Stay Cool, Los Angeles

I woke at one to the steamy sensation that my apartment has been replaced by a broiler room.  I have no air conditioning so I must sit around in my skin in the heat and slowly melt. It’s hard to get creative with sweat dripping down your body while you sit at the computer brainstorming, wishing you could instead jump in a pool of ice water, the keys swimming in your sweat.

I’m headed to the beach. To the cool ocean breeze.

There is an infestation of aggressive kelp taking over the beaches and harbors across California. A stowaway from China. Used in Miso soup. It means more dead fish and dead otters and more smelly, fly-buzzing strands of the stuff piled up on the pristine sand. There was tons of the stuff when I was up in Pismo Beach last month.

As the world changes and mutates and becomes a butterfly of death, I’m just thrilled to breath the air and feel the soft feathery effects of time. In the face of so much chaos it’s a blessing to walk around and squint at the sun, it’s a treat to look at history and see how easily we link lines… I’m the 2-ton anchor, keeping us close to shore.

California battled and killed a patch of mutant, killer seaweed by covering it with tarps to block out the sunlight then poisoning it with chlorine from underneath, killing all surrounding seafloor life as well, collateral damage in the fight against this mossy destruction. It’s a genetically manipulated assassin that is taking over the Mediterranean. We’re lucky we nipped that shit in the bud!

Crooked smile, but white teeth, it’s amazing how easily I slip into a wobbly falsetto. When the voice in my head spills into song, I’m caught humming into a hairbrush.  We are all stars in our show, but mine’s the best! Do you remember the scene where I took a stand against injustice, inspired a revolution, and swept the damsel away from the flames?

The orchestra was drunk so it came out a dirge.

Cake sings about an Alpha Beta parking lot as I stare at a bottle of Goldschlager, wondering, what the hell I’m doing with a bottle of Goldschlager? I remember getting drunk on odd concoctions when I was 23 and going to play an illegal game of golf; I remember neon and fluorescent colored drinks in rowdy college bars while Garth Brooks crooned about his friends in low places; but I can’t remember ever enjoying Goldschlager.

Why don’t I throw it away? Because it’s booze and that just seems wrong… you never, ever know. I’m keeping it around in case of apocalypse.

The ear is a sensitive orifice. You shouldn’t put anything smaller than your elbow in it. The nose is a dumb, gaping hole; you can stick pencils up there.

That’s pretty much it for the day; I told you, it’s too hot to think. I just want to walk in my loafers on the boardwalk and enjoy a cold beer on a patio; but I want to leave you with one thought: I love you. And I want to leave you with one question: when you dance in front of the mirror, are you dancing alone?

Stay cool, Los Angeles.

New Sunset Rubdown Song

New song by my favorite band, Sunset Rubdown. Anything these guys do is golden. Being a diehard SR fan I had to give them a little love on artofstarving… and because I’m completely bored at work — so enjoy.

Coming To At Dawn:

I’m a huge fan of their lyrics so here they are — let’s sing along together. 

obliterate the memory of coming to at dawn
knowing only that the night was someplace that you had gone
and the amber waves on the showboat of laughter
and you cannot change the way you slid down railings in the lobby
and then again down the gangway shortly after 

obliterate the memory of coming to at dawn
knowing only that the night has gone
obliterate the grass stains from the cloth
you were only in the grassy fields to pick a hollyhock
you want to stick it to the stem again
by fusing up the atoms and then believe that it will live again
just from the power of your refusing to believe it cannot happen

obliterate the memory of coming to at dawn
knowing only that the night has gone
obliterate the memory of coming to at dawn
knowing only that the night has gone

obliterate the cherry and the wild berry juices
that you trailed along the hallways of the whorehouse that you used
as a store room for your fox furs and the harvest from the orchard
full of hollyhocks and cherry trees and other flowery images
of course you wanted everything cold
but when you opened up the door everything got old
i said of course you wanted everything cold
but when you opened up the door all the flower petals folded

obliterate your speech so you cannot ask forgiveness
for hanging with the vampires when there was no one to witness
the submission of the skin upon your neck
all they wanted was a dance you gave your peace of mind instead
there is a tower with a winding set of stairs
you will descend into the absolute light
into the absoluteness of light
and come aware
and become aware 

The Last Push, The Great Dive

At the core of things we are just clusters of atoms… inside of which are clusters of electrons and neutrons, and inside that some other kind of matter, who knows; but  it doesn’t matter because most of my clusters are just like yours. We are practically identical on the inside. Underneath the nude flesh it’s the same wiring. Everybody. Farts.

It’s a strange, cloudy day. The sunset is purple, painted with a soft brush.

A deep slug of Stella Artois proves to me that some things do go down easy. The forty dollars I lost on the horses before the Flaming Lips Show taught me some things don’t. I’m starting to sound like a beer commercial now. The night sky is bundling up its dark coats. The cool orange and purple hues slipping away.

The nightingales begin singing to the stars. The rare one or two poking through cloud and haze.

Interference from satellites interrupted our phone call. There was nothing left to say anyway. It’s up in space now. The distances are much shorter but closeness much rarer these days. How is it that that happens? Is life some ironic hipster joke? Or maybe I’m the ironic hipster joke… who knows?

They let the horses out of the gate. We watched them go, dirt flying everywhere, your dress blowing gently.

With your three worst planets aligned, what are you going to wear to the Going Away ball? My fingers explore your Martian body like tiny rovers. The last push, the great dive, came and I sat next to the ocean, looking at sea glass. All that’s left behind is dust and archeologists’ lust. Fossils of promises.

Of all the emotions you bottle up, is there any worth writing a song about?

Unroll the tarp over the pool to keep it warm. There is a lemon tree in the back for your Coronas. Watch this cannonball. The sun is high and gracious with its rays. The lawn is made of artificial grass but otherwise it’s your American dream unfurled. Would you like a bacon burger?

The lights go on for last call. You look around, sizing the crowd for broken dreams.

Put on your sunglasses. The light is bright. We orbit strange planets, suffocate on too much oxygen. If you came home with me tonight I’d tell you all about my life. The way the carousel goes around in circles and the cotton candy tastes extra sticky. We put clown noses on and dance to the music coming out of the speakers by the beach. Are you ready to try on your new, blue tap shoes?

The ships bob up and down next to the wharf, the fishermen reach for the lines, the birds circle.

Come aboard my yacht. Let’s both delude each other. The seas are calm. We’ll sail smoothly. I breath in tiny particles of the city, even out by Catalina Island. All I taste is Los Angeles; it tastes like hamburger wrapper. The currents bring a million jellyfish to shore, invading my Normandy.

A cucumber in your ice water makes you feel better for five seconds. Then it sets in.

I slept another night away to awake to the pulsing feeling that all is not lost. There is still so much to reach for, to grab. It’s Saturday and people’s junk is piled in front of their places for sale. The beaches are jammed and the Dodgers are in first place. We worship the sun in this town and Ra is good to us.

If all it takes is the flip of the switch, why don’t they make more switches?

Everywhere There

The sea monster eats all the ships,
swallowing them down with ease.
The captain smokes a cigar.
The Shuffle Music Gods blessed us tonight,
played every single one of our songs.
The wine was free flowing and fine.

There are electric clouds
hovering overhead.
There’s a light down by the pier.
There’s an onshore breeze
carrying the stench of dead fish.
There’s panic on the crosswalks.

Let’s make a break for it.

There’s a kid with a balloon, staring at the sky.
Everywhere you look there’s a sky and a moon.
There’s time syphoned through a looking glass.
Everywhere we go there’s glass and light things.

A small falling star lands on the water and shimmies.

I got halfway through Infinite Jest and gave up…
I moon-walked outside Captain EO and played PacMan.
I climbed rocks in Joshua Tree and hopped on a soul bus…
I was born in the 70s and came out disco dancing.

You can find your own way up.

The place you are, right now, is special.
Your home, the fountain, a weight lifting bench,
The ants in the grass, the sheep in the field, are blessed.
As are we, fitting into this cosmic scheme.
The sky above and Earth below,
balancing each other out
in perfect equipoise.

There really is no other place you could be.
It’s where you are, it’s hard sometimes to accept.
I’m making photocopies. I’m baking a lasagna.
I’m washing a dish. I’m parking my car.
It’s all so staunchly forgettable,
But everything wonderful comes
when you relax and let it.

Big Sur is nothing but a slow drip of time
running through a forest to the sea.
Bigfoot is right behind you
and he wants to be.

All we got to do is believe…

I’ve walked through London in the fog.
Serenaded senoritas in Todos Santos.
We dipped our toes in the Mediterranean.
Lost our minds in Milan.

I’ve gotten drunk at the Sydney Opera House.
Arrested in Palos Verdes.
Toasted the good Gods on a mountaintop.
Bathed in a tub of sweat.

I found my way through a labyrinth
at midnight, underneath prayer flags,
and never found my way out again.

.

God put me here to create.

And to clean out my belly button…

In The Milieu of This Collapse

The TV screen shows the news…
A million termites run out,
frightened by the light.

In the chaos and the brine,
A sea anemone attaches itself to the bottom of the ship.
The captain is up above, lighting a cigar.
They both sail together.

I’m listening to headphones in a sound-proof room,
letting you read my thoughts like a book.
Watching you mouth out the words.

The orange I am eating is from Australia,
I think to myself that is a long way to go for an orange.
But who am I to question the modern world?

A car rumbles and roars out in the street.
The birds take off for the trees.
I want to tell them not to be scared,
but I don’t see any reason not to be.

“Why are you always so sad?” My dream girl asked me.
I told her, “because you don’t really exist.”

Air atoms swirl in the breeze.
Rust grows on the tailpipe.
Cell phones undulate on the tabletop.
Strippers shoot tiny plastic guns.
John Berryman killed himself for poetry.
Buddha sits quietly under a lotus tree.

My dream girl asked, “Is this a work of art
or caving in?”
I throw the pages into the air,
watch the wind ravish them,
words scattering like lotus.
“There is no difference.” I say.

Your blue eyes pierce mine.
I was lucky to look into them once.
I saw the ocean of possibility
disappear into the horizon
when your eyelids crushed down.

I hope to die wearing my tuxedo,
so you can drop me straight into my coffin
and dance, dance, dance at my wake.

The sparrows, the crows, the mockingbirds.
Fly. Fly. Fly.

Someplace Somewhere

I filled out my census report, affixed a stamp to it, fed it into a blue mailbox and wondered how many times I will stand up and be counted in my life. I’m one of several billion humans just waiting for the next meal to eat, the next night to sleep, the next heart to tear apart with endless talk and soft kisses. I’m sleeping through a waking dream. You move in phosphorescent ambulation. I slither through neon signage. The city is our captor. I suffer from Stockholm syndrome, but it’s Los Angeles that I love.

Your permanent sunny summer. Your girls made of desirous dreams. The way your palm trees bend in the afternoon dulcet breeze that sings La Vida Dulce. The common coolness of the poets and poster boys that hang at the Grove and shield themselves in $100 shades alike. The graffiti tattooed to walls bleeding into billboards for derelict movies and miracle skin creams paint the city a phantasmagorical hue, reminiscent of our shadows-come-together.

I love it all.

I went to Golden State on Fairfax and had a tuna sandwich and cucumber salad. I watched a basketball game from 2004 on ESPN Classic and daydreamed about Richard Brautigan in 1968. It’s so rare that we ever are truly there, in the present, in our minds; or rather we’re always in our minds but never in that place, the coffee shop, the kitchen, the desk in front of the window. We’re always someplace else, in our mind, somewhere more refined and pinpoint. I’m always a writer, at a desk, a future desk with future books on future shelves, a yellowed lampshade casting a hideous light, the radio softly humming, and the moon stalking my lover. I’m always bearded and insane, even in my dreams.

If you could give yourself any name, which one would it be?

I cut my fingernails and watch the shards fly off into space. Little by little my DNA is leaving me. There is a small palm tree growing between the cracks in the parking lot below my window, desperate reaching for the sky, where I sit, shielding my eyes from the sun. My soul is sheltered and dreaming of an implosion. It’s the middle of the summer and my body is ripe and tan and begs to explode. The constant battle between the two is what keeps me whole.

I’m listening to a cover of a Joy Division song and drinking ice water. Somewhere a  baby is crying for its mother. Somewhere a lover is listening to her lover sing. Somewhere writers’ words stack up into buildings where people can live and breathe and go about their lives in quiet but wondrous splendor.

If your mind was a cloud would it rain or would it float like a little lamb?

I wrote a poem and encased it in aluminum and burnt the edges for authenticity. A couple of tacos and a bottle of Mexican Coke beckon my walking feet so I set out navigating the city streets. I discovered a song beaten out by the tires screaming over the hot asphalt. The ineffable lyrics of the urban maze, trance-like parade of people passing by, I can’t describe. It all runs through me like I were vapor — the way every day fills stones in the water pot and we slowly rise to the top. I’m made of wind-blown elements and they come together like tumbleweed. But none of this details the rollicking,  joyous, dervish-almost celebration of the spirit I feel when I walk around in the sun amid the beautiful passing people of my hometown.

The flickering glow from Spanish candles and light jazz from the trendy Melrose bars spills over the sidewalk. I pass through metamorphosing atmospheres like an astronaut. Different planets. Different gravities. The night is a mystical world. Silver moons serenade blackbirds through black nights until morning suns take over and light the world until the setting suns once again cancel the day, and it starts all over again.

I sing the glee of a man walking on the bottom of the ocean, head sunk in a diving bell, discovering a stingray for the first time.

If you can get on a plane and go anywhere, would you get on the same plane to come home?

The problem with having the world at your fingertips is we only have ten fingers. We want so much more than we can hold in our hands. And sometimes all we want is to hold your hand. And would gladly drop the world to do so. Our hearts and our hands are our deadliest weapons. That’s why I wear scarves in winter and jump in midnight swimming pools in summer. Imagine if you could see into the soul of everyone you ever met… oh, the pains of being involved.

The city is an elegant nightmare. My heart races nine times a day from either falling in love or jumping away from moving vehicles; and somewhere in there is a joke about them being the same thing, but I’m in no humorous mood, no such care-free prose shall jot my page. There is a movie being played in my head that the city does its best to sneak in on.

“I never wanted to be a hero,” my hero will shout. The credits will roll and the audience will stand up and not know what to say to each other. They will scratch their heads, and this is not entirely a good thing, but there I will be, eating popcorn and still laughing at the inappropriate points.

A slow rolling fog creeps over the mountains. The boulevards and streets enveloped in the mist. With the windows wide open the fog comes inside my apartment and shrouds the furniture until I can’t see anything anymore. I sit in my disappearing room housed in vapor. I like it like this, to become invisible. Outside the city keeps moving around in the fog, everything just the same but no longer visible beyond an arm’s distance, beyond a hug.

If you could become a river, would you rush wildly to the sea? Or take your time meandering through the countryside?