back to the machine gun

Highway One

2010-11-14T10:45:00.001-08:00

The morning did not come easy. They awoke amidst the wreckage of the night, in a foxhole of red clay, surrounded by spent casings and empty magazines, the rabid dogs of the Vietnamese lowlands picking their way through c-ration cans and the possessions of dead men. The sun was yawning up onto a milky sky. The smell- the smell clung to the dead and the earth like a ghost.
Benji was climbing out of the foxhole. His tortoise shell glasses had been smudged with mud; it was uncertain now whether the lines on his face showed the erosion of age or that of fear. He was standing up in the dirt in the same bilious green fatigues that he had worn for three days. Two Leica cameras hung from his neck. They had once felt like millstones to him, now it was unnoticeable; so long, Singapore now seemed a distant mirage rising from the swamps of Malaysia.
Beyond, on the parameter, Red, his colleague, was pulling the brush away from a pair of Honda Super Cubs. He checked the map, and then the scene around. Trees were split; the corrugated trench that served as their bed was a knife wound in the surface of the clearing. Around it was the remnants of a forward position, probably American, god knew how old. Corpses, about eleven or twelve, picked clean by the insects, bones grey-green. After three days of endless road and the hard pull through the brush the previous night had passed without threat or fear. They had fallen into the immaculate peace of sleep with the guns of Lam Son 719 as their lullaby, slumbering in a shallow grave of red clay surrounded by the vague footprints of a forgotten skirmish.
Red, we’ve got to find the road, he said.
It’s early, Red answered. He was pulling the Super Cub from its hiding place and brushing the leaves and dirt from his pack. There won’t be patrols here for another hour or so.
Let’s not push our luck.
You’re itchin’ for that place, aren’t you.
It’s the border, is all. I’m worried about the border.
Red lit a Marlboro cigarette with a Zippo he had bought from a prostitute in Patpong.
No border’s gonna be worse than here.
They led the Super Cubs through the underbrush until they reached what they knew to be Highway One. The sun was high now; god’s red eye looking over the anabasis of the Western armies. The hill-jungles loomed over the road ahead. Quiet now; the angry cries of the carrion crow, the bobcat growl of the 49 cc, the bird flights scattered over hidden trouble spots. No screams, no thunder. The guns were silent in the balmy uncertainty of the dawn.
Red was smoking again, that was alright. A Nikon man, twice wounded, he turned down a New York bureau offer to stay in Saigon. He gave weird, good vibes. They met on a junk fleet moored in the delta of nine dragons, a chance encounter over a nasty shakedown. A bunch of Hmong gangsters had hit the UPI’s barracks and taken most of the rations. It wasn’t a feel-good situation. The local lieutenant found out the Hmong were selling them, pricejacked, to delta refugees. He had shot the ringleader on sight, and Red got the photo.
Benji remembered Mekong; he remembered the giant Hmong, a hole in his neck, gasping for air on the lip of a Can Tho canal. He remembered saying goodbye to Julie Mayfield outside the pink stucco of the Victoria Hotel in Singapore. He remembered cartons of Marlboro Reds pulled off U.S. Army trucks. He remembered the Congo, and the Belgians who spoke of the natives like cattle and the great heat of the afternoon and the strange idea that some cloud had followed him to touch down in the dark places of the earth where mankind’s hatred had bled out into their hands and their guns.
They rode silent down Highway One. The wind coursed through their matted hair. It whipped against their clothes so stale and covered in the detritus of long and desperate jungle days. They felt the tension and fear pass over them into the isolation faced by two true souls lost in a foreign land. They were two men without guns, and they had no mask of power, no agenda, no place in it all other than to go out and see and try their best to stay alive.
How far up the road?
Far enough.
I hear you.
He could remember on the banks of the Mekong the red-and-blue flag fluttering over a dozen corpses and their weapons; rusty Kalashnikovs, wood swollen by the humidity. He’d seen a grown man brought to tears, as the gunfire fell silent to his gunner, mortally wounded on the ‘copter floor. Two days later he had seen a child of the Vietcong give up his comrades in exchange for his father’s life.
This is it, this is the border.
You sure about this, Benj?
Yeah. I’m sure, Red. I’m sure.
They crossed over into the thick brush, closer now, he could feel it in his chest. A closed path; ahead they heard the snap of rifle shots, the shouts in Cambodian, close now, close, but far enough. They followed the path as he had hoped, and they came upon the ruins, the rain-swept stone skeletons of a people long gone. He knew his purpose here, he could feel it; to be at rest with the bones of civilization. He was tired of his time.
This is it, huh?
Yeah. This is it.
It’s been a long way coming, Benji.
They stood in the shadows of the Elephant Terrace and they heard the footsteps on the pass behind. He could hear their voices, see Red in the corner of his eye, the Marlboro cigarette dangling, the smoke playing across the mirrored lenses of his aviator glasses.
Hey, they’re here.
I can hear them.
All right. I hope you’re happy.
Yeah, Red. I’m happy.
I’m real glad.
He could see them now, leathery faces, ragged uniforms, pulling back the bolts on their Simonovs, brandishing them, angry, uncertain, but most of all scared. He thought of lenses on an oil-stained pink towel on the bed in the Victoria Hotel. He thought of his window and his view of the Singapore Strait, crowded with a thousand ships and the lights of the city. He thought of kissing Julie Mayfield. He thought of the Hmong bleeding and he thought of the cathedrals of Hindu kings and the history sleeping in the earth.
He raised his Leica and he took one last photograph.

the modern pin-up #1, repeated motifs #2

2009-12-09T23:40:00.000-08:00

cigarette

2009-11-25T14:02:00.000-08:00

I had just finished the coffee,
(it was heavy black and colombian)
and I saw the steely blue stillness of the sky
and thought, "I'll have a cigarette"
and did just that.
barefooted,
in a loose black linen shirt.
I felt like some ancient maharishi
lost in the autumn of a foreign land.
the treeline starved by the cold.
I scratched three matches illuminated
caught it slightly before the impish wind extinguished them.
the window nearest was black
nearly opaque,
it mirrored the whole of my figure
and I stood
bearded,
the smoke coming in great billows
from between my cracked and bleeding lips,
like the very gate of the akeldama
black eyes and thick hair.
as I saw myself now
I wondered what had been seen
in this confused child of a man.
I wondered
how a man I could ever be called,
and I wondered why
I had believed them
when I alone
knew how truly childish
I truly was.

nachkriegszeit

2009-11-18T23:03:00.000-08:00

the lean and tall grasses
shifted in the late october wind.
it whistled past the curling vines
and the wheat stalks
that had sprung
over the bones of serfs,
long tempered on
carcassone soil.
roger emerged from dull light of the kitchen
into the brisk white noon.
assam tea, here.
it was black as night.
I should believe your arrival
especially serendipitous
in light of the circumstances.
the circumstances being,
in roger's case
the communicae from berlin
and his recent discharge.
serendipitous, or lucky.
they call it heureux hasard here.
we seated ourselves in no.14 chairs on the veranda.
the gramophone on the table sat idly
with roger's service cap mounted upon it.
how was paris?
it was. didn't you see it
in the war?
not the way it is now.
no,
no I suppose not.
if there was anything to see
then the germans took it when they left.
there wasn't much in berlin,
roger said. only skeletons.
the same in paris.
all the partisans had suicided
the only ones left
were the ones fat enough not to starve.
tell me roger
if all our brightest died fighting
then who will be left
to carry the fire?
the lights are dim over europe,
some, in remembrance
others still in fear.
is that why you left paris?
because its lights were too dim?
because you were not bright enough
to see in the dark?
I left
because I saw nothing had changed.
six months passed,
like so many storms
the trains of france
ran on time.
the evenings consumed
with the bitter anomie
that autumn brought:
solace in cards
the dark and smoky nightclubs of pigalle place,
the stoicism so eagerly embraced
became a badge
to dejected friends
who saw the descent
and pondered the violence.
the letters and stipends that no longer arrived,
the montmartre apartment
piled high with old newspapers
bach records, cigarette stubs
savile row suits stained and frayed
a typewriter pawned for a train ticket
where sunshine would cure me of my needs.
the sun hangs over the pyrenees.
in spain, lorca lies in a shallow grave
a decade too early
for heroism.
in poland
the war goes on unheard.
the war.
she went back to the war.
standing over the Seine in the rain
the wind catches the tails of the gray coat like a whip.
the train returns to the mother
who wears an iron veil,
go back to the war,
and I won't follow.

machine gun

2009-11-06T22:33:00.000-08:00

babylon

2009-10-19T21:51:00.000-07:00

it could have been
babylon
and I was in
captivity.
the door at place theroux
was sickly green
and iron
under a portico arrayed
in paper lanterns
and verdant gardens.
I knocked and
it opened itself,
into a white foyer
and a white hall
where a dwarven mime
carried a tray of cocktails.
I lit up.
all the cigarettes
in the salon
looked like fireflies from here.
I went down the marble hall
under the eyes of old kings
borne in oils and pastel.
the drawing room
was thick with butane and cologne
and the great whiteness
had embraced the black night.
in the center
was a great chaise longue
louis quatorze,
with golden bees on velvet.
they were drinking here
and there was the sound
of a bosendorfer piano.
I loosened my paisley tie
and asked the greying tapster
for a ramos gin fizz.
he used a raw egg,
as those elder in the trade often do.
I took a slug and went
back into the salon
saw her in a dress of chinese blue
her hair was shiny and close,
like the down of a bird
and very châtain.
bonjour.
bonjour, monsieur.
is this your first time here?
yes.
words became elusive.
there are a lot of people here.
yes, there are.
she was half-french and she spoke a little.
her perfume had head notes of bergamot,
and her teeth
very white, with sharp canines.
how old are you?
twenty-two.
so am I.
and what sign?
scorpio.
all my lovers are scorpio...
she had a lot of eyeliner on.
it suited her.
listen, I have to talk to someone.
alright.
wait right here.
I took another drink.
I didn't wait.
they were playing basset
in the dining room
with a deck of russian cards.
everyone in pinstripes,
I put my money down
played recklessly
lost.
the gin fizz doing its work.
I didn't want to love her
it was too much like fate.
she came into the room
dragged me out of the chair
by the wrinkled arm of a winchester shirt
left my francs on the table to molder
and scolded me for fleeing.
I don't like the dogfights
the logistics
the manoeuvres
that's what I told her
in the hall
I told her I had cut off
my captain's gold braid
I'd burned my stripes
I didn't fight wars anymore.
and I spat
between my second glass
something about helen of troy.
she wasn't a very good listener.
she stole a pomengranate
that bled across her lips
as we walked alone
through the vacant seraglio.
she smoked a blonde gitane,
and I a caporal gauloise
jeunesse doree
in our vile bodies.
her sphinx eyes were sinister
and her voice false
she, the sacred prostitute
just standing there
looking at me.
I hated her enough
to rake my glass
across her paper white skin
cursed her family name
I didn't, just stood
and stared back
while in the salon
the band played autumn leaves.
the couples were sipping beaujolais
sweating under ascot collars, the men wondered
about anthony eden, algiers
the suez canal, guns on the nile
the star of david
and the old grandee, whose son
had died at mers-el-kebir
he mourned the end of the imperial century.
and I lounged with Ishtar
and her young flesh
for sure this was babylon,
and antarctica was close.
in the salon
her face had grown much whiter now,
and her cigarette had made her cold
I took her outside
to the balcony
where the ivory and dew
shimmered in the moonlight
she wrapped me up in her arms
heavy with mink
she bit at the lily on my blue vest
I confessed I didn't love her
and she called me a liar.
take me inside,
I want to lie down.
and so she followed
through the sleeping remnants
of the adulterous nouveau riche.
and the naked hour of cinq a sept
to a boudoir undisturbed
and the blue wallpaper of the fourth empire.
more bees on a blue bed
columns of moorish wood.
she took off her sable coat
and sat on the edge,
her mandarin collar was now undone.
humming stardust
I searched the drawers for
the poison of rich men.
soon it would be dawn
and tasting whiskey, I thought
after this, I could make it myself
take a train
without the newspapers
without the roulettes
do it alone.
I felt her breath on my neck
it was cold, and her lips
crimson with pomengranate
this time alone, this time
caressing her thigh under
the singapore satin
she told me she was going back
to poland.
that was alright, I thought
as we fell back, sliding on the silk
people always bored me anyway.

pariahville - excerpt

2009-10-14T00:11:00.000-07:00

His shirt was black and white seersucker, well-pressed. On the white satin lapel of his black blazer, an variegated white carnation had been pinned neatly. He looked like a true southern gentleman; and he bared his bright teeth with slow-burning deviance.
But he was alone, in the center of the room, shuffling ever closer to the boomerang table and the pile of well-worn records that glistened dully under the New Orleans crimson lamplight. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stop. Just moving, two-stepping to the keyboards.
The clean-looking Bang and Olaf was nestled into the armoire on the wall space between the living room and the kitchen where Neal was mixing drinks and laughing, bragging to the guests. Faye was on the balcony, watching traffic in a mint smoke haze. Julia Romanov sifted through the numerous vinyls, before finding an early British pressing of Last Year’s Model, the first letters cut off on the cover.
The beat played. Jack shook his head up and down, lips pursed, he saw the woman in his sights. Odile with her loose linen shirt and her pleated black pants, tight on toned thighs. Odile with her hand-rolled cigarette and her Swedish sunglasses. His blood ran strong. The tunnel vision set in.
Odile with her bare white feet. Odile, sans brassiere. He took a hit from the green flask of Jameson in his right hand. The whiskey made him stupid, the beer made him bitter. He was a hunter. He kissed the St. Christopher that dangled from his neck. He licked his fingers and twisted his brown curls.
He sashayed, somewhat clumsily, catching his steps on Cuban heels. The shag carpet was very thick and very white, and so was the loose shirt that hung over Odile, and her very sharp shoulders, spying him with her arms outstretched like a Sufi dancer.
For to Odile he was not the hunter, but the prey. Her eyes turned to slits, she slipped a narrow tongue from the corner of her mouth and advanced, feet arched, fingers running down the wrinkled face of his seersucker shirt, she gave him a too-knowing smile, showing more gum than pearly tooth…
Their noses touched. The bass throbbed, they moved as one. No one was watching. Jack forgot about Faye. He realized it was the greatest moment of his life and it was painted upon his face like a great sign on the neon strip. His left hand reached for hers, his right ran down the side of her Hellenic body feeling for any imperfection.
The keyboards started again. Julia Romanov had her eyes closed and Odile touched the side of her nose against Jack’s and held his hand tightly and ran her own up his neck and bit his lip. She exhaled and stood on the top of her toes as if she had been struck by lightning and Jack continued to smile. He continued to melt.
He kept at kissing her. He became hungry for it. He thought about taking her by the hips and falling onto the loveseat. He thought about it. They wrestled with eachother. The petals from the carnation lilted towards the carpet. Faye had finished her cigarette.

the art of the cigarette #2

2009-10-10T20:10:00.000-07:00

murad

kent

parliament

chesterfield (inexplicable parrot fetishism)

philip morris

fatima

elegy written in an autumn churchyard

2009-10-10T12:31:00.000-07:00

the alarm clock is ringing
three hours too late!
what a mess we've made
of these blankets,
of our souls.
someone open a goddamn window
I'm boiling alive in my own sweat
matted hair, tangled limbs
who the hell invented this?
there, that's better.
it's cold outside and clean
cool, clean november air
see that gray sunshine
over the skinny skeleton trees
embrace it,
that belonging-ness
that kind disregard for tomorrow.
just that cold blue gray sun
steely bicycle rider afternoon
made for six-button navy blazers.
I like you with your glasses on
I like your sharp teeth
I like your barely-hidden lechery
don't compliment me,
you liar.
liar, I laugh.
that's not the first time...
pouring coffee while
she brushes her teeth
reveling in the real honest
unabashed dishevelment,
I don't smile, just groan
move to the deck chair
cigarette wet-limp
between wet-limp lips
pretending to be on a Havana steamer.
poached eggs for breakfast,
my toes touch the dew
with the Stones record on
grit my teeth. taking deep breaths
sharp and unsure of the future
I take out a notebook
and start numbering my days
she puts out her hand
she wants me to dance
the song is "connection"
so bare feet on concrete
I stop caring about my clumsiness,
the violet-striped bathrobe sashays.
I can't dance, I can't love
nothing is right
everything is gray
she smiles sweetly
and says
don't worry.
oh no no no
wrapping one another
in scarfs
houndstooth and cashmere,
respectively.
a lovely bicycle ride
to the cemetery
seeing children on the sidewalks
clinging to red balloons
waving.
behind sunshades, there are sad eyes
sitting dreaming against headstones
sucking on the red-striped straws
of chocolate milkshakes
wanting nothing more
than to kiss your mouth
november days
will we always spend our time
sitting, waiting
or in each other's arms?
the sunshine on the buttons of my coat
makes me think back to winters past
and graveyard paths
with friends on the wayside.
the breeze carries sad youth
I long for you,
wistful winter
making me miss
all the things I never felt
that I would.

repeated motifs #1

2009-10-08T18:33:00.000-07:00

bad october

2009-10-06T10:45:00.000-07:00

I am back to the machine gun
it is gray and ugly outside,
the plateaus obscured
by rain and fog
and the fury of the coastal winds
driven heartward by hot santa anas.
I am back to the machine gun
she is gray like the skies
and the rough paint is chipping
from the underside of her carriage.
the lamp is hot and gold
and we are alone.
please keep lecturing me
there is nothing I need more now
than your brilliant advertisements
of young naivete.
it's becoming more and more evident
that glaring character flaws
are exemplar
of how interesting all lovers are,
but you can all take your double standards
and play the roman fool.
I'd rather be an old man
than be counted useless and hollow
living for a day that will never arrive,
pretending to be content.
and so I
sidelined by the culture
not cynical enough for her tastes
too much of a bastard for her's
clinging to my tattered banner
"at least I have principles"
but they're fading fast
and the jacobins are putting me on trial
for the sins of yesterday.
I'm sure if Marat knew that it would end this way
he would've drowned himself in his bathtub.
after enough of the same faces
the effects of gravity become
much more apparent.
and after hearing all their graven exploits,
I can only think
this is not what I wanted
these are not the stories I want to tell
every sordid detail
propagated for posterity.
is it too late?
it drives me to filth and embarrassment
lying under the same grey sky
I wake to the afternoon sun
and start the long walk
back to the land of the living
delivering apologies on the way.
gone is my era of steak and eggs
midnight coffee and rainy drives
to be replaced by that of
2 AM confessions and clenched fists.
eyes too tired to weep
for the lack of honest friend or lover,
and the crimes of which
I am guilty.

blind moon (artemis rev.)

2009-10-05T19:13:00.000-07:00

death's head in cashmere
stares, coolly
into the swirling patterns of the ice
that melts into his whiskey.
each shot stabs into the frosty night
the fire outside is loud,
not quite as loud as the record player
which rocks back and forth
perched precariously on a chair arm
here's looking at you kid
that and my god damned innocence
as it has brought me nothing but grief
in a world as perverse as this one.
the fake fur on the naugahyde stool next to me
is making me sneeze
making me sick
sick
you make me sick
love sick.
you can take a sabbatical on your sabbath
but there is nothing sacred
about my saturdays.
I just do another kind of work,
pulling all of this lead out of my chest
from cupid's bullets
the lead that weighs me down
makes me do stupid things
makes me treat you like someone different.
thinking about pink carnations
that grow in your hair
long white fingers,
and eyes
brown eyes,
very pleasant
filled with a kind of dull lust
a little disappointed
but ready.
I like that.
this brings a smile, then
a sigh and an obscenity.
a good smile. sharp canines
a good coincidence,
but a smile always noticed.
that's too bad though
they warned me about you.
don't try my luck, they said.
I wasn't making any presumptions
wasn't playing dice or even browsing tables
just curious
but they insisted.
it was good advice but things
things didn't go the way I planned
here I am drinking the remants of whiskey
and lukewarm beer and
trying not to sound like some maudlin crooner and
failing and
counting the mistakes on both hands
wondering
when the sun'll come up
when can I see it on that beautiful bronze hair
like artemis' helmet
telling myself I won't say anything ever
because once she knows
yeah once she knows I'm out the door
along with all the rest of those silly fools
who wanted cheap love off of a girl without a brassiere
and how could I blame you
for crimes imagined
but men we're just awful creatures
that comes with the modern world,
we're all awful
we're all just cunts.
when is the sun coming up?
when am I going to be sober again?
what time is it in los angeles?
I'd like to know
I'd like to go back to being myself
because
thinking about you makes me feel
awful rough.

the art of the cigarette #1

2009-10-05T06:46:00.000-07:00

lucky strike

state express

murad

st. paul

casanova

pall mall

further introductions!

2009-10-04T16:32:00.000-07:00

while I'm at the posting on this very dreary fall evening-

martin bemberg over at Lamictal Glade shot me an endorsement and he's really much more deserving of it than I.

I've been happy to call Martin my friend over the past odd month or so that I have been living here in Fayetteville, Arkansas. Past the fact that he is just an all-around fine fellow, he's also a founding member of a local band, the Memphis Pencils, who you can listen to here.

I've repeatedly stressed to Martin how great I think his band is and I have a reputation for being a harsh critic. The Memphis Pencils have a excellent musical aesthetic and a virtuoso grasp of texture that they share with fellow Fayetteville contemporaries St. Anthony. (This is no coincidence: St. Anthony's Neil Lord is a former member of the Pencils and a frequent collaborator with Martin).

The Memphis Pencils are characterized by evocative lyrics marked by literary whimsy, songs that move from one catchy movement to the next in a way that conjures up late 60s baroque pop, and sometimes endearingly ramshackle vocal harmonies aided by the band's unflinchingly brotherly demeanor.

now that I'm done plugging I hope that's enough to get you to give them a good chance. Expect more scribblings in the coming days.

-SD

an introduction.

2009-10-04T14:27:00.000-07:00

as a novice to the concept of blogging, I assume, in a customary self-deprecating fashion, that this introduction will be a clumsy one. I'm not expecting a lot of traffic to come my way, but in the case that you do, then I feel it necessary to let you know what I (and this blog) am about.
I'm not much more than a student in a less-than-cultured part of the United States. I have never been a firm follower of the rule, "write about what you know," because if I was, then my writing would be abjectly dull and without any merit whatsoever. I write about what I enjoy, and usually it falls cleanly into a few categories, none of it particularly scholarly or of much note.
Despite this, I write, and I hope for others to read what I write, in the hopes that with time, practice and input my abilities can increase. I think with practice and polish some of the most unremarkable writers can shine. So please, if you pass by, drop me a dime. Help a brother out. It's getting tougher to tell what's good and what isn't in today's world.
I've been heavily influenced by hardboiled detective fiction, or roman noir, in the style of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler. I maintain that their respective styles are excellent because of their rhythm; a work should have a flow and a cadence that helps move the story along just as much as the characters or the events. On top of these writers, I am also heavily influenced by the works of Charles Bukowski, which is at some points painfully obvious.
But even more so, I am influenced by music; and often times just from the sound of a song I can help to piece together a scene in my head. On this particular blog, I will be posting most frequently a story, or novella, or whatever you may call it, entitled Pariahville. Pariahville has almost exclusively been inspired by synesthesiac tendencies, and is cobbled together from countless awful short stories or screenplays that I started and didn't finish.
So to all new readers I hope you will keep an open mind and give me your thoughts. It's really the best thing a writer can possibly ask for.

-SD

the raphael

2009-10-04T13:53:00.000-07:00

There were the violet stains of red wine on the white linen. I draped it over the curved rosewood arm of the coat rack. I took a look around me, closing the door behind. The room was small but comfortable, walls a decidedly unsubtle pale yellow hue. At one end was the closed door to the bathroom, where the shower ran with a dull roar, past a well-made mustard yellow bed, littered with Italian giallo magazines, facing a rosewood armoire. On the other was a white cornice window, of the Second Empire style; it was opened to the blue evening of the foggy gray city beyond.

The old television in the armoire was playing RKO matinees in start black and white. On the end table near the bedpost, a Chesterfield cigarette laid smoking next to its package in a sallow ivory ashtray. The lean cigarette holder was meershaum chipped and yellowed from use. On the windowsill was a black-and-white dress, patterned in a way that reminded me of Rorschach test inkblots. I smiled and stretched my arms, unbuttoning the linen vest, removing off-white shirt and pants, tossing them to the floor by the window. I put on a pair of brown houndstooth pajamas and searched the liquor cabinet. There was some gin in a tall bottle with a Spanish label. I poured it into old-fashioned glass from the armoire; silver droplets scattered across the table when my hand shook.

I sat down at the brocade chair near the window, smelled petroleum from the cars below, and read “Nostromo” by Joseph Conrad until the shower stopped, letting my mind wander. After a few alcohol-soaked moments passed in the soft amber lamplight. Looking to the side, I noticed the half-eaten remains of a grilled cheese sandwich on white, royal-blue striped china. The door swung open as I faced it, indirectly, one hand on the book in my lap and the other on the armrest of the chair.

When I looked up I saw her leaned up against the frame of the doorway, a lemon bathrobe hanging over her slim shoulders. She wore a black shirt the color of licorice. Her short-cropped auburn hair was still damp and lay in fringe across the shining irises of her eyes. Scarlet speckled her cheeks as she smirked at me. My eyes shifted downwards to the image of a garish yellow revolver embroidered on her black panties. It was aimed at me.

“You took long enough,” she said, as I took a look at her, one-eyed, through the kaleidoscope of the glass, examined the diamond pattern cut into its frosted surface, and shook my head. She was going to make a lecher out of me.

“I’ve been here twenty minutes,” I answered. She laughed, a short, incredulous laugh, and let her head roll across her shoulders as she smiled, brown hair swaying.

“And getting loaded already.”

I gave her a smile both guilty and proud.

“I only drink when I’m nervous.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” I continued, and gesturing towards the pleated gray heap under her dress at the window. “And that’s the most buttons I do believe I’ve ever seen on a pair of pants before.”

“Shut up,” she said, half-jokingly, and let the bathrobe fall from her shoulders before sitting Indian-style on the bed. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Sure,” I lied, and rose from my seat. I sat down on the oriflamme print of the yellow blanket, and admired the neatly folded linen underneath. I laid down next to her, my hands behind my head against the pillow, and kept my eyes on the television. Gradually they drifted to her, looking at me demurely.

“How was it,” she asked.

“I’m no good at snooker,” I replied. “I think maybe I ought to quit.”

“Well how do you like that.”

Silence. I thought about kissing her, biting her lips.

“Gee, I’m tired,” I finally gave, shakily.

“How long are you staying.” she asked.

“I leave tomorrow morning.”

There was another pause. She twisted over to face me more, putting a hand on the chest of my white shirt.

“If I kiss you I’m going to feel like hell in the morning.”

“That’s okay by me.”

artemis

2009-10-04T11:30:00.000-07:00

tonight I stab the dark
with alcohol and cigarettes
each one's a dead soldier
laid to rest for you.
the frost is very fine,
and the smoke on my breath
hisses with every word.
all the matches you lit for me
are stubbed out,
buried in the ashtray.
there is a death's head
hiding under this cashmere
and he's looking at you.
I think your eyes are sad and wild
with a dull lust for desire
and the pink carnations which you pluck
they're growing in your hair.
the faces you seem to look on
are tired, as are you
and the smiles you wear
are faded and threadbare.
the speakers have no voices now
you've torn out all their throats
the politics they peddled
will reach your ears no more.
you're finished with men,
and how they've stopped evolving
from jaded beasts with appetites
that you never could sustain
to rockefellers and vanderbilts
who would gladly take your name
your world is writ in black
on pages few will ever see
and you know above all earthly things
what you'd have someone to be
artemis, you're done
you have no use
for lovers
anymore,
especially none
simple like me
stuttering when you look at me
with lost lonely brown eyes.
I could never match
the beauty of the nature
you've fallen in love with.
the earth is your only husband
and the sun that shines
on your beautiful bronze hair
like your hunter's helmet,
it's your lady-in-waiting.

courier (9/2/09)

2009-10-04T11:29:00.001-07:00

it was a rough morning.
I ruined my suede shoes
in cold September puddles
my cigarette fell apart in my mouth
and I had to fight off
horse jockeys in their cars.
I was spitting tobacco,
oilslick haircut
and a black eye.
my predictions, for worse
usually come to fruition.
when it gets too thick
I drift to the alleys
and cut my teeth
on a blue harmonica.
singing songs about trains
lovers leaving
arriving
usually late.
the smart decisions, well
they usually end up just as tough
no, I don’t want
to shake his hand
I don’t want to make nice
for my own sake
for your sake
tell me, did
you stop to think about it twice?
no,
I wouldn’t have either.
al green keeps singing on wax
those beautiful black souls,
give me credence to swoon.
no common beauty,
are we really the same?
smiles have become
synonymous
with the kind of life
you like to lead.
so one of us
must be doing it wrong.
surely,
it won’t last?
after all,
that was your excuse.

goodnight, ladies (5/6/09)

2009-10-04T11:27:00.001-07:00

saturday night
here I am again
on a leather chair
the color of horseblood.
in front of me, from
left, to right
is a green bottle
of lager,
an oyster po’boy
on white butcher paper,
and a soft pack of
Lucky Strike cigarettes
(14 remaining of 25)
the dial on the radio
has been set to 92.3 FM
KFAC, and Piano Sonata
No.8, Pathétique.
I’m in a coffee-stained
white shirt
and my blue-striped shorts.
across the street
Some palooka has
wrapped his Chevy around
the telephone pole.
you can’t buy tickets
to see shows like this.
no one seems to ring me on
the telephone,
but I know everybody’s out
on a fine smoggy
saturday night
just like this one,
drinking their white wine
and taking a break from
the mindless madness
that keeps them from being
as mad as me.
I believe in loyalty
and I loyally refuse
to be proud of my friends
when they disappoint me,
likewise
when I abstain for three weeks
I expect you to as well
or even surpass myself.
as one of those dirty romantic types
I now realize that I have
only succeeded
in preparing women
for other men.
I wipe the breadcrumbs
from my razor stubble chin
and sound a barbaric belch
up at the velveeta moon.
I imagine the whole city
shaking at my anger
feeling the extent
of my ennui
but the neighbor just
laughs
at the drunken slob
that I am.
I am a lover by desire
and a cad by practice,
though I enjoy playing
at both.
I leave the apartment
because there are pachucos
playing dominoes outside
and I don’t feel
like getting shivved.
I shine steel and scramble.
the highway at night
is like a game of pinball.
silver fastbacks packed
with disillusioned men
and desperate women
by God,
you’d think we would all
leap headlong into the
death glare of eachother’s
headlights.
but no, nobody really digs
that kind of vibe.
so on this Saturday night
there are no women
no friends
no records or films
just me in my Terraplane
and the lonely moon
watching me
watching the bay.
the ship of love
sounding a foghorn.
I park on the beach and
nurse the rest of the beer.
I wonder about the folly
of youth
and the fickle reality
that I have claimed
to embrace
yet continue to be shocked by.
I pour out the rest of the beer.
it was only
one fourth of a love
but gee whiz
it sure was enough.

9:37 AM (5/4/09)

2009-10-04T11:21:00.001-07:00

the morning sun
cold and callous,
peeks through the green shades
and the windowsill.
casting a white glow
on your milky skin
frayed, unwashed flannel
across your navel.
wet auburn hair
on a pillowcase
yellowed with age.
my tight trousers on
a belmont chair,
pockets jingle
with Roosevelt dimes.
Italian leather
upon the soles of my feet.
the hallway outside,
crowded with bodies
drifting sleepily
to dreamland fey,
I tiptoe over
on Cuban heels
out the doorway
onto the street.
now a cup of coffee
across the campus,
a pack of Luckies
in my back left pocket.
I knew you’d leave soon
my hand in your heart but not
in your affairs.
I take a bus down boulevards
of green and blue and red.
the morning light is gold
like amber ale,
as you’re laughing over cake
and tea, and handmade sandwiches,
social aspirations and
oratorical congratulations.
I smoke another cigarette,
put it out in the noir
of my coffee cup
and fall asleep
on the steps of the greek theater.
meanwhile you’re driving
with Cat Stevens on the radio
and laughing to yourself
because life is joy.
I’m dreaming about
Marseilles,
revolvers and roustabouts.
1:13, and I start stirring.
buy a gyro, and at the bookstore
an out-of-print book, 1973
“The French Foreign Legion” and
John Cheever, a red dust jacket
under my arm, just them
and me.
you pass me on the crème-color sidewalk
and I look the other way,
pretending to hear some drunk saxophone.
I still feel your eyes on
the cold of my shoulder
but the girl doesn’t break
her pride is too hard to swallow.
I stop at the railroad tracks
and watch as you walk
in an ill-fitting sundress
over the awkward angle
of your shoulders,
always going
somewhere.
I think
you have everybody and
you think
I don’t need anyone
but
we’re both really thinking
the same thing.
what a shame…
neither of us can tell.

mon amie (5/3/09)

2009-10-04T11:19:00.000-07:00

indeed, I was so very wrong
about you
right about all the wrong things
and vice versa.
I always viewed you
in the most literary manner
so, it’s a shame that
I recall you always
spelling things wrong.
so very naive yet
with such a sharp wit,
your inexperience
countered by
your intuition.
so right you were.
I underestimated you.
yes, how very different
things could have been.
I guess I will
have to lament
never seeing you on my bed
with a blue flannel shirt
on your dove-white skin.
a beauty that
I alone could appreciate,
one that you
would deride.
because of my nature,
I would steal you away.
your knives would grow dull
and your passion cold
you’d turn to vanity’s mirror
and everyone would ask
“whatever happened
to baby blue?”
and they’d say
“she fell in love
with a bastard.”
so sorry, I suppose
for misjudging you
it’s too late
and too cheap
for it to matter to you anymore.
so I guess
I’ll tear these pages
out of my book
and drink this tea
and go back to thinking
that you’re a lesbian.

my foolish heart (4/27/09)

2009-10-04T11:17:00.000-07:00

when it finally came time to leave
I was still clinging
clinging to a ghost that shivered
like a leaf in the wind.
it was a familiar feeling.
I snapped towards the sedan
that long black chariot
and felt the cold silver
on my shoulders.
from the warm leather
of the driver’s seat
I watched as the rain drove
spiny needles through the air
smashing in puddles on
the asphalt.
my phone rang a number
that didn’t exist.
deep within my heart sank.
I did not want it to be this way
the day by day drag
of anomie and ennui
though I still knew that
all glory fades.
the machine hummed and purred
as slick tires met slick blacktop
jet-black and shining
in the dull grey
of the waning daylight
and in my back mirror
I caught the glimpse of the car
I wished would follow
underneath the weeping willows
of my verdant avenue.
as the piano sang
and the drums hushed
the cello hummed
the rain stopped falling.
I have seen the clouds roll
over the cemeteries and
the hills
like a gray mask over the city.
she wears it sullenly.
from my third-story window
I can look out over the
bricks and the wires
that crisscross like webs
over the traffic.
I can smell the chow mein
from the pushcarts below
and the damp rain
on the beige of the newspaper.
I lay back on the leather
the second leather my back
has felt in an hour.
beyond the smoking ashtray
on my paint-peeling windowsill
across the street
in her own world
there is a skinny girl
with a tattoo of a dragon
on her neck down her arm
she’s wearing pajamas.
I wonder what her stereo
is playing.
in two years
she'll have nothing left.
I think about how I’m
not fat
or stupid
and how glad I should be,
but it all just seems
dull anymore.
someone feels like I do
if only we cared enough
to make feeling worthwhile.
I expect things from people
and never tell them
what they are.
so I am disappointed
as the rain falls again
across the face
of the concrete Jesus
who watches the barrio.
a thousand tired feet
in a city that always walks
old men in chesterfield coats
hipsters with Pabst in their hands
Puerto Ricans and Vietnamese
the rain’s all falling
everybody’s tired
nobody gives a damn
or maybe I only give a damn
about myself.

the broken watch (4/23/09)

2009-10-04T11:15:00.000-07:00

I found my watch today.
the one you told me you found
except you hadn't found it.
you left it there.
somebody had shattered the glass.
the hands were still moving
just like clockwork
it was a strong image
time kept marching
despite all that broken glass.
I could've kept it
but my heart wasn’t in it
any more.
I was no Roland
bleeding from a thousand wounds
I retreated
to let my ambitions die.
but it was no real loss
just one less thing that
I can sing songs about.
today was
one of those days
everyone was just
sick of each other
and it got played out
in bad conversations
highway cut-offs
and numerous falsehoods.
if Dante was a gunslinger
there’d have been
a lot of dead liars.
I think my watch had
something to do with it.
I believe in all that
rosaries and black cats
what else am I supposed to believe
except the absurd?

somewhere (4/20/09)

2009-10-04T11:14:00.001-07:00

is there an absurdity to it?
that kind of feeling
that I’d rather be somewhere else.
it’s poorly-furnished
I don’t think those kind of places exist
anymore.
Maybe, a white room off of
Van Nuys
and a girl who has
black eyes
with a yellow
gladiola in
her black hair
no.
maybe
a tin-roofed
juke joint
deep in the American jungles
or
if I feel tragic
an absinthe café
on Decatur
pimps and poets
in linen suits
best
the inside of a large Cadillac
with a torch song
playing full blast
its echo spread into
a velveteen night.
oh well
what does it matter
to anybody
where I want to be?
I am the kind of man that
is only missed when you know
that he’s gone.

that's fair (4/17/09)

2009-10-04T10:53:00.000-07:00

I spent my Friday night
avoiding people
and the people who I wanted to see
were avoiding
me.
after a rainy drive
wherein I decided
Camels taste like lip balm,
I put Waltz for Debby on the stereo
and drank myself to sleep
cradling a bottle of jack.
I woke up around 6 AM
in a murphy bed
and vomited.
stumbling, I tried
to clean up
but it was overpowering
and I left it for tomorrow
like every other problem.
sleep was filled
with the kind of dreaming
that doctors would prescribe,
and waking was easy.
alone, charles bronson
rampaged on the silver screen
and I had steak and eggs
at three in the afternoon,
perched on a leather davenport
smiling at how joyous it was
just to have no one
and be content about it.
and after a few phone calls
I rolled into the city
lacquered with a fresh coat of rain.
the pitter patter of
thunder in the night
rose on the horizon.
and over coffee
we began to talk discourse
and the loss of ourselves.
it made a lousy dinner nicer
but I'd still call it lousy.
I know you're trouble,
but hell
I don't worry.
I’m not asking much
at least not yet.
you say he’s a nice guy,
that he'd like me,
but I remind you
he didn’t beat an assault rap.
honey,
it's just one of those things
where nothing will ever happen,
but god,
don't you know it could?
in the end
what can I say to you
other than shrug
forgetting your eyes,
and think,
well,
that's fair.