Monday, July 26, 2010

Der 12. November ist der 316. Tag des Gregorianischen Kalenders (der 317. in Schaltjahren), somit bleiben 49 Tage bis zum Jahresende.

She had a face like a broken toy. Worked over. Abused. Intentionally. “Cosmetically”. It gets hard to believe she actually paid for that shit to be done to her. Or had some man pay. Promised Elysian Fields of youth and beauty and given this monstrosity. Live with this, dearie, cause there ain’t no going back now.

[There’s something happening here, but you don’t know what it is. Do you, Mr. Jones?]

In dim lighting, everything is a lie. A pen, to a wall, in an instant. I was younger then. A brief instant. A red sharpie and a subway wall. I had no poems. Just a bellyful of wine, an idiot’s grin, a woman’s inexplicable love. I was truly in the moment. I drew. I scrawled. I laughed and spewed nonsense. It was glory. It was nothing. It was a moment lost in the millions. Scrubbed from the walls by baffled city workers later come Monday, but it was there. It lived. And perhaps, for a moment, I was free.

Welcome to Buxom Blueberry, population: 17.3

[Time to face the strange. ch-ch-ch-changes.]

Like bobcats. Like chained bobcats wrestling with a bowl of rabid tuna fish. Grits. Mayonnaise. And a worn copy of Candide oder der Optimismus.

- Just say you were smoking.

- I don’t smoke.

- Fine, just say you went to the woods to take a leak because you don't trust technology. Just make damn sure you don’t mention you actually went inside.

- …

- Willards, I was just here looking for you. Where were you?

- I was smoking.

- Oh. Very good. Carry on then, boys.

[debts that no honest man can pay]


When John Dillinger died, his last thought was of the Pope’s phone number. Not that he realized it. Or it’s importance. // Years later, a child was born with a curiously shaped birthmark: a Thompson machine gun. He was blessed twice with Holy Water before being given over the Church. Next Generation Six-Gun Holy Roller. // These colors run any way they choose.


- It begins with a warm glow. A warm glow and a sickly pallor. From the outside you will look like you are in the worst of fevered dreams. Ranting, raving. They won’t trust you. They probably won’t believe you. If this is all to give you a chance to convince someone of something, this isn’t your poison.

- That’s not what this is.

- Ok. Like I said: you are going to look terrible: sweats, fevers, maybe some shakes. You prone to jitters? If you are, you’ll likely have them. Just the way of it. You’ll have to deal. But terrible as you look, you will feel amazing. Lucid. And I mean lucid. You have never been so awake, so aware. I’m sure you’ve done a lot of drugs, mind-expanding shit. Yeah, well, you have no idea what’s in store for you. You have no idea what your mind really is capable of. It truly is amazing. You will be clear of mind and body and purpose in the way that only the most trained and advanced monks and yogis are. You will understand.

- That’s what I’m looking for. How much?

- You do realize, don’t you, that you only have 36 hours? This isn’t something for nothing kid. This is the old magick, these are the laws of nature. There’s no bargaining, no second chances, no backsies. 36 hours. And then you die.

- Yeah. I know. I get it. I have to finish the book. How much?

- $2,750.


Après moi le déluge

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

They call it the High Life: the Champagne of Middle Roads

It’s that part in the movie where the curtain drops and Mel Gibson walks out and sits down on a stool salvaged from a 15th cent. clipper ship. Mel Brooks follows him on and begins giving him a neck massage, a shoulder massage, whispering sweet Hebraic nothings into his ear, clearing his throat, remembering his gorilla mask, a mask from childhood, perhaps, his or another's, remembering his pot roast, this or another. There is a lizard sitting near by, lounging, talking like Sam Spade on a bender, drinking gin and preying on dames. A smoke machine turns on. Then off. Then on again, only this time in purple. The crowd slowly dissipates. Credits. An easter egg teaser. Funny. I get up. A ghost in the machine.


You work all day, clouded in the unreliability of the times, the changing nature of a desperate age growing desperate, growing sad and you think, hmm. I think, hmm. I'm getting paid, I'm doing a good job. It's hard to find good help these days. Etc. &c.

I want to get back into painting. I miss playing my bass. In fact, I think I'll go get that out now.

Do you remember Steve Guttenberg from Police Academy? Yeah, that was funny. I like things sometimes. I've thought about becoming an officer of the law. From time to time. I always think better of it. I think I'll go pick up that bass now.

Monday, July 5, 2010

it would seem that I have become ... Management

Facts. Yes, there are those.

It was a PBR (A 16oz can 4 pack) kind of night. A night born to irony and self-deprecation. I would go on, but I won't.

Work is what it is. I'm watching the first episode of the X-Files. Because it's apparently important to my generation. If amazingly heavy handed and patently absurd.

Perhaps, then, I just want to look into the wilderness and babble like a deranged fool. Like a man who has stared into the sun during an eclipse. Greater is no man that this: that he might sleep for 15 hours and then wake, refreshed, and drink a keg or so of beer. It is a question of time. A question of.

District 9 is an awesome movie. Girl With the Dragon Tattoo is a good but severely overrated book. The Book of God and Physics seemed a similarly good foreign novel with depth and intrigue. It is, however, terrible. You probably shouldn't read it.

The Bourdain books though, you should read. They are good. Kitchen Confidential is more consistent, but given the circumstances of the writing, not terribly surprising. Esp. vis a vis the food. Which is an important thing. A very important thing.

Wow. X-Files really is absurd. If only I were more credulous. If only I had started watching at the beginning and could have ignored the first few terrible episodes in order to get to that amazing episode mid season two that changed everything. You know, like Buffy (or so they say). I guess you had to be there. Maybe this is the way that people who missed out on LOST feel. Seems plausible. More plausible than this show about "aliens". Whatever. It might be a while before I take the time to watch episode two.


There is a quietus. There is a risk. There is a magnifying glass placed near to the sun, an anthill, and an eternal flame. There is a question written in spray paint upon a public bench at a children's playground, it is non-specific: are you done yet?