I Still Wanna Be Your Dog

*This isn't a good piece, I know. But for anyone who writes, this is how we get along. This is how we're able to live. Not everything is golden.
**"An artist is always alone - if he is an artist. No, what the artist needs is loneliness."- Henry Miller

***"The best way to get over a woman is to turn her into literature."- Henry Miller
I remember the morning you said
"I think I could fall in love with you case."
I remember the nights you spend dedicating
songs to me like love struck teenagers
at the point.
I remember 6 underground,
I remember all the songs about
the west coast.
I remember how you made me feel alive,
how I no longer felt like I was
just waiting to die.
I'd stay up all night just to hear your voice at dawn.
Your tough exterior
and that east coast hardness.
And sometimes you said words so
seldom spoken they sounded
foreign as they left your lips.
And now I try to forget those three
small words that echo in my head
and in the caverns of my chest.
I'm trying to forget
that I was good at making you smile.
I'm trying to forget everything we shared.
I'm trying to forget you
compared me to your father.
I'm still working on all those plans
and promises.
Not for you, but for me.
I've never made a promise I couldn't keep.
But I'm in the same spot you found me,
Kasher still sings me to sleep.
Tomorrow night is New Year's Eve
and you'll have your choice of boys to kiss.
I'll drink my whiskey and kiss my cigarette,
but they won't kiss back.
So have a happy New Year and remember
there will always be a boy on the
west coast who is thinking about you.
Then, now, and forever.

Captains Log

I exhale these thoughts onto a page
like my last cigarette at 5 am in late October.
I see them taking form
and taking shape;
telling a story...
telling my tells.
Telling tall tales of drinking
and being unbecoming,
spilling secrets like a man
who is about to die.
But these secrets,
these stories of whales the size of ships
and mermaids whose lips
were modeled after lust,
are true.
The urban legend is that of a family;
wife...kids...domestication.
Some men dream of seeing the sun
rise over the sea,
while others dream of seeing it rise
over a white picket fence.
While other men have seen their future
in a port on a long island.
But the lighthouse always burns out
at sunset and it's time to set sail.
Every man will always want what he
doesn't have.
And for the one that has everything...
enjoy it while it lasts.

Maggie Gyllenhaal

Together we'll compose a static lullaby
in the diminished 5th somewhere
between Wagner and Massive Attack.
The skyline surrounding us will come crashing down
as I reach for your hand.
I'll examine your eyes as they
echo the shadows and glow of
a city set ablaze.
We'll share a cigarette and a kiss
and I'll always remember the taste
of gasoline and destruction on your lips.
I'll be your Mr. Grey and you can be
my Lee Holloway.

Pink

I hid behind the alcohol, humor
and cynicism
like a Knight hides behind chivalry;
like a priest hides behind a white collar.
But I've seen that look before,
that look of substance abuse
and bad decisions in your eyes.
Your lips tasted like Pall Mall's
and happy hour.
Let me be the worse decision
of the decade.
Let me crack your top ten like
a Galaga score.
Let me make a mess of those faded
pink panties he gave you two
years ago as an anniversary present
before he left for the east coast.
Straddle me in the back seat,
parked in the alley behind the bar.
Pull the back of my hair as I split you apart.
As you think of the rainy days you laid in bed
with him and listened to the Cure.
As you think of the picture you saw
of him with his new girlfriend.
Push your hips against mine as you
try and exorcise your pain through cumming.
Shudder like an epileptic,
like a shaman who is purging you
of past, present and future.
And bite into my neck as you regain your senses.
As the floodgates open and the guilt
and pain come rushing back.
I heard you throw those faded pink panties
away in the dumpster
as we went our separate ways.
We both lit a cigarette and I imagined
you shed a tear.
The click of your heels echoed
through the alley like a fading
heartbeat as you walked away.

This ain't a Agatha Christie Novel

These tiny slivers of truth
slip past the cracks.
They pry open my lips
and find their way out.
It's through these poisonous
facts that you try and piece together
who you think I am,
or maybe it's just who you want me to be.
But I've mastered this game.
It's not reverse psychology;
it's Russian roulette,
and neither of us will
leave unscathed.
I'll drop a tidbit of what's
behind the veil,
and follow it up with
a sincerely mischievous smile.
You'll follow it up by showing up
at my doorstep at last call,
glassy eyed, looking for
a good fuck and a warm bed.
After a week you'll realize you're
worse off then when you started.
You'll hate yourself for thinking of me,
and you'll hate me for being me.
For being a drunk unhandsome bastard
who presented you with a mystery
you already had the answer to.
This ain't Seven, and I ain't
Verbal Kint.
There is no lesson to be learned.
I'm a jaded human and you were
a dear caught in the headlights.
But a word to the wise;
keep it like a secret
and play it close to the vest,
cause if you give yourself away
what will you have left?

The Fallout of "Fast" Eddie Felson and Sarah Packard

It's 5 am on the west coast.
I remember when you used to get mad
at me because I never slept.
You'd be starting work and my messages
would greet you like the rising sun.
Those days I loved you more than
I ever loved myself.
And don't you know that I'd trade
away every day for the rest of my life
just to have one morning where
I'd wake up in your arms with
my back against your chest and you whispering in my ear.
But now you have another lover by your side,
and I feel like a bummed cigarette.
You got your fix, took a few hits
and then threw me away.
Funny thing is I know,
and you never even had to tell me.
He swept you off your feet,
was probably everything I could never be.
I know I told you as long as you were happy,
I'd be happy, even if it wasn't with me.
But now I'm just being selfish.
I know I lost you now and forever,
and a piece of me wishes you're happy,
but I'm not.
Every woman will fall short in your comparison.
All these mixtapes do is remind me of you.
You were all I ever wanted and now I know
you're keeping his cold hands company,
you're keeping his bed warm.
Do you ever think of me?
Do you ever wish he was me?
I'm slowly dwindling down to an end.
Don't bother with me,
I don't need a friend
all I need are my bad habits to see me through.
And I know I'll always love you,
but at some point I have to let go.
I guess this is what it feels like to let go.

Terry and Edie

I never got to see your smile at dawn
or the reflection of the sun as it rose
in your eyes.
I never got to smell the sweetness
of your hair
or feel your soft skin against mine.
I fell for a stranger,
yet it felt like I'd always known you.
I close my eyes and I could picture
your smile even before I knew it.
The second we met I knew it was you,
like our marriage had been arranged in the stars.
But you called it a fantasy,
said we were just kidding ourselves,
but I know you felt something too.
Were you just scared?
Were you scared that you found what you've
always wanted in me?
Were you scared of the struggle we'd have to
go through to make things work?
Were you scared I'd go out for smokes
one day and never come back?
But I think about you every day.
I think about what it would be like to
wake up with you in my arms.
I think of what could have been.
If it makes you feel better
I'll say I've moved on.
But the truth is a piece of me
will always be waiting for you.
We were one in the same
and you were once in a lifetime.
Twenty years from now
I'll put on a record or catch
On The Waterfront on TV,
or my daughter will ask me to
watch The Wizard of Oz with her
and I'll think of you.
I'll think of the girl
"Eyes Like Emerald City"
was written for.
I'll wonder;
I'll remember;
I'll wish Lilly was ours.
Ten years from now
I'll be sitting on an empty beach
on a cold December evening with
another woman and I'll think of
meeting you in Montauk.
Two years from now I'll be
in the Pacific Northwest
I'll think of the rain, of our sailboat,
of you sketching while I write.
I'll whisper to myself
"They're all for you dear,
I'll write the album of the year."
In three weeks when the clock
strikes midnight and we ring in the new year
I'll think of you and the kiss your promised
me.

This December Night

Tonight the world has
caught up with me,
life has caught up with me,
death has caught up with me,
my sins have caught up with me,
I've caught up with me.
Like some great predator
they smelled my wounds
and stalked me;
hunted me down.
I've forgotten what it's
like to be eaten alive;
to go mad.
I know what it felt like
to be Caesar on the Ides of March.
I know what it was like
for Ryan when he wrote Love is Hell.
I know what it was like
for Ian on that day in May.
Maybe you'll know what it was
like to be me on that night in December.

Former Glory

Miguel and I stumble out of the Cha Cha Lounge,

each one of us with a cigarette on out lip.
We stumble into the winter night
fumbling to put our coats on,
fumbling for a light,
fumbling through our young lives.
We move through the cities dark streets
from dive bar to dive bar,
raping and pillaging like
two of Genghis Kahn's rejects,
like Butch and Sundnce.
Every night we're gunned down
by last call,
by sunrise,
by the emerging world.
What normies don't understand is,
who we are in this drunken darkness,
is who we really are.
The darkness brings out the savage in me,
in us,
and most of all in this city.
The whiskey blocks out the bad,
but it brings out the worse.
These words are hardly a confessional,
no,
they are the bitter honesty
of two men who have forgotten
what it's like to not be broken,
of two men who are looking for a former glory.

Cha Cha Lounge (Kasandra)

Red flood lights
a disco ball
a photo booth.
This is silverlake.
The tragically hip.
Dive bars with cheep beer.
We come here night after night
looking for nihilism,
looking for pussy.
I come here looking for stories
and to get drunk cheaply.
I come here to honor Bukowski.
I come here looking for truth.
We live in this archaic jungle
and if you're not from here you'd
never understand.
It's like living in England when
The Clash wrote "London Calling."
We are the damned.
We are broke and fiending,
so 'Drink up Johnny'
and fuck the lonely girl at the end of the bar.
You're the scum of the earth
but God damn does it feel good
to be down and out,
young and poor.
We're not looking for love or acceptance,
we're not looking to be saved,
we're looking for life;
for the American dream,
for more than we were promised.
I'm looking to commit a few sins.
I'm looking for a good nights sleep.
I'm looking for trouble.
I'm looking for pussy.
I'm looking for Hunter S. Thompson.
I'm looking for my future in a dirty gutter
cause sometimes that's all
this city offers,
sometimes that's all we have left,
and sometimes we like it that way.