POEMS & SHORTS

Me and Kurbrick...Sure...

The moon. The moon. It's not even yellow tonight, it's a bright white, a crescent of bright white, shinning down on the calm pacific, luminous across the endless sea from horizon to shore. I am feeling the poem of the moon. Then I hear, in a loud demanding voice, "Get me my meds, bitch!"

Yeah, I'm working at a rehab again, out in some swanky, eight bedroom Malibu Hills pad, turned into a money machine, milking spoiled rich young drug addicts. I'm just training tonight so I take in the moon for a few more moments before I step off the spacious pinewood sundeck, walk back into the plush furnished house and head downstairs to the med-room. I'm suppose to observe tonight, so that one day soon I can also dispense meds to the patients...excuse me, clients, they have to be called clients here because the forty thousand dollar a month fee says so. Anyway, I'm happy to be here, can't you tell? So where was I? Oh yeah, walking down the mahogany stained wood stairs, the beauty of the moon trailing away in my mind as I brace myself to face the sick young brats gobbling down doctors orders to keep their own beasts at bay. Michael, the clinical assistant on duty, is the one training me. He is the one who was just referred to as, "Bitch." As I approach the med-room, which is really just a small office space, the cabinets now filled with patient...excuse me again...client files and pills, Michael is standing there holding a plastic box filled with plastic sheets and vials of chemical goodies. The, "Bitch", caller this hipper than thou, do you know who I am, twenty-two year old kid, decked out in the latest casual fashion wear is looming over him. By the way, I read the rules of the rehab that included, no profanity, verbal or physical abuse will be tolerated. Again, forty thousand a month bends those a little. And the kid is only playin' around with Michael, his kind of playin'. His wicked little grin tells me so. Another patient...god damnit, excuse me again...client, pokes his shaggy haired, sunken eyed, pale-faced pansy head out of his private room, (equipped with king sized bed, fireplace and flat screen wall TV) to ask for his meds also.

"After me, faggot bitch," the hipper than thou bellows, causing pale face to shrink back into his room. "But I have a migraine," he says as he closes his door.

"Come on, chill a little," Michael says.

"I'll chill when I get my meds, bitch," hipper than thou says, flashing me another grin.

Michael is mellow. He's been doing this for a few years, dealing with these kinds. Michael I might say is like a lotus on the pond. He gives a long sad smile and hands poor little hip rich boy his med-box. Although the kid has been to nine rehabs and says he can't seem to concentrate on any of the, "Fucking AA principal and step bullshit," he fishes out his vials of neurontin, trazadone and seraquel with expert precision. These are meds to aid different forms of anxiety and induce sleep, I think. If I went and told a doctor a few autobiographical anecdotes, I'm sure I could get all three in a heartbeat. Anyway, I try not to judge and I remind myself to look up them on the net when I get home.

"The doctor said you're only supposed to do a half dose of the seraquel tonight." Michael says. "Dude I'm on it," little hipster says as he dry swallows the neurontin and trazodone then takes a razor edged pill chopper out of his box and slices the seraquel in perfect halves. Then he looks at me and says, "I'm getting' my car up here tomorrow. Maserati. It's a fine runnin' machine. Then I'm outta here in three days, three days, dude." As he sweeps the half up and dry chews it in my face, I look at him and say, "Ya know, you can go to hell in a nice car." He looks back at me with his big brown defiant eyes piercing through his long dirty blonde bangs. I keep steady. I know he is headed toward death. I've seen it before and I'm seeing it now. Neither one of us are blinking as I draw him in. Michael is silent standing off to the side like a Buddha, letting what ever is going to happen, happen. I'm showing this kid a glimpse of his future and he's catching it. The defiance fades into confusion as his brown eyes blink in the harsh florescent light and fill with tears that drip onto his vintage, Black Sabbath T.

"Dude, whatever you're doing won't mean shit when these meds kick in," he says.

"I know man, I know," I say and I go back up to look at the moon.

"If it was up to me, I'd do a Clockwork Orange style rehab.

"What's that?"

"See the movie, you'll get it."

I began to meditate lately. Helps take the edge off.

The night is horrid and dank. There is no moon. There are no stars. The sky is a black turbulent swirl. And I sit at the beach on a rock in the rain, regretting. But it's too late now. I stare out at the savage sea through wells of tears as waves smash against the shore, spraying my soaked sinful soul. I could jump in. I should jump in. I will. I will jump in, drift out and drown, eventually but not now. Now I will remember and regret, again and again over and over until the incomprehensible demoralization of my demonic deed crescendos, until it explodes in my head, until I have no choice but to die.

The ocean is steely and frigid. It will be a frightening but fast death, I think, as I wince into the pelting torrents and once more see in my mind the surprise on Kay's face as I struck her. She was screaming at me, her smooth olive skin all gnarled up and vicious, her soft deep brown eyes beady and hateful, her generous, loving lips, stretched tight in anger. Vicious, hateful screaming. That's how I always perceived it, even though she told me time and again, that she loved me and it was my demon she was screaming at, it was my demon that she saw swallowing me that sickened her heart and made her yell that way. My demon that made me cheap and callous and ugly and violent. "I don't know who that is but it's not you!" she used to scream. Used to scream... sounds like she's already dead. Maybe she is, I didn't check to see if she was breathing when I walked out of the house, walked out and left her sprawled naked on the bedroom floor, face down, her long black hair thick and sticky with blood from the blow. If she survives I won't know because I will be gone. I will be gone. I will be gone.

And were happy with just moments before just about to make love. And she asked me, "Do you still like my body?" I always say, "Yes," even if I don't believe it and sometimes I don't but for Christ's sake we're middle aged, both of us. So I said, "Yes," as usual but I hesitated. It was that redhead at the market that drifted into my mind, the one with the terry cloth sweat suit that had, Juicy, written across her ass and the halfway zipped top with her huge fake tits jutting out. Cheap, crass but still an eye catcher. Damnit why? Why do I have to think that way? She should be the one that's lying in a pool of blood. Cheap, whorey cunt, ruined my whole life with Kim. Oh, I feel a wave of self-loathing nausea coming over me. This is good. I can jump soon.

No, I'm not writing, not writing much at all these days. Funny, I spelled, "writing", wrong. Left out one of the I's, the first I. I left out the first I. I am the first I, and the second I is not writing. The first I is always writing. In my mind's eye. Pun. The same. Who knows. Fuck you. That was kind of typical, easy to do. Fuck you, easy to do. So my seventeen year old is doing some homework, listening to old Beatles tunes which I hear through his door as I sit here, scratching my beard growth, sticking my hands down my boxers and squeezing the head of my cock a little and beginning to write again. Write and spell because my god, I'm messing up every other word like I've been struck with dyslexia. Struck. Struck. Struck out. I strike out then I strike out at myself. Double whammy on me. Is anybody else feeling it? I will try to make you. Make you, make you. Machu...a small town between Northern China and Mongolia. If there is one? You smoka da opium? Shu, shu. Shu, Shu.

Bungalow Bill is playing now. "Hey Bungalow Bill, what did you kill? Bungalow Bill. Hey Bungalow Bill what did you kill. Bungalow Bill." I feel my heart beating, beating back to the teenage years, with the electric hash pipe. No. I look at them now on the keyboard, almost fifty, veins out beginning to wrinkle as "My guitar gently weeps," sifts in. My ears are wringing. Fuck. Did I take a breath? I take one. Two. Three. Now I see the computer screen. Have I been writing? Yes. How have I been writing? Yes, just yes, you have. Enough, you're here again. Oh, I'm blinking my eyes now. Back in the body now. Sitting in my office. I see the white curtains, the bleached wood ceiling fan. I feel the late October night breeze, blowing on my bare feet through the crack in the glass sliding door. I am still stuffed from the huge spaghetti and sausage dinner I made for me and my kid but I feel the desert craving coming on.

Nick!" I yell out. "I hope you didn't eat that fuckin' Brownie!" And I get up to check.

I sit on the couch with my legs folded, back straight up against the cushion and close my eyes to meditate. I repeat my mantra from deep within and as my daily thoughts fade away, I feel the warm vibrations moving through my body. I feel a hum through the air around me. I feel the grin form on my face. I feel like laughing and there are tears forming at the edge of my eyes. I am not concentrating, it is just happening. I have no visions of past or future just the feeling of bliss. The feeling of bliss. It is happening fast this time. Other times my thoughts fueled with fear have raced and raced until my meditation time was finished. Twenty minutes, that is what I was instructed to do. Keep practicing, in the morning and in the evening. Twenty minutes. Nothing happens. Keep practicing. Amazing things will happen. You will feel it. That's what I was told and I practiced whether I believed or not. Now, this time I am in the bliss and I am in the bliss fast. My body is buzzing. It is almost too much. Too much bliss. That makes me laugh. Give me some fucking misery to bring me down. No, we are in the bliss. The misery is gone. Where? It has gone. You have worked for it and it has gone. This is your normal state now, one of bliss. You will get used to it just as you got used to the misery and as you couldn't live without the misery before you can't to live without the bliss now. You will always seek it and you will always find it. The bliss is here to stay. Cocksucker and motherfuck all you want, together we will laugh it away. Who is we?
Me
You
I
All
One
Now
Soaring. Soaring. Soaring.

Today is the day I get to audition for Dogie the dimwitted cowboy. Golly gee, yall, fuck me sideways brand my ass cheeks and toss me in the pig sty.
I meditate in the dark before the dawn at the beach
The Devil hides my mantra but I find it again
I watch the sun rise
There are clouds: puffs, strips, one looks like one of those trees in the African plains
I googled Rusty Trombone on the internet yesterday
Anilingus accompanied by a hand job
I even searched for pictures
Didn't find one, not of the rusty trombone
Just a lot of teenage girls sucking cock and swallowing cum
And worse
I clicked off before my cock got hard
Too much
Too sad
These thoughts get in the way of experiencing the sun rise
It started of red, now it's a pale gold
More clouds
The sea looks flat
Immense
Eternal

I watched the BET 25th anniversary show on TV last night
I was so moved by the gospel singers and the audience that moved so freely with such rhythm, spirit and celebration
I cried
The sun is up now
The sky is a
Flush of purple orange and grey