meta-poetry

The Nothing and My Statue

I want to tell you
about the nothing
and how it was on my back
from late 90s to just now.

My first time was
just a six pack
of coca cola I was
12 maybe 13,

and I was up all night
with the caffeine propping up
my stinging eyes like,
twitchy invisible insect germs,
holding up heavy red curtains.

I used it to get more comic books read.
It gave me the strength to watch
entire nights of reruns.

I moved onto vodka pretty
much the next summer.
Because it made me think I was
an extrovert and a revolutionary,
and because Val Kilmer drank
as Jim Morrison and I wanted to
be a rebel like him.

I always sounded more like
the Lizard King after some drinks.
It was like the liquid gave me skill.

First pack of smokes found
in The Beer Store parking lot on
Chopin Street in Preston.
They bought me the prison yard acceptance
of first year high school.

I smoked more green any man ever seen,
we had something called wheelchair pot and
I laughed at the sky.

Our crew donned Value Village polyester and
tie dyes from local hemp shops.
We slunk through corn field grids
like eager pony tailed lab rats,
hunting down the cheese of
some wheat kings secret plants.
Dried them out in our parents rafters,
sold the shit for better stuff.

Drank a bottle of Robitussin
because some raver chick in
funfer pink told me it was like Acid,
which was hard to come by and
always made me feel like Neo,
even before The Matrix came out.

My first line was the last thing I
ever put on my back,
through my nose.

I say first because it’s all
the same line,
one massive one that stretches from
a cramped apartment on St. Andrew’s hill,
winds through the jungle of a hundred
dirty stalls, stripper’s breasts, mirror and
chipped dinner plates.

I earned a twitch in the final years,
when I would go for days at a time,
I can’t quite tell you
for too long about it
without risking the
abyss taking me back
you have to take my word
you have nothing
to lose by gaining better ground
in this war,
you lose only your mind when you
play the game with the Nothing,
the nothing,
the not-knot but
not-rope
that you see hanging
from your neck on trees
the next morning,
you’ll have to take my warning
as it is.

I’m just not far away from the fire yet
to turn back and laugh
without risking a salty
statuette of my good intent.

I’ve earned that much.

And how.

I sip coffee in the morning now
with all the music that
was always there to
bring me into sleep,
it is the drug I will always
lean hardest on.

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Can You Do It?

Can you do it?

It is 2002 in BC, somewhere the ghosts of that night still haunt.

She went around the hotel and
asked if any of us knew Johnny
and none of us did all we knew
was fix and formula
to get some more
but she went around anyway
really just hoping to run into
anyone even a new
Johnny.

It feels like House of the Rising Son
is always playing in some room.
The hallways are all slanted.
I could be in the movie The Doors right now
when the boys meet The Velvet Underground,
but I am not and it smells like piss and sweat and cunt,
altogether, in one stank, rank miasma of odor.

But I am alive and there is some rock left in the room
past the bitch crying into a microphone
and the one filled with darkness and eyes,
and I can taste it now, covering me in sweats
and dry, insipid heart beatings, and I am there,
whenever I get caught off guard by someone on
some corner in some shitty bad place, I am there.

And then, I am not.

It is still the same cracked out place I am sure,
and the bulldozers when they finally do take it,
a plume of soul smoke will erupt in the air like Poltergeist.

She went around the place
like some dour, damsel or Susanna,
finishing the corner of every ladle,
but the corner eats everything too long
left around it, a whirlpool that leaves tragedies
hungrier than she is, before she shuts down.

She looked at me that one night
and out of nowhere asked,
pointing at the crumb on the floor,

Can you do it?

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.

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?

Trouble Teller

Soon as the page goes up bright
and post-modern white most of you
little shits scatter to the scourge of
cockroach mathematics but I am
a teller, and the tale won’t leave my
hand alone until I play every
soft trombone moment its lullaby.

Every day my mind thinks up reasons to
create worlds for characters who could
stand up to those of HBO’s The Wire
the kind of characters who if they were
ever forced to live a day of the written universe
of Friends or Big Bang Theory
(the ugly ginger step-child of Friends)
would just go absolutely fucking nuts and
meta-slaughter that place dry, a-light the

margin highways with the
Men and Women who bleed
Crayola Red & Crayola Blue.
And Hooker Green, too.

In the end if you want me
I’ll be on top of the credit unions
in another more hyper violently set off Fight Club redux
with Al Swearinjun and the rest of Deadwood,
and fucking finishing what was fucking was started,
kicking the shit out of every AMC zombies with three from Romero.

Maybe just floating around with Zooey Deschanel, making sure this is
her last shitty sitcom. Making sure we all get to bed just a little
Unsettled- that’s me. The Trouble Teller. So if you want that clean,
trouble-less America Idol bedtime story told in a flash mob or Glee-fuck?

Keep moving.
There be dragons up n here.
Talking Omar-Style.