"Perhaps maybe not", he thought while peering over the railing. It was a long way up and too far down, he sat. Craft beers and dirty martinis he misread the putt of his life. Read the break.

Read the breaking news and see y(our) country with its bottom falling out like an suburban hood rat. A kid I worked with once said he couldn't wait to wear old dirtbike tires as shoulder pads and go about the waste land pillaging. It scared him. It scarred me. People are content with the end of the world. Fuck if it wouldn't be peaceful. No need for punctuation, mores, or the like. What's the like?

Whats to like about life. Everything and nothing. Bitching about coworkers then drinking with them. Getting your heart broken then burning her pictures. Reuniting and then lying about there whereabouts.

It seems that all I have is time. Double timed as I was by luck and happenstance I swear I won't be put in that spot again. All I have is time. I'll stop and think for awhile and try to walk at least 5 miles a day. Quit smoking and start chewing again and quite possible enjoy a cocktail or four before noon. Save money and shut my mouth. I talk to much. I was told that I come across from time to time as arrogant or smug. I have two weeks to change my life for the future, time alloted to me by the management due to a break down at work. Clinging to slivers of what was I shudder and swallow the familiar taste of bile and pain. Making dogs playing poker into the Mona Lisa. Forcing what little future I had into something that could've worked. Every ounce of energy poured out into my job. Good juju bad juju everything foisted. Eviscerated. There needs to be a delineation between personal time and work time. Leisure time and love time. Friends and partners.

It is a familiar feeling. Its warming. My callouses will harden soft raw pink flesh into shields of deflection. The infiltration was perfect no alarms went off as the thief set up shop and began to pilfer. Ranging around the safe, plotting the placement of the charges. Laying the primacord and sneaking behind a piling. Lifting the plunger and with breath held all the weight dropped.

Dust and smoke in the detritus. Destroyed on the inside. Decadence of the past months smoldering as embers in aftermath. The structure has survived this before. The workers clean up the mess and scrape the remains from the wall. Powerwashed. Bleached. Antiseptic.

Move in new furniture soon. Make it home again and clench your teeth in anticipation of the next time.

Quiet and sobriety. Tiptap tiptap of typing. Dreadlocks in a deadlock with a deadline. Peering into other cubicles, dodging mines and putting black eights on red nines. Snooping.

Losing yourself in microfilm. Looking through past Enterprises for police logs. Lot lizards looming in Walmart parking lots. People in trying to be so quiet are noisy. Zipp of a laptop bag, clear of the throat. Someone sneezes and its too quiet to bless them even though you want to.

Legal speed made this decent, the descent twisting carpal bending flourish of creativity. Then depression. I miss her sometimes.

There are more spies here than their are books. Leering, old men holding doors, juggling tomes and dropping their walking sticks, while trying to doff their caps.

I met one once that said I should write more. Tightly, tighten it up. Taught me that scribbling is not painting. Not art. Missed me when she came with shudders that shook me like a paint mixer. Took me buy surprise. Shaken I was horseshoe packed and chasing the ambulance, scurrying for her belongings; baited by her attempt. I only took her seriously. When I should have taken her to get help.

Skulking, no sun since summer. Pasty. Plodding along plotting the song, humming. Hand in hand, ducking cops. Copping. Blown out and dirty like a Korean haircut. Stop. Grab a drink and wake up sweaty in a puddle of piss. Plagiarizing progress while reinventing regression. Obsession, cringing. Shudder.

Tied in noose too late write and when I do I tackle verbal hills in desk chairs, swirling. Rotating whilst sitting, twirling for the sun rise. Busting my ass to break even and shattering only my will to continue. College Road and Pearly Pond seem so far off in the past.

This is the part in the movie when you grab all the liquor bottles and dump them out in the sink. Glug, glug as the bottle breathes down the drain. Youregunna fix yoself this time. You're gonna try. Dad couldn't. His dad couldn't. His dad owned a distillery and was pickled kosher before 9am daily.

Quaff liberally, think conservatively. Practice moderation, play indulgent.

She here now, I've always liked my women anyway they could get me. I don't date. I don't start, I end up. They sober up, I don't. They go. I wait. They drink, we fuck. I sober up. I go. They leave. Squint, blather, retreat. Cringe, clamber, compete. Mince, gather, replete. Every sicks months. Rinse, lather, repeat.

Filthy is the solitude, heinous is my company. Such is a sober life, so many soliloquies in an empty bottle singing such things as: Why do you cut you're thighs cause you think I don't love you? Why do you eat a bottle of Xanax like Tic-Tacs then tip-tap the speed dial and call me? Why do you move away and pretend we didn't happen?

Why do I like my women broken? Irregulars off the mental discount rack purported and sold to be regular relaxed fit. The thrift store of love, I always buy the suits that hung in the terminal patients room. I think they are Armani at a great price. I found out they ain't but love em just the same. Where I fail is in permanently pressing the delicate. Dry clean only denotes the need for professional help, but I try and do the job myself.

Off they've shimmied and gone crazy elsewhere. Hopefully, happy. Shithouse crazy no doubt nuts, but, happy. Hopefully, one calls for a crutch and hobbles back for a night for me to cobble them back together with conjecture, false hope, and a smattering of promise for their future. With all that I say to them said for myself.

Find contentment in the confines of all afflictions, focusing forward, pushing back, all ways moving.

Firing my boredom broken hearted out towards a Floridian landscape so verdant, so soon, leaves an empty feeling like a dog bowl on a dog day. Run on.

Seeking the heat on my feet from macadam so jagged, I feel I know what the original pave meant when it was first steamrolled. Sullen, shrunk in the maw of the cardoor opened to cry, boot, I berate the world's staff infected with empathy and emotion; how they seemingly work so well as I stumble shirtstained through this with no blueprint. As the ledger's black marks back talk egregious errors are erased, to be flicked off the page like fag ash. Such a simple way to disappear. Fuck if I don't find so much safety in alliteration. I am coddled by simple literary devices, in my clutch swaddled safely.

Slight chances pass by in Fleeting
moments like enemas
sorting the shit from the truth
like red socks in the white laundry

You find it tough too.
barter your feelings? For basically nothing
comes that quickly and stays strictly

Well. The following is an experiment. Writing hammered produced the last piece of shit that I wrote.

I deleted it. Drunkard that I am. I didn't delete it cause I was drunk I deleted it because I was drunk when I smashed the keys and wrote it.

I need to know where to put in semicolons. I place them randomly for effect when I use them . So tonite I will start sober.

Drunk or sober, I don't know when to use them.

This is already tedious and mundane. One single, solo, cup. One single Solo cup. Filled with Blue label Smirnoff and Raspberry seltzer. Two ice cubes. Strong. Let me mix it.

(To go the fridge and micks a drink: continue reading.)

(To remain sober: sit there, open a new tab in the browser, bitch about the new Facebook layout, stalk an old fuck, click LIKE on something witty, close the tab. Open a new one, then go fuck yourself to Redtube or Yourporn.)

Rasp. Berry. I think of a succulent summerday filled with a berry that speaks with a smoker's haggard growl. A fullflavored Parliment stuck to the chapped lower lip. Like the progeny of my friend Amanda and one of the Fruit of the Loom guys.

Thats kinda stupid. Pretentious maybe. More than likely you don't know Amanda. Its even more than likely that you know that none of the Fruit of the Loom guys are berries.

So it was a stretch. I need music and the AC is cold. I have no blinds and people stare at me, whilst I am writing, from the dumpster when they toss away their garbahge. Thats french for rubbish, which is Anglican English for trash, which is what this is. So I contemplate throwing the computer out the window.

(If you want me to throw the computer out the window : Stop reading, fly to Florida, come to my house, and fuckin make me. Seriously. Come to Florida. I am lonely, and shouldn't have pounded that giant cup of booze. I have very few friends left, and the ones that remain are growing very tired of me. I have come to the realization that this is a very weak premise and have written myself into a corner without the wherewithal or literary intelligence to escape. These parentheses bang on my temples like a migraine, and I am starting to prattle. I wish I knew how to use semicolons as I am sure they would no doubt be helpful in this jag of verbosity. Lord help me now, I have a problem with booze and I am so scared of dying alone.........)

(If you want me to keep the computer where it is, and maybe mix one more little drink: continue reading.)

There seems to be a problem now. The bent desklamp already melted the ice cubes in the new drink. I have just typed for five minutes and erased it all with distinctive clicks of backspace, instead of holding it down; writing my initials in the dust of the dresser all the while.

All the while? yikes. Have I regressed or digressed seeking egress from thiss? All the while should go at the front of a sentence. Random sentence time! RANDOM SENTENCE TIME!

All the while should go in front of sentences.
Age should breed intelligence, not reticence.
These are random sentences. Not meant to rhyme. My favorite GNR song is MY MICHELLE!

The fucked up thing is that I would drive like this but I can't write. Truthfully, I don't believe three random sentences require a declaration of randomness. Obviously I have found the music and am now more enamored with the songs than typing.

Nothing seems to be making sense. O sm sctullsy...
I am actua;;y.....
I am actually wearing a spaghetii....spagetii...
I am actually wearing a s[aghetti//////// FUCK.

I am actually wearing a spaghetti stained wifebeater
and listening to November Rain.
)SEE A MONTH AGO(

Wait the solos coming up. WOOHOO.
Meber///nmever has a p[wrson
....neber...
never haas a [erson///
person done such a wonderful rendition of the aolo...
solo air guitar in a desk chair. O?? O??
I!!!!
fuckin naired ot/////
I fuckin nailed it.

To listen to second solo keep reading...to bail out now with your pride is useless.

I smell cigarettes and I want one. But I dont smoke anymore. If i pack a chew, maybe///

I did and I calmed down. To read this the way you do I have to break lines with sideways v the letters "BR" a slant and another sideways v. Its like this
but you cant read it cause its computer speak.

(To read what I write after listening to anotner song: continue reading)

(To stop npw...now...TOstop now: STOP readoing)

I picked CAnned HEat.

Going up the country I sit on a rock baked in the sun of a random Lower cape beach. Rocky as shit with no waves and tourists on the jeyyt...jetty. Youve gotta a home as long as Ive got mine. I miss the cape and I feel like a beaten wife leaving for the winter. I'll return in the spring, cause the bastard husband called winter should be incarcerated for another few months, only to be let out again with the icy winds of November.

I'll run into another door.
I'll fall down the stairs.

The bottles dented/

tHATS the gamut I run.

(To wake up in time tomorrow: Go to sleep now)

I slapped the shit out of her for fucking with my time to write. Distressed by ambient lighting and fighting for creativity I push commitment to the periphery like the Gravitron. She hates my moustache, I hate her bedbugs. They draw blood like a kindergartner. Sepia based with a smattering of pink. Gangly legs, one eye bigger and green hair. I suppose she makes me feel this small.

I was relieved when she left, but missed her when she was gone. Know that drill? Carbide bit twisting into your lower lumbar. A two month virgin hating his empty bed and dream fucking his body pillow.

The cold she gave me turned into the flu. Busted sick and bootin into the same dirty toilet I sullied with shit a scant second prior. I know this knot. It was tied before. Doubled over sweating and seeing pictures of the past.

Straighten in the mirror shuddering with the last bucks of sickness. Don your work pants. Button your shirt. Call the office every sunday asap. Work with your cowardliness. Gargle water and toothpaste. Have you spat out disgust and stared at your scars?

Broken teeth open brew bottles reaping what you sowed ploughing fallow ground faux smiles and quick quips garnering snickers like fat kids on Halloween. Interstitial, divide your peccadillos for consumption by your friends. Those that laugh, knead, like dough, your friendship.