Morning Prayer

27 Apr
image stolen from endoftheworld-2012-12.blogspot.com

image stolen from endoftheworld-2012-12.blogspot.com

Two years of nothing. Then three little earthquakes. A big one is coming, said everybody in Los Angeles. The big one.

I prayed. Dear Lord, if you make an earthquake, make it kill. None of this middle of the road shit. Swallow my workplace whole. Otherwise, if you just do damage– I’ll still have to go in. In fact I’ll have more to do. Picking up, salvaging shit… toiling to rebuild from your half assed wrath. Haggling with electricians. Nitpicking over permits. Repairmen will be in demand; everyone will be after the same four guys who can fix earthquake shit. On me to get them fast and cheap. Cajole them on the phone and suck up and if that doesn’t work yell at them. Sit on hold. I’m sorry, 0 is not a valid entry. Goodbye. Hold again. Please Lord destroy the phone company. Destroy the computer with the hard drive with the recording of the lady who talks to you on hold, who curtly jumps on every 30 seconds into Gabor Szabo or whateverthefuck to say “PLEASE WAIT.” What a cunt, that woman. Swallow her into a crack in the Earth. Swallow it all. Make a quake so big the whole ocean pours in and eats LA; every gas main blows, we all sizzle and scream and then sweet quiet blackness.

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Protected: Beach Diary: Nature’s Miracles

18 Apr

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Just What the Fuck is Going On with You, Anyway

16 Mar

Oh Lord, oh Lord, why do you send me these calamities. The car died. I broke my hand. I rolled my ankle. Grasping objects and walking upright are out. The two things that define a human being. Might as well be an invertebrate. I work twelve hours a day and it’s an hour there hour back and I can’t even get home and have a god damn drink. Gotta go to an AA meeting. Or my sponsor will yell at me. Gotta have a long phone call with my sponsor, tell him yeah: look at all the AA shit I did. I went to this meeting, I read this chapter of Bill Motherfucking W, I took a commitment. It’s a good one at least. I hand out the chips at Cafe Tropical. Someone doesn’t drink for sixty days, I give them a keychain. People clap. The person says “Name, Alcoholic” and I hug them. Some day it will be a hot chick. I will feel big warm titties on my chest. The other commitments are shit like picking up trash. Oh Lord, thank you for that one. Continue reading →

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Protected: Waiting Room Diary: Affordable Care

2 Mar

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Protected: Coffee Shop Diary: Power Outage

1 Mar

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Protected: Sobriety Journal 2-21-14: Fetish Porn

22 Feb

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Birthday 2014

19 Feb
image stolen from commons.wikimedia.org

image stolen from commons.wikimedia.org

Previously: 2012, 2013

It’s my birthday today. I am thirty eight years old.

I had dreams of being pulled out to sea by storm waves. Woke up early and went out to the park. Neighbor was walking his dog. Told me there was a big car wreck down on Stadium Way. Went to the top of the hill to look. Cold fog hung around the trees. The evergreens were dead and brown. Marked with an X in spray paint; the city’s gonna come cut them down. Scotch pines. The tree my dad planted in the yard to commemorate my birth. That one was cut down too. Across the valley a murder of crows roosted on a dead eucalyptus. They were 500 yards away but as soon as I looked they flew off. Down on the road, fifteen fire trucks. A station wagon had hit a palm tree. It was spun around backward, crushed. All four doors laying on the grass, cut off by the jaws of life.

If I’d been looking for a portent for the coming year, well… fuck. Only thing that could have been more on the nose would have been the clouds forming my name and a big middle finger. Good thing I don’t believe in that shit. I rubbernecked long enough for my coffee to finish brewing. Then headed inside to drop a deuce. I’d eaten bleu cheese and arugula. The shit was historic. This was my portent. This year I will move mountains.

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Protected: We Admitted We Were Powerless

16 Feb

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Sobriety Journal 2-14-14

14 Feb

So as long as I don’t need sex, sleep or human contact, not drinking is gonna go fine. As long as my nights are just: couch. Tubes running fluids in and out of my mouth, dick and ass. Endless loop of Mythbusters on Netflix. As long as I can handle days pacing my apartment alone muttering half sentences, snarling in the mirror… sitting down to write but the words move too fast. This, and one hour a night sitting in a church basement. Me and the other weirdos glaring at two big vinyl posters of platitudes. Everything will be fine.

Went to my second meeting last night. Had a date after. Her house. She made burritos. We fucked. She was on top. There is a tapestry hanging over her bed, with an Aztec theme. My mind left. Journeyed in between the threads making up a slope-headed peasant carrying a water jar. I traveled through irregularities in the textured plaster ceiling. They were mountains on Mars, or some snow planet. Does this not feel good to you honey, she asked. Well yeah, it feels good on my penis. But the rest of me– my entire soul feels like you ripped off a scab too soon. There was not newly formed skin underneath but raw bloody twitching flesh. My whole being is made up of raw skinless meat and a cold wind is blowing over it. Except for my dick. My dick feels great. Continue reading →

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The Last Hangover

12 Feb
image stolen from www.ep.tc

image stolen from http://www.ep.tc

I should have gone out with a five gram coke binge. Topped it off with some nasty skid row black tar. But this will have to do.

I’ve been sitting inside all day hung over. Reading stupid shit on the internet and listening to Opie and Anthony. Masturbating to small penis humiliation videos. I have work to do, important work. Big real estate project and a bunch of writing stuff. I need the money. I am too hung over. Continue reading →

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