The referee at my JV football game in
high school fell over in the end zone and died of
a heart attack.

A guy who cleaned up around the yatch club I worked at
fell in the river and drowned. We tried to save him.
We jumped in and swam around looking for him, but the
water was so murky, we couldn't see anything.
The current was strong and impossible to figure out. It was
a fall morning, chilly, kind of cold. Darren, the guy in the water with
me searching, started to hyperventilate because the water was still
so cold from the night before. He started goin under,
so we kind of dragged each other to the pier and got out.
John died. It was the biggest failure of my life.

I found out a couple of guys I used to play Rugby with
got hit by lightning at a game. One died.

Priest at the church I used to go to with my dad
hung himself.

Is it just me? Do both weirdness and morbidity
follow me around and make a mess of things?
This is a nonfiction post.
A nonfiction past.


Five 88 cent little pizzas.
Two huge cantaloupes.
A box of generic raisin bran.
A two liter bottle of orange soda.
He was probably 75, 76 years old.
I could picture him putting
a little pizza in the oven every night
and eating it.
He looked out the windown as he chewed it.
I wanted to cry.
I wanted him to have the best rest of his life
he could possibly have.
I wanted him to win the lottery.
I prayed for him. I don't do much prayin.
Why do I even care about this complete
He finished his transaction and walked out.


Keep my death bed photos
away from those Andy Warhol
wanna be jerk off mofos


I can't sleep,
and I'm glad.