Valerie

hey, you! got a cigarette?

the woman was barley visible in the night.

only got one left, i shouted down from my balcony

i'm Valerie, she said.

i did not reply.

just got out here from Florida.

left my husband and everything, she kept on going

he's a pro golfer, you know... on the PGA tour and all...

i can't tell you his name.

why in the hell would you leave him, i asked?

this psychic told me to leave him.

you know, i used to be a model.

in the darkness, i had to take her word for it.

but then i got this illness that made me fat,

and then this dog bit my face real bad.

once again, i had to take her word for it.

i'm gonna be a famous actress out here in six months.

is that what the psychic told you?

that's what she told me... but,hey, i could really use a cigarette.

i threw my last cigarette down in the dark.

hey Valerie, i said, stop by after you become famous.

will do, she said, and i saw the glowing tip of the cigarette

gently bounce down the street.

six months have passed,

and i'm still waiting for Valerie to stop by.

peephole

every thursday i sit by the pool

all day

i drink beers, and look up at the sky

(sometimes i count helicopters)

people in the building stop by to chat

i don't tell them that i'm constantly bored

that i'm afraid i will die alone

when the sun goes down we're drunk

and i go back into my apartment

they stay outside, drinking

all night

i listen to them talk,

and sometimes i watch through the peephole

every now and then

these three blond girls show up

i'm not sure who they know in the building

they are beautiful and dumb

and they are yapping along in baby-voices

i wanna fuck all of them at the same time,

or at least one of them

but i'm afraid

drunk, and lonely, and bored

afraid

i'm the guy looking through the peephole

the guy counting helicopters

so instead i go to bed

wide awake and ashamed

me as a cowboy

got myself a stetson hat,

and some mean snakeskin boots.

my mind already rode off into the desert.

i'm saying "howdy" and "y'all",

and nobody knows me anymore.

this is me turning into a man,

a man i saw in a movie,

a man i heard about in some country song.

"bury me with my boots on", i say.

this is me turning into a little kid,

a kid playing cowboy and indian,

a kid refusing reality.

gotta get myself a home where the buffalo roam,

as the song goes,

or was that a movie?

this is me as a man, as a child,

as someone nobody knows.

still looking for that sunset to ride into.

tastes like the city

when the sidewalk gets too hot, you

step off.

into some bar,

where the guy next to you tells stories

of the snow white cafe, and the drugs,

and the famous.

you just want your cold bud light,

and the sound of the freeways.

it's the blood in the gutters, the blood in the hot-tubs

-the story of a place.

the guy talks about high-powered assault rifles,

and his car that broke down that time

somewhere in texas.

you just might need that beer now,

that earthquake, that forest fire.

you want all of los angeles, and that beer.

he asks if you heard about that guy who got shot,

yesterday, down on melrose, right in the face,

with pieces of skull everywhere.

you tell him no, and you finally get your beer,

and it tastes like the city, like violence,

and palm trees.

there is no escaping this.

only alcohol, and that talking man,

and all of los angeles.

irrelevant

just a steaming pile of meat

intestines and bones

neatly packed into a sack of skin.

big words

concepts

like love and hate.

both as useless as our blood,

and brain.

why, so desperately

do i want to go mad?

is that the only freedom?

all we have to do is to find someone to love,

and hate.

it is that simple.

it is that impossible.

is the mind the enemy?

it is that irrelevant.

and here we run around, pretending

that we belong.

a heart and shit and bones

in a sack of skin.

none of us belong.

irrelevant.

create + destroy

i can go mad, or call her up.
this time i call.
outside is the sound of heavy machinery.
what are they building?
the phone is ringing , ringing in my ear,
and i hope to god she wont pick up,
but i don't believe in god,
and it's ringing, ringing.
hello, she says, and i know i've fucked up,
but i can't stop,
and i tell her that i love her.
what? she asks.
i love you! i yell over the noise outside.
what are they tearing down?
she hangs up on me,
and i'm filled with shame.
the mechanics of creating and destroying
are often the same.
i spend the rest of the day by the window,
watching men in yellow hats do what they do.

new man

my ex (the last one), called me up the other day.

"how are you?"

"oh me? don't you worry about me", i said,

"i'm just fine."

- it was almost true anyway.

"you?"

"my new man" she started, and

i knew i should have never asked.

she went on for roughly a half hour

about how far superior her new man

is to me.

good lord, i thought, and opened a beer

- one of many that night.

as it turns out,

he is not only better in bed, and better looking,

but also has more money than me

(which, granted, doesn't say much).

i wanted to tell her that i've found someone new,

but i haven't.

i wanted to argue with her,

but knew she would pick me apart,

with complex and confusing arguments

that would leave me blabbering like a little baby.

so, instead i said:

"that's great, baby. i'm happy for you".

- it was almost true anyway.

then i drank another beer

- one of many that night.

absinth hangover

woke up hard today.

with a bellyfull of absinth,

and unease.

resting at the edge of the bed,

i laugh.

something inside me is not right.

my soul, i think.

that thing that makes me me,

feels heavy.

hearing my own laughter

always makes me sad,

and i stumble to the bathroom.

my mirror is broken.

it is bleeding from its cracks,

reflecting some violence.

violence that is in me,

violence i don't know.

i have been here before,

but this time, i think,

maybe this time i won't be alright?

somewhere, gone

the perfect relationship

i had it

i had it in my head

we never got to fuck it up

it was nothing more than a still picture

framed,

and left to collect dust

it's gone now

it's somewhere, gone

if that sounds crazy, i'm crazy

and that is very possible

discouraging voice

"and three, two, one... no! he did not make it. that's the third time today he has missed the green light. now he is forced to stand there on the corner, like an idiot, and wait to cross the street."

the faceless sports-commentator in my head

has turned against me.

that nonexistent person

who seems to take an interest in what i do.

he is no longer impressed

with my daily performance in life.

"look at him go! his shopping-cart is now moving up on the outside of the old lady with the blue hair, as they race down the frozen food aisle. will he make it to the check out line first? no, he failed again! beaten by an old lady."

it is very discouraging

to have a voice like that in your head.

next door

what the hell Edward, i yell,

you drunk again?

it's a warm night in Hollywood,

and we're outside grabbing a cigarette,

me and my neighbor.

shut your mouth, he says,

i'm a neuropsychiatrist!

first of all, i tell him,

i don't know what that means,

second, if you tell me to shut up again,

i will kick you straight in the nuts!

damn it man, he says,

easy.

we laugh at each other,

and the dark.

the air seems freckled with tiny holes,

pockets of madness bursting all around.

get some sleep Ed, i tell him,

and he nods his head,

sure.

back inside,

i can hear him singing and crying next door,

and i try to get drunk.

what's funny is;

we don't talk when we're sober.

can't complain

damn, i enjoy those crickets!

that tune they play make me wanna drink.

in the air, a hint of dead skunk.

man, i love that smell.

the southern california summer is here.

it's a special kind.

all i'm missing now is this lady,

but she don't want me,

or the crickets,

or the dead skunk.

i can't complain though.

the santa ana winds keep me sweating all night long,

and the beer keep me cool.

you can carry on with a broken heart,

when the crickets are playing

in the southern california summer.

i might go surfin' tomorrow,

how about you?

slippery

i only see her when it rains,

and the sidewalk is slippery.

she is slightly tilted.

her collapsed soul

hanging like a hand-me-down purse from her shoulder.

she seems less than life-size, somehow.

i like to make up stories about her past.

sad tales on how she got to where she is.

i don't know,

she could be happy on other days.

perhaps she (like me) just hate the rain,

and maybe she sees me the same way i see her.

but she never see me when it rains,

and the sidewalk is slippery.

she ruins my day every time.

shiiiit, it's springtime

springtime on the boulevard,

and the crazies are blooming,

growing like weed on the star-studded sidewalk.

they pop straight out of the concrete,

i swear.

how they talk, on and on,

and i can't understand.

good thing there are no liquor stores

between my work and apartment, cause

i could just get drunk every day this time of year.

they are gonna tear down the sign.

the big earthquake is coming.

we are all bankrupt.

but people are cool as always,

and i could just get drunk every day.

the crazy gets crazier,

but soon it's summer

and we will all hide in the shade.

grey

something is amassing

in my stomach.

a frightening shame,

an unrepairable tilt

at my very core,

a damage

from the weight of my own self.

i see my reflection

in the window,

but it isn't me.

the city is grey

covered in fog.

and in the distance

i can hear my own tiny voice crying for help.

there it was

i am waiting for some awakening,

but now i'm caught up in electrical cables.

it's always late at night before i start feeling,

and the internet is getting smaller

-closing in on me.

certain songs, i can't listen to them anymore.

we don't agree like we used to.

i need that awakening,

more now then any high.

listen to those songs,

don't lose your mind,

i tell myself.

not now, when you're so close.

there it was

-a sudden trace of emotions.

and now it's gone.

the end

there is data in the air

they do the dreaming

and i do the sleepwalking

the old men across the street

in the park, vomiting

pigeons feasting on their insides

and the air is sick

with messages no-one can decipher

a static outlining of sorts

fiberoptics, radiotowers

they do the dreaming

we are data-language

a vision of zeros and ones

i do the walking

in the sky, a thousand butterflies

a misguided fligh

into a reverse metamorphosis

cocoons falling from above

the panic, mesurable

in the echo of the vicious hail

what happened to their dream?

knee-deep in larvae, i sleepwalk

there is data in the air

fool

the walls were those of an apartment,

not a prison.

but it made no difference,

in his mind.

he was behind them,

inside.

without these walls, he thought,

and started picking away.

dust of sheetrock falling to the floor,

forming cone-shaped piles by his feet.

picking, picking with a screwdriver,

dust falling, falling.

like sand in the hourglass,

falling.

time, he thought,

it kept on ticking, ticking.

and when would he be free?

sweating, he could not stop, then

WHACK! with the hammer.

the tingeling light!

the fresh air!

back to picking, picking

reaching for that climax.

the dust,

the hourglass filling up.

faster! one finger through

faster! one arm through

faster, faster!

and then comes the head,

and with the head comes the climax.

sweet release, sweet freedom! - for a moment.

but now,

as the children are crying on the sidewalk,

and the dust is settling all around

-only now can he see himself.

his face poking through a hole in his house.

covered in dust.

covered in shame.

and he thinks to himself, what a fool i am.

swoosh!

surf's up

with the pacific frothing at the mouth.

that wave wiped me out

gentle force.

swoosh! and i was under

in the quiet, wet silence

dragging the sandy floor.

at peace, by God!

floating to the surface

i was not yet born

swoosh! and so it was.

ocean in my stomach

palm-trees in my eyes

blue, salty, sweet everything.

and i'm born, alive.

matinee

when i see you now

for the first time.

that shine -

this beautiful face

hinting at something lost.

a movie from years ago, maybe

or a dream?

a matinee set in the 50's,

that lead girl - the first crush.

washed out images, and that shine!

was it a dream,

a fantasy derived in a drug haze,

or are you her?

this is not the 50's, 

or make believe.

it is now,

and you are my matinee.

my first crush

all over again

play me a song

i used to be the sound of dead air.

intangible to all the senses.

a colorless shape of sorts.

sometimes moving,

but mostly not.

living on a breath of nothingness,

it was supposed to be the years

of mindless self indulgence.

but it was only mindless

years went by, as the years will do,

and that cruel and unusual boredom,

those joyless spaces,

somehow changed.

it wasn't me (i think?),

just the climate - the setting.

in me tonight is a small banjo.

i will dance

and tickle those devilish strings.

play me a song

-a sappy one i'm sure.

but it's better then silence.

good boy

so i'm sober

yep! completely clean

no more Xanax

good boy

no Vicodin

good good boy

no OxyContin

nope, not me

no more vomiting

no cramps or paranoia

no memory loss

hooray!

such a good boy i am

but i can't fucking write anymore, can i?

such a sober boy

sober sober boy,

with no words

is this what it is?

sober... no words?

bullshit, i say!

spring cleaning and the letter O

the los angeles machine is running.
a hum of the purest insanity
outside my window.
in bed i think about lips.
mouths forming kissy faces.
pouty lips,
smiling lips,
cracked,
lipstick red,
bruised,
and pierced lips.
i think about bottomless pits
and dental cavities.
i see the number zero,
or maybe it's the letter O?
and outside,
a thick new layer of angst is forming.
souls chewed up by the machine.
for reasons unknown to me
i'm angry at these mouths.
mouths eating food,
smoking cigarettes,
belting out soundless prayers.
there is an audio disease spreading in the night.
madness creeping in my ears,
messing with my sleeping head,
and now i'm afraid of the letter O.
the machine is doing it's spring cleaning.
not everyone will see the summer.

on the ledge

up there on the fifth floor,
rubbing his hands on the worn down armrests.
rubbing, rubbing
the constant hum of the rain,
buzzing, buzzing
like a needle scratching an old record.
was he God?
was he the Devil?
did he even Believe?
wet noise and death,
opening the window.
a once wandering mind,
now mired in painful speculation.
frightening life,
turning, turning
out on the ledge.
was he only the tiny voice in his head?
tiny voice counting
five
four
tree
two
one
he died in his mind, always.

dark harvest

each night in bed
wrestling with the moon
and my sheets
i write poems in my head
intellectual one night stands
forgotten in the morning
just words whispered away
in the cool breeze of the AC
before i fall asleep
these are my favourites
the stillborn prose
my own dark harvest
lingering like a sweet hangover
of imploding thoughts
they are mine now
gone in the dark
lost forever in my head

then came the hurt

then came the sounds
clearing a vast space within me
i saw her lips
understood every word
individually, but
put together the meaning failed me
it was the movement of her mouth
searching for the least painful phrase
the somber syllables dead in her eyes
a glare wandering the still air
searching for simpler times
then came the hurt
a pain only communicated
by the one you truly love
the emptiness we both felt
now hangs between us

we join in

outside,
and grown men are barking like dogs
how wild is this place?, she says
this is where man and beast merge into one,
out of sheer necessity
sooner or later we all go mad, i tell her
how far removed are we from any sort of normalcy?
i don't know, i say,
how do you measure a thing like that?
we laugh and blow smoke in each others faces
high on summer and love and beer
we join in
howling, barking, screaming
and the hollywood night gets quiet again
we have marked our territory,
for now
that was a close one, i say
and she smiles

shhh

time just stopped moving,
didn't it?
you were gone,
and it was me and the wall
again.
the clock keeps mocking me
with it's dead arms.
i wait for the right time to call,
but time just stopped moving,
didn't it?
now i'm gone,
and it's me and the clock,
not ticking
ticking
shhhh

colorblind

always new drugs to quit.
pills that taste like green and blue and yellow.
it's a soothing sickness,
plush and cloudy in all respects.
several demons,
green and blue and yellow,
resting on my shoulders.
then they get me,
and only alcohol can wash away
the taste of color.
wash me away from me,
lick the sobriety off my skin.
the umbilical strangulation
of that past
and now
and kill
my
eyes.
i got those colors in my head now, but
i don't want to see.
don't want to breathe.

loneliness

loneliness,
she is no longer a random guest,
but rather a large force amassing
within this space we inhabit.
sucking meaning out of the void.
loneliness,
she is sick of what i have become,
and i am still in love with who she used to be.
we are full of each other,
like drugs in our blood.
her presence, rude and crushing,
anchoring me to the slowest perception of time.
loneliness,
she no longer inspire.
communication boiled down to misconstrued gestures.
this relationship, we can not end.
we are one, not in love,
separated only by name.
loneliness,
she is me.
this unease with which we live.

the silent city

there i lived,
knowing i was far from home.
that pallid cityscape,
a monochromatic blandness-fuck,
where only a faint cry
kept the wheels of time turning.
behind the window
the city is always silent.
only, my head was running rampant
in the sewage-system.
my deadness
rising in a stinking mist from the manholes,
among all the people,
out in that filthy night.
all the people, all the people...
that flesh-wound fucking itself.
multiplying, dying, pulsating, gyrating
emotion-pus,
greased thick on their faces, on the buses,
on the sidewalk, on office-buildings, and trains,
and politicians, and the royal-family, and, and...
naturally, i escaped
with most of my dignity and shame still intact.
too bad then,
i left my head in those smelly tunnels.

headful

my lord! you're a fuck
a long hard fucky fuck
well into the a.m, and not properly intoxicated
i wanna destroy the language
grind it to dust
watch it dance in the air as the sun comes up
shit, anyway...
a headful of mute words
stop stop stop, go to bed
make sleepy sleeps, dreamy dreams
this is shit
shit upon shit
and i no longer get laid - it doesn't matter
already tomorrow
go to bed with no words
just a headful of night
my lord! you're a fuck
one more beer, i beg you
then i'll rest

train

riding from the eastside,
on the subway
heading into downtown Oslo.
the old trains have a certain beat to them.
they seem to be the only things beating
in a city of winter hearts.
on my way home from another unforgiving workday.
listening to the rhythm of the tracks,
i glance out the window,
at the wast loneliness passing by.
i share this train with pale faces,
consumed by skeletal dreams.
"someone kill me" begs the bum by the sliding doors.
we come together as a group now,
collectively ignoring him.
"no" he says, changing his mind.
"someone give me a beer"
we, the pale, hide our eyes behind newspapers,
fearing that one day,
we too will be bums
standing by sliding doors,
begging for beer or death.
all the while not knowing, that
outside the train there are plenty of both.

phone-calls

bored.
so often confused.
more and more i want to become confusion.
be that false fabricated reality,
weaved so seamlessly into the textures of real reality,
that people can no longer tell what they are looking at.
make random phone-calls to foreign countries.
order take-out in Provence,
listen to the ocean in Talcahuano.
call Marrakesh and smell my phone,
then wake up innocent men in Helsinki
with uncontrolled screams into the speaker.
some will yell back,
funny sounding words.
we could communicate like wild animals,
in different time-zones.
add some twisted undercurrent
to the flow of information.
a child-like approach to disruption of patterns.
all this i want
just to kill twenty minutes of my day.

almost straight ahead

for a day i drove straight ahead.
no slight turn, or dip in the road.
the grandness of the land ballooned in my head,
gently drifting through the golden waves of the Iowa fields,
never before more at ease.
the sun was burning out, when i was startled by an intersection.
no traffic going either way.
only me, confused.
relieved.
to the left, a topless bar.
on the right, a motel.
i doubted my ability to keep the car straight for much longer,
so i pulled right in, to a graveled parking area with no designated spaces.
the red neon was still faithfully lit, but the place looked closed.
it was worth a stop anyway, if only to stretch my road-worn legs in the dust.

the heat was still pressing in the dark, as i dragged my feet towards the office, accompanied by the soothing sounds of crickets.
there i knocked at the screen-door, and rumbling sounds emerged from inside.
a tall midwestern beauty opened the door.
curly dark red hair (not her real colour), and the most beautiful tits i ever saw.
snake-skin cowboy boots up to her knees
what can i do you for sweetheart? she asked with a lipstick-smeared cigarette in her mouth.
just looking for a place to rest my head.
the head needs rest does it?
she was high on some drug i really needed.
got any money on you sweetheart? she wanted to know, blowing that sweet tobacco smell in my face.
what's the damage?
she nodded to a sign that had $35 written on it with magic marker.
i pulled out my wallet, and she gently put her hand on it,
as to cover it.
there are other ways you can pay, she winked at me with fake eyelashes.
i gave her the 35 dollars - not without hesitation.
where'ya from anyway, stud?
Oslo, Norway, i told her, and her face lit up.
wow, that's in England isn't it?
yes i said
it sure is!

i spent that whole night regretting not fucking her.
and i never went to that topless bar.
in the morning, i dropped my key in the box and took off.
i tried to ignore her in my rearview-mirror. standing in that doorway,
smoking her cigarettes.
slowly lifting her arm in a sad goodbye.
but i was back on the road.
not a turn, not a dip.
still going,
almost straight ahead,
with some regret.

yes?

there are no standing at red lights,
waiting to cross the street.
what would i do with my hands?
those awkward rubber-strings
extending at great lengths from my shoulders.
there are no more walks outside,
in the light of day.
it hurts when people step on my shadow.
physically, i think.
mentally, perhaps?
there are thoughts sometimes,
at late nights,
of drowning my brain in formaldehyde.
through the glass-jar,
maybe it could see what's wrong with me.
but other times i'm fine, yes!
yes.
yes.
yes?
i'm just fine.

surprised

there are a lot of things to be said about looking in the mirror
i am not gonna say a lot about it
because i seldom feel the need to look at myself
but this morning, staring out a darkened window, my reflection appeared
it had a surprised look on it's face
i was surprised because my reflection had a full beard
i did not know that i had a beard
there are a lot of things to be said about beards
but i am not gonna say a lot about it
this beard is just my mental state manifesting itself
on my face

i am a maggot

many a late hour i cried for help.
when help arrived,
i screamed for it to leave.
there are lost verses to my childhood song.
adolescent years filled with a desperate wish to die.
as an adult i have been permanently intoxicated.
i am a maggot
leaving a slimy trail behind.
i move slow,
but the days move slower.
at thirty two, i feel old.
and i know now that if you try to fight time,
time will always win.
all i want is to be with the people i love,
all i want is to be alone.
in me is a deep-rooted contempt for wellness.
so is the nature of my illness.
it's an irrational fear,
but fear is fear - rational or not.
those glowing faces
with their yoga-mats and organic food.
those born again religious fanatics
with their scripture and judgement.
all this caring for life,
this want to live forever,
a strive for heaven.
well rounded, caring bastards.
get away from me with your talk!
secretly i want the world to go down in a global-warming, nuclear-blasting, balls out, fornicating, drug and alcohol induced coma inferno.
in me is a deep-rooted hate for most people.

wagon

on the wagon, off the wagon
driving the goddamn wagon off the road
and i woke up crying in that ditch
i tried sobriety
but there is a lot of shame leading down that path
these days i watch my beard grow
the string of confusing thoughts is stretching
a mind-fuck of disorganized pictures
underexposed faces, smiling
for what reason, i wonder?
that head-worm sucking me dry
i still get out of bed (most mornings)
to a soiree of boredom
a cocktail-party of great pretenders
what is the sum total?
i wish i was still in that ditch
crying my heart out
drunk

pee

standing still, there on the sidewalk
down on selma avenue.
legs wide apart
in a proud pose.
i didn't notice, until i got closer,
the dark wet spot blooming from his crotch
running down his left leg.
wow,
how i admired him.
his shameless demeanor,
this ability to let go.
i have tried for days now
to pee myself
with no success.

?

perhaps you noticed
being next to me
that i'm not really here
can you tell me when i left
can you tell me where i've gone
will i notice
that i'm next to you
what your answer is
if you even have one
does it matter
do we care
the days keep coming anyway
the days keep going
are we gone

painting

i used to paint
drag my body in wormlike contractions
across the pure white space
violating the canvas
body dripping with shameful colors
nuances of brown
i enjoyed the animalistic madness to this act
more than the paintings themselves
this was never about art
always desperation
i paint no more
these days i drink and vomit

blood out my ass

there i was
waiting for the right moment i guess
the other day blood poured out of my ass
my doctor used words
unfriendly to my ears
and i've felt old ever since
but then again
i felt old ever before
tired now
words hang from the corner of my mouth
drips like saliva down my chin
still bleeding on the inside
and the moment, i wonder
might have passed me by

let the wind decide

wish i had guns.
i would shoot them at all hours of the day
and feel high aiming at the sky.
i would never wear clothes again
my shotgun duct-taped to my leg.
just get drunk and smoke cuban cigars
whistle bluegrass tunes
and go on crazy rants.
the desert would be the place to be
and if someone trespasses
just bury them there.
no-one would like me
and that is just fine.
i'd write hateful words in the sand
and let the wind decide.

the record store

back home
not too far from my apartment
there was this record-store
a small store
that could fit maybe five or six people
but i never saw more than two in there
i used to stop by most every day
to listen to music they wouldn't play anywhere else
to look at albums i'd never seen before
i would hang out with the owner and talk about music
for hours
i liked him a lot
he was passionate about his buisness
and i wished that i had a passion
sometimes i listen to the records i bought there
and i think about him
that store was his life
and eventually his death
he died of a heart-attack when he was 30
i tried to go back to that store
but it wasn't the same
not when he was gone
now they play the same music they play everywhere else
i've seen all the albums before
now there is usually more than two people in the store
and i can't go back there anymore

debatical

there is always a war up for debate
people go on and on and on
and i long to the days of broken bottles
blood and alcohol
music also
tied to that tune of drunken madness
the battles keep on coming
and we are tired of not fighting

so many words in the paper
to few faces
nothing to tie the ship to
we drift away in this sea of muck
give us the poison that is rightfully ours
heritage

sometimes we are washed ashore
sick by the swell of our past
there it is
broken bottles and blood and alcohol
music no more
you don't pick your battles
only your weapon
and your weapon is not up for debate

dream

i loved her when she slept
perfect,
framed in light blue stillness
a quiet beauty,
not passing judgement or doubt
i could watch for hours
trying to get a taste from the subtle movements of her jaw
but i failed to penetrate her subconscious
before she awakened with a glare of guilt in her eyes

was i ever in her dreams?

myself,
i'm incapable of dreaming
now that she's gone

climate shock therapy

this time of year
(november).
where i grew up
one look out the window reads death
spelled by trees lining the street
starved to dry bones
and the birds have all moved on
following our last breath south.
i had yet to be alive when i headed west
all the way to california.
these days i follow my own winds south
like the birds
to the deserts
to a different kind of dying
a death that i can live.

smog (the LA poem)

los angeles is a neuron
at the core of the psychotic mind
a shock of brilliance and madness
this atlantis demon of the desert
draped in a fabric
thin like smog
woven by the energy of millions lost
framed by confused consciousness
like a graffiti painting
this reality hits the wall
as the firestorms create their own winds in the southland
los angeles is the last to know
the nightmare of so many people here
create the sweet dreams for an entire world
if you have one way out
you go west
this is misery, this is beauty
and this is west

memory loss

i had a lot of good stories
but the allusive details are gone
all that is left is the vague sensation
that i once lived
like a shock of static electricity
delivered by a stranger
the scent of a summer that seemed to last forever
we don't get those anymore
not even in california where it is always summer
this memory loss
it might be a primal instinct
or maybe it's the drugs
cause i refuse to believe that i never had much fun