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JULY - AUGUST 2007
08.18.07 - 07:26PM PST >>
from the black dude sitting next to me at the bar
she cried when i asked her to marry me. she threw her arms around my neck and kissed me. her eyeliner was perfect somehow. like a goth boy's dream where everything is perfect and you aren't so alone. black and weeping with love. now we have matching tattoos.
i re-watched a movie shot in new orleans called "love song for bobby long" last night. in the beginning, scarlett johanssen reads a book in the bus station. the same greyhond station where i once took a bus back to houston after breaking her heart by losing my temper. "do this if you love me." the book scarlett was reading was "the heart is a lonely hunter." i read it. it's about people who struggle and dream and they find their dreams will never come true. some kill themselves. some die inside. many believe in their glorious day where they play a piano the songs they wrote. it takes place in the south. black folks are wailed on by law men.
neil young just sang "southern man."
drink refill.
"rocking in the free world" now: "there's a baby in her hands near the garbage can. there's one more kid that'll never go to school, never get to fall in love, never get to be cool. keep on rockin' in the free world."
if you think your car or hdtv is worth it, think again. your money profits those who ignore the ones that need us. you know, those you switch the channel on because some grey-beard preacher is holding kids from africa, not oklahoma. it's easy to hit mute on africa. but what about three blocks away? how's that leather sofa feel now? comfy, huh? yeah. just lie there. read this and go away. don't come back if you don't make a change in your life. don't come back if you don't help somebody who needs it.
what do i do? i influence thousands. as for my philanthopic proclivities, they are mine alone. don't do something good because i am sitting here patting myself on my back or being a hypocrite. do it because you feel it is right. do it because you know you are blessed and can bless somebody in return. don't do it in africa. people need you in your own city. involve yourself in your community. please. i have met them and walked with them. they need you.
she loves me because these are things i feel. she loves me past my anger and the words that come when i am mad. she loves me because i help. she sees the better part inside of me. please find that part inside of you. i'm an asshole sometimes but i love humankind deeply. i believe in the better parts of our souls and that they are the triumphant things. not greed. not lies and subjugation for power.
when the oil is gone, george bush will be a still, dried husk in an empty cavern.
we will be dancing.
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08.18.07 - 06:16PM PST >>
artists and writers
i could piss on the whole world, one man said
what the artist needs is loneliness, said another
the drunk and angry man with a laptop
with photoshop
fist rasied to the sky
a logo lit brightly upon his face
a beer half drunk
fuck you and you
and you
would you kiss me
to find a place where for that moment we are not alone
you could be with me right now
and find that passion
guitars would strum indeterminable rhythms
that the moment might go on forever
and the tears might never end
because it feels free to cry
it's who i am
falling
my fault, my failure, is not in the passions i have, but in my lack of control of them, he said
and i wept
fucking pollack
fucking miller
fucking kerouac
what do you know
yes you
i'm looking at you
i don't see anybody else here but ghosts
and it's cold
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07.14.07 - 05:52PM PST >>
the dentist, the dance studio and the garage
when a person says they are "brutally honest," they really mean "i'm a selfish bitch."
in the nighttime dream of hot summer breezes
the sprinklers go on
whoosh to make the grass wet
wet like her once in the past three weeks
because i've had enough of the disrespect
and she of my distance
because i don't talk about work
as my labor goes to the ungrateful
last penny left on the table
because only a dime is good enough
the hurricane is gone
the water was pumped out long ago
dry air and dust
swept over where we can make a pile and blow
everyone is floating
my love
she seems void of compassion
she was all i had left
falling away
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07.09.07 - 10:40PM PST >>
dreamweaver
i would have hit him first. i would have punched him in the fucking face. he had followed me off camelback into the shopping center as i drove to the wireless company where there were two parking places right next to each other, so he could have one, too. i stopped in mine, on the right, and took the key from the ignition. i held it in my right hand, made into a fist, and stepped out to meet him. when i got out and walked toward him in his blue-grey pontiac grand prix, he put his car in reverse.
"come on, motherfucker! you need two lanes to drive! two means you gotta be able to kick my ass!"
he took off as i yelled at him, calling him a coward, and i spit on his window. he had almost run me off the road and was a back man wearing a buttoned down, pressed shirt and a tie. i shave my head and was wearing black skater shorts, black rayban baloramas from 1999 (before they changed the frames by making them thinner) and a black silk shirt with a painting of bettie page wearing red devil's horns and a tail. my arms are covered in tattoos from my wrists to my chest to my jaw. it was as if i was a giant voodoo curse to him, i thought. he probably feared i hated him because he was black. but i didn't hate him for that. i hated him because he was a fucking idiot. i tried to laugh about it all but i was too angry. he sped off, flipped me off, and it was over. now i could go to the pipe store to get four ounces of black watch tobacco and walk over to baby kay's, the cajun food restaurant and bar, for a few turbodog ales.
i had a few beers when a black man sat next to me. he was stout, wearing sunglasses with a black golf cap and a beard. after fifteen minutes we were arguing over who was going to buy the other a round. it was all in good nature. he was a phoenix fireman one shift away from retirement and i asked him what it was like to be black in phoenix in the f.d. twenty years ago. he was gracious in his humorous reply, and said that it's better now, but still hard sometimes. he bought me a shot of jack daniels and showed me his invention that looked to me to simply be a wooden toothpick. he told me to use it. it was his invention and who was i to know what it was going to do in my mouth, but i confidently used it to pick my teeth.
"ok." i said.
then he told me to break it in half. when i did, floss appeared. it had been wrapped tightly around the wood and when snapped, it gave me two handles and a foot of waxed tooth yarn. it was so fucking cool! what a great travel accessory. he gave me his card and i shook his hand and he took off toward sedona for, from what i gathered by his phone call and a little prodding, was an obvious rendezvous.
when he left, some guy with a long, pointy nose, deep-set grey eyes and grey hair cut like he was starring in a movie about air force-turned-airline pilots was sitting in the seat next to him. he was actually a nurse who assisted terminal people. after a few minutes, the cute bartendress was standing between us and she asked about the tattoo on my chest. i was reciting the verse, from jeremiah 29:11: "for i know the plans i have for you," declares your god, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and i will listen to you. you will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. i will be found by you," declares your god, "and i will bring you back from captivity." how did she like it? the rat-nosed guy had interrupted me with some bullshit remark in the middle and touched her shoulder. she shrugged him off and let me finish and when i was done, he asked if he had done something to offend me. she walked away. i laughed at him and finished my beer. he worried aloud, asking me again, "did i do something to offend you?"
"like if i told you, you'd understand."
i stood up, pulled my money clip from my pocket and laid some bills on the bar. then i walked out the door to drive home.
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07.08.07 - 9:09PM PST >>
rucky roy
i write pornography that women enjoy. there is a site called oysters & chocolate that has published my poetry and short stories. the subject of their home page says it's a "women's erotica zine" and it is run by two women from boulder, colorado. i haven't been in their mag for a few months, but i sent them the contact info for the publisher of Swallow and anyway, i thought that was funny today. i write pornography that women enjoy. do women like scooby doo? i don't.
PORTION OF THIS POST ABOUT A POST ON A BASKETBALL FORUM:
what? have i stumbled to the "being there reference forum?" because that movie has been referenced here it seems five times in the past few days and well, i find it creepy.
now "glory road," that's a movie we should be posting snarky little references to! like the time the janitor dissed the team and their coach in the beginning? or when that one guy said, "welcome to the back of the bus, white boy," you'd think but no! they became friends not just teammates and to quote barbara bush, "family means putting your arms around each other and being there."
no, i am not taking the mask off this time. being privileged and rich feels nice. and while i'm at it, god bless barbara...snip....
dang terrorists.
a deep voice is speaking as if through loudspeakers on a helicopter, "in some airless apartment on a dark, urine stained, whore lined street, someone is calling out to you silently and you are answering without even being there."
"who let henry in here? his scene doesn't come until tomorrow. damnit! cut!"
the barbara bush stunt double gets up from the pool of blood and adjusts his crotch. he's gonna have a cigarette before he goes back to makeup. he walks to the door. from the radio in a passing car, "play the guitar, sing the blues and cry." the sun beats down relentlessly. it's off-season for the nba.
"ahh, that's so much better," he says to himself after he takes his first puff, "fuckin' barbara bush, what is she made of, an old, crusty washrag? this makeup makes me feel like one." taking a moment to watch the cars drive past, he hits off his smoke and thinks, "no wonder she's so freaking ugly. only a woman that hideous could give the world what we affectionately call george walker bush."
the door opens.
"five minutes!"
Quote OrlandoGardener:
Wow! I haven't remembered that in years. |
ring. ring. "hello, grandpa simpson? yes. i have a gentleman named orlando gardener who likes gardening movies remembering stuff. yes, like when things cost less and people were more well-behaved. you'll love him. maybe you can write a letter to the editor with him."
and torres, that was the worst trade scenario for the sake of making a trade scenario i've ever seen. for shame. the queen of england would knock on your door to suck you off before that trade ever happened. oh yeah, she's got dentures.
"gummy worm? why yes, thank you."
chomp chomp chomp
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07.04.07 - 7:57PM PST >>
ten years ago on the 4th of july
"the most profound blog in the known universe!" - WE PROMOTE YOU magazine
i want the ghost of william s. burroughs to possess george w. bush during his final state of the union address, if it hasn't happened already and we missed the sarcasm.
i fight my own duplicity, the fight between want and need, of the desire to possess and the dream of the unimagined future of eternal soul. rock and roll plays nine inches nailed into the coffin made for the grave of freedom. if that coffin goes down into the dirt i want it to be a spectacular thing. i want blood and gold dripping all over it, dripping everywhere like sweat. i want diamonds piercing the eyes of those that look to the sky like that is where god lives. i want beautiful but blind. the angry prophet on the mountain screams, "fucking idiots should just look around and see the people and the ground they walk upon to know god!"
love each other and seek god in everything. that's what i say. maybe you'll think about it and just try it for a while. if you do it with an entirely open heart, you will be changed.
touch the sky all you want, all you astronauts, i can only do thirty thousand feet in an airplane wondering if my luggage will make it. cursing ronald reagan for the union workers, i prayed for the beatles and soundgarden radio station. the woman i love found something close on xm when some singer did a john lennon cover and a few songs later soundgarden sang "my wave."
"hate if you want to hate, if it keeps you safe, if it makes you brave."
somebody has to know this. somebody has to see the apathy creating a place of dead roads, of journeys to nowhere. the heat rises to block illegal aliens with huge bono fly-eye sunglasses and skin dyed green. "mexico, where is that? no, we are from isolon five. take us to your construction jobs and money boxes that we might wire funds to our home bases in mexican volcanos."
shiny, happy illegal people fucking in the ass.
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it's early july, the time of year for conservatives to flaunt their disregard for justice and constitution, for the liberals to pick the wrong fight, and for good news as well.
for sale at city lights bookstore is a magazine called Swallow. on page 3 is a story i wrote on a 1935 remington typewriter in a hostel in waikiki called "poor writer, beautiful stripper." to the left is a photograph of the mag. please pick up a copy. you can get one at city lights bookstore in san francisco, or by emailing the publisher at
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as you see by the attached photo, i am published by a magazine that has a transvestite on it's cover. it's perfect. the coincidence is congruous with the story in shoot forth thunder, "last night in the french quarter."
look for shoot forth thunder to be for sale soon. come back to misteradiant.com to find out where you can get it.
back to today's rant:
what i write and what i condone seems to be peace and violence, depending on my mood. i told you already i fight my own duplicity. break your mirror and i'll break mine, narcissist, hypocrite.
the hypocrite's way out, emphasizing another's hypocrisy. it doesn't only take a liar to know one anymore. lest anyone think i am loved better by god than they are. it's just that i say things most people only think. |
i woke this morning to a plan from last night where indigo was to wake before i did and make coffee. she brought a hot mug to me still sleeping, waking me with a kiss and the mug in her hands for me to sip from as she knelt to lay in bed with me to make me come. as i fucked her, she held her legs open by the ankles spread out for me to please myself. she wasn't going to come. she wasn't playing with her clit. maybe if star trek was porn and we were star trek porn characters and she had an arm between her breasts but no, we were both mere humans with only two arms each and i had both of my hands pressing down upon her breasts, watching her smile at me. it was a great orgasm. it was a nice way to wake up on the 4th of july, on the tenth anniversary of completing "untitled book for the masses #1." wrote that in 40 days. just like jesus in the desert. we both fought evil. i was unemployed.
maybe i should write a letter to denis leary. i liked his brother, timothy. he gave me stuff he wrote about ontological memes. some of it he wrote with a hot italian astrophysicist who looked like alotta vagina from austin powers. i don't have what timothy gave me any more. i can only hope that the guy who took them from me doesn't have them any more, either.
"i know karate and fifty other dangerous words so she's safe with me," the punk kid says to the mother of a six year-old daughter. they were talking about the crowd tonight at the fireworks show they are all going to as i stay home to drink and smoke and think and write.
you get the reader's digest condensation version. condescension subversion. confederacy aversion. the news at nine. i puff at my pipe. it's carved like an eagle's claws grasping an egg.
"what is an entertainer, is it like a veterinarian?" the six year-old girl asked. her mother tells her no, but i disagree.
"yes, an entertainer is like a veterinarian who swims around with crocodiles on television," i replied.
would i sell more books if i had one called "conversations with the spirit?" no. then i'd be introduced to that john edwards psychic guy, and i wouldn't want that. i'd much rather meet john edwards the presidential candidate.
i want the government of the united states to be blown up and re-assembled into a less-threatening frankenstein monster who won't rip out our throats ten minutes after asking us to sit on the bed with them. that's what the bush administration has done and they are dying, thank god. we will be freed of them as they flee to their offshore bank accounts and insider trading conference rooms to laugh about pardons and ambassadorships.
usa! usa!
UNCLE SAM WANTS YOU TO VOTE!
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