Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Love in Long Beach 1997-ish
AMONGST THE TALES OF THE TOWN, CROUCHING BEHIND THE TERROR AND THE TORRID, SAT A SWEET LITTLE ROMANCE.
LEAVE IT THERE, BUT DEFINITELY ENJOY IT.
Aggro lived with a buddy who played in a band. The band had just been picked up, a major label record deal. Good times, local guy does good, and he buys a house in a better neighborhood than The Punk Rock Row. It was a wonderful home, emptied, yet still seemingly full with life.
The welcome mat still sat on the porch, included with the sale, and no one thought to replace it. The house was priced to sell, it was a steal for Eric and his many rotating roommates.
Previously owned for decades, the matriarch had passed away, and the grieving family left behind loads of furniture to be included in the sale-and what hadn't been donated to Goodwill was left as it was. The widow bereaved, it was too much for one person, as his adult children were on their own. The family sold their home, easier than thought, and in a haste grief after losing such a liberal and loving mother.
This also behooved the Punkers-who he before acquired furnishings from looting alleys, studios and a generous girlfriend. Aggro rented a room from Eric. He moved into one of the upstairs bedrooms. It was housed by one of the daughters. Aggro had realised this upon finding, in the back of the closet, an old photo of a chubby, smiling ballerina of about 13. The little girl kinda plucked at his barely bubblin' heart, and he kept the faded Polaroid taped to the mirror.
Aggro was STERN. He had conquered an addiction, and was working his steps for maintaining sobriety. He had gainful and lauded employment, as well as a permanent address and a new surfboard.
He was good. He was also besotted with the cute girl at the coffee shop, the artist who lived at the Compound. She was sweet looking, sexy and dirty too-but cute in her rockabilly style, ever gripping a smoldering clove cigarette and wiping spills with the tattered hems of her vintage dresses.
Aggro stumbled through a hasty introduction, seduction and courtship with the paint splattered girl. He invited her up to the punk rock bachelor pad one night, with every intention of kicking their courting into high gear. After too many cups of coffee, they head over to his place, his room in Eric's big old house, and the girl laughs aloud as they pull into the driveway of her childhood home.
Tom chalked it up to true love when she danced around in the upstairs bedroom and shared with him the memories of living there when she was a chubby, smiling ballerina.
LEAVE IT THERE, BUT DEFINITELY ENJOY IT.
Aggro lived with a buddy who played in a band. The band had just been picked up, a major label record deal. Good times, local guy does good, and he buys a house in a better neighborhood than The Punk Rock Row. It was a wonderful home, emptied, yet still seemingly full with life.
The welcome mat still sat on the porch, included with the sale, and no one thought to replace it. The house was priced to sell, it was a steal for Eric and his many rotating roommates.
Previously owned for decades, the matriarch had passed away, and the grieving family left behind loads of furniture to be included in the sale-and what hadn't been donated to Goodwill was left as it was. The widow bereaved, it was too much for one person, as his adult children were on their own. The family sold their home, easier than thought, and in a haste grief after losing such a liberal and loving mother.
This also behooved the Punkers-who he before acquired furnishings from looting alleys, studios and a generous girlfriend. Aggro rented a room from Eric. He moved into one of the upstairs bedrooms. It was housed by one of the daughters. Aggro had realised this upon finding, in the back of the closet, an old photo of a chubby, smiling ballerina of about 13. The little girl kinda plucked at his barely bubblin' heart, and he kept the faded Polaroid taped to the mirror.
Aggro was STERN. He had conquered an addiction, and was working his steps for maintaining sobriety. He had gainful and lauded employment, as well as a permanent address and a new surfboard.
He was good. He was also besotted with the cute girl at the coffee shop, the artist who lived at the Compound. She was sweet looking, sexy and dirty too-but cute in her rockabilly style, ever gripping a smoldering clove cigarette and wiping spills with the tattered hems of her vintage dresses.
Aggro stumbled through a hasty introduction, seduction and courtship with the paint splattered girl. He invited her up to the punk rock bachelor pad one night, with every intention of kicking their courting into high gear. After too many cups of coffee, they head over to his place, his room in Eric's big old house, and the girl laughs aloud as they pull into the driveway of her childhood home.
Tom chalked it up to true love when she danced around in the upstairs bedroom and shared with him the memories of living there when she was a chubby, smiling ballerina.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Read an excerpt from "Delve Into Twelve"
When asked about him, she easily rattled off his many flaws.
She recounted many episodes of abuse, her frequent accounts to police, his inability to support them, his dwindling affections for her. She pointed out his vices, his betrayals. The children were in the way, unruly and disobedient just like their father.
It helped her to blame him, and she assumed everyone saw the victim she was, the limited choices she had, therefore justifying her need for meds. They would see she did not belong; they would assure her she was o.k.
She was wrong.
She recounted many episodes of abuse, her frequent accounts to police, his inability to support them, his dwindling affections for her. She pointed out his vices, his betrayals. The children were in the way, unruly and disobedient just like their father.
It helped her to blame him, and she assumed everyone saw the victim she was, the limited choices she had, therefore justifying her need for meds. They would see she did not belong; they would assure her she was o.k.
She was wrong.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Stanza From a Sonnet for a Bookworm with the Blues...
Nameless only to the masses
YOU-the One I fear the most.
Understands my childish antics,
reads the heart I hide in prose.
YOU-the One I fear the most.
Understands my childish antics,
reads the heart I hide in prose.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Is that MY big white hat???
They stood in the rain, as cliche as the beginning of the end of the affair can get.
The one morning in months where a clandestine kiss could commence. He roared up to the Queen-donuts in hand, 12 step alibi in the other. He was greeted with enthusiasm, her smile as bright and inviting as the grimaced frown from which he was repelled.
Although they both knew the fire was getting too hot, whats a little more fuel?? Its called "a BLAZE" of glory for a reason.....
How in the hell is this happening once again, they excused themselves over and over. It was familiar and frustrating, the internal arguments they had with themselves.
The Queen scolded, reminding herself of her previous bouts with lonesome. He countered to her in song, harmonic in his justifications. Mutual admiration turned easily to affection. Followed by attraction, undeniable in its arrival.
She thanked him for the pastries, her eyes sparkling at the sight of TWO honey buns nestled among the sprinkled chocolate cakes. He held her gaze, and her hands, pulling her with both eyes as his fists closed tight around her resisting embrace.
The raindrops falling, he hummed some lyrics, a bluesy chorus in her ear to remind her who he was and what she did for him, and who he made no apologies for.
As she ran back across the street, ducking between the sudden downpours, he sighed.
"I know that's how Clapton felt. He writes her Layla, and it didn't matter a bit to her."
The one morning in months where a clandestine kiss could commence. He roared up to the Queen-donuts in hand, 12 step alibi in the other. He was greeted with enthusiasm, her smile as bright and inviting as the grimaced frown from which he was repelled.
Although they both knew the fire was getting too hot, whats a little more fuel?? Its called "a BLAZE" of glory for a reason.....
How in the hell is this happening once again, they excused themselves over and over. It was familiar and frustrating, the internal arguments they had with themselves.
The Queen scolded, reminding herself of her previous bouts with lonesome. He countered to her in song, harmonic in his justifications. Mutual admiration turned easily to affection. Followed by attraction, undeniable in its arrival.
She thanked him for the pastries, her eyes sparkling at the sight of TWO honey buns nestled among the sprinkled chocolate cakes. He held her gaze, and her hands, pulling her with both eyes as his fists closed tight around her resisting embrace.
The raindrops falling, he hummed some lyrics, a bluesy chorus in her ear to remind her who he was and what she did for him, and who he made no apologies for.
As she ran back across the street, ducking between the sudden downpours, he sighed.
"I know that's how Clapton felt. He writes her Layla, and it didn't matter a bit to her."
Monday, December 20, 2010
THE GOOD SON from Delve into Twelve
My addiction was ill affording a man of my privilege. Of my parentage.
My drug use was an embarrassment to my mother, an insult to my father, and a distraction to my future. I refused to conform, dropping out of school and leaving the nest to catch up with manhood on my terms. No Ivy League degree, no private practice with Dad after Medical school, no grandchildren for my Mother.
My rebellion was borne of boredom, the boredom coming from such privilege throughout adolescence. I had been able to duck and dart for years, avoiding punishments to my detriment throughout my boyhood. Fostering a sense of entitlement, my father also groomed me to understand I would carry on his legacy, which seemed stifling and unnecessarily selfless. Medical school was contrary to my lack of ambition. I avoided responsibility under the guise of “finding myself.” My father’s illness mandated my return to the riches.
What was my plan? That was a good question.
My drug use was an embarrassment to my mother, an insult to my father, and a distraction to my future. I refused to conform, dropping out of school and leaving the nest to catch up with manhood on my terms. No Ivy League degree, no private practice with Dad after Medical school, no grandchildren for my Mother.
My rebellion was borne of boredom, the boredom coming from such privilege throughout adolescence. I had been able to duck and dart for years, avoiding punishments to my detriment throughout my boyhood. Fostering a sense of entitlement, my father also groomed me to understand I would carry on his legacy, which seemed stifling and unnecessarily selfless. Medical school was contrary to my lack of ambition. I avoided responsibility under the guise of “finding myself.” My father’s illness mandated my return to the riches.
What was my plan? That was a good question.
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