| (older
stuff)
i
haven't made my feature film yet
chained to this corporate desk
with short hair
thinning.
what
better way to laugh
than reckoleckt
the olden daze
spent with the jewish folk
shoutin' yiddish
at the color monitors,
token buddhist
i was.
"it's
all relative"
he said with a withered
aging smile
"you can toot your horn
and some will listen
--those are the ones
that i'm gonna talk to"
otherwise
you're lonely
dark
adrift in the sea of endless humanity
like a bike
in downtown Shanghai
at noon.
marketing
yourself
is the entrepenuer's way
otherwise yer an executive
and the two can never mix.
they
never do
if they're true to nature.
one
creates
one maintains
there is no mingling
in the middleground
hesitations
of mistaken identity.
foggy
north street light reality
CD quality headphone cacophony
(what does tha mean?)
we have such technology
think about a hundred years ago
when people would visit
they'd stay a day or two
as the journey to
was fantastic,
dangerous
and full of tactic.
we
walk down the modern street
numbed by technology
unaware
our genetic screaming
voice tucked under the turtleneck
hands in pockets
bus transfers
and ATM receipts
spit out from a metal face
with reflecting camera eyes
--is quiet this evening
60
grams of schrooms
set the students afire
raft in the bedroom
bed in the closet
big band on the stereo
and F.Scott Fitzgerald
stood on the landing
and proclaimed,
"By God, my friend
this party's outstanding!"
we teetered
n' tottered
all the way to Juan's
jesus christ was i glad
that we had 2 bongs
in the alley that night
we shall always remember
it was that last frosty night
before the first of November!
daaaaooooooooooo
if yer not a rebel at 20
you're crazy
if yer not corporate at 30
you're stupid
gettin' older
while the beans
cook on the stove
get home quick!
the telemarketer's callin' at 7:00
it's
the boss' way
or the highway
that's the method
you individual
worker bee
you.
anybody
over 30
knows that
lives that
or lives like
Chris Carlsson
on a bike
w/o love for the state
covering mortgages
planning to feed
the mouths you'll
create at midnight
love session
wife passions
i
mean, just you and me. no emails. no distractions. just pure story,
reflection, enjoyment w/o trying to force happy emotions.
"each
year is the best yet"
an old relative told me yesterday
we had just come from Uncle Lee's funeral
in Vacaville
the old Masons
in their cloths
said goodbye
to one of theirs.
coupla
old women glanced at amy and me
jealous of our youth
our time ahead
that they can see
on a marked up
calendar
smiles belied the pain
of joy
and life
and going on.
we
too shall sit
in their old chairs
and stare back in time
to our present mirror,
reflecting, like they did yesterday,
on what has gone
i'm all alone in my office right now
playing morrison's CD
american prayer
"has this dream stopped?"
awake
shake dreams from your hair
my pretty child
my sweet one
choose the day
and choose the sign of your day
the day's divinity
the first thing you see
---------
i'll
make it
i'll make it alright
we'll have a good time
relaxing
eating
drinking
riding bikes
laughs
and backslaps
old stories
and new ones to come
-the evening slinks in
like a black velvet coat
wrapping 'round
like castle moat
your mind
like a root beer float
zam zam
bartender
sitting at a bus stop
head held high
next to a pretender
black suit
authority
and a helluva
spender
the
24G stops
and he gets in
the evening moves on
to other places
good
morning lover!
dark
fall morning
shower lather
coffee kitchen
polartec flannels
cnn updates
sumatran steamy
not this weekend
too soon for spouses
i imagine
we're living with others
now.
not the ripped jeans
youth we once
ran thru the streets.
i
had lion hair once
"days" crew jacket
with gaudy patch
i tore off with a
3 beer buzz
LSD
evenings
in the streets
and alleys
of my youth mind
series
--dark shadows
presents
the imaginings
hence.
sumatran
steamy cafe
my friend
ray
trees
give life
and green things
live
in them
parks are parks
cuz we cut down
all the rest
or would,
with the steel footed
assuredness
that hard hats bring on.
earth
firster dies
in the path of a giant
felled by small metal teeth
set in the fleshy corporate
jaw of progress
crunching its way
to the future
-everything dies
in time.
take a close look at the lug with the raiders shirt.
he's
the type that would order the allesandro
"c-mon,
man. we gotta gut sixty of these bastards before 5. the game
starts at 5:30... kinda figgerin' we'd get through these faster if'n
we just
picked up the pace. get out early. get drinkin.
now
where's that pnuematic bolt gun?"
and
shadowed handshakes
drunken
and smiling
-balsa face
fosters
fake trust,
purchased on the backs
of others.
you
can be my "bro"
for 350 bucks a semester
"tatskie"
"kegger"
and other terms
i will soon put in a
chico dictionary
for you,
my fellow
candiopolis frienddd
thursday fog
racked mtn. bike
commute
billie holiday
a nice house
for this life
lovely spouse
i will it all
to corporate america
for here
i'm free
to a life
of watercooler
will call
advice suited
shopping malls
a
check each week
keeps roof
food
and clothes,
stamped with suburban
family values
bank loans
and kitchen table
furrowed brows bent
wondering how 500k
in assets accrued so fast
--wasn't it yesterday
that we counted change
for a large pitcher?
check
w/da ol' lady, wontcha?
Miwok???
isn't that an illegal trail? the one we got a tix on?
i
remember the area fondly.
blowing
a fuckn gasket
in that little dirt
roadside patch
you, on your black bike
big gear black sweat
cutoffs, felix tatoo
smiling
knowing i wanted to strangle you
but the ranger woulda arrested me
instead, writing tickets
for trail you took me up
later, at the elbow room, we ran the table
drunken lugs
that no one really knew
we were the other souls
that usually hide behind
our retinas
mr. budz'll pour them drinks
this weekEND
daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaao
I used to work the door at a bar called Hey Juan Burritos. Many a warm
evening found me checking ID's, warning minors not to drink or they'd
be
grounded (a fear tactic that ACTUALLY worked--they'd rather get busted
by a
cop than me, cuz I'd kick their butt out for as long as I deemed
appropriate, running a little known algorithm to delineate the universal
punishment of relative fairness: age/sips:tude/groveling=%dismissal.
This
worked. The Chico Friendlies would sit across the street from time to
time,
in the B of A parking lot, and watch me card through 10x binocs. I'd
see the
streetlight glint off the polarized lenses, crack a Clint smile, and
reach
for an open Red Tail (back when an individual serving came in a wine
bottle). Truthfully, the place ran itself. I was no more a policeman
than I
was an entertainer, a big, black Alaskan rain hat pulled deep over my
eyes.
Derelicts couldn't tell when I was looking at them. If the 'po decided
to
storm, the back of the bus knew as fast as I did, running the data back
along the brick wall like a 100base LAN, info probably distoring with
each
passing brain, but the core, ahhhhh, the core digits remained the same:
"Here they come." I never, ever had a case of a minor getting
caught when I
was on the watch. A coupla girls with really big eyes deserved a special
seat one night. I set them down in back, with free sodas, and turned
on the
swamp cooler. "It's the breath of Shasta," I said. "Lean
your head back and
feel the essence of time slip across your face, pull your hair back,
and
cleanse your soul." They smiled as wide as the Snake River Canyon,
and
jumped, metaphorically speaking, into the tall tale.
-----------------------
i
was there with you, eating bar-b-que, drinking a pilsner, scanning the
midnight boob tube with headphones on, whilst the spousal unit slumbered
peacefully in the otra room.
today's
a little busier than yesterday, but i promise to send you more
thoughts in detail.
especially
attempting to draw you into my imagination.
eric clapton on a
parking lot tape deck
mixes with the tri tip
meat smoke wafting over
fall foggy tub-a-guts cloaked
in too-tight sports jerseys
names on back
belying the physical specimens
sporting them
gun
racked
union stickered
chevys piloted by
callused hands
sloop into outskirted
parking spots
late for festivities
-swear words and
sweating jubilees
of arrival welcome
the obese armchair
fucksticks.
listening
right now to the CD of jim morrison's poetry.
daou.
give
us silky pillowed heads
you
can say so much
with so little
using the imagination
of the reader
to help you
tell your story.
"i'm
sick of dour faces
staring at me from the TV tower....
i want roses in my garden bauer,
dig?"
boxcars
of voters
herded by TV
to the richest pens
of smiling wolves
to fill November
with dry rain
factual dismembers
countdown timers
Tom Brokaw pollsters
hotel cheers
and backroom tears
the
machine grinds on
watching Wall Street
Greenspan
and kitchen table
solar calculators.
"let's get a scratch pad
and find out where we're at"
down
the hall
hood
and strong
practice that daily
little
pencils dashing
over charts and books
coffee farts and
furrowed looks
"we need 70 percent return
Chris
C's beard
caught the winter light
through frosty panes
of 100 year old glass
as the fog erased
shadows on the comfortable
couch placed outside the main
office space. "We're almost ready,"
you shouted out to him,
wrestling an empty Steno pad
full of questions.
I scratched my nuts
sound check complete.
"Waiting
on you," I said.
howz that fer a peaceluvin tofu fuck?
It's
warm again in Chico, perfect for a night ride through Lower Park,
watching out for the closed gates. At Five Mile, you cross over the
creek on
the pedestrian bridge, busting a wheelie in celebration of the cricket
sounds morphing with the rising moon breezes. Tall pines and other friendly
trees tower over the shrinking north rim shadows, pleasant and timeless.
They've seen the Mechoopda's and the Yahi, the CCC, and countless zoomin'
students with pupils way too wide for this dimension. A car back in
the 5
mile parking lot does a burnout, and you think for a second that they're
comin' after you, so ya drop it in high gear and pedal as quick as your
4130
chromoly horse'll gallop. A bunnyhop over the log at the bottom of north
rim
welcomes you to the Upper World. A left on the trail below the cross,
and
you're on line for the towers, soon to come. But then you think, "There's
rattlesnakes out tonight!" A rush of panic pours through your system,
causing you to put one foot down in a rush to stop. As your foot hits
the
ground, you realize you didn't even look down before planting your SIDI
encased appendage, jolting more panic into your system. The phobia rises.
To
calm, you review, in 3D, the pages of Carlos Castaneda's instructions
for
walking in the desert at night, meditating on the, for lack of a better
term, zen of it. Soothing thoughts of knowledge and understanding battle
back the demons of the soul, chaining them to smiley faced railroad
ties in
the shape of a cross planted under an apple tree. Vision clearing, you
spot
the towers approaching, and reach down for a swig of clear liquid water
from
the aptly titled CamelBak, that sloshing humpback protecting your spine
from
over-the-bar gymnastics gone awry. A spark arcs from your handlebar
to your
hand as you pass underneath the cliffside 70k volt tower (a true story),
again prompting you to drop the hammer. Your head feels like when you
press
your nose up against that shitty microwave your roommate has, the one,
you
remember, that fell off of the back of the 79 Chevy Blazer moving into
your
apartment last August. The one, you add to your mental registry, that
doesn't need metal objects to send clouds of electricity zapping about
the
small food temperature shuttle. Soon you're free of the standing hair,
able
to pull over and relax past the fallen tree and the point that marks
the
beginning of the 'backcountry' of North Rim Trail (NRT). You plant your
spine on a small clump of inhuman igneous protruding from the Indian
Lookout
Point. You wonder how long you'd be in the air if you hit the edge at
full
speed and launched into a table top. You could be crossed up for damn
near 8
seconds before you'd, well, that's the not point of this story. You
chuck
the though out your left ear like a boxcar whizzing by on 9th st, and
clip
back in. At "B" Trail, you stop, intoxicated by the fir, oak,
and evening
manzanita pine olfactorial cocktail. It drops you to your knees and
you cry
for all the inhuman behaviors imposed on the indigenous peoples of this
sometimes-great country. A hoot from a tree brings you back to your
senses,
and you, with new found reserve, walk boldy over to the edge, unafraid
of
the snake potential, for you are, and have always been since extinguishing
that electrical torch on the handlebars. Tunnels of light protect you
from
head-on's with cars, but limit your experience of the backcountry to
10
square feet high contrast experiments in newly acquired depth of field
experiments. Uh oh. I've got to go record right now. I'm the voice of
MCI,
and reality's shining its harsh light into my wispy world of recollection.
There's a new section and I thought I'd already nailed it all....
demons
cloud your vision
hamper mission
trip your footing
mental fission
-spewing forth
like santa swears/
retreating bears
and cold war wares.
"it's
my juice, baby
you should be loving it."
daniel said, smiling in his
thready dinner jacket,
pointing out ektachrome
prints of various
dark haired cuban vixens.
-spanish tinkled down
the noisy hallway
pictures on their way
to dog-eared-om
smoking room
below the 4 star
restaurant
"for
you, i make an exception."
"there"
is on the front porch with you, shoes up on the veranda rail, tilted
back on squeeky ol' chairs, finishing off a bowl of chili, and leaning
over
to the dusty deckside surface to crack open another ice cold beverage
straight from chico's east side.
whilst
the wives flit about, inside the house, talking about who knows what.
it's
about sunset, rose, so we hop up on my horses and ride down under the
oaks to smoke a big
FATTY.
daaaooooo
i remember our wrestling matches, where we'd slam each other on the
floor so fuckin'
hard....
rug
burns, and sore muscles, we were so much younger then.
now
we'd be out for a week, ice packs, and hot cups of tea.
"buddha
usually comes hardest to those in the city
--lights
noises
distractions
all compete for the empty
'is'-ness"
lovers
and banks
compete too!
i'm sure
long bike ride
once a week
re-awakens the soul
to all that's possible.
i
didn't get home 'til 1:00 am last night
3
hour delay @airport in Orange County. the wife's friends got married
in
malibu on sat.
saw
Martin Sheen there. it was sooo LA. reception on a tennis court @
groom's dad's house overlooked the ocean. plastic blondes served KILLER
food, whilst big black dogs ran eagerly thru the crowd, glad for the
attentions of drunken party-goers.
part
time actresses
kept our glasses filled
and flirted with every
wedding ringed
option.
Wake of Now
We are dreaming as the planet dies
We
cannot wake up
Quick!
Count to 10 and then you die.
I
heard "7"when
I was born.
Late
last night
in
the backyard
the
bushes whispered"8".
Somewhere
Here
I
see Indian ghosts
sitting
in my backyard
smiling,
welcoming me
to
their reality.
A
hand extends, yellow
feeling
of summer
warmth
and memory.
Change
your heart, not your face
Change
your direction, not your pace
Think
for self and not for ego
Think
for others when you feel to
If
you look beneath the issue
awareness
comes with
"Peace
be with you."
Los
Angexaos
During
the riots two white men
were
pulled off a motorcycle in Long Beach
beaten
and prone
gun
shoved inside the helmet of one
splattered
tissue against
the
ANZI approval sticker.
DOA,
all day
the
edge of hell had arrived
Demons
wore baseball caps
and
Nikes, flashing
symbols
and exchanging
words
of hate and ignorance.
the
aliens watched and laughed
another
hash mark on the wall.
We
are the prime time of the universe
-pay
per view, maybe.
Better
than fiction
it's
human friction.
Lucidity
A
bolt of white hot energy
shoots
from my navel
and
envelops
all
around me.
Clinging
to the fibrous,
unconscious
connection
I
pull myself through
sanity's
connection
and
end up in a void
where
every sound plays
second
fiddle
to
the silence
in
the middle.
improv
jazz is like poetry
the
notes just fall out of the air.
"share
share and share alike"
said
the goat herder to the fairy
"we
all have different dimensions
but
we can eat the same grass."
the
crickets and frogs
welcomed
the arriving summer
that
slid over the mountains
like
creeping night. shadows
cast
long, dark spears
of
anarchy across the golden haired
fields
of Steinbeck's muses.
Oak
trees bent in the soft
twilight
breeze
as
bats flitted about
scooping
up to 500
insects
each by bedtime.
In
the canyon below my
bedroom,
horses neighed.
Studio
2, NBC Burbank
memories
of old television shows
haunt
the shadows
behind
the curtains
over
by Tom's prop room
I
felt Elvis walk by
and
shook Jimmy Stewart's hand.
Opening
a door
rushing
musty odor
whoosed
past my sandaled feet
and
circled my legs like ivy.
A
quiet voice
deep
inside
spoke
clear
present
intuitive
knowledge
regarding
the future
of
all life as we
know
it.
Mac
the
old characters were in from
all
points
Switzerland,
Chicago,
the
Big Apple.
It
was like the old days
before
the new youngness.
I
watched the pros
circle
around their marks like robots
suppressing
loss and
memorizing
dialogue.
After
a light lunch
we
taped the scene
where
Alice circles around
Tom's
chair and puts her
hand
on his empty jacket.
Camera
Five was up
arcing
over the downstage
coffee
table when, as it landed,
a
magnificent white light
emanated
from the jacket
diffusing
around Alice.
My
heart thumped
when
I realized
it
didn't happen
during
rehearsal.
My
dear friend
came
back
for
his last scene.
College
Senior Blues--1987
I
close the door
and
envelope the void
hovering
near floor
The
stairs lead skyward
holding
the answers
to
all my questions.
"It
seems cyclical
that
never ending act
of
growing, meeting, going."
Just
when you think it's safe
it
comes,
and
taps you on the shoulder.
Warming
Welcome Globally
electric
clouds pound the cement with voltage and water
things
run in shadow
from
inevitable slaughter.
Atherton
Memories
chocolate
ice cream
melting
smooth and shiny
in
the incandescent kitchen,
drew
the attention
of
the young boy
who
with his brother
helped
him up
to
grab the dish.
They
steadied,
looking
'round for Grandma
and
scooted under
the
grand
living
room table
where
they ate
the
dish
right
up.
At
poolside
bearclaws
and powdered donuts
large
glasses of milk
and
globs of sunscreen,
where
ants where king
and
the trees held many
mysterious
paths
that
I was never really
able
to remember.
Big,
old oaks
would
drop their limbs
from
time to time
and
shade us when
we'd
smell the flowers
which
were, indeed,
at
tricycle level.
Raybee,
Floating Traveller
he
reinvents himself
every
hour
with
every shift
in
the trade winds.
And
as the velvet
curtain
of stars
stretches
its arms
across
the sky
he
reaches down
into
the sand
and
rocks his hammock
gently
in the night.
Welcome
to LA
I
was on Sunset Boulevard the other day
passed
a lady pissing
afternoon
concrete draining to the gutter
filling
empty jar of cobweb peanut butter.
Prop
Man
Elephant
Doors
aren't
for the equipment
they're
for the actor
and
his head.
Imagination
Station
Determine
$5,000
worth
of an idea
when
you pitch a show
and
only give up that amount.
How
to get anywhere
with
a double-edged sword
like
that?
They'll
steal it
before
they give you a break
so
look at it like
"Hey,
I'm going in the right direction"
and
keep up the good work.
A
ticket on this train
costs
different
for
every rider.
TV
GLANDS
running
through our
collective
unconscious
reflect
strings of electrons
formed
by suits
looking
for
profit
maximization
--nothing
else.
My
Mentor
walking
down the hallway
after
a lunch at the commissary
i
spied Mac at the door of his room
looking
worried
"Scott,
can you help me?"
i
nodded, chewing
"I
need something to stop my diahrrea"
damn
radiation
stay
there, i said
and
ran to the prop room.
i
knew he was up soon
his
scenes were coming
with
or without his medical state.
as
always, my prop master bud was there
feet
on the desk, listing groceries for
Alice's
Restaurant set
hey, man, i said. Mac needs our help.
"Got
it right here," he said.
i
ran back to Mac's room
and
gave him the potion.
he
got through his scenes that day
and
died soon after.
Ahhh,
A Grateful Dead Show
sitting
in the dark
colored
lights streaming
tripping
to Jerry's licks
Bobby's
strum
Phil's
bobbing head
Bill's
concentrated look
Brent,
Vince, Bruce, et al on the
keyboard
soundWall
--and
Mickey's devilish eyes smiling.
the
air smelled of body odor
incense
and
pot,
fine pot
always.
then
there was that guy
in
the brown, hairy cloth
dancing
bears blinking all over
he'd
carry that orb
of
spinning lights
up
for close inspection
and
a mile-wide smile.
i
always thought that orb
spun
on forces
this
planet
didn't
know.
(turns
out by what i read
in
the paper last month
the
bear fellow is a savvy
real
estate investor from Palo Alto
--named
his homes after Dead songs.)
there
were the regulars
the
tour
the
sprout filled bagels
prepped
in stickered
Volkswagen
buses,
Coleman
stove incense burning
this
world of ours sure has
stopped
turning,
a
new direction, surely
our
friend was taken
much
too early.
a
lost dog
looked
forlorn
in
the early
Vegas
morn'
by
concert
it
had a home.
a
million thoughts
come
to mind
my
favorite one's
on
love
the
love
flowing
through the crowd
during
the show
everything
gelled
perfect
undulations.
Hollywood
Hills Galore
security
signs and underbrush designs
television
prime time curtains
draped
over every street facing
living
room window
beaming
news
that
life was now imitating life
and
art was down another path.
rounded
mountain viewpoints
looked
agedly down upon
out
of state plates
hopeful
hands
and
nervous glances
doing
what it takes to make it
balancing
the need to be straight
or
fake it.
metal
heads on sunset
slam
gears in an old car
belching
smoke
setting
sun
mercedes
rearview
college
co-eds in a
curbside
hedge
sandbar
surfers
sinking
a dredge
chaos
reigns in soft faced heads
i
used to work at bar in college
smelled
just like a Red Tail Ale
when
you pop one open
under
your nose
--that
first olfactorial impact
mmmm,
so smooth
musty
earthy
smothered
here by jet fuel,
car
exhaust and movie spotlights
----->about
LA
one
can say whatever they’d like
but
i’ve been there to see
the
urban delight
the
low flying planes
high
wires and stars
and
endless metal seas of
streetlights
and cars
the
urban canyons of
malibu
dawn
fill
with surfers, actors
and
suited valley bankers.
dumbass
undergrad wednesday
"Tear
it up, guy!" Kyle shouted from his little bedroom off the
miniscule foyer. He sat on his little chair and drummed his hands
to the beat of "Digital Display" by some funk group that sounded
like Prince on amphetamines. His cardboard windows kept precious
heat in. The small lamp on his high-backed student desk illuminated
Forensics of Death, an anthropology book designed for the future
coroner. Other books included in the pool of yellow light were:
MicroEconomics
- A Close Look
Ishi
- Last of His Tribe
Dawn
of Man
Cultural
Anthropology
From
Stone Tools to Cellular Phones - The Awakening of Mind and Pocketbook
Famous
Milk Recipes
Are
You Type A?
Kyle
spun on his stool to face the corner of his room where a Van Gogh hung
proudly on pins. Spiders spun webs along the ceiling trim.
And a small closet housed his plaid shirts and grey Levis and white
tennis shoes (Nike). His trundle bed was slid away to allow the
pre-bar dance of hopeful meet-a-girl-and-bring-her-back-here-and-suck-her-tits-and-feel-her-snatch
-and-stick-it-in-and-work-it-till-you-pass out.
"Who
wants a glass of milk?" Shouted Kyle as he scampered across
the living room. "I'm gonnnaaa have one. Whew!!!"
He
slid across the kitchen floor in his white socks and came to a halt
before the fridge. A Miller beer poster with a girl in a blue,
lycra half-shirt posed half clocked to the camera. She promised
love in exchange for alcohol consumption. Kyle bought the trip.
We all did. The door swung open and Kyle grabbed the carton.
"Good.
Lowfat. Better for coating." Kyle spun away from the
fridge. "Hey Sean, mind if I drink some of your milk you
fucking prick?"
Sean
answered from the faraway lands of his high ceiling bedroom, "Go
for it."
Kyle
took the lid off and poured a nice, tall glass of frosty milk. Hmmmm.
Milk. Good for the stomach. Kyle's eyes tracked upward to
his cabinet and he had an afterthought. "Toast," he said
aloud as his hand grabbed the loaf of Roman Meal wheat. "Rob,
want some toast?"
Rob
answered from the faraway land of finance and calculators, "Yeah." No
please. No thank you. Just 'yeah.'
"And
don't fucking burn it!" Rob added. He spit into an
I Tappa Coors beer cup one quarter full of black, gritty, liquid phlegm. He
sloshed it around and watched the concoction reflect his face in the
60 watt light of student reality.
Back
in the kitchen, Kyle waited patiently for his first round of heavenly
brown toast to appear. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink.
Night had fallen early in the December air of Chico. It was the
end of the semester. For Sean, at least.
"Man,
I'm so fucking stoned." Sean walked into the kitchen looking
pretty normal. "I've never been higher." He focused
his red devil slants on Kyle. "You wanna smoke a bowl?"
"Yeah."
The toast popped up. "Let me butter my toast."
"Let
me butter your mind." And Sean loped off towards Rob's room.
"Knock,
knock." Sean said outside the closed door.
"What
the fuck do YOU want?"
"I
want your soul, fucker." Silence. Rob clicked a few
calculations, took a spit, and responded.
"Come
on in." Sean opened the door a crack. One red eye peered
through at Rob. "Get your fucking ass in here right now,"
said Rob, putting his cup down. He swung his legs of the three
hundred pound military, industrial, longshoreman's desk. Sean
crossed over to the unmade bed that smelled of dirty socks and stale,
beer farts.
"Wanna
smoke a bowl?"
Rob
was tired of concentrating. The focus drove his vision to double.
And his fingers, his fingers tired of methodical calculations that added
up to A Future of Expected Success.
"Sure.
I'd LOVE to." Rob jumped up and ran into the kitchen to grab
Kyle and wrestle. Kyle juggled the uneaten portion of his toast
to the counter before Rob got in a good body check. Kyle slammed
against the counter and the glass of milk shuddered.
"You
fucker," said Kyle, spinning to balance. Without another
word, he grabbed Rob and manhandled him out into the living room.
Dan
Rather talked about Madonna as Rob slammed his head into the thinly
carpeted floor. Kyle let him go as Sean ran out of his room to
join in the rumpus. Rob got up and charged Sean. Sean grabbed
Rob and spun him, with the momentum of the charge, into the couch, where
Rob tumbled onto his side. Sean landed on top of him and Rob grabbed
Sean's neck and pushed back, hard. Sean's back arched, and then
gave, as he tumbled back onto the floor. Rob stood up on the arm
of the couch and leaped, like a W.W.F. wrestler, onto Sean who was still
lying on the floor, wheezing and rubbing his neck.
But
Sean caught sight of Rob, and in mid air was able to slide a foot to
the right. Rob's body hit hard floor as Sean leaped to his feet
and waited. Rob lay there, still.
"Rob.
Rob?" Sean leaned over to inspect for damage when-
GRAB!
Rob now had control of Sean by his collar bone. His skeletal frame
allowed the grip of any attacked who knew where to grab in the folds
of loose clothing.
"AAAAHHHH!"
Yelled Sean as he tried blindly to fall away from the attack.
He used his body weight to carry him from danger, much like a person
who is being electrocuted does. Rob's bloody knees distracted
him long enough for Sean to get on his feet and pick Rob up in a wrestling
move. Rob tried to straighten his legs to break the hold, but
Sean was too strong. Rob was cradled, lifted off the ground, and
spun around.
"Alright!
Alright!" Rob shouted. "Enough already!"
Sean
threw him down on the floor. Rob hit like a sack of potatoes,
and slid under the card table, pulling the red checkered table cloth
and a dirty plate with him.
"Let's
smoke a bowl." Sean disappeared to his room. Kyle downed
the rest of his milk and toast.
"Rob,
your toast is ready." Kyle said through a mouthful of food.
Rob dragged himself out from underneath the table and straightened his
clothes.
"Bastard,"
he said under his breath, grabbing his toast, rubbing a bruise.
"Let's go smoke some of his pot."
Kyle
smiled and they exited off, stage left.
Sean
sat in his room, behind his desk. It was dark. The streetlight
cast patterns through the leaves outside the window. Shadows danced
on the furniture and skin. Sean swiveled in his chair and faced
Rob and Kyle in the doorway.
"Come
in." They closed the door behind them and sat down on the
bed. The stereo began on cue. Simon and Garfunkel sung "Boxer"
to the dancing candles on the desktop. A shampoo bottle with a
bowl on the side of it sat smoking, backlit by the blue, evening light.
Wiffs of smoke drifted over the candles as Rob reached for the instrument.
"You
must pay your thanks to don Juan for allowing you to be here now. The
powers of the night are stalking. The powers of the night are out
in force. The powers of the night might come for you."
Rob's
hair bristled on the back of his neck. He flicked the lighter.
Kyle,
meanwhile, sat unaffected. "Quit this shit and give me a
hit." He drummed his hands to "Digital Display",
a song long over.
Sean
stood up and spread his arms wide. "We are going out tonight
to a place that has a big room where there is little light and a lot
of cheap booze and people to drink it in order to let down their psychological
walls and try and find another soul with which to copulate."
Rob coughed. "Please take my offerings to insure a rousing
time is had by all."
---------------------
coming
up through the froth
my eyes detect a hope
a glimmer of life
new life
fresh life
oxygen i suck down
in great big gulps
the sky has clouds in it
behind me, LA is on fire
and lives are being taken
I
heard some people
hijacked a fire engine.
there
was no traffic today
on the way to the beach.
grinding gears
and legs with veins
i push up the hill
and think of sex
bills, work
and sex.
the
torment of muscles
cleanses my desire
stokes my fire
pushes me
to aspire.
i've
got a damn big coffee mug
you know,
the kind with a snap on cap.
I got it for road trips
but if fits, snugly, on my
fanny pack buckle strap,
and so i've been taking it
out for little trips
oh gosh. too much coffee
for one sitting i soon
realized.
i detour
to a land of thought
stomach gurglings
afternoon toil and
errand purgings.
9-25-94
Sunday. Gonna read tonight. Gotta write some poems for
the radio audience. Sitting here in my basement. Every artist
should live in a basement. Gives you a whole new perspective on
the world. Gonna turn on CNN. Take a binger. See what comes to
mind. Gonna send another email to Harry re:reading tonight.
Gonna
get him excited.
every
day is a miracle
to wake and breathe
smile and sneeze
walk outside
and see the sky
clouds gathering.
the
gurgling creek
called me down
through briars,
thistles, foxtails
a singletrack trail
through yesterday,
a foggy notion
of some time past.
we're
so caught up
with our watches
that the hours slip by
like water
in the stream
of consciousness,
flowing over rocks of thought
through the reeds of time
each stem marking the
minute we thought
of love, life
and tumbling paradigms
of conceptual analysis.
The beaver has dammed
a pool of reminiscing
where your reflection
tells of where you've been
and what you've done.
You can't see
when the wind blows
rock fins of sandstone
through the arches
of your soul.
etchings
on your psyche
paint genetic petraglyphs
on the wall
of everyday reality.
You sleep because
night is full of predators,
a moonlit food chain
with inverted disadvantage
take your chances
and run in the shadows
where the goblins
shall find you shivering
in the breeze
of ignorance
weak and willing
to fill your head
with circumstancial
divination
revelation
contemplation.
smoke
drifts through Jim's beard
like a forest fire of a mouth,
signaling the changing of energy
a crackling spirit of nature
a paper boy's delivery
spells the end
is nearer
to the middle
than the beginning.
Someone in Amsterdam is laughing
at our legal tom foolery
closed minded schoolery
rodeo drive jewelry
billion can brewery
America
it's goin fast
to the highest bidder
overseas or counter
eat all your peas
it'll make you smarter.
i feel like Kelsey Grammer's
character, the radio part
especially. I have an excitement
for it that rivals anything I've
ever taken on. Radio. Thousands.
Hundreds at least. I think that
is wonderful. People all listening
in to my words, my ramblings.
My incessant spoutings.
I am honored.
The
house is empty now
the floor above is silent
for when feet walk
my ceiling creaks and vibrates
but for now, silent.
I love silence.
It is much kinder to the soul
that's not to detract from the
friendly noise of other humans
creeping down the stairs at
midnight. Comfort in the
knowledge that other people
wake every day and get on
with the act of living.
on
the beach I sit
watching sets roll in
looking for breaks
rocks
sandbars
I wiggle my toes in warm sand
wetsuit around ankles
visualizing my attack
on the green glass
juicy fats
right on Wave Tracks
hurricane stats
I push the velcro
extra hard for sealing
snug tight wrapper
of human distinction
for the hungry shark
who missed extinction
when if you think
you're in the drink
and you get bit
it's a natural trip
jess relaxx,
man,
and flow wit it.
but
I digress
to press
the issue of the wind
in filling the face
with an extra spin
all foamy and neat
for a watery treat
ten feet high
and climbing
with the afternoon sun
rocks winked with
the lowering tide.
Inside was death
to be avoided at all costs
and I hadn't much to spend
since the power of the ocean
had one dude shivering on the outside,
looking at land like an astronaut who's
cord has been cut and he's drifting off
to dust the rings of Saturn with the
cloth of his macho underpants
just as the greed for speed
found me flying
off the break
backwards into
sea spray smells
liquid anaerobic hells
and spine adjusting forces
that cracked me from
brain stem to coccyx
I realized then
I was flying into rocks
the perfect line across
went from pearly gates
of endorphin smiles
to hellish traits
and tortuous trials
the hands of angels
dropped me in
the pulling rip
Davey Jones' long fingers
a stabbing gush of
adrenalin filled my gut
as the next wall of water
rolled in and smashed on the
rock. I thought of that
elementary school science
experiment where you blow on the
light bulb and put out the match
on the other side.
I was the burning match
fighting the breath
of mother planet
cheating death
pulling from my cabinet
the calmness of a warrior
going to his death
in fate's foyer.
I
made it shore some time later,
and sat awhile, thinking of life
the miracle of breath.
I learned
Every day is a miracle.
Every day is eternity.
Every day is for the fullest
you can give to your soul
to fill it up with everything you can
and see it all, grow, question,
and flow.
flowing
is important for balance.
a river flows. it can be dammed, but not stopped.
you can close your mind. but it won't quit working.
the studio was dark
except for the hot set
dressed in white
and yellow burning lights
circled with cameras,
makeup artists and
camera operators,
cables underfoot
and tungsten lamps
overhead. The air
was musty, smelling
of old seventies
television like
Sanford and Son,
Welcome Back Kotter,
and CPO Sharkey.
When it was real quiet
I could Gene Gene
the Dancin Machine
chuckling over
the Gong Show theme.
fifth grade summers
when stars would fill the skies
with questions of life
and death, and all the rest
and leaves would fall
like the calendar days
of youth, all too fast
forgotten in the piles
of memory, large and
full of individual experience.
the
magic of earth
was just beginning its story
to me. I listened with
an ear to the ground
for the train of inutition
to come around the bend
of consciousness, and
pull in to my station
of youthful inquisition.
10-5-94
10-9-94
there is a shack
on the outskirts of town
that has a basement
where funny things clown
about in dusty shadows
a little thing about humanity
the jets streamed overhead
wing on edge
I could see the pilot's helmet
glinting in the sunlight
a black shield over his eyes
the boom of the engines
bounced off history
nah
smog
covered the city
like a mercury blanket
a cigarette anklet
choking the lungs
and trees and bums
who let it slide
from clean
to not
to fill the wallet
of their next month's
wants.
last
time I spoke to a dolphin
I was tethered
to the Becker seven-two
six feet under, squeeking like a
human
trying too hard
to pass a smile
turn the dial
end the trial
for a little while.
awake!
and see what we have yet to learn
from sitting in a row
plugging in to tradition
with no intuition, you commit
cognitive extradition
w/one way ammunition
get out and mix it up
for chaos is the bottom line
in any physics equation.
thrusting my hand down
on a power chord
I heard the lounge quiet
in embarrassed curiousity
a man spun at the bar
and another crossed the pitching floor
as we cruised
through the Queen Charlotte Straights
back from Alaska, were I had left my money
and a job I never knew I had
for as I left the harbor,
the hotel called to say I was employed,
no doubt due to the Russian I had studied
during the last years of the cold war.
And as the chord finished bouncing around
in my guitar's body, the stranger
ran his fingers down the 88 tongues of
Father Piano, coaxing the crowd
to relax into musical structure.
He winked at me, and I hit a D
and two beer slid down the bar
with our names on them.
an ex-con grabbed his harp
when we hit the swell
and knew why there was
cans of beer
instead of bottles.
we
played real good for beer.
the
rolling redwood highway
unfolded slowly under my fat tires
humming sickly next to skinny slicks
when I wasn't off the back
huffing puffing and generally
gruffing,
thinking, i have never felt so bad
in such a beautiful place.
my knees ached with stabbing pain
my eyes filled my drooling brain
with sights of trees and pools of blue
with naked people splashing true, I knew
Moab, Utah
It is outside of Moab
20 miles out
that you can find heaven.
It exists, really, if you look
beyond the rock and sky
beyond the heat and time
of evolution.
over your shoulder
as you hike
under your skin
as you swim in the murky
Colorado.
Summer
Evening, 1974
short wave
radio hum
warm breeze thru screen
I think of astronauts
ice cream sandwiches
olmypics and sandy
backlot pickup games
of kick the can
and crazy bicycles.
In
eighth grade
it was the mexicans
and the cowboys
not much has changed
in thirteen years
not much at all.
Going downtown
I see much of
the aforementioned.
Short
Wave Memory
static and flange
transport the human
into something god like.
Long
distances,
world wide
there are no boundaries.
I want a ham license.
"WHGMS, Lake Erie,
are you aboard?"
Cross
traffic
and self policing
hobbyists, keep the
"thorn in (the) sides"
out of mainstream communications.
He's
pumping too many watts
or something
I can't figure out
WBNET-Mobile Net
can. He's handling things.
Mobile
time
"the lulls are not too accentuated
I'd give your signal and eight and a half or nine."
Savannah,
Georgia.
May 31,1993.
Maritime
Service Mobile Net.
Waterbury, Conneticut.
got
it. Kilo Bravo Nectar
Sierra
Bravo. Santa Barbara??
This
is trippy. *changing coils on antenna pack*
be back in a minute.
Romeo??
....... come in. Are you aboard?
Alpha
Victor Echo-Maritime Service Mobile Net
"preface to martitime mobiles
third party networks, and others."
Educational Radio
Single sideband
midnight anthropology
with South African
accents, austrailopithicus
2 million years B.P.
Wild
Horses
Mohave canyons at twilight
surround the herd
of around twenty.
Social creatures of great passion
the leader was black and strong.
Muscles rippled under the glistening
hair. His tail whipped flies
off his immaculate coat.
His nostrils flared as he
sighted me, stopped in the road.
I rolled the window down,
to get a picture
and try to catpure this
magical moment on film.
Heat bounced off the floor
of the desert. The herd
shifted in contemplation.
They found ashes in a cave
that showed a fire was tended for
many generations.
the pile, 22 feet deep.
Homo erectus. This was the group.
They were vegetarians, primarily.
Fire cooked the meat.
Language began.
Clothes were made.
Family structures were created.
Stone tools and ice ages reigned.
The first frozen period was about 100,000 years long.
Half the world was locked in ice.
Halway to the equator, a half mile deep. Ice.
Project
Saturn Global
broadcast university.
This
is what I'm listening to.
the
time is 12:19 a.m. June 1,1993.
the
place: Morgan Hill.
The Arrival of My Magical Summer
The crickets and frogs
welcomed the arriving summer
that slid over the mountains
like liquid night. Shadows
cast long and dark spears
of anarchy across the golden haired
fields of Steinbeck's muses.
The oak trees bent in the soft
twilight breeze
as bats flitted about
their treetops
scooping up to 500
insects each by bedtime.
In the canyon below my
bedroom, horses neighed
and whinnied throughout
the dark and peaceful night.
Tomorrow, tomorrow I go to University of Santa Cruz
to check out the graduate school
for creative writing. I want to go there.
I want to go there for my adavanced degree.
I can work at any production company
for money. I can write articles.
I can write for the soap opera.
I can do anything. I can shape surfboards.
I can do that. Yeah. Yeah.
Relax. Go to bed. Quit with the ideas for
awhile.
|
