Thursday, January 29, 2015


Me and Smitty caught a live one. Around my neck. Me and Smitty caught someone who turned out to be yours truly. This was back in the day when thunder clapped the sky loud enough to give pause. We were living in that pause. When Smitty put his hands through my hair and I climbed onto him like a saddle. Ah man. We were crazy like that. And I was even crazier than him and we never could locate where the one of our sadistic minds ended and the other one began.

I met her during a blank time. She left. I met her again at a time of hurt. I was. She was. But she made me feel better. And I made her feel better. Then we tried on even ground for awhile.

Smitty had beads of sweat rolling down from his forehead that were pooling above his upper lip. I was tied up about this time. Smitty and I had tied me up. Boy was I rabid. It might have had something to do with the cigar Smitty kept lighting, stamping out on my leg, then re-lighting and-- well -- stamping out on my leg again. Gosh damn, that hurt.

I ended it still in love and ran around with my head cut off haunted by the invisibles for way too long. Now, I only dream of her once in awhile and only cuz she brought up our damn MORTALITY the last time we talked. That was why I cried in my dream. But backtracking a bit. We went through a break up and I guess we were both in so much pain from the fallout that we each started writing and singing music by ourselves which was something we never did together all that much.

Oh he had the gravest ideas. Like digging me a grave and then settling me down into it. Tied up and all. Then he would pour loose soil onto my body from six feet above or thereabouts. And he'd do it up until I was damn near one with the Earth. But it was only to test things out. I know that because he would pull me out long before my face'd turn blue and I was always grateful for that concern to my ultimate welfare.

Then I dated for awhile. I dated a girl whose dad brewed beer in his bathtub. I dated a Swedish girl who didn't like how outdated my computer software was. I dated another Swedish girl. I dated a girl whose female neighbor attacked her once in Venice. Then there were girls who carouseled through my bedroom for one night or two. And I call them girls because they can call me a guy. A guy whose face could be cold like a stone. Warm hands. These overactive warm hands unable to hide a bunch of love that courses through them like, it is undeniable.

Smitty and I were in the jungle. We never got caught. Not when we robbed trains. Not when we skipped out on whore tabs. Not when we made unkept promises to whore hearts. But the jungle, anyways, the jungle is where music was invented. There is a bird call rhythm that happens there with an unseen collective bass informing the background, measuring the pace. Anyways, Smitty was shooting parrots. One morning Smitty was shooting parrots. It is always nature right? That makes the story beautiful. This one, no different. Smitty was shooting the parrots and they were falling from tree limbs onto the canopy floor or whatnot and I was collecting them like a dog would for a hunter. I was collecting em and before long we had this big red and blue and green and yellow and black pile of feathered colors and after the labor intensive task of feathering and gutting the parrots a massive plume emerged, strung together by intestine and vine and brought gigantically out of the jungle where into the psalms of the wide-open light we tethered this beautiful explosion of hues onto our backs and we ran at full speed by our feet and legs to the greatest tall cliff that we could find and, Smitty and I, we jumped. Only, I forgot to. I forgot to jump and but Smitty did.

And I could've sworn for a solid moment there it looked like Smitty was actually defying the fall, rising up on soaring wings, but turns out the truth of things also has its tricks.

And I don't have a broken heart. I am healthy and strong in this very moment. Let it be marked for now. This one moment is big enough for everything. It is everything. Let it also be said that my brother and sister believe that we are kings and queens stranded on this planet from another place and time. And I am in agreement.

Friday, January 23, 2015


The jagged magnets of mercury retrograde.

Days before, the energy I'd been pushing around like a grocery cart rose and crested in a lovely wave.

It starts in a bar with a not so subtle glance. A sentence framed as a question. A recoil then a smile brought closer by gravity.

It goes and it goes. It shouldn't be this good. There is only a brief window of slanted sleep in between motion.

Again. In the middle of the night it begins again with a hard dick. Then a grip. A wet pussy. And the two converge. over and over again. I've never written about it that crude and simple. So how bout this:

I will not liken you to the stars. I will not describe two strangers coming together on this spinning wheel of clay to shape-form a series of pleasured faces eternalized and held perfectly in time by the lava of their volcanic kiln. The thing itself bubbling over magma upon itself. It is not me anymore. I no longer poeticize sentiment and ideal. I no longer play those keys of a morning songbird on this songboard. Still at night sometimes against all odds, we're singing.

Sunday, January 11, 2015

double americano

You can get anywhere in Los Angeles on a rainy Sunday morning. For instance, I just got from there to here in a relatively short amount of time. I was walking getting wavy. There was this phase last year where I kept feeling lightheaded like I was gonna fall to the ground and timber. There was also this time in Vermont on our flooded property. This time where I chopped down a tree with an axe and did nothing with it. Or maybe I made firewood. I can't remember. The crack of the tree was spectacular though. It was like everything we failed to recognize was balling itself up but then satisfying its frustration in one epic outward release from captivity. But I hope I made use of it.

Thursday, January 8, 2015

but make him a cool man mama

Doctor, what is it called um...what is it called when you feel like you wanna cry all the time but can't cuz it's like on the tip of your tongue. The crying. Like the same kind of feeling as having a needed word on the tip of your tongue only it is wanting to recollect a surging of emotion with vague tears that won't come. What is it called?

Because and, before you answer that question, I would like to tell you that I keep feeling that way Doctor and I don't know why. I don't know. It feels flat out in the world Doc, it feels like a handful of chunky meat that is rotting in my hand the longer I gnaw on it and have to carry it around with me Doc. It is feeling flat.



Where was I? Oh. I know. I was out with someone and I wanted to steer our conversation toward how futile it all is, and feels like, but she wasn't even on that plane Doc, she wasn't even on that plane. She was sad too but it was on an entirely different plane. Like, I don't remember it exactly. Something about buying into the permanence of life plane. How awful, right Doc? Her flat plane unlike mine but still awful. How horrible. How terrible that like a stack of pancakes our dimensions of discontent are all piled misunderstood on top of one another in flat planes of pancakes.

I don't know. It makes me worry. It makes me sick. It makes me so aggravated Doctor. That we are all trapped inside of this thing. This thing that we are all trapped inside of and going to lose to no matter what, HOW FAIR IS THAT? To start a game you know you are going to lose. It is like---



The medical marijuana card? 

Yeah I know that's what I---

I mean but you're still a doctor right? So couldn't we just talk about this before we get to that? 

No I get it. Turn em and burn em Doctor. Hey. No. It's a living right?  

It's a living.

Friday, January 2, 2015

and then we made it

Driving home in the rain one particular stretch looked like the blocks ahead were covered in sopping wet jet black ink spilling itself all over the place. And it was informing me, my spirit to be wild. I kissed every woman in every color in every genuine spell of paper thin romance or the dense real kind. It was a month like that. My heart living in the off shades of black and white.

By the 2nd everyone was driving fast again. Almost too fast this morning for my recognition.

But in that month of December I was lost and flailing lost because I somehow knew I was supposed to be and it was the only way to survive the month. My dad was going to live longer. He cleared his body in a miracle of strength. I was still drained from it. November was a numb blur. He told us we had helped him lift it out. Now I was just exhausted. Now I was just relieved. Now my family was broken and tattered by everything by themselves by cancer by the past by failed opportunities and romances gone wrong and glimmering potential and genes of crazy and a story that does not and would not ever fit into something as cogent as a story or even as abstract as an avant-garde non-linear attempt at pain and paint on a gigantic wall. We were different. We are different. And I was self-inflicted sober for the worst of it (or best) and then I was time-to-relax drunk and now I am simply me, up and running again.

Thursday, January 1, 2015

small world part 1

And she smelled like the products from her country and I smelled like the products from my country only, I wanted to write that but the truth was that we were just and phenomenally two humans sharing a candlelit booth and anxiety about whether our car doors were locked. And I told her the next night that we are all the same human being carved slightly different by lightning.

And it is penetrably sad.