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.


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.


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


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
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


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
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...


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.