(stolen poetry)

She asked me, how much did it hurt to have your windows bashed in on Melrose Avenue, and all your recent pains and thoughts of love lost ripped away from you?

As I drove all around every boulevard of battered memories in a city I almost call home, not being able to help blasting into another galaxy that may lie right under my feet…wishing I were drunk, crashing into walls where vipers breed to sink their scales into winding minds…and where the hell did all the real memories go?

“Do you remember the time when you were a TV star”, she asked, “walking in circles with the living dead…I mean the beautiful people…having not a single clue what would come next.  What about the night you were dressed up in 1940’s snaz, in that second when swing was king, and I was dressed in a football jersey.”

I couldn’t open my mouth, maintaining a habit of standing in rooms of people and so called people, pretending I wasn’t even there…I was invisible and the football jersey could never see me…at least I thought that until solid fat body doorman stopped me from running away into the city streets, told me football jersey wanted to meet…but I was still…still invisible.

Memories and everything zoom zoom past me like a shot bullet flying the opposite way of the train I sleep in…in post world war noir-ish dreams where I am nothing but that guy.  The guy just released from the prison of his own mind…wondering, why the hell did someone…something steal those words from my stupid car…raped, violated, my memories are holding on by a wild thread that grew there just to save my life…but I am still filled with blood red wonders of what the hell was he thinking when he crashed in my open heart that was on the verge of freedom.

I traveled with wind blowing my mind, blaring the speakers with music that tried to keep me sane, then stopped and the valet took my empty windows filled with busted nothing and handed me a ticket to the one place I somehow felt safe where I went on to celebrate the millennium among neon extravaganzas of dancing smooth hardness sweating their tears that mixed with my dreams to die in a brilliant cocktail of lost poetry.

Why the hell couldn’t he she it whatever just steal my damn radio spitting out short term play lists of the same cliché verses and bridges leading to a land of nothing…then again maybe my dreams and dying moments that I hoped would open me up and carry me to the next level of whatever I wanted to be was really no different than that radio spitting out all the commercial nuclear poison that has built me into this monster-man from day one.

Then she stroked her hair across my chest as cameras watched, and I tripped the life fanatical of whatever was supposed to be me in that moment when I was over taken with the thought that the feeling that swept from my eyes to the eyes of that strange creature grinding her pain away on my legs…and every strange wild star dreamer I ever met, was, had to be, more poetic than any words that were ever ripped from my illusion filled super car that I only bought…or leased…cuz some other super woman I thought was hot wouldn’t get in my little, how you say…chick car…gay car…I hate L.A. car!

There will forever be more poets living in the dirt under the fingernails of desperate dancers…screw it…strippers looking for a friend, than there ever will be in any and every word I ever write or any memory that I can’t hold onto.

I can’t hold onto broken windows and crazy ass lost words of wanna-be truth…I can’t hold onto love of chick flicks who run red lights just for fun while they beg the gods of the Billboards to make them alive as they run and run and never can just stop for a second to hold a friend.

I will always have the speed memory that I beg every night to slow down to meet my future, and that will forever be more than the whining words I dare to call expression and freedom…but none of this will ever be more than love or even the absence of love…so go ahead and punch out my windows in front of broken down rock and roll clubs and steal my pain…I don’t want it anymore.

I only want the truth serum in a bottle off the vine of neon dancers begging and praying with every move that there is no pool table on the side, just standing ovations from gods that are born to forgive.

I hope you are reading me wherever you are…I have nightmares of your face once in a while, and I see you change from my words and smile…and then I sleep in peace, but wake up sweating out my full blooded ego that built this dream from nothing.  The same ego that should lie rotting in the same pile of garbage where I’m sure you threw my forever lost words that were way less important than all the crazy girls…and all their dreams that had the power to teach me what it means to explode in the middle of dying Hollywood dream streets and bring them all back to life spreading like a virus though the desert into other cities where families live that I forgot were alive…if I just had the guts to live…If I just had the guts to die.