Here's my new project!

something broke my skull open

and ripped out from the mess

an important part of my brain

letting loose a storm of images and words

never clotting.

now i need a tourniquet

something to stop all of my thoughts

and all of my ideas from pouring out

flowing all at once from the wound

fresh warm gushings of passion squirting

like an overexcited libertine at an orgy.

everything going full on all at once

can't get a clear thought written down

i stare blankly at the empty page

it stares back at me cold and piercing

reflecting back at me the dreary image

of what i think i've become.

in conversation it's no better

i scramble and stutter and pause and rewind

try to find the perfect words




for fear that the slightest mistake

will awkwardly drive the company away

and leave me kicking myself in the head.

An Argument in Favor of Being Static

in bed looking at the ceiling
neck of a bottle in my hand
hanging from my outstretched arm
it's two a.m. and i'm lethargic
drunk again and exhausted
but it'll be eons before i'm tired enough to sleep

the screams from the ground floor
tear through paper-thin walls.
i slam the door and turn up the volume
tiny speakers provide no relief
something's itching in my brain
i need a new frontier to heal my eyes

i take a swig and grab my keys
dodge the conflagration of conversation
waiting to consume my flesh in the living room
and storm out the back door in a sweat
my car parked at the end of the lawn
waiting for me to turn her on

and maybe she gets bad mileage
but she solves the one problem i have
of being stuck in the one place
i swore to myself i'd escape from
a decade ago in a swampy playground
outside of my elementary school

i roll a thing of circumstances
and smoke it on the back roads
on the way to anywhere but here
cars pass me by, passing glances
"who's this wing nut hipster-goon?
get out of my way before i mow you down!"

so i turn off my headlights
and zoom across three lanes of traffic
trying to prove a point.and that point is this.
i wanna be in your way. i want to fuck with your head.
i wanna go down in a blaze of cheap scotch and gasoline
i want my tox screen and my autopsy to be anything but clean.

so maybe someday i will, but today i think
i'll just sit at my desk and write another song
because if it all plays out the way i've been planning
i won't be sitting at this desk for long.

a bit o' jazz poetry

Bombs!
          Drop!
Snare head scrapes between
the shimmering tone of the ride.

Cutting!
Flowing.
Agitating the horns.
Inspiring the fingers that thump on the keys
of a mighty old grand at the left of the stage.

Thump!
           Drop!
Wood tips swell and roll on the canvas.

"Oop bop sh'bam!" They call all around.
"Pick up the horn and take it to town!"
Stick clicks hit til the music hits the bricks.

The horn invades, penetrates, impregnates,
then smooths it out, curing all ills with a velvet cry.
Hot blues boil into cool refrains.
Happy, swingin', sad, draggin'.

Trumpeter surpassed by none takes the spotlight.
A golden, resonant tone soars away.
"Bopweedoop beep bop skidoom bow!"
The upright string man shouts out loud.

The drummer chimes in with a "Skadoop bah!"
And the whole band blows for the roaring crowd.


Lay it down, smooth it out.
Bring it back up, let the trumpet shout!

"Bring it on home, take it to town!"
This is the way the music goes down.

The wet, hot tone of the B-flat horn soared and surged throughout that cramped hole in the wall, drilling through and filling the soul of every man and woman in reach with its sweet, cutting wail. The ride cymbal convulsed and shimmered, agitating and inspiring the gnarled fingers of the upright player to explore even further the capabilities of his instrument. Bass drum bombs and snare drum taps added a thumping, stuttering oom-pah-pah to the syncopated comping of the man behind the ivories, while a dark figure clutching a beat-up tenor sax waited patiently for his chance to blow. Smoke rose from the bandstand and billowed about the room, and those in attendance, rosey-eyed and cloudy, and not one without a hat, puffed their smokes in the direction of the band. Ash trays and well drinks and economy beer dressed the tables at which they sat.
And not a moment too soon, the tenor player blew in, carrying with him the blue spirit and whimsy of the Bird, and the exhausted trumpeter nodded and shook his sweat-drenched head in response, affirming and denying the impeccably logical phrases. The strings of the upright strolled on, and the piano player stood and turned in circles to the rhythm of the walk.
The tenor cut out, and the applause drowned out all four-bars of the drum solo. When it finally died down, the trumpeter took up his horn and the chorus came back with full force. The tenor joined up again for the final bar, and a swelling duet of pulsing piano and drums brought the piece to a slow, ethereal climax. Applause roared as all of the performers stood and took a bow.

so i've been working about forty hours per week, give or take about an hour or so. it's not a rough job. in fact, it's rather simple. spray and wipe down toilets, mop floors, clean mirrors, squeegee the smoking areas. but it's right in there with the filth, which is where i think i need to be to really get my mind bent back into shape. maybe it's all the pot or maybe it was the stress of last semester, or maybe it was all the back-breaking acrobatic sex or the near constant fondling of reptilian hot air balloon-esque mongoloid barbarian genitals...i ramble...but something reached into my head, found the tits of my brain and squeezed them purple, rendering much of my intellect useless (the teets of my brain are where i store my usually somatic wit and charm.)
this job, being down on my knees in the filth is where my mind can ponder things. i'm making quick jokes again and teaching people things about the world and about science and philosophy. the job itself is so easy that it takes up only a sliver of my brain power. all the rest is free to wander and wonder.

i deal with a healthy assortment of perverts and bitches on a daily basis, which is not too far from what i would deal with at any job. the moronic and Sasquatch-like supervisor buffalo stomps about with a permanent scowl and an insatiable appetite for telling people where and when and how to do their jobs.

i walk away every day with a bunch of money in the bank and a piece of my proverbial soul gnashed away by the teeth of the filth-mongering wombat-orphaning bastards in charge. but the important part is the money, so i'm going back to work tomorrow.

i think i'm back

for the first time since new orleans, i'm starting to feel like writing again. i've been working...as a janitor, nonetheless, for a couple of weeks now. sick stuff. drunk hillbillies and their fat, unhealthy offspring have horrible aim. their rank waste however, is not subject to the same treatment as themselves and the other valued guests. i can go up to every piece of shit i see and say, "i hate you!" without fearing punishment, and the shits themselves don't have the necessary biological composition to argue with or annoy me.
on the crowded days i am actually saved from performing the filthy tasks by long lines of valued guests waiting in agony to heir their disgusting grievances with already soiled toilets. no way in fugginell are they going to let me waste their precious time with my foolish notions of cleanliness and sanitation.
on the other hand, there are days where i'm showered with thank yous and smiles from orderly and benevolent humans who wait for me to finish my job, and who always seem to have an idea about what it's like to clean up shit for a living. very few stupid questions. 
on a bad day, when someone asks me if i like my job, i want to look them dead in the eye and say with passionate conviction, "i love it. i fuggin love cleaning up shit. your shit, your kids' shit. everybody's shit. see that guy there? i love cleaning his shit too. it's what gets me up in the morning. i live for it," just to see their reaction. they'd either be confused, disturbed, or deeply amused. and those who would be deeply amused are the people i'd like to hang out with. thankfully, most of the people i work with in housekeeping are those types of people.

so yeah, i guess i like my shitty job. as much as it can offend and sicken me, i seem to work in a small community of people who have the both the same sense of humor about the job as i do, based on the same contempt for the job as i do.

it's going to be a long, gross, summer.