So It's True; We Build Up Our Lives Around Saftey Routines. So It's True; At the End of the Day, We're Well-Oiled Machines

I think I drink too much.

I haven't written a poem since Poetess, and I wrote it on Mushrooms three months ago. I've written a lot of fiction, though. Even started a novel. We'll see. I never finish anything, which is either one of my more endearing or rage-inducing qualities. I'm thinking of writing a poem entitled "How Working in Fast Food is Like the Army" and leaving it out for my district manager to read. I got written up for having my shirt un-tucked, no hat, some other guy having his shirt un-tucked, and having my eyebrow ring in when he walked in one day. Thank god he didn't notice the free double-pizza I'd made for my friends, who then got to watch me Not-Cry because I came "this" close to losing my job. Okay, sure, it's Pizza Hut, but it's also a down economy, and I've been looking for something better for over a year.

Anyway, that guy's an asshole, and I haven't appreciated my eyebrow ring this much since I was 18. Or un-tucked shirts. Fuck policy, man. Fuck it up its stupid ass. I'd rather buy a pizza from a kid with facial piercings and an untucked shirt than some douchbag in regulation uniform and regulation shoes and a regulation hat all tucked in and buttoned up and looking for all the world like s/he's about to fire a rifle into the air instead of giving me pizza. I don't like people who look like they're about to fire rifles into the air. They make me nervous.

Plus, it's fucking god-damned Pizza Hut. If anybody's bringing this country down, it's us, goddammit. With our waste and our asshole district managers and our bullshit rules and regulations for poor college students who don't really give a fuck, anyway. They make $6.15 an hour. I make $2.13 an hour, when I serve, and $8.00 when I manage. And you know what? I don't manage. I don't run a tight ship. If my crew wants to un-tuck their shirts, I'm right there with them. What was ever accomplished by tucking in one's shirt, anyway? And I look god-awful in hats. The first thing I do after I press "Clock out" then "Yes, I'm sure" five fucking times, is put my eyebrow ring back in, thank you very much, take off my hat, take the rubber band out of my hair, run my fingers through it, put down my windows, and rock-n-roll my way all the way home.

I'm such a rebel. Don't give a damn about my bad reputation.

And, hey. At the end of the day, at least there's still rock n roll. And a corner to throw my uniform in. And a dashboard to throw my hat in. And a home with gypsy Orange walls to walk into. And a body to fuck, if I want it. Sometimes, he even rubs my feet.

And that's how Pizza Hut is different from the army. That, and we have less guns. Slightly.

Poetess at Twenty-four

Here,
In the darkness of an old front porch,
With the smell of wood and leaves,
And the coming spring,
With the soft amber glow of a kitchen window
Shining safety out
Into the wilderness
Behind me--
And I think about you,
Momma,
As the wind rises
Sending a silver chill down my spine
And I pull your afghan around me tight
Like the memory of your arms
Or a cradle-
Where everything was simple-
Before home vanished
And the wilderness
Took over.

-Me

P.S. Yeah, second post of the night, but I really like this. I think there may be an edit or two left to do, but I think this one has some real potential. Like, Norton's fifty-third edition potential.

Last Three Days...

Welp, in the last three days, I bombed the G.R.E. (970 out of 1600. Nicht so gut.), worked two double shifts at The Hut (that's not even me trying to be cool, that's what we're calling ourselves now. It's on our boxes and everything), made and spent (sort of) $245 in tips, seen the new Wolverine movie (and wanted desperately to be in the middle of a Wolverine/Gambit sandwich, but they don't exist and I'm not single), written three new poems, drank two bottles of champagne and half a fifth of vanilla rum (Whaler's), and tried not to think too much about that first one.

I eat salads like a fugitive when I'm at work because, according to policy, we're supposed to pay for (at least) half of everything we eat, meanwhile we waste enough food to feed (at least) two to three third world countries every day. My latest wish is that I could make interesting things happen to me so that I could write like Hunter S. Thompson, but I'm just not willing to do that many drugs at the same time. I can barely function on too much alcohol and a little bit of pot, and the last time I took L.S.D., I ended up hiding in the bathroom from the pizza delivery guy. No way could I drive around Las Vegas on acid, mescaline, ether, rum, AND coke. Seriously, how did this guy survive?

But he did, just long enough to get tired of it, shoot himself in the head (maybe, [insert government involved conspiracy theory here]), and get shot out of a canon by Johnny Depp.

Really, I think I just want to be beloved and crazy enough to request that my final remains get shot out of a cannon by the latest Hollywood It person (who portrayed me brilliantly in the movie, though, to his/her credit), and actually get it. Who could ask for more, really?

1974

Suddenly,
It's 1974
in our Orange House
And you feel
A lot like home to me

Yes, Alan is home.

I could write songs here
Nestled under your chin
I could write love letters,
Poems
And then...

but you are jealous of my notebook now
And my attention divided between you
And it
And the mayowing of a yellow-eyed cat
Prancing around our Orange House
Like King
Of 1974.

-Me

P.S. How quickly my resolve crumbles. Please don't steal this, random internet stumbler.

My New Favourite Poem of All Time

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
-the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

-e.e. cummings

P.S. It's 3:18 and I just woke up. Hooray for days off and abject laziness.

Obligatory First Post

It is currently twelve thirty-five, eastern standard time, and I have just successfully created my first blog. Yay me.

So now I have to decide what this blog will be. Will I do as I said I would, and just post random observations about things and try to sound all deep about it, or will I also use this as an internet deposit for my poetry. I always feel so cliche publishing my poetry on the internet, you know? Also, I'm perpetually terrified that somebody's gonna steal it. But, I'm also terribly vain, and this is a public forum, of sorts, so maybe. We'll see. If you tune in one day, Invisible Reader, and see poetry, you'll know which way I finally decided.

Lately, my time has been divided amongst work, studying for the G.R.E., fearing terribly that I am, in fact, average, and fan fiction. Yeah, I'm lame like that. I'm also writing a romance novel that I can't publish because the characters are already owned by Mutant Enemy, Inc.

Also, my life would be simpled up so much if the zombie apocalypse would just hurry up and get here already. Seriously, Government, what are you waiting for?