four years ago i had a drug experience. i ran towards my friends after seeing a dutch film, Hucckle, at the film society night. the street slants up, 50 yards, straight to where they're exiting a car. they had some left for me. i ate them from a plastic bag. we walk between ten and fifteen blocks down in to town. their doses kick in when we get to the porch of the house. our other friends don't let us in. i don't remember what happens. we drink bottles of Milwaukee red from a cardboard box. they roll two cigars with marijuana. after two hits of that i feel the mushrooms. my mind feels good. thinking gratifies the other parts of my mind, things of my thoughts fall into my body. the light is good. it's orange and blue or something. every time i think of that time i know it felt good. it feels like i'll never be the one to bring myself to a worse situation. i know it was strange. behind the house a leafless tree looks like a web of veins. the main trunk of the tree pulsates. the sky is pinkish black. we walk to the campus. there's a big monkey sculpture. we run towards the monkey sculpture. up close we see the monkey has a man's face. he's a big gorilla with a man's face actually. i think we ride a golf cart around the campus and i fall off. i'm lost on a gravel path somewhere and i feel like that's a small problem. i stare up at the moon i think. there's a pine tree top bending towards the moon, like it's being sucked in. on the porch the people are talking, laughing, and going insane over the drug's effects. i want to talk at length to them. the colors are really good, everywhere. i am quiet, i think. i'm satisfied. it's just a satisfied feeling. the leaves on the ground go crazy in the vacant lot. a dog chased me through there once. our porch is slanted but we all have good seats. fuck. idk.

my sick day weakens my sneakers. i hear the baby cry for thirty hours. i play video games for two hours, drink two rum and cokes, then pause the game, sigh and rub my eyes till they bleed. my chest wheezes. as i move to the sink, the door frames blur. i do things to the dishes. my eyes see the eyes of spoons. i pour another drink. i become drunk. i feel like saying goodnight to babies. the people must be enjoying their night. music plays somewhere for everyone. i haven't heard any music today. when i finish my third drink, i read poems. i'm doing tricks in the video game without completing goals. as i make the guy with the skateboard jump over stairs the board rotates 360 degrees and does one lateral flip. he then lands back on the board. the game makes clicking and rolling sounds. light moves across the wall then the ceiling. the shapes stretch, and shrink, then are gone. i stare at the paused game's screen. i am aware of a low-level numbness, like a rubber-band ball catching dust and hairs. my numbness is the result of years of frustration. i feel isolated, my thoughts stew. we stay beneath the couch until insanity. i am staring with unfocused eyes at the computer screen. my thoughts went away and came back with negative results. i think there might be a small toy somewhere in the world that can change my emotion. i want a chance to talk to this toy. i will try very hard to make you feel better. i will make you like me again. . . the light leaves my apartment for the light i know. when we talk again i want to hold your scapula. we all will drink in separate locations. my video game wants me to play again. i'm thinking about a story i read earlier. i want to tell the person in the story there's nothing wrong with talking to your cats. this girl i like and the city allocate their locations rhetorically. the linear placement of cars has a gentle curve. people live in these connected materials. the cars wait below like cars that don't matter.

my eye hurts so badly.
it feels like pliers are pinched around
the skin just outside the tapering lid
and twisting.
if i squint it feels like they're being pulled.
the eye is throbbing. my head is throbbing.
the eyeball is bloodshot.

i want to drink myself to death tonight.
this on top of everything else.
i feel like i'm a character created by myself
on the verge of chaos.
i wrote about the inner chaos.
nothing matters to me. i want to put my head
in my blankets and cry.

i don't know. my head is out of control.
this post doesn't make me feel any better.
it doesn't make any sense.
if anyone sees this i don't know what they'll think.
i think it will be very awkward.
the only way i won't be awkward anymore
is if i drink a lot.

i'm not afraid to do that.

nothing makes sense to me tonight.
i've been writing for hours.
i've drank beers. what's this about?
i should have said i miss you.
i'm writing about things too close to me.
i'm writing the words of a crazy person.
the person trying to write about things
that haven't happened.
i'm a fake person. i have city of money driven
people inside me. the people want to
walk in their sleep into the night.
nothing makes sense.
i miss you, i said. my fingers itch.
i'm dying from my face. no longer will i be able to see.

i just want to be sane. i want to have even tempered posts. why can't i have that? can't i have a smartly planned life. can't i have something solid so i can work and think about these crazy, undesirable situations instead of living them, caught up in them so harshly i can't coherently describe them. can't i stand somewhere on a shore, like montauk, looking nicely at the world. half dead. can't i be half dead. can't i just kill myself. why haven't i. i've thought of it. who hasn't. why haven't i done it. why haven't we all just died yet. if it's all so bad. why haven't i slipped away to a dangerous place and jumped, or cut, or pulled the trigger.

sometimes i feel like i'm doing things for the wrong reason. a sentence or desire of mine wants to beat someone at something. when i feel this is happening i subdue myself. i think it is better if i'm subdued. i am more creative when i'm subdued. i feel a soft, high-pitch tension in my neck. one time my teacher used a sentence from our work as an example. for a moment i thought it would be one of my sentences. it wasn't. the sentence was very good. i'm trying to re-create the sentence in my head. it was something like 'the dogs and cats chase each other respectively'. the sentence was better than that. something very good has been lost.

his sentences repel the decisive ego half hidden within their softness.

the trippy song by animal collective
was heavily discussed. they mostly talk of trippy things.

bubbles that come out with ants,
and your pushed down potions
fly out the crank window. the cat tail caught in the crank window, luckily.

a number of ms paint pictures show your feelings.

the sketchy way you look in the ms paint picture
tells me we're frustrated.

the trippy things consistently rise in his world views.

i'm looking at ms paint and feeling sad.

a panda bear bends the bamboo with ease.
the trippy song inspires a frustrated ms paint thing.

he lies on the floor with the angry cats.

enough has happened for me to see Aloysha with ingenuity.

they withhold my wages for the sick.

my boredom types on the invisible keys until august.

with three spikes, the sentence fell into the radiator
and hung like a bat.

if i want the drums to stop i'll sign a different lease.

they carried Aloysha away last night,
the organic juices rising with her loon birds.

the walls in him drench. six cartons of white rice fall
from the spinning bike.

cross eyes step over the snow

we feel strongly for bindles

i could grab the pine branch by tv light

while she sips on the bark

i don't know about those abstract sentences

on my night before day off forever

this is blue, in a deep hulk of snowed rocks

living near the train doesn't benefit my life,
my life wasted dealing with tense.
the pool players dance with the perfect tense.

the savage overtakes the subway stop on his skateboard.
we emerge from the subway and freeze for twenty minutes.

two bubble jackets, raised in the neighborhood,
find the train with ease.