To the World’s Liars

The lines on her hands and look in her eye;
Roadmaps, time-lapse demands;
Landmarks, landlocked, liplocked.
Green stoplights shut; don’t get lost, fool.
Get found. This type of sick divinity
Rarely ever makes its wretched rounds.
A torch crashes from its holster,
Igniting the prone upon the ground;
The world’s on fire, and the world’s liars
Watch the flames consume the town.
It’s hot so we dress down.

Am I happy now?  Probaby not.
But my hands are too busy to clench,
My tongue too busy to scream,
And I am a plant producing power.

Am I happy now?  Probably not,
But ask me again in an hour.

A little late, but we’ll call it a Valentine’s Day poem.  Why not?

*Yikes, I just realized that comment probably seems really, really cynical.  No bitter connotations intended.

I am in a class where I have to write "short-shorts," so here is one.  The events depicted transpired around April, I think.  It was a shitty time.

I lay there, and every bit of sensory stimulation made me want to scream.  This was stupid.  This was so inexplicably dumb.  Now, don’t misunderstand–I always vote in favor of random acts of stupidity.  But, in this rare instance, I should have broken my own legs and put out my own eyeballs than go out like this.

I could hear the coroner laughing.  The pallbearers giggling.  The chortling of a pink-faced Saint Peter.  Oh, Providence, save me from this fate!

If you’re going to O.D., then fine.  Hard drugs are probably a lot of fun initially, and I’ve been earnestly working towards cirrhosis for years now.  But to die…from caffeine?  I would turn down heaven in shame.  What could I say, standing next to Hillel Slovak and River Phoenix at the shuffleboard, as they talked about speedballs…fuckin’ heroin, people.

She was in the other room, crying to The Used.  That clichè would usually bother me on several levels, but I couldn’t care.  I wanted to care, to even give two shits, and I knew I would later, but it was just too much.  In an attempt to prolong a night of conversing, drinking, and arguing (in that order), I’d take a couple caffeine pills.  Drunken impatience bumped that number up to ten pills, and now my pulse fluttered in that intimidating range between two- and three hundred beats-per-minute.  And you know what?  If that phone goes off one more fucking time, and my heart once again conforms its cadence to that frenetic beat, it might just burst.  I always knew I’d die from a midi ringtone.

I leaned over and wretched yellow bile and, hopefully, some unabsorbed caffeine.

This was stupid.

A Polaroid!