It’s Been Days and I still Can’t Name This One (poem).
In the eve
Of crashing economies
That never seem to collapse
And dissolving political landscapes
That never seem to change
We feel like rats.
We truly do.
Rats in a maze
Or ants in the sand
We are contained
And prayed upon,
Fed, yet controlled
Who never seem to fall ill
Once the rations go sour
And we are eating our crumbs.
Keep calm and carry on
God Save the Queen,
And manageable inflation.
If anything at all,
Four hundred years of “corporation”
Have thought us
Wealth always only goes one way
So we retract
We take shelter into small homes
That seem to be getting smaller every year.
We give in to simple pleasures of the flesh
Drink ‘til we’re numb
And fuck the pain away.
We indulge in the faceless idols of the world
The ever changing faces
Spoon fed, sure
But force fed, still
Through screen and paper
We receive their impossible iterations
And accept our feeble limits.
We feel irrelevant
We become irrelevant
Destined to fail
With no end in sight.
We find ourselves stuck.
Trapped somewhere in the middle
Down inside the limbo
Of desensitized aggression
And sexualized despair.
We seek revenge on people who have done us no wrong
We wish harm on those would could do us good
We take it all for fact
And to hell with the consequences.
We hate for the simple fact that it is easy
And natural to us
Hatred can be as natural to man
And any man,
There are no exceptions to this.
Hatred can be as natural to man as love can be
So why does it feel so simple
Why does it feel so seamless?
Why does it seem so fulfilling?
Maybe hunger has something to do with it.
There has to be a reason.
Debt and taxes and all the wars of the world?
The victims always sound the same.
Over 2000 years since Thucydides
And we have yet to learn a thing.
Same questions hoping for new answers?
Not a god damned thing, I tell you.
I was cleaning up around the corner and took a minute to take a look at the good old bookshelf as I was shoving the “Minions Operation” on top of the shelf. I realized my top shelf was pretty good and simply felt like sharing it with the internet. And quite frankly, with the loads of crap running around the web, I think we could all use a bit of smart reading for a change.
From left to right, front to back :
Eldridge Cleaver – Soul On Ice
Ray Bradbury – Farenheit 451
Sun Tzu – The Art of War
Collectif – Le Refus Global
George Orwell – 1984
Faulkner – The Portable
Kevin Toolis – Rebel Hearts, Journeys in the IRA’s Soul
Thomas King – Medicine River
Joseph Heller – Catch 22
Henry Rollins – The Portable Henry Rollins
Charles Bukowski – Post Office
James Baldwin – Giovanni’s Room
Charles Yale Harrison – Generals Die in Bed
Charles Bukowski – Hot Water Music
Beth Lahickey – All ages – Reflections on Straight Edge
Chuck Palahniuk – Fight Club
Maya Angelou – Tant que je serai noire.
Haruki Murakami – 1Q84
Ernesto Che Guevara – La Guerre de Guérilla
Collective – We Owe You Nothing – The Punk Planet Collected Interviews
Henry Miller – The Tropic of Cancer
Faulkner – As I Lay Dying
Truman Capote – In Cold Blood
Truman Capote – Breakfast at Tiffanys
It’s also uncanny how much that photo is representative of my writing style and political views : lots of satire, plenty of punk/hardcore, a bit of literary and a bit of noir, enough minority rights to be aware of things going on in society, some military strategy and distopian novels, completed by a heavy dose of working class books.
Perhaps missing from this image but among my favorite works :
David Fennario – On The Job
David Fennario – Balconville
William S. Burroughs – Naked Lunch
Dennis Lehane – Mystic River
Crass is the danger of stillness
Crass is the will to action
Crass are the pitfalls of hatred
And the narrow paths of love.
These poems of ordinary havok
Are a call to arms
Entrenched in dirty realism
Grounded by raconteurs
And a heartfelt dose of satire.
Now available on AMAZON KINDLE
- If you got a job where you can write on the job, keep the job.
- If you got a woman who don’t drink the rent money, keep that woman.
- Most people will do nothing but chew up your time. Only keep around those who are worth it.
- Someone, somewhere, will be jealous of your “success” even if you only made ten bucks so far with a book.
- Pure, unaltered creativity is a rare thing, but there are legions of posers out there who are very talented at making people believe otherwise.
Here’s one of my favorite chapters from The Factory Line, I hope you enjoy.
“Ah, don’t be so predictable!”
That was Gary ranting. Now Gary claimed he was an Italian, but his last name was St-Aubin. I don’t know, that didn’t sound very Italian to me. He’s married to an Italian though, or so he said. And he was real’ macho about it too, but me and the guys figured he was in way over his head.
“You want to know about love?” he continued, “I’ll tell you about love. Love will drown you my friend, and you can’t escape it. It’ll drag you down and suck you dry of all your money and your guts and your fighting spirit. It might take an evening, it might take a year. You can take a loan and it’ll take two more, but it’s inevitable – ” A few of the guys laughed. You had to hand it to Gary, he was funny to watch. “- you pay for the drinks and the hotel and the food and the bills. It’s all the same, every time, all the time, goddamnit! You never count. And when you hit the ground, then you’re the slob, the slacker, the loser, who talks like a loser, and acts like one.”
I loved to watch Gary in action, he always got theatrical. And when you get theatrical all the time, no one takes you seriously anymore. I mean, could you believe the guy? He was in his late forties, his hair was already all turned to white, his neck was bent from not doing any exercise and working too much. Remember the guy smoking next to the propane tank this morning? That was Gary.
He’d take out the pack from his breast pocket, pull out a smoke with his mouth, straight from the pack. Then he’d shake his lighter twice vigorously before lowering his head and lighting up the cigarette. Then he’d take a drag and lean over the gigantic propane tank. He’d blow out the smoke, read the “no smoking” panel and laugh about it a little. The whole place could go to hell but those things never blow up he’d say.
He always wore some old grey suit, all messed up and the shirt never really matched the colour of the coat. He was standing up as he spoke like he was some great orator and every time he made a point, he just leaned forward towards someone and pointed at them with his hand sideways.
“And then,” he continued, “She’ll take her high heels and long smooth legs out the door and leave your sorry ass to a bottle of hard liquor or a dive bar to find relief in and rant this to the guy on the next stool who’s twice your age and still feels the same.”
“Is everything OK at home, Gary?” one of the guys asked. The others laughed.
“What, the hell?” he answered and he sorta chuckled, “You want to know about it? Give me a drink son, I’ll tell you all about it.”
“All we got left in the tank is Heineken,” I said.
“I said, all we got left is Heineken.”
“Great!” he shouted, “That’s just my day”
“Who the fuck bought that shit anyways?” one of the guys asked.
“It probably was the new kid.”
“It wasn’t the new kid,” I replied.
“Hey, where is the new kid?”
“He got fired.”
“Seriously? What for?”
“Drank all the Molson Ex,” Sonny continued.
“Well good for him then, but what about the Heineken?”
“I bought the damn Heineken,” someone finally admitted.
“Why would you do a thing like that?”
“Well, I’m sorry,” the guilty party replied.
“We should throw it away and get some real beer up in here.”
“¿De qué Habla?” Ignacio asked.
“La cervesa, Heineken,” someone replied.
“Hey Gary. Here’s a Budweiser,” Stanley said.
“Tastes like piss, but it’ll do.”
“Hey, guess what?” I said, “Sonny pays a solid 8 dollars for a Bud.”
“Really?” someone said. Sonny looked at me sideways, I simply smiled. He’d get me back someday, so it was all ok. “Why would you do something like that?” the guy continued.
“Women,” I said.
“Women will fucking kill ya,” Stanley added.
“You got that right,” Gary continued, “You know my old lady? First she wanted the fancy private school. Catholic and traditional, with the suits and all. So I had to work overtime for that and now she wants to get the kids into college. I can’t take it anymore. I don’t even go to college. Hell, I don’t even have a decent suit. Who the fuck needs college anyways? Just sitting and reading, drinking and acting like a goddamned faggot on some campus.”
“Hey!” Stanley objected, “I went to college. Sonny did too.”
“Yeah,” Gary continued, “Well, if my kids want to go to college, they can pay for it their own damn selves. I’ll get them a job in here and maybe they’ll start appreciating every god damned thing I buy them. The movies and the TV and now they just need a brand new phone, you know? And the car, the goddamn car! The oldest brat smashed it the other day!”
“Smashed it into a pole,” Gary said.
“Is the kid alright?” Sonny asked.
“The kid’s fine. But it’ll cost me my vacation.”
“I’m rebuilding my old car,” the guy next to me told me.
“Yeah?” I answered him.
“ Three-forty, four barrel.” the guy said.
“What model? The barracuda?”
“Really?” I asked.
“I’m too old for this shit,” Gary kept on ranting.
“Good looking car,” I said, “but a real gas hog.”
“I know,” he said, “Just the other day I took it to the tracks, filled it up cost me eighty-six dollars. Did a few quarter-miles runs and the tank was completely dry.”
“Shit! Maybe you should switch to a small Asian car. A Hyundai maybe?”
“Please, I don’t even fit into them cars.”
“The economy’s in turmoil,” I continued, “you should save up some cash.”
“I’m ok. I got some money in the stock market.”
“I don’t want to tell. But I’m up sixty-two percent.”
“You better cash in while you’re ahead.”
“Nah, I only invest in sure shots.”
“Like a thirty-five year-old barracuda,” I said.
“Exactly,” he replied.
“God this beer tastes like shit!” a guy shouted on the other end of the table, “Anybody wants this?”
“The Heineken?” I asked, “I’ll take it.”
“Won’t be my first today. I’m low on moonshine,” I said, “A desperate man will resort to anything.”
Gary kept on talking, “She just goes ‘I can’t live like this, I’m the laughing stock of the congregation, just look at the ceramics, and the potteries and the tiles. It’s disgraceful. I’m Italian for god’s sake’ But I told her, I’m telling ya, I told her.”
“You ain’t told her shit, Gary,” one of the guys said, “She’s got you totally whipped.”
“So pussy-whipped,” I said.
“What do you mean pussy-whipped?” Gary shouted.
“Oh! Come on!” the other guy continued. “You’re about to get divorced over a simple case of ugly tiles, Gary?”
“What am I supposed to do? I’m as broke as a nigger in forty-eight!”
“Hey, hey! Easy there on the nigger.” That was Jean-Baptiste who was busy reading Guns and Ammo magazine.
“No offense,” Gary said, and he felt bad for real, “I meant – ”
“Just cool it!” Jean-Baptiste said as he kept on reading.
“Well, I’m sorry.”
“You know you could change your tiles for free,” one of the guys said. It was GP, I think. One of the skinny guys that drove the forklifts.
“Yeah?” Gary asked, “How do you work that?”
“It’s easy. You just go in, and ask for a sample, you know? You say it’s because your old lady wants to see how it looks like with the lights in the kitchen and everything.”
“That’s got to be the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard,” Gary said, “How the fuck are you gonna get enough samples to change an entire bathroom.”
“I did every store in the city.”
“What?” Gary continued. “I’m not going to run every hardware store in the city to get free samples. The gas money alone will be more expensive than the god damned tiles.”
“No, Gary. I just take one every time I go to a hardware store. I don’t go there only for the samples.”
“And it works?”
“Yeah, it works. I got one right here in my pocket.” GP took out a small piece of tile. A two square inch, minuscule, ridicule white tile and he handed it to Gary.
“That’s a fuckin’ sample?” Gary shouted.
“How long did it take for you to collect enough to do your bathroom?” Stanley asked.
“Two years?!” Gary shouted. “My old lady’s not gonna wait two years.” He emptied his beer, “For Christ’s sake.”
Get the novella here :