23rd & Telegraph

Living A Life

2005-07-04T18:01:00.000-07:00

2004 November 1
Living A Life

living a life
living my life
like a queen
an obese white queen
queen bee
who is reveling in the plenty
among those who have few
divorced from my surroundings
as only the truly affluent can be
dispassionate
collecting alimony
from everyone i have trampled
along the way
my way
a true sociopath,
perhaps
all queens must have a queendom
and this is mine
the roaches are my worker bees
preserving my life
at the sake of their own
as i exterminate them
with the true resolve
of a true dictatress
living a life
the miller high life
doing a dance
with my inner devil
at your expense
on the tropic of cancer
where every tumor
is self-inflicted
and stealthily predicted
tipping my hat
to the parisians
down on telegraph avenue
their noses turned up
and turned in from cocaine,
crack, weed, and booze
my nose turned down
from the smell
the retched odor of oakland
that intoxicates me
that sends me writhing
and lurching down to the liquor store
where everyone
knows your name
or at least they know
the name of the queen,
god bless her
long live the empress
waiting in the royal bus depot line
brandishing a 22 of old English
playing i spy
for the perfect emollient
drunk in the miasma
too drunk
to repair the cutaneous
misdirections
with eyes shut
the elephantiasis spreads
through the tropic
across the avenue
permeating every orifice
every buttress and slurry
of bloody bum piss
every junkie, whore, and
fucking rapist
every chic artist, hotspot,
coldspot, and sorespot
along the way
from this shithole,
excuse me,
this castle,
from this extravagant castle
across the bay
until the almighty
rests upon her throne
one big malignant heap
of all heaps
smelling of the wondrous
fragrance of turpentine
aborted unmentionables
and vomit
drink it all in
drink in the life
this life
savor its aroma
so complex
yet so simple

Ear to Ear

2005-07-04T18:00:00.000-07:00

2004 November
Humboldt, CA
Ear to Ear

sippin' on a pabst
in a world filled with pie
ear to ear
forest to the coast
on sabbatical
from the bay area
drip, drip, drrrip
someone or other
said it was going to rain
they were right
right, and wrong, alright
left alone
solitude, the thing
i am perhaps most afraid of
& the thing
i find myself seeking
at every opportunity
drip, drop, countless beers
drip, alone
with my typewriter
the only thing
desired more than solitude
the only thing
i am now more afraid of
more afraid of
than myself
an extension of me
who’s that?
come again?
managing to forget
what it has taken
a lifetime,
thus far,
to learn
good at forgetting
perpetuating the cycle
calculatingly naive
ignorance at your service

Sky In Limbo

2005-07-04T17:57:00.000-07:00

2004 November
Humboldt, CA
Sky In Limbo

True, the sun
Hasn’t been out for days
But I imagine,
I’d be sitting here
All the same
Regardless of the clouds,
So heavy and lethargic
The sky in limbo,
Or maybe doing the waltz
I imagine a bright,
Sunny day
Would only make me
Feel worse
They always do
Sunlight makes
Me uneasy
The heat, the light
Opposes me
Contradicts me
This day, these days,
These kinds of days
Soothe me
The covered sky,
Dullness
Is as beautiful
As it gets--
For me
Left alone
Allowed to rest
Slip into the like mind
Of the atmosphere
Unnoticed
As into a nest of
Pillows and blankets
On a cold, rainy night
In a town where
Nobody recognizes you
Where no one would notice
If you stayed in bed forever
This café, packed with strangers
Strange faces
Heavy wooden door
Standing in front of me
Displaying a circular window
I sit peering outside
Like a sailor on a ship
The cars driving by
Like a school of fish
We are all
Immersed in water
Under pressure
Out of our element
No matter how many
Pirate tattoos
We all exhibit
And maybe
I am weird
For wanting to float
Directionless
Caught in the current
Any current
But which one of us
Will drown first,
Me or you?
You, fighting inertia
Desperate to stay still
To stay calm
Me or you?

Wake

2005-07-04T17:55:00.000-07:00

2004 November
Humboldt, CA
Wake

Wake up.
Woke up this morning
Inevitably something
Wakes me
Yet to break
The cycle
Sleep forever
Uninterrupted
Every day, the same
Unbarable hours
Lost to sleep
Negating consumption
Rested and restored
In other words,
Uncomfortable
Comfort lying singularly,
It lies
In the edgy
The degraded
Fucked?
Maybe.
Freedom from
Addiction
Eradication of
Desire
Not today
Take bare necessity
Then sum
Self-determinism
Self-destruction
Impervious to memory
Selectively ignorant
Period
Comma
Semi-colon
Masochism in its
Purest form
Directionless
Ride the moon
To its apogee
To find solitude
To find anything
At all
To find instead
You cannot rise
Any higher
Admit it is time
To return home
Where the crawling
Of your skin
Remains
To remind you
You are awake
You are hungry

Daily Conventions

2005-07-04T17:54:00.000-07:00

Studio, 2004
Daily Conventions

Mulling over hunger
And other daily conventions
Sitting in a bed
Overlooking The City
Wondering where I’ll be
365 skip, hop, jumps
A leap from now
Tucking paper into balls
Every time I roll my pen
Away into another secret spot
Secure by way of me,
Myself unable to find them
Thoughts rolling along the same summit
Only to drop back down to the bottom
The place I would rather be
At ease down here by my dis-ease
Recurring lessons halting forward progression
Sun setting on another day
Traffic noise warming my heart
Smog, filth, smoke warming my lungs
Prolonged hiatus where the sunset joins its like
Vacuumed into the black hole in my center vision
Face crimson from Milwaukee’s Best
Leering at me from the nightstand
Smirking, claiming responsibility
Along with everything else, except myself
Jumbling words into confusion,
Equally talented in manipulating emotion
The whole of life jumbled into an ashtray
Residing on 23rd and Telegraph
Nose unmistakably picking up
The foul stench of my own doing
One hundred thousand pieces per square centimeter
Constitutes the rope anchoring me
Hiring elves over the holiday season
Weaving around the clock
Their tiny hands meticulously winding
Tighter, longer, tighter
I have become methodical in my paranoia
Securing reinforcements
Stronger, tighter, better—
Err, err, err
My smallest elf, Massalah,
Having the brevity to ask if enough was enough
Was tossed down the garbage shoot from 6 floors up
His elfin bones, made up of sucrose
The poor bastard broke every last one
Landing in prostitute cum and bum vomit
Dissolving him into a 2 inch puddle of elf slew
Communally, we fell back last night
From our springing forward
The roaches turned back my clocks in the kitchen
As I finished fastening down
The last of my worthless possessions

Pedestal

2005-07-04T17:53:00.000-07:00

2004 December 2
Pedestal

Will you miss me
When I am gone?
Will you miss my purulent praise?
Will I miss myself,
This self,
When I am gone?
The ephemeral imperviously
Recalled with sentiment
When at long last the present
Belches shamelessly into the past
Meretriciously I place you
On the highest pedestal in the room
The exemplar of my desire
Waiting to come crashing down
In the expectorate of my wanting
In the cornucopia
Of all that was lost before
Desired but unattained
Too high to reach
With these listless arms
The petulant epigram which my life
Delicately balances upon
Waxing and waning
With all of the superficial
Feminine logic of the lunar
Of the cycles that come and go
That pass
Marking time like the grand
Master clock that it is
Transfiguring this avenue
With all of the misfortunes in it
Until all certitude is lost
Only I remain
With all of my indemnity
And you are left
With all of the beauty
That I have painted you in
In this small vignette
In this cursory, crude description
Where all of my energy
All of my words
Are exhausted
To fill your spaces
To mount you higher
And higher still

You See Me

2005-07-04T17:52:00.000-07:00

2004 December 10
You See Me

The Ice Queen
Stoic, emotionless
Temperature rising
Outside, run clear from your
Cold, cold room
Even at its thickest
Blood tells you
Where it boils
“How did you
Get so hard?”
Hardly, I admit
Actions unfair
Words guiding
Misguiding
Hung around
Unremorseful
You come, you go
Like an unobserved eclipse
At night while I am sleeping
Clinging to someone else
This bed an elegy
Where perfection lies
Is always lying

Precepts?

2005-07-04T17:51:00.001-07:00

2004 December 12
Precepts?

Precepts?
What precepts?
Sitting at a kitchen table
How metaphysical
Though the table
Is not my own,
Of course
And these are not my words
Scribbled beside me
But they sounded so fitting
When I read them
So fitting
That I sketched their lines
Assumed their outline
In my cheap cardboard journal
Called them my own
Without earnest
Compelled by the burden
Of false connectivity
Sketching a drawing
With trace paper
And pencil
Number 2
Gratified by a glimpse
Of art
Suffused by a dictionary
I do not own
A sketch didacted
From the wall of a cave
From a semantic
Domain
The inner pages
Of a book
I did not write
That I barely comprehend
Read by chance
Fallen from the shelf
Because of the place
Where I was born
The language
That I was born into
Forced to read
To speak in darkness
Lacking illumination
Still unable
To rub sticks together
On my own

One By One

2005-07-04T17:51:00.000-07:00

2004 December 12
One By One

Sucking on
Another fag
Demur in
My affliction
She makes me sick
To my stomach
Each, every time
She walks into the room
Austere
Severe
Egregiously
Affinitive
He too,
Makes me sick
For opposing reason
Misgivings various
He is one
One of many
Lining up like cocks
Ready for the fight
I cuckold them
One by one
Or two by two
Devotion
Perfunctory
Feigning control
Of what I
Most envy

30 Day Threshold

2005-07-04T17:50:00.000-07:00

2005 January 3
30 Day Threshold

30 days to notify my life
or is it 29 now?
the future is out there
says a stronger me
from my past
so i'm gettin’ a move
on outta dodge
deciding to find IT
meanwhile i killed
my housewarming present
the little yellow roses
miniature petals
tiny leaves
shriveled
died
no matter what i tried
to keep them alive
yesterday
i threw in the towel
threw the whole pot
in the garbage
it was as though the plant
had no will to live
every moment after
being handed to me
after passing my threshold
was a moment of dying
of death
doomed from the start
to end at 23rd street
for weeks, months
i have wilted
inside out
the hypocrite
with the watering can
nobody told me
which game i was playing
that the curtains would fall
while me and my kick-flush
were playing house
out here in the lullaby
of california
while my friends have
dropped like flies
and the roaches circled
like vultures
while i have
dated a tree
thick trunk
branches immobile
rooted deep down in oakland
whether or not
we are all floating
on water
a swamp
underneath it all
vast like my memories
of mississippi
you cannot fire me
because i quit
truth be told
i quit before i started
before i orchestrated
these limbs to move
this mouth to talk
manipulating the shell
of a person
behind the thoughts
of a mind that knows
otherwise
a mind left to wander
to play games behind
this prisoner’s stockade
which i have given myself
30 days to rectify

While I Lounged...

2005-07-04T17:48:00.000-07:00

2005 January 3
While I Lounged...

While I lounged on the couch in Roseville, Santa came and went unnoticed. Vague visions of pot-roast, fake Christmas trees, peppermint ice cream, the television blaring, and my Grandmother talking to herself run through my mind like the elephants going one by one, hurrah, hurrah. Then my mind draws a blank at everything in between; it gets stuck in the clear glue holding it all together.

One day after Christmas: memory of a car ride south in a ’73 Volvo Sedan. There is a girl drinking whiskey out of a silver flask, and a shmuck who is more reminiscent of Castro Street than a pirate ship.

Two days after Christmas: my memory floods back. My friend Clare, one of my best friends, is down in Los Angeles visiting family for Christmas. She moved to North Carolina shortly after I left for Europe 3 years ago. I’ve probably seen her 3 times since then. She’s probably written to me about an equal number of times. I have insisted to myself that she and I don’t have to be in constant communication. I have been determined that we are the kind of friends who will pick up where we left off.

Several days after Christmas: I am determined to burn fallen bridges.

Hearing My Own Lecture

2005-07-04T17:45:00.000-07:00

Marie’s Kitchen, 2005
Hearing My Own Lecture

Hearing my own lecture
On sustainable living
Meanwhile,
Having a Parliament
A glass of red wine
For dinner
Lectures are tiresome
With subject matter
So familiar
I fix my attention
Elsewhere
On a creature
Wandering the Earth
Filling hours
Between satiation
And hunger
Satiated,
Sitting on edge
Waiting
For the next craving
To eat
To piss
To shit
Which I know
Will eventually hit
In full animal instinct
Floundering between
Attraction and repulsion
Hiding behind
Excuses like
Emotion
And compatibility
People measure up
Or they fall short
Myself, no exception
No acception
Guilt for
Instincts
For behavior
I am the baboon
At the Chicago Zoo
Throwing excrement
Pieces of rat carcass
At you
Rubbing it
All over
Myself
I am the filthy pigeon
In the gutter
Poking and pecking
Indiscriminately
At all things
I deem edible
In other words,
I am human

Bound

2005-07-04T17:44:00.000-07:00

2005 January 4
Bound

little rubber car
drove on
cracking in the sun
being squeezed furiously
in our palms
then left to neglect
never wanting to let you
loose from my fingers
out of my sight
half the time
drifting away
duct taping your mouth
orbiting you into outerspace
as far away from me
as possible
submerging my head
underwater
screaming it off
the other half
you gave me
that notorious grin
pulled back from orbit
bound in other ways
eyes widening
partnered with dawn
you told me…
me, tightening
my grip
fearing the memories
before they formed
you, surrendering
to the moments
stretching on

Looking Down On Telegraph Avenue

2005-07-04T17:43:00.000-07:00

2005 January 6

Looking down on Telegraph Avenue, I’m watching the lights turn for cars that aren’t on the road. They are not there, but I am watching them drive out to Berkeley. Nobody is ever driving when I sit here at night with my wine glass, with my music. The music is real, it’s really playing for me. I know I’m not completely delusional because the singers maintain their half of the conversation. If I turn it up loud enough, I can drown out the sound of the refrigerator, always trying to ask me questions that I cannot answer. Every such and such minutes the fridge starts playing its tune, letting in the cold air I am letting out. Sirens lights up like clockwork, burning brighter or fading away into the distance. The street cleaner can always be heard in the middle of the night, either on one side of the street or the other. It makes me wonder why garbage can always be seen in the gutter, what all the noise is good for. The cars come up in white, and fade in red as they climb the fog to the campanile. I prefer dirty dishes mounting in the sink, my gutter, to clean ones scrubbed with a dirty sponge. How much effort is it, really, to walk to the dollar store and pick up some new sponges and a box of garbage bags? Apparently it is more effort than it is worth.
I lied again on the phone today, interviewing with a company I have no desire to work for. The bullshit answers came almost as swiftly as the bullshit questions across the wire. Things have taken a turn for the better, so why do I feel more abject than ever? Is all of this suggestive of hidden weakness, or destiny for greatness? What is the difference anyway? Tonight my breath is visible, clearer than any other representation of me. I am moving forward, either out of a sense of adventure, or a deeper sense of romantic abiding. I would trade in idealism for romanticism any day. Everything on the other side and in between only succeeds in boring me senseless.
What example of beauty can you deliver out of complacency and tranquility? The world was not created by remaining the same. And no, love does not come to those who wait. Love comes to those on the move, who no longer give a fuck about what is coming to them, so long as something new is on the way. I keep condemning myself every day, because in my heart I know that I am being corrupted. My life is a game of follow the leader. I have broken free on occasion, done what few have done before me. That is still only repeating what has been done before. Perpetuating the cycle.
The cycle is a conundrum, because it is linear by all appearances. It is the road in Nebraska, stretching out as far as the eye can see, flat, unbending into the horizon. The catch is that you cannot see it, but you know the road turns. You know that you are the only soul for miles to come, but the count is lost on those who came before you. It is as though you were never there. You never existed. Countless will follow after you. The numbers are not so great, they will never stretch on to infinity. But the beginning is questionable, and unrecorded. And the end? The end is frighteningly close at hand, but nobody is counting. The page is closing in on your words. You know that soon you will have to stop, because there is no more empty space for you to fill. A copy of your reflections will remain to mock you in the end, because all you really want is more negative space. So you relinquish the foreground to the music, to the only voice listenning, while the lights change again for the cars down below.

Come February

2005-07-04T17:42:00.000-07:00

2005 January 12
Come February

never return his calls
unless he stops calling
what else is new?
summer,time of love
winter, time of what?
so asks my court of ladies
so asks yours truly
pent up heat
from the summer waves
unforgivingly burns
beyond recognition
ashes the only survivor
come February
i stand, watching the pillars
of smoke rise up all around me
with a growing inclination
to climb one to the top
jump off into the reservoir
where my own ashes lie
where i could take
a nose dive
blamelessly cursing
stripped in the middle
of the night
bathing off the
seasons passed

Color Scheme

2005-07-04T17:41:00.000-07:00

2005 January 12
Color Scheme

Buildings red, yellow
Green, orange
Rectangular windows
Triangular, dramatic rooftops
Thrown up with haste
For degenerates, by degenerates
Carbon copied architecture
Of Prague, minus the backbone
Where my eyes were stolen
Hypnotic winter
Lucid feeling of hallucination
Clarinet on the bridge
Filling in for background noise
Across a nameless, narrow street
I spotted Kafka passing
Over the cobblestones
As I imagined he would
Sporting cap and overcoat
Face morosely fixed
Eyes to the ground
Encapsulated magic
Witnessed by an outsider
Another fucking tourist
Come to gape
Purchase what the locals
Can only afford to sell
Staring at a hologram
A set at Universal Studios
Western skepticism
Of the extraordinary
The color scheme ripped off
Across the way
Three blocks closer
To the freeway
From this brick
Advertisement Motel
Buildings thrown up
Utilizing the cheapest
Materials and labor
Housing criminals
And even worse
The poor
Within pissing distance
From my pot
Painted with an eye
On Eastern Europe
10 or 15 year life expectancy
Along with the people in them
Parallel to the Czechs
Standing strong
Because the director
Walked off the set
Prematurely
Without yelling CUT
Setting in stone
The set no one
Bothered to clear

Do You Remember?

2005-07-04T17:40:00.000-07:00

2005 January 13
Do You Remember?

do you remember
the checkerboard tiles?
the rafters and skylights?
the roof before
the neighbors complained?
the dungeons and dragons
that we called “rooms”?
the squealing induced
by bats, which weren’t
sparrows after all?
it is difficult,
but i remember
our good intentions
i remember 2-6 of us
huddled around the single
window on the top floor
falling at eye level
skylights are amazing
but they are not windows
how many months was it
before the maggots and
moth-type-thingies
started to infest
our kitchen?
i know it was after
the bats came
and went
how many months did
it take for us to start
feeling used?
to start feeling trapped?
what happened to our
good intentions?
What happened to crazy
housemate X-Y-and-Z?
thankfully nobody was
strangled by the dishes
molested by the mop
or those black and whites
though maybe they
should have been
to save later anguish
for brief moments
we were living the dream
roller-skating in the
living room
aka our boxing ring
our piñata parlor
the rafters, the rafters
for brief moments we found
what we were looking for
before the ugly end
don’t you think?
before moments of ecstasy
resulted in a household
full of kids
burning to the ground
moments of bliss
moments of bliss

Leaving

2005-07-04T17:39:00.000-07:00

2005 January 13
Leaving

leaving
asap
i will write
missing you
terribly
unable to enjoy
present company
in its presence
so i hand the keys
over to august
in february
sleep on a couch
in a line of couches
how did people
migrate without
couches & cars?
contemplating
survival for
its own sake
while motioning
and prowling
for more

Fall

2005-07-04T17:38:00.000-07:00

2005 January 16
Fall

over the ledge
conspiring
thumbs twittling
twittle dee
& twittle dumb
over the ledge
months ago
back again
leaning over
you spied on me
perform a service
for once:
fall.
dedicate it to
the golden princess
who was, is
always will be
more royal than you
plunge 6 or 7
zoom in
check for signs
of the cerebral
check closer
superman, superman
can you open
your end?
pop the top
like a can of spinach?
fly out from your bottom
true superhero style?
pigeons incessantly
are talking
they say NO
see all
know all
see you aren’t
so indestructible
afterall
know you crumble
under a few
well placed words
crumble inside
your alter ego
costume worn daily
your own reflection
a decoy
your own reflection
your own reflection
tortilla et al
led you astray
dangling from a stick
the tin carrot
who had no heart

Gone Through Sunday Morning

2005-07-04T17:37:00.000-07:00

2005 January 16
Gone Through Sunday Morning

gone through sunday morning, the rooster woke me before dawn saturday. corresponding over a satellite as my wake up call. meet the day and come on down across the way to get inspired by the beating of your heart that harmonizes to a new folk tune. never saw the likes of you before, no sir. emergency vacating the bay area to avoid a certain fate, which suddenly doesn’t feel so certain. strumming my way across the street with sleep in my eyes, mouth shut tight as ever. settin’ a rickety old trap just to place my own foot inside for the sake of a good story, plus a disability paycheck to keep my stomach from aching. the sun in january, soft subtlety of california on my neck. worshipping the road that has faded from friend and enemy into lost acquaintance waiting for my call. itching eyes, face, hands, limbs, and womb stretching out across america for god only knows what or why. crowded room, the usual foreboding scene where everyone plays their role like a good little girl-boy. the pounding in my chest makes me realize that i have been doing it all wrong with the right idea. you are all lovely, but i hate you. this room is a tasty treat, and we are all stewing in it. top with fresh cracked pepper, grated cheese, and serve pipin’ hot. never mind the poor bastard on the corner with his wiener dogs yapping louder than ever. i’ll think of you all next time i am hovering over my toaster to keep warm, waiting for my next crispy slice of bread and butter. but you sir, you with the guitar in your hat, speaking of the south: you i will think of for a long time to come as i sit with my ribbon and wine.

Asking Questions

2005-07-04T17:35:00.000-07:00

2005 January 19
Asking Questions

Asking questions
Tossed in with
The bingo balls
Tuesday night
Which answers
Will fall first?
Who answers when
She answers herself?
Chaos through order
How confusing
It must be
Tears collecting
Morning dew
Over my eyes
Weighing on me
Where gravity
Has no pull
Refusal to blink
Not for an instant
Not for the woman
Who I loved so dearly
Who stands now
A reflection blurred
By stubborn waters
Where guilt ebbs
And flows
My patience carried
By the undertow
Arriving in the
Periphery of this
Surreal experience
All I want is
To shut my eyes
Wake up backward
Center of a trip
L-S-D gone b-a-d
Strung out
Hour after hour
Remember
The state of things
The state of things
No, this is not
An option
This was never
An option

Yes, She Said

2005-07-04T17:33:00.000-07:00

2005 January 19
Yes, She Said

inside, inside, inside.
pupils dare rise
body fallen before its time
can i sit down here?
yes, she said
okay then
yes, she said
folk man,
hook me with your
curved fishing rod
carry the feeling
labeled hope
i caught me a good one
in red, white, and yellow
swallowing the daily regimen
her hair gray
mind fading to milky white
remember me
folk man,
sing it louder
drown out these voices
playing the game
back to infancy
the impossible game
returning home

Path Straightening

2005-07-04T17:32:00.000-07:00

2005 January 19
Path Straightening

Path straightening
Rid of the decorum
Rise and fall
A memory devoid
Of feeling
Straight imperfect perfection
Her curly hair
Stalking me
Daunted by a burden
Named responsibility
As all prospects dwindle
Vexation synonymous with
Inhalation and exhalation
Calm and composed
Frame for the havoc
Behind the glass
Deep resentment
Undiminished by your light

Rays Bombarding

2005-07-04T17:30:00.000-07:00

2005 January 21
Rays Bombarding

Rays bombarding the bricks this morning
Crushing them one by one
Until my bed lay on top of a mound of powder
The sirens flying by in all their glory
Red and white spiraling in a mushroom cloud
Blowing right by 23rd Street
En route to some kind of “real emergency”
As my head thumped and I got dizzy
Neurons, axons, dendrites: the whole crew
Pissed off at me and my activities of leisure
I swam out of the pile, holding my breath
Until my head surfaced
Still managing to fill my nostrils, ears, and eyes
With the grainy powder
Shook it all off like a dog
Deciding to hop in the car
Grab some breakfast, now 1PM

Through My Lens

2005-07-04T17:28:00.000-07:00

2005 January
Through My Lens

Windows down, relieving the humid heat of summer

Stereo up in compensation

Snapping images marked by sunset’s backdrop

You leaning over the roof of my white Honda

Hair pulled back, pushing that infamous purple dress

Row upon row of golden harvest,

Capped in permanence by the bluest blue sky in my mind’s eye

Through my lens, your eyes ending where the sky begins

Dot, line, dot, along the straightest country road

Farmhouse, chimney red from one of Grimm’s Fairy Tales

Windmill, blending, swirling the layers of sunset

Kentucky farmland trapped inside a Van Gough

Invaluable relic framed, in the clutch of my bookshelf