Patrick Fealey's Blog, page 15

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faith in the bomb

excerpted from threading, a novel.

                                            

                                                  faith in the bomb

thanksgiving morning we stood in a public park in manhattan beach. a car pulled up and some guys got out. they had a football with them.

we tossed the football for awhile. more guys showed up and joined in. more cars came and soon there were a dozen, twenty, thirty guys. plenty for a $2 keg. i saw and said hello to a few of the guys i’d met at cal poly and others i’d been kicked out of the bar with in huntington, but most of the faces were new. the pigeon flock seemed inexhaustible.

we picked teams. i was picked quicker than i would have picked me. the keg arrived. before the kick-off i heard someone say “waves today” and i got anxious. i was missing a swell to play football. i walked out to the street to where i could see the ocean between the houses. the view down the hill excluded the sand and inside, so i could see no breaks, but the swells were coming in. four to five feet and glass. fuck. i didn’t want to play football, but i was on a team. i went back and looked at the ball. heresy.

they kicked it into our eyes. someone caught it and scrambled out. the enemy rushed among us and he tossed a lateral. the second runner was buried in pigeons. field position was basically on the field. the crevice bowl had begun.

the grass bled on us. we bled back on it. it was tradition. between possessions we drank, the only way to see a field without lines. the beer was our helmets, shoulder pads, salaries, and gatorade. we played through one keg and someone came back with another. some guys just stood on the sidelines laughing, close to the beer. they were the ones who had sense and pinto beans for nuts. we chased the ball. shirts were opened, ripped off. rags stuck to the muddy field. pants tore down legs and flapped on belts. skin was bared. the origin of the tradition’s name was approaching revelation. a few girls laughed on the sidelines and some dogs showed up and ran up and down and across the field during plays. dogs had their own similar rules. there was a ball. there was running. they were in. i was running from maniacs through mud and wagging tails.

we were eventually hitting the keg between plays, using timeouts to piss on giant aloe plants. we tried a new quarterback with each possession, hoping to get one who could see. plays were called with decreased regard for strategy and limbs, more long passes into mud. every toss was a super bowl-winner that fell into a flailing pile of green asscracks. one guy loosened his tooth while blocking his quarterback. he held it in place with his tongue and stayed on the field. ankles sent two guys to the sidelines. the team doctor put down his beer and handed them some ice. half the guys were limping, including me. it was not serious, just repeated beating to my thighs. tens of thousands of hairs had been pulled out by their roots, shreds of clothing littered the field. the combined value of the destroyed clothing was estimated by the girls to be about $5.

finally the cops showed up, to protect us from ourselves, to rescue the taxpayers’ green grass from our feet, elbows, heads. they were too late, as cops usually are, to stop us before the grass had vanished. we looked over and laughed when the cruisers surrounded our field on three sides. they looked down into the crater. we looked up at them. we were lit and covered in mud. they informed us the field was, or had been, recently planted sod, a parks department project paid for by the city, the citizens of manhattan beach. we were citizens. they took the keg but not the vibe. nobody was arrested and none among us seemed to mind the dispersion. we’d been ready for it. things had been getting unprofessional. we were drunk and bleeding. the cops had probably prevented a mass streaking. the plunder of the vegetation weighed on our minds as we walked home on adrenaline in the sunshine, reliving highlights before brain swelling set in. we packed the smell of dirt and grass. guys split off as we made our way through neighborhoods. crossing a street i caught sight of the swells down the hill.

across town bobo’s old man drove his family and me. a turkey was waiting. i met a baby grand steinway and then these bobo family friends. it was a gathering of three families. the steinway sat in the parlor just inside the front door, steering guests left. in the street i had been doubting my decision to come. this was going to be people. talking. i could only eat so much. but there was no exit.

bobo seemed to know the people well enough. he had seen them one year ago. i knew only bobo and the snark, really. his old man and mother were in roles now, vanished into a middle-aged banter with the hosts. his older brother had not come. i liked bobo’s folks. his mother was sensitive and wise, young like her students. i had talked to her. she missed the east and had been missing it for 30 years but knew it was too late for her to miss the east. these other people, the hosts, had kids, also all boys, high school aged. we were seated in a corner of the kitchen at a card table from which we could hear the men talking strategic defense initiative. the man of the house worked in defense. republicans. his father-in-law had cornered me in the living room before dinner. a tall fellow in a blue blazer, formal white hair. he held his chardonnay kind of high and smiled as he asked me about my future plans. i didn’t tell him my future would start with extraction from his house. i mentioned newspapers. in the family room, the guys were sitting in the dark with a big screen tv, a fate worse than the old man.

i ate a turkey that was not cooked by my mother. can build a missile, cook a city, but can’t do a turkey. after chewing on dry turkey, we found our way out back or front or whatever it was and threw the basketball around a court. basketball was better than television or the white-haired grandfather and his international catalogue of op-ed pieces. since arriving in los angeles i had played more basketball than surfed. and it was by then an understood fact in los angeles that i was a shitty basketball player. i had been a bench-warmer on a state championship team and these drunken surfers were better than me. i was not keen on playing, but i threw because playing basketball was better than watching basketball or talking basketball, which seemed to be the alternatives. faith in the ball. the ball responded. the ball made sense.

i slipped out of the basketball court and left bobo and a son to a one-on-one. i went out the back gate or front or side gate and started walking. i had been looking to bobo too much throughout the evening. i was aware of this. but i had little else there. no other connections. he was sliding and meshing with anyone and everyone and made it look honest. maybe i was an anyone and didn’t know. maybe we are all anyone’s to everyone we think we’re someone’s to. no, not everyone. not all. i believed in bobo.

on the street the sun had gone and the sky was a milky white like cold semen. the air had cooled and the neighborhood handed out holiday deafness. i walked. i didn’t know where. just going, i saw shrubs growing in the small yards of tight houses and left them behind. concrete driveways with trimmed grass whiskers. the sky dimmed so casually and evenly. night came walking with me. i was disoriented, but not lost. i was lost, but free to an atmosphere i preferred. those people. that house. that compound was worth more than the average american will earn in his life. forget about the rest of the world, the ones they’re preparing to incinerate. a million dollars doesn’t go very far up the ass of a turkey these days. on this day they had murdered a meal and nobody had played the steinway. i walked. i was still hungry. it was thanksgiving.

November 13th, 2012

we will fight our country's battles

we will fight our country’s battles

 his name was kaiser and he had no interest in learning. he was interested only in violence and sports and the martial arts. he was a mutant among us, had been held back twice. taller, leaner, more muscular and stupid as a can of corn that loved to sing “satisfaction.” his claim to fame was that he had won the presidential fitness award two years in a row. he did more pull-ups, more sit-ups, more push-ups, faster and better than anyone in the school, which was terrified of him, including the teachers. he beat the shit out of people whenever and wherever he felt like it. a liberal teacher, mr. anderson, said it was because kaiser was without a father, his father was in prison. so we should allow him to hurt us. i wanted to bring my gun to school for him. kaiser had been done wrong and i was going to do him worse. and i guess i did do him pretty bad when my hockey team beat his. we were both captains and he didn’t take my checks well nor my hockey stick to his shins. people didn’t do that to him. in the locker room he drop-kicked me to the back of the head and while i was unconscious he retreated into the u.s. marine corps.

the wastrel

3. the wastrel

plans? none. hopes? well, you’d like to say none. fears? working on ‘em. but not many. loves? i’ve traveled that haunted road with every sky and no matter how slow i walk i always end in a sweat. talk about rides, sometimes i look at the trees and a horse in the field and get thinking that would be easier . . . then i remember i’m a walker. on the road, imperative is burning high, on the return jaunt i’m wiping my eyes with the rag of inevitability. i know my hopes sink – i don’t know where. i’m moving with simplicity, a faith in an origin i’ve seen before. i stop at cemeteries, where i meet people who did their best. i don’t want to join them, but wonder why i got here. strangers can stop me, but i’m getting over shock and effort . . i watch the path. i am not beat. i am wasted.

white blinds

 white blinds

you awake early – gratitude. the air is clear and calm, the light crisp, perfection of a cajoling suede spring gurgling wit transcendence, without any mention of immortality or brown fingers. today is your mother’s birthday and you tape a reminder over the mirror where your face sometimes arrives. the sun a welcome lift to the boughs of a man who peaked young, whose conceit took him to hell, and is coming back like a weed. it is a morning like no others because this day has no questions to ask. a soul sways in a dance: give the word.

jackson evarts interviews fealey II

NOTE FROM PATRICK FEALEY: JACKSON EVARTS IS IN TOWN AND THE TAPE IS ROLLING AT CAFÉ ZELDA. IT’S JUST AFTER ONE AND HE’S IN TOWN TO WORK ON HIS INTERVIEW. HE’S BEEN HARASSING ME WITH THIS THING FOR MONTHS. HE ALWAYS COMES WEARING A SPORT JACKET, BUT I KNOW HE DOESN’T HAVE THE STORY PLACED YET. THIS IS A FARCE. HE’S GETTING THIS SHIT DOWN IN THE EVENT I DIE. IT’S LIKE BUYING BURIAL INSURANCE. THAT’S ANOTHER NAME FOR CONFIDENCE.

JACKSON: SO WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN READING LATELY? PADDY: GO ASK HOMER WHAT HE READ. JACKSON: I HEARD HE SAT ON HIS ASS. IS THIS THE TONE YOU WANT TO TAKE? PADDY: IT’S SET. JACKSON: OKAY, THEN TELL ME ABOUT THE GANG THAT KICKED YOUR ASS. PADDY: SURE. THE AFRICAN AMERICAN COMMUNITY COULD USE A LITTLE  MORE PUBLICITY. JACKSON: WHAT DID YOU DO TO PROVOKE THEM? PADDY: I WALKED BY, YOU HUMANIST ASS. JACKSON: YOU DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING? PADDY: WHAT IS THE PROBLEM WITH PEOPLE WHO STILL ASSOCIATE VIOLENCE WITH REASON? I SAW THEM ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STREET. I CROSSED. JACKSON: DID YOU SENSE ANY TROUBLE? PADDY: NO. A CROWD OF BLACKS LOITERING ON THE CORNER DOES NOT TRANSLATE INTO A VIOLENT CRIME. WHAT I SAW WERE YOUNG, BEAUTIFUL, CREATIVE PEOPLE WITH MUCH TO CONTRIBUTE TO THE CULTURE OF THIS COUNTRY, ESPECIALLY MUSIC AND PROFESSIONAL SPORTS. SO I CROSSED THE STREET. JACKSON: YOU SOUND RACIST. PADDY: THEY ATTACKED THE WRONG PERSON. WHEN I SAW MYSELF IN THE MIRROR AT THE EMERGENCY ROOM, LOOKING LIKE I’D BEEN PULLED FROM A BOMBED BUILDING, I KNEW THEY’D PUT THEIR ESSENCES DEEPER INTO THE SHIT.  THEY DID THE SAME THING TO TWO MORE PEOPLE AN HOUR LATER, BROKE THEIR RIBS AND KNOCKED OUT THEIR TEETH. I IDENTIFIED TWO OF THEM, BUT THEY WERE NEVER ARRESTED. TURNED OUT ONE OF THEM WAS A STAR FOOTBALL PLAYER AND THE OTHER A SON OF A PROMINENT FAMILY. HIS FATHER WAS A DOCTOR. A DESCENDANT OF THE FIRST FREED SLAVE IN THE STATE. THE COPS WERE LETTING THEM GET AWAY WITH THIS SHIT ON A REGULAR BASIS – NO CHARGES – BECAUSE THEY DIDN’T WANT TO INFLATE AREA CRIME STATISTICS. REAL ESTATE, TOURISM. IT WAS BLACK AGAINST WHITE RECREATIONAL VIOLENCE. WILDING. TV SHIT. I WAS STABBED IN THE HEAD AND THE PARAMEDIC TOLD ME I’D COME WITHIN A QUARTER INCH OF LOSING MY EYE. THE DOCTOR TOLD ME I’D NOT JUST BEEN STABBED ABOVE THE EYE, BUT I ALSO HAD A CONCUSSION. I WON’T FORGET THAT BLOW. THAT’S HOW IT STARTED. THE DOCTOR’S SON CAME UP ALONG SIDE ME SAYING, “IT’S COOL. IT’S COOL.” THEN WHAM! THE FOOTBALL PLAYER POUNDED ME IN THE BACK OF THE HEAD WITH A RUNNING PUNCH. I SAW ONE GREAT STAR AND PRACTICALLY CRUMPLED OVER. THE GUY COULD HAVE KILLED ME. I LEFT A TRAIL OF BLOOD FROM THE SCENE TO A PAY PHONE THAT WAS A HUNDRED FEET AWAY. THE STORY WAS FRONT-PAGE. THE PRICKS GOT AWAY WITH IT. I GOT STITCHED UP AND CALLED AN EX-GIRLFRIEND AFTER I SCRUBBED ALL THE BLOOD OFF IN THE E.R. BATHROOM. I CARRIED AROUND A HEINOUS KNIFE FOR A WEEK AFTERWARD AND KEPT A LOADED SPEAR GUN BY MY BED. THE FOOTBALL PLAYER GOT CAUGHT ABOUT A MONTH LATER WHEN HE ATTACKED SOMEONE ELSE. HE HIRED A LAWYER AND BROUGHT IN WITNESSES WHEN THE SCHOOL TRIED TO KICK HIM OFF THE FOOTBALL TEAM. THE PROVIDENCE POLICE CHIEF TESTIFIED ON HIS BEHALF. HE GOT TO PLAY BALL. THE WHOLE THING WAS FOR APPEARANCES. THE BALL IS MIGHTIER THAN THE TRUTH. JACKSON: HAS THE INCIDENT CHANGED YOUR VIEWS? PADDY: ABOUT THE INDIVIDUAL’S FREEDOM OF CHOICE, NO. ABOUT THE USELESSNESS OF COPS, NO. IT CAME OUT THAT THE GANG HAD STARTED SHIT THAT SAME NIGHT A BLOCK AWAY BEFORE THEY HIT ME, AND THE COPS HAD LET THEM GO THEN. SO THAT’S THREE TIMES THE AFRICAN AMERICANS BEAT ON WHITEY IN ONE NIGHT AND GOT OFF, MANAGING TO PUT THREE OF US IN THE HOSPITAL. IT’S AFFIRMED VIEWS I REBELLED AGAINST AS A KID GROWING UP IN AN IRISH-JEWISH FAMILY. JACKSON: WERE THEY PREJUDICED? PADDY: NO. I WAS IDEALISTIC. MY DAD WAS JUMPED ON STATEN ISLAND. MY AUNT WAS RAPED WHILE JOGGING IN CENTRAL PARK – BROAD DAYLIGHT. SHE WAS A COLLEGE FRESHMAN AND SHE WAS A VIRGIN. I WASN’T TOLD ABOUT HER UNTIL AFTER MY ATTACK. YOU WON’T SEE ME SITTING IN THE LIBERAL CHAIR AT THANKSGIVING. EXPERIENCE IS INFORMED AND RUNS DEEPER. IF I WAS A BETTER MAN, I GUESS I COULD DEAL WITH GETTING BIT MORE OFTEN, BUT I HAVE THIS VISCERAL AVERSION.  JACKSON: DO YOU THINK IT’S PERMANENT? PADDY: I SWUNG ONE WAY, BUT I’M COMING BACK. MUCH SLOWER THAN I THOUGHT I WOULD. I WON’T BE RETURNING TO THE OLD VIEWS. STREETWISE, IT’S A DISTRUST DRAWN IN BLOOD. PERSONALLY, IT’S LESS. COME AS YOU ARE. JACKSON: WOULD YOU SAY YOU ARE WOUNDED? DISAPPOINTED? WORKING THROUGH FEAR-AGGRESSION? PADDY: YES. BUT IT ONLY MANIFESTS ON THE STREET. A MATTER OF SURVIVAL, OF NOT LETTING IT HAPPEN AGAIN. I THINK RACISM, ALL HATRED, IS IGNORANCE TAKEN TO THE POINT OF INSANITY. RACISM IS ALSO A FACT OF LIFE. IF THE BLACKS ARE GOING TO BE RACIST, THEN I’M GOING TO DEFEND MYSELF. I DON’T WANT TO BE ONE OF THESE PEOPLE WHO TAKES SIDES OUT OF SOME SIMPLE MATTER OF STRATEGY OR SURVIVAL. THEY ARE RACISTS. OF COURSE, DEALING WITH PEOPLE AS INDIVIDUALS IN A DIVIDED ENVIRONMENT LEAVES ONE VULNERABLE. IN YOUR NEUTRALITY, OBJECTIVITY, YOU CAN BE TAKEN AS AN ENEMY BY ALL SIDES. AND SO THERE YOU ARE, MAYBE A MOST OPEN, SPIRITUAL AND COMPLEX PERSON, WITH A BUILT-IN SHIT DETECTOR, AND YOU NEED THE BIGGEST GUN TO FEND OFF INAPPROPRIATE, UNSOLICITED, MISUNDERSTANDINGS – THOUGH WHAT HAPPENED TO ME WAS MORE SOCIOPATHIC. JACKSON: SOCIOPATHY, THAT DISASSOCIATION FROM ONESELF, ISN’T IT REALLY ABOUT TURNING FROM THE DEMANDS OF LIVING? PADDY: MAN DOESN’T LIKE BEING ALIVE. HE DOESN’T KNOW EXACTLY WHY. HE JUST KNOWS THAT IT HURTS MORE THAN SOME OF THE OTHER WAYS HE CAN WALK AROUND ON EARTH. GREED AND KILLING IS HIS OPIUM, HIS CUSHION. SOCIOPATHS ESCAPE THE CONSEQUENCES OF THEIR CRIMES, WHETHER ITS GREED OR MURDER, BY SHUTTING DOWN. EVERY PERSON WHO WANTS TO DO WRONG, WANTS TO BE A SOCIOPATH. JACKSON: WHAT IS YOUR DELUSION? PADDY: THAT I CAN SING, THOUGH SOMETIMES I CAN. JACKSON: IS IT ESSENTIAL TO BE NEGATIVE? PADDY: IT IS ESSENTIAL TO BE THOROUGH. WHEN PEOPLE CALL SOMEONE LIKE CELINE “NEGATIVE,” IT’S BECAUSE THEY’RE ASSOCIATING HIM WITH THINGS HE RESISTS. “ASSOCIATING” IS SHALLOW ACTIVITY. THEY LABEL HIM NEGATIVE BECAUSE HE MIGHT BE RIGHT AND THEY SEE THEMSELVES  IN WHAT HE IS RESISTING. THEY DON’T WANT TO CHANGE, SO THEY DISMISS. JACKSON: CYNICISM IS SET, WHEREAS SKEPTICISM IS ALIVE. PADDY: EXACTLY: I’M NOT INTO CYNICS OR ANYONE WITH A PRE-SET DISPOSITION OR CONVERSATION. I SEE A LOT OF PEOPLE WHO EXIST IN MODES AND I THINK OF THEM EVERY TIME I PUKE. JACKSON: WHAT ABOUT SOMEONE WHO ACCUSES YOU OF BEING JUDGMENTAL? PADDY: CONSIDER ME THE FLY WITHIN REACH OF THE FROG’S TONGUE. OR CONSIDER ME THE FROG. NOTHING MAKES A MOVE HERE WITHOUT FIRST MAKING A JUDGMENT. TO JUDGE IS TO THINK. TO THINK IS TO BE. THE QUESTION IS HOW TO BE. THERE’S ONE WAY TO TREAT PEOPLE AND EVERYTHING ELSE IS A CON.  JACKSON: BUT YOU ONCE CALLED WALT WHITMAN TOO POSITIVE. PADDY: I WAS OVER-SIMPLIFYING. BUT, YES, I SAID THAT. HIS OPTIMISM, HIS LOVE FOR HIS FELLOW MAN, IT’S AN IDEAL THAT DOESN’T RECONCILE WITH THE WORLD I LIVE IN, A WORLD OF SICK MINDS AND POLLUTED STREETS, A WORLD WHICH WALKS AROUND WITH MISSILES UNDER ITS ARMS. AND I CERTAINLY WOULDN’T ROMANTICIZE CIVIL WAR BATTLE THE WAY HE DID. WHITMAN IS ABOUT WHAT COULD BE, MAYBE ABOUT HOW IT WAS FOR HIM. HE WAS A ROMANTIC SPIRIT. I AM A ROMANTIC, BUT WITH MORE TEETH. I FIND MEN ARE MOVED BY TEETH AT THEIR ASSES, WITH A FEW JOKES THROWN IN – NOT SUNSETS. I’M NOT TRYING TO CATCH JUST FLIES. THOUGH MEN ARE MOSTLY FLIES. WHITMAN IS IN MY TOP DOZEN BOOKS, BY THE WAY. WHEN I WENT TO LIVE IN THE WOODS, I PACKED LEAVES. BUT BEYOND HIS EXAMPLE, WHICH IS AN IDEAL WE NEED, AN IDEAL I ADMIT I CANNOT LIVE UP TO, IS THE UNBELIEVABLE ATROCITY OF HUMANKIND, WHICH HAS BEEN GIVEN THE GIFT AND TURNED AWAY FROM IT.  WHITMAN’S SPIRIT BRINGS TEARS TO MY EYES. TO CUT THROUGH AND TRANSCEND. FOR NOW, I DO NOT SHARE HIS OPTIMISM, BUT I KNOW I HAVE A TENDENCY TO REACT WHEN I SHOULD STEP OVER. JACKSON: BUKOWSKI? PADDY: HE WAS MORE OF A PERSONALITY THAN A WRITER AND HIS PERSONALITY WAS DESPICABLE. I LIKE HIM. JACKSON: RIMBAUD. PADDY: THE FIRST PUNK. IT’S ONLY ART. HE WAS LESS CYNICAL THAN OVERFLOWING WITH INFORMED HOSTILITY, LIKE ANY THOUGHTFUL YOUNG MAN. JACKSON: HEMINGWAY. PADDY: I’M LAUGHING BECAUSE I HAD THIS DREAM THAT HE WAS TRYING TO SEDUCE ME AND I WOULDN’T LET HIM. STILL, “CAT IN THE RAIN” IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE STORIES. JACKSON: KEROUAC. PADDY: IT HURTS TO LISTEN TO HIS READINGS, DOESN’T IT? FRAGILE, RHYTHMICAL, TRYING FOR THE SPIRITUAL, BUT BROKEN. I DON’T FEEL AN INTIMATE CONNECTION WITH HIM. HE WRITES ABOVE THE PAGE. HE PUTS A LOT OF WORDS IN THE RIGHT PLACES AT THE RIGHT TIMES, WHICH CREATES THE EFFECT OF REACHING OUT, BUT HE IS NOT THERE. THERE IS A TELLING WITH POETIC WORDS AND THERE IS BEING, WHICH IS POETRY. THERE IS A DISTANCE TO HIS WORK. IT’S THE WORK OF THE MIND WHICH HUNG OUT AT COLUMBIA AND WORSHIPPED THOMAS WOLFE. I WANT TO GET CLOSER TO THE EXPERIENCE. ULTIMATELY, KEROUAC LEAVES ME FEELING LEFT OUT. JACKSON: MAILER. PADDY: MAILER? DID HE PAY FOR A PRODUCT PLACEMENT? JACKSON: KURT COBAIN. PADDY: NOTICE ALL THESE PEOPLE ARE DEAD? I REMEMBER WHERE I WAS THE FIRST TIME I HEARD NEVERMIND. 1991. A USED CLOTHING STORE ON HAIGHT STREET CALLED WASTELAND WITH MY GIRLFRIEND JESS, THE SHOPPING QUEEN. I FOUND THE SPEAKERS HIGH ON THE WALLS. THE PLACE WAS HUGE, FULL OF HIP CASTAWAYS AND VINYL LEATHER. I REMEMBER THINKING, HOLY SHIT! THANKS FOR BEING THIS BAND. JACKSON: TELL ME ABOUT “BROKEN CRAYON.” PADDY: GUYS LIKE YOU MAKE ME WANT TO STICK A NEEDLE IN MY ARM, BUT SINCE THIS IS THE HOUR OF VANITY AND EXPLANATIONS, I’LL WAIT AND EXPLAIN. BROKEN CRAYON WAS A WALL ART IN THIS ROOMING HOUSE IN NARRAGANSETT A FEW YEARS AGO, WHERE I WAS HOLED UP WITH ANTI-PSYCHOTICS AND ART SUPPLIES. I SAW THIS PIECE OF CRAYON ON THE FLOOR, ON THE HARDWOOD BY THE BASEBOARD, WHICH WAS WHITE. I LOOKED AT THE CRAYON. IT HAD BEEN SNAPPED AND STILL HAD SOME PAPER ON IT. IT WAS A DARK COLOR, I DON’T REMEMBER, DARK BLUE OR MAYBE MAROON. SOMETHING HAD TO BE DONE WITH IT. I PICKED IT UP AND STOOD UP AND WROTE ON THE WALL: “broken crayon.” TO ME IT WAS A JOKE, BUT THEN I NOTICED THAT WHENEVER SOMEONE CAME IN THE ROOM, IT WOULD GET A LAUGH OR SOMEONE WOULD ASK “WHAT THE FUCK?” IT GOT A LOT OF ATTENTION. I GUESS TO ME IT MEANS THAT SOMETHING CAN BE BROKEN AND STILL WORK. 

lady bug

     lady bug

sitting on the wall when a lady bug bumps off my wrist, crawls away as i wait for the lucky caress. the last time she brought nothing, but the time before she brought you, you and your screaming rain, ecstatic leaps, and new snores. i never doubted the beetle afterwards, but tonight i discovered her peculiar loyalty. a quick bump on the wrist and we’re again having drinks on a lake of frozen sweat. your hair is longer and straight, your face speaking of a former life in a language i once heard flying over greenland. anatomic assumptions on the setting passions, memories like teeth that know the routine, the spots are the same . . . the ladybug crawls on, whatever it is, crawling toward the next man, flying those imperfect distances from affection to affection. you’re sitting here and i’m sitting here and the lady bug says it makes sense. in the beginning there was the beetle, and in the end there was the beetle, and the beetle was god, demanding us to fuck.

a moveable boast

a moveable boast

he hung his worn

felt hat

on the hook

inside the clean

well-lighted café

he liked

and sat down

to work on his

suicide

he was poor

and struggling

compared to scott

and was on

his way

to see gertrude stein

when he ducked

out

of the paris winter rain

to have

a couple of rum martiniques

and write

one true sentence

he finished his story

and ordered a plate

of oysters and

white wine

that washed away

the metallic taste

he and hadley

must go

to austria

and ski

for a few months

where there is no rain

only sun and snow

they’ll keep

the paris flat

in the hotel

where verlaine died

and rent a place

in the mountains

for more money

but he has the money

because

he just sold

three articles to toronto

in writing, he said

what you leave out

is most important:

-         his family is rich

-         hadley’s family is richer

-         he grew up with

five servants in the house

and has one in paris

for six months

in a rooming house

i lived on ramen noodles

writing my first novel

and contracted

scurvy

and eight teeth fell out

what i wish to leave out are:

-         the ramen noodles

-         the dealers

-         and imbeciles

-         and my most

frequent caller,

a guy who murdered

his best friend

trout fishing

i’m too malnourished

and tired

to pose

outside shakespeare & co.

i just sold

three articles

to the boston globe

paid rent

on this room

and put the rest down

on a life raft

american still life #62308

American still life #62308

my housemate is doing

the daily crossword puzzle

and listening to rush Limbaugh

i don’t share his conservative

values

or phd vocabulary

another distraction

from the facts

which Limbaugh ignores

changes

reloads

i’m on the front porch

in maine

with no shirt

levi’s and slaps

i just planted a flower

i dug up

by the railroad tracks

a loopin

purple with leaves like a pot plant

i have no plans today

but anticipate

sweating my balls off

while i balance the cost

of my alcoholism

with the purchase of a

9 millimeter automatic

the future looks tasty as lead

and along the way

there will be a lot of cheap beer