FALL HERE
crisp-clear-black-dark-night-starlight-wood smoke-chimmneys-blowing-billowing-sharp air-cuts-kinfe-clean-chill-twinkling-crackling leaves-trampled under foot-walking over concrete -headlights shuffling all in a row-anonymous drivers staring straight ahead-thinking-cold water-running over a street-day time- night descendes cool and light-cut wind- lightly whips face-breath shows faintly-roughly seperated-two sides of a coin-halves of a brain-cold air pushes down from the mountains-floods the warm air pushing it up and out and away-surrounds-cold hair in the morning-wet from shower-clings to the head-in the midwest it sometimes begins to freeze-long frozen bunched together-like brittle floppy bones growing through the head-pumpkin grinnin' in the window-faint flickering lights peering out-watch shadows move through window paines-above my head as i smoke outside-vague voices-shuffling-flushes the toilet-shadow disappears-turn head down-draw in cancerous smoke-thinking....thinking...thinking...watch sky-disintegrate into the dark-legs seperate from body-hands-fingers-arms float away-detached painlessly-and up in a row like piano keys grinnin' back at me as they fade away-head seperates-everything physical disintegrates-so long-bye-bye-still thinking-growing fuzzy-faintly-faintly-nerve throbbing lightly-lights out now honey-"dark out there -eh Jim?'
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Gram Parsons - "Hot Burrito No. #1"
You may be sweet and niceBut that won't keep you warm at night
'Cause I'm the one who showed you how
To do the things you're doing now
He may feel all your charms
He may hold you in his arms
But I'm the one who let you in
I was right beside you then
Once upon a time
You let me feel you deep inside
And nobody knew, nobody saw
Do you remember the way you cried?
I'm your toy, I'm your old boy
But I don't want no one but you to love me
No, I wouldn't lie
You know I'm not that kind of guy
Once upon a time
You let me feel you deep inside
And nobody knew, nobody saw
Do you remember the way you cried?
I'm your toy, I'm your old boy
But I don't want no one but you to love me
No, I wouldn't lie
You know I'm not that kind of guy
Classic Girl
4:05; in my neighborhood,When shots go off, no one bothers
A "POP," and a reply"POP," and no reply...
Dinosaurs on the quilt I wore, with a girl
Such a classic girl...
Such a classic girl...Such a classic girl, gives her man a great idea
Hears you tell your friends,
"Hey man, why don't you listen to my great idea!
"It's true, yeah I am a villain when you fall ill, that's probably because men never can be
Not like a girl
Such a classic girl...
Such a classic girl...
They may say, "Those were the days...,"but in a way, you know for us these are the days
Yes, for us these are the days, and you know you're my girl!
Such a classic girl...
Such a classic girl...
You know for us these are the daysHey, hey!
Sorry
Sorry, but your regularly schedule programming has been ceased. We will
bring you all NEW STORIES OF FILTH AND ADDICTION STARTING DECEMBER 26TH!
Until then please enjoy the following. Te amo mi amor, Patrick McClure
bring you all NEW STORIES OF FILTH AND ADDICTION STARTING DECEMBER 26TH!
Until then please enjoy the following. Te amo mi amor, Patrick McClure
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Tijuana Journals Vol. 2
BRIEFING:
met an interesting man named Tom who gave me some info on the
pharmacies and how they operate.
Tom
American
38
has lived in TJ for three years
pharmacies are all corupt
choice of going to a farmacia and paying for what you need at street
price...or one can go get a prescription
then go to a pharmacy and they fill it at the pharmacy price.
tough choices...
"let the buyer beware"
-toughs on the street rip off customer blind
-don't trust them
-choose the guys in the bars and clubs and come away with
unknown substance subject to make you sick with no high
-drinks at the hotel caesar in the morning
-bar and meet? 1130-ish
-wait in the booth and he will saddle up to you
-you see him, nod curtly
I met Tom twice to discuss the intracacies of TJ pharmacies, street vendors, and
the workings of the policia. Tom came off as an unconciable drunk and a former
addict. He was marked by the look of H. However, he said, "Nope, morphine...strictly
pharmacy stuff. I don't go for that street shit. Don' know what yr. getting. It's
pricier but worth it."
"Same difference," I replied. "Junk is junk. Don't care where you get it."
"Ahhh, too true in that sense..." he said.
Tom was a valuable tool in navigating the TJ underworld. He had been in the Air Force in
Vietnam. Or so he said. How can one be 38 and served in 'Nam. He was a liar and I
took what he said with an ounce of salt. At that time I was a spring chicken in TJ. Didn't
know much. Much of what he told me came to be true. I found out.
Tom drank at the Hotel Caesar in the mornings. I would see him there whenever I stopped
in to shoot the shit with the waiters and waitresses, get a coke...rest my feet...shoot some
more of my stash deep into my veins right there in the first stall.
Tom was close with the bartender and he would often argue with him in spanish in
a good natured way. One fine July morning I stopped in at the Hotel Caesar. Bright, bold,
beautiful day. Crisp and clear. Smell of clean summer sunshine in the air. Maria was there,
as usual on fridays, and she seated me in my booth. Always the same. Not many people in the
Hotel Caesar in the mornings. Tourists don't start filtering in unitl later. Ususally when I got
up to leave around 12:30 or 1:00 the place would start filling up. That was Tom and I's cue to head on. We made good clean San Diegans, Midwesterners, and Mormons nervous. Tom drunk
harruanging the bartender. Me, on the nod, barely there, languidly sipping a Coke...cigaretee
ash down my shirt. Notebooks sprawled across the table. Chips and lunch barely touched. This
morning was different. After being seated and placing my order I made a dash to the bathroom
to do the rest of my stash. I felt uneasy. Didn't want it on me anymore. I entered the stall and locked it. Fished the tar from my ass. Cooked it down real good in my spoon, took off my belt,
sucked up the poison and shot it home. As I was fixing up the last half of the tar I heard shouting
coming from the restaurant. Tom and and the bartender at it. This time, though, there was
violence/malice in their voices. I heard glasses shattering and so I put down the spoon.
"Don't you try that shit on me Pedro..." Tom said.
And as "Pedro" was spit out of his mouth it hung in the air and was smacked. Sound of metal
caving in meat. The waiter hurried in the bathroom and said I needed to hurry up and go.
"Sorry Patrique...Keechen es closed twodayy."
I finished my tar and washed up. Disposed of evidence. Cleaned the restaurants spoon. I stepped
out into the dining area, mirror and bar along left wall and saw blood on the floor.
"Jesus! Maria, what happened??!"
"Uh, Meester Tom get so angry with Pedro. He threaten him. They argue. He was very drunk. He got a knife and break glasses. The cook sneak up on him and knock him down with this."
The fire extinguisher was standing up on the bar.
"You better leave Patrique...Policia come soon."
"Yeah I better leave. Where did Tom go?"
"They drag him out and he get in taxi to go to hospital"
"Jesus christ. Jesus christ. What the fuck Tom...."
I collected my things, grabbed the can of Coke Maria had left in my absence and left. I thrust
3 dollars into her hand.
"Thank you Patrique."
I walked out onto Revolucion...sun beating down. I put on my Wayfarers to block out the sun and hide my pin prick eyes reflecting all in their doped stupor.
I saw Tom two weeks later at the Caverns, a cafe two blocks down from the Hotel Casesar. His head was shaved in one tiny spot and you could see stiches. He was gesticulating wildly to the
bartender who seemed not to be listening to Tom as he cleaned some glasses with a wet rag on the bar. He saw me but only nodded in a way that told me I would never talk to him again.
He was embarssed. I never saw Tom again.
met an interesting man named Tom who gave me some info on the
pharmacies and how they operate.
Tom
American
38
has lived in TJ for three years
pharmacies are all corupt
choice of going to a farmacia and paying for what you need at street
price...or one can go get a prescription
then go to a pharmacy and they fill it at the pharmacy price.
tough choices...
"let the buyer beware"
-toughs on the street rip off customer blind
-don't trust them
-choose the guys in the bars and clubs and come away with
unknown substance subject to make you sick with no high
-drinks at the hotel caesar in the morning
-bar and meet? 1130-ish
-wait in the booth and he will saddle up to you
-you see him, nod curtly
I met Tom twice to discuss the intracacies of TJ pharmacies, street vendors, and
the workings of the policia. Tom came off as an unconciable drunk and a former
addict. He was marked by the look of H. However, he said, "Nope, morphine...strictly
pharmacy stuff. I don't go for that street shit. Don' know what yr. getting. It's
pricier but worth it."
"Same difference," I replied. "Junk is junk. Don't care where you get it."
"Ahhh, too true in that sense..." he said.
Tom was a valuable tool in navigating the TJ underworld. He had been in the Air Force in
Vietnam. Or so he said. How can one be 38 and served in 'Nam. He was a liar and I
took what he said with an ounce of salt. At that time I was a spring chicken in TJ. Didn't
know much. Much of what he told me came to be true. I found out.
Tom drank at the Hotel Caesar in the mornings. I would see him there whenever I stopped
in to shoot the shit with the waiters and waitresses, get a coke...rest my feet...shoot some
more of my stash deep into my veins right there in the first stall.
Tom was close with the bartender and he would often argue with him in spanish in
a good natured way. One fine July morning I stopped in at the Hotel Caesar. Bright, bold,
beautiful day. Crisp and clear. Smell of clean summer sunshine in the air. Maria was there,
as usual on fridays, and she seated me in my booth. Always the same. Not many people in the
Hotel Caesar in the mornings. Tourists don't start filtering in unitl later. Ususally when I got
up to leave around 12:30 or 1:00 the place would start filling up. That was Tom and I's cue to head on. We made good clean San Diegans, Midwesterners, and Mormons nervous. Tom drunk
harruanging the bartender. Me, on the nod, barely there, languidly sipping a Coke...cigaretee
ash down my shirt. Notebooks sprawled across the table. Chips and lunch barely touched. This
morning was different. After being seated and placing my order I made a dash to the bathroom
to do the rest of my stash. I felt uneasy. Didn't want it on me anymore. I entered the stall and locked it. Fished the tar from my ass. Cooked it down real good in my spoon, took off my belt,
sucked up the poison and shot it home. As I was fixing up the last half of the tar I heard shouting
coming from the restaurant. Tom and and the bartender at it. This time, though, there was
violence/malice in their voices. I heard glasses shattering and so I put down the spoon.
"Don't you try that shit on me Pedro..." Tom said.
And as "Pedro" was spit out of his mouth it hung in the air and was smacked. Sound of metal
caving in meat. The waiter hurried in the bathroom and said I needed to hurry up and go.
"Sorry Patrique...Keechen es closed twodayy."
I finished my tar and washed up. Disposed of evidence. Cleaned the restaurants spoon. I stepped
out into the dining area, mirror and bar along left wall and saw blood on the floor.
"Jesus! Maria, what happened??!"
"Uh, Meester Tom get so angry with Pedro. He threaten him. They argue. He was very drunk. He got a knife and break glasses. The cook sneak up on him and knock him down with this."
The fire extinguisher was standing up on the bar.
"You better leave Patrique...Policia come soon."
"Yeah I better leave. Where did Tom go?"
"They drag him out and he get in taxi to go to hospital"
"Jesus christ. Jesus christ. What the fuck Tom...."
I collected my things, grabbed the can of Coke Maria had left in my absence and left. I thrust
3 dollars into her hand.
"Thank you Patrique."
I walked out onto Revolucion...sun beating down. I put on my Wayfarers to block out the sun and hide my pin prick eyes reflecting all in their doped stupor.
I saw Tom two weeks later at the Caverns, a cafe two blocks down from the Hotel Casesar. His head was shaved in one tiny spot and you could see stiches. He was gesticulating wildly to the
bartender who seemed not to be listening to Tom as he cleaned some glasses with a wet rag on the bar. He saw me but only nodded in a way that told me I would never talk to him again.
He was embarssed. I never saw Tom again.
Wes Winship Cutting
Still in High School
They were
Pretty Obsessed with
George
And kind of
Were gonna
Start a
Tattoo
"Life Sucks Die
Combined
Scum Fuck Die"
with both of those
and mixed
at the same time.
Ember
announced
that they
and i had met
cause they got
started wrong
when I was
sort of funny...
They were
Pretty Obsessed with
George
And kind of
Were gonna
Start a
Tattoo
"Life Sucks Die
Combined
Scum Fuck Die"
with both of those
and mixed
at the same time.
Ember
announced
that they
and i had met
cause they got
started wrong
when I was
sort of funny...
Plant Feelings
chair-sitting-electrode applied-crackling noises-
electricity applied-electricity flying out in waves-
eyes melt-hollowed out-circuits fried-overloaded-
broken-and then i remember...
I said to him, "I was just a plant. A carnivorous plant
stuck and potted in the carpet. It was like I had
wavy hands, they unfurled themselves from budding
leaf stalks and learned quickly based on instinct.
They knew where to reach. I spent whole days
without seeing, I possessed vision but the field was
blank, my mind was a blank canvas, my eyes saw
only a staticy field. My horrific lithe fingers and hands
crawled out and deftly retrieved foil, lighter, straw, black,
spread tar on tin, lit and let the dope roll down, guiding
the paralyzing smoke right into my mouth and down the
throat, inhaled in lungs, throughout the body, packing me
ever deeper into the carpet, tentacles, tendrils, roots spreading
out in all directions, anchoring me into that solitary room, all
alone, cutting me off, losing my humanity with every hit. An island,
surrounded by the movement of humanity, people to suck and feed
from, people to supply my insatiable need in whatever capacity
they could provide for me at that moment. Staring out at the
blank field swaying gently from the A.C. in perfect vegetable
stasis, monotonous happiness, an endless line, the vanishing point,
never changed or interested, canceled, origastic feelings of gone-ness,
as long as the plant is tended as needed. As long as the plant is fed.
"Gee whiz," he said. "I'm drifting."
"Yep, I know that feelin...," I heard her whisper in her dead junkie voice.
"Felt like I was in the rotten room 5,6,7 years," I told them. "By the time
they pried me out the roots were thick trunks under the carpet, the walls
covered in vines and tendrils, a veritable jungle..."
I paused.
"Awful thing to become."
I exhaled the smoke and looked down at my fingers. Already they had
a sickening greenish tint.
electricity applied-electricity flying out in waves-
eyes melt-hollowed out-circuits fried-overloaded-
broken-and then i remember...
I said to him, "I was just a plant. A carnivorous plant
stuck and potted in the carpet. It was like I had
wavy hands, they unfurled themselves from budding
leaf stalks and learned quickly based on instinct.
They knew where to reach. I spent whole days
without seeing, I possessed vision but the field was
blank, my mind was a blank canvas, my eyes saw
only a staticy field. My horrific lithe fingers and hands
crawled out and deftly retrieved foil, lighter, straw, black,
spread tar on tin, lit and let the dope roll down, guiding
the paralyzing smoke right into my mouth and down the
throat, inhaled in lungs, throughout the body, packing me
ever deeper into the carpet, tentacles, tendrils, roots spreading
out in all directions, anchoring me into that solitary room, all
alone, cutting me off, losing my humanity with every hit. An island,
surrounded by the movement of humanity, people to suck and feed
from, people to supply my insatiable need in whatever capacity
they could provide for me at that moment. Staring out at the
blank field swaying gently from the A.C. in perfect vegetable
stasis, monotonous happiness, an endless line, the vanishing point,
never changed or interested, canceled, origastic feelings of gone-ness,
as long as the plant is tended as needed. As long as the plant is fed.
"Gee whiz," he said. "I'm drifting."
"Yep, I know that feelin...," I heard her whisper in her dead junkie voice.
"Felt like I was in the rotten room 5,6,7 years," I told them. "By the time
they pried me out the roots were thick trunks under the carpet, the walls
covered in vines and tendrils, a veritable jungle..."
I paused.
"Awful thing to become."
I exhaled the smoke and looked down at my fingers. Already they had
a sickening greenish tint.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Helms Cutting
Jesse Helms: Assessing a mixed legacy
David Frum
National Review Online
As a rule one shouldn't speak ill of the dead
a simple bigot will always cast a shadow
Helms opposed Civil Rights
for a white Southerner showed up at the polls.
opposing school integration
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday
For that was how he thought of him
school busing programs
Helm's staffers sent letters to the
first black woman election campaign
Once, as he was about to
board an elevator
to black threatening them with arrest
and even the commmemoration of the Old South
was a badge of The Racism
of a "courtly, principled, elected"
"venomous hick"
who died last week at 86
Helms carried the torch of white supremacy
meddling in the staunch belief that Helms
was completely innocent
Helm's once-controversial positions
the public has come around to
and the media have yet to adjust
but it would be wrong to dismiss
the South
no insult to Helm's memory to call him
a pro-conservative
caricature of the man
must be made for Jesse Helms
honor to this
entirely escapes its influence
on Helms' Legacy
It's a redneck act,
the Confederate anthem-"until she cries"
for three decades, Helms told a colleague
he was going to sing "Dixie"
"I should be able to make my own laws"
i'm not the issue of race
David Frum
National Review Online
As a rule one shouldn't speak ill of the dead
a simple bigot will always cast a shadow
Helms opposed Civil Rights
for a white Southerner showed up at the polls.
opposing school integration
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday
For that was how he thought of him
school busing programs
Helm's staffers sent letters to the
first black woman election campaign
Once, as he was about to
board an elevator
to black threatening them with arrest
and even the commmemoration of the Old South
was a badge of The Racism
of a "courtly, principled, elected"
"venomous hick"
who died last week at 86
Helms carried the torch of white supremacy
meddling in the staunch belief that Helms
was completely innocent
Helm's once-controversial positions
the public has come around to
and the media have yet to adjust
but it would be wrong to dismiss
the South
no insult to Helm's memory to call him
a pro-conservative
caricature of the man
must be made for Jesse Helms
honor to this
entirely escapes its influence
on Helms' Legacy
It's a redneck act,
the Confederate anthem-"until she cries"
for three decades, Helms told a colleague
he was going to sing "Dixie"
"I should be able to make my own laws"
i'm not the issue of race
Today is 6/6/06
^-^-^ = 6-6-6
today is 666.it is 666 becausethe devil is hereyou see.and the calendar says sobut i don't need a calendarto tell methat outside itis 666.where i live, people don'thave outside problems.people have inside problems.but then sometimes it seemslike these problemsare glorified lies and sometimesit seems like these problemsare so sculpted and dweltupon. that they aren'treally problems anymore.they are accesories.like a coat.no...wait. stop.right here this little poemor thought pounded outon this keyboard shouldstop.and i should pull backand think. and refine mythought. because that wasall wrong.but i don't.anyway...(start the tape again)these problems are morelike a hair piece.or a ring. or a fancy shirt.or a FANCY coat.becuase a coat serves a purposeand so does a shirt.and a fancy one does as well.but a fancy one attemptsto say something aboutthe person who is wearing it.the person who is wearing it,is attempting to saysomething about themselves.the person who is wearing it, has thought a lot about this shirt.or this coat. and they havemade up their mind to wearthis thing to tell the restof the world about the way they are.but!these fancy clothes are notdecided upon by the peoplewho wear them.they are decided upon.by someone else.who gives them this accesory.people have these problemssometimes. that aren't even realanymore. they are obessesions.handed down.and life choices now and accesories.and while comfort is known. and foodis introduced to the stomach everyday.SAY HELLO TUMMY! HI, MEAT! HI SIDE-DISH!HI!, ARTICHOKE!.these people focus. on what they have been given.because meat and vegetableand shelter and fancy coveringis not enough.WEll, why do they do it?because they have acheived everything else,that has been set upbut still have something nagging them.these people wouldn't have accesories ifthey had to struggle for food. or shelter.or covering for their sinful, sinfulbodies....^^^!and these people get bored because of all thisstuff. and someone creates these little toysto sculpt and play with in their minds.and it leads...to...nothing! because it wasnothing in the first place.ok. well, they are real problems. inside ones.they have been pulled out of the womb.and stuck in a crib. which is a box.and then in play sand with strange little people.which is a box.and then with more strange little peopleand a strange big person, in a learning place.which is a box.and the learning place gets bigger and bigger.until it is very big and you go awayor stay. and the people are biggerand you are the same size as the big personand that is a box.and sometime down the line,you get sent to this place where youare told to do certain menial tasksin exchange for paper with dead peopleon it.and dead people paper let's you live,and get things which you may or may notneed.and since you went to the learning place.and got a paper.your position in the other box.is better.but not really.because, probably, all your lifeyou were put in these boxes.and you were taunted.and lied to.and scared.they scared you; into the box.and the way things workput you there too. but if you were like me...you never wanted to bethere in the first place.and the boxes all got bigger. and their force,for your comfortable life. or just your life.because of the way things are,got more and more really serious.until there were real bad consequencesfor not being in that particular box.DID YOU KNOW TODAY WAS 6-6-6?did alexander the great for see this day?did the mayans for see this day?did they see it coming?well, i guess i've got to say, that where i'm frommy whole life...you there too, you know.i have had accesories. and these accesories were liesnow i know....perpetuated by big men and runners of boxes.and these inside problems were notbig ones. because you see.....these problems were born in boxes.so i say...FUCK your boxes.and FUCK your accesories.there is nothing wrong with me.because 2day is 666. and 2daythe devil outside the door,that demon will not ticklemy stomach no more. that devil is this:666I HAVE my own devil.my own devil is called this: reason.and my devil reasoningsays i will not be able to attend the boxmeeting anymore.my devil is leading me out the door.PRAISE THE GREAT SATAN INSIDE!ACCEPT THE SATAN INSIDE!LET HIM LEAD YOU! out of that rusty door.because he is this ^^^and this is an unspokenfeelinginside.that tells you go out now.don't let them turn it into an accessory.
today is 666.it is 666 becausethe devil is hereyou see.and the calendar says sobut i don't need a calendarto tell methat outside itis 666.where i live, people don'thave outside problems.people have inside problems.but then sometimes it seemslike these problemsare glorified lies and sometimesit seems like these problemsare so sculpted and dweltupon. that they aren'treally problems anymore.they are accesories.like a coat.no...wait. stop.right here this little poemor thought pounded outon this keyboard shouldstop.and i should pull backand think. and refine mythought. because that wasall wrong.but i don't.anyway...(start the tape again)these problems are morelike a hair piece.or a ring. or a fancy shirt.or a FANCY coat.becuase a coat serves a purposeand so does a shirt.and a fancy one does as well.but a fancy one attemptsto say something aboutthe person who is wearing it.the person who is wearing it,is attempting to saysomething about themselves.the person who is wearing it, has thought a lot about this shirt.or this coat. and they havemade up their mind to wearthis thing to tell the restof the world about the way they are.but!these fancy clothes are notdecided upon by the peoplewho wear them.they are decided upon.by someone else.who gives them this accesory.people have these problemssometimes. that aren't even realanymore. they are obessesions.handed down.and life choices now and accesories.and while comfort is known. and foodis introduced to the stomach everyday.SAY HELLO TUMMY! HI, MEAT! HI SIDE-DISH!HI!, ARTICHOKE!.these people focus. on what they have been given.because meat and vegetableand shelter and fancy coveringis not enough.WEll, why do they do it?because they have acheived everything else,that has been set upbut still have something nagging them.these people wouldn't have accesories ifthey had to struggle for food. or shelter.or covering for their sinful, sinfulbodies....^^^!and these people get bored because of all thisstuff. and someone creates these little toysto sculpt and play with in their minds.and it leads...to...nothing! because it wasnothing in the first place.ok. well, they are real problems. inside ones.they have been pulled out of the womb.and stuck in a crib. which is a box.and then in play sand with strange little people.which is a box.and then with more strange little peopleand a strange big person, in a learning place.which is a box.and the learning place gets bigger and bigger.until it is very big and you go awayor stay. and the people are biggerand you are the same size as the big personand that is a box.and sometime down the line,you get sent to this place where youare told to do certain menial tasksin exchange for paper with dead peopleon it.and dead people paper let's you live,and get things which you may or may notneed.and since you went to the learning place.and got a paper.your position in the other box.is better.but not really.because, probably, all your lifeyou were put in these boxes.and you were taunted.and lied to.and scared.they scared you; into the box.and the way things workput you there too. but if you were like me...you never wanted to bethere in the first place.and the boxes all got bigger. and their force,for your comfortable life. or just your life.because of the way things are,got more and more really serious.until there were real bad consequencesfor not being in that particular box.DID YOU KNOW TODAY WAS 6-6-6?did alexander the great for see this day?did the mayans for see this day?did they see it coming?well, i guess i've got to say, that where i'm frommy whole life...you there too, you know.i have had accesories. and these accesories were liesnow i know....perpetuated by big men and runners of boxes.and these inside problems were notbig ones. because you see.....these problems were born in boxes.so i say...FUCK your boxes.and FUCK your accesories.there is nothing wrong with me.because 2day is 666. and 2daythe devil outside the door,that demon will not ticklemy stomach no more. that devil is this:666I HAVE my own devil.my own devil is called this: reason.and my devil reasoningsays i will not be able to attend the boxmeeting anymore.my devil is leading me out the door.PRAISE THE GREAT SATAN INSIDE!ACCEPT THE SATAN INSIDE!LET HIM LEAD YOU! out of that rusty door.because he is this ^^^and this is an unspokenfeelinginside.that tells you go out now.don't let them turn it into an accessory.
Care of Herman Munsen
Herman was a shadow. but-he still existed. his lungs took in the air around him. his mouth recieved the food that his long sufferingdaughter spoon fed him thrice daily. his penis still expelled the water which he drank. his anus spilled out increasingly loose and irregular bowels. his body itched when he refused to bathe more than twice a week. it ached when his pain medicine wore off and it screamed for more. his toenails still grew and required clipping as all men's toes do. in short-herman was still there in a physical sense. mentally he was nothing more than an ever rotting turnip. he lay prostrate in his bed day in and day out staring at the wall, out the window-when it was open-or-if it was closed-at the varyin grays of sunlight or shafts of shadows stretching long across the floor and out and under the door of his room which he did not leave. herman was incapable of leaving his room. his legs no longer responded to his orders. and even if they did they had atrophied dueto years of laying in this bed. you could say that herman was aprisoner in his own body if there was any thought in his head tomake him human. but there wasn't. herman was the living dead.herman was cared for by his eldest daughter-iris. she had beengiven this name at birth because it was her mother's favorite flower.her mother was dead too. only-she was in the ground and no longerbreathed. she couldn't eat food anymore. iris had thought-at hermothers funeral-how funny it would be to try and force food down herthroat.-practice-she thought. practice for when my father finally looses control his throat muscles. down the gullet mummy. mmmm. this peasoup is yummy. why mummy you don't look at all like you enjoy yourpea soup. you said to me in grunts and squeals that it was yourfavorite just the other day. i heard your stomach rumbling when ibrought it in on a tray. and look-it is spilling all down your chin.now, where are your manners. if you are going to behave like a beastperhaps i should treat you as such. and on and on the wheels turned in iris' mind standing there by hermothers coffin. she had to stiffle a laugh. people looked at her insilent awe and grief. so torn by her mothers death. look how shegazes into her eyes...inside iris laughed and laughed. old bitch. left me to care for yourbrain dead husband.just then herman let out a sound not unlike a ballon as it is slowlydeflated. herman didn't know what was going on. he thought he wasat a ballon factory. old bitch-iris thought.after the funeral iris' disposition lightened considerably. shedecided to go about her daily tasks with solemn grace and patience.i shall be mother theresa- she thought.this lasted one week.after that-she began to buy her father dog food. she fed it to himin a great laddle. he recieved baby food if she was in a good mood.herman could not tell the difference between food for grown humansand food for domesticated animals and very new humans. his stomachrumbled all the same.iris' mistreament of her father had been going on for six months. if family were to visit-which was rare because who or what was left to visit?-it necesscitated great changes in the decor and feeling and tone of the house. it was a fucking pain in the ass .sometimes if iris was really feeling in a sour mood. if she had-perhaps-thought about her failed career in adverstising. her failed love life. her generally lack of friends-she always put the blame on poor herman. it was then that she "forgot" to give him his medicine. hermans body noticed this. his legs began to write in agony and his arms flailed about as if looking for something.she would always relent though when she looked into his dumb glassyeyes. she swore she could see his mind suffering helplessly in theresomewhere. hermans brain was too far gone for him to notice theagony of withdrawl consciously.but his body felt it keenly. this arrangement continued-as i have said-for some months.
Feb. 20, 2008
Lunar eclipse tonite. Dad loved watching celestial wonders. I remember faintly as a child peering into a telescope-supported by two telephone books-which peered out of mom and dad's bedroom window.Mom wanted to go to sleep. Dad wanted me to see Venus. Remember asking him if we-humans that is-had ever been there.-Nope he said. Faintly recall him telling me that grandad said his first word was moon. Too bad the old bastard's got the brain of a jelly fish now. He would love to get out his old telescope and look at that eclipse tonite. Yep. Watching the moon go out. Like a lamp. Or dad's mind. Wonder when the old bastard will be dead? Should I feel guilty?No bother. Dad is dead. Dead is dad. Is Dad Dead? Is he? Is He?
At 9:15 pm Herman Munsen was awakened by an unearthly sound. Eyes opened with a start. Herman's mind slowly register the sound of a choir of women singing to him. If there had been anyone to see it-the casual observer would have seen the blank stare of idiocy slowly recede from the eyes of Herman Munsen. Herman Munsen was awakefor the first time in two years. Herman Munsen could register his surroudings. No more twitching insect futility. No more reactions like a struck knee.
Herman Munsen tore the sheet from around his frail withered body.
-Is that dog food I taste in my mouth?
Herman went to the window on little cat feet. Withered old woman fingers pried open the blinds and he bent his old pumpkin face to look up into the sky. Black holes burned into his eyes.
-I sees a woman up there in the sky. But shes gots the voice of damn near fifty of em.
Herman closed his eyes. He opened them. Still there hanging in the sky. Herman started for the door. He opened it. Down the hall of his house and into the living room he stepped. The TV was on. Hermanc ouldn't make out what was on the screen. All blurred like an impressionist painting. A person lay in his comforter. Her face was all scratched out like someone had taken a pen to a photograph.
Iris Munsen awoke slowly. Her mind was fogged with sleep. She looked up to see the transparent figure of her father looking with bemusement at her face.-God, smoked too much weed
Herman looked around the room. He was puzzled. The whole room was like Chinese writing. He couldn't understand or process none of it. But that Voice! That Voice was calling to him. Herman didn't know how to get out.
-Don't make no sense neither way.
Eyes closed again he listened. He listened and followed. And with his little steps he went right for the door and out into the snow. It was cold outside. Kentucky generally can be in February.But Herman felt nothing. Outside was all squiggly too.
-Damn if it don't make no sense neither.
That Voice raised Herman Munsen's head on a string like a wooden dummy. Into the sky went his eyes. His gaze met the fullest brightest moon he ever did see. So bright and beautiful. This picture was coming in crsytal clear. This was something that Herman Munsen could see. Herman sat down in the snow feeling not the slightest bit of cold. Transfixed-Herman watched as someone spilled ink over that bright lamp in the sky-slowly-slowly putting it out.
And just as the moon was put out so too was Herman. Herman sat in that spot-a beautiful a capella choir singing for him as the moon completed her cycle. Crisp clear night all around him. And as the bulb burned out Herman Munsen saw white. White White White all around nothing but white. Carried out on a long white flash blinding and trembling. Singing him home.
Feb. 20, 2008
Lunar eclipse tonite. Dad loved watching celestial wonders. I remember faintly as a child peering into a telescope-supported by two telephone books-which peered out of mom and dad's bedroom window.Mom wanted to go to sleep. Dad wanted me to see Venus. Remember asking him if we-humans that is-had ever been there.-Nope he said. Faintly recall him telling me that grandad said his first word was moon. Too bad the old bastard's got the brain of a jelly fish now. He would love to get out his old telescope and look at that eclipse tonite. Yep. Watching the moon go out. Like a lamp. Or dad's mind. Wonder when the old bastard will be dead? Should I feel guilty?No bother. Dad is dead. Dead is dad. Is Dad Dead? Is he? Is He?
At 9:15 pm Herman Munsen was awakened by an unearthly sound. Eyes opened with a start. Herman's mind slowly register the sound of a choir of women singing to him. If there had been anyone to see it-the casual observer would have seen the blank stare of idiocy slowly recede from the eyes of Herman Munsen. Herman Munsen was awakefor the first time in two years. Herman Munsen could register his surroudings. No more twitching insect futility. No more reactions like a struck knee.
Herman Munsen tore the sheet from around his frail withered body.
-Is that dog food I taste in my mouth?
Herman went to the window on little cat feet. Withered old woman fingers pried open the blinds and he bent his old pumpkin face to look up into the sky. Black holes burned into his eyes.
-I sees a woman up there in the sky. But shes gots the voice of damn near fifty of em.
Herman closed his eyes. He opened them. Still there hanging in the sky. Herman started for the door. He opened it. Down the hall of his house and into the living room he stepped. The TV was on. Hermanc ouldn't make out what was on the screen. All blurred like an impressionist painting. A person lay in his comforter. Her face was all scratched out like someone had taken a pen to a photograph.
Iris Munsen awoke slowly. Her mind was fogged with sleep. She looked up to see the transparent figure of her father looking with bemusement at her face.-God, smoked too much weed
Herman looked around the room. He was puzzled. The whole room was like Chinese writing. He couldn't understand or process none of it. But that Voice! That Voice was calling to him. Herman didn't know how to get out.
-Don't make no sense neither way.
Eyes closed again he listened. He listened and followed. And with his little steps he went right for the door and out into the snow. It was cold outside. Kentucky generally can be in February.But Herman felt nothing. Outside was all squiggly too.
-Damn if it don't make no sense neither.
That Voice raised Herman Munsen's head on a string like a wooden dummy. Into the sky went his eyes. His gaze met the fullest brightest moon he ever did see. So bright and beautiful. This picture was coming in crsytal clear. This was something that Herman Munsen could see. Herman sat down in the snow feeling not the slightest bit of cold. Transfixed-Herman watched as someone spilled ink over that bright lamp in the sky-slowly-slowly putting it out.
And just as the moon was put out so too was Herman. Herman sat in that spot-a beautiful a capella choir singing for him as the moon completed her cycle. Crisp clear night all around him. And as the bulb burned out Herman Munsen saw white. White White White all around nothing but white. Carried out on a long white flash blinding and trembling. Singing him home.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Bus Ride
"used to make my tattoo's with baby oil...in the joint"
"you gotta pay like fo' dollas ta even sit in da damn taxi..
and when ya want one...they ain't even there...course you get
here and dey all be sittin around...ton of em...and it be the damn
day you don't need one..."
"si,si"
"yeah, shit, i remember...see this one here...where you think
i got this!"
"...are we skipping or not..."
"that's a nice dress, girl, where'd ya'll get it?"
white man sitting uneasily...arms crossed...his body is folded into
itself like a tense lawn chair...eyes scanning the passengers, seemingly
watching for a sudden move. he doesn't ride the bus often. black men
sprawled out, looking around at nothing in particular, talking with ease...
never look into the eyes of whom they are talking to. two spanish women
in shawls eyes, hands, and mouths running in bursts of speed...retreat into calm
...and burst again. constant whine.
me, heroin hitting...my body slack...warm water pulsing through my veins.
waves of soothing quilted air cocoon me. fading back from the bus. into the
dark.
barely here now.
i close my eyes and shift seemlessly into a dream. my soul, uh, sezs..."gee, there's
only so much a guy can take, i'm outta here me." i see myself clutching violently at
the air as a translucent ghostly shape begins to pull itself off of my physical frame.
the soul works itself off of me, as i wriggle and writhe in agony. it is sperated from me.
a foggy mist hovers over and flies out of the bus window. i hear myself scream..crying, and
scratching at the air. i cry out...."come back!"
......"come baacckkkk!"...is dissolved by a burst of daylight. my eyes open and i feel
the bus rock back from the curb and continue after a stop. i am awake and conscious
of a film of saliva on my cheek. a boy, 16 or so, who i had not noticed before, stares at
the floor rocking back and forth, holding his sides. he moans. i shift my leg as i notice
it is asleep and this makes the boy look up at me momentarily. i stare into deep dark
empty eyes. eyes with no light. the boy looks back down at the ground and a chill runs
through me. a premonition of the future. i deal with it the only way i know how. i close
my eyes, and let sleep take me over again.
"you gotta pay like fo' dollas ta even sit in da damn taxi..
and when ya want one...they ain't even there...course you get
here and dey all be sittin around...ton of em...and it be the damn
day you don't need one..."
"si,si"
"yeah, shit, i remember...see this one here...where you think
i got this!"
"...are we skipping or not..."
"that's a nice dress, girl, where'd ya'll get it?"
white man sitting uneasily...arms crossed...his body is folded into
itself like a tense lawn chair...eyes scanning the passengers, seemingly
watching for a sudden move. he doesn't ride the bus often. black men
sprawled out, looking around at nothing in particular, talking with ease...
never look into the eyes of whom they are talking to. two spanish women
in shawls eyes, hands, and mouths running in bursts of speed...retreat into calm
...and burst again. constant whine.
me, heroin hitting...my body slack...warm water pulsing through my veins.
waves of soothing quilted air cocoon me. fading back from the bus. into the
dark.
barely here now.
i close my eyes and shift seemlessly into a dream. my soul, uh, sezs..."gee, there's
only so much a guy can take, i'm outta here me." i see myself clutching violently at
the air as a translucent ghostly shape begins to pull itself off of my physical frame.
the soul works itself off of me, as i wriggle and writhe in agony. it is sperated from me.
a foggy mist hovers over and flies out of the bus window. i hear myself scream..crying, and
scratching at the air. i cry out...."come back!"
......"come baacckkkk!"...is dissolved by a burst of daylight. my eyes open and i feel
the bus rock back from the curb and continue after a stop. i am awake and conscious
of a film of saliva on my cheek. a boy, 16 or so, who i had not noticed before, stares at
the floor rocking back and forth, holding his sides. he moans. i shift my leg as i notice
it is asleep and this makes the boy look up at me momentarily. i stare into deep dark
empty eyes. eyes with no light. the boy looks back down at the ground and a chill runs
through me. a premonition of the future. i deal with it the only way i know how. i close
my eyes, and let sleep take me over again.
Lessons Learned
"Leia na minha camisa
Baby, baby I love You"-
Caetano Veloso
"I Love You More Than My Own Skin."
- Frida Kahlo
Baby, baby I love You"-
Caetano Veloso
"I Love You More Than My Own Skin."
- Frida Kahlo
Glimpses
3/16/2008
people standing in line at a grocery store.
silent...dim lighting. clinical feel. nobody moves
forward, no one is served. no one questions why.
no one knows how long they have been there. people
look down at their shoes. they stare off into the distance...
they try to do anything but look or talk to each other. a great
dread pervades the store. anticipation hangs heavy like fog
in the room but there is no release.
3/18/2008
three pack little trees...do not enter...cool cab...orange...
training bus. shoes shined, black mirrors at the bottom
of his pants...lazily leaning on the gate...talking into a box...
"green line covered, we'll get him at the next stop...don't
confuse the issue"...i saw my sunglasses in his shoe and it startled
me. i pivoted my eyes back up, straight ahead and then at the sky.
palm trees reaching up into sunwashed blue. hot air blew across
my face and i sighed thinking of palm trees, sand in stray patches
collected against the edges of the sidewalk and the sound of the
freeway from just beyond the Hilton that never seems to cease...
the security guard walked on and i turned the music back up and
forgot about where i was and why i was there.
4/6/2008
she said...later.
the sun, the sea.
do you see the jewels bobbing up
on the surface of the water?
start yr. life...right...nnnnow!
...8 pm
keep coming back whyncha?
"who the heeelll are you anyway?"
beautiful...just beautiful.
4/13/2008
LOOK:
i woke up this morning at 1:45, shaking, covered in cold sweat,
back in the city. labyrinth of streets, buildings, guards, fences.
always dark. i was trying to score. overwhelming sickness.
i walk into a section with stores surrouding a courtyard.
completely dark expect for one street light. shadows move
up and down the alleys which occur every two blocks or so,
leading away from the courtyard. under street light, bench.
on bench young man. sit next to him and he stands.
leads me soundlessly into darkened alley. feel him put
something into my hand. i give him dirty sweaty money.
i run out into the courtyard, back tracking the through city
over grates, over bridges, taking shortcuts through stores
which lead onto endless sidewalks, streets, people, faceless,
shuffling quickly nowhere....feels like i am running for hours
in circles. eventually i crawl up into a ball under a street lamp
on a bench and weep. i cannot fix in the city but there is no
exit. something stirs next to me. my connection is back,
sitting there impassively picking his teeth with a toothpick,
waiting for the next customer.
people standing in line at a grocery store.
silent...dim lighting. clinical feel. nobody moves
forward, no one is served. no one questions why.
no one knows how long they have been there. people
look down at their shoes. they stare off into the distance...
they try to do anything but look or talk to each other. a great
dread pervades the store. anticipation hangs heavy like fog
in the room but there is no release.
3/18/2008
three pack little trees...do not enter...cool cab...orange...
training bus. shoes shined, black mirrors at the bottom
of his pants...lazily leaning on the gate...talking into a box...
"green line covered, we'll get him at the next stop...don't
confuse the issue"...i saw my sunglasses in his shoe and it startled
me. i pivoted my eyes back up, straight ahead and then at the sky.
palm trees reaching up into sunwashed blue. hot air blew across
my face and i sighed thinking of palm trees, sand in stray patches
collected against the edges of the sidewalk and the sound of the
freeway from just beyond the Hilton that never seems to cease...
the security guard walked on and i turned the music back up and
forgot about where i was and why i was there.
4/6/2008
she said...later.
the sun, the sea.
do you see the jewels bobbing up
on the surface of the water?
start yr. life...right...nnnnow!
...8 pm
keep coming back whyncha?
"who the heeelll are you anyway?"
beautiful...just beautiful.
4/13/2008
LOOK:
i woke up this morning at 1:45, shaking, covered in cold sweat,
back in the city. labyrinth of streets, buildings, guards, fences.
always dark. i was trying to score. overwhelming sickness.
i walk into a section with stores surrouding a courtyard.
completely dark expect for one street light. shadows move
up and down the alleys which occur every two blocks or so,
leading away from the courtyard. under street light, bench.
on bench young man. sit next to him and he stands.
leads me soundlessly into darkened alley. feel him put
something into my hand. i give him dirty sweaty money.
i run out into the courtyard, back tracking the through city
over grates, over bridges, taking shortcuts through stores
which lead onto endless sidewalks, streets, people, faceless,
shuffling quickly nowhere....feels like i am running for hours
in circles. eventually i crawl up into a ball under a street lamp
on a bench and weep. i cannot fix in the city but there is no
exit. something stirs next to me. my connection is back,
sitting there impassively picking his teeth with a toothpick,
waiting for the next customer.
Folding Test #1
At a bar in London
in her twins
by April,
and has shacked up Brad Pitt
with her at his home
/was my assistant
in Ireland
Wood's man, Vivienne,
said friends say he's
been speaking and drinking
two bottles by two
the first vodka a day
and her and Vivienne's
judgement is clouded
in her twins
by April,
and has shacked up Brad Pitt
with her at his home
/was my assistant
in Ireland
Wood's man, Vivienne,
said friends say he's
been speaking and drinking
two bottles by two
the first vodka a day
and her and Vivienne's
judgement is clouded
Palin Cutting
a
frenzy laid bare
dirty
capitalist
sport
David Frum
National Review Online
Sarah Palin
a little "messanic zeal"
enemies are enemies of the great cause.
conducting state business via her
penchant for secrecy, deliberately
paranoid style and
"paranoid and vindictive"
record as governor
comes in handy.
sometimes
ethical failure pervailed
Alaska's Republican Attorney General
Talis Colberg said Palin would not honor
an ethics investigation subpoena in the "Troopergate"
case Palin has denied a mire of corruption
We already knew that her claim
wasn't quite accurate
the notorious Bridge to Nowhere
funds for "a study of seal DNA."
pork project
federal earmarks
over $453 million
ground turkey
a smirking
lying
hateful
god-fearing
woman
just another candidate
she's riding a tide
repressed biogtry
small town hate
"Gee, Jim, I'd sure love
a moose burger..."
frenzy laid bare
dirty
capitalist
sport
David Frum
National Review Online
Sarah Palin
a little "messanic zeal"
enemies are enemies of the great cause.
conducting state business via her
penchant for secrecy, deliberately
paranoid style and
"paranoid and vindictive"
record as governor
comes in handy.
sometimes
ethical failure pervailed
Alaska's Republican Attorney General
Talis Colberg said Palin would not honor
an ethics investigation subpoena in the "Troopergate"
case Palin has denied a mire of corruption
We already knew that her claim
wasn't quite accurate
the notorious Bridge to Nowhere
funds for "a study of seal DNA."
pork project
federal earmarks
over $453 million
ground turkey
a smirking
lying
hateful
god-fearing
woman
just another candidate
she's riding a tide
repressed biogtry
small town hate
"Gee, Jim, I'd sure love
a moose burger..."
Cutting #1
When I heard your name,
that's all it took
Up that habit
put your hands....
i feel for to do something
beyond you completely
unless you try some people
will never give
see them, mastered
saying, "put your hands..."
very easy to remember
i heard him
Dialogue is what you have already
where your mind goes,
where i can
you will never grow
so do i
i heard him say...
"methadone, deliever poor me."
Alt. Cutting #1 Shifted 2 Degrees East
Where yr mind goes,
i heard him
some people will never give
so do i
very easy to remember,
up that habit
i heard him say...
when i heard your name,
that's all it took.
you will never grow.
see them
put hands on...
where can i...?
poor me, mastered,
unless you try saying
what you have already
put your methadone...
deliever you completely.
dialogue is yr. hands see?
i feel for to do something beyond.
that's all it took
Up that habit
put your hands....
i feel for to do something
beyond you completely
unless you try some people
will never give
see them, mastered
saying, "put your hands..."
very easy to remember
i heard him
Dialogue is what you have already
where your mind goes,
where i can
you will never grow
so do i
i heard him say...
"methadone, deliever poor me."
Alt. Cutting #1 Shifted 2 Degrees East
Where yr mind goes,
i heard him
some people will never give
so do i
very easy to remember,
up that habit
i heard him say...
when i heard your name,
that's all it took.
you will never grow.
see them
put hands on...
where can i...?
poor me, mastered,
unless you try saying
what you have already
put your methadone...
deliever you completely.
dialogue is yr. hands see?
i feel for to do something beyond.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Tijuana Journals Vol. 1
trolley. clattering along the tracks. trying to read this bookabout Gram Parsons, such total trash. legs resting on seat oppositeme. tired but unable to sleep. past 16 hours wracked with musclecramps in arms and legs. i was staring at the clock all night.waiting. waiting. waiting. begging the sun to come up, for it to be seven am so i could leave and start the journey south. smoked some pot which served only to make me paranoid and miserable.-"what're you readin'..."middle aged nicotine stained woman. maybe 45 going on 102.prematurely aged by her lifestyle. smells of cheap perfume masking an overwhelming stench of cigarettes. out on the track homeless man comes on to me for some "black." my ears perk up but "she ain't holdin.'"her response is furtive, knowing. hopes demolished, he bummed some change, walked off kept looking.-"book about Gram Parsons...you heard of him?"she nodded. my hands trembling. eyes watering, teeth clenched.she seemed to understand. not many young white males on the train to tijuana at seven in the morning.
-this train moves slower and slower. times seems suspended. it's funny how the trip back drifts along so leisurely. going down you measure yr. sanity by stops. three more to go until sick cells are nourished and the pain subsides. cool waves washing through my body. stars bursting beneath my eyes. whenever i am sick it is absolutely unbearable to sit still. i dream of a train that breaks the sound barrier depositing me at the border in a manner of minutes. i bury myself in the book. i can feel my prop in my pocket. a good prop is important. you need an explanation as to why you are in tijuana. my prop is a pen, old press pass ,and a notebook. i am a freelance reporter, writing a story about the farmacia's in TJ. this is true in some sense. only, the black ink is the sticky tar heroin that Oskie Boy sells me, the story is my life which looms over me thick and dark like a thunderhead.in lieu of my inablilty to write during times of heavy addiction, my life is the story. the void, my body is the canvas. junk the medium. tragedy writ large. talent dried up like still born grapes on the vine, shriveled and dead.
-CLANK! CLANG! over the line. passing into TJ. like entering a world which should be physically far removed from the orderly one i just emerged from. amazing to think of the small distance from here...to there...24 hour sex/drug/violence. back...comfort, sercurity,a semblance of law and order. vices behind a mask. here they lay it all out on a mayan rug and you gesture nonchalantly to the vice of your taste. as soon as i cross over a multitude of smells hit me. meat, corn, tortillas. the putrid stench of shit. car exhaust. decay. the air is sweet. i love it. it means a fix. cheap cigarettes. a cafe on the street where they dont ask questions and you can buy eyes that look the other way along with meal and beverage for $10. i see the taxi's strategically parked along the blvd.-"senor, taxi...where are you going? taxi..."- as you walk along the line declining the offers are all but dried up by the last man. i have been here so many times though, past the same taxi drivers, past the mcdonald's, past the churo and corn vendors, past the same farmacia where the clerk in glasses eyes me with cold catholic scorn because he knows my blood is thick with tar, past the panhandlers, past the children begging with dead eyes, eyes that scare me they are so devoid of hope, past the single mothers and the cripples, past all of the filth and the staggering need and want and sadness and cheap hucksterism that none of it effects me any more. it is as common to me as my own hands. it leaves me with a dry, empty feeling. a dead hollow tree.with eyes as dark as the bottom of an ocean trench.- i tell everyone i come into contact with that i am a writer from san diego. and at first they were excited. they believed me. now they smile slyly and knowingly when they see me. they know a lie when they see it. no one asks if i want a pair of sunglasses anymore...to stop in for a beer...sample one of my pretty girls...my sister...my brother?. and no one. i mean no one, offers me drugs any more. i am a customer of the 18th street boys. and you don't cross them.-Oskie Boy is waiting right outside of the shop cleaning the tourist crap which never sells. the shop is owned by a white man. an american. he lives in san diego. it is operated by said street gang. Oskie has just had a son. he is constantly spun out of his mind. many times he is smoking meth out of his glass pipe. one day Oskie disappeared and Tony took his place. Tony said Oskie went on vacation to MexicoCity. i awaited his return. Oskie was generous and kind. he spokeof his love for his sons. i considered him a good man and a friend despite the fact that he was selling me something which was slowly taking over my body and mind. Tony is bitter, sarcastic, stingy,and a pain in the ass. the drug lords killed Oskie. i remember it well.- "So, when exactly will Oskie be back?"- "Oskie went on vacation."- "Yeah but...he's been gone for, like, three months."- "NO, I mean...he's on "vacation.""- "oh, shit...did you...kill him?"- "man, i'm not telling you that shit, you need to hurry up...i got more customers who come. finish up with that dope...i can't have two people in here..."- Tony became the man at the shop. when i found out Oskie Boy was dead I shrugged and took another hit. I was far gone.
- when Oskie Boy gives me my sack my senses give way and the sickness hits me like a jolt. my mind knows a fix is seconds away. my body thirsts. nourish me. this is the refresher that takes all and leaves nothing. i pause for refreshment.
- a sense of guilt always hangs over me when i see the beggar children of Tijuana pleading for change. the mexican government has put signs up which implore one not to give these unfortunates change. it merely exacerbates the problem, they say. these signs have much in common with, say, "don't feed the birds"...
Maria and the Hotel Caesar
- Maria knows me at the hotel caesar. i never took a room there...but i ate there often. it is always the same. a coke, some tortilla chips. a plate of tacos. the same bartender languidly cleaning glasses, a sleepy look in his eyes. above the bar is a picture of Paul McCartney and his then wife Heather Mills. apparently, McCartney stopped into the hotel caesar briefly during a tour stop here. Rodrigo, another waiter, filled me in on the details.- "he was very drunk. he drank a lot of margharitas."- Rodrigo had no idea who Paul McCartney was or why I was so excited that this drunk gringo was once drunk there. he wondered why his picture was above the bar at all quite frankly. i mentioned the Beatles.- "Beatles?..."- He didn't know. He mentioned some Norteno singer. this, he said,would impress him. i shrugged...K-Paz?- "you want more Coca-Cola?"- i nodded. when he came back I was on the nod...so he poured the can of coke into my glass for me and walked away, i can only imagine, smirking.
Nothing but Trouble
- I ate breakfast once at Sanborn's. Sanborn's is the Mexican equivelent to Denny's...or IHOP. Sanborn's is nice because no tourists eat there. Ever. the waitresses speak very little english,which is fine by me because I am not there to talk. I curled up in a booth and purchased a San Diego Tribune in the lobby which is kind of like a miniature newstand. i sat in the smoking section, naturally, and lit up as soon as I was seated. it was a fine morning.I had a 1/2 gram of tar coursing through my body, a fresh pack ofParliament Lights, another 1/2 gram stashed up my ass (in Tijuana it is prudent to hide drugs in some orifice because white people are occasionally subject to search by the Policia. these searches never occur in a main tourist area, of course, and basically amount to blackmail. if dope is found...or anything else that the cop just doesn't like, he will quote a price. you have the option of paying or going to mexican jail. it is an easy choice.), and a glass of freshed squeezed orange juice which my waitresses set down beside me with a warm smile. i regularly fix in the bathroom at the HotelCaesar but the bathroom in Sanborn's is out of the question. Sanborn's employs a bathroom attendent who is on hand at all times to provide you with a fresh and constantly clean and invigorating bathroom experience. i am positive he would wipe my ass if he knew that i tipped large enough. he is a fucking pain in the ass. where am i going to do my dope after breakfast? i find that doing a little tar right after caps off a good meal in a splendid fashion, is a good tonic, invigorating in a way in which the bathroom attendent cannot be and insures that i will be high for my after breakfast stroll down the Ave Rev.- that day in sanborn's was a drag in more than just this respect.i knew she was trouble the minute i came in the door. for a second ,i considered biting the bullet, so to speak, and sitting in the non-smoking section. but, i was deliciously stoned and i wanted to enjoy my high. so, i asked the waitress to seat me in the smoking section. she was american and haggling with the head waiter over her bill. i had an instinctive feel that she would ask me for help. sure enough, half way through my Huevos Rancheros she came to my table to appeal to my better nature, which was in hock to my dealer at that time.- "hey hon, you mind if i sit here? you american right?"- she was middle aged and haggard. so many american women in tj are. she began to spill her story out onto the table almost immediately. her husband and herself were visiting mexico. in the course of some drunken frivolity their vacation had slipped into actions that were in bad taste, even for tijuana, mexico b.c. her husband was now in jail and she had summoned a lawyer to help get him out. they decided to meet for coffee and maybe a little breakfast at Sanborns, on the Ave Rev. at 11 this morning. however, when she came in the door at 11, there was more than one lawyer present. there were three. they had already ordered. she explained she wished to employ only one person, an argument ensued and they all left...after breakfast was done of course...her to figure out how to pay the large bill. you see, lawyer's in mexico have big stomach's. burns a lot of calories scamming people and chasing ambulances and drunk americans getting thrown in the slammer by the policia. and they also have very discerning palates as was testified to by there ordering all of the most expensive items on the menu. had i any money i could loan her? say over a hundred dollars. thousands of pesos? no...i hadn't...and besides...i had to tip the bathroom attendent...it wasn't true...but what the hell?- in the course of her arguement with the head waiter, the policia had been summoned. soon all manner of sirens let loose and two tj cops sauntered into the building. they weren't smiling. she was led away in hand cuffs and i sweated bullets, crystalyzing the dope in my ass into a hard rock, which was a pain to consume later on.
-this train moves slower and slower. times seems suspended. it's funny how the trip back drifts along so leisurely. going down you measure yr. sanity by stops. three more to go until sick cells are nourished and the pain subsides. cool waves washing through my body. stars bursting beneath my eyes. whenever i am sick it is absolutely unbearable to sit still. i dream of a train that breaks the sound barrier depositing me at the border in a manner of minutes. i bury myself in the book. i can feel my prop in my pocket. a good prop is important. you need an explanation as to why you are in tijuana. my prop is a pen, old press pass ,and a notebook. i am a freelance reporter, writing a story about the farmacia's in TJ. this is true in some sense. only, the black ink is the sticky tar heroin that Oskie Boy sells me, the story is my life which looms over me thick and dark like a thunderhead.in lieu of my inablilty to write during times of heavy addiction, my life is the story. the void, my body is the canvas. junk the medium. tragedy writ large. talent dried up like still born grapes on the vine, shriveled and dead.
-CLANK! CLANG! over the line. passing into TJ. like entering a world which should be physically far removed from the orderly one i just emerged from. amazing to think of the small distance from here...to there...24 hour sex/drug/violence. back...comfort, sercurity,a semblance of law and order. vices behind a mask. here they lay it all out on a mayan rug and you gesture nonchalantly to the vice of your taste. as soon as i cross over a multitude of smells hit me. meat, corn, tortillas. the putrid stench of shit. car exhaust. decay. the air is sweet. i love it. it means a fix. cheap cigarettes. a cafe on the street where they dont ask questions and you can buy eyes that look the other way along with meal and beverage for $10. i see the taxi's strategically parked along the blvd.-"senor, taxi...where are you going? taxi..."- as you walk along the line declining the offers are all but dried up by the last man. i have been here so many times though, past the same taxi drivers, past the mcdonald's, past the churo and corn vendors, past the same farmacia where the clerk in glasses eyes me with cold catholic scorn because he knows my blood is thick with tar, past the panhandlers, past the children begging with dead eyes, eyes that scare me they are so devoid of hope, past the single mothers and the cripples, past all of the filth and the staggering need and want and sadness and cheap hucksterism that none of it effects me any more. it is as common to me as my own hands. it leaves me with a dry, empty feeling. a dead hollow tree.with eyes as dark as the bottom of an ocean trench.- i tell everyone i come into contact with that i am a writer from san diego. and at first they were excited. they believed me. now they smile slyly and knowingly when they see me. they know a lie when they see it. no one asks if i want a pair of sunglasses anymore...to stop in for a beer...sample one of my pretty girls...my sister...my brother?. and no one. i mean no one, offers me drugs any more. i am a customer of the 18th street boys. and you don't cross them.-Oskie Boy is waiting right outside of the shop cleaning the tourist crap which never sells. the shop is owned by a white man. an american. he lives in san diego. it is operated by said street gang. Oskie has just had a son. he is constantly spun out of his mind. many times he is smoking meth out of his glass pipe. one day Oskie disappeared and Tony took his place. Tony said Oskie went on vacation to MexicoCity. i awaited his return. Oskie was generous and kind. he spokeof his love for his sons. i considered him a good man and a friend despite the fact that he was selling me something which was slowly taking over my body and mind. Tony is bitter, sarcastic, stingy,and a pain in the ass. the drug lords killed Oskie. i remember it well.- "So, when exactly will Oskie be back?"- "Oskie went on vacation."- "Yeah but...he's been gone for, like, three months."- "NO, I mean...he's on "vacation.""- "oh, shit...did you...kill him?"- "man, i'm not telling you that shit, you need to hurry up...i got more customers who come. finish up with that dope...i can't have two people in here..."- Tony became the man at the shop. when i found out Oskie Boy was dead I shrugged and took another hit. I was far gone.
- when Oskie Boy gives me my sack my senses give way and the sickness hits me like a jolt. my mind knows a fix is seconds away. my body thirsts. nourish me. this is the refresher that takes all and leaves nothing. i pause for refreshment.
- a sense of guilt always hangs over me when i see the beggar children of Tijuana pleading for change. the mexican government has put signs up which implore one not to give these unfortunates change. it merely exacerbates the problem, they say. these signs have much in common with, say, "don't feed the birds"...
Maria and the Hotel Caesar
- Maria knows me at the hotel caesar. i never took a room there...but i ate there often. it is always the same. a coke, some tortilla chips. a plate of tacos. the same bartender languidly cleaning glasses, a sleepy look in his eyes. above the bar is a picture of Paul McCartney and his then wife Heather Mills. apparently, McCartney stopped into the hotel caesar briefly during a tour stop here. Rodrigo, another waiter, filled me in on the details.- "he was very drunk. he drank a lot of margharitas."- Rodrigo had no idea who Paul McCartney was or why I was so excited that this drunk gringo was once drunk there. he wondered why his picture was above the bar at all quite frankly. i mentioned the Beatles.- "Beatles?..."- He didn't know. He mentioned some Norteno singer. this, he said,would impress him. i shrugged...K-Paz?- "you want more Coca-Cola?"- i nodded. when he came back I was on the nod...so he poured the can of coke into my glass for me and walked away, i can only imagine, smirking.
Nothing but Trouble
- I ate breakfast once at Sanborn's. Sanborn's is the Mexican equivelent to Denny's...or IHOP. Sanborn's is nice because no tourists eat there. Ever. the waitresses speak very little english,which is fine by me because I am not there to talk. I curled up in a booth and purchased a San Diego Tribune in the lobby which is kind of like a miniature newstand. i sat in the smoking section, naturally, and lit up as soon as I was seated. it was a fine morning.I had a 1/2 gram of tar coursing through my body, a fresh pack ofParliament Lights, another 1/2 gram stashed up my ass (in Tijuana it is prudent to hide drugs in some orifice because white people are occasionally subject to search by the Policia. these searches never occur in a main tourist area, of course, and basically amount to blackmail. if dope is found...or anything else that the cop just doesn't like, he will quote a price. you have the option of paying or going to mexican jail. it is an easy choice.), and a glass of freshed squeezed orange juice which my waitresses set down beside me with a warm smile. i regularly fix in the bathroom at the HotelCaesar but the bathroom in Sanborn's is out of the question. Sanborn's employs a bathroom attendent who is on hand at all times to provide you with a fresh and constantly clean and invigorating bathroom experience. i am positive he would wipe my ass if he knew that i tipped large enough. he is a fucking pain in the ass. where am i going to do my dope after breakfast? i find that doing a little tar right after caps off a good meal in a splendid fashion, is a good tonic, invigorating in a way in which the bathroom attendent cannot be and insures that i will be high for my after breakfast stroll down the Ave Rev.- that day in sanborn's was a drag in more than just this respect.i knew she was trouble the minute i came in the door. for a second ,i considered biting the bullet, so to speak, and sitting in the non-smoking section. but, i was deliciously stoned and i wanted to enjoy my high. so, i asked the waitress to seat me in the smoking section. she was american and haggling with the head waiter over her bill. i had an instinctive feel that she would ask me for help. sure enough, half way through my Huevos Rancheros she came to my table to appeal to my better nature, which was in hock to my dealer at that time.- "hey hon, you mind if i sit here? you american right?"- she was middle aged and haggard. so many american women in tj are. she began to spill her story out onto the table almost immediately. her husband and herself were visiting mexico. in the course of some drunken frivolity their vacation had slipped into actions that were in bad taste, even for tijuana, mexico b.c. her husband was now in jail and she had summoned a lawyer to help get him out. they decided to meet for coffee and maybe a little breakfast at Sanborns, on the Ave Rev. at 11 this morning. however, when she came in the door at 11, there was more than one lawyer present. there were three. they had already ordered. she explained she wished to employ only one person, an argument ensued and they all left...after breakfast was done of course...her to figure out how to pay the large bill. you see, lawyer's in mexico have big stomach's. burns a lot of calories scamming people and chasing ambulances and drunk americans getting thrown in the slammer by the policia. and they also have very discerning palates as was testified to by there ordering all of the most expensive items on the menu. had i any money i could loan her? say over a hundred dollars. thousands of pesos? no...i hadn't...and besides...i had to tip the bathroom attendent...it wasn't true...but what the hell?- in the course of her arguement with the head waiter, the policia had been summoned. soon all manner of sirens let loose and two tj cops sauntered into the building. they weren't smiling. she was led away in hand cuffs and i sweated bullets, crystalyzing the dope in my ass into a hard rock, which was a pain to consume later on.
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