latter half of ‘23

after ashland then

Im always circling back to bend I guess. just one of those places rife with qualities.. got to have a good smoky mezcal now and then. got to. like the smell of the ponderosas and sage, that distinct free spirited college atmosphere and the varying landscape cut along the cool deschutes.. that, all together, help to break up the monotony of the rest. others less distinct. a nice contrast, most years, for a little while. I guess.

So after a long heat wave on the i5 i swing out onto BNSF trackage for the first time in six years, for a little change of scenery after ashland. spending the last weeks of summer, clear through fall, there. 

met this local dude my age that gave me a few weeks work, flying a sign at the offramp by freddies. picked me up on the spot and i went straight to it, shoveling for something like 20/h. he and his wife and kids were moving house and fixing to put a patio in back of it before renting it out. all kinds of shoveling.. was basically like their negro by the time we were through. a big fat score, for me.

mostly just drank all that money away though. enough to fuel me through a great deal of evening busking / guitar practice anyhow. But not without a spanking new pair of insulated bibs and renewed cell service on the side. yee. 

briefly jumping over to eugene to take care of some chlamydia i picked up earlier that summer, a court date in k falls, and then back again by october for more busking.

the night i hopped back towards eugene this native gentleman with a beautiful green yamaha and a fifth of vodka gives me a fresh pickup for my acoustic, and offers to show me the breezeway across the street. sitting down he offers up the bottle. a very unique playstyle, freeform / improve rhythm but fluid as though all one song melted together like — no pauses. Says he had popped some acid earlier and i notice then that hes sweating profusely, long black locks running down past his face meditatively over the guitar. chromatic hammerons and percussive slides.. i could hardly keep pace and quickly resigned my own guitar just to watch quietly. 

next morning i wake in the middle of the modoc forest barreling through norcal, realizing id long overslept my stop in k falls. extremely hungover and not a beer stowed. maps putting me just a couple hours north of keddie. 

we stop on a single main, still some 10-20 miles up from it, for a long time. i crack open a tea which is always a mistake — withdrawals + caffeine.. always severe anxiety. sometimes to the point of mild paranoid episodes. anyway i get nervous because the next stop south after keddie would be stockton.. and what with all the randomized crew change points in certain places i couldnt be sure whether it was that or something else. so i decide to risk the hitch and hoof it up to the head end to have a look. see if theres a crew, signal, anything. the crews there, but no bnsf vans/trucks and no signal posts anywhere either direction. so i walked earnestly up to the conductors window which was open and said afternoon. theyd been phoned by dispatch, over the radio, i guess. about some maintenance of way up ahead.. i said thank god and biddem gooday, booking it back to my grainer. just minutes after i make it back on we air up and are rolling south again. 

which is when the very worst of my caffeine/hangover induced anxiety starts coming on pretty hard. i start having second thoughts about the conductors response. like, what if he was just pulling my leg? what if they were the new crew for that consist, and we really were about to blow through keddie? and, in that moment, i felt like if i wound up in keddie with no more money for beer and a bad hangover i was in for a rough time. it was the first time ive ever had to talk myself out of jumping off on the fly.. gripping onto the crossbeams of the V like my sanity depended on it.. i really felt quite out of my mind. looking back its of course fairly comical.

anyway the train did crew change in keddie, and i did get to sleep off the rest of my withdrawals that day. keddie feels as though no one has been there for hundreds of years, even though there are signs of traffic all over and the buzzing of timbermen in the hillsides all morning long. still feels as though you are in the middle of nowhere.. and yet there are busses through and around the area, and the one i took down to quincy (bc keddies not but a bridge and some old camping / resort on the river) was free i think. make a few bucks there by the albertsons for a couple days, enough for tobacco and some more beer, then head back. across from the park on the river theres a gravel road leading up to the tracks.. and i take it.

at some point i get thrown out of a bar there. the astro lounge, this little hidy tidy college kid club with the lights and electronic music. id been busking across the street the day after xmas when somebody dropped me a hundred dollar bill. so went directly in for a couple of double shots.

for the second id yelled too loud for my order when asked to speak up, over the noise, and quickly found myself being dragged away from the bar — and an untouched and very expensive bourbon. i catch a black eye from one of the bouncers and give them a bloody nose in return, for which the cops get called and i narrowly avoid going to jail smooth talking them. in oregon fighting is actually illegal. which explains a lot, actually..

anyways, i later realize id left my jacket there — or somewhere.. i had kind of blacked out.. coming to sitting on my pack with a beer in an alleyway staring into space with only a longsleeve on. setting a precedent for the following few days shenanigans.

figuring the jacket gone for good i decided walmart.. and ive got to lift it bc all ive got left is 60, and although the insulated bibs help its still cold as fuck.

I run across this couple of riders flying at freddies. Nice girl Clyde and i forget her mans name but also rad.. little pit puppy between them. Good to see eome real mccoys around Bend.. these two were rough and weathered.. all the signs and symptoms of having been on the rails for the long haul — years.

we put some rounds back when theyre done flying, myself ive still got a wad left after the hundred i broke the other night.. soon dudebro goes in to the restroom and doesnt come out. so his lady gets worried and runs in for a look when the ambulance shows up.

the man had gone and smoked some fent in there and wound up collapsing at the entrance on the way out.. so i help his lady carry their things over to a chill spot for the night to wait for him to get out of the hospital.

released the next day dude doesnt have his jacket now either bc theyd cut the thing clean away at the ER. so we both go hit the homeless / vet services clothing closet for some extra layers. Later, the same night after hitting walmart also for a nice dickies crew jacket i find a sick 'the shining' shirt in a pile on the ground in the wooded area we sack out at. which was exactly the last piece of gear missing — a hood.

downtown again to drink some more and celebrate new years next evening we head to the family kitchen for a nice dinner.. i pass out early though, never making it there, and wake up to the lady having brought me a whole ass 'to go' bag. awesomeness, madam.

i pass out again briefly then wake up to find them gone. assuming they went back trackside i head that way myself. 

but when i see a train sitting there i get on anyways - without a word sideways.. just felt like getting, while i was still feeling alive.

the rock

the years carve away into you

these glacial ravines and beginningless valleys

twice wept in the verdant sleep of a memory

dozing away 

somnolent in the dusky hollows

of trees and cool waters

the magnitude of a moment, long past

there left a rumor, like the coriander in may

a lark in the mossbrae shallows singing

theologizing, the approaching day

a strange panegyric

to the mercurial passing of time

this terrifying monocline, cutting

away into you

into your forests your streams

valley and hillside

until there is no other but the one moment

that hid herself away into your heart

like a sliver, like a seed

grown upon it like a stray dahlia flower

the supreme deathray of ultraviolet slaughter

the seed that is your chloroform laughter

your redemption

the redemption of 

the realization of your own bondage to it

to that moment 

that petroglyph that says 'aye'

let it cut away into you

so that the years that pile up like pages

from your book or what book 

but mine or any other

will be like nothing. like rain.

beating away into your rock

drop

by drop.

confession of a failed suicide, 1885

 After my late pride, the lurid incident 

They called — ho-ho! My attempt to fly
I hereby take the stand and soddenly oath
On the good book with my good foot 
And three toes confess 
On behalf of the defendant a lie.

let me cut to the chase and cut it quick!
While I can still raise a finger and 
With my good eye your honor identify
the sole witness to their attempted homicide..

the carnies were in town
And late one sat no Sunday eve
I’d taken one for a bite to eat
Recompense for the ride you see
We sauntered over to a place
I think by carnival or carousel street

it was there I recognized 
in the parlor mirror a man I manage, 
alone at the bar with his drink
And took cas.. the girl round 
By the back, for a better seat

But men are oft malicious
And mirrors many misleading things
And he, doubtless another suitor, 
Waiting — to be sure — blowing rings
for her, our defendant there, in that 
Err.. smoke filled scene.

because strolling home together
From dinner the following week
Hand in hand or at least
That’s what it seemed 
over the bridge with talk so sweet..
I’d paused to pack my pipe
Whereupon did she, my lawful wife
Did push me over the railing
— grotts and scotts, flung me bodily
Like a bouquet into the nightly breeze

not a word or warning, heavens
I could hear the pigeons singing!
I didn’t jump I tell you, neverimagined the thing!
Yet for my injuries I’m the oneshamed!

And it wasn’t terror but remorse
Which screamed as I
Plummeted narrowly into death’s
.. onto the blessed decks of ferry boat Mary Alise.

halloween 7

So anyways, I wind up in Austin. It’s new years day. The rain isn’t freezing but it stings. It’s new years day and I couldn’t care less. I am walking the upwards end of uptown where I’ve been sleeping over work days for close to a month, between the railroad and the highway. 

I am flat broke, waiting out the holiday for a deposit into my account for the next meal, conjure up a new game plan and moor myself in it, and then hedge all bets against it over a cold beer.

 
So I’m in Austin, it’s new years and I am climbing tiredly up the southern portion of one far west blvd. Central tx heat is not always so forgiving, even in the dead of winter, sometimes it's absolutely sweltering - to me - but what do you know Im pretty damn cold just then and I am thinking about how I’d come to be here in Austin and why.. when I get a phone call from a guy I’d known in high school.

I don’t recognize the number. I push the little green key and give the warmest greeting anyone can manage when they are chilling like a cold headless turkey in a basin of water. The ensuing conversation is dull and mildly irritating and just what to expect from anybody you haven't talked to in some time. But there is a point in every conversation that we make a judgement call and say or don’t say what nature of beast is really riding our ass and so I do. I start into it and I kind of sort of open my heart a little bit, if for nothing else but to clear up my head a stretch for the coming day.

The cold is enough that my thinking is thick and I am jittery — but early enough in the morning too that I can’t tell whether it’s more cold or sleep that I am convulsed with. Not sure that seven elevens gonna be open.. is all that ricochets in my skull. And the dumb words roll off my numbed mouth rubbery and bouncing hollowly out like billiard balls onto the pavement before me and I can’t seem to connect in any real way with this fellow anymore.. I aim to suit myself and I get into it about this girl I am crazy about and how long it’s been. He tells me, in his own innocuous way and straight out that I’d better get to it as soon as possible or she’ll likely be getting married before long. And although these words are unexpected and quickly brushed off, it burrows into my brain like a captive bolt pistol into the brains of a helpless steer. Oh my god he's right.

So I am in Austin, it is new years without a care in the world, etc and etc. . but here was this random phone call that was so instrumental in my decision to leave. The following week I am on a wbd for one far west farther than any far west blvd ever was or ever could be. Highway 101 far west, Sonoma county California.

//B Temple TX

After getting all my shit together and consolidating and regearing with what money I have I take the first amtrak north to Temple TX where theres a yard is situated on a wye that sweeps directly west to sweetwater and north to ft worth. I wait there a week, learning the town and have a tough time of it as all of the trains seem to be exclusively north and south. Was hit with dysentery for almost a week. I remember doubling over in agony every 50 feet across town one day as I made my way to the grocery store to restock. I feel like a bitch post-rut unable to oblige 30 meters without a drop of blood. There I buy a bottle of grandma’s honey mint green tea and there is something in it that calms my stomach almost immediately.
Chowing down on a sandwich and a bag of chips behind the store there is this old guy comes and sits on the parking bumper next to mine and opens up a 40. Old 40 here says he rode bulls in his day until something happened to his hip and now he’s got this limp in his step and does construction work to pay child support and get himself by. I don’t remember his name or the details, but I don’t remember his face either and this is always saddening… that my memory can’t even forage up enough to put together a clear image of these characters any better than whatever hazy approximation. But never mind that because it was and always will be the things that went unsaid that were what made the company welcome and what made the person memorable, and these things lodge themselves deep down so that I carry them with me even after I no longer recall the words nor character or aspect. So it comes to pass that I’ve finished my lunch and ready to carry on, and Mr 40 oz bullring bootscootin badass motherfucker here tries to tell me where I can find such and such foodbank, and I try and tell him that I am passing through and not interested in such and such and I kindly appreciate it anyways and we bid farewell and yes, why, isn’t it a nice day to have a beer in the sun? Cowboy booted and clean shirted and leaned against an afternoon warmed cement wall cursing Abelard through Zion and content as a beached foal.

I finally make a ride out on a local 3 hours out to brownwood and from there think to hitch but change my mind, after surveying the state of things along the highway there, and head back for the yard where I bag another local in the wee hours just as it is kicking forward for Slaton. Brownwood isn’t even listed in the little book and so I am somewhat impressed with myself in making it out on another train in less than 24 hours.

Next stop, Slaton, and it's downright frigid. And gusty. Snowing in brief interludes as I make my way to the other side of town for a burger. For no particular reason every scrap of visible clothing on my hide happens to be black and my carhartt hooded and my wool scarf tied round my face from the wind and I suspect I must look like something wandered out of a charcoaled dystopia or some fevered dream of the 1001 arabian nights. It is so cold and gusty and destitute, but Im warm and relatively satisfied.
Making my way back again into the yard where there isn’t a sign of life to be heard or seen from for over 5 hours, I weave my way between lines and set up on a flatcar until twilight closes in and I finally hear a flickering voice on the scanner.. tally ho!.. and a line nearby jolts northward. Clambering over a few strings, near the end of it I find an old 3 hole to squeeze into. I fall onto the porch gasping for air.

 
So far I have had my scanner on constantly and it has done me some good, but is often just as much a source of confusion and wasted effort. Too much guesswork after so many hours begins to drive you mad and sometimes it’s best to shut the damn thing off and just use your eyes. 
This empty grain train stops and starts like a wild ass horse, and before long I'll have least a couple of bumps on my head before I walk away from it again. We stop in Lubbock for forever. It's dark and before I can crash for the night I am jumping up and down on the ballast to keep from going crazy from the cold, pretending I’m at that DJ shadow show at the box office one more time and wishing I at least had as much vodka as I had had that night now long past. No smart phone just then.. just.. singing. Anything to keep the blood moving.

//C New Mexico

This old blue 3 hole carries me across NW TX and out over the east of New Mexico to Belen. When I wake around six or seven my one asscheek and one foot feels like so many pounds of dead meat and I sit upright for a little food and water. Looking out to see the sun spreading over the nearby mountains like gods gleaming ass cheeks over gomorra and onto a frozen snow and sage brushed desert floor and I am inspired to pull out the android phone my mother had sent me loaded w family photos. Activating the camera, a message comes on screen saying that it is too cold for the camera to function and I almost throw it out off the train instantly. The first time in weeks I have need of a camera and it says it is cold.. If I’d kept the thing for a fucking thermostat I’d just as well sold it off and bought a goddamn thermostat. 

Technology.

So I roll in and explore both Belen and Albuquerque for a bit and the next day I hit up a farm up north beyond espaniola, against the Colorado border.
Albuquerque is crawling with homebums. It feels like Seattle all over again, only in the desert. Tepid, and only mildly homicidal. Seattle because Seattle after a matter of weeks begins to give off this arid, acrid desert-like stale piss of the washed-up seamonster kind of gray and grayer proportionlessness, like a salt-blurred mirage that is veridically broken by a dozen anomalous scuttling lizards and bizarre buzzards, palsied basilisks and bats, flagging jackrabbits. . . The guy on the phone sounds irritable and impatient and keeps talking over me but he sounds well and sensible enough that I take the job and head out straightaway. Free busses all the way up.

I spend the following 4 weeks in this peculiar but beautiful DIY establishment high on a hill overlooking a valley in between one spine of low mountains and another and a canyon there in the midst of it, at the bottom of that a stream, which opens up an arms length out and directly below my balcony. I see Elk and wolves and owls in intervals passing through, three-hundred four-hundred feet below. I read 6 books out of a library of them they had there on their shelves and I sew up all the holes in my pants, but I never write. The mood never came to me.

For all of it’s beauty there are nights I have these horrific and grotesquely detailed dreams and at times there are dull steps and thuds and cracks from the roof of my hut and I never fully managed to shut the proximity of the legendary town of Dulce from my mind… I am accustomed to sleeping in strange places everywhere sure, but here in this particular part of the country I feel again at times a little bit superstitious. Still winter and at this altitude still plenty of snow. A foot or so.

One morning 2 weeks in I look out over to the west, all that wilderness and quiet.. and on momentary impulse alone I pack my things and steal out toward the road to walk the ten miles back into tierra amarilla and catch a bus back to the rails. Homesick for the bloodlines of freight traffic for the unknown.

My hosts wife happens to be heading out at just the same time to go teach class, and catches me up not 200 yards off. We were on such good terms as it was that she undoubtedly thought there'd been a blowout and I had taken some of their things w me. So I get a visit from her husband a couple minutes after she rolls off again.

This was a very interesting thing. Here we are in the middle of nowhere, closest neighbor about half a mile down the hill, and arvo, he and his wife and their other farmhand to me all terribly good people by this point.. steps out of his car w every intention of making me give back whatever it was I must've taken. You know, without saying anything to them. You know.. like, ready to tackle me. 

Very embarrassed I slowly try to explain best I could how romantic disappearing into thin air felt to me for a moment and that I'd long had a bad habit of doing exactly that since I don't know when and that I didn't suppose that was why I had no support network or contacts in my phone or any relations to speak of. But.. that I still insisted on leaving.

Still very upset, he says to give back the rolling tobacco he'd bought for me. I reach into my pack for it and then stop.. overwhelmed w guilt already, returning a gift to this man who I most sincerely respect in that moment was too much. I put it back and asked if he'd have me for another two weeks and he might find some way to forgive me for walking out on my friends without saying goodbye.

//D Pheonix

On leaving I make it to Albuquerque within 8 hours and the same night find an IM in belen which carries me directly into phoenix..
Because I miss my initial bus I have to hitch down as far as Sante Fe, and the guy that picks me up, a native coming from Dulce, is headed to the airport there to pick up a friend from florida. What luck.
This man is unusually reserved and almost timid but I soon learn that it is something else, a humility that is fairly rare on the road which I mistook. Conversation is nearly inexhaustible as he begins to divulge on who he is and the more that he does the more questions I have and all the while he has all these questions for me because as he admits it is few and far between that he takes on travelers on the highway in this area. He is the chief and spokesperson for his nation on the Apache reservation there in Dulce, and he has a lot to tell. His friend at the airport happens to be a representative of the publisher for his autobiography, and the three of us grab a bite to eat and browse around town for a couple hours before I have to leave off for the rail runner south.

I don’t know what it is today that defiles men and whips them into these innocent puppies trying to be like saints. I don’t even know if it is right or if it is wrong. But there is something in it notwithstanding, or so I decide after this encounter, that is self-indulgent, for which all the humility and politeness in the world cannot offer apology. 

So I roll into Pheonix.. and, well I don’t even care to write about Phoenix except that my time there totaled approx. 36 hours and I walked practically nonstop through it’s bowels it’s extremities, it’s broad streets and it’s front streets and it’s state avenues with about 15 pitch of foodstamps in my wallet…

*O lord above you know *
*how much I love the smell *
*of diesel and *
*hellfire in the morning *

//E California

Making it back out of phx to Winslow via bnsf I grab an IM to LA and wake up 12 hours later to that signature rock littered tropical oasis unique to socal.. the sunrise at larboard is a great radiant exodus of heat trailing me over the sands and valleys all the way from that south land I’d left a month previous.
Chewing hungrily on some of the bear root I’d been given by the farmer in Tierra Amarilla I lay back anxiously wondering when the time to gtfo the train will present itself.
After getting smacked by the bnsf police I make my way 4 miles to the station and call my dad. I spend a month there with him and his sister and her family while I set up for the next move and file my taxes and wait for a new pair of boots to come in the mail. In the meantime I read, sleep, and do my best at honoring the family I haven’t talked to much at all in so long.

So here is the landfall of the arc of my flight west out of this first grand foray east, this clockwise circle that was the summit of all the wonderings and ceaseless drifting and working and inward calculation of more than two years. Stepping into it I wanted to make sure I covered all the bases before finally marching into that hallowed terminus toward which I had marched, subconsciously, inexhaustibly, effortlessly, every day since that one windy november afternoon. I want to make sure it is a trial. . .
Instead of hitching directly up the 101 I make a detour out to Nevada first for the couple of weeks prior to heading in for this farming gig I found north of the bay. So I amtrak it first to west colton and I expect the worst, but here there isn’t a soul to shatter the silence and all spots are vacant, all railroaders look the other way, and even the stray dogs seem to be blind. The entire week it is as though I were a ghost. The plan is Las Vegas way, but I wind up with a manifest to RV instead and from there a bucket on another GM through Donner Pass and onward. The terrain I am met with is vast and empty, and the towns.. littered along the way, can they even be called towns at all? More like aborted affairs and vestiges from days long gone. The emptiness is somehow alien and I suspect that it is because it is new terrain, and also that for whatever reason I was expecting more trees than this. I reach Elko and hit the brothels for a little hanky panky for a few days before catching back west via alkali flats and feather river.
Feather river is a wonderful ride, but it did not quite top the hellish expanse of the black rock desert nor that later interval of extraordinary geographical variety marking the transition up the grade from the salt-choked lake beds into the mountains and in for Portola. What amazed me most though is that I didn’t even plan for a train taking that line, it just happened to be the one I’d seen stopped when I opened my eyes that morning out in Nevada.

Portola is incredibly small and I don’t make two blocks out from the yard when I am halted by the sheriff and the fucking ant-eater questions me as though I am already cuffed and, not so foreign anymore to copper bullshit, I break his balls in every way convenient. He warns me away from the yard, and for this at least I am grateful that we met as soon as we did.
So, I am in portola and that same night I make my way down to a spot remote and away from the yard and away from any road, on top of the river and covered in ponderosa, and I realize what a good thing it is that I decided to stop off in little Portola after all. Lying upon the needles that night with the song of the river not 20 feet to my left and to smell the clean pine scented mountain air, so close to the sky which I can clearly make out between the trees… In the twilight of the following morning I have a grainer west and laugh like a stark raving lunatic as I am carried out of the yard and past all possibility of detection. Victory.
Back in rv I attempt to find an IM west but end up in stockton and blow most of my remaining finances riding commuter trains and busses over to san jose and then north in time for work. An anti climax, this final leg, but all the journey before drowns that out in it’s brilliance, even still.

//F Petaluma

When I arrive.. it is like I’d jumped out of a helicopter into enemy terrain and my eyes and ears are opened to every voice and every face or car that passes. I cris-cross all quarters, looking into shop windows and markets and gas stations and restaurants. The rolling hills are green and the oak everywhere, the town is vibrant and beautiful. There are young people everywhere and many of them sauntering alongside the river that cuts through it all. In those three days I try every bar and every promenade and strip mall and grocery I can find and I find nothing.

I spend 3 months and in that time I finally cave and try a few phone numbers, and I learn from these mutual acquaintances that she is to be married before summer is over.

. . .

After the farming is through with, I take a landscaping job in Santa Rosa first, from where I can see clear over the valley and over the coastal range to the ocean on many days. The nights I sleep in a magic tree net 30-50 feet up in the air like a fucking gorilla, from where I can watch all the city below through the canopy of the oak and contemplate always which beacon in that valley of light the person in question could be residing beneath.
Soon I am on my way again and hitching up the 101 for a fishing gig in Newport OR. The day that I start off is a bright white summer sunday, and that low-lying morning coastal fog has yielded finally to the apex of the afternoon sun. I am watching the weekend traffic there in petaluma, getting ready to tell myself outright to quit this fools errand and throw out my thumb for good or for bad, when my eyes light on this passing dark grey sedan. And there she is in the passenger seat looking as well and done up as helen of troy and for a brief second our eyes meet and I know as sure shit who it is just as I knew who it was that day 2 years before climbing up the stairs of the hollywood station in portland, and I see all over again that it was all idiocy.

The vast scope of our most ambitious undertakings alone is not enough to cleve to success.. nor justify the cause, however encumbering the weight carried or the purpose.

I went on up the coast for the second time that year, oakland to sacromento to portland to auburn, and from there cutting over the cascades into ellensburg and finally yakima where I find employment at a freight repair shop 10 minutes south. But when spring hits I am again like a freed bird, and again flying east.

draped in velvet

like smut pencilled libels on the walls of caged stalls

invoking desert arroyos cauterized in too bright insight and

ancillary stair cases, exit doors hinged on the brink of madness

daily branded new under skylight copulas in mazes of labyrinthine 

city stages, everywhere histories, footpaths, languages, cellar doors

submerged just below the dust, roots reaching everywhere but up

to steeples and bathhouses, foodcourts marauded w ghosts of

animate dancers, animal handlers cartwheeling over and over the green

coves of time etched in space, dreamscapes laced in sands embrace

sand dollars of stained glass ripped from dining halls enthralled in ash

grave diggers distaff of footsoldier sweet grass, vaguely glowers

w gowns of red wire and bones conferring their silent epitaph

barely buried in brooks and under bridges like white nails

platitudes wrapped in yesterdays fortitude, loomed w worms

pray careful songs forgotten over tables and windows, reflected

over scrupulous entryways chiseled w procession alms and old plays

dead pensioner reclining in your suited antechamber won't you

pardon the air once brought steel mares w chernobyls fare 

staring into the arrow consolations convicted, furrowed implications

in crows feet ruminations ponderously impaired

sightless ferrous inculcations, two spurious flights instilled w night

brooding ortega and andora, narrate your cold logus in luminous aciform

traverse the living word w modes that surpass new leaden dearth

draped in velvet, and pull the folds of night around it

as the careering globes which watch w heavy lids the light

when you have a sense of humor

you cut the cards slowly

just enough and in such a way

so that the the dealer wants to ask for them back

but can't

talk nonsense psychobabble to dullards

beg for money from the beggar

overtalk your boss and make the decisions for him

recollect thoughtfully your last name signing at the dental office

play dumb when it's your turn for the mic

tell the guy w the jag that you keyed it

and wait for him to come back w the proof

ask his wife to buy you a drink

let your girlfriend call all the shots

shoot at pool so that it's always a ball in hand

tip 40 bucks and never say a word edgewise

say nothing until their ears bleed

when they ask if you're a cop say no with two ns

tell the vocalist of your favorite band he's got no style

write f u c k on your dirty windshield

buy everyone at the bar a round of drinks even though

you only went in to take a leak

you have to make them think

slip love yous and thank you notes

under garages

and keep your dick in your pants when 

they return the favor

you fall in love with lap dancers and stay all night

you walk into a party and hit on the monolith

and then regret it

you have to wait for the third pitch and punt it into the dirt

apologize about everything

there's no other way to laugh

missed connections

I was on the coast somewhere. there was a city by the sea, I had been driving north up the 1 looking for a good beach, out for some fresh air. I didn't find anything acceptable and eventually turned back, but met someone somewhere on the way back down and we decided to go for lunch there. the pier was full of people and towered up over the water on an enormous cliff, w steps and guard rails leading narrowly down. a massive footbridge led from the top of it out over the water to a nearby key, obscured from view by shoreline cliff faces which wound to the north, jutting away. the girl took me to a squat in town and a few of her friends were there and we talked about local attractions and food. in time the others leave and we are alone, we are talking quietly on a couch, when you walk in and lean against the opposite wall, looking at me. I recognize you immediately and she doesn't. you are wearing a light brown jacket, dark hair curling down just the way it always did. I leave the couch and walk over, surprised.  you didn't say anything but had a look instead, reading my mind. I wanted to ask you what you were doing there and how did you find me in my own dream. 

the debt

in a modest size adobe in the outskirts of a small sunny village in the guadaramma, relatives filter in through every door and gather in the living room.  there are ranches, as well as woodland. there is a cake w lit candles being brought in and an old man in a blue plaid shirt sits alone at the end of a long four set. he is lucid, cheerful.. but it is not his birthday it is his wifes who has been dead for a long time. there are many reasons for the occasion, but the greater part of it is rudimentary; a son in law shares a birthday on the same week and the season was always most convenient for everyone. besides, nobody knows his, maybe not even he.

this year there is a recently adopted child. orphaned by the franco regime. it is expected to be the old man's last year and he is pleased to be welcoming a new great grandson into the family. he has a bad leg and his heart is weak but he fairs admirably. the child, thinking to pay respect, wants to give him something for a gift.

it is a pocket watch. broken. one of the hands is missing and there is no clasp to the backside, which comes loose in his hands and falls onto the table. the man in the plaid shirt squints down into the open machinery. there is a look of knowing in his face, as he briefly inspects the tiny gears and springs. formulating a semblence of gratitude. 

the candles are blown, there is dinner, reminiscing. toasts are made, and so symbolically also to others recently deceased.. many loved ones didn't survive the war. 

the old man dies in his sleep some days later. they find him on the floor of the same room, belly down and head cradled in the elbow of one arm.

the modest estate, on the edge of town, remains in the family and years pass. fourty. 

fifty. sixty.

a wedding is put on. a pool out on the veranda, empty. kids playing through the courtyard and everyone is drunk. wearing black. white. it's spring and all of the dahlias and the vech.. spider lines trembling in the calm and in the latticeways and an old man in a blue plaid shirtsits at the head of a long table. he is very old, but lucid and cheerful. It is his birthday, or so it's just as well, what's another year.

A small boy he has never seen before approaches quietly and reaches out his hand to give him something. A piece of it falls out of his hand onto the table. Pretending not to notice he looks down and nods, marveling but not because it is a broken watch w an arm missing and the gears rusted over but because he remembers then the words that are engraven on the back. Slowly, delicately, picks up the loose piece and for the first time looks up into the boys eyes.

el temps es or

amb amor, aina

the blue mamba

Packed into this little ballroom on 13th once I saw a thing. Something. I forget the name of the venue but the ceiling looked like the renaissance. We were in rome. Portland oregon. The drinker, I go for drinks at one of the barstands. The show had sold out and everybody's toes are involved meandering to and from and homeward. Looking for C w a gin and tonic and two double shots of scotch pinched in theright for myself, half expecting to find some meathead chatting her up by then I immediately drain one for backers on the way back. Returning I find her still going it alone. Must've fished a middle finger out of her pocket for the lot of them, I'd been away at sea for half an hour. I don't deserve this girl.



Conversation is impossible and we play the charades for a few minutes and hear every word before giving it up. The main act arrives, they play their newer stuff and it's kind of slow and lame. The band is letting me down bad and I her, and on fifty dollar tickets we're just standing it. So I take her hand and dancing backwards into the crowd lead her closer to center stage. Kind of in the mood anyhow with vessels dilated on all 4 rounds. Nobody cares how rudely you push by when it's madlad adonai in his workshirt ferrying an atom bomb over. Catherine of irishland and the snowplow kid.



Still, the music is shit and we try but neither one of us can really get into it. We persist and get a resounding.. "eh". In a manner of apology I finally kinda just rest an arm on C's shoulder. Well then. Like you would your stud in a chapel full of pussy. Baddest in the house.



..Unless?




Bored, I look around and over my shoulder. Sea of faces. There's movement directly behind, over a few heads and I turn. I spot a couple, each in all black and matching derby hats, spanned off a ways in the middle of the audience looking like doc holiday and his poker beretta fresh out of the saloon. I scan the eyes behind them and nobody seems to notice. Odd.



I look down at C, look back. The lights are swimming the crowd and his hat and shoulders blaze over hers, red green blue red. It's almost psychedelic. Surreal. And I begin to wonder if maybe somehow Id been slipped something. No, I don't think so. I nudge C to have a look. She sees them too, thank god, laughs and says something inaudible. Yeah I guess that's what we'd call getting down huh. They seem to be hearing music from another stage somewhere, stepping triangles in this insane waltz, woven together like a couple of mambas. Fucking. Muted, synchronized, sublime. But to have brought a spotlight down into them like in the movies would have killed them flat. I'm certain they would have shriveled into a plume of smoke and mirrors, ghosts. I didn't know what to make of it and turned away.



The show ends. Anxious to get back and reset the mood to something good like meat puppets or skip james, or anything, we make our way out ahead of the crowd. I take her hands and ship her through, plowing backwards again. My bad, my bad, sorry. Didn't see you there. Step aside and go to hell. Both you and your shitty music.



Looking back through the mass I spot the two in black again, the lights now dimmed. Still there, slow dancing alone on a floor all their own. A dance floor from somewhere else altogether. To something nobody heard.



To that something, whatever it is, I tip my glass.

the janitor

chuck steps outside. the air feels good and the sun is warm. theres dust caked w sweat to his collared shirt which he glibly unbuttons as he unbuttons feet first into the light and flings it away indiscriminating.

'i relinquish thee'

'did I bring my ID?

'the smoke smells like cinnamon. i hope i dont have a brain tumor.

'in any case i will be expecting one. why is it the shit that smells like a shopping mall when it heats always the shit w carcinogens?

'i wonder where laura is. she hasnt called in days and she has my caddy.

'keys... i forgot my keys

'thats alright you wont be needing them today

chuck spots an incoming bird and flails his arms hoping it better recognize and rechart.

'..because i cant, move it or lose it buddy

'oh my god. so many people out now. i hope i look good. dignified.

'i forgot to check a mirror.. guess i left that too. ah well.

'god look at that runner. i bet shes got a great ass. 

'one for the books.

chuck veers to the right a little, fighting the wind, tentatively working pink panties into the trajectory for a future reconnoitering.

'the intersections are all crowded w people now. not just ants.

'was there a parade today?

'pink panties doesnt seem to mind.

'ill bet shes got a really nice ass

'look at her go...

chuck feels something warm at the fly and realizes his own ass is on fire.

'fuck. i really liked these dickies. my only good pair.

the inner monologue stops as he struggles a moment and pats the flames out.

'wish id thought to bring the mug of joe w me

'its ugly and a throwaway piece of shit much like myself anyhow, im sure laura wouldnt ve minded

'how is it that the distance always so much more than you planned for?

'why does the dog take so long. why so many traffic lights for that matter. why not more underpasses? questions for the initiated.

'a sandwhich wouldve been nice too. fuck. im not even halway there.

'cancel that appointment and get me a handjob

'and a cup of coffee while i pontificate on the mysteries of dog shit and inconveniently synchronized traffic stops i think i need to think life over a few minutes.

'there was never any time. and somehow now theres too much of it.

'god is the great con artist. 

'not the thief, not the faithful. god is the crook.

'i know this because all of the fat boys and preachers and grifters between venice beach and venice italy are too stupid to ever have written in a world as heinous and farcical as this one.

'thats how i know god exists

tell them. tell the faithful their god is real and he hates us all equally

'better to get up on your horse, preach, your pulpit and preach up a storm of how to build a world without god. one with pens that dont dissappear into thin air under the table, children that dont grow legs and walk off the planet, workers that really work, banks that still run on holidays. food that doesnt cost an arm and leg. relationships that dont break, and break everything in their path. lets build a god bunker and start from scratch without all raping asshole in the sky driving everybody screwy.

'that might be a first step in the right direction

'the second to to go make merry w the underdogs down below and screw eachother over in peace

'yeh, first things first. it could work. im headed there now anyhow.

'i hope hades likes leather oxfords bc thats all i got now thats worth a room.

'i think the cat pissed in one of them.

'come to think of it that dirty bastards been pissing and shitting everywhere but the litter box

'he should be the one sprawl-eagled out here

'i wasnt even working today, for godsake, i just forgot to lock the mop up and figured it an excuse to the misses while i hit jackson on the way back for a few drinks w this gal i met in the lobby

'blame the cat. 

'and god. theyre both rotten

'my name is charles bukowski and tell that dirty son of a bitch i hate him.

charles bukowski checks his watch

'...christ it is a long way down.

'stick that in the ledger, motherfucker!

'they say they die of heart failure first. just my luck... not a flutter. i dont think, and i should think weve passed that stop by now. still pumping good, baby. how do you like that.

'guess there is still the question of the flashing of life before the eyes... guess ill find out soon enough

'i think margies onto me.

'i think this because we started having sex again. and its been really good. and i know that because she hasnt turned on the tv

'i should call sarah let her know i wont be making it. sarahs been good for our marriage.

'sarahs been good for everyone.

'no time. here comes the pavement. get out of the way, you shitheads!

'wheres pink panties at now i dont see her. 

'my moral support has gone MIA.

'im probably too old and ugly for her anyway

'id arch my arms and really dive like the silver surfer but im afraid id come in too hot and really hit someone. im a novice goddammit. havent got my wings yet.

'fuck id go for a pig if i could.

'id... what the hell. here it comes.

'tell sarah she needs to shave more. my cock has had enough sandpaper.'

when he hits the ground it isnt very dignified. and each leather oxford shoots a 30 foot course respectively. one hitting a cameraman. there is otherwise no further cruelty and no bystanders are injured by charles' flight from floor 77 of tower one. but many of them will be in the proceeding 30 minutes when it too comes down.