tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-197409122024-03-06T22:54:29.465-08:00sink into the pacifictaking all i know about nihilism and trying to build it into a lifeanthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.comBlogger470125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-15173160770382990402018-03-26T00:41:00.000-07:002018-03-26T00:41:20.094-07:00The Middle of MarchIt has been tough to ignore the water. Your socks are wet. And the bottom of your pants. But you push past it. It beads on your forehead. The pads on your fingertips shrivel and pull away. You can smell it.<br />
<br />
That's what bothers you.<br />
<br />
The scent is everywhere. When your eyes are covered you can feel it draining out. When you're dry it's still in your nostrils. It's been there for years. It's been there forever.anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-66801973868707408882018-02-01T09:34:00.000-08:002018-02-01T09:34:22.494-08:00One step at a timeYour attention is divided. I can tell. You stammer over a few simple things you used to always say. You grab your own face and rub your eyes clean of sleep.<br />
<br />
But you didn't sleep much last night. The window was open and you could hear the new curtain. It is lighter than you expected. It only bothered you enough.<br />
<br />
Lately your dreams revolve around this old three bedroom house. It has a different yard then you remember. But that is all that changed. And the furniture. There is more of it. And it doesn't fit together. People who never went there are standing in the kitchen. They are talking to strangers. Strangers to each other. But not to you. And they are saying a lot of nothing.<br />
<br />
I guess not much has changed.anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-18174885175072245382015-04-21T21:44:00.001-07:002015-04-21T21:44:00.996-07:00The same oldThe smell of my feet makes me uncomfortable. I left my shoes outside of the front door of the last three apartments to not drag it in. But here it is. And I can't avoid it. You run from something long enough and eventually you forget about it. <div><br></div><div>Or it catches up. </div><div><br></div><div>I bartered with this guy I used to work with, Juan, for his back stock of those odor eating shoe inserts. I've been out for months. </div><div><br></div><div>Juan used to pick up dishes from dirty tables at the restaurant I worked at. Not the one with the shitty boss. But the one that gave vacation time if you worked six day a week. Juan worked six days there. And seven at the place with the shoe inserts. He always showed up with a tie and no name tag. I suspected he made his other seven days out to be better than these six. But when we are both just trying to get by unnoticed you don't ask to much about it. </div><div><br></div><div>But back to the issue at hand. </div><div><br></div><div>Or foot. </div><div><br></div><div>I can't sleep. I can smell my feet through the sheets. And the blanket. And the comforter. And the stench lingers. And settles in my nose. And I think about the last time it happened. </div><div><br></div><div>I had athlete's foot the day before the first day of junior high. I stayed up all night worried I wouldn't fit in. And that the older kids would know my feet itched. And that first day of gym we'd have a lady come in and check our toes and if we weren't clean I'd be destined to seventh grade forever. </div><div><br></div><div>I never want to be in seventh grade again. </div><div><br></div><div>Especially forever. </div>anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-44907817357190725292015-04-07T09:27:00.001-07:002015-04-07T09:27:03.282-07:00Further and furtherLacy cleans the windows once a week. On Thursday. One week she does the inside. The next week the outside. Except the small window in her closet. <div><br></div><div>It's useless, by the way. The window, at least. </div><div><br></div><div>She leaves the closet door closed. Except when she's getting dressed. And she makes sure her kids don't use it as a hiding place when they play hide and seek. </div><div><br></div><div>Stacey hid there once about three years ago. When Lacy found him wedged between her winter coat and a dress she wore in high school she pulled him out by his wrist and slapped his face. His tears mixed with the blood from his nose as he ran out the front door and down the street. Lacy ran her fingers down the seam of the dress. </div><div><br></div><div>When she does open the closet door she traces the curves of an S that's worn it's way through the dirt on the tiny window. She presses her thumb hard into the glass at the end. She closes her eyes and hears the last thing he said. </div><div><br></div><div>"Merry Christmas, and a happy new year."</div>anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-51636133642913006702014-05-21T15:47:00.001-07:002014-05-21T15:47:51.279-07:00Never Not Near There is a pile of ripped up paper by his feet. Bits of popcorn that doesn't make his mouth dot the perimeter of the pile. His companion looks back towards the road they took in and squints to read the sign. His elbow brushes her arm.<br />
"Huh?"<br />
Ralph keeps staring forward.<br />
"Why not the favorite Ralph? Why these long shots? Why do you do it to yourself? Just go with them. Ralph, go with the winner. Go with the winner."<br />
<br />
She pulls out the chair at the short table and asks to change the channel on the television to her right.<br />
"You can't smoke in here."<br />
She removes the cigarette from her lips and flips open her wallet. Her fingers graze the ends of dirty bills while she counts backwards in her head.<br />
"Six Seventy-Two please."<br />
<br />
Ralph wrings his hands then flattens his shirt against his bulging gut. He pulls a paper from his pocket and blows it a kiss.<br />
<br />
"Go with the winner."anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-46286311835998028642014-05-16T13:50:00.001-07:002014-05-16T13:51:40.986-07:00Salad DaysWe spent all day in the car. I haven't driven like that in ten years. We checked landmarks and empty buildings off a list of places that shaped us. You pointed to an exit that you just drive past now. I stole drags from your cigarette. I made sure to hold it in as long as possible. And to graze your fingers in the exchange.<br />
<br />
I kept my window closed. The smoke sat in front of my eyes and the headlights bloomed. You sang along with a girl younger than you but knew your pain. Somewhere down the road I sat.<br />
<br />
I watched us pass by, a blinking of eyes and swirl of tongues. I counted stripes to see how fast we went.<br />
<br />
We passed a plastic bottle of lemonade that had turned sour from the heat. It only amplified the booze we got that morning.<br />
<br />
I never wonder how I got here.<br />
<br />
You told a story of your mom and her patron saint. Of her knickknacks and charms. Of her rituals and spaces. And how you find yourself slipping in. And for all your flailing you just sink deeper. And maybe you should just swim. Or maybe you should just stop.<br />
<br />
I count your breaths and think of gardens I read about and gardens I've seen. I name boats after the children I'll never have. And breathe life into plans I'll forget in the morning.<br />
<br />
I could apologize for the world. I could board up the windows and doors and let it all go. I could make a list of names that never meant anything to me.<br />
<br />
I never wonder how I got here. anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-10198517650385555152014-03-21T16:17:00.001-07:002014-03-21T16:17:17.071-07:00sportsI have never pounded on a door. I have sat half way up the stairs to the landing of an apartment. The little stones pressed into the hand I sat on. I examined the skin on my knee and tried to work out plans for the morning. <div><br></div><div>It was a list. </div><div><br></div><div>Names of friends and coworkers. Distances from that stair case. The availability of a couch or floor. </div><div><br></div><div>I had developed an ability to create long detailed lists internally and never cross any of the entries of. </div><div><br></div><div>Occasionally I flick a cigarette that's not there. And it reminds me I eventually learned to make less lists. And to cross things off. </div>anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-39218157765524410702013-06-04T12:30:00.000-07:002013-06-04T12:30:17.170-07:00A Long Time ComingThe pages have been stacking up. They yellow in lines as the sun breaks through the mini blinds in the second room. On days when I am home I throw one hastily penned page in the trash for every church bell ring. Cobwebs, dust, spiders, and rings from wet glasses gather anywhere they can. Some melody bounces in my head and I think about when I would just run to some dark space to drown and choke whatever demons or semi-demons would pop up.<br />
<br />
<i>The joys of your skin growing is that it gets easier to grab a hold of. It is easier to start ripping from the rest of you. And you can push it back together. You can make it fit how you want. You can use it as an excuse for the things you do and do not want to do.</i>anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-21677626271756257972013-01-11T12:04:00.000-08:002013-01-11T12:04:19.061-08:00Brian CummingsYou left town about sixteen years ago. One Tuesday in March you were sitting in front of me in a science class. Then you weren't. But I heard you were doing pretty good for yourself. A new pair of boots showed up in time for the first snow. And your second son is saying his first words. The car starts every morning and no one mentions that night at Ray's anymore. I wonder what you think about every night in that second just before you fall asleep and dream of the old boulevard and that house on the corner you told your mother you would buy for her when she retired. Does the sting of no one clapping when your name was called during graduation from eighth grade return? Does the smell of Kristen after your first kiss at my birthday party bring back the chill of November desert nights? Or do you hope this is the last night away from home?anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-80474252318411654352012-12-28T10:57:00.000-08:002012-12-28T10:57:25.563-08:00pieces of fabricI am back to tearing off labels of beer bottles. I rip them into small pieces and roll them into balls. They sit inside the front pocket on the shirt I wear when I go out. It used to have snaps, now it is held together by buttons. There is a hole on the left arm, half way up from the wrist to the elbow. I press my finger into it and feel the skin of my arm. Sometimes I pull on the hairs that stick out until one lets loose and I put that in the pocket too. The guy next to me sits on his stool like an egg and rests his shins against the red vinyl. He spins his bottle on his right knee and some formerly attractive woman rest her hand on the other. There is lipstick on her teeth and the butt of her cigarette. She laughs at a show on the television. There is no sound, just her laughing. The man keeps starting a story and stopping. Her laughs make him drop his head and spin his bottle more. The woman puts on more lipstick; I order another drink.anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-7864459207945437542012-09-28T17:12:00.001-07:002012-09-28T17:12:58.571-07:00shallow waterI had a dream you had died. Some piece of conversation between two strangers I overheard. A couple of months had passed, from what I could gather. That happens sometimes. When I woke up I called an old friend to see if it was true. He said he hadn't heard from you lately but felt pretty confident you were alive. And that made me sad. Not that you deserve to die, or that you should die. But that I thought you could be but weren't. I guess people can't always be what you want them to be. anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-70116629746184424902012-06-26T18:19:00.000-07:002012-06-26T18:19:02.271-07:00But me, I'm...<br />
The spots on my right arm that I pick, you can see them. It is not covered in ink like the other. You can see the blood and the scabs and the puss. I stop mid-sentence to scratch and pick and bleed and dream. Every minute or so I dab at the wound to clear the things that drain out. My fingers run through my hair and blood bursts from my lip; my teeth have split it again.<br />
<br />
The locks were changed at the other apartment when I was moving out the last of my things. There is a box and leather jacket I never recovered. I went back a few nights ago with crowbar that helped me back in. The jacket and box and new resident were gone. So I left the crowbar and took a bottle of wine and walked to that park where the maids smoke pot after work. No one was there so I opened the bottle and called Leslie to pick me up.anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-55805521833111325022012-06-03T23:38:00.000-07:002012-06-03T23:38:02.201-07:00From the heart, my heartWe laid on a couch, in that old house, and cried. We listened to Paul Baribeau and cried. The two of us went to that old bar with Bill and drank grandpa's drink because grandpa had been dead for weeks and no one told us.<br />
<br />
We sat on the curb in front of the other old house and smoked cigarettes the best we could. We sucked too hard, or not enough. We called Tony and tears ran down our face and ash covered our hands and we thought this is how you feel, when something dies; when something goes away. But we went to bed alone and didn't know what to do.<br />
<br />
We sat in a garage today, thinking about where you had gone. We played the songs that had meant everything; and the new ones that helped us pull your skin back and see you.<br />
<br />
And we knew you were gone. And you were never coming back.<br />
<br />
We replayed the conversations from your porch; to find our missteps.<br />
<br />
We scanned photographs in our head to see where the cracks started.<br />
<br />
We didn't find them.<br />
<br />
We opened boxes we threw away three addresses ago. We retold stories to bring us closer. We put things in our skin that were supposed to bring us together, keep us together; they just remind me we are all gone.<br />
<br />
So we will steal a smoke from our sleeping love. And we will send thoughts or prayers or whatever your way. And know we will never speak; but hope we are wrong.anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-36823688172612329282012-04-20T15:31:00.001-07:002012-04-20T15:31:30.139-07:00Yellow and White BalloonsMy car wasn't starting. So I cancelled everything. I was glad to be rid of all those plans.
I walked east on Glen, past the car dealership and the church bell that had been being replaced the last two days. I picked out the cheapest schnapps at Sam's to tied me over till I got to Jesse's.
I stopped at the park for a smoke in some shade. I hadn't broke a sweat in three or four weeks. The other Jesse was laying in a patch of dandelions.
She always looked up at the sky. And she would use her hand as a visor over her eyes. She bit her bottom lip too.
We used to share some friends. I lost all their numbers. I'm confident to say they lost mine too. They had all left and I thought Jesse had too.
She wanted to know if I had a knife; she was going to go pop all the balloons down the street but left hers at home. I gave her the pocket knife I found camping five or six years ago.
That day comes back to me every few months. But I don't miss Jesse. And I don't miss my knife. Or the park. Or Sam's. Or that car. But I miss those balloons.
The car dealership never replaced them. It closed down two months later.
I stopped carrying knives. And drinking schnapps. And day dreaming about old friends.
I just want to see all those yellow and white balloons float away again.anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-54777543428818397072012-04-02T14:13:00.001-07:002012-04-02T14:13:38.666-07:00TuesdaySome paint had splattered onto my face. It must have been three days old. Some had fallen off in bed, wrapped up in five sheets to make up for the missing comforter. The box with all the other bedding was in the other truck. Which was with the new roommate crossing one of the Dakotas. I deleted the message before the details were processed. The gist stayed on my shoulders for weeks.<br />
<br />
I've painted the mailbox three times already. In third grade I heard an Indian girl talk about how the color of your mailbox related to the type of mail you would receive. Past due notices and invitations to salvation piled up. I changed the color and they kept coming. But Yellow brought a garden catalog. And Blue a book about map collecting. I left the notices to pile on the ground and stacked the invitations on the wiper of my cars windshield. After the garden was planted, and the pictures of maps used to label the flowers and vegetables I painted the mailbox gold.<br />
<br />anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-75749524433373937992011-11-15T20:32:00.001-08:002011-11-15T20:54:11.076-08:00stacks of paper<br />
The yard was big. Then they took a chunk out of it. And surrounded fence with single-family homes. They left the chunk there though. Eventually it would be shaped and decorated and admired. But for months it was dirt. And some of those days it was mud. Mud that caked my skin, covered my eyes, and kept me from slipping away.<br />
<br />
The room was small. They painted it colors and made sure it would stay. There were locks on the doors, doors for the closets, spaces under the beds, but those things soon stopped working. I cut little notches into the carpet in a corner of the room. And everyday they sewed it back together and took a picture.<br />
<br />
It was boxes. Then it was bags. Then it was trunks. And cases. And casts. And books. And characters that were supposed to be apart of your life. The bags turned into baggies. The boxes turned into coffins. The books turned into stacks of paper.<br />
<br />
So I building a home of things I know. I brought a window to look out of and a mirror to look into. There is a door knocker to replace the bell. There are no doors. The floors are made from the wooden shelves that held books, cups, records, and trophies. The one set of curtains is from the map of the world my grandparents used to have. It is going to have a fireplace fueled by pictures I haven't yet thrown away. And a bar.anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-45631604158545979702011-10-20T20:38:00.000-07:002011-10-20T20:43:10.144-07:00fingersteps<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It is probably some minor chord. That is how all those start. The ones you pick third for the jukebox. There is the long one that has a funk bass line that you pick first so you have a good soundtrack for picking the rest. Then there is the second one. Which is the one you really mean. It is loud. It is mean. It is sloppy. It hasn't showered. It hates at least one of it's parents if not both. It is broke. It smells like the bathroom back there late Tuesday morning. It drinks coffee from the day before and smokes the butts of cigarettes from the neighbor's lawn. It is just there. And most of the time we are lucky it even showed up. It is you. In a song. Then there is the third one. With the minor chord. That one is the real you. But you don't tell them. You just let it play while you do a shot and that woman in the corner counts to ten.</div>anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-47393351785499787892011-10-12T01:47:00.000-07:002011-10-12T10:02:29.992-07:00second or third hand<div>
<br /></div>
I keep drug addict hours. When the sun is out my eyes are blank, half-grey, and surrounded with sweat. My nails are kept long to remind myself I am scratching at the surface. My fourth or fifth borrowed car collects parking tickets in front of my building. I found myself standing alone on the corner two nights ago. The power was out so I could see the stars for the first time; the first time from this spot. I yelled and shook and surprised a stranger that wasn't there when I opened my eyes. I take my glasses off when I smoke those menthols my roommates scatter around. I trace a tag on the ground with one of my bare toes, skipping over the a in the middle. The money is all gone. Yawns bookend floods of creativity and resentment. I find churches to say I used to visit, forge receipts for tithes I make in my head, and keep the pastor's card in my wallet. My phone battery dies every twenty minutes. That is why I keep missing these calls. I write the phone number to the house I grew up in on all these liquor store receipts and but them in a green whiskey bottle.The hall closet holds a wedding dress and two vacuum cleaners. They have all been used once. Waves of sleep crash into the building. Sometimes I can stay up long enough to catch the last light go out. Then the hallway is dark. All of my furniture comes from a sober living house a few blocks over. It all has to be changed when they get a new addict. The manager gives me a heads up of what will be on the curb when. I got a necklace that way once. It was taped to the underside of a desk. It has the name of a gentleman on it. I got his desk when he couldn't take it anymore and stood on his chair with rope. I didn't get his chair. I have my own.anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-58185371478917132852011-09-21T02:08:00.000-07:002011-09-21T02:09:20.156-07:0010 things about this night<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>that song we used to sing</i><br />
<i>about those records she all scratched</i><br />
<i>played on my tape deck</i><br />
<i>for the first time</i><br />
<i>since I had all those records shipped down south to someone else's she</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>these little notes</i><br />
<i>i keep pulling out of my pockets</i><br />
<i>scratched onto pieces of receipt from taco bell</i><br />
<i>never feel like money but i keep holding my breath</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>i turned my bed into a desk</i><br />
<i>my desk into a tv stand for a coworker</i><br />
<i>my coworker into a pusher</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>my pupils are growing sensitive to the florescent lights in my house</i><br />
<i>in that they consider </i><br />
<i>the feelings</i><br />
<i>fears</i><br />
<i>and shadows</i><br />
<i>those lights cast on all they see</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>when i</i><br />
<i>walk into</i><br />
<i>my house</i><br />
<i>with a bag that is brown</i><br />
<i>i feel</i><br />
<i>like that</i><br />
<i>kid from</i><br />
<i>parenthood</i><br />
<i>with all the porno tapes</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>instead of the beer in the freezer being left in for too long</i><br />
<i>i drank it warm</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>i told myself</i><br />
<i>TEN</i><br />
<i>before you go to bed</i><br />
<i>and that was hours ago</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>the skin is all back</i><br />
<i>on the tips of my fingers</i><br />
<i>in case you were wondering</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>standing in the desert</i><br />
<i>is only worthwhile</i><br />
<i>to see all the stars that remind me of her freckles</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>i used to write this</i><br />
<i>to the melodies of songs</i><br />
<i>that i did not write</i><br />
<i>but claimed as my own</i><br />
<i>sloppy handwritten thoughts on suicide</i><br />
<i><br /></i>anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-16872618375102720452011-09-12T16:33:00.000-07:002011-09-12T16:33:26.715-07:00Couple SkateRandy is over there, by the bathroom. You can hear him knocking his bottle against the wall. Some kid just asked him what it was like when flannel was cool the first time. He keeps kicking the ground with his boot and asking the kid if he had ever heard why it rains all the time in Seattle. The kid repeats he doesn't know shit about the rain or Seattle or why they go together; he just wants to know what it feels like to be old. But he draws out the O for way too long. And Randy chuckles, he isn't that old, but it was great to always be warm, to always be prepared to chop down some tree or pose with some paper towels. Randy's voice sounds the same as it did back then. I remember laying in the bed of his truck one night in his back yard. He barely smoked the cigarette in his hand. He was counting the number of times he had said Truman that day. Randy had given a tour of the school to out of state prospective students and kept pointing out the spots that the old president used to smoke at. Truman didn't go to our school and he probably didn't smoke. Randy just wanted to give these kids something special to tell their parents about. A girl joins the kid and Randy now. They all look at me and shout something I can't make out. I'm picturing what it would look like to recreate the cover of that first Clash record with them. The girl walks up and says Randy told her I knew a guy who could help her out with this problem she has. I'd ask what it is but I can feel her staring at my hands so I don't bother.anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-16391318082265127612011-09-08T16:32:00.000-07:002011-09-08T16:32:23.911-07:00MissionA few blocks away, over on Mission, there is a liquor store called Don's. It is ran by a man named Randy. I walk over there whenever the president speaks on television. Randy has a small TV set behind the counter and he puts the speech on it for me. I get a Styrofoam cup from next to the soda fountain and dump Christian Brothers into it. Randy doesn't like it when I drink in the store but he turns his head when the president is on TV. Sean sits outside chain smoking and drinking Old Crow. I get tired of hearing the same things so I sit on the curb with Sean drinking during the applause and laughing at the kid begging for change.anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-58756424651191795832011-09-01T02:27:00.000-07:002011-09-01T02:27:18.020-07:00glendaleThere is this tall building on the way into Glendale. I saw a gentleman fall from it tonight. It is the one on the right. The tall one. Before Glendale College. Before Glendale Blvd. Before the Glendale Freeway. Before the Glendale Medical Center. Before all of that there is the tall building I saw the man fall from.<br />
<br />
The song on the radio kept telling me that life went on, long after the thrill of living is gone.<br />
<br />
I heard a rumor, that up there on some desk, there is a note that explains all of this. Personally, I am hoping it is just a highlighted paragraph from a book a lover gave him a couple of decades ago. That would keep with the theme, the motif, and the whole motivation of the evening.<br />
<br />
His coffee is still hot. There are little lines of steam forming some sort of tower to heaven, or at least someplace with more room to breathe. The picture frames have all been put face down. No witnesses. No explaining. He took his second favorite pen with him; no reason to keep everything nice to himself.<br />
<br />
A red light blinks on his phone. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.<br />
<br />
He left his shoes. Light brown. Untied. In a drawer in his desk. That desk with the note, or the page from the book, or the matchbook with the phone number inside; whatever it was that we decided explained all of this. In that desk, where the folders alphabetized by last names used to sit, that is where his untied light brown business shoes stay. The left heel is worn more than the right.<br />
<br />
He must have something wrong with his legs.<br />
<br />
Otherwise he would have jumped.<br />
<br />
But I am glad he didn't If he had jumped, instead of falling, I might not have seen him.<br />
<br />
I might have kept driving home, to lay in my empty bed, to trace a route on a map, to start a book I started a hundred times.<br />
<br />
Instead I turned the stereo up, stopped for dinner, a beer, and sent kisses from my lips into the air, that they might find the perfect cheek to land on, to keep safe somewhere else.<br />
<br />anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-91674261683194394922011-07-26T23:47:00.000-07:002011-07-27T00:23:27.855-07:00chasing god<s>It is somewhere between 6 and 7 am on a Monday. I don't know. The clock in my car isn't working. I mean it works. It keeps time. Some time. But not here. I haven't bothered to change it. If it is wrong and I am late somewhere then I am late. Fuck it. Because I can't rely on my internal clock. I've thrown that off balance with pills, lines and stories that make me blush.</s><div><br /></div><div>It is 6:34 am. Monday morning. I am driving east on the 101. There are clouds all above me. I am covered. But there are two spots, two holes far off in the sky that push me back to looking at the cover of my bible studies book in sixth grade.</div><div><br /></div><div>See, god gets two things. He gets sun rays. And he gets early morning orange. </div><div><br /></div><div>At least from me, that is what he gets...</div>anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-34570089501441289542011-06-29T00:33:00.000-07:002011-06-29T01:04:14.978-07:00Fuck you and the blog you rode in on...<i>(What do you want to know about? The weeks of quiet? The changes of opinion? The new drugs? And where they come from? Some pussy? Or no pussy? Or why it is suddenly pussy? Is that it? Or is it the new towns? Or the new beds? Or the conversations I keep all to myself? Do you want to hear about the jokes that didn't work, the faces that don't show, or the corners that now make up my days? Well fuck you.)</i><br /><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I borrowed a lamp from my old roommate. We haven't talked in weeks. And the lamp has one working bulb, out of the three, that I use at night while writing. I gave up cigarettes for a lay a while back. But she doesn't know anymore so I'm back to smoking. I pulled a fan from my trunk. It has been hot as shit the last three days. So I use the fan to blow smoke out of my window. My new roommates don't know. Most nights I leave the living room without saying a word. I retreat to my room. Some nights I wrap a belt around my neck to make sure I cum. Some nights I watch Japanese wrestling matches from the early 90's. The last few nights I use my phone to bore someone to death, or sleep, and jerk off to compilation videos of blonde women blowing black men. </div><div><br /></div><div>I sleep for minutes at a time. When I am not asleep I am grinding my teeth, counting sirens outside of my window, and praying for some stray bullet to find my heart.</div><div><br /></div><div>Because everyone needs an unexpected funeral.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think of stories to write, anecdotes to explain away the last few paragraphs. </div><div><br /></div><div>But that doesn't really bother me anymore.</div>anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19740912.post-74764965184694933782011-05-13T08:57:00.000-07:002011-05-13T09:37:50.541-07:00beatOnce a week I wake up in the middle of a carnival. There are twinkle lights and dreams of elephants. A couple of times small bits of neon snuck out of their hiding spots to sing me to sleep. But I needed more than that. A clenched jaw and racing mind don't make a tired man. And still all those mornings I woke in that carnival. It used to still be dark; the sun not making any effort to get itself out of bed. Now the sun beats me to the punch. I heard it was to help the farmers. How? The sun still beats down on their crops and it still beats down on our souls. I lay beaten, exhausted, worn out but aware of her routine. Our routine. I shut off five alarms. One is actually a stand alone clock. It confuses parts of me they still exist. She climbs down from one carnival to another. I know if she will shower based on the numbers at the end of the stand alone clock. If she does I grab a bit more sleep and wait for the next step. Makeup. Or a hair appliance. Or scrubs. Or sneaky kisses on my sleeping forehead. I pretend to sleep but could draw from memory, with one eye, the curves highlighted by the matching underwear and her tendencies to stand on her toes. She says I keep her on her toes. She says it's good. Once or twice I've let her get to me and had to sneak out before the sun even had a plan to attack the east coast. I have no plan. I drink too much. I medicate too much. I worry too much. I lie too much. I fall to fast. I don't sleep enough. Not here at least. I've squeezed enough sand through my hands to know I can loose enough to build a beach. But I still keep one arm around her all night. If she slips away, I want to see it happen. I don't want miss it. Not again.anthonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11398755572015761770noreply@blogger.com0