A Little Something I Wrote in Reno, Nevada

A poem I rote visiting an ex-girlfriend in Reno. It was also the last time I ever saw my father alive......

Well now, what can I say?

Decisions made by fate

Nothing more can be taken away

The morning light breaks through the window pane

I sit here, in Alien territory, not quite sane

I’m not killing you because death would be the same

As giving you happiness and I’m not that lame

(She said into the phone)

Smacking her lips against chocolate

Planning against the game

That no matter how you play is never finished

My ex-girlfriend dates only ex-convicts

At least in style is how she lives it

Or so they think and tweak and think

Constantly my love for her is there

And then gone in the next blink

Of an eye only to reappear

As I gamble and ask for a second drink

No other reason to be at a casino, I don’t win

So I waste away the time, watching others sin

An inner voice in my head asks,

Do you not do the same, my friend?

I tell the voice to shut up

And thus does the fight begin

These types of things you do not win

Nor

Will this battle in you’re head end

But who am I, to say such things and moralize about some other life

Or even mine

About which I write

All the damn time

Keeping in sight

The knowledge of the demons

That lives in my head

If it wasn’t for this pain,

I would think I was dead

I am not here to complain

I’m just in Alien Territory,

Really Not Quite Sane

.A.N.F.

Drew Kazinsky

Reno, NV

Cinco De Mayo Weekend

May of 2007

Reviews

[lee von cleef]

Now this, good."The
knowledge of the Demons
That lives in my head"
One head or two, one demon or more?
A lot of your writing I read goes over my lines,beyond where I want to think, I might twist a ankle in the cold rocky creek of your life, but on I go though I feel short of air
I blame it on the altitude ,can't or don't want to eat so cold the calories burning,
I spit blood red, into the snow, my body moving to protect its core.But life is life,and this
rock of a mountain is high one step,now two,and Drew in May 2007 you wrote a damn
good piece of life.

[Andrew N. Farrens]

great review, my friend......

[Dayran]

An understanding of the balance in life allows us a foray into great heights when the opportunity arises. It may be why we tell ourselves we are no better or worst than the next guy.

[de_maruf]

so good man

[MOON]

Trying to slay the demons recognisation that what you see in others might be a reflection of you. Striking write.

[mandy]

as i gamble and ask for a second drink...watching others sin....the inner voice asking,,do you not do the same, my friend? i tell the voice to shut up...and thus the fight begins..i liked that part a lot. good write.

[Hester Vane]

Very very good! A great write once again!

[quinfinn]

the personal struggle of fighting the demons while realizing and acknowledging that you in fact are one of them. i don't think that i could have put it better. well met!

[gombeggar]

well done...right off the cuff

[Kelsey]

This is amazing. I really enjoyed it. The flow is great, and, oddly enough, it was written on the weekend of my birthday- I'm a Cinco de Mayo baby. (: Nice job, my friend, your writing is great.

[Mark]

reminds a little of Hunter S Thompson. Anger spat out from a machine gun.

[Andrew N. Farrens]

Well, I'm a bit taken back, my friend.......On one hand, I'm thrilled to death for the comparison to Hunter Thompson but on the other, I'm not so happy. For you see, HST is one of my favorite authors and I admit he has influenced my writing to a certain degree. As a matter of fact, out of sheer boredom I recently picked up his book of letters, “The Proud Highway: The Savage Struggles of a Outlaw Journalist and a Southern Gentleman 1956-1967” (I could be wrong with the exact wording of the title and I’m too lazy to walk the four feet to the book-shelves.). I finished that a couple days ago and picked up the second book of letters, “Fear and Loathing in America 1968-1976”. It is simply amazing to see how many letters he managed to write while writing all his other stuff. If you have never read these two books, I highly recommend it and pretty much guarantee that it will not be a waste of your time. Sadly, I can and will not say that any illusions of sanity will remain intact but alas, sometimes that is the price of good literature.

Me, myself and I would definitely would love to get paid for the words I write, just like Thompson. Besides the poetry and music, I would like to think I'm part of the next generation of Outlaw Journalists. I'm not even sure any-one would like to join me in holding up of that particular burned torch, since it seems to my well-trained eye that the readers of this World are becoming few and far between. Which I think is a god-damned shame in every sense of the word. It is hard to make ANY money, much less a living, in this confused society as an independent journalist/freelance writer. Most so-called “respectable” main stream mass media will not deal with any writer who is not college educated, which is really an asinine and senseless way to operate, as some of the greatest writers never even graduated from college if they even went in the first place. I’m not saying college is pointless; I wish I had taken more advantage of the opportunities given to me and not messed up my schooling multiple times but one cannot cry over spilt milk, neh? I know that HST attended a few college classes but he never took it too seriously except to learn the basics (He taught himself to write by copying whole chapters of books written by Hemingway and Fitzgerald. He considered “The Great Gatsby” one of the greatest classics in American literature. I cannot agree entirely…..) and the man created the style known as “Gonzo Journalism” (Thompson said this was based off Faulkner’s quote “That fiction is often the best fact”. The actual definition of “Gonzo Journalism” reads like this in the dictionary:

gon•zo/ˈgänzō/
Adjective: 1. Of or associated with journalistic writing of an exaggerated, subjective, and fictionalized style.
2. Bizarre or crazy.


You have to be a damned good writer for the dictionary to define the style of journalism you invented.) Be that as it may, I also would like to develop my own style, separately entirely and completely from Thompson's "Gonzo" style of journalism. The reason for the dismay of the comparison between HST and myself is that I naturally want to be my own writer.

However, Mark, I must say that you did make my day with the comparison. Although my day was not a terrible one in any literal and real sense, I had a rude awakening early this morning when I checked my e-mail and Face-Book accounts. A good friend of mine in North Oakland, a man I consider a brother, suffered a terrible tragedy this last week-end when his father passed on to the next World. His father was a good man and I have heard nothing but kind words describing him my entire life but besides the natural empathy for any pour soul who must suffer the loss of a loved one (I firmly believe we do not grieve for the dead but rather for the living…..), I feel this one rot the hidden core of the natural barrier I created as a safety net to help calm my paranoid attacks of anxiety whenever I am bombarded with a surge of feelings. As a karmic repercussion, I have to endure the natural empathy I am cursed with in this cruel life; even though it helps with the words I conjure from The Void, trust me when I say that it can be stressful. You brightened my day just a bit……

Man, I am sorry for this lengthy and horridly twisted comment but it seems that the luxury of space have made these words once again drag me from the reality of my every-day existence into a warm, euphoric embrace of what some might consider being a cruel rape of The American English Language. As a self-described “word-bully, I find writing is more plenary than even an opiate high and oh so much more addicting. Purists will adamantly insist I have mangled the English written word in such an abhorrent way I should be crucified. I earnestly believe that a lynch mob of teachers and professors of English will gather in front of my house early one morning as I try to sleep through the glaring light of the early sun for my day of reckoning. In my dreams, violent scenes of these scholarly, insolent people drag me out of the bed and to the nearest street-light for a pants-pissing hanging so the good people of The World will not read and be influenced by swine like myself. I find it interesting and very revealing that I understand this concept entirely.

What is another digression of topic between internet friends? Indeed……

Jesus Christ wept bloody tears as he hung limply from The Cross; what a schizo a*s comment I have written in response to your review. I am truly sorry for making you read this sentimental trash. While I have been typing this strange comment, the sky of the central valley of Northern California turned a beautiful purple as the light of the dying sun danced in the curling smoke of my very suspicious hand-rolled “cigarette” that smells “funny”. It is now full dark and there is a distinct and definite cold chill in the air. The sometimes elusive season of Fall has finally arrived and pumpkins are sold in even the ghetto liquor stores. The little children are preparing their costumes for All Hallows Eve, blessedly ignorant of what I consider the real ghouls and goblins that lurk in the dark streets to prey on the beautiful innocence of purity. Unlikely as it is, I hope they never have to discover the truth that made not only The Great Pumpkin but also Santa Claus, The Easter Bunny, a turkey, a few leprechauns, and Jesus H. Christ commit ritual suicide by drinking a vat of arsenic laced Tang, the drink of our mighty fine astronauts.

My dogs are chewing on the carcass of the dumb-a*s tweaker junkie who made the mistake of jumping into my back-yard, which is set across the road from The Calaveras River in Stockton. This brilliant thinker decided he could steal my air-conditioner and scrap it for the copper. How wrong he was because the man didn’t even make it across the yard before Sir Maxwell, my Chesapeake Bay Retriever, lunged for his groin area (MY DOGS GO FOR THE BALLS!!) and ripped out his intestines through the crotch area of his body. He was making too much noise for me to comfortably smoke my miscellaneous herbs but after a few rounds from the 20 gauge shotgun (hollow-point lead slugs), the b*****d finally quieted down. I feel that I must protect myself at all costs and that includes copper thieves. It is imperative to set a firm example to these filthy beasts since I just happen to live in one of the most violent and desperate places on the West Coast; I have no mercy for the swine. “Kill them all and let god sort them out”. A well known quote that sounds decent enough but I have always preferred the original quote, the utterly sincere words of Arnaud Amalric: “Kill them all, for the Lord knows his own”. One must admire the determination……

Res Ipsa Loquitur

Andrew Nicolas Farrens
West Stockton, California
October 5, 2012
westies209

[Mark]

Damn Andrew, I'm so sorry it took me so long to find this great, huge, nugget of dark gold. Just for the record, no one makes me read anything anymore. In fact, there are very few pieces longer than your average flash fiction that can old my attention. Yet, every line of yours has been scanned and processed. You will ever be your very own type of unique wordsmith genius my friend. And, just perhaps, before we are both long gone someone will be inspired to write in a style that grew naturally from your words. Progeny of Andrew, grand-progeny of HST.

[Andrew N. Farrens]

HAHAHAHA, thank-you, my friend, you have made my day.........