los angeles bus

December 14, 2008

it’s an easy walk to the 750 at dawn.  we are falling through a tidal pool of roses; we grab radiant the arc of light here in a pale silver leaf.  our ears mercury to the touch, they are found again in tires, in reverberation out along a marbled conscience thick with sleep and fracturing dreams.  explosions of neurons react; a chemical information manual with leaves, sidewalk and sky.  we are pouring ourselves into this twisting world, we thrust ourselves into its jaws, our quivering city.

the light changes to green and i walk across woodman.  several cars pull up with their lights on.  the meter in my head recedes into a million unanswered questions, rent, job, love, peace, fear, peace, peace.  so the bus comes right on time, there’s an led flickering red that makes sure of that, and i get on.  the bus is warm.

off into the metro is like walking into the most comfortable, boring purgatory we can make ourselves.  i walk down and see a few, all moving in agreed convenience for the anarchy of speed.   metal and the silent, mostly just waiting and more waiting.  i feel the wind on my face being pushed by the train 1/2 mile away.  it speeds up and i hear a beautiful ratio from a motor maybe of a bit shy of 5/4, and then the door chimes closed with a true 5/4 close to 100 cents flat.  it sounds like stravinsky and i wish he could have run the trains somehow.

i know these people.  they wait like me and file themselves into their daily function.  we are left together in this place, abandoned and inhaled into the lungs of the day.


bad neighbors are like a constant rain of piss, drizzle enough to make little rivers in the street stinking and steaming yellow in the night.  it never rains heavy, it’s not your life, but you can even hear it drip through the walls,  you can hear the tires outside sticking to the pavement.  you know that you have to go out there, to smell it and have it seep through the soles of your shoe.  you have to see that sad face, that angry alcoholic.  that failure festering and exploding beside you.

they would start screaming at night, at 11 at night, and not stop until the early morning.  like a fucking idiot i’d go over there and explain that i was trying to help my fiancee get some sleep, that we didn’t have the consitution to lay awake listening to their loud obvious tragedy.  that worked a couple times. 

the time it didn’t work, the woman came out and looked up at me with her dead sad eyes.  “he’s verbally abusive”.  but all the humanity was gone out of me.  i felt like a meat packer must feel like looking at a PETA video.  “yep that’s it”  and then see the bolt slam through their head in your mind, another day, another death, and nobody blinks an eye.

someday maybe there will be too many fucking people finally, and the hungry will eat the sad.  perhaps the sad will then have the good sense to take care of themselves.  i have hope for the human race.

so now we live a few miles away.  we don’t share a wall, there’s a garden, there’s more animals and plants and less sadness.  it may not last forever, but it’s nice for right now.

5 pet household

November 23, 2008

1. gordon.  the aleph of our marital pet lexicon.  he’s big, too big for some, small among rotweilers, who gave him half of his genes.  he is a human in a dog suit.  we ask him with utter sincerity ‘when are you going to take off that dog suit?’ and he looks at us with a humor borne of tragedy.  because he knows it can never be.  he can listen to all the stockhausen in the world, but he is stuck at the apex of dogdom-domesticated to be sensitive like a ten year old child, confused while lustily indulging in his dogness. 

2. oliver.  sheltie.  the foil to gordon’s sardonic superego.  the id turned ego who has become a vivid representation of our marriage.  he backs into ariel when i raise my voice, and vice versa.  he was like siddhartha, a perfect reflection of a questioning soul, and then he was bitten badly by a coyote.  now he’s not so sure.  he never liked skateboards. 

3. wozniak.  a very beautiful, very fat cat.  not bright, but cunning and sure of himself.  fat man with a little voice.  a god among cats.  we inherited this little guy from our college days of sex and depression.  he was born, fucked his mother, and gave birth to a never-ending supply of fairly retarded cats in olympia, all of whom bear his happy-go-lucky attitude, and all of whom trace the fading slump of an intelligence bell curve.  at around generation three, we started to see some genetic defects.  one kitten even died for no reason after about 3 days of life.  that’s not wozzie’s fault.

4. ct27.  wozniak’s mom, lover, sister, probably daughter.  came delivered in a set of two with her son.  lives for cuddles and to appraise the current condition of her larden kin.  they are almost the same cat, react to each other like the two ends of a bolo, gyrating around a common will.  she’s the more socialable to humans, but can’t be bothered by the coterie of assorted mammals we employ here.  very soft.

5. plutarch.  cat.  abyssinian.  the newest, most chaotic member of the family.  he is young, but has recently gained a set of ever growing testicles between his little yams that will be shortly snipped.  he excels in sleeping, swiping at my bare ass when i’m trying to take a dump, and brutalizing oliver.  i have seen that little bastard jump three feet sideways just to inflict some hurt.  he’s sure that eventually he’ll wear oliver down, and take him to the ground like the sad wooly mammoth he is.   he is forever confused by his poop.  why does oliver pick it out and put it on the floor?  why do i pick it out of the litter tray and throw it in the toilet?  these questions will someday be answered.

limes!  everywhere more and more limes, dropping from the sky like green gobules of bitterness and caught by these opportune, verdant trees.  i pick them off and put them in my pockets, my bag, wash them of dirt, squeeze them on chicken and into sangria.  these are my bright green power pills.  they are fucking omnipresent.  they are the tears of a futuristic johnny appleseed.  i call him jesus limebarca.  hey soos.

figs.  some fucking bag of dogshit PRUNED MY FUCKING FIG TREE.  well, it was on his rental, but wtf.  i was waiting for those to ripen.  there’s another one down the street on someone’s lot, never been pruned, sagging to the ground under the weight of thousands of black figs, falling and rotting on the ground like a sodden baked pie.  glorious.  i will hop that fence soon and take my tangy hostages. 

persimmons!  not the good kind, but the very astringent kind (as my friend gregg informed me). i grabbed about three of these shiny sirens and tried each.  they dried my mouth out so bad that i had to wipe my tounge on my sleeve.  they kinda were sweet at first, but turned out rather gnarly.

apples.  yeah apples and oranges everywhere too.