Friday, December 21, 2012

i cannot love you

i cannot love you

but I just met you, She said, and i said You do not understand because

i cannot love you.

why not?

it is of up most difficulty to be two
two complete, whole, and opposite people
the vigorous on one side
the downtrodden on the other
and to operate within both
modes of being.

so, i tell You it is
of up most sadness that i
function as two

She did not understand.

i cannot love you, i said and walked away.

Thursday, December 13, 2012

listening to the Dead

there was a time (once) when my lover
my apartment smelled
of cigarettes and vodka. the noisy sounds
of gamblers rung
throughout my desert wasteland and i
rested on my couch, sequestered in my
 listening to the Dead.

now i watch the beginning sunlight
beam tepidly through my window.
my teabag steeps and the reflection on my
taza illudes that the tea is comprised
of brown rice and confetti.

harmonies play on my stereo and i feel Grateful.

Monday, December 3, 2012

I can no longer find solace in You

On those nights, when the storm's a-raging
And the lightning strikes outside my window
I am lonely beyond repair
And I feel nothing but sadness
I can no longer find solace in You.

I find rest, at times, in Otis
and Tea.

My demons keep me company
as do my memories.
There have been many-a lover
and many-a friend
They all leave too soon.
But my Memories!
Such a poor substitution, given
That I can no longer find solace in You.

Oh...Please Forgive my indolence.
I am burdened by pork grease and fatback.
Much too scattered for rhyme schemes and iambic
You find me on my knees, Woman, but I
(definitely can)
No longer find solace in You

Sunday, November 25, 2012

"Simple Man" Plays on the Radio

The drive home. Late.
it is night. Dark.
"Simple Man" plays on the radio and a
solo tear falls.
It contains enough water to fill the streets
as if they are basins
and suddenly, I am rowing my canoe down
the Mississippi River
looking for you
screaming in anguish
Je suis désolé
Me disculpe
Mi dispiace
Mihi dolet
I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry. 

Sunday, November 18, 2012

If Only You Could See Me Now

If You Could See Me Now, Darling,
You would see me
sober yet only mildly alert.
My cigarettes merely guard
the gates of insanity
and I drink tea (not coffee)
to temper the anxiety.

Not a day or a kiss or a lifetime goes by
without me staving off your ethereal
temptation with all the might I hardly muster

Sometimes I sleep all day only to dream
of you.
Sometimes I stay awake
only to avoid those dreams.

If Only You Could See Me Now, Darling
If Only You Could See Me Now.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

If I could choose my eyes today

If I could choose my eyes today
I'd choose crime noir pastiche
and stand outside seedy nightclubs with
one foot on the wall as I
smoke a cigarette (indicating
I Don't Care).

If I could choose my profession today
I'd choose medieval bard
and wander the country side carrying
my guitar and playing (music
Only For Strangers).

If I could choose my god today
I'd choose Hades
lord of the underworld, hoping
he'd banish me to (Tartarus
For The Solitude).

Friday, October 19, 2012

Paco's Apology

I apologize
to all the women who
(over the years)
have born the brunt of my insanity.
Merely because you kissed and held me
I thought you could cure me.
I guess misogyny runs deep
and violence erupts in more ways
than physical.

With this apology
I fade into the sunset
(free, free, free)

Saturday, October 13, 2012

On rare occasions, when I write

On rare occasions, when I write
I find that I write words of massive importance
(and often show those words to nobody
but myself
after I write them)
then I can't sleep
I have trouble eating
and I slouch on the couch
for hours
in fear
because I know
that my future has been altered

Monday, October 8, 2012

There are beautiful moments in life...

There are beautiful moments in life
born out of pain and trauma
that forever distinguish one's lives
as a before and an after
which then presents a new set of problems
which entails those who only understand
the before.

This creates fear and hope for the future
because you never will be what you were
and you are not what you will be
and yet days ago seem like lifetimes
(that is, if you live it right)

Perhaps Cormac is correct
all writing should be about
life and death
and one should never use a semicolon;

Therefore all the psychological babble bleeds
into those beautiful moments
where you hope to leave goodness in your trail
but goodness is impossible without destruction.

But I, Paco, promise you this:
to always look forward
and yet be present
and to learn how to love
by first and foremost
allowing myself to be loved
and to take a breath every once in awhile
and smile.

Monday, October 1, 2012

She asked me what coffee I wanted...

She asked me what coffee I wanted.
I told her she was the first human I'd talked to
in one and a half days.
I said I'd been sleeping and writing (which was true).
She said she wishes she could be a hermit.
I told her that it's not what its cracked up to be.
She said the grass was always greener on the other side.

I wanted to tell her how much I miss my deceased aunt
How I sometimes feel unworthy of love
How, even when I'm doing something right
I feel like I'm doing something wrong

I wanted to say that the worst thing is to live without hope
And how I must always stave off the temptation
of nihilism.

How I could not read Charles Bukowski any more.

Instead, I ordered the French beans
and sat down with my books
(If only they could protect me).

Then old friends remind you who you were, who you are
And who you could be.
Hope, again. Hope, again!

Thursday, September 20, 2012

I know I'm stuck...

I know I'm stuck when
you're mere touch
sends me flying
(and erases all memory)
the accidental brush
of your skin against mine enthralls me
more than one thousand kisses
so give me your hand and
we'll keep each other from drowning.

Monday, September 10, 2012

I hear the rain outside my door.

I hear the rain outside my door. I am writing.
I am listening to piano music I purchased
in South Korea (not too long ago).
I think about you but not you
(You as a metaphor for all the yous)
I think about her and only her
(not as a metaphor)
I think about love and heartbreak
(both inflicted upon and caused by me)
Am I man enough?
I pause my South Korean piano music
and listen to Teddy Pendergrass.
Am I scared to love again?
(A distant voice whispers in my ear:
Take that leap, you fool. Take that leap).

Friday, August 24, 2012

When You Search For Something Unattainable

When you search for something unattainable
sometimes lay awake at night
and listen to sad songs

although you are not sad they
at least remind you you're alive.

It is painful to always search for something unattainable
Believe me, you know.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Part 1-Drunk

I was the most charismatic 
of all the drunks
The best kisser
after a toke
the best lover
when we tripped

I was your husband
for a night
and one-night-stand
for a lifetime
the best man you ever had
for an hour or so

I was Don Juan
for a week
and Chupacabra
for the next
an idiot savant
from April until May

I was your soul mate
for a day
and your regret
for many more
A memory
for a century

I was the magnum opus
That you hide
Your frown
in distress
your hope
in your old age

I was that cigarette
That finally killed you
That poem
You never wrote
That movie
You never finished

But most of all
(and this is the most important)
I was the most charismatic
of all the drunks

Friday, August 3, 2012

Love Poem

This disaster is
marked by transition.
(the death angel)
You are still so beautiful
after all these years
Do they not understand love that
exists beyond good and evil?
Have they not cried solitarily
in Giovanni's room?
You no longer have the beauty
of youthful naivety.
(That's the type of beauty which
bores me anymore)
No! You have the beauty of
having lived
Illuminating scar tissue on
your heart of desire.
They don't get it.
They have never loved as I have loved
with winds of fire and
threats of nuclear annihilation.
They have not drunk poison
just to hold a lover's hand.
Let them live their lifeless lives.
I will continue my exploration
with whatever the storm may bring.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012


Arizona holds hellish memories of scornful lovers. Rock and Roll clubs, although they no longer stink of cigarette smoke (with the fascists and all), remind me of the search for a redemption that never came. Churches, too, with their shiny statues. Your architecture means nothing to me now. It is as useless as dying cacti. Time to take myself to the river, where my dreams flow freely, because they are withering under this desert sun.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

The Creeping Eyes of Azrael

I notice the creeping eyes of Azrael lurking behind me, beaming briefly among the darkness of alley ways and black crevices, waiting to pounce. He is angry. He once felt so privileged as I chased him until that day, standing side by side, he opened his arms for an embrace and I (in haste) refused his comfort, his friendship. I bypassed him and he has followed me since. I sometimes feel him slither into bed with me, only to renege upon hearing my shouts and screams BASTARD BASTARD BASTARD. And yet he rarely approaches me any more. I usually ignore him, sobbing, weeping, begging for my embrace. No! But On Occasion I notice the creeping eyes of Azrael lurking behind me.

Saturday, June 30, 2012

It Turns Out That Honey Whiskey.

It turns out that Honey Whiskey (and conversation), mixed with copious amounts of espresso (mangoes and strawberries, too), cigarillos and blues, create the appropriate mixture for dreary-eyed, late night investigations. I call them mind expansions, so open your mind, expansions. Burn the morning crazy, hour by hour, fill yourself with the sickness and watch that evil sun rise. Know! You have conquered the world!

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Yesterday was the anniversary of tomorrow

Yesterday was the anniversary of tomorrow was the hope of yesteryear. Today is when I think of you thinking of me nine years ago and one day into eternity. I would never be awake this early in the future of my past but I am, oddly, considering that you (a woman) are a ghost (a lady) are a horizon (a human). Sometimes my dreams make me question my reality makes me question my sanity. But truly, my problems are petty compared to last month five thousand and thirty-two half-years into the future and nine years and one day since nine years and one day ago; on the precipice of another love failure, you make me smile (or at least your ghost, your horizon).

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

This Lame Paranoia...

This lame paranoia made me surprised this herb is illegal in Louisiana. Of all places, Louisiana! Well, I still listen to my music loud and sometimes I search for your smell on my linen, but I don't crave it. (My bad trip taught me to smell another). I taught a young Padawan about heartbreak today. That's how life is sometimes...lame paranoia, bad trips, lost smells, and heartbreak. Smile. The music is still fucking loud.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

When the Chihuahuas Out Drink You

When the Chihuahuas out drink you (and then nip at your heels), then you know it is too much...Patron...tobacco...sleep and you lay your head on the table as the world spins then you puke (puke?) all conflict in to the ether world, pouring your brains for this misanthrope Chihuahua (who talks back, that fucking bastard) and says, "Beware of the pregnant woman. She wants your cock." Ah, thank you, Mr. Chihuahua, what a wise Chihuahua, then he and his friends nip at your heels and you think, By God! He's Fucking Right! Beware of the pregnant woman (she wants your cock), get some sleep (Goddammit!), stop this world from spinning, take a breath, calm down, play some music, love someone...this is what you learn when the Chihuahuas out drink you.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Not Having a Personal Assistant

Not having a personal assistant, privy to my every whim, is a good thing because otherwise, without time to process my thoughts, every stupid idea would be a wish automatically fulfilled. You would then see me strung out in a gutter, fetal position, talking to non-existent chipmunks and inventing new languages. Or naked in the alps, rolling in mud, falling in love with bears. Or tied to an extended diamond cross while an elderly woman whips me and spits in my face. Yes, it is a good thing I do not have a personal assistant because, if I did, instead of writing this, I'd be summoning my old self from that welcomed grave.

Saturday, May 12, 2012

My Car Smelled of Cigarettes and Vomit

My car smelled of cigarettes and vomit so I bought a liquid air freshener but the stench was too strong (and the freshener melted onto my dashboard) and now my car smells of "crescent wind" (or whatever the hell that stupid air freshener was called). Failure. Upon entering my car, therefore encountering that awful smell, I thought that I should've learned to play bass and joined a Punk band and traveled the world singing songs about being a queer anarchist. I would fall in love with a Heroin Hot Heroine and we would Fight all Social Norms and get high until we die, simmering stars into the "crescent wind" (or whatever the hell that stupid air freshener was called) but instead I am cleaning liquid goo off of my dashboard wishing that my car merely smelled of cigarettes and vomit.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Terror in Her Eyes

Terror in her eyes, she told government ("el gobierno") killed people ("asesinaron gente") and she does not know ("y no conozco") where the dead bodies are ("donde esta los cuerpos"). I knew this. I had read this. I was at once (oh conceited me) proud that I could understand her (my Spanish is improving) but then I saw the her eyes. "Es terrible," I said, and she agreed. "Pinochet...terrible."

Later, as I lay in bed, I could not sleep. Am I so nihilistic to believe that those killed (disappeared) individuals, nameless now, never existing, are lost to the entrails of destruction. Kundera would certainly say that they were wiped out (or the memory of them was) but that the trauma is still present. The dead live forever in trauma. Such a concept is troubling--that one's eternity is captured in trauma. Such a concept makes me feel unlucky to have been born.

Monday, April 23, 2012

Birthday Reflection

Birthday Reflection

Woman, why don't we dissipate into the cosmic light or resurrect ourselves from this lowly death and give life to our veins because that is the jolt. (jolt?) jolt! I receive from the mere brush of the hem of your shirt against my naked arm (tingle tingle) chicken skins and goosebumps and flying high because, Woman, despite the archives of my mind, I am here forever, eternal, with my past to the daemons and my future to the gods but my present to you, Mama, and I'm Ready to Love.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

Dead By Twenty-Seven

Dead by twenty-seven was the the goal I had set as she (platonic, in both ways) told me that I'd been drinking too much, smoking too much, fucking around (but not in those words)...too...much. I said that I preferred burning brightly then fizzling into the lost entrails of mimetic archaeology, meaningless and disappeared, no longer a burden. She said nothing but she stayed (which is all that she could do); little did she know I was teetering on the brink of insanity, an abyss I finally fell into, a powerful blip in my own archaeology.

It is one week before my twenty-seventh birthday. I've been beaten and bruised, scarred and weakened....Yet! As the driver was not looking and the car jolted forward, I--the foot soldier--jumped to avoid it. Dead by twenty-seven was the goal I had set and yet (and yet and yet) I'm still standing, GODDAMMIT, and I want to live.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

Falling Out of Love

Falling out of love can be as satisfying as falling into it. Losing love--that is painful.  But falling out...yes...yes...very pleasurable. But nothing beats falling out of love and into love at the same time. Yes. That is the best. Such is the interplay between the past and the present, nostalgia and newness. So fall out of love and into love and remember that without the losing of love you could do neither one.

Friday, April 6, 2012

A Sonata

A Sonata

Sometimes, when the window is open, I close my eyes and pretend the urban cars (as they whiz by...zoom...zoom) are waves that I hear as I sleep in the sand while a cool breeze blows against my naked chest because (and for no other reason than) that is the sound that I saw in your eyes so long ago. It reminds me that Love (whatever that is) once existed.

The first movement of a sonata is fast and exciting, but will leave you unfulfilled. Then the second movement is harrowing....slow and depressing...when the audience becomes disdainful and violent because they are filled with Hate--death, sickness, and heartbreak--and you beckon, Please, Please, let me return to the first movement, when my soul rested in her beach eyes. Hell is a never-ending second movement, where Love's variation is only melancholy, misanthropy, despair.

The reason the first movement leaves you unfulfilled is because this theme (Love) is delusional without the second variation! Hence the triumphant return of this theme, with a resolved variation that (for those who did not kill themselves during that devil middle) feels whole, complete, forgiven. It is only at the end of the third and final movement that those still-breathing individuals understand and appreciate the second movement so they stand to cheer and applaud, screaming, My Soul Rests, My Soul Rests, and the sight of the sound of ocean waves in your eyes becomes a fading memory against the sight of the sound of ocean waves that I experience presently as the orchestra hits its destined note. Finale.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

I Write About Dissatisfaction

I write about dissatisfaction. So what is there to write when your eyes (eyes eyes) keep me satisfied for hours. I write about anger. So what is there to write when your smile (smile smile) shines through the darkness. I write about loneliness. So what is there to write when your words (words words) give me companionship. I write about tension. So what is there to write when you (you you) calm me. I write about tragedy. So what is there to write when your presence (presence presence) makes me hopeful. I write about hatred. So what is there to say when your soul (soul soul) only loves. That is when I write about joy.

Friday, March 30, 2012

I Did Not Know, Driving Those Dusty Tucson Streets

I did not know, driving down those dusty Tucson streets, that this would be the second to last time that I saw my friend (and the last time that I actually liked him). Irish music played from my car stereo and my windows were open. There was a sadness about it...a sadness that I didn't understand, and one that I still cannot articulate. The sadness of a nostalgia for what never was.

I feel the same sadness about you. Sometimes accepting and letting go can be as hard as losing a friend on dusty Tucson streets. Our breathing days are limited and it seems like such a waste to spend them sad or hurt or angry or lonely, and yet we have no choice sometimes. Such fate is cruel and unwarranted!

I still drive those dusty Tucson streets in my head but, by god, if they weren't just a little bit easier with some companionship.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

These Are the First Words I Have Written All Day

These are the first words I have written all day: Me and her used to drink Jack Daniels all night and laugh until our sides hurt but she doesn't (and I do not) speak to me (her) any more, unfortunately, I heard about a suicide and became sad. I read a great poem and a mediocre book and talked with a woman about passive aggressive guilt transference and looked into a Nietzschean abyss and went to the gym and fantasized about making love to you and banged my head against the wall and danced and sang 2Pac (naked) and fantasized about making love with someone else (who I have actually made love with) and stood on one foot and screamed at the top of my lungs and poured a glass of wine and now I am alone in my room and I don't understand where this fear in me and you comes from (but I wish you were here) and I knew I had to write. These are the first words I have written all day.

Saturday, March 24, 2012

She Told Me of My Meanness On a Korean Street

She told me of my meanness on a Korean Street. My friend, that is! Years earlier, in a British glow, a lover warmed up to me on account of that meanness; she called it "confidence." But, rather, that eventually did not make any difference among the cursing and the anger. I am not a violent anything but words. And as I shrugged off my friend on that Korean street I...knew she was correct.

What to do when that which people find most charismatic is also that which is most detestable? Who am I to be a philosopher? Then again, who the fuck are bin of perfection? Because you don't know shit! He who loves little has little forgiven, right? Well you better start sinning if you want to learn to love.

Where is my head? This will mean nothing to my friend or lover, except, to say, that you mean the world to me and therefore I humbly plead to the universe...I'm sorry...(and will I ever resolve this undying tension?)

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Perhaps That's What He Meant by Preachin' the Blues

Perhaps that's what he meant by Preachin' the Blues.

Temporary happiness offered by a beautiful woman in a parking lot as the music blared and the smell of night was repugnant, attractive. I've been in this situation before, I thought, and I began to inhale that temporary happiness (and it felt great) but then I remembered: I've been in this situation before. My Lord, she was beautiful (or at least beautiful to that moment) but when you shake hands with the Devil (remember) the Devil shakes back, God-dammit. So I knew loneliness was inevitable but, when  Good and Evil failed me, like Love and Lust, Hugs and Drugs, I realized that my permanent happiness begins (and continues) with me walking away.

Perhaps that's what he meant by Preachin' the Blues.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

I Swore I Would Never Smoke CIgarettes Again

I swore I would never smoke cigarettes again.

Although a half-pack sits on my desk, staring at me amidst the melodies. Because feeling like I am killing myself (without killing myself) reminds me, as I encounter mourning, that I am alive. And, yet, the tobacco stimulates my mind (and nerves) and helps me...think...why is death so sad? Surely, you will be missed. And I understand it was your time. But maybe it ultimately reminds me of my own mortality. The fear (oh no!) of regrets, of dying alone, or, even worse, living alone or, even worse again, living alone with someone else.

Boy, life is complicated! If I was younger, I would've talked to you about it. We'd laugh and drink coffee and eat donuts until I fell asleep. Anyway, goodnight, for now. I take comfort in my melodies and cigarettes, which I swore I would never smoke again.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

When the Demons Rouse You From Your Slumber

When the demons rouse you from your slumber...

Greet 'em, meet 'em, say "Hello...Hop in bed, my lovers" and they sure will. Cuddle and snuggle, butterfly kiss, rub your noses, lock lips, when the demons rouse you from your slumber. Be kind, be true, intimate too...and when you let them down, softly, sweetly, with tenderness...tell them the news. When the demons rouse you from your slumber, it will be hell if you say no (believe me I know) and confusion if you say yes (believe me, I'm an expert) but if you say "Hello...Hop in bed, my lovers" and then let them down slowly, they will go away, only to return another day, but now you know what to say when the demons rouse you from your slumber.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Welcome to the FREAK SHOW, Humanity!

Welcome to the FREAK SHOW, Humanity!

Danger, Danger, pain infliction! Swallowing swords and Vampire erections (I think I recognize that vampire, and her erection)! That is the FREAK SHOW where sharp objects make you Feeeeeeeeeel because (this is what the FREAK SHOW gives us) Feeeeeeeeling pain is better than Not Feeling. (Ain't that right, Boy of boredom, grocery peon).

The best part about pain is the release. Release. Release. Let go of the Lease! A Large Woman who sings Erotic Poetry and Old Men reminisce about acid trips and outdoor sexcapades (this is what I envision at the FREAK SHOW) Hard, fat thighs wrapped around my face and she Screeeeeams in undulation (orgasmic undulation) she says, Welcome to the FREAK SHOW, Humanity! Welcome to the FREAK SHOW!

Thursday, March 8, 2012

I Hate Kitsch!

I Hate Kitsch!

Especially the political or charitable kind that tugs at your heartstrings (I say your heartstrings because mine don't exist anymore) asking you to take pity on hopeless souls (as if whoever receives the charity are savages) and the romantic kind where you describe yourself as Fun-Loving or Laid-Back And Sunny as if I would expect you to Hate fun and be difficult to deal with but I especially Hate the Socially Normative Kitsch where you lie about your feelings or who you are or any of that other feces because Kitsch is the Opposite of Real and if there is one thing I expect from You it is Reality!

So take your Carpe Diem and Live Each Day As If It Is Your Last and I'm Just A Hopeless Romantic and tell me something I can Grasp because (if I am being honest with you) I Hate Kitsch!

Monday, March 5, 2012

There Are Two Sides to Life

There are two sides to life...

One is brilliant, where you do brilliant things, and have brilliant moments with other brilliant people. You make love and it works out or you feel invincible or free or joyful.

The other is terrible, where you do terrible things, and have terrible moments with other terrible people. You lose love and it does not work out or you feel vulnerable or enslaved or sad.

And every day we walk on a tightrope unsure which side we will fall on, never really making it across.

I Wish I Would've Known

I wish I would've known...
how many mistakes I would make, and that it is ok. I hope that you...
don't remember my mistakes, for I hurt myself more than anyone else. I reached out because...
something stuck in my mind regarding how you received me faults. I know you have faults too...
so be compassionate and understand. I am not...
my past, or the same person I was. So please don't judge me...
by the person I was but by who I became. This whole process...
would've been easier had I known. I wish I would've known...
but I didn't so give me another chance?

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Instead of Doing Something Productive

Instead of doing something productive...

 I drank and laughed and ate and flirted and smiled and slammed my fist on the table in defiance and told dirty jokes and spent way too much money and remembered the days when me and her (who now lives elsewhere) used to, instead of doing something productive, drink and laugh and eat and flirt and smile and slam our firsts on the table in defiance and tell dirty jokes and spend way too much money. Not the same without you, Honey, but sure as Hell wouldn't be the same if you came back.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

This Is A True Story...

This is a true story...

I woke up with the Darkness. Her espresso kept me inspired, and I recognized in His eyes my own Sadness. I wanted to wrestle Him to the ground, Jiu Jitsu Maniac, and shake it out. Leave, Devil, Leave! Sparks of creativity blinded my senses and I made up for wrongdoings by good-doings (please Forgive Me, Woman with Blue Hair).

A Red-Headed Woman blessed my Unity/Love Irish pendant and I could feel her Goddess power strengthen my Vertebral Column. I felt like a Sheik! Lightning Bolts of Power and Inspiration. Blah, says the Cynic. Blah, says the Misanthrope. Rejoice, Rejoice, I am told by the Red-Headed Woman, for You are Cu Chulainn, Stagger Lee!

I woke up with the Darkness and now I rest in Light.

Sunday, February 26, 2012

What have I found here?

What have I found here, hidden, under this rock in the middle of a meadow? I was lost, and could not find my way...and I wandered. I wandered a lot. I met a woman once and she wandered with me and since she left (or was it I who left her?) I wandered ever since. I met many people wandering, and we would sometimes get to know each other well. Perhaps upwards toward ninety-eight percent of them are off wandering somewhere else, and, in many ways, they made the journey worthwhile. But at the same time, each person I met led me to wander elsewhere, and soon I lost my way, in the brush and the confusion and darkness and all, and my flashlight ran out of batteries. I found another flashlight soon after and I looked for all those people I had met but they were gone and I was alone. Alone. Alone. With only a flashlight, and that's when I realized I was lost.

Was this the meadow in which Rafaella and I lay arm in arm and I spoke to her in Italian? No, because when I wandered with Rafaella, I woke up in solitude. No, this is not that meadow.

I do not recognize that rock. It is true! So I lifted it up and what did I find underneath? What was hidden under that rock that my wandering led me too? It was beautiful and frightful at the same time. No doubt! I lifted up that rock and I saw it.

Life! Life! Life! I tell you!

And suddenly I was on a path that, although unfamiliar, I knew well.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Ain't nothin like...

Ain't nothin like...

speedin down the highway (100 mph +) blastin screechin guitar solos and yelpin at the top of your lungs a woman who makes you want to be a better man (change the genders appropriately) lookin upward and feelin like you belong the universe teachin you a lesson, Son!

what should you take away? Drive fast, love slow, drink just enough alcohol (but not too much), make instant coffee, listen to loud music, don't worry, poop daily, and write, dammit, write!

Ain't nothin like...

Friday, February 17, 2012

The Demon is Content

Thoughts, as they are, become too intense in solitude. This is the enemy of the self, writhing, screaming, curdling with fear...that which precedes and follows moments of inspiration, creativity, joy. But what is joy but that fleeting moment, which I struggle to retain, where everything is right...if only for an instance. And when these thoughts, reaching for joy, become too intense, then the intensity becomes too thoughtful and one is caught in a vacuous space, floating, aimlessly. Nihilistic. Like a sycophant, and you feel the demon tearing through. You cannot let him out. You cannot let him free!

In these moments, the demon must be distracted, so as to curtail his destruction. Distracted by fermented drinks and loud music, music reminding me of my youth, just four young men--punk rockers if I ever saw them--with nothing to lose and middle fingers and screams. At least somebody is still being obnoxious for the sake of it. Scream, brother, scream! Mosh and hit and let the violence escape, far, far, away (only for a night, Persephone, only for a night) and the demon is content with the loudness and the beer and the women that no longer plague my fantasies. Time to return home. Time to write.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Mikey's Wake

"riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus or recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs...A way a lone a last a loved a long the." Finnegans Wake. James Joyce.

The story of a man arising from his funeral wake. Tim Finnegan, to be precise. A fight breaks out, a corpse exposed, the whiskey is poured over Finnegan's abode, and like a flash...he becomes. "Tim revives, see how he rises..." sing the Irish...the whole island, I mean! Phoey, I thought at first, but Wait! Stop! Might it be true that a person can rise such as Finnegan!

But I do! I do! Everyday! Sleep is but death and I arise to encounter that which impending wake...the continual wake until I wake no more, for I sludge and I drudge and I toil 'till I sleep (forever).

This is my wake! This is my wake! Nice of you to attend, now please pour me a drink! Whiskey, yes (thank you!). This is my wake!