live reading on may 16th

I'll be doing a short live reading at the music venue HM157 on May 16th, 2009 in Silver Lake before a live set by a very cool band called Hands.  The exact address is:

3110 N. Broadway

Los Angeles, CA 90031

You should come check it out.  I have done one previous reading so I can promise nothing higher than an amateur performance.  Again-- Hands is a great band, so at least come and enjoy their show.  You can check out their music at myspace.com/handssounds.

april 26th, 2009

I am still not entirely sure when Matzo Ball Soup will go on sale, but it will be much earlier than I previously thought.  I can confidently say it will be online before May is over, hopefully as early as the first couple weeks of the month.  It'll be available on amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, and borders.com.  You can also buy it directly from the publisher at xlibris.com (where I receive more royalties).

Until then, here's another older poem, one I wrote not long ago using only the lyrics from the Grizzly Bear album Yellow House.

yellow house

Each day spend it with me, each day recognize the solemn one wading in the chlorine, each day trust the stumbling morning light.  I’ve got plenty of strange predicaments in the corner, but I can’t find the french horn.  A rush of wind passing over me yells baby it’s a long way to Argentina.  I want to look in your sheepskin eyes while you’re asleep and just let go… but restless nights remind me of my disguise.  The greenhouse argues with me-- lies lies lies!  You can’t possibly go back to Colorado when you’re rambling around out here.  Cheer up Mr. Forbes, with every blow comes another wide eyed knife.  Just give us back our cello and short goodbyes.  Pressing matters and a glass of gin, what now? 

april 22nd, 2009

and an older poem, one of my favorites...

mine

Writing is the most beautiful creature I have ever met.  She has long, dark legs and full, sultry lips that purse out most delicately when mouthing the letter Q.  She pulls me toward her mercilessly.  She kisses my neck and my chin and my lips and as soon as she slides her tongue in my ear I forfeit all control.  She is an incurable disease in an incurable world.  I'm not sure when she first sauntered my way but she made it very clear it was to be anything but a one-night stand.  I wanted to see her again the moment she left.  I wasn't sure why and I didn't care.  Her perfume lingered for days and I remember sniffing my pillow every chance I got; slamming my nose so deep into the sheet I nearly popped out the other side.  She was this wonderful new drug and before I knew it I was a junkie.  There was no rhyme or reason to her visits, other than her uncanny ability to show up during most of my self destructions.  Sometimes I wouldn't see her for months and start to think I had driven her away... but she always returned, and she always looked gorgeous.  She hangs around more often these days, in fact, she's lying in my bed right now.  Her hair hangs below her shoulders as her bangs cover her eyes.  She blows them out of her way and pulls the sheet down, revealing her painfully perfect figure.  My knees clatter as she steps toward me.  How am I worthy?  She runs her hands down my chest and I get a waft.  Just before she sticks her tongue in my ear she whispers so gently Never stop writing.  And then I come.

matzo ball soup cover

Unfortunately I was forced to use a cover template so it did not come out exactly as I had intended, but I am still pleased overall.  As of today the book is done, and I can exhale.  I expect it to go on sale in as little as two months, but I will give an exact date or better estimate when I find out.

one match left cover

The cover of "one match left" which was shorter collection I released myself, unsuccessfully last August.  I did this one on my own using pen ink. 

april 21st, 2009

and older cut-up...

the lurking death

Glass eyes of a jade green mechanical owl allow me to introduce my naked frustration.  Pyramids vanish into toil-worn shoulders.  Existence is merely a parade of chaos, a minimalist composition.  Perhaps the dream did not contain halocarbons.  The cockatoo swayed unsteadily after serving in the Gulf of Mexico for two years.  The heartbroken will always have the same density of normal atmosphere.  She unhooked her bra and stepped out of her panties but failed to represent the true effervescence of American life.  I made several clumsy, lascivious motions toward the French region of Bourgogne.  The 1966 Cleveland Browns have always been incapable of suspicious political campaigns.  Dodge all that is dormant.

april 18th, 2009

an older poem...

similar to carbolic acid

The captain threw his soft, muted trumpet sound into the fire beneath the stew.  I would love to make simple love to an umbrella he uttered, but by that time the audience had left.  White wooden chairs leaking hypocrisy and lingering garlic burps were his lone companions.  Outside the rain pounded the pavement while stop signs barked suspiciously.  What a strange night he thought.  His only friend has died the night before after suffering his third consecutive glucosidase, beta; acid pseudogene overdose.  Upon hearing the news the captain considered destroying all of his work and jumping under a train, but made a large pot of coffee instead.  His friend was only thirty-five and deserved another smile or two.  The captain now sat in silence, fornicating the trumpet's mouthpiece with his eyes.  They sure left in a hurry he thought, I didn't even get to play my favorite tune.

april 13th, 2009

broth

I am consumed by this song.  I hear my alarm go off and I hit the snooze a few times and when I am finally ready to rise and face the day-- the melody comes to mind and I am lost.  I walk blindly into the bathroom, arms stretched out at full length doing the best zombie impression I know.  I step into the shower in a daze and poorly cleanse myself.  Last week I forgot to turn on the water and stood under the shower head for eleven minutes, eyes glued to the fading red tiles on the wall.  I brush my teeth thoroughly, counter-clockwise with medium strength, one minute.  The melody continues to permeate my skull as I hop into the same pair of skinny black jeans.  I need that consistency.  My shoes are laid out for me and I slip into them with tentative ease.  I am still humming the chorus.  I am still humming the chorus.  It is infectious and awful and leaves a horrible taste in my mouth but only because I know I am so close.  The corks are piling up under the bed planks and at night they get together and map out devious plans to overthrow the tyrant sleeping in peace above them.  I found a map of theirs last week and felt a cold breeze slide across my torso.  I fear not though, for I have momentum on my side and she is one hell of a catalyst.  Auto pilot or not, continue to watch out below.  Rupert is ducking beneath the punches and connecting his jabs with remarkable force.  The exterior tells merely what I cannot hide, and these days, I am hiding more than you know.

spectacles

the first copy of spectacles, wine spill and all, written about a year and a half ago around 6 a.m.

more covers

a few covers I made myself using a friend's "copy art" with white out on top...

april 10th, 2009

an older poem that did not make it into "one match left," but will appear in "Matzo Ball Soup."

brick wall

Walking up the driveway the boy felt his innards bubble.  His eyelids twitched with anxious bolts of spontaneity.  He saw wrinkles appear where they should not.  A river of sweat poured from his palms; they glistened in the moonlight.  He cursed the cramp wreaking havoc in the belly of his kneecap.  The space between his toes filled with a green and yellow puss: the blood of a worried mind.  The quick under his fingernails beat to the rhythm of his heart.  Buddump... buddump... buddump....

He approached her door and knocked with a trembling fist.

cover art

I have a found a cover for my book "Matzo Ball Soup" and I am thrilled to get this thing underway.  Thank you Kelley Benes.  I am self publishing this and fully expect it to go on sale before the year is over.  Good stuff I say.

Here's an older poem that will appear in my new book.  Damn it feels good to say that.

in the marsh

Thelonius and I sit in the marsh, cross-legged, discussing the intricacies of totality and how vague we sound speaking upon the subject.  There are birds floating atop the lake nearby; a few dive for food while the rest have chose to lay back and tan beneath the banana sun.  We are alone, and our words trickle down our lips and suspend from our chins... but only momentarily.  But as luck may have it, it is in that moment we given permission to remove the blinders from our faces.  Upon doing so we witness the unraveling of our misconceptions while clarity makes a bold cameo-- but vanishes quickly as the words slip off our chins and fall fast to the ground.  The dirt smacks his lips in anticipation.

april 3rd, 2009

an older poem/short story... 

the jamaica bay inn

So it was decided-- we were to walk out of the restaurant, plates in hand, and skip on the bill.  I poured more whiskey into my coffee, took a generous sip, and announced I would move the car into position.  We were in Marina Del Rey, seated right against the beach, the gorgeous morning sun wrapping its slimy hands around our disheveled waists.

I excused myself and parked the car just outside the double-door entrance.  I walked back to the table and noticed my food had arrived, but that a napkin was covering the plate.

A seagull ate half of your breakfast, said my friend.

Oh. An eloquent response did not come to mind. I took another sip of coffee and flagged down our waitress to get a new dish.  As we waited I informed my casually dressed assailant the big moment was within reach.

As soon as my breakfast is fixed, we wait for the hostess to abandon ship, I said.  Then-- well, then we pick up our plates, walk briskly, yet nonchalantly to the car, and speed off laughing like two lunatics with a head full of acid should.

Oh, and the music must be blasted, I said.  It must be turned up all the way.  My partner in crime quickly agreed, for this was more a common understanding than a request.

I picked up a slice of bacon and noticed the hostess was distracted.  In all fairness, she was 80 years old and appeared to be editing her will.  A cool breeze could have averted this woman's attention.

So we bolted for the door-- eggs and potatoes and bacon crashing to the pavement as we frantically approached the car.  I opened the door, started the engine, and drove off in a fashion I felt was respectably reckless.  We cackled liked the devious breakfast thieves we were as music roared from the speakers.  Success was sweet, so we celebrated with swig of whiskey and mapped out our next possible act of debauchery.

Two stoned madmen driving wildly into the sunrise, scrambled eggs flying about the vehicle as if it were just another morning.  But truly, it was.