Writing 'Burning Wichita' Makes me Drink

I finish the story. I grab the rum. I take one, two, three, four, five--pulls from the bottle. I stare at the screen. Using a backdrop that's heavily autobiographical and then killing people close to you through fiction is a misery machine. Rachel came over. Then Zach. Then Jessica. My life seems to be seeping into suburban formaldehyde. I only hang out with couples. I seemingly can no longer be myself. I have to put on this painted grin and pseudo-optimism to keep everyone comfortable. One day away. One day away from hitting the drink with fervor and hopefully putting this shitfest on its funeral pyre.

Wetting the Ash

The trial behind--now to put feet forward on busted pavement--at this point we stare at the smoldering remnants of the brink we tasted. We've wet the ash with our tears, and now we seek to rebuild ourselves into crystalline sweetness. She hasn't said anything while I smoke, I haven't said anything as she obliterates mango sorbet. A compromise, a relief--of the old fires--an exhale, a release--in preparation for the next field to give up. Friday we aim to take party pills, get drunk, get confessional, collapse in the lawn outside my apartment and wait on responsibility to have its way with us.

-

"Some old guy was watching me when I bought the test. Fucking creep."

To wait, wait, wait -- the theme of youth. Especially ambitious youth, ambitious in ideal, in occupation dreams, and in the bedroom. I set a personal best on chain-cigarette-smoking while I waited for Rachel to send the results of her urine test.

The Korean girl, who lives in the apartment upstairs, awkwardly clunked down with roller skates on her feet. She slid off concrete, into grass, and nearly collapsed near the intersection of Ant Hill and Acorn Cemetery. I closed my eyes. The symphony of this city seemed optimistic for once. The low hum of circling sedans and the chirping of invisible birds blended majestically.

I felt as if I strolled into another window of time. The realm free of worry and doomed futures coated my aching soul.

"I'M NOT PREGNANT!!!!!!!!!!" I read on the lit cell phone screen, I smiled, the phone lit again, "I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!!"

The black veil lifted.

I could continue to breathe.

Pregnancy Scares

With unspoken blackness between us, Rachel's legs intertwine with mine. The television screen rests for one thousand years on the DVD menu screen -- the swan song playing on repeat. Her eyes lock into mine. Glossy, grey--fearing a stomach-dwelling demon feeding off her lifeblood. What words can I offer up to ease the fright, to snub the fetus, to bring her into the light? I choose none. Call it cowardice. But the darkness in her mind transfers to mine and I lap it up like a parched wild dog. I dig into her. Deeper and deeper to find what few remnants remain of the relationship, buried under a sludge of fear.

boulderbuzz

Rachel keeps getting more worried about the smoking, the drinking, and I'm sure we are on the brink of the "has our relationship just become physical?" fight. I'm tired of walls, of fear, and constant compromise. The suburban formaldehyde seeps into my veins, giving me a gnawing head rush. A head rush of incessant noise that grows with each scathing eye, each sarcastic remark, every browbeat, every suggestion -- I know she is right, but I've never had high value of life, especially mine.

Hours tear at my sanity like the ripping of band-aids. Every aspect you thought was healing finds the scabs picked -- the evidence runs red and stains -- leaving us to stare, wordless at the creeping demons. My character is debasing. My will for self-improvement, direction, and general happiness subside.

I only want freedom. My own life.

Tahlequah

When Skylar asked me to come visit her, I knew it wouldn't be appropriate, however -- I knew I couldn't possibly avoid it. I chitty-chatted with Skylar only on three separate occasions while she lived in Edmond. She talks with the slow, well thought-out delivery of a seasoned actress circa 1953. That theme continues in her full figure, immaculately cropped hair, fine gloss of make-up, and floral print wardrobe. The three hour drive cut through the Rt. 66 circuit of Wellston, Chandler, Stroud, then snagged itself shortly within the construction of Tulsa. Skyscrapers and the framework of soon-to-be skyscrapers cast shadows along interstate as cars jockeyed for position. I threw the last cigarette, to be smoked on the "to" journey, out the window a few miles onto the Muskogee Turnpike. I grabbed a bottle of Febreeze and sprayed the interior as I glided comfortably past 80 mph.

Contemplating my reasoning filled up the hours. My head knew I would be a bad match for her, my girlfriend Rachel fits me and doesn't ask me to change my abrasive habits. But heads get compromised by crotches and heart fevers more often than not.

I parked on Northeastern's campus, near the admin building. Walking blindly around campus, with the clue, "I live in the building with the greek letters on it". The downtown area had a contradictory energy. Not only a fusion of rustic and "artsy" but most of the local shops were mirages. Past their heyday, gathering dust, waiting to be bought up -- pimped out for another go-round.

Barely visible, poking from the sea of sedans, was a reed of brunette hair. Skylar's eyes boomeranged back-and-forth from her cell phone screen, awaiting my reply. 20-feet from her, she looked up, eyes went wide, smile erupted, and she jokingly ran toward me for a cheesy cinematic hug. Lots of "oh my gawd, it's so good to see you" found itself on repeat. We hugged four or five times. She showed me around her school. The place floated halcyon on Saturday afternoons, hardly a car drove by.

We got coffee, drove through the mountains for almost an hour. Conversation would start up, then sputter -- dissolve into vapor. Scenery and silence translated as therapy for my muddled head, though Skylar illustrated a need to fill the void. Her hands would shuffle, her gaze would dance, ricochet off rusting water slides, my ruffled hair, hell anything she could find. We hit our stride when the existential subjects starting pouring out. The way she spoke of sex, alcohol, and settling down rose with a supreme air of spirituality. Not the blind spirituality that makes eyes roll and tongues gag, but the perspective of one who exited the gauntlet -- hope intact.

At her favorite Mexican restaurant, a sports team of first graders and their goatee'd dads in ball caps sat behind her. A small blonde-haired girl, draped in hand-me-down pink cotton stared at me. At times her brows looked heavy, at others her mouth would lift the weight in joy. I found Skylar's eyes to hold the same innocent weariness.

Back at her place, as she shuffled a pack of King Tut playing cards, she explained, "We learned a valuable lesson from our trip to this exhibit. Always buy your tickets in advance," she smiled, "when we got down there we couldn't get in. It was completely sold out, but they let us in the gift shop. So I bought some cards." We laughed, played "speed" the game that dictated (and may continue to dictate) middle school lunch periods.

As Saturday died under the blanket of hazy moonlight, Sunday began with a restoration in my soul. Skylar unintentionally reminded me of love. Not from an act of infidelity, as she carried herself with perfect integrity, but in her mind I found the pulse of progress. The current that carries us forward in relationships, the appreciation of intricate details, and simple hope.

shitluck

I spent half the day with Rachel; the other half trying to regain a sense of focus. The fight of my life seems to be a balance of relation with a strong dose of isolation to work this oft-forsaken craft. Meditation--picked it back up today in a moment of ramshackle perception. I find the mind has to ride the crest and trough of melody to release the walls of convention. Coming back into a lucid state now--to find the realization of artistic blockade. A blockade on the subject of relationship. I cannot depict the divine gift I have with my partner accurately. It's the kind of cancer that has me paranoid there will be further paranoia--leading to confusion, leading to long conversations with pretty girls who aren't her, leading me right back into a cycle of infidelity I have rutted myself in for so long.

super bowl sunday

I'm walking laps around my apartment complex. Passing a red-headed girl with a bottle of Corona, a few Johnny Rebs talking adderall, headlights, streetlights, lighters, swirling, combining, but never providing enough bright. I'm still bearing a slight headache from Saturday night, but finally past the nausea.

I spent the day conversing with Rachel's family. The domesticated, scene of warmth was a sharp
contrast to the hell I put Rachel through in the waning hours of night.

I woke at 9 this morning to find her barely covered in a ratty, blanket, no pillow under her ruffled hair, her eyes burnt red, asking if I was okay.

I thought she was overreacting. She shoved water in my face. She said, "Drink it, damnit." Like she'd tried a few thousand times before, and apparently she had,I just didn't remember any of it.

She had saved me around 4. She cleaned off a death mask of filthy vomit by force. I wouldn't comply because I wasn't coherent.

Tonight as I touch each crack of the pavement with my sole, the rest of the human family is pounding beer, suckling the barbeque off their pudgy fingers, and howling at a nation divided between Cheese and Steel.

I'm stuck in the trough of existential contemplation.
Old Mr. Huxley self-medicated with mescaline, said he discovered the "is-ness", and somehow found contentedness in "everything is". That never made much sense to me. Bukowski found god in fucking and drinking beer. Vonnegut said when god created the world, man asked what his purpose was. God was surprised, and he replied, "I don't know. Make one up."

open mic

I don't like the notion of self-made rules-the assertion of being better than someone else based on a scoring system you've created. Having rules generates a circular timesuck of: wrongdoing, guilt, repentance, re-dedication, wrongdoing, double guilt, etc. People become so obsessed with a conflict they've created, and perhaps it's the need of conquest, the need of heroism, or maybe we are just self-involved to the point of psychosis.

I do believe in positive guidelines though. Example being-my mantra of only spending time with people who can legitimately inspire me. Life is too short to hang out with shades of grey.

Last night I watched one of my exceptional friends play guitar and sing at an open mic night. All the acts that preceded him were pleasant to listen to, but lacking any aspect that rose above the artistic doldrums. A lot of light strumming, a lot of lyricism reminiscent of high school dance dilemmas, and overtly-emotive singing plagued each set. My compadre, Zach, got up, and he whispered into the mic, inaudibly. He wasn't up there for the viewers, that was obvious as the first note was struck. His face removed itself from the world around him, and sank into the murk of his soul. He drew everyone in; not because of showmanship, but for his blunt honesty. His world-weary delivery was haunting to the point of discomfort. He forced everyone to feel his misery, he broke through the reality tv playing on the screens behind me, broke through the commodified coffee drinks, the harlots with ruby red lipstick, and the heathens rolling their eyes.

Maybe that's what true art is-making everyone shut up for a second.

lucid in America

I have three days left of my two-week notice; upon my arrival to the Capitol today, I was taken aback by the dreamlike aura created by the gloomy clouds and carefree slow-moving people. I smoked a couple of cigarettes, listened to the jazzy Kaputt album by Destroyer, and wrote this poem-

lucid in America,
lazy, loose,
ladies of marble, hearts of stone,
the clouds are gathering,
the trees sparse,
coarse winds cool, collide,
realign the telephone lines,
smoke exits the nostrils in good time,
three-piece suits,
hard handshakes,
heydays and hollidays both end in headaches,
lucid, loose, tight as a feather,
riding the Times and drinking empty cups,
full and flavored, gentle, gentle,
the melody is quaint,
but the melody will play,
sing easy, kissing the graves,
the skeletons are lonely, ask them to stay,
brief and brittle, the remnants of the middle,
quake and make me realize the end has and always
will be nigh,
egotripping brothers and daughters at pearly gates,
walking crates half in dismay, half soaked in rays,
interlaced, tracing barefoot on interstates,
humming with the meadowlarks, humming at the dark,
sometimes we're art,
mostly we're stark,
dancing and dying at once,
trival yet trying, the beauty we're still buying,
lucid, free, and easy,
knowingly drifting the pains, the plains
of America.