Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Paranoia on Top of the World, Ma

Standing stoned on a balcony at Stanford, prestige in the ivy
climbing up the wall behind me and beneath the grates under my feet.
A doorway, more like a window in its aspect, to the back of me, unlatched
to allow a regaining of fraudulent residency by staying with the girlfriend’s friend.

Twelve thirty at night, doors wide open to design projects
and three-day weekend whiskey drenched witticisms
from the stiff upper lips of trust fund babies in such slack jaw
surroundings as a forest. Huddled in, four people crowd

a single with the sounds of bootleg Downey Jr. blowing it
as an all mumbles shade of the greatest detective, the one the Batman
was modeled from, on computer flat screens before loft beds.
They could afford to see it in theaters. Piracy indeed.

Laughing, thick without curves-girls in their earth tones stare curious
out at the intruder, with just the right modicum of malice swirling
in their sockets. Can’t help but sashay So Cal as possible with my hood
on like a carjacker. Fuck, I don’t care. I’m just trying to get back to the room.

Got lost, like the Donners, looking for that set of impersonal digits: 1-O-5.
Numbers that mean a piece of floor to borrow, thankful backaches
and odd dreams that leave you ambivalent the next day about these people
and the malaise that comes with money enough to have veganaise

as an option in the dining hall for a panini or a gourmet bacon maple log.

Concurrent New Year’s Resolutions from Birth to Death

We need to go to the gym, be balls of motion. Kinetic energy charged like Gambit’s cards, explosive. We need water, the translucent azure of 70% of your body bottled,
your new best friend. No more dillydallying with Mr. Pibb or Dr. Pepper. No more shilly-shallying with their bubbly countenances, their effervescence. We need rest, the sweet entombment of a pitch sleep. 8 glorious hours, unconscious and uncut, of rollicking, rolling, row-row-row-your-boat-lives that are but a dream-siestas. Like those of hombres slunk down covered in sombreros. We need to rape and pillage libraries barbarous. Double-fisting Fante and Vonnegut, chugging Plath not Plato while pounding down Ezra. We need to get out of debt with others and ourselves. Payoff the bottom feeders at the shallow end of the phone line. Extract our cancerous student loans from the marrow of our bones before they turn malignant. We need change, not as a platform but for a twenty. Shit, we need money. We need pro-active action, to get off our asses and just go, go, go ‘til we’re gone.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

I live like Ninja Turtles in the Sewers of Manhattan, NY, USA.

Ever awaiting Shredder in the Technodrome,
moving fortress affixed with eye atop it,
panic erased by patience and partying.

Episodic intrusions of disharmonious violence,
subterranean skateboarding, cement surfing, all
cowabunga, dude, radically bodacious. Eyes wide

under mask with the sensory wonder of it all.
The scent of methane mingling with the taste of pizza,
the sight of brick walls and barred waterways,

the sound of pipes and footsteps through puddles,
I can hear how cold the water is. I can smell age
in the wood and the chain of nunchucks

as they’re gripped between two fingers and a thumb.
But I am no hero in a half shell. I am not even amphibious.
I am ready to put myself on blast. This has all been a lie.

Suburban, blundering beach town baby, barely able to Ollie.
No stealthy maneuvers come midnight, can’t even eat cheese,
and no sais to shield this thin skin of a psyche fragile, exposed.

No lean green fighting machine, more likely found
in Dostoyevsky’s Underground’s dominion of obsession
and spite, no Giri: no honor, no duty. Still more assassin

than samurai, yet more burrito than Bushido. Hedonist sloth,
watashi wa namakemono desu. Oblivious to oblivion’s pull,
arbitrary arbitrations settled in the coded language

of the supposedly well-read walking dead, academics reveling
in the agony of their own dissatisfying obscurity over coffee or beer.
Deluded in deluge, a rogue’s rouge coloring their faces frustrated.

Disinterest, the castrator of notoriety, gestates. Ripening the need
to delve into tangential digressions on ‘88-’89’s mutant mania
for peaceable pleasure, for the fantastical pandemonium

of being cool, but rude in the wake of nobody giving a fuck.


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