Word Meds

For the time being, I'm going to start posting on my new tumblr site instead of this outdated wordpress. It's a literary-based blog, so in addition to new writing and announcement, I'll be posting all things that inspire me and relate to writing. I hope you check it out and enjoy it.

http://wordmeds.tumblr.com/

march 6th, 2013

This may be the first proper short story I've ever written, and it's a true one. Is that something you can fucking handle? Is it? The characters are based on my own mom and dad back in the 70s or 80s, before I even existed. Hopefully you laugh and enjoy it. I SAID LAUGH, GOD DAMMIT.

And just a quick side note—ignore the orange highlighted words that keep coming up on this damn site. I don't know why they provide links, nor do I care enough to find out. 



Family’s Family







My wife and I were newlyweds, living in a two bedroom apartment in Marina Del Rey. We didn’t need the extra room, but the space was nice and we could afford it. I was working as a financial advisor for a firm in Century City, and Pam was a bank teller in Santa Monica. We didn’t have kids or a dog or a cat or even a hamster—it was just the two of us. The weekdays were long and stressful, but come Friday night we kicked off our shoes and lived it up. Nice dinners. Good red wine. The kind of contentment that only two young, married lovers can have. Everything was pleasant. Until the phone rang one Tuesday night while we were watching TV. I told her not to answer it. She didn’t listen.
    “Hello?”
    “Hi, Pammy.”
    “Mom?”
    “Yes, it’s your Mother. You sound surprised.”
    “No–well, yes. It’s just a little late, especially for you. Everything alright?”
    (Pam’s Mother and Father live in the small town of Bridgewater, Massachusetts. At the age of 18, she hopped on a Greyhound bus with her best friend and headed to Los Angeles. Starry-eyed and full of teenage hope. Her friend left just six months later, but she stayed. Waiting tables paid the bills, and it wasn’t long until she met me. The rest is history.)
    “Everything’s fine, Pammy. Everything’s fine. But...”
    “But what?”
    “Well, you remember your cousin Harlan.”
    “Yeah, I remember Harlan.”
    “Well, he was living in Texas, as you know.”
    “Yeah.”
    “And was thinking about moving to Southern California.”
    “Okay.”
    “And I kind of told him...”
    “Mom—what did you tell him?”
    “That he could stay with you until he found a job.”
    “Why would you tell him that?”
    “Oh, Pammy. Come on, he’s family. Family’s family—you know that.”
    “Yeah, yeah. You could’ve asked first at least.”
    “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”
    “I don’t know, Mom. I mean—we have an extra room, but I have to talk to Richard. You really should’ve asked first. Is he already on his way?”
    “Yes, he’s driving.”
    “Great. I don’t know, Mom.”
    “What’s the problem, Pammy?”
    “Well, I always remember Harlan being kind of...”
    “Kind of what?”
    “Strange.”
    “Oh, come on. He’s a good kid. You two always got along.”
    “I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration. I only met him a few times.”
    “Well, he’s fine. He’s just trying to start fresh.”
    “Sounds like he’s running from something.”
    “Oh, that’s just ridiculous. He’s a good kid.”
    “Mom, he’s only a year younger than me. He’s not a kid.”
    “Then he’s a good man. Just help him out, will ya? I’m sure he’ll be out in a week.”
    “He better be.”
    “Oh, Pammy.”
    “Well—I still have to talk to Richard. Okay?”
    “That’s fine. How is your lovely husband?”
    “He’s good. Working hard.”
    “WHO IS IT, HONEY?”
    “MY MOTHER. And you don’t need to shout.”
    “IT’S THE TV, I CAN’T HEAR YOU.”
    “Then try getting up and walking over here.”
    “Is that him I hear?”
    “Yes, Mom. He’s in the living room shouting over the TV.”
    “What are you two watching?”
    “Nothing, Mom. Look—I gotta run, okay? I really wish you had asked first.”
    “I didn’t think it would be a big deal. And you’re the only family who lives out there. We’re all stuck back here, in the snow and the rain and the cold and—”
    “I get it, Mom. Fine. How can I reach him?”
    “Who?”
    “Harlan!”
    “Honey, you don’t have to shout.”
    “WHO’S HARLAN?”
    “NO ONE. SHUT UP, HONEY. Ugh, I have to go, Mom. So how can I call him?”
    “I gave him your home number. He said he would call when he gets to California.”
    “And then what? Show up on my doorstep?”
    “I don’t know, Pammy. He’s a good kid.”
    “He’s not a—forget it. I’ll talk to Richard. Thanks, Mom. Love you.”
    “I love you too, honey.”
    “Say hi to Dad for me.”
    “PAMMY SAYS HI, PHILBERT!”
    “WHO?”
    “Mom—jeez. You didn’t have to say it that second.”
    “Sorry.”
    “Bye, Mom.”
    “Bye, honey. I love you.”
    “Love you too.”
    And that was that. She asked me after hanging up and I begrudgingly said yes. What was I supposed to say? The man who tells his wife no in that situation is in for a short marriage.


So, Thursday night rolled around and we got another phone call. It was Harlan. He said he was a few hundred miles out and would arrive sometime that night. I was less than thrilled.
    “Babe, it’s already 8:00. He’s gonna knock on our door at, what, 1:00? I have to be up at 6:30.”
    “I know. I didn’t know what to say.”
    “What’s this guy’s deal, anyway? When’s the last time you saw him?”
    “I don’t know. A year or two before I left, I guess.”
    “That’s like... more than ten years. He could be anybody now.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “I don’t know. I’m just a little frustrated with this whole situation. Apparently your Mom thinks we run a Motel 6.”
    “Richard—he’s family.”
    “I know. Sorry.”
    “It’s fine. I’m not too happy about this whole situation either. I just want him in and out. One week, alright?”
    “One week.”
    “And then he’s out.”
    “You gonna give him the boot?”
    “Right in the ass.”
    “That’s the woman I married. Love you.”
    “Love you.”


Five hours and 27 minutes later, three pounding knocks on the door awoke us from our slumber.
    “Can you get it?”
    “Yeah. You’re not getting up?”
    “Honey, I need to sleep.”
    “What if he’s a murderer?”
    “Little late for that, don’t you think? He’s your cousin, just answer the door.”
    KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
    “Fucking hell, can’t he knock a little quieter? It’s... 1:30 in the morning.”
    “Go back to sleep, Richard.”
    “Aye aye.”
    And I did.
    When I left for work the next morning, the door to second bedroom was closed and my wife was still alive, so I figured everything went alright.
    The three of us ate dinner together that night and other than Harlan’s quiet, introverted nature, he seemed alright. I guess. I set my expectations were pretty low, though. After we all finished, he excused himself to go read in what was now his bedroom. I told him he was more than welcome to join us and a few friends at a nearby bar, but he declined. I wasn’t too broken up about it. When we got home later that night, his door was closed and the light was off.


The next day we all walked to the beach. Pam did her best to catch up on old times, but Harlan’s answers were less than descriptive. I asked him what kind of job he was looking for and he said, “I don’t really know yet.” “Okay,” I replied. I then asked him why he decided to come to California, and he said, “It looked nice in the pictures.” I believe my response was the same.
    After finding a spot, we put down our towels and took off our shirts. Harlan had borrowed a pair of my swim trunks which I no longer wanted back after seeing his chest. Other than his gigantic nipples, a thick rug of hair covered just about the entire visible area. It was impressively off-putting. I’ve never been much of a beach person, so I just laid on my towel and pulled a magazine out of the bag we brought. Pam and Harlan, on the other hand, wasted no time and headed right for the water. Pam returned alone about 20 minutes later.
    “How was it out there?” I asked.
    “Really nice. Cold, but nice.”
    “How far’d you go?”
    “Eh, not too far. Just past those first waves.”
    “Farther than I’ve ever been.”
    “That’s not saying much. Harlan just kept going, though.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah. As soon as the water reached his waist, he dove in and just kept swimming. I lost sight of him pretty quickly.”
    “Guy’s a little weird.”
    “I know. Thanks again, honey.”
    “Mhmm. Can you see him now?”
    “No.”
    “Yeah, neither can I. I wonder where he is.”
    An hour went by and he was still gone. Then another. And another.
    “Where the fuck is this wacko?”
    “I don’t know, honey. I’m really worried.”
    “I am too. Should we call a lifeguard or something?”
    “I think so.”
    “I’m guessing you want me to take care of that?”
    “Could ya?”
    “Sure.”
    I walked for what seemed like half a mile until I spotted one. I told him the story and we jogged back in the direction we were sitting. But once we were a hundred yards away or so, I could see Harlan drying off next to Pam. I told the bronze teenager that everything was fine, so he headed back.
    “Where the hell were you, Harlan?” I asked as I got closer.
    “Richard—please.”
    “I was swimming.”
    “For three hours?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Doesn’t that seem like a long time, Harlan?”
    “Not really.”
    “Okay.”
    So we gathered up our stuff and walked home.


Eight days later and he was still around. I told Pam that he needed to go, that we only agreed on one week. She bargained me up to two weeks, giving him four days left. The man was an adult, and as much I wanted to help, he was cramping my style. And frankly, he wasn’t my responsibility. I feel bad for making a man sleep in his car, but it was his own damn fault. For all I know, he hadn’t been to a single job interview. And he kept disappearing at odd times in the night, returning whenever he felt like it. This was our first new place since being married. It was our sanctuary, not a hostel. I’d had enough.


Two days later, Pam called me sobbing in the middle of the afternoon, so I got in my car and rushed home. A group of masked men had stormed into the bank she worked at and held the place up. One of them pointed a gun at her head as she emptied the register. I was horrified to hear this and consoled her on the couch, holding in her my lap like a frightened kitten. She hadn’t been injured, nor had anyone else, but she couldn’t get over the fact that one of the men was wearing a white pair of pants—the same kind she had seen Harlan in earlier that week. After an hour or so, she stopped crying and calmed down, then her free-loading cousin walked through the door. He was wearing a regular pair of blue jeans. Pam’s face was still red with fear.
    “What happened?” Harlan asked.
    Pam re-told the story, maintaining her calm this time. After she finished, Harlan put his hands on his hips and curled his mouth.
    “Did he look like me?”
    We gave him the boot right there and then and never saw him again.

february 22nd, 2013

disorder


men have searched long and hard
for the origins of thought—
pushing deep into the moonless night
with sharpened fingernails
and elusive wrinkles
that evaporate into sightless deserts
of decaying knuckle.

bend in
bend out
and witness disappearance
in its most elegant form.

you exist
just as the unknown does.

press board press

Three poems of mine were published on Press Board Press yesterday, so check them out and leave a comment if you feel so inclined. I think it's about damn time "how to assassinate the void" got accepted, so I'm excited about this. Below is the link. Long live the printed word.

http://pressboardpress.com/2013/01/16/three-poems-by-cliff-weber/

new chapbook for sale

Hot off the press, a newly organized collection of flash fiction entitled "recycled fiction for the impatient: a self-explanatory chapbook." So there you have it, it's fairly self-explanatory. Check it out, buy a dozen, tell your friends. Huzzah.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/cliff-weber/recycled-fiction-for-the-impatient-a-self-explanatory-chapbook/paperback/product-20571166.html

november 11th, 2012

october 3rd, 2012

Here a couple new poems. Enjoy.


been a while


I haven’t written poetry in a while
or sat down with a pen and a fresh bottle of whiskey
and I miss it.
I miss the outpour of anger and frustration.
I miss the hangover the next morning
that accompanies the reread,
because when the reread is good,
when the poetry feels right,
the hangover sprouts a pair of legs
and struts out my front door,
into the Los Angeles heat.
I miss the bad rereads too,
when the poetry feels wrong,
because it provides that necessary push,
that essential first step toward greatness.
I miss defeating the bleakness of three a.m..
I miss the ambient music that soothed my drunk bones.
I miss the fear I felt reading better work than mine,
knowing it would take a million more whiskey nights
to be mentioned in the same conversation.
I miss pacing around the kitchen,
pulling my hair out,
readjusting my posture
and staring out the window in hopes of an answer
or the one sentence that could change everything.

I haven’t written poetry in a while
and I don’t have a fresh bottle of whiskey by my side,
but this poem feels right
and I no longer fear better work than mine,
nor do I fear happiness,
for it’s merely an excuse the weak use when searching for a scapegoat. 





“I have a mentor”


“I have a mentor”
she says
“who tells me to write ten pages everyday
just get it out
ten pages everyday
it’s gonna be shit
oh it’s gonna be real bad
but if you write ten pages a day
for ten days
you’ll have 100 pages
and a script.”
“so it’s like diarrhea
of the pen”
I say.
“exactly”
she says.
glad we’re on the same page.

I tried to walk to a nearby diner
to work out the kinks
with a green legal pad
a black pilot g-2 07 pen
and nabokov’s lolita.
my privacy was taken from me
by a friend,
a man I like,
and a girl who’s writing ten pages everyday
for ten days
until a bad script drops from her bowels
like a corn infested log from my hairy asshole.

all I wanted to do was drink alone in peace
with nabokov
a green legal pad
a black pilot g-2 07 pen
and my concerns.

the novel is getting to me.
it’s tearing me apart.
but I think i like it.

assassinate the void

Look for these pasted in your neighborhood

september 20th, 2012

From the novel:

          Mitchell walks into the light of day, wearing his laughably out-of-style shorts, a faded green collared shirt he was given through work and a pair of white tennis shoes (sporting a double-knot tied upon purchase). He holds ground for a moment, looking left, then right. An unusually curious disposition sprouts above his chin as he appears to be soaking in the idea of absolute freedom. This looks invades many minds of diverse backgrounds and situations, but tends to fade like the last rising smoke from an extinguished fire. True freedom is a concept understood only by the confident and willing; those who view challenges as means of self-improvement, those who do all they can to defeat mortality by leaving an indentation so deep, future thinkers place their hands on their hips and study with awe and admiration. Mitchell may be able to take a sip of such potion, but to think he can guzzle the whole bottle is naïve, left only to the childish over-optimists—who suffer from the very same problem. It’s not simply about having a tough skin, for you can have the skin of an elephant and remain void of potential. The toughest skin protects the man willing to admit death scares him, only to ask, “What can I do to shrink that fear into a ball so tiny I can drop it in my pocket and maintain control?” No personal accomplishment worthy of pursuit is going to be easy, nor should it. You must find out why you’re afraid and alleviate the answer. Sure—this drive lies within all you humans, Mitchell included, but it suffocates the meek to the point of excommunication—a thought expelled, a desire determined ludicrous. I see this unusually curious disposition sprouting below his scalp and smirk with arrogance. Soak it up all you want, Mitch, for the fear that paralyzes you cannot be squeezed into even the largest pocket you own.

august 8th, 2012

july 31st, 2012

I just found out that three of my pieces will be published in A Few Lines Magazine in September. The poems maybe her body followed and los feliz were accepted, along with the short story tomorrow. Feel free to check out the publication here:

http://www.afewlinesmagazine.com/

It's been a slow year, so I'm very happy about this and can't wait to check out the rest of the issue. I'll update you with more info when all's finished. Thanks for reading.

"even if it takes all night"

In reference to my last post, you can now purchase my chapbook "even if it takes all night" here:

http://www.lulu.com/shop/cliff-weber/even-if-it-takes-all-night-a-poetry-chapbook/paperback/product-20182764.html

If you live in Los Angeles, you can also buy it at Skylight Books on Vermont Ave. in Los Feliz. Great book store, regardless of your intention. I highly recommend you check it out. I also highly recommend you buy this chapbook, but we all know the doubtful nature of that wish. Boy do I wish I wasn't being sarcastic.

Long live poetry. Be well.

coming soon...

writing update

I'm currently writing a novel based on a story I developed with the lovely Erin Dillon. It has a long way to go, but I figured an update would do some good. I'll continue posting poetry and prose, but there's no real intention to publish another book until this novel is done. Perhaps I'll post a chapter from time to time. We'll see.

Also, I wrote an article on Henry Miller for a great publication called Beatdom, but I don't believe I ever mentioned it on this blog. You can check it out here:
http://www.beatdom.com/?p=1342 


Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading.

april 4th, 2012

a divide


The older I get the more I think about the impending divide between those actively involved in my life. At a certain point we’re all forced to choose a side and no longer is anyone else responsible for your decision. The beast knocks with polished, unbiased knuckles. How will you respond?

Your first option is a reality in which Art dominates thought because creation is an idea as eternal as God. This is a reality in which the infinite coincides with human potential. The expected, tested, tried and true notion of three is tossed aside, for no barrier is breached without understanding and justified change. How can I take what inspires me to new levels? How can I pay homage to the deserved souls while simultaneously chiseling my own immortality? This is a reality in which truth and beauty guide the mind through murky swamps in search of the orchid-- knowing damn well the quest may end in defeat thick enough to see; a thin veil in perspective, but one capable of temporarily blinding the hungry doubter. The illusionary reality of Art contains only those who openly accept fear because no man is without it, it’s simply a matter of how tall you choose to stand before it.

Your second option is a reality in which art is no longer capitalized because it is no longer necessary. Like beaten hand-me-downs too small for the unplanned younger child, art has been tossed on the freeway shoulder to rot like flavorless gum below the circling, salivating vultures. This is a reality void of deeper meaning, leaning upon the splintered crutches of brainwashed business delusion. Ambition has been replaced with subservience and with enough hours punched on the clock, by golly, you could apply for the job upstairs-- you know the one I’m talking about, the one that comes with the mahogany desk and the power-trip and the vacant assistant begging to grant your every wish! It’s a much sought after position so I recommend you keep on plugging away with that same sense of mindless devotion. You musn’t worry about art anymore child, for it proved to be an expendable commodity. Like an unsightly, pesky wart we had it removed.

When the ground begins to split underneath your feet, which side will you feel compelled to join?

march 14th, 2012

the return


Loneliness rests in the nook of Eve’s arm.
It is the crease opposing our elbow,
the indentation which evaporates
before our covered identifiers.
Pupils are cloaked
and uncloaked for amusement’s sake,
like gigantic
lustrous
holy movie screens;
palettes of projected immortality.
The red velvet curtain ruffles up,
momentarily faking existence
before unfurling
with smooth
graceful
class.

Loneliness is a beauty mark I had removed,
a cyst I nurtured night in and night out.

But early this morning,
beneath the unchanged darkness of dawn,
the two of us reunited.
The unremembered face,
the miserable mug,
the beast I so proudly defeated
cried into clasped hands beside me.
His tears watered the cheap, colorless upholstery
and I embraced him with every muscle in my body.
I dug the ends of my fingers into his tender back
and clutched his hollow spine.
For the first time in years
he appeared beautiful.

Forgotten loneliness is a lovely thing
when you’re driving home alone,
surrounded by the unchanged darkness of dawn.

february 28th, 2012

how to assassinate the void


You must start with Imagination;
the blessed,
caged
and chosen beast
handpicked for gruesome battles
such as this.

For the void is a disease
that feasts on the public,
tricking the cerebrum
into believing that money and monotony
breed satisfaction;
happiness,
contentment,
a meaningfully adequate existence.

The sad part is
the disease has claimed mountains of victims.
Some of them are dead,
unable to repeat and repent,
and some of them are alive,
walking past you on the sidewalk,
serving you lunch
or cutting your hair.
They are merely shells of human potential;
hollowed out bodies
programmed to respond with simple answers:
“Yes sir, right away, sir.”
“No sir, my fault, sir.”

The diseased are no different than crudely built robots.
They accomplish their tasks at work
with moderate
to above moderate success.
They acknowledge their co-workers
with polite farewell gestures
and drive home in a generally safe manner.
Red lights mean stop,
green lights mean go
and yellow lights should be read as slow down.
God forbid you strike another vehicle
and injure a healthy,
capable cog.
The government does not appreciate such accidents.
In fact,
the government does not appreciate much of anything.
The government is doing just fine,
so move along.
Nothing to see here.
Your work is appreciated
and so are you.
Move along, champ.
Nothing to see here.

The next hurdle involves Passion.
A dash is fine,
but I recommend a handful.
Passion is a difficult ingredient to apprehend,
so do not succumb to its elusiveness.
Do not surrender if the search prolongs;
Passion is a pure
and honest commodity
worthy of its journey.
Many weak legs have collapsed
before reaching the pillar it rests upon.
Many courageous men have lowered their sword
in valiant defeat.
Passion will evade your efforts
until desperate necessity kicks in;
pumping ferociously
like the legs of the prey
narrowly outrunning the fresh feet
of the hungry hunter.

Problem is--
the hunted outnumber the hunters,
but the scaly beast of oppression
strangles the advantage,
sucking the air out
slowly
slowly
slowly
until the purple, lifeless face
collapses in defeat.

There is no formula
no matter what I’ve said,
no matter what you’ve heard,
so do whatever it takes
for however long
to assassinate the void
and emerge an independent
fireball of a progressive thought.

january 16th, 2012

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

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

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.