Dear Nicholas, it's Auditory Recall 1978 this is just a test to see if i like the sounds the sounds the keyboard makes when i type.
i like the way it sounds. it reminds me of being a little girl and of my old cat Snuffer with
bladder control problems that would pee on my dad's lap as he tick-tacked away on the
typewriter in the next room and the way i would sleep with the bathroom light on and how
i like it pitch black now and how i was afraid that willie nelson would ride into my room on
a horse and cut my ears off with a dull knife and how i had scarlet fever and hallucinated
for three days while my mother sauteed onions in the middle of the night and how my other
cat nicholas had died in the front garden next to the tree that grew and cracked the concrete,
that grew from a peach that i had eaten and buried. i knew he was dead by the way my mother
said "get dressed and come outside, yes! its ok if you wear that dress just hurry!" he was laying
on his side under the peach tree, already stiffened, rigor mortis setting in before death. he had
eaten a poisoned rat. i would pray to nicholas at night knowing that it was blasphemy. sacreligious.
i knew that from learning about baal, thr golden calf, in sunday school. but i would pray to him
and picture him in the eternal fiery furnace and i would tell him that one day we would be reunited
and we could be eternally damned... together.
Dear Nicholas, as you burn in Hell, I am still here. almost thirty-two and life is still as complex as
it was when I was five.
i think i'll uninstall the typewriter keyboard sound emulator now.
good night, Nicholas.  ¶ 1:51 AM 6 comments

  I think I'll Write to my sister... i dont eat sushi in a restaraunt that smells like fish


the best parts of los angeles

she had decidedly so
unless it's really funny, she said,

her heart wrenched
she knew that they had discussed pornographically strapping her down with men's neckties.

i thought i only wrote it in magazines

thats a modern drink ya know  ¶ 4:40 AM 1 comments

  Amtrak It was Judd's 28th birthday. We decided to take a train up to San Fran with another couple. First class, private car, round trip, champagne, only 270 bucks. What a deal. The train pulled away from L.A. easy enough. Judd and I had some decent train sex. The other couple opted to fight (closed quarters, not a great choice). God bless the drinking car.

I remember the train would make periodic stops. Passengers would step off the train to stretch their legs and to smoke, myself included. There were some people selling things at the stops. Some people, already there, were just standing around for no apparent reason. I was just a tourist. I felt like I was travelling alone.  ¶ 2:01 AM 0 comments

  TRUE STORY I'm so weak, I fondly recant violence
I'm so smitten, I forget my middle name
What is the time I'm supposed to be at work?
I'm so moved, I'll stay in bed for the next two and a half days.
I often forget the part of everything
that doesn't matter
I'm so crippled, I won't return your phone call.
I'm so enthusiastic, I'll dream (your dream for you).
I'm so graceful, I'll blush.
I felt just like a baby, once.
I'm so compulsive, I'm predictable.
I'm nothing, if not sincere.
I wish I were a canary.
I cannot sing.
I cannot fly.
If it's o.k.,
I'd like to
believe in you.  ¶ 6:18 AM 0 comments

  "I'm in. just give me a minute."


Here we go again. Another attempt at being human. Resourceful without resources. Taking out the trash. I've been told a metamorphosis takes place when I drink to drunk. I step on conversations, hopes and perceptions.
Everyone's a monster sometimes.

This is a story about falling down. More so about that in between place where you're trying to get up again, but your leg's asleep because you enjoyed the numbness from your groin to your toe, so you try and find your footing, but your leg buckles beneath you... just like your confidence.

Let's see... What can we do about this? Drink more, fuck more, jerk off even more. Drugs? Dirty street drugs? Dirty anything? Oh, yes. Neglect all responsibility, but most of all, neglect thyself. Be the easter egg the kids couldn't find that sat atop the grandfather clock, began to rot and mystified the world with its powerful rankness. Be the dead thing on the side of the road that people wince at, but no one will scrape off the pavement and dispose of properly.

Be the pigeon to their dove, the rat to their hamster, the sallow to their tan. Be the mongrel that you know you are.

Fuck the coworker only with the awkwardness of the future in mind. Jerk off and think of blowing the blubbering retard that was abused relentlessly on the back of the bus in seventh grade and feel good about it. Feel alive. Exploit your own shame.

Just get up one more time. Go ahead. Build it all back up again, knowing demolition is right around the corner.

This is a story about every repressed instinct, trapped and restrained, evolving every day into a contorted, blistered, scoliosis ridden mutant that dwells in the basement of your psyche.

This is a story about you and me.

Diagnosed schizophrenic at the age of seven, I've also been categorized as bi-polar, obsessive compulsive, paranoid, and best of all, your classic multiple personality disorder. Now i'm merely your garden variety alcoholic-drug addict. With proper conditioning i've been able to move through society, almost undetected.

But those who are like me see me as I see them... an unspoken brotherhood of Defects, DOA's.
Reagan's children on the streets with their baby strollers full of "the homeless man's essentials" make eye contact and plead, "I know you!"

Maybe you do, but I'm not there yet...

Stefan was my first DOA. A six foot two inch skeleton cloaked in a thin veil of placid bluish skin. We met at a pub over shots of Maker's. We slapped each other around intellectually for a while, drank more and parted ways. A union was formed. He was dead alright. A spinal cord attached to a gelatinous consciousness. Hollow eyes that could never be averted from the grey side of humanity. But he was punk rock. Not your Brittish, The Clash punk rock, but more your taoist nightmare. It was all about the moment, and in that we found progress. Progress laced with speedballs.


"Hey, you have to hit me. I cant find a vein."

"I'm in. Just give me a minute."

Stefan is doing push ups trying to produce a vein.
I'm stashing the last of the coke that I know will be the saving grace in an hour or so when it's light but the sun's not up yet and the birds come out to feed on mice in the trees and the bats come out to feed on birds (see diagram).  ¶ 11:30 AM 0 comments

  no lovesongs fire and sweat
lay down together
we all have a place
the unfortunate ones

charging
the maps keep changing
weapons in mouth
following sound

dancing without kinetics
bear down
blisters
bear down  ¶ 10:05 PM 0 comments

  These Are the Things We Do Fish. Birds. Schools flying in figure eights to the
copulating rhythm of the universe.

How about we leave soon?

The New York Metropolitan, let's go in.
Succumb to the puerile methods used in what we call
modern expressionism.
Hefty bags of human hair forming birth-sack nests to rest
your sagging flesh in.

Refuel little jetfighter, your urd awaits, your star sack is
near empty.

These are the things we say in bars.
These are the things we do.

entropy...entropy...
Take you and your last Good Find.
Go to a nearby star and sleep.
It has happened before but never so bad.

Your cargo holds are filled with the last hope of a beginning.
Software is out there tracking your every move.
Good thing for you your ship is outfitted with the latest in
avoidance technology.
Take on the impossible and know it will never, ever happen.
X-85's move across the sky, but watch out for their direction.
From light years away... you have been chosen -
your help will now show us what you're made of.

How about we leave soon?

Though amused by the far reaches of space, it's still finders-keepers.
Good luck tracking your last hope:
just beyond light speed, long enough to be home.
Something is flashing...
Light penetrates.
Studdering image stuck to the floor flashing...
and there's no time to escape through the unseen door behind you.
So slide silently now with a moustache and dark glasses.
See how the old stuck to the old and you struck like something new.
Curiously flashing, curiously stuck.

These are the things we say in bars.
These are the things we do.  ¶ 3:02 PM 2 comments

  this is how Eva died They had a good time. They had a past, just not together. She thought he was good looking. He was indifferent. He was actually just a dirty Frenchman, mixed with something else. Eva was a beauty. More beautiful than Jean. She was neurotic. He was insensitive. His cold arrogance turned her on.

but this is a story of how Eva died.

She made half as much money as Jean. But she was a mark. Everyone bled her for her money. This is why she could never get ahead. It's not that she was unselfish, she just lived every day like it was her last even though she was always planning for the future. She did like to destroy things, she found creation in such things.

They both new better than to talk too much or try to "get to know ya". She liked that everyone at the bar, boys, girls, whatevers, they all wanted to fuck or be fucked by him. He liked the fact that even though she was among the legions who would fuck or be fucked, she still knew that she could and probably would change her mind if he blew it by saying something stupid or becoming overenthusiastic and losing his "cool" facial control. Essentially, the ball was in her court as it is in every female's. Open-Shut.

But oh yeah, Eva's going to die.

They got back to her place, because that's what was understood. Yeah, they were gonna do it.

She put on a movie. Mask with Cher. I know it sounds strange, but it put her in the mood. Anyway, Jean made himself right at home. He tinkered with her night vision goggles, glanced at her line drawings of Pip Pirrip, then plopped down on her futon, propping himself up with her only two pillows. She settled in next to him. It got a little chilly, but it might have been the movie. Regardless, Jean sunk his fists into his sweatshirt pockets. Sometime after Rocky Dennison put that pin on the map, but before he went off to that blind kids' camp, Jean's fist emerged from his Fred Perry, clutching a strand of dental floss. And yes, he began flossing, and yes, it was a deal breaker.

She couldn't even focus on Rocky anymore. Jean just kept flossing. Bits of partially digested food flew through the air. He was oblivious until the part where Laura Dern touches Rocky's face and he turned to look at Eva. He knew he wasn't getting any, but I don't think he realized it was because of the flossing.

But this is about how Eva died.

She kept getting colds all the time. She couldn't even go out to the bars. She was just tired. She turned into a shut-in. Sick all the time. Her party friends told her she needed psych meds. An old girlfriend brought over an eight-ball one night in hopes of cheering Eva up. They did the whole thing in no time flat and while Eva's girlfriend blathered on incessantly about nothing, Eva read a crappy issue of Rolling Stone backwards. Eva couldn't sleep until the next day, and when she finally did, she awoke with a nasty wet cough from the postnasal-dirty-cut-coke-drip.

A few days later, she surrendered to the green phlegm and fever dreams and went to a doctor. They ran tests and found she had Bronchitis and Hepatitis C. She was hospitalized. They started interferon for the HepC, but the bronchitis turned into pneumonia. Her friends brought her things like women's magazines professing "how to have an orgasm under two minutes" or "10 ways to tell if He's cheating". One girl brought nail polish. They never visited more than once. "She's all yellowy and only says negative stuff. She's such a downer," they'd say over a split Waldorf salad, pardoning themselves from future visits.

Yeah, she died eventually. Her dad was in Japan on business.

The girl that brought the nail polish told Eva that apparently Jean the flosser from the club had Hepatitis C, too. He had gotten it from screwing a speed freak on the rag who used dirty needles. "But I never fucked him!" Eva pleaded. She thought of the pinkish-white bits of matter that flew from his French face.

One can never underestimate the power of the microbe.  ¶ 3:29 AM 2 comments

  justice league Jeff is the type of person who, if he were a member of any other species, would be alpha male. However, his top heavy, low to the ground stature does not serve him in our cerebrally motivated race. I know, I know. The human race is not cerebrally motivated, it's sexually motivated. (I just happen to get turned on by brainy types, so thank you for indulging my "I just woke up with a morning semi" state.) None the less, Jeff is short. Bottom line. Even though he is intelligent, he's spent so much of his life being rejected by women and building up his upper body to compensate, that he now has this thing with "justice". Being "the little guy", I suppose he gets validation from his daily confrontations with people and in a kind of whiny voice, he pleads his case, reiterates the scenario to all his friends and somehow, justice is served. I'm getting sick of him.

I keep getting these visuals of him sitting on a rock with a tribe of silverback gorillas, sort of 2001esque but with more foliage. A territorial fight ensues, Jeff shows his teeth, howls, but instead of fighting, throws a clump of feces at his adversary and skuttles away on his knuckles.

Update (1 month later):
His muscles were too big and his character was too small. I'm glad I dumped him. I went by his place tonight to pick up the remainder of my belongings. His vanity! He hid his face in the couch pillows under the guise of heartache, but he was really hiding his new cold sore. Herpes shame. "Cupid's love bite," a friend called it. Whew! Made it out of that one unscathed.   ¶ 1:22 PM 0 comments

  mass exodus There aren't many things in this life beyond our control. I am so white, I'm bluish. the color of a faint bruise. I have small bosoms. I have a piece of glass that has been imbedded in my foot for the last ten years.

And now it has decided to make its way out. after all this time, I'm not good enough for it any longer. It's like a slug leaving it's shell. A parasite abandoning it's host. God abandoning Kafka.

All this time it's been there. So reliable a source of distraction from any other pain and discomfort in life. Going through a divorce? Just bear down on the ball of your heel a little harder. Your million dollar company folded? Just wear stilettos. That tiny piece of glass will remind you what REAL pain is.

And now it's leaving.

It feels a bit like when you've decided the relationship is over, but you have to sit and look at their shit in your house all day. I know this glass is there, but I also know it's trying to get away.

I should expedite the process and get a kitchen knife, cut that sucker open and squeeze that shard right out. Just get your shit and get out, muthafucka! That might be too much like the whitetrash moment when some crazy bitch is throwing dirty clothes and cds out over the fire escape, cursing some loser's name into the ether. Not really my style. No, I will let this piece of glass depart gracefully, like I do everything else that leaves my life. I will tell myself I still have my dignity. I still have a sense of humor. I never compromised my character.

Go ahead.

I will find a new distraction.  ¶ 1:15 PM 0 comments

  white noise i was pleased because i didn't bother rushing to transfer buses.
i was comfortable with my watermelon juice i bought on olvera street.
the bus came right as i finished a smoke.
i opened a book i've read four times like it was the first.
the same young couple and their baby girl climbed on.
the wife recognized me too.
the windows were open and the ac was on.
an old albino asian man had a silly fisherman's hat and golf pants on.
there were flecks of pigment around his ears.
he sat in front of me reading his newspaper from right to left.
i closed my eyes and listened to the song in my head.
people looked at me while i rested without feeling like they should look away.
the baby girl started crying.
the baby girl started crying loudly.
people shot evil glances.
the long haired guy with the pony-tail and tattoos asked if the baby was sick.
the baby got louder.
a man made faces at the baby and made even dumber suggestions on how to get her to quieten.
the baby did a backbend and wailed.
three more heads turned and shot nasty looks.
the long haired pony-tail guy moved seats.
the old asian albino plugged his fingers in his ears for the next twenty blocks.
i got off at my stop and heard nothing remarkable.  ¶ 11:13 AM 1 comments