Thursday, December 3, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Jazz was out of style in 2009. Jack knew it but he went to listen to it anyway. Jazz was beautiful. It still is beautiful. Jack knew this. He climbed the stairs to the rooftop of American Apparel and listened to the sweet sax blowin away to the accompaniment of two drummers, one alternate percussion as well but really he was one of the original two drummers aforementioned. Jack looked overheard and was surprised to see a gray sky forewarning of a thunderstorm, but everybody knew an overcast was the perfect accompaniment for depressed jazz.
And so on top of the roof he went, sitting with his rounded sunglasses pulled right in front of his eyes and his hat pulled down low smoking a cigarette and putting one leg for his chin to rest on with short cropped blondish hair covering just above his eyes like an angel’s kiss. Note after note Jack sat and just listened, free from the Hyrda of language guarded by Rich’s bet and the standards of human sociability. He thought about human communication and how the notes were almost like whalesong in their purity and constantly changing spontaneity. Their tonalities pumping with the spark of life given to them by their creator which flowed like blood from a wound with too much to say, too much to bleed, and yet through this holy union Jack found beauty in the verbal silence, preferring to let the outdated yet welcomed shouts by the drummers of “Go!” and “HAHA YEAH!” do the talking while he simply let his body move to the beat, to the spasms of notes that followed in between the samba, almost Latin beats. “Granted talking is useful sometimes, but must I always use it in lieu of just feeling life?” A perennial thinker, Jack found himself now like he did often, stuck in thoughts and bogged down by the multitude of ideas he had to ponder about, yet with this thought about “feeling life” he did not feel dragged down by the syllabic metering Richard had fed him with, he’d hardly ever THOUGHT about syllabic content before this day but he knew he’d never forget. He also knew that he could stay where we was forever, eternally smoking a Natural Sherman stick with his right hand while his left hand darted and bobbed around on the cold, metal table he laid his arms upon, his alien hand to the left indulging in crazy, tribal swoops to the melody’s solo on the alto sax, wondering why this kind of thing never failed to cheer him up. “Well, it doesn’t cheer me up,” he thought, quickly adding out-loud with the careful planning of a precocious child wanting to seem smart in front of his parents or at least himself, “But it does make me think about if there’s something past all the slick bullshit.” Jack knew that the music wouldn’t cure his troubled head, and he knew that he’d go on worrying about the thoughts of leaving and the thoughts of dying that were ever-present in his speech and writing these days, but the primal motion exhibited by the soaring jazz took him higher than he’d ever been on weed or coke, sailing him straight into the sky towards the sun where he dreamed of Icarus Wings to take him towards the sun, just so he could feel its warm touch once before he died. Was it cold? Was the sun too hot to be anything but a freezing burn? It didn’t matter now, because Jack had things to do, people to talk to, and syllabic phrases to count.
Listening to the brass, cool and regal to his ears as if played by some royal band for the coming of their King, Jack began to listen to what the sax was saying, “Hey beat notes oh! I’m feeling good love happiness its all major key’s got” carefully counting out 19 notes almost intuitively in his head, preparing to partake in the dialogue that had been initiated to him. He let the words form at the tip of his tongue salivating them out, allowing for his verbalized chains to spill out slowly at first, but steadily listened to himself speak quicker and more sporadic as if improvisation from a horn. “Yeah yeah I get what you mean, sax, you really get me, its so beautiful.” Jack began to wonder if he was crazy. His absolute refusal to relent to the bet was more a matter of principle, as an exploration of the English language he’d learned to take for granted with no care for what emitted from his mouth, de la boca...He wished right now he could just conjure up a fury of sounds, fiercely piercing the night sky like a saxophone. Yet he loved the English language. Maybe he could go without speaking it, but he certainly could not go without writing it, creating it, manipulating it in order to believe in it. “This was all a test” he thought to himself, “ a labor of Herakles, a temptation of Jesus” realizing he could never give up his faith in the language he grew up on, he would not believe that writing failed as an art form, a form of communication. To spin words on a page was to turn notes in a sax, precise but wildly independent as well. Jack slapped a five dollar bill on the table the percussionist had been keeping his ashtray and slipped into the night, still reluctant to speak out loud but with a reaffirmation of faith for his craft, a reaffirmation that he knew would translucently escape everyone he told, his test of faith a mere ghost to the times he lived in. It was something he casually accepted as he walked towards the bus headed home.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
“Thanks a lot, I just wanted to know what it felt like” said the young punk as he stuck his knife in the breast of his victim, wiggling it about like a fish gasping for air
and he meant what he said
“Thanks a lot, I just wanted to know what it felt like” said the man as he pulled his fist away from his girl’s jaw, admiring with a strict sense of newfound humanity at the damage he had caused, knowing that however sick he might be found to be by society he had affirmed that he was in fact part of a society of advanced mammals, a bona-fide human in the broadest, most virgin sense
and he meant what he said
“Thanks a lot, I just wanted to know what it felt like” said the Lord as he lowered his magical hand to his side to grasp a better view of his mangled and mutinous Apostle that lay dead on the ground before him
“He could have sold me out to death!” the Lord exclaimed, happy with his work
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Past and Present become one as the final day of escape
is eclipsed in the heat of reality. This is running out,
running in, reality is making a juxtaposition against
the phantasy world I have created where you and I can once
again be natural and real and in love, even though our
paths don’t have to be the same. I wonder if you think
about this kind of stuff. Im in love with the happiness
we had, and I’m in love with the time in my life before
my self-destruction, which now cannot be reversed. Adonis and
Aphrodite have “happiness”, but we had love. I pray to any
God there is I can feel as safe and happy and free as I did
and still do you with you.
I’m a thinker, baby, so why don’t you shoot me?
5/20 Grad Party
remix of the songs in the key of life
Hookups breakups both occur simalfuckingtaneously
6 and oh, bitches
This isn’t ok. People laughing at sick selfdestruction
we’re all too drunk
on hilarity and gossip
THE TIME OF OUR LIVES
Here comes Peter Cottontail hippity hoppity
my surroundings, man
everything is lent to snow
We is stoned out of this contemporary
world of fashion and flashin and
Polaroids flashing in my fucking eyes
I’m too gone to maintain my sanity
They’re so beautiful like you, my darling.
“Sacred is all relative, kid” said the wizard
and as I thought about it
what was sacred to me? Passion and passion and
The wizard replied to my non-verbalism and asked me “what are you passionate about?”
and I replied “expression”
and walked away to write a poem about how i’d met God that day
and walked away from him to write a poem
because as much as I’d love to stay and talk with the creator of the universe
he just doesn’t understand what I mean by “expression” having never learned
how to write what with his reliance on angelic stenographers
all the time.
“Modest Ecstasy” or “Rising Action”
I groaned in modest ecstasy as I ejaculated into her cunt, taking in all that sex has to offer. She leaned in and whispered “I can feel it”, apparently in an attempt at being seductive but instead coming off as amateurish. I finished and lurched off of her, laying next to her naked, vulnerable-oh my god!-it was our first time. Not mine, but hers, as well as our first time together. She was panting heavily, not used to the positions and required stamina of fucking. I looked at the clock. 10:52 p.m. It was December 20th, 2009, and in an hour and eight minutes we might die. We probably would. I wanted to waste no time at all for my last 68 minutes-FUCK 67!-but I was as sore and exhausted as I should have been after sex as good as that. She reached for her shirt and I watched her cast a glance my way and smile sweetly as she slipped the t-shirt over her beautiful upper body. The shirt was handmade, she’d silk printed it, and had a picture of Jim Morrison wearing aviator sunglasses with the worlds “But the end is always near” emblazoned beneath. I regretted not getting those tattoos I wanted in high school. I had it all planned out: on the left arm in “typewriter” font it would read “the future’s uncertain” and on the right, “but the end is always near” from Roadhouse Blues. The actual lyric is of course “and the end..” ect. but I added “but”-fuck, it doesn’t even matter now im dying in 63 minutes id been thinking silently a long time, I never thought i’d fear death but I am, I just laid this beautiful girl and now I’d die with her except-shh, i can hear her speaking!
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
We’d been going four months without sex, she wasn’t ready “Ok, I respect that”) and we’d crossed the love barrier long ago but christ, I thought of the shirt that now draped across her otherwise naked body (except the small peace sign around her neck and the tattoo of a slice of cake on her left ankle she’d had since I met her that was practically part of her body but a decoration nonetheless). She’d made the shirt after I Told her of the tattoo and I’ve never seen a fucking better shirt in my life to this day. I softly stroked the tender skin inside her upper thigh, working my hand up her shirt and across her small firm breasts and back down. She let out a pleased moan, and reached for her glasses. I saw the red numbers of the clock reflecting partially in the glasses, their haunting glow the only light in the room except for the pink and blue lava lamps shoved in the corner. I could make out the first three numbers as 11:0 but the last was blurred from a small scratch on the lower right corner of the lens from a soccer game we had organized among the patients on the main stretch of grass. How could I express to her how scared I felt looking into her shining eyes knowing it could be 11:01 OR 11:09, a difference of 8 minutes in the last hour of the life? No matter. I watched as she got down from the top bunk and went to the sink washing her hands as she often liked to do.
“You know not all of them have these. I love that you have a sink!”
I could see her ass bouncing slightly as she soaped between her fingers whistling “Frank Sinatra” by her favorite band and I laid back into bed to ponder my inevitable destruction. I didn’t want to call anyone, not my parents, not my best friend Rob in Arizona who for all I knew might have been having oblivious doomsday sex with his own girlfriend Ivy, not even realizing the death he would experience, I didnt want to call my roommate to see when he might be getting home, perhaps tonight but hoped not but SHIT I CANT SEE THE CLOCK and I whipped around and saw 11:11. I wasn’t immature enough to consider making a wish on that. Shit, what was the missing digit before? It didn't matter. This hour is going by too fast no matter what the clock reads. When you're going to die, time always goes too fucking fast. Now she was climbing back up the ladder, shirt now gone again and smirked at me mischievously as she peeled back the sheets covering my torso and began kissing my legs then scrotum then shaft, fitting her lips around the tip. I ran my hand through her hair and cooed “no, love, we both deserve some pleasure” and felt her giggle and heave across my body, crawling up my skin until i could feel her bush against my groin and once again entered her, this time upwards. I started slowly. I wanted to make it last. Then the red glow of the clock flickered out and the lava lamps in the corner shut down and I cursed the Mayan expert decoders who had miscalculated the day by a half hour and pressed into her hard almost too hard and frantically gyrated my hips and she began to moan and wheeze but happily and i tried to yell “I love you!” but only managed “you” and felt the ground shake and the bed convulse in a downward spiral and heard her scream “Ohhhh” and I let my jissom erupt into her and knew the timing was beautiful and wondered if I’d ever be able to write about the end of the world in Hell and knew I would regardless of if the pens in Hell had ink or not.
Notes: This is a work of fiction. This is not a story of logic. It is a story of passion in the face of fear. Not a terribly well written one, but one nonetheless. The insane narrator doesn’t know how else to cope with the madness of facing his own death except for by imagining how he might write it as a book. There is no life after death. He is not writing this in Heaven, or in Hell. He is writing this in his mind only, unable to process the reality of his situation otherwise.
Visions of Diamonds
Tonight I have seen the soul of the city and it is dead.
For as I left my near uninhabitable dormitory for a date with a Nat Sherman, the most overpriced brand of cheap suicides,
I noticed in the sky four lights beaming like a cheshire grin in the night sky,
four horseman of the dawn waiting to show me the way,
who called out to me with a soft “Alex...Alex...”
as I heeded the call vehemently,
charging after those voluminous brights with a speed I thought only my intellect runs at
knowing that I’d find what I needed
to keep me in this city I’d lost nearly all fondness for in the last six months.
As I ran the Sherman hitched a ride behind my ear,
staying in place only because of the traveling cap I wore
to remind me of Jack Kerouac from the cover of Scattered Poems
and went along for the ride as I coasted the night breeze, a scattered poem myself,
and overtook cars going 20 mile an hour filled with college students looking for the next big party to defy their parents at,
finding the strength to persevere, knowing that what I would find at the end of my rainbow would greatly outweigh any obstacles I might encounter
and I passed the liquor stores
and I passed the drug stores
and I passed a Father/Son Blacksmith shop (which particularly intrigued me)
and I passed an unkept furniture shop which made me think of where i might find a typewriter as i was in dire need of one tonight
and I passed the streetlights, jaywalking any time I could but being wary of the lights in the sky, seemingly getting consistently farther away as I moved towards them
still taunting me with their alternating individuality of moving away from each other and unifying for 2.2 seconds before breaking up again
and I passed great fences and terrible looking streets that I felt I’d like to explore some other day
and my father on the phone with me said “Its probably some kind of premiere, son”
and my wide-eyed optimism disagreed completely, giving me the notion that the soul of city lay just beyond the next street until i came upon the next street to find that the soul of the city in fact lay beyond the alley after that
and I passed out in my mind, running solely on obsessive compulsive steam heat powered by my plagued mind
and as I reached Fort Lowell, 5 or 6 miles from my starting point, I realized that the lights were not any closer and that the ground was glass beneath me, providing an outlet for the soul of the city
which was hidden beneath the laundromats and catastrophic skyscrapers
to peek through, but never re-enter the human world.
I knew the soul of the city to be dead, destroyed, gone, and i was in fact the only to have seen this apparition, which hardly surprised me having just read an essay on the multitudes of visions writers such as Burroughs and Ginsberg had
yet disturbed me all the same, for the epiphany came that the city in which I had immersed myself, in which I had spent my formative last 8 years, had no soul, no soul at all, and I absolutely refuse to live out my days alone in a city without a soul and the truth that the lights in the sky consoled me no more for the loss of this city’s spirit than a Ground Zero memorial in the Big Apple would make up for the haunting distress of 911
they’re just lights all of them just lights
and the thought is there but they’re just lights
don’t you get it? Can’t you see? The lights won’t bring them back
the lights won’t make the spirit arise or relive this city’s glory days in the public eye when John Dillinger sought refuge here or Everett Ruess traveled on horseback and was slain in the Apache desert
and the lights are just getting in my eyes now as I look East across the Hudson Bay from here-I swear I can see it!-and I see a kinship in the disillusioned New Yorkers but at the same time I feel they’ve got a soul who carries a rusty torch
but this void of a town in which I make my way is no more than a vast emptiness that fools a million people but not me
and I’m going to leave
but soon enough in the grand scheme of things
and to all of my dissenters who ask what makes me think I’ll be happier somewhere else
I’ll smile and have them read this
and save myself the intoxicating satisfaction of knowing I’m the only Tucsonian who saw the light, the dead light
and that light, my love, is no metaphor.
When I hear my voice on the phone’s recorder
I realize that its probably more accurate that I give it credit for
but I wish it wasn’t
although thats not what concerns me right now, its these visions!
Ah! Visions! Ah! Visions of Alex! Visions of Everything! Visions of Nothing because I have never SEEN anything persay in these visions but they come, they come like fire in my ears and in my nose and I can feel them flow through my body like my metallic blood that I’ve drawn from the scab I can’t stop picking at these days
Like in San Francisco a city I’m genuinely convinced is magic, a center for it
much like Ireland or Atlantis or Fincayra
a hub if you will
Ah! Visions though, I must return from my tangent!
In San Francisco the city of magic I laid in my hostel bed in the third floor of the Pacific Tradewinds Backpacking hostel high on good West Coast weed the employee at the front desk Mary had smoked me out with
and I laid in the dark, my mind flowing with thoughts of my Beatific heroes and Rimbaud, who I’d been reading that day
when the sound of the lord of the universe came to my ears and I began to fear for my life and I saw the light in the darkness this time not a cynical death of a light
and I heard it I heard the vision Ah!
And I knew that if I kept my eyes closed a second longer I’d see Him whoever this creator was and maybe it would be just me or maybe it would be God but either way I’d see him
but I opened them because I wasn’t sure what was happening
and as soon as I opened them the sound disappeared and I was lying in my bed alone in the dark and I regretted what I had done because I could have seen the universe!! But I was not meant to at the time.
That was the first of my visions.
Now I hear sounds on my roommate’s prescription adderall which I probably should not have taken although I did at the beginning of this poem, this piece mind you
PROSE POEM PERHAPS
and I hear the sounds of drilling
yet they have now left too
and with this realization, this vision of the death of Tucson I have seen tonight
I realize I am meant for something
I have questioned it greatly as of late, wondering if I am like Lennon who knew at a young age he would be all he became
and now I know I am not wrong
I have important things to do
I do not seek fame
I seek fulfillment of my highest potential
with my influence from the Beat and the Music of the World
and I wish to create my movement and affect lives
and I shall! I know I shall! Ah! Vision!
AH! VISIONS OF DIAMONDS AND KEYBOARDS AND TYPEWRITERS AND LIVES TO BE CHANGED AND FAME ALTHOUGH I DO NOT SEEK IT ALTHOUGH I KNOW IT WILL COME TO ME AS I AM COMING TO ME RIGHT NOW WITH THIS REVELATION OF THE TIMES!
I’m leaving now
For another day
We shall interact on a deeper consciousness
In another dimension
and with harmoniums singing our song
we will embrace in love and the ocean will crash around us
but we won’t get wet
Hey I ain’t gonna cry no more
Hey I ain’t gonna cry no more
My sweet babe left and my life is a bore
but I swear to you lord I ain’t gonna cry no more
Words is substitution for yer funny kind of tears
And yer cryin onstage in front of yer peers
but that ain’t where I’m at, son,
I’d rather write about it and spin a wordy tale
thats more truth than fiction of course
its how I’m gonna roll
And the hep jazzy bros around campus with their boards
and their backwards hats
march two by two like ants, no like mice,
right by the hep artsy fellers who stand around and smoke cigs
lookin cool, straight out of 1994
and they’re so caught up in themselves that they ain’t got the time
to notice the hep older folk trying to wade the river
of youth and hepness that doesn’t even seem appreciative
of all that them older folks gave ‘em
damn kids don’t know shit about hep
Hey! Hep folks! Cross yer river
with a stick! Hey! Hep! Hep! Hooray!
Its all a phony photograph
but that ain’t a scene, baby, that ain’t a problem
because life is but a dream
and life is but a dream
and i know it and you know it that we’re in some fishbowl
thats big and blue and it makes sense! Our planet is big and blue!
Life is a dream, baby, so be hep while you still can!