The Facts On Benjamin Are...

I can smell myself.  This stale, placid auroma eminates from my old dirty clothes and unwashed skin outward, and I keep catching it on it's way to the nostrils of those sitting near me.  I appologize if I make you uncomfortable.  There's a raw spot in the back of my mouth that's just developed in the last several hours, and I'm not exactly sure (although I could use the popular way out and blame smoking) what it was.  It probably was smoking.  My socks are so filthy they're starting to crust over, and upon further thinking, my wearing of canvas shoes probably doesn't keep the scent of dank shoe sweat in very well.  I truly am a smelly boy, and could give a flying fuck less what the assholes in the cherry creek mall think about my coffee stained t-shirt.

To try and avoid senseless banter I'd like to say that Charlie is back in town, and no matter how hard I know it is for him to come back, completely defeated by a city he's fallen in love with, to a city that's done nothing but break his heart, I'm happy to see his face.   He rode back with Rhodes from Las Vegas this weekend, and arrived yesterday morning to clear skies and 75 degree Denver weather.  Since then we've drank too much, stayed up too late, and smoked a whole lot of grass.  And I can't say much, but I can tell you I dig it.   I really dig it.  And, furthermore, I've had the last two days off of work, and it makes me not want to go back ever again.  After working 6 straight days week after week, this two day consecutive break has opened the door, and is seemingly forcing me out of it.  This town, this life... it's too small, and although there are a million and one things I could complain about, they've lost their weight, and this lack of a driving force is taking it's toll on me.  When I can't bitch about the specifics (because I can always bitch about something) there is something askiew.

More often than not, I think I'm going insane.  And not losing it a little, but going completely, by society's measures, mad.  My ability to comprehend and react accordingly to social and actual laws, I feel, is depleating, and the void of unanswerable doubt and questions ranging from social to cosmic levels is heartwrenching to say the least.  What is this?  Why is this?  Who am I?  Where should I be?  For christ's sake where the fuck am I?  These words are inert, void of any meaning, and you can try as hard as you want to make sense of me, through these jumbled thoughts, but it's nonsensicle and you're wasting your fucking time. 

Part of me wishes that Jordan had transcended some level of life and death, even if everyone else had thought he died and burried his body mourning over the person they all thought they had known.  At least then he wouldn't have a life of ostracism ahead of him, and people wouldn't speak about him as if he were a child, or an inanimate object because of the sedatives they've put him on.  This whole ordeal makes me worry about the validity of anything.  Of my emotions and thoughts, of the person I think I am, or the person anyone thinks I am, or they are, or what the world might be because of what they see in front of them.  It scares me, and I'm not too good at putting those thoughts out there, when I don't think those who are going to read them would care, or know what the fuck I'm talking about. 

Everything is chaotic and meaningless, to put it bluntly.

That idea alone causes more confusion and pain than I think is comprehensable.  I sure as hell don't understand this emptyness.  Why would you?


Sitting on the edge of my bed I see that smile, and innitially, it's soothing.  The laugh that lunges from said beautiful smile and reverberates off of my slanted walls is enough to settle every restless nerve in my body.  The long red hair that caught my eye so many months ago rests on bare shoulders, and behind those big brown eyes... there is absolutely nothing.  Women are like Heroin.  They settle your nerves, smooth talk everything into being better, fuck away all of those bad memories, and then they make you vomit, and shake, and cry and wrench your teeth.  They send your muscles writhing in uncontrolable spasms.  And then you shoot em one more time, just to ease the pain and the story starts over again.  This one didn't do anything, she's just dense, and that's hard for me to deal with, especially because of how beautiful she is, and how shallow and cold I am.  She thinks that my frustration with the world is cute.  She also is extremely pleased with me when I'm stoned.  Maybe because I'm sedated and she can actually handle me.  Maybe I just can't read people very well.

Maybe I'm just an asshole.  Yep.  Maybe I'm just an asshole.

 

Bukowski wrote "If you're losing your soul and you know it, you still have a soul to lose."

I wish it would hurt to say this, but I don't feel I'm losing anything. 

I don't know what's keeping me alive, and I wish that would make me feel something.

I can't express a lack of expression, so once more, this is all there is for me to post.

 

Here I am, sitting in a smoking lounge at a Hostel 1021 miles from "home", and that unavoidable and reoccuring, self inflicted, whip crack comes roaring down in a violent wave of frustration and malice.  All from the saved files folder at an e-mail adress that until today I've completely ignored.  Until today everything's been picturesque; food, coffee, friends, places, views, emotions, fuck the wheather's even been chrystal clear in a city that averages at 150 days of rain a year.  Today, fittingly enough, it's snowing. 

I've got enough cannibus in my pocket to make this problem, this reality, go away for the next four days.  I could roll a joint the size of my middle finder, telling the world and all it's burdens to go fuck themselves, but I haven't.

I've said too many times that I don't regret anything, but now... fuck if I could take it all back and make those words I just read spring back to life I'd do it.  Despite beautiful red-heads, despite everything I've learned, despite sex, despite travel, despite myself. 

I can't finish this... I can never finish anything.  Nothing ever ends. 

Fuck a whole bunch of that.
 

What happened to the lust for love that flowed through all of us back when we used to smile? Maybe it's that we don't really smile too often, or that when we do it's because frowning all the time is a faux pas. I just want to know where we went wrong, and, furthermore, who we are.  Yeah, I'm rambling, but at 1:06 on christmas morning, when no one is around, you feel as if your frontal lobe is going to fall out of your eyes if you start crying, and masturbation sounds too painful to try and pass time with, what the fuck is left for one to do?

To all of you christ loving heathen smashers out there... HAIL SATAN!!!! and a big fuck you while I'm at it.  Just for making me ritualize when I don't sympathize.  I could have been at work tonight, making money, and killing brain cells with various chemicals. 

But back to utter seriousness...

When did I turn into this bitter, spiteful, lonely person?  It seems that even if I wanted to turn back to the mindless senseless bullshit of the years before I couldn't, I'm too revolted by everyone, and everything they represent.  I don't have any train of thought, though I rarely do when internet access allows for me to scrbe my heart on the internet.  So I'll share a poem

This one's about losing my virginity.

Bile drips down the chin of a whore,
And in the morning,
Cold sweat.
A year later the irony taste lingers,
Sodium still burns your eyes.
When you lay in the dark
Soft wet lips are burnt on your retna,
Like an A-bomb in the distance.
It's enough to make you gag
with nostaligic remorse.
You might be sick,
and I'm sure I'm sick,
But nothings tastes sweeter,
Than her regurgetated schnapps,
when it slides from her lip to yours.

Now all the sheets are stained and torn,
the stigmata of fuck
of loss
of hopelessness,
the antagonization of apathy.
She was the first,
Became the last and the in between.
Laughing the stench of death
in your ear when you sleep.
Her crooked teeth drawing blood
when you try and scribe
I LOVE YOU.

The kiss extinguishes the sun
somewhere between night and day
yesterday and tomorrow
When desolation
becomes the executioner
of identity.



I'm not one for proper punctuation.

Here I am.  Five months since I last scribed text on this petty website to express my emotions to an unattentive populace of internet friends.   I've been keeping a written journal, something to keep my head straight, to help me recount the coming and going contradictive bullshit that flows through my head and out of an ink-filled stick onto paper.  I'd like to call at least half of it poetry.  It's senseless banter if truth-be-toled.  It's been much more consistant than this, because as I've unfortunately come to find, misery loves company, and when there's nothing to accompany the nagging embodiment of misery that I keep in my head, it thrives off of creativity.  If I don't have friends, I can write about those friends I don't have and it's just as good.  Or, I can draw up lifeless scribbles that have just as much a soul as the fucks I've met in 3 dimentional reality.  Either way misery is content with it.
Fuck misery, I'm content with it too.  I'm not miserable, I just know what misery tastes like better than ever.  I'm not meloncholy, depressed, suicidal (although, really thinking about it, who doesn't want to off themselves every once in a while?), morose, or any other adjective to express the antithesis of happy.  I'm just not happy, and I can live with that.  If only too express the anxiety that consumes my being...

Life is elsewhere.  I've learned that.  Wherever I am, wherever I may roam if you will, the excitement, the joy, the wonder of life will always be somewhere, wherever, I'm not.  That rule is inevitable.  It's because the wonder, the excitement and the joy are all objective, and my lack of experience of whatever it is I'm missing out on will be the life I want to live.  I've spent these last 18 years hoping to climb to some transient plateau of existence where life is exhilirating and enjoyable, and because I'm stuck here, looking down on the rest of the world from a mile high, I have nowhere to climb.  I feel that's why so many great minds are restless, and spend their lives wondering.  Not to say that my mind is great, just to say that great minds rival mine in their desire to traverse the traversable...  God I make no sense.

Sense is for the weak anyway.

It stings every time,
from somewhere far away,
this expected brutality.

I await it as a masochist,
waiting for the inevitable let down,
the reoccuring whip-crack.


Why won't this ever end?
Why can't this die?

My naivety will be the death of me.  To think that after she took the time to come to my house, to celebrate my birthday, to speak to me about the world at large, her world, that she would continue to be my friend.  She initiated this shit, and still I'm left shaking because I built it up to be something worth while. 

So hopefully I'll get the fuck out of here.  Try and find life, wherever it may be.  Hopefully I'll be able to grow out of this place, and learn to love myself again, in the loneliness and contempt known only to a foriegn place. 

Jeremy's mother commited suicide exactly a week after his ninteenth birthday.  He was in Austin, and spent the $8,500 he had in his saving's account to fly back to Denver, and pay for the entirety of her funeral expenses.  He sold her television set to his grandfather for $200 and now, after a week of heavy drinking, he has ten dollars and a pack of smokes to show for it. Because he's been staying with us these last couple of nights, and probably will until he leaves at the end of the month for work in Arcadia, CA; he tried to give me that ten this morning for "rent", and after I refused more than twice, he told me he was going to give it to Jordan.  I hope, although I doubt, that Jordan had the decency to deny it.  

Several nights ago, soon after entering the smokey basement of Alex's house, Jeremy sat me down on the floor next to him.  In front of us was a jewelry box filled with beads, earrings, bracelets and rings that all belonged to his mother.  He reached into the pocket of his tattered cargo shorts and pulled out a single ring, comprised of two silver rings, and one gold ring, all attatched to one another.  He asked to see my hand, and after taking it in his, slid the ring with ease onto my left pinky finger.  "I've tried to give that ring to four girls," he said, his eyes unfocused and looking in no particular direction, "and it didn't fit on any of their fingers.  You need to keep that.  Keep it on your finger and give it to the perfect girl, I mean the perfect one Ben.  There are a lot of girls out there, there are girls that you'll never be given the chance to meet, girls who will pass by you in the street, and whose names you'll never know.  Out of all of them, there's one you can give that ring to, and make sure it's the right one.  That was my mom's. "  He was so drunk while he was speaking to me that he could hardly hold his head up, but every word was articulated perfectly.  Every word was heavy, full of pain and confusion.  As i sit here and write this, that ring's on my finger, and hasn't come off since he put it on.  I'm convinced that out of all the wretched women in the world, I'll find one, and give it to her.  I'll put this ring on the finger of the mother of my child, if ever the world is unfortunate enough for me to partake in bringing one into the world.

As a side note to all of this, I can't help but feeling that Jeremy's mother, whatever her name was, was a selfish bitch.  Any women who can call herself a mother (uncluding Sylvia Plath, who, if you're not aware, killed herself shortly after setting her kids down for tea, by turning on her stove, blowing out the pilot light, and sticking her head inside) wouldn't comprimise the happiness and future of her children for anything, let alone her personal mental anguish.  Jeremy has nothing now.  No family to turn to, no money, no home, because of his mother's "unbearable sorrow".  Fucking bitch should've been born without a uterus, then her death wouldn't have had such a negative impact on anyone.  She had two children, one of which is a twelve year old girl.  

I've been detatched from those who I at one point called my closest friends, and I'm happy about it.  Those kids were nothing but counter productive symbiotes.  I can't stand the idea of wasting anymore of my time on their bullshit, and I feel I've grown substantially in the month that I've been away from them.

Etc.