Dog Biscuits (the cat)

my sister,

the artist that she is,

named her cat

'dog biscuits'.



i was recovering



going through one of those weeks

when the ceiling

would spin

and the only thing

i could take in



was water.



and this stupid fucking cat

wouldnt stop purring.



i'm more of a dog person anyway.



they are so much more honest.

wearing their emotions on their sleeves;

while cats always seem

mischievous,



never trying to please.



i was taking a hot shower,

for about an hour,

trying to forget about life



altogether.



when the hot water ran out,

i grabbed a towel,



and dog biscuits opened the door.



we made eye contact.



it was one of those surreal

moments in time when you realize

that you really are nothing.



or maybe that you are something,

when you connect with a living being.

without words or language or body gestures



two organisms on the same plane,

connecting.

thinking, being, living

simultaneously, without

acknowledging each other's existence.



just basking in the dampness,

the dank

succulence

of the post-shower sogginess



that cleanses the soul.



and sobriety has

a eery

way of making you think beyond the box.



me and dog biscuits, we connected.

and it's funny because

whenever i go back home

he

finds his way to my lap,

looks me in the eyes,

and acknowledges my presence.



and I never really cared much for cats.

princess and a pawn

The first night we met we shared a bottle of Jameson.

Five of us on the porch of

my mansion.



The mansion that I reluctantly lived in

during the greatest summer

of my life.



I had been out fishing all day,

was tired from the sun;

wanted to enjoy the night and sleep off the Budweiser

that had made my throat dry.



I was watching the ceiling fan spin in my bedroom,

trying to read 'Jailbird' by Vonnegut,

when she stumbled into my bedroom.



She was wearing a red haltertop with a short skirt.

Her legs were long, luscious, and tan.

She had an innocent aura about her.



Her hair shined despite the dark room and she giggled at me.

Pleading me to join her on the porch.



etcetera and so on.



I told her to throw me my shorts

but she jumped on the bed

stradling me and asking me why?

I could taste the liquor on her breath as we started to kiss

and I forced her head down below my waste.

It didnt take long at all...



'Mmm..." She moaned as she rolled off the bed onto the floor.

Finding my shorts, she tossed them to me, and said

"lets go out and smell the ocean"



I grabbed her ass, put my arm around her shoulder,

and confessed that I loved her.



"What's your name?" I asked.



We walked out onto the porch and my two friends were fighting over her friend.

The friend was wasted wicked

washing down a bag of chips with the bottle of Jameson.



The night was calm and the sky was clear.

You could see the stars illuminating off of the ocean and there was a breeze

that seemed to whisper down your spine

and cause the hairs on your neck to stand.



The Jameson tasted warm and went down with ease as we

passed it around the table. We were silent for a few minutes,

taking it all in.



I started a conversation about constellations;

pointing out the brightest stars of Ursa Major,

as I chugged on the bottle.



For the first time I looked into her eyes,

Hazel eyes often appear to shift in color

from a light brown to a medium golden-green.



Tonight they were the lightest shade of blue and I was lost in them.

She smiled at me and words

were not necessary for communication.



We brought the bottle with us into the bedroom and made love all night,

and then slept until atleast two in the afternoon.

We ate breakfast by the bay,

at an old Italian place I used to go to with my grandmother before she passed away.



She came from old money.

Her great aunt married into it before the depression.

Her family was a mess,

she spent most of her life hopping from home to home,

and she was depressed.



She met with psychiatrists who prescribed her pills,

but, she partied on yachts with socialites, and

would do anything to please men.



Which explains why she was so easy when we first met,

I guess I should have seen it coming, but,

it was like she appeared from a dream and for once

I was that cool, smooth, dude I always wanted to be.



She was living in the city and I was

content by the ocean.



She visited from time to time and would fulfill my fantasies.

We would sit out in the hot sun all day and then

fuck in the outdoor shower.



The cold water would drip down her back as I would

rail her from behind.

She would moan and beg and make me feel like a man.

Then she would dissapear for weeks at a time.



She would not answer my calls, but show up

unannounced.

She would ignore my parties, my dinners with my parents, but

she would show up at my work drunk and

flirt with the valet drivers.



She went on a cruise in France and my lease was over.

I moved to California and didn't say goodbye.

She was found in a bathtub with slit wrists.



She left a note that didn't mention my name.

The Pusher

The pusher was born close to the border

and never went by the same name.

Chicas, they called him jose, but

he also went by padre, luis, johnny,

to him it was all the same.



He was an easy going fellow,

simple, and never spent beyond his means.

He had a beach bungalow,

surfed three times a week,

and always wore the same pair of jeans.



Known mostly for his product

and as a connoisseur I can attest

that no matter where you travelled

or whomever you met

big daddy Johhny had the best.



He had a hearty laugh and loved animals

but never had a wife.

He loved playing cards, drinking cerveza

and telling stories by the fire.

He never really had an enemy in his life.



He kept all of his money in a knapsack

hidden in a cubbyhole under his bed.

He was not much of a worker,

slept away most of his days.

But when he went missing no one assumed he was dead.



They found his body by the bridge near Solona.

He had been deceased for about a week.

His story it would have gone untold,

just another illegal murdered by his own.

If I didn't have the nerve to speak.

la verdad

what's more lonely...

a night not remembered or

a Saturday evening on the couch...

in a dark, empty room

with a plasma television

and a computer to consume

the worldly noise

but all you hear....

is a party next door

it seems crystal clear....

and on the roof

the sky is calm

and on the balcony

you can do nothing wrong....

but, another lonely night

in another lonely town

with another lonely groupie

holding you down...

and another motel floor

another story for the notebook

and another anecdote for the cure...

forever poor

forever discrete

never empty, though

and fully complete....

it's another night in the city of the saints

another dream

or is it fate....

what is more lonely then?

the bottom of a bottle

what is more lonely then?

the cold bathroom tile

but, if you are sober and

you absorb it all

the empty faces who

forgot their call....

a club around the corner

with hipsters galore

yuppies and wannabe actors

art students de jour

but, it is you and

your remote control

it is you and your lost, forgotten soul

in another life

in another dream

it was different but,

it is now serene.

it's nearing midnight

and you can hear the neighbors sing

'happy birthday'

and you think of your childhood

your family

your friends

and it all blends

you say goodbye...

to the twelve step program

you say goodbye....

and jump off the lamb

the demon's loose now

he's out of control

he's in your bloodstream

he's abandoned your soul

so what can you do...

who can you call

you just fade out

and forget it all.

missing philadelphia

i'm from philadelphia.



no where wealthier, no where healthier.



but i'm out here caught in a wave

a wave

of instability

trying to find an excuse.



(to go home)



met a girl from south africa last night,

she took my hand and we went to the beach.



made love by the ocean.



met a girl from australia two nights ago.



we drank our faces off and I don't really remember what happened to her.



I'm sitting by the pier this morning,

feeling nostalgic;

missing philadelphia.



no where wealthier, no where healthier.



I bought a disposable camera and took pictures of the ocean,

mailed it to my sister,

and wrote a postcard to my grandfather.



I ate breakfast with a strong bloody mary

and flirted with my waitress.



I decided to go surfing after work and smoked a joint

with an irish girl who never was on the east coast.



i miss the attiude, the philth.



i miss the authenticity, and the love.



the humidity, and the green grass.



i miss my family and real italian food.



but, i'm caught up in this

whirlwind

of excess and rebellion.



escaping the reality of

responsibility;

pretending to relive my youth.



this quarter-life crisis might be too

prolonged;

missing philadelphia just seems wrong

Prologue

1.)

I guess it all started with the whole concept that the grass is always greener on the other side. It must have started in early adolescence. And it is funny how your mind has a way of creating something remarkable out of speculation. So there I sat, mindlessly staring at a computer screen that was buzzing numbers and graphs that stopped making sense to me a long time ago. I was browsing the web when i stumbled upon an ad for cheap air fare. One hundered and twenty five dollars for a ticket to Los Angeles.

2.)

It was the time of the economic stimulus check. Where two weeks ago I was counting change from the pillows to afford the two western cheeseburger deal from the local fast food joint to get dinner...Tonight I'm sitting at the largest casino room in Los Angeles. Scared money never makes none.

3.)

A lonely morning in a dingy Hollywood apartment. With needles and images distortions of what 'is' and what 'appears to be'. A trap. Like a mouse you sit in a bad psychological experiment gone bad. Best way to get sober is to go broke, look at yourself in the mirror and realize youre a joke. Without thinking, you pack everything, take the money, run.

4.)

Trainride to San Diego is beautiful. Something about the Pacific Ocean and the sun erases any kind of stress. When you step off the train, you feel the pure air. You can almost swim in the precipitation, and when it finally comes to be when you can drop your bags and float off into the ocean you have to wonder if you ever will swim back in.

jukeboxes in hollywood

we made eye contact from across the crowded,

seedy, hollywood bar.



if that,

a seedy, hollywood bar,

truly exists.



and we talked of the east coast;

our families who we left behind.



and we screamed of our insecurities;

and played off our meaningless jobs.



we got caught up in the magic

of a night without consequence.



if you need evidence

of sloppy,

satisfied sex



than look at the sheets

and the water bottle

full of cigarettes.



but, as i sit on my balcony

soaking up the 80 degree valley sun,

i wonder what i'm doing



pretending to everyone?



but, the jukeboxes in hollywood

play the greatest songs.



and the boozehounds they are avant garde,

the pool sharks clever, the bartenders never

leave you with an empty drink.



and i've been kicked out of bars in kansas;

in hollywood i'm escorted out.



the conversation is of misery;

recession, and homeless uncles.



but, the jukeboxes of hollywood

they play the greatest songs



and we,

well,

we sing along.