when a guy approaches you from out of nowhere, and the two of you hit it off conversation-wise (talking art), and then he says they used to call him Lucifer back in LA, you start to wonder why and what the metaphysical purpose of his visit might be.
and now knowing what you know about his old nickname, you can draw only vague albeit somewhat disconcerting conclusions, and therefore your thoughts have taken a detour, and his side of the conversation is no longer registering in your logical brain. That’s when you start taking note of his physical features and character traits, trying to figure out what they might indicate: his cocked fedora; his slow, confident gait; his diagonal eyebrows, so elegant in the way that they slant; his shrewd stare.
handing you his business card (photography specializing in portraits of women), he goes on to say he had a complimentary studio in LA — a sprawling loft — because he dealt drugs for some local mogul, and during business lulls he collaged the walls using clippings of vintage smut. He claimed to have staved off a bust once because the officer was enthralled by his artwork.
This guile was what set your thoughts aflame the most, and so unquestioningly, you used the whole Lucifer thing as a departure point.
her: there she blows the head of her mocha and talks prose over her millionth cigarette.
me: imagine 2 lattes — imagine. imagine them gone — one & then the other. imagine me home later on.
i wanted to write this because i wanted to write something new on my blog without having it necessarily mean anything. as i’ve stated before, why does anything have to mean anything (also see my declaration against question marks and other punctuation and style formalities) i just want to be pleasant and conversational overall so fuck it (it brings me joy to omit a comma)
last night, if you care to know, i had a dream of a giant skeleton hurling thru the star-speckled universe with its mouth agape. it seems a popular facial expression for many skulls worldwide. it brought to mind birds parched in summer, in a desperate quest for water, like i see often here in vegas. regardless, after the skeleton came the projectile of flames and smoke, hot on my path, chasing me thru space like a bee protecting its hive
have you ever wanted to kiss someone while they were speaking with you — you know those fleeting moments when you are overcome by adoration or lust. just a thought…
now that i see what i’ve done, all the words i have made here, now i would like to make this really long and meaningless. i find meaningless things are refreshing. i want to write poems about gum wrappers and empty coffee cups. i also seek out bad writing because it makes me happy and inspires me. these are people who have a literary voice without trying. like a baby picking up a paint brush and having at it on the canvas. have you ever watched an elephant paint. i’m finding that the best and most genuine art is regressive and primitive. see jean-michel basquiat for many, many examples.
i want to write in a sort of scribble. i genuinely feel it is closest to my truest literary voice. i strive for eloquent, conversational meaninglessness. perhaps because as a creative person i have absurdist and avant-garde tendencies. hence, max ernst and margrite and gertrude stein. and hence et al.
At the brink of death,
small talk at a little table
where their elbows
rest, nice and easy
on the stained-wood slab.
Coffee, gossip, laughs.
the old jazz drummer was barely audible at the mic while introducing the next song — his voice playing ghost notes while his eyes ducked under his panama hat, whose rim stood in for his cymbals and mounted rack
in my recurring fantasy of you, i never get past the intensity of our initial contact — how it disarms you like a swift drug. it’s what keeps me coming back.
on the billboard, a pricey bicuspid the color of buffed sugar
from outside my stucco building, what’s visible are the skeletal remains of patio plants, abrasive as scarecrows after having been squelched by the mid-june sun — my tender lavenders, for one, now as brittle as broom stalks and strung out in their shiny turquoise pots.
what else expires so brusquely in the summer? what else? what else likewise goes unnoticed — shrivels, curls and dries out while you are unaware?
how can anything amicable grow in the mojave during summer in the first place? how? how can anything other than jagged fronds grow, or red yucca daggers pointing upward in veneration of the cloudless sky, or cactuses with their arms raised aloft like pitchfork prongs, their needles drawn like open claws? how can anything other than these things grow while what begs for mercy succumbs?