I found myself standing on the mountain
I found myself standing on the mountain
Beneath my full moon heart
Good things coming here soon...
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
when you jump on a trampoline you take your boots off
cigarettes don't taste as good as they say
in a 1999 Ford Taurus
parked on someone else's property
heat turned up as high as it can go but
even that won't make our breaths invisible or
rouse your feet: frigid and covered in hay
at which we pick
naked telling each other
dead baby jokes
.
.
.
in a 1999 Ford Taurus
parked on someone else's property
heat turned up as high as it can go but
even that won't make our breaths invisible or
rouse your feet: frigid and covered in hay
at which we pick
naked telling each other
dead baby jokes
.
.
.
Friday, November 20, 2009
All Things Must Pass (B-sides)
Drunk off but three gulps I sit here in my five-hundred dollar room and listen to George Harrison beg forgiveness from God. A bartender with pigtails and a well-carried paunch helped bring me here. She flirted with me amiably and fished for my birthday. I flirted back, in spite of her preoccupation with astrology and with no other motive than some human back and forth. "I'm a Leo, as if you didn't know already," she purred. I smiled, but I kept writing. My Bloody Valentine was playing on the jukebox, a song called "Only Shallow". Reminded of the moment I bought that record, I was in turn overcome by a myriad of other St. Mark's Place memories: a group of arabs peddling silly hats and bongs to european teenagers, mingling smells of yakitori and magnolias, the buzz of what I thought was love, an iced tea with pieces of lychee in it. Instead of writing any of this down, I signaled my bartender, "I'm ready for that blind PBR taste test".
Two Narragansett tall boys and a free shot later I ran into a friend of mine - a Willem Dafoe look alike. Toothy and bug-eyed he told me how he had just cleaned up in a grab game. "I can win something in four bucks," he explained animatedly, "it's all a matter of shift, grab, drop, shift, grab, drop." His prize was a DVD, which he wore in his breast pocket in place of a kerchief. The DVD was called 'All Natural Babes' and on the cover was a picture of a naked woman with beautiful flowing curls squatting, legs open, about to suck a large, uncircumcised cock. "I've never been one for finding a sense self-worth in drugs or alcohol - I've found other things, yes - but winning porn in a drop game: I don't know why, but that makes you feel a better man." I laughed, but he was only half-joking. "I've been on a natural high for the past, like, three hours"
We wanted to play darts, but there were no open boards, so we opted for pool instead. I spent the whole game remembering that billiards place on twenty-sixth and fifth in Manhattan, of a time where there was no need to qualify such statements as "twenty-sixth and fifth". There were no burgeoning lines on my face then, no erythema in my colon. A girl there one night pitched past me carrying two pool cues and something about her gait reminded me of the past. "I know her from somewhere," I told my disparate group of friends. We were all thinking the same thing. We spent a good part of the night laboring to identify her, until one of us realized that underneath the piercings and the tattoos and skinny, skinny arms, she was Becky from "Roseanne". The first one. This realization carried with it a deep, abstract sadness.
"Judah! Tell your friends it's time to fucking leave." The order came from the same prog-rocker looking bouncer who took a full minute to inspect my I.D. Shaking hands with the Lioness bartender, I left to come back here with nothing to do but write run-on sentences and eat an almond butter and jelly sandwich and listen to All Things Must Pass B-Sides, wondering if anything I write will have any emotional resonance with ANYone but myself; whether it's even a good idea to be updating my blog after drinking. All the while George is still singing, pleading, "Oh, wont you hear me lord!"
Two Narragansett tall boys and a free shot later I ran into a friend of mine - a Willem Dafoe look alike. Toothy and bug-eyed he told me how he had just cleaned up in a grab game. "I can win something in four bucks," he explained animatedly, "it's all a matter of shift, grab, drop, shift, grab, drop." His prize was a DVD, which he wore in his breast pocket in place of a kerchief. The DVD was called 'All Natural Babes' and on the cover was a picture of a naked woman with beautiful flowing curls squatting, legs open, about to suck a large, uncircumcised cock. "I've never been one for finding a sense self-worth in drugs or alcohol - I've found other things, yes - but winning porn in a drop game: I don't know why, but that makes you feel a better man." I laughed, but he was only half-joking. "I've been on a natural high for the past, like, three hours"
We wanted to play darts, but there were no open boards, so we opted for pool instead. I spent the whole game remembering that billiards place on twenty-sixth and fifth in Manhattan, of a time where there was no need to qualify such statements as "twenty-sixth and fifth". There were no burgeoning lines on my face then, no erythema in my colon. A girl there one night pitched past me carrying two pool cues and something about her gait reminded me of the past. "I know her from somewhere," I told my disparate group of friends. We were all thinking the same thing. We spent a good part of the night laboring to identify her, until one of us realized that underneath the piercings and the tattoos and skinny, skinny arms, she was Becky from "Roseanne". The first one. This realization carried with it a deep, abstract sadness.
"Judah! Tell your friends it's time to fucking leave." The order came from the same prog-rocker looking bouncer who took a full minute to inspect my I.D. Shaking hands with the Lioness bartender, I left to come back here with nothing to do but write run-on sentences and eat an almond butter and jelly sandwich and listen to All Things Must Pass B-Sides, wondering if anything I write will have any emotional resonance with ANYone but myself; whether it's even a good idea to be updating my blog after drinking. All the while George is still singing, pleading, "Oh, wont you hear me lord!"
Sunday, November 08, 2009
A post about The Spin Doctors
I was at a truck stop Arby's at eleven a.m., buzzing from a mix of muted passion and that excitement so intertwined with being on the road on a crisp fall morning. The man behind me on line* wore a bushy blond mustache and oversized glasses which made him look like Bud Court in 'The Life Aquatic'. His straw hat and pink sandals clued me to eccentricity, so I kept him in my peripheral vision and noticed a distinct rhythmic bounce. With nothing to do but wait, I looked down at the shoes of the guy in front of me. Brown Kenneth Cole wingtips were tapping with a beat too regular to be from impatience or nerves. The well-groomed Korean businessman attached to these shoes was bobbing his head inconspicuously, as were the two Hasids in front of him. More noticeable was the freckled college student who was almost dancing, shaking in her hand the receipt that I assumed was for curly fries. I watched her hips for a few moments and listened. That hook was unmistakable. Playing on the tinny Arby's radio was "Two Princes", and the obese** black lady behind the register was singing along silently. "Said, if you want to call me baby, just go ahead now," she mouthed in the general direction of my Chinese bus driver, who shook his keys on each backbeat. Nearly everyone in this surprisingly crowded, surprisingly diverse late-morning truck stop Arby's was rocking out to The Spin Doctors. I watched them all in their separate spheres, not noticing one another. I was probably tapping my feet a little too.
Having a sudden urge to tell someone about this, I took out my phone to text a girl who I had been thinking about a lot lately. I hesitated though, suddenly filled with doubts. The doubts won over and I put my phone away. Another part of me wanted to text an old friend. Chris Barron's name would bring her back to a specific, lovely moment we spent together. But I knew it had been too long. Instead I told nobody and ordered my roast beef gyro***. Eventually the song changed, but not to one I wanted like "Mr. Jones" or "Virtual Insanity", but rather to something new and unrecognized, and we all got back on the same speechless bus, headed to a better destination.
* lay off, non-New Yorkers
** hey, I would be too if I worked at Arby's
*** that gyro was delicious by the way
Having a sudden urge to tell someone about this, I took out my phone to text a girl who I had been thinking about a lot lately. I hesitated though, suddenly filled with doubts. The doubts won over and I put my phone away. Another part of me wanted to text an old friend. Chris Barron's name would bring her back to a specific, lovely moment we spent together. But I knew it had been too long. Instead I told nobody and ordered my roast beef gyro***. Eventually the song changed, but not to one I wanted like "Mr. Jones" or "Virtual Insanity", but rather to something new and unrecognized, and we all got back on the same speechless bus, headed to a better destination.
* lay off, non-New Yorkers
** hey, I would be too if I worked at Arby's
*** that gyro was delicious by the way
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Other People's Blogs
"I want to update this, I really do", he thinks, mouthing the words. His name is Simon or Hyrum or something and is a wiry Jew with a brick layer's spine and scrivener's eyes. Scratching the psoriasis under his peyas, he ponders, "is anythink in this life is really verth recording for posterity?" (Even his ponderances are in a thick Yiddish accent.)
I like to think I don't share his sentiments, but everything I write, every comma-laden, meandering prose-poem cannot escape autobiography, so in turn, I cannot be sure.
Hyrum sits in his humorless apartment, not writing, eating a McDonald's Fish Fillet and a can of green beans, reading other people's blogs.
I like to think I don't share his sentiments, but everything I write, every comma-laden, meandering prose-poem cannot escape autobiography, so in turn, I cannot be sure.
Hyrum sits in his humorless apartment, not writing, eating a McDonald's Fish Fillet and a can of green beans, reading other people's blogs.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Thanksgiving Waves
Tryptophan.
I want to be Cliff Huxtable. This is what came to me while sipping wine with the Rouquie sisters. Not now of course, but soon, sooner than I had previously imagined. I led the toast, I said, “here’s to our hometown.” That night was my real Thanksgiving – and tonight. "Thanksgiving" certainly cannot be limited to walking through a squall, looking for anything cheap and edible with an uncle who frequently reminds himself of his homelessness. Thanksgiving is instead what I make it – a sardonic clinking of glasses over The Cosby Show and a quiet meal with the smell of candles and sweet potatoes. I am back at every Thanksgiving table ever set with doilied napkins and cornbread stuffing and there the skyline is still present, as it is within the smell of my after-dinner Corona. More vague however, is this new nostalgia: a mixture of rooftop air and human electricity.
Heathcliff Huxtable said, “You mean to tell me that your mother doesn’t have any butter for the cornbread?” then, long-faced, he went back into the rain again. He did it for Lisa Bonet and for Malcolm-Jamal Warner and even for Raven Symone. I was only out there for myself. Mc Donalds was closed and now it seemed that the supermarket was our only source of a mid-day Thanksgiving meal. What had brought us here?
A year earlier, my revelry had been unparalleled. Thanksgiving had culminated as I stood on the couch, a plate of Chicken Tikka Masala in one hand, serenading my friend’s c-p stricken mother. I sang Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly” as she smiled and kept time with her right shoulder. The next day, I was surprisingly lucid as I stood in Belmont and buried my neck in the collar of my tweed jacket. The air was crisp and I could have been described as wistful if I wasn’t so contented. Whose call did I miss? My young cousins continued playing in the yard. I still hold onto those days, all those days, not allowing myself to forget what I felt and what I had accomplished. Lao Tzu said, “Work is done and then forgotten, and therefore, lasts forever.” I read this to my mother as she fell asleep.
My second Corona has settled me down (my tolerance isn’t what it used to be) and I no longer care if what I’m writing rings true with anyone else. This flood of memories is strong, yes, but vague references and double meanings make me a hypocrite; I’ve criticized many for conscious obscurity. As well as for faulty grammar and ellipsis...we were happier there, I too..."people only want funny"...sadie, white coat...was it her calling?...fuck this fucking shit, my socks are soaked through...it is a better word than the maudlin "someday"...how many times can I refer to myself in one paragraph?...There is something about Phylicia Rashad. She is undeniably the sexiest woman on syndicated TV. I haven't pinned down exactly what it is, but she does get my motor running. This is not the only reason I wanted to be Cliff Huxtable. Malkmus said, “If I could settle down, then I would settle down.” Itsuka.
At Stop and Shop, the P.A. system reminded us that, due to the holiday, they were closing in twenty minutes, but such an admonition was unneeded; I was already carrying our purchases to the register – two ham and cheddar Lunchables. My uncle cracked a toothless smile and said, “finally, something to be thankful for.” We thought it was funny.
I want to be Cliff Huxtable. This is what came to me while sipping wine with the Rouquie sisters. Not now of course, but soon, sooner than I had previously imagined. I led the toast, I said, “here’s to our hometown.” That night was my real Thanksgiving – and tonight. "Thanksgiving" certainly cannot be limited to walking through a squall, looking for anything cheap and edible with an uncle who frequently reminds himself of his homelessness. Thanksgiving is instead what I make it – a sardonic clinking of glasses over The Cosby Show and a quiet meal with the smell of candles and sweet potatoes. I am back at every Thanksgiving table ever set with doilied napkins and cornbread stuffing and there the skyline is still present, as it is within the smell of my after-dinner Corona. More vague however, is this new nostalgia: a mixture of rooftop air and human electricity.
Heathcliff Huxtable said, “You mean to tell me that your mother doesn’t have any butter for the cornbread?” then, long-faced, he went back into the rain again. He did it for Lisa Bonet and for Malcolm-Jamal Warner and even for Raven Symone. I was only out there for myself. Mc Donalds was closed and now it seemed that the supermarket was our only source of a mid-day Thanksgiving meal. What had brought us here?
A year earlier, my revelry had been unparalleled. Thanksgiving had culminated as I stood on the couch, a plate of Chicken Tikka Masala in one hand, serenading my friend’s c-p stricken mother. I sang Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly” as she smiled and kept time with her right shoulder. The next day, I was surprisingly lucid as I stood in Belmont and buried my neck in the collar of my tweed jacket. The air was crisp and I could have been described as wistful if I wasn’t so contented. Whose call did I miss? My young cousins continued playing in the yard. I still hold onto those days, all those days, not allowing myself to forget what I felt and what I had accomplished. Lao Tzu said, “Work is done and then forgotten, and therefore, lasts forever.” I read this to my mother as she fell asleep.
My second Corona has settled me down (my tolerance isn’t what it used to be) and I no longer care if what I’m writing rings true with anyone else. This flood of memories is strong, yes, but vague references and double meanings make me a hypocrite; I’ve criticized many for conscious obscurity. As well as for faulty grammar and ellipsis...we were happier there, I too..."people only want funny"...sadie, white coat...was it her calling?...fuck this fucking shit, my socks are soaked through...it is a better word than the maudlin "someday"...how many times can I refer to myself in one paragraph?...There is something about Phylicia Rashad. She is undeniably the sexiest woman on syndicated TV. I haven't pinned down exactly what it is, but she does get my motor running. This is not the only reason I wanted to be Cliff Huxtable. Malkmus said, “If I could settle down, then I would settle down.” Itsuka.
At Stop and Shop, the P.A. system reminded us that, due to the holiday, they were closing in twenty minutes, but such an admonition was unneeded; I was already carrying our purchases to the register – two ham and cheddar Lunchables. My uncle cracked a toothless smile and said, “finally, something to be thankful for.” We thought it was funny.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Agatha Christie's got nothin' on me
Monday -
I spent the day doing inventory at BookCourt. This involved checking the shelves of the mystery section against an unwieldy printout. It took over five hours of steady work.
"Inventory is a thankless task," commented one of my coworkers. Not entirely the case. I did get a glimpse at the number of subcultures represented in mystery novels. There are knitter's mysteries, "unapologetic lesbian" mysteries, people who wish Jane Austen had been a detective mysteries. There are even catering mysteries, with titles like, The Main Corpse and The Cereal Murders.
"From the bestselling author of Sitcks and Scones - , " one book said.
"Shut your stupid face," I said.
I spent the day doing inventory at BookCourt. This involved checking the shelves of the mystery section against an unwieldy printout. It took over five hours of steady work.
"Inventory is a thankless task," commented one of my coworkers. Not entirely the case. I did get a glimpse at the number of subcultures represented in mystery novels. There are knitter's mysteries, "unapologetic lesbian" mysteries, people who wish Jane Austen had been a detective mysteries. There are even catering mysteries, with titles like, The Main Corpse and The Cereal Murders.
"From the bestselling author of Sitcks and Scones - , " one book said.
"Shut your stupid face," I said.
Friday, March 10, 2006
The Freak Flag Flies No More
So, I cut my hair today for the first time in eight months.
The barber cut the sides and back short (but-not-too-short [sic]) but left the top kind of long. Now I look like Dutch Schultz or a Civil War general, sans grotesque, handlebar mustache.
It's ok though. I have always kinda had a hetero-crush on Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain.
The barber cut the sides and back short (but-not-too-short [sic]) but left the top kind of long. Now I look like Dutch Schultz or a Civil War general, sans grotesque, handlebar mustache.
It's ok though. I have always kinda had a hetero-crush on Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain.
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