Job Search

And then my fingers crack as I post my resume for the thousandth time.

Then, suddenly, a response.

“We are interested in your unique experience in the customer service field. We would like to set up an interview for you as soon as possible.”

I respond without looking at what the “opportunity” is. I tell them I can interview today.

“That would be perfect, how does 3:00 PM sound?”

I tell them it sounds perfect. Ideal.

So I shave, and comb over my hair, and put on my father’s best clothes. I look at myself in the mirror.

Aside from the weight of time, I feel I look presentable enough.

I take the keys, turn them in the ignition, and head to the small strip of commercialism where the interview is to take place.

I park on a side street, out of the harm of the meters, and begin my walk.

As I look at, and memorize, the address of the meeting, I pass a U-Haul truck, and a hippie woman offering help to those unpacking.

I walk up the strip, curious as to where it is I’m going. I’m 20 minutes early.

Finally, as I reach the end of the strip, I find my destination.

It is a cemetery. A house planted at its gates is where I am to sit and bullshit my way into a job.

I enter.

I tell a young man sitting behind a desk that I am there for an interview.

He looks confused.

A woman rounds the corner, and welcomes me. She tells me to follow her.

I do, and take a seat in front of a desk.

She tells me she is not the one who will be interviewing me, she thanks me for being early, and that someone will be with me shortly. That someone’s name escapes me.

I wait.

And I wait.

I read a poem in a picture frame about how Jesus is good.

I read a poem in a picture frame about how our names will live forever.

I read a plaque about the souls lost serving us. It leans against a wall, sad and dusty.

I wait.

And I wait.

And then the woman interviewing me comes.

She takes me to another room, and I sit in front of another desk.

She thanks me for coming.

She dives in to the details.

She tells me that death is a business, and that I’d be doing a service to those that are grieving.

She tells me that I’d be selling plots to those recently lost.

She tells me I’d be dealing with mostly old people.

She tells me I’d make house calls.

She shows me the rates at which plots sell.

Basic tomb stones.



I take a breath and nod my head, like this is all basic information.

She tells me I’ll be working on commission.

That’s where she loses me.

I can’t sell myself to the dying.

I tell her that.

She says she understands.

I believe her.

We shakes hands, and I leave.

I walk back up the strip, numb to what I just went through.

I light a cigarette and continue my walk.

I turn down the street I am parked on.

The U-Haul truck is gone, but the hippie woman is still there.

She sits in her front yard, Indian style, joint in hand.

She says hello to me.

I say hello back.

She informs me that I am the first person to actually acknowledge her.

She asks me if her smoking a joint makes me uncomfortable.

I tell her no.

I ask her if me smoking a cigarette makes her uncomfortable.

She tells me no.

She asks me to join her.

I figure I’ve got nowhere else to go, so why not?

I ask her if she has any wine.

She tells me she does inside.

I sit next to her.

I flick my cigarette.

We pass the joint until it is a roach.

We sit for a while.

She says

“How about that wine?”

I nod my head, agreeing that it is a good idea.

We head inside her house.

She lifts her dress over her head.

I unbutton my shirt.

As I suspect, we are in bed.

I figured this would happen.

Because that’s how hippies are.

Because that’s how I am.

We roll around.

We toss back and forth.

We sweat.

We moan.

I regret shaving.

She regrets something beyond my capacity of understanding.

We lay on the floor next to her bed.

I ask her if its OK if I light another cigarette.

She prefers I didn’t, but lights another joint.

I begin getting dressed.

She asks me “What’s your rush? Where ya going?”

I tell her to smoke a cigarette.

I don’t tell her that I’m also going to let my conscious cry over what I’ve done.

Because I miss you, Ramona.

Because I do this because I haven’t seen you in three years.

Because I regret every moment I’ve spent in the arms of others…

Or in the arms of a drink.

But it lasts only moments.

And as those pieces of myself die, I think,

I should be getting commission.

On the Absent Chance Someone I Care About Reads This

With my cigarettes on the bed
And a lighter to match
I recognize that I am
Not who I wanted to be.
I am…someone different…
I am…
Someone beyond insecure…
I am someone who hopes oneday
Recognizes all the wrong things I’ve typed.

My digital words mean
One thing
And my physical words mean
But gotdamn
Do I mean every syllable. 

I’m not familiar with
The idea that someone regular
Is enthralled with
The letters presented
Upon the page
I paid no advance for
But still
Who wouldn’t want
A silent stalker
To treat their ideas
Like they were the next coming?

Do you know what I mean?
Definitely not.
I barely spelled that without mistakes.

Is right.
Just another one
In the line of the mill
Those waiting to be fed
For ideas they believe are
Or satisfactory,

I’m going to drink another drink
And toast to those that are already
Because you’re the ones
I am writing for.
You’re the ones
That I think get “it”.

Do you? 

The Inability To Affectionately Co-ordinate A Positive Response From One Who Does Not Feel the Same

With a tall glass of Bacardi Rum and Diet Pepsi
I feel as if I’ve lost myself
Into a chasm that opens my chest
And lets loose all that I’ve felt
Last week
This week
The week before
The week before that
The week 2 months before that
The week 2 years before that
The week 2 years before that
And find myself in a corner
Where I thought I could run away from
Where I could burrow so deep into the wall
That I’d never return
But come out the other side
A man lost in ideal ways beyond recognition
And beyond half baked personification
That all would be forgotten.

But here you are love.
Back at me.
Back with your words of… I guess loneliness
Back with your words of… I guess distress.
Back with something that resembles
All that I had given up believing in….
But are you?

Are you alone?
Are you tired of being alone?
Are you distraught?
Are you tired of being distraught?
Are you afraid?
Are you tired of being afraid?
Are you open?
Are you willing to be open?

Whoever Brought me Here
Will Have to Take me Home

With old wine cellars
That glow with the colors of our souls
Blood red and displaced
Or displaced and blood red
But still know the deepest, darkest
Most intriguing nature of what it is
That we’ve become…
Because we are different now…
You and I…
Though I may be the same…
Willing to push myself to the limits of frustration…
Willing to push myself beyond what I
Know as me…
But here we are…
For what reason?
Because we cannot find those who believe
In the same?

Am I wrong?
I am always wrong.
I read you wrong.
I read you like a
Tarrot card misplaced. 
Le Fou on the deck
Though he is back in the gambling circle
Of men who are well wise
By now.

What am I trying to say?
Who knows.
What am I trying to rely?
Who knows.
I want
And so do you.

I want.
And so do you.

But do we know what we want?
Neither of us do.
But we know we’ve shown signs
Of what it is
We could have wanted. 

Curb Stomp

Blistering beds in a
Melting sun resting
Their angel heads
On the demons curb.
When the foot finally
Strikes down upon their
Endlessly chattering teeth
They’ll not forget any time
Soon what it was that
First made them swoon.
We babble and we boast
We fuck in our sleep
But none of us have
Ever made love while
On the insomniacs watch.
Rejection after rejection
We feel the pressure
Of pleasure weighing down
While bullies stack
The mountains higher and higher.
Where is it that I am to go?
Towards woman
Or foe
In hopes that some
Answer is given
And I can sleep

Heaven, Hell, Purgatory

A friend once told me
He believes that when we die
Just our bodies go
And our souls remain trapped
As well as our minds
Inside the corpse
And being buried is hell.
Being cremated is heaven.
Being celebrated is purgatory.
As is never being known.
Those words have stuck with me
And is why I’ll be cremated
When I die.
Not because I believe in heaven
Or in hell
Or in purgatory
But because I’ve been stuck
Inside my body
So I already know what that feels
Like so I’d like for the wind to
Carry me around.
I’ve always been more jealous
Than encouraged or enlightened
By my friends words
Because I’ll never say
Anything as profound.
I shoulda just claimed
I said it
But I’m trying to
Get into heaven. 

A Circus of Giants

As I awoke this morn, I sought not the pleasures of good food or naturally brewed coffee, rather an answer to the dreams in which I stirred ceaselessly and without much rest in an unholy request. I dozed off with attempts to collect the remnants of my loved ones face, her bosom and body alike as well, so to sleep comfortably for a spell and tell her of the dreams in which she tucked me in and left me feeling as if my mental sins were not all too uncommon. Instead my attempts disintegrated into the overlapping disintegration of our planet and consumed by the sin I had hoped to be forgiven.

I’m not sure I follow.

Well listen good man, my doctor, and you shall. I speak of dreams which a man of your profession is meant to understand. I dreamt of the end of the world. The end of humanity. The end of the trees, the ground, the skies, sound, flesh and blood. I dreamt that we met our demise. It was frightening and shook me to my core.

But you awoke, no?

I did, but at what cost? I lost a night of comfortable devilish dreams for knowledge of how our ends meet. I awoke to defeat! I awoke to sadness in know my doom!

Do you mean to suggest to me now that were SHOWN this dream? Some other being placed it in you to hold it to memory?

I mean not to suggest but to state that as fact! I was shown our fate!

Well do detail it for me so I may know what to expect.

Mock me as you may, but I will regale you with the details so that you see I mean what I mean and this vision was given to me.

Carry on.

Its going to begin exactly how its been predicted; on the 21st day of our 12th month in this our two-thousandth and twelve year. A fear arises as the ground shakes and splits and a stage arises to depict what all it is that we have done wrong, and we are all forced to play our own parts. The director will be death himself, come to mock us with our mortality. He’ll come to us all one by one to give us our final directions and the snatch out our souls. Our bodies will still roam on lifeless as reminders that we did not live to our potential. Our minds will belong to the ether of reality where we are forced to watch our bodies roam while our souls waltz endlessly with each other and the stagnation makes us miserable. Why you laugh doctor? Do you not know how to express fear any other way?

You had a nightmare, Wilibald! Nothing more!

I am not even close to done yet, doctor!

Continue, then.

Thank you, I will. As our souls dance and our bodies roam and Death laughs maniacally, a big-top tent erects and on display will be a circus of giants. Lumbering and smashing our cities and crushing the homes we’ve worked hard to build. Without remorse the oversized brutes will demolish our world as we know it in glee, thinking the screams from below are screeches of entertainment. Our zombie selves will be turned to jam between their toes before we even understand what it was we were meant to be.

How is Ramona?

What? What does that have to do with my doom dream?

Perhaps everything my boy.

She left me.


Is that all you have to say on the matter? “Ah”?

For now, yes.

Well, you’ve made me lose my train of thought.

You were telling me about the circus of giants.

Yes, yes. As they smash all that we know, a storm of flower petals will rain from the sky as if the gods are showing their appreciation for what has happened.


Yes. Certainly the Greeks and ancients had it right. No one being could be responsible for all of this. It had to have been a team effort.

Upon our last meeting you spoke passionately about being an atheist. And before that an agnostic.

That was before I was given this vision, good doctor. Certainly I am the vessel through which the gods are revealing their plan.

So you see yourself as a prophet now, Wilibald?

Of course!

When did Ramona leave you? Before or after this dream?


I assume you told her in full what it was about?

I didn’t speak a word of it to her, naturally. You’re the first to hear of it all.

Why didn’t you tell her?

Its harder to hear that you’re insane from a loved one that it is from a trained professional.

Why did she leave you then?

Because I couldn’t speak to her anymore, knowing what I know now. Thoughts of death have plagued my every day. How could a woman handle that? I loved her too dearly to fight her leaving me.

So you follow in your father and grandfathers path?

Indeed but am I not my grandfathers son? Was my father not the same as me to his own father? I am but an upgrade to a familiar model, a model that has familiar weaknesses. It is true, you cannot deny me of that. It is a weakness that digs deep down to the so far limitless line of descent, coming down to the roots of a tree that bore a fruit that condemned all man. DO you know why it did so; how it came to mans hand in the first? Because of the weakness of which I speak. It is traced all the way back to then, back to the beginnings of us all. So tell me, doctor, how can you say the same weakness does not bog down on you? Is your heart so cold?

I will not make myself boastful, friend, and lie, and say I do not possess that weakness. Though I do not see any brightly burning pride in saying to you that you are controlled solely by that weakness. That is truth. You follow only your heart, and that will surely make you your fathers final survivor. There is no harm in love dear boy, but one must remember to weigh head and heart equally, and become aware of the possibility that fate has not tangled love into your web of life. Rather it has led you to a wasted journey. Become aware of that possibility before it becomes aware of you, and blinds you…which I fear it already has.

Then I am my fathers final survivor either way, and I take no shame in that.

You misunderstand me.

What am I to do then?

If this doom dream is a true vision, then find Ramona and embrace her. Share true love and wait out these final wicked days in the comfort of an embrace.

But how do I tell her of this dream?

Dear god child, never speak of this dream to anyone but me. You sound insane.

Party in the USA

Eyes weary and mouth agape, the apex of socializing realizes how little there is left to the imagination and its really quite amazing how easily I am unamused.

“But this is where we are meant to be. Next to one another, hand in hand. Flesh connected once and for all.”

I sit along the long bar with men weary from their work day and we watch the news together. Violent incidents ontop of cheats from the politicians and the decline of civilzation all wrapped up in a careful package delivered at 6 o’clock. It’ll all be uphill until I order my next drink. So I do and finish it quickly. I feel around for quarters in my pocket and go to the jukebox to command the saddest song be played overtop of these sad sights.

“I put my hands up, they’re playing my song…”

I walk to the center of the dancefloor and stare blankly at the crowd of now angry men.

“This is where we are now. This is how far we’ve made it with broken backs and gnarled fingers. We’ve allowed ourselves and our children to be subjected to such simplicities that can no longer be tolerated. Just across an ocean men and women and children die for their beliefs and the injustices that weigh down on them and their country. Bombs burst in citadels and homes while we drink ourselves into oblivion in hopes to numb ourselves to the already overbaring numbness. I, for one, can no longer stand being numb. I for one can no longer stand seeing my future over run by old men with hollow dreams and dollar signs covering their eyes.”

“…guess I didn’t get the memo…”

“I CAN’T FUCKING STAND IT I TELL YOU! Where are we going? What are we working towards? I haven’t seen war death but I’ve seen young death. I’ve seen peers prosecuted for their preference of sex. I’ve seen pressure build and build and break the promising bright men and women who should never feel anything other than hope. I’ve seen death that should be met with rebellion and angst and prolonged stuborness until we are finally ontop of our rightful throne commanding the opressive into the ground. Until we are all truly equal and peaceful. Until the chaos bends to us.”

Someone orders me a drink.

“Whats your solution?”

“To drink more until someone else does something.”

I down the drink, take a bar stool and smash the jukebox into oblivion and walk out of the bar.

I walk into the cold night and my phone vibrates with suspense and unrelenting doom.

My brain refuses to look at it, but my heart commands it to my hand and I look.

“I want you here, beside me, reminding me why I’m alive.”

“All you’ve done for me is remind me why I want to be dead.”
I see everything. It is my curse.

I walk the street and feel the hard, cold concrete lining the sidewalk stacked upon one another. Night noises are beginning and human beings fill the street to celebrate the survival of another day. I couldn’t hold back the tears and collapsed to my knees. I shook my head slowly, repeatedly. A woman approached me.
“Are you alright?”

“I am terrific. All you people, heading to your hazy nights…theres nothing more that one could ask for. Kiss me.”

She runs.

I stand. I walk more. I wipe my eyes and nose and laugh loudly.

What kind of a world is it that we live in when young love cannot go on unannouced and hidden in its own private hell? What kind of a world is it that we live in when your brother disconnected from blood cannot lay down your secret affair in his own time? What kind of a world is it that we live in when you don’t feel a sting in your heart every once in a while reminding you that it still beats?

I shiver as the weather grows bitter and tuck my arms underneath one another.

“Can you please spare me some change? I’m short for the bus and I need to get home. I haven’t been home in so long… please… I need a bus.”

“I have no change but I will stand here and demand some from another with you sister.”

We stand and she cries, and I believe she hasn’t been home in a long while. That saddness is bad. That is the saddnes they get before they give in. It is a saddness I hope to never know.

We harass strangers and demand change to get home. Finally someone mercifully gives us more than enough change and she smiles.

“Finally I’ll get home.”

I feel happy for her, but demand my half for the help. Because help is not free. There is no kidness that I can give in these dark days. She gives me a quarter and I accept it. She walks to her bus and I walk to a one-stop.

I haggle with the shopkeep to get a Black and Mild for a quarter. It takes the flashing of knuckles and the recounting of what had happened previous to me getting here. I pocket a lighter while he isn’t looking.

I return to the street and walk and walk and walk. I light the Black and Mild and feel the smoke hit my lungs. It is dark and the streetlights are an eerie orange that makes me feel unstuck in time. Sirens pierce the silence of the suburban neighborhood I’ve stumbled upon. Just more trouble in this dark night. Soon I will be asleep and this will be another meaningless night and I’ll regret something I’ve done. Be it the jukebox, be it the text message.

But what good is a night out without at least one regret?

She Said #2

I have imaginary conversations with you now.
Your tan skin and white crooked teeth replying to a conversation only I hear.

I think I’m losing my mind.

I know I’m losing my mind.

Aren’t you unbearably sad?
I used to be.
I used to be something else too.
I used to be full.
I’m a shell now.
Or so I think.
No one sees the madness happening behind me.
I hardly see it anymore.
I take pills to dilute it.
One that makes me incredibly tired
And one that…does something.
I don’t know what.

I’d like to have imaginary conversations with you.
With your old, knowing face
Confused by what exactly it is that I mean.
The last I saw you
I denied speaking with you
To fix the turmoil that I walked into.
When I saw you at your weakest.
When I saw you at your most defeated.
I am so like you now
Its scary.
But I can’t have imaginary conversations with you.
I can’t even really hear your voice all that clearly anymore.
But I do want you to know
That I’m sorry.
And that I forgive you.

I have imaginary conversations with you
With your pale skin and hidden smile.
And though we talk physically
Nothing is really said
And you hide things from me
Like I don’t end up seeing them anyway.
But truly they mean nothing to me
And I guess in a way the same goes for you…
How I’d like for you to mean something to me…
How I’d like to hold you and feel your heart beat
Rather than a breast in my palm.
We both have sad stories
We both have optimistic thoughts
We both have undying love that has been misplaced.
We both have family in our friends
Until we see their beds.

I have imaginary conversations with myself
And I write them down for someone to read one day.
Its like one unending suicide note where I’m unsatisfied
With its ending
So I keep going
Until natural death claims me.
I publish my journal
And I publish my thoughts
And I publish my soul
And not even the devil is coming for it.
Is it because he already has it?

I have imaginary conversations with god
Because I’d like to believe in him.
When I’m faced with the most insurmountable trouble
I pray
And ask him for his mercy
And that he take pity upon me and my family
And that he may save me and show me the Light.
Because I’d like to believe in heaven
And that there is a reward for all these hardships.
But what hardships have I really gone through?
I’ve set them up all myself
And have faced the circumstances full on
Hidden behind my parents.

She said
“One day it will all make sense.”
She said
“One day you’ll understand.”
She said
“Stop talking to yourself, people are staring and you know that makes me uncomfortable.”

5:08 AM

*written 11-22-11

i remember this.
i mean, i’m sure you recall a few instances
but i remember this, exactly.
laments about our lives situations
and what it was we had been up to.
just this.
just that.
then our brief instance
of revealing.
i see words from you
that i adore
not just because of who you are
but because they were true words
in a form
that i am familiar with.
and you’re better than me.
so it was good.
and i enjoyed it.
i love these moments.
i didn’t even over sleep in the morning…
not really.

porch days

*written 11-20-11

yeah. its only four hours
but its four hours
in which i could be doing something else.
wasting away.
because honestly,
who really trusts me to greet guests
as the first face to represent the establishment?
my hair is greasy
my teeth smoke stained
and i protrude awkwardly when i tuck my shirt in.
i’m a bit fat, is what i’m saying.
i stand and walk and pace and sit.
i make pointless conversation.
i don’t communicate outside of a business level with my co-workers.
i’m supposed to joke, but theres no way you wouldn’t fire me after that.
i hate this.
i need out.
oh wow. look at that paycheck.
follow me and i’ll find you a seat.