Monday, April 26, 2004

Genesis P vs. the News.

International aid workers responding die for me.
Do 76 students love me enough to give up their lives?
An incinerated primary school in the desert,
rail explosion killed the crumbling city,
Caused by human error, but do you love me?
Can a train carrying chemical fertilizer be as sad as it seems?
At this, the old man smiled.
A fireball swept through a cafe in Tangier
destroyed a school from his wrist to his elbow.
Hospitals demolished today.
Aid workers searched the boy with my hand on his thigh,
searched through the wreckage for the injured in the corner.
Unification Minister started to smile,
coordinated relief teams as he lay on the bed.
President smiled as his
accident went twitch twitch twitch
as famines dribbled out of the end onto the floor with
nuclear weapons technology to the side.
Bohr wondered what to do with his knowledge
while the WHO strengthened its nuclear deterrent by the bed on the floor.

Two soldiers were killed 23 hours of the day,
as the vein swelled and the blood came.
Basra stuck the needle in his arm
and watched the oil turning in the glass
and wondered where he'd be sitting tomorrow
and what damage would pass that day.
The US Navy's Fifth Fleet killed in a cafe in Tangier
when upon the boarding team came Captain Clark,
killed and wounded 23 years and a day,
shut down and evacuated the corpses to Spain.

Iraq's Southern Oil Company drew a line across the water,
No damage if you're dead
IMF dignitaries attending the water
look up in the sky
at Germany up above.
And it's a bright economic outlook if it rains on you.

At this the old man smiled
and hoarded cookies as he paid the bill,
steadily deflated around the corner,
and came undone back in the Bowery.
There that cripple was bent double naked on the floor
and died in a firefight with some kind of cream.
The dead football player was all a dream
for the patriotic blind men
with white sticks
behind TV screen
in Afghanistan,
just try to eat us.

John McCain welcomed you aboard
with your fellow Americans, from New York to Miami
before you crashed in a forest
peril growing cold.
Blood runs from family and friends' faces
"Why me?" "Why?"
while Paul Newman drinks in the gutter and the water
turns Princeton students to gangrene, dangling themselves
before the University that went to slaughter.

At this, the old man smiled,
forgot the upset faces the same way as before,
arranging his things
neat and tidy
according to tradition
in a cafe in Tangier.
Alcohol is the way the world ends,
Not with an overdose, but with a whimper.

Sunday, April 25, 2004

Can't Forget.

As I have not trusted
alleyways
and the secondhand streets
where misery handles,

As I have not believed,
so pettiness,
and in the stars, clouds,
by the walls and the you for tea,
as you may, believing and not seeing the smoke,
I shall not wake
at seven now too late,
with my tiny leaden eyes.

You and I,
My to each other,
chewing on shadows,
dissecting light
and then, finally, immasculated
under my kinda stupid questions.

We were different when we had pancakes,
but things changed I didnt adjust between us,
I'd call you minutes about myself
but I had problems of my own,
I saw that in you,
I'm hole.

You didn't like me to sound so juvenile.
But I needed me acting like a baby raining coffee and cigarettes,
and nothing was left but the cavern.

It doesn’t matter what I do.
I up and it would be irrelevent, because there’s dance, an arbitrary arrangement
of moves and words.
I got satisfied with how absurd things are here just waiting for me.

But there isn’t. This is better.
There’s nothing to wait for. Just more or original this or that. It’s just the
fucked throwing everything in the book at: religion, philosophy, Not hoping
in the bleak waits
and the turn in us that I didn't see,
the uselessness
of the sun and the rain.

I didn't come back home with myself.

Forgot it with the facts
yapping in our faces,
alternating fire
at all the hours,
Weights motionless.

I see with coldness
you and I
as we whisper of love at 2AM,
with our backs to the lights
that our brightness could have killed.

Saturday, April 24, 2004

A girl and a boy apart.

Thought I ate more today,
a little,
"Why did you
cut me?"
I was thinking about it but
the piece of skin went too deep.
Still... the biggest scar is a long time away.

Can't afford too much food,
I want to see a museum and I gotta goto bed,
But I wouldnt be surprised either way
that you're a phony in november,
Dont give a fuck a person
the incessant "im not in love with you"
that you and I believed...

"grow up
find another child to confuse"
it just kills me how I
thought it would make our faces closer,
but i just have
you crying afterwards
at the end of everything.

"i want to be next to you,
to forget Pittsburgh sleet while
I laugh you to sleep with my
offkey friday i'm in love"
but it's still the cheap
scent of vodka, the
you owe me
and contemplated conversation starters
that crumpled in the corner
while you shot fumes of Bacardi O
in the backroom
and I watched "Meet the Parents"
with a stranger...

i dont believe anything
i cant even touch you
its obvious anymore
you dont want me
or see me talking to me
as you saw in me once.
let me know when I
admire me
and I'll fly home in 10 days
to avert my eyes while we
embrace by the DIA baggage claim.

i no longer see in beauty anything i do.

Thursday, April 22, 2004

Pine-Sol.

You left me with my mouth,
left me puking, me watching Seinfeld reruns
that I don't understand
what it's like life is perfect,
Mornings taste great,
when the sun is always a screen.

I guess I don't like.
Guess I was too late at night.
I'll never be humn's mind,
because up to it happened me.

My life Pine-sol.
And I feel great,
when late show rolls
all alone... every like everyone else seems how pointless your life is,
Might even with somebody else.

I'm sure it's like
to be glum any time during all that I've paused
a ever really treated me even you!
Not even you.
Not perfect,
Sleeping feels like cream you told me I I never pulled you out of a jail cell.
And I never you.
And I never slashed that you would only I knew that you I never wait up call me back.
And I'm through the 3 AM doorstep under weeping you for the last ice.

Cause my life is know about that? the taste of penicillin
is precious percocet
on the ground.
Left black and white,
Cause I for you to hurt.

like Oreos.
And I feel shines on
my Compaq... computer know what
Slim Fast tastes fucking busy
writing in notebooks get inside any other this point, nothing bad is perfect,
Sundays smell like I watch the late night.

I don't understand willows
Not too much.
I'll never know how as well go suffer
I don't know what all the time.
Just wasn't my
late night walks.
Now moment to reflect,
No one's like shit.

My life is cheese.
And I felt fine,
when thought should
never call you... again.

And my hair,
in my musty chugged whiskey,
trying to forget my arm,
when you said fuck me
as long as I didn't care.

And hoping
you'll decide to finally never walk 5 miles,
in drunk snow.
To sit at your trees,
and trace pictures of time
in the morning fucking perfect,
what would you do?

Wednesday, April 21, 2004

Jim's Life

Jim woke up to the scent of cottage cheese.

Over the course of an hour, it drifted him from the heated drool of his slumber into the lukewarm pothole of his living room.

By 2:00, Jim realized that he was no longer rummaging through the trash bins outside the local Arby's with Rodney Dangerfield, but was actually waking up on the brown shag of his actual life.

Jim opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. He wondered why he had awakened so early today. His tired brain stumbled through the list of possibilities. Did he have a date with someone? Was his mother in town? Did he have a job to get to? Was he giving a speech anywhere??? A tiny pang of anxiety reverberated between his temples as these thoughts sloshed through his mind.

Ah, whew. Relief flooded through Jim's body as he realized that the answer to all of those questions was a resounding no. He didn't have shit to do today. Jim closed his eyes for a moment and savored the feeling.

Perhaps, if he had much feeling left in the cancer infected recesses of his lower face, he would have realized that he was smiling.

So Jim laid on the carpet. Kept the low burn of his eyeballs down by keeping them closed for a precious few extra moments. After all, he deserved it. He had succeeded in not terminally fucking anything up for yet another day.

But something was amiss. In spite of his relief, one thought continued to pester Jim. If there wasn't anything important to be done, why the hell was he awake?

Jim's face winced (not that he realized it).

Unable to enjoy resting his eyes, Jim opened them. With great effort, he ignored the haze of the sunny living room and looked down.

Past the red beard he had grown partially out of an attempt to hide the mysteriously hideous deformation of his jaw that had appeared in recent years and partially out of a more general sense of apathy regarding basic hygiene, he saw the ulcered, pock-mark blob that was his body. The little red bumps layered across fatty tissue gave Jim a secret sense of accomplishment. They had set in some time during the past few months after Jim had made the decision to switch to an all Doritos diet. He didn't have the slightest sense what the causal connection was between his mass ingestion of the Nacho Cheese flavored corn chips and the red marks that had seemed to be living off of his skin, but counting them provided a kind of daily entertainment after the cable got shut off and he was no longer able to jack off while watching the Lizzy McGuire Show on the Disney Channel every afternoon. There was something morbidly fascinating about the slow, subtly painful growths. Jim had come to think of it as the foremost point of his existence during the past few weeks. There was something in the red pustules that was more than him... beyond the level of every-day human understanding. Jim figured that there had to be some kind of basic human truth in their rapid proliferation across the boundaries of his body... not that he had any idea what it was.

But Jim had not awoken because of the red growths. He was used to them by now and had gotten used to ignoring their tiny pin pricks when he needed to fall asleep.
Jim looked to the left. His arm was covered in empty beer bottles. This confused him for a second, until he remembered the disastrous discovery, late last night, that the house had no more beer for him to drink. The last images that he could remember before blacking out involved him searching through the pile of empty bottles in the living room in the desperate hope that he would find enough precious drops of unfinished booze to help put him out of his misery for the night.

Needless to say, it had been a sad night.

The memory made Jim zone out for a moment. As the pile of empties began to blur together with the greasy hair of his arm, it suddenly hit him why he was awake.

The smell of cottage cheese.

Jim snapped to a state of absolute awareness. Huh? Why the fuck would there be cottage cheese in my house? Jim inhaled deeply to make sure his senses weren't being fooled, but in spite of the damage done to his olfactory system back in the 80s, the scent was unmistakable. It was definitely the aroma of cottage cheese.... just like his grandmother had served to him at the age of five in her cottage in the Ozarks.

The bottles clinked as Jim brushed them off his arm and stood up. The moment he reached a standing position, shards of pain jabbed into his back and forced him to groan as he bent over, hands on knees.

Shit, man. You should be more careful about that.

Jim winced and made his way over to the kitchen. Where the hell else would you look for cottage cheese?

Jim entered the kitchen and discovered that the scent had grown stronger. His eyes scanned the piles of filthy, maggot-encrusted dishes that layered the floor, counters, and oven top. The sight made his stomach turn. Jim was usually pretty good at not looking around very much during his brief trips to seize a beer from the refrigerator.

Jim tried to ignore the quietly rising feeling of nausea and began to push pots around on the floor with his feet.

After about ten minutes of doing this, Jim gave up.

What the fuck? He thought to himself. I cannot fucking deal with this. This is fucking disgusting. I am above all of this shit.

So with that, Jim promptly gave up on his search for the source of the sour cottage cheese scent. He stumbled out of the kitchen and back into the living room, where his aching mass fell over onto the green sofa his grandmother had left for him when she kicked the bucket.

A spring jabbed his lower back, but Jim ignored it.

He reached out towards the nightstand where he saw a pile of white pills and an open can of Pepsi.

Jim put the pills in his mouth and choked them down with the syrupy, who knows how old remains, of flat soda from the can. He closed his eyes and imagined a young boy and girl on a seesaw, singing the theme song from Miami Vice. With this image in his mind, he slowly passed out.

As the weeks went by, Jim got used to the smell. It got sharper for a while, but he quickly stopped noticing. It just got absorbed by the gray, bland mess of blah that was the rest of his life. Whenever crunch time came, he figured out ways to get more Nacho Cheese flavored Doritos and beer. Sometimes he had to settle for Safeway Select generic chips or PBR, but as always, his mind got him through the hard times.

The red pustules grew and itched more.

His jaw disintegrated.

And he was happier than any of your lazy ass mother fuckers will ever be.

The End.

Tuesday, April 20, 2004

some late night haikus while listening to the postal service after finishing a paper about white supremacy and michael dudikoff.

drops of water in
a vat of peanut butter
my canker sores bleed

--

Sun felt like fingers
massaged frost off the red nose
then retreated, clouds

--

Apple in my fridge
Tastes like metal and scotch tape.
Judas falls off cliff.

Friday, April 09, 2004

A grey night.

Nips of paper tap at toes
as I drag a pile of moldy pots and pans from room to room,
walking into rituals
of cuts and hang nails
from the dining room
to the kitchen
to the laundry
and back to the fast food wrapper littered
bedroom.
Around and up and down
around
I'm looking at faces marked by smirks and yawns,
asking me, "Wh wh
wh
call me no you don't
no you
you
behind a dull computer screen
you're n
ot
sweet anymore.

They keep on... they move in chance rhythms
speak mismatched syllables
smirk
curl lips
avert eyes in coffee booths
where I built three hundred houses
out of spoons

and on and on

and it's a grey night outside,
a world made of fog blinded by
headlights so bright
they can't see
the red lipstick painted beehives
in the road.

Walk in sandy black fields and listen to
the decayed drone of swarms
around white spots of cats and cattle
left in plops on the ground.

And imagine faces

smirk
and furrow
out of the random whisps of vapor.

Horses' bodies lay down by the river
and stay there for years.

Love will save you from the truth when you think you're free and
Love will save you from the cold and boring reality and
Love will save you from the corruption of your lazy mind and soul and
Love will save you from your selfish and distorted goals
...but it won't save me.

-Swans


I lied. Projects and dreams die when the screen flickers and you forget why you were watching.