there's an easy way out

He is sitting on a
black leather couch
listening to Frank Sinatra in a
black fitted suit
sipping a martini
halfway full.

there's a
black leather case
with golden-colored rivets.
a three set combination of zero through nine,
sitting by his side.

There's a heavy knock at his door.
he ignores it for a while.

you bitch! go away!

I know you're in there you god-damned bastard!
If you don't open this door I'm going to break it open!

he walks up to the door and opens it.
what the fuck do you want?

give me the suitcase.
it dosen't belong to you, it's not yours.

the suitcase is mine.

what's inside, what's inside!
give me what's inside!
she pulls out a gun.

he laughs.
that gun, it looks more fitting for a woman.

you know much about guns?

no, but I know a little about woman.

hide and go seek

She fell for me really hard, but I fell for her too, you know? Instantly, she was gorgeous. It was too easy to fall in love with a girl like that.

I was dropping her off at home one day, and when I walked her to the front door I said, "Goodbye"
she replied, "I love you" and quickly ran inside to shut the door.

We went to Descanso, to this neat little spot up a hill. We used to watch the stars. It'd talk to her like a City Boy, and she'd reply like a Country Girl.

Then we drove out, really far East. We just followed the 8 freeway until we didn't know where we were. I think we left at around 6. We drove on for another couple of hours and drove by a sign that said "Indian Reservation" and some odd tribe name I can't even remember.

We follow the creeping road up the side of a mountain. The trees and branches creep the surface of the car while the gravel road slashes on my tires and kicks rocks into the axles.

We drove for about 20 minutes. There were no cars. The radio no longer picked up a station, just fizz. There were 3 or 4 abandonned houses.

We go inside one of them, there was no lock on the door. She's looking around when I hide,

"Hey Ivan! Don't be stupid! This is dumb! Please..."

I'm hiding in the closet.

She says,
"Fine, we'll play hide and go seek. I hide, you find me. I'll leave clues."

I get out of the closet, and I see her bra on the floor. A sock leads me to the hallway, another turns me into the bathroom where I find her pants, shirt, and shoes.

"Hey, there's nothing here! Where are you?"
There is no reply.

I look behind me, and across the hallway there is a door half-creaked open going into the master bedroom. The last clue is a pair of panties on the door-knob.

I open the door.

"Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

She's lying there on the wood floor naked, holding her knee with both hands and smiling at me.

shit, maybe I should of done it

Ivan are you fucking crazy!
Vyrna wanted you to fuck her AND Melissa?
and you didn't do it?!
and then they were going to fuck themselves in front of you!
you know that's every man's dream right?
what do you mean you don't want to share?
they're sharing with YOU asshole!
romance?
don't give me this romance shit again,
you had plenty of opportunities and now you're
throwing it away again.
If I had your car, your job, I would be fucking
a new girl once a week!
what do you mean it's not about that?
come on Ivan, for a smart guy you can be pretty
damned stupid.
It's all about the pussy
the PUSSSYYYYYY!

my old buddy

he said he was smooth as velvet with the girls
and a viscious snake,
"you bite me and I'll bite back harder!"
he had words like a diplomat
and a tense insecurity.

Hannah liked him
Katie liked him
Tasha liked him
Vyrna liked him

and then Toni liked him too,
and now that they're together
and he's miserable.

shit, I liked the guy too!
but he must of fucked himself to death.
miss ya pal

losing faith in the constitution

I just turned 19 and I had only one thing in mind,
to drink until I could no longer feel feelings.
but to do this in this country you have to be 21.
18 to die unjustly in an oversees war,
18 for sex,
18 for smoking,
18 for strip clubs,
but when you're 19 or 20 you can't drink.
what kind of shit is that? you can't drink?

so being young and 19 I decided to go to Mexico
with a couple of friends.
my bonny and clyde.

we arrived at the border crossing and there were
5 marines, a sergeant, and some other uniformed
men I didn't bother to recognize.
I never liked military figures,
so I glared with disgust.

they were checking ID's,
making sure anyone under age was not allowed to cross.

somewhere in the constitution I read about how it's
unconstitutional to for the military to police its citizens.
so being smart, and the smart ass that I am,
I questioned the uniformed man
in the camo who pulled his flashlight,

can I see your ID please?
what do you mean no?
I can't let you pass unless I see your ID.
Bush passed a new law, so I have to check your ID.
what do you mean go fuck yourself?
fuck Bush?
you better turn around unless you can show some ID.
what are you doing? come back here.
hey you!
stop!

Mexico never smelled so sweet.

the redheaded emily

I knew a redhead once who couldn't write poetry

she could use any literary format invented,
or exotic green ink
and still be dull
as a
shamrock

she had a way of talking,
very educated and
smarter than most

but who wants to hear
about trees and birds?

and she never wrote about love

I can see her with a degree in literature.
her shiny paper
and framed
glossy stamp of approval

with this she'll infest our libraries
on a high pay roll

and she'll drive home from work,
well fed,
educated,
and financially free

but I'm sure she must love

so,
maybe

at the
end of the
day

she must fuck the trees
and the
birds too

I can't edit this

some people seem to think that they're
writers or poets when they have
a vague idea of what a writer
and a poet is.

a poet writes and bleeds than
thinking of what to write.

and somehow terrible
poetry is revered because
of its gruesome complexity.

this is not life.
this is not real.
this is not a writer,
or a poet.

and though I sit here again, tonight,
I can't seem to put
the words together one last time
before I judge what I've written is
again trash that I will not edit but burn burn burn
with the rest of my failures in another miserable night of poetry.

a hopeless romantic

I chased her to the end of the balcony.
I tapped her on the shoulder.

she was fixed on the stars.

It's nights like this where a lace of mist
carves a path through the sky. If the ancients could
of had more Gods, this surely would of been one.

she turned slowly as her eyes continued.
she glowed,
"Yes?"

"I'm sorry," I replied uncomfortably,
"I've seen you from afar and I would like
to dance with you before the night is finished."
she smiled, amusingly.

"Ms. I insist, I have watched you from afar while
comfortably nursing my thoughts of you."

"And what thoughts are those?"
she replied at an angle.

"That at the end of night, I will dance with you,
and then see you again."

suddenly,
a handsome gentlemen tapped my shoulder.
"whose your friend?"

a hundred yellow envelopes

a hundred yellow envelopes

He wrote hundreds of poems
each about her
and the way her orange hair chases her smile in autumn wind

she left a hole in his heart
burned through its molten core
charred of black
his heart is hers, colder then home

he put together, yellow envelopes
and sent them among other needles in the hay

he could grow old waiting
tired, sifting through drained memories
loving a long-dead apparition

her bosom winds with butterflies
and she blossoms in the sun to his touch
her footing challenging the moon in his arms

and when she opens the envelopes
she reads timeless obsessions
and saturated infatuations

summer wind flushes her hair
and her face too
but she has long forgotten

and he waits, and continues to write
but the demanding darkness
only listens
and it knows to love
the thought of being
in love

falling leaves of autumn

there comes a time when autumn asks,
"what have you been doing all summer?"

September the most beautiful of words,
he'd always felt
evoking orange-flowers
swallows, and regret

the true beloveds of this world
are in their lover's eyes

one heart ousts the flame
another burns desire

he wonders about
when they danced...
remember when the stars stole the night away?

two lovers playing a scene
in some romantic play

but autumn is hardly sympathetic

so the leaves fall,
until the days grow old...

but the sun just went out,
like a dying ember

and so did his inspiration

so he continues writing poetry
an immortal poem,
that will live after
you
and I are
gone

I think it deserves to last.

space

If I could fly to the moon
and sit upon a crater

I would write a story
about a man in space

the frigid cold, moons, and stars would be my only inspiration

and the constellations would
seem more interesting than your small blue world

I would then turn away
from your: wars, global warming, media, and heat waves

but I wont forget you,
I will write, send pictures, a rock or two
and maybe the first chapter of my story

but I warn you,
it's dull

and it's probably not as interesting
as this
one

the side of the mountain

and today while I was driving over 125 mph on the 52 I had made only two choices:
I was either going to hit the side of the mountain first or watch the carnival of red and blue in my rearview while I tried so very hard to think of nothing
and do nothing until it just finally happened.
and while the memories flashed and the music
played I could not help but remember the very
thing I was trying to forget.
but as the freeway merged
I was closer and closer to what has
had me concerned for the past two years.
not the men in blue, or the end of the lane,
but for the same reason I'm writing
this damned thing
in the first
place.

the encore

when the dead
arise from the past,
and propigate a less
than grandiose re-opening
of the play.
the final act seems
to never close.

the less than kind
flame kindles
the frozen
soul.

but if you're losing it,
and you know it,
then baby,
you've still got a soul to lose.

getting married?

go ahead,
you're entitled to your own
self-righteous
misery.

being young,
21 or more,
and the world is yours.

you are oh so
invinsible in
your team,
for two.

you learn most of it
alone
and
independant.

when you're drunk
and writing poetry
in traffic
going mad
from past
love affairs gone
wrong,
dreadfully wrong,
you realize you
could of been there
ringing the bells
of the chappell
yourself.

mad with love,
romance,
poetry,
and the love for
Jazz

dream a little dream

I dream of
nice cars, martinis, and
galleries.

I dream of these
classic woman
trying to steer my loving
gesture;

beautiful and tragic with
long blonde curly hair and
white gowns.

delicate until the
fury ends and
one lays waste.

but they look
so nice in their
white gowns!

don't woman wear
dresses anymore?

when the nights are free

Hey Bud! What are you doing tonight?
I'm going to drink a bottle of wine,
write a couple of poems,
and then I'm going to bed.
sounds good! We want to come over and spend time with you.
no.
why?
I drink alone. I prefer it that way.
did you know that you're an alcoholic if you drink alone?
does it matter?
I hang up the receiver.

somehow they don't seem to understand that nights are better spent alone.
their fake-framed smiles sucking on my bottle
of wine when I
could be writing for the insane
rotting in jail cells and straight jackets.

they need it the most.
you need it the most.

these walls and crickets
don't drink,
argue, or smile.
they create their own
presence..

you crazy son of a bitch, drink your wine!
go mad, you're insane! you'll never make it as a writer.
you'll starve trying!

baby, I'll be damned if this
wall will stop me.

chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp

ah,
peace at last.

peace of mind

death.
I think of this
when hearing cats
enraged in territorial war.
transients sleep alone tonight.
but the poet writes alone
trapped by the madness
of his own insanity.
a straight jacket
awaits you young,
wild-eyed
poet.

the plain white page.

Sometimes when I write
and I have nothing
in mind
it seems to flow
with the blood
in my brain
anyway.

and while the walls
are quiet and
painted white
they
somehow manage
to drive me
to the edge of
insanity.

with the winter here
the crickets are dead
and somehow I feel envious
of their terrible good fortune.

wide awake at 2:39 AM
I feed from
with the immortality
of the written word.

long after I'm discovered
will any of
this
matter.

and I imagine being famous.
people visiting where
I used to live,
and write.
but they'll never
find the missing
poems and
stories.

they'll be locked
away in my grave;
a romantic idea
of a
selfish
writer.

who knows
when it will be
discovered

certainly
not
after this
is
finished.

the best lesson learned.

I had an English professor,
Mrs. Ashby.

I would spend 20 minutes
after class
discussing
Hemmingway, Celine, Bukowski,
and the dreaded Shakespeare.

I praised my heroes
while she revered
Shakespeare
and the
classics.

I was enthralled.
by the philosophy
and literary genius
behind those thick,
black,
box-framed glasses.

the pools behind
those eyes were confused,
and old.
steel gray-blue eyes
and natural black hair. she
was only in her mid 30's.

she must of been Italian,
or Indian, I never
asked.

we raised the dead and
discussed.
I challenged her,
while she protested to change
my mind.
I raised many questions
and she always asked
about my writing.
always my damned writing.

I used to make her
laugh and cry, it brought
life to those eyes
and olive-colored skirts.
she was finally alive,
she was
free.

one day, she told me,
"You make me laugh so much,
I could kiss you." we leaned in
until I could smell the perfume.
she looked depraved today.

"Then why don't you?"

"Oh Ivan, you know I'm
married." She looked down
at her desk and folded a post-it.

"That's fine, I'll see you tomorrow."
I left sheepishly.

I never saw her
the next day,
or the day after that.
It was the end of the semester..

I was never attracted
to her physical beauty
or her age. It was her composition
of words. Her intellect that
exited me. Like being teased
for the first time.

One day after Jazz History I was walking
to my car when I saw her waiting for me
outside. Same steel-blue eyes, black hair,
and boring shades of skirt.

"Ivan, I need to talk to you, please,
come with me." She looked nervous.

"Sure." I replied. I followed her
into her office. Nothing changed,
except the pictures were gone,
and her bookshelf had some new
books.

she locked the door behind her and we
stood motionless for a period of time that
seemed like ages. somehow,
we knew what was going to happen.
I dove for a savage kiss and pressed
against her.
she grabbed my cock, but
I was already hard. I began to work
under her skirt to get to her cunt. It was
impossible, too much clothes. Professionally dressed
people must not like to fuck often. It was designed
to prevent office affairs. It was too bad they failed.
"Hold on." she told me,
I watched her calmly undress in front of me. She was even
more beautiful naked. The moon was full and it beamed
over her dark-toned body and silvered hair.
I throbbed harder.
I sat in that office chair as she bobbed
on my cock. She had a lot of
spirit. Shakespeare would of been proud.
It wasn't long before I spread her on the desk
and worked 9,
10, strokes. I watched her cunt engorge as she
worked on herself while I pushed for
11, 12,
13.
I came inside her when I felt
her finish. It was mutual.
the moon was full,
and
she was full
of my hot
liquid silver.

Sometimes the best lessons learned
are those on a desk
with your professor.

Dustin

I used to give him
rides home
after
tech support training

he was a nice guy,
overly ambitious
and a model employee.

I hated him.

he was

too happy
too free
too funny
too in love ...

and he had a girl he was totally in love
with
who was
very very
attractive.

He was 24 years old
growing bald
and had
finally
had his first
girlfriend.

lucky son of a bitch,
but
he deserved her.

one evening I was giving
him a ride home,
when
a shadowy figure approached.

it was his girlfriend.

short hair,
blonde
great legs
fake smile.
stupid.

just how I liked them.

she kissed
him.

I felt embarrassed,
but it
too
readily
reminded me
of what I
used to have.

somehow
I didn't have regrets.

I liked him even less.

Then one day I was
eating
in the cafeteria
alone,
as I prefer it.

when he sat right in front of me
with all his
joyous
vindication
and
said,

"You know, Jenna has been
acting kind of
strange
lately".

"She's been packing me really
nice lunches,
and buying me
all sorts of shit
I don't even need".

"Oh yea?"

"I don't know what to do,
why she's acting like this."

"Is she fucking any
differently?" I said,

"Ivan, that
is none
of your business!"

he looked defeated.
I smiled.

"Is that all you care
about?
Is
fucking?
It's not supposed
to be like that."

I didn't reply.

I would
if I was him.

but I was better
at it.

I would take her,
and fuck her
in between
until I split her in two.

It would be
rape.
murder.
and
a hell
of a good poem.

after a long
pause,

he seemed to
be playing
with a peach.
spinning it around
like a globe.

it reminded me
of
Shakespeare.
(I hate Shakespeare)

the peach
almost resembled
his
delicate
face.
decaying
too friendly
fuzz.

in a puzzled
glare,

he hestitated
before
he finally took a bite
of the
diseased
portion
and said,

"why do you
have to be so bitter
all the time"?

he spun the globe.

"what's wrong
with you?"

"nothing at all,
Dustin.
I'm fine."

I stood up to walk away.

"Okay then,
I hope
everything
is ok."

"You too,
Dustin."

I clocked in.

Sadly,
I didn't have
the heart
to tell him that
she was fucking
somebody else.

room mates

I've always been a romantic. Christ, it never got me anywhere. Give me an attractive, hot blonde or redhead with great legs and somehow I'll get lucky. They'll see that part of me that every woman wants in a man, but hates to see in public. If I do this from afar they get the feeling I'm turning into a fag. Which is a lot better than having to sit in a dorm after a long sweaty fuck just looking for a way to get the hell out of there. I've always liked it better when I could go over to a woman's place, that way I have the option of leaving. And then I'll move on; new bedsheets, pillows, interests, lips, legs, cunts, names, books, shoes, panties, dogs, cats, snakes. But always with the same room mate, the whore who can't stand the idea of somebody fucking. Why is this? You see, It'd take her too, but she's a romantic, and that never works.

pumping gas

I was thinking about Magen today while I was filling my gas tank.
How can I think of tender memories in a moment like this?

I remember this note she wrote me,
"Hey baby, anytime you feel sad just read this and think of me!"

And then I went to this memory where she was running up to me
in the Santana High School hallway. She had this dirty wheat blonde hair
that darkened in the autumn. Her eyes were brown and delicate, not like blue eyes, more sincere and honest. Pink shoes that looked like she was kicking them in mud. Faded blue jeanes that ripped at the bottom, perfectly curving to her plump behind. She wore her mom's old gray kung-fu sweater, ripped at the neck, and that was always to big for her. And ocassionally, she wore her fashionable horse riding boots to school. I hated her style, but it was her imperfections that made her beautiful. Her love was obsessive, but it was real, the most real I've ever felt.

I smiled a little, what a bunch of crap.

Shit,
25.96$ for 9 gallons of gas!
I should of payed attention.

It's been 2 years Ivan, sometimes you need to forget about it all.
forget it happened.
dump it in the shitter like she did,
but don't forget to wipe.

she is seeing a guy with a three letter name.
he must be amazing,
but that's what she thought of me,
the last guy,
and maybe the next guy after that.

I'm sure he thinks of her
holds a picture
and stares longingly
at those obsessive
brown eyes.
same eyes I warmed
in her back yard
listening to the marching band.
same eyes I looked into when we heard
Hero by Enrique Iglesais at the high school dance,
same song I heard at a Carl's Jr in Anaheim
when I was with friends at Disneyland.
I bawled like a 10 year old in the
bathroom for
20 minutes before I came out and told them
I was taking a shit
so piercing
it glazed my eyes.
Same song I heard at a Payless when I was
shopping for white band concert shoes
-for a Jazz band I joined
to keep my mind off
those same brown eyes
that he looks at now.

Those eyes were cursed by the Gods. Medusa has a kinder glaze.

he'll have to be a brave damned warrior to live through that one
no boot camp can prepare him for
the remorseless
-that can tear you up inside
and drive you to insanity

yet the poor son of a bitch is burning in Iraq
while she's at home
shopping for shoes
and living for all
that American bullshit
we're brainwashed to appreciate.

I crack a smile into a grin.

I screw the cap back on.
I stare at the receipt,

the price just went up 3 dollars from last week.

I have less and less things to worry about
without a woman
in my life.

Bukowski

There is a starving poet
in his one bedroom
Los Angeles apartment.

he staggers home drunk,
and stuffs the rejection slips
into empty drawers until
they are full and spill onto
the floor.

the mice live on this,
along with poetry.

a swollen eye bleeds
from its conclave of blows

a cigarette flashes
with the snap of a gear

and a bottle is opened,
as the ashes collect

his alcoholism does not
make him a better writer,
he's just a writer that has become
an alcoholic.

then he writes of bar fights,
prostitutes,
and the horse races.

the radio is tuned to Classical,
Vivaldi in a cave.

then he writes,
and
the epic poem collects
in

1623 North Mariposa Ave, #303
Los Angeles, California

the big bands swing!

nothing like
Frank Sinatra tunes
and a cool breeze

it's 9:56 pm
and I am trying to write
the next best thing

he sings of love.
discover
an aquarius with blues eyes.
what a fool!

I would not write
about love

the last
and first thing
on my mind

If the sky is gray or blue
it's black

and I am still here,
cool breeze,
Frank Sinatra,
and all that
god damned
big band jazz

one for emily.

what are you talking about?
come on tell me!

that just really pissed me off how you
said that, it's like you understand me and
know my life

I have my reasons, I told her.

I don't want to argue, men never win
arguments.

you win.

I have to go, I need to finish writing this...

no! don't go!

sorry sweetheart
I just
did.

then she logged off,
blocked me from messenger, removed me
from myspace and facebook and apparently
isn't going to talk to me again.

I think

she
likes
me.

fate proclaimed

I am singular
the revolution of an atom

born alone
die alone

fate proclaimed
as the most inducent
classical
mozart

I wont write about finches

I feel what every great
writer before me
has
felt
when he was
horny
drunk
or starving
on a typewriter
writing poem after poem

but one thing that always
comes to mind is that
they were alone

god awfully alone
and miserable

and you can't forget your misery
your drugs
your heartbreaking woman
or your alcohol

otherwise
you are
dull
like the rest of them

writing about

love
sunrise
the sunset

and the fucking finches

headache

headache rapes my mind

STING, STING, STING

my eyes sink
the nerves splitting
my brain.

I hear sirens
and horns
outside

chirping crickets
add to the
annoyance

the ambience
reverberate my ear drums

I clasp my forehead into
my two hands
and play Monk

his heavy cross-playing
big black hands
relieve me

and I wonder if
that poor bastard
ever made it

titled: "Good Luck"

I didn't read the message
she wrote me, titled:
"Good luck"

she probably wrote me
to tell me
how happy she is with
her new lover

the new guy she is fucking
that isn't me

thought she would have
forgotten
used to care that she'd
forgotten

she probably wrote
to wish me
good luck
in fucking somebody
new

but it wont be her
and it won't be for me

because I never read it

an immortal her

we huddled on a wicker rocking chair
on warm summer nights

tangled in each others embrace
we watched the stars.

and her dog barked, he barked all night long
but it didn't matter, we had each other.

and every night I battled strand after strand of honey hair
through her immortal kisses

and we kissed and kissed
until our hearts burst

then

her heart changed,
her dog died,
and she threw out the wicker chair

but the stars stayed the same
and so did her kisses