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.

Every Day Drive

On the West Side,
Sunshine,
Windows down,
My arm glows,
It’s the warmest chill.
Oceanic breath on my face,
Brackish and sweet,
Through my hair, down my shirt.
Boardwalk,
Excited feet, excited eyes,
I stand at the edge and see infinity.
Blink once, blink twice,
Hold it.
I open my eyes and I’m on the 405 going North again.

Down in the Valley,
Stale heat,
A proper, inborn sauna.
Kids play,
The illusion of suburban bliss
Is needed in the mishmash of this major Manhattan.
Walk with me past,
The library, the theater, the retirement home,
You’ll smile, laugh, and sweat.
In or out?
Please don’t leave it to me,
Leave it to Beaver.
Blink once, blink twice,
Hold it.
I open my eyes and I’m on the 101 going South again.

Up Sunset Blvd,
Down Hollywood Blvd,
Signs, stores, silhouettes, stilettos, superman, and sex.
Flashing lights to the gaudy sights,
Gene Kelly would roll over if he knew,
Katharine Hep would exhume herself.
These concrete hands are dusty,
The paint on that cinema peels,
I watch as the silver-screen-streets meet bums, whores, and bloody feet.
After feeling this, tasting it, and touching,
Something enchants me:
I think it’s the veracity of what has been, and the autonomy of what could be.
Blink once, blink twice,
Hold it.
I open my eyes and I’m on the 110 going South again.

I stop.
You stop.
We stop.
Its 4:48 pm and we all know what that means.
Pop in a cd.
Blast the radio.
Roll those windows down.
Light a cigarette.
Turn up the volume.
Steer the wheel with your knees.
Turn up the volume some more.
Embrace the inevitable.
I Stop.
You stop.
We stop.

Downtown.
I’m fond of the towering giants,
And curious of what transpires in them.
There’s excitement for the game,
Anticipation for that band, that musician, that line up,
And the crowd’s expectancy floods my every pore.
Stop by Seven Grand,
Let the whiskey, scotch, or bourbon,
Ease your mind and soul.
There’s a history in this place,
A young one,
But what were you doing in 1781?
Blink once, blink twice,
Hold it.
I open my eyes and I’m on the 10 going West again.

I’ve got one last stop,
Bear with me, just hang tight.
I’m taking Mulholland Dr. in the middle of the night.
Winding through the hills,
Look to your left, after this bend, your right,
A sea of lights, illuminated lives, bright, dazzling souls.
From high above, this place is united,
So I steer with,
No destination, no agenda, just drive, drive, drive.
One last thought to cap my volume, the apex of my tome:
New York may be my one-night-stand,
But Dammit! This is home.
Blink once, blink twice,
Hold it.
I open my eyes and I’m home again.

I Whisper Goodbye

The butterflies and gnats don’t understand,
The birds can’t possibly comprehend,
The flowers and the sun all scorn me,
As I whisper goodbye for the last time.

The earth and the worms smile,
The ants dance, croon, and play in the grass.
I bark and rebuke them in my heart,
As I whisper goodbye for the last time.

I close my eyes and hear the wind,
I smell every memory we had and can’t have,
The crickets chirp, I think I hear your voice,
As I whisper goodbye for the last time.

A stream of tears, a torrent of hurt,
I see your face in a tree, and know your grin,
A part of me is torn, you’re ripped away,
As I whisper goodbye for the last time.

I dry my flooded eyes with the edge of my cuff,
While my fingers graze the dull, dark, gray box,
I vacantly reach out for one more moment with you.
Afraid to speak, I can only whisper.

I whisper…

“Goodbye.”

Los Angeles or The City of [Broken] Angels

Your city bleeds from a heart as black as my smoldering lungs.
Alone she weeps, she crawls, and babbles in foreign tongues.
Dragging herself with the hopes and dreams of innocent members reeling.
Near death but somehow still breathing, near gangrenous but always still feeling.

So here’s to her. Your city, your bride.
Down your shot and swallow your pride.
Take a drag and pray for life.
Breathe it out and twist the knife.

Truer words were never spoken,
That, in LA, the Angels are broken.

Your city smiles a frown with bulged, bloated lips quivering.
The skintight mask slowly droops, yet her clownish grin is unwavering.
Her façade has been shattered and fixed, brutally ravaged and mended.
The Lady has been destroyed and forgotten far longer than intended.

So here’s to her. Your city, your bride.
Pound your beer and swallow your pride.
Chief your grit and pray for life.
Breathe it out and twist the knife.

Truer words were never spoken,
That, in LA, the Angels are broken.

Your city cries out for help, for love she opens wide and screams.
Throat raw, hemorrhaging unfulfilled potential and hideously, shoddy dreams.
The rest of the world stares and laughs, she’s here for their sick delight.
She hopes that someday the clouds will clear and day will break through the night.

So here’s to her. Your city, your bride.
Finish your fifth and swallow your pride.
Crush your cig and pray for life.
Breathe it out and twist the knife.

Truer words were never spoken,
That, in LA, the Angels are broken.

In LA, the Angels are broken.

A Thousand Suburbs in Search of a City

Limbs stinging, blue, and sore.

Stench lingering,

An untamed, unnoticed passenger.

The earth beneath lengthy, unkempt fingernails,

Is a crusty, dog-eared manicure,

Worn with pride. Worn with abandon.

Moth and mice eaten clothes,

A uniform for the forgotten.

The invisible.

Dead to some.

A ghost to most.

The stars shine only for one: the light thief.

Sweet perfume,

Emanates and stings the senses.

Fake, false, all forged from an image,

Tainted beauty and distorted splendor.

Please, don’t stop and smell the poisonous flowers.

Fine fabrics and finer smiles,

Teeth too white. Eyes too bright.

Spotlight.

Steal the night.

Stole your light.

A red dot in a field of black.

All alone,

Hands and soul grasping.

A breath is nothing unless its heard,

A heart beat worth even less.

Lonely and tired, tired of being lonely.

The veins in your eyes,

Crimson, cruel, crooked strings.

The broken.

Know.

Be known.