Fucked me some

funny

looking

women.

Two boys sitting in a

studio

listening to rap music,

burning nostrils and

blood still fresh in the

bathroom sink.

Drips of perfect

blood on the porcelain,

on the dusty wooden

floor and I swear

I cannot look in the

mirror.

I swell my eyes

at myself,

rationalize

and then

emerge.

One deep muttered breath.

Drysalt jetty rockfeet and

frozen squid thawing in a

tidepool.

Broken pink wampum shells

sharp enough to cut,

fishing poles carried over brown

shoulders and the shadow of

boys carrying an old bucket

with spider web under the lip.

Pink sky,
saltwater,
and
Heat.

A 20 year old

Dirty kid,

With student

Teacher clothes,

Undergrad's books and

Never enough silence.

I waited for

Her.

She never came to

Ask me what I was reading.

Billy came to

Give me whiskey and

Tell me about the horses,

And the old

Cafe des Artistes,

The kitchen behind the wall that

Hadn't been used since he

Lost it all on the

Goddamn

Horses.

She never climbed the

Crooked thin

Staircase to

Ask me,

Honestly,

What I was reading.

It was always

Billy,

And his goddamn

Sad stories about the

Horses,

But he brought me the

Ring-stained

Tray,

And the

Single shot of

Jameson that,

Like butter,

Melted my tongue and

Made me not wonder

So much,

Where she was,

Instead of asking me

What I was

Reading.

If I had had more time,

I would have

had more time.

A dirty

25 year old

Kid.

Still dirty,

Still waiting.

He asked me how to write

So I sat him down,

Told him to look at the paper.  

Think of everything you want

To write.

Think of whatever you think of

Whenever I tell you to think of

Everything you want to write.

Think of women,

First,

And of drinks/drunks,

What seems to deserve to be written.

Think of childhood,

Filth,

Dirt

Blood,

Etc.

All of it.

Think of them.

You are not them,

They are not--

Fill your boxing gloves

With sand.

Canadian Thanksgiving

Its dirty outside and this bed clings like wet grass clippings. The floor is covered in trash and a hand me down ash tray lays face down under the table. The clock is flashing near the window. There's two fingers left in the bottle and we fucked in the alley under Miami. I can't get her out of my head. It was brief. She was screaming and fully clothed, her back pressed against an old brick wall and my teeth sunk deep in her neck. No one came. Neither of us. Her new one, bearing my strange resemblance, was waiting at the bottom of the bar's crooked steps and she calmly readjusted her dress. I gave her five minutes, maybe three, then sauntered upstairs smelling like pussy. My father's leather jacket fit like a glove. I held back a grin and ordered myself a new drink. Here I am.

For My Lovely, Lovely Hilary

My darling friend Hilary actually likes something I wrote, something which I sent her out of pure desperation. Skimming my emails I came across a poem that she'd written, and I felt a strange compulsion, some sort of weird competitive urge to rebut her brilliance. So, here it is, perhaps she will let me post hers? I have yet to ask...
...Whoops! I just realized that, even if she doesn't want it posted, I'm going to post it, because it is lovely. Sorry Hil.

Ode to the Plaid Womb

I'm not getting up.

Try to be supportive.

I will waft up like Doris Day

When I'm so inclined.

Well so what,

I lay down too flat

Too flat too fat

Heavy like cream.

Give me chocolate,

Full mouth sickness,

Body of old milk.

Pour Poor-between-the-sheets.

Great milk lake

Flowing under blankets

Even the cats won't kiss.

Sink down in oil pits

Curdle up.

Try to be supportive.

I will waft up like Doris Day

When I'm so inclined.

Le Mien

The city rooftops pass
along the el train tracks
like afterthoughts,
Denote wealth or
not and sometimes a
man or seagull works
just inches from the passing cars.

The city is still expanding
in the summertime heat
and after
three straight days of rain
the bricks are dry.

Clumsy black fire escapes
cling somehow to exteriors
and the porches will all
someday fall to bits.

Its lovely here in June.


(Note: Chicago truly is lovely in June, despite the oppressive humidity which I can only relate to what I imagine walking through a sponge cake, while baking, is like.)

Ta ta for now!

New tattoos...

So, I have become set on a new idea that I have for tattoos to go on my triceps. On the back of my right arm, an architectural illustration of the Eiffel Tower. On the back of my left arm, an architectural illustration of the Chicago Water Tower. So far, I have this. It seems that no one has done a black and white simple sketch of the Water Tower from the right angle, it's pissing me off, so hence my blog. But, check out the Eiffel Tower sketch. Hurrumph.