knowing I’m into poetry
gave me a copy of:
Poets & Writers Magazine
I flipped through the pages
a nice looking magazine
a real pro
the fucking big time, but
all I see are ads
low residency MFAs
blah, blah, blah
an interview with a graphic designer
seems like this is made for
the left liberal elite
the hipster kid
blindly listening to her dubstep
doesn’t know an ounce about
I flip through the pages
all I see are ads
not a single
I’ll use the pages to clean
only an asshole
would pay 100,000 grand
to go to poetry
Pain and loss inspires stories of pain and loss
Happiness inspires no creativity
Strange experiences somehow never quite inspire
Accomplishments inspire you to want more accomplishments
Girlfriends and boyfriends inspire stagnancy
Because of this
The only lover a real artist must have is his craft
One may even look at it this way:
When extremely creative, going the real distance
Staying up all night, manic
Downing adderall to stay awake,
He is doing the same as what people call “fucking”
Except happy little couples go to the bathroom after
Clean up, cuddle, make food, go to bed
The artist critiques his work, exhausted, tired of his
Old bitch, maybe time for a new one
Maybe she’s tired of her old bastard, kick him the hell out
Start with the new one, make her kick and scream
Bite his neck, arms and face;
Embark on the new poem, the new painting,
Collage or short story
Dysfunctional we are, drug users we are
Chemicals to cope with the reality
We look through the world fundamentally different;
You want to play doctor for the rest of your life
We want to kick down the doll house
Burn in, and mix the ashes with water to add
Contrast to our next painting
Sometimes my upper body is so sore
I then wonder whats going on
Did I get in a bar fight
And don’t remember?
I think more
And it always comes back the same
I was on my way to the store with a plastic bag full of change
The idea was to go to the CoinStar to get some cash to buy a sandwich
As I went West on Santa Monica Blvd
A hipster girl with big tits
And calf tattoos
Slid easily by astride a swank fixie with purple rims and useless handlebars
This is why she didn’t use them
As she used her long legs to pedal and steady the bike
Whilst she texted on her iPhone
Oblivious to the world
This snapshot whizzed by an out of my mind as I continued on
Up ahead she ran into a the side of a Prius that was pulling into the Ramada
She lay sprawled like a spider in the gutter
As men rushed to help her up
The Toyota driver and girlfriend got out panicked
And looked at the car to make sure it was fine
As I passed, I saw the hipster girl was OK physically
But in her eyes you could tell she was in agony
She had never been completely vulnerable before
I momentarily wondered if lessons would be learned from this
Then continued on my way
The string prophecy is true
Always seemingly connected
Fleeting in and out
Souls intersect in some odd fashion
But unexplainably simple
Mean to each other at times
Down for each other always
Changes still occurring
Realization life is vast
Rage once had quickly
Melts to smiles
Gucci Gucci, Fendi Fendi
Will I see her again, I’m sure
When, who knows
Editors note: Although this story is entirely true, some names have been changed to protect the innocent!
Last night I became very inebriated; I had drunk red wine, Ancient Age brand whiskey, and a couple of IPAs. I had a nice good buzz going after I had spent the night hanging out at a couple dive bars with my friend and his girl, and a couple other people. The night hastily wrapped up right around 2. As my friend was getting text after text from his anxious girl waiting for his rod, I waved bye to him as I went my own way.
Two thirds of the way home I encountered a raccoon, not particularly an uncommon site in Sacramento, the “river city”. This one seemed different, it seemed curious, also it reminded me of my old cat “Mr. Booker.” In my mind this somehow “sealed the deal.” I got on all fours and started to crawl towards my new wild friend. To my surprise he started heading right over towards me. At this point my mind started racing, what if he had rabies, what if he clawed the fucking shit right out of my face and tears an eyeball out? I used my animal-profiling skills and decided that he was “safe.”
I was in the front yard of a Victorian house which are all over the place here in Sacramento, if any casual observer would have seen me, they would have immediately called the cops. I was in many different position(s); I was thinking what would be least confrontational stance to my new friend. I decided mainly with the low-head-crawl technique that I once learned when reading a book I wrote titled “How to Greet Wild Animals” We at times came very close to each other, almost to the point where I could reach out and pet him, it was climaxing to a point of no return. Would I be the first person I know of to actually pet a wild raccoon and live to tell the tale? As we “hung out” in the front yard and the side yard of this bountiful house, I started to ease up; the adrenaline was beginning to subside.
Just as we started to really connect (I was making clicking noises at him, in some primitive attempt to communicate) he started to venture off. My guess is that he or she had some kids at home to feed, or he was out looking for a quick fuck, and when he realized I didn’t have a ready raccoon pussy he bounced, but either way I walked with him slowly as he headed to his favorite tree to roost. I waved at him as he slowly walked up. He gave me one last look and scurried on up out of site. Bonds were made that night, although I didn’t get to pet him, I indeed feel much closer to nature now.
Little nineteen year old
Are you doing?
Happily in love
Joy time like division
Not yet incensed with the
That what you had
Was in your mind
Was sand to her
She was built on solid foundation
Built on concrete
Sand dune foundations
You were willing to wager
The whole time was
Was along for the
Up, down, around
In, out, about
The sand dunes you thought
Her teen mind
Knew those mounds were
She knew that her way
Be the higher
She just wanted to
Be a part of that
So she could
belong if she wanted
She showed herself
She is now
It used to be just the queers here
We were the odd men out
Queers amongst queers
But they accepted us and things were good
Then the people moved out
And rents went down
Aspiring actors and various other shit-bags moved in
And took over
Half naked girls appeared by the pool
But this was somehow worse
Now couples and groups of friends
Scream and argue in the street
I hear them through the window and I hate them
The sky is queer and gray at night
I’m sure it’s always been this way
But I notice it more now
- Drink an ayahuasca and tonic.
- Throw a frozen GoGirl at someone’s head who’s wearing a “livestrong” bracelet.
- Foursome with hot disenfranchised former Soviet Bloc girls.
- Literally ride a tiger (under humane conditions of course). I refuse to think Ronnie James wasn’t on to something major.
- Free baited bears and help kill their keepers by pulling out their teeth and nails and making them fight dogs.
- Accurately define “Neohyperpostfuturism” and teach it at Harvard.
- Take a bullet (non-lethal/debilitating).
- Build a Mandroid and teach it to drive.
- Go semi-pro in the bumfighting circuit.
- Witness munging.
- Scuba up to an oceanside party wearing a tux under my wetsuit, then join the festivities with a “no biggie” attitude.
- Hang out with Len. I wonder what happened to him/them…
- Heroin in the dorsal, n.q.a. (not to rip off Mitch J)
- Shine a lazer into the cockpit of Air Force One.
- Travel through time.
- Learn Majick
I think that might be it. For now, anyways.