.

end of the year.


its time to go home
because these showers dont get me
clean anymore

my hair dryer is broken
and all my underwear have holes
in them.

its time to go home
because this rum wont get me
drunk anymore

these people look the same
none of the brains have souls attached
to them.

its time to go home
because i dont notice if i leave the
room anymore

my limbs are too pale
and this sunshine just wont seem to
heal them.

it time to go home
because i realize that i dont
care anymore

about any of these senseless nights.

.

my big brother.


shut up. shut up. do not look at me. why must you look at me?
through the glass of that caged room... why must i be so
young? you are in high school. you have "gone nuts." that is
what he says. that is what she says. they are old, they are big.
they make jokes. they cant take it. they did not come. you
have "lost it." i dont know what that means. i am too young,
so i am the one who goes. shut up. shut up! i hear you, in a
room with no light but the bare bulb, which hangs in your
face. in a white washed room we wait to talk to you. my mom
cries. but she holds her hands in front of her face as if i will
not see. but i see. i see him. he is in a room with black bars in
criss crossed lines over the one square hole cut in the door.

he is not in his own clothes. the walls are a pale off white shade.
and this makes him more scared. they lift me up to say hi to
him. he screams, "shut up. shut up!" to my mom. she asks
him why did you throw her clothes in the lake? why must you
go? why did they take you? what did you do? i keep on.

i am nine years old. shut up dad, shut up mom. just shut up man in
the long white coat, dont write down on your sheet that he is
nuts. he is NOT nuts. he is smart. is so smart. why did you put
him in here? why are you here? shut up, SHUT UP. why
must you cry? why do we all need to yell? will you get my
mom? she and i, we are the ones who came. will you get my
dad? oh wait, he did not come. why wont he come to see his
son? wait, who are you? quit it! dont pound on the glass.

dont pound on the walls. why did you hit her? why did she
break you in two? why did she do this? what did you do? will
you shut up?! SHUT UP! shut up SHUT UP shut up. in the
back with hands on my ears. i am nine. she takes me out to the
street. in the sun it is too bright. i squint my eyes shut tight and
with my hands on my ears i sing LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA
LA. you cant get me in here. you cant take me like you took
him. when we leave there are stains on her cheeks. for the first

time i am no more a child than she is a mom. we will be this
way from now on. roles flipped. i am the one who came with
her that day. i was nine. he was (not) sane. not now. not in this
long line of NOT SANE. oh just shut up and take it.

.

short fiction.


"hey slut"
"hey jerk"

"lets get fucked up and forget about life"
"okay"

"hey slut"
"yeah jerk?"

"want to pull that skirt up a little higher?"
"sure jerk"

"you know what slut?"
"whats up jerk?"

"youre pretty when i am drunk slut"
"thanks jerk, thats real nice of you"

"well, dont tell anyone slut, but..."
"yeah?"

"i do really like you"
"yeah jerk, really?"

"yeah, i am just messing with you"
"oh right"

"no, you know that right?"
"sure, i like messing with you too"

"well dont take it personally"
"of course not"

"when i make fun of everything about you"
"i would never"

"okay"
"okay"

"hey slut"
"yes fucking moron?"

"yeah you know what?"
"enlighten me"

"youre not a slut im going to stop doing that"
"yeah thats pretty good"

"well you know ive always been joking right?"
"of course"

"its just that its different"
"what is"

"not hearing you yell at me everyday"
"well i try not to yell anymore"

"yeah but now i would like it if you would"
"of course"

"okay"
"okay"

.

this phone is tapped.

you know what?
youre right.
i dont know shit.
i spend too much money on
over priced jeans and used cds
and ridiculous amounts of alcohol.
i dont know about his disorder
and i make myself look foolish.
i dont know shit.

youre right.
i talk too much.
i spend too much time talking about all the things
i want to do and too little time doing them,
i spend too much time talking.
and i dont know shit.

youre right.
i worry too much.
i ask too many questions and
pretend that i know all the answers.
i worry too much that the answers are wrong.
i worry too much that
i talk too much and
i talk so much because
i dont know shit.

i dont know everything.
i dont know anything.

i wax poetic on liberals,
and the way sunshine makes my feet feel,
and life longevity,
and how i dont have any girl friends anymore.

and youre right.
i expect sympathy for the problems i created.
and i dont know shit.

but i do know that
i am tired of faking happiness. and i am tired of faking depression.
i am tired of faking emotion.
i am tired of living in a copy of a copy of copy of a copy
of a copy of a copy.
i am tired. will someone please wake me up?
i will love you forever.
i will like you for always.

.

past the library at 10:42


a call at eight for adventure
whispers of slightly irrational thoughts
watch the twilight lights twinkle
off excess water on my cheeks
heater hums though said heat does burn
laughter from skeptics cant kill the thrill
darkness surrounds when no cover is given
shoes and shirts and pants quickly away
running fast through wet grass
road disappears between buildings
over rough asphalt bare feet underneath
scraped and itching, lungs aching
this is what we like to do.

.

white trash love song.

its a white trash love song
that i sing to you
about fighting parents
and too much cheap beer and someones underwear showing.

its a white trash love song
where the refrain
contains
only sex in cars and lacks a good hook, baby.

its a white trash love song
where mall wages are evidence of our ages
and a fancy dinner ends up being
a super-sized
#2... no onions.

and though
it all started
during hot summer months
when for once my brain was fried
from too much sun
not too much of some unpronounceable illegal
substance,

and though it was because
i got you drunk on PBR
and forced you to deal with me, with us, with distance too much,

it is these long
cold
winter
days
that i spend
thinking solely of you
and the spring to come

that i appreciate
white trash
messy bedrooms
and quick
orgasms
and
arguing
about
whos
being
meaner
today.