Monday, November 30, 2009

november 30th, 2009

here's an older poem...


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
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
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:

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


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 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.

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.