Saturday, August 27, 2016

the guy thought i forgot my jacket

she wouldn't tell me her last name and i don't remember her first. we met at a mezcal bar in chelsea. i could barely breathe she was so beautiful.

i couldn't remember my ex girlfriend's mother's name.

i couldn't for the life of me. i had to track down her name on the internet. i'd been wrong about my guess at her name. i felt a satisfaction in the throes of this loss.

setting it up. this life. clean bill of health. for what. hey, don't think like that it's for something. remember--

enough with the memories.

how about now. how do you feel now.

before she left me to work with teenagers full time, my therapist said she learned from me: resilience.

open toed sandals becoming more and more frequent. crossing then uncrossing of the legs. dimming of the fluorescent lights. then darkness. in the darkness where the shadows appear, in comparison, to be lights.

i sunk like a stone.

i sunk like a stone.

i dreamt of my sick father. we ate a big greasy meal together but he was already all wasted away - like he was at the end.

and in my dream i was concerned he ate all of it cuz he was so skinny and weak like he was toward the end.

and in my dream he surprised me cuz he followed me into another room and stood there with me while i tended to my task.

and in my dream i turned to him and i said--

dad we don't know when you're gonna go but when you do, i'm gonna miss you. and then i woke up with him gone missing him.

after i woke up--

i told the story to trav over breakfast early that morning and just as i did he pointed out a green hummingbird flittering above red flowers.

and i forgot to mention about waking from that dream:

that that morning after i awoke from that dream but before we met for breakfast, i had stared at my bedroom blinds with tears in my eyes and i had asked my dad for another sign.

and then the hummingbird again. like the one that flew into his house minutes after he'd died.

watching my dad lose himself was an intimate experience. slow. so slow. the way the disease deconstructed his body, pound by pound, appetite by appetite. the way the painkillers commandeered his mind.

i haven't gotten over it. i haven't gotten over it. who knows if life will give me time. i just read about an indonesian man who is 145 years old. maybe by then, i won't need to get over it, cuz i'll just want to die. 

but not right now. now i am alive. even if it's just a night with my memories. what a treasure. there it is-- that old famous: resilience.

don't think. don't think. 

just remember the way she looked across the train platform. and the things you texted to each other before she got onto hers and you then realized you were standing on the wrong one.

but it wasn't the wrong one you were on at all

Sunday, August 21, 2016

that time her alcoholic father beat me at ping pong

i was in the midwest for fourth of july with a girl and her family. i thought she was the best.

we slept in the basement of their lake home. her mom had to buy a dehumidifier cuz we were breathing in a lot of condensation the first couple nights.

i would wake up at five am still drunk and go upstairs and write a screenplay that i still want to produce to this day. i would write it in a room next to a covered indoor jacuzzi. but there was also a window that looked out to verdant green forest.

i knocked out an entire draft while we were there too. it was a productive time even though it was the beginning of our end.

she read it on the dock by the lake with her legs curled up on a wooden chair.

the lake was little and still and mind altering and i loved it.
 i found some pictures her and i took in the forest together on one of those days, i was strong and muscular and my head was shaved. she was slender and her eyes were battling her enemies while simultaneously serenading her mysteries.

i was so strong and muscular that one night her dad did something insulting to her and i insisted he apologize. and then she took his side and apologized for him.

i was so strong that the next morning i walked 8 miles into town along a forest path. ate a pizza, then walked 8 miles back. i remember being chased by an angry horse fly that just wouldn't leave me alone.

Tuesday, August 9, 2016

you undecorated and you unbecoming

in a towel. no, a cavern. i woke you up. i shook your feathers. lice crawled out onto the floor.

on a rock. a distant shore. you ate me up. i was something smaller and you ate me up.

with terrible pause. i sat in your circle. you said don't leave this circle or you'd kill yourself. and it wasn't fair.

in a barrel. niagara falls. i was part of your stunt. i didn't want to be part of your stunt.

i was raised in a cabinet with fire ants. i was raised in a shoe above the pacific ocean. we slept on trampolines. we started up faulty machines. we tilled soil. battered down fences. built crooked things.

on schrader blvd in hollywood a few buildings from the ywca i was 22. she was older. a secretary or something. she had all this pop art decorating her apartment that she made but didn't believe in like she needed to. she told me she had been hooking up with a guy who was a real ladies man. she had tan lines where her bikini once was, shading beige to outline pale white. her hair was curly. earlier that night i approached her and said i believed she was the female version of me. then hours later i couldn't get my dick hard for awhile. i was nervous or drunk or something. finally i did in the morning but after a terrible night of nervous limp sleep. and when i did finally get it hard she said something like finally. something like that's what i'm fucking talking about. and then she sang opera beneath me for the neighbors. and then i finally left and walking into summer and along hollywood blvd it must've been like 136 degrees fahrenheit outside.

do you remember it that way. how the past was blazing and showing no evidence of hope. but how we hoped anyway. or how i hoped anyway. i'm talking to myself

Friday, August 5, 2016

sophie strindberg

They had/have two different stories. They were/are conflicting. It shouldn't be surprising.

My mother left my father as a young woman of 26. She changed her name and moved to New York City. She left him in the San Fernando Valley.

And she changed her name and moved to New York City. She says she auditioned for a play.

He says she called him crying begging to come home. He says he wired her money via Western Union.

She says he begged her to come back. That she didn't want to but that she was young and weak for support.

One day 30+ years later, Britt visited them both. One of them in the morning. One of them in the evening. And she remarked how unbeknownst to either, on that day, both of them were baking chocolate brownies in their own ovens. So many years removed from the other one.

Thursday, August 4, 2016

wally wallin

if u havent noticed ahahahah i cant write aymore ahahaha

whats so funny about that

its funny when we confront loss like it wasnt inevitable like we dont deserve it like we werent put on this planet to briefly lose

oh so thats funny then
its kinda sad if ya ask me

sad of course it is sad