my knife has a scissors in it

i want to spit in your face

i want to spit hot peppermint tea in your face

i want the spit to drip down my chin into my beard

i want my face to smell like peppermint tea

i want your face to smell like i spit peppermint tea on it

recycling bins serve as cup holders

i want to feel something

something that ‘feels right’

warm

tight

the kind of feel that makes you think of ‘water wings’

feeling grabbed but stable

safe but uncomfortable

i think that is what i want

or at least i just want something

if that counts

i just want to have to shake my arm

because it has that tingly feeling

that ‘starry’ pop rock feeling

the one that doesn’t hurt

but you grimace

greasy black hands

i hate waking up with you in my head

makes me feel strange

makes me feel incomplete

makes me feel violated

my day starts off in a haze of confusion

a haze of investigation

i didn’t ask you to be there

i didn’t want you to be there

there are probably answers to why you were there

i don’t like any of those answers

i just want you to not be there tomorrow

makes my showers feel too wet

makes my cereal taste too soggy

tomorrow when I wake up confused

too early

not awake

let me peel my eyes open in silence

bruno rides the ski lift up

He wakes up surrounded by darkness. He craves something. Not sure what. He sips his bedside water that tastes of iron, or maybe it’s the blood. He spits it back out. Too dark to know where it lands.

Rolls over and reaches for his phone. 4:03, too early. Climbs off the floor and reaches for the door knob. Scuffles across the cool floor in the dark kitchen. Stubs toes consistently. Opens the fridge. Smells musty like the basement. Like a cat lives in there, or something. Eats an apple, core and all climbs back in bed. How many apple seeds would you have to eat to be affected by the cyanide concentration?

Why is his pillow so unsupportive of his head? His head isn’t that big. Isn’t that heavy. But that is the least of the complaints he has about his sleeping situation. The torn and burned carpet that acts as his mattress scratches him as he turns in the night. He wakes with sores.

Wonders why he tries to sleep at all. Sleeping makes him feel stressed, inadequate. Remembers hearing that sleep was nourishing, once. Could be doing more productive things with his time. But what? Why does it matter? What matters?

Feels guilty. Alone. Lucid. Wishes he had worried more when he was younger. Now worrying consumes his time. Possesses an unquenchable hunger. A hunger shared with those who lack food. Who lack love. Who lack everything but life. Possibly. Wonders if life can be quantitatively measured.

If the kitchen didn’t smell so bad he would maybe make something to eat. Cupboard has beans and rice. He digs for a bandanna to cover his nose and mouth. Still dark in his room. Too early. Knocks over his bedside water and kneels in it.

The bandanna provides a tentative barrier between the smell of stale life and his olfactory. Digs through what is contained by the cupboard and pulls out what is left of his bulk black beans. Of his long grain rice. Sings issac hayes in his head. Feels nostalgic. Not sure what about.

Unscrews the tight cap on his ground cayenne pepper. Drops the cap in the dark. Steps on the cap. Seasons the rice and beans. Uses an old bread bag and a rubber band to cover the ground cayenne pepper. Thinks this wont work.

Escapes the suffocating kitchen that is now not as musty. Retreats back to his floor. Sits cross-legged on the floor. The sun is coming up so he opens the blinds. Devours his food. Enjoys the combination of moist and firm and spicy. Coughs, realizing he had spilled his water already.

Walks to the bathroom to drink from the sink. Looks in the mirror. His bloodshot eyes stare at the bandanna around his neck. His nose bleeds again. Wipes it with soft, stained cut of cotton. Cough has ceased.

Slithers back to his room. Slides back to his position of the floor. Exhausted from eating/coughing/bleeding, he returns to restlessness.

bigbearhugs

Dan Deacon - Paddling Ghost from Natalie van den Dungen on Vimeo.

dan deacon gives good hugs

hakeem the dream

i like when you act recklessly

helps me not think so much

i remember being young and not having to plan

the important things were simple

dancing in costume

dunking on small hoops

recklessness was not as severe but equally as stimulating

(clip(clop

warm yet brisk morning rides

wrapped in red scarves

covered in waterproof blue

carrying nutritious meals and dry shoes

splashed with puddles

sprayed with decomposing leaves

'oh bless their hearts'

it's like waking up in the middle of the night cold like camping without a sleeping bag

it's like knocking your knee into the edge of the table every time you come near it

it's like checking the mail and realizing no one sent you anything, again

it's like missing the bus when another one doesn't come for an hour

it's like burning the garlic bread because you put 'broil' on

it's like paper cuts in the webbing between your fingers

it's like slipping/falling in the shower

it's like losing your birth certificate

it's like biting into a popsicle stick

it's like a bad orgasm

it's like a bad hug

it's like a flat tire

it's like that

mmmm

if you like this

check out the artist's website

http://allisonschulnik.com/

pgs n blnkt

woke up this morning

thought about how much warmer it is to have a blanket

homeless people are tough

if i was homeless i would take a lot of the steps i am taking right now

(low income bus pass)

(food stamps)

(eat cans of beans)

having an ipod makes me feel bourgeoisie

tomorrow it is probably going to rain

will the homeless be dry?

april wheeler /vs/ the egg

sometimes i plan to much

she portrays the terminator in a cold, efficient, panicked fashion

planning can be like this

i think sometimes its called foreshadowing

the way she beat that egg made me think