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Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: The Usual We are targets in the dark Cars parked tight in alleyways, Waiting to be hit.  ...Created 2017-09-06 14:10:39

Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: The Usual https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bmUR6FCjO5I ...Created 2017-06-11 16:25:55

Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: The Usual John the Baptist makes a beeline right for my car window and I remember all those times when I stalked my friends until they turned into cigarettes, never honest enough to beg. The rough edges of the world no longer call me on the landline I don’t have, cracking plastic pressed against my sweaty face. Or maybe they do, but I don’t answer strange numbers. I view color schemes designed to make me not feel and think of how another self, a past self, would have been floored by this. Pastel gray-blue-otherblue-red-green-purple, a rustic artisanal rainbow pop and I wonder if there is any language in which these colors mean war, or death, Not just the slow death of domesticity, of fashionable ice cream shops, of keeping busy while the ground crumbles underneath, one drunken night crying in an alley somewhere, Truth and revelation. Because what I see in this color palette is the hole it’s trying to hide, and the rough edges of the world come flooding back, only I don’t have time for them now except to think of how I still believe in truth, in this truth: If the world doesn’t break you until you beg, you’ll never see god. ...Created 2017-05-26 13:08:46

Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: The Usual John the Baptist makes a beeline right for my car window And I remember all those times when I stalked my friends Until they turned into cigarettes, Never gracious enough to beg. The rough edges of the world no longer Call me on the landline I don’t have, cracking plastic Pressed against my sweaty face. Or maybe they do, but I don’t answer strange numbers. I view color schemes that make me Not feel and think of how another self, A past self, Would have been floored by this. Pastel gray-blue-otherblue-red-green-purple, A rustic artisanal rainbow pop and I wonder if there is any language in which these colors mean war, or death, not just the slow death of domesticity, of fashionable ice cream shops, of keeping busy while the ground crumbles underneath then one drunken night crying in an alley somewhere truth and revelation. Because what I see in this color palette is the hole it’s trying to hide, And the rough edges of the world come flooding back, Only I don’t have time for them now Except to think of how I still believe In this truth: everything has an underside Of dirt and worms. ...Created 2017-05-26 12:57:09

Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: The Usual Come, sit with me at the bar. The jokes here taste less like lead the more you hear them. Brush off this jaundiced weather Like lint on your grandfather’s army uniform, his frown Etched into your smile like a landmine. ...Created 2017-03-19 12:25:42

Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: The Usual https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=fzQ6gRAEoy0 ...Created 2017-03-01 22:42:18

Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: The Usual I think you're crazy, maybe ...Created 2016-12-13 22:45:45

Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: The Usual Her father was born in China, or Singapore, Brother lost at eight -- The story wears down mountains. Sip coffee, think about the next sip of coffee. She is watching the garbage men Like she will have to replicate their motions later Like someone who has read the same book over and over because everything new is just too much. She is not beautiful, Not in the traditional sense. Not lush and pulsing with life. She is pale stallions writhing in pain at the finish line, The chance of a falling match striking a vein of coal. Her face is smeared with oil and sweat, her hair tangled and her white dress barely holding on to the pretense that it is still a white dress. She is a used paperback novel that is always in your bookbag whose pages you finger, both familiar and terrifying, like sleeping next to a childhood friend seeing all the ways in which the world has eaten you both. This is her finger inside the hem of my sleeve, saying Feel how rough I am. Feel how the years have worked through me like a worm through an apple. Tell me I’m ugly and fuck me like long division. I’m blind and bleeding in traffic, I’m naked in the middle of the street, I’m walking out on coals, To meet you. Now we’re downtown. Now we’re in the top of your apartment building with the lights on. Now we’re getting ready to go out. Now we’re in our underwear. Now the curtain blows. ...Created 2016-11-01 11:55:59

Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: The Usual If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied... ...Created 2016-10-03 19:45:14

Journal: -------------------------------------------Mood: The Usual https://theprose.com/Zammatran ...Created 2016-09-15 20:49:48