Ode to S.F.

Danse Macabre with the faggots in San Francisco. A twisted night of boozing and grabbing asses as they did coke and clawed to a greater understanding and purpose. The streets were narrow and full of people, a terrorizing notion at this point, yet we prevailed. There was no reason for these nights other than youth and a small sum of collected money and the driving, fiery urge to get fucked up and let the world know who you are.

So we played this game. We drank on the Muni and hassled the locals and ate late at Sparkey’s and my head pounded in abject misery for the following forty-eight hours. Yet I would never take a moment of it back. I have long held that a man (or woman) is only true when all filters are removed and they can properly express themselves. Many, (myself included) find a tremendous amount of shame in these times of personal base revelation. Yet the necessity is there if you want to feel ALIVE.

Those nights landed me in dubious company, stabbing a tire, running, and into the ocean more times than I can count. A stop-action fragmented blur of faces and places and sounds. There was a feeling of infinity then. Of limitless possibility that you either embraced or surrendered to in sniveling, kowtowed fear. Most of us end up with this fear as we get old; all of us have to fight it at some point.

Bela Lugosi is dead. Susan Sarandon feigning a dyke act with some frog woman while baboons screech like cats and age and die to dusty bones. The music and the feel of it. The blood-pulse of the City by the Bay, pre irony.

We drank and hassled and fought and fucked and trashed and spent and slept in the streets and the sand. We came hard as outsiders (we’re all outsiders in the city) and we stamped in human soul our mark in the pastiche that makes up the place. The gratuitous obscenity of it. The laughable ruse. All worth the drive and the time.

A Simple Request From A Weary Man

I came to what could be called a traveler

And far be it for I to diminish a man’s dreams

He called to me

And I saw a glimmer in his tired rheumy eyes

Of a life of harsh visions

His skin and clothes dirty

He called to me, this man

And said:

“I hope you get AIDS and DIE”

Far be it for me to diminish a man’s wishes either

But my laughter only caused him to mock me

A furious cackle issued from his diseased

And travelled throat

I could only assume he meant it in all sincerity

And still do

Though I’ve yet to oblige him

It’s Okay, the Audience is Deaf

In these days when most art is as forgettable

As most music

And promoting oneself takes equally little talent

I wonder about those that claim inspiration

From their group of peers

The same sycophantic clit twiddling

Hacks

That just re-shit each other’s garbage

Or rip off the dead

Before moving on

Having forgotten about it like everything else

I wonder

How are they going to spend their parent’s money?

Like Mother Like Daughter

She has the golden

Gift to gab

She is used to getting her way out

Of whatever

Thus, when her card is pulled

It seems alien

She can’t stand it

But she is an user

No not like a junkie

She uses up everything

Everyone has around her

She flirts with old men

And she is good at it

As if she has experience

She knows how to make them hard

And give her whatever

She likes to hustle

When you hit it from behind

She pulls back her ass checks

She swallows your cum

Like a real experienced hoe

She knows how to make a guy happy in bed

She is used to getting by in life

With her

looks

Her body

As her mom has

As her future shall hold

No Sleep

You know those fast and hard ones

The type you know will crash and burn

Ending ugly, looking for exit strategy early

Just in case

Crying, screaming outside will happen

Well, it was one of those

Calm amid the morning peace

The weather on a summerSacramentoday

Unusually overcast giving it a Bay area feel

I lay there in her comfortable bed

Holding each other

Whiskey on our breath

We chat for a few minutes and pass back out for a bit

We both awoke about an hour later to a phone

Ringing

I woke up streaming drool

Down my stubble beard face

Like a slow motion waterfall

Pooled on her upper chest

I couldn’t help but to laugh

As I asked her where it had gone

She said about a half a cup was

On her clavicle

She corrected herself

Clavipool

1997-2012

Like the grey in the rainbow
Like the silver in the pot of gold
At its supposed end
Like the dust in Hitler’s moustache
Nearly like the
Glistening rain that fell down yesterday
A male cat was on shake roof
Meowing down the brick chimney
Begging to let me, let him in
Dying to get ahead
Dying to keep up
Future dystopias in the frontal lobe
Dusty metal cars
Gangs of meat eating warriors
Wrought in thought about that day
I watched the sorry lad
Get his pants stuck in the wrought iron fence
Planning to jump
Skateboard in the lot
He failed and got impaled
Torn up through the pants
His friend dislodged him
As I tore off my condom
And put my raw penis
In a girl I just met from OKCupid

Busted Ass Americans

We all fight this illness
In this land of
Milk and Honey
That doesn’t exist at
Nearly the levels
In developing or poorer
Nations
Depression, the blues, the sads
The pits
Whatever we call it
It’s because we have too much time
We are too rich
We have too many resources
This allows us to
Think and to wallow
To spend less time trying to survive
And feel shitty for ourselves
If you want to cure the
Blues
Get poor
And struggle

Working Out Can Be Complex II

Wide eyed and bushy tailed
Eager to make new friends
My first day learning to rock climb
This tall one smiled up to me
She offered up her assistance
She helped me with my knots
Gave me some pointers
And with kind soft words
Encouraged me to come again
Time passed and we saw each other
Here and there
Usually swinging from ropes
We decided to climb together
And we did
Out of the blue one weekend
A few months down the road
We crossed that intimate line
Once that happens usually the
Flood gates of hell open
And they did
Prior
We had a nice weekend together
Eating scrambled eggs to cure
Hangovers
Laying in the grass
Whispering corny things to each other
Laughing
Then
Complicated thoughts
Miscommunication
Made it all really weird
Very fast
She obviously thinking
I was way more into her than I was
And me seeing her
For what she is
Fragile deep down, hard outer to cope
Cheap rich girl veneer
Straight from a rich SF suburb
I wish that she
The one who can’t
Keep friends
Or perhaps
Chooses to not keep friends for long
Never walked up to me
Because all it’s been is a pain in the ass
And now we have to trade back books
Me: A Buddhist book
Her: One of Richard Feynman’s books

Book Release: Gourmont’s Lovely Lesbians

The long awaited, much anticipated book release by Michael Jones in conjunction with Anomie Publishing and LanguageAbuse.com is finally available. Official release date will be on June 9th 2012 at the “Art Speaks” event at The Vox Gallery (Vox Sacramento, 1818 11th Street, Sacramento, CA 95811-6515). But you may preorder it here and now and thus have it in time to bring it along with you and get it signed, or perhaps a custom doodle in the front page.

This book consists of almost 60 pages of selected Poems all paired with authentic Polaroid photography. Black and white insides, Color cover.


Bulk Order? Buy 15 at wholesale cost for your shop!


Sample Pages: