Jamiemccarthytv

Tag: jackiemac4ever

  • Father of Madness

    “They say time heals all wounds.”

    Who in the fuck are they?

    Some bureaucrats of grief, clocking in, clocking out, wielding the second hand like a scalpel, deciding when the wound has been stitched,

    when the blood should dry,

    when the rage should settle into something softer.

    Time—the prison, the con artist, the liar.

    It doesn’t heal. It magnifies.

    It twists the knife while whispering lullabies.

    It counts the days like a debt collector, reminding me of every second Jack no longer breathes, and every hour the bastard who gave him poison does.

    And still, they tell me time is the answer.

    That I should let it pass, let it work.

    I want to take that very hand of time,

    the well-intended, patronizing hand,

    and smash it for 19 straight minutes

    with a dead blow hammer,

    until the gears stop turning,

    until the numbers scatter like broken teeth,

    until time itself finally understands

    what it means to be overwhelmingly crushed. 

    Miranda, devil in a hoodie, dealer for pocket change was never a scapegoat.

    He was a man who knew exactly what he handed over.

    I wonder if he ever wakes up sweating,

    if he ever feels the shadow behind him,

    if he ever senses the weight of me

    staring at the back of his skull.

    Sixty ways in a minute,

    three hundred sixty in an hour,

    eight thousand six hundred forty in a day—

    I could carve my grief into his flesh.

    I could become time,

    the father of madness,

    breaking him down into seconds,

    watching him beg for a mercy

    that he never gave to Jack.

    But there is no justice.

    Only the slow, excruciating unraveling of the world going around the sun, 

    where killers breathe and sons are buried.

    There is no closure, no grand moment of reckoning.

    There is only the hell of waking up each day,

    wishing for ghosts,

    praying for gruesome vengeance,

    and knowing—the only end is mine.

  • The Shalt Nots

    I went digging for goddamns and found nothing but God’s dam—backing up hypocrisy like a sewer on the verge of bursting. Thought maybe I’d reel in the meaning of that little fish glued to the backs of tan sedans crawling toward mediocrity but turns out it’s just another barnacle clinging to the herd, a bumper sticker with a punchline no one gets. Worse, it’s an acronym—because nothing screams divine wisdom like a secret handshake for suburbanites.

     

    The “shalt nots” were scribbled in dirt while God was out fishing—dreamed up by crackpots, half-cocked in hypocrisy. “In God we trust.” Sounds less like faith, more like a slogan on a war bonds poster peeling off a gas station wall. Maybe God was pickled, tripped over his Birkenstocks into some desert bog, pulled his head out of the sand just long enough to count his fingers and think, “Ten. Yes, ten’s a good number. That’ll keep the peasants from eating each other.”

     

    And so, we got “thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain”—but no asterisk for exceptions. Like, say, strapping a bomb to your chest and screaming God’s name on the way out for an express ticket to 72 virgins who, funny enough, spent eternity dodging exactly this scenario.

     

    But before your fingers can strum a harp in the happy hunting grounds of the untouched, you’ve gotta learn to count—because obedience starts young. One… two… three… TIME OUT. Fear gets baked into you before you can spell your own damn name. But the holy scribes forgot their ABCs when it came to abortion.

     

    A: If you climbed in through the side window, anonymity won’t save you.

    B: Blood on your hands—stillborn or in plain sight, doesn’t matter.

    C: And then, there’s the C. section.

     

    No questions. Just follow the script. The big one? Thou shalt not kill—unless the bastard prays to the wrong God. Then, rape, burn, behead, and while you’re at it, rape again. All glory to one.

     

    Cue the laugh track. Not only do these rules own you here, but once you clock out, guess what still applies? Ignore them?

     

    You shalt not.

     

  • Heavenly Invasion

    The gods—you can choose to listen or not, but you will hear me.

    God. A silence that leaves me sideways, and it makes no difference if all I get is indifference. I look up into the grey void, a guttural scream shaking the earth—

    “Where the fuck are you, you cruel bastard!”

    He pretends not to listen, like I’ve got my proverbial head in the clouds, but he knows. Knows what it’s like to lose a son. Knows the emptiness, the gut punch, the 24/7, 365-day guillotine choke around my throat.

    And if God is everywhere, like they say, then when I escape to meet Jack in a dream, that means he’s under the bed, listening. Listening to the cracks in my heart clattering onto the mattress.

    Is he sorry?

    I don’t give a damn. And I sure as hell won’t bother with a plea—I’ve been on my knees long enough.

    So, consider this a declaration. A warning.

    Grief blackened my heart, changed its beat—forever pounding out some new twisted rhythm of madness.

    My plan? To invade heaven.

    A place I once questioned, but this loss—this hole where my son should be—has me lacing up my boots, ready to stomp through those golden streets, kick down every door in the happy hunting ground until I find what he took from me.

    Is this war? Doesn’t have to be.

    But Dylan Thomas said, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night.’

    Well, fuck that.

    I won’t go quietly into anything. Not the night. Not the silence. And sure as hell not into some pearly-gated bullshit where I’m expected to nod along like a good little ghost.

    So when I come knocking, when I tear through those gates with grief as my war drum, you better be ready.

    Because I won’t leave without him.

     

  • The Church of the Ever-Righteous

    They gather in the town square, mouths full of scripture, hands empty of work.

    Every sentence is a sermon, every action a performance.

    You will believe in their goodness, they will make sure of it.

    They wear their suffering like designer clothes,

    tailored just right,

    sized for engagement,

    hemmed with validation.

    Benevolence, once a quiet thing, is now screamed through megaphones,

    echoing through algorithms,

    pinging off the glass walls of their own reflection.

    They don’t just do good—they need you to see it.

    Their kindness comes with a receipt,

    their outrage is for sale.

    They weep on cue,

    bleed on demand,

    call it a revolution,

    but it’s just another round of applause.

    They kneel in the ashes of causes they do not understand,

    building careers from the rubble,

    raising monuments to their own empathy,

    carved from the bones of whatever is trending.

    They claim to be warriors.

    But their battles are fought from ergonomic chairs,

    their weapons are hashtags,

    their victories are hollow.

    You meet them in the streets, and they are nothing.

    No light behind their eyes,

    no depth to their words,

    just echoes of whatever sells.

    And when the wind shifts,

    they shift with it,

    abandoning the wreckage,

    moving on to the next great cause,

    leaving only footprints in the dust

    and a trail of discarded convictions.

    But oh, how they glow.

    How they shine.

    How they bask in the warmth of their own virtue

    until the next fire needs fuel.

    And maybe, just maybe,

    this whole rant is its own flashing signal.

    Maybe I’ve stitched my own sermon together with rusted nails

    and tacked it to the same town square.

    Maybe my pulpit is just a little lower,

    my righteousness a little filthier.

    But at least I know I’m a sinner,

    and if I had the chance to sin again,

    I’d double down,

    call it an esoteric form of discipline,

    and light a candle for my own damnation.

  • THAT WHICH CANNOT BE EXPLAINED

    The earth shrugs, and a fault line splits a city in two.

    A rock, smooth from centuries of wind and rain, decides today is the day it falls, crushing a man who never missed Sunday mass.

    A wildfire starts in the bones of a dead tree, the wind carrying its laughter across acres of homes and history.

    Somewhere in the ocean, something ancient rolls over in its sleep, and the tides rise just enough to erase a coastline.

    No explanation. No reason. Just the universe twitching in its sleep.

    And then there are the other things. The ones written in history books with footnotes that lead nowhere.

    The bodies that vanish.

    The wars that start because someone blinked at the wrong time.

    The lone gunman that wasn’t so alone.

    The flag that was still  there, an anti-gravity, star bangled banner still waving. 

    The numbers that don’t add up, the footage that disappears, the coincidences that stack too neatly to be random but too scattered to be anything else.

    We shake our fists at the sky, but the sky never bothers to look down.

    And then there’s this—the real question, the only one that matters to me. 

    Jack.

    Why Jack?

    Not the dealer, not the smug piece of shit pushing poison for profit.

    Not the ones who make money off of death while dressed in white coats.

    Not the fucking grinning death merchants in boardrooms, approving a new batch of slow, quiet execution.

    But Jack?

    Why him? Why that night?

    Why that second, that breath, that choice?

    The tectonic plates shift and ask questions but they don’t answer.

    The fire roars, but it doesn’t explain.

    The rock doesn’t whisper a reason as it falls.

    I wake up every day, expecting the answer to be written on the ceiling, in the cracks in the paint, in the coffee, in the way the wind moves the leaves.

    Anything.

    I don’t even need it to be the full answer. Just a hint. 

    But all I get is silence.

    And silence is the loudest fucking thing in the world.

    But, somehow today I am temporarily at peace, it may not be the answer, but fuck, at least it’s not another question. 

  • 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.

  • 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