Post-birthday world

•October 16, 2009 • Leave a Comment

like stone
my forehead
fully unfevered
things i can’t write
i loveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyou
loverbrotherforeverfeast like no one else ever
but i can’t commit the words
to stone
like you want
like you will.
Could i wish harder
that my carniverous love
was enough?
time might even
eat it all up
until i’m gone
and under my own stone,
i can’t promise,
then you will go.
But rather than
going on til
time does devour
whatever i am,
my legs could want stones
tied to sink me deep
for having to be
without you



Trust me, I’m a doctor

•September 29, 2009 • Leave a Comment



Rick Sloane, Troy Martin, Sal Piro, Nora, Steve Cartoon
Tiffany Theater, 1981

And then came Shock Treatment; we hoped for the best, expected the worst and got exactly what we deserved – so bad you can’t look away, long before Showgirls. 

This fucking day

•September 25, 2009 • Leave a Comment

Here it is, this stupid fucking wasteful asinine ridiculous heartbreaking day.  It’s far too much like a multi-drug hangover from back in the day; and worse, one that you know can only be cured with another binge.  I am overfilled like a coffee cup in a diner when a waitress sees a movie star come in with rage and anger and hatred and the physical need to cause close contact bodily harm to the putrescent worm that has made all of this happen.  And at the same time, all week there’s been this feeling that if I spent enough time thinking of her, talking to her, remembering her, wishing her back, that maybe, just maybe … but sitting in my car clapping like a deranged Wendy will not bring her back to life. 

However I will continue to do sadly embarrassing things in public for years to come (have I years to come?) on the one-billionth of a chance that it might actually work in some sci-fi benevolent universe way. 

Every.  Single.  Day. 


•September 24, 2009 • Leave a Comment

Giving $12 in Nora’s memory

can help an 11 year old girl

 who was sold into slavery at a brothel.

It’s worth it. 

Let her death not be meaningless. 

Help someone else escape. 

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If you go …

•September 21, 2009 • Leave a Comment

There’s drama, adult and pubescent, dancing around my head, poking at me to be remembered, damn it.  I could sooner forget that than you; if only that had been choice B on the test, I would have filled in that circle with my number 2 pencil so hard the paper would have suffered annihilation.  But there was no choice given.

Dangerous to embrace Elvii at 7:40 am, but nonetheless necessary on this, the hell week.

“Why can’t a woman
be just what she seems?
Must she be tarnished by men
who can only be men in their dreams?”

The Grecian Goddess

•September 17, 2009 • Leave a Comment


“Instead of deciding to go home I decided to come to Greece and be a middle class tourist for 2 weeks.  Fucking smartest decision I’ve made in years.  Patsos Beach Hotel, and it is so wonderful here.  I’m sunburned so I have to occupy myself today without going onto the beach.  I could go walk around town but it’s so hot.  I’ve got 10 days to figure my life out once again then back to London for a few days then back home.  What a question to be confronted with today, ‘ What are you going to do when you get back to the States?’  What I’m doing I know.  But the question is why am I doing it?  That’s the question I’m supposed to be answering here instead of getting sand up my nose.  Oh Jeffrey Jeffrey Jeffrey why is it always like this?  You know and I don’t but you’re not happy and you should be somewhat.  The wind kind of blows everything here and there.  It’s easier for me to concentrate on the water and direct when it’s not windy.  I have to think of some good rhymes for myself and things.  And the way they turn out for the worse for us no matter what we do.  Maybe in the end we’ll have this one huge victory where we can invite no one but ourselves and live there in it.  I don’t know.  I can’t even write anymore.  At least it matters.”

15 July 1985

What I want to remember from this chapter

•September 4, 2009 • Leave a Comment

That’s a random sampling from one of those “get through your grief” books that I bought a year and a half ago.  I’ve never read any of them though.  In fact, just their very existence in my office at this point pisses me off.  So why don’t I throw them away?

Why did I think that I could have a birthday where all would be fine and dandy?  I didn’t, really.  I just chose not to think about the stupid day.  For a couple of weeks beforehand, though, I was pretty itchy.  And though I spent the day with you, the lonliness of pretending you were actually there made it worse than if I’d had to, say, spend 12 hours straight feeding federal inmates creamed chipped beef on toast.  You only answer in my head, and it’s pretty crowded in there with useless shit like the color of your hair in college and that name of that band that played that song. 

So what do I want to remember from this chapter?  (It was followed by a blank space so you could, ostensibly, make notes.  Notes on your grief.  Notes on your sadness.  Notes so that you could remember … because, what, you might forget?  Blessed Alzheimers.)  It is not getting any better.  All I will remember, whether I want to or not (and I most decidedly do not) is that my birthdays will continue to suck without you and that is a fact upon which I can count.