the tide is high

and mocking the parking lot

with its own mortality

 

the beachfront condos

cant see

their own death

in the moon

reflecting off every wave

 

the homeless guy

with scabs

all over

face

hands

and neck

squats outside

the mexican joint

smoking

content

with his

scam

to-go cups filled with salsa

to hide the dumpster decay

of the coming weeks cuisine

 

with hangover

and a beer

i sit

waiting

for my fish tacos

So hows things

Not too cold, I hope.  The news never mentions the weather up where you are.  So, I have no idea how much snow you are under.  Ben unseasonably warm here.  Until the past couple of days.  I’ve moved back to north county.  Out of downtown.  Closer to more jobs I haven’t been able to afford.  Every job too expensive.  Too high class.  And no one will take brown paper bag me.  My place is great.  You’d love it.  There’s a separate room that works as a dining room/studio.  The living room is so huge that even with my excess of furniture, I can’t really come close to filling it.  I’ve been seeing my new shrink.  That’s been going well.  I think.  At least it has brought my inability to handle the outside world under control.  I’m still afraid of myself.  But at least it doesn’t show as much in the world.  Creating more problems that I don’t need.  It never stops amazing me how many people come to this coffee house to pick up women.  Of course that may have something to do with the large percentage of customers who are marines.  Especially near the end of the month, when they don’t have the money anymore for prostitutes.  My neck is killing me. Must be sleeping funny.  Some guy.  Not a marine, by the way.  Tried this pathetic line the other day, trying to pick up a friend of mine.  DO YOU KNOW WHAT MY FRIENDS CALL ME? TRIPOD.  That’s very inviting.  There’s too many guys here tonight.  I hate men.  I honestly don’t know why all women aren’t lesbians.  Yeah, sure it’s the penis thing, I know.  Still.  And I’m not sure that the penis is worth all the insecurities that go along with it.  Then again, I’ve never had the pleasure of a penis.  At least not the same as a woman has.  So I’m basically talking out my asshole.  Ankle tattoos and tongue piercings.  Kill them all.  Moonwalking and breakdancing for the late 90s.  By the way today is the day that was a long time coming.  No, I didn’t get laid.  You didn’t feel the earth stop did you?  Lisa Marie asked for a divorce from Michael Jackson.  And she said that, yes they did have sex.  There is still hope for me.  How much money do you think she will get from him?  And will it be for emotional damages?  If not, it should be.  The question of the minute is, are marines as stupid in bed as they are in the world?  Oceanside’s finest.  Pulling over Mexicans by the carload.  If half the energy that is put into being “original” was put into figuring out who these people really were, they would actually be original.  Sorry that was a cheap shot.  Cheap, but not undeserved.  People running around with great outfits and their arms in slings from patting themselves on the back.  Coats.  Hats.  Boots.  Shirts.  Hair.  Jewelry.  Tattoos.  I just got a chill.  And brain cells, few and far between.  Maybe it’s the salt air eroding them. Maybe it’s a cultural evolution.  Survival technique.  To compete with the movie faces nature to the area.  There’s a girl here who hopes to be top nun in a convent.  Aim high.  When I was looking for an apartment a few weeks ago, I saw that the Top Gun house is for rent.  I wouldn’t mind living there, just to say I did.  But, I’m sure it’s bigger bucks than I could hope for.  Piss time.  The tea, you know.  Worse than beer.  Had a revelation in the bathroom.  I wonder how many of the world’s great ideas came while the guy had his dick in his hand.  they say we think with them, so why not.  Marines are stupid.  Not earth shattering.  I know.  Maybe it’s me.  It wouldn’t be the first time I was accused of being an asshole.  Close minded, or some such.  But it really pisses me off when I see people, who are making their image on apathy, repeatedly check themselves in the mirror.  How’s the hair?  Jacket?  Shirt?  Are the sideburns even?  Yes, I know.  It’s just an image.  They are no more apathetic than I am a brain surgeon.  But, if you want an image, pick one you don’t have to constantly contradict.  Apathy is not conducive to worrying/caring about what other people see and think about you.  The suits are here.  the suits are here.  Better a suit, than a lie.  It’s only 930 and the town is closing up.  By 10 everything will be closed.  Except this place, which closes at 11.  I think Dannie just walked in.  I wasn’t paying much attention.  But I thought I saw her jacket come up the stairs, out the corner of my eye.  Boy, I’m good.  Well, not quite.  I was doing laundry the other day.  Amazing.  And I had my glasses in the shirt pocket of the shirt – how odd – I was wearing.  When I pulled my last thing out of the dryer, something fell and hit me on the foot.  I looked down, and it was the case for my glasses.  So, I looked in the dryer.  There were my glasses.  With one lens popped out.  They must have fallen out of my pocket when I put something in the dryer.  I’m hoping that it was the last load that I put in.  At any rate, the lenses seem none the worse for wear.  And all I have to do is get a new screw to fix the glasses.  My friend Dannie.  Who is really just someone I hang out with, for company.  She frightens me.  It’s like a sociology experiment.  She is firmly entrenched in the group of people who pierce, tattoo, and generally make themselves up in the 90s counterculture of popular culture.  But, she doesn’t know it.  She believes the sincerity of her convictions.  She believes herself and all the pretenders that surround her.  I don’t know how she would handle the real deal. She doesn’t know how to handle me, and I’m not particularly the real deal.  And I’ve never shown her everything.  I have always held things back because everything would be an overload for her.  I think she sees me as another lifestyle choice.  Without any conception that I have no choice in this at all.  If I have a choice, it wouldn’t be this life.  This is something I can’t escape.  Frankly that’s the way it should be.  If you can escape your life choice, it’s wrong.  Destiny may allow detours, but hell it all comes out in the wash.  Be what you have to be.  Anything else is a lie.  The Big Lie.  Bad faith.  But how many people have something they have to be?  Let alone know what it is.  This is what it has to be for me.  Coffee houses.  Drinking.  Books.  And writing.  Here.  Richmond.  Boston.  All the same, except for the stage directions.  Can you do or be anything else?  At base.  I can’t.  It’s in my blood.  Like the red.  The best news of the night.  I just went to the bathroom again.  No, that’s not it.  Give me a chance to finish.  When I was washing my hands, I looked at myself in the mirror.  And for the first time in some exaggerated period, I looked into the mirror and recognized who was looking back at me.  HEY, I KNOW YOU.  WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?  I MISSED YOU.  The tension in my neck has eased.  The apathy has returned.  Hopefully it will remain.  It’s only when I care, that I get into trouble.  Apathy doesn’t leave room for pain.  There’s just not enough caring to let it in.  Pain needs a weakness to grab on to.  I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.  What’s your name again?  Let’s go back to school.  Just classes for fun, to start with.  To help defrost the brain.  I need to rediscover what it’s like to be in a classroom.  Where ideas are thrown back and forth.  Bright and ignorant.  Where I can come across things I’d never have thought of, because they weren’t from any planet I inhabit.  Ideas that need an entirely different evolution to have a life.  An evolution not possible in my environmental conditions.  Have I beaten that horse enough?  Did I mention the seratonin?  My shrink wants to medicate me to raise the levels of seratonin in my brain.  That’s the happy chemical in my brain.  He wants to try this since the basic depression has not eased.  My discomfort in public has eased greatly.  But, I still have the hardest time living with myself.  The problems are still the same.  I just don’t care enough anymore to create the anxiety type reactions.  No matter what happens I’ll wake up tomorrow and still be Moose.  And if I don’t wake up, what good would the worrying have done?  Moose is the only thing that matters.  Anything that doesn’t help Moose isn’t worth the effort.  I am what I am.  I’m Popeye the Sailor Man.  I’m really full of it tonight, aren’t I?  As opposed to what, I suppose.  I’ve spent half the damn night in the bathroom.  Nice tits.  Too bad you’re stupid.  At least that’s my very deep belief.  I could be wrong.  People have been known to be very different in private, than they are in public.  But I’ve got to tell you, I really hate stupid people.  That put on any act that will endear them to whoever they are with at the moment.  Because they have so little sense of self, or selfesteem.  I may have no selfesteem, but unlike so many of my compatriots, at least I have a self to esteem.  And it is only that sense of self that makes me aware of the lack of esteem.  Well, it’s closing time.  Sweet dreams.

twirling my shot glass

as a woman shoves

a dildo up her cunt

just inches from my face

i cant help thinking

 

the cause

of all my drinking

 

thinking

about your cunt

that ill never see

again

and your legs

and world class

ass

and that slope

where collarbone

turns into breast

which we never came

up with a name

for

 

now its

merely

for the worms

and maggots

and other detritus feeders

that wait for your death

 

and the average wonder

or dont

why they havent bothered

to fall down

or drag the razor

across the corotid

during the morning shave

or rush hour

or summer season repeats

while their wives masturbate

in other rooms

and other lives

to soap operas

and men who remember

what a rose can do

and i remember

how you told me

I COULD HAVE TOLD

YOU I LOVE YOU

WEEKS AGO

WHEN YOU TOOK THE LONG

WAY TO MY PLACE

JUST SO

WE COULD TALK

MORE

 

and the scotch

doesnt taste

any better

but

at least i can fall

asleep

while the children are starving

and the elderly are dying

and worse

forgotten

 

and worse

ill be jerking myself

inside

out

for the rest of my life

 

 

because i didnt take

a long enough way

to your place

 

Spoke to you on the phone this afternoon

Night you’re time.  Or your time.  Afraid I said too much.  Big fat smelly guy alert.  Afraid that I gave myself too much away.  Opened up to a fatal blow.  At least if I were to use literary form.  Though my dream last night did scare me.  Deeply.  Almost physically.  And just this moment I remember.  Vaguely.  A dream I had several years ago.  In Richmond.  About you.  And a baby carriage.  A hope.  A fear.  A premonition.  Who knows?  Especially with a complete lack of details now.  I did remember writing down a note on the dream, because of its vividness.  When I get home I’ll see if I can find that note.  Probably not.  But I do save most everything.  Every scribble like it’s a deposit in a blood bank.  And it is.  Role playing games.  Make me sick to my stomach.  Petty escapism.  If you’re going to do something, then do it right.  Nothing petty.  That’s a cop out.  Petty is lowest common denominator.  For the unimaginative.  The feeble minded and feeble willed.  And I’m neither.  I hope.  But, delusions would not be the newest fad.  Pump Friction.  Would I move back to New England.  A startling thought.  New this morning.  Not the ideal place.  Not a comfort zone.  But, that’s not taking you into account.  Not taking my new life into account.  My first taste of stability.  The fears and monsters of the area would surely be diminished, if not destroyed now.  Do I sound like I’m trying to talk myself into New England?  Maybe I am.  Feels like it to me.  But, then again, I’ve been wrong before.  Imagine if you will.  And not religion, too.  What are you trying to say?  Suspenders and a belt is back.  Image limited.  Wallet chain.  White t-shirt.  Boots.  Shaved head.  Intellect in reverse proportion to image presented.  It only comes around every 9000 years.  Maybe next time.  Played Trivial Pursuit this afternoon with people from the coffee house.  I the man.  I the man.  I got a lecture the other day about saying I’M SORRY.  Because I’m not sorry.  In the pathetic sense.  I am not a sorry person, a pathetic person.  I should, above all people, be aware of what it is I’m saying.  Connotation and denotation.  That whole writer thing reaching up and biting me in the ass.  Thank god I’m a waiter on the side.  Actually, if only I wasn’t.  If I actually had the time to write.  The leisure.  Lie-sure.  As much as is gained by working, ten times as much is lost.  In times inspiration has to pass by.  In experiences put off or never entered into.  In routine  Routine and writing work in opposition  At least my writing.  Live writing.  Life flows.  Pulses.  Explodes.  To limit it to time and form is to straight jacket life.  To break the legs of what you’re trying to bring to the page.  Fits and starts.  Like every subject.  Brooding boy is her on his image motorcycle.  Still no date.  That’s a guy with no personality.  Time to fetch yesterday’s paper.  Missed Foxtrot.  Hope it’s in the comics out there.  It’s very drugged.  Off, but back soon.

Back.  Miss me?  Of course you did.  Then, who wouldn’t?  Even the billions who don’t know me, know their lives are empty.  That vague, nebulous, unimaginable emptiness of soul.  Let me fill your hole.  Oh my god I look like Stevie Nicks.  Must be Mary.  Isn’t it somewhat sad, when bib boobs are your best recommendation?  Peanut butter cookie.  I hear it calling my name.  Maybe I need to change my medication.  Or begin enjoying it more.  Start making sense.  What state has the most blondes?  Bleached, or otherwise.  Like wow.  You still can’t have my Bud Light.  Here’s a thought.  There it goes.  Wave bye bye.  Maybe bowling.  Or pool.  Surfer hunting.  Like wow.  Mmmmm food.  Time to eat the cookie. Cooookie.  Cookie Monster.  Barney.  Big Bird.  Larry.  Fife.  Barney.  Again.  You only live twice.  But only when a spy loves you.  Or was that when you’re a spy in the house of love?  Or Love Canal.  Sweater girl.  Sweaty girl.  Not a bad thing.  Depending on the situation.  Bring me to the map room.  Free fall fun.  I just don’t understand.  Thank god, 12 years after 1984, I still don’t have a big brother.  Though my little brother is bigger than me.  But I’m not sure that’s the point.  Your stomach should never stick out farther than your boobs when you stand up straight.  Pregnancy excepted.  A look of fear.  Here comes the pick up routine.  More painful than gymnastics gone bad.  Or synchronized swimming.  Please explain to me how that became considered a sport.  Olympic, no less.  Bridge’ll probably be next.  Naked chicks.  Not a bad thing.  Unless it’s Ken Sullivan.  Ken Sullivan.  Both set up, and punch line.  What did the Hindu priest say to the hot dog vendor?  WOULD YOU PUT THAT UP MY ASS, PLEASE?  Or maybe that was the Catholic priest.  I can never remember.  Drugs you know.  And would you introduce me?  Giggles are humor hiccups.  Sorry.  Women shouting my name.  Normally not a bad thing.  Except they’re carrying pitchforks and torches.  Bang on the castle door.  What exactly is a crumpet?  Not fade away.  Buddy Holly.  Not a very good waiter.  That’s what happens after you plummet to your death with someone named Big Bopper.  Kill the marines.  Or at least give them a personality transplant.  Ego reductions.  London is not a country.  The caffeind is tearing up my stomach.  My empty stomach.  Been on the move all day.  No time for eats. Too skinny.  Too vacant.  She is too happy.  Must be my cynical Boston nature, but euphoria makes me suspicious.  And so there it is.  What?  No one knows.  The actual name of god.  The Word.  I think it’s Fred.  Think of god’s ego if he demands rituals attributed to him.  Brooding guy alert.  Pride is a vice, if not a sin.  One of the seven Brad Pitt sins.  did you know that he thinks Pittsburgh is named for him?  Maybe armpits.  Ireland.  The land of ire.  What exactly does that mean?  Nice butt.  But crazy redhead.

So, I’m back again.  Too often perhaps.  But I didn’t want to leave you with such nonsense and stupidity.  then again you should be very used to nonsense and stupidity from me.  One of my charms.  Maybe what I’m best at.  Very fragrant woman just came in.  Watched the Red Sox lose to the Braves 8-0 this morning.  For this, I got up early?  Missing out on all the fun again.  Just have to make my own fun, to catch up.  The cost of everything.  The value of nothing.  Youth.  Great moments in the obvious.  The artist of the month is here to take down her paintings.  They are ugly as hell.  Not ugly as sin.  Sin is quite often quite beautiful.  Really bad dyed red hair and Birkenstocks.  Anorexia girl is here for her shift.  Not insults.  Insights.  Anything that is askew is a hint as to why.  In the smallest detail disjointed, is everything.  Function is dysfunction.  Dysfunction in function.  Being in nothingness.  Oh, it suddenly got deep in here.  Hip waders anyone?  Goggles soon.  Snorkel.

Just got off work.  Later today.  Feeling like shit.  Coming down with something.  Annoying navy guy to the right, working his incompetence on another woman.  He strikes out more than Rob Deer.  Silly boy.  Sprains his arm, patting himself on his back.  In the middle of the MOST GUYS DO STUPID THINGS, BUT I’M DIFFERENT, A SENSITIVE GUY routine.  See my nuclear watch.  Exactly how many women enjoy this guy talking about how wonderful he is?  Never asking about you. Never stopping to let your respond.  We all do it.  All have our routines.  The things we say to get laid.  That we think best shows off our feathers.  Pot calling the kettle black, in an era when neither pots, nor kettles are black.  Such are the tortures of life.  Something like Chinese water torture.  In a pool of electric eels.  Watch how amazing I am.  Too bad you can’t change channels to find something interesting.  Then it would probably be like real TV.  No matter how many channels, still nothing on.  Sorry nobody home.  Feel like I’ve been writing forever tonight.  Only one page.  Experiencing the illness time warp.  The Space/Time fractured.  Broken down into slices.  Enabling you to feel as much of the illness as possible, without exploding.  Sometimes that’s a good thing.  Now, it’s not.  Time to pack up.  Head home.  Medicine up.  And try to sleep it off.  Wish me luck.  Time to hit the mail with this.  Mailing Monday.  Promise.