Friday, January 29, 2016

A bitch ain't one.

When your death was fresh I had a dream about you. You came to me and said your death was an accident and that it wasn't my fault. That dream kept me sane for a pretty long time but now here I am with a new partner and a whole new set of problems and I wonder if that dream was just my way of convincing myself that I'm not a monster capable of driving people mad. Maybe it wasn't really you who visited me but rather the activation of some sort of built-in coping mechanism. Its sole function to momentarily distract me from my dangerous human flaws so I could go on with my life despite your very tragic death.

Then I think about what the police officer said to me.
How when they found you, you had the name tag I wore to work around your neck.
That's how they identified you, with my name around your neck.
Good Lord might as well have been my hands at that point.

Here's the thing. The minute I start to believe that our fights caused you to do something as incredibly careless as walk on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway in the middle of the night, a rage fills inside me. How dare you leave me with enough guilt to last a life time? What the hell were you thinking? No pussy is worth that kind of pain. Jay-Z had 99 problems... If I were so insufferable you should have kicked my ass to the curb. We'd all be better for it. Instead any person who has any remote interest in being with me now has to deal with the indelible mark you left and that really really sucks.

My art work is about you. My blog is about you. My thoughts are about you. YOU YOU YOU.

I loved you. I really did. I LOVED YOU SO FUCKING MUCH.

And I still love you but obviously in a different way now.

A part of me believes you didn't have to die- unless you wanted to... but if that's the case you should have left me a letter. This suspended place of never knowing what you were thinking is my cross to bear.

I've got 99 problems, plus one more.

The Sweetest Boy

Is not you.

The sweetest boy does not know me.
Has not met me.
Seen me. Touched me.

The sweetest boy is still safe.
He is making sailboats out of trash and dreaming
the sweetest sweetest boy dreams.

The sweetest boy
is not you
but was you
at some point
before me. 

Sunday, January 24, 2016

Sometimes I'm just a bag of dicks.

I'm so sad right now. I don't feel like I can hold onto anything meaningful. Everything is failing. I thought I had reached a point in my maturity where I owned up to my shortcomings, but I was wrong. Attention! News flash: I still would like to blame my father for making me the fuck up that I am today. Congratulations dad. Ah sigh sigh sigh! I can't handle how bitter I am.

I'm probably never going to ever be satisfied. I'm probably never going to steer myself towards my truest desires. I don't even know what they are anymore.

I was such a freaky kid. What happened?

I'm not even Catholic and I have so much guilt. I hate feeling sorry for myself. There's so much fucking horrifying bullshit happening in this world and here I am sucking my thumb, masturbating my tiny dick of an ego. Poor me. I've got it sooooo tough. 

Saturday, January 16, 2016


six years

phone call
3 am

dad's dead

brooklyn bed

in city darkness
sleep to
agitated sex