16 April 2014

corpse flower

There is a complete and total freedom obtained through the act of letting go of the love of your life. In doing so, one rids themselves of any end goal, because you've already obtained and surrendered it. So nothing means anything after that. You can go through your life doing whatever you want, without fear of consequence because you've already chosen the worst possible experience. It's freeing to accept the knowledge that you've already done to yourself far worse than anything else could ever be. It's like being dead already. I go through my days now and I simply do not care. I'm unafraid and unconcerned and sometimes I welcome the very worst. I have made a ghost of myself by making a ghost of her. Tears have never come as freely or as often.

25 March 2014


I told him of my gold mine in Eldorado, of my vineyards in the south of France, of my merchant ships moored at Cadiz; I told him of my seductions of lazy-legged Jewesses in Tel Aviv, of incredibly aseptic blondes in Copenhagen, of golden, burnished mulattoes at Port Said.


"Intercourse," said an old-timer, breathing heavy. He sat up on the rail. It was a word of high danger to his old mind. He said it with a long disgust, glad, I guess, he was not involved. 

15 March 2014


Your red hair still
in my sheets 
wovenin my clothes
among the threads of
stubble I manage.
I discover it knotted,
wound up with lint and refuse
on shirts and coat sleeves,
on the seats and floors
of a car you’ve never ridden in.
Where can I find privacy from you,
if not a living room sofa
listening to every door’s constant slamming,
glimpses of you
increasingly seldom
to the point of you as fiction,
conspiracy theory.
Skeptics doubt the red threads I display for them,
pinched between
thumb and forefinger.  

24 February 2014


A loneliness that does not cease, without end or limit.

10 October 2013


Innermost suffering makes the mind noble. Only that deepest, slow and extended pain that burns inside of us as firewood forces us to go down into our depths… I doubt that such a pain could ever make us feel better, but I know that it makes us deeper beings. It makes us ask more rigorous and deeper questions to ourselves… Trust in life has disappeared. Life itself has become a problem.

Two very different private detectives in Los Angeles.

"During your chat—was there anything maybe you didn't share with them?"
"I did think about recommending a bar called Curly's out on Rampart, but the more they went on, the less it seemed somehow like their sort of place."
"This was, like, a Puck-and-Einar hangout?"
"Depending on the music policy week to week, that was the impression I got."
"Let me guess. Country and western."
"Broadway show tunes," Trillium said quietly.
"And how," nodded Quight.

Two steps in the door of which, who did Doc catch sight of but FBI Special Agents Borderline and Flatweed, both in the synchronized act of stuffing dimly perplexed Anglo faces with the house's celebrated Giant Burrito Special.

He was right about the begging, though. She found herself carrying rolls of coins for pay phones because she never knew at what odd moment of the day the longing would seize hold of her—between freeway exits miles away from his place in West Hollywood, in the produce section of the Safeway, during some fugue for woodwinds, all at once this humiliating heat would envelop her, and there was nothing she could think of to do but call him.

... and there was Einar with all these Hawaiian orchids and the sweetest look on his face, and it was at least a month before he admitted he'd worked his way like a pickpocket through the crowd at a debutante ball in the Ambassador and stolen the corsages right off people's gowns...."
Being the continuation of a long story Doc had forgotten, or maybe missed, the beginning of.
"I don't know why I'm telling you all this."
Doc didn't either, though he wished he had a small aggravation fee for each time somebody had spilled more than they meant to and then said they didn't know why.

"You mustn't judge Osgood too harshly," advised a voice to which Time, if it had not exactly been kind, had at least contributed some texture. 

"Mr. Cobb was my escort," she said. "Such a nice escort, Mr. Cobb. So attentive. You should see him sober. I should see him sober. Somebody should see him sober. I mean, just for the record. So it could become a part of history, that brief flashing moment, soon buried in time, but never forgotten—when Larry Cobb was sober."

"Thanks, lady. You're no English muffin yourself."

"If I had a razor, I'd cut your throat—just to see what ran out of it."
"Caterpillar blood," I said.