Glittering bill boards,
and cigarettes.
Chunky high heels click and clack against the pavement,
while the boys hoot and hollar at the Hollywood hookers.
We hit the strip,
on our way to the beach bonfires,
and extravaganza parties.
We valet at the Chateau to do lines in the bathroom,
and fuck some faceless models in the women's bathroom.
I see some Real Housewife crying in the lobby
as camera's flitter around her.
Fake plastic tears,
and broken eyelashes
with bikini dreams
and strawberry Popsicle fantasies.
I ask the hotel bar for an extra gin martini in a rocks glass.
He gives me a blue cheese stuffed olive,
and I chuck it at his fucking head.
Me and the crew are chased out of the building,
leaving our drinks behind.
We sneak back in and piss in the pool,
overturning priceless marble statues.
The cops are called,
but by then,
we're long gone.
Bruiser crushes up a handful of pills and snorts it on the dash.
Chachki flashes those "come fuck me" eyes
and soon i'm wrist deep between her thighs.
Valencia, hands me a blue wine bottle.
The label is peeled off and in its place is a strip of masking tape with the words FUCK JUICE hand written in pink sharpie.
I take a swig and feel my eyes rattle around inside my head.
Chachki cums and pushes me out of her.
She takes the bottle and drinks.
She sips it as if it's a rare ambrosia.
Finally we make it to the beach,
but it's nothing but a group of homeless Venice junkies,
and pissed rich kids.
I bogart the FUCK JUICE and strip down.
I run for the ocean.
As soon as my feet touch the water,
my dick shrinks inside me.
Valencia finds me, and strips down as well.
We make out for a while,
finishing off our mysterious concoction,
and wrestle each other into the water.
He pushes me under,
filling my lungs with water.
I grab him by the throat.
He's hard
and so am I.
I'm pushed under once again,
as the waves crash hard against the shore.
Valencia is knocked down by the current and pushed to the sand.
I, however, am pulled out further into the body of water.
I decide to stay afloat,
and rest my muscles.
The current subsides,
as I hear Valencia's fading call from the shore.
Above me the moon laughs,
almost hysterically.
I follow suit,
losing concentration,
and sink,
manically laughing until the end.
Friday, November 27, 2015
Wanderless Number
I stroll past the old gnarly sycamore,
and glance up at the tangerine sky.
The wind is rather cruel this dawn,
and I'd much rather be be curled up at home with you,
but there's no longer an "us"
just "me,"
and the seasoned taste of rage that still lingers on the tip of my tongue.
Forgive me love for the feverish things I had to say,
and see it in your heart to forgive an irritable old man.
The years have never been kind to me,
and what once was precious and beautiful in my life,
has decided to flee.
I should have figured as much would happen,
for I was warned of this impending fate by an old carnival hag,
long ago.
While my parents were asleep,
brother and I snuck out of the house and rode our bicycles to the town carnival.
It was well past our bed time,
and if our father had found out,
our butts would be swollen for days.
The old hag had the traditional gypsy paraphernalia;
a beat up table cloth,
crystal ball,
jingling decor,
and enough incense to cover up any past discretion.
She read dear brothers palm,
striking his fancy.
He was fed a tale of endless fortune,
forbidden love,
and never ending happiness.
Mine, however,
was littered with loneliness.
She hadn't felt the need to sugar coat my fortune,
for I was destined to be alone.
She saw a sickness inside my soul.
A sickness I would battle with,
until death.
She explained that some people were put on this earth to be blessed for the good deeds they accomplished in a previous life.
My previous self took advantage of the good life,
and was now sentenced to an unfulfilled life in solitary.
There would be the occasional good years.
I would feel love,
the warmth from family,
and an unsettling happiness.
I never truly understood her premonitions,
until now.
I suppose the old woman was right.
Whatever sins I committed,
this life was meant to be my prison.
Any self harm would only lengthen my sentence.
So I wander,
and wait.
Wait for my ticket to be punched.
and glance up at the tangerine sky.
The wind is rather cruel this dawn,
and I'd much rather be be curled up at home with you,
but there's no longer an "us"
just "me,"
and the seasoned taste of rage that still lingers on the tip of my tongue.
Forgive me love for the feverish things I had to say,
and see it in your heart to forgive an irritable old man.
The years have never been kind to me,
and what once was precious and beautiful in my life,
has decided to flee.
I should have figured as much would happen,
for I was warned of this impending fate by an old carnival hag,
long ago.
While my parents were asleep,
brother and I snuck out of the house and rode our bicycles to the town carnival.
It was well past our bed time,
and if our father had found out,
our butts would be swollen for days.
The old hag had the traditional gypsy paraphernalia;
a beat up table cloth,
crystal ball,
jingling decor,
and enough incense to cover up any past discretion.
She read dear brothers palm,
striking his fancy.
He was fed a tale of endless fortune,
forbidden love,
and never ending happiness.
Mine, however,
was littered with loneliness.
She hadn't felt the need to sugar coat my fortune,
for I was destined to be alone.
She saw a sickness inside my soul.
A sickness I would battle with,
until death.
She explained that some people were put on this earth to be blessed for the good deeds they accomplished in a previous life.
My previous self took advantage of the good life,
and was now sentenced to an unfulfilled life in solitary.
There would be the occasional good years.
I would feel love,
the warmth from family,
and an unsettling happiness.
I never truly understood her premonitions,
until now.
I suppose the old woman was right.
Whatever sins I committed,
this life was meant to be my prison.
Any self harm would only lengthen my sentence.
So I wander,
and wait.
Wait for my ticket to be punched.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Christmas Nightmare
This morning I woke from a feverish dream.
Off -kiltered I stumbled to the kitchen recalling the events;
It was a stormy Saturday night. I was at our local mom and pop video store, Video USA. It was much larger than I remembered as a kid.
The walls were lined with new release DVD's, while the middle of the store had rows and rows of brown wired racks filled with DVD's, VHS tapes, and miscellaneous entertainment memorabilia.
It was hard to find anything, because it was a Saturday night. The store was filled with people mauling anything left to rent.
I found a clerk who was rocking a dirty Jesus Christ look and asked if they sold any replacement dividers for my vinyl record shelf. I gave him my measurements, while I searched a shelf.
Other customers pushed, and reached over me to pick up the only remaining copies of a movie left.
This was the kind of video store that had the display of the film faced out and the rental behind it.
I started to notice that all the movies in the store were rip offs of classic films, right down to the artwork.
I saw a replica of the Fright Night artwork, for a completely different movie.
There was a film entitled Trainwreck 2 that looked like a romantic comedy, but one had just come out.
Jesus, decided that he would have to look up the product I was inquiring about at the front desk.
I followed him down an aisle, and lost him when I became mesmerized by miscellaneous bobble heads and detailed figurines of horror villains.
When I reached the front desk, other patrons rushed to the counter where Jesus had logged in.
He shooed them away, ignoring them and me.
Near the counter I saw a collection of "Holiday Films" displayed on the wall. There was a mix of classics, comedies and horror films.
Jesus yelled out over the crowd "I'm ready to fix your sticky crack!" and waved me over.
I remember feeling embarrassed, even though this didn't make any sense.
Two geeks, one with Buddy Holly glasses stopped me on my way to the counter and asked "What ever happened to Fay Wray?" I flashed him my Friday the 13th shirt, and he laughed.
Jesus continued typing and talking, but was drowned out by the overhead TV, playing a particularly gory movie.
Buddy stood next to me laughing at the TV.
On the screen, a girl covered in blood was shooting down a water slide. Instead of water it was slicked in snow that ran red. As she descended, she would run over sharp edges, etched into the plastic slide. These edges, or bumps cut into her body, causing her to bleed and speed up her momentum. She continued sliding down the plastic tube, screaming. The acting was horrible, but a knot developed in the pit of my stomach.
The further she slid, the worse the traps were. Since this was an 80's film, I dreaded what was at the end of that slide.
The film cut away from this girl, to the top of the slide. A happy go lucky 80's girl, in a beret and tan pea coat was approaching the slide. An electronic Santa Clause stood next to it "ho, ho, hoing" She couldn't help herself and jumped down the slide. As she did, the Santa Clause turned toward the slide, with an evil face and manically laughed.
A man appeared, and Santa turned back to normal. He yelled down to the woman,but she was busy laughing and cheering. He sensed that something wasn't right, and looked around for another way to get her back, but knew he had to slide. He jumped head first down the slide, while Santa turned to scoff at another victim.
Back in the store Buddy kept talking to me as if we were long time friends.
I searched the "Holiday" wall to see what film this was, but the titles were all a blur.
I asked Jesus, but he continued to ignore me.
I awoke, still hearing the screams of joy and death from the people shooting down the Christmas water slide of death.
Off -kiltered I stumbled to the kitchen recalling the events;
It was a stormy Saturday night. I was at our local mom and pop video store, Video USA. It was much larger than I remembered as a kid.
The walls were lined with new release DVD's, while the middle of the store had rows and rows of brown wired racks filled with DVD's, VHS tapes, and miscellaneous entertainment memorabilia.
It was hard to find anything, because it was a Saturday night. The store was filled with people mauling anything left to rent.
I found a clerk who was rocking a dirty Jesus Christ look and asked if they sold any replacement dividers for my vinyl record shelf. I gave him my measurements, while I searched a shelf.
Other customers pushed, and reached over me to pick up the only remaining copies of a movie left.
This was the kind of video store that had the display of the film faced out and the rental behind it.
I started to notice that all the movies in the store were rip offs of classic films, right down to the artwork.
I saw a replica of the Fright Night artwork, for a completely different movie.
There was a film entitled Trainwreck 2 that looked like a romantic comedy, but one had just come out.
Jesus, decided that he would have to look up the product I was inquiring about at the front desk.
I followed him down an aisle, and lost him when I became mesmerized by miscellaneous bobble heads and detailed figurines of horror villains.
When I reached the front desk, other patrons rushed to the counter where Jesus had logged in.
He shooed them away, ignoring them and me.
Near the counter I saw a collection of "Holiday Films" displayed on the wall. There was a mix of classics, comedies and horror films.
Jesus yelled out over the crowd "I'm ready to fix your sticky crack!" and waved me over.
I remember feeling embarrassed, even though this didn't make any sense.
Two geeks, one with Buddy Holly glasses stopped me on my way to the counter and asked "What ever happened to Fay Wray?" I flashed him my Friday the 13th shirt, and he laughed.
Jesus continued typing and talking, but was drowned out by the overhead TV, playing a particularly gory movie.
Buddy stood next to me laughing at the TV.
On the screen, a girl covered in blood was shooting down a water slide. Instead of water it was slicked in snow that ran red. As she descended, she would run over sharp edges, etched into the plastic slide. These edges, or bumps cut into her body, causing her to bleed and speed up her momentum. She continued sliding down the plastic tube, screaming. The acting was horrible, but a knot developed in the pit of my stomach.
The further she slid, the worse the traps were. Since this was an 80's film, I dreaded what was at the end of that slide.
The film cut away from this girl, to the top of the slide. A happy go lucky 80's girl, in a beret and tan pea coat was approaching the slide. An electronic Santa Clause stood next to it "ho, ho, hoing" She couldn't help herself and jumped down the slide. As she did, the Santa Clause turned toward the slide, with an evil face and manically laughed.
A man appeared, and Santa turned back to normal. He yelled down to the woman,but she was busy laughing and cheering. He sensed that something wasn't right, and looked around for another way to get her back, but knew he had to slide. He jumped head first down the slide, while Santa turned to scoff at another victim.
Back in the store Buddy kept talking to me as if we were long time friends.
I searched the "Holiday" wall to see what film this was, but the titles were all a blur.
I asked Jesus, but he continued to ignore me.
I awoke, still hearing the screams of joy and death from the people shooting down the Christmas water slide of death.
Sunday, November 8, 2015
Not For Arts Sake
I do not apologize,
nor should we,
when the rage fit,
love spit,
hate,
makes us say words we regret later.
It's all a learning curve,
that helps expel the building demons.
Things we've kept hidden under the skin,
exposed, when the wounds are tore open.
To give up,
and throw our hands up,
is a callus way of life.
Instead we must pick up,
and build up,
the love we once so shyly hid.
That love of our lives are those that can pull on the heart strings, while triggering ones last nerve.
Sometimes surviving these moments is the true test.
nor should we,
when the rage fit,
love spit,
hate,
makes us say words we regret later.
It's all a learning curve,
that helps expel the building demons.
Things we've kept hidden under the skin,
exposed, when the wounds are tore open.
To give up,
and throw our hands up,
is a callus way of life.
Instead we must pick up,
and build up,
the love we once so shyly hid.
That love of our lives are those that can pull on the heart strings, while triggering ones last nerve.
Sometimes surviving these moments is the true test.
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