i hit the bottle and punched the forest
and then bam it came pouring out
like niagara fucking falls
verse after verse of subjective majesty
it came pouring out
tears to my ears
it just ran rampant across the page
like a street dog through suburbia
and i loved it
a snowstorm in a warm winter
a drastic makeover to my soul
i call her elvira
you can call her whatever you want
it’s just a god damn soul
the point is
like niagara falls
not to compare
just the same amount of i don’t care
it came pouring out
smoke and whiskey
lies new religion
like pure ecstasy
like something to stick on your tongue and treasure
and will it happen again?
when the yellow morning finds me
will i be radiant red
or blue blue blue
in the face face face?
i’m sick and tired of wearing this monkey suit
of being in the middle of a beautiful dream
and having to apologize to my fellow actors
that i have to go now i’ve got somewhere else to be
i’m sick of being half-hearted in two different places
i want to smash each half together
and wage thunderstorms with the hazardous clack
i want to stock the armory of my heart
i want to sleep in the arms of strangers
i want to swing into the chaotic arms of america
into the world reaching away from gravity
i want to live unhinged and twist predisposition
drown destiny in a bath of hydrofluoric acid
i want to cast flaming thoughts in the caverns
of the collective consciousness
make a solid bid at eternity
while living in the current unmerciful moment
i want to scream in an empty auditorium
that just kind of sounds fun at the moment)
the time is now
my time is now
the wheel is in motion
a witch drew me the chariot
there is something in my bones unbroken in
that will paralyze me if i don’t break it in
so i have decided that i am going to break it in
so fucking sick
of this monkey suit
there’s this woman behind the wheel of a car driving down the road in the middle of nowhere. it’s pitch black. middle of the night in the middle of nowhere. she comes to a red light and she comes to a steady halt and waits at the light. a minute goes by, the light is still red. she still waits. several minutes go by and she still waits. hours, days go by, but no, she thinks to herself, she must not run this light. it would be wrong to run this light. chances are if she runs the light no one would be hurt, she knows this, but if we disregard the laws that have been established to protect us, what separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom? nothing, she says to her self. birds hover above her. the sun rises and sets again. insects jump onto her windshield and off. the world changes around her, but she remains the same, unflinching to her convictions and the convictions she has been taught. babies are born, the elderly pass away. new technologies come into existence. couples fuck in their warm beds. people bitch about the weather, but refuse to talk sex, politics and religion, but this woman is not concerned about any of that as she waits desperately, starving to death on the inside, for this light in the middle of nowhere to turn green.
I was napping under the freeway in the bone city of Los Angeleez, when a man walked by and he stopped and he asked me “Who are you?” “Who am I?” I said. “Who are you?” “Who are we?” and next thing I knew we were in his flat uptown, drunk on red wine, listening to Charlie Parker through the radio. Charlie was manic panic writhing up and down his saxophone beneath the electronic fuzz. The man who took me in paced around his apartment aimlessly. He was a strange man – his books scattered across his cigarette floor. I asked him what he did for a living and he pretended not to hear me, I’m pretty sure.
The wine hit us hard and we laughed at the Bodhisattva residing in our hearts. We laughed at fleeting enlightenment and we bonded over cold Chicago. I passed out on the dirty floor, but in my haze, I heard his girl come home and ask who I am and they riffed for a minute, her asking if I was another junkie and he said “No, well, I don’t think so,” but they calmed down and I faded to black again.
When I woke up, I was alone in the apartment. A note had been placed on my chest “Don’t worry about locking up. No one would rob this shithole anyways,” and that was that. I gathered myself and caught the next train out of the city of angels.
stupefaction/ the act of being stupified/ the art of allowing your power to be turned off/ the dance of dissolving into the group/ disconnection from society/ disenchantment/ disengagement/ love lost/ heart gone/ your breaths go shallow/ your eyes roll back in your head/ you wake up in a national chain hotel with nothing but your socks on/ you go over and open the blinds/ you stare out at a brick wall/ stupefaction/ the process of throwing away one of life’s greatest gifts/ the evolution from man to straw man/ from man to tin man/ from lion to coward/ to give your spare change to a thief/ to toss your winning lottery ticket in the garbage/ to truly decide to not exist and to not take the opportunity to exist/ to not speak up in public/ to not sing during sex/ to not make love/ to not make anything/ to take your leftover ideas and wash them down the kitchen sink and turn the garbage disposal on/ to leave your mind out in the sun too long like a dried out sponge/ to dismember your own limbs/ to smash the metaphorical lightbulb over your head with your sledgehammer hands/ stupefaction/ to look into the void of a human life and turn away/ to binge watch commercials for 100 years/ to dust your ceiling/ to confuse mindlessness with mindfulness/ to confuse a handshake with a shit show/ to remain unchanged/ to save up your pennies in your piggy bank/ then to smash said piggy bank/ to buy one’s self another piggy bank/ to cheat on time with an incredibly manipulative prostitute who is actually time in disguise/ stupefaction/ complete inaction/ and improper inaction/ to sit in the shower/ until the water goes cold/ then turns off/ then your lungs stop pumping/ then your heart stops churning/ then your life stops lifing/ the words stop wording/ and regret/ regret is the uneaten peach/ so dare eat the peach/ choose/ anything/ but stupefaction/ period.
i didn’t sleep last night so of course i’m suffering from some god damn ennui. i didn’t know i was suffering from ennui until i stumbled across the word in a haruki murakami book and i had to google and i said oh yeah ennui, that’s me. good old ennui. stuck in the stale air of this room burning the same old incense along with this putrid midnight oil. listening to the same old jazz playlist that reminds me of max in australia and kathryn and logan in the bedrooms next store. i’m such an ungrateful bastard tonight. i’ve got food in the fridge and i’ve got music and yeah i’m professionally single but that’s not what’s bothering me but maybe it’s what’s bothering me. where ya at now, bukowski? with your it’s okay to be lonelies and your stare at the flower staring back at you. all i’ve got is the incense and the jazz and the cheap merlot and the ennui. the blues. whoever invented the ennui didn’t know about the blues and whoever invented the blues didn’t know the ennui. they kept to france and america, respectively.
i didn’t sleep last night. i just plugged away all day and i drove my drive and i read my lines and i stopped at the gas station for orange juice on the way home i think just to do something. just to escape my routine. maybe i should commit a crime. rob a bank in a nixon mask. run through the neighorhood in a monster mask. start a revolution in a guy fawkes mask. i need a mask. i need a sip of this cheap wine hold on.
i need to get rid of this god damn ennui. go to sleep they say. tomorrow’s a new day they say. yeah yeah. you’re not pacing around the room with this ennui riding your back. this incredible demon that spins the hour hands around your internal clocks. it laughs and laughs and chet baker you make no sense right now. how dare you interrupt my ennui with your singing and your playing and your romantic notions. you don’t get my ennui. but i know what a bastard you are behind that angelic costume you’re sporting. you’re not fooling me ya bastard with your trumpet solos. you’re probably chilling with bird right now you bastard. you’re probably knocking boots with marilyn or cleopatra or maybe you’re just sleeping. maybe you’re the one who stole my sleep. chet baker this one goes out to you. this is my sappy little ditty for you. filled to the brim with ennui and carlo rossi wine. ya bastard. you heartless cruel man. i just want to sleep i refuse i refuse. this damn ennui it’s killing me. it’s eating me from the inside out. this ebola. this demon spinning the clocks. this bull in my china shop. this ennui. what a dumb word. ennui. i don’t think it’s a word any more. it sounds fake to me. it sounds phony.
where’s my wanderlust. where the hell did i put my keys and where the hell did i put my wanderlust? did i leave it at the bar with my credit card and my dignity? did i waste a saturday night. oh good lord forgive me for wasting a saturday night. i’m just lying here in bed with my cheap ass wine and my girl ennui. my girl saturday. my neverending restless song. i’m gonna leave you fine folks to it now.
i’m still here. don’t get me wrong. but goodbye. i’m fine really. good bye.
there’s a tree outside my window blowing in the wind and today it’s hard for me to not see it as a blessing
that amongst the concrete the astroturf the drywall the linoleum there is still a hint of life
leaves blowing in the wind meandering around complex apartment complexes and fences where no fences once were
across the forty mile per hour street is a motionless park a boddhisattva named for some white dude
but it was a boddhisattva long before that and it will remain one when the vines cave in the sign – the flag
driving down the highway yesterday in my four chairs on wheels we went under a bridge in denver named emerson
and there was not a tree a bush a river a flower to be found nearby but the road did lead to a whole foods for what that is worth
somewhere in the ground is emerson as trees are chopped down to form the pages of his books and the purists fight against ebooks
and things are getting a bit confusing as teddy roosevelt barricaded the national parks with a shotgun in his hand
and i guess there’s a balance to everything i think as i type this poem on my wooden desk next to my wooden guitar
and my wooden furniture and we are nature too but we yell at wild animals for sneaking into our homes as the bark at us
for doing the same like the souls of native americans as we drive around colorado with bumper stickers that say “native” on them
and we were driving past emerson bridge down i-25 to 6th avenue and 6th avenue to i-70 through city traffic and then
we dove into the mountains because we were all starting to get cabin fever from sitting in the house all day and we needed
to get out so at six p.m. i ran around the house and i said to kathryn hey do you want to go for a drive into the mountains
and i said to logan hey do you want to go for a drive into the mountains and they said yes yes yes can we please
and we hopped in the car with our hiking boots on and a big jug of water and we listened to john denver and bobby dylan
as we moved along the mountain road beside the river like a crying child walking with their grandparents and we moved
at sixty-five miles per hour deeper into the rocky mountains and we rolled the windows down until we had to admit that
we were getting too cold and our ears were popping from the altitude so we rolled the windows back up and we turned on the air conditioning
the man-made wind and we listened to the beatles sing ob-la-di life goes on and we listened to the beatles sing there are places
i remember all my life though some have changed and i couldn’t stop thinking about emerson bridge as logan sniffled from his allergies
and kathryn had her feet out the window and people tried to cut me off like they were in a rush to get out of the mountains and i
just didn’t understand how you could be in a rush to get out of the mountains and i thought once again about emerson bridge and
about john muir getting mad when they built a chapel in yosemite because why would you need to put a church inside of a church
and we listened to the beatles singing about the fool on the hill watching the sun go down and we heard bobby dylan reminding us
that the answer is blowing in the wind and reminding us that we are his friend and i thought once again about emerson bridge as
we went through the eisenhower tunnel and we tried to hold our breath but we couldn’t but we tried we tried to defy our nature
but breathlessly we were reminded that you cannot defy your nature because your nature will win and weeds are always growing
always tearing the foundations of buildings to the ground as they build more buildings on top of the weeds and we live in the
most beautiful of hypocrisies we all live beneath emerson bridge and when we arrived in breckenridge we stepped out of the car
and we felt twenty pounds lighter and logan said yeah the air is lighter up here and i didn’t want to argue with him but that
wasn’t quite all of it for me it was more than that i had chipped off the concrete parts of my soul and walking around breckenridge
we didn’t run into the forest we went and found an ice cream shop and i had a scoop of ice cream in a cone and it was perfect
and the cabin fever was an hour and a half away and then we went back down back home and the beatles sang we are on our way home
and let it be and we crossed beneath emerson bridge and i didn’t even notice that we had crossed and the beatles sang let it be so i let it be.
“The Exploding Head of Don Quichotte” by Salvador Dali
i am sleepless and doped up on cough syrup and listening to boards of canada
i am still flip flopping between being a cowboy and a buddhist monk
but really i am flip flopping between being alive and being dead
between being a nice outstanding young man who is a good samaritan
a real back breaker, a real gem to society and then i’m being
a ghost haunting this town home, pacing through the halls flicking the lights on and off
working on my lurking skills because my lurking skills need work
writing poems about writing poems about writing poems
and sending them to christopher nolan and letting him know it will be the biggest thing
i dream within this dream within this dream
i moved around a lot as a kid and part of me thinks
that i really never stopped moving
but really and i mean really really
is it possible to stand still?
we are agents of chaos
we are geriatric children
i dream within this dream within this dream
and i pay mind to the beautiful eyes and i stop to unwind beside them
and i tell them i love them that i want them or need them and sometimes
they nod their heads and agree with me and sometimes the joy fades from their pupils
and i move on
i do not stay where i am not welcomed
i do not stay where love is finite
because my love is infinite like a giant bottle of shaken up soda
exploding across the cosmos
my love is john muir beneath a redwood tree
my love is going back in time to sylvia plath
to try and talk her down while she is preheating the oven
i dream within this dream within this dream
and i use to be afraid but i am afraid no more
fear is stupid
anger is stupid
and stupidity is just the way you feel
when nobody told you
what you now know
now that somebody took the time to tell you
i dream within this dream within this dream
and i live for this day and the one before it
and the one after it as i sit around with these
out-of-order days at the apogee space cafe together
drinking cosmic lattes and interstellar macchiatos
as we share a galactic biscotti
i just wanted to take a second to say
that i haven’t been posting online for
a few months, really.
i was spending all my free time on the computer
and it was eating away at me
i think i’m back.
i know from time to time
i get on here
i post a new piece
and then i disappear again.
i’m gonna try to not do that again.
i get a lot out of posting.
i can’t promise it’ll be poetry.
i can’t promise it will be good
but i will do the best i can
to keep it coming.
whatever it is.
it could be anything really
a commentary on post-capitalism
and the cyclical nature of society.
it might be a just-waxed red hot rod.
it might be a video of me performing
beethoven’s fifth symphony
impromptu on an out-of-tune harmonica
while under the influence
of twelve and a half pounds
of pure mexican black tar heroine.
i guess mostly
i’m just saying sorry for the poor communication
but i’m back.
in some weird way where i’m still afraid to commit
but i’ve found that running away from the blog
isn’t gonna fix the problems i had with it
so i’m ready for battle
got my warpaint on
and a whiskey bottle full
of adrenaline and testosterone
so bring it on, bitches.
is it a crime to be a wallflower? am i not allowed to sit and listen to the wallpaper listening to me? must my name be known? other people isn’t always the answer to a bad case of lonely. i can breathe with my mouth shut. my ears open like a great gramophone to the everything we are. we are we are. great big clouds melting and billowing and motioning omniscently across the sky. try and grab us and we disappear. i do not need my name 13 stories high over a grand old theater because every time i look up at the stars, i see my name in lights. i sway like a pendulum on a great grandfather clock. i sway like a dvd menu loop. like the electronic waves in a cheesy youtube meditation video. let me be. i let you be. do not grab me by the neck and throw me into the mosh pit. do not push me. i push myself. i pull myself. i water my kneecaps, i turn my palms up to the sun and wait patiently. an ancient dying man sitting at a closed down bus stop. desert dust and broken bottles of old granddad. let me be. please just let me be.