unedited prose bit (we’ll just call it part 1, i guess)
Category: Writing and Poetry
An hour late picking up Frank at the bus station, sleeping in as a result of an overnight shift that dragged on into the early morning hours; Frank Reardon, his first hour in Kansas City spent just off of Truman road, midday with the drifters and failed specters of addicts, the shells of old homes and hollowed out redbrick buildings, the rotten core of my home town. Woke to a phone call and was out the door in five minutes trading in the neat fence scenery of Roeland Park for densely populated downtown with its collection of broken down young men wandering the streets looking for what the next moment brings, tomorrow an impossible thing in the noontime heat of a Missouri summer.
And Frank there in the center of it all, taking it in with his poet eyes, lounging at the Greyhound terminal with phonecalls to friends in an attempt to get a ride since I've failed to show up, probably desperate for a drink after eleven hours on the bus out of Huntsville, Alabama (his home for years though raised up in Irish Boston), arrived here in the middle of the country to live with the varied collection of madmen writers that call this place home, who devour books, spill ink, write the intricate secrets of the secondhand on clockface and attempt intimacy of the mind with every passing addict, every drunk, convinced that the slurred word is at least honest, pure from the vulgarities of hesitation despite the sneers of cultural stigma; so here he comes into the scene and I'm an hour late, guilt ridden because I know that everybody else is either at work or without a car so I'm his best bet at transportation: though in truth not too worried, knowing we'll hit a bar and the hour will be forgotten, forgiven, transformed into vision, the edges of those minutes to become both blurred and brought into sharp focas under later treatment of caffine and alcohol and vicodin, a blank sheet and head full of images and tension, of internal dialogue pitting taxi fare against the roll of cash on hand. No job and an unshaved face, turning pink outside while waiting for my arrival (conspicuous as hell in the constantly out of place bright yellow Aveo and pulling into the parking lot against the advice of street signs).
And Frank coming out of the building breaking into a pure bred Irish sweat under the high sun and 106 degree heat index (welcome home, Reardon), all wry smiles already, head shaking with Matthew America trailing behind him. Matt, who Frank had managed to get a hold of, had prevailed on his mother to bring him down to pick up Reardon but now that I'd managed to drag myself down there sent his mother back home and came along with us so now I had two writers to pick up at the station (which struck me as perfectly impermanent for the occasion, a monolith of eternal motion, still photograph of a marathon runner). So we throw Frank's bags into the car, stuff Matt into the back seat and go, keep moving, all how-the-hell-are-yous and the plotting of bars, already talking about the girls of Kansas City seen walking on sidewalks (all types; flower print sundresses and tattooed out sleeves, loving them all in passing admiration), talking about junkies on corners, the dive bars of midtown, books and poets and writers. The world, I think, reborn for Frank after so many years in the desert exile of Alabama.
And it strikes me, Reardon in my city to live; his often dry sense of humor, his eyes of expectant insanities as though he suspects at any moment I'll reveal that I'm completely twisted on a three day coke bender or fifteen hour acid trip or hungover from a night of indulgences spent with people of ill repute (perhaps all this in time, perhaps never, but arriving years late on my wilder years) and whatever the mess I know he'd just give that bark of laughter, say "it's cool." and offer to take the wheel, betting that he's more in his head than whatever other option might be available (and probably right; a sure hand and straight line driver even after seven or eight beers in a little over ninety minutes as I'd later discover). One more piece of my personal Kansas City Renaissance, someone else who speaks my language and its consumed with visions, his head warped by a thousand novels and soaked in what everyone else calls impropriety and we recognize as life.
i. a settling of churchbells into asphalt, sundays captured in quiet streets between the wail of sirens passing judgment on coldwater apartments where all they can afford is faith.
or at least forgiveness.
ii. a settling of churchbells into bones; your skeleton contains the same marrow it did at eight years old and god's shadow loomed larger.
remembers the same guilt leftover from sunday schools and the idea of sin which you reject with every passing beauty, the pit of your stomach reminding with every inexcusable exit.
iii. the settling of churchbells into graveyards where all logic aside everyone ascends goes to better places, impropriety fossilized despite violent endings drug abuses and enough fucking to make lord byron blush.
i. this poem and unnamed pony lost and inelegant on mountain trails trusting in the placement of hoof soft chuffing of breath your perception to see the name unspoken in lungs.
ii. origami cranes each one a discarded poem
ten days carpal tunnel syndrome one wish the moonlight revealing the skin of your room nine hours in passing
iii. to just once have you remove these glasses and bring the world sharply into focus.
freud, tonight at work there was a girl with a perfect ass.
i could have watched her walk away all. night. long.
and i remembered a former lover, always the first up staircases hand on railing looking over her shoulder a wicked grin knowing that i was watching, that her hips and my eyes were two points of a new constellation drawn on old stars, a revising of the zodiac.
forgetting how fickle venus is with the night sky, tracking across the lines drawn by astrologers prior to passing behind horizons.
forgetting how sometimes even luminous angels fall from heaven entirely for pride leaving spaces and altering perspective.
so tell me sigmund freud, is this me moving on or is it just confirming fatalism?
(NOTE: i scraped the last part 6. this is a new one.)
Sunday morning, six days after our first encounter, find myself waking up next to her again, the sunlight just enough to provide an almost lamentable illumination.
"I have half a mind to buy you a new bed, Stephen. And pillows; these flat bits of stuffing hardly qualify in terms of comfort."
"Don't do me any favors." She slept with her head on my chest all night long- still has it there, in fact- so I have doubts about the sincerity of her complaint. "Besides, you hate my place so much we can always just start spending the night at yours."
"You think I'd trust you around the silver?"
"There is a point at which your bitchiness is not longer cute, Gabrielle."
"Like you have pride. I've seen your kitchen." She kisses my chest in an oddly intimate gesture, rises up to look me in the eye. "You aren't my type of man, Stephen."
"We aren't going to go through the whole attempted walk-away scene again, are we?"
"And I'm exactly the sort of girl you claim to despise." She sits up, begins untangling her hair absentmindedly. She's forever doing something with it, curling it around a finger, pushing it behind an ear; it's a disturbing sort of involvement that I can easily imagine rapidly becoming something else that I hate about her.
"True enough." I put my right hand on her knee as I answer.
"So is this all about the hate-fuck for you? Have your little toy on the side so you can laugh about it with your friends later?" The way she frames this question makes it seem less like an accusation than something that she's genuinely curious about.
"No. I just…"
"You haven't told them about me, have you?" She smiles when she asks, lays a hand on my stomach, a slight curl so I can feel the hard edges of her nails on my skin. "I'm your dirty. Little. Secret." Head cocked, her mouth loses the smile and gains a sneer. "Aren't I?"
"I told them I was seeing someone." I become uncomfortably aware of her fingers, in the tensing of her leg muscles.
"Well," She leans back again, tracing four hot marks from my torso to my right hip before lifting her hand again. "I guess I know where I stand, Stephen. We can get right back to the original plan of uncomplicated sex."
"Fuck you, Gabrielle. How many in your personal little circle know about me? How many know where you spend the nights, that you go on your little outings and then come over here? Sure as hell can't meet at your place: we wouldn't want everyone to find out that you're screwing some poor artist who pays his rent waiting tables, would we? Fuck off. You want to find a reason to back off, you're going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that."
She's quiet for a moment, leans in, a mix of anger and sadness and something else that I don't like to think of.
"Ah, Stephen. At least we'll always have our hypocrisy, won't we?" she slides a leg over me, straddling and whispers, "Let's make this fast, honey. I don't want us to be late for church this morning."
conversation with a unicorn (repost for my own amusement)
Category: Writing and Poetry
- I forget sometimes. That it's a weapon.
"what?"
- The horn. I forget that it's sharp. that it hurts.
"oh. how the hell can that escape you? it seems, you know, rather prominent."
- It's the power of myth. There are all these stories of unicorns healing with a touch of their horn or granting wishes and crap. It's magic. It's what separates us from horses and zebras. It's THE symbol.
"still..."
- Look, you don't get it. Myth is every bit as real as cheeseburgers. Unicorns have been hunted down and captured in nets, our horns removed by saw and axe, for centuries. All to be ground down and made into mystical salves and potions. We're made into ponies for the sake of a good sales pitch. Myth is a very personal reality. It has it's own life completely apart from the logical or the practical. Symbols are important. Even when they're wrong.
"i'll bite. how can a symbol be wrong?"
- The virgins. It's nonsense. Virgins.
"umm... so you aren't into the whole virgin scene?"
- Don't be fucking ridiculous. It's the white coat. People associate it with purity which they then associate with virgins. As though I don't run through mud.
"ah. well, that makes sense, though. the whole virgin thought process, anyway.
- Yeah. As though. Virgins. Are pure. And what sort of virtue is inexperience, anyway?
"well..."
- No, shut up and listen: Look, I'm the fastest four legged thing the planet has ever seen...
"what about the cheetah?"
- Screw the cheetah. You understand? Screw the cheetah. It's good for like fifty feet. That's fine if you just have to take out the trash, but it isn't shit if you really need to go someplace. That takes endurance.
"right. screw the cheetah."
- Anyway, I'm fast as hell. When you're going my kind of speed, do you think being an inexperienced rider is a virtue? Bareback no less?
"that's very freudian of you."
- I'm illustrating an effing point. It's not my fault your mind dwells in the gutter.
"sorry. so i see how symbols can be wrong."
- Yeah. But sometimes, you see, I buy into the mythology.
"oh? and what happens then?"
- The presumption of innocence "happens".
"so... presumed innocence?"
- Yeah.
"so you just pretend the girls you like are... virgins?"
- I imagine them as pure. As something that they aren't. Not everything beautiful is pure, you know.
"still, that doesn't sound so bad."
- Right. Except sometimes...
"what? sometimes what?"
- Sometimes I forget. That it's a weapon.
"oh."
- And I leave scars. Accidentally. Because I buy into my own mythology.
it's shameless, but enough of you have asked at one point in time or another if i've ever going to make prints available of my artwork so i feel somewhat justified in doing so at this point.
prints, cardstock, letter sized paper. $15 per.
plus $2 for shipping and handling (one time fee, no matter how many you want. think that'll even out)
which is a good deal, or so i'm told.
anyway, here's the slideshow:
..
each piece is numbered, you'll notice.
so here's how it works; you can pay by paypal: log into paypal.com click on the "Send Money" tab and send the money to:
orders@offbeatpulp.com
then send us a little message with your mailing address and the number of the print(s) that you want to buy.
and i'll drop it in the mail.
altenately, you can send the payment to the house:
jacob johanson 4913 fontana roeland park, ks 66205
yes, i'll sign each print.
yes, if you have something specific in mind you can get me to draw/paint it.
and yes, you: i'm working on it.
in the meantime, i hope you just enjoy the slideshows.
sixty students in my grade through elementary school, every last one white and looking for answers from their hyphenated american.
and so
mexicans did not like tomatoes were good at dodgeball ran very fast and were all sexual deviants (being first to see casey's tits in 5th grade set us back, much to my personal satisfaction)
mexicans had deep voices that changed early and no accents, knew how to keep secrets and didn't care really all that much for automobiles.
mexicans all wanted to be archeologists or professional soccer players or even writers.
yes. in english.
we dated girls who liked our tans and stole schoolyard kisses from little redheaded girls.
we talked our way out of confrontations with boyfriends
mexicans rarely got angry, read often and would fight gladly for a friend's pride.
mexicans, back then, got good grades, could ride their bikes down suicide hill without seeming afraid and, sadly almost, would mow your lawn for fifteen dollars.
ten. if it was small.
i used to tell them nachos were american which made them feel good and i refused in the fourth grade to participate in the mexican hat dance calling it an insult to heritage.
mexicans were a little bit sensitive back then.
we ate lots of oranges and were the first to count to 100.
we got picked early for kickball because mexicans had strong legs and accurate throwing arms.
and what I learned is that even when we marry caucasians like my mother had, our children remain mexicans, damn the melting pot and scandinavian last name.
at some point i'll be able to write all this down, to be witness to the waking visions of visiting prophets and transubstantiate all this blood into meaning, capture perfect the days when i last knew the meaning of family.
write about the sudden appearance of poets on airplanes staggering off with grins and sleep deprivation and stories of babies that just wouldn't stop crying, bringing the restless west and threatening presumed innocence.
write what it's like to commit near genocide on the rest of humanity, for one week the world populated by writers shedding sweat on stages and calling it love.
write about the importance of pantheon, of connection, of genuine laughter and streetside dramatics, the death of pens now drained of all vital fluids.
write about the gathering on pennsylvania street in kansas city, a ragged tribe of weary smiles despite all this time spent in the desert knowing that the oasis isn't home but it's a damn good place to hang your hat and relax, at least until the last poem is read with promises of next year.
write about how i lost four lighters in five days and smile, knowing they've found their way to strange states and greater purpose, a thousand late night torches over the evolution of language.
write about the fact that we were always joyously late, lifting one last beer, smoking one last joint, one last lost soul calling frantic from city streets that I'd never heard of but mapquest sure as hell had, always afraid that the next stop wouldn't be so dense with the promise of immortality.
write about elvis making his way from ohio, the king's eyes alive with costume jewelry, enshrined, the touch of his head a blessing, the new patron saint of book whores and barbeque.
write about the need for p.b.r., for the high life, for fat tire and red stripe, rolling rock and killigan's irish red, maker's mark and stoli and wild turkey, all of us needing to replace spent ink with only dorsey able to run on gummy bears and rearick on decaffeinated coffee.
write about the basement moments, arguments over buk, the table filled with empty cans and bottles and dead roaches, four conversations like living things at all times wrapped up in smoky air, broke pussy rants, the occupancy always overflowing until at least 3 a.m. with stubble and beards and beauty and the proclamations of poets, all of it passing into modern mythology, the renewed dreams of athena and dionysus.
write about the too sad moments of failed promises, the dissolving of far flung hope that descended into tears and ashtrays, though with the promise to emerge, resurrect, in fire.
write about neese in and out of the house, the careful balance of allergies against the weight of loud conversations, the basement lights in photographs crowning him in recognition of his bravery in the face of cat dander.
write about s.a. setting fire to his poem and not rushing the ending, his words a brand on memory, a curl of smoke inhaled by everyone listening, drawn into lungs finding home next to the heart, his reward a kiss and everlasting envy.
write about staggering out of bed on four hours rest to scrambled eggs and bacon and beer, lester a smiling jesus impersonator with a wife full of hidden poetry, everyone grinning in anticipation of the next moment, the images all blurred together, second to second, truth as transitory as a clockface.
write about a backyard full of brothers and sisters, a constant changing of faces beneath blue plastic shelter, rainfall the only punctuation aside from barks of joy, sitting in the grass, everything real, everyone translated from electronic image to flesh without one misplaced comma.
write about the absences, the lacks of presence we had hoped to be filled, whose words we wanted pressed against us, vowing next year and then forever in the holy ghost of ink; scott and cat and miriam and chrissy, the endless list of speechless saints we're all waiting to hear read.
write about mike and his worries and sweats and dedication to movement, the holy spectacle of the met, his hands in every detail, his voice the fast following echo to every poem, his thank-god-he's-drunk-enough reading at the barbeque, there at the center of it all.
write about all night jazz at the foundation, connective tissue in our shared history, blowing out notes and words, the world all improvised from the rim of a lifted trumpet and the importance of measured breath.
write about the autographing of a vagina, about sleeping beneath trees in firefly contemplation, about blacktop meditation pilgramages to a mental mecca, about the search for that last pool hall, about a night spent on downstairs couch denying dawnbreak, about leaping over fences with a fifth of vodka, about the unexpected arrival of the perfect pulp villian complete down to sharp rapping cane, about the rude secretary at the econolodge, about how every farewell was a eulogy over the body of lazarus
write about it all, each minute, every detail of belonging and someday do it justice
