messy room



in my trailer, over here,
falling asleep,
but also
in your bed
(you know?)

a fast-talking dj turned down very low,
a box of macaroni, a shadow,
my only door opened by itself
when you walked past,
maybe that’s why

in the corner a blanket,
a lamp with no bulb,
record player the same age as you,
a check for six dollars,
comb with your snarls,
for me it wasn’t fake for me it was real

bootprint on the pillow,
a tape all tangled up,
rubber soul out of its jacket on the carpet

radio, rain, a duffelbag
from the war with your dad’s name
and stain, aw, just out of practice, your bed,
the light blue wall near your door

I’m in love with a paper towel. I’d know her fall to the floor anywhere. The origami of her crush in my hand. The time it takes her to get damp and useless. Her patience, alone by the trash. Not one to cause mischief there, or, worse, to feign pathos. No, she just...is. More vulnerable than the most halting, circuitous, unrequited loveletter. Serrated at sexy, evil angles. And she'll do her job if she has to. Built in. Now I have to figure out how to stay in touch with her. We lead such different lives. And she might not even be interested in me. What do I know? I’m so naïve. I certainly don’t know what other people do alone in the bathroom. Not like her.

Still reading "The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas" (the lady of hash brownie legend), by Gertrude Stein. The funny thing is, every time I open it up, my face goes into this solid, against-my-will smile, as if I'm on Starship 2000 at the fair, or indeed eating a hash brownie. There is something so Gumptious about it. Also Delighted, Simple, Informative, Chatty and Grand.

Tonight, one of my old supervisors at the bookstore sold me a perfect-condition 1934 first edition of "Portraits and Prayers" by Ms. Stein for $125, when it normally goes for $600, and is letting me pay it in three installments. He found it at a library sale for a dollar or something.

I thought that was quite good.

When I lived in Topanga Canyon I would sometimes stop at the Vons on PCH between Malibu and Topanga going home from work. It was usually dark by then and often foggy. The elderly black evening security guard there always nodded when he saw me. I enjoyed seeing him as sort of a mythic figure in the fog and thinking he must have a lot of stories.

One night we spoke. He started being mythic right away. He'd been a merchant marine in the 1960s, and collected military ocean lore, strange sightings, inexplicable seafaring events. He said the water lore of any people always starts in its military. That the first mermaid sightings were recorded by Roman military ships off the coast of Wales. I believed him

Going to California


It’s a windy night with fireflies
and I’m taking apart a guitar
and my sisters are upstairs fighting
about a brush. Sixteen lemons
have fallen since you were here.
I should send you one
so you can eat it in front of somebody
and impress him. (That is meant to be a joke.)


One thing you should know
is that you have extremely beautiful hair.
Those guys had been partying
too heavily for their own well-being
and were about to fall asleep.
They were more dreaming than seeing.
Add to this the fact that they
are not artistically creative.
I feel sorry for them, more than anything else.


Well you haven’t written yet.
That’s cool. I know how it is
when you don’t feel like writing a letter.
You probably have more significant things
to think about, like school.
Could you send me your phone number again?
Unfortunately, Jennifer thought it was a receipt
and threw it away.


Well I’m back and look
you’ve driven me to drink.
I’m mailing this right after it’s finished
so please make some allowances.
I had a dream about you last night.
Listen I wish you would come back sometime.
They put up a whole new building
for Maeder and those assholes.
You wouldn’t even have to see them.

Jimi Hendrix Subaru Commercial Insight



I don't know how you're going to feel about this, but I just found out that it has been the 1950s since around 1908. And that it's going to continue to be the 1950s (get this) until there are no more women. And no more men.