6-Country Blend: Ode to Black Dog
Smooth, rich flavor
Strong enough to put hair on your chest
Velvety enough to put a glide in your stride
People come and go, wisps of their conversations still linger in the aroma-filled air
Coffeehouse music resonating over the mild loudspeakers, doing acoustic covers, rounding out the sharp points of edgier songs
Heys and Hellos from the staff, me grabbing a Cubano sandwich or lunch wrap on wheat tortilla
I remember you.
For years, you were my go-to, surefire, Johnny-on-the-spot sanctuary of writing/thinking/citing/drinking
It would be unfathomable to calculate the amount of words I wrote, scribbled, crossed out, erased there
I remember you.
To ice cold days to sweltering heat to rainy mornings, we saw it all, but always had more to see and explore.
Because the mind’s eye engulfs unchartered landscapes that all feel like home when you allow yourself to soak and simmer. Your threshold was the archway to those worlds for many of me.
When hard times befell the world, you managed to tough it out and stick around for the community.
Change happened. Even though you smelled different and looked different, I knew you were still in there. The soul of the place that greeted me that first day I drifted off the boulevard into the next twin decades.
I remember you.
Now, something new is in your old hallowed space. I saw the signs, read the signs. A sign of the times.
Even though you’re no longer here, you have my eternal thanks for being there for me when I needed a place to land.
So I’ll raise a glass of wine to my favorite cup of coffee and the men and women who brewed it, fed me, and welcomed me with open arms, open doors, and open minds.
I remember you.
Six-Country Blend Dark Roast and Black Dog Coffee.
QWERTY jam
Shift I space j a m space o n space t h i s space r u s t y space k e y b o a r d space l i k e caps lock Q W E R T Y space j u h dash j u h dash j u h dash j a m space o n space i t period
The Whole While
Across time and space and everywhere in between
Against the grain and the laws of nature
You will look up one day and realize that the love you seek was there alongside you the whole while
And by the time you reach out to secure it in your grasp,
An empty handful of once-endless soul-love will be lost.
Cause I’ll be gone.
inspiration can come from anywhere
“When you make music or write or create, it’s really your job to have mind-blowing, irresponsible, condomless sex with whatever idea it is you’re writing about at the time. ”
–Lady Gaga
“Any writer, I suppose, feels that the world into which he was born is nothing less than a conspiracy against the cultivation of his talent.”
–James Baldwin
bronze gods
After all the rain, there’s always the silver lining
The bronze gods will guide us down the golden path
So keep shining
The Hole
Days melt into weeks
Weeks melt into months
Months melt into–
After so long, time becomes abstract
Incomprehensible and immeasurable
At that stage, you only feel the fingertips of Father Time rubbing your head, massaging your temples, trying to soothe you, move you, distract you from your pain
Even though the pain is what’s killing you, it’s also what’s keeping you alive. You have to feel something. Otherwise, may the gods help you.
Because God left this conversation a long time ago. Couldn’t bear watching her creation atrophy into a puddle of damp, dank hopelessness.
You’re on your own.
That’s why you built this solitary confinement, this SHU, this box.
That life of yours on the outside is the prison you were escorted away from, in chains and restraints. You always felt suffocated, asphyxiated.
That corporate tie around your neck was an Italian-made, silk woven noose.
Manufactured of the finest quality.
Sucking the souls of a mindless quantity.
Soulless indoctrination.
The whole cell is your shadow. Darkness everywhere. You can’t tell where your feet are, and you forgot what hands look like.
It mimics your soul. The interior of your inner being. And that’s all you got, because that’s all you’ll get.
So as you sink deeper and deeper into your imprisonment, as you become more entrenched in the quicksand of this despair and brutal isolation,
You tell yourself, with a slow smirk and a quickened heartbeat that runs a race with no destination,
“At least I’m free.”
“When you are Old” – Wm Yeats
“When you are Old” by William Butler Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
Writing the Truth
“The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself. You must see the writing as emerging like a long scroll of ink from the index finger of your right hand; you must see your left hand erasing it.”
-–Margaret Atwood
A handful
Yesterday has passed
Tomorrow isn’t here yet
So all I hold is today.
fog
Sitting here
Not actually feeling like here is here
A crown of fire keeps me warm, burning up
I can’t take this crown off…yet
The type of royalty no one truly wants
The type of royalty that gruesomely haunts
Thought that wisp in the air was from the hard hats down there
Ripping up chunks of asphalt, blacktop
Causing fire and smoke to tango in the firmament
But that’s not what I smell
The stench of chemicals and burnt plastic is coming from me
Internal prestidigitation
it’s an strange trick I play on myself
sleight of hand, slight of mind, light on time
hope this doesn’t last forever
it’s a peculiar sensation, it is
an oddness
within that crown of fire lives a fog
my thoughts get lost in the misty hall of mirrors
which way is which?
feels like I’m across the room, across space and time
viewing myself through a hazy dimensional wall of cloudy regrets
Cumulus concerns under cirrus psychological phenomena
Nothing’s quite clear, and nothing’s everything
but there’s one thing that comes through in sharp focus
if I ever make it out of this fog
i’m never coming back through here
as the fog thickens and thickens
i wonder where my last step was and where my next step is going
a cork upon a tide
“His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before.”
― James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
AND
On the label of a bottle of Writers’ Tears Irish Whiskey that’s calling me
White Crayon
Overestimated worth
Persona inflated
Spoiled since birth
Not really sophisticated
Self-important
Struggles to think
Clearly abhorrent
The weakest link
Irrelevant imbecile
Arrogant idiot
The Achilles heel
In your own Iliad
Eager to be meager
The odor of mediocre
A fruitless doofus
Colossal waste of space
Wannabe intellectual
Gonna be ineffectual
Hardly ever, very seldom
Do they get they’re not welcomed
Like a white crayon, some people are useless
The idol of the idle, brimming with excuses
Even with wisdom teeth, still no smarts in their heads
Toothless truants proud of their obtuseness
Cerebrally impotent, they are mental eunuchs
Can’t help out the team? They’re better off dead.
A321
Tin can with wings you are
Sitting in 29D with fellow peasants
First class/business, coach, premium coach
Legal segregation in the friendly skies
Oh, how you love to pack us in like sardines
Like them, I get salty when I think about
How my boarding pass is always the last group
The crass troupe, the ass group
In a fast loop, we’ve all been mass duped
We never get other seating groups
How am I in an aisle seat but it still feels like I’m being crushed in the middle?
Little does anyone know, the toilet is broken and the last row is choking
On the smell of baby diapers and regret of not being able to afford a personal jet
The bathroom back here is occupied, how come I can’t use the one up there?
No one is using it. Are my ass cheeks too poor to sit on a communal throne for shared shitting?
Yes? Well. Well damn.
Ah, yes, little baby of recent amniotic escape fame, please don’t stop your demon shrieking.
Pay no attention to the rest of us with our eyes closed. We’re not trying to get some sleep, we’re dead. We died inside long before this flight. Your shrieks only make our ears bleed in pure bliss.
A321, why are your cupboards full of peanuts, pretzels, and cheese crackers?
I paid hundreds of dollars for a seat on this flight.
Least you could do is give me something more than some 50¢ snacks from the vending machine.
The incoming plane was late
We boarded the plane late.
We’ve been sitting on the tarmac for nearly an hour.
Now the pilot says we have to go back to the terminal for a maintenance check.
We will never see daybreak over bluegrass fields.
We will never see dawn in the Queen City.
Will we still be rotting away on the runway on New Year’s Day?
Thank God I have a 3-hour layover, but will that be enough now?
This guy just reclined his seat on my knee.
Excuse me while I choke him out. Any last words?
I keel you. I keel you.
A321, see what you turned me into.
Carlin
“Think about how stupid the average person is, and then realize that half of ’em are stupider than that.”
“Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups.”
“If you have selfish, ignorant citizens, you’re going to have selfish, ignorant leaders.”
“In America, anyone can become president. That’s the problem.”
“Here’s all you need to know about men and women. Women are crazy. Men are stupid. And the main reason women are crazy is that men are stupid.”
The Dreamers
Bring me all of your dreams,
You dreamers,
Bring me all of your
Heart melodies
That I may wrap them
In a blue cloud-cloth
Away from the too-rough fingers
Of the world.
–Langston Hughes
Mandatory Retail Work
Latrine is a fancy Frenchified name for a piss ditch.
I’m never getting my hair cut at a place that advertises “Family haircuts.”
Ever heard of the saying “cute as a button”? How is a button cute?
If there’s conditioning shampoo, isn’t only fair that there’s shampooing conditioner?
Heard on this reality show, a contestant say, “The hardest thing about snake hunting is finding them.” Hunting. Finding. Aren’t they the same…ah, nevermind.
If I were ruler of the world, I’d implement mandatory retail work for everyone. At least a year. The world would be a nicer place then.
* * *
Tried to explain to someone that I picked up by a rideshare at A Street in Culver City. They kept asking what the name of the street was.
“What’s the name of the street?”
“A Street.”
“I know it’s a street, but what was the name of it?”
And so on and so on…
* * *
If you say “parmesan” and “Papa John’s” the same way, we can’t talk to each other.
Super Bowl is not the same thing as Super Bowel.
Why is the viewing of a deceased person called a wake when that person ain’t awake?
I saw some signs marked “free” on various discarded items on the sidewalk. The “free” sign wasn’t needed.
Just saw a handwritten “homeowner loan” sign off the freeway. Why the fuck would I call that number?
pigeonhole
Love and peace in your work, and they ask where’s the rage?
They say start a new chapter, but then they tear the page.
They beg you to join them in a war that they don’t care to wage.
They say the coast is clear, then why’s there a barricade?
They want to hear your voice, but say please don’t serenade.
You give them food for thought, but they hate your marinade.
You give them blood & sweat, but tears rain on their parade.
They tell you it’s not a game, as they keep up their charades.
They want you focused, but only notice when they’re engaged.
They want you front and center, but won’t share the stage.
They want a force of nature, but where’s the weather gauge?
They say they gave you directions, but suddenly there’s a maze.
They gave you their word, but now they wanna paraphrase.
They say no questions asked, but then they interrogate.
They say they love your mind, but rather you not cerebrate.
They tell you there’s no tricks, but you see that there’s a mage.
Spread your wings, they say, but, um-hmm…there’s the cage.
My life has been the poem I would have writ
My life has been the poem I would have writ
But I could not both live and utter it.
— Henry David Thoreau
Extras in a scene
“Walla walla walla walla. Walla walla. Walla walla walla walla walla walla walla. Walla walla walla walla walla walla walla. Walla walla walla walla walla walla walla! Walla walla walla walla walla walla walla walla walla walla walla walla walla walla walla walla walla walla walla walla wallawallawallawalla walla walla walla walla. Walla walla walla walla walla walla walla? Walla!
Rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb.
peas and carrots peas and carrots peas and carrots peas and carrots peas and carrots peas and carrots peas and carrots peas and carrots peas and carrots peas and carrots peas and carrots peas and carrots peasandcarrotspeasandcarrotspeasandcarrotspeasand carrots.
Walla walla rhubarb peas and carrots.”
cash only
Just saw a business with a sign that read “after-hours chiropractic.” Well, well, well…
I don’t trust grown men riding kid bikes.
Been going to Jack in the Box for years now, and I have yet been greeting by a clown springing up from behind the counter.
Cash-only businesses need to stop it. It’s 2022. Phones don’t need cords. Cars drive themselves. People send messages through the air now. And you don’t need to get paid in paper notes. Thought you were in the food business, not the drug trade.
Some people state the obvious so often it becomes confusing to you. Someone I know always states how the weather is. “It’s a clear day.” “It sure is a sunny day.” “Wow, today is really windy.” I have to double check to see if we’re living on the same plane or timeline.
The sound of a hybrid car backing up is the same sound of the heavenly gates opening up.
Tarzana, CA is named after Edgar Rice Burroughs’ incredibly racist story Tarzan. Fuck him.
I keep hearing that cyanide tastes like almonds. Who is researching this? Who takes cyanide and lives long enough to report his findings from his flavorful palate?
How many Crime of the Century cases will there be this century? The last century had at least a million.
People are going around calling the pandemic “the pandemmy.” Leave it to Americans to take something that killed millions of people worldwide and rename it a moniker that sounds like something cuddly you pet constantly and take to the groomer every other week.
Jacaranda Rain
The day yawns, I look out, hand on my window pane
Violet petals fall, their beauty can’t be feigned
It’s that time of year for jacaranda rain
There’s a lonely white car near the bicycle lane
And all over this car are violent violet stains
Ah yes, it does that, that jacaranda rain
A man looks at it with disdain, he’s going insane
It’s all on the hood, tires, and woodgrain
He should’ve known about that jacaranda rain
His sunroof is open, purple explodes like propane
Can’t wait to hear the owner bitch and complain
Wet blooms on the interior, thanks jacaranda rain
I don’t like him anyway, I say fuck that mayne
I’d pay money to ruin his day again and again
He stands with arms akimbo like the street’s his terrain
His face turns red, veiny forehead shows strain
At the end of my rope — of my existence, he is the bane
I try to stay cool, but my inner monologue gets profane
I rally my neighbors and start a smear campaign
He thwarts our efforts through some type of legerdemain
I dream of him before a train, being split apart in twain
My mind’s telling me yes, but my body shall restrain
We regrouped to brainstorm, the upper hand we will regain
We got his keychain, the details of how I won’t explain
In his car, we planted some cocaine we obtained
He got arrested the next day, today he’ll be arraigned
We celebrate with champagne and red wine from Spain
Only memories of victory now when I see jacaranda rain
Saints and Poets
EMILY: Does anyone ever realize life while they live it…every, every minute?
STAGE MANAGER: No. Saints and poets maybe…they do some.
– Thornton Wilder, Our Town
Children of Children
The children of children by the time they’re half grown have habits like rabbits and young of their own
The children of children from their mamas laps hop down to the ground to be taken in traps
The children of children trapped by dark skins to stay in and play in a game no one wins
The children of children while still young and sweet are all damned and programmed for future defeat
The children of children are trapped by adults who fail them then jail them to hide the results
The children of children unable to cope with systems that twist them and rob them of hope
The children of children of sin and ashamed keep pairing and bearing and who do you blame
The children of children cry out every day – they beg you for rescue and what do you say?
—Oscar Brown, Jr.
Three poems by Dorothy Parker
Resumé
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
Frustration
If I had a shiny gun,
I could have a world of fun
Speeding bullets through the brains
Of the folk who give me pains;
Or had I some poison gas,
I could make the moments pass
Bumping off a number of
People whom I do not love.
But I have no lethal weapon-
Thus does Fate our pleasure step on!
So they still are quick and well
Who should be, by rights, in hell.
The Danger of Writing Defiant Verse
And now I have another lad!
No longer need you tell
How all my nights are slow and sad
For loving you too well.
His ways are not your wicked ways,
He’s not the like of you.
He treads his path of reckoned days,
A sober man, and true.
They’ll never see him in the town,
Another on his knee.
He’d cut his laden orchards down,
If that would pleasure me.
He’d give his blood to paint my lips
If I should wish them red.
He prays to touch my finger-tips
Or stroke my prideful head.
He never weaves a glinting lie,
Or brags the hearts he’ll keep.
I have forgotten how to sigh—
Remembered how to sleep.
He’s none to kiss away my mind—
A slower way is his.
Oh, Lord! On reading this, I find
A silly lot he is.
Think Ink|Thinq Inq 