Panic Attack

12/27/2009

2009-12-27T10:45:00.000-08:00

Is it so wrong that I wish pain, suffering, and death even, unto those who have crossed me? And, is it so wrong that if I have not given you the label of 'friend' that I have slapped you with the label of 'enemy'? Is it so wrong that even in a fit of anger I would still rather fuck on a sheet of ice than fight? And, is it so wrong that I, in an attempt at advancement of self, have stepped, without regret or sorrow, over those who have fallen to the ground?

Is it so wrong to say that I would like to see those who have ever doubted, or wrongfully judged me, gutted and beheaded, so that I may parade the streets with their filthy fucking heads on a blunt stick? And is it so wrong that I have admittedly shared a cup with sinners, sadists, rapists, and murderers? Is it so wrong that I truly do not give a fuck about what is going on in Africa, Afghanistan, Iraq, Tibet, or any other fucking place in which I do not inhabit? And, is it so wrong that I do not feel sympathy toward those who I am not acquainted with?

Is it so wrong that I would rather sleep until noon than ever get up and work for a living? And, is it so wrong that I would rather see the Devil himself elected into political office than to see another lying foolish pig politician? Is it so wrong to say that the only Gods I recognize are plural and cannot, will not, and should not, ever, under any given circumstance, be worshiped, unlike Jesus-Fucking-Christ? Is it so wrong that I do not feel a fallen soldier of war should be placed high on a pedestal to be honored and made a hero of? And, is it so wrong that I feel, in all honesty, that if you are so fucking miserable, for whatever reason, that the smartest thing you may possibly be able to do is just light off the fireworks, pull the plug, and blow your fucking brains out all over the street?

Is this so wrong? If so, I would never dream of being right.

12/25/2008

2008-12-25T12:34:00.002-08:00

Sitting in the room
of my childhood
Christmas day 2008
waving goodbye to one life
and hello to another

I'm waving goodbye
to the innocence
of first loves
and saying hello to
a girl who dreams
of a different kind of
white Christmas

I'm waving goodbye
to the mad days and nights
and saying hello to
an attempt at real
peace

Sitting in the room
of my childhood
Christmas day 2008
waving goodbye to one life
and hello to another

I'm waving goodbye
to the manipulation
and the using and abusing
and saying hello to
living a life of monogamy

I'm waving goodbye
to the emotional wall I've built up
and am saying hello to
making an attempt
at giving away my diseased
and damaged heart

Sitting in the room
of my childhood
Christmas day 2008
waving goodbye to one life
and hello to another

I'm waving goodbye
to putting myself first
in every situation
and am saying hello
to a union of two

I'm waving goodbye
to lying and cheating
and am saying hello to
holding her close
and hoping I never
have to let her go

Sitting in the room
of my childhood
Christmas day 2008
waving goodbye to one life
and hello to another

I'm waving goodbye
to my temperamental timebomb
and am saying hello
to one
day
at
a
time

I'm waving goodbye
to the hatred and the anger
and the fear
and am saying hello
to love

Sitting in the room
of my childhood
Christmas day 2008
waving goodbye to one life
and hello to another

8/26/2008

2008-08-26T17:25:00.000-07:00

It's amazing to think
this moon I'm staring up at
is the exact same moon
that somebody 400 miles away
could be staring up at
right this second

It really touches the heart-
it shows me something

What it shows me
is that no matter what-
no matter where we are
or how alone we feel
we're never really alone
I mean, hey-
I'm sure there's someone else
out there
right this second
staring up at the moon
and thinking
the exact
same thing.

In the Dream (for Ranise)

2008-08-06T16:51:00.000-07:00

In the dream you're there
and I'm there
I swear it's real
we're both really there

In the dream we're still speaking
and we're laying in your bed together
holding each other
and I can smell your scent
and taste you on my tongue
and my lips

I can feel your breath
entering and exiting
your all too enticing body

In the dream you fall asleep and I remain
awake
and I'm planting kisses on your
lips
chest
neck
and cheeks
and it's real
I know it's real

In the dream we're consuming one another
like hungry mad angels of Summer
and we're inseparable-
like I'm handcuffed to you

In the dream we're in love
and I'm not scared to tell you how I feel-
how I want nothing more than to
make you
love me
and how I want to hold you in my
skinny tattooed arms
while planting kisses on your head
and NEVER
let you go

I want to save you from a single day
of discontentment
and I want to rip away any hurt
that I've caused you and
I want to hold you forever and feel your breath on my neck
and face and chest
and I want to whisper the words
"I love..."
and have you believe them
and believe in me

In the dream it's real-
I know it's real
and it's sweet enough
to make me never want to wake
again.

6/23/2008

2008-07-29T18:01:00.000-07:00

I know-
I don't use my words
like you'd like me to

I don't say the right things
at the right time-
nor at the wrong

Instead I keep them in
all for me
and my own
all those words
that I could use
to make YOU feel ME

Stupid
selfish
distant
and deeply detached
is how this makes me look
to you-
I'm sure of it

But I'm fighting myself to change
and you're breaking down this self-made wall
that protects me
and keeps all others at a safe distance
far far away
one brick at a time, so keep pounding away

Because, see-
even through this blacked out eye
I'm beginning to see

What I'm seeing
is what you're forcing me to see-
and that is
maybe
just maybe you're right

Maybe I should just let you inside
and give in
and open up to you
before it's too late
and those cold winds begin to blow and chill our bones
and you're boarding some fucking plane or train out west somewhere-
leaving me alone
with an aching skull, a hole in my heart, and at least 1,000 words I'll have wished I would have said
to you.

6/17/2008

2008-07-29T17:53:00.000-07:00

So that apology-
you know
the one where I told you sorry
for telling lies about you
and sorry for sticking my cock in that other girl's
open and inviting snatch
while I still called you
my girlfriend
and
about how
I was at the lowest point of my life
and that's why I was such a bastard to you-
Remember that?

Yeah-
Well, that was bullshit
and I want to take that back

Because honestly, babe
I don't care now
and I really didn't care then
and if I were to do it over with you
I'd do it exactly the same as I did before

So you can go right ahead
sick some guy on me
I'll LET him beat me mercilessly

Because, baby
I truly never gave a shit
and that-
is the honest
word-blood
truth.

12/25/2007

2007-12-25T12:27:00.000-08:00

I could tell you of lost loves,
lost money, and lost times.
I could croon softly in your ear
and whisper sweet sexy sensual
nothings.
I could tell you of broken hearts,
broken knuckles
broken noses
broken broken
broke.
I could tell you of hookers
and taxi cabs
and grams of
cocaine
hidden from the world
behind a plastic door.
I could tell you about the rages
the anger
the fear.
I could tell you of the suicides
and of how many times
I've lost myself
in vain
to the heart's of girls worldwide.
I could tell you of the lies I've told
dished out
unassumingly.
I could tell you of pissing myself
in a drunken stupor
on a cold hotel room floor
in Cleveland, Ohio.
I could tell you of the times I've cheated
with other women
or the times I've put the scam on a poor fool.
I could tell you of vomiting my guts out
onto a cold damp Michigan driveway
after pulling a blade on
some unfortunate lost soul.
I could tell you of kissing your best friend on her lips
I could tell you of stealing money from your sock drawer
I could tell you of crashing your computer because of the Internet porn I downloaded
I could tell you it
all.
All of it.
The dirtiest
most lowdown goddamn
darkest
secrets
I have.
But, I mean it is fucking Christmas.
Do you really want to hear that shit
today?

2007-06-23T13:41:00.000-07:00

There’s this lady
Old
80 years old or so
She sits on the bench in my front yard
She’s been doing this
apparently
for years
So today while out barbecuing with the girls
the old lady shows up
sits on the same bench
she’s been sitting on for years
Fuck this- I thought
I’m kickin’ the old bitch out
I don’t care
You wanna sit your sit go sit it
at the goddamn watering hole down the block
So I told ‘em allllllll
I’m kickin’ her ass out!
And my roommate’s pretty blonde alkie cigarette puffin’ porn watchin’
friend
leaps up and tells me
honestly
"Matt, no. You don’t know what it’s like to be 80 years old! Don’t do it."
I gave that some thought
then said ‘Fuck that. The old bitch is out’
and when I went up there and saw that old gal I stopped
looked at her-
really looked at her
and all I could mutter was
‘hi’
and when I said hi she smiled and she said hi
right
back
Then I sat on the porch
and she sat on the bench
and we both looked out at the boulevard
admiring humanity and weather and warmth
Then I got to thinking
No
I don’t know what it’s like to be 80 years old

So I started making assumptions
and generalizations
about this old lady
Probably an 80-something-year-old-widow
2 kids who live 700 miles away
Rarely sees them
or speaks with them
on the phone
Finds solace from loneliness
somehow
in sitting on that fucking bench
Then I thought more
No
I don’t know what it’s like to be 80
But
I do know sad
and I do know desperate
and I do know pain
and I do know alone
and
I have honest-to-god-fucking-christ-knife-aimed-at-eye
begged
With that
I let the old woman be
and we-together- stared off into a perfect Chicago sunset

6/15/2007

2007-06-23T13:39:00.000-07:00

My writer friend Graham was over
for a visit
and some drinks
and
conversation-
mostly about writing
He wanted to see my new shit
sooooo
I showed him
and
he read it all
and
he liked it, really liked it
said I was on my way to becoming
a hell of a writer
See,
this friend of mine
Graham
is a damn fine writer
a real word fanatic
a master storyteller
and
a genius at wordplay
so
getting a compliment from him about my art is
highly rewarding
We drank and talked
about Bukowski
Burroughs
both Fante’s
Selby
Carver
Nat West, etc.
We eventually got into poetry
Graham said he hadn’t written
a poetry piece in years
then said poetry was writing at its most bare
down straight to the bone
into the marrow
Then I realized something:
I don’t even know what poetry is
really
I'm an unschooled-nearly-dropped-out-of-highschool-'hood
from the poor side of town
I have no idea what it is that I think
I’m doing
as far as style or form is concerned
no clue what-so-ever
except
for trying
to break and tear down this wall I’ve built up
to protect myself from years
and miles
and hours
of pain
frustration
heart ache
suicide
addiction
self-hatred
and depression
See-
what I’m doing
here
now
is opening my heart up
trying to let you-the reader, whoever you may be- inside
to get into the real
bare bones
heart and blood and flesh
of me
I’m giving you me
naked
unprotected
and vulnerable
on the page for all to see
That-
precisely
is what
I'm doing
and why
I’m doing this
for you and I to connect
for me to open up my heart (and that's not easy for a macho madman like me to do)
and for you to see
and hear
and smell
and touch
and goddamn FEEL
what is
my heart's purest
thoughts

Things Change

2007-06-23T13:38:00.000-07:00

I met this girl
while out drinking
with the bassist in my new band
We danced dumb
to stupid punk songs
about Christ-knows-what
We had fun
and at the end of the night
I didn’t try to fuck her
or
even try to kiss her
Instead I asked her for her number
which she gave to me
and I texted her
on my way home
We set up a date
and met up on a Tuesday
in Wicker Park
We sat out on the sidewalk
and ate
and drank
and talked
trying to get to know one another
Still,
I didn’t try to fuck her
or
even kiss her
We went out for a couple beers at
this weird damn bar
and then we walked to the train station
We stood out there
and I was unsure
of what she would do
but I pressed my lips
into hers
and she pressed
hers right back ironically
into mine
and
it felt sooooo damn good
and I was happy
and she was beaming
and on my way home
while tasting
and savoring
her strawberry lip balm
on my lips
I thought-
wow, this is a first
and you know
it feels pretty
fucking
good
to finally not be the biggest
sleaziest
sluttiest
most unworthy
sons-of-bitches-in-the-world-for-once
and
for a fucking change.

2007-06-02T17:01:00.000-07:00

The alarm sounded and I let it buzz for a minute or two before turning it off, rubbing my eyes, stretching, scratching, yawning, and standing up and getting out of bed. I was tired. Eight full hours of sleep and I felt like I could go for at least another sixteen hours. Those four hydrocodone pills I took before bed mixed with the half bottle of liquid codeine really did me in.
I stumbled into the kitchen and went through the cupboards. Nothing edible but my roommate’s energy bars. I grabbed an energy bar and tore it from its shiny wrapper, broke off a piece, and put it into my mouth. The flavor was peanut butter but tasted more like anti-freeze and stale cat shit and the texture was all dusty cardboard. I spit out what was in my mouth and threw the rest of the vile deathbar into the trash bin. I didn’t understand. People loved these things. Clearly I wasn’t made for this world or clearly I wasn’t a person.
It had been four days since I’d had a drink and I was not happy about it. Four days sober on top of having the worst fucking head cold imaginable and St. Fucking Patrick’s day and loudmouth smarmy fucking American pigfucking college children traipsing around the streets drunk as if they were really Irish and partying one night a year like they were. Fucking tourists.
If blacks or Mexicans or Arabs had a holiday like St. Fucking Patrick’s day they’d be called niggers, wetbacks, and camel jockeys even more than they are now and such a holiday would be barred and banned in the states.
I hated my life. I hated everybody in my life. I flat out fucking hated everything. Everything and everyone. All the girls I knew were sluts, drunks, druggies, and whores and all the guys I knew were soulless macho closet homophobes who acted like nice swell fellows while the ladies were in the room but quickly turned into raging testosterone-filled gang-raping imbeciles high-fiving over what pussy they had fucked or were going to fuck. A bunch of fucking phoneys, fakes, and liars. I was clearly tired of the whole scene. I had had enough.
I stepped out of my apartment and down my front porch steps safely, without spraining an ankle. Stef was waiting outside of my house exactly where she said she’d be.
"Matt, I’ve been calling your goddamn phone like crazy! Don’t you ever answer that thing?" she said.
"Only when I know it’s the FBI calling to take away all my rights, babe..." I called out, before rushing over to Stef and putting my arms around her body, which was slightly chunky, but far from overweight. Certainly not the body of a supermodel, but she thought she had it all. Stupid girl.
We walked down to the diner and stopped in for a breakfast consisting of two eggs over medium with rye toast and American fries and several coffees. I smothered nearly my entire plate in ketchup and Stef made faces like she was gagging as if I were going to try and force her to eat off my plate.
"Okay! You can knock off the overdramatized bullshit, like fucking NOW! So I can scarf my slop down and fucking enjoy it, got it? Jesus fucking..." I barked out.
Stef just rolled her eyes and mouthed a trite and rehearsed ‘what-ever’ at me slightly before cramming an egg white sloppily into her mouth while failing to recognize the grease from the eggs dribbling down her chin. Disgusting, but I let her eat on.
I had met Stef just weeks earlier at a punk show. I was pressed up against the wall with two tall cans of Old Style in my hands and visibly unable to stand without the help of the wall. I recall her coming up all dark hair and glasses and bouncing breasts and commenting on my Discharge t-shirt. After drowning several more beers and talking and flirting with her I remember nothing. Black. I woke up the next day on a couch in a strange apartment with Smiths and Cure and Bikini Kill posters plastered all over the walls. I checked for my ID and my wallet and my money and my keys and they were all still there in my pants which were in a ball on the floor beside the couch where I’d slept. I walked around the apartment, stumbling and falling about before finding my footing. My head was still swimming in alcohol and I felt like I’d been beaten with a ball bat. I heard noise in a room to the far right of me so I poked my head in the doorway and there was the girl from the show from the night before.
"Good morning! I thought you might sleep all day. It’s 4 pm, already. You hungry? I made pancakes." the girl told me.
"Ugh... no thanks. I mean thanks, but how’d I get here? I’m sorry, but I can’t remember your name. I’m..."
She got to it before me "You’re Matt! I’m Stef. After we were talking last night you were too wasted to walk so my girlfriend gave us a lift back here. You were already passed out so we just put you down on the couch and you slept like ten hours. You got up in the middle of the night and pissed in the radiator vent..."
"Oh fuck! I’m real sorry. I was so fucked I probably had no idea." I told her.
"Yeah. I kind of figured..."
"Well shit, I need to get home, but is there anything I can do to make it up to you? Ya know, for pissing in your radiator and for the lift and all..." I asked.
"Absolutely.", she handed me a piece of paper with a number scrawled on it "Just give me a call sometime, ‘kay?"
We had been conversing on the phone for a week or so and at first I thought this may turn into a romantic little scene. She’d be my girl and I’d be her boy. Cute. But as time went on and conversations got deeper it became pretty clear to Stef that I was an alcoholic and it became pretty clear to me that I didn’t really like this girl much, that she was kind of motherly and overbearing, but she beat talking to the walls. At first I denied the accusations but then slowly she was able to convince me that I may actually have a bit of a drinking problem. Stef herself was a recovering alcoholic and was still attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings twice a month. We’d agreed to meet up for coffee on one sunny Saturday afternoon while I was very hungover and she had guilt-tripped me into stopping drinking for a few days and go to one of these AA meetings with her. I was not looking forward to it, but hell, I’d try anything once, especially if it got this girl off my ass or maybe got me some ass.
After we finished breakfast we caught the train and headed somewhere off into Uptown. I hadn’t spent much time in Uptown and it became even more clear to me now why I hadn’t spent much time there. Uptown is the fucking pits. Full of mad and unbalanced motherfuckers. Stef clearly belonged here. Not me.
We walked up to a beat to shit storefront with an AA sign out front welcoming one and all. Christ. We walked in and the scene was worse than I’d expected. The meeting began and Stef and I sat silent. Some jackoff with a moustache and comb-over named Bill or Rob or Jim or Mac got up to lead the meeting telling us all about himself. He was boring. I wanted to jam my ink pen from my left pocket straight into his eye socket and fucking twist.
Shortly after Bill or Rob or Jim or Mac or whoever that fleabag twat was that wasted ten minutes of my life whining about his problems some overweight white woman with bags under her eyes got up to tell her story. Hers was typical. She had it all and lost it. Husband, house, car, children. She put on a little weight and hubby started fucking around on her with the floozy down at the local bar. She walked in on it all one night and started pounding back the booze and didn’t stop. She was divorced shortly after, lost everything including the children and now sold her ass on the street to make ends meet or to keep on boozing so to speak. Real class.
Another guy got up and I tuned him out. His pants were clearly soaked in piss and though he was obviously homeless he carried himself like a blue-blooded Englishman, dashing and daunting fox-like across the room as if the dumb son of a bitch were dancing in a ballet.
"See? I told you this would help you. Isn’t this amazing? It just makes you want to get your life on track, you know." whispered Stef into my ear.
"Amazing?", I thought. "More like a complete fucking waste of time. What the fuck have these pricks got to offer me? Nothing! I don’t want to stop drinking. If anything these people are the reason why I drink."
With those thoughts in my head I got up, shoved the crazy homeless blue-blood out of my way and headed for the door. Everybody jumped up at once and Stef shouted and asked frantically where I thought I was going.
"To get a fucking drink! Fuck you all!" I yelled.
With that I walked out, got back on the train, took it into Logan Square and went into my favorite bar. I drank back five or six beers there before walking home to crack open a twelve pack of Milwaukee’s Best. Maybe I did have a drinking problem. Maybe I didn’t. Who’s to really say? One thing’s for sure though, if I was going to quit drinking it would be my choice and it would be on my own terms. Not anybody else’s.

2007-06-02T17:00:00.000-07:00

They all hit the streets.
I didn’t care.
I stood on the stoop,
sipping beer,
dreaming dreams
of
a royalty check
or
a published book.
Fuck
balling up at the bars
and
fuck
all the bartenders
and
all the overly primped
little bitches
that occupy them.
Fuck
‘em all.
I’ve got
my books
and
my records
and
my beer
and
what else do I need?
I gave up mostly
on women.
Too much pain,
too much sorrow,
too much trouble.
I
don’t need the bars.
I
don’t need the hassles.
I
don’t need to need.
If I
could turn this brain off
or
destroy
all the thoughts
in the back of my skull
I
could finally forget.
I
could finally move on.
I’m
not even on
my
side these days.
I
claw at myself
in
my
sleep.
I
stick honest-to-god-knives
in
my
stomach
and
I
drink
down more beer
and wine
than I ever thought possible.
I
relish
in physical pain
and enjoy DEEPLY
the scars that now wrack
my beer-buzzed body.
I’m killing
brain cells in high hopes of shutting the motherfucker down
all-to-fucking-gether.
I want fucking out.
Out of this fucking skin
and
out of this fucking head
and
out of this fucking city and even yes,
out of this fucking world.

2007-06-02T16:58:00.000-07:00

Nothing
and I mean nothing, motherfucker
makes more angry than writer’s block
I’ve got shit walking, running, SCREAMING
through my alcohol-twisted mind
on a 24 hour basis
but the words
and the thought
and the goddamn-motherfucking-inspirartion
is (goddamn) lost from the walk to
the liquor store and back
and this makes me want to stab
this makes me want to lash out
makes me want to scream
in the goddamn middle of the street

Self-Mockery From the Front Porch Steps

2007-05-10T16:02:00.000-07:00

I sit out there
on the front porch
surrounded by thousands
but feeling seclusion
draining back Old Style
after
Old Style
after Old Style
feeling the drain
of the 8 hour work day
I sit out there
on that same front porch
day
after day
after day
looking for that one girl
I see
at the train station at 7:20 a.m.
every morning
I sit out there
on the same front porch
acting like
I’m not looking at the passersby
while I’m actually
looking
hoping
that
that damn girl
with the
short brown hair
light brown eyes
D-cup (at least) breast
flashy dressing
pink pink lipped girl
will come
walking by
Then maybe
hopefully she’d know
where I live
and maybe
hopefully
she’d smile that smile
walk up on to this same front porch
introduce herself
drink a beer with me
and we’d be
hopefully
inseparable from there
But no
I sit out there
on that same porch
drinking
hoping
waiting
wishing
that she’d just walk by just once
while I chuckle to myself
and quietly mutter
"Boy, if they only knew you were that desperate"

2007-03-25T16:14:00.000-07:00

No. It wasn't a very good reading because while I acted like I was reading about her I was really reading about you. Though I now claim your love to be plastic, store-bought, unreal, fake, it still disturbs me deeply that you were able to just take it away from me while I physically shook and convulsed in your arms with tears streaming down my face. Though I claim it publicly to be bad and unreal I'd give my very last breath and my very last day to feel your breasts rest against my chest once more and feel your kiss and your breath on my neck and your eyelashes flutter on my cheek. I'll never forget you driving away and I'll never forget the feeling I felt as I watched your tail lights disappear. I had never felt more alone and here I am, still alone, staring at this old computer screen, drinking a cheap beer, listening to a crappy punk record. These were the things I claimed to love. These were all I needed. I'd trade them all in for just one more night an one more time, all to feel your love that no longer burns for me.

The Heart of a Wolverine

2007-03-17T16:10:00.000-07:00

I know you don't believe me.
You say these things can't be true.
I couldn't have changed so much-
in a year, or could I have?

I drown my throat with beer after beer.
My teeth are brown and I'm spitting up bile in the morning.
I spoke with you and tried to bring you home-
just ONE last time.

I cursed you in your face and I kicked your kneecap-
then I fled the bar and dash-dashed with all my might
to catch the brown line train to Kedzie-
where I got off the train feeling like a suicide case.

Times have changed and are changing still.
While my heart at times still screams for yesterday my mind
is now finally taking control. I used to feel incapable
of loving, but I now know my heart is bursting with love.
That love wants out, but am I afraid of being smashed,
destroyed, taken advantage of, or lead on? Only time
will tell. We both now have seen the tears fall from my eyes that
once burned with nothing more than rage and hatred.
I am human. I feel human emotions. I am a sensitive and
emotional man.

But- Try to call me bluff. Call me a liar and try backing me into a corner.
I will write things that only I know about you and I will proudly wear
these stories and writings and musings on my face, exposing you for what you really are.
Try to make me out to be a fool and this little Midwestern bastard will
write with eyes ablaze and finger tips of disgust and I will tear you apart-
leaving you battered, bloodied and bruised with the heart of a wolverine.

Chicago.

2007-03-13T16:47:00.000-07:00

"When you live in the heart of it, the city easily loses its romantic edge." Tamara said while bunching up her face at me. Tamara was a short thin Midwestern girl who’d been traveling all over the country for three years before settling down and making Chicago her home. She was a pretty punky looking girl with a Subhumans tattoo on her left shoulder. She sat beside me on Craig’s stinky couch with so many cigarette burns on it that it resembled a package of swiss cheese. Tamara was playing around with an orange and struggling to peel back the skin of the plump and juicy citrus fruit.
"Here! Give me the fucking thing! You’re driving me up the wall!" I said before yanking the orange out of her hand and peeling the orange quickly, violently even, before tossing it back to her.
"Thanks, crabby."
"Crabby? Whatever. Now what’s this you say about the city losing its romantic edge?"
"Yeah. It does lose its romantic edge," she said "I mean once you’ve lived in the heart of it for so long there are just no more surprises left and you become jaded."
This was a problem many of my friends were experiencing. We had all moved to the city to find something we had lacked in our collective hometowns. We all thought moving here would automatically fix our problems. We were going to leave everything behind and start anew and everything would be great.
Unfortunately though, that’s just not how things happen. Many of us ended up broke, disgruntled, jaded, brokenhearted, beaten down, and ultimately very unhappy. We had forgotten that a city can’t cure a disease, only we could cure our diseases and we had to just make the best of everything.
"What? That’s because you’re just not trying. Get up off this goddamn couch and lets go out and make something happen! Hey! I have an idea..." I hollered. My eyes were growing more maniacal and intense by the millisecond and my heart was bursting with excitement.
"Uh oh. You have that look in your eyes. I don’t like that look. All your ideas end up blowing up in our faces, Matt. Sometimes even literally. Remember the time you showed us all how to make a Works bomb and you nearly blinded yourself and three others?"
"Yeah, but this is different!" I screamed in Tamara’s direction.
"You always say that... and it never is..."
"Tamara, listen to me for fuck’s sake! What day is it today? Tuesday? Thursday? Oh fuck it, who cares!" I barked out while spinning in circles and pumping my fists in the air. "Here. Come with me..." I said while grabbing Tamara’s skinny wrist in my hand.
I took her out onto the front porch and a bus whizzed by. A man was standing on the corner with a cart selling assorted fruits and vegetables. The train was crawling up in the distance. The spring air was wildly blowing Tamara’s dark hair all about. This was a beautiful moment. This was romance. This was what it was all about. This was the beauty we first saw when moving to this city so many months and years ago. This was what made this place unique. I pointed this out to Tamara but she wouldn’t budge. She was clearly bored.
"Matt, it’s a bus. A fucking bus! There’s nothing romantic or even intriguing about busses. If you’re able to find romance on a city bus littered with old men who stink like piss you’ve clearly lost your mind."
"Okay. Good point. If you’re so bored then why don’t we go out and do something?"
"Okay, but I’ve run out of ideas and I’m broke. What do you have in mind? I hope not just walking down to the Whirlaway to get wasted..."
"No! We’ll go get a bundle of grapes and sit in the sun and make fun of everybody at Navy Pier. We’ll get drunk and ride go-carts. We’ll have a triple X excursion in the grass behind the museum. We’ll have a picnic. We’ll make out in the dumpster behind the liquor store. I’ll ride my bike to the library and you can ride on my handlebars. We’ll go to the carnival. We’ll buy a big watermelon and spit the seeds at each other. We’ll race on foot to the park and play on the swings. We’ll grill out in my back yard and invite all our friends. We’ll drink 40's at the beach. We’ll play board games we don’t know how to play. We’ll make a new zine. We’ll do ‘shrooms and stare at the ceiling fan. We’ll sit on the front porch and count all the red cars that ride by. We’ll go in to your roommate’s bedroom and fuck like little rabbits. We’ll listen to This Bike Is a Pipebomb as loud as the volume will allow and dance one-legged. Come on! We can start right now!" I yelled loudly, excitedly.
"Oh, Matt. That all sounds so great, but are you crazy? That masturbation episode of Seinfeld is on in forty-five minutes."

For Astro, the cat

2007-03-02T20:40:00.000-08:00

How many writings have you suffered under?
For how many years now have you been
neglected, because of the writing?
You have gone unfed, unloved, untouched
because of the writing.
The words spill from my fingertips
to the page, and you dash dauntingly in
between my legs.
How many homes have you lived in with me now?
5, 6, 7, 8? That is far too much for such a short time.
I move often, never staying in one place for too long
and I have suffered, but you have suffered much more,
and for what? Why? Because I have been selfish.
Your independence amazes me. My dependencies are
delusional. My dependencies are sickening.

Self-strangulation and the brisk eastern winds.

2007-03-01T15:38:00.000-08:00

You, with your charcoal eyes and lover’s lips
grin back at me over your chocolate milkshake
and cigarette, me with my first cup of coffee
and my boozy eyes make jokes and you laugh,
beaming all perfectly white teeth.
It won’t be long I know and this time I do not care to leave.
You, across the table make me feel important and
worthwhile, much like the way she used to make me feel
before the world bared its vampiric teeth to us.
We laugh and smile and say "Check please..."
And the sun screams on and the moon shines bright
and there’s a million things I want to tell you
before I fly out 900 miles away but I choke it all
down with a salty grin and soon I will mutter through
choked back verse one last strangled goodbye.

Holiday Cheer.

2007-01-01T18:10:00.000-08:00

Outside of these walls the streets are all lit up bright with holiday cheer. Children are running and laughing. Christmas music is leaking out of the speakers of department stores. Mock Santa Claus’s in the malls overcrowded with overbearing young mothers out to spoil their chubby little bastard children with overpriced gifts that their children will tire of after three weeks are grinning with thoughts of pedophilia. Candy and junk food are crowding the shelves of the pharmacies, just waiting to fatten us up for the killing.
Inside these walls is another story all together. I sit with bare cupboards and spiteful eyes staring into pointless nothings on a computer screen caked over with dust. My funds are diminishing rapidly. My neighbor is a transsexual, not that I’d care but the motherfucker is a surly one, challenging junior high students to fist fights and flashing his uncircumcised shwanze at passersby on an almost daily basis. The man at the liquor store knows me by name and gives me the store discount on twelve packs of Old Style. He tells me I’m their best customer, which could easily be translated into: You are the biggest drunk in our entire fucking neighborhood. The sink is dripping and the drain is clogged. Slow country songs ooze sadly out of my speakers and a twelve pack of Old Style is my only company.
The days are cold and the nights are colder. This weather just depresses me, brings me down and leaves me in a rut, a pit of self-despair. I drink like a fish and I curse the night wind. I stare out the windows and curse my neighbors. If winter isn’t a season or reason for cursing I don’t know what is. Old Man Winter is a son of a bitch that deserves a candy cane up his ass and oodles upon oodles of verbal and physical abuse, the rotten motherfucker.
My guts are aching and I’m grateful for nothing. My friends are bastards and nobody knocks on my door. Homeless people fill the streets and there’s never a hot meal. The warm bottles of beer are diluted with cheap piss and cigarette ashes. Men and women are alone and feeling more lonely than they’ve ever thought even possible, sleeping through loveless nights. Old women and men are slipping and falling on ice and shattering their hips. Gas bills are being turned off and families are freezing to death. Lovers and loved ones are turning their backs in times of need. What’s there to be so cheery about?
Yeah, the girls are still calling, pleading for me to come out for a drink, asking sweetly for me to stay at their house for the night, sending out text messages with blessed and beautiful hearts, but they just don’t seem to get it. I can’t just go out. Not with all this. It’s just too much. Tragedy is in the air, not magic, and I can’t just grin through it all and exchange gifts with a plastic smile on my tired and unshaved face.
Instead I sulk, pound my fists on the wall, smash the coffee maker, ride my bike in the house and hurt my knee badly after crashing in to the couch. Drink a beer and grimace through it all.
Holiday cheer holiday schmeer. The love stories have all run out and I’m stuck with the sobering thoughts that this Christmas will be spent alone once again. This was once a special time. Years ago I was a kid with a girl that had wants and needs and these needs were met and I regretfully didn’t embrace them. Now this day means nothing to me but misery and an empty wallet. I get cards in the mail and I don’t open them. I throw them away. They all say the same old shit anyway, really. I get calls from family members and don’t answer the phone. I get a call from a girl and she wishes me happy holidays. She goes on and on about what she has to be grateful for and about how much she loves Christmas. I try speaking but she continues on, ignoring me, muttering stupid stutterings. While she’s mid-sentence squawking about the gifts she’ll receive I hang up the phone, tilt up the beer, and turn the volume knob up a hair.

Another Damn Night On the Town

2006-12-06T18:54:00.000-08:00

We took the mushrooms at the Green Eye bar near Western and Armitage, by the Western blue line stop. She brought them cooked in tea in a 1 liter bottle of RC Cola. “Here” she said, “drink this down”. I took the bottle from her hand and finished up what was left, about three large swallows. An hour or so went by and the beer was going down good and the conversation bordered along the lines of humorous, beautiful, and downright obnoxious. Susan announced to me that she was now feeling “it” and asked if I was. “No. Yes. Well, I guess…” I blurted out before the two of us began laughing uncontrollably at the world, people’s facial expressions, the amazing brilliance of an artificial fireplace in the bar, and at well, everything.
Soon I couldn’t stand to be in the bar anymore so we huddled outside and bought beer at a liquor store where I tried straight-faced to speak Spanish with the man behind the counter before finally admitting to him, Susan, and myself that I indeed, can not speak a single word of Spanish. The man looked at me with a vicious, cruel, and eerily contorted reptilian-like face and shooed me out the door, but not before the swine took my last ten dollars for the 12 pack of Old Style.
Outside it was cold and cars were whizzing by and Susan was dancing and I was losing my mind. We stood for twenty or so minutes tripping on the street corner and screaming out our discontentment at the moon and stars and busses and pedestrians whilst waiting for that damn cab. This was hell, a living seething hallucinogenic hell that I’d sent myself to for some God forsaken reason. I looked at Susan and her face was red from the cold and her blue eyes shone pretty and brilliant and then it all became perfect, completely twisted, but what isn’t twisted in this world?
Finally a cab showed up and we hopped in and a cab ride couldn’t be more perfect. Sitting back relaxed in a cab with a beer buzz and a brain tweaked out from hallucinogens with a beautiful girl that’s just as twisted as me with Let It Be from the Beatles pushing me into a euphoric ecstatic high that you only feel every once in a blue moon. The lights shining in the car painting Susan’s face a light yellow made for a soothing yet somehow seething trip and I felt like I may be in heaven. I broke out a tape recorder and we began speaking into the recorder about the unbelievable and bold endless amounts of plastic bag we felt we were wrapped in.
The cab dropped us off at the corner of Ashland and Grand and we went into the show. At first it was all very surreal, seeing these people, these friends and fellow show-goers alike as my mind was more twisted than they’d ever seen before. Leaning back against a wall I felt a swinging door nearly collapsing from the weight of my back only to turn around and realize I was not leaning against a door, but a solid oak wood beam. These drugs were really starting to get to me and just then it became very clear to me that there were more and more people coming into the room where Susan and I and now a hundred or so others were drinking. What are these people really here for? Who are they and what the hell do they want out of me? They’re serpents, snakes, parasites, they’ve come here to suck the life out of me and I know it. I can tell. I’ve got one of those built-in radars. One of those bullshit detectors, or maybe I’m just fucked up on a drug I’m not that familiar with and am just paranoid? Nah…
The show finally came to an end after these people nearly swallowed me whole and I left for the bar with a couple friends and Susan left with another boy. Of course I was disappointed but there are more fish in the sea. I just haven’t found those other fish yet. What can you do? Drink to your miseries, forget her, and try to find another. The night ended in a sloppy drunken free for all fiasco and I ended up in two or three different bars, depending on who you ask. The night went black and my head went clack and I woke up freezing to death in the back seat of a car I’d never seen in my life in Wicker Park where I caught the train and rode that fucker until I could collect my senses and wandered on home. Another night out in the city and another one where I can say at least I made it home alive.

Destination: Anywhere But Here.

2006-11-27T19:20:00.000-08:00

There are nights when desperation comes, where words are forced and I can’t make much sense of anything. I stare blankly at the walls searching for inspiration and draw a constant imminent blank. My eyes begin losing focus and everything becomes hazy. Sleep deprivation and a healthy mixture of caffeine and alcohol will do this to you. I can’t concentrate and no matter how much I have to say nothing comes. I bang my head against the wall and moods come and go and leave me and those around me bewildered. It’s these moments in these times that I know I need to get out. I need to step out of my realm and hit the streets.
I’ve taken busses and trains everywhere, all over the city and even the country. I’ve done the Greyhound, the Megabus, the Pace bus, the CTA bus, the Amtrak, the South Shore Line, every last line on the El, and possibly even more. The busses and trains are good for me. There’s constant movement and unpredictability. It’s a way out, a chance to study human behavior and find either ugliness or beauty in it. It’s a way to forget about your problems, a time to stare out onto the city and relish in the luminescence of this man-made concrete jungle.
Some nights this city is perfect and it’s impossible not to fall in love. A girl will board the train the same time I do and even though she may never know it I dream of pulling her close and showering her with kisses and confessing my love that’s truly all in my own head, a made up on the spot kind of love like you read about in books or watch on movie screens in overpriced theatres that reek of over-consumption and stale buttered popcorn.
On a nice Spring night with the window jarred open on the bus as you’re zooming down Fullerton and staring out at the full moon whilst madness is all around waiting to creep up on you and stab you in the side with a knife and you know anything could happen at any given moment, it sure may be an uncomfortable feeling but these are the nights where I need to get out, get the blood flowing, get the brain thinking, snap out of this funk, this haze. That cool Spring nights breeze seems to snap a little life into this otherwise lifeless feeling body of mine.
There have been days and nights where I just board the train and take it as far as it will take me, hoping to find some sort of truth out there or discover the undiscovered, to find kindness in the cruel streets whose white and yellow lines tend to blur as I exit the train and stumble absently and solo through the unfamiliar neighborhoods. I’ll stop off at a bar or coffee shop and listen to conversations taking place all around me and I hear nothing but stupidity and greed oozing out of the mouths of so many people that are already dead to me, just skeletons or ghosts. These are the times where I want to burn this whole city down and torture everybody in it.
Always looking for the dramatic incident or dramatic ending when it doesn’t need to be dramatic or even memorable, just has to get my brain thinking again, have to get the oxygen shooting through my lungs, put a little hop in my step. Some days and nights I’m asked where I’m going and I have to give it some serious thought. Why am I out there? I have nowhere to go. I have nothing to do. I’m just out riding, looking for something or somebody. I haven’t quite figured out what or who I’m looking for but until I find out I’ll be riding with my eyes wide open.

Two

2006-11-26T17:24:00.000-08:00

The morning sun shines down on my face as I look up in to the sky watching my breath turn to a visible steam and curly-cue its way up into oblivion, in to nothing. I see the sun and the blue sky and the ice melting and dripping down from the rooftops onto the crowded sidewalks and onto our heads and faces. I breathe in deeply, holding the air in for a few seconds before slowly exhaling. I stare up at the buildings and before stepping onto the 81 Lawrence bus a smile finds its way onto my face and I tell myself that on beautiful days like this that life just might be a beautiful thing, that life just may be worth living afterall.

Chapter 1 of Windy City Heartache

2006-10-11T16:50:00.000-07:00

One

I shuffled slowly and bitterly through the thick wooden doors of my Albany Park apartment building, shaking off the cold and cursing the night before stepping into the dark, empty, damp living room. The apartment itself is empty, dead, unlike the thoughts racing through my head that won’t even allow me a minute’s rest. The place reeks of beer and cigarettes and the coffee table is littered with peanut shucks and cigarette ashes from my roommate Ron. Fuck it. It’s not my mess so I’m not picking it up. I’d rather live in the filth than clean up after somebody else.
Disgusted with what remains in the living room I make my way into the kitchen and into the refrigerator to open up a twelve pack of Milwaukee’s Best. I take my time opening the ice cold can as I’m still shivering from the cold winter’s wind I just came in from. I tilt the open can slowly and meticulously up to my lips and tell the can “At least you’ll never break my heart” before giving it a warm passionate kiss like it were the last and most beautiful woman on Earth.
I take the twelve pack out of the fridge and bring it into my bedroom where I sit on my twin mattress on the floor amongst the boxes of records and CD’s and books I’ve neglected to unpack for the last nine or so months I’ve lived in this miserable dump. I pop in a Jawbreaker CD and “Do You Still Hate Me” emanates out of the speakers, filling the trashed room with a certain spark and beauty and sadness that would otherwise never rear its way into this dwelling spot.
I sit there on the mattress drinking, getting drunk and trying not to think about it, about her. As I begin draining the tenth beer the singer’s gravelly voice spits out the lines “I have a picture of you and me in Brooklyn. On a porch, it was raining. Hey, I remember that day.” And I can feel my heart break all over again. Tears begin welling up in my eyes and I slam the empty can into the wall and furiously yank up every picture I have of her, rushing into the living room and throwing the pictures into the unlit mock fireplace. I stumble back to my bedroom for a last beer and a box of matches and set those pictures ablaze while draining that one last beer in a hurry in the living room again.
The pictures go out with no distinguishing needed and I wipe away the tears that painted my pale face just seconds earlier. I make my way into the bathroom and stand before the mirror, feeling defeated, broken, and worthless. I stare into the reflection in the mirror, peering through angry drunken eyes at the figure before me with dark purple bags under its eyes and sunken-in cheekbones and can’t believe I’m staring at myself. I contemplate spitting or putting my fist through that mirror but try to tell myself enough is enough, that I can’t let her do this to me, I can’t let her win, I can’t let her beat me. I can tell myself this over and over again but deep down inside I know she already has won and she already has done this to me. I skip washing my face and brushing my teeth and head into my bedroom where I grind my teeth and bite my nails and wait for sleep to come and tomorrow morning I’ll wake knowing I’ll face another day much like this one.

Desolation Angels

2006-09-18T14:55:00.000-07:00

Out of your arms and into another's/
All for today and yesterday's lovers/
The cheap shots, all the fuckin' cheap shots,
got me grinnin' down on my knees.

Desolation, ejaculation/
Stuck in isolation/
Take a look around every angle/
We are the desolation angels.

Make them grin, give them sin/
I still remember when you were so warm/
Standing outside, on that old porch/
Arm and arm with your head on my shoulder.

Desolation, ejaculation/
Stuck in isolation/
Take a look around every angle/
We are the desolation angels.

Warm brown eyes, look cold as ice/
Doing the things that we all despise/
When you leave, fuckin' lock the door/
Anything to keep me from standing on the floor.

Desolation, ejeculation/
Stuck in isolation/
Take a look around every angle/
We are the desolation angels.

517 Livingston

2006-08-01T17:28:00.000-07:00

Fifteen people would show up on a random Wednesday night. We didn't have a phone so we couldn't exactly turn people away. They'd just knock on the door and we'd let them in. Hell, some of the time they'd just walk in without warning. It's all the same, anyway. Had we had a working telephone though we still probably wouldn't have turned many people away as they always seemed to bring beer, liquour, drugs, and occasionally women.
There was always something interesting going on, like the night Tex decided to smash every dish in the house for no reason at all. Of course Nate and I helped him. Who were we to deny the man of breaking his very own dishes? Things would get out of control rather quickly and easily. We were all drinking a lot of whiskey back then and whiskey tends to make you lose your mind. Or at least make our kind lose their minds.
The landlady was a terrible old lady from England. We'd made her son, our roommate at the time, lose his mind, check himself into a mental institution, and move out of the house so we weren't exactly his mother's, our landlady's, favorite people in the world. The grass would get so long the city would give us fines. I told the landlady we didn't have a lawnmower and she told me I'd better get out on my hands and knees and start clipping away with a pair of scissors. I drank a beer and watched the grass grow longer, instead.
We'd get drunk and stoned every day and something would always get broken. Like the microwave. Or the TV. Or the kitchen table or the fan or the lamp or various other objects. Hell, I think we even broke the diningroom window once by throwing bottles at it.
We had bunkbeds in our diningroom and lived without lightbulbs and our kitchen was littered with trash and fruitflies because we didn't want to spend our beer money on such things as lightbulbs or trashbags or fly strips. It's hard to say how many people actually lived there, but only two of us paid rent and we didn't actually pay it all the time.
Andy broke a girl's heart outside there once and she cut herself with glass and attacked police officers. I broke a girl's heart there once and she just sat in her car crying, making me feel bad. Tex never broke anybody's heart but he did break his teeth once. He also spit his false teeth into a Funyuns bag and beat Dave with them, but that was a different house.
We used to fight a lot. We'd play music so loud we had to scream to each other just to hear a single word. We did acid with a fifteen year old girl and I was convinced she was the devil. That same night tripping on acid I'm still convinced a squirrel tried to attack me and even hissed at me like a cat.
Tex smoked too many cigarettes. I listened to too much Rolling Stones. Nate drank too much vodka. Andy bitched and moaned too much. Cyndi was just too pesky. Jessi was too moody and wishy-washy. Dan was too stupid. Dave was too Dave. Glew was too fat. Jay was too annoying. Scott shot too much dope. Emily was too horny and didn't shave her pits. I'm sure there were more people, but I've flushed them out of my memory for good reason.
Jessi would come over and complain about boys and I had a crush on her. Cyndi would drink all of our booze and smoke all of Tex's cigarettes. Nate would just be over, drinking, smoking, and being lewd and obnoxious.
It was fun while it lasted, but if things would have carried on the way they had been we would have all died. Things started spiralling out of control and it started to become not so fun. It became more depressing. Drugs and drinking were no longer used as means of stimulation or for fun but became essential for us to be around one another.
So when the landlady told me we had a month to get out of the house it was somewhat disappointing, but somewhat of a breath of fresh air. We could all go back to being normal kids again and it would be great. I started working out and getting healthy. Even started seeing the same girl again. Started a new band. Kids looked up to me as their hero because of my positivity... Of course that didn't last long. The damage was done and that was all just another phase. That wasn't the house. That wasn't the right time. She wasn't the girl, and I, well I just wasn't the one.

Her Eyes

2006-07-20T17:22:00.000-07:00

I can’t remember when it was that I realized I was obsessed with her eyes. I can’t remember when it was that I first peered into them, either. Large dark beautiful brown eyes, which are absolutely impossible for me not to look into, I stare into those eyes and I feel that at least for that second that they could possibly move mountains, cure world hunger, do the impossible. It’s those eyes that keep me awake at night and it’s those eyes that make seeing her worth the hour plus long bus and train rides.
A beautiful Latino girl that smiles at me when I do dumb goofball things like stumble and stutter over my words and lose my footing walking up a curb because she makes me nervous. She strokes my shaved head and grins at me through drunken eyes while giving me hugs of monumental affection, or at least that’s what I tell myself. She knows I’m a mess and for some reason something in her heart wants to take care of me and treat me sweetly, not mother or baby me, but just wants to make sure I do things like eat or get home okay after a night of hard drinking, sweet and genuine things, a heart that pure doesn’t come around too often, at least not in circles I’ve known.
She rocks from side to side while speaking to me, throwing in the occasional Spanish word or sentence that she forgets I can’t understand. I don’t interrupt her to let her know. Hell, it’s too damn cute. She talks on and I’m intrigued and mesmerized by those big brown eyes. She smiles and they sparkle like stars in a cloudless night sky and it’s beautiful and it makes me feel warm inside, makes me feel alive, like a real human being, unbelievable. I thought I was a monster until I saw those eyes.
She calls occasionally and we speak on the phone. The conversation is always great, but I can’t see her eyes. She doesn’t know how I feel about those eyes and I don’t know how she feels about much of anything, especially me. I run into her at parties and punk shows where I’m noticeably the only white guy there and she looks at me like I shouldn’t be there, but how can I leave when she’s shooting a smile at me and looking at me with those eyes? I can’t. I don’t. It gets me into trouble, but it’s worth it. It’s worth the hassle, worth the trouble, and hell, it’s the only reason I really even leave the apartment to go to those parties.
She puts out her cigarette and tells me I’m cute while we compare stomach muscles. We’re two shy kids that are a bit too timid to fully click, yet we carry on, for unknown reasons, possibly for hope that something really does happen. What that something is I’m sure neither of us have a clue. Or in moments like these, even care. It doesn’t matter. We’re both smiling and laughing and Lord knows if anybody deserves a laugh it’s us. She tells me I have pretty eyes and I wonder if she knows how crazy I am about hers, makes me wonder if we’re unknowingly telepathically connected. She tells me she’s basically in love with another boy, but she still flirts with me, and I’m confused and I don’t know what to make of it and I tell myself I don’t want her, but then she shoots me a glance again, a glance with those eyes, and everything previously mentioned just disappears, and we smile and we laugh, and we admire one another’s eyes. Why not?

THINGS I LIKE (Past and present:

2006-07-11T15:49:00.000-07:00

Drinking box wine on the porch and watching the sunset with a girl.
Waking up to Japanese hardcore blaring from my stereo.
Drinking a whole pot of coffee when I should be going to bed.
Going on long walks and conversing with John.
Punk-rock shows at the Albion House.
Listening to Jawbreaker while picking dried blood off my head from the night before.
Kissing in alleyways, bathrooms, and behind dumpsters.
Eating Mexican food and drinking Budweiser with Russ and Kat.
Blasting love songs at top volume while my neighbors are screaming.
Blowing half my paycheck on records I’ll only ever listen to once.
Playground swings and wrestling with Graham after far too much to drink.
Playing guitars and singing songs with Nate.
Introducing new records to Hoezee.
Eggs and coffee in the morning with Amy.
Buying weapons for kung-fu off Ebay.
Japanese food and saki with Syd.
Taking the train to parts of the city I’ve never been to and getting lost.
Getting hugs from Adi.
Listening to Whiskeytown with Tex.
Watching Rob paint chaotically while free jazz is shrieking from the stereo.
Staring at Sylvia.
Getting cute notes and laying in bed all day with Erin.
Rolling around on the sidewalk with Anastasia while Rachel and Dawn are doing cartwheels.
Barhopping with Erica.
Drinking and smoking at Dwayne’s and beating the fuck out of a punching bag with Chris.
Riding to Milwaukee with Zyger and Wedge.
Eating bar food and drinking beer with the Darvocets and Inmates.
IHOP at 4 am with Ben and Jessi.
Playing in the punkest punk bands in all of West Michigan.
Talking about myself to Bridget.
Making fun of people with Glew.
Shaolin kung-fu.
Receiving sadistic voicemails from Russ at 5 am.
Buying records with Rich in Cleveland.
Drinking beer in the shower.
Reading in bed with Jay.
Sangria on my birthday at Mikey and Amber’s.
Huddle House Grill with Erica and Dewey.
Stealing liquor from yuppies with Rob and Mariam.
Levi’s blue jeans, bad tattoos, and punk t-shirts.
Coffee cake at midnight with Fetus and Jess.
Getting slapped repeatedly by the female bassist in Clockcleaner.
Eating pizza and drinking PBR backstage with 9 Shocks Terror and Disfear.
Breaking my only fan in the alley at the side of my apartment on a 90 degree day.
Finding a GG Allin DVD for $5.99 at Walgreen’s.
Looking at the Puerto Rican girls in my neighborhood.
Falling in love with girls I’ll never speak with.
Drinking, listening to records, and hanging out with 5 random people on a random Tuesday night.
Drunken baseball in Nate’s kitchen with beer cans and a guitar neck.
Eating a whole chicken with Ami sans silverware.
Picnics and walking through trails in the woods with Sparky and Jay.
Writing pointless fucking drivel.

Ami

2006-07-06T15:51:00.000-07:00

Ami sits across the booth from me. She takes a large puff on her freshly lit cigarette, then exhales, sending the blue grey cigarette smoke curly-cueing in my direction. "You know. I don't even like boys. But you... you just do something to me. I'm not even sure what it is about you." she says as she takes a sip from what must be her seventh or eighth bottle of Bud Light. "Yeah? I don't know what to tell ya..." I say, while giving her a playful grin like you'd see a child do on a playground, designed to drive her crazy, as I tilt up my tenth or eleventh bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon to my lips.
"The coast is clear now!" Ami shreaks while staring off into the other room of the bar where her friend is bartending, a mere second before leaping over the table and pouncing on me while planting kisses on every line and fold of my face. See, Ami is a Brooklyn, NY native who's now calling Chicago her home. An Italian girl with a fascination of feminism and middle class society and theory, which she's currently studying in college. Ami is also involved in a serious five year relationship with another female. We're also co-workers. We're out tonight in hiding. Drinking the night away and pouncing on one another with kisses whenever the situation allows us to do so secretly. Dangerous move, as Ami's friend is a bartender at this particular bar and is quite curious of me: aka "The boy who's leg you've been humping on all night".
Ami and I went out one night after work to check out some punk-rock bands, something I'm very familiar with. Though Ami doesn't really know anybody at these shows and is somewhat of a social spaz she's getting along just fine with everybody and doesn't look a bit out of place. We're drinking beers, laughing, telling jokes, sharing occasional glances, and as we get steadily more drunk we begin staring into one another's eyes a bit too long. After the show ends we're both drunk and follow a few people out to another bar. We both decide that bars are boring though and buy a six pack to split behind the dumpster of a car parts store. It's where we're sitting when Ami announces that she wants to kiss me. I tell her that I won't stop her, but that I understand there may be some guilt there as she's the one in this situation with something to lose. She leans in and goes for it anyway. The kissing didn't stop until we got back to her place, where I couldn't spend much time as her girlfriend was due home in just a couple of hours.
Though I'm not sure you'd really ever say Ami and I were actually officially "seeing" each other we certainly did see plenty of each other, develop strange feelings for one another and hung out, kissing, rubbing, sucking, and hugging quite a bit over a three or four week period. Most of our meetings consisted of getting very heavily intoxicated in a bar, making out endlessly everywhere we were whether it be a bar, a cab, my bedroom, her couch, or her hideaway bed on her back porch. On our last meeting though, we fell asleep curled up with each other when her girlfriend walked in and spotted us. Being a somewhat reflective thinker though her partner just let us sleep and threw it ever so quietly in Ami's face the next morning over a whiskey on the rocks, making her feel terrible and very guilty, deservedly so.
Still, even after all this Ami would call me, email me, and send me random messages at work about getting together again to hang out. I realized after the close encounter where I could have had my manhood chopped off in my sleep though that we'd both be better off by calling it a day. I mean what were we thinking? We were both just products of bitterness, sadness and loneliness. She, crippled by a five year relationship she was no longer happy being in. Myself, crippled and overcome with such depression over the ending of an eight year relationship I was just forced out of. We were both using each other. Using each other because the touch and feel of another human being felt good, great even. We kept each other company. Kept each other from feeling loneliness and inevitably kept each other from facing the real problem. Ourselves. Instead of facing the problem head on we ran away from our problems with each other, drowned our miseries in drink, tried finding pleasure through physical attraction, trying with all our might to kill the pain that was in both our hearts.
We tried selfishly and we failed. A life's lesson indeed. I played with her heart and she played with her partner's heart, which may be the cruelest thing you can do to another human being. The human heart is flooded with emotions and tends to break rather easily. So why really toy with somebody else's heart when you know how much pain it may cause? Human nature? I don't have the answer to that question.
Still, there are some nights over coffee or drink where I'll peer off into the distance and wonder how Ami's doing or what Ami's doing. She has since quit the job she had working with me and it's been many months since we've seen each other or spoken. I realize we're better off not contacting each other, so I just let my mind wander and drift over the many possibilities of what she could be up to. I'd be a liar though if I said I didn't miss that smile and the way she'd stare at me with glassy eyes through the cigarette smoke in the bar.