Archive for February, 2010

I. I walk up to a woman in the parking lot, “Let’s make babies”. One of us screams.

II. The horror of standing still. A woman is in a plastic cube, embedded. She can’t move and is kept alive by machines. A sex object.

III. I can think but I don’t want to. The future is terrible. I’m a drifter floating on a sea of changes. I don’t want to be comfortable. I want to stay hungry. I can smell everything.

IV. When I was a kid I used to stick needles into my arm. I liked to hurt myself while masturbating. Then I became very athletic and focused on my body, sculpting it. I must hate my body because all this time I’ve been trying to beat it into submission. I succeeded.

V. She made a prosthetic limb out of styrafoam and polyurethane and used it comfort her on nights she was alone, with was frequent. I walked in on her one night and found it draped obscenely over her shoulder where she was watching tv on the sofa.

Twan tries to help me with my existential angst. He fills me in about the beaches over here:

Normally over there you’re either a skinny surfer/stoner/skater/slacker (ocean beach) or a muscle bound nicely coiffed jock/pretty boy/poser/tough guy (pacific beach), all the nice guys and families hang out at Mission Beach. You dont fit either one of those molds, or any, so people must be trying to figure you out.

Sometimes the world seems to be crumbling. So many of my friends on the East Coast are having a hard time. For example, Q. in NYC writes:

I’m not doing good. It’s been for days now (sometimes though it’s totally gone for hours). My biggest problem is that the only way I can be seems to be aggressive. And I honestly want to hurt somebody (which then again obviously I absolutely don’t want). And when somebody says something nice. I cry and hide. Yeah, can’t take it.
No worries, I just had to write it to somebody. Thanks.

At least somethings are where they should be. Here is a poem from D. in C-Squat, a friend in the community I left behind:

Splayed out on the old schoolhouse floor, Dixie cups overflowing with cheap Polish vodka, she showed me her masks, one after another, and told me about home. We copied poems onto scraps of paper, folded them and sent them flying to the darkened street below. Now it is morning (she thinks that is funny) and time to change out of my party dress, to wander home and pick up my hammer. Good design’s first and last concern is contrast. I’m working on my levels.

Giron D’Agate submits another cry for help which reads like it’s straight out of Herbert Huncke’s Guilty of Everything:

I was at the Starbucks nearby using the wifi and in quite horrific pain. I’ve become opiod resistant. Fortunately I gots me some Tylenol 3 so when I dropped it with the morphine I’m snappy Jesus. But the point was that before I did that while still at S-buck I said aloud “Does anyone have any put me out of my misery juice”? Naturally everyone moved a half step away.