Still bathing after all these years

Things I drive past on the way home from work, in no particular order:
- A large black garbage bag, presumably full of garbage
- Three stray dogs, or at least hungry-looking dogs, collarless
- One seemingly drunk Chamorro guy, staggering too close to the road
- Ghosts. Countless, invisible ghosts

You walk by the flower pot stuffed with cigarette butts on your way to get another beer from the cooler. You smile weakly at their faces without making eye contact. These are some of the things you do to fill the time in between being born and dying. There are other things, too, of course. Like going to the beach. And sleeping. There's also work, jobs of all kinds. Having sex. Falling asleep. These are some of the things you do, just to pass all the time you don't know you don't have.

"Why do I even bother?" I wonder sometimes. Why indeed.

You hold your hand in the cooler full of ice and beer and soda and a couple of leaves of grass here and there, you're trying to see how long you can last before finally giving up. You imagine your body slowly filling up with ice cubes.

"The ice is melting, melting," you think, "and all my broken glaciers are drifting away."

This is the kind of nonsense that fills your head more often these days, as your body fills up with ice cubes, knocking one into the other, melting.

Memory lane

This weekend was fun, wasn't it? Yes it was.

You went to the Dot Dot Dot concert pretty high, and left pretty drunk. Lots of funny faces. You remember it all as a series of blurry photos. Joser was a not-so cowardly lion and was, with Trey, dressed like a garbageman on casual Friday. Royce was a living skeleton. Together, they kicked out the jams and led you up a stairway to heaven. What fun!

What else happened? Something else must've happened. I can't remember.

I need to think about it.



Oh yeah. You wrote. And wrote and wrote. You took a break and wrote some more.

There was plenty of good food. And money. Plenty of money, falling from the sky.

Didn't anything else happen? I can't remember.

Whatever.

The Passenger

one cook to rule them all


the hateful dish bin inspires madness and sorrow in the roughest of men


"i’m telling you, my penis can grow to this size and no larger. fact."


krispy kreme makes me krispy kreme in me krispy jeans. arrr


the arts-and-crap store: suitable mostly for lonely old ladies bent on scrapbooking the pain away


night falls outside borders. in our future lay vehicles honking wildly and loose women commenting from fast cars on our sexiness

A flip of the coin

Pardon Our Process

the nausea comes over me still.

when i’m leaning over the sink.
as i sit down in my room typing nonsense.
and drawing pictures of nothing, and nobody.

it washes over me, threatening to come spewing out.
but it doesn’t. and i keep doing what i’m doing.
it comes out my fingers, it comes out my throat.
it spreads like a virus into my computer,
smears like mucous onto the pages of tiny notebooks.
it finds its way around, here and there. everywhere



i’m really excited about this new project. trying to learn about where i come from; stuff you can’t find in books. things other people may not have related yet. maybe these are secret thoughts nobody has the guts to think anymore. things like, oh i don’t know. you know.

yadda yadda

Seven years in Ogygia

it's monday morning; yesterday was my day off. and a fine day off it was, though there's very little of it i'm able to remember at the moment. one can still find traces of the day's activities in my hair, my breath, my shirt. expired time lingers like old spider webs in the corners of the ceiling.

i've been drinking coffee and alcohol all day, smoking all day. sometimes i wonder if subconsciously i'm adopting the writer's lifestyle, disregarding entirely such trivialities as making sense in conversation or actually producing work for others to read (rambling blogs don't count). i'm lucky at least to have other similarly dysfunctional creative types around as company. this way i know i'm not crazy.

did we go to georgia today? i think we did. poor waitress.

adam: "the difference between our parents and us is that one day we're gonna have to deal with our kids seeing our myspaces."
bobby: "i feel worse for the kids. they're going to have to deal with pictures of their myspace-slut of a mother all over the internet. sad little bastards."

lately i've run back into the arms of an old lover (jean-paul sartre). haruki murakami waits in our apartment, sitting alone at the dinner table as our food gets cold. don't wait up for me.









adam: "i'd say it takes about a half-hour to get there."
charlie: "no way, man. it's definitely closer to 40 minutes."
bobby: "what you fail to realize, charlie, is that we operate on 80-minute hours."

The Doctor Is In

Karate Cunt

it's getting dark and the stadium lights are on, light pollution fills the sky.
the fog is lit up and it permeates the city, making it that much more difficult to tell the difference between given objects.
people and street signs.
buildings and trees.
through the thickening fog you hear trains
calling
calling
calling
just like sirens.
whatever.
at least these two bastards are out there, somewhere, keeping the city safe.

Walking On Broken Glass

not quite as romantic as poets and songwriters would have you believe

Alcoholics Anonymous

i went to an aa meeting monday night. it was a "young people's meeting" so the group was composed mostly of people in their late teens to early twenties, with a couple of old dogs here and there.

seconds after parking by the curb outside the church, i stepped out into the cold and promptly slipped and fell into about eight inches of fresh snow. i dusted off and headed into the church. i was extremely nervous at first. everybody there seemed to know each other from past meetings and i felt like i was the sole newcomer and that all eyes were fixed on me.

a couple of the regulars were selected for readings from "the big book" and, after the group leader went over the basics (we aren't a religious organization, a charity group, etc.), the hourlong meeting began in earnest. people volunteered their stories of struggle and dependency, always beginning with "hi, my name is (blank), and i'm an alcoholic." many of their stories mirrored my own, including details about family members who were also struggling with alcoholism.

at the end of the session, everybody in the circle held hands and recited a prayer i didn't know. i held the hand of the pimply blonde skater kid on my right and felt dozens of little twitches throughout his body. but still, it felt nice to hold hands with people, even strangers; it felt just like church.

before anybody gets any ideas, i don't have a problem with alcoholism. i accompanied a denver friend of mine to the meeting, out of the desire to support a friend, as well as more than a little bit of curiosity. afterward i carried with me a really positive feeling. not a bad thing for me these days.

i'm not an alcoholic, but i do quite like the stuff. in reasonable amounts anyway. since it's been snowing so much lately, i figured: "when life gives you lemons, fuck it. drink a lot of beer"

cheers