mostly just because nighttime can go on forever sometimes

i don't think
much

not about things i should

not about my future or
my work or
my life

just about you

and him.

little things like

do you touch his dick? and
how often do you touch his dick? and
do you like to touch his dick? and
is his dick bigger than mine?

i don't care if it is, i'm just

curious?

remember when we kissed for the first time?

me neither.

i wonder, sometimes
what happened to that memory?

sometimes i forget that we were ever together at all.

those are the times
i miss you the most.

and sometimes i forget that we were ever apart.

those are the times
i forget how much we've changed.

either way...

i don't sleep
much

not as much as i should.

An Open Letter To M. Night Shyamalan

Dear Mr. Shyamalan,

Are you retarded? Don't be offended. I don't mean for that to offend you. I just think you might be retarded.

Have you been tested?

Your concerned friend,
Andrew

Judgement Day

If you say you hate the Beatles, you do so just to say you hate the Beatles and should probably stop trying so hard to seem just a little bit different.

Or Some Other Fairly Large Thing

Squeaky Cheese is his name. Fitting, I guess. He asks for a cigarette so I give him one. He's sitting next to some guy he calls his brother who nods his head. His eyes are closed.

Squeaky Cheese asks me if his brother can have a cigarette.

I guess so.

It's late at night and I smell like garbage. My hands are dirty and smell like tuna.

I hate my job.

It starts to rain kind of. Not enough to make me really wet, but enough to make me uncomfortable.

I pass another guy whistling the Addams Family theme. Instead of clapping where necessary he jangles the few coins in his McDonald's cup.

Got any change?

(I don't give shit to the Asian lady in the subway who plays the guitar and the violin at the same fucking time, why the fuck would I toss you a quarter just 'cause you can whistle?)

No, sorry man I don't have anything on me.

Can I have a cigarette?

... Yeah.

It's still raining kind of.

The sign at the corner says "Don't Walk" but I do anyways because I don't play by the rules.

It's almost one in the morning. No one else is at the bus stop. Just me at the bus stop.

Just me at the bus stop until a man rides up to me on a old yellow bike.

Got any change?

I look at him and then at the bike.

Did you steal that?

He smiles.

... No, he says, and rides away.

I put my hands in my pockets and look down State St. No bus.

Across the river there is a tall building that I have never really noticed before. There is a hole near the top, on the eastern side, big enough to fit a small airplane through. Or an elephant. Or some other fairly large thing.

I wonder what that hole is for.

What is that hole for?

I wonder if people can even go out there. Like it's some fancy pants inverted balcony or something.

And as if to answer my question, suddenly a little black dot of a man appears walking slowly in what is probably circles.

Then he stops. I look at him for a long time. He doesn't move even once.

My phone vibrates. I look down at it. It's running out of battery juice, it tells me.

So I shut it off and put it back in my pocket.

Then I look back up at the little black dot man just in time to see him jump.

Tuesday Night

I'm driving. It's late. I'm tired.

Suddenly, about ten yards in front of me, and man hidden in shadows is slowly walking across the road. Before I get a chance to freak out and slam on the breaks I remember

I'm also pretty high.

I slow down gradually, and sure enough the silhouetted man slowly disappears.

I tighten my grip on the wheel and blink hard several times.

Once again, much closer this time than ten yards, the man appears again, walking in the center of my lane in the direction of traffic. At first I can only see bare feet connected to a old pair of slacks, but as I catch up shadows form up and around his legs and I'm staring right into the face of a semi-transparent black man dressed as though he's on his way to play the token Negro in a Mark Twain novel.

My knuckles grow white as I hold fast and insist that what I am seeing is not real and I am just stoned out of my mind. And once again, the closer the man gets the more transparent he becomes and he is gone. At the next stop sign I come to I take a few extra seconds. Never have I hallucinated so vividly in my life.

And I know that if I had been at all religious, I would have been certain what I saw was real, I had made eye contact with the spirit of an elderly black man. But I didn't, though. I am just very high.

But I can't help but wonder, what if it had been a real spirit? It's not that I would ultimately feel guilty for not believing in him.

I just wouldn't want him to think I didn't believe just because he was black.