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NG.LA- Heaven's Gate

Synesthesia The great thing about panic disorder, is the biggest, baddest guy in the bar doesn't scare you half as much as brushing your teeth. Go ahead. Put a gun to my face. I've had one there all day. Sometimes I think my loose screws make me, like a sprawling scar over your lip. I surely would've never began writing if there was no torment to escape from. The serenity of the Herons swooping over the Ballona Wetlands wouldn't nearly bring me to tears, if the contrast wasn't so stark. The tall cans in a backyard with hot girls on a hot night. The Kush joints underneath the waterfall in the mountains. The nights cruisin' PCH with the windows down. The Hokusai paintings. I am storming the beach of Normandy full of nausea, dodging lead for a seeming eternity while my nerves are on fire as I brace for a quick burn in my gut followed by darkness. But it never comes. Instead the smoky bullets whizzing by my head come to a crawl. The sound of gunfire becomes distant, and then silent. I open my eyes. I have reached sanctuary in a Taoist temple. I hear the strings of the Koto playing soft music over the bubbling of the Koi pond. There are brunettes with nice asses in black silk Versace garb pouring rounds of Sakè and rolling purple weed. I take my muddy clothes off, kick my feet up and inhale in the nude. And the colors aren't just beautiful. They are so fucking beautiful, I can taste them.

Goth Bitches in Purgatory The brutal, unrelenting desire in you has become decrepit. You cared too much until you didn’t care at all. You gave such a shit, until each shit became a Super 8 Film you had to look back on and reminisce through crow’s feet and pipe smoke. You want every single curve on a particular brunette, and if she declines your invitation to drink Hypnotiq on a blanket underneath Orion’s belt for a second straight time, she may as well be in its orbit. You want to feel actual blood pumping through your actual veins as you take fire in the Kornegal, but every day you drive past the recruitment center. You want to write a Shakespearian epic so profound and calculated it gets etched into marble a thousand years from now, but you always pass on the blow. Maybe the secret to finding enlightenment is exhausting yourself into it. Maybe we associate an old face with wisdom for a reason. Maybe the Cranes were believed to deliver Sages because they took their time flapping their wings. It’s not that you're dead, it’s that you are simply unwilling to pay the price to feel alive.

Do people still read this shit?

Meet me in Montauk Big deal about pretty girls. I should get that tatted on my neck. In cursive or Times New Roman. Or some Japanese font. So I will finally be Tao. I'm gonna split one day. I'm going to take a banana and hit the top of the mountain. I love the cold. I'm gonna slurp on blueberry banana smoothies until I die. And maybe bake my own chocolate chip cookies. All while my phone is in some lake, And all of my emails are directed into a universe that doesn't really exist. I had a dream the other night. You were back to the old you. All soft and all vulnerable, And I was all of the same. Our sharpest swords were styrofoam, And I woke up missing you in some weird, brutally unrelenting fashion. The gash in my back has been scarred over, so we're cool. Listen to this song, it will change your life. I feel like I am in a burning sedan on the side of the 10, and I have time to send you just one more song.

Remember the Sailor

I still have sand in my shoes from when we found a huge hole on the beach to lie in and talk shit until the sun went down and the tide got too close. Every step toward the bar feels like when we were walking along the Playa shoreline. With every crunchy sober step my heart tears a little bit.

I wanted you so bad I wanted to be the sole wanter of you in the universe. And I wanted you enough to obsolete every microorganism’s want for you from the beach to Enceladus. You were just not ready to be wanted. You were definitely not ready to be wanted like the tide wants the moon, but I do not regret anything about the black hole that wanting you left in my chest.

One of the last things she told me was that I am too intense, which is something I’ve heard before. We are on a 4 billion year old ball of mud flying through eternity and it will all be over before we know it. I do not regret my enthusiasm. I will wear my heart on my sleeve, and every light year or so when I really feel, I will feel with the intensity of Michelangelo sweating underneath the Sistine Chapel. I will feel with the intensity of Roman gladiators running toward each other on the floor of the Colosseum. I will feel with the intensity of a Captain steering his ship through a cataclysmic storm.

For as long as there is time and space, I will feel. I will feel until I am on my death bed exhausted from feeling knowing that the final cinema that will flash before my eyes will be well worth the admission.

El Toro This wasn't your regular fuck. I am a calloused connoisseur of regular fucks, and this had different notes and flavors my palate had to be reintroduced to. It lacked the distance of a regular fuck. We lied together too long. We caressed each other too much. I looked into her eyes for detachment, and there was none to be found. It worried me. I didn't hear from her for 3 months. I felt like shit for about a week. I had come in contact with some exotic Central American thick assed creation that managed to make me tangle with my ever elusive feelings. I would replay the image in my head of her naked silhouette, and get hard every time. I drank and wrote like a motherfucker that week. 3 months later she tells me she was playing hard to get. She tells me she was recently married. She tells me she is bisexual. We meet up and fuck in the backseat of her car and take pictures. Like a raging bull I ravage through the field of red flags and sink my teeth into her neck, halfway because I'm pissed off that I feel something. And halfway because the wait stripped me of civilization. The more I touch her the more I want to touch her, and the more I want to touch her the further I fall into the rabbit hole of shit I didn't sign up for. I did the unthinkable and told her she was more than a fuck. Almost as a revelation. Almost in shock. Almost as if I were a fully armored knight that shook my chest metal off and told my enemy I have lived in the armor so long I need to be stabbed to know if there is anything inside still worth protecting. Maybe vulnerability is inevitable. And every century or so when I put my dick into something really good, it dislodges from my gut and there's nothing I can do about it.

Step Right Up Fond of self sabotage, like some Central-American hips I'm racking from the bar. I am equal parts civilization and hedonism. Pray for me, to whichever God you've accepted not answering back. I've felt dominant and war happy lately, and it has paid great dividends. I channel Napolean, And Machiavelli, And even Mussolini at times. I am equal parts love, and primal Mediterranean force. Women love war, so long as it's between men, and so long as you are the victor. I am at conflict with my colorlessness, and right now there's enough plutonium in my blood, to make my own Aurora Borealis.

Bonaparte I have a thing for utter destruction. And it has a thing for us, whether we like it or not, so I play along, like any good animal. I am more than proud of my unraveling, I want to wear it on my face. I have been in the trenches, and I want you to feel the wrath of my trigger pulling forearms. The first thing to ever happen was an explosion, not unlike Hiroshima. not unlike Nagasaki. not unlike Tunguska. God is just atoms slamming into each other at a million miles per hour. Gays bending each other over, Is as beautiful as any detonation. Love is not uglier or more beautiful, Than war.

Waffle Blood I talk about the solar system with strangers, while worshipping Gods of fermented starch. Looking into your Azurite eyes under the Maroon glow of the Red Dog light, church is now in session. I've made frivolous claims of being the romantic, but I cannot remember half of the women I've romanced in here. I have been in love twice for every star visible from an LA beach night sky. And as the universe expands, those stars fade away and we forget all about them and the mortal masturbators that named them after themselves. My touch feigns complacency. I don't check out. But still there will be more explosions in the sky.

Lost in Translation There is nothing sexier in this world, than a foreign girl leaning into your shoulder and willing broken language into your ear. It doesn't even make it in, it crumbles on contact and falls down your neck like exotic dust. I couldn't help but notice you are the only other person in the bar drinking vino, and the only one that makes it look so good it should be painted as a mural and hung over the Venice canal. I manage to speak back in broken English despite it being my first language. I am fluent in nothing, we speak with our eyes, and I only understand how violently fucking beautiful you are. I haven't said anything meaningful in months, and it has reduced me to a tropical sweat in front of a blank typewriter for the first half of Summer. There isn't a live vein under my sticky skin. You peel the gold Yin & Yang medallion about an inch off my chest, and crack a bottle, and crack a smile that makes every Michelangelo classic look like shit. For the first time in my life, there is no seeking right words. There is no chasing explanation. There is just, this. You came around the table in heels and a Brazil shirt before your flight and grabbed a hold of me like a dreamy novella fantasy. We kissed so deeply, I tasted the salty turquoise from the Caribbean, and you tasted smoggy pink cloud particles, and we both tasted each other's greatest work. Small hot pieces of English came out of our mouths, and fell to the floor in their meaningless glory like embers from an erupting volcano. And it has dawned on me, the taste of ocean water & average merlot in my mouth, is infinitely sweeter than any sort of profound metaphor.

Absolutely No Reason Except I Have a Toothache The world is ending in my chest. I look around the room at all the normal people, with normal heart rates, and normal nervous systems. I would kill to be the man who's here because he broke his leg falling out of a golf cart. I would kill to be the woman who's here because she cut off her finger chopping Sweet Onion. I would kill to have injuries where they cannot hide. But I am currently at the bottom of a great Hiroshige tidal wave. The water slowly filling up the boat, and I'm trying to scoop it out with a fork. Sheer fucking panic. The boat is sinking, and I am the Captain. I call for help, but they yell back "stop being a pussy!" I'm palpitating and sweating my way toward finding out if I was right about religion. With every frantic turn through all million corridors in my mind, I'm either looking for the OFF switch, or Jesus, or Buddha, or a White Heron, or a Blue Chimay, or a tan brunette with broken English...whichever I find first. Every once in awhile, my mind likes to take me behind the alley and beat the shit out of me. Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose, but I always fight back. And when I'm getting clobbered and on my way down, I keep my eyes open and enjoy the bokeh.

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