all quiet on the midwestern front

spit purple into the bathroom
sink. grin at the lonely and
tired man with purple
teeth who is in there as
well. you, wanting

a meteor to blaze through the
atmosphere. him, just wanting
you to be happy. to
grow old with success, with
lineage. shut the light

on him, head to kitchen with
a see through 750 and a cork
that has fallen on
hardwood, next to radiator. six
other bottles lay horizontal
on rack; everything is sleeping but
you. look over at empty blanket
bundled bed. look up at a
painting you made. head is

lowered and lids are
heavy. it’s quiet except
for that man in the
bathroom who already knows
what you are going to
do. hand moves toward another
bottle. uncork, toss down by
radiator. in teeth stain
pull, head to the

bathroom and shut the door
on the man, muffling his
protest.

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third person

your mind is a kennel, barking
dogs circle. there is so
much to be said but it is
hard to get out, so you sit you
lift a paw you loop into a
position of sleep. your

mind is mumbai. crowded and
hot, as all the neurons weave
around in stimulus chaos. your

mind is a celestial transit. one
body moving in front of the other
till any bodies with consciousness
knock out a religion on stone your

mind is a supermarket. reaching
for whatever you want as if
billfold is endless. no list, no
round up to single trip spend as
you want all

all

the time.

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.