9.23.2012

Memorization

Something happened
earlier today,
something must've
happened today,
but I cant think of
it.

I'm trying to recollect
some funny quip,
or something,
I might've learned.
Memory is such a silly thing
for it's randomness,

you experience things so
vividly in the present,
    but never
remember trivial idiosyncrasies.

Like now,
  at the bar,
I smell limes, and now,
sawdust, listening to someone
talk about craftsmanship, and
remembering my grandfather's
workshop, where he worked
as a master carpenter,
repairing antique furniture
in his huge barn at an
Arts Guild.

The old vicious
jigsaw, intimidatingly
tall, a giant on the
right of the toolbench, waiting
for the next piece of rosewood.
The strewn slits of sandpaper,
notes on cardboard, ancient tools
like museum artifacts stuck to the
walls.

The gumball machine, where, as
children, we used to deposit quarters
in exchange for succulent mouthfulls
of radiant flavors globbing in our
mouths. The dull scent of sawdust
laying it's thin veil
over the whole shop,
and my grandfather's laugh reverberating
off the tall ceiling,
vibrating cobwebs,
echoing in our chests as he
leaned back in his chair,
then slapped my uncle on the
back, making him
drop his rolled cigarette
on the floor.

He dusts it off, laughs,
as we all laughed,
and lights his cigarette
with a match.

Sulfer smell and sawdust
   ... ah, the fading memories.

Some Haikus

meditation dream
among the belligerent
boisterous crowd

cigarette smoke swirl
magically bellydancing
above a woman

a late night, orange light
casting harsh shadows onto
the beaten concrete

the shiffle shuffle
of passersby and hobos
slowly getting home

solemn 2AM in
the San Francisco suburb,
swift quietness abound


8.23.2012

bar conversations

bad conversation
like cheap cologne,
following babies and bullshiters,
mouths running marathons,
stumbling on the sidewalk

Ugly chitter chatter
and awful jokes, fake and
real laughter,
a loud motorcycle driving by
silences the crowd for
a brief moment

as an ash falls to the ground.

wordsong

So many things
       trying to be words,

my smoke, your thoughts,
the thin line between
   being and existing,

undone feelings behind
unfinished walls
moonlight glistening off their
silver facade as silent
stars trace words
in the midnight sky.

Whish whooshing drone song of
the passing car, thud-thud, thud-thud
as it passes over
        crosswalk lines.

The gradual increasing tone
of the drone as it approaches
    and leaves.

Ssssssssccchhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew,


as no sound breaks the
quiet fog,
     
     where
   wet cement absorbs
          footsteps
    and your breath
      gets lost,
  lights flicker and fray,
     words become
        useless,
where the wind moves
and the fog's still.

Trying to become aware of my
  body, being slowly swallowed
as nighttime's scab,
  inconspicuous and itchy
       and lonely

waiting to be picked off and
 thrown out.

Serene smoking meditation

Serene cigarette meditation,
smoke from my lungs
fills the garage,
and creaky rats
squeak in pain.

I ask on myself
questioning the
notched dime
before me.

Whirlpools of smoke,
ash ember glowing
light energy.

Heat energy out my lungs
into the world, into
my lungs, out into
the room, again.

The spirit smoke before bed
waiting for glistening
stones in front of
empty doorways.

Smoggish air, taking
in the last inhale,
holding it in, eyes closed,
taking in all the sounds, reaching
blindly for the ashtray with my
right hand.

Ember out, no sound, but
the rhythmic crickets
and bouncing purple
laundry.

Thursday

Unclaimed table at the
boisterous bar,
the nighttime I needed,
drinking the first beer slow,
writing like I like to do.

Inescapable sights,
the smell of a
Black & Mild sneaking
into the senses,
loud sounds and loud voices
piercing the silent night
like a needle in a plum
injecting madness through
it's wet juicy meat,
             when,

I dip to the alley,
experience serene smoking,
energy exchanging hands.

Dissipating daydream now,
watching my pretty girl in the
passing wind, her soft infectious
      voice,
her swaying in her
slight drunkenness,
and now, as she caresses
      my leg,
 curling up like a needy
      cat,

she chills,
I finish her beer for
her,
softness skin
sure of seductive touch.
The madness and sultry
  voices echoing off
    bar walls like
      bouncing red
        balls.

1.24.2012

whats it like
Saturday night, broken English
in alleyways, friends scattered through
the spiderweb of San Francisco streets
in primetime two o'clock AM?

whats it like
drinkin a pre-sundown trainway beer,
escaping away to
citywide escapades,
swallowed into the belly of the
insanity, digested in the intestine
of inebriation?

whats it like?
a nightmare of swarming
time travel, broken memories,
drinking pitchers, finding sixty dollars
at a bar, listening to the Doors,
and finding Kerouac, heading to
Broadway Street for strip shows
(the scene a smokey, sexy glow
about it) and going outside to smoke
an innocent cigarette, when

a cop, police, handcuffs, paddywagon,
jailcell, bloody-shirted man, floor sleep,
no sleep, not let out till ten AM on good behavior,
no phone,
no cigarettes,
a letdown of a morningtime
comeup.

coffee like a disease,
train finally leaves, sitting upstairs
falling asleep, dreaming
fast, of cold cigarettes
and taxicabs I could've caught.

"Sitting, swiftly sleeping, he said aloud to himself," he said aloud to himself.

1.01.2012

Cocktail Napkin Thoughts


Another poem come and
gone,

written and forgotten
on a cocktail napkin,
bussed by the bartender.

I give him a menacing look,
as I watch my words
buried in the bustub
under dirty plates and
sauce crusted napkins.

The bartender comes back
to see if I need anything
else; I don’t even
look up from my page and
point at my empty beer
glass.

He pours me another pint
of that euphoric
nectar of the dogs.

I kill half my beer in one
gulp trying to forget that
piece of myself sacrificed
to the trashcan,
the part of my soul I
described with just
words,
like a sign language interpreter
at a concert, translating
words for a deaf audience
who cant hear the music.
I sip on the remainder of my beer,
admiring the hostess at
the restaurant across the
street, who, even in the
early December weather,
wears a short plaid skirt, sexy
stockings, black heels and a
fake teasing smile.

She seats the patrons,
who don’t realize her
job is to act as plastic
as possible.

Isn’t this my job as a writer?
Plasticizing our everyday events
into meaning? Well fuck it!
There’s no meaning in
meaningless interactions

But it’s just as there’s no meaning
or reason behind a cocktail
napkin thought,

almost like a part of me meant
to be disposed of.