came from the den of sins

I remember the first time I took pills.  The muscles in my legs were rendered completely useless.  I slid off the couch I was sitting on and the bosom of the carpeted floor embraced me with a warm openness. We used to run and eat steak after football practice, then come home and drink stolen beer or smoke low-grade marijuana.  I was fourteen years old at the time, possibly fifteen; I suppose it doesn’t matter the age, but the mind set was warped into the past. They were neat little pills, off white in color, compact and ovular. We swiped them from Justin’s mother, she had brought back from her trip to Mexico; a whole damn box of the things, sitting in their odd packaging by the hundreds on her bedroom dresser. At the time we thought it was merely recreation, not to supply her habits.t’s strange to think that a parent would be doing something of that manner, yet sending her child to a Christian academy. She had a remarkable habit, we later found her collection of bongs and pipes and other such devices.  They were stashed neatly in a large cedar box, engraved in pseudo Middle Eastern designs. She kept a brick of hash and a brick of marijuana in the box as well. Back to the pills, I had about six of them in one sitting. I remember Justin had been smoking pot out of a color-changing pipe. We marveled idiotically over the luminescent shapes that were forming on the long, circular tube. He was sitting at his computer; his face resembled a tomato if some sort. He was staring at the screen of the computer, breathing heavily. The carpet had pulled me down and I embraced the warm safeness of the floor. I was tr

regret

miss them so goddamn much.

it was a party, a big screaming party. perhaps the biggest one most of them had ever been to. they were in the house, all of them crammed together smelling the sweat and life resonating off the walls. they swelled and pulsated wildly in and out of the front door. some called out in a strange manner, other drank and laughed, a few but not many stood against the walls and watched the crowds. there was a loud, common voice about the room that shook the ceiling. a few john and jane doe's were there, a charles also, francis who wore a sequin dress, a veronica and a slightly taller veronika, they were all there, nico and her armenian lover, chauncey, winston the post-abstract painter, sheila, peiter, and especially terry. terry had always been there. he stood in the kitchen with a few others that stood close to each other and spoke in low, indirect whispers. they talked about mostly nonsense but touched on kitsch and swedish pop music, also the train system. terry watched a group of illuminated bodies swarm in from the front yard. they spread across the living room and into the far corners of the house. among them was isabelle. the sunken lights shined just above her head. terry thought she was an angel and goddess, or at least did a good enough impersonation.

"i need to talk to her," terry said to victor.

victor nodded a slow nod after he wiped rubbed his swollen, red tinged eyes.

"what do you think will come of talking to her?" victor asked.

"nothing i suppose," terry said. "but i still think i should."

"c'est la vie," victor said. he sighed and shook his head at terry. "perhaps."

"the thing is-" terry started to say.

"The things always are." victor interrupted.

terry watched isabelle maneuver through the room with a slow, whimsical step that more resembled a waltz. her skirt seemed to be part of the ambience of the room and billowed around whiled she walked through the crowd. the people around her blurred as the light shone on her face.

"how long has it been?" terry asked.

"i don't know," said victor. "why would i know terry? you were the one with her, not me."

"it's mostly," said terry with a pause. "it's because-"

"not here terry, not now." said victor.

victor took a slow drink from his glass and scratched his hair. he wiped his eye once more and looked over toward isabelle. she seemed to be singing. he patted terry on the shoulder.

"not now," victor said softly. "let's have a light, yeah?"

"sure, sure. i'll meet you out there, i need to do this," terry said.

terry stared at isabelle, who was by the old couch in the corner of the living room. he coughed then finished his glass. he pulled a bent cigarette from behind his ear.

the thing always is, he thought to himself. "the thing always fucking is." he then said aloud. he turned and walked outside, the air was brisk and smelled like late autumn. he stared at the flickering porch lamp that gave off an absurd hue of yellowish green light. a moth flew by his ear, he listened to it sing as it passed him.

"what kind of party is this?" terry said. "they don't even have fresh ice cubes." he then sat on the ledge of the porch and flicked his cigarette toward the laughing moon that sat in the empty night sky.

twofifteen graveyard

the sun sets on a valley of steel cranes. they loomed over the freeway, ready to topple down and cause chaos among the daily commuters. everyday we pass these cranes, yet they sit rusted and unused, lining the sides of the roads.

honestly,

get the fuck out of san bernardino.

in a desert

the chances of cold weather are minimal. sweatin' bullets of guilt in late november.

notes from the safari

can i get an amen from all the sinners out there?

the whole fucking time

what a severe loss of forward momentum. three days worth of heavy binge drinking isn't leading to any flashes in creativity. instead the mind tends to get numb, then eraser itself. it's quite sad, really. tomorrow is a holiday, which one is it?

sun down at 4:45. sun down forever.

reporting live

from the depths of hell. it seems san bernardino is a burning fury once again. while the saint ana winds whip around the embers the people flee outward in a panicked madness. the skies are spotted with pillars of smoke. the savagery of man tears from the soul of the meek as brothers and neighbors battle in the street and loot, breaking windows, shooting guns, crying to the dear lord as helicopters soar overhead recording the apocalypse. a swarming, breathing organism of fucked frenzy has escaped from some subterranean holding cage. the flames lick the air as they dance from one dried palm to the next. if we leave our car and run, we might never make it alive.

sundays

the clouds rolled in, with an impending sort of look to them. as if we should all lug of the storm gear and galoshes, hunker down for the floods, and so on. yet nothing came down from the sky. no rain, no tears, maybe soot, no snow or hail or even a mist. just clouds darkening our days like they had a grudge on the sun. fooling us all. it's going to be a drought, for quite some time they say. it's cold outside for once, but probably not for long.

Dead City Revisited

We circled the dying city at night. The monolithic buildings hung under the empty sky with such a sorrow it broke my heart. The clock tower told the wrong time, yet it still ticked away keeping track of a day and a moment that was not ours. As we entered a seldom visited building I couldn't help but feel sorry for us all. The vacant buildings mirror the vacant lives of the Inland Savages. We came across a man sleeping on a ledge underneath a doorway. This dormant person was a massive giant, his body spread across the ledge like a fallen oak. We rode through the empty parking lot on our boards, in the distance we could hear the faint cry of music. There was no running of engines, or screaming people, or honking horns, but there were the soft notes of a siren song. We raced to find the music and claim it as our own. As we came down the hill the music grew louder. We came up to a tall light post in the middle of the barren parking lot. Through the loud speaker a melody was playing. We were the only two souls who experience this song. The sun was long since down and no would shoppers come to this lost market. We listened to the song play and stared up into the starless night. "This town is dead," I thought to myself. A thought that still resonates, even now.

like the queen of sheba

she was standing ever so gracefully on the corner of lynwood and del rosa. watching the traffic drive by like it was her throne room. she couldn't have been past the tender age of eighteen, but she carried herself like a woman, she popped out her hip and took slow drags. she let the smoke of her cigarette drift from her lips like a freshly shot pistol. she wore a light purple hairstyle, done up in braids and pulled back. that do stood out like a tulip in the gray cityscape that engulfed us. there was something in her eyes, power and pain, shining out of those black beads. as i drove by i tried to see what was hidden behind that mournful face. the clouds hung above that purple head and the traffic slowed to a molasses drip. she gave me a gaze that i couldn't decipher, it looked part boredom and part summoning. what are you doing to this world homegirl?

in lament terms

i saw a fucking astro van engulfed in flames on the side of the freeway yesterday. it was truly a sight to behold.

sweet, sweat, sway, swagger

the yellow spots in the lawn crawl outward toward the cracking sidewalk. as the sun burns away at the foliage we sit around sweating like kings. the foothills loom off in the distance, vaguely concealed under a shawl of smog and clouds of dirt. how picturesque.

shame

people look to the ground to avoid eye contact, they count the lines and cracks in the ugly pavement, they observe their foot movement as though it was inorganic to their body. they avoid the awkward glare of malice that the human animal holds inside. they would rather look down than up. looking up they would see the deep and unforgiving vastness of the sky. buddha, allah and god sit above and judge, you'll meet their eyes if you look up. dead relatives, floating souls, water molecules, all bearing down to mock and judge and spite. we look down to avoid shame, lowering our heads in a repentance of shame, unrepentantly staring down into a lifeless void.

Burning throat

coughing up blood is a strange matter. I image there are metal shavings and toxic chemicals in the air of this fine city. Every slow and heaving breath is like drinking pollution out of a rusted drainage pipe. The smog clouds hang around like a case of VD. We wonder why the kids are sick, wonder why we can't breathe, wonder why our sky looks hellish. The answer, our air is a fucked to death cloud of microscopic disease, and we suck in this air every second of everyday. 

We can't escape

the heat it seems. The days drag along with broken ankles as the temperatures rise. With each day of increasing heat the angst and madness of the Savages are driven closer to that one moment. Eventually an uncompromising wave of violence is going to hit the city, like a natural disaster of writhing bodies. Shattered glass sprinkles the streets, the pieces shine like fallen stars, planets and novas. The brutal jungle sits on edge nights like tonight, wandering eyes met with hate, fear, longing, misery, and so on. It's 2:09 in the morning, and the heat wave isn't calling quits.

search lights

i saw the oscillating beams of translucent light by the train station. it belonged to some sort of mexican market. above all else, it was beautiful. the rampant explosion of mariachi hit my ears as i passed by. the parking lot was filled with cars, they were a sea of believers in the church of the cheaper dollar. the search lights spun in a strange fashion, as if they were signaling an attack. perhaps we would all be struck down by foreign invaders. perhaps a signal to the lost souls who have drifted away on their ascension from life. they are shone a way to the heavens, and they have traveling music.

piccolo pete and gunshots

the sky lit up over the dry hills with the burst of each rocket. we watched from the drive way as gun powder, fire, coloring agent and other such chinese secrets exploded in the air. bottle rockets are beautiful. in the distance gunshots echoed into the landscape. in the heat of the garage dirty hands worked meticulously to empty out gunpowder. we might blow up the fucking world by sun rise.

...the dead shall walk the earth.

A solitary figure walks alongside the freeway. The road is mostly empty, aside from the abandoned vehicle spotted in the shoulders. He seemed to be carrying a screwdriver, perhaps a knife. The object glistens as my headlights shine on the man. Where are you going? I slow down to look at him, he is wrapped in white scrubs. His face has the gaunt and lifeless expression the rest of the undead seem to have. An escaped patient perhaps, or a nurse that got infected. He brings his eyes up to mine as I slowly drive by him, the look of death and hunger strike me. His hollow eyes peering into my frightened soul. A shudder slowly waltzes up my spinal column. The hairs on my neck scream in pain. He raises his emaciated arm and brandishes his utensil, it is in fact a knife. I notice blood and motor oil on his shirt. It is torn. His mouth gapes open and exposes fractured teeth, he yells. I cannot decipher what he is saying, the animalistic noise coming out of him is not logical. He is dead inside, infected, one of them. I look away and drive on.

Dead City

We circled the city at night. It was dead. The monolithic buildings hung under the empty sky with such sorrow it broke my heart. The clock tower told the wrong time. As we entered a seldom visited building I couldn't help but feel sorry for us all. The vacant buildings mirror the vacant lives of the Inland Savages. We came across a man sleeping on a ledge underneath a doorway. This sleeping man was a massive giant, his body spread across the ledge like a fallen oak. We flew through the empty parking lot on our boards, in the distance we could hear the faint cry of music. There was no running of engines, or screaming people, or honking horns. But there was the soft drifting notes of a song. We raced to find it's source. As we enclosed the hill it grew louder. We came up to a tall light post in the middle of the dead parking lot. Through it's loud speaker a song was playing. Sad and beautiful. We were the only two souls who experience this song since the day was long done. The sun was already down and no shoppers came to this dying market. We listened to the song play and stared up into the starless night. 

Jungle Air

The nights are never silent, the skies are never dark. The sound of electric noise resonates outside, car engines weeping and helicopters soaring through the night. Never silence. The sky is plagued with a sea of lights, never a street lamp put out. No silence and no darkness, one can ever hide in such an open jungle.

Savages

Savages: The Inland Empire is a jungle of place, here we see the savage species reside and interact with each other. This is an exhibit of the daily workings of this complex tribe, 4 million people strong, their routines and lives are the subject of this endeavor. Or more informally, bullshit writings in a drunken stupor.