Unnatural Sleep
I don't know if I slept. I don't know if I can take credit for the little vignettes my mind created. He was sitting there in the front seat, talking trash, and I in the back. Oddly, I thought I was driving. I didn't like the remarks he made about my shoes, because his were brown mountain hiking shoes and he said that's the way to go. His culture and mine, we think completely unlike. He wouldn't spend that much money on clothes and on cars- that is to say, on the brands that determine those prices. But he has a cozy home, probably invests in stocks, will teach his children the value of independence and earning your own dollar. He has visited the Grand Canyon and the Nation's Capital and Hearst Castel..and Virginia. I thought I would slyly steal the money from his wallet, I don't know how, but I could distinctly feel that the money would somehow be in my hand. I could take it and when I woke up he couldn't hold it against me. I opened my eyes, and I thought the same, that I need to do it, I'm going to do it. That's when I realized - my eyes were open and it hit me, that I was on my couch, the room was dark except for some buzz. My own buzz was basically useless and transitory. This time I knew it would be impossible; the only way was to sneak into his home maybe another day, like an ordinary robber. The impulse left me; even if I had succeeded in getting the cash, as much as I squeezed my eyes, the money would not materialize. So I closed my eyes again and I was into another vignette. I would be in the exact same state after my buzz as before, with only my sensations allowing me to stray from the normal state of things.
afterwards, it didn't make sense, what happened to my bike?
I was waiting in my car for the girls to come out. I went to the back window where I could see into a room that was dark except for a light from the hall. I slid the window open because it was unlocked, and went in. I opened the drawer where the girls kept their underwear, and grabbed a handful of bra and panty. Pink ones with padding, I didn't like the padding, but the panties were soft and touched her skin. I stuffed the loot in my pants and ran out. I saw one of the girls walk out into the park, I guess to meet someone, and at that moment I drove away. I hoped they would not remember me waiting there in the evening.
School was getting out and we all walked across the street to the park. I was walking near a skinny black woman with frail gray hair and cheekbones, and I said, "Hey, mamma, you wanna to buy some underwear?" She smiled and said, "maybe, if they're cheap, like three dollars." I said I'd give her two for six dollars. She agreed and I took out the pink underwear from my pants. I was on my bike and she was sitting on the wooden bench. She took out from her purse a twenty and a single dollar. Before she could say anything, I said to give me the twenty and I could give her back change. She gave me the bill and I started to run away. I looked back to see what her face looked like and what she was saying, but everything was slow and I was afraid of her reaching me.
School was getting out and we all walked across the street to the park. I was walking near a skinny black woman with frail gray hair and cheekbones, and I said, "Hey, mamma, you wanna to buy some underwear?" She smiled and said, "maybe, if they're cheap, like three dollars." I said I'd give her two for six dollars. She agreed and I took out the pink underwear from my pants. I was on my bike and she was sitting on the wooden bench. She took out from her purse a twenty and a single dollar. Before she could say anything, I said to give me the twenty and I could give her back change. She gave me the bill and I started to run away. I looked back to see what her face looked like and what she was saying, but everything was slow and I was afraid of her reaching me.
XanaX
The best part was when we were driving across the bridge and I could see the roller-coaster park on the ocean. I had a fear of heights but I loved how high the ride would go.
I'm a kid again. I love to cuddle in bed with my blanket, and never leave. Like a cold morning before school, I just peed and ran back. My groove is warm. I never ever want to leave!
I'm a kid again. I love to cuddle in bed with my blanket, and never leave. Like a cold morning before school, I just peed and ran back. My groove is warm. I never ever want to leave!
A demon took over me in Las Vegas
I needed a cab as I could walk no longer. I thought about it, and I payed him. I realized I didn't care if it was real or not. I couldn't believe the abundance of supply; I couldn't believe how we found each other. It was 5am and I was dressed my best - crumpled, all Hugo Boss Selection - from the night that began with good intentions. At some point, I just walked off... I think I spent the last couple hours passed out at a massage parlour, and I must have thrown my cell phone at the girl who wouldn't let me sleep any longer. My friends, they abandoned me. I'm sure they felt the same about me. It occured to me that I did not even revist the places where I loved her. So much for the poetics.
How intriguing I must be - downright cool, strutting - in the priority bus stop sitting, not knowing there is no bus. I didn't care, I was waiting for my taxi anyway. The cab pulls out, drives a few feet, mysterious...and I'm out. The whole transaction lasting a few yards. I am like I always wonder, at people driving on the freeway, people on the Strip...how I'm longing to see, go home with them tonight. Smoke weed and see a Maybach in a shady scene, parking in a mediocre apartment lot, I picture the girl, her smile, her voice, and the way she must be looking at him...how mischievious her lips will be that night.
I walk staring down at all times - I'm busy, and the girls know. Swaggering as I'm staggering, How intriguing I must be, sexy like a turn on, sitting with my legs crossed, the Thinker, smoking my cigarette like I'm on heroin. I thought everybody knew my story, or that I had one to tell. Mine was different, not vulgar, ghetto or measly, like all those others before me. I am nothing new.
...you don't understand - one tear comes out and my mouth contorts, and I don't know if I just laughed or cried or what to do next. It's the irrational purging of Drain-O and rat poison. I never wanted to snuff it more than today, but it's only for one day, caught in the moment. Tomorrow I'll be a clown again. I'll erase this in the morning.
How intriguing I must be - downright cool, strutting - in the priority bus stop sitting, not knowing there is no bus. I didn't care, I was waiting for my taxi anyway. The cab pulls out, drives a few feet, mysterious...and I'm out. The whole transaction lasting a few yards. I am like I always wonder, at people driving on the freeway, people on the Strip...how I'm longing to see, go home with them tonight. Smoke weed and see a Maybach in a shady scene, parking in a mediocre apartment lot, I picture the girl, her smile, her voice, and the way she must be looking at him...how mischievious her lips will be that night.
I walk staring down at all times - I'm busy, and the girls know. Swaggering as I'm staggering, How intriguing I must be, sexy like a turn on, sitting with my legs crossed, the Thinker, smoking my cigarette like I'm on heroin. I thought everybody knew my story, or that I had one to tell. Mine was different, not vulgar, ghetto or measly, like all those others before me. I am nothing new.
...you don't understand - one tear comes out and my mouth contorts, and I don't know if I just laughed or cried or what to do next. It's the irrational purging of Drain-O and rat poison. I never wanted to snuff it more than today, but it's only for one day, caught in the moment. Tomorrow I'll be a clown again. I'll erase this in the morning.
on a clear day
I had lunch at this Asian place known by those in Glendale for their three dollar pastrami sandwiches. Is it bomb? It was one of those days where I could smirk at the world as I drove cocky cigarette in mouth, I could feel the sweetness of hearty laughter in me. In the parking lot as I walked a beat up Honda pulled up to me, a guy in half-Armenian half-English called me over. "Brother, can you help? I just need a little money, for gas." He was scratching all over looking around not at me. I thought about my black tar friend and the different paths I went with him. I wanted to say to him that every morning I have to remind myself to stay strong no matter what my mind says, but really I was thinking of what I would do on another day. I wanted to keep him with me in the moment but all I could say was, "No brother; I can see why." What does he care for my sentamentality? I wanted to say more things to him as he drove off.
In the sandwich shop came in an old friend turned common interest turned friend again. He was with his girlfriend. He looked good. I caught him outside and we laughed about ___, to whom I introduced him. Walking in hesitant into his accounting office slash recording studio. All the instruments people must have traded in; he was like the dealer from Requiem. It's alwasy nice to smile at people on these clear days. "No, I haven't touched the stuff," I told him.
I still regret not mentioning to the stranger the Monday and Thursday night meetings, with those who speak our language. Doubt that would help, but they are sincere. He looked older than me. I'm sure he knew.
It's always dangerous to be around anyone who can understand. The rest can just talk. You never get to the end of it till it's gone.
In the sandwich shop came in an old friend turned common interest turned friend again. He was with his girlfriend. He looked good. I caught him outside and we laughed about ___, to whom I introduced him. Walking in hesitant into his accounting office slash recording studio. All the instruments people must have traded in; he was like the dealer from Requiem. It's alwasy nice to smile at people on these clear days. "No, I haven't touched the stuff," I told him.
I still regret not mentioning to the stranger the Monday and Thursday night meetings, with those who speak our language. Doubt that would help, but they are sincere. He looked older than me. I'm sure he knew.
It's always dangerous to be around anyone who can understand. The rest can just talk. You never get to the end of it till it's gone.
she looked so much older now
I saw a woman at a Del Taco on Glenoaks. She was walking away from the restroom as I went in. I walked back to see who she was with, some guy towards the back, his back turned away from the crowd. She has two daughters, or she had two. They're off on their own now, or in another home, or with their grandmother. One of them was born with a brain defect, one of them is 16, always with her boyfriend. She's not a virgin anymore, you know?
No one likes to hear from her. My mom last saw her at the mall with a blue denim skirt. She's always with someone new or in jail, with her husband. She's always telling stories, always lying.
Her father was my favorite great-uncle growing up. He always made me laugh. We watched wrestling together, and when he was visiting, he liked to watch old Western movies, and he loved Burt Lancaster. I guess he was big in Tehran. Her father recently died of a heart attack. My parents say his daughter drove him to it.
No one likes to hear from her. My mom last saw her at the mall with a blue denim skirt. She's always with someone new or in jail, with her husband. She's always telling stories, always lying.
Her father was my favorite great-uncle growing up. He always made me laugh. We watched wrestling together, and when he was visiting, he liked to watch old Western movies, and he loved Burt Lancaster. I guess he was big in Tehran. Her father recently died of a heart attack. My parents say his daughter drove him to it.
some girls are bigger than others, some girls’ mothers…
We all stood in line to clock in and my time card was missing. One of the bosses said he had to talk to me outside. I was relieved. I felt like Bukowski. It was 6 in the morning, I wasn't done drinking, and I had a big fat paycheck to cash for three days of work. All I needed was a woman. The bank wouldn't open for another three hours and my card was in safe keeping. I gave in to impulse real quickly, but I called the wrong number. Before I could think, I erased all the numbers. I laughed aloud when I realized his home was directly across from the bank. So I decided to drive in the slowest route to I don't know yet where, killing time. I could finish my cigarettes and listen to the Queen is Dead real loud in the business traffic.
I ended up in Comerce Casino. I was on a run at the poker table, and I thought this job was a great investment. I didn't want to stop. What was I gonna do with the money, anyway? The chips were like a high, and when they ran out, I was drousy and depressed. I started questioning how much it was going to take for me to walk away, and that was outweighed? by the rest of the day. I didn't get the point of my existence.
Fuck that job. Everyone was older than me and it was depressing. I showed up to the interview in a suit. A resume wasn't required. I saw one of the fat women with a coffee mug and sweat pants parking her Kia right before work. I sat there for ten minutes watching her parallel park when she could have just pulled a little farther up. It's very important to her to repeat the pitch verbatim and sound sincere. That earns her the cash commission at the end of the day. It was too tempting to me, speaking to the receptionist. Listen darling, this is the owner's son, and if you don't patch me through...
But really, daily, I just can't cut it.
this shit's stupid
I ended up in Comerce Casino. I was on a run at the poker table, and I thought this job was a great investment. I didn't want to stop. What was I gonna do with the money, anyway? The chips were like a high, and when they ran out, I was drousy and depressed. I started questioning how much it was going to take for me to walk away, and that was outweighed? by the rest of the day. I didn't get the point of my existence.
Fuck that job. Everyone was older than me and it was depressing. I showed up to the interview in a suit. A resume wasn't required. I saw one of the fat women with a coffee mug and sweat pants parking her Kia right before work. I sat there for ten minutes watching her parallel park when she could have just pulled a little farther up. It's very important to her to repeat the pitch verbatim and sound sincere. That earns her the cash commission at the end of the day. It was too tempting to me, speaking to the receptionist. Listen darling, this is the owner's son, and if you don't patch me through...
But really, daily, I just can't cut it.
this shit's stupid
measly, empty
2 dollar breakfasts, 5am-9am, better than Denny's, no exaggeration. Pretty girls serving me drinks. I said, baby, you're stunning, but you look at me like it's your job. Does he tip you like I do? You know I can never love you. One flat tire, one gorgeous bank teller (I said you're a lefty too? she said did they beat you? i said i like being sinister. I address her in the formal, because she was pure and sexy like that) her business card for future favors, one successful ghetto deposit! One satisfied sigh, one unempty bottle, waiting...
I would lose and lose and I didn't care, I would still smile, "thank you, I appreciate it," xi es buhtasel? win and yawn, win and yawn, up and down, up and down, i aint ready, pour me another and let's get witty...
i played with money, like i didn't have any, i played with money, like i didn't have any i look at people, and i know what they have, that's bullshit, i played with money like i didn't have any ...
now to take care of some unfinished business...
...i said, this espresso, it's got me down, it ain't doin nothin, i'm used to the gourmet shit. vincent gallo and luxury. Can't you pour some bourbon in it or cocaine? she said baby you drink too much i said baby you talk too much...
i would lose it all then back again. then i would lose it all again.
some go because they have money. some go because they have nobody. some go to get away, free from everybody. give it all away
I would lose and lose and I didn't care, I would still smile, "thank you, I appreciate it," xi es buhtasel? win and yawn, win and yawn, up and down, up and down, i aint ready, pour me another and let's get witty...
i played with money, like i didn't have any, i played with money, like i didn't have any i look at people, and i know what they have, that's bullshit, i played with money like i didn't have any ...
now to take care of some unfinished business...
...i said, this espresso, it's got me down, it ain't doin nothin, i'm used to the gourmet shit. vincent gallo and luxury. Can't you pour some bourbon in it or cocaine? she said baby you drink too much i said baby you talk too much...
i would lose it all then back again. then i would lose it all again.
some go because they have money. some go because they have nobody. some go to get away, free from everybody. give it all away
one by one, they'll all unravel
She has a goldmine of pills, I noticed freshly refilled, for her heart and for pain, for her dead grandson and estranged husband, for the dead boy's brother--headed for a similar fate or a prison cell--and a desperate family across the world, still leeching off her work. I'm the well-behaved one. I wait for her to go into the bathroom to sneak into her treasure chest.
Her eyes sparkled as she spoke to me, "It's Armenia that's keeping me up." I said don't take any more, you'll get sick. She said I need them to live. How much longer can you work like this? She said I need the money for his memorial, it's approaching and I need to go. I thought, yea, but I need those pills.
I remember when it happened almost a year ago. My father predicted, "You'll see, this will spark a chain of events. They're all in a stupor right now. When it clears, they'll all start blaming."
His funeral was as extravagent and pathetic, I hear, as his grandfather's gambling. They went all-out. They had no class. They put it all on the table, an abundance of meat for the feast. They paraded his coffin like he was a war hero. He was just a scared little boy with an AK-47.
Her eyes sparkled as she spoke to me, "It's Armenia that's keeping me up." I said don't take any more, you'll get sick. She said I need them to live. How much longer can you work like this? She said I need the money for his memorial, it's approaching and I need to go. I thought, yea, but I need those pills.
I remember when it happened almost a year ago. My father predicted, "You'll see, this will spark a chain of events. They're all in a stupor right now. When it clears, they'll all start blaming."
His funeral was as extravagent and pathetic, I hear, as his grandfather's gambling. They went all-out. They had no class. They put it all on the table, an abundance of meat for the feast. They paraded his coffin like he was a war hero. He was just a scared little boy with an AK-47.
"they got these chips, that you use to count the days..."
We walked into his house, up on the hills where people lived on ranches, drove pick-ups and wore cowboy hats. I had just traded in one of my guitars and he had no money. We had, I guess, enough to share, enough to last for a couple of hours. His father sometimes stopped by to give him some money, and then he would leave him. He had a beat-up old house all to himself, with no furniture. I thought, wow, what freedom. He sat there writing lyrics, while I would look at some nude teen magazines he had lying around.
I remember when I first met him at a 24-hour diner. I had not slept for days and stopped to get some food; he had no money and was playing his guitar outside in the patio. We talked while I tried to eat. I gave him a ride back home and he had my leftovers. He seemed angry, I think, that I was going to throw it away.
He had thick veiny arms, but a beat-up face. I was always wary he may lose it on me. There was something aggressive about his personality, but his sunken dark eyes told the same story.
The last time I saw him - I saw him once more after that, but I turned the other way - I told him I needed to get something from my car. When I turned the engine on, he ran out and looked at me and I sped out of his driveway, my door still open. I didn't steal anything from him, but he kept yelling, "where are you going?" I don't know why I felt compelled to flee, but each time I stayed too long, I said I have to get out of here. It didn't really have anything to do with him.
I remember when I first met him at a 24-hour diner. I had not slept for days and stopped to get some food; he had no money and was playing his guitar outside in the patio. We talked while I tried to eat. I gave him a ride back home and he had my leftovers. He seemed angry, I think, that I was going to throw it away.
He had thick veiny arms, but a beat-up face. I was always wary he may lose it on me. There was something aggressive about his personality, but his sunken dark eyes told the same story.
The last time I saw him - I saw him once more after that, but I turned the other way - I told him I needed to get something from my car. When I turned the engine on, he ran out and looked at me and I sped out of his driveway, my door still open. I didn't steal anything from him, but he kept yelling, "where are you going?" I don't know why I felt compelled to flee, but each time I stayed too long, I said I have to get out of here. It didn't really have anything to do with him.
Chigo
He took his Queen out, looked at me, and said, "Check, bitch!" I said, "Fuck this shit, you fuckin Mexican." His name was Chigo. As long as I rememeber him, he always had a different girl. He didn't go after them, but I think they were just drawn to him. He knew how to talk to them. I don't know where he found them, but there was always someone staying with him. He was big and he loved to work out, or make money to give to his mom. He was usually stoned or on coke, but he was usually buying it for his girl.
"Chigo called," my friend and I would joke, "he wanted to hang out." The problem was he talked too much about his problems and his girls. He had this humble voice, like he was about to weep. "She's always high," he'd complain. Most of the time, he was getting a girl pregnant and had to go for the abortion.
I was over at his place one time: it was me, him, his girlfriend, and another girl. He said to me, "Try to work on her friend." That girl was shameless. She would compliment him on his muscles, in front of his girlfriend. One time I went over to her place without calling first. As I sat in my car, I saw Chigo walk in before I got there. He left after about half an hour.
The last I heard about him, he regularly attended church and had a well-behaved girlfriend. He's been with her ever since he got her pregnant.
"Chigo called," my friend and I would joke, "he wanted to hang out." The problem was he talked too much about his problems and his girls. He had this humble voice, like he was about to weep. "She's always high," he'd complain. Most of the time, he was getting a girl pregnant and had to go for the abortion.
I was over at his place one time: it was me, him, his girlfriend, and another girl. He said to me, "Try to work on her friend." That girl was shameless. She would compliment him on his muscles, in front of his girlfriend. One time I went over to her place without calling first. As I sat in my car, I saw Chigo walk in before I got there. He left after about half an hour.
The last I heard about him, he regularly attended church and had a well-behaved girlfriend. He's been with her ever since he got her pregnant.
Rex
I pulled up in an Audi to a house, where in the front yard stood a group of gangsters - or I should say, gangbangers - drinking 40s, straight out of a movie. Rex walked out of the crowd - he looked the fiercest of them all - got into my car, and we drove off. I gave him a ride to the courthouse, then we drove back.
One night, he called me into his garage. There was no one around. "What are you doing?" I asked. He looked at me dead in the eye: "I want to see if you're undercover." I was as as paranoid as I usually was, but this time had immediate reason to be. He made out a long white line on a flat surface. I said, somewhat worked-up, "And I don't have to pay for this?" Afterwards, he smiled and changed his tone. "From now on, I'll really hook you up."
We had a good business relationship. He had well-to-do neighbors, so late nights he'd leave my supply in his mailbox. I'd leave the cash, and the next day he would open his mail. On one visit, he said to me, "Listen, my friend, I have to go away to jail for a while. But you can still call the same number, tell my wife that you know Rex. She'll take care of you."
Every so often, from then on, when such adventures became infrequent and regretful, I'd call the number. But after he left, his wife didn't follow through. And Rex never heard from me again.
One night, he called me into his garage. There was no one around. "What are you doing?" I asked. He looked at me dead in the eye: "I want to see if you're undercover." I was as as paranoid as I usually was, but this time had immediate reason to be. He made out a long white line on a flat surface. I said, somewhat worked-up, "And I don't have to pay for this?" Afterwards, he smiled and changed his tone. "From now on, I'll really hook you up."
We had a good business relationship. He had well-to-do neighbors, so late nights he'd leave my supply in his mailbox. I'd leave the cash, and the next day he would open his mail. On one visit, he said to me, "Listen, my friend, I have to go away to jail for a while. But you can still call the same number, tell my wife that you know Rex. She'll take care of you."
Every so often, from then on, when such adventures became infrequent and regretful, I'd call the number. But after he left, his wife didn't follow through. And Rex never heard from me again.
Danny
Danny was a fag, big time. I saw him come out of one of those theaters on Santa Monica Blvd one time. My friends and I liked to sometimes take that street all the way to the beach, but I didn't mention anything when I noticed it was him. One of his customers once said something vulgar and beseeching to me. I didn't really care, I just told him to go away. I'm not one for violence, unless I'm drunk around the UCLA slipper-wearing population. Danny told him you should probably leave him alone.
Some strippers and porn actresses from Hollywood would come over. I asked Danny, why do you let them take advantage of you like that? They would get advances and go missing, then come back for more. He would only say to them, don't come back here again. I asked him sometimes, don't you ever want to quit? He said every day of my life. I could feel his words. He was as sincere as he could be, even though he didn't really mean it. I would watch him inject the needle into his skin, it took him over 15 minutes. He was so scared for his life. He had a sick dog, that stayed in his room and could hardly move; Danny would get high, and just pet his sick dog, whimper, and whisper sweet things to him. I couldn't stand the smell of that dog, but you get used to the poor thing.
For a while, a young blond boy lived in the house. You know what his deal was. He never had on a shirt and he was always in one of those Muay Thai shorts. He reminded me Cosmo in Boogie Nights. He was fervent about doing his push-ups, but he never left that house. He liked to also show us tricks with his stack of cards. After awhile, he couldn't come up with any more and would just wallow in the ones he had already showed. The boy's mom visited sometimes, she was a fox. I'd like to say that it worked out for me, but I was usually too busy weirding her out, moving back and forth to nowhere, looking at the window for no one every time I would remember. There was a hamster in the house, that never got off its plaything. The young boy became violent one night, and Danny kicked him out.
One of Danny's customers, Bruce, introduced me to the place. He said the fags get the best shit. It took Bruce the jerk of a second to stab that shit into his arm. Bruce was an artist, and he gave me an autographed sketch, which I kept. He would tell me stories about his mishaps. One time after 14 days, he woke up asleep in a ditch and didn't remember anything.I knew he was crazy when I first met him. His eyes were big and moved around a lot, but they were worn out. He became paranoid one night, he told me, "These guys are up to something; they're trying to kill me." Danny said there he goes again. They didn't really frighten me. Everybody would usually go off on their own, once their common interest was fulfilled. The house was in a suburban neighborhood. From outside nothing was going on. I prefered it because you could always go in at 4am.
Some strippers and porn actresses from Hollywood would come over. I asked Danny, why do you let them take advantage of you like that? They would get advances and go missing, then come back for more. He would only say to them, don't come back here again. I asked him sometimes, don't you ever want to quit? He said every day of my life. I could feel his words. He was as sincere as he could be, even though he didn't really mean it. I would watch him inject the needle into his skin, it took him over 15 minutes. He was so scared for his life. He had a sick dog, that stayed in his room and could hardly move; Danny would get high, and just pet his sick dog, whimper, and whisper sweet things to him. I couldn't stand the smell of that dog, but you get used to the poor thing.
For a while, a young blond boy lived in the house. You know what his deal was. He never had on a shirt and he was always in one of those Muay Thai shorts. He reminded me Cosmo in Boogie Nights. He was fervent about doing his push-ups, but he never left that house. He liked to also show us tricks with his stack of cards. After awhile, he couldn't come up with any more and would just wallow in the ones he had already showed. The boy's mom visited sometimes, she was a fox. I'd like to say that it worked out for me, but I was usually too busy weirding her out, moving back and forth to nowhere, looking at the window for no one every time I would remember. There was a hamster in the house, that never got off its plaything. The young boy became violent one night, and Danny kicked him out.
One of Danny's customers, Bruce, introduced me to the place. He said the fags get the best shit. It took Bruce the jerk of a second to stab that shit into his arm. Bruce was an artist, and he gave me an autographed sketch, which I kept. He would tell me stories about his mishaps. One time after 14 days, he woke up asleep in a ditch and didn't remember anything.I knew he was crazy when I first met him. His eyes were big and moved around a lot, but they were worn out. He became paranoid one night, he told me, "These guys are up to something; they're trying to kill me." Danny said there he goes again. They didn't really frighten me. Everybody would usually go off on their own, once their common interest was fulfilled. The house was in a suburban neighborhood. From outside nothing was going on. I prefered it because you could always go in at 4am.
The Wake
The wake will be held later today. I still haven't thought about it, running around, though it hits me at certain moments, bursting in dull animal anguish, a scream that turns into a whimper. What I felt a moment ago, it all turns irrational in a shameful purging of the soul. I am no longer innocent, but cling in a stolen moment to emotions as simple as loss and regret, joy and anticipation. Moments I remember--I just want to be back there--simple and golden, as simple as anticipation. I've been concentrating on getting some sleep, so I won't have to wear sunglasses during the funeral. You're supposed to lay still, putting your body to rest, arising only for necessity. Sometimes you're still on the mattress, but you're neck's propped up, stretched out into the interstice of window shades, the strain trampled underneath the thumping of the uncouth night. I've been carefree, indulging on my own, estranged from everybody.
He doesn't yell at me anymore. None of that roar of violence and disgust without violence. It's hard to ignore things such as tone and countenance, even harder to disguise it. We just stay clear of each other. In the same room, we don't speak to each other. He's grown accustomed to it, it seems. If I could I would; if I did, he'd know. He said don't go and get drunk or do whatever it is you do, I need you this week and will call upon you. I said I'm not going to go anywhere. I felt sentimental and sincere. This lasts for a couple days. When things are normal, and I'm random and restless as though by compulsion,we joke around a lot, about his in-laws and people we know, about my mannerisms at the dinner table, about how I'd never be a good CIA agent. Something happens that neither him nor I understand. It usually happens during the evening or starting from my morning dreams. It usually happens when I drink. I usually get the 200ml of Jack, or individual sized ones. With that foul stench, I can't go home again - I'm at a bar with double shots in tea cups, impressing imaginary audiences, gulping like it's water. After that, things becomes blurry, I lose myself and end up here. After that there's clarity: the fool at the bar swaggering, the passion spent, rapture dulled into baseless energy. I don't dwell upon the burden my old man bears, every restless hour of my nights, footsteps crawling to and fro, a new day dawning with deception, every blank afternoon hiding from view, the lies that cling to one another and comprise my evening story, the days of heavy drinking to finally pass out. I can't feel the disgust, or the hapless frustration - he suffers, but I don't. I think he sees it, what good will yelling do? I remember it when I can feel, then flick it away again.
He said you're late; I said I'm on my way. I moved around a lot, but ended up at the same place. I grabbed a group of ties, put on sunglasses, cleared my throat, and sounded out my words on the way there. When I arrived he was waiting at his car. He grabbed the ties to take to the mortuary and didn't speak to me. I stayed in the same spot, looking at things without any coherent thought of what I was doing. From his car his face flashed back at me and caught me. My mother said move your car so he can back out... Now move up so he can get out.
Earlier that afternoon, I was to pick up the portrait from the photo store and deliver it to the flower shop, so they can make the final preparations. During the exchanges I recoiled under my perceptions, and faltered in step and monotones. I did not take a moment to look at the portrait. As I walked my feet dangled and my upper body felt limp or leaned out of sync with movement. While handling the portrait, I was paranoid and looking around, doing, I'm sure, awkward, sinister, and highly unnecessary fidgety movements with my hands. I didn't know what to do with them; they were clumsy and unsure of themselves, as though stumbling upon the consciousness of involuntary movements. I didn't want to stop and realize the man in the picture was the one I knew when I was a child, the one who lived to work, and everyday after work I would meet him on his route home. His evening routine consisted of tea and sugar cubes, and a cheese, tomato, and kananchi sandwich - he always made them big and left crumbs of lavash at his trail. The face in the portrait would appeal to dignity, to his unwavering belief that a man gets eight hours for sleep, eight for work, and eight for leisure.
He started losing his mind after my grandmother died - abruptly, even to me, as she was all set to check out from hospital care . If it’s called dementia, it grew inside him as he kept her wardrobe in his closet. Things that suited him, he would remember. Other things not so agreeable, it passed his memory. Yet he was just as sincere about his daughter-in-law's mother sneaking in to his home to steal loafs of bread or his slacks. At that point when the cycle of life reverts to its origin, it takes but a short while after, disgruntled ramblings and extravagant suspicions - this tender lion of my earliest days succumbing to nature.
He became increasingly protective of his gold, which he kept in a ziplock bag, usually in his pocket or under him in the couch. Each time he predicted his death, stroke after cigarette and so on, he would take out the ring. I would say hold on to it, it's too early. He survived three strokes and still smoked. Somehow after that it went unnoticed when he stopped smoking. His heart was strong, even if his spirit had broken down: that fear of death and the prospect of his grandchildren's weddings persisted. Had he given me his ring a few years ago, I would probably have pawned it along with my sister's CDs. Now he's gone and my sentimentality always falls empty. His brother also gave me a ring when I was young. I've reserved the guilt and regret for when he passes on, as I so conveniently tossed that hunk of material in exchange for cheap sustenance.
Lately I noticed he no longer recognized me from afar. I'd pull up to him when he would wander around his apartment building or the streets with that crazed look on his face (you can see it in the persistent dark glow of his eyes and the disheveled hair standing upright), I'd honk, waive, pull up, "Papik!" He gives me that mad look...then his voice soars with simple joy: he smiles and cries and raises his arms and begins with the metaphors of sweetness and sunlight. He would go on for a few minutes and I would rush him to finish.
In the hospital he lay with his left arm slumped on a pillow, grotesque, bloated from dialysis, and disproportionate from the rest of his body. He said he could move his fingers still; I hated even thinking about it. I seldom stayed very long, depending on my state of mind. Last time, I decided to lounge in his room, lie on the couch, shuffling my feet, look at the sky and mountains, then the freeway and Warner Bros Studios. I was coming off a binge, I was restless and thirsty for change, counting money a new venture had earned. I would feel like a rich man for that day. I told him about the money I was making and he smiled, whispered something out of his toothless mouth - the last few days of his life, he had no teeth, fought with the nurses but had really nothing to say. I knew he wanted water, his last tool for rebellion. I moistened his mouth and tongue with a wet strangely shaped pink swab.
The physical therapist came in for the broken hip, an Asian man who spoke above the average knowledge of general Armenian. I told him my grandfather only likes you here, and we lifted the old man to where he was sitting upright over the edge of the bed. He had on a tablecloth that covered the entire front of his body, if the legs remain still. I stood behind him. His legs were measly, his skin was pathetic and when the therapist lifted him to his feet, he cried and screamed and I couldn't stand to look. The Asian man held on to my grandfather while I found a nurse to clean the sheets under him. "Me kich el, Papik, me kich el," the therapist told him. But he whimpered he couldn't stand anymore and the nurse cleaned him up. I was running around after an air spray.
He was not a big man, but worked with rocks for years and his body was sturdy. I remember him with one gargantuan iron bell on each arm, his muscles. As the years passed, he made his living in front of an oven, then went into business with his son as a baker. We, too, had the sentimental worn notebook of recipes, that he passed down when he couldn't work anymore. After the mess, the odor still remained. I didn't think about dignity, neither did he. He said it's better to die than live like this. He often spoke of dying before, of the rat poison he had acquired and he knew what he was going to do. Disheveled ramblings again we never took it seriously; we just told my mother to tell her mom to quit stealing his bread.
I fed him some watery soup, my hands shook. I burned his tongue and spilled some on his neck, then stuck a coffee straw in and he quietly sipped his food. Next he enjoyed green jello, a good amount of it. He hadn't eaten for days. After that he tried frozen cherry-flavored ice and cranberry juice. He would eat quietly the whole time and wait for my spoon to reach his mouth.
He started throwing up again. When he realized it was because of eating, he stopped eating, became very agitated. After he puked, I left the tray on his chest and said I'd come back. I needed a break. The room smelled too much like what I had seen. But mainly I think I couldn't stay in one place too long. When I came back from the cafeteria, he was asleep. He had a rough day. I decided to spend longer hours with him, after all the help I was at those particular moments, he requires as much on any day. I could've done more, but not in hopes of changing any outcome. I could've stayed longer like he wanted, like he asked, after all, where else are you going to go? But I didn't dwell upon it, when I left. I promised tomorrow I'd devote more hours. I don't think that was the last time I saw him. I can't really remember, though it was only a few days ago. I remember the next day I said to him, "Yesterday really wore you down." And I think he fell asleep and I went off.
I didn't see him as he died. I was asleep till noon, reluctant to get up and pee, clinging to hopeful dreams that added another chapter to failed relationships. My mother called around 10am and I didn't pick up. Two hours later I called back and I knew. It didn't affect me too much. The last few years have been a countdown waiting.
My grandma died when I was about thirteen. I tried to cry at the funeral, but was joking around with my cousin in the car afterwards, thinking more of fun activities. It took a few years and random late-night or drunken moments to feel what I should've felt. Only I'm older now, getting sicker by the year. I waited for my grandpa to pass on. He suffered much his remaining days and so we're grateful he's relieved of that. It will make things more convenient for our family now, no longer will I have to take dinner over and say I have to run as he sits there smiling ...And the portrait of his golden years at his funeral and the photo of a beaten down man, hunched over, disoriented and tired - that I keep alone with his ring.
...I don't want to see him, not in this state, remembering how his eyes would light up for me. My father standing beside me, in his own struggle questioning whether he did right by the man who raised him, regretting, I'm certain, the smaller things from before. He's on his own. I can't look at him in the face today. Something's taken me away from him. When the time comes and I have to think about that, when to repay you I'll have to cut off my tongue, it'll all come back to me.
He doesn't yell at me anymore. None of that roar of violence and disgust without violence. It's hard to ignore things such as tone and countenance, even harder to disguise it. We just stay clear of each other. In the same room, we don't speak to each other. He's grown accustomed to it, it seems. If I could I would; if I did, he'd know. He said don't go and get drunk or do whatever it is you do, I need you this week and will call upon you. I said I'm not going to go anywhere. I felt sentimental and sincere. This lasts for a couple days. When things are normal, and I'm random and restless as though by compulsion,we joke around a lot, about his in-laws and people we know, about my mannerisms at the dinner table, about how I'd never be a good CIA agent. Something happens that neither him nor I understand. It usually happens during the evening or starting from my morning dreams. It usually happens when I drink. I usually get the 200ml of Jack, or individual sized ones. With that foul stench, I can't go home again - I'm at a bar with double shots in tea cups, impressing imaginary audiences, gulping like it's water. After that, things becomes blurry, I lose myself and end up here. After that there's clarity: the fool at the bar swaggering, the passion spent, rapture dulled into baseless energy. I don't dwell upon the burden my old man bears, every restless hour of my nights, footsteps crawling to and fro, a new day dawning with deception, every blank afternoon hiding from view, the lies that cling to one another and comprise my evening story, the days of heavy drinking to finally pass out. I can't feel the disgust, or the hapless frustration - he suffers, but I don't. I think he sees it, what good will yelling do? I remember it when I can feel, then flick it away again.
He said you're late; I said I'm on my way. I moved around a lot, but ended up at the same place. I grabbed a group of ties, put on sunglasses, cleared my throat, and sounded out my words on the way there. When I arrived he was waiting at his car. He grabbed the ties to take to the mortuary and didn't speak to me. I stayed in the same spot, looking at things without any coherent thought of what I was doing. From his car his face flashed back at me and caught me. My mother said move your car so he can back out... Now move up so he can get out.
Earlier that afternoon, I was to pick up the portrait from the photo store and deliver it to the flower shop, so they can make the final preparations. During the exchanges I recoiled under my perceptions, and faltered in step and monotones. I did not take a moment to look at the portrait. As I walked my feet dangled and my upper body felt limp or leaned out of sync with movement. While handling the portrait, I was paranoid and looking around, doing, I'm sure, awkward, sinister, and highly unnecessary fidgety movements with my hands. I didn't know what to do with them; they were clumsy and unsure of themselves, as though stumbling upon the consciousness of involuntary movements. I didn't want to stop and realize the man in the picture was the one I knew when I was a child, the one who lived to work, and everyday after work I would meet him on his route home. His evening routine consisted of tea and sugar cubes, and a cheese, tomato, and kananchi sandwich - he always made them big and left crumbs of lavash at his trail. The face in the portrait would appeal to dignity, to his unwavering belief that a man gets eight hours for sleep, eight for work, and eight for leisure.
He started losing his mind after my grandmother died - abruptly, even to me, as she was all set to check out from hospital care . If it’s called dementia, it grew inside him as he kept her wardrobe in his closet. Things that suited him, he would remember. Other things not so agreeable, it passed his memory. Yet he was just as sincere about his daughter-in-law's mother sneaking in to his home to steal loafs of bread or his slacks. At that point when the cycle of life reverts to its origin, it takes but a short while after, disgruntled ramblings and extravagant suspicions - this tender lion of my earliest days succumbing to nature.
He became increasingly protective of his gold, which he kept in a ziplock bag, usually in his pocket or under him in the couch. Each time he predicted his death, stroke after cigarette and so on, he would take out the ring. I would say hold on to it, it's too early. He survived three strokes and still smoked. Somehow after that it went unnoticed when he stopped smoking. His heart was strong, even if his spirit had broken down: that fear of death and the prospect of his grandchildren's weddings persisted. Had he given me his ring a few years ago, I would probably have pawned it along with my sister's CDs. Now he's gone and my sentimentality always falls empty. His brother also gave me a ring when I was young. I've reserved the guilt and regret for when he passes on, as I so conveniently tossed that hunk of material in exchange for cheap sustenance.
Lately I noticed he no longer recognized me from afar. I'd pull up to him when he would wander around his apartment building or the streets with that crazed look on his face (you can see it in the persistent dark glow of his eyes and the disheveled hair standing upright), I'd honk, waive, pull up, "Papik!" He gives me that mad look...then his voice soars with simple joy: he smiles and cries and raises his arms and begins with the metaphors of sweetness and sunlight. He would go on for a few minutes and I would rush him to finish.
In the hospital he lay with his left arm slumped on a pillow, grotesque, bloated from dialysis, and disproportionate from the rest of his body. He said he could move his fingers still; I hated even thinking about it. I seldom stayed very long, depending on my state of mind. Last time, I decided to lounge in his room, lie on the couch, shuffling my feet, look at the sky and mountains, then the freeway and Warner Bros Studios. I was coming off a binge, I was restless and thirsty for change, counting money a new venture had earned. I would feel like a rich man for that day. I told him about the money I was making and he smiled, whispered something out of his toothless mouth - the last few days of his life, he had no teeth, fought with the nurses but had really nothing to say. I knew he wanted water, his last tool for rebellion. I moistened his mouth and tongue with a wet strangely shaped pink swab.
The physical therapist came in for the broken hip, an Asian man who spoke above the average knowledge of general Armenian. I told him my grandfather only likes you here, and we lifted the old man to where he was sitting upright over the edge of the bed. He had on a tablecloth that covered the entire front of his body, if the legs remain still. I stood behind him. His legs were measly, his skin was pathetic and when the therapist lifted him to his feet, he cried and screamed and I couldn't stand to look. The Asian man held on to my grandfather while I found a nurse to clean the sheets under him. "Me kich el, Papik, me kich el," the therapist told him. But he whimpered he couldn't stand anymore and the nurse cleaned him up. I was running around after an air spray.
He was not a big man, but worked with rocks for years and his body was sturdy. I remember him with one gargantuan iron bell on each arm, his muscles. As the years passed, he made his living in front of an oven, then went into business with his son as a baker. We, too, had the sentimental worn notebook of recipes, that he passed down when he couldn't work anymore. After the mess, the odor still remained. I didn't think about dignity, neither did he. He said it's better to die than live like this. He often spoke of dying before, of the rat poison he had acquired and he knew what he was going to do. Disheveled ramblings again we never took it seriously; we just told my mother to tell her mom to quit stealing his bread.
I fed him some watery soup, my hands shook. I burned his tongue and spilled some on his neck, then stuck a coffee straw in and he quietly sipped his food. Next he enjoyed green jello, a good amount of it. He hadn't eaten for days. After that he tried frozen cherry-flavored ice and cranberry juice. He would eat quietly the whole time and wait for my spoon to reach his mouth.
He started throwing up again. When he realized it was because of eating, he stopped eating, became very agitated. After he puked, I left the tray on his chest and said I'd come back. I needed a break. The room smelled too much like what I had seen. But mainly I think I couldn't stay in one place too long. When I came back from the cafeteria, he was asleep. He had a rough day. I decided to spend longer hours with him, after all the help I was at those particular moments, he requires as much on any day. I could've done more, but not in hopes of changing any outcome. I could've stayed longer like he wanted, like he asked, after all, where else are you going to go? But I didn't dwell upon it, when I left. I promised tomorrow I'd devote more hours. I don't think that was the last time I saw him. I can't really remember, though it was only a few days ago. I remember the next day I said to him, "Yesterday really wore you down." And I think he fell asleep and I went off.
I didn't see him as he died. I was asleep till noon, reluctant to get up and pee, clinging to hopeful dreams that added another chapter to failed relationships. My mother called around 10am and I didn't pick up. Two hours later I called back and I knew. It didn't affect me too much. The last few years have been a countdown waiting.
My grandma died when I was about thirteen. I tried to cry at the funeral, but was joking around with my cousin in the car afterwards, thinking more of fun activities. It took a few years and random late-night or drunken moments to feel what I should've felt. Only I'm older now, getting sicker by the year. I waited for my grandpa to pass on. He suffered much his remaining days and so we're grateful he's relieved of that. It will make things more convenient for our family now, no longer will I have to take dinner over and say I have to run as he sits there smiling ...And the portrait of his golden years at his funeral and the photo of a beaten down man, hunched over, disoriented and tired - that I keep alone with his ring.
...I don't want to see him, not in this state, remembering how his eyes would light up for me. My father standing beside me, in his own struggle questioning whether he did right by the man who raised him, regretting, I'm certain, the smaller things from before. He's on his own. I can't look at him in the face today. Something's taken me away from him. When the time comes and I have to think about that, when to repay you I'll have to cut off my tongue, it'll all come back to me.
relax, it's just relapse
Be careful of the thoughts you let seep into your head, for once they're in, they'll run away with you.
Two men stood in opposition, one manifesting out of a dark corridor, any corridor; the other immobile, sprawled on the couch, staring into blankness. The latter, in panic, did not move. He could not keep his eyes on the television screen in front of him; rather, in malfunction, the strings wound the eyes so as to direct them into the space where the perpetrator lay in wait, both figures in constant alert.
My head does not work properly. And it's stiff. I can see you.
Dark air strangely crystallizes into motion, particles run amiss and free-flowing when you're drowning. For a moment, the guy on the couch sat up-right, his eyes closing in on something in the shadows; he would frequently repeat this movement - Ah, I can see you, trying to crawl on the sly, I'm watching you.
It was a game of intimidation, the man's eyes relentless against the dark space, looking for red lasers that'll shoot into his head - this goes on for hours, now drained the rawest passion - plain and savage the wrath which the space held ascribed his otherwise absurd fear to acts of which only Man is wholly capable. The standoff never concludes; there is never victory, and thus far, the creature remains content to sink back and lie in wait. Snickering. Always countering your puny courage with its pesky game. I float to him through the open and distant current, as burning scraps to be gobbled by the flames. He toys with my absurd desperation, it seems. I don't know how that makes me feel. He'll only appear each time I'm drowning through the air, arousing in me suspicion regarding how many days he's been hiding in my house.
And I sit back, drained, bathed in filth, too lazy to care; in miserable fear, but too lazy to care. For a moment, there's something vague, a slogan or a rationale resonating the sanity of a few days ago - but I can only perceive what I can see. And if the strings peacefully unwind, a stranger quickly sprints across the air to a hole in the bathroom or behind a fern.
My demeanor in that sordid state denotes a will to live akin to that of an unpleasant little creature, a rat who steals. His stomach too stuffed, its wretched state the same in death as in its hiss for self-preservation. Humans are a bit different, in that they can despise the animal rush after and while they're stuffing their senses. Had the little creature bemused upon his current condition before the onset of that unyeilding metal, he most likely would fall due to indecision. As I wrote this, a scribbled mark of ink dashed for the opposite end of the page, and only a firm squashing of the bug brought back the calm. My leather chair at the desk is a hooded man slouched over conspiring with a surround speaker- it wears the mask of a speaker on its head, eyes and all, one wooden arm bent leaning on the desk; and the flying stars of the computer screen shoot at me and beyond off the glass of the coffee table. As the illusions disintegrate, as they always do, whether by the intial stupor or the fear, I can speak in tones with solid foundation, but I still see what I see, approaching closer to subsitute the senses.
Be careful of the ideas you imbed into your head, ideas you grow to cling to, because then the loss of ambition begins with your thoughts.
You're gnawing away at it like a rat, no wonder you float with the colors through the dark night. The end of the ordeal, often frequent and regretful, you lie back vulnerable and with profound discontent; gradually, as the haze clears, you're relieved you weren't taken in fully by something that was not there. A heart attack would probably strike before your deepest fear came to be. But then again... Lastly, a wretched creature, weilding an axe you're unaccuostomed to in building a path, or living off abundance of supply to live through life feeding that animal drive, never disposing the remainder of what you know you'll need later.
Two men stood in opposition, one manifesting out of a dark corridor, any corridor; the other immobile, sprawled on the couch, staring into blankness. The latter, in panic, did not move. He could not keep his eyes on the television screen in front of him; rather, in malfunction, the strings wound the eyes so as to direct them into the space where the perpetrator lay in wait, both figures in constant alert.
My head does not work properly. And it's stiff. I can see you.
Dark air strangely crystallizes into motion, particles run amiss and free-flowing when you're drowning. For a moment, the guy on the couch sat up-right, his eyes closing in on something in the shadows; he would frequently repeat this movement - Ah, I can see you, trying to crawl on the sly, I'm watching you.
It was a game of intimidation, the man's eyes relentless against the dark space, looking for red lasers that'll shoot into his head - this goes on for hours, now drained the rawest passion - plain and savage the wrath which the space held ascribed his otherwise absurd fear to acts of which only Man is wholly capable. The standoff never concludes; there is never victory, and thus far, the creature remains content to sink back and lie in wait. Snickering. Always countering your puny courage with its pesky game. I float to him through the open and distant current, as burning scraps to be gobbled by the flames. He toys with my absurd desperation, it seems. I don't know how that makes me feel. He'll only appear each time I'm drowning through the air, arousing in me suspicion regarding how many days he's been hiding in my house.
And I sit back, drained, bathed in filth, too lazy to care; in miserable fear, but too lazy to care. For a moment, there's something vague, a slogan or a rationale resonating the sanity of a few days ago - but I can only perceive what I can see. And if the strings peacefully unwind, a stranger quickly sprints across the air to a hole in the bathroom or behind a fern.
My demeanor in that sordid state denotes a will to live akin to that of an unpleasant little creature, a rat who steals. His stomach too stuffed, its wretched state the same in death as in its hiss for self-preservation. Humans are a bit different, in that they can despise the animal rush after and while they're stuffing their senses. Had the little creature bemused upon his current condition before the onset of that unyeilding metal, he most likely would fall due to indecision. As I wrote this, a scribbled mark of ink dashed for the opposite end of the page, and only a firm squashing of the bug brought back the calm. My leather chair at the desk is a hooded man slouched over conspiring with a surround speaker- it wears the mask of a speaker on its head, eyes and all, one wooden arm bent leaning on the desk; and the flying stars of the computer screen shoot at me and beyond off the glass of the coffee table. As the illusions disintegrate, as they always do, whether by the intial stupor or the fear, I can speak in tones with solid foundation, but I still see what I see, approaching closer to subsitute the senses.
Be careful of the ideas you imbed into your head, ideas you grow to cling to, because then the loss of ambition begins with your thoughts.
You're gnawing away at it like a rat, no wonder you float with the colors through the dark night. The end of the ordeal, often frequent and regretful, you lie back vulnerable and with profound discontent; gradually, as the haze clears, you're relieved you weren't taken in fully by something that was not there. A heart attack would probably strike before your deepest fear came to be. But then again... Lastly, a wretched creature, weilding an axe you're unaccuostomed to in building a path, or living off abundance of supply to live through life feeding that animal drive, never disposing the remainder of what you know you'll need later.
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