self

Rebel Kind

I want to round up all the money lenders also.
I know how it sounds.
All messianic and counter to love.

I assure you of my virtue,
through ignorance and rant
layered over a couple of firebugs of truth.

Opening a can of worms is impossible since
people started doing it,
so I usually spend a chunk of all my days
finding alternate versions to compliment
or to encourage something like “it”.

Tedium is the paradise of the poet.
That is an ageless fact, like
money and taxes.

Pursuant to your recent enquiry,
the stars do in fact taste like fame.
The odour is infamy. It eats your nostril raw.
It leaves you like
a meth head
with nar bitta tooth lef ‘in yuh’ jaw.

If you stay away from star dust
you stay clear of hot tar.
If you close out the sun though,
you turn to a ghost, which isn’t currently in vogue,
and mine as well me the morgue, how bizarre.

If you turn enough times in your grave you
can create energy for unborn post nuclear kiddies.

If you broadcast the inner machinations
of a conch shell to the cosmos
you will cause a cataclysm of falling stars,
which Benson & Hedges Corp. will envy and try to
find a way to sue or outlaw or destroy or corrupt.

If you listen to Nick Drake at the back of the bus
you can hear everyone’s thoughts and you glimpse the
certainty of the sublime, the twitching corpse
of people conjoined.

Look! –
the Child’s pompous head turned up and
crazy guy dancing with his
cd walkman circa 89
and the factory eye s
and the girl with 12 inch soles
and the one with eyes like Mennonites
and you a little half tipsy from years of cid
sitting back with a notebook and-

this is my stop.

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Must Be Nice

Enough?

I Don’t Understand This,
you say, you’ve had enough?
Of the stuff?

I’ve never heard of this “too much”.
It sounds pretty fucked.
Like, why would you be at in the
first place if you could’ve said no to start?

Like, how you gonna shit on addicts
when you can’t experience that your
self. Like, how many rejects you

think it takes, to get a Hunter Thompson
or an Irvine Welsh?

It takes millions to produce nation
and one mutant to tell them all
“Go to Fuck”

It’s like a feeling of satisfaction
you say, and I would love
to empathize
but I’ve done, would do
anything in a bag
any size
any way any time
when I was laid back
in the dark of that shine.
That “Mine.Mine.Mine.”

What the FUCK is enough?
Never had it,
Not one time.

But you enjoy the comfort,
That shit sounds divine.

Hell & Uniformity

First Job

I remember the best and the worst of it.
The thing I hated most was the smell.
It had literally the miasma ghost odor of
every local butcher, medical lab, mechanic
and who knows what else, as its clientèle.
They washed the blood and shit, the vomit,
the grease and the chemicals. I remember thinking
the ISO 9000 and whatever on the sign looked
so Very Assuring coming in. This, compounded
by the sad and quiet Asian ladies who pan faced,
with no sympathy for you and you all fear of that deadpan,
worked the clean garments out on the other end,
in a complex splatter of trolley-style racks
that held all the shirts individually, then uniformly
by the dozen, forming clean corn rows of cotton
and polyester urethane. I hadn’t read Conrad yet, so
I didn’t know about it all yet. I had this yellow tape
player, and I remember listening to Radiohead, Kid A
and it was so fitting. “I’m not here, this isn’t happening”
then the guy yanks me on the shoulder and grabs the
thing and then and there I heard the gnawing movement
of the ornate trolleys of clothes above us on endless
shuffle, the massive washers, the cranes that hoisted
the denim dirty bags in the back, back with the little
elfish shop keeper. Reality kicked in fast. The fumes
made you high I swear, but not the good kind I had
enjoyed, more like the shitty time when I smoked
too much hash after eating a pizza sub from the Mr. Sub,
I remember it smelled just like BO and I wondered how
I could’ve ever enjoyed them, and forever associate
this factory and that smell on a submarine or pita.
The shop foreman was an ass and the manager
was better but he always treated the recent immigrant
types like shit, which in turn made me with my limited
understanding of life and heart felt connection to
The Autobiography of Malcolm X, associate labor
with cruelty and baseness for awhile I think. I found out
also that the manager, the little elf man with his ZZ Top
beard and short, stocky but frail due to limb stride,
had a sick kid. Here’s the thing though he said the kid
had leg Perthy? I have looked and I even googled it years later.
Was he a liar and a racist little elf or was he some rarer,
more susceptible to rarer, less-documented disease? My
biographers will have to ponder this and other mysteries.
(Postscript: I obsessed over this detail and gave it
one more university effort and it turns out he likely meant “Legg-Calves-Perthes”
syndrome – the French threw me off.)

The thought of nobody really ever giving a shit
kept me digging just those extra, necessary feet.
If I ever get out of this life alive, let me
have a night or two by a fire to tell you some more
of these wretched & beautiful work hazard stories.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Legg%E2%80%93Calv%C3%A9%E2%80%93Perthes_syndrome

She Has You

She is the one that first caught me.
The half human, half faerie half witch.

She listened to Tool and
she knew what am Athame was,
always buying books written
by women with strange pseudonyms
like Raven Moonchild.

This weird stuff was always happening.
Once she was saying the word paint
As I fished out a magnetic word from
Its frigid pagination into my typewriter,
the very word she’d said, and

“she had a dream about it all” and
“I was never going to be rid of her”

and “I have another inside me”
and “I’ve only shown it to you and
the clergy. ”

I haven’t got the heart to leave anyone
Or go on or forward someday unless
I sit for a minute and consider her
diamond-like personalities.

I had no idea what feminism was then,
but when I read “The Yellow Wallpaper”
I thought of that summer, (just before
“Kid A”) when we lived downtown
and she found this real pattern behind
the wallpaper. I saw it. She saw it. It was there.

People shuffled her into a hundred different
diagnostic hooplahs after that, but I knew she
wasn’t crazy. She was a real woman,
and womanhood Is a disease that is treated
as a mental illness, which itself?

Is just a way to keep the creative people
at a workable, distant and level, population
of shaky people in food by courts and on
corners screaming about their insect
encrusted genitals by the time the meds
have all gotten pumped in,
perched like prescription Jesus-
Zombies in rows along every major city,
reminders that thinking at all can
lead to lucid, stigmatized doom.

Anyway, every time I hear Kid A I
think about her. We barely heard it
in the same room more than a couple
times, but what was great was she
of all people had bought a cassette
of the thing and I later discovered
it was defective. It played the opposite
side Helter Skelter style in the background
on both sides, so you in effect had an entire remix
of an album that had already departed from
post-Kid A Radiohead. It was the single most
beautiful mistake that has ever existed.

And it’s gone.

Sometimes I put one on in one player
and the other in another but
it’s not the same. Plus who knows
what cocktail of wonder and drug
and what stage of depreciation the
ears were in, it’s hopeless to even
attempt a cosmetic replication of something
operatic, organic. Environmental.

The People on the Bus

The people on the bus
(go to hell in a hand basket fast without
social customs in place).

(aka “welcome to Thunderdome, bitch”)

No matter how far we come as people,
the public transit experience will always
feel cold, like communism in Western movies,
or like penal institution transport crossed with
a ship of fools motif. For me however, it’s an
essential tool in understanding human behaviour
(and its lack therein when it occasions).

The best time to people watch is
the morning or late night, when
the world of the worker is worn
away like reality TV 5 years ago
and people really get their zombie
looking selves into half-sleep states.

There are a variety of styles of bus rider.
Each reflects a persona in society.
There’s the tough guy/asshole.
He’s easy to spot since he’s the only of the
Male species who will sit next to a woman
when seats next to other men are available.
In some cases such behaviour is accepted- a
bar for example. Not on the long haul that is
the metro though, no my track suit friend, best
to flip that Monster Energy (death) drink ball hat
around, take those Ridiculous tri-colored sunglasses
commemorating the 1992-93 Toronto Blue Jays franchise
off, and just stand the fuck off to the side as you likely
will in other forums in life im sure until an early
death by some random douchbaggery or other.
(My guess is robbing a gas bar, who knows!)

Stuck next to him was the lady who sits as little
As possible but rather tries to hover on her ass cheeks,
and almost appears fearful of the physical bus itself
as well as our resident asshole. She’s not a lifetime rider
like him either, usually she finds someone or becomes
a driver herself.

Next you have students. Most of those are texting,
a few still read. Fewer are weirdo’s watching the rest,
like me, for non-sexualized purposes (those lot tend
to fall under the Blue Jay 93 douchebag from earlier).

Then you have a few workers, and some people running on
fewer pistons than the general “norm”, your rockers,
your cursers your rocking cursing singers, all living it up
like they just don’t give a fuck, next to them, the skeets
and the slags, the skanks and the hags, and all that glitters between.

You have a few young parents, a lot more young mothers,
the occasional Clergy or Sister, people too injured to drive,
too poor, people too drunk and (or) too high. It’s a veritable
smorgasbord of life! As a cheap student-writer of cheaper
writing still, I really can’t fathom wanting to leave the living
Opera some call “the welfare wagon” others the “losermobile”.

But I think that’s mostly peoples
pride making them feel they need to qualify their
existences as more than the rat race they are
jammed into (just like anyone on that bus) and there
is nothing that’s going to change it – no ride,
no sweet, sweet ride will ever change that.

And you KNOW what Marcellus Wallace has told us of Pride?

“The night of the fight, you may feel a slight sting.
That’s pride fucking with you. Fuck pride. Pride only hurts, it never helps.”
Pulp Fiction, 1997

Coming Soon (to a Poem Near You)

People talk about film youth like
you lose something human in the process
but I love all the memories attached to
all the things watched and re-watched again.

I remember Mr. Destiny was on all summer one year,
And staying up watching HBO’s first run of
Tales from the Crypt on Elgin Street.

Cheers with Diane and Coach in Newfoundland
then rounding out on the mainland,
years later With Becca, and Woody.

Imitating John Mclaine and jumping off
our back deck yelling
“Yippiekayay Motherfucker!”

Or Chevy Chase “Happy Hanukkah, kiss my ass,
kiss his ass, kiss your ass”.

Taping City TV midnight movies or
Boston late-night horror-thons onto
blank (superior recording quality to VHS)
BETAMAX tapes.

(Night of the Living Dead,
Rebel Without A Cause)

Blitzed on shrooms watching The Doors
and The Wall and writing illegible poems
I still have somewhere.

Watching Basquait and mimicking
his SAMO graffiti with J-,

The infinite re-watching of
Toy Story with Jack to the point we
all knew it word for word.

Blade Runner with Hector,

Pollack with L-
the painter and wild one
whose image is forever connected
to Ed Harris now.

I have fewer memories without a filmic
soundtrack than with.

Coming soon,
another screen night kept
up by a viewing moon,
waxing, waning into next years
coming attractions.

This is Sparta (but not the movie)

I didn’t meet you at a bar.
I am not your friend,
we are not comrades.

This is not a real war
and this is not my true intent,
but blinded we’ll walk a little

straighter, don’t come here.
We hate this but leave before
the song’s through.

I didn’t invite you, this
is invective with a personality.
I didn’t try it came in twitches
and in concert.

My fingers aren’t trumpets.
and the features of the sky
in no way resemble leviathan,
the priesthood or another Jesus.

This is not pick-up trucks rusted hood.
We’re talking one of those old school,
“Blockbuster” joints before boo-tied
treasure got flicked to the parade-mob,

like violent Mardi Gras, this is no
party. This is misery I swear this get’s
too ugly and raucous to pacify or
make famous and chain to a linked brand
fence for carrion devouring, sacrifice.

This is Sparta.
This is Contra,
this is Birth.

Psych 1000 Test

I hate tests. I don’t even
like a foot race if I can avoid it.
I just prefer to read movies.
Yeah I said it.
I scan it all.

I’m like one of those
barcode scanners at Sobey’s
but for useless movie knowledge.

So that’s how I encode
(encoding: processing of information
Into the memory system)
What I can for them.

Memory Retrieval techniques:
Free Recall is an easy
One- because Total Recall
The sequel should have
been “free,” with no prompting
of audiences to pay attention.
(Prompting-re: Retrieval cues)

Mood-Congruent memory was
my adolescence coles notes style,
so that’s nothing.

For the parts of the Middle Ear
I thought of “Middle Earth”,
then Cambridge my hometown.

This Memory Cue always brings
this comic strip me and Pugs read
at Kings Palace. The protagonist of
the strip was hailing the greatness
he saw as Hamilton
Aka “THE HAMMER” – which,
Along with the Anvil and Stirrup
Make up the middle (earth) ear.

For the Cochlea, I know it was that same
spiralling, boney liquid filled tube
a proff I knew had to have operated
on as a result of it being “off level”
and giving her extreme bouts of vertigo.

Parts of the eye and their function,
Tricky? Not for a savant as I though.

Since Rod is already conjuring
Roddy “Rowdy” Piper!
And the Rods are responsible for
white black and grey (which recalls the aliens
he so valiantly strove to kick ass against),
I have an easy They Live memory cue.

E.S.P. and Parapsychology are easy
Because they’re just silly.

Synesthesia carries into poetry
“I can hear the smell burnt toast”
also works.

For “visual cliff”
I imagine Carla throwing
Cliff off an edge as an ‘experiment’

Psychophysics? Norman Bates with
a textbook in his other hand.

The student survives.
The movie lover adapts.
The poet gets…inspired.

The Hall

The Hall

I will never forget the first time I saw that hotel I was to learn the meaning of pain from. I think of it the way I suppose my favorite writer as a boy, Stephen King, thought of the places of evil from where he began his tales. The mansion in “Salem’s Lot or the hotel in “The Shining”[1]. Places that should be left undisturbed by the young writer, but which our curiosity qualifies we can do nothing but postpone the eventual moment…the one where we know we are in deep and cannot see the way out. Truthfully? Places like that have nothing, on an internationally acclaimed kitchen during dinner rushes, at least where terror is concerned.

The Hall; those massive pillars guarding its pristine façade, strangled by the vines and shrubbery whose perfect edges were maintained like pedicures of a god by a dozen migrant workers. They were only seen by us early arriving employees of course, early in the morning, before any of the clientele would be perturbed by their hard-worked bodies.  The car’s out front were often rentals for celebrities or other members of the higher order- not usually from my end of town; in fact our town was pretty middle class aside from a few wealthy families, so let’s just say it- outsiders. I, like most, immediately skipped past the reality I would be washing the shit left over on plates of the diners, and immediately entered the world of fantasy where I ruled over this place like a King in his castle. All of this day dreaming would of course be put to the burner soon enough with my first encountering of…The Dutch-Afrikaner.

I am too afraid even now to divulge. What if it’s like the childhood Bloody Mary or that movie “Candyman[2]” -what if this recollection somehow, however haphazard or hazy, proves a recipe for some incantation? And suddenly in a flash of greasy smoke, brandishing his weapon of choice, the monster comes for me again?

I can see him now, big greasy madman grin from ear to ear, sweat pouring off him like condensation escaping from a smelly cheese, and those silver, smiling evil tongs like a mouth of open teeth. For some time I look at a pair again the same after that day. My groin almost hurts a little in fact …like those veterans who wake up feeling around for itches on long-ago amputated limbs. It’s not often a kitchen utensil can be compared to such things. But I assure you, with absolute confidence, galvanized now by more than a decade’s separation- the fear is quite real. And 100 percent pure, truth. The only time I was ever comfortable was a few years later, when I was working with the crazy British chef who was a punk rocker above all else and loved to curse on the Queen. And I had the tongs.

I can’t quite face it yet though; so let’s take a roll call of the other players in this mad little play. There was a chef for every major country when I first started at The Hall – an Irishmen- let’s call ‘em Gerard named Tom who worked salads, an Italian who did sides, a Greek woman who did a bit of everything and of course a Frenchman who provided endless desserts and of course insults to all around him, sprinkled excessively with each opening of the oven he called a mouth. I hated French as a subject in school, granted, but this was my first experience hating a person because of it. Finally the two men who most frightened me – my Chef and Sous Chef – the former a Brit.

To describe him in action is to depict a savage animal in captivity, clawing at his captors with efficient and timed movement, precise movements too perfect to be anything but natural or artistic mimicry. I thought up until that point in my youth, that a kitchen was a place for the civil, restrained, synchronized or timed even – appropriation of culinary creation. And nothing more. I had no idea the fresh hell that awaited not just me as the over glorified (quickly salaried) “Dishpig”.

And the next week, then the boy’s started in on me with the endless jokes, the fish heads impaled on the nozzle-gun and sink-spout. The one’s tucked into the Hobart so they almost bite you. The fucking hot pans, able to catch you off guard even when they tell you, “Hot!” prior to dropping them headlong into the soupy, hot and greasy mess that replaces itself in new, even more grotesquely messy amounts, no matter how fast you move, then switches its assault and begins to mount, likewise manically in fashion, in the form of the customer’s dishes. This is the single greatest delusion any young boy ever, ever suffered from- that a dishwashers job is anything near in sphere or circumference to that which they knew of in suburban domesticity, babysitting or shoplifting for comic shops. I mean working.

My first real wound wasn’t to so fatal. I was leisurely cleaning a Mandoline- tricky fuckers actually, because they look deceptively safe. It is not a matter of cleaning an actual knife – but rather a stainless steel plate with a clever addition – a razor-thin blade subtly protrudes around halfway down. The nick was all I felt, enough to recoil from, but by then the damage was well done. One time fluke I figure- not like I burned my hand or something. I did manage to go the next 6 weeks without ever meeting the mean end of the Mandolin again. How could I have, every time it smirked at me I winced back in shame for having cried at least a tear of panic-yelp into her secret slit?

The next one was just the first of many many many pan-related burns to come, and was not so easy to avoid in the future since really, the better or faster the pig of dishes? The more likely you will reach into the abyss, to yank out dirt from the clogging-sink-drain’s whirlpool, and lift with that skinniest arm, scarred up nicely by now, and yank a handful of mush that was once the remnant of a 10, 000 dollar night. In my guts, too,  some nights were remnants of the evening; ostrich egg shell, pheasant breast procured from the occasionally generous…Him. And so much more. The wounds were earned and bettered with many great meals. Oysters, Cheesy Mushroom Risotto, Champagne Sorbet. I learned to love food the same instant I learned to hate the industry to which I was at the bottom- or more rightly, I learned to despise being at the bottom.  Which is when it happened; I joined them somehow. The core group of chef’s, of which only two were left out  – the Head chef not because he was a British snob but because he was Head Chef and it was customary(like in the military, the reigning officer cannot be seen to socialize with his officers), and because the Frenchman was too much a cunt for anyone to tolerate for more than a service if that,( and was essentially relegated to the same subhuman status as the waiters who were also flown from France and boarded just off the property in some building owned by The Hall). But somehow after the incident I guess…they thought I was somewhere above a Frenchman and a Waiter. But the incident itself was enough insurance against my ever forgetting…my Place.

Just as well to set the table and have you dig into these alluded to, ever hinted at, horrors show then. It was not my dishwashing skills that lacked, nor was it my scrawniness that betrayed me to his eye, as to suggest perhaps I was easy prey. No. My doom? Was sounded by the seemingly Least important single utensil in the entire building. A Tasting Spoon.

Morne von Antwerp. There, I have said it. The chef who rode that kitchen each night like a mad-cow infected Rodeo Bull- he sweat and slaved under a thermometer, the main courses were all on him, and he wouldn’t hesitate to point with…those tongs…to the thermometer as you attempted to weave and wobble through the slick, end of night greased floors, to gather each stations piling treasure trove of dirty everything. Dirty cutting boards, inserts, knives, and yes… Tasting Spoons.

Still in my early training stage, I had nevertheless managed to be myself in one regard: I was mouthy as all hell, quick with comebacks, and too young and proud and hooked on the laughter I got from sarcastic remarks to ever think of their consequences. And so it came to pass that when a chef made a remark about my skinniness, or my red hair or dirty appearance (it took at least a month to master the art of not acting like a magnet to the every scrap of dirt in my frail orbit), that I responded in kind with my humorous attempt to stand up for myself. This worked on every person there- except the Afrikaner. Although at first he chuckled, there was a moment when I know I had done something he had forbidden, and all the laughs from the others would not save me. Back track to my first or second shift after the coward jumped ship, when Chef had to remind me, just once, yet spoken as though for the thousandth in that Brit air of authority to “Nevah, evah walk behind me without saying BEHIND!!!, to which I elfishly crawled away, forever in total fear of Chef. How stupid of me to think the captain was the most frightening thing lurking beneath the Sally and The Pass: Morne “the claw” von Antwerp was about to teach me a lesson in knowing my place, and his.

“Boy! Come Hea-ah!” (He refused to learn any names for the first month, so many youth having stayed only a few shifts before going to take a bag of trash to the dumpster out back, they never came back). I came slipping and sliding over, the floors greasy not because of the lack of prestige, the kitchen was 3 star at least, but because I was a terrible mop-hand. “What the fack is this, aye?” (He was the only real Dutch-African I had met – but the movie Power of One had instilled a deep fear of that accent- brining to mind the ‘coppah’ who beat Morgan Freemans character to death for talking back to him).

In Morne’s fist was a single, silver spoon, glistening and shining in my eyes off the light of the fiery stove he was always stationed at. Glaring at me I hesitated too long in giving the obvious answer, and he filled me in rather than wait out my terror. “Dis? Is moi facking spoon, you hee-ah? Now. Ivery dai You WILL make shure I ‘ave 5 facking spoons, good? I don’t care about the rest of deese faking clowns if they say give me spoons if they get spoons or not! But at night you make sure in the morning I Have My  FACKING SPOONS, OI, BOY?” then, all the while having the deadly tongs in his other fist, he brought them close to my sweating face and snapped them shut violently, punctuating the motion with these foreboding words “Otha-wise?? I will clamp down on your facking bawls boy! And rip them from your skinny facking legs! Oi! Jua’un-dahr-stand!?!?!” I immediately respond in a moment of boot-camp, knee jerk reaction. Pure Instinct. “Yes Sir!”.

Next day. His face turned red as cinder. He couldn’t find a spoon and looked over to see the kinder Chef Oscar with two. My jewels became fodder for his silver death-clamp. My pearls were squeezed and I hit the ground fast. I hadn’t seen him! He’d been too quick! Come up from behind, given me that terrible crushing experience from the job I learned to love thereafter. Love-hate? You betcha. Nightmares have a way of growing on the young writer. They become in themselves, a kind of future fodder, as you see.

Just the sight of those silver utensils…brings a painful remembrance. A smirk. And a thankful sigh, my last service ended more than a decade ago at The Hall. [3]


[1] Alternatively, Amityville

[2] Or the equally frightening Omen or Exorcist franchises.

[3] I intend with this story to draw on my being a horror/film fan and young writer, formatted as youth-confessional; a string of stories of which will compliment and fill out my characterization of self. Steven King is not merely used then as a universally recognized symbol for horror, but also meant to evoke the working class sort of writer I am. King’s book On Writing speaks to something I will reiterate- he may not be literary by academic standards- but his work still has all the demarcations of craft; theme, style and ingenuity.

The image of the workers sheering the hedges, along with the various incidences of blades, tongs and other instruments as symbols of fear, are equally tied into class conflict and arguments of what constitutes craft and what art etc. Morne and the kitchen also function as allegorical to horror tropes like the Underworld and the Minotaur or even the general “other”- he is foreign to me, he is larger than life, savage, and he is the one chef I cannot “pass”. It is the terrifying and wonderful that is meant to be conveyed; what attracts Marlowe as a boy to those blank parts on maps.

I also but only in a feint way since this is part of the overall collections theme- intended to produce something like a Bildungsroman effect, in which I begin my working life as a sort of young person, who invariably must face outside evils but equally those of the soul, in order to eventually reenter society as a writer. (Fingers Crossed)   An additional and obvious image of the racist general from the film “Power of One” will also be later reflected in a story about my reading history called “X”, but really would only be powerful if you had in fact seen it.

The Narcissistic Pin Scratches of Josiah Brown,

The Narcissistic Pin Scratches of Josiah Brown,

(whom they say was vaccinated “with a gramophone needle”)

 

(a poem for “Paper Planes” by M.I.A)

There are locations in the city where

I experienced things.

The general first memory

-association, and in many (and most)

cases the only that comes to mind,

when I pass them, if I do, and rarely

then, will I slow down or stop, is of the house

and its rules and its ruler.

Houses I only got high in.

This one was treacherous.

One wrong step and you were

tipping over a stack of something.

(magazines, ashtrays, books, dirty pillows)

The guy who lived there would always

reorganize when he got to his peak high,

when he was crashing.

Everything would get shifted a bit.

Even me. Literaly. I moved around the room,

following into the new areas as he produced them.

Giving him the odd hit to keep going and

In Obeyance of House Rules:

(if it’s your first time you pay for everyone,

each time afterward, house always gets a hoot.)

These fucker were veterans I was a tourist

I wept one morning to him like a little child,

I think I even mentioned a God’s name.

Last time I ever did it? Not likely.

But close.

I don’t know any names.

One was a right whore; she lived in a shaft of

a room, down the road at the spot that shifted

all night overtop a poor little Indian Restaurant.

One time her and two local guys broke in.

Burrowed a fucking hole through one of the attached walls.

Stole some petty cash and food from them.

I watched her cook once, when I was in my early 20s.

I had always been fascinated with sadness.

And people aren’t ever as real around you

as when they’re high, out-there-mind, racing

through, smashing the neurons of their childhood,

“bang-bang-bang-bang!”

I walked to the house one night.

And what drove past me but a flatbed stacked high with

the refuse of a demolition derby.

I should have turned around, and indeed

in a month or two I finally did.

And a Shoppers Drug Mart ate the junk motel

The Indian place is somewhere less dangerous

Making equally less money I bet.

Ive gotten high in some dark spots,

but that house was contaminated in

a variety of ways.

Sexual deviances go on in the

crack world as much as this one.,

but they aren’t warm, they aren’t even Lynch or

Aranofsky  scenes,

They’re the ugliest thing you’ve seen,

Uglier than even Requiem for a Dream.

Most of them weren’t bad people either.

I used to ask them what they missed most.

Usually it was the little things.

Going to a movie with someone.

Going to a store and having someone smile and help them.

Being with someone for something real that

wasn’t the one thing they had left, which was.

They just got cast in these junk characters,

I became obsessed with it for awhile,

celebrities of some idealized hell

I had got hooked on understanding.

Thought I believed in fate.

Thought I owed some quasi-demi-god of Beatitude

Time in the alleys maybe.

Thought myself a crude suburban junk con movie kid.

Got lost in a few revolution-complex’s.

Scampered around the truth looking for a piece

That wasn’t there, long enough to hunch for days after.

I’ve seen it.

It isn’t all ocean and sun glistening, Arthur.

It isn’t all pain and dirt either though.

Now I dig jazz and Virginia Woolf and Nabokov.

Pynchon or Borges are the hardest things I crash from.

Fuck all that other shit.

Until the coliseum catches me and they once more decathetor me.

Hook me into my eye/pod again.

Produce my dreams like Bruckheimer,

And my nightmares like Disney Star Wars.

I don’t fucking care anymore.

I’m writing myself out of this here hole.

And Imma get all Bruce Wayne on this mother fucker.

You wait and see.