Homeless in paris

In tenth grade I went to paris. And I didn't even realize I was there.

In eleventh, I passed through on my way to Belgium.

In twelth, I bought a ticket, and fell in love with the "city of light". I wouldn't leave, I missed my flight. I stayed a few extra months. But as my age grew and my time in paris began shrinking, and the cafes that held the poetry nights were turning off their lifes, and my visas expiration date a few days away, I left my bags, and ran. I did all the things that I never did before: I saw the eifell tower, I went to the louvre, I saw all the sights, and toured all the museums, I even hopped on a tour bus. I winded up behind a shoe repair shop and did the only thing I came to Paris to do: I painted a poem.

I gave up my life, I gave up the temporary job that the program I was enrolled in gave me, I left the house that I lived in, I ran, I took all my savings and bought a little furnished apartment. I didn't (and still don't) speak french--it's hard to get a job in paris if you can't talk to anyone--so over the months I sold my belongings, starting with the T.V., then the couch, then the bedside table, then the rug, then my clothes, my books, my records, my bed sheets, my shoes, I sold everything, I wore the exact same clothes every day for three months, I'm skinny and malnurished, and every night I lie awake thinking of what Paris used to be, and the girl who left me, I think of how foolish I am, and that question that I was never able to answer: "Why did you ignore the warnings?" and the afterthought is imminent:  "You knew that paris had (and still does have) one of the highest unemployment rates, and the same goes with homeless rates." I shoot up heroin to dull the pain, to forget about what I had, when I'm passed out, I dream of Alaska. Yesterday mourning I woke up, it was goddamn freezing, so I tore the wallpaper--to use it to start a fire in a gallon size can of tomato soup--but underneath the repetitive flower print, was the sillouette of New York, I've never been to New York, but I knew what it meant.

I can't afford a plane ticket out of here. The rent was due today, I only had 40 euros.
I got kicked out of my appartment, they didn't return my deposit--obviously.
I walked to the train station, bought myself some skag and another saringe, I walked into a resturant and stole a spoon. I borrowed a lighter and hopped a train to nantes.

There is this river outside of Nantes, it's called "the loire" my plan is to take one last hit, and drown myself in it. I was never going to leave paris, I should be in college. I should be doing something with my life. I shouldn't have let her leave. I shouldn't have drowned Mila. The ice never broke. Using her scarf, I suffocated her, and then smashed her head against the ice, it wouldn't break through, so I walked to shore and found a rock, and pounded and pounded till there was a hole big enough to fit her into.

I was never going to leave Paris. I might as well die here. I was never going to go to Alaska, I was never going to see the glaciers or fishing boats or the forests, I was never going to get her back.

I'll never leave France. Even if they fly me back to the states, my soul will remain in this country, my spirit will float down the loire, the animals and birds will drink me up, and my soul will end up as pigeon shit on every statue in Paris.

The Novels

 

 

 

You aren't anything, without me.

With much envy, Death.

Church of the Broken Axe Handle

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZbH6gzsqto

Church of the Broken Axe Handle by Derrick C. Brown, from his collection 'Scandalabra'.

I can't say enough. Every line, is so good, so perfect. I wish there really was a church like this.

Ode to Irvine Welsh

"An thas whein starit runnin', tha wee palice officas litele feets tryin tae move a bit fasta, bu their fat asses can't keep up. maist of em are prety slow. thas why none uv us ave ever been caught. me an tha boys, one store ta tha next. faces on posters en maist uv the stores en  es litle shitole uv a town"

"Wait, so, are you saying that none of you have ever been caught?"

"Well, obviously we ave, but neva if we saw em cawmin"

"Like in the incident where your brother was shot?"

"Yeah, jus like that. E'll all be shootin' up in mother superiors kitchen, an have tha door kickit in an all run fer tha winda, bu tha litle palice officas ill all be awaitin et tha battum uv tha fire escape. But if were ona train an decide ta take some litle lateys purse when we guh ta get off, an some palice officas stanin en tha station an sees us, ell we git away evry time"

"Could you, explain what happened to your brother?"

"Eah, I gess could. Bu furst, he wount my brotha. I took em unda me wing when we wa yanga."

"And, gave him heroin?"

"Yeah. he woulda foun it imself."

"Do you hold yourself responsible for his death?"

"Eh. Every dae. Now, ya wanda knao wha happent ta him er jus sit an paint fingas?"

"Sorry, please, as you were saying,"

"I took em unda me wing when we wa yanga, shawed im is real famiy."

"who was?"

"Me, sick boy, mother superior, and darcy. Mother Superior ist bout ten years older then all of us. Is parens died when he wast yunga and as uset their life savins ant insurance money ta fund awll uv our addicshins. Anywae, we wast at a train stashion an decitet ta snag ourselves sum money, Sick Boy braught is  itle gun wit im, an as it urns up tha itle prick we triet ta roub was a undacuhvae palise offica, and he tries ta arres us an so we staret ta run, and he firet uh few shawts sa Sick Boy firet a few back, bu what he dint know was that me brathae, mista hunt, wast bein eld by tha palice offica."

"So what are you doing in here?"

"I wast so fuckin pist at em all, Sick boy, Mother Superior, the palice officas, me parents, evrywon, so I wint off ant kellet em."

In the house, speaking in the tounge of sailors.

"You're, you're just, just, you're just always so fucking angry. It drives me crazy, why can't you just fuckin' lighten up? Take a god damn joke."

"Oh, oh, alright, okay, so this is uh, this is because I have no fucking sense of humor? You wanna hear joke or something?"

"Yeah I'd fucking love to hear a fuckin' joke from you."

"Is that gonna make you stop fucking everyone you meet?"

"It was--f-for Christs sake Gene, do you have to put every argument we have back to these little isolated inci--"

"Don't you dare pull that shit with me; every argument we have is becasue you've been fucking someone"

"Oh bullshit."

"Oh real fuckin' lady-like,"

"Are you really gonna talk to me about manners? Mr. Sailormouth."

"Oh, that was real fucking clever Annie. No, no, I'm truly honestly surprised at the amount of wit that you have."

"You are such an ass."

"And, you, are fucking whore. No pun intended."

"Fuck you Gene."

"Is it because I'm not successful?"

"What?"

"Is it because I'm not successful? Are you just growing so sick of waiting around for me, paying the bills, like--just, I need to know."

"I don't love you."

"Why the hell do you stick around?"

"You always forgave me."

Smarts.

"Before he was 25, Nikola Tesla had already invented the induction motor...
I always thought that I would have found a cure for schizophrenia by 25."

I remember signing and dancing and joking. I remember days when I could leave my house. I remember being comfortable enough to make physical contact with someone. I remember feeling okay to hug someone, to hold a hand, to give a little smooch.
I remember being called. I remember my house only being the place where I slept. I remember standing in front of people with steady hands.
I remember being able to make friends with anyone.

Now i'm just nervous, I have panic attacks when I see words like "hang out". My personal space has more control over me then any drug I've taken. I stay mostly to my house. I have a little "nook" in my bedroom, filled with books. I watch five, maybe six episodes of crimanal minds a day. I watched the first season of wilfred in one sitting. The Star Wars saga is watched bi-weekly. I go days without phone calls or text messages. When someone asks me "Hey Gene, want to do something?" I spit out the first thing that comes to my head: oh, y'know.
Confused, they'll say "no, i don't." realizing what I've said I retort something like: oh, I'm not feeling well tonight, but thank you for the offer.
I ignore phone calls; it's easy for people to tell that you're lying when they can hear your voice.

Hearts.

 



"Barney, you really do wear your heart on your sleeve. Now put it away, it's disgusting to look at."

Benediction.

ˌbeniˈdik sh ən|

nounthe utterance or bestowing of a blessing, esp. at the end of a religious service.• ( Benediction) a service in which the congregation is blessed with the Blessed Sacrament, held mainly in the Roman Catholic Church.• devout or formal invocation of blessedness : her arms outstretched in benediction.• the state of being blessed : he eventually wins benediction.ORIGIN late Middle English : via Old French from Latinbenedictio(n-), from benedicere ‘wish

 

 

It felt like a benediction. I never thought we'd be like this--friends.
It seems like we were too cute to end, we were like that annoying jr. high couple that was always touching and tickling and kissing and hugging and all the shit I hated to do in public. But, you were too pretty.
I know that it's my fault, I didn't mean anything that I said, I was just tired I guess.
When you said "goodnight, drive safe.", I don't know, it was like you really meant it, like you had forgiven me, like what was done was done and everything was gonna be alright. It was like you were just glad to be with me, and you were looking forward to seeing me again. It was like we were gonna become like the love you see in the movies, not the lifetime movies, more like the weinstein company movies. quiet and silent, like being with each other is enough, like the silence is holding our affection.
I don't know, maybe I sound strange.

The Troopers.

I am just another clone, covered in white armor.
I was made to be a soldier, I was made to be obedient.
My ancestors turned on their jedi masters, in the middle of battle.

What can I do? for decades, the bastards on Kashyk have breed us to do whatever we are told.
do you know how that feels?
In the BSDS (Boy Scouts of the Death Star) My troop leader told me that I had to take off my armor,
and dress up like princess leia, when she was chained to jaba the hut, he then asked me to choke him.

I did it,
and i'm not proud. But, I had no control, i was made to be this way,
I was made to tell people to "Move along." and walk away from a door because it was already locked;
I was taught that if a door is locked, who/whatever I'm looking for, is not behind it.
I was made to shoot my blaster at giant spaceships, but I never learned how to hit them.

I am just another clone, covered in white armor.
Constantly teased.
But for all the things I am teased about, I must accept,
For these, and much more is who I am.
I am the force to a jedi.
I am the magical existence of oxygen in space everytime something in star wars explodes.
I am the fighter in the tai (no I'm not talking about space ships (Inapproite? who gives a shit))
I am the designer who decided that a hole as big as a womp rat looked good.
I am the architect that told the designer that if there is going to be a hole, it better have a purpose.
I am the drunk trooper that told the architect that "it would be cool if uhhh you like umm shot a laser inta uh a hole on the death star and like the whole fuckin' system would just like ya know, like fuckin'  blow  the fuck up, yeah man, that would be the fuckin' shit"
I am lukes robotic hands.
I am the light, to a lightsaber.
I am a storm trooper, and I am goddamn proud of my job.

listen up.

You've been given a direct order to rock the fuck out.
(This goes out to my homie Anis Mojgani)

Rock out like you've got the power of invisibility, and a room full of naked 10's.
Rock out like all you're the fastest reader on the earth.
Rock out like you just walked into your kitchen to find an unlimited amount of milk, and fruity pebbles.
Rock out like you just kicked Flash Gordons ass. Like Flash Gordon is bowing to you.
Rock out like you are on a victoria secret cruise and every other male passenger is dead.
Rock out like your mother is alive and it was your father that the devil took.
Rock out like you just out fucked nasa (that ones for my home boy Mitch Hedberg)
Rock out like you're a three time felon who just won a tony award (thats for Lemon)
Rock out like you can breathe under water, and every poem you ever blew is coming back together.
Rock out like you know everything there is to know about Star Wars, Like Lucas just announced he would be making three more Star Wars.
Rock out like you've just been given a Direct order.

The blood spills out like so much prose.

The grass is matted with blood,
and I'm still in love with you.

I will always be in love with you,
no matter how much of your blood stains the concrete,
or the carpet,
or tile,
or veneer,
or bed.

I will always be in love with you,
even though you've been gone for quite some time,
even though you did leave me here, and
never understood why I wrote those poems.

I will always be in love with you,
and you will always be on my mind,
whether in the orchard,
or the garden,
or tending to the animals, or walking the dogs.

You will always be on my mind,
no matter what book I'm reading
or poem I'm writing
or what notebook I'm burning
or what poorly lit photo I'm stubbing out my cigarette on.

I will always love you,
and you will always be on my mind,
even when the concrete,
the carpet
the tile,
the veneer,
and the bed are all growing more
and more
red.

The grass is matted with blood,
and I'm still in love with you.

HOWL

"Poetry can not be translatted into prose, that is why it is poetry."

I'll cover your eyes, that way you have an excuse not to read my blog.

I'll drag you into the backyard, use a brick to knock out your teeth; shove the corner of it in your eye. I'll use the brick to grind up your lousy teeth and pour the lousy powder in your ears, I'll keep it from spilling out by putting duct tape over your ears. That way you can't hear me reading my poems over and over again; yelling "fuck off ya dead star" to you, and to god.

You'll slowly be bleeding to death, completely and entirely unable to move, not only because I used duct tape to bind your hands and feet, but mostly due to the fact that I filled a canvas bag full of bricks and used it to break your legs and arms. When I swung it against your chest and stomach, it broke your ribs, cracked your breast plate and collapsed one of your lungs.

While your off ruining the grass with your filthy blood, I'll be hard at work diging a hole for you.

I'll drop you in the hole, 5 feet 3 inches deep. I'll throw 2 feet of dirt, a foot of gravel, a layer of bricks, and two more feet of dirt. I'll throw another layer of bricks on top of that, install a nice little fire place and invite a few friends over to roast marshmallows and talk about music and poetry and books and things that really matter, unlike you.

Lover take me to Alaska

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Your chest is a national forest.
You only speak music,
and when you walk, even Flash Gordon falls to his knees.

god take me to california

J'ai écrit un poème où j'ai tué la beauté aux cheveux blonds, son corps a pris sanglante au sommet d'une montagne et lui a donné à Dieu, elle était ma Sacrafice. J'ai donné la beauté aux cheveux blonds à Dieu, en échange de lui pour me conduire à la Californie et me donner une chance avec le renard.

class of 2013, this is your ten year reunion

My life:


Hello, My name is Gene Wilder, I'm 27 years old, six months after graduating high school I met my wife, a scottish girl--currently residing in California--named Mila, she was on vacation in utah, we spent a week together before she had to return to California, but we kept a relationship.
I was involved in the Salt Lake and Provo poetry scenes, both are very small, but I got attention from a small press based out of Austin, Texas named Write Bloody Book. They published my first poetry collection, titled "Pinetree Hearts" and sent me on tour for 8 months.

Mila was a senoir when we met. When she graduated, she moved up to utah to attend the U of U. I was on tour this whole time.

While on tour I got a phone call from a girl I used to work with, her dance company--based out of Salt Lake City--wanted to choreograph a few of my poems, I agreed and we had a lovely 45 minute show featuring my poetry. We got national attention for it, and soem producer in New york wanted it, so we picked up and headed for New York, Mila came with me. We re-cast the dancers, and I rewrote the entire show. On opening night it was one hour and fifteen minutes, dancing to music (written by me) and poetry, the story was in a "dead mans bones-esque way" a tale of a broken hearted zombie trying to find his place in this world, and trying to find a woman who will love him. We recieved international praise, and thus, we went on a short tour--3 months--through the U.S. and Europe, Mila stayed.

Upon arriving back home in Utah I took it upon myself to record a few poems with a bit of music, I gave a phone call to Joshua James, owner of Willamette Mountain Farm and studio, and set up a week and a half to do the recordings, I originally planned on doing 9 poems with music in the back, but what came out what 8 poems, and 5 songs. Joshua was going to be leaving on tour for his fourth album and invited me to open up for him on tour, we toured the U.S. for 8 months, and then off to europe for 3 months.

During this tour I revised a few novels I had written, when I got home, I got a literary agent and found two different publishers to release two different books, one called "The sundance kid" the other called "Mila"
The releases were 9 months apart and each publisher threw me on tour for 6 months.

The tour with Joshua James was incredible, each show I read poems, and sang songs, Joshua said that my music was "in demand" and when I got back from my book tours I recorded another music album, this one was self titled, it had 10 songs and 6 poems. I also put together my second collection of poetry once again with Write Bloody Book, this one was called "stills held in the beaks of magpies", but before I released either and left on tour, I married Mila. We found a small appartment In pleasant grove and moved in, we only spent four months as a married couple before I left on tour once again, but this time I toured the U.S. for nearly nine months, taking only a two week break to see my lover, and my family for christmas, and then toured europe for 5 months, at the end of that tour, Mila and I spent two weeks roaming around Paris.

I finally settled down, Mila and I bought a small farm in American Fork, we live right on the border of A.F. and P.G. I took a break from touring, but I released my third novel called "The goats are dead".

Mila and I are happy. We have three dogs, two cats, 5 goats, 23 chickens, and two horses, two sheep, and three bee boxes. All of our soap comes from the goats milk, as well as our cheese, and drinking milk, our honey is obviously from our bees, and we even have multiple candles from the wax, all of our produce comes from the wonderful garden out back. Mila works at the local high school in the special ed department. I have a teaching certificate in case we ever need more then writing and the Special Ed department.
I have a fourth novel scheduled to be released next year, and My next poetry collection and album will be released in eight months, I have a 14 month tour planned.


What I say when people ask me what i'm doing:

"oh, my wife and I live on a farm in A.F., I'm a writer, shes a teacher. good seeing ya."

Smoke from the garden. This is a life full of death.

 

Ástæðan fyrir líf var garður, beets og gulrætur og tómata. Spring svartur straumum og jarðarber snemmsumars. Dirt undir neglur eftir illgresi. lyktin af reyk í loftinu eins og hundinn minn, fallegur hundurinn minn skoðar völundarhús Mikið af snemma mûriers.Deuil vilja vekja upp heila minn og corps.Randonnée gegnum fallega Wasatch Mountains, aftur til pakki ferðast einn á brautinni og Great Western.betteraves Frest roasting kartöflum úr garðinum, borið fram með hlið spínat og kál salat með tómötum jardin.tout var falleg, hélt hann mér vakandi alla deuils.courir í pósthólfinu mínu í the síðdegi í leit að nýjum ljóð lettre.écrire, skrifa ljóð, skrifa ljóð um stelpur sem ég aldrei viljað skrifa ljóð . skrifa ljóð um kærleika, og the endir af the veröld, hjónaband, og þunglyndi, og ís, og Mílu, Jeri, og Lauren, og Alaska, og hjarta Pinetree.Le garður og bannana brauð cuisson.Le garði. Garðurinn. The garden.The Garðurinn er plein.les tómatar eru mikið á m vignes.Je 'ekki viss um hvað ég ætla að gera þegar það allt frýs, þegar snjór fellur og lokar óhreinindi, þegar grænmeti voru fjarlægðar og settar niðursoðinn þegar bréfin hætta að koma og þegar fætur mínir eru alltaf kalt þegar ég er að ganga 5 lög plús teppi og ég er alltaf kalt. Þegar ég tek hundinn minn til baka, og í stað þess að forskriftir í gegnum raðir af beets og gulrætur, sem fer á sviði jarðarberjum og gras til að pissa, pissað á mig hún ofan á snjó nær frosinn jörð jardin.Mon bestu vinkonu í borginni sedrustré, og ást mín er í Kaliforníu, reika tala með þessum svakalega skoska hreim sem hennar, og Mila er dauður í nokkurn tíma, og Jeri er slökkt í borg ljós, ekki einu sinni að hugsa um mig, enn furða hvers vegna það var að ég fann þessa leið, hvers vegna það var að hún var, og ef ég væri hreinskilinn þegar ég sagði að það var skáldskapur, sem ég stal bara nafnið og a hluti af the visage.ma ástæðu til að lifa verður að frysta, og nú að ég hef að gera er að halda hjarta mínu gegn M gel.Je 'Því miður er þetta staða lítið frábrugðin öðrum mínum.