Johnny’s Mantra’s #Who the Fuck Cares

Everybody loves me but myself.


Poetree….Or Maybe Just a Weed

                                                             I don’t know if I make any sense

         but I like digging in my couch to collect a few cents

             to buy some booze

                                            a black and mild or two

                                                                                    maybe a tiny bit a shrooms

                                                                                       and eighth of an eighth

                                                    Gobble them up

                                               upchuck my thoughts

                                                                                 wake up in a puddle of my past

            My third eye’s mascara is running

let me go to the little boy’s room to powder my nose

                                                     reapply my psychological make up

I need to find a pretty girl to love

                                                          and lust

                                                      and break up

                                                        my dreams

             Shattered thoughts

                                             I need a punctilious princess

                                                       to pick up my pieces

                                                                                           and forge a kintsugi mind

                                                                 to stare at

                                                            and be proud of

               and show off to her friends

             and add to the crystalized museum in her head

Maybe I don’t make any sense right now

                                  but my sixth sense is high off an eighth

                                      Smoke and music floats above me

                                        as I make ash angels on the floor of my garage

Maybe this doesn’t make sense

Maybe I’m rambling.

Maybe I’m in shambles

Maybe I need a revolver and a bullet

                                               to make a gamble

                             Middle finger on the hammer….pull it

                                                       Blow my brains onto an empty canvas.

                         Brain fragments

                            Blood spatter

Does it really matter?

How my loved ones feel?

                                             once I’m gone

I’ll leave a pretty note

                                      written in music notes

                 A sad song singing how I don’t feel like I belong

                                                                                     How I long for acceptance

                               but hate the person people see me as

I hate my past

I hate my wrath

                            I hate that the only thing that’s definite is math

Why do I feel this way?

Why do I feel like a stray?

                                         The runt of a mutt stuck in a muddy rut

What am I?

Who am I?

Where am I?

                     Does any of it matter?

     Am I just a random collection of matter?

I’m rambling again.

Take your pills, B.

Go to sleep, B.

Don’t worry, B.

Tomorrow will B the same.

I Don’t Miss You

I don’t miss you.

I miss my vision of you.

The you from my dreams.

The you who’d stuff large pieces of sushi into your mouth, mid-sentence–despite knowing my pet peeve for people who talk with food in their mouths–while preparing a piece for me with the perfect amount of wasabi and soy sauce, and stuffing it into my mouth, as you finish your train of thought, tempting me to contradict my own pet peeve with a lovely, impish grin.

The you who’d hold me on lovely nights, under lovely skies, and ask me to find the little dipper–despite knowing exactly where it is–just to have me look down, innocently willing to answer your question, and be met with puckered lips, ready for a happily ever after kiss.

The you who’d run your hands through my hair as my head rested on your naked body, while listening to me read out loud–despite knowing I hate reading out loud–an article purporting that the structure of a single human brain cell matches that of the universe so closely that our universe might just be the brain cell of another higher being.

I don’t miss you.

I don’t miss the real you.

I don’t miss the now you.

The you who’d tell be through texts that Somebody else calls me dollface now.

The you who aped my personality–the good, bad and obnoxiously individualist–and incorporated into your own personality like a sartorial accessory.

The you who crushed up my remaining innocence and railed it so you could party for days on end with people I introduced you to, telling them, from a high white pony, about all the fucked up shit I never did, but you say regardless, because it helps you sleep every third night.

I don’t miss you.

I miss my books you kept as your own and show to others to appear interesting and informed.

I miss the records I spent hours and days and weeks scavenging from garage sales, flea markets and Amoeba SF, that you show off despite not having a turntable to play them.

I miss the clothes I bought, which made me stand out, that you decided to cleverly cut into dresses to wear for other men, on other lovely nights, under other lovely skies.

I don’t miss you.

I miss me.

I miss the me you stole and never gave back.

I miss the me that wrote silly, happily ever after poems.

I miss the me that liked to drunkenly tell anyone who wanted to listen about the Greek origin of soul mates…how man was originally created with four arms, four legs, two heads, and one heart, and how they challenged the gods, and nearly won, and because of that, the gods decided that man was too powerful and needed to be split in half so they’d spend their entire lives searching for their other half.

I don’t miss you.


I don’t usually write on weekdays, but I needed to get this out.


Realm of Hungry Ghosts

To keep myself from drinking, or calling Hunter Thompson’s drug dealer, I started cleaning my garage. Unfortunately–and only I can find a way to make this an unfortunately–my garage was already spotless.

I cleaned it earlier today.

And yesterday.

And the day before.

Now, I’m drunk–just like that.

My idle hands found a pretty bottle of aged whiskey to drink and throw some chaos into my boring, balanced life.

I’ll be alright, I think.

I’m a few hours away from going to bed. I just have to keep busy until ten or so, take my sleeping pills, wake up tomorrow…then repeat.

I turned off my phone to avoid getting into trouble via the women in my life/lack of willpower that like me when I’m drunk and crazy and ready to play. Though, a beautiful woman to fix all my attention on sounds scintillating. Maybe I’ll turn on my phone and try to woo a woman to bed. No sex. I just want someone to cuddle with… and be cuddled by.

I’m rambling again.

Ohhhh my random mind.


Anyways, during my short, erroneous and neurotic cleaning session, I found the attached ‘featured image’.

Like most of my art, I did it while shit faced and alone and depressed.

I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with my art. Being a neurotic person allows me to spend hours and days fixating on a piece, often times a 2″ x 2″ square piece of canvas, just to paint over it, or destroy it entirely.

I always enjoy the act of painting, but I despise the rotten fruits of my creative labor.

The piece attached escaped my self-loathing wrath.

I’m not sure how.

I’m not sure why.

The narcissist in me comes out on nights like this.

I think to myself: I found this art for a reason. I’m supposed to learn something from this. Why would I find a piece that perfectly describes, or fits somehow, the way I’m feeling at this very moment. There must be some higher power fixating on me the same way I fixate on other things. 

I hate this side of me so I spend hours repudiating myself: I’m not special. I’m not unique. Nothing is done for you. It’s all chance and chaos. Nothing more, nothing less.

I know I need to find a balance between everything is done with me in mind and I’m just the ugly product of chance and chaos.

I know that I fuck up every time I get close to achieving equilibrium.

I can’t help it.

I don’t know how to be happy.

I really just want things to be anything but the way they are now. It always comes down to that.

I really am chaos incarnate.

Anyways, I’m rambling again.


I painted the attached piece while reading a book called: In The Realm of Hungry Ghosts, by Gabor Mate.

And I wanted to share it with you all.

There’s a dozen or so hungry ghosts in my painting.

Can you see them?

Or am I crazy?



Capsules of Concentrated Sacrifices

I sacrificed my dreams to not have nightmares.

I sacrificed my body to not hate the way I look.

I sacrificed my favorite feature, my changeling eyes, to pills that permanently dilate them, making them appear brown and drab, to not have them half-covered by sleepless eyelids.

I sacrificed my limitless highs to not have crushing lows.

Maybe I should build a pyre of prescription pill bottles and sacrifice my sanity, again, to elevate my psyche back to my pantheon of personality extremes.

Maybe I could find happiness in being Zeus for a few weeks or months, Hades for a few years, Apollo and Athena for a few moments, here and there, all rolled into my primary personality, Dionysus, who drinks wine, takes ecstasy and eats lotus flowers, and live a perpetual life of ritual madness.

Maybe I should just sacrifice myself, and ask to be buried somewhere pretty, with a rose bush growing on top of my grave, not bouquets laying on it to wilt and decay and be blown away.

Maybe sacrifices are stupid.

Maybe I’m stupid for thinking sacrifices are stupid.

Maybe life is a series of protracted sacrifices.

Maybe sacrifices are natural and necessary to advance our lives.

Maybe I don’t like that sacrifices are natural.

Maybe I should burden myself with the sins and sacrifices of others–then sacrifice myself like the scapegoat in the bible.

Yea, maybe I’ll sacrifice myself, my soul, my entire being.

One last sacrifice.


Suicide Notes from a Man Who Died of Old Age

I know there’s nothing I could possibly say to ameliorate the pain I’ve caused by doing this.

I know that many of you will blame yourselves.

I know that many of you won’t recover from this for years, maybe ever.

I know that this might seem selfish–believe me, I know this…I know all of this. But it has to be done. 

Please know that the combined pain all of you are feeling at this very moment doesn’t equal half the pain I’ve felt– half the pain I’m feeling at this very moment. Please know this.

Please, please, please don’t blame yourselves. For the last five years I’ve suffered in silence, occasionally crying in class, or on lonely walks home from school, or while eating dinner with you, saying it’s allergies. Horrible things happened to me that I tried to write out here, but my hand started to shake and tremble, and I started to cry, so I’ll leave that portion of my pain out of this, but it’s none of your fault. No one who’s reading this is responsible for my pain. The people that hurt me will probably not get what’s coming to them until they’re old and alone. They’ll remember the pain, and hopefully hear that I killed myself, partly due to them, and off themselves, or maybe they won’t remember, not realizing the pain they caused. But honestly, I think I would be in pain even if I’d lived a picturesque life–it’s just me.

I don’t believe in heaven, but if it did exist, and I got in, somehow, I would find a way to be miserable in it. My souls tainted and broken, and it needs to be destroyed.

I’m tired.

I want oblivion.

I’m sorry.

I love you all.


Johnny wiped away the tears he just realized were flowing, and dropped the note back into the box his grandfather bequeathed him.

“Why would Grandpa leave me this?” he whispered to himself.

He anxiously shuffled through the rest of the box, finding note after note filled with sad words.

“Why would Grandpa leave me this?” he asked himself again, before closing the box, and reading the note written on the top of it in grandpa’s trademark calligraphy he tried to teach Johnny to no avail.

To you, Johnny, and only you. I hope this will help you through your struggles, son. I love you.

Johnny walked out of his room, down the hallway to the living room where his mom was with a glass of straight vodka, looking at a note, over a box similar to his, crying uncontrollably.

Johnny never could take the sight of his mother crying–it always resulted in him bawling harder and louder.

He walked over to hold her and cry together.

“Don’t cry, ma, please,” he said, despite knowing that nothing in existence could dam the deluge flowing down her cheeks.

“Why did gra–,” he started to ask before his mom interjected. “Grandpa left that for you, and only you. The same way he left this for me, and only me. And many others for people he loved. I don’t know why, but I’m sure there’s a reason.”

They held each other and cried for a few eternal minutes.

“I know this was a long and painful day, Johnny, but we’ll get over it together.” she whispered into his ear as her head rested on his shoulder. “You don’t have to go to school tomorrow, baby, but it’s late, and you should go to bed. Tomorrow will be a better day, I promise,”

He reluctantly let go of his mother and asked, “Are you going to bed?”

“Yes babe, in a little bit.”

Johnny walked down the hall, turning back before opening his bedroom door, and watched his mom pour another glass of vodka, down it, then poor another.

He started to cry again as he took off his clothes and got into bed, telling himself that he would never be able to sleep.

Staring up, wide awake, at his ceiling that he recently covered in glow in the dark planets and spiral galaxies and shooting stars, he remembered a trick his grandfather taught him for restless nights. He started to count the stars, then he multiplied them by ten, then divided by five, then multiplied again and again and again, calming his racing mind, until finally falling asleep.

His mom lied, but it wasn’t her fault. Tomorrow wouldn’t be a better day.

I don’t like the wording of this. There’s much to be done, but I needed to write it down. I’ll go through it and make it prettier, hopefully.

This is the first page of a short story I’m going to attempt to write about a grandfather who lived to 99, leaving his depressed grandson a box of suicide notes he wrote throughout his life. Each page, or most pages/post, will begin with one of the suicide notes, and end with moments/days his depressed grandson goes through, corresponding or running parallel to his pain in different ways, helping him realize that he’s not the only one that experiences despair.

I’m sleepy, so I’m going to go do math in my bed until I fall asleep. Hopefully I’ll wake up to some critiques.