Oh Sister

Buelton, California, 4 a.m.?-

I have lost my journal. It is somewhere between Mary Beth's car and Buelton. I feel sorry for the poor bastard that finds it....

Tomorrow is today, yet so suddenly it is yesterday. The promises made for tomorrow have impetuously arrived, but it's too soon because it can't possibly be today when yesterday is definitely still today.
There needs to be a new term for this time of twilight. Something to do with confession; with being conquered. There is something about it that makes me admit my nocturnal orbit and ferocious urges.
She was married. Is married. Will be married.
I won't keep with whores anymore. I made the promise when she said "I do," but does that count as yesterday, today or tomorrow? Because when I look to my right I am reminded that I have once again shattered my word.
Who decides if it is yesterday, today or tomorrow? If it's God, then I must be him. If it's me, then I must be me. If it's you, then I must be you.
I need a new tense. One that blurs past, present and future together. Not synethesia, nor anesthesia, but something with a bit more swirl.
She said "I do." She was married. Is married. Will be married.
My heart has no shore.
There is something about this age that blurs tomorrow, today and yesterday.

Talking To Myself

-Let's try and do something good for ourselves tonight. I know that TV, drugs and whiskey are cool and all, but there is more to life than that.
-Yeah, maybe. But what are you going to do about it?
-Well, I have been trying to write something about it. Here, look...
-Ok, but if the first line is about TV, drugs and whiskey then obviously it's the inspiration and without it you would have nothing.
-But that's just it! What if I was living without this shit? Imagine what could be accomplished during a day. Imagine making love and actually feeling it!
-I feel it.
-Well, yeah, but-
-Listen. You can keep imagining all this shit, but without all this, you wouldn't even be real. This is your life right now, and there is no other, or at least no other that you are aware of. Let it go. This is why you have a failed career, failed relationships and own nothing. Because you can't fucking accept who you are in the present. Now--no, not a word, I'm not finished--do yourself a favor. Pour a glass, roll a joint, watch the television. Fuck wildly when she comes over and say things you don't mean.
-Like even that trash about anal sex and a vibrator?
-Absolutely. We can say it over and over again, and we will pretend that we have harmony and that all the things we do in the dark bring you happiness. Then, I assure you, we will have cast enough worry, doubt and illusion into the rill of goodness that you still hold onto to write whatever it is you want to write.
-I hate it when you're right.
-And I hate it when you write.

MELVIN

I have a fairly decent part in Henry Weintraub's new full-length zombie film, "Melvin." I play cop who turns into a zombie, who then eats a girl's arm. It premieres this weekend in Eugene, Oregon, then Portland, Salem and hopefully to Mars.
But in all seriousness, help support truly independent art. Go to www.531productions.com to check out the premiere times and order a DVD.
Also the band, Shim Come Quick, has two songs, "Why" and "Kelly's Not Watching," featured in the movie.

Get Back To It

Today I told a student to "stop poking at the surface; try making something bleed for once."
"This is a writing class, not a science class," she coolly responded.
She is not an artist or a scientist. I don't know what people like her become. Probably teachers. She is the same girl who thought the kids in Lord of the Flies were "stupid." I figured that was a teachable moment and replied, "well, don't have kids." She said, "whatever."
Anyhow, back to the blood. Back to riding the pulse over a shallow reef. To being locked-in. To the sea, to the moon, to the road, to the rocks, to the mountains, to the wind. Back to it all crumbling before you can pull out. Back to being spit out. Back to claiming it. Back to screaming it. Back to expression, style, composure and chance. Back to backing out. Back to saying "it's mine."

Untitled

I have been looking at the paper long enough to know I cannot re-create you. Unlike my tried words, charcoal and spit I cannot cross you out, rub you out or dry you out. You are not a synonym, a shade or unpalatable. So what do I do with you? I will do anything to re-create you. Or destroy you. You are the enchanted, haunting wraith of my conscience, or sub-conscience, or whatever the hell else it is that distorts me. I have no idea what you are anymore, or what you meant to me. But I need you on this paper, on my wall as you are. Then I will turn off the lights and throw darts. Or enshrine you with candles. I don't know which. But one or the other needs to happen because I can't keep waking up like this. The kids are getting worried.