Monday, February 27, 2012

oscar party

the lights below look like wounded stars. wandering around civilized lives with heads cut off, dreaming of versailles. some inner garden.

Saturday, February 25, 2012


somewhere they pray imbalanced. dizzy, winding back and forth on the curb, they fall and trip and timber like wavy trees. bruised knees, laughter, gravity pulling down dark. alternating between smoke and fresh air, lungs grateful. taxi cabs, phone numbers, leaning home on friend's shoulders. keep it together. voices calling into the streets. life spilling in unrecognizable shapes, dripping from deepest wells, seeping, bleeding into the soil, it's almost like hearing someone young again. secret phrases, an engine of joy churning beneath the physical anguish and toil of suppressed years. this happy child always trying to get out, even at the cost of a colder world. i used to say that intoxication was about getting to the smile, maybe it's just the child. our cells evaporate every so often and apparently we change, yet still recall decades of memories at the speed of light. no matter the flaws of perception, the interpretation is art and sometimes so vivid our hands sweat. put to rest, dreams, headaches, bright streaks of light stabbing the day.

Friday, February 17, 2012

chemically concentrated

"everything about life -- eating, working, sex, it's all turning my stomach right now." he said.

"the only thing staying down is that single feeling, the one where two people sit across a table, chemically concentrated and bonded by lust, insecurity, and attachment. There's no greater sense than the clean knowing of that person, no matter how many times you've heard em ugly, that clean knowing."

he said to himself.

Monday, February 13, 2012

the character

in hot tin, was chasing the click every night. here, close to the ocean it feels like crashing. the wave is distinct, enjoyable and difficult. and every fixation finds it's home, even orphaned amongst the multitudes. lost in place. at one with space. friends exchanging letters in the modern sense, our stories drawn with crayons. we talk like warning labels, each one of us, basking in our own mistakes. so this is my last pack, turkish documentaries, procrastination and nightlife. this asshole said that artists never tell their secrets, i'm simmering. the tobacco burns to a nub. liquor store, american spirits, coloring books. the good news is we were children. our problems start and live there but we get to be children forever. and that's good news. I stayed awake while you coughed because I loved you.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

nostalgic bout/bohemia

do you remember when i told you that you belonged to me? we were parked inside your mom's black car and of course you do. it was exciting that i finally owned you and you me. we recounted our final indiscretions, squirmed, then soaked each other up. invigorated by the possessiveness, between the steering wheel and leather seats, you clung to me for hours. how intensely gratifying, finally capturing the once elusive. you lit up. i caught fire. termites chew my windowsill. body hair accumulates on white tile flooring. i play guitar from my bedroom window to an alley full of louder noise. the starving artist is not romantic, he's self-serving and diffident. there is no johnny depp pose, only neglected health insurance premiums and dishes. a lack of resources or energy, the beats are stubborn, waiting for gems amidst gas bills. department of water and power. dead car battery. battered by the turbulence of the coming days. withstanding a barrage of realism for a single line that'll light up the inner sky. We laid in the sun. We made love. Over and over again. We staggered through those days in a serene haze. An old lady took our picture. Both of us staring in opposite directions. our deepest womb of dopamine, even then, existing on different pages.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

be a time capsule

my nights are ricocheting between tremendous fits. waking, sleeping, bothered. you should feel the difference between calm and madness. the spectrum's wide and webbed. travelling happens at the speed of light. but our eyes aren't to blame. they're innocent bystanders to the triggers and mechanisms of our lower brains and higher minds. haircuts. nursery rhymes. desk jobs. the time you were lost at the mall. it all contributes to a furthering sense of tangling in the briar patch of trivial experience and flawed perception. i knew a girl who made her men go crazy. i knew a girl who lived alone above an abandoned gas station. i knew a girl who rode her horse around the orange groves of the san fernando valley. the days melt into splendid gasps of orange and the birds that that bird used to chase with her arms out on the sand, they fly overhead. the sails cut daggers on the horizon, and i'm jogging on the sand and i know it's the end. i know that watching this sunset, as it leaves one last pink slice and aches into the night, it's our end. i have no idea the consequences of beginning but it's a welcome notion and it loses itself in an errant text message or nostalgic bout and it dims and brightens and it's the invigorating quality to the sunrise.