How Terrible We've Become

We'll sweat it out then, in cold, on the interstate. Have a hundred miniature heart attacks while trying to sleep in the passenger seat, passing by the green, blue, and brown empty space that makes up the slow climb from the plains to the Rockies. There might be birds flying from roadside trees. There might be a dead deer, or a dead dog, on the shoulder. There might be some cows milling about, though the wind blowing over the prairie sweeps away the smell before it makes it through the vents and into the car. Who knows. The kid is sleeping too, in the backseat--no nightmares for him though.

A long ten days in my hometown and I am hearing folks talking--though they're not talking--from my paralyzed half-sleep and I think that I am going to die. Ten days of heavy drinking after what feels like ten years(though it is closer to six) of heavy drinking--heavier than usual in these past few months--and that's what happens when you try to come off it: you try to sleep and your body shakes, your heart speeds up, your breathing is uneven, and folks who aren't really there are talking to you. The conversations come back. Things you've all said before at one time or another--they're repeated. They're saying things about poor kids in such and such country, about books you need to read("I really think you'd love it"), about the girl they fucked last Tuesday, the girl they fucked last Wednesday, and the girl they fucked last night; they're saying things about the places they've been, about the places you need to go("I really think you'd love it"), about the things they're going to do, and by all probability won't. And as they're saying these things, they are standing over you, sitting next to you, crouching behind you; they are touching your arms and your legs and your face--the pressure is unbearable, what with the booze coming out of your system, through your pores, and your body trying desperately to regain its equilibrium(only a sober one now). There's absolutely no chance. I am going to die.

Another thing comes up while in that condition. It is that unearthly heaviness so familiar from your youth, from those times when you stared into the mirror and felt that you might not exist, or nothing existed, or what have you(you were young), from those times when you jerked off and felt so lonely it hurt, from those times when you decided it was a mistake as you were making it; that unearthly heaviness so familiar to you because you've felt it for years, on and off, when in the unholy night you are visited by what you think is a demon that's come to rape you for the wrongs it's glad you've done, or you are visited by what you think is an angel that's come to cry over you for all the wrongs it's disappointed you've done. There's no difference in these things anyway. They're all horrible, and they're all real. You no longer have any friends in all of this, and no family. There is no one left to love you.

After you switch from the passenger seat to the wheel--miraculously making it through those first startling hours of sobriety--and you've sweated out what you hope to be everything(it never is), a good meal is necessary even if it must be choked down. With food in your belly the distraction of driving is good then, and you feel silly for ever having had the thought that no one loves you, or you don't have any friends, or family. You watch the foothills begin to take shape just a little ways into Colorado from Nebraska, and the big clouds in the sky form what will soon be a thunderstorm, and you are fine for a moment--you can breathe, you can smile. Everything will be fine.

We get back to the house(an hour west of Denver) at dusk, and as I pull the car into the garage a fearful notion, or memory really, is struck in me: This is not over; This will take a few days at least, I know, and please lord--whatever that means, as in my habit I always say--help me. The house is dark and there are still some dishes in the sink from when we left. The kid's toys are scattered all around the kitchen and living room. The garage door will not close--it is coming down on top of the trunk of the car because I did not pull in far enough. I am real quiet about that...

Mother and child are quick up the stairs. Father is home from work soon after and follows them up. They have their own little family to fall back on. I am alone though, in the living room(don't want to go to the bedroom where, in my first nights here, I had already had several unsettling dreams), attempting to stay awake long enough so that exhaustion will overtake me and put me out like a light. Can't handle the prospect of struggling through hours of silence, attempting to overcome the hypersensitivity of my detoxing body and of my healing conscience. I need the aid of the witless drone from the TV and the flashing blue light in the dark to provide imagery that is separate from my own memory and therefore will not cause nightmares. But that is never the case. It is impossible to escape the things that are already in your brain. Nonetheless, I tried. I see four o'clock in the morning before I finally slip back into the delirium I experienced earlier in the car.

There was more sweat then, in cold, on the couch in the living room of someone else's home. There were a hundred miniature deaths caused by heart failure, caused by an aneurism, caused by the unearthly heaviness created by the beings in my dreams:

A young group of folks with painted faces(not COTE), they wanted to kill me. I was being accused of theft--some trivial item, a lighter maybe--and they were closing in on me, around me, snarling in a different language. But there was one girl who had taken a liking to me, with a foreign name and a pretty face--even behind the paint. She took me away from everyone, into her arms, and she spoke kindly to me, smiling, telling me not to worry about anything. Oh, this beautiful girl, she wanted me to fuck her but I couldn't--not in good conscience; when she learned that I wouldn't, she changed. I was ridiculed for not allowing myself to be "barbaric," among other things, and she laughed at me. They all laughed at me. The whole thing had been a scheme amongst them for me to be frightened into fucking this "kind" woman with unspeakable diseases.

I ran. I took the first bus--to Rhode Island? A Rhode Island that would never be reached. I found all of my old friends on the bus. And the bus was going through Africa, in some unbelievable countryside where it was said we were not welcome. Spears with poison tips were being thrown by the natives running alongside our bus, our old wooden ship on wheels, and as they came at us we would trip on the shackles attached to our seats, and fall, and the spears just kept on coming...

I am awake now. It is the morning and the kid is running about. He wants to go outside. So Father--who has the day off from work--and I take him to the park. He plays mainly by himself, but occasionally asks us to go down the slide with him--we concede, and go down the slide. Afterwards, we go to the grocery store. We pack the cart and then stock the cabinets and the fridge in the house. And I've said nothing of the dreams I've been having, of the physical ailments I've been experiencing. What can I say--that I've been drinking too much and am now suffering because of it? that I've wrecked my body and done irreparable things concerning my conscience and am now horrified of myself and existence in general? You can't say those things to a father on a Sunday afternoon while his kid needs a diaper change and is asking fort strawberry milk. You just have to endure them silently, and remember that it, like everything, will pass; and you have to shake your head to acknowledge just how terrible we've become, that this continuous cycle of self-destruction is not just idiotic, but normal.

//

In the words of Rumi: "But listen to me; for one moment, quit being sad. Hear blessings dropping their blossoms all around you. God." Alright, old boy--whatever you say.

Enjoy yourselves, and your summers.

With love,

and Thanks to everyone in Lincoln,

K. Benjamin Font

Keep The Light On and an Excerpt from Track 1 of "Sons and Daughters of The Earth"

We have fallen behind. At least a month has gone missing--maybe more. It's not a strange thing to happen when you find yourself in Los Angeles--especially in Echo Park--being welcomed by the many warm arms of the cult known as The Sons and Daughters of The Earth(a very loose veil covering their real name).

There are details that must, for the moment, be spared as concerning this chunk of missing time. The welcoming ceremony, for sure, must be omitted; as for the rest, it will come out soon enough in a book entitled, simply, "Sons and Daughters of The Earth." I will provide an excerpt of the first chapter(Track 1) of this book in another minute or two.

Before I do so, I would like to mention that for all of the things I must refrain from saying presently, there is one thing that cannot be put off any longer--the best poem I saw in the fast life of the floating world:

The rain from the night before had carried into the next afternoon. Outside of a cafe, there was a small group of young folks drinking whiskey and water out of styrofoam cups, discussing the different ways of romanticizing their own lives. As talk of handjobs behind dumpsters and other sordid business arose, an old Filipino man came walking very slowly around the corner. He was hunched over in his wool suit, further than a man in good health should be, and he held his umbrella, inexplicably, under his arm; the rain could be seen matting his hair to his head, and dripping through the thick, dark creases in his face and on his neck. He was walking slow enough to see each and every drop. For twenty minutes he stayed in view, in motion, crossing the street at a snail's pace to eventually get to the bus stop. And when he finally arrived, it was in perfect sync with the arrival of the bus. It pulled to the curb and stopped. He nearly crawled up the steps and paid the driver. Then all at once, the bus began moving, carrying the old Filipino man out of sight, back in the direction he had come.

At this, someone at the table, in between sips from their styrofoam cup, said very quietly, "We're all trying to get back to the place where we've come." The remark was heard, but not commented on. It was clear to everyone present that the party who had spoken was either intoxicated or heartbroken--either could be easily ignored. But they all internalized it anyway. They thought about the places where they wished they could go back to; they daydreamed about walking out of the dark back to their homes; and they all whispered to their loved ones in their heads, "Yes, I've been drinking a lot. But I never did those things you thought I did. Let me come back to you someday. Please, keep the light on." Surely, they all must have been both a little intoxicated and heartbroken--what young person in America isn't?

Sons and Daughters of The Earth
(To be released as an audiobook, on vinyl, sometime after my return to LA in the fall. Stay tuned for details on the fundraiser/live event, donation opportunities, and possible involvement in different aspects of the project itself.)
TRACK 1

Partially hidden away on a residential street in Echo Park in California, nestled behind another home at an unnamed 1/2 address on Lone Shore Ave., at the bottom of a steeply graded empty lot where coyotes graze at night, there is a house growing from the side of a giant avocado tree. And in this treehouse there once lived the "cult"--though more accurately described as a family--known as The Sons and Daughters of The Earth. They were a mix-up of 100 different species at least, consisting of your basics, such as your dogs, your cats, your turtles, your squirrels, your birds, etc., along with your more exotic types, such as your lions, your sex panthers(they do exist), your monkeys, your koalas, a single wolf that was said to be domesticated, and they were all men and women too(save for that bastard wolf), who lived together as a family until just two weeks ago to the day when they met their bizarre and untimely deaths.

The house is no longer occupied by anything representative of a family. Those who have heard rumors of the demise of The Sons and Daughters of The Earth and who have ventured into the neighborhood to attempt a glance at the place where they once lived have failed terribly at this because they cannot get through. The property is sanctioned off by investigators who at this moment still haunt the grounds, looking through every nook and cranny of the home in search of some sort of tangible clue as to why, some sort of logical explanation for their extraordinary rise and sudden fall.

//

Quickly: thank you to everyone in LA who supported me in all of the different ways that a person can be supported--I love you; also, thank you to everyone in Kerrville, Tx. who helped me through my kidnapping and assisted me in arriving safely in Colorado--I love you as well.

Ave Maria,
Benjamin Font

En Route No. 3

What happened on the journey from Monterey, Ca. to Los Angeles(Reading No Drinking in Fast-Motion?)

I wanted to be completely sober when I arrived at Union Station in LA because the old friend who would be picking me up had known me last as a very young drunk in Lincoln, Nebraska(where we first met ten years ago) and I wanted it to be clear that I had changed--mostly. So I drank nothing but water on the train, which washed down my graciously hand-packed ham sandwiches, bananas, pistachios, cheese crackers, pickles, fig newtons, and tim tams(I was truly carrying all that with me). Once I got there, and we hugged each other, then we could drink.

Between my several meals, which I spaced out considerably well over the ten hours of traveling, I became anxious(that's what happens without a nip of booze) for internal movement, something more significant to me alone, something indelibly my own. I got the idea of going into the observation car for my(the?) first reading in fast-motion. I would go into the observation car and ask a few of the folks if they'd be interested in a little entertainment--something short, sweet. I would stand on the side of the car where behind me the ocean could be seen and I would read. It may have been entrapment with the type of folks that were on this train, in this car, being that they were the too kind type, the type that can't say no, the type that will suffer through anything with a smile on their face--the type of folks who were cooing out the window, "ah, man, look at that there--ain't it beautiful?" They would have to listen then; they would be forced to listen, out of politeness if nothing else. And they would end up liking me. They would even buy my books. It's not like I would be a rich man from the sales, but at least I would be my own man, and perhaps a little richer for the experience?

What actually happened after I got the idea and went into the observation car is that I got very self-conscious and opted to sit down and stare out the window like the rest of the folks, only instead of saying it out loud, I thought to myself, "ah, man--it's beautiful." And it happened that the position I sat in was next to an Indian looking girl of thirteen who had a noticeable mustache that her parents had probably refused to let her wax at such a young age--but she would do it later on, once she was out of the house. She was certainly a self-aware little girl, and a little girl who was bold enough to strike up conversation with me. "This your first time on a train?" she inquired of me. She went on to tell me about her own experience riding on trains, which was extensive. She talked about her family in the next car. She had a notebook in her lap and had been writing in it. I asked her about the notebook. As it turned out, this girl was a "writer" too. A prolific one at that--she had already written seven books(mainly science fiction).

Naturally, I told this little girl that I was a writer as well, and told her all about the Reading (and Drinking) in Slow-Motion tour. She was fascinated(and I'm not being vain), and wanted my advice on a number of subjects. I continued to stare out the window as she spoke, not to intentionally avoid her gaze, but to intentionally avoid gazing at her mustache(I'm so sorry if you're reading this!)--I didn't want to embarrass her. Out the window opposite the ocean she pointed to a couple of deer, a fox(supposedly), and some cows. She continued to talk about her books, her inspirations, her secrets that she kept from her family--not to say that she disclosed these secrets to me(thank god), but she spoke of the idea of these secrets. She claimed to have gone so far as to have created her own language so that if anyone picked up one of her notebooks they would be lost as to what they meant. All little girls have their own languages.

It seemed preposterous to me that I should be sitting next to this thirteen year old girl, but I was extremely glad to have sat next to her. I've never been in the position of a mentor--though this was temporary--and the responsibility made me feel honorable, good. Regardless, I felt that our dialogue had run its course--in this day and age one must be careful about how much time they spend with a young girl or boy, especially when holding a copy of a book called, "God's Fool"(Julien Green's respectable biography, or life and times, of St. Francis of Assisi)--and I told her I was headed back to my seat now. I was thinking about another of my small meals. And just as I was about to leave she told me to wait, quickly tearing out the corner of one of her notebook pages; she wrote something on this torn corner of a page and handed it to me. Written on the paper was her name, her contact information, and underneath it, "aspiring author." I stuck it in my pocket and went back to my seat. Then I ate half of a ham sandwich, a handful of cheese crackers, and a banana, and felt content.

Good Times and Destitution

As concerning some of the time spent in Monterey, Ca. and more Reading and Drinking in Slow-Motion.

I.
Monterey("[the] bad habit, [the] memory, [the] nightmare"--my old, loving transfiguration of that famous "Row") is a place where, by accident, by the sheer probability of small town circumstance, you will see everyone you do or don't want to, like the inadvertent conjuring of ghosts in the pillow-laid head of a person nearing sleep. This trip was no exception to that statement.

In spite of a certain book(the one quoted above), which was considered offensive by many of my friends and family members at the time of its "release"(can you say that about self-published [adjective for the style/subject matter of my then work?), I was received well in Monterey. My arrival came with an Easter basket and several pitchers of mimosas(a tasteful omission is being made here of a revelatory talk of which the end result, I'd like to think, was the soothing of "family matters" and a heightened sense of kinship--aye, best pal?) and my departure with a bag full of goodies that kept my blood sugar steady on my train ride to LA.

In between these delicious treats, though, there was the path from Pacific Grove(where I was staying) and Monterey, which served as the collision course for imminent meetings of Person 1(a good, old friend who I had not spoken to for some time, yet immediately fell in step with to the nearest bar for beers and catching up), Person 2(an encounter I was dreading--for good reason; it made me feel like hell to recall certain casual observations made of them(without good reason I sometimes think) in the past--but who called my name amiably, hugged me, and bade me farewell with a "god bless you, and peace be with you"), and Person 3(a staple "sighting" in the town of Monterey, and a person who I was surprised to have not seen more of--a great guy). Then there was the sushi restaurant where I saw Person 4(who I am always happy to see, and who prepared--he's the sushi chef at the restaurant--and paid for a wonderful meal, which I would like to formally thank him for), and, of course, the old haunt at East Village Cafe where I, of course, again, ran into Persons 5-12(all of which were expected and pleasant--no, better than pleasant, "better than expected": right and good).

Fittingly, yes, I showed up in Monterey with very little announcement and I saw everyone; we had a good time, we enjoyed ourselves.

II.
With that in consideration, it came as no surprise to me that the reading at East Village was attended and books were sold. The folks there, being that they were friends of mine, set aside the lounge area for me with seats that I probably would not fill(and didn't--though this was the highest number of people I've read to yet), and tables that I eventually encouraged people to fill with drinks, preferably alcoholic ones, not because alcohol was necessary for them to enjoy the reading but because we were at a ga'damn cafe and you cannot just sit there without buying anything. Willingly, they complied.

Although the reading went well(next copy to be sold is 36/75), and my friends were receptive, it is painful for me to say that The Poor House remains in destitution. In LA now, funds have run considerably low, even past our means I'm afraid. We are not beggars over here, but neither are we prideful folks. Though one could say that we do pride ourselves in being "humble"--sort of. In any case, we have no shame in saying this: funds for The Poor House's Reading and Drinking in Slow-Motion Tour have finally dwindled down so far as to justify the previous use of the word, "destitution," making it nearly impossible to continue without the support of our "fans"; if you are in a position that allows you to do so, we would be extremely grateful for donations in small or large amounts that can be sent via paypal--they can be sent to: benjaminjane[at]gmail.com. Or, just buy a copy of the First Edition Mock-Up of "In Full Bloom" for $10, along with $2 for shipping, and a copy will be promptly mailed.

Thank you everyone for everything--ever.
Benjamin Font

En Route No. 2

Paying no heed to particular details of travel, having--very quietly--a conversation while in motion from Oakland to Monterey, Ca.

"Forgive me, Hills. I have had impure thoughts about you. Forgive me for these thoughts and for speaking openly about them[see: "En Route No. 1(part two)"]. I was just so glad to see you again--my emotions got the better of me."

"I am feeling very sentimental today; I see you, Hills, and my hands grow cold, my palms sweaty. There is a big knot growing in my stomach. I am so happy, Hills, yet my happiness is an extremely sad one--I am just slightly broken-hearted. You see, I have left someone, again. Why are we always leaving someone? And how long must we be away from them?"

"It was over two years ago that I met this person I am at present leaving, Hills, not too far from where you sit, so perfectly still, like squatting zen giants, back on your hams in contemplation. You do not move so much. You never leave anyone, do you; people are always leaving you, aren't they. How do you feel, Hills? Is there anything you would like to talk to me about? I will give you a moment here to form a response."

"Yes, of course; you have always been the silent type. But in spite of your silence, for so it is by appearances, I think I have an idea of what you're feeling, which is most likely akin to the feeling that a certain someone is feeling about me having left. Would it be out of line to use the word "abandonment"? I am not worried about getting out of line anyway, for I, in "reality," began out of line--my only desire is to get back in. Hopefully I have not gone so far astray as to impose restrictions on my attempt to get back in--what hell that would be."

"But as I say this, Hills, I see--and remember--that you still have the cows; and these cows-- passing on from generation to generation, only leaving by way of body to kitchen table, not spirit if there is one--these cows will never actually leave you. I wish I were more like those cows, Hills. I wish I were not always leaving someone, something. The other day, pretending to be in a fairytale country, though actually in an empty lot in suburbia, I ate a yellow wildflower(don't think about the name), and chewed it up into a bright mush--then I spit it out. I could not swallow the flower. I am not a beast. Why can I not be a beast? I miss you, Hills."


*Next reading:*

Wednesday, 7 April. 6.30 pm.
East Village Coffee Lounge - Featured
498 Washington St., Monterey, Ca.

(followed by the "Rubber Chicken Poetry Slam")

Hope to see you there. Or at least someone. That someone.
Happy belated Easter.
Benjamin Font

Second Reading, Side-Step the Drinking

It is never a good sign when the proprietor--an old, smiling Chinaman--of the cafe you had arranged to read at does not remember who you are, or why you are standing in front of him; nor is it a very good sign that one must walk through the kitchen to get to the bathroom. I was no one that night--my first in San Francisco--and I piss a lot. It is bad for business when the chef's hands get too cold because of a spectral presence; and the typical customer is wary of the place if it has a haunted bathroom--so perhaps the impression I got from the Chinaman of being unwelcome at his place was grounded.

In any case, that first night in San Francisco I read to two old friends, a Chinaman who could not even see me, and half a dozen folks with bright white hair, "spectacles," and big bellies. The Chinaman, being that he could not see me, also could not hear me; my friends liked what I had to say--but friends are usually good in that way; and then there was one old man--just after the reading, though before I had stepped down from the dim limelight--there was this one old man who decided to challenge me to a literary pissing contest.

Old Man: "Every time you say 'Mr. Bloom,' I can't help but laugh; you know there's a 'Mr. Bloom' in James Joyce's 'Ulysses,' don't you--have you ever read James Joyce's 'Ulysses'--huh?"

I do piss a lot--and enjoy the feeling of letting out a good, long piss--but this kind of pissing did not interest me. I understand you're familiar with a classic--do you want to mention its name again? Talk about the author? Maybe you would also like to make mention of Proust? Tell me about how Joyce and Proust never met, and tell me what it would have been like had they met? Or maybe you would like to have "Nabokov" on your tongue--"Lolita" in particular would certainly be appropriate.

None of that was said. Instead, Me(to the Old Man): "The 'Mr. Bloom' in my story is more of a pop-culture reference than literary--but thank you for adding that [unnecessary] dimension to it."

Old Man: "Oh, you're welcome."

Second night in San Francisco was an open mic, mostly music. The coordinator and host, a very nice woman named Pat, worked me in while the room was full. Only had four minutes to read. I announced, "I am [who I am], and I am not a musician," then got on with the two selections I chose to read, appropriately, from my book, "Songs: I Can't Sing." These folks took it well; these folks were good folks, even though none of them gave any financial aid to The Poor House. Not a single book sold. The house is still broke, a mess. Bills are piling up. There's a good chance they will not get paid, goddamn.

Now is "later--later!"

As concerning some of the time spent in an empty apartment in Oakland, Ca. after the success of "operation keys," which involved a two and a half mile walk from the train station with a heavy suitcase, a heavy attache case, and an inconvenient and awkward box--the weight of which resulted in a sore neck/back, bruised shoulders, and the length of which, the walk I mean, resulted in a giant blister on the left heel--and following to a "T" these instructions: "When you get to [the] place on [Certain] St., the first building on the left, you will see, to the side of the main front entrance, a garden. Take the stairs down into the garden and find a toilet with plants pouring out of it. There is a seashell below it...lift it up--keys."

I am considering putting everything I write within quotations, in order to acknowledge that anything I say has already been said by someone, somewhere, and at some time. If it were not for the fact that such a task seems extremely tiring, I would certainly do so. I am, however, quite lazy when it comes to such matters, so I will ask you, reader--if you exist; you must exist--to please imagine the quotations are there, though invisible, from here on out; no, rather from the beginning of this paragraph, forward.*

Having made that statement(again, and again, and so on), I will also say that the acknowledgment of such does not hinder my desire to continue to speak, to tell stories, to repeat, repeat. In fact, I am somewhat encouraged by it because a) anything I say can be attributed to someone else, therefore largely freeing me of the personal responsibility which comes with "individual thinking" and creative license, and b) if I am compelled to reiterate things said repeatedly through the ages, then there is clearly a timeless quality to whatever I say, even if it appears minute or trivial on the surface--a fine notion that I am more than willing to believe in.**

Moving on, as always.
On to the relation of a short anecdote that occurred in the very garden where "operation keys" was completed, wherein I made my first meaningful connection in Oakland--a squirrel. I was sitting in this garden, mulling over nothing in particular, simply enjoying the day and moment for what they were, and a squirrel appeared in the tree behind me. I turned to face him, and found that he was staring at me. He was somewhat upright, holding in his mouth a peanut, shell and all, turning it over and over presumably to lick off the salt and continuing to stare all the while. I said hello, and stared back. The squirrel put a tiny hand to his chest--and this "hand" was most definitely that of a human--as if to say, "Are you addressing me, sir?" I laughed at his gesture, because we were the only two people in the garden and it was obvious already that I was addressing him. He went back to turning the peanut over in his mouth like an old cowboy with a toothpick.

As the mutual stare was prolonged, I recalled a night where a homeless man had shook my hand for fifteen minutes, without once letting go, while making these small sounds, like "spiritual" moans, telling me, "Ah--oh my...your eyes...Ah--oh my...your eyes...there's something about you...." Of course, I had previously given the man $5, making him then, I suppose, some sort of prostitute of the ego, as he had been paid to say those things for my "benefit." Back in the garden, I wondered if the squirrel might want something from me as well. But squirrels do not smoke--I know that; and to my knowledge, squirrels are not particularly fond of apple juice(was on my last glass at this point); and a squirrel would definitely not find much use for "any part of a dollar." So he must have wanted nothing more from me than the return of the stare, a silent meeting of eyes to express a basic "hello" or "thank you" or whatever, because we both existed in this world and we both seemed to be happy with that fact.

Just then a young man in dark sunglasses strode by, frightening the squirrel into a very strange looking hopscotch out of the tree and across the top of the fence along the garden perimeter--gone; the man continued up the sidewalk towards the garden, and I scurried back inside of the apartment, empty and alone. I peaked out the kitchen window to see if the squirrel had returned; in the squirrel's place was the same man who had frightened the squirrel away, and whose presence had caused me to lose interest in remaining in the garden. He was sitting in the exact chair which I had sat, and the garden didn't look as pretty to me anymore. I walked away from the window.


Enjoy,
Benjamin Font


***Excerpt from a work in progress called, "I Am No One," subtitled, "an imaginary memoir."

En Route No. 1(part two)

Suddenly nature communicated(and more about this later--later!), sweeping through the parlor car after all the bluedawn yawns were worked out completely and everything -one was coming to life. I was dreaming about fucking that hillside--had forgotten how soft they were in California, forgotten their folds like those on the behinds of big beautiful women!, like those shaping their breasts, like those creasing the tight skin covering their ribcages; had forgotten the subtle, palatable changes depending on the time of day and weather.

And then the trees were talking, one with that slouched over, hangdog expression of his, watching his pal, old Pink, vomit into a river all bent over; another, singlehandedly, was an entire funeral procession, with his branches pulled tightly inward, his chest-trunk sunken in almost, and gnarled so much that the already deep greens deepened further until black.

Hovering over water--I looked down in the shimmery backwash, and below the bridge I saw my brother; he had crumpled up his body like a drunk or a scaregull, ass on cement structure protruding above the water's surface, back against some rotting wood posts. On second look, it was not my brother--it was a life preserver.

Gathering closer, the train bent up ahead rounding the curve; humps of earth popped up from nowhere, topped with the down of cute green kittens; and off shore there's tha tankers!; and it was low tide so I, personally, could see 100,000 rubber car-tires in dispose, sticking in the mud.

And, of course, entering slowly then into the cloud, the growing heaviness in atmosphere, the parlor car darkening with the dream, the world of all those ghosts, obscure and well-known.


I'm amazed if anyone had the patience--aside from myself--to read this; and, to be frank, I did not actually have the patience to read it even, I simply jotted it down here and there, and typed it up mindlessly, wishing I had more apple juice. So, soon again,
Benjamin Font

To look forward to: the reading tomorrow at 5pm, Sacred Grounds Cafe, San Francisco; and, "later--later!"

En Route No. 1(part one)

By way of a called-off wedding in New York I was escorted on the onset of my trip--from Ashland, Or. to San Francisco--by odd conversations in a limousine, a tiny deaf/mute man in a silk hat, an enchanting sense of sadness and nostalgia(the suicide always present), and other well-phrased occurrences as told by Salinger's "Buddy Glass," concerning his brother "Seymour," though without ever physically bringing him into play. Spatially, of course, this comment makes no sense, but to the avid reader, or even the casual one, this will be unsterstood as a simple truth about traveling: as your body moves, so does your brain move, albeit on typically abstract paths, that are often subject to be led by any semi-coherent piece of "literature," books of all sorts really, which then pose as if not fully, surely a large part of the landscape of your travels. I say, "any semi-coherent piece of 'literature,'" but it should be made clear--though I'm sure it is already(earlier mention of Salinger)--that I am partial to the engrossing lines of America's older literary caste.

[I am legally restricted from quoting any part of the work I would like to here, but I urge anyone reading this to take the time--now--to quickly read Little, Brown and Company's 1963 edition of J.D. Salinger's "Raise High The Roofbeam, Carpenters," and "Seymour--An Introduction" beginning with the first complete sentence on pg 97 and ending with a certain gift from the author on pg 98. Thank you for complying.]

No one writes like that anymore. Most are taught a different(though all the same) way of writing--a way of cold detachment, or "un-attachment." Aside from the period, punctuation is too scary; sentences must not run on, or back-track, or side-track. Everything must be terse. Cinematic. Cutting. Derogatory. Like so.

I have known someone to often quote a professor of theirs as saying, "I love the 50's--nothing happened!" Although it is, without a doubt, no longer the 50's, I, too, love them and am apt to pretend: keeping memories in tangible photographs, not digital which can be removed from the world with a click of a button; making phonecalls from roadside payphones, not any- and everywhere from cellular; a suitcase almost too heavy to carry, but who needs wheels, and why mention anything else--the point has been taken as far as I'd like to take it. However, I should mention, for the sake of honesty, that a certain thin device that can be held in the lap(and is in front of me at present as I type up my longhand) and will communicate to anyone, anywhere, stands as the obvioust testament that you can never completely escape the "actual" times--but isn't this just an extension of the imagination? a place where only the things you want to exist, do(ignoring for now the nightmares knows as "viruses")? The answer, I promise you, is yes.

My brother says I ritualize everything; he also says(which no shit I agree with) that this is a better way to live. As I was thinking of those words, along with the wedding, and the suicide, I raised my eyes from New York and found myself on a fairly modern looking bus as far as the 1950's are concerned, riding directly behind the driver, and looking out the rain-splashed windows onto snowy road shoulders and ice-covered ponds--in the last days of March, mind you--climbing in altitude on "Dead Indian Rd.," What-the-fuck America, toward Klamath Falls for my connecting train to--San Francisco? Oakland?

[Oakland. I talked to the lady-attendant who gave me a pillow just as I was writing that second question mark--yes, on the train; forgive me for jumping ahead--and she said I could forego the the transfer back to bus for SF and stay aboard the train til Oakland instead, where I had learned there were keys to an empty apartment hidden away for me.]

There are certain places, even when you are physically in their presence, that never quite fully enter your "reality"; for me, Klamath Falls was one of those places:
Entering town, you are confronted by rain-washed, wind-whipped visions of desolation--typical sites of rundown buildings, closed-up businesses and the like, railyards of rust and debris; all things associated with failed commercialism, a seemingly "disappeared" working class, and general sadness.

We were deposited at a tiny shuttle-depot in the middle of that blown out grey mess with four hours until the train came. Like in a foreign country where they try to exploit you for your monies, "free" cab rides were offered to the so-called downtown area where restaurants, I'm sure, were waiting to pay the cabbies for bringing them customers they could overcharge(maybe fair game; it's not really for me to say...but something unsavory about it). I heard the busdriver tell a girl she oughtn't go downtown though, oughtn't go walking by herself, and certainly oughtn't go down any alleys for fear of falling on a syringe(!)--Klamath Falls. I, along with this girl, took the busdriver's advice and stayed cooped up at the depot watching televised movies I'm too embarrassed to name and eating some of my tiny sandwiches of peppered beef jerky on a baguette that I had packed into my bag.

Time passed slowly--you bet. Finally, we were told the train station was open and they would now be taking us over there. We put our bags in the taxi out front and take us they did on an absurd ride that involved two immediate turns, both to the right, which landed us directly behind the depot building. And there we were at the train station.

On top of everything, when I went out back to have a smoke(first surgeon general's warning put out in 1964(I believe), so no problem to me in the 50's) before the train arrived, I watched a massive freight train pass by and for a full minute there were these double-stacked cars on which in giant lettering read: "DO NOT HUMP." That is absolutely what it said. And sound advice, kids--every action has its consequence.

First Reading, Drinking

Walked six miles through the countryside in rain mixed with hail, our wool coats with their hoods pulled up, the leather attache being carried over-shoulder heavy with a quantity of books there was no way would sell, and dark spots showing on the leather as the scary possibility of rain seeping through and ruining all those brand new books so toiled over; we walked six miles, my brother and I, just to get to the pub for the First Reading, feeling like peasant Irishmen and announcing that feeling for good measure because we felt it was needed. "There's my man with the freckles," said the grocery store clerk, jogging by. "Must need a pint real bad ta be walking in this weather!" So it was. We could've driven into town and not drank, but we preferred to walk--that pint was sounding good.

Followed Ashland Creek past green fields with smooth stones where beasts graze, broken down Yeoman homes with outhouses and all, signposts that said "Loafers Lane," the busted screen door swung wide open and stuck that way; and there's the sheep there looking like they needed to be sheared, so whispered, "Don't be scared, fluffy sheep, I'll steal your wool slowly" while also being whispered was the threat, "I'll slaughter ya and cook ya in the ground for eight hours then throw ya over a giant bed of basmati rice!"; and there's the llamas there not doing a damn but staying dry under noisy tin roofs--make faces at 'em, you're just kids; and there's the families in the dog park and the old man dumping the water pooled on the lid of his trashcan; and finally there's the train tracks, crossing which means you're "in town" and up ahead is the big clock on that old building just around the corner from the pub. Clock read just past four--of course, we were late. But what matter when we find that the doors to the pub are locked? No answer on the phone. Only four of us standing outside in the cold. Not a good turnout. No reading.

After a short period of vexation, the bartender showed up. Regular bartender got sick--this guy had to come fill in. He poured strong drinks, gave some for free, and a few more people showed up. Half-cocked at 5 o'clock, the reading was back on. Sold six copies of the book. And take this as it is, because six months from now that six miles will probably be twelve, that rain and hail will be snow, those few people will be a bunch, and those six copies will be, if I'm feeling alright, twenty--saying nothing of a year from now, two years, and so on.

Thank you to those of you who showed up for my first reading, and for being attentive, and for buying books. It was a good time.

Enjoy yourselves.
Benjamin Font & The Poor House


Next scheduled reading:
Wednesday, 31 March. 5pm
Sacred Grounds Cafe
2095 Hayes St., San Francisco, Ca.

Copies remaining of "In Full Bloom": 64

A Small Press Release: IN FULL BLOOM, A Slow-Motion Reading Tour with Benjamin Font

The Poor House has taken its very first baby steps out of the imagination into the bright, budding world of springtime America with the publication of Benjamin Font's "In Full Bloom."

As stated in the Editor's Note, IN FULL BLOOM is "a letter to a certain unnamed celebrity--[beginning "Dear Mr. O------ Bloom"]--whose alleged resemblance to the author, after much distress over the issue and over his own existence, gave way to several reckless decisions and eventual catastrophe." It is also an unexpected, and unfortunate, love story.

The First Edition Mock-Up of the book(as pictured) comes in the format of 29 loose-leaf pages, along with a one page Editor's Note and individually typed front/back cover sheets, bound together by rubber bands and self-contained in a manila envelope that acts as the book cover, mimicking as closely as possible the genuine look of the "original" letter. Each copy comes signed by Font with a handwritten tag identifying it as Copy ## / 75, and can be purched for $10.

Thanks to our own investment, contributions from sponsors DIECUTSTICKERS.com and IMPERIAL MOTION Clothing, and the unfailing assistance of family and friends, Font will be traveling down the west coast for his first highly unorganized reading tour. Travel dates, confirmed readings, and other possible discreet appearances at open mics are as follows*:

Ashland, OR: 24 March - 28 March

Thursday, 25 March. 4pm.
Paddy Brennan's Irish Pub - Featured
23 Second St., Ashland, Or.

San Francisco, CA: 29 March - 2 April

Wednesday, 31 March. 5pm
Sacred Grounds Cafe - Featured
2095 Hayes St., San Francisco, Ca.

Thursday, 1 April. 7pm
Bazaar Cafe - Open Mic
5927 California St., San Francisco, Ca.

Monterey, CA: 3 April - 7 April

Wednesday, 7 April. 6.30pm
East Village Coffee Lounge - Featured
498 Washington St., Monterey, Ca.

Wednesday, 7 April. 7.30pm
East Village Coffee Lounge - Rubber Chicken Poetry Slam/Open Mic
498 Washington St., Monterey, Ca.

Los Angeles, CA area: 8 April - ?

Date & Time, TBA
Stories - Featured
1716 Sunset Blvd., Echo Park, Ca.

If you cannot make it to any of the given dates and would like a personal copy delivered to your home(+ $2 Shipping), or if you would like to host a reading either at a legitimate venue or in your home in the style of Stephen Elliot, or if you just have questions, suggestions, comments, concerns, or criticisms, then please feel free to direct them to: PoorHouse.The[at]gmail.com. We will respond in a timely and appropriate manner. Promise.

In the meantime, we will leave you with the Editor's Note to IN FULL BLOOM.

Editor's Note

The following is a letter to a certain unnamed celebrity(and any legal representatives reading over his shoulder) whose alleged resemblance to the author, after much distress over the issue and over his own existence, gave way to several reckless decisions and eventual catastrophe.

The letter was written in pencil from somewhere in Canada where the author was, at the time, a self-proclaimed fugitive. It was "smuggled" across the border into Los Angeles by unknown means, miraculously coming into the hands of the celebrity himself, whilst literary agents in the area, newspeople, filmmakers, and tabloid "journalists" all began to buzz with rumor of a scandal.

The manuscript itself contained not a single erasure, nor a single trace of hesitation on the author's part, as though every detail were not contrived, but the absolute truth as the author knew it. The only editing I have taken the liberty to perform is purely aesthetic, merely breaking up the author's long scrawl into neat, logical paragraphs; also, in keeping with the author's desire to remain anonymous to the public, I was obliged to omit the very last line of the letter, being that it was, naturally, his signature. Otherwise, the letter remains exactly as it was written.

--Benjamin Font

Early Spring 2010

Ashland, Or.

We hope to see you soon. And thanks for the support.

The Poor House

*Remember to check back for updates on readings and blurbs from the road.

Sponsors

A New Book, A Reading Tour, John Mayer, and Others

Winter was cut short in The Poor House, and thank god, because the heater was never able to be turned on--the pilot light had issues and was recalled for safety reasons. So until now our hands have been a bit stiff with the cold, and what little we were able to do with them was reserved for more important tasks than blogging, which, as it turns out, was accidentally catching a pillow on fire while reading by candlelight, and finishing a new collection of short works called, "Songs: I Can't Sing."
With the weather warming up, and bones thawing out, there is unrest in The Poor House. A subdued excitement that is causeing its inhabitants to either drink too much, smoke too much, or make rash decisions. In light of this, The Poor House is attempting to send the authors of "Songs...," Benjamin and Brandon Font, on a reading tour. To support The Poor House's "Songs: I Can't Sing. A (Future) Reading Tour," you can make a small donation by clicking the button below. Donations greater than $10 receive a free signed copy of the book that will ship no later than mid-April.

All money raised will go towards the first edition run of "Songs: I Can't Sing."


Also, certain things have happened recently--some just discovered recently--which The Poor House would like to share with any interested peoples.

+The Death of J.D. Salinger
+Playboy's Interview with John Mayer
+Excerpts from the writing of Joe Gould
+Roberto Bolaño's, "William Burns"
+Benjamin Font's, "The Significant Rain of Freider Wunder"


Thanks everyone for everything. Enjoy yourselves,
The Poor House

Happy New Year: Tiny Blues & A Short Short by William Sanders

On behalf of everyone at The Poor House, we'd like to wish you a Happy New Year. We hope that you are all enjoying yourself, and well.

In light of the new year, we're sharing with you two pieces here. One is by our head bastard, Benjamin Font; the other is by an unknown degenerate who did not feel like coming up with a title--and we were too lazy to give him one.


Tiny Blues
by Benjamin Font

It came upon me like everything does--by accident, fate, divine intervention, no reason at all. Absurd and strong, vague, in the middle of the night--the real middle...themiddleofthebrain...a dark spot in the center not at all like black ink leaking from a tiny source across the surface of a white page--but some would want to put it that way, wrongly, just because; or maybe blue, like the color of vein-through-skin: of the body next to mine, asleep; of the body in mine, awake.
A space heater provides warmth to exaclty four square feet of space--the rest is freezing. And a voice, in the middle of the night, from outside the brain going in: "You fucking bastard." Then singing: "Where are you now, my little darling? If only I could see you next Tuesday, in the light...."
A loud, hoarse sound in the night, those blues. I look out the window though I should be asleep, and it is coming from nowhere, hovering in the cold air--coming from a man so small he cannot be seen. Again: "You fucking bastard."
Those are his tiny blue. And he is right: I am a fucking bastard. I'm not drunk, but maybe I should be, I'd like to be. The body next to mine, still asleep--good. I am no one to you right now, so small you cannot see me. Easier to leave. I am gone...everything's disgusting...the grind...the goddamn This...and That--
The rejection from earlier: "Transparent, straightforward."
What that girl said on the train: "Smash it like a boken wine bottle and get out."
Get out of everything and away from everyone--including yourself, like how read the tape on the sidewalk: "The ego is a slippery slope." An idiotic gesture, two bum kids kneeling down on the sidewalk to write that, then kneeling down on the sidewalk and expecting alms, my cigarettes, my two dollars, my anything.
The rejection, further: "Too coherent."
Even in a fever that has crept up on me from nowhere, from Spain, old, through the air--beginning then in the lungs, then the bloodstream, then the brain. Soul-fever: a sickness of the kind that everyone gets when they remember that they are no one. And the are is still holding those imaginary snowjewels, those words like those that come from the mouths of pretty but neglected wives across America and beyond: "You fucking bastard. Just hanging there in the frozen pipes--something or nothing, which is it....
A block of ice that'll that; a yellow snow sculpture. A nondescript. An abomination.
I spoke with a Nihilist at a cocktail party. I remember thinking that the whiskey-sidecars were sweet, and that the food was good; that I should've worn a tie; that my brother had told me he contemplated the possibility of Singer being a womanizer, of sorts--a quiet, reserved one if there was such a thing. Someone who appreciated the beauty of women, but did not wish to exploit it. My brother is a good man. Singer was a good man, and still is; his stories are good. And I am either nothing or a fucking bastard--that's all there is to it.

&

Untitled
by William Sanders


After twelve years living on the street, slowly softening his brain and straining his vocal chords, a local non-profit organization finally assisted Lee "Cowboy" Saunders in obtain a small apartment for himself.
On Cowboy's first night in his warm apartment, he lay down on the bed--his first real bed in twelve years--shocked, disoriented, and attempted to come to terms with his new arrangements. His cell phone was plugged into the wall. He looked at it and its digital clock read 2.15am, give or take. He thought the bed was too soft. The room was too warm, and dry.
At 2.30am, or so read the cell phone-clock, Cowboy rose from his bed, went downstairs, and walked out into the street. It was raining. Cowboy stood there on the sidewalk, in the rain. He was crying. He was thinking, "What's wrong with my brain that I can't just be comfortable in that nice little apartment they set me up with--what's wrong with me that I'd rather stand out here in the rain?"
The following morning, recounting this story with a hoarse voice to anyone that would listen, Cowboy cried again. Several times he repeated the story, asking what was wrong with him, and he cried.



Happy New Year, again. And be safe.
With love,
The Poor House