charles bukowski

lived a few blocks down from me.

santa cruz st., san pedro ca 90732.

poet. novelist. dirty old bastard.

and i like him.

a lot.

his prose ain't that hot, but his poetry is beautiful. an off-beat-odd-fellow-type beauty. something akin to a toothless hobo clutching a half empty bottle of mickey's malt liqueur under the setting sun in los angeles harbor.

recently re-read some of his poems and i've come to a disturbing conclusion.

i copy him.

not verbatim, but stylistically.

a mental road map to composition.

in fact, i think many young writers do.

in my defense, i dont think i tried to.

just happened.

seeped into my mental vernacular.

a subconscious seed planted in my medulla oblongata. maybe it happened when i looked for his grave site a few years back.

some half-assed supernatural bond.

i dunno.

but it happened.

should i apologize?

no.

he's dead. and i dont think you can copyright a mentality.

yet, the least i can do is introduce some scouts to my favorite, albeit relatively unknown, poet:

Charles Bukowski

1920-1994

one of my favorites:

I Made a Mistake

I reached up into the top of the closet

and took out a pair of blue panties

and showed them to her and

asked "are these yours?"

and she looked and said,

"no, those belong to a dog."

she left after that and I haven't seen

her since. she's not at her place.

I keep going there, leaving notes stuck

into the door. I go back and the notes

are still there. I take the Maltese cross

cut it down from my car mirror, tie it

to her doorknob with a shoelace, leave

a book of poems.

when I go back the next night everything

is still there.

I keep searching the streets for that

blood-wine battleship she drives

with a weak battery, and the doors

hanging from broken hinges.

I drive around the streets

an inch away from weeping,

ashamed of my sentimentality and

possible love.

a confused old man driving in the rain

wondering where the good luck

went.

private discharged by firing squad

this guy, bush.
death sure follows him closely. wanna know more?
click here:

http://www.politico.com/news/stories/0708/12129.html

sunday morning coming down

and i'm one of three remaining white males in los angeles who mows his own lawn.

its a little known fact that i hold close to my heart. and i like to celebrate said factoid on my porch with a pabst blue ribbon and a sanctimonious sneer. but im starting to think gravel might be a nice alternative. ulysses; my tortoise, masturbated all over my freshly mowed lawn.he was punished. here's some pix. live vicariously through me.

the chicken post

for the full story, click on the month of JUNE and scroll down.

Quickpost this image to Myspace, Digg, Facebook, and others!

War is a Racket

Major General Smedley Butler. Old school Marine. And considering our nation's current plight, I found a fairly interesting quote attributed to him in Random Lengths (local rag). It comes from his book, War is a Racket. Check it out:
http://www.randomlengthsnews.com/content/view/144/33

always open

she asked if i liked to drink beer and play pool.
"yes," i said. drinking coffee black. two splendas.
she started talking about new mexico. she wanted to leave. go to california. matter of fact, her band was playing a gig in stockton, ca soon.
"oh stockton," said a man. he was sitting to my left. he put down his fork. pancakes and bacon, they waited.
"stocktons big time," he continued. "been there once, big time."
she smiled. "yeah, stockton."
i dont remember what she looked like. im sorry. just a non-descript girl, working the late shift at a denny's in albuquerque, NM. and she must of saw something in me. a connection.
the tattoos. the disheveled look. the 1000-yard stare i directed towards the indian cooking hash behind the counter. maybe it was the journal i was scribbling in. trying to write a new story.
but this girl spoke up. said hello. and we talked.
the coffee was good. suitable. black and hot. thats all i drank. she refilled it five times. the cups were small.
"pigs ina blankit!" said the indian. "up!"
she retrieved it. as she did, i pocketed a handful of splenda packets.
she came back.
"must really like splenda, huh?" she said.
"im a diabetic," i said.
she was sorry to hear that.
"me too, " i said.
a customer caught her attention and although she stood directly in front of me, her eyes were looking to right.
i took the opportunity to scrutinize her non-descript face.
eyes; they sat deep.
nose; it breathed.
mouth; it opened, noise came out.
a girl. probably in her early 20s. the apple of some diesel mechanics eye. pretty.
more customers entered.
albuquerque's youth. she served them. i sat, drinking my coffee.
read a book: power screenwriting.
the hero's journey; the path to redemption; change; approaching the cave; the conflict within; and finally the impact on the world.
she came back.
a new pot of coffee. she poured. her mouth opened.
"in a couple months stockon," she said.
"yes," i said. "lots of stuff in stockon."
another order came up. chicken fried steak with a side of seasoned fries.
she got it. i finished my coffee. black, with two splendas.
as i ante'd up with the cashier, she grabbed me by the arm.
"dont got a phone, but if i can get yers, maybe we can grab a bud later."
"sure, " i said. "i like getting wasted."
so i gave her my number and said i would return later that night.
"dont sleep much nowadays," i said.
neither did she. "the heat," she said. "its unbearable."
i waved goodbye. smiled. exited.
the heat of the new mexico came over me quickly. stifling. one almost forgets what cold feels like. deep inside your chest.
driving back to a friends apartment, i rolled down the window and let the breeze hit my face. it was cool. but not cold. i pulled my car up near a dance club.
turned off my lights and watched. the youth. happily coupled. holding.
love, i guess.
so i sat there in my car like some deranged taxi driver, smoking cigarettes, hoping to see something. find something. somebody. connect.
after an hour or so i ran out of cigarettes.
headed back dennys.
i saw her, my waitress, outside drinking a pepsi. bottle type. she was waiting.
but i didnt stop. never came back. just drove in the dark to my friends place.
my waitress, well, she never did call.

when i was in high school

i really dug this song: "the freshmen," by the verve pipe.
about relationships.
strange.
because i didnt have a real girlfriend until years later.
but this song. i heard it recently. its cliche. its juvenile. its pretty melodramatic. but thats high school, yes?
brian vander ark wrote it. he still tours. here's his website:
http://www.brianvanderark.com/
but it made me think about someone.
and i cant decide whether the kid who put it to japanese anime is just a big goober, or a genius.
nevertheless, i still like it.

Wounded Warriors' Writing Program

sometimes i complain about my back.
or nightmares.

and then i see the wounded.

they deserve more than a t-shirt.

got some greenbacks burning a hole in your pocket?

enjoy theatre?

donate.

please.

thank you.

Wounded Warrior Writers Program

http://www.ntwh.org/

McCain, the POW

don't agree with most of his policy.

but one thing's for sure, John McCain is a helluva man.
here's his story (wow):
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/1084711/posts

hilton, bahrain

It’s late.
My back burns.
Something’s askew in my spine. I don’t know what, but it’s askew. A disc maybe. A disc protruding pinching a nerve. A muscle strained.
I don’t know.
I’ve been in this pain for two months.
Yesterday I thought I might have recovered, but I was wrong.
I woke up and my back burned. Burned up along my spine, running hot and dull and achy and when I turn my neck something pops and creaks.
Something is always going wrong.
Inevitably.
A big zit on my cheek.
Deep and bulbous and hurting. Can’t find a head to lance, so it remains there until my body consumes it.
An ingrown hair on my testicles.
Another bad hair day.
Starched shirts collapsing around my neck with sweat.
An ulcer steaming inside my stomach.
Unyielding bowl movements.
A torn meniscus hobbling.
Stubbed toe engorged with black blood.
Waking up with a sty.
Huddling in the corner of the USS Pearl Harbor as mononucleosis abrades my throat.
The waxy build-up of dirt and sebum on my “t-zone”.
Stretch marks.
Wrinkles forging their indifferent trails along my forehead.
Pores widening.
Screaming.
Birthmarks.
Liver spots—I’m getting old.
The shotgun blast of exploded melanin on my nose.

So I take my allotted VA narcotics and crack a Coke Zero.

And then I remember being in Bahrain.

View Larger Map

Being in Bahrain alone.
Medi-vac’d off the USS Pearl Harbor.

I’m in the gift store of the Hilton, Bahrain and I buy a Monte Cristo cigar. Take it to my face and inhale. Robusto, dark and reminds me of my grandpa.
It is six inches long and still supple despite its long journey from Cuba.
I began smoking cigars when I was sixteen. I never inhale, but puff, puff and let the blue smoke rise like the connoisseurs suggest. I hold it with a semi-cupped hand, as opposed to how I hold a cigarette; between my forefinger and middle. An assortment of Arabs and Europeans pass me, staring.
A United States Marine alone in the Hilton, Bahrain.
A Sunni Arab floats by silently in his white cloak and black checkered headdress.
I walk to the pool. 102 degrees outside. I sit and look at the pool. Unearthly aqua-marine in this white-hot sun.
I hear a German tourist bark something to his companion.
I think of Hitler and Goebels and Rommel.
Rommel wasn’t that bad—right?
Just a soldier like me.
Walk through the tiny streets and hear the daily Islamic prayers on a loudspeaker.
It is very unnerving.
And I know why.
Finding my way to a British-themed bar later that night, I buy several beers. Soccer is playing on the television and I look at the screen holding my beer and although I appear attentive I have no clue on what is going on.

I spend the money the military has given me on more beer and a pack of Marlboro's that are counterfeits and smoke fine but taste like cow shit.

But I smoke them and smile and drink.
A middle-aged woman nuzzles up to me and talks about nothing and I respond with eager glee.

She tells me she’s in the Air Force and I think about what a bunch of civilians in uniform the Air Force actually is, but I keep that to myself.
I dance with the middle-aged women.
Dancing an awkward boy dance and I don’t care who’s watching and the alcohol runs pretty deep thick in my blood.
She looks too tired for being middle-aged.
She introduces me to her friend: a large man with arms so wide they made taught his short sleeved shirt.
He’s a C-130 pilot in the Air Force. He’s easy with his words. I look at him while’s he’s on the dance floor. I know he is a man and I am really only a boy and as much as I try to believe being a US Marine automatically garners the title of “man”, I know I’m not.
I think I kiss the middle-aged woman.
I do not bring her back to the Hilton, Bahrain and do the things I had hoped.
I contemplate calling upon one of the many European whores that saturate the Hilton, Bahrain and the various themed bars. But I’ve only got one-hundred and fifty dollars and I have two days left in this desert. I take a cold shower and sleep.
The next night I go to a Brazilian-themed bar. A large green flag with a floating globe hangs above the dance floor and the bar is full of Britons and Germans. They wear simple polo’s and deep cordovan slip-on shoes.
I buy beer and sit in a corner and look around.
It gets late, around 10pm ,and the whores miraculously appear in the Brazilian-themed bar like water on litmus paper.
Again I ponder using their services.
I look at them without letting them know I am looking at them, trying to see some underlying sadness that I’ve observed in so many television shows in regards to prostitution.
I find none.
Just handsome European faces waiting for me or some Briton or German to use their service. No empathy wanted.
A handsome Russian with empty blue eyes and a slender bird-like body saunters near me and I get shy and try not to look at her empty blue eyes, but I can’t help it.
I think of Modigliani.
The women he painted with their vacant stares.
Their indifference.
Beauty.
The handsome Russian with empty blue eyes sips a beer for twenty minutes until a short Arab walks by in his white gown and black checkered headdress.
He floats.
They converse and walk out together holding hands smiling. I finish my beer and walk back to the Hilton, Bahrain.
I draw a scalding hot bath.
I put my foot in first and retract it quickly.
Too damn hot.
I let it cool down.
My foot goes back in and absorbs the warmth.
I enter in sections.
Feet.
Calves.
Ass.
Penis.
Stomach. And then recline into the heat.
I don’t remember what I thought about soaking in that bath in the Hilton, Bahrain, but I’m sure it revolved around the fact that I had recently traversed the world on the USS Pearl Harbor and slept in the jungles of Kenya; patrolling the Somalia border for over a month.
But most probably I was thinking about how I would act if I actually went to War in Iraq or if it all was just soldierly speculation and rumor.
I dismissed that thought though; America fighting a War with troops on the ground and firefights and ambushes and confirmed kills.
I was a naïve kid back then. Believed in world peace.
After the bath I spread out on the bed naked and smoked another Monte Cristo cigar in my room at the Hilton, Bahrain.
It felt very good to be alive.

my play won!

just got word.
my play, "tomorrow" won a spot at the lebanon community theatre's annual playwrighting contest! so if you're in lebanon, pennsylvania aug 21-24-CHECK IT OUT!


http://www.lct.cc/index.htm

cousin andy on KSCR 1560AM

interested in lycanthropy, cartoons, and general college malaise?
i know i am.
be a kindred soul and tune in to the "my cousin andy show."
every tue @ 10pm.

http://kscr.org/

don't huff Dust Off

sometimes i wonder if life is composed of many little cliches.

http://www.newsday.com/news/local/ny-lisold0706,0,814136,print.story