Updates...

so i read The Fall twice. got half way through The Naked And The Dead, got bored and gave up.
i read the new issue of Tape Op.... fuck, we are the worst/laziest book club ever.
i got some Tom Robbins book at a goodwill in arizona, i'm gonna try it. i usually hate his books...

poem for dan

poem for dan 

i’m in a fine mood 

it's 12:30 

on a Sunday afternoon - 

May 5TH, 2009 

 

the spring sun is shining 

the cacti in the window are blooming 

and I just took a shit 

that made me feel 10 pounds lighter 

and 10 years younger

I step into my roommates room 

maybe he wants to join me on the porch 

for a cup of tea… 

his door is open 

but his room is vacant 

nothing but ghosts 

silence 

defeat  

but wait… 

smiling up at me 

from a cardboard box on the floor 

is a neil young with crazy horse album 

tea 

eggs 

sourdough toast 

sunshine and crazy horse on the porch 

yes, yes  

a fine way to start the day.  

I grab the album 

open the case  

what the fuck.  

what the fuck. 

what the fuck. 

what the fuck.  

what the fuck.  

no neil 

no crazy 

no horse 

inside sits the postal service* 

smirking up at me 

with a shit eating grin 

made of drum machines 

boring pop keyboards 

and nancy boy lyrics  

fuck you dan. 

fuck 

you. 

*i'm sure these boys are noteworthy musicians of superb merit, but it's just not my cup of tea...

sunday best

sunday best

tom waits sounds best

on vinyl,

everybody knows this

just as dark haired girls

in white dresses

look like tigers

in the springtime

cheap white wine tastes best 

on a sunday afternoon

as the dogs sleep in the shade

and the strawberries bloom

and words run best 

from the fingertips

to the keys

across the page -

like a virgin's tears on prom night -

once the bottle is empty.

Bag of Books Sale

hey, i thought you guys might be interested,

the Library is having a bag sale at title wave!!!

Fill a bag with books for $10.

Thursday, April 30 and Friday, May 1
10 a.m.–4 p.m.

• Used merchandise only
• Limit 10 bags per customer
• Books must fit in bag completely
• Sale applies to books and audiobooks only

• The Title Wave Used Bookstore
• 216 N.E. Knott St.
• 503.988.5021

proud to be an american

there is a rest area
outside of aberdeen washington
that serves free coffee, cookies, hot cocoa
and every so often pumpkin pie

i stop here from time to time
in my delivery van
to pad my hours a bit

today the sun is shining
i have a cup of hot cocoa
and a copy of hunger by knut hamsun
it's a beautiful day

i watch from a picnic bench
by the dumpsters
as obese women
with small dogs
and even smaller shorts -
shorts that are much
much too short -
smoke cigarettes
and apply make-up
as their white trash
bastard children
burn ants
with a magnifying glass

the fat falls from their rumps
and out of their short shorts
like hamburger meat
from the grinder

20 feet away
a trucker smiles
at me
from his big rig

he watches me
watching them

even from a distance
i can tell
that he is jerking off

it's times like this
that i am proud
to be an american.

the man who never says goodbye

31
plaid on plaid
whiskey five nights a week
mysterious tangerine in his pocket
stolen sunglasses that hang from his neck
yes, yes, this is the man who never says goodbye

ballad of a dying clock

you wake up one sunday morning
only to realize
that you have grown old without warning,
and that age is not part of thee equation...

and not only does your heart run
like your dead grandfather's
sputtering plymouth once did,
but emotionally it moves to the rhythm
of a dying clock...

and you realize then,
that the shelves you have built upon
your plum brown bedroom walls,
the dog that sleeps at your feet as you type,
and the plants who slumber in the sun
atop your bookcase
mean more than yesterday...

and only then do you realize,
that death--in all of her terrific glory--
feels more like a long lost friend
than anything else...

I'm Sick and This Crow Is Dead (2008)

so i've caught about three or four different variations of the flu/cold in the last 2 months. i drink tons of juice and water. i take my vitamins and bike as much as i can. i don't sit around inside unless i'm recording or playin music.   at work i cashier some, have to touch raw meat some and have customers with their sick kids coughing all over the place so i'm constantly sanitizing and washing my hands. today is my 3rd day totally laided up in bed. i've watched way too many dumb movies and i have too much of a head ache to read books for any extended amount of time. in a state of paranoia i thought i had lupus and then had a weird medicine dream. then i had a weirder dream about yelling into one of those communicator tube things in an old light house. (definately put in my mind by the Dr Who episode where the doctor and leela solve the mystery at fang rock). i tried to go to the closest free clinic to my house today, but its sunday and they were closed. as my girlfriend was leaving to go study at psu, i was thinkin about hauling my 4 track recorder and a microphone upstairs to record some haikus and maybe some songs on the omnichord or something low key. then i heard her holler at me from somewhere outside. as i struggled melodramatically out of bed she kept tellin me to come outside. when i got to the front door there was a dead crow laying on the sidewalk. i remembered in all those plays and books and shit about how dead animals are foreshadowing for later events..... like when the horses eat each other in macbeth. my girl wanted to know what we should do. call animal services? call the city? call the humane society? no. i said i'd take care of it. i grabbed a shovel and she left. at first, all i could think was, "i love watching the crows play in my front yard and get in little scuffs with the squirrels and cats on the block." i remember one time actually seeing a crow get so pissed at a squirrel that it actually pick't the squirrel up and flew up in the air just to drop it about 20 feet from the ground. i thought i'd bury the crow in our garden. like some circle of life kinda thing. then i started wondering....was it diseased? would it poison our crops? kinda freaked me out a little to think about it. i decided to just put it in the garbage can. i'm all for animal rights and i hated watching all the animals bummed out behavior when i worked at the zoo. i'm not sure if putting it in the trash can was the right thing to do, but i'm definately under the weather and didn't feel like digging it a grave. i, maybe irrationally, imagined my cat or some other neighborhood animal digging it up as a new play toy and just got nauseous. anyways, i scooped the crow into a shovel and was surprised at how heavy it was. i've had a pet bird before, but this thing was bigger. the poor creature's neck was limp and his head flopped a bit when i scooped him up. i didn't see any blood and its wings were not broken. was it sick? had it been hit by a car? i figured that if a dog or cat got it, it would've snapped the crows wings or something. it was in the position of a sleeping chicken. i don't know that i necessarily believe in an after life for any creatures on this planet...myself included. but i really hope that poor crow died peacefully. i also hope that, if there is an after life or if souls or whatever just hang around like casper, i hope that this crow doesn't haunt me for throwing its remains in a grey plastic city of portland dumpster. and as for the foreshadowing, i keep reminding myself that i'm just loaded on cough syrup and i don't believe in that kind of stuff... i kind of hate shakespeare. for a minute i thought that it was shakespeare's ghost that had put this dead animal on my sidewalk to get me back for dissing his lifes work. there is no scientific explanation for that so i'm just gonna drink some juice and read some comics. gotta remind myself that its ok to call in sick to work if yr really sick. 

another hopeless journey to nowhere

Delivering wine for a living sounds like a fine profession... It is not. It's not the worst, but far from fine. They don't give me a discount, and the hours are inconsistent at best. She sends me a text--Can you come in at 8:45AM tomorrow? Earl just made another order. It's 11PM... Great. I was at the bar thinking i worked at noon... Off to bed. Late. Missed coffee. Missed breakfast. Missed sleep.

The van starts up fine... The smell of Diesel fills my nose. I drive to Salem, about an hour each way. It's an easy delivery and the Italian owner is the real stand up type. I like him--He's short, balding, has a thick accent and his face has the look of a worn out boxer.... I wonder what brought this poor fool from his "Madrepatria" to the armpit of Oregon called Salem? I drive back to Portland and get another one out to Hillsboro--Another shit-hole about 45 Min. outside of Portland. I used to think the guy at this wine shop was a total douche-bag. I'm wrong today, he is polite and gives me 25% off a bottle of red.

The day is looking up and i have a descent bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir

to share with a certain lady friend of mine upon her return to the States.

The last delivery is downtown to a club called "Dirty".

Dirty? Jesus... I unload 5 cases of Prosecco in front of the homeless shelter on W. Burrnside and 3rd. I walk past the line of hungry washed up tweekers, drunkards and aspiring writers waiting for their cot and a food handout. The "club" is next door. The front door is locked. A sign reads:

Dirty Nightlife:

no hats
no sneakers--any color,
no gold teeth...

The sign went on and on and on...

So, disgusted with this meat market I walk around to the side door. Locked.

I smell something. Something horrendous. I look down in amazement and disbelief. My foot and my hand truck have found a steaming fresh pile of bum shit; A pile the size of a sewer rat but the shape and color of an apple fritter...

Yes, friends... I stepped in it... My nostrils filled with thee oh so mighty fragrant odor of human shit. (Unlike dog shit, and far from cat shit, human shit hits the nose like no other.) And when Fuck Face opens the door i say:

"What the fuck! There is human shit in your doorway!"

Fuck Face replies, "That's just dog shit."

"So you just left a pile of shit in front of the door?"

"I didn't put it there." says Fuck Face.

Fuck you Fuck face...

So I bring the Prosecco in--without wiping my feet. They don't have a check. Fuck Face says he can't have a check until three. We close at 2:30, so against Fuck Face's wishes

I load the wine back into the van begin a hopeless journey back to the warehouse...

Dull Dusty Blues

Rain on a tin roof and whiskey makes you bullet proof.

-Lets fight the good fight with darkness as our light!

At this point, choosin' sides'll get you as far as carousel rides,

Lets fight the good fight with darkness as our light.

     Hack pianist.  Frozen whitless.

     Sittin' on a city train.  Lit and 

     missin' some dumb thing.

Sad, shut windows...closed to the world:

The dull, dusty eyes of a country girl.

-Just to be clear: There is no future here, 

you'd have much better luck  just 'bout anywhere!

     Pack evangelist, Frozen baptist

     Waitin' at a train crossing. Lost

     & detached from every thing.

I made the ocean jealous...

...or at least I hope I did. I don't really know the Pacific's true feelings about me or my actions but if I could guess I would say that it is jealousy. Don't try to ignore me, ocean. You know I'm right here. You may be the single largest thing on this planet but when I stand on your western shores and soak up your misty spray and jolly waves, I can't help but notice your sly downward glances and awkward gestures. It must be jealousy.

make out parties with bicycle messengers, punks, and high school drop outs

How do I make this sadness stop? I want to be a happy person again. I just don't know how...

Its been an interesting fall

As I was working the register at Tiny's today, I ran into this guy who I had met through a friend some months ago. He was a nice enough guy, quiet and laid-back. He is also a diabetic who doesn't really take care of himself, and my friend was forced to move out (with his daughter) because this guy's weekly episodes and trips to the ER had become too much of a burden. I notice he has a massive splint on his right leg. He broke his knee, and talks about how he is between houses and is hopefully moving away from Portland because it is just not really working out here. He mentions what an interesting fall its been. 

He takes his coffee and scone and goes to sit down. Time slips by.

As I turn toward the next customer there is a commotion by the door. This guy is going into a full-on diabetic seizure. Right there in the store as someone is about to order a fucking hazelnut latte. We all gape for a moment. His hands claw at the table and he is white as ghost, kicking and writhing in his booth by the window. A few folks hold his head up as he is shaking and convulsing and we call 911 and they arrive and fix him up in a matter of minutes. He leaves with them, stretcher and all, out the door and into the pissing rain.

What did he mean by an 'interesting fall'? It was the one thing he said that really stuck out to me. Was he speaking in a metaphorical sense about his trajectory in life or did he momentarily forget what season it was?

I was left to wonder if this really is such a common occurrence in his life, how he made it this far on sheer luck and empathy of strangers and, most importantly, how much longer can he keep doing this before it ends in an even more interesting but mostly sad fall?

Poem for Jim

i was talking to my mother over some wine
last night
while my dear friend daniel galucki tended bar

we were talking about my dead grandfather
who liked to dance
drink
bowl
drink
golf
drink
sing
drink
and drink

he was a stubborn bastard
a WWII sailor
he crashed his car into the hedge
after bowling night
just as scottish as irish
but he claimed pure irish till his death
he said:
"drink, or gamble. pick one or the other;
never choose both."
he loved my grandmother
but i'm not sure she loved him
he fixed things with wire and tape
he was cheap
and
i respected him

James E. Gibbons
or Jim to his friends
who had a stroke at 83 or maybe 84?
i think it was the year 2000, but i could be wrong
up until then he had been sharp
when they took his keys away so he couldn't drive
he would just fetch one of the sets he had hidden around the house
and go for a spin
they finally put a club on his car

and after his stroke
he lay in a hospital bed for a week
every day he asked my mother to take him home
he couldn't walk at the time
and my grandmother was incapable of caring for him
so, they were going to take him to a nursing home the next day
he knew this
so he pulled the oxygen mask from his face
and while no one was around
he died at his own hand

i still respect him
more than ever.

poem for chris

what a swell little glass...

wine tastes best from a jelly jar 

or a little glass like this 

made for bourbon

the glass needs to be thick.

heavy.

small.

i like to refill it 10 times before the bottle is empty

that way i feel like i get my ten dollars worth 

of italian red

and how does one find a glass so holy

in a house like this?

where the only dishes lay piled high in the sink

covered in pig fat

and old moldy vegan soup

there was a fork

that lived a life of solitude in my housemates room

possibly for months

and when another mate rescued it

cleansed it

and put it to work

he realized that the smell of grass-

months worth

had burrowed it's way into the metal...

truly astounding. astonishing. that his caesar salad

smelled of dope.

and somehow

amidst the fog

the clouds

the rain

the storm

the war

and the chaos

i found this little clean glass

a gift from dionysus

a token of appreciation 

for my devotion to the grape

now, in awe

my loyal hand holds a martyr

a saint

who's sole purpose

in this dreary house

among the plastic cups 

and cracked coffee mugs

is to fill my head

and my guts

with the nectar of the gods

thick.

heavy.

small.

i could place it in a sock

swing it three mighty times

above my head 

and coldcock an elephant...

what a swell little glass...

i was thinking

so, i was thinking...

it might be nice to write about something 

other than:

drinking.

being poor.

anxiety.

girls.

guilt.

lovers.

love.

dogs.

sex.

insomnia.

rain.

maybe i should write about flowers?

or the dead skin 

that seems to be accumulating 

on my typewriter keys?

it was while i was thinking 

about this change in attitude

this rut i'm stuck in

this bukowski rip-off bullshit-

that i realized what i was doing:

digging through filthy couch cushions

in search of change

to buy a beer

that i cannot afford

i want this beer

because i have anxiety

from a sleepless night

from drinking too much red 

12 hours prior

that somebody else paid for

while i sat at the bar

and looked at girls

who i would like to touch

i want to know what their hair smells like 

the next morning

right now

which makes me feel guilty

because my lover

who i love

is in costa rica

and

i'm watching her dog while she is away

his name is bubba

he is a pekingese that snores like thunder

he has a bad back

heart disease

ulcers of the eye

bad breath

missing teeth

a smile worth all the gold in southern australia

and a soul so mighty god shits his britches 

at the very thought 

of a being so 

HOLY

i love him.

well,

the cactus in my window is flowering today

surely a sign of spring

maybe the clouds and rain will pass

and maybe i'll get stoned

poem #6

POEM #6

i hold
in my hand
thee heart of a lover

i wear
on my sleeve
thee heart of a dingo*

i keep
in my chest-
locked up tight
inside my ribcage bones,
the following:

3 birds.
a single yellow rose.
one switchblade.
one handle of rum.
and...

thee heart of an ass.

*Dingoes are mostly seen alone, though the majority belong to packs which rendezvous once every few days to socialize and or mate.

Finger Dance

What is time? Maybe it has something to do with how exhausted one gets... or how excitable. There's one hell of a pain under my right rib cage, mostly because I decided to eat a slice of pizza. I should of gotten a beer instead. So hi ho to my new bookmates. Let us find the "The Canyon of Vaginas". I can leave tomorrow, or maybe after I check off all the odd things on my finish stuff list.

1. Finish vocals and mix of new album

2. Finish board game and figure out how to publish it

3. Finish 7" layout

4. Book June tour

5. Start and finish layout for new album by May

6. Go get x-ray of broken finger and possible broken gaul bladder

7. Go sleep in bed with you lady and get off this time machine

sometimes a dance isn't all it's cut up to be

Collection of short stories #2

New member Joseph Demaree chose short story book #2 "Wild Ducks Flying Backward" by Tom Robbins

Novel #2 The Fall by Albert Camus

The group will be reading "The Fall" by Frenchie Albert Camus for Novel #2.

This is the first Camus read for Dr. Fowler and Ubiquitous so we will be reading "The Stranger" by Camus as well...

Read about him here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_Camus

hypothetical superdude

"I have learned to be satisfied with understanding. It is found more readily and it's not binding. Friendship is less simple. It is long and hard to obtain, but when one has it there's no getting rid of it; one simply has to cope with it. But its not easy, for friendship is absent-minded or at least unavailing. It is incapable of achieving what it wants." 

~Jean-Baptiste Clamence

haiku america

go-go bass line in the backbeat bent snow slosh.


cold dogs smile in the street

one more chance at sleep...

12:45am... thursday.
broke.
again.
anxiety.
always...
a pretty gal made me lamb stew last night.
shared my bed.
i watched her sleep.
i love her hands...
my dog vladimir vomited yellow bile
under my record cabinet this morning
and i've yet to clean it up.
she has a loose screw and the heart of a saint.
i love her brown eyes...
but those things
and those girls
were then...
this is now.
the only thing relevant is the last can of hamm's
and one more chance to get a good nights sleep...
shit, i need it...
tired.
always...
12:53am
alone in a basement.
i guess it's actually friday.
whatever.
one more chance at sleep...
i need it.

Verlaine & Hashbrowns

today i was in a tiny town at a store no one else was likely to be in for the rest of the day. i found a paperback of collected Verlaine poems. it was hot out so i walked to the whistle stop cafe and bought coffee and hashbrowns. they also brought me toast. breakfast was $3.00 the book was $8.00 and worth it. really weird translations...

i've also been reading The Naked and The Dead. its good. real.

[these photos are from google cause my phone camera is bad.]

albert camus

in hot water music short Scream When You Burn bukowski mention's albert camus' Resistance, Rebellion and Death... sounds like a potential bottle bound read to me...

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Resistance,_Rebellion,_and_Death

to my name

i have seven dollars
one half pound of coffee-
ground for french press
one bag of pink lady apples-
out of season
bleeding gums
and a headache...
to my name.

i walk to the the store
in the rain
purchase one bottle of
cheap.
red.
wine.
to help me finish this poem

now i have two dollars
one half pound of coffee-
ground for french press
one bag of pink lady apples-
out of season
bleeding gums

purple teeth

and a wino's grin...
to my name.

life is good sometimes...

last night i made love
to a beautiful woman
4 times
once more in the morning
she loves me.
we spent the night drinking
laughing
she cried over a past lover
but things seem better than ever
so we spent the night drinking
on her money
after we pissed the last of mine away
we smoked grass
listened to the good, the bad, and the ugly
on vinyl
in bed
stoned.
we giggled like children
fucked like adults
4 times
and once more in the morning

life is good sometimes...

poem for leif garrett

i walk
run-down
across blue and white tiles
the sticky soap beneath my shoes
is actually piss.

there is one other on board
a middle aged black woman
short.
stout.
purple hair?
more of a maroon i guess...
she has a viscous gap between her two front teeth

"You look like a movie star!"
"What?"
"You look like that movie star! That one who surfs!"
"Leif Garrett?"
"Yeah! Yeah! You look like him! ARE you him?"
"No..."
"You look like him... how I know you ain't him?"
"Would Leif Garrett dry his clothes here?"
"I don't know where he be! AND ANYWAY sometimes
they be doin' things like that so peoples thinks they is normal peoples! You him."
"No."

i notice she is not here to wash
or dry
why is she here?
i turn to leave
she beats me to the door
"I be back to check up wit you Leif!"
"Sure."

i walk across the street
have a beer while my clothes dry

this madwoman has stolen my heart.
and maybe my clothes...

Shun

Tire Impressions.
Storefront Concessions.
Taxicab Confessions.
Financial Recessions.
Awkward Obsessions.
Recent Life Lessons.
Any Questions?

whiskey before the show haiku

DE-EVOLVED &

woke up on tobacco road.

O' psycho break downs!

12-3-08 in which travis uses " I " alot.

Yesterday I was driving down Grand avenue in southeast....

There was a stack of paper. Bound. No lines. 3 ring holes punched on the left margin.  Somehow this booklet or notebook or whatever it was had made it out into the street.  The pages seemed crisp and clean in the wind.  

Grand is a three lane, one way street.  In northeast it loses its way a bit, but in southeast, Grand avenue runs parallel with south bound Martin Luther King Blvd.  The paper was flappin around...layin about half way between the middle and right hand lanes.  As I passed, i could see that most of the pages were blank.  The holes punched in the pages seemed like little spy holes, each searchin for that half inch of world they could see.

I drove on.  Bored by myself and driving a boring way home to do nothing, I just stopped concentrating on the road as I hit a corner.  I jerked the wheel and the car lurched around the bend.  I saw quick flashes of holes punched in paper framing out the snaking kink in the road.

I couldn't see what was written or printed on the paper, but I wanted to.

this time...

this time they'll make it...

for i have stood here before
alone-----naked-----womanless
i've turned to them to console me in the past
then, the loneliness dies...
i forget.
i neglect.
i put a dull selfish blade to the spleen of the innocent and turn
slow.
no water.
no light.
no music, no love.
the room becomes a desert
even the cacti cannot survive
the blood pours from their bodies
down the bookcase
over my record shelves
across the hardwoods and out under my bedroom door

but, this time they'll make it...

for here i stand
alone----drunk----womanless
water can in hand
wine bottle in head
piranhas in my guts
this time i've my copy of how to grow house plants
sunset books- copyright 1974
this time i've an east facing window
a south facing window
time
a typewriter
a case of cheap wine
records
paintbrushes
water.
light.
love.

this time they'll make it...

Slumber fights like a dog

Long tongue wakes me up
Licking all over my face
I kick her out of bed
And she pouts in the corner
Like a little girl
So sad and hurt

Her big browns flash back
At me and I give in
I give in every time
She crawls back under
The covers and her tongue
Comes out again
I throw the sheets on the ground
Waking up my lover on the
Other side of the bed
I stand up and scream
"Stop licking my face!"

And tomorrow starts the same

Pill Train Haiku

snapped branches seem street wise

   in the boring grey-brown 

             snow blur drive by jerk

PATCH

i've got a patch/tattoo almost drawn up.

Hot Water Music, by Charles Bukowski

The first short story or poetry book is Hot Water Music, by Charles Bukowski

The Naked and The Dead, by Norman Mailer

First book assignment picked by Dan is The Naked and The Dead, by Norman Mailer