I think I'll wait another year

I’m not sure if I feel much like celebrating tonight,
I have nothing to sing about,
What is there to rejoice?
Looking back over the last year, 
I don’t know if there is anything even worth celebrating
Except that it’s finally ending. 

Between the weird and awkward fling that fizzled in January and February,
Almost dying in March,
Coping with almost dying for the months to follow,
& the ambiguity and heartache that has defined these past couple months on so many levels,
the only thing I really feel like doing is throwing up.
Everywhere. 

Summer was beautiful, 
October was magical, 
And then things started to die. 
Just as they always do 
And I always seem to forget 
That everything is fleeting
Nothing is permanent
No one knows what the hell is going on 
Or what they’re doing 
So it makes no sense to try to make sense of it all. 




The only thing we can do is try to be happy. 
(if only it was that easy)


still, we lift our glasses
and we share a toast
because the new year is coming, whether we like it or not
(whether we’re ready for it, or not):

here’s to the new year, 
here’s to fresh starts, 
here’s to trying to be happy, 
and aborting the bullshit, 
here’s to actually talking about our feelings for a change, 
and not simply jumping ship when it gets too hard, 
here’s to emotional maturity, 
here’s to decency,
here’s to not waiting around for other people to change, 
here’s to baking a cake for someone who actually wants it, 
here’s to falling in love with someone who can return the favor, 
here’s to finding someone who actually gives a shit about you,
and not settling for anything less, 

yes, 

here’s to not settling,

here’s to not looking back, 
here’s to resilience, 
here’s to stopping trying to change things that are out of my control—if they are going to happen, they will—only time will tell & and certainly not worth stressing over. 













(here’s to hoping you’ll prove me wrong, and here’s to second chances)


Here’s to my friends, 
Here’s to new beginnings,
And making it count. 



Fuck, here we go again. 

Who Killed Zachary Goetz?

Was it the barber?
The butcher?
The priest?
The baker?
The spinstress?
The tax collector?
The candlestick maker?
The pharmacist?
The gynecologist?
The cokeheads?
The cunts?



The home-wrecker?
The loony?
The editor?
Or the vixen? 

All likely suspects; 
Each wielding a weapon
That could have surely done him in.

The strange part is,
When the authorities found his body
There were no signs of physical injury: 
No stab or bullet wounds,
No bruises or marks indicating strangulation,
His flesh wasn’t discolored
He looked as he always did--
White as the moon
And skinny like a model

There was no blood shed,
No fingerprints, 
No breadcrumb-trails,
There were no traces of poison found in his system,
This wasn’t an acid trip gone wrong


The autopsy concluded that his heart had simply stopped beating.


The police found a diary next to his body,
The last entry before his death read:

“So what if you write beautiful letters?
Where does that get you if no one replies?”




Dead.








He didn’t kill himself.

But his affliction was self-inflicted,
Accidental, of course, 
But it tragically led to his own undoing:
He spent too much time chasing rainbows,
And baking cakes,
And trying to turn straw into gold,
Holding his breath, 
Making no sudden movements,
And waiting for a reply
That he forgot to live.

and suddenly,

it was as if none of this had ever happened.. 

































































































..except that it did

raspberry lemonade blistex

Well, 






We’re out west 
And I don’t think I like it here: 

Everyone is really trendy and in a hurry, and I’m not sure I’m hip enough to be here, or swift enough for that matter. Perhaps I should learn to rollerblade and get a few more ear piercings, then I might survive the night, maybe. 

I had to buy some chap stick today. I was just boasting to someone the other afternoon about how I never get chapped lips; the very next day, my lips felt like sandpaper. Lucky me. 

It’s raspberry lemonade flavored. 
And tastes like fruit loops, 
with mermaids.



Or maybe it’s just the red wine..




Speaking of blood
And hearts 
And other red things
And bridging seemingly impossible gaps:

My grandma said something tragically romantic tonight--

“if there’s one thing I know, it is this:
following my passions is one of my greatest downfalls
because it always gets me in trouble”





I’ll drink to that.

A lesson in echoes, talking to walls and knowing when to keep your mouth shut

I usually trust acoustics. 
It's sonic law: that if you say something, you'll receive a response.
Sometimes your sentiments are echoed. 
Sometimes they're reverberated, and even if the sonance is muddled, you can still make out the details. 

It's okay to talk to canyons, they'll always reply. 
It's also okay to talk to wells, because—even if they're deep and the answer is delayed—they'll still always talk back. 

It's never okay to talk to padded walls, 
While they absorb, they won't return the favor.

And talking to stuffed animals is useless too, for they don't have very good advice. 

You would think
If you talked to another human—
A living, breathing, feeling human being, 
With a beating heart,
And a sense of decency—
And asked him a question 
You'd get a response. 

Unfortunately, some humans are like padded walls, 
And absorb, but wont return the favor. 
And leave you hanging, 
And things are ambiguous,
And vague,
And you feel like an idiot. 

Perhaps I should just stick to wells.

baking cakes: a parable

So. 











It’s the end of August and the end of a spectacular summer. You’ve just accepted an apprenticeship offer with a carpenter located in a shitty ass town in nowhere Ohio, and your new trade requires that you spend weeks at a time away from home. You make no friends there and loathe every minute of it.

You’re away for a month or so before coming home to visit.

Upon returning, you find that while you were off learning the ways of carpentry, your best friend Mary Jane found a new housemate: he’s taller than you, and he's slicker than you are, but he's a lot like you in many frighteningly obvious ways. You’re alarmed. You feel jealous and angry, and totally overwhelmed. You cannot wrap your mind around how swiftly she’s replaced you and do not want to make nice with this stranger. However, you resolve that raising hell would be bad form, so you smile, wincing, gnawing your teeth and spit out a greeting. 

Hello, he says, the name’s Will, pleased to meet you.

As it turns out, you and Will have a lot in common: you both play the violin, smoke like chimneys and can carry a tune. You decide that Will isn’t half bad after all, so you sweep your initial disdain aside and the two of you become fast friends.

One night, after hours of excessive drinking, you and Will are the only ones who have not yet passed out. He invites you to the kitchen, and pulls a slice of cake out of the refrigerator. It is delicious, and the two of you grease the wheel over the confection, happily exchanging anecdotes and fully absorbed in each other’s company. 

This becomes an instant tradition: every time you come home to visit, you wait for everyone else to go to bed, then you and Will sneak to the kitchen and feast on cake, and every time is as beautiful and memorable and magical as the last. 

You discover that it’s Will’s birthday soon and want to do something nice for him, partially out of your own embarrassment for your shitty first impression of him, but mostly because he seems like a genuine fellow and you want to kindle your friendship further.

You decide to bake him a cake.

You tell your good friend Tina about your idea. She immediately shoots it down, warning you that Will is very particular about his cakes, and that as a rule he only eats store bought cakes. Once in a blue moon will he eat homemade ones, but that's a rarity. 

You consider this information and decide to put the cake on hold.

While you're away, Mary Jane calls you and tells you that Will suspects that you’re thinking about baking him a cake. She says not to worry, that she told him that you are reasonable and realistic, and that you don’t know your way around the kitchen and wouldn’t possibly dream of baking him a cake. 

You want to scream. 

You want to say: speak for yourself. But you don’t. 
Instead, you reply: I mean, if he wanted me to make him a cake, I totally would. 

Tina then reminds you of Will’s rule: people have tried to bake him cakes in the past, she says, but he just doesn’t like them. He just doesn’t want to deal with the fuss—hurt feelings, wounded pride, broken hearts—you know the deal. It would be a hell of a lot easier if you just bought him one. No strings attached, you know?

No. 
You don’t know.
You refuse to believe this until you hear it from the source.
Until you have THAT dialogue, THAT conversation, you'll remain blissfully ignorant
Besides, he’s never had a cake quite like yours, you think to yourself, and maybe you can change his mind. You become determined to bake him the perfect cake. 

Back at the carpenter’s workshop, you’ve taken to making ottomans, which all are suspiciously shaped like cakes. You don’t want to work; all you want to do is bake. In your spare time you peruse cookbooks and study old family recipes looking for the perfect combination of ingredients. You stop calling friends and keeping tabs on the election, all you want to do is BAKE THIS CAKE.

Out of the blue, Tina calls you. She tells you that Will is sick. His ailment isn’t life threatening, but the news only increases the urgency for you to bake this cake. 

After weeks of deliberation, you finally settle on a strawberry cheesecake. You bake it, and it looks…okay. It’s lumpy and uneven, but you put your heart into it and tastes heavenly, so you’re satisfied. It’s the thought that counts, right?

You come home for thanksgiving and sneak the cake into the fridge. Finally, the moment of truth: after everyone goes to bed, you take Will by the hand and bring him to the kitchen. You’re brimming with excitement, and you can’t wait for him to try it. 

I made something for you, you tell him, as you pull your cake out of the refrigerator. 

He looks at the cake, and then he looks at you. His smile fades. And your heart sinks. 

Shit 
Fuck. 
Shit. 
you think to yourself: I’ve made a terrible mistake.

you realize that your friends were right, and that you're fucking stupid

What do you think?, you ask, wanting to crawl in a hole and die


I don’t know, he replies, 
I don’t know how I feel about this kind of stuff

And you know he doesn’t want your cake.

it's okay, you say, 
but it's not. 

it was nothing, you say, 
but it was definitely something. 

You feel silly.

You excuse yourself, and go sit on the couch. Moments later, Will emerges from the kitchen with two plates of cake. But it isn’t YOUR cake, no, it’s generic cake from dairy queen that wasn’t baked with love or good intention specifically for him, and you want to vomit. 

Instead, you eat it, and it tastes like it always did. And it fills you, but you’re not satisfied. 

The next day, before you leave, you wish Will a happy birthday
Thanks, he yawns
No problem, you say half-heartedly as he falls back asleep. 

As you leave, you see your cake is still sitting on the counter, untouched. 
You throw it in the trash. 

As you're driving home, a familiar song comes on the radio:
This is how it works, the voice sings
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took 
And then you take that love you made 
And stick it into some
Someone else’s heart
Pumping someone else’s blood
You walk in arm and arm 
And hope it don’t get harmed 
And even if it does
You just do it all again

You throw your stereo out the window. 
And then you realize you’re on a bridge over the river
And fantasize about driving off the side. 

dear zach,

way to get tonsillitis. 
you stupid twat.
no amount of orange juice or vitamins can save you now.
you're in for the long haul. 
sucker. 


(if you were smart, you'd lay off smoking for a while.
and go to bed at a decent hour 
and actually eat well
& MAYBE even visit the heath center

unfortunately for you, 
you like doing things the hard way 
and prefer smoking, 
and staying up late watching cnn
and nothing gets accomplished

besides:
cake > healthy food
& doctors are scary)



in conclusion, 
please send cough drops
and love
and high dosage pain killers

sincerely, 

zach