Commercial #1641

there's shag carpet beneath my feet

the color of kentucky hay.

shifting my navy vans makes me think of

where i've been and

where i'm now.

an old godard film plays on silent to my right and left,

the subtitles yellow as a

chain smoker’s fingernail.

the avant-garde art sneers at

my pathetic, amateur endeavors.

it feels like a cave in here.

cold and dark.

moist with eager hopes

and common dreams.

i'm sticky with sweat.

not from nerves;

fear said it's sweet fair well long months ago.

experience told my nerves to fuck off and

i haven't seen them since.

no, i sweat because my parking meter hides from sight

and it beeps in my brain.

the little red light haunts my imagination

and my 7th sense tells me

this won't end well.

not well indeed.

Purple Teeth

there’s that age old

question.

it haunts me,

tricks me, and giggles at me,

as i stare blankly into my

bare, undressed,

indecent,

cupboard.

since the nativity of that first

grape.

the conception

of that foremost

bottle.

the gunshot pop

of that first pockmarked cork.

the question was

birthed.

the sour, charming juice that cultivates

debate and sleep.

sustaining 

both the lonely woman and the

esoteric poet.

proof of the messianic and lifeblood of

the artist. 

the elitist scraping for prestige

and

the homeless searching to put

fire in his belly.

the question

remains.

i scratch my scalp. my eyes jump back and

forth.

forth and back.

my legs are sore. my brain is heavy. my

feet hurt from the day’s

lengthy waltz. i danced

my employer’s steps far too long today

it feels.

the question.

it’s that grind that

answers; the

tuesday

grind.

it’s a red kind of night. it’s gotta be red

after a day like

this.

yeah, it’s a red kind of night.

Snowballs and Whores On Sunset Boulevard

my tank is empty like a

confessional on monday. i hate the thought of stopping but my

left brain is kicking my head real hard.

real damn hard.

there’s a chevron on sunset and crescent heights,

you know the one.

its actually on the laurel canyon side,

but the thought of that windy snake of a road

annoys the hell out of me.

so shut it.

i havn’t had dinner and its well past

midnight.

so with the gas i grab a bag of hostess snowballs. twinkie’s red headed

stepchild.

slip the cashier seven dollars and say,

“the rest on pump 5.”

i just need to get

home. plus my wallet seems to be anorexic

as of late.

while my toyota greedily gulps down the

unleaded cocktail,

i pause,

to look at this strange deserted corner lit by the incandescent glow

of a smiling mcdonald’s sign across

the street. the wind howls. a car drives by.

the pump handle clicks a click at me but i’ve already opened my

feast. first things are always

first and with a shrug i bring the sugar mound

to my lips.

“lookin for a good night hun?”

just like that my meal is interrupted.

“i’m sorry?”

i quickly glance towards the voice and it belongs to

a woman.

i knew i shouldn’t have chose the pump closest to the sidewalk

and that syphilis contracted bench.

“what you sorry for sugar?”

she has hair like a broom, skin like coffee, and

is wearing a dress

four sizes

too small which

encourages rolls of flesh to try to escape their fabric prison. Its

some sort of animal print. leopard or cheetah

i think.

she smiles at me. a sort of sad, accepting smile.

she has

a gold tooth that nods and tips its hat at me. and a

piercing on her upper lip.

“don’t know.”

i shrug.

“you don’t want nothing do you?”

her smile fades as the breeze whistles by,

catching the words

from her mouth.

i looked down, thinking: this city thrives on

rejection. it’s lifeblood.

and i,

am no different than these cowards

and thieves.

“i’m starving. you?”

i reach into my plastic bag and offer her my second

snowball.

there’s that smile again. there’s that

tooth

waving at me.

we stand there looking out on

sunset boulevard

as the wind howls and the cars

grumble, and the

bums bum. wiping pink coconut and sugar off

our lips.

Melodic Deliverance

There’s a lullaby that sweeps across the desert within,

And each note played is peace,

Peace,

Peace.

Every bar sung is tranquil and sweet,

And as fingers tap on the keys of grace,

The ghosts inside wither and die.

There’s a ballad that floods the city within.

And each note played is love,

Love,

Love.

Every lyric is powerful and deep,

And as two voices unite in truthful harmony,

The giants inside shriek and shrink.

There’s an anthem that charges across the forest within,

And each note played is hope,

Hope,

Hope.

Every string plucked is electric and charged,

And as horns trumpet resounding triumph,

The wolves inside bow their heads and weep.

Sing with me now.

Close your eyes,

Tight,

Until you see glowing spots.

And sing with me.

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,

Down,

Down,

Down,

Down,

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:

Shrug.

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 18^th 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.

Whatever.

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!

LOL!

OMG!

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.

Shit.

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.

The Burbank Backslide

I can feel the beating.

It begins slowly. Carefully.

Thump.

                               Thump.
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.
Thump.
          Thump.
                    Thump.
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.
                              Thump.
                    Thump.
          Thump.
Thump.
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.
Thump.
          Thump.

Thump.
                              Thump.
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.

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.

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.

Deep Sleeper.

The hushed murmur rises to a deafening whisper.
I lounge wistfully, with feet up and head back,
In the tiny room sandwiched between dream and present.
My eyelids do not flutter.
My head does not twitch.
The employ of my title startles,
And goads me through the door to now.
Not my name.
My title.
The deafening whisper rises to a pitch of clarity.
“Awake, O’ Sleeper.”
The ‘S’ strikes my gut, stealing the air from my lungs.
I’m reminded of:
A child,
An oak,
A branch,
A fall,
The ground.
My eyelids now ajar, my head now stirring.
My eyes wade through the heavy darkness to find the author of,
The murmur, the whisper, and the pitch.
I’m still.
Very still.
The pitch of clarity rises to a muffled yell.
“Awake, O’ Sleeper!”
My heart generates the sound of a stallion sprinting.
I’m convinced the whole world can hear it,
And cringe apologetically.
I flip a switch,
The light wraps my room in a warm, searing embrace.
But I sit there frozen.
Icy silence.
“How do you know me?”
The question weakly slips out of my mouth,
Like a worm nearing death.
The muffled yell rises to a thunderous cry.
“Awake, O’ Sleeper!!”
Fear taps out.
Anger steps in the ring to face the unrelenting indictment.
I stand upon my bed and bellow at,
The ceiling,
The roof,
The sky,
The universe.
“But the days are evil!!!!”
“The days are evil!!!!”
I catch my breath and there is only quiet.
The murmur, the whisper, the pitch, the yell, the cry,
They all hide.
But they leave behind their friend:
A thought.
It resonates in my mind, bouncing back and forth.
A tennis-ball-notion.
As if to assure me of its answer to my dilemma.
Awake, O’ Sleeper.
Awake, O’ Sleeper.
Awake, O’ Sleeper.
I lie my head back down.
The pillow welcomes me.
The blankets hold me.
The springs comfort me.
But sleep may be difficult to grasp,
As my head spins,
And my heart reels,
And I’m soaking in all this light.

THE SCIENCE OF US, HERE, NOW.

I. Feel Me, Feel You.

There’s a roaring current when my lip touches yours.
I smell a scent that I didn’t know existed in this universe.
Your elbows rest on my knees, and I run my fingers through your hair.
You’re brunette, I think.
It’s hard to tell in this dim, unnervingly, foreign room.
I didn’t know skin could be this smooth, as my hand glides over your shoulder.
And I stare at the ceiling, as I debate the color of your eyes.

II. The Infuriating Reign of Numbness Ended.

There’s a roaring current when my heart touches yours.
I feel something that I didn’t know existed in a human being.
Your fears and insecurities rest on mine, and I lie to make you forget them.
You’re lonely, I think.
It’s hard to tell in this dim, unnervingly, foreign connection.
I didn’t know guilt could feel this good, as my spirit grazes over yours.
And I stare at the ceiling, as I compare you and her.

III. It’s Out There, I Swear.

There’s a roaring current when my soul touches yours.
I imagine what can’t exist but in the ethereal.
Every memory, thought, choice rests on mine, and I don’t know if I can hold it.
You’re lost, I think.
It’s hard to tell in this dim, unnervingly, foreign space.
I didn’t know the outside could break in, as my core sticks to yours.
And I stare at the ceiling, as I try and rip your essence from me.