Sniffle.

"Your eyes are sparkling." He repeated.
He always said that when he knew I was lying.
"Did you just eat your booger?" He asked again.
"No."
"Your eyes are sparkling." He repeated. For the last time.
This time it is was a little more serious of a question than mucus consumption, though. My heart rattled in it's cage, fluids boiled as i nervously placed my thumbs under my index and birdy fingers and on top of my ring fingers. Tears bubbled because they genuinely believed that the eyes that held them were sparkling like blinking neon lights. As if i were staring up on the fourth of July or standing on the Vegas strip, the whites of my eyes gave off the truth. This towering figure had seen right through me and it would be foolish of me to not just tell him what he already knows:
"Yes. I did do it." My shaky lips spoke. "I'm sorry."
"So you lied to me? You fucking lied to me?" He stood. "Do you know how disgusting it is when your own child thinks you're a fool?" He pointed a rolled up magazine as I stepped back knowing he wouldn't hit with the magazine.
Often times I imagined fighting back. Fantasized about shoving my pencil in his neck, only to break it off and force the rest anywhere else in his body.
"I'm not your fucking son!" my voice came out louder and more high pitched than I had intended.
And that's when it happened.
I watched him sway, as if in slow motion. He blinked slowly as his mouth attempted to pathetically gasp for air. I reached out for him as he began to stagger back. It took a second of thought to make a movement, but quickly guilt leaped me toward him. His finger tips grazed mine as I watched him fall backwards into his liquor cabinet, which was always well stocked. He dramatically grabbed his chest with his left hand and threw his right out, as if to grab anything to stable him. With a crash, I felt my feet move faster than my initial lunge. Propelled by the broken bottles of hooch, I slid towards my father's sprawled body. The Seagrams 7, the Bowmore Legend, the Speyburn, the 16 year old Lagavulin Single Malt that my uncle James gave him for his birthday, all gave way to the slip that would change my life.
And then there was crying. I couldn't believe a man so despicable could cause so many people to cry. Myself included. At his funeral, my sparkling eyes insisted on pouring out tear after tear every time I heard my mother make a noise. I could faintly hear her over the preacher's sermon and my own wet panting, but each time I caught her sniffle, I cried. I felt sick inside and I cried.
And this crying went on for years. I had to be home schooled for most of highschool because of this: Each time a classmate would get a cold, I'd burst into tears at the mere sound of a nose retrieving snot. Teachers thought of me as an emotional nutcase and a distraction and recommended home school. My mother, a loyal servant to my now deceased father, not having anything else to do in life after his death, became my teacher.
I think we tried actually having class once. It was a very pathetic attempt at that. My mother pulled out one of the books she had ordered on Mathematics, looked at it and said, "I'm going to need another drink if I'm going to get through Algebra."
She poured me one too. From then on I studied only how to destroy my liver. We'd wake up early, take turns puking, telling the other to drink some water or throwing a couple Ibuprofen their way. The spirit of the lost man lived on in each hangover until one day at the liquor store when I heard an old man sneeze and then sniffle. Nothing happened! For the first time since my father's death, I didn't cry at the sound of a sniffle! This was it!
"Do that again!" I yelled from the opposite end of the refrigerators.
The man looked, but gave no response, just continued to open the cooler. I ran the 14 or so feet to him as he pulled out a silver and green can of Fresca. "Do that again. Please, sir." I tried to sound calm, but after yelling and hopping down the isle, my voice did not comply.The man looked at me with disgust, possibly due to the bags under my eyes and booze on my breath, and turned away. "Please, just sniffle once!" I implored again.
"Get the fuck away from me creep!" The man said as he threw a couple coins at the clerk and exited with his grapefruit soda. I followed suit out the door and sprinted down the road to the nearest bus stop. There, social miscreants of all kinds gathered to get to their equally odd destinations. Germs passed from seat to handrail to stop indicator from passengers going to the clinic or crack house and I was certain there would be at least one person there sick enough to give me a sniffle. Luckily, the bus was approaching as I arrived at the stop because there was only one person waiting at the stop and she looked healthy anyhow. Shaking off the little sprinkle the afternoon storm dropped, I reached into my bulging pocket to separate change from ripped receipts and bottle caps. I threw my fair towards the driver and nodded with a smirk.
Sitting down, I smiled, thinking I could once again join society without making a fool out of myself around anyone who has allergies. I rubbed the top of the seat in front of me in anticipation as we approached the next stop. In my heart I knew it was just a short amount of time before a single sniffle would change the way I lived for the past four years. I pictured myself stronger. With chest hair covering pectorals. A man for once. Dry eyed and in the height of maturation. I pictured myself to be someone that could go a day outside without humiliation. Without being called a "baby" or a "pussy." As someone a girl could like. Someone people turned or talked to. Someone to call a "good friend." Someone who left the house during flu season.
"AH-CHOO!" spit an old Chinese lady two seat ahead of me. I looked up in excitement waiting for that sniffle to inevitably follow and did it! I could hear her nostrils flare, see her body hop up with the inhale. I watched her tilt her head back slightly and I felt a familiar feeling of heaviness in my lashes. I turned to the stranger rubbing elbows with me and he said:
"Your eyes are sparkling."

If it wrote.

Time-traveling within the solar plexus of a feral cat,
I lost my way
Which would explain why I'm here

Where the men pretend to bend where they don't
And the ladies are stiffer than the drinks
Where the headaches don't stop for months
And the months are gaining weeks

The garbage truck alarm clock
And the stab wound attire
Admire twelve course top ramen dishes
And speaking of riches:

I'd bend light if I had a gym pass
To get me back to the time I lived
Can you spare a few?

Time-traveling within the solar plexus of a feral cat,
I lost my lunch
Which would explain why I haven't eaten for days
Unless you count the swigs of hooch
That knocked the plaque off my teeth

I'm sorry, I don't bend that way
I'll be kind for now to nod my head
But I've got to get back to being a hermit
Keep telling your story, I just have to step out
Really
Keep going
Someone will come along and listen

days seemed to be the same
in an overall okay
but one particular morning
my troubles would bloom
in spring-time cocoons
as wings crept out of wombs
the yellow and orange blossoms
would leave my insides rotten
with beautiful pictures
of flying rorschach tests
it was love at first flight
fluttering in my eyes
were the sights that set
my insides aflame with affection

spring and summer were fine
but autumn brought cold nights
and oh, those lonesome sad winters
left alone for months on end
no love, no flight, no friends
and yes, i have tried
to pluck moths from the light
and change their wings
to be more familiar things
but the paint weighs them down
so they never leave the ground
and oh, those lonesome, sad winters
where i wait for the caterpillars

Expiration Date

the apple of my eye
has shriveled down to a core
please take her away
i don't want her no more
the strawberry kisses
from my former misses
grow flies and maggots
attracting facets of rodents
crawling on the same wrist
where i once peeled and bit
into sweet meat sugar water
sucking seeds and plucking leaves
i can't help but miss
her peach chest
my nest at night
sending sugar plum dreams
to hold me over
until i awoke
in her garden of scents
and i guess it makes sense
my love has turned into
a mess of regrets
with pesticide mind
i find myself salivating
over her kiwi complexion
but there's no question
my good intentions
can't ripen and blossom
where she's gone rotten
so i accept my fate
to end my moldy maid
under a mango moon
in a bitter autumn sky
with a sigh-lined breath
i attempt to ask myself why
do i still want to try
knowing just one bite
would make me sick
but still i lick my lips
for one last taste
on this:
our expiration date

It's got it's Eur-ups and downs.

With pens, pencils and markers, I did my damnedest to document my European travels this past month. So... here they are:

(I suppose you've got to click on the picture to see the whole thing. Or you can just sit back, relax your clicking finger, and enjoy the partial zoom in of each page.)

Slight change.

My dreams in the form of pennies on the railroad tracks. Watch as the trains pass to smash them into copper flats. They're still there, but they have changed. Old Abe don't look the same.

:'':

Powder coats my fingers as the wing still flutters; separated from it's body, yet somehow still knowing to fight. My thumb and index pinch harder in attempt to win the battle. Surely it's got to end soon. Even the owner of the wing is beginning to slow, leaking insect guts on my mother's coffee table in a clockwise motion. My fist covers the light and casts a shadow as I raise it above my head. No emotions run through my chest, acting on pure instinct. With a crunch, the moth is crushed. I lift my sticky hand, retiring my fingers to reveal pink nail tracks dug into my palm. The gold and brown debris litter the top of oak. The wing still flutters.

Figures.

The street light behind him lit up his thin ears with a red glow. Before he could wipe the blood from his nose, it dripped onto his white shirt. Only adding to the stains.
"I'm not coming home." He shakily said. His words seemed to start confident in his throat, but lost momentum as they reached his lips. "I mean it this time."
The figure in front of him bent down, packed a ball of snow with his bare hands, then playfully tossed it a foot in the air. The figure was planning on catching it, but it fell apart when it left the figure's hand. It bend down again. This time, grabbing more snow, packing it tighter. The figure took a curious stance.
The boy with the blood-stained shirt new what was coming. Unphased, he stepped to the side as the snowball passed by, falling apart as it flew. He turned away from the figure, repeating: "I mean it this time."
The figure yelled, but the boy's cold, illumines ears could not decipher the moans.
Picking the clogged blood from his nostril, he continued his walk away from the figure. His words quiet, but growing confident. He whispered: "I mean it this time."

Searching for meaning in empty words

I have nowhere to go.

#6

After playing soccer at a gas station (One fella asked, "You guys a soccer team?" We told him we were. We were dressed in jeans and jackets, shoes falling apart and playing with a deflated ball most likely stolen from a kindergartner. To my knowledge, all traveling soccer players ride in a banged up grey van with no leg room.), we made our way to heaven, AKA Greensboro, North Carolina. We were fed like kings, pampered with friendly conversation, and accompanied by majestic and adorable animals.

The Southern hospitality did not end there. We stayed at another house full of curiously attractive animals. We played fooseball and Nintendo until retiring, only to wake up to another feast.

And here I sit. Clean. Full. Happy. A basset hound named after my favorite fictitious author (Kilgore Trout) sitting by my side, slobbering on the computer.

Thank you.

Robotic Suck-pire

Last nights show was the most violent on this tour. I'm pointing most of the blame on the fact the show got started later than we're used to. With the time between us arriving in Richmond and actually playing, we drank. Seven of us sat in the van, each with our respective 40s. Jason and Yeti made a new friend while going to 7-11 who gave them a mysterious white substance wrapped in a small piece of cellophane. The stranger handed them the make-shift bag after they purchased him two hot dogs in exchange for guiding them to the market.

Before playing, Jason puked in the sink of the women's bathroom. Sven drank some coffee. Allen and Karl X'ed up their hands. Jake socialized. Cory and Yeti ate sushi. I ordered another drink.

After Playing, we were making sure everyone who was bleeding or bruised (myself included) got a drink or a T-shirt and enjoyed their time.

ACAB

Today is the warmest I've been in weeks. The windshield is despicably dirty and the streaks intensify the sunlight. I wish I had prescription sunglasses. Instead, I pop out the lenses of stolen drug store sunglasses and loosely fix them to the insides of my regular glasses.

Last night, we did many terrible things. Somehow word got out that I tattoo, which lead to such idiotic statements like, "You need to give me a dagger, because I've been stabbed in the back." Trying to be somewhat responsible at the moment, I refrained from doing tattoos. Jake, however, took it upon himself to some stick and poke tattoos with a sewing needle, broken pen, and india ink. They were his first attempts at life ruining. Of course, tattooing is a long process and by the time Jake was working on his second masterpiece (An X and an O on some little gal's wrist.), my sense of responsibility had been thwarted by Jim Bean. I leaned over the gal, saw the blood and ink soaked atrocity, then dangled a strand of spit over it. Jake seeing this, pushed me away and my saliva landed on the table. I aimed again, conjured up what liquid I had in my mouth, yet was pushed away again. Third time's a charm, though, I finally successfully spat upon the open wound. The gal, being quite inebriated, took a moment to inspect the spit. When she realized what had happened, she looked to her left, leaped over a table and punched some guy in the face, thinking it was him that had soiled her new, awful tattoo. I let the guy take the blame, and walked back downstairs.

Phill-me-in

Jake's driving. He just changed my song. What an asshole.
I chipped some more teeth last night. I can't help but tongue their new, coarse divots as we drive from Philly to Baltimore.

Dog years

I took a shower, yet still feel terrible. Staring in the mirror, I want to smash my face into the reflective glass. There's this heavy feeling of inferiority and general disgust plaguing my mind for the evening.

We're staying in a house that has an interesting history with me: The last time I slept here, I had familiar relations with one of the tenants. When I saw the mix tape I made her in the bathroom, I shook my head. I thought about how disappointed she must have been when I turned out to not be what she wanted. If she were here tonight, I wonder what we would say to one another. I wonder if I were to sit down and have a heartfelt talk with her, maybe I could sleep with her again.

The door to her room is open. Part of me wants to go in there. Maybe see if she has anything else I gave her out in the open, maybe jerk off in her bed to mark my territory. I do neither. Instead, I pick at the cut on the bottom of my black eye, scrape the scab on my bottom teeth, and savor the metallic taste of dried blood.

Tour-ist

On the L train, a class of 8 year-old kids to my left, a bald albino to my right, I notice a small oval of urine on my pants. I'm trying to not look at the map on the opposite wall... god forbid someone know I'm an outsider. So I keep my head down, even if I'm going in the wrong direction.
The albino has yellow and maroon shoes with skulls and pistons painted on them.
The sway of the train slithering it's way through the city's colon only makes my headache worsen. My train of though is derailed. The whiskey and cocaine are sitting in my belly, causing me to fidget in search of a sitting position that will keep me from shitting my pants.

Thai this on

I sit by myself in a Thai restaurant, waiting for my vegetarian yellow curry. I can't wait for the coconut milk and potatoes to grace my taste buds. I am completely alone in the restaurant. "It for here?" The lady at the counter asks me. I think they might be trying to close. I look around and respond, "Oh, I can leave."
The bathroom here is real nice. After I order, I set my water down at a table and took a piss. Not at the table, or in my water, but in the nice bathroom.
I wonder where the other fellas are. Last I saw them, they were gearing up to eat sandwiches, as I walked passed in my pursuit of my own eatery.
Now that I have my meal, I'm like a virgin at the first sight of pussy. Practically afraid to even taste, in fear of the pleasure that I might feel. For a moment I contemplate fucking my curry in the nice bathroom, but I come to my senses. Finish my sentence. And try my food.

Baw-stun

We've spend the past 10 days in Boston (Pronounced: Baw-stun). Yesterday we picked up our brothers from the airport and made our way to Haverhill (Pronounced: Hay-vreal), which is about 45 minutes from Boston. It took us about 2 hours to get there with traffic and Taco Bell stops. Upon arrival, I walked the bitterly cold streets in search of a little bar called The Peddler's Daughter, which I went to the last time we played Haverhill. I drank a small bottle of Cisco on the walk, to keep me warm. Not worried about any law enforcement folks, seeing as Cisco bottles look more like salad dressing that booze. Upon my arrival, my glasses fogged up and I asked the barkeep for a shot of Jameson. The whiskey battled the bum wine for my taste buds. Neither won, they just sat together disgustingly in the cuts and bumps on my tongue. I ordered an IPA to get the taste of everything out of my mouth. I ordered another shot to get the taste of everything out of my head.
No one in the entire place made eye contact with me until I locked eyes with a curiously dressed fella. He had on some sort of a visor and a yellow polo shirt. Behind him was a great big sea of green, well kept grass. He had a great big following of equally ill dressed worshipers. They kept their distance, however, standing feet and sometimes yards away from him. Making sure to keep very quite any time he was in concentration. When I realized that the most interesting thing in the bar was the giant flat-screen television tuned to a golf tournament, I had one last shot, payed my bill, and had a smoke on the way back to the show.