AMERICANTRASHCAN John Wesley Coleman
AMERICANTRASHCAN John Wesley Coleman
2008 Monofonus Press All rights reserved. Illustrations Colleen Matzke Layout Mike Chapoton
Monofonus Press PO Box 6386 Austin, Texas 78762
MONOFONUS PRESS For more information go to: MONOFONUSPRESS.COM
American Trashcan, originally titled Januarary Bad Writing Month, is one of four parts of a book that I wrote in the first half of 2005. These writings were done in January when me and my girlfriend and dog lived off of Chicon. These so-called poems are embarrassing, so drink some coffee, everclear, and tequila and sit back and fall asleep with this on your lap.
- Wes January 2008
This is dedicated to my girlfriend Gina and my ex-dog Sophie.
Government Kicking Dog Stupid Political Poem Can’t Happen Holy grey white dog shits in big sand I don’t know? smelly vision Big white dog dynamites, small fish in large sands. I’m the killer, Bark Bark Pow Pow money money for oil bath. Doggy shampoo will clean that smelly smell racist Dog Park sniffing asses old money staying invisible so lets go hunting little dog or I will kick the shit out of you smile for the cameras puppy DOG! 5
Untitled Don’t have a lot of relationships because it will only prove how boring it all is. It’s like sponsoring a child on television or a bark from a loud dog boring, sick, unnerving.
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Graceland This girl I know liked ELVIS a lot until she discovered he had very pimply back. My friends have made the lampshades that are inside which represent the real ones. I am making my extra bedroom a jungle room, like the one ELVIS has in his GRACELAND. My friend almost jumped in ELVIS’ pool to prove something. I DON’T know what that something is? 7
Untitled I HAVE a Girlfriend Don’t FORGET why? You pee your pants
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HANDCLAPPING Handclapping sounds better to me than a coffee pot running out of coffee. Sounds better than the sound of popcorn being chewed around you in a crowded movie theater. A good sounding handclap two hands solid escapist air in a sweet sound a joyful, top of the charts sound, a don’t worry sound a “you have nothing to worry about, it is solid” sound a “lets do this” sound or a sound that really improves the pop or rock song sound come on and join in handclap sound. 9
Lower I.Q. Poem Folding CHAIR CUSHY SOFT COLD CALM
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“X” Spot Short grass and a crack addict’s ass hit the ground “field” next to my house leaving a territorial mark Mark “X.” My crazy, sweet loving puppy finds the spot “X” and devours such sweet offerings shortly after running up to my horizontal positioning on my new used $200.00 couch, the sweet puppy plants her lips and seals a kiss on mine. Her lips, my lips. My girlfriend tells me the reason the dog smells like piss and shit is because of Mark “X.” 11
And so we wash the puppy dog in the shower. Afterwards the dog ran into the kitchen, then the puppy vomited the crack addict’s feces all over the slanted kitchen floor creating a flood of venereal disease. Now I am dying. Afterwards I went to work to wash dishes. Some dirty dishwater splashed up on my lips so then I ducked my head in some sanitizer dishwater that is supposed to kill AIDS.
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My Dog’s Butt My Dog’s Butt stinks. I feed her bananas, tortillas, bratwursts, turkey franks, Ramen noodle, beer, cheese, egos, syrup, shrimp fried rice, cheeseburger, french fries, tea, light bulbs, boots, shoes, eyeglasses, cell phones, toilet paper, toothbrushes, underwear, socks, cassette tapes, compact discs, Records, artwork, lyric sheets, twenty dollar bills, DVDs, videocassette, dishes, mattresses, pillows, objects, dog food – Puppy Chow, my soul. She drinks my tears too, I am 29 years old and my dog was born on Christmas and is one year old or seven in dog years. 14
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Korean Poet, Newspaper Man, Vodka Steve, and Typewriter “Do you have a quarter, Homie? Homeboy, do you have some change?” the schizophrenic Korean vet poet says to me while waiting outside of a coffee shop. “NO! I give you free coffee, dammit, at my work. But, if you give me a poem, I will give some change.” The Korean poet replies “...no, not ready no...” with shaky disbelief as squirrels scurry off in opposite directions. Wearing shit-stained jeans and a folder of fucked poems under his arm, along with his medication, he drinks coffee until he goes into seizures. Someone told me he once was in war and killed people. Now 16
he wanders the streets back and forth drinking excessive amounts of coffee and beer and smoking cigarettes. He gets his medication down the street at the state hospital. His poems are incredible, one line will say sweet love like a bird in flight then an atom bomb blows out the G.I.’s eyes! Her sweet thighs is like ice cream. His head blown off by a machine gun. The Korean poet once took a bite from my apple fritter out front of the donut shop. He spit it out in gross agony. When will he die? “Newspaper man, can I get you some water?” He 17
has been sweating in his long sleeve button shirt out in the July sun. His “rounds� are a four to five mile radius of newspaper stands. He goes to each stand at every store and picks up the newspapers, newsletters, etc. and arranges them out on a table nearby. Next he continues to straighten out the papers by laying them out and using his arm/hand wiping motion technique. Then after straightening the papers, he puts them back in the right alphanumerical order. Not one single word being said to anyone around him. If you try to give him a dollar, he will not take it, instead he will be upset at you and make loud sounds. If you interrupt him fixing the papers, he will make loud unpleasant motions toward you. One time I placed a 18
cup of water next to him and walked off. I saw him take a sip. My friend says he knows someone that waited on him at a nearby coffee shop. Before he was the newspaper man, he was a lawyer, now he is a cracked lawyer turned obsessivecompulsive NEWSPAPERMAN. My friend says that he might live with his mom nearby her apartment. “VODKA STEVE, oh man, I can’t believe he is still around. I mean, I have seen him years ago, and he would get beat up all the time. I mean, he looked beat up. He would sleep on the ground with piss and shit all over his clothes. He never talks, but only to ask in real clear southern tone for money” as told by my friend Jason. About VODKA STEVE, I have heard him say “Excuse me, but do you have some change?” Then I go “GODDAMMITT, stop asking 19
me, get out of here.” So then he turns 180 degrees and zombies away. I saw him cross a busy intersection once. I could not believe it. I mean, I was next to him crossing at this four way intersection, I ran across in fear of being hit by a car. But to my surprise I turned around and watched VODKA STEVE float from one side of the street, through the busy cars and landing on my side of the street next to me. That is scary. My friend at work told me his name was VODKA STEVE. No bum will hang out with VODKA STEVE. He keeps going on like Santa Claus, but opposite. Now there is good ol’ “Typewriter.” He is probably in his early thirties. He wears the same clothes. He writes a lot on his typewriter 20
out in the parking lot or in handwritten form. He once told me he didn’t believe in the system and will not work, but he will talk your ear off about drug studies, drugs - mainly heroin, methadone, pills and Typewriter will take books out of the local bookstore’s dumpster and sell them to people on the street. He calls this his book club. I think he writes conspiracy theories. He will freak out with other freaks, and fight, well so I hear, but not seen. He gave me a book once. It’s pretty cool. It’s about satellite mapping coordinates and patterns of such systems. He sleeps outside and has a crush on Paris Hilton.
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Rumbo is the newspaper lying on the front yard of my house. on the side of my house is a large dying tree. it stands tall and bent. the tree is tired, completely exhausted as it sits upon a hill next to my house. it overlooks the projects. it has snorted the magical cocaine dust in the air and rubbed raw by the vagina hookers and shot full of bullet holes. it will fall and crush our cardboard pink house. I feel happy about this, melancholy. I went over and kneeled down to the tree facing a large gasping hole. inside the hole lord beholds what I have found to be a burnt copy of the New Testament. 23
“ROKY ERICKSON” Big Mullet Psychedelic One night after work I went for a walk down the so-called “drag,” the stretch of street known as Guadalupe across from the University Of Texas. I was heading to a bar named Hole In the Wall, known for its mix of drunken frats and wannabe songwriters. Anyways, there sitting at a table near the front of the place was the legendary Roky Erickson, the psychedelic king of Austin. His hair was unique, puffy and long. The back of his hair appeared to be sort of a mullet train. It’s cool, whatever. His brother Sumner was playing some sort of blues on stage so they were hanging out. There sat a guy that actually made Austin cool. His Aliens records were some of my favorite. I especially liked the Evil One, a creepy fucked up record that I could really get into. The horror was there and it was cool sounding. I love horror movies and the guitar was right on. Before this appearance, I had met him at his meet and greet Roky instore at Waterloo records. There was free ice cream and beer along with a chance to meet Roky for an autograph. He looked happy, sane & bored. I want to rent Demon Lover, the cable access tape of him in the 80’s.
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My friend told me he was in the phone book and she knew someone who drove by his house. His stories are everywhere, and since I moved to Austin I hear more and more of them. Roky would steal his neighbor’s mail and hang it on the wall or have multiple TV’s on with white noise. My friend Josh hung out with him one time and Roky said that he would come over to his house, crawl through Josh’s window and shoot him in the face. That is a story that sounds nice to my ears. Two Headed Dog is a great song. 13th Floor Elevator were fuckin’ REAL!
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What Could of Been, Should of Been, Never Was and Isn’t! This guitar is good. It sounds good because my mother bought it for me at some garage sale. Inside my nose lives and breathes a monster. When there is no toilet paper use coffee filters. Maybe I should release my embarrassing attempt at songwriting compact disc with a copy of this book. My armpit itches. My gums are bleeding. My guts are dying- liver and kidneys. I think KISS’ first record is killer. I love the way it ends, slowed down and shit. Winding down. NASAL NASAL LAZY LAZY LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA 26
AMERICAN TRASHCAN 30,000, 40,000, 80,000 “make it a hundred” slow train, fast train big black rim eyeglasses tie and suit, black revolver strippers on a slow groove long hair, blonde short hair, blonde Harry and Buffy killing time “I expected you.” - Buffy “Did you?” - Harry “Yeah.” Jesus, Uncle Frank is in trouble. “It doesn’t make any difference, does it.” - Buffy “Maybe Jack will lower the odds.” - Harry
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smell, smell, kiss, kiss soft music next morning, new morning warning sidewalk, windows gunshots, alleyway run roll, dodge, black car creepy slow black hat, cigar no room in this town for both of us explosion, mink coat exercise, walk, question have a cigar? good Cuban see you later, Harry. “You know, kid, a cigar don’t care who smokes them.” - Harry
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TREEFARM Six years of dirt - “red dirt.” Small seedlings, asthma dirty nose, sore back sore legs, Roy Orbison playing out the speakers of my dad’s Suburban. Schlitz, barbecue tractor pulling trees out. Fear of rattlesnakes. Family business. Plant tree in a sack in a hole in the ground. Watch it grow, water, trim. Hang out with the old Mexican guy. He draws a map of Mexico in the dirt. He points to where he is from. We dig, shovel, lift trees as they grow over the years, as I grow apart. 29
The Dress The Dress is pretty. the pants are long and baggy the shirt is shirty the hat is hatty the sock is socky without a friend it is wash, clean, wash, clean laundry mats are full archival quality. FIZZ! FUZZ! FOAM! SPLISH! SPLUSH! SPLASH! cry cry cry little little eat fuck fart you ugly ugly BING! BANG! BAM! BANG! WAMM!! George Michael is stinky
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Shotgun
Knife
Rope
Lame
NEW MILLENIUM How many swear words do I know or have said? Let me see: asshole, dickhead, fuck, pussy, dick, motherfucker, fatherfucker, racial words, cunt, bitch, gender words, shit, shithead. Is that it? I can’t think of anymore. What to do in this new millennium? Does it really mean anything? Numbers, letters. How do you do something new, different? I feel so lazy, like having Vaseline in my veins instead of blood. Maybe if I keep trying to produce a lot of crap like Warhol, B. Childish or R. Pollard, I could afford a real sandwich. What is wrong with Hemmingway, Cobain and Elliott Smith? Richard Manuel, Ian Curtis? What cocksuckers. Wait a minute, I haven’t used that word yet, cocksuckers. CAR CRASH victims: James Dean, Marc Bolan, Jackson Pollack. 31
“NICK CAVEMAN” Bad Seed Nick Cave locked himself in rooms until he completed and devoted enough energy to finish his fuckin’ lyrics, sometimes using his blood as ink. He would also venture to a city like Berlin or London which would be incidental to his writing. Leonard Cohen had the Chelsea hotel. What the fuck, he would write a few lyrics and then go back to finish the song a year later with more verses. Devotion, sick I am for not committing more strength to this bullshit. Can’t separate this line of shit. Left brain vs. Right brain. I am a working stiff. Maybe these guys can’t work because they were pussies. Lee Hazlewood, I think, worked and continued his expansion of lyrical ideas. It is a Do or Die for some, I suppose. To me that is awkward, even though I have to create all the time, if not I get sick, bored. 32
Townes Van Zandt was very graceful, not ugly. In his adventures around the South writing better lyrics than Dylan “sometimes.” Kristofferson landed a helicopter in the back of Johnny Cash’s backyard and played him “Sunday Morning Coming Down” which Cash loved and made a hit out of it. What kind of shit do I need to do to find real soul and rock and roll, real ideas? Become more of an asshole? Maybe not in this lifetime. It doesn’t really matter. I against I, “Bad Brains.” My lyrics are nothing really, non-bleeding, fading, lazy, 2 second ideas, or maybe not. I am confused by Robyn Hitchcock’s lyrics. Why is he so great? I like Hasil Adkins lyrics and he doesn’t give a fuck. That is good, and strikes a chord at home behind my fatty tissue. Everybody rips off the black man anyways. 33
PURR purr purr hiss miss psychedelic kitty cat soft tail queen of the desert, king of the soul shit ghosts, mirrors, old lady, old man bed spring temple cat zoo, glue kiss size bass guitar jazz hole timeline Prague
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PURPLE BRAIN 80’s culture boring older sister club rain rain. bike bike. swimming circus. LSD STP ASD. Raspberry Beret Shuggie Otis on a talk show. Airplane.
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BORING PUKE On the ground is my vomit. In the vomit is my reflection and it is boring. NAZZ NAZZ is playing in the background, clouds move, I shoot with a gun at the vomit, it moves left, I step right a buzzard lands between us. He smells me.
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HAIR Why is Bob Dylan’s hair curly like my hair, also brown and weed like? How come he is nasal like my nasal? How come one Halloween years ago some people at this party thought I dressed up like Dylan “Bob?” What a bunch of assholes!
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“KING OF JUNK” An Asshole Johnny Thunders was found in New Orleans, curled up like a rat turd because he shot up enough strychnine “rat poison” to kill all the Rats in New York City rat turd New Orleans source book: “Please Kill Me”
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Alcohol Flipping My friend flipped out after drinking whiskey, vodka, tequila, and many, many beers. He beat up his friends. He tried to bite off my friend’s finger. He said “this is how to win a fight, motherfuckers.” Now he is missing in action, in a tent somewhere alone and sober. I guess everyone needs that. I do sometimes. I think it is ok to “flip out” on someone. It means your alive. I’m glad I wasn’t there or I would of been beaten to shit. He is a cool guy, so what, flip out! every once in a while. Fuck it. Hasil Adkins flips out every fuckin’ day. “Do the Hunch.” 39
Suicide Hot Dog Man Suicide hot dog man can do the kan kan crazy buns sells the crumbs hot radio, steamy meat local punk rock fashion homeless jerk-offs singles meet meat turning meat beats beating beats stupid poems can’t eat feet hodge-podge.
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LOVE IS A BAG OF NAILS Love is a bag of nails. Love is a bagel. Love is a hot dog. Love is a swimming pool of vomit. Love is a bag of nails. Finishing nails. Cold, glue on the nail under the head of the nail. Friction buries the nail. Nails on the catholic cross. Bent nails. Nails that belong to Nosferatu. Vampire nails. A nail through the ding dong Bob Flanagan’s nail. A nail up the nose. Circus nail. A snail’s nail. Love is a snail’s nail tale. Love in a mirror. EVOL, I’m making myself sick. 41
My Dog Dances Better Than Me my dog dances better than me with the twist the dog barks and I forget to write Chuck Berry’s “Maybeline” “your eyes are getting soft” is this song getting to you chew on the coat hanger. my friend died of heroin. I don’t know how to grieve. my dog ate an onion ring. rockabilly is silly. it embarrasses me. music, the good radio, records are truly my only friend. when the phone rings I feel like throwing up. half the time it is someone who is an asshole, asshole hung on the telephone. destroying my brain, rebuilding my brain. I am about to watch the Eazy-E documentary. 42
Orson Welles by Barbara Leaming I have had this Orson Welles book for 10 years. I stole it from this elderly lady that has Parkinson’s disease. I would hang up framed pictures for her on the wall because she could not hang anything due to her shaking. I watched my grandfather shake. he had Parkinson’s. So does Michael J. Fox. It took ten years to read the book.
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How To Entertain My Friends I don’t know how to keep my friends entertained, and to keep their company or enjoy. this is very difficult. challenges, boredom, just drinking, laughs, jokes. jokes are funny. gossip is funny. my stomach is funny. writing as fast as this Albert Ayler record is retarded and funny. friends sit around things like tables, chairs, couches, squares, circles, rectangles and stare and wait for anything, something, a joke. my dog won’t let me write about my friends. my girlfriend won’t let me write about my girlfriend. 44
my dog is a piece of shit. modern writing is embarrassing as so is living in any form of consciousness. spelling is embarrassing, the grease on my tongue is embarrassing and entertaining to some of my friends.
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Xenakis Iannis Xenakis soars and falls from those two speakers with Indian faces painted on the front of each speaker. My dog barks at the crack addicts across the street, creating a chill up and down my spine. In this hot house, a tight piano string, being stretched even tighter. “Snap!” Impossible. Crunch, trash being devoured under my dog’s jaws.
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Under my dog’s jaws lies a job of pure black pitch. Angular and saw like, angular and skilled, a vacuum cleaner in a mummy’s tomb. Can I finish this record? Balanced chaos, white light, white walls, white noise, everywhere there is a sphere of evil. Too many white lines, not enough color. There is more color in my colon than there is this place.
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Untitled My beautiful songs stink of high heaven, bottomless shit, discounted whores, green pipes, rusty mirrors, bubbly shoes, sticky socks, boring news, boring literature, people, short houses, tall houses, buried people, buried property lines. Uneven architecture, stupid tongues, chippers, chipped teethers, belly rollers, hair rollers, straight lacers, football chokers, Tuesday jokers, half printers, long comers, hair brunchers, burning odors, stealthers, railors, wait stop right here. To fill this page up with nonsense is typical of my pen. Every word on this page is dumb, unprofessional. I hate it when people write about whores. That is retarded. I hate it when someone writes the words whore, hate, retarded. That is dumb. Dumb is a ridiculous word. And I stand by it. Maybe too close to it. I’m not sure. What am I writing about once again? 48
Burglar, KISS, Herzog, and freaking out on my girlfriend. writing in the dark is unique when its quiet and your eyes can’t adjust. all you hear is the sound of car alarms and barking dogs in the room that I am in. and what is closest to me is the sound of natural gas burning, it being 30 degrees outside, which is very cold in an old wood frame house. I somehow feel to write now for I ‘m immobile due to the chill in the air and insomnia due to the feeling of having to accomplish something everyday. after all, I have done little today, other than watching Werner Herzog’s “Woyczek,” a movie in which the main character, 49
Kinski, stabs his wife in the end, which leaves me to think about stabbing a robber if someone breaks in. I have planted large knives all around the house, in case I catch someone coming in through a window. Would I use violence? Would I be a chicken? Probably. I freaked out on my girlfriend earlier, because she went to bed early and I have cabin fever. Sometimes I wish for a studio or a lonely life due to working by myself, whatever, it’s all I and I And............... ..............Januaray Bad Writing Month The End.
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