nikkiwalter:

Hi! I’m Nikki and I am an addict.

Seriously!

I’ve struggled with various eating disorders since I was ten years old. I started skipping breakfast in fourth grade when Adam Johnston told me I was a “chubby weirdo.” In retrospect, the joke’s on Adam Johnston because he gained sixty pounds after…

-motorcycle bar-

Alan Jackson on the box

I don’t know which song

it’s a labour to sit here for long

eradication of the entire human race

that’s what I’ll work on

after I work off my outstanding

bar tab

-what stephen hawking said-

your dark eyes

are dark out

of memory

not like a black

hole trapping things

that move at light

speed, but brown

or blue

or neither,

just the way I

remember them

gabekawczynski:G

On twitter I follow soGMJWGMme really funny people. Some have many followers and others have little. And some have medium. Uh, that’s just common sense, right? The two funniest people i follow on twitter are @OfNorthAmerica @DavidKlein5.

Unfortunately i’m going to be a jerk and say who my top…

Poet Laureate

As Poet Laureate of North Manchester Indiana I received recognition 

from literally tens of people at the local coffee shop's open mic readings

The mayor awarded me (with pride)

two ten dollar gift certificates to East 

of Chicago Pizza, also I was allowed

to ride a bicycle in the towns

"Funfest" parade in front of the mayor's

convertible, and behind the Peabody

nursing home Aqua-Aerobics float

That kind of respect can't be found 

everyday, behind every corner

It has to be earned

Earned by my wit and charm and some might argue my devilishly handsome looks

The Manchester Daily Monitor called

me the Oscar Dela Hoya of literature, 

"Issuing hit after hit, in a poetic sense of course"

The online article goes on to say "God has blessed, 

not only North Manchester, but the entire world with his abilities as a word smith."

Market Street was honorably named Wagner Street temporally with paper signs 

and even though my true home town of Warsaw is a few miles to the north, 

I'm still some what of a home town hero to the folks in Manchester

Here is my 1st ever poem to be published back in 2003 

-icons of the virgin- 

icons of the virgin are painted in etceteras on the wall

surface, texture, erosion.

you don’t know that I can hear assembly line

efforts in your voice.

midnight sky of braille and arabic numerals

counting, falling.  dot dot dot dash,

immaculate Morse code for V,

not for victory or for varsity

or for virtue.

latitude lines on an uncreated earth

still have their degrees and intervene with longitude

baby born into a cartilage cage

a metaphor for the unspoken

benedictions for the perishing apostle

zodiac, monkey pox, increased rations

assembly line icons of the virgin

etcetera etcetera written on her face

-I grew up-

in a town with 967 streetlights, not that I’ve counted.

the water quality was considered good to drink

but the goose poop and duck poop might make

you think twice about swimming in any one of our lakes.

my great grandfather told me that you could dip your hand into

the water while you were fishing and have a drink,

but you wouldn’t want to anymore.

he died in ’83.  he’s buried in the town cemetery near

the lake where he used to fish and drink from.

my dad worked at the Burger King where you can have a Whopper

an astonishing 1,024 different ways.

my mom was an underpaid nurse aid at an old folks home.

she had beautiful skin and blond hair when she started,

and wrinkles and white hair as white as her patients

when she retired.

when they die, they will be buried in a plot of land

about 30 miles out of town,

the only land they’ve ever owned,

well away from the welcoming glow of less than a thousand street lights

(heres a story fragment that will likely never see the light of day.  it probably shouldnt be here also.  everything is fine)  

ive had an absurdly long week.  ive had appointments to attend.  clients to please.  interviews to conduct. set up new appointments so far in the future that i have to write notes to myself in triplicate to remember.  going to see a head shrink next week.  i will see the psychiatrist six times.  therapy can be like dating.  if it isn’t going anywhere after 6 encounters, it is best to cut all ties before things get too serious and a break from any point after is going to be messy.  two days after doctor visit number one i’ll have a turkey dinner with the family.  all penciled into my day planner.  the week after, my brother’s soon to be ex-wife and son will come to stay at my house in the city until soon to be ex-wife can get her feet on the ground.    

it’s maddening how time blurs into itself.  i used to think i was the dictionary definition of indefatigable, but as of late, i feel like a poor and huddled mass.  
my business is falling, has fallen, apart.  my personal relations have expired.  unreturned phone calls, letters, emails. birthdays, anniversaries and other important days fogotten because my day planner is too full with business notes.  
i do have a select handful of friends who i break my neck to see, but i think my neurosis have been too much for them lately and has driven their once affectionate social embrace toward me away. friends avoiding me like there is a large sum of money owed.  friends avoiding me like i’m asking them to spend their weekend helping me move.
it’s all probably karma.  
the business in the shithouse because of unethical dealings in the past.
loneliness because of the callus way ive made loved ones lonely when they could have used attention.
even the weather is shit because i did not embrace the lovely weather when it was here, december saying you should act more kindly toward may.
i cant seem to shake the feeling of regret.  
i cant seem to wipe this stupid expression of tiredness off my face.  
when i get home i’ll take some pills to help me sleep.  my dreams are void of color.  faceless phantoms pass while my feet are caked in cement.  
airplanes fly over head with no destination.


Oren Wagner

-The Last Redcoat-

In Seattle, I worked with a girl named Laura

who had a split personality named Deirdre from the UK

and was equipped with the accent to prove it.

Laura got fired for giving her number to a 32 

year old patron, who’s wife didn’t appreciate a 16

year old bookstore employee hitting on her husband.

I had a soft spot for Deirdre and didn’t think it was

reasonable that they both got terminated.

Deirdre was far more sophisticated 

than her 16 year old counterpart. This lack of

fairness forced me into revolution, but

the British embassy wouldn’t see me.

Tony Blair wouldn’t answer my letters.

The only British person who ever listened was The

Rolling  Stones’ Keith Richards.  I talked Keith into

talking  his band mates into playing a benefit for

their countries lost daughter.

A benefit to send her back to the UK.  A dream that

wouldn’t be fulfilled jobless.  The Stones ended up

not having the “stones” to play claiming problems with

their agent.  Laura and Deirdre got their jobs

back at the bookstore in the stockroom where they

weren’t allowed to interact with customers.  Deirdre

has no idea what I went through to try and send her

home.  I never bring it up. 

Sometimes by the time clock I hear her humming her

National Anthem or Street Fighter Man, then a Boston

Tea Party of sadness goes through my body when I know

how close she was to living

her dream.  A dream where dairy milk flows like the

Avon Wiltshire river, and trunks are called boots and

hoods are called bonnets.  A dream living under a sky where

the Union Jack flies from every flagpole in the Kingdom.