No, no, the blog is not quite dead yet.
Should it be?
Ah, that’s an awfully good question.
I guess I’m being stubborn about it. There are worse things in the world to drag my feet over, and refusing to let this blog keel over probably isn’t going to make the all-time countdown.
I don’t think so, anyway.
I don’t know why I’m doing a post. The odds of this blog ever being anything but an orphanage for misfit short stories and poems are pretty grim at this point. And I’m forever hesitant over sharing those things here to begin with, since they really ought to be put through the paces of being submitted to literary journals and the like. Sharing them here always kind of feels like I’m giving up on them.
Actually, I’ve had the feeling that I’ve given up on writing in general for much of the year.
Granted, we’re only a couple of weeks into the year, but things have already escalated nicely in the departments of self-loathing, intense doubt, and anxiety that wears a cunning disguise of being easily distracted (“Tommy Lee Jones does look like Grumpy Cat! Neat!”). It has not been a great year so far for work, and that’s entirely my fault. I haven’t tried to finish the third novel, I haven’t pushed myself to start on new projects, I haven’t taken any chances, and I haven’t learned the intricacies of naked tap dancing (and that last one is really goddamn important).
I’ve been disappointing myself over and over again, and it’s made worse by the fact that I’m aware of what I’m doing every step of the way.
This isn’t going to end with a declaration to do better, work harder. Obliterate a few more brain cells through the magic of frantic creative work. If you have to call this anything, just think of it as catching up over coffee with something righteous thrown in for good measure. I’m well aware of how far behind I am on everything I want to do, and I’m aware that I’m going to be twenty-eight soon. Seemingly in the same length of time it takes me to breathe in and out slowly and only once.
Things need to change. Saying that to myself over and over again isn’t going to make that happen. Whether it’s in the back of my mind as I try to fall asleep, or in a paragraph of an introduction to a blog post a few people will hopefully read. The only thing I can do is be even more of a bastard to myself than usual.
And what I definitely can’t do is let things like being tired of being single, the frustration of having a tenth of the career I envisioned for myself when I was young(er) and (even more) stupid slow me down. I can’t let my love affair with aspects of the well-worn past (even if that past includes things that happened as recently as five or six months ago) fuck me over again and again. And I sure as hell can’t let the responsibilities that are inherent in living a life that is not allowed to include trying to head-butt the TV at thirty miles per hour run my life forever and ever. I have to commit myself to a mild obsession with moving forward, and I have to maintain that thought at all times.
No matter how many days in a row happen to suck with the glorious style of an aging porn star trying to win Miss Universe.
This isn’t a declaration. I’m just thinking out loud.
There is a difference. At least there is while I type this at 2:30 in the morning.
In short, bring on the wrecking ball, bring on the work that I should be demanding of myself day in and day out, and bring on the deranged optimism for things like the ability to let go of those weird artifacts from the past, and the dream of once again having nothing but thousands of miles and dozens of towns worth of travel to look forward to.
That is not, as far as I can tell, too much to ask for.
And if it is, well, fuck it, man, because I’m asking for it anyway.
Vintage Surreal Gangster Cinema
It wasn’t Halloween.
It wasn’t one of those awful goddamn
where everyone would rather just get stoned
and watch vintage Samurai cinema instead.
A man who got fat reading “War and Peace”
three times in a row just decided to show up
in a Snow White costume that wouldn’t have fit
a man even half his size.
A girl in a leather nurse’s outfit.
She doesn’t really dig on the whole saving lives scene.
Tweedledee was there.
Tweedledum was down to a black veil and wifebeater.
The Devil was Legion. Figures.
A higher power believed in the darkness
being able to pick off the lights in various hallways.
But it was a mansion. Plenty of dusty bulbs
to guide the desperate, lonely and frustrated
to the safety of a commonplace bedroom.
Complete with a commonplace view
of some strip of some kind of paradise.
And all the violent weather a person can eat.
More than enough to make leaves and branches behave like ghosts.
More than enough to think you really can be afraid of everything.
The windows were huge, were put in a century
and a half after the house was built and survived
a baptism, and just didn’t fit the rest of the place at all.
But practically no one cared. Anyone who did
was too nervous to do anything but laugh.
And the house band held everyone together with pins and string.
Mostly Rockabilly. A little John Lee Hooker and Blind Lemon Johnson
for when everybody just needed to calm the hell down.
A handsome kid dressed as a man dressed as an artist
who stays away from coffee, booze
and any wooden track rollercoaster.
He’s swallowed whatever he accidently crushed
in his pocket earlier, and he’s starting to forget
the name of the wife he came with.
She left hours ago. Love just happens like that.
Everyone just felt overdressed and old.
But they woke up when the house band played
something they had never heard before.
Here Comes the Next Birthday
I bring you in for the dip,
because I really can move like Christopher Walken
once in an unholy while,
and down you go. Right into the bathtub gin
that tastes suspiciously
like bathtub vodka.
Let’s not talk what year this is,
your original hair colour or
why you think there’s bruises
in the backs of your eyes.
Both of us fell for people,
who found happiness and emotional clarity,
long after they started writing love songs
for the next one on the line.
The gin wears vodka goggles.
Let’s just put it like that,
because it sounds logical
in this part of the country.
I need some logic
in this cold place of a time
that has no teeth,
but plenty of good upper-body strength
and the best running shoes from 1994.
Someone’s gotta load me into the car,
and hope the driver is a cohort of mine
from last summer.
We can’t trust anyone from further back than that.
I don’t know what I’ve said to other people at other parties.
You take a long drink getting out of the tub,
and I can hear your friends laughing. On all fourteen floors.
I still think someone installed cameras in this miraculous joint,
before you moved in, with the three cats, the knives, recipe books,
snow globes and all the sketches you’re not going to finish.
It’s impossible to make love here,
and not feel like someone somewhere is watching,
talking to others over thirty-cent martinis
about where you went wrong as a child.
I can’t complain.
I’m through complaining.
Through with imagining old loves are still star-struck,
with something I’ve never been able to put my finger on.
Or anything else,
but this isn’t the time, place or sleepy crowd
for dirty jokes that worked beautifully that one beautiful time.
This is the rest of my life,
and I’m just not much of a writer,
actor, entertainer or scoundrel anymore.
I don’t care for cooking.
You can still use a kitchen after it’s burnt down.
My mind is always somewhere else,
and that goes for a lot of things.
It just kind of flies around,
and I leave my thoughts
with nothing but more trivia.
I hate trivia.
There’s a lot of things these days
I’m not fond of.
All the people
I wish were here instead.
Dig Your Own Grave And Save
The groom had a bad cough. A really bad cough.
And these eyes that wanted to dress up
as a runaway train.
The bride had buried all of ‘em. Every last doctor
who had ever brought her flowers for every day
they ever loved her for her dangerous temper.
She had to be older than him by fifty,
sixty years. And the wedding reception looked lovely
to me. But I wasn’t driving a car. I wasn’t walking calmly
to the time and place that could have turned out to be
my last night on earth. So I didn’t give a damn
if their wedding made it impossible to drive down Main Street.
I probably could have saved that guy.
This was clearly something he didn’t want to be a part of.
Kept walking instead. I only knew one of the bridesmaids intimately.
I didn’t like the look of those angels with sniper rifles overhead.
Those wings would kill a whole lot of people, if they just decided
to come down the level of mere mortals.
Guess that old lady could call in favors.
The way ordinary people call out the name of the last person
in the history of their lives that would ever rush to be by their bedside.
And I just didn’t want to get involved. I’m still not cautious.
Don’t accuse me of finally playing it safe. Please, please, don’t.
It’s just that I don’t need any more friends.
Not that kind. I’d prefer it if the psychopaths, contract killers
from the class of 2003, and girls who think it’s cute to call themselves
Bang-Shift Betty, all came to me instead.
I don’t have a problem with the people I can love forever,
and only trust three nights out of ten.
I’m just not going out of my way to entertain them anymore.
Baby, You Got a Sick Mentality
Paranoia is realizing
that you’re the only one at the birthday party
who isn’t a doctor,
and then wondering what each of them
might be thinking of you.
talk to myself,
add a little more rum to the punch,
cough when I need a cigarette
and fall asleep every time someone tells me
that I’ll be working for their infant son someday.
They could put me away with all that,
and there’s enough of them for me to know
that could happen if I grab the wrong wife’s ass.
Could be for the best.
You know you done screwed up,
when you have to hire a young girl to follow you around
and tell you what you did wrong every morning at 5:15.
And then I’d have to be careful about who I employ.
Last thing I need,
is some kid telling me that I’m living in the past,
and that things are better now than they were twenty years ago.
Shameful or whatever that I don’t really know if that’s true.
I’m scared of hospitals,
and I only ever watch the news
when an upcoming appointment goes missing.
Reading fiction seems to cover everything else,
and I have plenty of friends who balance
keeping me informed with getting over their addiction
to pathological lying.
This is called a compromise.
It’s like settling for finding shelter under a cancerous tree
after the lightning starts to follow you like a cheery bloodhound.
If I turn out to be wrong about something
I can still meet someone who can teach me how to play chess,
and how to play a piano that’s been busted up.
Shipped to more countries than there are winos
making a living by getting people to pay them
not to spray-paint erotica on the sidewalks.
That’s a lot of drunk people with high-school diplomas.
I’ll bet they were just like me, not too long ago.
Probably went to pot when they hit one of those parties
with all those smug doctors and kittenish wives.
Paranoia tells me this,
and it doesn’t even have a voice worth remembering.
You would think otherwise.