The Grounds of Tabula Rasa

There is a barroom down the street from my house.  When it's warm the people smoke inside and drink out front.  The men slam little ounces of gin and heave the plastic bottles on the ground.  Really it's a pretty impotent gesture but they're so many sheets to the wind by the time it's OK to drink on the sidewalk that they do it with the power of working.  Of Jupiter.  Or maybe it's just the least fucked up part of the whole scene such that it's perversity is ignored in favor of say--that guy puking on the stroller.  I guess the ground in North Philly could be Elysian Fields to someone.  Depending on how many drinks were in them.  Those little bottles certainly glint like lightning when they catch the BP sign half a block east.  

Sometimes I go into the bar which we'll just call Tabula Rasa and smoke in there.  I used to buy heroin from a guy named JB who sat in the back and was the only person who smoked more than me.  They really do a terrible job of concealing that it's a trap in there.  They blast Young Jeezy and likeminded bad men so loudly you can't think.  I used to wonder why it was so loud even when it was just me and JB in there staring at each other on a Monday and then I realized it's because they want precisely no one to have to be accountable for what they say.  Recorded or not.  Drugs make you paranoid because you have to deal with other paranoid people in order to get the drugs to mitigate your paranoia.

There was a 20 year old girl who liked me a lot when I was frequenting Tabula Rasa everyday.  She was born in Honduras but raised in South Philly.  Her name was Ana Cristina.  To be honest that whole time period is pretty much a blur to me--both then and now--but I was moved by the sight of her.  She was minuscule--I mean really really small.  I don't typically go for smaller girls.  And she wasn't beautiful in a shocking way.  Though all 20 year old girls can be shockingly beautiful if they know how to do it.  But she smiled so big and seemed so genuinely decent that it moved me.  I felt sober by proxy.  Or at least that's how I wanted to remember it at that moment.  Or later on when she gave me a call to say she happened to be in my neighborhood and wanted to meet.  I was pretty dubious to the notion of a girl from the middle of nowhere South Philadelphia ending up in the middle of nowhere North Philly--a place I happened to live in because of its proximity to heroin and junkyard work--but I played along.  I was 23 or something at the time and so I only wanted to play games because I had nothing serious to deal with.  

I told Ana Cristina to meet me at Tabula Rasa.  Now--though she was actually a very genuine and kind-hearted person she was no idiot and had clearly been involved with her fair share of heavy users before.  Hell--that's probably why she liked me to begin with.  So when she heard that I wanted to meet at Tabula Rasa the tone in her voice got a little darkened.  I guess she had heard of it before.  It's possible I imagined the whole change but--like I said--I was pretty deeply embroiled in a hazy and ceaseless paranoia at the time and basically looking for reasons to be suspicious.

By the time Ana Cristina arrived I was two beers and two bags and a half pack of smokes deep.  I was sitting with my back to JB who was at the back of the barroom drinking Milwaukee's Best from the blue can with the steadiest hand you've ever seen.  I flipped the rest of the bundle around in my pocket feeling the rubber bands.  Tabula Rasa is a single floor that's pretty commodious for such a blatant drug front.  Behind the bar was Terri--who I could swear was eight months pregnant for about two years and always perched on a stool.  Then like six bar stools and a patch of linoleum flooring that leads to a series of thin particleboard booths bolted to the ground and humongous windows that are western facing.  The floor is a speckled beige linoleum and the back of the booths are painted red to match the tables.  The bar and ledges of the windows are a false dark wood.  The walls being a textured whitish stucco stained from years of cigarette smoke and neglect.  I think it has white drop ceilings but they're so high up there--at least 16 feet--and I never looked up much to say definitively.  There are dark fans on the ceiling but I really have no idea where the lighting comes from.  There's three unisex toilet rooms in the back after the only table stool which is where JB is.  Though there are no placards on the doors one of them only houses a trough with ice in it sometimes and drain connected to a hole in the middle.  There are these strange tiny wooden chairs in the rooms also.  Those little spindle back chairs for children.   And yellow bars of soap sitting in trays by the mirrors above the sinks.  The walls are covered in no smoking signs for some reason and there's also never been any graffiti in them as far as I can tell.  Perhaps the only bathrooms at any bar in Philadelphia able to boast something like that.  Anyway--I spent a lot of time in those bathrooms which is why I'm describing them so thoroughly.

Ana Cristina arrived and sat down.  I had a beer waiting for her.  We talked for a few minutes and then she left.  Or maybe I fell asleep.  Or asked her to leave because I was tired.  I don't know.  I haven't seen her since.  But I've heard that she really liked me which is it's own story all together for someone else to write.

I don't think about her very often.  But sometimes when I walk by Tabula Rasa now and I see JB with that same totally idealess and utilitarian presence--like a piece of furniture or traffic light--I wonder how I ever spent so much time in there.  And how someone like her only spent about 20 minutes in there.  She must remember that place.  And the strangest part of it all--she must remember it exactly as I do.  With the smoke swimming in the big western light and the bottles flitting in the cold breeze outside.  The guy coughing on his life from across the other side of the haze he made.

to Athens

Growing up, but not inside.  Near it to the left a little I think.  They say that it's not even better when you are inside.  That everyone's pretty pissed to be there too.

Your body can't handle it/ the flu or whatever.  Brought up the way you are you don't know though.  

You can't.  I won't let you.

If you want people to disregard everything that you do: use Papyrus font and have an AOL email address.

Ballin'

Sans Comedic

Photo: Brendal Tombeaver/////Dress: Sendal Snanks/////Model: Sinneggity Samboocoe

My Personality

In terms of things I'm most thankful for I think it goes: hot bed, wet sinny, girding purses, uncle "handsy," straddling the scenes and NPR on Sundays.

Six Things You Could Never Do Without

Lists, oxygen, water, friends, family and this horribly exuberant loneliness pervading every thought and behavior following me like the inevitability of death.

Wearing All Black

And yet--my EZ pass.

Mild Storms

It's the part of the river that the locals drink from: upstream.

Water as a Little Thing

The trees look made of paper when they're in bloom at night.  I've never seen a prettier whiteness than the one a tree makes when it's in bloom.  The forest is scary.  It's one of those horrors where you can't tell if the undefined presence of someone else is scarier or not.  Like lightning without thunder.

Well--when I lived in a windowless basement the cigarette smoke was all that resembled weather.  It's like Shabbat in a submarine.  I would open the hatch around 6:30 before work and find myself surrounded by sunshine or snow and always this blown out retarded wind. My sense of freedom totally gone for some reason.  Everything was loud and unfriendly and it doesn't make any difference to me I don't think because I've been expecting it.  So you know I'll just annotate this whole basement with negativity and liquids.  You know--how you could be so me to me.  I guess it's all right. Like smoking somewhere cross-legged bungling the job of caring exclusively about yourself.  A place where there's no sun even to set if it wants.

I'm calling someone to make myself feel poignant in real time.  Because the absence of body language means that my words will be more memorable.  The message will silently broadcast across so many different parts of the landscape.  I wonder which part would be the best for someone to take the message in.  Probably in person.  Maybe I shouldn't call them.  Maybe the undefined presence of myself is more poignant than anything I actually have to say.

KV on Being HK

To everyone I've intentionally alienated, called a faggot, fucked once or twice and ignored the calls/texts of, beat up in the street, owed money to and said "I love you" to for no other reason than to hear it said back: it sucked the whole time for me too.

Vacillate

“What is your… ethnicity?” From across a small round table. “Because you don’t look white.”

I’m pretty drunk at this point and say something to the effect of, “Lenape-Dutch” and giggle into my tiny red straw.

I walk home alone and its cold. I absently feel around the shape of things in my pockets.

The next day it’s misting outside and my head feels hot and I have a lot of anxiety. So I walk for what seems like a really long time.  

I let the mist collect on my face and the vision in my right eye is blurry. I’m waiting to be acted upon. I praise myself for being able to isolate this thought.

Two days later, I’m standing in front of the library at my school. I’ve got my coat unzipped and the sun is right on me. I let my mouth hang open and kick at some stupid, dead grass.

One time, I spent half an hour staring at a beverage case in a gas station convenience store, trying to decide what drink to buy. I ended up getting a 32 oz fountain soda cup full of Mountain Dew. I drank half of it standing on a corner about half a block down from the store. It my stomach feel terrible so I set it down gently on the sidewalk and walked away. But I kept looking over my shoulder, looking back at the clear plastic cup, the rest of fluorescent green soda glowing in the morning sun, until I turned a corner.

And drunk with the joy of loving I call you mine.  When I'm not even yours.  I'm theirs.  

Garth; I Swear

CLEAN SHIT- "The White Album"

Self released, 2011

A1 Intro (blood on the seat again)       (0:11)
A2 Diary                                              (3:34)
A3 Second Christmas                          (2:41)
A4 Hairy Lick                                      (0:52)
A5 Out Fuckin'                                    (2:00)
A6 There's Shit in the Shower             (3:55)

B1 Toby's Ode                                    (11:20)

velvet elvis

I'm barhopping around the LES with a Bronze Star on the first of the month. I'm drinking my 3rd dirty martini alone, tell them I'm dead. I'm doing Molly in the driver's seat with an Equestrian Lesbian after the foot party. I'm using the tool box on the back of my pick-up as a day bed, cleaning my nails with a toy hammer.

I'm covering your mouth and kissing my hand. Goodbye mind, what is the outfit you'll go missing in? Tunic top, opalescent jeggings, velour beret, penny loafers. Whenever I feel like I'm going to pass out on the toilet I remind myself that Elvis passed out on the toilet when he died and it's reassuring.

Varsity

Tony woke up on his friends couch in the middle of the night to the sound of the boisterous water heater.  He wanted to fix it because he was staying there permanently now and knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep if the thing kept making noise all the time.  His friend Ike who’s house it was didn’t trust him to fix it, even though Tony was a heating and cooling specialist with a certificate from the local community college and everything.  There was really no one more apt for the job, but Ike just didn’t want his things tampered with.  It always made Tony really mad, but he was one of those guys that no one could really take serious in a fit of rage.  He’d stumble over his words, make weird sounds with his nostrils, and jump to conclusions that were completely un-substantiated.  In the end, he’d usually walk out of the living room where they always hung out and into his basement room where he’d pick up a book about the Zen of pool, or any other Pool books that were chill to read while stoned. 

He got up from the couch and kicked the thing softly to assure he wouldn’t bust a pipe.  It puttered for a minute and then refrained.  He dismissed it with an apathetic wave of his hand and went back to the couch where he turned on his little reading lamp that he bought for a haggled price from a local antique shop.  He loved the lamp because he was able to talk the guy down from 20 dollars to 10 dollars; he was always really proud of himself whenever he made a transaction like that, especially because the proprietor was known for being very terse.  There was a little weed left on the table so he packed it in the dim light and laid into the couch to enjoy the high that comes at an unknown time in the middle of the night.  He picked a book entitled “Pool and the Art of Beating Your Opponent” by Dave Snyder.  The sound faded as he read the book and thought about the upper hand that he’d have on all of his opponents he’d face the next time he was at the bar.  He slowly fell back asleep with his light on and the book facedown on his chest.

He was awoken in the morning to Ike playing Grand Theft Auto V at a really loud volume.  Ike was cursing the T.V. because he couldn’t beat a mission that was at the end of the game.  Tony figured that Ike been up all night because he had a dream about shooting a gun with his dad when he was a little kid.  He had good memories of shooting with his father when he was a boy, but the dream that he recalled was kind of evil and it made him feel a little tepid; he really hated waking up like that.  The water heater was still making noise and it began bothering him to no end.  It was Friday, which meant that it was his day off; he really hated having his relaxation time obstructed by something as trivial as a water heater and his friend making loud noises.  He resolved that he’d make coffee and go outside for a cigarette even though Ike allowed smoking in the house.  When he went upstairs into the cream colored kitchen he smelled the old food coming from the dishes in the sink and the pot that already had burnt coffee resin in it.  Everything in the kitchen was really carelessly organized and that really bothered Tony.  He didn’t pride himself on being a very serious guy or anything, he just hated carelessness and neglect in a very general way.  He yelled into Ike to see if he was the one who left the burnt coffee on the burner but he didn’t respond, so he left the house, walking past Ike on the couch playing the game brutally.

He resolved that if he couldn’t make coffee at home he would walk to 711 to get it.  He liked the coffee there better anyway because it was usually lukewarm and he preferred it that way.  The sun was out and it felt warm for the season.  He walked to the store with a contrived swagger that seemed to only come out on days like those.  He knew a lot of people in town and stopped to shoot the shit with a couple of them in their front yards; convivial exchanges made him feel like a man about town.  The neighborhood looked so much different that day than any other in a long time, he thought.  It was usually gray, but the sun really gave the affect of spring- the season he liked the most.  He thought that he could see a couple buds on trees but he really wasn’t sure.  When he got to the bus route that led to the 711, he passed the hardware store where his dad worked. It reminded him of the fight he had with his dad that made him move into Ike’s house.  Another thing he didn’t like was thinking about stuff like that because it always made him uncomfortable and brought down his mood.  A bus passed him and something rumbled in the undercarriage- he wondered if his handy skills were applicable to automotive work.

He got the coffee and shot the shit with the guy behind the counter.  He asked him if he liked the break in the weather and the guy nodded his head and said yes, yes, yes.  He asked him if he had bad winters where he was from and he told him that sometimes it got down into the 40’s at night but never as cold as it got here.  Tony thought that was interesting and said later to the dude as he was leaving.  On his way back he walked by the bar where he played pool every Friday night.  The neon sign that hung from the front of the place buzzed because the bartender who works Thursday’s always forgets to turn it off.  She really bothered him especially, that’s why he stopped going there on Thursday’s and started going Fridays.  She was always on some downers and had a really hard time doing her job when the place was busy.  She’d usually neglect him more than the other regulars because he hooked up with her one time and kept calling her to hang out but she would always ignore his attempts- the ringing on the other end was always really grating.  It’s not that he especially liked her, he just thought she was hot and wanted to get a thing going with a girl that was always around.  He never really had that before and probably liked the idea more for the aspect of convinence than anything else.  He wondered who would be there that night and if any girls would show up.  He got laid sometimes but not often enough to forget about the whole thing for Pool’s sake. 

He kept walking and drinking his coffee in micro-sips.  He was really enjoying the vibe of the day and went a little out of his way just to be outside for a little longer.  It was still early and all his friends were at work so he decided to sit in the house and read the Dave Snyder book.  He walked past Ike passed out on the couch with his avatar moving back and forth on this T.V. with a gun in his hand.  He walked into the basement and the water heater was still buzzing, but he started reading anyway.  He was studying defensive breaks and placement of the ball after those breaks.  He didn’t really understand the technique because he always thought that you should try to get balls in the pocket if you were the one breaking; he didn’t like the idea of doing tricky things right out of the gate, he was all about playing a fair game, but he figured it might do him well to try it if he can really grasp what Dave Snyder was talking about.  He read the book for about ten minutes before the water heater began to drive him insane.  The sound made the words seem all jumbled and if he wanted to beat anyone in the games that night, he thought he would be best suited with a couple new techniques, especially ones that the guys had never even thought of trying.  He went back upstairs to Ike and woke him up.  He asked him, sternly, if he could fix the water heater.  He was mad about the disruption on his life and just wanted the noise to end so he could get some peace and quiet, he told Ike.  Ike looked at him grinning and said no mockingly- he really liked getting under Tony’s skin, partially because it was easy and partially because he was 20 and Tony was 23.  The age thing really made the dominance that much sweeter for Ike.  Tony started to get mad and his voice started rising but everything he said to Ike was incomprehensible.  Ike told Tony how cute he was when he was mad and picked up his phone.  He put it on speaker and the volume of the ring was piercing.

Tony grabbed his book from the basement and walked towards the park where he could be alone and study new techniques.  It was impossible to do anything in his house because of that water heater.  The buzzing sometimes happened in his head and that is when he thought he would go really crazy.  There was nothing he could do about it then, he couldn’t fix his head, so what would he do even if he decided to move back in with his Dad and the sound kept happening?  He tried turning off his mind but that little display out of Ike really drove him crazy.  He stopped reading and started walking again, this time quickly with anger in his stride. 

The clouds started coming back and the gray made him docile.  The sun was too much for him at that moment.  He wanted to not see anything bright for a little bit because he had a headache from the sound.  It was around the time when his weed dealer would be getting back from work so he decided to call him to see if he could get a 20 bag.  He answered and said he could meet up with him in an hour when he got home; this calmed Tony down.  He went to these girls house where he’d hang out sometimes that was a couple blocks away.  The girls were real big drinkers and he hoped that they would have some Coors Light in their fridge.  He wanted to get a buzz on but he didn’t really want to do it alone.  He knocked on the door and no one answered so he went around back to see if they had a case of something lying on the deck.  He found a case of High Life that had three beers left in it and took a seat on a folding chair.  The beer was kind of warm from the sunlight and he had only one before he gave up the idea of getting his buzz going.  He didn’t normally drink during the day anyway.  He sat out back and smoked a couple of cigarettes, trying to forget about certain aspects of the day.  He needed to get centered for the games tonight because his reputation at the tables was good and he really didn’t want to ruin it.  He thought about the ultimate moves, ones that would completely disable an opponent but they were hard for him to find.  At least the beer got rid of his headache.

He went to go meet up with his dealer in the neighboring town.  The walk was about 30 minutes and he listened to Frank Sinatra the whole way there.  It gave him the pep back in his stride and made him feel confident about how he’d play that night.  He would always put Sinatra on the jukebox while he was playing, he considered it to be his power move; no one could touch him when Fly Me To The Moon was on.  He got the weed from the guy, it was a really easy transaction and done through the guys car window.  He picked up some papers from WaWa and rolled a joint behind the place where all the dumpsters are.  He took the route back to his neighborhood that wasn’t’ very heavily trafficked and smoked the joint casually.  He felt good then, kind of lucid, and just wanted to play Pool.

He walked over to Bill’s house and they hung out in his basement and watched some shows on Cartoon Network.  Tony rolled another joint and they smoked it together.  They didn’t really say too much to each other but Tony figured that was just what he needed with a morning like he had.  Bill was kind of a bump on a log as Tony liked to put it, but he still enjoyed his company because he usually had weed and he could go over there whenever he wanted to.  He went back to Ike’s after awhile and he and Bill made plans to meet up at the bar later.  Bill wasn’t very good at pool, not like Tony, but he always liked to play him because he was an easy win.

When Tony got home he was feeling good.  He didn’t really want to go inside but he was excited to get in the shower and put on some fresh clothes- fresh clothes and a shower always made him feel better.  When he got outside he saw a truck from the company where he worked parked in the driveway.  He figured he was working somewhere else and Ike let him park there because there wasn’t any on the street.  When he walked inside, the house smelled different than it did previously.  The air wasn’t as gross, which is something he didn’t realize before- it’s easy to get acclimated to the smell of your place.  He heard some people talking and joking in the basement and then the unmistakable goodbye of a handyman.  The footsteps on the stairs were heavy like the young guy, Jeff, that just got a job at his company.  He didn’t like him, not because he wasn’t a good guy, but because he was taller and more handsome than himself.  He was also two years younger than Tony and hated how his boss always gave Jeff praise for doing good work because he would rarely do that for Tony.  Jeff wasn’t even with the company long enough to prove himself before he became the bosses favorite; that really got to Tony. 

When the two guys came upstairs Tony stood there with an indolent pride, knowing that he was better than Jeff and confused as to why he did the job.  Ike looked at him with a mocking smile and asked Tony if he knew his buddy Jeff.  Jeff smiled and tried to shake hands with Tony and asked him how he was doing because he was gregarious by nature, but Tony ignored the big hand and stormed into the basement.  He grabbed a change of clothes and a couple of other things.  He didn’t even notice that the buzz had stopped by the time he left his house.  He called Bill to see if he could come shower there and he said it was okay.

When he got back to Bill’s house he divulged the entirety of the day and how everything kept adding to be really bad for him.  He didn’t expect much out of Bill and usually ignored his wisdom because he thought it was bad and senseless, but Bill didn’t offer much in the way of consolation.  He only told him to reconcile the problems with his father, because, Bill thought that was the root of all of his problems, at least the sound that happened in his head that gave him pain.  Tony cleared it all up for him and told him that it couldn’t be the problems with his dad giving him the pain because he didn’t even like his dad that much and that the sound obviously came from the water heater.  Transference, he told Bill, and asked him he’d ever heard of it.  Bill turned the T.V. back on and Tony went upstairs to take the shower.  He felt good again with the hot water inundating his body.  He thought that was just what he needed to forget about all the things of the day.  All he had now was a few solid hours of pool to look forward to. 

He got out of the shower and used some Classic Old Spice that he found in the cabinet.  It made him smell like a barber shop and he thought that that was a really nice smell.  It reminded him of the first haircut he got and the distinct scent of the place. His dad was standing right next to him, holding his hand that first time because Tony had been so scared.  Once he saw his dad start talking to all the guys in there and laughing, it really made him feel okay.  And now every barber-shop he’d been in to after that one smelled just like the first time.  He started thinking about the fight between him and his dad again and remembered how trivial it actually was.  He had asked him to clean up his room after Tony had been working all day for him doing chores around the house.  Tony refused, half-heartedly, and asked if he could do it later.  His dad was pretty antagonistic and liked getting under Tony’s skin when he would refuse to do anything.  He pushed him in the chest with his finger and got no reaction, so he did it again and kept antagonizing him, until Tony wound up and hit him in the face, knocking his dad over onto a pile of a scrap metal.  He came after Tony but, with his new-found dominance over his dad, he was able to duck all of his hits and get him where it hurt.  The fight ended with his dad walking back in the house with a bloody nose and sunken head.  Tony thought he was crying and he liked the idea of him being so physically hurt by his own son that he laughed at him.  Since the fight his dad had tried to contact him many times, but Tony always ignored the calls.  He thought that he shouldn’t be thinking about his dad because it would fuck up his game.

When he got to the bar that night there was a bunch of people that he played with regularly.  He said what’s up to all of them and grabbed a Budweiser.  The place was a dive-bar where live bands sometimes played.  The setting was bleak and scary but he liked it because he thought that it could just as easily have been the 1970’s in there, aside from the Jukebox which had every song you could ever want.  He hadn’t heard of the bands that were playing that night and one of the tables was covered with music equipment so there was only one table to play on.  He put quarters up for the first game and threw three Sinatra songs on the jukebox.  He won his first game, his second game, and ran the table in the third and scratched on the eight.  It was okay because it was a demonstration of good playing and a couple guys came up to him and told him he made some nice shots.  Remarks like those always gave him the boost of confidence that he needed. 

He was up to play again after shooting the shit with the bartender and drinking a couple more Buds.  The band was setting up and he saw they had some electronic instruments and a saw.  He hated electronic music because he thought it required no skill and was insincere.  He figured he’d see what it was about though.  When he approached the table he realized who was running it.  Gary Greggen was a pool master who rarely ever worked the table at the bar because he always would end up beating everyone.  He only ever played when he got really drunk, and, usually, that would make him a little more reckless.  Still, no one had ever beaten him and Tony saw this as his opportunity.  He put his quarters in the table and racked the balls by pushing them back and forth heavily.  He would always take out the 8 ball and touch the ball at the top of rack.  He thought this helped in keeping the balls steady or, he just did it for luck.  When Gary broke he got 2 stripes and a solid in.  He went for the solid and that made Tony hopeful because he already had two balls in, but when he looked at the table, he noticed that Gary was perfectly set up to run the whole thing.  Gary got in all his balls aside from the last that got him down to the eight- it was a straight cut shot from downtown; these were Tony’s specialty and he believed he could have made that shot and won the game if he were in Gary’s position.  Gary left him wide open on a couple easy shots that were near the two bottom corners.  He made all of them except for his shot on the 8 ball; under pressure Tony often botched the final shot.  Gary missed his final shot because the band started abruptly playing and it startled him, he was really kind of finicky guy for a pool wizard.  The band sounded like the water heater at it’s worst, or at least that’s how Tony heard it.  They made brutal grinding noises heavily, and it brought back his headache.  Gary seemed to be digging it; he was a guy that could really get off on any live music.  Tony lined up for his last shot which, was a pretty easy one- a straight diagonal shot from downtown.  He missed, by a long shot, and scratched.  He slammed his stick on the ground knowing that that shot was probably going to be his last opportunity to win the game.  Gary made his final two shots and went to shake Tony’s hand.  Tony gave him a limp shake and walked out back to smoke some more weed.

There were no stars out so Tony didn’t have anything to look at while he was smoking his joint.  He was upset about the outcome of the game and didn’t really feel like playing anymore.  He didn’t want to go back to Ike’s because he knew he’d probably be there with his girlfriend, so he called his brother and decided to go home.  When he was walking there he felt better, like the prospect of comfort made everything okay.  When he walked in his brother was making some eggs and potatoes on the stove without a shirt on and his dad was in the living room watching jeopardy.  He said whats up to his brother and he gave him a little nod back for recognition’s sake.  He went and said hi to his dad and sat on the couch and watched Jeopardy with him.  He liked when his dad shouted out the answers.

caustic mysticism

amazed i can see, 

even as my heart beat against my pillow.

blowing all my savings.

a cold one

a wet snack

alone and asleep

or next to you while you breathe on my arm 

and i stink up the bed.

Heaven-on-Earth

Herbal Essences makes a shampoo and conditioner set called: “Long Term Relationship”. There’s a bottle of each on the floor of my shower and I’m staring at them right now. Everything I say is true and/or really happened/is happening because I can’t imagine very well. I’m definitely in the shower right now.

Some ideas for plot development:

I’m looking for a lost dog for whatever reason and I find a dead body in the woods.

I kill a lot of people either by accident or on purpose.

I take Ecstasy at a “bad” party.

I pick up the bottle of shampoo. The scent is described as “heaven-on-earth pomegranate”. There’s also something called “Long Term Relationship Split End Defense Cream” advertised on the back of the bottle. I try to imagine several things that I could give that name to and come up with “demo tape” and “dog”.

Some ideas for development:

Drink a lot of water and believe it made you better.

Time management?

Bookmark more websites.

I told Tanner I wouldn’t use up the hot water but I’m using up the hot water. I really wish I hadn’t used that shampoo. I imagine the fragrance attracting a lot of bees even though it’s March and there aren’t any bees around. I picture my hair full of bees.

bud heavy

do i drink a beer with an imagined friend
facing each other sitting akimbo
"governed by the flights of birds"

touching foreheads our hairs collide
meld together and faces and hands
resonating with release

it turns to ants and blankets our body
we dance and dance
the hula on dash

is this my sooth or just a replacement
this is my mantra please don't shake it

Gastrointestinal

It’s late when I get in. Little lamp on the kitchen table. The white tile floor, just mopped. A dark puddle, barely visible in lamp-light, spreads. Through a wad of paper towels, still warm. Another, smaller puddle closer to the wall, finite and defined.

Into the bedroom. She’s crouched beneath the nightstand, waiting.  The ashtray tipped over and her water is black, Marlboro Light butts bobbing near the surface, islands, maggots. I rinse the bowl in the sink. The water takes forever to get warm. Pick the butts out of the drain, plump and saturated. The new bowl is set down and the water ripples while I mumble to her: “let’s try to eat.”

I’m standing in front of the open refrigerator; the interior bulb is the only light on in the apartment. I’m staring at the tin on the top shelf, half open, little spoon already in it. I’m staring as if this tin offers options, infinite variations on infinite possibilities. I bring the paper towels into the bedroom with the tin. I scoop out the smallest amount of I/D Gastrointestinal Health Food and tap it into the plastic Tupperware. Then I sit down on the edge of the bed, paper towels at my feet, and wait.

It takes fifteen minutes. She moves to the center of the room, performing, and she begins to heave. It’s always the same: first one big, second one, a few feet away, much smaller. She can’t keep anything down for long. The puddles steam a little in the moonlight, spreading over the linoleum. The space heater is unplugged under the desk.

I’m sitting in the waiting room for the third time this year. They carried her in for blood work about five minutes ago. Consistent vomiting is a symptom of everything. It’s snowing outside so she got kind of wet on the way over and I’m wondering if they noticed. The receptionist is talking in a really weird baby voice to some guy about frequent flyer miles and how traveling together is good for any relationship. I keep accidentally meeting her eyes.

Later, one of the techs is sitting next to me, speaking slowly. He talks to the back of my eyes. “She was very good. We got blood and urine from her.” The results will be in tomorrow. She’ll cry on the way home, snowflakes sticking to her coat. “Sign here with your finger and tap accept. An invoice will be emailed to you shortly.”

Cape of Foss

Have you ever noticed that getting to know yourself is easy?  The surface tension of a brimming glass of whisky reminds me of my own skin.  Fact: it feels better to let light in through opening the blinds than having it wake you on your days off you spend money.  Fact: new sources of information produce time honored emotions.  Erroneously believing you hear a new text message.  White stucco.  The internet bill.  Comcast controls the doorway to pornography and they know it.  Energy prices have never been satisfying and energy cultivation has always been dangerous.  Remember to wash your hands before eating because of the invisible dangers.  Swallow water at frequent intervals.  Name things to give them psychological meaning.   That feeling when he gives you his jacket because you can see your own breath in his room.  Wearing Converse with a dress.  When a song describes exactly how you feel.  Having a pointless conversation with your best friend.  Bedroom lights.  Snuggling your cat and watching TV on a typewriter in bed.  Surely you know by this point that every newscast is a reference to the Holocaust.  Ask the town.  Tell your concerns to the fog.  Cape your wondering in dialogues with the big man.

there's a line somewhere in between the florida keys and florida kilos

PUNK BRUNCH

An ice-cream truck
plays “Silent Night”
at sunset.

Junkies
lick the bleeding gumball eyes
from Spongebob’s visage.

The barfly lady
orders a Little Wayne double
on the rocks.

At McDonald's
even the napkins taste/feel
like something you crave.

Elided Jewish

THE SECRET HORROR 2X14


APPLICATIONS
FUCK II
HAND IN MY FIST (FT. BOZ)
I'VE LOST
RILKE


https://www.dropbox.com/sh/z48snxymvzatqp3/vFhd43hOo2

tao teh chill

CH. 11

blown load of spokes
but the wheel won't wheel
    without the sky inside
four walls to a squat
but we all need space
    to keep the cattle dry

Lay beneath boards

They are all red

And dark like gold

Faculties are miners

And money is water

Diners are there

The swollen woman

That sits out on the lake

Holds her head still

So it doesn’t shake

Dad works on the farm

In the land

That is open

He cooked for his girlfriend

They made pasta

Fork is mean

Power is black

And goodness in you is marbles

1,2,3,4

Lay still

My sweet prince

You’ll be back like road

Hell is fumble

And blanket is green

Crave is snow

Care for me

Like I cared for you

Bed is snow

Now: This

The calculus of living as composed by language and narrative.  Straddling two ideas: it's not where you're from--its where you're at; it's not where you're at--it's where you're from.  Intuit what you mean and then let them all know.  Much like me--this thing started in Philadelphia but can go anywhere that the internet enables it to.  So indulge.  Scream about it.  And if the only response you get back is an echo at least you'll know what your own voice sounds like.  To the new!

AN EPILOGUE THAT KEEPS GOING ON