Best In Show

They walk past me in their uniform of perfection.
Bright colored cloths; crisp and neat,
hair combed to look as if it weren't.
Tall, thin confidence.
Their eyes burn through me.
Dismissed for being ugly,
for not owning a gym membership,
for not fronting a fake confidence.
I feel their burn.
This awkward heap of skin and bones
layered in last seasons fashion.
I feel their disdain and it shows;
a subliminal uneasiness I project.
I fake comfort,
I never make eye contact.
I am the half-starved dog
with three spots of mange
they all feel sorry for,
but do nothing to help.
The pretty; uninteresting girls
drink apple martinis and wait for their mark,
the good looking sucker who'll buy the next round.
The smart college girls,
indie rock hipsters with WWF and flannel shirts
drink Stella’s while their dates look for
The MC5 or Tom Waits on the juke.
They come to be seen,
to make regrets…
to find someone to join the peace corps with.
I sit and watch in utter disgust,
burn through them as they do me.
But my burn is dull,
mine is of a jealous anger.
I shoot Jamison and wait for the
beautiful girls I came with
(None of whom I’ll go home with)
to get their fill.
So that they can feel relevant,
so that they have something
to look back on one day.
Tonight I’ll drink ‘till their razors edge
becomes dull and distant.
I’ll go home and cum to the one most
scantly dressed.
I’ll fall asleep in my jeans and one sock
and dream of what it must be like
to be wanted…
To be the dog with the shiny coat,
the dog every woman wants to caress.
Tonight I’ll dream of the day that I
can be best in show.

Absolute Zero

“Are you ready to be God?” she said.

The question rang in the sterile room.

I paused,

trying to wrap my male mind around this

alien concept.

“No” I replied.

Women are the vessels for life,

for the continuation of a species.

They are used to playing a lesser form of God.

Men, we’re the byproduct.

The checks and balances to make sure,

absolute power doesn’t corrupt.

“Well you better be cause in the next

blink of your eyes you would have assisted

in the creation if a universe.”

I’m sure if I’m modeled after God’s assistant

he must have been shitting his pants,

cause I know I am.

I sighed,

“I’m more content with being the Devil.

You be the good parent.”

It’s much easier to be the Devil, there is little

to no expectation involved…

and people just assume

your fucking with them.

It’s the slackers deity.

She reached for the lever.

“Wait.  Shouldn’t we have some kind of cool story?

You know like out of Genesis?

I mean how much respect can two dropouts

who pull a switch and cross their fingers generate?”

I said trying to stall.

“I calculate two years.

We have two years to come up with a story.

At the rate their cells evolve we have two years

before anything that can reason shows up.”

She said impatiently

“Oh, ok.”

It’s fitting she pull the switch,

she being a woman and all.

I mean this machine is just one big uterus.

Except what comes out is worse than a baby…

it’s a fucking universe.

You know, men, we don’t have penis envy

or dominant alpha issues as much as we have

birth giving issues.

See whether we believe it or not

women were set up to run the show.

They are the birth givers,

the continuation of the species.

So to compensate for the lack of birth giving abilities

men emerged as the dominant gender.

We repressed anything that can be mistaken

for weakness, to prove we can lead.

To prove we have worth.

To prove our dominance.

I am an appendix.

A wrinkle in creation.

Able to work within a system

as long as it suits me

and the second it doesn’t,

I destroy it.

“God?” I whispered

“Yes?” She answered.

This made me laugh, already she thought

of herself as the supreme deity.

“What if we fuck up and these things end up

where we are now?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter.  They’ll probably love me

either way.  It’s all they know.”

She pulled down the lever and there was a pause.

I was waiting for something out of

Frankenstein,

instead it was just the eerie

buzz of protons colliding with neutrons

andatoms splitting.

This is my chance to have everyone

on an even keel.

To fix what my God’s assistant forgot to,

or maybe was brain washed not to.

This was my chance to phase out

gender inequality…

To start from absolute zero.

Sign O' The Times

The parking stalls were grave plots
and the cars were the grave stones
Their leather interior
...fancy coffins people paid thousands of dollars for.
When are they going to realize,
it’s just a simple box to decompose in?
These mile long parking lots
are cemeteries for the living dead.
The new cave dwellers
who live in their cubicles
painting their walls with corporate logos
and employee of the month awards.
Neanderthal man did this with his tales of great hunt.
He became one with what he destroyed,
for he knew if he did not destroy it,
would surely destroy him.
But now they paint with meaningless pieces of plastic and paper,
this has become their great hunt,
this has become their instinctual birth right.
This new species of man has never known
kill or be killed
just promotion or no promotion.
If man could have only fathomed
what his role would entail
in this brave new world
it begs the question…
would he have even bothered to evolve?

Long Beach

Long Beach-
The cool off-shore breeze kissed my face
wiping her kiss away from my cheek.
I smiled with the thoughts of last night
still fresh in my head.
I took a drag and squinted as the sun
flexed it’s superiority; heat waves
forming in the distance.
But no being, fallible enough to create me;
could have created such a day.
This paradise pocked with litter
(The acne of convenience)
is home.
I take a drag and ash into the Santa Annas.
I laugh as the humming birds twitch by
in their business suits with nooses tied
tight around their throats
unable to see the world before them.
Thank you my love, for this day.
For your beauty is much more than a Polaroid,
or these cheep words could ever describe.
I took one last look…
one last drag…
and then it was back to the assembly line.

Shaking Like a Leaf on the Corner of Life

Last night I dreamt I kissed you

and just like in real life you pulled away.

I guess I'm just not good enough

and Gladys said I'm too much of a man for you,

but she's too much of a woman for me.

But I know if I were him,

we wouldn't just be friends.

I guess sometimes I just wish I were him.

so tell me pretty baby,

did you lay with me those nights

because you were lonely

or did you get back at him?

Was my bed as warm as his?

Did I suffice?

Was I able to keep you to the lifestyle

you're accustomed to?

Cause now that you're gone I toss and turn...

but I guess that's what I deserve.

You said I wasn't like the rest,

but you treated me like the rest.

Like those that came before you.

So say you're my friend and bow out gracefully.

Tomorrow I'll wake up to my cold sheets

with the smell of Los Angeles on my skin,

and you'll wake up in international waters

wearing is sweater.

But when he's gone and the smell of nicotine stains your skin

I hope you remember those warm summer nights

I threw myself at you.

The Nights we sang...

"We're loyal, like brothers

just us versus all the others.

You're the one for, you're the one for me."

Eight Sixteen

Bring on the night

cause It's gonna last us forever.

So turn up the radio

and sing your favorite song

cause these August nights

are gonna be our glory.

So put on your Sundays best

and lets go to O'Casey's

cause he never closes

and he always forgets your name

but he's got the best juke this side of silverlake.

So come on pretty baby

put on that shirt I love

and I'll put on those shoes

cause tonight's gonna last us forever, we're not singing the blues.

So turn up the radio and sing my favorite song

cause these August nights are our glory.

So come on pretty baby

"Cause I'm down for whatever"

so tell your papa your coming home at dawn

and tell your mama your in good hands

cause tonights our night and we aint gonna die

cause tonights our night and we aint gonna die

cause tonights the night we're gonna remember the rest of our lives

The Boxer

Her ghost haunts this place
long winded discussions of life and love,
heartbreak and loss…
whole hearted, half drunken allegiances.,
But she abandoned me,
this woman to my left.
My companions of drunken sorrow.
All of them,
have found their king
never aware of the one that sat right next to them.
No, but I was never a contender
I was just the punching bag
they used to stay strong
…to stay sharp for that title fight.
But I wasn’t done being used…
abused, suffering in silence
like an obedient house wife.
But the time has come
(and the big show is now)
and you’ve always known,)
you were the prize in this fight.
So take his title
(yeah, his last name)
cause it suits you well.
And maybe now,
…you can retire a champion.

Happy Birthday

We were solidified in lust.
The alcohol and the age told me that.
Yet still, her beauty was only matched by my desire.
I had seen her around and I had known
she was named after her mother.
We were introduced;
a simple greeting as she looked over me and smiled.
Eyes shimmering knowing she could do better.
But her eyes spoke to me and said:
"You are not the one.
Your spine is weak and your face is not defined.
I want a sculpted man, a man molded after David.
Defined and elegant.
You are not the man I want.
But your shoulder will do at dawn,
when the man I love tonight, is gone."

The Rising Tide

“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
for he to-day that sheds his blood with me
shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
this day shall gentle his condition:
and gentlemen in England now a-bed
shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
that fought with us…”

We are the new legs on this tired revolution.
We are the salt of the earth.
We keep them clothed.
We keep them fed.
We teach their children.
But we have been robbed of our history.
Our compliance and our quiet candor
has removed us of our voice.
We have stood back and watched.
We’ve watched our peers die on the street.
We’ve watched our children starve.
We’ve watched our children go cold.
We’ve watched them get rich of the sweat off our backs.
We sat back and watched as they turned our culture against us,
as they tried to make us feel savage; inferior.
But they were the ones, who raped our women;
our goddesses of this earth,
while we sat back and thanked them
when they gave us these slave wages.
We’ve sold our lives, our creativity
and our silence has only strengthened them;
embolden these faceless men who run the big show.
Always them and never us,
but we are as much to blame.
I compel my brothers
(Blue collar slaves)
and I beg my sisters
(white collared indentured servants)
to stand and take back their worth.
Stand tall in unity and feel your worth…
own your own lives.
Each one of us is a brick of defiance
that will shatter this glass cage we’ve been put in.
Allowed to see the world but never allowed to touch it;
experience it.
It’s time we waged our own genocide;
against injustice.
Against false governments
and controlling religions.
Denounce your faith and be free.
You can become God
and this world can become your kingdom.
Let this be the spark
that ignites the first molotov cocktail;
that burns the first church or
capital building.
Let this be your near life experience.
Let this be the white light
you’ve been waiting to walk through;
to cross over.
Let this be the start of the life you’ve been promised.
Let this be the start of your self revolution.
Let this be the start of your salvation.
Porque…
“¡Prefiero morir de pie que vivir simpre arrodillado!”

Los Angeles

I move through her streets
like a lovers hands move over a beautiful woman’s body;
slowly, observant, passionate…
But my starlet has seen her fall from grace.
She has become the whore at the end of the bar.
The woman once stunning in her prime,
once courted by the world,
now weeps;
laying in her old satin nightgown…alone.

Her breast’s sag,
her eyes and mouth cracked with lines
from years of squinting in the limelight.
She lays awake waiting for salvation.
As the Santa Anna’s blow
you can still catch a hint of sweetness,
her soft perfume sifted through picket fences of litter.
I pick up the trace and I close my eyes.
I see her as she was,
and I see all the men who used her.

I make my way to the east side
and I see her tattoo’s.
I see the faded ink pulse
in places most dare not look.
But I caress her and I kiss them,
she looks away but,
I can still see the shame in her eyes.
I tell her to forgive them,
for they know not what they do.
They are the new legs in a fading revolution;
…her disenfranchised children.
They rebel against their mother
and blame them for the way their lives turned out.

I continue to caress, to wander, to journey.
I move though her and trace the track marks.
I kiss up and down her arm,
and I tell her she is not alone.
Forgive them,
your beauty frightened them.
They turned away from their mother,
feeling undeserving of her love.
…But with a word she accepts them back with open arms.


We have slept at her feet,
we have wept in her arms,
we have howled at the moon,
and passed never ending bottles of whisky.
She has made us and we have made her.
And, although she is broken
her eyes still burn hot,
red with passion.
Her soul rages inside this used tired body,
and at night she whispers to me.
And she sings for those who are willing
to listen.
She tells us we are her children;
poets, prostitutes, pan handlers….

She tells us her stories and those of her children,
she tells us we are never alone.
She tells us they will beat us,
they will make us feel ashamed,
and they will try to break us,
to extinguish the fire in our eyes
and the passion in our hearts.
But as long as we never surrender,
as long as we never accept their
cyanide of creativity;
we will always be her children.
And we will always have a home at the end of the world.

Soul

I spend glorious days
and magnificent nights
wandering, drinking, lying…
thinking of past loves.
I remember the love that was professed,
the body that was shared;
more sacred than communion.
The sadness cuts with precision
like a skilled surgeon with a sharp scalpel.
My hands shake as I reach for a glass and a smoke.
I speak as though hardened and indifferent
but that is the furthest from the truth.
My chest burns
as my heart lumps in my throat,
begging to leave this vessel.
It knows they each took a piece
of it with them,
a piece it will never get back;
rendered incomplete for eternity.
I pray these are just the feeling of being green;
growing pains that will define themselves on my face,
so that they may be known.
A quick decision must be made,
for the sword of Democles
hangs over my head.
Spare me the sadness of loss
and the loneliness of indecision.
I wish to be laid to rest now,
no longer a prisoner
of these thoughts and feelings.
I wish to be mechanical.
I wish a filter to process
the loss and loneliness,
so that my heart no longer absorbs it.
I am but human,
and this so called “Divine Gift”
of choice is but a cruel joke,
a curse…
to which I have become it’s submissive servant.
A warning for those yet to be born to this place:
“Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate”

Romance; Russian Roulette

She sat at the end of the bar
and flashed me that smile,
the one every man’s seen before.
Some lessons are better never learned
but I’m just not the type.
She was a fly,
caught in my web
…begging to be devoured.
Heartbroken, heartless
and just waiting to be fucked.
But don’t let them fool you,
they play prey,
‘till your caught at the business
end of their love…
Wishing it was a loaded gun.
Their love is a nuclear weapon.
A woman’s love will bring a nation to its knees.
Inspired Cortez to conquer,
so that he may be conquered.
The time has come,
and decisions must be made.
Conquer or be conquered?
But remember old boy,
romance is Russian roulette
and in the end there is no victor.

Esmeralda

She’d been running her whole life
guess eventually it was my turn
and she’d run from me.
No, but I never chased her.
I knew better.
She’d get lost in Spain, Rome…Greece.
She’d smile and sing,
and wear white dresses
living with Gypsies
or transient bohemians
modest and happy.
I pictured her smiling
drinking ouzo and wine well into the night.
Black skies and shimmering stars.
Candles and Christmas lights strewn about
a simple compound as they danced and sang.
A few brass players, a simple string,
her black hair and brown eyes;
glowing, shimmering, and mightier than the stars.
She was made free;
restless.
I received a few postcards but never thought twice.
It’d feel like I was caging the beauty in the world,
stealing the electricity that makes it special.
But as the sun sets behind the mountains,
and the music fades and the candles flicker,
as the ouzo starts to make her tingle and
the birds sing her to sleep,
she’ll think of me and smile.
A single tear, that never drops.
A life forgotten.
She’ll remember that nothing gold can stay,
and life, well life is for the living.
As for me,
I’ve got promises to keep
and miles to go before I sleep.

Last Call

We keep the truth from ourselves
because what we refuse to see
really isn’t there.
Well baby,
tonight,
last call will be your wake up call.
So buckle up cause
here comes the head on collision.
(So come on)
“Give it to me.
Make good on all those promises,
and just let me have it.
Go on and say it,
what are you afraid of?
(Cause we both know) You’re better off
without me.
So tonight I’ll be on my
best behavior and still bring out the worse in you.”
“Why can’t you just be happy?
Life isn’t always…
(life and death)
You’re just trying to keep yourself from yourself.
And I’ve had all I can take.
(So keep this up)
Keep it so
you can write about another heartbreak.
Another excuse to feed that ego.
Whatever lies you tell yourself
to keep from feeling fake.
(But just…)
Keep calling yourself out
and pulling your own card
cause it’s just a matter of time before someone calls your bluff.
(So go on)
Go on and spin this into some tragic love affair,
(Cause we both know…)
your dramatic and dependent.
So is that what you wanted to hear?
Stitch on your shadow and keep it close
cause the only person your hiding from is yourself.
So stay trapped in that bottle and tell yourself
you’re happy with those whores.
Cause this conversation is coming to a close.
So drive yourself home drunk like you always do,
and remember this conversation isn't warranted…
Cause I never said I loved you.”

Confessions of a Lier

Our lives are but a means to an end.
a chosen lifestyle
carved out of a forced existence.
We’ve become too self involved to change.
We pass the buck,
and we use people.
Afraid of love,
angry at the world,
and disappointed at the way our lives turned out.
We live a fictitious,
vicarious existence that we’ve created in our heads.
Cigarettes embezzled from James Dean.
Words lifted from Fante.
A lifestyle mirrored from Bukowski.
These are the confessions of a liar.
So forgive me father,
for I have sinned.
And the worse part is,
I enjoyed it.
When I told her I loved her,
I didn’t.
When I told her I’d die for her,
I wouldn’t.
When I told her I was her knight
in shining armor,
I really meant I was the Trojan horse
that would break her heart.
I stand before you purging these lies
and self denials.
A broken man,
damned by his own volition.
Deliver me my penance
and let it be known that I have sinned.
Let it be known that I am a sinner.
Let it be known that I am the scum of the earth.
I wear my brand;
this scarlet letter,
with pride.
May Peter show me the mercy
I have never shown.
And may we be delivered from evil,
Amen.

Untitled

When did the world become this difficult?

When did deciding which shoes you put on

this morning meant the difference between life and death?

Some people say it was when we were banished from Eden.

They say that was the first day we were really alone.

But I don’t think that’s it at all.

The second we become aware of ourselves,

is the day everything changes.

We could be five or fifty,

it doesn’t matter.

‘Cause life has a way of hitting the reset button

every so often.

Everything you’ve built comes crashing down

on you in one fell swoop.

Sodom and Gomorrah, Rome, your life.

So tonight when you lay awake in your bed

all tucked in, or when you catch your

reflection in a mirror,

you’ll think of all those irreversible decisions

you can never remake.

The son you could have had,

the woman you should have married,

and you’ll think of the smile you lost.

But this is who you’ve become,

for better or for worse.

So tonight while you lay face up remaking all your

irreversible decisions and imagining yourself

with your blushing bride

or at little league practice with the son

you could have had;

remember that it’s never too late.

So rise with the morning sun and know

it is better to have loved and lost then to have

to live alone.

Morning

The crisp clear morning

brought a new hope.

The ability to restart;

to forget.

The whisky burned

as it slid down my throat,

and the cold wind

kissed my cheek as it passed me.

A clear California morning,

with the stars in full bloom

and a screaming heart.

I sat on those steps

and counted the minutes to dawn.

Until the rest of the world

woke up to this new beginning,

this new day.

And for those few precious

minutes…

The world was mine,

the stars were mine,

she was mine,

life, was mine.

Blue Blood, Blue Heart, Blue Collar

Memories of beer and cigarettes,

cheap whisky and even cheaper rooms.

The memories make me long

but they also keep me content;

grounded to this savage place.

I wouldn’t call them the

hardest of times,

but rather they are the monotonous

trials of everyday life.

The symphonic, yet tragically

beautiful crescendo of

the working class.

A slow build to an exhausting

peek of mediocrity.

For every low there is a high,

for every smile there is a tear.

And if struggle is what defines us,

then we are modern warriors.

Blue collar gladiators.

So I raise my glass to all those

who finished last,

because life itself is enough to celebrate.

Romeo+Juleit-The Tragedy

The quiet loving of her finesse touch

and the look in her eyes,

says she can’t get enough.

Her porcelain face

is perfection to the T;

still pictures of grace.

(I’d buy them up if I could)

Remember those nights we’d spend

haunting that dive bar,

intelligently drunken conversations

of life and love.

But don’t you know

I’d trade them all away

just to know what was behind

that sad smile.

If I were king,

would you be my queen?

‘Cause I’d give up forever

just to see your smile

…for one more second.

And I’d search forever

just to find the ground

deserving of your feet.

(Cause you know)

We can fly away,

plead like angels

and speak in silver tongue sonnets.

So take my hand

and say you’ll be mine.

Carpe Diem

I know this is shit but sometimes shit is better than nothing at all...or is it the other way around?

Why can’t you see I’m the one you want?

You chase all these pretty boys

Politicians with empty promises

Cause friends aren’t lovers.

But if you could see the look in my eyes;

you'd think differently.

I'm just the shoulder to cry on

when they break your heart,

but I guess that’s the roll I chose to play.

And all these cold nights

I lay in my empty bed,

I dream of your smile

and every night I ask the stars to change my roll.

But maybe if I broke your heart

you'd like me more,

‘cause that seems to be the latest trend.

I'm sorry I have a heart

I'm sorry you're not a whore

but one day,

(a day too late)

you'll wake up in the middle of the night

(just like the rest)

and you'll realize,

you lost the one thing you always wanted.

So for now, even if it’s just for the night

know I'm willing and waiting,

dreaming of your smile and waiting

for your call;

waiting for the day you wake up and realize…

(how much you love me)

Tell cupid to aim steady and true

cause after this…

(I can't take much more)

after enough nights I'll be through;

move one to someone new,

…Someone that isn't you.

I've been going through some writers block.  I have a few pieces that I'm working on but I can't seem to finish either of them the way I want to.  I suppose it's a matter of patients and letting the words fall into place as they should.  Words have a life of their own.  They live, they breath; we exist in a symbiotic relationship; a courtship of mixed drinks and mixed emotions, dancing to the existential beat of existence.  A true artist wears his heart on his sleeve and keeps his ear to the ground.