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.