Cherry Blossom Girl

I don't want to be shy
Can't stand it anymore
I just want to say 'Hi'
To the one I love
Cherry blossom girl

I feel sick all day long
From not being with you
I just want to go out
Ever night for a while
Cherry blossom girl

Tell me why can't it be true

I never talk to you
People say that I should
I can pray everyday
For the moment to come
Cherry blossom girl

I just want to be sure
When I will come to you
When the time will be gone
You will be by my side
Cherry Blossom Girl

Tell me why can't it be true

I'll never love again
Can I say that to you
Will you run away
If I try to be true
Cherry blossom girl

Cherry blossom girl
I'll always be there for you
That means no time to waste
Whenever there's a chance
Cherry blossom girl

Tell me why can't it be true

- Air

Racing the Sunrise in a World of Reverse

It's been a strange few days, but tonight/morning I witnessed something.

It's 6:13 a.m., as I start this, and I've just sat down at my computer after getting home from work.
We are having some new cables & hardware installed at my theatre, and all of the work must be done after hours,, and a manager must be present. So from 10 p.m. to 6-ish a.m. I get to be at work and not really do much. Hang a bit, do some work on projectors, veg. and philosophize.

It has only been my second night of this, but already the differences are highly noticeable. I normally speed home round 1:30 a.m., the highway completely clear, some Circa Survive or Brand New blaring from the one working speaker in my truck. If the temp. rises above eighty degrees sometimes the left speaker will cut in sporadically.
But coming home is different at 5:30 a.m. With the highways full of cars you realize that there is a world out there and that other people actually exist. I rarely see this.

I was speeding down I-35, doing my normal 14 miles above the posted speed limit - the last two speeding tickets that I ever received had me doing 14 over - and I zoomed by a place off of the highway that I have passed, literally, a few hundred times.
It is a business in Merriam, a school bus place. I know it used to be called School Services & Leasing back in my day; now it is Durham Schools Services; or something to that extent.
Normally when I pass at 1 or so a.m., it is dead quiet, and nothing is going on. But today it was alive and awe-inspiring.

I exited off of I-35 and snaked my way back to this business and parked on the side of the road and watched the business' parking lot. There were 75 -100 school buses parked there, all of them with engines running, smoke billowing out of the tailpipes - steam filling the air - like my cigar smoke on my patio some nice evening. The headlights were off but the parking lights were struck and glowing orange, like the nostrils of a dragon inside some deep, dark cave.
Bodies of bus drivers walked back and forth, bundled up, fighting off the chilled 10-degree morning, cups of coffee in their hands, probably some sleep still in their eyes.
The buses were like an armada of yellow ships getting daily inspections, being prepped and readied for battle. Their stop-arms flashing and swinging back & forth. Forth & back.
Small fluorescent lights flashing insanely, like little crack-heads flipping a light switch on & off. Off & on.

I sat there, watching this for maybe fifteen minutes, which was both too long & nowhere near long enough. And I thought about the roads, the course, & the journey that these buses will take within the next twelve hours.
Picking up the pimply-faced high school douche-bags, with their floppy hair and androgyny. Then the elementary school kids and then the middle school jackasses.
Taking these poor, defenseless motherfuckers to educational penitentiaries all across town.

Taking them to buildings to "learn". To be taught. To be instructed, to be guided. Forced to go to a place that force-feeds ideas and bullshit trivia.
Within these walls they will fall for the guise that only through hard work &
sacrifice will you ever be anything. Will you ever be happy. To lead a good and fulfilling life you have to have a real career, a high-paying job, an important job!! You should be a DOCTOR, or a DENTIST, or a LAWYER, or a POLICE OFFICER, a PARAMEDIC, or a TEACHER.
And if you don't study or pay attention you will be doomed to a life of servitude. If you don't work hard you will flip burgers all your life, or work telemarketing, do menial labor like a dishwasher or pile bullshit like a politician. You have to strive for greatness, if not you will end up in a failure with a dead-end job like a busboy, film projectionist, or as irony would have it, a bus driver.

All I could think was that these people, in these humongous yellow contraptions - which apparently still aren't noticeable enough 'cuz some mo'fuckas run into them with their cars - spend their days & earn their wage, by taking kids, young lives, to get an education that teaches them that only some jobs should be respected, and some should be looked upon with downcast eyes.

Anyone who earns a wage, and puts food in their stomach, or another person's; puts a roof over their head or someone else's head, deserve respect. Not all of us can be doctors. Not all of us can be lawyers.
Hell, not all of us WANT to do a job like that.

Just live a life that makes you happy. Live a life that gives you pleasure and gives you space.
Space enough to watch buses light up like christmas tres on a march morning, while the rest of the world is going to work; and you are going home to a few drinks and a warm bed.
A warm bed under a roof paid for with money earned at a job that isn't a lawyer, or firefighter, or a CEO of a huge corporation.

It's 6:46 a.m. as I finish this, & all I know is that for some reason I saw magnificence in a piece of minutiae.

Love.

Newer Works

*****

alone you stand
staring into the pink horizon
i watch you
for a few minutes
before i step your way
& you don't know
i am there

from right behind you
i put my face
into your hair
& move my nose
down to your right shoulder
i kiss through it
& onto your neck
the scent of your skin
& perfume mix
as you reach back
& wrap your left hand pinky
into my wrist's black rope
placing my right hand
on your waist
i smile & i know
we're going
to be all right


****

pocket watch
dangles from
a nail

stopped at
the time
she ran into
the storm
& danced within
the hail

***

glass bleeds
down walls
to bead up
on wooden floors

roaches crawl out
from under dusty rugs
to battle
the light of day

bare feet move swiftly
through grass
knee-high

***

all i ever was
was what
you wished
i wasn't


& all i'll
ever be
is exactly what
you hate in me

collapse in half


**

the simple face
on a complicated body
the one i know
i'll lose

*

the fading
the fleeting
the disintegration
too many hours
creep on
without ink scratching
upon the page

i am
growing old(er)

100+ Films that I Believe Have Influenced Me (& should bee seen by all)

They are in no particular order.

Citizen Kane
Straw Dogs
Juliet of the Spirits
Salo
Midnight Cowboy
Clockwork Orange
Marat/Sade
The 400 Blows
Last Tango in Paris
Army of Shadows
Eraserhead
Zodiac
There Will Be Blood
The Conversation
Schindler's List
Assault on Precinct 13 (the original)
Last House on the Left
Suspiria
Apocalyse Now
Silence of the Lambs
The Virgin Suicides
The Crow
Labyrinth
The Goonies
The Monster Squad
Day for Night
Amarcord
Boogie Nights
Lost in Translation
The Game
Magnolia
8 1/2
Cinema Paradiso
The Evil Dead
Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills
Rushmore
Mumford
Chasing Amy
Hard Eight
Se7en
Clerks
La Dolce Vita
Used Cars
Adaptation
Halloween
Dark City
Phenomena
Akira
The Godafther
Punch-Drunk Love
State & Main
Noises Off
True Romance
Rope
The Wild Bunch
Solaris (the original)
M
Reservoir Dogs
The Last Temptation of Christ
The Harder They Come
Traffic
Un Chein Andalou
Deep Red
Pi
Touch of Evil
Goodfellas
Leon: The Professional
Blow
Big Trouble in Little China
Requiem for a Dream
The People Under the Stairs
The Vanishing
If...
Pink Flamingos
The Fountain
Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie
Paradise Lost 2: Revelations
The Lost Boys
Drop Dead Gorgeous
My Blue Heaven
Say Anything
Memento
The Departed
Slacker
Eyes Wide Shut
The Abyss
Donnie Darko
Happiness
Almost Famous
Last Exit to Brooklyn
Tree's Lounge
Kids
Following
Buffalo 66
Immortal Beloved
The Wanderers
Do the Right Thing
Amadeus
Vanilla Sky
The Pianist
Rosemary's Baby
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
Chinatown
The Basketball Diaries
Annie Hall


But there is always more...

Of an Example Made: the book

After the completion of my 9th (and then final) book of poetry, reality vs. perception in September of 2006, I was tired of writing the same old shit and writing in the same dull 6x9 journals from Barnes & Noble. Although, to their credit they were the best I had ever come across and were only $4.95. I wanted something more epic, something more me, something more personal.
Then I thought, "If I can write, format, & publish my own books of poetry, why not my own journals?" So I set to work in creating a word file of nothing but blank lines. 400 pages of dual-columned lines. Each column having 64 lines. So each individual page was equal to about 4.2 pages of the old journals. I published it in hardcover in November of 2006 and ordered a copy just to see how it came out. also to see how sexy the picture of me on the back cover looked. The picture compliments of J-Pop.

It arrived sometime in December and it looked pretty fucking impressive. On the spine, just to utilize every function, I had 'number ten brett alan coker' printed on it.

What I failed to mention thus far, was that I gave up writing "poetry" on September 13th, 2006. I said "No more poetry."

Then came January 5th, 2007. Out of boredom I began to write again, yet using a different name, and as a different mind. In the course of one week I wrote an entire, yet short, book of poetry, under my new pseudonym. Some weeks passed, I mapped out the character a bit more and then took a stab at it again and completed a second book of the same.

Going back to what I failed to mention again, for effect. When I first received the new journal and looked at every page and how goddamn sprawling and massive it was, I turned to the chick with me and asked "Wouldn't it be fucked up if I filled this entire thing in one year?" I laughed because I was joking and put it to the back of my mind.

Now more time passed and I couldn't stand not writing; once you do something almost daily for, as of then, nine years, you can't help but miss it. So I added the end of the sentence I said in 2006, "No more poetry...for no year."

So come May of 2007, a mere eight months after quitting (not counting the two books by the alter ego) I began again, with an insane goal in mind.

To fill the entire rest of the journal by January 4th, 2008. Attempting to write, in all, nine books of poetry in one year; matching the nine books of poetry I wrote over the course of eight years. I am certifiable.

I divided the journal up into relatively equal parts and set to it. Trying to stick to a demanding routine of writing and brain exploding. And without saying, the outcome was rather impressive.

With each book, I began to write more and more. You would think I would blaze through the first few and then struggle with the last. After running out of ideas. Both is true in a way.

In 2005, I wrote a book entitled in lucem proferre... (book 5) and it only took me two months. At the beginning of 2006 I wrote a book called corruptio optimi pessima (book 8) and it too only took me two months. So two months seemed to be the shortest amount of time I was able to write a book in.

Then came book 5 of the new series, written in eighteen days. This absolutely blew my mind.

Then came book 6 of the new series, written in eight days. My hand about exploded.

In perhaps October or early November (subtle homage) I joked again to the same chica mentioned previous, "Wouldn't it be bad-ass if I made the last book one long poem?" She laughed and said "Yeah, good luck with that."

Suffice it to say, not only did I actually complete this most arduous task, I did in fact, make the entire last book one long f'n "poem."

The book itself is book ten in the archive of my works. Yet, at the same time it is also books 10 - 18. Since this book is in fact one giant work, an equal to the nine that preceded it.

The book is called Of an Example Made. And each individual part is listed as follows:

Part One
"White Lies & the Confusion of Day Dreams"

Part Two
"Black Truth & the Comprehension of Nightmares"

Part Three
"Gray Days & the Possibility of Loveless Eyes"

Part Four
"Golden Lust & the Resurgence of Youthful Trysts"

Part Five
"Magenta Scars & the Delusions of Erudite Whores"

Part Six
"Violet Dust & the Detriment of Broken Homes"

Part Seven
"Green Dreams & the Overflow of Orchidaceous Nights"

Part Eight
"Silver Rays & the Revolution of Dystopic Cliques"

Part Nine
"Cyan Lines & the Metamorphosis of Cyclical Tales"


All in, this mamma-jamma equaled out to 1,238 "poems" and I wrote on merely 158 days out of the full 365.

As of now I only have the first three parts typed up, but have been working on the full book as a whole and plan to throw in some rather interesting little things to give the shit more depth and scope.

It is my plan to have it all out, proofed, formatted and sexified by Summer.


And I must give credit where credit is due. I now have planned on publishing the book using the look of the real journal for the cover. However, cleaning it up (look-wise, not vulgarities) and removing things that may lead to copyright difficulties.
Thanks Kelly.

Check it, it can be seen to the left.

As it stands, I am proud of the work done. Proud of myself for actually accomplishing this task and furthermore, I'm just sexy as all fuck. Don't deny.

Word.

BAC

Black Metallic

I've never seen you when you're smiling
It really gets under my skin
You say it's easy when it's faster
I still can't guess what you're after

It's the colour of your skin
Your skin is black metallic
It's the colour of your skin
Your skin is black metallic
Your skin is black metallic
Your skin is black metallic

I think of you when you're sleeping
Of all the secrets that you're keeping
You can't stay all day under the covers
'Cause under there you'll discover

It's the colour of your skin
Your skin is black metallic
It's the colour of your skin
Your skin is black metallic
Your skin is black metallic
You're turning black metallic

It's the colour of your skin
It's the colour of your skin

Your skin is black metallic
Your skin is black metallic
Your skin is black metallic
You're turning black metallic

It's the colour of your skin
Your skin is black metallic
Your skin is black metallic
Your skin is black metallic
Your skin is black metallic
Your skin is black metallic
Your skin is black metallic

Christmas Eve at a Bro-Bar (or "true mark of an elitist")

I hate holidays. Almost always have. Save for Halloween.

I rolled out of bed around 4 p.m. as per usual on days I don't work. And even normal for most days when I do.
I finished watching Donnie Darko for the 50th time, and then watched Scrosese's Gangs of New York for the 10th.

My family closeness consisted of a telephone conversation with my mother that lasted less than a minute.
Her: I was just calling to see if you were gonna come over tonight, figured you weren't.
Me: What time is it?
Her: 8:30.
Me: Yeah, probably not.
Her: You gonna make it to Topeka tomorrow?
Me: Yeah, probably not.
Her: Okay, well then I won't keep ya. See ya.
Me: Bye.


Then I received a text from my pal Dave, with whom I spoke last night about hanging out with tonight. Him and some old high school cronies.

I meet up with him, my best friend Joe, Drew and his fiance Jessica. None of whom have I seen this year, 2007.

They say we are going to a bar called Mickey's. I have never been there nor have I heard of it. As it turns out it is in the buiding that used to be Old Chicago off of Quivira and perhaps 97th. This place was absolutley friggin' packed.

As soon as I walked in the door all I could think was, "Bro Fest."

And now that the story has brought us to the bar scene, all lines must be shouted due to the loud and outdated music!!

It takes about ten minutes to get our first drinks and I begin to sink into my coma! I dislike public places whre I don't feel comfortable!

I drink me some Killian's Red, which I began to drink primarily because of the Nada Surf song of the same name! Good song and good beer! And we all stand around, in the path of douch-nozzles and jizz-sluts walking around! Already I am becoming an asshole!

We talk amongst ourselves, which is awkward enough being that I haven't seen any of these people in a good year's time! Drew lives in Texas now and flies up around the good Holidays, and Joe... well... I don't know! I just don't see him often! I see Dave more than anyone else but even he couldn't tell me when the last time we crossed paths was!

Keep in mind, all of these gents that I speak of were attached to my hip throughout middle school and high school! Joe since grade school! Nowadays, however, we have to drum up mundane topics to discuss to feel at home in our skin!

As per usual, one of my cronies began to show me pictures on his phone of his new chick he is with! As was the same with his last girlfriend I saw naked pictures of her long before seeing & meeting her in person!! I thought to myself "such classy ladies!" Then I began to laugh in my own head!! These girls are classy in the sense that before I meet them I see photos that highlight both their clit and their asses!! Hence cl-assy!!

The second nugget-of-amazing tonight was a larger black gal that bumped into Dave, she sid "Excuse me, big daddy!" Gotta love that! And that same gal decided to stand right behind me, as I ate free bar peanuts and scream "I'ma cause a scene up in 'dis mutha-fucka!! I'm a cause a scene up in 'dis mutha-fucka!!" She was quite elegant!

A very skillful and dapper gent went up to forementioned gal and asked "What's going on?!" And her reply was of such refine and elegance I was amazed: "Being black!!" Mmmm... the love.

Then there was the guy at the bar, who kept talking to Joe and us while we were ordering who decided to tell us that just a few hours earlier he went to church with his parents!! And he told them "See ya, I'm gonna go sin for a couple of hours!!" I'm sure he told his parents that! And just so it's known to all of you out there, this guy was the self-appointed Gatemaster! Whatever that entails! He kept saying "I'm the Gatemaster!!" Then to my chagrin he said, "I am also a pussy, because I am what I eat." The sad part about that is, that I have used that phrase for several years, and honestly I thought I came up with it, because I never heard the line before I began to use it! However, because of this guy's off-the-charts douche-baggery my pathetic ass will never utter that phrase again!! Ya know, since it was so top-notch to begin with!!

Here we will stop with all of the !!!! It's a pain to keep doing that.

I stop and look around, and I keep my veneer of sanity and arrogance, but I am aching inside. I can't help but think. I am a twenty six-year-old film projectionist that spends his time faking being a "poet"; yet I see myself as of a high calibre than these motherfuckers that surround me.

These people are my age, if not older, and if not, younger. They are probably all in college, or out of college. A place I never went, and never wanted to go.

I'm a film projectionist and fake "poet".

These cock-stains are probably Pre-Law or Pre-Med. Are making $50,000+ a year and drive Lexuses. Or Lexusi, whatever the pluralization would be. These people let off steam my drinking over-priced and watered-down booze and horrible music that ranges from "Nuthin but a G Thang" by Dr. Dre to "Sweet Home Alabama" by Lynyrd Skynyrd.

I'm just a gorgeous film projectionist and a fake "poet" and to me these dick-cheeses are not real.

I take a piss, and some Bro-Rapist walks in. Sees that all of the urinals are occupied "What the fuck?!!" He tries the door to the only stall and it is locked, "What the fuck?!! Haha, that seems to be the question of the night! What the fuck??!!"

A true master of language.

These "people" aren't real to me, because I don't see humanity in their eyes. As much as I see a starving for humanity. I see a want for truth and substance, but they don't know where to look.

I had two moments of purity tonight. One was simple and stupid, I did truly enjoy hearing "Gett Off" by Prince. For years I have been a huge closet-fan of Prince, and only recently have I let that spill out. "Gett off!! Twenty-three positions in a one-night stand!!" <-- Brilliance.

I looked around at these booze-balloons feigning human form and I think: why do I believe I am so much better? Although that is not what I believe. It's contradictory but not. They are no better than me because they spend their life like this; yet, I feel above them because I don't.

These "people" have been all over the world, they have been to France and have the photos and the stories to show their friends. But I have a true and sincere love French Cinema, for François Truffaut, and Jean-Pierre Melville, and Godard and Genet. They have been to Milan, and Rome, but I love Fellini and the culture that I know of. They live the life I would if I could, but can and don't.

I am a film projectionist posin' as a "poet". And these "people" are out in the world and I am home with music and the page.

They go home to more drinks, horrible breathe, whore's baths, and get balls-deep in broads they just met. I go home to music from an Icelandic band, type on the fuckin' internet and will end up balls-deep in my own hand for the millionth time watching a porn I've seen a hundred.

Now, who is the true master of language?

The second moment of beauty was watching a game of pool. Watching Joe play pool. The intensity in his yes, the simplicity of his mind. When I watch him play pool in bars, which I have seen dozens of times; I always flash back to the days of youth. In his basement doing the same thing, completely un-debauched.

Although this is the first time I have seen my best friend in a year or so, just five minutes of watching him play pool fills me with what I need to go ten more years without him.

My real friends are my humanity. They are my sanity. They don't have to impress me, nor I them. I have known Joe for almost 20 fucking years. How incredible is that?!

So much time has passed, two decades, and if you asked either one of us why were are friends; I bet neither of us would have an answer. We are friends because we have no one else. Yet, also because we want no one else.

And now we end with reality.

A limp-dick came up to us and asked if any of us smoked, which most of us did, do, and were. Yet, he needed a Newport. To which none of us could help him out.

"So you mean, I have to go spend $6 to buy her a pack of Newports?"

He asked us this as if we knew the situation he was in. But let's deduce it.

My hypothesis was that he was mackin' on some lose-cunt, and she was gonna let him smell her panties or perhaps make soup with them; and all he had to do was provide her with a Newport. Classy broad, I assume. And by "classy" please refer to the aforementioned definition.

So this shit-heel, or "ass-hat" as J-Pop would prefer, was trying to bum a Newport so he could take his beauty to bed, and pop across her chest after a good fourteen to fifteen seconds of him making love to himself through her body.

Yet, I have to give this guy some props. Not a lot o' props, but like a third of my crop o' props.

After he said "So you mean, I have to spend $6 to buy her a pack of Newports?!"

Drew replied; "I guess so."

And the guy said, "I don't like you man, you told me the truth."

As we all know, in this country the Truth is an ugly thing.

Maybe it is just me, but if a girl was gonna let me get all up in those guts for a single Newport or even if I had to spend a whole $6 for a pack, I would do my damndest to provide. That would be one hell of a story to tell to your kids.

Happy supposed-Birthday Jesus.