Thursday, December 31, 2009

december 31st, 2009



here's a cut-up I wrote with Erin Dillon a couple nights ago...

in the yoke

The harvester of hearts is fresh out of fear.  All we have left now is the natural decay of flesh fruit that sags like frozen molasses.  Vultures circle the nearby ruins with vicious claws and mysterious bruises.  Unrecognizable logic severs heads in front of faces optimistic and vague.  The glowing tears that eclipse my pupils are merely illusions of happiness.  I’d love to sit and watch you take the money and run, but Mahjong millionaires throw the weak into the dark.  We’re all fighting for a lost cause because hope is a dead language.  While the sun promises that might of tomorrow my heart beats in the clouds.


Sunday, December 27, 2009

december 27th, 2009



beware the friendly stranger

wine glasses litter the floor
records lay outside their sleeves
stacked
intimately
on top of each other
legal pads supporting thick
black ink
lay exposed, sullied
a bare-chested couple 
rapidly dreaming the night away
is this rooms Mona Lisa

the days run away
like wild horses
leaving us to swat away the dust
as it creeps into our lungs


Wednesday, December 23, 2009

december 23rd, 2009






Instead of scrapping this poem I removed a few sentence in the middle and now it doesn't bore me.  This is quattro mani reprise which I wrote back in July.



Friday, December 18, 2009

december 18th, 2009



this is our lot

We wiggle and kick like bobbing bait, anxiously awaiting a gratifying and genuine conversation with a human being. It was so easy back then and none of us knew it. This is our lot, our time to shine… but I don’t see that urgency in their eyes. I hear unruffled words exit trembling lips. I see wandering eyes glued to worried faces. You must remember that this is our lot. This is our time to shine, to give those bastards a run for their money, to show them what a heart pumping refusal is capable of. We must incite fear in their minds and prove that success is a tangible, beating entity resting in our palms. We must do all of this because they think we are weak. We do not intimidate them because we aren’t willing to make the effort, because we are too busy watching tv and concerning ourselves with everyone else’s issues instead of our own. No one said it would be easy so stop acting like you’re fucking surprised. Running for the hills in the eyes of the beast is cowardly, so join me on the front line. You aren’t alone, all of us are terrified.


Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Thursday, December 10, 2009

free book



If you would like a free copy of Matzo Ball Soup post your address and I will send you one. I have plenty of extra copies and they are doing me no good gathering dust in a cardboard box. Until I run out, all you have to do is ask.


Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

december 1st, 2009



poets are so full of shit

poets are so full of shit.
they break their poems in
     peculiar 
                               artsy ways because
poetry isn't about being straight-
forward, it's about 
   confusing the reader 
or distracting them
                     from your bullshit,
then convincing them they don't understand
or they just don't think outside the 
        B        O
   X enough.

or the fuckers break every
poem into neat little stanzas
because that's the way a real
poem is supposed to look

regardless of how much sense
each break makes, and trust
me, it usually doesn't make
any goddamn sense.

And occasionally the brainwashed assholes
Capitalize the start of each line, distracting
Me into insanity.  When will they shut the
Fuck up and stop polluting creative minds?

I don't want to be a poet, I just want to write.

 

Monday, November 30, 2009

november 30th, 2009



here's an older poem...


mel's



I remember back in Santa Barbara when I was 20.  I was standing outside of a bar one night, waiting for a friend of my father's.  I saw a man across the street holding a sign that read FREE HUGS.  Another man, attempting to drink himself into the record book, stumbled my way.  Do you have a fuckin' problem? he asked.  Are you some kind of fuckin' pussy?  I told him there was no problem and laughed at his sense of desperation.  I don't want no fuckin' problem, I'm just a good Americano like yourself.  He walked up and limply shook my hand. 



Later that night I held a beer and listened to some advice from my father's friend.  I was trying to find the secret to women.  I was sure he didn't have the answer, but the conversation was humorous.  Marry the first girl that licks your asshole he said.  I laughed and took a sip as I thought back to that pathetic man outside the bar, wondering how many more people he had found to hassle.



Friday, November 27, 2009

november 27th, 2009



It's only Friday and I haven't had to work since Tuesday, so today I'm posting a mad lib I did that is "...childishly absurd, wildly irreverent, and hilariously honest-- yet undeniably thought-provoking and monstrously emotional at times.  A fantastic accomplishment for the brilliant young poet's poet," says The New Yorker.  I've never been anything but modest, ever, but those words speak so much truth it twists my bowels.  


downhill ski race

From the moment the downhill inebriated baboons leave the gates until the second they mise across the finish line, the ski race is a John Madden’s toilet-pounding experience!  The skiers must navigate a slanty-eyed, demanding course, crescent kicking over giant mounds of Jessica Biel’s sternum known as “moguls” and maneuvering around plastic epileptic puggles planted in the snow, which create a more challenging Austin Powers Boothe.  If that isn’t tough enough, the racers have to combat the elements-- the cornea mine shaft-chilling cold, the blinding snow pap smears, and the placenta-esque winds racing up to one hundred Korean dealers per hour.  Only the result of a downhill hyperactive napalm marinara sauce are predictable.  It seems that, year after year, the same team wins this combustible panda.  Must be something in its penis fez!


Wednesday, November 25, 2009

november 25th, 2009



a new friend

blue brother is getting jealous
I can see it in his eyes

blue brother cannot print as well as red royal
red royal is more precise
red royal is in better shape
red royal is quieter
sexier 
gaudier
so blue brother hides under his shell
and assumes his day has come
but blue brother fails to realize
sometimes I want to be messier
louder
and cruder

blue brother has nothing to fear
I loved him on day one
and I love him now
he was my first
and I will never forget


Monday, November 23, 2009

november 23rd, 2009



this is a cut-up I wrote with Erin Dillon...



north from delancey street

If the sight of a wet mirror turns your bowels sour, you have been bitten by brutality. Suffering men with tranquil smiles and Bambi eyes will taunt you from afar. What you need instead of impulsive masturbation is a manic moment of casual chatter with all the booze in town. Silver Ferraris and raucous one-night stands with hummingbird floozies will solve nothing. And we've chosen you to sit between our hyenas and jackals and urinals because only you can murmur futility unknowingly. It is a circus of danger; a death wish you mush accept.


Thursday, November 19, 2009

november 19th, 2009






brother 100

I have been neglecting my baby blue typewriter.  He sits patiently on a cushioned chair outside my closet all day and all night.  He does not complain, he just gathers bits of dust and allows the smell of marijuana to latch onto exposed pieces of metal.  He’s in great shape.  It’s clear he puts a certain amount of validity in personal appearance.  He is good to me and he never asks questions.  He never goes on endless rants, gazing at me every other point to assure I am paying attention, glossing over my fake laughs because deep down I must be loving the story.  He doesn’t interrupt me and if my joke bombs he doesn’t laugh.  Maybe next time kid, delivery was a bit off.  He lets me type on him whenever I want and he doesn’t mind falling asleep to music.  We get along.


Wednesday, November 18, 2009

pepper rabbit



I just finished writing a blurb for a friend's band, Pepper Rabbit, and I post it here because they make damn good music and chances are you've never heard of them.  They have two EPs on iTunes (as well as many other services) called Clicks and Shakes.  Do your brain a favor and give them a listen.  You can visit their myspace here:

www.myspace.com/pepperrabbit



The forming of Pepper Rabbit is a glorious tale of pre-pubescent competition thrown blindly into a blender with Mr. Peanut and unexpected friendship.

Xander Singh first met his future musical partner Jean-Luc Laurent in the Gobi desert during the 37th annual Worldwide Hide and Seek National Tournament of Champions.  The epic showdown lasted 14 days and 17 nights, finally ending after referees found each opponent sucking their thumb, shivering under what they thought were leopard-print Snuggies.  When ordered to shake hands and acknowledge a tie, Xander and Luc, in their hallucinatory state, ran towards each other at full speed and collided in a hug formation, bonding them for life.  They walked home together, stride by stride, eating sponsor-provided honey roasted peanuts by the handful. 

Since then music has infested their minds and driven their purpose, creating beautiful collaborations of sound and heartfelt lyrics.  They experienced only ecstasy and success until a brutal peanut-butter-and-jelly-crust-incident murdered Xander’s imaginary dog Lord Mitsy on none other than PB & J Wednesday.  The death bullied Xander for years, but he recovered resiliently and bounced back as passionate as ever many felt.

They are now in the process of recording new songs that promise nothing less than a religious experience* and demand Webster himself to rethink the definition of lush.  Pepper Rabbit is here to stay folks.

*Pepper Rabbit in no way shape or form promises religious experiences.


Sunday, November 15, 2009

november 16th, 2009



for a friend

he casually bleeds loyalty
as he lends me his sweatshirt
as he offers me his hand
as he silently applauds my success
failing only to notice
the bloods stains on the white carpet
and how easily they splash
onto my ragged pair of jeans

it's a lovely trade in my eyes



red jug

it's just me and my jug
like Nilsson and his arrow
but there's no fiction on my part
my jug is real and my jug means business.
the wine isn't bad at all
for the price
and I carried it home
with my left pointer finger
hopping and skipping
like a man who just purchased a jug of wine.
sure, I may be drunk on jug wine
(good jug wine)
but you're the one reading this load of garbage
this useless collage of words...
and I forever love you for it.


Friday, November 13, 2009

november 13th, 2009



tart

it's so easy to write too much
to get caught in a moment
and rattle on
and on
using fancy diction
and beautiful imagery
when all you needed to say
was a few words...

perspective is everything.



fuck buttons at the echo

I was ready to give up. The venue was packed and the music was far too loud. I ordered a Jack and coke and a water and tipped the bartender generously. Putting up with that noise is worthy of my change. I found a couch in the very back corner, placed my cups on the ground, and nuzzled my back into the fake leather exterior. I sat watching the ants around me interact and attempt to talk above the formidable drone. Why does live music have a personal vendetta against my eardrums? I finished my drink and slithered my way through the crowd hoping to find a decent bathroom where I could work on my Bateman impression. My journey spit me out not ten feet from the right side of the stage. Pleasantly surprised I nixed the Bateman meeting and grabbed a spot behind a wide gentlemen who had zero insecurities about bobbing along with the music. I couldn’t see his face but I liked him. At my angle the volume was perfect and I was able to follow each and every move one band member made. He was facing me, grooving along with the music and occasionally checking in with his partner. We made eye contact often and I made sure to show my appreciation, as well as my approval (however much it was worth).

I left early to avoid the drug-addled, plastic, bearded crowd because nothing ruins a show like a herd of loud humans. I ran across the street, down the stairs, and panted my way up the dark, suburban hill which cradled my parked car. I passed a couple lying down on the wet sidewalk, seemingly oblivious to anything outside their damp bubble, or better yet, uninterested in it. I grinned as I conquered the final steps.


Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

november 10th, 2009



here's an older poem...


the waitress

What would you like to eat sir? I lift my heavy head and gaze blankly into her dull, vanilla eyes. She stands waiting for an answer, or anything resembling one. My silence wrinkles her forehead and flares her nostrils. But she chooses to stay, to her this has become a contest of great importance. She has put her pride at stake, but doubts the hole in my heart is capable of such destruction. The silence sitting between us manifests into a beast bearing a beautiful pair of day-glo boxer briefs. The beast acknowledges the stubborn waitress and turns to me wearing the look of complete inner destruction. I return this look with a pair of sympathetic eyes, but this only angers the beast. He motions toward the ceiling making his escape known. The waitress starts to weep and I feel compelled to help, to rock her to sleep. I cradle her fragile body as the beast realizes escaping will solve nothing. Never again! it shouts as I whisper my breakfast order into the ear of the waitress wet with tears. She scampers off and I am left with an animal as confused as I.


Friday, November 6, 2009

the painter on adbusters.org



Adbusters is featuring "the painter" on their homepage. Pretty fucking cool. No idea how long it will be up there so check it out sooner rather then later.

https://www.adbusters.org/


Thursday, November 5, 2009

november 5th, 2009



keep it simple

Don’t be fooled by the moonshine.  The night is young and the night is ours.  I can see you are wary.  I can see the goosebumps beginning to crawl down your arms.  They trickle past your elbow like Plinko chips and I watch with disco ball eyes as if a $10,000 slot sits above your middle knuckle.  Don’t be scared.  Trust me when I say I will protect you.  Trust me when I say I love you.  Don’t be fooled by the moonshine.  Don’t ever give up on a night like this.  


Sunday, November 1, 2009

november 1st, 2009



This is a short story I wrote a couple of years ago in my poorly lit, desolate Santa Barbara apartment.  Every night I was convinced the apocalypse had come and somehow I was the lone survivor.  Nothing but the sound of crickets and stench of skunk after sunset.  Trying to fall asleep in dead silence is so lonely and awful.  What I'm trying to say is the apartment was delightful.


the unexpected but crucial epiphany of eldrick riley

This story is about Eldrick Riley.  But having already glanced at the title like the attentive reader you are this should come as no surprise.  Eldrick lives in Sherman Oaks, California.  He works in Santa Monica and commutes every weekday, and has for the last 8 years.  That equates to 2,922 days, 70,128 hours, or 4,207,680 minutes; all of which he will never ever have back.

Eldrick, or Eli as he introduces himself, is 30 years old.  He believes his full name has as much appeal as a slice of tree bark for breakfast.

This particularly morning, the morning of April 7th, 1999, Eldrick embarks on an epic journey of personal reflection and change.  This inexplicable occurrence will forever change his outlook on how to live, how to find love, how to succeed, how to be happy, and how to die with a satisfied grin plastered upon his rotting face.

He wakes up drowsy similar to any other morning.  Work starts at nine, so between the grueling commute you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy, and his grocery list of morning routines, he wakes up at six.  The sound of his favorite radio station blasts through the cheap alarm clock.  This morning Zombie is the culprit behind the opening of Eldrick's crusty, quiet eyes.  He is moderately fond of it, but would have preferred an R.E.M. song.

Eldrick doesn't believe in hitting the snooze button because of the million different times his mother told him You snooze you lose.  He wakes up with a bit of trouble, but nothing out of the ordinary.  Letting out an impressive yawn by his standards he reaches for the glass of water carefully placed on his nightstand.  He takes a sip and pulls himself out of bed.  He lives alone in a one bedroom apartment.  The building hasn't been painted in 35 years and the elevator is known to give new comers shaky hands and a new appreciation for life.

He walks to the bathroom to freshen up.  He starts the shower and strips down.  He looks in the full-length mirror and is disappointed with the slightly overweight figure, lack of abs, and self-proclaimed short dick.  He takes a shower, dries up, scratches the necessary areas, brushes his teeth, flosses, applies his daily acne medication (which consists of five three-minute lotion rub-ins), cleans his ears, cuts his fingernails, messes with his hair for nine minutes until it is just right, picks his nose, washes his hands with cheap soap that couldn't kill a suicidal germ, walks out of the bathroom and steps into the kitchen.  This is where he makes himself two scrambled eggs and a pathetic excuse for bacon (five packs for $5) every morning; rain, shine, snow, tornado, monsoon, blizzard, anything.  A stroke couldn't stop Eldrick from his routine and his ritual breakfast.  On July 19th, 1994 he was horrified to find himself out of bacon and substituted it with a bowl of Cheerios.  He wasn't the same for weeks.

This routine, including the viewing of his favorite half-hour talk show Good Morning Sleepyheads, takes almost two hours.  He finishes the show each morning by washing dishes and messing with his hair for yet another nine minutes.  He never likes the way it looks.  He leaves for work at 7:50 every morning of every day.  He is never late and takes the same route every time.  Eldrick avoids change like a person suffering from arachnophobia avoids the interactive spider exhibit at the zoo.  This morning he walks past his microwave/clock to see it is 7:54.  This causes him to nearly lose complete control of his bowels, like an honor student missing a final.  However, he is able to gather himself and walk out the door, down the elevator, and into his 1995 champagne Ford Taurus.

There is awful traffic on the way to the freeway and Eldrick takes a sharp right to go the alternate route.  Regret surprisingly does not consume his body.

The choice proves to be successful and he puts his right blinker on to get on the freeway.  The light turns green and the dreadful bumper to bumper mess begins. 

Nearly halfway there Eldrick changes the radio station to listen to The Times They Are A-Changing.  He never changes the station, but on this particularly morning he does so without even noticing.  It is at 8:31 when Eldrick begins his metamorphosis*, you could say. 

Suddenly Eldrick enters a coma of sorts.  All the clouds in the sky turn a darkish gray and rendezvous over the 405, directly over Eldrick's Taurus.  There is a bellowing shot of violet lightning to accompany this.  Eldrick is not aware of any of this as he his eyes are glued open and body totally frozen, incapacitated in every way.  While the clouds lounge menacingly over the car Eldrick goes through his metamorphosis.  It lasts less than three seconds, but to Eldrick it feels like days.  It is during this bizarre that event Eldrick looks deep inside himself and is able to sort everything out.  He finds the secret to everything restraining him from a life he has always desired, a life he was bound to never live.  This epiphany shows Eldrick how to get a date with the girl from his office he is too afraid to talk to.  It shows him how to get out of his lonely apartment and into a place he can proudly call home.  It even shows him how to make sense of a David Lynch movie he recently watched alone.  It shows him everything he begs to know, everything he pushes himself to do but fails.  It shows him the secret to the perfect life according to Eli Riley.  It gives him all the necessary courage to go to sleep knowing he is the man; the man not to be reckoned with, the man capable of absolutely everything, the man with the power of Zeus and then some.

This metamorphosis, or miracle if you prefer, shakes Eli up and spits him out the most confident man in the universe at that exact moment in time. 

The radio comes comes back on and Man on the Moon by R.E.M. blares through the speakers as Eli glows.  He exits the freeway and pulls into the nearest gas station.  He fills his car up to the brim and decides to drive to San Francisco.  He has always wanted to cross the Golden Gate Bridge and today, Tuesday April 7th, 1999, seems like the right day.  This is Eldrick's day and he is celebrating. 

 

*************************

 

Just before crossing the bridge he stops at a bar and buys a bottle of the most expensive champagne.  He pours himself a glass, sits, and drinks with immense enjoyment.  He finishes, tips the bartender generously, and offers the remaining bubbly to a gorgeous woman sitting next to him.  She graciously accepts as she watches Eli strut out into the cool breeze of a perfect day.  Who was that?  She grins and blushes a color as red as the Golden Gate Bridge the day it was painted.

 

 

*Eldrick has always been fascinated by the fact that after a butterfly goes through metamorphosis he is able to fly without any practice, knowledge, or guidance.  The epitome of how amazing and dumbfounding nature is, says Eldrick.

 

Thursday, October 29, 2009

october 29th, 2009



Blogspot was giving me some trouble last night but all is well now.  Something about the html in Firefox does not agree with this site at all, so I don't recommend using it to make a post, or even to edit one.


as the hour approaches midnight

It’s so easy to get caught up in the stress of work and social pressures of life.  It’s so easy to get lost in the sad eyes of the bitter Russian man in seat eight as he curses under his breath and slaps his cards on the felt.  It’s so easy to insult the lucky winner as he stacks your chips and laughs with broccoli stuck in between his teeth.  It’s so easy to be nasty and so tough to be nice.  I don’t actively seek the unfortunate, it’s just what I notice first.



10/29/09

some nights I just feel so sad
and so empty

the cashier looks like a chipmunk 
and I just want to hug him
tell him I care

Sunset is empty
and even though I'm happy
even though I have her
the switch behind my left ear
is flicked
and suddenly I feel all alone again

there is so much I need
and so much I desire
it's scary to think
how fleeting all of this is


Sunday, October 25, 2009

october 25th, 2009



Here are two cut-ups written with the help of Bukowski, Miller, Kerouac, Burroughs, William Carlos Williams, and John Kennedy Toole.  Far from the most original selection, but good writing is good writing.  The first was written by the multi-talented, leggy beauty of the night, Erin Dillon.  The second one I wrote.  I am fond of both efforts.



Flowers hanging from sad, limp stems

          Break a ruby rose from the nearby bush and when the sun comes churning down, scream at the frenzy of nothingness.  I had deteriorated shockingly and attacked the table with fuzzy looking things.  That heavy musk of masochism was first published as a pamphlet for steely-eyed business women.  The greasy glass on the back door begged for forgiveness, lapping its glossy sides.  The antidote is not groceries hidden in tall grass, but sliced jugular veins.  Everything I saw looked like a peyote plant bustin' his ass for 20 dollars a week.  I sat there reading my own novel, skimming bare trees above a snow glaze amongst a silk suit and a parade of tourists.  Legs and arms and bodies in a desperate juxtaposition churn to bubbles as I howl and gnash my teeth.  So many scalps blushing like a god-damned extreme paranoia rasps the throat.



the heavy musk of masochism

I busted my ass for $20 a week squeezing cellophane dreams out of jugular veins.  Flowers hung from sad, limp stems in the raspy hallway of my apartment.  My life felt like a screaming frenzy of nothingness.  I began panicking, deteriorating, gnashing my teeth late into the night.  And then one Sunday morning, as the churning sun beat down on my ingrown toenails, the antidote appeared wearing a silk suit.

The lion no longer chews upon my heart.



Thursday, October 22, 2009

october 22nd, 2009



here's an older cut-up...



ripped apart

We had that level of violence happening daily and before we knew it the spaghetti started to resemble leopard lint.  I had magnificent knuckle bones back then, full of marrow and vigor.  Flourishing a whip I would scramble the brains of the weak and capture the wreckage on 36 mm.  There were bums sleeping in concrete nooks left and right, all wrapped in beautiful ribbons and sleek carnival upholstery.  I never made eye contact though, each made me feel spoiled and rotten inside.  I would return home and menstruate from every hole in my body, filling the cabinets and ruining the wallpaper in the kitchen.  Cobwebs littered the frame of my bed and I never slept for more than 20 minutes at a time.  The spiders grinned in my direction with butcher knife teeth.


Wednesday, October 21, 2009

october 21st, 2009



The word of the day on October 15th was fetor and it means "a strong, offensive smell; a stench." One of the sentences they used as an example was from the book Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides. I own it but have not read it. The sentence was:

"When I close my eyes and summon the fond smells of childhood . . . the aroma that fills, as it were, the nostrils of my memory is the sulfurous, protein-dissolving fetor of Nair."

I loved the sentence and I was set on reading the book, or at least using it for a cut-up. I took the shortcut.


in the middle

My grandmother had conflicting emotions about the baptism but was absolutely wild about the bratwurst.  How much yogurt does it take to fill the mosaic eye of a bloodshot tyrant?  Never underestimate the importance of self-reliance, especially when buying explosives.  When she admitted to smoking Menthol cigarettes while she brushed her teeth I nearly threw the baby against the garage wall.  They’re selling pretty female voices down at the coffee kiosk on 5th but you know how those maniacal backgammon players get when you interrupt.  Avenging suds haunt me in my suburban dreams.


Tuesday, October 20, 2009

october 20th, 2009



Here is the reprise of tomorrow. The title stays and now it has an ending.


tomorrow

I am barely paying attention to the priest mumbling incantations as I take the flask out of my blazer and take a good hit of warm whiskey. I reach for a cigarette and just before I strike a flame an elderly woman slaps the lighter out of my hand causing it to slide underneath the pew in front of me. I curse at her and raise my hand as if I’m going to hit her, but I don’t. Her nose looks like a beaten tree stump and I have 14 more cigarettes so what do I care. I’ll smash a bottle of chardonnay over her head in the parking lot and watch the blood fall from her scalp; who’ll be there to see it then?

Both of us are parked in the side lot so I let her leave before me and walk 20 steps behind. She walks slowly so I do the same. When she’s about 100 feet away I drop my head and pick up the pace. I reach my car with plenty of time and unlock the back seat. Just as I reach for the empty bottle laying on the floor mat my phone rings loudly. She looks over at me and I cough up a smile and wave hello with an upside down bottle of cheap white. She snarls. Maybe I’ll go to Canter’s for lunch.

I get the corned beef with a side of potato salad and a cup of coffee. It already feels like a long day. The waitress walks away and with each step she bites down on her gum. I couldn’t help but watch her gnaw away as she took my order. The gum looked thin and worn and I half expected it to turn to powder. I had meant to order the pastrami on rye but in my state of fixation could only spit out the words corned beef.

I think about the old lady in the church again, and about Bitches Brew. I’m sure I’ll pull it off the shelf again tonight, I usually do when there’s whiskey in the flask.

The gum enthusiast clears my table and drops off the check. I leave 12% and light up a cigarette as I open the exit door. It feels much hotter outside now. I remove my jacket and hold it over my left forearm, pushed against my chest as I smoke. What is that wretched smell?

Walking to my car I realize I forgot to put change in the meter. I grip my jacket and begin running up Fairfax instinctively. I doubt I can alter my fate but it’s worth a shot, and I hate delaying the inevitable. I must know the results. I breeze past a middle-aged couple holding hands causing them to turn around and fire a disapproving look at my back. I dance around three little girls as they bop their heads a few feet in front of their mother. I start to pant as I approach a stop light. A red hand stares me down but I don’t see any cars coming so I keep running. I’m flying across the pavement and for a moment I forget about the potential ticket and truly enjoy the sudden sense of urgency. It’s as if I suddenly have a purpose. Be it momentary, it feels amazing. I leap off the curb and bolt up the crosswalk only to catch a car taking a hard left turn out of the corner of my right eye. The driver is on his cell phone and accelerates hard to avoid opposing traffic. My heart soars up my chest and into the back of my throat. When he finally sees me his mouth stretches wide open and contorts itself in hideous fashion. He slams on the brakes as I swallow my breath and pump my legs as hard as I can. He manages to stop inches behind my extended right leg, leaving the back half of his car vulnerable to an oncoming truck. The soles of my feet slam the top of the curb as I watch the truck obliterate the car and most certainly the unfortunate soul behind the wheel. I lay on the sidewalk gasping for air, supporting myself with a bent arm. All I can do is stare at the twisted metal and rising smoke. I punch myself hard in the right thigh because I am unable to cry. I just lay there shaking.


Monday, October 19, 2009

october 19th, 2009



I wrote this poem using the words of a friend. Let's just say he was the composer and I was the arranger. This piece is a few months old, not sure why I forgot to post it, must have felt weird about posting it before getting the Philadelphia native's feedback. Enjoy.


local time

I awoke to the strangest noise I had ever heard. A peculiar aroma hung thick in the morning air and slapped my naked back as I walked over to the shower. I stuck my arm out but paused, swayed uncertainly for a few moments, and decided I was better off dirty. I liked having the remains of the beach on my skin. There will be plenty of time for soap in the future.

I fell asleep last night unsure of who I was or who I wanted to be. This was nothing new. My dreams were scattered, relevant, but scattered… A dog chased me down my uncle’s driveway making funny noises as pebbles snuck inside the crevices of my sandals. The villagers drank their boxes of wine, grinning at me with purple teeth and glass eyes. A small woman with cinnamon hair handed me a glass of warm milk. I hate warm milk. I began to miss home; my east coast women, my bedroom, my cold milk. A drunk man popped out of the bushes, yelling, waving his arms in the air like a gorilla. I didn’t make eye contact but I understood him. I can relate to bizarre people like that, I just wish they would leave me alone. The man vanished and my uncle appeared smoking a cigar. I liked my uncle very much. We both had those sad poet eyes. I wish I was a poet. Quickly he pointed to a rattlesnake crossing the road behind me. By the time I looked the snake had slithered into the brush and out of sight. I felt like doing the same thing. I turned back around and holes the size of baseball diamonds were forming in the asphalt spewing blood as my heart cried like a volcano. I compressed the vomit forming in the back of my throat and heard a roar in the distance. Something in the jungle was hungry.

The rest of the morning contained petty conversation and a few pieces of toast. Both were nice.


Sunday, October 18, 2009

october 18th, 2009



goodnight.


at the millennium hotel

when you can’t fall asleep
in a foreign city
on a foreign bed
you reach for something
be it the keys
the scotch
the television
or a lock of hair to twirl
and you wake up relieved
crusty
jaded
and wonder how
and when you fell asleep
but you usually remember
the bleak feeling
that squirt through your veins
moments before darkness
when every sound was hushed
and you didn’t know whether to cry
or laugh


Wednesday, October 14, 2009

october 14th, 2009



shrug

I don't clap as the pillars fall to my feet
but I do enjoy watching the dust clear
and listening to the last crashes of rubble
waiting
for any last crumble to speak it's mind
before I gather myself
establish reality
and openly welcome the outside demons
who I have learned to live with


Thursday, October 8, 2009

october 8th, 2009



Working on the piece tomorrow and turning it into a short story. As of now it's untitled and has no ending, so when I finish that I will post it.

For now, here's an older poem...


yes

The pressure of a blank slate is enormous. The sweat builds and builds and builds on my forehead until it drips onto the keyboard, seeping beneath the raised letters and out of sight. The lack of restriction is madness personified. The possibility of monotony hangs heavy over my head like a rain cloud in a childrens cartoon. Cigarettes burn and liquor stings and clichés knock at the door all night long. It's glorified solitude to the audience at hand. Sometimes the words come... and sometimes they are left behind to frolic in the breeze. What a cliché.


Tuesday, September 29, 2009

west hollywood book fair time slot



My spot at the West Hollywood book fair is from 10:00-12:00. It's located at 647 N. San Vicente Blvd. (closest major cross street is Santa Monica) in the West Hollywood Park.

http://www.westhollywoodbookfair.org/about/map-directions/

Hope to see you there.


Monday, September 28, 2009

september 28th, 2009



tomorrow

I am barely paying attention to the priest mumbling incantations as I take the flask out of my blazer and take a good hit of warm whiskey.  I reach for a cigarette and just before I strike a flame an elderly woman slaps the lighter out of my hand causing it to slide underneath the pew in front of me.  I curse at her and raise my hand as if I'm going to hit her, but I don’t.  Her nose looks like a beaten tree stump and I have 14 more cigarettes so what do I care.  I’ll smash a bottle of chardonnay over her head in the parking lot and watch the blood fall from her scalp; who’ll be there to see it then?

Both of us are parked in the side lot so I let her leave before me and walk 20 steps behind her.  She walks slowly so I do the same.  When she’s about 100 feet away I put my head down and pick up the pace.  I reach my car with plenty of time and unlock the back seat.  Just as I reach for the empty bottle laying on the floor mat, my phone rings loudly.  She looks over at me and I cough up a smile and wave hello with an upside down bottle of cheap white.  She snarls.

Maybe I’ll go to Canter’s for lunch.


west hollywood book fair this sunday



Another reminder-- this Sunday, October 4th, I have a spot at the West Hollywood Book Fair for two hours. Come check it out, for me and for all the other cool shit you may come across. It also happens to be my birthday, so... take that however you will.

More info here:
http://www.westhollywoodbookfair.org/

As soon as I find out my exact time slot I will post more info. See you there.


Wednesday, September 23, 2009

september 23rd, 2009



tuesday night

With a savage grip on her buttocks I toast the night sky and wonder how much longer I can live in this nook of a bedroom.  Satisfaction only lingers and recently I have felt as if I was running in place.  Never settle whispers the pen laying to my left.  I lean in closer to the glow as if it will grant me the answer, as if running my hands through my greasy hair will clear the fog.  I grab my socks out of the hamper and put them back on.  I find my wrinkled pair of sweatpants in the closet and hop into them.  Without comfort I am acting.  Without wine I am sober.  Without poetry I cannot express all of my joy and all of my despair.


Saturday, September 19, 2009

september 19th, 2009



Couple new poems; the second is a cut-up written with Erin Dillon using Charles Bukowski, Allan Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs Jr., and Alexandre Dumas.


good luck getting to the bottom of that

the rhythm gets old
and the routine grinds down your sanity
and you make mistakes
over and over and over again
and you prolong these nights
nights of booze
and distractions
nights that leave you wanting more
as they spit you out into tomorrow
squinting as you light a cigarette
discussing where to eat
better yet
where not to eat
because it's all a process of elimination
it's all fucked
and it's all beautiful
and none of us want to be buried
too soon
or amongst merely the obligated
it's not a matter of attention
it's a matter of impact
because we all want to leave a mark
some would just prefer
to leave that mark unnoticed

I'm not the only one 
who listens to King Crimson
and sings along
Confusion will be my epitaph



thousands of green cadillacs

New York drug abusers brush away the sunlight like a spider web.  Three generations of unapproachable men sat silent in the tavern, their luggage melting at their feet.  I watched an old man fetch his potato salad out of the sky after he tripped on the cracked linoleum.  Spineless maggots ride their misery into Quixote’s windmills.  Teenagers in Florida have nothing better to do than steal taxi cabs and deliver flowers to the deflated elderly.  I demand instantaneous lobotomies for all those who question the color of the furniture.



Tuesday, September 15, 2009

the painter in adbusters






I had another poem of mine, the painter, published in the November/December 2009 issue of Adbusters which just went on sale.  Check it out, the magazine is very interesting.


Monday, September 14, 2009

september 14th, 2009



moustache

there just isn't enough time
and everything lovely ends too soon
and so many great sentences die unread
but none of that matters when the music plays
and I am asleep.


Sunday, September 13, 2009

september 13th, 2009



This is an older poem I wrote on the night of my 18th birthday, crouched over a legal pad in my room around two in the morning.  It was the first time I felt the need to write and I have not questioned it since.

the first poem I ever wrote



Pupkin for three I said.  The hostess looked up from her reservation book and into my eyes.  I was fixated.  We began to work together; planning, scheming, brewing up plans of destruction, plans of immortality.  I followed her to the table convinced I could marry her, fuck her, touch her, complete her, make up for everything she lacked, provide her everything she needed.  I imagined us as newlyweds; giddy and sexual, throwing our inhibitions out of the hotel window, room service attendants bringing us breakfast in bed.  Us, together.  Dining by candlelight, expensive champagne and half-eaten appetizers.  So innocent, so naïve.  Tremendously caught in an instant, a frame of life, a mere splice.  Rich deserts with two spoons, holding hands instinctively, oblivious to doubt and defeat.



She handed me the menu as I sat down at the table, one minute older.


Tuesday, September 1, 2009

september 1st, 2009


you want to travel blindly

I will not be held like a drunkard in the true mad north of introspection.

Visitors tip-toe past my doorway, snickering into limp collars. Luckily, most of the humiliation perished shortly after the opera. You’ve changed your names several times by now and no matter how hard I try, I cannot kiss a disappearing wall. Bald husbands laugh as they clutch heaven’s iron rings in ragged slacks and beaten loafers. I am a lost soul meant to wander the marble, tin can cries stumbling in the shadows behind me. With no direction and no motivation I can’t see what you can see and you can’t hear the circus between my ears. His voice drips from the speakers and lays quietly on my pad of paper, and although it is covering the first two lines, I blanket it with a hanky and continue writing my poem.

Nobody, not even the rain…


Monday, August 31, 2009

august 31st, 2009



an older poem...

poetry reading

There are prisoners swallowing their own eyeballs out of pure insanity and all I can think about is how nervous I am at the thought of reading a poem in front of a crowd of retired, wealthy survivors of life who finally have the time and courage to fill a legal pad with stories of momentary perfection; fifteen minutes of personal immortality.  Ah, I shouldn’t judge so quickly.  For all I know this room could be filled with long-time word junkies, fingers pleading for a cigarette break, souls born to grip a pen like me.  I could be surrounded by dictionary fiends and highly influential sentence sculptors.  This book shop could be growing future literary geniuses inside of flower pots hidden behind the wall of the Fiction section.  Or they are just as I made them out to be: lovers of the printed word, fans of organized poetry readings, and recreational note takers taking a stab at the whole poetry thing.  For them the addiction is absent.  The obsession chose not to settle inside of them… and I continue to ponder whether they are the lucky ones or if they missed out on the good life. 


Tuesday, August 25, 2009

august 25th, 2009



Here's an older poem. I just realized it should be quintet, I can't believe I never caught that. Well, the title stays, the quartet can be in reference to my band.


the rupert pupkin quartet

My band consists of:
apathy on drums
self destruction on guitar
love on bass
and refusal on keys.
I am lead vocals
and sometimes I sing out of key.
Thanks for coming to the show
we had one hell of a time
playing for you.


Sunday, August 23, 2009

august 23rd, 2009



nod off

it's all been said long ago.
with beauty
and without.
with truth
and without.
with conviction
and without.

you are a recycling bin
with a solid heart
and a statistical mind.
you will search
through the night
and fall asleep
clasping a phantom presence.
only in moments
such as now
do you realize
the answer will always be
inches out of reach.

nod off young man,
Saturdays are infinite.


Saturday, August 22, 2009

august 22nd, 2009



vacuum

I think you’ve mistaken my desire to sit here alone. I am not troubled, I am not waiting on a friend, I am not scanning my surrounding out of boredom. This rooftop is beautiful and I just want to be alone, I want to sip my whisky and coke without the hassle of cordial, meaningless small talk. But now that you are here let us engage in just that. I do not despise people, in truth I love them, but I enjoy keeping to myself. I do not dread our short exchange to be, I am genuinely interested, which is precisely the problem. I can’t be a friend to everyone who needs one. A good, loyal friend is a full-time job, and I already have one of those. A true friend is by your side as oil paints the sky. But a true friend must also be there when the house of cards falls apart, when everything lies on red and the pellet settles uncertainly upon black. I’m already too old to be your acquaintance, so show me you’re worth fighting for… or get the fuck out of my way. I don’t have time for nonsense. I don’t want to waste your time, and I’m running out myself.


Tuesday, August 18, 2009

august 18th, 2009


some nights I just want to be a stranger 

I’m sorry I’m smoking.  I’m sorry I’m smoking.  I’m from Australia and we all smoke in Australia.  Where are you from?  I’m sorry I’m smoking said a short, red-faced drunk woman inside the gas station convenience store.  The man she was questioning ignored her every word as I paid for my toilet paper and collected my change.  I can’t go to the gas station across the street because I know and like the cashier.  I can’t go to the Rite-Aid down the block because the bus stop I pass is black and depressing.  Some nights I just want to be a stranger.  Some nights I just want to avoid loud, drunk Australian women.    


Sunday, August 16, 2009

august 17th, 2009



It's a couple months away, but I have a spot for a couple hours at the West Hollywood Book Fair on October 4th.  I'll be selling copies of my book for $10 and I'll be handing out postcards and bookmarks and what not.  I have never been so I have no expectations or promises.  You can get more information here: http://www.westhollywoodbookfair.org/

Here are two new cut-ups written by the lovely Erin Dillon and myself, as well as a new poem. We wrote these late into the night and I believe we used Henry Miller, Franz Kafka, Bret Easton Ellis, John Fante, Jorge Luis Borges, Victor Pelevin, Charles Bukowski, and Lawrence Ferlinghetti.  I apologize to any other dead author I failed to mention.


down the hall

You can remember it like a horse on fire.  A flight of narrow wooden stairs painted delicate crayon strokes on the eastern wall of the town synagogue.  Doctors of Dissonance dropped from the ceiling and through the woolen carpet onto dead crabs’ claws.  Starfish baby cries smell the fruit and flatter the drunken sailors holding vigil.  Same-sized brown plastic bottles make a shadow in a handful of hard, dense soil; then a nostril.  He conducted with a woven baton, emptying the audience’s stomachs and eclipsing their imagination.  Turtles hardly crawled over the horizon lurking with slimy piccolos when googly horns disintegrated the chariot.  Falcon eyes hounded my merryoldsoul deep into the native night.  Alkaline batteries include our address for the future.


sufficient gruff

The hotel left a greasy taste of milk in my beaten shoulders.  Circular ruins prompt me to fill the mother of truth with a merry bonfire.  His habitually placid expression lingered around the water cooler, taunting delicate ankles and mingling with pimply telegraph boys.  Hermit was rummaging, trembling through his apologies that brought the first smells of summer out of a sledgehammer delirium.  Tenacious wallpaper peacocks waltz on unpleasant evenings such as this.  Everything previous to this was mutilated in a field at the Cinerama Dome, encasing a bolt of clarity into a pigeon.  At one point Jayne muttered Should we die in a quake, donate my bangs to the Siamese foreigners in apartment 3F.  A tremendous pale light paced like a subway imitating marble.  And although I cannot be positive, checkerboard insects spring from six-button double-breasted ulcers.


the midnight amnesiac

You’re a reasonable man so get off my case, get off my case before I unleash a side you will regret coaxing into existence.  I have hid patiently for decades beneath the crust, laughing occasionally for air.  I have driven my car into the dumpster and the dumpster fought back, slinging broken Cuisinarts and ratty bookshelves at my windshield.  Society is in its decline and you know it.  You can only use your bowling coupons for so long.  You’ll come crawling back any day now, knocking on my door in the dead of night gripping a bottle of turpentine and sobbing those gasoline tears of yours.  The bug powder took you by the collar and I can’t watch you tumble down the knoll once more, I just can’t do it.  We’re all packt like sardines in a crushd tin box and I sit here once again in front of the typewriter dropping the needle and sipping away with droopy eyelids and sweaty armpits.  I can’t complain though, I have fourteen cigarettes left and there are flaming lips awaiting my presence next sunset.  

I awoke to a man lighting a pair of underwear on fire in my backyard and all I could do was blink heavily and close the curtains with sluggish aggravation.