Coffee. Coffee. We’re drinking coffee to wake up. And we’re smoking weed to zone out. And we’re dragging cigarettes to balance the two. Then more coffee. More coffee to stay awake, because we get nervous when we’re groggy. But then it’s too much coffee. And we’re jittery, so we smoke more weed. Too much weed. We’re tired again, and we feel the nervousness – the anxiety – closing in again, so we smoke more cigarettes. And then we’re back to worrying about life, and worrying about what we’re doing, and wondering who we’re supposed to be and who we’re gonna be, and then we’re just worrying too much. Thinking too much. So we start drinking. And, yes, it’s early, but we’re drinking anyways because it’s better than thinking about whether or not we’ll get an A or a B or an F in our state-required World Studies class, and it’s better than worrying about whether or not we’ll ever end up being successful writers, or doctors, or Wall Street millionaires. Too much to worry about, so we drink. And we drink until we’re drunk. But then we’re too drunk, and we feel out of it, and that makes us nervous again, so we start drinking more coffee to sober up, but coffee doesn’t sober us up enough, so we smoke weed to feel something other than drunk, but that makes us tired, so we drag cigarettes, and drink more coffee, and smoke more weed, and more cigarettes, and coffee with a little whiskey, and a little more weed……


She said that she wanted to take a picture. She was in a good mood. Giggling at nothing. And She kept saying, “Lou! I want to take a picture.”

So I said, “ok.”

But I didn’t want to smile for Her picture. I was watching the waitresses walk around. Asses pulled up tight in these black jean shorts. Frayed cutoffs. I wondered if it would be more fun to fuck them than to fuck Her tonight.

“Lou!” She screamed again.

I turned back towards to Her and said, “sorry. Take the picture.”

And She put the camera up to my face.

A waitress walked by. My eyes followed her ass. And so this was the picture that She got.


A picture of me picturing myself fucking some other girl.

Fucking candid.


I walked down to the beach this morning, even though I don’t live by the ocean. Or any body of water. I just walked until I heard the sound of waves in my head. The smell of salt in my nose. None of it was real, but it felt good anyways. It felt like I could step out into the water and drown myself whenever I was ready. Whenever I wanted. Only I didn’t want to. Because even though the idea of finality is appealing, I have a few reasons to stay here for now, and finish what I started. And I know that what I started isn’t much, but not much is better than nothing at all, and I’d like to see that through, whether it amounts to anything or not. Because I don’t care about pissing the farthest, I just care about pissing in general. It’s not me against you. It’s me against me against me against me. And somehow, I don’t think that I’m winning yet. The thought makes me sweat.

I open my eyes and find myself in the parking lot of a liquor store. No shoreline or beach or ocean. And I know it’s early, but I think about going in and buying a bottle. I think about it. I think about it. But then I don’t. And instead, I go home. Because I don’t feel like drowning myself yet.


They’re shooting at the gun range
on Sundays
like they don’t care
that God preaches non-violence.
I don’t care either,
but I was trying to sleep
and their fucking guns
woke me up,
and now I’m pissed.
I’m trying to nurse
a pretty gnarley hangover
but I keep hearing those
GOD-DAMNED gunshots go

I wish that everyone would just go to church.

Under the Covers

I pull my body out from under the covers like I’m pulling a blade from my stomach. So hungover. Sharp pains on either side of my head. A weird sloshy feeling in my abdomen. But in this bed I feel safe like I am in a cellar with only one way out, that has a door with four bolts on it. Locked shut. But my alarm keeps ringing. Ringing. RINGING. RINGING! God dammit. And so I get up, and turn the thing off, only to watch my guts run from my body and spill out over these sheets. I look down at the mess on my bed. Fuck. I hold the rest of my intestines in with a hand pressed to the wound, but I can’t hold all of it. I start to feel lightheaded. And woozy. And then I fall back into bed and fall back asleep.


I want to write words that move
like a bass line smoothes out
a slow song.
I want this thing
to beat your bones
like it was a fucking kick drum.
Like buh-dum
Can you feel it bumping yet?
Like a song that you loved
but forgot about
until just now.
These words are fucking music,
but they only make sounds
in your head.
Can you hear it?


It disturbs me to think about how many nights I sat on this curb after work, smoking a bowl, when I could have been hanging out with my friends instead. It’s like I was determined to be alone. Like I wanted to isolate myself, and get high, rather than high five my friends at this party down the street. I could’ve gone. I know that I could’ve. But I was too fucking cool for that. So fucking cool. Because I liked to be by myself. And I thought that those nights would help me figure out the meaning of life. And I thought that if I sat there long enough, and got high enough, and snuck enough of my parents booze, I would figure out what the hell I was supposed to be doing. Only now that seems like it was a huge god dammed waste. It was. Because there is no fucking meaning to life. Life is life. It is a series of things that repeat over and over until we die. And sometimes we get to have fun. But I turned my back on every opportunity to enjoy myself. And now I’m back on this curb. Older. More bored. And so disturbed by how many nights I spent here when I didn’t have to. Unless maybe it’s not too late. I stand up. I throw my bowl on the cement and watch it shatter to a hundred pieces. Fuck this curb.


She met me for lunch today,
wearing a blue dress
and fishnet leggings.
For lunch.
At this casual place
down the street from me.
I was going to break up with her
but I couldn’t once
she showed up like that.
In that tight blue dress.
Her lips bright red.
She said she was already wet,
just thinking about having sex
after lunch.
I told her I was hard
before we ordered,
and then we left without eating.
She’ll never let me
break up with her.