LIFE IN THE TRENCHES: Romance, Rebellion and Running Amok

SUPER 16 AND ANTIOXIDANTS, YOU BET

Rest with joy, little. 

 

I am uneasy and without panic. 

Friends.  With the ashtray.  All

The ashtrays.  Even the ones

Trying to rick-roll me outside

Of Trader Joe’s. 

 

Putting their concerns and

Causes on me.  

 

Do you have time for the environment?

 

Nope.  Fuck off. 

 

I am uneasy and without panic.

 

I do not operate in guilt. 

I move with great love. 

I am flawed.

I have this thing deep inside of me. 

And I move with great love. 

 

Know this. 

 

This drink that I drink is full of citrus and

Salty. 

 

I do not want to be like my mother. 

Full of love, but hard on everything. 

 

I do not want to be like my father,

A battering ram. 

 

I am petulant and want to wear you

From the inside – like a glove.

 

I see you.  I know you. 

 

Music is good.

The garden is better.

I like the bathtub.

But I do not like the heat.

 

The bathtub is the soup.

Rough but respectful. 

Time soft but not. 

 

I am not a midget. 

Emotional or otherwise. 

I’ve never been. 

You see me.

And

I am home. 

 

I can be still with the snails,

The cage jockeys, and lesser

Animals. 

 

I can see gray and know time

And see the way things slip and

Fit – of force and flaccid skull

Mark-ery. 

 

Right now, there is a song playing

And I like the way a dash in the word

Processing program makes for good

Language.

 

You have fine language. 

 

I am uneasy and without panic.

 

Good girl. 

 

I clatter. 

 

I reach.

 

I am no stranger to time. 

 

I love. 

 

Little. 

You have good skin.

And good grin. 

 

Yes, I left those lines. 

But I like the way your tongue

Touches your teeth while feeling

Powerful – and smiling. 

 

Sleep.  Rest.  I get it. 

I love, little. 

You are a good girl.

Rest.  I am a freak. 

This is not guilt. 

This is great love.

I see you.  I am home.

 

And I get it. 

 

Los Angeles burns.

The toll collectors count with their fingers.

I can not express how much I feel

With fingers, the loss of property,

Time, or otherwise. 

 

What’s the deal with these guys. 

Forever stamps?  Who enforces

Forever? 

as far as time goes and otherwise:

 

Nobody.

 

That’s why its forever. 

 

Clear communication with a slight

Irreverence for the past. 

 

I know about the past. 

 

Nobody. 

 

That’s why its forever. 

 

I want to wear you from the inside

Like a glove. 

:)

 

My drink is full of citrus.

But salty. 

 

I’m sorry. 

 

Tomorrow, I dump with

Light and match and sigh

For nothing. 

 

Rest. 

 

As the city burns, I stand guard

and hold vigil. 

And think about postcards and

cats.

 

Thoughts.

You know them. 

 

And this is why I love you. 

 

Amongst other things

That are not

 

Things. 

At all. 

 

Get it? 

There were pictures i wanted to post with this

but

forgot them. 

 

 

 

WHITE HEADS, HATS, SOAP, AND TIPS, HA-HA AND GIANTS' SLEEPING (poem with recording)

I am losing favor with the morning.  Or, morning is losing favor with me.  I don’t feel like taking care of anything or keeping track of where, “the hat” is. 

 

One time I was in love with a girl who thought it was fun to test my intuitive skills by referring to everything she needed or wanted as a “hat”. 

 

Where’s my “hat”, she’d say.  I’d produce keys.  Good boy.  Or a hot bowl of beans.  Or a scarf that I ruined.  Or a piece of cake.  Afterbirth.  Strike anywhere matches.  Karate pants.  White-heads.  Soap.  Panties.  A piece of paper from five years ago that I had never seen before, yet was responsible.  Sea otters.  Boom sticks.  And a handwritten technical manual with step-by-step instructions on how to reverse engineer alchemy bought from none other than the wonderful, Capulet.  

 

It was cute for a while but after a while I lost myself and couldn’t figure out which way was up.  And before I knew it things blew up.  I went down.  It got dark.  I got back up.

The particulars of my adventure are as yawn-able as they are action packed and the road from start to this morning was long and has me thinking about the god damn “hat”, velvet ropes, doing donuts in the park, tiger balm, hot heat and maggots, and the giant peach that james almost ate with the little melancholy prince who had his own god damn planet -

 

I say these things for I have the urge to frame with strokes that are epic.  

 

I am not a cow. 

Nor, a hat. 

Nor, a good boy – custodian – prince – king – match making - man.

 

I am not the thunderbolt.  She is not Juno.         

And

The morning is fine

And as I eat peach with james from my planet

I look around for ground

And see a sign and it says,

 

“Please do not disturb.  Giant sleeping.  Come back later when we’re fresh.” 

 

Yes, friend. 

I know.  VIP. 

Do not disturb. 

Fresh. 

Giants sleeping. 

Ok, then.  My turn. 

Go hard with humor

And honor it. 

But go on. 

Download Reading/Recording

 

Download Memo

THRIVE

I am tired.  But I am not beaten. 

I am mindful.  But not dramatic.

I am inspired.  But not deluded.

 

I am a boy.

I am a man.

These statements are declarative.

But are statements, nonetheless. 

 

There are these moments.

Where I am standing somewhere

Unforgettable.  And I feel things.

Good things.  Bittersweet things.

 

I am a god.

And nobody knows this. 

 

As a god.

Nobody knows this.

 

As a boy. 

I am excitable. 

 

As a man. 

I choose brevity.

But feel things that

Can be best described

As everything.

 

As far as a boy,

Man, standing somewhere

Unforgettable knows that he

Is excitable and feels some sort of

Satisfaction that he does still wonder.

 

I will stop at wonder.  For wonder is

Like soap and fresh balls and the thumbprint

Of romance. 

 

Romance.

You bet. 

 

Right now, as the chicken cooks.

And I am feeling things. 

The best I can do is describe the

Phenomenon of braces. 

 

You know.  The thing that frames

The unframed-able.  Aka; the exciteable

Smile. 

 

The chicken is cooking.

I feel distant but irrefutably connected.

And I’m thinking about braces and stuff

Like when I was younger and thought about

Train hopping and knew something about

Language and felt eternity.  And had no shame

For saying things like, “I knew something about

Language and felt eternity” because I saw the

Holes, nonetheless, but undeniably did. 

 

I used to feel that being morbidly obese afforded some

Sort of absolution.  Or buying into the myth of mental

Illness.  “I see dead people”.  While the voices may come

From the non-existent air duct – seeing dead people affords

No absolution and at this point, coming from boy – to man –

Who remains exciteable – who is cooking chicken – who wants

To maul his girl – but is cooking chicken and tired – and has balls

That smell like – something that he used to sniff to pass time and

Sniff because it was a nice tactic to know that he is not and never

Was invisible – that none of this shit is any sort of absolution and

As the people in his life who kept him afloat without knowing the

Curse of displacement – need him to remain excitable and feel good

About things as the chicken cooks and stuff. 

 

Stuff is a good way.  A good cord to rip.  An exit.  Jettison.  Without

A blindness to north. 

 

Let’s just say that when I was a kid – getting braces was some sort of thing

That kids who could get braces got to make their teeth fantastic and even though

The hardware was there and the smile was getting fixed and the fact that it was getting

Fixed was a very clear line of demarcation that this is, was, and is something of great love that in reality – the teeth will hurt and the food will get stuck and putting gum wrappers the teeth or palming safety pins to put in your mouth to make some j-hole’s

Lecture about Hitler and opportunism seem a bit more interesting will kind of sort of

Pale in the face of the reality.  You have to brush your teeth.  You have to eat.  The reality comes.  And its funny – because people are jealous of the love that came to

Brighten your smile.  And if you complain about it too much – you will sound like a

J-hole and will not be able to explain it. 

 

The best I can do is this.  Is say that a second ago I put on some Brahms.  That felt sad and spastic.  The chicken is cooking.  And right now as the chicken is cooking me and my girl are sitting separate as she chats with folks on the internet and I write this god damn dribble and all I want to do is not need to eat, or work, or wear braces, or understand braces, and just forget, dive in, eat, envelop and become enveloped

And be home. 

 

Which is funny.  Because I am.  I am home. 

 

And I know this.  Which is something that makes perfect sense of

Everything. 

 

So luck, as I am.  As we all.  Should be. 

 

Like walking five miles in the snow to school. 

And telling that story.  To a short bag of skin full of

Farts and frankness. 

 

I’d rather not be writing this. 

But no longer find the art of survival romantic.

 

Thrive. 

 

Have no shame friends for your comfortable lamentations. 

 

Make wail and bang and fuck like no tomorrow.  Love hard

And be small and a god in your freaking minutia. 

 

Apparently, today – a large section of los angeles was burning. 

And when I woke up – I made tea because I thought that she

Might be sick. 

 

C.

U.

Next.

Tuesday. 

 

Lovers. 

 

Amen. 

MUSIC

at times

(nice)

they

(we)

all point in the same direction. 

sometimes, its nice to go out and see a show. don't you think?   

you know when you have low blood sugar and the day is not done . . . may i suggest