Sad Eyes

Sad eyes

don’t lie

to tell

the truth

sad eyes

build homes

of proof

sad eyes


for day

sad eyes

just dream

life away

sad eyes

that steal

my heart

and leave

my soul

in puddles


the wind


Been A While by Ian Gordon Galbraith

Here’s a slice of my life:

There’s a super moon tonight with an eclipse and I’m hoping we can see it but I love you enough to hold you close and then also to let you go.  I don’t pimp a butterfly, you know?  There is so much to write about.  the junkers next door who gave the dog urn that you use as an elegant ash tray even though it usually stands proudly on your desk like some grim chalice of unknown power.  There is the time we found the dog and we almost adopted him but his mother came and took him away.  Was that symbolic>  I hope not.  I like you.  You make me nervous.  It’s the best.  People have started photographing me, us, I don’t know what it is or what’s up but it keeps happening.  usually in coffee shops.  Doesn’t seem fair, shouldn’t that be a safe space?  People are strange.  I am a lover.  I am fighting desire and oppression I am practicing detachment but I love you all too much to give you up.  Is this the beginning of something or will my life finally end.  I’m twenty-five, they say I’m just starting but than again, I feel so much older than I used to.  It’s disgusting how much I miss you.  I’m never angry anymore but sometimes I don’t feel like… still I won’t give in you know?  I’ve yet to sit down and write.  I get poems out, or spit songs that could one day be good yet right now they still are doing the whole semi- sucking thing.  And I think about all of you back home and I wonder what you are going through, is everything alright in San Diego and Orange County?  Is LA being kind to you?  Will Newport make you feel satisfied and whole after a lifetime of insecurity and depression?  Does the spectrum pay you enough for the lifestyle you like to live?  It seems like you are always spending.  Mangos and ice cream, beauty products, cocaine.  Always the cocaine.  And then there’s you in west Hollywood and you out in north Hollywood and you out in Inglewood suddenly and finally maybe leaving for good?  Are you out?  Are you leaving?  Jack be quick, jack be nimble, I love you too.

What can I say what can I do?  I left my native land and went to the north to fight against something.  Capitalism?  Convention?  Maybe I’m still just at war with myself.  Hopefully not at war with love, feeling it, feeling fine, so good, so good, so good, almost, yes, divine, divine, amazing, ecstasy…. please let me be the only one for you.  But I forgive you if I am not enough.  It is enough.  I can stay here, I can move on, I can do both I can do nothing, let me sing you a song.  I can get better I will get better, don’t let me do no wrong.  Tomorrow when I wake up, let me be a better one.  Godspeed you me, godspeed you you.  I should capitalize more.  God is watching.  God is me, God is you, I am God, I am Buddha, I can do anything.  Those words from a cancerous professor who pretty much just hated me.  Said I tried to hard.  I tried to kill myself but not hard enough.  I am still alive and I always will be but you’ve got to outlive me because I really love you.  Do you get it?  Don’t give up.


Ian Gordon Galbraith

Dreams of Japanese Whore Houses (by Ian Gordon Galbraith)

I was in Tokoyo and a girl from college was there with me.  An artist and a pretty one.  Her name was Moria.  She was easy to look at.  Gold skin and dark, black hair.  Easy, pretty legs.  Not too strong.  She had average breasts but it really worked.  Trust me it worked.  Then again… you could find a prettier girl if you were looking for someone to fall in love with.  Moria wasn’t about to fall in love with anyone that wasn’t already Robert Rodriguez.  Everyone else was just fun and games in her book.  I didn’t mind that so much.  

We were with her friend- some pretty little asian thing, put on a couple pound since I saw her last.  She always had a glazed look in her eyes.  I think her name was Stoney but I called her Lucy because she used to sell us Acid.  One time we got some twenty tabs off of her.  

Anyway Stoney Lucy was dressed and made up to be like Moria’s sis, like twinsies.  We were in Japan, we were young and bored.  Ended up that a brothel was where we went to drink.  Some sordid things went down.  I can’t remember all of it but I know that Stoney Lucy, Moria and I all got a room and requested to be left alone.  Sort of like bring your own prostitute night.  The Madam just assumed we were voyeurs and let us on through.  What did it matter so long as we payed?  

Anyway we got to drinking and I decided that Moria was a beautiful woman.  I got real wasted and we went at it.  Stoney Lucy sorta watched.  Then after a while she started getting off on it.  Good girl that Lucy.  This went on for a while- thrusting and drinking and all of that.  In and out, up and down.  

Sometimes she let me ride her but what I realized about a girl like Moria is she preferred to push me down and jump on top of me.  I was totally alright with that.  We were drinking fireball mixed with Jameson- I’ve never made a better choice.  It made me feel warm and alive.  My soul was roaring.  Lucy’s soul was roaring.  Moria seemed secret and potent still.  Even as she rode me hard.  Even as her hair went everywhere.  Her eyes kept that cold look they always held.  Even wasted she must have been on a mission.  I remembered being on missions.  Moria pushed me aside and leapt on Stoney Lucy like a panther.  I raised a silent toast to progress and watched them make out.  Soon they were scissoring which wasn’t as hot as I would have hoped.  I stepped in,


“Hey Moria can I fuck your twin?”  


“I don’t care, I’m done with her for a second.”  


Stoney laughed and laid back.  She hiked up that skirt and spread her legs.  The asian pussy looked impossibly tight.  Too fucking tight.  I frowned, would I even be able to get in?  

Moria handed me a drink, Fireball, Jameson and this time a hint of coke- more for texture than affect.  She winked at me.  

“Get on in there.”  She said.  

Crazy Moria was having as much fun as anyone.  Still that look in her eyes.  Something reserved.  Waiting.

I got in there.  It took struggle.  Stoney Lucy squealed when I got it in.  Then she sighed and made some better noises.  I fucked her until I blacked out.  My last thought was, Moria is behind me.  I shouldn’t let her get from out in front of me…

When I came to Moria was naked on top of the sushi bar downstairs.  I was giving her a massage.  Stoney Lucy was nowhere to be seen.  I rubbed my eyes and let thing come back together.  Lucy was probably in the room but why were we down here?  

Moria got up and looked around.  

“Wanna get Lucy?”  She asked.  

“Sure.”  I said.  


Cool as anything she walked naked from atop the Sushi bar to the elevator and waited for the door to open.  A couple business men got out and stared.  She brushed past them.  I followed.  The doors closed.  

Lucy by some stroke of luck was still in the room.  however, she was in bed with my least favorite American this side of Hong Kong.  Arthur Phillips the weasel crouched over her in bed.  Lucy smiled we walked in.  She was getting it up the ass.  Arthur still had his shirt on.  Maybe I was still drunk but something in me clicked and I decided Arthur could get the fuck out of there, his poetry was shit anyway!  

I waked up to him and pushed him off and out.  he cursed and came up with a switchblade.  I decked him.  He went out cold.  Good.  I hadn’t even wasted a word on Arthur Phillips.  Lucy was about to speak when I interrupted her,

“Anyone for breakfast.”  

“Sure Ivan, lets go get something foreign though.”  

“Something gaijin?”  Lucy chimed in.

“I’m down,” I said and turned toward Moira.  She looked dark and alluring in this glittering black dress.  She must have been getting dressed while I was beating the shit out of Arthur Phillips.  What a girl… someone was going to have a helluva time getting married and falling in love with a jungle cat like her.  One helluva time.  Image

The boon of Erebos

The hillside rolled with a subtle incline almost as smooth as a sigh and the figures marched upward.
A yellow sun hung over a blew sky, my
Father and his friends unloaded their gear and set up camp.

“It’s never been this crowded before.” My godfather said.

My father turned and gazed up the gentle- daunting slope. I followed his gaze.

“They must have heard how nice it is this time of year.”

I looked out on the land and watched the procession.

Then without warning I darted into the brush and followed them… From a distance.

I saw them at the top of the hill their hoods off, their languid faces weeping long black tears in bright sunlight. They clutched in their hands bright metal, sharp metal, engraved and grim yet nonetheless beautiful knives. Before I could blink they drove the blades they each clutched deep into their throats and dropped dead in a fantastic array. It was the sign of Erebos. That’s when I realized the shadows held dark things. Wicked nymphs watched me and giggled- the ceremony had been of their design and now the noon of Erebos was bestowed upon them. I said naught- but turned and fled.

An evening at Ameretto’s

He said he hates this place.  The house disgusts him.  In the isle  between his door and the fridge, a dog takes a shit.  He stares back up at us blank.  No one has ever told him not to.   I sit at home and figure, Id type this on word where no one can see but she’s taken that from me too.  I wonder if anyone gets how hard it is to keep flowing when you’ve got so much to keep you down.  


I wish I could fly away on wings of kerosene and burn everything- his ugly old house.  My tent out back.  The back pack full of meth.  All of it.  Instead I’m just sitting there watching the animals shit everywhere while he says- 

“See what I mean?”

The Wraith

You’ll know her when she walks in
You feel a crow clawing
She’s the wraith
She hides her doom behind smiles
She hides her sorrow behind smiles
She hides herself behind smiles
She’s the wraith
But once she was a little girl.

Friday Fiction: Seem Fair?

“Tia and Tyrone live there.  They’re not ashamed of it.  She says she grows her succulents out front.  Not that bad.”  

“Have you ever been in that place?”  

“No,” she said, “the trailer park?” 

“I have.  There was a high-school girl living all alone with a baby.  Nix and Charlie had sex with her but it wasn’t Nix or Charlie’s baby.   She had sex with a lot of people.  A lot of my friends.  We didn’t know whose baby it was.”  

  The place kinda looked crumpled.  Smelled like piss and dead dreams.  When I thought about it, it didn’t really seem fair- we didn’t even bother giving those people proper houses.  We just left them there like sardines.  

Tangerine Solitude

I tasted an orange- tiny, a tangerine and it, I swear, tasted me.  Oh the spring carried sunshine down to me, yet all I remember is rottenness and disease, but everywhere one looks they find spring.  Spring means sex, and me, well I’ve still got winter’s hold over me.

I walk down Manchester towards Lincoln and pass the corner bar on my way.  The drunks look untouched by the change and slumber in winter’s refrain.  I hear em marching in a shuffling gait.  They move like graceless dear, beautiful each one of them.  I want to call out to tell them, “Hey! Your beautiful each one of you!”   But the groans from their sick, starving homeless mouths keep that smile from coming to pass.  

Me, I keep walking because L.A. has a lot to dig, in that grimy, frantic, L.A. kind of way, and I don’t wanna pause too long looking at desperate drunks.  Those boys have found in bottle the fix that’ll make them forget and scream with their existences that they need nothing else.  Outside things are silent.

Lincoln sidles up to me like an old pal and I eye the groceries.  The wind teases my hair but it’s so mopped out anyway that that tousle don’t make no difference anyhow.  A white man appears on a sign where the hand was red and I’m walking.  Its spring and the sun is shining so we want to get down, though some of us totally can’t.  

Across Lincoln I’m on Lincoln and I think to myself about the babes walking the streets.  My phone hangs silent suspended by pockets in what would have been my lap.  It sings nothing at me and I’m all the fuck alone.  Cars cruise, it’s a Los Angeles day and they all pass away.

Inside the grocery store is like walking in a dream.  Carts glide over tiles like drifting clouds sliding over sky.  People man their check stands like puppets of industry and meat sits in piles or swims in lobster tanks nearly everywhere.  One of the lobsters eyes me and looks desperate like the outdoor corner shop drunks.  He clicks his pinchers free and motions over to me,


“Click Click,” translation: Yo bub, what’s up?  Wanna set me free?


I look at him and nod but my eyes sadly say: “I’ve got no money left to take you, and if I did you’d be boiled all the same.”


Click Cluck Click he says and does a flip.  The lobster doesn’t get it, or maybe he does and wants me to steal him free.

I walk away and leave the apparition to wither and die.  

“Don’t eat me, man, I’m a pig.”  The pork chops are calling me.  I pick one up and its styrofoam squeals warnings.

The pork chops don’t know I’m not Jewish.  I quietly tell them we’re in Westchester, not Hollywood, they shut up for a second as though that was their best defense, but when I put em down they squeal again.  

“Just remember I got friends all over this eisle.”

I move to the beef and ponder the tri-tip alongside the pre-packaged hamburger patties.  I’m staring at em hard, half expecting the same response I got from the dead pigs.  

“If this shit speaks again, it’s cheese and bread for three weeks.”  

The lady behind the butcher block looks at me and my dirty Whitman’s fro, pauses and then decides she has the gall to speak.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“You could spray less sarcasm on your meat.” I mutter

“Pardon?  Sir, your in the organic section.”

“You eat here much?”


“Cause I smell the same all over your breath.”

I walk away and leave the meat to make up their minds on me.  As for myself it’s time for rice and beans.  Maybe chili is still safe, maybe the bastards can’t talk through cans… It’s just as well though.  I’d not more than ten on me and tri-tip in adequate quantities was probably out of the question.  

“Besides,” I said to the baked beans, “I can’t afford the talking kind anyway.”  

They quietly understood me and had the grace not to complain when my hungry hands grabbed not one but three of the miraculously marked-down cans.  

I picked up a new journal next, after I’d grabbed all the ingredients to home cook chili (as home as a dorm room crock pot can be, anyway).  The thing was black and hard (the journal).  I figured it might impress my lady friends and counter the effects of the beans; but then again I’d already picked up more than my fair share of cucumbers and hardly needed more to gather up my own little garden.  

The journal didn’t say nothing about nothing, least not to me.  But I told it a couple lies, just for fun while I was away from myself and softly scribbling.  I told it my name was acid trip O’Brien and that yes the fourth messiah had indeed come again.  The journal kept silent, no responses, no replies.  He was like the Buckingham palace guard of my mind.  

There I was scribing and having a good time, half ignoring the growing choir of cucumber complaints, when I smelled woman go strutting by.  I stopped in my tracks, stood tall and erect and sniffed around for the source of the babe.  Her scent was sharp but then I lost it-