EARLY MORNING POEM

cats pile on top
hoping to wake a sleeping angel
alarm clock is loud
obnoxious
and through the window

the birds sing


hot water is nil
the towel is damp
from last night’s cleansing
while
the toothpaste is low
and through the window

the birds keep singing


out of coffee
out of juice
last of the milk
used for stale cereal
and through the window

the birds keep singing


car is cold
traffic moves slow
destination time approaches
while the vehicle does not
somewhere
back at home
where it’s warm, spacious and
you are your boss
up in a tree

the birds still sing


apartment is dark, cold
smells like cats
dust bunnies everywhere
breakfast dishes in the sink
pounding headache
walk to the bedroom,
hang up your coat
and through the window

the birds sing


pjs on
lights off
blanket pulled tight
reality and dreams meet
in purgatory
with
one foot here
and
one foot there
through the window

the birds sing

NEW YEAR'S EVE GIFT

Here's a poem I wrote last New Year's Eve. Seeing how I didn't have a blog then, you're getting it now.

Enjoy.


MONDAY NIGHT
Another year down whisked away from contemporary
to history.
Another year on the horizon
approaching rapidly
gaining speed like the five horse on the back stretch.
In less than six hours, we’ll all be that much older
and not much wiser
Who are we to think this date holds any real relevance?
Tomorrow is nothing more than Tuesday to me
Or is it Wednesday? Pretty sure Tuesday
But others see hope, a new path, a clean slate
Like religion, whatever gets someone from point A
to point B – what do I care?
We love to make promises we know we won’t keep
yet we do it anyway
because the idea is more important than the doing.
No, the thought isn’t what counts
In my mind, I think I’m a great writer with an overflow of cash in the bank
and legions of fans worldwide.
Red carpet treatment galore, no waiting in lines or paying full price
The rest of society might take issue with me if I acted like this were true
but I don’t pretend so I don’t disappoint
Tonight’s the night for washing away failure and the realization that
we’re all stuck on the same sinking ship
Nowhere to go but overboard

UNTITLED

I cannot feel it
I cannot see it

but
the gun must be there

why else would I voluntarily put one foot in front of the other,
head toward the bathroom for a shower
and walk out the door
through the driveway
and down the street
to get to my car
turn the key and
drive
to the freeway, on the freeway, change freeways?

ARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

it’s all too much
my mind is screaming “NOOOOO”
but my feet keep moving
the screams get louder...my feet move faster
there is no stopping this avalanche
something takes control of my body
and it is then when I am no longer me

I belong to them,
the gun-toting invisible criminals
threatening my life
all for pity wages and mercy raises

I thought I was smarter than this
I am starting to think I was wrong

SINKHOLE

bitching, moaning, complaining
it’s all a bunch of bullshit
nothing more than masks to hide behind for the downtrodden
too afraid to confront life,
look it in the eye and say
“let’s go, you and me, right now”
this sinkhole exists in our heads
we created it
and
now it’s time
to dig our way the fuck out

THE LIFE AND TIMES

if writing is a motherfucker
then what’s that make me?
a goddamn crazy fool,
that’s what
the weight of the world on my shoulders
is not something I asked for
nor would I wish it on anyone else,
no matter how much I despised them

I wear glasses because of this stupid obsession
I can’t think straight
my concentration is nil unless I’m behind a keyboard
and I don’t care all that much about the real world,
only the one that exists inside my head

I’m shut off and shut down
with no consideration for anyone but me
everything in life –including the good shit –
is nothing more than a hurdle
between
me and my words

the pressure drips like a leaky kitchen faucet
I’ve taken out the proper tools
but nothing fixes it
not booze or sex or drugs
but sometimes a good book buys me some time
before my mind begins to regain control of my body
I become limp, paralyzed to the demands

I am a shitty human being for a myriad of reasons
and the only way to make myself feel like I’m worth
half a damn
is to keep going
regardless of how much I’d rather be anyone
and anything
other
than a writer

OK

ah
can it be?
another stoned Friday night
with
Snoop on the speakers
and
weed in the veins
yuppy neighbors with yet another
backyard party
but it’s ok
because
I’m over here with what I got
and
they’re over there with what they got

UNTITLED

I look forward to the day when I can write about butterflies
because when that happens
I’ll know I’m in a better spot than the one I’m in now

HEY MISTER

It's a first over here at Jim Hall Sleeps All Day. I just wrote this and now it's yours. Enjoy.

Hey Mr. Gardener
or is it Mr. Lawnmower
Did you know how difficult
you are making it
for me to get anything done
right now?
I’m trying to think
and to type
and to create
and you ain’t helping
Weren’t leaf blowers banned years ago
for
this
exact
same
reason?
If you were my child,
I’d tell you to
take that noise
outside
But you’re already there
staring at me through my office window
doing everything in your power
to pretend you don’t see me
when we’ve made eye contact
at least three times
this morning
The first was when you
opened the gate
the one that sits next to where
I’m typing
You came through
and said “sonofabitch”
under your breath
after you failed to
kick-start your machine
and you got startled
when you turned around
and saw me there
Not that I care,
but I imagine saying
things like that
can’t be good for business
But you keep on
keepin’ on
clueless to the fact that
I’m writing about you
as your irritating tools
blow dust into my
asthmatic lungs
and dilute my coffee
Hey,
are you gonna pick up those leaves
or just blow them around some more?
That’s how I used to clean my room,
just shove all that shit
under the bed
and somehow
it magically disappears
Except when you leave
my backyard
will still be full of
debris
and you’ll be at someone else’s
home
creeping them
the
fuck
out
with your
windowless white van
parked in the center of their driveway
so no one can
come or go
like you do to me
on a weekly basis
And what about those three lawnchairs
you knocked over for no good reason
only to not put them back
in their place?
My mom told me to leave things
the way I found them
What did yours teach you?
How to be a grumpy old fart
with a bright red neck
from spending too many hours
in the hot California sun
punctuated by a forest of
white hairs crawling
from your back
with a lame job
that takes you into homes and neighborhoods
you’d never be able to afford
But I can’t complain
the landlord picks up this tab
not me
For that
you should be thankful
because I see the
shoddy work you do
and would fire you
like I spark joints –
smooth and effortlessly

SOMETHING

I am neither smart nor dumb
rich or poor
life of the party or a bore

but I am something
I am me

POST-DINNER SCENE AT THE DOWNTOWN JAIL

I am a human holding cell
capturing many men
Within my walls
there is
a lover, a dreamer
a cheater, a liar
a reader, a writer
a sleeper, a partier
a happy man, a sad man
a man who knows what he wants
a man who doesn't know how to get it
a comedian, a shrink
a hippie, a prude
a drunk, a stoner
a boyfriend, a flirt
a fashionista, a slob
a man of the present
a man of the past
a fat man, a skinny man
a tired man, a coffee fiend
a handsome man, an ugly man
They take turns
letting one lead
while the others follow
There are fights
but never any deaths
for each man
is as strong as his cellmates
and as alive as ever

GARMISCH JOURNAL ENTRY

First journal entry of the trip.
1/25/08 3:45 p.m. Sitting in a studio apartment on an American military base in Garmisch, Germany. So much as happened already and we have 12 more days. Europe really is that awesome. So far anyway. We went to Munich last night and partied. Nursing a bad hangover at the moment. Chip and Taylor are sleeping, which I'll be doing once I am finished writing. Our flight from LAX was delayed. But our bags went on without us. They are arriving anytime between now and 6 p.m. It'll be nice to have a change of clothes. Chip and I were at LAX from 9 a.m.- 4:45 p.m. Long day. Chatted up a drunken Swede. Flight was better than expected. Ah, fuck it. I'm taking a nap. We're staying here tonight, so there will be plenty of time to write. I've had this line in my head since this morning.
"A man does things he normally does not do
when he's far from home
He drinks liters of beer
eats cheese pasta
dances alone at a German disco
takes pictures of buildings,
announcing his status as a tourist
sleeps in rooms with strange men
pays money for coffee
doesn't call home
farts violently in front of others
and so on"
Naptime begins now.

FLYING

Trying to describe how I feel about flying is useless

as meaningless as explaining the greatness of a good book

to a blind guy

I hate it, how’s that for yer poem?

THE NEW 9 TO5

I call myself a writer

but most of my time is spent

avoiding the only thing I’m good at

WRITERS STRIKE

WRITERS STRIKE
Get back to work you spoiled lazy fucks
Pardon me for not feeling sorry for any one of you
Solidarity? I think not
Making money while the real wordsmiths are scooping up
catshit to earn a living
Poetry, novels, journalism – there’s no money in any of these
yet some of us still do them because we have to
Working for Hollywood is a black mark on your record
that stains a career like a teenage tattoo given in some shady dude’s bedroom
What I do and what these clowns do are completely different
For starters, I’m on my own
Those hacks need a job because they can’t cut it in the real world
A writer should be a free-thinking loose cannon,
shooting ideas all over the place
not working for a corporation that tells them
what to say and how to say it
Secondly, has anyone watched television lately?
The shit sucks
Strike forever, maybe TV will become the new radio
and die
I can’t possibly feel sorry for these miserable excuses for creative people
Pump out something intelligent, something witty, something real
then maybe you’d be worth what you think you’re worth now
I understand wanting more money but you gotta earn it
Judging by their output, I’d say a current Hollywood writer’s salary
should equal what their peers from the 1950s earned because
this new crop ain’t much better than goofy whitebread cornball shows like
“Leave it to Beaver” and “The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet”
Have these brats not learned anything from the shift toward reality based programming?
This watered-down format wouldn’t exist if any of you could create interesting fiction
But you can’t
Keep holding those poorly-written (what did you expect) signs and
walk in circles until you lose that spare tire around your gut
you whiny attention-starved assholes
giving the rest of us a bad name
Their leverage is the fact that new shows will be replaced by reruns
God forbid! Oh the humanity! Whatever shall we do?
Read a book, perhaps? Take a walk? Play with our pets
or our kids? Get to know our neighbors over a glass of wine?
Organize our living rooms so the television set isn’t the focal point?
The scabs will be in soon and you’ll be out of a job
your former bosses and the rest of the world will realize
how unimportant you were to the whole process
and you’ll wish you never brought any of this up
I’d recommend writing a book about the experience
but I have no faith in any of you to do such a thing
So long suckers –
Yes, I DO want fries with that

The Beginning

Part of the reason I created a blog was to publish the backlog of stuff that sits patiently on my hard drive, keeping its fingers crossed that one day someone other than me will read it. While I'm not totally sold on that yet, at least it's finally out there. The rest is out of my hands. Here's the first of many.

STILL WORKING AT 12:15

Write more, more, more

Until the voices stop

Write more, more, more