august 17th, 2009

It's a couple months away, but I have a spot for a couple hours at the West Hollywood Book Fair on October 4th.  I'll be selling copies of my book for $10 and I'll be handing out postcards and bookmarks and what not.  I have never been so I have no expectations or promises.  You can get more information here: http://www.westhollywoodbookfair.org/

Here are two new cut-ups written by the lovely Erin Dillon and myself, as well as a new poem. We wrote these late into the night and I believe we used Henry Miller, Franz Kafka, Bret Easton Ellis, John Fante, Jorge Luis Borges, Victor Pelevin, Charles Bukowski, and Lawrence Ferlinghetti.  I apologize to any other dead author I failed to mention.

down the hall

You can remember it like a horse on fire.  A flight of narrow wooden stairs painted delicate crayon strokes on the eastern wall of the town synagogue.  Doctors of Dissonance dropped from the ceiling and through the woolen carpet onto dead crabs’ claws.  Starfish baby cries smell the fruit and flatter the drunken sailors holding vigil.  Same-sized brown plastic bottles make a shadow in a handful of hard, dense soil; then a nostril.  He conducted with a woven baton, emptying the audience’s stomachs and eclipsing their imagination.  Turtles hardly crawled over the horizon lurking with slimy piccolos when googly horns disintegrated the chariot.  Falcon eyes hounded my merryoldsoul deep into the native night.  Alkaline batteries include our address for the future.

sufficient gruff

The hotel left a greasy taste of milk in my beaten shoulders.  Circular ruins prompt me to fill the mother of truth with a merry bonfire.  His habitually placid expression lingered around the water cooler, taunting delicate ankles and mingling with pimply telegraph boys.  Hermit was rummaging, trembling through his apologies that brought the first smells of summer out of a sledgehammer delirium.  Tenacious wallpaper peacocks waltz on unpleasant evenings such as this.  Everything previous to this was mutilated in a field at the Cinerama Dome, encasing a bolt of clarity into a pigeon.  At one point Jayne muttered Should we die in a quake, donate my bangs to the Siamese foreigners in apartment 3F.  A tremendous pale light paced like a subway imitating marble.  And although I cannot be positive, checkerboard insects spring from six-button double-breasted ulcers.

the midnight amnesiac

You’re a reasonable man so get off my case, get off my case before I unleash a side you will regret coaxing into existence.  I have hid patiently for decades beneath the crust, laughing occasionally for air.  I have driven my car into the dumpster and the dumpster fought back, slinging broken Cuisinarts and ratty bookshelves at my windshield.  Society is in its decline and you know it.  You can only use your bowling coupons for so long.  You’ll come crawling back any day now, knocking on my door in the dead of night gripping a bottle of turpentine and sobbing those gasoline tears of yours.  The bug powder took you by the collar and I can’t watch you tumble down the knoll once more, I just can’t do it.  We’re all packt like sardines in a crushd tin box and I sit here once again in front of the typewriter dropping the needle and sipping away with droopy eyelids and sweaty armpits.  I can’t complain though, I have fourteen cigarettes left and there are flaming lips awaiting my presence next sunset.  

I awoke to a man lighting a pair of underwear on fire in my backyard and all I could do was blink heavily and close the curtains with sluggish aggravation.