Saturday, August 30, 2008

930 days ago



Thursday, August 28, 2008

egg tossing

Last night while I sat with an acquaintance, a poet
and guitar player, our families tucked away in the same
small town still; we sipped wine: him from his swiveling desk chair
in front of his laptop; me on the floor in front of his miniature tv, pulling turnips for coins, tossing eggs at egg spitting bird dragons guarding caves leading to slot machines.

In the middle of it all, I got a call from a petroleum engineer
who moved to Tulsa for a job; he said, "People are about to be fucked, the economy's fucked, the depression's here, the money's gone,
the US is in debt."

I said, "I'm drinking wine, the princess can fly, but Toad
plucks turnips with intense speed.

He said, "I hate Luigi."

I said, "Luigi sucks; he can jump high, but he's slow."

Tonight I got a call from an ex, our families tucked away in the same small town still; the other day at the pool he said he didn't like Beck anymore since he found out he was a Scientologist.

I asked him how any one person could appeal to so many different people's ideals without being overwhelmed with responsibility.

He said something about "space people".

I told him he should Wikipedia "Scientology".

He said he has.

Maybe he only read the parts he wanted to believe, with his predictable habit of hating things in most seemingly irrational ways.

He once declared that he hated both "nurses" and "people with tattoos" in front of a girl with wing tattoos on her shoulder blades who whined, "Heeeyyy, I have tattoos".

He said at a party once too that he hated cutters, in front of a cutter who went, "Heey, I used to be a cutter.

With luck like that I told him he could mentally hate a telepathic transvestite cokehead golf fanatic in an empty men's room at Dunkin Donuts, and the only one in the world would be shitting in a stall shouting, "Heeey..." between coffee farts.

The point of the call was to help keep our friend company, while he was going through hydrocodone withdrawals.

"I sat with him last night, I said, "we drank wine, while I played Nintendo; and besides, haven't I done enough of that in my life?"

"Oh yeah, I forgot, I understand," he said, and let me resume a conversation on the other line with a friend; a conversation about a girl who'd been fat most of her life, but became skinny roughly two years ago, giving her an excuse to accept attention from every Harry, Dick, and Tom even though she was pretty now.

My ex didn't know he'd met the girl, but hooked up once with the friend I was talking to--and once all three of them were at a party, the four of us drank tequila in the kitchen, and wine, and beers .

I'm not sure if the girl had a Nintendo, but her parents live in Portland, her father's a lawyer, and she doesn't have any tattoos that I know of; although my friend on the the phone, the one who fooled around with my ex 'the hater' once, has eight tattoos: including a bird, a snake, and a large Sandra Cicernos quote scrolled her ribcage; she's in law school, and just found out her ex fiancee OD'd on painkillers a week ago.

I told her that was worse than finding out that someone's grandma or uncle was dead, that he probably wasn't suffering anymore, hopefully; then we talked about our latest sexual conquests before she escaped down the subway to catch the L; I waited for her to say "I love you," before I closed my phone.


Sunday, August 10, 2008

ninja-pirate Bruce and his best friend Peekaboo

Ninja-pirate Bruce was involved with controlling,
manipulative types for way too long before he learned
to love himself.

Bruce was an optimist and was grateful for the awareness he'd honed in his ability to see through liars and control freaks; but it wasn't easy reconstructing after being taken apart in repeated attempts of being brainwashed by feebs.

In fact it was the most exhausting ordeal, ever.

Looking back on one particular lover, Tyrone--a professional ballet dancer/street hustler, Bruce'd become agoraphobic and anorexic from the lack of control of his own life.

It didn't help that he was working a full time high stress job as a bagger in a local Piggly Wiggly with asshole inbred pervs either. Ugly ones too. But Tyrone really hated fat asses anyway.

That's the closest Bruce'd ever come to losing it, while dating Tyrone--a sex addict, stealing from friends and family for prostitute money, knocking his ex up, again, impregnating twelve check-out girls, three stewardesses, two girls that worked at Express and a grandma from Boise, Idaho dressed as Sailor Moon for a Comic Con convention; all in less than a year.

Bruce's childhood Nintendo buddy/roommate, Melinda, had become an addict too, an in the closet food addict, literally, sticky ice cream boxes tucked in shoe boxes, powdered doughnut cellophane wrappers in pockets of sports coats fat as hell from skinny as shit in only two months, then BOOM, one day in the park, human dog treat city, she exploded all over the benches.

Thank goodness the complete wild and scared mess Bruce was...found his best friend Peekaboo when he did.

Peekaboo listened to his stories of watching the people closest to him fall part at the seams; he listened without judgment, without criticism, a solid rock of loyalty and patience Peekaboo; he helped Bruce become an overall better ass kicker ninja-pirate with the potential to make the world a better place.

Bruce became less cynical, more elite, a warrior highly trained in all aspects of martial arts combat, taking treasure from nitwits who spend too much money on lame crap: like trying to get the Village People back together for their son's bar matzvah; or 'sending a specialist to steal John Travolta's kidney'.

And he still couldn't believe they asked him to do that, but he did get a free cool looking book on something called Dianetics.

Bruce's mom was a Diane; the book made him remember the smell of her Sunday morning cinnamon streusel and that made him happy, so whatever.

Sometimes, when Peekaboo rides on Bruce's shoulder while he's walking, he whispers things like, "I wanna shove a big bar of Ivory soap down your narrow little throat," or "tell me I'm beautiful or I'll cry."

This makes ninja-pirate Bruce smile because he has a dark misogynistic sense of humor that leans toward the absurd and occasional violent tomfoolery.

Then someone pretends to trip, and laughter ensues between two best friends conquering the world in their optimism and discreet understanding of rigor mortis fart jokes.

Monday, August 4, 2008

Sha'Beouf GPS meatloaf sandwich

I don't know if I look better in person or in pictures.
My best friend Adam says I need to lose weight.
I can't sleep at night unless I get really drunk.
I've been jogging two miles sometimes
around the neighborhood lately.

Into a lank who zoomed through skanks,
straddling the back of a bi-wheel'd glory machine
it's a shame to become so stupored by smiles
bursts enamored, whiffing sporadic
clouds of lemony zest all over me.

Someone with pretty green eyes
is making me a meatloaf,
behind me right now
in the kitchen as I type this.

Last night my dashboard GPS
'transformed' into an evil anarchist robot,
like in that movie with Sha'Beouf,
from a cartoon I used to watch after school.

It lept out the passenger window
of my Maxima while I was sleeping
or drinking merlot trying to get sleeping
watching Battlestar Gallactica,
kittens on youtube, giant iris'd anime,
stumbling the occasional cigarette outside.

It knew I was thinking about selling it
to have money for food in New York,
where I won't need a car anymore, for trains,
for the smell of knish wafting waves from sidewalks.

My best friend Adam says I need to lose weight.
I don't know if I look better in person, or in pictures.
I've been jogging two miles sometimes
around the neighborhood lately.
I wake up thirsty more than hungry.
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