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
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
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
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
Thursday, August 20, 2009
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
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
Sunday, August 16, 2009
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
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
Friday, August 14, 2009
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
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
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
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
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
