by Tom H. Brooks 3


I want to be cremated when I die and I want lots of fresh meat at the funeral.  I want 3 clowns,
a magician, a juggler, and 8 strippers at the service.  I want them to play a crazy mix of music
alternating between circus music, Guns n Roses, and Miles Davis and Coltrane`s Kind of Blue.
At the perfect moment, whenever it feels right, I want the clowns to set fire to my funeral pyre
and have the circus music playing at that moment when I go up in glorious flames…happy trails…
And after that, the strippers should do a sexy dance on my ashes.  And following that, the magician
should make my ashes AND the strippers disappear….oh yes, NOW we`re getting somewhere.
And the juggler….well, he can do it whatever the fuck he wants; juggle some meat or something.
There should also be a twenty-one-gun salute.  Oh yes, and then everyone can eat the delicious
meat.  And there should also be some wine and cheese.  I assumed you just knew there would
be plenty of drinks.
I was just talking to an old Filipina woman on the number 4 bus.  She was actually pretty damn
funny.  She was from New Orleans of all places.  The greatest thing of all was that she had
a mixed Southern and Philippine accent….never heard that one before….
It`s funny when I get so stoned that I laugh at the parts of the show that AREN`T funny.
My pick up line (it worked) with a SEXY girl…
girl “What do you do?”
me “I`m with a firm that specializes in acquisitions.
Me and J talking drunken shit and rude obscenities at 3am (It was funny at the time, anyway….you know what?  Don`t be a prude, It`s STILL funny)
Do I know you sweetheart?
I`ll make your asshole shrivel up like a salted snail.
Lonely hole to nowhere
A smell lingered in the air, perhaps shit on my shoe, but it was her breath….it`s 3am…do I know you?
“She was the only person who was real for me, and her absence was so tangible, so overpoweringly
insistent, that I could think of nothing else.  Every night began with the same ache in my body, the
same breathless need to be touched by her again, and before I could register what was happening,
I would feel the assault along the inside of my skin, as though the tissues that held me together were
about to explode.  This was deprivation in its most sudden, most absolute form.  Her body was a part
of my body, and without it there beside me, I did not feel that I was myself anymore.  I felt that I had
been mutilated.”
Paul Auster
“Moon Palace”
is so wrapped up
from top to bottom
in an endless
of red tape
So many people
spend their lives
in courthouses
suing each other
and being sued
trivial details
that really mean
in the long run
to make a
few extra dollars
is missing here
and it could be
Go ahead
go ahead
and waste your lives
for one
will walk away
from the crowds
The sheep
can let the
darkness gather
for the wolves
to creep in
but I continue
toward the sun…
April 27, 1915 from the diary of Franz Kafka
“Incapable of living with people, of speaking.  Complete immersion in myself,
thinking of myself.  Apathetic, witless, fearful.  I have nothing to say to anyone,
“I wanted only to try to live in accord with the promptings which come from my true self.
Why was that so very difficult?”
“For this is My story; it is the story of a man, not of an invented, or possible, or idealized,
or otherwise absent figure, but of a unique being of flesh and blood.  Yet, what a real living
human being is made of seems to be less understood today than at any time before.  If we
were not something more than unique beings, if each one of us could really be done away
with once and for all by a single bullet, storytelling would lose all purpose.  But every man
is more than just himself; he also represents the unique, the very special and always significant
and remarkable point at which the world`s phenomena intersect, only once in this way and
never again.  That is why every man`s story is important, eternal, sacred; that is why every
man, as long as he lives and fulfills the will of nature, is wondrous, and worthy of every
consideration.  In each individual, the spirit has become flesh.”
Herman Hesse
It is quite a visual and auditory experience to sit in the morning at Farmer`s Market amongst
all the old timers; the old German and Polish and Russian Jews, the old WW2 veteran soldiers
telling stories.  On occasion, a beautiful woman walks by, families of all races, religions, varieties,
are milling about aimlessly.  The hum of conversation and clanking plates and dishes fills the
air.  There is the disturbing man with the beard, whom I see often, sitting there with an intense
stare for hours and hours, doing nothing, just sipping iced tea and staring.  There are trees in
the courtyard and sparrows flitting about.  I saw a foreign-sounding man with an eastern
European accent and an old lady with the same accent, talking together.  A tourist walks by
with a camera and the man says,”No photos around here!  FBI! CIA!”  What`s that all about?
Maybe there is an intriguing spy story in his dark past.  The tourist walks away, dumbfounded.
The group of old Jewish regulars, the men that have been here almost every day since 1953,
they are gathered 9 or 10 deep.  “Meet Me at 3rd and Fairfax.”  Indeed.  And they ARE meeting.
“One night in early spring I stood guard in front of a farm that we had occupied.  A listless wind
was blowing fitfully; across the Flemish sky cloud armies rode on high, somewhere behind them
the suggestion of a moon.”
“The Bird fights its way out of the egg.  The egg is the world.  Who would be born must first
destroy a world.  The Bird flies to God.  That God`s name is Abraxas.”
Herman Hesse
tell a cop, “hey nice piece (gun) ya got there,” and watch his brow
darken with perplexed wonder and/or irritation.
Lately, I`ve been having some very nostalgic and painful flashbacks about Mexico.
Lunch hour at the Golden Dragon in Chinatown for a Singapore Sling.  Not a single
word of English in the place.  This must be what it`s like in China (maybe a little bit…).
” `See, Willem, he admits that he doesn`t know the Law and yet he claims he`s innocent.`
`You`re quite right, you`ll never make a man like that see reason.` “
Franz Kafka
“The Trial”
More drunken rudeness with JB and I…….
Her pussy was aching and lonely like an untended garden tangled in weeds.  The gate
had not been opened in quite a while, you could tell by the smell.  Two bottles of scotch,
a sore dick and a throbbing headache, nowhere to go but bed.  At first, she was gorgeous.
I couldn`t tell her asshole from her mouth.  I knew it was gonna be a long night so I wiped
my ass with her shitstained panties and went to bed.  Then morning came.  Her teeth looked
like she`d been chewing rocks, her hair resembled a 16-year-old poodle, and her face was
like a Christmas ham.  I slapped her on the titty to wake her up.  “Go make me a sandwich!”
My bunghole hairs were still stuck in her teeth when the front door slammed.
3 bottles of scotch and she still wasn’t pretty,
however, I took her out with $5 and came home with $2.50….she was a gem.
I hadn`t shit in 3 days and my asshole was shriveled up like a salted snail.
Get your thumb outta my ass and go home.
My cock was tired and used up like a burnt sausage…
She stared at me like a deer in the headlights.
Hey you want botha?  Botha?  Botha my nuts in your mouth?
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
we really are sick fucks…
he misses the bus.  It rumbles by in the morning mist.  he walks 1.5 miles to Hollywood
Blvd.  some asshole in an SUV honks at him as he crosses the street on a green light.
strike one.  later, two pricks in a pick-up truck almost run over his toes as he`s again
in a crosswalk on a green light.  he gives their truck a resounding kick in the side BOOM!
they screech on their brakes as he screams, “go ahead and pull over! I`ll split you from
your chin to your nuts!”  people start honking at them and he walks away.  strike two.
despite all this, he is laughing, laughing at the ridiculousness of the city.  later, some
fat Iranian bitch in a Benzo honks and gives him the finger for NO REASON. He thinks
“I`m just walking home, you slit, I`ll kill ya!”  if he`d had a rock, he swears he would
have thrown it through her German car window and watched her slam into a fucking tree.
strike three, he`s out.  still later, more incidents on a train; people left behind, doors slam
in faces, black lady yelling at some Mexican who doesn`t understand a word of
what she`s saying, more delays, he watches and writes and laughs manically to himself,
fights, chaos, the train whooshes through the angry city, tension crackling all around,
like an electrical and hateful current of hopelessness….
Ports O`Call, Karaoke night, little blonde girl singer, 8 or 9 years old, cranking out an excellent version
of Whitney Houston`s “I Will Always Love You.”  She has an amazing voice….
Later, an older Mexican guy sings an exceptional rendition of an old Vicente Fernandez standard.
There is some good talent on a Saturday night in San Pedro…
Mr. Las Vegas, he calls himself, this one, older, wearing a royal blue pimp hat, blue shirt, blue shorts,
blue shoes, as he sings old jazz tunes; another twilight classic as a 3/4 orange moon rises in the east…
next it is a cute old Mexican lady singing, of all things, “Funky Cold Medina.”
somehow, on a tranquil summer night, even the oil slick water, the tanks and cranes and smokestacks,
even these things can look beautiful under a deep royal blue sky with purple moody clouds at dusk with
that orange moon.  There are silvery fish darting in and out of the shadows under the harbor lights just off
the docks.  Occasionally they surface and then disappear again into the murky water.
now it`s a bunch of kids doing the Macarena.  Now I`ve seen everything.
An adorable little black chick is dancing like Lil Kim.  Somebody`s been taking dance lessons from the MTV.
I JUST SAW CHARLIE CHAPLIN. in San Pedro? he`s usually in Hollywood, this guy gets around.
I can`t write anymore after this tonight `cause it will be dark where I`m going.  Let me say this; I wish I had
a secretary to write down my every word.  My mind moves too fast for my pen to keep up.  I`ve been talking
gold to myself for the last hour and I can`t write it ALL down.  I try, believe me, I try.  I`m going for a `campout.`
The weather is about 65 degrees with high clouds and a slightly chill breeze.  I will wake up at 6:30am in a
fog bank with a parched mouth and a headache.  It will be fucking beautiful.
6:30am  Purple dawn over indigo ocean.
10:30am sun bursts through the clouds as I sit drinking a 40oz on Pt. Fermin at Sunken City.  I celebrate life
by lighting up a nice bowl of chronic marijuana.
a squirrel taking a dust bath in the morning sun, rolling over and over; a real Discover channel morning.  Rabbits,
a hawk, lizards, pelicans, seals….I see them all.
In retrospect, I am like that squirrel I saw earlier; rolling in the sand, flopping about in the noon heat, lazy as lazy
could be at Cabrillo Beach point.
I forgot my camera today and I missed a potential masterpiece.  Let me describe it the best that I can;
A huge royal palm tree in the left foreground with a vivid blue cobalt sky backdrop.  The stone and wall
formations of the Sunken City are covered in multicolored graffiti like symbolic stone temples to some
forgotten god.  The wind blows through the trees and the ocean crashes far below.  The fog bank recedes
from shore in a perfectly diagonal line, a blinding white meeting a sapphire blue in a purple lining.  5 seagulls
fly in a line toward the sun and south.  All this…in a moment; a mind snapshot and a sensory recording
for all eternity…
I scale steep cliff trails with the skillful and nimble ease of an old mountain goat and if I keep spending so much
time in the sun, I`ll look like one too….
sea spray dreams….
(I am attaching a photo of Sunken City above…)
I just saw a four by four pick-up truck with a hesher dude inside with a mullet.  The truck was boosted up
way high and there was a sticker on the back that said SHOW US YOUR TITS.  David Lynch, where
are you now?
” `It is not necessary to accept everything as true, one must only accept it as necessary.`
`A melancholy conclusion.  It turns lying into a universal principle.` “
” `Like a dog!` he said;  it was as if the shame of it must outlive him. “
Franz Kafka
Remember the show “Cheers” and that drink they made up called a Screaming Viking?
Hundreds of dragonflies today on the Hollywood Hills rooftop…
How`s My Driving?
Call 1-800-FUCK-OFF
Flight From Shadow
There was a man who was so disturbed by the sight of his own shadow and so displeased
with his own footsteps that he determined to get rid of them both.  The method he hit upon
was to run away from them.
  So he got up and ran.  But every time he put his foot down there was another step, while
his shadow kept up with him without the slightest difficulty.
  He attributed this failure to the fact that he was not running fast enough.  So he ran faster
and faster, without stopping, until he finally dropped dead.
  He failed to realize that if he merely stepped into the shade, his shadow would vanish, and
if he sat down and stayed still, there would be no more footsteps.”
Ancient Chinese Writings  (Chuang Tsu?  Lao Tzu? I can`t remember…)
“The thinker or artist whose better self has fled into his works feels an almost malicious joy
when he sees his body and spirit slowly broken into and destroyed by time; it is as if he were
in a corner watching a thief at work on his safe, all the while knowing that it is empty and all
his treasures have been rescued.”
Friedrich Nietzsche
“Human, All Too Human”
2 white dudes with gaudy and colorful tattoos of all things Egyptian all over them.  One
day, they were taking a shower together at the gym and they said ,”Hey, let`s go cover
ourselves in Egyptian tattoos for no good reason.”  TEAM EGYPT  (gay, so very gay.)
”  `It`s easy to take potshots, but what are you doing about the problem?`
`What problem?`
`The crisis of culture.`
`I didn`t know there was one.`
`Weren`t you just….`
`I was talking about people.  It`s people who are the problem, not culture.`
`Well, anyway, what are you going to do about it?`
`I`m doing my best.  Isn`t that good enough?`
`I don`t know.  Probably not.`
`But at least I`ve got a little guts.  That`s all we need you know…a little guts.`
`I suppose so.  But I don`t think you`re gonna change anybody.`
`I`m only trying to change myself.`  “
Sometimes, after a rough night of drinking, I wake up in some random apartment all hung over and
stupid and I don`t know where I am.  So, I wander out into endless hallways and can never find my
way out of the labyrinth.  It is Kafkaesque at times like this.  Pool level, parking, laundry room, the
basement…anywhere but the exit to the street.  With blazing red eyes, I find a main street and jump
on the first bus I see, hoping fervently that it is going towards my house.
“Therapy?!  I don`t even get that!  It`s like, they`re selling you back to yourself.  I mean, what is that?!?”
Been up for almost three days straight, resting only for intermittent power naps dispersed throughout.
DELIRIUM is the drug, baby.  Saw two movies today and can barely tell fantasy from reality…
If you remember more about sitcom families than you do about your own childhood, you have been
programmed with an artificial memory.  Many times, you`ve mixed fantasy and reality to the point
where many memories are not even your own….
All I have is my music and myself and my dreams of the tropics and a better elsewhere…
When you look at this mess of a world, what I have is quite a lot…
Art is just different ways of saying the same damn things over and over and over again.
Originality does not exist anymore.
We`ve been here too long.  We are tired and repetitive and we never learn.
“I am an artist at living–
my work of art is my life.”
“At night, the freeway traffic washes past, a remote and steady murmur around our
sleep, as of dead souls babbling at the edge of a dream.”
Don DeLillo
“White Noise”
“This is fish number 641 in a lifetime of goldfish.  My parents bought me the first one to
teach me about loving and caring for another living, breathing creature of god.  640 fish
later, the only thing I know is that everything you love will die.  The first time you meet
that someone special, you can count on them one day being dead and in the ground.”
Chuck Palahniuk
“Dead. Everybody dead.  Here in the bathroom with me are razor blades.  Here is iodine
to drink.  Here are sleeping pills to swallow.  You have a choice.  Live or die.
Every breath is a choice.  Every minute is a choice.  To be or not to be.  Every time you
don`t throw yourself down the stairs, that`s a choice.  Every time you don`t crash your
car, you re-enlist.  If I let an agent make me famous, that wasn`t gonna change anything
important.  What do you call a man who goes around in a limo eating steak?  Dead.
Whatever direction I go in, I really don`t have anything to lose.”
“It`s only in drugs or death we`ll see anything new, and death is just too controlling.  You
realize that there`s no point in doing anything if nobody`s watching.  You wonder, if there
had been a low turnout at the crucifixion, would they have rescheduled?  You`ve never
seen a fat Jesus.  Or a Jesus with body hair.  Every crucifix you`ve seen, the Jesus could
be shirtless and modeling designer jeans or men`s cologne.  You realize that if no one`s
watching, you might as well stay home.  Play with yourself.  Watch TV.  You`re that tree
falling in the forest that nobody gives a fuck about.  If you`re not on video tape, or better
yet, live on a satellite hook-up in front of the whole world watching, you don`t exist.  It
doesn`t matter if you do anything.  If nobody notices, your life will add up to a big zero.
Nada.  Nothing.  It`s these kinds of big truths that swarm inside you.”
“Since change is constant, you wonder if people crave death because it`s the only way
they can get anything really finished.”
“The only difference between a suicide and a martyrdom really is press coverage.  If Jesus
had died from a drug overdose alone on the bathroom floor, would we still be saved?”
Chuck Palahniuk
“I began to carry it everywhere.  The gun created a second reality for me to inhabit.  The air
was bright, swirling around my head.  Nameless feelings pressed thrillingly on my chest.  It
was a reality that I could control, secretly dominate.  How stupid these people were, coming
into my office unarmed.”
“But in the end it doesn`t matter what they see or think they see.  The terminals are equipped
with holographic scanners, which decode the binary secret of every item, infallibly.  This is the
language of waves and radiation, or how the dead speak to the living.  And this is where we
wait together, regardless of age, our carts stocked with brightly colored goods.  A slowly moving
line, satisfying, giving us time to glance at the tabloids in the racks.  Everything we need that
is not food or love is here in the tabloid racks.  The tales of the supernatural and the extraterrestrial.
The miracle vitamins, the cures for cancer, the remedies for obesity.  The cults of the famous
and the dead.”
Don DeLillo
“White Noise”
A graceful and sexy woman in a white sun dress
with the sun shining brightly behind her is always
a truly lovely sight to behold
lying on your back, looking at the trees and the blue sky, dreaming….
that`s real; that`s all there is, really….
nothing but the sky….
the news is SO full of insane stories and headlines, it is SO bizarre and disturbing, so surreal,
SO FUCKING RIDICULOUS, that it almost has me unhinged…
pervert bookstore owners, gay priests butt-raping altar boys, bestiality, atomic waste site tourism,
George Bush signs more bills to ATTACK ATTACK!!! more oil, more oil, gimme gimme gimme
some more, take more land, destroy ancient sites and national monuments, here at home we
tear down famous landmarks to build new malls, teen rape victims on the cover of People magazine,
death, murder, extortion, big business corruption is worse than ever……unFUCKINGbelievable!!
It`s all more than enough to get to anyone with heart and a soul that is still intact….
“Quiet nights of quiet stars…”
Los Angeles Times horoscope for Taurus on Tuesday 8/13/02
“Dare to dream.  The help you need is on the way.  Don`t give up.”
8/16/02  The birthday of Charles Bukowski– Whiskey and Words
Another strange and misty day.  Summer in Los Angeles is just not the same as it once was.  Maybe
it`s just me becoming older and more jaded or maybe it really is different–one can only guess.  I couldn`t
say for sure with any conviction.  However, I think it just seems dirtier, drearier, lacking in the screaming
blue sky clarity of yesteryear at the beach.  Now, I live in Hollywood and I often wonder why, being that
I couldn`t care less about acting or any of that shit.  It all seems so routine lately.  A bus ride to work, a
bus ride to the beach, a bus ride to anywhere or nowhere…it`s all the same old thing.  Monotony.  Routine;
the slow and silent killer.  They drain the spirit of vitality and life from us, leaving one feeling used in the
morning like an old whore on Sunday or an empty bottle of scotch….useless.
Anyhoo, this brown smog haze blankets the city so thick that you can look directly at the sun.  You can
taste the filth…you can almost reach out and grab it.  The streets are filled with working drones and soulless
robots, going about their meaningless lives with a certain cow-like bliss, seemingly unaffected by the
philosophical absurdity of it all.  Does ANYBODY else think of these things anymore?  Does anyone else
see the dead end that lies at the end of every boring road?  Does anyone see your guts and your souls
dangling bloody and drained at the end of every dollar $ign?  No one, I tell ya, is gonna railroad me down
the path with the rest of the sheep, so I beat my way through the underbrush and the mountains and the
jungle and nothing holds me back but myself.  The only cure is to BREAK OUT, to go through new doorways,
to dream BIGGER dreams, to imagine better things and better places.  There`s nothing else.  To learn to
exist within all realms is not easy but someone`s gotta do it.  Let it be me, baby, let it be ME.
So, life goes on for most of us.  We sleep, eat, shit, live, die, smile, cry, laugh, frown, and, of course, FUCK
like monkeys in heat, because sometimes there really is nothing better than a good RELEASE, if you will….
The days drag by, time passes, death is as common and dull as sitting on the toilet.  Is there a reason, a
POINT to all this?  Ahh, yes, that is the eternal question, is it not?  It is one that will probably never be fully
answered but that is probably a good thing because it leaves us with the element of surprise, and without that,
life would not be worth living.  Nobody fucking knows a damn thing.  So, why worry, I say?
So, in conclusion, keep eating, keep dreaming and keep fucking you horny little monkeys.  There is no stopping
it…it just keeps on coming at you, life does, until it ends.  It`s that simple.  And it has no formula….no answers.
No equation could possibly explain this madness.  Just live it.
As I finish this, an ugly-ass Mexican transvestite is sidling up next to me, trying in vain to start up a conversation.
Naturally, I ignore the mutant until it goes away.  Sparrows are tweeting, buses rumble by, everybody`s going
somewhere.  The sun gets hotter as a pigeon buzzes my head.  This is life, baby.  I`m living it the best I can…
This one`s for you, Bukowski, for your birthday that you no longer need pretend to celebrate since you`ve gone
on to new bars and new rooms on the other side.  Tonight, at midnight, I will raise a glass of whiskey to the
heavens and hells that exist within me and I will dream of golden thoughts and writing immortal words and
crawling on the edge of a razor blade….the best way to live life is to grab it by the throat and choke it into submission…
Thanks for being you…..cheers, you old crazy bastard….see you at some nasty bar over there someday…



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