POEMS & SHORTS

SHORTS:
Bank Line
Callback
The Demon
Grape Class 2
Homesick
Hydrogenated Oil
Jealous
Me and Kubrick, Sure
Teenage Tits

POEMS:
Key West '74
Percocet
Some Poem
Stupid Fuck
Veronica

SOME JOURNALS:
November 16, 2009
November 17, 2009
November 18, 2009
November 19, 2009
November 20, 2009
November 21, 2009
November 22, 2009
November 23, 2009
November 24, 2009
November 25, 2009
November 26, 2009
November 27, 2009
November 28, 2009
November 29, 2009
November 30, 2009
December 1, 2009
December 2, 2009

November 30, 2009

I hate myself for looking at TMZ. Intrusive gossip news flashes online. It feels like filmy grim in my soul almost the same as porn. I feel the puke rise in my throat as I oogle my google about the unfortunate circumstances of some celebrity caught in some flawed moment, usually involving, drink, drugs , sex or the occasional petty crime. Anyway, I look. Why? Because I am bored or better yet escaping my prolonged involuntary sabbatical from writing. I AM STILL IN THE SHIT! Writing dribble (which has to be my title I have used the word so often.) It is the Monday after Thanksgiving holidays, which I wrote the bare minimun of daily journals just to have the dates down at least and here I am back tapping on the keys and not really caring whether I do or I don’t as I have NOTHING TO SAY! Booboobabapittyptiitypoo. That’s me in a nutshell and if I could actually get into a nutshell…well, maybe not.

Got the classical music on this morning to mask the humming of the landord on the phone downstairs. I am not very familiar with classical composers or songs as I am with jazz…but geeze, I can jump right to my Itunes to find out this one. This is Brahms playing. ‘1st Movement Allegro Ma No Troppo’. Gawd, what a researcher I am. It is quite dramatic with a lot of flutes and wind instruments like, Oboes or something. Okay, I do know Motzart…wait, did I already…fuck…yes…I am a redundant son of a bitch. Good thing for scrolling down the, Edit, to, Find on my ole Microsoft word program and finding my frustrated , clipped explanation of not knowing classical composers and my mention of Motzart back on page 9. And the mention of Microsoft itself. Wow, searching for words. What is happening? Holding off calling my lawyer again to find out some info on my book. Holding off calling or emailing the fucking publisher who did a shite job of promoting it in the UK besides not sending me any royalties , no matter how small. Holding off emailing some financier again to find out if she is interested in the script version of the book. Holding off searching for an agent or publisher to look at my other book because my confidence (say it, confidence) has been shaken by the results of the first one. Who is going to adulate me…okay not even adulate…just compliment and…(see, can’t find the words, the positive reinforcing words I need…wait, here is one… inspire… me to write another book? Did I use redundant before? Ha. Ha, hardy, haha. Hardy, hard-on of a life I chose. Chose. You mean I get to?

It is very windy today. The gusts are up to 45 knots at the ocean. This is a Santa Ana day as the temperature outside is 80 degrees at 12:14 pm. Numbers. Time. Control. Safety. Purpose and sense of well, being. And after I know the wind, the temperature and the time of day, then what? Can I describe the sun on the deck another way? Can I describe the leaves rustling…and as I look out at the…wait, this classical station sucks now….and as I wait to change the station and get the re-buffering, I can hear the landlord on the phone, still after two friggin’ hours. Mumurmumurmumurmumur…..shaddup! Will ya! And that is how my wife comes home to find out we have been asked to leave. So, now, back to the leaves in the wind and the shadows each tree casts on eachother (why the fuck can’t that be one word, we all spell it that way) from their adjoining branches. I see some leaves dancing now, just dancing on the branch, fluttering, almost looking as if they could fly away if they weren’t attached. Swaying. What a good word for the branches. Green, blue, yellow, brown: colors I immediately see at a glance as I look out the window, and yes, all lit up by the midday sun. Got Hallelujah playing on the radio now by the Robert Shaw chorale and orchestra…and the leaves seem to be singing along as they have a good wind for it…in my mind anyway. And the song and the sun crescendos with the wind and the nature and the feeling of GOD, comes upon us all in one moment…in my mind anyway. Gonna go do a chore and come back.

And…I’m back. Big deal, right? Know what I mean? Big fucking deal that I’m back. Back from what? War? Holy shit, give me a break. I mean really. I mean real. I mean. I. Yes, that;s what I’m left with at the end of the day and sometimes the end is not even half way through, sometimes the end is eternal, sometimes the end is…fuck, I’m trying to write this and search for an almond I dropped on the floor at the same time. The goddamn almond! Made me loose my flow. “Absurd, I am…” said the little almond or me, which ever may be the case. And now I take a sip of tea, some infused Chai, which is quite good. It has a clear amber green look to it, sitting there in the cup, steaming into the air, beckoning me to take another sip…and I do. I don’t usually like infused teas with all the herbs and flowers and shit they add to them…but this one is quite nice…or quite and nice as it is not a loud tasting tea. Very subltle (damnit, always spell that wrong even if I spell it right in my head, even if I know the spelling, even if when I tap the keys I know how it is spelled. Subtle. There. Take your time, take it easy, take care, specific care in your words and the spelling thereof. And not wreaking of perfumed scents. Just lost forty minutes, reading internet news and gossip crap about celebrities. I mean, didn’t I say that made me feel ill? Distraction from writing at any cost, that is the story, my story, the real story. God all mighty, the pain is excruciation, writing through this with, “fuck it, fuck it all…” ringing through my ears. And it is 3:57 pm with the sun starting to go down again…and where can I find not my story but a story? I pray for a story to come. This is a story of…? Soft organ playing on the jazz station reminds me of an indoor skating rink I used to go to as a kid. They used to play organ music as we skated around like little mad demons, chasing each other, pushing, tripping and slapping down on the ice, sometimes face first. I used to love getting chased by my older brother and his friends with my adrenaline pumping, full of excited fear. That is the thrill, isn’t it, no matter how you get it? The pumping excitement of the adrenalin flow. And after that instant of nostalgia, I am immediately bored again with this, with these, with these words that…yes, one more time, dribble out of me. Maybe a porn site will excite me up and get the blood pumping. Why? Talk about boring…but the trap is there and once you go, the trap is set. So silly, all of it…really. What else can this organ bring me? Oh, I get it…organ…to nostalgic excitement…to…to…to trying to take up space on this freaking page. And after you cum…then what? It is always back to life and always has been. I mean at what age does this stop? Did I mention the crack in my window? Think I did.