Fiction

It’s a fucking miracle we survive every day.

This poem is best read to this:

It’s a fucking miracle we survive every day.
I don’t ever forget that fact that the internet shows you
that every single terrible piece of shit you thought was out there
is just the first stage of the real hell of them all out there, in their undecided,
cynical, high and drunk and violent natures, casting their own shit in verse all over the world.

You can tell me that you see a world of rainbows and honeysuckle at midnight
out there in the one and the zero forever fields, but it is also slain bodies of a million
and it is the empty crevice of idiocy that drives all of them together to fight for their
own pop star suicide and it is the end on repeat in your room for three days and
it is the spectacle of it all removed of all repercussions and given all manner
of righteousness and it will always be this way until we finally go right over the edge.

Some of us will praise
the coming back
of the night.

Some of us will go right on back to our supermarket mimesis,
wandering through a burning, rat-filled Wal-Mart
aisles of melting celluloid and human fat,
everything seeping into the new history and tainting all the fresh ideas again,
it’s a fucking miracle we are less like the matrix trilogy than we are.

But I guess we have Baudrillard
and Nietzsche to thank for that.

You can tell me all you want that it is just a movie, that it is just reality,
that it is just Africa, that it is just truth, that it is just some beat poem or elegy.

I will be left,
in the night of reason
to fiddle my way into
seeing something more.

It is just in some of us,
just in some of us
to be curious with anger
to have an angry
curiosity is the only
healthy aggression you can
ever hope to inherit from
anything you take into your body
your eye
your mind.

Treat them with some fucking Respect.
Then tell me you don’t see the potential for doom in everything else.

Tell me it’s not a miracle,
every day
we get another.

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Desperate Times

Film-Speak

 

(Poem for Kiddo)

 

They need a word for

that moment where

you have a Saturday with

nothing left to re-watch

but “A Return to Salem’s Lot”

and, like, fuckin’,

The Stepfather,

and you can’t bring yourself

to watch Michael  Moriarty

single handedly hold it together

like Marlowe with an ex wife.

 

And another for that

moment when Willis re: 12 Monkeys,

where he’s bleeding out

in front of his child self

who also is Jim Morrison in The Doors

and Garrison’s kid in JFK, incidentally.

The Nightmare of the Zombie

It was the way it always is.
I was in a cemetery with Judith
and we were talking about how
bizarre the whole fame thing is.
How it’s absolutely the work of
bad ju-ju, of hocus pocus, of mice
transformed into the size of men,
of ants and birds and bad things like that.

I guess it was the wine, and the moon,
and the small vortex that opened up,
sort of like in Quantum Leap, so
damn conveniently at the end of each episode
before little Jerry O’Connell got shot by
angry white men or run over by a truck.

We ended up in Los Angeles, but it was
more like a Ridley Scott L.A., and I realized
I was in one of my dreams again, or
I took too much, man. Then I chuckle
while repeatedly saying,

“You took too muuuuuch, man.
Took too much.” just like
del toro’s Gonzo, until Judith
points out the old cemetery
and we wander over.

It’s huge. Like,
a shopping mall of carcass’.

And of course the song from
Return of the Living Dead
plays on some ghetto as a punk
with a Mohawk and a chain
from ear to lip walks by
and spits near my feet.

And then the first heads
start to pop up,
and before you know it
they’re all there.

Orson Welles.
He looks about the same. Belligerent, too.
Hemingway. His head is sort of a mess.
But he has the same jovial spirit!

Bukowski is there.
And Marilyn Monroe
looks pretty damn good.

Which Judith notices me noticing and
makes some ridiculous comment about

how I can only get it up for the paranormal and
cartoon chicks, and I say something like

Jessica Rabbit is practically human.
It’s all her voice.
Shut up and let’s meet some
zombie celebrities!

Everything was going really swell.
I was like a kid in a decomposing candy shop

I talked about Fitzgerald with Ernest ,
and about drinking with Chinaski,
and movies with Welles.

Then we made the mistake of going to some
fucking party and you just knew something
shitty was going to happen, it just felt bad.

The kids at the party just dissed all of them,
if they knew them at all, and called them misogynist
or said they were drunks, or both.

They said Orson Welles was
slow and over-rated.
And no Tarantino.

I wept.

They said Hemingway was
just a representation
of the patriarchy,
and a dirty man,
and Bukowski they
said made Ernest look
like a fucking saint.

I sank.

I don’t even want
to re-describe the way the
feminist crowd devoured
poor Norma Jean.

I understood
where they were coming
from but at the same time,
even a zombified Marilyn was
exhaustively enchanting.

In the end, the old stars left.
Bukowski and Hemingway said they

were gonna go to a fight,
or have one themselves,
whichever happened first.

Poor Orson went looking for some old woman.

Marilyn went out the window rather than
spend another minute with all the bores.

That’s usually when I wake up.
Sometimes me and Norma make out first.
There I said it.

She Took My Hat

I danced with a girl in the mud once.
It was sloppy. Our feet made schlepping noises
as we strove to disengage them from each
wet, mucky step. It was like fly paper for flies.

I remember she had this big, brilliant smile like
a clown the whole time, there for my amusement.
At some point she absconded with my salt and pepper cap,
like it’s an old skipper hat black and white freckled in color,
not the hip hop all female act, Salt n Peppa.

Nobody would ever steal that shit.

Women have always been good at stealing my hats.
There was my “New York Fuckin’ City” black with white letter,
a ball hat I cherished a gift from my aunt.
Lost that one in a hospital after a friend of
a friend od’d on E like the first night I met him,
and I forever the Gordie Lachance, went along
in the ambulance along with some random blonde.

What her deal was I am not sure.
Ambulance chaser in a skirt?
I couldn’t have been any more blind.
I tried my classic lean in on her in the elevator but
she was just in love with that hat. And she got it.
Didn’t even cost her a kiss.

I’m such a lush for people.
I’ll take anything you have.
A word exchanged in an empty hospital bed,
in the dark, where nobody is around,
or a deep muddy dance to George Clinton
on some old abandoned air strip.

My fedora in 2011.
Liberated by a wild night at
some after hours bar.
Another two skipper caps at least in BC.

It’s really been a pleasure though.
Who the fuck am I kidding?

All I have is the bitterness of the pill.

&
Chapter, side verse
the GCI trian bridge
and worse

the fact I re-crossed
it dressed
for a coke hearse

what is worse?
being willing
or dying first?

before real ceiling
I want the horn
the night I go,
in my cheap bed,
I insist
I want,
to go hard.

I have lived in a screen,
and called in an interface
but I wont

call
an easy game
if it
comes down to it

I do not consent,
to be filmed, for the purposes,
of this commercial.

I’m just fine
purposely bumping
elbows ill never have
to see again

I’m better off in resistance
Ive merit
and still, like Rimbaud,
sarcastic

and the real definition
of sun kist
cynicism

and you have little, but
the choices
of listen
or denounce
him

I never wanted
a fucking thing
and piracy and
cheap drugs gave
me all of it
and I still own it

every night I write
of the hy

jinx
I know

makes me less and less
the cursed gambler
yes,

its true
all the men you knew
were dealers
but I am
after seeing, through

being the repetitive
mimicry toy
for anyone

I spent my whole life
saying “nah nah nhah nah ”
and yr here

I am
holding if ever tangentially
to the thread

of white
silk
and I burn
it

eventually we all

I burn it all
don’t you fool me leper I know you,
cheetah

I know you red

held over at the wheel,
I know the bodies
you’d
a sewn

and I respect you
even if nobody else does,
I respect you at the

End of the Night
I Respect You Vickers
you still wear shit from
like 1997 and shit
and youd still be wearing it all
if you could

you were a non-compliant
soldier or worker
on each side

because honestly dude,
you just wanted to write
you were a cunt
a dick a douche
and a spastic asshole

and yet still my friends,
this man here?

Was one of us,
pure and simple,
we can no longer
handle

such obsolescent hi ways,

he worships good. .
he’s on our side,
aaaaanyway.

I hearby
confess everything you got
and then some.

And I have for years
harbored my own spoilers.

I am a self.
But that is some
heavy fucking shit.

Right here.
Right from the lamp.

Book of Epoch (First Chapter)

Here you’ll get all the generic shitting in pants.
The crying for pablum.
The open envy of breasts.

All the loathing of any available silence.
All the mysterious anger aimed at the screen.
All the red.

Here you will find a ghastly lumberjack
charges into my room screaming and paranormal.
Hoping to jar my sorrow for payment?
Impossible, Monsters Inc. is years away.

What will the childhood images that flicker on
tomorrow’s teen’s inner stage look like?
Millions of logos smashing into images of towers
and fat congealing in the narrows of their holiest places.

Where will a million humans texting end up?
Lemming-lept into concrete absence of real struggle,
into mouse-clicks that agree and share and like and
do all that other heavy emotional lifting, leaving the
psychic exoskeleton looking like a dancing bo-jangles
who can’t keep the bones from falling all over the pavement.

But that’s all middle to last chapter shit.

Bodies all over the hemisphere abandoning the struggle
of a book for an app.

Angels caught and demoted to trumpeters for texting while smiting.

God gone off-line for an hour,
to update your status.

Wonders sent to junkyards for later, post-apocalyptic salvage.

Movie sets turning into battlegrounds.

Celebrities rounded up like cattle. Forced to reenact for survival, the
hungry salvager-crowds.

It’s going to be like Burning Man.
Only hotter.
And forever.

But that’s another chapter.

Best Friend

My Best Friend

for HJM

When I needed someone
to protect me from the car
of angry Mexicans I
drunkenly slurred at one night
by merely getting out of
the car while I shivered
a bit in the back seat with
scrawny ginger shame,
it was him.

When I needed someone
to grab me by the throat
and push my face into
a desert of glass on my patio
after roughing me up and
letting me struggle a little,
it was him.

When I need someone to
goad me into picking up the pieces
when all the whore has run out on me
and all the drunk still in me

writhes and whimpers
“like a little ginger bitch”
Again, I am indebted,
to him and him alone.

You can talk on and on
about the myth of masculinity.

You can talk about male hegemonies,
and about the patriarch.

But I still dig having a best friend
like Christian Troy, you know why?

Because the world is filled with Kimbers,
and nobody wants to be Sean McNamara

All the time.
Anymore.
Or ever.

When I come across
The newest picture of
someone having done something
too stupid not To be
internet-mummified
by way of meme;

a ghastly old woman painted
to look like a demon
or one of a ginger zombie
Ronald McDonald making love
to a deadite dressed as a nurse
while in the background
various characters from Hellraiser
and Event Horizon do foul things to
stuffed people with stuffed animals,

It’s his wall I copy/paste it to.
Not even my own.

And that is what a best friend is;
the person you excitedly take
a new piece of discovered darkness to.
So you can both laugh at it, in the face,

And try to find something to top the others
recent post. Another heaping handful of hell,
to pass the hours with.

Anything else would be healthy and balanced,
all that other boring shit reserved for those
earning their way into heaven with
public displays of pompous charity.

When we find people like that we just nod,
look to one another with bug eyes on the side,
knowing full well that shit is just for show.

“The Gleek”

“gleek”

building up saliva in the salivary glands using some stimulus, like sour food or yawning, and then pressing the tongue upon the glands, causing the saliva to shoot out, usually at an impressive distance. Urban Dictionary

for the gang.

I don’t know where this little atrocity began.
I can tell you what I know though.

For me it started with the kids from The Heights.
This one kid Deckard in particular, but the lot of them
Were like something out of The Sandlot. Literally.

Albeit, the cartoons and movies, the porn mags and weed
have all since increased in varying potency’s, so this
lot were a plenty more crude in their delinquency.

It was like art to them I swear.

One summer for various social-political reasons
I had left the safety of my gang and splintered off,

and somewhere between the first girl I loved and the
first one who shagged me up, I spent about 8 weeks
embedded in the tribe of the fixed income housing
that loomed over our streets relative calm like

Edward Scissorhands place, but they were always
The most fun to hang out with, the richer kids were
boring and as the middle class kids, you naturally
wanted something to do that wasn’t a reminder of
the fact your mother was still basically ruling your shit.

These were the closest thing I had to a gang for that period.
I admit when the time came to make amends with
Whatever tryst stricken friend I was eager to do so and get
back to more civil surroundings, (where I wasn’t wondering
when and if I had already been the next victim of “The Gleek”

The Gleek was one of a variety of means by which the
young demon boy child could take their saliva and turn it
into an assaulting weapon of mass disgust-ment.

There was a more crude one wherein the attacker uses
index and middle finger as launcher as well. Other, more
theatrical and ornate ones which I never attempted. I was
only there for a quick time and didn’t want to make waves,
spittle or otherwise. They used to take turns choking each
other out and once in awhile someone woke up Gleek’d on.

Come to think of it, that was a little funky.

Dancing King

The Dancing King

He gets on my route once in awhile,
or really I should say, I get onto his bus,
since he is the king of everywhere he goes.

He waves his hands around like he
is constantly doing the media propagated
“uhn-uhn, Oh, no you did-ent”
while simultaneously waving his hands
to old school-tape cassette and airline headphones.

I try to guess what he is listening to sometimes
and come up with a variety of things which suit the
hands wax and wane, the pomp, the pageantry.

Sister Act (The Official Motion Picture Soundtrack.)
Dance Mix ’94 (especially Return to Innocence)
New World Symphony or Matthaus Passion.

Or maybe Miles Davis like me.

He is the most free, least concerned with appearances
person I have ever seen, and I envy his predicament.

I have always secretly wanted to live as
though in a commercial where it’s ok to
sing aloud, where the mail delivery person
chimes in and the various ethnic groups all
jive together and the coffee looks too black
to be real, matching fanatically kempt lawns.

Everyone would follow The Dancing King,
half enchanted half epileptic, we would all
enact a masse, feverish crunking, bodies going
off script in every possible way, manically
preaching the good twitch, the holy creep, the
trippy hallways of Kubrick’s The Shining.

Arms directing the traffic of stars, legs kicking
up the dust of the Neolithic and the Tribe and Clan
Village of the Damned looking kids brought
back to life, disconnected, discombobulated then
slowly regaining their senses, like the end of Surrogates.

I get off my bus and walk the streets like
Neo after he understands he is in The Matrix.
It’s a great soundtrack too. The Dancing King
inspires like Di Caprio in Gilbert Grape or
Hoffman in Rain Man, but I’m no Fred Savage
in The Wizard, and besides, it’s the rest of the
world that needs to be rescued, The Dancing King
already found his “Cali’fooooorniiiiiiiia”.

The Rest & The Peace

On my tombstone
there will not be
a history
of my online debates
or a recent perusal
of my playlist or
the movie’s I was obsessed
with and there will not be room

for all the books I loved and that
is because I want my stone to
have a list of about a dozen
people I loved, trusted and learned
from in this life.

There will be some left out,
because I plan on going out poor
unless published, the stone will be
thin I imagine but my point is

treat your life like it’s going to
have about a stones worth
of space to fit in the immense
amount of booze you drank

or the many many lays you were
a part of or the jobs and roles and
dignify your every moment with
something, somehow,
more sacred than a
all the times you beat or
were beaten in a video game.

Or how quickly you got the new ifucktoy
in contrast with the other kids
or the salad you made from

the self garden you cooked from the
more the more ethical choice
in your yearly struggle to out-hippie
the last ones on the street.

Give it the chance to be a list of love.
Or fuck it, don’t.

I could really care
less,
but that would take effort,
and like most,
I save it for the few
who ill take a piece
or two or will take a
piece of me when they
too leave this digital,
fleshy, omniverse.

To be honest somewhere between
year 8 of the 9/11 discoveries and
analysts disputed claims and aliens
on the history channel and reality tv,
I just decided to say fuck it,
and accept one very important thing.

Nothing is True anymore, if it ever was,
except love. Use it or lose. Abuse it or screw
it to the wall like another bragging right.

It’s there to help or haunt.

And yet no amount of it is going ot do any good
if its wasted on shit that goes nowhere.

So keep your list short.
And keep those folks close.

And you might just get lucky,
And round out with a full dozen.