hurling pumpkins at your door

i awoke at four in the morning to a pounding in my head...and even in my sleepy state i knew this was not the result of a hangover...i was still living in colorado and the mile high air left me devoid of horrors such as that...no, the pounding was not only in my head, but in objective reality as well...it had been a rough night already, even though at this instant i was waking up next to an apple assed beauty...many people, when hearing noises, especially strange noises in their apartment, would become a little wary about who or what was causing them...i, although just jarred from the peace of sleep, knew instinctively...it was my roommate, my lawyer, and my religious council extraordinare, allen...as soon as i walked into the unfurnished livingroom i knew that i would be the one providing the closing arguments tonite...i walked in with my usual tone (exaggerated of course because of the hour and circumstance) "what the hell are you doing out here you crazy fuck?!"...all i received in return was a blank stare...it turns out he was beating one of our kitchen chairs, part of our kitchen set, to a pulp...he had bought a table and four chairs for twenty-five dollars and now he was laying madly into one of our few possessions...it was sad...not the beating per se which was quite humourous even in my present mental state, but the sadness of seeing meager possessions destroyed...his response to my line was only a look in my direction...but that look told me everything i cared to know...his eyes were swimming like caged goldfish, and the stare revealed that he did not even recognize me...evidently the subtle 'canadian mist' had crept up on him and engulfed his skull...finally after much cajoling i convinced him to stop his beating of a defenceless kitchen chair, and i went back to bed...however, within' five minutes the pounding began again though softer and muffled...i again rose to the cold night, clad only in boxers, to discover that our beloved esquire had resumed his chair beating outside on the balcony...somewhere in his strange whiskey-riddled mind the publicity of the balcony might draw more attention, but not from his immediate adversary (his roommate)...again, i have the same conversation with the idiot savant, and finally resume my slumber hoping in my drifting that the good lawyer will begin his...now, the night vanquished and the sub-zero morning rising from the east i wake, put on a pot of coffee, and light a camel cigarette...as i sip my coffee and gaze out to the parking lot i see a lump next to the dumpster, sleeping in the snowy morning light...a closer look reveals the truth...my legal council and roommate is passed out next to the dumpster, nestled in the snow's soft embrace...as i sip my coffee and wonder if he is still breathing, the lovely apple cheeked maiden passes behind me, breasts bouncing in the crisp november morning..."is that allen by the dumpsters?" she asks as she reaches for the coffee pot..."yes" is my thoughtless reply gazing westward towards the foothills...i sip and stare and think of human multiplicity, i see we are all caught in a dream between beauty and truth, in an existence that we have not asked for but received nonetheless...hallelujah...

the queen's english

it was bleak today on the hi-way of tears...another accident and another mangled car...the sky doesnt seem clear on days like this...the police stumbling and bumbling with the flares, the e.m.s workers waiting for a casualty, and me driving to the airport...as i passed the scene i thought, man i am glad i am not the mangled...relying on people who were duds in high school to revive me...not geeks, no, e.m.s workers were never the smart ones...they were the ones that majored in gym class...but i guess their intentions are good...i kept on moving, just like the dirty semis, and sad s.u.v.'s, on towards the port...not like in the old days when the port had substance, had character...back when the queen would break a bottle on the hull and we would all sail like gentlemen and ladies off to the new world or the old one...sipping champagned ceilings worth of chandeliers...spending a few days on the sea letting it all set in...the movement, and the change...a real change...these days it's a night on the tarmac, stewardesses looking at you crook-eyed for ordering a plastic airplane bottle's full of some chemical tasting spirit...realising that when the plane thumps its engines and goes tumbling into the abyss, you are going to perish next to jimmy from des moines with a tray table full of frozen turkey on your lap...there is no honor in that...there is no searching for the north star, no tranquility anymore...it is from the hi-way to the terminal to the air and repeat...i realized recently that in the middle of the atlantic there is a place where you can see the stars better than in the utah desert...out on the waves, gliding soft as lace, the world holds its mystery...here riding on the cracked concrete of the day, there is no mystery, only empty miles...

the golden hammer

he woke up bleary-eyed with the sun shining on his face and the wind whipping outside the window...it rattled the panes and shook the apartment, but still not with the force that he had inherited...last night he had the strangest dream, an angel appeared to him, holding a golden hammer in his hand...this hammer passed from the angel to him...than he awoke to the sounds of the wind and the radio...playing..."if you had such a dream, would you get up and do the things you believe in, while your head is clear, la la la la la"...he walked down to the corner to buy some cigarettes, still humming the last tune he heard...he walked in, "la la la la la"...the cigarettes smoked he stumbled again to the windswept streets, the gusts rolling down from skyscrapered canyons to his door...he went into the nearest bar to escape the onslaught...it was warm inside both from the fireplace, and the carbon dioxide being spilled into the air by a few of the well dressed brokers at the bar...he too sat at the bar far from the suits and ordered a whiskey straight up...the whiskey soothed him but the suits irked him...their conversation was the usual and they were really no different than any other good proel in the uncaring city...the strange part was he didn't hate these people or like them...and now this feeling was even stronger...ever since the dream, it seemed as if he was indifferent to everyone...even to himself...he tuned out the conversation and for the first time remembered his strange dream and what it had really done to him...what had he become...he thought of the golden hammer and imagined himself using it...wielding it as the pure will of god...the thunder louder, the wind furious...the plague removed, the light shining through...he imagined the millions and millions of miles of desolation, the fallow fields, the empty faces, the darkness banished in one instant of realization...the hammer flaming had cracked the false facade and brought forth pure knowledge...the will, indifferent, had restored itself...at that moment the jukebox crept into his vision..."judy i dont know you if you're gonna show me everything"...and with that he came out of his trance and realized his glass was empty...he paid the tab, and passed the suits with hardly a glance...he walked out onto the windy streets, it was dusk now and he had little time...night was almost upon him and he had appointments to keep...

head through the dashboard

'pop'...there goes the cork on another night...the boy with the five o'clock wake up call comments to the wind, "just like your cherry"...yes indeed, to the girl he never knew, and the bottle he recently met...it is another night on this planet of fools...ripe with the strangers that populate...so it is another night of california wine, get it down no matter how it happens...whether it be the unlikely wine glass, or the coffee mug, or simply the bottle...because as long as it isn't french and takes you away from the open pit, life is good... he waits, sipping from the savior's tit...watching curling matches at three in the morning because someone somewhere loves this sport and he wants to know why...he looks at the clock and two hours of sleep doesn't make a difference, 'cause he will be sleeping again soon...we will all be sleeping again soon...what's another hangover in honor of the likes of the napa valley...he's been watching curling for three hours, but he already knows more than the lifers do...he watches for three hours only to see one highly pressurized mistake take that sonofabitch back to minnesota to make pizzas, when even he, the son of dionysus, sitting crooked in his chair, knew the proper move...and he watches teens and lechers from the prettier parts of his country speak like saplings...but instead of ultimate exuberance, the night grows longer and the cold grows colder...the jungle wild, creeps in...

one brain cell short of a teaparty

ahh yes, the good doctor is back to share more inane observations with his kin-folk...the other night i was trying to look up this girl i knew from colorado on the internet who was supposedly starting her own school down in tennessee after grad school...i thought she had an excellent idea and was excited to browse the website and see what a crazy success she had become...of course i found every other person with her name but her...it seems that whenever i am looking for someone over the internet, no matter what the name, common or not, i cannot find them...i think it is unfair that anyone can type in my name and quickly find sites referring to me...i was bored the other night so i just typed in my last name to see what other people bearing my surname were doing with their lives...it pretty much ran the gambit from some big-shot biology professor in hawaii that has written a thousand books, to some guy in florida on death row...so i guess i am not the most successful member of this surname army, but at least i am not the most infamous either...it must be horrifying having a famous name...dr. coove has the same name as some author and occasionally gets his email...it is unfortunate because it makes more work for him...at first he wouldnt respond, but then he would get follow up emails asking why there was no response...so then he had to begin to write back explaining that they had the wrong address...then they would write back apologizing and asking if he knew the correct one...he did not seem to mind too much but to me it seemed downright annoying...even telling the story seemed like too much work for me...i am not feeling all that great so i will end this pointless endeavor...the good doctor needs his sleep and quite frankly this boring blog i am writing is putting me quickly into dreamland...i hope my next blog will be better, but i cannot get up every night writing exciting insights about trips to the pharmacy for you...maybe if they gave me better pharmaceuticals...or any for that matter...i do have a convenience store story i will drag out soon...how exciting...arms and legs everywhere...