Bounce

I very rarely fly. Unless its a free ticket by a friendly friend mom somewhere in life living. I noticed its a far more intense deal now, espicially when you look as suspicious as I do. Both times I was asked to stand and I was thoroughly searched like a criminal, I didn't mind its all cool, I'm clean. I've never been to Chicago and just before I left I shot a scene with Me on top of a mountain looking down on man. My snide comment 'man is so small' didn't fit this scenario looking in utter amazement at the enormity of architecture. I've never seen so many gorgeous women shopping, well thats later. I also had my own penthouse at the Seneca for a poet it was. One week I'm just like you and the next I'm a celebrity its all a constant bounce. With my meetings there was a coffee haiku at a starbucks, everywhere there's a starbucks. I usually support independents like Me cause I'm all about the individual. Looking for my interests, I noticed how bad I'm dressed and I just brought a duffel of clothes. Damn hillbillys, I walk all night in the blistering cold in awe watching. They definetly shop until they drop and bought a book I haven't seen anywhere. This is one of my favorite books I lost to a witch in a game of bottles, rooms and candles. She took my whole bookshelf, but these poems by Rimbaud translated by Mathieu are my religious constructs, wow these gothic churches here in Chicago are amazing. Sense, I was poor, I decided to save my fun for one blasted windchill night of debauchery. God the women here are beautiful with their shopping bags and high fashions I'm a plum, everybodys a movie star. Note, I was the poorest celebrity there and I was the only one that dropped change in their cups, I didn't document this though cause I didn't bring my camera, but I have a book. My new name Jimbo got around and even when I didn't throw the change, word got around and I've never heard anyone say, 'God bless you', to Me. Ha that was fucking hilarious but thats cool. There was a gorgeous substantial actress staying in my hotel, her name as I found out later was Solange, she's going to be a big movie star. I went and saw Sweet Charity the first real Broadway play I've seen, I'm a artist I'm open to all even if I brew Anarchy for coffee. Christinia Applegate was the star of the stage I got a nice wine buzz cause I didn't throw away my cup and got a whole lot of free refills. I loved the numbers and the women were sexy, later I heard rumblings by some people dissatisfied with the ending saying, fire works! I cried out, just for the fun of it, to their surprize I couldn't help it. My next hellish plan was to steal on over and check out the ugly coyote but I was surprized by the line and the big bouncer. Hey man you let movie stars just walk in what about poets and pulled out my book. The big surprize was, come back in a couple of hours, I hate long lines. Chicago is cool, I found some other subterranean of jazz and reggae and next door jager bombs and next door holy fireflys. I remember talking to bums and a taxi cab and getting lost, looking for coyote then almost getting hit and two really nice classy women asking me where I was going and thats it. Christopher Sly use to comment on my black-outs, if a sadistic cult raped the shit out of you, would you remeber it. No recollection. I wake up, upside down like a hang-man in my bed with just a t-shirt and scratches on my back and upper torso. Uh-oo and I missed that goddamn meeting with that agent.

making boxes and stuffing counter pose

When I do something and it hurts my sense of time, this fills my glorified sense with a will power that is indestructable and dangerous. When I do the same task over and over within minutes, then those minutes turn into hours and then days, when I do the same thing every day. This small task maybe takes a few seconds to complete and compile that into a week, its like saying the same mantra or word, over and over for hours and then days in a ritual with a pentacle drawn on my spine, not my spleen, on Baudlieres spleen. This is a burning like a witches cross. I am indestructible and I can fuck like Apollo the cauldron has been brewed and the stew is finished and my sorcery appendage is on fire and my eyes are steel iron bronze and black. I don't even listen to sounds around me about the stupid conversations that people have that revolve around what they want. The universe doesn't care about what you want only what you have and what do you have for the universe, see even my new display is repetitive. I have been repeating again and again until I've discovered which shoes are good for standing all day in the same place and which shoes suck my fat toe. I had one shoe that felt like it had a little sliver that drilled itself into the soft center of my foot and its always the left foot. My body feels erect and I know if I went out right now women would sense me. How is it I don't even care and the whole time I would have these out-of-body experiences where my mind would go off into a interesting room and I would answer questions about us to a machine. This machine is beyond any scope. This machine is completing a study about us and I gave it all the information it ever wanted. Thats how vilified I feel right now because I believe that this machine has assassinated God. Its why christians are ridiculous and women are liberated. I didn't even have to take drugs on my half hour lunch break, that includes the day that I worked twelve hours strait. My strength is unmatched by you, thats how I feel. In fact if I kissed you, my lips would probably strangle you. Its beautiful to be mad but this will wear off, all it takes is a moment in front of the television set and erased. A hit off a pipe, a drink with a friend, a conversation with a idiot, a diner at a restraunt because we are contagious in our conversations that dispells anything extraordinary. I'm better off driving writing or walking out into the wilderness until its up and then getting my knickers on with some worthless human and come back as me the same old dumbass. No wonder I tried to escape you in my car, driving all over the west searching for a rave or a open mic. or a blank sheet of desert. I'm better off a zombie with the raven and coyote but my pocket of silence is no good anywhere. Nobody gets out alive, so I might as well do it with someone and forget everything.

Reno Is Just An Afterglow Sitting In A Cheap Documentary Strait

I saw the film on Bukowski 'Born Into This', the theatre that it was shown in is the halmark of art cinema in Salt Lake City. It was a late showing and it had rained all day and all night. The interior of the cinema is dark gray with tourquise trim and dark green seats, its hard to see if your wasted even with the lights on. The seats are very uncomfortable they don't recline and their is no dolby surround. I thought I had the whole balcony to myself and then some drunks rolled in. One of them slipped and tripped and fell down the stairs. Did I say it was dark in here. I could smell the alcohol ten seats down and I remembered I had a mini-bottle of rum underneath the seat of my car from sundance. Probably wouldn't have even made my nose numb, I wished they sold marijuana over the counter at the movies, whats the harm. I was tired I had been driving I needed a spruce, to pine me up and shake the drizzle. I saw some young girls at the bottom, later I would recognize these people from various open mic. poetry readings and slams. During the movie Bukowski has a surprisingly soft voice and gentle eyes. I was expecting more of a strange behavoir and irreverant arrogance like the Mickey Rourke in Barfly. I liked the poetry though, mostly I get bored when I read Bukowski his work is like sitting in the same smelly room and I have a driving complex I just want to go. One time I went to a open mic. in Los Angeles and ended up in Anchorage, Alaska. Sometimes I can't stop driving. I've spent days and months in my car appearing and disappearing, I think I'm from Mars and its a spaceship. On the poetry circuit espicially in bars, Bukowski is god or maybe a nice devil, he seems pretty alright in this film and I wonder if he smokes weed. Personally I think the compositions of beat poets is mediocore I'm more into occult literature and french symbolism but Bukowski reminds me of chinese poets writing about the shit of everyday drudgery. I hear a girl say, all she reads is Bukowski the only hope of any poet. Their stuff on the open mic. is really not that original, who is? Not Bukowski i hear so much Whitman, just a little more bitter and drunk, at least he doesn't use rhymes. One thing I love about Bukowski transcending all those marvelous obstacles into a valiant war. Poets need their asses kicked and thier stomachs poisoned and their visions assassinated in front of them. I think if you want to be a poet that you should be required to do either two years in prison or seven years of hard labor without any therapy and if you grow up with really nice parents like me then your really in trouble. Poverty poetry freedom to do anything you want even murder. Poets should never whorship god and hope they have a personal freindship with the devil. They should have as many lovers as they want and should even consider bisexuality. Its in poetry even if your not, and it will still be in your poetry even if your not. Why? is a strange mystery, go ask lucifer who stole the fire from god and gave it to a poet. O yea Jesus Christ sacrifice was in vain for the poet, their is no savoir only experience of the best and extreme worst. Your better off with demons fucking with your dreams. Choose three things to own and thats it nothing else. I mean who is insane enough to give up everything to know words in a way that few can. There is a world in a word, what I mean is theirs everything, it could be just as real and alive as aunt Martha, even breathing. I say give it all up especially salvation, I dare ya.


Metal Flower

naming my foot
as a complete outcast numbering
not as migratory as birds unfortunately
persued by giant size dominos ruinous in reputation
you know all those thumbing guides I pointed to
turned alligator smart chasing me up a tree
until a doctor coaxed me down
running around to much
and not going anywhere
so much spider sense can warp liliaceous
the hungry dolls rip and roll
above the big blond blues darkening
rich toothpaste to eat
smelled like mints sprinkled
candy clovers
on my seat
attitude is reckless ignition
obvious I can't spell a world for you so doing this
cause they won't suck it or
pedal

bad full moon

Christopher Sly tells me we were jumped by four security guards in a alley. I don't remember a thing but my jaw is really sore and I have a fat lip. He tells me that I was thrown out of a party for using liquefied candle wax for mouth wash, all I remember was dancing to a cover of the Stones 'Sympathy for the Devil'. Chris tells me that we crashed a Hollywood party and I freaked everybody out, talking about witchcraft, well it is a slight obsession. Its been a while since I've lost total consciousness and my jaw is really sore. I remind Chris of my special union with chaos, Sundance is no difference. As the day wears on and the pain reaches my cheek bone( later on I sport a mini-black eye) and I discover bruises on my arms and on the side of my knee.

Christopher Sly is serious about getting footage from the seven eleven that we got beat up at. I could really care less cause it just happens in this wild world were livin man. Now that its been awhile and I've gotten little pieces of the story I can clarify more clearly, I think. Last night Chris was king getting us in a big time party. Now it was my turn to show off and it happened like clock work ease. We crashed a premeire party 'School of Rock', security was really tight, it was all through a friend we made. She was a director of something and our conversation revolved around the movies we saw. We didn't tell her about the Paris party but we asked if we could follow her in. She said sure but she didn't think we could get in. We smile, its our job because my friend is phenomenal filmmaker and your children will be studying me at some university. Okay, thats a little exaggerated but it doesn't matter cause were going until they kill us. Immediately we get alcohol our goal is to get wasted because its an uptight world and they need us for it. At least I'm not obnoxious until I dance and start singing at the top of my lungs, 'please allow me to introduce our self I'm a man of wealth and fame' that was fun and these kids just rocked. Then Alice Cooper went on stage and jammed with these kids and there wern't any more than say, fifty people rocking. I was pretty raved. I went back to alcohol and this is where it gets kind of fuzzy. I remember conversing with some MTV people and from what Christopher Sly says I had them cornered and everything that came out of my mouth was "crazy" kind of like a possessed man. I even remember Chris mentioning "captivated" and then this cute girl gave me this harmonica that I still have. Christopher Sly tells me that a security guard, a big hawaiian dude was ready to throw my ass out. When I took hot liquefied wax and started pouring it on my tongue and into my mouth until it oozed done my cheecks. That was enough and Chris says he saved me, by grabbing me himself and throwing me out. Well then there was this cab just waiting for us and I remember parts of that. A really cool dude that didn't even charge us, blowing through and around Park City looking for fun. I even tryed to talk the dude into coming with us and share in on the spoils of this easy adventure but he refused. Thats were we crashed another place and Chris tells me again I held every one hostage in the kitchen with crazy talk of witchcraft while he stormed the joint stealing alcohol. I kindda think it was a open mic. poetry reading exclusive or an extreme performance art that I'm known for, but fuck if I can remember. Then the lousey part, going back to the car. Chris says that we could have been spending that time with two hot New Yorkers in their condo, if it wasn't for the hot wax act. I don't remember but from watching the footage that Chris later gets from the seven eleven shows, O yea this is before Cristopher Sly walks up to a limo knocks on the window and gets a puff from Snoop Dog. He's really high thats why were just standing there like two stupids. Then these security dudes CSC with yellow jackets come in and go out and start to act all aggresive towards Christopher Sly and I'm just standing there and I don't even remember it. The footage shows us leaving and soon four burly fuckers follow and thats it. My car was lodged in a big snow bank for no reason at all. I was hoping for better film so I could sue and make a little cash unfortunately there are no cameras where we were. Next time I'll make sure that there is cause I don't mind taking a couple of blows, as long as I get reimbursed for it. I wrote this poem to a harmonica, its called Waxed.

Waxed

I need a poem in thicket "Blinding Sun" the lowest
denominator in getting wasted new ecstasy flower
all my nouns meaning destroyed for sheer delight
the sun with a headache doesn't remember much
of the moon. She almost had hope for me before I
turned the razor on my vision and opened it up to
slaughter. I'm strong as the wind and revolutionary
women who mean business being vulnerable to
change. I sign the book as my pleasure expressed in
mansions outside with the clouds laughing on the ground
in the mud with a fat lip. They can never hurt me
on the inside I'm a soft puppy and my sorcerers eye
is building up on dreams. Discovering new things in
my pocket impersonating every symbolism first hand
all the while remembering the dinysian boots and the
sound of their harmonica heels. I've given it all up
for disastrous fun, kaleidoscope cinema's, lighted
bully streets, altered clothes and precious poetry.

Trendwitch and Dionysian Levi

2005 sundance
i get a call from who?
and this starts it all off to debauchery from monastic seems
misspellings interpeted as who fucking cares
1/22
sweet thrills torn, i return a call from Christopher Sly. I'm convinced, and before we drive to Park City we get blythely wasted smoking kind copious thoughts. I first realize my use of trends when I talk. I feel as if a conspiring opposition is setting up we drink beer and smoke thoughts. When I drive I make a wrong turn that ends up right, by virtue of magic. Chris is wasted, later during the night we'll be asked to leave a party because he staggers but all the stupidities slash serendipities that concur. I buy something expensive from a girl, even though so many things are free including alcohol, she exfoliates my hands. A gorgeous woman is interested from a gallery but my painting is a mess i shamelessly wear. At the next party a DJ raps with dark green lanterns(sunglasses) i bee-bop. A hip girl pulls them up, she says she's saving my life, my attention is annilated. After we all end up tramping the streets looking for paris and no way end the night finishes sadly when Christopher Sly sits on a bench with lousey street musicians and sings his horrendous songs into the night.

Next day
1/23
i meet up with Christopher Sly and Mike Swoosh somewhere along the vicinty of free willy wonkers i try to find tickets for admission of guilt paid for by the booze. I watched two films from X-Dance and got a star for free booze. During a secret rendezvous with worthless Sky i set to depart my expensive scatters. Tyrone sees me, Mike, friend, i'm actually glad cause i almost left not being able to survive on atmosphere alone maybe a word or two? So Chris and us decide to hit the party that i was at, after getting the best results elsewhere. We drink my journey fraudulent, the picture on my book 'Blinding Sun' she doesn't like. After the streets start to disperse and mostly gone we me Christopher Sly Mike Swoosh follow with me driving weaving following taxi's up to a party. We have orange juice from somewhere the first stop though the next. Michael Keaton is standing there in front. Chris tells him he brought orange for him he's kinda confused. Mix up i take a picture. Front door of lovely house in the snow on top of the mountain. Mike Swoosh tells the host he has orange juice for Michael Keaton. The woman of the castle is confused with, Michael Keaton is here? I thought he left. We get in. beautiful gorgeous people with cool palm toys and fashions. Note, i was indifferent to the orange juice idea and only slipped in at the very last moment. So once drinking, Chris and Mike steal booze and charm everyone. I sit silent a weird gypsy spoof and then Paris and Nikki walk in and my star status in stone. I remember walking towards Mike and "both" were so close that we had seconds to glance. I know i'm a lion in the cage of my boundaries, they the special ones have none. I also find out skirt spots and so many gorgeous women and some actors i recognize from Evergreen. Finely my indiffernece obtuse sulking princely outsides start to piss these womanly tarts off and they fuck with me, luckly Chris is there. He comments on the angular lower torso of woman and i want to blow a big raspberry on my own belly. I keep playing with my hair and the beard is very beatnik scratch i feel beauty and the beast and really can't soothe the silky laters luminescence moon spills.

*truth without Christopher Sly and Mike Swoosh i wouldn't have seen or partied with the vicinty of Paris and Nikki after we get wasted that morning we create a cult of freedom after her the alter every risk that counts.
*i almost convinc someone i'm a brilliant poet she's a good friend of Crispin Glover.
*Christopher Sly says my poetry is weak.
*before we get to main street in park city i see a man with a army jacket and a mettalic suitcase, Mike says its a suicide bomber artist. I think its safe to say that it was a hullicination how do we make a distinction between real and nightmare.
*Mike says people think I'm stupid but then he says 'They'err stupid'