COVER PAGE

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT PAGE

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Akashic Books
© 2009 Ryan Adams

ePUB ISBN: 978-1-936-07030-5

Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-933354-95-8
Paperback Library of Congress Control Number: 2009924489

Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-933354-96-5
Hardcover Library of Congress Control Number: 2009925384

for bug,
always

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1

Florida

Florida

florida lay there before us
swollen
this driver and me
rolling into a sure ghetto
neon jacksonville ghetto
to get a car
taxi was rattling smoke
shot up with seats ripped
we rolled into the lot
and
streetlamp-outlined men
standing up in a row
braced
each on a corner
body language loud
saying listen they had it
firearms
street pharmaceuticals
and when our eyes met
palms
blurred

smokeburns
electrical fires
sky ripping those whitecotton
clouds up
in some deep-ass blue
the too-deep sea
never-going-to-see-land-again deep
sky
lost-at-sea deep sky blur
just over there
that
i could see total anger moans
calm rage
lamps without shades
drywall tears
a history of night hours
and
in that moment
some clenched fists
they broke my bones
like
a light
falling off a night table
and like the rats we all are

florida

florida spat me out
but
i kept my breath

slow
a little girl at the bottom of the stairs
scowled
surrounded by night shade
shadow wall bricks
hidden in a mossy
funk
in a row on the second floor
landing
in the cement block apartment rise
some half-dressed bodies lit
up
christmas trees these men
were
streetlamp damp
sweating hard
guns near
in the nightpools
she
stared through me
like i was meat
she
held a plastic uzi
in a room staring
like they were eating through my skin
and
without a nod
without a tip

we slid very quietly into the butterscotch
grand prix
the driver and me
under the moons
screaming inside maybe
inside the rooms
with television blurs
circling us and circling it
that car
all armor-alled up and smelling like grease
and
like bad stuff or like something
like forget it
we got in
all of a sudden
he stopped asking me about the money
which was scary
he knew
i knew
he knew
i had that money
and
in your mind you go bloody feet
barely alive screaming for your neighborhood life
out of that place
but
she called
and

he answered
and
something pulled him triggered his heart
click
guiding him smiling to the freeway
no taxi
his nephew’s car
butterscotch grand prix
and
off the highway in a
fast food parking lot
the driver pulled me in
hands over my shrugging
sides
delivered me like a wish
as i forked over a little more than bargained
forgot about landing in the wrong city

that airport dry rotting

forgot about meeting

her father her father so decent his grill smoking

forgot about the mosquito bites

pine halls those castle walls of wood

forgot about myself
and
i was just happy to be home
i was happy
to remember who i really was
and

you know
i see that sky still
it reminds me of a dishrag rolled with heavy dew
and
palmettos exploding oranges
that
florida sky emitting total life
and total death
and
me on the fresh steps to
dropping all the bags
arms out
receiving
my destiny
and
hope
in several phases of doubts
colored
somehow
with love

Fruit-Rotting

Fruit-Rotting

once in coins subwayesque
we paid
all the way uptown
back in the skeleton-eye
like,

“hey hey hey gotta

keep up now”

somebody would shout
sweating
beautiful
on the shitty rushing chinatown
streets
glistening bodies yellow mash
sunrocked
those days…

but
now we are old and in us
drugs rot
like
we are dirty
like our insides are paying
for our sins and not us

our insides like a cross
fruit-rotting
sun-diving
we are eagles now

beautiful

and we

we feast on what we like

lucky ones

so so lucky so lucky
imagine if one of us,
um, found out
one of our best friends had died
overdose-cop-call on an empty bed
or worse
all of us lied

more

some of us got free on the dust
falling out of the bags
meant for a sick sunday

or

one of us betrayed the animals
let loose in the disco metal farm

we

are

lucky
count-your-wishes-and-stars lucky
now we are old and going for more
we are dirty

like our insides went to work for us
for every night we spent in the throws
throwing up diamonds and trust funds
our souls eternal for those nights
and we felt it
a real disco polaroid

famous wasted

eternal buzz

so rocked

but inside it was all a joke
hahahahaha

and we

we were a joke just all sped up

and neon

and ugly

like sharks

in shiny dresses

minus leeches

us, and our

bowls of fruit
fruitcake-dreaming

but

full of disco-lies and
fucking each other
disgusting
our souls
shining hard in valhalla
but inside

we were lying
and
while we were not busy with the snake
or the unicorn-rainbow hallucinations
if we sat down for even one moment
we knew
once we got home
our insides
they would pay for our sins
while we sat on the window-bed-nook
under a peach-rind quilt
suffering a loss

we was

bright and alive once

we was

was

but now
now;

just steeped in self juice

and balloon-popped
yellow-yucked
and fucked up
white-wine dinnered
and
disgusting crossworded
all of us
totally
sucking

and
stuck
our insides like a cross
sun-diving

and

fruit-rotting

Dope Camera

Dope Camera

screaming

lord knows,

screamed
like as in
screaming
as in

“sunshine came screaming into the room, bottles empty, lines

under eyes

where they were broken up and followed into a face”

awful

rocked so hard i broke the crib

sneezed so hard i broke a rib

lost a dog
couldn’t take care of it
couldn’t see

eyes breaking out from
fleshy dope smear

what

what was anybody doing there?

pretty

pretty people in there
in that fog land

wasted
in that dock of memory

i worry about all of them

and

i don’t know, us

nothing really happened

cuz

we talked so much

nobody moved

inside

the rooms

the brightlight
midnights
were bloody as a lie

and

fortune cookies hung over us
like the low gongs

plus-sized songs the valley was ripe with flashfires

and

cement trucks
heavy metal freight cars
on wheels
cemetery skin
smoking with the hookers
on Noplace
and 10th
or whatever street

we made this whole thing up
inside my bedroom

madness close behind

it felt like

well i swallowed the whole of the world
in a night

screamed
for the past
to hear me first

and

take me last
like as in
screaming
as in
scream team m.v.p.

now totally m.i.a.

and all, “fuck you”

somebody really should have had the cameras rolling back then

well
some of them did

oops

our lives went

bullshitting

with the loansharks

and

we all bought the tent

golden tooth

paying all the rent

inside

lord knows
we are all…

screaming

Bags

Bags

three bags
sit
on this bench
sunlit
flies also
not on the bags
a tree, oak, long branches
reaches behind
ever lit also yellow sunlight
and
green-washed like salt blast
from water reefs
this greenish thing
i walk past
in a moment
thinking
“i am not here”

sure as fire my lover
reclines
and
the electricity pulsing through the grid
in the metal towers racing in a row

through the cut-low grass hills
trees on either side
like
an evergreen racing grid
pump the towns with light
as we read
aloud
the words to the song of our life
in time with the jets
singing
“i know a love
true
and
i know a love
strong”

we know…

and
like a saturday is coming
like
a fucking wall is caving
like all the rest
just easing into it
like
bricks
like who fucking cares?

me—
three bags sit

on the bench
in the summer
of my dreams
filled with rose petals
filled with candy
i left them there
without reason
no reason
i am beyond reason
really
almost
beyond reason
almost
really
i am
i was

Feverpitch

Feverpitch

in a feverpitch the note broke my eyes
so glassed
and in the kitchen i did the dishes very poorly
almost as if to say
to make this last
“i will prolong this”

my battle against time
my unmade bed
moans
so that if i must use these
things
again
they will go under the water
for
things are more useful
clean
like
dreaming
with my eyes closed and
open
either way
i am open

as in
opening
nonstop full-time
sleeping fuzz-faced
overage costs, ratios, house dollars
the build-up
counter tops, numbers, receipts in jars
calculators tick-tock tick-tocking
my body is counting itself
counting something
so many new
pieces ah, my lungs feel like
what
what ash is
on a still warm backyard summer fire
on strike
fresh-cut grass must feel like this
does it feel
no
burning embers like what that might feel like
to feel
i feel things and i apply metaphor i dunno why i do that
i don’t know how to explain my feelings
ever
so i write too much down talkmouth blahzzzrt
too much not enough
man

my nose is running
achoo
it feels like running
there’s so much energy in pain
and so much madness in energy
now this!

NOT doing something, so
feverpitch…

there’s no sense in
NOT talking
that should be so easy right
how much poison
really
how much extraction
before i’m better
before i say this
“i guess i had enough”

or YES!

and

OK THANKS! haha

that note rung so loud
it cracked our porcelain sky
and
it cracked bad pink clouds, goshawks circling
soon
i will put on my colored faces
and planting boots
and

i will go cast myself into the painted desert walls
and sycamore tree fuckery
plus no one but
the coyotes
say, man, say
these animals cannot read
but we remember what overwhelming
REALLY is captain?

…no?

well
a coyote’s cry echoes
& hopefully
one day
one last face full of tears
and cracked eyes
will drain simple lines
for a pool of howls
but
glowing
when that note breaks the spell
and
it’s curtains
to all things false
to all things sour
and
ill timed
in a feverpitch
for

a hope
i will be here for you, my love
always

on key

in the dusted halls

of

the infinite hours
feverpitched

and

cherrysour

Numbers

Numbers

Blitzed

all kinds of slow sad
My God
i remember being really pilled out
numb
the TV blew all this static at me about
WAR
because
WAR SELLS like POETRY likes WAR
fuck that

seriously

i was all pilled up
Medication Station
and this giant love
earth/air elemental
orange-juice-good
for me
and me
numb
her,
right beside me—
white walls

cotton sheets
asleep
and on the f’n TV
Just War Shit

numb

Blitzed

then

then

then i go deaf from this

fucking head trip thing i got
my grandfather, he was also
super deaf/super duper hearing-
aide deaf

now

Now i can’t hear the numbers
people’s kids are all shot up in
the desert
they only dream this empty sand
trap
and
say the names

and there i was

alone

in my head

going deaf

afraid

i wouldn’t be able to hit the notes
and

i would forget the numbers
and

all these people were dying

all shot up

my lover asleep

ready to let me slip away

across the ocean

all pilled up

i got so lucky

i even got kinda

religious about it

Blitzed

all

numb

My God

Ok, Wow

OK, Wow

i allow myself the invitation,
i surround the door,
ill at ease,
maybe—but draped—still
foolishly,
eh
i have a wiry shape…

his
my grandfather’s
and possibly wolves i dunno age…

things growing…

backaches
and oh wow
ow
“that hurts”

but
“this feels fine”

certainly
well, “doesn’t it

always
something?”

all these things match
the way
i have to always wear a watch
because
it’s right to enjoy the race
morning turning day
for someday
we will meet inside the gates
because
there is nothing left to do
but not be late
and
we all learn from our mistakes
like it or not
ugh,
ouch
and
well,
ok, w o w

I Am Standing on This Beach

I Am Standing on This Beach

i am on this fucking beach.

noisy noisy waves…blast, blast in my face
so loud—
pigeons,
sea spray,
the second crash comes after the first
like a wave—it binds though, so binds
itself to the rot of the beach; a “fuckoff”

almost to the tide… washing garbage on dirty sand-like-sand,
colors—electric blue, with candy wrappers and condoms
and shells/plus some breeze that comes,
goes, comes, goes, oblivious to tempo or
nature even
a beach, on the fucking endless beach
where
that goddamn sun
rises and falls like
a loud boss; like a
nightmare; restart
machine-ball hot
like a nuclear stop
watch

….i watch it.

watch it…….

break into the fall of lines sized for angels and ancient gods or
mountains
—born there,
and…

no matter how it sounds,
crass and underhanded,
inside any man,
fought off or not,
it’s just
it’s just this…

a woman can be a junk ship, wooden,
patched red sail here and there like
flying over singapore thru that fog
ever there—hiding it…..her/us/me/it
her/me/us/it/fog—
fog—like singapore fog
we are hiding.

sad
sad
sad
(always—then—
like magic—whammo—descend and out the window—there it
is—
beautiful and
not in any time—not decade-era fixed—
“totally” non-american—past/present—

all functioning at once—…………………..

with harbors—junk ships—and my, my
god, my god….

all lit with skyscraper xmas lights—
lit peaks and nighttime valleyhouses
a fortress of woven wooden trunks
of trees—blinded by mad mad mad
beauty)…..

mad beauty…..

and a man is a tug, mechanical and
plastic; hard-lining sunken; work’d
manhands broken nails chalked palms
boxer-sized
bed-ready—
the kind that fix ropes round boxes
if they had to
with an elephant cargo—before they
were even a child—past sails, deaths, things drunk……ugh,,,,,,,
drunken…worse—beyond youth more
“curse of youth”

all that shit

no matter how mannered

no matter how buddhist

no matter how many dresses

who?

who is handing out the charity turkeys
on new year’s
in the mission, low key—crying—with

some lady saying “it’s ok honey—we all do it, you just ain’t been
down here as long,”

all that shit, in a man,
always,,,,,,,,
but
whatever really,
a man, hey, he is still a tug
tugboat.

a tug.

and sometimes,
sometimes, not always,
but sometimes,
it needs repair/slides up aside
there—“there” like arms; like long pale arms—
……………………..from the junk ship
down come the ropes—to bind
tugboats plastic outsides align—soft
each splinter of wood into the fabric
of shitty-weather salt-riddled plastic
feel like rooms
if a child were born
in the heart of a man
…inside his tug,
his cry machine,
his eyes.

…beaten too—from a weather-only an
ocean-sized dream that never ended
could whisper it to you—///////////rusted

so that you might believe—and you do.

inside the flicker or the blue
no words say shit—just a look
and every horizon-wave-tide—
bloody rope gloved catch—it is.

it just is.

she sees.

in a lucky thought here—she smiles—
but we just don’t know.

we don’t know what she
or he would really do.

not really…………………………………..

so
into a bed two could go, harbor side
torn apart—funnily, no different than
any mechanic, working on a car—but
this ocean, he works in it, and it—it—
THAT ocean
it is so many-many-many-many hearts
in a row—what you throw out and what
comes back—never mind so much……….

it’s all that bottomless and in-between
that, well, you know,
that is what drives any tug driver home
H O M E
home—
eventually—
that is if a man were lucky.

lucky being fickle,
fickle luck being funny,
funny being sad sometimes,
like you just ran out of it—
steam, money,
dreams, honeycomb
or blankets,
and somebody was going to get cold.

cold,
not in a home.

to know a home
my god, how lucky.

and certainly a postman too, a diver or a saloon owner or
a personal driver or
anyone,
it drives them home,
this in and out of an ocean of somethings
thoughts, working-assembly-line
working-desk-sitting-phone-answering—
everyone, even those in a dream when
they do a thing—
something in them realizes that clock
upon the wall
if it is to be anything so true
it is just numbers of a face—kind,
beautiful
we are lucky to return to—
our homes……………………………………….

and
into a bed the bind is not the sizes of a shape of a person there
to hide against
but hopeful blue light if a tv set is on—
or just doors/windows—open to the stars,
or……

impressions of stars cause unnatural
light also binds itself too, like when
it is not a me
or a him or her
or a you
but an us.

where the ocean stops…………………….

but it stops.

not home.

no home there.

lucky-not.

noisy noisy waves, tideblast, blast in a face, squinting in
place…………………….

sarong or blanket flag flying
horizontal colors
against that line
that goes down the sides
of a woman.

in a wow, sigh,
from sea spray for a little while till the
ocean is the woman who you waited for

and,

strangely, saying this as a man,

why you went,

why you went anyway…….a soldier

of sorts, to collect new things inside

you—

to restart those eyes, that woman, and

without a doubt—inside she could see

too the impression of unimaginable

sunsets,

only happening out there—while we

we are not looking

but the tug goes still and the sky holds—

holds it to the blue pages—

to bring home to her.

like a rat. in a bow tie.

smiling at small beds to a family

of also cartoon rats, in bow ties

(imagine that!!!!)

if only in a gesture of the shoulders—

and a look—that something amazing

still stands

even if that wait meant…..

well……

just inside a man,

and if that man were the one—

the one under the blue lights—

and nightstars

pulled into the junk ship

a tug

binded

binded and the splinters went in

and i felt each one, and i am a tug

on this ocean of ours…

but

i am standing on this fucking beach.

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

Smoking and Bug

Smoking and Bug

so many years old

but

not a man

at all

am i

this weird place

so much

bedroom noise

radiator making clangs

this whole night

like a stretch

of beach

with blond and salty bangs

or

candy cane missiles

projecting

light orbs over

blankets cursed under

backache

and

why did i stop or even start

what

a

dumb

kid

i have been that for so long

pointless really

isn’t it

to act like this

or that

say we get lost in a moment

say we get gone in the fly rods

casting

outward

to sea on expensive dinghies en masse

spanish armada omelets

diner fantasy food

outward upward

dreaming

half-assed and awake

i miss someone

so much

i quit

well, smoking

really

to prove to myself

how strong

a love is

even for me

so many years old

and not a man

at all

in years

but terribly

terribly

overwhelmed by

a name

and mercy

be a woman

with her name

and me

imagine this

not smoking

wowed

secret loud backwards lot centered

alive arms out

planted

in the new days

Hover

Hover

one click in my gear past this flimsy breath

i set this stone adrift

in the hover

on a movie set river

side

blasting cool wind

on my face here

i imagine i am walking down SHOE AVENUE or 8th STREET

my word did i abandon you,

my cinderella nothing,

old me

“fantasy sizes” me

in the gusts of bought things

sold sale sell it all mind me—

we walked away together—

whore feet

whore boots

all on my tippy-toes not to alarm myself

and

there and there and here

all over

New York City got behind me—like bad checks—so unlit

dimmer with each breath—i was afraid it would all go—

tumbling from my winter closet

it all did

in fact

i went into the nearest cave

and sorted my abilities witch,

wizard and magic slave soldier

put myself into that envelope

mailed myself away, rings and

fantasy sizes all in one folder

manila colored

and just said out loud

so i might get it now

grow up man

she loved me

still

so now

oaks riddle this line

owls riddle this rope

swinging to a boat

easily

peacefully

drifting

and i am clicking in the gear with a start

position and a breath

breaking the rocks in the orange juice quarry

and dreaming again

about horses

girls

and

all that stuff i learn while i am down for the day

with

new ideas about how to stay put

while

everything goes rushing by in the dull mash

me here

in the hover

Plus Dreams

Plus Dreams

okay so it goes like this—

word clutter, endless—

thankless pitiful days

are planted and ready

and we are a new winter

already

but blip clang zap go

machines at night and

most of the time i am not

as much sad

as i am just, well…ready

and nothing goes as fast as

this

whatever this is

this

which comes with blurheart

and repeat fizzle-stutters

this

which holds me to the pen

and

words guide the fastening

of a bushel of new days

plus dreams

Our Hearts, Okay

Our Hearts, Okay

okay throw this to the dogs

wet

with regret and dirtysome

okay

let them eat wet cake too

drenched icing bleached

from cloud, gray grotto

broke mirror lotto

machine-broke

dirty machine

actual grimy plastic bits

skycomedown

always looking

one light on arcade

kinda

okay

let the wet dogs then go into

new dream houses because

well

our hearts also heal

this is the new miracle

the miracle

is this

heal someone else and you get fixed

no shit

ok, anyway

so sorry but that’s how i got the lights on

that’s how the lights go on

and the parts get worked

and fixed and moving

and clean in this damn

machine

that thing

what is that thing anyway

it’s that greasy metal wheel on a dusty flat desert plot

moving the red oil through

in the splintered sunlit growl

our hearts

moving together like machines

in the past

moving through time

in the ok corral

on stilts

smashing

rain wet

birthday cakes

ok

let’s party

Papercut-Sunrays

Papercut-Sunrays

quick come see

a radio tower leans forward

color spins

in the sequence of geography

living maps

unfold forward in green and autumnal red blocks

lined aside each

in their bands of gold

striped with rooftops

and

signs for fireworks and beer

no one ever really moves

away

move away now

by the windows in the battleship sky

with splinters of foggy growls beside

these are new days

new days

papercut-sunrays plus the neighborhood

it is painted with hope not dry rot

or molded stores

inside the mall

nope

these are new days

everything has been made of crystals stitched

in new quilted patches

smiling almost—not almost now—

just smiling—teeth out

in a riddle of us

inside this egg cracking slight

and with new meanings

these are new days

quick come see

No Mask

No Mask

no mask

quiet loud

arms fall

side by side

then

silence

then

into dream

i go

upwards

inside

and

perfectly bound

like

i was a chosen thing

to be a chosen thing

is

also love

but

activated

and

like a storm

i get to be

floating by and thru

and

maybe

that means a me

and

maybe

that means a you

maybe

but for now

just

this

a divided line

and

so much direction

from

silent guides

my heart

is still

i keep it

it is mine

and

we are now kites

built out of glides

and

i can’t wait to fall asleep again

and again

this time

wow

Fixtures Rot

Fixtures Rot

in time the fixtures began to rot

one by one

off the wall

the wallpaper sunbleached

from missiles and house holes

suddenly but not so suddenly

one by one they grew forgot

as forgetful things go

they go this way

when the light recedes into

eventual fade

like father nodding off

in his thanksgiving sofa chair

football stove-top stuffing snore

beer or a television tray

noise from his nose

no on or off clickless

underneath the stairs

a box of remote controls

one for every year they made

bad tv’s

upstairs in the dresser

in a shoe box tied with strawberry laces

a bundle a fistful

of imagined lockets

go rusted

with coins too

all that change unusable even now

even now

as the world changes

also

a list of names of our ghosts

first and last

i whisper them out

under my breath

like

endless beggings of our dogs

sweet names

and

chocolate paws

from a past

howl echoes

forgotten to a fog

and a wind

even now in fine steps

a silver string collects

new shatters

webbed patterns

underneath binders

of a long sigh

or

a collected regret

a color that remains

only of the name

a woman could ease into

and burn

into a single flame

mark

simple and in context

I between M and A

not in any order

held closely to the day

its low lights

a calendar of gauzy rays

swimming

so fast

in a near sea-blast

once perfectly safe

in a harbor of such calm

it is unknown

from any single day

any book or story

if it were a heart

so blue

from blackened lots

and wishing

so true

so

tortured and forgot

but in a time

in a time before the fixtures went rot

and the mirrors came down

let us back into that moment again

and we

we will never let it down

for its perfect lean

against two

all dreams

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

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