Blog Archive

Friday, February 25, 2011

Don't Tread On My Zeitgeist.

“What’s wrong with your generation?” He asks me,
As I slide a crumpled, five dollar bill across the counter.
“What’s right with my generation?” I snort,
As I hit the fresh pack of smokes against my palm.
I slide the change into my levi’s,
Nod at the cashier,
And turn to the man, with one eyebrow raised.

He shakes his head and sighs a big groan,
I imagine he’s remembering the Kennedy Administration,
And America towering above the universe,
Gazing through stars and cosmic clouds,
All the way down,
Watching the rest of the world play catch up.

I stand there in silence,
Because to respond as anything other than a smart ass,
Well, that would be a damn tragedy,
And as it would seem, I’ve already done that once today.
Sarcastic repetition seems to work so much better than making opinions,
So I do what any 31 year old would do:
I smile, energized by my own brilliance.
He looks at me with pitiful eyes and exits like the Santa Ana’s.

So now I sit here in a blue lawn chair,
Positioned delicately on the porch of my mother’s house,
With my arms folded, my feet up, my knock-off Ray Bans on,
A glass of mommy’s lemonade on a tiny table to my right,
And a cigarette dangling hazardously from my mouth.
“What’s wrong with your generation?” reverberates in my ears,
Like a band performing a sound check,
And all the notes are off.

A thought-bubble-light-bulb appears above my head,
And I realize that, sometimes I blow my own mind.
I’ve decided to write him a letter.
This stranger,
This “Zeitgeist Contender,”
Needs to be enlightened,
I’ve become Buddha,
I’ve become Gandhi,
I’ve become Lady Gaga,
Ready to impart my wisdom.

And I will wait in that grimy Seven Eleven on 18th Street,
Until Armageddon,
Or at least until he gets his next cup of coffee.
And I will hand him this gift,
This tome of my age.
I begin by:
Expounding on how all religions blend as one,
A rubber band ball of ideas, faiths, and realities,
Ready to bounce our souls into eternity,
Or the lack thereof.
There is no absolute truth you idiot,
And I know this absolutely!

I’ll dive into every minute detail of social networking,
And point out how he’ll never have as many friends as me.
Then my tears will soak the pages,
As I think about the fact that,
No one will know every massively, insignificant detail of his day.
I’m getting excited about this!

I’ll explore politics and sexuality,
Since they go hand in hand this part will be cake to write.
We’ve got a President with six pack abs,
How do I know this?
You don’t ask.
I don’t tell.
I almost voted for the other guy,
With the sexy-secretary governor,
But decided to obey Shepard Ferry.
He makes cool posters.
Who doesn’t like cool posters?

And after that I’ll pontificate about film, music and books!
Well not books.
That makes me think of reading.
Can’t we do that through, like, osmosis now or something?
That makes me think of writing.
With a pencil.
Maybe I’ll just email him.

So now my mom’s calling my name,
It’s that sweet dinner-time-tone,
And this camel has been parked on my lips for way to long.
God, its hard being 31 and living at home,
When everyone’s on your back,
And all you want to do is make out with your video game controller.

Gotta go tweet about this.

Friday, February 18, 2011

The Burbank Backslide

I can feel the beating.

It begins slowly. Carefully.
Creeping in like club bass through my sneakers.
I stare cautiously as,
Purple-blue transforms into pale-white,
A low-tide wave crawling patiently to shore.
The pounding quickens, a bustling customer late for work.
I see a finger twitch and shudder,
An eyeball shifts around underneath its opaque ziplock bag.
Lips part ever so slightly.
Quickening still.
I can’t seem to find my breath in the abyss of my chest.
With my hands close I can feel warmth,
It rises from infinitesimal holes,
I can’t see or understand.

I can’t take it any more.
I can’t.

I wrap my hands around the neck,
They are a vice-grip necktie,
And I make damn sure to do a Full Windsor.
My face turns scarlet,
As every vein tries to jump ship from my hardened mug.

The throbbing finally rests,
Skin is painted violet,
Appendages are tamed,
Eyes lie their heads down for sleep,
Lips stand in cement,
The chill returns,
And I –

I sigh.

How many more times?
How many more tries?

I sigh because,
I’ve killed this man before.

I saw him standing opposite me in the reflection of a shattered mirror,
Grinning, like the sun over the desert,
He shifted back and forth,
And the noise grated my ears,
As his shoes stuck to and ripped from the sticky, beer-covered, floor.

And that’s where I killed this man,
On a moonless Tuesday night,
Months ago,
In the slimy bathroom of a dive bar in Burbank, California.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Jalan Arjuna ½, Jawa Tengah

The film reel coughs and snorts as it stirs from its coma.
Memories are like an empty cinema you see,
And I alone breathe life into the projector.
I stand in the reminiscent box of a room,
Above the ripped, red, reclining chairs,
And feed the machine all the scraps that I can find.
Here’s 12 frames from a scene set in a jungle river.
I recognize the boy.
I recognize the dog.
I recognize the banana trees.
A raft is partially constructed in the murky, leech filled water.
It might be done if the dog had hands.
The boy’s smile sticks with me as the last frame slips by.
Here’s 9 frames from a scene set amongst rice patties.
I recognize the boy.
I recognize those feet.
I recognize the infinite green.
The squeal of ducks quacking penetrates the soundtrack,
Surpassed only at the last second,
When laughter befriends the sound of feet pounding soppy soil.
Here’s 15 frames from a scene set to the music of a mosque,
I recognize the boy.
I recognize the street.
I recognize the stewing volcano.
The mountain behind exhales deeply from his smoldering torso,
The boy is a ravenous lizard as he inhales a bowl of noodles,
Squatting in the dirt like his feet have sprung roots.
I search for more snippets of celluloid,
But most have disappeared.
I should have more,
Bits and pieces don’t do the film justice,
Eh, nobody watches documentaries anyways.
So I digress.
But it was so long ago.
I think it was an alternate reality.
Where I was the tallest man on earth,
Where I had porcelain skin like kitchen tile,
Where my thoughts apparated in a foreign language,
And my eyes held in them two worlds.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Wait A Second, Rewind.

I jump over a crack in the sidewalk as we walk down the street,
You give me ten numbers on a coffee stained napkin, and I awkwardly extend my hand.
You don’t.
You pull me in for an unparalleled kiss.
Sort of.
My stunned eyes were open, ruining the moment.
I’ll probably tell you this down the road.
Close to the same point in time that you fall asleep with your head on my chest,
My arm numb under your tiny body,
As the pattern of the argyle couch imprints itself on my face.

I sit pretzel legged in the chair across from you,
You smile and think I’m laughing at your joke.
I’m not.
I chuckle because your shadow looks like a Velociraptor.
Sort of.
From this angle, I swear to you it does.
I’ll probably tell you this down the road.
Close to the same point in time that I set my toothbrush next to yours,
Place my glasses down precariously on the edge of the dresser,
And climb back in bed to sleep till noon.

I stumble past you and bathe your purse with coffee,
“Its ok, its an accident,” you say as I make use of my handkerchief.
Its not.
I had to relieve fate of his impossible undertaking for a moment.
Sort of.
Not sure how that all works, but I had to do something!
I’ll probably tell you this down the road.
Close to the same point in time that I get you to watch Star Trek with me,
Dive into a Clevenger novel,
And see Patrick Park play at the Troubadour.

I stand stoically in line directly behind you,
You make your order and I pretend to be looking at the specials.
I’m not.
I’m picturing your freckles through the back of your head.
Sort of.
Its hard to explain, but I was utterly mesmerized.
I’ll probably tell you this down the road.
Close to the same point in time that I’ve memorized the flecks in your eyes,
Know what every raise of your eyebrow means,
And can recite every endearing, antiquated expression you use.

But until the time is right,
Lets fast forward,
And pretend that everything was perfect.
We’ll pretend that
The kiss, the joke, the spill, and the gaze,
Were all stolen from,
Shakespeare, Hemmingway, Tolstoy, and Wilde.

Who all happen to be dead.
So no one will know the wiser.