he was standing 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 *** myself
with no success.

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 *****

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?", i asked
"my new man" she started, and
i knew i should have never asked.
she went on for roughly thirty minutes
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
- another one of many that night.

a telephone is ringing, somewhere in the night
i'm in bed sweating
thinking about some girl i had almost forgotten
and she's as distant as the ringing phone
the phone that no-one will ever answer
not in this night
this heat
it's all just vibrations at this point
looking up at the ceiling, life reveals itself
born from electric sparks
and distant sounds
inside a blank stare, right before i fall asleep
i can only hope that the phone will keep on ringing
that i will never forget that girl
and that dying will be as peaceful as Los Angeles is tonight

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

what can i do you for, sweetheart?
she asked from behind the screen door.
a tall mid-western beauty,
with dark red hair (not her real color)
hanging in curls
down to the most perfect ******* i ever saw.
just looking for a place to rest my head, i told her.
i'd been driving,
almost straight ahead,
when i was called to the neon vacancy sign.
the head needs rest, does it? she wanted to know.
she wore tall boots,
and were high on some drug i really wanted.
the lipstick-smeared cigarette in her mouth
bobbed up and down as she talked.
got any money on you, sweetheart?
ash rained gently from the tip of her smoke.
what's the damage? i demanded,
and she nodded to a sign next to the door.
$35 it said in red magic marker.
i pulled out my wallet as she opened the screen door.
there are other ways you can pay, she said,
putting her hands on my wallet,
as to cover it.
i gave her the money.
where you from anyway, stud?
Norway, i told her, and her face lit up.
wow, that's in England isn't it?
yes, i said.
it sure is.
she offered me a beer,
but i didn't need beer,
and i didn't need *****.
i needed loneliness,
and an empty motel,
and ***** sheets,
and black and white television.
americana.

i took off that next morning,
driving almost straight ahead,
with some regret.