Bill Friday

fictionary… 8 megapixel artist… bloody awful poet

Disco Remix

Under the Boardwalk - Tom Tom Club

Under the Boardwalk – Tom Tom Club 1982

 

I

got

nothing

 

fuck this

disco remix

of Under the Boardwalk

like Studio fucking 54

 

with coffee

 

there are some days

when the words

flow like butter

over popcorn

 

this

ain’t

one

 

 

 

Copyright © 2014 Bill Friday

One of These Things

photo credit uvalaw.typepad.com

photo credit uvalaw.typepad.com

Johnny Cash covers

will never be better than

covers sung by Johnny Cash.

 

A home run watched

from the fifth deck at Dodger Stadium

will always be better than

listening to Charley Steiner

call a home run

on my car radio

no offense Charley

you’re not Vin Scully.

 

Sex without love

makes you common

love without sex

makes you a fool

sex and love together

makes you a porn star.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2014 Bill Friday

Come Flooding Back

photo credit "We Were Strangers" c 2012 Redboy

photo credit “We Were Strangers” c 2012 Redboy

My hands smell

like dispensered soap

from the bathroom

inside Starbucks

 

clean

like the hospital room

where my son died

all those years ago.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2014 Bill Friday

Lucky Seat

"Lucky Seat"  Copyright © 2014 Bill Friday

“Lucky Seat”
Copyright © 2014 Bill Friday

 

I thought about moving from this seat

and from the glare of the afternoon sun

as it closed my eyes in a squint

against my reflection

in the laptop screen

 

I thought about moving from this seat

and from the sting of the setting sun

as it burned itself three layers deep

into the skin

of my red right arm

 

I thought about moving from this seat

and from the warmth of all good things

that had not felt this right

for so long

to have its way with me

 

But I have written six poems in this seat

over the last two days

and I will be damned

if I’m going to do anything

to fuck this up today.

 

 

Copyright © 2014 Bill Friday

I Gave Up Writing Poetry

"Free Poetry" © 2014 Bill Friday

“Free Poetry” © 2014 Bill Friday

I gave up writing poetry

for the last time yesterday

right before I got talked back into it

by smiles

by circumstance

by words

oh, those damn persuasive words

and the way people look at you

when they think you

can do something they cannot.

 

© 2014 Bill Friday

Fifty Shades of Bullshit

bullshit x

Fifty shades of bullshit got your panties in a bunch

fiction in the place of real friction

of wet thighs

and gravel sighs

and a man’s rough hands where you settle for the touch of your own

 

Waste of time between life’s stages

replaced by dog-eared pages where fantasy isn’t real

wax fruit in place of a meal

hot wax on skin like in some video with music and a grainy feel

story never meant to last like you and I once did

 

I have read your kind before

a spider web in place of a door

and spilt perfume to cover the decay of what once passed for your tender soul

cracked and old and dry and dying

and lied to by so many, then so few

now just by you

 

Last look back at a life unfinished

at bodies and minds left diminished

by time, by the past, by struggle against what once convinced us

that we were our last and only

never get lonely partners for life

till I saw light

 

Fifty shades of bullshit got your panties in a bunch

trying to remember what didn’t need reading

pages were never meant for feeling what once was between us

heat in the place of a cold feel, of pulp in the space where you melt cold steel

of my rough hands as they touched what was

my own

 

© 2014 Bill Friday

This work first appeared in the anthology “…and it happened under cover”,  © 2014 Nightwing Publications.  To purchase this book, please visit their website or Amazon.com.

“… And I love you, fucking all.”

"Alienation Nightmare" © 1996 by Sabu

“Alienation Nightmare” © 1996 by Sabu

I have now alienated the entirety of my close friends, past and present, in the forty short days since I quit being a fucking drunk.

Atta boy!

I knew there would be changes.  Baseline changes, in the way I related to my depressingly unhappy life, the life I needed to deal with seeing sober, and not from the rosy view of the bottom of a bottle of Two-Buck Chuck.  No warming insulation, no softening cushion like strips of bubble wrap, or pale green packing peanuts, crumbling on the inside of a much-too-tightly wrapped package as it careens, out of control, down the UPS conveyor belt of life.  Broken contents, and useless measures taken to secure them.

Honesty and anger, brevity and elaboration, and an unvarnished way of being real… of being me.  And the alienation of so many, who with their words say that they approve of what I’ve done, but with their absence say that they don’t.  And I don’t blame them.  Because I don’t know if I like the real me better than the old… yet.  But I’m gonna.  Because this voice, this soul, this living, unprotected me on the inside of the crushed cardboard box of my existence accepts the leaky, possibly toxic truth that will, from time to time and from now on, keep spilling out.

And I love you, fucking all.

© 2014 Bill Friday

Philip Seymour Hoffman

PhilipSeymourHoffman andsoitbeginsfilmsDOTcom

Philip Seymour Hoffman – andsoitbeginsfilms.com

 

Philip Seymour Hoffman died with his conviction in his arm, hanging by a vein, for all the world to see.  He died as he lived… committed to his choices, his actions… his demons.  He knew the truth, and the truth set him free to follow his manifest destiny, in life and in death.  He was not cheated.  He lived, and died, life to the full.  He was beautiful… and ultimately, utterly fucked.  He was human.

As am I. 

In one of the I-lost-count-already number of Facebook posts (it is 11:19 a.m. Pacific Time as I write this) that inundated my news feed within the last hour of my Super Bowl Sunday morning… about the man’s untimely time and about his self-inflicted death… inevitably, one thread poster mentioned something about “self-medicating”.  True, I thought.  And truer, I thought next, that in some twisted respect, this famous dead actor was a braver man than I will ever be… if bravery can be measured in the foolishness of bad choices, based on a well-cultivated philosophy of “What the Fuck”.  My guess is, Philip Seymour Hoffman just had a bigger sack-full of “What the Fuck” between his legs than I do.  Because I’ve been told that I don’t know how commit to anything, and because, about a month ago, I took the coward’s way out, and handed back the keys to my addiction. 

Maybe I just wasn’t as committed to the part as he was.

Obviously, a man who died with a needle hanging from his arm knew more about pain than I ever could in ten lifetimes.  But the sources of what drives the addict (and there’s no better, harsher, truer word in the dictionary that fits him) to fill up on death as a daily comfort against the realities of life, shows that Philip Seymour Hoffman… actor, sufferer, human… was more committed to his truth, more sold to the role he portrayed, than I ever was. 

He died, committed to the pain. 

So now, as I finish this piece almost no one will read, about the sad end of a man so many people thought they knew but didn’t, I still have 8 unopened bottles of wine on my kitchen counter.  I mention the wine, only because I drank all the beer, the bourbon, and the tequila, and the wine was all that was left when I handed over the keys last month.  If those bottles get opened, they get opened.  For now, they stand… and/or lie on their sides in their rack… as a monument to how I almost lived up to the promise that Philip Seymour Hoffman fulfilled.  I guess I really don’t know how to commit to anything, after all.

What the fuck. 

 

© 2014 Bill Friday

DICHOTOMY: A brief meditation on the two poverties, as viewed through Dadaist metaphysical thought.

"Dadaism" luc.devroye.org

“Dadaism”
luc.devroye.org

The need of nothing is not the same as the acceptance of nothing, no matter what it looks like when written… or read.

I need nothing.  I accept nothing.

Not the same.

The well-groomed man.  Lexus LFA Nürburgring.  Pair of Barker Black Ostrich shoes on his clean feet… No socks.  He has everything in this world, and nothing.  He needs nothing.  The homeless man.  Shopping cart.  Pair of Converse Magic Johnson basketball shoes on his dirty feet… No socks.  He has nothing in this world, and everything.  He accepts nothing.

Full car.  Empty heart.  Empty cart.  Full heart. 

They are NOT the same.

I have been neither homeless nor rich.  I wish to be neither.  I have needed nothing.  I have accepted nothing. 

And I prefer it. 

 

Copyright © 2014 Bill Friday

You loom, blushing…

Photo Credit c 2011 Dr. Andrew Steele

Photo Credit c 2011 Dr. Andrew Steele

You loom,

blushing,

like the full moon

that rises,

red,

through the clouds

at sunset.

c 2013 Bill Friday

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fictionary... 8 megapixel artist... bloody awful poet

fictionary... 8 megapixel artist... bloody awful poet

Tanya Chernov

Author of A Real Emotional Girl (Skyhorse, 2012)

The Whimsy Art of TJ Lubrano

An Artist that Enchants the World with Her Illustrations.

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