HOW DOES GOD EXIST?
I created him
Every time I tweet, pound my fists at my desk, drown a kitten
practice my smile in the mirror,
Shower cold with body wash in my hair.
What separates me from god? Pale blue eyes.
I exist. I cause pain.
God doesnʼt get hangovers; doesnʼt forget to text his mom back.
Iʼm inconsequential garbage (unintentionally and chemically) stuck to the bottom
Of godʼs shoe*
Something that lingers
*god does not have Good Taste because that is a human virtue. Product of a sinful nature.
CHEAP FABRIC
A fading stain on a cheap fabric
An agonizing amount of pseudo sensationalism
But I like it
Someone still playing CDs in the ride share
Please let me fade away
A homeschool homework assignment just doesn’t make sense
And an answer book tucked away where only I know
A comment is just a hello
To a poster who is rewinding serotonin
THE GARDEN
“Meet you in the garden in 10 minutes”
“What!? No!”
“I have work to do.”
“We have to make plans.” She says disgustedly as if I never take into account what needs to be done. What is happening. Anything that is going on is simply too much for me, the outlier artist with too much going on in his head to stay tethered to reality.
I sit in the garden, angrily lighting up a Marlboro, red. Not the American kind. The European kind. What I started with at 16. I canʼt even finish it all. Itʼs a different kind of smoke here. The garden is nice. Exquisite. calm. Iʼm the only one, nested. It’s quiet and Iʼm not annoyed anymore. I never was, It was more of an exasperation because I need to write.
The garden is “serene”, I feel comfortable and focused. A little heady from the cigarette. I need to cut that out.
I guess this is a journal entry. Poetry is too emotional. I only have one subject to write about and I cannot yet. It sits on my chest, heavy. I will ignore it for now.
Headed to Mykonos later, a 5 hour ferry. Nothing more Mediterranean than that.
I do not wish to die in the sea. That sounds slow and painful. I canʼt escape the idea though. Floating. Dramatically searching for buoyancy or an escape. - until my legs, my arms, my neck, all become too tired and I cannot float anymore. My skin becomes a sponge from absorbing all the Adriatic Sea water. Hearing everyone screaming around me. Whoever did not already drown. Slowly sinking down into the dark water. I assume I would last about 12 hours before I could not hold on any longer. Absolutely engulfed with fear because I do not like open, dark water where I cannot see the bottom. Slowly letting the water drink me up. Another casualty.
Meet me in the garden for a “morose” morning, My breakfast is not here yet. Iʼm actually having a great morning - I am just very dramatic. I am an outlier artist with too much going on in my head or whatever.
GREEK TOILET
Self hatred and self deprecation are amoral and symptoms of a weak constitution but I am a sinner - weeping in the trenches.
I hope I don’t come off as a rock, smoothened by the sea, Round from waves of self hatred. Knocking, smashing myself into other rocks smoothed by loss of lust for life. So smoothed out that I could be picked up and skipped into the ocean 15 times or so.
I throw up into the greek toilet. It’s like an American toilet but it flushes much more aggressively. It’ll wet my ass when I’m sitting on it. This time it flushes the last of the acid or liquid in my stomach. I’ve been drinking every day on vacation. Usually from happiness and relaxation. Today has been long and I could no longer muster the courage to be conscious. But I slept instead of self medicated. I am medicated now and I feel woozy and focused.
Some days you want to die and other days you want to kill yourself. I already know when I kill myself It will be painful. Read Berman’s entire wikipedia page this evening and it was truly like a pat on the shoulder.
My chest sinks and I like it that way. I hope I don’t come off as a dying carcass in your eyes. Rotting on the side of hot asphalt. Reeking of a life that has passed and not being repurposed. I can be mean but especially when I feel bad. I wish I could have someone be mean to me so I had an excuse to scream at the Mediterranean, tears staining my burned cheeks
I hope I don’t come off as a rock, smoothened by the sea, so round from waves of self hatred and sadness that I could be picked up and skipped into the ocean 15 times or so.