{crack dreams.}

preface: i keep reading these little ads at the edge of the internet page that read "charles bukowski ring tones" and i don't understand. it's raining.

let's regress.

it's falling too fast to be snow. and some day. someone. will read all these books. and i'll know i love them. for the act, i'll give myself. i will be all theirs. all the kids will stop drinking. all the dogs will be set free. no one will care either way about how the world began. we'll know what to do.

one of the longer days. called mother. need a stiff drink. "only one," she says over the phone. brought by satellite. okay. and five later. at the gay bar to see some DJ. i don't care. and i don't like gay bars. i feel totally unneeded. not because i have a vagina. but because, and for reasons i've accumulated, gay boy bars seem more to me like meat markets than regular bars. all the guys know each other and are consistently and constantly preoccupied by the prospect of fucking. so any conversation or personal interest i have is impeded upon by this occurrence. also, i generally like men, so going to a gay bar makes me feel stupid. because of my overall attraction to so many different types, i feel foolish. especially at this point in my life. earlier in the night, i had devised a code word to verbalize at the moment i decided it was time to leave said bar and go home. the friend i was with informed me that i should just tell her when i was ready to go, however, i wanted a secret code. the word of choice was "jumanji." i had already said the word, and was waiting for fifteen minutes to go home, so that i might take a bath while beating my head across the wall. because i have no self-control, and these instances that strike me tend to resonate for hours. or until i go to sleep, if i'm lucky. waiting at the table until i've just about had it. i seek her out, towards the bathroom. seeing her. handing a sweater. we leave. accompanied by some man named Jeff. he talks a lot. and gradually i am informed that we are taking him somewhere. his care, home, i'm not sure. i drive my friend's care after having 5 or 6 vodkas on the rocks with lemon. which isn't too much. vodka leaves me very coherent somehow. but the three of us are talking as we drive. rather Jeff is talking very much, as i give little bits of information or advice. but the conversation is confusing. he's telling me all about his life. so many details. very. quickly.


automatic teller machine.
a time to kill. boom.
fix your ears. we're leaving. now.
get in the car.
wrap up your conversation
with the fabricated people of thought.
dreams make bad scenarios.
i don't understand. i saved my money.
mixtape. for myself to remember
all the instances of life.
they were all there. was i alone then?
with van morrison? steve reich? daedelus?
maybe. i can't tell at this point.
possibly ever. but i can tell you
who wasn't invited. alice in chains.
stop eating. save yourself. run.
there was that imaginary guy drunk
at that made-up bar in the south
who splashed a glass of beer on my leg
while i played love songs on guitar.
the teacher in cleveland.
who followed me home from the bar.
and saved me from those drunk dudes.
we had sex in my apartment.
made our love a secret. jeff mangum.
my dog artax. my cat falcor.
so now i have to stop dreaming in my wake.
and quit the words i know i'll never say.
to save myself.
live in reality.
come down. from the clouds.
next to the megatouch. here we are.

waiting for me means getting drunk. can i wait that long..
this is my plan:

1)we will see no wine before its time.

2)up up and away

3)for the long run

there you have it.
help yourself.
save. get out. make new.


i love you because...
i didn't want you to be a mistake.

too tired to go on.