June 25, 2002

One very fucked up movie from Lars von Trier called Zentropa.
Two days gone already in this last week of June and where will this summer lead?
Three square meals, one of toast, one of jambalaya, one of pasta and bread.
Four beers since sundown, two pabst, a moretti, and a shot of comfort for my head.
Five emails in my in-box and I can't bring myself to respond.
Six gun sound running round my outlaw rear window inverted lake cloud island-filled sky.
Seven screenplays by seven writers in seven days.
Eight fingers and two thumbs beating the hum-drum out of life and squeezing it into jiggle juice.
Nine years since I landed here with that gas king girl and Frank handed us the latte poet world on a platter.
Ten little white pills to cure my ills came like christmas birthday happiness all wrapped and pry-or-it-eyes'd from my man, my man, my brother in nm.
Eleven sniffs of heaven just outside tonight between the milky way and the fir tree forest butterscotch scratch and sniff bark and pine needle fray-ger-ants!
Twelve months in a year a meaningless measure of time better spent contemplating your navel and learning to love yourself and forgive and forget to regret.
Thirteen that bad rap number that rhymes with black and cat and halloween jack-o-mausoleum snap dragon dark beauty in the hearse with the towers and bowers and spires and she, the queen leader of it all ducking out and feelin' down and doubtful and can't I relate oh yes I can, I can and I reach out embrace you through the phone, best I can and squeeze you..
Fourteen times and then some more, my love, my larger-than-life soul sister we walk the knife together, forever..
Fifteen, the girl-woman who asked if I liked to be ridden and made good on the threat.
Sixteen times ten dollars my one big haul for all that work of two days and four trees with my one mean-ass chainsaw.
Seventeen stamps left and only five days til the uspo hikes up its skirt yet again to make up for the death of the hand-written letter.
Eighteen gallons of gas in old duke's tank and it's party time space travelers! Let's tear across rhode island at mach one.
Nineteen luftballoons or was it ninety-nine, nina long ago you sung so fine and spun little webs of dreamlife in a young boy's mind.
Twenty 20 vision is how we all recall the finer days, the fireworks, the taffy and skeeball and sandbar and the sea wall and robin opaki's damp and sandy swimsuit hanging on the bathroom wall, just one sniff and someday if.. but someday never came.
Twenty one. Blackjack. You are my ace of spades, and so long as I write you need never have fright for I am king and always at play.


Write Me!


Powered by Laughing Squid