like this anymore. His anger had been assuaged; his mother had told him so when he turned 18.
”Now you are a man. Now you are strong and tall and can say your words without a scream. Now, you can’t still be angry; there are bigger things.”
He remembered her saying.
And again, he called out into the dark of the room, but heard nothing. He stood at the end of the wood paneled room, long- running the length of the basement, he screamed again. And there was silence answering. He tore his shirt off and threw himself with his heaving lungs, calling out, still into the abyss. With his hands strained, fingers frayed; bent down by his sides-he spit fierce words, cursed and hit his head. Doubled over into a ball of a man, on the ground his head tucked between his knees- he swore with his tightening stomach and chest, seizing and releasing with each cry.

And the room went deaf.
.
thank you.

i’ve been enjoying my life in colorado although it seems to have me trapped- without a computer or any internet. i’ve been sick a lot, trying to write and paint and draw, but i’ve been pulled down by the ease of movies and staying inside on the snowy and sunny days alike.

a few weeks ago my friend asked me to try a new vial of acid he had gotten in, immediately home from work, i was ecstatic as i walked in the front door and i took a few drops. a few hours later i was doing well, the stuff seemed good and i was laying on the couch playing with the sunlight streaming through our front window, stretching and looking at the mountains. a minute later, i felt a pop in my right upper abdominal region. my stomach was starting to hurt, i decided i might have to go to the bathroom. as i sat on the toilet, i began to feel a pulling. i looked down to see my testicles rise, quickly, towards my stomach, they were disappearing, vanishing into myself. i was baffled. grabbing at my ever-shrinking balls, i tried to hold them down, my muscles began to tighten on the right side of my body and i noticed my penis had turned into a wrinkly one inch-version of itself. i ran out of the bathroom, hollering for my friends.

i spent the next four hours trying to convince my friends that i needed immediate hospital attention and was not imagining this. my condition seemed to be worsening and i was beginning to loose it. they went to the grocery store to find me some niacin, which they thought may flush my blood and kill my trip, it seemed to slow it down for a little, mainly it just turned my pale skin a hellish red and had it burning like the devil. finally we got to the hospital as i began to trip again. i sat in the emergency room red, itching, wide-eyed and dilated, bent over with one hand down my pants, securing my balls from shooting into myself. i was told later by my doctor i had a triple hernia, one rupturing in the lower left abdominal, protruding into my belly button, another on the opposite right side and one above that. i had also had a testicle torsion and they rose to my stomach, along with a severe muscle spasm.

this is what my past few weeks have been dedicated to. i just finished surgery a few days ago for the main hernia and everything’s back to normal and safe for my testicles and penis. now i have some time off for work and want to begin working on writing and painting, just creating more and again! so sunday + wednesday, i am back and feel terrible for the time missed. i’ve begun working on a cut and copy zine with John Atkins, a good friend from Austin, tx and we should have some things soon. besides for that i’ve done some awful writing, some i will share. i’m sorry this has been long, it feels good to be back.

oh’ and i have to say, i’ve been going over old and new sunday+wednesday content and i wanted to thank Eunice San Miguel and Graham Walzer for some really amazing work on here. the sketches you boys have been throwing down are beautiful and always catch me as i wander the page, they have been really inspiring to me to try and draw more and for writing little stories for fantastic sketched characters.

10:00 p.m. no date

never assume bad
things about a good
women

vice verse.

4:03 p.m. 10.22.2009

to do the line
I’ve been
thinking
about all day-
I’ve been thinking
about you
and I’ve got to move
the note
you left on
my
bed
this morning,
after i had woken and
left for
work.
you signed it love
and left
a fat
heart
on it.

4:28 p.m.

old man wasting
time
you spent years
carving
diamonds
for fools;

tucked away
in your hole
of:

this place is your

hell

and deeper
you
dig yourself
everyday.

you
dream Eater.

4:33 a.m. 11.11.2009

Where the elephants
lay
you told me once
that sail boats
never sink
but last night
in my dreams
I drowned.

and you kept yelling
about
how this baby
wouldn’t
go down.

9:19 11.14.2009

And instead of
a note on
my bed;
signed with
fat hearts
all I
found
was
an orange shirt
we used
this
morning
to clean
my
cum
off your belly
and
my stomach
and
the sheets -

where it stuck
dried.

but i knew the
fat
hearts
were there.

11.22.2009 12:36 p.m.

adolescents
puberty
makeshift ideas
of love.

once you were
a mountain.

now you swallow water
at the
ocean’s floor.

Cigarettes
A stout man with a red hat exited the back gate and stumbled a great distance, never seeming to reach anywhere. He turned that small town in New Mexico inside out.
He reached the outskirts of the town and kept up his stagger to the desert expanse.
Days past and the clumsy feet, of the stout man in the red hat, seemed to take on a prideful stride. As the yellow monster raised itself in the sky, the feet never hesitated, casting a series of blows across the barren wasteland that laid in front of them.
After finding a spring and the seldom stretch of shade that sparsely covered a space to lay in, he found a rest.
The smell of the silent cold night awoke the stout man, who had contorted himself to a fetal position, where he lay hugging his shoulders – shivering with his breath.
He stretched and placed his hands underneath his balding head, where tufts of hair and exposed scalp reminded him of his stagger, reaching for his red hat that had been turned into a makeshift pillow, he instead found only the cracked earth beneath his sun-beaten hands.
He lept up from the childish ball of sleep and wildly turned about, as if mad, staring off into the distance, a harsh and lonely abyss. Night had swallowed the landscape and everything in a stone’s throw; only barely making out the rock that had been his mid-afternoon savior, he stumbled a few feet in every direction furiously kicking at the desert floor. He fell to his knees and threw his hands about in a desperate attempt to find his red hat.
He returned empty to the rock.
Slouched against the wind scorched rock surface, he again planted his clumsy feet in front of himself and tucked his knees to his chest, huddling as a shell of a man, he lit a cigarette and watched the burning glow of nicotine.
The stout man no longer wanted to walk, he felt no impulse to move away from the small town in New Mexico, from the winding dirt streets his hopeless feet had traced, from the unpainted house and the room he rented out, where there was a large picture of a sailboat crashed on rocks and an impending storm in the background, and from the small cot that he lay on, alone- on horrific nights like these – but he felt no urge to return. He missed but spited that life that had become so estranged. He cupped his hands and lit another cigarette, the red cherry began to pour smoke and the stout man smiled.
He had nothing to do now but wait in the blistering desert wind.

-Juin Arnaud

4:48 a.m.
Monday, July 13th 2009

the Patient
Whether sitting on the steps of the city or the edge of the mountains, the patient stayed the same. Never to forget the days past, he remained silent with his dis-contempt and sat petrified with the fraying of his loneliness. Legs paralyzed, they only bent back to allow sitting. The patient relied on his findings throughout the day to make his happiness. Little thoughts, quarrelsome ones that built his staggering existence. Which way the wind blew and at what time- and compared to yesterday and the day before. The week became his solitude and the weather built a career out of it. Sitting and observing the sun, he never sought for shade, wishing to be burned by it daily, for even, perhaps- to be scolded so badly by it he would become unrecognizable, even to himself. And the days grew long and with them the patient’s age and weathered skin. His hands became a quicksand of leather when you tried to hold them, even he himself, found it hard to merely hold his own hands. They would envelope one another, cupping and sipping each finger up into the center of the palm. Furious balls of anger from long years of living alone collected and hung low down by his sides, when he walked and propped up next to him when sitting on his chair or even held a cigarette or two when the scaring sun went to slumber.
And one morning, when the patient arose, still stalking about with over sleep, the sun did not. And he waited on the porch for hours, sitting with the balls of fury weighing down by his sides, waiting for the brilliant brass ball to release some tension, some loneliness- but it never came. The tiresome day past and with it the patient went as well. Steadily rocking with finger nails tearing into the center of his palm, he slowly slipped out of the chair onto the thick wood of the porch floor. Laying on top of stretched cracks and fractures in the wood, the body of the patient lay clothed in darkness.

One hit for the night
He watched her from down the hall, sitting in her chair taking cheap hits of wine. Looking down at his half empty glass of rum and coke, he wished he had the feet-work and the speech to whisk down the studded hallway to ask her for a few hits. She sat as queen, in the corner of the room- she was watching everyone else around her. They stumbled from lips to ears, hoping to find someone to share their night with, and she knew it and he knew it. Tired from their drinks they begged them off one another and continued to keep their feet kicking down on the hardwood. Staggering about with delusional whereabouts, they asked where they could piss, “Down the hall towards the living room and across from the kitchen.” Down and towards him. He sat on his couch and said little to the conversation of faces that circled him. Usually finding solace in the mid-bathroom talking breaks, he grew weary and stared down the hall towards the green velvet chair that held his mighty queen. She looked down but past him. He sipped his glass and made the break to the plastic white bottom. The drink, gone; he sucked on the ice cubes and cracked them down with his teeth all the while never letting the velvet throne leave his sight. His stomach turned with each hand past on her shoulder and each smile given. He tried to stand, only finding wobbly, elastic legs stretch beneath his large frame. Holding onto shoulders that seemed stuck in the floor, he made his way slowly to the kitchen, away from the bathroom scene and the frantic nasal conversations that accompanied it, and away from the hungry couch that sucked you dry like a bat at night, and away from the girl he named queen and the green velvet throne she sat on, away from his eternal gaze of misunderstanding and misguided affection. To the island in the kitchen, sticky with red wine and cheap sodas and vodkas- a clutter fuck of cups and crumbs laid across it and he slammed his red plastic cup down. He got ice from the freezer he had visited several times already, twisted the plastic tray and cracked a few out on the counter. He brushed the crumbs off and put three in his cup. He got his rum and filled up the rest with it. He stood back and took a hit, smiling with his little accomplishment- a defeat over love and one battle won in the sweltering summer night.

i wanted to write about my childhood some more, and still do. it’s hard for me to do this. i get worked up and freeze. i tried to use some light repetition to ease back into the flow, but it still becomes paralyzing, .39 is my attempt at this. the ones that follow are about many different things. i may attempt to talk about some, to give some insight, but i still am struggling with whether or not i like the idea of telling the reader what i’m trying to say. it seems to almost defeat any purpose of my writing. although i think it’s good to know what the writer is thinking about when reading his/her work, at the same time, i write to see what the reader is thinking. please, give any and all feedback.

.39
hiding underneath my couch
when i was younger-
i’d spend hours squished under the living room couch
i loved the way the cool hardwood floor
felt on my skin, on the bare skin of
my elbows and forearms
to feel my cheeks pressed against it-
laying flat on the floor
i could see down the kitchen and out the door
i would lay there when my mom was at the door
when she would wring it and to see
if anyone was home to help with the groceries
I would lay there when my father came home
to see if anyone wanted to

I would lay there and i wouldn’t get up
I would lay there and look out the door on the floor
looking at the dust bunnies and dirt
looking at the reflection of light
and I would feel the wood
covered swift with dust
i would turn my head
and look at the door’s reflection in the television
turned off-
i would watch them wring the doorbell
standing at the door.

.00
I work and you buy
I sell and you buy
I give and you buy
I ask and you do nothing

.60
When I was little
I lied to
grownups
but never to friends.

Little things.

Things that I felt weren’t lies.

things that seemed to make
sense.

And they believed me
because they seemed
to make
sense.

So i asked my mom,
How she knew that they were
lies.

.42
kids write poems that slant to the sides
.                                               that move in
.     awkward lines
.     that make me dizzy
and it’s                                                          hard
.                    to read
and it’s                                         always in
those damn damn damn damn
.                                             college books              with
their art and shit                                             -
.                                                they never let me into those
damn damn damn damn college books
.                         with all my art and shit
because                                                              i couldn’t
.                                        read in lines
.   that                                                                                  were spread
.                                     like my jam
.                         all over                          this
.          page.

(please excuse the periods, without them, it moves all the lines back to the left, and the poem looses a lot haha)

.01
Walk in my shoes and you’ll step in holes.

.51
I AM A CAPTAIN ABANDONING HIS CREW.
Like insignificant dust
on a mirror that no longer
reflects. I’m drowning,
a boy with no arms.
The mouse trapped by
his tail  and
having nothing
to hold onto or to get
out.

.19
I remember when I had fierce
confidence -
and now even my pen
shows the wear of
city living, leading
my eyes
on a downward slope.
I lost my way
and when she asked about
what I meant
when I said I wanted
to be happy
I didn’t have
anything
to say.

a Conversation

Pat, can we move the couch?

No.

Come on Pat, can we please move the couch? I hate it here.

(Pause.), He lifted his beer can and stood up.

I just don’t want to move the couch and blow out my back.
I’ve been training for the company softball game for three weeks now.
Perry said I’ve been looking good,   and you know how all that company bullshit is.
If you play well, they pay you well. I’m a decent player and you’re the one
who keeps saying that we need to save up for a bigger place for the kids.

Helen smiled and held her stomach.

Please Pat, I really just hate it here.

Fine, but if my back or shoulder goes out, we’re never getting out of this shit hole.

Pat struggles with the couch, Helen stands to the side, frantically shaking and waving her skinny arms. With her belly so large, her arms look like nothing more than
straws sticking from a pile of hay.
Pat finally manages to lift one side and continues to walk the couch to the
other wall in the room, lifting the right and then the left side.  He set it down
quite impressed by the small feat he had accomplished.
He turned to smile at Helen.

Helen was bent over on the ground looking at the used condom on the floor.

They had never had sex in the living room.

Pat was standing behind her, next to the couch. He was breathing heavily, staring at the condom.

It was there in the middle of the floor, looking like flattened roadkill, eyes still open, staring back at them both.

Pat got two home runs and afterwards, returned home, alone; to the couch that he had moved back to the first wall.

My feelings are indifferent to this. I know it needs some work, but it was a quick twenty minute write up and still somehow, draws me back to it.
have a good one.

i’m moving. i am leaving for the mountains, the people in a simple small town and the girl. and in a conversation yesterday, i found out the girl has been with someone for the past two months. we were off and on and it was hard to keep in touch for six months living a few thousand miles apart. and with this, with this, i crumbled. i wanted to scream, but i was too tired, i wanted to smash the bottles around me, but i knew they’d only cut feet and so when i know i shouldn’t be, can’t be brash and mad and angry externally, when i ultimately know that these acts are stupid and irresponsible, i take everything out on myself.

so i drank all the beer we had, because i wanted to be stupid and i wanted to be a man, and this is what men do, and so i stood over the toilet in the bathroom and i thought of her and i threw up the coffee and the toast for breakfast and the beer for the rest of the afternoon. it was a melted sunday mess spilt out on the bathroom floor.
brown
clear
&green.
The burnt
toast
coffee
mucus
and bile.

for the rest of the night, i wrote, drank more, cashed in all my dirty dimes at coinstar and made it to the liquor store before it closed. i almost fell a few times on my bike but made it back here, back to the bathroom floor and the front stoop, curled in a ball, holding my phone and a cigarette in my mouth. al said he found me like that last night, passed out. and all i can do now is wait, and think of the stupid things i said, that i thought were so clever. &read the angry drunk ramblings from yesterday, knowing that i’m fucked up. that we all are, because all i know how to do when i feel anything is write. or paint, or scream or take a drug. i don’t know how to deal with feeling this much. it’s like an overload and i don’t know how to process all of it. and it’s just beomming too much.

.15
I am the blackbird’s sore throat
strained from the morning and too
weak to continue
I am the blackbird’s broken wing
from the fall in the afternoon
above the fence, where they perched in the morning.
I am the blackbird’s empty nest,  abandoned in
the overhang of the Jack Young Moving Co.
the babies were killed at night when the 8
hour shift was done.
I am the empty morning and the quiet
I am the blank afternoon and the blind
I am the sorry night and the dead

.05
I feel like I’m
going to
throw
up.

Take another sip
of
beer,
peel the label
and wait
for
her

to say something.

I was told
peeling the label
is a
sign
of
sexual fustration.

It’s no
lie.

Bitter angst
and the salty spit
is starting
up my throat.

I take another
sip
of
beer
and wait.

.09
I’m beautiful and you’re shit.
It’s how it goes baby
I’m ok with that.

i don’t think you are though
and that’s a sucker punch
and you’ll have
to deal with that
cheap black
eye.

I don’t care anymore.
And baby,
you’ll have to deal
with all this
shit I left
behind
too.

Ok?

oh,
and
baby,
you’ll have to deal with me
for another week or two
because
I don’t have a place to stay
and no one will take me
in.

oh, and baby

i
hate you.

.53
I’m writing shit and i’m not even
drunk yet and i will write
more and
and i will drink
more
and i won’t care
how everythings spelled
and i know i iwll
fucked uo
with
this
damn typewriter
band it;s okbecause
it’s th only thing
i have
have
lkeft
and it
should
be fucked up
to…

.04
I’m alone and my last
pari of pants
are ripped.
I keep fucking
up
with the keys
and with the people.

I have no beer
I’m bumming off of al
and I’m hoping to
ask for a pack
of cigarettes
bum those
too
and
i have rollies that are
almost done.
I don’t ahve a
home.
Not now
and i’m not
so sure
if ever.

I hatemy job
I quit it
and in two weeks
I won’t ahve it.

My apartment is gone.

I still have a lot
of useless shit
that clutters around
the broken futon
that I desevre.
Rape my back.
I want it broken.

And tstill I have
no money
barely
any
weed
left.
Addicted addicting and maybe
I might find some coke.

Th eadderol is wearing off
and I”m glad I don’t ahve to
spell check this

.

Because i think that might just kill me.

.44
Don’t you know,
don’t you know
don’t you know

you shouldn’t trust me
not with this
because
I will tell
you
everything
everything
you really don’t
want to
hear.
and
it
will be
self
motivated and
will be
selfish and I
won’t
care
because I’m tired
of
and I’m sick
of
this
endless
fight.

.24
Give me beer
and make me
numb!
I don’t want
to feel
this
anymore.

.00
I’m a hungry
ghost
looking
for food
my neck
too small
my belly
too swollen.

When i reach for
nurishment
I am given
grief.

I swallow air
and I cannot breaht.

It’s all I have
I try
and cannot

I am the hungry ghost
and I starve with
you.

.40
When I think of you
feeling
sad and lonely
thinking of
me
how i must
be feeling

sad and
lonely

it makes me
smile
eating dirt with
company

.09
we were just
nothing
that was
something
that
neither of us could
handle.

so i left school
and
went back
to
boston.

the lsd and
dmt
played a part
in the trip

their time
so
short.

i told her today,
“the little things
always seem
to be the
biggest
things.”

or

something like that.
i’m stoned and the blood is rushing to my head-leaning over this god
damn bed.

i have more new poems that will be posted later. and i bet you’re all sick of them. &and the length, but i’m smiling pretty now.

We had someone break into our house when we were sleeping. He came in threw the front door, went into the living room where I sleep and went next to my bed, next to my head and took my laptop. My macbook pro. I’ll never have enough money for another one. &He took 2 Xbox controllers, an ipod and the last 20 dollars that I had. We called the police and they said they could do nothing. This act only fuels the burning in my loins to fuck everyone in allston and get out of this city. When talking to our Brazilian neighbors last night about the recent robberies, the kid who we talk to most, had just seen his bike that was stolen with a new chain around it, up the street. He said he called the cops and they said if he didn’t have any paperwork to prove it was his, they could do nothing.
They then said, if it is your bike, steal it back, wouldn’t that be funny?    
Steal it back?    When would be the best time for that?  
Before the different groups of 3 or more 15 year old kids come up with a knife and say “give me you’re fucking wallet!” or
after the coke and meth heads storm out of our building, ready to fuck and fight?
Or better yet – maybe rite when I walk down the street and even the fucking bro kids
have to jump in and try to fuck you up.
Fuck you Boston Police.
You sicken me.

aside from that, I’ve been going crazy not having something to write on. I got some more ink and just starting hitting at those typewrite keys again, which leads to me having tons of random pieces of paper thrown across my floor and by my bed, both underneath and on-top of. But if feels good and nice and I know I can touch it and hold it. I’m just truly upset about this short story I lost called “The Man, Wife and the Husband”. It’s been over a year of writing and only three pages, but perfect pages, where every word had been looked over and chosen carefully. Whole days were spent around deciding whether to use a comma or a semicolon in some line. I knew it would be the butterfly wing’s flutter that could change it all, but now it’s all gone. Maybe that’s just how they flapped this time.

here is some new poems, liking some, hating most, i will not edit these – refuse to. they are set in stone.

We have a nation here, of horny men and women, deprived of sex. Deprived of drugs, and fu
        ck or n or cking. C K or N or C K I N G
      is it F U N or F U C K or is it F U C K I N G.
      ???
      Grumpy men and women, it is no longer a time to be sorrel,
      but a time for jubilation!  It is time for those and these
      things that are wicked and disgusting and taboo. Now is
      our time to indulge in our wicked vices and to walk the line of
      gross consumers. We have a voice but we want a megaphone.

Thursday the 21st
12:57 a.m.

When the sports games on
I’m not allowed to type
in the living room.
The celtics dribble their balls -
all orange and shit
the people in the stands
are shit.
the people in their homes
are shit.
the families that sit around
players and watcher’s alike
are shit -
and they’re fucked.
  And when football season
comes along,
at least now i know
we’re a nation of raw assholes-
sore from last nights’
anal fuck.

The 21st, 12:47 p.m.

When you wake up mad
and go to sleep after the sparrows
have woken and opened their mouths-
sleep holds nothing more
than a wishful wet dream
a nocturnal emission of the damned
and that where I am.
and that’s were we are.
In the living room.
Sitting on my bed.

late that morning, recovered from last nights drunken mouths, where TJ and I spoke on the overpass, I tried to remember

It looks like plastic, like
cardboard like the graphics on the
game console.
But when I see it, I know it’s more
than the plastic and graphics and
cardboard and it’s more than
glass and steel and concrete
more than the miserable souls
waking and sleeping
and the continual hum of street lights
and the tires grinding a soft slow
treading down and down
the empty streets.
It’s five in the morning and there’s a moon in the sky.

the 19th, 11:33 p.m.

down in a gambling
stream of hope
we rot in our 
corrupted ways
new men born as
slaves.

the 19th, 2:49 a.m.

When looking for gold, I found mud
and the mud became
quicksand
and I lost
the two prettiest girls
I’d ever
seen.

the 20th, 6:14 p.m.:
on writing 

don’t do it when you can’t
don’t do it when you want to
don’t do it when you don’t feel it
don’t do it when you can’t sleep
don’t do it when you can’t eat
don’t do it when you can’t shit
don’t do it when you can’t feel
don’t do it when you can’t hear
when you can’t see
when you can’t answer
when you can’t ask
when you can’t fuck
when you can
t
when you can’t
when you can’t
when you can’t do anything else always do it.

[when i search for my despair
i am numb
when i ask why i can't sleep
i have nothing.
an ill response to my own thought.] 

i have a few more poems and some prose and drawings to show. i will later. i’m sorry for not posting, i feel bad from not getting it out of me. but i will later tonight or tomorrow. I’m going to use the dunkin donuts gift card i found, leftover from christmass, to go buy breakfast, lunch and dinner – then my last dimes to get on the 66 to cambridge to work. I want to blow it all up sometimes.

fuck.

i continued to work, knowing i would get sent home. why had my boss told me i was working last night when i phoned though? my fear of being fired and not being able to transfer and have a job in boulder suddenly became a roaring beast inside me and devoured any notion of going home and smoking and sleeping. i got off in havard square: jfk and elliot; cambridge you are my morning reaper. 

i talked to my boss, he had no idea who was working and told me to clock in. i did and the girl showed up a minute later. not more than 2 minutes after that i was back on the 66 heading home. i decided i would load a bowl, read some Buk and then sleep, and then wake and eat no name at 11. i continued to do so and halfway threw reading, that old fucker, triumphed again and i was happy and full with ideas and went to sleep again.

sara and i went downtown yesterday, to the boston public library. it was my first time going and we got some nice books and movies. as we walked i remembered walking with my mom in nice buildings when i was little. the click clack of shoes on the granite made me smile. after we went to an outside book sale. i got a great big photography book. i can’t wait to cut it up. i got some nice post cards and pictures which leads me to posting actual work and not just describing my day, although i like to think of these descriptions as pieces themselves. i also have a poem that i am going to give my old english teacher from high school. i’m mad at him as of now. it will pass but i am going to take as many cheap shots as i can.

i changed a prayer on the back, it’s not that good, although i do like the overall idea. the front words are from the early morning mouth of benjamin brady. 

11:40 p.m. 

The teacher and his pupil
   often confused
   eachother
   with themselves -
   but their similarities
   too extreme;

And when one
   left
   the desk

They both
   sat
   in
   silence. 

i am going to post more soon. i want to share more paintings.