I love Then I don't love Then I run home Stopping for a picnic In the stunted, runty soil Of the parkland Where the girl named What her name was Told me not to
I've run out of reasons To come to Pasadena in daytime To ladder up the L.A. River From my temporary home Long Beach with its fractured numbered streets And its cleaved community centers Gardens of hope and damp flowers Ferns, fraud fauna, the sweep of history
So I rolled out of that parking lot Turned right on Colorado and proceeded west Past Allen and Hill, stopped in the street space Between the record store and the racist restaurant I realized that once that decision was made To go with leather over microfiber I had no need to come to Pasadena Before sundown again That's when the poker games and the arthouse films begin to bloom No I'll stay down by the water Writing operas and editing bibles Counting cargo and capturing malice Before it spills out the bottle
I've run out of reasons I've spent too many seasons Waiting I feel the end will come On different roads I'll run Sad ballads will end with no refrain And we'll dance into our own hall of fame
I have not been
Sleeping so well
I would prefer not to be
Persecuted for my nightmares
It's not like I selected them
Carried and corrected them
Rather, I gather and cultivate
The robotic and the reprobate
I replace pinwheeled decorations, numerically descriptive
With inappropriate behavior
Colored by lonely penny-ante poems
I used to ask her to read them aloud
I'd sit there pensive, nervous, but proud
And if she'd get the accents and inflections wrong
I'd remember it's the singer not the song
Sad refrain:
Except when it's the song
Except when it's the song
It's always the song
Always the sad sweet severance song
You got it wrong baby, always perfect and wrong
I have not been
Accepting of fate
Throat-clearing as I spit
An "it's not too late" at the audience
If you don't see them there
They're a ghost of a guy with a gun and a girl
And another girl with glittery eyes
And their cats and their kids and mittens and hats
They applaud as the reading comes to a close
They applaud as the moment sweeps to an end
They applaud as the loved one sneaks away softly
As the one who loves him looks down
And the one who doesn't nods and says to his face
You have not been accepting of fate
Because you and I agree on this
Fate is just future; future is just dots on a grid
Together they crooned and capped on the clever kids
Of which they were two
But they is I and he is she
The one who does is the one who doesn't
A is B and C is D
Everyone is one and the same
I should be as lucky
To be as joyful
As the two kids in the D.C. subway
Coming back from a Joe Cocker concert
In 2003, didn't they know Joe was old enough to be their dad?
As they first-kissed their first-date into the deep dark tunnel
We all have a tote bag phase We all have a duffel bag stage We all have a "throw your hands up / don't have the right bag" year of our lives As we long for the totes As we yearn for the duffels And sin plenty for the range of our years But you know, now ain't the time for our tears
I've listened to Stereolab in a dark car on a dark street In a basement of a college I belonged to at the time In an attic of a full house in a long street of a half-town In my office at home, when I had an office at home In my office at work. I have an office at work These are the times I've listened to Stereolab Five times, the other times I wasn't really listening
We worked it out I come from Eskilstuna where the kiosks come up I come from Alexandria where the asphalt was invented I come from Teaneck with its sharks in quicksand I come from Feasterville so you have no upper upper hand
We called it out I come from Bergenfield where the floods did come I come from New Milford where no children smile I come from River Vale with its bushes of baseball bats I come from Doylestown so you best not relax
We tore it up I come from Eden Prairie where the warmth is palatable I come from Eden Prairie again where the earth is flat I come from Brea with its music 'til four in the morning I come from Minneapolis where swift lifts make for soft pulls
We made it shiny I come from Pomona so all your threats are empty, empty I come from Pasadena where the ping-pong is dusty I come from Monrovia where hearts are down and dusky I come from Newbury Park with its two exits
We pulled it back I come from North Hollywood so I know about coming from I come from North Hollywood again and its ski lodge aspirations I come from Ventura where the U-Hauls skulk I come from Amherst where on the twelfth day we rise
We cleaned clocks I come from Eden Prairie again so you best believe I linger I come from Eden Prairie again with its misreading of the future I come from Minneapolis again with its disappeared I come from Minneapolis again with its so you never stood a chance
We pushed it out I come from Minneapolis again with its owned not rented I come from Santa Monica where nothing bad ever happens I come from Santa Monica again where the rain is unending I come from Hollywood where the helicopters haunt me
We rattle easily, no I come from Long Beach so you know why we do what we do when we do what we do
We broke it down We made a run We wait it out We have it all I...
I'm nothing if not timely With my timeless salutations That get you right there And split your brain halves, like yolk from white Uneven, odd colors, and is that a fable book? That you hold in your hand like a cannibal's meal hand? Unknown resister to reason Guess what, that's the devil's very treason
She talks about that one dead end As if it's hallowed ground and not the edge of town Where the city stops so the pavement stops She thinks there's buried bones there She may be right but no one's digging any time soon
The stories she tells As the excitement swells and sweats They're as true as a shy man's wedding vows All bent toward great heights Invented at the moment Aroused and uninvited She calls cameras She stalls camera crews The regional news Gives her a segment
I think of that parking lot As hope unearthed Dashed and cursed Speed bumps 'til the fence and forest So dense. So warm. So porous I wish we had more space and time Fewer power cords, fewer shoes Cotten swabs and rotten jobs A trade off, one and not the other Blood angel, two mothers No fathers, a galaxy of pixelations October 23, 2009
Stretch your back Kick your shoes off There's a soft spot On the floor, over there, in the low blocks Evermore, tide to shore, on the black rocks
He calls her absurd, a martyr's marking time Scrolling up and down and all around the quiet town The one with the half-good reputation For handsome girls with shadow puppet shapes
The furnaces are big and brown The steam engines head uphill, crosstown Halos don't appear because halos don't exist Fiery tempers make the feeblest fists
Close your eyes Hold your hands out Fold the flaps in Now your hands go back out You never closed your eyes
We worked it out I come from Eskilstuna where the kiosks come up I come from Alexandria where the asphalt was invented I come from Teaneck with its sharks in quicksand I come from Feasterville so you have no upper upper hand
We called it out I come from Bergenfield where the floods did come I come from New Milford where no children smile I come from River Vale with its bushes of baseball bats I come from Doylestown so you best not relax
We tore it up I come from Eden Prairie where the warmth is palatable I come from Brea with its music 'til four in the morning I come from Minneapolis where swift lifts make for soft pulls I come from Pomona so all your threats are empty, empty, empty
We made it shiny I come from Pasadena where the blood boils I come from Monrovia where the hillside strangles I come from Newbury Park with its two exits I come from North Hollywood so I know about coming from
We pulled it back I come from North Hollywood again with its two stories up I come from Ventura where the U-Hauls skulk I come from Amherst where on the twelfth day we rise I come from Eden Prairie again so you best believe I linger
We cleaned clocks I come from Eden Prairie again with its misreading of the future I come from Minneapolis again with its disappeared I come from Minneapolis again with its coffeehouse crushes I come from Minneapolis again so you never stood a chance
We pushed it out I come from Santa Monica where nothing bad ever happens I come from Santa Monica again where the rain is unending I come from Hollywood where the helicopters haunt me I come from Long Beach so you know why we do what we do when we do what we do
I'm not done trying to save my self To save face, to get brave, to limit my range of motion From high hills to blue ocean In between, I'm stark and lean
I've been told I'm old and mean and sweet and young But there are complicated locks and handles That fool even the trickiest vandals Those floating legends we held in high esteem She's the color of a candida dream He's keeps honor in his extra-large sleeve Neither knows it but they're helpless in the sun
I'm so so sick of trying to save my soul Selling out, moving out; besides it's ill-defined Soul is body, mind is soul Mind and body are one, I'm fat and well-fed
I was reminded yet again of my tendencies and tricks Selfish acts that look selfless to the masses Who cover their eyes with knockoff sunglasses I'm all set to tell the truth if it's what you need Truth is, the truth is what we believe we believe Love is what we think of when we kneel down and grieve Simple steps lead to complicated kicks
It's not over, this saving of myself It comes down to quiet sleep and slip-sliding laughter From the one-way one-lane in the seaside city of today To a long long time ago, the four-lane Leisure ride through Pennsylvania Dutch, just rolling along
Like stars in September And airports in October She's halfway there and then she remembers There is honor in a misnomer said well And she chose the wrong words She chose the wrong names
The night before, they held hands Made no demands, made plans, took stands Then they sat down curbside, knees at neck level He said he cared; she said she always did As if a distinction were necessary The clouds were extraordinary But they never looked up, all wrapped up in it as they were
She had no urge To cross April into May again With him in debt to dictionary writers And baseball insiders, radar guns set on men's hearts racing When she entered a room Or exited a party in ruins With hair a mess of spirits Each hand full of flower stems from God knows where
He had no regrets About the big ideas or the green T-shirts Or the full disclosure that love love hurts Or the time he disappeared for a day and a half And explained it in a blog paragraph Seen only by some HTML, a server, and a museum curator in Cambridge, Massachusetts
So there is an impasse; it's the next day The sun is unseen and the quiet is bigger than her big brother Who loomed loud and large until he died And in death he became the mountains beyond the eastern city limits She couldn't look at the mountains beyond the eastern city limits Not yet, not ever, not yet
They entered the house together He held her arm in his hand She held a book about love love hurts Upon entering, he lifted a curtain to make sure a window was closed She pulled him toward the love seat The cats jumped off and they got on
The biggest decisions are the easiest ones Feel love in the middle stages of sleep Shun sleep in the later stages of grief Would I run Far from the crowds of kids and their painted-on eyelids? Sure I would run, who wouldn't? Who couldn't Believe in something bigger than the tiny steps taken?
In the aisles of the big rooms on Bellflower Boulevard He checked the texts from the sexy something sweet He turned the corners carefully Shunning the endcaps like cadavers Don't want to deal with the badgers No need for injuries with so little time to wait
In the spring of nineteen-ninety-zero A tap on the shoulder leads to a loaded question She keeps him guessing For the rest of the semester And Orange County skies look like blue-black bibles of bled-dry thought bubbles
The man in glasses - the little brother - wrote a history With place names and fake names Choruses and crushed corduroy Faded labels in the neon commercial light She might not have been part of this particular story But her man without glasses read all these books He liked the lines with lots of punctuation Semi-colons unexpectedly launching exclamations Now he's ready for his next big move His last big move though there may be little ones left
He wishes he could have gone into her bedroom The one in the old house but he made sure she made it in okay While she made sure he had the right directions to the freeway Still, he went the wrong way Then they talked about the birthday
It's nice nice The look in her living eyes He was so tired that first night But he got through it by narrating The best tales, the ones he wrote himself As he wrote himself into corners of laboratories And she smiled like electricity itself
The easiest decisions are the biggest ones Like yes he'll go to his third favorite city With you you you
It was the summer she came back and he knew it It was the summer she put the pieces together It was the summer he discovered gummy bears Softer than the hard soft rock swimming in his earbuds But not as soft as Sunday night kisses on a subdivision street
Almost summer in the almost city and the air is almost still The green-eyed red-socked black-penned genius is thinking about the kill His hair is cropped and brutal His skin is soft and cold He misses what he misses He's in on the joke, out with the old
By the time I get to June And its spare parts and spent hearts I hope to be rid of The broken pearls, the spy glass I hope to be free of The all-night curses, the never nurses And their almighty grins As I cleanse away their sins And give mine another shine For the first time
Now my task is To clean my head, put on my tie To learn if my fate is a good one Or neutral, in need of a dislodging Almost summer in the almost city and the air is almost still There's a moment before that moment when he free-kills his free will
It's where they put all the cemeteries At the turn of the 20th century But they didn't wait long enough For the rush of dead bodies At the turn of the 21st Not because of any war Just critical mass and a city in flames Every 24 years or so
Atlantic winds its way around the 710 And you have no idea why They named the street after the ocean On the other side of the country Not the one you could almost see from there If the buildings were a bit higher And the skies a lot clearer
There are stairs and old rooms, never to be entered There are plates and plastic spoons, for all the convenience There is time and she nods her head at the sun coming up The radio station pours in from the west side Music defies the sun Just as it defers the dark To another sphere of up and down To the border at the very next town All six of them, wherever you happen to be
She called it the informal economy But it looks like every other place A few more 99 cent stores, a few more 98 cent stores One more 97 cent store. not a single Starbucks or Trader Joe's But there's a grid There are gas stations with clean islands There's a smog check guy And just like the one in Santa Monica, he's not above being bribed (A twenty plus the forty is all it takes)
He died in that one old room She almost joined him until she shut it down She moved across the hall Except there is no hall, just stairs And she needs to pin it all down some day The reason she throws nothing away She needs to pin it all down some day The day they give her the back yard She won't mess that one up, she tells me
Each day I drive away Toward the freeway up there or the one to the right I think not another day, never another night I'm not going back, there's safety in not coming back But it's not up to me, is it? I hear the dead silence As I inch my way onto the 710 south There are corpses and gravestones beyond that wall They're not coming back And it looks like I'm clear to Long Beach once again
comfortable here, at ease somehow far away from those who won’t hear what I have to believe speak what I need to believe comfortable here, easy to slink in and out of places unseen, unheard, disavowed burn the fields that hold the trees and keep it there, keep it bled and broken down blues for the holy kid and flowers torn in pieces in your hair
February 9, 1999
She Hears Their Stories
spread out like crowd noise they call her to the quiet red room and on splayed-out couches she hears their stories she notes their theories she listens, nods, and writes it all down for her own book of mercy her own company of thieves for her own cool divinity her own taste in fallen trees it’s a good pure way to be
curled up in cottons they call her in her kitchen floor dreams and with gifts for the children she hears their stories she notes their theories she shivers, shakes, it’s January now in her own winter city her own town of counted sheep in her own cool vicinity of rested toes and rousted wolves it’s a good cold place to be
February 9, 1999
The Gold Theme #2
Jesus doesn’t care about your hairstyle Jesus moved to Brooklyn in 1997 Jesus doesn’t care about your golden birthday Jesus is a monkey and he’s going to heaven you lost your keys...so what? it rained a little...it rains a lot
Jesus doesn’t care if you’re not hungry Jesus likes his Thai food mild and weak Jesus doesn’t care about your picture frames Jesus is a martyr and he’s saving the meek your roses wilted...so what? it’ll rain tomorrow...it’ll rain a lot
If I get it all back And I'll get at least half I'll put it away Until a sunny day When the cloud cover Disappears by 11 Like it used to In my unemployment days
I'd get in the car And drive to 14th Street Park in the restricted zone Listen to an upbeat song Heaven knows I'm important now But then I could breathe Or cry in my sleeve Which - I've got to admit - was something
January 31, 2009
Louder Roar
It would have been laughable Trying to recreate The inner world of 19 Basements, corners, dead spots There would have been swan songs Corrections to long gone wrongs Questions of great length Tears and rain and snow and ice And the redheads with their sage advice
All of it comedy True and fitting A long great tribute To a small good time And my drives up the avenue To the north, to the single digit streets Would have had soundtracks of spent time A scent of lime, discarded papers It would have been nice To sleep in peace
But here I am A louder roar but the same man I avoid difficult streets I beg for better songs I crave the kinder call I have none of it, I have it all
February 5, 2009
The Competing Narratives #1
And if in this rain I have no enemies Just those who come to me With their narratives in which I fit Like jigsaw pieces, perfectly Then I'm a happy man In this winter rain In this merry month, 20 years After the fact 20 years After it all came true
Next to the graveyard it's a funny world bushes and caper vans motels with flags soft serve
There you can find the secret, the key to all happy, to all good to bad and everything in between to death and ice cream palms and parking meters
The blue college forever in its footprint smells like chlorine and art paint and planetarium dust breathe it all in
The secret to all happy, all good it's there as I read the news I already know let it settle, walk back west step into the mausoleum at sunset and close my eyes
