Wednesday Nov 21

nicholson Kenneth Nicholson, painter, illustrator, writer from Pittsburgh Pennsylvania, who's art in all forms is expression of intangible every-dayness, inner struggles, and subconscious scatter.  He is currently working on two new art series to follow his last gallery exhibition "In a Constant State of Flux" and is finishing his first novel.

ditching attempts
one night’s all I need-
a row of stars filing up the sky.
one last chance-
an attempt out of the ditch.
tooth and skin and cry and prayer of death-
cheap noodle slurp
de Guadalupe shining over wishy-washy head-
for once,
one vibrant aura of blank city relief-
wood grain and oil drip.
recurring thought, word and dreams, repressed-
until years later, middle of pop shop echo.

“dust in stuff”
rot gut and warm skin
on the white marble countertop.
she wants to hear everything I’m thinking- til I say it
“You might be booksmart but it won’t save your soul!”
now I haven’t seen her for days-
threw her lamp across the room.
we met back in the city, it was like my first time
in the bustle street sweep.
the sleeping pup on an old shirt running in his dreams, like me-
towards skyline cracked by forever-bye and never-go
tea never tastes the same after coffee-
she never tasted the same after you-
the highway never felt right before 3 a.m-
and “come back” hasn’t rang the same note since.
wake on a warm salsa breakfast fever-
she showed me around the backways
I’ve had longer friendships destroyed by less
dusting the moths off of her lamp.
for the emotionally impoverished.

It is, its when you’re laying in bed screaming out at the window “I’m so fucking loooonely” and the girl lying next to you turns over to tell you it’s ok and when your confidence is just as low as your competence and the odds aren’t against you, they haven’t even been set up yet, and you reach and thrust out in space and for the only second in your life the stars line up and planets rotate together and god shines his holy benevolent light on you and you know that tomorrow you’re gone, nothing here to attach your hopes to anymore it’s all out in I don’t know-ness where everything is so vibrant you can’t bear to look out at the road anymore and the darks are darker than you can find any kind of footing in, when you’re so ugly that the smiles are of pity and the frowns are of disgust and inside there might be mighty beauty but it’s been done and its out of style with the other beauties and the girl can’t commit and the boy can’t decide and the book wasn’t nearly as good as you hoped and two fisted and limp dicked you wake up for the fight of your life and get there too early to wait.
the names not a name
It’s a bugbite-
It’s a razor nic
at least when I hear it, or see them
but I do know what you’re getting at
It’s the jitters
still- more than shakes-
you have to explain it different to someone else
if your even going to try
but not to me
go ahead, read it over and over
you knew so much better back a few years
before the mornings were dull blue and the afternoon drone-on
grab some sleep for once
you can take it back, and give her away
like you anything to begin with.
“to mom”
it was the movie I waited months for
so I had a few drinks with friends
and I yelled “shut the fuck up” to the man upfront-
too much clatter
but I won’t tell you what I called him-
no mother should hear all
the verbal sins of her son-
at least in one sitting-
roars from the cinema seats
standing quick, he punched n’ grabbed at my face
but I yelled n’ hit him back-
like jerry would have-
like he would’ve wanted.
it took the entire row to pull us apart
for nothing
I missed the flick
had barely enough for a cab home
but what a show, mum.