Short Face Bear

Sunday promise.

2011-12-18T17:44:00.000-08:00

Days spent alone, enclosure,
and finally freedom. Can
anyone understand me? I don't,
don't, don't think so at all.
God, please give me a few more years.
I promise, promise, promise you
I'll do you proud.

If I'm not right now.
If I'm not right now.

Sodapop is here, and thanks,
Grizzle Bear, Mama Jean, too.

And you know how I do,
dollar bills, and little prayers,
don't let my love,
I can't go on.
Tell me in some little ways,
you know what I mean.
Hold my hand in some soft and secret
way.
I'm sorry.

I'll do you proud some day.
I promise. and I promise, and I promise.

Love,
me.

Festival.

2011-10-16T12:44:00.001-07:00

Things that freak me out: crowds, sitting in crowded, closely-spaced rows of chairs, porta-potties, being separated from my group, standing in lines, being cold and underdressed, watching people eat, peeing on leg, circus food, bottled water, people that know me whom I don't think I know, mustard, being unsure of where exits are, antibacterial soap, children, norms, open back shirts with nude-colored bras, police, litter, and being, ultimately, lost.

Doubter, I.

2011-09-15T15:58:00.000-07:00

I don't think I can do,
what you want me to do,
I don't think, you think,
what I want you to.

Begin again.

2011-08-17T11:28:00.000-07:00

Back to China Street. The relationship is manic, charmingly doomed-feeling. The cats sleep in screen-window beds. I smile in secret.

I have bikes and wood panels.

All I know, is all I know.

2010-09-11T07:27:00.000-07:00

Maybe, Mama Jean.

2010-07-10T18:23:00.000-07:00

The day was, at least, only muggy warm,
pregnant with rain that came only in dawn,
and still it gives quiet maybe-warnings,
maybe-rumbles.

Heavy, soundless yawn.

We looked at new digs today,
cat-pee and crumble-paint,
did not scare us away.

Maybe.

Things are hard to figger,
sometimes. Maybe.

Mama Jean comes in from porch-steps,
motor-purr, solidarity.

Friends arriving, from out of town,
at seven or eight, maybe, nine,
now, ten. Eleven.

Maybe.

I need to paint.
There are paintings, booked,
to be painted. There is a limp, the these-days,
in my stride. Marring my handsome.
Burring my strut-some days.
God in my ear says that time is running away,
and no amount of youthful all-fine,
will rip that from me.

God said it.

Maybe.

Tomorrow, I screw screen-door on.

Evening, fourth of July, from America.

2010-07-04T16:00:00.000-07:00

Today, I am like,
voodoo doll,
Or like,
recipient of
voodoo doll might,
or do.
My body does not,
heed my beck,
to light.
Or does not meet,
my need,
to move.

When you are not here.

2010-06-24T19:09:00.000-07:00

You should be with us,
feeling like we do.
-perry farrell

We sleep in desperate position,
junkies for cool breezes.

The cats will not come in after dark,
for, presumably, they have found dim recesses,
corners perfect for hiding from day.

Nooks, I imagine, accessible to,
apparently, nocturnal birds,
cicadas, things caught easily,
and three, four times a night;
things to brag about,
in insistent howl,
waking me in practiced transition,
from panic to praise.

I paint, talk to the radio,
cats.

Feathers, from predawn kill,
litter my hair,
the hallway.

We loll, naked, in your absence,
as we do,
when you are here,
only now, in silence,
save for panting,
and, unaudienced sigh.

We strongarm melting hours,
taking slow advantage,
to light wood with color;
that we can hold high,
heads,
when you come home.

Here-we-ares.

2010-06-15T19:40:00.000-07:00

The cats, they lay in exasperated recline,
collapse, really, as if see-the-day-through
seems over-the-top.

I know.

But I explain to them, that they are mistaken.
That even this too-much-heat is not-so-bad.

That, we are strong.
That we have been bitten,
by scorpion, by fears-of-fears,
by danger-pits-in-darkness,
that, listen, we are stronger.

Let us stand, with sinew and pump-fist,
let us say, we are the okay-kind.

Okay-kind.

Our own world.

2010-06-03T09:07:00.000-07:00

Oh, Wyatt. Right on.

Floor level me.

2010-06-01T17:32:00.000-07:00

My ankles, are, I don't know,
so much more sore, than any sore I've ever known,
broken, maybe, in little pressure breaks, like
you dancers and jocks seem so sure about,
so glib in hindsight, like medals, like yeah,
like to brag about, compare about,
like I hate. Like, I've avoided for this reason,
because fuck this. I was skinny and active before
this. So, take your little challenges and carb
whatevers, and put them in a hospital file
with all the other things that hurt, and, if you
can bend, have a seat, let me regale you with,
how now, as I write this, my belly hangs over my
belt, and my ankles wrapped in gauze, and, unrelated,
my haircut is busted, and I screamed at the mirror
today, and broke part of it, and maybe, things, are,
spiraling,
a little bit, out of control.

We roll.

2010-06-01T16:23:00.000-07:00

I can feel your beating heart,
little bird,
I'm scared, too.
If I pretend
everything is,
like, cool,
then,
are we cool?

Little mama.

2010-05-23T16:22:00.000-07:00

Little mama,
there's a flower in the hallway,
says, why don't you come meet me,
sometime?
Little mama,
I'm so sorry,
for the times that I was,
mad.
I know,
that I bring the black days,
on.

And all I know, is all I know,
is all I know.
And I know, I know.
And all I have seen,
is misery.
Seems to get the best of me.
Hey mama,
hey mama,
let me know.

Hey mama,
there's a tiny sound,
in the back of my head.
It says, ooh! oh!
And the birds are chirping!
And I laid down in the bed,
and I said,
ooh! I close my eyes
and I will wait for morning rise,
and then I said,
ooh weh hee ooh hey!

Mama, I been searching for so long.

I seen you come along,
seen you made me happy.
I seen that things gone wrong,
we both fall down.
Oh! Can we come up together?
I don't know.
'Cause you made me someone,
you no longer want to know.
'Cause you made me be someone,
who turn you down,
who made you sad,
brought you down,
made you mad,
we fought along the way.

And I don't know.
I dont know.
And I don't know.
Well, I don't know,
and I don't know.

Holler.

2010-05-17T10:27:00.000-07:00

Holler. Hallelujah.
Lately, I been trying to
holler to you.
I know that I get down, but,
I'll be alright for now.

Promise that you'll call
next time you come to town.

I promise you,
all the drinks will be on me,
and thanks for the company.

Seems the rain has stopped
for now,
guess I'll be heading out.

This.

2010-05-06T18:51:00.000-07:00

"this is what a ghost is"

I talk to me.

2010-04-26T15:16:00.000-07:00

The scale tells me I am 17 pounds heavier,
than a year ago. And two years older.
I do not play guitar, very much.
I am not painting enough.

There is a tiny switchblade,
inside my gut.

My brain is making some plan,
but in secret, so I only
know that it is every excited,
and that is not enough information,
because my brain can get
very excited
for bad reasons.

From bones.

2010-04-06T16:36:00.000-07:00

We stayed at a hotel, in a psychic town, that claimed
to be haunted, where once inside, we were all lulled
into immediate sleep, and I awoke, haunted by the
surety that I had wasted my life, and these words:
this is what a ghost is.

Finest kind.

2010-03-12T19:31:00.000-08:00

If a knock came at the door,
selling finest whiskey, or, better,
yet, finest cigars, I would buy them.
All. Then.
Those. I suppose, in defiance,
of your shortsightedness.
I cannot tell you, tonight, this tonight,
this rainsome, lonely night,
how it feels, to spend such stretches
alone, because you know such solitude
only in adventure. Because you successfully
avoid this mute prolong. Perhaps you miss out,
perhaps I permit myself agony.
Perhaps, you are the kind to defy my wisdom.
Perhaps, I am the kind to throw it away.

Rain.

How oft I misremember.

2010-03-05T18:58:00.000-08:00

I can.

Scarves.

2010-02-18T16:44:00.000-08:00

They are not allowed to wear them outside.

April, come she will.

2010-02-18T16:40:00.000-08:00

I stare at cloudless skies,
waiting for them to warm.

Rusty Perros.

2010-01-03T16:46:00.000-08:00

If you were a woman,
and I was a man, and
you enjoyed kissing me,
holding my hand,
and laying in bed,
and making big plans, like,
where will we live
where we'll never know cold,
and let's stay together
until we are old,
and all of the years after that,
then,
I think that we should do that.

Monkeys, all.

2010-01-02T07:19:00.000-08:00

The robot is turned on now,
and he, at last, then,
warms us so.
And the cats come,
when we call them home.
And we make feast,
from raw milk cheese,
and spelt flour, chocolate,
broth from bones.
And fitting hip to hip
we sail in sky or sea,
and glow like coal,
two rocket ships, us,
made to fit together,
pino, he loves carrot,
she loves monkey,
he loves we.

Bubushka.

2009-12-26T13:33:00.000-08:00

Sodapop returned, from the places he goes
when we leave him to the roaming, bloodied,
ear ripped and dime-size gash on elbow,
and, like when Grizzle's cheek pretty much
fell off, my heart did it's little dive thing,
the one it reserves for such moments, and,
of course, fattened now as he is, both hims,
on honey-salmon and such super rico treats,
but of course, he, they, we, are fine.

Family, yo.

K.M.M.

2009-11-30T17:56:00.000-08:00

Little, quiet
graffiti talks,
very much,
the loudest.
The surety,
I've only now,
found.

E.

2009-11-30T17:54:00.001-08:00

The cool parts are all you.

For real, for real.

2009-11-19T17:01:00.000-08:00

Really, I can't hardly remember
what the fracas was all about,
just that my feelings felt jilted,
again,
and that my fuse was so stupidly,
um,
shortened,
and that, in dawn's glimpsing,
your sweet face seemed, well,
impossibly small and porcelain,
and beautiful.

And that maybe me walking away from
everything seemed so easy or hobo or silly
and how all of those things could be,
or were,
two different things.

Easy.

I don't want to be all the other folks.
I want to be us.
The real us, superheroes,
Rusty Perros,
big shots around the orange monkey.
And the gray one.
And the calico.

Right?

Because, my love,
if you will airplane me,
then I will carry you around on wicker chair,
like braggart, like celebrator,
alive and happy;
and when you are in other rooms,
I will confide in my own heart,
in loud whisper,
that you are,
(and here,
I will have to speak,
in hushed tones, heart language,
but,
that you are,)
really,
the best thing,
ever.

Alone, tonight, the new
studio, paired interestingly enough,
with broken phone, affords me
the alone minutes,
which I spend,
planning my way
back to you.

We.

2009-11-08T15:59:00.001-08:00

Are family.

Keepers, we.

2009-10-29T14:40:00.000-07:00

You were my summer love,
and now that fall has come,
I know,
this falling is the kind
that never let's you go.
So,
when the winter comes,
and the wind begins to blow,
and I will hold you close,
inside a winter coat,
that's big enough,
to hold us both,
and I,
will keep us
from the cold.

Railings and chairs.

2009-10-15T14:14:00.000-07:00

I am painting the porch railing, and I
have painted
all our chairs, for you,
and I, painted them
in pinks and greens,
smiling at how we
would paint
the porch floor
blue.

And, I hope it is okay,
for me to say,
so,
I like the colors,
better, this way.
And though our robot may
be painted silver,
or gold,
nothing will be
gray.

Sodancer.

2009-09-29T08:49:00.000-07:00

I stack them paintings,
sill-high, that the little
family might enjoy the view,
from the three front windows,
of 427.

I see,
an osprey.

Show and tell.

2009-08-24T14:30:00.000-07:00

The show was attended well,
if not by many,
because it was not,
but by the caliber of friend
who came.

They told me:
These are the paintings
of a happy man.

Like holding.

2009-08-18T05:40:00.000-07:00

Right on.

Like breathing.

2009-08-12T08:48:00.000-07:00

We nourish.

Sunday.

2009-07-26T06:48:00.000-07:00

Hmph. The phone rang, only twice.
An area code I don't know, and I
hoped, of course, that it was you.
And I answered, and noone was there.
I'm tired of not being able to call you.
I 'm tired of my slow motion studio.
I want to run away from you and everybody else.
As if that would cure my lonely ache.

Pedaling alone into the dumb sunset.

Let the flowering begin.

2009-07-14T05:30:00.000-07:00

Today begins another round,
of blooming. I mean, I begin
to paint again.

Full Moon Kiss.

2009-07-08T12:06:00.000-07:00

In a little room, in an old hotel,
where I had stayed, till I got well,
till winter's sun, had come and gone,
until my bones were strong enough,
to carry me home, I opened up a window,
and slipped into the dawn.

For many miles, and many more,
I walked until I reached the shore,
where penniless, where tired and sore,
I tied together branches,
threw myself into the ocean's roar.

I threw myself into the ocean's roar.

In a homemade boat, on the open sea,
with no northern star to guide me,
in blinding rain, and driving wind,
my only thought, that I might live,
the day.
Or make it to your front door,
anyway.

That I might,
find you again.

That you might,
invite me in.

Duro.

2009-07-06T14:39:00.000-07:00

And I will miss,
your pretty face.
I'll play our old tapes,
on the radio.
I will hold you,
while you are away.
Just so.
I just needed you,
and I just needed you
to know.

Two.

2009-06-29T20:48:00.000-07:00

Bus ride to Brooklyn.
Life has been unstoppable.
I tire not,
the embracing.

Heavenly things.

2009-06-01T07:50:00.000-07:00

I wade into sparking waters.

Brisket.

2009-05-20T08:30:00.000-07:00

Un pedazo cortado de mí.

O.K.

2009-05-17T08:23:00.000-07:00

I do not know what you want.
I can charm my way around it,
all the days, but not today.
And maybe not tonight,
although even as I write this
I can feel myself folding inside,
keening, pining, reaching,
if only to press my leg to yours.

Y su refleja.

2009-05-16T06:52:00.000-07:00

Everything, is like
a photograph
to me now.
A postcard hobo,
going south.
And all his shivering
finally turning,
from the cold.

And this sun,
it has come ashore.
This sun,
is better than before.
And all it's glittering,
finally turning,

gold.

These K.B. Days.

2009-05-09T06:38:00.000-07:00

Cuqui:

You will find, if perhaps you come to
know me, how I like the shiny things.
I did not know, myself,
how much I like balloons.

I feel, in these past some days,
so suddenly full in your company,
as though I might, weightless,
lift feet from the ground, and away.

I thought, to give them to you.
Thought, again, that maybe I am,
already, a little too much for you.

Last night, when you shifted,
and laid your head
upon my chest,
I smiled into the dark.
My heart was a mylar balloon,
dancing asparkle,
and tied to my wrist,
for safekeeping.

Don't nobody know me.

2009-05-02T19:27:00.000-07:00

Me and Buddy,
bought the gun today.
That old rosewood handled
thirty eight.

And I said it was okay,
when the man there said,
son, this gun won't shoot
but once.

Ginger, and friend.

2009-04-30T06:13:00.000-07:00

She had mentioned, in our talking,
a drink, a whiskey ginger, that she
had had, at a place, I don't remember
where, and I thought, well, and I invited
her, after procuring the things, the most
choicest of organic ginger, (what? bulbs?),
and organic ginger ale, and, of course,
Evan, Green, and anyway, I did the inviting,
and the invitation was accepted, and she
came, and the tools I had were all wrong
for extracting the juices from the ginger,
(root, the root), and then I put in too much
ginger ale, way too much, even though
we had said we both hated that sort of
heavy handedness, and I was flustered,
but I played it off, because I was so glad for
the company, and we sat in the grass,
under the christmas lights I had strung
along the clothes line, and we talked,
and the gentle wind off the river,
and the baby cherries on the cherry tree,
and a Chesire moon,
and a pretty girl
is my new friend.

By the by.

2009-04-22T19:33:00.000-07:00

Thank you, for the giving,
that you gave to us.
Thank you, for the living,
that we have done.
Thank you, for the happiness,
that you made for us.

Thank you, for all the funny things,
you have done.

Oh, yeah: you have been a good friend.
You know, there ain't too many good friends around.

And if I ever caused you pain,
if I ever caused you trouble,
well,
it don't matter now.

Holding on.

2009-04-20T19:11:00.000-07:00

G:

Life, I feel more certainly,
as the years flutter by,
is hilarious.

Right? Can't I say that?
Haven't I earned, at least,
those stripes?

Painting, again, even in tiny strokes,
has already improved my outlook,
as it tends to do,
even as the prospects of friendship
have turned my head, ironically,
to mush.

It seems as though outside hands,
from places both secured and surprising,
work in strange concert,
to hold my pink heart aloft.

Sometimes gratitude,
is all I know.
How could that be wrong?
Right?
Please,
keep with the holding.
I, for one, am holding on.

Always,
me.

P.S. I know you think it feeds my ego,
but tell me, for a hot minute,
that I am super-good, at something.

April Eleventh.

2009-04-11T15:52:00.000-07:00

My mom's birthday.
I love you with
all my heart,
mom.

Continuer.

2009-04-04T07:41:00.000-07:00

Life is sometimes,
my favorite thing.

Little bit.

2009-03-28T06:19:00.000-07:00

I had forgotten, in our laughing,
I had meant to tell you,
in the same instant
that I touched your arm,
to remind me that you are real,
that this week was the best week,
and thank you, but instead,
I held onto your arm,
laughing.

So now, in my remembering,
thank you.

Sometimes more often.

2009-03-27T18:07:00.000-07:00

There are the times,
sometimes more often,
than maybe I might say,
pretending to be asleep,
alone in the house, yet,
pretending to be asleep,
and, you know, the eye,
oblivious to the sometimes
torment, of the heart,
the eye flutters open, and,
with the fluttering open,
reminding all the parts,
well, of course, the heart, part,
mostly, but really, all,
all of the body parts,
reminding them all, in some,
what would you say,using my
words, in fragile mockery,
that I would say, say,:
in some softly horrible moment,
something I'd say, it is,
all dramatic like I do,
I don't know, I mean I do,
always thinking like that,
silly, over-sensitive, but,
but back to the eye,
opening, opening,
reminding everything,
and nobody,
but me, that,
yes,the world,
is still here.

I.

2009-03-18T16:49:00.000-07:00

Dearest I.,

Would you be so mad, and I feel certain you would,
if I just left, mysterious-like, no announcement,
no dragged out days to cry and say goodbye and are-
you-sure and all the rest, just one day I was gone
and my stuff gone God knows where, the cats I don't
know, although you would know they were somewhere
where they were happy, paintings left I guess, to some
gallery, maybe with deposit slips taped to their backs,
and a box, perhaps, with the most personal of things, left
on your back porch, would that make you saddest, or really,
maddest, the gall of my leaving, compounded by a box of half
memories, left to discover only after I had boarded some
train to nowhere? To somewhere out there?

Would postcards help, mailed, and then mailed again, from
somewhere else, disguising my secret hold-up, if they promised
that I was doing well, if even it seemed, because you know me,
that most likely I was not, because happy people, or even
people doing well, don't disappear into the night, but
even if I promised, and maybe related a happy instance,
or something that had happened in my new place that seemed
breezily pleasant, or like the kind of thing that would
happen to someone whose life was at least passably okay,
even though, as I think of it now, and knowing me, like
you do, that the postcards would become infrequent, or
always were, and then probably they would fade away
altogether?

I imagine my name from your mouth, and your lips would, for
a second, twist into sadness, but then by the end of my name,
would be twisted into, I think, more of a sneer, or at least some
shape where even a stranger could tell there was something afoul,
though I'm sure afoul would not be how you would describe it,
or me, I mean, of course for the leaving, but also for the
secretiveness, the finality of it, the unfairness that no one,
you most of all, had a chance to put in some vote, or to raise
some objection, to a plan, I'm sure, because I know you, too,
you would find stupid, and selfish, and mean. Would the mad,
the mad you felt, because I guess it would, taint the everything
else? Would you be more mad at the tainting, or at me?

Would you take my side, at least, wouldn't you, when it would come
up, at a party, or somewhere else inappropriate, and folks wouldn't
seem as fazed, or maybe they would come across as, or be, completely
unaffected, would you then, in those moments, ally you with me, maybe
see me, for those brief moments, as, if not heroic, or righteous,
because probably you would not, but sympathetic, or maybe, in a
piteous way, understandable? Could I ever seem understandable?

I mean, I., I am only asking, is all.

I am only asking.

Love, me.

Osh Kosh.

2009-03-17T07:46:00.000-07:00

In search of something else,
an old photo album falls from shelves.
Photos of thirty-seven years.
I remove, maybe, ten.
Photos, I mean, I guess,
not years.

Although really, I may mean years,
after all.

I throw the rest into the trash.

The thought of so many memories,
laying, filthy, in a landfill,
is exhilarating,
in a nauseous, spiraling,
kind of way.

Goodnight, little girls.

2009-03-12T07:00:00.000-07:00

Here, then, is a song of chance,
of rock and roll, and real romance.
And oh,
the way your heart pumps harder,
when you dance.

These past few days have found me dressed in preview,
summer's pinks and khakis, inappropriate to season,
and, in few days time to be laid back in tomorrow box,
with knowing nods, and see you soons.

My guitar plays louder and faster these days,
drowning, finally, the barbs still hurled,
by lovers lost.

My hi-road shoes tap dance on top of your
jejune jerking, ladies! My wizened eyes smile,
it's okay! Fill your hearts!

For so will I!

I have learned to see the sun, through even
grayest of clouded sky.

I love you, fireball, me and moon, we are
your mirror, your faithful friend.

Thanky.

Sunset.

2009-03-10T10:59:00.001-07:00

Bourbon.

Sunrise.

2009-03-10T10:57:00.000-07:00

Coffee.

And night.

2009-03-07T07:04:00.000-08:00

Because I don't eat.
Because I can't sleep.
And oh, how I drink!
It just makes me think,
that I'll die.

But I don't.

And I will.
But I won't,
right now.

Oh, Lord,
won't you just
drive me home?

Plans for the day.

2009-03-06T07:45:00.001-08:00

Open windows.
Play piano.

N.

2009-03-04T20:25:00.000-08:00

Badass, and my friend.

Okay.

2009-03-03T17:38:00.000-08:00

There are beautiful,
and, happy making,
days ahead.

Thank you, sisters.

Thank you, family.
Thank you, friends,
new and old.

Thank you,
A.

Thank you,
N., forever,
B.,
T.

Thank you,
K.,
K.,
C.,
Mrs. L.

Thank you,
women.

Thank you,
depression and hope,
in equal parts.
Thank you, God,
whoever you are.
Thank you,
hands and eyes.
Thank you,
heart.
Thank you, fear,
and courage.
Thank you,
tears.

I am riding this one,
down, to the end of the line.

B.

2009-03-01T15:55:00.000-08:00

Like thunder, like the laughing of children,
we rolled down grass hill, the whiskey,
the cold, numbing our skin to the burs
that clung to our palms and fingers.

Lie down in gravel roads.
Moon illuminate our happy scratches.

We are in the club
of us.

Forever, you remind me,
put body to grass,
roll down hills.

And I'm so glad you are doing better.

2009-02-18T06:26:00.000-08:00

And someday I will
see you there.
And you will know me,
by my head held high,
and on my arm
the scarlet letter,
that I will wear.

The Sun Also Rises.

2009-02-15T15:20:00.001-08:00

Today, sweet today,
I began again.

Blown out candles.

2009-02-14T06:09:00.000-08:00

Today, I am thirty and seven years.

I have made, and drunk, cups of espresso,
eating the chocolate left on my front step
by a sweet friend.

I stood under scalding water until God in my
ear said, let's go, Buddy.

I mount my bicycle. The sun says hi.

The weather report said cloudy, cold: it was not.
God, for my favorite present, gave me sunshine.
My sister stayed at my side the whole day.

Friends called and talked for hours.
The piano open. Guitar.

Whiskey poured into me.

Beautiful girls gave me scarves,
flowers. Hugs and dancing.
Whiskeys.

Dancing.
Dancing.

Bike home to warm cats.
Kisses.

Birthday, thank you.

The healing things.

2009-02-12T15:30:00.000-08:00

I've begun to eat again,
and to paint, and draw,
and write songs.
Dance.

On the mend.

They learn to fly.

2009-02-10T06:46:00.000-08:00

Now that I've transformed myself,
into a baby bird: perhaps,
it is time, to stop.

My shoulder, God.

2009-02-10T04:53:00.000-08:00

Beside me,
Remind me,
That I'll be,
Okay.

Survival.

2009-02-06T01:17:00.003-08:00

How I move on.

Beholder.

2009-02-03T10:17:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, like now, when I feel like my emotions
are unbearable, I stop eating. Or rather, I eat in
tiny, rigidly enforced taste portions.

Like, a spoonful of cold beans every two hours.
In between I drink apple cider vinegar, lots
of tea, and an occasional beer.
Or beers.

I lose rapid wait, and my short term memory
begins to fail, immediately.
So, thusly, I feel like, well, win-win.

I can't remember what is causing me such
fucking heartache. And as I lay in bed at
night, starving, I run my hands over my
ribs, and feel beautiful.

Locked out.

2009-01-27T15:16:00.000-08:00

Me.

Winter, downturn.

2009-01-20T17:07:00.000-08:00

Because, I was happy. I just forgot that it was okay to feel that way.

January morning, haiku.

2009-01-17T16:54:00.000-08:00

Cold, my wood bones shake.
Sunshine, my only saviour,
I hold to your wake.

Friends.

2008-12-21T15:45:00.000-08:00

With flickr.

Hälsningar.

2008-12-10T07:43:00.000-08:00

I am in love:

And moving to Sweden.
Good-bye.

Good days, better nights.

2008-12-08T17:53:00.000-08:00

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

Because, I am.

2008-11-30T19:22:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-11-19T05:58:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-11-03T08:01:00.000-08:00

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

In the Beginning.

2008-10-28T05:34:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-10-23T18:19:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-10-21T21:03:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-10-16T07:00:00.000-07:00

Is everything.

Dearest A.

2008-10-08T09:55:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-10-07T14:43:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-09-25T17:54:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-09-23T11:37:00.000-07:00

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.