the man who lives in my pocket

There is a little man who lives in the pocket of my pea coat. He is rude and he tells me that I am a failure. He whistles and dances around in there as if he is freely roaming the planet. As if he is not suffocating from the wool exterior of the place he calls home. When I am sick and tired of hearing him, I graze his bald head with my fingernail just to remind him that I am big and he is small. But I am afraid to kill him while he is not afraid to die. "To the death!" he cries and again proceeds to mock me. One of these days I will squeeze him in my pocket, in my fist, just to feel him squirm.

Mama

It is almost 10pm and your mom calls you crying. She is upset because you have made a major life decision to move away to Europe for 12 months on a work visa. You sprung it on her, your decision, while you were still at the airport because you were afraid of her reaction, that she might cry, that she might think you are crazy. So, when she calls you crying, you are not surprised, though you were caught off guard. "Why would you leave the people who love you?" she says. "Don't you love me?" And though her worries are absurd, her crackling voice is not. You wish that you had never answered the call. "I'm afraid that you will search and search for whatever it is you're looking for and you will never be satisfied with your life," she says. And you are afraid too of the very same thing. But because you are young, or at least feel young, you will go on to search and search and perhaps never feel satisfied. It's all part of the excitement. You hear her sobs, her clearing her nose and throat when she tries to speak, but you are quiet. Your mother cries for you, for the pain of having to let you go on without her, and so you hear the trees cry, and the walls of your borrowed room cry too, and the moon, the ants, the street lamps and the planted tomatoes in the yard. They all cry, saying, "what about me?" But because you are young and self-centered and hungry for life, all you can do is ask them the very same question.

I'm a Hobo

Lover, Be Scorned

You are probably on the couch rolling cigarettes and chain smoking. I am in a café trying to piece together what I must have looked like last night, sitting in a chair, spewing my opinions or lack of them.

You insulted me. You said, you’re drunk. You said, you’re ignorant. You made me cry in the dark, while a candle burned away from us, while I sat in that stupid chair, while the smoke from your cigarette burned my pupils. I will not let you see me feel badly about myself or my ignorance. It is mine and not your’s to judge.

Today I woke up with the smoke from your cigarette in my hair and on my skin.

You have left me behind.

I will not follow you.

Low-Down, Dirty Brown

I hate when I turn a corner and things have burned to the ground. I had a job, but now I don't. I had an apartment, but now I'm in my dad's place. I smoke, I drink, I curse, and I'm using the internet more than I did when I was in high school searching for chat sites about music. I don't have petrol or money to buy any. I've decided food is out. I'm surprised I wake up in the morning and think about showering. The one thing I did do was brush my teeth, cleaned my mouth of all the nasty things I've ever said. Mama's got the blues real bad. Gotta catch the next boxcar out of town.

why couldn't I just be a scientist?

As of now I am in my tiny room trying to work on my "novella" (in a deep, pretentious voice), but I'm realizing how freaking hard it is. I mean, I know writing is not like picking one's nose, that it's grueling and whatever. But holy christ! If I continue to write at this rate (roughly one sentence every hour), it'll take me 548,678,359,678 years to finish and then people will expect something good!

I was thinking that if staring at my computer screen or googling useless information like DJ AM's wikipedia biography could produce a novella, I'd be finished by now. I mean, I'm really good at using google. And I was actually told after the age of 8 that I have a staring problem. Since when has staring been dysfunctional?? Oh yeah. When I'm trying to write a stupid novella.

love is a fire

By Leonard Cohen

Love is a fire

It burns everyone

It disfigures everyone

It is the world's excuse

for being ugly