Here's what I'm working on for NaNo. The working title is Flinko the Clown, male prostitute: Tricks from the Trade. It's a heart warming tale about a narcoleptic Clown gigolo.

I awake to the smell of something burning. I roll over and lie there next to the coffee table and let the aroma stain my skin. Something is always on fire in this fucking town.

 

FUCK! Maybe that’s me! I quickly jump to my feet and pat myself down. Nope, I’m good.

 

The ceiling fan hums and squeaks. A stale fart lingers. I light a bent smoke. Out on the terrace I see the world and its huge gaping cunt and it looks like she’s picked up some nasty somewhere along the way.

 

I’m wearing a black bra and panties.

 

I wanted to be a brutal murder. A murky killer.

 

But I’m not. I’m no killer clown. I’m just fucking clown. Really, that’s what I do. I fuck. I get paid to fuck.

 

LA fucking sucks and especially for a clown gigolo as myself- no pun intended.  It’s just silicone breasts and reconstructed vaginas.

 

I hear her moving, stumbling over empty canisters of motor oil and beer cans. She kicks one and it comes rolling past and falls off the terrace. I lean over and watch it. I can barely hear the clink and thud as it hits just this side of the pool. A blond with tits the size of satellite dishes looks up.

 

I pull my panties down and piss and wave.

 

“Good Morning.”

 

 ***************

I return to my apartment and find two giant fist-sized holes in the drywall leading to the kitchen.  I fully expect to see a corpse lying naked on my black and white checkered titled floor as I enter the kitchen. Instead I find only a monkey handcuffed to the coffee maker- again.

 

Seeing me it begins to squeal, bashing tiny razor-sharp teeth and then halls off and flings poop at me.

 

“You little fuck.” I toss a pot at it.

 

It moves in circles, and screams like a banshee.   

 

I cover my ears as I walk over to the fridge and pull out a can of Bell’s Beer and toss it over to him. It’s the only thing he likes. We have to import the damn things from Michigan. I watch him pop the side of the can with his fangs and drink.

 

I ease over and slowly reach for the pot of coffee. I calmly pour a cup and place it back on the burner and step away.

 

The monkey has its Bells and I my coffee.

 

The world is peaceful for now.

 

I take a seat at the kitchen table and remove my right big red shoe and empty the money from an evening of love and titties. I rub my forehead and then fluff out my bald mullet.

 

An empty beer can ricochets off the back of my head.

 

“H-e-y!” I yell, wheeling around. It has reared up on its hind legs and has begun masturbating. “You sick little fuck!” I toss the empty can back at him. “You stop that.”

 

He mocks me and begins squawking again.

 

Flames lick the corner of my vision.

 

He walks in wearing a big white flowing nightgown and cold cream on his face. He lights a white filtered cigarette and then heads over to the monkey and pats him on the head and proceeds to fill a cup of coffee.

 

He says something in Italian and then scratches his nuts.

 

He turns and leans on the counter and eyes the money on the table. “That’s a lot of dough.”

 

I glanced back at it. “I do alright.”

 

“That’s a lot of fucking,” he says, taking a sip of coffee. “And the women, they pay to fuck a clown?”

 

“They sure do.”

 

I return to my seat and light a smoke and start to straighten the money and count. Behind me I hear him unlocking the monkey from the coffee pot, and there’s a happy squeak followed by tiny claws making their way across the counter. I hear him scurry down the hall.

 

“What’s his name again?”

 

“Who?”

 

“The fucking monkey.”

 

“Angelo.”

 

He takes a seat next to me and stares at the money. “You’re good, no?”

 

I smile.

 

He throws his hands up in the air and mumbles in Italian. And then pulls at the ends of his handlebar moustache. He looks odd without his red fez hat; there are black strings of hair combed over his bald head.

“Everyday I go to the streets and we play our music and Angelo dances and you, you go and fuck beautiful women.” He makes a loud whistle and then crosses himself.

 

Suddenly he claps his hands together and yells, “HEY!”

 

I jump and nearly wet myself.

 

“Angelo,” he yells. “You naughty little monkey. You stop that.”

 

I turn and spot Angelo skull fucking a large stuffed bear in the doorway.

 

“I’m gonna have to have his little balls removed. He started doing that to an old lady last Tuesday.” He looks at me and smiles. “Or perhaps, he can join your act, no?”

 

I give him the finger and remove my money from the table. I need to get this shit put away before I have another spell. The last thing I need to do is konk out with all my money lying about. I don’t trust that fuck or his little bastard friend.

 

“By the way the landlady came by today.”

 

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it.”

 

“I’ll promise next month I’ll pay double. Things are looking up. The park is full again. Lot’s of music lovers and everybody loves a monkey.”

 

“Just make sure the monkey doesn’t fuck some kid in the ear Santino.”

********************************

You try being a narcoleptic clown. See how many gigs you can get. One moment I’m making a balloon animal and the next I’m lying face down in the grass with a bunch of kids running amuck, screaming their heads off.

 

Let me tell you it ain’t good for the reference list.

 

I didn’t get into the fucking part until one night at a party. I was banging this chick and she told me to keep making a scary face. I asked her why and she said she was terrified of clowns. That was the beginning. Later she’d started calling me whenever her husband was out of town. Then she gave my number to one of her friends and pretty soon I’m boinking all these L.A. wives.

 

I’m getting more pussy than Charlie Sheen.

 

At first it was the greatest thing in the world. It was like winning the lottery. I was dicking women who would’ve never even wasted a glance on me before.

 

But now I’m just drowning in a sea of pussy.

 

I’m just a fucking clown.

 

 

I read the manuscript for The Handprint on the Windshield while sitting in the waiting room of U of M hospital as my daughter was in surgery. I needed something to focus on, something to preoccupy my worried thoughts and this is the testament of how good the book is because White's poems did exactly that - they took me away from where I was. I'm sort of a stick in the mud when it comes to poetry. I tend to lean towards contemporary descriptive poetry of say the Bukowski or Rexroth school of poetics. I would toss White in there. I find it ironic that Plath has had such an influence on him because as I was reading I felt traces of her, but nothing too obvious. I would actually say White is more of a young Billy Collins except with better hair.

Black Coffee Press is proud to be publishing this fine, young poet in March of 2010.

 

 

What is your writing process?

 

I’d say “one word at a time”, but it’s been said before (even though it’s true). Honestly, I’ll just open up a document on Word, or go to a clean page in a notebook, and I just start. I’m not really one to conjure up situations and then work around them – I tend to just let it flow naturally. Whatever is written is written. Of course I’ll go back and forth and delete and add things, but the easiest way for me is just to go for it. If something works, great. If not, then at least I got a chance to get out some energy or whatever. It’s a great therapeutic process.

 

What is the last great thing you read?

 

That’s a really tough one. Over this past summer, I read Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves. It took me the entire summer, but it was worth it. It was such an amazing experience, but I think it’s something that can really be read once. A few weeks ago, I just got done reading Michael Cunningham’s A Home at the End of the World for a class, and that was beautiful as well. But if I had to pick it out of those two, I’d have to say House of Leaves solely because it took such an effort and I was not disappointed.

 

How did your book come about?

 

A Microsoft Word document. It’s kind of frightening really. You can just open one up anytime you like and just put words on it. A little scary.

 

Kryptonite was Superman’s greatest weakness, his Achilles heel. What would you say is your greatest weakness as a writer? How do you work to overcome it?

 

I’d say plagiarism, but that’s not terribly funny (or true in the slightest bit). I’d also say college classes and Wednesday nights at the pub (where beer and house drinks are only a dollar), but again, that’s not terribly relevant. I think my greatest weakness is that I’m a perfectionist. Which isn’t a bad thing, most of the time. There’s nothing wrong with wanting your work to be perfect or at least really good. But what I mean is that I’ll work on something for days or weeks and then wind up deleting it completely. I won’t salvage anything from it – even if I like half of it. Lately I’m trying to make up for it by just keeping what I don’t like in a hidden folder on my computer. Out of sight, out of mind. I’ll come back to it later and see if I like it or can rework it then.

 

What are you working on right now?

 

I signed up for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and am working on a novel titled “Steep Drop”. Since I have all month to write 50,000 words, that’s my primary work that I’m focusing on. I might write something else in between to take a break from it, such as a poem or something. But we’ll see. I’m hoping to stick with it, because I like what I have so far.

 

Do you have a favorite place to write, read or just plain chill? Describe it.

 

The library up here on Kutztown’s campus is one of my escape places. I go there almost every night for a few hours and I try to spend the occasional afternoon there. Of course, I’m mostly doing work there, but on the times I do have to just write for myself, I do great. It’s very relaxing – I definitely need quiet. Same goes for reading. Sometimes I can do it with music, sometimes I can’t. At home, I stay in my room – it’s in the basement and I think, again, the quiet and solitude down there really helps. I don’t need too much to be able to write or read comfortably – a chair is probably the best thing you can give me.

 

What is the best song to accompany love making?

 

“Bang Bang” by Dispatch. Seriously, try it sometime. You might be pleasantly surprised.

 

What is your favorite curse word?

 

I want to say fuck, but that’s almost everyone’s favorite. Lately I’ve been a fan of bullshit. Piss was a favorite one for a while, but that’s when I was five years old and I was an immature bastard. Maybe prick. I like prick a lot. It’s between bullshit and prick. Bitch is another. Shit. I can’t decide. I’ll say prick. This’ll probably change.

 

What question should I have asked?

 

Have I ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight? And the question is no. I have two left feet and can’t really dance. Although I can slow dance like no one’s business.

 

What’s your favorite band right now?

 

This one is really tough too. Anything Ben Gibbard does (Death Cab for Cutie, The Postal Service, and any other collaboration he’s done with other artists). He’s been number one on my list for years – he’s been such a huge influence because he’s great with words and he has that ability to create powerful images. But lately, I’ve been listening to a lot of Anberlin. I’ve seen them twice in the last five months and I don’t know whether it’s the music itself or Stephen Christian’s lyrics, but they’ve been a wonderful influence too.

 

Why did you decide on the route you have taken as a writer and how has this worked out for you?

 

At first I thought I wanted to be an actor. I acted in a lot of plays in high school and wrote a few and was happy to be in that scene. But when it came time to go to college, everyone had advised me to not become a theatre major (because of the whole “living in a box and eating Raman noodles” thing). So I started college as a professional writing major and I never really got back into theater. I don’t know why – it just didn’t appeal to me anymore. I think I just wanted to do something new. I don’t think I wanted to have a career as an actor – just maybe do it on the side. But then writing came along and I focused more on poetry, short stories. I’ve had the same creative writing teacher now for two and a half years and I decided to stick with it. She inspired me quite a bit. I like doing this. I like being able to create.

 

A lot of it has to do with expression. Sometimes, it’s hard for me to say how I’m feeling or what I’m thinking. I’m getting over this, of course, but I love being able to sit down and write down my thoughts because it’s easier for me to express myself. I think it’s worked out beautifully. I love doing it. I don’t think I want to be on stage anymore in front of people. I think I would rather stay behind the scenes and work on the words. I understand myself a lot better after writing. With acting, you were constantly outside of yourself, you rarely spend time in yourself. I liked it for a while, this whole changing identity thing, but honestly, I like being myself. And writing definitely helps me find who that person is.

 

 

What’s been the big influence on your work?

 

Music, as mentioned previously. Ben Gibbard definitely. Other bands – maybe Radiohead, 65daysofstatic. I like them a lot. But it’s not all music. I don’t want to say everyday life because that’s an easy way out. Movies help a lot – I like watching foreign movies sometimes. They’re really creative and innovative and show you things that you don’t normally see. Artwork is another one – mostly photographs. I think college has helped a little bit as well – I’ve seen some things here that have made their way into some of my poems, and I think living with the same people over and over again definitely helps your personal growth.

 

Who are your favorite writers and why?

 

Danielewski, J.D. Salinger, Will Christopher Baer, Ryu Murakami, Dennis Lehane, Kazuo Ishiguro, Sylvia Plath, Bret Easton Ellis, Ian Fleming (I like reading the original James Bond novels and prefer not seeing Daniel Craig ruin the franchise). I like Danielewski because he’s very experimental. Salinger because my favorite book is The Catcher in the Rye (again, a lot of people’s favorite, but it is so damn good). Baer because his writing is so intense – it’s like watching classic film noir. Murakami because of his quirkiness and dark subject matter. Lehane because it’s detective fiction that doesn’t read like any other. Ishiguro because Never Let Me Go blew me away. Plath influences me a lot on poetry – I haven’t read a thing of hers I don’t like. Ellis, again for the dark subject matter. I’m not too big on classic authors at all – I can’t get into Hemingway, Faulkner or anybody like that. I don’t know why – I believe in that new classics can be made. The old ones are great, but I think in fifty years we’ll be reading new ones, and we just have to move on and accept that some will last longer than others.

 

Who was the first person you told when you learned Black Coffee Press wanted to publish you?

My girlfriend Jenny. I called her up practically in shock. I remember falling out of my chair as I did so. She was ecstatic. I definitely went out to the pub that night. It was that Wednesday night deal, so that made it even better.