Gab

the whole "sucking

at guitar and making

quirky music" thing

should be left to trained

professionals with real

mental ailments

Painting of a Headache

a black canvas
fluorescent lights
it's unatural that
something would
be so cold
and bright

Read This at my Funeral and If There are Children Present Cover Their Ears so They Never Know the Beauty they Will Most Likely Miss Out On

I caught the tail end of a great generation.

Aside from all the iPod nano smart car
bull shit, I shook hands with the last
remaining good hearted people to
inherit the American dream and all
of the wonderful nightmares it will
bestow upon our Grandchildren.

I met steel workers, writers, artists, plumbers
and in my later years the opera crowd.

I read books, magazine, poetry, the Bible
and graffiti on city walls.

I played rummy, black jack, yahtzee, and
even REAL solitaire.

I drank beer, wine, soda, rum, and most
notably the best whiskey man has to offer.

I met the blue collar worker, read the wino
genius, and most importantly equally respected
them both.

I loved women, real women like Marilyn
Monroe, Jane Morgan, Kim Gordan, Audrey
Hepburn and every female with a pretty
face that ever smoked cigarettes and
used what their Mother gave them.

I loved God, my country, other countries, and
understood the boundaries of my upbringing.

I hope the world notices the peculiarity of my
circumstances. My mind was exposed to so
many amazing human traits. Never complain,
and never underestimate the importance of
everything you have ever witnessed.

Thank you.
I love you.
Goodbye.
In that specific order.


- Scotty Alexander Leitch (1986-2???)

what else in this room reminds me of you?

the carpet, its shitty
the curtains, they're pretty
the cabinets they're shaped
in an obtuse way


this table, it's flat
the mice as they chat
the TV stares at me
with its nuclear rays


the coffee, so warm
the fire, unborn
the whiskey it heals
when she makes me cry


the ceiling so tall
my cell phone; no calls
the smell of today
as it passes me by

dear aunt Ginny
thank you for
the Christmas
card.
if I could I'd
hug you and
tell you that
I love you and
Jesus loves you
and that the
ten bucks you
gave me would
best be spent
at a diner
on coffee for
the two of us
and how your
explanations
of what life is
and isn't is worth
much more than
ten thousand
cents and
even more than
the efforts of some
pour Columbian
child

Conversations with a Zipper on Christmas

Christmas is today just as
yesterday wasn't Christmas
just as tomorrow isn't the
Fourth of July or Easter.

And on Christmas I saw
my aunt and all she could
say was how skinny I was
and how skinny my girlfriend
was.

"Any thinner and you'll
be a zipper," she said.

Whatever the fuck that
means?

And I tried to explain to all
4'2 180 pounds of her that
maybe we are the norm and
she should make friends with
a nice treadmill or some guy
who works at that rock climbing
village next to the mall.

I do a lot of explaining
in my head.

It's not important to remember
that my stomach ached while
writing this at 6 pm Christmas
day.

"Next person that puts me on
trial for accusations of being
too skinny I'm gonna punch
em' in the gut," I thought.
Rather, I explained.

everyting in this poem is the true and i won't tell anyone

my uncle
impregnated his
cousin when he
was 12

I cry
at least
once a
week

I don't
love my
mom or
her whispers

tomorrow
is
Christmas
eve

I really
do believe
in
a savior

no one in
my family
will ever
read my poetry

rope swing

theres a playground in the middle of the highway
theres a ropeswing there
theres a twelve pack of cheep beer for us to drink
and ride the puke wheel
theres a playground in the middle of the highway
theres a ropeswing there
you can see everything from there
if I push you high enough

this is the first post i have ever made that isn't my own writing. i really appreciate Rob Crowe and think he is an armoire among this milleniums trash heap of thinkers. as this first ten years of new civilization passes my face I give it the finger and think, thank you 2000's for nothing.

3 Christmas's

2 years
such a long time
when your
counting
every second
cause seconds are
tiny presents
and everyday
is Christmas
when were
together
things can only
get better
I promise
my mouth
shaped like

a sharpee

mark my

words

ten reasons to call me and say sorry

you're dating a douche bag

I just realized you're not that cute

everyone has slept with you except me

tomorrow you won't win the lottery

you never told me you loved me

you never kissed me except that one time in science class

when I was holding a butterfly net

urban outfitters photo shoot

yes, we can take pictures in the snow
but not so many that we turn the ground
black with the bottoms of polaroids like
last time

I'm not posi

pessimistic

optimistic

i'm optigonally

yours

the

world

needs more

Onomastì komodèin

where

are

all the

satirists?

probably in

Canada

thats where

I'll move

when I

get some currency

i can see my

uncle there

that is if hes

out of jail yet

it's a poem about snowing and my best friend

God's dandruff

is falling from the sky

into my lap into our hands onto automobiles onto designated recreation areas

and I thought I was a dirty guy

6 inches later I've

changed my mind changed my underwear changed my interior motives

bought yourself

155 dollar jeans

now can't purchase anymore cigarettes

thats why you're tight

"will you make me some cornbread?"

"i like to lay in the shower"

(for cherbabe)

Hard Rock and Headaches

suddenly I feel the
urge to make a move
to bang my head on a
rock just to see blood
flow and know that
I'm alive inside
1.pro
duc
tive
2.sat
is
fied
3.un
cir
cum
sized
there
I just made
you a list of
things that
I could never
be again
and we can take
the blood
and paint a
bunch of pictures
of places we can go
when the TVs fixed
when my car's not sick
when the interstate is
open to our red
space
ship

12/15/09

how i'm going to murder my music final 43 mins from now

Chopin
Debussy
Cage
Adams
Stravinsky
Schoenberg
Military Polonaise
Prelude to the Afternoon of a Fawn
Sonata V
Tromba Lontana
Rite of Spring
Pierrot Lunaire
Romanticism
late 19th century
20th century
20th century
20th century
20th century
tempo rubato
impressionism
prepared piano
post-modernism
atonality


nismo eyes

7:18 am
the library
is still
full of
asian kids
playing bedazzled
checking face book
cramming
chemistry formulas
inside of
their tiny
heads
yellow streaks
beam from
their eye sockets
like
car headlights
on a 94' honda
good for
them
i'm jealous
of their
work ethic
and especially
their
broken english

blonde

in all of your pictures
you're holding a beer
you look really stupid
I hope someone tells you
someday

i recall

the taste of rubber laundry
forgetting to remember
that you're an only child
and have never been held
by anyone but me

good luck in the afterlife
juggling your indecision's
did you decide to cut
your hair again?
have you decided when
to say I'm dead?

what 80 ton whales eat for lunch

a whale by the name of Clifford Wellington swallowed an entire Japanese city today. it wasn't any particular city. he wasn't any particular whale. the Call Me Ishmael foundation had named him public enemy number one earlier that month. upon arriving at the shores his white saline like eyes began to radiate bursts of beautiful red light, red like the syrup they dunk ice cream cones in when you order a strawberry dip on a mosquito filled summer night. Clifford's massive mouth opened and exposed tiny villages of rectangle molars ruled by rectangle mayors who were surrounded by rectangle advisers. so busy taking care of rectangle matters. the stretching of Clifford's jaw caused a tidal wave that flooded every city street and basement ten miles inland! "A city float," he thought! the skyscrapers tasted like milk, the cars tasted like candy, the candy tasted like sugar, the pavement tasted like peanut brittle, and the surrounding farm land gave Clifford's lunch and avocado sandwich feel. one survivor pointed out the politicians kicking and screaming begging for their square suits and oval brains back.

12/7/09

BIKE WISDOM

6:30
am. still
drunk. following
the migration
patterns of
a trash
truck. cold
air kisses
my face
like a seventh
grade
make out
session
too much
too fast. dry
skin
nausea
is this
familiar?
red Honda
no turn
signal
i'd yell if
cold
air let me
i'd cry if
cold
air let me


ROBOT BODY ALIEN HEAD

weird people
doing weirder things
sleeping in the sky
puking chocolate
phrases
smoking crack
in my stairwell

weird kids
playing weirder games
flying their kites
under cathedrals
daddy's screaming
no daddy said

"it's not a popsicle,
that's kool aid
frozen in time"

all of april and most of may

i remember

crawling into

arms and the

smell of hot

pavement
breathing down

the neck of your
front yard.

hammock.

you are the

coolest person

to ever live

in a middle

class predominately

white neighborhood.

your brother

liked me

your cat

liked me

your step mother

loved me! i never

met your father

but you said

he would have

thought highly

of me and my

red car. i hope

you still

do

intersecting parallels

smiled today

didn't

hurt like

usual

i have friends

like

i have parents

they're

real to me

maybe

not to you

or

anyone else

even

to my own

brother

i

dont feel

indifferent

anymore

though

FUCKIN DICK WEED CAT

highway robbery 86
clean times
dirty watches
tea lights

he knows hes bad
shove his face in piss
shove his piss in his face
LITTLE FUCKER

TOUCH MY CANDLES AGAIN
AND DIE

(for custer)