Little Umbrella

Under a bare bulb, sinking slowly into blank pages and white walls, Talk along the wireless phone line. Come get me tonight, the lights of the city becon bright with filthy ferocious radience, reflected by rainwater crowned by rainbow oil slicks cascadeing down through sewer grates. To escape the peeling white walls and walk free on cracked concrete, the night calls with the shreiking laughter of chemically enhanced bar patrons. To join them, standing shoulder to shoulder at the corner while the man pours dreams into a glass with ice. The little umbrella, thats the best part.

Christmas story.

Moved to town, bout six months ago. Couple aquaintences masquearding as friends. Theyre gone today, got the apartment to myself. Walk against the whind down the deserted street, buy a case of cheap beer from the forign clerk. He dos’nt comp…rehend what he’s missing. His state is the more gracious. The sweet caress of alcahol on the walk home. Nothing here for me now, presents and family are too many miles away, too far gone to matter. I tell myself it’s just another day, same as the day before it. Same sun rises as the sun that sets on any other day. I feel so lonely I wanna drown in it, So sad I wanna die. The little tricks aren’t working I can’t convince myself that it’s all ok. Step out into the cold for a cigarette, take a short walk down the street. I’m just trying not to remember what about this day I regret. She stepped out on to the porch, I assumed she was having a smoke like me. “Hey Kid, Wanna beer?” I was stunned, Must have misheard, “what”? “want a beer?” She asked again. “Oh fuck Yes!” I replied. She tossed me a 16oz can of Pabst and wished me a merry Christmas. That one small Gesture made my entire day. I have no great love for christmas, I have no great sentimentality for this season. But If I ever understood charity it was at that moment. That odd point where humanity seemed less bleak, and a cheap beer solved all my problems.

Freeze frame

The music cut out suddenly, at the same instant there was a pause in the conversation. The buzz of the neon sign became audible for a moment in time. Someone coughed, the spell broke, the jukebox roared back to life and the night continued. Still I wonder, what if…

Finishing last.

Nice guys finish last. Thats the adage, the folklore of the day. See what happens is girls say they want a nice guy, but all they date are assholes. Why, you ask? Beacuse assholes have confidence and the balls to ask girls out. Nice guys stand at a distance, passively trying to get girls to notice them. The girls seem easily taken by the bravado of assholes and for the most part they are. There is a grim satisfaction nice guys take from the current divorce rate too. As a nice guy myself I have tried to teach myself to act like an asshole but it’s a false skin and is easily penetrated. Lies make poor armor. It’s strange to me that girls are so confused by a man who doesn’t try to fuck them on a first date. It’s like the modern generation is programmed to be whores and pimps. I was trained different, by my mother mostly but also by the women I respected in my life. I come from a family of feisty women who when pushed are absolutely savage. So as a youth I learned a healthy respect for women. It’s odd now to be in a culture where women do not expect much less demand that level of respect. Hence the nice guy who knows how to treat a woman is left out in the cold. After all girls have been programmed to think that if a guy doesn’t try to score on the first night he must not be into them. It’s a sad state of affairs (literally). So here I sit twice tonight girls I know have asked for a hero or to be saved. Not knowing that I would love nothing more than to save them but also knowing they have no idea what exactly they are asking for. Most women have no idea how to be feminine and most men have absolutely no control of their libido. We have reached the point prophesied in Trainspotting. There are no men or women anymore there are just wankers. Lust crazed individuals who have absolutely no understanding of love or intimacy. Hence those of us who are tragically “old school” are rejected as being pussies or just plain weird. I am a hapless romantic, and I refuse to compromise this in misguided attempts at getting laid. Sex means nothing without love and is not worth the trouble. Love is really the only thing I’m after and it has little to do with sex. So here I am finishing last but when I do finish it will be worth so much more.

Romance of the road

The romance of the road, lonliness, longing drinking. Scotch from a plastic cup in a hotel near an airport. Everything is temporary here, just enough to get by, everything is disposable, even friends. The open road the love hate relationship with a spiteful mistress. One moment she’s alluring with the promise of new sensation, the next emptiness sets in. Nothing lasts, everything is a cheap thrill. But it’s enough to live for, enough to make a person get up each morning and look toward the sunset with hope, enough to get one through the day, and another day always looking for the next thrill. The end of the road is not even a thought. It’s not the destination thats the goal it’s the journey, the experience. Life lived with zeal and vigor amassing wealth in knowledge gained not through books, but by doing, by living. The goal of every true traveller is to travel. Not to arrive.

The Rain Came Through The Window

The rain came through the window, spattered on papers left carelessly stacked on the dusty desk. half formed words and forgotton concepts run like tears down the page. Writing turns to painting transformed by primeary elements. Nothing is lost this is what it was created for, the incomplete attempts completed by the forces of nature, by act of God. Destroyed but perfected in the same moment like those heroes born out of trajedy. Intent and pourpose washed away, the simple act of being.

She took a train to New York city.

She took a train to New York city. Rain fell hard on the hotel sign. A weak cup of coffee and some gasoliene. Crowded diners filled with the smoke and steam and smells of the working class. Time slows down on the road. Or speeds up. Either way it dosnt matter like it used to. Lost in transit. One more stop. The dead letter office.

Love is a hand grenade

When you first find love it is precious, you lie awake nights delighted, you take extra special care of it.
but after a while the newness wears off, you become used to it, you still value it and cherish it but the time spent on it becomes much less. As the years go by you begin to take love for granted it becomes normal and you stop worrying about it. You pay little attention to it and just assume that it’ll be there when you need it. Soon while rummaging around looking for something else you will inadvertently pull the pin. Your love will explode in your face and be no more, leaving you mortally wounded lying amongst the tattered ruins of your life. Love is a hand grenade and should be treated with care and approached with caution. Matters of the heart are always risky, and a broken heart, even when mended, carries the scars forever.

Addiction/attention

Clandestine, leave the beer on the window sill outside and walk in the front door, drive drunk to the gas station and pick up a couple 22s. nothing extravagant just a little to see ya through, tough times? nah not so much just board and uninspired. The spark is dim almost burnt out. Gotta add fuel to the fire, gotta add spice to the life. A little misdemeanor here and there nothing big, nothing life threatening. The secrete keeps us sharp, the sneaking around, the stealth. whats the worse thing that can happen? We get caught and are forced to admit we have a problem, the sympathy play, the addict gambit. Yeah it always works, pour on the pathetic and trust that they will save us. Get the attention, that’s what it’s all about, that warm fuzzy feeling, like people care. Walk the line, step in time, till theyre used to it, till the good shit stops coming, then BAM relapse, build the trust bask in the glow, be special all over again. it’s a life cycle like plants have birth, death, rebirth, over and over again. Tea or booze, Coca-Cola or heroine it doesn’t matter its all part of the plan man enjoy your addiction while you can! Be special, out of synch, negative creep yielding positive results. Go ahead, enable me, or better yet just pity me. it’s all the same it;s all a lie addiction is an attention cry.

The Dance

Dark nights in downtown bars,
the neon rainbow, the congregation speaks in tongues.
the mating ritual reduced to the brusk one-liner,
cackling laughter of witches covens huddled over long island iced teas.
The incessant bellowing of the jukebox adds desperation to an atmosphere already thick with smoke and shattered dreams.
I love the pop of a match struck from a paper book,
The eulogies of dead souls carved deep into stained tables.
the table is bathed in blood red from the sign in the corner.
and in the corner I sit.
Peering out on the circus in front of me
clowns in gay colors dancing to the discordant tune of vice and lust!
Happy depression, the mock life of the tragic soul, dancing in death and flittering fairy lights.
like Hunter Thompson said “buy the ticket, take the ride” Were all just passengers here. The driver left, went out for a smoke and never came back.
The lunatics run the asylum, an isolated patch of anarchy designed to provide controlled pressure realese so the inmates can return to the asylum compliant and complacent.
Nothing matters here because there is no memory. No consequence except the hangover.
So my friends, dance on, forget about yesterday and tomorrow, only now matters, and right now I need a drink!