all we have are the baseball myths of boyhoods past. he's an idiot savant my dad used to joke about my interest in the stats. league leaders in batting average, home runs, runs batted in. the umpires were more demonstrative before hd slo-mo cameras could prove them not to be gods. gods or not, the players would yell, the managers would yell, there was yelling all the time.
my problem is i'm still that dawdly boy full of love
that's not a problem
she said
when some future generations look in on us with interest and pity. that mixture in which we set our gaze upon the ones who tread these spaces before us, they will see this, a call, a beacon, a flare. i'll tell them, no, i tell them,
it's ok to feel
it's ok to heal
i talked to my dad driving my own car from venice to koreatown. his voice playing through my speakers like one of the few radio stations i can still tolerate and listen to.
and i'll learn. i'll live and learn. i'll do it for awhile. i'll leave distinct traces here best felt by time and others and the lovely havoc these members of generations wreak.
Thursday, July 30, 2015
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
irish pubs and irish goodbyes
his finger is in her ass. he finishes that way. sometimes it's the other way around. he finishes with her finger in his ass. sometimes she finishes that way too.
if you ever write about us, and this, try not to make it too absurd. he tells her. she nods. she thinks he's stupid to fixate on the details like this one. a finger in the ass, one way or another, it takes up so little of their lovemaking time, let alone their time together. that it's silly.
she'd get to it, sure. why not. but only for a little levity. that's what she craves, at times. a levity, a freedom from the addiction to his weight.
a story by a woman
written by her
He drew me somewhere deeper and then became the only way I could breathe. Unfair, right? Especially because he was such a flake about it.
He called it solitude, that thing he wanted most he said.
Days would pass, storm by, and then he'd return to me disheveled and worn out from his time in solitude. I didn't know what I believed about him and what I made up. All I knew back then is that I wanted to be the ground he walked on, barefoot, all the time. I wanted to be the planet that contained him, gave him fertile rains and just the right amount of sunshine. I wanted to be the rocky soil that sometimes buried him. Then I'd be the Saint Bernard who sniffed him out of his hole and rescued him with my slobbery tongue. Desperate, right?
I know I seemed desperate for it but that's not it. It was about breathing remember?
It was about being able to breathe.
And he didn't need to kiss my face all tenderly like that. He didn't need to make me feel better about my history. Or like, how I saw myself. That, I liked myself more when I was around him, with him, cuz I could forget about myself. He had a way of lighting up a room. I say that, but he really did.
I know I must sound like a battered woman, a woman without inner confidence. But that's not it. This is about respiration. Being able to breathe. Feeling a reason, inspired, as long as his smell remained on my skin. I would've tattooed it on, his smell, if it were possible.
But it wasn't. It isn't. Life isn't that way. Like, we grow up but then suddenly stop. Like potted plants, our potential is already pre-determined until a gardener has a vision, pulls us out by the roots and transplants us into wilder earth. The wilderness. I feel like I'm in the wilderness, unable to breathe. And I'm cold.
So he hurt me once and when he did, I stayed where I was, away from him. In the cold, for awhile.
The End.
he said his friend said you can't shatter what was already broken. that she would rather disperse than wait around for your clumsy hands to put her back together just for the sake of easing the worries of your clumsy heart. he, still, he would've liked the chance to tell her he was sorry - for whatever it was worth, the role he played in their messy and brief affair.
if you ever write about us, and this, try not to make it too absurd. he tells her. she nods. she thinks he's stupid to fixate on the details like this one. a finger in the ass, one way or another, it takes up so little of their lovemaking time, let alone their time together. that it's silly.
she'd get to it, sure. why not. but only for a little levity. that's what she craves, at times. a levity, a freedom from the addiction to his weight.
a story by a woman
written by her
He drew me somewhere deeper and then became the only way I could breathe. Unfair, right? Especially because he was such a flake about it.
He called it solitude, that thing he wanted most he said.
Days would pass, storm by, and then he'd return to me disheveled and worn out from his time in solitude. I didn't know what I believed about him and what I made up. All I knew back then is that I wanted to be the ground he walked on, barefoot, all the time. I wanted to be the planet that contained him, gave him fertile rains and just the right amount of sunshine. I wanted to be the rocky soil that sometimes buried him. Then I'd be the Saint Bernard who sniffed him out of his hole and rescued him with my slobbery tongue. Desperate, right?
I know I seemed desperate for it but that's not it. It was about breathing remember?
It was about being able to breathe.
And he didn't need to kiss my face all tenderly like that. He didn't need to make me feel better about my history. Or like, how I saw myself. That, I liked myself more when I was around him, with him, cuz I could forget about myself. He had a way of lighting up a room. I say that, but he really did.
I know I must sound like a battered woman, a woman without inner confidence. But that's not it. This is about respiration. Being able to breathe. Feeling a reason, inspired, as long as his smell remained on my skin. I would've tattooed it on, his smell, if it were possible.
But it wasn't. It isn't. Life isn't that way. Like, we grow up but then suddenly stop. Like potted plants, our potential is already pre-determined until a gardener has a vision, pulls us out by the roots and transplants us into wilder earth. The wilderness. I feel like I'm in the wilderness, unable to breathe. And I'm cold.
So he hurt me once and when he did, I stayed where I was, away from him. In the cold, for awhile.
The End.
he said his friend said you can't shatter what was already broken. that she would rather disperse than wait around for your clumsy hands to put her back together just for the sake of easing the worries of your clumsy heart. he, still, he would've liked the chance to tell her he was sorry - for whatever it was worth, the role he played in their messy and brief affair.
Thursday, July 23, 2015
a story
i was born to be a devil. i know it. you can see it in my bone structure, like the grandfather i never met, a worser devil.
he was born to be an angel. you could see it from the start. he had the cutest cheeks and fairest eyes of a golden child. i remember his cub like hands, brown tan skin, blonde white hair. in the summer he would wander the hills barefoot with his shirt off and everyone loved spotting him, kissed by the sun.
while i fought my own fate. and suffered for it. i would not surrender to the pleasure i'd surely know from taking and harming at the prewritten costs. instead i acted kind, grew compassion, and bled inside out for it.
but he wasn't contented being blissful. he tore off his halo. shredded his harp on ocean rocks i never saw. and he lashed out at the earth. for it had betrayed him, he thought. it had given him less than some, more than most, but never enough to know what to gain from any of it. so he blamed everyone and lay within jagged bottom pools of lava until coated in substance.
but i never forgot. i was born a devil who loved an angel. i dream about him all the time. like it's him, how i know him. then i awake in the middle of the night with the phantom creatures who know me. they dash about the imperceptible folds, leaving traces that could drive a lesser devil mad. but me, i bite and claw at them, then lick my wounds like a wolf pretending his best, to pull the sled.
but sometimes they don't come around, and that's when i know they've gone away from me to visit him, the angel, and have taught the boy their language.
he was born to be an angel. you could see it from the start. he had the cutest cheeks and fairest eyes of a golden child. i remember his cub like hands, brown tan skin, blonde white hair. in the summer he would wander the hills barefoot with his shirt off and everyone loved spotting him, kissed by the sun.
while i fought my own fate. and suffered for it. i would not surrender to the pleasure i'd surely know from taking and harming at the prewritten costs. instead i acted kind, grew compassion, and bled inside out for it.
but he wasn't contented being blissful. he tore off his halo. shredded his harp on ocean rocks i never saw. and he lashed out at the earth. for it had betrayed him, he thought. it had given him less than some, more than most, but never enough to know what to gain from any of it. so he blamed everyone and lay within jagged bottom pools of lava until coated in substance.
but i never forgot. i was born a devil who loved an angel. i dream about him all the time. like it's him, how i know him. then i awake in the middle of the night with the phantom creatures who know me. they dash about the imperceptible folds, leaving traces that could drive a lesser devil mad. but me, i bite and claw at them, then lick my wounds like a wolf pretending his best, to pull the sled.
but sometimes they don't come around, and that's when i know they've gone away from me to visit him, the angel, and have taught the boy their language.
a lover for the universe
juicy. between your legs is juicy.
a morning, i rode passenger seat in a white 90's convertible down the Eastside stretch of Sunset Boulevard. She drove like a Holly Golightly movie character, carefree. My head a bit above the windshield. Hair blown. Sex blown. What else do future generations want to read about anyway.
And let it be known like Van Gogh I believe in my art much in the same way he did. No matter. No matter. Even if I haven't gotten into my best shit. I haven't yet. I know it. Here is color.
I won't live in a police state. That actor said on twitter today that we do not begin as police property. I loved that. A twitter essay. Who would've thought. Another planet like Earth. Seems silly trying to own a piece of it, kind of like here. If I claim beachfront property on that planet like Earth, isn't it as silly as this one. Isn't it cruel what people think they own. Isn't it cruel how people act cruel about inane things like color and culture. Can't people keep their hands to their fucking selves unless asked otherwise. Stop being cruel.
Besides, the only cruelty I find excusable is the kind that bubbles inside the heart from being in love.
And this wasn't yet my best work.
a morning, i rode passenger seat in a white 90's convertible down the Eastside stretch of Sunset Boulevard. She drove like a Holly Golightly movie character, carefree. My head a bit above the windshield. Hair blown. Sex blown. What else do future generations want to read about anyway.
And let it be known like Van Gogh I believe in my art much in the same way he did. No matter. No matter. Even if I haven't gotten into my best shit. I haven't yet. I know it. Here is color.
I won't live in a police state. That actor said on twitter today that we do not begin as police property. I loved that. A twitter essay. Who would've thought. Another planet like Earth. Seems silly trying to own a piece of it, kind of like here. If I claim beachfront property on that planet like Earth, isn't it as silly as this one. Isn't it cruel what people think they own. Isn't it cruel how people act cruel about inane things like color and culture. Can't people keep their hands to their fucking selves unless asked otherwise. Stop being cruel.
Besides, the only cruelty I find excusable is the kind that bubbles inside the heart from being in love.
And this wasn't yet my best work.
Sunday, July 19, 2015
the uncharacteristic july rains
The orchids you broke them after I broke your heart and I didn't like that cuz they were gonna die anyway cuz no one knows how to keep them alive anyway
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
stories
A woman near naked. Me in jeans. I wake up ravenously hungry. It takes two of everything to satisfy me. Like days ago, two.
A look. It's always simple. It's wanting one thing at a time. Simple. Not always having to do with them. We spoke, it's simple.
A lick of the hand. Tattoos, artfully situated. One crescent along the underside of her right breast. Another one vertically lining the left side of her back, an arrow, a feather, a sword, I don't quite know. I preferred to keep its graceful lines a mystery. An arching of her muscled spine. An elevation of her middle. Holding onto each other now for dear life, because it is dear, life. Pressing together hard and gentle. There's nothing like wanting it. The three of us, her, me, the candlelight she lit.
The crazies sat in plastic chairs outside the halfway house across the street.
Sunday, July 12, 2015
d'artagnan
I bite my skin proving it's a miracle.
They bankrupted themselves on high-enders. It kept him captivated and her solid and it worked for a time but they knew they were gonna end one day and that broke their hearts.
What it is like to meet a decent person: they hurt you gentler and that's the worst of em. All in all they are kind. It's amazing, human kindness. The way it cradles the moment. I've had a tough time accepting kindness into my life. Probly cuz I know that time is not. Time is not kind. It's not unfair, it's just not kind.
I bite my skin proving it's a miracle.
They bankrupted themselves on high-enders. It kept him captivated and her solid and it worked for a time but they knew they were gonna end one day and that broke their hearts.
What it is like to meet a decent person: they hurt you gentler and that's the worst of em. All in all they are kind. It's amazing, human kindness. The way it cradles the moment. I've had a tough time accepting kindness into my life. Probly cuz I know that time is not. Time is not kind. It's not unfair, it's just not kind.
I bite my skin proving it's a miracle.
dinner experience
The ocean is huge but whales are huger. It makes sense. Somehow it makes sense. The elegance in which the tail lifts then descends.
we can't hang out anymore
why not
cuz all we ever do is talk about death
so. what's wrong with that
I told my friend my problem with mortality is not that I'm afraid of dying, it's that I intensely love living. I do. This particular life too.
we can't hang out anymore
why not
cuz all we ever do is talk about death
so. what's wrong with that
I told my friend my problem with mortality is not that I'm afraid of dying, it's that I intensely love living. I do. This particular life too.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
a bloke name vernon
oh papi these latina damsels downtown in ripe colors form fitting around the contours of their plump derrieres ayaya mmm papi damn. from the streets of the wholesale district to the shores of the westside - that edge of the modern world - with its trustafarian princesses cavorting along abbot kinney in street rags worth more than my bank account balance and oh how their twenty years of no interest glow somehow sexier upon their kombucha fed skins and my momma was a supermodel lips oh how i'd slide my hand like daddy's charge card between those pilates toned legs and never worry about things like an outstanding balance ever again hot damn papi i mean
hot damn kid hot damn papi this african black mama in her yellow skirt and white blouse decorating and marking all this empty space with a purpose that the other girls can't pronounce in the same way, mmh her shade is shade, it is endless in that like it is a dark bath that i want to mmm i want nothing more than to submerge my spindly skin into one tantalizing inch at a time starting with my mouth, grazing her musculature and then savoring her soft secrets and oh papi oh these girls drive me loca or loco papi you know?
i mean sheeet
you know i don't speak any of much spanish papi but hot damn i want to. you know i want to. portugese too. i was under the covers once with this young brazilian woman of you know her caramel body reflecting an amalgamy of all the evil and purity in the world. one of those creme de la creme young fertile jungle beach city creations and let me tell you razor finger over my heart i would sell my soul to taste a drop of her sweat again and oh to hear her speak oh that portugese language is like a song and a fuck at the same time. sheeet. even french feels like you can taste the sweet honeydew on your tongue. i wanna learn the sex languages papi but it's just that bein a bedbug makes it so tough to get a proper bilingual education. cuz it's all about survival for the bedbug. is all.
it's all about survival for the bedbug. but i scratch and claw making room for the big picture necessities like you know the one. as in the survival of species, interspecies, hell papi, i'm thinkin bout the future, bout wanting to make a baby with these goddesses if i can just find the magic of how to grow up a little. sheeet i'd make an immortal baby with every single one of them son. one slow daughter at a time.
oh sheeet. imagine it papi: my bedbug seed spilling forth between one set of legs, another set of legs. another set of legs. my mouth hovering over her heart. and her heart. and her heart. oh the warm heat that leaves my lips from her making and then now her basking in what she just made in me and now it's giving onto her and that's the amazing thing of sex papi how we make one thing that does it to them that does it to us that does it to them until we are indistinguishable and oh i'm willing to go for miles, days and forever to lose myself in it just watch me papi:
watch me do it:
ugh papi. ugh. it's a rough life bein a bedbug.
hot damn kid hot damn papi this african black mama in her yellow skirt and white blouse decorating and marking all this empty space with a purpose that the other girls can't pronounce in the same way, mmh her shade is shade, it is endless in that like it is a dark bath that i want to mmm i want nothing more than to submerge my spindly skin into one tantalizing inch at a time starting with my mouth, grazing her musculature and then savoring her soft secrets and oh papi oh these girls drive me loca or loco papi you know?
i mean sheeet
you know i don't speak any of much spanish papi but hot damn i want to. you know i want to. portugese too. i was under the covers once with this young brazilian woman of you know her caramel body reflecting an amalgamy of all the evil and purity in the world. one of those creme de la creme young fertile jungle beach city creations and let me tell you razor finger over my heart i would sell my soul to taste a drop of her sweat again and oh to hear her speak oh that portugese language is like a song and a fuck at the same time. sheeet. even french feels like you can taste the sweet honeydew on your tongue. i wanna learn the sex languages papi but it's just that bein a bedbug makes it so tough to get a proper bilingual education. cuz it's all about survival for the bedbug. is all.
it's all about survival for the bedbug. but i scratch and claw making room for the big picture necessities like you know the one. as in the survival of species, interspecies, hell papi, i'm thinkin bout the future, bout wanting to make a baby with these goddesses if i can just find the magic of how to grow up a little. sheeet i'd make an immortal baby with every single one of them son. one slow daughter at a time.
oh sheeet. imagine it papi: my bedbug seed spilling forth between one set of legs, another set of legs. another set of legs. my mouth hovering over her heart. and her heart. and her heart. oh the warm heat that leaves my lips from her making and then now her basking in what she just made in me and now it's giving onto her and that's the amazing thing of sex papi how we make one thing that does it to them that does it to us that does it to them until we are indistinguishable and oh i'm willing to go for miles, days and forever to lose myself in it just watch me papi:
watch me do it:
ugh papi. ugh. it's a rough life bein a bedbug.
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
balderdash
The party being over I just wanted to act like an idiot with you One day the Internet will blow up and this will be gone Tomorrow I guess I'll just go jump in the ocean Life lessons are like teeth we get more hard ones than we need Aspiring to be a model is the second saddest thing you could do with your time after already being one I wish I was having as much sex as my friends tell me I'm surely having The most courageous lie is telling someone you love everything is gonna be all right
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
las flores mesa dr
me. help. i can't get full. am eating too too much. am spending too too much $$$ on food. goo. don't know what is up. am feeling insatiable. mouth waters. burrito. sandwich. gaar. nachos. pizza. beer. all jazz. all bad. bad yogurt. fruit. pretzels. mooooo. milk. all jazz.
it stung with you. of course, that's why i liked it. she said. you could sting me and get away with it. but that was the problem. you got away, with it.
how many times you wanna do it like this. an internet writer talking about nina simone said male writers obsess about sex cuz they're missing anything primal from their coddled western lives. that sex is only it. but i'm talking about heartache, er, break, er, stale fumes of insignificance/significance.
how bout childbirth. i've witnessed it. the neon blue of the umbilical cord. the blood. the mother. i don't remember the immediate months after. just love.
how bout the time we saw that man with the cracked head. downtown, on the sidewalk. we pulled our car over and tried to help him. waited for the ambulance. i did the same thing again in venice one morning. alone. walking to the beach. a man with a cracked head. blood, yes, in both instances. and no one would let me borrow their phone to call the ambulance. finally, did. finally they showed up, and said he did this all the time, cracked his head. the man. he did it for attention, they said. he cracked his head for attention, they said.
i was kicked in the stomach by a horse.
in malibu we lived in a trailer on top of a burned down house from the 1993 fires. all that remained was concrete foundation. ruins. the trailer was big for a trailer. we had no electricity. the city was upset we were there so we had no electricity beyond the extension cord our neighbors ran from their house across a driveway and through one of our windows. three prongs. tv. cable box. floor lamp. sometimes we'd unplug one to use something else, like a boombox or hair dryer.
we filled a cooler with ice each day to store milk, soaking wet butter, eggs. then drained it out the side door down into the garden twelve feet below. it was a far drop out that side door. the trailer stood higher than the land. my mom grew roses and trees in the land. built fences. we overlooked the pacific ocean. it was a full blue. we were indians. we were feral. we existed between the grooves of modernity and something sweaty and primal. we did it for years and then she made some money selling it.
as a grown young man, i went back with a young woman who meant a bunch to me. there was now a house. the view was better than i remember. the land more ancient. the street just as steep, like it was encouraging the person on it to go back down and join humanity at sea level.
it stung with you. of course, that's why i liked it. she said. you could sting me and get away with it. but that was the problem. you got away, with it.
how many times you wanna do it like this. an internet writer talking about nina simone said male writers obsess about sex cuz they're missing anything primal from their coddled western lives. that sex is only it. but i'm talking about heartache, er, break, er, stale fumes of insignificance/significance.
how bout childbirth. i've witnessed it. the neon blue of the umbilical cord. the blood. the mother. i don't remember the immediate months after. just love.
how bout the time we saw that man with the cracked head. downtown, on the sidewalk. we pulled our car over and tried to help him. waited for the ambulance. i did the same thing again in venice one morning. alone. walking to the beach. a man with a cracked head. blood, yes, in both instances. and no one would let me borrow their phone to call the ambulance. finally, did. finally they showed up, and said he did this all the time, cracked his head. the man. he did it for attention, they said. he cracked his head for attention, they said.
i was kicked in the stomach by a horse.
in malibu we lived in a trailer on top of a burned down house from the 1993 fires. all that remained was concrete foundation. ruins. the trailer was big for a trailer. we had no electricity. the city was upset we were there so we had no electricity beyond the extension cord our neighbors ran from their house across a driveway and through one of our windows. three prongs. tv. cable box. floor lamp. sometimes we'd unplug one to use something else, like a boombox or hair dryer.
we filled a cooler with ice each day to store milk, soaking wet butter, eggs. then drained it out the side door down into the garden twelve feet below. it was a far drop out that side door. the trailer stood higher than the land. my mom grew roses and trees in the land. built fences. we overlooked the pacific ocean. it was a full blue. we were indians. we were feral. we existed between the grooves of modernity and something sweaty and primal. we did it for years and then she made some money selling it.
as a grown young man, i went back with a young woman who meant a bunch to me. there was now a house. the view was better than i remember. the land more ancient. the street just as steep, like it was encouraging the person on it to go back down and join humanity at sea level.
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