the writing fool

woke up way too goddamn early
this morning. had way too many
bourbons last night. I make
some coffee but it tastes like
something a north dakota pipeline
is pumping up, dump it down the
drain. heat up a

frying pan, throw three tortillas
down, flip em when they bubble
up. crack a few eggs and plop them
in. forgot oil, so the eggs are
sticking. portion out the
eggs on a each tortilla. grab
some guacamole, spoon some
on each then a dousing of hot
sauce. sit in my tan leather
desk chair and eat like it is
be my last meal. think about

last night. had plans to tour
the bars down the street but as
I made it to the tracks, a union
pacific was crawling by. then
it just stopped. turned back and
went to the bar just across the
alley from my place. I’m already
a few neats in, feeling more kerouac
on buckley drunk then kerouac on
the road drunk. was not in

the best of shape and I’m pretty
sure I made a fool of myself when
I tried to slur flirt with two pretty
tattooed blondes that sat next to me. I
don’t think I can show my face in
there for at least a couple of

weeks. fool. washed my dish and
frying pan then grabbed my black
notebook to see what foolish
things I wrote during my liver’s
final stand- it was sloppy, illegible
and gibberish. what a waste. the

writing fool heads back to bed, the
only place where he can’t screw it
all up.

bastard

the mint green olivetti to your
right on
the desk is collecting dust. you
made it a bastard- decided to
go with a sharp lcd screen and
spell check. you bastard. the
ribbon has probably dried
out and it is choking like a
refugee in some desert. you
look over, some blank eight
and a half by elevens stacked on
top of the carriage, wrinkled
from blowing away by the ceiling
fan but you stack them drunk
on top of your former lover. you

bastard.

ready to peel

monday night. you have had a few
glasses of whisky. you have been
to the bar downstairs, downed a
couple longnecks while fantasizing
about all of the longnecked women in
this joint and how they would look
naked. now
home, you
have peeled two mangos- the third
too hard. you have taken the knife
down to the rinds, fingers still
intact. you have stood on the
balcony smoking orange spirits while
thinking about the women you’ve seen
naked; a thunderstorm in the distance
raging wild and quiet. you
have done
all these
things that mean nothing, all the
while hoping that the third mango
is ripe and ready to
peel tomorrow.

plenty to think about

sit on a lime green chair at
the local coffee shop, thinking
about anything and everything at
once. gaze out the window and
see the pretty barista moving
over the crosswalk to her
car. I should ask her out- but

what if she declines, then
I would never be able to come
back. I’ve already ruined the
hair salon and movie theatre
in town. and if she says
yes, in a couple of months, I
wouldn’t be able to come back
anyhow. everyone would know
that the guy in the green shirt
that reads bukowski and writes is
a neurotic and non-committal
asshole. stay idle on this
one.

I think about calling my pops, wonder
how he’s doing all alone in
carolina. but then I remember
how he always says three minutes in
to every conversation, “I don’t
want to bother ya, so I’ll let
you go.” even though I was the
one who made the call. also remember
that I have spliced genes and
personality, so he’s probably
happier being alone. so I
stay idle.

I think about getting a cat. I’m
allergic but read about these
russian blues and that they are
hypoallergenic; it’s all about
the saliva and urine, not so
much the fur I read. but then
I think about where I would even
put a litter box in this five
hundred square foot apartment. cat
would get bored and probably get into
my booze. sounds familiar. so I stay
idle.

I think about a lot. all of
it. but I always go back to
that pretty barista in green
pants. watching her ass swivel as
she moves across crosswalk. think

about any other coffee shops in
this town. yeah, there are
plenty.

past vessel travel

when I catch myself drifting
into an inanimate object, I’ll
snap out of it, kinda like when
you’re driving and all of a
sudden don’t remember the last
ten miles.

in these times of lost time, I
like to think that I have traveled
to a previous memory,or, more grand,
turning up in my anterior vessel,
always younger, thicker hair and
most assuredly an idealist.

back in: driving the wind up laurel
canyon, the wind brushing by both
warm and cool. weave up that
hill, the lights of the valley
flickering and calm. the verdugos, a
shadowy cut-out reaching and
painted above burbank. a right
onto mulholland, the cliffs tumbling
down on both sides, the sun beaten
hustle of the day now a soft hum.

back in: eyes searching the atlantic
ocean, the surf glancing your
shoes, groups of bubbles disappearing
into the sand. the lighthouse moon,
creating that angelic and sparkling
tunnel that goes out to everything and
all that is. head drifts up to
hurried clouds, heading out to a ship’s
lone light and a thunderstorm far
off over open water, rhythmically
flashing from top to bottom, seemingly
never ceasing, like your youth.

back in: stomach getting warm at
the sight of heather, your eighth
grade crush. jealous of the wind
twirling her long dark brown hair
about at the bus stop. excited about
the moments before sleep so you can
create stories about how and where
you’ll kiss her the first time.

when I snap myself out of it, the
lost time spent in a tabletop
pattern or a plant on the desk- I
like to think that I went back for
the briefest of moments, to when
everything was pure and
providential.

ripped screen

it’s a nice afternoon, windows
open in my apartment. have a bottle
of syrah, open. trying to
write the next great one but
my head bobs. pet sounds plays
from some bookshelf speakers
behind me. look over to my
left, to that open window, just
above the foot of my bed. the
cord lays on the windowsill,
drawn down to a bend and
forlorn. the

screen has torn away from the
frame on the outside. the
intermittent breeze carries
it up then lets it back
down. should do something
about that, perhaps some
tape, not too much, just at
the edge to keep it in
place. or maybe some glue. but
I wrack my brain if I have either
one of those two. take a sip

of syrah from the bottle and
look back over. “God only
knows” plays. that screen is
all I can think about. a
wasp buzzes back and forth
in front of the flap. thoughts
of gluing or taping the screen
down diminish. the wasp may

get in, may not, but the
tension is a perfect pairing to
to this half a bottle and
trying to figure out which
odds are better, getting stung
or
writing the next
great one.

hard on

got drunk again last
night. but woke up early as
I need to write. head, on
golden pond fog. look

at the bed, the corner of
the fitted sheet has ripped
off, exposing the mattress. bad
dreams perhaps, don’t remember
a single on of ’em, only
remember my bladder screaming
at me like an old woman atop
her clothesline in
manhattan at five in the
morning.

I boiled some water in my
teapot. got a scoop ready
in the french press, rub
my temples- the tusk
squeeze. left the bar alone
last night but I didn’t give
a good god damn. walked in
with one of those moods- you
are all my muse but don’t
talk to me. teapot
whistles and I pour into
press.

and as I wait for it
to steep, still rubbing my
temples, I wish that I took
a bird home with me last
night. that ripped fitted
sheet shoulda been due to
passion, not REM fits.

the few minutes seem like
a lifetime, and I push the
plunger down. pour coffee into
my favorite mug, the one I
bought several years ago at
some van nuys thrift shop. touch
of honey at the bottom, touch
of milk on top and stir. the
sound of spoon on porcelain
puts me in a daze. I should
sleep some more.

lean against the counter, salute
this saturday morning and take
a sip. lean against the counter,
dizzy and with a hard on, wishing
I had taken a bird home last
night. stared at my exposed
mattress thinking about what
to write about today. figure
I’d start with my hard on and
an exposed mattress.

you on a patterned blanket

you’ve seen potassium nitrate lift and
hang, and you’ve seen the gunpowder ahh.

you’ve seen this thirty three times
before. sure, the first several are
shadows and blanks. one a cerebral
squint cannot even pronounce, but you
have seen this before.

you have laid on patterned blanket on
this night in 1989. your older sister
pestering you most likely. your
parents quiet, save for, “it’s a
good sized crowd.” you on your
back on a pattered blanket.

the first lifts. the trail seemingly
on its way to the moon but it
stops short and curves down. the most
brilliant red circle expands, and seems
to envelope you. then the bang seconds
later. at first it frightens you but
you know you are safe on that patterned
blanket in 1989.

then in great succession, more
colors expanding together, crackling
and booming. your older sister has
even stopped pestering you. you on
your back on that patterned blanket,
head lifting up to see the colors
mirror on the river just below a
dam.

and

now you, in future, an impossibility if
you think about it. you, alone, sitting
on lifted concrete that encases
flowers. you, alone, observing this
quiet small town, everyone else at the
lake. eyes pacing with a union pacific
chug on the tracks that cut through. but
then that first one lifts, seemingly
to the moon. it drops and
awakens that boy on that patterned
blanket again. a tear mirrors the
colors,
hangs and

curves

down.