yup yup

monday royalty

late on a monday night
we feel alive
and we know who we are
(so far).

these glances are paychecks (or gold).
these glances are pure peerage.
you are not my god
you are my bartender
which is beter.
beter than a real hand writen letter
(which is old like gold, but not Old Gold).

I miss big Nathen,
Paulette and Jet.
82nd avenue is
living on like an artery
and America’s old neglected roofs sag.
Somewhere distant
a medication soothes my mother
and my eyes shine.

The best thing about my mother
is I know often she thinks of me
and stiffles a shudder.

Somewhere distant
maybe they speak of us
with disgust
at least I hope so.

Late on a monday night
the titans of the service industry shine.
The future will be defined by us
and the undiscovered country
of the wait station.
We wait, we wait...

Great Spam

Anonymous posted some fine spam. "
Here's a website you may find useful. http://www.addicted.com is a site for friends, families, and those who suffer from various addictions." I will forward this site to my friends, family and to my myspace account and we'll all network because the unintended wording of this fine spam is all of the above parties are addicts. Is it ironic or sad that that's true. Unless anonymous is Miles, fuck you. And if it is Miles, a loving and playfull Fuck you to you. These gray hairs are medals of accomplishment.

That's like leaving a myspace comment that one's house is on fire and they could check out wikepidia for some hints on how to put it out. As is I'm fine with my alcoholism. It has stunted me and allowed me to live perpetually as an aspiring writer. Far better than many ugly alternatives. My wife and I have spoken at length on my (our) drug use and the consensus is as long as we don't emulate our parents marriages or episodes of COPS, we'll maintain the status quo.

I tell ya folks, it's ugly out there.

More on woody guthrie later.

The finest words spoke

One low-point must have been his arrest on charges of vagrancy in Portland, Oregon, a town he was never too fond of:

"Portland is a place where rich ones run away to settle down and grow flowers and shrubbery to hide them from the massacres they’ve caused. Portland is the rose garden town where the red, brown, blackshirt cops ride up and down to show you their finest horses and saddles and gunmetal. Mentally Portland is the deadest spot you ever walked through. She’s a good 30 years behind Seattle" (Library of Congress LP).

Cucko's Nest

When i lived in England I did a series of dranamtic interpertations from Cuckoo’s nest by Keasy. I adored Chief’s recolections of the destruction of the cascade and Cielio falls in the Columbia River Gorge. The psycotropic anti psycotics he took sparked horrible visions of the mechinization of Bonneville damn and the subsequent inpersonal freeway making the Columbia Gorge essenialty more dead than it’s ever been in it’s long history. I liked these pieces because I am part indian and I took a good deal of acid in the gorge too. Masculinity is a dead as honest work in America.

Now I’m all grown up (you can tell by my collared shirts) and I work in a converted old hotel whore house in Cascade Locks. The indians drink there, those of which arent 86ed. Maybe when it rains ice, I’ll die here late one christmas night up the street from there (thirty years from now).

regret

Dear Listeners

The occilation between the glamor and horror of alcoholism continues in my life.

Life is confounding. I admit I have squandered more opportunity than quite a few in my life, and there is a bohemia in the back of the chinesse food restaurant in the lounge. Hell, there’s even a future there. The catch is there is no past. My brief stints in opulence, I always took time to drink in the lounge. The jobs didn’t last, but the lounge did.

DTing is a crushing experience. God uses the human mind against it’s self. Beyond the physical shaking, fever neasia and irritability, the mind produces a litany of deafening reasons why one should give up. The emotions listen and one can only cry then. The other night I franticly beat a imaginary spiders in the curtains.

Life is an experiment to a thinker (saying one is a thinker by no means implies one is good at it). Oscar Wilde said, ‘To be a writer is to be a spectator in one’s own life.’ I think writing allows me the distance from my own pain and regret to maintain. And I am ok with that. The popular image of some great person lying on their death bed being asked, ‘do you have any regrets?’ and the fucker answers, ‘no!’ makes me want to pull their plug. If you believe you’ve done nothing wrong in your life, you’re probably dying before your overbearing smothering spoiling mother. I don’t regret my alcoholism. Nor my indigent state. I don’t regret my independence. I do regret things I did and said to women in the past. I regret what I have stole from the living. But I don’t regret my alcoholism. If you could have met the now dead I have sat and wept with, you too wouldn’t regret those moments.

arson

I am trying to burn down this bar's patio with my cigar. I took a swing at stranger on the way here. He screamed and made that 'hangloose' hand thing. I was carrying a computer and was hobbled by i so I missed. I am bitter tonight. I made the decision. Quiting drinking recently caused a nightly swarm of massive spiders to attack me. Then the tricky basterds would disappear when I turned on the light. Luckily my wife hates spiders enough to be angry at imaginary dt spiders. With wide vigilant eyes we weather sleepless nights together. Right now I am drinking a pepsi and listening to the horrible sound of a hundred labs wailing in fear as fireworks explode. I am bitter tonight, like the labs. But when my wife finishes work I will assume a simple smile and we will go home to watch tv together.

I think I have entered a new chapter in my life; daily considering having a child. This planet isn't going anywhere; The Price Is Right outlived mutual nuclear destruction. And if global warming anhilates a few beach homes, my child can build the replacements in the mexican neighboorhoods that used to be landlocked gehtos. I just hope to god my son is ugly and not depressed and my daughter is armed to the teeth at all times.

Thinking back on the cortez sea, I support immigration and hope I can try it some time.

The book plods on.

em pha! sis

I have shifted to personal corespondance for a short time. I once owned a type writer that had no f, so when I shifted, I really shat.