Soundtrack made for kicks. I recorded this while imagining me imagining myself reading this out loud, occasionally the tone and rhythm of the words intersect with the music. Sorta.
The Passenger
The final car approaches
You sit among the passengers
Each scared they'll be the one to crash the train
Posing as they were
On shelf-like seats
They blur the line that runs between commodity and sentience
He enters from a stairway
It's the kind you don't
descent or climb, but take
They disappear like cold sores past his shoulder
He sits facing backwards
And searches you
From eyes to heels for a stamp card
Like you're some library book he lost
You recognize that look,
And want to take out a distraction
But all you have is arson and your scrapbook
Your scrapbook was for butterflies
Whose wings grew so vibrant and dry
You find no further use for color
But fate has always slammed it shut
Before they're finished with their bodies, so
The book hurts far too much for you to open
This man pries apart the pages
Calls them gorgeous
Terrifying you,
And following you, ranting, into the next car
In search of safety you sit down
Within a dealer's blast radius
And fall asleep with one eye open
It must have been the wrong one
Several tunnels later
You start to envy those
With just one stop to watch out for
You're weak,
But not as weak as they are
The dealers arm around you,
No longer your protector,
Is tickling the threshold
Of what
You'd live lawless to be rid of
The arm extends, a lustrous blue,
Up past the sky and then into
Your pocket
Elbows God's ribs
Before He takes credit
Excusing himself
The dealer pulls
A familiar stairway from his lapel
You take a sudden leap
Before his words can
Curl your efforts inward
Now floating
And so forgotten is
The nonsense patter
Of the train car's tiny bouncing
Like a million disused truths
Trying to break out of a coffin
Your frayed strips of thought
Are the socks of every atom
Our minds are only so
When they forget they're raindrops
Counting backwards as they go
The train, it carries passengers
Between knowledge
And paying lip service to facts
Its route an oblate spheroid
We chuck paint on
As we land back on the tracks
Impact shakes the glasses
In another wannabe inscrutable Orpheus' loft
Orpheus pours another round of gin
For himself and lovable fuck-up Pete
and says,
"An unfillable absence has saved me"
Pete knows he's on about Eurydice again
And slits both their throats to change the subject
And keep him from his fucking guitar
The blood pools and seeps
To the first lair of the underworld
Where the walls echo with "They're a good person, but"
Networking with the dust kicked up by the trains
The avant garde rhythm of their passing
Inspires light exchanges
Legs sprout, and tokens form
They board the train
Sorting out memories that might as well be theirs
Saturday, February 20, 2016
Saturday, December 12, 2015
Holedayz
Just when you thought your chimney couldn't get any more Freudian
Icicles from the moon are needles in Earth's eyes
Christmas candy cane shanked the warden and escaped from jail
Now it's on the run, writing creepy letters with your house as the return address
Your mother appreciates this the same way your dad appreciates Wes Anderson movies
Nog chugging eggs
Eggs making friends
Friends turn into pastry
Pastry cooked by the sharp light of dying stars
Stars that were just cookies all along,
And milk is the linguistic juggling act that keeps us from the dry cake of truth
I poured hot cocoa down my back and rolled in the snow
Down a hill
'Till I was the torso of a snowman named Claudia
Who was my neighbor's sex toy
He never made it to my "Christmas" party,
Politically correct snowfucker
It's late
Everyone's gone home
All you hear are obese snowflakes fucking in the air
And making tiny white snow jizz
Landing all over your face
While you think about Charlie Brown
Icicles from the moon are needles in Earth's eyes
Christmas candy cane shanked the warden and escaped from jail
Now it's on the run, writing creepy letters with your house as the return address
Your mother appreciates this the same way your dad appreciates Wes Anderson movies
Nog chugging eggs
Eggs making friends
Friends turn into pastry
Pastry cooked by the sharp light of dying stars
Stars that were just cookies all along,
And milk is the linguistic juggling act that keeps us from the dry cake of truth
I poured hot cocoa down my back and rolled in the snow
Down a hill
'Till I was the torso of a snowman named Claudia
Who was my neighbor's sex toy
He never made it to my "Christmas" party,
Politically correct snowfucker
It's late
Everyone's gone home
All you hear are obese snowflakes fucking in the air
And making tiny white snow jizz
Landing all over your face
While you think about Charlie Brown
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Scavenger Hunt
At age 18 you arrive at the alley
Where Bruce Springsteen lost his notebook
You avert your eyes from a haggard bum
Suspended in front of the blue dumpster
A tentacle broad as an eggplant ripe
Vanishing up their pant leg
You recognize this poor soul as yourself,
Your aging sinewy arms extended before you holding
200 months of printed spam emails from Hotwire
And a lighter
Offering these words:
She rides your hand in the passenger seat
Like an ink horse over the plains of paper
You smell perfume, cold rain, takeaway falafel bag
She vanishes when headlights would reveal her
The paper has given up on the arrival of meaning
But still you try to smear the drops
A voice says "Bite down on this"
You do so until your jaw is broken,
But still this story you must tell
Greg and Sandy wound up on different groups for the scavenger hunt that was featured as sponsored content on their Facebook newsfeed. "The algorithm must have made a mistake." While reluctant to split, they decided that adapting to the situation was more attractive than complaining to the organizers. Indeed the organizers' composure was straining, surrounded as they were by folks trying to look unassuming before their turn to approach with another "simple" request.
The scavenger hunt participants meet near a downtown metro rail station, to encourage green modes of travel. Greg and Sandy didn't want to plan their day around the light rail's schedule, so they compromised and drove from their midtown apartment to a nearby neighborhood, parked and used the city's rental bikes for the remaining several blocks. Both are unexceptionally attractive & tall, white, and bike & beer fit.
The rules for the scavenger hunt are explained, the destinations of each group are doled out, and a list of the items of interest are posted online. Cradling her phone, it dawns on Sandy that this event excludes anyone unable to afford a smartphone. A gust of wind swings the whimsical street art on its hinges; its creaking sounds like malicious laughter. "No!" She chides herself. "I WILL enjoy this. I give myself permission." Greg's lips rest against her ear, startling her as he murmurs, "We should have just taken the light rail." He must have felt it, too. He feels guilty. It makes her feel close to him. "His suffering brings me comfort. Is that what love is?" "No! Not this time. I give myself permission. I give myself permission..." She repeats this incantation, then turns to face Greg. She places his arm around her and kisses him briskly. "You're cute. Promise you won't find a new girlfriend." Greg squeezes with his arm and his hand, cocking an eyebrow. "New girlfriend... didn't see that on the list." Sandy pouts, ironically but not really. Greg tries to reassure her. "It's just like, a couple hours. Then we'll meet at Shane's and explain our experiences to each other." Sandy pouts with sincere irony this time. "I do like explaining..." "I know. And I like listening and french fries, so... let's do this!" A quick embrace and off they go in opposite directions, looking back at different times.
Greg's group diffuses into their first stop: a boutique curiosity shop. His teammates engaged in tedious banter that seemed an awful lot like networking, and to him, rummaging through precariously placed expensive crafts in search of clues was less awkward. The old man at the counter was glaring at him, so he picked up an item and feigned interest. It is a $90 picture frame, but the stock picture is a tragic pile of bones and clay. He suddenly recalls the archaeological expedition to excavate his true self. It has been neglected, and he vividly remembers the outline that he was dusting and recognized as the fossilized bones of mediocrity that caused him to abandon the mission and start online dating.
The old man interrupts Greg's thoughts:
The mind is a sail when the devil's wind blows
You will untie none of the knowledge that he stows
And you only find peace where no other boat goes
Greg understood only the existence of words before the shelves crashed around him.
The old man grabbed his head and bellowed, "Look what you've done!" as Greg ran out the door, his jacket knocking over picture frames like a demon's tail.
Sandy found herself in a wine bar where people talk about being the sort of person who is the sort of person who is the sort of person who would like to be into enjoying liking jazz. Her teammates stare at paintings like they're those magic eye things from the 90's. None are in any hurry to find the next clue, so she strikes up a conversation with the bartender as she pours her a drink.
"So you must be getting a lot of us scavengers, huh?"
The bartender covers Sandy's mouth. "Shhhh!" She turns an ear towards Sandy's torso, then looks around the room. "Can you hear?" Sandy assumes this is a rhetorical question, since the bartender is still squeezing her face.
The body's mouth opens only to eat or speak
Mankind will starve with a pile of apples for a seat
A single bite taken from each
Will you bite?
Will you haunt the world to see who took the bite from you, and why?
The bartender turns Sandy's head, and she sees a homeless man peering in the window. He opens his mouth, and an orchestra of electric bass swells until it scrambles her vision. She is floating in space and combusting into a massive sphere of plasma while the bartender-turned-documentarian calmly describes Sandy's ideals as though they're a planet orbiting the same path as her desire for greatness. The two planets could sustain life but they are timed such that the day after life emerges on the shores of each, they pass too close, destroying both atmospheres. The documentarian reads aloud the lore of sailors on more successful planets, who always go the opposite direction when they notice her in the sky.
She approaches them, but all she can see are the backs of their heads. She runs around them a full 360 degrees, then stops, recoils, drops her wineglass and runs out the door. She approaches the homeless man and frantically opens her purse to give alms, but all of her money has turned into apples with bites missing. After staring in disbelief for a moment, she drops her purse and tearfully lunges into man's shoulder. She reaches her arms around him but finds herself holding only some dry cleaning. The address on the tag is her home address, but the garments belong to neither her nor Greg. The address of the dry cleaners is not far, so she decides to return them and let them know of their mistake.
Greg runs through the crowded streets and ducks into a bike shop. "At least I won't break anything here," he muses to himself, catching his breath. Checking his phone, he notices this is actually the next stop on the scavenger hunt. The clues are all in a mixture of poorly researched middle English and pirate speak, but he thinks it says "The past is faster because it has your best legs". Useless. Greg's strategy is to simply walk around looking for envelopes. He absently fondles a handlebar and the clerk speaks up from behind him in nasal monotone, "Fancy a test ride, Smullicans?" What did she call him? "No thanks, just 'scavenging' about, as it were." She grabs him by the wrist and places his hand back on the bike and says, "I insist." Greg moves to protest, but realizes this is probably part of the hunt. She all but pushes him out the door, then pulls it shut behind him and locks it.
Thoughts of the practicality of this in the context of a scavenger hunt pass through Greg's brain as he negotiates his way through downtown traffic. He veers into an alley and passes some teenagers, and he smells blunt smoke. The smell of trash and bad weed takes him back to Caroline. The Beach Boys song featuring the name plays, then fades as he realizes he is riding circles in a fake alley on a "theater in the round" stage set up at Burning Man. Caroline and her husband are hidden in the orchestra pit, tied at the wrists and knees, with 3 people in rubber Space Ghost masks and ska suits clutching rifles. Caroline pleads, "Greg, the audience is full of venture capitalists! You must sell them on the app Trent and I developed." "If we don't raise $6 million, they're going to kill us!" Caroline continues, "That means you can't passive-aggressively use trendy buzzwords to express your disapproval of my success!" Greg looks back and forth between the figures with guns and Caroline. "Remember your Space Ghost bed set?" "GREG THIS IS SERIOUS!" He sighs, then approaches center stage, and audience chatter dies down.
Greg clutches the mic and speaks with all available enthusiasm. "You've all seen, and probably use apps that gather data from social media to measure a person's influence. OutBurn also takes data from web browsers and operating systems to determine:
-How late someone works, and on what sort of material.
-How long they stay on which pages, and
-Which other apps they have downloaded and how effectively they use them,
All in order to appraise not only an individual's influence, but their drive to succeed. Employers need never worry about hiring another dud again!" The faces Greg sees look intrigued, but then the entire audience interrupts in unison, "The app is unnecessary, for it is easy enough for all to see the carcasses of ignored dreams you drag like empty beer cans celebrating your marriage to yourself in the First Presbyterian Church of Mediocrity. Enjoy your french fries."
Sandy arrives at the dry cleaners, which is also an indie music label that only releases cassette tapes. You get a free recording session with your order. Sandy sees a line for the recording booth, and overhears that this is the next stop in the scavenger hunt. She locates the clerk and offers them the bag and a quick explanation, hoping to get back to quietly contemplating what of her adventure to tell Greg. "Maybe you should sing about it" The clerk smiles brightly. He looks like Beck, but without any possibility of facial hair. "I'm sorry, I would but I don't have time to wait-" "No worries," he says, "you can cut in front of them, you're like, our only paying customer. Might as well enjoy the benefits." "Enjoy..." She repeats this to herself a few times. "That's why I'm doing this! I said I was going to enjoy myself today." She grips an acoustic guitar and marches into the recording booth.
She strums an acoustic guitar and begins to sing, thinking of the Internet and using her Leonard Cohen voice:
You can place your pettiness behind ideals
You can hide your smallness with beliefs
You can disguise yourself with words
You can mask your ugliness with taste
But someone is bound to follow you
To the castle of cruelty you call home
Soon after completing her 40-minute musical manifesto, she is handed a Walkman containing her cassette tape, and a case with artwork. All she hears is white noise. It sounds like insects. She unfolds the insert from the case into a full sized poster, which features her at the moment when she realized she actually looked forward to conversations with her mother. The list of instruments includes "Droning cicadas of Sandy's mediocrity", and "Garage full of crickets saying, 'MEHHHHH' before going to the garage of someone more interesting."
The clerk who resembles Beck says, "I know it's a bit rough. We have editing packages starting in the mid 9s."
She screams at Beck, spikes the cassette, walks over to where it bounced and stomps it until it is in several pieces. She marches to the door, then turns around, snatches the dry cleaning bag and storms out.
Greg replays the two gunshots in his mind a few more times with his eyes closed, then formally wakes up and focuses on a series of two-by-fours hanging at least 6 feet from a dumpster, next to which he is sprawled out. He considers his face then winces in pain. Upon standing up and emerging from the side the dumpster, he sees Sandy with the circle of teens, passing a bowl around.
Greg groans and blinks. "Hey there." One of the teenagers quips, "Oh yeah, I remember that guy!" Sandy runs up to him. "Holy shit babe are you OK? I didn't see you!" They kiss, but as his contribution grows sloppy, Sandy pulls away. "Alright, dumpster boy. Wanna hit this then bounce? Ooh, is your eye OK?" Greg nods as she hands him the glass piece. "Yep. Yep. I just gotta return this bike then we can-" he looks around. Sandy asks,"What bike?"
"Uhh... "
One of the kids pulls at his ski cap's tassels. "Fuck! Yeah, some chick came by and said you were done with it." An awkward moment passes where perhaps they are realizing they should have done more. Ski cap breaks it. "She called you a pelican." Another chimes in, "Dude, I can totally see it! The beard!" "HAAAAA!" "Spoonbilled motherfucker!"
Greg hands them back their bowl. "It's all good." They depart and head to Shane's.
Greg inspects the menu. "I'm not sure I want french fries." Sandy creases her brows exaggeratedly. "Me neither. But maybe." They both stare past their menus for a full minute. Sandy says, "Well, if we both half-want french fries, maybe we can share? Now that your dumpster cooties are gone! You look so fucking hot right now..." Sandy runs her toe up Greg's calf under the table. Greg clutches the lapel of his suit jacket. "I can't believe how well it fits. Where did you get it again?" Sandy stares off for a second. "I told you, it was part of the scavenger hunt." Greg nods approvingly, and pulls a tag off the sleeve. "Freshly dry cleaned, too."
Where Bruce Springsteen lost his notebook
You avert your eyes from a haggard bum
Suspended in front of the blue dumpster
A tentacle broad as an eggplant ripe
Vanishing up their pant leg
You recognize this poor soul as yourself,
Your aging sinewy arms extended before you holding
200 months of printed spam emails from Hotwire
And a lighter
Offering these words:
She rides your hand in the passenger seat
Like an ink horse over the plains of paper
You smell perfume, cold rain, takeaway falafel bag
She vanishes when headlights would reveal her
The paper has given up on the arrival of meaning
But still you try to smear the drops
A voice says "Bite down on this"
You do so until your jaw is broken,
But still this story you must tell
Greg and Sandy wound up on different groups for the scavenger hunt that was featured as sponsored content on their Facebook newsfeed. "The algorithm must have made a mistake." While reluctant to split, they decided that adapting to the situation was more attractive than complaining to the organizers. Indeed the organizers' composure was straining, surrounded as they were by folks trying to look unassuming before their turn to approach with another "simple" request.
The scavenger hunt participants meet near a downtown metro rail station, to encourage green modes of travel. Greg and Sandy didn't want to plan their day around the light rail's schedule, so they compromised and drove from their midtown apartment to a nearby neighborhood, parked and used the city's rental bikes for the remaining several blocks. Both are unexceptionally attractive & tall, white, and bike & beer fit.
The rules for the scavenger hunt are explained, the destinations of each group are doled out, and a list of the items of interest are posted online. Cradling her phone, it dawns on Sandy that this event excludes anyone unable to afford a smartphone. A gust of wind swings the whimsical street art on its hinges; its creaking sounds like malicious laughter. "No!" She chides herself. "I WILL enjoy this. I give myself permission." Greg's lips rest against her ear, startling her as he murmurs, "We should have just taken the light rail." He must have felt it, too. He feels guilty. It makes her feel close to him. "His suffering brings me comfort. Is that what love is?" "No! Not this time. I give myself permission. I give myself permission..." She repeats this incantation, then turns to face Greg. She places his arm around her and kisses him briskly. "You're cute. Promise you won't find a new girlfriend." Greg squeezes with his arm and his hand, cocking an eyebrow. "New girlfriend... didn't see that on the list." Sandy pouts, ironically but not really. Greg tries to reassure her. "It's just like, a couple hours. Then we'll meet at Shane's and explain our experiences to each other." Sandy pouts with sincere irony this time. "I do like explaining..." "I know. And I like listening and french fries, so... let's do this!" A quick embrace and off they go in opposite directions, looking back at different times.
Greg's group diffuses into their first stop: a boutique curiosity shop. His teammates engaged in tedious banter that seemed an awful lot like networking, and to him, rummaging through precariously placed expensive crafts in search of clues was less awkward. The old man at the counter was glaring at him, so he picked up an item and feigned interest. It is a $90 picture frame, but the stock picture is a tragic pile of bones and clay. He suddenly recalls the archaeological expedition to excavate his true self. It has been neglected, and he vividly remembers the outline that he was dusting and recognized as the fossilized bones of mediocrity that caused him to abandon the mission and start online dating.
The old man interrupts Greg's thoughts:
The mind is a sail when the devil's wind blows
You will untie none of the knowledge that he stows
And you only find peace where no other boat goes
Greg understood only the existence of words before the shelves crashed around him.
The old man grabbed his head and bellowed, "Look what you've done!" as Greg ran out the door, his jacket knocking over picture frames like a demon's tail.
Sandy found herself in a wine bar where people talk about being the sort of person who is the sort of person who is the sort of person who would like to be into enjoying liking jazz. Her teammates stare at paintings like they're those magic eye things from the 90's. None are in any hurry to find the next clue, so she strikes up a conversation with the bartender as she pours her a drink.
"So you must be getting a lot of us scavengers, huh?"
The bartender covers Sandy's mouth. "Shhhh!" She turns an ear towards Sandy's torso, then looks around the room. "Can you hear?" Sandy assumes this is a rhetorical question, since the bartender is still squeezing her face.
The body's mouth opens only to eat or speak
Mankind will starve with a pile of apples for a seat
A single bite taken from each
Will you bite?
Will you haunt the world to see who took the bite from you, and why?
The bartender turns Sandy's head, and she sees a homeless man peering in the window. He opens his mouth, and an orchestra of electric bass swells until it scrambles her vision. She is floating in space and combusting into a massive sphere of plasma while the bartender-turned-documentarian calmly describes Sandy's ideals as though they're a planet orbiting the same path as her desire for greatness. The two planets could sustain life but they are timed such that the day after life emerges on the shores of each, they pass too close, destroying both atmospheres. The documentarian reads aloud the lore of sailors on more successful planets, who always go the opposite direction when they notice her in the sky.
The homeless man finishes coughing and, containing herself, Sandy gets up to see if the others would be OK with letting the him into their group.
She approaches them, but all she can see are the backs of their heads. She runs around them a full 360 degrees, then stops, recoils, drops her wineglass and runs out the door. She approaches the homeless man and frantically opens her purse to give alms, but all of her money has turned into apples with bites missing. After staring in disbelief for a moment, she drops her purse and tearfully lunges into man's shoulder. She reaches her arms around him but finds herself holding only some dry cleaning. The address on the tag is her home address, but the garments belong to neither her nor Greg. The address of the dry cleaners is not far, so she decides to return them and let them know of their mistake.
Greg runs through the crowded streets and ducks into a bike shop. "At least I won't break anything here," he muses to himself, catching his breath. Checking his phone, he notices this is actually the next stop on the scavenger hunt. The clues are all in a mixture of poorly researched middle English and pirate speak, but he thinks it says "The past is faster because it has your best legs". Useless. Greg's strategy is to simply walk around looking for envelopes. He absently fondles a handlebar and the clerk speaks up from behind him in nasal monotone, "Fancy a test ride, Smullicans?" What did she call him? "No thanks, just 'scavenging' about, as it were." She grabs him by the wrist and places his hand back on the bike and says, "I insist." Greg moves to protest, but realizes this is probably part of the hunt. She all but pushes him out the door, then pulls it shut behind him and locks it.
Thoughts of the practicality of this in the context of a scavenger hunt pass through Greg's brain as he negotiates his way through downtown traffic. He veers into an alley and passes some teenagers, and he smells blunt smoke. The smell of trash and bad weed takes him back to Caroline. The Beach Boys song featuring the name plays, then fades as he realizes he is riding circles in a fake alley on a "theater in the round" stage set up at Burning Man. Caroline and her husband are hidden in the orchestra pit, tied at the wrists and knees, with 3 people in rubber Space Ghost masks and ska suits clutching rifles. Caroline pleads, "Greg, the audience is full of venture capitalists! You must sell them on the app Trent and I developed." "If we don't raise $6 million, they're going to kill us!" Caroline continues, "That means you can't passive-aggressively use trendy buzzwords to express your disapproval of my success!" Greg looks back and forth between the figures with guns and Caroline. "Remember your Space Ghost bed set?" "GREG THIS IS SERIOUS!" He sighs, then approaches center stage, and audience chatter dies down.
Greg clutches the mic and speaks with all available enthusiasm. "You've all seen, and probably use apps that gather data from social media to measure a person's influence. OutBurn also takes data from web browsers and operating systems to determine:
-How late someone works, and on what sort of material.
-How long they stay on which pages, and
-Which other apps they have downloaded and how effectively they use them,
All in order to appraise not only an individual's influence, but their drive to succeed. Employers need never worry about hiring another dud again!" The faces Greg sees look intrigued, but then the entire audience interrupts in unison, "The app is unnecessary, for it is easy enough for all to see the carcasses of ignored dreams you drag like empty beer cans celebrating your marriage to yourself in the First Presbyterian Church of Mediocrity. Enjoy your french fries."
Sandy arrives at the dry cleaners, which is also an indie music label that only releases cassette tapes. You get a free recording session with your order. Sandy sees a line for the recording booth, and overhears that this is the next stop in the scavenger hunt. She locates the clerk and offers them the bag and a quick explanation, hoping to get back to quietly contemplating what of her adventure to tell Greg. "Maybe you should sing about it" The clerk smiles brightly. He looks like Beck, but without any possibility of facial hair. "I'm sorry, I would but I don't have time to wait-" "No worries," he says, "you can cut in front of them, you're like, our only paying customer. Might as well enjoy the benefits." "Enjoy..." She repeats this to herself a few times. "That's why I'm doing this! I said I was going to enjoy myself today." She grips an acoustic guitar and marches into the recording booth.
She strums an acoustic guitar and begins to sing, thinking of the Internet and using her Leonard Cohen voice:
You can place your pettiness behind ideals
You can hide your smallness with beliefs
You can disguise yourself with words
You can mask your ugliness with taste
But someone is bound to follow you
To the castle of cruelty you call home
Soon after completing her 40-minute musical manifesto, she is handed a Walkman containing her cassette tape, and a case with artwork. All she hears is white noise. It sounds like insects. She unfolds the insert from the case into a full sized poster, which features her at the moment when she realized she actually looked forward to conversations with her mother. The list of instruments includes "Droning cicadas of Sandy's mediocrity", and "Garage full of crickets saying, 'MEHHHHH' before going to the garage of someone more interesting."
The clerk who resembles Beck says, "I know it's a bit rough. We have editing packages starting in the mid 9s."
She screams at Beck, spikes the cassette, walks over to where it bounced and stomps it until it is in several pieces. She marches to the door, then turns around, snatches the dry cleaning bag and storms out.
Greg replays the two gunshots in his mind a few more times with his eyes closed, then formally wakes up and focuses on a series of two-by-fours hanging at least 6 feet from a dumpster, next to which he is sprawled out. He considers his face then winces in pain. Upon standing up and emerging from the side the dumpster, he sees Sandy with the circle of teens, passing a bowl around.
Greg groans and blinks. "Hey there." One of the teenagers quips, "Oh yeah, I remember that guy!" Sandy runs up to him. "Holy shit babe are you OK? I didn't see you!" They kiss, but as his contribution grows sloppy, Sandy pulls away. "Alright, dumpster boy. Wanna hit this then bounce? Ooh, is your eye OK?" Greg nods as she hands him the glass piece. "Yep. Yep. I just gotta return this bike then we can-" he looks around. Sandy asks,"What bike?"
"Uhh... "
One of the kids pulls at his ski cap's tassels. "Fuck! Yeah, some chick came by and said you were done with it." An awkward moment passes where perhaps they are realizing they should have done more. Ski cap breaks it. "She called you a pelican." Another chimes in, "Dude, I can totally see it! The beard!" "HAAAAA!" "Spoonbilled motherfucker!"
Greg hands them back their bowl. "It's all good." They depart and head to Shane's.
Greg inspects the menu. "I'm not sure I want french fries." Sandy creases her brows exaggeratedly. "Me neither. But maybe." They both stare past their menus for a full minute. Sandy says, "Well, if we both half-want french fries, maybe we can share? Now that your dumpster cooties are gone! You look so fucking hot right now..." Sandy runs her toe up Greg's calf under the table. Greg clutches the lapel of his suit jacket. "I can't believe how well it fits. Where did you get it again?" Sandy stares off for a second. "I told you, it was part of the scavenger hunt." Greg nods approvingly, and pulls a tag off the sleeve. "Freshly dry cleaned, too."
Friday, November 13, 2015
Convoluted Reasons White People Can Rest Assured I'm Not Racist...
…and you might not be either! Check all that apply to you (and be honest):
-My Youtube ads are often in Spanish.
-Unemployed, thus not taking a job from PoC.
-I don't wear dreadlocks.
-None of my pants have pockets, so I can't check them when black people walk by.
-When my bike got stolen, I imagined a white guy took it.
-When I make a stir-fry on Sundays, I only use vegetables that grow in the same region, out of respect for the multitude of Asian cultural identities.
-If given the opportunity to own property in San Francisco, I'd turn it down.
-When I was walking by myself late last night, I was afraid of a white guy.
-I only call the police for noise complaints when the music is country or heavy metal.
-When someone's dog barks at a black person because they only have white friends, I kick the dog when nobody's looking so it'll bark at me, too. Solidarity!
-When nobody discreetly asks my date if she is “Ok” the way they would if I was black, I start mumbling aggressive-sounding gibberish until they do.
-I only jaywalk when the police aren't around, just like black people have to.
-When nobody is surprised by how articulate I am, I try to be even more articulate.
-When I walk past a police officer while wearing a hoodie, I give them a look. It's subtle, but I'm sure it follows them home.
-I heard iPhones use conflict minerals and awful labor practices. Good thing I use an Android!
-Related: I also don’t own a hybrid.
-My OK Cupid account doesn't say that I only date white people.
-I was never really into Amy Schumer anyway.
Score:
0-7 points - Uh oh, looks like somebody’s got a case of the still seeming kinda racists! Maybe try wandering around more ethnic grocery stores googling things. Also, you’d be amazed at how impolite you can get away with being to police officers as a white person.
8-12 points - Good, but you can do better. Just read more think pieces, they pretty much tell you how to act and what to say so you don’t seem racist. I’m pretty sure that’s what they’re there for...
13-18 points - *Ring ring* Hello, White Privilege? Yeah, just wanted to let you know that the package you sent is being returned. Unused! So you better stay home from your fancy tech job to sign for it! What’s that? You work from home? Th- that sounds pretty nice. Hey, do you think we can catch lunch some time this week?
Sunday, October 25, 2015
Can I Read a Book At a Restaurant?
Brain: Wait just a minute there! Where do you think you're going with that book in your hand?
Me: Oh I'm going to read it and have dinner. At a restaurant.
Brain: Well, put it in a bag at least. You can't just walk into a restaurant with a book. Then they'll know.
Me: They'll know what?
Brain: Everything! All of your secrets! They'll know that, um... We'll get back to that. I think this just about getting attention.
Me: Attention?
Brain: Yeah! "Hey everyone! Look at me sitting at a table in the corner, quietly reading a book!"
Me: That doesn't make any sense!
Brain: You'll just look like white balding pseudo intellectual taking himself too seriously while people try to have fun and unwind.
White Guilt: Hey, black people can be bald pseudo-intellectuals, too!
Me: Not now white guilt. Not now.
Brain: What if the waitress asks you why you couldn't eat at home?
Me: That's not a question people working for tips ask!
Brain: Not to your face, but in the kitchen, they'll be wondering. Also guess what?
Me: What?
Brain: You assumed your server would be a woman. Pig.
Me: ...
Brain: How about this? If you can come up with a mission statement, I'll leave you alone.
Me: A mission statement?
Brain: Yeah! Something that justifies and declares your purpose.
Me: "I shall strive to eat food at the restaurant across the street from my apartment while reading a book for the purpose of intellectual and physical nourishment, utilizing all available resources, including food and this book."
Brain: That's weak.
Me: No it isn't!
Brain: Yes it is. It is too wordy, just like everything else you do, and it won't reach Millennials because it isn't social media friendly.
Me: I'M a millennial, and I am the entire audience for the campaign, and I accept it!
Brain: You're not a millennial, stop trying to deny your age!
Me: That's not even an anxiety I have! We're not having this conversation right now, it's getting late!
Brain: You're right, you should clean those dishes before they start to smell.
Me: Ok. ... Done. DAMMIT! You just distracted me. Now it's 9:30
Brain: Aw damn. You need to be eating before 10, otherwise it's weird.
Me: Oh yeah, you're right! I gotta hurry... WAIT A MINUTE! You just made that up. That's it, we're going, and-
Brain: Thai food.
Me: What are you- NO!
Brain: Thai fooooooooood...
Me: Black bean burger and sweet potato fries!
Brain: Thaiiiiiii foooooooOoOoOoOoOoOoOooood...
Me: Made it! Hah! I'm here at the restaurant! Reading a book! It's not a big deal! This discussion is over.
...
Brain: You're holding the book at an angle that makes it look like you want everyone to know what you're reading.
Brain: Also, you forgot your keys again.
Me: Dammit!
Me: Oh I'm going to read it and have dinner. At a restaurant.
Brain: Well, put it in a bag at least. You can't just walk into a restaurant with a book. Then they'll know.
Me: They'll know what?
Brain: Everything! All of your secrets! They'll know that, um... We'll get back to that. I think this just about getting attention.
Me: Attention?
Brain: Yeah! "Hey everyone! Look at me sitting at a table in the corner, quietly reading a book!"
Me: That doesn't make any sense!
Brain: You'll just look like white balding pseudo intellectual taking himself too seriously while people try to have fun and unwind.
White Guilt: Hey, black people can be bald pseudo-intellectuals, too!
Me: Not now white guilt. Not now.
Brain: What if the waitress asks you why you couldn't eat at home?
Me: That's not a question people working for tips ask!
Brain: Not to your face, but in the kitchen, they'll be wondering. Also guess what?
Me: What?
Brain: You assumed your server would be a woman. Pig.
Me: ...
Brain: How about this? If you can come up with a mission statement, I'll leave you alone.
Me: A mission statement?
Brain: Yeah! Something that justifies and declares your purpose.
Me: "I shall strive to eat food at the restaurant across the street from my apartment while reading a book for the purpose of intellectual and physical nourishment, utilizing all available resources, including food and this book."
Brain: That's weak.
Me: No it isn't!
Brain: Yes it is. It is too wordy, just like everything else you do, and it won't reach Millennials because it isn't social media friendly.
Me: I'M a millennial, and I am the entire audience for the campaign, and I accept it!
Brain: You're not a millennial, stop trying to deny your age!
Me: That's not even an anxiety I have! We're not having this conversation right now, it's getting late!
Brain: You're right, you should clean those dishes before they start to smell.
Me: Ok. ... Done. DAMMIT! You just distracted me. Now it's 9:30
Brain: Aw damn. You need to be eating before 10, otherwise it's weird.
Me: Oh yeah, you're right! I gotta hurry... WAIT A MINUTE! You just made that up. That's it, we're going, and-
Brain: Thai food.
Me: What are you- NO!
Brain: Thai fooooooooood...
Me: Black bean burger and sweet potato fries!
Brain: Thaiiiiiii foooooooOoOoOoOoOoOoOooood...
Me: Nope! I'm walking now!
Brain: Of course you would walk on this side of the road. So predictable.
Brain: Of course you would walk on this side of the road. So predictable.
Me: Made it! Hah! I'm here at the restaurant! Reading a book! It's not a big deal! This discussion is over.
...
Brain: You're holding the book at an angle that makes it look like you want everyone to know what you're reading.
Brain: Also, you forgot your keys again.
Me: Dammit!
Crystalline Collapsible
I float on a river that runs crystalline collapsable
It reaches the back of my tongue
And is sweetened by your shadow
Cast upstream like fishing line
Hook in my subconscious mind
True beauty is aimed to the void
We're lucky to observe what escapes
The other way lies
Beachside vanity, gazing at footprints
Then taking credit for the ocean
As it washes them away
No
This is the love story of the wind and the sand
Who outsource the self-knowledge they can't understand
Or else too damp to realize
Is god wafting between people
Or a private pearl of vast thoughts and tiny actions
From all that goes wrong?
We're all cabbage, you must know
We yank lead from distant soil
We wind up in our gazpacho
Race to pay the tab and bolt
While the other's on the can
Or we're melted crayons
Coloring one another
Camouflage from ourselves
So we fall into deep holes
Down
Down
Down
The wind trims pointless misery
Apart from what you hold inside
Soon to rise like mushroom rings
Wide beyond your view
Just as dawn dabs the tears
The collector harvests, makes a stew
That seems to soothe
Do they really know it's you?
Does it matter if they do?
We matched tones like lightning striking itself
Oh, still the harmony purrs the fungal arc ever wider
Until, all-containing
It shapes the wake that shakes my boat
As I sail around myself
Diving for oysters
Then arranging them
In colliding circles
Could you find me
Standing in the center of them all
Laughing as I'm crashing
Almost
Laughing as I'm crashing
Almost
It reaches the back of my tongue
And is sweetened by your shadow
Cast upstream like fishing line
Hook in my subconscious mind
True beauty is aimed to the void
We're lucky to observe what escapes
The other way lies
Beachside vanity, gazing at footprints
Then taking credit for the ocean
As it washes them away
No
This is the love story of the wind and the sand
Who outsource the self-knowledge they can't understand
Or else too damp to realize
Is god wafting between people
Or a private pearl of vast thoughts and tiny actions
From all that goes wrong?
We're all cabbage, you must know
We yank lead from distant soil
We wind up in our gazpacho
Race to pay the tab and bolt
While the other's on the can
Or we're melted crayons
Coloring one another
Camouflage from ourselves
So we fall into deep holes
Down
Down
Down
The wind trims pointless misery
Apart from what you hold inside
Soon to rise like mushroom rings
Wide beyond your view
Just as dawn dabs the tears
The collector harvests, makes a stew
That seems to soothe
Do they really know it's you?
Does it matter if they do?
We matched tones like lightning striking itself
Oh, still the harmony purrs the fungal arc ever wider
Until, all-containing
It shapes the wake that shakes my boat
As I sail around myself
Diving for oysters
Then arranging them
In colliding circles
Could you find me
Standing in the center of them all
Laughing as I'm crashing
Almost
Laughing as I'm crashing
Almost
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
Late September Wishes
Old curbs
Damp grass
Trees releasing summer's excesses
In my veins
Clouds
Still searching me for the sky
While I sleep
I look for them all day
Clouds
Still searching me for the sky
While I sleep
I look for them all day
Time
Comes in handfuls
Or curls like dead ferns
And feet on paisley sheets
The orange recharge
Brittle reminds me to look
Hard
I live
Here
Where rain is warm
Surprises are banned
And I'm grateful for wishes I don't make
And I look
Hard
I lick dirty glass mornings
And swallow until rain turns into pills in my hands
And my shoulders are wet from
Yellow moss
And I run through corn fields to find new confessions
For nobody in particular
Death will know my refined pallet for time
And we'll laugh as I turn to dust
Monday, September 7, 2015
Blue Solomon
The body's mouth only opens to speak or eat
Humanity will starve with a pile of apples for a seat
A single bite taken from each
Bite or haunt the world to figure out who took the bite out of you and why
Or try to stand on both sides of the teeth
And open wide
These thoughts hover, fall and shatter
At the pull of the heckling moon
And the push of a pleasant Levantine stranger, who explains Twin Peaks
At the foot of the Mount Sinai in my room
The one that creeks
My face reveals more disconnect than Wikileaks
Her face reveals complicit relief
I don't waste my self-loathing on just anyone
No, not me and my Blue Solomon
We emotionally pilfer shoes to get by
Collecting shards from the nauseous sky
Another weekend of Blue Solomon
Tone-deaf singer of a Hemingway cover band
Drinking and screaming at those who bask
Under the small green sun that only sets
Into the stained glass everyone forgets
Who only ask how already dead can we get
WILL SOMEBODY ELSE HAVE MY THOUGHTS FOR A SECOND?
Blue Solomon touch your cheek and avert your gaze
Walk me home in our cracked hearted haze
Holding a shadow across my chest
Protecting all that I long to express
The devil is an unpaid intern with rich parents
Who spearheaded God's social media awareness campaign
Is life a competition to be the most cynical
To 've had the most expected day
To 've sucked the most experience gray
#We'reAllMarketplacesOfGuiltPurchasingSinWithFireBlueCnidarianWordsInAPlazaOfSorrowObscured
Where the continental slope becomes the shore
Land a high profile buyer of legitimate angst
"To the benevolent gods of social media, we give thanks"
Partner up and open a shop that sells
Upcycled failed projects of cells
The bounce away perpetuates the waves
That never cleanse, or at least haven't before
They only return you to bounce once more
Parallel scars and two puncture wounds make a boring song
From barren rocks of self-righteousness gone wrong
With our culture of war over whose got the correct vanity
It's hard to depart in the sessile glare of sanity
Blue Solomon, speculator of kinetic fiction
Be the only toxic smirk remaining
Eyes like overcooked clams
In search of the Supernobody
Whose ocean
Is draining
Humanity will starve with a pile of apples for a seat
A single bite taken from each
Bite or haunt the world to figure out who took the bite out of you and why
Or try to stand on both sides of the teeth
And open wide
These thoughts hover, fall and shatter
At the pull of the heckling moon
And the push of a pleasant Levantine stranger, who explains Twin Peaks
At the foot of the Mount Sinai in my room
The one that creeks
My face reveals more disconnect than Wikileaks
Her face reveals complicit relief
I don't waste my self-loathing on just anyone
No, not me and my Blue Solomon
We emotionally pilfer shoes to get by
Collecting shards from the nauseous sky
Another weekend of Blue Solomon
Tone-deaf singer of a Hemingway cover band
Drinking and screaming at those who bask
Under the small green sun that only sets
Into the stained glass everyone forgets
Who only ask how already dead can we get
WILL SOMEBODY ELSE HAVE MY THOUGHTS FOR A SECOND?
Blue Solomon touch your cheek and avert your gaze
Walk me home in our cracked hearted haze
Holding a shadow across my chest
Protecting all that I long to express
The devil is an unpaid intern with rich parents
Who spearheaded God's social media awareness campaign
Is life a competition to be the most cynical
To 've had the most expected day
To 've sucked the most experience gray
#We'reAllMarketplacesOfGuiltPurchasingSinWithFireBlueCnidarianWordsInAPlazaOfSorrowObscured
Where the continental slope becomes the shore
Land a high profile buyer of legitimate angst
"To the benevolent gods of social media, we give thanks"
Partner up and open a shop that sells
Upcycled failed projects of cells
That never cleanse, or at least haven't before
They only return you to bounce once more
Parallel scars and two puncture wounds make a boring song
From barren rocks of self-righteousness gone wrong
With our culture of war over whose got the correct vanity
It's hard to depart in the sessile glare of sanity
Blue Solomon, speculator of kinetic fiction
Be the only toxic smirk remaining
Eyes like overcooked clams
In search of the Supernobody
Whose ocean
Is draining
Sunday, August 23, 2015
List: What is My Outfit Trying to Say?
-"I am unceasingly nauseated by the power structures that allow me to exist as I do, but I don't want to be a downer."
-"Please give me the chance to let you know that I'm not into EDM, I just like unnarrated shapes and colors."
-"All the things I'm trying to hide are inside of me."
-"Male attire has been utterly ruined by male people."
-"Please don't associate me with things that exist yet, I don't want credit!"
-"If that's what you think, then yes, I AM trying way too hard, way too hard indeed. Clearly you must be some sort of big deal, because why else would I be, as you have properly assessed, trying so hard? Being that you're a big deal and I'm trying too hard (so hard!), you should probably find a more low key enthusiast of people like you with whom to consort. I'll be here straining."
-"Please give me the chance to let you know that I am well aware that twee has been ruined by social media & marketing, but somehow I'm still here, perhaps as the response to a perceived massive insult from the halls of cynical personal branding attempts. Neoliberalism raped a unicorn, and Pusheen the Cat and Dr. Who cellphone cases are the offspring."
-"I want to find out who in the room is on LSD. Quickly."
-"'People thinking I'm gay' has long been my personal screening tool against unwanted sexual advances."
-"I'm trying not to get caught trying to outrun lousy think-pieces."
-"Please give me the chance to let you know that I'm not into EDM, I just like unnarrated shapes and colors."
-"All the things I'm trying to hide are inside of me."
-"Male attire has been utterly ruined by male people."
-"Please don't associate me with things that exist yet, I don't want credit!"
-"If that's what you think, then yes, I AM trying way too hard, way too hard indeed. Clearly you must be some sort of big deal, because why else would I be, as you have properly assessed, trying so hard? Being that you're a big deal and I'm trying too hard (so hard!), you should probably find a more low key enthusiast of people like you with whom to consort. I'll be here straining."
-"Please give me the chance to let you know that I am well aware that twee has been ruined by social media & marketing, but somehow I'm still here, perhaps as the response to a perceived massive insult from the halls of cynical personal branding attempts. Neoliberalism raped a unicorn, and Pusheen the Cat and Dr. Who cellphone cases are the offspring."
-"I want to find out who in the room is on LSD. Quickly."
-"'People thinking I'm gay' has long been my personal screening tool against unwanted sexual advances."
-"I'm trying not to get caught trying to outrun lousy think-pieces."
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
World's Oldest Profession
Guy: I don't care if it's stupid, I'm pissed off.
Friend: Well, OK. Wanna make a movie about it?
G: What!? No.
F: Right, all that expensive equipment, all that time editing. How about you write a short play?
G: I don't think so.
F: Yeah, too many moving parts, too many people.
G: Yeah, fuck other people.
F: Yeah! Plus, theater venues are pricey. So... how about you paint a mural?
G: Yeah, fuck other people.
F: Yeah! Plus, theater venues are pricey. So... how about you paint a mural?
G: Meh, visual arts aren't really my thing.
F: Write a song!
G: With what talent? I don't feel like dealing with picking up an instrument, it's like learning a new language. Plus I really don't like my fingers. Can I just stick with words?
F: Oh ok. How about you write a novel?
G: Christ, it's just an opinion.
F: Short story?
G: Meh. I want people to be there when I say it, otherwise what's the point?
F: Monolog?
G: Maybe. I like the part where it's just me talking to a crowd, but I don't want to deal with open mics at coffee shops or art galleries. The people are annoying, and if I don't go first then I'll have to sit through someone's poetry about tea or whatever. Can I do something where I don't even have to leave the bar? And I can just like, complain about how nothing is good enough? And somehow that'll make people think I'm brave, and like me, and get worried if I feel like I'm not allowed to say whatever the fuck I want?
Both: Standup comedy!
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Reading Kerouac
"For someone who's constantly moving, I always seem to find you." With no change in expression or posture, or even breaking eye contact with his food, Max replies, "I guess one of us has to try harder." "I was talking to the dog." Max has a Chihuahua mix he named Kerouac. Case and Max are in an arms race of snark; nobody is sure of its sincerity or its origin. Case gives Kerouac a smug victory pet and moves on to order her food and sit elsewhere. The Diner is a restaurant worker's restaurant: open late and you order at the counter, so you can hop tables and stay for hours without driving the servers nuts. Seating is outdoors with covered portions as permitted by the arid climate, with options ranging from picnic tables to furniture likely found at estate sales.
A man approaching middle age wearing a brand name polo shirt that fit well before he lost the weight he previously gained stands before Max in silence for a moment. "Oh hey, cool dog. What's his name?" "Kerouac" said Max, to neither his food nor the man. "Oh, like the author?" Max did not speak. "That's cool, love me some literature. Total book person." Max continued not speaking. "Normally I don't even go out, I just stay in and read a book, but my friends insisted I come meet them here." Max returns to his food then looks up only with his eyes as man extends his hand. "I'm Fred."
Case's approach to the table is heralded by the wobbly yet determined clacking of costume jewelry that could serve as the rhythm section for an avant garde Patsy Cline cover band, for which she would play several instruments if asked. "Sea! I got syphilis!" Meredith is waving her phone around; its case is the second item on her person to feature Pusheen the Cat. She addresses Casey by her name's latter syllable, and likes to invoke marine life because of Case's jewelry and usual color motif. Case fears their friendship has plateaued at Meredith's running joke of sharing her social media updates in person since she avoids social networking with a quiet grace for which nobody compliments her. Case glances at the screen. "Thank you for completing the 'What STD are you?' quiz!'" She giggles with her eyes closed and returns the device. "Well at least read it! I left the tab open all day. Do you know what that does to me?" Turning back to her phone, she says "Dan's here." Dan stopped by Max's table to scope out the dog situation, where Fred has camped out. "Dan, we're over here." Case waves him over. "Don't talk to Max dude." "Why?" "Just... don't."
"I mean, he's best know for his novels, but people often overlook his poetry." Fred was curiously knowledgeable since he got up to order a drink. "One thing you have to think about when you read Kerouac is that he was a devout Catholic." Max finally met his eye and asked, "But how does he make you feel?" Fred searched himself. "Oh, like diners and the open road." Max takes a calculated step back towards indifference. "Yeah, we're in a diner, he wrote 'On the Road'. I don't know, those are just facts, are they really important?" Fred tries to dig in, but politely. "Well you have to know the background, otherwise how do you know why you like something?" Max did not speak. "I mean, not that I'm saying your appreciation of him is invalid." Fred continues talking to himself. "But no, knowledge and history are important, you can't just ignore them for feelings and shit." Max uses a socal fry of unknown origin when he says, "Ok." Fred scoffs. "This generation. You can't just live in the now." Satisfied with this as his send-off back into the bittersweet orbit of self-imposed exile, Fred stands as dramatically as one can from a stationary bench to retrieve a take-away container for his formerly crisp meaty fries. Max tosses one to Kerouac.
"What, do I have to participate in your mysterious vendettas?" Dan lights a cigarette, as much for the nicotine as the possibility that someone might ask him to extinguish it. "Max is just a vendetta you don't have yet. Bastard takes up a whole picnic table to himself." Case pauses to check herself, then continues, but repurposes her outrage as recreation. "By the way, I caught you giving me the small town snub the other day." Dan fails at a smoke ring."Eh?" "On 4th, in front of Custard's Last Stand! I totally waved, and you did NOTHING." Dan tries to compose himself but the chair's arms are too low. "Ah, that. I'm just not the waving type of person these days." "But see, I think we get each other so much, all we need is waving." "I am post-greeting." Dan leans back to gloat over that one, but Case doesn't miss a beat. "You mean you're post-politeness, motherfucker!" "Sure! We encounter enough people every day that I think these check-ins are tedious, so I'm not participating anymore" Case pulls a deviant bang from a sweat patch, because it's 91 at 11PM. "You can't just choose to stop participating, the whole thing falls apart." "What, like universal healthcare?" Meredith emerges for a moment. "Holy shit guys, check out these goats!"
A woman sensibly dressed has introduced herself as Amanda and received permission to pet the dog. "I've been meaning to read Kerouac..." Max experienced a single chuckle that barely made ripples on his face but seemed to echo inside him. "Does anybody really mean to do something they don't do?" He spoke with a playful mock-bravado that has all the condescension of regular bravado but without the accountability. "Well I work long hours, then by the time I eat dinner I just wanna curl up, you know how it is. In fact, I am bravely working on a personal project tonight." Max laughed, somehow without acknowledging her comfortable self-deprecation. "Hey, I'm not here to grill you about your routine." "No, but you do have a point. How often do I follow through on what I say I want to do?" Max laughed as though to a highly respectable child. "You do what you want!" Amanda throws up her hands like day old fish. "Ugh! Sorry, I'm over here dredging up all of my bullshit." Amanda apologizes a few more times as her food arrives and she excuses herself to sit alone and work. She will spend at least 20 minutes chastising herself for blowing it with that hot introvert.
"No, it's more like vaccines." Dan dropped his cigarette butt into a nearly empty Mexican coke bottle that was Case's at some point. "You'll have to explain that one." Case fixed her posture. "If enough people opt out of it, we lose herd politeness. Rudeness all around!" "What if I don't want to be part of the herd?" Dan's ironic delivery failed to reach Case. "If you you think being a jackass makes you unique-" "I just want to have more meaningful exchanges. Y'know, like in New York City in the movies." Case leans back in her chair to catch a breeze on her face, only to discover a bounty of sweat on her back. "Have you been to NYC? All the conversations are an excuse for people to talk about their accomplishments. The way french fries are an excuse to eat beef gravy." Meredith rises again. "Poor french fries... don't they know they need no excuses? They can just sit here and talk about themselves all night." Dan shatters his posture, with his neck then with his hands. "Oh come on! You were in New York for a two week design & web development workshop. Of course you met all the yuppies! And anyway, that's happening around here. Conversations are an increasingly elaborate ruse to brag." Case's eyes lose their focus. "Yep. That's why I wave." She takes out her phone and thumbs through her email, entertaining biased thoughts about time zones.
A din of hissing meat on flame radiates from the kitchen as Justin, the only server working tonight, opens the door to deliver drinks to Max and Katherine, his new guest. Justin clearly fancied the girl. She was Judd Apatow movie hot, Wes Anderson movie awkward, and dressed like a Fellini extra. Unfortunately, so was he. "This shit'll melt the balls right off your faces." He was trying remind Max that he thinks he's a piece of shit but he is forced to interact with him twice a week, and he was trying to let Katherine know that even though they've never met, he feels that an authenticity was betrayed by her dialog with Max. Katherine laughed for all three of them. In this moment, both Case and Justin gave her an identical glare of annoyance and patronizing concern. Case tightly mouths "Indie Stepford wife" to nobody in particular.
Katherine is crouched and repeats the name in sensual deadpan, running her hands from his ears downward. "Kerouac... Kerouac. Wow." She lets this soak in and sits next to Max on the refurbished wood bench. "The fifties were just so..." Max said nothing but engaged with her in a deep eye voyage, sharing in the comfortable understanding that the fifties were just so... Sometimes they hardly know what they'd do if the fifties weren't just so...
Katherine asks with a measuring glare, "So what does Kerouac mean to you?"
Max sucks on his sensitive tooth for a moment. "There are two ways to eat mussels. You can embrace the delicious guts in your mouth by name, or you can distance yourself with metaphor." His hand briefly clasps the remote side of her waist then falls back in line as she strums Kerouac's table-tethered leash like a bass and replies, "They don't serve mussels here." "Exactly."
Case's table now resembles a busy petri dish, having annexed all nearby furniture, but Case has paid up and departed. Max and Katherine pass Amanda, asleep at her laptop, several fries and barbecue jackfruit morsels on a plate at her side like bottles of Jack by an aging rock star, as they leave together.
"Wait, where'd the dog go?"
Wrapping the leash around his wrist and hand, Max replies,"Oh, he just wanders the streets. Why else would I call him Kerouac?"
A man approaching middle age wearing a brand name polo shirt that fit well before he lost the weight he previously gained stands before Max in silence for a moment. "Oh hey, cool dog. What's his name?" "Kerouac" said Max, to neither his food nor the man. "Oh, like the author?" Max did not speak. "That's cool, love me some literature. Total book person." Max continued not speaking. "Normally I don't even go out, I just stay in and read a book, but my friends insisted I come meet them here." Max returns to his food then looks up only with his eyes as man extends his hand. "I'm Fred."
Case's approach to the table is heralded by the wobbly yet determined clacking of costume jewelry that could serve as the rhythm section for an avant garde Patsy Cline cover band, for which she would play several instruments if asked. "Sea! I got syphilis!" Meredith is waving her phone around; its case is the second item on her person to feature Pusheen the Cat. She addresses Casey by her name's latter syllable, and likes to invoke marine life because of Case's jewelry and usual color motif. Case fears their friendship has plateaued at Meredith's running joke of sharing her social media updates in person since she avoids social networking with a quiet grace for which nobody compliments her. Case glances at the screen. "Thank you for completing the 'What STD are you?' quiz!'" She giggles with her eyes closed and returns the device. "Well at least read it! I left the tab open all day. Do you know what that does to me?" Turning back to her phone, she says "Dan's here." Dan stopped by Max's table to scope out the dog situation, where Fred has camped out. "Dan, we're over here." Case waves him over. "Don't talk to Max dude." "Why?" "Just... don't."
"I mean, he's best know for his novels, but people often overlook his poetry." Fred was curiously knowledgeable since he got up to order a drink. "One thing you have to think about when you read Kerouac is that he was a devout Catholic." Max finally met his eye and asked, "But how does he make you feel?" Fred searched himself. "Oh, like diners and the open road." Max takes a calculated step back towards indifference. "Yeah, we're in a diner, he wrote 'On the Road'. I don't know, those are just facts, are they really important?" Fred tries to dig in, but politely. "Well you have to know the background, otherwise how do you know why you like something?" Max did not speak. "I mean, not that I'm saying your appreciation of him is invalid." Fred continues talking to himself. "But no, knowledge and history are important, you can't just ignore them for feelings and shit." Max uses a socal fry of unknown origin when he says, "Ok." Fred scoffs. "This generation. You can't just live in the now." Satisfied with this as his send-off back into the bittersweet orbit of self-imposed exile, Fred stands as dramatically as one can from a stationary bench to retrieve a take-away container for his formerly crisp meaty fries. Max tosses one to Kerouac.
A woman sensibly dressed has introduced herself as Amanda and received permission to pet the dog. "I've been meaning to read Kerouac..." Max experienced a single chuckle that barely made ripples on his face but seemed to echo inside him. "Does anybody really mean to do something they don't do?" He spoke with a playful mock-bravado that has all the condescension of regular bravado but without the accountability. "Well I work long hours, then by the time I eat dinner I just wanna curl up, you know how it is. In fact, I am bravely working on a personal project tonight." Max laughed, somehow without acknowledging her comfortable self-deprecation. "Hey, I'm not here to grill you about your routine." "No, but you do have a point. How often do I follow through on what I say I want to do?" Max laughed as though to a highly respectable child. "You do what you want!" Amanda throws up her hands like day old fish. "Ugh! Sorry, I'm over here dredging up all of my bullshit." Amanda apologizes a few more times as her food arrives and she excuses herself to sit alone and work. She will spend at least 20 minutes chastising herself for blowing it with that hot introvert.
"No, it's more like vaccines." Dan dropped his cigarette butt into a nearly empty Mexican coke bottle that was Case's at some point. "You'll have to explain that one." Case fixed her posture. "If enough people opt out of it, we lose herd politeness. Rudeness all around!" "What if I don't want to be part of the herd?" Dan's ironic delivery failed to reach Case. "If you you think being a jackass makes you unique-" "I just want to have more meaningful exchanges. Y'know, like in New York City in the movies." Case leans back in her chair to catch a breeze on her face, only to discover a bounty of sweat on her back. "Have you been to NYC? All the conversations are an excuse for people to talk about their accomplishments. The way french fries are an excuse to eat beef gravy." Meredith rises again. "Poor french fries... don't they know they need no excuses? They can just sit here and talk about themselves all night." Dan shatters his posture, with his neck then with his hands. "Oh come on! You were in New York for a two week design & web development workshop. Of course you met all the yuppies! And anyway, that's happening around here. Conversations are an increasingly elaborate ruse to brag." Case's eyes lose their focus. "Yep. That's why I wave." She takes out her phone and thumbs through her email, entertaining biased thoughts about time zones.
Katherine is crouched and repeats the name in sensual deadpan, running her hands from his ears downward. "Kerouac... Kerouac. Wow." She lets this soak in and sits next to Max on the refurbished wood bench. "The fifties were just so..." Max said nothing but engaged with her in a deep eye voyage, sharing in the comfortable understanding that the fifties were just so... Sometimes they hardly know what they'd do if the fifties weren't just so...
Katherine asks with a measuring glare, "So what does Kerouac mean to you?"
Max sucks on his sensitive tooth for a moment. "There are two ways to eat mussels. You can embrace the delicious guts in your mouth by name, or you can distance yourself with metaphor." His hand briefly clasps the remote side of her waist then falls back in line as she strums Kerouac's table-tethered leash like a bass and replies, "They don't serve mussels here." "Exactly."
Case's table now resembles a busy petri dish, having annexed all nearby furniture, but Case has paid up and departed. Max and Katherine pass Amanda, asleep at her laptop, several fries and barbecue jackfruit morsels on a plate at her side like bottles of Jack by an aging rock star, as they leave together.
"Wait, where'd the dog go?"
Wrapping the leash around his wrist and hand, Max replies,"Oh, he just wanders the streets. Why else would I call him Kerouac?"
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
The Ocean Wash
The ocean wash was every word at once
I piss an unsteady reply
Wavy expressions of dotted light
Trail me back to an Asbury Park 7-11 parking lot
Rising whiffs of July tar 2004
Jersey shore aloe vera
Trash waits its turn to tumble
Wrappers weighed by cheese
I wait for a reason or forgiveness
As I drive further from both
Towards the wrong side
Of trying to lose what I never had
There was never anybody
To strike down until
There was no one left
To feel ashamed for
I piss an unsteady reply
Wavy expressions of dotted light
Trail me back to an Asbury Park 7-11 parking lot
Rising whiffs of July tar 2004
Jersey shore aloe vera
Trash waits its turn to tumble
Wrappers weighed by cheese
I wait for a reason or forgiveness
As I drive further from both
Towards the wrong side
Of trying to lose what I never had
There was never anybody
To strike down until
There was no one left
To feel ashamed for
Night Time
Night time
Please rinse the day's color from my eyes
As you pour down the walls
Leaving memories behind
I promise I won't mind
If the color that dries
Is not the one advertised
As long as you carry
My makeshift raft to sleep
So I smell night time in my dreams
Whatever they may be
Please rinse the day's color from my eyes
As you pour down the walls
Leaving memories behind
I promise I won't mind
If the color that dries
Is not the one advertised
As long as you carry
My makeshift raft to sleep
So I smell night time in my dreams
Whatever they may be
Sunday, May 31, 2015
How a Non-Nerd Can Enjoy Comicon
Are you one of the few people left who identifies not as a nerd? Tired of feeling left out of the joy everyone else derives from new film adaptations of comics? Do you reluctantly keep track of them just to have something to talk about at work outings? And now that Comicon has taken over your city for the weekend, your options are 1) Go to Comicon with friends or 2) Sit on your faded paisley couch and remember all the embarrassing thing you've done while eating baby carrots and turning the light on and off. Are you tired of having to siphon your friends' joy from the holes on their faces?
Well good news! You can stop sharpening your hollow, glee-sucking tooth, because I went into the field with friend and comic aficionado Kevin Patterson to devise a list of non-nerd activities so you can have a creamy wedge of fun all to yourself!
-Try to discreetly photograph people discreetly checking themselves out in windows. Start a Tumbler account for this. Get Twitter-bombed for "narcissism shaming". Be unemployable for 3 years. Learn to play standup bass.
-Wonder if anybody has tried to patent a sort of neck cone to prevent cleavage glaring.
-Punch yourself in the arm until you stop having feminist thoughts.
-When passing the badge checkpoint, cover your friend's badge with your hand and tell the usher "You don't need to see his identification". They proceed to tear up your badge as a crowd gathers to pick you up and wordlessly pass you crowd surfing style out the door, each set of hands knowing exactly what you did. For several months, you will keep noticing shadowy figures in brown robes in your peripheral vision that will never be there when you turn to look, and that your internet is running slowly.
-Finally deploy the "personal space invaders" pun in live action!
-When you're walking towards the convention center, try to see how far away from someone you can stand and discern their sweat beads because they're wearing three layers of robes.
-If attractive, do the speed dating session, then proclaim non-nerd status and see how many people try to downplay their nerd-ness. Then when there's 45 seconds left tell them that you really are a nerd and that you are paid by ComiCon to test nerds for authenticity, and that they can leave quietly on their own or you can have the nerd authenticity agents escort them out.
-Side eye all the clever t-shirts you'll see this year at once.
-Realize that every possible dystopian and utopian future has been speculated and elaborately drawn, so you can go ahead and stop coming up with those.
-Wear an elaborate costume that means nothing and let people guess what it is, giving them vague but enthusiastic hints, as though you want them so badly to get it so you can emotionally abscond to your remote cultural cache and bond over your niche-ness. This is the Comicon version of talking about made-up bands with scenesters.
-Check out all the steam punk costumes and crafts and realize that you don't actually need to throw anything out anymore!
You can enjoy Comicon any way you like, but remember: if you think intentionally mixing up Star Trek and Star Wars is still funny, you probably also make archaic jokes about the virgin comic book nerd, both of which can be safely deployed at work on Monday.
 |
Well good news! You can stop sharpening your hollow, glee-sucking tooth, because I went into the field with friend and comic aficionado Kevin Patterson to devise a list of non-nerd activities so you can have a creamy wedge of fun all to yourself!
-Try to discreetly photograph people discreetly checking themselves out in windows. Start a Tumbler account for this. Get Twitter-bombed for "narcissism shaming". Be unemployable for 3 years. Learn to play standup bass.
-Wonder if anybody has tried to patent a sort of neck cone to prevent cleavage glaring.
-Punch yourself in the arm until you stop having feminist thoughts.
-When passing the badge checkpoint, cover your friend's badge with your hand and tell the usher "You don't need to see his identification". They proceed to tear up your badge as a crowd gathers to pick you up and wordlessly pass you crowd surfing style out the door, each set of hands knowing exactly what you did. For several months, you will keep noticing shadowy figures in brown robes in your peripheral vision that will never be there when you turn to look, and that your internet is running slowly.
-Finally deploy the "personal space invaders" pun in live action!
 |
| "When I grabbed a pen and wrote "I HAVE LOCKJAW", I figured you'd take me to a hospital, but this also works" |
-When you're walking towards the convention center, try to see how far away from someone you can stand and discern their sweat beads because they're wearing three layers of robes.
-If attractive, do the speed dating session, then proclaim non-nerd status and see how many people try to downplay their nerd-ness. Then when there's 45 seconds left tell them that you really are a nerd and that you are paid by ComiCon to test nerds for authenticity, and that they can leave quietly on their own or you can have the nerd authenticity agents escort them out.
-Side eye all the clever t-shirts you'll see this year at once.
 |
| Warning: If you zoom in on these and read them, you'll expend the one laugh they are good for, leaving only groans for when you see one attached to a person, who might be really attractive or saving you from drowning. |
-Realize that every possible dystopian and utopian future has been speculated and elaborately drawn, so you can go ahead and stop coming up with those.
-Wear an elaborate costume that means nothing and let people guess what it is, giving them vague but enthusiastic hints, as though you want them so badly to get it so you can emotionally abscond to your remote cultural cache and bond over your niche-ness. This is the Comicon version of talking about made-up bands with scenesters.
-Check out all the steam punk costumes and crafts and realize that you don't actually need to throw anything out anymore!
You can enjoy Comicon any way you like, but remember: if you think intentionally mixing up Star Trek and Star Wars is still funny, you probably also make archaic jokes about the virgin comic book nerd, both of which can be safely deployed at work on Monday.
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
Quiz: Are You Into Science?
1) Are you into... science?
2) If there were trading cards featuring pictures of science, would you have the complete set?
3) For first dates, do you have a science joke that you tell, and if the person doesn't get it, you don't pursue the relationship?
4) Do you end up explaining the joke regardless?
5) If a procedural drama series called "Ann Hydrous" came out, about a no-nonsense judge who won't allow water in her court room, would you watch it?
A) No
B) Stop stealing my ideas!
6) Did you move to St. Louis because the area code is 314?
7) When you see two letters in a row, do you greedily rub your hands together and think "MMMMMMHmhmHMMmm, these would look great on the Periodic Table..."
8) Speaking of the Periodic Table, are all of your friends saved in your phone by their initials, the first one capitalized and the second not?
9) Did you used to have a friend named Allison Burns whom you called "Pallison" for this reason?
10) Did you kill "Pallison" and then bury her in St. Louis?
11) Ok, forget that I asked that one. Is that a tattoo of Nikola Tesla? Are you totally into him?
12) This question is so you can tell us more about Tesla.
13) We're going to show you some pictures of people who don't science. Please relax and don't mind the electrodes, they are hooked up to some monitors. Monitors are science. If you are someone who sciences, they are your friends and you can trust them.
14) Interesting.
15) When you overhear someone saying they don't eat gluten, do you become friends to gain their trust, then sneak concentrated gluten into their food supply to see if they really have Celiac's Disease?
16) Do you have your own periodic table, but with different letters?
17) You look surprised. We searched your apartment and found your periodic table; got the warrant right here. Hey, calm down! We looked at your periodic table and were very impressed. In fact, we were so impressed, we showed it to our good friend Neil Degrasse Tyson, and he has a few questions for you. Send him in!
18) Hello. Yes, I am in fact Neil Degrasse Tyson. Thank you. Thank you, that means a lot. This periodic table is one of the finest I've seen. I just have one question for you. Where are they buried?
19) Come on now, you have carefully arranged abbreviations and numbers on a table with 18 columns and 7 rows of varying height. Well, the figures must mean something, right? Otherwise that wouldn't science, and I think I know what sciences and what sciences not. And well frankly, as it stands, in my eyes, you science not. So what will it be? Are you really into science, or are you just another poseur?
20) Nothing? Ok how about this: Question 16 is worth 100 points, and the rest of the questions are worth 0 points.
Score: 0
Well, I guess the humanities are more your speed.
Score: 100
Congratulations! You have the right to remain science. Come with us. We're taking you to your new laboratory.
2) If there were trading cards featuring pictures of science, would you have the complete set?
3) For first dates, do you have a science joke that you tell, and if the person doesn't get it, you don't pursue the relationship?
4) Do you end up explaining the joke regardless?
5) If a procedural drama series called "Ann Hydrous" came out, about a no-nonsense judge who won't allow water in her court room, would you watch it?
A) No
B) Stop stealing my ideas!
6) Did you move to St. Louis because the area code is 314?
7) When you see two letters in a row, do you greedily rub your hands together and think "MMMMMMHmhmHMMmm, these would look great on the Periodic Table..."
8) Speaking of the Periodic Table, are all of your friends saved in your phone by their initials, the first one capitalized and the second not?
9) Did you used to have a friend named Allison Burns whom you called "Pallison" for this reason?
10) Did you kill "Pallison" and then bury her in St. Louis?
11) Ok, forget that I asked that one. Is that a tattoo of Nikola Tesla? Are you totally into him?
12) This question is so you can tell us more about Tesla.
13) We're going to show you some pictures of people who don't science. Please relax and don't mind the electrodes, they are hooked up to some monitors. Monitors are science. If you are someone who sciences, they are your friends and you can trust them.
14) Interesting.
15) When you overhear someone saying they don't eat gluten, do you become friends to gain their trust, then sneak concentrated gluten into their food supply to see if they really have Celiac's Disease?
16) Do you have your own periodic table, but with different letters?
17) You look surprised. We searched your apartment and found your periodic table; got the warrant right here. Hey, calm down! We looked at your periodic table and were very impressed. In fact, we were so impressed, we showed it to our good friend Neil Degrasse Tyson, and he has a few questions for you. Send him in!
18) Hello. Yes, I am in fact Neil Degrasse Tyson. Thank you. Thank you, that means a lot. This periodic table is one of the finest I've seen. I just have one question for you. Where are they buried?
19) Come on now, you have carefully arranged abbreviations and numbers on a table with 18 columns and 7 rows of varying height. Well, the figures must mean something, right? Otherwise that wouldn't science, and I think I know what sciences and what sciences not. And well frankly, as it stands, in my eyes, you science not. So what will it be? Are you really into science, or are you just another poseur?
20) Nothing? Ok how about this: Question 16 is worth 100 points, and the rest of the questions are worth 0 points.
Score: 0
Well, I guess the humanities are more your speed.
Score: 100
Congratulations! You have the right to remain science. Come with us. We're taking you to your new laboratory.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
National Poetry Month Day 15 - Dancing
For my head returned on a silver platter
I'll do the Dance of the Seven Veils with Post-It notes
In the alley of shadow of the castaway moongazing drunks
You can write whatever you want
You might have sung my life while the angels were asleep
But what they were guarding was my laundry
From my Candy Mountain tour guide phase
And you can't wash that away
And they still want me to pay
And they still want me to pay
I'll do the Dance of the Seven Veils with Post-It notes
In the alley of shadow of the castaway moongazing drunks
You can write whatever you want
You might have sung my life while the angels were asleep
But what they were guarding was my laundry
From my Candy Mountain tour guide phase
And you can't wash that away
And they still want me to pay
And they still want me to pay
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
National Poetry Month Day 14 - Desiccated Summer
What was vision like
Before guesses desiccated summer
Stolen from the rain
Sky waves of dust for our eyes
And damp prayers became stain
Stains became art
So we breathe and breathe and breathe until
We speak in squeaks, all else sounds shrill
Outgrowing what we lived in
The stains became our new skin
With the only teeth we had and a plastic bag
Crunched the moon for forgiveness later
Like a dry mouth holding a communion wafer
NPM Day 13 - Harder
Hips crushed hard candy
Harder Judy
Gout slinger of faults
Full-body slap against a wall
O' white bumpy plastic
'tis of thee
Sweet cream and entropy
Strike your neighbor thine tambourine
Splatter so much you drown yourself
So hard you become a stranger
If life is a conveyor belt
Who knows which side we're on
Except the ketchup and oral sex
It's the sugary button walking pace
Of the pavement age timing rise
That slips
Like sins through years
Into cracks around my eyes
And candy in my ears
Saturday, April 25, 2015
NPM Day 12 - Loose Time
I just picked a speck
Of dried quinoa
From a rare unrounded cave
Of my Macbook
At a coffee shop
That strains the block
For a single sepia drop
Of the familiar drink
Of history
If me at twenty-two
Spotted me at thirty-three
Well, he wouldn't be up before noon
But he'd be all sly grins
Sweating cigarettes & gin
Thinking "I'll never be him"
In his notebook ruffled with crust
Like a dead pigeon's ass
With poems of death and lust
And his notes from class
Devoid of context or use
And like his meter, loose
But not necessarily free
Too drunk to know what to be
Too unfocused to know what to do
"Fuck me at thirty three"
Fuck you, twenty-two
Of dried quinoa
From a rare unrounded cave
Of my Macbook
At a coffee shop
That strains the block
For a single sepia drop
Of the familiar drink
Of history
If me at twenty-two
Spotted me at thirty-three
Well, he wouldn't be up before noon
But he'd be all sly grins
Sweating cigarettes & gin
Thinking "I'll never be him"
In his notebook ruffled with crust
Like a dead pigeon's ass
With poems of death and lust
And his notes from class
Devoid of context or use
And like his meter, loose
But not necessarily free
Too drunk to know what to be
Too unfocused to know what to do
"Fuck me at thirty three"
Fuck you, twenty-two
Sunday, April 19, 2015
NPM Day 11 - Patio Waitresses
Faces unsure of their sternness
Tattoos dragging breasts
Breasts dragging eyes
Everything pouring, leaving lines
Of caged firecracker lust
Shellshocked clippings in a vase,
Of collars and caps
Their gripping waves
Their gripping waves
Against whimpering thunder
Of distant caves
Form canyons of digital wonder
Form canyons of digital wonder
In a sky mirror maze
Fruit served with a knife
Fruit served with a knife
Coats the tongue, but not the strife,
In sugar bumps, inducing haze
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