LIFE IN THE TRENCHES: Romance, Rebellion and Running Amok

THE DEFERRAL:

i was outside smoking when i
saw them. two men. heading
into the diner. one of the men
was dying.

i felt like telling him he was
wearing a nice shirt.

thin. beyond thin. curtains
drawn thin. cave thin. Styrofoam
box thin. let the cats meow their
starving selves all the way to
the kremlin thin.

the kind of thin with a lot of needles
and signatures and magazines and shrugs
from professionals, who when faced with
their limitations, defer to something higher
where daylight itself is a razor and a
roast beef sandwich is the epoch
of human existence.

humbled and ugly all at once.

the other man, similarly groomed,
walked next to him with his hand,
all tender, on his pony’s
shoulder.

not a son. not a brother. not a friend.
not a man. something else.

it doesn’t matter.

what matters is that it was made of memory.
the kind of memory where the world
does the work for you. like a treadmill.

and i knew it.

seeing shit this way can make you
feel close to everything or fucked
over by nothing.

it is incredibly disheartening the way
that something like this can change
six hours later as i sit outside
the coffee shop checking off another
place i can’t go because i want to
smash in the face in of some kid with
a light memory and heavy haircut.

who means nothing to me.

we see this way because we
were born this way and sometimes
it works beautifully.

sometimes, not so much.
sometimes, it gets confusing.
sometimes it follows you home.
where you have no choice but
take a moment to distribute the
pound evenly in both hands
and defer to the immortality
of a roast beef sandwich.

I PLAYED MY PART

last time this year i splurged
and bought chicken wings
bought an eight ball (in two
installments) put a guy who
touched my girl in a headlock
and had the opportunity to
use the knife i carried
(carry) around for
theatrics and over
a decade of man boy
decrepit eyed ideations
of love.

when i should have been
writing a play about woody
Guthrie i was scampering
about trying to get a deposit
back for an apartment that
had a sad air to it for
my girl and the pawn shops
were a blessing.

it was a new world. so i fought
for it. i had made my transition
from page to waking life.

tonight,
the punk thunk romantic remains
but
i don’t like the way this poem
feels.

so i’m going to stop.

I'M READING AT THE LOS ANGELES ENGINE COLLISION FESTIVAL Feb. 26th.

Well. I'm pretty excited about this. It's a big day for ole Felix Taco, aka; BP, aka; Bob the Butcher, aka; Little Sad Fist, aka; The Dread Lord Nutsweet, aka; Mr. Pajama the J-hole, aka; Shut the Fuck Up.

I'm going to be reading at The Engine Collision Festival on February the 26th. It's more exciting that running into this lady:

The Festival has put together programming from all over the place - not just film - but mixed media, music, fashion, performance art, fine art and literature. Stuff from New Orleans, China, London, Japan and your underpants. David Lynch has provided some programming. Cherry Vanilla is reading from her autobiography about her days of Warhol fame. Ready set go:

SKADOOOOSH.

If you like Twin Peaks, Jennifer Lynch is going to be reading from The Diary of Laura Palmer. Phillip Virus is coming from Berlin and going to be playing some stuff and a new video or film he made with Sonic Youth. Whatever. What is most important is that I'm going to be reading on the 26th and I want to publicly retract every glib thing I ever said about this guy. Because he's right. Dreams do come true.

It's going to be held in the middle of Hollywood at an independent art gallery called STUDIO 1636.

Studio 1636 has been hosting and home for an installation built around this thing right here:

It's called The Engine. All in all it's a portable movie venue made out of oxidized steel. It goes from crazy time machine like sculpture and then when it's time it transforms into the screen. The people behind it created The Engine out of a desire to provide a venue for D.I.Y. artists in the same way that CBGB's was a hub for punk rock and other fantastic music was back in the day. Before it was turned into a retail store. They have nice jackets. I didn't realize that it was CBGB's until I was smoking out front and people were snapping pics.

This is the first time I've admitted this to anyone. I feel better. Thank you.

Anywho . . . The Installation part of the Festival is that, well, a god damn installation was built around the motherfucker. Two superb artists are behind it.

Kofie Oneand Sonik Mercury

Here's what the whole shebang looks like:

The whole festival goes on for eleven days. The place holds about 100 people. I think PBR might be sponsoring which gives me just about the most authentic boner I've had in a while. I'm going to be reading a bunch of stuff - and selections from this 130 page book/micro novella/technical manual thing I wrote recently. its very

c
r
e a t
i
v e.

kind of like the way i typed the word "creative" but better. it covers subjects like flamethrowers, repressed memories, child acting, kung fu the series, henry winkler, schizophrenia, cannibalism, pragmatic resonance, bees, hummingbirds, my partment, coffee culture (this the flamethrowers), and what its been like adjusting to all the thoughts, emotions and what not that go alone with losing 175 pounds and going from observer to participant.

The cover looks like this:

Just kidding. That's just what I look like right now. I'm sooooo excited.

Tickets are needed. Please come. This thing here is pretty much read by friends and folks that come along and check things out from time to time.

Here's a quick fix/button to get a ticket. I don't think I will be inviting my parents.

I AM ON THE 26TH.

BUT I LEFT MY SIGNATURE

she said,
i like those pens.
i said, me too. they feel
good in the hand.
she said, do you draw?
i said a little bit, then
signed my
name, grabbed my small
coffee and walked away.

last time i was there she
said she was out of cigarettes.
we smoked the same kind.
she asked if she could have
one. i gave her two. then i
signed my name, grabbed
my small coffee and walked
away.

today, she looked a little
raw. i walked up. there
were two guys who were
wearing very similar beards.
one of the ladies who
worked there with “my
she” was there without
a razor.

when she came around the bend
she said, its okay it stings
a little bit to one of the
guys with beards.

it was then that i examined a
wonderful collection of hand
made cards.

a few weeks ago i was upset
and sitting in the courtyard
of the place where she works.

we made eye contact. she
asked if i was okay. i wasn’t.
i said it wasn’t my day. i had
been served an eviction. she
is one of those beasts blessed
with intuition.

i thanked her for asking. it
meant a lot.

it is one of those
things that come and don’t
go away.

i signed my bill, grabbed my
small coffee and walked
away.

right now
i’m wondering why
i didn’t retort,
“do you.”
when asked,
“do you?”

i am mindful but my study in
brevity has created an idiot.

it is not a big crime, nor is it
a big question to ask if someone
is okay but the next time i go in,
i’ll give her my pen.
i have an extra one.
maybe this poem.
maybe not.

times do get tough.
these things matter.
but i’ve been down
that road before.

like a mad bomber.

like a silhouette

THE BOMB LEFT SHADOWS

THE BOMB LEFT SHADOWS

1

the coffee table.

no cake.
no bagels.
in the case.
muggings.
rape.
the national conservancy
takes a family’s
legacy.

everything.
everywhere.

the coffee shops are booming.
the art galleries metastasize.
the liquor store down the street
put prices on nothing.

which pisses me off.
and they know it.

cars repossessed.
swirly birds snipe like bees.
my mother.

my mother has started
telling me
that she loves me.

i forgot that i needed that a long
time ago.

but still.

2

the burger joint down the
street has the kindest people
in the world working in it.

double chili cheeseburger:
five bucks.

chicken nuggets:
two dollars.

i am not a fan of affection
these days.

but, they know things.
seeing them makes me
happy.

3.

when they dropped the bomb in
Hiroshima
the blast left shadows.

i meant to investigate why.
but didn’t.

4.

support your neighborhood bakery.
invest in your local artists.

5.

in the height of the great depression:
people sweat.
harlem boomed.
my jazz was born.
heroin was born.
the bomb came.
and left shadows.

6.

in the height of the great depression:
fdr came to the radio and spoke.
fire side chats.

our president has a vlog on
the internet.

or was it Wilson.
or Truman.

it doesn’t matter.

did you know that our president’s speeches
were
written by a boy?

i wonder if he sucked on sugar
cubes.

in the desert.

7.

blessings in disguise.

8.

i lost my zippo.
i wish me and the ether were
better friends.

it takes strength to care.

i have awoken.

9.

i have stopped tagging the
neighborhood
because it
requires paint.

my intention was to
spot hope.

not paint.

these days
hope is best met
when
crumpled.

10.

victoriamia. i know nothing.
but find comfort in the thought
that you are beautiful.

but know better.
i’m no longer a boy.

i have come to understand who
i am and have made friends with
my strong sense of authorship.

11.

sometimes i feel like my life is
a neverending drunk text or
email i wish i could unsend.

12.

here comes the machine gun.
the mechanism has broken the
agreement.

the hunting ground is barren.

warfare has changed.
you can’t just charge the lines
like a gnarly man anymore.

ask the british.
or the kids with video
games who have grown up
and learned how to make
their war machines obliterate
with the touch of a button.

kaboom.

the palette has evolved.
god bless the brave.

the machine gun has come.
the narcissists are getting
slaughtered.

13.

i am confident.
i can learn anything.
i feel that the only information
that matters is the confidence
of understanding the impotence
of bullshit.

it’s not bullshit if you can learn
how to do it.

like the machine gun.
or the shadows
from Hiroshima.

or my father.

i saw his eyes light up when i
told i believed in language.

of Hiroshima.
of the machine gun.
of warfare.
of the bathroom wall.
of pragmatics.
of resonance.

the information is available to
everyone.

these ideas are not mine.
i know this. i am hopeful.

ether. show me the way.

demonstrate your genius.
show me what you are made of.
put it down. set it off.

like jazz.
like heroin.
like the neighborhood bakery.
like your local artist.
like mathematics.
like grids.
like forced perspective.
like a remote control.
something qwerty.
a pressed button.

14.

paramedes made fun of everything.

15.

witches were martyrs
martyrs were witches.

16.

the jungle will strangle everything.
this is the pallor of immortality.

17.

i am confident because
the shadows sleep with me.

18.

spend bravely.

19.

xenijardin just posted that his holiness,
the dali lama is on twitter.

imagine that.