Friends.

With flickr.

Hälsningar.

I am in love:



And moving to Sweden.
Good-bye.

Good days, better nights.

Sometimes, I need eye reminders,
that I am a happy man.

Because, I am.

I don't know what the bills cost, but they get paid. I don't feel the pain anymore, but still there is a teaspoon of sugar to help the medicine go down. The agoraphobia keeps me home.

I fear, really, mostly, my own mediocrity. Tomorrow will find me, as today did, glancing from windows: knowing the world will not know my name.

Tiny cups of clarity.

The cat's are confined,
now, to half the space,
though I let them out
when I can. Still, they are
happy, like
me.

Elbats.

The weather,
weather,
never better,
say hello, then,
to November.

In the Beginning.

Could I buy you another drink my dear? My dear.
And can I take you home? Home.
Well, I know! I know! You don’t know me very well,
but it can’t be hard to tell:
That I, I spend so much time alone.
But tell me, does it show?

Seems I spend my days just a-talking to the walls.
Waiting for the sun to fade,
and I had just run out of things to say,
when I saw your smile, and you come my way,
and you just say my name.
And I say, “hey”.

“Hey I matched my socks tonight
with my underpants, and do you like to dance,
because I like to dance.

And I don’t mind, 'cause we could fuck,
or we could just hold hands.
And I don’t got no money, honey,
but I could try to be a man.

And I could take you to a fancy restaurant,
I will pay the bill.
And I could hold the door for you,
and ride you on my bicycle,
to my home, in Oregon Hill.
To my home, in Oregon Hill.”

The littlest bits.

For a little while, I was happy.
And I ain't mean to hurt no one.
And I ain't got no explanation,
for the things that I have done.

Onward.

The city closes around me and suddenly: I am Grendl.
Perhaps, after all, it is not so sudden.

Even the cats, as I try to warm them, bounce from walls,
like junkies in work-houses. Yuck.

I have cost myself everything, exalting at the bargain!
I have tried, for all my life, to chase innocence, and
yet, I am spoiled, ruined, by: what? Rot?

Yuck.

Tainted by love and sex and art and friendship.

Is this irony?

Did God lure me full circle for laughter? That every bloom
might blacken at edges, too close to pallid flame?

Yuck.

I'm sorry, God, then, to have followed your alleys.

Perhaps I should have thirsted, instead, for money. Cars.
Houses. Ownership. Right?

Yuck. My mouth sours with even these words.
Then: reverse me in time and I will tithe thee with mortgage
and debt. I will earn your respect in burden.

For that is how it goes, right? Because I'm sick of the punishing,
please, enough.

Yours, (right?)
me.

P.S. Yuck.

No Comforting Anymore.

Is everything.

Dearest A.

Dearest A.,

How come I never made it?
Maybe it's the way I played it in my heart,
I knew one day I gotta be a star.
My hopes and all my wishes,
So many vivid pictures, and all the currency
I'll never even get to see.
-Tupac Shakur.

I never cared much for money, money never cared much for me. I was more like a landlocked sailor, searching for the emerald sea.
-Paul Simon.

I'll leave my jacket, to keep you warm, that's all that I can do.
-Tom Waits.

All my life, I've been surrounded by men
who are more profitable than I. Than me.
I've never cared, or really, sometimes I have,
but mostly I've enjoyed my debt-free freedom
too much, and I've gotten so good at living pretty
well on a surprisingly tiny income.

But there are times, A., especially as an older man,
where I've felt like a failure. There are times, too,
where even appearing like a failure has been enough
to puncture my veneer. Painting has never brought in
enough, even as someone who sells well, and I've never
found a way to make it work right for me. Perhaps I will,
probably, I guess, maybe. Maybe I will go live in a trailer
on some lonesome plain, and money won't matter.

It does matter, of course, in the real world. And the real
world will not admire my thrift. The real world will wonder
why I can't just go get a job. Or hustle harder, or paint more,
or whatever it is successful, more profitable men, do.

And so will the ex-wives. So will the lovers, future and past.
So will the profitable men. So.

So you will forgive me, sweet A., if I worry. If I am an often
an under-moneyed and over-sensitive man. If I seem unstable,
I hope you will know that my heart is not, but that I am instead
unbalanced on this good earth.

I am not the same, I am an alien.
-Lil Wayne.

For, truly, A., I am not the same. I have marched to my own
petty drum since whenever, and cared not if the world couldn't
feel me. Of course that is empty boasting: of course I care, and,
in fact, often buckle under the pressure of trying to appear abreast
of those around me. I guess I will find, at such middle age, some way
to bring in steady income, as the world wants me to. Or perhaps I
will live in some happy nowhere, penniless and alone, ignorant
of the pitiable contempt of more profitable men.

There's nothing for me, in this world of strangers, it's all someone else's idea.
-Tom Waits.

Until then, humble, and alone;
lovingly, and forever yours,

m.

My remaining nickels.

So. The show opened to quiet fanfare, ended with puppets, homeless angels. Abundant sunshine. Ospreys. Beautiful friends. Hothead ladies. Half-mast brunches, I'm digressing.

I feel exhausted. Sleep calls like an old friend I want to shoot shit with, but can't just yet. The studio looks stupid, barren, stripped of children. I've enjoyed clothing, layers, really, unspoiled by paint and sawdust. The broken truck took a few more dollars than I had left, and the morning will find me charming my way into payment plans. I have eggs and beans. Organic cat food. Seven bucks.

A creeping lust to start painting, all over again.

See most of the paintings here:

http://www.ghostprintgallery.blogspot.com/

Sharply.

When the old truck goes, and it will, as these things do, I will sell it for parts. In some few days from now, I guess, I will do the same, selling off these add-ons, these paintings that I have regaled myself with these past few months. These chrome-kits. These purple self-stick window-tints.

I will be a used car-accessory salesman. And certainly they have been used, sir! Yes, for more than bingo! Indeed, I have inhaled their soul. Sat, with razors in pocket, on their factory front seats. Leaked blood and whiskey, (too profuse?), onto their shiny hoods.

I suppose seats and hoods would not be accessories.

That aside, really, that aside, I count now three days. Then done. Three days, and then the pump gets locked. Then the paints have their tops left off, left to dry like the lowly brushes they once french-kissed, (I am drunk!). Then the painting will, (have to), be done.

I painted today, again. My nerves are exposed, and, instead of deeply, I feel everything: sharply.
The idea that feeling-so-alive might be euphoric is mythical, because, of course, alive, (here I cross myself, (do I dramatize too often?)), but, really, alive, confers all the roller-coaster fucking unpleasantness of life. I love roller-coasters, but I am too annoyed by the fucking jerking. Also tap-water running too fast. Really.

Tap. There is a tap-tap-tap outside my side-door, (have you counted the hyphens? It is my today-thing!), there is a drain-pipe, unable to deal, reasonably, with the inch-and-a-half, (three, (hyphens, but fuck it: inches too!)), of rain that has fallen these past ten hours. To my now-me, it is like the jerk of a roller-coaster, or, perhaps, the too-fast onslaught of an open tap.

But, look, I leave the door open, my friend, and I carve, to the tap-tap rhythm, these final strokes.

Tomorrow calls for more rain. I will stay inside.

Tuesday.

The Farmers will market, today: dark brown eggs, zinnias. E and me will drink an afternoon beer and I will smile at the young girls, clutching chive plants to chests.