Dude This Is Why I Love McDonald’s

Because I know exactly what I’m getting

I’m paying for garbage and getting garbage in return

I delight in consuming that trash into my body

Not for one second do I need to wonder if that shit’s bad for me

I know it’s the worst

McDonald’s is security and safety

Uttermost confidence in receiving exactly what you’re requesting

"Chicken McNuggets, please"

"Here you go, six pieces of god-knows-what on your road towards high cholesterol"

"Why thank you!"

It’s like going on a date and knowing you’re getting laid

She says no? Impossible

McDonald’s won’t lie, McDonald’s won’t tease

They won’t be gettin on that transparency shit, saying “Hey, look what goes into our food and shit”

There’s a McDonald’s food scandal in China?

They’re using expired meat you say?

Not surprised!

That’s what I PAID for muthafuckaaa, and “I’m lovin’ it”

This is How We Die

Severely and significantly

Inching with reluctance, leaving a hot trail of fuzzy friction

Sloppily at times, like a soggy mop, zigzagging

At times, gracefully sliding down silk curtains

We die hitchhiking, taking part in the journeys of others

Imposing on their generosity

Saying hello and goodbye

Saying thank you so very much

We, in the process of dying, do so blindly every day

No end in sight, only the hypothesis of where the road comes to a

Stop, abrupt or expected

We’re dying, escaping, elongating, pushing

"Wait a moment," we say, "Not yet."

We die living 

The sunrises we wake up to

The nights that drift us back to our pillows

These dreams that brim till I overflow

If I die dreaming, will I be exempt from last gasp of air, the closing of my eyes?

Dig a Hole, Enjoy Some Coffee with Me

In college, there was a boy who understood my need and tendency to dig a hole with my thoughts, to question and drill and ponder and maul with no resolution in mind. He was willing to participate in this deed I indulged in, and in him I found a worthy accomplice.

We’d debate for hours, going back and forth in rhetoric. At times, I’d find myself sitting at the bottom of a gigantic pit, muddied and exhausted but unwilling to climb out. Then there he’d be, in the hole I dug, providing a shoulder to lean on as I rested my mind and nodded with relish. We’d sip a cup of coffee and grunt in approval from the day’s work.

It was a short duration of company that he provided, with a patience accredited to what I presume now as a mixture of curiosity, generosity, and expectation of my commitment in return.

But these things end with departure, and since I’ve left, sitting at the bottom of holes has not been as enjoyable. A one-sided debate is not a debate. My musings spin off into outer space, dissipating without the gravity of an opposing opinion. I’ve thrown my shovel to the side and taken up lighter activities with more stable returns, things such as, oh I don’t know, reading magazines and general chitchat and watching films.

Only once in a long while do I wonder about him — I wonder if he still yields such sturdy shoulders to lean on, and if someone’s enjoying that privilege after a long day’s work. 

Remember to remember

Today I’m feeling so much nostalgia for everyone. This isn’t dwelling on the past — it’s a recognition of the sweet doses of life, the dollops of frosting.

I remember stargazing with you on top of the observatory. You showed me Orion’s belt, and then guided my finger down, sideways. “That’s Sirius,” you said. “Like in Harry Potter,” I said. “No, that’s why JK Rowling named him Sirius,” you said. I remember thinking, that albeit this being common sense, you just might be one of the smartest people I was to ever meet.

I remember standing next to you in line at the cafe. You ordered a burrito - no, you ordered a mountain of toppings disguised as a burrito. “How is that all going to fit?” I asked. You were taken by surprise, you in your plaid shirt and olive green parka. “Have to get my money’s worth,” you laughed. The guy tried wrapping your mountain to no avail, ripping the taut tortilla skin. A few days later, when you saw me at the library, you said hi.

I remember waddling along sidewalks with you all, zigzagging not with deliberation nor purpose but a persistence akin to bravery. That one night, it was snowing, and the evening was a contrast of blue, dark and light. All of our hands were gloveless and cold, but we didn’t feel so. Perhaps it was our inebriation, but I remember understanding that we were already sufficient as long as we were a unit, not for the evening but for many days to come.

I remember crouching with you in our dormitory kitchen, clad in pajamas, hair tied up in messy buns. “That’s real beef?” you had bellowed in bewilderment, blowing impatiently at our bowl of ramen, the steam fogging up your lenses.

I remember the first night we met, I had no interest in you until I felt your shoulders. They were shoulders to be leaned on, shoulders that could bear weight.

I remember lying with our bellies on the prickly carpet, blowing through episodes of Game of Thrones with the fan buzzing in the corner. When you-know-who was beheaded, we gasped in elaborate horror and locked eyes as we confirmed this fictional truth.

I remember waiting for you to turn around as you paced back and forth in front of the benches, smoking your umpteenth cigarette. Your slouchy khakis and your tousled hair, your eyes betraying where your mind was, which was somewhere else completely. I could only hold your attention for so long.

I remember lying in your room with the Christmas lights, taking in the bottles of your life: your lotion, your perfume, your contact solution. They haphazardly lined your blue shelf next to your cameras and that mint typewriter. Suddenly, you swiveled around on your chair and proceeded to share a new idea with enormous hand gestures.

I remember standing in that corner near midtown, mind blown, watching the sky light up together. We’d danced the night away and stopped in confusion at how the dark had fled without our consent, the silhouettes of that row of flags billowing against a much brighter blue than anticipated.

Remember to remember, lest one day, when you seek to pull that one photograph out of your archives, time has already bitten away all that’s left to see.

Come Get Lost

Immerse our nerves into sockets of satin sinking and sliding

I want to grimace with you at the stars and their deception, their twinkles of bygone moments we clutch at with invisible sighs

Visible only if the air is cold enough, in which case I’ll have no choice but to shuffle closer

The damp soil pushes at our backs, molding against the indentations of our shapes, soiling sides of our clothing, sides of our skin, nothing that cannot afford to be dirtied

And I cannot count the stars nor count on their facade, but your feet I can count on to always be quizzically and comfortingly larger, your toes, your soles, your lack of an arch

Let us feel miniscule, but let us do that together, as a plurality, so as to suffice as secret vengeance against our irrelevance and the terror it encompasses

If time flows like this, and the damp ground gives way to gravity, we’ll inch our way towards the center of this planet

And the stars will keep lying, but we’ll grow to have a better eye at determining black from white

And we can snicker in crude confidence

And I’d have shuffled so close our melded sides would negotiate new boundaries

And if, and only if, the earth then felt like satin, let us sink not our nerves but our wholes and our souls and our soles into this spectrum of soil and sky, low and high

One reality and a billion lies, and we’d know the difference

Time Doesn’t Heal - It Dilutes

It puts things into new perspective because the lens in which we view them is longer

It creates new relativity because things have been happening along the way

Like with a physical injury - time is allowing the body to repair itself

It is the medium in which the repairing takes place

Time provokes refocus

And there is where the merit lies

But stop saying time heals, for it doesn’t

It dilutes: a day’s incidents out of 21 years of life is now out of 22, etc.

The healing is a separate entity that can be a result of dilution

Or resolution

Or perspective

Or whatever.

But time… time just washes things out, elongates the distance between you and that thing you so wish to be rid of but can’t help holding on to, until one day, it has become so fuzzy and bland you can’t even keep a firm grip on its shape, and naturally, you let go.

This music puts a beat in my arteries my blood flows free it jumps with the bass it drowns the flow of my thought processes and the wary tinge of doubt that keeps springing out of nowhere why can’t the caffeine work in a lesser way or some way that would make it more understanding as to why these dosages get larger I am listening to Justin bieber and he is singing about precious metals this is ridiculous but I comply I give up I surrender to the bieber and his womanly vocals because he is singing what I want to be hearing this thing they sing about this extreme want and love I don’t think I have experienced it is that weird at this stage of my life all I want is to wake up each day in a bed that ive had the liberty to roll around in to eat and crap and be merry which reminds Christmas is coming and time is winding down a spiral into uncertainty which is where all my plans live they squirm and huddle together in pools of ruin a village where if you could feel it the scratches would be uninviting but real as real as it would ever get all long and proving points tops of cones the tips of mountains of fingers tips touching tips that is an intersection oblique lines at least there is a meeting that is not half as lonely as parallelism wouldn’t it make sense if the parallel lines could coincide they would work so well together they have the same angle and same goals they are going places together but just separated by space however small I guess this is what they call privacy the excuse to stay guarded because exposure is what strips us down curls our fingers and our toes curls us into a small ball of rubber band strain it will only tire you don’t you know that things age they loosen this is no way for youth to display itself an exhibition of taut intensity like a red that burns explodes hurts and comforts  because anything worth anything has two sides how to flip it if ive stepped too long these coals burn by soles they do

Cocoon

Your nascent skin

Drag along the cavities of this ragged dark if it offers you any

Condolence

Scratch and tear, stretch your tolerance

Callouses are a strength you can

Call your own

To Kill a Thing and Bury It

Aware and struggling vs. confused and oblivious.

They seem like two states that lie far apart, but it is appalling how easily you can jump from one to another.

The scarier one: confused and struggling and oblivious.

This is all assuming that there is a certain subject of attention that is being dealt with, and from the looks of it, a bad one. Or just a strange one that is intimidating.

I think recently I have been really happy, but not very joyful. It’s like the happiness seeps into half of my heart and I get the tingly sensation that inclines me to smile but not to laugh. 

I walk and enjoy the chill of late, late fall, but is it not strange that there is no snow? 

That feeling. The one where the moment is enjoyable but you know you’re indulging and that something deeper is seriously wrong. 

And I don’t want to deal with it.

I stuff it into the recesses of my chest and feel the muffled tension ringing. I could strangle it, drown it, but then I’d know I’ve crossed a certain line, one that is unforgiving.

People walk around with their headphones on. They think, I can disconnect myself from the responsibility to interact. My music creates a new interaction in which I am the privileged observer. You can talk to me but I won’t hear a thing.

When did I become this?

History

Is so weird. 

There are definitely things that have happened in the past, in history, that are so disjunct from a specific person’s present that it would make sense the two do not rely on one another in any way.

And yet things are intertwined in ways that go several thousand layers deep, past normal expectations or understandings. This is probably a whole other dimension to understanding seeing as no one person can withhold all of this information that is so vital to begin to decipher the subliminal ways in which events dictate each other. 

Even in one person’s life itself;

Memory is not everlasting, nor is it faithful. It has the potential to be corrugated and molded. It is the one thing we can trust, yet it is within our control in a diluted sense. 

Memories can be chosen. It is not easy, but what we pull out of our consciousness may be selective. Of those pulled out, the essentials may persevere but minute details may be warped. In certain instances, even essentials may have been altered to our liking (or not). 

It’s so strange. What are our motives for… in a sense, lying to ourselves like that? It’s one thing to tell an event different than what it was to someone else for whatever reason, but to lie to oneself? Is it for self-protection? For survival? Out of pride, or fear or intimidation?

I hope that my integrity to myself overcomes those emotions and can stay true to my last holds on a reality that has passed beyond the clutches of verification. 

History teaches. It shows the beginnings and endings of things. It shows deliberation and outcome. The things I’ve done in the past - only I know what exactly happened, and if I can’t stay true to that then it’s gone. But I lose the benefits of learning from that. Who I am now is a direct result of all those moments. Please hold on to them. Some of them might make you cringe, but go through that and inspect the parts your mind has held on to. There’s merit in that.

Sometimes, though, I just wish the ones that pop up are more encouraging than bittersweet?

CUDDLE FUDDLE by DEDDY