Breaking Glass Bottles

I've been reading "Crash" by J.G Ballard. When I'm finished, I'll watch the film.  But the carnage and eroticism of this book has inspired me a little.  I'm a big fan of breaking glass bottles.  In the city, walking among the bruised concrete structures and green overgrowth, I find glass bottles half buried in the brush and dirt. The bottles make different sounds.  Thick glass bottles, sealed by a cap caked with grime and dirt makes a loud POP.  Thin, 40 oz. glass bottles make a thin quiet burst when they crash.  This act has attracted me in it's appeal.  Reminds me of angst and trailer parks.  I'll be working on a story about breaking glass bottles in the future.

3AM

The shouting started and the District Human Resources Director Paul jumped from behind the desk we’d been seated at for no more than fifty-five and a half seconds before he made his way, sprinting through hallways past the water cooler and paper pushers just like me. At the corner where the stairs demanded anyone a sharp right he held his hand out where an unsuspecting four inch by four inch framed representation of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers was left skewed violently against the wall like the victim of some domestic dispute. From the window in Paul’s office, I watch him emerge from somewhere beneath me, out into the Parking lot where the shouting had emanated from. With my ring and middle finger I pulled down one more singular blind as to not aware Paul or any other parties of my surveillance. Not that I would be reprimanded for looking. I just would like to avoid as much confrontation as possible. Besides, what’s a scene without its audience? Three stories below Paul was arguing with an Asian man. Familiar, but I couldn’t place his face. The Asian man looked distraught and it seemed he had already halted a black Mercedes attempting to leave the lot in his distress. He pounded small fists down onto the bonnet of the shiny black Mercedes but as weak as the man looked the heavy German automobile remained unmarred. The District Human Resources Director Paul had a cellular phone pressed to his right ear, as his other hand motioned the man to stop his harassment of the vehicle. From Paul’s office, I could hear my associates leaving their chairs to crowd the windows. I listened closer as some of the blinds were pulled up frantically by their cords while others, remained silent, presumably by onlookers like me, who wished to remain anonymous. When I returned my gaze to the situation unfolding outside, the man was thrusting what looked like a knife or some other sharp utensil in Paul’s direction. Paul continued to talk into the phone and motion with his left hand to put down what I perceived to be a knife. Who was Paul talking to on the phone? If he was calling the police, why would the conversation between he and the operator last this long? Perhaps the operator had forwarded Paul to a Chief Negotiator and Paul was acting as a proxy negotiator until the police showed up. The windows between the me and the other spectators up here on the third floor silenced any noise these two made down in the lot below. The entire situation had lasted, from the initial yelling Paul an I had heard from his office, to the time the police arrived on the scene, almost nine minutes. I’m sure the eight minutes and some odd seconds felt like a lifetime for Paul, and a microsecond for the upset man with his knife. When the police apprehended him, he stabbed himself ferociously in the chest and stomach. I began counting the times the knife entered his chest and could hear others in the room next to the office counting also. It was more disturbing than you’d imagine, the way his arm thrashed the blade to and from his abdomen, his long-sleeve white shirt changing red with every jab. It was a terrible look of defeat on his face when the boys in blue wrestled the weapon from his hand. Back in his office, after the police and ambulance and shiny black Mercedes had all left, Paul settled back into the chair behind his desk where he’d arranged pictures of his wife and children, along with several knick-knacks he’d felt were funny but work-appropriate. A larger than necessary mug positioned beside his daily Dilbert calendar read, “Work is easy, when you have an unlimited supply of determination and labor.” The office suddenly felt quiet, though I knew it had been before we took our seats again at the desk. I folded my hands across my lap as District Human Resources Director Paul tapped a stack of papers against their edge and laid them on the desk in front of me.

Museums, Insects and Not Sleeping

A few excerpts that were never published to this page... 2:45 a.m. Thursday
I don't know what to make of it. Last Monday I visited the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts in Richmond. My mother obtained free tickets for the Picasso exhibit so me amd my lady friend made a day of it. The Picasso was wonderful of course. Much of it I hadn't been exposed to previously. Never the less it was enjoyed. What I enjoyed more were the Artists I had much more invested in. I enjoyed the Lichtenstein works and many others. At one point in the museum, I happened across an Installation called "Buddha Watching T.V" by Nam June Paik. After watching the awakened one watching the awakened one on T.V via a stationed camera, I listened intently as a Mother explained to her two small curious children what they were looking at.

10:25 p.m. Saturday
I notice a beautiful flying insect leaving the store. It looks like a butterfly but I don't believe butterflies are nocturnal. Maybe a moth. From my car, I sit waiting for someone to notice it. A little girl and her mother pass it. I hope she notices it. I hope the fluorescent green insect excites her or she cringes at it. She doesn't. I'm parked in a handicap space. The moth swoops and dives in these incredible broad arches. But I think its injured. The movement almost seem violent. Its a little frightening.

1:21 a.m. Tuesday
Meh. I need to be sleeping. In a few minutes I will be. I'm just putting the last touches on this post. In a few hours I will wake up and slump into the passenger seat of my mother's car where I will be driven to my girlfriend's place. I'm hoping I'll be able to get back to sleep once I get there. I have been on a very irregular sleeping pattern lately. I tried breaking it today by getting up early but I fell asleep twice this afternoon. This succession of getting carted around everywhere is killing me. I've had a few questions about selling the guitars. Hopefully I'll get the funding for the engine soon.

Let's Try This Again: Sam Hill Isn't a Bad Person, (He Just Gets a Bad Rap)

Let's try this again. Once more Blogger has eliminated a long drawn out blog post from the page it had appeared. I don't understand it, I won't attempt at understanding it. I just hope that the issue does not continue to burden the poor bloggers trudging this site. It's difficult to remember exactly how I put it before, but I'll try to remember the best that I can. From the 27th of April, 2012 Just what in the hell is going on here? There is dust on the floor and the shelves and tiny footprints where someone might have passed through but certainty of this cannot be told. Just what the hell went on in here? I've returned to this blog after maybe more than a month of absence. I feel inclined to let those of you who read this blog know what has been going on. I think I may have to list these events to make the form more comforting to the readers eyes. 1. Went to Seattle. Great place. But the place is notoriously cold and rainy. And It lives up to it's notoriety. Great record stores and even better bars. Highly recommend the Unicorn for good music and great atmosphere. They make the place up to be something like a Carnival experienced by even the most seasoned LSD veteran's knee deep in a case of the fear. If you're looking to treat your lady as I did, try Oddfellows. Amazing food and our drinks were free because nobody contacted us for the first five minutes we were there. No big deal to me but I'm not one to turn down free drinks. I did the touristy stuff, the Space Needle, the Music Experience Museum or whatever they call it. A friend of mine who lived across the bay came over to take the Underground Tour. Apparently modern day Seattle is built on a smaller city of Seattle that was prone to flooding. We took the "Underworld Tour" which is the same tour they have during the day save they let you drink and tell dirty jokes about prostitutes and feces. My friend and I drank a pitcher and a half before the tour however, which turn what should have been a fun and educational tour into a search for a dark corner to piss. As soon as the tour guide led us back to the surface world, my friend and I were able to relieve ourselves on a couple of doorways in an innocuous alleyway. 2. So that was my vacation. Five days in Seattle. I came back to work to some unsettling news however. The store I work at is closing. Not that the company is going out of business itself, though I could speculate otherwise. On a Saturday morning, we were gathered in a meeting to discuss what was called an important transformation. Now that I think about it, isn't that fucked up? Calling it that? Anyways, we were told that the store was closing and we would be provided a severance package if we did not want to work for the company any longer. Provided we stay on until the store closes on May 12th. I don't want to work for this company anymore. I have a pretty promising opportunity to work for another company who pays very, very well. So I am worried, but not it's not as though I've been left out on the streets. They will continue paying me after May 12th until June 12th. 3. I wasn't going to mention this last part. As it may reflect poorly on the other person involved. But I think my integrity as a writer may depend on relaying the events as they unfolded that night. As long as this person shall remain nameless, I think I may retain some of that integrity. What began as a dispute of differences quickly escalated that night into screaming, pushing and shoving. As this writer began to wind down after the fight had taken just about all he had out of him, he was struck a few times in the side with a broom. Trudging back to the place he had left his keys, he witnessed the abuse of his automobile. It was almost surreal, now that I think of it. I can't believe any of it actually went down the way it did. Irrationality can be a frightening thing I think. After this, I decided to take a new stab at independence. No man is an island as today I received charity I swore the day after this ordeal I wouldn't take again. 4. I finished my novel. It is still in the editing phase. I have unfortunately not conjured the same motivation in editing as I did in writing the damn thing. Please be patient for the few of you who may be wanting to read it. I have done much research into local publishing companies around the city and a few independent publishers beyond the state. One day soon you may own your copy of "A Meth Addict Who Has Stolen Poetry and Will Not Bring It Back". But for now, you'll just have to make up your own stories.

A Scene from a Restaurant Downtown

A coat hangs on some stained mahogany rack in the corner of the room.
A Stetson pork pie hat hangs from the tip of the coat and drips tonight's bad dreams all over the yellow tile floor.
A bus boy with itchy hands and heavy eyes hangs his head and smiles and says in just another hour he'll be on his way.
He hangs a mop in a strainer and watches it mash wet ropes until all those bad dreams spill out into the murky water below.
And all types of memories hang in the air around this place.

Bought On A Road

This is what started as a free-verse poem that became a sort of epic. It's cut into parts, though the parts do not need to be read in any specific order.


Bought On a Road

I.
Giants walking, fiends talking hyphenated spells on wretched little ears.
I borrowed these flowers for you.
We all want to be discovered by the right people.
I want to be discovered.
This vanishing act is getting old.

Sunday I wrote a poem for our dead fathers.
We have these ghosts around us.
They shriek and moan and they tell us they didn't have to tell us it doesn't happen this way.
Without these verses the forest is just wood and chlorophyll.

Undying rest, spare my love this awful burden.
She knows not of the whispering you and I do and with a binding kiss such as this we will never grow old. We will never believe in another single thing.
It will be this and only this that makes us and the world and nothing in between.

But I cannot refer you to a clown who shares his shoes with a politician.
I cannot lie to you anymore.
It will be a hard, hard rain that falls on our heads.
Yours and mine.
Black is white and color is a mystery onto us again.
We won't worry ourselves with such sensibilities.
Instead, we've only this tangerine.
Will it last us all night?
Will the candle last us dear?
Don't tell me you love me again.
Our breathes must be still.
I have only the one match and you still have your corduroy dress to mend.

So did you see that great white beast rolling down the highway in the dead of night?
His knuckles as white as the headlights that lead him to that terrible place.
Where the ghosts leapt up from their chairs and shouted, "What the fuck are you doing here!?"
You and I aren't welcome here.
Their faces twist and contort like some awful circus side show.
We run out to the desert where the wind cuts our face and the sky is a cracked painting.
Your great-grandmother hands me a peach and asks me to recite your name in Arabic.
Again and again she says until my mouth is filled with dirt and Indians build fires on it.
They dance around.
Drums are played loudly and children laugh uncontrollably.
Coyotes smoke peyote and witches brew tea of Egypt.
And there, in the center of their madness is my father.
He is wearing purple stones around his neck and asks you to recite my name in the old language.
You open your mouth but the guttural sounds of the old language cannot be said by such a beautiful tongue.
He says, “Speak!"

II.
Now is my own discontent,
Where from behind panes of glass I am mocked,
As a stowaway on my own vessel.
I christened her in the beginning of this journey but I am losing control.
Again and again I am reminded that I must quit this life of the imaginary.
Return to my home in Glastonbury and be quick among the moors.
Dance, Prance, be quick along the moors, boy.

We die tonight.
I hope we die tonight.
With, Without this club of heroes.
Always arguing,
They laugh,
Always at each other’s throats.
Like wolves.
They feed on the weakness of our great uncles and our granddaughters.
It is nothing I cannot worship on my own.
What we were asking for were answers.
What you offer does not console us.

Someday you and I will cry,
A dehumanizing cry.
A tirade for tyranny.
A fulmination at fascism.
Our gums will bleed.
Our skin will crawl,
Up your walls.

I wrote you a letter on a leaf of paper.
How elegant it was, the way the ink formed letters,
Then syllables, then words.
It was my intention to fold this letter into a boat.
A small paper boat.
I could sail in the gutters, along the street.
The rain water could carry me to the heel of your boots.
There, I could dock my vessel,
And be taken up in your empty china hands.

III.
You and I,
We play these games,
Running around in Circles,
Until we are sick.
And we die.

And if you die,
You’ll worry me sick.
Spinning on the lawn, in circles.
Playing your games.
Wouldn’t I?

IV.
Hey Alan, You look like a Tuesday, you sure that tie ain’t on too tight?
Hey Alan, Hey man.
Hey Alan, You look exhausted way up there.
Hey Alan, Hey, Hey man,
Hey Alan, You know, we all miss ya down here at the pool hall.
Even Frank admits he misses ya.
And you know how hard it is for him to say that.
Hey Alan, Hey man,
Hey Alan, ya know Margery cut some Guido punk the other night at the pool hall.
They locked her up for a night but you know Frank and the boys bailed her out.
Hey Alan, Hey man,
Frank’s boy Tommy had a concussion at the game last Saturday.
They say he might not make it through the night.

On/Off

"When I was five
I went fishing with my family.
My dad caught a turtle.
My mom caught a snapper.
My brother caught a crab.
I caught a whale.

That night we ate crab.
The next night we ate turtle.
The next night we ate snapper.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale.
The next night we ate whale..."
Tao Lin

I got talent. I got a taste. My story "Thursday" was published in the University literary journal. I guess that gave me permission to go wild. I was looking down a road that could have ended me in my mother's position. I can't keep going on like that. There's something I need to be working on. I haven't had a drink in five days. What started as a pact has now become closer to an endurance contest. The smell sickens me. I think of that feeling in the back of my brain and the pit of my stomach turns. Whatever.

Yes, I was published in my University's literary journal. Which means... something. It means an audience of six credited editors found a story I wrote one morning as practice (a Thursday morning) worth putting in their simple typo riddled journal. But I appreciate it. It gave me the initiative to submit to other journals.

Last night I had a dream my significant other was unfaithful. I wasn't angry. At first. It was Halloween. I dressed as a vampire at a Church function. I thought this was clever. When she told me I remember I thought, "She buys me everything, why shouldn't she be allowed to see other men?" I'm smiling. I'm still dressed as a vampire when we lay on a hotel bed and I ask why. I got angry but a black man told me not to argue. He told me she was so good to me I had nothing to complain about. He went downstairs below our hotel room to a room filled with water where he was attached to a machine. He said, "I can hear everything down here." Fuck.