When the Trees Bleed

walk on the beach with the crustaceans
as i crawl
and we crawl
down on the beach
when the surfers wash down their waves
and beer on the ledge
never looked so good
as when you stood
in front
of me
on my own
personal beach
damn your eyes
damn
your
eyes
i awoke
sometime around early "am"
when you pulled the blanket tight around yourself
and the heat from the fire burning off the 210
slowly dissipated
because the sun was down for so long
i watched as the sun finally came in through the window
and the early morning buses rolled by
and the leaf blowers fired up
and i stared at your beautiful body
next to mine
and i asked myself:
"how'd i get so lucky?"
it's a question without an answer
so don't try to think
because we'll break our brains
and that won't be good
all i'm saying
pretty baby
is balance
and balance
as i licked your soft skin
and you tasted of bubblicious
it was
unlike anything else
and
i undid yourself
with my teeth
pulling at the silky string
hanging from your hips
just
one
more
kiss
before
we both
simmer
and now
as you lay your head against my arm
and i drove us into space
and beyond
it was nice
it was clean
and
i know you felt it too

At the End of Pine Cones

alone
he slams on his pedal hard
alone
he laughs in the face of death
alone
he can no longer cleanse his bullshit
alone
he drips down
the pipes into the sewer
the air fills with ashes
and they land on our car
welcome to los angeles
where everything burns
and as the sun sets
and we dress up
and venture out to our make believe
story telling bullshit
that was your own fault
you knew what you knew
but deny
deep down
inside of you
the truth racks your brain
but you turn a cold shoulder
and routine follow your routine
the death of us
shall be you
for you know exactly
exactly your first thought
is what you should follow
i know
you know
but you don't want to move
so i make moves
and look like shit in others eyes
if you don't take part in the game
you can never lose
never be hurt
never be anything
except what you want to

don't
ever
be
anything
unless
you can
be
into
everything

Cold Spaghetti for Breakfast

its easy to write poetry. there's no explanation needed for any of it. people read it and hear things they want to hear, the writer doesn't have to be constant, things can move here and there. it's easy to write poetry

the power of the word is strong though. words like: marsupial, cunnilingus, apathy, senorita. these words and many other like them have a wonderful feeling when said outloud. the way the roll off your tongue. the power of the of the word is beautiful.

some writers write for other people, which is hard, and i can understand their need to push the boundaries, some writers write for fame, which is bullshit, and i hope you pig fuckers become famous and are unraveled as the frauds which everyone should see you for. but the good writer, the constant writer, the writer who doesn't feel the need to put it down, but enjoys the process of doing so, the one who can string together words with a single thought, those writers are the ones that outlast all of us. did you ever wonder if Fitzgerald knew that we'd still be reading his work long after he was dead? you know what that is? that's a legacy. that's beautiful; although Fitzgerald was a shitty person, and if i met him i'd probably punch him in the face, the prick, he had a way of using the word, arranging the word like a musician, so the story is constant, points are shown, the strings are there and all we have to do is pull them, and watch the words unravel.
hell of a writer that guy.


you're probably wondering where i'm going with all this. keep wondering, because i haven't gotten there yet.

what i do know is this:

these words feel more important than anything. i love my friends. and if you know me well enough, i often make choices that are questionable, but not morally destructive. self destructive not so much, although i do enjoy pain. so whatever.
meanwhile, lets return to the point. i love women. you are beautiful. i have some problems with you, but i rather not list them at this time. anyway, you provide me with the view sometimes needed to align my bullshit. so thank you.
you can't look in the mirror without seeing just a touch of horseshit smeared over your top lip.
it's a fact
i do it everyday.
we're all shit eaters!
the worlds going to collapse upon itself.
holy jesus!

this is phase, a time in our lives, where discovery is key, and although the media has thrown this blanket over us, telling us how we should dress, who we should date, what we should be doing with our lives, why are we here? blah blah fucking blah jerk me off. we should assemble as a people. what have we got in our mid twenties other than alcohol, one night stands, low paying jobs and a constant need to fuck everything up? nothing. we're the workforce of America, we're being trained and molded so that we can pop out some kids and keep working these low paying jobs and walking around like a bunch of jerk offs with shit smeared on our top lip.
so why all the hubbub, bub?
we don't have much except ourselves and other humans. lets enjoy this. still fight, because the world will stop spinning if we don't fight. but if a nice thing comes along in your life don't respond with, "ah fuck, that's not what i wanted.."

try more like

"ah fuck, that's beautiful"

the small victories
you hear me god!
the small good things

it's good when it's good

Shakes Oversized Stuffed Marsupial

down in there
you know you did wrong
down in here
where everything grows regardless
so close your eyes
and dream
dream of angels flying on your wings
dram of nice good time
of fairies dancing on your forehead
unraveling in your cacoon
sniffing the pixie dusted air
as you sleep until noon.
but
unless its what you want it to be
bar
makes alot more sense. than any place.
then home
feels alot like home now
disasters await me
god
forsaken i know
one sweet taste will make it alright
maybes
maybe
perhaps now
just for tonight

The Old Green Phone and God

i was 12. i had been sitting at the dinning room table, last couple days of middle school, enjoying my artificial strawberry cereal and some bagel with yogurt. i always had a thing with bagels, onion bagels, and i'd like to put strawberry yogurt on top, followed by a dab of cereal.
good shit.
my mom walked in from the kitchen, and i'll never forget the look on her face.
"your uncle died"
"eh?"
"Jerry"
"man...."

this man Jerry. Strong man, tall, athletic, hazel eyes and wavy brown hair. Handsome guy, probably made out well with the ladies, but what i remember most was his kind face. The face of a noble prince. The prince whom i remember falling asleep on our floor because too many of us damn Mexicans were living in a small house. He'd read constantly, sometimes study in the bathroom or laundry room to get away from all the noise we were creating. Every night he'd lay there on the floor, with the book open on his stomach, forearm across his eyes, book floating up and down as he breathed slowly and slept. Man never drank, never smoked, never even got angry. Just read.

At least looking back now he never drank, smoked or got angry, maybe he did, but not around me, which goes a long way when you're an adult and can keep that shit out of view from a 12 year old who watches as his parents friends get smashed and throw tequila bottles at mailboxes and give you speeches about life as you smell the stench of cheapness coming out of their mouth and ears. i actually like that stench now. i smell it on me sometimes, when i'm out all day in the hot sun, working on the car, and i come home and pour that first drink into my glass.
the sweet stench of dedication.

Anyway, my uncle eventually moved out, and i'd miss those morning where we'd wake up and make breakfast. i'd tend to make a disaster out of the kitchen, like every young punk, but he'd always be following behind me, instructing me on what my next step should be, how i should cook and clean. clean for mom, respect mom, mom works hard, harder than you'll ever know. respect women. but only those who respect themselves. honor men, men who are worth honoring, and above all else, be organized.
"organization is key mijo, si no.. te jodes" (if not.. you'll fuck yourself)
that was the seed.

I'd be playing outside and he'd ride up on his motorcycle and take me for some "kicks" as he called it. i always got a kick out of hopping on the back of his honda cruiser and holding on for dear life. this was at the time where helmets weren't necessary, at least not for a couple of young vato locos like us! we'd ride up hills and rev that puppy high, i'd hear the whining of the engine as i dug the side of my face into his back and clench my teeth. that constant feeling of anxiety and excitement as we came up on a turn and felt like we were about to fall off the bike. like death was with us, riding there, on the bike, stroking my hair and turning the gas a little higher with each rotation of the tires, with the pop of the clutch and the sweet smell of gas. pure beauty manifested.

Uncle Jerry was the first homosexual i ever encountered. I forget the name of his lover, but they eventually ended up living together. His lover, actually, lets call him "joe" because i think his name might of been jose but i'm not sure. anyway, jose was somewhat of a nerd. He read comics, watched godzilla movies, and liked to draw trees. Tall slender fellow with black hair and black eyes. his apartment was filled floor to ceiling on one side with movies, the other side with books. First movie he ever gave me to watch was "the Last Unicorn". i don't remember any of it, but i do remember the title. who forgets a title like that? not this guy.

My parents had alot of homosexual friends, and unfortunately some of them died violent deaths.

Ned was strangled to death and found laying against the foot of his bed in Tijuana, nothing in his house was taken, all the money was there, but he was gone.
killer never caught.

Bob was shot point blank in the chest at a bar. they dragged his body out onto the sidewalk and left him there to die.
killer never caught.

My Uncle Jerry didn't die a violent death. He died of AIDS. how he got it, i don't know. from who? don't know either. i do know how much i miss him. how much i missed him then and how much i miss him now.

excuse me while i pour another drink.
can't do this kind of shit sober you know. gotta have that little kick.
kick
kicks
gotta get our kicks
before we fall off the bike
you know?
right.

lets continue..

the last picture i saw of my uncle was him in a wheel chair. extremely thin, his eyes sunken in, he was staying in mexico with my grandmother. steadily declining into death.
fucking death, you dirty bastard, you caught him didn't you? all that time i thought you were riding with us for fun.. but you weren't there for the kicks, you were claiming your prize, you were there on business, i can't hate you. but i do.
fucker.

when he died i couldn't go to the funeral. somehow Mexican parents think that a funeral isn't any place for a young boy to be. i never got to say goodbye.

my dad could see it in me. the sadness clawing at my eyes, the emptiness, the lack of joy i saw in everything. the fun was over.
i was 12 and the fun was over?
what the fuck right?

enter "the phone"

my father gave me a green rotary dial phone one day.
"you can speak to Jerry on this"
even at 12. i knew this was bullshit. complete bullshit. a fucking dead green phone won't let me talk to my dead uncle who i loved probably more than myself. this man who taught me the secrets to moral life. the man who was my fathers brother.

i used the phone sometimes when i was feeling bad. i'd go out in the shack, where nobody could see me. i'd dial some fake numbers and pretend god would answer. i'd talk some major shit to god, ask him all the basic questions.... why? when's he coming back? where is he? is he there with you? let me speak to him......
god would usually connect the call for me and i'd ask jerry lots of questions. none of which he ever answered. it was just something to do when i was feeling down. something to make me remember.

that phone is sitting next to me now. i got to get those kicks in, before i fall off the bike. i'll live this one hard and fast. press my face up against the glass and smile with broken teeth. as my hair rots out and my gums begin to bleed. eventually death will be here on business. i'll be taken out into the green grass and pumped full of bird shot until i look like the inside of a watermelon. i'll be laughing the whole way through. scared as shit, but sure as shit laughing. it'll be a hot day, and my beard will be sweaty, i'll feel the grass prickling up through my Acapulco shirt and my denim jeans scratching against my old frail skin.

i know luck has me right now. i can feel her sometimes at night, when i'm driving a little too on the deep end, or laying in bed alone, i feel her next to me, she gives me that warm smile that in return puts a warm smile on my face.
luck
she has these intense eyes, and i could hear her breathing at night.
uncle jerry.
i still want some of those questions answered
"do you pee in heaven? if so... where?"
"is there any pets in heaven? do dogs go? what about bears? i don't like bears"
"do you ever get hungry?"
"whats with all the clouds?"
"if heaven is heaven why do they call it heaven?"

and so forth

if you excuse me now

i have to make a call

Ode to Krispy Kale

eyes weary, still asleep and dreary, door opens to morning fog sun
kicking concrete, converse covering my feet, we withhold our evidence for once
depth perception somewhat denied, peach stone smells of cyanide, i light the cigarette
and begin my morning routine
7/11 for my coffee, man in front purchasing cigarettes, a hot dog and a Tecate
all this at 9am in fancy Hollywood slums
setting down my drink on the counter, i notice what others should ponder, i listen to my mouth producing audible hums
the lucky ticket stares at me, i don't think twice and make my retreat, and deny my chances at making the world cum
two steps out and i realize what i missed back in the store and shout out loud,
"holy fuck"
purchase the ticket and scratch away, a row of pots, a row of shoes and a row of coins,
this man just won a whole 6 bucks!
i slap my hands together with joy, raise both fist in the air and announce to the convoy
"today.. i won"
little victory
how sweet you taste
the small ones matter
more that what the price i paid

The Dumping Ground

the days pass like bowel movements
every which way
i lay back on the motherboard
the sun cooking me
the cigarette calming me
the salt eating away
at the safety pins on our wrist
the salt rotting away
our insides
in this cease pool
knowing that
the right wave will take us back to land

we all crawled around on the ground with sad little faces on. bumping our heads into the edges of the coffee table and spilling the beer bottles over. the crap was so thick in my fur, i had to eventually get Molly to cut it out of me. the sunburn was creeping up on me, my face tighten, the redness begin to grow around my eyes. she sat across from me, with her legs crossed, moving one of them up and down, with her heel hanging on the edge of her toe.
i smiled
goofy smile
she stared at me for awhile, slowly tilting her head sideways. making the examination.

finally she left
i was left
here

Please Speak In Stereo

we must understand
that there are people who float into our lives
and it may not be the appropriate time
for us
but to shun them, to throw a cold shoulder
does us no harm
no good
no nothing
we remain the same
we must understand
that everything around us dies
everything
the animals, the humans
the objects we own don't mean shit
our lives don't mean shit
our well being means shit
this is all shit
produced in a giant warehouse
for us to feel better about ourselves
to distract us from each other and our faults
pills, booze, love
this will all end
and we don't live forever
and we sure as fuck don't love
we don't
admit it
not whole heatedly at least
we pretend to care
share small things
morsels from the feast
bones piled upon plates
toenail clippings on our floor
and dead mice in traps
but
when these moments come
and
when these people come
and especially
when these immaculate times come
we as people must harness them
and still keep in mind our tiresome mission
but remain true to our inner beings
if a girl is kind enough to kiss me
i'll kiss her back
but it won't end there
for as much as i enjoy sex
the intimacy is worth more in gold
the shining of her hair
all of it
beautiful beings around us

with every rising of the sun
with every opportunity
i will take it
appreciate it
do right by it and her
if i leave
it's not because i don't care
not because i'm an asshole
because that i'm not
that i know
this world
full of douche bags
full of men who only use
move on
use more
move on
use and use and devour like pigs
men who can never be men
but only lambs at the slaughter
but
if i leave
it's because you took to long to grasp the moment
and it passed
it's hard to recreate those things
they are not planned
not holy
not anything
merely ticks on the clock
we could very well die now
as i write this
i could choke
suffocate
and die
my last thoughts would be not what i wanted to do
but embracing those i did
and hoping the ones i didn't
get hit
hard
in the face
in the mouth
with the brick of truth
so
so
so
don't think too much
don't read too much into those scenarios
take them, see them,
don't expect them
if it's good
more will come
and i know they will
my time isn't up yet
neither is yours
so play it hard
and close to your vest
it's all we got

These Fucking Dogs Won't Quit

the same mouth and eyes
working, figuring, twitching and moving
changing out one mask for another
souls
beneath brush
underlying symbolism for one
defiance for another
brutality and disillusioned
love
and yet,
here we are again
working. the puncher of clocks
the brick of truth
shall strike again
Dominance, fear and persuasion
repulsion
as your curl up and slide to the end
of the
bed
it all goes down
killing our bodies to support this dying system
which will not breed without an extra organ
without an extra smile
or heart
and the system dies
so we die
but to live
possessions
don't hold moments
like when you are
taking a step back
to view infinite space
and just exactly how little we mean
relatively
and yet
here we are again
choices for the wise and good of heart
suicide is way too much work
apathy is hopeless
cope - and do what it takes to keep your heart in tact
you only get one
exercise it the best you can
to find rhythm
to smell
to feel soft skin running over ribcage
to grip hips
to dance together in the living room
like a couple of fools....

i
we.
us.

and yet
here we are
kicking and screaming
clawing our way to the top of this make believe
horror we call home
either take your own life
or smile at what you can
and laugh at what it can't
and cry when you need
but most important
remember
here
we
are
alone

I Must See a Man About a Boat

as i stepped out of the bar, into the dividing sunlight, i clenched my eyes closed, waiting for those little road maps to appear, when you rub your eyes into their sockets extra hard and your temple hardens. reaching into my pocket and fishing for the lighter i pulled a cigarette.. lighting it backwards, i knew for damn sure driving or even walking was out of the question at this point. stumbling down hill on an upward slop i took a piece of my being and rested it upon the beer stained shirt i was wearing... taking a stop dash dash Morse code stop from the phone line i dabbled in nonexistence for awhile. walking around holding my gut, like the man before me. i thought about all of this not all at once but a piece. this piece, this place right now.. having things constantly dissipating into the atmosphere.. being here only if it felt like it belonged or it adhered to my soul, as if the continuation of something this solid could not be for a limited time only we dance with our fist in the air, sooner or later our arms become tired and we get real jobs, with ties and tucked in shirts, real jobs where we must be professional and speak with posh, defined by our worst days and ignored on our victories, defeated constantly to be kept underfoot. rules are bullshit made up to scare you. if a man becomes to brave his pride cometh before the fall.. but if a man cannot stand on his proper foot, he will be taken aside and shot like cattle, devoured and reimbursed into feed and shown the good time that no one understands.

i breathed hard
i panted deep
i held the wall
to forgive me
i am merely a being
beating on this earth
we are nothing here
no one understands that
this structure is built in order for you to lose
the greedy profit
the good die young
the anarchist live alone
and the social order must be passed on
how is it
that a man can find something solid
beyond himself
if everything here
has no worth?
smile
it's all we got
love
and fuck like it's your last
look into their eyes like it's your last
drink like it's your last
and kiss her like it's the last
make love to her
like it'll never be this way again
like if you stepped out that door
you'd be hit by a truck
the last thing you want on your mind is...
"i should of...."
give
like no tomorrow
and realize
good
bad
it's all how you look at it

There's a Beauty in this Room

Tomorrow died already
so did the day after and before that
time slips like roachs in this hotel room
and time slips like memories i can't stand...
broken windows and torn screens
the flies come in and muse on me
these words
are the only thing driving a man from madness
i hope nobody ever likes them
i hope you all think i suck
because the more you hate me
the more you despise what i do
the more you think i'm a bad man
i know me for sure
i have this good heart beating in my chest
this good heart that doesn't let me think
but make rash decisions at point
i am weird
and i am conflicted
and i am a hypocritical
but everyone is
may all the fairies dance
upon my head while i sleep
and may you show up one day
at work
at my home
at my bedroom window
and surprise me
may you breath upon my neck
and rub your lips against my cheek
hold me tight
it's the only good thing that won't spoil
for as much torment in this mans soul
i won't ever do wrong to anyone who doesn't deserve
to be
urinated upon.

My Scotch Soaked Soul is Damn Near Honest

merely a man
living somewhat out of context
but living nonetheless
wiping the sweat of my palm
on the back of my pants
and evaporating those tears
with my handkerchief
this city will eat you alive
it's true
constantly feeling preyed upon
vultures in the dysert
priest in their tombs
this life
this life
it's all about timing
the right time to sigh
the right time to breath
the right time to run your hands through her hair
and the right time to leave
the time to show up
and the time to hold back
i want to kiss you tonight
but i know that i cant
and yes it's true
rhyming poetry sucks
you read this now
and think, "who the fuck is this schmuck"
you see what i did?
i am aware
i fit into this mold sometimes
like an ass into the perfect cross breeze chair
lets get down to brass tacks....
this life
this life
i want it to get worse
i want my bad days to turn into horror
to scare me and bring fear
to make me want to curl into a ball and stress the fuck out
but
alas
in those times
true beauty will arise
because out of horror
develops chances
a chance to be
and a chance to love
a chance to be prolific
and not dispose of my words
upon this computer
hollow and dead
this computer that has no emotion
no natural ability for anything
other than to follow my way
one time
i will have you
and remember that forever
i look forward to it
but don't expect it to ever happen
it will if it does
until then,
i'm the guy with his hands in his pockets
sucking on his beer
knowing you want me
knowing you need me
knowing exactly whats going on
but just waiting
for the
time
in this life
in this life