Filed under: Poetry
the most likeliest of explanations
i don’t want to be Bukowski
but I want to know how it felt
to cry for Jane
in the dark, all alone amidst
the mindless or heartless.
i don’t want to be Lebowski,
but i want to find some way
to stare unconcerned
when the rug, the car
and the money are gone.
i don’t want to be Sam Clemens,
but i appreciate the irony
of some kid watching his funeral
and tricking some dumb bastard
into white-washing the fence.
i don’t want to be Eaglesmith,
but i love it when
his songs make me sad
in that good way
like missing a lover gone forever.
i think i could have been the guy
who coined the word
omphaloskepsis,
it just feels like something
i might have done. (i didn’t.)
i might have tried not to be the guy
to lapse in conversation
when i get lost, and
think about all those things
i don’t want to be.
Filed under: Uncategorized
cleaning up salt
she’s probably almost finished
cleaning up the salt
from when the little plastic oval
fell out and let the salt
spill across the table like summer snow
she’s probably cursing and looking at the
trail of spilt beer
when the shaken bottle opened
and the fizz and beer drizzled
all over the floor
that still needs cleaning
she’s probably thinking
“now where did we go wrong”
and making plaintative stares
out the window
waiting for an answer
but the beer doesn’t clean itself
she’s probably worried
because she didn’t ask why
i’d rather starve,
than beg or borrow
and she never asked
if i still wrote
——————————-
memories of a departed muse
i miss the muse that used
to turn on christmas lights
in her window
to let me know we were safe
and when we’d run from
some dull neighborhoods
in a quiet part of town
we’d laugh and play
that game about pretending to
be something you’re not
i miss the muse because she never knew
that though i wanted
to slip inside her,
this was better. this was real
somehow, even if she fled
a long time ago,
i still get word
every now and again.
—————————————
Filed under: Poetry
#27 blues
spent 27 hours searching
through too many pages to
remember why I started
looking in the first place.
the search was built on
structural concerns, populated by
searching eyes waiting on
some lips and a tongue.
fortunately i’m reminded that
if it all goes according to plan
i’ll know it
when i see it.
———————————
untitled (is that a cop out?)
i’m coming clean
like waking up
from long dreams with bright colors
i’m coming clean
like the first cigarette
before all the other one’s get in the way
i’m coming clean
but it’s getting down
to wanting to get dirty again
———————————————-
waiting
it’s a son-of-a-bitch waiting on inspiration
that won’t listen to reason and
just show the fuck up when
it’s been called upon.
the fucker takes months to show up
unannounced, gives out a quickie handjob
and is gone
(that reminds me of someone else)
I suppose all of this will slip through
gutter cracks, as it has, as it will,
driven to distraction,
some dense novel considerations aside.
if you ask the muses why they’re in that
line of work
the good ones hush up,
the unreliable flee the coop
fucking insanity.
Filed under: Uncategorized
Yeah, I heard the stories about people way out West, always quitting something and starting something else like an apoplectic eel. That’s no way to go through life. The only real alternative is to be willing to place all that you own in some metaphorical box and leave it for the homeless out on the street at night. It’s only when you come to from that plaintive coma that you are ready to admit all your faults, all your miserable decisions, all of the shit you swore you’d never ever fuck up, then went ahead and did anyway. There is something lovable about that misguided attempt at vain expression. Where is the imagination?
Is that nobody really wants to forgive and forget? I’m included in that… carrying around a few millstones the last couple of years when it would have been easier to let it go wherever all those people that you used to know go when you don’t know them anymore. I don’t feel like it’s a place to visit or anything, more like a place to leave garbage before it starts to smell. That would explain an awful lot. No questions, no questions, I’m on a roll. (But we wanna knooooow…)
But it’s all coming out as anger. Angry with the damn phone for not ringing, then angry at the fucking thing because it won’t stop making noise. These interruptions are driving me up the wall; I’m stalking around the room working up the rage to get over the lonely blasphemy. This puerile reaction makes me sick, wanting to stab the guy in the mirror just to see him bleed and his lungs make that sucking sound when there’s a shiv letting out the air. I heard that if it’s cold enough, steam will come out. I’ve never seen it myself, maybe it’s bullshit. This kind of sick hatred doesn’t answer to any kind of control, only to those moments when clarity breaks through the slick veneer and I notice that I was about to smash the mirror with a hand wrapped in a t-shirt. But why?
Like an elemental mistrust that grows out of long silent talks and mournful glances at the clock on the wall, something doesn’t add up. In my frenzy to attack something, anything, to symbolize the frustrations of being unable to voice this peculiar complaint I’ve forgotten what it was that set me off. Does it even matter? The incidence of almost myopic violence loosened forth by a picture at the bottom of a shoebox makes me laugh then cry in descending order. My troops want to flee the battlefield instead of risking death or dismemberment on such a foolish quest. Nobody ever said liberation comes cheap. Not in this case.
While all of this ramps, declines and undulates, a small quiet voice calls out from the woodwork replete with reminders that nothing will turn back the clock, and if we don’t make it up and over, the wall will still be there tomorrow, and maybe even after that. And without the slightest shudder or tremble, I realize I’ve handcuffed myself again, though not to the radiator, at least not this time. Trying to throw off the shackles is impossible. Looking around the room, I can barely see with the smoke rising and shrinking the room to dimensions just short of livable.
What had happened? From where did these thoughts begin? There was a conspicuous absence of clues. My memory didn’t seem responsive to the shifting scenery… one minute everything in the room seemed haphazardly arranged, and in an instant changed beyond recognition. I felt very strongly that I was thinking about something important, but I’d be dipped in shit if I could figure out what it was. With each passing moment the importance I attached to the whole scene seemed arbitrary and capricious rather than the serious malformation it had been some time past. I stumbled out of the room to smoke a cigarette and consider my options. I’m not looking for any kind of reinforcement. I just really need a smoke. It ain’t up for discussion, and I will spit swear and remonstrate before bending to something as ephemeral as a the ghost of exmiss past.
On the way outside, I’ll stop at the mirror and laugh at what I see. It’s the only way to maintain the farce… and it keeps me humble. You know, those deists are always saying pride cometh before a fall, but I’m only one floor above the ground. I just don’t have that far to fall. It ain’t up for discussion. It never is. Let’s talk.
I heard of this guy once who used to let himself fall into an almost comatose state of withdrawal psychosis so as to break his resistance to morphine and heroin. Then, when he was about two steps away from flogging himself into a pine box, he’d shoot a small amount of junk into the deepest vein he could get too with a short needle. He had this gigantic syringe attached to the needle and was almost fanatically precise when measuring out the dose from a tattered leather satchel that held his stash. The satchel had probably seen more than its share of fractured usage, but despite the folds and creases in the leather, it held up to a lot of shit pretty well, all things considered.
Anyway, the reason I’m telling you this story is that I’d never understood how he broke out of the standard junkie psychology and managed to chase a buzz that far without caring what it did to his body, his spirit, let alone his fucking mind. You see, any addiction is contained of many interlocking ideas, emotional needs, physical short-comings, etc. Most junkies will continue to needle themselves into hysterics simply by wanting it all at once; too much, too fast. This guy didn’t want to lose his ability to feel every last mind-blowing moment of that small hit of whatever the fuck it was that went barrel-housing through his veins. My feelings toward him zig-zagged from profound admiration all the way to pity. When he went without, it was always with the purpose of feeling the full value of something that was killing him both in his usage, and, at times, his non-usage. Very few people had the mental agility to see the big picture like this guy. He could see, and he knew what he was looking at. He knew it was a death-trip, but he always told me “That’s what we all get. Don’t waste good tears gone on.” I never was sure what he was referring to. My tears were never wasted.
He might have been folly chasing down death, or maybe just a guy who saw what was coming and decided he didn’t want any of what it was going to be. He was able to retain his ability to literally starve his body into submission by withholding the low hanging fruit of the desert from his mouth and veins. I’ve never met another junkie who maintain under those rules, although to be honest few actually try to. Like I said, most of us are content to keep jamming the needle in (or whatever other method of ingestion is available) with the needle dirty and the syringe packed to the gills.
When the tendril of blood flecks out into the liquid suspension, it looks like a long thin finger being unrolled to point in admonition. Then, with a little pressure on the plunger, it’s gone, back to where it had come from, amidst a concoction of pain relief and depression cleansing fog where it all feels right.
I know, I know, that doesn’t mean shit unless you already know what it means to wake up with the hit long gone and your body begging and crying for just a little more, just a little longer, just make it all go away for a few more hours and I’ll deal with it later. Under those premises, that supply will shrink and tolerance will grow, one more shove towards the precipice from an unseen hand. (That’s because you just pushed yourself…without seeing a thing. Ask any junkie what that means.) No, this guy was smart. Every hit had to count, or in the end, he was doing something for nothing, which is exactly what the average junkie will accept in return for their soul, not to mention the television set or radio. Not him. He wasn’t that cheap, even in the dire straights of the worst of the withdrawal syndrome. I didn’t say it was an easy or particularly heroic lifestyle. The truth is, most of the people I have met along the way seem all too willing to hold a firesale, and after all the cheap plastic shit has been sold, then the fire sale truly begins. What gets sold next largely depends on the user. How far are you willing to go to find out how much you can take? The physical collapse will be easy, the emotional collaps will probably kill you…if it doesn’t, you might find yourself a lot closer to doing the deed yourself than you ever thought possible. That doesn’t mean you will, it just means you might. Scary, is it not? But not for him…
This guy didn’t believe any of the rules applied to him. This wasn’t about trying to duck the punishment of a life spent chasing the next high. He just had higher standards, and knew that selling out your body and mind deserved as high a price as you could possibly fetch. Mark all the suffering between reaching the plateau as part of the price. Nothing more, nothing less. That there would be eventual relief of every symptom and facet of existence was a given. That he would suffer a self-imposed sickness of a deprived mind just kind of happened. I seriously doubt anyone tries to decide what kind of junkie they might make in some exigent future. The iron law is nobody ever gives it much thought until that first test high becomes imprinted on your fucking skull, and like a monster you give up anything that doesn’t aid in search for a pleasing high that lasts until the end of time. And you thought I was kidding about the death-trip. I don’t know anyone who laughs at a sick joke like that, except of course me.
So what does it all matter? Does it even matter at all? I’d say yes, if only because even a junkie knows that while on this death trip there is a lot of life. I can let you in on the methods, we can speculate on the rationale, but in the end, unless you know what chemical joy really feels like, nothing I am saying will make any difference in anything. Nobody should so willingly set themselves afire just to see the light, and what’s worse is that so few ever actually realize the power that they hold when a crinkled plastic bag or maybe an old shoebox is opened up to reveal the fruit of the gods. If you can wrap your head around the fact that some people place a much higher value on the ability to smile and smile while the world comes to a grinding stop than in preventing the planet from stopping on a dime (or insert your favorite end of times theory here) then you’ve got it. Whatever you think your life is “for,” or any such quaint sentiment, not everyone will act accordingly. Like every other choice, this one comes with the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Oh, and my buddy, the self tortured junkie? He just up and disappeared. You don’t even know who you’re running from sometimes, right? He stopped showing up to the park where I used to do business a while back, and that’s all I heard. I doubt he OD’ed, although it is one possibility. I like to think he’s still out there, busting his own ass in search of the perfect high. It makes the rest of the trip much more entertaining. If he was here, he’d probably grimace whenever the subject came up. The whole ordeal gave him the worst night sweats you’ll ever hear about, not to mention the bleak depression. That was something though, the way he would walk right up to the line where one more step means the end of the road, pause, and smile like the whole thing was a bad joke before stepping back for another orund of withdrawals. Just another story, perhaps, but in the few moments I’ll allot to thinking about the guy, I imagine that he’s still looking. I don’t think he’ll find it, what with the limitations of his methodology, but hey, fuck it and keep looking anyway. Taught me a few fucking lessons, and now that his story is out there, I consider it paid in full. I don’t miss you you bastard, but I wish you were here.
Another night spent in the quest to determine how much is too much of a good thing. The night moved as easily as socks on a varnished floor, and it’s always fun to be able to take those socks off and on at will. Something about the motion carries the whole evening forward, somewhere past the phone ringing or the music playing somehow underneath the whole tableau. Another two dollar word cheapened by overuse. Every time I look toward a clock, another hour has passed and still the quiet neighborhood turns light switches on and off in a weird synchronicity, more evidence for a shared conscience perhaps, or some shit like that. It takes time to dissemble the various threads into a more coherent situation, and a lot of time is spent trying to learn how to react after the fact. There are actually few times where the reaction moves in concert with the event in question, but usually slithers after the realization has struck one of us dumb. Look up, see that everything that was where you thought you’d left it was now someplace else. In the confusion I must have acquiesced to an agreement without formal acknowledgment. What else could possibly explain everything being somewhere other than where it should be?
Of course this didactic exercise can and will go on all night long. Longer, even. In the intervening moments between deeply biased thoughts comes a feeling of calm acceptance, as if every trouble swamping my boat would sooner or later pass me by. I question the validity of the scene, but only out of habit. There isn’t really much of an answer to the question, just a feeling like swallowing spit. The best that could be said about it is that its yours. Until and unless the spit hits the ground, it’s just another wad waiting to hit the wind. The whole world outside may never considered the issue, but it certainly arose out of the evening. With a break to solidify the mental compact, the machinery moves on, and without seeming to notice my raspy exhortations.
Despite the positive vibrations so far, something still seems out of sorts and untied. Without a barometer to get a handle on the pressure, we require other means of counting or diagramming, and all I got is poetry. I wanted to pay someone to come over and write the definition of poetry on the wall, but we’re all out of paint. That kind of thing. Elusive in the same manner as a word that we all can recognize when we see it but never define beforehand. Confusion again; is it just my circuits missing a beat? I have poetry coming out of my ears, it’s all I see and feel, everything I touch and say. Nobody can understand a word of it, like this;
blessed material amongst indifferent glances,
watchfully roaming amidst murmuring voices that seem to agree
that the answer to the question
is 4.
It all comes together except it doesn’t feel that way. It doesn’t feel like anything except that nominal disquiet that comes with speaking a dead language. On other nights, it would be a frustration, but tonight I think it might be a blessing in disguise. Wherever you wish you were, whatever you wish you’d done (or not done), whatever you might have said if the circumstances had been more in your favor, none of it matters except on the wavelength of poetry. I’m eating all of the M & M’s out of the trail mix, and people are starting to look. I can’t even imagine what the fuck they might be saying. In addition to speaking a dead language, I hear it too.
And still we’re falling through the layers of the evening and sitting back the whole time, sucking on cigarettes and envisioning what it feels like to be rooted to solid ground. I can’t even imagine it, not really. I’ve never felt at home, never known what roots really are. I know what they look like, and I’m pretty sure the rough bark would feel like the soft bark of a Sycamore on a sunny summer day. What their value might be remains a mystery, and even being aware of their existence isn’t the same thing, not by a long shot. Another way of speaking…again. Another sentence spoken, given out like candy on Halloween or presents on Jesus’ birthday. By all rights, the words should trail off like…
And it’s all said in poetry and it all means so little except for the importance of standing up for the few things in life that are worth actually standing up for. Even handicapped by a child like ignorance of the future is no excuse for letting an impostor speak in your place. At some point in every snake hole we come to that same question repeated over and over again, and always the same answer. There isn’t any other thing to do than admit that just like everyone else, I do what I can, and all that entails. In poetic terms, I worry that equivalency is being mistaken for adequacy. The word itself could shrivel up and die before I’d spend much time living up to it. On a good night, it doesn’t even exist. On a good night it’s the same whether it’s poetry or just a few words thrown together to speak to a common cause.
forever finding that whole contraction
is a token appearance of faith
masquerading as a subway token
without which bar won’t drop
and we won’t move.
More evidence of the dead language speaking to me rather than from me. I find the distinction amusing, which is about all I require from a night lost to clocks somewhere between seven and two. It ends with sleep, or so I’m told.
Filed under: thoughtful trips
There is frustration when I look to the ceiling and don’t feel the pull of gravity bringing me down to the right level. I’m OK when the come on isn’t as strong as advertised, or when time is short and the feelings fade to a jarring conclusion, because a conclusion represents the end of a journey. Money paid, trip taken, a fair deal all around. The problem comes as something of a doppelganger, a stand in for the real deal. Mornings like this leave me pleading for that feeling to arrive on golden tires and get my mind off to the temporal. I can’t help it…the nature of the beast I suppose.
All things being equal, the daily reminders of the wounds festering under the cloudy sky are ever more frustrating in light of the failure of the medicine to take hold. My expectations led me into a classic trap. The door slams shut behind me the instant recognition crosses my face on the way down through the rest of my body. I’m stiff in all the wrong places. I want to laugh amidst the carnage, but i hold back out of respect for the uninitiated. I really only smile when I lie anyway.
With a forceful shove into a mindset of vanity, I grit my teeth and proceed to wait for the sign that all is well and the joints are smooth and oiled, ready for movement. I plead for things to make some kind of sense besides the occasional break in the static but am left with the burned out hope that if this one doesn’t work, the next one will. Under the aegis of emblematic sorcery and supplicated prayers (offered to some mysterious hooker in the sky) comes the laughter of the thunder. Is it a reply? I don’t know. Any kind of answer masquerading as laughter is beyond a sick joke under these circumstances. Sooner or later all of the accumulated wisdom sparks one of those momentary crises of faith. It’s dark out, the kind of darkness that hides the sun rather than covering it up, leaving a halo around the darkness. Their are some kids playing in the street, probably evading a teacher or some other kind of fucking administrator, but they don’t seem to notice. They just run around and laugh a lot.
In the ensuing minutes, my crises of faith ends with a washout. My blood carries the long awaited edge the cuts through the fog of the morning into the afternoon. It’s crucial for following the long train of thought into some kind of narrative. Not that it actually means anything, but it will seem important while it’s all going down. Like many other things in life, the whole process slides between controlled contortions and impervious random vibration. Sans the repeated calls for faith in the process, the whole thing just keeps moving on, defying every attempt to capture the release of joy. Look around you and it isn’t hard to find examples in various states of distress or extreme rapture. More than anything, they want to hold on to that moment when everything comes together, and for the briefest of moments they (and I) are enraptured with a colorful world of wavy lined souls that always wear smiles.
In the end, the rationale I’ve just laid out for you is the most important thing you could ever hope to know when it comes to this kind of egress. It is a weary and often unintentional collection of ideas and suppositions that keeps hope alive; the elusive moment we’re chasing down a blind alley with no turn-around. (note: I later discovered there is indeed a turnaround. A big one. First you hit the bricks. Then you stop. If you’re lucky, you turn around fast enough and brace yourself quickly enough to rebound right back out of the alley. Of course, you have to quit chasing the moment and give up on your quest.)
The only fitting analogy is thus: I left the remote control across the room and I want to change the fucking channel. I want to watch the music video for John Hiatt’s “Sharon’s Got A Drugstore.” My cable box is set to HBO. The damn remote isn’t even close to being in range of an arm or even a leg, and rather than get up an get it, I’m sitting here typing away trying to express my frustration with the current state of internal supply and demand issues and wait for a blood rush realization, scoping patterns in the seams of the day. Time to move, I cant take anymore of this waiting shit.
