Times are hard. Words are hard. No, this is not some politic. These are words while sipping green tea in the air conditioning of a wi-fied Panera. So… not all that hard. It is also Father’s Day, but I am not a father and not paying it any mind. Though I paid my dad a call and we chatted a bit before going into town for lunch, groceries, and a place to sit. Unfortunately, we don’t know the area well enough yet and could not find a coffee shop open with wi-fi, so we headed back south, and here we are, close to home and at each other’s throats with the irritability but not so bad that any blood is on the table.

I have decided that beer drinking is not for me. Makes me all bloated and coughing. There’s that, then the fact that beer is fucking nasty and has no redeemable qualities – outside of the mind altering state the alcohol creates. I must note that I quite enjoy the stumbling and slurred speech; it’s an interesting feeling. In my thirty-second year I finally douse my brain in the suds… Now onto various other starter drugs, like lsd and crack.

Next, Atlantic City, Las Vegas, the brothels!

Save money.

. . .

Bukowski died in 1994. I read some of his last poems, the ones he kicked out in ’93 and it was some sad, intense stuff. It all conveyed that he just didn’t really give a shit any more what people thought of him and he was entirely comfortable with what he was doing as a writer. And though he often felt like a little boy, the ravages of old age and disease swept through and knocked him out of the game. He admitted humiliation. Someone could say, “I liked his earlier stuff better. He sort of lost it in the end.”

But damn, this is someone’s life here.

It all has relevance and flow and style.

All the stuff I wrote in the beginning I think will go down as my worst. I’d like to think everything in the end will be my best. Maybe it just doesn’t work out that way, that the writing is a product of the environment and you just hope for “good timing.” It’s probably that the best stuff comes out when a writer isn’t trying so hard, but is rather more interested, more in love with the process itself.

But yeah, reading Bukowski poems on a lonesome night does the trick. Go and read 30-40 poems straight through.

. . .

Here is where I talk more about TV and junk. The second season of Deadwood is over. I hesitate to say this is my favorite show of all time, since I hold Millennium way up there, and other greats such as Sopranos, Six Feet Under, The Wire, Buffy, Angel, etc., having all kicked out phenomenal episodes and story arcs, but damn… Deadwood is fucking incredible. And at times, way over my head. I still do not understand all the little politics and business dealings of the camp, but find it all so fascinating.

Anyway, now that some of these shows have gone off the air, the summer line-up begins. Of note, The 4400 and The Inside. The 4400 seems kind of a X-Files knock-off and is decent enough, just not overwhelmingly so. The Inside, however, has a better shot. Maybe this is because it’s a project of Angel/Firefly writer, Tim Minear. LA FBI investigators run about solving crimes in a very CSI or 1996 season one Millennium kind of way. Tell me if I’m wrong, but I swore I even caught some Millennium sound bites. And so this sort of pisses me off when the show is compared to something else and credit is not given. This show will probably be shot down by Fox halfway through the season anyway, bastards that they are.

Floating around on the internet is the pilot of Warren Ellis’ Global Frequency, originally a comic about an secret international group working around the clock to counteract major disasters. Well, this is a damn good comic, so I was psyched to get my hands on a copy of this one hour episode. Torrent enthusiasts will find it easily. From what I hear, sounds like the show will not be picked up.

Yes, I am snagging episodes of Big Brother UK. Mindless self-indulgence? You got it! Relax yourself a bit, peer into the lives of 13 strangers, fall asleep. How do I get sucked into this show every year? I swear, I’m not becoming an enormous asshole. I swear, I’m not taking it all very seriously. On that note, bye for now.


So, some notes:

What is it like here? Very flat. Very flat and brutally hot. And some days I am as depressed as it is hot, because I have not found work. So come to Houston and fry an egg on the sidewalk and see a depressed guy, jobless, but not without friends kind of enough to provide food, shelter, and all that, encouraging him for his fresh start in a giant brand new city.

But Friday morning a call, and before I knew it I was interviewed and hired by a temp agency that specializes in graphics and various other technical skills. It is now a matter of what they can find for me. Then the phone will ring again and I’ll go out on assignment, rake the cash in.

Here in the flat lands, little jackasses egg my car in the night. Two times now. Damn! Just what I used to do in the suburbs as a kid. That and more.

What is it like at night? Intense air conditioning, book reading, some TV watching. Reading Bukowski poems. When I got here, one of the local stations was airing The Alfred Hitchcock Hour, which was fun but they filled the time slot with paid advertising, the bastards. Still, there’s plenty else on. Also digging into the comic Starman which my friend here threw at me. And more Rollins.

Downtown, poetry readings – somewhat bad, somewhat good. Kinda like everywhere. This city is so large; Roanoke is like a fleck from a crumpled leaf.

Lush green trees. Very little rain, yet a tropical feel. We’re 40 miles from the beach and thinking of going soon. 5-6 lane highways, more intense than DC as far as size, but not as clotted with traffic and confusion.

Sometimes feels as if the brain is a little baked inside. Still adjusting to the heat and the exhaustion it brings.

Incredibly interesting things worth talking out

I am
these slasher

chopped off

my mind
these days

better this
in the

make ya

clap clap clap clap

a lot
and waiting
and worrying

sitting alone
in bed
much of the time
fine with it

reading writing notes
like this
about all
aspects of my life
or life that
spins around me
as I am sometimes
a statue or
clark puts it: a dead zombie

the evening
take a few pictures
in the park
even then getting
a little sun burnt

by the time I
get back
to the house
feel the
soreness in
my shoulders
tell myself
I need
even more
here in Houston
hear of a one-time 108 reunion
considered it
for a second
flying up to NJ for a short trip
in August
nah, fuck it

. . .

Starman, another superhero comic I’m reading, reminding me of Moore’s Watchmen, very well written. It pulls me right along into the story and I can relate with the main character, how he doubts himself and is not ready to handle his next set of very different challenges; sooner or later faces up to them and develops his skills. Originally a narcotics dealer, he is the gritty street-wise antique collector dealing with the recent death of his brother and his kidnapped father. He could easily play Morrison’s first character, True Thomas, in Seven Soldiers.

Not sure what I think about these movie adaptations of comics. For quick entertainment, I guess I’m down with it. Comic movies I’ve liked so far: X1-2, Spiderman 1-2, and Hulk. Oh, and From Hell, though Moore wishes not to be associated with it. Whatever else comes out, I’m in favor of mostly on a superficial level, in the sense that the comics medium can be more lasting and enjoyable. Though I should be reading more these days, always more and more, I tend to slip into some TV and movie watching as well.

When we first got here, I was psyched to find that they were airing The Alfred Hitchcock Hour on late night TV. Stuff like that. And I’ve been listening to a lot of old time radio on the podcasts. Soon enough, by the way, Apple will make podcast subscriptions much easier, as they will be built into iTunes itself. I highly recommend to folks out there to check out nostalgic radio. Link One | Link Two | Link Three.

And while I’m on the linkage rampage, here are some new pics: Clark at the park.

One more post-it into the next moment

that would
this path

this life

this time
us on
like a
from one
to the next


go to Mexico

the plane
the moving van

my mental
are still
coming in
and even

I still
have nightmares
of high school
explain that

the evening walk
was pleasant
some jazz
on the headphones
and called
a few people
back there
“what are you
up to…”
you know
in your life?
I used to
daydream like
someone on
the train would
take time out
and ask me
“how is
your life
going so far?”
and we’d
dig into
the guts
of what’s
going on
so honest
so honest
so honest like

I dream
about poetry readings
and I’m there
doing this
whole shuffle and dance
providing entertainment
and when I am done
the next person
will be
the next station
on the dial
move along move along
move along
station to station
to station to station
it’s just like that
but it’s not like that
these are
just like notes
you see
but you forget
you attention deficit junked up addict
but my notes
wanna bore you

bore you
outta your Virginia/Texas britches
bored to tears
but tears pronounced like tears
tears, rips, gaps, openings
worm holes
this is one more
into the
next moment

your house
is a
I carry
in my

coming in
your roof

in the
next moment he
I don’t think
I’m doing the
whole public
poetry thing

he may
that statement

he may not

in severe need
of a shave

that last event
he sure felt it…
“yeah, no more
poetry for awhile
if ever…”

you know how
ya kinda get
burned out on stuff?


prose reading
in bed
at night
when everything’s
all quiet
and you
can hear yourself
you’ve quieted
your mind

. . .

Notes on drinking: I scheme up plans for an attic and when I get up there, more plans. Scheme for speech smooth as… something smooth. And rolls off tip of tongue. Yeah. The drunken mind slur experiences the opposite of fumble-proof moves and going unnoticed. Interesting view through the eyes, you stand up at the table and the dizziness hits and you’re like damn! I’m drunk. Damn, I’m actually drunk. I think I’ll do this again tomorrow.