Monday, July 28, 2014

In a Clearfield state of mind (again)

I find myself at the Wendy’s along the main road here in Clearfield again, of a Sunday evening.

I see Fowers Quick Lube across the street there. I’ve been seeing that sign for ten years and I’ve only just recently realized it wasn’t “Flowers”. My brain had supplied the missing ‘L’ all that time.

It’s a hackneyed old bullshit truism that we only use 10% of our brains. That’s supposed to make us think, “Hey, if I could only unlock that unused 90%, think how jammin’ I’d be!”

Fuck that.

You’d just fuck shit up that much faster and more effectively.

You’d be knocked-up and meth-addicted at fifteen instead of seventeen.

You’d beat off twenty times a day instead of 5.

And Clearfield would just be several times more clearfieldesque.

Ah well, my daughter went to Clearfield High, and she’s amazing.

And, who am I to act all better'n shit, anyway? I went to first grade in Winnemucca, NV. Speaking of which - you knew I wrote this book of poems that you should buy, right?


Available on Amazon. Be cool and surf out & get it.

But back to my profound spiritual interlude... you know I have a thing I do on Sunday evenings that I might tell you about some day which leads me to bike over through Clearfield. Maybe I should just embrace it, you know? I mean, this is the real, honest, no-bullshit landscape of a big hunk of America's soul. We've got to learn how to be human beings in this wasteland. Yeah, it's ugly. So is your fucking mother. So are you. So am I. This is who I am. This is where I live.

Friday, July 25, 2014

A quiet moment with Kurt...

Sometimes I go over to the hospital just because I like thinking about all the sick people being around me while, in contrast, I am feeling just fine. And the other day while I was there I saw a wonderful testimony to the human spirit that I would like to share with you.

I had gone in the north entrance and was sauntering down the hall, enjoying that great medicinal odor that hospitals always have, when I noticed this wizened old lady walking very slowly down the hall using a walker.

And I thought to myself, Boy! I'll bet she's seen a lot of interesting things in her extremely long lifetime!

So I stopped and folded my arms and watched her for a minute, just because she seemed so extremely old. I think she was pretty sick too because she was moving slower than a snail and she was trembling really bad and had a dazed look on her face.

And then, what do you think happened?

She dropped an item she was carrying. I think it was a bottle of pills. She should have known better than to try to carry it while she was gripping her walker.

Silly old girl!

And then, let me tell you, I witnessed a very awesome thing. It was an act of incredible strength and courage. That old lady very slowly bent over and picked up those pills. Oh, it took her several minutes, and she almost fell over many times, which was probably really scary for her since her bones must have been like about as strong as saltine crackers. And all the while she kept looking up at me with this beseeching expression.

So I encouraged her. I said, "You can do it, ma'am!"

And you know what?

She did do it. All by herself.

And I got to witness it.

And as I was walking away she thanked me, I think, although she was so exhausted that she wasn't speaking clearly.

"Thank you," I think she said.

It ended with 'you', anyway; I'm sure of that.

"You're welcome!" I called over my shoulder.

And I thought to myself, who says that ordinary people don't have incredible courage?

Heck. You see it around you every day.

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Arizona, pugs, possible proctalgia fugax, etc. And justice.

They killed a man in Arizona yesterday. By ‘they’ I mean me and you. He gasped like a beached carp for nearly two hours. I have no huge emotion about this, to tell the truth. Last night I came out of the train into the hot night and thought once again how amazing I should feel life is, but I didn't really feel that. I was once again mostly devoid of feeling. But maybe I've gotten it wrong all this time. Maybe feeling isn't what I had supposed it to be. All this time.

On a more amusing note, I had what my research suggests might be proctalgia fugax (or, ass cramping) the other day right when I got home from work. That happens sometimes when I’m postponing a shit. Hurts like a motherfucker! I got down to the toilet in my basement (which is where my bed is now) in time to pinch it out while my pug regarded me with that perpetually concerned expression of all pugs.

My dog gets to watch me doing things that I would never let any human being see. My reasoning here is that my dog a) doesn't understand the significance of my actions and, b) can’t discuss them with others, anyway.

So yeah, he gets to watch me shit.

So that guy they snuffed was a murderer. On CNN they showed a relative of his victims reminding us that he is a heap of putrefying offal, undeserving of our concern and pity. I can kinda go along with that, I guess. It just seems weird that we get the whole state geared up and a guy trained up and some injection equipment all arranged and shit; and I’m sure there were meetings and discussions and training sessions & shit galore. And then we get some guy carping all spastic (like my ass!) on some gurney somewhere for almost the length of the average feature film. It does not inspire confidence, you know? I mean, if you can’t even reliably x-out dudes without ‘em flopping around like dying seafood, do I really want to trust you with, oh, I don’t know… justice?

Just sayin'.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Random shit on a Wednesday evening...

So I've been writing poems here and there & shit but now that the pressure is off a bit I'm casting around for some larger project that I'd like doing. There's the Stick Man novel I started a few years ago and got 60k words in, but I don't know what I think of that. I kinda want to continue mixing fictional and poetic elements like I was experimenting with in 'the truth' (which is this 10k word poem I wrote last year).

But, that's boring shit. I'm going to the open mic at Mestizo tonight, just for a relaxing thing to do. Didn't make an event out of it because I don't want to host.

Here's this poem I started which I think is going to be cool but I'm not sure where to take it:

I don’t wish to admit that I’m a political creature, but of course I am.
“What fun would it be without the drama?” someone asked me last week.
Later I beat off to her, but that’s a different subject.
(My inner editor is telling me that this poem will need ‘tightening’.
Don’t worry; I’ll get around to that.)
But back to the point: get something beautiful going and politics will fuck it up, 
sure as shit.
The beat-off girl was wise to accept this, I feel.
She had eyes the color of acetylene flames and breasts like obese, catatonic hamsters.
The tattooed face on her shoulder sang songs about velvet flesh in a soft, lubricious voice.
I thought about beating the shit out of it while saying, “Oh yeah? Oh yeah?”
but that would just be slugging a girl’s shoulder, now, wouldn't it?

Think of the political ramifications of that move 
(to bring us, once again, back to the point).

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Ghetto Biker Update

As my friends know, I've been getting around using public transportation and my bikes lately. So here’s me on the maiden voyage of the new Croozer trailer I just got. I decided to get the kind that will haul a pet because I've got this pug, you see, that I need to get to the groomer and maybe the vet or whatever. Plus this attractive baby will haul 100 lbs of cargo. So when there’s a sale on the diet cherry pepsi I like, I can haul home several twelve-packs. I can go back to doling weekly grocery shopping if I want to instead of tooling over to the store several times a week, although (fuck you) I might do both. I mean, sometimes you want to haul home something big, you know? Like a few weeks ago I had to strap my new Kuerig (yeah, fuck you, I got one, and I love it) on my saddle-bag rack and it damn near fell off and I had to keep my hand on it and it was a pain in the ass. If I’d had the Croozer then ida been a happy camper.


Now, about the flag. There was some (brief) debate with my female offspring about the hipness of said item but I feel that it is rather sporty and I think I’ll keep it on there. I might change my mind on that but as of now the little flag stays.

So I feel this is a pretty big next step in my evolution as the Ghetto Biker, although, as you can plainly see, this pic was taken outside my home in the suburbs. That’s okay, because my suburb is a ghetto in many ways, especially intellectually and culturally. My neighbors are, in the main, clueless fuckin right-wing low-energy workin fucks, bless their butt-smelling little hearts. More on that anon, I’m sure...

Monday, July 21, 2014

a clearfield state of mind

a clearfield state of mind on a hot july sunday evening stopping my bicycle at a wendys along the main road i go in and get a single and eat it looking out the window at a gathering summer thunderstorm wondering if the posibility of human connection wasn't just a joke all along and i was the only one not in on it then i think of this artist i saw talking about 'emergence' the other day and how i thought he was full of shit and he was because i'm sitting here in clearfield utah looking out the wendys window and suddenly my head blasts off like a little spaceship and shoots off into outer space and i'm looking at the fucking earth motherfucker and i'm looking at the pattern made by human beings and guess the fuck what i know it's boring but it's true the big-ass thing that emerges and the only thing worth talking about is loneliness or maybe it's our endless hunger which never mind is the same fucking thing.

Friday, July 18, 2014

I plan to post something every day or two - just something to maybe laugh at.


Why is all the fucking yogurt greek now? It's no fucking different. I go one decade without eating the shit and one day I walk across the street and, whoa! You've made this little lame-ass innovation. I see I've been out of the yogurt scene too long. Cut the crap!

On a related note: you're not intolerant of gluten. You're just obsessed with your shit. Your anecdote about how you feel so much better now is delusional fuck-shrapnel (I have no idea what that means). Just quit thinking about it and go beat off and you'll be fine.

To the lady who approached me where I read some poems the other night: the problem isn't with the speed at which I was reading. You just need to fucking listen faster. Thanks for the cleavage-view though, btw, that was awesome. Drop by any time.

What else?

Have to read at a poetry show tomorrow night. I've been flapping around emotion-wise like an encrusted wafer of drying mucous in the nostril of a city-destroying-mutant-former-bowler in urgent need of breast-reduction surgery. Or something. But I'm starting to feel better. Time to roll the bones. Let the chips fall. Let it be what it's going to be.

Anyway, you should come, here's the facebook event:

https://www.facebook.com/events/651909754895925/