Saturday, May 22, 2004
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
it's the little things....
i've been wondering for the last few days why something so damn small as a flea, can cause such high levels of itching and burning. you'd think something so small might not even be any cause for any atttention at all. but damn flea bites are annoying. stupid fleas.
The feelings of this worn out cowboy........
Well my name is Cecil Brown
and I'm from a little town
and people don't think much of me
I never understood
why they thought I was no good
But this is how it seems
The feelings of this worn out cowboy
will make you feel so cold
I've traveled up and down so many
kind of lonesome roads
I once took the high road
and it took me straight to hell
and I stood there all by myself
Cause all alone's where
I feel like I belong
Cause it don't matter
who's right or wrong
The feelings of this worn out cowboy
will make you feel so cold
I've traveled up and down so many
kind of lonesome roads
Pickin' up the pieces
of my broken family
Is not an easy sight to see
And as the leaves have changed
it helps ease the pain
and sufferin' they left for me
The feelings of this worn out cowboy
will make you feel so cold
I've traveled up and down so many
kind of lonesome roads
and I'm from a little town
and people don't think much of me
I never understood
why they thought I was no good
But this is how it seems
The feelings of this worn out cowboy
will make you feel so cold
I've traveled up and down so many
kind of lonesome roads
I once took the high road
and it took me straight to hell
and I stood there all by myself
Cause all alone's where
I feel like I belong
Cause it don't matter
who's right or wrong
The feelings of this worn out cowboy
will make you feel so cold
I've traveled up and down so many
kind of lonesome roads
Pickin' up the pieces
of my broken family
Is not an easy sight to see
And as the leaves have changed
it helps ease the pain
and sufferin' they left for me
The feelings of this worn out cowboy
will make you feel so cold
I've traveled up and down so many
kind of lonesome roads
Saturday, May 15, 2004
Don't go shooting all the dogs cuz one of them has fleas.
I just can't get them out. Just all kind of images floating around. Trains, planes and automobiles. Thoughts of Paris streets being cleaned by shop keepers and men in blue uniforms. Ranches and Texas sunsets, hell even sunrises. Images of people dancing, in the streets, in the clubs. Sometimes I drift off and daydream of being a rock star. This intrigues me as well. When I ever I have gotten on stage in recent memory, to say a few words of welcome or thanks, my voice trembles and my mind reels in fear. But I still see my self bathed in light in front of a roaring crowd moving to MY rhythm. Actually I see myself onstage as if I were standing in the crowd. I see how I look and how I move. I love me. teehee
I also had thoughts of setting balloons free at the break of dawn. Hell I have so many thoughts and images floating in my head right now I can't even get them straight enough to put them into words.
rain, highways, fences, tall grass blowing in the wind. Big trucks on the highway, a big truck driving down a small two lane road in the middle of nowhere West Texas, blowing the tall dry grass growing on the side of the road. They way the mist forms on the roadway in the rain with heavy traffic. Neon lights and thunderstorms. A forgotten radio playing in an empty room. There was a story in a magazine about an old man who owned a warehouse full of motorcycle parts. Buried somewhere in the place was a radio. It had been on the same station, buried under parts for 50 years. That makes me think about an empty room with white walls and a bare wood floor, a small wooden table and chair sits in the corner, near a window. The thin curtains are swirling in the afternoon breeze. On top of the table is a radio, playing songs from a place and time that never existed. A voice telling me about the time and temperature of a place that has never been. The other corner of the room is small bed. White sheets, worn by time. A green wool blanket pulled taught across the frame. A little blue nightstand, holding a book and a lamp. A sad room. The room of a man who has no love in his life. A man who life consists only of work. From sun up to sun down during the week he toils away in some unknown job. But on Sundays, his only day away from the grease or gloom or dirt of labor, he sits at the table. Listens to his radio, and watches out the window. He thinks of time ahead and behind. He thinks of a woman he has never seen. Who plays in the sun. A white dress twirling and floating on her shoulders as she spins and leaps in the grass. Every now and then she'll take a moment from her dance, she'll stop and look towards the window. And she smiles and waves and he smiles back. Cigarette smoke floats around his head, and blows out the window into the empty yard. The girl only in his head, an angel of sorts. The hope and wish of blue eyes looking into his. A soft hand holding his, a warm hug that lingers while he works. And the radio plays on, delivering songs that no one has heard but sound like you have heard them you whole life.
I also had thoughts of setting balloons free at the break of dawn. Hell I have so many thoughts and images floating in my head right now I can't even get them straight enough to put them into words.
rain, highways, fences, tall grass blowing in the wind. Big trucks on the highway, a big truck driving down a small two lane road in the middle of nowhere West Texas, blowing the tall dry grass growing on the side of the road. They way the mist forms on the roadway in the rain with heavy traffic. Neon lights and thunderstorms. A forgotten radio playing in an empty room. There was a story in a magazine about an old man who owned a warehouse full of motorcycle parts. Buried somewhere in the place was a radio. It had been on the same station, buried under parts for 50 years. That makes me think about an empty room with white walls and a bare wood floor, a small wooden table and chair sits in the corner, near a window. The thin curtains are swirling in the afternoon breeze. On top of the table is a radio, playing songs from a place and time that never existed. A voice telling me about the time and temperature of a place that has never been. The other corner of the room is small bed. White sheets, worn by time. A green wool blanket pulled taught across the frame. A little blue nightstand, holding a book and a lamp. A sad room. The room of a man who has no love in his life. A man who life consists only of work. From sun up to sun down during the week he toils away in some unknown job. But on Sundays, his only day away from the grease or gloom or dirt of labor, he sits at the table. Listens to his radio, and watches out the window. He thinks of time ahead and behind. He thinks of a woman he has never seen. Who plays in the sun. A white dress twirling and floating on her shoulders as she spins and leaps in the grass. Every now and then she'll take a moment from her dance, she'll stop and look towards the window. And she smiles and waves and he smiles back. Cigarette smoke floats around his head, and blows out the window into the empty yard. The girl only in his head, an angel of sorts. The hope and wish of blue eyes looking into his. A soft hand holding his, a warm hug that lingers while he works. And the radio plays on, delivering songs that no one has heard but sound like you have heard them you whole life.
Coffee, cigarettes, and bourbon.
I have so much on my mind today i don't even know where to begin. i have a huge zit on my nose. it wasn't there when i went to bed, and i didn't go to bed all that long ago. so where did it come from? i poped it, and was quite dissappointed. instead of a satisfying burst, signifying my destruction of a zit, it just oozed out and bleed all down my nose. a real let down i tell you. anyway.
i was also thinking of amsterdam today. and how i always enjoyed mornings there. the city coming to life once again. or going to bed how ever you want to look at it. the city was nearly as busy at night as it was during the day. two seprate cities separated only by light. at night it was a glorious city. teeming with people, porn and pot. the way the neon and flashing lights reflected off of the canals make the imagery i keep in my head all that more brilliant.
i was telling you about morinings though. the sun lighting the day, tourists milling about taking pitures and reading their maps. locals trying to complete there appointed rounds and errands. bicyles zipping to and fro. the the sun painting the canal a glorious shade of gold. masking the human waste and industrial sewage floating to the sea.
i'm not real sure why i thought about this this morning while cutting the grass. maybe it's the drab and dreary day. maybe it was the cool air. it surely wasn't the smell of cut grass. i'm suprized that i am thinking about days in Amsterdam, because i was always out all night. the few times i was up in the morning was when i took people with me to show them the wonderland i found. days for me where to find a nice cafe, sit have a bite to eat and get a fresh beer to nurse my hangover. i'd sit on the street all day long just watching the world go by. i would confuse tourists by helping them with directions in english. i'd confuse shop owners by purusing their stores that were not on the tourist routes. they'd ask me if i was lost, i'd tell them no i was just shopping. they'd ask if i was on a tour, and i'd say no. i didn't take a tour i came here by myself. i'd tell them i wanted to get far away from the tour district. i spent all night there. i wanted to see what the city really had to offer. what it was like with out all the paint and polish. and it was a beautiful city. thousands of doors and dark allys. shops full of things, "Ver Koop! 50% off". shops where americans and english speaking people didn't go. shops where all the signs where in dutch. i remeber on time finding a flea market. this was not the amsterdam that the tourist council wanted me to see. everyday citizens, selling everyday items, for everyday bills. i bought a pair of wool dutch army socks, still one of my favorite pair of socks too, for 2 dollars. i love that town
i was also thinking of amsterdam today. and how i always enjoyed mornings there. the city coming to life once again. or going to bed how ever you want to look at it. the city was nearly as busy at night as it was during the day. two seprate cities separated only by light. at night it was a glorious city. teeming with people, porn and pot. the way the neon and flashing lights reflected off of the canals make the imagery i keep in my head all that more brilliant.
i was telling you about morinings though. the sun lighting the day, tourists milling about taking pitures and reading their maps. locals trying to complete there appointed rounds and errands. bicyles zipping to and fro. the the sun painting the canal a glorious shade of gold. masking the human waste and industrial sewage floating to the sea.
i'm not real sure why i thought about this this morning while cutting the grass. maybe it's the drab and dreary day. maybe it was the cool air. it surely wasn't the smell of cut grass. i'm suprized that i am thinking about days in Amsterdam, because i was always out all night. the few times i was up in the morning was when i took people with me to show them the wonderland i found. days for me where to find a nice cafe, sit have a bite to eat and get a fresh beer to nurse my hangover. i'd sit on the street all day long just watching the world go by. i would confuse tourists by helping them with directions in english. i'd confuse shop owners by purusing their stores that were not on the tourist routes. they'd ask me if i was lost, i'd tell them no i was just shopping. they'd ask if i was on a tour, and i'd say no. i didn't take a tour i came here by myself. i'd tell them i wanted to get far away from the tour district. i spent all night there. i wanted to see what the city really had to offer. what it was like with out all the paint and polish. and it was a beautiful city. thousands of doors and dark allys. shops full of things, "Ver Koop! 50% off". shops where americans and english speaking people didn't go. shops where all the signs where in dutch. i remeber on time finding a flea market. this was not the amsterdam that the tourist council wanted me to see. everyday citizens, selling everyday items, for everyday bills. i bought a pair of wool dutch army socks, still one of my favorite pair of socks too, for 2 dollars. i love that town
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
more from the road
She and Patrick arrived in the driving rain. the wipers could not keep up as the rain poured from the heavens in large sheets. water was coming in everywhere into the old truck. from around the doors and through the windshield seal, running in ribbons down the inside of the glass dripping off of the dash only to pool on the rusty floor then finding its way to holes and back out on to the road. out of the rain storm they saw an oasis of light, a shining neon beacon of safty in the night. they pulled in the parking lot and parked, looked at each other and ducked out into the rain. they came out of the rain into the motel office. a man shuffled out from a back room, lit on by the light of a television. he was short, squat and balding. his once white undershirt now grey and stained from years of washing his own clothes and spilling his food while he ate. he wasn't there to make money, he was there because there was no where else to go in this town. he had worked for the motel since he graduated high school, just for the summer, but he never made it away. now years later he was not just the night shift manager, but he was the manager, and maintenance man. the exposed skin spilling from his shirt had a greasy sheen that matched his greasy hair, what little was left. he didn't speak to the them when they approached the counter, he just stood there with a blank expression, waiting for the ritual to continue so that he might get back to more important things. like watching sports and drinking his last beer for the night. Patrick asked for a room and the man flatly replied, 35 dollars while sliding a check-in card towards them. Patrick filled out a the card while the man fumbled to find a key and then handed him the money. almost as an afterthought the man gestured over Patrick and the girl's shoulders and grunted, second building on the left, check out is at 12.
She and Patrick arrived in the driving rain. the wipers could not keep up as the rain poured from the heavens in large sheets. water was coming in everywhere into the old truck. from around the doors and through the windshield seal, running in ribbons down the inside of the glass dripping off of the dash only to pool on the rusty floor then finding its way to holes and back out on to the road. out of the rain storm they saw an oasis of light, a shining neon beacon of safty in the night. they pulled in the parking lot and parked, looked at each other and ducked out into the rain. they came out of the rain into the motel office. a man shuffled out from a back room, lit on by the light of a television. he was short, squat and balding. his once white undershirt now grey and stained from years of washing his own clothes and spilling his food while he ate. he wasn't there to make money, he was there because there was no where else to go in this town. he had worked for the motel since he graduated high school, just for the summer, but he never made it away. now years later he was not just the night shift manager, but he was the manager, and maintenance man. the exposed skin spilling from his shirt had a greasy sheen that matched his greasy hair, what little was left. he didn't speak to the them when they approached the counter, he just stood there with a blank expression, waiting for the ritual to continue so that he might get back to more important things. like watching sports and drinking his last beer for the night. Patrick asked for a room and the man flatly replied, 35 dollars while sliding a check-in card towards them. Patrick filled out a the card while the man fumbled to find a key and then handed him the money. almost as an afterthought the man gestured over Patrick and the girl's shoulders and grunted, second building on the left, check out is at 12.
Sunday, May 09, 2004
Can't Hardly Stand It
Can't Hardly Stand It :Charlie Feathers
Well, the sun's gone down
And you're uptown
And you're just out runnin' around
(Chorus:)
I can't hardly stand it
You're troublin' me
I can't hardly stand
It just can't be
Well, you don't know, a-babe I love you so
You got me all tore up, all tore up
You say you're trough with me
You're settin' me free
You're just out with your used-to-be
(Chorus)
Well, my spirit's low
I love (miss) you so
I stand alone and watch you go
(Chorus)
Well, now that you are gone
And I'm alone
All I do is sit and moan
(Chorus)
Baby, all tore up
Baby, all tore up
All tore up...
Can't Hardly Stand It :Charlie Feathers
Well, the sun's gone down
And you're uptown
And you're just out runnin' around
(Chorus:)
I can't hardly stand it
You're troublin' me
I can't hardly stand
It just can't be
Well, you don't know, a-babe I love you so
You got me all tore up, all tore up
You say you're trough with me
You're settin' me free
You're just out with your used-to-be
(Chorus)
Well, my spirit's low
I love (miss) you so
I stand alone and watch you go
(Chorus)
Well, now that you are gone
And I'm alone
All I do is sit and moan
(Chorus)
Baby, all tore up
Baby, all tore up
All tore up...
Saturday, May 08, 2004
well crap i can't believe i have to get over it again. i thought i had suffiectly braced and reinforced my fragile heart. the image i have in my head is of a bloddy heart laying on a table or maybe hung on a wall, wrapped in metal strapping tape, wire and screws, all held up by a couple of 2 by 4's. the ends of the boards covered in blood, the sheen of the cold galvinized industrial metal glistening with coagulating life. strong and unyeilding. but in one fell swoop it was all ripped off, and thrown to the floor with our clothes. i don't know if that was the intended purpose or not. but i suddenely feel naked and vunerable and confused. of course mybe i brought this all upon myself. hopefully i can get passed this and move on. maybe i reading too much into this. maybe it was just sex. maybe it doesn't mean anything.
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
so i have begun the long arduous task of going thru my life agin. i do this from time to time. for some reason i tend to go thru the same stuff over and over. today i went through pictures. and i threw alot away. i threw away some from a forgotten trip to the woods. i don't where or when they were taken. so they got thrown out. i have so much paperwork from the military, and i have gone thru it from time to time, and everytime i find more papers that i thought were important at one time but now i find them completley useless and a waste of space. space. this is why i've begun this again. i have run out of space. i lost a room in my house to my bestfriend, now roomate, and i no longer have the space to store the scraps of my life. i'm workign to a point where i can load everything i own into the back of a truck and leave. some day i hope to start over. brand new life, brand new friends. brand new everything. and to do this i have to find the strength to let go of my past. from time to time i hate my past. i made chioces that i'm no longer happy i made.
but i guess you can't run from your past can ya?
but i guess you can't run from your past can ya?
Friday, April 30, 2004
yeah i thought i could go a week with out drinking. who the hell was i kidding. i went 2 days. on weds. i went out, and had a bourben and coke. big mistake. i thought i could handle it. and actually i could. i didn't even finish my drink at dinner. but then i went out for drinks, i had two. during the middle of my second i ordered a glsass of water. but afterwards i went home, got my roommate, went out for a few more, then we went home and drank till 5am. i realized i love the way bourbon washes over my mouth, and over my body. it's sweet and bitter just like a woman. i decided that i cannot not drink right now. i love it way too much. i love the bitter sweet flavor, the wetness in my mouth and the warmth on my throat. the shiver down my back and the buzzz in my head. goodnight.
Monday, April 26, 2004
what a weekend. live music, Hot Rods, bikes, and a ton of rain. i'm hurting like hell today. i've got bruises all over my body, a black eye, and huge gash across my nose. i was told that i fell down more than i was standing. fun stuff. this may be the incentive i need to stop drinking. i don't know if can do it or not. i know i can go a shift at the T, with out drinking, i can work with out drinking. i but i don't know if i can go out without drinking.
oh well. i didn't go to jail.
oh well. i didn't go to jail.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
Tuesday, April 06, 2004
Happy Birthday to me!
for my birthday today i had a steak breafast/dinner when i got home from work last night, and as a special treat, before i went to bed, i turned turned the A/C on, set it to ice and got the best nights sleep i have had in months. i'll have to turn it off before i go to work, but it is nice to curl up in my big blanket and sleep. on the flip side, i ended up sleeping most of the day and now i'm about 3 hrs behind schedule. oh well, fuck it it's my birthday.
for my birthday today i had a steak breafast/dinner when i got home from work last night, and as a special treat, before i went to bed, i turned turned the A/C on, set it to ice and got the best nights sleep i have had in months. i'll have to turn it off before i go to work, but it is nice to curl up in my big blanket and sleep. on the flip side, i ended up sleeping most of the day and now i'm about 3 hrs behind schedule. oh well, fuck it it's my birthday.
Sunday, April 04, 2004
he drove into the west Texas sunset. she sat next to him in the truck. it was late July. hot, sticky and just plain grueling. the old truck had no A/C and with the chopped top the windows only hinted at the breeze blowing past the windows at 70 miles an hour. the truck rocked and creaked as the open header pipes bellowed their arrival on the road to points unknown. where were they going? she didn't know and neither did he. he knew that where ever it was it wasn't where they'd been the night before. before the fight. before the whiskey. before it all went terribly wrong.
Patrick had the day off. a rarity these days. he was trying like mad to pay his bills and rebuild his broken bike. it had broken a long time ago and the stream of broken hearts and broken whiskey bottles had left him in debt and with out his beloved chopper. he sat in his home watching TV occasionally staring out the window to the garage. the padlock was beginning to shown signs of weather, and the leaves were piling against the door from un-use. he decide he needed a drink. not just any drink would do. it had to be a good one. not one could make himself. but one that was made just for him. a drink that would take his breath away and absolve him of all his fears. so he combed back his greasy hair, dusted of his cowboy boots and headed out the door to find his solace in the bottom of a glass.
when he got to the bar it was just the way he wanted. loud, dirty, ugly punk rock made it's way from the stage and filtered through the patrons souls and out in the night. the doorman gave him a handshake and smile and let him on thru. he went straight to the bar and waited for the magic elixirs to be handed him in the grim dark light and swirling noise. that was when he noticed her. she was standing next to the jukebox as if she knew, and purposely stood there to bath in her personal spotlight. her black hair rolled and cascaded off her shoulders. her eyes sparkled. her lips followed the words to the music. or so he thought. but instead of watching the band,she turned to him and smiled with a come hither grin and Patrick knew this girl was going to be the death of him. he could see death in her eyes and lust on her mind. they both stood for a moment and just stared at each other. then she turned back around to dance and sing along to the band. Patrick ordered up a second drink and strode over to say hello. when the band was over he asked her name and they began talking. suddenly there were no others in the bar, and the music fell off into background noise. the once blaring jukebox was no longer filler between bands, it became the soundtrack to lust and sin. she told him things he wanted to hear but was afraid to ask. she whispered in his ears things that took his breath away and made his skin fit funny. she turned and nodded towards the dark corner behind the stage. the band was unloading their gear and they would just be another couple in the mass and disappear for a moment. she reached out and took his hand and his breath away. she led him to the dark corner. her eyes glowing in the shadows. she pulled him close to her, brushed her cheek against his as she drew back for a kiss. her lips met his and the world stopped. the music stopped. his heart stopped. then it raced out of control as it came back to life. her lips were soft and inviting. she tasted of bourbon and cigarettes. her hands pulled him closer to her and comforted his broken heart. that was when it happened.
Patrick didn't realize it when it happened. it was just a dulled thud on the back of his head. but he'd work in bars for so long he knew the sound of glass breaking over a skull. his knees buckled slightly. he wasn't sure where the slight dizziness was coming from. the long remorseless kiss he had just been given or the bottle broken over his head. he spun around to find a young man puzzled as to why he was still standing. he heard her call out to the man who'd hit him, asking why he couldn't leave her alone, why he wouldn't let go. why he'd would not let her get on with her life. the first punch brought Patrick back to reality and he responded in kind. the mans eyes rolled but he stood his ground. the second punch caught Patrick in the shoulder, third was deflected. Patrick's second hit connected right below the mans left eye, his cheek split and spilled blood as he fell to the floor. in the few seconds that it took, the entire bar staff was rushing towards him. he spun around grabbed the girl, and ran thru the guitars and amps spilling on the floor from the scuffle out the back door and to the truck. he never asked if she wanted to go with him. he just took her along. he was just as scared as she was. did he have friends, was someone hot on his heels in pursuit? he never looked back. he just ran to his truck, threw her in, fired the old beast up and rocketed out of the parking lot and out into the streets. after leaving the club she never said a word. she just held on to Patrick's hand as they ran. once in the truck she just sat there, looking at Patrick, looking at the blood on her hands, looking out the window.
he didn't know where to go, so he went home. she cleaned the broken glass from his hair and washed the blood from his face and hands. they didn't speak much, they didn't have to speak. there was not much to say. there was not much that wasn't being said in a glance, a nod or a touch of the hand. they slowly undressed. Patrick was beginning to get sore as his adrenaline soaked muscles relaxed. they laid down together, they embraced, and kissed as they drifted off to sleep.
the next morning over coffee and cigarettes she told him her life. of how she knew that if she didn't leave then she would never be able to relax. he would always be there, he would always find her. Patrick didn't really have that much worth staying for himself. his debt would never be paid off and he needed a reason to leave as well. to start fresh. so it was decided, they would start out together. he packed a few clothes, put his tools and broken bike in the back of his truck. left a note for his land lord to sell what he could and throw the rest away.
he asked if she needed anything, she replied no. there was no place to go and all she needed was already in the truck. if anything else came up, they'd find it on the road.
Patrick had the day off. a rarity these days. he was trying like mad to pay his bills and rebuild his broken bike. it had broken a long time ago and the stream of broken hearts and broken whiskey bottles had left him in debt and with out his beloved chopper. he sat in his home watching TV occasionally staring out the window to the garage. the padlock was beginning to shown signs of weather, and the leaves were piling against the door from un-use. he decide he needed a drink. not just any drink would do. it had to be a good one. not one could make himself. but one that was made just for him. a drink that would take his breath away and absolve him of all his fears. so he combed back his greasy hair, dusted of his cowboy boots and headed out the door to find his solace in the bottom of a glass.
when he got to the bar it was just the way he wanted. loud, dirty, ugly punk rock made it's way from the stage and filtered through the patrons souls and out in the night. the doorman gave him a handshake and smile and let him on thru. he went straight to the bar and waited for the magic elixirs to be handed him in the grim dark light and swirling noise. that was when he noticed her. she was standing next to the jukebox as if she knew, and purposely stood there to bath in her personal spotlight. her black hair rolled and cascaded off her shoulders. her eyes sparkled. her lips followed the words to the music. or so he thought. but instead of watching the band,she turned to him and smiled with a come hither grin and Patrick knew this girl was going to be the death of him. he could see death in her eyes and lust on her mind. they both stood for a moment and just stared at each other. then she turned back around to dance and sing along to the band. Patrick ordered up a second drink and strode over to say hello. when the band was over he asked her name and they began talking. suddenly there were no others in the bar, and the music fell off into background noise. the once blaring jukebox was no longer filler between bands, it became the soundtrack to lust and sin. she told him things he wanted to hear but was afraid to ask. she whispered in his ears things that took his breath away and made his skin fit funny. she turned and nodded towards the dark corner behind the stage. the band was unloading their gear and they would just be another couple in the mass and disappear for a moment. she reached out and took his hand and his breath away. she led him to the dark corner. her eyes glowing in the shadows. she pulled him close to her, brushed her cheek against his as she drew back for a kiss. her lips met his and the world stopped. the music stopped. his heart stopped. then it raced out of control as it came back to life. her lips were soft and inviting. she tasted of bourbon and cigarettes. her hands pulled him closer to her and comforted his broken heart. that was when it happened.
Patrick didn't realize it when it happened. it was just a dulled thud on the back of his head. but he'd work in bars for so long he knew the sound of glass breaking over a skull. his knees buckled slightly. he wasn't sure where the slight dizziness was coming from. the long remorseless kiss he had just been given or the bottle broken over his head. he spun around to find a young man puzzled as to why he was still standing. he heard her call out to the man who'd hit him, asking why he couldn't leave her alone, why he wouldn't let go. why he'd would not let her get on with her life. the first punch brought Patrick back to reality and he responded in kind. the mans eyes rolled but he stood his ground. the second punch caught Patrick in the shoulder, third was deflected. Patrick's second hit connected right below the mans left eye, his cheek split and spilled blood as he fell to the floor. in the few seconds that it took, the entire bar staff was rushing towards him. he spun around grabbed the girl, and ran thru the guitars and amps spilling on the floor from the scuffle out the back door and to the truck. he never asked if she wanted to go with him. he just took her along. he was just as scared as she was. did he have friends, was someone hot on his heels in pursuit? he never looked back. he just ran to his truck, threw her in, fired the old beast up and rocketed out of the parking lot and out into the streets. after leaving the club she never said a word. she just held on to Patrick's hand as they ran. once in the truck she just sat there, looking at Patrick, looking at the blood on her hands, looking out the window.
he didn't know where to go, so he went home. she cleaned the broken glass from his hair and washed the blood from his face and hands. they didn't speak much, they didn't have to speak. there was not much to say. there was not much that wasn't being said in a glance, a nod or a touch of the hand. they slowly undressed. Patrick was beginning to get sore as his adrenaline soaked muscles relaxed. they laid down together, they embraced, and kissed as they drifted off to sleep.
the next morning over coffee and cigarettes she told him her life. of how she knew that if she didn't leave then she would never be able to relax. he would always be there, he would always find her. Patrick didn't really have that much worth staying for himself. his debt would never be paid off and he needed a reason to leave as well. to start fresh. so it was decided, they would start out together. he packed a few clothes, put his tools and broken bike in the back of his truck. left a note for his land lord to sell what he could and throw the rest away.
he asked if she needed anything, she replied no. there was no place to go and all she needed was already in the truck. if anything else came up, they'd find it on the road.
Saturday, April 03, 2004
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
my life has sucked all the energy out of my soul. now don't get me wrong. it's not gone, but it's pretty beaten up. i worked 54 hours last week, 40 of that was on thruday,friday and saturday. and i still tried to manage to keep a social life, but since rent is due on thrusday there is a good chance it time to hibernate in the house. if your lucky, you might get a post or two in the next few days. i'm supposed to talk to patrick tommorow maybe he'llhave another story to tell me, or if we go out, maybe a story i can tell about him.
Monday, March 22, 2004
yeah i got nuthing today. spent most of the weekend at home. Queenie came over saturday night, we watched movies and fell alseep on the couch.
only two more days to go till i get a day off. right now i'm on day 8 of 10 in a row. damn i'm tired. one just tired, phyiscally and mentally, and two, tired of people and bars.
Everybody sucks but me! thppphbhbh
only two more days to go till i get a day off. right now i'm on day 8 of 10 in a row. damn i'm tired. one just tired, phyiscally and mentally, and two, tired of people and bars.
Everybody sucks but me! thppphbhbh
Friday, March 19, 2004
Patrick had a rough day at work slinging drinks to all the 7th street drunks. at just after 3:30 he had managed to get them all out of the bar, everything put away for the night and the door locked. he walked over to the 7-11 to grab a hotdog and a pack of smokes. same story ever night. in the short walk from the store to his bike ha had managed to swallow the Bigbite, zip up his jacket and make his way to his bike. a glistening beautiful mix of chrome steel, polished aluminum, greasy black paint and rubber. it didn't look like much but it ran like a demon set free from the bounds of hell. Patrick had spent years slinging drinks all night and day to get this bike running and it was finally done. he swung one leg over the seat and fumbled with the key switch, it stuck from time to time and required a light touch to make it turn. once the ignition was turned on, he reached down and tickled each carburetor to give a little extra gas for starting. reaching down with his right hand he pulled the kick starting pedal out with a reassuring click letting him know it was firmly locked into place. he picked up his heavy boot from the cool damp pavement below bringing it to rest on the kicker. in one fluid motion he twisted open the throttle and brought his weight to bear on the quiet engine. in the same instant the engine roared to life. while letting the bike gently warm he double checked his gloves and cinched his jacket a little tighter, adjusted his weight on the machine, and slid his glasses down over his eyes. after returning the kicker pedal to its home position, he moved the transmission into 1st gear. while letting the clutch out with one hand he began to accelerate with the other, out into the street and gone into the dark night, the exhaust rising and falling with the shifting of gears, fading into endless black top that was his sweet eternity.
The bike sang as it ran down 7th street towards downtown. the air was cool and crisp, the pavement dry and smooth. as Patrick rode he could hear every gear change from the exhaust bouncing off the empty warehouses the lined the street. they would be bustling with activity soon, but for now he stood empty and silent. he accelerated towards the large monoliths standing vigilant over the central business district. 40mph, 50. Third gear 60, 70, 80 and into fourth with a reassuring clunk, the handle bars went loose in his hands as the bike crested the bridge with the front wheel off the ground. 90, 95, 98, 99, he was willing the bike to go faster and faster, throttle wide open. hunched over the tank to slip as much wind as possible. the bike compressed it's suspension and pushed itself frurther into patricks chest coming off the bridge to the rise in the road to downtown. at top of the rise the magic Ton,100 mph. the world went silent for Patrick. the valves ticking away between his legs, the rush of air through his ears, the exhaust bouncing off the walls of the city. all went silent. the voices in his head stopped as they reeled in horror at the world rushing at them. the voices began to wonder. were the wheel bearings tight? did Patrick tighten that axle nut sufficiently? was there anything in the road to puncture a tire? what about a cop doing his reports, were there any? what about civilians? would some dumb schmuck half asleep, not see that red light? Patrick didn't worry. he knew all was well. every nut tight, every bearing properly lubed. a small grin appeared on his lips knowing that there was nothing between him and downtown but a mile of straight dry road till the next red light. as he crossed Henderson the bike lifted again slightly and he knew it was time to shut down. closing the throttle he sat up and let the wind push his body back, pressing the brake with his left foot and reaching out for the security of the front brake at his right hand. the bike howling and belching resisting the de-acceleration. the excess fuel popping in the hot exhaust as he reached the red light on cherry street. the bike clenched up as it came to a dead stop at the intersection.His heart beat resuming to normal as the tremors of adrenalin washed over his body. and he sat waiting patiently for the green light.
The bike sang as it ran down 7th street towards downtown. the air was cool and crisp, the pavement dry and smooth. as Patrick rode he could hear every gear change from the exhaust bouncing off the empty warehouses the lined the street. they would be bustling with activity soon, but for now he stood empty and silent. he accelerated towards the large monoliths standing vigilant over the central business district. 40mph, 50. Third gear 60, 70, 80 and into fourth with a reassuring clunk, the handle bars went loose in his hands as the bike crested the bridge with the front wheel off the ground. 90, 95, 98, 99, he was willing the bike to go faster and faster, throttle wide open. hunched over the tank to slip as much wind as possible. the bike compressed it's suspension and pushed itself frurther into patricks chest coming off the bridge to the rise in the road to downtown. at top of the rise the magic Ton,100 mph. the world went silent for Patrick. the valves ticking away between his legs, the rush of air through his ears, the exhaust bouncing off the walls of the city. all went silent. the voices in his head stopped as they reeled in horror at the world rushing at them. the voices began to wonder. were the wheel bearings tight? did Patrick tighten that axle nut sufficiently? was there anything in the road to puncture a tire? what about a cop doing his reports, were there any? what about civilians? would some dumb schmuck half asleep, not see that red light? Patrick didn't worry. he knew all was well. every nut tight, every bearing properly lubed. a small grin appeared on his lips knowing that there was nothing between him and downtown but a mile of straight dry road till the next red light. as he crossed Henderson the bike lifted again slightly and he knew it was time to shut down. closing the throttle he sat up and let the wind push his body back, pressing the brake with his left foot and reaching out for the security of the front brake at his right hand. the bike howling and belching resisting the de-acceleration. the excess fuel popping in the hot exhaust as he reached the red light on cherry street. the bike clenched up as it came to a dead stop at the intersection.His heart beat resuming to normal as the tremors of adrenalin washed over his body. and he sat waiting patiently for the green light.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Garbage Trucks
I love them. i don't know why. they are big and filthy. they stink to the very depth of the metal, every nook and cranny that could be is packed full of tiny bits of trash, food, and what nots. i remeber having to weld one up one time, i spent quite some time cleaing and cleaning then finally donning a protective suit to keep my clothes clean. i have found out that no matter how much you clean, there is still a film of stench and grease. so i cleaned some more and ground down the area that needed to be welded. the driver had not noticed what he threw in the back and jammed a peice of pipe in the hopper ripping the side door open and tearing open the compactor blade. so i hammered everything back into place, and struck an arc with my welder. burning the metal back together. the smell of untold things burning out of the metal stuck in my throat for days after. i'll never forget the sweet pungent smell of a burning garbage truck. i hate that smell. the smell of the entire world all smashed into one.
every tuesday i sit patiently waiting in my house for the big lumbering truck to come by and take away my refuse. and now that we have the trucks that pick up the bins i'm even more in love. i don't really know why. all i know is that my whole life i've watched the garbage go out. before there were trucks with big hydraulic arms there were men with big arms running down the street to pick up and take away everything i'd give them.
even though i hate taking out the trash. and it never fails, if i take the bins out before i go to bed they don't get picked up till late afternoon, but if i decide i can wait till morning to take the trash out? fuckers come by at 7am and i miss them. it'a good thing i don't create much trash.
I love them. i don't know why. they are big and filthy. they stink to the very depth of the metal, every nook and cranny that could be is packed full of tiny bits of trash, food, and what nots. i remeber having to weld one up one time, i spent quite some time cleaing and cleaning then finally donning a protective suit to keep my clothes clean. i have found out that no matter how much you clean, there is still a film of stench and grease. so i cleaned some more and ground down the area that needed to be welded. the driver had not noticed what he threw in the back and jammed a peice of pipe in the hopper ripping the side door open and tearing open the compactor blade. so i hammered everything back into place, and struck an arc with my welder. burning the metal back together. the smell of untold things burning out of the metal stuck in my throat for days after. i'll never forget the sweet pungent smell of a burning garbage truck. i hate that smell. the smell of the entire world all smashed into one.
every tuesday i sit patiently waiting in my house for the big lumbering truck to come by and take away my refuse. and now that we have the trucks that pick up the bins i'm even more in love. i don't really know why. all i know is that my whole life i've watched the garbage go out. before there were trucks with big hydraulic arms there were men with big arms running down the street to pick up and take away everything i'd give them.
even though i hate taking out the trash. and it never fails, if i take the bins out before i go to bed they don't get picked up till late afternoon, but if i decide i can wait till morning to take the trash out? fuckers come by at 7am and i miss them. it'a good thing i don't create much trash.