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.