A brief spike in traffic

For 3 days running I had over 100 views to the site, akin to a miracle.  I’m not that interesting, so it must’ve all been for recent Jeopardy! contestant Rachel Lindgren.

It’s my duty to warn you thirsty nerds AGAIN that smart women are not a solution to anything and being a sapiosexual is a road to nowhere.  If she’s smart while you’re enamored (subtract 25 IQ points for each boob and asscheek) you’re in QUADRUPLE the danger of being manipulated.  Not that I overly give a shit what happens to you, you’re probably better off than me.

I believe this blog is now 10 or 11 years old, which means little because I rarely posted after 2009, was it?  It has brought me neither joy nor grief, certainly no money or gavina.  I don’t read my own shit so I’ve forgotten most of it, except to remember impassioned movie reviews about Batman (pointless) or politics (far more pointless) and cussing out my wage slave job while doing nothing to improve my lot in life.

Two things happened in the last 5 years which changed the entire arc of my  inclinations, I got out of the shit job and I “discovered” whores.  Also, my father died  at 73 of natural causes, if you count lung cancer as natural.

The whores saved my life.  Once I was getting laid fairly regularly all the Mysteries of Womanhood evaporated, which was bittersweet, but poetry is either written out of your system or it burns you from the inside out like drinking bleach.  Poetry IS drinking bleach, usually for the reader. 

The women’s humanity made me less of a misogynist, and it even seemed a few of them enjoyed the ride beyond getting paid.  (I haven’t been laid in over a year due to health problems so that’s on pause.)

I’m closer to 50 than 40 now.  I’m not better than I was in 2006, but like to think I’ve learned much the last 10 or 11 years.  I wouldn’t trade my scant “life’s work” of writing for falling in love.   

Here are the final lines from a long ago poem.

I know it’s coming, death or a balloon.

The slitted eyes of a petted cat.

“when it goes to shit”

 

when it goes to shit
you will feel the teeth in each drop of rain
you will see steel shine
as bones filled with blood
break against it,
you will see a flower killed in battle, now floating down the gutter
toward the sewers.

you will think of her and put meat in her memory
but your hand will pass right through her.

you will never keep a movie stub again.

you will look in the mirror and wish for something else
you will see rain in the small frosted window above;
pattering paws
on cold glass
and think, ‘that has nothing to do with me.’

you will quietly put the lesson away
as a wrinkle, scar or gray hair.

you will never keep a movie stub again.

“dead threats or heart splinters”

sad dogs with tennis ball jaws
popsicle sticks in the trash
ants crawling over anything

the deflated Milk Dud with no malt center
overdue library books
trash bags that don’t fit the cans

clouds that don’t move
the last note of a too-long song
pissing on road trips

green potato chips
broken vitamins
stares from slow children

fat girls wearing belly shirts
abandoned nests
slingshots missing an arm

gagging spoons of cough syrup
world war 2 footage
smiling clowns twisting balloons

sweat under a necklace
mud on the treads of tanks
jammed photocopiers

bad sax solos (all of them)
political advertisements
helmets on riders dead anyway

sticky pennies good for nothing
steaming radiators
mirrorshades on dickhead cops

bones on the ground
sad Indians looking sad for Nature
spent ammunition

hurricane tracking
foreign flags
contracts signed or unsigned

dirty bathtubs
alarm clocks
final notices

flaming arrows
forced smiles
words abandoned

done.

04 Aug 06

“stars”

Never a big drinker,
that night I drank 4 shots
of vodka in 3 minutes.

I wanted to kill the woman I loved.

I walked slowly out of the bar
into black Alaskan night.

My boots crunched lovingly,
the air was crisp and clean.

Stars and light of stars,
you’ve never seen so many
in a single sky
in a single lifetime
it was like a full cereal box
of stars
had been torn apart
so that even the powdered stars
at the bottom had spilled everywhere,
a precise mess so beautiful
my tears dragged to the ground.

I wanted to kill the woman I was in love with,
the one inside my head,
so much better than the real one
with someone else.

I really wanted to cry but the sobs didn’t happen. Nothing did.

The military ship waited
at the miltary dock
like a Christmas dagger.

I rejoined the human disaster
on board.

13 Apr 06 

“poetry forever”

I remember the moment
I gave up
poetry forever.

Clicking through the
latest online issue
of a ‘zine,
looking for
my submission
like anyone seeks
their own face
first
in a group photo,
I stumbled across a poem
I’d written
that I didn’t remember writing.

It was clever, edgy, spritely, etc., dancing like a weapon-y
ballerina
sober on sunlight and pink socks.

I loved it
like anyone loves
their own kid
most
in a school play,
except
my poem was over there
and the one I thought I’d written was written by
someone else.

I didn’t need a DNA test to know
my words were
nothing
if some random asshole could Xerox
“my” madness
“my” fingerprints
“my” unique turds
so much
I thought they were mine.

So I walked away from
poetry forever,
it was easy,
I didn’t love anyone
and still don’t.

The gods had found a replacement
for a replacement
and now that that was settled
I could concentrate on my first love:
jerking off.

Trouble is, between poetry
and
jerking off

no one can tell the difference.

Which is fine,
there’s no money
in either.

 14 Jun 06 

 

Poem written in ’07, just as true today

The heart is a retard
on the short bus
with no helmet or pads,
whacking its skull on the glass
for sheer joy.

The heart is a retard
a pin cushion for bent arrows
halos of barbed wire
hair of flames
and blood-dipped cursive names.

The heart is a retard
now and forever
eating sunbeams and shitting rainbows
shedding glitter dandruff
off construction paper
monstrosities
taped to the fridge.

The heart is a retard
and there’s no special class or program to help,
there is nothing to do.
It’s simple like sand
that cuts like glass.

The heart is a retard and
this poem is drool
from its mouth,
grinning like fishhooks,
staring at butterflies with
diamonds for wings

retarded.

bloodwords: We will not be undersold!

The bum on the corner holds his sign: ANY AMOUNT WELCOME GOD BLESS. Whether he’s scamming or not he’s superior, he can toss away self-respect or dignity long enough to collect coin, and everything he makes he keeps, no tax. What good is self-respect if it doesn’t pay off?

*******

Welcome to The world’s shortest love story! I found a matchbook in the street. I ignored all of the matches still intact, noticing only the space where one had been ripped out and used. That was the match I wanted.

*******

Kayaking. Why?

*******

Frisbee on the roof, neon orange plastic bleached white by the sun. What does this have to do with winter? It’s over.

*******

Giant tortoises never write books, or maybe they do, they just procrastinate the first 100 years.

*******

Why are you surprised by problems? So much of our economy is based on people that never learn.

*******

I read the obituaries, aka People You Will Never Meet. It’s the only part of the paper promising an end to suffering.

*******

Only very still fish prefer to swim in formaldehyde.

*******

I can’t cry.

poetry cornered: “At the strip club”

Tits, asses, elbows, necks.

Women are women.

I’ve got nothing more to say
to any of them, while they have never had
anything to say
at all.

Dance around the pole, Lucite high-heels kicking through a litter of dollars.

Fat Asian loser, Fat Indian loser, Fat White crewcut loser. Bashful smiles of nerd losers, blushing redder than the hideous lights.

The vagina always looks like something half-finished and who’s to blame for that? The gaping asshole nearby.

I wonder what they clean it with.

(The pole, not the hole).

Stripper Windex?

I try to smell women over the music. Nothing.

Their skin is so smooth,
like wetsuits without zippers.

Red lights, blue lights, yellow lights, green lights, the music one big thumping seizure. Why has no one ever killed the DJ?

Too many tattoos, too many hair extensions, too many hard drugs, too many one-year-olds at home.

Souls like pancakes soaked in ketchup.

Take the fucking dollar
and get lost.

Struggling for second place

“I have found God, and he is insufficient.” -Henry Miller

Henry, I feel the same way. Earth is just a giant waiting room and I’d feel better as a ball of energy than a meatsack human being. This body is nothing but trouble, a festering cesspool for the ego to roll around in.

The mind is a crumpled paper airplane in a hurricane, but the ego thinks it’s a fighter jet.  The capacity for self-delusion is bottomless.  The mind is its own worst enemy; why it throws fear at itself I understand, it’s a survival mechanism. But why does the mind attack itself with doubt?

Life was brutal for the caveman but far simpler: at any given moment he was either alive and afraid or unaware and eaten. Attempts at poetry or deep thought were ended by saber-toothed tigers.  Now there’s nothing to stop bad poetry.

Sorry God, but I’m ready to go back. I won’t learn anything else here, life is all reruns now. I’m too lazy to meditate, I’d rather sleep.

I’m having trouble remembering why I didn’t commit to suicide when I was an atheist.  If it was all meaningless, why didn’t I end it?  The Satanist proclaims pleasure the greatest virtue.  I couldn’t extract pleasure out of anything except being an observer and surfing over others’ hypocrisy.  Obviously I survived.  But lived?

I was alone then, before then, and now.

My pal Hal swears if he won the lottery he’d build an underground house and never leave it.  Everything would be ordered and brought to his door.  I don’t blame him.  “Hell is other people,” is the greatest line ever written.  Everyone else with a pen or keyboard only struggles for second place while the moon shits cold fire and the women sleep with other men.

“smartening up”

Why are clocks so fat? They always have seconds!

The joke bombs.

She smiles wanly, which means
not at all.

Day two after we
fucked
for the first time and she acts like

I farted in her face.

I did no such thing.

An egg of sunlight sliced
by the dusty blinds
falls around the room.

There’s an old poster of Prince on her wall.

The Purple Faggot didn’t get this pussy, I did.

But now it’s over. Maybe she faked it, faked all of it.

Who cares. It’s over. I learned nothing new cause I already
knew it.