the forecast called for rain

another weekend spent
indoors dreaming of
new addictions
wasting time flipping
through sports and
home improvement
i'll get to that new
addition right after
i mow the lawn
as i tell my mother
who has a growing
concern for my well
i can't die soon enough
i don't see you playing
in traffic she says
that's the beauty of
apathy and depression
i tell her
i want to die but
someone is going to
have to do it for me
and living out here in
the sticks i'll probably
have to send directions

a chance to take down a brick or two

my sports teams are
finding the right words
anymore is a fucking
hassle and a chore
my hands are starting
to reject me during
and to torture myself
i spend my afternoons
staring at a picture of
the woman i loved
in high school and
how happy she looks
with her husband now
for the outsiders
they will call this a phase
for the ones that know me
they know this is a cry
for a loaded gun, a bottle
of whiskey and a few
nights home alone
it'd be so much easier
for someone else to do it
if they only had the nerve
to remember i exist
and if only apathy
would allow me a
chance to take down
a brick or two
all of us know this is a
pathetic plea to take up
space, to matter, to be
something other than
what i've been given

this stoic insane face

thumbing through
an old fashion rag
tired, thinking about
what could have been
loneliness oozes from
my pores like a poison
i'm tired of faking it
and this stoic insane
face has seen enough
but the gun reeks
of cliche
pills and booze
have all been
razor blades are
for hacks
and who wants
to be another
fucker to dance
with a train
this fucker has
chosen attrition
one day my patience
will be rewarded

a bedtime story

every night i close my
eyes i see a lemon
flavored hatred hidden
behind every door
your candy lips
trace a bloody
outline of my soul
our perfection is now a
blackened lung
and in the silence of a
full moon we both can
hear every heart break
we'll meet again
some lonesome day
some old abandoned
west of the guilt river
down by where the
future is buried
goodnight my princess
you shall be missed

J.J. Campbell (b. 1976) lives, writes but mostly
dies a little each day in Brookville, Ohio. He's
been widely published over the years, most notably
in Zygote in My Coffee, Nerve Cowboy, Chiron
Review, Thunder Sandwich and Babel Magazine.

You can contact J.J. via email at jcampb4593@aol.com

2008 Underground Voices