I surrendered myself
to damaging worm-feelings
that would lead to a permanent nap under the turf and tulips
I started a fight with some stranger
I quit my job and left California for the south. Mexico.
Then in Mexico I wanted Africa.
But instead I took a bus someplace where it was really hot and the name of the place had about seven syllables.
I got very drunk there and thought about becoming a priest.
I also went to some lesbian bar
and my penis bled at night.
3 months Later I came back to Inglewood, CA.
with no money
no job and
no thin hands to hide the smile nailed to my face with.
I should have just tried that Thai restaurant on Hawthorne Blv.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
From HERE to THERE
the end of the paragraph
"It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing." -the sun also rises (Hem)
< ________________________ Yoshinoya is open 24 hrs. Well the one on Century and Hawthorne is and I was there at 6am even though I wasn’t eating or hungry at all. The plane was departing at 8 and I was supposed to be checking in with the ticket at least an hour before. But the mixture of the beef bowl’s smell with confusing flourishing emotions and the immeasurable pints of ales were making me hesitant to leave the crummy restaurant. I was drunk enough to climb on the nearest woman and kiss her until one of us fell into a coma, but instead I swallowed my spittle, reached under the table to squeeze my balls and said good bye to the people sitting around eating their chicken teriyaki vegetables. I drove home with dubious thoughts flickering between blinking, but the ticket was non-refundable and who couldn’t use three months in Mexico.
< ___________ Lucky and well thought out, I only lived a few minutes from the Yoshinoya, so I had a couple minutes to pack my bullshit. LAX at 6:20, I also lived just a few minutes from the airport, so I had enough time to wait and enjoy the sustained high streaming in my veins. I stared out thru the huge window, the runway and the entire workers from the airport doing shit that I was doing just a month ago. It was funny for a moment, thinking, “…all that monkey work, now I’m getting the hell out of here.” There were the assholes from Menzies Aviation, the perverts from Evergreen, the thieves from Swissport and the idiot-fucks from Globe Ground, and I was a part of all of them, once. I looked at them loading the aircraft as I stood there wasted, the sun’s first appearance made me leak a drop of sweat and I felt the shakes coming. I need another god damn drink.
<___________________________________ That voice woke me up, that heavy accent female voice from the loud speakers, “8 am to Guadalajara”. When I opened my eyes I wanted Death to give me a rim job or punch me in the stomach really hard. But no, instead there were a shit load of people all around, loud and bright people. I felt life being sucked out from my toenails, sweating, dry mouth and shaking. I wanted to throw myself to the old man in front of me-he had a big ass belly, a big ass belt buckle, a big ass sombrero and big ass mustache-and I would beg him to pull out a bottle of tequila and let me have a big ass gulp. I wanted to weep for a second and die until I had a drink in hand, I didn’t want to go to Jalisco anymore I just wanted a cold beer or a bourdon on icebergs. I needed a drink, and then they called my section so I walked into the 737.
<___________________________________ I got a window seat, next to a lady, I didn’t look at her but I smelled her, so strong was her perfume. What the fuck? Did she bathe in that shit? It made me even more ill and I wanted to puke. The plane took off and the sun was angry, having intercourse with my hot pale flesh, causing strong hoppy sweat down my face, back, ass and feet. The sticky moist perspiration-which I’m sure, made me smell like a bum from the recycling center-was so uncomfortable. I hated my reckless impulsive way of being, that instant as the burning golden sun illuminated my face with blinding sickness and being aware of the Pacific Ocean right under I regretted it all. Why did I quit my job? Why did I get so fucked up? Why am I leaving Los Angeles? What is there to do in Mexico? I pulled down the window shade and prayed for a human mistake, an aircraft malfunction, since Death had failed me earlier. <
_____________________ Good thing I fell asleep, just because I didn’t feel alive while unconscious. Wasn’t sure how long I was out, but when I gasped awake-turd soup-I was shaking like a stripper’s ass. And the lady to my right, Jesus what a foul god, piss on her and her aroma shower. I looked over at her while holding my breath and I actually saw the perfume. It hung from all her wrinkles and thick layers of make-up. But for a spark of a second, I forgot about the lady with the dizzy stench and my thirst for Death or a pint of strong ale because on the other side of the isle was a sight that made me feel like a rapist pig, detonating quick thoughts in my head. She was beautiful and holding a Radiohead LP. I had thousands of things to say to her, I put a stick of gum in my mouth and peered closer then the stewardess got in between and asked me “what would you like to drink?” < __________________________________
I couldn’t eat that tray food they served, not because it just looked like plastic lunchables, but I just couldn’t hold any solids, I was experience in my drunken career. I only had that child’s size orange juice, just enough to gargle with. And I didn’t get upset when all she offered was milk, coffee or juice. No rum, no beer, no vodka, no life-power-up juice. Why would I get angry? Despite everything I am characterized with, I understand the social pack, meaning no booze is served at nine am. I looked over at the gorgeous girl; well she was eating her breakfast. I figured it’d be a bad time to incite a conversation so I tried to go back to sleep. While I nested in mind, the bullshit tapped me on the shoulder then pounced on me like a ferocious wild animal. The painful shakes. The heavy depression expanding, the burning blood-shot eyes, my begging the heavens for a humble thimble of Wild Turkey. I pleaded and complained until my dreams came to provide a refuge. < __________________________________
The dream was soaked in beer and gushy pussy juice; I was back in LA, kissing two warm hands, rough fingers and red nail polish. A howling came in through the door and I kissed my way up her arms to her chest, licked her pink nipples and bit her neck. I’ve been thinking a lot…about kissing you…a lot, I said in Spanish. We met eyes; she said “we’ll be arriving shortly”. I laughed and everything went dark. I suggested we run away together and she told me to buckle up, I interpreted it as a good sign, meaning I better hold on and be careful. We kissed again and I felt organs spill out my asshole, the dream so real and so sad, felt like I was falling into an abyss of soggy tits. The she said again, “please buckle your seat belt”, this time in Spanish and my heart dropped to my guts. I opened my eyes and my ears exploded, we had arrived in Guadalajara airport.
<___________ I tried to time my exit behind the puffy cheek girl with the ‘In Rainbows’ LP. But the perfume ghost next to me was old and taking forever. Turd soup. Eventually I got out of that Mexicana jet, still nauseous, the drunkenness withering away, sweating and with no sight of that girl. With an easy shrug I dealt with petty shit. I already felt the smothering Mexican heat and it did nothing but enhanced the fatigue hangover. So I had my bag, money to spend on my tremendous alcohol drought and three months to kill. Even though airport shit is so expensive and I wouldn’t spend over ten dollars for a beer, as soon as I saw that casual bar in the middle of the airport entrance I was ready to dump all my cash on the counter for any lager or a bucket of bourbon. I sport walked to it and before I sat on the stool I heard my name being wailed, “Necioooo!” it was my uncle and grandma. Shit. And I was positive they didn’t have any life juice.
< After the hug and kisses from Grandma Meya and handshake from Uncle Antonio, we left the airport headed to Tepatitlan. They both talked so happily and smiled a lot, but with me decomposing from within, it was with much struggle but I managed to crack with a smile back. Still thinking about a cold crispy pint of IPA. It was a two hour ride from Guadalajara to Tepa and I couldn’t stop thinking about fucking LA. The Daily Pint. Inglewood. Hope and 6th street. My stupid car. Those hands and their tight grip. What the fuck did you do Necio? I wondered as I gazed at the dirt and the shacks. Turd stew. What a senseless mistake. Then two hours later we get to Grandma Meya’s house, my home for the next three months. Walking in there’s about 20 people, most family members I haven’t seen in years. I couldn’t believe I was regretting my excessive intake of keg beer from hours ago. My family wanted to talk and listen, but they were so nice and understanding, that when I told them I was tired, they told me where my room was and let me sleep. <
It was 8pm and when I woke and I quickly noticed the depression was different. I credit the ceiling for it, not being the one from my room, I wanted to roar and bawl like a woman or a dramatic actor but I couldn’t-I wasn’t alone. I said hello to everyone but it was only Grandma Meya and Antonio again; the rest of the family had gone, good. My mind felt better, my vision wasn’t sour I wasn’t sweating anymore but my hands wouldn’t stop trembling. I ate a small bowl of salad with lemon, only because they didn’t ask if I was hungry, grandma just put in front of me and said “eat”. After I did, Antonio asked if I wanted to go out, only if I wanted to, for him it seemed like a chore. I said “sure”. He asked me where I wanted to go, “anywhere they have something to drink” I grinned hoping he would understand. We ended up at a snobby billiard bar, it was his choice but I sense we both felt out of place. Between two beers-finally I thanked life, but mostly Uncle Antonio-we spoke of woman and music, two things that made me glad we had in common, at least. <
I knew he wasn’t a power-juicer, the first beer rushed up to the top of his brain. He started slurring his words; they seemed to slowly dribble from his lips and that’s just after one Pacifico. The second beer Antonio erupted with confessions. The conversation guided by him rushed without pause to his ex-lover. I tried to be sympathetic, tolerating more than listening, I knew my role in this scene, so I just kept quiet and agreed when needed. When I found a gap in his jabbering I hinted that we should go, for his sake. I knew he had work the next day but I had shit and cans to kick for three months. We got home and Grandma Meya was up waiting for us. We all said goodnight to each other after eating a bean taco with cheese and salsa. It was almost 11pm and I was lying in an itchy blanket in a small room in my Grandma’s house. In Tepatitlan. In Jalisco. in Mexico. I felt my thoughts being polluted by memories and self-hurting jabs. How are you going to sleep? What the fuck are you doing here? I felt like such a sturdy man, I had no idea how strong I was, because I couldn’t bring myself to tears, even though I felt them drowning my heart. I was such a man or just emotionally handicapped. But it was night time and I wasn’t a man at all. I felt Yoshinoya-sick.
"It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing." -the sun also rises (Hem)
< ________________________ Yoshinoya is open 24 hrs. Well the one on Century and Hawthorne is and I was there at 6am even though I wasn’t eating or hungry at all. The plane was departing at 8 and I was supposed to be checking in with the ticket at least an hour before. But the mixture of the beef bowl’s smell with confusing flourishing emotions and the immeasurable pints of ales were making me hesitant to leave the crummy restaurant. I was drunk enough to climb on the nearest woman and kiss her until one of us fell into a coma, but instead I swallowed my spittle, reached under the table to squeeze my balls and said good bye to the people sitting around eating their chicken teriyaki vegetables. I drove home with dubious thoughts flickering between blinking, but the ticket was non-refundable and who couldn’t use three months in Mexico.
< ___________ Lucky and well thought out, I only lived a few minutes from the Yoshinoya, so I had a couple minutes to pack my bullshit. LAX at 6:20, I also lived just a few minutes from the airport, so I had enough time to wait and enjoy the sustained high streaming in my veins. I stared out thru the huge window, the runway and the entire workers from the airport doing shit that I was doing just a month ago. It was funny for a moment, thinking, “…all that monkey work, now I’m getting the hell out of here.” There were the assholes from Menzies Aviation, the perverts from Evergreen, the thieves from Swissport and the idiot-fucks from Globe Ground, and I was a part of all of them, once. I looked at them loading the aircraft as I stood there wasted, the sun’s first appearance made me leak a drop of sweat and I felt the shakes coming. I need another god damn drink.
<___________________________________ That voice woke me up, that heavy accent female voice from the loud speakers, “8 am to Guadalajara”. When I opened my eyes I wanted Death to give me a rim job or punch me in the stomach really hard. But no, instead there were a shit load of people all around, loud and bright people. I felt life being sucked out from my toenails, sweating, dry mouth and shaking. I wanted to throw myself to the old man in front of me-he had a big ass belly, a big ass belt buckle, a big ass sombrero and big ass mustache-and I would beg him to pull out a bottle of tequila and let me have a big ass gulp. I wanted to weep for a second and die until I had a drink in hand, I didn’t want to go to Jalisco anymore I just wanted a cold beer or a bourdon on icebergs. I needed a drink, and then they called my section so I walked into the 737.
<___________________________________ I got a window seat, next to a lady, I didn’t look at her but I smelled her, so strong was her perfume. What the fuck? Did she bathe in that shit? It made me even more ill and I wanted to puke. The plane took off and the sun was angry, having intercourse with my hot pale flesh, causing strong hoppy sweat down my face, back, ass and feet. The sticky moist perspiration-which I’m sure, made me smell like a bum from the recycling center-was so uncomfortable. I hated my reckless impulsive way of being, that instant as the burning golden sun illuminated my face with blinding sickness and being aware of the Pacific Ocean right under I regretted it all. Why did I quit my job? Why did I get so fucked up? Why am I leaving Los Angeles? What is there to do in Mexico? I pulled down the window shade and prayed for a human mistake, an aircraft malfunction, since Death had failed me earlier. <
_____________________ Good thing I fell asleep, just because I didn’t feel alive while unconscious. Wasn’t sure how long I was out, but when I gasped awake-turd soup-I was shaking like a stripper’s ass. And the lady to my right, Jesus what a foul god, piss on her and her aroma shower. I looked over at her while holding my breath and I actually saw the perfume. It hung from all her wrinkles and thick layers of make-up. But for a spark of a second, I forgot about the lady with the dizzy stench and my thirst for Death or a pint of strong ale because on the other side of the isle was a sight that made me feel like a rapist pig, detonating quick thoughts in my head. She was beautiful and holding a Radiohead LP. I had thousands of things to say to her, I put a stick of gum in my mouth and peered closer then the stewardess got in between and asked me “what would you like to drink?” < __________________________________
I couldn’t eat that tray food they served, not because it just looked like plastic lunchables, but I just couldn’t hold any solids, I was experience in my drunken career. I only had that child’s size orange juice, just enough to gargle with. And I didn’t get upset when all she offered was milk, coffee or juice. No rum, no beer, no vodka, no life-power-up juice. Why would I get angry? Despite everything I am characterized with, I understand the social pack, meaning no booze is served at nine am. I looked over at the gorgeous girl; well she was eating her breakfast. I figured it’d be a bad time to incite a conversation so I tried to go back to sleep. While I nested in mind, the bullshit tapped me on the shoulder then pounced on me like a ferocious wild animal. The painful shakes. The heavy depression expanding, the burning blood-shot eyes, my begging the heavens for a humble thimble of Wild Turkey. I pleaded and complained until my dreams came to provide a refuge. < __________________________________
The dream was soaked in beer and gushy pussy juice; I was back in LA, kissing two warm hands, rough fingers and red nail polish. A howling came in through the door and I kissed my way up her arms to her chest, licked her pink nipples and bit her neck. I’ve been thinking a lot…about kissing you…a lot, I said in Spanish. We met eyes; she said “we’ll be arriving shortly”. I laughed and everything went dark. I suggested we run away together and she told me to buckle up, I interpreted it as a good sign, meaning I better hold on and be careful. We kissed again and I felt organs spill out my asshole, the dream so real and so sad, felt like I was falling into an abyss of soggy tits. The she said again, “please buckle your seat belt”, this time in Spanish and my heart dropped to my guts. I opened my eyes and my ears exploded, we had arrived in Guadalajara airport.
<___________ I tried to time my exit behind the puffy cheek girl with the ‘In Rainbows’ LP. But the perfume ghost next to me was old and taking forever. Turd soup. Eventually I got out of that Mexicana jet, still nauseous, the drunkenness withering away, sweating and with no sight of that girl. With an easy shrug I dealt with petty shit. I already felt the smothering Mexican heat and it did nothing but enhanced the fatigue hangover. So I had my bag, money to spend on my tremendous alcohol drought and three months to kill. Even though airport shit is so expensive and I wouldn’t spend over ten dollars for a beer, as soon as I saw that casual bar in the middle of the airport entrance I was ready to dump all my cash on the counter for any lager or a bucket of bourbon. I sport walked to it and before I sat on the stool I heard my name being wailed, “Necioooo!” it was my uncle and grandma. Shit. And I was positive they didn’t have any life juice.
< After the hug and kisses from Grandma Meya and handshake from Uncle Antonio, we left the airport headed to Tepatitlan. They both talked so happily and smiled a lot, but with me decomposing from within, it was with much struggle but I managed to crack with a smile back. Still thinking about a cold crispy pint of IPA. It was a two hour ride from Guadalajara to Tepa and I couldn’t stop thinking about fucking LA. The Daily Pint. Inglewood. Hope and 6th street. My stupid car. Those hands and their tight grip. What the fuck did you do Necio? I wondered as I gazed at the dirt and the shacks. Turd stew. What a senseless mistake. Then two hours later we get to Grandma Meya’s house, my home for the next three months. Walking in there’s about 20 people, most family members I haven’t seen in years. I couldn’t believe I was regretting my excessive intake of keg beer from hours ago. My family wanted to talk and listen, but they were so nice and understanding, that when I told them I was tired, they told me where my room was and let me sleep. <
It was 8pm and when I woke and I quickly noticed the depression was different. I credit the ceiling for it, not being the one from my room, I wanted to roar and bawl like a woman or a dramatic actor but I couldn’t-I wasn’t alone. I said hello to everyone but it was only Grandma Meya and Antonio again; the rest of the family had gone, good. My mind felt better, my vision wasn’t sour I wasn’t sweating anymore but my hands wouldn’t stop trembling. I ate a small bowl of salad with lemon, only because they didn’t ask if I was hungry, grandma just put in front of me and said “eat”. After I did, Antonio asked if I wanted to go out, only if I wanted to, for him it seemed like a chore. I said “sure”. He asked me where I wanted to go, “anywhere they have something to drink” I grinned hoping he would understand. We ended up at a snobby billiard bar, it was his choice but I sense we both felt out of place. Between two beers-finally I thanked life, but mostly Uncle Antonio-we spoke of woman and music, two things that made me glad we had in common, at least. <
I knew he wasn’t a power-juicer, the first beer rushed up to the top of his brain. He started slurring his words; they seemed to slowly dribble from his lips and that’s just after one Pacifico. The second beer Antonio erupted with confessions. The conversation guided by him rushed without pause to his ex-lover. I tried to be sympathetic, tolerating more than listening, I knew my role in this scene, so I just kept quiet and agreed when needed. When I found a gap in his jabbering I hinted that we should go, for his sake. I knew he had work the next day but I had shit and cans to kick for three months. We got home and Grandma Meya was up waiting for us. We all said goodnight to each other after eating a bean taco with cheese and salsa. It was almost 11pm and I was lying in an itchy blanket in a small room in my Grandma’s house. In Tepatitlan. In Jalisco. in Mexico. I felt my thoughts being polluted by memories and self-hurting jabs. How are you going to sleep? What the fuck are you doing here? I felt like such a sturdy man, I had no idea how strong I was, because I couldn’t bring myself to tears, even though I felt them drowning my heart. I was such a man or just emotionally handicapped. But it was night time and I wasn’t a man at all. I felt Yoshinoya-sick.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)