No Silver Lining

It was definitely broken. I could tell that as reality returned, as I emerged from the long dark tunnel of unconsciousness , eyes squinted against sunlight... or perhaps in wince.
" You really did it this time."

A voice chuckled at me. I recognized it as my friend David. What a dick.

The events of the night slowly rolled back. They were of course clouded by beer... copious in quantity and capacious in quality. I recalled snippets in visions like those plastic goggles you have as a kid; the kind you look into and hit the button to rotate the film, switching between slides of animals and shit.

Last snippet I remember is looking down at a big blue blotch, dark in the corners, light blue where a ray of light pierced through the middle, adorned by a crowd of inebriated onlookers, piqued by a potential display of bravado or idiotic carnage... Jim's pool. Had to be. Even in my most delusional nightmares I'd recognize the gaudy lawn set his parents had given him... a throwback to the last huzzah of a breed that nearly became extinct in the 80s - hippies.

I had finally done it... for years I'd told Jim that I'd jump from the roof into that damn thing. He always called me a pussy. I told him he had to set me up on a date with his sister if I jumped into the pool. He shrugged and said "fine".

"Hey man... at least you're famous now." David informed me through a sly grin. He spun in the chair next to my bed and turned the monitor of my PC towards my prostrate body.

"Great...." escaped my lips in a sigh.

My immortalization went like this: I was focused through the camera, my hands skyward in the infamous Nixon. Mumbled amused voices, camera panning out to the pool. A few cries of "DO IT!" and "NO BALLS!" and "PUSSY!!!", a brief pause in sound... in video actually... some fucker mixed in a cut of R.Kelly's I Believe I Can Fly. I made to leap, but had too much liquid courage, and not enough dexterity in me. I pushed off... but should've run... maybe. My feet flailed as if pedalling an invisible bike... I fall short of the water by a foot and smash to the ground like flesh without a skeleton... Attempt to stand... vomit profusely, noticing the sound returning to what the camera had recorded, amplified wretching sounds as if I'm calling dinosaurs. Then I fall backwards onto a patch of cush grass that lines the pool.

The redemption... if it could be called that came when I stood up, my bare chest resembling a pizza, or some saucy italian dish, and walked inside, with David running after me. The credits rolled. "Starring Ryan as Superman", a cropped photo of my trashed midsection designating my role. "Sponsored by Dos Equis... Jose Cuervo..." "Guest Starring as Kryptonite, Gravity"

David glanced over... and I knew what he was thinking... Shit, I was thinking it too. "Don't even say it."

He started laughing, he'd say it anyway... who am I kidding? I would've too. "This is the same shit we regularly view on the net and laugh at until we're hoarse." His smile didn't move from his face, and one even started creeping across mine. "Plus side..." He displayed, scrolling the screen down "19604 views in the first 16 hours"... the dick.

I placed my estimated time of departure at... hmmm... 0300, with arrival at 0301... which made it 1900 or so now... the booze out of my system, my skull feeling much too small for my brain, and my ankle entirely too big to fit into any of my shoes... at least only one of these things was irregular for a Tuesday morning.

"Well at least I get to take Jim's sister out." I smirk, looking desperately for the silver lining to the looming cloud of medical bills and humiliation.

"Jim says its a no go bro." David stated, dropping his eyebrows and sucking air through his teeth.

"The fuck?!" I bark clenching fists and sitting up, immediately wishing I hadn't, as white hot pain played a game of hyperspeed Pong between my shattered foot and hungover brain.

"Dude... You didn't make it into the pool. He says the deal was for you to jump from the roof into the pool. Hell, he said if you'd fallen forwards instead, making it into the pool he'd've even paid for the night after seeing the angle of your foot on impact."

"Balls."

-Matthew Royall

FUCK YOU, an interview with a douchebag

Some fucker had the audacity to ask me for an interview after a reading. So I gave it to him.

He was white, tall, had long hair, and wore glasses. Argyle sweater. Apparently his name was Pete.

Pete: Hi Stu.

Me: Hi Pete.

Pete: So, what's your chapbook about?

Me: It's poems about the aftermath of drunken sexual encounters with strange women.

Pete: Oh. Doesn't seem very riveting.

Me: I guess not.

Pete: Wouldn't you agree that the subject has been beaten in much the same fashion as a dead dog?

Me: Probably.

Pete: One of the poems you read, I found, was very offensive to women.

Me: Oh.

Pete: Aren't you going to defend yourself?

Me: Nah. In fact, the subject bores me. Sex and drinking is infinitely interesting, malleable; while gender politics seems to be the sole focus of the intellectually stunted.

Pete: That's a bold statement.

Me: Only if you think there is some kind of intellectual fulfillment in making the dialectic of the penis vs. the vagina the point of convergence for all of history. If you're a guy, I think it's even more useless. Foolhardy. Dishonest.

Pete: Oh. Well. Don't you think you're just contributing to the further...

Me: Hey, can you buy me a drink? I'm trying to save up for an eightball later.

Pete: Uh...

Me: Nevermind. Hey, your questions are boring as fuck. Why don't you ask me about our justice system? Something important. You're wasting my time.

Pete: Who is your favorite poet?

Me: South Park Mexican.

Pete: Who?

Me: I gotta take a shit, dude.

---

I get out of the can, and he still thinks it's okay to interview me.

---

Pete: Why do you mix Spanish in your poems? Seems affected. Adds nothing to the meter.

Me: Hey. My last name is González; makes sense, right? Is your last name douchebag? Because you're mad reppin' that right now.

Pete: I hate that word. Even for an ad hominem it's bad.

Me: You're right. Strike that from the record.

Pete: It seems sexist.

Me: Hey, do you have sex with girls or boys?

Pete: Girls, dude.

Me: Ever had sex with a tranny?

Pete: Uh. No.

Me: Me neither. I don't think.

Pete: What is "Coyote Real Fuckin' Ugly" really about?

Me: It's about the fact that I'm just another male pig wallowing in a sea of mud and excrement, who has no appreciation for the love of a good woman. The fact that I am trying to escape from her is a testament to my very weakness, and indeed, the weakness of all young males. Shallowness. Frivolity. Triviality. The entrancing lure of homosexual lifestyles.

Pete: That's kind of what I suspected.

Me: Hah.

Pete: Do you think the world needs more of this poetry?

Me: I don't think it matters. You are the arbiter of your own taste, and if something you read offends your little namby pamby fucking senisibilities, then perhaps you should stay away from the elements that spawn said scribblings.

Pete: Hmm... I don't get it.

Me: It's hard to get anything when your head is wedged up your asshole. Where's my drink?

Pete: You know what? I don't think you're tough at all.

Me: I don't think I even insinuated a stance of toughness. You're inferencing. Projecting, probably.

Pete: Fuck you, dude. I don't think you're clever, and your chapbook sucks. Everything inside it is cliché riddled and empty.

Me: Thanks for your assessment. Can I get that in a blurb? And fuck you, by the way, you emasculated, sanctimonious prick.

---

At this point, he shoots me the bird, and exits stage left. As for me, my night wasn't done. I had to clean the tables in order to cover my tab. Good times.

FUCK YOU.

Selections from my forthcoming chapbook of poetry, "AHORA, TENGO QUE IR; ¿TAL VEZ UN DÍA PODEMOS TOMAR UN CAFE? or ¡ADIOS Y GRACIAS POR EL SEXO!"

Hi, Stu González here. I know no one really reads this shit, but I'm like, in the words of Bart Simpson referring to Prinicpal Skinner, a no-giving-up-school guy.

So!

La vida ha estado muy ocupada para mi. ¿Y para ti mismo (a)?

Patrick and I had this idea that I could do, a la Gustavo Arellano, something called "Preguntale a Un Chicano" and I would answer questions from non-chicanos about chicanos. We bounced this thing around like a beach ball until the damn thing flattened. Patrick said it was "derivative, not creative, lame, 'just something to ruminate on'" I thought it was a bad idea because I considered how I might react the first time some pinche puto cavrón asks me why we are "so proud."

Anyway, for the last few months I've been putting together a carefully thought out, thematically cohesive chapbook of poetry. I'm looking for takers. Despite the title, all poems are in Spanish and English.

Ahora, tengo que ir; ¿tal vez un día podemos tomar un café or ¡adios y gracias por el sexo!

... is filled with morning after regrets and rejoices, rallying cries and escape plans.

"Coyote Really Fuckin' Ugly"

i woke up and didn't even have to think.
her face was turned, buried in a pillow, but i knew.
i'd gone and done it again.
i was naked, but luckily my arm was not around her.
i got out of the bed and searched for my clothes.
i heard her snort, cough and shift.
my heart rate rose.
my chest was like the speakers of a sub woofer.
i turned to her.
she was smiling at me.
her teeth were crooked and stained from nicotine.
her hair was stringy, greasy.
"no entiendo ni hablo inglés," i squeaked.
"aww. pablo. my sexy man. don't be silly!"
i didn't even want to think about the fact...
...that she called me pablo... for when she raised the covers and
kicked up her legs, i was blinded by BUSH!
she offered to make coffee.
"claro, claro," i said.
she kissed me on the cheek and in a haze of bed smell...
moved past me and through the door.
hastily, i re-dressed, made sure i had my wallet,
made sure i DIDN'T have the condom that i'd been carrying,
(good on both fronts)
and opened the sliding glass door.
time for pablo to blow this hag haven.

MOTHERFUCKER!

this bitch lives 3 fucking floors from the ground!
so then i had an existential crisis.
"¡piensa, pablo, piensa! ¿para saltar o no?
i looked behind me.
coast clear.
but suddenly, i heard a "psst." from above.
"young man! i don't mean to pry, but... coyote ugly or forced marriage?"
"coyote ugly, señor."
"ah, well... forced marriage here. 15 years. look at it this way, you could be on my floor."
&&& S.G.

"La Novia que no Sabe Nada"
"The Girlfriend that Knows Nothing"

For the first time in my life
I had two girls at once
For the first time in my life
My girlfriend wasn't one of them
For the first time in my life
I had breakfast not at Denny's
but on my own gas stove
buttered tortillas
como mi mamá siempre las preparó.

For the first time in my life
I was alone and everything felt good
For the first time in my life
When my girlfriend came home
she suspected nothing
she usually suspects everything
because I'm out eating Denny's
after a binge with my friends.

Ay, she knows nothing!
&&& S.G.

"Friends, Brothers, Their Sisters, My Lovers"

--for posterity, may they learn all the lessons i had to, in every conceivable way--

one night i promised my buddy that i'd never hit on his sister.
his hot sister.
of legal age.
and one night while drinking and smoking and talking
we were sitting inches apart
and she confessed that
she liked smoking and sex and tattoos.
oh really?
¿en serio?
well then.
i showed her my tattoo of Raquel Welch
"did you know that she's a latina?"
"yes. very beautiful."
"indeed."

she noted that i have a reputation.
curious.
for what?
"well. showing off your tattoo of Raquel Welch..."
there was an and.
i knew.
"...and fucking my friends' sisters?"
"yes."

soon after we were kissing and petting
O, ROMANCE!
O sweaty, drunken, sloppy romance!
we had each other on the couch then on the floor
and for a few hours more
we talked and smoked and then she got a wild idea.

we got matching tats.
mine said, "i fucked your sister."
hers said, "i fucked your friend."

the next day, her brother, my friend, we sat and talked
for what seemed a time without end,
and he couldn't believe i'd do it to him.

haha haha haha

didn't you know, that nothing is sacred?

BUT.

"in my defense, i never hit on her."
&&& S.G.

"It all started with a conversation about Warren Zevon"

It all started with a conversation about Warren Zevon.
Me, a studious but hard drinking pupil of rock & fuckin' roll,
Her, a cocktail waitress/queen in need of a king,
By the time we realized that our collective shit was fucked up,
We decided that sleep could only come once we were dead,
Or after a night of raging hard-ons satiated by much needed friction,

Then we went to her place, had drinks, listened to some records,
And when I went to kiss her, she was not a whore nor slut,
But a beautiful queen,
Stuck in a rut,
Tut tut tut,
This is a caprice, and sex is a many splendored thing,
She said, "I guess" and we continued to drink and drink and drink,
And the vodka was screaming, I couldn't think,
Were we listening to the Dolls or Rundgren?
Was I Sid Vicious and she Nancy Spungen?

We rode one another into the morning,
And when I woke up and smoked the last cig,
And thought a final thought,
I dedicated it to Zevon, the man who made it all possible,
To fuck and flee and never get caught!

&&& S.G.

(2009)

Asshole

I saw her again today.
We noticed each other at the same time and pretended not to.
Awkward glances greeted by half hidden smiles as we passed each other in the hall.
"Asshole."
Whispered so low I barely heard it.
This is the second time I've seen her in a month.
The first time was at a bar, Lee Harvey's.
I was walking to the restroom when she said hi.
I smiled.
"You don't remember me?"
I was froze.
"Asshole."
"I worked at the Elbow Room."
Twenty some-odd servers worked there in the year I worked there.
"Asshole," she said as she walked off.
Sitting back at the bar I tried to place her.
Oh, ya.
Hot rocker chick.
Tattoo sleeved on her right bicep.
The other cook and I started hitting on her the first day she worked.
The usual questions.
Where are from?
What type of music are you into?
Slayer.
Dead Kennedys.
Alright!
She seemed interested in me.
Probably the mohawk.
Then she asked THE question.
"Do you guys like Testament?"
Shocked I asked "Are you a born again christian?"
Yes.
The other laughed.
I couldn't hide my prejudice.
"I bet you like Creed too."
"Asshole."

(untitled)

I lie down and pray to my masochist mother. With one hand on my crotch and the other on my heart. That in the end I get off my knees, wipe the cum from my chin and actually have the balls to be a man and not just another punk rock poser that sells his soul to the highest bidder and kills his misery with another shot of bourbon to the heart.

Well, Bukowski's liver gave out and Thompson blew himself up and I'm sitting in this bar with two thumbs up my ass while singing songs about masturbation and believing that I'm better than I really am.

Every loser has a story and I have a novel of rampant alcoholism and chronic masturbation, trying to prove to world that I'm not just another failure, when I know that it's a lie and I'd whore myself out to another trick with loose change and a spare cigarette sing Tom Waits tunes while they beat me.

So instead of doing something
with my life, I'm drinking cognac from a dirty glass and daydreaming of pornstars and good weed while pretending to work for minimum wage and looking down on people I consider to be less intelligent than me.

Well, if Arnold Schwarzenegger can be governor of California, then Ron Jeremy can be president and I can be the UN ambassador to a third world country where the women walk around topless and won't laugh at the size of my penis and the liquor never stops and I can finally die in peace.

Movie Review: "Gegen Die Wand/Head-On"

"Gegen Die Wand/Head-On (US title)"

Written and Directed by Fatih Akin

With: Sibel Kekilli and Birol Ünel

I have tremendous respect for German director Fatih Akin. From a substantial standpoint, I believe he does what most of the best filmmakers do. He doesn't moralize. He doesn't instruct his audience, demanding judgment or teasing feelings forth one way or another. If there is any manipulation, it is very subtle.

So, I was blown away by "The Edge of Heaven" and was informed that "Head-On" is even better. I agree. Both films are similar in style, formula, and theme, but what is particularly powerful about the film I'm reviewing here is, and here's what I don't bring up often: how it made me feel.

More on that.

Cahit and Sibel are two different people with only one two things in common: they are crazy, and they are Turks living in a German world. Now Cahit, who has lost his wife and has attempted suicide by driving his vehicle into a wall, is a very assimilated, very drugs (mostly alcohol) and rock & roll kind of guy. Sibel seems to come out of nowhere (with no expository info except for maybe allowing the viewer to infer that perhaps she's attempted suicide a few times) and demand that he marry her. He thinks this crazy, and doesn't so much verbalize it as shrug her off. He eventually takes her for a drink, where she again entreats him to marry her: "I cook, I clean, I like to fuck." And when she, in a cry for attention, tries to kill herself in front of him (in that very feminine, "I'll show you, I'll slit my wrists!" sort of way), and they later get kicked off a city bus (largely for being noisy, but more probably for being Turkish and announcing it), the courtship seems to end where it began.

But...

Eventually he agrees. The scene where he and his "uncle" meet her family is interesting in that Cahit is so obviously not comfortable. He is taking part in a charade in which he has ceded all power to Sibel. The funny part is that he can't even keep his lie straight, and his Turkish, as noted by Sibel's brother, is awful. Perhaps this is sabotage. Perhaps it's nerves because he believes that if he fails, the crazy bitch'll really kill herself. Whatever it is, I'm already with this guy. In for the long haul.

So they marry; Cahit is fucking a hairdresser/barfly who hooks Sibel up with a job, and Sibel, in her youthful ways, enjoys clubbing and fucking random guys she meets. Their lives are shared only by law and by the four walls they sleep within. The beauty is that there's this tension building between them. It's a definite arc. Of a natural kind of romantic tension. The kind where they are both reluctant to realize something more intimate. Even to the point where when they decide to finally consummate, she can't follow through. This creates a suppressed kind of longing in Cahit.

I identify with Cahit as he slowly, unbroodingly falls in love with Sibel. You're quiet, but you don't stare out of windows on rainy days, or make indie music mixtapes or profess feelings in quirky ways, no. This shit's for real. No "aww" moments here. He sits in his flat while she's out one night, shooting a bb gun, looking at their wedding photo. Probably wishing it all wasn't so fucking fake. Okay, maybe that's a tad quirky, and brooding, but not intentionally. If there's a particular reason for it, Akin doesn't bother to spell it out or accentuate it through repitition. It just exists. Fine. She's young, beautiful, and nurturing in a way that is welcome for any lonely man. That is, if you don't mind your shithole being redecorated to accommodate her aesthetic needs. I mean, after all, shithole is the operative term. As damaged as she is, who could not appreciate her?

One night, Cahit, plaintive and drunk (as if the two were disjunct), ends up killing one of Sibel's lovers. The guy is bad mouthing her. She's not around. He knocks him the fuck out. Guy doesn't wake up. Now, normally I'm of the opinion that violence is bullshit, but I felt very sad for Cahit. This wasn't some random expression of machismo, it was the act of a man in the throes of drunken passion.

As one would expect, it all goes down hill for the both of them. He goes to jail, Sibel's family in Germany are disgraced by her, so she flees to Turkey where she works in a hotel managed by her sister. She does drugs. Gets raped. Gets beat up in a dark alley of Istanbul. Shit's getting hopelessly depressing fast.

When Cahit manages his way out of the clink somehow, he endeavors to find his love. Her life has changed. She has a child, and presumably a new life. There's not a lot of focus on this, because now the film is about Cahit... as it really always has been. The most powerful scene to me is near the end where he finds Sibel's sister, who refuses to tell him of her whereabouts. For some reason, and I don't know if this was written into the script, or if the actors decided to throw in their own bit of improv, but they switch to ENGLISH. Up until that moment, it was all Turkish and German, and then out of nowhere, Cahit explains his feelings en breve and that was all it needed. So little said so much. English, so denounced in some linguistic circles as being simple and inexpressive, grabbed me by the throat. He. Fucking. Loves. Her.


So beautiful.

Of note: I have talked very little of the compositional make-up of the film. The cinematography is beautiful but understated. A lot of beauty comes from the settings. In particular, there's a continuous musical underpinning filmed in front of a seaside cityscape.

Poppy

She was a 12 year old slant-eyed hooker from the west.
Her name was Poppy.
Poppy had a thing for the spics.
She said she liked a man that wasn't afraid to kill. She still hadn't made it through puberty, but she was as well worn as any penny ante whore in this godforsaken city. She liked playing with my revolver.
Cocking it and pointing it at me even though she knew that the hand under the pillow held a boot knife sharper than her pimps tongue.
She liked to dance to the the blue smoke that flowed from the holes in her arm and vomit black tar.
She says it's the only way she can sleep. She liked listening to Lou Reed albums and crying in the rain.
She says that it's so beautiful, it makes her eyes bleed.
Poppy liked to strip naked for me and play with herself while I masturbate then lick the cum off the ground.
Poppy use to call me Daddy.
"Daddy don't you love me?
Daddy don't you need me?"
Poppy liked to hear me sing the blues.
Poppy loved to shake her money maker.
"Daddy will you take me to Chicago?
Daddy will you take me to see Buddy Guy?"
Poppy loved to dream.
I loved Poppy the way the way i loved my coke, raw and wet, uncut, pure. Poppy use to piss me off.
"Where are you going daddy? When can you take me with you? When are you going to take me away from her, Daddy?"
Poppy likes to steal from me.
She steals my dreams.
My poetry.
The whore.
Poppy is my savior.
I love you Poppy, who ever she was?
I'll never be able to tell you in person, but I do actually love you.
To hell with you.
Fuck you.
I love you, Poppy, fuck you.
And fuck me.
And fuck this whole little fantasy of mine.