Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Friday, July 8, 2011
Burn This Letter
you can open its eyes and talk to it,
like new sun.
what's
the difference?
you are thinking because you no longer care.
i want to sweat, and i need time.
i'm sleeping out in an alley,
$20 a week easily
save the last inch.
burn this letter.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
real with quiet blue
she is good on phone
in long dark rooms.
the work is in her spare time
underground darkly --
this still leaves very little room
for the new is old for the old,
terribleness of evil begins to
live in the bottom
of her beer bottle.
for christ's sake! that's all there is.
more hell that doesn't work
fears, real, glued with quiet blue
and grey and green
dank screeching dementia.
waste of the city -
a machine a kind of black cave
of my mind and then drunk on
the other side.
in long dark rooms.
the work is in her spare time
underground darkly --
this still leaves very little room
for the new is old for the old,
terribleness of evil begins to
live in the bottom
of her beer bottle.
for christ's sake! that's all there is.
more hell that doesn't work
fears, real, glued with quiet blue
and grey and green
dank screeching dementia.
waste of the city -
a machine a kind of black cave
of my mind and then drunk on
the other side.
a big money man
now i am the first.
now they are
like new sun,
making me look bad.
it is hard to scream
clear and specked with blood,
with a master heart -
the opera on the radio,
a big money man.
now they are
like new sun,
making me look bad.
it is hard to scream
clear and specked with blood,
with a master heart -
the opera on the radio,
a big money man.
Monday, March 7, 2011
An American Diary: 10 Images in 10 Days
DAY 1
There's a spot on my back upper middle near the center near the center a spot near the center a spot the size of a quarter sharp ridges a circle of pain shape of heavy metal steel burning a hole in my back shape of an ashtray, shape of an army boot covered in mud fire scabbing up beneath skin little points of pain in the center of brain the center of positive thinking, burning hole where optimism stinks smells dries up dead skin getting revenge in my delirium to see sun come up in delirium to see sun in every glass. ropes tied around body yanking me from one end of street to the other, kicking me in the side, breaking ribs bruising body pulling slamming me every direction, twisting body straining bending pulling hanging begging pleading like a rubber band twisting in the wind from the sky on electrical cords from electric light bulbs, broken glass sharp cutting no sleeping eyes blurry, seeing dizzy dreaming doping drugging, writing in darkness: sleepless but not dreamless.
DAY 2
Hallucinations in the dark bed in my head behind my eyes in back of eyelids. In front of brain stalking every thought, stalking wild unthinkingness the soft spot on the forehead of my body straining against discomfort my chest tightening, squeezing, a groaning depression. a moaning impression like desert rocks, the rocks of ages: dry and hot cactus scabs on my fingers, cactus blisters on my toes, cactus boils after 20 days of the color white and yellow spinning a vicious circle spitting cactus juice in my face, blinding me throwing hot dusty gravel rocks, desert cactus spikes growing out of the center of my back, color orange spinning around the cactus that is my spine from bottom to top, from the seat of the snake to evil eye of blind mule eating spikes on cactus, eating it away, spitting pain between its teeth.
DAY 3
Day light and no pain in a field of water flowing a soft blue river on down to the bottom back to the top, wrapped around my legs the legs of a chair. that hard spot with a morphine drip unending defending aching reaching for nothingness. Noir shadows on down my body, down my stomach flattening empty and meaningless fasting like a zen monk. (A Buddha cat slept between my feet curled up with one eye open one ear twitching.) not even making hungry noises. empty plastic bags, a lost suitcase. a wallet tossed in the bay, a broken record, homeless shopping cart. a bookcase, gas tank, the back seat of a car, an empty bookshelf. a roll of film, a big bass drum, roll of quarters, broken fingernails, pieces of paper, empty bottles, a flat tire. dirty windows, bounced checks, broken promises, floating icebergs of pain, dripping melting tasteless wetness. I built a wall ten feet high painted black and blue with stripes to match the blinds on the noir wall. fever smoke from my skin, my dried skin empty envelopes, empty houses, empty glasses black roses black gloves white rice and a torn shirt. shining boots, a pocket watch, old shoes, an eye patch, a broken radio stuck on Christian squawk. an empty bar stool, cut lip and a black eye. empty ash trays empty stomach yellow teeth brown paper bag a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, underwear and dirty socks.
DAY 4
Noir shadows on my wall. fingerprints in mystic rising. smells like jazz downtown where I gotta tattoo. empty and forgotten: a box full of water, full of air and a cloud hangs over a waitress walking home from the diner, walking down the sidewalk after closing, the city hungry and thirsty bloated, dry throats scratchy knuckles from dawn to dusk, from cradle to grave, grasping for air. gasping for space. grasping for something that isn't there, that may never have been but now is, and before it wasn't, and may not be again.
DAY 5
my zen cat priest, black cat black zen cat, little zen monk cat guards my bed between my feet on a winding road, guards my night and dark bed rolled into a ball waiting for me to return to my body with the smell of consciousness, smell of sleep, wet mail, dried leaves, herbal tea and dead mice. the spot on my back smells like drugs, grinding gears from a city bus a train wreck. the sound of zen monks, mad dogs behind a hungry Buddha cat zen monk priestly cat sleeping.
DAY 6
Hotel Pain near the center straining under the load. under the hood. table and floor walls and ceiling painted yellowishly pale and white, sleeping empty fasting and meditating eyes closed folded touching fingertips together pressing against the empty behind reflection of car. shadows, bus shadows, noir windows, noir shadows on a window at an angle across walls behind lights like visions in the wind. I closed my eyes, touched my head, scratched myself and sleep with the sky. pain down my spine top to bottom. the color of spinning red and white crashing screaming jazz moaning jazz on an empty wet street. going down driving ancient Buddha speeding thru my body. electricity racing thru synapses' until I taste delicate precious crystals: the sound of dead undergrounds running through my veins.
DAY 7
the sound of a bus from down town. wait in line with bus ticket, sliding my feet on floor the ashtrays, soda machines. iron metal seats, newspapers candy wrappers. Ticket in hand passing it off to Driver from Hell bus driving away from Pain City a block away from the Bar of Pain corner of Pain Alley Boulevard of Pain. next to bus stop One-Way Pain. I get on bus the middle curl up in a ball in the back. pull jacket over me. close eyes and sleep. "goodbye" pain "goodbye" Buddha darkness. I speak mantras to stand up and walk sit eat, to sit on the toilet so I won’t die in a parking lot.
DAY 8
fog runs thru mind. sinks below the horizon drifts away vapor, a ghostly haunting entity. a creature surrounding me mystic disappearing invisible. the image becoming softer translucent transcendental transformational. A creature with me every day sleeps with me beats me, torture without end now was, and is, walking away letting go of me not hanging on. aura disappearing. creature letting go of me: body into nothingness. legs not so bad. I can move them, not too heavy, not too scared. pain is gone. feeling almost normal, listening really hard..... for what? I don't know.
DAY 9
I saw creature standing in the corner of the bedroom. standing behind door in the corner of wall where two walls come together. There's a door on hinges hanging. The creature reached from across the room. It's a room of mist. A figure in the shadows of room, in corner behind EXIT door. I can see it thru the mirror. there's a light in bathroom hitting mirror. I can see the reflection. I can see it thru the crack where door hangs. I can see creature mocking me in the dark behind door making faces at me with a stick. ramming me with a truck. slapping me with the back of its hand. long hairs growing on its wrist up its arm. around its elbow watching me cry, looking at my face, mouth tightening. watching me gasping for air. looking at me looking at it. watching it stretch out its arms. It can't touch me but its aura can reach me spin around and touch me. aura pulls back into itself pulling away stepping back the night. behind door running away the day like smoke.
DAY 10
creature banging his fist on my head. banging his knees on my spine. banging his arms on my head. his feet on my ribs. his elbows on my recovery. packing up mind in paper bag. blowing down door to my head. flooding my legs with cement and water. crushing bones. cutting away skin pasting it on walls. biting my neck sucking blood. shark eating flesh. shoulder blades against the bottom of my feet. scratching fingernails across center of yellow sun spinning red orange. smell of tar on a roof. taste of bitter on my tongue. sky sucks the universe. Collectors from Hotel Pain at 2am whispers in my ear to pass out at 2am to bang inside my cage. the only place I can sleep with iron rod hard enough and often, deep enough to stop me from going unconscious and just enough to stay awake.
There's a spot on my back upper middle near the center near the center a spot near the center a spot the size of a quarter sharp ridges a circle of pain shape of heavy metal steel burning a hole in my back shape of an ashtray, shape of an army boot covered in mud fire scabbing up beneath skin little points of pain in the center of brain the center of positive thinking, burning hole where optimism stinks smells dries up dead skin getting revenge in my delirium to see sun come up in delirium to see sun in every glass. ropes tied around body yanking me from one end of street to the other, kicking me in the side, breaking ribs bruising body pulling slamming me every direction, twisting body straining bending pulling hanging begging pleading like a rubber band twisting in the wind from the sky on electrical cords from electric light bulbs, broken glass sharp cutting no sleeping eyes blurry, seeing dizzy dreaming doping drugging, writing in darkness: sleepless but not dreamless.
DAY 2
Hallucinations in the dark bed in my head behind my eyes in back of eyelids. In front of brain stalking every thought, stalking wild unthinkingness the soft spot on the forehead of my body straining against discomfort my chest tightening, squeezing, a groaning depression. a moaning impression like desert rocks, the rocks of ages: dry and hot cactus scabs on my fingers, cactus blisters on my toes, cactus boils after 20 days of the color white and yellow spinning a vicious circle spitting cactus juice in my face, blinding me throwing hot dusty gravel rocks, desert cactus spikes growing out of the center of my back, color orange spinning around the cactus that is my spine from bottom to top, from the seat of the snake to evil eye of blind mule eating spikes on cactus, eating it away, spitting pain between its teeth.
DAY 3
Day light and no pain in a field of water flowing a soft blue river on down to the bottom back to the top, wrapped around my legs the legs of a chair. that hard spot with a morphine drip unending defending aching reaching for nothingness. Noir shadows on down my body, down my stomach flattening empty and meaningless fasting like a zen monk. (A Buddha cat slept between my feet curled up with one eye open one ear twitching.) not even making hungry noises. empty plastic bags, a lost suitcase. a wallet tossed in the bay, a broken record, homeless shopping cart. a bookcase, gas tank, the back seat of a car, an empty bookshelf. a roll of film, a big bass drum, roll of quarters, broken fingernails, pieces of paper, empty bottles, a flat tire. dirty windows, bounced checks, broken promises, floating icebergs of pain, dripping melting tasteless wetness. I built a wall ten feet high painted black and blue with stripes to match the blinds on the noir wall. fever smoke from my skin, my dried skin empty envelopes, empty houses, empty glasses black roses black gloves white rice and a torn shirt. shining boots, a pocket watch, old shoes, an eye patch, a broken radio stuck on Christian squawk. an empty bar stool, cut lip and a black eye. empty ash trays empty stomach yellow teeth brown paper bag a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, underwear and dirty socks.
DAY 4
Noir shadows on my wall. fingerprints in mystic rising. smells like jazz downtown where I gotta tattoo. empty and forgotten: a box full of water, full of air and a cloud hangs over a waitress walking home from the diner, walking down the sidewalk after closing, the city hungry and thirsty bloated, dry throats scratchy knuckles from dawn to dusk, from cradle to grave, grasping for air. gasping for space. grasping for something that isn't there, that may never have been but now is, and before it wasn't, and may not be again.
DAY 5
my zen cat priest, black cat black zen cat, little zen monk cat guards my bed between my feet on a winding road, guards my night and dark bed rolled into a ball waiting for me to return to my body with the smell of consciousness, smell of sleep, wet mail, dried leaves, herbal tea and dead mice. the spot on my back smells like drugs, grinding gears from a city bus a train wreck. the sound of zen monks, mad dogs behind a hungry Buddha cat zen monk priestly cat sleeping.
DAY 6
Hotel Pain near the center straining under the load. under the hood. table and floor walls and ceiling painted yellowishly pale and white, sleeping empty fasting and meditating eyes closed folded touching fingertips together pressing against the empty behind reflection of car. shadows, bus shadows, noir windows, noir shadows on a window at an angle across walls behind lights like visions in the wind. I closed my eyes, touched my head, scratched myself and sleep with the sky. pain down my spine top to bottom. the color of spinning red and white crashing screaming jazz moaning jazz on an empty wet street. going down driving ancient Buddha speeding thru my body. electricity racing thru synapses' until I taste delicate precious crystals: the sound of dead undergrounds running through my veins.
DAY 7
the sound of a bus from down town. wait in line with bus ticket, sliding my feet on floor the ashtrays, soda machines. iron metal seats, newspapers candy wrappers. Ticket in hand passing it off to Driver from Hell bus driving away from Pain City a block away from the Bar of Pain corner of Pain Alley Boulevard of Pain. next to bus stop One-Way Pain. I get on bus the middle curl up in a ball in the back. pull jacket over me. close eyes and sleep. "goodbye" pain "goodbye" Buddha darkness. I speak mantras to stand up and walk sit eat, to sit on the toilet so I won’t die in a parking lot.
DAY 8
fog runs thru mind. sinks below the horizon drifts away vapor, a ghostly haunting entity. a creature surrounding me mystic disappearing invisible. the image becoming softer translucent transcendental transformational. A creature with me every day sleeps with me beats me, torture without end now was, and is, walking away letting go of me not hanging on. aura disappearing. creature letting go of me: body into nothingness. legs not so bad. I can move them, not too heavy, not too scared. pain is gone. feeling almost normal, listening really hard..... for what? I don't know.
DAY 9
I saw creature standing in the corner of the bedroom. standing behind door in the corner of wall where two walls come together. There's a door on hinges hanging. The creature reached from across the room. It's a room of mist. A figure in the shadows of room, in corner behind EXIT door. I can see it thru the mirror. there's a light in bathroom hitting mirror. I can see the reflection. I can see it thru the crack where door hangs. I can see creature mocking me in the dark behind door making faces at me with a stick. ramming me with a truck. slapping me with the back of its hand. long hairs growing on its wrist up its arm. around its elbow watching me cry, looking at my face, mouth tightening. watching me gasping for air. looking at me looking at it. watching it stretch out its arms. It can't touch me but its aura can reach me spin around and touch me. aura pulls back into itself pulling away stepping back the night. behind door running away the day like smoke.
DAY 10
creature banging his fist on my head. banging his knees on my spine. banging his arms on my head. his feet on my ribs. his elbows on my recovery. packing up mind in paper bag. blowing down door to my head. flooding my legs with cement and water. crushing bones. cutting away skin pasting it on walls. biting my neck sucking blood. shark eating flesh. shoulder blades against the bottom of my feet. scratching fingernails across center of yellow sun spinning red orange. smell of tar on a roof. taste of bitter on my tongue. sky sucks the universe. Collectors from Hotel Pain at 2am whispers in my ear to pass out at 2am to bang inside my cage. the only place I can sleep with iron rod hard enough and often, deep enough to stop me from going unconscious and just enough to stay awake.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Urban American Landscape/15 Minutes of Fame
15 MINUTES OF FAME
first time i saw her she was dressed like a man in a white face. a mannequin smooth and hard, hair slick as black shoe polish. she couldn't escape the vacuum cleaner, the knife, deranged psychotic. the more i got to know her, the less i knew.
she wanted to be famous: being famous was better than a conscience. it made her forget she didn't merely have sex, she stopped being coherent. she made a mockery out of it. she had healthy distrust of optimism.
she’d stagger down the street to my dirty little space, a dirty laundromat in a dirty basement of a dirty hotel in downtown dirty town where everybody lived, where nothing was true, nothing forbidden, everything permitted.
one night she called me to go to her place and put gypsies in her arm. i put a bag over her head. she pretended not to know who i was. we went at it long and fast. it was the one thing needed: forbidden fruit of a girl who waits on tables.
last time i saw her she was dressed like a man in a white face. a mannequin smooth and hard, hair slick as black shoe polish. we couldn't escape the vacuum cleaner, the knife, deranged psychotic. the more i got to know her, the less i knew.
(1) all of the images i've selected are images of women in one form or another. in my mind, the Urban American Landscape is a landscape of beautiful women: all i want to do is sit in the corner upstairs in the booth with only one chair near the window and look at them all. i want to eat bowls of rice, food for the crucifixation yet to come. Keeps me up for days. I walk around on a highway. I stand in doorways waiting.
The Urban American Landscape is a who's-who of famous people who forget to close the window. they wake up with an appetite for the strange. they look for their coats, baggy pants, boots and a sharp pencil. they sleep on old faded yellow newspapers. they wait in laundromats.
i remember it was 6am. i'd been working all night. it started to rain. grey skies. black clouds. black skies. cold rain and lots of it. i could use a drink. i walk to the corner. the bar is open every day. open 24/7. it's wednesday or tuesday. i'm sitting in the corner in the back, in the dark, minding my own business for 15 minutes.
(2) in 15 minutes, the Urban Landscape of America rips up old photographs of famous people laughing with saliva running down from the corners of their mouths, their eyes scratched out bleeding on virgin snow in winter. 15 minutes gives us time to see their emerald eyes crying inside the mountain buried alive. fifteen minutes of fame is the time it takes to see paint on the water, graves in the garden. we see bathroom doors and alleys behind bars out back behind dark corners. we see creatures in mirrors eating the mud of the ordinary. we see angels and demons inside skulls. we hear voices begging for the end of the world to come in 15 minutes or less.
(3) The Urban American Landscape is a can of beer being thrown at a famous woman living in a trailer park. For 15 minutes every day, she hangs out at a neighborhood corner bar suspended from the ceiling drinking and talking, taking confessions of sin. The image represents the famous and beautiful people walking home from the rockabilly50 night club. standing under a streetlight, they light cigarettes with silver lighters with their names engraved. they smoke cigarettes between cracked lips, holding it between the first two fingers Betty Davis style: one shoulder lower another higher than the other. it only took 15 minutes for the Urban Landscape to turn into a cheap aphrodisiac. There was nothing to else to say. I pointed my middle finger in an obscene gesture: there’s a red tattoo of a heart painted below the bottom knuckle of my middle finger right hand.
(4) The Urban Landscape is a motel room. It’s a pothole where our netherworld bottomed out. The Landscape gives us a vision: estimez qu'il n'y a rien ici qui est (think that there is nothing here that IS) -- to know is to die, to not-know is to live. knowing is inhumane. not-knowing is human. to know is mortality. to not-know is immortality.
We're lucky if, for ONLY 15 minutes in our entire lifetime, we're exiled from the jazz city eating the Urban Landscape with creatures nobody sees. We're lucky if, no matter how bad it gets (and it DOES get really bad!), for ONLY 15 minutes life will seem like a bass drum pounding in our head giving visions of pregnant women beating fists against stomach to wake up the fetus, worms in womb.
Overland Park, KS image by Simon Kossoff
(5) The Urban American Landscape is the face of roses and thorns. For 15 minutes it’s the face of a dream: we swallow an oracle for the sake of the world and transform hatred of many into love for few. First there is a predator, a farmer with a tractor. In the end, we are traumatized by semen in trash cans. Our breakdown is a failure. Pathetic and beautiful people dont want to suffer, but for 15 minutes life is suffering enough.
We work all night in jazz ghettos. We try to get out but escape smells like a toilet. the entire history of time gathers in the desert: drink from the cactus beyond the ashes. Next day we look for the body. It’s in the casino where everybody is beautiful for 15 minutes. Being awake in the Urban American Landscape is being in a deep coma, distorted, collapsed.
Emma for Mario Scattoloni image by ride0583
(6) elbows on the table, she looks out the window. forgets about her sickness. her eyes drift aimlessly. cigarette ashtray is nasty. hair smells like irony. sleeping she wakes up coughing. sheets barely cover below the waist. kicks off blankets during night. wraps her legs tied with a piece of electrical cord. phone rings next to the bed. picks it up. waits for something to happen. waits for answer.
go to the kitchen. turn, push the sheet off the bed to the floor. grab the headboards. pull herself up. move towards the door with a toss of hair. next thing happens: man opens door. walks in. shuts door. in the space of the WHAT'S SO and the WHAT IS, the final masterpiece of the Urban American Landscape dies under the circumstances.
girls toss magick on the table. turn lights on but lights dont work. behind the door is the meaningless. crawl out of bed. ride hard on top bleeds the mexican woman. she brushes her eyes with mascara, goes to the tomb to look for the Landscape. White Horse at the gate with a wooden box. Woman listening, the way opens: "She is crying!". In the Urban American Landscape, women only cry for 15 minutes, or until it's all over. Which ever comes first.
cheap 90s porn 2 image by Exotic Birds
(7) Hung a sign on door to my apartment: "Looking for woman of the Urban American Landscape to be photographed in the worst way. See apartment 9 ask for Benny the Jazz." Finally, one day I got a knock on my door:
A face like a Pollack painting. Small feet red polish on toenails. Long legs and red thong. Small body, pale but a little sickly. Freckles like ants in a dish of cat food. Lips were perfectly luscious. Thick red hair. Wondered if pubic hair was different color than hair on head. Reminded me of spaghetti in a sink of dish water.
We stood at my bed. Eyes were dark. Icy glare felt like a bent needle in my arm. For only fifteen minutes more she’d wait for me to take her picture on a mattress I had when I lived in San Francisco. It never got wet except during sex, and only then for 15 minutes.
Tucson AZ image by James S Patterson
(8) The girl with the legs, before she had a face, drove into a parking lot wearing mini skirt. legs out the door, hot christ thighs up to her hips. wet hair against the middle of her back. the collar of her shirt had buttons missing, a tattoo of a big 'X'. a slender pearl neck, wet cleavage and so much future. we licked our lips, closed our eyes: the secret of expectation is unfulfillment. And so for 15 minutes, the urban American landscape had no reality, just a tight black dress in a desert mirage. There was no jazz. Nothing but sweat and sex. There's two kinds of people in the American landscape: those who quit and those too desperate to quit.
The aftermath image by justinsdisgustin
(9) These are the Landscape Photos of the spinning. The girl can barely see. Ears ring and hiss, eyes blur, glisten and sparkle. 15 minutes later she’s shining. Pupils in eyes black balls. She crawls out of bed with effort. It’s raining, dark outside. It cuts like a knife, the red flows out of a rock, down her face, her chest and feet. (In the urban landscape, drugs drip into spoon: floating balls of cotton dark purple artery.) Her black nylons hanging from phone lines in the street. Afraid of something, but doesnt know what. She turns off the lights. Locks the doors. Someone is in the house. Works at Ebony Black and Blues Cafe on Columbus open every day 6am to 2. Looks for shoes. Falls off bed, hits floors hits head, skin crawls over body up and down her legs from the inside. Light blinds her, creatures run away, but not this time. Not today.
2007_072_05 image by chuckp
(10) I go to sleep and it's winter. I wake up and can't get back to sleep for at least 15 minutes. I dream my face is painted on a wall. So I take pills and I drink, and then drink some more. I watch TV turn it down low. turn on the fan and the air conditioning. fall asleep have another dream. It's a bad dream, a real nightmare about the urban American landscape photos: In the dream I get a phone call three in the morning. I answer the phone. Voice says: "This is the Sheriff's Department. We have deputies at the door. Open the door and do not have anything in your hands."
I open the door. Cops come in and search house. Nothing there. They said I filed a false report, which is a felony. I get probation. I wake up in a sweat. I'm still watching TV. My face is still on a wall. Clock is ticking. Time running out. Suddenly it's the Summer Equinox in Los Angeles.
Santa Ana winds are rough. I move to San Francisco. Where am I in the landscape of zen? I ask. I wake up again. bed is wet. pillow is wet. I'm playing drums in Jackpot, Nevada with Garland Frady from Austin. It's a casino on the border. Get drunk every night and take speed. 15 minutes later I wake up and it's November at the Foothill Club in Long Beach.
WHITE_6782.JPG image by Cyclops-Optic
(11) I look at photos and sit on sidewalk outside of a bar. 15 minutes later, I go back to my room, find note on the door. I stand close to the door. Coltrane paces around in the room next to me playing modal scales.
Now I’m in a bar with a woman in red dress, funny hat, dark face, dark eyes, fur coat. Her face tears apart, torn open like paper. I read the paper looking in her mouth. Her tongue has faces of women, fever blisters in a spare room: a vision of my hands around her throat, sweat from her hair. I open door and look in. Dog lifts his leg takes a piss. I walk across the street and watch the red light flash on/off.
The woman with a face like darkness bends over at the waist. Her short skirt gets shorter. She gives me a hand, but I don't give her anything. She presses up against me. I can’t think of anything to do. Can’t kick the habit. It's absurd. I sit across the table. She crosses her legs like they’re gonna fall off. So I take a picture and have no repentance, make no apology.
The landscape session makes her skin crumbles. This gives me gas: a stomach bloated in a pure state of morbid illness.
New Years Eve image by Simon Kossoff
(12) I have a backpack; she’s got a suitcase. I like whiskey; see likes beer. I’ve got enough money to get three hundred miles. She’s got friends in California. So I get enough money to buy a bus ticket. I don't care about the landscape photos anymore. I want to get as far away as a Greyhound bus can go. It’s too late and I’m out of time. I take a seat in the back. Pull the coat over my shoulders to keep warm. Put my feet over the seat next to me to make more room. Close my eyes and listen to the engine roar down the highway. There are no conversations. It’s night. It’s late. It’s quiet. People are sleeping and there’s a long way to go before the next stop; more than 15 minutes. Heat of the landscape is unbearable. The highway hits the pot holes in every small town.
first time i saw her she was dressed like a man in a white face. a mannequin smooth and hard, hair slick as black shoe polish. she couldn't escape the vacuum cleaner, the knife, deranged psychotic. the more i got to know her, the less i knew.
she wanted to be famous: being famous was better than a conscience. it made her forget she didn't merely have sex, she stopped being coherent. she made a mockery out of it. she had healthy distrust of optimism.
she’d stagger down the street to my dirty little space, a dirty laundromat in a dirty basement of a dirty hotel in downtown dirty town where everybody lived, where nothing was true, nothing forbidden, everything permitted.
one night she called me to go to her place and put gypsies in her arm. i put a bag over her head. she pretended not to know who i was. we went at it long and fast. it was the one thing needed: forbidden fruit of a girl who waits on tables.
last time i saw her she was dressed like a man in a white face. a mannequin smooth and hard, hair slick as black shoe polish. we couldn't escape the vacuum cleaner, the knife, deranged psychotic. the more i got to know her, the less i knew.
(1) all of the images i've selected are images of women in one form or another. in my mind, the Urban American Landscape is a landscape of beautiful women: all i want to do is sit in the corner upstairs in the booth with only one chair near the window and look at them all. i want to eat bowls of rice, food for the crucifixation yet to come. Keeps me up for days. I walk around on a highway. I stand in doorways waiting.
The Urban American Landscape is a who's-who of famous people who forget to close the window. they wake up with an appetite for the strange. they look for their coats, baggy pants, boots and a sharp pencil. they sleep on old faded yellow newspapers. they wait in laundromats.
i remember it was 6am. i'd been working all night. it started to rain. grey skies. black clouds. black skies. cold rain and lots of it. i could use a drink. i walk to the corner. the bar is open every day. open 24/7. it's wednesday or tuesday. i'm sitting in the corner in the back, in the dark, minding my own business for 15 minutes.
(2) in 15 minutes, the Urban Landscape of America rips up old photographs of famous people laughing with saliva running down from the corners of their mouths, their eyes scratched out bleeding on virgin snow in winter. 15 minutes gives us time to see their emerald eyes crying inside the mountain buried alive. fifteen minutes of fame is the time it takes to see paint on the water, graves in the garden. we see bathroom doors and alleys behind bars out back behind dark corners. we see creatures in mirrors eating the mud of the ordinary. we see angels and demons inside skulls. we hear voices begging for the end of the world to come in 15 minutes or less.
(3) The Urban American Landscape is a can of beer being thrown at a famous woman living in a trailer park. For 15 minutes every day, she hangs out at a neighborhood corner bar suspended from the ceiling drinking and talking, taking confessions of sin. The image represents the famous and beautiful people walking home from the rockabilly50 night club. standing under a streetlight, they light cigarettes with silver lighters with their names engraved. they smoke cigarettes between cracked lips, holding it between the first two fingers Betty Davis style: one shoulder lower another higher than the other. it only took 15 minutes for the Urban Landscape to turn into a cheap aphrodisiac. There was nothing to else to say. I pointed my middle finger in an obscene gesture: there’s a red tattoo of a heart painted below the bottom knuckle of my middle finger right hand.
(4) The Urban Landscape is a motel room. It’s a pothole where our netherworld bottomed out. The Landscape gives us a vision: estimez qu'il n'y a rien ici qui est (think that there is nothing here that IS) -- to know is to die, to not-know is to live. knowing is inhumane. not-knowing is human. to know is mortality. to not-know is immortality.
We're lucky if, for ONLY 15 minutes in our entire lifetime, we're exiled from the jazz city eating the Urban Landscape with creatures nobody sees. We're lucky if, no matter how bad it gets (and it DOES get really bad!), for ONLY 15 minutes life will seem like a bass drum pounding in our head giving visions of pregnant women beating fists against stomach to wake up the fetus, worms in womb.
Overland Park, KS image by Simon Kossoff
(5) The Urban American Landscape is the face of roses and thorns. For 15 minutes it’s the face of a dream: we swallow an oracle for the sake of the world and transform hatred of many into love for few. First there is a predator, a farmer with a tractor. In the end, we are traumatized by semen in trash cans. Our breakdown is a failure. Pathetic and beautiful people dont want to suffer, but for 15 minutes life is suffering enough.
We work all night in jazz ghettos. We try to get out but escape smells like a toilet. the entire history of time gathers in the desert: drink from the cactus beyond the ashes. Next day we look for the body. It’s in the casino where everybody is beautiful for 15 minutes. Being awake in the Urban American Landscape is being in a deep coma, distorted, collapsed.
Emma for Mario Scattoloni image by ride0583
(6) elbows on the table, she looks out the window. forgets about her sickness. her eyes drift aimlessly. cigarette ashtray is nasty. hair smells like irony. sleeping she wakes up coughing. sheets barely cover below the waist. kicks off blankets during night. wraps her legs tied with a piece of electrical cord. phone rings next to the bed. picks it up. waits for something to happen. waits for answer.
go to the kitchen. turn, push the sheet off the bed to the floor. grab the headboards. pull herself up. move towards the door with a toss of hair. next thing happens: man opens door. walks in. shuts door. in the space of the WHAT'S SO and the WHAT IS, the final masterpiece of the Urban American Landscape dies under the circumstances.
girls toss magick on the table. turn lights on but lights dont work. behind the door is the meaningless. crawl out of bed. ride hard on top bleeds the mexican woman. she brushes her eyes with mascara, goes to the tomb to look for the Landscape. White Horse at the gate with a wooden box. Woman listening, the way opens: "She is crying!". In the Urban American Landscape, women only cry for 15 minutes, or until it's all over. Which ever comes first.
cheap 90s porn 2 image by Exotic Birds
(7) Hung a sign on door to my apartment: "Looking for woman of the Urban American Landscape to be photographed in the worst way. See apartment 9 ask for Benny the Jazz." Finally, one day I got a knock on my door:
A face like a Pollack painting. Small feet red polish on toenails. Long legs and red thong. Small body, pale but a little sickly. Freckles like ants in a dish of cat food. Lips were perfectly luscious. Thick red hair. Wondered if pubic hair was different color than hair on head. Reminded me of spaghetti in a sink of dish water.
We stood at my bed. Eyes were dark. Icy glare felt like a bent needle in my arm. For only fifteen minutes more she’d wait for me to take her picture on a mattress I had when I lived in San Francisco. It never got wet except during sex, and only then for 15 minutes.
Tucson AZ image by James S Patterson
(8) The girl with the legs, before she had a face, drove into a parking lot wearing mini skirt. legs out the door, hot christ thighs up to her hips. wet hair against the middle of her back. the collar of her shirt had buttons missing, a tattoo of a big 'X'. a slender pearl neck, wet cleavage and so much future. we licked our lips, closed our eyes: the secret of expectation is unfulfillment. And so for 15 minutes, the urban American landscape had no reality, just a tight black dress in a desert mirage. There was no jazz. Nothing but sweat and sex. There's two kinds of people in the American landscape: those who quit and those too desperate to quit.
The aftermath image by justinsdisgustin
(9) These are the Landscape Photos of the spinning. The girl can barely see. Ears ring and hiss, eyes blur, glisten and sparkle. 15 minutes later she’s shining. Pupils in eyes black balls. She crawls out of bed with effort. It’s raining, dark outside. It cuts like a knife, the red flows out of a rock, down her face, her chest and feet. (In the urban landscape, drugs drip into spoon: floating balls of cotton dark purple artery.) Her black nylons hanging from phone lines in the street. Afraid of something, but doesnt know what. She turns off the lights. Locks the doors. Someone is in the house. Works at Ebony Black and Blues Cafe on Columbus open every day 6am to 2. Looks for shoes. Falls off bed, hits floors hits head, skin crawls over body up and down her legs from the inside. Light blinds her, creatures run away, but not this time. Not today.
2007_072_05 image by chuckp
(10) I go to sleep and it's winter. I wake up and can't get back to sleep for at least 15 minutes. I dream my face is painted on a wall. So I take pills and I drink, and then drink some more. I watch TV turn it down low. turn on the fan and the air conditioning. fall asleep have another dream. It's a bad dream, a real nightmare about the urban American landscape photos: In the dream I get a phone call three in the morning. I answer the phone. Voice says: "This is the Sheriff's Department. We have deputies at the door. Open the door and do not have anything in your hands."
I open the door. Cops come in and search house. Nothing there. They said I filed a false report, which is a felony. I get probation. I wake up in a sweat. I'm still watching TV. My face is still on a wall. Clock is ticking. Time running out. Suddenly it's the Summer Equinox in Los Angeles.
Santa Ana winds are rough. I move to San Francisco. Where am I in the landscape of zen? I ask. I wake up again. bed is wet. pillow is wet. I'm playing drums in Jackpot, Nevada with Garland Frady from Austin. It's a casino on the border. Get drunk every night and take speed. 15 minutes later I wake up and it's November at the Foothill Club in Long Beach.
WHITE_6782.JPG image by Cyclops-Optic
(11) I look at photos and sit on sidewalk outside of a bar. 15 minutes later, I go back to my room, find note on the door. I stand close to the door. Coltrane paces around in the room next to me playing modal scales.
Now I’m in a bar with a woman in red dress, funny hat, dark face, dark eyes, fur coat. Her face tears apart, torn open like paper. I read the paper looking in her mouth. Her tongue has faces of women, fever blisters in a spare room: a vision of my hands around her throat, sweat from her hair. I open door and look in. Dog lifts his leg takes a piss. I walk across the street and watch the red light flash on/off.
The woman with a face like darkness bends over at the waist. Her short skirt gets shorter. She gives me a hand, but I don't give her anything. She presses up against me. I can’t think of anything to do. Can’t kick the habit. It's absurd. I sit across the table. She crosses her legs like they’re gonna fall off. So I take a picture and have no repentance, make no apology.
The landscape session makes her skin crumbles. This gives me gas: a stomach bloated in a pure state of morbid illness.
New Years Eve image by Simon Kossoff
(12) I have a backpack; she’s got a suitcase. I like whiskey; see likes beer. I’ve got enough money to get three hundred miles. She’s got friends in California. So I get enough money to buy a bus ticket. I don't care about the landscape photos anymore. I want to get as far away as a Greyhound bus can go. It’s too late and I’m out of time. I take a seat in the back. Pull the coat over my shoulders to keep warm. Put my feet over the seat next to me to make more room. Close my eyes and listen to the engine roar down the highway. There are no conversations. It’s night. It’s late. It’s quiet. People are sleeping and there’s a long way to go before the next stop; more than 15 minutes. Heat of the landscape is unbearable. The highway hits the pot holes in every small town.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
America, spring does not last forever.
(NOTE: The fast-paced American ambition, always moving to a nowhere land, always thinking that it is doing something that is more important than anyone else, anywhere else in the world, always driving itself into debt and significance: that was in the back of my mind as I selected these images. They reflect the American Ideal: the motel, the car, the plane, the supermarket, the dirt road and the final dump is all about the American Experience.)
The six images I've selected tell a story. In the end, it's not a very optimistic story, but it's real. All of the images reflect individuality, strength, determinism.....qualities we all admire. We associate them with the rugged American Way. As human beings we make choices, and the images all show impressions of people making choices, making decisions. Some decisions are more weighty than others. Some of our choices have life-changing consequences. Or so we say.
To me, the individual is the collective theme of all the photos in this gallery, but not individuality separate, not withdrawn. On the contrary, each of the first five images describe individuality that is highly social, cultural, meaningful and circumstantial. Interdependent. Interconnected, at least in a humanistic, democratic way. The first five images lock into movement, speed, a pace, a direction, a relativity, and basic tolerance before the intolerance of American partisanship and consumerism drives a nail through it.
The last image shows the end of consumerism wasted in the field of uselessness, at the foothills of decay.The underlying "theme" of the gallery is represented by the sixth and final image. The trailers and the truck, the tire tracks in the mud, the winter, the grey emotion. This is where we end up regardless of everything else that preceded it. This is where the American Experiment takes its most decadent and destructive last gasp. It's neither a good thing nor a bad thing. It just Is. So I ended my commentary with a line from one of my poems. It seems a fitting way to close: America has its "yes", and it has its "no". In the spring it rains, and in the winter it snows.
1. The Hometel Inn, image by steven-brooks
It has a film noir feeling to it, which I like. It also has an intimacy around mystery, death, rejuvenation, the great beyond, passing away, passing by, moving along....stopping for a short time and then leaving without a trace. In America, almost everything is temporary and replaceable, pliable and elastic: for example, the man standing in the doorway, scratches at the door on the way to his own funeral in a reenactment of the apocalypse. Tears will fill our eyes, our voices will tremble as we bind his feet and cover his bruised arms stretched as wide as space, making a shadow like a silhouette of a fat ballerina, lips forever scared with a scowl.
I like the angle, similar to the one by steven-brooks, "The Hometel Inn". For me, both images have a reminiscent quality to them. There's movement in both images, people going somewhere, leaving something behind, looking ahead, going through some place. The space inside the car is small, like the small motel room. But the spaces outside are huge, vast, unpredictable, variable and sudden. In the back seat of this car, Amercia gets the blues. It thinks it has a right to plant its germ in the moment, to irrigate Mother Earth as its dominion, as its property, as the sitgmata of a conscience it no longer has.
3. 210_1110_06 an image by wire_paladinSF
The angle in these images are similar: long, sleek, coming from nowhere, disappearing into nothingness. This one by wire-paladinSF has movement in a small space inside, like in a tunnel under ground, or maybe on a plane, or in a bus; probably a plane. Doesnt matter. There is a sense of isolation, anonymity, individuality making its mark, like a struggle, but connected to a network floating face down in polluted rivers of decency: in America, every sickness, every failure, every breakdown, every infection and disease is considered to be a moral failure.
4. Decision, an image by foxybearsfun
Here we have the same angle, a decision being made from a point of view where we dont have all the information to make the decision confidently, or even competently. We are traveling on highways with several destinations in mind, several paths to take, many rooms in motels to choose from, many seats on a plane to hide in, to wait endlessly for something to shock us. Standing in front of a long shelf of food and fake food, youth must decide which way to go. But at home, in an envelope tucked safely away in a drawer in a private place she set aside for hating him, she keeps a clipping of the story of her father's arrest. She lives in a space of unforgiveness, and, like America, she rewrites the story of her life. Meanwhile, the car keeps racing along the highway and in the large space of a fluorescent supermarket, we hide from recognition loading up a shopping cart.
5. ian fung, image by n. states
The individual going somewhere alone. There's a road, there are choices, decisions, possibilities everywhere. And shadows. There is wonder, imagination and indiscretion: the walker moves toward a setting sun, past sharp pieces of wood sticking out of muddy water. A piece of wood seems to be pointing in a certain direction, so the walker moves along with the sun in his or her eyes. In all these images I've selected there is the focus of choices, decisions and probably the thought that it really doesnt matter anyway. The motel, the car, the airplane trip, the supermarket or the sandy, muddy beach front dirt road: there may be no purpose to any of it. And then, maybe, the point of view is everything.
6. Colorado, USA, 2010 image by jancies
The end of the line. The dead end road where the tire tracks fade off into a vacant lot, an abandoned field, isolated houses scattered here and there. To me this represents the completion of the gallery of images. Here movement comes to a stop at old, rusty memories. It's winter. It's frozen. This is where The End comes to be dumped. All the images I've selected move towards this direction no matter what goes on between here and there. Whether we're traveling fast and hard and relaxing at highway motels, speeding along in our car with important places to go, anticipating new people and places somewhere, sitting on a plane, choosing the best of several not-so-good choices or briskly walking along the open stretch of a dirt road overlooking the panorama of the wide and turbulent ocean: we all end up at the end of the line, at the end of the street paved with gold, at the end of a roll of film. And that's our destiny. We are both the Creative and the Receptive. We are all things and in the end, our tires are removed and a window shade is put up over our eyes. We have our "yes", we have our "no". In the spring it rains, and in the winter it snows.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
The Date
after the date, jasmine stirred in bed swearing. wanted to get up go to the kitchen. she turned, pushed the sheet off the bed onto the floor. grabbed the brass bars at the head of the bed. pulled herself up screaming: "i want you now! I'M READY NOW!" her head weighed 200 pounds. motioned her head towards the door, her head with a toss of her hair. next thing happens: man opens jasmine's door. walks in. shuts the door. sounds of gagging, strangulation. chocking on something in the space of the what's-so and the what-is and all the rest of it. the final masterpiece: she did it with a monkey, a snake, a live eel on the streets bad circumstances.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Absurdity
Life has no lessons to teach.
There are no lessons to learn.
There is no consciousness.
No awareness.
No energy.
No point.
So, the End of Absurdity is the end of life.
When life ends, absurdity ends.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
the orgy
even now,
when i'm alone,
i can see shadows move
at the corner of my eyes,
they move around
the doors and windows,
i can see them.
i look really fast
but there's nothing there.
in the hospital room,
it was dark sometimes,
and i could see shadows
move across the walls,
i could feel my hands touch
my skin like as if
it was the skin of
some other thing.
i started to listen
and in the dark,
against the wall,
i could hear whispering
sounded like my
own voice talking to myself.
i'd take photos
of my feet,
my hands,
my legs,
my eyes,
my face and hair,
my shoes,
my arms...
i'd take photos from above
on the ceiling floating
around up near the walls
and put the photos
in an exhibit,
like a public display
that was better
than anything else
i could do.
and i couldnt stop.
there was always
something more to see.
more to do.
more places to go
at night alone.
i took long walks
out in the garden
wearing nothing but a robe,
and carrying roses
and a camera phone.
i wouldnt even wear shoes and socks.
i would go down the hall
and nobody would even
see me or
hear me breathe.
i went to the hospital
library and took
out books
that were written
about narcissism
and nihilism.
i read them in bed.
i memorized them in the shower.
i recited them to
my nurses
and doctors
and lab techies
when they took blood.
bound and gagged
The woman with a face
like dull darkness
bent over at the waist
and her short skirt
got even shorter.
She gave me her hand,
I gave her something else.
She pressed her body against me.
I was embarrassed that
I couldn't think of anything
else to do
so I picked up my camera.
I was furious that
I couldnt kick the habit.
It was unnatural.
It was absurd.
I sat down across the table.
She crossed her legs
and they fell off her body.
I took a picture of them
and had no repentance,
not even an apology.
She laughed.
It was terribly funny.
I felt crushed.
I dropped my camera
...... again.
Without saying a word
her skin began to
crumble off her face.
That gave me bad gas.
My stomach was bloated.
I was in a pure state
of morbid illness.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
The Dream and the Dreamer
she hates shadows and fog,
hates being alone listening to voices.
hates everything and believes nothing.
hates growing up.
hates it when nobody talks to her.
hates thinking she’s ugly.
hates the dry heaves making her blind.
hates rich thick almost black ultra dark deep purple blood.
hates slamming it.
she hates missing.
she hates expensive habits.
hates that it cost her everything and everyone she loved.
she hates using.
hates losing.
she hates flirting.
she hates kissing.
hates being naked.
hates her sexy tan.
hates the smell of flesh.
hates perfume.
hates her arms covered with long sleeve shirts.
hates walking around not knowing
if jazz was sick or if he was just refusing to hate himself.
hates average people.
hates ordinary sacrifices.
hates crawling in disgrace.
hates the collection plate.
hates attending an ordinary church.
she hates the bible.
hates him, too.
hated it that she lived with one abuser after another.
hates her brother for dying.
hates ultra rosé.
she hates rock for being an idiot.
hates being concerned about anything!
hates it that having all the money still wasn’t enough.
she hates thinking she could get away with cheating.
hates drug deals that go bad.
hated practical jokes.
hated the magicians who thought they had the answers.
she hated zenn and the magic circle.
hated other females and all men.
hated spiders under her bed.
hated answering every question with yin and yang.
she hated children who let snakes eat them.
she hated the virtual kundalini.
hated innocent lives cut short.
hated poisonous venom.
hated funerals.
she hated weddings.
hated having no one to talk to.
hated having nothing to do.
she hated it that no one listened when she talked.
she hated adagio for building an ark of ideas.
hated him for killing the garden.
hated him for destroying his mind.
hated him for not being able to laugh:
alcoholics are angry sad people who get drunk
more often than other people.
they laugh like drummers who have no groove.
we make connections with other human beings
who are the most powerful force of all.
methedrine was hidden in a condom.
the police can arrest us if they want.
what do we care?
adagio composed an eclectic performance of silence and
it exploded inside the ark and
blew a hole in our soul.
dance condemns everything we couldn’t get out of eden.
it was dead anyway frozen by words on paper.
belief defended the barking dog the way of the dog
went barking to a baritone sax.
but the tao was how things would go when we
first realized we were gods.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
a blond in a red dress.
a blond in a black dress.
driving around giving hand jobs in the front seat.
pulled into an alley give a blow job in the back seat of big box chains.
big box stores.
it's an art.
cold coffee coffee black fat belly pulled tight with a body glove.
black belt unbutton your pants fake it.
it's not hot.
i dont feel sweaty.
it doesnt itch.
it's perfect to hide bra bulge.
back fat.
be still.
take a gun and shoot me and bury me just like you.
the curse of death?
death is not a curse.
death is the other side of the plug nickle.
the coin.
the two sides of the story.
open and shut case.
slam dunk.
over and out.
all washed up.
clean up your act.
get a bite to eat.
dont stop now.
first come first served.
the master and the servant.
yesterday today and tomorrow.
get a lawyer and get it done.
catch a falling star.
it's all over now.
not a moment too soon.
red high heels.
call it quits.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Charles Bukowski, "Ham on Rye #43"
"Did your father really blow his brains out because of your mother?"
"Yeah. He was on the telephone. He told her he had a gun. He said 'If you don't come back to me I'm going to kill myself. Will you come back to me?' And my mother said, 'No.' There was a shot and that was that."
"What did your mother do?"
"She hung up."
(Charles Bukowski, Ham on Rye, #43)
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Variations
i had a calendar in the closet and
i'd look at it every day or so to see
where i was at,
to see how many days i had left before i'd get out.
i marked off the time with little
marks on the wall using a small pocket knife,
marking little notches in the wood,
in the wall so i could count the days and the nights.
my body was getting thnner and thinner.
i was losing weight.
i was getting fevers at night.
my shoes didnt fit me anymore.
the drugs were making my eyes blurry
and the money in my wallet
was turning into sand.
i had piles of sand in the drawers.
the bathroom mirror was full of sand.
my shoes wouldnt fit me.
my fingers were getting too big for my hands.
i had to wear gloves but the only ones
i could find were red.
my room was red.
everything was red.
i tried to call my doctor and get more meds.
i tried to get in the elevator and go
to the 6th floor and play the piano
but it wouldnt go that high.
i tried to climb the stairs but the doors wouldnt open.
nothing worked right.
the pills were making me dizzy.
i couldnt sit up.
my legs looked long and lean
and i thought about buying new blue jeans,
but thinking about it gave me a
headache and made my ears ring,
buzz, hiss.
it was really bad.
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