Rolling In

May 29, 2009

The winds are kicking up. Told the gal in Baltimore about there being no THERE here and she laughed, only half understanding. The white body suits came in a cardboard box around noon and I walked down the parking lot to the chiropractor to see if he was around but he doesn’t come in on Thursdays. His secretary has a torn nose that looks like a hawk took piece out of it with its claws.

Nice and mellow like cottage cheese and Jell-O. Yum!

10:12am. Everyone’s got their tricks, special laughs, closed-fisted secrets, a life of slip sliding away from the edge of the edge. Sometimes the fog clears and I can speak in full paragraphs without stopping – boom, boom, boom – who knows how I got to the top of the Tower of Babel because there ain’t no escalator but I’m there, next to the bells, the hot sun crisping my forehead. For a moment everything smells sweet – I can figure out how to get your car out of hock, how to get that poison belly ache to go away, how to get the curly blonde to join you under the covers. It’s easy to tell people how to live. But then I wake up in the morning and the tattoo artists and Elephant ear sellers and sugar skull sellers walk by my window to the boardwalk to open up shop and I think, hmm, I don’t even know if I can remember where my keys are, you know, they could be anywhere in the world – and if i can’t find them I won’t be able to leave and if I can’t leave today I’ll loose my job and if I lose my job I’ll lose my room by the sea, my car, my motorcycle, my health insurance, dental insurance, self-assurance, my band, my hat collection, who knows my girl, and in the blink of an eye, well, give it a few weeks, I’ll be out there making phone calls with that wailing desperation deep in the throat – hey, give me a chance, let me prove to you that I’m worth it.

Sure, the city may boot my car wheel tonight when they see me on the books – sure, that throbbing tendon in my back may sigh and leave me a pool of jelly on the sidewalk but until then? What can we do but have another drink and thank the jalopy heart in its slippery cage for doing the same dance everyday dawn to dusk. Don’t give up in there. If you can do it, I can do it.

Harp lickin’ good.

Art of The Ad

May 28, 2009

The commercials of Kinka Usher – mashed up. Original video!

 http://www.splicetoday.com/music/interview-mount-righteous

For Splicetoday.com I interviewed Grapevine, Texas alternative folk marching band Mount Righteous. Check these guys out!

Farewell Brooks Ave

May 27, 2009

7:06pm. Thirty days to get out. That’s what the landlord said. Too many onion skins on the kitchen floor and late night giggles from down the dark hallway. Too many times I left the drape off the TV because its shiny black face frightens her when it’s dark. She started off pleasant – giving me herbs and potions when I was ill – sending me to Italian restaurants hidden down alleys – reading my silly poetry and saying it wasn’t half bad. When I started bringing K around the pleasantries stopped. Her notes arrived on my door daily. Didn’t I tell you to close the door to the laundry room when you were finished? and The stove was greasy and Sweep the front hallway of all that sand you brought in from the beach – what were you thinking?

When someone turns on you there’s no going back. You walk in and their eyes are saucers of curdled tea. Biting. Sickly. Hello, becomes a threat. It’s like a wolf’s teeth – they’ll get their way eventually. I’ll miss the clawfoot tub. I’ll miss the orange cat with no home who flirted with me daintily on the back stoop when I took out the trash. I’ll miss the creaky stairs and the dusty books unread on the shelves and the photographs of a lost Paris in the hall. A year and I barely used the living room couches with their faded lily patterns, hardly ever sat at the kitchen table I bought for just that reason.

The last note was on my door today. Get out. Thirty days. And then:

Good luck!

COMMONERS

May 25, 2009

Can anyone be a poet now or say they want to be one without someone laughing at you? On the toilet I read the New Yorker and forget to leave the bathroom for hours. It’s warm in there. It smells like flowers. In the magazine I learned about two twins from Oregon who both are poets. Double your pleasure, double your fun. One is excitable and expansive on the page. Like watercolors spreading out. The other spare and cryptic. Like a chisel turning marble into a goddess. They both have book deals. They have cool hair. They travel around and read from their tomes. I get the feeling there are lots of people, or at least some who have wonderful lives doing wonderful things. 

In Hollywood here, if you hope to be a writer of scripts – expect chuckles and winks – the profession (or hobby as it may be) is both worshipped and mocked, often in the same sentence. You think you can climb Everest in your socks, son? Get in line, there’s a generation before you who did it naked. I remember listening to Paul Schrader who wrote “Taxi Driver” tell me that he dropped out of college, worked odd jobs, lived on Cheerios and smokes in an abandoned squatters apartment and stole a typewriter and wrote that son of a bitch in a month. No, two and a half weeks. I remember sitting there with my pussy pencil thinking, what am I doing here, man, what am I doing here in this nice college, wearing these nice clothes, going to nice little parties with nice people, making little films about magical shopping carts and reading Shakespeare under the law quad chandeliers? Whitman said it too – you got to get out there and live it – get your hands dirty – take a ship somewhere – live in a strange man’s house – grow your own food. What do we have to say? What new angles to share? We are scared shitless most of us. Go where and do what? What would our grandparents say if we left all this behind? Take a chance? Wander around? Fuck, I take two showers a day. 

Dentists, construction workers, sandwich shop managers, they all have a movie in their pocket, a novel behind their ears, a play in their underwear drawer, a song in their throat, a banjo in the attic. Old elementary school classmates still in Chicago, working in rug warehouses or as nurses are getting married and having kids, and they send me little messages, requesting only half in jest that when my ship comes in (and it will be any day now), I immediately cast them in my next “project”. Gold dust must be coating my eyelids. Can’t see anything happening except when it’s very dark and I clench my toes and dream a little. A millionaire with nice hair. A poet with huge sales in Europe.

I heard Don Johnson of Miami Vice fame grew up on a farm in Missouri and wanted to be a professional bowler. I’d liketo come from someplace like that.