Tag Archives: silly

sex with me… sex with me… sex with me…

the drive
six-dollar garbage
L. A.
Micah’s little lab
dropping by Federal
sunset cruise to Santa Monica
sir, this is valet only
the motel, Steve, Thai curry, the cockroach

Vator Splash
walk for oil
chillin w Tram
goodbye Santa Monica
bang

sunrise to LAX
the literati
trader joes shopping
shower?
gal palace
aerienne’s curry
rise of the jack o lanterns
staples center
the pantry
sex with me, sex with me
film shoot
martinis at Clifton

sweating, parking
Meryl the blonde tart
Clara the effortlessly beautiful
Travis the sexy handyman
back at the chicken shack
raw silk
maximum laughter, minimal consequence
scene queen
80s club (wreck 86?) speakeasy
overpass popup
gig rig piss
spurned the hip hop breeze
hot dog, malt liquor, blow

shit
ramen
dishes
video chat w love
shower
high as fuck w Fitzcarraldo

~rain~

piece of shit
part one of Anna Karenina
the Ivy
over the garden wall
finished Fitzcarraldo

fragment of shit
cacao coffee
shower
barneys beanery
smokin
little dieter needs to fly

bagels n coffee
work, work
laundry out
car wash
seat belt ticket
laundry home
yoga nap
chicken kebab election
1642
bye aerienne

moving the car asleep
cafe 50s
el matador
shower and jojoba
long lyft
a novel Thai feast
funkmosphere
double double rye, straight
bye Meryl
bye Virgil
hello j
from sleep

early morning car move again
waiting for the call
toilet call
pack fast and peace
selected ambient drive
mcds
peter gabriel
fresh fruit
bridge
SF
surprise! Continue reading

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Lemon and Friends

i had an Alexander Hamilton, but you need three Washingtons (two bills, one coin) to ride the bus.

a sensible person on a time crunch would’ve just saved the energy by hailing a techno-ride, but i much preferred to pay (read: vote) for public infrastructure and transport, not a greed-backed private corporation. so, after calculating time to walk to the next bus, i determined to stop by a local mom-and-pop, purchase something around $2.50, and walk away with a Lincoln plus appropriate bus fare.

the place where i stopped was a bakery on Clement and Arguello, teeny tiny with a wide selection of delicious treats. “Pura Vida,” said the guy behind the register, brown and warm face, dark and curly-haired, referring to my faded tourist shirt from Costa Rica.

“yup,” i said, “it’s an old shirt. you from there?”

“actually, no,” he said, “Nicaragua.”

“whoa, that’s where my mom’s from.”

“what part?”

“Chontales,” i answered, anxiously poring over the pastry prices—$3.50 for lemon cake, $4 for croissants, $5 for cream puffs crafted for the one percent—none of which would leave me appropriate change for the bus. oh well, i thought, i’ll just ask him to break the five.

“can i get the ‘lemon and friends’?”

at this point i noticed a couple—man and woman—sitting halfway up a flight of stairs scrutinizing the scene in which i played a lead role. as our eyes locked the man began reading his lines:

“not just lemon, but honey, molasses, the water of life, organic xantham gum, pixie dust, and Prince’s ashes make up this specific item. hence the title, ‘Lemon and Friends.'”

i glanced at my Nicoya cousin, partly confused why this man was explaining the nuance of my order to me but mostly just ready to go catch my fucking bus and not have a leisurely conversation.

“he’s the baker,” he explained. “want a drink to go with that?”

when i declined, his eyes darted to my cake, and i could almost sense his throat drily gulping in parched despair.

i handed him my ten, only to discover the register completely lacking in ones whatsoever. unfazed, the Nicoya reached into the tip jar to give me my perfect change, smiling. so i couldn’t even ask to break the five.

quickly, likely not courteously, i bid farewell to my comrades and found myself back on the street laughing at the absurdity of it all. Continue reading

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honey, he’s a friend of mine

four Mexican beers down the hatch and not a single BART train left to catch.

on the long bus and walk home, stoned inspiration strikes my skull. it’s already 0300, but nothing can stop me. up and down the stairs, skulking through the hallways, dragging black monolith speakers, assembling the altar, feeding cables electricity, executing my addled genius silent as a mouse.

i jerk off and pass out.

in the morning, i check my phone in a bleary panic. 0900. i fall back asleep for a couple minutes and then check my phone again. 1100.

blended black tea dressed with a teaspoon of orange blossom honey and the slightest splash of half and half. that’s real fancy talk for a little drug called caffeine. my roommate partakes, and the music starts. breakfast consists of defrosted hash browns, fried eggs, and pork so good it must’ve come from the devil’s factory. Xanthe and i clink our mimosa flutes and chow down while watching Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise take turns playing Thalia and Melpomene.

Cameron arrives looking hungover or depressed or both. i think nothing of it. the music goes on, the champagne flows. Ted is dead.

i never met Ted. i hug Cameron. i hold him. i don’t know what to say. i never met Ted even though Cameron insisted a hundred times that it needed to happen. i don’t know what to say. i wait for Cameron to say something, but he is stunned. he is a cauldron of emotion. i turn the music down or let it stop or something. i don’t know what to do or say. there is nothing to do or say. we drink.

the music returns. Cameron requests a dirge, so i let Entrance sing them Grim Reaper Blues. but i’m left by myself, so i scream and jump and play air guitar oblivious to the fact and consequence of death. i am dust.

Shannon. Lizz. Nico. Neko? Niko? Nico. Chris. Mark. Natalie. old friends, newer friends, lovers, sometime-lovers, one-time-lovers, all-time-lovers, all family, all drunk fucks.

my cousin hops on the decks and starts slinging cocaine funk delivered straight from the Rick James estate. it is 1980something, the snares reverberate, and disillusion is making itself incredibly comfortable. you can hear it in their voices. you can hear JoJo and Cheri and Candi and Maxi and Prince Rogers and Trent and Dave and Martin and Joshua and Charles, they all sound so coked up and dead. death. there’s that grim reaper again. where the fuck is Cameron? sobbing on the edge of my bed, locked up in my bedroom. on and off the phone. who is he talking to? margarita. big beer. drinking, so much drinking.

let the Golden Age begin. bleego hops on the decks and sonically programs artificial intelligence. it’s weird. on tv, Ziggy Stardust says good night mere moments before a bunch of space cadet apes wake up in the middle of bone-dry Africa. ladies and gentlemen we are floating in space.

how many pop culture references can i make before my writing becomes as worthless as the tobacco in a swisher sweet?

as the sun sets, i continue force-feeding everyone pop muzik, and then suddenly turn the music down low on a couple of whacked out loops to ask nobody in particular how long i could leave the loops loopingly looping looping looping looping looping looping looping looping until we all went crazy. somebody said something. something drinking something. and so i blast Kylie Minogue for a swan song.

power everything off! with tons of friends still partying, i say a thousand goodbyes and then fly away. best way to end a house party.

K to the Castro, two double illy espressos, and my love and i are back in the game. first up: dinner and drinks for her sister’s 21st birthday. Abigail rolls in wearing a sash like she’s in a beauty pageant and a face guaranteed to win it. radiant beauty of a birthday girl, she flutters around her long table of friends chatting about nothing and deflecting as many fireballs as she can.

sushi sake sushi sake sushi sake sushi sake sushi. that’s five sushi for every letter in the word “sushi” and four sake for every letter in the word “sake.” words words words words words.

the several hundred dollar bill settled, the crew bubbles around Kim “Abi” Kardashian as we make our way up Market toward extensive tracts of heavily eroded, uncultivable land with little vegetation. just kidding, we went to badlands. i withdrew $60 only to spend $50 instantly at the club on three entries (Abi, Natalie, me), three drinks (adios motherfucker for Abi and whiskey for Natalie and me), and then three more drinks (long island ice teas for the three of us). obviously we had not been drinking enough yet.

goodbye Castro, hello Cameron. he wanted love. Ted is dead. to Oakland then. goodbye Natalie. she storms off in a drunk, silent fit. i shrug.

down down Market.

stumbling drunk ass fuck into It’s Tops Coffee Shop, completely deserted except for the token pretty white girl waitress in her stupid 50s pink waitress dress. i drunkenly foam at the mouth some incoherence that amounts to “may i please just have a cup of coffee?” to which she responds by swinging ’round the counter and pouring out dregs of mud from both pitchers—the caffeinated and non caffeinated. in between drunken swallows, i murmur some philosophical question at her, but she’s tired and wants to go home, and that’s exactly how she answers. i understand, down the rest of the mud, and fly out the door.

down down Market.

i convince a cabbie to drive me to Civic Center so i can catch the last train east. so aware, so alive, i bolt out the doors onto 12th St. in Oakland, drunkenly rushing up the escalator and eating shit, scraping my stomach and foot (i discover later). i look around to see how embarrassed i should feel, but the lady behind me wears a face that says, “i’m just tired and want to go home,” so i shrug, pick myself up, and bolt anew. i race the two and whatever miles to Cameron’s house with cool Miles jazz billowing from the phone in my front pocket; i’m like a man on the run in a black & white French New Wave film from the 60s.

at the house, hugs and laughter and death and comfort and… guess what? more drinking! because, i must repeat myself, again, obviously: we had not been drinking enough. fernet and coke and tequila and non-vegetarian Chinese food and Courtney on guitar and sleep.

in the drunken haze of morning, i squeeze Courtney’s boob and immediately pull my hand back while apologizing. she laugh. i don’t feel too good about it. but then i wash a household of dishes and sweep the floor while Cameron details the stove. and when i fail to find a dustpan, i simply crouch down, scoop the pile of dust and kitchen debris with my hands, and throw it away. Cameron laughs, calling it the most humble thing he’s seen in years. i feel good about it.

a few moments later, we’re suspended like the helicopter string quartet between peace, humility, suffering, and passion.

“this is the worst one,” he says, “the worst death. i like nothing about this one.”

he wants to cry so badly but has already sobbed so much and the sobbing had solved nothing. i fight back laughter because the minute leading before we’d been saying some really silly, funny things and just roaring laughing. the giggles honor not even death. Continue reading

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holiday love

15356853494_d4296e638b_o Continue reading

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an Elizabethan sonnet celebrating two years of Natalie

THE ORIGINAL, WRITTEN AT THE LIVING GALLERY IN BROOKLYN WITH A NOISE ROCK BAND WAILING

deserts, beaches, sunsets rise–
in beauty–paralleled by only you–
for whom my love burns even brighter
in celebration of our year two.

THE HANDWRITTEN VERSION, 120 CHARACTERS AS REQUIRED BY BLOOMTHAT

seaside sun & desert stars — in beauty paralleled by only you, for whom my love burns deeper in celebration of year two Continue reading

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selections from the second volume of Parerga and Paralipomena by Arthur Schopenhauer

SCHOPENHAUER. Essays and Aphorisms. Penguin Classics. Translated with an introduction by R. J. HOLLINGDALE. Continue reading

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Paris · Farningham · London · Amsterdam

~ 0 ~
horrible traffic
in n out
4-hour delay
“this is the worst airline ever”
chili’s out of salad and Mexican food
geographically challenged hostess
know your rights!
sleep? dreamy purple pinkish tint thereof
a moment in Oslo
Paris
nightmare on rue chaptal
Moulin Rouge

~ 1 ~
walk to espresso
Tour Eiffel
walk along the Seine
lunch in the Latin Quarter?
Notre Dame
espresso for the Louvre
kill in the garden
fancy ass French food
Arc de Triomphe
legs falling off
white wine and Lucky Strike

~ 2 ~
Père Lachaise
Indian at Chapelle
Musée d’Orsay
USA WINS 0-1
fancy ass fucking ave (dck sp + chkn brst)
farewell to the Seine
1-2-3!!! something something Algérie!!!

~ 3 ~
omelette complet at the Gare du Nord
Eurostar to Ebbsfleet
tea (twice) on the Tabsfield green
tomato basil, cheesy mushroom quiche, fresh strawberry creme brûlée, and a couple pints with the wedding party and co.
the cottage

~ 4 ~
fresh fruit, meat, a poached egg, and coffee
dressing for the wedding
Frost on the green
wedding at St Peter and St Paul’s Church
half Indian feast and dance (the Brits, the delicious Indian food, the champagne beer red and white wine, the light rain, and heavy dancing)
afterparty at the cottage

~ 5 ~
breakfast redux (hungover version)
football w Maya on the green
to London
appetizing Indian leftovers
The Tower
wandering in the rain
St. Paul’s
old fucking white egg-headed, perfectly circular black spectacle-wearing, pound-grubbing pieces of shit ushers guarding against pilgrims at the footsteps to the house of god
covent garden
pho
lazying and familying

~ 6 ~
waking up sans Natalie in a nasty mood
bacon on a roll
cold shower
Tate Modern
Eat.
The Globe
Parliament
Westminster
Evensong
Upminster then Whitechapel
ALG v GER

~ 7 ~
waking up w Natalie, happily
full English breakfast in Whitechapel
Natural History Museum
Kensington Gardens
fancy ass Indian food
£5 to the girl from Canada Macedonia CA
USA v BLG :(

~ 8 ~
scratched iris
mushroom omelette
nap to
Stonehenge
and nap from
Nando’s w David and Evelyn

~ 9 ~
to Amsterdam
grocery shopping
white wine
Concertgebouw
a spliff at Rookie’s
shoarma on the corner

~ 10 ~
homemade breakfast
double espresso
spliff on the diagonal green
Rijksmuseum
shopping, snacks in bed
Little Thai Prince
red light district
overpriced and pre-rolled
stoned wander home
ice cream

~ 11 ~
bacon breakfast
Blue Bird
Myrabelle, bartended by a more muscular and more feminine version of John Dwyer.
gluten-free crackers, goat cheese, smoked salmon, olives dripping in oil and basil, water, and wine
second Thai dinner
Vondelpark
Amstels all night at the cafe
NED v CRC

~ 12 ~
nightmare
check out
fresh fruit pancake across from Anne Frank
spliff on the green
Van Gogh Museum
rest in Vondelpark
walk
coffee
bus
plane
tube

~ 13 ~
tube
train
plane
Oslo
plane
Oakland
home? Continue reading

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The Last Waltz

just two posts in blank verse, and it’s already difficult to write normally. every sentence i write–nay–every insignificant gathering of words renders in my head a certain rhythmic value. a-SIR, ten-RHY, thmic-VAL, you see? Ovid has volleyed me off my whatever rickety rocker i had left to lean on.

thankfully, i’ve finally finished reading his Metamorphoses. it’s a bittersweet feeling. sweet because after reading fifteen books, a thousand lines each, about the creation of the universe, the turning of the sun and the moon, the war and peace of brother and sister, the wailing of bloodshed, the blossoming of milk and honey, the reasons why there are birds, the reasons why there are beasts, the madness of men, the madness of the gods… you start to get a bit worn out. bitter, though, because it’s the finest fucking literature i’ve read since i left Oscar Wilde a few months ago. and it’s easily the best poetry i’ve read in the past year.

you know it’s been 2,005 years since the thing was originally published. i mean, Jove!

i feel so peaceful, like when rosy-fingered Aurora first rises in the dawn, but Ovid can’t be completely to blame. Muddy Waters neither. my bass neither. no, the reason has been written on this thing before, and i’m almost afraid to talk about it.

how many times can i talk about it? how many people can i tell? i need a meadow. i need a pasture to wander, so i can sit on stumps, and proclaim my love to any daffodils that would bother to listen.

“there is a girl, my friend,” i’d say, lifting an errant lock of hair away from my face.

“oh?” the daffodil would reply.

“yes, yes, there is a girl, and i do believe i love her.”

“and how is that?”

“well, when my eyes meet her eyes, it’s as if though the skies have fallen to the earth–rain, aether, stars, gods, all–banishing every disharmony in the universe into a puff of nothing that never was and never will be.”

“my!”

“yes, and when i wrap my arm around her little light waist, light as a breeze in golden summer’s heat, the waves sloshing inside my veins tune together into a perfect symphony, beating, racing, pressing on in perfect time.

“i do enjoy a light summer breeze!”

“yes, and when i press my lips against her lips, two eternities of poetry pour from our eager mouths, unheard by neither but felt by both; it is divine, little daffodil, it is divine poetry when we kiss.”

“there is a girl indeed! but i have a question.”

“what is it?”

“though you truly adore this girl to such fiery, passionate ends, how can you stand these moments away from her love?”

“ah, my pretty friend of a daffodil, you funny thing. my love for her knows such great bounds that it rebounds and resounds throughout my life, wherever and whenever i may go. at night, when i bathe alone, dipping my toes into steaming water returns me to her feminine warmth, encircling me like a sleepless lioness in the savannah. in the afternoon, when i bite into the juicy nectarine delivered to my beggar hands by Gaia’s grace, i taste her love. in the morning, when i wake from life-stealing dreams, i breathe in the day’s first breath of life, that is, her love. even now, sitting upon this simple stump in this ordinary pasture, i see her radiant peace resting upon your yellow face.”

“me!”

“yes, you and the grass at your feet and the soil beneath and the rock further down and the blazing core and burning Helios in heaven and the bright eyes in the night sky and the air we breathe and the water we drink are all otherworldly manifestations of my one true love. she is my death every night and my life every day.”

sometimes i get nervous because i imagine the only people reading these words are either ex-lovers or my lover. if you’re an ex-lover, just know that i love you still. if you’re my lover, ignore that last thing i said.

this weekend, i’m doing that thing where i drive to the suburbs to watch over my friends’ dog and house. i will drink water, eat food, read poetry, play bass, listen to records, savor the hot tub, and hopefully love my love of loves. flying the suburban spacecraft solo is a trip, but i don’t do it solo unless i have to.

this past monday, i bought a Technics SL-1200M3D, meaning i now have two wheels of steel. sunday, i helped plan the next Daft Brunch, our (apparently) quarterly disco party in the Mission sun. saturday, i digitally djed a coworker’s wedding in California wine country. friday, i spun vinyl at a strange “underground” party in the Sunset.

based on this series of events, i’m starting to think i’m actually a dj.

oh yeah, i’ve also decided to host (and dj) the family new year’s party at my house. didn’t really consult anyone but my mom and roommates on that one. it just makes sense. that, as i explained to Natalie the other day, is part of what i consider being a dj. some people might define it as whipping out a laptop (or maybe some other equipment) and combining a bunch of tracks together over some duration so as to make a mix of music. maybe some would take their definitions a step further and declare the purpose of this being to make people move their feet against the ground. it’s so much bigger though. first of all, you’re correct, we’re all djs. anyone that’s ever plugged in their phone in the car to play songs on a roadtrip. hell, anyone that’s ever sat in the back on the roadtrip and said, “please change this piece of shit song.” if you’ve brought speakers or guitars to the park or if you’ve made someone a mix cd, you are a dj. but more… there’s more… if you’ve ever opened your mouth to make a sound, you are a dj. if you’ve ever walked around or brushed past a clangy fence, if you’ve ever felt the wind against your face, if you’ve ever breathed, you are a dj.

we’re all in this together, spinning subtle space tunes. Continue reading

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commonplace of Candide

ON BOREDOM In the end everything in life grows wearisome. (109) ON FREE WILL “Kiss your feet, Monsieur l’Abbé!” said Candide, “I do not understand such jokes.” Thereupon some deaf-mutes who had come from court with the abbé entered the … Continue reading

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flâneur

in which the Tunnel decides to sell Dorothy. Continue reading

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