wakeup, kiddo

and he lost it for a bit - maybe for a loooooong time
maybe he didn't know what he was doing
maybe he now knows a little bit more than before
but still wishes for more back then
and maybe he needs to practice getting up everyday
and needs to create new reasons to do so
he is not pretty
and life can be quite ugly at times
and this is crap
but it is what it is
and it looks all blocky and weird and bad writing-y
but he likes it
at least for now
he will never get awards or praise for his writing
he's a bit better at making you laugh when you're getting a drink
and don't tell me to smile
because when you see me, I'm not sad
I'm just not an extension of your fun that night
I want to take away Kyle's pain this Friday because of his break up
I want to be a good friend and to be better at it
I need to buy black pajamas for my Halloween outfit tomorrow
and am excited to pass out candy to the neighborhood kids
I'm still excited about that commercial that I'm going to be in
and want to visit you in Austin, Santa Maria, SF, Orlando, Baltimore, New Ringold, Brooklyn, McAllen, Baltimore, Downtown L.A. and in the year 1971, 1865 and 1993
he doesn't get it and never did
he was pedaling a bike with no tires
and searching for gold on Mars
wakeup, kiddo

before it goes
before you can't catch up with the rest of the crowd
and the donkeys refuse your carrots
and before you run out of things to say

he needs to
wakeup, kiddo
he needs to
wakeup, kiddo

Ahhh...

But bad poetry can sometimes be GOOD poetry, can't it?

but

Not TONIGHT.

Dumping ground

from my p k d tour 2009
to
the buddhist temples
to
my r w a

needs to be done

these are notes to myself

and not for you

I sleep so much now.

I'm worried.

Women are even creepier when they're smart.

The Revolution!!!

Starts with Jeff Goldblum.

bis vincit qui se vincit in victoria

He conquers twice who conquers himself in victory

im the guy

right now

writing about things to write

my soul is the Earth’s sun 8 million years from now

and my heart is chum, constantly thrown into oceans

jotting down ideas

and always writing about writing

and my writing

always takes a lot of rewriting

i’m so tired

and so ready

to cultivate the paddy fields of your mind

mine your ore

and excavate your precious resources

i am big business

when not writing about not writing

you’ll never see my greatest moments

and if you do?

then I’ll see it first

because,

im the guy

right now

writing

trying

Kevynn Malone

If You Were To Die Right Now, How Would You Feel About Your Life?

Tyler Durden just said that. I asked Tyler what he was doing in my living room and he punched me in the face and told me to stop asking sissy questions. I spit out a tooth and said that I wished that he'd blow up all of the credit card company buildings in real life like he did in Fight Club, I could benefit from a little Project Mayhem to eradicate my credit history. Then he kicked me in the eye with his boot heel and said, Kevynn, you have a class of young strong men and women, and they want to give their lives to something. Advertising has these people chasing cars and clothes they don't need. Generations have been working in jobs they hate, just so they can buy what they don't really need. We don't have a great war in our generation, or a great depression, but we do, we have a great war of the spirit. We have a great revolution against the culture. The great depression is our lives. We have a spiritual depression. We have to show these men and women freedom by enslaving them, and show them courage by frightening them. I told him that he was scaring me, and then he grabbed me by the balls and dragged me into a corner of the room.

Right about that time - Charles Bukowski came into the room. He just walked on in, downed a can of Schlitz, crumpled it, and threw it towards the corner that Tyler and I were in. It bounced off of Tyler's shaven head, and I thought that Tyler was going to beat him up, but Tyler just smiled, swatted Buk on the back as he walked on by, told him that he was a big fan, and that he loved Post Office, and then left.

I could hear noise coming from the fridge, and groaningly got up. Buk was already polishing off one of my beers. He stripped down to his boxers and asked me where all the goddamn real booze was. I told him that was all I had, and that did he really believe in a god? He grabbed another one of my beers, kicked off his shoes, and said, I have more faith in my plumber than I do the eternal being. Plumbers do a good job. They keep the shit flowing…and then he disappeared into my bathroom.

I shuffled over to the phone and was about to call 911, when there was a knock at the door. I didn't want to answer it, so I peeped through the peephole. It was Frank Sinatra. Shit, it was Frank - so I opened the door. He looked great. Sharp. His pinky rings twinkled in the moonlight. I invited him in. He grabbed a seat by my fireplace and asked me how my bird was. I told him that I didn't have any pets, except for a bunch of cats. He rolled his eyes and said, no, man - how's your bird and pointed to my crotch. That confused the hell out of me. Why was Frank Sinatra asking about my dick? So, I just told him that my bird was flying around. That seemed to please him immensely. I relaxed a little. Frank was pleased. I was pleased. Maybe Frank could swing me a room in Vegas? Bukowski came out and stank up the whole place. He grabbed another one of my beers and then sat down at my computer. All of my cats instantly congregated around his feet and purred. He asked if I had any decent classical music in the place. I looked at Frank. He nodded slightly, and I tuned the radio to a station that Buk seemed to not mind. Frank asked me how everything else was goin'. I said that I guess that everything else was okay, nothing that exciting. He said that it was good to not be one of those complicated, mixed-up cats looking for the secret to life… just to go on from day to day, and to take what comes…

That seemed to make sense to me. I politely excused myself and told Frank that I thought that I needed to spit out a couple more teeth; did he want me to pick him up some stuff for martinis, or get him some whisky? He told me that he was okay for now, he was waiting for Ava. I got the feeling that he'd be there for a long time, and I left out through the front door to wiggle my loose teeth around. Tyler was in the parking lot of the park across the street, fighting somebody. I didn't want to attract his attention because I was afraid he'd tell me to duke it out with a Puerto Rican busboy. But I ended up walking over to him. Something was bugging me. I needed to tell him something.

He just got finished, and was wiping blood out of his eyes with the heel of his palms.

What do you want, Malone?
You want me to take you shopping or something?
Do you want me to politely ask the world to get off your back?
Are you finally sick of your life?
Are you ready to sacrifice everything
to become the type of person that you're supposed to be?

No, not really, Tyler. I just wanted to answer your question.

What fucking question, Malone?

"If you were to die right now, how would you feel about your life?"

Yeah…and...?

I'd feel fine.

I guess I should go out and do something. I just put down the book. I've flaked on two things tonight - an engagement dinner and meeting some out-of-town friends for a different dinner. I think I'm also supposed to hang out with two other people but I don't really remember how my conversations went with them because I have a horrible memory and I tend to drink too little. Why do I do this? I Gollum myself in my dark room, feeling miserable at times and at other times, I'm oh-so-fucking happy and loving my life and biting into my raw fish.

I'm going to get ready now, out of guilt more than anything else. I'll be thinking about my book though and of this quiet room and then when I'm all done, when all of the conversations, laughter, hugs and drinks are all doneanddone - I'll be right back where I was when I was typing this...

In this room
precious womb