i wish you were here
was written on the stall door
nighttime blues sink their
teeth into the skulls of the
people asking for
money on all the sidewalks
in the freezing mist
My throat is burning and all I can think about is how much I wish you were here.
You’d fall asleep on my shoulder at the bus stop and take walks with me and our dog. I think you’d probably name it something stupid, and I’d have to remind you that instead of calling it “Louie”, we could call him “Lo.”
There’s stories of a real-life-troll here and I want you to be here to see it. I feel so far away from you sometimes, and it’s driving me bat-shit crazy.
Come here soon.
voila, a double entendre
Anonymous asked: Who are you? What do you do? And why do you do it?
My name is Alex, and I do a lot of things. More specifically, and in relation to this blog, I write. I’m interested in exploring all sorts of writing, but I’m most comfortable in the prose arena because it lacks a specified structure. I write because it’s my god-given passion; it has been the thing in my life I crave the most. This blog was conceived after working on my most current ‘novel’, Walkabout. (see also)
I walked around downtown Seattle last night with a backpack on my back and a pole in my right hand.
I bought the pole from Home Depot from some guy who didn’t speak English, and I was frustrated because I wish I didn’t speak the mother language too.
I interviewed for a job in downtown Seattle at three in the morning last night, and I didn’t know what to do when they asked me how long I had been serving; all I could think to myself was ‘serving what?’
I walked to the bus stop in downtown Seattle last night, and kept checking my phone to make sure I was headed in the right direction. A friendly old woman was touching the inside of my legs, and I didn’t have the courage to correct her.
I eventually accepted a ride home from someone who hates me, in downtown Seattle, last night. And now we have a pact to never speak to each other again.
“The longer you stand, the more you forget how to stand up,” they told me when I was little. Their advice was well received, but I feel a different voice stirring in me now. They told me, “Always obey the officials and stride behind those who are smarter than you. Get ahead in life by walking over people.” They told me this, and I ate it up like a nine-year-old on the day after Halloween—just between the barrier of knowing that I should want my own candy through my own conditions and not through those of my parents.
But suddenly the candy wasn’t sweet anymore, and I had forgotten what it felt like to be connected to other people. To have a conversation over coffee, to feel the warmth in the way someone can say your name or ‘accidentally’ bump into you.
Suddenly, I noticed how greedy I was and quashed it with a simple fervor of a disciple of God.
I meant to write this a long time ago, and it may be twenty one years too late.
If you’re reading this now, it means that you need to get out as quickly as you can.
Don’t look back. The past holds too many memories and with your foot stuck in a hole like that one, all you’ll get is a bunch of shit talking old people who never left the town in which they grew up.
I’m begging you to leave. Find adventure again—whether it’s on the sidewalks with the crowded people, or in the trees with the singing birds and the wild things. The idea is to keep moving. The more you move, the less you are connected to the things around you and the easier it is to make sense of the thing they call life, which threatens to tie you down forever.
Run away, because the only thing that stands between you and the future is fear. If fear grows it’ll become that morbidly obese man crowding the doorway, shutting out the light that’s calling your name.
Oh, and fuck the Man.
I’m hungry she whispers
as my eyes reach southwards.
Hungry for attention
I mutter to myself words she’d never have thought to mutter
She cracks her thumbs
bending her joints until they pop like the dreams she forgot to write down,
or some failed attempt she’d attempted again.
over again, until something breaks and you’re either made
or you are found.
‘I’m hungry for something different,’ I think aloud, and she looks coy + deceitful.
But my hunger lies not with her at all, and she doesn’t seem to get that.
I’m pulling away while she believes I’m grasping for a thread,
I’m throwing away the life jacket when the storm is over
she keeps digging at me to save myself and hands me one all over again.
‘I’m hungry for something different’ -repeat cycle- intentional. honest.
She pulls away, reading my eyes and filling up her head with questions I’m sure she’ll need to move on
and then I’ll move away.
The thought of being famous one day consumed her.
She believed in an afterlife, and when she was there she needed to be able to look back on the world and hear her name.
So she deconstructed herself.
She sold her soul for fame and glory and it worked all too well.
She was the mermaid selling her voice to the sea witch
She was the politician giving up her morality for a title.
In the end she was crucified, like every great star. Driven by guilt straight into the unforgiving ground.
A broken-winged angel sprawled on the concrete. And the cars drive by and honk their horns at the crazy-ass idiot who cut them off.
- finished the comic book, “Blankets”
- made out in the hotel lobby
- didn’t go to school