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


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!


Crazy Club searching Jezebels
Looking like D.C. hookers
White stoned columned Magdalenes
I was fixed
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
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
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,


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

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

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.