Allan's Psychedelic Breakfast

So it's Official

2006-10-31T09:22:03Z

Happy Halloween!

I spent the first 2 and a half hours or so of Halloween seeing The Rocky Horror Purchase Show after celebrating Skalloween with The Toasters, the Pieaters and Big D and the Kids Table. For some reason Skalloween made me miss the days when many years ago we'd sit on Frankie's stoop with an acoustic guitar and a 40 in the sun playing old punk and ska songs. Those were the days...

Not to be a dick but...

2006-08-02T16:53:45Z

It's August 2nd and i'm leaving on the 26th, i guess consider this somewhat of a last-minute warning to people who have had my book(s) for months that i'm going to need them back by the end of the month, so read up.

And: If you're already done with whatever book(s) you may have borrowed from me, i work 6 days a week from 5pm to anytime between 10:30 and 2, so it would probably be best to get it to me before i go to work, on my day off or just to drop it at my house.

Thanks, and i hope i didn't sound like too much of a dick.

Ignore this

2006-07-21T06:43:28Z

Ah and there they are

those ladylike swarms of microbes swimming

to my belly

Like all the eons of neon encrusted

signposts

for Pottersfield workers

consuming beer and peanuts

and pretending it’s real.

(Garlic burp wipe beer from mouth

blow smoke in air and stare

into candle

now

the idea)

The smoke dances in the air like a lady evaporating in goodness

under the constant hum of stars too crippled to stand.

“Chocolate beer!” she exclaimed

ah, them Germans.

…

(she called)

…

So i was romanticizing my lungcancerjoyhood

and i remembered rolling cigarettes

for a Vietnam vet

who visits me at work maintaining my sanity

like a guardian angel with a rap sheet

apparently he’s killed a few people and studied psychology

I don’t always agree with him but i rarely tell him so

Because he’s got a face like if Hunter Thompson met my Uncle Tito

Wife died during childbirth

Indian blood brother died building white man’s bridge

but the lines on his face are from smiling.

Somehow I love him as he loves me and Christina and says we’ll get married

A great talker

A great rememberer

At age 60 in Coney Island with so many kids

A nameless father

Anyway, cigarette’s done, beer gone

Candle fell and i

need

the bathroom so

poem

done.

5665 @ 2006-07-13T14:57:00

2006-07-13T18:57:28Z

People are always leaving their stuff here; a four dollar thermos and two 100-page writing tablets was today’s unintentional loot. An oversized poorly stuffed rendition of a trademarked superhero was yesterday’s and it’s only Tuesday at the noxious yodeling shooting gallery. I feel like a crook or a rapist with my pen on this paper but worse things will happen at Astroland tonight. The sun just finished going down on Coney Island’s west, lights are blinking on in the low-rent housing projects over the D,N,F&Q lines and the smiles are getting drearier.

“Well sir you put yr fifty cents in the coin slot marked “50 cents” situated next to the rifle of your choice and as both emboldened posted signs will verify, this investment will earn you 25 shots.”

“What I shooting?”

“Any of the glowing red bulls-eye targets of your choice…No sir, you don’t win anything it’s all for the fun of the immobile mechanized hunt… Yes that is real water.”

“Is that water clean?”

“Why, you thirsty?”

“Yes.”

“Well ma’am in spite of its being subject to the ravages of July sun and cyclically flowing into a rancid plastic bucket all day I have yet to feel the urge or temptation to consume this water, if you are interested however I could pour you some, though it would come without my endorsement and only after you’ve signed the proper papers.”

(Repeat every thirty seconds for eight hours while reading Darwin and see how long you can last on $6.75 an hour before drowning yourself in the aforementioned bucket sounds like a viable option.)

The park carries a different aesthetic at night… beggars and drunks… toothless whores and baby carriages… lights fantastically flashing in all directions baring new and twisted white knuckled universes of ways never before imagined to weasel a hard earned dollar.

They come in all colors and sizes from various backgrounds and neighborhoods but all look the same; the human sucker, a unique sub-genus of homosapien wandering where ever he so chooses to wander with arms outstretched, passive fistfuls of dollars and eyes akimbo in the foggy monocle of Americana. Sent drunk in search of some big win on cheap trinket prizes, some used car lot in Denver, some postcarded horizon to ride off into carrying cameras, waving ticket stubs and wearing novelty hats crowned and bejeweled in benightable ineptitude, heinous products of over-comfort in a seminary TV Dinner fantasy land gone wry; the fundamental flaw Darwin never predicted, super-mechanized over-comfortable twits surviving only by sheer mercy or pity, but ever bending to the twisted whim of some sociopathic philanthropist of a higher power. And right now that’s me. Step right up.

5665 @ 2006-06-27T02:14:00

2006-06-27T06:16:13Z

Thelonious Monk –

has entire lost cosmos

dancing in the hallowed valleys of his fingertips

as his keys hammer and enlighten strings

and enliven a turbulent void

filling the smoky roomed emptiness

with the laughter of stray cats

and his fingertips they flick into the dark

where flicked the cigarette butt’s bare backed borne down Broadways of American Subconsciousness

Thelonious Monk I hear the Ghost of America rattling awake

grogging for coffee in some AM/PM/FM wonderment; wheeling down

weird freeways in what pockmarked Universe bares to smile

and be naked.

-6/27/06
Joe Izzo

Anyhoo, i just got a call saying i have a summer job, i just don't know where it is yet, but oh well... go me!

If You're My Math Teacher

2006-06-20T17:30:20Z

Then fuck you in the ear with a sodering iron, you are a vile festering vindictive dingleberry on the ass of an otherwise reasonable person... you are cancer personified.

Good Morning, Good Morning!

2006-06-17T09:39:59Z

Christina's in my basement, (possibly sleeping) coffee is brewing, it's 5:36 and dawn is well underway and we just finished drinking from the night before. We screamed proclemations of inanity from a fenced-off dirt pile on 82nd and shore (baseball fields) wrote haikus, drank more, talked about Kerouac and America and eternity and even though i'm completely over-run with work i have to make up i don't care.

Mom and Dad are sleeping
Freeway
sounds like waves.

anyway, the coffee's brewed now and i'm rejuvinated. Life is great.

Yea... So

2006-05-04T03:16:16Z

If i took you off my friends list, nothing personal, i just don't know how to make entries private to one (or more) person(s) so i took everyone sans that person off my enemies-i mean "friends" list. (i actually did type enemies first, out of force of habit with lists and all...)

Anyway about life, i got the official letter of acceptance from the admittance office at Purchase, i've been sick on so many levels lately and i'm having more trouble with getting a decent night's sleep than i have in a long time...

what else...

i know i'm forgetting something...

CHILI'S BEEN MISSING SINCE SUNDAY!

Yesterday, i was looking for him on 78th between third and fourth because apparently someone called my house saying there are a lot of strays around there, so i went and checked. It was dark out, probably around 10:00 pm, and out of the shadows comes this sickly looking (but still slightly heavy set) tabby of the Chilian persuasion; grey, black, brown, white on the face and trotting up to me with a sense of eagerness, happy yet not completely convinced he should be; much in the manner a used car salesman would approach prospective clientele. So this little grey bastard comes trotting and meowing concealed in darkness all the way up to my feet and i bend down to pick him up, as i do so the little fucker turns around and runs back several feet-frightened. I wonder what the hell is wrong and i realize it's an imposter! Not only an imposter, but an imposter who half leads/half follows me to another god damned imposter. Two fucking tabbies on the same block... if there is a God i seriously would not doubt him actually being on Pat Robertson's side... maybe even backing him for president in 2008-Whenever i die. Bastard.

Although on the plus side, i did find evidence that Chili is okay. Both of the tabbies i met last night were in a pitiful physical state, some cuts, scrapes bruises, small chips taken out of the ears; this can only mean Chili is still out there prowling the streets somewhere showing all the assholes, phonies, imposters, english"men" and surly bastards who's boss; getting drunk with Topcat and giving this life a run for it's money.

And now it's raining... yay...

,<'

2006-03-29T04:06:37Z

So... i just got a letter in the mail saying i passed my audition for the consevatory of music at Purchase. Now i just have to send them some letters of recomendation for the general school dealy and i'll probably be gone in August(?) I don't know, point is - you know i rock.

Oi... now this is going to be my last spring/summer here, i'm going to spend it in a mad rush to graduate - i know i can, i just kinda let a few extra credits pile up not really planning on anything important happening, it's just basically going to mean being entrenched in school work and maybe even summer school. Yea, my last real summer vacation and i get summer school, wheeee.

New point; i'm (probably) going to miss at least one out of every third person who reads this a little, so keep tabs and be flattered.

5665 @ 2006-03-17T16:24:00

2006-03-17T21:26:35Z

Oh how I loathe this holiday. Bounch of WASP-y assholes who stopped giving a shit about the Irish after the railroads were working parading around on TV wearing green and talking nothing.

Good ol' Dubya was on a local news channel for the parade, and talking about how "We respect our Irish brothers and support them in their struggle for freedom and independence." What a crock of shit! The most this country's ever done about Irish freedom or indepence is Ted Kennedy (rightfully) ripping on Thatcher about the criminalization of the IRA and the loss of political prisoner status. And it's kinda funny and sad, that after they show this WASP talking about St Patty's Day and Irish independence, they only MENTION Gerry Adams' name and use Sinn Fein being the political wing of the IRA as a footnote. What a nice little soundbite, and don't all these Protestants look good in green? Being Irish myself, I think I'd give my vote to any upper-class WASP dawns a green tie and stands in front of a camera on St Patrick's Day, wouldn't you?

5665 @ 2006-03-13T00:44:00

2006-03-13T05:44:52Z

It was a fog so thick as memories who watch each other die curl endlessly into half-forgotten bottles of Cognac in the side of the menacing serenity of the tarpaulin trees overcast; cavernous fog. I reach for pack my Lucky Strikes in the long still of twilight minced meat pies, cup of coffee and a side of fries. Pure and unfiltered New York nicotine night; it’s a black lung for Susan – she was a working class girl, never married a doctor or divorced a bottle. The lottery, horse-tracks and alimony checks filled her eyes with marmalade dreams on a hazy prelude to a life she never knew.

It was there you taught me the night.

Great wooden ships woven wildly whirling on silken mists of sea

waving stormy petals where the moon anxiously waits

at the end of the mountain facing downward where no one seeks to climb.

Smoke rings and cat calls fill the air and clouds crucify themselves under a near -full moon. And the watchtower is sleeping in the sand amidst the remnants of the sand-bucket palaces of last year’s tide.

New Books

2006-03-02T00:37:48Z

Interning at a (not-for-profit) bookstore (that fights homelessness and HIV/AIDS) and getting discounts/free shit is awesome. This week i picked up:

(no clue how to make underlines)

David Beresford - Ten Men Dead: the story of the 1981 Irish hunger strike
Langston Hughes - The Best of Simple
Lao Tzo - Tao Te Ching (translated by David Hinton)

...Oh yea, and if anyone wants an expensive paperweight let me know. It's green and shaped like an iPod mini.

Boredom

2006-02-15T04:55:36Z

On 69th and 3rd:

The Hudson looks like smoke building under transit

a dwindling stream seeming obscene.

All he wants to do is be Frankenstein.

Sparrow don’t fly away in arm’s reach

set sail feather-wail floating finger flied away

in to the ashes of a sun. not worth hiding from

Bhikkhu blowing Bacchus blues

down dreary drunk (en) avenues

Looking kinda funny wearing no shoes

with a fool’s gold halo that slightly skews

the hallow laughter sweetly singing siren dreams from his horn.

The doorway is coughing tuberculosis

silhouettes still stilly swooning over-

serving, swerving

nymphomaniacs with charcoal eyes.

Dissimilar windows awakening in gelatinous vanity

assume no responsibility

for sins for their former sand.

lewd, skewed atoms of while

And how the register rings like a Banshee in a blender

And the pitter-patter of angry feet

follow consequential crevices

in stairs of atomic logic

And the bus is late

through windows for dinner plates

snow stares at

swinging saxophones

on 69^th and 3^rd

Fed-Ex a case of nostalgia

an’ how-are-ya’s

Remembering Ginsberg filling lava-lamp-lit-basement-lines with

sad guitars in blue.

Several coffee cups

bundled up

in later

lonely pajamas down treble trails over hills to nowhere special

Somewhere not drawn to scale

on ambiguous bookshelves behind a broken jail

thought

wail .

Thinking thinking

eternity

now-thing screaming nothing

bleeding nothing

some thing never sleeping

no where

never nothing

existing in body

in it self

in mind

in nothing

And a Shorter Ditty:

Wild bongos trombone wails desert

pale red moon

cacti dreaming coyotes

a shot of Bourbon

on the sand

pouring through green grain

universes

Uni

verses

Apart a new chorus of more or less

a new new new

cat stepping on the just right keys

in the suburban TV dinner cosmos

the moon is a spotlight

a call for the indescribable African Sunrise

Bee boop ba dee da boop

Thump ground po howl scrowl below screaming grinding

frenzied slowdown big four ready?

-These will probably find their way into somewhat of a city-scape epichol utterance of nonsense and sincerity that i've been working on. And you will probably not comment.

Meditation atop Fool's Hill

2006-02-04T06:30:06Z

Meditation atop Fool’s Hill

60 degrees February 3^rd 2006

Confused birds sing-

Spring.

Cars howl crashing waves in the distance

The pier is monogamous

silent.

Seagulls dance in virgin air

because they can.

Ceremonial 21 gun salute to the

American Dream;

fantastic explosions as the

Orgasm of Gunpowder.

Squirrels dig for their winter’s

nuts.

Furious thorns drag molecular fingers along the trail.

The leaves are dead and enlightened.

And this is there where a fence was

rolling restlessly wheelbarrow American

sleeping bag under a tree

never met a man who could meditate while drowning

They’re letting Kevin out for his birthday.

this angelic nowhere.

Sentimental stock market value

“Can you really put a price on Superbowl Commercial?”

Life is Perfect.

-Joe Izzo

February 3^rd 2006

Two Meditations, a Haiku and a Short Poem

2006-01-17T03:02:34Z

Meditation Number Two

The-window-howls-rain-

blows-the-wind-

a-doe-in-headlights.

-Joe Izzo

1/14/06

Nothing (a meditation)

Nothing.

The tree is nothing.

The bird in the tree

is nothing.

The ax that chops

down the tree

is nothing.

The man that swings

the ax

that chops

down the tree

is nothing.

The writers and readers of poetry

are nothing.

Dirt ground, asphalt sky

-nothing.

Greed-money-hunger-fuck-civilization

-nothing.

Greatest enemy, dearest friend

-nothing.

Delicate caveman proper tea etiquette

-dually nothing.

The moon is nothing as it conspires in

nothing.

Standing a fool atop existence’s mountain

and to scream existence mighty in triumph

-nothing.

And soon we will know Nirvana.

-Joe Izzo

1/14/06

(edited 1/16/06)

Haiku to a Bummed Breeze

Light a cigarette.

wind blows west carrying swings

laughter rustles in.

Waiting for a Bus

Diamond clouds of

Hitler Hail

a cab is roaring by.

-Joe Izzo

1/14/06

A Poem (Using Some of "Typewriter Notes")

2006-01-09T09:53:38Z

(I)

Do you ever remember

what Manhattan used to look like?

walking across the Brooklyn

Bridge

(at night). Before

Buildings build in-

different mountains

scribbled on the back

of some eternity

i want to be a street vender in Chinatown

300 B.C.

And the moon lives

at the end of a trail of smoky skies

And neon signs like hydrogen eyes

trapped beneath a new coat of paint.

Reciting a poem like a mountain-

making jazz.

and the television eyes

give electric sighs

when the station goes off (the air)

and the battery dies.

And the garbage can spilled it’s guts out

Over-ambiguous floor

and the gypsy is asking for directions

at the filling station.

Broken down umbrella holders;

nets with fish…

slipping through spaces of a million miles and

empty seconds. Modernized post modernists making

commentary on the current state of what it means to be of

the pre-post modern post-mortem pre-Madonna nostalgia

ilk.

And the unemployed parking meter

just wants a shot as a shortstop

or a movie star. Not to be viewed

as the Grinch of sidewalk scenery.

You should talk to the gypsy,

also unemployed, you know, and asking

“Which way to Midnight’s pith-y castle?”

Through silhouettes of dreams;

strange desert. Hallucinate wild and solemn

‘n the mountain’s-

-real void.

Iridescent ambience ancient and insane angels

dance into inanity.

(II)

Boot heels call against hipster halls

and a litany of last calls

and the lonely streetlight lullaby

illuminating dormancy

an empty cab

rolls by.

Cops flash their siren

to run red lights

no one can see

wouldn’t you?

Lanterns lulling lilies

of desperado asphalt

and a Stratocaster sighs

at another round of yesterdays

-a shot in the side of the exogenous night.

Spontaneous rocks shoot from ground and form great skyscrapers

of French accordion

music waiting for a D train downtown.

Reminded of Coney Island

in summertime black and white…

Bonfire, boardwalk

now Italian, maybe with

pushcarts of vegetables.

Surreptitious sand sea serenade;

see, seagulls swim.

-sound of change rattling like a bad knock knock joke-

A steel stampede storm steals me away from this E-minor memory

Thoughts of winter…

Dosing diner dishes said

“it’s too early for eggs.”

egg early

This is no place for a bird.

Find me a barn…

or a worm.

Hell with it, i’ll settle for lukewarm coffee.

Real classy joint where the waitresses bum cigarettes

-and the jukebox only plays Bob Seger.

Postcard waves suspended in the kitchen

floating jealous

…hazel eyes alone in the drain board.

Trucks didn’t come yet.

Paper reads like yesterday’s but i don’t know the date.

(Leave tip: Existence doesn’t exist.)

Somewhere in dawn…

(III)

shadows climbing back to sky

or swimming to unknown origins

deep, mauve-angelic

and deeper still

and the sky again becomes significant

more than Bastille of stars

and the stars, the stars

o’ alkaline stars, pinholes

in nothing-Eden.

and the last of the mad ones

races against the dawn, no

longer in search of fix, but

a place to lay low. A roadhouse,

maybe running mad for a freight.

the rats begin to transform into cuter dogs.

Beat, torn jazzy suits exchanged for jogging shorts and

bicycle helmets for the daring.

Where’s the wino? broken bottles and stains

for the street sweeper. The night

bares no recollection of harsh words or cries for help.

Mexicans can be seen carrying tools,

talking about the cervesas and senoritas of mere

hours ago.

Maybe it was a lifetime, in some strange migrant memory.

somewhere a child is experiencing subconscious ecstasy.

first time?

The sound of the kind of - music people like to wake

up to is getting ready to strike big again.

Clouds break their ambivalent veil

and these old Brooklyn bricks blaze with familiarity.

-Joe Izzo, January 7, 2006

Life, you have a way of going totally mad on me.

2006-01-02T12:52:47Z

Up reading The Dharma Bums in the pre-dawn twilight of the living room bundled up in a blanket and sipping on a green tea chai and time stopped. There it goes again, i love these moments of quiet undisturbed solitude who wants to climb a mountain with me?

Hapy belated Birthday Christine! Sorry i couldn't make it, but i called you last night from Alf's phone and you didn't pick up.

By Popular Demand... (Technically Unfinished)

2005-12-25T04:32:47Z

The Dedications

To Sylwia, who taught me Polish people spell names
funny.
To Andrey, who sympathized with me over the death of The Simpsons.
To Homer, your ignorance was once insightful.
To Christopher Walken, I hope I never piss you off.
To Robby, John and Ray, the wrong guy died.
To Larry, the under-appreciated Stooge.
To officer Grillo, may you never pollute this (or any) Earth with your seed.
To Dr Kevorkian, i miss you.
To citizens of New Jersey, MOVE.
To Michael Jackson, all the kids didn’t bother me.
Just stop fucking with The Beatles.
When John wrote Revolution,
it wasn’t an insurance commercial.
To Christine, who would appreciate that last dedication more than me, because i think it’s crap.
To Mike, you’re not a cowboy, country music is lame
lose the hat.
To Joanna the world’s only shut-in Wiccan… come out!
To Joanna’s sister Maria, who is seven years too young to abuse me the way she does.
To Christina, who would get pissed if i didn’t mention her in this poem.
To Frankie, who will never let me pay for a beer as long as you live.
To Frankie’s mom, who thinks i need a hair cut more than she needs to mind her own damn business.
To Deirdre, who is living proof that smoking during pregnancy makes for
more interesting people.
To Paul, who ended a good band for a bad college.
To Calvin, your bumper-sticker desecration shall be avenged.
To whom it may concern, mind your own god damned business!
To Alfonso, who at this very moment is probably wrong about something.
To Tim, who is stumbling in my footsteps.
To Tom Waits, who i will never challenge to a drink-off.
To Ashley, who taught me the glories of movies called Kung Fu Zombies.
To Connor Oberst, it’s not even funny anymore… really… just stop.
To Ben who i used to hang out with but then disappeared for a year and i thought you were dead, but really it just turned out you were stuck in a brainwashing institution where they completely break people down mentally then build them back up again to be healthy functioning members of society but you ran away after nine and a half months before the rebuilding process leaving you even madder than you were before who then hitchhiked to Virginia and back and slept in Strawberry Fields for a while and who will soon be gone to Alabama for an undetermined amount of time… hi.
To Cathyl, the biggest Mick i know who isn’t even Irish.
To Liz, who is a sack of congealed grease and goat vomit.
To Alfonso’s landlord, who (should my lawsuit pay off) will make me a wealthy man some day.
To Bill, who used to be a hippie, now he sells land.
To Tim Burton, who really needs to stop doing bad remakes and should focus more on making decent films again.
To Uncle Chile, who shouldn’t have accepted a settlement from the bastards who ruined his name with Be Cool… you’re fucking Chile Palmer, kill the movie!
To Buffy the Vampire Slayer, who will get hers.
To Dana, with my favorite Napoleon complex.
To Pete Townshend, who should stick to his generation.
To Justin, give up.
To Rob, who always told me how great his band was until they finally broke up, thus making us actually agree on something… except you guys always sucked.
To Chrystal, who makes good sandwiches.
To Vincent Price, who doesn’t need this publicity.
To Lenny Bruce, “motherfucker” will be monosyllabic yet.
To Dexter Holland… I hope your private “Anarchy Airlines” jet crashes into the west wing of your mansion.
To Fluffy, who is creepy and socially awkward… i’m rooting for you.

To God, who doesn’t return my prayers.
To Angelina Jolie, who subsequently doesn’t return my calls.

To Edgard Varese, who is simply Edgard Varese.
To Meagan, who is loud and scary… but likes fluffy things.
To George Carlin, who i sort of met once, and who’s name i will drop here.
To Wile E. Coyote, who can use a phone to order a bomb, but not a pizza.
To Angelo, who was swallowed by the lesser boroughs.
To Ian who is tall and… did I mention tall?
To Tia, who is the only dog i know with a speech impediment.
To Gerard, who has a healthy appetite and an unhealthy stomach.
To John, who isn’t quite as creepy as some might say.
To Hubert Hindel III, who i just made up.
To Marta, who like is like… likeable.
To Chili, who is the mafia don of the back yard cats.
To my Great Uncle Tito, who is still a teenager.
60) To Prince Charles, who should get a real job.

Typewriter Notes

2005-12-22T06:29:10Z

I

The sky is-
do you really care about the sky?
Go away sky, i’m writing a poem.

The Banana Leaf
-oriental restaurant
has no bananas.

-how strange this world is

-soda can opens-

A crowd of Nudists are going on strike…;
until winter meets their humble demands.

II

Revolution.
O’ how the mighty have…
changed their names.

i’m going for a walk.
-cryptic folk music appears and vanishes-
returning to a world epileptic, of nymphomaniacs with charcoal eyes.

III

postcard waves suspended in the kitchen
-floating jealous
…hazel eyes alone in the drain board.

frozen

thawing.

EXIST, existence!
the sun is dull in curtains monogamous
“when drawn, i find it easier to see outside.”
at how the 8th street gazelle handed
me a frozen skull-
pture. And off 8th street, even!

But worry not, it didn’t cost me a thing
and it was stolen outside the bookstore.

Now, back to this walk:
i believe i enjoyed it, and suffered no particular
pain or misfortune consequently thereof
i would recommend it.

IV

Mom, the cat is locked in the
Refrigerator again.
…or was it the cabinet?

juxtapositions of memories of cats
locked in things.

Wooden spiders crawl beneath the
also wooden floor.
and no-body is in the basement
crying the cries of nobody in the kitchen
and seeing through the alien eye of the post-
card waves on the wall.

V

“so i’m away for a while and experiencing
the life of a perpetual typewriter jam.
sometimes it gets so perpetual i never want
to type another word. But it’s still not
twenty pages yet, so i’ll write you again tomorrow.”

VI

and the garbage can spilled it’s guts out
over-ambiguous floor
and the gypsy is asking for directions
at the filling station.
broken down umbrella holders
nets with fish
slipping through spaces of a million miles and
empty seconds. Modernized post modernists making
commentary on the current state of what it means to be of
the pre-post modern nostalgic ilk.

4:28 am, mental note: it’s Tuesday and there is
talk of strike. also, these damn keys are getting
stuck. i should
probably get that checked out at an hour where there will be a sane
typewriter repair man at my disposal.

Marxian string beans
and eggs a la Machiavelli
make up the plates at
the charitable luncheon.

(those damn keys again)

and the unemployed parking meter
just wants a chance as a shortstop
or a movie star. not to be viewed
as the Grinch of sidewalk scenery.
You should talk to the gypsy,
also unemployed, you know, and asking
“which way to Midnight’s pith-y castle?”

now, where are my slippers? the previously un-
aforementioned basement is a bit chilly.

the sun is almost ready to come up
strange and unexplained waves of paranoia
in this head ach-ed twilight.

i worry for my friend Brian.
drunk and homeless, Hell’s Angel
and veteran. i was warned of sanity long
ago. He always seemed harmless, though
i am told he has been in jail for throwing bricks at people.

in the end, i guess it’s guys like
him you want on your side.

VII

shadows climbing back to sky
or swimming to unknown origins
deep, mauve-angelic
and deeper still
and the sky again becomes significant
more than Bastille of stars
and the last of the mad ones
races against the dawn, no
longer in search of fix, but
a place to lay low. A roadhouse,
maybe running mad for a freight.
the rats begin to transform into cuter dogs.
Beat, torn jazzy suits exchanged for jogging shorts and
bicycle helmets for the daring.
Where’s the wino? broken bottles and stains
for the street sweeper. The night
bares no recollection of harsh words or cries for help.
Mexicans can be seen carrying tools,
talking about the cervesas and senoritas of mere
hours ago.
Maybe it was a lifetime, in some strange migrant memory.
somewhere a child is experiencing a subconscious ecstasy.
first time?
The sound of the kind of - music people like to wake
up to is getting ready to strike big again.
The clouds break their ambivalent veil
and these old Brooklyn bricks blaze with familiarity.

VIII

A Painting

The canvas on the ceiling is met
with surprise
by the existential balloons.
taking helium plight
to their doorstep.
Dancing in the fingertips of the ground’s antithesis
They are freed in motion by the fans in the
corners.
of time and room.
freedom; free to howl in existential joy
Friends and academia, this is not a sound bite
a catchphrase
or a 12th century Central American Theocracy
No words of vacuum-nothing can make balloons make theo-
cracies.
This is the mind of matter over the matter of mind.
No, no… thisisjust a painting.

-the plight of the existential balloons.

Epiphony

2005-12-21T16:13:31Z

Walls are harder than my hand.

'

2005-12-20T10:16:32Z

Being up all night on weekdays is great... especially when you can feel the alcohol wear off and the hangover come on. I love insomnia.

So...

2005-12-18T00:48:26Z

I think i found a good present for a certain someone who i happen to think doesn't suck as much as most of the rest of the people i know... this person also happens to be able to hold her alcohol well. (You know who you are.)

If you're buying/contemplating/already have bought me a Christmas present, post here, so i'll know to get you one. (sorry, but i'm not fond of this holiday, and i only buy presents out of guilt.)

Sick

2005-12-11T04:16:01Z

Dreams exiling…
dreams of each other;
wanton.
Pennies make for good sunglasses
how chic.
With our backs to the stars
(She loves it when the ground shines back
at her.)
We’re chasing the tail of a snake
or maybe a rainbow.

Blegh

2005-12-09T02:21:09Z

You miserable piece of shit, you never give up, do you? Go back to the bar, come back when you're dead, and quit pretending you deserve my respect.

This is for Christina

2005-12-03T15:19:22Z