Last night, I thought I would get a good night's sleep. Felt like a Persian prince lying on the burgundy black panther suede couch, what a sultry ending to an evening as smooth as espresso. But I was way too toasted. Not sweating, just jonesin'. The windows on either side of the wall were open, I tried closing them, but they wouldn't budge, chips of white paint flaked off as I shoved my body and all its gravity floorward. No use. Make due what you are given, my son. The voice in my head has an arabic accent. Why? I'm not sure exactly. Probably because all the subverted years of parental scolding and hashish grinding have sunken so deep into my pores, they've absorbed into my bones, and leaked into my brain. The guy sounds like a 10 pound moustache. Regal. Absurd. So, it was several hours of tossing, rustling, reassembling the loosened blankets back around my body. I shivered like a leaf the whole night. I'm built like a bear, with enough body hair to donate to the entire neighborhood, but it doesn't keep me warm, I get colder than a sheared sheep the first week in September.
Anyway, I'm at the coffee shop, looking for a job, trying to write my way out of hopelessness. There is nothing so calming as a cup of coffee and the rhythmic tap of the clicking keyboard. They never play good music at the big coffee shops, always something loud and distracting. Give me some ThreeDogNight to clam up my morning brew, eh? Something I can groove too. I got an aching to dance in my seat and catch the eye of the cute girl sitting right next to me. I'll bob my head a little, she might think I'm really sensitive or cool or something like that. HA! Look at me! Doing my dreaming during the day! Wrong equinox, brother!
I've got about ten more minutes to send a letter to my dad in England, study the face of a pretty girl combing her hair outside, and read a few more pages of 'Portnoy's Complaint'. Such a great read. I recommend it. The clouds are closing in, close your car windows, commuters. I smell the impending rain over Chicago coupled with hotdog grease and car exhaust and it is beautiful. Beautifully salubrious.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
A Good Day
Everybody has one of those days where they wake up and know everything is going to be infused with some kind of unexplainable magic. Well, yesterday I had one of those.
I woke up tangled up in my sheets, caught like a fish trying to escape my own netting. I fumbled for my glasses and slid them onto my face. The clock read 10:12. Not too bad for a Saturday. When I put my feet on the ground I could feel the dust and lint from the corners of my 60 square foot living space spiraling into my lungs as I inhaled. There was a pounding on the front door of the apartment. “Poosh za door! Poosh za door!” my elderly Polish landlady yelled in a cadence that I repeated to myself in a whisper, Poosh za door. Visitors. She always has guests over but I never see anyone else in the apartment, only hear their voices. Soon the clanging of pots, the rush of the faucet, and conversation saturated the hallway. On my windowsill a shade of golden sun lightened and darkened with the passing of the clouds. Kids were outside on the street, laughing. A semi-truck backed down 112th street, its loud beeping almost directly outside my window. I went into the bathroom to pull myself together for a day of anticipated productive work.
The bathroom is kiddy-corner to my bedroom door, so I have the most convenient access to the toiletries of my two other roommates. But the door doesn’t lock. And we’ve been out of toilet paper for the past three weeks. I’ve been using quilted paper towels that I hide in the cabinet below the sink. There is a skid mark on the inside of the toilet bowl that I am confident cannot be traced back to me. It’s been there for a while too. I laugh each time I look at it. The girl’s hair sits in clumps all over the floor. She leaves her long, brown, curled strands all over the place. It reminds me of my days doing maintenance as a Lifeguard at the local pool, cleaning the gutters. The guy’s shaving remnants are stuck to the insides of the sink bowl. And then there is my medium length hair scattered in between theirs. No use in trying to clean this mess up every time. I showered quickly, hoping that my landlady wouldn’t accidentally open the door during my drying off again.
In my room I played some music as I got dressed, deodorized, and doused myself with cologne. Breakfast was the usual cup of instant coffee and a quick slather of nutella onto a 10 second microwaved bun. I feasted on my delicates while I checked my email and did some scribbling in my notebook. After about an hour I left, wrapped in my long coat, scarf and hat, and escaped quickly out of the musty apartment without seeing a face.
I made my way north on Broadway to Columbia’s School of Journalism building, burying my head in the crook of my jacket. There is a café there that I am quite fond of. I ordered a fatty Italian sub on wheat. They know me here. They nod every time. After a quick sandwich inhalation in front of the silent TV screens in the dining area, I sauntered over to the main library and spent about a quarter of an hour looking for a place to sit. Another cup of coffee, a pile of books next to my computer and I remained unmoved from my seat for three hours. Then, I spent 20-minutes recovering, doing some stretches, some bathroom action, and wandering amidst the shelves and shelves of books. When I returned to my spot, I spent two more hours reading, typing, emailing, writing, and studying the behavior of other students.
After my ass had atrophied to an almost non-functional state, it seemed like a good time for dinner. Upper West Side Market is my choice venue. That night’s selection I went with the chicken parm, roasted potatoes, and Jerusalem salad. This specific meal is crucial to the maintenance of my happiness. I trudged back to my dingy apartment. The lights were all off except for the living room at the end of the hall. I remember the voices and the lights spilling from the television were comforting to come home to. Back in my room, I hunched over my food as I watched an episode of “The Office” on my computer. I laughed out loud the entire time, repeating lines to myself. A friend called, Pete, we talked for about 20 minutes before I jokingly scolded him for wasting my time. But really, I don’t have much time to spare. I changed, jumped in bed, and dived back into a book.
It is only until about an hour or so into reading that I start to realize what’s happening. It’s a small, insignificant passing of a thought, like the ripple a drop of water makes in a large lake. Today was a good day. I made it alive.
I woke up tangled up in my sheets, caught like a fish trying to escape my own netting. I fumbled for my glasses and slid them onto my face. The clock read 10:12. Not too bad for a Saturday. When I put my feet on the ground I could feel the dust and lint from the corners of my 60 square foot living space spiraling into my lungs as I inhaled. There was a pounding on the front door of the apartment. “Poosh za door! Poosh za door!” my elderly Polish landlady yelled in a cadence that I repeated to myself in a whisper, Poosh za door. Visitors. She always has guests over but I never see anyone else in the apartment, only hear their voices. Soon the clanging of pots, the rush of the faucet, and conversation saturated the hallway. On my windowsill a shade of golden sun lightened and darkened with the passing of the clouds. Kids were outside on the street, laughing. A semi-truck backed down 112th street, its loud beeping almost directly outside my window. I went into the bathroom to pull myself together for a day of anticipated productive work.
The bathroom is kiddy-corner to my bedroom door, so I have the most convenient access to the toiletries of my two other roommates. But the door doesn’t lock. And we’ve been out of toilet paper for the past three weeks. I’ve been using quilted paper towels that I hide in the cabinet below the sink. There is a skid mark on the inside of the toilet bowl that I am confident cannot be traced back to me. It’s been there for a while too. I laugh each time I look at it. The girl’s hair sits in clumps all over the floor. She leaves her long, brown, curled strands all over the place. It reminds me of my days doing maintenance as a Lifeguard at the local pool, cleaning the gutters. The guy’s shaving remnants are stuck to the insides of the sink bowl. And then there is my medium length hair scattered in between theirs. No use in trying to clean this mess up every time. I showered quickly, hoping that my landlady wouldn’t accidentally open the door during my drying off again.
In my room I played some music as I got dressed, deodorized, and doused myself with cologne. Breakfast was the usual cup of instant coffee and a quick slather of nutella onto a 10 second microwaved bun. I feasted on my delicates while I checked my email and did some scribbling in my notebook. After about an hour I left, wrapped in my long coat, scarf and hat, and escaped quickly out of the musty apartment without seeing a face.
I made my way north on Broadway to Columbia’s School of Journalism building, burying my head in the crook of my jacket. There is a café there that I am quite fond of. I ordered a fatty Italian sub on wheat. They know me here. They nod every time. After a quick sandwich inhalation in front of the silent TV screens in the dining area, I sauntered over to the main library and spent about a quarter of an hour looking for a place to sit. Another cup of coffee, a pile of books next to my computer and I remained unmoved from my seat for three hours. Then, I spent 20-minutes recovering, doing some stretches, some bathroom action, and wandering amidst the shelves and shelves of books. When I returned to my spot, I spent two more hours reading, typing, emailing, writing, and studying the behavior of other students.
After my ass had atrophied to an almost non-functional state, it seemed like a good time for dinner. Upper West Side Market is my choice venue. That night’s selection I went with the chicken parm, roasted potatoes, and Jerusalem salad. This specific meal is crucial to the maintenance of my happiness. I trudged back to my dingy apartment. The lights were all off except for the living room at the end of the hall. I remember the voices and the lights spilling from the television were comforting to come home to. Back in my room, I hunched over my food as I watched an episode of “The Office” on my computer. I laughed out loud the entire time, repeating lines to myself. A friend called, Pete, we talked for about 20 minutes before I jokingly scolded him for wasting my time. But really, I don’t have much time to spare. I changed, jumped in bed, and dived back into a book.
It is only until about an hour or so into reading that I start to realize what’s happening. It’s a small, insignificant passing of a thought, like the ripple a drop of water makes in a large lake. Today was a good day. I made it alive.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Hey Dexter, Feed Me The Empire Through This Glass Pipe
Danced my soul to pieces
In front of the ten foot speakers
At a free outdoor concert.
Never have I felt so alive
As I did unhygienic,
Trapped in between five thousand
Sweaty, insouciant college students.
In front of the ten foot speakers
At a free outdoor concert.
Never have I felt so alive
As I did unhygienic,
Trapped in between five thousand
Sweaty, insouciant college students.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
One Spring
An older woman on the 4-hour bus to Boston,
(we shared a smoke back in Albany)
shrieks softly and scrambles to the bathroom
at the back of the bus, swelling with a damp red blush,
brushes by passengers through the tight aisle squeeze.
Shit and Marlboro as she passes.
Poor woman. Poor bus.
(we shared a smoke back in Albany)
shrieks softly and scrambles to the bathroom
at the back of the bus, swelling with a damp red blush,
brushes by passengers through the tight aisle squeeze.
Shit and Marlboro as she passes.
Poor woman. Poor bus.
ATTENTION FOLLOWERS!
I want to start using this blog more regularly. I am thinking about writing a novel and posting chapter installments on this. Any thoughts? Anybody even out there?! Or I am contemplating just posting some short pop-cultural critiques. Haven't completely decided. But a poetry trilogy debut is soon come out! I will update with details hopefully sooner than you can say 'bob's your uncle!'
Cheers,
cgs
Cheers,
cgs
Monday, August 29, 2011
looks like grass from here
the radio plays an oldie, a sweat and firework summer
hydrocodone behind the beer shack, kissing barefoot
leaving tracks like the veins of an addict, wallowed in the grass
i hear only water, feel only ground, dissolve like sand
in the swirling pit of this giant basin, i'm heavy.
I'm heavy like depression, weightless like a lie,
sharp as the corners of a word never removed
from a circular conversation, record-like, jazz
without the sax, swoons without the heat,
an empty note, like a three dollar bottle of wine.
yeah, heavy heavy. loose in arkansas,
down by the crooked crag shoreline.
awful entries, notebook stilettos,
city bimbo lipstick drags all teethmarks and smallpox
left her name on the worn out leather.
hydrocodone behind the beer shack, kissing barefoot
leaving tracks like the veins of an addict, wallowed in the grass
i hear only water, feel only ground, dissolve like sand
in the swirling pit of this giant basin, i'm heavy.
I'm heavy like depression, weightless like a lie,
sharp as the corners of a word never removed
from a circular conversation, record-like, jazz
without the sax, swoons without the heat,
an empty note, like a three dollar bottle of wine.
yeah, heavy heavy. loose in arkansas,
down by the crooked crag shoreline.
awful entries, notebook stilettos,
city bimbo lipstick drags all teethmarks and smallpox
left her name on the worn out leather.
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