Lebron is Sensitive

Last night, the Cleveland Cavaliers shocked the world by beating the shit out of the Miami Heat. Great. But what is even more satisfying is that Lebron James refused to be introduced before the game, electing to stay in the locker room, remain focused, and not let the cathedral of "boos" get him down. My question is this- You can't take being booed, Lebron? Seriously? How on earth are you ever going to win a championship if something like being booed during a pregame introduction rattles your nerves?

I honestly don't understand his logic. Everyone hates him except for people in Miami. Everyone thinks he is a self-centered egomaniac. But isn't he? All this little stunt does is put the spotlight back on him- it doesn't "avoid the bullshit," it creates bullshit . Nice work. You lost to the league's worst team...even with a triple-double.

In other news, I had the absolute joy of catching this Ron Artest performance the other night on the George Lopez show. Every time I see something like this, I wonder if procreation is worth it. If my child came home listening to this nonsense on his Ipod, a little piece of me would die. I'm not even sure what is happening here. Ron Artest auctions his championship ring to raise awareness for mental health, then records a rap song featuring has-been Latino emcees called "Go Loco." Which is it? Go crazy or don't go crazy? I know I'm going crazy knowing that people actually spent money on this. Here is something better to spend your money on...or this. Ya'll come back now, ya hear?

Thursday Night Poetry Jam

Tonight, I'd like to feature a couple "Pomes" by James Joyce- Ireland's greatest literary master on Ireland's greatest American holiday. Joyce is a writer that can be horrifyingly frustrating to some, and deeply rewarding to others. I personally find his poetry to be easier to tackle, than say, Ulysses, which I continuously tell myself I am going to finish "this week ." Regardless, lets get the pints flowing and the words rolling.

Nightpiece

Gaunt in gloom,

The pale stars their torches,

Enshrouded, wave.

Ghostfires from heaven's far verges faint illume,

Arches on soaring arches,

Night's sindark nave.

Seraphim,

The lost hosts awaken

To service till

In moonless gloom each lapses muted, dim,

Raised when she has and shaken

Her thurible.

And long and loud,

To night's nave upsoaring,

A starknell tolls

As the bleak incense surges, cloud on cloud,

Voidward from the adoring

Waste of souls.

Trieste, 1915

A Memory of the Players in a Mirror at Midnight

They mouth love's language. Gnash

The thirteen teeth

You lean jaws grin with. Lash

Your itch and quailing, nude greed of the flesh.

Love's breath in you is stale, worded or sung,

As sour as cat's breath,

Harsh of tongue.

This grey that stares

Lies not, stark skin and bone.

Leave greasy lips their kissing. None

Will choose her what you see to mouth upon.

Dire hunger holds his hour.

Pluck forth your heart, saltblood, a fruit of tears.

Pluck and devour!

Zurich, 1917

James Joyce- what a madman.

Here's two originals- I thought I'd keep the St. Patricks Day theme rolling with a couple poems that at least mention alcohol.

California Atlantis

this picture of you
is like your ghost
drinking beer on my sofa
during times of youthful idiocy

in your head are thoughts of california
the kind of california thoughts that only someone
who will never return there must think

your eyes believe the walls are different now that you have gone
the dead skin cells of your body
have disintegrated
and all that is left are memories
that will someday be forgotten

california is the new atlantis
buried underneath the water
and you can no longer swim

Armageddon Drinking Games

“never have we ever
seen locust”
we both drink to that
inside
our imagination
they are gigantic
milk chocolate brown
cockroaches
with buzzing wings of strobe-light psychosis
that weigh upwards of two lbs.
and strike the eyeballs of humans

in a field of california poppies
we are in love
fucking
with dirt under our fingernails
and skin shoved in our mouths
and blood surging through our genitals

i am covering your face with my mouth
in case the wrath of God takes place
during these moments of perfect excess

i would hate to see your face
covered with locust
gnawing at your sins
and your blood thick lips
sucked thin

That's it for the Jam tonight...Gotta get to work and feed the hungry drunken masses more drunken mass. Cheers, my brothers and sisters.

Zoom

I'm currently in the process of adapting my new novel "Two More Seconds in the Electric Wilderness," a story about a photographer and lightning, into a screenplay. Lots of things have been going through my head. For example, is the title "Two More Seconds in the Electric Wilderness" too long for a film? Is it going to be shortened to something like "Electric?" I was wondering why "Push by Sapphire" became "Precious." I mean, is there that big of a difference between "Push" and "Precious?" I wonder how many people would have said, "I don't really feel like seeing 'Push.' 'Precious,' on the other hand, sounds intriguing." Personally, I would have rather watched "Apocalypse Now" for the 400th time anyways.

Some other things have crossed my mind as well. If you are a writer, or know someone who is, then you may know how we don't like to reuse words, unless we are doing it to create a literary style and tempo. I couldn't help but wonder how many times the words "zoom" and "super fast" came up in all six "Fast and Furious" screenplays. I think if I was in charge of titles, I would have changed "Fast and Furious" to "Zoom." I'd much rather see "Zoom" than "Fast and Furious." At least "Zoom" sounds like it could be a Michelangelo Antonioni film, whereas "Fast and Furious" sounds like it stars Peter North.

Maybe I should just forget about the title "Two More Seconds in the Electric Wilderness" and rename my screenplay "Zoom." That way, if I'm ever in a pitch meeting and they don't like the idea about a photographer and lightning, I can just change it to a story about lightning fast cars and a hot photographer chick who likes them. It's a win win. Hooray for Hollywood.

Turkey Tastes Good

I have been slacking on this blog for about a week now. But I have an excuse. Depression. It happens to me every now and again, and it is further augmented by events like, for example, losing to the Miami Heat and Lebron James for the second time this year. It is difficult being a manic depressive Lakers fan. But then, low and behold, I am pulled out of the darkness of myself with commercials like this which allow me to focus on more important things.

First off, how is it possible that Kobe Bryant is a better actor than a hired professional actor? I mean, the onion tears alone are worthy of some type of Actor's Studio review. Second, let's talk about the "suspension of disbelief" not at work here. Why on earth would Kobe Bryant ever trade his job with anyone on the planet? He literally has the best job ever. He takes a helicopter to work. He makes hundred's of millions of dollars. People love and fear him. Meanwhile, a "chef" for Turkish Airlines sounds a bit depressing. I'm assuming there isn't a kitchen onboard the Airbus, so I'm thinking the guy is stuck somewhere between LAX and Istanbul in a stuffy kitchen with flimsy vegetables and stinking shrimp preparing sub-par meals for faceless customers. He never gets a thank you, makes shit money, and goes home to Downey or a densely populated, slightly harsh, Turkish urban neighborhood. Can you even get drunk in Turkey?- because I know a few chefs and they need their booze- just like jockeys. I'm not saying there is anything wrong with Downey or Turkey, but, let's face it, Kobe will never visit, nor dwell in either area.

All in all, this Kobe commercial gets a D in my Film Studies 101 class. I know it's difficult to find anyone on the basketball court to upstage Kobe, but if actors can't even pull it off on a soundstage, then I want to know when The King's Speech 2 starring Kobe Bryant, with Lebron James playing the Queen, is coming out.

Thursday Night Poetry Jam

Tonight I'd like to feature one of my favorite poets, Richard Brautigan, in an effort to get my mind off the unstoppable Charlotte Bobcats who maul their way into Staples tomorrow night to rip the flesh off of our beloved Los Angeles Lakers. The 'juggernauts" must go down.

With that off my chest, we can get started with the poetry madness. If you have never heard of Richard Brautigan, now you have- I highly recommend you turn off your brain for a few minutes and possibly a few weeks and enter his world- ne plus ultra!


A Boat

by Richard Brautigan

O beautiful
was the werewolf
in his evil forest.
We took him
to the carnival
and he started
crying
when he saw
the Ferris wheel.
Electric
green and red tears
flowed down
his furry cheeks.
He looked
like a boat
out on the dark
water.


The View from the Dog Tower

by Richard Brautigan


"... three German shepherd puppies wandered away from their home up near the County line."

— North Country Journal
Serving Northern Santa Cruz County


I have been thinking about this little item that I read in the North County Journal for a couple of months now. It contains the boundaries of a small tragedy. I know we are surrounded by so much blossoming horror in the world (Vietnam, starvation, rioting, living in hopeless fear, etc.) that three puppies wandering off isn't very much, but I worry about it and see this simple event as the possible telescope for a larger agony.

"...three German shepherd puppies wandered away from their home up near the County line." It sounds like something from a Bob Dylan song.

Perhaps they vanished playing, barking and chasing each other, into the woods where lost they are to this very day, cringing around like scraps of dogs, looking for any small thing to eat, intellectually unable to comprehend what has happened to them because their brains are welded to their stomachs.

Their voices are used now only to cry out in fear and hunger, and all their playing days are over, those days of careless pleasure that led them into the terrible woods.

I fear that these poor lost dogs may be the shadow of a future journey if we don't watch out.






If I had to say there is one writer who has had a profound influence on my mind, it would have to be Brautigan. Sometimes I write poetry, and I read it to myself using his voice instead of mine. Everything seems to come out better.




My friend, R.B.

by justin j murphy

i’m sorry that he killed himself
with a magnum

i would have stayed with him in his home
near the water
in San Francisco
and told him
he was brilliant

maybe
we would have shared
a bottle of whiskey
instead of him
drinking it alone
and loading that gun

we could have had fun
talking about Japanese women
and absurd telephone conversations
-maybe enough fun
to keep him alive




This poem was written for Richard who took his own life in 1984. I never knew him personally, but as with all writers that one reads and loves, a spiritual connection is realized, something that transcends time and physics and places us all side by side. Without ever knowing him, I miss him. The world he wrote about and lived through is gone today, but, through him, there is always a way back into it.



infinity

by justin j murphy

a strange twisted oval
what a waste of time





messages from bolinas, 1979

by justin j murphy


this notion of writing messages
and traveling to distant oceans
and dropping them into the hyperactive current
expecting them to one day appear
on an english speaking coast
is the equivalent of hoping to death
that the crusades be erased from history

so many messages have been suffocated
between the rounded glass of wine and scotch bottles

messages that may have breathed easier
amplified in front of a standing group of people
in amsterdam perhaps

“these words are sacrificed to anonymity for split seconds of truth”

says one of the writers
as he licks his lips
and smears ink between his fingers

the sea rejects the glass messages like a virus

is it not obvious that the sea is only an extension of human blood?
in which case
all entertaining substances
must be metabolized
thrust out
like a san dimas waterslide
into a cesspool
of human dna

regardless
a bottle landed at my feet today
on the edge of california

uncorking the bottle with my teeth
thinking of brine
i painstakingly extracted the notes
that were nothing more
than the ramblings
of an author
and his friends
drunk in bolinas
in 1979

their script bears the greasy mark of infamous evenings
their mortal wagers
perpetually unpaid
and the women they spoke so lasciviously about
no longer lending them a bed

instead
the ocean is the tomb of their forgotten musings of semi-youth
and i am the grave robber





Richard Brautigan died in Bolinas, CA, an absolutely gorgeous coastal town north of San Francisco. His life, as well as his words, have inspired me on more than one occasion to write. If I had actually found a bottle of Brautigan's words on the edge of California, I highly doubt I would have referred to them as "ramblings." Hope you all enjoyed...have a drink for R.B.