Puke.

Fuzzy. It was all Fuzzy. I was laying on an air mattress - at least I hope it was an air mattress (you know how crack mattresses feel like air mattress due to the decay of the material). Who the hell has the audacity to set up an air mattress at a party anyway? Jesus Christ man. They, me, premeditated this shit? 

Anyway, everything had this strange haze to it. I don’t smoke weed. No purple haze here. I don’t know how I ended up on this plastic molestation, but I was honestly happy I was – with that puke acidic smell burning my nostrils and all. Other than regurgitating  I don’t remember anything from that night after blacking out. I think someone force fed me potato chips. Nice girl. Don’t remember her face. I remember yelling at people, so I could hear them laugh. If I heard their voices I knew they were there, and that I was there. 

My stomach felt like I smashed the bottle and decided to swallow it. Jack Daniels: proud sponsor of my fucking hang over since two thousand thirteen. I woke up the New Year sobering up like the thousands of other around the world. I realized that I hit it. I could go farther, contrary to popular belief we dig to hit bottom, but I think I realized it then and you know what – I’m going to throw up the world. 

I hear the leaves crunching so I look down and see the shadow touch my feet…

I’ve been looking for the road, but I can’t settle. I twist my cigarette between my fingers feeling the crushed methanol capsule before I throw it into the ground while I’m walking. I must have walked about half a mile before I started panicking because I had a California wildfire flashback. I turned around, but then made the calculated risk I would be fine. I’m new to this smoking thing, and leaving around actual fire starters is still a little abstract.

“Not all those wandering are lost, ” he said. I remember his greasy hair then. It was like the Silver tracks in Appalachian mines. Everything black, but the streaks of white covered silver in a dust coat from the recent dynamite blast. My grandfather wasn’t born here. He was from Ireland. Him, his brother, and what was left of their mother at the time came over. She didn’t make it.

I often wondered what the hell he meant by that. Not all those wandering are lost. I can hear his voice, or his breathing rather. Damn man sounded like smoker. It was just the dust cementing his lungs, but the rawness was the same. His was just a consequence of making a living, not living.

Sometimes when you listen to them, those guys that have gone through pack a day for more days you’ve been born, their voice almost sounds more earnest. Like they wear their heart in that pack of cigs rolled up in their shirt corner. Maybe they do. I always thought it looked cool.

I spend most of my time wandering then. My grandmother used to say, “What till you realize, you’re an insult to the dead.” Dragging me by the ear inside to study some passage scripture I didn’t understand. That’s what we had then. Other than the inscriptions on tools, and goods from the local store, letters where had to come by.

I’d spend my time in the woods. You did’t have to go far. The woods where so prevalent it was almost as if going home just moving to another part of the woods. There was two roads in town. One in and the other to the mines.

I spent time in there. Most of my time. I wasn’t lost. I had a home, but I preferred there. Not all those wandering are lost. I wasn’t lost, but I was wandering. Sounds right. Right?

I know that I need to complete this and that, yet I leave for a walk to stare at dogs pissing on trees at parks. Maybe being lost is part of all of this, just existence. I still don’t know a lot of people, because there still isn’t a lot of people around. Well, people that I know of anyway.

The long withdrawing roar;

It’s always everything

in the stepes I’m retracing,

or some kind of nothing

in the stranger we’re becoming

                                                                                   I don’t think about you anymore,

                                                                                   I don’t think about you anymore

any less.

I don’t think about you anymore,

but i don’t think about you

any less.

I don’t think about you anymore,

                                                                               but I don’t think about you

any less.

Parts of me

may cherish this,

but giving up

and giving in

are nothing but

bastard

twins.

-Genevieve Sadowski-Gourley

Don’t search for the artist, she’s a BCCC student in COMP115

Chunks.

I haven’t been this sick in a long time. I don’t have the motivation to do anything. Even when I’m well. I want to vomit everything inside my chest so I can watch it rot, cuz’ that is so much easier than feeling it. 

Simmering

I don’t celebrating and relaxing are from the same foundation, although they are similar in physical nature.

I can’t imagine a wife beater celebrating anything.

I think indulged ignorance is born of fear, and I believe relaxation is a tangent of it. Celebration is accomplishment, while relaxing is simmering failure.

It is a fine line. 

I put the book upon a table, and then pushed them off a cliff.

Swashes of green, sprinkled with pulses of purple, orange and yellow. I stumble, and toss myself in the blue. Its cold  but oh so refreshing. Its almost warm. I don’t know where I’m going, but I don’t care. I watch the pebbles and as the water strings around them. I string along.

The water opens, vapor, spit, I fall, stumble inside, and I’m swallowed by the mist.

I often wonder where I am. I am here. You are there. I am there. You are here. I built these concepts of relativity on the prominence of Kingmenship.

The mouth of the vapor is deep. I can’t hear the other bodies hit the ground. I shout out, but the water is to0 darn loud outside the mouth. Gravity draws out the shape of the water vapor. Light hits and reflects. They twinkle in my eye.

I look across my dive and wonder what they see. What see she’s when the light glances from drop to drop as its sprawling in the mist till it bounces off my eye.

I fall. I fall through the earth, maybe the underground of my unowned. I fall through into the blue and I smack into another fall. I can see them all. They’re smiling as they hit the ground. “You got a smile as you’re falling?” I ask them as they hit the ground.

“We smile because you’re falling.”

This disaster is contemporary. I think I missed the root of the things. I wonder if I can find her, to tell her the truth. I didn’t stand the fall you see, this smashing emotion rot that consumed you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t see you. I couldn’t see me. Rumbling with giants, so small, I couldn’t hear the voices. I couldn’t tread softly so I left the forest empty. I put the book upon the table, and then pushed you off a cliff.

Straight Lines

I can see them through the trees.
They stop for moment, and then swiftly disappear,
absorbing into the surroundings.
They don’t exist long, being sensical in a sensual environment.
My environment.
 
I use to breathe these things.
They cut some, but they don’t mean to.
Did you really think piercing the veil wouldn’t result in a little blood?
It’s a struggle between an easy melody and a peace of mind.
These scarred lines mean your alive, we’re alive.
 
They think the cutters are in trouble.
The natives don’t even know the meaning of the word.
I’m not sure if I know the meaning of the word.
This is imperialistic.
 
The sharpest are the Giants and Ghosts,
but I’m getting tired of fighting the Ghosts,
the Giants are weak.
 
Voices like the wind. Bodies just the same. Resonance when we drift.
 
I guess the howl depends on which direction you point,
a sonnet of weariness, passion, emotion, ancestry, and Straight Lines.
But for today!

Ohhhhh, the hell with it. - Nada Surf