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Wednesday, February 23, 2011
la metropolitan courthouse on a gray day
It's an old building with loads of marble and tile. Yellowed and gray brown, like puss. Influenza phlegm. A long line of men/women wind their way along the floor-- polished smooth from years of foot-draggers. Essentialy one massive cluster-fuck of inner-city street life. A microsm of Los Angeles all gathered together to pay the piper. Care of some fat cop with a qouta to fill. Wife at home, 50 lbs over weight -- counting calories, noshing a king-sized kit kat bar. But back to the courthouse. I paid eight dollars to park. Wandered around a bit, watching the deputy sheriffs' eyeball my USMC cap. Most not bothering to get up from their swivel chairs. Just sat there. Looking up from a copy of the funny pages, to flash a contemptous glare at all us degenerates. Well, it's been about two hours -- looks like I'm up.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
"bro's"
the guy @ the 7/11 calls me "bro."
he's an Asian.
looks Thai, maybe Hmong.
i call him Jackie after Jackie Chan. a poor man's Jackie Chan with grizzled hands and slippery mitts hardened by callouses.
Jackie stands behind the counter looking rather blank.
expressionless.
until i reach his register.
he calls me "bro," and looks me in the eye like an old friend.
barely know him.
visit the establishment in the wee hours.
five bucks.
five-hour energy.
Lemonheads, three packs.
Yoohoo or Coke Zero.
my routine.
last night though, he wasn't behind the counter.
he passed me in line, his hand clenched; attached to a girl.
30-something Hispanic.
gordita-type.
eye-brows thin and black and not exactly even.
a Raiders hoodie riding high on Costco jeans.
i watched them walk outside -- calm, mute, and determined.
determined to hit the street, hang a right -- seeking repose on a cement divider.
an Indian-type rang me up.
he did not call me "bro."
he did not call me anything.
just "four-ninety-five," in a rather monotone voice.
i left a bit empty.
really.
i pounded the bottled energy in my car.
it tasted like rancid goat piss.
with a hint of grape.
wishing i had a Yoohoo to wash the chemical stain down my throat.
but i didn't, so i sat there cringing, sucking my tongue.
popping quatro Lemonheads, my head cocked starboard.
eyes falling on Jackie and his girl (let's call her Lupe)
smoking cigarettes and talking gently, his arm around Lupe's waist.
looking pleased.
VROOM! i kicked the car into reverse and rumbled down gaffey street.
slight smile on my face as the Lemonheads turned sweet.
bitterness all gone.
found history
in the garage, under a bin, sealed away, i found history.
matches for the Iraqi masses.
rat out the terrorists and get some cheese.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
before beginning my screenplay
i write just one poem (or blog) -- greasing the gears -- an odd pastiche of script and sonnet.
this time it's Afghanistan -- poppies and ice.
Marjoram sans burhka.
Brown-brown eye’s spread out, warm.
still wet, glistening.
Wind HOWLS deep, polishing stone.
Shooting past poked-marked loam.
Vertical roads, replete with potholes.
Dripping dust.
Dropping dirt.
Big puffs -- sand; billowing and dissipating.
Twisted up good now on exposed root -- concrete arteries, straining.
Screaming for soil;
Security;
Safety.
And deep down the mountain crevasse, it numbs her toes.
Her nose;
Fingernails -- ice-trays;
Lips -- slushies, solid and blue.
Not quite cracked.
Not quite chapped.
The bulbous bud sweeps over her, like a blanket straight from the dryer on a sharp Sunday afternoon.
Head cocked to the left, flowing up up and away.
A fever dream that lasts half the day.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
the Wolfman streaming
thanks to netflix and Curt Siodmak.
'Even a man who is pure in heart,
and says his prayers by night,
may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms,
and the autom moon is full and bright.'
'Even a man who is pure in heart,
and says his prayers by night,
may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms,
and the autom moon is full and bright.'
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
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