Friday, November 12, 2010

A simple request from formspring.

jo....i've had the biggest crush on you for awhile!  i don't go on here a lot.  but please message me on under the username "wishfulthinker".  please don't get all weird.  =)

Darling wishful, if I had enough time to join a dating website and track down every one of the screaming millions of women yearning to throw their musky, love-covered panties on my "stage" and get so animalistic the police would likely be called and subsequently calmed down by my silver-tongued oratory then... well, to be honest, I do HAVE that kind of time, but you're a fucking spambot.

How DARE YOU toy with my emotions like this? I thought we had something special, but all you want is for me to sign up for your stupid website, and then you probably won't even call me anymore.

I can't go on like this, wishful, we had a good run, but all things must end, even, as it seems, our love.

Go ahead, you know you want to ask me shit.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

bill (a poem)


he put three cigarette lighters
shaped like pistols
on the coffee table
between a test tube
and a flat-tipped jewelers screwdriver
before passing the pipe to the left

he said they made these torches too weak
the smoke like an albatross
around his neck

he lit a cigarette
through three-inch butane jetfire
and drank cheap beer

somebody complained
that Bill would take forever
but nobody meant it
and he wouldn't hit it
until the fire was just right

but it don't matter
the meth high lasts
and he had stories
to fill twenty minutes more

he said he
stole the third lighter from the gook
that ran the quikstop and
talked about
how easy m-16s clean

as he pulled two of those lighters to pieces
laying each part down
side by side in pairs
and he put the third one in his pocket
and he only put one
back together

and i don't know what he did with the pieces
but they were gone
and it was tight
as his nerves on the fourth of july
and shot flames twice as high

and I wanted to ask him
about the stories nobody can finish
unless they're trying to sell you something

because Paint It Black is just a song and
Willem Dafoe is just an actor
and Bill is just a shell
that moves and smiles sometimes
when he's high enough and
shakes most other times

and he's alone not fighting Spiderman
just spiders in his head
sometimes he dances though
to Paint It Black and cries but
now he's focused

and tonight he's smoking glass and
fucking his best friend's wife
and it's all right
I don't want to ruin that
I take the pipe
and try to make him laugh

Monday, November 1, 2010


I had something to write a couple minutes ago, sitting on the toilet with a Bukowski volume open.

Now, I'm just going through the motions, keeping the fingers moving, taking a break from my National Novel Writing Month effort.

I haven't been blogging much lately because, once again, I've had nothing to say. What is there to say? What is there to read?

A lot of stuff, I guess, shallow humor, politics, advice. I don't have any of that available at the moment. There's a lot of experts out there to compete with, I'm not an expert at anything except trying half-assed and starting over again.

So if you wanna learn how to do that, pay attention. Otherwise, you're probably best served going someplace else.

It's November 1st, 2010, which can be a palindrome if you write it right. That's as good a day as any to start the first novel I finish. Any day is a good day for that, but today's the day it happened.

I'm good at starting, and being honest, but in all honesty, I have nothing to say these days.

One good thing about drugs is that they eliminate doubt. Not saying you shouldn't have a healthy amount of doubt in your mind when pontificating on an international platform, especially if you're high, just saying that when I'm using I have no trouble finding subjects to talk about.

But now that I'm not using, what is there to say? That I'm not using drugs anymore? That in another couple weeks it'll be six months since I took a drink, pill, smoke, or fix? That I quit smoking cigarettes a week ago? That I left my girlfriend and now she's running around with some hillbilly trick from the strip club?

This is life as I know it. Everything I've known has changed, and I have to change to keep up.

I can't tell you how I'm doing it, or if it's going to last. The thought of a 9-5 scares the shit out of me, and the pressure for income is growing. If I can't make a living with my writing, then I'm not sure I want to live at all.

But that brings me back to the original problem. What the fuck do I write about?

I've tried guessing what people want to read, and so far, I've been way off the mark. The stuff they have responded to is what I'm most afraid to share, and what I figure is least interesting.

So this is it, the naked Joannes. All pretense of art and authority stripped, a direct connect from my heart to yours. Taste the loneliness, fear, and hope.

Walk with me to the shelves or the grave.
Protected by: