E&F

there are some things you gotta be okay with.
there are a lot of things that you don't have to be okay with
and you can change those
those willing to be changed.
its not easy to be okay when you've believed their own lie
or vice versa.
move somewhere quiet
no traffic car fumes gasoline alley horns construction hipsters or
cops
maybe park rangers
but no cops.
is that what happens over time?
you become whittled down
into this nub of a human
a stub of compromises and validation?
or maybe your beliefs aren't in line with the world around you
your morals may be different
and you fit nowhere
because you don't like the way it fits.
the man is a creature of habits
consistency
ride the wave to the shores of a soft sandy beach
and lay down
face first
as the warm sand sticks to your face
and you want to be swallowed by it entirely.
some people never even get a chance to stand up on the board.
or paddled out.
some are still waiting for their wave.
and some,
i feel
like me
are just trying to keep from falling in the water
and be ripped to shreds
by the shark humans.

Either Way

Doesn't matter what you meant.
or how well you handled the situation
in your
head.
The fact of the matter is that even if you're right.
you're not.
because you're right isn't the same as their right.
and we overlook that.

I Want, to be, a Jedi (vandals)

      The house had a bald tree in the front yard. It was May, that strange time between seasons where it can rain 4 days straight, be hot in the day and windy goosebumps in the evening. It was that mid-time then, when the last crust of the sun was shooting rays faintly over the hills and the moms were rounding up their kids at the park. Helping them get sand out of their shoes and climb the tall deep stairs up to street parking level. The park sat at a slope, and at the top of the slope was this wide road, where cars roared down back and forth parallel to main street Figueroa. The houses across the road had witness several people get run down by these cars. The people in these houses had put up signs every few feet or so. These big poster board jobs with dripping spray paint tapped to telephone polls reading, "Slow the fuck down!". Laughing to myself, i thought of curse words being seen every few feet by small children, and then realized, it was always this kind of neighborhood, and that's why i liked it here.

       Oh, that's right, the bald tree. It was a small house. A decent house. Everyone always describes their house as being a modest home. That's bullshit, you don't have a modest  home. People can be modest. But homes? nah, save me the time. You know why a home can't be modest? - Every home is a modest home in relation to the block it's on. Ever seen a mansion next to a 800 square foot shack? Nope. So in relation to the other houses which are built to fit it's block, which is why it's called a neighborhood, they aren't even the least bit modest. They're decent. Decent is like eating a nicely put together sandwich. You don't hate it, and you aren't in love with it, you wouldn't shoot someone for a bite of that sandwich, and you're pretty sure the guy next to you has the same ingredients you're having, that leaves it to decent. 

       I can't tell you the color off bat, lets say it's that nice earth tone. They had a modest lawn. (heh). With the roots from bald tree creeping up and mounding the earth in some spots. The porch was a wrap around, with this long 6 seat cushion couch that you eventually soaked into when you sat down. You felt yourself being sucked into this giant void of pillows as you starred ahead at the bamboo privacy screen covered with black plastic. The trick was to try and make out designs and faces in the black plastic. At times i saw a totem pole with different faces. Some Aztec like, made me think of Montezuma. As you went further and further around the porch, less sunlight became visible, and it went from being mid-time to a warm night, despite the breeze. The drastic lighting change and warm corner nuzzled like atmosphere of the porch to front door end made you feel like you were walking into a cave. I removed my boots at the door and stepped through the blanket that was hanging between the screen door and it. 

      It was cool inside (like a cave) but warm and damp. The air was heavier in here, more viscous, I could feel it in my lungs, it was like breathing in butter. Rich. Yeah, that's the word i'm looking for, it was rich in there. I stood with my hands in my pockets for awhile just standing there breathing, soaking in atmosphere. Basking like a lizard in Death Valley. Or like Han Solo before they freeze him in carbonite. You remember that scene right? The air was thick in there too, the lights coming up through the grates reminded you of sun blasting through venetian blinds. Slits of light, heavy on the air. Enough about the air.

       I sat on the couch and laid my head back. It had been a hell of a day. Lots of things seen that made me feel not normal. Like putting on a new pair of jeans. It was foreign to me. The ceiling was covered in Star Wars memorabilia. I'm talking statues, plastic action figures, comic books in original plastic sleeves, Tie Fighters and Millennium Falcon strung on fishing wire in mid battle scene with the Death Star looming behind it all. 

"Holy Shit!", I thought to myself. or so I thought. I had actually said it out loud. I then had to flood into conversation about how all this looked. Just the shear amount of items strung, taped, and rigged up made my eyes wide. We talked then, about the movies, and the characters, our favorites and the ones we would fight hand to hand if they really ever existed. We talked about Darths and Jedi's, we wookie called, and made light saber sounds. All of us grown men. And not ashamed in the least bit. We were nerding out.

      I got up and lit a cigarette, stood by the door, hands in pocket again. Head tilted up chewing it over in my mind. I thought about Jedi's. I thought about Obi Wan. And in life there really isn't ever one Obi Wan. Our lives are flooded with several Obi Wans. We're all Jedi's, learning from different Jedi's and no Jedi Master seems to be apparent or visible. The voice in our head is made up of advice passed on from different friends and family members. Maybe something you hear in a song, or on the television. Life has it's influence on us, and we can pick and choose what we think is right, what we think is our Jedi way, and the line between light and dark is very thin, the more we press towards the dark side, the harder it is to come back over. Some people can ride that thin line and never topple over to one side or the other, some spend their lives trying to make it over, only to realize they want to come back, only to then realize that the way back is twice as hard as the way over was, so they just say fuck it and move further in towards madness. 

      I want to be a Jedi. And I want to help other Jedi's when they need it. The force is making the right moves. Be it whichever way balances out your selfless needs. At this time, I felt that I was in a room with other Jedi's who were willing to hear me out and help me if need be. I wanted to return those good vibes, but did not know how at the time. All I could do was wait, and enjoy our time together. So I did.

the Glass/ Wooden Door

in life you get 2 doors
the wood door and the glass door.
wood door you can't see through
so whatever is happening on that side,
nobody on the outside knows.
there's a bit of mystery behind the wooden door
a bit of suspense
like a long pair of running
ladies legs
mystery to whats under the skirt
when we all know whats under there
just another cunt hiding
like the cunt of your wife
the cunt of your lady
or the cunt of your girlfriend
no surprise.
but suspense builds nonetheless
and every inch
is a mystery
wrapped in a dense
cloth.
but we still suspend
in that small moment
as she walks out the door
and the sunlight hits that lower body
in such a way
that it makes your imagination
run wild
wild over so many hills.
the glass door is no mystery.
the glass door lets you see what they are doing.
all secrets are revealed,
there's not sense of discovery
no
non
fiction
it's all out there
swinging in the open
like a mans balls swinging
in the winter winds.
theres a difference there
to where the women with short,
see through skirts,
and the women
with knee high
dense
cloth.
i dig the suspense.
i dig the build up
i dig the wanting.
that's what makes life worth living.
seeing just  a bit
of a whole piece
that makes you wonder
when you really know what is
up there.
you look up a leg
and end at the same place.
it's food.
it's mystery.
it's playing clue.
you know.
but you still are along for the ride
still along for the long pulling sensation
that drives a man wild
and makes him want to maul you
to the bone.
and that's what makes life worth living
is what you don't see.
the piece that ain't there
the infatuation.
wishing
that
that one
would sit on your face
and imagining the moans
the griding of her
private parts
in your face.
her naked body
walking slowly
from the bed
into the bathroom doorway.
a small piece of living
breathing art
that nobody but
you
can understand.
her
walking softy
hearing the floor creaking
with your eyes closed.
and you
imagining
what that all looks like.
the all,
encompassing
power
of
his brain
of you.

Scream Piggy Scream

when the doors are all locked and the only audible sounds

are the train horn rolling off the hills

and the old dude next door

sneezing and hacking in deaths face.

when the eyes have become clouded

from  reading in bad light in a dim room

with an even dimmer man

at the helm.

breathing

slowly.

as the days roll forward and blend into

nights

damn well bleed into nights

everything is a smear

one giant

ugly

fucking

smear.

as you stare into the ceiling

wishing for something to happen

something

anything

some kind of madness

some kind of chaos

a sign that life didn't give up on you

that you've still got a little fight in you

dim flames burning behind those eyes

you can almost hear your brain liquefying

jelly for toast

the hum of machines and orchestra playing

as you defend your life.

all the while, with everyone's knees on your chest.

Get me  out of here.

I need to get out of this room. Hey! You there!

don't crowd me people!

please

step back

step away

give this man some air

he has a heart condition!

Yeah! I have  fucking heart condition!

fan him with your newspaper sir. does anybody know a doctor?

I'm a doctor! Help him doctor!

Son,

Yeah doc. Tell me I'm gonna be alright. Say it's all gravy doc.

You're fine.

shit.

As the tv shows all turn into tv ads and late night

schemes

the movie channels flicker on that soft core porn

some woman boobage

but not enough to get a mans blood going

the starring contest continues between you

and that immovable wall.

Finally,

you cannot box yourself in.

If she wants to come in

she will

But one must be a proper host

or

in a second

without notice

it'll be you and that fucking wall again

starring off into nothingness.

Type Monkey Type

the bottom fell out from under
the crutch
and as the paint falls away from the walls
in sheets
small crumpled bubbles
aren't any different
from here
or there
you
or i.
locking the door to this ice box of a room
and pouring into pages and pages upon pages
books have a way of making sense.
linear thought
a complete
thought
a comforting
thought.

heat rises in the throat with nervous tension

things appearing in corners where they shouldn't be

and noises coming from where they shouldn't  be.

anything

but carpet

lint

and toenail clippings.
some men make bad choices

and by the time they're 50
theres nothing left for them
but a cigarette burning it's last glint
of hope
on an empty workbench
in a garage with broken windows
and cold, hard, concrete floor
in a suburban sprawl of hell.
some men fight to carve out a piece of their own
life
or the illusion of that in itself.
the men all die
and the women all die also.
the birds who shit on your car die
the debt collectors die
the producers of shitty movies die
the restauraters, yelpers, and foodies
yes
they must die too
and my faults
are faults
with no fault
but my own
and i will work at them
until
i
die.
it's hard to relax when you're dreaming big
and have the strength
to try
and hopefully go all the way.
or at least part of the way,
falling short
is not a bad thing
if you're reaching high.
thats all one has
to keep one sane
in ones own fucked up way

One for the Greats Playing With Themselves Around that Blazing Fire-pit in the Sky.

Carlin's gone
and that's enough to make a smart man
sob
so is Chandler and Hammet
who make modern writers
seem like a skid mark
in a bums shorts
we've got to look out for Bryan Ferry
and not let him check out too soon.
Bukowski's time was up
he was living on borrowed time anyway
so not like nobody didn't see that one coming.
pffttt.
Thompson shot himself in the head.
Or maybe it was the CIA?
Nahhhh.....
He put a bullet in there
and who can blame him?
Have any of us taken a good look around lately?
It's not a far off thought.
Thompson and Hemingway may have been onto something there.
the word Suicide has a nice ring to it doesn't it?
But you have to be checked out
in order to check out
and walk into the great river
like
Jeff Buckley
"and i feel them drown my name 
so easy to know and forget with this kiss
i'm not afraid to go but it goes so slow "

written so well

it's almost sad

to listen and read

at the same time.

Buckley and Elliott Smith
running in the same vein
playing with themselves
around that blazing
fire-pit
in
the sky.
Something about
something around the house
that makes me want to posses
to learn to live
and brain art
like those men.
it' ain't easy
but nothing ever is.

Champ.

your phone stops ringing and the rain starts in,
you smile at the dead phone now
the dead phone line.
the rain starts in,
and then the people start in
and everything seems like it starts to start in
to try and kill you.
You know the problem with writing?
it seems almost impassible to write about something
other than yourself
and how you feel
or perceive all this shit
it's selfish
writing it is
to be I I I and I about all this.
But in doing that
someone feels that
and they feel more at home
knowing that they're not fighting this
ah
aha
on their own.
sometimes i read other writers
and want to yell out
to throw the book into my toilet
and spew morning shit on it
but then i realize
some people like this
and maybe i don't.
just like some people can sit here
and read this
and some will eventually shit
on these virtual pages.
hey man,
that's cool.
i can dig that kind of dissatisfaction.
writings a bitch
and i mean like true
honest
reality writing.
heartfelt writing.
i haven't had anything good lately
it's all been pretty safe
they're drawing me back from the edge
and comfort
overtakes madness.
i didn't have that much madness to begin with
but at least there was a bit
to enjoy.
how am i suppose to indulge now?
other than indulge myself?
i guess there's the rub.
trying to come up with something beyond
my own bullshit.
but aren't we all?
neh.
i don't think so.
guilty

D squared

When the drinks are done, the dames are one, and you're still a perverted little deviant bastard.        

      Slowly it crept up on me, like a spider stalking a fly, i am not aware of the precise moment when it ran up my spine and into the rear head nucleus but nonetheless it did. It was a slow ride, not an instant change, but a change over many days and countless hours, it came upon me like a bad drug cocktail, the wickedness was extreme. I came to a point, as i starred off of the dinner table and into the china cabinet behind so and so's head that i found what it was. What happens when you run out of bad women to write about? Or when your sexual misadventures are no longer adventures but journeys into ones dedicated vaginal canal? Whoa is me, or is it? What does an ugly write about when he's run out of ugly? It doesn't strike me like the kind of person to write about puppy dogs and unicorns. Or how the sun is a beautiful being and the gods are here to protect us. When you spend a chunk of your life written about your dissatisfaction with humanity and humans alike, you block yourself into those brackets. And what hell-bound brackets those are. At this time, life seems to be on an up swing, and i know damn well it'll reach a downswing, and that won't happen gradually as this upswing happened, but it'll be more like a snowball rolling down the snowy hill on that snowy day at 100mph. Fucking speed demon.  As for this upswing, like i said, it came on like a bad drug cocktail and in a seemingly wicked way at the time.
      Maybe this is all apart of growing up? Realizing that the world is a fucked place, no matter which way you turn it, but there's something here to get out of it. Optimism is for brainless drones, and being pessimistic is simply put being a sissy. We dismiss what we don't like out of some stupid selfish desire to not step outside of our bubble. You won't catch me dead in a Hollywood bar or at a Jason Mraz concert, because those things don't appeal to me. Comfort and beauty lay together in a small bar with a couple of seemingly human beings who have something to contribute to a conversation other than Jersey Shore updates and an onslaught of useless causes and nonprofits as they drink their $12 red bull and vodka while simultaneousnessly twittering and facebooking their awareness to the preservation of unicorns in Saudi Arabia and checking in on foursquare. Does this really sound like something i want to be apart of? Yeah, didn't think so, but if i had to be there, well, there's got to be a way to make this work, and i can't hate those people for doing what they do, they're doing what they think is right, and maybe it is wrong? Who the fuck am i to tell them how to be? Can't change the world and can't change the people in it, but you can manage yourself, and isn't that what really matters anyway?
      It sucks to not be angry anymore, i always felt that letting go of that anger would deprive me of ideas in use for writing. I was scared. I feared happiness would be the downfall to passion. These weeks have been a lull, but i'll tell you what, damn i'm feeling good on the inside, better than i've felt in the last 3 years of my life. Clarity is no longer a rarity at this point. Now it's no longer about searching, but maintaining. I feel old and settled.
      Self indulgent writing (such as this) isn't done on my part for an applause or comment. I know i'm not the only person here who has too also felt this way. I write for me, and i write for that poor schmuck out there holed up in a shitty hotel room eating crackers and watching the lead based paint peel off the walls. If he can read this and feel better about himself than i've done something with my life. I actually hope he reads this and says, "this guy sucks, i can write better than him."
and i hope he does. Let me know where you're at man and i'll send you some 8 1/2 x 11, a stack of envelopes, some pencils and a razor blade to cut your coke and sharpen the lead with.
      Some people come into your life, and some fall out. Those who fall out don't fall out forever, they'll be back around, sooner or later they've got to come pick up the shit they left at your house. Those who come in are harder to manage, because at first you want to push them away and out of your box. They don't deserve to be in your box, you built this fucking box, it's your box, box for you, need i say it again? Yes. it's your goddamn box that you built. But hey man, maybe that box you're in is starting to crinkle and split at the seams, maybe it smells like urine and puke? If they're willing to come in, than maybe you should. If they take a look around and leave, well, no harm no foul. But if they come in and sit down, don't comment on the stench and condition, and pull a loaf of bread out of their coat, then you can't turn away that kind of goodness. It's easy to think all people are shit (because most of them are) but in grouping the wicked, there will be some strays. Those strays are where it's at, they got fucking soul man, the right kind of vibe. Surround yourself with real, honest, good people who have their own opinions and that's the kind of party you want in your box. Then tomorrow, you can visit their box, and share that moldy piece of cheese you've been hording, you fucking rat.