Weekend in Brief 19

May 25 Detroit Bar for house jams with local DJs, Wobs and Nonfiction.

May 26 L.A. revelry in Hermosa Beach @ Il Boccaccio. Slumber party.

May 27 Sunday brunch w/ Grandma and friends, and car-pooling back up the 5 to swank central @ Area.

* * *

Something I have learned about myself is that I am becoming increasingly, alarmingly claustrophobic.

* * *

Just earlier, he had shoved a stumbling drunk out of the club. I had seen him with his flashlight, the walkie-talkie antenna jutting out his jacket: a big, black bouncer looming over a tangled mass of dancing, gyrating bodies.

I am leaning against a transparent wall, eyes half closed, smoking. He is now standing perpendicular to me and raises an eyebrow as if to query my state of intoxication.

“I’m not digging this crowd.”

He leans aside. And then his grin becomes a deep, bellowing laugh. He turns, pats my shoulder, walks back toward the jungled limbs of beautiful, perfect people. Thinking it strange this small black-haired kid might feel out of place in an all Asian club.

* * *

She passes, short brisk steps, I’ve never met her before but in mid stride, she pauses to lift the brim of my cap and smiles. She leans in, sweet perfume, and whispers something in my ear. Then she’s gone.

* * *

“Did that hurt?”

“This?” I point at my brow piercing.

“Yea, ’cause I’m thinking about getting one.”

“It hurt. Real bad. Blood was streaming down all over my face. They couldn’t get it through the first time.”

“Holy shit.”

“But it was worth it.”

Rockets into Space

When I was not alive, I would spend my exiled days in a smallish room of desolate proportions, perusing manuscripts of my contemporaries whilst suffering the contemptuous vagaries of weather through uneven panes of my prison; winters were fraught with sudden chills and during summers, an intolerable heat stewed up in the rafters until the very wooden beams groaned with sweat. It was not a completely abandoned existence, I was granted access to the window shutters and even short walking breaks in the yard below; my possessions included a diary, a diminutive green plant, musical devices that played back tunes of my century, various fabrics to clothe myself, and books amongst other inconsequential things; however, from my cell I observed the idyllic nature of my surroundings, beyond that an impenetrable fence, the lilac expanse, and knew what I desired most could never be accorded.

* * *

You dreamt of Laika and wake with envy, startled by the precision of this illusion, how the telemetry systems glowed in moonlight, bewitched, watching the earth slip away to a blue dot, the thrusters drop as if a piece of carpet fresh out of magic, the yawning boosters flare and stretch, hurtling you to white pinpricks of unimaginable hostility. It was jealous fear that woke you, that and the wetness around your bed, the yellow smell of warmth; your heart doubled and hard like a steel drum. You rise, gingerly off the mattress with a groan. Outside, it is only May, but the night feels like October, it makes you think of whippoorwills and a soul someone you once knew might have lost. You wonder if you still have your own. The darling breeze slips in, wind-chimes crying out faintly in the night, and then you look down, tugging at the corner of your damp sheets with a sigh.

Orange Pulp Nonfiction

Forty-five minutes until daybreak, the stars were losing their luster like cheap jewelry on a faded black outfit that might have looked good once, a long time ago, clinging to the tight curves of a 20 year old voice. But as with anything washed and hung to dry too many times, the night and perfume had been wrung out, the fabric rough, a brittle newspaper filled with desperate want-ads. Forty minutes. Inside the house, they were all asleep. It’s a comforting thought, being the only one out there waiting for a sign from an incoherent world of miracles. He looks at his cigarette. Or this. He stamps it out, tosses it into the middle of the street. Thirty-five minutes. Fucked up good, he thinks, coughing up pieces of black lung, but at least it was the self-turned hand. That’s power. Down the block, a bedroom light jitters into satin sleekness; a car sputters exhaust and sultry whispers. Thirty minutes. Shit, that’s fast. Already, the stars were gone, dropping off in the final stages of a delicate dry-cleaning cycle, the little black number tossed around, landing in a large gray bin that was eating up all the other sweaty nightgowns. This is it. A bird high above asks him, what’s the saddest word you can think of? And it’s the last thing on his mind. Morning.

Prehysteric Meteorites

It is the color of a
make believe home,
a mastodon
burdened by hope –

In its sinews I think
to the ocular drift
of a generation
that thought itself
into vegetation …

The long
tooth curled inwards;

Two and two
dozen years spent
hanging in skies
until solitary light
opens its dirty mouth …

It speaks of a color,
a warning of
brilliance just before

Weekend in Brief 17 & 18

Inhale. There’s a message to the whole ordeal, how the mind is convinced that the meaning of life can be a thin, white line. It’s immediate. It’s absolute. It’s never again.

* * *

Apr 20-22 James’ BDay Lunch / Get-Together. Allen’s BDay @ ??? (forgot) in L.A. downtown.

Apr 27-30 S.D. / Morena / Red C / Confidential Room. Wine tasting in Little Italy / Apartment Afterparty.

May 01-06 S.D. / Bar West. Bub’s Dive Bar. Etc. Etc. Etc. Couch surfing.

* * *

What I learned on the rooftop, or peering into the cubist jungle of concrete, waiting for the dreamers to finish playing with boundary definitions on arcs of light, is that I am precariously placed on a ladder, dangling feet over unending space; in the sink far below behind a yellow painting of a window are dozens of glassware stained with liquor and reddish wine, lipstick, tumblers of it and stems on vines, all waiting to be soaked in soapy suds (but that comes later, after this devastating high mellows to a gentle rumble). It is a frightening realization of the city, its growling exhaust collecting into consciousness, collective intent slipping through hairy streets and mucus-lined homes towards some towering sin; I am made to feel indistinct, brown / gray / faded blue; all the while, there is a schism forming in my center, one part swinging about the air and the other tugging towards a zen minimalist interior, the room adorned by clarity, pagan warmth. So you left, and I hung about stuttering in the apartment; my halves heard you colliding against streetlamps, shouting that we are all the same but different cells pumping different hollow thoughts, suddenly I cannot help but overwhelm the ceiling with natural affection, eyes catching on so many hooks until they rest on two bamboo sticks crossed natural like a lounging nude. My stomach is beginning to ache but the last door is shutting and slowly, ever so softly, everything inanimate learns to exhale.

* * *

Met so many different people, I had to become wallpaper, watching with great interest at how words are formed to create spotted and blue-speckled rapport.