Made up words you may hear in a made up hospital.

1. Vabdocythe
2. Tetrogesic
3. Eptictractle
4. Frazplectography
5. Nambic

Doctor: Good day, Jerome. Please take a seat. I have just received the results from Frazplectography. I'm afraid I have bad news.
Jerome: It isn't....
Doctor: Unfortunately... yes. A Vabdocythe, just as I feared.
Jerome: Dear god. Is it... is it tetrogesic?
Doctor: Luckly, not yet. I should be able to remove it. Nurse, the Eptictractle.
Nurse. Yes doctor.
Jerome: Will this hurt?
Doctor: Just a pinch. If you'd like, I'll give you a Nambic.
Jerome: No. I think I want to tough this one out.
Doctor: There's a good soldier.

Summer Finally Arrives

Summer fun had been at a dismal low. It began with promise. Then I became one of the only four people on the planet who had anything bad to say about Iron Man. My problem with it were that it was painfully slow. So slow that when the action did kick in (which I admit, looked gorgeous) it was unable to shake me from my coma. The movie had basically been given an enormous handjob by critics and fans alike for simply containing character development, never you mind if the character development was interesting or well done. Superhero films sort of devolved into a retarded mutant stepson of the greater medium of film altogether. We don't cream our pants when a Kate Hudson/Matthew McConaughey picture contains character development and an intelligible storyline, we get excited about films when they're riveting, when they're outstanding. To give a movie slack for having a comic book as its source material is like just accepting it when the waiter brings you chicken Kiev instead of the Fillet Mignon that you ordered. Especially when you refuse to admit that the chicken Kiev is under cooked.

Then came Indiana Jones and The Longest Title Ever Created By George Lucas Who I Am Now Positive Has Lost Any Sense of What Film Making and Story Telling Actually Is. I didn't like that one too much either. In fact, it made me sad. Why does George keep murdering the things I love... I don't know.

But I don't want to talk about disappointments. That's a whole other post - I still have to get my thoughts on the production of Tommy I saw where the entire audience was wearing headphones. No, I'm going to talk about four nights in a row of excellence.

Friday 18th: Patton Oswalt at the Irvine Improv. This is the funniest man doing comedy. The way he grabed the audience by the throat and forced us to look deep into the insanity of our lives has not been done since Bill Hicks. With George Carlin recently gone, we need more comedians who are brains-funny not anus-funny, otherwise... Dane Cook, folks. Take a look at this commencement address Patton delivered a few weeks ago at his old high school.

Saturday 19th: Townland at Visualaid in Long Beach. Townland. First off $5 for admission and you get a free cd. These guys have nothing but class. This was my second Townland show and once again I felt that there was no better place to be in Los Angeles that night than sitting comfortably on a hay bale and drinking a Tecate. The music is beautiful, truly the finest in prairie pop - a term I think they coined, but what else are you going to call it? - Matt Gourley's lyrics are so sweet and playful that when they turn around and kick your ass you feel like you've been playing with a kitten that morphed into a rattler. You can hear the tunes on their myspace and also take a look at the dates of their pacific coastline tour.

Sunday 20th: The Dark Knight. Hey Iron Man, look character development. I don't know why no one has attempted this before, make a comic book film that occurs in the real world. Shoot it as if it were a film and not a joke. Let the horrific crimes perpetrated by the villains actually penetrate the audience and give the hero gravity. My expectations for this movie were enormous, the Dark Knight blew them away.

Monday 21st: I went to see Tim Hick's film The Aphrikan as part of the New York Independent Film and Video Festival. This 37 minute horror film was an actual horror film, something I haven't seen in theaters... well, ever. The kind of horror you can only find in the spiderwebby section of super-dense video stores, probably on VHS. I don't really know terribly much about horror, but I do know that The Aphrikan is what wussified Hollywood horror films dream they were in their most wonderful nightmares. There was no cheese, no cheap gimmicks, no remorse. Bravo Tim.

So thats about it. Hopefully this string of goodness does not run out. I'm looking forward to three Radiohead shows in August, hopefully I'll find something to bridge the gap.

The Benevolent Fly Catcher

I've found that I'm spending an awfully large amount of time attempting to capture flies. I wouldn't go as far as saying my house is infested, I wouldn't even say that I have "a fly problem." There are three of them. Far as I know. I guess one of the main issues is the fact that I don't want to kill them. I have no problem with these flies being alive, you see, I'd just prefer them to be alive somewhere else. Strangely, I would not mind one bit if my cats saw it fit to kill the buggers, circle of life and everything, but they're pretty busy sleeping in the sun all day, occasionally taking a lazy swat whenever one of those tiny black dots chances to drift toward their paws...

So its up to me. I came to my non-violence stance by way of committing a grisly murder. I had been cleaning some mysterious gunk off my kitchen counter with Windex and some environmentally-friendly-stiff-as-a-board-not-particularly-absorbent paper towels, when a fly buzzed so close to my ear I began wondering what the LAPD helicopter was doing in my living room. It landed on the window directly in front of me, basically saying, " 'Scuse me, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, if you don't mind, that is, would you please MURDER ME?" I was more than happy to oblige. I have to admit that some kind of killer instinct took over, a remnant of my mammoth hunting days in some previous incarnation. Before I realized what I was doing, the Windex bottle was squirting bubbly streams of liquid on the fly. My fingers pulsed on the trigger. I was an assassin with no fear of repercussion, karmically or otherwise. The plague of conscience was creeping up on me, but if Jiminy Cricket showed up then I probably would have capped him too just to have one less witness. I picked the poisoned, paralysed fly off the window with another paper towel, went outside and deposited the carcass in the dumpster behind my building (which I think may be a breeding ground for flies).

I have since killed only one more, attempting to trap him in an empty can of black beans and set him free outside, I instead crushed the poor bastard with the side of the tin. I've caught and released two, they seemed happy to be back in the wide world, I felt good for giving them the chance. The other flies are wily. They seem to fear freedom. Perhaps my home is all they've ever known. Maybe they even love this place and feel that it is theirs. Regardless, they elude my bean can, and with each buzz that wakes me in strange, purple hours of the morning, my fingers itch once again for the trigger.

Exploding the Lady

there are wolves on the moon, too
howling at the earth

In Memory of Kurt Vonnegut

the quiet wraith figure you pass midnight on a highway as you’re driving south, crossland, out one jungle into another, he smiles back and waves and maybe you’re lucky enough to catch it. the juggler, the shepard, the king’s handyman, mocked, pushed aside, how they fell on their knees pressing their palms together, pressing through skin to bone on bone salvation, no more mystic floating spirits, but the true touch, fingering your main cables: the pulmonary artery, the spinal chord, seminal vesicle. watch his heart beat, age, stop, watch his glasses thicken, hair grow wilder in neglect. so it goes, so he said.
the human story, an ants story. a grain of sand. excruciating and simple. life is rotten, leaders lie, the good struggle and die, everyone is moved by kindness, everyone desires love, lives to laugh, but moves too quickly to really enjoy a cup of lemonade and a sunset. the complexity of a Charleston Chew is lost. so much for wine and cake and humility. so gone are lovers. so driven are we while our feet swell and heels ache from wearing pretty shoes…
a great man is dead and he’s left us everything he thought, all he learned in 84 years as a person in 14 novels, countless short stories and drafts. when you think of Kurt Vonnegut do you think of the man, weathered and humor filled jowls, beagle eyes and all or do you think of hundreds of pages, pounds and gallons of ink splashed insights, screaming V emblazoned book jackets lining your shelves, each one stained with his conciousness, a life experience purchasable in bookshops and airport kiosks, the man the flesh body, the man the paperback, one looses breath and blood flow the other gains speed.

gimme gimme gimme

Give me a porcelain dog bone and I’ll break my teeth just looking at it
aggression is wasted on the young
I hope I’m this angry when I’m older
when I have a little more salt to me
now the best I can do is pour some letters into this machine
hope that I can push something out of me
more impressive than a healthy bowel movement
I realize I’m impressionable
delusional
I realize that I’m not as brilliant
as I ought to be
I realize that anger in general is as dangerous as
laziness
and I realize I am as lazy as I am angry.
So look out!

Give me a gun and I’ll use the butt to drive a nail into a wall, to hang it on
if only I could say this directly to you
I wouldn’t have to scratch for each syllable
I’d just have a conversation
but I don’t know where you are
I don’t know if you’re out there
I know that the most rewarding
mysterious occasions of my life
are when I let my guard down
and speak softly of fears
or ideas
floating masterpieces of thought
I carry around at all times
but consider to be too singular,
too personal to share
and I share them, thanks to booze,
thanks to the right stranger,
thanks to talking out loud,
thanks to frustration,
and you say, yes,
I know what you mean.

Give me a flower and I’ll wither with it in front of you
I’ll hitch hike even though
the days of hitch hiking are over, you keep reminding me
I’ll listen to the mariachi band on the F train
and watch them with out pretending like
they’re not making my commute more bearable
I’ll state openly that the way the world
operates is completely incorrect
that there is a better way to go
I’ll make it fully understood that
I don’t have a flying clue what that is

Give me a sandwich, I’m hungry for Christ sakes
there’s a feeling in my gut
all the time like I’m not doing what I’m supposed to
that we as a whole are off the mark
I’ve been to protest rallies
and they look just like what the rally is rallying against
there’s a big politician shouting slogans with a microphone
there’s a big crowd standing in formation shouting the slogans
back at the microphone
they march to city hall
they march to the UN
they march forming lines and columns and regiments and battalions
and units and
they demand peace.
NOW.

Give me a haircut, the hippies are selling me new cars
the time has come to create a culture
that operates outside of a computer
that lives and breathes that is misunderstood
misdirected, mistaken, mysterious
that performs plays on street corners
throwing quarters into the coffee cups
of passers by
that wears logos and no clothing
that gives themselves names like Lambisill and Lunesta
that goes to Darfur for spring break,
that creates a new economy by depositing poems, short stories,
and recipes for apple pie into the ATM.

Give me a dictionary I’ll rip pages out and line my shoes with them
give me an acre of land I’ll build a gas station there that pumps
chocolate milk
give me a horse, I’ll drive him around in a carriage
give me a president who can talk, I’ll write a poem about his wife
give me absurdity, I’ll show you a mirror
give me sanity as
I’ve never seen it

Wax

step inside a ball of red wax
heated by a neural sun
you slip in easy, amused
by your surrogate womb and
dine on the things inside awaiting you
grapes, oranges, ham hocks, all wax, of course
and soon you are wax as well
breathing wax, eating, sleeping, dreaming wax
that cools and hardens with the
setting sun, trapping you in red,
but who will you blame?
the sun for setting?
wax for waxing soft
then hardening?
curiosity for inviting
you to a ball of wax to
wax in wax till a
new sun finds you

(Untitled)

Hapless and drunk
Romantic and weak
Breastfeed on dreams

Manically lazy
Devoutly fearful
Constantly stumbling for attention

Determinedly selfish
Inscrutably ambivalent
Precisely circumventing

And always whining
Whining
Whining
Whining

Full and Upright

The only thing I remember clearly
Is that he didn't recline his seat back
Not once
Not once in a 5 hour flight
Probably 35, 40 maybe
Probably brown hair, no beard
Probably wearing a cheap suit
Reading Time or Newsweek
Never saying hello
Or even acknowledging the living body crushed beside him
Doesn't watch the in-flight movie
Doesn't look out the window or listen to music
Orders a ginger ale with no ice
His peanuts remain unopened for the entire extent of our relationship
He sleeps rigid, no pillow, no hand
His dreams are like a newspaper
Black and white, boring,
And ultimately, disposable
Meanwhile, I have to piss
But I wouldn’t want to impose on our friendship by asking him to move

You Are What You Eat

Wreckage, Havoc, Bloodshed, War
they conjugate themselves each
morning in my Alphabits cereal.
I eat them just the same as the gibberish,
noun, verb, gerund or participle
without regard to context
grinding them to powder, chewing
ten left, ten right and swallowing
down to let my stomach do to them
whatever it is that stomachs do.

You are what you eat is a tired
old cliche, but I think it anyway
as I lift my hand off a smushed fly.

(Untitled)

damn,
wish I was a shark,
then I wouldn't have to
give a fuck
about anything

Bones

It’s the bones again
the rocks bathed in sulfur
then it’ll be the bones again
bones to dust
worms to kings
the dead nourish the living
provide stepping stones and stools
to rest our drowsy tails on
then it’ll be the bones again
the skeletal haunts of halloween’s dreams
singing that its what’s inside that counts
when what’s inside frightens us most
it’ll be the bones again
bones to rocks and rocks to dust
and dust to trees and trees to rocks and
it’ll be the bones
a dried out husk of a world no longer a float
exhibit b at infinity’s murder trial
the bones
then screams of silence

Greetings to My Muse

Don’t take that tone with me.
Your voice looks like
a bruised fist
that’s grown pathetic and
shrill from too many
hours barking at your
mutt for growing thin and
bald with mange. Who
wakes you at pitch black
noon so you can step
in her freshly laid shit
and curse while you
feed her a warm can
of raw, rotten cow liver.

Don’t try to intimidate me.
I’ve seduced, bedded,
fucked and murdered prettier
lies than the charming
gobs of spittle you are dribbling
on my stylish suede shoes.

Don’t pout, please don’t.
I can see right through
you and into the apartment
across the road where a
little boy contemplates
his first pubic hair
and dreams of a life
just like yours.

Here’s ten bucks. Now
fuck off.

The Salty Dogs (for Bob Dylan)

The salty dogs are out to get me again
To chew me up in their jaws again
And spit me to the cold cement
Break me for not wanting their trends
Their rules, their songs, their thoughts, my friend
It shakes them so and their minds begin to bend
And the dark shadows that spill all over them
Grow rabid over their dying gems
Which paved over living with something pretend
Something built to lock us all in
To crying and sighing and lying over nothing
To dying and buying and not asking why and
What is a court without someone jesting?
You might not see it but laughter's a blessing
So much pain in the world that no one’s addressing
So much uselessness that takes all our attention
Like who’s popular, what’s popular, how can I get more popular?
I can just repeat what other people think is most appealing
But it’s not really thinking when others thoughts you are just repeating
I get wrapped up so tight that I’m in a ball kneeling,
Screaming “So much damn talking and so little meaning!
Too many tabloid superheroes and not any real ones!
Too much teaching and not any learning!
Too much looking and not any seeing!
So much building and not much creation
That it leads me to fear for the good of this nation.”
And I keep being told to sit and be patient
Wait for your turn and always be gracious
Say please and thank you for what you are getting
But I look out the window and I begin fretting
About the lives that so many people aren’t living


So I’ll sell my car and head for the hills
Forget about my salary and burn all the bills
Sequester myself in nothingness and spaces
Make love to the world in brand new places

Animal Romance

we can't freshen up the daisies
anymore than we can shake the
laziness out of moss covered rocks
even lions have days of wishing
to be anything but a lion
some wild flowers you'll find on
unnamed paths or city bus stop cracks
are weeds
its only a matter of classification
hundreds will breathe truth into a theory
one will burst the bubble
after having gone through
all the trouble of
evolving into
this,
we find dinosaurs living in our heads

you cant blame an alligator,
you cant free a prisoner,
you cant beat them
or join them

we are moving
through this balance,
taking credit for
flame, hurricane, and avalanche
when
flame, hurricane, and avalanche
kick started the whole
animal romance

One, Two, and Three

#1.
The writings of a dead Chinese philosopher will jump into the head of a nine year old kid living in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn while playing basketball. Although he will achieve instantaneous enlightenment, he will still not be able to hit a three pointer.

#2.
A coffin found itself buried six feet under the ground after an emotional ceremony led by a scarlet haired, priest with a lisp. No one will ever know that the coffin is empty, that Douglas Hendricks is actually alive, that the presumed, late Mr. Hendricks is in fact Harry Sinclair an agent with the CIA, that this 'funeral' is a cover up for blowing his cover. No one will ever know but Mr. Harry Sinclair, a few men over at CIA, and the empty coffin, like the rest of us, buried and forgotten, without realizing it's purpose.

#3.
Did you ever see Bill Shakespeare do the Lindy Hop? Al Einstein could bake a cherry cobbler that would melt your knees. Kittens loved Chuck Atlas. Johnny Lennon was color blind. Frank Roosevelt's wheelchair grew up in an old growth forest by a river where salmon struggled upstream to spawn.
And inside each of us is a secret masquerading as a lie.