February 23rd, 2011

February 23, 2011 § 1 Comment

One of those days where I get into my car and get to my destination and keep on driving. Screaming along with some Alice in Chains: Dirt in the winter sun snug in my four door Lucille. I do some circles around some seagulls and glimpse the Long Island Sound and think about what the snow leopards are doing at the Bronx Zoo.

One of those days that I (buy hair dye and) the reddest lipstick I can find and immediately put it on in my visor mirror before engaging the gas pedal and leaving my parking space.

Yes, one of those days that I consider starting a massive book instead of looking for a job or life plan.

weathered echoes.

February 16, 2011 § Leave a comment

today has this feeling to it that i can’t really talk about to anyone.

its warm enough to be in a trailer and crank on a space heater and sleep in front of it with five layers of clothes and two pairs of socks and turn off your cellphone and listen to some slint as you drink mad dog and write in a journal
with such scrawls that in the morning (which is 5 am in the country)
you will not be able to read a damn word you’d written.
ten pages or garble that seemed so furious that it feels weird to be alone
with it. like having fucked and spooned and now the person is zooming in
and you still don’t know a thing more.

there was no one to recount the passion you spoke with
how they were amused or scared or
something else
extreme.
no. instead there are glyphs that seem disgusting in their curves.
cursive written by a baby genius on his first day.

this is followed by disgusting coffee at the 2nd worst diner in town. there
are two diners in less than a mile. that’s how fucked up today is. when you
realize that isn’t a GOOD thing.

combine this with

parking somewhere and walking a distance with
a bag thats not heavy and shoes that slightly hurt
because
they are almost gone but the thin leather
looks so much like skin that its worth wearing heavy wool socks
and peeling the shoes off all sweaty later.

combine all of this with

wearing some kind of heavy canvas jacket and waiting for someone in a parking lot.
back then you still smoked so do that and let it start to drizzle
and finish your cigarette and smell your pointer finger and middle finger:
the strength of industrial nicotine. the drizzle will feel like cold pebbles and then
it is time to get inside but leave the windows down so it rains on your arm
and the cassette needs to be flipped
all temporarily hot like a pancake.

or

when you wake up in the beginning of fall in a tent with a sweatshirt on but no underwear and you need to pee so you put on boots and know that the woods has seen so many flashy tushes that yours aint that special–

and today feels like getting warm after all of that.

(so some of that stuff above is really real tied to some pictures i have – and i looked for em and came up with a lot of shadows and pictures of rooms and setups and shit. but i lived inside and outside of these three photos for a good three months. weird phrasing… but yep.)

Beer/Basketball/Wife

February 2, 2011 § 3 Comments

What: Beer/Basketball/Wife is a writing prompt from January 31st.
Where: Said prompt took place at Phoenix Park (206 67th st. New York, New York

Present: were Jess, Crystal Rivera, Victoria, Sal, and myself.
How: Victoria got up and ordered a prompt instead of a drink. These were the three words supplied by the bartender.
Personal disclosure: I have changed Basketball to be any sport but.

The BeerBasketballWife
has a whiskey dick in her left hand when
she rounds home- serving
rounds of thighs
as she vacuums in high heels: drinking high balls
kept in her husband’s crotch- wrapping herself
in the fur of quarterback’s upper lips.
She rubs her pitcher lipped tits against
the fried surface of bastardized vegetable meat
that rocks on the couch in rhythm to the television.

Her tongue ferments and makes moves to help holler:
din din> rising like an afterburst of ceramics after a platter
of smoke clatters> around pore guts doing the wave
the chop, superbowl shuffle,
grooming one another at half-time.
She sighs at her wedded prize of
an opera husband who now
tries to moonwalk drunk with a mouthful of popcorn
across the crunch carpet.

She weeps like a trickle at the sight of unappetizing leftovers;
tomorrow she will open the windows to let the fart escape.
The steam of piss beer breath filters through her nose.
Everything started to go downhill years ago
when she realized the color yellow did not look like
televised sunshine on her chest.

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