All City

My friends and I were drinking forties at a park by my house when we decided it was time for me to hit my first billboard burner. I’d been doing graffiti for about a year, busting tags across my city with racked markers from Michaels, spray cans from OSH, and custom made, multi-colored mean streaks my friends and I constructed while chain-smoking Kools we bought by the carton from a dude named Wino Juan. My other two boys had already broken their billboard cherries—now it was time for me to get down.

“I say you hit that plastic surgery board off Capitol, towards Milpitas. There’s little to no lighting, and cops patrol less on the edges of the city,” Blend told me and my boy, Giant. He was the seasoned graff artist in our crew, KILL THAT NOISE, or K-10 for short, so we usually followed his lead. He was also the most talented. His older brother went All City a decade ago, and he taught Blend everything about graff: how to 3d and shade, how to one-line and throwie, how to rack supplies and mix streaks. Blend was busting tags on the benches of our elementary school while I was still drawing Ninja Turtles and Power Rangers.

“Na man, Capitol is hot right now. That cat from tops, M4ker, got caught up there a few weeks ago. His first time needs to be in the cuts. Dude will get spooked every-time a car passes. He might fall off like Just-us did,” Giant laughed and nudged me.

“That shit’s not funny. That dude broke his tailbone” I said.

“Ah, fuck that fool. He crossed me out at Hellyer,” Giant said

“HAHA, that was hella long ago,” Blend said.

“I don’t give a fuck how long ago that shit was. He’s lucky I never ran into him. Dude would’ve gotten smashed. I’m glad that shit happened to him. Aaand he was crossing out another dude on that board. Karmas a bitch.” Giant responded half angry. He was always ready to funk. He liked to fight more than paint, but he was just that type of dude. His entire family banged, and despite him not clicking up with the gang, he still sometimes acted like he was a banger, instead of an artist.

“Calmate fool, you take shit too serious…but he kinda did get what he deserved. Could’ve been worse, though—he could’ve busted his ass, then get busted by rollers, then get his ass busted in county,” Blend said with a snicker, causing Giant and I to crack-up.

“That’s fucked up, yo,” I said, still laughing.

“You got a spot in mind, Abel?” Blend asked me. “Giant’s probably right. It should be a board in the cuts. How bout one in Morgan Hill or Gilroy? I know there’s some on Monterey, and Morgan hill don’t got shit for cops.”

“The fuck, how would we get there? I asked. “There’s no bus stop out that way, and we can’t trek out there. Three dudes wearing back-packs and hoodies walking down the shoulder of Monterey–the fuck outta-here with all that jazz. And I’m not trying to hit up some farmer’s board. You know the rules.”

The three of us created our own graffiti code of conduct. One of the rules was that we couldn’t hit up signs or walls or anything that causes private businesses to lose money; except for ones we didn’t like: the plastic surgery board, for example, or advertisements for lawyers or fast-food or anything political—basically things we felt were detrimental to society. The code made sense at the time, but we didn’t figure in the tax money spent on cleaning up graffiti, and the indirect impact that had on people we tried not to affect. We also never tagged on playgrounds, or anything kids had direct contact with.

“I could hit up Lexus. She’d be down to drive us out there,” Giant said. “She’s been on my dick since Sum1’s party.”

“Ya wey, you and your groupies,” Blend said. “Sometimes I think you only paint for pussy and funk.”

There was an abundance of graff groupies, as we called them, that orbited around the scene. Girls who’d fuck you just because they could say they did with a cat that caught city fame. Blend and I didn’t fuck around with these girls–too many of them were shady and/or annoying–but Giant partook liberally. He had a Myspace account dedicated to girls he’d fucked, and dozens of half-naked pics with his tags on their bodies.

“You guys are gay,” Giant laughed. “I can hit up Lexus, have her drive us out there, throw up, then we could go back to her pad and take turns fucking her.” he said, absolutely serious with the proposition.

“Fuck that,” I said. “That girl’s fucked half of San Jose. I’m not trying to catch herps.”

“Ditto,” Blend said. “But I’m down to have her drive us. Does she know about the crew?”

San Jose had recently changed its Graffiti Laws. Crews now caught gang charges if there was three or more cats in it, and recently a kid new to the scene got caught up with a black-book, and snitched out dozens of cats from a bunch of crews. Some of the artists caught charges that put them up in Elmwood for six months and thousands of dollars in restitution fees, just for graff, so the scene was real hush hush about crews, not talking about them in the vicinity of civilians. We were only known by our individual names to reduce the likelihood of catching heavy charges. Blend had already been caught up once, but with his old name, Jest, getting him two-hundred hours of community service and a five-thousand dollar fine that his grandma was still paying off.

“Na man, she doesn’t know shit. I think she still thinks I’m Mad1,” Giant snickered.

“Cool, hit her up,” Blend said.

While Giant called his beezy, Blend and I planned the bomb.

“What are trying to bust?” Blend asked. “It’s your first billie, so you should probably bust a throwie you’ve done before. That one you did at Hellyer earlier today was clean and simple. It would only take a few minutes to do the whole deed. Fifteen seconds to climb up, and a minute, tops, to bust your shit.”

“Na, I think I want to do something new. I’ve been doing that throwie for the last few months. It’s old and boring. I’ve been working on a nu-mark,” I said while breaking out my mini black-book.

“Yoooo, that’s fresh,” Blend said after grabbing my book and peeping my new pieces. “Look at you all stylin and shit. No lie, this is the best I’ve seen from you. You’ve really come up, man.”

“Thanks bro. Not to ride my own jock, but I think it’s on point with your shit.”

Whoaaa tiger, calm down. It’s dope, but I’m grey death,” Blend responded with a phrase I think he just made up.

“Alright, it might not be on the level of ‘Blend‘,” I said mockingly, with air quotations.

“HA HA,” Blend responded straight-faced.

“I play, I play,” I snickered. “Alright, what cans did you bring?”

“I got two white and two black Rustos, and one brand fucking new red Montana.”

“Ayeee I haven’t used a Montana before,” I said excitedly. “Let me see that shit.”

Rusto was a good graff spray can, but Montana was top shelf shit—aerosol created solely for graff. Regular cans you’d toss after using them up, but you always kept Montanas. They’re the graffiti equivalent to trophies. Blend had dozens lining every flat surface in his room.

“Cool, so white fill, black outline, with a Montana stamp?” Blend asked rhetorically. “You got the initial outline in white, I follow behind you with the white fill, you come back around with black outline, I clean up any light spots with white, then you finish with the dirty, Montana red stamp.”

“Fuck yea,” I responded as Giant got off the phone with Lexus.

“Yoooo, she’ll be here in twenty,” Giant said. “And she wanted me to tell you, Abel, that’s she’s already wet.”



End of part-one.

Somehow I woke up today, after sleeping ten hours, oddly refreshed, considering my three day drug and alcohol binge. I feel fantastic and inspired and creative, hopefully it continues. I plan on being happy for the next few days. My sister made a surprise trip out to see me, and she’s bringing my niece, so that should extend my good mood, at least until they leave. I’m going to go have sushi with them, maybe catch a flick, but I’m going to finish up this story tonight or tomorrow. The title’s tentative—I couldn’t think of another one, but something will come to my mind as I work on part two.

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I Don’t Miss You

I don’t miss you.

I miss my vision of you.

The you from my dreams.

The you who’d stuff large pieces of sushi into your mouth, mid-sentence–despite knowing my pet peeve for people who talk with food in their mouths–while preparing a piece for me with the perfect amount of wasabi and soy sauce, and stuffing it into my mouth, as you finish your train of thought, tempting me to contradict my own pet peeve with a lovely, impish grin.

The you who’d hold me on lovely nights, under lovely skies, and ask me to find the little dipper–despite knowing exactly where it is–just to have me look down, innocently willing to answer your question, and be met with puckered lips, ready for a happily ever after kiss.

The you who’d run your hands through my hair as my head rested on your naked body, while listening to me read out loud–despite knowing I hate reading out loud–an article purporting that the structure of a single human brain cell matches that of the universe so closely that our universe might just be the brain cell of another higher being.

I don’t miss you.

I don’t miss the real you.

I don’t miss the now you.

The you who’d tell be through texts that Somebody else calls me dollface now.

The you who aped my personality–the good, bad and obnoxiously individualist–and incorporated into your own personality like a sartorial accessory.

The you who crushed up my remaining innocence and railed it so you could party for days on end with people I introduced you to, telling them, from a high white pony, about all the fucked up shit I never did, but you say regardless, because it helps you sleep every third night.

I don’t miss you.

I miss my books you kept as your own and show to others to appear interesting and informed.

I miss the records I spent hours and days and weeks scavenging from garage sales, flea markets and Amoeba SF, that you show off despite not having a turntable to play them.

I miss the clothes I bought, which made me stand out, that you decided to cleverly cut into dresses to wear for other men, on other lovely nights, under other lovely skies.

I don’t miss you.

I miss me.

I miss the me you stole and never gave back.

I miss the me that wrote silly, happily ever after poems.

I miss the me that liked to drunkenly tell anyone who wanted to listen about the Greek origin of soul mates…how man was originally created with four arms, four legs, two heads, and one heart, and how they challenged the gods, and nearly won, and because of that, the gods decided that man was too powerful and needed to be split in half so they’d spend their entire lives searching for their other half.

I don’t miss you.



 

I don’t usually write on weekdays, but I needed to get this out.

 

Capsules of Concentrated Sacrifices

I sacrificed my dreams to not have nightmares.

I sacrificed my body to not hate the way I look.

I sacrificed my favorite feature, my changeling eyes, to pills that permanently dilate them, making them appear brown and drab, to not have them half-covered by sleepless eyelids.

I sacrificed my limitless highs to not have crushing lows.

Maybe I should build a pyre of prescription pill bottles and sacrifice my sanity, again, to elevate my psyche back to my pantheon of personality extremes.

Maybe I could find happiness in being Zeus for a few weeks or months, Hades for a few years, Apollo and Athena for a few moments, here and there, all rolled into my primary personality, Dionysus, who drinks wine, takes ecstasy and eats lotus flowers, and live a perpetual life of ritual madness.

Maybe I should just sacrifice myself, and ask to be buried somewhere pretty, with a rose bush growing on top of my grave, not bouquets laying on it to wilt and decay and be blown away.

Maybe sacrifices are stupid.

Maybe I’m stupid for thinking sacrifices are stupid.

Maybe life is a series of protracted sacrifices.

Maybe sacrifices are natural and necessary to advance our lives.

Maybe I don’t like that sacrifices are natural.

Maybe I should burden myself with the sins and sacrifices of others–then sacrifice myself like the scapegoat in the bible.

Yea, maybe I’ll sacrifice myself, my soul, my entire being.

One last sacrifice.

Maybe.

It’s a Beautiful Night

Once upon a love, under diamond studded skies draped in nimbus negligee, two lovers drank cheap Moscato in a park overlooking the city, chain-smoking Kools and flicking the still-lit butts towards downtown hoping a strong west-wind would pick one up and drop it on the silk dress of some floozy who just got done saying like for the 47th time, setting her dress aflame as douchebags, who’ve blown hot air at her and her ilk all night, fan the flames, setting off a chain reaction that travels down each alley, each smoking section, into each bar and club, setting the city’s night life ablaze for days, until all the ego and vanity burns away.

“It’s a beautiful night to watch the world burn,” his lover says before taking the last sip of Moscato and smashing the bottle on the ground.

“I love you,” he replies.

Random Spaces, Punctuation & Nonsense

FUCK,

FUck,

Fuck,

fuck.

I can’t write anything pretty,

                                                  or maybe I can.

                                  Maybe it’s pretty and I can’t see it.

Yea, that’s probably what it is.

                                         Maybe I’ll read this a few years from now and think, WOW.

Or maybe I’ll trash this draft and forget it entirely.

                                                      I don’t know.

                      Anything could happen.

IF you can’t tell, I’m rambling, and here’s my ubiquitous, “I’m Sorry”.

                                                     I have to say it.

                                     I can’t stand when I do this shit.

                                                                                                 It’s so annoying.

                                                                   I’m so annoying.

Look at me rambling.

             Eighty-nine words of erroneous thoughts.

                             I’m so stupid.

                                                                     This is why I chomp down on my tongue every day.

I have nothing nice to say.

I don’t even have any interesting, mean things to say.

IT’s all been said.

We’re all in pain.

We all want to kill ourselves.

Or maybe we don’t.

Camus said that suicide was the only serious philosophical question…or something along those lines.

He was a good dude.

I love The Stranger.

I love the concept of a man being put on trial for his lack of emotions,

not his actual crime

That’s what that book is about, yea?

                                                               I don’t know,

I haven’t read it in a while.

 

 

The Wicked Never Sleep

So…a quick update/warning—I’m drunk again, and on drugs….the good kinds though: shrooms, sassafras, kratom, and coca leaves. I do have some straight coke that I’ve been able to keep myself from, so far, but it’s the weekend and I feel like going crazy on drugs to keep myself from going crazy sober.

Anyways, I’ll be posting a lot, and I apologize for how erroneous they’ll be. Some will contain sentences. Some merely words…maybe portmanteaus that my drugged up mind think are clever. Some dreams/nightmares. Maybe some poetry. I don’t know what will come, but I guarantee I’ll never look at these posts again. I hope everyone is happier than I am.

And I say that not to garner attention. Please don’t message me thinking I need support.

Oh, and I grew a beard. It’s pretty bangin…first erroneous line.

Intro to a Story…Blah

How many times can one come to at three in the morning, after inhaling Buddha knows what off a Lionel Richie record, surrounded by a group of unfamiliars sitting indian style with jaws swinging to the hard house beat of an All Night Long remix?

How many times?

I don’t know, but I did it again.

“Don’t look at me, Lionel!” I scream after locking eyes with the singer’s fixed gaze, tossing a few hundred dollars worth of noctilucent lines in the air to float and fuse with all the other party particulates to permeate the stuffy, hipster hovel.

……………



 

I really wanted to finish a story or poem this weekend, but I’ve been a mess lately. I added about twenty drafts to my backlog, most of which only contain a sentence or two of paranoid rambling, but nothing post-worthy–outside the one “Mantra”, but I’m getting tired of those.

I’m going to keep on writing tonight, but I can’t guarantee I’ll produce anything. I’m also a drunk again, so that doesn’t help. Or it might, I don’t know. Getting drunk these days is a hit or miss or bullseye.

Anyways, I started the story above. I like it, but it might be shit.