Literature for Illiterates

In a bottle of pain,
That I drink every night.
I dread the day
Who cares?
Every street looks the same.
Every dry eye in the house.
We go westward into the sunset.
Buckles loosened.
Spills expose the leaks.
Nothing chosen.
If I find myself
In your neighborhood,
I will make sure I hide
and keep out of view.
I will do my best
to remember
everything lost.

In a bottle of pain
I help myself.
My curse is this and nothing else.
Who cares what you believe in.
Does it mean I have to believe in it too?
Every street looks the same.
Same houses. Sames Families. Same Schools.
I bring the hope of a lost generation
To the kitchen table
and watch them fall like a bead of rain on a windshield.

Side damaged.
Indefensible.
Pistachio shells litter my desk and my soul.
I question the midnight sound
of freezing rain making its way down the leaf-filled gutters.
Miles and miles away
you are distancing yourself from me.
I miss you but I really wasn’t aiming at you.
I’ll see you later on in life
unless you or I don’t make it there.
You’ll be a character who comes back midway through the film version of this life.
It could be anyone but you’ll be given that role.
Jumper cables for bumper cars.
Skipper slippers that are fuzzy and warm.
A flaming spiked mace ball is a struggle for the juggler.
I am haunted by the hunt
For Huckleberry Flint.
That doesn’t sound right but neither does Samuel Lemons.
I cruise for a muse – meant looking for inspiration.
I buy what I can’t afford to be without.
Without you, I am nothing more than a cliche without the accent.
I descend into madness and fury.
I don’t have a snowball’s chance in this world.
Like the snowball, I will eventually disappear.
Maybe not now but after a snowfall or above freezing weather.
I cradle the grave in which you set me.
I trust the minutes that disappear.
11:28.
11:28
11:28
It will always be 11:28 here and I won’t change that.
That’s the only power I have.

There’s no secret you keep on doing what you are doing.

• Cameras on the outside
• The Embellished Life
• Forgotten words of a younger man
• Making mind matters
• Sleeping dogs sleep
• Pilot Variations
• Only 25 year olds matter
• Closer to Sedation
• Hypnotise once it is alright
• Charming man in la Chambre
• Shameless Sympathy
• The Strength we need
• McLuckey

Disoriented by Reality.
Spencer's Downfall.
Without Father.
Experiments with Yiddish Soup Broth.
Dead.
McMasters.
Ideal Submarine.
T-Rex Dinner.
Lonely Strip Mall.
1950's Monstrosity.
Cute Accents.
No Trouble Here.
The Herald's Last Edition.
Can't Handily Start.
Are you Ready to Roll?
Feelings from the Old County.
Film of the Same Name.
The Long Awaited Cousin.
Express Reality.
Untidy Escapades.
Why Must I Hear About the Party that We Aren't going to?
Fringe and Binge.
Backyard Mountains.
A Moment has passed but not here.

In the infinite wisdom

of idiots and fools

who swallow the gospel

and are used as tools.

Not for a greater good

but for the lesser evil

to act as sleeping dogs

trying not to unrest the civil.

In harmony and discourse

he diminishes his rivals

to ensure that his might

is left unbridled.

Misinformation

rules his nation.

From station to station

keeping the uneducated away from education.

On top of a leafless branch
Left alone - waiting for its significant other
To come back.
The statement "you complete me," actually means something.
It's not a hollow expression of love mimicked by
Countless clumsy romantics.
Without its soulmate, the lone glove barely functions.
It cannot be completed by any other partner. 
It requires the one that has been with it all along.
Will they be reunited?
Most likely not.
A cold day will not allow for one cold hand.
A cold day can be remedied by purchasing a new pair.
The lonely glove only hope without its significant other
Is to wait till spring and hope it loneliness
Can be camouflaged by leaves.

The book I am trying to write – lies to me. It promises me a conclusion but only gives me blank pages and blank stares. It humiliates me with my futility. That void pretends to wait for words but it doesn’t want me to damage its perfection with my literary smears. It prefers a white page with hope to the crumpled balls of my creativity which litter the floor near the trash bin.

My book wishes it was in the competent hands of Shakespeare, Vonnegut, Kafka, Eco, Bronte or even a hack who can barely make any sense or sentences. If only I could show the same promise as an everyday hack. At least a hack puts himself out there. He never has crumpled balls of his creations. Every ounce of his sweat and creativity can be seen in his work.

The empty pages of my novel are angered by me. They would rather exist in the world of a truly awful writer than in the mind of a writer who has awful excuses. Cruuummpled.

“I think everything is being purposefully misrepresentative.” she said

Getting my head back into the gutter and explaining that this does not mean what one thinks it should. I believe only seconds matter when you sulk

No one wants someone wise and miserable;
they’re looking for someone who can rise to the art of being despicable
Abled and well-mannered, despondent and self-centred –
A criminalist minimalist.
Unleveled and historically dishevelled
but not too wise – not at all wise for the public’s consumption.
Just a regular country bumpkin.
Not clean cut just well-manicured.
A pain in the neighborhood.
A touch of alpha manhood.
Explained in the Forward.
Despised and not wise,
A charlatan in disguise.
Keeping the public hypnotized.
The press is impressed and mesmerized.
Media can’t seem to memorize
Historical Fact when he backtracks – they go along with the lies.
We all go along with the lies.