Tag Archives: habits

The Junkyard Dog Bleeds

My love of words
is large and mean
and my heart
-it’s just a junkyard dog that
growls at nothing
and gnaws at old bones
until they’re dust.

I have become so much better
since I’ve obtained a strong handle
on the absurdity of myself
but still
there’s nothing easier
than picking up a bottle
when you’re heart is bleeding
all over the floor.

The Ghost of the Bottle Lingering Around Like a Bad Spirit in an Empty House

Right now my tongue
is an insufferable monstrosity
fattened
and trapped
inside of a dry cave.

The shooting pain between
my ears
doesn’t know where to go
so it just expands
outward
into a Godless oblivion.

I can feel every inch of my slow death
like a man clawing
at the door to Hell
to escape the cold.

I didn’t realize
that bottle of wine
was this much
my enemy.

So I must spend some time
lying face down
upon the ground
to let the Earth
continue to mercilessly
roll over my petulant body
as my foot hits the leg
of a rickety table that
creaks skeletal laughter
echoing with
surprising acoustic
across the cement walls
of this endless garage.

What It’s Really Like Being a Writer

I gutted the chapter
because it was downright hideous.
What the Hell was I thinking?
That I could turn this macabre piece of bird shit
into something that was a joy to read?

I felt insane. Defeated.
I might as well jerk off and go to bed
but I was a fighter
because God never stopped pissing on my soul
so I went through it all again
slashing, hacking, mutilating
sometimes screaming as I did so
mostly crying
but I cleaned it out good
and then filled in the blanks
with something that made sense
thinking the whole time:
why was I a writer?
Why the fuck was I a Goddamn writer?
I would never be anybody. I was shit.
What a momentous waste of time!

I pounded at the keyboard
drank some wine
next thing I knew it was four in the morning.
“Jesus wept!” I cried.
I had to go to bed
so that I could wake up early before work
and work on this chapter again
because I was a lunatic in obvious need of rehabilitation.

Writing was a hard line to sell
even to yourself
even for all you other writers out there.

Goddamn you all to Hell.
I need a drink.

It’s Like You’re Not Even Here Even When You Are

She pushed me off her on the bed
and I had just started to dig right in.
“What, Baby, what’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? There was no foreplay, no kissing, nothing.
What the fuck do I look like to you?
You’ve been so distant to me lately.
It’s like you’re not even here anymore
even when you are.
I don’t know what’s going on
and that scares me.”

I climbed out of bed and threw my pants on.
“Fuck you, Man. I don’t fucking need this.
Not from you. Not from anybody.”

I slammed the bathroom door
closed behind me
and threw my hands through my hair
several times.

And then I did another line of cocaine.