the idiot

borrows the title from a book he's never read. the idiot goes dancing alone. he roofies himself with vodka and soda water and beer.

and the idiot acknowledges the law of diminishing returns, almost. until he meets a girl with blue hair. he kisses her in a photo booth. there is a photo booth involved with a picture the next day sent to his phone to prove it.

and at differing flashes in the night, the idiot goes up to a bunch of millenials and they are dancing and so is he and he tells them that we have to dance we have to dance because they forgot to tell us to do so as children and so now we must.

and it takes him forever to realize the wedding at the church downtown is on valentine's day. it takes him forever to connect the significance. he eats a pizza with egg on each of four slices and watches the wedding through windows while drinking a beer.

sure the idiot likes to get a little drunk before going to the bookstore. sure he rushes out when he sees the same girl from the week before. sure because the mirror seemed better in his head. like all mirrors do.

then haphazardly is time, the way it moves with the drunkard in the raiders hat next to him. he says "her money is my money and my money is also my money." and the idiot gets him going on one of those agreeable stretches of drunken sermon, amen, amen, and he has the raiders hat guy in amen agreement while the idiot in his idiot clothes delivers something sinister in his elocution masked in exactly the same tone but unmistakeably biting in it's precision, and it shakes the room

and even after nodding to the sermon all this time the drunkard notes the words and stops, can't help but stop even as the room orbits, lets it linger, "i mean it's not like we're gonna be on this earth much longer anyway, right?" the idiot says heartily, chuckles as though nothing has changed, smiles big raising his beer up to take a cheery glug.

"right?"

the idiot didn't feel great about it. about the way the drunkard's face fell. but he didn't feel that bad either. it needed to be said. reminded. gratitude needed to enter the world. and the raiders drunkard melted away because this new guy to his right, this ladies man to his right with those lady killing bright eyes on tan ethnic skin, is with a lady, a pretty lady who else? and he asks the idiot what he's been writing in his notepad, cuz he's been thinking of writing too.

and the idiot gets tangential about art and expression and he needles the conversation around in figure 8's until he finally finishes his routine in a way that's not all that bad actually, when he says

if you want to do it bad enough, you'll do it.

and the idiot does, or maybe he just did, i don't want to bore you with time, the time is haphazard and he does a stand-up set at another bar downtown and he gets convincing on stage. and it's not all that bad either. and the energy is not all that bad.

and so he goes back to the bar with the gigantic white horse on it and he dances. he dances because it's about that time to dance. and the ladies aren't loving it at first but it's not about them. and it's not about the parents. it's not about the finite nature of living and all beings. it's about being. it's simply about being. and while being another human being lights up his eyes with her dark eyebrows and oceanic blue irises and chemically dyed attractive boyish matching hair, he - in this fluid state of moving being -  he steps off the stage and finds her and they sway, they dance and shake and press lips and knock hips and mumble and whisper and yell over the music and scoot away to enjoy the space and it ain't pretty and he is an idiot but it is poetry and everything is swaying

and days later he is on the beach in the morning jittery but profound in digging deeper and digging into himself and sand and picking up litter everywhere cuz there is three-day weekend litter everywhere on the beach and he dislikes it but is grateful for it in his hands and in his heart and in the trash can with a lid on safely over it and he prays for the long loving health of his loved ones and the fragmented ones and all the ones until they are one and he brings them all whole in his heart as best he can

and the idiot drives to get a burrito and laundry coins, quarters is what he calls them, like everyone else he calls them quarters.

and he talks to his little sister on the phone and he hears the unbelievably perfect tone of her voice, even as she is home with the flu, the tone of that pure hearted child who won't ever know how pure hearted he knows her to be because she is too pure of heart to play at it and he loves her for it

and he drives home with groceries in the backseat and invisible tears of gratitude streaming down his face in rivers unseen

and he thinks to himself to the point of writing it down

I am so happy. I am so happy. I don't know why but I am so happy.

a flunked haiku tea ceremony

alien magic. i wanted to write about alien magic. like, an alien magician. a magician on his own planet. kind of an extraordinary alien even to the technologically advanced members of his race. but he is an excommunicated alien magician. and he is teaching people on earth alien magic.

i dreamt of a one-way dirt road that kept encouraging me forward like an airport flat escalator. whaddya call those things. the thing about the one-way road is that it implies no return. the thing about the one-way road is that it implies no return. the thing about the one-way road is that it implies, no return.

feel like the internet is mining our brains. extracting experience to build its own. i guess much like the movie her. i guess i am just copying the movie her. saying that reminds me that the concept is very much along those lines of her. but did her mention the word; mining. the internet is mining our brains.

i danced so hard last night i tore my underwear.

i have this thing with parking meters and street signs about: kind of: looping around some of them. even when i don't have to be doing it: i do these loopy around things with my steps: steps.

girls. and here's what it is about girls. when laying in bed with one or appearing and disappearing in flickering moments of pulsating beams and kinetic music or among the buoyant renderings of candlelight in a cozy bar downtown, a guy is getting bombarded with these memories and thoughts and feelings that slip in and haunt him in the most pleasurably crippling way that also devastates the moment. and few girls, few, he can tell em what just happened in his brain. cuz they were dually part of the combination to not only unlocking the combination lock but also revealing its presence. and most girls, he will just take it on the chin. and get through the hauntings alone. because saying them is what infuses people of two. saying your ghosts out loud to another person is the bones of love.

and you are still going. and you are still going. and you are still going.

blood oranges

he holds a bag of them. the blood oranges. it is the citrus time of year. pomegranate season was spoiled by the uncharacteristic early rains. die pomegranates.

he walks home with a bunch of green onions he bought for a dollar. chews on them for the spicy. he eats a mandarin. a cherimoya. a guava. the guava tastes buttery and has seeds. he swallows some of them and spits out others. the cherimoya seeds he spits all of them out. they are nice spitting seeds.

the universe wants people obsessed with it.

the ballad of the faded red button down and the mr gray thermal

There is a specific kind of man at every cafe in Los Angeles - maybe even the world. He is not the only kind of man. But a specific kind. He will smell bad. Have his government finances in just enough order that he will have a roof over his head at night. An RV camper. Low-income housing. Rent control. He will get by in a low effort way that almost inspires jealousy. And he will have another kind of dimmer man who needs him for a ride to the courthouse.

But this kind of man. He will want to sit with his less-organized friend for an hour or two first before doing anything. Acting out his idiosyncrasies for all the bland civilized to see. Idiosyncrasies. Like shutting the open door no matter how little it is left cracked. Like drinking a huge glass mason jar full of sudsy water every morning. Like smelling as bad as he does. He probably has a half-baked theory on why soap is bad and pheromones are yada blah whatever. And his shutting of the door is especially maddening because it stuffs the coffee fuming room with his thick sweaty balls odor. His thick sweaty balls odor.

And when you believe that you can not stand him anymore, this man will widen his presence just a bit more with worthless possessions or the obtuse angle of his legs. And this specific kind of man will hold court. He will unquestionably be holding court. Establishing his mini kingdom for the morning. You can tell. The way he is lording over this trash heap of a kingdom for all to see in that delinquent bohemian grandeur so loud it could almost be mistaken for unintentional if it weren't so blatant. And you will pray to have a fate more active and meaningful than this man.

You don't know what any of this means, life, you get that there is a profound path of least resistance to living it, honorable and simple and pure. But this specific kind of man is not it for you. The way he sways within the folds of living by willing an urban apocalypse of inactivity into existence.

So you believe it is not out of malice that you want to turn heads and hearts more than this specific kind of man. Not out of malice so much as it is a natural intuition speaking, shouting, yelling until hoarse that I don't want to breathe in your smell! What I want is to step outside of this fermented human pungency and be closer to one with the fresh air and brilliant energy of it all.

And you think to yourself, that there is also a specific kind of man at every cafe in Los Angeles - maybe even in this world - who is trying like hell in his scraggly corner to figure it all out. Furrowed brow. Usually headphones on. And he is not the only kind of man. But a specific kind. And sometimes it makes this specific kind of man a bit of a grumpy dick.

Conjecturin

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.

m4w

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.

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.

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.

(cough)

(cough)

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---

Huh? 

Oh.

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.

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.

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.