Sunday, December 25, 2011

Shawn Mafia | Last Call on Christmas Eve | CD Baby

Shawn Mafia | Last Call on Christmas Eve | CD Baby

Click the link above and Download "Last Call on Christmas Eve" & "All I Got For Xmas Was a D.U.I." MP3's for free! That's $0.00! Merry Christmas to all! Offer ends at Midnight ~ 19x13 ` TTBO

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

A Poem by the Google V-Mail Translator

this is
Rainstuff calling Cincinnati
returning your call
you instead of mold inside the salt
think probably what it is
The One
the salt and thy air
and the water
makes it grow together,
it tends to follow,
mop and afterwards
it's Sarah
who looks kinda gray
and do not touch
that looks very good
but, I'm sure it's just mold,
but, either way, all that would
need to be done
is assault
tank care
what the salt?!

with the U.S. Pass
some drive to the gym
but I forgot to do another
I was going to go work
but I have been changed
Jim in.
Landris, I have been yellow
my whole life there
phone bench birthdays
You have a holy spirit
of a bedspread
since he says,
amen brother.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Embalmer's Lament

Bucket of dirty blood
bleached memories
that mop the floor
I’m manic depressive
over the dim hours
to your touch.

Upon the cold slab
chills rattle the spine
arterial injection making
faint eyes water
but I don't dare
spell out your fate
tell you that.

Silence upon the super glued lips
secured mandible suture
semi macue
and thus, you will speak no more
about those daring events
that delivered your death
two slugs to the stomach
one in the chest
upon a Halloween night burglary
gone mischievously wrong.

Sixteen years to nothing
trocar stab to the guts
aspiration of emotion
pumped up high
stitch the crime scene closed
naked in, naked out
eye caps seal
the upward stare
imprison the windows to the soul
rattled remorse stalks
the vanishing dreams
of the grieving
nowhere never looked so glamorous
in the rubbery pallor
of your stoic presentation.

I made a paycheck this afternoon
dropping the guts of the autopsied
into a bright red bucket
splashed with a hint of cavity fluid
stirred but not shaken
for the perfect martini of preservation
sipped not before a lifetime
that brushed up awful close
against the finality of your stillness
silent door bell,
like a dog whistle,
Dr. Death on the front porch
and, without further ado
I bleach mop the floors
cover you with a white sheet
wash my hands
wipe off my shoes
punch the clock
and walk out the door.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Tuesday Morning

A sad violin underwater
ten thousand slugs on a cold sidewalk
Northern Californian earthquake
pigeon night
decay of angry blue tarps
my brain makes sense of nothing
it is a tar filter
sucked through with nicotine smoke
terrible freeways
and pimps in pointed Gucci shoes.

Pass the butter
but, gone is the knife
hidden in her purse
waiting to spread blood
across the burnt toast of
battered feuds
and mechanical relationships
rusting in rain water

I am the fax machine
the timber dawn is burning
time clock hat
I wear you
for 40 hours a week
and still my
batting average

Nothing but the whole entire world
between us
I bruise easily
Facebook flagellation
I see the status changing
faster then dirty underwear
quicker then a hiccup
titanium bottle rocket
steel salamanders
slippery vacancy
my baby ain't no dim bulb
she lights up the entire

Cat scratch fever
William Grant Stills
my oboe is a hobo
a handkerchief of effeminate snot
fish tank
fog horn
saber tooth office supplies
hang me on a wall
without arms or legs
and call me

Sunday, November 6, 2011


When the grenade came over the wall
it was Sunday
and my soul was weak from
a constant and continual
barrage of
loose women
and bad luck
so I just held my breathe
and let it go off
with a huge

… I was reduced to a million pieces.

Then came a text message
it wasn’t God
or Jesus
or Satan
or the Grim Reaper
nobody from the great beyond
it wasn’t even my sister
my lawyer
or my baby’s momma
a woman
a good woman, in fact,
that thought that
at the end of this storm
ravaging the Mojave desert
upon this broken Sunday afternoon
would be a rainbow.

She was waiting for it
her text message
actually stated that
she couldn’t wait to see it
so I stared out my window
in vain
looking for it
desperate in fact
and, not seeing it
I got out the binoculars
searched every end of the horizon
hoping to catch just a glimpse
of this colorful arch of hope
looking to pin point the exact location
of it’s gift of potted gold
but, alas
I saw nothing.

The pieces of my soul
were still scattered
around the room
and, with little strips of scotch tape
some glue
I fastened something resembling myself
back together.

Not a bad likeness I thought
as I held it up to the light
in fact
life outside the margins
never looked so good!

I got a beer out of the refrigerator
as the sun crept back into the horizon.

Rainbows are always out there
just hidden in the clouds
invisible to us
until the time comes
when they feel it is appropriate
to present themselves
sometimes they take the form of
winning lottery tickets
winning horses
free meals
rides home
loose change on the sidewalk
just good women
that like to text message
hopeful things
to guys whose
souls are splattered
all over the living room

She Decided

Strange sir
how this document
sat in the computer
for many weeks
with nothing more then a mere title
“She Decided”
and how
upon this night
I decided to compose
these words
that have nothing to do with the title
or it’s original intent
so here goes:

That her hair was flaxen mayonnaise
for the white noise
attracted men
like moths to the lantern light
and locked up
inside the delirium of romance
quite a few concessions
many young boys made
before the altar of her piss stained underwear ...

(I don’t know. That seems a little shocking for shocking’s sake!)

Maybe this …

Bleed knife
your memorabilia of sound
spins like the tilt a whirl
in a dust lot carnival
your big brown swollen eyes
are sick from crying
and I have invented many lies
for your cautious heart.

(Hum … that’s kinda of all right! But what the fuck has she decided?)

Maybe this:

Upon hours of intense personal introspection
accompanied by prescription pills and 21st century values
she concurred life had no meaning
without a credit card and a quick cash call
consumer me into the next wing
sedate me with all the things that money can buy
for the dingy hallway of poverty
I linger in
makes my cunt dry
and turns my pubic hair into a million angry snakes!

(I don’t know if accordions could help this poem.
But, if I had one I would certainly start playing!)

I may never have been to Japan or Missouri
but I have been to this world up inside my skull that
no one else has journeyed to
most women don’t care much
for this line of thought
how do I know
exactly what lines
the thought process travels
well, I have watched it click inside
their marble cat eyes
like a homeless man’s shopping cart
barreling down
the empty boulevard
at 2 a.m.

Alas! Manslaughter is our only recourse!
You can do time and get out
with enough years to enjoy
some leisurely hours around
the swimming pool of life.

(damn … this is going nowhere)

Darling Joan
I have sensed some murmurs of dissatisfaction
emanating from the crinkled flesh of your brow
this leads me to believe
your first son was killed in a car wreck
perpetrated by an alcoholic uncle
that loses all control of the wheel
every night
after 5 p.m.
and that your ex-husband
has more in common
with a pack of Marlboro Reds
then with you …

My dear,
I could love you for an hour
but not a single second more.

(fucking terrible - dispense with the riddle and give em’ the …)

What did SHE DECIDE?!?!?!?!?!!?

Damn good question.

The Five W's

the light sends us
asking not the question of
we can hang
the noose
as always
in the past tense of being
the pitch black
only comforts a finger
from a corpse, an oblong ring,
the rot is
a tri-angular love affair
and the
oh, those
God damn conclusions!
already drawn
way before
seems to be
the best
can do
caged within
this carnival mirrored existence
leaving just before
down at the skeleton station
for God's sake

Sunday, October 30, 2011

R.I.P. Mr. Luff

Working on a draft for a short "noir-ish" style tale about a girl in a bar waiting for a guy to show up at a bar and another guy is working in the bar playing up the comic relief and all this is taking place in a bar ... you get the picture. Anyway, she hands the bartender a note and leaves. The guy comes in and the note is passed. Nobody dies, no big explosions, and no bikini clad women. The message is powerful though. A powerful message is sometimes all that matters. Stay tuned.

If you haven't already surmised I am dialed into the WCPE Classical Music Station out of Raleigh-Durham, NC. It's the only way to survive these threadbare Saturday afternoons in the Mojave desert. A sonic refuge where desperate souls, cast aside by fate's cruel kiss, can rally some momentum to go on. The word interminable flashes through my head. I know this to be a false alarm. For, in standardized periods of little movement, there are no events to drive our stakes into. To mark out the progression of time. Just the void. Inside this sector of swirling chaos is where the essence of the "free vortex" begins. However, it can't be found on the surface. It is underneath the skin. Like scabies or slivers. Message in a bottle. Bacteria in the paper cut. Or, like my soon to be published short story, scribbled on a napkin and kissed with red lipstick.

I spent the morning at a Memorial Service for my High School English teacher, Mr. Luff. Having moonlighted on the side as a licensed funeral director I would wish to point out that, after having attended this service, I feel like I need to reevaluate my position when it comes to knowing anything about presenting a funeral service. Having gone as a participant, instead of an active player, I have learned far more about what is happening at Memorial Services then what I have learned in the past years working them. That isn't to say that the local mortuaries don't provide quality services ... quite to the contrary. I think, perhaps, as old school undertakers we're slightly out of touch. Exaggerated sense of self worth in the funeral product comes to mind. That is neither here nor there. Didn't mean to cut a promo on the state of the funeral industry or myself. But there it is. And here it is ...

The first principle of the free vortex is the illusion of time. You have to perceive it this way ... our backs are against a slow moving wall. The wall is as thick as the width of the many millennium spanning backwards to the beginning of time. It is in fact interminable. Infinite. In an endless retrograde. The wall is slowly inching forward. We're helpless to stop it. You can push and lean back as hard as you can but you cannot move backwards. The wall is made of clear glass. You can observe everything that has transpired in the past. You can stare back through the wall but, like a rear view mirror, all you can see are moments moving into the past. The '"lived" portions of our lives fading into the distance. The glass is unbreakable. Bullet proof. Pound away at it all you want. Anchor you legs and lock your knees. You will never break it. You will never stop it. A wise man once told me, "If your going to fall ... fall forward." Forward time is the gateway to the free vortex. The first thing you have to do is move your back away from the wall. Take a few steps out in front. The future is unwritten and temporarily void of light. It's the blank canvas. Run towards it! Jump forward into the void with all your clothes off ... cannon ball! Stop leaning against the past and the passing of time. Take that leap of faith. Creation is the engine. It just needs a driver. Creativity is more important than knowledge. I heard that said today. It was one of Mr. Luff's maxims. We will hang that on the nail at the doorway to the unwritten. The unwritten has a name. That name is "Free Vortex".

Mr. Luff had taken up sky diving long after I had graduated high school. At his Memorial Service I watched video footage of one of his sojourns into the air. He had an impressive number of jumps before he died. Over 400 leaps of faith into the unknown.  Somewhere up in the atmosphere Mr. Luff, my high school English teacher, spun round and round and plummeted to the Earth's surface. In that space in between airplane and hard ground he was enlightened. Certain intangible truths reveled themselves to him.

It was told at the Memorial Service that upon one occasion,  Mr. Luff's jump was mired with complications. His main shoot failed to open. At the very last moment he was able to engage one of the reserve shoots. The landing was real stiff. It crushed quite a few vertebrate and sent him to the hospital in a rather serious condition. I believe that somewhere up there in the dark, blue void he was out in front of the glass wall of time. Perhaps he was too far out in front. Eventually he would hit a barrier that would stop him. I can only imagine what swirled through his consciousness during this rushing descent from thousands of feet high in the air. He was beyond knowing. The fourth and fifth wall crumbled before his eyes. He survived the fall. He came back to camp with the ability to spark fire. He was changed.

When he made a full recovery he went back up. Many questioned his choice to return to sky diving. He performed a few hundred more jumps after that. All successful. He had now made danger his vocation. An act that is noble and worthy in it's self.  I can only trust that he glimpsed something up there that few of us have ever seen. His hands touched enlightenment. He met creation on the way down and creation shared it's timeless riddle. "Some men do it for diamonds ... some men do it for gold," sang Tom Waits once. Mr. Luff served a higher master. He did it for creation.

When Mr. Luff passed away last week, from a long battle with cancer, he told his wife he was ready to go. I believe he had "it." Whatever "it" was. "It" being what we have all been digging in the dirt for our whole lives. That one unmovable truth. That moment of enlightenment. That passing torch of creativity. He was dressed in his sky diving suit before the cremation. For that final, faithful leap into the dark.

R.I.P. Mr. Luff.

Sunday, October 9, 2011

Blog - Straight Up, No Chaser

Someone once told me that the desert is comprised of hundreds of dirt roads that all lead nowhere. I would tend to concur. I have witnessed this myself. I have driven them all. Upon every single damn one I have had to eventually turn around and drive back to where I originally started from. It's an endless maze. A merciless stain of defeat and mired probabilities. Long shot dreams for broken souls. Cactus halos that tear the flesh of the brow. Sand, instead of salt, for your open wounds.

It's fall in the Mojave. The terrain looks the same as summer but it's colder now. The temperature has dropped ... probably to catch up with the general populations IQ! I'm just kidding. Had to get that one in. I don't mean to be a dick but then again I do. The desert is an acquired taste. Especially in the remote area where I reside. The last place in the world that you want to be caught without a ride home or a reason to live. The Morongo Basin ... 29 Palms to Joshua Tree to Yucca Valley. East to West respectfully. And all the surrounding areas from North to South to further East ... I'm even talking Wonder Valley and beyond. On down to Amboy and into the Morongo Perserve. Where no man or woman comes out alive. And if you do ... you come out changed.

I'm sitting in my house on a Sunday morning. I have a strange contraption strapped to my ankle and I was told only to leave the house during certain hours of the day. I will elaborate on this no further. However, it correlates with today's topic children: ALL THE WAY. To all you half assers and noncommittal individuals lurking in the shadows of indecision this will be your wake up call. Let me explain ...

A week ago Friday I was driving home from my day job as an undertaker. I was dressed in a black suit and a black tie and dark Ray Ban sunglasses. I was manning the wheel of a small Toyota economy car that I borrowed from a retired Russian trapeze artist. Now on disability, he found comfort in the notion that there was really nothing more to see beyond the confines of his one bedroom house. The chessboard, the imported cigarettes, the bottom shelf vodka sustained him. And the faded memory of loose women, circus lights, and past glory were all he needed. It was all any man needed. So he didn't really require a car. But I did. He owed me a favor. The cheeseboard is a cruel mistresses and the tote board never lies. Sometimes the horses come in ... sometimes they don't.

I was driving into Joshua Tree on Hwy. 62. As I approached the Park Boulevard intersection I happened to glance over to my right. Out in front of Mike's Liquor I saw to young men beating the living shit out of each other while another gentleman in a white tank top and sagging shorts watched on. He clapped and postured and cheered as the two other men, engaged in fisticuffs, swung and wrestled out on the sidewalk. I slowed down as the stop light glowed red. I thought to myself, "Gee that's a peculiar sight in Joshua Tree."

I waited and watched at the intersection. The fight continued and no one joined the one man audience. Nor did anyone come forward to intercede. Perhaps I was the only one seeing this? That was the sudden conclusion my pea-brain mustered. As the light abruptly turned green, I slowly drove forward and thought, "We need more of this type of thing in Joshua Tree! Mike's Liquor's  new marketing slogan: Two Men Enter ... One Man Leaves!"

I knew it could only be a bad omen for the evening to come. When I arrived home I found other people engaged in heavy drinking and loud talk out on my front porch. One was a quite stunning female with a low cut blouse. She was a liquor rep from the Sky vodka company. As I loosened my tie I knew the night would end bad. It would just be a matter of what extreme we would take it to. Multiple bottles of vodka in all flavors, shapes, and sizes poured. There was beer and rough men courassing and, in the mists of all this, I made a phone call to a certain individual about a certain particular sensitive matter that we will not approach at this juncture in time. Needless to say, it put me in a mood of distress, and "fuck all." Confronted with a constant stream of loss and dreams unrealized any young man's spirits can be crushed under a cavalcade of bitter regret. Especially when you stare into the void and discover that all the blame lies squarely on your shoulders.

As we approached the ten o'clock hour things went completely sideways. The sense that my life was a complete wash became all to glowingly apparent. I concluded that the night would not end without the complete destruction of my physical and mental being. I made some calls ...

The details of the fact and fiction that follow are of no relevance. I concluded to take it all the way. However, by 10 a.m the next morning I was back in bed wondering where it all went wrong. The worst thing about the hangovers and heartaches that ensued was just the fact that I had to endure them. I concluded that if your bent on personal damage and self-destruction, make sure by the end of the night you disappear into a puff of green smoke ... never to appear again.    

Like every successful endeavor in life ... you must take it all the way! The next time you decide to wander out into the darkness of the desert night with a liquored brain and a death wish do us all a favor ... do your self an even bigger favor ... don't return. I don' care if you take a bus to Cleveland, join the merchant marines, or get zipped up in a yellow body bag and shoved into the morgue. It' all or nothing! Not just for the endeavors with positive connotations, but even for the things that give Satan's dark forces legal ground.

This Sunday morning I stepped out onto my porch (it was after 9 a.m. - don't send the cops to collect me quite yet) sober as a stone and bent on total domination. Many new battles on the horizon ... looking forward to some more 'Fight Club' action out in front of Mike's Liquor on a Friday evening in Joshua Tree, California. I know, dear reader, you to have many battle's ahead. Many fiery dragons to slay. I wish you happy hunting and much success in the days to come. Verily my brethren, I implore you to take it all the way! Don't look back ... don't stumble or side step ... most people will denounce you ... the rest will condemn you ... but believe me, the light at the end of the tunnel will be the brightest and most beautiful thing that you have ever beheld! It makes no matter if it's self-improvement or self destruction ... if your going to do it, see it out to the end.  

My room-mate is back home from work. He's ready to take it all the way at 10:55 a.m. "Jack Daniels and Coke and a Marlbro Red ... it's just inspirational ... like the new apple i-phone that just came out." There is beauty in the darkness as well as the light.

I stretch my arms out into the sun and embrace the sand and creosote. For all the dark hues I cast the desert in I still can recognize a beautiful day when I see one. The sun is warm on the shoulders and we're all still in this game of life in some capacity. Get out there today and take it all the way ... at least that's what Charles Bukowski will tell you ... and that fool is never wrong!

(On a side note: It's Arm Chair Travelers weekend on WCPE ... if your not supporting classical music on WCPE - Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina then you need to really reconsider  your position  in life or just .... Eat Shit and Die!)

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Yucca Man

“We used to do beer runs all the time. Down at Triangle Liquor. When we was kids … do you remember Larry?”
Larry burped and farted. The swamp cooler was on high and the roar of chilled air boomed heavily through the room.
“Seems like back then you could get away with that shit. Cashiers didn’t give a crap. Nowadays they give chase. Leap right over the god-dam counter like Jesse Owens and shit. Sprint right after you … I can’t run as fast I used to.”
Jim laughed, “Shit! You can’t do much of anything the way you used to.  I remember one time they tried to chase me. I had a 24 pack in each hand. Running my ass off down Hwy. 62 and one of the guys from the liquor store was coming up behind me quick. I had one case of Budweiser and one suitcase of Strohs. So I chucked the case of Bud at him. Dropped em’ like a bag of bricks!”
“Why the fuck didn’t you throw the Strohs at him?” asked Larry.
“Don’t know. I guess I was really into Strohs at the time.”
“I would’ve kept the Bud,” said Larry as he lit a smoke and took a deep drag.
“Strohs is better.”
“The fuck it is! They don’t even make that shit anymore!”
“I know,” said Jim, “and I’m still upset about it.”
A door opened in the room. An old lady stood in the light that flooded in from outside. Larry and Jim looked up and squinted.
“Larry! You in here?” shrieked the old lady.
“Yeah ma! What do you want? I’m entertaining a quest! And your letting all the cold air out!”
“I need you to take me to the store later. I need to pick up my prescription and some milk and chicken and …”
“Yeah, yeah ... okay ma. We’ll do it this afternoon. When I’m free.”
“Free?” yelled the old lady, “Your shiftless ass doesn’t do anything but sit around in this dark room all day. The only job you got is taking your empty beer cans down to the recycling center every two weeks. Lazy, good for nothing freeloading son of a  …”
“All right ma,” yelled Larry, “In a couple hours. When Jim leaves.”
“Why do you two boys keep it so dark in here? Can’t see your hand in front of your face! Christ all mighty Larry! Have you been masterbating in her again? I told you a hundred times there will be no self pleasuring under my roof! I’m going to go into the other room and pray to Jesus for Larry and Jimmy’s souls!”
The old lady slammed  the door behind her. The roar of the swamp cooler lessened and Jim was laughing and holding his stomach to keep from falling to the floor in hysterics.
“She really told you! When you going to move out of your momma’s garage and get your own place? That way your poor mother don’t have to listen to you beatin’ off in here all day.”
“Shut your mouth and mind your own business,” groaned Larry.
The two sat silent in the room for a moment. The radio was set to 106.9 on the FM dial. Bon Jovi’s ‘Living On A Prayer’ played against the heavy hum of the swamp cooler and the exhaling of cigarette smoke. Jim slumped in the tattered old sofa with an orange and brown floral pattern. Larry was next to him. They both had cans of beer in their hands.
“Oh-oh … were half way there … Oh-oh, living on welfare … take my hand we’ll make it I swear …” sang Larry, loudly.
“Living  … on … welfare …” the two began to sing in unison.
Larry and Jim started to bust out laughing.
“Brotha  … you beyond welfare! They need to make a documentary about your sad ass life! Beyond Welfare: The Larry Holcomb Story … this week on A&E!”
“Fuck you dick! Just because you got a fancy job corralling carts down at Big Lots, don’t you go think you can get all pious and high falutin on me!” railed Larry.
Both men lifted their beer cans to their mouths. Each took a swig, pulled the hand back, and gently shuck the can. Both faces grimaced a bit.
“Maybe we should take ma down to the store now,” mused Larry.
“We’re out of beer ….”

Larry and Jim left the garage apartment and headed to the front door of the house. Larry opened it and stuck his head in. “Ma! Get the car keys. We gotta go to the store now!”
“What did you say?,” shrieked the old lady.
“You heard me ma! Get the god dam car keys. Me and Jim gonna take you to the store!”
“What!?” questioned the old lady again.
“Ma! The car keys! We’re going to the god-damn store! Get your ass out here!”
Down at the Stater Bros. Grocery, Larry and Jim lifted items out of the cart and placed them on the moving belt at the check stand. A 30 pack of Miller High Life, a fifth of Evan Williams, two Country Club Malt liquor tall boys, a pack of lighters, a gallon of milk, eggs, half a loaf of bread, mayo, a package of chicken breasts, and some toilet paper.
Larry’s mother looked at the cashier as she scanned the items, “Me and my boys are just going to have a little light lunch and then pray to Jesus for providing us with this daily bread.” The old lady smiled wide and rubbed Larry and Jimmy’s shoulders.
“God ma’! Keep your hands off me!” shouted Larry slightly embarrassed.
The grocery checker gave a half frown but tried to reverse it with no avail.
“Jesus provides!” spoke Jim, “as he eye-balled the fifth of whiskey.”
“That he does boy! You just have to open your heart …” preached the old lady.
“And let the beer flow free! Salvation in a bottle!” interrupted Larry.
“That’ll be $65.81,” voiced the cashier giving Jimmy and Larry a disapproving look.

Back at the house the boys were 15 deep into the Miller High Life and the Evan Williams was half empty. The temperature outside was spiking at 105 degrees.  Jim and Larry were sweating despite the swamp cooler blasting away at them.
“We needs’ some G-u-rls,” slurred Larry.
“What the fuck you going to do with a girl?”
“Just that!
“Just what?”
“Fuck!” burped Larry.
    Jim took a long pull from his High Life can and finished it off. He crumpled the can in his hand and made a fist.
“We need some heavy drugs,” spoke Jim thoughtfully aloud.
“Wanna go to Chainsaws?”
Jim took a long pull off his Evan Williams and wiped his mouth with the back of his sweaty wrist, “Yeah, I do.”
The two men got up and hurriedly prepared themselves. They stumbled about for a few minutes, loaded their pockets with beer and cigarettes, then exited the garage apartment.
“Wait here Jimbo. I am going to go get some money from Ma’.”
Larry entered the front door of the house. Jim stood in the driveway and lit a cigarette. In a few seconds Larry came back out with his mother following behind.
“Now Larry, I don’t know what you need twenty dollars for but try not to spend it all in one place. Take a jacket if your going to be out walking …”
“Ma’! It’s 105 degrees out!”
“I know Larry but it will be dark soon. Jimmy, you should take a sweater.”
Jim took a quick drag off his smoke and looked encouraged.
“Where are you to going?” exclaimed the old lady as Larry and Jim began to walk away from the house.
“Going to get some heavy drugs!” shouted Larry.
“Well then, make sure you take your Bible along. Jesus will light your path!”

The two men walked west through the open field adjacent to Larry’s house. The sun’s rays pulsated down transforming the desert into an open air tanning bed. The two cooked and sweated profusely as they stumbled drunkenly along. A pair of straggly, unkempt jack rabbits with crooked backs leaped past but Larry and Jim paid them no mind. They scurried off into the vast sea of creosote bush leaping in and out of view, their arched backs giving the appearance of a flung boomerang. Larry trail blazed right through a patch Cholla cactus. A few of the spiked stems affixed themselves to his pant leg.
“Jesus Christ! I hate these things!” squealed Larry as he kicked his leg up in the air trying to dispel the cactus.
“Hold still,” yelled Jim as he came up to Larry and started swatting at his pant leg with a large, jagged rock.
“Shit man!”
“Hold still. These cactus are highly unstable! They’ll leap right onto you. That’s why they call them jumping Cholla! Don’t want to touch em’ directly!”
Jim scrapped the cactus off Larry’s pant leg and the two marched on. They crossed over Pioneertown Road into more open desert and headed for the industrial area of town. A few houses sat isolated in the distance on a dirt road leading off of Yucca Trail.  The men headed towards the houses and walked up to the last residence on the right.
A vast multitude of broke down cars loitered in the front yard. Some with no wheels, only tarnished rims, elevated carelessly on cinder blocks. The windows where darkened out with heavy blankets and tin foil. No sound emanated from inside. Jim tried the door bell.
“Do you hear anything?”
“Hear what?” whispered Larry.
“The door bell dick head! Did it ring?”
“Dunno … try it again.”
Jim pushed it once more, “Shit, I’m just going to knock.”
Jim tapped hard on the pealing paint of the wood door. No sound at first but then the faint echo of voices seemed to rise and movement was apparent. Jim knocked again.
“Who …  is it?!” came a rushed, faint voice from inside the house.
“Chainsaw here?” yelled Jim.
“Who … is it?!” came the same reply.
“It’s Jimbo. You holding?”
Silence for a second then the door opened just a crack. Jim and Larry could see a bloodshot eyeball peeking at them through the darkness.  An odor of burning plastic wafted out of the house. It remained Jim of when he would lite the heads of his G.I. Joe action figures on fire. The way the black smoke would smell when it would rise in a crazed funnel cloud from Cobra Commanders head.
Jim made no mention of his thoughts, “Chainsaw! Let us in dude. We need a quarter.”
The door slammed shut for a second. Then, without warning, it opened up wide. Jim and Larry walked into the dark, pungent smelling room. The door seemed to mysteriously close, again, behind them. The room was dark, save for a few kerosene lamps placed in odd locations around the small living room. There was junk and trash everywhere. Chainsaw stood in the entrance way of the kitchen. He was at the small breakfast counter that separated the two rooms. He was toying with a beat up plastic, green cordless telephone.
“I know I can get this thing to work ...” rambled Chainsaw to himself. His bottom jaw rocked from right to left like a crazed cuckoo clock. His facial features were maniacal from little sleep and lots of drugs. His face in the lamp light, with shadows thrown across it like old ghosts or camouflage war make up, gave his countenance the appearance of  that of an old circus clown with to much plastic surgery. His sun scarred skin was pulled taught over his skull like a snare drum with three day stubble. Wagner's ‘Flying Dutchman Overture’ played at a low volume next to him.
“You boy’s mind classical music? I found that beauty in the dumpster behind the Humane Society. It’s a little old am radio that runs on batteries … everything in the house runs on batteries,” said Chainsaw, pointing at a small device on the counter, rocking back and forth as he unscrewed the bottom of the plastic telephone. “I can only get talk radio or bible thumpers … it’s am dail … listening to the classical composers instead … shit, cheap Taiwanese plastic … anyway, dope fiends can’t listen to classical music … is that what you think! You think I am a dope fiend!”
Jim and Larry stood silently in the living room a few feet in front of Chainsaw. They said nothing and shoved their hands in their pockets feeling nervously for cigarettes and beer cans.
Jim stuttered a bit, “We, huh, don’t think that!”
“So … what is it now that you two mother-fuckers think! That the Dinosaurs were extinct for thousands of years before we landed here on planet Earth … straight from the mother ship … west end of the galaxy! Monsters don’t exist … the bogie man ain’t real … JFK was a nigga … Dr. King was a white man … dopers don’t listen to Mozart … my car can run strictly on synthesized coyote urine?!”
Jim and Larry both lit cigarettes and peered nervously at each other.  The room was silent for a moment.
Chainsaw slammed the phone down and fumbled for his pack of smokes on the kitchen counter. “I’m just fuckin wit ya’ … haahahah! You seem a little tense … You boys need to lighten up. Whadda yeah wanna score again?”
“Some dope,” said Larry, “A quarter … we only got twenty bucks.”
“Twenty cents worth … huh? Twenty cents of the super-charged white-go-magic! I can do that … but you to gotta do something for me …”
“Sure Chainsaw … whatever?” replied Jim.
Larry and Jim walked over to Chainsaw.
“First … gimmie that twenty bucks!”
Larry took the bill out of his pocket. It was damp with perspiration. He handed it to Chainsaw.
“I’m going to give you some of my personal,” rumbled Chainsaw as he pulled an object from his pocket. He dumped the contents of a black, plastic camera film holder onto the counter. He eyeballed the rock and cut some away. “That there is a little more then a quarter … you want a line right now?”
Larry and Jim nodded their heads up and down and Chainsaw shaped two long rails with a razorblade. “All out of baggies … can I make ya' a bindle? No, wait …”
Chainsaw grabbed a large zip lock bag from a drawer in the kitchen. He cut a square at the bottom end of the bag. He brought his lighter up to the loose edge and warmed the flame against it until the two open ends of the plastic fused. He took the remainder of the dope and dropped it in. He proceeded to burn the other open end shut. He raised the baggie to his lips and blew gently around the edges. He then felt to make sure it was sealed.
“There you go boys … all nice and secure … so your drunk asses don’t spill any. They don’t teach you those practical skills for making a baggie in school … I need to write me a how-to book … Chainsaw’s Dope Survival Guide … what you think boys … how you to can survive three weeks in your house with no electricity, running water, or food … with only a skanky bitch, some AA batteries and an eight ball of dope! Get you set up on the Desert Diet … Jenny Crank … all your meals come in this tiny little bindle … no money down but you gotta pay up front!”
Larry and Jim both snorted their lines with a rolled up dollar bill. “Yeah! Fucking for sure! You gotta do that man! That would top the New York Times bestseller list!” rambled Larry excitedly as the speed entered his system and his heart rate exploded.
“Fuck yeah it would … number one with a bullet!” seconded Jim.
“All right now … you boys ready for this?!”
“Sure Chainsaw, what are we gonna do?” asked Larry excitedly.
“Follow me …”
Chainsaw picked a flashlight up from the counter. He turned around and walked a few feet through the kitchen to a door that lead into an adjacent garage. Larry and Jim followed erratically behind him. They all went inside. The garage was dark and musky smelling. Chainsaw hit the beam of the flashlight and started moving the light stream around the room like some strange circus bally-ho. At last, the beam fixed on a location at the opposite end of the garage.
“Look there!” raved Chainsaw.
“Where?” shouted the boys in unison.
“Right there dip shits!”
Jim and Larry squinted their blood-shot eyes at what appeared to be a stack, ceiling high, of old busted up box springs.
“We captured the Yucca Man last night!” blurted out Chainsaw excitedly.
“Yucca Man? You mean like the mother-fucking desert Sasquatch?!”
“Yeah! Randy caught em’ up at the dump in Landers last night! Traded him to me for a teener of dope.”
  “No shit! Where the fuck is he?”
“We built a cage out of the mutha-fuckin’ mattresses!” mumbled Chainsaw while pointing franticly to where the light beam was illuminating.
All three approached the box-spring pile. As they got up within a few inches of the makeshift prison the faint sounds of heavy breathing became audible.
“You hear that?” whispered Chainsaw.
“I think so,” spoke Jim in a hushed voice.
“Good!” yelled Chainsaw excited, “Cause’ I thought I was having mother-fuckin’ audio hallucinations the whole time! I’ve been up for six days straight! Thought maybe that monster borrowed through the concrete floor and escaped! We got him chained to a concrete post back there with an old dog collar … but them Bigfoots are mother-fucking strong! I think this one might be a baby one though …”
Larry reached his hand out and touched one of the mattresses, “What the fuck Chainsaw!”
“Mother-fuckin’ Yucca Man! You boys gotta keep this quiet!”
“Hold on now,” said Jim, “I gotta see this to believe it. Big-foot my ass! You got your old lady tied up in their or something?”
“No … it’s a bona-fide Yucca Man!” squawked Chainsaw again.
“Wait … a god-damn second. I heard all those fairy-tale legends about the Yucca Man when I was a teenager. How he would crash bon-fire keggers up in the Monument. Scare the shit out of the high school kids. I thought that was all just tall tales. I heard that the Yucca Man was just some homeless, desert drifter or something trying to rape some prom queen or steal beer …” mused Jim while rubbing his tongue over the top of his teeth.
“Monument? It’s the Joshua Tree National park now Jim! Can’t go up there and drink like we used to. Gotta have a pass and shit and the park rangers will bust your ass if you …”
“Larry ... shut the fuck up!” rumbled Jim.
“You buys wanna take a peak?” interrupted Chainsaw.
“Dude … I am fucking tweaking hard!” cried Larry in an ecstatic groan.
Chainsaw shone the flashlight to the right side of the mattresses and moved it to a section where they touched the garage door. There was an open slot, about shoulder high, where you could look in.
“You can see right through that fourth box-spring to the top. Go ahead … take a look for yourself.” motioned Chainsaw.
Larry and Jim tip-toed over to the spot. There was enough open space for them to cram together and for both to peer into.
“You see anything,” said Larry.
“No. But it smells funky in there. Like sweaty balls!”
“Chainsaw … let me see your flashlight man!”
Chainsaw stood behind Larry and Jim in the darkness of the hot garage. He handed the flashlight to Larry and did not speak.
“Shit man! Stick the light in there. Over a little bit … yeah … I hear something moving … dude, right there!”
A high pitch scream sailed out of the mattress prison and echoed with unsettling nervousness throughout the garage. The howl sounded like a Banshee being kicked hard in the crotch.
“Jesus fuck!” yelled Larry.
Jim grabbed the flashlight and shoved it further into the box spring opening, “There it is! See it?! See it?!”
“It looks like fucking Chewbacca with tits!” screamed Larry, “I think it’s a girl!”
“Wait a second!” yelled Jim, “That’s not a fuckin’ …”
Before Jim could finish his sentence the beast grabbed a hold of the arm that Jim held the flashlight with.
“Larry! It’s got me!”
“What the shit …”
Before the two could say anymore, Chainsaw, still standing behind them in the dark, swung hard with a wooden Louisville slugger against the back of Larry’s head and shoulders. Larry dropped to the floor like a lead balloon. Jim, still struggling to pull his captured arm free, turned to see the bat coming down for a second time, landing smoothly against the nape of his neck and right shoulder. A second blow finally dropped him. The monster let loose the grip and Jim crumpled to the floor.  A few seconds later the garage door opened and a shadowy figure of another person came through.
“Randy! Come over here and handle these two. Check their pockets for money and valuables … get that baggie of dope back to.”
“Okay … Chainsaw! What you want me to do wit em’ when I’m done?”
“Throw em’ in the back of the truck and dump up on the Mesa … drive em‘ down a dirt road a few miles. When they come to they won’t remember much of nothing!”
Chainsaw walked over to the mattresses, “You okay in there Mandy?”
“I hate wearing this mask, Daddy!“ came a shrill female voice from behind the box springs. “It’s hot as fuck in here and I’m gettin’ some kind of weird rash on my face! I wanna come out … I need another line, baby!”
“In a second …”
“Chainsaw … dude … your old lady looks fucking freaky with that rubber Star Wars Halloween mask on! It’s kinda hot and I’d like to sex her …”
Randy cut himself short as Chainsaw put the flashlight beam in his face. “Shut up and get to it. Or I ain’t giving you anymore either!
“Sure … I was just kidding.” Randy bent over the motionless bodies of Larry and Jim. He commenced to rifling through their pockets.
 Before Randy could say anymore Chainsaw heard the telephone ringing from the kitchen. “Twainese shit works after all. Randy … I’ll be right back.”
He walked back through the garage, opened the door and went into the kitchen. He lifted the green plastic receive on it’s fifth ring.
“Hello … Yeah, it might be.  Who is this?  Little Tommy? Yeah …  just kicking it with some Meth and some Rachmaninoff.  What?  I didn’t say guessing the rock … I said Rachmaninoff! A classical composer … dope fiends can’t listen to classical music? You need something? Yeah … I got 40 cents worth … come on over … yeah, no problem! I wanna show you something anyway … you’ll never believe what I caught at the dump last night! No, I ain’t gonna tell you on the phone dawg … you gotta keep this quiet … okay. See you over here in a few ...”

Friday, September 23, 2011

In Chicago

I had a girl once
she lived in Chicago
I once walked the L-Train tracks
hand and hand
with her
as the snow feel gently into her hair
so beautiful was she then
as we would descend down the concrete stairs
at the Grandeville station stop
and listen to Christmas tunes on the Juke
at Standee's
she is still over there in Chicago
and I am over her
in the terrific terror of sun and surf
that is Southern California
making a mess of myself
making a mess of my life
as the last day of Summer slipped away
and Fall exchanged some lies with me.

I once had a girl in Illinois
in a big windy city there
the sweetest girl that you could have possibly known
her soul was lightning in a bottle
and her thoughts were pure unfiltered dreams.

It has been almost a year
since I have seen
a girl that I once had
who lives in Chicago

she speaks little to me now
and thinks very little of me
I am sure

and the world, for me, is lonely
the sharks are hungry
the crooked lines I walk are shadow-less and profane
just the other day
I heard the snap of tree limbs
in the havoc of desert winds
and I thought of my life up till now ...

I would fly to Chicago
but I have $38.43 in my checking account
and $76.52 in my savings.

Maybe, I will walk there
it would be quit a long distance on foot
I would not reach her until December
I may not even reach her at all
and I would go to my certain death
in the freezing wind and snow

perhaps I will save my rainy day penny's
and someday I will see her again
when American Airlines
comes down on their ticket prices.

I had a girl once
she lived in Chicago, Illinois ...

Saturday, September 17, 2011

In the Glory of the Sun

Spun to life
spider in the alarm clock
flesh in the shower
the water streaming with silver fingers
over broken backs and weary knees
finding my face in the mirror again
eyes foggy with a lifetime of defeat
the suit wrinkled
the liquor gone
no indentation
on the other side of the bed
some would call me a failure
but, even failures need a little scratch
so they can continue to fool and delude themselves
with lottery tickets, race horses, and loose women
as the torture of time clocks tick on
and the paychecks grow
smaller and smaller
until they are almost
out of sight …

I made my way to the funeral home that day
not because I was dead
not even because I was alive
just because I worked there
and I sat in the front office
till the phone call came in
another one bite’s the dust
(that is the mortuary hold music)
and I took the name and the address and the corner case #
headed for the garage
got the gurney
got the van
and I was off
with Paul the Embalmer driving
heading out of town
deep into the barren Mojave
the sun like a giant yellow sea urchin
pulsating tiny tentacles of white heat
the desert racing around us at 70 miles per hour
last name Rangle
dead at 53
we turned off the highway
not a road, not a trail, not even a cow path
dirt, sand, rock, the heavy stamp of time
ten miles from 29 Palms
thirty miles from Hell
burning brain matter
the riddle of time in the creosote bush
praying to Joshua Tree’s
like Mormon’s searching idols
like old prospectors drunk on the mirage of water
we barreled upwards to the house
yesterday morning
a man walked out onto his back patio
stretched his arms in a yoga pose
dropped dead in his bathrobe and slippers
another victim of the hopeless despair of the desert terrain
the silent springtime breeze
washing over his blood
the coyotes and jack rabbits staring on
in silent hunger
as the family waved off the stray dirt bikers
buzzing into the yard to bum a gallon of gas.

Paul the Embalmer spoke
with the next of kin
signed the papers
offered our deepest heart felt sympathies
as I laid out the play
fixed the dead guy with a sheet
tucked him in permanently
rolled him around the cement patio
lifted him atop the gurney
limp wrist, dry blood, the vague odor of rotten fruit
the rigor breaking out easy
dead for awhile
dead forever
sucked through
told the tale
silenced before he could reveal …

We nearly got our vehicle
stuck in the sand
as we attempted to leave the scene
the back tires spinning dirt
the brother of the dead guy ran up
told us to straighten her out
drive forward
then back up
and don’t worry
if we get stuck
he will pull us out
and I thought, good God-damn!
… where have you been all my life
been stuck in a ditch
for as long as I can remember
but my metaphor was lost on him
so we waved goodbye
circled the property
as Mr. Rangle circled the drain
and we began to slowly descend the dirt path
back to the Highway
to the left of our rolling van
sitting on the shoulder of the dirt road
in the warm, smooth sand
was a desert tortoise
full grown
with it’s four stretched legs lounging
in the glory of the sun
it’s majestic head held high
watching us with easy calm
with a stoic gaze carved from marble
just like the ceramic jobs
you see in the Mexican pottery lots
I told Paul the Embalmer
that you shouldn’t pick em’ up and move em’
they piss themselves
and are subject to death and dehydration
Paul laughed and said, “We got another gurney in back!”

I said yeah, “but if we take the creature with us and he doesn’t die
then the thing might out live both of us! They got an average life span
of 100 years!”

“No, shit”

“I shit you not! If he move it across the road and leave then it’s like stealing all their money and leaving em’ penniless in the street. They have to start over to build back their roll!”

“Right!” Paul chuckled like a machine gun gurgling thumb tacks, “Don’t want to leave the thing out in the heat with a bankrupt bladder.”

We continued to drive on
in the glory of the sun
leaving our beautiful desert tortoise behind
content with our corpse
wondering where the next call would lead us
as we chased the tragedy of other’s
all in the name of the almighty dollar.

And, somehow
as we road off into the distance
our tires kicking dust clouds over cactus
I couldn’t help but think
that the tortoise
in his slow methodic stare
had it all figured out
just right.

A Poem About A Poem

I wonder
in this waterfall of human decay
I wonder
as you sit at home now
with your husband
your kids
your house payment
your cats and
your cable bill.

I wonder
your two car garage
3.5 baths
four bedrooms
maybe even a nice flat screen TV
a leather couch and some video games
A/C and food in the frig
all the divine, creature comforts that divorce us from reality.

I wonder
in and out
up and down
and I hang for a moment and think …
of junkies, dark alleyways, and whiskey warm.

Where am I?
in a cracked mirror
in a old photograph
in a dark tunnel with a lonely tune to whistle
choking on the dust of discarded things.

I pretend
and I pray
and I imagine
and I dream
all these things
that are made up of unreality and intangibility’s.

It’s safe to say
that I cannot commit to all those
everyday atrocities normal people succumb to.

I want the vision bathed in fantasy and possibility
I want the love
the romance
the razor blade
everything that makes it cut deep.

Where beer meets the light of day
in your arms alone in a cheap motel room
with all the other bullshit of our lives
constricted, killed, and swallowed
I have felt the best I have ever felt ...

A poem about a poem
a nameless women
just mine for a moment
the dusty shades pulled open
a kiss in the afternoon sun
and the credits rolling gently down the screen.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Postcard Message from the Apocalypse

Despite the dangle and the rip tide I still smear on like surf wax or dead despair wanting to return in a fresher form. And, regardless of words that hang on (like in-laws or lingering warts) I still stand true to certain maxims I have spoken a loud (privately to myself) that justify certain transitions of life in that crucial moment when it was most needed. And, how are you?

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Mean Guys Finish First

Saturday again. The weekend is always chasing it's tail in a circle. We are continually coming back to this point ... Saturday.

I think that Darby Crash once said, "everything works in circles. Like sometimes your doing something then a year later your back at the same point ... understand?"

Yeah Darby I do.

Somebody came up to me on the street. This was a few days ago, "Hey ... Mafia! I heard you got laid a few times over Labor Day."

"No shit! Because that's not what I heard."

"Yeah! I read it in the Dark Desert ... or, well, uh ... my girlfriend read it in there and told me about it. Good for you, bro!"

"Thanks ... but you know that is all just a work of fiction."

"Fiction? Yeah, bro ... whatever ... you laid the pipe! You were balls deep! Hahahah. Catch you later. I gotta get in here for some smokes. See you at your next gig, man!"

I think in my last "blog-story" I was the only one that didn't pull any trim. Actually I am quit sure of it. I haven't been laid since ... well, let me check my watch! No ... let's just say it's been sometime in the past. That kind of goes without saying. I guess you can't get laid in the future unless your Michael J. Fox cruising the space-time continuim in a black, 1982 Delorean. I gotta stop writing myself into the script. It can only lead to nasty rumors, sad faces, and lawsuits.

When I leave voice messages for the Advance Man he has a feature on his voicemail where google sends him a text version of the message. He can read what the message says without having to listen. Google has unique and interesting translations of these messages. I called him last night and this is what Google texted him:

Ha ha Bob Chambers! Your soul is a homesick hitchhiker. By bye bye liquor race. Profound nigga. I'm all out of leslie. Maddock mondays and vanish into thin air because we are running with the shadows of the night. Or, if she needs to let you in on the given into the sound St. Anyways, gimmie a call.


"Advance Man it's Mafia ... just returning your call. Down at the liquor store right now. Encouraging wayward souls not to buy and consume the alcoholic demon. Ha! Anyway, it's been a long time since we last spoke ... like yesterday. Quit running man ... Gimmie a call back."

Frankly, I prefer Google's version. Far superior. I hope that Google never perfects their technology in this field because Google is the modern day poet laureate. Mother truckin', lyrical master! Profound is one word to describe it. Cutting edge is another. Avante Garde comes to mind. Lucky another. Put your pens down boys and take notice. It's all over ... Google V-Mail translator has you in check.

Coming back around to the campfire here ... I think there was a point to all this. The facts of events and circumstances always remain constant, but the truth wears a million different disguises. The truth can be the most fictitious thing going ... especially when it is coming at you second hand. Word of advice ... don't believe everything your told. It may have been translated by Google V-mail.

So, if your reading The Dark Desert for any other reason then being entertained well ... don't. And don't take this so serious. Half of what I write is a work and the other half is a lie. Occasionally a sentence slips out that flows from my soul. But only occasionally.

Life has a strange way of whispering in your ear when your least expecting it. And the news isn't always good. And it isn't always bad. But guaranteed it's only one version of events ... and there are million version's out there.

It's Saturday again. I'm back in front of the typewriter again. Listening to WCPE Classical Music out of Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina. Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 15 in B flat. I've come full circle again. Maybe, you to, are back at the same spot you were a week ago. Maybe your wondering how in the good, god-damn did this all happen?! And what can I do this weekend to justify my glum, humdrum existence in the nine to five weekly hamster wheel. How am I going to look that life in the face come Monday, Maddock?

Good question ...

"... Circle One is what we are doing now. And someday we might do Circle Two." to finish up Mr. Crashes previous quote. Darby, hope to Christ we move on to Circle Two soon. Sitting in the middle of the Mojave desert with my thumb up my ass just dosen't seem all that rewarding anymore.

Maybe your out there alone and reading this. Maybe you'd like to come by and sit on the coach and hold hands and listen to WCPE and find out what the deal is. Now, I'm not hinting that you can come over to my place and sit on the coach with me. Stay as far away from my front door as possible for fuck's sake. But, go ahead and do it for yourself ... just fire up the internet, turn the dail to WCPE, and get down with the naked word. It's all that's left and it's the best thing going. And once you knock out a few paragraphs call up that special someone and tell em' Hayden's Symphony #12 in G is on at 8 p.m. BYOB baby! All night long.

Oh yeah, and in case you didn't know, mean guys finish first. So if you do happen to come over to my house .... I promise not to be nice.

Monday, September 5, 2011

Labor Day in Review (A Creative "Work" of Fiction)

Just wanted to drop back in here. Despite what I used to think ... that blogs were just the fast food equivalent of writing, I feel the need to keep this going by just "blogging" a little something here today. Really folks, I don't vomit in my mouth at the slight mention of the term "blog" anymore. I just choke a little and fell faint. I'll get back to the real prose and poetry this week. If you want the "Dark Desert" short story series to appear back at the Sun Runner Magazine send your emails to the editor of that publication. Demand that they bring it back! Raise the banner ... fly the flag ... we don't have to be subjected to the dull and mundane 24/7. A little foul language and animosity towards jack rabbits and creosote bushes never hurt anybody, right brother! Together, we can make this fun again.

I am not sure how things got so out of hand. Labor day used to be filled with end of summer activities that were, to be generic and unwordy, fun. BBQ's, beer bottles, hand holding, hot sun, hot bodies, carnivals, menthol cigarettes, gun shooting, wet t-shirts, drunk driving, high flying, rodeos, drive inns, fireworks, pretty girls and rock 'n' roll. It's, Monday, labor day proper right now and I am listening to classical music and wishing I was in Raleigh-Durham or Truth Consequences, New Mexico or, fuck, even Djibouti, Africa for all I care. Anywhere but here.

Out here in the Hi-Desert, California's vast sprawling Mojave, half the partying population was arrested last Saturday night in the the CHP and SO's joint sting operation to imprison and ruin the lives any poor saps that got within a one mile radius of an open liquor bottle and just happened to be walking through the parking lot with their car keys in their pocket. Probably why I havn't been invited to one single BBQ today! Driving around sober Saturday night was quit a choatic scene. The DUI checkpoint had traffic backed up out to interstate 10. I am firmly under the believe that they are more CHP officers in Yucca Valley and Joshua Tree then there are people. Jesus, it was a real blitzkrieg. I don't know if any of you have had to take the walk of shame from the Jailhouse out past Joshua Tree, back into town? A solid three or four mile walk out in open desert along the highway. And god save you if your heading in the opposite direction, east, to the dirty deuce-nine! I did the walk once hangover in cowboy boots. My cell phone was dead when I got sprung. I had no coin and no wallet. The horror ...

Anyway, I am sure it looked like the goddamn Oregon Trail along the Highway come Sunday morning. If you would've been peddling cigarettes and bottled water you would've made a killing. I was out there trying to hustle my Shawn Mafia Cd's. At this point in my life I should be making jack ... instead I am making jack shit. Next time I'll go with bottled water.

Thursday night, after getting off a ten day stretch down at ... hold on now, wait ... let's just say "my day job" ... doing a little old school undertaking. I signed some papers awhile back where I can't disclose the name of the company I work for in any type of social media. So much for pride in profession and personal identity. Who needs that shit anyway. Regardless, I was at my court ordered schooling and I little down in the dumps. Came home and tied one on with my roommate and a punk rock hairdresser named E. Got a bit to frisky with a 30 pack of C-Minus and some 211. Ended the night listening to final mixes of the new album. Got sentimental over a certain someone and passed the fuck out. Didn't wake up until 3:00 p.m. the next day.

Went to Applebee's and sat in the bar with a few buddies. Talked to heinous D., who was tending behind the bar, about the possibility of pulling some "strange." He told us sometimes it just gets a little to "strange" to even bother with. I wasn't to interested in anything at that point. Especially booze and women. I ate some wings and drink about ten thousand diet cokes. A few guys that looked like professional wrestlers showed up and this other dude that looked the lead singer of Good Charlotte. At this point all the trim was just flying out the window. My German body builder buddy, Shane came in to and sat down with me. These guys were getting more ass then first three stalls at Dodger's Stadium. Your possibilities of pulling any "strange" out of Applebee's on that Friday night were impossible and next to impossible. Take your pick. The bottom just fell out of the barrel. The stock just plummeted!

Around 7:30 p.m. I decided to head out to the Yucca Valley High School football field and catch the game. Only because it just felt like a goddamn labor day thing to do! John Cougar Mellencamp and Apple Pie! Bruce Springsteen and mother fucking Muscle Cars! What was really happening was that my daughter had been texting all evening about coming to see her dance/perform at half time. So, I took leave of Shane, Good Charlotte, Wade Barrett and the New WWE Nexus, my buddy and headed out. Got parked, got seated in the bleachers next to a blonde gal I knew and waited to be amazed! Waited for my goddamn labor day moment. As the good Dr. would say ... the American Dream in action! I think it was the YV Trojan's against the Denver, Bronco's. Or maybe it was the Cowboys. I wasn't paying much attention.

Sitting in the bleachers I noticed the arrival of some people that I wasn't quit in any proper state of mind to want to encounter. The chance meeting made the sizzle go completely out of my steak. Lone geeks from a distant past that used to shake me down for lunch money. Now thirty something ... tired, bloated, and bored. But still that determined stupidity raging behind a veneer of medicated pacification. Bullies from the HS days.

Shortly there after, my daughter took the field with her troupe and danced up a storm. She talked em' into the building, tore the house down, and then spanked the baby! I schooled her to be a damn fine entertainer! It brought me back up momentarily. I went back around the bleachers and got some 50 cent coffee from the concession stand. Went back to my seat. Tried to watch the Trojans go over on the 49er's but I just wasn't believing it. My labor day weekend might as well have been a typical Tuesday in April. My kid didn't want to hang out with me either. That might have saved my labor day, but alas, she wanted to go out with her friends after the games conclusion. Couldn't blame her. Decided I should make tracks. Decided to head back to the Bee's. Started to get some heavy vibes from the top of the bleachers ... maybe a good fist fight might just be the thing to save labor day weekend! Began to think it was all in my head. Began to think that my ER co-pay on my insurance wasn't what it used to be. Ambled back to the car. Thought to myself ... God! Are you still up there? Your in breach of mother fucking contract buddy in regards to this whole labor day weekend thing! Where's the new romance, the fast cars, and the whiskey? The DQ ice cream cones, the hand holding, and the midnight stroll?

Back at the Bee's I picked up my friend. Looks like everybody was in the process of pulling some "strange" after all! Maybe labor day weekend wasn't a complete bust! I got a big hug from J., who was working behind the bar (baby, you are a Capital F - fine - to the fourth power underlined dame ... and I can say that without fear of contradiction) and drove home. Got another thirty pack. Popped a few tops and through em' down. People arrived. Others followed. Everybody scored that night ... but I didn't. That's what you get for being stupid, sappy, lovesick and sentimental. But there is always next week. And next year. Or even another typical Tuesday in April.

Sunday, September 4, 2011

I have been abscent from "the blog" for a spell. My focus has been on broken hearts and jail time. What a cruel year. At one moment some people seem to be the most important things in the world. Then, suddenly, as quick as that impulse came upon you it is gone. I can barely even remember what it sounded like to hear her say that she loved me. I crawl back into time and search for others that I should've loved better and that actually were so much better. I can faintly hear them to. They don't really want to hear me now either. This desert is so dark as September stalks my window. I listened to a bit of WCPE Calssical station out of Raleigh-Durham this morning. I miss hitting the keys ... making magic out of the words. This summer was a total wash.

When it comes to the opposite sex I just can't catch a break. The Advance Man said I am still twelve years old trying to figure out how my dick works! Ha! Not that I don't no what to do in the sack ... it's just that I take it all to personal. The Advance Man said I should get back to basics. More writing. More Dark Desert. And believe me ... I have some tales that I will tell in the coming months. Sometimes the truth is stranger then fiction.

Drank heavy the last two nights. Trying to forget my woes. Caught a bad wrap on a DUI charge from last year. Finally convicted after fighting for 9 months. I am completely innocent ... lawyer fucked me. Won't be able to clear that smoke for another six months still. What a web we weave. Might make some new friends in county though ... 13 days.

Remember ... these are all creative confessions! It's all a work. My whole life has turned into one gaint, god-damn work! Don't take anything I say here seriously. But, perhaps, you should believe it all.

I don't know who you are ... and why you might be reading this ... or if your black, white, indifferent, congested, lonely, broken, broke, Republican, gay, racist, male, female, cat, dog, animal or mineral. But I am truly glad you are still with me. Besides a very lovely daughter that I still see on occasion, you are it. All I got left in the world is this. It's you and me now ... writer and reader. I know that we will stay friends even after the smoke clears. Thank you for listening. Stay tuned ... this is going to be the wildest ride yet.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Love & War

There is a red mark on the back of the widow
in a translucent web that hangs
broken glass of rosy spectacles
sand in the lovers eyes

sweating in a tight under shirt
this room filled with defeat
the vacancy of light haunts me
lays dead roses at my feet …

Heebie-jeebies on the rocks
served chilled with a graveyard back
tailor made missions into the vast aura of placid tone
tangled misanthropes weeping in razor blade clouds
last call is a matter of contorted time in the Houdini smoke of lost hope
I am all left feet upon a dance floor on fire
a carnivorous ghost town
hungry for the souls of the lost, the lonely, the weary …

Garbage lines
garbage lies
trash can halos
love in a pail
hot stink of forever
tied knot
epicurean landfill
the sun setting.

I laid awake all night
as the machine gun fire
raged under the midnight trapeze act
of humanity failing
I laughed out loud
exhaling smoke from my mouth
as the walls shook
and all the hands on the clock stood still
then there was a silence
as thin as a ghost
taller then a star not visible for another five years
and the Sgt Major
motioned to me
through the blood dripping my window
he seemed frantic
clutching at his throat
trails and traces
screams and dead thuds …

“Grunt! Pop the top and roll that grenade out the door! No time to think!
Those lousy towel heads will slit our bellies and stitch us up with C4 faster then you can fart a flat note …”

I opened the beer
and poured it down my throat
the snake was at my feet
her dog eared picture in my hand
as the enemy burst in
I had just enough time
to roll off the mattress
as a three round burst tore through the sheets

I grabbed the dull machete and hurled it
the void
more gun fire
smoke and flash
I saw her again
as the Arabic tongues chanted defiantly
more explosion
and, for a brief, fleeting moment
I was faraway
in her arms
smiling in her embrace
butterfly kisses and soft things that we spoke to each other
that the world would never hear again …

then, suddenly
I felt a hand grind into my shoulder and start to drag,

“Your hit grunt! Lossing blood! Don’t worry … no man has ever been left behind on my patrol. Hold the fuck on, I am going to …”

I heard the bullet slice through the air
and I saw the Sgt Major drop like a bag of rotten potatoes
the delicate symphony of bone and brain matter
taking flight in the gun smoke sky.

“Shit!”, I screamed, as I reached for another cigarette and closed my eyes.

I didn’t take them long
they drug my bullet riddled corpse
out of there by the ankles
no more life
no more tears
leaving her precious photograph
all alone
on my bedroom floor.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

To My One and Only Love

I am made to hold memories in my hands now
cursed little sabers that stab
in a heart pool of red blood
I make up things you might say
nerves to raw to even sit here and type.

I look back now
on my life leading up to you
I mop the floor with my sad sack grimace
it was once spilled over with booze, and pain, and sick life.

Then, you were there …
and I don’t know how
and I don’t know why
but when you opened up your arms
your heart
your love
to me
it rotated my tires
it aligned my planets
it paid the bills
it screwed my light bulb
it cooked my dinner
it reset my hard drive
it balanced my check book
bounced my ball
bumped me up to first class
and flew me over the moon

… and, as quickly as you came
you were gone …

the bed is unmade
the trash can is over flowing
the car is out of gas
the beer cans all emptied
the ashtrays full
the laundry dirty
the dishes piling up in the sink
the eviction notice hanging
the stock market crashing
and the sun no longer shines
through my windows

With the shades pulled and the razor blades sharpened
life is strange, weird, lonely, and cruel
much like the Gods that dole it out
to all us suckers hitching a ride
on the hearts broken midway.

Baby, if your still out there
and your reading this
if there is a hell
I’m in it
just never know it
until you walked into my life
and showed me what
I had been missing
all these long

Sunday, May 15, 2011

In Line

Waiting on these bones
to loose flesh
go brittle
crumble in a pine box
decompose into the damp earth
the tears of God’s to water the grass
and, at the same time …

Waiting on another hot lady
to shed clothes and grow nakedness before me
a cold beer and it’s extended family
the lottery ticket hail Mary
dollar signs in soup bowls
the two weeks notice
the meter maid
and some good head
I didn't’t have to pay for …

Waiting on maggots
to feast on flesh
an eternity of deathly slumber
hospital stays at 85
diabetes mellitus type II
congestive heart failure
the county coroner and the yellow body bag
Hep-C and HIV
and, at the same time,
waiting on the bus
the taxi cab
the trash compactor
the dude in the men’s shitter
to wipe his ass and give up the stall
the atomic alarm clock ring
the quick wedding in Reno
a five o’clock shadow
the past due notice on the mortgage
as the mother-in-law rings the phone
and the dead chime of the door bell tolls.

Waiting on rotting teeth and 401 K’s
prescription meds and constipation
heroes and hemorrhoids
herpes and helium balloons
while, always and forever,
waiting on
the morning paper
the job interview
last call and the bar maid to wipe down the final glass
mustaches and memories
the prom and the pink thong
cigarettes and cancer
B12 supplements
hangovers in the rain
marriage, divorce, second marriage and menstrual cycles
futures markets and brewers yeast
hand grenades and Caesar salads
fast cars and stripper poles
halos and mixed nuts
war time
peace time
and central pacific time
ratings wars and cheap whores
professional wrestling and fish hooks
and just
all the time

For everything and nothing …
for true love and heartache
the cold hands of the funeral director
a Cabo vacation and a hang glider
theater tickets and turrets
diathermia and drunk tanks
embalming fluid and a stitched lip
tax deductions and DMV fees
a warm hand to hold
and the moment that changed it all …

One hundred million things up ahead
some bad, some good
some indifferent, some just ugly
and a lot of them just
but, all the same,
and, all this and more
I’m waiting for
up ahead
at the road sign
marked …


and the final detour
marked …


perhaps we can
wait together.

Todd Nickels

I heard this on the radio back in January as I was pulling away from the gym in the morning. They were interviewing this poor bastard named Todd Nickels. Gave him the whole victim title - Todd Nickels is a pool man and a diabetic! And I thought, what a horrible thing to labeled with. So I turned it around and made my own quote:

Todd Nickels, upon awaking one day, turned to his wife, still asleep in bed and exclaimed, “Fuck this shit! I’m tired of being a pool man and a diabetic!”

Todd’s wife lifted a heavy eye lid, not quite taking in him or his words. Todd got up, put on his sport shirt and slacks, making little haste. He collected his wallet and a few other items and left the house. He tossed his pool net out of truck into the driveway and burned rubber. The last his wife heard, Todd was running guns in South Africa and had a producers credit in the film adaptation of the hit musical Wicked.