Pajama Parties

Ian came over this morning. He came as soon as he woke, in pajamas and all. we were meant to be heading to Portland today but instead we lay around in pajamas drinking Australian merlot. you see, I’m Australian and I’m the kind that only drinks Australian wine.
we drink until we drunk enough to want to eat meat so we piled into the car before realizing we were too drunk to drive so we staggered the half mile to the store. we were in our bathrobes. Ian got a pillow and carried it around with him until we got to the frozen food isle where he put it in the freezer there. then we went and got hamburgers.
later I was walking down the street and this lady stopped me and said I had beautiful eyes.

I had a dream about this once

I was at the store early this evening. I was on a mission, nothing could stop me. I had a 5 dollar bill in my hand a dream in my heart of a god forsaken bottle of cheap wine. I held the 5 dollars in front of my body and walked straight forth into the store. It was a thrift way in West Seattle. I had moved there from San Francisco once David Lerner died and thought if Joshua Guerci could make this town, anybody could.
Dangled the hope of getting drunk on my knee and set my eyes a drift for that wine selection.
It was late, like midnight late and they were stocking produce and boxed goods. I past the teen boys boxing shelves and pushed my way through the dairy selection finding milk I needed at home but wanted that fucking bottle of wine.
the liquor!
fina-fucking-ly. I grabbed one, settled at a price for $3.16.
Nearly skipping I made my way back to the front of the store.
the clerk was a ugly little botton with acne covering her face. I grimaced and she smiled sweetly and pointed to a sign.
it told me
LIQUOR NOT SOLD AFTER 11PM.
and dejected I slunk away.

( I went MAD)

tonight I went out with a friend from a long time running. we were going to go for coffee but nothing is open in this town past 7pm so instead we went for Mexican desserts. after we sat she told me about her crazy friend that I remind her of. her crazy friend overdosed on heroine and checked herself in. we never said it but we both thing I should be checked in. checked in. checked into a mental hospital. a nut house. a cuckoo’s nest. a crazy ward. that’s where we are both thinking I should be.

earlier that day I had swam up the drainpipe and found myself trying to fly off the roof. I found a note in the bottom of a lemonade bottle telling me my soul is tired and needs to be lifted up again. I thought flying would do that.

I haven’t been sleeping well. she tells me her friend had the same problem. I don’t believe her. she asks me what it’s like, I tell her its like a drunk in my head yelling at me throughout the night. she says she’s sorry. I say for what and I tell her she can’t be sorry for something she doesn’t need.

the next morning I found myself on the interstate heading south attempting to validate my past with the hope of future/ he stopped the car at a café with poets lining the bathroom reading poetry. I ask them why they stand there and not somewhere more visible and they say its because more people will listen while having a crap then when they are drinking coffee.
I think they might be right.
back and flying, south like two birds drifting, attempting to solidify ourselves.
together.

Three Hours

I’ve spent the last three hours sitting a in lecture hall contemplating the reason for learning. The people there were talking about intuition and instinct. I’m wondering when tuition is due and how much money I do not have to go towards it. Rent is due at quarter past three and I’m forty-five dollars short. My coffee I got two hours ago, paid in nickels and dimes, has boiled cold. The sugar is sticking to the bottom and the cream has floated to the top. The seminar leader is questioning my motives now, asking why I am here if I do not read. I tell him I am too poor to read. He tells me the library accepts no money and I tell him it accepts no checks either. My fines have gone beyond the range of monetary installments. I spent days reading on the romantics, digging deep into Michael Swift’s mind trying to uncovered the last stanza to that William Blake poem. He never knew it. He never knew it. He never knew it.

I gave in to his desires and spoke aloud a poem I had only ever read. I told him that Satan Was A Bus Station. He gapped and gasped and said I spoke the truth and made me into a martyr. I didn’t want to die, I am just a Poet! I do not believe in faith, in religion, in gods or demons. I believe in line breaks and enjambment. I rant and rave about white space and how to believe in something is to have a religion and mine is that of Carl Sandburg and William Carlos Williams. I do not believe in Jesus, Moses and the Messiah. I believe in the destruction of the best minds of my generation and the two roads diverged in the woods.

Not that he notices anymore. He is busy building the cross I am to be crucified on. He stands me up naked in red square and screams for me to tell the world who Satan is. I say Satan Is A Cold Fried Egg. He yells for more and forces people to stop and listen. My heart cries to be let gone but still it continues. Finally I break and scream I AM A POET I DO NOT BELIEVE IN THIS NONSENSE OF SATANS AND BUS STATIONS. I BELIEVE IN POETRY. I BELIEVE IN POETRY. I BELIEVE IN POETRY. And they let me down.

Later sitting around a fire created from a broken house we shared a beer and I explain that my classes mean nothing because a poet does not need education, she can write anytime, and a college degree will only give me more to write about.

They scorn and toss the bottle onto the fire. It pops and sizzles with delight.

At home, or what you can approximate to it, I find a drunken gay boy fiddling with Miles Davis and posting Polaroid’s of his penis on my door. Oh, my dear drunken gay boy, I plea, why oh why do you do these things. He tells me his heart was broken by Colorado and he needs to share his love again. I do not know why this means what it does. He spends the night on my couch and in the morning I was gone before he woke up.

I had class. Three hours of intuition verses instinct. The three hours of cold coffee paid by dimes and nickels. The three hours of wishing a poetic life was more poetic and less lecture. Three hours of knowing rent is due at half pass three and I am forty-five dollars short. The three hours of wishing I had more than a cigarette for lunch.

that is all.