Patrick Fealey's Blog, page 4
March 22, 2013
sex addict
her personality conspired for sex, not companionship. by this, she was required to move on quickly, sometimes returning, maintaining you like a pin in her juggling act, always new and fast as SHE needed it. i knew all of this before we started and did allow myself to fall in love easily. i brought fucking back into her life. her MO was to be sucked up and to suck off, "we don't have to do that (fuck)," she said. "sometimes it hurts." i took the fucking upon myself and screamed the joy of life and pissed the bed for two weeks. she was a tight little girl with engorged labia. she wanted to see me again, and again, and again. when she started saying she loved me and i saw she had changed, i didn't believe her and loved her less.
March 21, 2013
The Jester
The Jester
Our girlfriends thought we should meet because they believed a writer is a writer and we were both drunks. His goal was to get into The New Yorker to obscurify to the delight of the upper classes. I recommended In Our Time. He hadn’t read it and wasn’t going to. He had already written not only the best short story he had ever written, but the best short story he had ever read. He wore leather motorcycle boots without the motorcycle and a leather jacket he referred to as “my leather.” He wore $150 custom made shirts and snorted a lot of coke. “I fear I am becoming a character,” he said after self-publishing his first novel. I slept on his couch ten years after we met while hoboing around and working on a novel. He wouldn’t let me use his Olympia, so I bought a Smith-Corona at the Salvation Army for $4. I watched him inflate himself by collecting friends and brutalizing his petite wife. He had the smallest dick I’d ever seen on a grown man. He says to me, “Do you think writing poetry is just a way for you to accommodate your drinking?” Speeding down Divisadero, he doesn’t know who he is, but he knows what he’s going to show you. You couldn’t walk side by side with him. He had to be in front striving and asserting and if he couldn’t, he fell far behind and pretended he didn’t care. One night he broke down. His eyes searched mine. He was pathetic. “I envy the facility with which you write,” he said. “You can only be yourself,” I said. He did not consider himself “particularly touchy,” but in fact he was a bitch and I spent a lot of time feeding his lies just for the conversation and couch. He was a great talker. He’ll probably get into The New Yorker because he has nepotism in his hip pocket. He says to me, “I read the first twenty pages of your novel and I wouldn’t change a thing, but I’m not going to read any more because I don’t want it to affect my writing style.”
Our girlfriends thought we should meet because they believed a writer is a writer and we were both drunks. His goal was to get into The New Yorker to obscurify to the delight of the upper classes. I recommended In Our Time. He hadn’t read it and wasn’t going to. He had already written not only the best short story he had ever written, but the best short story he had ever read. He wore leather motorcycle boots without the motorcycle and a leather jacket he referred to as “my leather.” He wore $150 custom made shirts and snorted a lot of coke. “I fear I am becoming a character,” he said after self-publishing his first novel. I slept on his couch ten years after we met while hoboing around and working on a novel. He wouldn’t let me use his Olympia, so I bought a Smith-Corona at the Salvation Army for $4. I watched him inflate himself by collecting friends and brutalizing his petite wife. He had the smallest dick I’d ever seen on a grown man. He says to me, “Do you think writing poetry is just a way for you to accommodate your drinking?” Speeding down Divisadero, he doesn’t know who he is, but he knows what he’s going to show you. You couldn’t walk side by side with him. He had to be in front striving and asserting and if he couldn’t, he fell far behind and pretended he didn’t care. One night he broke down. His eyes searched mine. He was pathetic. “I envy the facility with which you write,” he said. “You can only be yourself,” I said. He did not consider himself “particularly touchy,” but in fact he was a bitch and I spent a lot of time feeding his lies just for the conversation and couch. He was a great talker. He’ll probably get into The New Yorker because he has nepotism in his hip pocket. He says to me, “I read the first twenty pages of your novel and I wouldn’t change a thing, but I’m not going to read any more because I don’t want it to affect my writing style.”
March 19, 2013
the cock ruler
I went down to the beach and sat on the concrete wall. There were not a lot of women around, but that didn’t mean a goddamn thing. It only took one and a brunette in her twenties walked by in grey sweats and white sneakers. I didn’t know it yet, but her name was Julia. I could see that she was tall and beautiful, but I didn’t know she was Italian and she had bought a copy of William Blake in a used book store that morning. My first impression was that she was a graduate student at Cal-Poly and she was. Mathematics. I thought I’d lost her, but she walked back to me and it was do or die. We smiled and said hello at the same time. She was standing before me.
“What are you doing?” she said.
I said, “I’m looking for a woman to talk to while trying to keep the seagulls from reading my thoughts. I’m not having many thoughts, but I don’t want any seagull picking one up.”
she said, “I knew you would still be here because I would be coming back. I’m glad you are.”
“My name’s Paddy.”
“Julia. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you.”
She sat down and we talked. We had all the subjects available to us. She was a most confident and attuned and open girl, if a little enthusiastic. Things moved fast, but she was comfortable with that, good at that. I was the one being seduced. Two hours passed.
She brought up the fog and suggested we sit in her car. Having seen that she was driving a compact, I suggested Weederman. She agreed. As we stood up, I stepped into her. I was not at all nervous. I liked her. She kissed me back like she wanted everything on the sand. We stopped at her car so she could grab her purse and then we went in through Weederman’s side door. We were out of our clothes in seconds.
“You have a ten-inch cock!” she said.
“Right.”
She found her purse, produced a tape measure, pulled out a foot of tape and aligned it. “You’re right. It’s only eight. But it’s not even all the way hard.” She put her mouth on me. I didn’t want her to stop, but-
“Get that ruler - is cold - offa me!”
“You know how many dicks I’ve seen?”
“I don’t want to know.”
“You might be number two out of hundreds. Three-hundred.”
“Three- hundred?”
“No, okay, two hundred.”
“You’re a lying whore.”
“You can’t handle the truth.”
“You can’t measure the truth.”
“More than a hundred. Less than three hundred.”
“Who’s number one?”
“The first or the biggest?”
“Whichever you can remember.”
She lit up. I was wilting. “He had a twelve-inch cock.”
“Adjusting for your excitement and exaggerations, that would be a ten-inch cock,” I said.
“No, it was a twelve-inch cock. Just like this ruler. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t go out with him again. He’s too big. It hurt. And he’s fucked up. He’s a real fucked-up person.”
“So I’m number two?”
“I think so.”
“Am I also fucked up?”
“Well, look at you.”
“So, truthfully, you can only remember number one for sure.”
“Well. You’re up there with him.”
“No I’m not. He’s 50-percent more. He is the biggest and then there are the rest of us.”
“You’re perfect.”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Do you know how many dicks I’ve endured that were no bigger than a hot dog?”
“Five-hundred?”
“No, but they’re out there and you never know when someone’s gonna spring one on ya.”
“I’ll take your word.”
“Think about a cock the size of your pinky, what would you say to that?”
“I don’t know.’I’ll have a hamburger?’”
“Mercy is no place for mercy, I mean bed isn’t. Trust me, you have a huge cock. I can’t believe no one’s ever told you that before.”
“Just the guys in the shower making jokes.”
She laughed. “Males of all species, assemble and brawl it out.”
“If they hadn’t, I might not believe you. I don’t know. There was a girl who brought down the house every time, a thousand times, and all she ever said was, ‘i have no complaints.’”
“The bitch was playing poker.”
“You’re the first chick.”
“Yes. I’m the only woman for whom size matters.” she laughed. “Size is presence. Simple as that. Sex is about being there, right? Don’t you agree?”
“And getting there.”
“The amazing thing about cocks, to me is how much they can grow. Look at you now. You must be down to two inches.”
“Get that thing away from me!”
Afterward we sat in Weederman’s front seats and laughed. Then we were staring at the weathered Pacific through wiped windows, the life gone out of us. It wasn’t that the sex was all we had and we had nothing to say. It was the realization that we had no future and we might have had one. The sex had been monstrous after she put away the tape measure, though she said it was not unusual for her to come seven times in one hour. I’d finished from behind and it was a better view when she moaned from deep inside and I came and fell onto her white back. Then we laughed. But our journey led us to silence. I was leaving in the morning. We went to different schools six-hundred miles apart. We didn’t delude ourselves. We’d made something that would live one day. We wrote down addresses and numbers and I left her at the beach where it started and drove back feeling like I’d been forced to give back something I’d just won. I threw her address out the window.
“What are you doing?” she said.
I said, “I’m looking for a woman to talk to while trying to keep the seagulls from reading my thoughts. I’m not having many thoughts, but I don’t want any seagull picking one up.”
she said, “I knew you would still be here because I would be coming back. I’m glad you are.”
“My name’s Paddy.”
“Julia. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you.”
She sat down and we talked. We had all the subjects available to us. She was a most confident and attuned and open girl, if a little enthusiastic. Things moved fast, but she was comfortable with that, good at that. I was the one being seduced. Two hours passed.
She brought up the fog and suggested we sit in her car. Having seen that she was driving a compact, I suggested Weederman. She agreed. As we stood up, I stepped into her. I was not at all nervous. I liked her. She kissed me back like she wanted everything on the sand. We stopped at her car so she could grab her purse and then we went in through Weederman’s side door. We were out of our clothes in seconds.
“You have a ten-inch cock!” she said.
“Right.”
She found her purse, produced a tape measure, pulled out a foot of tape and aligned it. “You’re right. It’s only eight. But it’s not even all the way hard.” She put her mouth on me. I didn’t want her to stop, but-
“Get that ruler - is cold - offa me!”
“You know how many dicks I’ve seen?”
“I don’t want to know.”
“You might be number two out of hundreds. Three-hundred.”
“Three- hundred?”
“No, okay, two hundred.”
“You’re a lying whore.”
“You can’t handle the truth.”
“You can’t measure the truth.”
“More than a hundred. Less than three hundred.”
“Who’s number one?”
“The first or the biggest?”
“Whichever you can remember.”
She lit up. I was wilting. “He had a twelve-inch cock.”
“Adjusting for your excitement and exaggerations, that would be a ten-inch cock,” I said.
“No, it was a twelve-inch cock. Just like this ruler. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t go out with him again. He’s too big. It hurt. And he’s fucked up. He’s a real fucked-up person.”
“So I’m number two?”
“I think so.”
“Am I also fucked up?”
“Well, look at you.”
“So, truthfully, you can only remember number one for sure.”
“Well. You’re up there with him.”
“No I’m not. He’s 50-percent more. He is the biggest and then there are the rest of us.”
“You’re perfect.”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Do you know how many dicks I’ve endured that were no bigger than a hot dog?”
“Five-hundred?”
“No, but they’re out there and you never know when someone’s gonna spring one on ya.”
“I’ll take your word.”
“Think about a cock the size of your pinky, what would you say to that?”
“I don’t know.’I’ll have a hamburger?’”
“Mercy is no place for mercy, I mean bed isn’t. Trust me, you have a huge cock. I can’t believe no one’s ever told you that before.”
“Just the guys in the shower making jokes.”
She laughed. “Males of all species, assemble and brawl it out.”
“If they hadn’t, I might not believe you. I don’t know. There was a girl who brought down the house every time, a thousand times, and all she ever said was, ‘i have no complaints.’”
“The bitch was playing poker.”
“You’re the first chick.”
“Yes. I’m the only woman for whom size matters.” she laughed. “Size is presence. Simple as that. Sex is about being there, right? Don’t you agree?”
“And getting there.”
“The amazing thing about cocks, to me is how much they can grow. Look at you now. You must be down to two inches.”
“Get that thing away from me!”
Afterward we sat in Weederman’s front seats and laughed. Then we were staring at the weathered Pacific through wiped windows, the life gone out of us. It wasn’t that the sex was all we had and we had nothing to say. It was the realization that we had no future and we might have had one. The sex had been monstrous after she put away the tape measure, though she said it was not unusual for her to come seven times in one hour. I’d finished from behind and it was a better view when she moaned from deep inside and I came and fell onto her white back. Then we laughed. But our journey led us to silence. I was leaving in the morning. We went to different schools six-hundred miles apart. We didn’t delude ourselves. We’d made something that would live one day. We wrote down addresses and numbers and I left her at the beach where it started and drove back feeling like I’d been forced to give back something I’d just won. I threw her address out the window.
March 18, 2013
Mastering Fine Accidents
Mastering Fine Accidents
Short guy in a dirty blue down jacket, late 50s
wild blue-gray hair, holding a plastic bag in the elevator
He was mostly blocked from me, but I could see
he had something heavy
I needed a beer, so I asked
He came around and told me to go ahead
He had a bag full of loose beers
“Thanks.”
“Wash it,” he said. “It came out of the garbage.”
“Where?”
Long silence.
“You’re not telling me. It’s alright.”
I got off the elevator
He said after me: “Pelham’s.”
I rode my bike down to Pelham’s
and found a big green dumpster full
of empty bottles and hefty bags full of bottles
mostly empty
and a lot of them were broken
and there was brown water at the bottom
of one end of the dumpster
air sour like rotting fruit and vinegar,
as well as like a dumpster
The light was fading, so I propped open the top lids
and slid open the side doors
It was dark in there
All I saw were empties and broken glass,
piled three feet high
I picked through the bottles for
ten minutes and didn’t find anything
thirst versus fears about getting cut
Tom arrived and leaned into the other side,
opposite me
He had a small flashlight
He found a bottle of Sierra Nevada in less than one minute
He gave it to me
I found a Smirnoff ice in the dark
I would find three of these and, with his help and flashlight, a
Stella Artois
He found six beers and a Smirnoff,
including a Red Stripe he divined
beneath and through a pile of shattered empties
He gave me some of his beer
He insisted
We searched for an hour and then talked
He had discovered the booze earlier in the day
when he had walked up to the dumpster
to throw away a soda bottle
he saw a bottle of whiskey
He finished it off
Then he saw an unopened beer
Beautiful women dressed for the town
walked past us tramps, women who
talked to me
who i had something
to say to
when i had a career
before i shattered myself
against the thing
I was supposed to live in
I wanted to get back to the hotel
before my beer
got any more outdated
Short guy in a dirty blue down jacket, late 50s
wild blue-gray hair, holding a plastic bag in the elevator
He was mostly blocked from me, but I could see
he had something heavy
I needed a beer, so I asked
He came around and told me to go ahead
He had a bag full of loose beers
“Thanks.”
“Wash it,” he said. “It came out of the garbage.”
“Where?”
Long silence.
“You’re not telling me. It’s alright.”
I got off the elevator
He said after me: “Pelham’s.”
I rode my bike down to Pelham’s
and found a big green dumpster full
of empty bottles and hefty bags full of bottles
mostly empty
and a lot of them were broken
and there was brown water at the bottom
of one end of the dumpster
air sour like rotting fruit and vinegar,
as well as like a dumpster
The light was fading, so I propped open the top lids
and slid open the side doors
It was dark in there
All I saw were empties and broken glass,
piled three feet high
I picked through the bottles for
ten minutes and didn’t find anything
thirst versus fears about getting cut
Tom arrived and leaned into the other side,
opposite me
He had a small flashlight
He found a bottle of Sierra Nevada in less than one minute
He gave it to me
I found a Smirnoff ice in the dark
I would find three of these and, with his help and flashlight, a
Stella Artois
He found six beers and a Smirnoff,
including a Red Stripe he divined
beneath and through a pile of shattered empties
He gave me some of his beer
He insisted
We searched for an hour and then talked
He had discovered the booze earlier in the day
when he had walked up to the dumpster
to throw away a soda bottle
he saw a bottle of whiskey
He finished it off
Then he saw an unopened beer
Beautiful women dressed for the town
walked past us tramps, women who
talked to me
who i had something
to say to
when i had a career
before i shattered myself
against the thing
I was supposed to live in
I wanted to get back to the hotel
before my beer
got any more outdated
March 16, 2013
art cutlines
Gems
(pencil on paper)
The writer’s desk with a view of the shed (pens and white-out on paper)
The hustler in control (markers, charcoal, white-out on paper)
The ghost who called me a “Goy.” (charcoal on paper)
Seated Nude (Gabrielle) by Amadeo Modigliani, (copied from original (A) using acrylic on paper (B), then scanned and color-inverted on Microsoft (C). original and computer file of C are much sharper and colorful. B: Collection of Michael DeCapite, NYC.
Seagulls (charcoal on paper)
Bukowski (acrylic on paper) Collection of Ruthie Singer, San Francisco.
Seamen’s Church, Newport, front and back views (pen and pencil on paper; color and b&w versions)
Katz (photoshop) (The best friend i ever had; committed suicide Jan. ‘03.)
The View (charcoal and watercolor on paper)
Three poets in Hell . Baudelaire, Villon, Bukowski. (acrylic and charcoal on paper)
Self-portrait 1995 (pencil, pastel on paper)
Gems (charcoal on paper)
The writer’s desk with a view of the shed (pens and white-out on paper)
The hustler in control (markers, charcoal, white-out on paper)
The ghost who called me a “Goy.” (charcoal on paper)
Seated Nude (Gabrielle) by Amadeo Modigliani, (copied from original (A) using acrylic on paper (B), then scanned and color-inverted on Microsoft (C). original and computer file of C are much sharper and colorful. B: Collection of Michael DeCapite, NYC.
Seagulls (charcoal on paper)
Bukowski (acrylic on paper) Collection of Ruthie Singer, San Francisco.
Seamen’s Church, Newport, front and back views (pen and pencil on paper; color and b&w versions)
Katz (photoshop) (The best friend i ever had; committed suicide Jan. ‘03.)
The View (charcoal and watercolor on paper)
Three poets in Hell . Baudelaire, Villon, Bukowski. (acrylic and charcoal on paper)
Self-portrait 1995 (pencil, pastel on paper)
Gems (charcoal on paper)
March 15, 2013
the deprived and the complainers
the deprived and the complainers
i was going
to title
this poem
“schwarzenegger”
because it ends with
his type
1945 we can win
a world war
2011 we can’t run
a post office
ask nasa
to land
a man in
times square
most patients
admitted
did it to themselves
meth, booze, narcotic psychosis,
400-pound diabetic
family brings
him six bags from
burger king
into the hospital
eat, eat, eat america,
you insomniatic
video game
capitalist
propagator of
suicide
the fate
of the alcoholic
is known
but liver failure
at 18
is becoming
less of a feat
lacking restraint
straining for joy
a nation
sucks on a gas pipe
toothlessly
we sold oranges
money for band trips
london, orlando, boston
gigs
now my son sells
soap and flowers
to pay for textbooks and study supplies
while the n.e.a.
tightens its grip
on the pencils
we also must buy him
promoting blood-suckers
is the american way
i have met more
millionaires
than i ever
believed existed
they all
complain
they need
more money
american,
what happened to america
is you
you deserve
yourselves
i made $9,000,000,000
last year
and paid no taxes
but a poor person
blew me up
today my dog
eats dog food
and power
comes
from
the barrel of a gun
i was going
to title
this poem
“schwarzenegger”
because it ends with
his type
1945 we can win
a world war
2011 we can’t run
a post office
ask nasa
to land
a man in
times square
most patients
admitted
did it to themselves
meth, booze, narcotic psychosis,
400-pound diabetic
family brings
him six bags from
burger king
into the hospital
eat, eat, eat america,
you insomniatic
video game
capitalist
propagator of
suicide
the fate
of the alcoholic
is known
but liver failure
at 18
is becoming
less of a feat
lacking restraint
straining for joy
a nation
sucks on a gas pipe
toothlessly
we sold oranges
money for band trips
london, orlando, boston
gigs
now my son sells
soap and flowers
to pay for textbooks and study supplies
while the n.e.a.
tightens its grip
on the pencils
we also must buy him
promoting blood-suckers
is the american way
i have met more
millionaires
than i ever
believed existed
they all
complain
they need
more money
american,
what happened to america
is you
you deserve
yourselves
i made $9,000,000,000
last year
and paid no taxes
but a poor person
blew me up
today my dog
eats dog food
and power
comes
from
the barrel of a gun
March 14, 2013
cat in the grassblades
cat in the grass blades
trees drip on themselves
private rainfalls
and the smell of bent flowers
too soaked
for the hummingbirds
and the cat comes home
with a wet face and back
the sky, smoke
the sun, unspoken
more crows
than mosquitoes
and the other birds are fine
speaking softly
trees drip on themselves
private rainfalls
and the smell of bent flowers
too soaked
for the hummingbirds
and the cat comes home
with a wet face and back
the sky, smoke
the sun, unspoken
more crows
than mosquitoes
and the other birds are fine
speaking softly
March 12, 2013
March 12th, 2013
national honor society
parts missing from my car (bumper). recovered next day at the railroad crossing. maybe remember being stuck on something. no cops, a miracle, considering the cops are stuck on me. luck? two taps under the dash. vodka. beer. fill em up. yes, sir. you’ve got it. bellyful bombers loaded flying altitude zero. seventeen and still alive! two taps under the dash, one vodka, one beer, tanks in the trunk: keg, vodka, compressed air. my friends don’t comprehend the hoses. target area black-out. no recollection on the ground. everywhere sirens wailing: don’t drink and drive. don’t don’t. don’t don’t. we are not drinking. we are drinking. two taps under the dash. bombs falling. without hurting a soul. experience, chance, exactness don’t explain our safe landings. all plumbing accounted for. two taps under the dash, one vodka, one beer – and a road paved with scholarships
parts missing from my car (bumper). recovered next day at the railroad crossing. maybe remember being stuck on something. no cops, a miracle, considering the cops are stuck on me. luck? two taps under the dash. vodka. beer. fill em up. yes, sir. you’ve got it. bellyful bombers loaded flying altitude zero. seventeen and still alive! two taps under the dash, one vodka, one beer, tanks in the trunk: keg, vodka, compressed air. my friends don’t comprehend the hoses. target area black-out. no recollection on the ground. everywhere sirens wailing: don’t drink and drive. don’t don’t. don’t don’t. we are not drinking. we are drinking. two taps under the dash. bombs falling. without hurting a soul. experience, chance, exactness don’t explain our safe landings. all plumbing accounted for. two taps under the dash, one vodka, one beer – and a road paved with scholarships
March 10, 2013
necropolis
necropolis
the cops in egypt don’t dig me and the american counsel says i’m “fucking naïve.” that’s their word: fucking. i say the egyptian police are fucking naïve and paranoid. but that’s my fucking naive word against their fucking naiveté and paranoia. the embassy believes it’s helping by saying i’m “fucking naïve,” just the fastest way out of a “bad situation.” it’s easier to call me “fucking naïve” than tell the egyptians, who are fucking naïve and paranoid, that they are fucking naïve and paranoid. no truce on my end, just a multiplication of paranoias, which is more of a threat to national security than their stupidity. shackle me! i’ll confess that my lust beats your lack of sense any day of the week. besides, she was everybody’s lily.
the cops in egypt don’t dig me and the american counsel says i’m “fucking naïve.” that’s their word: fucking. i say the egyptian police are fucking naïve and paranoid. but that’s my fucking naive word against their fucking naiveté and paranoia. the embassy believes it’s helping by saying i’m “fucking naïve,” just the fastest way out of a “bad situation.” it’s easier to call me “fucking naïve” than tell the egyptians, who are fucking naïve and paranoid, that they are fucking naïve and paranoid. no truce on my end, just a multiplication of paranoias, which is more of a threat to national security than their stupidity. shackle me! i’ll confess that my lust beats your lack of sense any day of the week. besides, she was everybody’s lily.
March 4, 2013
March 04th, 2013
honeymoon
the storybook from hell continues, the wind of expedience turning the pages for the desperate. a bloody face that swam a mile in her pants but never walked a step in her shoes, a care-free convention and a dumb bet under speed on whose soul would hold out longest against the ceaseless vow to lose. she’s not stupid, she is honestly in the dark. out of respect, i never would have subjected her to that proposition. it was a day-to-day revision of hot sentiments. circumstance calls the tune of the day and i’m left with her fair deal and power moves. i’m waking from the nightmare to find her truth. so-long comrade. there is no gloating over a bet won when a soul is caught. freedom is just another word for a cynical pull of the zipper.
the storybook from hell continues, the wind of expedience turning the pages for the desperate. a bloody face that swam a mile in her pants but never walked a step in her shoes, a care-free convention and a dumb bet under speed on whose soul would hold out longest against the ceaseless vow to lose. she’s not stupid, she is honestly in the dark. out of respect, i never would have subjected her to that proposition. it was a day-to-day revision of hot sentiments. circumstance calls the tune of the day and i’m left with her fair deal and power moves. i’m waking from the nightmare to find her truth. so-long comrade. there is no gloating over a bet won when a soul is caught. freedom is just another word for a cynical pull of the zipper.
