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 na├»ve.  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…