The Los Angeles Fiction Experiment

A Poem on Youth

2011-05-11T11:10:00.000-07:00

fragile like a beaker
bored like a blade of grass

the summer is not so far away
in milk stained bowls
the wallowing of stinking sinks
rumbles with tectonic shifts
plates crackling
beneath broken toenails

I want to give thanks
thanks for this job I spend too much time at
for the dreams I’ve watched in the windows of my eyes fade into the distance
for poetry, like a lover that’s slighted me
for William Burroughs
and the ideas that nothing is worth a lick because we’ll all be dead

In the boulevards of Hollywood the crown weighs heavy
wealth is the language of love and adoration
multiplying children
scatter over granite sidewalks
unaware of their parents broken marriage
and the ideals of a whole country crumbles

I miss the rivers of my youth
The Hudson and Harlem River
The Mississippi
the peacefulness of water, cool
breezes cutting splinters down the spine

supine memories
undone by adulthood
coming to on the shoulder of some freeway
wearing coffee stained clothes
and water filling green eyes
unsure of the future
and attached to history

fragile like a glass spine
bored like a redwood.

Poem from my Desk

2011-05-10T15:55:00.001-07:00

I have a window now
looking out on the
mountains of Los Feliz, Silver Lake
snow capped beyond

Love Hate Tattoo
street signs below
the sprawl of Los Angeles
and this awful feeling
of Deja Vu

a hangover
sunken into a desk chair on Madison Avenue
the summer burning outside
and a million poems
spilling from my pen

the thunder storms of summer
humidity and sex
outcast friends, craving flesh and fine print
the fucking of a river, flowing stink
through waking dreams in Williamsburg
night.

She was high on my list
prone to cocaine and holey underwear
my friends didn’t like her laugh
or the way she always ordered the most expensive
drinks, but then wanted to split the bill

one afternoon in Chelsea she gushed about
an artist she’d had lunch with,
i wish she would’ve just said they’d fucked.
He wore a speedo in Tompkins Square while sunbathing
I was more shy.

And the city during those summers
was like a future unannounced
little promises shimmering in windows
black to the outside world

Intellectual overtones,
Collective underachievers
real thieves wandering avenues
searching for subterranean bars
and large ideas

I think it was a tuesday when I got mugged
stumbling through China Town,
hiking over the Williamsburg Bridge
in search of a girl with
tiny tattoos and thick lensed glasses.

And now we are
hovering over Los Angeles
Nuclear
planning vacations and wandering
the silence of our homes
sunbathing in fenced yards
and waiting for inspiration.

Current Affairs 3.10.11

2011-03-10T15:19:00.000-08:00

A wanted man
started over with
a new name
and a new life
in Idaho, but
then his past
caught up with him.

The state Assembly
voted 53-42
to curtail bargaining rights,
sending the bill
to Gov. Scott Walker who promised to sign it.

The Dow closed below 12,000,
as oil market jitters
and the conflict in Libya
served as a reminder
of the
fragile nature
of the global recovery.

The incommensurability series
continues with
‘The Existentialist’s Nightmare’
and the Humpty Dumpty Theory of Meaning.

The
police crackdown
preceded
a planned
“day of rage”
throughout the country
that officials
have said they will not tolerate.

A matchmaking agency
in
South Korea
has promoted itself by
finding a suitable marriage partner
for the son of
North Korea’s leader.

A suicide bomber
jumped on the police chief
as he patrolled
just 150 feet from his headquarters,
killing him and two other officers

A series of surveillance videotapes
showed officers suspected of falsifying reports,
illegally
entering residences
and, in one instance,
making a purposefully flawed arrest for drug possession.

Benlysta, the first new
drug to treat lupus
in more than half a century,
is the first product approved for its developer,
Human Genome Sciences.

Did the Iraq War
influence
the Arab uprisings?

New Poem: Current Affairs 3.9.2011

2011-03-09T10:45:00.000-08:00

America’s political and military goals
seem
d i s c o n n e c t e d from
the situation
on
the ground in
Afghanistan.

Eleven people
died
in fighting
that broke out
during a protest
by Christians over
the
burning of a church.

A legislative effort
by
companies providing the loans
has been met
with
vigorous
opposition
from
insurance companies
and chambers of commerce.

Beatings
and shootings
begin
in demonstrations
that had been
relatively
peaceful.

Alarm
over the condition
of a
turtle
that scientists
say could be more than a century old
has prompted an
urgent effort
to determine and treat
its ailments.

Human Rights Watch says
the country faces a “crisis of impunity” that has festered for decades.

Eighteen young men
and teenage boys
have been charged with participating in the
GANG RAPE
of an 11-year-old girl,
which was recorded on
telephones.

The fast-moving fire
broke out
while the mother was milking cows
and the father was taking a nap nearby
in a milk delivery truck, the authorities said.

An estimated one million sardines
turned up dead Tuesday
in a Southern California
marina, creating a floating
feast for pelicans,
gulls
and other sea life
and a stinky mess
for harbor authorities.

Bank of America executives said on Tuesday
that a government idea to write off tens
of billions worth of mortgage debt
was unworkable and warned that
it would be unfair to untroubled borrowers.

Use red or green cabbage in this comforting vegan dish.

Her name is Wisdom,
and she also bore chicks
in 2008,
2009
and 2010

New Poem: Current Affairs 3.8.2011

2011-03-08T17:42:00.000-08:00

Twenty-one priests are
on administrative leave
because of credible
charges that
they
had
sexually
abused minors.

Football coach
was suspended
two games and
fined
$250,000 for
violating
N.C.A.A. rules.

The producers are planning
a significant overhaul
of the
$65 million
Broadway musical
that would
involve shutting down performances
for
two
to
three weeks.

The pressure
designers feel to
come up with something new
is evident.

As protests spread
to new areas of Yemen on Tuesday,
the
foreign minister
appealed to
rich
Gulf
countries
for $6 billion in additional aid.

Mitsubishi
denies responsibility for
birth defects
and leukemia
cases near a
former rare earth refinery
in Malaysia,
but
volunteered
to clean up the site.

Two federal marshals
and a city police officer
were shot
while
serving an arrest warrant.

The case
of a man
charged
with distributing
child pornography via YouTube
is the talk of a small town.

Raj Rajaratnam was greeted
by photographers outside
the courthouse,
but little drama
inside, as he began
his trial on charges that he made
$45 million
by trading on illegal tips.

The depression
that the poet
Les Murray suffered,
detailed
with self-effacing honesty
in his memoir, “Killing the Black Dog,”
informs the humor in his
new collection, “Taller When Prone.”

Defense Secretary
Robert M. Gates said
that the United States
faces
an
“acid test”
this spring
and summer
to determine if
gains in the war are sustainable.

another night spent thinking

2011-03-08T14:18:00.000-08:00

Under the lights
everything reflects
blindly

a morning like afternoon
afternoon like night
night like sleep
and no sleep

The ocean used to be close
now it is far
a forest used to rest by my back door
now a single tree sways under California sun
grass used to smell like stale cereal
now it feels plastic and looks too green

And even though thunder
is invisible
the thickness of its sounds
send shudders through our vision
another night spent thinking
about lives worth living

Though the list isn't a list
I miss the smell of wind
the feeling of sea water
the smile of a copper beech
and the luxury of tall grass dancing
in the gusts of late spring and
early autumn.

the evening dances
orange light bouncing timber
analogous tearful faith

Even if she were true...

2010-11-01T15:03:00.000-07:00

Texas radios
telecaster guitars
the element of chance on a
subway ride home from Brooklyn
with some fat bike messenger type
with tattooed legs and a chain
loosely belted around his waste

you're in new york city kid
from the day you arrive
til the day you die
no salt water pacific sunset
is gonna change that, the N
train on September 11th
nursing a monster hangover
after another

night spent at the Cedar
some freckled girl angrily awakened
in a red morning sun rise
end of summer gaminess
and the responsibility
of early adulthood
commenting on your sore back.

The early sunrises of Santa Monica
come on like a bad cold, gradual
and gentle, nothing like those
blistering summer Sundays
on Avenue A with Doc Holidays and
Niagara pouring 2 for 1s
and little hip chicks
wearing spaghetti tops
and jean shorts,

waiting for the brunch in some
outdoor cafe
heads floating like balloons
and their eyes dark and sunken
like jack-o-lanterns
on a humid indian summer night.

I am alone
i was alone
i will always be alone
even when you are in my arms
even when i can hear you in the other room
even when you're banging pots and pans and making a squash soup
even when you weep and i stare blankly at the cracked paint on the wall
even when you leave and you say you just need time to figure it out.

and oh those new york city nights
when i've walked the 40 blocks home
and I have cold sweat on my back
and the apartment is hot and dank and
looming
miles above the taxi cabs and car horns and pedestrians
smoking and screaming and stumbling with hands knotted together all fumbly and weird
like copper wires in an old home wired by a cataract-ed ex-marine named Carl

and still, drunken and stumbling and slurring words
at the typer there was purpose, she was in the bathroom
and you sat down and just started telling a story
with no purpose but to make something up no matter
how ugly or depressing or pointless it was,

just to create the rhythm of phrases
jagged
and butting up against one another
like a fevered fight when everyone is screaming
like a pack of wolves.

She is gone, the memory of her
isn't even real, it just was something
you/I made up and even if she were true
she's back in New York City or more likely moved out to a brownstone
in Brooklyn with her new husband
and they baby they dressed up like a pumpkin
for Halloween.

~ Craig A. Platt, 11.1.2010

SOUNDS

2010-10-12T09:48:00.000-07:00

Life is an experiment.

the senses, a stack of
moments collected
& laid to rest some-
-where obscure
and meta-
-physical, waiting to
be triggered back to

life
in a shocking
moment. These thoughts
& impressions are
collected into the
mind and spatially
they lie in the most

uncomfortable crawl
spaces of the
mind.
tiny little details,
sunken pleasures,
that
wet
cracking
sound
of paint peeling
off
a
roller

the feeling of
water
soaked
through the cuffs of
pant legs

the
smell
of
tobacco
when it's first lit

a
warm
sweatshirt

a spider web
walked
through
and tangled
up on
finger-
-tips

traffic

rain

the
whistle
of a train

cash
registers

and typewriters

a
standup
Bass

someone
w
e
e
p
i
n
g
softly

on of those
bells on
the door
of a
retail store

a
cold
greeting

SPLASH.

It's only in aging
where we realize
the incredible predictable
nature
of time
humans
and the society we live in

so to emerge from a
collector's Deco apartment
on West End Avenue
to a freezing
New York night,
a cocaine burn in the nostrils
and trailing red lights
one remembers the simplicity of action:

dig you hands deep into the
pockets
lower head
raise shoulders
and march persistently
towards the nearest
subway station.

~ Craig A. Platt
10.12.2010

Highways & Horizons

2010-10-10T21:14:00.001-07:00

The scene is as simple
and American as any I can
think of, a dark bar
the windows shaded and yellow
a street lamp outside
surrounded by mosquitoes
and maybe a slight s
summer breeze
a lonely motor
rumbles diesel in the distance

on the jukebox
there are sad honkeytonk
songs playing
and men drink whiskey
chased by beer
and flirt
with horrible women
with pock marked faces
and crooked yellowing teeth

the day was all highway
and horizon
a mode of life
foreign to most
but more alive
in their imaginations
than the reality
they exist under.

An umbrella
of life, the cold
hard ground
wet grass under
toes, children laughing
in dark bedrooms
refusing to go to sleep
and a stack of

novels in the corner
of the room, some made
young man desperate
to write.

~ Craig A. Platt
Sunday October 10, 2010, 9:17 PM

A Trip By Train

2010-09-14T18:22:00.000-07:00

I left the train
behind, it was snowing
and I was tired, so I didn't
go and meet anyone at
any bar and countdown to
the new year

It's occurred to me
more than once
that seasons are segments
of time meant to cure
or cause
depression
it's only natural

I was in bed when the planes hit
I was in bed when the space shuttle blew to pieces
I was in bed the day we started the invasion
I was in bed while she went into labor
I was in bed while you fell in love again
I was in bed when I was supposed to be at work

and the avenues are like
shallow canyons outside
my window,
not the bottomless
crevice of nightmares
but the shallow pools of youthful
exuberance.

The trains are all iron and
aluminum, silver screeching
bullets loaded with worriers
headed for different destinations
with a platform, a bad cup of
coffee and the USA Today in common
the weather meaning
a slide show in between

A soundtrack would
be nice for these types
of situations... Another
distraction from the eyeless
face that is your memory
crying babies
kicking feet
and a cold window
against my cheek

C. Platt, 9.14.2010
Los Angeles, CA

Fabrication of the Morning

2010-09-11T14:43:00.000-07:00

Guessing a scribble
today Los Angeles
as I drove down your
narrow streets
searching for something
William Blake might
say about your
parked cars
crooked like broken
noses

A poorly manicured hedge,
bright green artificiality
in this town there's
no telling what's real and
what isn't, like fractured
relationships, mistresses
and madames, hotel bars
and dives with over priced
drinks, a hollow
facade chased into
the psyche of your residents
Los Angeles, unafraid of
the lie

that hazy glow of
windshields, milky and
oil smeared
washed out paint-jobs
on deep green volvo
car hoods
like a tied dyed
badge for the
painfully disenfranchised.

In this pair of hips
i'm spying, a
dramatic cartoon-like
sway, jeans black
as their intention,
spied through the steam of
my coffee, now tasting
rich and sweet
a kiss to my stomach
in a white room washed
by sunlight

my morning read, like
exercise to my mind
the sun begging
for this cool breeze
red peppers infinitesimal
with an other worldly
glow, another
fabrication of the morning
of rhythm and recovery
every ounce of concentration
lost through the luxury
of the day off

coming back to the notebook
with the U.S. Open
in the background
gladiators
on the green
commentators whispers filling
silence
the pop of synthetic strings
a roar and a break
and the fanfare on
network television

and my inspiration
slowly
lost.

C. Platt, 9.11.2010
Silver Lake, CA
And the hazy glow

Our Intellectual Satchels

2010-09-09T14:49:00.000-07:00

That book that I was
reading wasn't very
good and I'm sorry that
i snapped at you when
you were only trying
to be helpful by
turning on the
lights and offering me
a beverage

I was alone, for
the first time in a
while, and you came
up from behind
scaring me
half to death.
The nightmares

continue to wash
over me like warm
water in a dirty swimming
pool, you and I
and all the people
we used to know

when we were social
and interesting
and interested in
the ideas in the atmosphere
that we could snatch and stuff
into our intellectual
satchels. This

is not an apology
mind
you
but an admission
that perhaps life
hasn't turned out

as we'd planned
and come to think of
it
whose really does,
right?

the book I was reading
when you surprised me
with your voice, which used
to sound like a song bird,
and now like a siren,
was not very good
despite the rave reviews

and the websites dedicated
to its excellence
the author wears sportscoats
i bet, while teaching at an expensive
University with talented students
thinking he's a Jesus-y type
able to teach them

how to turn
words
into
wine
and wine into
residencies
and then they can buy
their own sports coats
and smile at their

minions. When you surprised
me I guess I was
lost in the filth and
the dirt
and the waste of time
I had been convinced
to partake in
by the cute bookstore girl
that looks like a pixie

you know the one.
So while I am not sorry,
why should i be?
I will say that when you surprised me
i was reading another book
I wish I'd never
bought
but couldn't
put
down.

After Labor Day

2010-09-07T17:16:00.000-07:00

On a misty after-
-noon
there
are people
crossing
the
street
a naive trot
the orange
warning
bli-
-nking
their field
of vision.

The buildings are
pink and
green, other
assorted pastels
with neon
shining,
a distant
hum is audible
through my knowledge
of the technology

and what I truly see
are American
highways
street lamps
throwing
shadows on hot
rubber tires
vibrating
on the
glowing
summer
asphalt.

The summer
has come and gone
again
kisses were had
under mosquito
blackness
fireworks
and time
racing through
warm wind
and stars
twinkling

American flags flapping
in driveways
bugle calls
radio songs
sunburned lips
bleached shorts
blistered toes
early mornings
late nights
cold beers
river rafts
ocean swims
skinny dips
broken branches
friendships
ended

Autumn will arrive
soon, the wet
pavement
covered in slickly
colored leaves
pumpkin spiced
air and canvas
jackets, pockets
filled with
pennies and lint

old dollar bills
and notes from
past years
notebook pages
scribbled and
full,
dropped in a
drawer to
be visited
years later.

And the memory
of that night
spent on a balcony
drunk of whiskey
veins ringing
ears thumping
a rainstorm just
finished
and the air all musty

and words on
a
page, and love
divine
and friendship
somewhere
in the night

or is friendship
the night.
an olivetti
thumping out
Dexter Gordon
on the record player
and the world
outside a clapboard
door.

When I am Alone

2010-08-24T14:38:00.000-07:00

I panic,
tear at
my brow

wander through
memories of
lavender candles

and sand
between my
thighs.

When I was
twenty you
rescued me

from the
airport
drove me

south and
untangled my
hair. You

watched thunder-
-storms form
over crashing

oceans, rocks
like monster
shadows. When

we were
lovers we
stayed up

all night
nervous that
we might

never have
another time
to touch.

You spelled
words with
youe tongue,

tenderly poured
orange juice
and woke

me with
a smile.
When I

am alone
i remember
every thing,

the women
the drunken
nights, the

elastic socks
ruined from
late night

swims, in
the creek
being

caught in
rainy bus
stops

a sea
of mountains
to my back,

walking through
the Presidio
muddy and

tired. When
I am
alone I

remember Baltimore,
Atlanta, New
Orleans

and new York
City Jazz
clubs, clammy

hands, sex
and sweat
behind the

knees. When
I am
Alone I

panic, think
it's all
behind me

now, that
it's gone
and past

that it's
not mine
anymore

and
I will
be alone

under an
awning while
a storm

slaps and
dangles it's
springtime hopes

and you
and you
and you

all my
memories
lined up

in a row
teasing
and taunting

and wandering
like a
pilgrim through

a desert.
When I
am

Alone.
I
Panic

A Pome's Poem

2010-07-12T12:13:00.000-07:00

It's an itch, the
sound of traveling
cars along a
distant highway

her smile, the grass
freshly cut, mosquitoes
feeding on
hungover blood.

The timing's bad
the timing's always
bad, the creek stinks
of old clams

and fish swimming
furiously towards the
open sea, pink sunsets
and drinks, the barbecue smoking.

In the evenings when our
faces are red and eyes
swollen and tired
i sit and listen to crickets

to records, to breathing from
behind close doors
the arguments of centuries
frozen on musky pages

and the envelop of darkness
spreading through evergreens
over wet grass
and under poorly insulated

doors. Another
summer swimming by
in the blink blink
blink of the north star.

Los Angeles -- Rain Storms

2010-04-12T14:49:00.000-07:00

In the evenings
when there is rain
falling
it's like
weeks of anticipation
and excitement.

The evenings when it
rains you turn the volume
down and just
listen to

it, slapping about the
house and the
roof, the sidewalk
sounding hollow
and angry.

Those evenings
when there
is silence, despite
the rain
and the cars
and the silence

New Orleans
comes to mind
the tire peel
of rain pellets
perfectly pattering
on air-

-conditioners, train
whistles
and jazz playing somewhere.
Hollering drunks
of overly
voweled streets
and the lonely
howl of
a saxophone
on
vinyl.

Puddles

2010-04-01T15:58:00.000-07:00

In the
afternoon I
walk alone

through puddles.
the blue
sky reflected

in the
rippling. It
seems a

good time.
When the
heavens rain

down I
will be
inside with

my feet
up, reading
and having

a drink.

The Bill

2010-03-24T10:15:00.000-07:00

A fussy eater
once sat
at that table and
peeled a hard boiled
egg like he was
stripping a young
woman whom he wanted

to exact revenge upon.
This morning though, you
slobbered through
french toast
and coffee like
it was your job

occasionally
looking up to
see if i was listening
to your
ranting, a
pony

tied to a post.
Outside there were
cars
jammed together
in traffic
like bread squashed

to the bottom of
a grocery bag.
I was hungry,
you said, kissing the
tip of each finger.

After paying the bill you
sat and stared at the table
glossy and sticky
from sweet syrup.
Perhaps, you say,

today will be better
than the last few, and
in the middle
of the speech a dog
rushed through and knocked
the table

spilling coffee
everywhere.
Another
incident to
talk to someone about.
Story telling

is the moment.

What's the When

2010-03-10T21:10:00.000-08:00

She is there
before the horizon
a green dress
swallowed by shadow
and the midday sun
like a blinded
flash from a silver pistol

in the distance trains running
the landscape dry
vibrations beneath our feet.

a common cold is best treated,
my mother used to say,
by a searingly hot bowl
of matzah ball soup.
For one,

my father would add, it'll
constipate you for a month.

the river is not time
and there on the shelf
james joyce disagrees
with his placement

my eyes scan spines wondering
if i have one
of my
own.

What then?

2010-03-03T15:39:00.000-08:00

What a tank, they say
and the river sounds like
a diesel engine
the sun so blue it's
green

there was thunder the night
before last
mixed in with the train
and the garbage trucks
i thought it was earthquakes
racing to destiny

believe it or not
but there is nothing true
about tomorrow
streams and rocks
pebble gray on the shadow

a movement
pen scraping
black porridge
on a slippery tooth
yesterday
was never too
close.

Storm Clouds

2010-01-19T16:26:00.000-08:00

Outside my window
a horizon
of clouds
three dimensional
and gray, shaded dark to light
close to far
rain clouds
and fog rolling
over the hollywood hills

and no punctuation
necessary amidst
the cigarette smoke
and chop chop chop of
helicopters
red carpets
and dazzling jewels
the tails of dresses
dragged through
milky puddles

That's the
rain in the distance
smiling
and ready to say
hello again.

Thanks

2009-12-04T17:11:00.000-08:00

"This morning you just looked so sad, like you were carrying bricks on your back."
"Thanks."
"I didn't mean it as an insult."
"I know. Thanks for noticing."
"Seriously, if you need to talk about anything, we're here. We care."
"Thanks."

A Jazz Song At Midnight

2009-11-22T21:23:00.000-08:00

Every horn has a story
and that’s why I listen
even when I don’t understand
the sound is a good companion

And occasionally when they do
song the words are like folk
songs or spontaneous poetry
about peanuts and funny

valentines. I am alone some-
-times and the world
feels all dark gray
crumbles, the little smile

of fortune temporarily unavailable
unwilling
unaware
disinterested

and then the clock ticks
incessantly moving forth
into the midnight
swell of hearts and heads

and tongues and touch
the little pon ponce dip pon
pon of snare hits, a saxophone
repeating a riff endlessly

the piano walking south
changing tempos
and the coffee steaming
in the kitchen – blackness

outside the window
a car passes
the clink of tires on manhole
alone…awake…desperate for

the sound of that horn
slowly dying
bleeding out into the
darkness.

This Stupid Dream

2009-10-20T11:18:00.000-07:00

And there it was, America
on a map,
sprawled out on my desk
surrounded by cups of coffee
and beer bottles
and boring voices of the mind
saying things like,
don't going throwing your life
away on this stupid
dream.

And there was some expl-
-anation about a book
you'd once read
and the awakening in your
consciousness, the time
you stayed up all night walking
from point A to some odd B
and back.

This night time practice
of planning road trips
and never taking them will
drive you mad old boy
no one cares about
cross country mad men
howling into the night

at the saints
gone dead on the
ghostly wind

Beautiful Summer (Poem)

2009-10-03T16:53:00.000-07:00

Beautiful night, he said
and uncorked a bottle of wine
while the mosquitoes buzzed
in our ears
and the meat on the grill
reminded me of childhood.

Your legs were tan that summer, we
fought every afternoon when I’d
squint with drunk
and expect you to
understand my every thought

the creek was cold and I’d float in its
salty, muddy water like
a dog panting
smiling
approval.

One night while boiling
those screaming lobsters
you dropped a glass
on the floor
and it shattered with shrieking
hate across linoleum
and I slammed a screen door
into the yard, burned
brush and searched for kindling

our dog at my bitten
ankles pink tongued
and breathless
hoping I wasn’t too mad to
forget to feed him.

And the sparkle of
your fear
the taste of the corn we boiled
the cheesecake
for desert and orange lobster flesh
passed unnoticed through my lips
chased by bourbon and breath
spit with words
so angry they
disappeared with regret into
the evergreens in the yard.

That beautiful summer when
we raced out into the white capped
ocean on Sunday mornings
after an apology walk
you watching me splash
and toss sand like a child
raised to be alone.

A Conversation In A Bar

2009-09-15T11:39:00.001-07:00

On the surface of every situation things seem ungodly and complex. What you don't know always has a way of being like that. But, when you delve a little deeper things seem to simplify and settle like water on a pond. On Thursday I went out and had a few drinks alone at the bar. I do that, that's my thing. I ended up in a conversation with a woman who's husband or boyfriend or something in between had just left, she said she came home from work and the apartment was just empty of his things. She said, "if I see that son-of-a-bitch again I swear I'll shoot him in the dick."

She had a revolver she carried in her boot. She showed it to me. Her legs were worn and covered in varicose veins. She looked a little used up. Her eye make up was thick and her front teeth crooked in on each other. She was the kind of woman you find when you lose hope and then she hands it back to you with one sad look. Her man left because, she said, "he was no good for anything piece of ratshit," and she wasn't going to miss him none.

Behind the bar there was an old fashioned cash register that was just on display, it served absolutely no purpose other than to give the place a feeling of authenticity. I ordered a whiskey on ice and a side of water. I ordered her a whiskey neat and a side of soda. We talked a while, the things I said seemed so trite that I finally fell silent and mixed my drink with my index finger.

She asked me where I lived. I lied, but I told her with the conviction of a man running for office. She asked if I was married, I lied again, told her I was. She asked, "are you a good man to her?" And I said, I was when she deserved it. I was entering into my western mode, my rugged individual beat 42nd Street hustler persona. I hit her when she's out of line, I said.

She said she hoped that wasn't true. I said, well, and then downed the rest of my drink. I said good night, paid for hers and mine and walked back outside, breathing in the fresh air when I hit the street. At home I slipped a Woody Allen DVD in and sat on my couch counting his stammers as I sat restless on another lonely night.

Awkward

2009-09-14T11:03:00.001-07:00

An awkward existence. Even the word itself. Awkward being awkward. Looking awkward. Just the whole damn idea, awkward.

Morning til Night

2009-09-01T21:42:00.000-07:00

I wake up and the traffic is already slamming before I even leave the house, I know because I flip on the news. My head is swimming still from rough dreams, too much booze the night before and a bad case of the poorly place pillow syndrome i have been suffering lately. This is life so far, figuring out how to stay above water, play when i can and dream about doing something that i'd define as freedom. My parents call sometimes and I zone them out.

The sun is so hot that the apartment is already reaching a peak daily temperature. i shower, shave poorly and walk to the bus stop wishing there were a subway here. The memories of subways is stairs and people's legs, big gusts of cold air and grimy concrete. This is what i might need to get me through the day. In my New York life a hangover was easy to sweat out, here it feels like agony, everyone a fitness freak with a smile.

I could skip the bus, fire the engine up on my car and just drive back, leave today be there in a week. Find a new life and rebuild, i've done it before. It's impossible to feel settled when you're constantly haunted by dreaminess.

The Porch

2009-07-09T13:54:00.000-07:00

In the morning there are boots at the end of my bed and they're min, but they look unfamiliar. I get up and wash my face, dress in the dark and walk out on the porch. The weather has taken a turn and the air feels like the inside of bag left sitting in the sun. In the distance the woods stand at attention slightly weighted down by morning dew. I go back inside but leave the door open. My dog is lying on his side by the coffee maker. He looks up for a moment and then drops his head back down on his front legs. I brew coffee, light the stove and make eggs. Everything smells like it should. The dog follows me back outside, steps off the porch and takes a leak. I am sure there are things I should do today, there were things to do yesterday too, but I will continue to ignore them. It's nice that no one comes out here too often. I guess you could say I am hiding. I guess you could say I am letting life pass me bye. I guess you could quote some famous song that would urge me to get back in the game. But, I am not sure I want to get in any game.

In the afternoons, when the sun is at it's hottest, I leave the porch for the first time, a pile of empties by the door. The dog follows me. We walk straight into the woods and pick up the path that starts a half of a mile in. We follow the path, I run my hand through the dried ferns. And then the waterfall appears. I strip. I walk slowly into the cold water and the dog follows. We both swim in circles, counter to each other, passing after each lap, his head just above the surface and an unmistakable grin stretches across his canine mug. It's enough to almost make me grin.

After the exercise I dress and walk back to the house. The dog stops every thirty or so to shake off and shake it's tail. When I clear the woods I notice the visitor. My brother comes once a month with mail. He isn't smiling so I don't smile either. He doesn't judge me out loud, but he looks at me like he's ready to give me the chair. He says, nice beard, i could pick you up some razors.

I don't feel like arguing so i just wave my hand at him, go back to the porch and lay down. He sits down next to me and says, she came by the store, wanted to know how you were doing.

You want a beer? I asked.

He didn't move. We sat in silence, he petting the dog and me letting the sun dry my hair. The mail wasn't important. No bills, no personal letters. Just a bank statement and an appointment reminder from the dentist. He tried to talk again, but i rolled away from him, leaving the dog staring at his face. He's my little brother. He feels sorry for me. I haven't spoken much since New Year's eve. It's June now.

He sits there for an hour sunning himself and having a beer. Finally he says goodbye, walks to his truck and drives off. The dog goes into the house and lays down on the cold tile. I roll onto my back and have another beer. The sun is setting and the sky turns purple like a bruise.

Pedestrians and Eye Contact

2009-07-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

This is the story of the afternoon before the day before yesterday. So, two days ago. I was walking home. I was on my way on my normal route, going by the bus stop, seeing the old white homeless man muttering to himself that I see everyday, giving him some change, then walking on. I was hungry and wanted a beer and so I went into a bar and ordered a turkey burger and a light beer. I'd been stress eating lately and was now trying to drop a few pounds. Trying to drop a few pounds without actually changing anything about the way I was doing things. I liked living in New York City. I liked walking aimlessly and trying to make eye contact with strangers. It was nice to pretend that I could connect with those people. Win a heart or friend. See that's what life had become for me. Life had become this constant contest to prove that I could make everyone and anyone like me. Which led me into that bar and into a deep conversation with a slightly good looking blond who kept stepping outside for cigarettes and spoke in hypothetical situations. She had no job, one ex-husband, a ring on her finger and slightly yellowed teeth. I drank rum, she vodka, we laughed and ended up taking a walk. She led me straight to her apartment, we went inside and started in on what people do when they meet and get drunk at a bar. When, from the closet, came a man with a baseball bat who beat me, took my wallet, and then forcibly removed me from the building. I woke up in the hospital and they called my girlfriend. I don't really know if we connected, but we shared a moment, the guy with the bat. Like he knew me for a second. That's my story.

this morning...

2009-06-22T15:02:00.001-07:00

This morning when you left for work and locked the door and I heard your footsteps trailing off down the hallway, I got out of bed and did fifteen minutes of situps and then went back to bed sweaty. You couldn't see me, but I really worked up a lather. The next thing I did was sleep until the room was unbearably hot. At that moment I rose from slumber, opened all the doors, played my music too loud, showered, dressed and walked down the street for a coffee.

Being Polite.

2009-06-19T19:41:00.000-07:00

I always thought that being polite would get me places in this world. And by polite I mean treating people with dignity and respect, opening doors, smiling, laughing at unfunny jokes and saying complimentary things. But that's all over now. I am moving on with my life and engaging in a new and unique way to pull this shit off. See, the truth is I am a narcissist, and the only reason I was nice to people was in hopes that they would be nice back and reward me with, well, rewards. Well, shit to that and shit to you mister who I pretended to like and so on. I am done with all of this and all of that.

Fire Drill

2009-06-18T09:36:00.000-07:00

"Late night," she asked.

She was right too. It has been another one of those days where it looked like a light were emerging, but it had been an illusion of more darkness.

"I've been going since five," he responds. He was right too.

This is the last time they will have a conversation. Soon he will sleep. She will sleep beside him, one leg draped over his torso, a light from the street cracking the blinds, and the wind knocking around branches. She will dream about her home, 1,500 miles away, a cul-de-sac, family and friends and a life more ordinary. He will not sleep as well. His dreams will all be from the shallow end. His dreams were of fire, not fire burning anything, in fact more about food burning. In his mind there is Peter Tosh playing 'Steppin' Razor.' There are burning nuggets of food swarming towards his face.

In the morning she will wake first. She will shower grcefully and powder her face. He will shower too, brush his teeth, apply deoderant. She will try to discuss plans for the weekend. He will agree, but without commiting. When he leaves he will drive on the freeway. He will pass his exit and keep going. He will stop for gas and have a coffee, stare at the family doing a Chinese Fire Drill at the pump across from him. He will eat a danish. He will day dream.

"The ocean is on the other side of those hills," he says to the family. "You can get there just a few exits from here, north or south, doesn't matter." He smiles. They stare and smile graciously. He thinks, am I turning into a serial killer?

At the next exit he pulls off and drives up the main street. He parks and walks into a store, mindlessly, not even knowing what the store sells. He looks around feeling alien, knowing no one. He likes the feeling. He walks back out into the street, stretches, looks both ways and gets back in the car. He's not going home, he decides. He has never really had a home he decides. He waits for the light to change, presses his foot against the accelerator and doesn't let up.

Clean Your Room

2009-06-12T11:05:00.000-07:00

I get up early in the morning and clean my room. I get up early in the morning and I decide to clean my room. That other thing you've been doing, girl it don't matter none. So I get up early in the morning and I believe I'll clean my room. I walk out and get the paper and then I go lay down in my room. I wait for sunshine to break the window and take me to the moon. The room it won't get clean and I cannot leave this town. No that room won't never get clean and I won't ever leave this town. And the old girl I've been messing with, well she treats me like a clown. Anyway, that's the morning. Cleaning and making up song lyrics. It's Saturday and I am going to go to the gym at some point, try and get into fighting shape. I fight rarely, but you can never be too careful. The room I rent is a little tight and I rarely have visitors. It's peaceful and I like it.

In The Morning...

2009-06-08T11:07:00.001-07:00

Notes on a future work:

I wake up begrudgingly and study the sheets on my bed. Perfectly made when I went to sleep they now find themselves wrinkled and twisted, pulled horizontal and knotted around ankles. I watch the ceiling and wait for it to crumble down. I hit the alarm and then stare again, this time at the carpet and the clothes that lay covering it. As if an explosion had hit the bedroom when I wasn't looking. I contemplate more sleep, but feel an enormity of guilt weigh itself down upon me.

In an attempt

2009-06-03T15:42:00.000-07:00

to be more proactive i walked around the block today and thought about what I should be focusing my thoughts on. The deadline culture is an important one and you should definitely put a deadline on contemplation or else you will be lost indefinitely in thought, constantly discovering and rediscovering things that make you giggle and smile and so on.

Watch out

2009-05-14T15:47:00.002-07:00

WATCH OUT!
That's what they said
when I decided to move away
there were scary
people and places, dark
alleyways and assailants waiting
to break into my place.

I wasn't keen to it so
i left and haven't been
back since.

THis Is Not Good

2009-05-12T09:38:00.000-07:00

Nor is it bad. The day ends. I am alone in my room, a fire petering out in the fire place. I sit at my writing desk and detail the thoughts I've had this cool autumn day. Outside there is a rain storm building steam. I am alone and lonely for the first time in weeks. I could drink myself to sleep, but prefer to stay up and listen to the rain. Last summer feels like forever ago. I am not sure even who I knew then. I have chosen this isolation. I have not spent a dollar in over a week. In the morning I will rise and walk until the sun is directly above me. Then I will sit down and nap for a good long while. After that I will walk home, fix some oxtail soup and read. I have nothing to say, but I will try and write to keep my mind sharp. I will stay awake until sleep overtakes me and then I will sleep until I am ready to wake.

Still Resting

2009-05-11T11:19:00.000-07:00

In the morning when the
sun is not hot and
you are still resting

I walk out of the bedroom and into
the kitchen and stare at the refrigerator
assessing all of the items you've
stored away for hungry moments

dull Orange Juice
and frosted plastic wheat bread
a dozen eggs and
delicious lunch meats

i brew coffee
fry an egg and toast
i butter everything
sit on the patio
and feel

in my chest
the tump thump
of a heart
still rising to the task.

The Musical Is A Snake In The Grass

2009-04-20T15:09:00.000-07:00

I was afraid and there was nothing left to joke around about. In the morning I slept. I woke up in the evening in a sour mood, went to the kitchen and put on a pot of soup.

Sexuality & Socialism

2009-04-17T10:55:00.000-07:00

I have a friend who for so long wanted to paint something that would make him famous. He wanted to wear sharp shoes and frayed sportscoats, float through galleries on the whispers of the people watching him, waiting on him to hesitate in front of a painting and smirk. My friend painted grotesques, American faces worn and torn by this life we all lead. He was actually very talented. I lacked the talent he had, but spoke and drank with a passion that matched his and we could spend endless nights in the village slurring our words arguing through the ideas of sexuality and socialism. While we both were engaged to be married we engaged in affairs over bakeries on Bleeker with the same woman, a bar fly who stood only five feet tall, lazy eyed and a smoking disaster. These are the times I think of. Of his paintings in the studio, or paper studies of water color, the pages curling inward and rotted. I waited in the snow one night for him to meet on West 4th Street. Right outside the subway in front of a magazine stand I waited and watched the lights of the city. My impressiong was that people were wrapped like monks and hunched over speeding along to dinners and loved ones. I had someone at home waiting for me, but I felt more alone than ever. When he showed we stumbled along the icy sidewalks breathing steam and speaking in dead ideology. That is the way things go when you are young and you have dreams you think are in your reach. Before mortgages and kids. Before monogamy and antacid pills. I wonder if I will ever feel the romance of sitting in the west village drinking whiskey and knowing that tonight I would wander through the streets alone, stumbling and singing dumbly to myself.

The Hiccup Thief

2009-04-13T11:00:00.000-07:00

I had been a big fan of the hiccups. A couple of drinks too many, a meal eaten too quickly, a quick change in atmosphere or even a speedily drinken glass of water and those hiccups shot up. Only one night under a breeze of sea air the hiccup thief snuck in through the open window and stole the hiccups from me, laughing all the way down the gravel road.

The Start of a New Story (Too lazy to write Flash Fiction)

2009-04-06T21:49:00.000-07:00

Noah had attended the finest boarding schools, breeder preparatory academies for places like Harvard, Yale and Stanford, and had been a superstar tennis player and master debater. His first choice was Brown, but his old man had convinced him that the place to go was Dartmouth. He went, begrudgingly, trading ivy league for ivy league and not knowing the difference anyway. After graduation he worked as a volunteer and then part-time employee for the Al Gore campaign for president.

Gore lost and he lost his desire for politics. He went to San Francisco and tried I-Banking, which paid great but left nothing up to the imagination. You see, deep down, Noah Herskovitz believed that he was meant to be an artist. He was a photographer by hobby, loved capturing coffee shop characters and people in the Mission on the weekends and if he could only stand up to his father and the “expectations” weighed down upon him, he was sure that someday he could be a working and relevant photo journalist, with one of those cool self portraits as a contributor to a trendy magazine that cost more than five dollars at the newsstand. But, maybe he wasn’t brave enough yet.

Noah dated a shiksa named Mary who was also working in the investment industry. She went to Georgetown and was a practicing catholic. She wore red sweaters and pearl necklaces when family was around, had no problem creating the image of perfection to all people at an arm’s length, she was dangerously gorgeous and secretly the most dangerous and promiscuous woman he’d ever met. Sexually she took no prisoners. She loved cocaine and vodka, sex in public places and Sunday brunch (not in that particular order, though it always seemed to turn out that way).
Mary and Noah met at a mixer when he first moved west. It was on the roof deck of some third year’s apartment in Nob Hill. Mary was chatting with every one, saying things like, I hear the ballet here is simply delightful and I can not wait to go wine tasting, best wine in the world. Hw walked up beside feeling only slightly removed from boarding school with the tweed sport coat, tie loosened and hair tussled as it had been when Noah had accepted the State Singles Title at the Sports Banquet your senior year. With hands buried in his coat pockets Noah smiled with and laughed along with all of Mary’s quips. He stayed by her side the whole evening eating finger foods and drinking bourbon.

When the party dwindled Noah offered to walk her home and she accepted. Both were new to town and a long walked seemed both reasonable and exciting. Along the way they found that they both loved the paintings of Rothko, the voice of Billy Holiday and the writings of Rilke. She talked about her love of writing poems and suggested he study the sonnets of the Italian poet Petrarch. She didn’t offer to lend Noah his writings, nor did he ask. At her door she offered her hand. He accepted it and asked if she may be interested in going for coffee the following morning, a lazy Sunday that should have been spent shopping for Furniture. She accepted but suggested brunch instead. He complied and entered her phone number into your a newly acquired cell phone, a sleek silvery gadget all the first years were given at orientation. Noah shook her hand once more, said good night once more and then shook her hand again, awkwardly searching for the appropriate way to say goodbye. It was that easy, he thought, to meet a woman and make a date.

Mary never told him, but after he left she changed into a slutty little outfit and went back out dancing with some girls she’d met in her stepping class. That night she’d had a threesome with one of the girls and her friend, a Ph.D. candidate at Berkley who had come across on the BART and ended up on her couch after the encounter. But, of course, the very next morning she was showered and primped perfectly for her date with Noah. They took the ferry across to Sausalito where they brunched on the water, she had a Dungeness crab and egg thing and he had eggs benedict, a favorite of his from childhood hotel stays when his parets traveled.

In The Country Of France

2009-03-23T13:58:00.000-07:00

I rode a train overnight drinking screwtop bottle of wine and fresh bread and cheese bought in the station. I struck up conversations with strange canadian kids with thick curly orange hair, brothers backpacking for the summer, an Australian girl who drank too much and then proceeded to take off her top and go to sleep in the fetal position. I went to the dining car and ate a bag of pretzels while strucking up a coversation with a belgian businessman who commented on my Chicago Bulls t-shirt, he asked if I knew Michael Jordan, I joked and said he was my father. At the darkest hour of the night, full of wine and cheese and pretzels I sat in the compartment with the Canadians snorting ridilin and the australian passed out watching the light poles and listening to the whoosh of trains in the opposite direction, the occasional train whistling, a shadow of cattle on the horizon. In the morning I would be in the south making my way East to Italy. But, there in the country of France I watched the night time country side unwind like a land I never imagined in the dark of night. Listening to the sounds of the rail ties thumping underneathe us and the Canadians arguing over where they could buy hash when the train arrived.

Then There Was Summer

2009-03-17T11:55:00.000-07:00

And all the indie films that remind you how weird and free you can be walking down night time streets and sitting on swing sets in elementary school playgrounds with cigarettes and flasks. Those almost pretty girls in old t-shirts and worn out jeans and army jackets three sizes too big, their hair a mess and their mouths full of dirty words. There is the sun and the job you could care less about, the drunken evenings sitting in wet grass watching sparklers running with children through cul-de-sacs. You're just sitting in the dark theater eating popcorn trying to remember if your life was ever like this and ignoring the buzzing phone and the office lights burning eyes and souls. This day may never disappear in your heart, but does it matter if it isn't in your life?

There is this pain in my ear

2009-03-16T12:02:00.000-07:00

I was up late alternating between my typewriter and the bathtub. I really thought that perhaps I was finally making a breakthrough, racing heart, sweating words, a story slapped up against a police cruiser getting cuffed and the desire to stay in and stare out the window. There were sirens blaring down the avenue, traffic and car horns, the radiohead I'd put on repeat whining away. And then I dipped my head and the water poured into my skull and I have this pain in my ear that won't go away. So I tried typing for a few more hours until it was time to sleep.

I like Your Dumb Smile

2009-03-03T19:32:00.000-08:00

She was a little tipsy and picking through the bar food. She was smiling and telling stories about something that happened that day, but I wasn't really listening. It'd been a shitty week. I wasn't happy with the job, wasn't exercising, wasn't inspired and was thinking she was probably sleeping with someone else anyway. I didn't really care either and that was the real problem. On a Friday night sometimes you just want to go and get too drunk. It's not dignified, but it's the way it is. We had ordered some nachos and she just wanted chips and jalapenos. She was piling the melted cheese up on a cocktail napkin and then crunching the chips loudly and complaining that the jalapenos weren't spicy enough. There was a game on the TV, two college teams, but I wasn't very interested. In movies there's that moment where the main character is doing the V.O. and the whole scene is in slo-mo and the girlfriend is disgustedly chomping and giving a dirty look to lame, pasty, chubby star whose ready to throw it all away. And all I can think is that I like her dumb smile. It's the only thought when I know that something deeper should be happening. Something revolutionary should be pulsing through my vains. But, there was nothing. So I took a long swig from the longneck and place my hands palm down on the table.

Unable

2009-03-02T10:52:00.001-08:00

Sometimes I am unable to express my thoughts. It's as frustrating as a bad cold. It's like being terribly congested. I am starving for words. I am starving for expression. The days roll of the coast line like mist in the mountains. I am the words. The words are like glue to the pole.

Untitled

2009-02-25T16:06:00.000-08:00

Sometimes when the head is rumbling and every thing feels far away, there is rain or sun, a gust of wind or the song of a bird sitting on a wire waiting for the moon to emerge. On these days I just try to breathe.

When I wonder

2009-02-20T17:37:00.001-08:00

About the life I could've had I remember you, at home, married, depressed and searching for a new career and then the sun comes out from behind the clouds and the wind makes a joke I can't help laughing at.

That Waiter is My Dealer

2009-02-19T11:20:00.000-08:00

"I am a little embarrassed. The waiter is my dealer."
"Are you serious?"
"Yes...Let's go somewhere else."
"No, this place has great clams oregenata and who cares if he's your dealer? You don't owe him money, right?"
"Well, no."
"See, so shut up and enjoy yourself."
"Um, sure. I just don't want him to recognize me."
"Of course he will."
"Of course."
"If you don't want to be recognized by your dealer in public then don't have a dealer."
"That's not what I meant."
"Well, here he comes, so deal with it."
"Hi, welcome, would you like to start with some drinks?"
"Sure, I'll have a chianti."
"And i'll have a Peroni."
"Very good...Oh, hey, how have you been?"
"Fine. It's been a while."
"Not really, what was it last week?"
"Um, not sure, I don't keep track."
"Well, let me tell you our specials."
"That's okay, we are just going to have drinks."
"Oh, well, then I'll have to ask you to go to the bar then, tables are for our dining customers."
"That'll be fine."
"No it won't"
"Yes it will."

Outside there was a wind storm happening, it'd had snowed the day before and there was snow flying through the avenue in big cloudy gusts, I dug my hands in my pockets and headed back towards my apartment where I put on the cd player and fixed a drink, sitting in front of my window alone and watching the city from above.

If You Get Drunk I Am Leaving

2009-02-17T16:00:00.001-08:00

It was a typical week night. Work sucked and I was seeking some release in the bottle. She was a little pissed I'd forgotten our 3 month anniversary and wouldn't accept that 3 months isn't an anniversary. Anni is derived from the latin of the word for YEAR, i said. A 3 month anniversary is just stupid people talk. She told me to go fuck myself. She said, get out. She said if you get drunk tonight, I am leaving. She was bluffing of course and after last call as I stumbled down city streets in the January crisp the lights were still on in the apartment and she was on the couch, glass of wine and a Tom Hanks movie on. The only thing more predictable than me is her.

That Rap Group

2009-02-11T21:19:00.001-08:00

Wears there pants to0 baggy. They talk too loud and too unintelligebly. I am sure they have important issues to discuss about the socioeconomic status of the inner city. But it's hard to get past the armor if you know what I mean.

My Solitude,

2009-02-10T19:24:00.000-08:00

Feeling feverish? She asks that and then keeps putting on her makeup. She's going out again. It's like that Kenny Rogers song. I'm here stuck in bed and she'll be in some bar tonight smoking Camel lights and talking to every idiot who can afford a tube of hair gel. It's not like we're together anymore, we're just roommates, and when I thought this was a good idea someone should've stopped me. There's this memory I have of a treehouse I had as a child overlooking a little stream with a waterfall and how I sat up there for hours in the autumn, on the weekends, and counted the dried, cracking leaves and the squirrels racing across them. The sound of rushing water and branches cracking underneathe the feet of hikers as the walked past on the trail up above. Down in the valley of the stream I sat, anonymous, watching the stream and the wind and the days. Now I am in bed and waiting for her to leave so I can enjoy my solitude, only not like I did back then.

Watching The News I Read THe Signs

2009-02-09T13:53:00.000-08:00

I read the signs and wonder whether it matters anymore. The days are long, i stay at the office through dinner, and then go to the house, watch some news and then off to bed where i read and have dreams about work. Then she calls and says she wants to hang out, but I don't want to go all the way to the other side of the state and she's high anyway, won't remember she placed the call. Instead I hang up the phone and stare at the bricks of the building across the alleyway. I listen to the sky or the dumpster downstairs and wish for some extreme weather to stampede through the town. Then there is this sound downstairs, like glass smashed by ceramics and a man's voice bellows and a woman shrieks and my arms tense up and I wish I could ignore all of it. There was a time when you would've ignored it. When you'd be eating tostitos and cheesedip on the couch and listening to metal while playing Madden on the PlayStation. But not today, not anymore. And in the dizzying fury of running down the stairs and banging on the door you realize that maybe the news is right. The only way to stay safe is to stay in your home. You are waiting for someone to answer the door and are met immediatley with a punch in the face. That's all you need. You turn around, walk down the last flight of stairs and hit the street. You walk down the main avenue of town, enter a bar, have a drink and start a fight with the toughest looking guy you say, enduring the worst beating you've ever encountered. In the emergency room you smile at the blood on your shirt and the nurse caring for you, her large sloppy tits swaying in front of your face and the smell of the tongue depressors and alcohol swabs.

Why is it raining on your wedding day?

2009-02-05T16:06:00.000-08:00

I mean I know you can't plan a sunny day, but everyone who went to your wedding was wondering why it was raining on YOUR wedding day. You of all people. Nice, sweet, loving, caring, befriend a homeless person on a rainy night in a cold city you. And I know, it's supposed to be your special day and that you're supposed to have God and all your friends shining down on you. But, and this is the interesting part, I know why it rained on your wedding day. I do. And you do. We know why. Don't we? And there is no homeless person in your dry apartment who could help you pay back for the reason why it rained on your wedding day. And even though I wasn't invited and even if I were I would have not gone because who wants to go to a wedding in the rain. And all the people supposedly asked where I was and wondered if you'd invited me and you smiled and laughed and clinked glasses of champagne and said things like, sure, i considered inviting him, but you know his temper, he would've caused a scene like in that Garth Brooks song. And I can't say I'd disagree with you. But I guess I had the last laugh because the wedding sucked. It rained and I heard you got mud on the dress and your makeup smeared. The groom looked nervous and his alcoholic brother best-man made an embarrassing toast. And your old man had to leave early because he forgot his pills and your mom didn't make it cause her new husband got called off to Europe on business and he didn't want to be alone. This note though, it's to wish you congratulations and tell you, no hard feelings, really, i barely miss you at all.

DOgs Run Free On ThiS Property

2009-02-04T16:19:00.000-08:00

This property is a leashless dog zone, don't come on it and start complainin' to your husband that i should be putting that vicious dog on a leash, cause it ain't gonna happen and frankly lady you're a dog too and you should be on a leash. That being said, I don't care what anyone thinks. I've been livin' on this here property since before I was born, meanin' my pa grew up here and so did his and I wasn't ever leavin' nor were my dogs, so forhet thinkin' i will or that i'd sell this here place to anyone. ANyways, that's how it is these days, people comin and tryin' to buy my place and i ain't never plannin' on sellin' it and neither will my boy when he gets born.

Getting Closer

2009-02-02T15:53:00.000-08:00

You know those moments in life when all you want to do is go to the movies and sit in the dark? Those times when all you need is inivisibility, when all you feel is the dullness of an old butter knife and the same type of shine. Those are the days when you know the whole world is lying to you, when the truth is sliding through the cracks and the faces are all conspiratorial. That's the times I think of all the time. When I don't get enough sleep and my mind races to the land of head aches and dreamlessness.

Haikus in Ocean Winds

2009-01-29T15:05:00.000-08:00

Hello she said loud
the wind splashing ocean air
on the windows eyes

there we were standing
in the gully watching it
sliding back out to sea

When do you think we
can go for a swim? Water
should warm any day

That's the trick with this
you get out in the water
early and later

Then she slid down on
the seat and spelled her words out
with an open mouth

Sam & Diane

2009-01-28T14:44:00.000-08:00

I often wonder why they never made it as a couple. Perhaps the pressure was too much, the salary they earned at the bar wasn't enough or maybe it was just lack of chemistry. I don't really know these days and it's strange seeing Diane waitressing in a strip club these days, Sam still running the bar, their kid a single A minor league pitcher with an addiction to painkillers. But, oh, Sam still has that sense of humor and he's going to get his kid clean with those one liners boy, let me tell you. The weird thing is, and this is just me speculating, but I think that the world wouldn't have been such a good place had they never shown us what it meant to fall in and out and in and out and in and out of love. I mean it. This isn't the sarcastic me, this is the serious heartfelt me. Anyways, that's my thoughts on that and that's it.

THis

2009-01-27T11:35:00.000-08:00

Isn't just storytelling, it's life. It's the way we interact. The way you perceive me and I you. It's insecurities and measuring sticks. It's nightmares and love affairs. The day ends and then a new one begins. A new one begins and then it ends. It's me all there in one place and you all there somewhere else. I am the lonely hunter. She is the saturated virus of lost hope.

In the morning

2009-01-26T11:54:00.000-08:00

When there is no coffee to brew and no eggos to toast, i put on my flip flops and cross the street to pay for overpriced coffee and low fat blueberry muffins, all squinty eyed and ruffled hair, the goose bumps springing up in the cool coffee shop air and the neighbor with the implants and the flat stomach in front of me online simultaneously talking on her phone, sending an email and being disgusted by the barista. In those mornings I crawl back to bed and forget about writing for a few more hours.

That Type of Beavior is Inexcusable

2009-01-23T17:17:00.000-08:00

We were jumping on the bed, that's all. It wasn't too late and nobody had gone off to sleep yet, no harm done, right? It was me and Meryl. Meryl was about a year and a half older than me at the time. I was 11. She was older like I said, but it was definitely my idea. And so we were in the room at my aunt's that had two twin beds. We weren't both sleeping in that room, but we were just hanging out, probably playing Sorry or Life or something while the adults in the other room were watching Hill Street Blues or LA Law. Anyway, we were see who could jump the most times from one bed back to the next without losing rhythm or falling off. And there was this nice old antique dresser with a mirror built into it, my mother told me later it'd been passed down from my grandmother and before that her mother and etc... So we're jumping from bed to bed and Meryl just loses her balance and hits the dresser full force with her head. She's bleeding and convulsing on the floor and the mirror falls over and smashed on the ground and I just sit down, stunned, on the bed furthest from the door. Our mother's ran in and stepped right in Meryl's blood. My mother ran to get a towel, called a paramedic and tried to apply pressure to Meryl's head. My aunt though, welll, she just started screaming at me. The type of behaviour is inexcusable, she screamed. I never cared for her.

In The Meantime

2009-01-21T11:12:00.000-08:00

We walked along the highway for a bit until she cursed me out for getting us lost. Then we walked off at the next exit and found a fruit stand with the reddest strawberries i'd ever seen piled in pyramids and sparkling moist in the sunlight. It was about midday and we were standing under a maple tree, shading ourselves, all my hair had gone blonder and she was getting skinnier with each day. We were wandering for no reason and it was starting to get tiresome. We had some money and we used to live in this house a few years ago. Somehow we started to lose the money, we stopped caring about the house and decided the only thing that mattered was staying with each other. So this is where we'd ended up. Beside some farm stand in alabama. My boots worn thin and patience even worse. So we started to argue again and she moved up close, her breath hot and stinking on my face. She pushed my face away and then cam closer to scream in it again. A little crowd formed and we were the attraction. I don't know what came over me but i kept backing up towards that fruitstand. Suddenly i fell back into the strawberries and they swallowed me whole. I was covered in juice, rolling around and everyone started to laugh. I was arrested for it, of course, and when I made bail there was nobody to get me out. So I stayed there and now I work for that farm stand and live in a tent. She's gone somewhere, probably taken up with someone else. I get to thinking sometime that it's time to start rebuilding.

And the Band slept in the van

2009-01-20T10:17:00.000-08:00

When the rains came and we were all waiting for something to happen and she told me her dream was to meet someone who stood for something real, something really real, and the moon was hidden behind clouds and I was itching for a smoke but my cigarettes were soaked through and the woman I wanted to sleep with was sleeping with someone else and the rain wouldn't stop and your voice sounded like sand in a vacuum and there was too much time and not enough love, that's when the band started playing and everyone started throwing mud and rocks and sticks, empty bottles and soggy books, then the band packed up and went off to sleep in the van.

An Interview With A Hero

2009-01-16T09:56:00.001-08:00

A hero fades into the sunset. He rides off on a horse. He disappears to the sounds of thundering applause. He leaves everyone with a smile and a joyful tear. I had the opportunity to sit down with one such hero and interview. I was startled by how sparse his living quarters were. There was only a bed, a night stand and a desk covered in bills. He wore blue jeans and a white t-shirt that outlined his beer belly.

Burger Face

2009-01-15T15:33:00.000-08:00

I have a friend who wears brown shirts and calls people burger face. He's from toronto and wants to be in a band. He takes piano lessons at the new school and then goes to the french bistro place for casual encounters he sets up on craigslist. He wants to go to see a show, burgerface. Let's get italian, burgerface. I hate that fucking part of town, burgerface. It's neverending. I want to call him some clever name, but I have nothing. The other night we were out on the LES and he called some girl burgerface, made her cry, and you know what, we all had a laugh about it, as if something so crass were permissable and we weren't better than all of that. Strange life he lives, that friend of mine.

Ilegitimate Fears

2009-01-14T11:13:00.000-08:00

The Morning...
Waking up in the morning
eyes full of sand
the alarm clock yet
to whisper chaos
the sun hidden and the alleyway
all echoes

The coffee falls into the cup
splashing over the edge
the bitterness
trapped in a whisper

By lunch...
Ready to leap small
buildings in single
frowns. the midday
walking traffic
chokes your stride
like rough sex.
Sipping lemonade in
the sunshine
watching anonymous faces
gaze upwards at reflective
glass windows...

and when it's time to quit...
there is no letting
go of the days
hiccuping dyslexia,
all seems backwards,
flipped, stripped
and ill equipped for
nights of beer and rushes
and the light burning on the nighstand til two
reading prose that
drips from the memory
instantly...

the day is over...
and sleep overtakes
the miserly misery of
majestic mountains of
paperwork of
lies and false promises
and things designed to print money
in the hallways of banks
named after countries and
presidents.

Sheets, Hearts, Phone Calls and Missing People

2009-01-13T09:27:00.000-08:00

Sheets:
The sheets were
coarse, and outside the
window were roosters screaming
for the sun to rise. I was awake,
reading a book and
waiting for a reason to
get out of bed...
In the road I could hear pickup
trucks peeling back the wet dirt
road.

Hearts:
This imaginary idea that
a heart can break. I've been
watching romantic comedies
and have loved the way
the music dictates the type
of smile or frown on a face...all these
superbly beautiful women unable to find love
in a world of broken hearts.

Phone Calls:
The phone rings in
the other room, he tries
to get up and answer
it. never trust a face
you can't see.

Missing People:
On the news the reports
of missing beauty
queen daughters and
investment swindling play-
-boys saturate the sounds
of immobile economies,
displeased workers, golden
parachutes, pornography
rings and jewel heist capers.
the president speaks of
hope, the pundits of disaster and
another person has gone missing
central America oozes with
kidnappers and my mind
explodes with synapses
failure

Impressions

2009-01-12T11:11:00.000-08:00

This is the moments, the thunder and the rain, the sounds of cars zooming past the window, rain hitting the aluminum gutter, a car starting in the alleyway, the birds outside our window. Everything sounds to me like life trying to interrupt my heartbeat.

If There Wasn't Time . . .

2009-01-09T15:33:00.000-08:00

To walk through the mall before the movie, than why did she try and do and make me go with her?

An Evening Without Cheese

2009-01-08T11:19:00.000-08:00

I'd stopped eating cheese about a week ago. Really, I had no idea how much I'd miss it. But, I stayed home for the first five or six days. Then I finally ventured out for dinner with friends. It's really not like a friend died, but you know I kind of miss the sweet, loving blanket that cheese engulfs me in. Pizza, cheeseburgers, parmesan on my pasta, a caprese salad, caeser salad, bbq chicken salads with a jack cheese sprinkled delicately. I miss her, i say out loud. My friends laugh at me. But an evening without cheese is like an evening without friends. Lonely.

Cause I'm important, dick

2009-01-07T13:58:00.000-08:00

Yeah

Art is for Sleepy Eyed Idiotic Windbags

2009-01-06T09:44:00.000-08:00

I am a man who likes the smell of drywall, of sports on television, American beer and watered down sitcoms. I once was hired to build out an old market into a little gallery. The people who owned the place wore, in my opinion, jeans that were too tight, badly worn striped sweaters had tattoos and oddly tried to act working class when they obviously weren't. Every time I tried to get busy, installing the sink and toilet, drywalling the main space, wiring the lights, etc... some douchebag would crouch behind me looking closely at what I did, his latte breath practically melting my neck hair. I got the place done as quickly as possible, honestly I'm not sure if I even had time to do a good job. I wanted to get out of there, that's just what I wanted. Then at the end of the job they told me they couldn't pay the other half. They told me that they could give me a painting. It was that or nothing, so I took it. Now it's sitting in my god damned garage.

Have You Walked Into That Girl?

2009-01-05T16:07:00.000-08:00

We were talking about ex's and old relationships, the days gone by and all that stuff....Then she came up. He said, I never see her anymore, nor do I care to. We were having coffee on 2nd Avenue. I said, really? I walk into her all the time? He said, you walked into that girl? As if I had make some sexual innuendo, which of course I hadn't. Or do you mean you run into her? Well, I said, I hardly ever run, but maybe I was running once or twice when it happened. I was confused and so was he. I took a sip from my coffee and burnt the roof of my mouth. I cursed. He said, well once at a party, you were there too, I made out with your ex. It didn't really mean anything and I wasn't planning it or, well, you know. I told him he was a bitch. He said, you're the bitch motherfucker. It was all a laugh. We went and had a beer and were done with it.

This Morning

2009-01-01T12:09:00.000-08:00

This morning, when no one would answer I decided to go for a walk. Through the grass I strolled, barefoot, the cool dawn’s dew on my feet. A little Japanese maple dripped in the shadows, a few beech trees swayed with the gentle sea breeze. When I could not see or hear the human world I began to sing to myself. The song was slow and deep and I could feel my voice’s vibrations shake my ribs. A bird sang, not in tune with me of course. A few rabbits rushed through the leaves. I saw a deer in the distance, eyes transfixed on me, waiting to see if I would give chase. I swung my arms like a tether back and forth and bent my knees slightly. The blue sky was relatively cloudless. A tractor hummed on the other side of a hedge. A few pheasants rushed off towards a stonewall I had helped build a few years ago, it was still in place, a few lose stones but not terribly worse for wear. My heart was slow and steady. I curled my toes into the soil and looked towards the horizon. The sun was gentle and I wasn’t forced to squint as I would’ve had it been noon. I wondered where they had all gone. I wondered if I’d slept through the day’s events.

When I returned to the house the car was back in the driveway and everyone was in the kitchen cutting bagels and laying out lox and cream cheese, herring and white fish salad. I sat down and spread some cream cheese on a bagel, covered it in lox and crisp onions. I closed my eyes and sunk my teeth into the dough. I sighed.

A blurb about a man who knows something about knowing himself.

2008-12-28T09:37:00.000-08:00

My name is J. I work out of an office on the 53rd floor of a very prestigious advertising department at a very prestigious television syndicate. I wear a suit four days a week and still keep it relatively formal on casual Friday. I wouldn’t want my assistant to think I’m fun, not at work and certainly not with her. She’s a little slut anyway. None of this is important really, because I am not here to pitch you an idea or conduct one of those four-hour conference calls where I spin a pencil in my hand or sign expense reports while only half-listening.

Pretty Bitter

2008-12-23T17:26:00.000-08:00

When I get up in the morning I walk down to the grocery store and buy an egg sandwich and coffee. I like my coffee bitter, pretty bitter. The old man behind the counter is always dressed the same, checkered chef's pants, blue flannel, baseball cap and a smirk. He's always reading the post. Always says hello and nothing more.

Whatever

2008-12-22T13:57:00.001-08:00

Whatever, that's what I say. That and I guess you're right. Whatever you say. Ok, that's fine. It isn't that I don't care. It's that I don't care to care.

Into The Morning and Out of the Night

2008-12-19T16:26:00.000-08:00

I always wanted to write like one of those great mid century french existential guys who could fling lice at the world and rest next to women crawling with hair. I wish I could be one of those prostitute loving, absinthe drinking dandy romantic types with too much time on his hands describing the linens and curtains of a specific salon on the wrong bank of the siennes. Instead, I sit in ikea furnished rooms sipping miller light and contemplating Kerouac and Eggers. Don't get me wrong, those guys are great, but ultimately I wish my life were more european i guess and so I slide into a french bistro and drink wine and pretend to be more poetic than i am.

False

2008-12-18T10:27:00.000-08:00

The day begins with rumors and ends with humor. I am awake at 5 am watching the news and listening to the rain falling in the alleyway. There is the sound of garbage trucks, their diesel engines shake the windows. On the nightstand is a clock that doesn't work, a tray of change and a pen and paper. I do not write. There is time ticking away, invisible, and meditations on the morning air, my breath fog, the days long. I want to be in the mountains, i think, the quiet of snow covered land, the moon a huge beacon of yellow. But here I am waiting for the day to begin.

A good poem I read this morning

2008-12-17T10:15:00.000-08:00

I read this poem this morning and it blew me away with it's simplicity and assured voice. Read it.

Cardinals

by John L. Stanizzi

for Carol

I had seen them in the tree,
and heard they mate for life,
so I hung a bird feeder
and waited.
By the third day,
sparrows and purple finches
hovered and jockeyed
like a swarm of bees
fighting over one flower.
So I hung another feeder,
but the squabbling continued
and the seed spilled
like a shower
of tiny meteors
onto the ground
where starlings
had congregated,
and blue jays,
annoyed at the world,
disrupted everyone
except the mourning doves,
who ambled around
like plump old women
poking for the firmest
head of lettuce.

Then early one evening
they came,
the only ones—
she stood
on the periphery
of the small galaxy of seed;
he hopped
among the nuggets,
calmly chose
one seed at a time,
carried it to her,
placed it in her beak;
she, head tilted,
accepted it.
Then they fluffed,
hopped together,
did it all over again.

And filled with love,
I phoned to tell you,
over and over,
about each time
he celebrated
being there,
all alone,
with her.

Relatives

2008-12-17T10:14:00.000-08:00

It's all relative. Whether she loves me or not. What is considered happy. Who makes the donuts. Who signs my pay check. It's all relative. Where the day begins and where the night ends. What constitutes third world. Are my shoes organic. It's all relative. The way she touches my faces, a smack or a caress, it's all relative. The way I eat my food, taste your skin, drink your wine and the way I say thanks. It's all relative.

The Point Isn't What You Think It Is

2008-12-16T11:53:00.000-08:00

The argument started over dinner and carried over into getting ready for bed and then during commercials. We lay there on our sides of the bed and laughed with Conan and then as soon as the commercials started playing she'd bring it up again. I tried to answer with only sigh, but that just made it worse. The point was, I didn't care. But, that isn't really the point. The point is I am right, like always.

Deconstructing People

2008-12-14T21:47:00.000-08:00

His eyes are set too far apart. She has terrible gum disease, it's hard to focus on whether she's intelligent because one can't keep their eyes off of her bleeding gums. He has a huge head. I hear she likes to fuck. There is a guy I know who once took a shit in a pizza box and put it under the bed of another friend in his hotel room. He is insecure. She has bad feet. I love that haircut. Where is the bar? The moon is bullshit and people who write about the moon are even more bullshit. There are two types of people. I am a person with a bad nose. That guy can't be trusted. She's not jewish. He's not smart. That guy can't be taken seriously, look at the car he drives. She has nice tits. He supposedly has a big dick. That guy over there hooked up with a girl i know and asked her to finger his asshole when he came. There is water at the bottom of the ocean is my favorie lyric today. He likes Sartre too much. She couldn't pick a good film to see if I helped her pick it. There is too much time in the day and not enough at night. He likes to camp. She wears too much make up. That guy over there is confident in saying he is an ass man. Football and boxing are the two most boring sports next to baseball. Baseball players are the dumbest athletes. Basketball is like ballet and hockey is a tango. I realize that at the end of the day what I think doesn't matter at all. Where is the bar? Gas isn't too expensive right now. No one makes a difference. Vodka is poison. Rivers lead to oceans and streams. Oceans are like blood and lakes are like port o johns. The holidays are only lonely if you expect them not to be. There's the bar. Thank you. Good evening.

Mildly Displeased With Your Outburst

2008-12-12T12:01:00.000-08:00

It's on the holidays when people feel all of life's emotions as the reach the hilt of their extremity. I would be remiss if I wasn't to tell you that your outburst last evening left me rather displeased. I would say mildly, but I think it would downplay the level of discomfort I currently feel laying here beside you. It isn't that i mind you having a few too many drinks, nor is it the accusations you set forth of my disloyalty, my apathy and my sloth. It is simply that you were not able to support these arguments erstwhile I stood by and laughed as if you were telling everyone a funny joke. And given we were in a bar, a bar with our oldest friends, friends we'd known since high school. But, still, it left me rather uncomfortable and I am saddened at the realization that I am not the one you love, only the one you are with because, and I am quoting you, you are afraid of loving and you know you can never love me. Regardless, I will probably not leave, not until spring at least and now I am wondering what kind of food you would like to go get for breakfast. Good morning.

Moms And Dads

2008-12-11T10:37:00.001-08:00

Moms have daughters and dads have sons.

Reality and Treeality

2008-12-09T13:47:00.000-08:00

I live in a tree. I poop from the sky. I walk to the ends of the forest barefoot searching for cool cups of water trapped in leaves and puddles. I am alone with my thoughts and the songs of birds chirping. I write on the start and shiver with the wind.

BAd View

2008-12-08T10:32:00.000-08:00

We'd gotten to the parade late and the kid kept crying the whole thing through. His mother was dabbing his cheeks with used tissues and telling him things like, don't cry baby, it's ok. At one point she made me put the fat load up on my shoulders so he could see the high school kids in their band uniforms walk out of sync and the old worn out mascot in his terrible tiger costume, stripes all faded and his face visible through the worn black screen in his mouth. But the kid just kept whining and I wanted to slap his face with the back of my hand and show him something he could justify his crying with...the little bastard. At the same time, I felt a little sorry for him. My old man was always around and he always took me places. He let me cry and all that. But, then again, his mother was turning him into a little woman and i didn't really give a shit about either of them. After the parad i took them to a burger joint and bought the kid a double burger with bacon and some chili cheese fries. That perked the little heifer up and he smiled the whole ride home.

That Fucking Blows Man

2008-12-05T11:39:00.000-08:00

I sit in this office all day and type and read things. My neighbor says things to his computer. He tells his computer what a spoiled little bitch it is. How he hates it and is fucking done with their relationship. As the day drags on he says fucking cocks and balls shit. He yelps. He says, that fucking blows man and shuts his door. Then he heads to lunch.

The Art World

2008-12-04T11:21:00.001-08:00

It's about what you can get away with and I always get caught. At the opening for a friend's paintings I drank too much, insulted his gallerist, soiled the white walls, exposed myself and fell out into the cold winter streets angry and searching for a bar to belly up to. I met a woman, she went home with me, we had sex (i think) and then I passed out. The next day I woke up hungover, put on my corduroy coat and walked off into the village in search of eggs, my hands buried in my pockets and my mind swollen and thumping.

Toast

2008-12-03T10:50:00.000-08:00

The morning after the holiday break I woke up, made coffee in my bathrobe and watched a deer eat grass in my yard. I yawned and listened to the toaster pop and buttered the toast with frozen butter, the knife scraping the hard bread, the faucet dripping, the birds crying in the sky above the house. I walked to the porch and brought in the paper and savored the half silence. The headlines were more of the same, internet suicides and terrorist plots foiled, the dow was down and unemployment up. My dog licked at my feet, a warm rough tongue slither like a snake between my toes. I walked past him, dropped the dishes in the sink and headed up for a shower.

What A Bonehead!

2008-12-02T12:34:00.001-08:00

We were walking along, drunk, minding our own business. The steal shutters graffiti covered and cool on Avenue B. he bonehead thought it would be funny to start tossing each other into those steel shutters, as if we were in the action sequence of a Cassavetes movie. It was fun while it lasted, but on the very last toss he turned and kicked over a trash can while a police cruiser was turning the corner. Instantly arrested we spent the night in the tombs sobering up and preparing for a long term of community service.

Later on

2008-12-01T09:53:00.000-08:00

When will you be honest? When will you smile at your children? When will you express trust? The morning sun had sweat out the fog and there was lavender in the horizon. She was off to work and I was sitting on the couch reading Huysman, waiting on the cable and phones to get installed. Every where around me there was noise, the radiator, the air conditioner, the street sirens and car horns....There was noise in my head and on the radio. Later on I went out for coffee.

New People, Old Problems

2008-11-25T09:40:00.000-08:00

Bed wetting. Nightmares. Insecurity. Insomnia. Rheumatism. Cat allergies. Fear of enclosed spaces. Fear of sex. Fear of busses. Anxiety. Herniated disc. Complaints

Rebuilding

2008-11-24T09:01:00.000-08:00

We rebuilt this old grocery store out on the state road, put bins in from for fresh produce and installed a whole new refrigeration system. On Saturday nights we let the locals have a little car show in the parking lot, my wife plays records on the PA and I stand outside, with my with my apron rolled up in one hand, and greet them all. We tried to carry organic everything but gave up on it, it's comforting for people to see Twinkies and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese on the racks.

The US Opening

2008-11-21T17:52:00.000-08:00

We opened the gallery in hopes of selling some good art and having a place to throw parties with our friends. After the first opening I slept with a bohemian girl who lived down the hall from us and she slept with my best friend and from there is just spun out of control. It wasn't that it wasn't fun, it was fun. But the pain you feel waking up one morning with someone else's fingerprints on you mind, makes the world spin like salad in a cleaning device.

This Day Is Long

2008-11-20T20:23:00.001-08:00

I went to work and feared I'd never get home. I was tired and hungry and alone and nothing could stop the work from pouring in...I was ok, for a while, but Roy Orbison stopped helping.

Wonderful, Perfect, Amazing, Thanks For Asking

2008-11-19T16:26:00.000-08:00

She was a little confused that I'd locked her out and made her stand in the rain, but sometimes you just have to be alone at home and besides she didn't have to stay out in the rain, she could've gone to a coffee shop or a Kinkos or something and hung out and made small talk and done that type of thing. When she finally came in, I was still red with fury, my mind a cloud of dust unable to settle, my vision blurry and my voice hoarse. She looked so disappointed in me and her disappointment simply multiplied my fury...I smiled, she said, are you okay? I replise, wonderful, perfect, amazing, thanks for asking.

The Maker The Day He Quit

2008-11-18T13:43:00.000-08:00

The maker quit one day after he finished cleaning the tools. They were all wrapped in cloth and tucked away in the box. He then stepped from the office onto the sidewalk, pulling the collar of his jacket up to his ear lobes and walked home along the avenue. There was a sudden snow flurry and the wind swirled. The lights sent a yellow glare across his line of sight. The maker arrived home and kissed his wife, sat down in his chair and wrapped his feet in a blanket. He sighed. Tomorrow he would sleep in, read the paper and enjoy a cup of coffee.