Rupert Pupkin

january 16th, 2012

2012-01-16T01:35:00.000-08:00

Here's another new one, a quick Sunday night/Monday morning cut-up.

leaning out on the edge

The spiraling roar of a miracle

tears through curtains of porcelain doubt

like a golden comet

shot through tattered lace.

The whirling spasm of ingenuity,

when caged

and tagged for future research,

crushes a lifetime of groans in a

single

violent

breath.

Life is a relay race

and the only thing that matters

is whether or not

you’re holding the baton.

january 15th, 2012

2012-01-15T22:45:00.001-08:00

Here's a random piece of prose I found written in a legal pad. I'm sure it's the result of a late night, but it's not bad.

top five

People make lists because they are physical, organized manifestations of interests and disinterests we consider “real”. Lists provide validation, state opinions and etch trivial decisions onto paper, cementing a thought, albeit momentary, into the sidewalk of a chosen surface. They act as handprints in the sidewalk, and when put into perspective, affect nothing equally. Like most activities, lists attempt to solidify the invisible.

january 11th, 2012

2012-01-11T17:53:00.000-08:00

throw him a curveball is featured on Young American Poets blog today, which is very nice of them. the heavy musk of masochism and keep it simple previously appeared in late 2011.

http://youngamericanpoets.blogspot.com/2012/01/throw-him-curveball.html

I haven't posted new work in a while, so here are two poems for you to enjoy.

can't you hear me knockin'?

Before I could react to the knocking

it was gone.

A few modest pounds

followed by sustained silence.

The kind of silence that permeates through an auditorium

hours before an orchestra takes stage.

Hauntingly inspirational,

yet suspiciously dormant.

Before I could answer the door

the knocking was gone,

and I was left standing

like a fool in the rain.

los feliz

Now we live together.

Just like that.

Seems like, well, at most a year ago

when we first walked toward each other,

awkwardly closing the cement gap with wobbly legs.

Sure as hell doesn't feel like four years.

Now we live together

and we're 25 years-old,

merely skimming the surface of potentiality,

meticulously chipping away at the tip of the iceberg.

A subdued smirk sprouts above my chin

because I have seen the ocean floor

and the massive frozen base.

I have seen what we are capable of

and fully intend to capture it,

ensuring we are there to witness it blossom.

Others are free to watch,

for they will always remember the couple

who unleashed what they could not.

Now we live together

and it's easy.

The vinyl is continually spinning

and the art comes in spurts,

always returning moments before you swear it's gone for good.

december 8th, 2011

2011-12-08T17:11:00.001-08:00

Few things to speak about in this post, which is always a good thing.

First-- station to station will appear in the new issue of Out of Our, which will be printed on Friday. Booyah! This is my third piece in their publication, the first two being my generation and forever grasping a clutching, which led off the previous issue.

Second-- the new issue of Beatdom, featuring horseshit, focuses on the topic of religion. I find that amusing. Basing my guess on the info in the link, it should be available for purchase soon.

And the last little announcement is that soon enough more stores will be carrying my books on consignment. At the moment they are for sale here:

Book Soup

Stories

Daily Planet

Skylight Books

All of which are in Los Angeles. New stores, out of state (and possibly out of country), will be added to the list in time.

Thanks for giving a shit, take care.

Beatdom

2011-11-28T17:46:00.000-08:00

The poem horseshit from Remain Frantic will be published in the next issue of Beatdom. I suggest you check their site out.

Here's a reading of the piece by a friend of mine, Brian Charles:

http://soundcloud.com/cliff-weber

Also on that link are readings of my generation and nude photographs of immortality. All three are fucking spot-on in my opinion.

I'll follow up with a link to the poem in the issue once that becomes available.

young american poets, pt. 2

2011-11-21T08:44:00.000-08:00

Here's "keep it simple" from Jack Defeats Ron 100-64, the second poem to be published on Young American Poets:

http://youngamericanpoets.blogspot.com/2011/11/keep-it-simple.html

Enjoy.

winter wheat

2011-11-16T16:46:00.001-08:00

Two more poems will be published in the new litmag "winter wheat", so look for those in late December, most likely. They are "studying bare walls" and "poets are so full of shit". You can read the second one below:

Check out the mag here:

http://winterwheatpoetry.wordpress.com/

october 26th, 2011

2011-10-26T16:47:00.001-07:00

young american poets

2011-10-20T12:45:00.000-07:00

It took a couple years but "the heavy musk of masochism" finally found a place, here:

http://youngamericanpoets.blogspot.com/2011/10/heavy-musk-of-masochism.html

The piece "keep it simple" will be posted later in November. Huzzah.

two pieces in new Burning Word

2011-10-17T16:44:00.001-07:00

In have two pieces in the newest quarterly issue of Burning Word which you can see here:

http://burningword.com/2011/10/cliff-weber/

I encourage you to check out the full issue which can be downloaded in full for free here:

http://burningword.com

"remain frantic" now on sale

2011-09-22T15:24:00.001-07:00

"Remain Frantic" is out, hey-o! You can purchase it on Lulu.com for an astonishingly low price of $7.99 here:

http://www.lulu.com/browse/search.php?fSearchData%5Bauthor%5D=Cliff+Weber&fSearchData%5Blang_code%5D=all&fSort=salesRankEver_asc&showingSubPanels=advancedSearchPanel_title_creator

Also, "Matzo Ball Soup" is now $7.99, so check that out too.

Yes yes, support me, buy a book, hell, buy 20! As always, thanks for giving a shit.

september 11th, 2011

2011-09-11T05:25:00.000-07:00

throw him a curveball

Late at night

when streetlights silhouette the inebriated

I sit alone in my living room

under my favorite blanket

riding cotton waves with flattened palms

like grease traversing a rose petal.

Sure, sometimes it's lonely

sometimes it's sickening

and sometimes it's just another night alone.

But every now and then

I hurl the blanket to the floor

pop open a bottle of wine

and hunch over a legal pad

clutching a pen that secretes blood.

Blood as black as ink.

august 23rd, 2011

2011-08-23T17:43:00.000-07:00

"define poetry"

says a man struck with spontaneous interest,

interest he has surely attached intellectual power to.

“Define poetry,” he repeats with passive demand.

“Define the medium you so willingly cling to—

the style which so proudly sits atop your meaningless

and pretentious

pedestal of artistic beauty.

Define the form you bow to

solemn night after solemn night—

the hidden hopes of bound immortality which rise

from splotches of ink that stain your skin.

Define the carnal desire to write partial stories and images

disguised as art—

praised only by fellow poets,

read only by fellow poets

and understood only by fellow poets.

Go ahead and smear your abstract bullshit reasons

across every inch of my mental den—

I’ll eagerly await the inescapable moment

in which I dismantle your scripted,

vague attempt at the explanation I seek.”

“Poetry is whatever the hell I want it to be.

Tonight it is this;

the Devil’s advocate,

a reflection upon an idea I love and understand,

an idea I have chosen to dissect

but one I rarely choose to define.

Sure—my answer evades strong labels

and sought-after specifics.

Poetry isn’t simply fiction,

nor is it a simple blend of honest societal reflections

surrounded by flowery imagery.

I have my definition of poetry

and it fancies change

just as we humans fancy change.

And with the completion of each new poem

my approach

and my goal

and my love alters slightly,

riding the swift winds of transformation.

Poetry is mine to sculpt because I hold the clay

between my unrelenting fingers.

Others may feel the inability

or lack of desire

to toy with the “sacred” concept of Poetry.

I don’t consider them a threat

and never will.

I only check my rear-view for the ones

who no longer question dedication,

the ones who feed their hunger

because they must.

Those are the fingers I fear…

but have yet to meet.”

The man’s response is entirely up to you

because I see it as forever irrelevant.

Art is what you make of it,

so I recommend you cozy up to the idea

of being your biggest fan for a while.

Pay little mind to those who try to tear you down,

for there will be many.

Justifying it as jealousy is an arrogant remedy

but often effective and true.

Failing to turn a profit will never break my spirit,

no matter how baffling the business minds find it.

I use rejection letters as bookmarks

because in my mind

they mistakenly passed on good poetry.

bartleby snopes "story of the month"

2011-08-22T18:05:00.000-07:00

My story how we die is deeply doe eyed is up for "Story of the Month" on Bartleby Snopes so vote for me below... or be an ass and vote for another piece you like better.

http://www.bartlebysnopes.com/stories.htm

new publications

2011-08-18T15:09:00.000-07:00

After a year-long drought of litmag rejections I seem to be on a bit of a roll. You can currently find me in the newest issue of Bartleby Snopes and Out of Our.

www.bartlebysnopes.com

www.outofour.com

how we die is deeply doe eyed is published on the Snopes page and will soon be available in print for purchase. Come August 27th you can vote for "Story of the Month" so throw me a bone.

my generation and forever grasping and clutching are published in Out of Our, which is available now for purchase but is not yet featured on the site. Mine are actually the first two in the magazine, so cheers to that.

Still looking for a physical publisher for my new book (I'd prefer to have one published for me at least once in my life) and for my new manuscript which is basically a best-of collection. Until then, I'll just keep on chooglin'. Thanks for the support.

first draft of "remain frantic"

2011-08-17T13:00:00.000-07:00

I got the first draft of Remain Frantic in the mail today. A few changes need to be made but it's just about done. Expect it to go on sale before the end of September.

Here's a picture of the cover layout. More updates to come.

july 22nd, 2011 part two

2011-07-22T16:00:00.000-07:00

and then you wake up

You’re inside your apartment but it isn’t your apartment. You’re seated in the kitchen and begin to feel loopy. You feel an overbearingly weird sense of detachment from reality and cannot gain a grasp on up/down, left/right. Your dog is nearby, that much is certain, but it’s not clear where. You walk into the living room and take a nap on the couch…

When you awake your sense of detachment has increased considerably. The apartment is bare and everything appears to be a dirty shade of off-white. You look closer and notice strange, almost glowing spots of neon blue on the walls. Soon they’re everywhere and pulsate to the rhythm of your heart. You start to panic and presume there’s a gas leak. You call for your dog and he follows as you stumble down the hallway…

The blue spots are growing and you reach out to touch one but nothing comes off onto your fingers and you continue to stumble towards the door and everything is white and empty and fading and finally you burst through the front door with your dog and immediately call your father who picks up but is distracted and you try over and over to talk and tell him it’s an emergency but he’s arguing with another voice and you say there’s a gas leak there’s a gas leak but he can’t hear you and you’re barely able to formulate a cohesive sentence before you collapse to the cement and pass out…

july 22nd, 2011

2011-07-22T15:58:00.000-07:00

a matinee at dusk

I was eating at a sushi restaurant in Franklin Village by myself, switching off between beer and hot sake. Seated at the bar was a 20-something man who was nursing a large beer. Small sip here, small sip there. He began talking to the bartender about a nearby pub (where exactly it was located, the price and selection of beer), then about wine (how he liked red and white, as if he was being specific), then he asked about the history of the restaurant as if he genuinely cared when it was clear he was just trying to flirt. It was a pathetic display of hopeless Asian-infatuation, but it made for a great show to accompany dinner.

The man’s efforts left him stranded and as he sat brainstorming conversation topics, in walked a 40-something lesbian who plopped herself down two seats to his right. Without missing a beat she launched into an advice-heavy dialogue (dialogue being a generous description) about headshots and resumes with the same bartender who seemed taken aback by this involving and sudden exchange. I finished my miso soup, scooted forward and listened with an internal grin before asking for the check.

After adding the tip I took the customer receipt and wrote the following note, then strolled off into the night:

The man at the bar needs

to work on his flirting skills.

And she talks too much.

New book and more news

2011-06-30T10:08:00.001-07:00

So I have a new book in the works, a shorter one this time around, but I'm very excited about it. The main piece is a short story adapted from the novel The Stranger by Albert Camus. I expect this collection to be finished in August or September and it will definitely be for sale on Lulu's online store.

Also-- as of today you can buy my first book, Matzo Ball Soup, on Lulu (with its original and intended cover design, ooh la la). Like JDR it's selling for a modest $9.99. And don't be confused by the pen name, I published this one as Rupert Pupkin. But hey-- that's the name of this website! You bet your fucking ass it is.

http://www.lulu.com/browse/search.php?&fKeywords=Cliff+Weber

That's about it for now. I'll keep you updated on the new book, but honestly, this one is more of a project for me than anyone else. The sales on my first two books piss me right off so for the time being I don't give a shit how many sell. Call it a defense mechanism and you'd probably be correct. Buy it or don't, I'm sick of pretending that somehow this time around hundreds of people will suddenly find a shit to give. It's good writing, it's a project I put a ton of goddamn time into, so if you find yourself interested I encourage you to invest the fucking money and support literature. After all, you're here reading this post.

To end this I'm going to post a piece from the new, yet to be titled collection. This story itself isn’t new, but it's all typed up and perty! So here's organic angst, which I'm quite fond of. YES-- I said I like it. Fuck off.

june 22nd, 2011

2011-06-22T18:04:00.000-07:00

Here's an older piece from my first book.

candy coated

A smorgasbord of tarantula hands and kayak lips, silly putty earlobes and fiberglass fingernails, grocery bags under exhausted eyes, wet smiles that make you want to weep, jagged knuckles of dusty sandstone, gaping nostrils that echo loud and long, slinky necks supporting chins that hang like a wet shirt on a clothesline. Tonight these are my people and they return my cold stares with equal enthusiasm.

june 1st, 2011

2011-06-02T01:00:00.000-07:00

may 31st, 2011 part 2

2011-05-31T23:04:00.000-07:00

no comment

I like to think I intimidated them, that they couldn’t get through the first section out of furious envy, that they’re bitter and jealous and can’t muster up the courage to dole out even a single compliment, a single piece of acknowledgment in any possible way.

I like to think my love and devotion to the art blinded them into childish figurines incapable of admitting that maybe my shit isn’t so bad, that maybe it’s actually good and has potential.

I’m not asking for a fucking medal, just input from those who claim to be writers.

My creative writing teacher at Santa Barbara City College never wrote back after I emailed him about my first book. He was the first person to ever play music for me as I wrote. He put on the song “Acknowledgment” by John Coltrane and gave us 10 minutes or so to write anything at all. For whatever reason I decided to write prose (for the record I want to say that I consider prose to be poetry, but I do not consider poetry to be prose… similar to the way that a square is a rectangle but a rectangle is not a square). Anyways, pretentious rants from a drunk man aside, I wrote a piece called “acknowledgment.” In desperate need of participation points (required to pass) I volunteered to read. I did so with a trembling voice and a shaky pair of hands. After finishing and most surely stumbling over a few words, I received nothing. No applause, no whispered words, nothing. Prior to this moment, it was standard practice for everyone to give a slight round of applause to the brave/arrogant willing student. I received silence and what felt like dozens and dozens of burning sets of eyes. Was it respect? Was it reactionary confusion and shock? Or was it disapproval? All I know is that since then I have published two books and currently feel my left hand closing against my will. Give in and allow a night off? Go fuck yourself.

My high school English teacher who inspired me in many ways allowed me access to his inner beast as well, years later that is. A complete lack of effort to communicate and brazen disinterest in reading or purchasing my books has left me baffled. Perhaps he fears my attitude and commitment. Perhaps he’s perplexed by my sudden ability and dedication to the combination of words. Perhaps he’s seen the years pass and justifies his teaching as being more important to society; hurling his own desires as a writer into the trunk of a car doused in gasoline. “Burn baby, burn,” he cackles.

There are more examples, more personal disappointments and more rejections from people claiming to be something they are not, but to continue would be superfluous. I’ll always be bitter so this only ignites the fire. But don’t take me for someone who loves to glorify the struggle. I simply prefer to write about what I know, how I feel, who I listen to and who I ignore.

If you’re scanning this piece for contradictions, I suggest you step the fuck back because it’s full of ‘em.

I’m no genius writer, I’m just willing to churn out more than the delusional sap who’s been told his words flow like caramel. His “craving” will soon subside as mine subtlety struts by unannounced. Notice the alliteration; how it’s significance can be argued for pointless hour upon hour, when all that matters is whether or not the sentence flows better as a result. Or maybe it’s just personal preference. Don’t discount that. Maybe every sentence Toni Morrison writes isn’t supposed to be analyzed to the bone. What’s wrong with intended personal significance that may not translate the exact same message to every brain? By making writing personal we can make it relatable in all kinds of new ways. Write what you know and the right ones will follow.

Life isn’t shit, it just favors the greedy. Help me find a detour.

may 31st, 2011

2011-05-31T22:57:00.000-07:00

impulsion

Dresses were thin, trousers were rolled up and sunburns escaped no one. Weekend monkeys hiccupped, holding bottles of rum as they waltzed alone under striped umbrellas. The sun nibbled on our shoulders like carnivorous dandruff. Sunscreen was applied. And applied. And applied again to bronze backs acting as non-stick surfaces.

It was summer and all of us knew it. Hell, three quarters of the town showed up. I don’t even like the beach, but the sunrise lifted me out of bed and it only felt natural to gather up the family and head West. It was a short drive, just one I seldom took. I liked being inside. I liked my records, my television and my silence (when it was granted, which was also seldom).

But today… today was different. Today the sun shone so aggressively while somehow remaining friendly. It shook me out my slumber and slammed me against the wall, only to then offer me an ice cold glass of cherry lemonade. How was I supposed to turn that down? It was cherry, my favorite.

So away we went, beach towels and sandals and innocent grins. Yet none of us knew why we were so excited, so childishly giddy. It didn’t really matter in the scheme of things, so none of us harped on the confusion for more than a moment. Had plans been made they were surely broken because as we tumbled out of the front door three neighbors in plain sight were doing the exact same thing. Wide-eyed and drooling behind stiff pairs of sunglasses. At least ours were stiff. None of us were beach nuts or surf junkies. We like being inside. We like the feel of shag carpet beneath our toes.

Not today though. Today our toes craved the sinking, grainy feeling of sand and not a word was spoken until I shifted the car into park. Unspoken, unanimous impulsion.

may 21st, 2011

2011-05-21T02:24:00.000-07:00

A new piece written with Erin Dillon.

submerged

There's only a thick,

sympathetic silence between us.

"A determined soul will always manage,"

states the silhouette.

I shake my head in tender agreement.

The pink image of a girl

smiles down from a summery beer ad.

Her searing green eyes

capture my focus.

A number of men try shifting her gaze

but it belongs to me.

I tighten my grip

and whisk her into the stairwell.

"I ain't felt so safe in a long time,"

whispers the delicate starlet.

In his failure the believer finds triumph.

May 19th, 2011

2011-05-19T01:39:00.000-07:00

This is a cover of the poem "slim killers" by Charles Bukowski from the book Mockingbird Wish Me Luck.

slim killers

four motherfuckers knock at my door

and I open it

I'm drunk and they're massive.

"Bunch of slim killers," I say.

they stroll in with arrogance,

naive machismo

demanding a ride

while pretending

to ask for one.

we pile in,

all of us stinky drunk.

"I write too," exclaims one of the faces.

"I write poetry, like you."

His moment of vulnerability

attempts to mask his vile indecision,

his stench of desired acceptance.

back at my place I remain king.

one by one they pass out

like terrified, clever possums.

heavy aspirations

mixed with inflated egos

lead to disappointing self-realizations,

involving drink intake

and not.

come morning,

when they awake to a blinding

and cruel hangover,

one sure to be nursed with sympathy,

they vomit in turn

and leave with whatever dignity

they're able to muster.

as fans of my work,

I feel indifferent.

may 18th, 2011

2011-05-18T11:20:00.000-07:00

remain frantic

I must remain frantic during these times, during these down times, these days and weeks and months that flirt with the glowing green sign hanging above the door which leads to new beginnings; I can’t quite make out the word and the answer hides like a song you cannot place, a melody so familiar yet infinitely far away. The inability to name the unreachable tune rips away at the protective layer of skin outside my brain like cockroaches on a dumpster sandwich.
I must remain frantic during these times, during these times when my age restricts success. As a writer I must remember the time required to pass before recognition remembers my name as we shake hands. I cannot watch fellow artists and friends attain early triumph and feel left behind. My name will be heard and my words will be shared and it’s not all going to happen one lucky morning. I’m not trying to write a hit single or cause the world to gasp in awe because those singles are forgotten and those gasps become new gasps which become exhales. I want a slew of guttural twists that span a lifetime and refuse to show mercy. Readers who love the written word search library shelves with a nervous pulse, “Oh come on, come on, I know you’ve got a whole mess of Weber. I know you bastards do. I saw five books by Fante and Miller had at least half a dozen. Shit, I saw two copies of ‘Tropic of Cancer’ in perfect library condition. Beaten vintage.”
I must remain anxious but cling to the waist of patience with clammy palms. I may always wish it was easier, but why should that feeling pose as unnatural? If given the ability to construct an individual utopia why involve struggle? Why involve hurdles and violence and failure and disappointment? Therefore, why should any of us reject the idea of possible perfection? In any realm? Life is abstract and strange and its purpose will be debated until the idea of purpose no longer holds meaning to any living entity. I believe in the idea of demanding it all. Why keep our ceiling within reasonable reach?

may 4th, 2011

2011-05-04T01:41:00.000-07:00

horseshit

Talking heads on swivel sticks

yammer incessantly

into my bleeding ears

while I stare ahead,

nodding on cue

like those fucking tchotchke desk birds who drink water.

I am a trinket who serves no purpose,

waiting for someone to leave a window open

so I can fly into a nearby propeller.

I haven't been published in almost a year

and tonight I'm reminded of that fact.

I open another beer and write this angry poem

out of frustration,

out of malice towards contemporary literature

and the art I have chosen to pursue.

I love writing,

god I fucking love to write,

but the apologetic "thanks but not thanks" emails

have been laying eggs in my brain for a while now

and I think they're beginning to to hatch.

I hear the first one poking its legs through

like a smoke bomb seeping through a screen door.

I hear another--

and a few more--

and soon a colony has formed

and I'm banging my head against my wooden desk.

"I'll kill you all I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL KILL YOU ALL!"

I scream, waking up my neighbors who shout back,

"We're trying to sleep here, shut the fuck up asshole!"

"Ah, fuck you!" I holler back.

I start bashing my head with a frying pan,

pausing only slightly to finish the beer in hand

and regain sight.

"I'll kill every last one of you eight-legged freaks!"

I'm convinced they're scared,

hell I know they're scared.

Shaking in their tiny fucking boots I bet.

"I won't give up until you surrender

and crawl out of my ear waving tiny white flags!

Fuck your insincerity!

Fuck your half-assed template compliments!

Fuck your desire to print vanilla poetry!

I'll have my way,

one of these days.

I'll have my way and when I do--

I'll tilt my head over the garbage disposal

and shake all you bastards out into hell.

Go ahead and accept bland bullshit,

you're nothing more than colonies of insects."

Did I mention that I haven't been published in almost a year?

april 27th, 2011

2011-04-27T00:03:00.000-07:00

Here's an older piece...

meat grinder

Audiences cannot handle the personification of carnage when it’s hovering inches from their face, dripping hot bacon grease onto their spotless khakis, smothering their sense of entitlement and corroding their majority vote. Audiences slink into their plastic lawn chairs and avoid confrontation with laughable ease. I laugh too because this is my poem and I am in control. I laugh at audiences who chase success by playing to the crowd, the same ones who compromise more and more with each sunrise. The feeling of constant regret will shadow even pyramids of unmarked bills. It’s all a fucking tightrope walk and once you accept that you only worry more... unless you’re quick enough to swat defeat each time it buzzes past your nose. I land my swats at a respectable rate, but only a true marksman is able to rise from sleep worry free with regularity. Doubt and insecurity are heavily underrated. Fear is not only natural but necessary for personal satisfaction. Nothing comes easy and luck is only a residue of design.

Philosophical rants are always lurking inside of me, causing an overflow of thought which translates to a quiet exterior. Goofiness is never far and when noticeable it usually means I am at ease, as calm as my brain will allow. I am not the smartest, nor the second smartest, nor the third, fourth, fifth, tenth, or twentieth. I am a writer who know he’s confused, a writer who plans to slam the keys every time my wrists beckon, a writer who is fully aware this inky disease could run for the hills at any moment, a writer who writes mostly about the shit times not because his favorite mentors do the same, but because it’s all he knows how to do, a writer who will never comfortably discuss his work in the company of others, a writer who would be nothing without music-- absolutely nothing, a writer who rarely reads but demands the company of books, a writer who writes far too much about himself but isn’t going to change a damn thing, a writer who cannot resist a blip on a the radar, be it random or subconsciously planned, a man completely lost in the specifics of everything and nothing.

april 25th, 2011

2011-04-25T14:20:00.000-07:00

Here's a new cut-up that's so thick with ambiguous imagery I had to title it appropriately. Now, I'm not going to say it's 100% abstract wordplay, but I won't deny that was the main intention. Enjoy.

nonsense

Scheming glass foreheads

hang from meat hook realities

like cartons of 2% milk

teetering on the edge of supermarket metal.

Serenity puffs on nervous curiosity

which scabs the tongue

while the sputtering street lamp of chance

shines twice

in the reflection of midnight's fuel.

I am the recruiter of torment,

the uniform controversy favors

and the squeaking footstep

fear tries to silent.

Flush your good intentions

and join my army of vacant faces.

april 20th, 2011 part 2

2011-04-20T21:49:00.000-07:00

nude photographs of immortality

Let us abandon ourselves to love.

Let us drain the blood of eloquence

and announce our intentions with a long,

lingering roll of the tongue.

Let us defile doubt

which whispers into the ears of mortals.

Let us fill the void

which peels away at our skin

like an incurable, medieval plague.

Let us make choices.

Let us gaze carelessly for days

into the black eyes of struggle

and laugh until we are parched.

Let us erupt tonight,

tomorrow

and forever.

april 20th, 2011

2011-04-20T19:53:00.000-07:00

Here's another cut-up written in collaboration with Miss Bojangles.

the enlightened inquisitor

We are meaningless bolts of animalistic cruelty

lost in working class delusion;

enthusiastic mimes latching onto shriveled worries.

The blood of the gutless man

emerges from infected wounds.

Annihilating creativity upon contact,

this gaudy, guile puss

waits upon a terrace of glistening destruction.

Eventually this handsome camouflage

melts into a pool of greasy defeat.

With the right weapons

it always will.

april 7th, 2011

2011-04-07T09:52:00.001-07:00

march 31st, 2011 part 2

2011-03-31T23:40:00.000-07:00

shakespeare wanted all the lawyers dead

“So the course is closed, my friend. Sign says it was sprayed earlier today. Bad fucking timing,” I said, standing in the parking lot of the Los Feliz Municipal Golf Course.

“Ah shit,” replied Greg. “Probably not a good idea to just walk on as planned. We’ll have to come back another day.”

We began brainstorming on how to pass the time, whether we should grab some dinner or simply listen to records, when a portly man in his fifties approached us and said, “Oh don’t mind my dog. She’s a sweetheart, she’s a good dog.” He was wearing a rather lazy outfit, one I would happily slip into on a hot summer day while drinking beer and watching television. His hair was deep into the grey color transition all men fear and eventually accept. His face was unkempt and maintained a casual demeanor throughout our encounter, even when he began cursing the fucking lawyers involved in the custody case over the aforementioned dog, who was now leashless and wandering around the empty lot. The small, long-haired pooch appeared as harmless as his animated, intoxicated owner.

“Ya I’ve been drinking since noon. Been dealing with this damn case—these fucking lawyers—fucking lawyers—over that cute little girl over there who shouldn’t have to go through any of this. I love her, I really do. She’s such a sweetheart. We settled on an agreement today and I decided it was time to drink. Ha ha! She shouldn’t have to go through this. And the fucking lawyers!”

We sat there listening to him complain, occasionally nodding in agreement or providing him the one word answer he wanted to hear.

“Before you guys head out I have to tell you a joke, it’s one of my favorites,” he said. We turned around to face him one last time before going on our way.

“How do you get three old women to say ‘fuck?’”

Both of us chuckled, curling our closed lips inward and shrugging in the traditional, “I don’t know, tell me,” kind of way.

“Get the fourth one to say ‘bingo!”

Greg and I turned to face each other and let out two genuine laughs, which pleased this temporary drunk wanderer.

I’ve always enjoyed the characters who wedge their way into my life, knowing they only have a few minutes before we part ways and want nothing more.

march 31st, 2011

2011-03-31T19:42:00.000-07:00

Here's a story I wrote in collaboration with a damn good friend, Justin Gordon-Cooper. I had a lot of fun with this one as I'm sure he did. The first paragraph was written over a month ago and after various tweaks, additions and edits, I feel it's done... for now. Enjoy.

chinatown

Foster woke up in Chinatown with a venomous hangover. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead like tiny snakes made of satin. What lie inside his mouth was not a tongue, but instead a twisted and arthritic beehive of cackling caterpillars. His melodramatic yawn collided with the sound of exploding thunder in the distance. A raspy and familiar voice began bouncing around his throbbing skull, “You’ll always be a hyena. Always.”

Where the fuck am I? What the fuck did I do last night? Forget the headache and just figure out where you are. Come on big boy, get those legs extended. Goooood, now walk on over to that bus bench. Easy does it. Goooood. Now relax, gather composure and figure out where—and what—you were last night. Who made an appearance and why did you wake up lying in a gutter? What time is it? Is that Chinese writing on that veranda? It must be. I’m in Chinatown. Yes, I must be in Chinatown. Sager, you son of a bitch!

It’ll be an oppressively warm night in hell the next time I drink moonshine, that’s for damn sure. Alright, venue confirmed—pecking order to be determined. Investigative efforts into this conundrum will have to be put on hold though. The remaining brain activity willing to cooperate is busy ensuring I feel every nuance of pain coming from the gash on my left eyelid. The slice is playing an excellent equator, creating two nonfunctional, mutually exclusive half-moons of reedy flesh. Motherfucker.

The scholastically heinous image I’m projecting on to anyone lucky enough to be within eyeshot is an effective one to say the least. I feel like the poster child for failure, or better yet, the spokesman for why religion will save you; a portrait more powerful than the glowing face of a priest hovering before the eyes of a grief-stricken, misunderstood, desperately hungry orphan child. But I take solace in the fact that however bad I must look, you should see the other guy. And Sager is that guy. It must have been him, that piece of shit! I can smell the stench of his anguish in the webs of my fingers.

Pecking order confirmed. Sager’s plans were thwarted and my battle wounds showcase the victorious outcome. Throw old Foster’s fist skyward I say! Clench it tight in the salty morning air.

Now get yourself some food, some cuisine, Chinatown style. Lo Mein—stat!

march 15th, 2011

2011-03-15T09:55:00.000-07:00

station to station

I suck down half a strong whisky soda and repeat the lyric in my brain, “The return of the Thin White Duke, throwing darts in lovers’ eyes.”

I suck down the rest of the drink and slouch further into the sofa. My midnight princess is halfway to Oakland and I’m nearly drunk. Is it Oakland? Could be Reno. She could definitely be headed to Reno. What difference does it make? These cities are merely capitalized locations promising hope and rebirth to desperate, aching souls eager to reinvent. The frightened will always flee when faced with new challenges; justifying their inability to defeat conflict with ambiguous, weak attempts at self-reflection. Only the blind optimists terrified of uncertainty nod their heads with genuine faith.

It’s as if I’m scared to be happy, petrified of inexplicable contentment. I often ask if the feelings are worth the writing. Deep down, for years now, the answer has appeared instantly and with thoughtful force; an internal paradox fueled by the inability to admit finality and greatness. I may believe a piece is truly exceptional, even momentarily, but knowing the capability of previous hands that now lie restless allows modesty and personal doubt to flourish, no matter how much I deprive the soil.

To answer your question; yes, poetry or prose or short stories or whatever the fuck you want to label this writing and writing to be will forever be worth the pain. Creation supersedes positive opinions of you as a person pasted together from fragments of reality pooled together and analyzed by neighbors, landlords, co-workers and acquaintances convinced they understand “you.” Human minds and bodies and subconscious reactionary likes/dislikes/turn-ons/turn-offs are nothing more than simple mathematic equations to these people.

I have no grasp on human purpose or honest human needs. I am only able to shelf the knowledge of outer space and accept perspective because I have no other option. And because of that, I write to forever etch my words in stone because tomorrow may as well be yesterday.

march 1st, 2011

2011-02-28T23:55:00.001-08:00

organic angst

Kelley's head nearly burst into flames when he first saw Harbinger's library. The collection was massive and the lacquer hugged the worn wood beneath it like an older brother protecting his frostbitten sister. Simply put-- it was impressive, causing Kelley to plant himself.

"Would you like a drink?" Harbinger asked, holding back a smug chuckle.

"Ummm... yes. Please. Yes please, sir," Kelley answered boyishly. A drink was exactly what his nerves required.

Harbinger's hired penguin arrived instantaneously, gracefully hoisting an intricately carved silver platter supporting two glasses of golden whisky on ice.

"To you, Kelley," said Harbinger, raising his glass to the ceiling. "And to the infinite possibilities that lie ahead. Cheers." Both men smiled as their drinks collided crisply in mid-air, sending a brooding and extended "ting" into the opulent air around them.

The aged amber whisky burned Kelley's lips upon impact and left an aftertaste behind; an aftertaste so strong and present he felt it tingling in the cracks of his weathered lips on the drive home.

Morning came and the sting was gone. Kelley felt abandoned and brushed his teeth with discernable apprehension.

february 27th, 2011

2011-02-27T03:24:00.000-08:00

biutiful

Both of us in shades

watch the sidewalk split apart.

Lovers and weepers,

virgins and sleepers

reject catastrophe;

a Coney Island of the mind

deteriorates, decays

and seeps from the ears

of cowards who

flee

for barren mountain-tops,

leaving dogs who

harness the power of a thousand men

to roam the streets,

challenged only by the wind.

february 2nd, 2011

2011-02-01T15:24:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure if this poem is finished or not, but I feel like posting something. The title also isn't my favorite, but again, this one is essentially "in the works."

caressing the supple ankles of the lonely

The King lay upon his deathbed, poisoning the delight brought forth from the recent victory on the battlefield. His remaining men had every reason to celebrate, but returned home in conflicted spirits. They were passionate defenders of a beleaguered land and protected it with electric class… but tonight their triumph was accompanied by the possible end of an era.

Each warrior was encouraged to visit the castle and speak brief words of encouragement. His majesty was expected to pass before sunrise.

Formulaic blessings and buckets of cheesy rhymes floated through Dominic’s cranium. He had never met the King but respected him beyond words, beyond vocal capabilities. He had a tendency of freezing up when nervous and was experiencing unknown, terrifying levels of uneasiness. Dominic predicted a complete disaster, which ironically forced him into shedding layer after layer of discomfort. Because of his horribly malnourished expectations he soon supported not a single worry. But of course, Dominic was too ignorant to realize he was wearing a costume crafted from such a placid touch. All he could focus on was the blinding glow of a distant and degrading neon fate. Or so he thought.

january 19th, 2011

2011-01-19T19:37:00.000-08:00

people are strange

Why did I agree to come? I don't even like the beach. I hate going in the water, you get all sandy when you come out and the water's freezing. I don't know why she likes the beach. Why did I agree to come? It's too hot. I'm going to burn, I know it. Is that weird old man looking at me? Is he walking over here? Oh god, oh god. Is he-- he is! Lord in heaven I know I have sinned...

"Hello young sailor," said the old man.

"Oh, hi."

"I came over here for a reason, because God told me to. I came over here to give you this here shark's tooth." Contrary to his delusional identification, he actually held in his hand a white plastic fork.

"Thank you?" I replied.

And away he walked.

january 18th, 2011

2011-01-18T15:55:00.000-08:00

$200 on the feisty one

My purpose here is unknown, that much is for sure. Today is my birthday. I'm 25 years-old and I'm at a cockfight which was spontaneously organized just two hours ago. Clothed in pajamas (be they outstandingly pricey and 100% satin) I stand out like a 25 year-old Caucasian male in the audience of an illegal cockfight in Guatemala at 3:15 in the morning. I no longer care about reputations or suggested standards or accomplishments made on Wall Street by fellow high-school graduates Mother always felt I should model my life after. I need not remind you of my whereabouts or chosen attire. Although... a reminder would solidify my confidence rested behind each; I am sitting in a crowd of screaming locals, wearing a pair of bedtime-tuck-me-in pajamas two sizes too small. And I don't give a fuck.

january 12th, 2011

2011-01-12T15:16:00.000-08:00

january 6th, 2011

2011-01-06T20:06:00.000-08:00

Here's a poem I wrote with Miss Erin Dillon.

plucking away

"Damn, is this really all I'm left with?" Agnes was staring at the remaining white hairs planted on top of her head. She panned down to study her well nourished, but wrinkly face in the mirror.

"Perhaps I'll try that new can opener Gladys gave me tonight." Agnes frequently caught herself involuntarily speaking aloud. Most of these geriatric blurts were bland observations or rhetorical questions she could not begin to answer. Her sanity teetered above a beautiful landscape; tilting left... then right... back left... all while maintaining a serene, steady smirk. The beast of solitude who once haunted her dreams oddly fled for the mountains when faced with the actual handshake. She believed it was God granting her a holy badge of courage. An explanation was never given but Agnes no longer feared the unpredictable sound of silence.

Years ago, probably six or seven, Agnes owned a beagle who escaped through a hole in the backyard fence. A search ensued but the dog was nowhere to be found. After nine days had passed the little boy who lived across the street admitted he had been hiding the dog under his bed. He maintained his innocent and naive aura with brilliance... until his mother heard a stifled bark seep from the crevice below the child's bedroom door. The gig was up.

The boy confessed wearing a face wet with tears. Agnes sighed with conflicting emotions and handed the leash to the boy too stunned initially react. She knew it was the only conclusion that rang pure truth, and she sought nothing more passionately.

barnes and noble rejection response

2011-01-05T23:31:00.000-08:00

Dear ______ _________,

I have chosen to respond to your rejection letter for one simple reason: I believe in my book, Jack Defeats Ron 100-64, far too much to roll over and gutlessly accept defeat from the bookstore I have grown to revere as King. You, Barnes and Noble, are Mecca for physical, tangible literature and my book is a superior achievement in just that— physical literature. I do not type that and grin snidely, quite the opposite in fact. Making large, bombastic claims about my book is supremely uncomfortable for me. I despise self-promotion and swallow in fear each time I solicit a bookstore or magazine (which I have been doing constantly). This being said, I believe my claim. I believe every damn word.

Poetry is dying. Poetry is being administered morphine intravenously every half hour on the dot. It is no longer cool, no longer respected and no longer given proper attention… all for good reason! “Poets” decide they want to be poets before one line is inked to page. It’s a title. A title that, in certain groups, catapults you into desired obscurity where women want to sleep with you because you’re outwardly emotional and men give you nods of approval because you put it out there mannn. Poetry doesn’t sell because current poetry is horseshit, not because it’s an unprofitable niche of art. Jack Defeats Ron 100-64 can sell because it has the moxie to lure a fan base and the honesty to intrigue a community of people who always wanted to be part of contemporary writing. I have full confidence my book has the power to resurge a brittle breed of minds. Give JDR the chance to become a national phenomenon.

Initially I planned on disrespectfully revealing my immediate (and sustaining) anger towards your seemingly template, paint-by-numbers rejection, but this passive aggressive sentence satisfies my quench. A chip on my shoulder will motivate me, but allowing you to see that chip is a mistake. I have shown you a slice of it in this paragraph, slice being the keyword. I will continue to nurse my chip and do so in order to achieve all I feel I deserve. And I know I deserve to be on bookshelves in Barnes and Noble stores across the United States.

We both know another rejection will be nothing but a scratch, so why not grant me access to the machine now? All I’m asking for is a chance. Thank you kindly. Long live the printed word.

Sincerely,

Cliff Weber

blech

2010-12-27T22:31:00.001-08:00

december 20th, 2010

2010-12-20T12:30:00.000-08:00

Here's the art layout for the hardcover version of "Jack Defeats Ron 100-64."

december 10th, 2010

2010-12-10T12:34:00.000-08:00

the mad scientist’s forbidden underground laboratory

A juggling symphony of artless rhythm ripped through stereo speakers mounted to cream cheese walls. With an orange paintbrush and a bottomless supply of semi-radioactive ink, the deranged surgeon attacked the innocuous canvas without refrain. The footstool creaking beneath his mangled toes was a speckled, beautiful mess. The floor beneath his footstool resembled the inside of a handkerchief after a magnificent sneeze. The room was a habitat for creation; a grotesquely exquisite reunion of forgotten colors.

book is out now

2010-11-10T12:22:00.000-08:00

At first I said Friday, but fuck Friday. "Jack Defeats Ron 100-64" is out now... cue the orchestra.

You can buy the book in paperback or hardcover here:

I hope you enjoy it, I really really do.

update on "Jack Defeats Ron 100-64"

2010-11-04T11:38:00.001-07:00

Just wanted to give an update on my upcoming second book. It will still go on sale this month and hopefully as early as sometime next week. There will be a paperback version, most likely $9.99, as well as a hardcover version which will be more expensive, probably $16.99. I cannot wait for it to be finished. I'm very excited about it and have no doubts you will be pleased, this one is quite an upgrade from "Matzo Ball Soup." Also, a reminder, I'm publishing it under my real name, Cliff Weber, so farewell Rupert Pupkin... for now.

october 23, 2010

2010-10-23T16:53:00.000-07:00

I only know (what I know)

there isn't anything we can't accomplish

huddled inside this wet cave

likes apples packaged in plastic

or the suffocating cigarette butt

choking for air at the bottom of the ashtray.

I only know what I know

and I'll never know

if that is enough.

who will unveil the answer?

portrait of a dog

a dog lies languidly

in a black leather chair.

he opens his eyes

when my shorts rub against the couch

and shout muffled cries

into smoke stained air.

the dogs shuts his eyelids

as I crouch back down,

hovering over words

that leak down an orange sunrise.

october 21, 2010

2010-10-21T19:10:00.000-07:00

new book for sale in november!

2010-10-14T22:32:00.000-07:00

The book will go on sale in November! I do everything I can to avoid exclamation points but neglecting one now would mask my enthusiasm. November November! I cannot say when exactly because minor tweaks are still being worked out but November it shall be. It will be priced no higher than $10 and I really hope you buy it if you're reading this. It contains beautiful artwork and photography and the first 50 copies come hand delivered by a newborn puppy/newborn kitten/Usain Bolt (whichever you prefer). Please tell your friends, family and enemies who may care because this means a lot to me. I write for no other reason than to write; it keeps me sane and it makes me feel alive and it's a medium of art I want to push. Without fresh voices we'll continue to be told the previous sentence requires a comma after sane instead of discussing how making it a run-on shows inspired apprehension. Literature is not dead and I hope to prove it. My second book, "Jack Defeats Ron 100-64," goes on sale in November. Stay tuned for more updates.

october 12th, 2010

2010-10-12T16:22:00.001-07:00

A cut-up written with Erin Dillon.

a start

He’s terribly petrified to laugh in public. Nothing about his private life possesses honest, homegrown confidence. Even when he drapes himself in polished pearls and heavy mascara his masculinity pokes through garishly. He hides behind himself with fearful pride.

Standing in line for the ladies room this evening results in provocative but ultimately degrading looks. Quickly he flees. His dress trails behind him as he elbows his way through the crowd of expressionless mannequins. “Why do I need their approval?” he questions angrily as he exits out the side door.

“Hey Jim, get a load of that tranny dragging it’s cock between it’s legs. Wah ha ha ha!” The anonymous drunk smirks before stumbling back to the bar. Your protagonist chokes back tears and waves down a taxi driver wearing a confused face.

"Where you go?" asks the scraggly cabbie in a demanding yet friendly tone.

"Home. Fountain and Curson."

"Okay, I take you home. Where you buy that dress? I like very much."

He hears the question but sits surprised for several moments. Finally a smile grows above his chin and he tells the driver exactly where it was bought. This pleases both of them.

fuck it

2010-10-07T01:21:00.000-07:00

october 7th, 2010

As much as this blog reminds me of how little anyone cares I'm back. So fuck you non-readers, I don't need you. It's too easy to abandon this outlet I once felt optimistic about. I need some sort of motivation to keep writing poetry and an empty blog is encouraging. So I'm doing this for me, as a reminder to get off my ass and type because it keeps me sane. Fuck writing though. Fuck it. This art gets such a twisted, pretentious and misunderstood reputation. We hand musicians and actors stacks of money wrapped in golden-plated ribbons instantaneously and without thought, then we encourage them to water their egos until they grow into unstoppable mutants only to grab a fresh bag of popcorn and applaud each disastrous decision so we can witness a fall from grace. Meanwhile we ignore literature... or to be polite, we overlook it. And the ones who work in the writing business continue to place it on a ridiculous pedestal far too high for you to reach. That's how I see it at least, as some exclusive club led by arrogant fucks who jerk off to the thought of denying membership. Here's some free advice young ones: start practicing how to be an asshole now and you'll be rich and lonely long before you dreamed!

Anyways, how about that for cynicism? Kids my age are trained complainers, don't you forget it. We can bitch and moan with the best of them. The trick is to complain with hopes of change and work towards one day being only slightly bitter.

To finally make a point, I have a new poem to post so here it is, I hope you enjoy. My next writing project is undetermined but keep your eyes peeled for my new poetry book "Jack Defeats Ron 100-64." It will go on sale in the very near future and I am very happy with it, I really am. I can only hope it shows. Well, here's some new writing. I will post new stuff when new stuff comes to fruition. Goodnight.

false predictions

I almost died this past weekend. I was almost run over by a temporary addict who swerved in my direction driving up an empty incline behind my apartment. The love of my life was only a couple steps ahead, surely in danger if the worst had occurred. It was as if Lady Death had penciled us in. Our names were scribbled down but not finalized in ink. Perhaps we were substitutes, fill-ins for potential mistakes. Whatever we were I now sit here smoking cigarette stubs by the window, stinking up the room and reassuring the sticky, pungent smell it has a home. I didn’t plan it this way, I didn’t plan any of this. I was always the first to finish my multiplication tests in elementary school. I was supposed to be something important… at least in the eyes of the superficial. I was supposed to be successful and innocent. I wasn’t supposed to be here smoking cigarette stubs by the window, drunk and confused on a Tuesday night. I wasn’t supposed to be jagged and introverted and constantly seeking solitude. What were you supposed to be?

for anyone who still checks this blog

2010-08-11T01:01:00.000-07:00

Basically, I'm talking to you Irem. The best supporter I've ever had, excluding my very first Dr. Wan. I write to say I have not given up. I believe literature is dead but is capable of being revived. I'm drunk and hard at work approaching all angles (all that I can tolerate approaching). I'll figure something out, I'll figure out a way to get my new book out there. I may be inebriated but I will wake up with a headache and nothing else. No regret. Fuck rejection. Fuck everyone who has dismissed hope of more culture-changing poetry. Literature is dead but will never cease to impact our lives. I'm not desperate, I'm just hanging on for dear life like the rest of them.

taking a break

2010-04-27T10:09:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-22T22:47:00.001-07:00

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

2010-04-14T00:21:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-13T00:38:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-07T01:16:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2010-04-04T00:43:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-01T18:31:00.000-07:00

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.

march 30th, 2010

2010-03-30T01:18:00.000-07:00

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.

new book coming [insert excitement]

2010-03-28T16:52:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-28T15:12:00.000-07:00

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.

march 23rd, 2010

2010-03-23T01:46:00.000-07:00

trapped

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.

march 19th, 2010

2010-03-19T00:31:00.000-07:00

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.

synchronized

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.

march 16th, 2010

2010-03-16T16:22:00.000-07:00

here's an older poem...

wonderful  

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.

march 3rd, 2010

2010-03-04T18:40:00.000-08:00

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.

march 2nd, 2010 pt. 2

2010-03-02T23:46:00.000-08:00

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

2010-03-02T02:11:00.000-08:00

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.

february 27th, 2010

2010-02-27T04:22:00.000-08:00

february 15th, 2010

2010-02-15T23:30:00.000-08:00

here's another cut-up I wrote with Erin Dillon...

a narrow escape

The last time I saw skin wrapped in the old flannel robe it was dull early light. Tonight she suggested some mental enrichment before bed. We were drinking doubles like inspired maniacs. I sliced open the last lime and stared at the robe belt dangling by her velvety feet. And I admit it, my downfall occurred suddenly. Initially I tried hiding my tears but one cannot hide such potency. Damp and disengaged, I moved the red piece on the checkerboard. Like a bounty hunter systematically slaughtering his prey I struck with eloquent quickness. The squeaking leather upholstery played a soft minor key. Her coarse cry still clings to my dusty flannel.

february 11th, 2010

2010-02-11T19:42:00.000-08:00

waiting for my sandwich

I was in a deli in Santa Monica waiting for my sandwich to be made. I grabbed a bag of chips off a shelf, walked back behind the counter and starting eating them. After a few bites a man glanced over at the bag, then at me, then back at the bag and finally said You should wait until you pay to eat those. I slowly turned my head in his direction and responded sarcastically Thanks for the tip and continued eating. Neither my tone of voice nor my belittling, furrowed face pleased him. You’re an asshole he said. I disagree I responded, and if you want my opinion I think you’re an annoying, nosey wanker. I had only used the word wanker maybe a dozen times in my life but it felt like the perfect insult. This was not the answer he was expecting and he shot me a cold, devilish stare insinuating that if this was not a crowded deli he’d punch me right in the nose. The tense moment lasted about 10 seconds until I was called over to pick up my sandwich.

Now-- I am not a violent man, in fact I have a big issue with the idea of violence in general, and I have never been in a legitimate fight with anyone, but there have been many times when I wish I had been provoked enough to throw a punch. I imagine it being a big thrill, and if justified (which is almost always not the case) it would send a rush through my body that may last for weeks. It’s a very thin line to cross because violence should never be the answer, but I also take myself very seriously and stand behind all my actions. Basically, I’m not going to allow another human to walk all over me (or someone I care deeply about) without consequence. All I can do is eagerly wait for the day I find myself in an altercation. I compare it to a nightmare; it’s something that leaves me terrified and vulnerable, but I cannot deny the exhilaration it instills. I often spring out of bed after a nightmare feeling more alive than I have in months.

get off my lawn

Many nights I find myself spouting negativity and claiming everyone is a waste of time as I lay on my bed, clutching a glass of wine, checking the clock every minute to see if it has begun ticking backwards yet. I feel more and more like a bitter old man every sunrise and the majority of me is perfectly okay with that. It would be a misunderstanding to think I hate people, I just think they: talk too much, listen far too little, hardly ever make the appropriate effort, cherish the little moments about 5% as much as they should, concern themselves with the “now” far more then I would recommend, listen to shitty, talentless, cookie-cutter musicians, talk way too much, say thank you and please far too little, show a lack of respect to those who deserve it (which is everyone until they prove unworthy of receiving it), show an inability to admit when they are wrong, don’t appreciate the written word or art in general, don’t sympathize enough with those less fortunate, drive flashy, fluorescent cars with license plates like IMASTAR or CASHMNY or GRTTITS and adjust their $400 sunglasses that cover half of their face and pop the collar on their $200 polo so everyone on the fucking street will stop dead in their tracks, pull their hands to their face and scream in orgasmic jealousy because toys and materials define status and command all the respect and attention when all it says to the thinkers is My cock is the size of a baby carrot and I feel insecure every minute of the day. The reasons never end and they always try to pull you under and drown you but the persistent ones who secrete quiet confidence will always have the last laugh, even if it’s only a chuckle.

february 7th, 2010 part 2

2010-02-08T00:12:00.000-08:00

I felt like writing this one out...

february 7th, 2010

2010-02-07T23:29:00.000-08:00

experience

The metaphor that life is one big roller coaster is such an overused and oversimplified bullshit cliché. The thought of a roller coaster provokes images of screaming, fanatic, brazenly joyous people incapable of closing their big, sloppy smiles because everything is so goddamn great. The exhilaration is captured on camera for everyone to see and at the end we pant like newly fed puppies, eyes shot open like frogs begging for another trip around. The problem with the metaphor is that every part of a roller coaster ride is fun, even the drops, especially the drops. Sure, it’s a wild, unexpected ride that some of us aren’t prepared for, but the whole experience is a blast. The part of the ride that resonates most in the metaphor is the initial climb upwards; the grueling feeling of torturous anticipation. That is life.

Or life is one long, brutal road trip. It has handfuls of absolutely perfect moments, but in the end, when you arrive at your destination sleep depraved and hungry, everything is kind of underwhelming. You shift the car into park, let down your shoulders, and if you’re lucky you turn to the right and look your lover in the eyes and smile because she’s scared too. But at least you’re scared together.

And along this strenuous road trip we all encounter traffic cones placed in strategically annoying places; these represent most of the people that enter and exit our lives. At first their fluorescent orange exterior offers comfort and companionship as you hunch over the wheel, slapping yourself in order to stay awake, searching for anything unique among the blackness. Then sadly the cones start to become a nuisance, an attempt to slow you down when you feel a second wind coming and you’re determined as all hell to keep going. Every now and then a cone will point you in the right direction. Every now and then you’ll doze off and strike one of these cones-- some of them will clutch to the bottom of your car and hang on for dear life, killing your pace and reminding you how few mistakes each of us is given. Others will collapse underneath the frame and cling to nothing, falling off harmlessly. You must respect every cone you pass but stay focused. The path to satisfaction is a fucking minefield.

jazz

the rejections keep coming

from editors who always say they want

"innovative,

contemporary,

new and exciting poetry."

the rejections keep coming

from editors who don't answer my angry emails

asking why they publish such nonsense,

such contrived bullshit,

such vague poetry

from poets who teach literature

and have PhDs.

the rejections keep coming

and I keep drinking,

wondering when poetry will finally die

because right now it's on a morphine drip

begging to be put down.

february 5th, 2010

2010-02-05T14:02:00.000-08:00

here's an older poem from Matzo Ball Soup...

the junkie

The junkie is on his junk and his spotted beagle looks curiously into the soul of a nearby Hot Pocket. All I want is my change, but his hands are shaking and I am fairly sure the beagle does not know how to count. So I stand patiently, chewing on the fact that our country now has its first black president-elect. It's a wonderful thing-- and there were people marching in the street yelling What do we want?! Change! When do we want it?! Now! I had to separate myself near Santa Monica and San Vicente to get a beer, my legs were tired and I was thirsty-- but where do we go from here? Your song still needs a chorus and I am still waiting for my change, the junkie is trembling and I am losing my patience. Stories of gangrene swirl through my mind. How long will this take? I begin to panic, rubbing my hands together until tiny beads of skin litter the polka-dot floor. Uhhhhh… ummmmm… two twenty… two twenty-seven?... ummmmm… two… twenty-EIGHT… two twenty-eight?... uhhhhh…. This could last days, I already feel my feet outgrowing my shoes. The walls begin to crawl towards me like a squirrel scaling a fence. I have to keep my cool, I must maintain! Two nineteen sir, here you are. Sorry for the… he trails off. I snatch the money from his crusty hand and bolt to my white convertible. Giddy up my stallion, ya! Yaaaa!

january 21st, 2010

2010-01-21T19:40:00.000-08:00

writhing pupils

distinguished gentlemen

gather late at night

in crawl spaces

and fox holes

writing love poems

to the Julies

and Katys

and Wendys

they dance around the page

sword in hand

attempting to tame the ink

like a snake charmer

wooing his slithering enemy

a few are able to control the boa

and the rest are bitten

january 20th, 2010

2010-01-20T23:49:00.000-08:00

Here's another poem I wrote using the words of a Philadelphia friend, Mr. Mollot. Thank you bearded friend.