a while back, i grew a mustache.
i thought maybe,
just maybe it would make me a better person.
like Burt Reynolds.
the power of the mustache,
the responsibilities
were not known to me.
one look in the mirror, and i knew...
money would no longer be an issue.
ladies? no problem.
i went out and bought a $1200 camera,
on a whim.
that was all my money,
and like a child with a new toy
i was distracted for a short while.
guess it was worth it.
as it turns out, i could not handle the power.
now my money is gone,
and the ladies did not dig it.
so i sit here,
with a razor burn
and a thousand pictures
of empty beer-bottles.

what a fiasco.

the words don't come easy
on this head-pounding hungover day
every train of thought trails off
into intangible nonsense.
maybe if i buy a new pen? i think
perhaps then these words won't look so lame?
maybe a carbon steel ballpoint pen
with high-grade stainless steel trimmings.
i could engrave my name on it.
with a pen like that, i think
i could write cryptic poetry
that would bewilder the masses.
then i speculate the possibilities
of stabbing myself in the neck with a pen like that
with my name engraved on it.
possibly if i hit a main artery
in my neck, i think
that could work.
but i can't afford a pen like that.

the night is picking on those strings again
with ancient tunes that drip
dripping, screaming whiskey down my throat
and eyes filled with lightning-bolts
life, streaked like rain across my windshield
as I speed through red flashing lights
with whispering ghosts and glorious sights
i'm a rocket bursting, spitting flames
spitting memories ringing, and birds that are singing
as we fall from the sky
sifting through photographs
times and people that needs a story
but i will make them wings with sheets and sticks
strapped to the back of notes that fly back in time
a time itching in the back of my head
make me open my skull and scratch my brain
just a little out of tune

on the wagon, off the wagon
driving the ******* 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-**** of disorganized pictures
underexposed faces, smiling
for what reason, i wonder?
that head-worm ******* 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

my lord! you're a ****
a long hard fucky ****
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
****, anyway...
a headful of mute words
stop stop stop, go to bed
make sleepy sleeps, dreamy dreams
this is ****
**** upon ****
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 ****
one more beer, i beg you
then i'll rest

a melody of sameness
drains me of color
leaves me as an outlining
a charcoal line smudged on my sheets

and the tv is full volume, cause my neighbor is on full volume, cause his neighbor is on full volume

red faced people are yelling at each other
they are furious for so many reasons
and i don't feel a whole lot

it's monday, or tuesday, and so on - life humming in my ear
the red faced are cut off by breaking news, by massive destruction and devastation
human suffering
and i don't feel a whole lot

my neighbor bangs his fist on my wall, cause his neighbor is banging on his, and i don't know what day it is

there are bombs, rockets blaring through the night. many casualties they say. mostly women and children
i don't know the women, the children, i don't know my neighbor or my neighbors neighbor
the red faced are back on, gesturing and blaming
i don't feel a whole lot

i boil rice, cause i know how to do it, and children get their legs blown off, and women are decapitated
i'm just a crooked charcoal silhouette on my kitchen wall
cook for fifteen minutes over low flame until water has evaporated or rice is soft

**** and kidnappings and slow death. can someone tell me what day it is?

life is humming in my ear

the place was *****
***** like only the South can be
i was drinking bud lights
drinking the daylight away
drinking the outside, and the noise, and the heat away.
i was sitting amongst several gray-haired men
and i knew i didn't belong, but
they didn't seem to know,
or care.
they had toothless sisters living in trailerparks in Alabama
they had sons they had not talked to in years
most had seen war and death and destruction.
"vietnam!" yelled a man in the corner,
and threw his prosthetic leg on the table
the men nodded their heads,
and mumbled in secret agreement.
they were all missing some body-part or another
i guess that's what made them whole.
outside, wild chickens were roaming the dusty parking lot,
pecking on cigarette-butts and empty beer-cans.
we laughed, we drank, and we hid our tears
and as the bar closed down, Patsy Cline was singing from the jukebox
or maybe that's just how i want to remember it.
"i'll be ****** if this ain't the greatest nation on the planet" i said
and they all agreed.
then we stumbled out into the night
a night filled with crickets and fire-flies
and the occasional fist-fight
all in all it was a fine night.
one for the record books.

i had this pet platypus
thought he could talk, since he was inside my dream
are you a duck, or what? i asked it
but he could not talk
in the dream, i didn't know he was a platypus
only knew that after i woke up, for some reason
he was very loyal, though
can't remember what we did, but i knew he was loyal

you are very lonely, aren't you? she asked
some days, i said
why don't you get a dog, or cat, or something? she wanted to know
because they break my ******* heart, i told her

we were mentally ill, and mad
in so many beautiful ways
we sat for years - just sat
with that garbage rotting
everything - our brains rotting

(was there a camera behind our bathroom mirror?)

then, there was that night we got lost
in a fog of angel dust
you, crawling on all four, praying to Jesus Christ
throwing up blood and whiskey
begging your Savior for mercy
and we Believed (for a few hours)

(was there a dead man looking through my window?)

the buzzing of banana-flies
buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
grindin­g of teeth
and that hysterical laughter from the TV next door
all the muzak in the vestibules of hell

(were they laughing at us?)

oh, Lord! what perfect panic!
i painted. painted like my life depended on it
they were all on the canvas - friends, family, and neighbors
hundreds of white eyeballs
all looking upon us with disgust

(could they hear our thoughts?)

now,
we are two ugly, screaming faces
drifting unchecked in time
onward, paranoia!
onward, terrible fear!
onward, my dear friend!

i took into a motel
on my way somewhere, to do something
the place was occupied by pedophiles, prostitutes and drunks
it had a "rent by the hour" option
outlaws, bikers and the occasional wannabe poet
on the run
on the hunt
we were all comfortable with America
half-heartedly chasing the Dream
i wanted to write a poem about jerking off
and getting *** all over myself
and having nothing to wipe it off with
so i decided (in the poem) to wait till it dried out
but then it never dried, so i laid there for days
until i got dizzy with hunger,
and had to get up (in the poem)
with the *** dripping down my body
leaving awful wet stains all over the room
on the drapes and sheets and remote control
"by god, it's everywhere!" i cried (in the poem)
but then i remembered that my mom reads my poems
so instead i wrote about these cows i saw
cows grazing on a pasture outside San Antonio
cows looking up at the sky
secretly dreaming of going to the moon

every thursday i sit by the pool
all day
i drink beer, 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
but they are beautiful and dumb
and they are yapping along in baby-voices
i wanna **** 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

hey, you! got a cigarette?
the woman was barely 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...
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 he 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 her cigarette
gently bounce down the street.
six months have passed,
and i'm still waiting for Valerie to stop by.

you grabbed ahold of my spine
clawed and kicked and climbed
all over my haunched back
all the way to the top
into my skull
into my inner ear
inside all the meat, and veins, and nerves
where you sit with your little golden hammer
and you hit that angry bell
and mad sick pictures
mad sick ****, ring out    
               ring, ring, ring
ringing out the sound of shame
mad sick pictures that i ***** all over
myself, and maybe others?
you and your little ******* hammer
working that angry ******* bell
working on the worst of me
all stuffed into one singular note

on the green
hole 8, and five over par
southern california sunshine numb
leaning on a putting iron
leaning on a fistful of xanax
i had given up on the game a long time ago
just didn't know it yet
my friend was strung out on speed and coke
"breakfast of champions", he said
he had been aimlessly whacking the ball for the last hour
"fifty bucks to whoever hits Brian Wilson" he suddenly yelled!
sure enough, there was Brian Wilson,
standing by the mexican food-truck,
waiting for a taco or burrito or God knows what
i felt xanax confident
so i walked over and shook his hand
i told him thank you,
and that his music probably saved my life
"probably" he asked?
"yes" i said, and walked away
i told my friend to take some xanax and chill out
"xanax is just xanax spelled backwards" he said
and i could not argue with that
we never finished that round of golf,
but somehow i still feel like i won

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.