Jamiemccarthytv

Author: Jamie McCarthy

  • FATHER SICARIO

    The streets pulse like open veins, black tar slick, the night a slow bleeding thing. Neon hums. Buzzing flies. A dealer on the corner licking his lips, pulling at his collar like he knows. Like he smells it. The reek of old grief turned to something else. Something with teeth.

    I move through the alleyways, pockets heavy with ghosts, fingers tapping the weight of the thing inside my coat. Not a gun. No. Something older. Something sharper. A father’s rage honed to the edge.

    And then there’s the voice in my head, Del Toro-cool, a slow drawl:
    Jack is gone.
    Jack is gone.
    Jack is gone.

    And someone has to pay.

    I remember the last time I saw his hands—calloused, taped up, always ready for a fight. But he never saw this one coming. Didn’t know the rules. Didn’t know the game was rigged before he even stepped in the ring.

    He was a fighter.
    This dead city made him a corpse.

    I light a cigarette, let the smoke coil in my lungs. The dealer sees me now. A flicker of something in his eyes. Recognition? No, not yet. But he will.

    He shifts his weight, sniffs. He thinks I’m just another buyer. Another lost man looking to fill the hole in his chest with powder and promises.

    But I’m not here to buy.

    I’m here to collect.

    I step forward, slow, deliberate, the way a lion moves before the pounce. He starts to speak—some rehearsed pitch, some poison-laced gospel—but I cut him off.

    “Shut your mouth. You’ve already said enough.”

    And then I show him.

    The steel. The weight. The cold certainty of a father who has nothing left to lose.

    His hands go up. Shaking. Sweat pools in the hollow of his throat. A scared animal now. His mouth moves faster than his brain, words tumbling out, desperate, sloppy.

    “I—I didn’t know, man, I didn’t know, I swear! I just—It wasn’t personal.”

    And then there’s the voice in my head, Del Toro-cool, a slow drawl:
    “For me, it is personal.”

    I press the blade against his ribs, just enough for him to feel the promise behind it. I lean in close, my voice low, steady.

    Miranda, pleading like an 8-year-old, who’s lost his blanket and thinks crying will bring it back.

    “I didn’t know!”

    I’m somewhere between uncontrollable rage and elation, but 100% locked in the moment.

    “Well, now you do.”

    His breath stutters. A whimper caught in his throat.

    I exhale smoke in his face, watch the fear seep into his bones.

    No prayers.
    No deals.
    No mercy.

    Only the reckoning.

    FATHER SICARIO (Del Torro Cool)
  • The Stoic and The Fraud

    The Stoic and The Fraud

    Lou came into the bar a familiar ghost with a boner,

    moving through the crowd like he was made of smoke and wet dreams.

    Not a man.

    More like an idea of a man,

    stitched together with sinew and sincerity,

    spewing  something sticky,

    something dangerous. Vulnerability, he called it.

    “Strength,” he said, his voice a convincing needle in a junkie’s arm,

    “is the courage to be soft in a world built of knives.

    Expose the meat. Show the gristle.

    Let them in, let them carve you open.”

    The bartender didn’t blink.

    The drunks in the corner didn’t care.

    ButI felt it in my teeth, 

    an electric fence buzz biting my molars. 

    Lou went on, spilling alpha male guts on the floor:

    “Love is the real revolution, man.

    Bleed it out. Don’t be afraid to cry,

    to ache, to feel.”

    I wanted to punch him.

    choke him.

    Vomit on his terrible shoes. 

    Because here’s the thing:

    Lou wasn’t the real deal, he was an untested idea

    with just enough soul and sinew,

    while I was a meat machine

    held together by duct tape and denial.

    I wouldn’t cry,

    not even if they put a gun to my head

    and said, Tell me how you feel.

    I’d laugh,

    Spit in their faces 

    And die. 

    Lou finished his drink,

    some clear shit served neat

    meant for better men,

    and left the bar a false prophet walking out of a burning church.

    I sat there,

    Uneasy in my own skin,

    thinking: What the fuck is wrong with me?

    I can’t do what he does.

    I can’t be soft, I don’t know that trick.  

    Because softness is a risk.

    It’s a scalpel and i’m nothing but scar tissue,

    stitched and glued together with fear and chewed Nicorette. 

    Lou is a goddamn cathedral of flesh and feeling. 

    I’m a busted vending machine, 

    spitting out rusty nails and bitter black coffee.

    So I ordered another club soda and cranberry

    Something that looks real but is no different than what a 2nd grader would order. 

    But, that works for me, it doesn’t talk back.

    Because strength?

    Strength is shutting up,

    locking the door,

    and pretending you’re whole

    even as you crumble.

    And if that’s a lie,

    then fuck it.

    I’ll take the lie.

    Spoken Word Jamie McCarthy

  • Last Man Standing

    I walk into a bar.

    Not a “mixology lounge,”

    not a “craft cocktail experience,”

    just a bar.

    A place where the stools wobble

    and the whiskey doesn’t need a citrus garnish or an approval rating.

    I take a seat.

    The bartender nods.

    He knows.

    I don’t ask for a menu.

    Don’t scan a QR code.

    I say “club soda and cranberry, neat,”

    because I’m here to rehydrate,

    not curate an experience.

    To my left, a guy swirls a drink

    that looks like it was made in a science lab.

    A woman to my right stares at her phone, checking for notifications that will never make her happy.

    The TV plays a fight.

    Real men bleed on the screen.

    No one apologizes for it.

    I exhale.

    “You good?” the bartender asks.

    “Better now.”

    Outside this bar,

    the world is drenched in apologies.

    Men say “sorry” before they speak.

    Before they order a steak.

    Before they hold a door open.

    Before they exist.

    They bend over backwards, twist themselves into apologetic pretzels just to prove they’re not like the bad ones.

    They’re “safe.”

    They’re “allies.”

    They’re “good men.”

    And in doing so, they’ve traded self-respect for a participation trophy in male guilt. And, potentially given the obvious away, these men aren’t trustworthy. Shakespeare would tell you same.  

    I refuse to participate in the virtue game. Maybe it’s better to let them know you are recovering.  Healing the guilt that comes with being masculine. Some would call it barbarism, I call it, science. 

    A woman sits next to me.

    “You alone?” she asks.

    “No, I came with my emotional support group.

    We just broke for snacks.”

    She smirks.

    A real one.

    Not a “haha, I hate you but you’re paying” kind of smirk.

    A flicker of genuine intrigue.

    She orders a drink.

    A real one.

    Not a “pink nonsense in a mason jar.”

    Not a “statement piece for Instagram.”

    I raise an eyebrow.

    “What, no oat milk?”

    She laughs.

    I laugh.

    And for a moment,

    we exist in a world before the noise.

    Before men became house-trained.

    Before attraction was a liability.

    Before everything we said

    needed a disclaimer.

    A world where men led,

    women challenged,

    and neither needed a corporate webinar to explain the difference.

    Outside, the world keeps spinning.

    The New Age Man is still waiting

    for permission to be masculine.

    The Diversity Committee is still

    conducting witch trials in the break room. And the Virtue Hustlers are still selling rebellion at a markup.

    Last man standing

    But me?

    I finish my drink,

    tip my bartender,

    and walk out into the night,

    unapologetic.

  • Well Preserved for the Funeral Home

    Most people will die with their bodies in damn good shape.
    Neatly kept, clean, like they were waiting for the mortician all along.
    A few crow’s feet, maybe a little sag around the chin,
    but overall—good enough for the open casket.

    The funeral director will nod,
    “Looks just like them,” they’ll say.
    As if that’s some kind of fucking achievement.

    But then there’s us—
    The ones who didn’t treat life like a goddamn waiting room.
    We come in with screws in our bones, plates in our heads,
    scars running across our skin like crude roadmaps.
    We come in with cigarette burns, busted knuckles,
    wrinkles earned in back alleys, in bars, in love, in wars in octagon of life
    (physical, emotional, financial—pick your poison).

    Our hands don’t look soft because they weren’t.
    Our ribs might have been cracked, our teeth chipped,
    and our hearts—
    well, our hearts certainly don’t come in mint condition.

    No embalmer can fix what life did to us.
    No makeup can paint over the shit we’ve been through.
    They might try to sew up the damage,
    smooth out the years,
    but some things don’t hide.

    And maybe that’s the point.
    Maybe it’s better to arrive at the end,
    not looking like a goddamn mannequin,
    but like someone who actually lived.

  • HOPE IS A LIAR

    footsteps in the hall
    a trick of the tired mind
    hope is a liar

    #jackiemac4ever

  • HELL IN THE CRACKS

    Life splits in two the second you lose a child. There’s before and there’s after. Before was seven hours and nineteen minutes in a dark theater, the entire Nolan, Batman trilogy in a single sitting and you grinning at me through a mouthful of Sour Patch Kids, teeth glowing like a jack-o’-lantern in the dim light. It was frozen Coke dripping down your wrist because you held the cup too tight during the fight scenes. It was Whittaker and Romero 2, the roar of Chicago, the way you practically floated when Dana White grabbed you for a picture—your grin telling me, This is it. You’re doing it right. It was those goddamn short films, half-baked ideas and duct-taped props, where we didn’t care if they were good because it was us making them. Father and son, building something real out of nothing.

    And then came after. That call. That fucking call. In some dead Indiana parking lot that stank of piss and stale cigarettes, the sky too blank, too indifferent. The words didn’t make sense, not at first. I just stood there, the phone slipping from my hand, staring at the cracks in the pavement as if my soul was spilling through every jagged line. And then, smashing my forehead over and over on that torn concrete until the blood seeped into the cracks, following my soul into the void. That was the moment I learned what real hell is. It’s not fire or pitchforks or devils; it’s standing in the middle of nowhere knowing the only thing that mattered is gone. It’s remembering the grin you gave me in that theater and knowing I’ll never see it again. It’s the torture of memory—every golden moment tipped with barbs now, gutting me every time I dare to look back.

    And then there’s him. The dealer. The worthless, bottom-feeding coward who handed you that poisoned pill—a devil in a hoodie, trading death for pocket change. I see his face in my dreams, over and over again. I imagine all the ways I could make him bleed, suffer, break. My hands on his throat, squeezing until one of his eyes pops out and he’s gasping for air while I laugh and squeeze harder, just enough for him to feel what he’s taken from me. I want him to feel it—the endless, searing agony of a father who’s lost his son. I imagine cutting his fingers off with his own wire cutters so he can never hand over another fentanyl-laced counterfeit pill, leaving him as useless as the soul he sold long ago.

     

    But then comes the letdown. Sanity slipping back in, a bitter taste of restraint that almost feels like defeat. Because vengeance is useless. It won’t bring you back. It won’t undo the call, or the parking lot, or the crack in my soul that will never close. And yet, the thought of him walking free, dealing death to someone else’s kid, keeps me up at night. That rage is the only fire I’ve got left, the only thing keeping the void from swallowing me whole.

     

    So I rage. I dream of blood. And I write it all down because it’s the only way to survive another day in purgatory. This is the after. It’s torture. It’s rage. It’s love twisted into something unrecognizable. It’s the weight of what could’ve been, dragging me toward the grave. And still, I wake up every day wishing, screaming, dreaming for a world where you were still here.

     

    Read by James McCarthy

  • Where I Buried the Brine and the Bruises

    Born pickled
    a bundle of brine,
    spit out with the pigs,
    stepped on, tossed aside,
    buried under the muddy rugs—
    the carpet chorus muffled,
    rolled up and stained with the slap of hands,
    wet dirt naming me sinner,
    naming me fool,
    while the silence screamed back.

    Junk on my hands
    but my fists stayed open—
    bound wrists,
    tight-rope veins walking the thin edge of despair,
    slippery slopes greased by whispers,
    shadows hoarding truths
    behind my spine.

    I dreamed of the bottom of the bag—
    hiding in burlap shadows,
    draped over my shoulder,
    the sack of sorrow dragged uphill.
    The sun was a dagger,
    its glare split my skull,
    its fire pushed me to the peak
    where the earth yawned open.

    And I fell.

    Down through the dirt,
    down to the roots
    that never asked forgiveness,
    that held the mud and called it life.

    I planted my name there,
    deep in the soil.
    The weeds forgave me.

    I sprouted new hands,
    climbed the hill backward—
    not to escape
    but to meet the sunrise
    and the bruised boy
    I’d left behind.

    I held his face in my palms.
    I said, “We are here now.”
    And he disappeared
    into the light.

  • Hellfire in the Golden State

    Hellfire in the Golden State

    The state is burning again, and this time, it’s not just the trees. No, my friend, California has slipped its tenuous grasp on sanity, plunged headfirst into a Dantean nightmare with flames licking at the edges of every gilded promise. The land of milk and honey is now a charred wasteland of smog-choked skies and people stumbling through ash like extras in a post-apocalyptic snuff film.

    I pretend to light a cigarette—an act of rebellion or stupidity, depending on your perspective— starring at the horizon. The sun was a malevolent orange orb, veiled in toxic haze, casting a sickly glow over the melting suburbs. Somewhere in the hills, tech billionaires were watching their mansions turn to soot while clutching useless NFTs like talismans against the inferno. You could almost hear them scream, “Alexa, stop the fire!”

    Noah Berger/AP Photo

    This is California, where dreams are sold on credit and reality comes with a steep interest rate. A state that promises paradise but delivers apocalypse on demand. The fires, they say, are “natural.” A cleansing force, a rebalancing of ecosystems disrupted by decades of greed-fueled sprawl. But there’s nothing natural about it. Not when every acre of forest carries the weight of broken treaties and corporate negligence, not when every scorched town is a monument to the hollow promises of progress.

    The politicians, of course, are useless. Flaccid marionettes jerking off to the rhythm of kick drum, campaign dollars thudding into their off shore accounts, offering “thoughts and prayers” while fiddling with climate policies designed to appease both Greenpeace and ExxonMobil. It’s a delicate dance of double-speak and outright cowardice, and it would almost be funny if it weren’t so goddamned tragic.

    And the people? Christ, the people. Desperate and dazed, fleeing in Teslas with their organic soy candles and artisan kombucha tucked under their arms. Some fight the flames with garden hoses, others sit in traffic and weep, their cars packed with photo albums, pets, and the eerie realization that nothing they own is worth saving.

    The sky above turns darker, almost biblical, and the smell of burning pine mixed with the acrid stench of melted plastic and singed dreams. Beautiful in a grotesque way, like watching a great empire crumble under the weight of its own hubris.

    California will rise from this, of course. It always does. But what it rises into—that’s the real story. A phoenix or a chimera? A shining beacon of resilience or a festering hub of denial? Place your bets, folks, because the odds are as volatile as the stock market when the grid goes down.

    As for me, I’ll keep chomping Nicorette and documenting, because someone needs to remember this madness. Someone needs to remind the survivors that the fires didn’t start in the forests—they started in our heads, in our hearts, in the searing heat of human ambition unchecked.

    This is not the end of California. But it might be the beginning of something worse.

  • Hope’s Cackle

    Hope, the trickster born from pure FUCKERY

    It teases from the shadows,

    just out of reach, like the last barstool

    in a crowded dive.

    You spend a lifetime

    kicking holes in paper-thin promises,

    sipping bitterness like its Château Lafite Rothschild

    Doubting people, the world,

    yourself most of all—

    a skeptic’s creed tattooed on your eyelids 

    And yet, there it is—

    a glimmer, faint as a dying streetlamp,

    just enough to warm your frostbitten heart.

    The sun rises, and for once

    it doesn’t look like a cruel joke.

    You think, maybe,

    just maybe, the bastard wasn’t lying this time.

    But that’s when they come—

    angels, devils, who knows the difference anymore?

    Their wings flutter like melting clock hands,

    their smiles sharp as broken dreams in 4k

    They don’t ask permission.

    They never do.

    “Time to go,” they say,

    A one-way ticket to paradise

    or maybe just the next bar over.

    And you laugh, because

    what else can you do?

    Hope—

    that beautiful, deceitful son of a bitch—

    waited until your bags were packed

    for a journey you never asked for.

    A lifetime spent doubting,

    and the only thing you’re sure of

    is the punchline.

  • Silence is the killer when you look the other way. (How virtuous)

    the newsreaders smirk behind the desk,

    their teeth polished white,

    their words unpolished and dull.

    the world’s on fire,

    but no one wants to say where the match came from.

    they shuffle papers,

    nod solemnly at the camera,

    and move on.

    next story.

    young girls with broken eyes walk streets that don’t care for them,

    their stories—

    torn, gutted, and stitched with silence.

    a thousand screams swallowed by a fear

    greater than justice,

    greater than truth—

    the fear of being called a name.

    racist. islamophobe.

    Or phrases like Resident Alien.

    they weigh heavier than the suffering of the small,

    the forgotten,

    the torn apart.

    the rapists walk free because the culture has grown soft,

    too soft to call evil by its name.

    and isn’t that convenient?

    for them, I mean.

    they know the game.

    play your cards right—

    and the good people will look the other way.

    good people.

    they don’t want to seem bad,

    don’t want to upset the order,

    don’t want to be labeled.

    better to let the girl bleed in a corner

    than risk being impolite.

    virtue signaling is the new religion.

    you wave the right flag,

    tweet the right slogan,

    kneel at the right altar—

    and you’re forgiven.

    it doesn’t matter what’s behind it:

    indifference,

    ignorance,

    or worse.

    the mask is enough.

    but what about the girls?

    the ones they pretend to care about?

    their bodies are battlegrounds

    for a war no one wants to admit is happening.

    the press won’t write it,

    the cops won’t fight it,

    and the priests of tolerance preach

    their sermons of silence.

    it’s a goddamn joke.

    we scream about progress,

    about justice,

    but only in the ways that won’t cost us anything.

    and the victims pile up in the shadows.

    this world isn’t just ass-backwards—

    it’s in full throttle reverse

    marching proudly backwards into oblivion

    while the banners of virtue flap overhead.

    but you can’t eat banners.

    you can’t heal wounds with hashtags.

    and you sure as hell can’t hide the blood forever.

    eventually,

    the truth crawls out of the dark.

    it always does.

    the question is:

    will anyone be left to give a damn when it does?

    (Remember when the U.K stood for something?)