Tuesday, March 30, 2010

march 30th, 2010

what a day, huh?

There’s a man who manages the office building I work in and we see each other on a regular basis.  Our interactions are always limited to a minute at the most, usually 15 seconds.  Whenever our paths cross we reach into our pockets and pluck out questions which require almost no answer.  We always discuss the weather and we discuss it with eloquent staleness.  He’ll mention how nice it is outside and I’ll comment on how gorgeous the weekend was.  He’ll tell me it’s supposed to rain on Wednesday and I’ll chuckle and say This Wednesday?  I hope not!  It’s a delightfully boring relationship and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

new book coming [insert excitement]

After giving away more copies of Matzo Ball Soup than I sold I figured I could approach the end of my second book differently.  So, for anyone who reads this blog the following message applies:

I will be finishing my second book entitled Jack Defeats Ron 100-64 in the upcoming months.  To be more specific, I can confidently guess it will go on sale before August 1st.  If you like what you read on this blog pass it on.  If you look forward to the completion of this book then tell some people about it, let's try and build some minor anticipation from people who are not me.  Writing has become another drug to me and I love every hit I take.  I think about Matzo Ball Soup all day long and I constantly ask myself who actually gives a shit about it.  I do, that's for damn sure.  And I can't wait to hold a copy of Jack Defeats Ron 100-64 in my hands knowing that I finally fucking finished it.

Also, I have yet to decide if I will publish this book under the name Rupert Pupkin again or under my real name (which you already know or will find out if I do the latter).  I picked the name to hide my identity years ago when I was hiding small leaflets of poetry in random book shops and magazine racks.  Now that I have published a book and have another on the way I have to accept that certain people will read my poetry against my will.  So the decision rests on the table, do I run with Rupert Pupkin or leave the title in the dust?  It would certainly lower the chances of Martin Scorsese getting wind of me.  I mean, I dream of Scorsese contacting me because I stole his character name, or Grizzly Bear becoming aware that the poem yellow house uses not a single original word.  The future will tell...

To those reading, thanks for giving a shit.

march 28th, 2010

baby’s on fire

The feeling of waking up in my own place for the first time in my life violently shoved the awful hangover aside and I encouraged my cock to grow harder and harder until I could feel the rough tip rub against my stomach and I immediately rolled over and mounted my body on top of hers and thrust into her with multiplying force as I laughed like a heifer to the slaughter. 

I ran my left hand through my oily hair as I walked into the bathroom naked, glistening with the sweat of passionate morning sex.  I heard her ask for a tissue but pretended I didn’t as I shut the door.  I ran some hot water and dipped my face below the mirror.  Meanwhile I formed a cup with my hands and lifted the contents to my prickly morning cheeks.  The meeting between the two was glorious.

After showering I sauntered past my unmade bed and swiftly jumped onto the couch like a dolphin trying to earn its lunch at Sea World.  This caused her beautiful ass (covered only by a classy pair of black underwear) to fly about four inches in the air and land with a hypnotic ripple.  My eyelids immediately dispersed leaving a pair of hungry, carnivorous whites gazing into the ridges of bare perfection.  I gritted my teeth, growled ferociously and bit into her sexuality with all of my strength. 

We went at it like ravenous hyenas.

turkey and swiss

After a long night I found myself sluggishly laying on the couch, shirtless and picking furry pieces of carpet lint off the soles of my sweaty feet.  My mind had been begging for a meal for over an hour and finally my body complied.  I walked to a nearby sandwich shop and stood in line, hiding behind the dark lenses of my sunglasses.  I hadn’t made eye contact with the woman who walked in behind me, but I recognized her presence.  With no provocation she began fondling my right shoulder, petting me like a house cat.  I furrowed by eyebrows and looked at her with an amused grimace.  I expected her to instantly stop, sheepishly turn away and look down at her toes in embarrassing defeat.  Instead, she switched it up and staring caressing my left shoulder.  Short, gentle brushes.  I cocked my head and calmly asked Get out much?  She whimpered, stroked me one last time, and walked out the door.  A short laugh fell out of my mouth and I looked around in minor disbelief, expecting someone to acknowledge the bizarre moment that had just occurred.  To my surprise no one had noticed and I was left to ponder alone.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

march 23rd, 2010


All I wanted was crispy bacon and scrambled eggs but the man seated to my right insisted on being part of my breakfast. In his mind he was slicker than snot on a doorknob, but to me he reeked of the most foul cologne of all; desperation. And guess what I said to the filthy Mexican valet boy? Guess! Ha ha. I said I counted five quarters, six dimes and two nickels when I got here and if a single one is missing I’ll burn this fucking diner the ground! Ha ha. Needless to say nothing was missing. Ha HA! Am I right? Am I right or what? Fucking people, my god. The ability to pick your battles will never cease to hold weight in my life. Oh yes yes, you are… on the spot, correct by me… sir I responded. With a hangover hammering the insides of my eardrums I knew I needed a good meal, but I began to doubt the necessity of this particular one. Ditching on the bill while this insufferable rodent’s back faced mine was gaining merit in this horse race of immoral exit techniques. I quietly reached for my wallet and calculated the total including tip (minus the meal of course, after all, I’d only be fleeing after a cup of coffee and side of sourdough toast. The plate itself had yet to arrive and what the hell, if I was bussing I’d encourage recycling the meal before the hour expired or at least sharing it among the hungry. You can never underestimate the morale boost injected inside a plate made for naught). He swung his roll of insecure neck fat my way, this time to comment on the restaurant uniforms and how it was blasphemy that the waitresses weren’t forced to strut around in skirts that expose at least the lower half of their ass. He stuck his tongue out beyond the tip of his nose and did the best impression of a diagnosed sociopath I’d ever seen. I instantly felt sympathetic but ultimately desensitized. Momentarily I gave up on the idea that we are born good and slowly turned evil by the cruelness of life. I thought of a quote my girlfriend sent me; Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is trying to sell you something. I still believe we bring children into this world to first and foremost validate our own lives, and I still ask myself if I will ever truly desire the responsibility of a boy. The pressures of becoming an adult are proving to be hard enough. How does anyone have time to raise a child the way they intended? Life is pain highness, life is constant struggle. Why involve one more? To pass on the surname and prove infinite respect I suppose. Or maybe it’s as simple as having a piece of life that requires unconditional love and support. Life is too hard to go through alone. All of us will die like dogs in solitude under our favorite tree. All of us alter our destiny with each decision we make. The enlightened man is the one able to accept confusion, maturely deal with failure, and pursue his honest passion with class and vulnerability. He is able to accept he will never be perfect but constantly chase the idea of personal perfection. The enlightened man realizes this is all a beautiful illusion.

Problem is, all of the people I know are far too young to understand the subtle beauty of leaving a fingerprint behind that inspires. Once you truly realize you’re stuck and only given one chance; one goddamn chance, one fucking chance to perfect the order of each word in your poem or each brush on your landscape you begin to appreciate the grind and effort of those around you. Questioning everything will keep you on your toes. Settling will leave you barely satisfied. I write these paragraphs as if I have answers when in fact I have none. All I know is I want to write. I want to publish a book every year and any less will leave me unsatisfied.

At 23 I am already baffled. I take solace in my fridge full of alcohol and an end in near sight. It’s funny how desperation breeds undeniable creativity.

What an existential load of bullshit this poem is. Everything is shit.

Friday, March 19, 2010

march 19th, 2010

I wanted to tell him everything will be okay

This poem will be brief but don’t let it fool you; recalling his face again sucks all the air out of my heart.

I had just moved into my own apartment and I had been giddy all day long.  I skipped from my car up to my door and into my pants.  My mouth ran through the afternoon and continued as I drove West on Sunset, which is such a beautiful drive when the sun is setting in the months before summer.  I pulled up to a red light across from an In-N-Out and turned my head in the direction of a man sitting alone on a bus bench.  He wore a Los Angeles Dodgers t-shirt, had a bad haircut and a crude set of teeth.  He looked poor but not homeless.  I kept my attention on him as I watched him suck his lip into his mouth again and again.  A small stream of tears ran from each eye as he sniffled and looked nervously in each direction.  The light stayed red so I continued to focus in on this bubble of despair.  He continued to cry, and it was not the type of crying we do in times of reflection, it was the type we do when we have just witnessed our lifes work roll off the edge of the Grand Canyon.  He looked like he had been stepped on yet again like the butt of a foreign cigarette.  The light eventually turned and I drove off and although it’s been over a day now, here I am, alone and tipsy in my beautiful apartment and all I can think about is the anguish in the corners of that man’s eyes.  Life has taught me not to dwell on misfortune because it is contagious, but shit… that image isn’t going anywhere soon.  


Clausen was not a heartless killer.  He was soft, gentle, well-spoken promoter of truth.  In a world of rubber goods and instant gratification he was misunderstood.  He would only write on a yellow legal pad with a blue ballpoint pen, and he only listened to instrumental jazz.  He drank single malt scotch with ice cubes and water and always sipped with patience and class.  Clausen was everything I wanted to be on Thursday night.

After she broke up with him we spent an entire week sitting poolside, drinking lemonade and staring at the bronze legs of women too vain to even acknowledge our sleazy gazes.  He was miserable and I was there for him.  We would start drinking wine around eight and salute each other goodnight around one, sometimes two if I felt masochistic.  I miss him and the way he would react to a good Cab.  I think of him every time I see a fantastic set of stems; attached to the torso of a dark-haired woman or on the inside of a wine glass.  

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

march 16th, 2010

here's an older poem...


Holes in the ceiling lead me to believe they are there for a reason and I can barely control my desire to fling a pencil into the air and tightly squirt it into any one of the bastards. I take the last sip out of my water bottle and think back to last night when I drove around smoking cheap cigarettes until my throat ached. But I didn't see any possums on the road and while that left me disappointed I did catch a glimpse of two raccoons who seemed delighted with the decrepit surrounding and absence of daylight. I envied them as my headlights illuminated their beady eyes and bushy tails because they had each other and the night was theirs.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

march 3rd, 2010

forever grasping and clutching

It all started with dripping omelets
under the rim of the horizon.
Spontaneously I uttered
You remind me of the wet sand
just below the dry sand at the beach,
the sand you dig for,
the sand that reminds you 
why you went to the beach in the first place.
She ate her last potato wedge
and squinted her eyes,
slowly diverting her gaze
towards me and my thumping heart.
I could feel the moment taking over
and witnessed the angel on my shoulder exit,
awkwardly stepping over those in his way
and sliding out the exit door
with his tail between his legs.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

march 2nd, 2010 pt. 2

the balvenie

The first thing I did when I got home from work was sleep.  Last night I found myself staring at the ceiling at 2:30, then getting up to put more music on and write a short poem.  I fell asleep soon after that.  Today I woke up exhausted and continued to yawn late into the afternoon.

I rolled out of bed at 8:20 after the nap.  It had been a while since I took a long, hard nap and I was reminded quickly of the daze it can throw you in.  I walked lazily into the bathroom, smacking my scowled lips together and scratching my chest with a weak right hand.  I ran a shower and spent most of my time under the water blinking heavily and playing with my hair.  When I stepped out and dried myself off I felt slightly less confused and considerably more hungry.  I decided I would walk East down Sunset Blvd., get some food and read some Miller.

On my way I passed the Coach & Horses bar where I first started drinking whisky sours.  Three men were standing outside and I imagined one of them had insulted me.  In defense I hardened up and accepted the verbal challenge.  Four shots of whisky, right now! I replied.  We went inside, drank up, and hours later one of them drove home drunk off his ass and crashed head-first into a tree.  I shook off the scenario by blowing hot air into my hands and keeping my pace.

I got to the restaurant and sat down across from a comedian I had a lot of respect for.  I pulled out the post-it I had left in my book and wrote down the absurd happening I had earlier imagined.  I drank my beer and ate my pasta quickly, but I enjoyed every sip and every bite.  I love eating alone in a restaurant full of art and interesting faces.  On my way out I shook the comedian’s hand and said I think you’re incredibly fucking funny, and more importantly, you’re honest.  He smiled and said I really appreciate that and I believed him. 

I smoked a cigarette on my way home and bought a nice bottle of single malt scotch at the liquor store near my place.  I took out Blue Brother when I sat down in my room, typed up a couple poems and now I sit here typing this, sipping on a damn good scotch.

march 2nd, 2010

swinging overhead

I felt the sword of Damocles scrape my scalp that night
and although the cut wasn't deep
it left a scar which reminds me of its power
each and every day.