Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in captainpoetry's LiveJournal:

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Sunday, May 14th, 2006
9:49 pm	Study in Nerves Study in Nerves I could only get drunk On your perfume A magic trick in Your eyes, The six whiskeys and Three dishes of peanuts Helped relieve the nerves But my heartbeat Studied the sweat in my hands. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, April 19th, 2006
9:17 pm	Anais Nin You know what? I want a dirty pen pal, i want a torrid, over sexed affair. I want to interact with someone who is truly filthy...Cock, balls, cunt, juice, pussy, shit, fuck, cum, cum cum in my hair, on my face, my ass, inside me, i want you cum in me and give me a baby. I want the female Lenny Bruce mixed with Anais Nin and some Melissa P for good measure. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, April 12th, 2006
9:38 pm	Pesah -- How are you? She said. Her eyes racing with paranoia, back and forth, the drugs were kicking in. -- I'm, I pause -- I'm fucking fine. There is this sun setting, but I can't be sure if it's real. I am not sure what time it is, I sold my watch three weeks ago. There is no television anymore, no more trophies. Fuck the trophies. -- I'm going to throw up. She says this as she throws up on the carpet. She apologizes. I could care fucking less. I look at her and she has throw up on her chin and I just start kissing her and i like the way her mouth tastes. Then I realise that the sun has set and the power has been cut off and we're in darkness. I quickle unbuckle my belt and pull my jeans down. My dick is limp and it hangs there in the twighlight casting a shadow on my thigh. -- What do you want to do with that? She asks me...She is smirking and wraps a cold hand around it. --I dont know. --Oh, I think you do. --Then why don't you just do it and cut the fucking small talk bitch? --Cause I'm too high to move. We both start laughing. The sun has risen again and my pants are still at my knees. She is asleep with her face sweating on my stomach and my dick finally getting hard. (Comment on this)
Thursday, March 30th, 2006
4:31 pm	Wednesday Dare I say en fuego? Why is it hard to decide to go after 1 girl? I think because the ones out here are all devious as hell...I think my real problem is I still call them girls...I am going to meet a new girl at least 3 tiems a week for the next five months and perhaps one of them will make me not want to go out and meet new girls. I want a girl like Kraft Macaroni and cheese, sure I know there is other food out there, but I prefer to eat that. I love my iPod. I love The Sopranos...I love every fucking book i read because of the silence that envelopes me while I am reading. I love to love and hate to hate but of the time I dream of doing the things that I love and hate doing the things that I hate. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, March 21st, 2006
7:34 pm	Los Angeles You're a Coy Bitch! I am in my apartment trying to write a fucking novel. The sun is out. My job sucks shit. There is music playing from my iPod, but like my wasteline, it feels too small. Maybe I will do some paintings. I really want to find a girl who wants to get naked and tickle each other. I want to laugh a little. Maybe drink a bottle and a half of wine, start a screaming match and win. My novel is so fucking hard to write it makes me want to throw my lap top on the road and the piss on it from my balcony. You think Fitzgerald had moments like this. HEre are some fun games. Wonder where you fit in in the legacy of what you want to do...Think of your boss being sodomized by Mario and Luigi as Toad and The Mushroom Princess watch...Listen to Kayne West and think of how fucking cool/stupid he is, the man is a walking dichotomy...masturbate while imagining your ex saying her/his nuptials with her/his fiance...Then throw a little wrinkle in, imagine he's/she's a priest/nun...SHITE! Maybe California will have an enormous shortage of assholes someday and you will end up shining like a goddamned star. FUCK IT BITCHES LAUGH! Current Mood: flirty Current Music: Kayne West (Comment on this)
Monday, March 6th, 2006
11:26 pm	You You You You wake up and your throat hurts. You aren't sure if you're sick or hungover. You focus on the wall at the foot of your bed. There is a painting hanging on the wall. It's of two sailboats, racing perhaps, one is smaller than the other. But that is because the larger is in the foreground, winning the race. The other is in the background being tossed by the waves. You roll over, stare at the window covered by blinds. There is no light breaking through. It is blackness. How long have you slept? Not very long. You roll back to the other side and stare at a pile of clothes. You stopped dreaming six months ago. It wasn't a decision it just stopped happening. You are trying to get them back, when you wake up you make dreams up to tell people at work. You hate work. You go towards the shower and stub your toe. You curse. You look at your foot and there's a thumbtack in your big toe.What the fuck? You get in the shower and try to masturbate. It won't get hard. You wonder if what you should be feeling is embarassment. You try to sing a song from memory get halfway through the first verse and forget the words, so you start another song. You forget the words to that too. FUCK! You die, slowly, every minute you die a little. Even when you're flossing. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, February 28th, 2006
3:26 pm	This is your life, and it's happening whether you like it or not... I went out to dinner and drinks on Friday with people a few years older than me. I am getting older, but still habitate at that lowest rung in my industry due to a late start and basically a lack of passion or willingness to commit. Well, they all have money, pay their rents on time, i would assume, and dress nice. THey all have business friends, rolodexes of contemporaries, business cards and corporate credit cards. They all suggested a gey goose sponsor for my upcoming birthday, a pair of uggs for sundays, whatever it was i drank them silent. That's how i do it, i drink it quiet. I am single, old, at a low rung on the ladder of career. I miss being able to sit and read when the sun is out, writing for fun not urgency and painting for hours. I miss the creek, surfing, fishing, fucking off and not caring. I feel heavy, my eyes hurt. I want to ask my boss if he had to choose between going to the hospital to be with his kid or having to answer a powerful execs call which he would choose. I am going to start playing the lottery. Current Mood: aggravated Current Music: The Brian Jonestown Massacre (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, January 15th, 2006
1:34 am	Frisky in the Meantime There is this purple flower that grows outside the window of the house I used to live. I think it is the reason I can't concentrate tonight. I think the reason I can't concentrate is that I have no dreams, no aspirations, nothing but dilaudid and fuck you. (Comment on this)
Thursday, January 12th, 2006
9:43 am	NY Times today!! Eyes Off the Prize The New York Times, 12 January 2006, By James F. English IF the first days of 2006 are any indication, it's going to be a banner year for literary scandal. Last week, before the confabulations of J T Leroy and James Frey came to light, The Sunday Times of London did its bit by reporting that it had submitted typescripts of two Booker Prize-winning novels from the 1970's (Sir V. S. Naipaul's ''In a Free State'' and Stanley Middleton's ''Holiday'') to 20 publishers and agents. Aside from one agent who expressed some interest in Mr. Middleton's novel, the responses were uniformly negative. This ''exercise'' in literary judgment, as The Times called it, was said to demonstrate the sorry state of affairs in the publishing industry. The Times wrote that critics say the industry ''has become obsessed with celebrity authors and 'bright marketable young things' '' and is no longer capable of ''spotting genuine literary talent.'' It's surprising that anyone could get much worked up about this, even in London, the global epicenter of literary gossip and scandal. Such stunts have been pulled many times before, and always with the same results. We don't really need another demonstration that publishing operates to the disadvantage of unknown and unconnected authors, or that editors and agents receive far too many unsolicited typescripts each week to be simply ''spotting'' new talent deep in the slush pile. But there is something startling about this latest hoax. In all the commentary surrounding the episode, no one has remarked on The Sunday Times's sudden deference to the Booker Prize (now called the Man Booker Prize). Since when has the British press accepted the Booker as an infallible yardstick of literary value? The Booker certainly had no such reputation in its early years, when Mr. Naipaul and Mr. Middleton won their awards. In those days, even the judges and winners felt free to denounce the prize. When Mr. Naipaul won in 1971, the chairman of the judges resigned in protest, describing most of the nominated books as ''mere pornography.'' The next year, John Berger, who won for his novel ''G.,'' used his acceptance speech to call the prize ''distasteful'' and ''false'' and to accuse the Booker company of neocolonial racism.The press coverage of these early scandals established the mixed tones of horror, outrage and amused condescension that have dominated Booker commentary ever since. As The Sunday Times itself observed in a 1988 article (characteristically titled ''For Love of Literature and Loadsamoney''), ''Throughout its history, the prize has been derided as a tasteless horse race, a culturally bankrupt publicity stunt.'' The Times's own writers have contributed plenty to this chorus of derision. A Times article about the 1981 award banquet was headlined ''Malcolm and Brian Row. Joan is Upset. Hilary Takes 10 Per Cent,'' and concluded that it had been ''a vintage year'' for Booker-watchers. In calmer years, The Times's tactic has been to express disappointment; a story about the 1990 shortlist regretfully observed, ''No shocks. No horror. No Salman Rushdie.'' The unspoken policy at The Times, as at every other British newspaper, has been to promote the prize as entertaining hoopla without ever crediting it as a legitimate instrument of literary judgment. So what does it mean that The Times now looks toward the Booker Prize, without skepticism or irony, for validation of an author's ''greatness''? The point of The Times's hoax was apparently to defend the notion of pure literary value -- the ''genuine'' greatness residing in the written words of the true genius, independent of social, political and commercial interests. Instead, the affair may in fact signal a decisive erosion of this very concept. The publishing industry, which must always defer to the logic of commerce, makes far too soft a target for defenders of literary purity. But prizes have served at least since the early 19th century as a perfect foil. Nowhere is the rhetoric of greatness more amplified than at book-prize ceremonies; literary awards would make no sense if they did not claim for themselves the power to recognize true or genuine value as opposed to mere celebrity or marketability or social connection. And yet, they continually undermine that rhetoric of purity with their displays of bickering and back-biting, all the quarrels among corporate sponsors, administrators, judges and writers, all those reliably annual ''scandals'' in which literary judgment reveals its hopelessly human nature. The Booker Prize is perhaps the best example of how a literary award thrives on this scandal of its own duplicity, gaining real power as an instrument of canonization precisely by outraging us with its mundane social, political and economic dimensions. It makes itself a staging ground not just for specific judgments of value but for the whole elaborate game that enables some judgments to appear more pure or perfect than others. If nowadays that duplicity is collapsing, if even the London literary press is prepared to accept the Booker as fully legitimate coin in the realm of art, it may be the prize itself that stands most to lose. Unless it can find new ways to mobilize the sincere belief in a form of value higher than its own, the Booker will be hard pressed to hold its place at the center of the literary game. Drawing (Drawing by gray318) James F. English, the chairman of the English department at University of Pennsylvania, is the author of ''The Economy of Prestige: Prizes, Awards and the Circulation of Cultural Value.'' (Comment on this)
Tuesday, November 15th, 2005
9:23 am	Mourning Vine Deloria Jr. has passed away. He was an incredible author. His words rang true through the time. (Comment on this)
Monday, October 24th, 2005
3:36 pm	Science Friction Again She said it was stolen transmissiona nd that it had to be returned. She was talking about sex I think. And I think that because we had just had sex while listening to Damien Rice which I told her was a bad idea because it always made her sad, whcih means it made me sad, but she said it made her feel pretty and I knew that what she was saying is that I didnt make her feel pretty, which I was okay with because I didn't think her pretty. I thought her to be to stressed, her hair receding a bit and her teeth an odd color from wine. I drank a bottle before she came over and the whole time we were doing it my head stung with a nast vibration and then when we finished I sweaty, dizzy and on the verge of vomiting. My mother once smacked me in the face right before th bus came because I said I had tired of all the jewish girls in the school. She said if Hitler came back from the dead, God forbid, that i would be the first one he took, what with my jewish nose and temprament. I didn't know what she meant and my face became fiery with pain. When I got on the bus I played with Jamie Cohen's twat the entire ride to school and then let the black kids smell my finger in the bathroom while we did a J. Even then I wasnt alone in the dark. Jamie Cohen and her friend rebecca took turns giving me a blow job in the basement of Jamie's father's house. He was out in the yard raking leaves and Jamie said that it turned her on how she could see his feet every few minutes pass the window. If we got caught she said her father would beat the shit out of me. I doubted it, at 15 I was already bigger than most fathers. Rebecca seemed to be the most confused and it wasn't until I spur my cum on her cheek that she really got into it. I think it was the first time she'd seen a dick, but she never let Jamie know that. Jamie later told me that I wasn't to talk to Rebecca, but every day during lunchtime I'd meet her in the Library where'd she would take her panties off in the bathroom and we would play with each other under a table in a study room. Now I was here in adulthodd having just fucked a woman who had half the personality of those two Jewish sluts from my youth. I looked at my arms covered in fuzzy black hair and wondered why they still appeared to be baby flesh. Jamie Cohen ended up with an eating disorder and ran away with a plumber to Orlando, Florida. Rebecca is a lawyer and from time to time I run into her at the gym on 14th street. Or I did when I lived in New York. She is still fairly pretty and every once in a while we'd get a drink after the work out, but wer never fucked. I wonder if I still lived back east if we would. Tonight while I was having sex I thought of this other girl I have a bit of a crush on and when I came inside the condom I hoped that the condom factory had named it. When I cum I disappear from the room to flush the rubber and in the mirror I see pink trails left by her nails. She never really cared whether I came or not, she just wanted to be next to someone. The heat in the room made me sick. The stolen transmission thing, well she stole that from a website I knew, but what I think she meant is that our connection. (Comment on this)
Saturday, October 22nd, 2005
9:19 am	Science Friction I lay my nose just a above her belly buttong and used my tongue like a swab of iodine as I dragged it lifeless in circles around her belly. She didnt respond initially, only resting her hands upon the top of my head, but I would not let that discourage. I wanted to close the blinds, but I didnt want her to know i was shy, so I left them open and the sounds of cats in the alleyway made it hard for me to concentrate. I pulled her jeans down to her ankles, she had to wiggle out of them and when she did she laughed and put her hands on my shoulders and cocked one leg as if I were a ladder she was trying to climb. Sticking one finger inside of her I immediatley thought of my apartment on the 16th floor of manhattan that I'd abandoned a year before to live somewhere foreign. I also thought of the hostel in Granada when the dutch girl tried to tell me I was snoring and I punched her in the face. Alcohol is a funny drink. On the stereo Rick James was singing about love and I laughed it off. I wanted to impress her with my sex, so I revealed it and gripped it hard so that it extended in the air a few extra inches. She smiled. I could tell she wasnt impressed. I died one night in New York city. LIterally, I wasnt breathing for a good two minutes. It was in the lobby of that very same building. I had done too much blow with a friend while at a bar on Avenue B and my heart just stopped. My doorman gave me CPR. He wanted to call an ambulance, but I gave him 22 dollars not to, it was all i had on me. When I put it in her I feel the furthese I feel from any person. I want to say her name and how nice it feels, but I realize at this very moment that I can't remember anything, not my name or hers, my social security number or the last time the Knicks won a championship. These are all things I should know. But I know none of them. One night in nY I had a friend throw up in my bed in his sleep. I wasnt mad, it happens, but it did happen. Heaping teaspoon of sugar? I ask her as I make tea in the kitchen for us. It wasnt all that bad and she has not dressed to leave, that must be a good sign. Current Mood: abstract Current Music: Neil Young (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Saturday, September 24th, 2005
12:46 am	A good show I just had thai food with my friend and then saw Willy Porter play. He is absolutely awesome and humble, cool, funny, sweet, righteous, smart, and generally great. I am tired now and am going to go read Franny and AZooey. I recently reread Death of a Salesman, it is so fucking good that it is unfair. The older I get the more I appreciate it. I am going to finish this book and then read 100 Strokes of the Brush Before Bed. So I finished my play and am now open to suggestions on how to produce it. If any actors or theatre owners are interested in giving the kid either a) some advice or b)a place to produce/actors to do a read through, etc... Hit me up!! Good night and Good luck! Current Music: Henry Butler (Comment on this)
Monday, August 15th, 2005
3:01 pm	I love San Francisco! SOmeone give me a job there!! (Comment on this)
Thursday, August 11th, 2005
10:22 am	I have a very urgent and distrubing announcement I finished the first draft of my play, which I am tentatively calling "Commencement" (Comment on this)
Tuesday, August 9th, 2005
3:09 pm	Frucking Snuckin I am bored. The sun is out It is way hot There are roads and then there are ROADS Take you clothes off before you get in the shower silly Take your eyes out before you read the Post Wait for the siren then duck Laugh on command Tear drops taste like visine Moons are every where There isnt a building tall enough I hate flying Fabrics feel wrong Sleep in a dead hand Current Mood: working Current Music: Stan Getz (Comment on this)
Thursday, July 28th, 2005
11:38 am	The hump I think the second act of my play is over the hump. Now I just need to write the third act and a little more into the second and I will be done. Then I have to try and produce it. I am very excited about it. I read a scene over the phone to my best friend and it sounded like a real play. It sounded classic and important. I was really stoked about it. I also got drunk and fell asleep at the computer. I jumped from the roof of my building into the pool last week, that was fun. My rooommate is the oddest man ever. Current Mood: hopeful Current Music: John Coltrane (Comment on this)
Monday, July 25th, 2005
10:24 pm	A MIle A Minute I am trying new things this week, like first of all I will not listen to my body, If i am hungry I will not eat, If I am tired I will do my best to stay awake, If I want to write I will meditate instead. So really I am spiting my self. It is a good idea, spite yourself, dippy, feel like that will make me understand the rest of the world. I am always amazed at how cold people are, it is as if they feel nothing. Am I like the head of a penis or the clit? I am just the most super sensetive wretch in the world? anyway, my mind is working so fast today that the rest of it seems like slow motion. Even pplaying basketball tonight, it didn't seem real. There were 3 minutes left in the first half and I was ready to leave the gym. I was cooking dinner and my mind was already preparing to sleep. I am reading three books right now. Writing the play, doing tons of poems. My novel says fuck you to me every time I think about it. I am going to finish it just so a certain girl in a certain eastern city will know just how fragile the human heart is. If she didn't know that she was a manipulative lying cunt before, now she will. Am I angry, you ask? I am. Here is some poetry tonight cause I am done writing for the eyes of strangers. Here are some questions for my readers, please answer and forward to someone on this who you might think I'd enjoy reading and get them to comment so I can add them!!: 1. Your favorite album to disappear to? 2. The first time you realized that your heart could be broken or you could snap someone's heart? How old were you? What was your instinct to react?? 3. Where is your favorite place to sit? 4. How many drinks can you have before you lose control? 5. Do you like making out with strangers in barrooms? 6. Your favorite book to read to inspire you? 7. Your favorite book to read to make you feel like a dust particle? 8. Your favorite movie? 9. Your favorite Bill Murray movie? 10. Wes Anderson or Charlie Kaufman? ANd now the poem!: (you should be used to it by now) No matter how many times a line is read it will never sink deep into the page to ex- -pose a secret world that will reveal itself only to the most diligent reader your spine is a burning arrow, stung and quivering. The fate of a million men handed down by receptors and goose pimpled flesh, every interaction, no matter how seemingly unique or roma- -ntic, a carbon copy of the last. These are moments you can’t help but remember, even when trying to forget: kissing on a city block feeling car lights shining trans- -ition to darkness back to light, in that moment the two of you on a train in a tunnel the thunderous quiver if an unexpected kiss the feel of foreign skin, and then the disappearance of all matter, faded, deep, so that you are alone d i g g i n g toes into carpet, waiting for the engine of your mind to turn over. She has anxiety he has little heart attacks, arrhythmias, the whole rhythm of a moment, jazz, shocked into submission. He lays in bed, she does whatever he imagines she does, sanguine lips, while he languishes a moments tribal thumpi- -ng until he feverishly hits himself, until he emerges bewildered, cursed, half-conscious and seeking out something that will hardly quench this moment’s furious thirst. Then there is sleep and morning, another day, time fumbling for car keys in cluttered pockets, a fog taunting little streaks of sunlight reflecting off some puddle slightly to the left side of the sidewalk, the city screaming silence. Current Mood: Tortuous Current Music: Mike Doughty Because he Rocks your Motherfucking Socks Off (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Wednesday, July 20th, 2005
2:27 pm	shhhhh, can you hear that? I am in a funk, maybe it is more of a phunk, hard sounding U, unk, funk fuuuuunk, i get hypnotised by every thing I stare at. I am afraid to write, I sit down and I can write anything but what I want to write, which means the play is stuck at 55 pages. I run every night, and I get runners high. Last night I thought about Joyce Carol Oates' reading that I saw last summer and how she said that she runs every day and when she does she works out her stories in her head, before she even writes them down. I think I wrote the last monologue of my play, it is a prose poem, but I am just going to give it to my protagonist. Last night while I was running I kept asking myself, "What do you want?" And then I'd try to scroll the words out in my mind, just answer as honeslty and as passionately as I can. Some liar from my grad school claimed that when he looked at words on a pag he saw colors, these color told if a story was good or bad. I don't have that ability, I doubt he did, but I can see words flying through my mind and I think as I get older those words hold more and more imagery, like they get heaver and heavier. Make sense. SO I sit here at work and think of writing, but I know tonight I probably will not write what I want to write. I also suspect I am clinically unbalanced but I refuse to get checked out because I think taking medicine masks the problem and I'd rather learn to desensitize myself to it. I want to get drunk and make out with a stranger. Current Mood: apathetic Current Music: Simon & Garfunkel (Comment on this)
Tuesday, July 12th, 2005
1:41 pm	Hola Right now I am at my desk at work thinking about how I haven't worked on my play in over a week. I am stuck at 55 pages. I am not even sure how many pages a play is supposed to be! Does any one know. Why can't i finish what i started. Then I listen to the Mountain Goats and I want to go drink a bottle of wine cooler and walk around LA in a wife beater, speedo and bare feet. Current Mood: tired Current Music: The Mountain Goats (1 Comment |Comment on this)