He came up and asked me for a smoke.
Out on the monument while the stars or satellites or whatever
blossomed out of the dark in to gray line embers at the end of cigarettes.
He said drink this. I drank it but not because he told me too. I drank it because I was tired of my own brain. Then he said come back to my house to get high. To smoke. To snort. To fuck his older sister while he played with her son.
He said it from the other side of the street with a voice that shakes you awake just as you fall asleep. Ever feel like your stumbling in bed he says as he lights his smoke and grins. He smells like gasoline and pine. His voice is in the train rumbling. I can barely hear him now.
Bill Zenith sat on the curb in the last gasps of the twentieth century wearing a silverchair t-shirt. His hair was long but shaved underneath. His leather jacket had belonged to his father, the one who had been a founding cast member of the international terror show Blackwater. At some point someone transferred six million dollars into Bill’s bank account and then he got a letter saying that his father was dead somewhere in Somalia. Bill started smoking that day, it was also the day Chris Farley died, it was also the first day that Bill ever saw someone wear JNCO jeans. He watched a white kid with dreads strut on the other side of Milwaukee Ave, in broad daylight no less, wearing only what appeared to be an amish skirt made of denim split in two and a wife-beater. A toothless old homeless lady, looked at the kid like he was an alien and her unlit half cigarette fell out of her mouth.
Bill looked at his busted old Levi’s torn at the knees and crotch. Thought about the coming fashion, and laughed to himself. Bill went back to his Ravenswood Academy, his boarding school in Bucktown, which he had escaped from that day, but no one had noticed. Becca Kimberly was waiting for him. She said hello and she said cigarette and lips and jokes and smile and girl smells and thighs and feathers in her raven hair and why don’t we slip away and yes and yes and yes of course. So Bill went with her down the block of Normal Ave where she lived. She asked Bill if he could tell which one was her house without ever having been there. It only took Bill a moment to reach out and to hear the decrepit old red brick row house mansion of sorts coo at him like a nuzzling owl.
Bill pointed and she kissed him. He followed behind mostly trying hard not to stare at her ass but he did anyway. The house instantly swallowed Bill. It was a house for Rockefeller if he was secretly Dracula. A house that dripped in wealth and archaic Victorian taste. How? How in the fuck? Bill asked with his mouth constantly open. The Kimberlys are a very old family she said, very very old. We’ve lived on this block before it was Chicago. How can that be Bill asked? But Rebecca was already up the stairs, laughing and sprinting.
Bill caught up to her in a room he assumed to be her bedroom but none of the furniture was from this century. How could a seventeen year old girl live without a cd player he thought, but she was already against him, her warmth slithering itself inside of him as the wetness of her kiss soldered him into her. She wanted to show him something, something wonderful something that would cheer him from his father. Something that would be the start of a whole new life.
She took him to the attic. A place of creaking floor boards, feathers, dust, and a single massive armoir. The armoire had extention cords running from. An electric armoire? what in the fuck Bill wheeled but Becca was not alone now. Ten figures in black robes stood with her.
One asked Becca if “Bill was any good?”
Becca said “he’s the best I’ve ever seen”.
She took the dagger from her belt and drove it into Bill’s stomach. “You dick” was the best Bill had to rebuttal. They descended on him; some for his arms, some for his legs one for his hair, all holding him to the face the armoire which now was beginning to laugh in hideous tones behind the rattling door. Becca took his blood smeared it over his lips and drove her kiss into him like a stake. Then she held his face to the armoire, opened the lock letting blue light poured for its doors, and Bill’s beautiful auburn hair went snow white as his future exploded from a piece of antique furniture.
I see all the old molding
on the facades;
bright and glowing
and I think about the people who used to live there,
used to love here,
with their smiling eyes
as they danced in sweaty bars
and laughed at jokes in the street
and lit fireworks for no reason.
I hear them sometimes
on the back stairs
creeping sadly into the basement
or looking in the windows
to places they knew
by different names.
I look at the toddlers
dressed as adults;
drinking and gnashing and shouting
karaoke at the top of their lungs.
Just seconds away from making out
to breed more waves of crap
and I pretend to remember what
the fuck I’m doing here.
I have decided under a great deal of mental duress, and by a great deal I mean almost none, that I will now use my tumblr for a new and bold reason. You may be asking, “What? What could it be? Sweet fucking Kirsten Dunst tell us what it is you sick ass clown bastard!”. You may be saying that, most likely you are just trying to take a picture of your own butt with an iphone, which was what I initially going to do with that blog but then I decided that I would instead write crappity crap and put up pictures of my own taking which no one in the history of tumblr has ever done.From here on out the only reblogs I will toss into the internet ether will be from other writers and possibly drunk people I live with here in Chicago. Otherwise I’m going full tilt original content. “Who gives a shit about you? You’re a dickface and your poems are for weiners.” You may be saying. And you might be right but you should still listen to me because I am a doctor. I am your doctor and you should listen to me. Do drugs.
They been murdering humans for love a long time before some st.valentine, but still
In the fucking loneliest, staring out to the bay every night, period of my life, I read your words in a letter as a storm blew up like clockwork at four in the afternoon on a Tampa Saturday summer day and as the sky turned black and palm trees became rubber in the rain I knew that I was not alone.