Tuesday, July 26, 2011

rum horses

I'd be writing makeshift Westerns if they'd let me, out there lost and on some ugly plain in Mexico, watching the cactus glow bronze with the developing dusk, riding the rains and thunder clouds, disappearing into those sad eyes.

I'd trade my luxury prison for some dusty boots, a pistol and classical cigars, an angry horse galloping in the basin, a man killed in a saloon, gunshots; I'd be a villain, the hell with the womanizing Clint Eastwood, I like Lee Van Cleef, he looked like a predatory bird, a Barquero..in that one film.

It would take at least six shots to kill the local sheriff and the unfortunate deaf, dumb and blind kid that wandered into the crossfire, his head split like an apple, the first overly pale elderly lady that gasps would get one in the throat, staring into the wheels of a burnt wagon, the lavish hats of the wealthy pig-nosed ladies, the brightly colored umbrella's in the sunlight, the intoxicated whores and Chinese rail workers with their exotic potions and elixirs, I'd smoke Opium and try to shoot the passive ghosts of the buffalo, the blades and barking mongrels, I'd dodge the arrows of the red-clay smeared natives scalping the settlers and drinking their blood, I'd hoot and holler like a loon, I'd bathe in whiskey and soot, the cholera colored blankets and intrinsic poverty, the light and dark, coppery medallions and houses made of cedar, stone ruts and muddy avenues of wandering contrast, elaborate chests of Spanish treasure and skinny grave robbers, the old planks and dirty nails, my prismatic eyes, damp overflowing barrels of brine, the drench of stolen rye and swollen creek beds, chalky lips and tangles of briar copse, shooting gentle deer and leaden snakes, the public hangings, the ageless wooden scaffolds and toothless crowds throwing rotten lettuce at the bad guy as his gang arrives and starts shooting everyone, popping gunfire and helpless bodies falling in sickly clumps like sacks of worthless Irish immigrant potatoes, a jail break, a stern lasso for a neatly uniformed official, dragged raw by the time the border crossing is reached, the syrupy waves and smooth floor of rock, no cold iron bars, just silver horses and riding in the rain.

Monday, July 25, 2011

bucket of spit

Maybe I'll write like a broken heart today, maybe I'll just go to the dock and sit there. Maybe I'll catch a coppery glimpse of a bluegill. I should go dig up my dead friend, pick the flies from the forehead and have a drink. I should go to the farmers market and watch the airplanes roar and thunder overhead, I always feel like an army ant when I go there, the rats scurry in the parking lot, the big trucks come and go in methodical mazes, intertwined, never an accident, maybe it will spit rain on the windshields.

I should go to the city, watch the ebony colored people melt into the shadows, the ambulances and buzz of wireless phones and the newness of everything complex, the glass buildings and discarded cardboard cut-outs on the benches, the empty milk cartons and cigarette butts. I should go to the freeway, see if any body parts are still there from the wreck, I could duct tape them back together, little arms and legs, maybe I should put them back together, sprinkle some clover over the bruises and smile, I haven't really smiled since then, I haven't talked much either. Maybe I should stop speaking altogether, I'm mostly bitter and unhappy, maybe the dock isn't under water, maybe I'll see a mallard or a barge drifting in the water, maybe I'll walk into a cobweb along the wooded path to get there, maybe I'll get spiders in my hair or be bitten by a viper.

Maybe I should go down to Green Street, maybe the restaurant mansions won't be so busy, maybe an old tree will still be as beautiful as ever, maybe a police car will go zooming by with the lights and sirens on, maybe the post office and all the parcels will be on fire, maybe a stroller or two will be in the road sitting perfectly on the yellow lines, maybe people will call them buggies like they are supposed to, maybe someone on a bicycle will crash, maybe I'll gaze into the café windows at all the people in there eating their fancy bagels and cow juice, smiling and laughing, all wonderful and happy, all dolled up and smelling like mortuary perfume, all woven and etched into this fabric forever, maybe I should just continually pass by completely unnoticed.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Añejo Shark

My elaborate Hans Pfaall's unparalleled soliloquy to the internets..

Concerning the insects and Amy Winehouse,
perfume in your nose, it's easy to criticize until you realize this junkie accomplished more than most of you will, ever, in your entire lives, and it only took her 27 years, most of you will never have talent, you'll merely criticize it on yahoo because you are miserable in your own life and have nothing better to do. the venom laced comments here are atrocious, you little parasites are an example of what is wrong with the world-not people with genuine problems, imperfect people crucified by little online ghouls like yourselves, all chocked full of pubescent jealousy and spite, rage-love and honor, good job, you danced on someone's famous grave and no one will even know who you are when you die. faggots.
Briefly, I'm an ancient relic, rope tornado around my waist, sleek and sunny country roads, a hint of gasoline, gathering clay from some other time, a brooding ligero leaf, maduro, bitter and eventually a white ash or the color of a fresh bruise before it splotches the skin. The dreary rain, blotting horizon, a sleepy Oslo hillside, tiny undeveloped people coldly shot down, Holden Caulfield standing like a crude statue at his barbaric cliff with arms spread out like a dilapidated cross, Erofeyev's Parakeet on a twig, the convulsing field of flowered bodies and purple throats swollen with clotted blood, the rabid televised wolves and greasy barrels of cognac, the thick amber marrow, slow-blinking grids of fancy electric lights, a unique text at 10:10pm, my slumbering meadow, dreamless paradise of chalk-pumice and picture-perfect bay windows, a pearlescent sonnet of pristine lavender kisses on my rugged shoulder blades, My lovely pint-sized Jen, a bucket of spit for everyone else, the swaying rye and dewy morning sunshine, speckled hyena and wild african dogs, the frenzied yelps and curling vines, her moon-cricket friends, big lipped twats with bad manners, big-tittied ebony bulbs with no etiquette, bug-eyed, bleary-eyed, berry-eyed banana chasers, the rosado wrappers dried on the syrupy plant-rocks, the blaring ambulances and flashing sirens, the pools of burnt mercury and icy glacier water, the lacerated elephant trails and a severe Habano Nub, a stylized microscopic stick, the Cain version is elite, a secret lemon shark in Lanier, dark and oily, knock your dick in the dirt, the sweet cedar yards and pine coffins of sugary wet drifts.

I feel like an old and bedraggled pickup truck, a million miles of sad gray charged battery Acid cigars, beautiful but rustic orange outline, how I crawl up a sloping tin-boxed spine, a crooked cool slab once chrome and ever so slightly searing to the touch, the brittle flaky texture and grains of smooth gravel, salt and peppery asphalt, gritty and grimy scorched morgue floor-board bans and how I rattle and cough out violent bludgeoned blue fatal engine smoke in ugly arcs, the blistering burn, a badly cauterized skull, warped framework of busted bolts and pouring oil making unhappy puddles, a deaden onyx motor, how I clank and abruptly come to a halt, left by the roadside glass like some archaic and weathered ribcage painting with weeds growing in the dry rotted tires, a strange metal skeleton, my bad teeth in the grass.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Be still, I am God

I feel like a storm in a jar, I used to go fucking ballistic on this miserable digital paper, I used to write like I loved things, felt things, the raw vibrant orange flakes of rust and bitter decay, the molded tin shack paradise of Shope Road and lower Enota, the cow eyes and bristles of pine thistle, the ink balm parachutes, bride and groom gutted stomachs of anger and happiness.

Now I watch deer melt and glow golden with the dusk, they vanish like ghosts in the starless dark, heaven and the barbaric infection, my rotten kidneys and aborted liver, puke eyes and littered with speckled gum drops, tiny floating pink cities on the sidewalk.

I've written books as babies fester to drowsy skeletons in a swank garbage bag. Makeshift rubbish farms, polluted daylight canvas, pennies blot the heavy blankets of swaying skin, tire tracks in the mud, tangles of prison copse and kudzu splotches, the roach-bug metropolis and living body of bullet ants, the maggots and stench of decomposing flowers, that's what it looks like, dotted with leaves, miry and swollen with moth, corpse flies and the fogged lens of television camera's, an empty cistern, tiny arms, tiny legs with dirty socks turned to black, motherless and fatherless blots of glued teeth, duct taped eye sockets and badly broken rib cage.

The driving clouds and poor clod of frightened people burrowing in their holes, everyone hanging like lanterns in the dark, the sodden swamp freshly planted with hateful hearts, dried blood and bruised tongues protruding, the murderers and rape, the prisons of malevolent mothers and the rancid, the generic leprosy of expensive lawyers, the gulch of empathy, how they calm in the soil like putrid water in a sewer drain, spread out like a cross, etched words in the dirt, there is no beauty in it, it's the dead and dying child of God, it fuckin stinks, people would eat their newborns if they could, they would chew the fat and devour the pulp, it's ugly and never-ending, it's the world with zero contrast and shaded blinds, it looks like the morning light that lay over a field, it's heaven, you should see it.