Man
She fans herself
with paper to keep her
face coo- "She's so hot.
She'll talk to you too. She's not
arrogant. That outfit is...you know."
"Yeah, b-"
"But I'm too popular."
"She's cut-"
"I want to put my hands in
her hair. Look at her
legs, dude."
"Yeah, bu-"
"She's fucking
cute too." "Yeah,
I'd say cute not sex-"
"Sexy smile. Damn."
Damn.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Stone Age
Stone Age
all he had
was a little banana
nut bread. and a root
beer
float. and a portobello mushroom
pizza topped with a pazookie.
"on a scale of 1
to 1000, how do i
look? like a caveman?"
as compared to what?
"a regular
drunk person...
get this fucking pizza
away from me. i'm trying
to be serious right now."
like a caveman. take control
of the night. "okay, i'm taking
control of the night.
10:45, we're doing
it." i'm trying to be serious.
pazookie, pizza, root beer float.
"i want red velvet, but
you have to order for
me." why? "i can't
interact with people."
1 to 1000. "all i had
was root beer
pizza and pazookie,
don't let them...that's all i am
paying for." his head
perched on the edge
of the table, he lurched
back and took
a deep breath. "that's all
i'm paying for." the night
lingered, hung on.
"Okay. Who wants to take
him to the bathroom?"
already drying vomit
dripped onto his bare
leg and arm. "tell my mom
i'm sorry. i can't move.
walk me in." they knocked
on her unsuspecting door.
"come in.
come in.
come in.
come in."
all he had
was a little banana
nut bread. and a root
beer
float. and a portobello mushroom
pizza topped with a pazookie.
"on a scale of 1
to 1000, how do i
look? like a caveman?"
as compared to what?
"a regular
drunk person...
get this fucking pizza
away from me. i'm trying
to be serious right now."
like a caveman. take control
of the night. "okay, i'm taking
control of the night.
10:45, we're doing
it." i'm trying to be serious.
pazookie, pizza, root beer float.
"i want red velvet, but
you have to order for
me." why? "i can't
interact with people."
1 to 1000. "all i had
was root beer
pizza and pazookie,
don't let them...that's all i am
paying for." his head
perched on the edge
of the table, he lurched
back and took
a deep breath. "that's all
i'm paying for." the night
lingered, hung on.
"Okay. Who wants to take
him to the bathroom?"
already drying vomit
dripped onto his bare
leg and arm. "tell my mom
i'm sorry. i can't move.
walk me in." they knocked
on her unsuspecting door.
"come in.
come in.
come in.
come in."
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Disney's Waters
Disney's Waters
Immediately after the sun sets, when the artificial lamps become glimmering sources of light, while the glow from the sun beyond the horizon diminishes from a salmon-meat pink into a midnight blue, the fervor in the park reaches a blinding fog. Perhaps the childlike, uninhibited anxiousness of the nightly firework performance is the culprit, but for those who have experienced Disneyland at night, what explodes in the sky pales in comparison to what happens at eye level. The honeyed, golden light that radiates throughout Disneyland when darkness falls is nothing if not romantic. Fireworks over Utah are the same as fireworks over Anaheim, but the perfectly subdued luminosity, the very essence of Disneyland at night, imagines a clandestine feeling of awe overlooked by the thousands that visit daily. The true nightly performance is not over heads, but takes place aboard the Mark Twain Riverboat on the Rivers of America.
Most older people adore Disneyland because it serves as a transportation from their nine-to-five cubicle and unfulfilled sex lives to places where the struggles of life are put on the back-burner, unimportant, if only for a day. The aura of the wild west is only twenty feet from jazz city central, New Orleans Square, is only twenty feet from romanticized jungle, Adventureland. However, it's all in the modern day. For me, the draw of Disneyland, the reason for my intense gravitation towards the park, isn't for transportation, but for a sense of time travel. With the DeLorean, it's only 88 mph that allows the flux capacitor to work, but with Disneyland, it's only the Mark Twain, only at night and only in specific seats that the feeling is fully evoked.
Last year was the first time the Mark Twain steamrolled over me with an absolute force. Having always been a fan of the attraction, my friends and I had discovered the best, most overlooked place to be on the boat. On the second of three stories next to the stairs, there was a stage, once home to upbeat jazz bands, now a soulless storage space for unused life jackets. Sitting on top of this locked compartment, next to the decorative "This is not a flotation device" flotation device, we found ourselves in the very heart of the boat. From there, we watched those too tired to stand play music-less chairs on the front of the boat where about twenty uncomfortably white chairs rested.
I believe William Wordsworth, who coined that poetry is "emotion recollected in tranquility," would have produced his best work aboard the perfectly serene Mark Twain. Sitting in our choice seats, the buzz, the roar of the obnoxious guests subdued into a humming, soothing white noise, like the unnoticed scheduled train whistles back home, miles away. The Mark Twain, the only place in Disneyland to escape Disneyland. As the ship drifted along, away from the brightly-lit eggshell dock and the purples and blues dancing off the water by New Orleans Square, as it turned around the bend leaving the lights behind it, the lamps, decorated in late 19th century historical fashion, flickered darkening yellow, the only light remaining. And while the sensory details of the Mark Twain and Disneyland are still vivid, a feeling crept out from within my bones, reaching my muscles and nerves and caused a shiver to run down my spine. There was a hard to describe dreamlike quality of the honeydew light. The intensity of it was just dim enough that it refused my eyes to adjust or completely focus on any color or detail farther than ten feet away. Because of this, the scene was full of details without any definite detail, which left me with memories without any definite memory, like waking up from a vivid dream only to remember vagueness.
The Mark Twain roamed farther away from the rides and the bustle and deeper into darkness as a bodiless voice, simply called "The Captain," narrated our journey. Looking out past the railing, I could only make out black waving shadows. I knew these fluttering figments were trees because logic told me, but all sensory perceptions were useless to prove what anything was beyond the tangible barrier of the boat.
While reading Conrad's Heart of Darkness after such Mark Twain rides, I couldn't help but compare Marlow's descriptions of the immense and intimidating unknown mysteries of the African jungle with what I felt on the Riverboat in the middle of a theme park. The droning, homely southern voice of "The Captain," my friends surrounding me, the other passengers, the kids, the floors, the ceilings, the lights, the safe feeling of knowing the river was only a few feet deep, the life-jackets below me, the comfortableness of the wood against my straightened back, the warm, airy draft, the steps of feet on the stairs on both sides of me, all of it fell into the black abyss that circled around, surrounded me. It was looking into my impression of Disney's own heart of darkness, on a steamboat designed in the 1950s, that I sensed a feeling, a feeling dancing on the edge of my consciousness but never fully realized, of forgetfulness that I was in the 21st century, but could possibly be in the 1890s having just woken from a vivid dream, only remembering vagueness.
Of course, being a sane and rational person, the feeling lasted less than a second, but the impact was felt for the rest of the night and even up to writing this now. I can only fittingly compare the moment of timelessness to a kid losing a balloon. As the balloon drifts up, the guilty child reaches, but the balloon only floats progressively farther away, more and more unreachable.
That night on the Rivers of America, I was unsure what had happened and even eerily unaware if anything had, but as the Mark Twain slowed to a reminding halt back in its port between Frontierland and New Orleans Square, as "The Captain" told us of our ended journey and wished us a good night, I found myself, underneath the dim fluorescent bulbs, alone, the last one remaining on the boat.
Immediately after the sun sets, when the artificial lamps become glimmering sources of light, while the glow from the sun beyond the horizon diminishes from a salmon-meat pink into a midnight blue, the fervor in the park reaches a blinding fog. Perhaps the childlike, uninhibited anxiousness of the nightly firework performance is the culprit, but for those who have experienced Disneyland at night, what explodes in the sky pales in comparison to what happens at eye level. The honeyed, golden light that radiates throughout Disneyland when darkness falls is nothing if not romantic. Fireworks over Utah are the same as fireworks over Anaheim, but the perfectly subdued luminosity, the very essence of Disneyland at night, imagines a clandestine feeling of awe overlooked by the thousands that visit daily. The true nightly performance is not over heads, but takes place aboard the Mark Twain Riverboat on the Rivers of America.
Most older people adore Disneyland because it serves as a transportation from their nine-to-five cubicle and unfulfilled sex lives to places where the struggles of life are put on the back-burner, unimportant, if only for a day. The aura of the wild west is only twenty feet from jazz city central, New Orleans Square, is only twenty feet from romanticized jungle, Adventureland. However, it's all in the modern day. For me, the draw of Disneyland, the reason for my intense gravitation towards the park, isn't for transportation, but for a sense of time travel. With the DeLorean, it's only 88 mph that allows the flux capacitor to work, but with Disneyland, it's only the Mark Twain, only at night and only in specific seats that the feeling is fully evoked.
Last year was the first time the Mark Twain steamrolled over me with an absolute force. Having always been a fan of the attraction, my friends and I had discovered the best, most overlooked place to be on the boat. On the second of three stories next to the stairs, there was a stage, once home to upbeat jazz bands, now a soulless storage space for unused life jackets. Sitting on top of this locked compartment, next to the decorative "This is not a flotation device" flotation device, we found ourselves in the very heart of the boat. From there, we watched those too tired to stand play music-less chairs on the front of the boat where about twenty uncomfortably white chairs rested.
I believe William Wordsworth, who coined that poetry is "emotion recollected in tranquility," would have produced his best work aboard the perfectly serene Mark Twain. Sitting in our choice seats, the buzz, the roar of the obnoxious guests subdued into a humming, soothing white noise, like the unnoticed scheduled train whistles back home, miles away. The Mark Twain, the only place in Disneyland to escape Disneyland. As the ship drifted along, away from the brightly-lit eggshell dock and the purples and blues dancing off the water by New Orleans Square, as it turned around the bend leaving the lights behind it, the lamps, decorated in late 19th century historical fashion, flickered darkening yellow, the only light remaining. And while the sensory details of the Mark Twain and Disneyland are still vivid, a feeling crept out from within my bones, reaching my muscles and nerves and caused a shiver to run down my spine. There was a hard to describe dreamlike quality of the honeydew light. The intensity of it was just dim enough that it refused my eyes to adjust or completely focus on any color or detail farther than ten feet away. Because of this, the scene was full of details without any definite detail, which left me with memories without any definite memory, like waking up from a vivid dream only to remember vagueness.
The Mark Twain roamed farther away from the rides and the bustle and deeper into darkness as a bodiless voice, simply called "The Captain," narrated our journey. Looking out past the railing, I could only make out black waving shadows. I knew these fluttering figments were trees because logic told me, but all sensory perceptions were useless to prove what anything was beyond the tangible barrier of the boat.
While reading Conrad's Heart of Darkness after such Mark Twain rides, I couldn't help but compare Marlow's descriptions of the immense and intimidating unknown mysteries of the African jungle with what I felt on the Riverboat in the middle of a theme park. The droning, homely southern voice of "The Captain," my friends surrounding me, the other passengers, the kids, the floors, the ceilings, the lights, the safe feeling of knowing the river was only a few feet deep, the life-jackets below me, the comfortableness of the wood against my straightened back, the warm, airy draft, the steps of feet on the stairs on both sides of me, all of it fell into the black abyss that circled around, surrounded me. It was looking into my impression of Disney's own heart of darkness, on a steamboat designed in the 1950s, that I sensed a feeling, a feeling dancing on the edge of my consciousness but never fully realized, of forgetfulness that I was in the 21st century, but could possibly be in the 1890s having just woken from a vivid dream, only remembering vagueness.
Of course, being a sane and rational person, the feeling lasted less than a second, but the impact was felt for the rest of the night and even up to writing this now. I can only fittingly compare the moment of timelessness to a kid losing a balloon. As the balloon drifts up, the guilty child reaches, but the balloon only floats progressively farther away, more and more unreachable.
That night on the Rivers of America, I was unsure what had happened and even eerily unaware if anything had, but as the Mark Twain slowed to a reminding halt back in its port between Frontierland and New Orleans Square, as "The Captain" told us of our ended journey and wished us a good night, I found myself, underneath the dim fluorescent bulbs, alone, the last one remaining on the boat.
Happy Hour
Happy Hour
It’s a damn cold night. The kinda night you want to end before it begins. The kinda night that’s got me wonderin’ why I’m not home. One of those nights that seems to be just for a chump like me. Tonight, I don’t know where I’m goin’. Or why. Whatever the answer is, it isn’t linin’ these streets.
“Hey, big boy. Ya lost? I gottsa pretty ample compass if ya need one. Thing is, I needs a needle for it, whaddya say?” Her nose sags below her upper lip and her lower lip sticks out. And here I was thinking’ they stopped makeup tests on animals. My eyes can’t hold contact with this broad’s face, so I answer to the droopy water balloons under her ten cent dress: “I gotta special compass. See, this compass here tells me where others should go. Right now it’s telling me you’re going downtown.” Before I even finger my badge outta my inner pocket, this gal’s runnin’. I wasn’t planning on chasing skirts so I keep walkin’.
The green neon “r” flickers at “F igo’s.” I could sure go for a drink. A man bumps into me. His hair clings to his sweaty forehead, looks like he bathed in cheap booze. Smells like it to. “Shelly’ll be rights behind me,” he slurs. Under the grime covering his face and clothes this dope almost looks like that “Take Me Home Tonight” guy. This city’s rank stank ain’t one I’m lookin’ to get use to. Frigo’s as good a place as any to go numb.
The door seems to push back as I open. Hell, even the doors put up a fight. Maybe I’m just losing my strength. The man mopping behind the bar has his head down. “You open?”
“What?” I seem to have startled the little guy. “Open? For a guy like you, why not?” His face’s friendly enough. Lopsided smile, not crooked. It ain’t until I sit at the bar that I sight his eyes. Dark eyes. That kind, that if ya look hard enough, ya expect to see some creature swimming’ from the murky, saturated depths. My bones become ice. I gots this feelin’, that one that feels like I’ve been here before. Like this has already happened. What’s it called? Some French word. I forget the sensation when the little guy extends his hand.
“Welcome to the city.” His hand’s half the size of mine. His fingers thin, but his grip firm.
“Never said I was new to the city,” I say.
“Well, pal, seeing as I know everyone in this city, and I ain’t ever seen nor heard of you…Name’s Frigo ”
“Been here two years. Never heard of you.” The little man showed no shock, but I hear it. His voice gives it away.
“Never hearda…never…Never heard of Frigo! Ha!” Faster than a fly on a vagrant’s fresh shit, the little guy hurls a dart past me. It misses the board behind me and hits a signed picture of Vera Miles hangin’ on the wall. “I’m Frigo, kapeesh? Two years? Last lout to insult me like that, well, he ended up…I’ll show you how he ended up.” Never saw this coming. Some nights, I’ll tell ya.
“You’re going to want sober up if you’re aiming to finish that threat,” I warn.
His voice goes calm, like he’s never yelled before in his life. “Threat? No, see, I’m going to show you how the last guy to insult me ended up. Just, wait…wait right here, pal.”
I ain’t feeling threatened by this Frigo character. Ain’t never felt threatened by no one. He disappears behind a door in the back. A portrait of Rita Hayworth hangs on the door. Crude tits are drawn on her chest. It’s lit up by the green and red vomiting from the juke box to the left of the door. I ain’t never been here, but I recognize it. What’s that French word? I ain’t sure why I’m not leaving.
It’s a damn cold night. The kinda night you want to end before it begins. The kinda night that’s got me wonderin’ why I’m not home. One of those nights that seems to be just for a chump like me. Tonight, I don’t know where I’m goin’. Or why. Whatever the answer is, it isn’t linin’ these streets.
“Hey, big boy. Ya lost? I gottsa pretty ample compass if ya need one. Thing is, I needs a needle for it, whaddya say?” Her nose sags below her upper lip and her lower lip sticks out. And here I was thinking’ they stopped makeup tests on animals. My eyes can’t hold contact with this broad’s face, so I answer to the droopy water balloons under her ten cent dress: “I gotta special compass. See, this compass here tells me where others should go. Right now it’s telling me you’re going downtown.” Before I even finger my badge outta my inner pocket, this gal’s runnin’. I wasn’t planning on chasing skirts so I keep walkin’.
The green neon “r” flickers at “F igo’s.” I could sure go for a drink. A man bumps into me. His hair clings to his sweaty forehead, looks like he bathed in cheap booze. Smells like it to. “Shelly’ll be rights behind me,” he slurs. Under the grime covering his face and clothes this dope almost looks like that “Take Me Home Tonight” guy. This city’s rank stank ain’t one I’m lookin’ to get use to. Frigo’s as good a place as any to go numb.
The door seems to push back as I open. Hell, even the doors put up a fight. Maybe I’m just losing my strength. The man mopping behind the bar has his head down. “You open?”
“What?” I seem to have startled the little guy. “Open? For a guy like you, why not?” His face’s friendly enough. Lopsided smile, not crooked. It ain’t until I sit at the bar that I sight his eyes. Dark eyes. That kind, that if ya look hard enough, ya expect to see some creature swimming’ from the murky, saturated depths. My bones become ice. I gots this feelin’, that one that feels like I’ve been here before. Like this has already happened. What’s it called? Some French word. I forget the sensation when the little guy extends his hand.
“Welcome to the city.” His hand’s half the size of mine. His fingers thin, but his grip firm.
“Never said I was new to the city,” I say.
“Well, pal, seeing as I know everyone in this city, and I ain’t ever seen nor heard of you…Name’s Frigo ”
“Been here two years. Never heard of you.” The little man showed no shock, but I hear it. His voice gives it away.
“Never hearda…never…Never heard of Frigo! Ha!” Faster than a fly on a vagrant’s fresh shit, the little guy hurls a dart past me. It misses the board behind me and hits a signed picture of Vera Miles hangin’ on the wall. “I’m Frigo, kapeesh? Two years? Last lout to insult me like that, well, he ended up…I’ll show you how he ended up.” Never saw this coming. Some nights, I’ll tell ya.
“You’re going to want sober up if you’re aiming to finish that threat,” I warn.
His voice goes calm, like he’s never yelled before in his life. “Threat? No, see, I’m going to show you how the last guy to insult me ended up. Just, wait…wait right here, pal.”
I ain’t feeling threatened by this Frigo character. Ain’t never felt threatened by no one. He disappears behind a door in the back. A portrait of Rita Hayworth hangs on the door. Crude tits are drawn on her chest. It’s lit up by the green and red vomiting from the juke box to the left of the door. I ain’t never been here, but I recognize it. What’s that French word? I ain’t sure why I’m not leaving.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
All Hallow's
All Hallow's
I was told I couldn't go
trick r' treating. With my brother
grounded and locked in
his room like me, Halloween
candy wasn't very sweet. Mom made us
clean our rooms, bathrooms,
kitchen. My dad watched
a scary movie upstairs. We
snuck in under his bed
to watch the screaming, the stabbing.
We cried. Mom and Dad
caught us and forced us
outside, into the dark.
With the phantoms and ghouls
lingering in the bushes, we walked
away towards the night, dressed up
as Hansel and Gretel. We followed
our bread crumbs of tears.
I was told I couldn't go
trick r' treating. With my brother
grounded and locked in
his room like me, Halloween
candy wasn't very sweet. Mom made us
clean our rooms, bathrooms,
kitchen. My dad watched
a scary movie upstairs. We
snuck in under his bed
to watch the screaming, the stabbing.
We cried. Mom and Dad
caught us and forced us
outside, into the dark.
With the phantoms and ghouls
lingering in the bushes, we walked
away towards the night, dressed up
as Hansel and Gretel. We followed
our bread crumbs of tears.
