taking a break

I'm working on finishing a new book so I may not post anything for a while. I also deleted the last post not because I didn't like it, I've just begun to put too much pressure on myself to post poems right away. I need to do some more editing and maybe here and there I'll post some older pieces. I'm working with a couple photographers and an illustrator for the new book so I have high hopes, as should you. Until next time...

april 22nd, 2010

Here's a new cut-up I wrote last night.  This day is fucking pissing me off so I can't tell right now if I like it or not, either way, here it is...

meditations for life without cigarettes

Virgins running through streets of blood waving bayonets flooded the landscape.  This atmosphere took its toll on youngsters like Jorgen, drowning their pimply hopes like critters in a mousetrap.  Communist sympathizers would attempt to ease the pain by passing out homemade candies.  Mormons crowded around saloons protected by ancient gargoyles and ordered moonshine with melted butter to ease the burn.  Wannabe poets forced glossy self-portraits into the pockets of the weak and distracted.  My wine glass remained full throughout the commotion and not once could I make sense of the circus I had chose to witness.  Never did I mind quietly observing.

april 14th, 2010

nights that end with ambient music

I was the lone soldier in favor of the Barolo when the opposition dug through the mud and attacked with sleepless devotion.  It was guerilla warfare and pretentious as all hell.  I acted social and optimistic to please him, but truly I felt overlooked and exhausted.  I put on that face every week-- sometimes it scratches at my smile.

april 13th, 2010

basic space

I'm reaching for dusty books

with stained pages

as if some magical poem

is the answer.

I'm reaching for nice Cabs

and expensive pasta sauces

as if they contain 

the answer.

I'm reaching for instrumental jazz

downtempo electronica

and pure ambient simplicity

as if they guard

the answer.

I'm looking in all these places

time and time again

expecting new results

but only inching

towards insanity.

I'll continue to reach

for the answer

but it's about time I recognize

what she holds

is just as magnificent.

april 7th, 2010

how we die is deeply doe-eyed

one

I live in Los Angeles and all I want is a friend. I am 42 years-old and have been living alone for almost 20 years. My name is not important.

I have been working behind a desk for the same company since I was 19, one year after I finished high school. I make a modest living, no complaints there. I’ve had a few girlfriends and one fiancé; none of whom I loved. The only woman I ever skipped home thinking about forgot my name the second time I said hello. She worked in a diner on Pico Blvd. and I went there every Wednesday night for nine weeks hoping she would wait on me or make incidental contact with my hand. Of those nine nights she took my order twice (one by request) and we never made incidental contact. When the tenth week came I shrugged my tired shoulders and randomly picked a new diner out of the Yellow Pages. I ordered the usual and it was slightly better.

two

I live in Los Angeles and all I want is a friend. I am 42 years-old and have been living alone for almost 20 years. My name is not important.

I have been working behind a desk for the same company since I was 19, one year after I finished high school. I make a modest living, no complaints there. I’ve had a few girlfriends and one fiancé, none of whom I loved. The only woman I ever skipped home thinking about broke my heart the second time I said hello. She worked in a diner on Pico Blvd. and I went there every Wednesday night for nine weeks hoping she would wait on me or make incidental contact with my hand. For the first eight weeks she took my order once and we never made incidental contact. When the ninth week came I shrugged my tired shoulders and said, “Ok, what the hell, one more try.” She waited on me without request and I ordered the usual, only this time I asked for my sandwich on sourdough instead of rye. She lifted her long eyelashes away from the fading ink of her pen and said, “Rye was always my favorite.” I dropped my head and unraveled the silverware from inside the napkin. I did this carelessly and hastily causing the prongs of the fork to fall towards the tabletop at an admirably disruptive speed. I stuck my hand out and snatched the lone utensil out of the air with minor trouble. My meal arrived soon after and I ate slowly, wondering why I wasn’t given a knife.

april 4th, 2010

Here are three new poems.  I'm fairly intoxicated at the moment so I'm posting these quicker than usual.  I may have to go back and edit but they're done for the most part.

The second one is something I wrote probably two years ago and found on my computer just the other week.  After some editing and scrapping it feels like a decent poem.

The last one is a cut-up I wrote using the words of my Philly friend Mr. Mollot.  What a guy, I miss that fucker.  Enjoy.

dancing days

The word ‘structure’ continues to swim about his skull.  He isn’t a conservative man but he isn’t too much of a risk taker either; maturity has led him to a comfortable seat between the two.  He relies on plans and punctuality but this no longer upsets him.  His patience is thin and with each day his heart grows colder.  The world is too cruel and unforgiving and these truths oppress his happiness, but his self-confidence is admirable.  Stand by your decisions, actions, and words because they define you.  Everyone is responsible for themselves and paves their own path, luck plays a much smaller role than many of us are willing to admit.  He strongly believes in each of these statements and makes sure to voice them when appropriate.  He is a good man with a kind heart and his future is as much a mystery as yours.

only a lad

He woke up with a brutal hangover and a craving for Muenster cheese.  He had no clue why, seeing as his favorite cheese was Jack and he hadn’t the pleasure of a slice of Muenster since he was 11 years old.  Nonetheless, he quickly determined that satisfying this craving was the most honorable way to begin the day.  He knew that Raymond’s Deli had incredible Muenster because on that day when he was 11 years old he ordered a ham sandwich with tomatoes that came out watered-down and tasteless, lettuce long past its prime, mayonnaise lumpy enough to resemble a cobblestone road, all stuck between two pieces of store-brand white bread, and of course, a slice of Muenster that was so perfect it managed to salvage the credibility of the whole sandwich.  He remembered these absurd details because while his father handed a $50 bill to the most beautiful waitress alive he was outside checking the parking meter in the worst possible place at the worst possible time.  A shiny mint green Jaguar, only one previous owner, swerved off the road as the driver attempted to spare the life of a mangy dog who wandered into the middle of the street to grab a flattened banana peel.  The dog was apparently not intimidated by large objects moving towards him at dangerous speeds, that or he was deaf and dumb.  The Jaguar barreled over the sidewalk and mowed down the character who remains nameless.  The driver managed to gain control of the car after the collision and proceeded to drive off as if the situation was merely a slight inconvenience. 

He tried shaking off this ugly memory as he undressed and stepped into the shower.  By the time he got out and wiped the steam off the mirror it was a distant thought.

times of ease and laughter

I was living in a house up by the art museum where I could smile at all the pretty girls from the balcony.  The landscape of the city stood in the foreground with its magnificence and longevity.  My face always looked weathered and in need of a shave.  I would start my day by descending a long set of black stairs as I recalled the debauchery which occurred the night before.  Every time I awoke I remember being fully clothed, my jeans and t-shirt stuck to me like a band-aid.  I would stroll through the front door and hop into my father’s pick-up truck.  Those mornings were always so terribly hot.  I had found a number of blues tapes underneath the passenger seat and anticipated listening to a new one with each sunrise.  Having always agreed with a quote I once heard-- The notion of emptiness generates passion, I labeled myself a dispassionate person for those couple months. 

One morning, as I walked to the car, I passed an older man walking his dog with a cigarette balanced on his left shoulder.  Every morning thereafter I hoped I would see him again and I wondered if he was aware of that cigarette.  I flip-flopped the entire summer over whether he was or wasn’t.

I would frequent the beach, usually with a friend of mine named Bailey who I met in high school.  He was loyal and kind, but most of his education was spent sleeping in the back of class, knocked out on heavy painkillers.  I would always go hoping to see my sweet Adeline.  There was nothing I could ever do but succumb to her immaculate beauty.  Her personality was flawless and she had enough curves to keep any man’s eyes permanently fixated.  She consistently struck terror into the hearts of the opposite sex.  Oh my sweet Adeline.

That summer ended abruptly and I was left unemployed and curious about the last five blues tapes I never had the chance to listen to.  It was a time full of liver abuse and youthful lust.  I would trade the last seven years of my life to relive it all once more. 

 

april 1st, 2010

Here are two new poems.  The second one is a cut-up I wrote using the words of a friend, Caitlin Cooke.  Cheers.

studying bare walls

His shrinking humiliation blistered in the sun.

You raise your nose at him

but I've seen you,

I've seen you digging through the dumpsters,

hissing at spectators as they laugh at your misfortune.

Lean in close and listen to the clicking

of the kitchen clock.  Maddening isn't it?

All of your mental calculations are letting you

down, aren't they?

These are nights of love and laughter

followed by days of unapologetic

loneliness.

You stare at the dirty wine glasses

filling your sink as if you're the only one

who feels empty on a daily basis.

maybe her body followed

Breaking the surface of the pomegranate

felt like penetrating human skin.

The purple blood trickled down my fingers

and splashed onto the meat of my bare foot.

I saw it falling towards the ground

and even though there was ample time to react

I was unable to pull away.

I felt knuckle deep in fresh jello

or 15 minutes into a hot shower

on a winter day.

I knew I had to let go

but my body refused.