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The wind must have blown a door shut early this morning. I was more asleep than awake so I thought it was you. Maybe you were bustling around in the kitchen looking for breakfast or rustling through the newspaper for the crossword. I remembered almost immediately that you were gone. Yesterday, I wrote your name in my journal. For the first time in almost two years it made me smile. Lauren- just the letters make me happy. The wind blew a door shut this morning. I knew it wasn't you, but I pretended it was for a little while longer.
The release comes for me when the poison is pushed through my flesh and into my veins.
Slipping into unconsciousness the nonsensical visions emerge, morph and merge together. Proteus rules my subconscious and holds sway in my "reality".
I sense the surreal in my daily activities. I dully wonder, sometimes, how I got to this point. I don't accept life- I'm not part of it. I am merely playing a character, performing a role. Sometimes I am enthusiastic about my part, sometimes I hate it. Most times I just drift along with it, uncaring as to where I'll end up.
A swimming pool glistens purely in the waning heat of the day. Weeds corrupt the concrete deck. The girl is dressed in a frilly yellow one piece bathing suit. Cheap drug store earrings glumly glitter purple. Gold settings, starting to green. Short fingernails painted blue, mostly chipped off.
"Would you like something to drink?" She asks.
"That would be fine." I hear these words from my mouth.
Her footprints follow her through the heavy sliding glass door. Toe nails painted the same blue color, less chipped. She has a little butt. Her bathing suit is caught unevenly in her crack.
dont you try to marry me off
im not listening
cover my ears and sing the national anthem just so your acid words wont corrode my brain
knitting next to me with cardboard and scissors you think youre so clever and correct
you will not marry me off to some nice girl called pamela (bitch)
I will not come to your door and introduce the bitch as my future wife
i will not marry any nice little girl with no teeth (although that has a positive side effect)
AND I WILL NOT EAT MY WORDS!!!!
New doggy be old doggy too
He like snow n he liken too other doggy
Two lil buttholes staring at me while
Limpin down da street
Scuse me ma dearest but ya put yo stream
On ma back
Please stoppin scratching it makin no diff, ya hear?
I was here! I was HERE!
Me too! ME too!
Waggy waggy we wanna snacky
Happy happy we wanna sleepy
be here jussa fo a visit
Exxy wiffy go be downa jorja to be wif exxy daddnlaw
Sa shame wend a chillen get splitten up too
Snow be fallin hevvy like
From da sky
Biguns wetums flakezees
Stickum down uheverweeeair
Lovum pilum upum kuhwhite ahigh
Even eensy weensy stickum downy
Asuv nowy Ill showyoo howy
Sipitayshun whilst still cundinsayshun
Freezylike inda sky
Skipsa phazum yooseeyeh?
Gassus to hardzees passum buyum wetzees!
Itza elleminairy ma dear dairy
Snow makum me thinka
Poler bears and pengeewins
Mussa hava sama dreama
Dae mussa dreama lika dis:
iwish iwish iwish
afish afish afish
Snow makum me thinka too
Bout da sanda clawes
How he fatty fitty downy chimnee?
How red jacky nevey derty?
He fat fatty lier.
" Itsalotlikejazz," she slurred to me in a smoky exhale.
"What is?" I queried.
"Sex," she replied offhandedly, as if she were somewhat disconnected from the idea.
Sex. I bounced the word from synapse to synapse like a beach ball at a rock concert. I knew I was disconnected from it. I don't even remember the last time I had any. Had to be a least five years ago, barring the aborted attempts with my ex. Like jazz, huh? If she means I know I like it without quite understanding it, well then….
"Yes. Sex is a lot like jazz."
I, in an attempt to soften the manic edges of a buzz gone slightly awry, made a warm jocular cup of Darjeeling and clover honey. Luxuriously inhaling the steamy aroma before I took my first soothing sip, I spied a rather odd looking creature crouching in the potato bin. This creature was green, the color of an unripe tomato, and had rather large and pointed hairy ears. It stared at me derisively from bloodshot yellow eyes with insanely small irises.
"You are such a fucking loser," it snorted at me and calmly moved off.
I became quite depressed, after that.
"Alas," Winston said cryptically to the woman with no head.
"My ass," was her rejoinder.
They continued to watch the dog sleep.
Suddenly fire ants poured angrily through the mail slot.
Luckily for Winston and No-Head,
the insects went for the dog first
rendering him inert in a very short time.
Having no time for the windows
(which were positioned too high
and much too narrow for Winston's rather portly frame)
the couple clambered up the heavy bookshelf.
"Fine time for the aardvark to be visiting family,"
she said crossly and was quite disagreeable for the remainder of the evening.
Name: Bean, or The Bean
Occupation: Being the Bean
The Bean grew up on the outskirts of a small northeastern riverfront city. Having been born a bean, literally, he tended to take a lot of abuse early in his development. The most common, and most hurtful, taunt directed at him concerned his color and shape. Specifically, his classmates would refer to him as "the Pooh" or "Turdboy." This, obviously, hurt Bean greatly and can explain, at least in part, the emotional and behavioral difficulties he suffered for the rest of his life (thus far).
Race: Stuffed Doll
Lynch was stitched in a Newark, New Jersey factory. Upon completion, he was processed, packaged, loaded on a truck and delivered to a small toy store in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania. It was in this store that James "Little Jimmie" Forrester bought him. James was large for his age and considered a bully. He bought Lynch that day specifically, and by his own admission, for torture and murder (the reader can refer to the attached police report for details). After ten months, Lynch, bearing many scars, was released from the hospital.
I had a puppy, once, that liked to drink tea and sugar while listening to Mozart. He had the most inconvenient habits of retiring too early on a Saturday and forgetting to say Grace when dining. Despite these appalling, almost unforgivable flaws, I still considered him my friend and confidante.
I remember one particular evening vividly. We were smoking cigarettes, drinking, and discussing the subtleties of international business. He was enjoying a freshly lit Benson and I was to the gills with Irish whiskey. He turned to me, with a wolfish grin, and said, simply:
"You don't walk me enough
The strange growth appeared one morning. It was swollen and bruised. I, convinced it was a pimple, spent a good two hours poking, prodding, squishing and squeezing it- praying for a whiteyellow head to pop out.
No head, however, appeared.
Therefore, I'm sorry to say, the safety pin is the only alternative.
I am well aware that there are some (liberals) that would prefer I not use a WMD. However, I am absolutely CONVINCED that this ZIT will, NO DOUBT, lead to other ZITS, BLEMISHES, and finally, HORRIBLY…to BOILS!
I ask you, ladies and gentleman, is THAT what you want?
The ball gag is bright red and jammed into my mouth. The ball gag is held tightly in place with leather straps fastened with steel buckles.
I am naked and cold in the cellar, arms fastened to the moldy pipe that runs across the ceiling a mere two inches from the top of my head. I think about kicking the bitch when she returns but eye the two electrodes clipped to my testicles warily.
I am at her mercy.
I grimace as best I can and silently pray for a massive coronary to take me.
None does, of course.
She slithered up to Geo sexy-like and soft. She reminded him of Saddam Hussein:
the determined glint in her eye, her smooth curling mustache and her protruding belly. Geo thought she was the most huggable creature this side of a teddy bear.
"How about a drink?" she hissed.
He, flabbergasted, JUST managed to stutter; "Sure…what're you having?"
"Anything with a worm at the bottom of bottle," she grinned, widely, too widely. Her head began to split. Bones snapped sickly and gobs of marrow oozed to the asbestos tiles.
"I guess you won't be needing that drink now," Geo said, sadly.
I ambled along the foamy beach past midnight
On a slow salty evening.
Wishing for the many colored essences of cinnamon buns, thick with cream,
And steamy hot.
When, without warning, I happened upon a wretched, washed up creature of Earth. It was long dead, as any man would attest, and yet it SPOKE to me with such intensity that… that…I'm sorry there are no adequate words to explain…
Let us pray:
sing to me
sing to me of
let me know, finally,
which is worse;
the mindless journey, or
the inevitable sandy destination?
Scene from a 21st Century American Orgy
Have you seen my towel?
I don't think so. Where do you last remember seeing it?
NEE: By the greased midgets. It's not there now.
WEG: What color is it?
NEE: White, but so are all the others. My towel wasn't sticky…well not when I last had it.
WEG: Fine. I'll keep my eyes peeled for a white, non-sticky towel last seen next to the oily midgets. Owner: one erect eunuch.
NEE: I'd appreciate that.
He knew, however, that women who ate grapes at orgies were NOT to be trusted.
Dubya, in military regalia, was pacing the marble floor. "Unicorn," he thought and was suddenly interrupted.
"Sorry, Grand Leader," General Cheney saluted, "But I've news."
Bush arched an eyebrow.
"Grand Leader, we have captured Hussein!"
A sinister smile slowly slithered across Bush's face.
"Perfect," he murmured, "Strip him! Bend him over! I‘ll fuck him silly tonight!"
"Dick… you ever danced with someone for over a decade? Of course you haven't. Saddam and the USA have long made passionate Business. Hell, Hussein made Daddy's presidency seem relevant! He's doing the same for me. Now bend him over!"
"Where's that last vial of Jesus Christ?" I asked her in milky slow motion.
She looked at me with a candied gleam in her eyes.
"The fridge," she responded finally, "back behind the left-over meatloaf."
I should have remembered. But that's what happens these days:
• memories shift chronologically
• memories sometimes disappear completely
• memories may have been wholly imagined
Sunlight danced through the kitchen window, temporarily blinding me.
I think its Thursday.
I wander back to the girl who's sitting placidly on the oversized sofa.
She laughs, languidly.
"So where's that last vial of Jesus?" She asks, amused.
From the Desk of the President
I religiously stroke my image another day.
Sometimes I stroke it gently, softly.
Sometimes I pound at it, staccato rapid fire machine gun.
But always it is with the same practiced dexterous fingers that I deliver my hot (and frequently sticky) load
Try to swallow every drop of this.
Try to swallow the fount of wisdom that spurts from my Blessed Head.
Consider it another baptism,
if you will,
the new Eucharist,
if you must
the blood of Christ,
if it makes you happy,
The first green Buddha sat silently by the Malaysian sedan and stared dreamily at the tuskless elephant.
The second, lounging underneath a tree made of Citron, contemplated a large sleeping trilobite.
The Witch Doctor, counting his money intently, wandered by.
A gigantic Beagle lowered its head through the canopy and smiled enigmatically.
The first Buddha returned the heavenly dog's smile. The second drifted into the deepest of trances. The Witch Doctor, oblivious, continued counting.
I stood alone and regarded all with a quizzical eye. Despite my education and philosophical mindset, I couldn't fathom any good reason for a tuskless elephant.
Soulful soup is, apparently, Chicken.
However this begs certain questions. Specifically:
What standards were employed?
What of Beef Vegetable and Tomato?
The above two examples are worthy of, at least, serious consideration. I've had Beef Vegetable that has satisfied me more than any Chicken. Admittedly Chicken seems to have some curative properties for those suffering from colds. However, the metaphor breaks down in reference to the SOUL. My soul has never had a cold. Or influenza, bronchitis, pneumonia, etc. Therefore, Chicken soup couldn't benefit my soul, metaphorically or otherwise.
I, for one, find this mono-soup-istic view quite subjective.
Saladin danced a jig to the fragmented notes of the Christian invasion. He declared; "Today‘s a day of celebration! The Frankish Fellows have arrived to free the Holy Land and aid their oppressed brethren! Every Turk shake your moneymaker and praise Allah!"
The Frankish Fellows did not know quite how to interpret this remark. They questioned every man in their ranks, hoping that one may have the slightest understanding of Saladin's comments. All Franks, however, were clueless.
Not trusting the Wicked Turks, the Frankish Fellows unsheathed their weapons and commenced slaughtering.
The Crusades; Jihad; the War on Terrorism…same fucking thing.
Al-Thawra called it,
"Little Bush's Mad Campaign."
Wish I would have thought of that.
Predator, flying in the ‘no-fly zone' and spying
Looking for WMDs,
Downed by forces that don't recognize ‘no-fly'.
Israel occupies Bethlehem (again),
While the Tayush piss in the sea.
It's time for decisive American unilateral ACTION;
A thick pouring of Capitalist Concrete over the whole Middle East.
Welcome to the
of the Gaza Strip Mall!
Give the terrorists a taste of
The freedom of the full belly, 10,000 pleasant distractions,
Billboards, neon, bars on every corner!
When evil fights evil, evil wins.
They spray paint their memorials on the brick sides of buildings and under concrete overpasses.
They affix latex words of remembrance on the rear windows of their tricked-out automobiles.
Years later, after many more Images in Chalk drawn twisted on the city sidewalks and streets,
They spray paint new memorials on the brick sides of buildings.
They affix new words of remembrance on the windows of their automobiles.
As I toss razors into the bathroom garbage can, the police and the people scrawl.
I throw away yet another razor.
Crinkled squeaky leathery
Little old men lined up in a row
Each naked pale hairy
(not to mention saggy)
in synchronicity they
shaking cold chalky asses like
Charo on crack.
They tip their top hats to the popular tunes of yesteryear,
Swing their wooden canes in chorus as if controlled by strings.
Each old man, each and every one, is smiling a dentured smile of ecstasy and
Breathing a green mist of prunes and apple sauce.
I must admit ,
This is an image
That I find quite agreeable
If truth be told,
Baby monkey, baby monkey!
The brown haired angel swung under me,
Arms around my neck,
Legs around my hips, brown eyes shining.
She smiled and smiled into my smiling face,
I knew that she loved me.
She laughed (little bells)
I remember when I chased her to her mother's door,
In the winter,
She giggled and giggled.
Slowed a bit,
For me to catch her.
I scooped her up,
Her red mittens just missed the door handle.
Laughter reached a crescendo.
She let me
For the last time.
Lolly was relieved to be tied naked to the rough wooden cross. The rope was made of hemp. It was abrasive, but strong. It would certainly hold her weight, but wouldn‚t have to.
The three nails were made of iron and were the approximate length of her hand. These would be hammered through the flesh of her wrists and her feet. Her feet would only need one nail - the right was positioned directly over the left.
As the rusty nails were driven in, Lolly felt the feverish Surge of HOLY REDEMPTION.
died for her OWN sins.
"DRINKS?" growled Bartender.
"Whisky," replied Bean.
"And you?" Bartender sneered.
"Carrot juice," Lynch stammered.
"DON'T GOT THAT!"
"Milk then, please."
Bartender snorted, left.
Bean glared at Lynch. "You a fag?'
"Fag?" Lynch asked.
"Butt-bandit, fudgepacker, HOMOSEXUAL."
"Oh," replied Lynch. "Impossible. I'm not anatomically correct."
"Wha?!" exclaimed Bean, "got no dick?"
"Correct," said Lynch, "Neither do you, BeanBoy."
"Yeah, but I can climb into dirt and make thousands of Beans. Ain't some fuckless ragdoll like you."
The bartender returned with the drinks.
Lynch sipping said, "So basically you fuck dirt.'
"Yeah," he agreed,
"I basically fuck dirt."
Primates of the world:
Follow the wounded guru
Through hypocritical fascinations
And over fanciful manifestations.
For the recreation of the banded armadillo
And the sublimation of the junior potato.
Dream of square skillet meditations
And practice killing medications.
all the willful monkey races
furiously feeding their fetid faces
and laughing insanely over
the marrowless bones
of forgotten forest graces.
I'm as happy as a chimpanzee watching the banana channel,
As content as the naked ape wearing bedroom flannel,
We all believe, every one, in the propaganda
and the platitudes
of the pathetic
Words to a Vegetarian.
I am quite convinced
That cows would call it vicious murder
To ingest a double burger,
And that hens would moan and beg
To save even a single egg.
The point is not too fine:
Where does one draw the line?
For berries would think it brutal,
To eat a cherry strudel,
And whole wheat would feel it's gross,
To make ANYTHING with toast.
So do without, if you must,
(I'm quite sure you think you're just),
In the end Life has merely one mandate,
Make sure to keep one's own flesh off the plate.
The Tip Jar