boy that is some pussy shit I just wrote next time I will tell you of the bars I got thrown out of and other nefariousness

I did fucked took punched left gave had left reeled slept stole had stolen



you would not be impressed but still in the end I never fuckin cried just panicked or else didn't

in the end I never fuckin cried just panicked or else didn't



I once had a opportunity to dump a hot steaming shit meal into the lap of George Steinbrenner no shit

and truly



no shit I wish I had I totally wish I had I wished I'd scraped his fuckin head with my hangnail



and another time I coulda kicked Donald Trump in the junk and why the fuck didn't I????



I'll never get the chance again.....

so I left. drove off for NY that morning of the high white end December sun

and it was cool. Indeed it was. And not in the good way. I cried for about 10 miles



then settled down. Into the drive. Finally in spitting snow the buildings and signs visible

on the West Side Highway looked like home.



I took the blue car to a parking garage on the upper west side I just happened to find

one of any. left the bags in the car and hied my 175 lb. ass up to the address my friend



Zee had given me. Spanish Harlem. Columbia side. no fucking sweat thanks to bill clinton and giuliani. and my friend Zee he of the fucked up Midwest late times America African American ethos.



and all that that entails. to you I mean to you.

fucking tiresome them times and yet it was a Specific Time



1998

2 days next to the first fucking day of that year



boy who got rich that year it wasn't me or millions else but

it might have been you if you were there fuck



yow now that I'm writing I'm remembering way too many details to suffice for a succinct and crunchy

little blog poem



but suffice to say that the whole initial time partially involved wood floors, sleeping on them, the constant TV feeling like it was somehow more significant, music,



smoking American Spirit Lights the light blue pack by the open window, bottled European beer, someone else's food



that they cooked, being surrounded suddenly by lots of homosexuality because my boy Zee was a switch hitter and his boy



who lived there just took the pitches. but I didn't care. I had other fish to fry.

like getting as drunk as possible. and seeking my time - ha. i would see the death



of yet another guitar

yeh like I said the fucked non-need of feasting emblazoned on something cold was them times oh



what litanies of drunken times and nights and cocaine yes and cigarettes and what a loneliness, crippling,

just like someone or two or 9 or how many more had told me it was going to be just like they told me



that place

would be

just after I left NY I said to my Dad regarding motherfuckers living in NY I said Hey if you want to live at Ground Zero for the Apocalypse be my guest. I'll be out in the woods waiting for you fuckers to come running. OK, I didn't say that last part but I did say it all around June 2000.



But we live in an age of glib facile and bullshit prophecy. Take a look around you.



I wonder what would happen if I got 2 reptiles to keep in a tank and named them Jesus and Buddha. Nothing I guess. I'm not a reptile guy I'd probably ignore them



I'm a canine guy and I

hope I get born again in the days when sentient dogs rule the earth



(bound writers of the earth drink my 70 proof piss water if you want to gain flow. my seal is the seal of cyber and you will never touch or get close to my throat fucker unless you start your own come on come on come on

I never should've gone to New York



I remember the morning I left



high white sun a warm

last December day like

today



loading my guitars and bags into

the back and trunk of a blue Corolla



my Mom crying as I drove away; in some sense

begging me to stay though not saying



but there had been weeks before the whisky night

in our old damp basement and me puking later in bed and her



cleaning it as I smoked a bitter cigarette on the small front

porch. Muttering. I was full of hate. And



it was for myself. I'm reaching back

beyond the beginning but I'd been

busting for a year selling shoes at JC Penney

in the mall. yeh



God, I'm reaching back too far because

the story I want to tell is why I never should've



gone to New York.

All day today I've been wanting to cry and it's been



based in love and love is what we all need

and also what breaks us and this constant breaking



is what makes us whole

and human and this why I went to New York



and also why I never should've. and

also why I left.



I remember a day many months and in fact years

after I'd gone to New York I stepped outside



Grand Central onto 41st or wherever the fuck

and I realized the evil whole.



The thing that feeds ablaze on cold America.

The emptiness. The non-need festering.



I think it was then I knew to leave though it took me months;

an eviction and 2 more fucked seasons



down the street and on the sidewalks to tell.

No not to tell. It's taken this long to tell.



And this, a poor telling.

I'll save the best for later. At least



that's what I say

mull it



best thing i can do is please ask you to forgive

the time and beauty i failed to give you and i

suspect a penitent is one thing i can be one

role i can play



his song is so bright and mine so shy

mine so mind mine is so why mine is so

bind

and bye and



bye

bye

and so i drink

yes i drink



to think

to feel the brink to ride

upon the brink i don't care what

you think unless you think like me



then i think you might see



what i love

before, again



outside



side

of the house



swagger



look



hook

in the ground

mind

head



underground

look at the

faces



under

ground



under

the berm or



look

sideways

to the



highway

i never i had nothin until i promised you



something



i never would ask but take i

will for love of you yes



for love of you. i

pause in the



half voice



trials

you've faced



i've faced

you i

did

what



i had to do



scales



measure



climax



can't

did



there



in the hall



your test



you

so low the needle

in face of trenchant joys

other



problems no problems

chiaroscuro joy

no joy yet some

war crib



what is so affecting about how a man of your stripe

must comport himself in this wretched age of crime and pain is



fuck it though Fido. create instead

for yourself a fictional alter-ego and live through that.

him. it. act through him



but I thought that's what I was doing see

even though I'm half drunk I'm still shit lucid,

the glib demeanor of the monk

gone north, to the mountains,



the barbarian dwellings. I got a brother

lives up there he's better than me.

fucks all the fillies. sometimes

2 at a time. but nobody



trusts him. that's a lie. they

all do. nobody knows how he's profiligate.

or say few do. he

hides it well.



that part of his life is important

only to him. me, I drink. not

him;



he's got physical gifts. he's cunning whereas

I am paranoid. but he dreams only

at night whereas my

prophecy rips me apart



as well as others.

they called me a sorcerer, a wizard.



they would. if only

they knew the words

and had



any imagination.

they have none,

so I'm termed a felon.



pay it no mind. I keep

no gun

yet I'm way



dangerous.

this is how

my tale begins:

come here

I want



to ask

you

crawford arsenic pie



good bye

i killed myself last night

and got reincarnated into a

pesky chow



now then. and after

a white trash beetch

fuckin whapped me

with a cinderblock



till ah got crushed and bled.

the year was 3009

and I got immediately reincarnated

as a rich man's bank account



as a cunt

as a gun

as a hair plug

as menses



as a virus

that wipes out the rest of the species

and then after a million years I come back as a

radio frequency.



as it blares over the gang bang

bitches male and female start the slaugher

from fucking straight to cutting

murder so fresh it seem



like a game

a jerk off

a face shot.

and every fiend



all jokes

like there's no God and

especially

no tomorrow;



there aint.



and

it's a fucking Hell

on earth Mr. President



courtesy of your God the



Devil

&

here you go cup of insanity baby



&

Carmen told a friend she thought I was too intense



&

i should have loved you becky when i had the chance i should have insisted you dance



&

eat the dream roots then lie sodden on the lawn



2 months out from being gone and a wetter

June never seen



&

the last time I was supposed to see him I got drunk in the city and never made it back across the river



I'd contact him but I'd be afraid he thinks I own him money



&

I woke up seated on a stoop and my Gibson was gone. I crept back to my room in early piss light to lie like a prisoner on my floor



&

both of his parents were dead. his brother lived uptown and i think slung drugs. his sister in Canarsie was sane but cruel



&

we blundered into this bullshit club i half knew about wanting trees and it was so thick and queer dangerous there he finally had to ask if I was gay. I said no, just stupid



&

Irene Irene I probably could have had you you used to listen to me sing and you so smart. and so sick



&

the gave no class on depravity. it's shit some fuckers are just born with. when you encounter these fiends stay away from them



&

for a couple of years there I guess I wished to lose my way.



&

we haven't really spoke in years. sad when friendship becomes relic



&

what if what if you could go back and do things differently oh yeah. but you can you can

slummin a bit lately

smokin a butt here and there

will have to quit anew and religiously again come Jan. 1



will have to slip my boy the J-dog a fin

for the smokes I keep bummin



slummin a bit lately

it perhaps is OK to smoke occasionally if it is very seldom,

but better just not to.



slummin.

Canadian whisky. you mix it with water from the Brita

pitcher and about five ice cubes and it goes down so nice.

but don't have more than 2. don't want to get dangerous



bunch of snow out there. shitty sleeting now and freezing shit

I don't want to be here.

I want to be out

slummin some more



but I guess work will pass.

have to see how far I can get.



I've had dreams lately of writing 2-3 pages a day



that and some poems might get me through



I been having some disturbing dreams lately too but

I don't want to get you down with them



don't want to get myself down



besides, the antecedents of these dreams are all very clear

and so there is comfort in that



might have to continue in this vein later

and by that I mean uh

marry



a sensible peace

centered like physics



like a jousting game

or else a game with a ball



we love we

do

love



*



the least I can do,



field brevity

and allowances



cards -

a deck

of them



is the mind.



choice;

what's implied

is fancy,



what is

read



is height as

a cold edge as

of ice,



lust formed,

a skate

on a



puddle.



contortions. of rage?



nope. just

be



humble

this one here don't belong here. belongs at drunken phone calls. but Blogger won't cooperate. I have this cached and don't want to lose it. so here it is



Post Date: Tue Dec 09, 09:36:50 PM



man why would a motherfucker ever even post here read here well this is the runoff for MC I mean Mott Cromby I mean Matt Chained I mean time to crack another Labatt's



goin



did it down one sip



Howard Dean or Wesley Clark is youR watchword and key



enough of that



I am taking tomorrow off to do X mas shopping yay



hopefully tie one on later in the day what better to do on a day off



I can't figure out why motherfuckers don't comment on my real blog

except it's I'm emptying my heart everytime and by definition

you do that shit in America and the fuckers hate you



and here's some real heresy: I used to work up in WTC 1 2 etc.



Not everyone who died up there was a saint



but they were all uniformly a lot better or at least more innocent than the shills paymasters fools plutocrats fanatics and dickheads who put that terrible day in place



every so often there's another terribly clear blue sky day in the East makes you think of that day



and then ever so often there is a beautiful day in America make you think of when you could be proud of your damn country



that's been stolen.



let's take it back assholes



LET'S TAKE IT BACK

LET'S TAKE IT BACK

LET'S TAKE IT BACK

the elements



the soiled elements which comprise a past

are a mask.a transparency. a diagram. a mute

mononucleosis of need and rage. and clarity.



ellipses follow. drinking now and yes I will

continue to drink until the story be told

and with honesty plausible. no dramatic curve

exists except what's inveighed or imbued



the topographies of thought and emotion

are not neat. both require a voice. and one more

than just, say, this happened today and then this

and this happened. all my thoughts now

are of stories past; time is the iron

that binds all wounds



I wrote a song once saying as much. there's

another poem there: the genesis, conception,

life, death and memory of such a thing. I could

sing you a song now but you can't hear it. but

can you hear me



I said to her, I have no greater essence

than what I give here. we were in her green

Bronco parked by the canal. or else safe

backstage, with piano, guitar. or else



lying upon shingles under December gray sky

and afraid to touch hands. someone gave an awkward

pat. it was you



we were walking then close by in the snow snow falling

as we left the mall lot and we close God what warmth ah God

all good got flushed to Hell



before I knew what had gone

where my boys at?



a culpable thing is happiness

a theiving moment

dusk over water, gold-brown water

or else a timeless scene in a culvert

a stagnant one, one slated for demolition

vis a vis and pending

some fucked airport construction



I was insane on the bus

someone said later I stood on a seat

and proseltyzed -

I always knew I had nuts.

Big ones. I should have been a brawler

a loudmouth I should have fucked shit up

in the days before -



it's impossible to view an airplane now

as anything other than a death vessel dream

like dreams I used to have in Brooklyn of fire craters mayhem

but those weren't prophetic. spend some time in Brooklyn

if you can't feel me. vodka in a blue bottle. some fucked

puerto rican kid trying to lure me to the ATM - take out all your money -

spend it on girls - he crazier than I in his junkie garb. you,

motherfucker, are going to die trying -



happiness. here now gone. I see some everytime it snows.

and I mean bad.

drink a beer out there in the shelter. but I get so sad when the sun

comes back

anger is a form of love



no it's not

today yawns out



I wish I were sitting wrapped in a blanket,

stone awake and with all the prospects

assembling themselves ahead

with no extra effort from me



silly silly dream

today



yawns out

the party crashes

sucks

having to drive



chuckle

numb my head



casual clothes

hang tight

for the booze o rama



the harmless deprived depraved



I wanted to do better for you



today yawns



out

whole day sad



1.

deep night

rubella sky



the blast furnace of forever, now silent,

lurks, a yellow envelope. yellow as a foul tooth,

it creeps at the horizon



toward which I've been training my spotlight

(it red as blood, never yet rubies).



now time though

to train it

upon my

chattel self



2.

need to get more insomniac

need to cultivate the darkness hours

or else need to get more covert in daylight

like I am now



need to sleep less

or need less of something anyway and more

of something else



keep thinking of cigarettes



3.

I remember when I used to think mania was something to be cultivated

that's when I really began to hit smoking and drinking hard



a cathartic sense of self



need, I suppose, to channel this addict's personality and sensibility

into the rush of art making



yeah, fuck, why not say it again and you know who you are if that's

what you been going for



man I would start smoking again if I lived alone and just didn't give a fuck but giving a fuck

I suppose is what reels one back in from the precipice where insanity

stops being a cool game you think you're playing with the world and instead

starts to eat you



like so many things in the world will eat you and ultimately destroy you,

insanity, as insidious as complacency & comfort



a finger trembling toward

the hard face of the monk,



and he

a drinking monk,

one



prone to rage



4.



don't be afraid I will wait for you

1.

call me negativity jones no - no

breathe deep and let it all go in four and by six all the fire is gone

and gone too the idea of firing a Camel hey fuck it I'll quit again - nope.

snowstorm, ok. yeh.



2.

she almost had a meltdown on the road and I couldn't do anything to help.

except be cool on the call. ok, bye. she worked it out, someone came to help.

ok, bye.



3.

man, i need a smoke. i mean the green kind. not now. one for later would be nice.

no chance. ok, i'll take a drink instead. a glass of beer. times 7. whatever. it's only 9:13 am



4.

but the snow is so cool and white. and quiet. i wish i was out there right now. up home.

i bet a black german shepherd would rather play in the snow than remain upstairs in bed.

oh well. me too.



5.

negativity. no, it's going away. just nothing, how's that instead. don't bother me.

tough one. it's an effort to be friendly. call me loath. it's not you, it's me. ok, it is you.

also me. tell you what, i'll shut up. you too though. they're bringing pizza for lunch.

big deal. i hate eating with an audience. they're fucking stealing our country. don't say much about it. believe it or don't. they're bringing pizza for lunch that's all we care about. boy is

that fun. and the traffic was so bad. it is so snowy out.



6.

what next what next what next



7.

his first day on the job

a man came up to me at my desk and asked what is the reason for x y and z

and I as I took a sip of Diet MakeNoEyeContact told the mofo his game was a baseless experiment I mean embarrassment I mean faceless faceless

your creepy grasping is hasp on my meta-flask Jasper you whiter than Casper

and so he took it upon himself to escalate this inquiry up through a channel



I looked up at the drop ceiling above me and saw all the other channels up there shimmerin and languishin and I told him

sonny boy if it'd been even a few short months ago I would've entertained a violently ambivalent fantasy

over you as in push your fuckin face into the copier and blast fax your face to the RNC under the subject re: put a apple in its ass and call me on Easter love, Satan and your continuing part in all of this is not quite your fault though not quite mine either & etc. etc.



but as it is I have graduated to the level of "Player" hahahahahahah

by which I mean to say that I am entertained by and am entertaining none of it this you etc.



and I never did many things heretofore never knifed a tire

never poked a Latina even though she lay in red thong underwear on my Brooklyn floor

never gamed up in the dorm rooms way back when when I should've and perhaps could've now

you just hunker down in your cubicle my dumb young friend and what amazes me about you people

is how unmitigated you all come through in your baseless optimism and arrogance it is

a nation of fools like you and yes me and that is the great undoing why

if I eschewed 11 beers etc. more often than not I'd be I was going to say some author of recent renown

to signify but no no



no I ain't your boss. but

I am the boss of this here middle phlangeee



(this is what I tell all the new people up in this motherfucker)

the undercurrent no doubt is blood red, umber, no small portion

too is black. the hue that holds all.

time has a lot to do with why it is she and yet it is she

who stands and seeks to stand here



the undercurrent is the dream state, the marginal rioting jungle

or is the truly slim margin the brightly lit columns where such tendrils erupt?

to live only for one moment, then die. but in the margin

(or do I mean to say outer fields) the dream state lives



sweet girl do not unsettle this hibuscus, you mustn't stir with gentle knives

such mayhem fit for theives and kings as really must be handled by gods and wizards

hermits and monks and to rudely bring up from dire sleep a churning mind is truly

to wake the angry undead



i make a lot out of what amounts to me getting polluted in the basement then busting

our place up

but what's stunning is you seem to love me yet



i guess it's worth wasting faith cutting limits and cutting into the margins

just to know this and i hope you feel

my thanks

i have no choice now but to write, no excuse i

see the easy going property owning young parents

on the bus stop corner mornings and wonder where

the bad in them inhabits or if it does



my excuse is never easy but in action or maybe never

better be careful or the cops indeed will show up

all day my heart was in no spirit of rage in finally

no mind either the spirit of destruction is one of vacancy



hey baby you wanna leave me don't do me no favors

percussive swearing hard vowels hard



damn lucky i didn't break my wrist and damn lucky

my upbrining prohibits true mayhem this would be

a good day to start smoking again i suppose but that's

one more problem i don't need this would be a good day



to stay covered in one's hole and that is what i intend to do

hide and read the bad news from Iraq and hope

for better days better



hours

if I could have put semen in or onto you and you

it might have made a difference to me and my public tonight

but you and you are irrevocably lost not even able to be found on Google

and my public

is largely illusory

and even more largely

at a previous engagement



and yet the problem is with my own head

my own heart

and that's what and who and why I'm yelling and at

a certain point I will simply cease to stop



I am he who hunched in black wool

and viewed under the yellow street lamp

and the smell of the East River that eternal river on your air

I am he

who looks for the slant of his incisor and the temporary bewilderment

of his eye

like nothing so much as a black German Shepherd

and were I such an athlete you could tell and not tell



somewhere is a man unfaithful to his wife

and somewhere is another opposite who's instead

always to his life guess

who I



am

it should be mentioned that Tent Trailer whose name is in fact Giles doesn't live exclusively in the tent trailer and hunting camp but also rents a room for $300 per month in the 2-story condominium townhouse of his brother who works on the 11th floor for some bigass telecommunications company. I have alluded to the brother being a fucking asshole, but he is not. Witness the good rent for his brother. He is in fact sort of a fucking asshole for a variety of reasons, but then, so am I. So in fact is Giles. This brother, Christophe (known universally as "Chris") is different from both me and Giles in that he has a great head for business and has never been at a loss for money or women, to put it plainly and crudely. That is why I unfairly think he is a fucking asshole, and that tendency, strangely, is sort of at the root of what makes me a fucking asshole. Giles likes his brother though, and not in a naive way. As he likes his brother, so does he know him.



I am leaving this fucking soul mill (I am speaking of my job) in about 20 minutes but I will just post this shit as it develops.

the girl who comes between them is a girl no shit that Tent Trailer meets one long Saturday afternoon at the Public Library or more specifically outside this library which is pretty big and good for NH. when he takes a break from the books and heads outside for a cigarette because she has headed out and he has been watching her use the computer and scoping the loose falling brown hair and her shoulder blades and her long legs in loose fitting carpenter jeans and let's face it, Tent Trailer may live in the woods but he has had more than the benefit of a college education, he's been around, he's been there, and he can recognize an interesting piece of ass and also a scant opportunity. who knows where she is from or what her story is but headlining is a pale oval face, starkly lipsticked, lips a color like plum or perhaps a shade darker, and when she gets up to head out side he is struck by how dark her large brown eyes are. why must it always come down to some woman but yet it most certainly does? and so that radar tells him she is of his ilk and when he finds her sitting upon the cold bench by the dormant fountain smoking and staring at something she has written in a small leather bound notebook he because he is essentially lonely but also, curious to recognize, essentially happy with his life he sits down next to her and lights up and says hello, says the first thing that comes to mind which is just a shade from awkward but he smiles a little easily not especially giving a fuck and he has a snaggle tooth which she seems to notice and he knows about his blue eyes and she seems not unpleased as they speak and when he suggests a coffee down at the shop which is down on the main street (though not Main St.) she agrees and they walk off still talking, walking next to each other, the new October briskness a fine thing



she is a student transferred to one of the better state schools due to the proximity of a parent and a vaguely alluded to wanting to get away but she is not starting until the next semester she is just here and working and where does she work and she says a restaurant and he is letting it lie keeping the conversation moving and move it does. he asks for her phone number and she gives it to him. it's her cell number. that's what he has too.



we're going to get next into the story of his fucking brother who works on 11th floor and it is only 3:33 on a day with mental real estate so maybe I will get to that.

maybe I'm no good.



if later it was later said of me, He was a very bad Internet poet - that'd be fine. Someone would look up from their draft beer and ask, Was he even a poet?



and the barkeep would say, Oh hell yes, he was a poet. He was definitely a fuckin poet. Just a very bad one.



it still would be something



it occurs to me that I invoked a strange image of bestiality in an unrequited dream lover poem as if that was like a good thing



but fuck it.



I might get to telling you a little of that other story today. That one brother he lives in a tent trailer in the woods behind a hunting camp he plumbed himself. ah fuck it



you know, you feel like a good person but are you really the fuckin authority on that jazz? Maybe I'm fuckin evil and don't know it. Maybe God don't like cantankerous.



but at least I ain't bitter. and try to say truth.



what a fuckin world it is

what a fuckin world

the only world worth making it in is the world of dreams but that is ok because that is the only world I am in fact making it in

Manhattan Ave. is a motherfucker but India St. is a song



in the dream everything you do on that certain day and it may be Thursday

you write down right away on the blog

and by everything, you mean specifically 4 things

and one of them involves sex



I kept trying to get you to combine all 4 into one that involved me

but it was a no go and there were two of me there on opposite sides of the street

one per sidewalk

I was waiting for you in front of the Polish restaurant you lived above and you were to come downstairs

and I was across the street lurking in front of the electronics shop in front of an oily parking space



the me in front of the Polish restaurant was cloaked in black and looked like nothing so much as a black

German shepherd. You emerged from the door left of the Polish diner and you were wearing a red and black plaid

skirt stopping just above the knees and black tights and boots and heavy black fisherman's sweater and a red winter beret that perhaps could look good only on you and your waist I could tell was slim and your thighs slightly thick



the me across the street hungered after you knowing your love was for women only and unreachable



but the black German Shepherd me grinned noncommital and was thinking of the conversation we were about to have over sausage coffee and blintzes



and the smoking later, black German Shepherd thinks about the way the light gold & low and cold, November, 3:30 dusk, may it fire some mystic amber in your hair like another smart girl long ago another November in Indiana and on a rooftop



the me across the street has just been heckled by some ghetto youth they seem to sense his want



but black German Shepherd is beyond wanting and for that reason he is the one whose contrast you will have cause to ponder against the pale skin of your navel, at least



this is how it goes in the mind of me across the street as he skulks off half hard to the Check Cashing place, fucking usury, cashes his $35 gratuity from a half day job quit and humps it down to Galapagos which is same as it always was,



no hope and 4 beers till broke then walk back

in damp

toward self that is but not

yet I am glad

black German Shepherd and I fuck

your woman's loins so



deeply

the day after a lapse is always the worst but the day after

the day after a lapse you can feel cool again

you can have a renewed mental focus

if you can only keep from procrastinating

from fucking off and fucking up and getting yourself

right back into position to fall prey to another lapse



don't worry I haven't forgotten about the story I'm still bound to tell you all

I just thought I'd wax on for awhile about lapses

you see I'm prey to them

they're what cause this blog to fall off and me

to go through the motions of the day to day to day

and let's face it, that's no good, I mean I have certain responsibilities

here and elsewhere that only a fool would abrogate

only a fool only a fool



funny too, because a lapse is actually how our story begins,

the story of the two brothers

and the lapse in question



well, I can't quite get into it all yet because I'm at work

and I have a little bullshit here to do before I can

put the real meat on you, I mean in you, I mean out for you



on this here platter

but before I tell you that old old story about the two brothers

one of whom lives in a tent trailer behind his Dad's old hunting camp

when he's not actually living in that old hunting camp with its ancient wood burning stove

and the other of whom lives in a two story townhouse condominium

and works on the 11th floor of some douchebag office bldg.

and also the story of the girl who comes between them



before I tell you that old saw let me also assure you

that this blog is a fully computer-generated random creation of the Internet

it's actually an experiment

it comes from nowhere

spidering and pinging itself out of the very Ether I mean Inter



so you know don't get too involved in this motherfucka

all 4 of you reading this



best surf along



so long



bye now

delphinium



she



is way too fabulous



Let's hope she is computer-generated



yeh she is way too fast and fabulous and in some sense I envy her



but in another sense her glamourous sex/art fable



makes it that much easier for me to instead tell you another tale



of two brothers wrapped up in one lover, one girl



and though this tale that I'm about to tell you is not as daring and shiny as hers,



not half as glamourous,



it however begins in the woods and, like hers,



invloves a lot of drinking.



but unlike hers



it begins very badly



and ends even worse

it was a morning of everything going wrong

dog puked

power outage

sheets of rain

some bitch nearly crashed into my truck

feebleminded driving persisted out on the highway



it was this kind of morning

and so I am happy just to sit here remote from people

immersed in the Internet

I want a response from the universe

I want the universe to fuckin straighten up and fly right

I want to slap the universe around and if it gives me any lip I'm going to stick it in detention

The universe has so many detentions now there's a real question whether it can even graduate now or not

I want the universe to stop sticking to the sole of my boot because it's smelling the place up

I want the universe to temporarily morph into a nice fatty steak, baked potato, all the trimming plus an eggnog IV for purported snarling criminal heads of plutocracy

and also into brain food for all the poor dumbasses out there in the land

I want some god damned accountability for this bitch universe

I want to know about ennui, refractive states of reality, the illusion of statis, and all the other fucked up tricks

the universe has been pulling these many long motherfucking years

I want to bend the universe over the edge of the couch and let her know what she's been missing all this time

shock the bitch universe back into some kind of gender role the motherfuckers can get down with or barring that

I want to devastate the universe with my wit and logic in an argument so that she just shuts up for once

but shit, here come's the kicker,

she's dumped me, fucking bitch universe

has dumped me

and there's no going back now because

she's on to some other guy indeed

now for all I know she's

fucking the town

This blog is going down.

I am going to kill the fuck out of this fucking blog.

This blog just received a letter via certified mail, and that letter said in effect your fucking time up in this bitch is UP, motherfucker. Please report tomorrow a.m. to courthouse square for reassignment. Please do not ask questions. Any questions you ask can and will be used to fuck you the fuck up

This blog, many years in the future, will be the subject of a a morbid documentary where the path of this blog is traced right up to its final doom seated in a harshly lit bare kitchen black and white checkerboard floor and the big knife drawn cruelly casually across the blogs neck and the matter of fact spatter of the bright red blood on the checkered floor in the hard yellow light



this fucking blog is so fucked, it's fucking done. this blog

is seated outside on a bench in 20 degree weather wishin for 50 cents for a cup of coffee

and it smells like piss

and little does it know it's going to freeze under the bridge tonight and die in its sleep

and no one will care or cry for it



this dog aint gonna find no mongrel dog to keep it company either before it goes, that's

how fucked this blog is, this blog

is fucking doomed,



fucker is going down.

this blog is the yellow powder and the prisoner forced to consume it,

then eat his own guts out his own anus

stricken with disease and as it goes into the rigor

it's still alive, too alive to actually pass on and then it realizes that this must be hell

in pain forever

this fucking blog, too bad, you could have had it all, you could have been a star

but no, you're just a dumb douchebag with a steak knife sticking out of his solar plexus what a way to go



you dumb fuck.



this blog is fucking done, had it. that's it. it's a



wrap

I had a dream last night where a fellow's mullet was referred to as "beer hair."

future historians and anthroplogists will determine

that television

was an essential part of our undoing

The Quotations Page

Jindo Felas enters the basement bar. The bar is empty except for the Bartender who sits smoking, reading a magazine. Murky sunlight streams in through a small window.



Jindo: Give me a shot of Mr. John Daniels, Esquire.



Bartender: Bar's not open yet.



Jindo: What?



Bartender: [pause] Bar's. Not. Open. Yet.



Jindo: What time does it open?



Bartender: 3 o'clock.



Gina, a waitress, early 30's, pretty, enters from the kitchen, rear.



Gina: Manolo just called. He's not coming in tonight. He says he's sick.



Bartender: [very quietly, still reading magazine] Fucking terrific.



Gina: So I don't know who's going to cook tonight. I'm certainly not going to. I don't come here to fucking cook.



Jindo: Listen to me. I want that shot. I want a shot of Mr. John Daniels, Esquire. I'm asking you nicely now.



Bartender: [pause] Yeah. Sure. Why not. Coming right up. [continues to read magazine]



Gina: So if Manolo isn't coming in, not too much reason for me to stick around. I got other things I could be doing.



Bartender: Like what?



Gina: Excuse me?



Bartender: You heard me.



Jindo pulls out a handful of crumpled bills and begins to smooth them on the bar.



Gina: [noticing Jindo for the first time] None of your business.



Bartender: [going back to magazine, impassive] You fucking crank whore. Listen, before you leave do me a favor and pour our insane friend here a shot of J.D. He's getting on my nerves.



(to be continued)

Homo Excelsior: The Omega Database

i am not one to throw around cliched mindlessly juvenile terms such as "gay" and "retarded" to describe the events of the day up in this bitch



but today, after the "Halloween Parade" and attendant fanfare



i am prepared to make a god damned fucking exception

it will be a day

much like any



much like today



except the big news

will be that they have arrived



and no one

will ever look at sunlight

in quite the same way



ever again

Context is the key to everything.



Everything must be viewed in context.

I'm listening to Paul Simon's The Rhythm of The Saints on my headphones this morning.



I am getting drawn back into the feeling of 13 years ago this morning.



That is seeming like a long time ago this morning.



What's worse than not having a brother is missing someone like he's one.

Look at all of them. He stepped up onto the fountain, just staring for a while - staring out at all of them. Homeless kids, junkies, drunks. They began to congregate there by him in the park. He had no idea what he should tell them, how he could possibly help them. Finally he began to speak:



God as we can all clearly see is not around here. He's MIA. But poor as you are you can still see Him, can't you? Don't be sad. Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth. Be righteous. Be kind and pure. As you are. I call you the children of God. Even as they come to beat you down, perhaps to kill you, still I see you in God. You are blessed when they curse you, spit on your name, talk shit against you. You are blessed. I will be with you. You're not the first, and you won't be the last, but be glad. Know it: you're going to win out in the end. You guys are the salt of the earth. You're good for something. But look around you. Salt gone bad is good for nothing, it gets thrown away, gets stepped on by people. So you be bright light in the world. A city on a hill can't be hid. Don't hide your light either, but raise it up - yes, raise those lighters! And give light to everyone in the house, let it shine out so others can see how good it is! And glorify God. You know where he is. Not here, right. I'm not here to bust your head or your beliefs, I'm not here to play Jesus or Buddha. I'm not trying to do anything bad. I just want to help. But I'm telling you: until the fucking Apocalypse really does come down on us, you, me, them, all of us - we're all on call. Shit we do now...everyone is going to be accountable some time down the road. There will be a reckoning. So check yourself. And set a good example. Try not to fuck up, especially if you're in a position to set an example. Try to do the right thing. God don't like ugly, and if you are ugly in your actions toward other people - toward anyone - God is not going to have you. The people who are running this shit talk a good game, but they're faking it. But don't worry about them. God will take care of them too. They used to say, Thou shalt not kill. There was a reason for that. I'm telling you, if you're angry with your brothers and sisters now for no reason, you're going to be in danger. It's like, call someone a fool and go to hell. If you bring your gift to church and start thinking about everything the world owes you, forget it. Leave your gift at the altar, go away and make things right with people. Agree with your adversaries quickly, as soon as you meet them. It's not going to matter later, so surrender all that bullshit now. Yes we are awash in bullshit, a tidal wave of bullshit, but you give up yours, because yours is the weight that is going to drag you down in the end. Be pure, try to be pure in everything. Don't get obsessed with sex and relationships. Get over yourselves! Find someone good and stick with them...

if crying were money



The fabled room

now revealed:

a kennel.



And all the letters written here:

dry policies,

strictures



like worthless

old

people.



The picture of you lithe among snow pines remains intact



as the lie

of singing

in lands



far from the cage.

I sit sipping

the mysteries of



oil and water,

blood.

Low on kindness,



out of time

the means



I did it for the vacancy,

got greased



again and again.

For the walls inside,



aging blood

retains one kiss -



one.

Hi long ago me on a curb,



freshly punched outside a bar.

Someone screamed,



someone yelled no.

I said, I'll go to Texas



if it'll get me back

inside you. I drove



to New York instead

and bought you a black hat &



black knit gloves

from blind vendor on Sixth



below the Garden.

His



breath was white

and then



my fear

was.



3 years later,

I was back



in the slaughter.

My skin fed the cold air.



(Did I come

from you?)

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare

hack a jack-o-lantern

face in the musty

fruit of life



better work fast

your mind

is the knife

Band Names For The Ages



Moo Goo Gai Pan



All Your World Series Are Belong To Us



The Grady Little Implosion



I Wonder If There Is Cat In This Chinee Food



Have A Ball, Have An Amputation, Amputate Your Balls, I Don't Give A Fuck



MetallicanIpleasehaveacheeseburger



That Piece Of Crap You're Standing On Is Earth



Shave It Like A Bonsai Mabel



Pigs In Cubicles



Cigs In Pubicles



Four Hour Sleep No Good Must Go Get Drunk Leave Work Claim I'm Sick Yeap

they are evil and I can't figure it

except it's a fucked age

and the shit happens

and people die

but not in baseball

only dreams

strange ramblings in the shower

the old mental patient thinks back



even the sane times now

are tinged with his manic

seed,



the gift

that keeps on

whipping

I need some space



this used to be a likely thing



to say in a relationship



or else have it said to you



but now I say it



over and over again



to myself,



giving the rebuke



and eating it too

i ain't goin nowhere

and I don't want to either



except maybe the mountains

with you



(but not if we're fighting)

look there goes that guy

what were all those other years for



If I only I could spend all day in the libary again

yeh

there I would be

the reverse Gregor Samsa is a move I favor



and in that good night where wine flowed and mingled with Beck's Oktoberfest,

I fell to the earth, the earth dealt me a blow to my right oblique. My good dog

stood by as witness. I later denied culpability. And vowed to mend back stronger

than I'd come



television is surreal. and still the reason I think I require greenery. then I cut it off

and was faced with my own basement's gloom. I repaired into its recesses for clothes.

I realized I'd been something too nice lately. That I'm more productive when mean.

If I could temper the meanness. If I could save it from drink



and some asshole in Harlem has been keeping a Bengal tiger in his apartment

and when I saw it full grown I said this is like a parable for some artist and then I said

fuck it the culture's already in shambles let it be me

I would like to be out there with the Pearson DiamondBack VX



Cold now at dawn

and one wonders

if we're bound



for an early frost.



Early mornings

at least some men

lurk in the woods



with bows,

scoping edges,



looming near

corners



in treestands,



watching.



Waiting for deer.



The deer are prey

though subject

to ritual.



Animal ceremonialism,

the quest for spiritual power.



Annual ceremony of cosmic rejuvenation.



The Supreme Being.



Few stationary cult places,



shamanism,

life after death

beyond the horizon



or in the sky.



And

Aldo Leopold said



optimal variety and density

in life



most often obtains

along the edges.



By definition, an edge is the intersection of two different habitat types.



Guess where I am this morning.



Perhaps you're there too.

I'm in a funk about writing.



Kids, it's true. Unless you devote hours to writing each day, to the practice of it, it's hard to make it stick.



Alright, enough whining.



(On the reading front, anyway, things have been viscerally satirical, scintillatingly and essentially sound.)



If I'm in a funk about writing, this I'll just have to figure it out.



It's a bad week for this however, what with the playoffs starting and the Red Sox ascendant.



God, how painfully obvious is it that I don't have much this week, at least not yet.



However, I do have this.



Thanks to Bobby Ben for linking it in the Comments.

I am sicker than shit.

I sound like that Sling Blade character.

The cough is dry and hurts.

Funny thing is, it's not too bad.

This I attribute to my quitting, entirely quitting, religiously quitting

smoking cigarettes just under 5 months ago.

The cold I have now is the one that, for smokers, indicates

the inception of seasonal chronic bronchitis.

As it is now, it sucks and it hurts, but it's not torture.

To think: when I was smoking, I actually used to smoke

through this kind of cold.

Inconceivable. Not really, but you know what I mean.



To boot,

I was trying to fix

something fast

in the basement

2 nights ago

before something else

started pumping soapy water all over the floor

and I had my (dull) jackknife out

trying to cut this cord fast fast

and the knife slipped and I ended up JABBING it

HARD into my left wrist

I almost hit one of the more visible veins, this one can see,

but the wound hardly bled. I think I knicked a tendon however

as my wrist is totally stiff and it hurts to curl that index finger.



Both of these things coupled with the fact that I had to make a critical run

to our town's dump or else tempt another bad situation, the one that arises from letting

house and pet debris accumulate and stew



led me to take the day off yesterday.



I went to the library though. That was a plus.



And the Red Sox clinched the Wild Card last night.

That is a major plus. I watched the whole game and post game

revelry from out of a deep Nyquil funk, and that was a plus.



I'm only here now to display my sickness to co-workers.

Keeping it real. I'll be out of here I hope by lunch.

And that will be another major plus.



Only reason for this entry is to have something to replace that

idiotic last entry with.



Oh shit, I forgot to tell the ironic part about the moment right before my physical health

went to minor shit,



but, too late now. It was boring



anyway

Meanwhile, the city seethes.

work sucks



fuck man how come

I can't get into this mode

where I'm up all night



maybe gee I guess

if I eschew drink

when the evening is young



attention high school

kids: go to college,

or else work on lawns.



or the road crew.

that might sound cool

now, but trust me it isn't.



all H.R. sanctioned

positions engender

the potential for hate,



however,



you want to be inside

cat-like in your cynicism

while eating bandwidth



like it's a personal means.

maybe it's luck keeps

you off the lawns and the roads



and maybe it ain't.



fuck it,

whatever makes you happy

you dumb little hooligans,



I couldn't care

less,

get back to your bullshit.



now, back to my original

thesis, why can't I get all into the ur-

Kafka modality of being up all night



with my head on fire?



because, barring that

activity,



I'm just another shlub in khakis



and a polo shirt



dreaming

of weed no of funds no



of

morse shit



I'm so tired I haven't slept a wink



Oh shit not that old song



But my mind is in fact on the blink today



Oh shit not that old excuse



If you don't have anything to say it's better to say nothing at all



is not a precept I could ever



ah



well



ah



on second thought,



fuck it



me



them



her



you



(I wish I was writing some crap about some chick's ice menageries



and how she



slept with the town



but oh,



that's all



slipped



away)

Bach blew me apart in my truck this morning



I could have written more this morning.

The house was empty. The one good radio station

was playing Tom Petty's "Even The Losers...Get Lucky Sometimes."

I stood over my coffee musing over the verb "to rock."

I could have written more. The dog was making his investigations,

policing the kitchen, the front room, searching for cats.

Then he ate a little. The two bay windows were open. The wind puffed

at the screens. Somewhere there's a hurricane but here only dark

cool wind. I wanted to write it. I took out my new

machine, plugged it in and typed on the soft, silent keyboard.

I read what I had written two days ago and it was not bad

but I knew it could be a lot better with more brought to bear,

if only I could. I wrote some, but I could have done more.



At 6:08 I leashed the dog and we stepped outside.

The air was colored like ashes and I could smell rain.

The air was cool on my wrists and face. We headed

up the road, the leather leash loose, the black German Shepherd

glancing over his shoulder and up with his foxlike brown eyes,

his gait an easy trot. The light increased in such a way to be felt

as much as seen. The sky appeared lavender. I thought of "Lavender Mist"

but not so much of Pollock. I felt a terrible yearning I could barely

name. I looked at the sky framing the trunks of big pine trees

at some short distance, say three stone throws away.

I was without human company. Of this I was glad. Still I felt

broken open. I thought if only I could write it. I could have this morning.



We made our way down to the field and the fence beyond,

the light

still increasing.

www.abhorreditfeatass.dik



A yell for cover.

A cellblock mother.

A well-stocked cupboard.



A dose of sanity.

A gross magnanimaty.



Fuck this dumb shit, I'm bored.

year old stew



My muse is the ghost and everlasting spirit of Carl Jung.



He's got this illusory blender jug that he periodically screws into the crown of my skull.



Channeling residual dust from the atomic explosions at Hiroshima and Nagasaki, he's biannually enabled via the jug to sneeze 45% of the harpies from Pandora's box down through my memory hole for capping, blending, and non-selective processing by me.



Stray strands of Pandora's lank, fervid hair drive the old man mad and send me in search of Milwaukee's Best.



*



damn your bullshit

I screamed

at the hallway mirror



damn your blank eggshell cover

I screamed at the wall



You do not own me

is a phrase

shouted at



(what's the opposite of martyr?)



*



she's probably 20



she handled that bottle of wine

though



with expertise



*



turn the radio on



adjust the fan



be wired in the smoke



*



how did you perform?

Incremental Blues



1.



every electric guitar solo he ever played

was a transmission



from God to man from Man

to God from Man

to other men



but now that that transmitter

was a broken



soliloquy of gnarled fingers

composed by a four dollar

fish plate in a diner



south of the city



the static white blue

patter snake

language of

lightning

was rainstorm static

synapse

ghost torture

strangulation



insanity.



his

vacant horsetooth

punch drunk

infantile mouth

now gapes



over whitefish

leavings



why does God destroy a man?



why give him strange wonderous

voices

and a cage for a



soul?



2.



He was just thirty-five years old.



Born an orphan.



There was yet a single woman who pined for him,

wondered if he could possibly



be alive,



doubting it.



His talent was known to her,

as was his curse.



Mute, she lived alone many miles to the east

on a farm in the hills,



fearing all men.



She alone could make him sane

again and whole,



if only he could find her.

muzzle loader



Hunting season is back.



They're

out in the woods

right now



trying to

find it,

kill it,



bring it

on home.



Hunting season

is back



and me too.



When I find it



I'm going breathe on it



and

bring it to life.



It hunts me.



Whether to find or be found,



loss



possesses



before the fall.



(I will not again,



so can I?)

any man's gonna take my horse gonna have to kill me first



It had been a health rehabilitation facility before, but that was done with. Hollis had known about the place from way back I guess when he used to landscape or whatever.



The grounds of this place were immense and all overgrown with field grass and brush. It was late in the day. We cantored for a while around this huge island of trees out in the middle of this sloping field behind the place, popping off our .22 pistols at cans and crows and little mammals when we saw them, just for the fuck of it. We didn't kill anything.



After a while Hollis's huge white bay just sort of quit, stopped and stood there, all done. Hollis climbed down and just left him standing in the field as he humped off toward the abandoned loading dock, hitching his cords up over his fat ass as he did so and hollering over his shoulder at me to come on. I watched him bound up some concrete stairs and disappear inside the building.



I reined the yellow mustang to trot over to the iron railing at the edge of the long concrete wheelchair ramp and looped the reins over the rail. That old white bay would probably hang around in the field but I didn't feature looking two towns over for this boy or maybe losing him altogether.



I paused to piss by the dumpster, thinking about all that beer we had cooling in the stream. If we were going to stay here awhile, someone would have to go get it.



It was getting chilly, then sun on its way down, firing the sky back of the field deep hues of blue and orange. I hoped there would be some old, dry wooden furniture to burn.



Also, I was seriously jonesing for some fucking nicotine. I wondered if any of the old simps, dupes, druggies and critical care patients had squirrled away any fags up here in this big abandoned bitch. I knew I'd be looking soon.



Then Hollis yodeled above me, "Woo HOO, motherfucker!"



I looked up to see his cracked blond mug hanging out the fourth floor window, grinning down at me. He looked happier than a kid on Christmas morning. I called up to him.

"What'd you get?"



"Pills," he cried. "Mercy mother of Hay Zeus, we gots us some pills!"



So it was going to be a rare one. A fucked up night bar none. I hopped up onto the loading dock, then stopped for a minute to look at the yellow mustang.



It was looking back at me, its brown eyes complacent.



I should probably let him out in the field to graze, I thought. I didn't know if he'd run away or not. I was far from a fucking expert when it came to horses.



I could hear the thumps and minute grunts of Hollis just beginning his apeshit routine upstairs and then I thought, You better fucking watch it tonight, you don't want to wake up dead quite just yet.

My good friend.

what I couldn't know was what was about to happen



Pale blue dress shirt untucked flaps over flithy, thin white corduroys, narrow hips, thin chest. My hair really does feel like a kind of sandpaper. I smooth it back with the palm of my left hand, then look in the restroom mirror to realize I've smudged the side of my head with blood. String of blood falling from nose to stripe shirt. I bunch up some of the white paper towels to stop it then I'm like fuck it. Blood in my sandy grizzle, blood in my mustache. I whip open the heavy door and step back out into McDonald's, digging in my pocket for change. Just a small black coffee will do. The black girl at the register looks through me like I'm already dead. I find myself back out on Sixth Ave. asking anyone who's smoking if they can spare a butt. Some high-assed packed in skirt & blazer platinum haired cunt of I'd say 45 opens her horse mouth in revulsion as she passes. Big glistening teeth. Looks like someone I knew once maybe back when they were purer. Can't say. I look to the sidewalk and see I've been trailing blood about half a block. Sure my self-respect is gone. These people don't know me. I peel off down a side street about halfway into the West Village and start humping it toward the river. I'm halfway there before I remember it's the East River I want. I just want out of this fucking hate eating kill me as you fuck me city but it's just not that easy, it's not that easy man, it's just not that easy.

death on the land and no man can evade



Cold dusk. A crawling sea of cars on the northbound interstate. As people ran out of gas they just got out and started walking.



I sat on an extrusion of granite up on the ridge. I could smell the cook fire. They were cooking something, some kind of meat up on top of the ridge, camped up beneath the water tower. I could hear their voices, laughter. That water tower hadn't held water for years, even during the last good years before the tragedies.



Curious, those walkers. I watched them awhile longer. How they simply got out of their cars and continued right up the road, walking in the breakdown lanes, carrying things, kids, blankets, or else carrying nothing. I wondered where they thought they were going.



All I could think about was getting a gun and getting a horse.



I climbed to the top of the ridge. I was surprised to find my boy Hollis out of Warren, chubby in his red and black flannel, his back to me, pissing into a stand of sumac. I called out to him. He looked slowly over his shoulder, leaning to spit a trail of brown spittle in the dirt. His blond hair was matted and there was a huge shiner under his left eye.



"Holy fuck," I said. "What happened to you? You got dip?"



"Whole sleeve of it."



"What'd you, plunder the 7-11?"



"Uh-huh" He shook his cock briefly and stuffed it back in his cords. "The one up on Rt. 9. Them Indians."



"What'd you, fight them for it?" They had a fire pit going and a huge piece of meat on a spit made from a chain link fence post and a bunch of torn open 30 packs of Bud, Coors, Pabst. There were a bunch of other people up there, wandering around drinking and smoking, a couple dudes I recognized from the bar, a couple girls I didn't.



"Nah," he said. He worked his lower lip and spat again as he walked over to me. "You want a damn beer, or what?"



He was drunk. I wasn't yet and didn't know if I ever would be again.



I'd could hear you whispering in my head and that would've scared me, if not for all those people walking on the highway. If not for the knowledge of these late days and what had made them come.

The last thing I asked for was an expulsion of rage. With characteristic silence you unwrapped your hands and complied. At the end you ripped your burning hands from my head and plunged them into the bathtub full of lamb's blood. The blood exploded. In the morning I started afoot northwest for the mountains.

mine is a bird aflame



Maybe more could have been said but the couch stunk of whiskey and only I could vouch for the extremity of my actions. My friend, he used to hurl empty bottles of Dortmunder at the wall to watch and hear them shatter. His life was all flexible molds, the figure, and a gray-green Rickenbacker solid body strung lefty that I was helping him learn to play. I used to sit in a brown straight back chair up there in his studio and sing blues out the window to the brown Indiana sky. I was usually drunk and could barely get a girl. the one I did get she was magical and loved me on the basis of a single song. But I couldn't hold her. She tried to paint me once while I sat on her mattress singing songs, sloppy, obsessive. Finally she had to refrain and put me away. No one could blame her but I, I became that Stephen Crane poem, feasting upon my own bitter heart. Some great music may have come from it or not but anyway it's all lost now, gone like the days. Though traces remain in consciousness and blood. All i wanted to do then was run insane, just go. I nearly lost my mind in a Georgia jail, awake in a raving dream of her and the end of the world. It was a vision of the apocalypse straight out of Jung. The heart indeed can hallucinate crises of despair and renewal. I'm glad it all happened but now I stay put. Back then I forgot how to be territorial but I sure remember now. To me, it's critical. I ain't bound to forget again.

twin yellow ropes

draw me through the foothills



my mind too is grey and white

lines



to myself,

I can be as unknowable

as the ridge

at Franconia



as unreachable

and irreperable



that's all



this blog needs the sandwich bag's emergency medical attention



a council of earless goats

a council of earless goats

a council of earless goats



tryin to avoid contact



with the other bipeds



my crowd skills and some other skills are still there but for the futility of their employment



the invisible sex lady told me I could write again but to do so I would have to will myself insane again



and never bother her with the excuses conscious or corporeal



I said OK

the call might have been recorded for Quality Assurance, but is that a crapshoot or what?



I called 1-800-millionbillionblogcentralcentripetalcentrifuge and complained that your blog was way more interesting and better written than mine.



I used to consider myself a quite quirky fucker but evidently now I am just a too-clean Doug Doe sporting an incongruous biker mustache while seated in a beige foam and pill-fabric cubicle, staring into a screen, silent, bitterly hating all the foolishness.



Though (at least) his hair's still a mess, this too-sober, non-disheveled enough quasi-Kafkaesque sadfaceclown still has trouble getting laid, generally, even though that should've long ago ceased to be a fucking problem.



Cleaner of lung and clearer of head than at any recent previous time, still he spins his motherfucking wheels



and dreams of riches.



The oasis is oatmeal is quicksand is mealworms in your Quaker Oats your Cheerios your beer was overturned on the carpet and you were face down passed out beside a ruined couch in the bright basement of defeat



Anyway, I asked them to strike me dumb. The lady on the line assured me that my request was in process.



That was about a week ago and now I'm beginning to think she misunderstood me, except I still can't figure anything out, so maybe she didn't.

She is ruining me from afar.



She uses men for toothpicks and lately I've been afraid to drive.



I'm barefoot eating sample pie in the supermarket on Thanksgiving Day and all the black people working there are laughing at me. There's some kind of commotion at the registers so I steal away to the back, the stockroom. When the cop asks me what I'm doing there I ask him who wants to know. I go upstairs and hear her moaning on T.V.



Cleopatra must have been some artist as she simultaneously killed and fucked her prey.



She is laughing at me as she fucks my little brother.



We are both insane, but she manages to make it pay.



There is a kind of helping that is a ruining too. And a reckoning. I often wonder when it was that she lost her faith. It was her faith that kept her from fucking me.



I entered the bar and saw her talking to 3 guys who lived next door to her. I went away to the bathroom and when I came back she wasn't there. I went downstairs to the curb and looked up the dark street. She had just turned the corner, running.

Unpack your head.



Take your shoes off.



You're not going anywhere.



Everything you need is right here.

A Deadly Day for Charlie Company

testing, testing, 1-2-3



The revelation can't be imposed

or spoken in code



Time and events don't just go away



All crashes back

upon us out here

awake in the waves,



waiting,



wound, wrapped up,

cloaked

in flameout attitudes



of pregnant

dismay.



On a pay phone

now with the ghosts

all fighting, falling,

screaming,

dying all around

me,



again and again,



I'm aware of your panic.



There's blood in everyone's eyes.



I'm stranded, agape,

with more to tell



but no more to say

seeds of frozen gloom



awaken like dead

education now



misery



for one and some

and you



and you

whoever that kid was with his thumb in it I would tell him to instead fuck that dike



passing through



the big string cheese anus

of the world



i shoot you a memory



like an

RPG



and it goes nowhere



as it busts

my chi

Inc.



score one for the Beast

is a daily concern

up in this swirling bitch udder

of minds and lies

keep off the phone



I awoke to the smell of a cigarette.



She was not in the bed.

The bedroom shade was wan, barely lit.

From outside came a sound of water dripping.



The cigarette smell grew stronger, creeping under the thin door.



I began to feel aroused.

Who knew where she'd gotten them.



We'd both quit in the months after the last war, neither of us wanting to be beholden to the addiction, should slim times ensue.



I pulled on my dusty denim coat and pants.

I pulled on my wool socks and stuffed my feet into my boots.



I stared for a couple of seconds at the duct tape I'd wound around the boots to hold them together. The tape was falling apart. Time to find some more tape.



I opened the thin door. The hallway was mostly dark. But I could see what looked like candlelight flickering from the kitchen area.



I said her name, but she did not answer.



I walked down to the entrance to the kitchen area.



She was sitting at the card table, smoking. A torn open carton of Pall Mall Blues sat on the table. She was ashing into this thick, heavy-looking white candle I'd never seen before.



She was wearing a brand new cashmere sweater, pea green, with a stretchy neck that revealed her bony chest. I could see her bare thighs and calves under the table.



I stared at her soft pale skin, tight along her collarbone.



"What is this?" I said.



The phone rang.



Oh shit I hope I can find me some gasoline. Oh shit I hope I can find me a gun.

What if I have to kill a man to steal his car.



The phone rang and rang.



"It's for you," she said.



"You fuckin' bitch." I could barely speak.



"You going to pick up?"



My hands were shaking as I picked up the phone. A feeling so distant, so unprecedented, holding that dusty receiver to my ear.



There was a click and a pause. Then a recording of a woman's voice began:



You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have no right to an attorney. You are under arrest. Should you challenge subsequent eventualities...



I dropped the phone. It banged against the wall.



"Who'd you fuck?" I yelled.



"It's all the same."



She yawned. She lit another cigarette.



I thought about killing her. I told her so. Then I heard a car door open.



She threw a pack of Palls at me. They bounced of my chest and fell on the floor. I wish I could say she cackled and said something insane but she just sat, smoking, staring off to the side, impassive. Not looking at me nor anything.



I ran back down the hallway and bashed the nailed-shut bedroom window with my fist. The glass broke and I dove through the window.



The sun was up now, the sky full gray.



I ran.

please refrain



first we



got lightly braised with botanicals

ate a hell of a barbecue

and applied a de-humanizing cream



then we

took our beers down

to the computer room,



there to view

forty or fifty

photos,



captured scenes

from the desert war

in

Mesopotamia.



As our soldier

friend

disbursed the

facts,



some of the gathered

civilians

uttered halting



coos

chatter

bluster

cheers



over the unexpectedly

stark,

detailed,

pornographically

violent

images of



charred humans,

split bodies,

generally



maimed

people,



ruined lives,



wounded

kids, etc.



Yet these remarks

seemed also shy

naive

halting

foalish



as if their owners

hadn't come quite prepared

to stand upon

any



spindle-legged compassion

or



walking

abortion

of afterbirth

empathy

fu manchu



perhaps the best thing a man can do

these damp mid-August days



is re-engage

in honest daily

semi-isometric

exercise,



keep the beer

flowing slow

and cold,



and commence

to refoliate in

anticipation



of Fall.

the best bender I ever tore



the day they canned me from my job waiting tables

at their prettified rat's nest of a "health conscious" Italian

joint in the shadow of the Queensboro bridge,



I carried my fired ass across 2nd Avenue to drop

a dollar bill into a homeless lady's cup. She in her purple

quilted coat and seated upon a grey plastic milk crate

smiled up at me with more kindness than I deserved.

My life has always been like this. I lit a Camel

and carried myself serpentine around the corner,



down the length of Lexington Avenue to the train station,

the late afternoon light floating like summer

down across the buildings, the colors of objects and people

shimmering like cilia, or seaweed. The forked tongue

of debauchery flicking my ear. A delicious tender

digital technicolor acid itch crawling all over me.



I rode the train to my hovel in Greenpoint

where I showered and played my guitar.

Drank four Coronas and howled at the red sky,

the night coming down.



later on a low stage in an all night place

just outside Chelsea I slew these 2 drunk chicks

and a few drunken others with every song

I had, and a few I didn't.



this green eyed dude with short dreadlocks

jumped up on stage with me for some E flat blues

till the gray dawn light sluiced in like pale water

thru the big plate glass window.



everyone was drinking as though they were immortal



then this wire-limbed Micmac girl in tight, dirty

blue jeans entered my scope. or perhaps I

entered hers. she seemed like a veteran. everyone

seemed to love her. how I wanted to fuck her.



instead we all smoked a joint outside in a doorway,

then she melted away



after a few more words

of epic drunken cameraderie

with my green eyed blues friend,



so did I too,

down into the E train



much later in the loud

bright 10 oclock

morning,

not a cloud in the sky,



I crawled out

of Greenpoint station

broke to stalk



down the butt-end

of Manhattan Ave.

with my hangover demonic,



my scowl

like finery,



and the bums all knew me.



wonder that

I still had my guitar.



(I'd lose that later,

in a future drunk March,

a week after



my birthday)

god, I am tired. and whipped in the head. for a variety of reasons. nonetheless, here are 5 poems i would like to write. if I'm game, they'll be the next 5 I write.



they might come at night out as drunken phone calls, so if you're one of the handful who's apt to look, you might want to look



the best bender i ever tore



keep away from the phone



panic is a train



what I told her



keep ya greasy mouth off me

arrow



some people arch into your life

at a high trajectory;

you can see them coming,

fore and aft. you can see

the white space around them.

lurching in slow,

they plummet



other people hew

into your life low and fast,

flying tight to the land,

barely seaming the mists.

creeping fast as dawn,

they eat the shadows

and before you know it,

they've come, gone

around, made another

pass



I dreamt of you.



We were seated

in a restaurant

near Ground Zero.



I'd just smoked a cigarette.



I ordered Chinese pizza

for the second day straight.



You said it was as

good a choice as any,



then the floor exploded.



this morning's a wet spore

the sky, a drab bruise



my brain,

a fist of sadness

$1200



ah



another wholesome circle jerk in the cubicles



everyone make nice



everyone laugh



louder



longer



neither cease nor desist



not here



(we don't have to)



apocalypse elsewhere

this year anyway)



here whisper gossip



feign in envy



expound upon Web design



tv shows & movies



sport



never a dull



gesture



get wasted



rhapsodize where we went what we did what we



ate



how too bad it wasn't



infested heads



o virtual humanity



go down



fuck



in unwitting depravity



all you lottery winners



suck it eat it



prance around it



you



auto-savants



salivate, drool



on



the many ways



to live and die



in your luxury sedans



watching porno



(you majored in)



what me?



not mine//////////







i got to get out of here

williamsburg is dead and gone



put the special liquids in now

mingle the blood

chart the extrusion

and head for the river bank



the great skull of post-industrial civilization

shattered and strewn

punched in the soil

the old black guy with six dogs



waits by his forge with brandy

maybe some for you

if you stand the right way

and keep your eyes light

all those empty rooms you used to paint I see now were your child



your painter's fingers



drew petals

from my flesh

to grace one



blue,

sun-mottled

bureau top



with ovarian

night lilies,



blue mist in your crying corner,



white light slanting in,

shadow-slat ceiling,

one bulb dangling

like a polyps,



a trace of Celine

breath



(mine)



animating

the chain



saw you in the dream again,



skin white as ever,

yellow hair pinned

tight,



parochial grin,

hard brown eyes,



your legs

a thin envelope,



such a sweet



bottom

1.

craft a little curio of productivity



though it may result



in some nasty



bruises



2.

sing the song



with care



articulating



notes, words, measures



breathe



3.

be clear and cool



and



maybe



once again



feel



the old autumn



magic



welling

parenthetical disgust



a cubicle

sidney carton



To a man, to a woman, to every single individual, to wake up in this here everyday America is to every day be made subject to some self-serving sociopathic moron's humiliating charade.



Can you fucking deny this?



To wake up on the land between the east and west shores of America is to wake up beneath twin, undulating, ceaseless tsunamis of bullshit. Strike that, it's to actually wake up underwater where most people have metamorphosed into bullshitsluice breathing amphibians.



Awkward metaphors aside, to be able to unerringly discern the constant reality of Grade A American Bullshit is to be very, very unhappy.



Sometimes you might try to step outside the game, try to nudge nudge and wink wink with the surrounding players, whoever and wherever they might be, try to get a little mutual acknowledgement and recognition of the bullshit. Only if you are very very naive will you often attempt this. What you will find most of the time is that the other players think that they are righteous and that you are insane. What is bullshit to you is simply wonderful true and right to them. Certainty.



And in any case all is a matter of opinion. What I think and feel to be true is indeed true. Because I think it and feel it. Etc. And what I say is true because I say it. Because I have said this, this is true. And because it is true you shall believe it. And if you do not believe it it does not matter because you do not matter.



GWB SOTU



The moment you lose your self-possession and register anger, frustration, resentment toward the Bullshit, you risk everything. Because they will come for you if you carelessly alert them to the fact that you are not daily, merrily licking your shitstained plate utensils cup and fingers clean.

They will come for you and they will want to destroy you.



The paranoia you will henceforth need to sustain yourself can be aptly described as a semi-permanent mode and policy of an attitude called "Fuck You, Just In Case."



The strong move quiet.



If you are not a professional athelete or popular musician, your only recourse is to write disturbing books of fiction.