drash off this one

dash off this one
like a stone over ice

tossed on
a winter day

scared up small
cold birds

out of boredom
out of spite

dad i/ dream this time we are happy

dad i
dream this time we are happy

i don't
know why we are happy

it just
is a fact and so i don't question it

i wake
up still with that feeling convinced

to be
happy all you have to do

is know
you are happy and end questions there

one day

one day
i run out of gas
i run out of peanut butter
i run out of clean socks
i run out of xerox white copy paper

and
i run out of bismark type battleships
i run out out ancient egyptian monuments
i run out of continents of africa, asia, and america
i run out of the assorted planets of the solar system, including pluto, asshole
i run out of massive black holes or gravity wells that can devour whole galaxies
i run out of brahmanian gods dreaming eons of creation and ultimate destruction of endless muliverses

so today
i run out of love
i run out of fate
i run out of happiness
i run out of everything

no juicy fruit gum
no pope ratzinger
no doornobs
no fake poop
no you
no me

i hope tomorrow
everything
comes
back

The Pin Shower

This morning, when I go outside, a pin falls out of the sky and it lands next to my foot on the front doorstep. Then a fine full shower of pins began to fall, so many of them they look and sound like rain, sweeping down in sheets, pouring over the roof tiles, swirling down the rain gutters, pooling in the street. After the deluge lets up, I search amongst the pins, and there is not a needle to be found.

The next day medium sized paperclips will fall. Then the day after that, a spectacular blizzard of multi-colored acrylic thumb-tacks. How do I know these things? I just do.

A Few of my Nightmares

I have a few nightmares last night -- in one I dream of arguing with my father about how he talks to me. In the dream my dad is dismissive, I am angry, even shrill. In the dream, I tell him I noticed how warm, personal, and engaging he is when he talks to my cousin Bill -- but with me he asks a few polite questions and lets me do all the talking -- essentially rambling like a fool while he sits back. The whole scene in the dream is unpleasant, with no resolution or catharsis, leaving me with the worst feeling. I wake up and I feel as if I have chopped off a finger. But I am so tired, I have to get more rest. When I dream again, I slide into a panic where furniture has to be moved and the movers and packers are gone, and it is too late do do anything about it. Then the baby cries and I give him a new bottle, back to bed, back to sleep where the dreams are monochrome monotonous and boring.

TEN ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL THINGS TO HAVE IN A GREAT NOVEL, IN ORDER OF IMPORTANCE

TEN ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL THINGS TO HAVE IN A GREAT NOVEL, IN ORDER OF IMPORTANCE*

1. A Pirate Map**
2. Some Cunning Illustrations***
3. A Villian ^
4. A Virtuous Virgin^^
5. Two or Three Unfortunate Events that cannot be Easily Solved
6. A Crime
7. "The Flight From Egypt"
8. A Jinx
9. Some Burlesque Horseplay
10. The One Day of Reckoning

OPTIONAL
11. All Chapters, or Sections, should have a synopsis of what will take place in any Chapter, or Section at the start of said Chapter of Section~

* I know what some of you are thinking, after reading this list, "Are you serious?" But these points are true. I am also assuming the writer will do the required character development and research into whatever period they intend to put the story in. I am assuming the writer knows how to write and knows what they are writing about.
** Preferably on the inside, before the TOC and any dedications
*** Should be curious pictures of devices, scenes, mystery writing, sigils, and above all, strategic moments in the plot
^ Like Darth Vader
^^ Don't like having a Virtuous Virgin in the story? Then why not write pulp fiction.

~ I don't know why this practice has fallen out of style. If anything, it forces the novelist to be clear

you are beveling my brain

you are beveling my brain
with your impatience
with your impatience
with your impatience
with your impatience

i wish i knew what/ the dog was thinking

two dirty
bums stand there
talking
waiting for the
dog to get up

he'll jump
right up and run
after
me if i go far enough
says one bum

c'mon! he yells
the dog lifts it's
head
as the guy walks
father away

he keeps walking
the dog doesn't
move
so the bum comes
back towards the dog

c'mon! the bum yells
the dog does not
move
i wish i knew what
the dog was thinking

confessions/ how things have changed

confessions
how things have changed

we are only
interested in zeus
if he owes us money or sells
luxury cars
for a living

we only care
about apollinare
if we can fuck him in a
dark bar
phone booth

at 4pm @ hollywood &
vine

Okay

Entering the restaurant, when I say, "One, I have no reservations.", the two hostesses laugh, rolling their eyes like this statement is an exquisitely pathetic joke. I can't figure out if this is laughable because I said I had no reservations, or that I am alone -- or both. Or they are casually mocking because I was polite. I feel like saying something like, "What the fuck is so funny?", but I shut up because I can't be too bothered. I sit down and I can feel the subtle, yet pulsing pick-up joint vibes -- I realize I am eating at a place that is supposed to be like a Dave & Buster's, but there are no video games like in Dave & Buster's, plus they've tried to add a shot of testosterone in the decor imagining how it must be to have this kind of a joint in the big OC, but we are far away in dim anonymous Oak Brook Terrace, IL. But what the hell, the hostesses act like it is real, so I go along with it and I order a gin & tonic, the drink comes extra strong and extra big to get chicks drunk and I'm okay.

Cartoon - My Haunted Bathroom

I never had a haunted bathroom, but I did know someone who had a haunted room. Specifically, the wallpaper in the room was haunted. How we determined the wallpaper was haunted, I can't fully explain, but it was so. In my time I have encountered other haunted objects, like an unabridged dictionary, a painting, and a stuffed toy doll. But back to the story: before my friend moved into this house, on Valencia Street in San Francisco, the previous roommate who lived in that room would not sleep in the room at night. This roommate would sleep in the bathroom, on one of the marble counter tops that was just big enough for her to curl up on. Due to the flat having one bathroom, the other people in the household got used to this, and would use the bathroom discreetly at night. I had a few interesting dreams while sleeping in the room with haunted wallpaper. In one dream, I imagined that there was a space in the ceiling immediately above my head, like a hollowed out bubble, about the size of a volleyball. In this space, I saw there was a miniature skeleton, like that of a baby, it was wearing a sombrero. It's bones were a ghastly nicotine yellow color, and when it realized I could see it, the skeleton grinned at me and manically danced, pumping its knees up and down like pistons and jiggling it's elbows in that cramped bubble in the ceiling. This was comical and terrifying at the same time, mostly terrifying while it was happening. I yelled and woke up. CM Evans Cartoons

Phoebe's Poem About School

School is out
I feel a breeze

From the branches
Of the trees

And when school is in again
I will have fun until....

The End

the going home poem

stories

i'll tell you a story
that has two endings

one ending is a happy ending
the other ending is a sad ending

you tell me which one
is best suited for the story

then i'll throw both of them out
and write a new story

where the end is at the beginning
the beginning is at the end

and the middle is sprinkled
throughout the whole length

but a final story will be about the journey
the branch of a cherry tree takes

as it grows from a twig in 1977
until it is at least 5 inches in diameter

and how this branch with its fine blossoms
is admired by a bird on that fine day

with a blue sky and a trembling wind
hinting of the coming spring

and with not much concern is/is not
lopped off for a fire

Smoke Bunnies

Hey, I know how to blow smoke rings, but do you know how to blow smoke bunnies?

A Letter Sent By Bird

Saturday
39 degrees 26.470 minutes North Latitude
44 degrees 14.110 minutes East
Day 29?

Dear Lord,

Today, one of the Unicorns died. I know they are one of your favorites, "Take extras special care with the Unicorns!", you told me as we screwed down the hatches and slammed the door. There wasn't much I could do about it, this boat sure is a lot smaller than it looks once we were packed with all those late arrivals. But nobody got serious until the water was waist deep.

Lord, could you be troubled to say something to my wife? One hot cooked meal per day is not being unreasonable -- we all have been troubled by this calamity. I just happen to not wear my feelings on the sleeve of my robe. My Dad was like that, and his Dad before him. She could also stop with the attitude, Lord, lots of attitude. And please don't say that I should beat her with a stick. I'd no sooner beat my wife than beat any of my children. We all end out the best we can.

Speaking of the children Lord, I thought they'd be more serious about the gravity of the situation and also of greater overall use. There's been some horseplay with them and a few pairs of animals and much hard feeling all around because of it. I don't know if the doves and the elephants will ever be reconciled because of these frivolous hijinks by Shem, Ham and Japhe.

Well, that about does it, my back is killing me and it is no fun cleaning up pens, as you could well imagine, I think. A nice steady wind out of the west would be much obliged with no more griping from the cheatas and the wolverines at 3 AM, is that so much to ask? But you told me you knew the plan and what you are doing. I am still trying to get over the images of my whole neighborhood, and then country, drowning.

Your most faithful servant,

N

Being Hurt

We hurt ourselves, it is avoidable, but we intentionally hurt ourselves in the body and in the mind. Kerouac had the opinion that this was a self regulating subconscious attitude -- a way of offsetting our boundless good fortune with an amount of self-generated bad fortune, to keep things feeling balanced & normal. We do this to keep feeling we live in a world with walls, a world that needs walls and doors and our stuff, we have Joy as our right hand and Suffering and Anguish on the left. Like a snake eating it's tail, ignorance reinforces ignorance. We get hurt. Being hurt is safe.

Happy Father's Day

I love him, but we don't talk. It is that Father/Son combo we have chosen to follow. Two not talkers. To his two grandchildren (one 8 and the other 9 months) he Terra Incognito. But why drag other people or kids into this, right? That only makes things more complicated. Like someone responsible for their own happiness, I try not to add people to the equation, though there are naturally many people who are part of the equation. There are many people who keep things running smoothly for me and him, that is exactly part of the problem. We tried therapy a few years back, had one meeting with a consoler, and that helped, but we didn't follow through.

If there is a question of Blame, and we need to make up our minds, my Dad says I left, and never came back. Never returned to the Table, never returned to the Circle, never united with Family. I say, in response, I left a long time ago. I left before high school. I left in junior high when I had to protect myself from my Dad's disapproval, disappointment, and resentment. And later, much later, whenever I'd visit, you'd sit there and let me talk, not listening to me while you read your newspaper and got on with your day. I was a noise.

I realize by me writing this, there is one more layer between Father and Son. But I can't help it, the writing. The extra layer added I'll now try to peel away: I cannot give my Father the gift of Insight, nobody can be given that, we have to discover it on own. But I can wish him a Happy Father's Day, with Love from your Son.

Wherever we are, Happy Father's Day, Dad.

The Great Day

There is a color picture of them, by the way they are standing, you can tell they are happy, happy in a way like it is Christmas. Grouped together, the shot is close, but the viewer cannot recognize faces, because everyone wears masks. They point their automatic weapons in the air, while smoke is visible in the distance like the wing of a huge black crow. The old, less progressive government has fallen, and now after they have executed a few people from that defective regime, the slate will be pure all clean sparky new. Simply stated, the Great Day has arrived. It has arrived, see, it has.

the oldest question

i feel you hating me
it is a terrible feeling
but what can i do?

this is an old question
old as people have been
in the world to ask it.

Super Jesus Christ

It didn't matter how many "super" criminals I fought. There were no super criminals. I'll say it now, I'll write it now, down, it was all done for PR -- like the biggest three-ring boondoggle of all time. And for awhile I believed it, I played along. Believing for a new tomorrow, like a magical puppet -- almost like a super Jesus Christ. We produced our theater with the finest special effects. Occasionally I was even "defeated". I was left for "dead". Great celebrations were had when I "returned". I was good for the economy. The working classes worked harder because I was there, fighting for Peace and Justice and all that extra fucking shit. Rotting in me was the dawning realization that the FATHER I never KNEW picked a planet whose historical juncture at the time of my arrival was set and unavoidable. Father wasn't an idiot. He knew after the plagues and other natural disasters, by that time, I wouldn't do anything. He knew by then that I would have a revulsion to ever do anything. He must have loved me very much. Dad, why? I can still hear a few of them screaming, on a calm soft night when there is no wind, 2,000 miles away in any direction. Some are killing, others being killed. Men, women, children, babies. Killing, being killed, fighting, crying, dying, why?

Hello News People!

Hello news people out there, reporters, journalists. I just wanted to start out by thanking you for reporting that one seminal story, where an adult, usually a man, hurts a small child. I wanted to thank you for reporting it over and over again, stories of a small innocent children getting hurt or killed -- presented as a punch in the eye. Very dramatic. Of course, the little kid getting brutalized story is not as good as the white blonde female teenager missing, presumed murdered article. That story has a wider demographic I think, don't you agree -- it helps if her parents are reasonably unattractive -- like the missing girl is a veritable "diamond in the rough" compounding the whole tragedy. Of course, when selling & getting those numbers up, you can always fall back on presenting some kid with some kind of disfiguring lamentable disease, anything to get out the news to us. But don't be surprised if I turn away, politely, as a father, and a human being from your horrible compulsion to explain the world as graphically, and as painful as possible, by using small children as punctuation marks in a diatribe to sell ads. Isn't that what it all breaks down to in the end? Selling lipstick, ass shrinkers, canned goods, time-shares, SUVs and alcohol.

Disturbed

We stay at a fine little hotel in Palm Springs, a place where I love to wake up on what will be a flawless desert day and see the huge mountains shimmer in the heat. We are going down to the pool, when I notice a small notice posted in the closet. It says the Hotel wishes us to have a pleasant stay, and that one should not be noisy or be bothering other guests past 10 PM. The flier concludes, "If you are disturbed, please feel free to call the Front Desk (0) immediately." I immediately called them, for I am disturbed. They did not know what to say.

your heart

i thought of a few interesting things
before i went to sleep last night

a funny thing unasked for or a lyrical phrase
both fine untainted like sustained notes

i promised i'd remember
in the morning but knew i'd forget

when a line or a word or an image
jumps out at you but you don't write it down

& you say you'll remember in 12 hours or the next
day or whatever delays you

this is how you slowly and surely damage
and dishonor your heart

after reading a few poems by/john wieners

our life is funny and a bit crazy
like a record (three little pigs)
being played in another room
on the wrong setting, too fast
which in fact is happening right now
& makes me laugh

CM Evans - Published! Again!

Surprise, a third collection. One more for the road. This 200 page book "CM Bergomont's Poetry Jamboree", a collection of my poems and illustrations, is twice the size of the poetry collection "Poetry from the City of Brass"-- I like how the cover turned out. I like the insides too. I just ordered me a copy to make sure all my corrections have gone in. The next book after this will be a 200 pager of my collected cartoons -- many that are posted to my cartooning website CM Evans Cartoons -- but that will have to wait for fall of this year, because I'm pooped. I hope a few of you out there decide to enjoy the fruits of this labor.

CM Evans - Published!

Heelllo all. It's me, your old pal CM. I now have 2 books, on CafePress. One is a selection of my poems, "Poetry from the City of Brass", the other, "Selected Short Stories - The Vignettes" is a selection of my short stories. Many of the poems and short stories have appeared here, but others have been floating around in my files -- some going back 10 or more years. It is my hope that these collections have "legs", and could be enjoyed by people who generally hate poetry and writing. Those are the kind of people who I write for. I've been thinking on using the "print on demand" service with CafePress for about a year, at least, so I'm glad now I did it. The covers are gorgeous 4 color glossy printing, and the inside is greyscale. After two aborted attempts, it wasn't too difficult once I got the hang of it -- but if anyone out there wants some pointers on how to design for print on demand through CafePress, I can give you some tips. Hell, if you are writing and want to have me publish your book, let me know, if I like your work I'll set it up for you. I could even design the cover of your book.

Cats

We go out of town for a few days, the cats don't see us around, they wonder where we are off to. And while we are gone, the cats think about us as the cats sit in the places they expect us to occupy by the normal daily-habit-routine-of-things. Then the cats forget about us, but then when the neighbors come over to feed them, these people are recognized as "not us" by the cats, so after the neighbors are gone, the cats think about us again. This remembering forgetting recalling goes on for a few days, until the cats are not certain if we, their owners, are entirely real, or just thoughts the cats have in their own heads. Then unexpectedly, we arrive back home in the middle of the night, and the cats look at us. They are happy we are home, but they are not sure if they have dreamed us out of thin air. The cats feel a bit shy. To determine if we are real, and not just a manifestation of their own thoughts, the cats stay awake and sit on us and hang out in the room for hours that night. It dawns on the cats we are real, we always existed that way. Now the cats have no idea where the hell we have been, or for how long we have been gone, except we have been somewhere -- re-entering from an environment that smells different.

sparrow

my faults
my positive adornment

my virtues
my base obscurement

once like
little lines and scratches

now like
terrifying mountains

and
precipitous gorges

me like
a little sparrow

tiny free
blown amongst high and low

happy in
the blue empty sky

Jack Spicer, nor John Wieners - or - My Dada Moment

Up until last week I didn't know a damn thing about Jack Spicer, nor John Wieners -- which astounds me, flat out astounds me. I appreciate knowing my writers, and I try to be aware about stuff in general, so I am not totally stupid. I had not the faintest inkling of two great and influential poets, Jack Spicer being one of the dynamos, one of the stars, one of the prime movers of "The San Francisco Renaissance", even though he despised publication. Richard Brautigan dedicated "Trout Fishing in America" (one of my favorite books) to Spicer, fer kristsakes! I mean, I know about Ginsburg and Ferlinghetti and Kerouac. I know about the Beats, I love City Lights Bookstore, I got drunk countless times at (and hid Hell Money all over) Vesuvio. I just can't believe I didn't run into the other side of the coin or discover the rest of a world, that universe, that story. I even studied at SF State, in the English Literature Department, in Creative Writing, yet no peep about Jack Spicer, who taught a famous poetry workshop, there. I can't understand that. Possibly people at SF State hated him, I don't know -- SFSU was a weird place full of disconnects. What a huge omission! So I ordered, at Latif Harris' suggestion, Spicer's collected works, and I'm picking up some collected poems of Wieners, and I look forward to reading these books & other poets that studied with Spicer and his cohorts -- including Latif Harris, who has his own collection of poems, "Bodhisattva's Busted Truth: Selected Poems and Dohas of an American Buddhist" out from last year. This all reminds me of a associate who is an artist, a fine artist, yet I discovered he had never heard of Dada & had no notion of it whatsoever. So here's my latest Dada moment, I guess. One of many more, to be sure. I truly do not know what I do not know.

Poem to Latif

meep meep

honk honk

bow wow wow

said the crow

to a cloud

Two Long Stemmed Roses

Two long stemmed roses hang on the wall, over the door, affixed there by not my hands. Long stemmed roses, blossoms dry and pale, an insect moves disturbing the dust. I have seen love grow and die, I have felt passions seize us suddenly -- tempered with a flawed reluctance. But now it is reflections on this love past, swelling in me, influenced in part by this room with books and scattered papers of writing and poems, and part of me, on how I gave and it was lost. The roses hang a few inches apart, blossoms down. I lean closer, and I look for the first time, and I see the roses have no thorns, and two leaves.

Pink Diamond

I go looking for you, but after 3 years I would have been surprised to find you still working the counter at the jewelry store. I remember how we told stories to everyone about the wonderful pink diamond that was displayed in the window -- such a rarity -- that is what started us off in the relationship. It was romantic and fun at first.

Then you dated other people without telling me, you told the other guys you were fucking I was your best friend. At the end of the year, after confusing me with lies, you took off and vacationed in Hawaii with a finance. Later, I called you up in my sleep in the middle of the night and told you I was lonely and I missed you, and why? But if you answered then the question, why, I wouldn't have heard it, because I was asleep.

Now there I was, 3 years later, actually excusing myself from a circle of shining friends, all of us piratically locked elbow to elbow laughing and chatting in the cafe. I told them I'd be right back, and I quickly walked down the street to the mall a half a block away. I watched myself in the glass doors, the reflection almost a silhouette, more like a hole than a person, and then I went in. The pink diamond was gone, and so were you.

fish in a fish tank just looking around thinking the tank is huge

7.12.99

latif i call you on my birthday and we scream like pirates

you old fucked up coot but we laugh ha ha ha ha haaaaaaa

because we both know someday i'll be just like you

and you'll be just like me but for now we're just like

fish in a fish tank just looking around thinking the tank is huge

blowing bubbles

and knowing

somehow the food will be coming down any time now

Time to Go

Someone from the family visited her almost every day at the recovery center when she was ill, she said she'd move nearer to my parent's house in Napa when she got better. But one day my Grandmother died alone, at the hospital, in the morning. A nurse had brushed her hair for a while, because they loved her -- when the orderly came back at 6 AM or so to check, my Grandmother was dead.

I am sure it was fine that way for her. I am sure it was fine.

At the funeral, for some reason, I ended up separated from my mother and father at the mass. It was not intentional; I sat behind my sister and my brother-in-law and their kids. When the service started, it was too late to move. So I cried alone in my pew in the church when they sang the psalm, "And He shall raise you up on eagles wings/ Fill you with the breath of life/ make you shine like the sun/ and hold you in the palm, of His hand..." I was surprised that psalm made me cry, I had not thought I would cry. I had no tissues.

Later, at the funeral home, I looked at my Grandmother's body, lying in the coffin. I was always afraid to touch a corpse, up until then. But I loved my Grandma so much; her body being dead didn't matter. When the wake was over, we were alone.

It seemed wrong to leave her there. It seemed wrong to just pop into a car, and drive off. I thought about this. Illogically, it was like intentionally leaving a wad of cash behind. I could hear the traffic on College Street, the candles were burning red in their glasses. The noise of the cars and the trucks seemed inappropriate, making the scene -- which should have been tranquil -- pathetic. My Grandfather had lain in this mortuary, in this very room, and I had felt the same way about the traffic. But these thoughts passed.

I reached out and stroked her cheek. I rubbed her earlobe a few times so it was warm and whispered her name as she lay so still in the coffin, saying goodbye Grandma, goodbye for the last time. It still felt wrong to leave her, but I looked at her and I knew it was time to go.

What Can Happen in a Single Year

A year ago, today, on May Day, I wrote a eulogy for our beloved cat Fritz-Christopher, who had died just the day before from a rare feline wasting disease called FIP. He had been sick for about three months, and we couldn't seem to nail down precisely what was wrong with him until near the very end. But by then we also knew that FIP is 99.99% fatal, and nothing practical could have been done to keep him from dying from it. We were very sad. But Fritz got to die at home, in the afternoon, after having a goodbye nap in the sun, on his favorite spot on the couch. When he was ready, we told him it was okay to go, and we gave him some private time -- when I came back from the store 10 minutes later, he was gone.

Now today, a year later, so many things have happened, changed, or is in the process of changing -- it is remarkable that all these events are contained in one year. Since Fritz died we

- Built a pool
- Had a baby
- Bought, rode for almost a year & then totaled a motorcycle
- I severely broke my wrist crashing the motorcycle
- My wife decided to go back to school and get her BFA
- My wife got accepted into the Chicago Art Institute
- We decided to move to Chicago
- I am switching groups at my work
- We moved out of the studio
- I painted half a dozen major works
- I published two books, one a selection of short stories

Wow.

Trick or Treat!!!

He heard a thump thump and a scratch scratch and a tap tap. A wicked sounding little voice outside said, "Let me in!"
"No!" he shouted.
There was a pause.
"Let me in!" said the same voice again. The doorknob wiggled.
"No!" he yelled again.
The doorknob wiggled in the wood of the door, then the doorknob popped out of the hole with a grind and a clang. A strange eye, glittery and wet, peered in at him.
More horrid scratching at the door.
"Let me in!" said the voice, sounding deeper and louder.
"Never!" he cried.
The wood of the door began to dimple and buckle down the lower half of the door. He could see long fingernails. He moved to flee, but it was too late.
The door crumpled apart and a thing bounced into the room, knocking over the single electric lamp, creating a crazy cockeyed shadow.
"Trick or Treat!!!" the shape screamed.
Then it pulled off its head and waited for some candy.

Ghosts in the Park

I think there are ghosts in the park. One sits on a bench, a smudge in the shadows. Sometimes I even swear I have seen one standing upright, flickering pale & greenish. I walk on. Then I see that specter is only a playground light burning in the night. But this does not make me feel better -- I am still scared of ghosts in the park.

I Wanted to Piss Her Off

I wanted to piss her off, so one day I painted all her razors with rubber cement.

So I Wanted to Play Jokes on Chung Tzu

So I wanted to play jokes on Chung Tzu. I call him up at 1 AM.
"Hello, Chung Tzu? Are you awake?"
"Yes," says Chung Tzu. "And how are you?"
"Fine." I say.
I call him up at 2 AM.
"Hello, Chung Tzu? Are you awake?"
"Yes," says Chung Tzu. "And how are you?"
"Fine." I say.
I call him this way and get the same response at 3 AM and 4 AM. Chung Tzu is no fun, he is no tease.
Chung Tzu comes over that morning, bight and early for breakfast. I am very tired & hung-over. When I see him, I say, "Hello, Chung Tzu? Are you awake?"
"Yes," says Chung Tzu. "And how are you?"
"Fine." I say.

The Era of Telephone Ring Porno

Sometimes he would call up a friend not to talk to them, but just to make their phone ring. He liked the idea of the phone ringing at someone's house, particularly if he knew they were not at home. It was a sort of like telephone ring porno. He'd call up Francois, and he'd start Francois's phone ringing, and he'd put his phone on speaker and listen to the ring noise, and imagine Francois's phone musically warbling in an empty house for 10 - 20 minutes. He'd do this to all his friends. 10 minutes here, 15 there, 30 minutes occasionally. Then people noticed that the phone was busy when people were gone, and it shouldn't be busy. It was happening regularly, in a creepy pattern, as if the CIA or some conspiracy was occurring, but they never suspected it was ringtone porno. Then answering machines started to become commonplace, and as his friends gradually adopted them, he'd have to leave a message. One day, all his friends in Seattle had answering machines. An Era had ended.

Chung Tzu Hits Me With a Stick

Every time I get close to saying something to Chung Tzu, he hits me with a stick. Every time I don't think he's got the stick, and I'm going to say something, he hits me with it -- it is like a conjurer's trick. No stick. I open my mouth and then, "WACK!! WACK!!! WACK!!!!"

Falling Out of Bed, A Hotel Room in France

I.

Last night my daughter falls out of her bed. I am asleep yet I hear the *thunk* as she hits the floor. She cries a bit, I get her settled again. Then later, the cat falls off of our bed. Are you okay kitty? Ok. I get up and check to see if the kid is fine & won't be falling off the bed again. Ok. Ok. Back to oblivion. Ok. I'm fast asleep, dreaming about something bizarre -- like giant glowing slices of bread, and then I almost fall out of the bed. What the heck is happening to us?

II.

I keep waking up in the middle of the night thinking I am in a hotel room in France, and it is raining. Then, waking up more, I discover it is not raining -- but I still could be in a French hotel room. To fix this, I turn on the lights. I am surprised to be at home in the United States. Crazy, man. Crazy. I turn off the lights and go back to sleep. I dream of being in a hotel room, somewhere in France. It is raining.

Son He Said

"Son," he said, "You'll find life to be mostly horrifying. Absolutely horrifying in all the contrary things people do to each other, say to each other, think of each other. You'll also be appalled, shocked, and misled by the people you love most. You'll learn that nothing is sacred -- furthermore, every just law, or truth, or simple decency is violated with little or no feeling by masses of people who never wish to think over anything other than what they desire. And these people I am talking about, the majority, will surely assault you, or humiliate you, or abuse you, or kill you if you get in the way. They, these people, will say that is just, and right for them, but wrong for you if you reciprocate in any way. And if they can't touch you, they will still hate you and lock you out any way they can. Eventually, as a reward for your clearer comprehensions on the inequities of the world (coupled with direct experience), if you're not strong, you'll likely lose your faith and go raving mad and die penniless in the street, while the greatest Bastards and Rapers, and Molesters of the Holy will retire in style to Dubai, or Florida to wait for the End of the World.* But cheer up, don't despair! We'll have some laughs along the way!"

* The "End of the World" being the end of their own own minds, but they don't understand that.

Just Like the Song

I did say "Thank you" too many times, I did. I did. And I can't get away, now, it is too late. Remember how many times I'd say, "Thank you?" At first it was nice, someone seeming appreciative and normal -- but then it became repetitive and oppressive. And later it was pathetic. You realized that I had grown up without a certain amount of human kindness. You realized, like in the song, I was just looking for Shelter. And all of my appreciation makes me more of a Stranger. And when I talk like this, again, like in the song, you don't know what I'm after. And whenever I open up a map or timetable, just to go downtown or find a new bakery, bookstore, or restaurant, you automatically shudder.

Hey! It is King Philip III Day!!!

Did you know that today, in 1578, Philip III was born? Here is his portrait, which hangs in the Museo Taurino, Seville, Spain. He was king of Spain and Portugal from 1598 to 1621. Many historians don't know this, but Philip III prided himself for his ability to balance tables on his chin, and pry bottle caps off with his teeth. He also was fond of a game called "Baacebal", attributed by the renown baseball historian Walt Swisserson as being one of the precursors of American baseball. Because of this, if Philip III were alive today, he'd be playing shortstop. But very few people know this. So All Hail King Philip III!

Lamentable

Several lamentable things happen on the way to the funeral. We take a wrong turn with the corpse and get lost with 40 other slowly driving vehicles with the "FUNERAL" placards in their rear windows -- having to stop for directions at the strip-tease joint was decidedly undignified for the deceased, a monsignor in the diocese, who incidentally spent many enjoyable hours there, so when the dancers came out for one last appreciative dance, well.

Vonnegut

Vonnegut
a great writer is dead

I agree
and the rest of it

is Kurt
blah blah blah blah

but Kurt
knew it would be

that
way

In the Storm

In the storm, on the boat, we can blame ourselves. It won't help, but there is plenty of blame to go around. When it was calm and sunny, drunk & as a joke, I threw overboard the life preservers. And you said you had a map, and knew where we were going.

Best Freinds

They could be seen as elderly but still in good health, even fit. They are on vacation together. Years ago, they were married as typical husband and wife, but they divorced. The outcome of this was two fruitful and much more successful marriages with other life partners, relationships that culminated in several interesting & even talented children apiece, and even wealth.

The other result of the divorce, is that they became best friends. And now, to be able to take a trip together this way is a great comfort. The respective second husband, and second wife are now dead, and the children all grown up and starting their own families.

Love is still there, too. But they leave it alone, because it is softly delicate, and muted, not to be disturbed. Yes, it is like a very very old novel, an edition that cannot be replaced, a favorite read, yellowed and ready to crumble into nothingness if mishandled.

Wherever You Go

To make myself feel better, I imagine every place I go is merely an extension of my own living room. I close my eyes, breath deeply, and I see an image of the whole universe flowing out from my living room, so now anything that wasn't my living room is inseparable from it. Try it. For me, you reading this, is just another part of my living room. Imagine the universe flowing out from whatever room, or place, or time, that you are comfortable and secure in. Then wherever you go, you are there.

Said to Self

Talking to yourself is okay. Mumbling to yourself, okay. Yelling at yourself, arguing with yourself, or hitting yourself, not okay. Punching self, as I said, no. Punching = hitting. Jumping up and down, screaming to self, once or twice, yes, but no more. Singing to self showtunes, no. Singing "Whoops I Did It Again" never, under any circumstances. See "Banned Songs" post.

10 Points on How to be a True Gentleman

(Some posts deserve to be resurrected, no matter how long ago I posted it. In this day and age, this one is especially timely and poignant. From April, 2003. I suggest you print it out and carry it at all times in your wallet, or billfold, when emergencies or difficult situations arise.)

10 POINTS ON HOW TO BE A TRUE GENTLEMAN

1. Always be gentle, polite, and speak kindly and nicely at all times
2. Never throw things
3. Moderate your nasty habits
4. Think, "I am attractive."
5. Remember to inculcate a feeling of modesty, and diligence
6. Never kick animals, especially at parks and nature preserves, or in front of children
7. Use spittoons if you chew, or a handkerchief if you use snuff
8. Avoid any kind of low drink such as Vermouth, or Gin that is sold in plastic containers, and soforth
9. Attend a Church occasionally
10. Do well, and fear not

A Short Story

It has been awhile, hasn't it? Looking at the budding trees, a space that will soon be a renewed wall of shivering green, I was thinking almost fondly of you. But I'm glad you're dead. And I'm glad I did it.

rude poem

i write this
rude
rude
rude
rude
rude
little poem

It was then when he realized suddenly

It was then when he realized suddenly, with a flash of private joy, that he was living in the midst of golden days...days that later in his life he would look back over, and feel pleasure towards, he'd feel even a profound reverence for these days. What he was doing now would warm his heart and bones as a lonely old man. He tossed the grenade into the foxhole and ducked before it exploded.

good/ a short poem

good
a short poem
i keep it
or i throw it away
that is all there is
to it

i threw a

i threw a
dime
into hell
and
someone spent
it
far below

A SUGGESTED INSCRIPTION

A SUGGESTED INSCRIPTION FOR
A CHEOPS NEEDLE OR SIMILAR
MONUMENT


I FOUND A RUSTED RAZOR BLADE
ON THE ROOFTOP
IN SLANTING RAIN

I ACCIDENTALLY BROKE A LIGHT-BULB
AND SCATTERED ITS GHOST
UNDER MY COUCH

I LISTENED TO THE LOVELY ARIA
SUNG BY THE FAMOUS
LOVELY OPERA STAR

THE PHONE RANG FROM TIME TO TIME
AND IT WAS THE WRONG NUMBER
OVER AND OVER AGAIN

AFTER IT WAS QUIET FOR A LONG TIME
I REACHED FOR THE RECORD
AND I PLAYED THE ARIA AGAIN

THE RECORD
DEVELOPED A SKIP
SO I GOT ONTO MY ROOF AGAIN

I TRIED TO
HUCK THE RECORD
HALF-WAY TO THE STARS

BUT IT ONLY FELL
SMASHING TO SMITHEREENS

IN THE STREET

ANNO DOMINI 1993

YOUR ASSIGNMENT

Study the effects of Typography on total strangers.

Lunch at the Beach (The Sand Keeps Piling Up)

Lately, every day Martin goes to the beach for lunch. He eats a few bites of his pathetic hand-made sandwich, with its runny tomato on top of sad baloney, then throws himself down face first in the sand, and cries. A bum who lives at the beach has gotten used to this routine and shouts encouragement from a sand dune away, "Yes buddy! That's it! Let it out! You're crying for the WHHOOLE world!" Martin pretends not to hear the bum. He gathers up the sand around him, to get comfortable, like gathering up covers and pillows. He does this as his tears dry. He does not remember, but he did this same repetitive soothing arm motions when he was a small infant. It made him feel better then, and it still does now. Meanwhile, sand is piling up everywhere, in Martin's pockets, his car, the office...there are small traces, trails of sand to the coffee machine, to Martin's front door...his coworkers don't know what to do, because he won't talk. Martin doesn't know what to do. So the sand keeps piling up.

Note on the Tao

the darkness
is Tao

it does not
swerve

it does not sit

The Moment Snaps

It is past sunset, night settling in. We're crawling along in stop and go traffic when suddenly, a sedan four cars in front of me is savagely rear-ended. We enter a moment that seems unnaturally long. The entire back is smashed in, the end of the car now looks like a frog's mouth. Something like that, but before my brain can come up with any other metaphors the moment snaps, things speed up, there is a muffled explosion as the whole back of the rear-ended car ignites in a scorching blaze. Things are moving faster, faster. I can feel the blistering heat from four cars back. I see car silhouettes swerving right and left through thick smoke, one has come to a stop almost directly behind the stricken sedan -- I have a split second to decide where to go, so I swing onto the shoulder and I aim to pass the fiery car on the right. As I get close, the passenger-side door of the car pops open and a teenage boy jumps out -- I think he screams "Mom!" or "Oh No!", I nearly hit him, and he doubles back towards the front, to the driver's side. I keep driving, the fire getting smaller and smaller in my rear-view mirror. In the fresh night sky, still deep blue with only one star, there is an ominous black puff of smoke going up.

I get home, and the feelings have been building, they crystallize when I get into the house and I see my roommates; I feel like a coward. Why didn't I stop? I don't know if I could have done anything, but why didn't I stop? I go outside, to see if I can see the column of black smoke, but it is too dark to see. I light a cigarette and I ask out loud, as if God was there, "What the hell is wrong with me?"

Vampires

On January 03 at 6.20 AM, there is just a hint of light -- a vague suggestion day is going to arrive. Vampires are hurrying home to their coffins & burial vaults -- but the I15 freeway has been jumping with traffic since about 4 AM, if you can believe that. With traffic like this, it comes as no surprise that quite a few Southern Californian vampires are incinerated while stuck in early morning backups.

6.27 AM now, and the sky has started to turn from cloudy black to the color of plum. At this make-or-break time, lines of cars begin to queue up from the 78 freeway interchange, heading south down the I5. Speeds are dropping, dropping, before the Ted Williams exit traffic moves in the teens. Before Interstate 8, cars come to a dead stop.

At 6.33 the sky is grey and getting lighter. The city begins to hum as surface streets fill up with surplus traffic. All is well, or not -- that last drink of blood in Scripps Ranch or Saber Springs could have been your undoing.

The Last Flight to Niagara Falls

(I wrote "The Last Flight to Niagara Falls" a few years back, probably in 1997 or 1998. I was thinking about this tribute, or story, for the past few weeks, I wanted to post it, but I couldn't find it. So on this day, I decided to rewrite it as best my memory recalls.)

In the final years of his life, my Grandpa had a continuous series of small strokes. These strokes were so small, at first we barely recognized his cognitive abilities were being eroded away, but soon Grandpa's speech and some motor skills became affected. Because of this, eventually he had to go into the hospital.

He ended up sharing a room with another elderly gentleman, named Mr. Zimm, I think. As roommates, there was a bit of confusion on what was whose, because Grandpa and Mr. Zimm were both on par when it came to forgetful & senile. Some days you’d go to visit Grandpa and he’d be wearing one of Mr. Zimm’s sweaters inside-out, while Mr. Zimm might be wearing Grandpa’s base-ball cap. You’d see Grandpa’s sweater was two sizes too small, and the hat on Mr. Zimm was a few sizes too big. It took quite a bit of effort and considerable protesting all around to straighten these situations out, so eventually (unless it was absolutely essential) we just let these random swticheroos of glasses, shirts, hats, canes, etc, be uncontested.

Mentally, at the hospital, Grandpa could be with you one moment, but then at some point in any interaction he would be away. He roamed free, unrestrained through his life’s recollections, thoughts, and memories, past and present.

But no matter where or when he was, or with who, he was nobody’s fool. Due to the strokes, his balance was not so good, so often the staff would make him use a wheelchair. Because he was willful, he would get out of the wheelchair. So they put a small strap that belted him to the seat. On that day, my mother was visiting.

“These bastards say I should get some air.” said Grandpa. “Lets go to the cafeteria.”

On the way there, mom pushing, Grandpa flew of somewhere in his head and was gabbing happily in the 1920s. But when the got to the cafeteria, the sunlight seemed to bring him back to the present situation. Grandpa looked around carefully.

“Hey!” he whispered to my mother. “Shhh. Hey!”

“What?”, asked mom.

“Keep it down!”, said Grandpa. He fiddled with the loose white strap keeping him in the wheelchair. “See, there’s this thing here…this thing and..if I only had a pocket knife. Do you have a pocket knife?”

“No.” said mom.

Grandpa couldn’t help but rolling his eyes and exclaiming loudly, “Jesus Christ, you have no knife!” Then, quietly to himself, “What I could do with a small little knife.”

Back to the room, after he was helped into bed, Grandpa was back in the 1930s, at his desk for the railroad. Blueprints all around him, it was a winter’s day just started snowing, and he had a deadline with a new set of plans. He snapped on the drafting lamp, looked over sheets and sheets with an expert eye and was dictating, positively cracking along, making some side sketches and notes when my Grandma and his daughter came to visit, but he didn’t notice. Mom tried to talk to him, but he waved at her off while he was still dictating in an expansive way, like she was some kind of clueless, interrupting secretary.

After some time, visiting hours were over, and we said goodbye. As we did this, the blueprints, desk, blotter, phone, pens, walls, office, all meted away. Grandpa asked timorously, eyes full of tears, you are going? Where? Why we did we have to go? Why did he have to stay, wherever he was? Grandma soothed him as best she could.

I heard later, Grandpa deduced that he was staying at an airport. This would explain all the young people, the shift changes, and all the random people coming and going. When he decided for sure he was staying in an airport, it became essential to have a ticket. His ticket was for the last flight to Niagara Falls, where he grew up, got married, had children, and spent some of the happiest years of his life. Over the next few days, when Grandpa had visitors, he would first ask if you had a ticket – the right ticket for the last flight to Niagara Falls. It was essential that you understand this, and NEVER say you didn’t have a ticket. Otherwise Grandpa would get quite upset.

A few days after that I believe it was an intern who forgot to strap Grandpa into the wheelchair, and that day he got out, hobbled into the hallway and was clawing through soiled linen containers looking for his hat and more plane tickets, of which the hat, he had on his head. When they tried to get him to stop he struggled with them, cursed, he had to be gently restrained in his bed. This made him even angrier, Grandpa raged, so a Nurse decided to give him a mild sedative. But with the clogged arteries in his head, the dose was strong, very strong – it made him groggy, his eyes became clouded, Grandpa closed his eyes, he lapsed into unconsciousness.

After this accident, still unconscious, he came down with pneumonia. Grandpa’s lungs filled up with fluid that he could not expel. He slept on, and while he slept I am sure he dreamed countless extraordinary dreams. But the situation could not go on, despite the fact he would no longer ever wake up again so we could say our farewells. At a certain point, his consciousness was free to go wherever it wanted to be, without any restrictions, or any tether to his old worn out shell.

Dedicated to Robert Arthur Evans
11/13/14 - 2/15/97

Other Things from Ipanema

1. The Yahtzee Game from Ipanema
2. The Hoagie from Ipanema
3. The Ball of Hair from Ipanema
4. The Angry Under Tipped Waiter from Ipanema
5. The Bum from Ipanema
6. The Yellow Pad of Paper from Ipanema
7. The Bicycle from Ipanema
8. The Certified Pre-Owned Sedan from Ipanema
9. The Socks from Ipanema
10. The Ass Pinching Whistling Perverts from Ipanema
11. The Imported Mineral Water from Ipanema
12. The Insane Hooker from Ipanema
13. The Shitty Hotel from Ipanema
14. The Shitty Hotel Robbing Staff from Ipanema
15. The Rubber-Cement Bottle from Ipanema
16. The Doorbell from Ipanema
17. The All Night Poker Game from Ipanema
18. The Bar Tab from Ipanema
19. The Unexpected Phone Call at 3am from Ipanema
20. The Quarrelsome Oldsters of Ipanema

I Am a Tapper

I am a tapper. I tip tap tappy tap my feet all day long. I try not to, but it comes out, a rapid metronome. Where does this come from? My dad is a clapper and a snapper. He also is a slapper, he'll do a snap clap and smack his thigh when he is in high spirits -- when he feels glad to be alive. I don't think my mom taps, claps, snaps, or smacks. My dad's mother, she whistled. When I tap my feet, it is not because I am glad to be alive, but because I am thinking fast & furiously -- trying to solve problems. So I tap under stress. Where does it come from, I ask again. I do not know.

WHAT THE DALI LAMA WOULD SAY IF HE LIVED IN SUBURBIA AND YOU AS A TEENAGER GOT SICK ON HIS FRONT LAWN AT 3AM

My face is like your face -- a face you don't want to know -- a face you have come to fear and resent. I'm talking about the original face -- in not knowing it, we are haunted by the not knowing. We therefore live in the Realm of Desire, wanting innumerable things to help us forget the original face, which is empty. And get off my fucking lawn, too, in the middle of the night. Another drunk, stupid kid.

Monday morning

Monday morning
I wake up out of a sound sleep
and I feel dead

I'm hung over
I'm tired
I have this bile taste in my mouth

Monday morning piss
Monday morning shower
Monday morning runs
Monday morning cereal & cup of coffee
Monday morning shirt, pants, socks, shoes

Drive my girlfriend to her job downtown
that she hates but can't quit because
it pays our bills

Monday morning driving back for some
reason I see cops cops cops cops
cops cops
I suppose I should feel safe
but why are there so many cops out
on Monday morning?

I get home, parking being a breeze
Monday morning runs again
My stomach feels like I have a boot in it

So here I am now
sitting by the window at the table
in the kitchen

Ready to make my endless phone calls
and I can't take it anymore

I grab the empty coffee cup
and I huck it out the window

It soars through the air
smashing against the neighbors brick wall
just across the way
their kitchen window shoots open
and they look at me

I wave at them
wordlessly, they wave back

I begin to make my phone calls


SF
1993

Stink Bad

His feet stink. The caps-lock gets stuck, accidentally, on his keyboard, and he types THEY SMELL! These socks didn't smell in the morning, when it was cold. The socks had to warm up, then get dosed in some fresh sweat. Sweat like fresh coffee to slumbering bacteria. Mmmmmmmmmmm....sweet sweat. He thinks back to the time in Venice, on the crowded Vaporetto in the night with the two gypsies, a brown color of homelessness on them. The locals edged away from the rank stench of the two guys, who thought being so stenchful was hilarious. When they got off the water bus, grinning, laughing, the Venetians muttered Italian curses under their breath. I'm not that bad, he thinks, coming back to the today, now. Not near that. Not like the time I had that contracting job, ten years ago with the cursed pair of hiking boots that smelled like baby vomit. The cursed hiking boots that smelled like baby vomit. Now that was bad.

mom/ dad

mom
dad
if they
kill me
in iraq
on my
fourth rotation

don't
tell them
when
they
hand over
the folded
flag
you're
"so
proud"

don't tell
them
that!

tell
those
sons a bitches
you're
mad as
hell at
the waste

tell
them
for me

and say
you're
mad
as hell
because
i didn't have
to die

i didn't
have to go
and die
out there
of all
places

if i'm
gone
you can
say
anything
for me

just don't
say
"so
proud"

Piss Me Off & Drive Me Crazy

Here's a few ways to piss me off and drive me absolutely crazy, all at the same time: name a company-wide key server after a girlfriend, pet, spouse, or child. Come up with a codenames for all software projects named only after mountains. Name any kind of test you have to run several times a week after a type of food, or a kind of cocktail, or a dessert. "What are you doing today?" "I'm running Baked Alaska four times on Denali & K2 over Sweet Baby Hailey." Wheee!

Two Mornings, Overheard

I woke up last morning, and as I lifted my head, I heard a voice, like God's, by the surface of the pillow. It was a very quite voice, clean, precise and still. It said, "Every shape started out as a clear idea, whose meaning now is twisted and confused." This morning, while I was waking up, my infant son was sleeping next to me. Half asleep, I imagined he was saying words like, "Pillow...Pillow...Pillow", or "Cloud..Cloud..Cloud" over and over again. I woke up, and realized he couldn't be speaking, because he is 5 months old. I am convinced the two events are not interconnected, but tomorrow, I wonder if I will hear someone talking as I am waking up, and what will they be saying?

Bang

This is not about the rain, or how it rained at the funeral. This is not about the accident, about how her arm stayed soft and warm for a while, how her head was turned so her hair covered her face. I'm staying where James Bond stayed at the end of that film. I'm a goddamn fucking time cowboy now. I'm stepping back, and it's just like it never happened. I've decided to be like Fellini now, and be in a movie like he does a movie where we can sorta dream at will and anything is possible, because I'm in my head now. This is a story of me now in my head. No, I take that back, I want to be outta my head. Rain drops keep falling on my head, just like on the smallest coffin you ever saw. My torso is covered in welts. Okay, go play checkers with my brains— that doesn't sound right, but go ahead. And while you're at it, rearrange the furniture and paint because we're gonna end up divorced probably anyways. I'm going to try hard now, nail this shit down and shine through if I can – to the Lighthouse, ya know what I mean? To the Lighthouse. Fuck you Virginia Wolfe. I'll try hard this time, not make excuses or get caught up in images. It is very simple. I like that word. Simple.

Specifics? Last year I lost my wife (35) and my daughter who had just turned (3) when our Jeep Cherokee (a model 99) overturned and slid on its side and hit a tree trunk. The tree was unscratched. But later it still died. Ain't that a laugh riot? Everybody involved in the crash dies but me. Even the tree. My wife's family has blamed me exclusively for the accident. I think they are angrier that for once I wasn't drunk, that it was just a freak accident not having to do with excessive speed or anything like that. No, to them quite frankly, I was the freak. Fuck you fuck the blame. Fuck up. Fuck over. Fuck off. No thoughts. Dark. Well, a little light. Like in a Fellini film -- things come into focus so slowly at first with no sound, in reverse-dissolve George Frederick is sketching, he eats lunch, he participates in group therapy. On an improbable 'red letter day' he is released, he goes home, he says no I am fine, don't worry. Neighbors show up, ding dong. I just need to be alone, to grieve. He grieves in the empty big colonial style house that is five years old near Sterling, Virginia. It does not help. The house or the grieving. Under control and in his own mind he shoots himself in the head with a pistol.

(In truth, he puts the pistol down. He didn't have the courage to shoot himself like he wanted to. I mean, I don't. I mean, obviously I didn't, as my name is George Frederick. I just buried the Sig Sauer 9mm three feet deep in my backyard, where I used to watch my daughter Sara play, Sara pretending to be a princess of a far way kingdom that I’ll bet looked just like Disneyland. I want a gun tree with 222 little toy guns. No, I don't want a gun tree. I want to write something funny here. I wanted to end this with something more poetic or more semiotically clear, a better symbol or symbolic action to round out the story. But I guess I don't have it in me. My wife once said to our daughter, "Fill me a thimble full of tears, and then...bla bla bha blah blah." I can't remember what she said while I was in the other room being a stone-hearted fuck. Well, I've cried my thimble full and more, and there's no going back once you've started that business. But I took my thimbles of tears and I emptied it. I just cry regular now and let the tears go down my face and splash on my jeans. Some tears land in my hand. I carry them like they are little birdies and I sprinkle them out our bedroom window. I can imagine certain things now, very specifically. Fly away you two fly fly away. And sure enough Jesus Christ, just like in a Fellini flick, I see from the camera's perspective -- zooming up into the sky, all the while looking down at me lying in the Jeep on that rainy night the whole time, the camera zooming away astonishingly fast and smooth as a rocket or missile with no flash and no noise and no smoke. Oh excellence! I know it makes no sense, too many mixed metaphors. But that is how it is, now. I can hear glass exploding, steel crumpling. The seatbelt tight enough on Sara to strangle her. Then we hit the tree. Bang.)

(Live over at www.opiumnagazine.com, today.)

After Our Blind Date

Dear Sally!

I didn't mean to give you the CREEPS. I should have told you I have no hands. Only hooks. Shiny chrome sharpened hooks (think Captain Hook x2), because I take pride in my appearance. So, I promise to be in a better mood when we meet next, also, and not yell at the cabbie that way I yelled! Lordy me oh my, you're a sweet gal, I can tell, very thoughtful and intelligent and I'd like to get to know you better. Please don't say no.

Optimistically,

Martin

Wrencream

Wrencream is old and he slouches. His lamps are smoking, the light in his window is yellow and unsteady, the roof of his house tilts to the south. Nobody visits him because they think he is dead, or dying. They say he steals children, and sells them to the gypsies. But I know more, I see, I look, I watch. I see old Wrencream going out the back door of his house in the early morning, just before the sun comes up. He drags a wheeled carrier he has made out of scraps of wire and wood making tracks the frost. He usually heads over the frozen fields, through the birches, to the abandoned asylum, to look for things he can sell or recycle. Last week he sold an antique bottle to a tourist for a paltry sum for the tourists, but a huge amount for him, and us.

He is old in my vignette, with a huge mane of hair, shaggily cut. He wears boots, he trudges, his trousers sag. He barely looks around, but he knows if someone is going to throw a rock at him. I can tell, by watching him, that he contains an entirely separate thing within his own head. He is quietly possessed by something, but with what, what? What makes him so quiet? So subtlety knowing? You might say in him is a distinctly separate World, or Universe. But not just any imaginary place. I suspect there is an exceedingly rare Universe in his head. As if God created one privately, a better one, a purer one. He plays odd, high music in the night, presumably on a fiddle.

The Fable of Fonterloughighoblo

Getting ready for the big day, one of the elves comes to me, he has his hat in his hand. And I haven't ever seen an elf with his hat off, so this can't be good. He says they can't find the list. I'm so goddamn busy I'm ready to shit bricks and mail them to Timbuktu. What list? I ask. THE LIST. Says the elf. Jesus Jumping Christ in Red Plaid! I exclaim. Did you ask Mrs. Clause? Yes! says the elf. So after that, we tear up the workshops, warehouses, storage & lofts, we rifle through the stables, look under every tree, present, box, trunk, hay pile & bail, turn over every wreath, look in every nook and cupboard, to no effect. Cookies and Cockeyed Crumpets, we're F--d! No List. Who had the List, last? They name the elf, Fonterloughighoblo, and he's not here, so we all go to his house. And lo, there he is, passed out dead drunk, and the list is in shambles, all over the place. I can't make head or tail of it, the pages all mottled, crumpled and smudged. I see he used some of it to start a fire. So there it is, with no list we had to improvise. Because of Fonterloughighoblo, 2006 was the year everyone got a crate of Spam.

Newsflash - Hills Block the View

Hills really do block the view? You must be joking.

On the Side of the Road

We saw this today, at about 8.30 in the morning.

empty room

i loved the empty room
light pink
with the cat
laying in the middle

night time
it was blue
as if
filled to the brim with rain

the
next morning
ordinary furniture
attacked

News Flash!

Thrown over into our booth at Islands yesterday at lunch. JAKE LIKES EMILY!!!!!!!

Selected Excerpts from a Journal

(Selected excerpts from a Journal, transcribed exactly as it was written, circa 2001.* The pages were found in the junk raked out of a partially burned house on Elm Street, in San Carlos, CA, in 2006.)

----

August 2
....Just finished moving into Bellingville, TN.**

August 4
Just my luck -- whose kid has the two-stroke scooter? Who lets thir fucking kid ride the goddamn scooter up & down the road at 2 in the morning?

August 5
Of course, nobody knows who the kid is. Then, later, when I go to the police they let slip that it is, apparently, one of their kids. The police chiefs’ kid.. Can I speak with him? Who, what?

August 12
I go to Martin Blackwell's house. Our absent chief of police. A faded note on the door all words blurred except: florida

September 13
There it goes again -- I get out there with a maglight. Under the dark moon, I hear the scooter shrieking along -- and my light shines all the way up the windblown road, leaves flying and it shines on nothing. Cliché blast of icy wind, the sensation of being brushed by something -- what?

I instinctually begin to back up. I shine the light where I hear footsteps, up the drive. Just blowing, twirling leaves. I turn and when i start to climb the stairs i'm bengmuffled by something - prssing on my arms tripping me panicking I get back inside, drenched in sweat, trembling, I realize what it felt like -- a hand. No bike. No person.

A word a name whispered in my ear. Who, I promptly forgot. A girls.

September 15
There is a shadow in my yard, at twilight. My imagination may be getting out of hand. but after seeing it hang around at dusk, flitting around the yard in my peripheral vision, I imagine me saying to a shadow in my yard.

What do you want?

Fun. Says the shadow. I want to have fun.

What does that mean? Who are you?

Nobody. Says the shadow. Nobody now.

September 17
Tan Martin Blackwell points a .44 magnum at my chest and says his son is dead. He was killed by the first gulf war.

If I come around again, he will kill me. If I ask around about his son, around town, he will kill me. If I tell stories about scooters he will kill me. I don't know if I hate him, if I feel pity for him, I just say goodbye.

He watches me close the fence to the drive, tears in his eyes.

October 4
Carl sits on my porch. Carl rides his scooter at 10 at night. Carl's girlfriend used to live here, back in the 1980s.

At the library, I look up his obituary. Carl died after his discharge. The librarian tells me he walked into the woods with a rifle and blew his brains out. Who else sees me? The phone rings in the middle of the night. The voice sounds faint, slurry. I'm warning you. Stay out of it.

October 7

Via the internet, I try to find the family that lived here. I stay away from the library,

November 11
Dictating from St. Johns Hospital

On Wednesday, October 10 a police car pulled away from my house when I come home. I find Blackwell in my kitchen.

I woke up one side of my face warm, the other cold. Blackwell in firelight. In the woods. My hands tied.

I can remember what he said, almost word for word.

I want to tell you about my Son. My Son. He was the first in this family to ever go to college – football scholarship to the state school here – no big deal but it was something for us. He was so proud of himself, you should have seen him on graduation – poly sci. I didn’t even know what the hell that was. Then he joined up, because he said some day he was going to run for President, he had it all mapped out on note cards, I still have them. And he needed to serve so he joined up and he was decorated – he was a goddamn war hero. Saved his squad from an entrenched position, something like that, but he came back changed. Had no fire in him anymore, was good for nothing, we tried to help him but his mother, she got killed by a drunk driver. And he rode that goddamn 2 stroke scooter after that. Was fucking a 17 year old girl who was running away from home all the time. What a fucking mess. So she runs away again and my pal sees her in Memphis, loitering, on drugs, so he calls and I have them do a special job for me -- a bag on her head to bring her back, because she’s pregnant. They hog tie the bitch and she strangles accidentally on the way back.

Blackwell puts more wood n the fire, takes a piss. Pushes back his hat.

Then my son, he kills himself when she doesn’t call or come back. I never meant to kill her. I never meant to kill anybody. I see her face on milk cartons now and again. She’s buried right over there. Under the tree. So you get up writer. Here’s the conclusion of your story, ain’t you happy, Mr. Writer? You’re gonna get up, go over there, and find her, and her baby. Get up you son of a bitch.

Nosy son of a bitch, poking your nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Fucking with things that don’t concern you.

He propelled me forward, over the fire, and into the tree, and I fell, scattering bones, A skull with fine straight white teeth stared up at me, with a few strands of faded blonde hair. And by that skull, there was a smaller egg like thing, with two holes.

I could see his silhouette, the gun coming up. The first bullet grazed my skull. My eyes were full of blood. As I started to move, another bullet broke my left arm.

I ran and ran, pitch black woods, down a cliff, then into a stream and over rocks and he followed for awhile shooting but then he couldn’t go on.

I think I heard him arguing with...and then they found him face down in the stream with two handprints on his shoulders.

----

* There is a Wednesday, October 10 in 1984, and in 2001

** There is no Bellingville, TN. There is a Billingsville, MO.

love is here

love is here
like a star

up there

yes that far
away

this here stiry

this here stiry is a gost story and i am teerified out of my mind right now typing with one hand bdecause i have fallen downstairs and i think i broke my left wrist after seeing a headless man and nosw ther are two of them is coimg slowly towards me all bloody this is our house our house our house

ADULTS

You know what I hate most about people? It is when they become ADULTS. You become ADULT when you lose your Imagination. After you lose your Imagination, unavoidably, sooner or later you become Offended by things you don't understand. That is the second thing I hate about people, when they decide to be Offended about something. But that is what ADULTS do, they can't help but become quarrelsome and divisive, because having no Imagination makes a person depressed and easily startled -- and we fear what we do not know. We are then ready to be Offended by something or someone. And people without Imagination are afraid of being afraid, they are afraid of fear, they are afraid of others, and eventually, they are afraid of themselves. For these reasons, ADULTS live a piteous, miserable existence.

Now That I Think I Am Awake

Right before I wake up, I dream I go downstairs and tell Phoebe to take a bath. While Phoebe gets in the bath, I notice the bathroom floor has small plastic Barbie shoes and other doll accessories strewn all over it. Then I wake up, I go downstairs, and I tell Phoebe to take a bath. This time when she's getting ready for her bath, I see that the bathroom floor is clear of doll accessories. Then I wake up again, this time hopefully for real. I go downstairs, I avoid telling Phoebe to take a bath, and I get a cup of coffee. I wait for a bit, and I don't wake up again. So now I'm awake, I think. How are you doing today?

persistence

he wrote terrible
poems

each one more
terrible than the last

and he kept
sending them to

this small
magazine that

really didn't
use poetry

and he knew
in his heart

someday he'd
get published there

POST YOUR POETRY

lies sadness
ENTER CONEST
confession to god
PREVIOUS WINNERS
FIND POEMS HERE
separation
POETRY IN MOTION
PREVIOUS WINNERS
stupidity anger
POST YOUR POETRY
ON THIS SITE
revelation
100 GREATEST POEMS
EVER WRITTEN
FIND POEMS HERE

he carries pebbles

he carries pebbles
around in his head

she has a house
full of designer furniture
in her mind

william totes endless baseball
scores brimming with
romance

alice is full of songs
like thousands of exotic birds
all escaping at once

a memorable fancy

to W.B.

i dreamed the reason why there is sin in the world
is because god miscalculated
how far a soul could be positioned from his presence
and remain inherently pure

calling grandma

i call you up
after the operation

you sound angry
i ask you how it went

you say pretty badly
but you're okay

you're eating lunch
and thanks so much for calling

i say i'll call tomorrow
i hang up the phone

a useless
hunk of plastic

one man revolution

you are a one man revolution
with only one idea
ruling a country of one

sometimes

sometimes i think
what it is like to be all grown up

is to realize that there are people
who are better than you at everything
you love

better than you by a million
times they just do it wow magic
just grace

but i keep on going
because mostly i'm stubborn
sometimes i'm sure i got some thing coming up inside
like a diabolical flower
massive crude
natural thing

Joe

In the dark San Francisco night
In North Beach somewhere back in time
I dreamed we wandered the cavernous
mysterious night
from bar to bar

Until we found in a back room
A card game going on
With people all so familiar with each other
Laughing and drinking
Sweating and throwing down cards
Telling wild stories and bragging

And who was there but Joe Di Maggio
So Young and slim and his face shining
Full of himself and his friends
Yelling out and laughing in the dim light
He wore a brown suit and the table shone

I was dumbstruck because
I knew he was dead as I watched him move
Among the sillhouttes and smoke

I was in a time I had never existed
But here he was in my dream
In his prime

(I had this dream a few nights after Joe Di Maggio died)

The Forbidden Chairs and Tables of the Piazza San Marco

In Venice, in the Piazza San Marco, you are firmly not allowed to sit on the chairs and tables set out there. Even if you are ordering a cappuccino or mocha, you are not allowed to sit in the chairs and tables associated with that cafe. No, no, it is impossible! Impossible! Please do not ask why. After getting your drinks, you review phalanxes of empty tables and chairs. They are roped into sections for each cafe by braided thin steel cables coated in plastic. Mysterious and remote -- empty of all butts -- conceptual art under wheeling clouds of pigeons. (BTW - a mocha is a drink you give a little kid, and civilized people drink a cappuccino in the morning, not in the afternoon, you stupid American.)

Night Sashay

In
San Francisco
Depressed & pissed off
I watch a man who lives
In an apartment next door
Straighten things out
In his living room

It is dusk
Night falling hard
Like a ton of bricks

The man moves about
Doing things
Picking up rearranging
Magazines and paperweights

Objects I cannot see
Yet it is easy to imagine
What he does the way
His shoulders move

I can make out what
He is wearing

A sweater
Blue jeans
He is bald

I am surprised
When I see his head bobbing
Very low next to the side
Of the back of the couch

His forehead almost
Disappears past the ledge of
The window

The he straightens up
Looking at some odd thing
He found back there

He continues to busy
Himself

The window becomes
Yellower

Light is falling
Falling falling dying
Just like my emotions
Seem to be smoothing out

Indifference soaking
Into my eyes
My mind
My body
My soul

And as this happens
He looks out and sees me
Sitting across the way
Typing

Staring

He walks out of the room
With a few things
In his hands

A minute later he comes back
Hands empty
Maybe he threw the shit
Away who knows

He stands there
And he looks at me
And I look at him

He moves over
To one side of the window
And as the drapes close
Bit by bit

I imagine how
They must go

Swish

Swish

Swish

Swish

Swish

Trying to Find Out Why Steve Brodie Jumped

When I was about 8 years old, my parents decided to get my sister and I a set of the World Encyclopedia...these were the quaint days before people used thing called "The Internet" to look up stuff. My parents had to put an order in for it, it cost a buttload of cash, and it was to arrive at Christmas. I must say, it was a big deal to get a set of the World Encyclopedia, we were all very excited. So my dad asked me, "Son, when we get the World Encyclopedia, what will be the first thing you look up?" He was probably thinking I'd look up something about Geology, History, or Astronomy. But I said, quick as a flash, "I'm going to look up why Steve Brodie jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge!!" "Who?" asked my father. I then explained to my dad that there was this Bugs Bunny cartoon where Steve Brodie jumps off the Brooklyn Bridge...but I knew that in real life no rabbit drove him crazy. So I was going to find out the REAL reason why Steve Brodie jumped off the bridge. By that time my pa had lost interest in the answer to his question. And when the Encyclopedia arrived, I found there was no reference to Steve Brodie. I wondered about it, and then one day when I happened to see that cartoon again on TV, I realized something. Then I thought f*** Bugs Bunny. F***ing cartoons.

An Austrian Christmas Story

Early, I know, but after seeing the damn Christmas decorations & merchandise going up at the local hardware conglomerate last weekend, this came to mind. So have a Merry Christmas, extra, extra early!

i.

In Austria, for Christmas, the hotel puts on a Christmas Eve bonfire and sing-along for the kiddies. After some songs, Santa shows up with presents, and our daughter gets a few nice little toys. Hot chocolate and cider for all. Very cute. Then I look close at the red paper bag the gifts came in, and I see that there's a sticker on the bag of a big leering Devil. He has a small child over his knee, the kid's pants are down, and the Devil is getting ready to paddle the crap outta the kid with a birch S&M switch. The kid looks terrified, tears spilling out of his eyes, and the Devil looks like he'd gonna bust a nut because he's so happy. Next to the Devil are chains and a wicker basket, to carry the beaten child to the flames of everlasting damnation. Then our daughter asks, "What are you looking at, Dad?" I say, "When you're bad in Austria, you don't get a lump of coal. No, you get beaten by the Devil and you get sent to Hell." I show her the sticker, and after a pause, she says "Oh."

ii.

After we get back to the hotel, I want to snag the Devil sticker to show everybody in the States -- but when we aren't looking, my daughter shreds it into tiny bits. "Oh!" says June. "You didn't like that did you?" "The Hell won't get me!" says Phoebe. "Why do you say that?" I ask. "Because if I'm bad, and I go there, the Hell won't be there!" "Where will he be?" I enquire. "He'll be out SHOPPING! Shopping for STICKS to smack BAD KIDS WITH!!" Phoebe yells, jumping up & down triumphantly. So, case closed. And I hope when I get sent to Hell, the Devil happens to be out at the Mall, replenishing his Infernal Devices. Or better yet, the day someone is damned, Hell just breaks down and can't be repaired. Just be extra good in Austria, don't forget that.

Estranged friends

Estranged friends
I miss you so
I’ll always miss you
Though things seem bent broken
Stretched all out
Beyond recognition or feeling

Here is something in us that loves
This way
Loves completely and entirely without effort
Naturally for ever and ever
Inexhaustible radiant complete
But it still hurts

(Poem Written on the Side/ Of an Old Envelope)

dedicated to Jennifer, who told me

A flock
Of birds
Few past
My window
And I could only
Watch them
For a few seconds
But they fluttered
In my head all
Day
A ghost flock
Of birds

A friend of mine
Sad she
(as a child)
Harbored a
Pigeon in her
Ear for
Almost 3 years*

She says
At the time
She thought all
People harbored
Birds in
Their ears

This is true
And also untrue


* My friend told me when she was about 3 years old she was walking down the street with her mother on a sunny windy day, and she was startled to see a white pigeon fly by close past her ear. When she turned, she couldn’t see where it went. So she concluded that when she cupped her hand to her ear, this soft noise she head was not the ocean, it was the pigeon now nesting in her ear…