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.

This blog is officially dead. EOM.

A few new pieces.

Whispers

Want To Buy: a companion, maybe a friend as well,
will entertain bids up to 180g per annum.
Please Send Tell.

Looking For Group: to piece together this shell,
this life of pixels and processors and self-induced delirium.
Want To Buy: certainty, maybe a friend as well.

Want To Trade: an empty space for something less ethereal,
a whiff of hydrogen, a drop of oxygen, flecks of sodium.
Please Send Tell.

Looking For a Lover: will settle
for marginal understanding, or some disappointing medium.
Want To Buy: a brother, maybe a friend as well.

Want To Sell: not the self, but the collagen fibers of the cells,
the neurons, the arteries, leaving just the worthless sum.
Please Sent Tell.

Looking For Anyone: another body in this empty hell,
someone to see, if only tangentially, through pseudo-love, and pseudo-hate, and all this pseudo- pandemonium.
Want To Buy: an anchor, maybe a friend as well,
Please Send Tell.
-----------------------------
PS Most exchanges in World of Warcraft on public chat channels are heavily abbreviated: LFG for "looking for group", WTB for "want to buy", and PST for "please send tell", a tell being a private message also referred to as a "whisper". Most conversation on public channels consists of twelve year olds being annoying and terse messages beginning with "LFG", "WTB" or whatever, followed by the activity or item in question.

Americana

Charles, this is in honor of your Thanksgiving Dinner poem. Input appreciated as always.

Americana

10 dollars to park

7 inches of mud

1 mad dash of jaywalking

3 Michael Jackson songs

38 cookouts

1 small Boy Scout selling glowsticks

2 baseball teams

60 minutes to wait

1 huge dark cloud in the South

2 kids shamelessly making out under a tree

3 boys speaking Spanish

4 seconds between raindrops

8 mounted officers

16 piles of horse droppings, at least

379 intermittent illegal private explosions of fireworks

4 impatient family members

45 minutes to wait

1 huge dark cloud overhead

2 worried expressions

5 text messages sent

.34 seconds between raindrops

1 more mad jaywalking dash

1 giant gorilla statue

38 grills still going

2 Johnny Cash songs

.02 seconds between raindrops

1 umbrella blown inside out

1 illegal private explosion, right behind Mom

1 "freakin' deluge"

4 family members in a dry car

1 fairly significant traffic jam

25 rescheduled minutes of fireworks, rain check tomorrow.

Harp Bones

Drawing a comb of reeds and metal sheaths across his crooked teeth
a skinny man who points his fingers at another man who holds his fingers in V’s
curls back the yellowed knuckles. Harp bone marrow leaks through a row of teeth.

Sinful whines emerge from millimetered wooden bars,
bronzed notes from spit-worn vibrations;
Then he lets himself sing a word or so.

Earthquake against tongues mimic a flattened earth
Columbus was wrong, he’d sailed off the edge
and did he know the land made such a melody?

Waves like metal-tasting sounds on hair cells and ossicles
curl back the inner ear like curled fingers over the edge, the grooved
cover plate indented with the names of abstractions,
sounds that cannot be voiced.

The skinny man who used to point fingers like he used to be a Zimmerman
shimmers eyelids behind a harp catching spotlight, making cuts across
enameled teeth and marks in lips of names of sounds, eyes

flittering like breaths rattling the metal reeds in a tiny air coffin
where wind meets the afterlife,
transforms into A’s and B’s and C’s and G sharps.
Sharps like sharp fingernails and piercing 10’s carried by breaths or gasps

in, drawing notes to linger in two lungs, waiting below the ribs to release
and mingle with new notes on a curled tongue, folded
and pressed against wooden knots and holes,
a tongue fold so genetically articulate that each breath must be innate.


A metal box with so many sounds within it:
ribbed compartments jailing chirps and quick, piqued casts of weightless carbon,
a tongue with so many words folded within it; a tongue
like nimble fingers skimming the surface of an oral organ.

A thousand chromatic voices at one second, one origin, one
body. Ten fingers glued together in curves to transfer the winded notes:
V for Victory or Vietnam but A and B and C
and D and on and on to change the times, alternating

inhales and exhales in quick expansions of the ribcage; surging blood
in xylem and phloem of intricately cut wooden encavements. The skinny
man knocks the reed against leather-worn palms
to pound out the saliva and lingering psalms. He

with his stained slender fingers strips the metal armor down
to the wooden skeleton and finds parts of his soul stuck in the crevasses,
carbon bodily scum he scratches away with his smallest fingernails:
clearing space for when his harp soul marrow begins to leak again.

Voyeur

(I'm having issues with the "steam shutter snaps open / then shut" line--I'm not a fan of having shutter and shut close to each other, and I like keeping shutter, but I want something short to replace shut that sounds good and yeah...any suggestions would be appreciated.)

Voyeur

I see them on the street corner
in red Chucks and black Chucks,
drifting in circles across the cement
as they waltz in the rain,
half-exposed behind sheets of steam
hanging over the driveway’s rainwater skin.

I see them as frames
caught in the steady flash
of the streetlight as the
steam shutter snaps open
then shut.
In layers the frames
collect--taped to my windows,
pinned to my walls--and
develop into a flickering kiss.

And as they warm in the
air and rainwatery arms,
I sit in blue Chucks, leeching
heat out of the window pane.

Help

I just started a new story. It's got some hope, I think. But it all feels so heavy handed, so forced, and I want to fix the tone before I get too deep into it. Here are the first four pages. Please. Help me fix this POS.


Apartments
(A Love Story)
Charles C

“Just let me blow you.”
“No. Goodnight.” The couple upstairs is at it again.
“Fine. Fuck you too.” It’s silent, a moment. Then I hear the young man settle into the bed beside his amore. “I love you,” comes through the drywall. I imagine them sharing a tired kiss. Half-bickering, half-bantering, I hear them every few days. It’s cute, sometimes. But it’s weird, too. I don’t know their story. The ghost next door is up now. I smell blood in the thin apartment air. Shit. I say a quiet Hail Mary, turn on the radio, and listen to late night shock jocks until I fall asleep.
Rent is good, here. Location’s not bad. There’s a really nice sushi spot across the street. Old Man Yakima runs the place. He’s very white, very Jewish, and very Japanese in his affectations. It’s weird, but cute too. I see his wife sometimes there, drinking hot sake from a small cup at the end of the bar. Her hair is golden and curly. I can’t tell how old she is. She smiles sometimes, reading the obituaries. I’ve never heard her speak.
I moved into apartment 713 right after graduation. I have a bachelor’s in communications; I work at Kinko’s. I eat a lot of ramen. And I’ve developed a fascination with lists. Here’s one;

APARTMENT RULES
(In order of importance)
1. Do not come in unless you are invited.
2. Take your shoes off in the foyer.
3. Do not take the Lord’s name in vain.
4. Do not open my fridge

And another;

REASONS FOR KISSING
Romantic desire
Erotic desire
Curiosity
Thirst
Boredom
They have something in their teeth and you’re too embarrassed to say anything
Hunger
Loneliness

I’ve kissed for all of these reasons. My first love was named Raquel. She was Brazilian. She was four years older, 11. I was 7. I put my hand on her shoulder when we kissed. I’d never felt so intimate with anyone ever. She blushed. If she had been fluent in English, maybe we would have stayed together. And if we were still together, I wouldn’t need this;

HOW TO GET LAID
1. Get off the sofa. You’re not getting any ass sitting on the couch watching scrubs and eating hot pockets. Getting out of the home is the first step to getting into a lady.
2. Be prepared. Shower, brush your teeth, shit and piss before heading out. Wear clothes that look nice. Not too fancy, not too shabby.
3. Keep the following in your pockets;
a. Breath-mints
b. Floss
c. Small knife (Under 6 inches)
d. Hot Dog (Wrapped in foil so it stays warm)
e. Crack (2 Rocks)
4. Know your area. If you don’t know where the easy ladies like to hang out, you’ll be cruising without purpose, which can add hours onto your night.
5. Be prepared to get dirty

That plan works. Most nights I can get laid in under an hour. But it’s not perfect. A few nights ago, I invited a Miss Gene into my apartment. I found her in an alley, rifling through old bread from a Subway trash bag. I’d been out for about half an hour when I saw her, and I went turgid immediately.
The full moon lit her beautifully; Short, sturdy legs, strong, calloused skin, long, auburn hair. She looked weird, but cute. She was lazily chewing an oregano loaf, one hand resting on the grimy alley wall. I stood and watched her from the entrance of the alley a moment. She looked up, noticed me, and stared. I asked her if she was hungry. I hoped so, hoped she hadn’t sated herself on old bread. She shook her head, didn’t answer.
“It’s not nice to make fun of people. Just cause you think you so much better off. I bet you aint happy at all. I bet you miserable, that why you picking on people,” I offered her the hot dog, wrapped in foil, from my pocket, “I don’t want your charity, sir.”
“It’s not charity. I don’t want it. If you don’t want it, I’ll just throw it away,”
“Well,” she smiled. Her teeth were whiter than most of the ladies I went on dates with, and I fell a little bit more in love, “In that case, it would be a sin waste it. I think Miss Gene can find a little more room in her belly,” and she started towards me. She kept the oregano loaf in one hand. I stepped forward to meet her, passed the hot dog off to her. Our fingers brushed together, softly, in the process.
When I got her home, I left her alone in the dining room, while I poured some raspberry vodka (she had said it was her favorite) and put some 80’s music on, to fuck to. When I got back, she was picking out different organs from my cat, and eating them, languidly. Softpaws was sprawled on the table in front of her, with his legs faintly pawing the air, like he was trying to run away. His eyes were clenched tightly shut. I couldn’t tell if he was making any noise over the Duran Duran from the living room. Miss Gene smiled at me when I came back in, and her teeth were stained red with kitty blood. Something was caught in her teeth. I sighed and reached across the table, took her hands in mine, and led her to the sofa. We made out, passionately, and I pried part of Softpaws out of her teeth with my tongue. He tasted bland.
Miss Gene was gone in the morning, when I woke up. She’d left Softpaws’ carcass behind, though, and I had to clean him up. Once he was in the trash, I sat down at the table and revised my rules down for future guests.

APARTMENT RULES
(In order of importance)
1. Do not come in unless you are invited.
2. Do not eat my cat.
3. Take your shoes off in the foyer.
4. Do not take the Lord’s name in vain.
5. Do not open my fridge

Rent is $200.00 a month. I’ve never seen the landlord. I slip a check under his door every Sunday morning, to the tune of faint electronic leaking out from beyond the doorframe. The landlord (Mr. Bruce) and I communicate by letters. He tells me about his daughter, who moved to California and ‘married’ her roommates. Her name is Java, she lives on the beach, and he says she says she’s very happy. She’s barren now, after being raped by an ex behind a Pier 1 Imports in her neighborhood, giving birth to twins, and getting her tubes tied. Just in case she gets raped again, he says she says.
Which is very noble, I thought. I don’t believe in abortions: Or masturbation. Every time you fuck your left hand, it’s like a tiny genocide; one million lives lost, their corpses soaked into a tissue and thrown away. I have never jacked off. If a lady fails to fuck herself pregnant during a cycle, that’s one life lost, dripped out her nethers and wiped away and forgotten. Even if, during the course of her entire life, a woman lets every tiny unfinished baby in her drip into a maxi pad, she’ll still be millions of murders away from one man’s night in with Brad Fucks Lisa and Gina on DVD.

The Boy

I dunno if this is what you want, Renata. It's a prose-poem/short-story/spoken-word performance piece deal. I really don't know what the hell it is supposed to be. But I hope it can be of use. Ugh, I need to start writing in past tense again. Present tense is ADDICTIVE.

What They Taught Me About Love

For Kara.  Because I love her that much.  This is a part of an english group anthology I have to write . . . I like this poem when I read it in sync with "Mama Who Bore Me" from Spring Awakening--it actually works really well.  Sorry if the layout gets fucked over . . . you know how blogger is about that sort of thing.  [Just checked--the layout isn't really too fucked, but the stuff that gets indented is really supposed to be even more indented than it is here, so that it looks like it's in its own column.]

What They Taught Me About Love

I was born one day to mom and dad

And they taught me a little thing about love

Love was the sacred, unconditional thing

Between a parent and a child

That never wavered, changed, or disappeared.

I started school when I turned five

And they taught me a little thing about love

Love was about sharing

About never being selfish

Always just a part of the community.

Then I was nine and my brother was seventeen

And he taught me a little thing about love

What it sounded like to make love to the girl

You took to prom, but call out the name

Of the Quarterback before you ejaculated

And what it looked like to see mom and dad

Pretend not to hear.

And then I went to middle school

And they taught me a whole lot about hate

What it meant to call a kid a faggot

How to hate everyone who was different

How to hate everyone around me

How to hate hate hate myself.

But then, out of no where, in high school

I met a girl

And she taught me a little thing about love

That faggot wasn’t really synonymous with stupid

That hate was for people who didn’t understand

That she was beautiful, and I was beautiful, and

If we wanted

We were all beautiful.

In high school I met a girl

And she taught me how to love

How to kiss and how to touch and how to feel with every inch of my body and LOVE it.

And how everything they had taught me

Before

Was wrong.

In high school the girl I met

Taught me that love was something beyond prom

Beyond one man and one woman

Taught me that love was something beyond giving

Beyond the stupid notion that taking was selfish

Taught me that love was 

Beyond unconditional

That in order to love one had to 

Hate a little, too.

And that no matter how many times my parents said

That their love was unconditional

Regardless of my sexual orientation.

They would always hate me a little inside

And a little too much on the outside

And that is what I have learned about love.

The Burning of Suburbia

So this was my final English short story for the year.  I won't lie--half of the reason it's set in a 7-11 is because of Charles' short story.  After reading that, I went through this huge phase of writing short stories that take place in 7-11s and this is kind of what came out . . . let me know what you think.  It is kind of long.

So, you walk into a seven-eleven. It’s the third Sunday in August, and you’re more than glad to escape the burning sun. A voice replaces the typical welcome bell: “Don’t you dare wear that camisole without a bra ever again, missy.” You spot Eric at the register and sigh; his manicured nails holding the pages of Glamour magazine won’t get you a free slushie today. You suppose that’s alright, you were kind of sick of flirting with seven-eleven perverts anyway, and it doesn’t matter how you look, you feel comfortable in your five dollar sweats and green tank top. Besides, free or not free, you’ll get that slushie.

You don’t just go to the seven-eleven for the slushie, though; there are other things on your shopping list. Maggie wanted a corn dog and last night you ran out of your pretzels trying to perfect that history paper.  Brett asked for cigarettes or he’d tell Mom about the fake ID you got last month and Mom mentioned before you left that she’d be out late tonight, so could you please pick up some frozen lasagna for your father? That’s the first thing you grab, from the freezer glowing along the right wall of the store. While you’re at it, you grab a large and cheap bottle of beer because Jacob wanted to head over to the baseball field for a fun-filled night of disgusting alcohol and summertime sweat and what could be more fun? You wander back up to the front of the seven-eleven and set your stuff on the counter, and go back for round two. 

You pick up the lukewarm corn dog for Maggie and a pre-made sandwich that hopefully doesn’t have too many tomatoes for lunch, and you walk down aisle seven in search of your favorite brand of pretzels for three entire minutes before another sound is made. 

“So tell me, what are you exactly? A man?” you hear Eric say, indicating company. 

“Fuck off,” you hear in a woman’s voice. Again, you sigh. You prefer to shop alone. Eric is really the only company you need, and even that’s stretching it.  The pretzels, you find, are right in front of you and you grab them and hurry back to the front, in hopes of getting out of the store as soon as possible. 

Lasagna, corn dog, pretzels, beer, sandwich, goes the mental tally in your head. Five things. You run back to the back of the seven-eleven for the second-to-last-item: your well-deserved slushie. The largest size is thirty-two ounces and you grab it, attach the round plastic lid, and place the cup beneath the dripping silver spigot. You won’t lie to yourself, blue raspberry is by far your favorite flavor, but the blue doesn’t suit your lips well, so you stick with cherry. You are convinced that boys are attracted to cherry slushie lips.

As you watch the liquid–or is slushie a solid?–sop into the cup, you hear the clunky boots get closer. You stare harder at the cup, wishing that the stupid machine wasn’t so slow so that you can go and buy your deadbeat brother his cigarettes and get out of the seven-eleven. Usually, this place comforts you, because who is in a seven-eleven at this hour of the afternoon in this heat on a Sunday? No one goes anywhere on Sunday, not in this town. Usually, this third Sunday every other month, the seven-eleven is empty for the entire fourteen minutes you need to get your stuff together. And yet, it is undeniable, the damn footsteps are still getting closer. 

“What the fuck do you need three watches for?” the owner of the shoes asks, and you’re surprised to see that she’s just a girl, maybe a year or two older than you. She’s about five-eight–almost a foot taller than you could ever hope to be–and isn’t nearly as overweight as most of the people in this city. You slowly bring your gaze down from her head to her feet, where you see the combat boots that you had been picturing stomping around the place for the last several minutes. 

“I don’t.  Two of them are dead,” you deadpan, having been asked this question far too many times. 

“Which two?” 

“The gold one,” you say, pointing to it, “and the Mickey Mouse one.” The gold one you got from your grandfather two weeks before he died three and a half years ago. The Mickey Mouse you found in a box of cereal last Christmas, and the battery worked for about a week before it died.

“Well, fuck that,” she says. “I wouldn’t wear them if I were you. Too much dead weight.” 

“Eh,” you say, trying to shrug her off.  You almost tell her that you wear the gold one because it was the only thing your grandfather left for you in his will, and even if it was broken when you got it, you in your heart that he wanted you to have it for a reason.  As for the Mickey Mouse watch, your cousin is only five years old and she loves Mickey Mouse and has one just like it, and it doesn’t matter to you if the watch is broken, you just know that she smiles when she sees you wearing it, when you visit during 

school vacations.  You almost tell her this stuff, but you don’t.  No need to make angry combat boots girl any angrier.

“For real though,” she says, and you’re sure she's about to say something else but she's interrupted by the sound of the door opening again. 

“So, how many steroids did your team take this season, Michael Jordan?”  You hear Eric greet the newcomers, who ignore him, instead running immediately towards the back of the store.  The sounds of sneakers skidding on linoleum hurts your ears.

“How dare you!  They're only innocent children,” a woman, who you figure entered with them, exclaims. 

“It's approximately three o'clock, do you know where you're children are?  Probably not,” Eric replies, and you imagine that he hasn't looked up from his magazine for the duration of the non-conversation.  You feel slushie run across your hand as the cup begins to overflow and you hear the girl in the combat boots snicker.  You didn’t mean to keep pulling the lever, honestly you didn’t, but it’s too late now.  You walk next to the firewood display and grab some napkins, first brushing a strand of hair out of your eye.  Combat boots girl laughs again, and you laugh too, because you know you just got slushie mess all in your hair, and there’s no way that sticky stuff will come out until you take a shower.  You look at the girl in the combat boots to see if she’s still looking, and she is.  

“You’ve got some,” she says, tapping her finger to her eyebrow, and you use the napkin in a half-hearted attempt to clear away some of the mess.  Did she really have to be standing there at that moment?  Gosh, why is she still standing–your thoughts are cut off by the quickly approaching sound of sneakers-on-linoleum.  You don’t want people to see you like this, they aren’t supposed to be here, it’s three in the afternoon!  You were so sure that this place would be empty that you didn't even wear a bra. Besides, you were pretty sure that Mike was the one who was supposed to be behind the counter, not Eric.  Boy, do you regret that decision now. 

You reach out to grab your slushie when the footsteps stop.  A chorus of “I want blue!” “Why isn’t there any green?” and “I need to pee!” fills the back of the room and you turn around to face seven little kids.  They are not pleasant-looking to any degree of the imagination; you figure that they are, in fact, what an eight year old would look like if he’d been on steroids for a year.  They each wear a basketball jersey, colored blue and yellow, with baggy shorts that don’t start until halfway between their waists and their knees. The tallest is only a few inches shorter than you are, which is impressive for a kid his age, and the redhead has a meaner eye than any guy you’ve known in the last three years of high school. A woman comes running up behind them. 

“Cody! Andrew! Go to the boys’ room. Dylan and Frank, collect seven corn dogs and do not, I repeat, do not pass go!” she continues to rattle off names and instructions to the boys, and after a few seconds they’ve all disappeared from sight even quicker than they arrived. You look around and you can’t see the girl who was in the combat boots, so you figure she must’ve been scared by the little ones. 

“You live here?” the kids’ chaperone asks you. 

“Yes, ma’am, all my life,” you say. You can feel the tension build up in the store as you smile, showing off your clean, white, and recently metal-less teeth, and inside you start to pray that they leave. “What brings you here today?”

“Just had a basketball game in Mount Lockleir. I’m their coach.  We creamed ‘em, and I told ‘em we’d get corn dogs and slushies on the way back if they were good, and I’d be damned to say that this wasn’t the best that I’ve ever seen ‘em! Truly remarkable these kids are, truly remarkable,” she says, staring over to where Dylan and Frank are trying to figure out how to each hold four corn dogs without dropping anything.  

“Well, they sure do seem like a fine group of kids, ma’am,” you say, flashing her another smile as you grab your still-overflowing slushie and walk back to the front of the seven-eleven.  Forget the cigarettes, if Brett really needed them he could get his own ass off of the couch.  What you really need is an energy drink. 

The refrigerators line the right side of the seven-eleven, and you know that the energy drinks are all the way at the end, just your luck.  You try to run to the end, anything to get out of there as soon as humanly possible, but before you’re even half way there you have to stop running because two of the little kids are right in front of you.  One, the tall one, walks fast and with a sense of purpose.  His blue boxers conveniently match his jersey and hang elegantly over the elastic waistband of his shorts.  He’s trailed by the shortest of the group, a small boy with glasses whom you can’t help but feel bad for.  The small boy is laughing loudly and obnoxiously and you can’t tell why, you just wish you could get past him and his friend.  

“So, wait, what was that story?  Why did you call me a damn bastard again?” he says, laughing loudly again.  The talk kid doesn’t respond.  Clearly, this memory encompasses the small kid’s seven seconds of glory, and he’s trying to live it up as best he can.  You kind of feel bad for him, and even though you want to push him aside, run ahead, and grab your other drink, you don’t really have the heart for it.  

The tall kid rolls his eyes–even though you can’t see his face, you know he’s rolling his eyes–and starts reciting the story.  They’re on a bus, a big yellow one, and everyone is sitting in the back.  This makes sense to you, you know that the back is always the coolest place to sit.  “And you walked up to us in the back and you asked Jay if you could take the seat next to him.  Jay said no, you couldn’t, and then you sai–”

“Wait, wait,” the small one says, “let me do it!  I told Jay, ‘Get the fuck outta here!’ and then you, you said–”

“I called you a damn bastard because Jay was saving that seat for Mariana and you knew that!”

“Yeah, but everyone laughed when I told Jay to get the fuck outta here, and you know it.  You know where I got it from?  You know where?  I saw Jack sayin’ it to one of his friends after a game.  He shoved him to the side and said, ‘Man, get the fuck outta here!’ just like that, just like how I did it.  Man, I was a riot, wasn’t I?”

You have given up.  You cannot take the story anymore, you gently nudge between the two kids and rush ahead to grab your drink.

On your way back to the register, you see the two kids who were assigned to get corn dogs–Frank and Dylan.  The redhead, who you think is Frank, picks up two with one hand successfully, but as he reaches for a third with his other hand, the first corn dog he picked up falls to the ground.  Dylan laughs and points at him and you can’t help but snicker a little bit.  Frank carefully places the corn dogs safely to the side counter before kicking Dylan in the shins, hard.  Dylan grabs his ankle and falls to the floor, his face red and he begins to force tears down his cheeks.

Trying desperately to avoid getting involved, you rush back to the counter, where your slushie (among other things) is waiting for you.  You hope that it hasn’t melted–it would be awful if it had melted.  The coach is standing at the register, surveying the seven-eleven.  

“They’re some fine kids, they are,” she says to you.  “Really some remarkable kids.  That one George is mine,” she points to the small kid you nudged, “never been so proud of anyone in my whole life.”  You imagine that she must not have done much, but you don’t dare say it out loud.  You can still hear Dylan crying on the floor, and you want to say something, but the coach’s obvious ignorance holds you back.

Banging comes from the boys’ restroom. Then screaming. The coach walks towards the door and says, “What’s going on in there?” but it’s no use. Cody or Andrew’s screams are muffled by Andrew or Cody’s insistent crying.  The coach gives up quickly and returns to the register.

“They’re just having some fun, you know how little boys are.”  You want to point out that you’re pretty sure they don’t act like that, but then again Brett is older than you and when you were eight you weren’t really interested in sports.  In the back of the store you hear shattering–of glass, plastic, possibly bones–and you’re afraid to look, but you can hear the sound of liquid flooding down to the floor and soon it’s at your feet and you remember that the seven-eleven isn’t really as big as it seems when you have it all to yourself.  There are screams too, more of them and louder and you know that the store has at last crossed the line between rambunctiousness and panic.

“They get like this sometimes, but it’s nothing we adults can’t handle.  This is my first week on the team you know, George decided he wanted to join last Tuesday.  Can’t say we weren’t surprised, he’s not much of an athletic one, but you know what they say–” you’re pretty sure you don’t, “–you’ve gotta let ‘em do what they want to do.  We’ve always been supportive, John–that’s my husband–and I.”  

You hope that she’ll stop, but she keeps talking, pointing to the tall one and telling you his stats, and you want to get out, you want to get out now. You quickly brave a glance to the back, and it doesn’t matter how quickly you bring your gaze back to the register, you still saw a dented, flooded slushie machine, and what you’re pretty sure was blood and a kid on the floor screaming. Another one, the tall one, starts fisting the vending machine on the other side of the automatic doors.  You wonder if it would be possible to break the glass, but you aren’t sure.  If anyone could do it, you suppose that this kid could.  Eric does not move an inch from behind his Glamour magazine and for once in your life you feel like you understand where he’s coming from.

“Eric, ring me up, please?” you beg him, smiling, hoping that the blue and red mess doesn’t destroy your shoes.  Your mom got you these flip flops at the beginning of the summer and you would hate to tell her that you’d ruined them.  It takes a full three seconds–yes, at this point you’re counting–for him to move his magazine, and another four for him to place it next to the cash register.  

“Miss,” he says to the coach, “could you please tell your devil-spawn to pull up his pants?  His boxers really don’t match that jersey so well.”  The coach glares at him and takes it as a request to put them back into their places.  She walks over to the tall one and tries to pull him away from the machine.

“I am never, ever going to have fucking children,” someone says, and you realize that the girl with the combat boots has returned, with a blue slushie in hand.

“Amen to that, sister,” Eric says, scanning the pretzels.

“Oh, uh, Eric, could you add a pack of cigarettes, please?” you ask him because you suppose you feel bad for Brett.  Eric knows you aren’t eighteen, but he puts one of the more expensive packs into your bag, anyway.

In the background chaos continues to ensue, and purple slushie goo pools closer and closer towards your lazy, flip-flop wearing feet, and you question your unconscious decision not to buy painkillers.  Each move that Eric makes seems to take minutes instead of seconds, and you wish that your walk home was short enough that you could carry everything instead of needing a plastic bag.  You can feel the slushie on the floor begin to push against your flip-flop.  Eric hands you your bag and you throw a twenty on the counter, telling him to keep the change even though he certainly doesn’t deserve it.  You turn to the door, but combat boots girl is in your way and won’t move.  You start to walk around her, but she points to the back of the seven-eleven.

“Go on back in.  Your feet can take it,” she says and you roll your eyes but you go anyway, because you know she won’t get out of your way if you don’t.  You step carefully into the slushie mess and follow her back towards the root of it all.  The closer you get to the back of the store, the thicker the mess gets.  You can see it clearly now, the slushie machine with the front punched in and both taps stuck on, but there is no more sweet liquid left in the poor machine to flood the store.  The kid lying off to the side a ways, still screaming in pain and clutching his bloodied knuckles.  Combat boots girl reaches the end and you see that she’s holding her own seven-eleven bag.  

“You’ll probably want to take off your flip-flops.  You’re going to need to run,” she says, checking the contents of her bag.  You wonder if she’s mentally insane, but figure that it would be too impolite to ask.  “I know that it’s gross, but really, you’re going to want to be able to run.”  You can’t do much but shrug and slide your feet out of your flip-flops, which were seconds from being destroyed, anyway.

“Now here, hold this,” she says, handing you a metal can.  It’s cold to touch, and you look at the label: aerosol.  

“What do we need–” you start, but she doesn’t let you finish.

“Eric is such a fucking homo,” she declares.  She’s searching around her jacket for something, you aren’t sure what. 

“No he’s not,” you say, but only because you know it’s true; you’ve had this discussion with him before.

“I know, but he wishes he fucking was.  He’s still a fucking homo,” she says.  She pulls a lighter out of an inside pocket.  “And what the fuck is up with all these fucking kids?”  You shrug.  You don’t like where all of this is going.  “Is this what we’re fucking teaching everyone?” she continues even though you wish she wouldn’t.  Your feet are getting cold and sticky and now, on top of wanting to get out of here, you want to take a shower.  “Are we teaching kids to fucking jack up on steroids while they’re young, while they still have a shot of not getting caught?  It’s fucking ridiculous.  Now, press the button and get ready to run.”  It’s almost like she’s saying everything in the same sentence and she’s so convincing, so right, that you start thinking in the same sentence and before you know it, you’re pointing the can towards the firewood display just next to the slushie machine and you’re pressing the button and you tell yourself that it’s just because you’re too tired not to.  You’re too tired to deal with all of this . . . this fucking shit.  Yeah, that’s right.  That makes sense.  The girl flicks the wheel of the lighter and produces a small but steady flame, and you stop watching and listen to the screams.

Cody and Andrew are still going at it from the bathroom, which is still locked.  You think that Dylan is the one holding his injured hand and if that’s Dylan, then it must be Frank who’s standing off to the side, pointing and snickering and trying to steal bags of potato chips by stuffing them under his shirt.  The tall kid is still punching the vending machine and George is still laughing to no one at all, just laughing.  You know there was another kid on that bus, you counted seven kids, and you look to your left and to your right for him but it doesn’t matter–the girl has waved her flame in front of the spraying can of aerosol and immediately it catches and everything is orange and red and hot.  You want to drop the can and run, but you can hear her muttering, “Come on now, let it burn, let it all burn,” and so you do, you gently wave the can from side to side and you let it all burn.  After the firewood, the napkins are the first to catch fire, followed not so shortly by the plastic of the slushie machine.  

“To the right, don’t forget to the right!  Ah, yes, perfect, watch it go, and now don’t neglect the left, you’re neglecting the left!” the girl in the combat boots instructs like a music conductor, waving her arms around and you take her directions like a clueless child and soon, the walls have caught on and everything is getting hotter by the second, and you almost don’t hear it when she whispers to you, “Drop it and go.”

You do.  You don’t care that your feet are cold because you know that the wall behind you is too hot to go back.  The only way out is forward.  Above the cries of the children, the cackling cannot be heard.  You can still hear her in front of you, repeating over and over, “Those fucking kids.  On steroids or something.  Is this what we teach our fucking kids?  Steroids or homo?  Fucking kids.”  She looks back at you to make sure you’re okay, and together you stop running and you walk the rest of the way to the front of the store, acting as though everything in back is okay.  The coach is still trying to calm down the tall kid, trying to talk him through it, and then trying to scold him, threaten him, bribe him.  She cries out to him, begging him to stop so that they can get on with it.  They won, goddamnit, why aren’t they satisfied?

“She can’t even handle them.  She’s such a fraud.  Such a fucking fake soccer mom.  So fucking afraid of everything.”

Eric still sits there with his magazine, and he has zoned out of the world.

“Such a fucking homo.  He doesn’t even turn the page, have you ever noticed that?  Forever on the same page, just wants to look like he’s stylish.  Fucking homo freak.” 

You want the girl to stop.  You want the fire in the back to stop, but you can feel the heat move from the back wall to the side, and you still haven’t seen that seventh kid, that stupid seventh kid that you don’t even remember what he looks like or what his name might’ve been.  

“And the fucking kids.  So loud and obnoxious like they’re already famous.  Fucking nerve, fucking kids.”

You hear someone shriek and you turn in every direction.  There he is, the seventh little boy, standing over just past the vending machine.  He’s looking back, the first one to notice the fire, and he’s yelling loudly but there is nothing to distinguish his yelling from the yelling of Cody or Andrew or Dylan or Frank or George or the tall kid whose name you still don’t know.

“Let’s get out of here,” the girl in the combat boots says and she almost sounds normal.  She takes a deep breath and you take a deep breath but you both cough because the place is quickly filling up with smoke.  You exit in step with each other, and you aren’t sure if your feet are relieved or petrified at the thought of walking barefoot on the cement sidewalks all the way home.   Your mom is going to kill you without those flip flops.  You look at the girl and she looks at you.

“You’re fucking different from all of them, alright?” she says, and it’s the first time in the last seven minutes that she hasn’t been able to entirely convince you.  “You’re not a fucking homo or a fucking b-baller or a fucking wannabe soccer mom.”  You look down at your feet, which have turned purple for what you assume are a number of different reasons.  “At first I walked into that place and I thought you were a fucking slut, cause you’re not wearing a bra or nothing, but then I saw your fucking watches, and man, that stuff is wack.  Too wack for you to really be a slut.  Can’t get action with that fucking stuff.”  You don’t know whether you should be flattered or insulted.  You nod because you can’t help but agree.  The girl turns around and starts to walk off.

“Well I suppose I won’t see you here again?” you say, attempting a laugh.

“No.  Fucking slushie,” she says and then she’s gone.  She walks away and you know that it doesn’t matter what comment you make or what question you have, she won’t be saying anything else.  You turn around and you see that the fire is expanding exponentially–almost the entire back wall is gone and the rest of the building is catching quickly.  The fire jumps from space to space and the store fills with more and more smoke, and glowing ashes fall from the ceiling and land on the dividers between the aisles, making sure that everything is equally burned.  The flames crawl down the moveable shelves, carefully destroying everything in their path, and then they reach the floor and you see what the girl meant when she said, “Fucking slushie.”

The walls burn down and the shelves burn down and everything burns with them, but as the flames reach the floor they simmer out against the cold, wet texture of the slushie, leaving the linoleum in tact.  Nothing can touch the floor, it remains as it was.  Black and white.  Shining.  Covered in blue and red slushie.  You wonder if your flip flops in the back of the store will make it, if they can find refuge beneath the moisture and wait it out until morning.  The screams, you realize, are beginning to finally fade out behind the cackling.  Fire truck sirens are approaching from a far distance.  You think about the seven children, one woman, and one man stuck inside, and how it won’t matter to anyone that they were fucking arrogant or fucking oblivious or fucking fake, they’re just dead bodies now, dead bodies that we can pity.  No one will know why, why they all had to die, and you keep telling yourself that it all makes sense but really, you have no idea.  You turn your back on the seven-eleven and let your red cherry slushie drop to the floor; the idea of slushie just isn’t as appealing as it had been this morning.  You turn to the right and you start to walk home with your pretzels and a frozen lasagna and the bottle of beer and a corn dog wrapped in a napkin and the pre-made sandwich and the energy drink and, oh yes, the package of cigarettes.

On the corner is a boy in a blue and yellow basketball jersey.  You don’t know his name and you don’t remember hearing the door open; you certainly don’t remember anyone escaping.  From a distance you smile and wave, but as you walk past you look down so that maybe he won’t see your eyes and know who you are or what you’ve done.  You walk a block before turning back, but it doesn’t matter, the boy is gone, back out into the world, ready to become a basketball star.

Depressing Poetry

Just a note before you read:
This is not directed at any of you guys, since I know you're all so much more creative than what I'm describing here.

Depressing Poetry

Writing depressing poetry is the easiest thing in the world.

Especially for teenagers.

Start off with something easy:
Like death.
That’s always easy.
To write about, at least.

Or maybe how
“No one gets you”.
That’s a favorite.
“My parents don’t get me.”
“My friends don’t get me.”
“The world doesn’t get me.”
“My parents don’t get me.”

I’ve heard that before.
Maybe you can be a little more creative.

So, let’s go back to death.
You can always do stuff with death.
Just think of all the depressing words you can use:
Dark
Deep
Blood
Suicide (this one’s a classic)
Tears
Screams
Fear
Darkness
Darkness

Ooh, I like this already.

You can write it really fast.
See if you can beat five minutes.
You could set the world record for fastest-written depressing teenage poetry.
You can do it anywhere:
In your room,
In Health class,
In that dark
Edgy
Post-modern
Corner of the auditorium
With that out-of-tune piano
That sits there gathering the dust
Of another year of students
Who don’t know how to play.

See, I can do it, too.

Anyone can do it.
It’s easy.

What’s hard
Is writing poetry
That isn’t dark
That isn’t depressing
That doesn’t blend in with all the others.

Now, there’s a challenge.
That’ll take some effort.
Not sure I can do it.

But it’s worth a try.

Suburbia

So after basically 3 months of not writing a damn thing, I was sitting in psych class, watching the Dead Poet's Society. About halfway into it, I started to feel an itch of inspiration, so I begged some paper and a pen off a friend and started writing, I wrote about a dozen pages of assorted free verse, and pulled this one out of the scrambled mess tonight. I like it. Formatting it on here to match what I have in word is a pain, so I'm going to just let you guys know this isn't quite the set of funky line breaks I was forcing all over the place in this mother in the real word document, but it's close. I hope my University doesn't expect me to write anything classier than this, because it probably won't happen.

I'm rather fond of this.

So I went to admit weekend at Davidson right, and met a cool guy and we wandered off into this coffee shop and stumbled upon a folk concert! So there I was, with a new friend, the best latte I have tasted, submerged in the style of music that my neighbor Conor Oberst frequents! What could be better? Naturally I had to write a poem. Input, please!

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"Amplified Evening"

Folk vibrates through fringe coated with dust

as coffee doubles my burn,

worth it because of quality.

Pretension, perhaps, saturates the roasted air.

The best seat in the house is by a

stranger / friend

learning more about me than I ever care

to tell-

past written words give me away.

A bittersweet shiver reminds my contented core

that...

this can't last.

Things aren't for sure yet.

It's fear:

the future may not be this,

but it's comfort:

it will be some other deep flavor

of the sublime.