Month: June 2013

free for all (bukowski style)

You get one freebie
she says, before she opens
her book and signs you
up for a lifetime of cable.

You get one hundred dollars.
You get two hundred dollars
when the job is done.

His sandwich is leaking
and the furnace is too high.

Have you done this before?
fallen out of a poem into a dream
like this, Mr. Anderson?

Has it been a year since your last
re-watch, where have you been?

Off to the races, and may the craziest fuck win.

I think
i’ve been spending too much time,
listening to Tool again.

Need to return to Dvorak,
New World Symphony on hands and knees,
crack open the good book of Buk’
and breathe.

s.o.s

Sacks a hip hop caught up on the factual,
You’re all just fifth business, I be The National.

Flipping out to page 6 as it hits like music,
Conjoined twins make the headlines, a hydra
and a kiss.

I’ll open up with Pandora, move on
down to the styx,

where white privilege meets a real life
leatherface

and gets enveloped by post modern blackness
gets prevented from mooring the fickle financial predictors
gets strung up by her twitters for dropping expletives
gets caught in the net-nightly web, and bears the lashings

and gets straightened out like every drift lost and every tangled meaning

and finally gets us back
closer to meaning

s.o.s

Drip, the Light Fantastic

If the mind is a draining sink,
and your courage is just a bit of flotsam.
Trying not to go first, clinging to
anything it can, like a coward.

The fears intermittently will stop
the flow with a major
clog but the sucking,
slugging smacking lip sound
is followed by another long piss
out the other end of light.

Your life is a draining sink,
and as a writer you will scour
every last inch of the basin,
before realizing the water left long ago,
and you’ve just joined the
other ghosts in unattended libraries,
to sing your humming lullaby.

Welcome.

I am the leaky tap,
you left on, before you
left off.

I keep filling and filling
until the only thing left is
for you to get the fuck up
and turn the light on
and make me happy
and write my song.

If you want your piping
to work tomorrow
you’ll let me play my tin
pan tonight, until it suits.

If you know what’s good for you,
you’ll play along, too.

Confusion is a Kiss Best Re-heated

It does not matter that I am not always able to be water.

It does not matter that the woman said “Holyrood” (pronounced Holy-Rude)
and that the old fella heard it “Hollywood” and was at first astounded.
All that matters is me walking past, and sitting back at my desk,

and knowing 12 years ago, some poet wrote about his
apologies being like thorns, hoarded and kept in a mason jar
to solve some unknown “X” immunity, that basically
“the roses didn’t mean shit” in a bizarre dollar store notebook

where someone has written in as large as the letters can fit,
“what’s that shit smell” in bold, obviously meant to convey silent rage, letters.
Or maybe it’s just meant to be a joke, left over from some cranked out night.
Maybe it’s meant to be another of those things that doesn’t count.

But all you know is all I show, and that’s what counts.
So know that safe in heaven, dead, they all have notebooks too.
And keep going. And fill this one, too.

This is obsession. These are the rules.

Tron Soundtrack Inspired Mania

Robots Fuck When We’re Not Around.

They bicker after, too.

“You let people into the house
of your heart and then you
condemn them to watch as they
burn inside and you, you always have
an excuse for why it wasn’t you!”

and

“You, you always have a reason not to donate, and
You, you cynic, what have you done lately, that wasn’t
just to marginalize for your own ego?”

Pick up a broom. Always work in a kitchen. All that.

“You let people into the temple and you flick rocks from the
righteous belfry. You play a game of human domino,
and the shadow’s, even those fuckers get buried.
There is not a jury alive that would know your name.”

“You are like the many named demons of the old stories.
You are like the shit on hell’s waiting room urinal.
Written next to you is “Why Give A Shit Now”’

[Then they start to fuck again, ideas and concepts like shuffling deck. ]

And for a good time call someone who cares,
for a good time call the girl of your dreams only
99.99 only a dollar more, just an inch off the left,

Come back to Denny’s for the old fashioned taste of
Thomas Pynchon’s art-I-choke, come for the boot
of thy womb, Hertzog, you, you who have only ever watched

& siphoned and spoken and cried, the welp of the lot, you bitter
bastard child of Robin Hood, you, what are you doing with
the rest of that sandwich, where are the rest of your army.

What is the hold up with this extension to the Wasteland?
Where are all my vertigo comics, and what have you done with
the Vangelis synth’s, the medieval, digital doom now flops
in between the invisible gears of some hard house loom.

You, there with the ill-framed arc. Come we get ya going.
Upload. Engage. Re-form. Inspire. Release.

There now, how’s that?

Old Character’s

Buddha; the man who took
Polaroid’s of his own shit.
Each one had been perfectly
contorted, naturally, with what
had to have been quite an aerobic task,
into a now prominently displayed
English alphabet.

He even had some lower-case.
The show off.

Sully ? Oh, Sully-got-barred-from
every-pub-downtown-proper, that Sully?
Yeah I left him to grab some ex once with
my girl and he had her cornered in a nook
by the time I rolled up in a cab.

Yeah I know ‘em. Good guy.
Helluva drinker.

Dancing Story Man On Corner, Begging

Pacing on one foot at a time, like he
was in the chamber that helps you stop smoking in Cats Eye.

Like electrically charged atoms, dancing to Mozart.
Like a busted up whore, tripping on too many Benzes.
Like a kite, free from its master.
Like a master, free from his shackles.
Like the token black guy, in Blazing Saddles.

“Got chore stories here-e-e-e-e-e-e!
Step right up!
Poem for a dollar on the theme of your choosing!
Page a blank prose for 5! 3 for 10 people!
Come one! Come all!”

He has one for the bored housewife.
It starts out boring like a Harlequin.
And jumps by page 5.

(She was a multiple personality of a soap star.
This is why her lines had been so bad, so far.)

He has one for the boy that lived down the lane.
About a mission to drive all the drivers of the world, insane.

(The final page is on fire, smells of burning rubber
and sounds like the dancing of brick walls breaking out from under a fender)

“How about one about a detective whose cases all blend into one perp,
Turns out all along he’s been hunting God!”

He twists and turns on his feet all day.
At night he looks out his small, underwater window

Looks like Nicola Tesla, head arched back.
Looks like a more peaceful Stanley Kowalski.
Like a playing card.
Like a saint.

Like me.

Death of a Movie Lover (Re-Birth of a Blade Runner)

In 2014 the technology with which to finally transport people into the future was given up on in lieu of pursuing more manageable goals. From this dark era comes the newest fad: A vacation you take in your mind! Advertised as the perfect gift for the film obsessed person in your life, the Recall Institute uses technology beyond my own personal intellectual ability to fathom or explain, end result being our ability to be fused into Science Fiction films of the past, today!

This is not my last scene. I have yet to traipse through 2019 Los Angeles, to kiss her smoggy world with my 20th century senses. I have, in short, only just arrived from the Recall Institute , and I am not ready to go yet. The beeping indicates I have to return to 2014 real world, but I have fooled them, and integrated a loop-hole. Like the contractual kind, this system of algorithms and code prevents the Recall machine- made by HOBART, from detecting the final stage of my immersion. That of the Sonic, Neural Orgasm that occurs when you, for example, save Princess Leia, emerge from the battle with Khan victorious, or as in my case, finally defeat Rutger Hauer’s existentialist replicant character from the single greatest contribution to science fiction on film since Georges Méliès’ human moon, yes you know the one: Blade Runner.

This will not be my last scene though. I am here, and to be honest, I am not going anywhere. Which is confusing because technically I am inside my own mind, with wires and shit coming out of every which way, all allowing for this Technicolor romance to finally occur in the first place, but there you have it: this scene is my habitable opus. And I am not leaving peacefully. They will have to send someone in after me. Someone braver than my character, maybe Schwarzenegger in ‘Recall, maybe Cruise in Minority Report. Either way, I’ll be ready.

I am digitally reborn as Deckard, the hunter of replicant’s. In the waiting room earlier where I chose this, many others were present. Most were Star Wars fans. So cliché. Humanity finally gives us a Disneyland in our cortex and everyone wants to be Obi Wan’s protégé. Not I friends, no way. I wanted what I have right now- a near-death scene. Every nuance of Deckard has been downloaded into my cortex. It’s like inviting another personality into you. Like being in The Exorcist , but pleasant, if you can imagine. I feel the crunch of his/my leather overcoat in the downpour. My hand, literally simulated so as to replicate the sensation when Hauer broke my trigger fingers a few moments ago. So here we are, after a running time of 1:55:59 (Extended Cut was only another few grand and really, how can you live the experience of Harrison Ford as Deckard without the deleted shower scene with Sean Young, am I right?). And here we are in the penultimate scene. The one I refuse to readily leave. They will have to drag me out of the machine, risk absolute and Total Recall, and that won’t sell more tickets to the Star Wars show, will it? No sir, not on my watch. I am going to watch Hauer cry his tears in the rain for eternity. Or until they find a less hostile-invasive manoeuvre to extradite me, which I hope is at least 4 years (the length of time all good or bad replicant models receive in the film). This is the scene I have chose to embed myself deep within.

This is my paradise, in all its moody, dystopic gloom. I am not going easy into the credits good light. I am going to rage, rage against the Director Commentary and subsequent dvd footage’s pale light.
He is leaning over the rooftop where we’ve had our final (forever to be re-lived for me) battle. I swear the replicant let me win. It is like at the end of the Matrix where, after suffering through an overly long chase scene, you get told this has been an infinite struggle that will play itself out again, all that crap? Except, if you can imagine, more efficient, more Dick-esque, more pure in its cinematic perfection.

He is hovering over the top of the building at the end of Blade Runner. This is not my last scene though. Hauer is lifting his head from the downward angle, he is just getting to the part about “all these memories” and my pre-set internal Orgasm Preventer (on sale at The Source for a thousand dollars and your choice of reenacting one of five scenes from a variety of films) and everything gets looped. The way Hauer’s voice breaks when he gets to “rain”, melds with the way the doves fly from the building as he expires. The Coca-Cola lights of a passing commercial ships invade our final moments, casting us in a rusty, neon-dint. The sound of doves again, the speech ends. Then, like the old Laser Disc technology of the early 90’s when a blemish or hair found its way onto the massive, over-sized Compact Disc incurred, the scene starts again. “I’ve seen..”, Hauer’s head now going down again, the music of Vangelis with its dated synth-pop hush overcoming, like twinkling stars being slowly dropped onto a landscape-xylophone, popping and dripping with keys held, keys lifted. This is where I belong. This is where every young fan of another world belongs. The perfect dream, the one you needn’t waken from, just let the record skip, let the hit re-play, again, again, again.

My Fuck-it List

Fuck It List
For when I have testicular cancer, but not the touristy kind like Marla. The real shit.

( For when I have testicular cancer, but not the touristy kind like Marla. The real shit. )

1. Know Bill Murray. (Even if only on twitter, but preferably drunk enough to get him to do the final monologue of Scrooged).

2. Steal the Deckard trench coat and terminate the replicant known as Harper.

3. Produce a record with Immortal Technique that incorporates soundbytes of Marcos in Chiapas. Produce another record but with Ice-T, but Ice-T in Law & Order, like in character and shit.

4. Get an imdb account finally, to end once and for all the ridiculous number of misunderstood analysis of the actor known as Danny Glover.

5. Change name to “Please Take Me Now” and move somewhere literal, like the old South. And only talk to Natalie Portman.

6. Dig up Bukowski and get him laid.

7. Dig up Freud and get him cock-blocked. Take that, Mr. Mom.

8. Get lost in the woods with Stephen King and tell a decent enough scary story for him to give up the crown in exchange for my untying him.

9. Reduce the Replicant known as Tom Cruise to despair.

10. Sedate the cast of Cheers (Shelly Long AND Kristie Alley) then have them all awaken in a replica of the set. Let nature take its course.

11. Tell the hell spawn known as Ann Coulter just what I think of her, before sealing up the well.

12. Die with tears in the rain, like the Replicant known as Rutger Hauer.

2 Sentence Poem.

One really long one (one really short one)

1
What little teeth it had,
the beast under the bed the girl chucked an axe at
and her scream, how it sailed out of the
old style, non plasma or flat TV
as the occupants of the old style chesterfield
that looks like the color of vomit after seeing Nickelback,
spent their fingers on scratch tickets then when they
were all gone smelled what was lodged in their feet
and their navel’s, exchanging at times to contrast
who had the better catch, fingers curled like little
ugly teeth that gnawed snapped and left gashes in
everything until tonight, when everything goes quiet,
before one of those Donnie Darko style accidents
where its nobody to blame just fate and some kinda strange
time travelling ugly rabbit that looks like it
descended from Steve Buscemi’s mouth, all lizard like and gnarly,
and that was it for them, and the movie ended,
and the beast bore its teeth on some other poor unsuspecting TV
and it just kept going, and the world governments were all
too busy fucking with the people and keeping it all hush hush
to ever figure out that it was not the far Left or the Jihadist
who was systematically wiping out humanity, but those tiny, ugly teeth.
2
It was those tiny, tiny teeth; they were the ones to be blamed for all this.