Thursday, March 29, 2007

Tavasz is here!!!!

Birds, hungarian birds belting out folks songs, birds fucking flitting in my mind, a sappy soundtrack as the credits of my final dream roll out my head. Birds. In two weeks I will buy a shotgun and kill them all, (especially the ones twiddling in my head) but for now its beautiful, a sudden virilty fills me. I can do anything for the next second.

Last night I finally bitchslapped my insomnia, and I actually slept for the first time in three days. This week my classes have been terrible. I assigned busy work as my bloated brain wobbled back and forth between conciousness and some terrible gooey feeling. I met a very clever hungarian girl for coffee, and no matter how much I tried, I couldn.t keep up with her jokes, which were mostly puns and ironic suckerpunches, you know my favorite type of humor. During my private lessons, we watched movies. Hopefully next week with my mind and body recharrged I can make up for my ineptitude. By the way, insomnia in Hungary is fucked because church bells bang all night long, and I am not sure if I am dreaming the landscape. I still wonder if I'm even here. Am I still in Portland walking hungover down Hawthorne, trying to find a way to slay the grabby goblin in my brain?

Monday, March 26, 2007



This small town swelled to the size of a badly sprained ankle this weekend for the annual sandor bali. Two other Americans and I sat through a Hungarian play only to dance to a terrible band, all night long. We had to do some freestyle climbing to get back to my apartment at 6 in the morning. My American colleagues gawked at my students all night long, while I reminded them that they were gentlemen and not pedophiles every 5 minutes. I am hungover as hell and I didn't drink a thing last night. I won free trip to the szolarium (tanning salon) in the raffle. Ladies, Ladies one at a time!! My dark teats will remain a deep mahogany for at least two weeks.!

Monday, March 19, 2007

The Piano Flutters Like a Drunk Butterfly

Or maybe butterflies flutter like drunk pianos. One of those is right. I know butterflies much better than margarine!!!!!!!!!!! I was in Vienna a short time ago. People traveled in fiberglass bubbles, that darted through the air. There was a funny dog. Nevermind, that’s the Jetsons re-run I watched on Tuesday. But Don’t you think Judy is hot? I think she should quit Space Age Beauty School, and concentrate on her rocky relationship with the undeniably hunky Irving.
Vienna is the place fingers come from by the way. And Mozart. Fingers and Mozart. Vienna is the most encouraging city I have seen. There was already a postcard in my mailbox when I arrived home. There are buildings way older and better than the pennies you save that you think you are old, and probably worth more too. There were many different tongues, saliva from at least a dozen different countries covers St. Stephen’s Square. There were Spanish sneezes, Czech coughs, French farts, German groans, etc. etc. Fucking expensive though. Somebody says it because of some giant European Onion. I don’t understand. I’m drunk.

The Moment I Stopped Loving You

was probably
around the campfire
when I told you
I thought of
the perfect chorus
for a pop song
and you never
asked me
what it was.

Monday, March 12, 2007

Battling The Jolly Green Giant in Hungary(to all the motherfuckers back home in Anotsomerryca, You know what I mean. goddam right. Hellefukingyouya!)

My first battle with the Giant was a strange one. I was a poor coyote selling drugs so my girlfriend could afford an abortion. Then I grew a mustahce, shaved it, used the hairs to build a black mansion just so I could describe it in a spooky poem. Now I am covered in curry powder, and my head is a volleyball. Also I feel like I am in the exact center of nowhere, some great nowhere, like the Great Hungarian Plain, if it even exists.

Now is not a good time.
That’s what I want
tattooed on my forehead.
When I do need companionship,
sex, or money, I can
say its ironic, or that I brim
with hot optimism.

No offense. But no world
can yank at my ear lobes.
I spent all afternoon
reinventing the word universe,
and then rearranging the wheelbarrow,
which is now the word for a starlit sky.

Seriously, my heart floats like a ghost
following a former wife
around the track at the gym,
which doesn’t interest me.
And my mind blinks like
a florescent banana begging
tourists to have one more drink
before they visit their lives again.

So, don’t worry about it.
I’m not mad. You’ll probably never see me mad.
I am neither forlornly profound.
I am an animal that must hibernate
for at least three months a year
just to remember what dreams are,
and that there is no better time than now.

Tuesday, March 6, 2007

Hernadnemeti, Gyor, Szentendre, Budapest, Gyula, Szarvas, Szolnok

I've been here more than a month now. I've dipped my dead body in a pit where stronger dumber men died a death a boy like me can only dream of. I made love on the roof of an old factory, mooned the moon, shocked the stars into orgasm. I've followed an injured dog into an ancient cave and stroked medieval bats with sunlight-filled fingers. I've flailed my foreign hands and stenciled SOS into my forehead with a red sharpie. I've been slaughtered by the corks of cheap champagne bottles and soaked Jesus with black absynithe-the only prayer that seemed justifiable. I am happy to spend my minutes shouting into tape recorders and embelleshing the events of my life into existence. Once again, I am a drunk American slurring my silent epiphanies out my dick and asshole, a sort of universal language that no one can and cannot understand. Whatever. This two dollar bottle of Hungarian wine is just enough and tommorow, another will be here burning red on my kitchen table and flowing like the tongue of an impossible lover down my throat with just enough warmth to fool my pussy pulse into pumping. Just enough warmth to make me not give a fuck, and give a huge fucking fuck at the same time. Just enough warmth to remember how much goddamn love I've brushed against in this precious little procession that plays like a mix tape in summer. The window is down and the system is up.