Ten Dollar Happiness

By Devin Mullin

There’s a certain joy in which I partake,
it might not be real, but it can’t be fake.
With all the time and money I’ve spent in it’s name,
there’s no possible way it was all in vain.
Instead of dealing with life I prefer to just shrug,
and quietly sweep my pain all under a rug.
I’ve got some issues, but I don’t need a shrink,
when all it takes is ten bucks to bring me back from the brink.

I only have that ten, but the feeling’s too sweet,
I guess for now I don’t need to eat.
That shit can wait, I’ve got food at home,
besides I’m laughing too hard to hear my stomach groan.

Wait, home, how am I going to get there?
I’ve spent all my money, there’s none left for the fare.
Well, whatever, a turnstile can be hopped,
but I guess it’s possible for me to be stopped.
An officer calling my home could be the end of my day.
I wonder what my mom would have to say.
Probably something about me ruining my life,
or about how I’m causing her so much strife.
She really believes that I just don’t care,
it’s just that I look to the right, and my joy is right there.

Everything’s a struggle, it’s always a fight,
but it’s easy to just live life in the fire light.
Finding happiness in the world takes so long,
but my way is so simple, I can’t believe that it’s wrong.
I start off sad, but ten bucks later I’m great,
I have work to do, but I can get it in late,
actually fuck it I really don’t care if I fail,
I just have to plan how to tell my parents this tale.

Damn I hate this so hate this so much, I just want to forget,
ten more dollars spent and now I am set.
Was I upset about something? I could of sworn I was sad,
I just can’t remember any feelings I’ve had.

I feel so numb my mouth is stuck in a smile.
It’ll be gone at some point, but I still have a while.
It’s important to keep it as long as I can,
I could give a fuck if it ruins some plans.
Those things are for a future that’s so far away,
they have no bearing on what I do today.
So I live how I want, I don’t hurt anyone,
I simply want to be allowed my fun.

But pause, what about the people who care,
their concern for me is so hard to bear.
When the world comes crashing it’s them who cry,
I feel nothing, yet to them I lie.
I tell them I’ll work hard, I’ll turn it around,
but my course won’t change till I’m in the ground.

Why should it, I doubt myself for no man,
But all of these tears weren’t part of the plan.
They whip against my face like rain in the wind,
falling in the thousands, one for all of my sins.
These tears fall mostly from frustrated and tired eyes,
but a good deal of them fall directly from I.
I’m drowning and I see a life jacket in sight,
but a man says it costs ten dollars to light.
That’s nothing to consider the exchange is made,
and I thank god that the hurting will soon fade.

I’m sick of feeling this way when I think over my life,
so I turn to these bags instead of a knife.
Thank your stars the bag has always won that race,
because otherwise the knife would be slashing the lord’s face.
Just to allow me to bring the world down to my level,
and laugh as I watch you all dance with my devils.
Finally I’d find a few understanding faces,
after succeeding in putting them back in their places.
They’d be faced with trying to work out my trauma,
and they’d see why I choose not to deal with the drama.
There’d be no time for them to find a new way,
as they would need to get rid of the pain on that very day.
They’d soon look to me and learn what I’ve known a while,
that it’s silly to frown when it’s only ten bucks to smile.

Indecisive

By Devin Mullin

Why love when we can fight?
Violence, pain and shame can last all night.
It’s a waste to be happy nothing gets done,
true progress only comes by the gun.
We live in a world that understands force,
not courage, not grace, and definitely not remorse.
There’s no love for the enemy, let them die.
We’ll feel no guilt when we hear their wife’s cries.

Wait…

Perhaps instead we could understand,
empathize with them, don’t reprimand.
Of course some force will still be needed,
but a certain level should never be exceeded.
We could trust in the goodness of humanity,
try to end all of this calamity.
Maybe, just maybe, we don’t have to fight.
We could let acts of love be our signs of might.

Actually…

Never mind the world can’t be changed.
Human nature is too deranged.
People betray, that’s the cold fact.
To turn the other cheek is to present your back.
It won’t be long before a knife’s wedged deep.
Your life is over time to sleep.
There’s only one shot, you don’t live twice,
misjudge the world and pay the ultimate price.

Although…

Life is too short to live divided,
to waste the world we’ve been provided.
If we all want peace where is it?
We all need to lay down our arms for a minute.
There has to a better way, I just know,
a better path where love could flow.
It takes real courage to not comply,
and only obedience to fight and die.

No Changes

By Devin Mullin

I could stay sober, but here’s the catch,
the world’s fucked up and I’m just trying to match.
I don’t need therapy my solution is quicker.
My shrink’s name is weed, tabs, and good liquor.

Someone mouths the word stop, I can’t hear over the guzzling,
but I find his appearance to be quite puzzling.
He looks like me at the age of ten,
I must be losing my mind I need the liquor again,
but after a chug the kid’s still there.
He has a look on his face I simply can’t bear.
I knows he’s disgusted by many things,
like a man dependent on what a drug dealer brings.
He starts to say something, but shakes his head,
he knows he must leave or soon be dead.
I’ve made myself what I am and won’t change my creation,
especially not due to my damned imagination.
I want him gone so I throw punches without care,
but now I look around and see he’s not there.

I could stay sober, but here’s the catch,
the world’s fucked up and I’m just trying to match.
I don’t need therapy my solution is quicker.
My shrink’s name is weed, tabs, and good liquor.

The liquor ain’t hitting, I need something stronger.
I hope a blunt can keep that kid away longer.
I roll it, light it, breathe in and breathe out,
now I’m wondering what I’m worried about,
but lo and behold the kid comes right back,
with that same look that had made me attack.
This time he spoke, he began to pray,
that damn demon child had this to say,
“Please god tell me that this isn’t true,
that my life’s only goal is to smoke blunts with the crew.
I’m freaking ten, yet I have more ambition,
then the man I see in this odd premonition.”
I’m too high to understand if what he’s saying is right,
but I know for sure that I still want to fight.
I look him dead in the eye and take another hit,
he disappeared realizing that I’d never quit.

I could stay sober, but here’s the catch,
the world’s fucked up and I’m just trying to match.
I don’t need therapy my solution is quicker.
My shrinks name is weed, tabs and good liquor.

The weed didn’t work so I drop a tab,
finding solace in the chemicals straight out of a lab.
At least now I’m hallucinating on my own terms,
but I still see the kid and his look still burns.
He’s screaming “how could you do this to us,
after everything thing they said, after they made that fuss?
People used to think you could really be someone,
but now an addict is all you’ll become.
You had a vision for your life, you used to have dreams,
but now the next high is all your life means.
I hate your guts and now I see,
that I may be you, but you’re nothing like me.”
I wholeheartedly agree, and I hate him too,
so I grab hold of a knife and I run him through.
I watch him die and I feel changed,
not like a murderer, and not at all deranged.
The old me is dead I’ll do whatever I want.
I’ve freed myself from all of his taunts.
There’s no more guilt for buying what the dealer is dealing,
and when I need more money there is no guilt for stealing.
I won’t be changed there is no way,
I’ll stay like this until my very last day.

I could stay sober, but here’s the catch,
the world’s ducked up and I’m trying to match.
I don’t need therapy my solution is quicker.
My shrink’s name is weed, tabs and good liquor.

Who's Life?

By Devin Mullin

Who’s life do I lead?
It can’t be mine.
My personal choices are considered crime.
When doing the right thing, I don’t feel like me.
I just have a different sense of prosperity.

The people who don’t relate,
for some reason have hate,
for me, my friends and the way I live.
To just be left alone there is nothing I wouldn’t give.
To not have to hear stop using, stop drinking,
and while your at it you might as well stop thinking.
You don’t need your own thoughts, I have plenty,
sift through them and try to find ten or twenty,
that you can stomach or with which you agree.
Now grow up and be exactly like me.

Some of them I know really do care,
there are just some things we’ll never share.
Nothing is worse than someone just wanting what’s best;
it’s all about the future, they don’t care about the rest.
What they don’t understand is even if they’re right,
I will never see that light,
because when the rebel in me dies, so does my soul.
Living outside the system is simply my goal.

I’m disgusted my the idea of a normal life,
of a picket fence, Volvo, some kids and a wife.
I don’t know what I should do, but I know what I won’t,
some people want to be normal, but I really don’t.
I’m done with being led, I’m taking control.
Too many commands have taken their toll.
It’ll be my life soon, I’ll do any deed.
It’s about damn time that I get to lead.

The Importance of Similarity

The Importance of Similarity

By Devin Mullin

I should probably provide some form of advisory.
I advise you should fear the possible rise of me.
If you’re cool with the world, leave me alone.
Most likely I’ll agree with nothing you’ve ever known.
Most people like me are quickly dismissed.
The world prefers to stay in ignorant bliss.
So if that sounds like you, don’t get near.
What I have to say, you don’t want to hear.

Most would rather not know that freaks are people too.
They could have a lot to offer, but most have no clue.
Whether it be pierced up kids screaming about punk rock,
disaffected youth keeping drugs in stock,
people who’ve had a hard time staying in line,
or anyone who’s ever had to do some time.
These people are deemed unfit to consider,
most live in a small world, why make it bigger.

They’re already the haves in this word of have-nots,
there’s no need to have to deal with new thoughts.
It’s believed that people should stay in their place,
it’s blatant discrimination, but not based on race.
They only want to deal with their own kind,
not those with the same skin, but with the same mind.
The unwashed masses have no place being smart.
They never stopped sympathizing, because they didn’t start.

Being similar is so vital, I don’t know why.
Maybe not for you, and certainly not I,
but for many it’s necessary to share certain traits,
if they’re going to care at all about your fate.
It’s wrong that they revile a different identity,
it just seems like they miss out on great people to me.
Despite your belief’s I know one thing that’s truth,
our entire society serves as proof.
A question more important then who, what, or when,
is are you us or are you them.

Oh man

You all are good. I have a few things to share, but first an overall comment:

All the writing on the front page is fabulous, and I feel really bad for not checking this blog more often (or at all). I was just in a creative writing class, so I do have some writing to share. They're all short stories (the only poem I'm proud of that I wrote in that class is currently being made into a movie [by me], so I'll just place a link to the movie on YouTube and you can watch it in all its glory--or not glory--when I finish it in June-ish). I won't post them all at once though. Just this first magical-realism piece to start.

Touched By God by Renata Gerecke

He doesn’t expect to hear bells ring as he enters the tattoo parlor, but ring they do. They ring like the high-pitched voice of his sister, singing at home or in elementary chorus or in college a capella or now, on Broadway. He shudders, as the sound continues to resonate.

“Have you ever heard the saying?” a woman then says. She enters from a back room, separated from the parlor by a heavy black velvet curtain. When she pushes it aside, the room becomes illuminated. He now sees the blood-red walls, covered in possible tattoo designs, and the maple wood counter top, buried under fliers for “indie” movie premiers he already has VIP invitations to.

“The saying about the bells–have you heard it?” she repeats. He shakes his head and looks up to finally face her. Her apron, a stunningly clean white, catches his eye. He wonders briefly if it is the apron and not the back room that illuminates the store, but it is a silly thought, one which he tries to abandon. But how does he see the apron if she is standing in the shadows–in such a way that her facial features are not defined?

“You have heard it, I bet that you have. Every time a bell rings, another angel gets its wings? Everyone has,” she says, and she’s right. He has heard the saying, every Christmas with his family watching It’s A Wonderful Life. He hates that saying. His brother, though, he was a sucker for it. Wore wings to school every day for a week after watching that movie.

“Well that is why we have those bells in here. We like our angels,” she says, and he thinks that she’s looking up at the bells just above his head but he can’t be sure. “Now take off those shades and tell me what I can do for you.”

“Lightening bolt. Here.” He points his stomach, just beneath and to the right of his belly-button. He has been thinking about this for weeks, ever since his girlfriend mentioned casually during intercourse that she thought it would be attractive. He did not disagree; to him, a lightening bolt holds the allusion of power and control that had always been missing from his life.

“Fine choice,” she says, and she gets to work. The needle does not hurt like he expects it to–he almost cannot feel a thing. Her hand on his stomach alleviates the pain. It glows against his toned abdomen and its presence on his stomach, just sitting there, makes him feel as though he is lighter than air–as if, if he wanted to, he could do anything. She hums as she works, a tune he does not recognize but reminds him of his mother, humming over the sound of his sister’s beautiful voice throwing insults left and right, humming over the sound of his nose breaking after his effeminate brother throws a punch, humming over the sound of her own affairs in his father’s absence.

He stops thinking about them, his family only upsets him, and before he knows it, the tattoo is finished. A long lightening bolt along his pelvic bone, with an inscription just above it that he did not ask for and can barely read.

“Would you like to see it magnified?” she asks, as if she knows what he is thinking. She hands him a mirror and he can see it clearly now:

Touched By God

He doesn’t understand right then, and he doesn’t question. He thanks the woman and pays her and leaves the store, ringing the bells but refusing to listen to their harsh criticisms. He refuses to listen to his sister call him an outcast and his brother say he’s adopted and his mother’s goddamn humming–and then, as he enters his car, he feels for the first time a stabbing pain on his stomach, just beneath and to the right of the belly-button: a delayed reaction that bothers him for a minute and then goes away. He takes his keys out of his pocket and jams them into the ignition and starts his car, wondering what his girlfriend is doing right then, and where he should take her for dinner.

Revival!

I have the advantage of being in a poetry class this semester and therefore being very productive. Here are a few of my favorite pieces, I'd love your input because my workshop class is not nearly as amazing as y'all.

1. Swimmer

A day long past the last day for
Hanging out in dust-encrusted lawn chairs relishing flourishing freckles,
Hanging secrets out to bleach with whites and kitchen towels between the house and the beach,
Hanging over the gunwales to capsize on purpose,

The afternoon was forever, so the darkness came as suddenly as
Music and beat painting a blank club before any partyhunters had arrived,
Someone’s too-young sister going out brunette and coming home blonde,
Understanding springing up between two plastic cup graspers and a box of wine.

A frumpy cardiganed woman who didn’t turn heads anymore
Centered herself in a sun salutation past sunset at the end of the dock.
In the morning, the Times thudded onto the dewey planks where she wasn’t anymore.
The water lapped like her orphaned cat and light rose over the blooms that wouldn’t be snipped and arranged.

She became a land-fish, handpicked by Poseidon for his air tank.


2. A Character
dislikes the disconcerting seasickness caused by chairs that spin.
ritualistically rips straw-wrapper tips, blows so the cannon lid pops off, flattens, accordions, and slips peacefully to rest beneath the diner table.
is a Jolly Rancher junkie.
needed to paint for a commission, but needed a release more, so bestowed uncontrolled pastel swipes of art on all the tree trunks down Fairwood Lane.
keeps a Tupperware full of washed eggshell halves and vague sculptural plans.
breeds goldfish named after silent film stars and falls asleep watching them dart in blue blur light on the television by his bed, an image streaming from a camera trained on the kitchen aquarium.
breakfasts on stale pita chips with a green Tobasco exclamation point.
sighs into shelved seashells, listens to reverberating whispers; makes a wish.


3. Love Poem for a Waitress

At the corner of 38th and Walnut,
the only trees are sudden
branching flashes from headlights
that disappear around the block.
McGill’s Restaurant fluorescents smooth
diners to sandstone. Cigarette smoke
and gossip filter under the overhead
scrutiny like sand through an hourglass.
Sand diners.
Sand diner timers.

After work, detergent designs evaporate
from drying dishes as you close open drawers
then hum your way through the Walnut St. forest
of light with leftovers to freeze, portioned for one.
You have a nice TV but skipping the news
instead you concentrate on flipping
pages, squinting out a story before switching
to pajamas. Glasses would suit you.
You chew your toothbrush, then your nails,
thumb the curtains for a moment, let them fall.

I know because our windows align.
You hide at McGill’s in the harsh fluorescents
because your face is soft in lamplight.
I’d like to clean dishes from dinner for two.