Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Sometimes It's Yellow

Shut the bathroom door before turning on the light. Darkness. Accidentally turned on the exhaust fan. It growled. Thought it was a monster and jumped. Tripped and fell into the shower door. Startled again. Sat in the dark, confused and taking deep breaths. Slowly, things calmed. They began to make sense as a rational appraisal of what just occurred unfolded. Things came back. For the moment, I became me again. I stood up and turned on the light. Where had I gone? What momentary limbo had I stumbled into? I brushed my teeth feeling present, but as I watched my milky spit descend into the drain I felt myself begin to dissipate again. Fumbled the light switch. More darkness. Wandered down the hall. Bed looked familiar, kind of. Sat down at the desk. Stared at a blank white screen. Letters on the keyboard looked up like police walking in on a crime. Everything froze. A piece of me swam to the surface and spoke, "Tell me what happened."

"I can't," echoed my reply.

"Just type," it said.

And so I began, "Shut the bathroom door before turning on the light."

…Where am I in this narrative? Why do I keep losing time? Past, present, and future. It's all blurring together. I cannot even remember the story that I'm telling, but sometimes it's yellow…

In bed, the melatonin began to take effect. My eyes struggled to keep up with the primer on epistemology I had selected for my coming courses. Classes had not even begun and I already doubted my ability to do this. Perhaps, the detoxification was taking more of a toll on me than I expected. However, in a way, that gave me confidence. How many other students would have the perseverance to lie in bed reading epistemology while trudging through the delusional, writhing maze of delirium tremens?

In fact, earlier in the day, a bee had landed on my bed (maybe a wasp). I am never good at that—figuring out what something is. I suck at naming things so I guesstimate. I approximate. But I never delineate. Triangulate—maybe that's the word I want. Oh well, you get the basic idea. It was some sort of flying insect with a stinger. I thought it came from the shed (storage closet) on my deck since I had found a bee-wasp-hornet nest out there when I had moved in. Then it dawned on me that it was late December and snow-cold outside. There were no flying insects with stingers. Was it real? I swatted at it and it had flown away. I still wasn't convinced of its reality since it had so easily absconded. About thirty minutes later, I felt it flutter on my head. My hands flapped wildly, but there was nothing there to swat. I didn't even see it fly away this time. Had I imagined it? It felt real. But is that enough?

I don't know, but now I see that the incident had prepared me for this book. Here I am studying the nature of knowledge—what does it mean to know—and here I also am questioning the certainty of my experiences—experiences undermined by the delirious nature of my detox. The word serendipity comes to mind (which happened to be the movie I watched with lunch—also earlier today). Or, do I mean synchronicity? Oh well, you get the basic idea. Whatever the word, moments like this make me stop to ponder the bizarre and often surreal interconnectedness of life, experience, and thought. After all, how did a possible bee-wasp-hornet hallucination lead me (transition)-(segue)-(move)-(shift)-(evolve) so smoothly to a delusional meditation on epistemology? And how am I lying in bed reading that book if I’m sitting at my desk typing this summation of my day?

…Shit, I do believe that I've lost my self again…

Friday, December 25, 2009

Holiday Greetings

...Remind me to tell you of the time I went to my parent's house for Christmas Eve, even though I swore I would not attend.

I had made that vow out of spite, but as it turns out I should have made it out of a sense of decency.

All I know is that I wound up with my face painted red and green like a hockey game and talked my inebriated aunt into telling everyone she gave a random stranger a blow job at the corner gas station.

Then, on the way home after a power drinking holiday fest, I puked all over the inside and outside of my parent's newish car.

A few hours later, I sobered up and realized I had been on Craigslist talking to lonely, desperate trannies and sending them to the addresses of people I do not like—for a real Christmas morning surprise.

More time passed. Around five in the morning, I descended my stairs and discovered a huge Ziploc bag of meatballs on my counter, which was sitting next to an equally huge bag of Christmas cookies, a box of Rice Krispies Treats, and a pint of Southern Comfort.

"Good Lord," I thought, "What the hell happened? And why isn't every Christmas like this?"

I could definitely grow used to this strange, consumerist custom if this is the normal outcome.

Tuesday, December 08, 2009

Epilogue

Thomas Stone descends into his alcoholism. He sees the approaching psychosis as inevitable. Additionally, he views the delusional chaos as a condition paralleling the confusion generated by his education—a swirl of ideas with no anchor.

One morning, at a bar, enjoying a Guinness and Jameson after a long night’s work, he loses himself into an eddy of color staining the side of his pint glass—the result of holding the empty, foam-soaked glass in the shadow of a nearby blinking neon vodka sign.

He sees his entire, mundane life symbolized by this glass. Reluctantly, Stone embraces his destiny.

Days later, feeling acutely morose, he struggles to get ready for work. He wants to quit. He dreams of teaching literature—of penning a lauded, ground-breaking novel. He wishes he was a visionary, but he’s not—he’s a night stockman at a grocery store.

Mindlessly, he listens to the latest news on Iraq pour out of his television. Click. Click. He extends and retracts the blade of his box cutter. His dreams of another life increase in grandiosity. Each dream falls to reality. He has nothing to look forward to except eight hours of stacking cans.

Thomas imagines a day alone off the coast of Connecticut. He’s alone on the tides. The sail is down. The boat drifts aimlessly. An overcast day, gray extends across the horizon. Infinite dullness. A voice calls to Thomas and asks him to approach.

Thomas swigs from the chilled bottle of vodka. He tries to raise the sail, but the ropes are tangled into a hopeless knot. The voice calls again.

He cuts the ropes and tries to fasten a new tie, but it doesn’t work. The voice calls a final time.

Thomas stares into the horizon and then the short, choppy waves, and, finally, plunges into the ocean.

Oddly, despite the lack of sunlight, the water feels temperate. He begins to swim towards the horizon line—his arms cutting through the warm water. He fills with joy. For the first time in his life he thinks that God might actually exist.

Then he awakes from his daydream. He’s on his couch—warm blood flowing down his arms and soaking his shirt and the couch. The box cutter remains wedged in his right forearm. Blood squirts. He fades. He dies.

Monday, December 07, 2009

I Am the Totem Pole

Returning home from my orientation, the lunacy kicked in. I felt the divine short-circuiting my wiring. I knew it was time. I was about to channel that from beyond in my best Edgar Cayce, Zen, Beat madness, jazz-riffing glory. I burst through the door and stripped away the façade of khaki, dress-shirt, necktie slavery. The energy welled up and sent shivers through every pore, hair, and neuron. “Holy shit,” I exclaimed. This feeling—so pure and primal—that I can no longer view my mania as a disorder. No, this is a gift. This is Pentecostalist tongues without the inbreeding; this is the spark of God—whatever he, she, or it may be; this is why we are here. We are the reference point—the antenna through which that lonely, glory-hungry ineffable beast seeks to express itself. We are the living medium.

Such a revelation necessarily took control of me. Standing in my boxers and nothing else, I refastened my tie into an ornamental headdress. Its power besieged me. The Whitman yawp roared from my life. I was no longer in control. It was steering the wheels of my flesh. Stumbling into the bathroom, my knees slid my body onto the floor and my hands fumbled through the boxes stored beneath the sink. I found my leftover Halloween makeup and adorned my face with the paint of warriors ancient—making sure to match the life of color to the tie around my head. Symmetry was everything. Aesthetic is key, literally. Paint my doorway to the beyond. I shall chalk a body on the pavement of this earth and find escape into another dimension. It beckons me.

Racing up the stairs, I tripped and fell. My lip bashed into the angular carpet—enough to split it open. Blood poured from the wound and I received the communion of self. Its salty life descended into its own throat. Call me ouroboros; call me serpentine; call me lizard king; call me cosmic argyle—I am seeping into the pattern. I am one with Vonnegut’s purple buzz. I am Aum. And like Gibran’s prophet noted—I am a lotus of countless petals, unfolding itself.

Screams not quite me emerge from my mouth. I know it’s time. This could finally be the wave that I’ve been waiting to surf. It’s time to put my words to paper or, at least, this disembodied computer monitor of a reality. At least the tap-tap-tapping of the keys keep me linked to the great regurgitation, or should I say emulation—are these really my thoughts? No, I almost forgot. I am the channel and the channeled. I am no more real than a court stenographer. My dharma is not to be; it is to record. I am the DJ spinning appropriations. I am not the artist, within. We are merely the vessels—the vases—the porters of the invisible, indivisible, immaterial who require our clay for the pottery of the gods. Is that the truth of my existence? Seriously? Am I ambrosia? Am I the finger-tips of an interdimensional marionette?

Yes? Then so fucking be it. I’ll dance around my fireplace like tribal man around the pit. You call me crazy? No, the real insanity is your control. It’s your patient workweek melodrama. It’s your Olive Garden, Old Navy, Strip Mall, assimilated nightmare. Even your churches are tract housing defilements. You cookie-cutter god-seekers. You cannot handle the mysterium tremendum et fascinans that is the Lord. You need grape juice and cookies amidst your soccer mom congregations of weak-minded, dollar-bill donating bullshit that you call worship. Come to me when the hallucinogenic chemicals of dissociating bliss have eaten through bone and snot like hydrochloric acid and left nothing but the spark of the eternal. This is why the angels are lost in perpetual contemplation of an infinite glory.

You see, you may see my necktie headdress and Monday afternoon war paint as symptomatic of a mental disorder, but you’re not getting it. This is what it means to be a human being. We, like all of life, are in touch with the divinity that is existence. However, we are the only creature on Earth incapable of accepting such a thing. We are not the advanced, civilized mark of hope; we are the weak, smelly shit of the biosphere. We are the cancer—not the salvation. Salvation is in immersion, submission, and hallucination. The illogical, maniacal, carnival-like trumpet of the mad—that’s the voice of reason. Ironic, yes, but that’s the nature of life and until you melt into that irony this means nothing. So scream with me! Yes, scream.

The primitive is the advanced. The Catch is the 22 and the Rye. The modern is the post and we precipitate that which anticipates, because to come means to go. Hence, I dance around the fireplace—a modern primate in my soul-paint of the gods and I dangle my necktie headdress in defiance of your convention. I am here to channel not tune in. I am the dialed and the dial, but never the dialer. Oh, sing me the song of the universal and burst my ears. Carve your wooden soap masks and shower with me in golden, mad defile. Come ye’ angelic lost, and join me in celebration. We shall write the book of books and contribute a verse. For this is Monday, December 7th, 2009 and the only time in all of eternity that this moment shall breathe—and in jubilation, lets remorse. It was time to write even though time pretzeled upon itself and lead me here—weaving a narrative of past and present tense that made little sense, but I write and wrote and you shall read and read and the möbius strip flows on—the great bow tie lives and that is why I wear this tie upon my head and this paint upon my face. I am the totem pole and I celebrate the ancients who first discovered the secret.

We evolve, devolve in reverse. We did not replace them. They left without cloth. They left in light. And now it’s our turn to countdown to zero, but are we really prepared to let go of one?

Hallelujah. Will you dance with me?

Flicker

Bourbon glass, pencil resting beneath
the candle flicker while
love insane, improper, and
improbable sleeps above. My
couch holding a promise
that may yield stomach-knotting,
snot-dribbling sacrifice, but
why else do we ignite the
slender spinal thread of this
wax we call home? Tiny
flames comfort and release
fleshy prisons from the shelf. I
slide into you, and
burn.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Cry Me a River

But, what if on the other side we discover that there is no enlightenment—no identity, culture, or stable consciousness. What if it’s all just a sick, twisted dream without end or anchor? What if it really is an ever-changing kaleidoscope, without purpose or pattern—an infinite scream of existential boggle, remorse, and ecstasy? Remorseful, because whatever we are deep down regrets ever having the gall to leave the sanctuary of nothingness—ever having dared to build itself a throne. Ecstatic, because the folds of renewal promise the illusion of becoming—of finally solidifying and attaining our true nature and discovering the meaning behind our eternal unfurling. What if that really is who are: an atom of a bipolar, cosmic castaway forever at sail—drifting, cresting, and receding—with no distinction between sea and seafarer; what then? Goddamn this albatross, goddamn it indeed.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

String Theory

I need to stop saying, "I love you," when I'm drunk. But it's not even a lie. I'm not saying it to get laid, because given the circumstances saying that probably makes it more likely that the girl will get spooked out and decide against having sex with me. But I still do it.

And in that moment it's true.

Every woman—every goddamn, hip-swinging, soft-skinned, beautiful woman on this planet—represents a different me. Each one of them is a potential life. Choosing them puts me on a solitary path that only they can bestow. Every combination unique and each one will make a new me. There's a billion me's walking around this planet. String theory in a g-string.

And there, in that moment, drunk as can be—brain lubricated and capable of accessing the universe in its infinite glory—this potential me unfurls in her presence, her touch, her taste, her smell, and this excitement. I see the life she can give me. I see a new self and for a stale, withered fuck like me that’s a magical joy and an exceptional gift.

So as I stare into the future smiling at me from between her legs I see the evolution of myself and the promise of a new reality and I fall in love. And being someone who's recklessly honest with the moment at hand, out it comes, "I love you."

It's sincere and that's why it has never spooked a girl. Instead, they're touched in a weird, unexpected way. They know it's not normal, but they love it nonetheless. "Here's a man," they think, "that understands the power of our femininity. Here's a man who loves women—really loves them and who really loves me." Then we fuck like the mad.

Unfortunately, when I awake and the magic has faded into the invisible, my feelings have gone with it. It's not that the reality I saw stretched before me is simply inaccessible—it's dead—severed, withered and gone. That love nothing more than some metaphysical stillbirth lingering in the back of my mind and slowing sinking into the murky muck of the psyche. A misfired ejaculation.

Another me dead. Another love destroyed. Perhaps, I'm a time-travelling serial killer intent on wiping out every possible thing I can ever possibly be. The ultimate suicide. No more question marks. And perhaps the one girl who can save me is the one with the power to block my gaze into time and who delivers me the nothingness that I seek—a big, fat fucking question mark. Are you my great riddle?

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

The 18th Hole

It was a Thursday in November, just after noon. A DJ, his rubenesque slave, and a Jiu-jitsu student showed up to my apartment with a bag full of ecstasy, cheap beer, and an even cheaper bottle of vodka. The situation called for pants so, reluctantly, I ventured into my closet. I returned wearing some ripped faded jeans that should have been retired months ago. It’s best if I don’t tell you about all the stains on them, or where they came from. However, I drew attention away from the tattered, soiled denim with the badminton racquet and face paint that I was sporting. “Why,” you ask. Well, I’m about to tell you and the ending is more bizarre than anything you’re expecting right now. Trust me…

...to be continued(tomorrow)...but here's a clue...it shall end with a proposal.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

Bacon Sizzle and the Great Bone Shiver

There are many ways to solve the riddle of ego. One can appease it with wine or spirit. One can pacify it with ideology. You can whisk it away into a psychedelic dreamland. Seduce it via hedonistic abandon. Flummox, Numb it, or dumb it—there are many ways to escape it. Me, however, I prefer to outright assault it. Nothing is quite as illuminating or enrapturing as psychological torture. It accentuates both being and nothingness—what it means to reside and what it means to depart (to perish), touching every point along the way. Stretched like taffy, my self—that is, me—I split, splinter, and fall. Atomized. Disintegrated. Like Mist, I steam into the ethereal—nothing remains except the mad, hypnotic drum-lashing they call my heartbeat. Anchored. This vibration still holds me. The assail continues as I plant the toothpicks beneath my paint-caked finger nails. My paintings a hopeful mirage, at best, but this—this torture—this is the true art, but it can never be displayed. He smells like cheap cologne and cheap tobacco doused in sex. His teeth are long—some sort of red, pulpy gum disease has polished his teeth to a fine semi-white sheen. They’re long and lean like a mouthful of skeleton fingers and I imagine what it must be like to have death take me in his mouth and suck my soul clean. In the meantime, I tremble as he uses a pair of greasy needle-nosed pliers to twist the toothpick into the delicate virgin skin hiding from the world behind the safety of cuticles and clear nail polish. I always wondered if the Korean woman who gives me my manicures thought queer of me for being so obsessed with a tidy, groomed appearance. If only she knew that it was merely the first stage of the ritual—the washing of the child’s flesh before sacrificing him to the gods. She has no idea of the blood, spit, and shit that would soon cake these godforsaken mechanical tentacles that predated (prepared) religion for man’s consumption. There she sat, happy with her work, smiling down at my squeaky clean, queer fingernails—knowing I’d tip her well—not knowing that I cannot help but imagining her with a grotesque, slimy phallic invading her, because a distant speed-binge landed me in front of a computer watching hours of Japanese tentacle porn and my American eyes cannot read the compass of Asian eyes and I never know which way they’re pointing nor to which region it points. She knows my nails are pretty. She does not know that I’m going to lacerate the inside of my thigh with a size 11 scalpel and use my own blood to lubricate my fist before ramming it into an 18 year old transsexual, lady boy’s ass. It’s all part of the torture. Mine, not his. Yes, I love women. Yes, the idea of having a beloved wife and family gives me great joy and comfort, but that’s why I have to fuck these little ambiguously gendered sluts. It’s not about pleasure—it’s about destroying everything that is me. My flesh, my mind, my soul, my comfort, my bone, my spit, my blood—my all. I need spine-sizzling cigarette burns and broken tibia-hepatitis-swine flu-permanent-scarring-hell-soaked-medical-disasters. I need this me to go. He twists the toothpick again and it penetrates deep into my finger. It scratches the bone and I shiver.


Inspired by...

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Those Who Wait Believe

"Cynic," he repeated, incredulously. "Are you kidding? If I was a cynic, then I would have abandoned art and literature years ago. I am the stubborn, wallowing optimist—forever awaiting some great rapture of soulful purity. I am preoccupied with the authentic—with scrounging for obscure cinematic gems and scribbling my thoughts, as if the poetry of mind-ramble mattered. I refuse to settle, loathe the comfort of tradition, and refuse the ease and acceptance of routine. If I was a cynic, then I would have abandoned this lonely, idealistic crusade for truth and meaning years ago to take my place among the suited. But there's no neck tie on this boy and there never will be, because—for whatever reason—I still believe. And if that's not optimistic, then what is?"

Thursday, October 08, 2009

We Fallen Snot, Remorse

Leaving class, I strolled along one of the campus’s back roads. Since it lacked a heavy flow of traffic, the groundskeepers allowed the fallen foliage to gather, dry, and rot. I used to like leaves. Autumn always ranked as my favorite season. Now, however, something strikes me as different. I am no longer moved by the beauty of the crispy, motley-colored leaves. I see trash and rubbish. I see the biology of the world, which disgusts me.

Random, indiscernible thoughts bombard me. Similar to a dream or a difficult book in which meaning always seems just out of grasp, I cannot explain this disgust. I see bacteria, virus, hair, sweat, filth and ooze. A decayed tooth bites into me. Its slimy gums gnaw on my neck like a homeless, filthy vampire. A thunderstorm of snot-rain and cum pour down from the jelly-like sunset and lions surround me on the plains as mud-soaked golems ascend from the Earth to drag me down into is muck and mire.

I see my awkward, feigned smile emerging from the damp clump of leaves clinging to the pavement as oil-streaked rainwater tries to carry them into the bowels of the sewer. I see the nasty mess that is life and I hate these fucking leaves. I want a shit-less, piss-less, inorganic digital concrete of a non-blood-soaked world—free from saliva and vomit and eggs, afterbirth, earwax, and anal grease. I want sleek-silicon curves and infinite expanses of pure white backdrops—an army of cybernetic minimalists to come scour the filth away and to build anew—forests of Serra sculptures sitting solemn under Ellsworth-painted skies. Buildings by Ando and everywhere a satellite.

And fuck breathing. I don’t want that stank-rot air pouring wretched little microbes and pollution into my soft, spongy lungs. I want SWAT-like gas masks from the year 2025 dispensing pure, uncut oxygen to my pretty, aluminum enameled bronchi. Turn my DNA into a fiber optic motherboard and launch me into a universe of drab, gray galleries. Just don’t turn me into a God-damned leaf. And that’s when I realized why I had loved fall all along. It’s the precession of biological death.

The ooze begins to desiccate. The creepy-crawlers descend into hibernation. Passions are quelled. The fiery, bastard sun of the galaxy eludes our grasp. The gray finally comes. Everything solemn, approaching the civilized front of a new horizon. Then the freeze—that beautiful, crystal-white landscape that always brings me so much hope, but then spring returns. That Gaia-loving bitch. And the ooze puddles again and the worms begin to crawl and I feel myself swirling in this giant, festering toilet bowl.

Come, please, ye angelic robots and take me away. I have no taste for the womb.

Saturday, October 03, 2009

86-Proof Salvation

We do not waste to sleep. We waste to dream. We’ve been cast into the crotch of civilization—that retarded, stunted growth known as the suburbs. Using the male anatomy to illustrate, we are the ball-sack of the world. Not quite the house of shit down the street, but not the euphoria-inducing shaft of exploding-fulfillment either. We’re right in between. It’s a rather unfortunate position too. At least if we were the asshole then we could pucker up and make a shitty mess of things or give the master an itch that sends him into complete misery. But no, we just hang there, wallowing in the stank of crotch sweat, trying to avoid the waft of shit coming from around the corner, and all the while dreaming that we could feel the mindless joy of a long, voluminous ejaculation. It’s the wretchedness of the middle for us. That’s our lot.

Thursday, July 09, 2009

You're Sinking. Do You Understand That?

It’s really frightening to stop and think about the reality of life in America. When you know what’s really going on—my God—it’s hard not to run off on a Crystal Meth and DMT-binge, lobbing Molotov cocktails into the windows of local stores, and ranting about how the JFK assassination was the start of it all. Strange, maniacal times are afoot, but, for whatever reason, people don’t seem to care.

Have we been defeated? Have our assess and spirits been kicked that much? Nowadays, a rant will elicit a response along the lines of, “Yeah, yeah we know this man—you’re not telling us anything new—anything special. So drop the pretentious lecture and just let us be.”

We’re all just biding time, but not in a good way. We’re not like the prizefighter picking his shot. We’re like the passengers left behind on the Titanic. It is going down. We all know it, but all we can do—all we can say is, "Stop your damn screaming and let me enjoy the cool night air—maybe a snifter of cognac—and let me die in peace."

Well, I have one thing to say to you, “FUCK YOU.”

This country can still be ours again. This land of the free can actually be free. We just have to stop being a bunch of lazy, couch-surfing pussies. Feminists, I am sorry if my language offends you, but these wretched bastards need to hear something that might motivate them. So, if you have a viable alternative, then please let me know and I’ll insert that instead.

Anyhow—as I was saying—we can take back our streets, our cities, and our government. Let’s start by polluting the water supply with massive doses of 2C-E and copies of Finnegans Wake. We have to remember that there is a reality behind the concocted, hyper-mediated, fictional monster that is America. There are primal feelings and urges—driving us like instinct drives an animal—oh, maybe because we are fucking animals you goddamn Baptist swine (meanwhile the evangelicals are just literally fucking animals, because we all know how much they like literal versions of…oh, well, I digress).

Yes, that’s right—a reality—a reality that extends from one end of the electromagnetic spectrum to the other—from long-waves to gamma-rays and what we humans call visible reality is just a tiny sliver somewhere near the middle and, unfortunately, the good of human evolution has taken a back seat to the presupposition of the human eye superior—too bad blind people don’t rule the world—imagine that—imagine a world based purely on thought and inner experience—who says we cannot come closer to utopia?

Hell, even the founding fathers understood the concept of a more perfect union. It’s not about perfection per se, but the journey towards—always up, up, and away—straight ahead mach 10 until eternity.

So get of the couches. Bleach off the S.S. I’m Fucked adorning the side of your luxury liner of a recliner that has become your destined vessel for this once-in-a-goddamn-eternity of a voyage.

Do you even understand that? This is it! This is all there ever will be of you. Even if there’s some sort of ineffable soul that journeys on—it’s not you. It’s not an ego, i.e. a personality resulting from a peculiarly unique aggregate of bio-chemical and socio-economic factors. Bob dies man, Bob dies. Enjoy this shit. It’s your one and only time in ALL of ETERNITY.

And if you think that on your deathbed you will give one second’s thought to this idea that, “Hey, at least I was a nice, sedated member of society who paid my bills on time and followed the rules...”

Well, then you’re in for one massive-fucking-disappointment.

The only thing that you’re going to feel is regret. There, in your last moment, that life-ending sunshine will break through your eye curtains and you’ll find yourself feeling that primitive, tribal self and you’re going to think, “Fuck me.”

And then you’re going to die. And I’m going to smoke a bong on your grave. Then I’m going to fuck my insane and insanely beautiful “soul” mate on your tombstone. Then she’s going to go home and bathe in a bathtub full of wine—why—because she fucking wants to and she gets it.

Do you?

...Okay so maybe I was just really high, listened to too much Bill Hicks and went ape shit on my blog.

Thursday, April 30, 2009

The File Clerk -- Part I

I awoke yesterday morning in a panic. Sweat oozed down my unkempt bangs. It dripped from my cheeks. My arms were slippery. The sheets were damp. I gulped air. My heart shuddered and seized. My mind was blank. It was another night terror. They’re like nightmares, but empty. There is no memory. There is no object of fear—just fear itself…

…Slowly, a wave of calm pours over me. I can feel my mind anchoring itself to the reality below me. I lay my head down on the pillow. It’s damp, but comforting. As my Zen master taught me, I close my eyes and breathe slowly through my nose. These controlled patterns of breath helped ease the terror into its stall. I close my eyes.

I thought the Vicodin would help. However, the lure of its analgesic bliss had pulled me into the maddening grips of an opioid binge. During the past three days I ate thirty-seven tablets of hydrocodone. The delirium is much softer than the chaotic madness of a speed binge. It sneaks up on you. You don’t notice when it starts, but then the moment will come. Looking around, you will see that the world has become wrapped in cellophane. It looks tight, clean, and shiny—protected and suffocated at the same time. My thoughts were—hell they are—jumbled.

When I think in sentences the words are rearranged. Letters fall into the wrong slots. I feel dyslexic. I remember the image of an image rather than the image itself. I briefly open my eyes to look around my room and an eerie feeling of repetition invades me. Déjà vu? I don’t know anymore. I have suffered from paramnesia since I was thirteen, maybe fourteen. With every year, the experiences become worse. Sometimes I don’t even know if I’m experiencing an actual moment of Déjà vu or just remembering a similar moment of Déjà vu from my past. I am inside the cellophane.

Finally, I open my eyes and stop my meditation breathing. The world seems solid again. The terror has vanished. The safety of my bed and the warmth of my blankets make it hard for me to start my day. Sometimes I lay in bed for hours after I awake. I travel to the past. My brain is like a file cabinet without locks or missing pages. I can remember it all and I do. I travel to third grade and enjoy recess. I see my old friends. I relive old conflicts and torments. Sometimes I revise the files. I make them prettier. I make them uglier. I triumph over bullies who formerly triumphed over me. I win the hearts of the girls who ran off with mine. Those tasks get assigned to the collections department. I always win. I always collect, up here that is. I hold my finger to my forehead.

The office feels a thousand miles away. A journey of a thousand steps may begin with one, but that still leaves nine-hundred and ninety-nine more. I do not have the energy for that. Besides, my cubicle is a prison. My bedroom is a prison. One prison is as good as another, right?

But I have a car payment overdue…and rent. I need some new books too. Perhaps, some more Vicodin. Maybe I can persuade the doctor to prescribe me Xanax instead. Faking anxiety is as easy as love—one part impatience, one part fright, and one part elation.

“Fuck,” becomes my first word of the day.

My knees pop as I force myself to stand up. Immediately, I wish I was back in bed. The hardwood floor chills my feet. “I should buy slippers,” I think. Then I hate the idea. That means more work. That means more time at the office. The less I buy means the more time I have for my own file cabinet. It means more time in bed.

As I walk into the hallway I am again invaded by that sense of duplication. I know that I have stood here feeling this and thinking this sometime before. Another hung-over morning perhaps? No, this is awkward. It’s unsettling. And quiet. Why is it so quiet?

I stumble into the kitchen after using the restroom. The window was left open and a draft tickles my shirtless body. My pjs are simple: cotton pajama pants and nothing else. It’s a good balance of naked and covered. It’s quiet outside too.

The coffee grinder roars to life. It seems fifty times louder than normal. What is this sickening quiet? As my coffee brews I decide to look for answers.

Flipping on the radio welcomes me into a world of static. Nothing. I turn the dial. The same. A mute buzz. The airwaves were quiet too. Subsequently, I can hear every drip of my coffee. Drip. Drip. Drip. It feels in rhythm with my heart. I try to stay calm. However, I can feel my body wanting to descend into panic. The coffee maker gurgles to completion. I pour a cup and head into the living room.

Sitting down, I turn on the television. Nothing. There’s no signal. On any channel. My TV remains an empty blue screen. I gulp my coffee. There’s something odd about the TV itself. It doesn’t feel dead. It doesn’t feel broken. It feels alive, just vacuous. It wants to intercept a signal. It wants to broadcast light. But, it’s starving. There’s no signal to feed on. Just this empty, hungry blue screen. I finish my coffee in a hurry and dress even quicker. Despite my initial reluctance to go to work now I cannot wait to get out of this house.

“Fuck this,” becomes my second and third words of the day as I step out the door. A cool snip of air bites me. The day is grey. There are no clouds. There is no sun. Pure overcast. An empty, grey sky…why is today so empty? Why so silent? That’s when I noticed it…

…The street was still crowded with cars. By the time I leave for work, the streets are usually bare. All the responsible cars have gone. Not today. The sides of the road are lined with parallel-parked cars. The narrow driveways are full. It is packed, but there are no people. I don’t see anyone—no one picking up a paper, walking a dog, or going to their cars. Nothing, just silence.

Finally, a breeze sweeps a small pile of leaves down the road. Some of the leaves wander off course and smack into my ankles. I hear a tiny crunch as the fragile leaves crumple under my feet and then a lifeless scrape as their remains travel down the pavement. My head tilts towards the sky. “Am I dreaming,” I think to myself?

Debating on whether or not this is a dream, I decide to close my eyes and deploy a lucid dream technique that I know. It’s simple really. You just say “I am in control,” and focus on opening your eyes—the imaginary ones, not the real ones. For a moment, I feel unhinged. I’m not sure if my feet are on the ground. I get scared and open my eyes. I’m standing in the middle of the road like an idiot.

“Maybe I just mixed my days up again,” I tell myself. So I check my phone’s calendar. “Please be Sunday,” are the next words to leave my mouth, followed by, “Shit.” It was Tuesday. I stretched my arms and ran my fingers through my hair. It took all my strength not to burst into a panic. Where the hell was everyone? Why was everything empty? Why was the world so God-damned silent?

As I drove the road that ran parallel with the park it dawned on me that I was the only person out here. There were no other cars. I passed businesses and their parking lots were empty. The streetlights were off—they were all blinking yellow. I stopped at one anyway. It was the busiest intersection that I cross on my way to work. Typically, I have to wait at least 10 minutes to get through this light. Yet, here I am…stopped at a flashing yellow light…alone.

“Fuck!”

I threw the shifter into park and got out of the car.

“Hello,” I screamed. “Where is everyone? Anyone?” My voice bounced off the surrounding buildings and returned my calls to me. “I’m here,” I yelled, “I’m here.”

At first, I had said it sarcastically. I didn’t know how else to react. However, as the second “here” left my mouth I began to doubt it. Am I here? Am I really here? And just where is here? This may resemble the world I’m used to, but it’s definitely not the same. Where are all the people? Where is all the noise? Where is all the movement? Empty. Silent. Still.

“Fuck.”

I climb back into my car. I lay my head on the steering wheel. Tears well up in me, but I do not give in to the urge. “No crying,” I tell myself, “There is a reason. There has to be.”

In frustration, I slam on my horn. It blares into the distant nothingness, lingers, and dies. The world was so quiet that I wondered whether or not that sound managed travel the entire globe round, but who would have heard it? Was it this empty everywhere, or just here…the here with me.

I decide not to leave. I drive into the middle of the intersection and park. The stoplights at this intersection are equipped with video cameras to catch people who run red lights. It would only be a matter of time before someone monitoring the footage would see me sitting out here like a lunatic and dispatch an officer to the scene. Maybe. I wasn’t entirely sure if someone actively monitored the footage. A person at work told me that they did. Although, someone else at work told me that they were only activated as a light turns red. The second idea seemed far-fetched so I decided to believe in the first one. Time to wait and see who was correct. Time to wait for the men transporting the white coat with buckles—it’s warm like a baby blanket. So Secure. So Solid. So decisive. No questions. No confusion. The white room. It will take me away from here…

…Pacing around the car only made me more nervous so I stopped. Instead, I laid down on the hood and stretched out. It still felt warm from the engine and buckled slightly, but held my weight. Hours passed…or maybe just minutes…those empty minutes…minutes so boring they feel a thousand times longer than they are. I could not tell anymore. Perhaps there are no minutes. Perhaps minutes are just a concept of man that is meant to order that which cannot be ordered. Time is like an ocean—not a wheel. We have confused the mechanical rotation of the Earth with the mechanics of time. Time does not revolve—it extends and hovers. Extension blows a mass of experience through our minds like a fast-forwarding movie whereas hovering anchors our mind to a particular point of experience, a metaphysical pause button. It goes and it stops. It’s like these roads and stoplights that I am resting on and in…they extend and stop. And I cannot help but notice the appropriateness of the intersection that sits before me—a place between the extension and the hover—a place of...

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Utility Workers (Part 1)

My pills make me hallucinate sometimes. So when I heard the clamor at the bottom of my stairwell I wasn’t sure if it had actually happened. I peeled myself off the couch and went to the window. The rusted cartilage in my knees popped as I walked. Looking out the window, I noticed a utility truck outside. The logo of the electric company glistened as the sun battered against the vehicle’s door.

It was so routine—so common—that I thought nothing of it. I returned to my couch. I returned to my television. I returned to my laptop. I returned to the warm intoxication of my depression medications.

When the clamor traveled slowly up the stairwell, I wrote it off as a delusion—another fun side effect of my capsulated treatment. Then it happened. The door from my stairwell flung open. A loud bang startled me as the door knob slammed into the wall.

I looked up from the couch. It was the man from the electric truck—a utility worker. Except, this man did not brandish a pair of heavy-duty long-nose-pliers. Instead, he had a gun pointed at me. It was sleek and black. There was a long cylinder attached that I recognized as a silencer; I had seen them in many movies. I didn’t know much about tools back then so I couldn’t have told you what kind of gun it was.

“Get up,” the man demanded. Stunned and frightened I remained motionless. Coldly, he repeated his demand. That time I rose.

He walked towards me and pushed the silencer into my forehead. The metal felt cool against my skin. “Happy Birthday Mr. Ryder,” which was accurate—it was my birthday. I was thirty-three.

“Maybe,” I thought, “this is just some fucked-up birthday gram from one of my fucked-up friends with a fucked-up, sadistic sense of humor.” After all, when you bounce in and out of treatment centers and your best conversations focus on which bi-polar meds you like most, well, the chances are high that your friends won’t be the most compassionate group of individuals.

Then the man began to talk again, “Are you Mister Henry Isaiah Ryder, born March twenty-second, of the year nineteen-hundred and eighty-two?”

Dumbfounded, I answered meekly, “Uh, yes sir.”

“Then, in Accordance with clandestine federal statue 456.781, section 2.A., subparagraph III.A, per executive order 119, I am hereby ordered to inform you, Mister Henry Isaiah Ryder, born March twenty-second, of the year nineteen-hundred and eighty-two, that you have been randomly selected as a lottery recipient to be collected for removal.”

I never did understand contract-speak and hearing it with a gun pressed into my forehead did not make it any easier to comprehend. “Sir,” I began, “Are you telling me that I won the lottery?”

“Mr. Ryder you were chosen in the lottery based on a random drawing based on your social security number.”

“Okay,” I replied. However, my confusion did not recede. “Well, what did I win?”

“Mr. Ryder, you won nothing. I am here to collect you.”

“Collect me,” I said, “What does that even mean?” Then a beam of dust-speckled sunlight fell into the room. It illuminated the gun. It hit me instantly.

“Ashes to ashes,” I mumbled.

“And dust to dust,” he finished.

A panicked wave of understanding, imbued with dread, poured into me like rotted concrete. I fell to the ground and began hyperventilating. The man rolled his eyes and snorted in disgust. He had seen this same outburst too many times.

However, his disgust was not entirely indignant. A hint of self-loathing lurked in that dismissive grunt. I felt a small crack emerge. The situation was not as hopeless as my gut had perceived it to be.

Within seconds I collected myself. A quote from an old movie popped into my head. I never took the time to memorize it correctly, but it was something along the lines of, “When the fall is all that’s left, then how you fall matters a great deal.”

Panic switched to rage. I sat up. “Fuck you,” I exclaimed.

The man’s fist tightened around the gun’s handle. “Excuse me,” he retorted.

“I said, fuck you. Who the hell do you think you are waltzing into my house and pointing that goddamn thing at me? Why don’ you try putting that gun down and seeing if you can collect me the old-fashioned way.”

I rose to my feet.

A smirk emerged from the corners of his mouth. “Mr. Ryder,” he began, “All the anger in the world will not save you now. When your number has been selected, policy dictates the outcome. You will be collected.”

“Well,” I began, “If my fate is inevitable, then why don’t you at least explain what the fuck is going on.”

“As policy dictates, that is not an option.” I could hear his voice grow weary.

“Policy, policy, policy! What are you a man or a piece of fucking paper? Don’t you get sick of being a walking contract?”

“More than you know Mr. Ryder, but, unfortunately for you, that just doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Oh really,” I blustered, “Because, from my point-of-view, it means a hell of a lot right now.”

His grip weakened and he lowered the gun.

Silence filled the room, literally. It was not the usual absence of sound, but a nerve-wracked, thick fog of silence that seeped from nowhere and filled the space between us.

(To be Continued...)

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Turkey '05

A night with Wild Turkey 101 never ends well.
the last time I rode the gobble-gobble train was in 2005, on a
monday night. Why? I don’t know. The last thing I
remember was a huge double shot next to the pool table with a
guy named Scott. I remember that his smile streaked out beyond his cheeks
like a smudge on a window that knew no boundaries. The rest of the world
smeared with it and I disappeared somewhere in the blotch. Then it was
a Tuesday at almost 3 in the afternoon. I had only two things left in
the world—a horrible headache and an array of peculiar, but necessary
questions. How did I get home from the bar? I thought it was Joe, but
after I called him to say, “Thank you man,” he informed me that he
ditched my drunk ass—and rightfully so. He also informed me that he was
the last of our friends to depart. I had been left with
strangers. Did one of them drive me home? Is that why my Johnny Depp DVD
turned up missing? Was that my payment? Or did I walk home—a feat only
possible by the grace of a drunken God? And why had I ripped off
the toilet seat and hung it from the spout in the bathtub? Why did I
place my shoes in the sink? Why did I later take one shoe out and
fling it across the living room, lodging it into the bookshelf? Why
was there three Styrofoam cups in my freezer? And why had the bar
thought it would be a good idea to unleash my fowl ass onto the
world with take-out Long Island Ice teas? Was I that bad, or that
good? How long was I in the bathroom—apparently talking to my roommate
from inside the locked door—before I decided to crawl into my
bedroom and puke on my floor? Why did I try to mop the
chunked vomit up with a sock? Why did I leave the sock in the
middle of the puddle, posed odd like a work of modern art? Why did I
even go to the bar on a Monday night after declaring that I would
absolutely not drink that night? Why was one eyebrow shaved
off? Why? Well, I guess because I felt like an animal at the
Zoo who thought why the fuck not and then threw my dung at you.

Sunday, February 08, 2009

My God is Not

Look, just because I don’t sit in chapels singing hymns, or eating your cracker and wine does not mean I am not in line with the divine for I know God! And do not mistake my tranquility for fragility for I can explode indignantly righteous you see I choose silence as my weapon in these treaties we sign secretly with reality in search of peace but I know of nihility and when pushed I’ll scream because I don’t know your God that you seek to push on me informing me you will pray for me so mercifully trying to save me from an eternity of my own doing…

...Man, fuck you! I don’t need your arrogant saving and pushy praying reaching out to me in the name of salvation so long as I voice his proclamation whilst my hands throw down a donation to maintain his creation, but trust me I know the real God and I know the real creation and I know the real beauty of my divination…

And excuse me, but it wasn’t my God that held my hair when I was small child and taunted me to cry while holding a bowl in my face for that salty tear soup. It wasn’t my God that beat up my sister while my mother made me watch. It wasn’t my God that bruised my ass cheeks with a hair brush or called me a pussy and made me walk to school with a broken foot.

It wasn’t my God that told all those kids to make fun of me because I was poor and dressed funny or think of me as weak because I chose not to speak because my mind was still tweaked by the pink welt on my back from the night before last or the three hours of screams I heard the night before that until a bottle went through the window like BLAT!

It wasn’t my God that jumped me four on one in the playground or molested my best friend. It wasn’t my God that made my aunt starve herself to death or my uncle blow his brains out or forced a sixty year-long bottle of whiskey into my other uncle’s mouth. It wasn’t my God that put a taboo baby into my mother’s belly or told my grandfather to cheat on his wife or told my sister to get knocked up at sixteen, oh well that's just life, right?

It wasn’t my God that told my girlfriend to abort our child without telling me or my God that convinced my best friend to sell his ass to forty year old men for drug money and it wasn’t my God that told the cops to set up my other friend so they could ship his ass off to the pen for the state to collect tax dividends.

Nor was it my God that had me drop out of school to stop the people who wrote fag on my back, who throw tampons at me, who made fun of me for being the child abuse boy, who had girls come up and smack me, who in groups of three would beat the shit out of me.

It wasn’t my God that handed me the bottle the first time, or the pills, or the cocaine, or the heroin, and especially not that goddamn acid. It wasn’t my God that handed me the razor blade or cigarettes to burn myself with. It wasn’t my God who told that motherfucker to put a shotgun to my face. It wasn’t my God that killed my friend’s dad in his forties. And it wasn’t my God that robbed my cousin’s house or raped my other cousin in an alley.

Oh, and it sure as fuck ain’t my God that tells me as long as I buy nice things from Nike, Sony, and Abercrombie that shit will all go away. See, my God did not give 200 people the same amount of money that the poorest 3 billion people on this planet have so they can wipe their ass with a tuft of silk just because they can while third world babies rot amidst maggots, mosquitoes, cadavers, and the bleak hope of a mad lord who cast hordes of poor castes in the outlands to return with open hands to smite those packs of clans that pass out rations to the starving in the name of compassion who trade in their God for your religious fascism that fashions hunger relief second to baptism

Nah see, My God gave me the strength to rise above all this shit and to not give in and to raise my chin and embrace my skin and love my kin despite all the fucked up things they did. My God drops snowflakes of sunbeams on my back and touches my heart with insight into this chaos and that’s compassion because we all need the same thing.

We all want peace; it's that great struggle to hold that happiness that feels so true, authentic, and deep like your feet stuck in a bucket of concrete love never-ending, just be.

See, My God crawls across sunrise morning like great flaming ivy on the walls of the Universe and dabs an empty blue sky with the softest white cloud you’ve ever seen (at just the right time), or in joy brings tears to your eyes, and washes even the cruelest moments in the sheen of a dream unlocked like Tupac who saw the rose growing from out the sidewalk and in that moment stood the real God…

The Real God The Real God The Real God
The Real God The Real God The Real God
The Real God The Real God The Real God
The Real God The Real God
The Real God The Real God
The Real God The Real God
The Real God
The Real God
The Real God
The Real
The Real
The Real
The
The
The.

Friday, February 06, 2009

Sixty-Miles per Hour

With a sunlight of Jesus and a pall
Of Nietzsche, I immerse myself into this world of
Futile beauty and. Falling into lanes, drunk at sixty miles per
Hour I feel the comfortable habit of hubris tinged
With death that still distanced cannot come to be pulls
Me on. An hourglass of motley montage trickles down my
Spine and the life of the many marches on—the Russian
Acrobats flying in Midwest mind's awe for the life of art—the Los Angeles
Tranny pulling tricks in a K.C. hotel—the decrepit old woman still petitioning
God in a Guatemalan cathedral—the armless Ugandan child refugee running from the Lord’s Resistance Army—dive bar drinking philosophers
Inquiring the random, why not males about the sociology of bathrooms—and
In the lighted mix of mankind do I feel the wonder of that why not, but
Such a thought also takes me into the why not of obliteration—why not turn my wheel
Into sixty mile per hour concrete just to see the cement intoxication decimate
This self that I so loathe. This self that feeds on a slow-drip IV of Ayahuasca death juice. Why Not, I ask. Why, it answers—because sunlight is noon and midnight is moon and—right now—it's
only a half past two.

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

Duplicity

The shorts, so short. The beer, so cold. The wings,
So hot. I love Hooters. Those thighs, those breasts–
Chicken ya’ know…on my table to eat.
And that hot sauce boy, to see it glazed on
That tight golden skin, all delicious yum.
I bet it’s as hot as that waitress girl’s
Buns—bread stupid, Geesh! Where is your head at?
Hooters refers to owls, right? Or does it?
After all, we come to buy the meat, so
What else could it be, if not the food that
Brings us here? A good business sells a
Product not an image; who needs image?
That’s why uniforms are bare—no gimmicks.
We love this place for the cheap hot chicken.

My Sister’s Pink Light-Saber

Wow! I got a brand new pink light saber
I found my sister’s secret birthday stash
Why didn’t she hide it at the neighbors?

I did not get the Han Solo laser
This thing must have cost her some major cash
But I got a brand new pink light saber!

If she finds me here, I must escape her
Damn. She’s ten years older and really fast
Well, she could have hid it at the neighbors.

I’ll stand my ground, land a blow, or graze her
I bet this thing can kick some major ass
Ha! I got a brand new pink light saber.

New batteries –though no wrapping paper
I click this button it purrs like a cat
Why didn’t she hide it at the neighbors?

I’ll show it off to friends; I’ve hit pay dirt!
But the girls at her sleep over just laugh
Well, I got a brand new pink light saber
Bet she wishes she was at the neighbors!

Temptation

Crazy Club searching Jezebels
Looking like D.C. hookers
White stoned columned Magdalenes
But
I was fixed
Fell
Instantly in love
Hurried pace and caught up
“So where can a guy go for some fun in D.C.”
Probably, not the best approach
But her soft lips
Rippled
Along the gentle voice
Played song
To which my eyes
Danced contours of her all amazing
Everything scandalous beauty
While the freckled-speckled
Side kick heckled me at the
Innuendo
Lovely agreed returned the smirk
“Have fun being lost,” I said.
And went
About my way.

Enlightenment Wholesale Isle Three Trade: An Epistle of the Neo-Beats

Dear Superman,

How’s time turning in Italy brother? It’s dragging like Janet Reno’s tits against here knees here. I watched Last Time I Committed Suicide last night—about Neal Cassidy, the infamous Dean Moriarty from On the Road. It made some reference to Cassidy being superman, which is where I got that salutation. ‘Cause the way I figure it, you're Neal, the good looking free-spirited chap, while I’m the rough looking over-intellectual Buddhist want-to-be Kerouac. Anyway, let’s resume this letter. Like I said time’s been dripping thick and slow around these parts of reality. I haven’t even been to my classes for almost three weeks; I’ve, for the most part, abandoned my studies altogether—though last night I got in some logic and world religion. But what’s really been racking my brain is what pile of steamy fecal matter is going to come out my orbicularis oris (mouth…you were there …your damn massage books) to explain my prolonged absence. The truth of why I’ve been gone is simple—to those who know me. Just a plain old bout of clinical depression—for no rhyme or reason—just that sullen gloom that juxtaposes my intellect and creates the charming individual you know as Prom. But how do I explain that to my professors? Every one of them has a damn doctorate degree. They don’t emphasize with such trite matters as the occasional sink into a morose ocean hidden within one’s mind. So my brains been off all night storming up ideas—from melancholy to melodramatic—I’ve considered it.

Yet a new desire has surpassed a good alibi—coffee. I have the java fiends in full force. I woke my roommate up and drug his grumbling carcass to the cafeteria with me. But after one cup he wants to jet. So we shop 2 of the school’s finest plastic mug-ware overflowing that Colombian bean delight—I tell you those fucking Colombians really know how to turn nature into some rather enjoyable stimulants—the yin and yang of the ampheta-maniacal land of no sleep—black as night coffee—white as American culture cocaine. So after walking out a harden criminal …coffee thief… I decided to pay a visit to Rev. Dr., the only professor not in my graces this semester, and attempt to talk my way into catching up to a B. Only the guy had class at 9:30 and then a funeral so we postponed. Now I too had class at 9:30 but seeing as it was in 2 minutes and 3 buildings down campus, not to mention my illegally possessed coffee was gone, I decided on satisfying my hedonistic tendencies and getting more fucking coffee. So I leave, but not without the entire lack of a conscience. I did stop at my English Lit professor’s office, yet he wasn’t there—just that damn sign he hangs on his door in his absence: I’ve gone to look for myself. On the way out I notice one of the English professors I hadn’t met yet, a young, fresh out of grad school vixen…so I decide—like the pretentious and immature bastard I am—which I might add are both qualities I wholly embrace as being an intractable yet intrinsic part of my psyche—and I say “Excuse me?” ‘Yes?’ she says. So I go on to explain how I was the boy wonder writer who had just gotten his first novel published and I was wondering if my frees copies I had sent to the university had come in yet. More importantly I wanted her to know who I was—just a little bragging. But by then I was about ten feet from my trailer's front door and realized I was playing the whole scene out in my head; I had decided against the conspicuous attempts at showing my dick off to a teacher that didn’t exist.

So by now I’m in my roommate’s domicile picking his change tin clean—why? Coffee! I was going to walk up to Schnucks in the rain and buy some instant fucking coffee to go into my new mug. While I was crossing the vacant lot on my way to the store that sign came back into my head: I’d gone to look for myself. And that’s when it hit me—BLAM! Out of nowhere the sounds of the ghost ship brought me back to the reality of the situation. How was I going to dig myself out of this fucking hole? Because if I don’t pass these classes that nullifies my acceptance into Harvard. Right now let me digress, before I forget, while I was doing the homework I did get done last night I was reading my syllabus and realized not only was my ten page analysis of Keats To Sleep due, yet currently incomplete—I also have a ten page analysis of a philosophical work and/ or idea due in 1 week. So I thought of some way to maybe bullshit both dilemmas into one. I would tell Dr. English that about 3 weeks ago I was coming to his office to see him about needing a few days off because of my severe clinical depression, which so far is true, but he wasn’t in his office. And while I was standing there contemplating whether or not to leave a note I read his sign and decided YEAH! And so then I left to find my self! And that is where I had been—searching for who I was.

But I knew he’d say something smart-ass like, and well what did you find. So I concocted another Mojo (this being the new word for liar until B suicide sees some pictures…hint-hint). Well sir. I’d begin—I found two people. One who wants to say fuck it. Hit the road again except this time Europe. After all, the streets of Paris have born many a great novel. I’ve proven myself. I was a 15-year-old drop out, self-educated, druggie, drinker, and all around indulger but look at me now. I was a published novelist. I had proved myself in the academic world fuck it I’d go back to my roots. I’d continue to educate myself as well as living by my standards, but this time even more chaotic and even less inhibited. But there was also another person, I’d say, starting to get serious and more somber. This person more mature—this person seeing a new world of opportunities and of responsibilities. I was seeing myself as a member of a bigger world, a link in a symbiotic tribe and that I could find so much more fulfillment living for others. One who wanted his double doctorate in English and Philosophy and attain the top of the self-actualization atop the hierarchy of needs. Then he’d say well which one is coming to me today, and meekly, humbly, and borderline pitifully I’d say well I’m here aren’t I—and he’d be filled with joy that he witnessed the saving of a soul, and give me my time to catch up. And that’s when I realized what a complete ass I was for even having such deluded and moronic thoughts, but I hadn’t slept in two days and when I get bored my mind goes off on some trips.

But pulp-literature wise this was a great story—the total conflict of the classical hero versus the Byronic hero. That yin and yang again—my coffee and cocaine battling inside myself. Plus I could tie that into my philosophy paper. First off it’s the essential first two stages of life, as scripted out by Mr. Existentialism himself Kierkegaard, the shallow youthful hedonistic stage, followed by the submissive dutiful life which would end up taking me through another dissatisfied stage of living and ultimately lead me to God. But I was actually thinking more along the lines of Descartes—I think therefore, I am—Whoa! Time out…some little diamond was strolling across the street on the opposite sidewalk, going the opposite direction, and wearing the exact same jacket as mine, except in an antithetical color scheme—quite possibly she was the cocaine to crème the dark pools inside my new coffee cup. But I’d never know, because like true opposites we went our separate ways—exact yet opposite. Anyway by now I’m at Schnucks looking for some instant coffee but instead I settle for some coffee bags—just like instant tea bags but java. I walk up to the express lane, pay my $3.32, and I’m out. Just like that—you know brother man do you ever find that odd. How the goal, the destination is always the shortest and easiest accomplished part of a journey. Kind of gets me thinking that goals are arbitrary, it doesn’t matter what you choose to do as long as you choose to do something—the journey is the enlightening aspect—the destination is nothing but 5 seconds in a check-out lane with a pack of coffee.

These trains of thought leads me back to the journey—to find myself—who was I anyway—or better yet what was I—and back to old Descartes—I think, therefore I am—and back to Prom—I journey, therefore I live—yeah, I like that better—I mean come on I think, therefore I am? Well, am what? And what is it that ‘I’ thinks to make it an am? Can it be any thought? Perhaps the thought that results from the think is the goal that drives one to journey and therefore the—I—has lived because it has gone on the road—so to say. I think, therefore I am—what a jack-off. Anyway, god I say that way too much anyway, anyway, anyway—I’m a jack-off too; anyway I’m back in the vacant lot when the rain starts to hit tumultuously (that’s my new word because it’s in every other English poem before the twentieth century). There’s lightening glistening in the crevices of the horizon off into the gray unknown and another spark hits me—well besides the dread of walking into a trailer park during a thunderstorm—a titanic bolt of silver crackle could whip down from the heavens and fry me dead on the spot—what could I do run—life is for the most part entirely out of our hands—all of us. There’s no dignity in running so keep the game face and say fuck it—see people don’t really mean ‘I don’t give a fuck’ they just woke-up and smelled the coffee. Fuck it—it’s out of my hands—so I’m just going to do whatever and have some ecstatic fun until the storm comes to bury me. Then life becomes a game—taunting the lightening and surfing the storms. Wait that brings me back full circle—to that bleak existence and hedonistic living—there goes my alibi for now—oh well fuck it—maybe that’s all there really is—coffee and cocaine.


Peace and salutations,
Prom


4.27.00

P.S. -- Toast a nice goblet of wine to the Colombians for me under an Italian sunset at one of those sidewalk cafés.

P.S. Deuce -- I envy you right now brother—out living while I’m in here, social cells, training, and preparing for some manufactured future. Meanwhile you’re in Europe—Bastard. I almost ran away and joined the navy the other day just so I could join the journey with you—fly superman fly—I heard the breeze is right for that eighteen year old honey.

Sunday, February 01, 2009

Patchwork: Ramble 1.24.09

Blind to its grace,
San Francisco universe I strolled.
I walked upon the beleaguered stone of
a thousand marched protests still lingering
in the psychedelic shadows of daisies and
the whispers of the dead refused
—the bebopping jazz of those mad, starving
lads shouted at me from the
City of Light.
—shining on rooftops of
howling dogs and junkie
pranksters.

I sipped coffee and Kool-Aid in an unknown corner of an unknown world, camouflaged
by a collage of fliers and clippings, clinging to corkboard dreams—the easel of the artist, unborn, unheard.
In these booths did revolutionaries sit drinking flower philosophies from the cups of the chessboard, toasting
their pints of Milk, in solemn mourn.

I shared space with the finest
in film—the Clay, the Castro
the Red Vic, and the Lumiere. These were my churches
when my devils were bent on hunt and only the hide would save me from myself
and, in their darkness, did flickering angels and a crackling soundtrack
reveal the
ultimate
transience.

I strolled these streets in fear—afraid that my myopic Midwestern glaze might tarnish
the gloss. Little did
I know, that I could never damage the stain for this grace I failed to see had
already welcomed me embraced
and folded was I
into its never-ending kaleidoscope of life.

Friday, January 23, 2009

I want a real Bukowski movie

Mickey Rourke? Matt Dillon? Wrong! Bukowski was gnarled and aged. I want to see Geoffrey Rush. Let's compare...

Bukowski:

Rush: