HAPPY EASTER!

Shit, I'll go to mass if you can find me an appropriate looking church like in a decrepit strip mall or an abandoned trailer or something, lead by an ex-con, ex-junky, ex-marine maybe, turned failed artist, failed everything, yet still remains a lone searcher of all truth regardless of outcome who's not sealed shut inside that impossible, cowardly tomb called "religion". He must have at least two kids and an ex-wife that all hate him no matter how hard he tries to make amends. Oh, and he's gotta love Bob Dylan and John Prine. And along with the bible, he has to have read Celine and Bukowski and Carver and Henry Miller and John Fante and at least a little bit of Kerouac, ya know, because I know Kerouac can be tiresome once you get older and have lived a bit. He is kind of childish. And Crumb! He's gotta love Robert Crumb. Oh, and Louis C.K.! How can anyone not love Louis C.K.? So other than that, ya know, as long as he's humble and doesn't talk too loud and shit, I'll sit there and listen to the fucker. But I also get to drink.

DEAR PHILLY: (STEVE WALLS)

DEAR PHILLY: Man... is there any state other than boredom or desperation? I'm beginning to doubt it. Steve Walls, Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

DEAR STEVE: Don't you hate it when people say, "you have no idea"? It's actually pretty rare these days that I don't find myself hating anything anyone says. It's not even what they say really, it's the ease or the confidence in which they say it. Once you've reached a certain place in your life you begin to realize that there's no longer anything anyone can tell you that could help you in any way ever again. Think of all the books we've read, all the great films we've watched, the paintings we've seen, the music, and look where it's left us. Never has an artist had more to work with and yet never has there been more proof that nothing we could ever do will ever make a difference. Why? Well, because unless you're a fucking idiot, you realize the entire fucking thing has become one great big ball of ever hardening shit. You know, sometimes I do try to look on the bright side, and I see it, I DO, but all things considered, it's about like being thankful for your 30 minutes a day in the prison yard. And here's the twist to that concept. It is people like us that are actually able to see those rare fragments of light. We were given a different set of eyes, eyes which I like to think would be able to still see the beauty even in that prison yard, I don't know, maybe watching an ant carrying a blade of grass or how a rock rolls across the dirt when you kick it, or just seeing your own shadow moving along the wall. I like to think of people like us as strange deep sea creatures who've been hooked and reeled up onto some boat. I honestly feel I do have a valid excuse for my situation as I had no idea what I was until it was much too late. Anyway, I could go on and on about our pathetic plight during these last years of human existence on this earth. Branch by branch our rivers clog. Day after day. It's as natural as anything. We haven't a clue what releases the forces which destroy us as most things in our lives happen too far upstream. All in all, I must say what sickens me most about people is the way they pretend that what is happening is not actually happening. So, my dear friend, your question to me is refreshingly honest, "is there any state other than boredom or desperation?" Well, I suppose there's still that brief pause between the shock of either, that little oasis of time when I typically decide to pluck my eyebrows or cut my toenails, or maybe I'll read a page or two of Carver? The hang time before that pendulum swings the other direction. Anyway, here I am sitting in the kitchen, drinking another cup of coffee while I'm writing this. Sarah's in the living room, feeding the baby, while Henry's being a good boy, playing with Play-Doh. Above it all, what I really want to tell you is that I keep looking over at this stick of yellow butter beside me. And I gotta say, brother, of all the people I know in this world, I have the most confidence that you will believe me when I tell you that I'm finding tremendous beauty in that stick of butter. It is as if it contains everything I could ever possibly need to know. Other than that, the only other thing I have to say is that it's also quite possible that the real reason we feel so hapless is because Dylan has simply nailed it over the last decade or so with those incredible collages. I mean, does a higher plane even exist?
     Ya know, his morning I awoke from a dream about a bowl of chickpeas. That's it, just bowl of chickpeas, a couple of dozen seasoned at the bottom of a bowl. I looked up and saw Henry standing there beside the bed. "Daddy, Daddy, I peed! I peed, Daddy!" We go downstairs and I change him. He's 3 &1/2 now and still in diapers. His diaper is as heavy as a wet beach towel. I carry it along with a couple of empty beer bottles from the night before and we go into the kitchen. I set the bottles down and I throw away the diaper. I then go over and open the cabinet. "Alright, what do you want? You want FruityOs or Special K?"

     "Special K," he says.

     "Really?"

     "Yeah."

     I pour him a bowl and carry it with his little table and chair over in front of the TV. He sits down and I put his cereal in front of him, find the changer, and flip on the TV. "No! No! Not this one! I don't like this one!"

     "I know!" I say, "Calm down, I'm turning it."

     "There! There! That one, Daddy! That one!"

     "Okay, okay!"

     I go and make coffee. I stand there for a couple of moments, watching and listening to the water drip. That's when I first looked over and noticed the stick of butter. And I guess with that, my friend, I shall leave you with something I might dare consider a poem. To me it captures one of the first times I felt that terrible tension I would have to live with for the remainder of my childhood:      

THE RACK

I remember once when I was a kid

way before my mother got sick 

I was playing with my army men 

in the living room when something 

possessed me to go into the kitchen

I arrived just as my mother pulled

open the top rack of the dishwasher
and the whole thing came crashing
down and all the glasses shattered
and my father stormed in and stood
there behind her huffing bright red
with his fists clenched at his sides
"What the hell happened?" he yelled,
"I told you to be careful with that!"
she could not answer, all she could
do was stand there and not answer

LOOK

Look, you're a really nice old man and I'm glad to see you're walking every day with your diabetes and all, but this is getting ridiculous. Now I wish I'd never told you that I once lived in Italy and all that. I mean, no offense, and thanks for telling me about the bathroom at the institute, but I just don't want to have to talk to anyone about anything anymore. I don't know, it just wears me the fuck out. I don't want to have to respond and nod my head and come up with things to say. I wish you well, I really do, and I like your accent, but I don't have much time for myself anymore and I look forward to coming out here with my boy whenever I can so he can ride his bike while I get to follow him around, thinking about things and maybe Facebook whatever comes to mind even if it's just some stupid bullshit like this right now about you.

CARTOON 3/26/13

We're peering in through the window at an H&R Block where a sheepish looking man (think Jerry Garcia) in white painters overalls (splattered with different colored paint) sits slumped in his chair across the desk from a serious looking older woman CPA. The woman is clearly puzzled, completely dumbfounded in fact. She can barely see the man past the mountain of papers.

CPA WOMAN: "Mr. Morgan, I uh, well, I just don't know where to even begin here. You're self employed, you run a painting business, and you're telling me you haven't filed your taxes since 1998?"

MAN: "I guess I sort of thought... Well, I don't know what I thought exactly. You know, the days just sort of run together, I mean, this world, ya know, it's just like this fog. It's like I have a hard time believing I'm even here, that any of this is even happening, you know what I mean? I just, you know, I thought I was going to be this famous painter. I was showing all over the place. I had an agent; I was selling my work. But then, you know, I don't know what happened, it all just stopped. And then I just didn't care about it anymore. I mean, art's dead. It doesn't make a difference, it doesn't matter. You know, and then I thought I would just kill myself. I mean, that's been the plan for years now. I was gonna do it this morning. I had this tree picked out at the base of the mountain but, you know, I don't know, I just can't bring myself to do it."

ANYONE, ANYONE

It is seldom a "significant" event that triggers me into pondering anymore, it is the odd moment here and there where I've been left alone long enough to look at pretty much anything like say, an ant crawling upon a wall or a candy wrapper by my shoe, or simply the blur of it all before you as another sun bears down upon us all. No matter what it is, its presence, its existence, is as important as anything. We fail to realize we can learn no more from any one thing than another. Every ingredient is always there. You can learn as much from a junky in the gutter as a philosopher. Wiping away your morning poop is as important as eliminating hunger. The atrocities will no doubt continue. It's money in the bank. There is no gettin' around it that there's just no gettin' around it. You fry an egg or you can boil it. I guess you can bake 'em. My in-laws are always microwaving them. I keep waking up day after day and I encounter all these people that end up before me. I've been in this ghostly daze for a good decade now. I would no more be surprised finding myself in line at Rite Aid as I would being stung up on a rope. Anything can be anything, anyone, anyone. 

WHERE'S YOUR FEET?

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AUDIBLE

no
way
man
we
haven't
got
time
for
any
of
that
shit
just
put
your
finger
through
that
ring
and
pull!

CELL BLOCK 21

The baby
was asleep
I was trying to
write a poem
a little oasis in
the misery
It began:
My feet are 
incredible
My toes like 
tentacles 
of some highly
evolved beast
I identify
the culprit
instantly
A formally 
wet Cherrio 
I'd say now 
dried about 
a week
Hmmm, I 
believe this 
would make it
one of those 
cinnamon ones
as we've now
switched back to
the multigrain...
But then my wife
yells my name
I knew exactly
what it was
"UGH, HIS SOCKS
DON'T MATCH!"
I hear her footsteps
pounding up the stairs
I walk over to my
little boy who is
sitting on the bench
She comes down

with the correct sock

"It's just the stripe,"
I say. "I don't
understand, they're
both black. It's really
not a big deal!"
"It IS a big deal, he's
going to SCHOOL!
It makes me look bad!
It makes me look
like I don't care!"
My little boy looks
up at me, frowning
"You're a bad daddy!"
he says. "Henry, we don't
say that," she says,
and I hear him mumble
it again under his breath
She had his shoes
on now and was
putting on his coat
I really should've left
it at that but what I say
instead is this: "Ya know,
that says a lot about you
if that's something you
think is important."

She comes back in
after slamming the door
"You also forgot to
put him in a Pull-Up!"
And then she slams
the door again

It's not easy trying
to salvage a poem
It's not easy doing
anything anymore
She came home about
15 minutes later
and because the
stakes are so high,
we both decide we'd
best make peace
And I gotta say,
I was impressed,
she was even able
to laugh about it a bit
I was back with the
poem when she sat
down across from me
"Hey," I asked her,
"how'd that go? What
was it you said when I
said that about the socks?"
"I don't know, I don't
remember. Why don't
we just do a reality show
about our fucking lives?"
"I'm not gonna put it on
Facebook. It's just a poem.
I'll just put it on my blog."
"Mmm Hmm."
"I promise! Let's
just start back with
the socks, when Henry
was sitting on the bench.
How'd that start? What'd
I say when you said that
about it being important or
a big deal or something?"
"I don't know, I don't remember.
Are you gonna go to the bank today?"
"Yeah, I'm gonna go to the bank.
Look, it doesn't have to be exact,
just use your imagination.
I thought you were an actress,
you're supposed to have
an imagination."
"I have milk leaking
from my tits! I don't
care about having
an imagination!"
And with that,
the baby awoke

I GOT IT!

"I got it!"

"Got what?"

"I can't fucking believe it! After all this time. I mean, I'm talking like 20 fucking years of madness. Do you know how many times I could've killed myself? It's so fucking simple!"

"What is?"

"You just tell a story."

"Huh?"

"That's it. That's all you gotta do, just tell a fucking story, ya know, like people tell a story. I mean, you gotta do it differently, you know, it's like a totally new world now. But I'm thinking I can kind of layer the whole thing with the dialog, like make it sort of float in between a short story and a poem, but you know, with dialog. Kind of like Sam Shepard but a little more inward and revealing. I mean, you can do so much with dialog, and for me, it just keeps it from being too precious, ya know. Like I'm always reading something and even if it's good, all I keep thinking is that I'm reading something some asshole wrote. Ya know what I mean?"

"Hmmm."

"Oh, but then there's also this way of, you know, like talking directly to the reader like to where it reads sort of like a letter. I mean, to me, Bukowski's letters are by far the best thing he ever wrote. But that's a fine line, you know, that's like really..."

"You know it's 11:30. You're getting Henry right?"

EXHAUSTION

I carry 

the baby

like a 

bomb 

to the 

window

my boy's 

green truck

out there 

in the snow

until there is 

no one left

to talk to 

I will have 

nothing 

more to 

say.

CARTOON 3/9/13

Panel of a stressed out looking couple in their early 30s arriving at the diaper isle at Target or Walmart. The exhausted woman is carrying their sleeping baby in a moby wrap while the disheveled man is angrily pushing a big cart filled to the brim with the endless necessities of modern life.   

CAPTION (woman): "I don't understand you."

CAPTION (man): "What do you mean? What's there to understand? I'm risking my fucking life not to mention my sanity, trying to dive as deep as humanly possible into the cold, dark depths while everyone else is up there sunbathing on their goddamn little floaty rafts!

SKEET, TALKIN' WALLS AND THE DEADLY MEDICINE OF GUILT

      "Fuck, man, what do you want me to tell ya? I slipped right on over the fuckin' top, man. And you know what? I fuckin' love it over here! I wouldn't trade places with anyone. I don't want any part of any of it anymore. Fuck it. Hopefully, you know, I've got just enough money to make it to the end without ever really having to do much of anything ever again. I mean, what else could I ever want? But look, man, you know, if you really feel you have no choice, then you just gotta fuckin' do it. You gotta go all the way! You already know to trust what you're going through. All those feelings of alienation, I know exactly what that shit's like. But hey, that's, you know, that's just amateur shit. That's barely even bootcamp. But it's incredible how many people never get beyond it. But as long as you're speaking truthfully to yourself then that's all the confidence you should ever need. All that resistance, all the reaction, that endless... fucking... storm,... you know, I mean, shit, man, it makes the world an evil motherfucker. It's an outright fucking war! I wouldn't wish that shit on anyone. But, you know, at this point, I don't see that you have much choice. You're what, forty one, forty two now? Shit, man, you just got to keep moving, that's all. If you think about it, it's all just the walls of your path. Obviously, you need them in order to feel your way through the darkness, but you gotta be swift; they can close in at any moment. Other than that, you know, my only advice would be to try to relax, try to make things as pleasant as possible. That's really what your problem has been all along. You just gotta lighten up. You need to figure out a way to make the doing of it a positive thing in your life. You gotta rise above any feelings of guilt for the consequences. But, you know, guilt is a strange thing. It's definitely needed; it serves a purpose, but you gotta be careful the way you administer it to yourself. It's the deadliest medicine I know. Far worse than anger. But then really, in the end, who the hell cares? None of this shit matters. You've no more chance here a king or a bum. We're all just peering out, peering out at this silly thing called life. It's really just a short little breath."

MOMENT

A stop sign
wiggling 
in the wind
trees say
more than
anyone
your shadow
more you
than you

FB 1/5/13

• Philip Bram

  ‎"Wait, what do you mean? You mean like now, like here in America?"
  
  "Yeah."
  
  "Dude, that's not true at all! Look at what people went through during the depression. I'd much rather be poor now than any other time in our history."
  
  "I'm not talking about eating. Hell, you can buy a pack of Ramen Noodles for like 20 cents. I'm talking about their overall degradation. Just look at the clothes they have to wear! All that stupid ass Fubu shit, all that knockoff Tommy Hilfiger crap! They look like fucking clowns. It's sad, man. If I were poor, I'd go back to wearing burlap sacks. Shit, can you even get those anymore?"

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  PublicFriendsOnly MeCustomClose FriendsDropped out of half a dozenSee all lists...Beacon, New York AreaMyselfFamilyAcquaintancesGo Back
• 

  Philip Bram

  ‎"Man, I finally figured it out. There's just no way around it, you've gotta lie to be able to tell the truth."
  
  "Dude, you've been writing for what, like fifteen to twenty years, and you've just now figured that out? I think you really are mentally ill!"