there is nothing subtle about this.

he's rigid, heavily lined. a perfect little rectangle with a domed skull- a talking legoman.

leggo, man. your grip is painful.

there comes that time for self-preservation. you find it easier to drift off at dawn next to a pseudo-stranger than climb into bed next to the person who knows you inside and out.

whom you know in-side and out.

smoke thick and hazy blurs what little vision you have already and makes you more susceptible to lightheadedness and shortness of breath.

there should be a pill for you. to get rid of him. to let him flit from your brain while you sleep so you can finally awaken and be refreshed. really refreshed.

it's complicated, you scream over the phone above the traffic and sirens while looking over the crosswalk and seeing only the endless Pacific and serenity of a west coast sunset.

musings on a voracious wildfire

you're consuming all of me. charring my soil and throwing sand as though it's yours to throw. anger at profound betrayal of your people, the bitterness of stolen land being inhabited for so long with plastic people fuels your furor and forges you on.

in your wake you leave skeletons of imprints formerly laid as you taunt the people to resist. what began as a novelty, as something we took time out of our day to watch with leisure, has turned into a nightmare. my memories are on that land you're foraging. my memories are of that land and in that land and are that land. and you, in all your glorious reds and oranges and golds, are rendering those memories rubble.

if only you generated rebirth. my tall eucalyptus, weighted down with images of warm afternoons spent romping behind the blanket-curtain of mike's room, pictures of nate and me swimming in oceanside, and dozens of other candids that surface in salt-watery recollections, is reduced to embers that shine long and luscious from the oil in every thread of my being. if you encouraged reincarnation i'd come back as a skyward palm, untouchable but for those with enough skill to conquer my steep exterior, my fronds blessed and holy. or an orange grove, the scrumptious fruits fertilized by your mourning ash and made more delicious through your pain.

alas, you are only destruction. until the cold waters of the pacific tame your passion and rage, you will exert your wrath on everything and anything in sight. your smoke signals have been seen and duly noted by the gods. end your fight; there is no honor in devastation.









i have oodles of people all over southern california. please keep them in your thoughts.

("sing for absolution"-muse. and also, "at least that's what you said" by wilco)

(photos from yahoo.com u.s./national news)

manic. depression.

here's why:
pigeons in lockers. log-rolling to "when doves cry". sitting on little pillows. "I'M TRYING!". christmas trees tied to the side of a car. santa tied to the chimney. the dead raccoon in the locker. the toilet on the front lawn with a light shining on it. "that was cruel". cleaning the game closet. passing out in the front yard. cleaning french doors with a mop.

their legacies must live on through me.

dream beautiful and unusual. my heart will live through you.

okay. and what i really opened this window for:

It's easy to be angry when you live in a vacuum and you forget that we've all been through varying degrees of the same shit. But it's also difficult, when you know the reason behind the actions. Behind all of your Marlboro-Red-Johnny-Walker-Black exterior is a tired and fragile little boy working up the courage to take a baseball bat to his father's back.
It's okay baby. Someday it'll get better. Someday you'll stop having nightmares about it. Someday the panic attacks at the sight of tall bald men will disappear.
If he'd let you hold him for more than a night you'd tell him this, whisper it in his ear while he slept, unwinding the hypnosis of years ago.
The false sense of romance is what intoxicates. Stubble-faced and slightly drunk he stumbles up to the landing and the plateau where we'll both stop to look and contemplate the fine shaped mouths and noses and how to navigate new terrain before plunging head- and- legs- first into a steep ravine of the unknown.

In the morning
on the sober dawn of Sunday
(and Sunday did indeed dawn soberly)
you know all too well
what you have done.
Love's everlasting bliss and
fidelity is mortal and inevitably fallible, through
thought, word and deed.

("good night"- kanye, al be back, mos def)

First piece

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furtive glances in the other direction

alphabet boys is a term taken from young jeezy referencing the FBI.

obviously (or maybe not so obvious), i'm not using it that way.

i'm not sure yet that i'm necessarily writing for publication- my motives are more carnal. not to say i write erotica or raunchy romance, but that when i write something i'm pleased with (rare), i glow a little and have the best sleep i've had in awhile. i'll include musical suggestions with my posts to enhance the experience. it's your choice to listen but i do recommend it.

last, i'll post a play (scene by scene) for review and discussion. i think this will be my first piece. i'd eventually like to hand it to John Ortiz, one of the artistic directors of LAByrinth Theater Co., who's enthusiastic about reading it. we'll see. feedback/criticism is always, ALWAYS welcome!

i just ask you don't judge my intelligence based on my creativity (or lack thereof).



-the TAN of a.