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?