Monthly Archives: November 2009

‘makes you think ‘m not fuhck’d up

don’t need no liquor.  got m’ head.  beats

m’ brain till some-uh-whut it said falls

out m’ fingers.

don’t peck m’ liver, plugs

m’ gut.  don’t kill

m’ lungs, pouns m’ chest.  pulls it

out, looks at it, plays

it, looks at it, puts it back; makes

prom’s liver a lyre.

it begs fr th’ luck

th’t’s left it.

i got vices for vices.

s’pose i use em ta shake

off just a little

skin.  i’m only

go an’ forget

nuthin but m’self.

ain’ a snake.

that cover

‘ll change

and

hang

on

me

’til

it’s pick’d up where i’m put down nd done.

Reasons Why I Think God Is NOT A Panda

For years now, God has been plotting against
the dragon, and wants to usurp his throne
as the national emblem of China.

God does not establish permanent dens.

God is not as cute as his tiny red
cousin.

God’s tail is not as long as that
of the sloth bear.

God’s hands have six fingers.

Scientists have recognized only two
subspecies of God.

Teddy Roosevelt
hunted God in the ‘20s.

When captive,
God loses His interest in mating,
and takes Viagra, or watches God porn.

God knows kung fu, but only in movies.

God has recently filled an important
role in China’s global diplomacy.

God is not a native of India,
Israel, Italy, the United
Kingdom, or Utah.

God is black and white.

Unlike most bears, God does not hibernate.

God is often caught in traps set for deer.

It is illegal to own pelts of God.

Dead Clouds

Left hand rested on the right, pointing ahead over your own, you throw body in a dive, pushed off at the legs, quickly tucked into a curl, into a ball before you SPLASH! hit the surface with a crackle, with a crunch, sending fiery waves crashing over the curb, flooding on the sidewalk. You could have incited a brushfire if you’d cast away your cigarette closer, but perhaps today’s your day.

“WATCH OUT FOR THE…pavement…,” she starts to shout with a wince, then she looks away when you make impact. “…or that homeless guy,” she quips when she returns her sight to you. She watches you swim with a look between endearment and embarrassment and ignores the crinkling cacophony you’ve made of the previously still autumn air.

“C’mon in!” you cry out. “It’s a beautiful night!” and she raises her left eyebrow in that incredulous way you find so irresistibly alluring.

“I’m pretty sure you’re swimming in hobo piss,” she counters straight-faced as you back stroke through the leaves. You stop, you shrug, you smirk and you keep swimming.

And you stop. Stuck. Frozen. Petrified like prehistoric insects trapped in amber. A look of sheer panic washes across your face. She thinks you’re kidding for a moment but you freeze your breath and suddenly it’s serious.

“…”

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m stuck,” and that frog in your throat snaps and croaks when you exhale.

She quickly looks around, confirms there’s no one else in the park, and offers her hand. “I told you to watch out for those creepy crazy homeless guys. They’re ever being homeless—everywhere that’s not a home, I guess.”

She shrieks only briefly through that bright, startling smile when you pull her to the ground and she thrashes through the leaf pile for a moment like the victim of a shark attack before that gorgeous laughter overcomes her and she breathes again.

“Now I’m caked in hobo piss. Thanks for that,” she groans, her eyes rolling into the ethereal arch of a brilliant crescent moon.

“Don’t blame me,” you say and stroke her hair behind her ear. “You don’t often get to float on dead clouds.”

Just wrote me a press release

And here it is.  It’s for the USC crew team.  Go, Trojan Navy.  Do it to it.

——-

 

USC Crew Team Begins Season with Promising Results

With the fall collegiate rowing season just getting underway, the USC Men’s Crew (The Trojan Navy) is already exhibiting signs that they are poised to have one of their strongest showings in years.

The team’s season opened this past weekend at the Newport Autumn Rowing Festival in Newport Beach.  With sixteen different collegiate teams represented in a field of thirty eight-man boats, USC’s varsity eight finished fifth in the field and ninth overall, besting the top crews from regional competitors University of San Diego, Loyola Marymount, UC-Irvine, Arizona State, UCLA, and national powerhouse Orange Coast College, to name a few.

“It was a great showing,” said coach Danny Johnson, who comes to the Trojan family after rowing competitively for Orange Coast and UC-Berkeley in the past.  “This race marks a true turning point for the team.”

Men’s rowing was a varsity sport at USC throughout the post-war era, strong from its inception in 1948 and running continuously until 1993.  In that time, it produced a number of storied competitors, including Conn Findlay, who went on to win three Olympic medals – two of them golds – in paired oar-shell competition, and Julian Wolf, who managed the 1984 U.S. Olympic rowing team.  The intercollegiate squad folded in the early 1990’s due to Title IX, only to be revived at the turn of the century as a club sport.

As a non-NCAA-affiliated organization, the team has had to as spend much of its time fundraising as training these past few years.  Luckily, it seems those efforts are finally starting to pay off.  Though they are still working to pull together enough capital to buy a new boat, they were recently able to purchase two used eights – both of which have seen multiple national championships – from the training fleet of UC-Berkeley.  And though they’re not as swift as spring sport racing shells, it appears they’re already making an impact in the water.

“We were able to surprise the team with the boats on the day before the event, and I think it made a huge difference,” said Coach Johnson.  “The varsity had a great race, with a thirty-three strokes per minute pace.  As a pure point of comparison, we lost to UCLA last year by twenty-seven seconds, and this year we managed to best them by twice that.  A one-and-a-half minute turnaround in a fifteen-minute race – that’s something.”

With three eight-man teams in the water – including a JV boat and a Novice squad that, despite some early-term errors, also turned in solid races – The Trojan Navy has shown solid improvement from years past and looks to the coming season with well-earned sentiments of promise and pride.

Their next race is the ’09 Head of the Harbor, hosted by USC and featuring squads from Arizona State, Orange Coast College, Loyola Marymount, UC-Irvine, UCLA, and UC-Santa Barbara.  The event, which takes place on November 15th, will be held at the Port of Los Angeles in Wilmington, CA and will begin at 9:00 A.M.  For more information on spectating the event, call (949) 677-9145.

Some Girls…

“I want my albums back.”

You stare at me confused, but completely calm.  Your hair is perfectly braided, skirt neatly ironed, and  tea the perfect shade of sand.  You take a careful well-placed sip and put the cup back down.

“I don’t have any of your records.”

I take a swig of my coffee, which has dripped all over the saucer due to the near brim filling by the incompetent waitress; and my aggressive, somewhat psychotic over stirring.  They never leave enough room for milk or sugar.

“I want them all back now, without questions, without delay, without confrontation. I want back;

When I was Cruel

You Are Free

Teaser and the Firecat

Kill Them With Kindness

So Jealous

Head on the Door

Your Majesty

Plans

Yes, Virginia…

The 59’ Sound

Everything in Transit

Chase This Light

Louder Now

And every fuckin’ Smiths Album I own.”

You laugh a little, taking out and lighting a cigarette.  I know why you’re laughing, because you know the cases are sitting on my shelves; and the vinyls are safe in their sleeves. They have been there since the day you asked me for my key.  I gave you that chiseled piece of steel; so the least you could do is give me auditory relief.

You take a long drag and then an equally drawn out sip of tea.  You will be content to do this for hours.  I will not be getting anything back…in fact, I’m more than positive this will only have made the problem worse.

“Fine.”

You raise an eyebrow in curiosity.  I’ve rarely acquiesced so quickly.

“Keep the rest if you want, but give me back Morrissey and Marr.  Because those Irish boys know what sadness is, and I’m tired of hearing our memories in every line.”

*I wrote this quickly tonight, because I was too excited and didn’t want to stop the flow…i promise better in the future…atleast more literate, and better edited. I worked today, forgive*

As You Were

In perfect water.  Remember now, our friend is dead and gone.  Gone here, the culmination of color and light.  There is no breathing, but there is still is.  This is a created world, or perhaps part of one.  Who’s to know.  There is no knowing, no particulars.  This place is instinct’s hub.  There are no clouds, therefore there are no thoughts to pass as such in the night.

Alan’s body {his name was, and to any Tralfamadorian still is, Alan} moves in a current that under this world’s rules still must come from something.  A limestone obelisk, a rotating monolith with stem and stern, no end to sides stretching ad infinitum, churns the water {Bear Lake, Idaho water}, 12 to 1, 12 to…what was 12 to 1.  No time.  No tense.

He was not alone.  This was a clock contained; all its pieces broken and ushered by backward hands.  Odds and ends.  The things.  Names are deniable, but their particularness is not.  Particular things, named things, are not here.  Pieces, things, as they had died:
173 people from Black Saturday
Unreported North Korean fatalities
polar bears, plant life, inanimates:
a Merlin the magician hand puppet
a sticky rat trap
piano keys, a french fry, a ten-dollar bill

Yes inanimates.   A baby’s brighter than the notion that soul is limited to lungs and processes to which only we bear witness.  As yet invisibles:  The waves at least, radio, sound etc, well, they make up this water along with electricity and light.  It’s what our imaginations are made of.  Electricity and light.  And the dead.  The other waves, maybe they’re in the limestone.

No worms.  No keepers of Mother’s cyclical buffet.  Far too busy to die properly.  And as far as without saying goes, no Twinkies.

There is feeling.  And Alan feels bothered.  Why if we don’t breath do we still have bodies?  Not a question.  A sense.  Bodies without breath or beat.  Instinct says…

…the obelisk stops.  Nothing sinks in stasis.  1-12.  What was 1-12.  Clockwise, the limestone lurches like a reluctant.  Stasis sways.  Directions are had.  The lith picks up doubling speed with every keel.  A push.  A great push.  Consecutive pushes to the point of constant pult without slowing.  Shrushes turn to paeans from every side, filling all pores, like water, like where the blood used to be.

All is flung into white light.  All parts of each participant shed at the point they would, under too much wind, too many waves.  At a clip that’s never known distance or time, skin, bones, chloroplast, wool and iron implode upon themselves, becoming each other.  Not body and soul.  Body is soul.  Along with everything else.  Creation into created into creator, which is light, nothing, and the love we don’t know.  Even dark is made of light.

Reasons Why I Think God Is A Panda

God is a carnivore, but lives on a
diet primarily consisting of
bamboo.

Due to increasing encroachment
by man, God has been driven out of His
usual lowland habitat.

There may
be as many as 3,000 Gods still
in the wild, with conservation efforts
helping those figures to grow.

God is thought
to be docile, but is known to attack
humans on occasion.

God has appeared
on several commemorative coins.

God is black and white now, but was born pink.

God can live to be up to thirty when
raised in captivity.

God’s hands have thumbs.

God is rare, and cannot be found at all
in South America or Africa—
although Australia will have God soon.

The word “God” originally referred
to another species; scientists now
say that the two are not really even
related.

God can be found in a zoo.

yellow

(that’s the whole point of no return) she said
picking pedals from a chartreuse pistil letting them
slip from her fingers without thought without
feeling as they fluttered to the floor to become some
thing or not that’s why we let them fly
or fade away
it’s like riding in a parking lot and leaving
training wheels on and on and on and never
standing on your own two
(wheels ways eyes feet) we
can/not keep waiting for the okay/go (why) yes/no
—broken glass and open windows—tethered safety
chords and time and rooms and lines and
(yours and mine)
waiting
waiting
waiting
waiting
waiting
waiting

STOP

(he loves me, he loves me not)