A Small apartment with one window
where trains can whistle or birds could
100 years ago
Those cheep cheapers are long gone
and there has been a new boos in town
since before I was born
new york is wet asphalt
grates in the sidewalk
construction and trashbins
new york is the light at
the end of a k-hole tunnel
and the top of every suicide
I would settle down there with
my books, my littlelaptop, a coffee table
chairs, orchids, paint, crown molding
I would stroll through streets like
no one was there; I would never forget what
hot hay smells of on a hot summer noon-light day
high heaven have mercy on me,
I'm still here with my dreams at bay
and my vision of New York is from 1993
The Plaza, the toy store, the taxis in
the snow, the ice-rink, the frozen boardwalk
the millions of minutes with no place to go
my mission now is to try an live a simple
little lie; to try and find my New York life
on the other side of a 3 day drive
I would be the best version of me. Sweetly manner.
Solid sleeper. Kind and honest. Not half awake
on drugs, slugging out fruitless desires as past
Oh remember when Dad was young and thought he might
live in New York in his imagination? Well,
that's where this story starts.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Generic for Ambien
my goodness, I keep making mistakes and typing letters that just don't fit, that don't sit right on the page. They squirm like children, and I scream out Act your Age. And now, I can bring myself to thinkwithout moving my hear slightly to the left. I can't even look the computer straight in the eyes. Too white, Too bright. Like a chalkboard on a movie steamship. I am that ship, and these feels are my sound stage. The drugs have brougt on the lights and the swaying sensation; quite right quite right. pause.
now my back feels like a skyscraper; thrusted down into the river pushing the dancing, the dancers in my mind, like the rocking of the sea storm is almost over. That the shaking from the open windows, letting all the cold air in might change our composition. Instead, our master, our maker, is 3 sheets to the wind on the sea of "lackofsleep" and all he wants to do is go home to his wife and dog and sleep soundly by their side. Instead, he is held captive by pregnant daily ideas that pop, and pop, and pop, like an earthquake, but only at night.
Now I am on a see-saw, and my huntched flesh is creeping and folding over each solumn keystroke, each pathetic, drug-induced ounce of dreck. Why would any of us that this sludge, this shit, this shadwell, and try it for another go. The only mildly redeminaing factor in this whole exercise is that I'm writing this; these terrible phrases whilst on DRUGS. It's that our through-put? The selling point? "He worst this on sleeping pills. on Heavy , call the doctor and have him send em in, fucking sleeping pill.
What I can say is that following. I am in my underwear. I am rocking back and forth. I love and hate the off-white light shinning on me from below. If nature is embodies in the light of the sun, Hell must be covered with phosphorescent tubing that flickers. Then the real question is: How did the Devil get his hell light up here? Because the light of the night, the light that is made by man and dinosaur bones millions of year ago, it creates the shadow where all evil can reside. The is a dim and flicker light in hell. And we have many duplicates here on earth.
Now, I want to make something crystal clear; I am writing for God. I'm writing to find a way to salvation. I'm struggling to find what kind of language you want me to use. I am half-gone to evil, but I'm still awake, here, strugglin. Waiting for the wicked to come-undone. Can't we just weight it out and the wicked will win? Can we just all be wicked? Aren't we that way anywaY?
Once, an older woman, about 58, leaned over to me while I was working my day shift at the bowling alley. She leaned over the top of my deak, above the shoes and the shoesclean can, and she had been leanin that whole time because she wanted me to take a hard and good look at her Tattoo. A Tattoo on her tittie. Her big left purple titty. (the keyboard has changed shape, and now it's harder to type. It's now round like a bowling ball, or like tits. I'll keep at 'em) It was a tattoo of "Where's Waldo" and in that moment, I got it. I understood the book. I understood the meta-textual game of waldo and his stuff. I understood how to fool billions out of trillions all you have to do is keep them preoccupied. As this older tatted titted troll lent her unique talents to my visage, I realized that from underneath, I was getting robbed. Reilly and his tit-tatted wife had thrown on over on me. BUt what they didn't know what the register hand less than 7 dollars in it, as it was the middle of the day. I would pay $6.74 every day to get a view of those tatted twos.
Now what's done is done. I've got drugs in my system that are trying hard to knock me out. So people play games with sleeping pills; this is my first. I think the game is, can you type until you pass out. (Bonus points for being able to get to bed, shut down your computer and not vomit on anything you like. Note: Pink Slippers are extra points if covered in chunder-barf.) Yes, the effects seem only to be physical, as I can turn and move my neck in peculiar ways and with much greater ease than previously remembered. My eyes are seeming to cross at times and when I rub my head all of my sense start mixing and clustering and custard and jam. When sense was once external, has now become internal. When I rub my head, I can feel the inside of my skull with my fingernails. Feels like the hull of a ship, or the hollowed out innards of a pumpkin. Like the smooth of a conch shell once discovered on the sand. Or at least the 3x5 sand display box in this New Zealand Gift shop. "We can wrap it up for you," She says kindly as I finger the inside of my smoothed down skull and flick out pieces, flecks, debris or my brains onto the page.
Fuck you for getting on my case about how I'm writing this. I really don't know where it's gonna go or when it will get not there. I've stopped. The drugs are starting to beat me. And I will not go out in a bang, but in a limpy misspelt whimper.
It seems that moment might be coming nearer still. I just sneezed 2x and sneezing on drugs is like sneezing as a acrobat. Your head moves longer and further and slower, more majestically like molasses readjusting it's course.
I'm still here, now, 26, not sleeping, at my dinning table, on some prescription sleep meds that have made me blather up a nasty and frothy concoction.
I wrote so much more than this that got deleted. I wrote another 20 minutes about what it would be like to be single in new york. It's really all I want. less than I want you.
see now I'm sober, so burnt that I'm going up to bed. Watch your head on the way out.
fuck
now my back feels like a skyscraper; thrusted down into the river pushing the dancing, the dancers in my mind, like the rocking of the sea storm is almost over. That the shaking from the open windows, letting all the cold air in might change our composition. Instead, our master, our maker, is 3 sheets to the wind on the sea of "lackofsleep" and all he wants to do is go home to his wife and dog and sleep soundly by their side. Instead, he is held captive by pregnant daily ideas that pop, and pop, and pop, like an earthquake, but only at night.
Now I am on a see-saw, and my huntched flesh is creeping and folding over each solumn keystroke, each pathetic, drug-induced ounce of dreck. Why would any of us that this sludge, this shit, this shadwell, and try it for another go. The only mildly redeminaing factor in this whole exercise is that I'm writing this; these terrible phrases whilst on DRUGS. It's that our through-put? The selling point? "He worst this on sleeping pills. on Heavy , call the doctor and have him send em in, fucking sleeping pill.
What I can say is that following. I am in my underwear. I am rocking back and forth. I love and hate the off-white light shinning on me from below. If nature is embodies in the light of the sun, Hell must be covered with phosphorescent tubing that flickers. Then the real question is: How did the Devil get his hell light up here? Because the light of the night, the light that is made by man and dinosaur bones millions of year ago, it creates the shadow where all evil can reside. The is a dim and flicker light in hell. And we have many duplicates here on earth.
Now, I want to make something crystal clear; I am writing for God. I'm writing to find a way to salvation. I'm struggling to find what kind of language you want me to use. I am half-gone to evil, but I'm still awake, here, strugglin. Waiting for the wicked to come-undone. Can't we just weight it out and the wicked will win? Can we just all be wicked? Aren't we that way anywaY?
Once, an older woman, about 58, leaned over to me while I was working my day shift at the bowling alley. She leaned over the top of my deak, above the shoes and the shoesclean can, and she had been leanin that whole time because she wanted me to take a hard and good look at her Tattoo. A Tattoo on her tittie. Her big left purple titty. (the keyboard has changed shape, and now it's harder to type. It's now round like a bowling ball, or like tits. I'll keep at 'em) It was a tattoo of "Where's Waldo" and in that moment, I got it. I understood the book. I understood the meta-textual game of waldo and his stuff. I understood how to fool billions out of trillions all you have to do is keep them preoccupied. As this older tatted titted troll lent her unique talents to my visage, I realized that from underneath, I was getting robbed. Reilly and his tit-tatted wife had thrown on over on me. BUt what they didn't know what the register hand less than 7 dollars in it, as it was the middle of the day. I would pay $6.74 every day to get a view of those tatted twos.
Now what's done is done. I've got drugs in my system that are trying hard to knock me out. So people play games with sleeping pills; this is my first. I think the game is, can you type until you pass out. (Bonus points for being able to get to bed, shut down your computer and not vomit on anything you like. Note: Pink Slippers are extra points if covered in chunder-barf.) Yes, the effects seem only to be physical, as I can turn and move my neck in peculiar ways and with much greater ease than previously remembered. My eyes are seeming to cross at times and when I rub my head all of my sense start mixing and clustering and custard and jam. When sense was once external, has now become internal. When I rub my head, I can feel the inside of my skull with my fingernails. Feels like the hull of a ship, or the hollowed out innards of a pumpkin. Like the smooth of a conch shell once discovered on the sand. Or at least the 3x5 sand display box in this New Zealand Gift shop. "We can wrap it up for you," She says kindly as I finger the inside of my smoothed down skull and flick out pieces, flecks, debris or my brains onto the page.
Fuck you for getting on my case about how I'm writing this. I really don't know where it's gonna go or when it will get not there. I've stopped. The drugs are starting to beat me. And I will not go out in a bang, but in a limpy misspelt whimper.
It seems that moment might be coming nearer still. I just sneezed 2x and sneezing on drugs is like sneezing as a acrobat. Your head moves longer and further and slower, more majestically like molasses readjusting it's course.
I'm still here, now, 26, not sleeping, at my dinning table, on some prescription sleep meds that have made me blather up a nasty and frothy concoction.
I wrote so much more than this that got deleted. I wrote another 20 minutes about what it would be like to be single in new york. It's really all I want. less than I want you.
see now I'm sober, so burnt that I'm going up to bed. Watch your head on the way out.
fuck
ZOLPIDEM
Hello little friend,
Hello you tall drink
of clear water
Hello jazzy keys,
those black notes
hanging like stalag
tights right on that
straight black line,
don't rewind the tape
the sound of the player
whipping in reverse,
past the solo, oh oh
so low on the ivory,
thumping like a headboard
when sailors come home from sea
icy cold drink, clutching
your 1 milligram coffin,
your mechanized murmur
swollowed swallowed
swalloed down
whole
Hello you tall drink
of clear water
Hello jazzy keys,
those black notes
hanging like stalag
tights right on that
straight black line,
don't rewind the tape
the sound of the player
whipping in reverse,
past the solo, oh oh
so low on the ivory,
thumping like a headboard
when sailors come home from sea
icy cold drink, clutching
your 1 milligram coffin,
your mechanized murmur
swollowed swallowed
swalloed down
whole
Friday, October 21, 2011
On Dog Piss
While we were waiting to take him out
he happily piss on the rug
not the nice rug that I don't like
not the one that cost hundreds of dollars
from the garement and rug district
in Downtown LA; no, not that rug
the 10 dollar rug from the warehouse
store, the big Seattle based chain
the one I loved, and Yes, I'm
angry, Yes, I'm very very fucking
angry, but no, it's not at you
nor is it at him, our beautiful
big black dog, our brooding
dumb carpet-pisser; No, I am
angry at myself for not just
taking him out when you asked
for giving him that 30 seconds
alone, in front of the door,
Not 18 hours alone, on my
way back from Las Vegas
stuck in traffic, where he
held it the whole time,
not while I'm at a funeral
or at work, but right
after we both played with
him together, right as we
are standing there watching
him, deciding which one of
us will take him. THEN.
Then. That's when he pisses
pisses right there with
a little smirk in his eye
on the best carpet, and
Yes, we cleaned it out
and Yes, the carpet will
smell like piss for 2 days
and be fine, but what
won't be fine, what won't
be fine, is my hand that
I put through a mailbox
on the walk I took
30 seconds too late
the hand that throbs
as I write these dog-shit
prose, the hand that I need
all the time, not the 10 dollar
rug from Costco, not the
time or the money, but
my hand, my right hand
my swollen purple hand
that I wish, I wish
it was covered in piss.
he happily piss on the rug
not the nice rug that I don't like
not the one that cost hundreds of dollars
from the garement and rug district
in Downtown LA; no, not that rug
the 10 dollar rug from the warehouse
store, the big Seattle based chain
the one I loved, and Yes, I'm
angry, Yes, I'm very very fucking
angry, but no, it's not at you
nor is it at him, our beautiful
big black dog, our brooding
dumb carpet-pisser; No, I am
angry at myself for not just
taking him out when you asked
for giving him that 30 seconds
alone, in front of the door,
Not 18 hours alone, on my
way back from Las Vegas
stuck in traffic, where he
held it the whole time,
not while I'm at a funeral
or at work, but right
after we both played with
him together, right as we
are standing there watching
him, deciding which one of
us will take him. THEN.
Then. That's when he pisses
pisses right there with
a little smirk in his eye
on the best carpet, and
Yes, we cleaned it out
and Yes, the carpet will
smell like piss for 2 days
and be fine, but what
won't be fine, what won't
be fine, is my hand that
I put through a mailbox
on the walk I took
30 seconds too late
the hand that throbs
as I write these dog-shit
prose, the hand that I need
all the time, not the 10 dollar
rug from Costco, not the
time or the money, but
my hand, my right hand
my swollen purple hand
that I wish, I wish
it was covered in piss.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Love
Anticipation
the sound between when the garage door
opens and when it closes
the 7 times my heart beats in my
ears, waiting
for the garage door to open
for your heels to hit the
tile floor and smooth onto
carpet stairs, for you
rhythmic steps, trudgning
to my heart beat, like
your heals are helped
by heart strings, and
that sound, right before
you open your mouth
when your purse hits
the coffee table and
the keys inside move
slightly, right before
you sing-out my name,
I hear you breathe
and in that breath
you are my universe
my every moment
my singularity
you are my reason
and then, and only
then, do you say
"why did you
forget to take
out the trash.
It's Tuesday!"
the sound between when the garage door
opens and when it closes
the 7 times my heart beats in my
ears, waiting
for the garage door to open
for your heels to hit the
tile floor and smooth onto
carpet stairs, for you
rhythmic steps, trudgning
to my heart beat, like
your heals are helped
by heart strings, and
that sound, right before
you open your mouth
when your purse hits
the coffee table and
the keys inside move
slightly, right before
you sing-out my name,
I hear you breathe
and in that breath
you are my universe
my every moment
my singularity
you are my reason
and then, and only
then, do you say
"why did you
forget to take
out the trash.
It's Tuesday!"
Moments
I only have a few fleeting
moments alone, like little
lilts built into a classical
melody - like cotton clouds
caught at the top of
mt. Shasta waiting
to whisp there weightlessness
right into not; into the ether.
moments alone, like little
lilts built into a classical
melody - like cotton clouds
caught at the top of
mt. Shasta waiting
to whisp there weightlessness
right into not; into the ether.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Testosterone Party
A young British Boy
with a simple swoop of
black hair to cover
your acne-worn brow
you stand alone with
a microphone in some
bar, some venue in
downtown portland
in downtown oregon
and from there
you tell us about
the new UK punk
about how your created
it, how you created
the spotlight and
how all the frat
boys, who look just
like you, are coming out
to your shows, in droves
and you detest them.
with a simple swoop of
black hair to cover
your acne-worn brow
you stand alone with
a microphone in some
bar, some venue in
downtown portland
in downtown oregon
and from there
you tell us about
the new UK punk
about how your created
it, how you created
the spotlight and
how all the frat
boys, who look just
like you, are coming out
to your shows, in droves
and you detest them.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Just Long Enough To Sing
bury my head in my hands
and keep the flood at bay
keep those waters, once fresh
out in the ocean for another day
when tides come knocking
as natural as young children play
like hands on clocks, the sands of time
will slip each granule, tuck it away
Yes! Time! the child of motion
spun to twirl and whirl in grand Ballet
Performing an opus for his father
who embraces him with each glowing ray
"Son" says the Sun "you were made,
put here, only to decay"
And Time just jumps and spins,
built happily to obey
So when we are all gone
and we have no more say
then our Time will stand still
with no name, with no way
though He will not be Time
he will just be the day
and the night and the cycle
will never betray
He will go, he will be
the gold rope will not fray
and the world will be flipping
when we have to pay
but today! yes today!
we are still on our way
and with time at our backs,
we will sing, we will say
"After I'm gone and my soul hits the hay,
No, I won't come a-knocking, I'll dwindle away,
Yes, after I'm old, when I'm silver and grey,
Just know that I lived here, at least for a day."
and keep the flood at bay
keep those waters, once fresh
out in the ocean for another day
when tides come knocking
as natural as young children play
like hands on clocks, the sands of time
will slip each granule, tuck it away
Yes! Time! the child of motion
spun to twirl and whirl in grand Ballet
Performing an opus for his father
who embraces him with each glowing ray
"Son" says the Sun "you were made,
put here, only to decay"
And Time just jumps and spins,
built happily to obey
So when we are all gone
and we have no more say
then our Time will stand still
with no name, with no way
though He will not be Time
he will just be the day
and the night and the cycle
will never betray
He will go, he will be
the gold rope will not fray
and the world will be flipping
when we have to pay
but today! yes today!
we are still on our way
and with time at our backs,
we will sing, we will say
"After I'm gone and my soul hits the hay,
No, I won't come a-knocking, I'll dwindle away,
Yes, after I'm old, when I'm silver and grey,
Just know that I lived here, at least for a day."
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