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.

Goodnight

Ian Gordon Galbraith

Advertisements

I am of Course a Vampire

I am of course

A false facer

Black heart

Silver tongued

Heartbreak café

From pink sunsets

And green sea’s

I will not be good

For you

I will feel good

But eat your heart

And drink your soul

I come from Entertainment—

Moguls with ecstasy rolls for veins

I am of course—

Quite taken with you

Put Down The Gun America

America loves drama and thumping dead things…

or extended metaphors for abusive drunks…

Ahh it’s both isn’t America?

You’re so cute the way you sit there quietly jaded and broken but smiling.

On the outside you are pristine little girl, you’ve got your smile, your angel’s wings and every thread you wear suits your every curve.

But I’m on to you America.

I know what you’re up to—

You just want to forget all that hell that follows close behind you!

Everywhere you go America— in the corners bars and buying cherry red sodas at the Chelsea druggists!

I see you— you sweep the room and scan for some face that might set you free.

Some shining single face that could take you by the hand and tell you everything is alright.

Or that its gonna be alright.

Some happy face that won’t hurt you, a pair of lips to carry you through the night.

I know what you are seeking America— I know— I seek it too.

In the drawn out parties and sad ballrooms of distended time when all the love you’ve ever felt is no more potent than an old nursery rhyme.

In the far away ghettos of frigid plateaus devoid of innuendo—

When any good thing is less than a memory—

When all your hopes and dreams taste like bitter goodbyes—

I know you America, for your truth and for your lies.

For the way you sit in the corner bar sipping on what?

The same cherry soda?

A Shirley Temple?

A Vodka tonic?

Liquid- reverie?

And you are neither blonde nor brunette but none of your friends are in between.

You are not Irish or Scottish, Chinese, Hindu, Nepali or Somali—

Neither West African nor South African or even English—

Not Russian or German or Welsh or Italian or Mexican or Spanish or Polish or Dutch—

Because you are all of these things America…

All of these things and more.

And America—

If you’d put that gun down I could really dig you baby.

If you took your knives and hooks out of me for a second and let me down off the rack—

If you quit putting me on your goddamn crucifix—

If you’d just never put another soul on that thing—

America, I could really love you.

If there is a then

If there is a then
There’s so much all over 
Down I the deep 
I drown in the deep
Steal my words 
Steal my soul 
Leave me my feet 
Ad I’ll move on 
Mock me and my gortar strongs
I’ve been lost with less 
I’ll be lost again 
If there is a then

They write their poetry on concrete

My old poetry haunts are gone
There’s no where for me to read in the South Bay
Even la moves on
Maybe especially
What is there for a punk?
If I can’t drink wine and spout my shit
Who the hell am I supposed to stamp my feet?

Fuck it I say
And I’ll do it in the street
And people wonder why the rangers make their ragged
Let night tagging beat
On tired tired
Taggers feet

It’s cause they got no where to go
They make their music
They shout their souls
They write their poetry on concrete.

20140218-185930.jpg

20140218-185942.jpg

20140218-190350.jpg

Think about us

There’s a guy with calm eyes
That works the robeks over by
Mimi’s and the coffee bean
Near pv
Over off of 190th
Sorta off the 405
And Crenshaw
He’s making like 8
And so I the cook
There the only robeks with good food
The only robeks with breakfast wraps
Their boss is knee deep in debt
His workers deserve better pay
Even I
Working noon duty
Not even a nine to five
Make more cash than this guy
Not by much though
So think about us
When you sip your mocha
Think about us