We Love The Chronic…

We Love The Chronic.


a lot of changes
good changes ya’ll
oh man
I have not
talked about it till now
but it’s official
I have a new job lined up
at my current hell hole
I walked off and did not look back
I was screaming at
the signs and traffic lights –
I will never see them in the
same way ever again

next time I drive up
this street
it’ll only bring to mind
some bad memories
all the abuse that went on, etc.
but I am no longer
bound to it

I can drive and drive

I feel like shaking hands and passing out cigars

it is 70 degrees

it is a good day
a Friday
my last day
a new day

I was a real gentleman
I used careful words
handed off my address
please, for the next check
I clocked out for the last time
no ill exchange
done deal
over and out

I am a hyper
young man
right now

believe that

I’ve punched through
the bottom of
the bag
no longer obligated
to those
complete assholes

. . .

well then, let me talk about something else, something else. my head swims. something new is on the horizon. I am not the center of anything. we are each brothers and sisters and all that. we will undergo much together. fictions help me spill out a lot of weird shit going on up in my head. it needs venting. so there will be more of that, more poems, and hopefully books, chap books, zines, etc. it is quite hard being this creative vessel when you’re all doped up on a 40 hour work week, no matter who you work for. but that’s the reality, for now, until I find some other way. perhaps I will. but I want to go on writing. I want to see where it leads. it is, after all, my life. if I’m not ultimately happy working these odd jobs or career jobs, then I have to find a way.


Write stories without a care in the world and you will care for the world.

The knife I had thrown into the wall. Bounced off the wall. Lodged into my best friend’s skull. Went right through the top, punctured the brain. Made him act funny. We panicked like rascals. Scrambled we did to the doctor’s office. Can you help him, can you help him. The doctor was insecure. This friend, you must understand, is not replaceable. You must save him. You must. I hate myself forever for killing my best friend.

. . .

New life. There is a happiness for five minutes that lasts in the compartment of the brain that conjures hope and dreams. What if I could break free from this current, this downstream current. What if I was so free I could shape shift and fake everyone out. It’d be a new life. I could sleep sound. I could rob banks. I could rob the best banks.

. . .

Bing Crosby Update: The raving husband got on the moped and headed for the bar. He wanted to fight a man as angry as him who like him had jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge and swam away disappointed. Cry for attention my ass. Jump off something like that, your intentions are solid. He wanted to meet up with someone like that. After he swam to shore he climbed and jumped a second time. Each attempt the waters below became softer and more inviting. He was an angry son of a bitch for that.

. . .

Conversation starter. Good talk lasts two hours or more. Mini lectures go across. At. Talk at a person. This is what you should do. She’d say, “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.” Thank you for your cooperation. I went in and crossed out the word. It should say subordination. “Who changed the sign?” she asked around. Stupid bastard. She appeared in people across the globe, in men and women, in the fangs of snakes. I fell off my bike when I was learning just starting out, before my freestyle days BMXing. I could see stars, planets, Vishnu manifestations in there. My left knee is tricked out.

. . .

Heavy traffic cell phone talking petrol bumper to bumper favorite color red Hillary with all her friends on My Space growing up in a new punk rock devoid of anger and rebellion a haven a pit to let frustrations out a circle pit the rock the fuck out part of the song. MTV never gets it right. The old punk rock keeps underground, appears unannounced, steals your hubcaps so it can say it did. I did that.

. . .

Favorite authors all dead the way they should be. All the best are in the past back there resting chilled out, not rushing, like us, on RSS feeds, multi-tasking, taking self-help seminars, attending thousand dollar retreats to learn how to sit still and befriend our neighbors. One of the best authors, Henry Miller, was known for writing right here in this Houston coffee shop and flirting with the ladies. He was the first writer to grab a booth and slam down a typewriter. And folks didn’t mind the racket. They knew, “This is a genius at work.” This will fuel us for years to come. Yeah, Tropic of Cancer was written right here. HM. His initials carved in this very table.

if you a true playa…

I’m on some
kinda shit right now
made it
in the backyard

I know you’re

good good

welcome to the
your demeanor

I’m on something
for sure
for a good cause

all natural

pulled from
a day dream
so completely
at ease

one little kid
drove a car with
remote control
cool sounds from it
rolled right
over Col. Sanders with it

another pulled up
a chair
analyzed our
chess game
I said, “I got so
greedy with
my master plan
I was blinded
of my
enemy’s attack”

. . .

oh, sweet Saturday! I should bring your flowers.

. . .

if you a true playa, throw ya’ satellites in the air.

. . .

add to the life list all the things you wanna do and perfect them all through your days. men and women are made of their hobbies and passions and are built up strong when they can surpass the mundane pulls and holograms of the culture assigned to them.


Do these stories play well with others?

They don’t make ’50s moms anymore. Come back here and eat your breakfast! You need a good breakfast. Fifty years later he’s grabbing an apple and is out the door. The curtains have all fell off the windows. Not enough time. Can’t be bothered. The place lacks a lady’s touch, that charm. Doesn’t matter so much, though, since he’s hardly ever there. Heard him once refer to the place as a way station. Where do you read your books, someone asked. Oh, I cut that out a while back.

. . .

A crunchy apple goes a long way. The only thing I like about the military is their apples. You know those military pillows, the ones that make you feel like you were in a car accident? Hate for those. But the apples, hold onto them. And ask for peanut butter.

Life is simple before it gets revved up. Mid-way into your day there’s so much you wanna say to them but you can’t because you don’t wanna get fired. But oh god in heaven or bethlehem wouldn’t it be wonderful to just let it fly. Give them a piece of your mind, as it’s said.

Hmmm…. I wonder just how much I can get away with, he thought. If it would change any of their behavior towards me…

. . .

The idea of saving. I don’t need saving. She said, I’ll save you from yourself. But also acted like she really wanted to be with me. She had a way with insults without directing slinging them. His way was to take them silently, internalize them. His was a way of pain. No matter how much he scrawled it out on the pad the pain never left.

I should start selling my pain to fuel cars and strengthen the economy.

. . .

Time is short, is money. Time is big money, big money, big money. He always wanted to go on the family feud. But all his ideas ran out. You know, he couldn’t put two and two together which was embarrassing. Every time he was made to wait in some line he knew his ambitions were going out the window.

Don’t even know what I wanna do any more.

Time smacked him around a bit. He became subject to other people’s random accidents. He was left to pick up the pieces after a hit and run. He lost his whole family to someone like this who just drove off too scared to stop and take the responsibility. He could reason through it if only he could stop crying.

How much are my emotions worth?

Big emotions, big emotions, big emotions… doesn’t sound right. Companies don’t want to hire a guy who admits “I feel everything.” And just how is that an asset to us, they say.

Oh I get it. If you had your way, the entire place would be just robots walking around. Is that it? People are nothing to you?

Dude, you need to stop internalizing. We’re just very production oriented. Just business. I’m sure you understand.

. . .

Shoes put on. Shoes slid on one at a time. Right shoe activated, tied. Left one, smack! And I’m out! Wow, didn’t see that before, how we have roaches crawling on the outside of the house. I wanna be resilient as a roach. Drop your rude bomb on me, I will not be phased. I can produce impenetrable alien spacecraft emotions. What can you do, oh, continue to be bitchy? Oh, I can continue to baffle your little minds and penniless jabs.

I’ve played enough chess to know, I can win up here.


In this case stories should be wordless.

Up sick in bed as I write this. Sick with a cold, miserable with a job I don’t want, but need, and in the house a kick to the stomach as all the lights go out and water turns brown. Up sick in a hospital bed as I write this. Flat on my back in a shrink’s chair. Tell me what you don’t like about yourself, he says. My face hurts, I say. I’ve a cold so fierce the whole head is a banger. The radio did that to you. Nah, it wasn’t up too loud, not at all. You must’ve been thinking too loud, then. Don’t know; everything just seizes up sometimes. And they can make sense, but they also, they sharpen their screwdrivers and come at me in attack mode. What I’m supposed to think? You take it all so personally, don’t do that. It’s not personal, it’s business. I know, I know, I’m a pawn. But if I’m a pawn, why they putting down a flier for a christmas party on the desk? Everybody gets one of those. Again, don’t take it personal. Will they take it personal if I don’t go? Probably, but you can tell them you’re up in another one of those hospital beds. Ah, yes, on Sunday I suspect.

. . .

Piggies at war. They make a debut, each one fighting over the potato chip bag, which the ones on the other side think is quite pathetic. Never mind that, it’s not important. What is is piggies, those ones, at war, dividing up their time so that they get all their tasks done, the first one being to make a grand entrance, announce themselves in grand fashion, and progress from there… Into the future! We all agree upon this, the importance of progressing into the future! “The future is important!” scream the piggies. Pssst…. they try to scream like lions because they have a large audience to impress. Have you seen that freakin’ audience? It’s like the size of the whole got-damn world. Holy hell. “We left all our churches in a hand basket,” said one to the other, to which this did not go appreciated or up in smoke ignored kaput. “We’ve a serious task in front of our snouts here, and still we cannot organize in order to show the people our true talents without confusing them and making them scared as the dickens.” In retort: “That’s exactly truthful, how you put it, and I commend you on that truthful exclamation. Thing is, however, when you search your tender little puffy puff puff (heart) you’ll see that it’ll just never be so. We shall go down in the history books not as Piggy Truce Makers, but as Piggies At War. And so it shall be. Mayhem and more mayhem.”

. . .

The bastards want to know why I make so many mistakes. I tell them, in my mind, these mistakes are manufactured in their minds, and in their nastiness. And I cook up other things which I wish I could release into the verbosphere, such as: “Crackerjack, are you being an asshole again?” Instead I slip out when it’s quiet and start slashing tires.

When I’m up early, or just before I come to, these ideas come to me and I write them down on scraps of paper or crumpled up receipts. When I threw the garbage up into the dumpster there was a homeless man in there. I nearly hit him with it, you know, the bag. He didn’t look too pleased. I said what’s up to him, and I think I said something really stupid like, here ya’ go, referring to the garbage. He asked if there was an old Xbox in there. I answered in the negative, but he read my thoughts in the positive. He in fact read my mind, where in fact I had hidden the spare key and that there was some Silk Nog left in my fridge. In ten minutes I will be gone and he will have it, and I hope he doesn’t delete any shows on the DVR.

. . .

I love the news. Even if my mind wanders and I’m not even listening. Something so comforting about the news playing in the morning when you wake up, or in the car, or in the evening when you come home. News 24 hours a day. It never sleeps. Wish I didn’t have to.

Whenever you wanna hear some news you can turn your eye around and it’s right there to not listen to. It’s so great when I actually pay attention and the words are concrete. Like when they’re reviewing books or movies or albums. These are like little book reports, but less informative. Hell, all I need’s a title and I’ll grab it for myself. If there’s one thing I like more than the news, it’s a book with its ability to sometimes draw my attention to its lines. I wish I could sleep read. The closest thing I’ve come to this is audio books on the Tao. Late at night on rotation. This is kind of like a news wheel. They should call the news reel a news wheel for certain. Or a news rolling pin.

We share the blame in this labor of escape.