Give me a shot. Of espresso, I mean, not a bullet, just the bean, just a cup of drugs to keep me in the scene, to keep my writing mean and dirty, filth on a white page is worthy of a screen: the pale white of your computer light will scream my words until your eyes are sore and wide and you begin to dream of more in life, I will inspire your entire worth tonight, with promises I never keep these sentences will sound like war and strife, an aura of gore and knives and the dot on every “I” is a pointed spike, that’s what I’ve got in store, alright? A poem written in the shortest time.
That was bad.
Let me try again, every sentence spliced to reinvent, my intention is to right these rends, to at least attempt, to appease and mend and treat my ends with periods or at least an “and”… blegh.
I’m not on it today.
I haven’t written one for her for some time. For the girl in my life. For the only source of worth… I’ve used that word so instead I’ll say the dirt to my earth, I want to be the worm in her soil, hahaha, make her squirm and ache and be her birthday cake, blow my candle like I’m burning late, like the starry night is hers to take, like our hearts and lives are yearning fate, like…
ah fuck it. I’ll write tomorrow.
I’ve found new ways to kill myself. Five miles in 50 minutes and to really kick myself in the balls I did 10-15 burpees at each stoplight. No break. I don’t care what your standards are because for me it feels like my ribs have splintered off and are stabbing me in the heart. Hell.
But then a shower and recovery burgers and I begin to feel like there’s a thousand endorphins sucking my dick. I’m eating protein bars the way I used to breathe air. Tearing through calories like Goku. I feel ready for the Spartan Run, even if I’m not.
Writing when your body is exhausted feels right. I was really on one today, wrote a lengthy piece for the Crusade. Prompt was Popcorn. If you’re training your attention stamina the way I’m training my physical stamina go on, read it for a great workout.
That’s it. Updated.
Splintered rhythms schism and prism into a million little missions, tiny little rhymes glisten in crimson from edits at the lines, like a flint catching fire from the split of my mind, one half is vision the other quite blind, the editor and writer in me are forever in fight, but the conflict is right, I might comply to signs that I should resign but the fracture in my brain will keep me in line, so they’re assigned, each part take claim but my heart remains in reign.
Here it is boys and gals, I’m Bruce Wayne before he staggered onto Rhaz Al-Guhl’s front doorstep. I’m Tony Stark before stereotypical terrorists kidnapped him and he got a bomb tucked into his chest. I’m Oliver Queen before he fucked his girflriend’s sister and his boat got blown up and he ended up on an island and spent 5 years trying to keep his organs under his ribs.
I don’t know if any of these origin stories are accurate, and I don’t care – because I’m about to embark on my own origin story. My deadline is March 19th and my nemesis is the Spartan Super – a 10 mile run into the Nevada desert with obstacles like swingy ropes and slippy high walls and spikey low wires and sticky deep mud. I’m intimidated as hell.
I’ve never had to train for anything before. I was born with a four leaved clover shoved up my ass: everything in life has always come easy, so looking at this obstacle course and making the decision to work for it is a ruthless attack on my personality. I’m shitting on all the horseshoes and wishbones and 777s in my life. I’m foregoing luck and evolving into work and the more I talk about it the more I wonder why.
But then I remember. It’s time to 1UP. It’s time to evolve. It’s time to super.
I’ve got about 2 months to get my body prepped. To grind up my level before facing my first boss battle. Workout every day and sometimes twice a day. Running and calisthenics and weight lifting and so god help me I need to start fucking stretching.
Follow me on this journey because if I’m gonna work this hard I better get some damn recognition for it.
I’ll never be the best there is
if I’m the one who’s reading.
It’s midnight and I need to find a place to write. A little coffee shop called Madhouse Coffee is still open. Outside youths sit on chairs like their spines have been kicked in by their overzealous Christian parents. Vape smoke lingers and the smell of vanilla and licorice is strong enough to lure the most strong willed unicorn down from its rainbow. Off my bike and I collect looks – you know the kind. The only clean shaven man with a ring on his finger to be found within a five-mile radius. They can smell the monogamy on me. I enter the establishment and the place is crowded – I forgot people my age like to stay up late. Why aren’t they burned out yet like the rest of humanity? Why aren’t they tucked into the creases of a couch somewhere with their brains smashed against the screen of a TV watching the 18th season of a Netflix original? The walls are plastered with abstract graffiti art and cult film references. They have two tables, a bar (with outlets, I notice immediately) and these weird stairs that are supposed to double as a seating area. I claim my outlet and set my laptop down. Nobody here will steal it. The only risk I run here is getting bombarded with a conversation about neorealism in a governmentally sabotaged reality. This generation is well trained in the art of hypocrisy and so am I. I walk up to the counter and every male barista has their hair grown out and tied into a bun. Rebels who have breached the macho-male stereotype only to fall deep within their own. Every trend starts out like this. He greets me with a nod because he probably thinks I don’t speak his hipster language. I don’t. I ask him if he sells iced coffee because when it snows outside my blood still boils too hot. Yes, he says, obviously. I’m too scared for further judgment so I just take it black and I know he judges me for that too. I sit down and notice I forgot my headphones again. I fucking forgot my fucking headphones fucking again, fuck. I need a moment to prepare myself for my fate. Dance music wasn’t made to write to, I get too caught up with the recycled lyrics. But after some coffee my hyperfocus kicks in and it doesn’t matter. Time to write.
I’m surprised their napkins aren’t made from recycled hemp compost.
I’ve lost it
my sharpened tip
my pencil slips
out from my grip
the mind I had
has gone to waste