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Tiny Dancer #1

The room is dark and you don’t remember how you got there. “Not again.” You think over your pounding head ache as your arms start to tremble. Scratch that, you’ve had head aches before and this was no head ache. This was Armageddon. This was a commet going off course just enough to land right ontop of you before destroying the entire planet. The taste of blood is still warm in your mouth even through you can feel it dried and cracking around your face. You must have spilled hot coffee on yourself because the skin on your pecks sting and your chest hare smells like vanilla late. In a panic you try to stand but you can’t because you’re legs have atrophy from not being used in such a long while. You move your hands across your chest and tears begin to form in the narrow corners of your eyes. Yes, the answer is yes you are wearing the bright burnt orange vest that your distant aunt had sent you for your birthday before this whole big ordeal took hold of you and spun so wildly out of control. What happened though, what started all of this madness. You swore off of it five years ago, and you hid the damned vest away, so what was it that brought it back out? The last thing you remember doing was lifting at the gym. Heavy lifting as always. You know this because you almost broke your own personal record. Also, you were having a bad day so you did an hour of cardio afterwords. Then what? Oh shit, that’s right. It’s all starting to come back. You went out with the guys to that Mexican place they love but you hate. You had a couple beers. You must have because the tacos there taste like dog food. After the beers you probably had a marg, or two. Somehow you drank till you blacked out but the energy drinks you downed before your work out kept you from passing out. That’s when they must have started talking about old times. They undoubtedly mentioned the burnt orange vest and the tiny dancer. Right now, cold and alone, bathed in the darkness, you are wearing the vest so there’s absolutely no denying what happened. You drove to your place with the guys, still black out drunk. You found the God damned vest and put it back on for one last time.  They gave you equil parts methanfedamine and phencyclidine. Then topped it all off with a couple fat doses of gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid. It’s all starting to come back to you isn’t yours. You transformed into “tiny dancer” and busted moves all down the streets of the city wearing nothing but the burnt orange vest and frute of the loom tighty whities. The guys brought out the worst in you. You found a nice patio still serving dinner and you brought the freak so hard that some guy tried to stop you. He stood up and threw his napkin down in opposition to your wounderous jigging. That’s when you brought him down with a smoldering right hook to the jaw, never missing a beat. His wife stood up and started crying and you freak danced all over her. Think of what the crowd of people thought when you reached down and took the bottle of chilled champaign from the tin of ice and chugged every last drop. Think of what the onlookers thought when you launched the bottle across the street. It explodes in front of a group of screening teenagers as you smile and drop it like its hot. Making your way through the streets you dance and dance and sweat cascades from every pour like a river of meryment, but you had no idea that any of this was going on. 

Weed in the Crack

I walk the city streets alone at night.  These broken sidewalks cover rich soil who’s product still seeps through the cracks in some spots. This vegetation is alone and far from its peers. Truly screaming in a crowded room but the human ear can’t pick up those frequencies. No, not at all. Across the street I see a man that looks a little like me but much older and far more decrepit. He is rotting from the outside in. He wears that dirt on his skin like a badge. As I pass he ask me for change, but I have none. Then I think that it is he that should have change. I ponder if that makes me a bad person. Yes, that makes me a bad person. However, I believe that time is a gift that you can use to gain or lose. Long ago mankind evolved from whatever into whatever so on and so forth. Mankind had to fight to become what we are today. I’m walking in the middle of the night and a homeless man that looks kind of like me is screaming in the middle of a room but if I chose to hear him then he will never change. If I give him change then he would never change, just grow to expect this kind of behavior from everyone that passes. You could call this indifference, but I call it help. I call it forced evolution. I walk on until I find myself falling asleep, warm under my down comforter. The next morning the homeless man wakes up and makes his way to the liquor store. On his way he passes a resale shop. The resale shop is having a sale. Through the window he can see a decent suite. It just might fit him and its a steal. He thinks for a second that he might look real sharp in that discounted suite. He might clean up real good and all of the homeless on the block might ask him for change for once. He hesitates for a moment just staring through the window. His stomach rumbles loud enough to shake him from his day dream. The homeless man continues down the street and crushes a small plant just growing through a crack in the sidewalk. 

Drinking

Let me cover my bases
I drank tonight with friends
Just a bit at first
But then
The walls of this room
Could not contain me
Let me tell you my whole life story
Seriously
Allow me to act out
Stop me if you can
You’re falling for the mask on my face
One day I hope to take it off

When I Get Angry

When my heart pumps hot blood through my veins
My face turns red and my hands shake with anger
I contemplate what it would be like to
Grab you’re face and smash it against the ground.
Over and over and over and over
Watch as you’re features become
A stew of gore and bone
I bight my lip and close my eyes tight
Holding it all inside
Because I’m not that person
Somewhere beyond the insults there’s a future
Filled with something more

My Dead Best Frend

I never wanted to find another friend
Standing beside you until the very end
Your body is torn and broken now
One day I will see you again somehow

You never wanted to go back home
Because you didn’t want to be alone
Die because you longed for true life
Die because you committed suicide

God and the devil pulled you apart
Made to be ashamed of who you are
You were the best friend to this guy
I want to die to be by your side.

The Party

Give me a little room
Seriously please
It’s hot and we’re all sticky
The air is thick and I can’t breathe
Or is that just stress
Did you realize the absurd volume
Of your voice
I guess you’re the limelight
In this box of a room
This your stage
But this is my final act
Of course you like his older stuff
Of course you like they’re first album
No I have yet to suffer through
Whatever random indie rock band
You heard about from you’re
Pseudo cool but good looking
Hipster friends random post
On social media
I need to pretend that I smoke
Just to go outside and
Contemplate jumping over the rail
I need a reason to leave
So I can suffer to home with my cat
You’re friends are so lame
I can’t believe I’m here
This morning I thought
I would never hate anyone more
Than myself
I am mistaken
I better leave before the fake “DJ”
Starts pressing play
On his sleek new iPhone
No, stay…

Social situations

They all stroll in around eight and we’re all tired after a long work week.
One cooks, one drinks, one talks politics, one plays games, one complains, and alone another sits.
I am the odd man out?
A voice with a choice and no thoughts present.
Stay at home and stay alone in shelter from rain and storm.
Or face the facts and just relax, calm as the day I was born.
Crying for a breath of fresh air and blinded by the first glimpse of light in that cold room.

Morning

Heavy boots stomp up the seemingly endless set of stairs outside my apartment.
The walls encase the sound waves of their voices in a perfect acoustic chamber as they shout over one another about women they might or might not have had.
They draw their hammers and pound heavy nails into mighty oaken lumber. I hear a stereo blasting the latest top forty country music just over the prolonged hum of a power drill.
This is my rooster crowing wildly
in the morning as I finally close my eyes to sleep.