dirty sweaty hands are an advantage in a thumb war

forever is overused
so is love and death
together is used out of context
as well as sex and drugs
the bar is not home, and neither is this place
george carlin said it best
"it's just a place to keep all your shit"
sometimes my heart beats fast, and i enjoy it
and i like pain
out of pain comes some of my finest work (at least i think so)
i envy bums and hobos
because they said "fuck it" a long time ago
i want to break rules and cause disruption;
sometimes, i stand out in the sun
and i feel the sweat dripping down my back
like this is where i'm suppose to be
i want to throw myself upon the leaves and grass
and become sucked into the wildlife
feeling the dirt between my toes
and the water from the sprinklers raining down on me
the roots from the trees wrapping themselves around
around and around
overtaking and consuming my inner most heart
its honest here
heartbreak was a good thing for me
so is living poor
i want to starve out in the desert
and come close to misery
i want to feel the pain of hunger in my stomach
like i feel the pain for madness in my heart
whoever's up there, if anybody at all
can you make this a little harder for me?
that's all i ask
challenge and test me to my limits
give me hell!
out of that, will develop the most beautiful things
i will ever do

Tonk, Honkey Tonk that is..

when i awoke, arm numb, needles running, from the place where she rested her head. i slowly hugged and rolled her so i could get up without disruption. i put some Lee Morgan on the player and walked out onto the balcony, the sun was starting to warm up and the concrete was still cold in the spots where the shade remained, my feet touched these spots and sent a nice refreshing chill through my blood. i was in the process of lighting my first cigarette of the day when the lizard slowly crawled across my feet. i jumped with surprise at the amount of thing ingested the night before. i poked my head through the curtain and starred down at this young frail body lying in my bed, wrapped like a mummy in a blanket, lips soft. where did we come from and how did we even make it home? i looked out across the street and saw my car parked there, with one tire on the sidewalk, and the other tire flat, my poor car propped up on there, like a handicapped prisoner. i didn't feel so well, there was a burning in my stomach, was it from the guilt? or was it the drinks? maybe a combination of both. my lips were dry and crusty and i had some buildup right around the eyes. i sat on the balcony for a very long time, with a cigarette in one hand, i thought about going inside and putting some shorts on, but i liked the way the breeze felt and the sun felt when one was naked. i could feel the ringing in my ears and i watched as the neighbor rolled out his lawnmower and began to get to work. i saw him as he took a swig from his lemonade, with his pastel shirt and casual slacks, with his fisherman hat, and his stupid sunglasses. that cocky smile creeping across his face and his stupid beady little eyes. he had the life, tha bastard, and i hate to be an ass about it, but he has his picket fence, his hot wife, and his career as an urban developer. what was i doing? fucking living! while he had to follow the same routine i could make my own up as it went. i had nothing to prove so i could just as easily be here or there, but know exactly where i am coming from. the bastard probably cries himself to sleep at night. i walked around with a cup of coffee for awhile and my hat on, mumbling to myself the poem about staying gold and the two roads that diverge in the woods; i washed my face and hands, drank down the rest of my coffee and sat at the typewriter. i switched it over to Herbie Hancock and waited for it. the feeling was there, and i sat there, arms suspended in the air, perfectly inline over the keys, waiting for it to hit me. when it finally did, i burst into it with such fury, that when i was done, i was sweating.

Cellar Door

Insert Barnacle Hangline Here: not there... actually here: or maybe to the left, of fuck just read it

i'm tired. unable to sleep- unable to comprehend just what or how is keeping my jamming my foot into the hardwood floor. i lie, lay, fade down into the floor waiting for the sleep to come and take me. it was all circular, the price i paid long ago, somewhere down that downtrodden road filled with field mice and anarchist pigs, filled with high flying low flying crop dusters, dusting us with tar and feathers to run around and try and fornicate everyone. to be be under the onside of an argument. i watched as he pointed his long bony finger out over my head and it shook, i tell you it shook man, with the cold pressing in through the walls, the old man shook at the sight of the midnight sky filled with a piece of the moon. he stirred the fire with the end of the cane and never before in my life had i wanted to kick that cane right out of his freaking weightless hand and watch him fall in, not to die, not to be burnt, but to watch the fire in his eyes as he came after me ready to teach a young man a lesson. his small clenched fist tight soaring through the air in slow motion, making contact with my temple, then blackness. the sleep engulfed me.

........Grab AHold......

often times more than not
it happens and i hear it
the sounds drop out and
the lone cars swish by
in complete silence
camera 1
camera 2
its still dead air
i peak through my blinds
at the blistering sun drenched street
i peak through my disguise
at the people staring at my insides
don't
please don't look in my soul
take my business card instead
and leave me
leave me
leave me alone

Watermelon Man Chasing the Train

"Hello Friends"
i smiled, but half awake
the first one poured
i was in there shaving
minding my own business
and suddenly the clock struck
struck what?
it just struck
eventually the owner of this small hole in the wall
walked over and we talked
"Dizzy?"
"Nah man, good but overrated, i almost wish he was never discovered"
and on, and on like this
back and forth, things are going to be tough
buckle down
eventually, it was 4 drunks, sitting round the bar
smoking cigarettes indoors, extinguishing them in shot glasses
talking about nothing
four guys immersing themselves in themselves
eventually we left
and that night will never be the same
i saw the Watermelon Man, Chasing the Train,
he was leaning over the rail, mirror in hand
flowers crumpled in his back pocket and cats crawling
all over his back
his blood red blazer, with an ascot
how distraught i was, how self inflicting his wounds were
he jumped from the train, to runaway, and to follow tracks
i'm subject to the same intoxication you are
if you're going to be flip about it, lets just hold our voice
down for a minute, don't break the bargain, don't call it off
make a run for it man, hide behind the tree,
i forgot i wasn't dressed
in the end,
we're never dressed right, we're just making bargains
and hoping we ride this out

Asi Es Guey

i frowned, looking down at my callus covered fingers, the tips so hard and nasty they made my soul puke. the trashcan next to my long corridor was overflowing with vomit and i wouldn't of noticed it if it hadn't of fallen all over my shoes. i hadn't showered in ten days and i was begging to smell like that guy. you know that guy, the guy who has come here from that faraway place, not knowing why or how but knowing damn well that he should be doing what he's doing and that makes him happy-- he jumps down off his soap box occasionally and listens to the people, like the loud tenor played over a bullhorn right into somebodies ear--- he speaks so softly into your face that his sweet breath of wine and double bacon cheeseburgers can't help but intoxicate you---
"whats the deal man? you've gotten all you want plus maybe more and you're still a whiny little bitch?"

"the deal is man, now look here see, the deal is that... quit interrupting me now, keeps your pants on, i'm trying to make a point over here... ok, now i tel you the truth, the deal is... oh shit man forget it."

and just like that Josh walked away and down the hill. the street lights reflected down his back onto the newly paved asphalt and i saw him halfway stop and reconsidered his grievances. my stomach had mad pain and i was doubled over on the park bench waiting for somebody to walk up and smack me behind the head with a tree branch and rob me for all i'm worth. i stuck my hands into my pockets and started walking home--- the wind was picking up and the ice was forming on my cheeks. i could feel the could starting to get into my bones and i looked up towards the sky for some kind of answer--- how unwise, the answers never lay there but in my head, just like before.... the liar pounced on my feet and stuck the needles straight into my tongue, for a minute i couldn't speak, but when i finally did, it was the most beautiful language ever spoken by man. it was grunts

Please Note, Demographics not Included

my lips are dry and my head is running a mile a minute, i've managed to run over the parking meter and destroy the front end of this vehicle of a death trap but i'm still running with my foot on the gas. the microphone was lowered from the ceiling and as i lay there on the carpet, i could feel the carpet beginning to suck me into the ground. i saw myself being pulled down past the hardwood floor and through levels of concrete, i saw my ankles chained down with a thousand pounds of gold plated weights and my shins were ruptured from the beating i took with large chunk of cinder block. i made an attempt to get up and i was hit in the chest by a man carrying a canister of helium and a bag of money. he poured the tar all over me, followed by the bag of money, i was tarred and cashed out. that smell, i can't get it out of my head, the black sickness seeping into my pores and i'm probably swallowing a large amount of it, i don't really know anymore. i rubbed my eyes, the blackness all dulled away and i was left with spots. i saw the other kids rubbing their eyes too. "did they see what i saw?" did they dream what i dreamed? was i riding this pretend dreamboat down a stream of piss that was going to empty into a great big giant toilet and then i would really know this is the place we call earth? or would i eventually get to where this river ended? maybe in someones colon? it was uncertain where or what or even how i got to get to a point, i did regress, and i am regressing as we speak, but even though i have no clue what year or time this is, i'm figuring this bitch out. because that's what we do, we figure shit out. it's human

Cattle Cars

i look to my left, elevator covered in fake plastic denim, i stuck my gum under the rail and prepared to head out, taking my hands and rubbing my eyes, it's like stepping into the sun out of a dark movie theater. the doors opened i heard a mad chattering the wind blowing somewhere through the forgotten cracks left in the buildings.
it was people eating people, people climbing over one another and ripping and tearing at each other, it was people laughing and having fun, it was animals; it was animals.
the dots collected and i was left holding the bag. remaining there, alone, watching the moon slide behind buildings and clouds, i exhaled and the smoke blew right into the cocktail waitresses face. she didn't mind it. she actually kinda liked it. i hear you turning over the thought in your head, like a magician turns the card, or the key in the lock and the plant in the pot. the vines grew and made their way up the building into the wind cracks and engulfed the concrete whole, they made their way towards my ankles and i could feel their slimy hands clawing at my shins and shoes, i could feel the firm grasp upon my shoulder and the thought of castrating the fucking plants that were destroying us came on my head like the commandments handed to Moses. the wind blew even harder as the heat lamps rocked back and forth. my coffee was bitter and smelled burnt, it probably sat on the burner even before i took my first sip.
i watched all of you, i could hear you all collectively screaming the same thought: "i'm getting to old for this". you spent your life running, from what you don't know and to where you sure don't know, you've spent your life replacing broken keys when the lock was the problem and you spent your life drinking hot chocolate and dreaming of some guy out of a romance novella, they put that shit in your head and now you don't know which way is sideways. it's all of a stash that you put in your mind.

when the elevator doors opened i saw humans piling out, the stomachs rumbling for a hunger that would never be excavated and a tenor playing somewhere in the back. i heard several, "moooo"s like cows being roped in for the slaughter. i was one of those cattle, i got off the cattle car, but you can't slaughter a cow who knows his place. i burped up my burnt coffee and washed it down with a cigarette,
"waiter, bring me a 7&7, light ice, heavy on the 7"
"which 7 would that be sir?"
i just starred him straight in the eye, he tried to break contact and look around, but i kept my eyes straight on the middle part of his face, and finally he walked away, when my drink was brought to me it was almost all whiskey, good man, i tipped him a dollar in quarters and moved on.
i learned how to use my resources.
when the table ordered drinks, i watched the drinks set on the table, there was always one left that nobody would touch, i drank it, ate the ice, chewed on the glass, and occasionally, poured someone else drink into it. i don't know about you, but i'm not paying $12.

its silent now. the cars have all driven themselves home, the people have all collapsed fully clothed on their beds, and i remain, burping bitter coffee and hearing keys and bells and whistles go off in my head. it's like a factory shutting down after a long day of production, the assembly line slows, the workers clock out, the janitor locks up, and then the lights go out.
tomorrow, we make soap.

The Ferris Wheel Overlooking Hastings Park,.

somethings take awhile to be done,
cake, sometimes cookies, sometimes cigarettes,
so what is there to do in the loop in between times?
like when you sit there, and you're just hanging out,
not wanting to go, but not wanting to stay, where it's just you and the brain?
do you fiddle with your phone? do you observe the others around you?
it's that idle time in between breaths that tear your heart in half
you precieve and precieve and try to make the things you want to be want to be.
look man, let me inform you of something, the rambles of a human being are like the thunderstrokes from god, they have no sense no exact meaning, they are only random acts of nature. i saw a camera shoved in each contestants face and under the pressure they cracked like an egg too long in boiling water. the piece that fits exact into this puzzle is yet to be conquered but with soon be conjured and fit like it never fit before. i took a deep look into someones eyes and i could tell they saw right through my fucking soul. they saw things i've never seen before and i'm damn sure to remember that. has that ever happened to you? i hope not. take this spell that's been down on all of us.

do you know what the punk movement was? it was all a sense of urgency to make us all feel at peace. with all that violence and fucking feeling, it was like taking a calculator and breaking it when it read error, it was like taking the light bulb and breaking it when it wasn't right. it was like taking a force field and breaking through it and can't we won't destine.

it was like the perfect harmony, played over the perfect beat, at the same time, someone was yelling and performing, not to make you like them, but to make you hate them. it was a foreclosure of the soul.

Pork is Good For Vang Vangs

endless spools of wire spand over highways and concrete walkways and brickways and every which way where it's going to be all taken over. and the dogs all walk with their leashes in their mouths across busy downtown streets with the owner behind them oblivious to traffic or any concern first me then the dog then the bank account and then the women. not any humanity brewing from the pore is the price for perfection or somewhat distraction from any desire. the building where squatter lovers lye in a bed made from newspapers and their bundles rolled under their towering leaping heads, it overtakes them and they can appreciate bread, mustard, and sometimes some ham, carbonated pineapple under their fingernails and dumpster dreams for a pizza box full of crust.
"I'm a fucking artist"
"Luco, you are just like everyone else, only you claim to be art so it can be you but you're not fooling anyone man, you're just like him her me the alien."

he was talking with fierceness in his eyes and i'll be fucking damned if i understand or care for his depression. i am what i want to be, maybe not good, but who's art is good? and what's considered good? the good ones are always the ones who don't fit a cookie cutter under the bed laid the book of art i once drew when i was drunk on a binge for 4 days shut up in my apartment, with only the pizza guy delivering and the occasional trip to the store for more rum. i spent those days with my hands glued to a paint brush and typewriter constantly and it never ever forever let me down, i felt it run down my legs and up my spine, it was foreign like just one take, but it developed into a full blown picture. the snail started the race and even though he may lose and lose his shell, he keeps going.

the spots were getting darker and beginning effect my driving, i saw a team of fish i mean a school of fishes walking downtrodden on all four like a fish out of water and a penguin waddling towards a department store. i saw the pigs stuffing their faces through the glass and the wild mass boar pigs sitting at the bar stools, consuming life at the gills and getting fat ugly ready for the slaughter that was to befall them, befall us, befall this country if something isn't dramatically changed, we're all going to die in the great VP debate of 2008 of nobody takes ahold of the situation, somebody fucking say something!.!.!. it's 1984! just like orwell said! the animals have taken over the farm and Napoleon will overrun the city. Watch out for the horses, they kick like mules.

i was digging the vibe of the beat and sat at the curb for awhile to hear this cat play his horn. straight outta a time that doesn't belong to me, but fuck you must admit it feels right to be under the cast of a spell and just roll with the note and notes and notes and the scales ride high like we're riding that snake again like it was 19 something. man oh man it was beginning to get in my chest and i was feeling warm (from the rum). my palms started sweating and my shirt was sticking to my back and i could see under the dim Christmas lights, let me remind you this is late july and this man still digging his Christmas lights under his canopy, he'll never let them go because it casts an environment for him to peak in. for him to sit in. he never checks his phone because the only person he calls on is his alter sided dumb witted side. all of a sudden, as fast as he began, he evaporates into the sundown air, taking off with the Santa Ana winds never to be seen again until they blow back down this way, fierce and warm, like the man blew on his saxophone, like the window washer doing the window, taking the squeegee and squeezing it clean, like crows squawking and pigeons crooning, not cooing, because cooing does not take talent, but crooning in a massive collection, like the screaming in someones eyes when they are filled with adrenaline, like a butler, serving his last meal.

Mistaken For an Opium Prince

When i awake it shines brightly into my eyes, the talk and mad laughter from the night before and the insanity that was passed as i stood there watching a transvestite play the keyboard and my jerky head movements back and forth, while Phil stood there, to the left, he left into a side room and returned with a feather and a wig. he placed the wig on top of my bald head and put my hat back on. now i had an itchy wig and a warm beer. as i started to clap my hands went up and the glass of beer fell to the ground making the loudest, cracking shaking sound. i seriously felt close to death. i saw it once, with his head cocked over to the side watching me and teasing me, sticking his tongue in some girls ear and laughing at me. i reached into my wallet i mean pocket to try and find some pennies to throw at him, but then i remembered i had absolutely no money, i had to go around to different public restrooms and steal rolls of toilet paper because i was running so low on cash. i had my wits about me, that was all one could have at a time like this, with death knowing and knocking on my head, with holes in my pockets and a smile on my face, i said, "come and get me you son a f a bitch, but make sure you bring the whole army with you, i'm not going down without a fight, i will tear your eyes out and piss down your mouth, you don't scare me."
the sad sorry truth was that it did scare me, we're all a little scared, admit it, i'm not scared of going, or the pain of going, i want to see it, and when you go, thats it. poof. times up.
when i'[m h ere, i want to kiss it each night and follow it into my dreams, and burn with it into the sun each morning, i want to awake with my face immersed in it and fall asleep with my arms around it, i want to breath it in with each breath and take it in with each meal, i want to be consumed by life and never. never. like a witch flying her broom at night, i won't let it take over.
prolix... who are you to conform?
i could be just sitting here with nothing, instead i'm sitting here with laughter pouring out of each pore, it's a sweet sound, my voice raising in the pitch with each grab bag full of joy and excellence, don't ever epect acceptance on any other level except for the kind you can produce on your own, it rolls out onto the hilly grass and they prick the back of your neck as you lay down under a tree shade with the sun rolling high above the ridge, the bums sit around with their long coats and every once and awhile sneak a look at the girls who bring their dogs to the park, they see those small dresses and short skirts and a mans immagination cant help but run wild over the hills with that rock my uncle once threw. way over the hills towards the ocean where the land meets the water and i walk into it, submerge my ankles in it, feel the pain and glory of it, feel the trees and seaweed of it, feel the red tide around my waist and in my lungs, swallowing gulps of water and plankton.
always remember the plankton

Smear it Out Man (a poem for the poets)

Smear it Out Man

January, cold month for all of us,
we all sat out on the porch.
our heads wrapped in thought and our mouths working
the kitchen had cooked up a mean soup
the boys were happy and my dogs didn't bark
as much.
the market was open but we couldn't go in
they didn't allow the line crossers to cross the line
our feathered hats were all we had left
that and a bowl of some mean chowder.
the wind blew across the flat land and ourselves,
we were under the mercy of the mother.
Earth had done it, we had done it, it had done it,
we were all losers, in one way or another, but then again
if we were all losers, that also means sometimes we had to win
we won whenever we were given the drink on the cuff.
or we won when we drove home, and made it each time,
we won when women were treated with desire,
but not for their beauty,
but for the intelligence and beauty of their soul.
sometimes we won and we never knew it, other times
we didn't care,
but the pest part of mostly losing, is when you win
the life taste that much better, it's like sucking air in
and having it rush to the back of your mouth and
give mad pain to your gums
so i say lets give up trying to win all the time,
and start letting the losing be what it is.
lets start with our minds?
aye!

The Pointed, Enclosed, Sheep Fucker

"Roger, that guy is going fucking nuts,"
"Nah man, you overreact, he's just doing what he does"
"yeah; and that's going fucking nuts"
i walked away after that, i walked out the door, and out onto the hot asphault. it burned my canvas shoes and the sun reflecting off of the car windows shined right into my eyes. i put my shades on and started down the street. just then i heard roger scream from the window in an English accent, "who are you to conform? ya arse!"
i flipped him the bird and continued on my way. my jab as the night deli guy had given me 3 weeks off on account of me slicing a nice portion of my thumb off at the sliver. i was only on my third day and already starting to get depressed. i lived through my work not under my own rules but through the rules governed by the horseman who came before me. the centaur who followed me home each night and sat under my window howling at the half full moon and always pissing on the same hydrant. wait till the city found out about this, " city planner of my city, where are you when i need you?"
to the Waterloo....

it was only a half beyond 12 and i had not the faintest clue of where or what i should be doing. i decided i'd walk down the street until i could find and maybe develop some kind of focus and eye that could grant me with a purpose and prose. not here man, not los angeles, where they were all out to get you. the women on 5th street, the whores smelling of semen on figueroa, the deli on fairfax, the dennys on wilshire, and the numbers often went high, the taco, a pizza joint that only enforced my eagerness to piss on whatever store front i could get await with.

my dogs were barking so i snagged a seat on the metro and dead foot and uncle feets were all there and i heard a man and women talking.
the women had a book on her lap, "Art History of Spain and Portugual".
the man was this much older cat with tats up his arms and around his neck, his hair was slick and he had on a full snake skin suite. i pitty the fool. the girl blatetnly ignored him and to disrupt and interupt i asked her,
"listen, is there anything good in that book? i'm headed out that way in January and wanted to know if there was anything worth seeing?"
she looked at me with her doe eyes, not smiling, not forwning, "No, not really"
i tried to talk to her some more, but upon further investigation i realized she was a boring shallow girl. only interested in the selft insticts that made her protect the unfar, unabridged version of herself. snake man could have her.
finally my stop rolled around and i exited like cattle just like the rest of this cattle. cattle on a rolling wheel tin can, feel sorry and unapologetic for out ant outlandish imprtance for the cut up skill. like a film high above and Apollo hanging out on his cloud looks down and laughs at the ants trembling under foot like we're building an empire, but don't you know man sheep sure enough fight amongst eachother too. it's the man with the iron pants and the skull made of leather bound text books. govenor aborne with the avon lady don't have a chance. the youth are pissed and disturbed. we all walk the same steps with our heads down all depression one another things that were taught right alongside with our nursery rhymes. at 4am the sun comes around the bend and my uncle takes a rock and pawns it out across the land and over the hill. the rock disappears over the brush to never be seen again and i sit with my head down as he takes a slug from the whiskey can, the whiskey bottle, the whiskey canteen.

the best thing for me to do was to go back to my apartment and walk around with my cold stale coffee cup and my shirt off, wearing my fedora galora and type up a letter to this girl out at Pepperdine College. she was stinking rich, her parents owned a horse stable and several mares. i wasn't much for riding but damn hell i liked to watch them run down the track. i got to the point where i could run $2 bets for 4 races and win enough to account for my enterance fee, gas, and a couple beers. so it was a way to pass time and not have to break into my now dwindling savings. it impressed me so but when the bets reached over $2 i was sure to lose, it was just Polo Apollo laughing high up on his white frothy cloud. what a champ, sitting up there with Z and all the other top shots. it was like a board meeting for AIG or Enron, they would eventually abolish themselves and outloud the bad legends. i wonder what it would be like when apollo declared bankruptcy.?

suddenly there was, this man, a brotha, wearing a tall mad hatters hat and waving a slow sign was a traffic man for the city workers, at a boy city planner, get some soul out on the concrete, the man was dancing to his own tune and was succesfully getting attention of the driveres with his mad moves. he'd take the sign and hold it with both hands and dance like a snake looking for prey. i watched him for a few and when he contended me with his eyes i shouted,
"go man go!... ride the scales!"
i continued walking on but the depression started dissapating and i felt much better, the man had taken my laugh and warped/twisted it around so i couldn't help but smile away like the priest watching the fairground and searching for souls to save. but i was just sauntering through the place, i had no place in riding the first wheel of fall or taking the bumper out for a spin, i had to make it home watching the time slip and sound slip into the behind hills where my uncle took that rock so long ago. i saw the priest walk towards me, biting his lower lip, eager to grant me serentiy and overtake the underpart of my sole. (shoe sole, not soul soul, there is a different part that rides inside, the shoe sole is much harder and has taken and can take a beating, the soul soul is only singular and can not take the amount of fornication the earth has bounced down onto our dreary little heads. its the passing of time that kills the soul soul. the sole only becomes more fierce over time and they are two but not one, so it's a gang deal more than anything, they won't evaporate. they can't be rewound so it only fades after a time. but hopefully by the time i'm good and done i can stand barefoot in front of heavens door and say,

"hey man!, my soul is hard and worn, my souls and head are under a storm, allow me into the gates back to earth, i want to be reborn and experience something worse!"


TBC