My New Neighbors

Nothing is less arousing
than that goddamn white trash olympics
on our collective front lawn.

I can't get a boner
to save my mother's life
with those bitch squeals
calling at rhythmic intervals
as another Hitler youth
straddles the bitch

and calls out
"Ride, Princess! Ride!"

A bicycle lies upside down
on top of the tool shed.

Jason, Jacqueline, and Jamie

Jason and Jacqueline were not in love at the time. In fact, Jacqueline was spending a few nights a week at a hotel downtown. She said it was easier to sleep in a clean bed. The bed at her home (with Jason) was often spoiled by crumbs.

Jason always had an appetite that resulted in bits of dry, salty snacks falling into the sheets. So they were not in love at the time. Of course, that was no excuse.

The excuse was actually Jamie. But she wasn't the excuse for lonely hotels; she was the excuse for reclaiming the house. Jamie was a crumb, and Jacqueline hated crumbs.

One morning, after a clean night's sleep downtown, Jacqueline was appalled to return home and find Jamie, the crumb, in bed with Jason.

"You little crumb," she shouted.

Although she didn't really love Jason, Jacqueline made a show of being hurt in front of him

and in front of the court some weeks later.

Jason felt ashamed in spite of his unlove for Jacqueline. He didn't love Jamie either. He was just in love with the game. He had an appetite for the Jamies of the world like he had an appetite for dry, salty snacks.

So Jason ate a snack, Jamie was swept out like a crumb, and Jacqueline had a clean bed without hotel expense.

Now Jason stayed in a hotel (with his snacks).

And nobody was ever in love at that time or any other.

I fear poverty;
I fear it will make a thief
of me.

My eyelids,
though heavy with fatigue
born out of stress,
are wide open,
watching for opportunity
to take what I need
or might need.

I cannot despise
the beggar
shoplifter
thief
in me
or anyone else
these days.

LIKE AN ITCH

It's like an itch.
There are these pains
irritations
pressures
frustrations
that seem to be relieved
only by intensification.

Like an itch.
It's small
and irritating
and you scratch it,
you tear at it,
to make it go away.

And like an itch,
the pressure on my eyes seems like
it will only be relieved
by pressing them into my skull.

CAN YOU MAKE

The question:

Can you make it?
Can you make her?
Can you make her like you
in like five minutes?

Because that's all a guy needs.

He needs to know that he's still got it
and by it I mean
the ability to make it,
to make her like him
in the same amount of time
it takes him to decide
she's not worth it.

EVEN WEAKER SET

Leaving behind a fresh batch of
“I already know how tonight plays out,”
I drive across town to
beg for scraps
(as that’s all my stomach can handle these days,
Scraps, that is)

Tomorrow will be another test,
Multiple choice:
a) Procrastinate
b) Masturbate
c) Try to get a job
d) Prove my worth in society
e) A and B
f) C and D

Women are the weaker sex,
they say,
they being people in general
not the women themselves,
most of the time,
But when I wake up
with whiskey breath
that taste of death
I have to reconsider
because

if a man wins the bread
and pays all his debts
I guess I’m cast(e) of some third,
even weaker set

recorded an album this week.

been busy.

be back.

As it turns out I was born unlike any other human being. The chief difference is in the placement of my brain. Rather than all of it being stuck in my cranium, equal portions of my mind were rationed out to my head, chest, stomach, limbs, legs, and genitalia. All of my appendages are equally smart to one another. You would think that this unusual splitting of my brain would make me very different from most men, but if you feel that way then you haven’t thought it through.

On the contrary I am very similar to most men. My heart and stomach receive equal attention, each needing to be fed. My legs are always sore for having to carry my body. My arms tire of lifting everything my stomach needs. My penis dictates that I desire more than I can satisfy. My head is not as full as most heads are, but I take full advantage of my mind up there so as not to fall behind everyone who only uses a smidgen of theirs.

Of course there are endless conversations between them all, and these are tiring, but no more so than an average man’s work to regulate his body’s needs. My stomach formulates eloquent complaints when it is not full and my heart prattles on endlessly about its romantic needs. Such is also the case of my legs which are never satisfied carrying all the rest of the body around. When my feet are sore there is a shouting match between them over which is the more exhausted. My arms try to convince one another that one of them is larger and stronger. My head thinks it is more fit for intelligence than the others. My penis couldn’t care less so long as it gets wet now and again.

So you see, like most men, I’m only happy with half of myself at any given time. The rest of me is full of self-loathing and resentment.

and if i ever get my shit together

tonight i felt
the icy cold hand of
death

on my back

while i was standing in the back
of the shower
trying to reach the knob
to cool the water

and you threw
cold
water
on me
from a cup

and laughed
and laughed
and laughed

and I smiled
because I didn't know what else to do

i remember paradise
six weeks ago
wake up because
i wanted to do
what i'd chosen to do

i remember paradise
8 hours of work
in front of computer
recording
mixing
creating

i remember paradise
my own agenda
nothing forced

i remember paradise
i accomplished more
than any two weeks ever

i remember paradise
no boss
no teacher

i remember paradise
and shit like that

today's discoveries:

pills for acid reduction
do ease the pain
of heartburn

i still get scared of haunted houses

if shopping at aldi
makes you feel poor
don't use
wal mart
as a chaser

avoiding the issue
will not
help your
finances

overeating will also do little to change the situation

but
eating 50 eggs will make
you a hero

trying extra
hard to get
attention
only makes it more
disappointing when you
fail

i don't like jenny lewis

i'm just like everybody
on saturday night
i want loud
alcohol-induced
fun

because that's nothing like
the rest
of the week
when i sit around
and wish that i were being
more productive
instead of
just blogging about
it

C.Ray Harvey is...
the loving husband
excelling student
musically expressive
drug-free
fun-loving
gentleman

C.Ray Harvey is...
the brooding consumer
lying trickster
deceptively friendly
hope-free
sex-loving
bastard

it's torturous
to sit
and sit
on something you've finished
and can't reveal yet

i want opinions
impressions
praise
ridicule
etc

not that it
matters
what people think

i just need them
to think it

it feels so good to have something done
and done right

wine never begs for company

and that's got everything to do with misspelling
and nothing to do with alcohol

don't take sides
don't stay neutral
don't stick around

i have comments
this is otherworldly

well, i hope you don't come to expect anything
today was just another
damn day

i fixed a few things
from yesterday

i laid some traps
for tomorrow

i'm not the first guy
to get a rise
from deception

there's a whole cabinet and a congress and whatnot
of guys like me
and they're paid by the guys
like me
and like me
they're slaves to the
moneymakers

i need a job

times like this i feel like drinking
not to feel drunk
i hate that

i feel like drinking
because the drink's a killer
and i feel like killing
and i feel like dying

alcohol destroys a man
and i want to be a destroyer
and i want to be destroyed

i hope nobody reading this
mistakes these words
for poetry

i don't fancy myself a poet
or anything
like that

but i guess
the fact that i
am announcing this
to nobody
(only i read this, and only once per post)
is proof
that i have considered
the fact
that i could be confused
as trying
to be poetic

what a waste that would be

i have traveled through time
and found that most of it
was a waste

like most of my days

a waste of time

until she comes home

and then i just blow it