Desert Dive Bar

It's 2 am, and I'm at a 24-hour cocktail lounge in a town I've never heard of. I found this dive after driving an hour or so outside LA towards the desert. The bar is stocked with the cliches of a small town, with young people who planned to party this Friday night and eventually found themselves here.

The guy trippin' on pharma-candy instantly becomes my friend, greeting me warmly as if we've known each other since gradeschool. I send him out on a scavenger hunt for chronic, and he obeys with boyscout-like diligence. Alone, at last, at peace in my booth, I write.

Whispers in small groups ensue. Knitting circles magically appear. I'm the fucking new guy. And I've disturbed their play.

Who am I?
Why am I?

They throw back glances like a jury with a verdict. And I secretly savor the celebrity. The bartender offers up a conversation. We chat, going through the motions, strictly following the script.

I'm out here for fresh perspectives. To be somewhere new. To swim at the dark, deep end of the pond. To journey towards insights and maybe stumble upon inspiration. And maybe find someone with the same ticket.

If history is anything to go by, I'll leave here with nothing more than I came with. But the chance is enough to keep me here for a few hours.

Raw Post to J

I opened the window wide tonight and stood looking down the street. i haven't eaten in days. i shaved my hair. i made my bed. trying to shed this. detox from this. the more i run away from it, the deeper i sink. mirrors cut.

i want the cold to drench me, now. every fucking cell and molecule. find me in the morning with arms wide open, a smile on my face, and constellations burned into my retina.

they know... they're coming with dismantlers to leave nothing but scraps and worldly appeasements. FUCK THAT! i rage on! -- armed only with visions from a long drive after Katrina. let's burn their castles and till the soil to feed the masses.

Velcro Thorns...

I don't know when or if you'll ever find this. A part of me wants you to read every word, see every image. A part of me just doesn't give a fuck. Either way, I'll never know. The point is... I started this whole thing because I didn't want to go to therapy. That's for people with real problems. I hoped that expressing my thoughts and feelings here would untangle every last velcro hook that keeps me fucking pondering the what ifs. I'm convinced my typing here will exorcise my curly-haired demons.

I refuse to google you, less I find that you're doing well. I'm such a jerk. I should be more evolved. But Rule #1 of the Mutant Bunny Project: Brutal Fucking Honesty. It kills me to know that I was the catalyst to your transformation, that you're doing so fucking well now because we're no longer together. I'll forever be "that guy" you talk about who took you down to the lowest point of your life before you finally saw the light. I warned you from the beginning...

That journey was quite some ride -- You have to admit. Sometimes that ride was reckless driving in the rain that almost flipped the car over. Sometimes that ride was sex in the car at a bank's parking lot after breaking up, again. Sometimes, that ride was laying side by side, me watching you sleep, softly kissing your forehead, brushing hair from your face. Even then, I knew this was coming...

I write here because there are still thorns my body hasn't absorbed, shards that persist. And the thing about sharp objects is that it only takes a small one to cause a world of pain.

No, Nothing...

They say there are signs everywhere, if you're open to them. Well, I guess I was receptive that day because I was hit by back-to-back blaring neon reminders. I hadn't thought about her in years. Then, out of the blue, there were two separate memories triggered by two unrelated "signs". I had to write to her, if for no other reason than to reconnect with a friend.

We separated in good terms. It was about 6 years, ago, when we last saw each other. Since then, there were sporadic emails with years between each. We lived hundreds of miles apart. And I hesitated calling because she was in a serious, long-term relationship. I think I may have called once or twice a few years back; I was drunk, and I awoke and annoyed her with stupid angst-ridden ramblings.

I don't know exactly what happened between us to bring us together in the first place. It was just gravity. Two people colliding on their way to someplace else. But I've never forgotten. And, sometimes, I miss whatever it was, whatever it wasn't. We had feelings that kept us restless until we were finally together and canceled everything else out.

A fling? Maybe. Love? Who the fuck knows? All I know is, I knew nothing. It was enough just being there together. And I was happy.

Golden Gate Dream

I can feel the coldness of the orange steel radiate from my fingertips to the rest of my body. The gritty dust and the rounded rivets somehow feel familiar. The frigid, salty breeze stings my eyes, the tears soften the midnight blue of the sea below. I clear a torn, black tarp to get a better grip. Then, I lower myself and hang.

I can feel the gravity inside me pulling. I can feel the tension in my arms and grip. I look down and remember factual details: At this height, I'll hit the water as if it was concrete; The Golden Gate Bridge is a popular tourist and suicide destination.

Then, I just let go. I release the bridge. The wind, in a deafening rush, tries to save me. I get the sense of freefall and take the longest, deepest breath of my life. I don't flail. I'm completely in the moment. This is it.

To Be Continued...

The Red Leather Corner

The Red Leather Corner

The Man in the Mirror

Blue Carousel Ride

It's Wednesday as I slip into the back 9 of this midnite high. I feel the last breaths of summer licking my face. Head in hands, gloved in dried blood and ashes, and the taste of fuck-it! shots still thick in my mouth. I want to rest now, but the moon is merciless. And this brokedown merry go-round won't let up for a fucking minute.

I'm bombarded by random details, pounding themselves in my brain. The light captured by that empty beer bottle on the sill, bristling with peeling pastel paint. The distinct shriek of a swinging screen door softened by darkness. The dead sunflowers on the unfinished wooden table. The rusted coffee can ash tray ... The smell of futile moments mixes with the scent of summer grass. And a stupid memory, blurred like butter on glass, visits me. Focus, damn it. Focus.

I'm heading, barreling, burning all 8, pedal to the metal, full blown, get-out-of-my-way-‘cause-I-don’t-give-a-fuck straight into a wall. I watch myself in this movie, frame by frame, and wonder -- in a moment of tainted clarity -- what the whole point is. A slide show plays in my mind of cleaner times, of a long ago version of myself when I was still holding the steering wheel and directions weren't speculations on the back of a cocktail napkin. Windows wide open. Still fast. And fast still. I turn to tell her to hold on, but nothing comes out. I at once feel nothing and everything. What's the fucking seat belt for?

She's bathed in dusk light, cooking some eggs with butter. And I’m sipping coffee while watching TV. I turn and watch her in the kitchen. And I’m hit. I fall all over, again. It’s like seeing her for the first time, and my hands begin to shake.

I close my eyes for a minute. Breathe. How could this happen? This possibility I so avoided and thought surely would remain filed under “There’s No FUCKING Way.”

The brake disintegrated into the same oblivion sucking me like a black hole. The bottle of gin, next to the cartons of Parliament, slides on the passenger-side floor. Ashes fly, guitar blares, and my world shrinks into this inescapable singularity. I fucked it all up. And this spiraling depravity has no kill switch. Hurling ourselves into this finale, we watch in perfect nonchalant, the electronic parade of disjointed images, deliciously overexposed. We're numb to the blatant truth we all run from but can't escape. Whatever will be will be...

The ride goes on. The wall gets bigger. If I somehow make it through, then what else can I ask for? More eggs, more coffee. And some time to watch her swaying in the kitchen...

But before that, pour me another. One more ride on the merry go round, Slick. I’ll pay you Tuesday.

Finished the Cab

I've left offline messages to Messenger friends I haven't chatted with in months. Wine-tainted, random ramblings will greet them next time they log on. It's kinda fun to drunk message. It's very Forrest Gump -- You never know what you're gonna get. Admit it; You do it. Everyone does it. It's a sign that we're too bored or lonely; either way, it's pathetic. And potentially damaging to relationships. That's why google designed a way to test your sobriety before you send an email. I would post the link to the article containing said info, but I'm too drunk right now.

It's fun getting replies from people, then searching your sent message archive to find out what fucked up message you left. "I never told you this before, but..." messages are great. And anything with the words "love", "miss", "mistake", "bitch" are interesting. And those with phrases like "never again", "that was crazy", and "live and learn" are pretty standard.

Good times. Good thing google, yahoo and microsoft haven't deployed an anti-drunk-messaging feature...yet.

A Historic Day

I visited the 'rents for my birthday, arriving the day before. They're not even home. From what's left behind, I gather they were busy getting ready to go out for a party. What else is new? I make myself at home, put on pajamas and played with the dogs. These dogs go crazy when I go home. I can tell they actually miss me.

Around 2 am, they come home. I lower the volume on the television, wondering if there's going to be another drunken shouting match in the driveway. Thankfully, there isn't. They walked in loudly and straight to the kitchen like drunk people do. Dad smells of liquor. And Mom runs around trying to please everyone. I wonder if things have always been like this while I was growing up... And I suddenly realize, the 'rents and I have always been barely friends. We don't even know how to be in the same room. We walk past each other at the kitchen crossroads and display the usual niceties you'd expect of other hotel guests at the ice machine.

It doesn't matter. I don't blame them for anything. They're people and just as fucked up as I am. I just hope they grow up for their own sake.

I wake up in "my room", on a bed I bought but rarely slept in, in a room kept for guests. I wonder what's different now that I'm a year older. I lay in bed wondering what I want to do. I want to have breakfast in bed, watch Dharma and Greg, Spin City, and maybe some soft porn (Food Network). The text messages greeting me begin to arrive. The second is from Mom but signed Mom and Dad; a brief greeting with love spelled "luv" -- When did Mom learn texting?!

So, it's my birthday. And I've decided that I will remember this day by shaving my hair. Why not?! Clean, fresh beginning. Maybe all I needed was a brand new haircut? I'll start eating right. Running regularly. Lifting weights. And start thinking happy, constructive thoughts. I'll stop craving liquor at 10am. Yea, that's it! A birthday buzz.

Speaking of buzz, I'm half way through a bottle of Cab. I raided their wine and selected the best in the lot to mark this special occasion. And today is momentous for other reasons. On this day in history, The Guggenheim went up, J Paul Getty III's ear was cut off, and Jack Kerouac died. And, of course, I was born...

Self Diagnosis: Tri-Polar

I was doing good for a while there. A month of regular running. I drank only occasionally as it got in the way of my running. I was going out with friends, keeping in touch. And now this...

It's been a week since I posted a run. I just can't get myself to do it. I have all these reasons why I should. It feels great. I'm getting faster and faster. It's healthy. Is this running withdrawal?! I love running. I hate running.

My birthday is coming up. I planned a marathon run as my present to myself. Run! Run! All I want to do is get away from this. I want to drive down the coast and spend a few days on the beach. Detox from everyone and everything. Find something, anything I don't know what yet. Reasons? Motivation? Purpose?

FUCK! I'm so tired of this shit. These slides and swings. Is it possible to be tri-polar? Cause I'm aware and numb and get stuck there, watching myself descend to the lows and soar to the highs.

It's annoying how elusive being centered and balanced is. I crave the desert. The profound emptiness on which to bounce my own. I fantasize about dropping out and living in Tibet a few years. Chant my way to enlightenment.

I'll start with a run tomorrow morning... and go from there.

Itching

I've been staying in one place the last couple of weeks. Held in place by work. Deadlines loom ahead like a PMS-steeped pride of lioness. Not even sleep allows me to escape. I wake to work. I work and work some more.

What I've noticed, lately, is that I've been watching documentaries about prisoners. I'm also craving shows on adventure travel. No Reservations. Globe Trekker (AKA Lonely Planet). Even Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmeran. It's pretty obvious why.

I'm getting itchy. I feel like changing scenes.

Suck Me

you draw blood with each glance
fangs piercing thin membranes.
penetrating throbbing vessels,
unwelcome, unfeeling
but comforting like soft pajamas
a morning kiss after a long night

feast until my blood become your tears.
drain it all...
the electric humming in my head
the static that keeps me restless
and leave me nothing but a fresh start
freshly washed sheets
a room just painted...

we're fire and wild brush...
gasoline and matches...
guns and rusted cans on fences....
destined to consume each other.

Go On Anyway

simple little treasures.
clarity. fitting in.nice.
boring. but still nice. normalcy will always
be illusive to someone brilliant like you, but
that desire and foolish quest keep monotony at bay. write. paint. sculpt. mold. scratch. hammer. melt. inscribe and make known your voice to a world which always remembers to forget. feel. dream. and hope there's a
point to it all. i don't know
what it is but
colors exist.

J the Cosmic

J the Cosmic

sparkles as she falls
And furry little things
melt into walls...

Wolves howl to keep
the blood moon in place
catalyst constellations light
dusty road back to grace.

And all the midnight spiders
sink fangs into dreams
until morning creeps;
smoky beam by smoky beam.

Bones aching, voice is gone
what frequency is reality on?

When i finally wake from this
may your taste bleed from my lips...

i flew in around 4am... got a ride into town from a person i met
at the baggage carousel. it's raining and dreary. i couldn't sleep, so i wrote that.

Just Maybe...

midnite passing. another lost beginning. i was supposed to start over... maybe tomorrow...maybe Monday...

i should buzz off my hair. get clean. i actually got the clippers ready last night for whenever i do decide to do it. maybe tonite... maybe not at all...

tough couple of days coming up. thousands of miles left to go. we'll see where i end up. i traded the map for a kiss. now, i'm just trying to put my life in 5th gear. full speed into what i'm supposed to be. a 6 figure career. sports car and bachelor pad. maybe a vagabond clutching memories asleep at your door...

dizzy. the world is spinning. tomorrow is coming to suck me dry. vampire calendars. rip them from the walls. burn them. it's midnite in november from now on. maybe...

maybe... such a rubber word. seems like you could say anything if you say maybe first. that way you never have to commit to anything. maybe tomorrow will be different...

Water Light and Weed

There's a lake not many people know about, where a fountain
creates a butterfly mist dancing on a shimmering floor.
It’s so radiant, I have to turn away after a while. It burns my
eyes. It strikes me as peculiar that such a thing of beauty to which
my attention and mind gravitate can cause such pain. Were my heart to follow suit, I would stare until my eyes become like dates that have been baking in the desert sun.

It’s just a fountain in a lake on a summer afternoon. It’s really just water, confined to one mass, imprisoned within land. And the fountain is just municipal water traveling through hardware store pipes and given force by an industrial pump. But when the sun hits it just right, well…that’s magical. Light kissing water…

There’s something poetic about light traveling millions of
miles only to touch water for a fraction of a second. Millions
of miles.  Just one touch.  One touch lasting the smallest
increment of time.  And only to then die in the viewer’s eyes…

Everything beautiful is tragic when you think about it.  But
thinking is overrated. So the chron I smoked when I woke up this
morning makes this moment more meaningful. But man, I hate this
Hallmark bullshit.  Any other day, thinking about fountains and
light is kind of pointless… except for today. 

RE:RE:FW:RE: One-Night Muse

Cold Brew and Nicotine

Captivating veiled in a cloud of nicotine

Secret longings sailing in smoke

Love is color to eyes that have never seen

In amber libations, her heart she’ll soak

Each sip closer to when the sadness slides

Bottles and cigarettes count hours gone

Each drag she confesses and she confides

She's long tired of the drama: Fine Being Alone

Her eyes betray secrets

that her smile works to hide

No lover. No regrets.

Only pain by her side.

Memories yet born

And things left unsaid

Haunt all the love songs

that play in her head

To love and be loved

First thing on her list

Three words are enough

To one never kissed

Cold universe

Cruel destiny

How ironic her name

Yet to everyone she’s happy

She just smiles through the pain

But in the small hours

When emptiness calls

Loneliness devours

Yet still she won’t fall

She looks up at the night sky and wonders away

Will these falling stars keep their promises she yells…

Will love be faithful and find her one day, someday

She fuckin’ hates that answer: “Only time will tell”

So just keep faking the smiles

Even after the smoke clears

Love may take more than a while

A thousand tears, maybe beers

I wrote this after meeting her on the Islands. 10 minutes. Drunk. I threw it away, but her friend picked it up. She read it and said I should share it with her. I didn't. But angst anyways.

Dear Queen of Saturn, More

A Magical Night with Gypsy, Flowerchild and Fairy

It was a hot, Friday afternoon when I decided to do some painting. I was about to have it out with a naked canvas that had been taunting me for a while. Wearing nothing but the sweet stench of 7&7 and my beloved painting jeans, listening to Janis, Ella, and Chet Baker, I was ready.

Earlier that morning, I went for a run, making my total for the last two days a little over 18 miles. Afterwards, I worked through lunch at my Starbux. It's been like that for a while. I hadn't done anything creative beyond mixing drinks. Just running and working, working and running, and then pickling my liver every night. So, Friday was going to be my night to just paint and write and allow myself to release. But just as the 7&7 was kicking in, my sistah from anutha mutha called.

"Are you decent?" she asked.
"Am I ever?" I replied.
"Better get clothes on because Fairy is coming." She warned. Fairy is our "fabulous" friend.
I put on a shirt. And they walked in the door just a few minutes later.
"Let's go!" Fairy commanded. Apparently, the plan was to go to Ye Olde Ship. I debated whether or not to go. I had my night planned. But who can say "No" to Fairy?

So, I put some gel on and headed out the door. Mistake number 1.

And that's the clearest memory I have of that Friday. Everything else comes in snippets. I do remember meeting Gypsy. Curly haired, dirty-blond, wearing a bohemian frock reminiscent of a Kerouac character. We talked about finding our Bodhisattva. She wanted to introduce me to hers.

She had magic in her purse which we enjoyed in the parking lot. Mistake number 2.

Flowerchild came to hang at my request. It's been a while since I've dipped down to her realm. She's legendary. And it was great to see her after all that time. The Ship was sinking, so we decided to move on. Fairy, Flowerchild and I walked merrily down the alley ways to Fowerchild's carriage where she had a surprise. With a siren smile, she pulled out her magic.

We enjoyed it and cast spells at Fairy who doesn't like magic. Mistake number 3.

The night should have ended there. For what must have been a half hour, we found ourselves wandering through more alley ways and then gardens in downtown. Old friends sprouted from the darkness in our magic-soaked journey. Some faces looked familiar, still others swear we've met before. Hugs and kisses and faded promises to keep in touch... we needed a drink!

When we got to the bar, Gypsy was there. It was a pleasant surprise. And another person was there, she was a twin, a Gemini... and we had much in common.

Gypsy lured me away from Gemini to blow magic into the night air. Mistake number 4.

I've already had way too much by that point. We sat in the veranda and engaged our psychic powers. I told her about my quest to find my soulmate but that all I knew was that somehow blue shoes and San Francisco are the keys. It freaked her out that I mentioned those words. She became silent. It turned out that her close friend, from San Francisco, has an email account under the name blueshoes. I was freaked.

From there, I remember going to another watering hole. By this time it was just Fairy and me. Mistake number 5.

Fairy threatened to touch me inappropriately. But he is my friend, and I knew he was joking. He gets drunk and plays around. As I leaned against a fence, waiting for a cab, he put an arm on my shoulder. I, of course, flinched, laughing. He accused me of being a homophobe. And for a minute, I actually wanted to prove that I wasn't by letting him. That thought lasted all but 1 second. I was gone but not that gone. And I knew he was just kidding. kinda.

So, there is my crazy Friday night with Gypsy, Flowerchild, and Fairy. That canvas still taunts!

Tropical Wanderlust , Mixing Work and Play

What if these gigantic raindrops turned this building back into the sand and limestone it’s made of? Maybe all it takes is one raindrop hitting just the right spot. An avalanche of gray powder and metal, office furniture, computers, water coolers, and people wearing ties. Paper would collect in pools of rainwater, ink, and black coffee, making a Guinness-worthy paper-mache from which there would be no escape. Office people beware! Your cubicle walls won’t save you.

I’m on the 7th floor, looking at people running for cover. A river is disassembling in midair and regrouping like liquid mercury.

It’s rained most everyday since I’ve been here. It felt weird those days when it didn’t, like someone forgot to leave the water on in the bathtub. I’ve survived on a diet of gin and questionable pork minced and fried in its own fat. Actually, it tastes good. And I haven’t been sick from it thanks to the native chili pepper I learned to eat with each bite. The local gin is more assertive than what I usually drink back home, hinting of detergent and Listerine. I’ve had to put extra holes in my belt. But overall, I feel healthy. The humidity is thick like oatmeal soup.

I slept peacefully through the worst storm in over a decade to hit the area where I was staying. The sound of violent winds ripping roofs off of houses and smashing things against cinder block walls was my lullaby. More than a hundred people died. Tragic. But there's a resilience among the people here; an attitude that life goes on, and you just have to make the best of each moment.

Electricity was out for 3 days, but I still managed to find a few cool places that served cold drinks. Lit by candles, everything and everyone seemed calmer.

It’s the wild, wild west here, and there are no traffic laws. Buses and motorcycles jocky for positions with cars, making 3 lanes into 6. Red light?! What red light?! I was riding in a car when we were rear-ended by a drunk guy who was actually very amusing to speak with. He even drove me to the police station where charges would be filed against him. He kept insisting on taking me out for a night of drinking. I just left it up in the air.

Hot balmy nights and drinks. The sound of ice clinking on glass meld smoothly with the music playing on a boom box that a decade ago played tapes of Michael Jackson. Self discovery turns to self abuse. And all I can look forward to is when I slide. Broken beer bottles rain over me. A roach the size of an apple is splattered against the wall. For an instant, it feels like a rain of fireworks, yellow light trapped in shards of glass in flight. I hear nothing and things move in slow motion. And I begin to wonder if the plants are listening….

Suitcase to suitcase. Room to room. And one day, I’ll call you for lunch. We can eat spiders and talk in tongue clicks like bushmen in the Kalahari. Clickity click click click. Seriously?! Bring napkins and answers. And of course we’ll have cake.

Dear Queen of Saturn

You’re calm and collected. So unaffected. Balancing elephants on thimbles over pools of lava. Never breaking a sweat. Each measured breath becomes another carefree step on your high wire balancing act. Your silent screams drown the applause and woos. Smile. Wave. Little do they know; the Cyclops’s pills could never heal you.

You’ve created your own bemusement park, attractions that repel. A petting zoo of alligators, snakes, the bones of cute, furry things. A giant tent to keep darkness in. A center ring of quicksand ready to devour. Dilapidated seats. Muddy aisles. A lion cage missing bars. Tickets fill a treasure chest of secrets. Spotlight's on you. And nobody’s getting the fuck out. Holding their breath for the grande finale.


Dear Queen of Saturn
(Bamboo, duct tape, rice paper)

Mutant Bunny Project

Mutant Bunny Project is...


An experiment without method. A journey with no destination.

Rhyme for the profane. Reason for the insane.

It burns. It bleeds.

No context. No pretext.

Unapologetic. Perverse.

Take it or Love it. Leave it or hate it.

It just is...

WARNING: There's nothing for you here. It's not too late to turn AWAY! THIS is more appropriate for you to consume.