“Well, it’s definitely cancer,
would you like a Mirror Pond
or a Pabst?”

“Thanks doc,
the Mirror Pond please.”

You could take that
thing to a park bench
sit and sip for a
while before they
started in with the
needles and tubes

“You’re a complete imbecile,
I have to fire you for gross
incompetence. Would you
like a cigarette?”

“Sure.”

It’s the least she could do
something to fumble with
on the long awkward walk
out the door

We are expected to
take these moments
straight like a
Seneca
or an
Eastwood

No sweat
no tears
no trembling
no humanity

Well, I doubt they’ll
write it into the
rulebook

The medical schools
will pass

The hatchet men
will laugh

But the next time I see
some big bad revelation
turning the corner up ahead
I might just duck into
the convenience store
for backup

“Yeah, it’s the
transmission alright…”

I pushed it onto her foot
and everything changed

For fifty-seven minutes
we’d been discussing
lasts
leather
linings
lunch
and now she
was taken

The owner of the place
was a legend in the business
he flew it to Europe
twice a year to find
examine and buy
handmade shoes
that nobody in the states
had ever seen

The pair that now gently
wrapped the feet of
the wealthy wife
was stitched together by an
80 year old Italian master
laboring effortlessy from a
300 year old Italian bench
less than a month earlier

I wondered what the
chain-smoking Italian
might think of the two of us
sitting there in Seattle
surrounded by
thirty-two empty boxes and
the shoes recently in them
scattered across the floor

There was an art to it

Sometimes it took a while

“I’ll take them,” she said

“OK, so that’s these, those
and those,” I said

“Right.”

I knew
her husband’s name
and job
her children’s talents
and dreams
her dog’s favorite food
and piss habits
and she knew as much
about me

In a moment
I’d run her credit card
which would pay out a
10% commission on
$1,785.00

One hour

The shoe business was good
even for a mediocre salesman
working in a bad recession

“We’re in the entertainment business here,”
the owner would often say

Proof of his genius

Drinks were on me
for one night at least

for JG

A reading of John Mayer, John Lennon And A Good Old-Fashioned Fistfight At 7 In The Morning. Hit the player below to give it a listen or download the mp3 right here (4.4MB)…

Mamet
gave me the clean hard line
punching an IBM Selectric
from a small Vermont cabin

Dickinson
showed me stone cold brevity
ignoring self-promotion and the market
thirty years alone in that upstairs room

Hemingway
brought his shotgun to the feast
keeping it simple quick and painless
never missing a drink or a day

Van Gogh
tore his left ear and whole heart
spilling his own blood onto his hands
smearing it across the wretched world

Shakespeare
was boldly in it to eat and prosper
filling the theatres every night
booking land deals every day

Cash
crashed himself into endless dumpsters
moaning from the stink to the Almighty
who continued feeding him the songs

Bukowski
freed me from the holiness act
wheeling in the honesty the humor the beer
and the eternal weight of a single line

Hammett
showed me how to work with style
cutting the flowers down to the dirt
an old school pennies-per-word stoic

These are a few
of my professors
at the finest University
in the world

Their lectures have made me

At times saved me

I’ll be paying off tuition
until 2039

Unless Rimbaud
helps me skip the country

And Beckett takes some time off
to show me the ropes of Paris
on the lam

A reading of Hollywood! Hollywood! Hollywood! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!. Hit the player below to listen or download the mp3 right here (8.3MB)…

We welcome them in
like Bela Lugosi
from two directions
every four years

And they fly in hot
knowing every line
of the script

Our ticket is left
at will call and
we run into an
Elizabethan tragedy
where those
with the most to lose
always lose it all

The Authentic Image is crafted
by eminent designers
of hair shoe web
and thread

We dogs lap it up

The Real Story is handwritten
and re-written through
endless billable hours
and polls

We fiends devour every word

The Earnest Promise is delivered
in unparalleled style
ever smiling through the lie
and the con

We addicts shoot it straight

The curtain falls
the house lights come up

The Producers
count their coins on the hill

The Director
ducks into a limo out back

The Writers
close the window against the draft

The Actors
open the can of cold cream again

The Audience
is euphoric but strangely empty

At least
there’s always
next season’s
inevitable smash hit
to look forward to

That
and Lugosi’s new
bespoke cape
shimmering beautifully
under the Klieg lights

A reading of The Four Hundred-Hour Workweek. And a chat about a little book that absolutely saves Art. Download the mp3 right here (5.9MB), or just hit the player below to listen…

For the immortal readers of this site, here’s 17 poems, a small selection from over a year of work, all bundled up into one sexy little PDF.

Editor | Jami Curl

Cover Design | Anthony Querio

Foreword | Brian Clark

The doors of eternity
swung open wide
somewhere between the
forced hallway march
and vomiting into
the toilet with
great force

Three days earlier
in a forgotten time
of beauty and
physical power
the shivers had started
followed by
the ache and
the fatigue

He’d ignored it
then fought it
as long as he could
but finally had to admit
he was beaten

The Flu
had come

He had to act fast

The drive to Safeway was short
but the sweaty hands slipped
from the wheel several times
and all powers of
concentration were
brought to bear on
those little yellow
dashes ahead

He pulled in
walked up
and lurched
straight for
the drug aisle

Women held their children

Men turned away in terror

Standing at
the checkout
slowly dying
he tried to read up on
Rihanna
Jennifer
Angelina and
Octo

But was suddenly
gripped by that
ancient and horrible pain
that first pierces the gut
and then begins a
slow burn all the way
down to the asshole

Yes
his entire consciousness
the whole world
was now consumed by
those two most
human of organs
nothing else
existed

He grabbed for the
unpaid diarrhea pills
breaking the plastic cap off
like a starving man

The guy at the
register asked,
“How ya doin’ today?”

A handful of drugs went in
and nothing came back up

The drive home
is not recorded here
as it was not
in any way
remembered

With his remaining strength
he climbed the everlasting
staircase to the bedroom

Step by step
clawing his
sweating mass of
pale unwilling flesh
to the North Pole
to the top of Everest
to the moon itself

He was the greatest explorer
since Columbus or Coronado

And then
she appeared

More valuable
than gold

More precious
than diamonds

More needed
than breath itself

The bed

As he
reached to her
an ungodly
rumble occurred
down low and
then another

And then
without control
without warning
this grown man
committed an act
not accomplished
since childhood

The sweet arms of bed
would have to wait
as he now needed
a shower and
a clean pair of shorts

Which made him regret
beyond expression
the complete remodel
of the upstairs bathroom
he’d started last week

So it was back to the
stairway again

Then the nausea hit

To be continued…

For Randy Larson

You may live
in a place of peace and
abundance far from the
ripping steel of
machined rounds
and mortar fire
or you may lose your leg
at the knee tomorrow
just a moment after
stepping on an oddly
balanced stone

You might achieve
all your goals and land the
job you’ve wanted for
20 years and 13 days
enjoying every party
with every promotion
Or perhaps you’ll fail
in spectacular style
dying penniless and alone
in a small green apartment

You may find
your extraordinary lover
the hand of which you’d
not release for anything
walking together
through and in it all
or it’s possible you’ll
stand companionless
longing for years
looking for decades

You might make
it to 101 years old
seeing generations of your line
prosper on their way
experiencing all the world
has to offer and more
or you may be struck
down with a rare cancer
awash in tubes and needles
just as things were getting
good

Despite
your plans
your savings
your work ethic
your workouts
your safety goggles
your degree
your GPS
all the capital
and insurance
you might secure
against disaster
and for success

Peace is not found
in the manipulation of
what the future holds

Your frail fingers
will not grasp long
the precipice of a
world yet unborn

Of a time
fueled by relentless
machinery

Of a place
populated by confident
corpses

What the future holds
will certainly come

And come again
in a moment

And again
until all you have
is past

Until the
Playbook of Man
reads humorously
desolate

And a hot coffee
with two eggs
are tasted as
great mercy
and profound
joy