Patrick Fealey's Blog, page 5
March 1, 2013
the invisible man
invisible man
i’m in california when my buddy at the university back east holds a reading of my work and personal letters and he scores some ass. a local weekly is publishing my stories every issue and two professors are teaching my work. i return to find i have more friends and more enemies in the English and journalism departments. professors are polarized, my peers see me as something more than a surf derelict. but i’ve got this other thing: when i meet some people who read my work they don’t believe i am me. they are adamant. it’s as if any man or woman could be me, except me. i don’t know what they expect in their heads but it isn’t to be frightened by tall hair and a red shirt and torn jeans and italian leather boots, a mutant in need of a shave and redemption or death, smelling like a distillery in kentucky. (they can’t possibly expect a tweed jacket and a rolex, a bald spot and a yale ring?) “you’re not patrick fealey,” i have been told again and again as they dial up the boss. it’s amusing, but it’s disappointing to see people so unaware of who does what. my girlfriend amber says some of it is my fault: “you don’t talk the way you write. you’re crass.” it leaves me with nothing to say but thanks & fuck you.
i’m in california when my buddy at the university back east holds a reading of my work and personal letters and he scores some ass. a local weekly is publishing my stories every issue and two professors are teaching my work. i return to find i have more friends and more enemies in the English and journalism departments. professors are polarized, my peers see me as something more than a surf derelict. but i’ve got this other thing: when i meet some people who read my work they don’t believe i am me. they are adamant. it’s as if any man or woman could be me, except me. i don’t know what they expect in their heads but it isn’t to be frightened by tall hair and a red shirt and torn jeans and italian leather boots, a mutant in need of a shave and redemption or death, smelling like a distillery in kentucky. (they can’t possibly expect a tweed jacket and a rolex, a bald spot and a yale ring?) “you’re not patrick fealey,” i have been told again and again as they dial up the boss. it’s amusing, but it’s disappointing to see people so unaware of who does what. my girlfriend amber says some of it is my fault: “you don’t talk the way you write. you’re crass.” it leaves me with nothing to say but thanks & fuck you.
February 26, 2013
the sunflower
the sunflower
a sunday blue, thoughts lost on the curbside and a kick of pebbles . . . good feelings walking backwards. guarding against too severe fluctuations in apathy, i’m a man and a tired island, surrendering in fits of lucidity, listening for guitars and braced against mortality. i stop to pet the furry back of a fearless monarch, destined to a one-way flight. they cut down the sunflower because it was dead and four of us sat pulling the damp seeds from the head and eating them. the party ended abruptly when a maggot was spotted crawling out of the sun. they weren’t salted anyhow. days of moving from bed to chair to chair to bed to chair, looking for that spirit in the sky, days like nights, lit up only now and then by memories written in gold on the passing clouds . .
a sunday blue, thoughts lost on the curbside and a kick of pebbles . . . good feelings walking backwards. guarding against too severe fluctuations in apathy, i’m a man and a tired island, surrendering in fits of lucidity, listening for guitars and braced against mortality. i stop to pet the furry back of a fearless monarch, destined to a one-way flight. they cut down the sunflower because it was dead and four of us sat pulling the damp seeds from the head and eating them. the party ended abruptly when a maggot was spotted crawling out of the sun. they weren’t salted anyhow. days of moving from bed to chair to chair to bed to chair, looking for that spirit in the sky, days like nights, lit up only now and then by memories written in gold on the passing clouds . .
February 24, 2013
the former
the former
what was and what could be converging into an all-out low blow. faces haunt me at night, in perpetual contrast. i send out pigeons carrying messages that begin with the word bitch. she was here, but her interests have changed. she’s now a mercenary, working for chairs and tables. i don’t give a shit. i mean, about her. now. she’s been flattened by the strength of a love which preceded total failure. you are not you. no time to sit telling myself i can’t believe how the nails have changed. go away and see what i gave you. don’t talk to me about chairs and tables. i know the sounds of your heels stabbing our wreckage into dust. it’s still love! i don’t hate you. i don’t like you. rich again, a tour through mostly madly with me, fucking and living to fuck. you’ve found a new life of schemes and revenge, of moves and counter-moves. i fucked you so hard you went flying out of your own life, and now you are here with your broom to return the favor. don’t make me take care of you the way you are demanding . . . because i will . . . remember the cold night you dragged me to the christmas tree stand, where naked white bulbs hung over tradition and we carried that tree through the city, leaving in our path a trail of laughter, crisp needles, and sap on our hands? the tree man gave me a receipt in the event things didn’t work out, but i suppose they did.
what was and what could be converging into an all-out low blow. faces haunt me at night, in perpetual contrast. i send out pigeons carrying messages that begin with the word bitch. she was here, but her interests have changed. she’s now a mercenary, working for chairs and tables. i don’t give a shit. i mean, about her. now. she’s been flattened by the strength of a love which preceded total failure. you are not you. no time to sit telling myself i can’t believe how the nails have changed. go away and see what i gave you. don’t talk to me about chairs and tables. i know the sounds of your heels stabbing our wreckage into dust. it’s still love! i don’t hate you. i don’t like you. rich again, a tour through mostly madly with me, fucking and living to fuck. you’ve found a new life of schemes and revenge, of moves and counter-moves. i fucked you so hard you went flying out of your own life, and now you are here with your broom to return the favor. don’t make me take care of you the way you are demanding . . . because i will . . . remember the cold night you dragged me to the christmas tree stand, where naked white bulbs hung over tradition and we carried that tree through the city, leaving in our path a trail of laughter, crisp needles, and sap on our hands? the tree man gave me a receipt in the event things didn’t work out, but i suppose they did.
February 19, 2013
even light
even light
gray sky mist about the pines. sparrows singing: tonewyorkbenny. a warm breeze sneaks under the window frame, the earliest commuters diving into the hedges with trimmers, every socket with a bulb. the shingles are still damp when the sky makes one more offering, more of a gentle shake than a declaration. a sax player follows his horn as an animal is led by a cigarette back to his four walls, his glory . . trees weep in songs, but we hear only the dinosaurs. the rare miracle proves possibility, fosters my daily alchemies. another day and people are looking in and people are looking out and the sun is up there, somewhere, in need of a sales pitch . . dawn absorbs my fantasies and i’m left with a bag full of posthumous decisions, none of which amounts to the shadow of an ant. why do today what you will want to do less tomorrow? . . pounding wood into hearts isn’t for squeamish hands. i won’t deny it. i am a killer and i harden my stakes in the fires of my own humiliation, i pound them in with fists scarred by contempt. i’m always just starting around here, but the ghosts know which way the bows are pointed . . one of these days my eyes will leap from my skull, just to get a positive definition of lost. i hope it’s a job for tomorrow’s eyes. or maybe friday’s eyes, which through their more advanced sensibility will forgive me my weaknesses and pronounce these splinters and ash understood, forgiven, and finally, saintly! . . i commanded the day to change direction and from somewhere the laughter of a strange young woman. a cold rain has kissed my pant-cuffs, sea knitted to sky in yarns of homes and sand. waiting for someone to scream in exaltation, answered by crows and gulls, my most frequent callers. outrageous birds. my listenings and songs get the neighbors bitching. i had these things i was told were inalienable after i lost them. they’re written in wind, and on crumpled papers tacked to the wall, a shrine to the good ones and the tail of the dawn. i listened to this pier long before i jumped off the end of it.
gray sky mist about the pines. sparrows singing: tonewyorkbenny. a warm breeze sneaks under the window frame, the earliest commuters diving into the hedges with trimmers, every socket with a bulb. the shingles are still damp when the sky makes one more offering, more of a gentle shake than a declaration. a sax player follows his horn as an animal is led by a cigarette back to his four walls, his glory . . trees weep in songs, but we hear only the dinosaurs. the rare miracle proves possibility, fosters my daily alchemies. another day and people are looking in and people are looking out and the sun is up there, somewhere, in need of a sales pitch . . dawn absorbs my fantasies and i’m left with a bag full of posthumous decisions, none of which amounts to the shadow of an ant. why do today what you will want to do less tomorrow? . . pounding wood into hearts isn’t for squeamish hands. i won’t deny it. i am a killer and i harden my stakes in the fires of my own humiliation, i pound them in with fists scarred by contempt. i’m always just starting around here, but the ghosts know which way the bows are pointed . . one of these days my eyes will leap from my skull, just to get a positive definition of lost. i hope it’s a job for tomorrow’s eyes. or maybe friday’s eyes, which through their more advanced sensibility will forgive me my weaknesses and pronounce these splinters and ash understood, forgiven, and finally, saintly! . . i commanded the day to change direction and from somewhere the laughter of a strange young woman. a cold rain has kissed my pant-cuffs, sea knitted to sky in yarns of homes and sand. waiting for someone to scream in exaltation, answered by crows and gulls, my most frequent callers. outrageous birds. my listenings and songs get the neighbors bitching. i had these things i was told were inalienable after i lost them. they’re written in wind, and on crumpled papers tacked to the wall, a shrine to the good ones and the tail of the dawn. i listened to this pier long before i jumped off the end of it.
February 18, 2013
Sneazling
there's a new word for the day: SNEAZLING. A good example of sneazling would be how our dog climbs up onto the couch when nobody is around. he knows he's not supposed to be up there depositing fur, so when he hears someone coming, he jumps off the couch and approaches with wagging tail. sneaking and weaseling: sneazling. I was accused of sneazling today when i broke plans to go get new eyeglasses with my girlfriend. we both need them and she has today off, so it would make sense to go, but for me it's one of those close to home days and when she asked me i was only on my first scotch and soda and couldn't bear the idea of leaving the bottle behind for a 2-hour trip. sneazling. more weasel than sneak in this case, but it was enough of a crime for her to say she would punish me with a lecture she has to give at the university of arkansas. i prefer a 45 mintute lecture on COPD, which i have, to shopping for eyeglasses, because i can listen to a lecture drunk and smoking. (it would be illegal for me to smoke in the car because of the kid.) i admit, i cannot see an offramp i am so blind and need glasses bad. right now i rely on a pair of prescription wayfarers with copper lenses. during the day, they're rhe best sunglasses i've ever had, but when i put them on to drive at night, the world darkens, is less tangible, less REAL. when i drive around town at night with my sunglasses, guided by road reflectors, i do not feel in danger, but do suspect that i may be sneazling. i can think of many more sneazlers and it's likely we all sneazle at one time or another. but today i am THE sneazler and my girlfriend is singing a song she made up about me:He's a sneazler, it's true/Sneazling is what he wants to do . .
cheers, folks.
Patrick
cheers, folks.
Patrick
February 17, 2013
made
made
went out while searching in a gallery of disease. fell on top of all there is . . . crawled inside a mattress to save myself. it was a long-shot, but the executioner has a weakness for spectacular efforts. an honest confrontation, crawling into a mattress, the first war and the last freedom. washing machines with loose screws and decomposing turkeys dropped from the scene. even that hole in the wall with my name on it got a fresh coat of paint and plaster. i can see where i was and i’m the only one who knows. three sisters watched over me, red eyes blinking as my beard grew up the walls, fleeing my ideological pollution. cocoon life where only springs are of interest, where it is so dark hostility and fear cannot find me. finally, i belong where i am. still, quiet, untouchable.
went out while searching in a gallery of disease. fell on top of all there is . . . crawled inside a mattress to save myself. it was a long-shot, but the executioner has a weakness for spectacular efforts. an honest confrontation, crawling into a mattress, the first war and the last freedom. washing machines with loose screws and decomposing turkeys dropped from the scene. even that hole in the wall with my name on it got a fresh coat of paint and plaster. i can see where i was and i’m the only one who knows. three sisters watched over me, red eyes blinking as my beard grew up the walls, fleeing my ideological pollution. cocoon life where only springs are of interest, where it is so dark hostility and fear cannot find me. finally, i belong where i am. still, quiet, untouchable.
February 16, 2013
a lot of them here
a lot of them here
the greedheads are driving their lawnmowers up my ass, maintaining their homogenous fantasy. the merchants are robbing the rich and the poor. the middle class as a money-grubbing suction cup, greased with third-world exploitation. for the price of a shave, you can get calcutta to dangle from your nipple. the ignorant are building upon their talents with booze and loud allegations. there is no cure for spinning unreachability. i’m not responsible for your surrender. your psychosis feeds on its mother like everything else. it’s a sodium-vapor stumble through a gauntlet of hereditary lies. put your chips on the ones crying in the tower. put your chips on the ones in control! . . the moral had a parade, everyone came to watch . . centurions frantically opened closets and strapped on their consciences . . the cops came to baby-sit . . the air gets glaucomic when men stand together . . and when i saw these shadows walking past, i saw desperation and not passion. a good passion looks high as the moon tide, not a mayor barbequing smiles. a stroll through the smiles of stupidity, so genuine . . a stroll in the ring, a field of lethargic hot dogs and spectacular voyeurs, where life is not a consideration, never mind the courage to quit the scene and walk on air. the greedheads want somebody else to do it. i have no forecast. that would be murder. i just don’t like the humiliation my own race has burdened me with.
the greedheads are driving their lawnmowers up my ass, maintaining their homogenous fantasy. the merchants are robbing the rich and the poor. the middle class as a money-grubbing suction cup, greased with third-world exploitation. for the price of a shave, you can get calcutta to dangle from your nipple. the ignorant are building upon their talents with booze and loud allegations. there is no cure for spinning unreachability. i’m not responsible for your surrender. your psychosis feeds on its mother like everything else. it’s a sodium-vapor stumble through a gauntlet of hereditary lies. put your chips on the ones crying in the tower. put your chips on the ones in control! . . the moral had a parade, everyone came to watch . . centurions frantically opened closets and strapped on their consciences . . the cops came to baby-sit . . the air gets glaucomic when men stand together . . and when i saw these shadows walking past, i saw desperation and not passion. a good passion looks high as the moon tide, not a mayor barbequing smiles. a stroll through the smiles of stupidity, so genuine . . a stroll in the ring, a field of lethargic hot dogs and spectacular voyeurs, where life is not a consideration, never mind the courage to quit the scene and walk on air. the greedheads want somebody else to do it. i have no forecast. that would be murder. i just don’t like the humiliation my own race has burdened me with.
February 13, 2013
cosmic stooges
cosmic stooges
one man loads a fresh shell into the breach and covers his ears. one man pulls the cord and there is a tremendous recoil. another man supervises. three men. three cosmic stooges. and the peacemakers grin from page one, year after year. and there is never peace. they get older and fatter and more famous and marry young brides who they fuck when they’re not fucking everyone else. they say we need them because everybody else has got them, the slaves of time, burying themselves in profits and hatreds and nobel peace prizes, digging shallow graves for their brothers. they gorge themselves on security and power, then shit their brains out their asses. one man loads a fresh shell into the breach and covers his ears. one man pulls the cord and there is a tremendous recoil. another man supervises. three men, drowning out the jazz and turning life into a vicious mistake. they are the cosmic stooges and they are here to stay. my stooges will kill your stooges and your stooges will kill my stooges and maybe someday a stooge will kill me or you. but while i am alive i’d like to tell them this: i don’t like your fucking noise.
one man loads a fresh shell into the breach and covers his ears. one man pulls the cord and there is a tremendous recoil. another man supervises. three men. three cosmic stooges. and the peacemakers grin from page one, year after year. and there is never peace. they get older and fatter and more famous and marry young brides who they fuck when they’re not fucking everyone else. they say we need them because everybody else has got them, the slaves of time, burying themselves in profits and hatreds and nobel peace prizes, digging shallow graves for their brothers. they gorge themselves on security and power, then shit their brains out their asses. one man loads a fresh shell into the breach and covers his ears. one man pulls the cord and there is a tremendous recoil. another man supervises. three men, drowning out the jazz and turning life into a vicious mistake. they are the cosmic stooges and they are here to stay. my stooges will kill your stooges and your stooges will kill my stooges and maybe someday a stooge will kill me or you. but while i am alive i’d like to tell them this: i don’t like your fucking noise.
February 12, 2013
euchnotarist
euchnotarist
no more toe-tags for dead saints who’ve given us an inheritance of high-pressure speculations. a saint is not a man but a hermetically fostered delusion with bare feet and tall tales of living at nobody’s expense while trading life to be centered in the illusion that all of this is real and he matters. stick that crutch in the ground, you hypocrites, before we have to sit down and remind ourselves to follow the money. stick that liar in the ground fast and i’ll lend the stone my own epitaph, the most generous gesture i can make to a dried-up post-eternity lawn ornament, an epitaph which for me was to cut down on horizontal hassles, but which here i give to spare passersby any more hallucinatory bullshit sermons: DON’T ASK!
no more toe-tags for dead saints who’ve given us an inheritance of high-pressure speculations. a saint is not a man but a hermetically fostered delusion with bare feet and tall tales of living at nobody’s expense while trading life to be centered in the illusion that all of this is real and he matters. stick that crutch in the ground, you hypocrites, before we have to sit down and remind ourselves to follow the money. stick that liar in the ground fast and i’ll lend the stone my own epitaph, the most generous gesture i can make to a dried-up post-eternity lawn ornament, an epitaph which for me was to cut down on horizontal hassles, but which here i give to spare passersby any more hallucinatory bullshit sermons: DON’T ASK!
