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A book of short stories and non-fiction/essays

By Zachariah Bennet Douglas


Copyright 2015 Zachariah Bennet Douglas

Contact: [email protected]


Shakespir Edition


Short Stories

Harping Mantle

Garbled Horse Poopy[
**]My Parrot Doxical

What the Vagabond Told Me

Valley of the One-sided Conversation

Similar and Unalike

The Music Story

Quicker When Slippery

Using The English Language Correctly

Green Ketchup Labels

Reckless Insensitive

Immature Ineffectual

Air Freshener in the Third Eye

The Opposite Side Presides

No Dancing Alligators

Hiding in the Bush



Another Success Story


Non-fiction & Essays

Cultural Necessitude

On Cynicism

An Odd Occurrence is Life

My Genius is Bigger than Yours!



Back in my early twenties, I spent a lot of time going from coffeehouses to coney islands drinking too much coffee and writing. Much of what I wrote was destroyed in an act of artistic purging that I think of as a forgetting. What remained was a handful of stories, essays, and journal entries on some CDRs. This book is the collection of those writings.


I didn’t have much respect for formal writing back then. My mindset was that I was an artist and I wanted to write abstractly and fuck you if you didn’t like it. Some of what follows is gross, confusing, baroque,abstruse, and offensive. I wanted it to be that way. What I figured was that if I started out writing the weirdest stuff in the weirdest way I could muster, then even if my talent developed into something more scholastically and intellectually respectable…it would never be too standard because I had started out doing something odd.


The tough part is that back when I was writing this stuff, people didn’t appreciate it or get it. Looking back, I can’t blame them but it did fuel me in both good and bad ways. What I did was unusual so it scared off anyone that wanted to read normal shit but it wasn’t weird enough to really impress the weirdest of people. So, I found myself writing crazier and crazier. Back when I was writing this, I didn’t really have a clue how to write. I had a natural inclination to do so and an arrogantly rebellious attitude when it came to learning non-autodidactically.


Some of these writings are at least a decade old. They all fit together, tho. As I was collecting the stories for this book, I nixed a few findings because they weren’t old enough. This collection is a glimpse into who I was. It’s both indicative and not indicative of my other books and future books. The only way I can think to explain it is like how a band can get together and make a bunch of songs before they really develop a sound all their own. Some bands release a cd of those misguided, shot-in-the-dark kinda songs. This book is like those recordings.


Short Stories


Harping Mantle
At 2am, I’m used to a reasonable silence. A warm bed. The glow of a television keeping my brain active…until the tv automatically shuts off. Then it’s off to the deep sleep that never feels like enough.


Who’s complaining?


The last few nights, I’ve been fucking off. I bought a clown costume. I buy a bunch of frozen slush drinks. Put on the costume. Paint my face. Then I go to random businesses and hurl a cup at windows. (Splat!) I mean, round here…there are places to go…it’s not the country…there are only so many movie nights one can stomach. Going to the same department store gets boring. When I sit around, I get this wave of anxiety. I am capable of doing so much but doing so little…

So I terrorize innocent people.

I don’t hurt anyone. There’s just something about the mess that shit makes. The best is doing it inside. Outside, the shithead teenager behind the counter can half-ass the cleaning job. Let the rain wash it away. Inside, they’ve got to scrub that muck out. Sugar gets real sticky. Most people see a clown holding a large plastic cup and assume only the best. Kids want to hug me and get their photos taken. Fuck no! Shout inconsistencies at the ceiling then hurl a drink at the wall laughing. Pointing at the pimply faced clerk. What are they going to do? Call the cops? “Yeah, uh. Some guy in a clown suit threw a frozen slush drink at the wall.” Cops don’t give a shit. It’s not like I planned on doing it for a long time. A few nights. A few cities. I should have videotaped it.

Anything to keep me in a positive mindframe.

So, I was dressed as a clown, leaving Macomb County when this woman flags me down. Cute little thing. Brunette. Greenish-bluish eyes. Articulate…manic. Face white as super-Goth. Winded. She asked for help. Apparently, there was this gigantic bird with fangs chasing after her. I pictured some genetic experiment gone awry…a huge sparrow with guns and rabies. She let herself in my car.

I offered to drive her home. She declined. The bird had taken her friend captive. (Shit!) Time to play hero…in a clown costume. I took off my nose. I agreed to help as long as she calmed her hysterics. Can’t stand incoherent ramblings of sentence fragments. See, I’m bored. Either sit at home eating popcorn or help my new friend.


I pull the car over and grab a jack-handle from my trunk. Back in the car, she started batting her eyes behind her glasses. It’s one of those situations where if I succeed in slaughtering the bird and saving her friend..she’ll date me. I’ve seen it in a billion movies. Really, chicks like her don’t date guys like me. These days you gotta be some wealthy nominalist to land a chick…or save her from some imminent doom. Doom can be physical danger or her going back to an abusive, idiotic boyfriend or chronic loneliness. It’s like my clowning around in that it’s better than isolation. It’s better than death. It’s better than my psychotic ex-girlfriends.

Essentially, it comes down to getting the chance to be around her.


We drive to the edge of the forest. She gets out first and orders me to follow. Sticks. Brush. Branches. Rocks. Trunks and leaves. Then I see it. Indeed, it is a gigantic bird with fangs. It’s got her friend in one of its talons…dragging her. Squawking at nothing. Probably conjuring demons in a bird language untranslatable…save for that one kid that rides on the back of a bike that translates bird dialect. Where that dude is, I’ve not the slightest. I could make a few calls, but I’ve gotta think on my toes.


I run at the bird.

It blows a gum bubble.

I beat the bird about the head with my weapon until its brains are mushy puddles. It goes limp and relinquishes its grip upon her friend. She runs to her friend like a marathon runner and I can’t help but be transfixed by her presence. She crouches down and I fall backward over the bird’s neck. Twist my ankle. I don’t tell her.

Gotta be a man.

I laugh it off instead.


I look down and the bird is shrinking. Maybe it just had a gas bubble. A regular bird grown out of control because of indigestion. That’d be something. Her friend is unconscious so I carry her to my car. Place her in the backseat. She orders me to drive to her cottage. It’s not far. She kissed me on the lips and told me that something unto myself awaits in context to later on. I get it. Or do I? Her name is Meirsh.


Meirsh lives a few miles east. Thing is, right when I started my engine, it started to rain horribly. Torrential downpour. I don’t see all that well in the dark. With the rain, I couldn’t see but one white-lane-divider-line ahead of me. The road looked like a glossy black sheet of glass. (Does glass come in sheets? Cake does.) It’s that type of rain where people pull off the road on the expressway because 55mph is far too dangerous.


Keep cool.


Tyrana, Meirsh’s friend, is still unconscious and I’m getting worried. I don’t know Meirsh that well. She could be some midwife/witchdoctor. She could be a nurse. I’m sure Tyrana passed out due to shock. I figure going thru a forest on a leisurely walk…then getting attacked by a monster bird….that would freak me out. What if the bird was venomous? I dunno.


Turn left, turn left. Turn right. This way, that way. Meirsh has really nice legs. I want to bite them. Don’t know why I’m thinking everso perverse, but she did kiss me. I’m just pointing it out.


So, we arrive safely at her cottage in the woods. No neighbors. No roommates. Just her opening up the door and me carrying Tyrana. Put her on the bed.

Meirsh: Let her sleep.

Me: Okay.
Meirsh: Wanna game?
Me: Sure.


We play video games all thru the night. Me, still in my clown costume…now clown hero/bird slayer yet I left my jack handle in the forest. Or did I grab it? I’m unsure. I think that Meirsh gets off on clowns. I watched a special on television about it. Women make their boyfriends/husbands role play. They are lost at a carnival and the clown helps her find her way and gives her an extra special something to remember him by. It was quite perverse…my brother made me watch it with him. Maybe subconsciously I started doing the clown terrorist in hopes of some bizarre repressed sexual fantasy, but I don’t

think so.


Tyrana comes out of the bedroom and kisses me on the lips.


Tyrana: You must be the hero from my misinterpretation of reality due to my trauma.

Me: Uh-huh.
Tyrana: I’m a ghost.
Me: I figured. Now you 2 are going to kill me to utilize my body for your own.
Meirsh: Yup.
Me: That sucks.
Meirsh: Remember that crazy bird?
Tyrana: That was an animatronic robot we made.
Meirsh: I made.
Tyrana: Because I’m currently awaiting a body.
Me: Oh.
Tyrana: Oh what?
Me: Oh shit!


The roof caved in. No one was hurt, but thousands of boll weevils swarmed Meirsh and I…attacking our weenises. I jumped up screaming like a teenage girl walking in on her mother fucking a clown. I ran out the house to escape the roly-polies and my doom of becoming a vessel for some weird lesbian cult. I ran. I ran. I lost a shoe in a mud puddle. Cutting thru the trees, I saw another large bird just like the other one sans the fangs. It introduced itself as The Bird Queen.


Bird Queen: Harping! You need to defeat the witch named Meirsh. As ruler of all bird-kind, I understand wholly the need for her death.

Me: Do you think I make a decent clown?
Bird Queen: No.
Me: Fucken darn!
Bird Queen: Don’t beat yourself up over it. You’ve got a ton of great qualities. You’ll find your purpose.
Me: I really like Meirsh. She makes me feel odd…in a good way.
Bird Queen: ..good whey?
Me: No. Good way.
Bird Queen: Oh. That makes more sense. Where was I?
Me: I gotta kill the witch.
Bird Queen: Yes. Do that.
Me: How doth I killeth the witch?
Bird Queen: Use this..


I used the object she gave me to kill Meirsh and upon her death, Tyrana disappeared. All was well for exactly 3.7 days.


Sitting at my place doing nothing, I head a knocking at my door. It was The Bird Queen.


Bird Queen: Guess what!!


Before I had the chance to reply, it turned into Meirsh. She stabbed me and now I’m Tyrana. The ceremony was actually almost as beautiful as Meirsh. Candles. Soothing music. Next to the excruciating pain and exsanguinations, I enjoyed dying out of my body. Inside another. It feels like I’m exploring my circulatory system. It moves fast and I puke inside my body often.


Tyrana had herself castrated and given a vagina so that her and Meirsh could do gross lesbian things and it’s almost like that movie I watched once but she shit me out. I am shit. Perhaps I always was. Tyrana didn’t flush because she’s a cunt with big fake tits and I hate her guts. Their dog ate me. I went from being shit to being food as shit only to be shit out once again. Shit eating dog ate me again. Gross huh? Stupid huh?


I’ve been traveling around without any kind of solid (or mushy) body and I really think I’d have made a great clown. I’m an entertainer. Alas, I’ve now to find purpose as something nothing a bit more than nonexistent. And of all the millions of things on my mind, I just wanna be a fucken clown. Ha, ha, ha. Everything is funny.



I materialized in a science lab of a high school and made a time copier. I copied my life so far and went back and told my old self not to fuck around with Meirsh…and, I kept driving. I had to explain to myself what I did. See, to alter my existence (uncopied) would render it all fucked. I’d never…if I’d have changed my…anyway, it took forever and it was almost like that one movie based off that one book with more and less science talk..boring stuff.

I live in an alternate existence. Call it Dimension Able if you want. It’s better here. Slower. I have my old body and there is only a small chance that Meirsh and Tyrana can find me. But for them to choose the correct dimension out of all the possible dimensions…it’s a very minute chance.


So, I’m sitting around my apartment when the phone rings. The voice on the other end tells me that I won a vacuum cleaner. Great! I fucking need a vacuum cleaner. It’s almost as if there is an all knowing existence that caters luck to my liking; filling my life with positivity and warmth. Kindness and hope. I mean, for once, there seems to be reason. I love my alternate life. The voice tells me to go to the local electronics store and ask for Merk. (What an odd name!)


I get on my tandem bicycle alone and ride up to the store. The sun is bright and I’m glad that this dimension has a red sun instead of yellow. It just looks cooler. Not that I’m an environmental shallowist like some assholes I’ve met. Cunts I’ve met. I didn’t create the dimension, but if I did, I wouldn’t know.


At the store, I chain my bike to a stop sign. In the store, I go to the customer service desk and ask for Merk. Following the directions of the cashier, I hopped one legged toward the refrigerators, opened the only silver one and climbed inside.




I heard some noise. Sounded like a chain was being wrapped around the refrigerator (probably my bike chain leaving my transportation susceptible to thieves) and then the snap of a padlock. Avant-garde Jazz music. I need to crap and then I feel a thud. Am I being carted around on a handcart? I…there’s no way to tell. I fall asleep.


When I wake up, I’m back in Meirsh’s cottage and Tyrana’s ghost is sitting next to me playing video games.


Meirsh: I can’t believe you fell for it. Merk? You are fucking stupid.

Me: I am not dumb!?
Meirsh: Dumb is spelled with a B.
Me: I did use a B.
Meirsh: Fuck..let’s get married.
Me: Alright.
Tyrana: I prefer not existing in a body.
Me: I was inside of you.
Meirsh: Clown.


Tyrana married us. The boll weevils were our witnesses and I realized that there is no magical force designing things to my advantage or disadvantage. See…I’ve tried to escape from the clutches of Meirsh, but I’m pretty much at her disposal. We don’t talk because of lack of commonalities or interests or whatever…but she lets me stare at her and forces me to consummate our relationship. Tension and release. I don’t plot a getaway.


I still want to be a clown. I asked some actual clowns if I could join them, but they laughed at me. I thought of being a clown for parties, but I’ve no experience. Every morning I paint my face like American women…not the same colors, but as frequently. I’ll hide behind my makeup like American women. (That is what I meant.) Perhaps if I just portray a clown, I will be a clown. I don’t vandalize with slush anymore. In a moment of reverie, I thought of throwing poo. Like a monkey, but I’d wear latex gloves. Then I thought about when I was shit (twice) and I realized that all shit may have feelings like cows, lettuce and rocks. So, I don’t throw shit. It’d be funny though.


Meirsh thinks that gross things aren’t funny. (Paints me immature.) She tells me that my sexualized sense of humor is gross; which means I’m immature again. She won’t admit it, but she’s in that lesbian cult with Tyrana and some other gay women. I’m not invited. Excluded and that’s okay. I can’t hold it against her. I just drink loads of coffee and sit around dressed like a clown. As much as Meirsh dictates my life, she prefers me as a clown.


I wonder if her pressuring me to be her clown is keeping me immature. I mean, I look in the mirror and see a boldly painted representation of my face. I perfect my visage daily to portray the person I think I am but am not. Society will never accept me because as me because I’d rather be hidden. I can’t stop everyone from preferring makeup. The locals don’t say anything…to my painted face. It’s not about being ugly. I’ve got great self-esteem.


My purpose must be to serve Meirsh’s purpose. I just realized that I am her clown. I don’t have a job. She pays for it all. She buys me food and new costumes. Make-up. Popcorn. (Not that popcorn ain’t food, I just like popcorn.) My dream has come true. A professional clown for an audience of 1 and a ghost that doesn’t laugh. Is it about making someone laugh? I don’t think so.


Meirsh sustains my life and the only thing I do is be myself…a clown.




Garbled Horse Poopy[
**]Family is wonderful.
Sometimes it sucks, but more than ½ the time, it’s quite the experience. Unless they are religiously delirious psychopaths that insist that A: demons exist and B: you are possessed. My family is more skeptical than anything. Yet, instead of persecution, I get coerced into obligations. This weekend, instead of being lazy, I get to drive my youngest brother to Ohio. Then, I have to drive back to Michigan to drive my other brother to Florida.

Granted, all expenses are paid and I have nothing to do anyway…I agreed to help them out. The nice part is that I don’t have to drive back. I get to take a plane on Sunday night so I can make it to class on Monday morning. Ray, the brother that’s moving to Florida, is the worst highway driver ever. For whatever reason, he cannot handle driving over 40mph. He even avoids roads like Telegraph where the speed limit is 45. He’s a weird character.


Sam, on the other hand, can’t drive at all. Normally, my folks just strap him to the roof of their car. He was born without limbs. In Ohio, there is a specialist that may be able to grow him some limbs (thank you stem cell research!), so I have to follow my parents’ car all the way to Cleveland because my father refuses to travel without his bazooka. ( I know, this hardly makes sense.) He can’t keep it in his car because the hospital checks all incoming vehicles. So, I have to drive all the way down there just to drive my father’s sacred bazooka back to Wayne County. I agreed to take Sam with me so he didn’t have to be strapped to the roof…eventho he loves it.


Time passes. I’m stuck in the mind frame of “I have to drive all weekend” and Sam babbles off at the mouth. He’s a funny guy. Kinda retarded tho. It isn’t a birth defect. My Uncle Joe was an alcoholic…he kicked Sam in the head a few times, laughed about it, and then blew his brains out in front of me. (Drunks!)


But, like I said, Sam is funny. I love him. Whatever.


After a few hours of driving, my mother calls my phone.


Mom: We’re gonna stop at the next restaurant. I want pancakes.

Me: Cool. Okay, Mom.


That was the extent of the conversation. See, Mom developed this weird addiction after Sam was born. A limbless baby caused her mind to freak. She decided to stay high for the rest of her life. (This is why I don’t smoke pot.) She’s spent most of the last 22 years stoned, coming down, or sleeping. I mean: She’s kind, but she’s loopy. She gets a craving and neurotically goes with it. It’s as if she’s manic and subdued simultaneously and constantly.


We stop at a huge blue restaurant. I park in the back corner of the lot, my parents park near the highway. I grab Sam and carry him into the eatery…all the while, he’s whispering to me that a waitress is going to fall in love with my penis, despite the fact that it’s so small. He just goes on and on about it until I’m in tears from the laughter when I walk in.


Mom eats her pancakes. Dad feeds Sam. I have a coffee. They eat really fast. They always do. Within 10 minutes of getting the food, they’re done and getting ready to walk out the door. Me, on the other hand, I’m glued to the tv. Sports scores…I’m such a sports nerd. I tell my parents to take Sam. We’re only an hour away and he needs the fresh air only a roof-ride will bring. Mom tells me to take the Swahlwarth exit. I’ll be able to see the hospital from there. We’ll exchange the bazooka behind the strip mall across the street from the hospital.




They leave. Maybe I just wanted a few minutes of personal time. Looking forward to driving Ray has me depleted. I don’t like to spend that much time with anyone (unless we’re fucking!). I relax, drink a few cups of coffee, grab a candy bar to go and head back to my shitty blue car. I open my trunk and grab my camera. I take some photos of the scenery and of the restaurant. I put the camera away and fumble thru my cds. I find the one I’m looking for and get on my way.


About 20 minutes down the road, there is a blockade. Everyone is ordered to get out of their car and walk 2 miles to where the cars will be airlifted to. Apparently, some evil genius stole the highway and all that’s left is the sidewalks and local businesses. (Only in Ohio!!) So, I get out the car and start hoofin it. The sidewalk is sectioned off into this direction and that direction with caution tape. Some people are complaining while others are really enjoying it. Why? About 5/8 mile down the sidewalk there is a festival going on. Carnival rides and games. A cover band playing in one of those semi-trailer-stage thingeys. Food.


I try to call my mom, but I’m getting no reception. So I walk. There are all kinds of shops and whatnot. I peruse the music store. I peruse the magazine store. I buy a diet cola at a pharmacy. I pass a shady looking bar.


I’m minding my own business trying to get to my car when I see this extremely attractive woman. Short, curly red hair, anorexic lookin. (Just my type.) When I look at her, I hallucinate slightly. The visual landscape kinda wavers and pulsates. I rub my eyes and take the hint. I say hi. She says hi. A conversation ensues. I tell her I’m looking for my family. She says she’s a local…this happens every year. The town throws a festival and someone (no one knows who) steals the road. The town profits and by Monday morning, the road is back.


She winks at me.


Ends up that she agrees to look for my family with me. Long story short, we find them eating at a bbq. Dad tells me that he’ll just park elsewhere, so I can leave without bringing the bazooka home. He gave me the fatherly Fuck her good, Son look. I said farewell and took off with Abby.


We did some shit. Talked and talked. I told her I had to leave by the evening so I could take Ray to Florida. She said we should catch a flick at the local theater. She gets in free so that’s a bonus. We watch a free movie…comedy. Slightly funny. It was nice to sit in silence with her. Really, since I’m a jock, I ain’t got much to say anyway. The movie ends. We’re walking toward the exit when she pulls me into the wall and starts hardcore making out with me. It was fucken sweet.


She took me below, into the basement. I’m not gonna say we had sex, but we had sex! I was awesome, I guess. She didn’t seem unfulfilled. Usually, I suck…because I’m a sports nerd and it’s well known that we work out so that our muscles attract the ladies because we have tiny, inadequate wieners.



We leave the theater and not 5 steps out of the fucker, a mime starts miming up our lives. I’m thinking “What a dick!” but Abby seems to enjoy it so I don’t say shit. The mime slaps her and takes her false teeth. (Did I mention that she was 71?) The mime runs away. Abby mumble-screams and I chase after the mime. He grows wings and flies into the woods.



That’s the word I screamed. Abby complained about her hip. I thought about limbless Sam strapped to the roof of my Dad’s car getting shit on by a buzzard while a bazooka lay in the trunk. And, my Mom is stoned…I end up carrying Abbs into the woods to find the mime.


We fall into a time warp. While we’re spinning out of time, my brother calls me.


Randy: Hey, where are you?

Me: Um…not where you are.

Randy: I fucken knew you’d do this! You’re such an ass-bastard!

Me: It wasn’t my fault. It was…

Randy: Old Abby? Yeah, I know. Mom told me all about her. You’re sick.

Me: I am nauseated.

Randy: Either way, I got a circus bear to drive me in a clown car.

Me: Nice.

Randy: I kno. At least this way I can poke smot on the way down.

Me: I’ll make it up to you. Gotta go.


I hang up and continued to fall thru time. Abby is vomiting but, luckily, it’s not hitting me.


We stop. We’re surrounded by a half dozen people in cloaks reading a short story. No one is laughing. Most are smugly criticizing the story. Others are talking about carpentry and the importance of balustrades.


Some-when else, my brother is getting stoned with a bear.


From the East comes the mime with another mime friend that looks like that dude from that one movie about the tv and whatnot…at any rate, the mime silently challenges Abby to a fight. She takes off her long gold necklace (that looked great draped across her emaciated chest) and starts fighting the mime in the most violently grotesque way imaginable.


Blood splatters. The 6 cloaked critics watch in awe. I look at the mime-friend and tacitly let him know that I don’t want to fight. He lets me know he concurs.

(My limbless brother strapped to a car.)


Abby and the mime fight and fight. I didn’t know she could be so virile! I want her more and more with each passing moment. All the sudden, mime-friend attacks me with a chainsaw. I pivot. He shifts. I spin and he brings the saw down on my left forearm. Whirrr! I duck away and try to roundhouse kick him but slip on a banana peel. I eat the ground and the critics finally laugh. Abby lunges at her mime-foe and grunts the word ‘imagination’.


The chainsaw digs into my leg. At this point I realize that the chainsaw slicing mime is just out to wound me, not kill me. I PAUSE. Everything stops and I rejuvenate with a Berry-Box I picked up earlier. Most of my cuts heal but I’m still a lousy douche of a jock, so I un-PAUSE and get chainsaw’d in 2. My halves transmogrify into 2 half-sized me’s and I PAUSE again. I drink some diet soda and un-PAUSE. I use a rabbit to bludgeon my mime-foe to death. I use the chainsaw to defeat the other mime and Abby fucks me on the corpses. Their blood lubricated her old, decaying, dry vagina and I climaxed real quickly.



Abby looked disappointed, so I slapped the bitch. She banished me to the inside of a toothpaste container, but the other me (who was hiding…Abby didn’t even realize I was half-sized because her teeth were missing…and, everyone knows how old people get when their teeth aren’t in…anyway…) …my other half released me from my minty prison and we all sat down and made sense of things.


Abby and I made up.


My other self joined forces with the 6 cloaked critics. He explained the point of the short story to the original 6 and they all went ‘Oh!’ simultaneously.


Days passed. Abby and I moved into a cave and I gave her massages as often as she wanted…which was almost constantly. (Almost.) My mother called inquiring when I was coming back around. I told her that I didn’t know ‘when’ I was. She laughed, but I could tell she didn’t get it. She never does. I mean: Randy doesn’t understand my fascination with older women, but I’m attracted to them because Mom is basically absent. I need that motherly attention somehow…and why not from someone older than my deceased grandmother?


Besides…how am I to explain my new size? I can’t handle the ridicule as is. My father and Sam constantly make fun of me for being a jock. Like most sports enthusiasts, I cry myself to sleep every night. I know I’m a douche bag that exploits big tittied models because of my sexual inadequacies. But, I’m tall and muscular so society thinks I’m quintessential and awesome.


A long time passes and I convince Abagail to come back to regular time with me. The time warp back almost killed her. She still doesn’t have any teeth, but I’ve learned to understand her. Mostly what she says is ‘rub me’ or ‘fuck me’. (And I do.) We spent a holiday with my family. (The one with the tree…what’s it called?..) Mom convinces Abbs to burn one with her and it kills her.


My love is dead.

(They didn’t even mention my height.)

There was no funeral. We just kicked her corpse into a wood chipper and danced in her remains as they showered the Earth. It was what Abby would have wanted.


The next morning, I wake up in my parents’ basement and my hand is swollen. The other me is there in a cloak with a short story he says I must read. I ask him why I have a swollen hand. He goes upstairs, grabs Sam, brings him downstairs, and Sam tells me that I was whacking off and my hand slipped off my tiny-jock wiener and hit the wall. I had passed out from the conflicting pleasure of the orgasm (which still adorns the wall) and the intense pain from breaking my hand.


I go to the hospital. I get a sweet cast and all sorts of sympathy from the slutty nurse staff that all want me cuz I’m built. When I had a while, I read the short story. (It took a while because all jocks are essentially illiterate.)


I didn’t get the story. It wasn’t funny, sad, or anything. It was really, really lame. Whatever idiot that wrote it must be a real big idiot not worth talking to. But ya know those writer types…nothing is taboo or special or sacred. If I ever meet her, I’ll punch her face for making 2 hours of my life suck.


Fucken-a. I wish there was a game on.



[My Parrot Doxical
**]Narrow minded fucker that I am, I ate a bunch of caffeine pills and stayed up all night drinking coffee. What they don’t put on the bottle is that while on speed, you embellish everything. All of it. Engorged in all. It’s like swallowing a cup of coffee. Even consciously trying to sip it like a regular individual is hard. The first cup goes down like the first beer: quick and easy. It all adds up and adds up. Quicker and quicker it goes. The groggiest mood goes away. Instead of overanalyzing most things, you just analyze absolutely everything. Music seems neater. Not stoned, just homogeneously manic…less than crazed.

The only hard thing to do is nothing. Yet, reveries always come and go.

So. I had been up for like 30 hours or whatever. I was walking around Downtown sipping some corporate coffee…eyes wide, I was approached by this dirty looking guy. He held out a caged bird.

Stranger: Hey. Nice day isn’t it?
Me: I suppose.
Stranger: Do you want this bird? I just lost my job and got nowhere to keep it.
Me: Does it talk?
Stranger: It knows a few words. Check it: Say ‘hello’ Doxickal.
Doxickal: Hello!
Stranger: Say: Chickenshit.
Doxickal: Chickenshit!
Stranger: Basically, if you repeat a word over and over to him, he’ll mimic it. So, do you want him?
Me: Fuck yes, I want a talking bird!

The stranger gave it to me. I walked to my car with this caged bird and ended up crashing at my home. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Wake up at 9:17pm with Doxickal screeching in this ear piercing tone that only a beagle could beat.

Me: What?
Me: Um. No. That makes no sense. Shut the fuck up.
Doxickal: Chickenshit!

I really shouldn’t trust the impulsive me. I always get ahead of myself. I start to assume everything I can. Strangers become best friends. A protasis becomes a complete thought. The end is so fucken far from the beginning.


I killed Doxickal. I didn’t even realize I did it. Sometimes, I just shut off. I mean: Animals aren’t humans. We all know this. We euthanize animals all the time. Either I kill it or I pay some vet to do it. I really don’t care.

Yet, I’ve got ‘tacit tracking’ on my mind. I looked up both words in the dictionary and I doubt they can really go together. I called my friend Ashley.

Me: Hey, Ashley. What’s up?
Ashley: Sitting around listening to the Blues.
Me: Kooky.
Ashley: What are you up to?
Me: What do you think tacit tracking is?
Ashley: It could be jibberish. Where did you hear it?
Me: Long story short, from a parrot.
Ashley: Um. It makes me think of cops. And how they could follow clues. Like, my roommate hated when I used her soap so she put her hair all over it.
Me: Like passive-aggressivity?
Ashely: Yeah, kinda. She didn’t want to just come out and say: Buy your own soap. So she took her stray hairs and littered her soap with them. I bought my own soap…which she uses sometimes…but I don’t really care.
Me: Right. Tho, tacit isn’t a physical thing.
Ashley: Do you believe in telekinesis?
Me: Are you implying that if telekinesis is possible, then the look in someone’s eyes leaves and invisible path in an undetectable atmosphere?
Ashley: Yes. And you say a bird told you this?
Me: Yeah. Some homeless dude gave me his bird. I felt bad and needed a pet…this house gets so fucken creepy sometimes. I figured a talking bird would be sweet. It could say hello and chickenshit.
Ashley: Where’s the bird now?
Me: Dead.
Ashley: Oh. I guess it’s no big deal. The homeless guy was probably some whack-job that talked to it about skitzo theories and whatnot.
Me: You know, it just didn’t make any sense. Thanks for clearing it up. So, what are your plans for tonight?
Ashley: I’m getting drunk with Reggie.
Me: Cool. Tell him I say hi. Gotta go.
Ashley: Will do. Later.
Me: Bye.

I took my mood elevator and couldn’t stop thinking about psychical landscapes. Have I never noticed them because I was unaware? My eyes play tricks on me as it is. I swear that I see ghosts regularly. I hear way too well. At times, the headaches set in and I can’t even stand the sound of the wind thru shut windows. My therapist tells me that I should really use the earplugs more often, but I always fall asleep when they’re in. Even if I just woke up and took 3 caffeine pills. Wham!…out like a light.

Turn on the tv. Static. News. Reality tv. Documentary on 2012. Movies I’ve seen or don’t want to see. I try to read. No avail. I try to paint; nothing good comes so I destroy yet another canvas. By now it’s 3:13am and everyone’s sleeping, fucking or at work. No one to call. I smoke a joint. The resulting calm turns into hours of tacit tracking thought. I have hallucinations of gaps in reality where I can see the positive and negative energies left by glances and stares. I follow them. They crisscross and when I snap out of it, I’m vomiting in the toilet.

Another headache sets in. Standing in a lightless shower, I collapse. I wake up in my bed and the shower’s not running. I struggle to stand. Eat 5 aspirins and a box of toaster pastries. I look at the clock.


What fucken day is it? I take a deep breath. Open the window. Meditate on the floor below it for a period of time. Fully grounded, I decide that I have to find that bum. I have to ask him exactly what tacit tracking is. Like some dumbshit, I’m completely consumed by it.

I walk around Downtown for days. I’ve neglected my diet and taken meds with diet pills and coffee after coffee. Who I am isn’t important. What I am is the man that needs to find that bum. I need to hear his rationalization of tacit tracking because what I’m seeing thru my eyes isn’t good.

Phantasmagorical splashes of color and dissonance.
Enemies and sacrifices.

I wake up next to a dumpster with a dog licking my face. Gross. All dogs are savage ball lickers. Shit eaters. Fuck only knows what’s on my face. I grab its throat, ready to break its neck. It groans, “Hello.”

What the fuck?
It groans hello again. I tell it my name. It groans, “Yep.” Before I realize what’s fully going on, I’ve told this dog who-knows-what. The sun was up, now it’s night. The dog looks at me and groans, “Tacit tracking.”

The next morning I passed the dog off on some asshole cunt stranger. I pretended to be homeless. Have this talking dog…it can say hello and yep.
It worked.

For whatever reason, I didn’t even fucken care about tacit tracking. I went home, detoxed, ate some real food and after a week, I felt normal. I quit going to my shrink. Stopped the meds. I met a lovely woman. We got married and had 4 kids.


What the Vagabond Told Me

The music twangle dangle mangles and terrifies the spectacular entanglement that precarious and often facetious moments of instinct lacking…oh well. My bird understood. My name is Cliff. I opt to leave out my last name because I just imagine myself as another schmoe named the same. I’m not sure…it’s just a name.


I am just a being amongst the megastars and pro-creative bunches. Sex junkies they are. My girlfriend is as dumb as a bad sci-fi movie and I couldn’t be happier. My eyes are sore. A world so far away from everyone out on drugs. Expect nothing!


Down the road is this burnt out building. The city doesn’t have enough money to level it. Disgusting, really. Actually, I burnt it down. I wanted to keep it a secret. Something from the beginning told at the end to forsake all betrothed with a veil of summer eyes mid spring. Hark. There is something off in the distance. Flashing lights. Out by the interstate is a cave. Underwater. When I found it, I was just kinda fucking around. It’s about the size of a 2 car garage and it’s always warm, so I live there. Another successful get away. Why fire? I have to go thru water to get anywhere. I stay here most of the time. Months on end.


I’ve lived here for 13 years now. Initially, I had only the ground to lay on in complete darkness. I worry that death brings nothing. A time for body exchange. I would be conscious. Facedown in a coffin, tearing at the walls with my hands. Claustrophobia takes my thoughts and pushes them thru the ground. A ghost among those still stuck in bodies. Laugh at them. Find a woman ready to have a child and find a ghost already with her. Find a couple that looked sexually active. Another ghost. It came down to watching a virgin pee. There she was in all her innocence. No ghost. I had to follow her until she got pregnant.


My family thinks that I am dead. Oh well. I’m not surprised. I up and disappeared without a note 14 years ago. I planned on coming back, I did. I found this cave. I’m no longer a minority to some. I’m no longer a fucking pest.


I didn’t have to wait long. The lady was a slut. Her body wasn’t something to sing about. Some guy banged her in a car. A couple weeks later, the baby started to grow. Out popped the baby and then I had to fight a ghost for dibs. I won. I’m a newborn again. I went on to rid the world of illusions. Go figure.


I’ll go into town. I’ll stay in the woods for some time, waiting for my clothes to dry. I eat sparingly. Collecting things. A good meal once or twice a week. I’m sure my stomach has shrunk. It’s a strict diet. I’m usually lying around in some kind of drug stooper propelled by vodka. Sometimes, I’m out for days. I’ll wake up and eat a toaster pastry or 2 and pass out again for another couple days. There are no memories. There is an end to the cave. It’s not an island resort, but it’s quiet. I assume that I’ll die here. One day, someone will find my skeleton and I’ll have my mystery solved. Where did Cliff go? Away. I went away.


Time passed and that body I possessed, well…it got hit by a car. That was the weird part. 8 years into the next body…SPLAT! Sad, but I remember turning back into my first self. I got to watch my boring life all over again. From my own eyes into a television screen of all my old memories in manifestation mode. My body aged with the show. Everything was in time lapse photography. Somehow faster.


I tried to bring a dog in here. I found this stray that licked my hand…I didn’t break out, so I took it down into the water but she didn’t make it. Put her on the shoulder of the interstate. Somebody would clean it up. I guess it’s better to keep my life simple. I’ve got some cyanide capsules around the place just in case I become deathly ill. Death there to take me where it will.


So, I was looking at my life and I realized that at the moment I chose to step into this cave, I was one of those people with a place so secret that I could, in fact, find a bike out of the trash and ride it from store to store, wet and dirty…collecting things to sustain me another couple weeks. I have a radio and 4 cds. Forget the future. When living on batteries, the music only lasts hours. Nobody is around and I’ve got bath water. I shit underwater. Never once has the poo floated back into my hidden home.


As much as I like my home, I like the world too. I might be gone months. Walking the worst places to prove I’m tough enough to live in or near a major city. I’ve always got enough cash to get a motel room, just in case I want to clean up and take a hooker on a date. I’d feel sleazy just using them for sex and drug fun. I don’t sleep for days on end. For some reason, I don’t really understand why.


Not sure, really. But when I came to that first night, I realized that I had the chance to live a drug induced hallucination of a dream. It was easy to maintain. And if I never talked to anyone that knew me ever again, I could be some dude named Cliff. I would never pay taxes again. I had no clocks to remind me how long things lasted.


That store, the one I burnt down, it had this faulty latch on the basement window. I would go down there and raid their stock. I’d never take anything worth noticing, but I did eat my fullest meals there. Those small grocery stores have back stock of the ripest fruits. Damaged goods that were still good. Actually had a date down there once.


Either way…they fixed that window. So, I set the place on fire. I was way out of the city by the time the fuzz arrived. I ditched my new bike in someone’s trash and scuttled down into the trees. Up the mountain side faster than a snail and I’m out of sight.


And the next day, I found a newspaper metal box thingey that was painted orange and I saw the front page headlines: TOKER’S SUPERMARKET BURNS. It’s poetically justified in the drug world. Because the paranormal does exist outside of my little home.



Valley of the One-sided Conversation

The snow trembled to the ground, avoiding trees as it circled the telephone poles protruding from the surface. We all knew it was the end of autumn when the holiday shopping went from acceptable to unabashed and rude. Gift cards have been a big seller ever since people stopped having anything at all in common, save for the lust to spend money on boring bullshit. Generations fiend vanity. Cars slide around on the ice and smash into other cars going too fast, trying to get somewhere before life has a chance to end. It is the deadline of when everything must be completed. Go back and change history so that this wretched anxiety never occurred. Traditions deeply rooted, but only in context to those that have the money to participate.


It was the four of us, driving around in the snow with a king size joint to smoke. The snow came faster and the music went louder. Larry and Beth were in the back seat hallucinating, talking about how the ground was waving in and out as if the sound waves were melting the asphalt crooked. I knew that their eyes were tired. I laughed it off and looked to my passenger, Avential. Her beauty was imminent. The moon struck gold across her visage and the shadows left darkened crevasses near her lips. She was one of those women that couldn’t really understand how gorgeous she really was…almost stupid in a way. Ignorant to her own existence. The joint moved clockwise around the car.


The trees were passing stationary caked in white with ghosts looming within the branches. I watched them move and walk thru trees, I tell no one of this gift of mine. What is trust anyway? A precursor to them stabbing me in the back and exploiting my silly nature for the sake of apathy. I suppose that we all have these hidden secrets on the tips of our tongue, ready to come out. Larry has told me and only me about his romp with a prostitute named Harmony. $100 will buy just about anything wrapped in a condom, excluding anal. I wonder about these secrets and stare at Beth’s titts in the rearview mirror. She always has her cleavage out and doesn’t mind if people think that she is a slut. Perception is equal to squat. Fuck people and their deranged opinions about what should go on and not. Avential stares out the window and passes me the joint blind.


I have no idea where we are going. ¾ tank of gas and a clouded brain can waste an entire night away if I play my cards right. Maybe I won’t go back to my apartment alone. The digital clock reads 7:13p.m. and I turn left on Moore to drive past that haunted house. The joint is roach-clipped now and I take a couple hits and tell everyone that I’m baked. I drive well when I am stoned, not as good as when I am sober, but fuck it, I only live once. I slow down to idle speed when we reach the house. Stop the car. Get out.


Out in the night, my nose feels cold and wet. There is a foot of snow on the ground and I’m stoned enough to jump in. By now, everyone is looking at me and laughing. Cops never drive down this road. They are always at the party store on 5th getting free drinks, not stopping crime. Reach into my pocket and grab a cigarette and smoke it lying in the snow. Larry pisses 2 feet away from me and threatens to spray me. I know he won’t, but the girls are laughing. Everything just fades away. All of the stress and ridiculous state of entropy I was feeling earlier are gone. The nicotine halts my brain activity. My mental faculties depleted and I stare into the clouds, looking for understanding, but none comes.


The house is abandoned, so I walk onto the porch. Peer into the windows. Spit on the door and go back to the car. The rest follow. Where to now? Larry says that he wants to talk to me for a minute, so I leave the girls in the car and tell Avential to roll another joint. We proceed to the porch.


-Larry: I fucked Beth earlier.

-Me: Good for you. Did you lick her pussy?

-Larry: Yeah. She blew me for twenty minutes.

-Me: So, you guys are dating and whatnot?

-Larry: I suppose so, she’s cool and a fucking freak in bed, what more could I ask for. We need to go somewhere. What about the movies?

-Me: Nah, fuck the movies. There isn’t shit playing. Either way, I am too stoned to go in public.

-Larry: Me too.

-Me: Let’s go get some hot chocolate for the girls and then go walking around in the woods and smoke more. We’ll go down by the river and you can fuck Beth in the snow, I have a blanket in my trunk. Either way, I want to talk to Avential about something.

-Larry: Whatever.


So, we go back to the car and engulf ourselves in more illegal drugs. Avential says that she’s got some vicodon in her purse and we all agree to take one when we get out into the woods. Fast food drive thru hot chocolate is the best. I always fuck with the person taking the order on the opposite end of the box. Accents. Slurred speech. It is nothing new, then again, I don’t care. These pimple faces dotards with detachable ego sticks. These fucks that won’t amount to anything more than what they are and always will be. As for my ego, I gave up on it. All that psychological superstition bullshit is exactly that. I’ve separated my conscious self from my subconscious self until I had no distinction between the 2. I tried to explain this to people smarter than me, but they copped out and sent me to a therapist. Fuckers.


Therapy doesn’t help. Offer me a new direction of cognitive thinking and find myself medicated and flaccid. Waking up in the morning and finding myself to be the one going to a shrink’s office to sort out my problems that will always exist. All that shit from the past will always hurt. Understanding that other people have had similar instances of life shitting on them and that they feel the same crippling anxiety doesn’t change my life. Even if those doctors knew everything, they just know the past. These tormented memories have sculpted the way I think and I will always think abstractly dark because of them. All those people that have never been to a therapist think that a shrink can eradicate these patterns of thought, but they are wrong.


I keep staring at Beth’s titts in the mirror. She showed me them once. It was New Year’s Eve and I was all fucked up with her in a jacuzzi. She insisted and I wasn’t dumb enough to tell her no. They are really nice, I swear to it. I didn’t fuck her. I didn’t even kiss her. Some people came outside and she got embarrassed and put the titts away. I went inside and fucked my ex. Those titts always get me hard.


More and more marijuana. It probably took us two hours to get to the park. It was empty and the light posts were dim. These cold shadows cast themselves onto the snow and the clouds came closer to the troposphere. Beth had her hand in Larry’s ass pocket and I remembered just how gross couples were. Some people take pot the wrong way. They lose motor functions and become belligerent. The same way I get when I drink. Oh well, I just kept staring at her titts. Avential opens her purse and pulls out a white aspirin bottle. She pours out 4 white pills and gives one to each of us. Beth goes into the car and pulls out a water bottle. The bottle gets handed around and the pills go down. It doesn’t kick in right away, but knowing that perception will be that more fucked up soon enough relaxes me. We grab our hats, gloves, scarves and the blanket out of the trunk and head out.


About fifty yards in, I reach into my cigarette box and pull out a joint. Why not? Smoking outside in the cold is exhilarating. I pass it away and stare at the trees. I’ve heard some fucked up stories about these woods. Rapes. Beatings. Escaped convicts. Sasquatch. Rumors are just that and I couldn’t really give a fuck less. The joint comes back to me and I notice Avential’s hand graze mine in more than an accidental manner. That purposeful touch that screams: Fuck my pussy! Ignore body language and pass it off knowing that it won’t come back. The sound of breaking sticks below the snow makes my mind focus in and out. These absent parts of trees, dead breaking like brittle cat bones right before they get thrown into a gigantic deep fryer for an eloquent Asian cuisine. Laugh to myself and realize that the vicodon has kicked in when Larry falls over in a stooper and refuses to get up. I smoke a cigarette and think about the outwardly indecent fool my friend has become because of some significant other. We used to smoke all day and eat pills like candy and he never got like this. I can’t help but be happy for him. Beth is cool. She does have nice titts and I’ll always wonder what it would be like to cum in her and suck my goo from her pussy as she cums all over my face.


By the time I finish my cigarette, Larry has composed himself enough to make it to the river. The wind comes in from the west and I turn my body to face the opposite way. Beth and Larry have taken off with the blanket behind some trees and I turn to Avential. I tell her that she looks beautiful and she thanks me, kisses me on the neck and tells me I am a sweetheart. Subtle moaning comes from the 2 fucking friends so we head off in the other direction to talk.


-Avential: I love you.

-Me: I love you.

-Avential: I really enjoy being around you. You make me feel good. Are you sure you want to go thru with this?

-Me: Yeah. I have to. Larry is the only one who knows what I told you. I didn’t mean to tell him, but it slipped and it was cool because he was the only one that knew, then I met you and to hell with him. He’s a loser.

-Avential: It’s going to be like letting go of the worst part of you.

-Me: Hypothetically yes. Ultimately, I have always wanted to blow his brains out. Tonight is perfect. That stupid bitch Beth can die too. I want an eternal life with you, Avential. I’ve got $5,000 and a friend that will keep us for a couple nights in Idaho. We’ll change our names and live incognito forever. I just want to be away from all of this. Everything I let fall apart as it fell apart without control or reconcile.

-Avential: We’ll never get to see anyone again. Everyone will know it was us and our parents…

-Me: …oh fucking well.

-Avential: You are right.

-Me: It is as we are both dead now. We never existed and I’ll kill you if you leave me. I expect you to do the same to me. We’ll never do it again, but he needs to die for what he knows. Promise me one thing…if I talk to you or write you something, you will always answer.

-Avential: Okay. I love you.

-Me: I love you.


We kissed and walked over to the 2 lovebirds. They were both topless and I was a bit thankful to see those titts again. They asked if we wanted to join them for a frozen orgy. I said no and pulled out the gun from my pocket and put 3 bullets in each of them. The look of shock never got to their faces. Drugs slow reaction. The sound of the gun boomed and echoed for miles. Avential held on to me and I kissed her forehead. The bodies lay limp and gushing red. I reached down and touched Beth’s blood. It was warm and salty against my tongue. Dead titts aren’t all that sexy. I pulled my blanket from beneath the corpses and watched the bodies fall onto each other. By morning they’ll be found blue and frostbitten. Good riddance.


Avential and I walked slowly back to the car. We held hands. Ate some more vicodon. Smoked another joint and a couple cigarettes each. My hands shook for about 3 days. We discarded the blanket in a trash can somewhere near Nevada. All things went perfectly according to plan. We grew old together and died happy. Before I died, I went to the place where I got my first job after that night ever so long ago and smoked a joint to myself. It is almost funny how much a mind can forget once everything gets too fucked up to bear. Some people fuck up the general flow of living happily ever after.


Similar and Unalike

I died when I was 3. Opened a bottle of pesticides and drank way too much. My parents tell me the story annually. How they walked into the kitchen to find me not breathing. Laying there in a pool of vomit.


Cloning is amazing. Clone someone and keep their cryogenically frozen counterpart in safe keeping just in case of untimely death. Yeah, I am not the me that my parents created, but I am the me that took over for the dead me 13 days after my 3rd birthday. Scientists recommend cloning a child once a month until they are 2 because of cognitive functionality. Spatial reasoning. All that jargon. After 2, they suggest once a year. Most that do this go on their birthday. Makes sense…

One of the funniest things to watch is when they do away with the old frozen clone when a new clonation is processed. They thaw it out. Wake it up. Slice its throat. Not sure why it’s funny, but I’ve watched hundreds of videos online. Who’d have thought they’d have ended world hunger by feeding starving people dead clones? Not me.


In recapitulation: There is a frozen me waiting for life just in case I die in a car crash or something. Some people support clonation. Some can’t afford it. I was born into a clonation sect. Moralists treat us like garbage. Those fuckers with their ever-swaying opinions of social ethics and whatnot. The village in which I live is small. Everyone knows each other. Our obligations are to each other because the Moralists choose to shower in their ignorance upon arrogance. Judgmental fuckers. What is volition when there is always going to be an outspoken majority that decides right and wrong? Their ideologies lost in flux. As if any human knows what is best for the whole of humanity! I mean, to ostracize anyone for doing what makes them happy…makes them feel safe and secure…how is that moral? Yet, the moralists don’t hear a minority’s concerns. If concerns were apt, they’d be of a Moralistic outlook and intuition should be evident to all. Really, it’s a big fucking mess. No one agrees on anything.


It all hit me when I was 19. I had been dating my next door neighbor Ana…an 18 year old beauty with inquisitive little pupils that would dilate from time to time. I woke up hung over one morning and she had left me a text message telling me that she was pregnant. Egad! After a mixed reaction extravaganza in my head that lasted quite a while, I realized that I was happy. I called her. She seemed happy.

All was well. We got together later that day and discussed some things.


Ana: Oae, I don’t want to clone our baby.

Me: The Moralists have gotten to you.

Ana: I dunno…I just don’t want to be part of this anymore. We were born into a cult.

Me: Is it a cult because it opposes what the outspoken majority thinks is right?

Ana: No. It is a cult because of how they raised us away from worldly truths. All along, our conditioning led us to believe what our parents believed. We may have only found futility in questioning their ways because people should be able to engage in clonation. It doesn’t make it right, though, to be just like them. I don’t want to subject our child to videos of clone killings.

Me: Without clonation, I wouldn’t be here.

Ana: I know, Oae. I thank science every day for your existence.

Me: I guess that it’s a lot to take in. Being parents and raising our child to perfection ala how we decide.

Ana: Yeah. I may change my mind in a week or so. I don’t know the future. But, right now, I don’t want my child to grow up as I have within the walls and axioms of our people.

Me: Are we going to tell our families today?

Ana: No. Let’s let it come out naturally. Today is for us and our baby.

Me: Our baby.

A week later, we had made decisions. Where to live outside of the village. I found a job at some agency which was going to let Ana never have to work again. We were set to have dinner with her family. Maybe we’d tell them. Who knew?

Ana’s dad had a basement workshop with all sorts of tools where he did all kinds of odd things. I had been dating his daughter for 5 years so we, her father and I, were quite comfortable around each other. Many times I spent hours in his workshop bullshitting the time away. So, I was down there and Randy wasn’t acting natural. He kept saying odd things…

Randy: You know Oae, the ways to right a situation are the ones that cause the most infliction in diction. If I took all the roundabout sounds and frogs in throats to heart, I may not have a heart at all. But, it is family that we must hold the dearest because who are we if not the person we are around family?

Me: Someone of a lesser caliber…

Randy: …you are all too right. All too right. If I sharpened a spoon, it doesn’t replace a spade shovel. A glass of orange juice won’t tap-dance in a toothpaste factory. In fact, inanimate objects don’t dance at all but it brings me to a point…a point is an intellectual destination that is only 4th dimensional. It lacks the initial 3. It’s like this file here. This file won’t resurrect a dead princess but it can make things smoother. You dig?

Me: Yup.


His psychobabble lasted 87 minutes. I counted. The only thing that stopped him was Ana calling down the stairs that dinner was ready.


Upstairs, I cornered Ana. Told her that her dad was acting weird. Maybe he knew about the pregnancy. Don’t say anything tonight. I mean, I don’t get creeped out easily. I was. I went outside and smoked a cigarette. Ana agreed to delay telling them. She said before that it was our decision.

Do things naturally.

And so on.


Dinner was fine. Ana and I caught a late movie. Randy and Rhoda decided to pay. Slipped us a 20, they did. They were the nicest people.


Wake up the next morning and there is a letter on my truck’s windshield:


My family knows about the baby and our plans to raise it our way. Someone overheard and ratted us out. By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. I can’t tell you where cuz I don’t even know, but we’ll never see each other again. Our baby will be fine. I urge you to move on. I’m arranged to be married when I get where they are taking me. I’m not sure what else to say. Maybe it was wrong for me to think…

I love you.


I called her. No answer. I went to her house. No one was there. I talked to the neighbors…they said things about the importance of family and community. They said that people move and that sometimes relationships aren’t meant to be. They all had a knowing look in their eyes. Like the one Randy had the night prior.


I spent many months in mourning. I bailed on the agency job and delivered pizzas. I was a waiter for a while. I didn’t have the heart to tell my parents about the baby. My best and only friend told me that there was nothing he could do. Nothing I could do. It’s true. Where to start?! He gave me all sorts of drugs and for almost a year, I stayed fucked up. I didn’t deal with anything healthfully. I stayed locked up in my reveries for too long. Why not? My descent into a drug induced blur left me the village asshole. I couldn’t find a new friend or new girlfriend. Sober or trashed, no one seemed to care. They all knew of my treachery. I moved out of the village into a metropolis and decided to mourn my bullshit life forever.


A few months later, when the summer winds began to blow, I felt an odd energy about my surroundings. I had started to clean up my life. I was sober more than stoned. I started eating healthy. All that jargon. I met some woman at the library that seemed interesting. I changed my name.

Walking out of a grocery store, a hand tapped my shoulder. I turned around to find Ana. She was holding a baby. Our baby.


Me: Ana.

Ana: Oae.

Me: You are…

Ana: …here. I know. It took some time to find you. It’s bold of you to leave the village.

Me: I had too many reasons. Where in the fuck have you been?

Ana: I can’t say. I can’t stay. This is your daughter Allie.

I held her in my arms.

Ana: I’m pregnant. A life of servitude to my family’s will is all I have left. I can’t let you keep Allie. In truth, I must return to my family in a few hours. It gives us just enough time.

Me: Time for what?

Ana: Clonation. You have the right to a daughter. I know someone that will do it with no paper trail. You get yours, I get mine.

Me: What I wanted was a life with you and our child.

Ana: We’ll clone me also. Get in my car.


So, I’m in shock. This twisted amazement of a nightmarish dream manifest…my 5 month old daughter in my hands and the woman I love next to me, yet I don’t get either. Rather a comparable alternative. Tunnel vision took from me all peripheral stimulation. All I could see was Allie. I’d glance at Ana in amazement of her existence. She seemed changed. Docile. She acted as if we were being watched.

She stopped the car.


Ana: Here we are.

Me: Where is here?

Ana: Where-ever. A place to clone Allie and I.

Me: This isn’t what I wanted.

Ana: It’s all you are to get.


I’m faced with this decision of a ridiculous proportion. I just resent it all. Everything I know. Everything I’ve been thru. If I get what I get and it isn’t what I want…I’m already a copy of some dead me…forced to choose between solitude and a copy of the life I should have had.

Me: I’m going to kill your family, Ana.

Ana: I doubt you could find them.

Me: I swear to you that I’ll cut off each one of their heads, one by one.

Ana: You won’t find them.

Me: I’m going to take you from their oppression and servitude.

Ana: Empty promises.

Me: A copy of you is not you at all. This is our child that deserves to be raised by us.

Ana: What about the child growing inside of me and its father?

Me: I’m going to kill him. The baby may stay with us. You could get an abortion. Put it up for adoption. Sacrifice it. That is a child born out of intangible slavery.

Ana: It hasn’t even been born.

Me: All the same.

Ana: Does my family deserve to die for their beliefs and my rebelliousness? I think not. Surely, you have been wronged, but it was us that did the initial wronging. No one is right or wrong. Things just happen.

Me: Right. And when I decapitate your entire family…

Ana: …whatever, Oae. The future will happen as it does. If you find me and chicken-shit out of my family’s genocide, don’t ruin my life. Don’t show your face and do nothing. My life may be shitty, but it’s peaceful. Perhaps all this was supposed to happen. But if you don’t want to go thru with the clonation, get out of my car.

Me: Fine.

I kissed Allie and promised I’d see her again. I handed her to Ana. Open the door. Ana grabbed my arm and kissed me. She told me that she still loved me and that she is a slave to the volition of futurity.

I guess we all are.


I told her I loved her and I reiterated my plans for an us that would last until our days complete. I got out of the car. She drove away. Promises are just words. The past is there to be forgotten or remembered. It’s just funny…the way things happen. The betterment of nobody. All the boldness and frailty. My mind is in the future already. When things are as they should be. I am going to find a needle in the hay.


Modern revenge is the idiocy that never ends.



The Music Story

The children gathered in the library and sat on the floor with their backs to the fireplace. Lisa, Stymie, Alexia, Chobo and Ron waited for Grandpa Jack to read them a story. For the last five years, since the quints were born, he had read them a story on Wednesday nights just before their bedtime. The children were starry eyed and full of the boundless hope that childhood is.


Grandpa Jack walked into the room at precisely 8p.m., though he carried no book. He settled down into his reading chair and the children waited patiently for his voice.


GRANDPA JACK: My dear grandchildren. Tonight, I will tell you a story of when I was young. I have always wanted to tell this story, but I feared that it would scare you all at such a young age. Now that you have reached the golden age of 5, I know you are ready to hear these words. This is a story of courage, danger and the greatest thing of all…music. This takes place back when I was only 17 years old, 60 years ago. The world was full of peril and unanswered questions. The year was 2007. I was dating your grandmother then and she was such a pretty young thing. I knew from the moment I met her that we’d be in love forever. Alexia, stop picking your nose or your finger will get caught in there. Are you children ready?


CHILDREN: Yes Grandpa Jack.


GRANDPA JACK: Well then, let’s go. Like I was saying…


…it was the year 2007 and the world was full of peril and unanswered questions. The band The Torpid Apples were veterans of the local music scene, a scene that absolutely sucked. See, anyone can pick up a guitar and a pair of drum sticks and make something audible. Digital recording was at its peak and the ease of recording had reared its ugly head when people remembered how important a microphone actually was. Producers found these crap bands comprised of novice musicians and changed their song structure to verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus; multi-tracked guitar tracks and a metronome to boot. Managers got bands photos into teeny-bopper magazines with hearts around them and money flowed in…not for The Torpid Apples, though.


The Torpid Apples were experienced musicians. Finger tapping, polyrhythms, double stops, pinch harmonics, natural harmonics…all the works. They tried hard to push every limit because that is what music is about: New ideas and changing things. They sent out countless demos to countless record and management companies that never got back to them. Apparently, these companies get hundreds of cds and rarely sent out a ‘no thanks’ letter. That many letters would be way too much work. 200 letters is a lot. 200 is a big number. Don’t think about the hundreds of people that die on a daily basis, those numbers are relatively small and overlooked.


They also tried to get into contact with signed bands. Yet another daunting task. Email after email. Concert after concert. Being in a band ruins concerts. They couldn’t enjoy watching shitty opening bands when they couldn’t catch a break. Musicians are a different kind of fan. They don’t see the mythological side of music like a regular fan. Talent isn’t special. For example, a medical student can memorize all the bones in the human body (a mind bending feat), but that just puts them into that category of all the people that can already do that. Nobody can know everything. There is always something more important to learn.


The Torpid Apples were practicing one day. Terrance on guitar and vocals. Arny on bass. Tim on drums. They practiced in a friend’s basement. They were halfway thru the first song when Terrance threw down his guitar and started screaming.


TERRANCE: Fuck it! I’m done! I quit. I’m going to kill myself.

TIM: Dude, what’s wrong?

ARNY: Your guitar is broken.

TERRANCE: I don’t fucking care anymore! I can’t try any harder and be passed over anymore. I can’t stand being ignored by bands that claim to be kind. All these fucking labels signing these shitty bands. The songs that sound like a second years ramblings with a shit solo over it and the singer singing about the same damn shit as everyone else.

ARNY: True. Great singers aren’t just a voice but a messenger as well.

TERRANCE: Do I sing on key?

TIM: Yes you do. Am I off beat?


TERRANCE: How can these fucks sing about destiny when I’m stuck here with this talent that is beyond me and no fucking medium? The only thing I enjoy and know is music.

ARNY: Fair has no basis anymore. If being a signed musician involves ignoring all other musicians and hiding in a bus or behind a fence, then I don’t want it.

TIM: I got my drums as a present from my family. We are poor and it’s my duty to make good for them. At least make a living for me so I can finally move out of their basement.

ARNY: My friends won’t talk to me. They don’t and can’t understand how difficult it is to try to prove to these labels and bands that we are equals. To them, these bands are exactly what they appear to be.

TERRANCE: Why do bands have websites if they don’t read the messages…it fucken irks me. Tear out my fucking eyes. All the songs I hear are about despair. The endless suffering of life. What is beyond that? I’ve suffered for years. I’ve put off everything for music. To honestly believe that music is exactly what it makes itself out to be, but it’s being ripped apart by the industrialization of itself.

TIM: I hate being better at my instrument than the people perceived as great.

ARNY: Greatness is more than technique. It has…

TERRANCE: No. You are wrong. Talent means everything. I’m going to kill myself!

TIM: No, wait. I have a better idea.


The Torpid Apples got in Tim’s van and drove to Minneapolis, MN…home of Intepex Records. This was the label responsible for all their favorite Punk bands. A label that didn’t give a big enough shit about them to tell them to fuck off. Home for all the bands that ignored them. They had an ounce of marijuana to smoke because that is the rockstar thing to do.


At 3p.m., They drove passed Intepex. The building was smaller than they had expected. A 2 story, windowed box of dreams without a way in for the door never opened. They circled the block a few times.


Finally they parked the van right in front of the building. The side door slid open and they jumped out they had their instruments with them and portable amps strapped with distortion pedals. New batteries. A bass drum and a snare. They set up quickly and went into their favorite song…Too Late. Halfway thru the song, the label people came out to listen…finally. A small crowd gathered. Toward the end of the song an onlooker commented.


ONLOOKER: The dipshit isn’t even using the bass drum!


At that moment, Tim pressed the foot pedal and the explosives inside the bass drum detonated. The explosion ripped thru Intepex. The Torpid Apples, the Intepex staff and the orphans from the orphanage next door all perished. Intepex Records was holding an all band meeting, so all the avoidant bands died too.


A friend of the band by the name of Jeremiah Sourheart took it upon himself to release The Torpid Apples’ music on his label dedicated to them. Their 2 studio albums along with their demos all went platinum many times over.


See children, death substantiates all art. The powers that be don’t care about what they don’t know. People mess up. The world was full of chaos. Far too much for it to see what it needed to do to fix itself. Their courageous act changed the world because humans learn the most from death. We fix and falter. Fix and falter…


(At that moment, Grandpa Jack sent the children off to bed and everyone lived happily ever after.)


Quicker When Slippery


The alarm clock goes off. Another peaceful dream interrupted by this ever daunting reality of mine. Back to debt. Loneliness. Aggravation. Apathy. I hope that the alarm wakes everyone in the house. I can’t afford to move out thanks to the failing economy. No president yet has been smart enough to fix it. Looking back on childhood, I realize now why adults are concerned with politics. Situations. If I could only have everything finally start to come together. I ask Satan for help, but he doesn’t want to get out of bed.


My name is Murdock Rhythenment.

I’m just scraping by. Wasting money that I should be saving on such provisions as food and…well that’s it. Food. I can’t afford glasses or clothes. The brakes on my truck are faulty and every morning I drive to my job wondering if they are going to fail. Will I die, hopefully? I couldn’t afford the medical bills, especially since I haven’t had medical insurance since I was in high school. Those wonderful days where I thought that there was safety in life. Something to fall back on. I didn’t want to be like anyone. Nothing interested me beyond music.


A rockstar once said that he knew from the age of 5 that he was to be a famous musician. And he is. I feel the same way, but I can’t hold my breath forever. I get lightheaded for no reason already! Ha. What a joke life has become since then. I was promised so little and even now, I long for those days where mediocre seemed possible. My hands shake and I tell people it is hereditary. I exaggerate some things to make my life seem more important and fun because it just isn’t. So I sit alone and do nothing, waiting. Always waiting.


Here I go, changing things for the better by becoming a part of a workforce that is primarily Christian. Bastard. 666. Out the door, fucked up on an hour and a half of sleep. The road stayed the same, but I kept phasing in and out of consciousness. Not sleep. The parked cars are all too close. It’s o.k. Go to the local fast food restaurant for some coffee and that empathy. Get fatter. Get fucking fatter and be unappealing to someone. The country is so focused on weight. Everyone is on a diet. Nobody loses anything. Except their minds.


The coffee didn’t work right away, so I sat in the parking lot listening to Satanic music. Wake me up…Satan! I need to go hang out with the Christians. After about 5 minutes of passing out and waking up (passing out and waking up), get the nerve to start going again. A torrential downpour starts. I can’t see shit when my eyes are open. Consider me coherent only 55% of the time. The expressway is a good thing. The radio at full blast at 5a.m. Singing off key to that same Devil music. It woke me up. Driving with my knee, smoking a joint.


Waking up ever so slowly, I open the window to let the smoke out. Fresh air and a Michigan sunrise about to happen in about an hour or so. The music swirls thru my brain. Thinking about working with these redneck assholes pisses me off. Michiganders think that Ohio inhabitants are lame people. Truthfully, they are the same except that Michiganders think they are far more special because their state is shaped like a hand and those fucking lakes that give shitty weather. Lake effect asshole-ness. Fuckers. It’s just not fair. The way that she walks…and not for me. I feel relaxed. The day is good. Sure, it’s a holiday, but when first starting a job, holidays don’t exist. Either way, fuck holidays.


I stop at a red light in a tiny village. The sun had not yet came up and the rain was as bad as it had been all day and would be. The light turns green and I look north and see a local cop. Radar gun in hand, dick in the other. I pull away. Next thing I know, I see flashing red lights. Blue lights. A spotlight and a fucking douche bag of a cop headed my way. I assume speeding. 5 maybe 10 mph over. I get my paperwork and hand it to this asshole. Always thinking that he’ll be a decent human being and let me off with a warning. No. He told me that I needed to understand the law and some bullshit I didn’t understand because I was stoned. He didn’t notice that much. Fuck him. It really made me hate this modern conceptual America. A representative of the law trying to let me know that my reality is not an actual reality. As if I didn’t know.


I don’t have money.


So I go to my shitty job. Feces and dead dick skin cells adorn everything. The people look at me as if I am a degenerate because I have tattoos. Piercings. A nigger lady asked me if I was gay because I have gauged ears. No. I don’t put cock in my mouth until it cums and cums. Flowing sperm out of my nose while I get fucked in the ass…fuck no.


So I stand there, being made fun of by customers because I am a vendor. I don’t really do anything important, but then again, what is truly important? Should I manage this shitty corporate pile of goo? The money is better but being a big fucking asshole isn’t worth it. I just ignore as many people as I can, stay quiet and I go home after eight hours. Back to my shitty life that isn’t quite as shitty as my work life.


I am claustrophobic. I hate people. I have panic attacks and am sure that people are constantly picking on me. They persist. Always persisting. Pestering. Fuckers.


It was in this holiday atmosphere where everyone seems to hate each other. No one is happy to work on a holiday, even Jehovah’s Witnesses. They seem to take it out on anyone who will listen or be in their presence. Though, I avoid. Keep my mouth shut. Repeat the same polite lines of discourage and bewilderment. Point people in the wrong direction and they never come back to complain. Oh well. Stock, stock, merchandise, merchandise. It’s this dampened mindset of everyone. Most are lethargic and overweight. Those in control are apathetic. I feel concerned for my job because I just can’t understand how these fucking rednecks keep this place running. Corporate sponsorship or not. I hate everyone.


Back to being claustrophobic. The idea of losing enough money to eradicate my chances of going on vacation arises. Sure, $75 isn’t much to some, but to me…I have to choose not to go. Maybe I can take a holiday elsewhere. Somewhere it doesn’t cost $45 an hour to be. I go in the bathroom and sit on the floor. Everything is pushing me to fail for a reason. I have to understand. I have to understand for I have no other choice. I try to write anything but the frustration is far too much. Burying my face in my hands, I start to cry. Not much, but enough to feel a release in tension. Locked away for five minutes, I hope people think that I am shitting. All things will come to fruition soon enough. Soon enough. I bang my head off of the cement wall. Please, Satan, take me from this existential hell that people consider a blessing.


It’s gross and immature, I know. To be such a masochist. But when everything points to me being a talentless loser…why live at all? Money rules over all and I have to rationalize waiting another forever for things to go my way. I just want things to be right. Please be right. Let me make one correct choice in any matter. Maybe I won’t. So goes the world.


I splash some water on my face and stare deep into the eyes of that person I can’t recognize. Mirrors are deceptive. Maybe we don’t look that way. Maybe I was out of my mind; then again, I had to talk to a fucking cop. Asshole bastard. I look at the door and dread the world that exists on the other side. Not my own. Never what I expected.


Each store has its own personality. The demographic changes from city to city. Each subculture acts as if they are better than the next. Just when I think I have seen it all, an Amish dude returns some product. I just watch in awe of that kind of religious dominance, if you will. Then, all of the sudden, some bible thumping asshole starts to ask me some questions about my job. What should he buy? A one way ticket to Hell and fuck himself completely. He stands about nine inches from my face and tries to enlighten me. At the end of our meeting, he puts his hand on my shoulder and says thank you. It isn’t in my job description to be touched by strangers. Let alone this ass-face. It makes me highly uncomfortable. I wanted to quit at that moment. No avail.


I then take my lunch. Punching out of the system for a half an hour to get away from those pestering customers. I listen to Death Metal and eat some food. Drink bottled water. I am 70 miles from home, $75 in the hole and I can’t fucking take it anymore. Eat dead bodies. Fuck dead bodies. It is such a contradiction to be myself. This day and age. I write a few lines of poetry because I am a lame-o. These lines that mean so much to me, epiphany after epiphany, but no one ever knows. Will this day ever end? The week is almost half over and it keeps getting worse.


The day goes on.

Inside. Outside. Inside. Outside. I am so fucking unhappy with the overall atmosphere of these stores. Hardware stores are disgusting. Even the cleanest one. The managers are stupid and never listen. The employees are douchey fucking pole suckers. And I, the cheese, stand alone. Most people resent my existence and its o.k., I’ll fuck them after they are dead.


Finally, quitting time. Push this Tuesday as far from my mind as possible. Sit in the break room for the last half an hour and come in and out of consciousness. It’s just not worth it to converse with these people. Their dialect is boring and becoming obsolete. It’s all a waste of my precious time, but I have to have a job. Career. This is no career. All those things I push out of my mind return and the headache swells.


Out the door I go, back into actual reality. Why is it different behind those walls? Why do the women stare at me so? Why do the men treat me with such disdain? Why are there mosquitoes everywhere? Fuck it.


I get in my automobile and drive away. The sound of actual music filling the cab. Anger. All of the realities of the day set in. Tickets. Panic attacks. Touch. Scent. Worthless words. By the time I reach the expressway, I am in tears. Punching myself in the side of the head to calm myself down. The car sways from left to right. Hoping for loss of control and an ass over tea kettle rolling of this putrid means of transportation. Nope.



I stop at the gas station and use a ten dollar bill to get enough gas to get me a few more miles. Fucking politics. A candy bar crosses my tongue. I am not a fan of tongue rings, but my girlfriend has one. I wouldn’t tell her to take it out cause I am not an asshole.


I suppose that the day was quite normal.



Using the English Language Incorrectly

I stood at work for 276 minutes listening to deranged music. One minute the dj was talking to a child asking him to try to woo a middle aged coworker, the next he was glorifying dirty stripper underwear. Popular radio is PG-13. My co-worker didn’t speak to me all night. Apparently, she is an asshole. Who needs those people anyway? Another bland night at my bland job.


My name is Arthur. I am a literary agent. I am the one who talks to writers and gets their books to publishing companies. My job is great because I get to pick and choose exactly what novels and poems are, dare I say…great. These publishing companies wouldn’t know a good thing if it bit them in the ass. What I hate the most is when these authors come up with the most bizarre stories, but they aren’t written in proper English. There is a reason for proper punctuation and academically feasible sentence structure. Nothing could ever be learned from throwing the rules out the window. Books are not art. They are stories trapped in prose, forever…until the light of Saturn diminishes completely.


Everyone should go to college. Genius is described as thinking outside the box. How else better to think outside of the box than to go to school for 17 years or more? People that go to colleges are not biased in any way and are only there to expand their cranial capacity for information. There is no world that cannot be learned about outside of college. Praise its golden walls.


I sit at home now and blend together a tasty daiquiri. I enjoy banana and lemon. I don’t like to take my work home with me, but I have this story to read. As a child, I always liked to read books. I told myself that I would somehow get a job, when I was older, reading books. Sometimes I feel so drawn to help everyone, but I cannot. I’ve learned not to care if these words are someone’s soul ripping in half. I imagine it is the same way that doctors feel when they lose a patient. I am as important as a doctor in my own mind.


The story is called ‘Muskrat Rabbit’ and it has nothing to do with rabbits or muskrats. I think the rabbit is a metaphor for a childhood nickname and the muskrat is actually a gun. It is ripe with sociopolitical ideas but the idiosyncrasies are getting to me. So many stories about the same exact thing. Nobody has ever written my story. These small time authors don’t know what it is like to have conscious thought streaming over subconscious thought while the brain is generally overactive. I have to compare them to the idea of great in my own mind, and doing that is impossible. Some try to outshine the others with a new talent. How am I supposed to understand new talent? Isn’t new talent crap? Answers anyone…


It is 12:11 a.m. and there is a knocking on my front door. By gum, it must be an intruder. I’ve read books about this so I go into my closet and grab a Metal baseball bat. Imagine a wooden baseball bat covered in stickers from Death Metal bands. Satan’s music causes people to kill themselves, let it guide this bat thru someone’s skull…if need be. The house is really, really quiet. I drink the rest of my daiquiri and head toward the door. I really need to get this place carpeted. Wood floors are noisy and it makes everything echo. Echo.


My heart is pounding a billion miles per hour and I swear is coming out of my chest and dancing the waltz while smiling at me, then plummeting back into my chest cavity. Needless to say, I don’t look down. I wish it was raining with lightning; that would add effect. Also, it would be great if I detailed my entire house because nobody has an imagination anymore. The knocking comes again, even louder. I accidentally pissed my pants, but that is okay, I am about to bludgeon someone.


I rip open the door and find some demon creature with four eyeballs and no hair. It is seven feet wide and covered in spikes dripping with some kind of unearthly goo. The goo drips down onto the ground and is moving around, burning holes into the concrete. I scream. The demon creature screams. It has 24 rows of not-so-sharp teeth and its breath reeks of soda pop. For no reason whatsoever, I conclude that this creature will harm me and my soiled pants so I swing the Metal bat at it. Take that demon creature! I swing again, and again. The demon creature stays put, screaming at me. With the next swing I take out one of its eyes and the hole just closes up. It is the damndest thing I have ever seen.


The world, which was just crazy there for a second, slows down. The adrenaline quits rushing and I realize that the demon creature has a letter for me.


Demon Creature: Hello Arthur. My name is Larry. I am from Mediocorp. Mediocorp is the next wave of great, but unintentional cheap thrills. What we do is allocate the greatest minds in the world and put together and patent practical jokes.

Arthur: You don’t say.

Larry: Oh, I do say. And the very best part is that you were chosen to get this catalog and a free $1000 gift card. Do you remember Marey Inglehard?

Arthur: Why yes I do. She wrote that book “Inane Crap”. I helped her get a lucrative book deal. The editors totally changed her story. Boy, do I love editors.

Larry: Well, Marey got in touch with us and told us what a wonderful person you had been to help her and have her words changed to appease the general public. See, at Mediocorp, we take all these names that we gather over the year and have a drawing. Two candidates are chosen and we all get together and vote. We send our results to some experts to reevaluate. You were one of the chosen two.

Arthur: Wow. I am in great suspense.

Larry: …and you should be. Bad news though, you didn’t win the contest. You actually lost the vote but we decided to give it to you because we know your father, Dipthis. So, we got this together for you. We had arranged to send you on an all inclusive paid vacation to Japan. We also got you this new car behind me (moves out of the way to unveil a shiny red sports car.)

Arthur: I am in awe. I don’t know what to say. This is more than I had ever imagined and all because I am…

Larry: Interrupted. You beat me with that wooden bat. Do you actually think I would give you anything? My stenphalix eye is mush and I am bleeding everywhere. You stupid fuck! You think that you know everything. You think you know what is coming next…


(At that moment, Larry the demon creature forced his way into Arthur’s house. Larry beat him senseless with the bat. Then, he chewed off his arm, jumping up and down on him. Larry weighs 3485 pounds. Screaming in tongues. Maybe Larry is a demon sent from Satan. Here to warn all agents that these writers are actually psychotic sociopaths with nothing else to live for. Out there trying to forge a new path, while following only the most crooked. Getting lost in the cruel artistry of it all. These few that are too compelled to write. The longing for creativity causing insomnia. The lust for acceptance and credibility driving them absolutely insane until they hire demonic aliens to exact revenge on people that assumed that they were fucking stupid because they didn’t want to use words in the same way as everyone else. These people with stacks and stacks of great literature that won’t ever see publishing because nobody reads anymore. Everything reads the same and is too easy to follow. The greats have come and gone. It’s not as if major travesties have been happening in the world left and right for the last few decades. What would people have to write about? The great extravagant lives of this utopian world we are encased in…one where everyone gets what they want and deserve. Where everyone gets the space to prove themselves as creative individuals and true love exists. A world with superb leaders that never lead anyone astray. A beautiful world of greens and greys washing existence in the natural essence of free will and kindness. This world where nobody is left behind.)




Green Ketchup Labels

He successfully managed to order coffee. Hoorah for him. In his condition…nobody should be applauded for mundane explorations into imagining complex scenarios. All together they could have had a something special as lame as everyone else’s. All those summers spent apart.


The spoon tells all. When it came, he put the spoon in his mouth to see how hot the coffee was. Perfect. His name is Specific Wagner. Dumb name…eh? Parents have a tendency to look for something unused. Specific didn’t think his name was all that strange. Some of the kids in school thought so. Everyone goes thru that stage when random people hurt them. He always left the memories at home. He had a fish named Alexander.


School was dumb. A bunch of people that sucked. There was the couple that everyone knew would stay together forever. They won mock elections and ended up being shitty adults that died young. There were the jocks with their gang-like influence. The retards were down the locked hall. There were the friendships that would endure the darkest moments of…boo! All things come at a cost. They sat at the restaurant and did restaurant shit. Drink, eat, laugh. It was the four of them. Stefany, Kuala, Hector and Specific. They’d laugh as they talked of their favorite music and other regular old teenage bullshit. They weren’t all creative. There are only a few really creative kids per school.


Kuala and Hector were dating. He had liked her for a while. He was a genius when it came to girls. He simply told her that they should start dating right when 9th grade started. That August day, he trapped her like the women do by having kids and wearing makeup. It was more of a dare. Don’t break up until after school. Maybe she wouldn’t want to…ever. They would make out in the halls.


Stefany was from another state. She was really pretty. At her last school, nobody really liked her. The ugly duckling. She never wanted to be the immaculate female idea of beauty. She didn’t want to be wanted. When she showed up, it was after her freshman summer. She grew up that summer. Blossomed. Upon arriving at Templeton, she was eye candy for hundreds of teenage boys. Back when it was okay to say the wrong thing to the wrong person. Sexual fantasies of a teenage boy are vulgar and misled. Some boys just liked her cause she had big titts. Stefany found friendship in Kuala. They’d have sleepovers and parties with older people.


Specific paid for the coffees and the baked potato that Stefany just needed to have. They each left a dollar. Time to go to Hector’s house. He had divorced parents. He lived with his mom, Ann, but she was never home. She smoked marijuana habitually and so did her only son. They’d all hang out and smoke sometimes. The 5 of them. They’d watch movies and throw stuff around. Hector had posters of bands, movies and drugs everywhere.


They were seniors, they were. Their last year of being forced to be friends. School limits things. One is supposed to find friends in school. Someone similar that laughs when the other does. An alibi. Suicide pacts. They all seen a movie where these high schoolers went their separate ways. Dismay and crying. Then, Ann would leave.


The 4 of them would smoke more pot. Drink. Hector and Kuala would start to engage in their mating ritual, so Specific and Stefany would go play video games in the other room. She liked the cartooned ones. All those bright colors. Fictional characters don’t really die.


Stefany: Hey.

Specific: Hey.

Stefany: This game is getting stupid.

Specific: I know. Do you want to go to the park?

Stefany: Yeah. I have a joint. We’ll leave a note.

Specific: I’m not going to bother them two. I still can’t get the memory of homecoming out of my mind.

Stefany: Heh.

Specific: Let’s go.


They grabbed a bottle of water and headed out. The night air was still and the clouds rolled across the sky. It was warm. The park was 7 blocks west. Their city wasn’t huge. 40 percent of their peers at school were bussed in from a neighboring city. Their school was burned down by what the newspapers called ‘psychotic brutality’.


Chancellor Park was deserted. It always was. It was a bit run down. The fence was coming apart. The slide needed to be repainted. The swings were gone, save for 2. The merry-go-round wasn’t level. The city kept it mowed. So, they smoked grass. Back in the wooded area beyond the man-made amusement.


In the tiny forest was an old building. One story. It supposedly housed some water pump, but the city never checked on it. There was a fence around it, but it wasn’t electric, so they’d jump it and climb the ladder to the top of the building. Lay down. They would smoke down and try to find stars that cut thru the clouds to give the amorphous wisps eyes with shimmering lights. Descending dragons. Menacing demons. Rabid dogs. All up there in the sky. They were not on Earth, but not completely detached yet.


Specific: Hey.

Stefany: Hey.

Specific: Do you really like coffee, or is it just an act?

Stefany: Naw, I really like coffee. Soda is bad for you. I fucking hate the way sugar feels on my teeth. It’s as if I want to brush my teeth constantly.

Specific: I agree.

Stefany: I crave water. Water is my everything. If water had…

Specific: …more nutrients, we would become far healthier.

Stefany: You are a dork. How’s Alexander?

Specific: He’s okay. It’s weird…I can talk to a fish, which doesn’t understand me at all, but to talk to myself is crazy.

Stefany: Call it thinking out loud.

Specific: What if you didn’t exist?

Stefany: Wha?

Specific: Imagine this life without you. Would I be on this building all alone?

Stefany: No. Someone would be here to replace me. I’m not all that special. A common person. At this age, our brains are still developing. Individuality doesn’t set in until after high school. It’s like a busy hotel. Once someone is gone, someone else is there to take their place. The reality of every situation is that you are in a moment with someone else. It just happens to be me right now.

Specific: I get it.

Stefany: I know you do.


An hour passed, so they decided to go back to Hector’s house. The asshole-face lovebirds were sitting on the couch. They questioned about Stefany and Specific’s whereabouts. Going to the park wasn’t all that cool. Neither is doing it in front of friends. They played backgammon and passed out.


The next day was Thursday. Kinda rainy. Humid. Sometimes those desks built for smaller humans can get uncomfortable. They had some classes together. The crazy intervals of random bits of dumb luck! They had the same lunch period. Specific never ate in front of people. Didn’t like to do something that gross in front of others. Stefany used to have an eating disorder. Good thing that went away. Lunch was a PG version of dinners. Some sophomore starts throwing food and another socks him in the face for it. Specific waited for the day when someone would throw another down the stairs, he didn’t want to do it though.


Those kids got sent to the office and everything went back to regular. They plan out what to do for the day. Kuala read something about some unknown band at the local coffee house. Mellow music and marijuana go hand in hand. The rest of the day went by quickly. After 6th hour, they met near the senior doors and confirmed plans. All go home and meet up at Hector’s at 4:30. Specific and Stefany knew that their fun would be delayed because of sexual antics.


There is no air in a school. Not literally, but metaphorically. Everyone is crammed in next to one another. Bias has the most clout. All learn from the same books. The dialect is controlled by popular persuasion. Even on the best days, everyone is keeping something from someone else. They all have their secrets. Desires and hopes. An unwillingness to learn. Secret admirers. They’ll all grow up one day and find that their immaturity wasn’t a good thing after all. Taking sides as if there are only 2 sides. Opposing for the sake of opposition. Everyone tries not to act like everyone else.


It’s 4:15. Stefany and Specific pull up in her car. They said 4:30. Abide by their rules. Stupid weed games. 4:20. 666. Numbers and all of that stupid shit. By the time they’re high enough to know it, they are slugging thru the dense gravity. It wasn’t the stairs, it was how the world phased out for a moment when she turned quickly to avoid the wind chime. Doorbell. No answer. Knock on the door. No answer. It’s okay to walk into a friend’s house when expected.


They call their names. No answer. Go to his bedroom door. Knock. No answer. Is it smart to go in? Those 2 fuck like mad. Teenage energy. Giving stupider folks such a power. Enjoyment. Deep breath. Forget what they see when their eyes tell their brains that they are dead. Kuala and Hector. Eyes open. The note read that they ate some pills that put out the fire. It was dated in the future. What was going on? They were just in school 2 hours ago, alive. Now they are dead.

What to do. What to do?

Who to call first. Should they cry? Should they hide the bodies? Is Ann dead too…all these questions.


Specific turns to console Stefany, but she’s gone to the kitchen. She must want water. It was quite flush. Maybe open a window. She’s by the sink, but instead of a cup, she grabs a knife and slices her wrists. Quickly. She sat down. Crying. He ran to hold her while she died…so she’d never really feel the weight of the world.


Stefany: Here I go.

Specific: You belong with her. She was your suicide-pact partner. You’ve got to go.

Stefany: You have to stay here. Conscious or whatever.

Specific: I’ll make sense of this.

Stefany: One day. For now, I remember laying in your arms. I had cut my wrists because my best friend and her boyfriend who was also my friend are dead to our dismay from earlier today and last night when everything was okay…

Specific: Hey.


And she was gone. The other 2 were gone. All of his friends were gone. He couldn’t step foot in that school without them being there. High school never happened. The pictures were superimposed. No need to even call home. On his hands was Stefany’s blood. He wiped a tear from his face and breathed deeply. Not breathing for at least a minute.

Because the sound of breathing was so loud.

Imagining himself passing out.


After that, breathing was equal to running full speed down a hill. All the memories contrived. He would wake up after whenever he chose to sleep next. Everything would be normal. Start again. Specific went into the bedroom and grabbed the weed. At this point, he was 17 and ready to throw it all away. He sat in the driveway and smoked a joint. He left the radio off. Everything was really loud. He started to shake. His hands went cold and the car flipped on its side.


Nofanx had attacked Earth. Sirens were blaring. People were screaming. Had it finally come? They had lived to the very edge of the end of the world and missed it by minutes. Unlucky saps. No more short-handed coffee nights. Cold next to a leaky window. No more Greek architecture. Under a pavilion of glass ready to fall upon his head. Surely the Nofanx government would not have just fired a warning shot. They did. They did.


How long had it been before everything was okay? Hard to tell. Forget those moments when food was scarce. Lots of people killed themselves. Did Kuala and Hector plan this? Maybe they were Nofanxians. Stefany too. They were liars all along.

Fucking liars. Pouty liars.


Specific just sat there most of the days. Stoned. Alone. Laying on top of that building. His town had been corralled by rubble from the blast. The walls were 2 miles high. The sun didn’t really shine much.


At least he had time to relax. The world was completely fucked up. They all started to see things a bit Nofanxian since then. Paranoia was rampant. Sinus pressure. Fluctuating temperatures. The blast knocked Earth 3.2 miles closer to the sun.


It was balmier. Oxygen felt scarce. Nobody really like the idea of Nofanx. Riots broke out. Deranged people came out of the weirdest fucking places with guns that made it to space. The loudest steps and the foggiest of memories. The common, everyday person was militant. After 17 days of hunger strikes and unrelated homicides, the world leaders conceded and blew Nofanx up. The explosion was videotaped from everywhere. Where was Specific? Right on top of that building…there were loudspeakers blaring the countdown. 7, 6,5,4,3,2,1. He was fucked up by then. Someone had given him laced weed. Something was wrong. He lay there on the planet and stared off onto space without a conscious perception of life. Lights flickered. He didn’t blink. The only concern was breathing. Something else was coming. The next great war. Humans versus all those other beings out there. Those beings that are invisible and tinier than the way back to that stupid fucking school that brought anyone together at all in the ways that schools must. Hide and go seek. The tumbling taught the tinkering twilights to take a shitty noise and turn the dull up to reward the punctual. Eyes peeled open. Still not blinking. Not moving. The world was changing. Fastly. A newer paranoia to adjust to.





Reckless Insensitive

Birds poo on cars because the sun reflects and blinds the shit out of them. Oops!


A dog felt the end coming. The look in everyone’s eyes suggesting that it must have been out of its mind to be thinking of tomorrow. So, it went into the backyard and dug its grave. Paws pawing dirt. The yard was a mess. It stumbled upon the body of the last family pet. Wrapped in a trash bag, now with holes and maggots crawling out. That dead dog came to life and it left that fucken grave. Decayed and smelling, it stared at the dead dog as if it were already dead and walked away. The live dog crawled into that hole and died.


There are dog people and there are cat people. Fish people…ect. Not people that look like fish (with fins and gills or what not), but people that gravitate towards those certain animals as pets. The differences between. Some relationships won’t work because he is a dog person and she is a cat person. These non-human fucks getting in the way of things. Costing money. Smelling. Taking attention away from situations that need 100 percent of attention. Little assholes.


Though, this story is not about animals. It is about humans. Those beings that worship their own intelligence. Talking themselves up as if they were the greatest species ever. Idiots.


The trees moved and made that all too common rustling noise. Somewhere, a bird chirped. A door opened and closed. Alexia felt a bead of sweat run down her forehead. She was blindfolded and felt no comfort from an air conditioner. The air was wet and heavy with humidity. Scared. She tried to scream for help, but she had been gagged.


The door opened and closed. She wasn’t alone. Thinking to herself that she is going to die and how cliché to die after being kidnapped. She thought that death would have come in her sleep or drive by shooting with a bullet to the head. Her body lying motionless on the carpet. The world losing its color ever so slowly. The feeling of blood flowing from the back of her skull, then nothing.


To describe her would be describing no one special. She was about 5’6”, thin, blue eyes with long blonde hair. She hated her teeth. They weren’t Hollywood perfect. She started to save up to buy some porcelain teeth. Like the ones she seen on all of those infectant reality shows where they do the makeovers. Oh, how the human race has gotten so ugly…thank you plastic surgery! Giving everyone the chance to look like everyone else. She was far from ugly, but didn’t have enough confidence in herself to realize just how beautiful she really was. Most women don’t realize that much because most women are stupid! They are a rash and insensitive bunch. Most don’t have a sense of humor and rarely get the joke until someone beats the shit out of them. Then, they understand love.


The door opens and closes for the last time. Lost in her visual world of only black, she hears footsteps. Heavy breathing and whistling of no particular melody. Just note after note of some diminished scale vibrating sound waves. Reverberating off of the wall and into her eardrum. A light flicks on and she can see illumination from the bottom of the blindfold. She begins to muffle-scream. The footsteps get louder. She starts to cry.


She finds it ironic to be afraid of the unknown or impending death, but it is either scream and cry or piss herself. As the rappers would say with their inane slang: “I’m not going out like that! Nigga!” Growing up in the shadow of a ghetto sucks. It’s not o.k. to be stereotypically White. How uncool it must be! She stops her screaming and sits in silence. Waiting for torture or whatever. Maybe being carved up won’t be as bad as Hollywood makes it out to be. She wonders where she is. Who this lame asshole murderer is.


She feels fingers move across the nape of her neck. The blade of a knife gently making a figure 8. Her blindfold is removed. The room is square (typically) and there is a window to the left. Vertical blinds. A dense forest lies out of the window. The sun is going down. The walls are white. There is a fireplace and a fern. Nothing special. A man walks out in front of her holding that same knife from before. It is her ex-boyfriend, Sid. His eyes are puffy and he’s breathing heavily. Somehow she knew. Why? He moves slowly and closes the blinds. He slices his arm open, then hers. He speaks.


“The days move lightly. I can’t fucking deal with anyone and it’s your fucken fault. Everyone seems so fucking happy and I just haven’t felt that way since before you left. Unfortunately. I am not going to scream. I am going to lay this out for you. I talk first. Then you. Then I gag you back up. I talk again, then we both die. Don’t fucking fight it. This is my friend’s cabin. There are no neighbors. I have already mailed a letter to your parents with an apology for what is going to happen in the next 10-15 minutes. I’m not going to carve your face so that they can have an open casket. They’ll find us dead long before you lose your sheen. So don’t fucking worry.


“When I cut myself, it is because I am a masochist. There is something about the release thru pain. Often times I have to remind myself that it is pain I feel when I don’t feel pain. Hurting myself because I will never get over you. Cunt. The depth of your eyes mixed with the softness of your lips. The way you just up and left me stranded. Do you know that I tried to kill myself? I am pathetic. I can’t stand you avoiding me. Why wasn’t I good enough? I don’t even want to even try to make life work without you.


“Is that weird?

That someone could affect someone so deeply. It was the moment we met. There in Logic class. Forever ago. That was the only time I had ever felt accepted. Fuck you for taking that away from me. Every sound is amplified and I can’t get my headache to stop. You are constant in my mind.


“Everyone tells me to move on. To find someone new. There is no one better than you. I think back to what I did to break your heart and I can’t stand myself. All of those times I asked you and you replied ‘I don’t know’ or ‘ nothing” as if you were fucking stupid. Those secrets you kept from me for reasons…you didn’t want to hurt me or that you’d rather keep them forever and never tell anyone. Fuck you. I can’t handle watching everyone be happy with their relationships and know that I am a failure.” he said.


Sid walked over to the window and cracked it open. The blinds moved with the wind. He took a shot of whiskey and poured Alexia one. He took off her gag and she sat silent. Crying. Thinking of how pathetic he had become. It was her fault. Her secrets. He fed her the shot. They never chased whiskey. It tastes warm and slightly fruity…to the right tongues. He took the knife and stabbed his leg, then hers. She talked.


“Ouch! You fucking asshole. Do you want to know the reason I split up with you…it’s because you are a creepy, intense piece of shit! I don’t know what goes on in your brain and you could never articulate. Just crying in the corner. Fuck your artist’s pain. Nothing you have ever done has been unique. Even this. Tying me up. Killing me. You cliché fuck!


“You always wanted someone else. Like someone else possessed a quality I didn’t. You fell short too. You were the worst lay ever. You were always looking after older women. They know more because they are older, that’s it. They don’t have special powers. I can’t look back. The bad times outshined the good. Everything was always horrible between us.


“Remember that time when you broke up with me and then decided to learn to play the guitar just to write me that shitty song? Serenading me out my window like some fucking fairytale. Chivalry is dead and fuck you for waking me up. Douche.


“Sure. I had a good time with you. We dated for a long time. I just hate the way people look when they keep that same first love. It’s so innocent looking. True love is a joke. I’d rather be a lesbian then to fuck you again. You weren’t there for me all of the time. You didn’t know what an anxiety attack was until you “lost” me. I lost my mind with you. Without, I found myself.


“You think you are so smart, but you let your friends dictate your entire life. They left you because you are, like I said, an intense fuck that drove them away. You want so much out of life. More out of human beings, but there isn’t a deeper side to people. You need help.


“You are a loser!

I hate you!” she said.


Then, Alexia shut up forever. Sid put her gag back on and sliced her chest open, then his own. They waited in silence. He grabbed a chair and a shotgun and sat in front of her. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. He began to talk again.


“I am going to slice your wrists and then blow my brains out. I suppose that was always the deal with us…All I ever wanted was love. You are a typical woman. A man’s unconditional love will never be enough. Daddy warped your little mind into thinking that no one will ever be good enough for you. He won. I could never be your fantasy, and in that, I am just not good enough. I’m not good enough for another human being. I am not good enough for love. Being myself is being too intense. I am misunderstood because nobody wants to take the time to understand. Life was an abstract puzzle and the picture was of nothing.” he said.


Sid reached over and slit Alexia’s wrists. Long ways. She winced. He then sat back, put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. She didn’t look. She just died. The final thoughts of life are to be kept secret.




Immature Ineffectual

More apathy please!

Yes. Over here. The booth next to the window. Thanks. That’s great. Don’t smile.


The name I was given as a child was Dale Birmingham. Sheltered life. Didn’t go outside much. If you were to ask my folks, they’d say I was retarded. They raised me up as such. Not quite what sane people would have done, but my parents weren’t sane. Subsequently, I don’t really know what and or where to find that level playing field of sane normalcy…




My folks met in an insane asylum. The Beckford Institute. Oh, the stories they would tell me. Everyone was famous and the drugs were free. The halls of B.I. were co-ed. Unisex and bilateral. The walls covered in shimmery plates of tectonics and chandeliers weren’t necessarily available. Since the males and females were allowed to have an open community, the patients were ordered to wear chastity belts. The nursing staff helped with urination and defecation, but accidents happened. My dear ol’ Dad found keys to open himself up. He seen my Mom, undone her and they consummated in an empty room. Mom used to kill mice, bleed them on her tampons during her non-period to give the blood aspect a go.


After 3 months, Mom started to show. They heard from the television that drugs were bad for babies in utero, so they quit their meds together and soon escaped. They never told me how.


I was born in a barn near interstate 13. The 3 of us joined a traveling carnival. I’m not regular shaped by any means. I stayed in the trailer most of my formative years. The sun kinda bothers me. As do loud noises. Mom and Dad, they run some booths. Carnie games. I usually talk to my friend Alexander. He’s ah…invisible. Smart little boy he is. Apparently, if one mixes dust and crushed Pluto rocks and snorts them like cocaine, they become the anti-visible. He has promised to turn me like that when I turn 19. Always sometime in the distant future…




Sometimes at night, I’ll wander about the carnival and collect change. They call it ‘the-stupid-shithead-retard-jig’. I dance a bit. Get me some monies and wander off to the restaurant down the road. The waitresses seems to abhor me, but it’s just cuz I’m ugly. Crazy. Shallow cunts. Cut their tits off is what I’ll do. Save the boob and give it to some idiot at the carnival.

I should.

I will.

I must.

I need to pee.


I don’t have 2 hands. One is normal enough to write with, but the other, the right, comes to a pointed dagger-like nub. I can move stuff with it. One time, (and don’t tell anyone) a guy was raping this woman, I seen it. He told me to ‘fuck her with my gimp arm’. He threatened to kill us both if I didn’t, so I did. I jerked off later. It was smelly, but that’s how I lost my virginity.


So, I jigged my way up to $101 and I got me a hooker. She refused to let me fuck her with my gimp arm. Condomed boner. My wiener is small. 3 inches. I lasted just over 2 minutes and she didn’t seem to like it. As she was walking away, I took out my pocket knife and sliced open the back of her knee. She fell and I cut out her throat. Fucked her with my gimp arm, I did. When she died, I cried. What have I learned?! Even my tard-o parents didn’t teach me murderous rape. Funny thing is, I didn’t much care an hour or so later. We had been down by the river. I left her there and stumbled upon these kids smoking a cigarette. Didn’t smell like tobacco. They laughed and blew the smoke into my face. Wee!

My steps were heavy…




Apparently, I made their day. Everything did feel funny. The sounds of the carnival whirred around and the lights made my eyes dizzy. I rode the pirate ship 17 times. When I got back to the trailer, I looked in the bathroom mirror and laughed at my physical self. Goo. Those nice kids were right, I am drastically ugly-funny. Then, I took a poop and I really let it all go. Woosh. The water splashed my testicle.


Found out later what alcohol does.


My family and me never go out. They are paranoid. Hell, they were paranoid long before they had me. They don’t use their real names. They practice trepanation on the other carnies. A bunch of enlightened weirdoes. Some nights, after the carnival empties, we all get together and tell stories. The entire staff eats corndogs and drinks flat soda. Jerry, the guy that runs the ferris wheel, told us a story once.


When he was 23, a moose wandered into his home. He was living with an uncle. His uncle was asleep. The moose went into the bedroom and …well…deflowered his uncle’s butt hole. He died. The uncle did. Loss of blood. Jerry went berserk and ripped the moose apart with his bare hands. He pulled out the heart and drank the blood that poured from the organ.


The blood made him hallucinate. All these images were flashing and he started to chew off his fingers one by one. After 4 fingers were gone, he jumped out the window and ran until he passed out. He awoke in the forest and lived there for 7 years. One with the wilderness, pissing onto trees to mark his territory. He fought bears and lions and never lost. One day, a witch appeared out of the dusk and took Jerry home with her. She made him drink all these potions and he slept in the cellar. They consummated and birthed a child named Saultopax. The baby was never reported to the American government…




On the baby’s first birthday, they sacrificed it to the goddess Tieamo and the witch became immortal. She kicked Jerry out for eating all the bagels. She cursed him and that’s why he can’t pet cats anymore.


So, I sit in this restaurant waiting for the waitress to end her shift. I wonder if I’ll rape her. It takes a toll on my defective mind to think if it will be better before or after death. Never fucked a dead body. Don’t really want to. Not too horny. Pounded one out in the bathroom a few minutes ago.


I wish that I wasn’t all retarded. I’ve heard it be called antisocial. No. I don’t understand how the world works. Murdering these women isn’t instinctual, but it is a learned attribute. I just farted. People seem to notice. I order some fries and blame it on that asshole over there that just coughed.


In 3 days is my 19th birthday. I’m sure I can kill this waitress and soon invisible myself. Mom and Dad will miss me, but at least I won’t be ugly. I’ll just go around mutilating random people. Alexander says he’ll help me…




She fills up my coffee for the last time. She tells me she’s leaving soon, I can stay as long as I want and that someone else will take over for her. SOON! I heard her say to her coworker that she’s sick of her car. I’ll go wait in that car and kill her. Fuck her with my gimp arm and spill her blood for Tieamo.



Air Freshener in the Third Eye

Well hello there. My name is Constance. I am a very old woman indeed. I have aged 129 years on this crust. Good old crust. Gravity holding me to it. I slept on it many years ago.


I look around my home and I see the things that I’ve gained possession over in the last century and I choose to forget those first 29 years. My life really began at 30. Most people are ugly or they go thru an ugly stage. I had thought I was just ugly until that day when I woke up not ugly. An overnight success. The potion had worked.


The man had introduced himself as Renaldo. It was a fake. This guy wasn’t Mexican at all. I told him that I felt ugly. He said he had a potion to make me everlasting and beautiful. Okay. $20 and I’ve got the juice. We had sex. He pursued me. Hovered his lips over my lips and talked in tongues to me. He put his fingers up my skirt and inside of me.


I woke up the next morning and I was beautiful. I breathed deeply. On the nightstand was the empty potion bottle. From now on I would be perfect. Nailed to the inside of the front door was a note from him. He would never see me again. I still waited. All those years. Moments affected by the slow clicking of temperature.


Tomorrow’s disasters.

I don’t want to talk about yesterday.


Renaldo died 43 years ago. When I went to his grave, I put my finger in my vagina and wiped it on his headstone. I wanted to drink his blood again.


Who really enjoys the sun anyway? Not me. I sleep during the day. Everything is slow at night. Most people are sleeping or in the house for the night. It is easy to hop on the interstate and find some remote place away from the city. Those streets are deserted and the people sleep in complete silence. Nothing is stirring, save for me. City quiet isn’t this quiet. I bet it pisses them off.


Not that they would do anything. I haven’t aged. I look 30. I still get carded at liquor stores. I do. I have to get a fake ID every 10 years or so. A new identity. For now, I’m Constance.


After Renaldo died, I became a lesbian. It’s cool. There is a stereotype that goes around. Folklore. It’s all true unless it involves us dikes getting hurt. The fags wouldn’t allow it. I lick pussy like I want it to be licked. They show me new passion.


Sure, there was a point when I was dating this guy that wanted to suck my blood. I said no. A pinprick? Okay. I had to return the favor. Like tasting salt. Also, people at 3:47am are far more accepting. No matter what state of mind I’m in, I’ll never get kicked out of a coney island or grocery store. Drunk from a bar. Stoned from the coffee house. Other.


My face has contorted slightly over the last 99 years. My posture has shifted. I was once named Shamrock. That was my first lesbian name. I was due to get my new ID when Renaldo died. 3 weeks later, I had a pierced tongue and a cleaner crotch than ever. People look at me weird, but I don’t go out much. I have all that crazy electronic shit advertised on television. Plasma televisions. Cameras. Computers. Air conditioners. I’ve got it all. I own some land.


I learned karate from my 13th girlfriend. I defend against rapists. Sure, I had to use it once. I was going thru the park and some guy said some lewd things to me. Ignoring him, I took off west; he caught up with me and shoved me to the ground. He wrestled me to a pinned position. I kicked him in the back of his head. He fell over and I did some black belt shit to him. In my pocket was a knife that I used to cut off his penis. I didn’t keep it…I threw it into the river. Another reason to choose muff. It can’t physically hurt you. Hair can get rough at times, but that’s it.


It’s like an acquired taste. Pun intended. Knowing that the biggest release is when her tongue finds me. Dildos are fun but they are just a reminder of men. I don’t even care about the internal pleasure. My insides are inside for a reason. Lick me until I don’t taste anymore. We’ll relax. I’ll do her. By then, I’m flavorful again.


I fear that I may die soon. How do I not run into those people I used to know? I’ll travel to the corners of this country trying to be something new. Maybe I regret not dying young and ugly. People all take on a common shape. I’m not permanent to anyone. The potion rendered me barren. I can’t have babies. Especially without dicks and messy sperm. Once, I accepted the taste of sperm. Necessary. Obligations. Now, I accept the taste of pussy.


For a decade, I was named Erin. I lived with this guy that had a kid from a previous relationship. I hate kids. Don’t remember my childhood much. Flashes of this or that. A swing set and an overturned boat. Climbing trees. At the end of that decade, he killed himself and his kid. He went crazy. Drawing things on himself. Cutting lines into his hands. Very violent. Masochistic. The murder was heinous. The body was cut in half with an ax. All the insides fell out. He then took a grenade form his closet, put it to his head in his right hand and pulled the pin with his left. A moment later, there wasn’t much left of him. I wasn’t home. I was at a part time job.


Disappearing after that was the best choice. I heard from his family what happened. They phoned me at work and I instantly split. Fuck questions. Fuck that! I took off to the mountains for some time. Wrote a book and burnt it the night I left. The fire was green and from the smoke came a tiny chupacabra. Garcian was his name and he led me to the far off land of Phefento. It was there where I felt how cold the sun could be.


I’d love to describe it to you, but my imagination means more than what it was. Encountering senseless acts of kindness and seeing nothing but the type of scumbag that grew out of that kid. Me. Why are some people better than others? Hard to say. Children balance beam the parking blocks for hundreds of feet. Their deserted days in the park with the early spring wind cool against their face. Some would choose to wear coats. A thin jacket. Others just let their beer bellies hang out.


My skin dries out this time of year. People notice and cough. Which is fine. Have I ever jogged around a track? No. Going in circles is counter-productive. It only proves hidden ignorance.


I wish I could walk thru walls. They should strip the Earth of buildings and homes. Let people live amongst the land. Billions of people wandering. Many would die, but there are far too many people anyway.


Those winds…they push harder than imagined. They take their time. Down the way, the trees start to move and then my hair gets blown all around. Alone and completely out dated. Sitting in the wrong chair. Opening. Aluminum. It fizzles out. The big picture is replaced by a mirror and the shape shifting zeros become visible. If I look behind me, they’ll disappear. What could they want from me? Looking in that mirror, I forget the world I’m supposedly in and focus on the dimension where they do. Now on the hunt for a shape shifting zero. Learn its ways and language and order it to lick my pussy.


I was with this woman once and she told me that she put a bomb in a school. She wired it so that it wouldn’t explode. She never wanted to physically hurt those high-schoolers. It was there for months. Waiting for a fire leaves a ton of time to contemplate.


It was on the news. Apparently the children were led into a church of Satan and kept quiet. To be honest, the public adored the idea. Separate church and state. State goes last. Degenerate surviving the summer…where was I?


Funny part is that she didn’t tell me until the day she called in the bomb threat. She was eating me out while she told me. I was too close to cumming; I had to go along with it. Squirt. All was so quiet and far away. Ruined by a fragmented selection of representatives. I always liked having a pretty woman down there. If I could only be that ugly. It’s a curse it is. It is a curse…


…from the devil himself. Worse than pop-country music. One could make music, but never a difference in those random songs written for wives and girlfriends and strippers; mix in dumb luck and a catchy enough melody. That is the type of song I want on the radio when bent over the sink with a dick deep inside of me. Real or fake, it is a weapon that dispenses the dreaded queef. Qweef. It was on a building, spray painted QUIEF. Like quiet with an f. Is there a proper spelling?


I want to go into space…maybe. The atmosphere would fuck with the curse and I’ll age. My bones will shrink and I’ll molt from this beautiful carcass. I’ll be then a midget that looks like a wizard of old. Boots. Beard. Liposuctioned abdomen. Reconstructed nose. Still very, very ugly by personality standards.


Funny thing is, too, that each decade brings these wondrous people. Interesting people are few and far between. There were the most open minded fuckers. I could visit them now. Explain it to them. I’m Nyria from 40 years ago. How’s it going? No. I don’t age. Don’t be afraid. No, I’m not the devil, but I can take you to him.


What if it did happen?

What if I needed to know?


Nothing is better than children’s cartoons. Full of drug references and no matter what anyone does, it will be like that forever. Those big eyes, bloodshot and dying. Over a cliff. Knife in the back. Next thing I knew, my old friend was dead in front of me. Someone is out looking for me right now.


I can’t let it get to me. When everything is too much, turn on lounge music. All the fags are doing it and they’re bound to be right about something every once and a while. Not big band, but lounge.


And there are moments when the first word of a 2 word sentence comes out mute. Did I say fuck you? Is that what you’re thinking? That you want to put your dick in my pussy because when I walked away my ass wiggled because you made my pussy wet? Well then, stranger! Take a break right now and rail me quickly. I’m clean. Don’t use a condom.

I’ve been there.

I’ve been there.

Did I learn anything? Rarely. I know what it feels like to have that person tonguing my crotch. Stretching my pussy. It goes back. Squirt.


Everyone is different. Similarities are more like restrictions. A bad idea may work on bad people. I’ve found that what people want to do to fulfill their lives isn’t what I want at all. Derivative. I’ve had all those fancy things and I don’t seem to find the glitter all that cool. Pass the blame then take another’s. It is the best thing to do in any situation.


One might think that I need a really good friend. Someone permanent. I’m sure any psychologist would agree. We all want the impossible to appear and happen. Visualize and do something about the hallucinations. Please. I’m begging you.



Worthless twat. I write this to you, my crotch. You are a vagina and I love you. Blow you a kiss. Snuggle next to a fire with a small vibrator. Whirrrr. Squirt. Hm.


The Opposite Side Presides


The internet connection is slower than frozen molasses. Sound waves find their way to every corner of the house and Dan couldn’t be happier. Often, he finds himself paranoid of the noises. It is all meant to scare him. The shadows in the darkness. Phantoms screaming his name. There in the fetal position, the corner of his room is cold.


The world is flat. Columbus was and NASA is wrong. It is like a sheet of paper with an opposite side.


There on the other side, everything is completely the same but unalike in every other way. The physical landscape is normal. The skies are still blue. Humans still walk on their feet but belief structures are different. Space beings are welcome. They float about unable to touch the land. If they do, they burst into a fireball. Dinosaurs used to eat the Thromb. They kinda look like floating brains. Hearty meals.


Homes are all one story and nobody works. Maybe it is still primitive in that sense. Parenting is limited to one child. See, they learn from the other side’s mistakes. Overpopulation causes economic crisis and the only release is orgasms. Eliminate money and a utopia can be achieved. The land is plush and everyone flourishes wildly optimistic. Nobody is obese. Everyone gets along. The birds sing 5 part harmonies and electricity doesn’t exist at all.




Acrid. The smell was absolutely acrid back on Dan’s side of the world. He was driving around stoned and a skunk let its inner demons go. The outside was pungent and it made it into his car. Damn. He was trying to get away from his crazy ex girlfriend. Not that she was stalking him, there just exists a line where women can latch on and never let go. Move on. The past is over.


It is a fucked up situation knowing that women can make a scene in a public place and she would blame it on him and get away with it because a woman’s side is always a bit more brutally acceptable. Also, a professional woman can go insane, get packed away into an asylum and come out to an accepting world weeks later.


Mental institutions are where people go when involuntary thought goes into the realm of where people refuse to go. Religion holds things at a distance. Most people don’t want to talk about anything. Even discussing the brutal realities of the world can get to the point of ‘way too far’. People die but it isn’t okay to talk about their once bleeding wounds. One could remove a cadaver’s brain and fill the cavity with horse sperm, but it is unacceptable to talk about it with a pregnant woman present. Some senses of humor are laden with sarcasm that nobody understands. That is where people draw the line of sanity…when it isn’t funny to anyone but a Satanist. And fuck it. They laugh at Dan’s jokes. Racist jokes are inappropriate but a skinhead will laugh and egg him on.


They were at a coffee house all toked out and she told him to calm down or she’d leave him there because he was paranoid. That was the moment he knew that he couldn’t ever talk to her again. People change after they start taking anti-depressants, mood elevators and assorted herbal supplements. Imagine dealing with the idea that you are too intense for regular people. Then again, if you told anyone that they are regular and close mindedly boring, you are the insensitive asshole that needs meds.

It is like fucking someone new. That original sexual peak cannot be reached. It isn’t the same. Pussy feels like pussy, but they all feel and taste a bit different. Sex, among other things, is a conscious perception. Being exposed in front of someone opens up a vulnerability. Sharing that is sacred to some.


The meds calmed her thought. She thought slower. Her IQ went down 13 points. When a song would slow down, she would drive slower. And it was her words that called him unstable. True paranoia sets in when life is no longer able to be controlled. Relax and act like someone else for an hour until the waitress stops bringing fresh coffee. Dan looked at her and doubted her credibility. Maybe she had been lying all along. Women rarely get to have their fantasy but they hate being alone. Women are somewhat weaker than men. Maybe it is the way they are raised. Women also can’t handle a guy being smarter than them. That is where their psychoanalytical voodoo comes into play. Prove her ignorant and wind up institutionalized.


He found himself restless. Just sitting there listening to her gab. Mindless crap. Inane verses. Deep small talk. He knew he had a gram in his car, but she had driven. His car was on the bad side of town. Surely, if he was to tell her off she would drive off without him, break his windows out and never step into Wayne County again. He couldn’t blame her without physical evidence. She had coincidence on her side.


He said he would pay. They had ordered an appetizer platter. She threatened to get dessert at his expense. Disposable income was scarce but paying for a broken window was more expensive than a $4 brownie with ice cream. The bill ended up being around $16. A few dollars for a tip and all was okay. He had that gram.


Sex is a weapon. Never owe someone an orgasm. Never give someone something unless it is returned then. It is like borrowing physicality. Most people can get themselves off, but that is too predictable. It is better when someone else does it. Concentrate then spooge. Masturbation is a boring necessity. Obligations to one’s genitals are very important.


Finally, coffee ended. She drove horribly all the way back to his car. They smoked more on the way. Goodbye psycho. No more. Regain composure and a figurative grasp on life. Let the bad memories go and remember her for what she was when she wasn’t hurt enough to put him away. She could have lied about rape. Being under the influence of illegal drugs makes a conscious perception illegal. He would have been screened and never believed.


Dan couldn’t think of how to corner he. He didn’t have to. Out in the darkest night, smoking a bowl alone…killing those brain cells that she had activated. Cunt.




Some superstitious bullshit too. It was warm and stuffy. When Dan got home he saw her sunglasses on the couch. Some of those trendy knock-offs. Set them on the table and manifest some audio screaming only a few feet away. Move the sunglasses to the counter and down a few shots of whiskey. Forget. Forget.


There was a bunch of her shit everywhere. Peak into the dark. The silliest notions apply with a water based adhesive. On the other side, the drugs aren’t needed. No one falls into temptations loving arms. There is nothing sour to forget. Embarrassment means nothing. Escape to where?


It is a diddly-squat contest and nobody is either winning or losing. Watch him drink more. With no one to gauge how fucked up the drugs are making him, he spins out of control. Deeper. A bit more twisted. He becomes lethargic. Never far enough from what haunts him because it is reality that scares him the most. It is the containment of Earth. Thought bounces off of the clouds and back down. Walls remind him of the same stupid shit from day to day. Egg timers wind down. The clock is steady ticking away…ever slowing with a battery wearing out.


She is a liar. She made up so much. Sirens begin to blare. An ambulance shoots down the street. Someone off saving a life that wanted to die anyway.


Pretty soon she’ll act as if she doesn’t know him. This will be a good thing. Maybe we all choose to do the wrong thing from time to time. Alcohol sustains a weed buzz. Pot hits hard, then tapers off. Alcohol comes on slow and snowballs. Drunk. Drunk. Klunkety dunk and another car goes down the street. The best thing for weed is wine. Everyone becomes happy and slow.




Dan woke up in a stooper. Groggy. What had last night been about? No way to know really. Go to the kitchen and start a pot of coffee. A quick shower to wash away the sleep in his eyes and the stench of pot and alcohol. He was still a bit drunk. 5 hours of sleep doesn’t take it all away. Maybe one day he’ll wake up and be older. Somewhere beyond childish attributes and lover’s quarrels.


Shut the water off and stand in front of the mirror. In the morning, his back is stretched out. His body is slender against the wall. By the end of the day he will be a bit shorter and his body will be stocky. Fuck. It is the stresses of life that need to be endured. If a person doesn’t have life figured out by the end of high school, life gets fucked up. Floating aimlessly from temporary solution to temporary solution. The coffee fills the cup the same way the aroma fills the air.


He steps into his walk-in closet and finds his ex with a noose around her neck. Her face is blue like a vinyl restaurant booth seat and her eyes are open. The whites are full of broken blood vessels. Her visage adorns a frown.


Most places shut down after so long. Since Dan’s head is a place, it shuts down. How could anyone cope with such a tragedy? He touched her and she began to sway. To and fro. Spinning slowly. On her back is a note. It was from her.




Babe. This really isn’t me. I made this just to scare you. Don’t get any smart ideas, I put an electric pencil sharpener where the vag should be. You are such a prick. Life is like chess. It’s your move. You have 24 hours.






Needless to say, Dan was ultra pissed and relieved at the same time. His friends told him in the beginning that she was nuts-o. The problem with friends is that they speak from the realm of envy. Every guy wants a woman that is a bit demented. Someone bold enough to try anal sex. She’ll lie and say that she likes it. Sacrifices will be made just to spooge in a butt hole. Little did he know it would lead to this.


Instead of playing her game, he leaves it be. Even going along with a sadistic game is the same as dating. Cope and move on. He goes to work at 2pm, out at 10.


Outside, the night air is crisp and silent. Clouds move across the moon and it’s darker than the previous night. His friend Albert is having a small party…good thing too. Party store equals a couple bottles of wine and a pint of whatever he wants. Those fucking clerks can be cool sometimes. Bullshitting and cussing at customers.


Back in the car, he rolls a joint and smokes it to himself. He’s got ¾ tank of gas and an hour to kill while going up and the music is wonderful. Always Death Metal. Fucking dead people and slaughtering orphans. Pull onto a side street and drink a bottle of wine real quick to kill the cotton mouth. Toss the bottle out the window.


He arrives at Albert’s and it’s already underway. Everyone is gambling at the table. Poker. So what if popular trends have made gambling cool again? Fuck Texas hold-em. Just regular poker. Some people are naked, but that is okay. Someone is fucking someone else loudly in a back room, so Dan turns up the music and downs the pint of whatever it was that he bought. Phil brought 7 random sluts, so the sex thing is covered. Fuck someone else and 2 of her friends. Those chicks fuck for a release. All things are eternal secrets. Destination: impregnate as many cunts as possible.




Dan wakes up in Albert’s back yard next to an inflatable woman. Fucking jokesters. A photograph lays on the grass nest to him. The caption reads LOVEBIRDS. A still of him and the pop-star slut made of plastic. Something to tell the grandchildren in a few decades.


Albert’s gone to work, so Dan takes off back home. His day off from his stupid job. Relax. Watch movies and play guitar all damn day. He pulls up into the driveway and shuts the car off. Check the mail to find a letter from his ex.




Babe. You didn’t play your turn. I waited up all night for you, but nothing. Hell, you’re boring. I left something in your trunk. You shouldn’t throw wine bottles out the window. I sat down the street from Albert’s and wrote in my journal about you. It’s your turn again.






It wasn’t going to end. Such a psychopathic asshole she was. All Dan wanted was to have a semi-regular life, but no. Fuck no. He had to end up with the most idiotic skank ever. Whore! He took a dump and then a shower. Beer shits are the worst.


In his trunk was a dismembered cat. Who’s cat? Her mom’s cat. Good. Very fucking good. Pretend suicide. Feline massacre. What’s next? Blood stains…it really does. Dig a hole in the back yard and deposit the lifeless thing into the hole. Say a few words and decide to still not play her game. The sun was hot and heavy.


By now, he was pissed. He called Frank and told him what was going on. Frank came over and they smoke a fatty. All things were figured out after that. Wait and watch. She would show up that night. They would videotape her doing something fucked up and give it the authorities. They’d put her into a woman’s prison where some dike would chew on her pussy. To hell with insane women.


Night fell and like clockwork, she came down the road on a horse wielding sword. Video was rolling as the children came from their homes to pet the horse. These kids were all beheaded by her sword. The authorities showed up and shot her 13 times. She lived and was put into prison. The horse was put into a box and shipped to Indonesia where it was melted down into grass feed. The skull was sent back to a museum in New York City. The tale of the psychotic woman stretched to all corners of the world. Dan and his friends were relieved. The cat was gone. The dummy was gone and the best part was that the story was good enough to score them free drugs from their dealer.


66. Sixty-six miles to find a restaurant to sit and have a cup of coffee. Dan needed to get away. He was unfocused and felt slightly deranged. Being reckless takes a toll on a person. Their eyes get sunken in and they look older than they are. Accelerated thought bursts and sleepy lows. Don’t crash or the buzz goes away. He had a book with him about urban legends. It was a quarter passed midnight.


He was clear headed. It had been a week since the tragedy with his ex and it was good to get away. It was his 4th book in a week. Away from the busy life of living outside a major city, the coffee tasted better. It was real quiet. Hell, even the music was set on low.


After 2 cups of coffee and 5 chapters, he looked up to see his ex sitting across from him. A hallucination? A ghost? No. She explained that the murderous equestrian was yet another fake. Something she engineered. A farce. The dead kids were real.


EX: Why didn’t you want to play chess with me?

DAN: Seemed like a childish game.

EX: All games are childish.

DAN: What is with the pentagram necklace? You never wore it before.

EX: You know…

DAN: …well. So, are you going to fuck with me forever or are you done now?

EX: It ends tonight.

DAN: It is 1:13am.

EX: Sure is. I put LSD in your coffee. When we met, I was married. Am married. He’s in prison until this afternoon. He is going to kill you.

DAN: Fuck! Now what?

EX: Now we run away. That or I’ll leave you here and you’ll compose yourself long enough to walk it to a friend’s house to ride out the tide. I assure you, he will find you.

DAN: I bet he’s real protective of you.

EX: Sure is. He knows how you came in my pussy and licked my ass. I told him…on the phone.

DAN: So, where are we going?

EX: Wyoming.

DAN: What is in Wyoming?

EX: A new life. I love you.


In that instant, Dan knew that he was trapped. Either love her or die. His friends wouldn’t deal with another lonely binge. No telling how much LSD she gave him. He returned the loving words and drank the rest of his coffee. She paid the bill and they headed out. No more stupid life in Michigan. He had no more control over his life than an infant did. Feeling everything begin to pull inward. His last mate would be a psychotic genius hell-bent on ruining his life. Either play along or kill her. What if this body was a copy also? A remote controlled…




The road whirred like an out of control vibrator. The hour was fast approaching. Dan sat silent in the passenger seat, unable to find reality. He had made a conscious decision to not speak. What could he say to change his situation? Nothing.


His ex gabbed for hours.

She went on about losing grip on reality. Those nights where her parents would argue with her for hours about the complexities of life. How money was everything. Even if everything is okay in the future, that doesn’t mean anything will ever be okay in the present. She had punched her mom in the face for being an unruly cunt.


Being ineffective had no bearing on life. What one person knows life to be isn’t at all how it feels for anyone else. Involuntary superstitions. Idiosyncrasies. What for those times when she had felt so aged, but never to anyone else? She was still that little girl to her family. Age limits wisdom thresholds. Most assume that the average person is just that. Average. A wonderful thing to be for those that are. Average implies that someone, or a group of someones, is just plain better than most people. Some people in their mid 20s are smarter than 41 year old regular people, but nobody can assume that a stranger is one of those smarties. The general public is sure that college is where to go. Personally, she was sick of college ideologies.


If the business world is competitive, then so is college. Everyone trying to outdo one another. Knowing so much to put themselves on that level of “more qualified”. Everyone wants a solid career since they have to have one. Have. And if college is so great, then why do people spaz out and get all reclusive because of it? That isn’t healthy. Mental strains. Therefore, college is counter-productive.


Is any kind of learning healthy? Humans are simple creatures that have made themselves complex. Conscious evolution is fucking things up. Survival of the fittest grades on a curve that tapers off into black holes and people question their purpose because they have to. Have. Just because she feels a certain way inside doesn’t mean anyone will recognize her as how she feels. Self esteem is deeply rooted in one’s perception of itself and everyone wants to be something else. Keep in mind the unspoken side of every single aspect to human culture.


Ignorance plus bias makes people into assholes. Assholes spread their poor, trite moods which upset other people. Everyday there is so much pressure on people. Pressure not worth speaking of. It’s fucked up to know that nobody will ever see hers. She will bite her tongue and not say what needs to be said. Even the brightest mind is ignorant to something. Many things. Creativity leaves everything endless. Nobody knows the true depth of anything. Scratch the surface. Find out what needs to be known. Turn away and never learn anything else on that subject.


A scientist could study a flower for months. Data could pile up, but once said scientist stops, that flower still grows. Changes. Blooms into something beautiful…but that flower will still remain ugly to someone. She hates hollyhocks.


The night wore on into the day. Dan said nothing. After the sun came up, his ex transformed into a miniature dragon and flew out of the window. It wasn’t her at all. Yet another manufactured her. Before he realized that he had to drive the car, it careened off a bridge into some river. He felt nothing as the car free-fell into the air. It hit the water and his head smacked off of the windshield. His skull opened up and he bled to death before the car sank.


If a person looks closely into the sun, they will see that miniature dragon. It never grows. Its brain doesn’t develop any further. Its existence is as pointless as all others and it couldn’t be happier.


No Dancing Alligators

Standing at the show, I was surprised to see such a meager turnout. The band played. People danced. Smiles all around…there were only a dozen or so people in the crowd. Everyone knows that the band gets paid for their draw and all expect a signed band to pack clubs and bars…they don’t. For the fan, it’s cool because it’s more intimate. Every concert leaves something worth remembering. Then again, bands can’t tour without money.

Was I surprised that when I talked to the drummer after the show that he was moody? Naw. Was I surprised when he shoved my arm away after we shook hands? Yeah. It kinda hurt my feelings. I had met him before the show and he seemed like an alright guy. He had a sense of humor. Distrusting my initial reaction, I went to shake his hand again. (Perhaps he was only joking!) Nope. He slapped my right hand away…ranted to the trumpet player about the poor turnout.


As if my heart isn’t already collapsing! I mean, all the stories from childhood about a prosperous life have been squashed by The Great Recession. Everyone’s luck is running out. The wise are the biggest cynics of them all. Generation Apathy followed Generation X and nothing has come yet to end all the passivity and misplaced aggression. Natural Selection has led me to understand that I come from the genetically-good-enough and since life is a game, someone is bound to lose. All have their justifications for failure, especially when it’s someone else’s. It’s luck…luck leaves my choices outside of volitional sequence. Is anyone truly pathetic or is it that, at some point, one refuses to see any silver lining? Despite personal interests, no one is at peace with themselves except the mystics. Society has divided itself into gangs, cults, sects, political parties…and for what? Acceptance…it must be.


I dunno. There is just so much to rationalize these days and logicians are the pedantic-few-and-far-between. Reality has become what? Cops sit around waiting to fine anyone…under an electronic billboard that reads: “Fall is here, Don’t veer for deer.” Just hit them. Or is it that they are suggesting that people don’t hit them? Just in case some retard-asshole starts driving toward a deer enjoying nature ruined by human over-evolution, the tard will remember that sign and those 2 cops…don’t hit the deer…just hunt them. (Play with guns?)

I’m thinking that evolutionary theories I’ve read are incomplete. Wouldn’t it be a staggering thing for multi-cellular organisms to reduce to single-cellular? We live life preparing for death and decomposition leaves our bodies depreciating. A pedantic-few-and-far-between would go on about how my opinions are ill-begotten because I lack a college degree…

So, I leave the concert feeling horrible. My favorite band has let me down. I shouldn’t blame all 6 members, but I do.

Walking to my automobile, I see a Ska show going on in a parking lot so I walk over. There are more people in the crowd than the show before and this band doesn’t have a record deal. Either way, I just don’t fucking care…like some jaded record producer that butt-fucks metronomes. I’m probably depressed. (Shit.) Instead of joining the crowd, I lie on the ground and scream at a parking block because I know no one can hear my screams over the music.

No one notices.

2 pillows lay next to me. Those cylindrical ones that futons have…I grab them and journey to my automobile. It should have been a couple blocks away, but when I turn the corner, I’m no longer in the same city. Did I turn wrong? Eh….all I know is that I’m in a decrepit ghetto and the pillows are wanting to float away as if filled with helium or magnetically opposed to the surface of Earth.

Roaming the ghetto I go! (Not lazing around some shitty coney island where the superficially artistic go to procrastinate.) Turn a corner. Turn another corner. A dead end. Maze. Labyrinth. Eyes watching thru slits in the walls that are squeezing together. Crushing me to death after I toss the pillows to a little girl. She runs off.




Hiding in the Bush


Divisible by four.

Tangent to the reality that he once felt when all was regular and broken dishes collided with a nun’s stretched asshole. Skipping a few memories of her for her own party. She called him. He was taking a nap…trying to forget the last beginning of his life. Living inside out and beginning to remember all of those reasons that he got rid of her in the first fucken place. The way she talked. Unneeded pressure from every angle that fornicated with right angles and/or squares. Not rectangles. He did enjoy holding her. Her name was Michelle. His was Trevor. They fucked and aborted a fetus. Oh well!


The past was theirs.

She was short. Short hair. Wild eyeballs that always made him feel complete. She had big titts and gave great head. He was tall and slender. Well hung, but not a monster. An attractive build. They were both addicted to nicotine and caffeine. Experimentations with illegal substances and enough regret to not give a fuck about anything but each other. Their own cliché modern love story. A wall that separated lifestyles. It wasn’t about what they thought they knew or didn’t know. They would disappear for days on end and nobody thought them to be magic. Crippling doubt and intangible numbers.


All of their sexual endeavors.

Trying all of those things that people said were disgusting. Except for shitting. Shitting on each other just seems to be dumb. (To each their own…) A willow tree with leaning limbs covered in leaves, branches and a few insects. Being part of a common ecosystem. Their hometown. A place where the roads are patched but never fixed. Meals gone unfinished. Perverts walked the street and they rarely went to school. Why? School only teaches those essential answers to trivia questions and how to become a diploma’d social idiot with moronic bias and sweat. Red liquid and teardrops.


They would get stoned and sit at the park. Swinging for hours. Talking. Talking of whatever they could think of, whether or not it was important. Existential ennui. Apathetic resentment. The functionality of masochism…and all the rest. Their parents hated each other. They met once and argued. Blood and tears. Fighting over religion and personal disgust. Never giving a fuck about their feelings. That lesson of love. How love isn’t good enough if opposing religions are involved. A new idea was never meant to flourish. So they ran away. He was lucky enough to get a shitty job. Unemployment is so bad. Who cares She is a waitress. Still. You can’t make love work if no one believes in you. That is the lesson from God.


They were at a party once and he broke a guy’s nose over her. He was running his mouth. He fucking groped her. Trevor came unglued. Scared the fuck out of everyone. That was the night they conceived their soon to be aborted fetus of a child. Old people walk slowly and won’t tell anyone why. They called their baby Abbie. They both knew it was a girl. They talked about her as if she wasn’t pulpified and thrown away. Like that soldier that gets blown up fighting another useless war. The parents never accept him being gone. No proper funeral. Words could never explain. Subterranean idealism and fucked up references. Tempo.

Michelle liked to be fucked in the ass.

She never understood what the big fucking deal was. It made her cum so hard. She never sucked the shit off his dick, but he would lick her ass right after. That is the only part he will miss…that is a lie. Deep down he will always miss her eyes. The way they danced unintelligible. Her presence. Tempted servitude. S+M. Role playing. His reason not to drag a far too heavy razor blade across his wrist and bleed until enlightened. Death. Not that she didn’t want to die too…their unexplainable pasts. They wanted to live in a different life. One where it was o.k. just to be themselves and not be ridiculed by every passing stranger unable to keep their fucking mouths shut. Always interfering.


Projectile vomiting.

There was a night when Trevor got too fucked up. Losing consciousness. Coming in and out. He thought he was going to die. Maybe death comes when you can’t convince yourself that you will live. When reality moves that far out of comprehension. Quietly. He was cold and sweating. Curled up in the fetal position crying uncontrollable. To this day he couldn’t tell you why. Michelle never understood. She threatened to leave him if he didn’t go talk to a therapist that he couldn’t afford. The next night is when he broke that guy’s nose. That asshole.


There was this one time when she blew him in a parking lot of a used car place. He didn’t get to cum because the sales person seen and threatened to call the cops. After so long, being star-crossed was too much. They broke up on a Tuesday and he never looked back. She moved back home and her parents never asked why. They fucken hated Trevor and were glad to have their child back. Lousy fuckers. It is that way of parental thinking. They pushed her away, then convinced her that it was her fault that life got so fucked up. The past is just that. No matter how much they felt or how tightly they held each other, love wasn’t good enough for the society of back then. Written in the future about a past that has yet to a happen. Nonsensical ideas leading to something far greater and a story that should go untold. Life is a game.


Rocks and roll over.

A new piece of eye candy to think about fucking. Lose everything for someone. Do it. The juke box turns tunes and everything was discontented. Trevor got a call the other day from Michelle. Her parents had left town and she was having a get together at her house. Fuckers! He thought about it and told her maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he could fuck her again? Maybe she could fuck him again? Lost in a world where they could be themselves again for one more night. Asshole drivers pist about a traffic jam. Why are all of these people driving too? Overpopulation! They aborted Abbie as a sociological experiment. To feel that loss. Population control. They couldn’t understand why to bring up a child in what America has turned into. It’s no longer a land of great opportunity or peace.


She sat around for hours wondering if she could get up the nerve to call him. A polite invite. A maybe so. If you will. Love doesn’t go away. Nothing can change that feeling. Cheaters. Liars. Asshole cops. Not even the idea of a fortunate savior. Penetration. Threesomes. Everything empties when she enters any room. Restaurants. Gymnasiums. Public bathrooms. She sees ghosts and knows that she is psychic. 3 colors arranged in an eye catching way. Temperature changes. Mental congestion leading to premature stroke or female masturbation. She lays around thinking of all those times he fucked her harder than life itself.


Trevor arrived after 11p.m.

Walking thru that gate gave him a small anxiety attack. Remembering that one time when Michelle climbed out the window and they took off for 3 days. They went to a place where they couldn’t think. Bingeing. The music is too fucking loud. That is a party for you! All these fucken people doing things that people do when they are drunk. Conversations gone on too long and becoming incoherent. Slurred. Guys ignoring women. Women getting drunk enough to lose all self-respect. Fucking someone they don’t even like. It’s better than going back to an empty hotel room alone. Right? Her friends are the type that don’t smoke weed. Everyone convinced that it makes a person stupid. These people that get drunk and puke. Driving inebriated. Constant misspellings. Bad fucken ideas. Pushing fear far away. That one time in a party store that was being held up where they felt that fear in each other’s eyes and kissed for the first time. The greatest hits from the 50’s. Why Michelle throws these theme parties is beyond him. She always has. It’s like a high school box social. Except with E and K, whippets, acid, and mescaline. Then she sees him. She takes him behind the garage where they are alone enough to fuck for the first time again. Kissing. Oral sex. Dick. Pussy. No words. Just the beginning of another night ending. Fast and often. Smoking a joint afterward to distance themselves from everybody.


They caught up on old times.

Everything that happened since they split up. Then she started to annoy him…again. She always wants to argue. He wanted to go talk to his friends. That’s how couples are. They love not getting along. Themselves changing tire pressure. A magnificent ride thru space time collapsing and everyone else getting sucked into a black hole. Women that want to be sluts and men who like to fuck them. Waitresses that think it appropriate to only let him have one fucking cup of coffee. The sound stops. Save. He rolls a joint and smokes it alone in his car. It was a mistake to come to this shitty party. Everyone is so lethargic and boring. Inane conversations.


He sits there. Climbing higher. Returns to the party. Michelle is in the room fucking some guy named Rob. Or so he hears. He doesn’t know why, but it hurts his feelings. Fuck it, right?!? The world is a fuzzy blur. He ate a vicodin. It makes the world smooth. Drinking. Stoned. What the fuck is going on? He’s sitting in a bedroom…on the floor. Wanting to pass out because everyone is acting like stupid fucking assholes. Then, a woman that must have been in her mid 30’s walks in wearing nothing but a thong. She sits on the couch and tells Trevor to join her. Older women have this way of controlling him. He is only 23. She tells him to kiss her. They fuck.


There in that darkened room.

The only light coming from the lava lamp with its proof of convection and the trippy way the colors move on the wall. She has a killer body. He doesn’t know her name and when he asks…she says nothing. She started out on top. Grinding away. Older women love to be in charge. Slapping him hard across the face. He doesn’t feel anything. Save for her soft insides making him harder and covered in her. Vaginas are self lubricating. She cums. Twice. She climbs off of him and gives him head. No condoms are ever used. Why? She swallows him whole. Sucking every last bit of cum from his dick. There are no emotions in that room. She orders him to lick her pussy. Older women are far more direct. So, he does. His tongue moving up and down. Pushing hard, licking slowly. She is grinding her crotch in his face. Moaning. Who hears noise when you are that fucked up? He doesn’t know what she is on. Probably E. It feels like hours. Hours of just licking pussy. She cums (?) times. Then, again, she orders him around. He climbs up onto the bed and slides inside of her. Slowly moving in and out. Sucking her nipples. Caressing her ass. So many orgasms. Why count? People walk in unnoticed. Others are fucking in the same room. They try to notice, but cannot. Grinding in slow motion. Sexual intercourse.


The next thing he knows, she is gone.

The room is a bit clearer.

He is naked.

The clock reads 4:00a.m.

He recognizes Michelle’s parents’ room now.

She walks in…Michelle.

Knowing of who he fucked.

She doesn’t tell him.

She just crawls in bed with him.

Holds him.

Runs her fingers up and down his body.

Massaging his cock, still wet with some older woman’s cum.

She starts to finger herself.

It’s funny how love feels.

How it doesn’t hurt until the next morning.

The morning never comes if you don’t fall asleep.

Trevor fades in and out.

She is knuckle deep in herself.

He is growing hard.

They fuck.

Her on top, smoking a cigarette.

She gives him a knife and he starts to cut himself.

Then her.

Not too deep.

Just deep enough to heighten climax.

This is how it always was.


The utter dismay of sexual intercourse.



Sentimental value diminishes if you change anything from its original condition, which really means nothing after all. Judging is counter-productive. People get mad at things they can’t change because they want everything to be perfect thru their eyes. That is why everyone is wrong. A fucked up perception leading to this modern conceptual America. Pillow biting tree-huggers making fun of hippies for drug consumption, fucking in cars and enjoying music. Being part of a revolution that great. Intrinsic jealousy. Bird brained. Ghetto slang. A hometown losing its essence ever since the big city began to spread. A part of an exaggerated and staggered economy. Moron.


They laid there for a few moments. Hating each other and themselves. Never being able to move past who they were so long ago. Pathetic humans. The same music repeats. There is some noise and an angry scream. Cars drive away, squealing tires. Michelle’s parents have returned. She puts on some clothes and greets them. Trevor tries to hug them. They turn away. Her dad shakes his hand, but only the fingers. Those fingers in miscellaneous pussies all night. He leaves. Drives his car to the part of town where they shot that horror move for the eternal Hollywood. Big budgets. Well known actors. Pretend murder. The world is still swirling and he can’t even begin to care about why Michelle decided to stay home and deal with her fucking parents. Maybe a roof. Pestering anarchies and soy milk.



Fast food slows metabolism. Most people eat and then sit in front of the television. Hours and hours wasted. It doesn’t make people much smarter. Most television shows aren’t intellectually stimulating. Honesty is a bitch. Trevor watched a female dog lick herself until orgasm. It made him puke. He gets sick thinking about it. Haircut, guts and butt-sluts. Some people can’t help being fucking stupid. He parks his car in the parking lot of the coffee bar where local bands play. It’s not a prestigious place, but it’s somewhere to go. The sun is beginning to come up. Sundays belong to God, and for that, Christians can go fuck themselves. He wanders off into the wooded area to the south. It’s weird, but most of the party goers are there also.


While walking, he feels the alcohol coming back up. He pukes. It makes him feel better. Some people stare. Some laugh. All compassion is lost. Out of nowhere, zombies dig themselves up from the ground. Most people don’t notice until some slut screams. They try to run, but most get caught. Ripped apart by blood thirsty undead. Beating their heads off of rocks. Exposing skulls. Cracked. Leaky brain food. Grey matter. As a matter of fact, limbs were being torn off and eaten. Screaming. Crying. More screaming. Trevor composed himself. That gritty feeling of puke all inside his mouth. He slowly walked to his car. The zombies didn’t eat him. They never eat those that absolutely hate life. Only those that have souls.


Cars pass and fall into a gorge. He tries to find his cell phone to call the police, but it is lost. He would freak out, but he realizes that cell phones are fucking stupid. Some people won’t use regular phones anymore. Everyone thinks that they are cool if they have the next new phone. It’s just a fucken phone! He decides to drive to the police station. Drunk. Stoned…and then some. Someone has to alert them of this zombie infection. The youth are getting far too sexy. The last generation can’t keep up. The road is pulsating. The morning sun is absolutely killing his eyes and headache.


He parks his car in front of the police station…waits a few moments. The window rolls itself down and he breathes in the cool air. The same 50’s music is blaring on the radio. He tries to change the station, but he only has a left arm. Where his right arm is…DAMN ZOMBIES! He notices the blood and his erection is finally gone. He shuts off the car and steps out. Facing the police station, the 3-D world turns 2 dimensional and shrinks to the size of a van windshield. He pushes the world and it flaps back and forth like a doggy-door. Just moving back and forth. Suspense disengaged and mixed with basil, oregano and 14 hours of smooth Jazz for the entire world to shove into their assholes. Asinine with triangular episodes…rerunning in syndication.


He pushes the world again.

Jumps into the black void of abstract nothingness.

There is a room with no doors.

It is filled with desks, like in a high school classroom.

The only light is coming from the world still flapping behind him.

On one of the desks is a cup of hot coffee.

The only thing Trevor can think of is hot coffee.

Soothing his queasy stomach.

The grabs the cup, spilling some.

Burning his only hand.

Blood is spraying from his shoulder.

He gets a mouthful of coffee.

Just before he swallows it down, he sees a note on the desk.

The note reads: “DON’T DRINK THE COFFEE!”

He spits it out and it mists the entire room.

The taste of puke is almost gone.

He turns and almost falls over.

He staggers back to the world flapping.

It hits him in the face.

Knocks him back.

He shakes his head and almost passes out.

Climbing back out of that room, he finds the world 3-D again.

He pukes in a trash can.

The sky turned jade green and he decides to smoke another joint.

Try to forget.



Slipping terror.

The zombies are working their way to the big city. They must be very hungry. All of the party people are now zombies. All these losers craving brain. What the fuck is wrong with people? Restaurants that have 3 waitresses per table and no lips to tell each other anything. People stare. His car is pretty much on fire. It is a zombie repellant. Ghosts fly around the green sky looking stupid. God stands on the corner and beats his tiny dick to the devil. On the devil. Cars pass and run over zombies eating people. Fucking dumb people. All living with regret and then upset when the undead finally come to kill them!


Destroyed pentagram absolution. Synapse after synapse firing off at the mouth affecting brains that (foresee-ably) get eaten by zombies. 1000s of zombies collapsing human skulls with baseball bats. Temptation taking two or more twelve-gauge shotguns to the two more dead bodies to the roof of cars driving over stacks and stacks of dead bodies regurgitating early breakfasts from horrible restaurants. A perplexed society facing the next great depression being eliminated. He thinks of Michelle for the first time in centuries. Have they got to her? Love will prevail not. He can’t go back to feeling the way he did with her. Being used.


Humans are irrational creatures.

They judge each other on looks, religion, sexual preference and they listen to popular music that is dumb. Songs about love and guns. Stupid women and dumb hoes. Catchy melodies that mean absolutely nothing. They are all suckers for a good song and what makes a good song is a fancy dance and flashy videos. Typical beats and singers that all sound the same. Sampled melodies for forgetful times of fashion trends and talk show apathy. Reality television to that Hollywood starts acting like normal people…not the crazy fucks that they are. Technological advancements causing unemployment and rising gas prices. Common deficit. The news reports nothing but death and carnage. Zombies. No one cares about God because America has had the faith butt-fucked out of it. Colder pollution and life getting worse because people deserve it. No use for fantasies because the fantastic has been achieved and placed in front of a video camera. Women lose self respect by getting naked for a video tape that perverts beat off to on fast forward. People making millions off of exploitation. Caffeine buzz. Teenage girls cry to their boyfriends and they don’t care. Let people hurt. The useless existence that is man. Ruining the world and having no purpose in the long run. Humans only benefit themselves. In a billion years, knowledge will mean nothing. Obliteration of the planet Earth.

Don’t believe it!!!


Communication means more than the message conveyed.

People glued to the internet working on their profiles trying to perfect their public persona. WAR! Run your fucken mouth until the sun dries up. Sugar. How many socially deviant thoughts could one muster? People that peel out in their cars while driving in neighborhoods. Emergency. Jawbreakers. Florescent lighting makes everything far more surreal. Roses. Filthy tables. More fucking sugar. Abstract minds creating a gross misinterpretation of reality when no one is there to share perception. Cowards cower in fear of zombies tearing flesh and haunting lines of the Satanic Bible covered in bull sperm.


Trevor climbed a daunting mountain of thought in his mind as he entered the freeway in reverse. He made it a mile and 7/8ths before lost control and the car began spinning. Avoiding collisions. Rotation after limey rotation. He puked all over himself. North. East. South. West. Again, again. The world covered in dead skin cells and everything that is unable to be conveyed naturally by a hermaphrodite dentist with a degree in physical education also. Spinning. The essence of Rock and Roll. Don’t fucking plagiarize a damn thing. It’s erasing itself. Save. The best will never come. The best will forever cum.


He jumps out of that spinning car.

Running toward the horizon that 140mph.

He turns his head to see his car making its way thru traffic.

Until the moment when it collides with a car.

People slam on their brakes.

Jittering dinosaur empathy.

Letting oneself down.

A windshield is smashed and covered in blood.

The emptiness of sorrow.

There in the median is a victim.

She stumbles to her feet and an airplane flies overhead.

They are next to the airport.

People are talking of a dead boy.

Nobody cared…though.

Nobody asks Trevor if he is o.k.

He goes unnoticed.

Just another bystander watching from afar.

These people know nothing of the zombies.

They are far too concerned with the death happening here.

A cool breeze is still blowing.

People holding their morning coffee.

The police from their 2 dimensional world arrive.

Ambulances. Fire trucks. Helicopters.

The morning commute is fucked.

The mourning commute.

God let this miracle happen.

Nobody knows what they will never experience.

Lives lost.

Lost souls.

Trepidation working its way thru dangerous noises.


Michelle wakes to find the house empty. Cans of beer emptied and laying all over the lawn. Someone forgot their pipe and a dime bag of weed. She rolls a joint and starts to clean. There isn’t much recollection of the night before. Welcome to Sunday! It always feels this way. Hangovers start the day off slow. The headaches go away by dinner. She makes her way to the backyard. Behind the garage she finds Trevor. Not breathing. She kisses his cold lips and grabs a shovel.




The air conditioner motivates nobody.

Xavier sits there. Listening to farfetched stories by liars. Not one fucking word he has heard all night has an ounce of truth. Men and women. Sitting in silence, waiting for their turn. Sniffling. Clearing their throats. Channeled plagiarists. Focusing all of their attention on perfecting the lie that they are about to tell. Unable to listen…what if Betty-Sue-fucking-liar-cunt has already thought of that aspect? Everyone comparing. It has nothing to do with sharing at all. All of them sitting in a semicircle. It’s his turn next. He’s thinking of porn and how his coffee cup is empty. Would it be impolite to disrupt a lying piece of shit to get more?


It’s not therapeutic to listen to a lying son-of-a-bitch. The chairs are uncomfortable and orange. Of all the colors in the world, Harry chose orange. This was his idea. Sitting down in his damp basement. It is cold. Unfinished. The rafters are exposed and there is a leak in the corner. The lighting is o.k. 13 people showed up. 13 liars, Harry (the fucking asshole) and Xavier. He wonders if they are going to think him a liar. Not that he cares. It’s been an hour and a half and they all deserve a break from listening to this bullshit. Stuck in a hole. Stationary on this sphere that gravity holds us to. Earth. Oxygen. All of this uncertainty and pussy-footing fuckers that will never make up their minds.


Stuck on the idea of losing absolutely everything. Out the window he can see the grass and the streetlights reflecting off the wheels of his car. Stuck in this room with these lying redneck fucks. Never getting to the point. They’ve thought out their delusional stories too much. There is too much detail and backtracking. Everyone acting like they are being filmed for a shitty talk show. You know those shows that have the security guards waiting on the side of the stage. There are always fights. These drunk redneck lying fucks that make up stories about cheating or being transvestites. Shitty kids that treat their parents like shit. Those kids that need the shit slapped out of them. These people make up these huge dramatic skits and practice them. Sitting in their trailers, smoking dope and drinking cheap beer. Their one chance to be famous. They tell their friends that they didn’t fuck grandma…it’s just a ploy to get flown to a big city and stay in a shitty hotel for a couple nights. They laugh while they fight on camera and these idiots in the crowd eat it up. The host lets it happen. Why not? He’s making more standing there for a couple hours looking at titts, egging these idiots on that you do in an entire year. It’s not about censorship, it’s about ridding the television of mind-numbing crap. People will watch anything on television. It’s ethereal glow. Warming their souls with cancerous radiation. What for the people that get turned away. Not good enough to be shit. They sit in this basement and concoct lies.


Xavier is restless. Harry keeps getting up and disappearing. Twin brothers they are. Harry is the young one. 7 minutes more agony he put their mother thru. 420 seconds. All for this worthless life of someone that believes these dumb redneck fucks and not his own brother. Harry tapes all these reality shows and talk shows. Everyone hamming it up. Ready to outdo anyone. Too many people think they are the types to be movie stars or rockstars. Some people are just made to do such things. Others aren’t. Living a facade. A drug addict’s delusional world made into a palatable reality for the youth to enjoy.


It takes all inside of Xavier not to take a bat to a television, a person or blow his fucking brains out. He can’t explain to people how fucking ignorant they have become. Intellectual people enjoy that gap. Let the normal people be that fucking dumb. Laughing at redneck idioms and misfortune. Loud, distracting conversations about complete and total bullshit. The reality of a biker’s mind. Understand this…bikers will never tell you anything that you might want to think is their reality. Those shows on television are bullshit. Scripted. They do what they have to to survive. If that means lying to the public, then fuck it. Money is money. Tattooed people are worse. They share their penetrable enlightenment and when the cameras turn off, they laugh at the stupidity of all that watch those shows. Fuckers.


Why even try to control anger or follow thru on commitments?

Life gets so fucking hard at times that any sane or rational thought would tell you to just give up. It’s not about suicide. It’s about being handed a pile of shit for life and having to convince people that you are worthy of their respect. Fuck friends and family. He sits in this basement listening to line after made up line. Go fuck yourself and what you think you know. Xavier has to talk to himself to create any kind of calm inside of his body. Nobody listens. The world has made him crazy. Societal immaturity. All he wants is love and for his neighbors to stop their fucking arguing. He would also like for his brother to go fuck himself.


So that is family values. Hate. Jealousy. Greed. Outsourcing. That time in history when gas prices were $1 and people bitched about them going up to $1.50. They are almost $3 and nobody says a fucking thing. It just makes it hard to live. To afford food and time is always slowing down. The only thing people can care about is themselves. Finding himself so depressed that he can’t see a way out. No friends. No money to spend on a worthless hooker to fuck and throw away. No reason to smile. Laugh. Stay awake. Only in dreams does anything ever come to fruition. An eternal peace only to be shattered by the sound of an alarm at 7:00 a.m. or earlier. And they just keep talking.


These people that make big plans that will never pan out.

Nothing ever does. He understands now that some people aren’t meant to be anything. Useless flesh getting angry at dogs that bark because they want to be let in. Bitches. Always concerned with the crushing reality of foresight. Days that pass without contact from a friend. Driving around in cars that will be sold by the end of the month. Unemployment has worked him over. Sitting there. Angry. He’s doing this for his asshole brother. Harry never believed in him. Nobody does. Telemarketers are fucking stupid. He had to be at this “meeting” to solidify his own family ties. A bunch of shit no one cares about.


He can’t focus. It’s not that he doesn’t know that is going on, it’s that he can’t find it in himself to care. He hates dogs and cats. All pets for that matter. Humans are needy enough. Old people go for evening walks on the night before it rains. They watch the television and plan their lives out. Every day is far too similar. The family comes over and is busy minded. How are they to understand why slowing down is fun? Peaceful. Never puke. Let the day settle. Quite obsessive. Compulsive. Alone. Regret. It follows a path that leads everywhere but here. The clock is louder than everyone thinks. Nobody thinks loudly anymore. It’s not a migraine, but he tells everyone that they are headaches. Just shut the world out and avoid living a medicated life.


Dying of cancer is the most pathetic thing in the world.

Rotting while loved ones watch. Holding on another day for the better of one person while crushing another. Deterioration. Walking in and seeing that dying sack of cells. Them reminding you that there is more hurt to endure. That you don’t know the meaning of pain. (Fucker!) There is never a calming moment. Drooling. Trying to talk to them and they can’t even comprehend anything. Wanting to kill them out of absolute mercy. Wanting to choke other family members for thinking that they will live. All of this thinking hastening death. That is what causes cancer. Thinking about that collapsing feeling in your chest that has been growing for decades. Life is cruel. Revealing secrets kept a lifetime. Eating away. Nobody communicates properly. No easy way to convey these last thoughts until someone is open minded enough to want someone else to die. Death. The great avoided. All these people crying long before that day comes. Nurses coming to the house to clean their shitty asses and change their catheter. More fucking crying. The one asshole in the corner that is a jerk. The way that someone’s death ruins so much for someone else. With cancer, it’s not quick or painless. Their death consumes weeks and weeks of everyone’s lives. Selfish. He can’t believe that. Chemotherapy. Procrastination. Delayed bullshit. When old people just get gross and start to smell. Then they start the decay process. No. Fuck cancer. Stop fucking whining about death. Just go. You will be missed, but don’t make it harder than it should be. Pathetic fucker.


Those times when no one wanted to be Xavier’s friend. A high school boo-hoo. One where children are taught to simply not believe in themselves. Nobody stays sane anymore. Also taught to be judgmental fucks. His anxiety attacks are constant and he doesn’t understand the point of life if he know the future. How it will all play out. Thinking like an irrational woman. An unrecognizable depressed society that never smiles unless there is a beautiful woman to eye-fuck. There are more. The best art comes from the worst pain. Maybe that is the most fucked up thing of all. Unable to breathe. The oxygen is thinning and his time is only a few moments away. He can hear the lies in their voices. Why try?



And there are no obligatory answers. Dreams fade and turn to mush. A big mushy mess. An existential hell. Talking politics to children. The sound of life. Fuck Hollywood. People lucky enough to be paid for their talent. Enough dues have been paid.


No words that comfort. Enough regret to fill a shell to put into a shotgun and kiss this revolving world good-bye. It is all so funny to everyone else. The same story told over and over. There is no peace. Sanctuary. Only a mind too creative for the borders presented. Sleep? Pushing a tiny button and squeezing the life out of nothing except for tears that flow from eyes.


So willing to lose everything. His entire life… just take it. Driving around talking to himself, unable to stop the memories from haunting him. Taunting. Daunting. He’d rather curl up into a ball and implode. He doesn’t want to see anyone ever again. There is no such thing as starting over. The past will find him and destroy him again. Things happen all too soon and unexpectedly. How much self-esteem can be torn out of his chest? How much more could he not believe in himself? So depressed that he just sleeps away the day. Sleep brings nightmares. His life is so boring that he cuts himself. It’s not fair and literate people can fuck themselves. Nothing at all is worse than being forced to be pathetic.


When everyone loses faith in him. The only person that cares is the one person he can’t let himself care for anymore. Fucking fate! Compelling literature doesn’t help him out. Food and nicotine won’t soothe his anxiety. No. Life is a fucking piece of shit and he doesn’t want to do it anymore. He didn’t do this to himself. Things just happen this way. He no longer wants to breathe. He checks his watch and someone gives him a dirty look. As if he had disrupted a fucking lie that mattered. This isn’t political. It is something beyond farfetched or real. Stuck in a society falling apart. There is more to begin with than there ever was once or twice before. It was insanity. Some hand gestures that suggest something unheard of. Minutes and moments. It really doesn’t matter. To get it off of his chest won’t help. Everyone dies sooner or later. Everyone is forced to partake in stupid games that they grew out of long ago.


All of these things that go on too long and get all fucked out of proportion. He thinks interracial couples are gross. Making babies that will grow up being made fun of for being a mixed piece of shit. Kids (and adults) get made fun of for being fat. Nothing is going to save these mixed fuckers from persecution. Unless you know the pain of being bullied, you don’t know. That fear. Things that stay with you forever. The reality of violence. People constantly try to outdo each other. Flexing their pain. What for that person that just hurts more? What for that person that won’t be allowed to grow up thanks to crazy parenting and unemployment and everything else that goes on?


Having obtainable dreams and aspirations and not able to see tomorrow. There is no future in unemployment. Love. Watching everything collapse and go away with no control over anything. Minimum wage jobs. The insanity of not being able to go anywhere. Locked up in the house constantly thinking of how to pay those bills. Staring at an empty refrigerator, ready to kill for a salad or steak. With unemployment, talent means nothing. Being a loser musician dealing with pain. Writing deep songs that no one will hear because you can’t afford studio time. People still don’t understand. If you can’t afford life, then there is no point to living. Unemployment is breeding suicide. Boredom.


Stop your fucking staring. Fighting his way past being uncomfortable. Learning to laugh again after being locked up and shut off from society for months. Losing grip of the general flow of life. Stepping back out into that world that has changed so much. They don’t realize the change and how television dictates. He can no longer try to understand regular people. Why they do the things they do and why they criticize him for his choices. Seclusion has made him a monster. Nobody will ever understand.


All he wants is to be able to feel that alone again.

To be tucked away. Paid by this shitty of government of the modern conceptual America to stay away. Not to go around to every corner of the world and tell all those things that they don’t want people to know. He knows. Xavier knows everything that most don’t. These thoughts that circle around and focus his aggression on everyone. He once thought that it would be a good thing to be that informed. Anymore, it isn’t. How everyone acts so similar. The public kept dumb for a reason. The world can’t handle another revolution. If everyone realized that they are far more depressed than they were 20 years ago. Censorship. War. Regret. Political…


…then everything stops. It is his turn to speak. No more thinking. Everyone sits in restless silence. He begins.


“Hello. My name is Xavier.”

(Hello Xavier.)

“I was abducted by aliens. As a child I fell asleep. I was awaken by a light. I can’t explain what I seen. The English language hasn’t evolved enough…and never will. They spoke in a different dialect. Physical apparitions. They told me all of the unexplainable. I know how the human race will end. Our existence is infinitely useless. They resembled nothing and everything. Colors inept. You pursuit of knowledge is useless and puerile. They didn’t butt fuck me with probes. Slice me open or eat my brain. They were far kinder than any human being ever. You are all worthless liars. I woke up with this scar on my leg…”


He shows the liars.


“I am going to go home and kill myself. Thank you.”

(You are welcome, Xavier.)


Then, he went home and killed himself.

There is such a thing as knowing too much.


**]It was one of those days where the weather is kind and there aren’t any thoughts of whether or not it could be better or worse. Nothing was really happening but he didn’t want anything to happen. Everything felt right.

Tim woke up and realized it was all a dream. It was 4:40am. In less than a few seconds, his realities washed over him. He was barely employed to a corrupt business. He had no close friends nor a girlfriend. $15,000 in various debts. The economy was shit and no end was in sight for the struggling. His vehicle was falling apart but he could barely afford to pay rent for his basement room at his parents’ house. He was on the brink of 30 and he had nothing to show for his life. All the turmoil had gone to his head and he had felt his mind going for many years. He looked around his room to see books that led him nowhere. Intelligence is useless if one can’t use it to gain prosperity. This daily occurrence of wake up and hate life was tolling him. Mulcting. Each day, Tim found it in himself to trust hope and power thru the day in hopes that it was slowly leading him to stability. Yet, it was dreams where everything was fine and right that caused the day to begin with a very, very deep depression. It was this day when he couldn’t find hope for a better future. He took the loaded pistol from under his mattress and shot himself in the head with it. All he wanted was to go back to that dream.

No pain.

No light.
He heard a voice from the west and turned to face it even though he couldn’t see anything.


Voice: Tim, hey buddy.

Tim: Hello..
Voice: Ok. So, you killed yourself in your parents’ basement cos why?
Tim: I gave up. I tried for years and nothing worked. I was sick with self loathing and everyone hated me for pining over what I had to change but couldn’t. I was the embodiment of all that is pathetic.
Voice: Oh. You are right, but I didn’t know it was like that.
Tim: Who are you?
Voice: I am an entity that no human has ever imagined.
Tim: What is this place?
Voice: Anyone that kills themselves ends up in this lightless void talking to me. I am to send you on your way.
Tim: Where am I going?
Voice: Where do you want to go?
Tim: Back to my dream. The one where everything is fine.
Voice: That dream? What a lame dream to choose. Oh well. It’s your choice. I’ll send you to a dream.

With that, the voice disappeared and so did the black room. Tim found himself outside of a motel in the middle of nowhere. It had been converted as if someone had bought it and made it to their liking. It only had one door so he walked up to the door and knocked. A beautiful brunette answered the door and embraced him. She kissed him and called him honey. They walked in and sat on the couch. Like a dream, he felt as if he didn’t control his actions. Life just happened and he just audited in a body that was reacting all on its own.


Woman: Tim, babe, I missed you so much.

Tim: I’ve counted the hours since your last text message.
Woman: I would have texted more but I killed Traci.
Tim: Quod?
Woman: She came over and I killed her. I cut her into bits, put the bits in bags and put the bit-bags into various shoe boxes.
Tim: Shoe boxes…the ones on the entertainment center shelf?
Woman: Sure thing.

There was a knock at the door. He felt a lump go down his throat. Morality was upon him. Should he turn her in to the authorities? He had loved her since forever and her reason for murder was still untold. Were the knocks at the door from a cop’s fist? The woman answered the door. It was a family of 3.

Guy: Hi. We are going door to door to…
Chick: …door to door to ask nice people like yourself…
Child: …what it is that…
Woman: What it is what?
Tim: You know what….I’m sure ya’ll is real nice people but we’re kinda in the middle of something here.
Guy: Rightly so, it’ll only take a moment.
Tim: Naw, dude. Not interested at all. You gotta go.
Guy: Okay. Ok. Ain’t no need in…
Woman: Get the fuck out of here.

The family started to leave but when Tim turned around he noticed a dollar bill lying on the floor. He picked it up and asked the guy if it was his. They guy said yes. Guy tried to force himself into the house for it was that there were torn up bits of money on the floor. Apparently his. Tim thought it was a cop scheme to get into the house. He was paranoid, yet he collected the money scraps and gave them to the guy. The family left. Tim and his love went back into the motel and shut the door.

Tim: Ok, so why did you kill Traci?
Woman: Oh, babe…I missed you. It had to be done.
Tim: That’s not a reason. Tell me why.
Woman: You seem pissed. I refuse to tell you in the state of mind you’re in.
Tim: My state of mind?
Woman: Yes. Look, Hareld and Ramona are home.

She went outside and greeted her roommates. Tim went out too. He suggested they use the South entrance rather than the North. He figured that it’s best to keep it all a big secret until he figures out what the noble thing to do is. They all happily walked around the building and thru the other door. Tim was cornered by his dearest.

Woman: Tim, I must tell them.

Tim: No. Why do you wanna tell everyone?
Woman: I’m not ashamed of what I had to do. I have my reasons.
Tim: Which are?
Woman: Well, they knew her and deserve to know.
Tim: But why kill her in the first place??
Woman: Babe, you are manic. Calm down.

Before Tim could really do anything, the woman was telling Hareld and Ramona what she did. They took a walk to the edge of the property. Tim watched thru the window, unable to hear what was being said but it looked as if the couple was a bit confused and worried. Ramona slapped Hareld. The woman came back first.

Tim: So, what’s their reaction?
Woman: I love you.
Tim: I love you.
Woman: She understands completely but he doesn’t. They both accept it and have promised to not say anything and to help dispose of the body.
Tim: But why did you do it?
Woman: Can’t change the past, dear. As you did in your first life, I could justify the pros and cons of everything I did, but I choose not to. When I did it, it was correct in my head, and now it’s just something that is. I’d much rather utilize my cognitive energies to plan the disposal. I mean, which parts are we going to eat? Should we mix up the boxes and throw away most and whatever is left…
Tim: …ah, no. Really, my sense of morality is getting to me and since you refuse to tell me, I’ve no choice but to call the cops.

She slaps Tim.

Tim: OW!
Woman: Even though I’ve loved you from the start, you will not do this to me.

Ramona walked up to Tim and with a single bullet she blew his brains out.

No light.
No pain.
He heard a voice from the east and turned to face it even though it was too dark to see.

Voice: That wasn’t it, was it?
Tim: NO! Who the fuck are you?
Voice: (laughter)
Tim: Tell me who you are…



Another Success Story[
**]I woke to the sound of my mother screaming, “What am I supposed to do with this zombie dog?!?!”. Truthfully, it wasn’t a zombie. It was completely dead. She found it underneath the bed in the guest room stricken with rigor mortis. She had it by the legs ready to lump it into the bathtub. Beyond all that, this whole situation was a dream.

Actually waking up is much different. I’m normally in a quiet house. The wife and kid gone to their routines of work and school. I stand, stretch, drink some water, piss, brush my teeth, greet the cat and dog with a morning ‘fuck you’, make a 2/3 pot of coffee and nose thru a light meal. One minute of sit-ups. 7 pushups. If the dog doesn’t want to go outside, I’ll quarantine it in the kitchen and quietly read for hours in the living room.

Some people want to be architects or lawyers. What I wanted was to be an author. Ever since I was a kid. It’s such a luxury because I don’t have to go to an office and be talked down to. I don’t have to deal with the public. When I first started out, no publisher would have me. Worse came to worse and I was forced to publish my own book. Within a month, I had sold over 200 copies of it. It kinda snowballed from there. Really, I’m not gifted with a huge vocabulary…I’ve no philosophical mind..I’m not all that great…I didn’t go to college. A critic once noted that I have a fresh outlook on life. After I sold 10,000 copies, some outside publisher wanted to capitalize off of me. We drew up a contract that only allowed them the right to make copies and distribute them to stores. I took care of all the marketing ideas. I designed posters. See, I limited their control. As much as they wanted to do, I refused. Instead of pushing it into the faces of everyone, I preferred to let it merely exist.

They get their percentage, I get monthly checks and when I finish another book, I send them a few copies and if they want to flood the planet with it, that’s their prerogative. I’ve published books they refuse to publish.

I travel regularly. I go off on artistic ventures from city to city, state to state. Sleeping in motels, writing stories in random coffee houses. I stop at indie book stores and sell my books on consignment. They usually have my more popular writings anyway. Over the years, I’ve obtained lots of these indie stores that I do business with. My brother handles distribution of the lesser known titles. It’s so low-key that he can do it in his spare time. He makes a few extra dollars.

When I was younger, I was so bitter because since what I write is completely esoteric, no one cared. My self-esteem was crushed constantly. I was convinced that the professional world only gave help to those that could make them money. It wasn’t about artistry or evolution at all. I contacted published authors and all they responded with, if at all, was: Thanks for the support, keep on writing!

I hated writing loquacious letters only to get a newsletter in the mail. There was a point where I gave up on writing. Like: Why do it if becoming a professional is going to make me a complacent cunt of a dick? The only thing that saved me was the fact that most great writers are dead. Dead people can’t let you down.

Now, what’s odd is that I got a creepy letter from some outraged fan claiming that I should publish her book because I influenced her to write. So…do I expand my publishing company? Granted, I got an extra grand to publish her book. My notoriety will get them sold. I won’t lose money in the deal and, all in all, the few chapters I read are probably better composed than what I’ve done. It’s in the ‘style’ in which I write. (Kinda) I understand her angst and how it seems that fate convinces us that we’re all destined to be something. If her book succeeds, I will look like a genius for finding her. If it flops, no one’s going to devalue my work for believing in someone. It just strikes me as a moral dilemma because I don’t want to help her passed what I had to power thru alone. I don’t want to be a go-to-guy for new writers. My life is complex enough and taking on a client brings forth a shitstorm of legal vomit.

Honestly, the law is fucked and if her book falls flat, she’d blame me and sue me for who-knows-what-loophole. And yes, this is all very precocious. I’m assuming the worst like a cop or politician. We could draw up a contract that excludes current laws…but is that even legal? I mean, has the law created a loophole where it cannot be bypassed?

Perhaps I will finish reading her manuscript. Thinking back, there was a point where I could have used a tiny jumpstart…career-wise. If I take her under my wing, others will expect me to do the same for them. It’s one of those damned-if-I-do, damned-if-I-don’t situations. Thing is: Her letter scared me. I really, really think she’ll kill me if I don’t. If I pay it forward my life can only stay the same or get better. I don’t fear death but who knows what this woman has thought of in her writer’s mind? She’d probably torture me. She could angrily stab me over and over all the while screaming that I should have been a nice person and just put forth the effort to help continue the need for authors. I can imagine her beating me with a hammer and drinking my blood. Stab, stab, stab my guts out because I wouldn’t publish her book.


Non-Fiction & Essays


Cultural Necessitude
Psychology teaches us of origin. That the issue at hand is a result of preexistent actualities gone untreated. Yet, only thru negative stimulus do those old feelings arise or matter. We are at the whim of family ideologies, which are always based out of superstition. Blame caste segregations. Blame the partially disturbed living with others that are equally disturbed. Alone, the patient is fine. Put together with another neurotic, shit hits the fan. No one wants to have their neurosis devalued…if the patient isn’t the most crazy, they are not capable of individuation?

Influence, contagion, miasmas…all these things come into play. Parents create the ideology for their children to roam within but children push the boundaries of maturation and flux. No one is capable of definitive precognition. One can assume but all that can be foreseen is inevitability. Child A grows up to be a shadow of its parents. Child B has an intellect that surpasses the family’s potency and capabilities resulting in ostracization. Child C wants nothing more than mediocrity. The parents merely wanted a simple life reflective of older generations.

Reality is never a control. Flux takes the ease of living in all sorts of directions. One learns of enviable situations/scenarios and is it wrong to be jealous of or reject lifestyles that are exclusional? There is something wrong with humans. Prosperity is systematized. We’ve generalized ourselves to the point of mass segregation. One is more likely to happen upon strangers that perpetuate war than those that understand the necessity of its absence. These war mongers are the ones that refute evolutionary theories tying people in with destructive, pugnacious animals that seem to instinctively choose violence over peace. Consciousness, it seems, has done nothing to dissociate humanal impulse away from the savage beasts we are but apathetically deny. We are not a species of fallibility or accountability.

The word paradox was created to define humanity.

Culture shock or cabin fever…choose one or the other. The former is amazing and terrible. Posited theories of separation stem from one’s conditioned understanding of right versus wrong. Are we taught difference to prepare ourselves for segregation? Culture shock comes into play when one goes into public only to find no looks of understanding and mutuality amongst strangers. This is a quotidian occurrence. One person’s understanding is that people are finite but I’ll never get to meet everyone. Chaotic infinitude of possibility unfolds. I am subject to the scrutiny of everyone. Each person’s conditioning has allowed them justification of acute prejudice. Belief structures quarantine us into minorities of likeness. A priori, aesthetic, religious, racial, opinionative, caste, ect…these similarities are exploited for the sake of belonging. The evermost psychopathic commonality amongst humans is the need for distinction. I posit that it goes back to that [_ humans use 10% of their potential _] theory. The common person sees a stranger and notices what they will. This person is this gender, that race, body type, appears to be in support of that religion, drives that type of car, wears that type of clothes, looks of whichever social class…ect. Each thing elicits manifold thoughts. Sexism and racism play their parts. Superstitions of why people are thin or fat…do I hate ascetics and extremists of all sorts…does my family believe that one manufacturer is best leaving the choice of others a neurotic futility? The poor hate the rich and vice versa. Is that guy’s shirt in support of a cause I vehemently oppose?

How have we become enemies as such?
Tho, on a cognitive level, it is quite amazing to realize that a visual first impression can illicit so much thought. It’s really fucked up when a stranger goes out of their way to disrupt peace to voice their biased opinion of someone else’s individualism as if I shouldn’t have the right to exist as I do. They truly believe their opinions to be empirically justified…and why not? The planet is engrossed in war and the segregation of minorities has been a humanal constant as far back as I’ve learned of. Thousands and thousands of years of popular opinion suppressing unique ideologies upon the threat of death or banishment.

Perhaps the question is concerning the voluntariness of thought. Do I think of what I do because I wish to or is it all part of a free-flowing cogitation? Surely, I can pick and choose from stimulus like books, movies and whatnot; but I know not what the reverial outcome of said ingestion will be…and then what these new thoughts will lead me to decide to learn of.

I wonder if we are all basically noble. Is there a basic humanal understanding of civility? Live and let live. Judge but don’t be an outspoken asshole of esoteric virtue.

Hate is a constant. I see it in far too many. All have their reasoning…their justification of the conditioning they received as correct and viable. If hate is a common idiosyncrasy, then the species is idiosyncratic. All these subgenres of people are generalized and it may be true that White people share common foibles that other races don’t. Men may act/react in ways women don’t. These quirks are both positive and negative. If one is only exposed to the negative of any given minority, solipsism justifies their prejudice.

The confounded stay indoors. They talk to coworkers and family..that’s it. One can go as far as completely retracting from any social interaction whatsoever. (I may even call someone like this lucky.) Since society is always in flux, what is reprehensible one day is not the next. This decade allows certain neuroses to be considered acceptable while the next decade brings for the grand denouncement of said neuroses.

Cultural influence is immeasurable. The hermit sits around with all sorts of media to ingest but chooses to just think. Has conditioning led to all negative thought or vice versa? Is it about the possibility of choices? Each generation matures with less minorities as the next. Generation A begat generation B. A is not exposed to what B is. A teaches that minority X is reprehensible, but B is subjected to coexistence with X and finds that 99% of superstitious, prejudicial opinions are based not out of fact at all.

Ah! What if Minority W lives ignorant to their shortcomings for years only to learn of them and consciously change? A may have been correct in their assumptions but by the time B rolls around, W isn’t what A had come to know.

We teach what we know. All that can be known is ignorant to what we’ll never get the chance to know.

Perhaps it is true that some are capable of solace and peace only when left alone. Coexistence is obligatory or instinctual?

I’ve dealt with cabin fever. It fucking sucks. The lack of new and interesting stimulus leaves the thoughts degenerative. Cynicism sets in. Claustrophobia versus agoraphobia…mania. Depression. Yet, thoughts are temporary. The patient is easily confused by monotony when the purpose of life is valued as muy importante.

The patient goes into social situations such as work or shopping and finds non-reactive apathtetics valuing the valued and intrinsically devaluing that which is eventually an empirical constant.

It seems that whether one is out and about or seclusional, the outcome is the same. We all assume that we are correct, equal to the best, above the worst, altruistically noble, understimulated…basically, we all suppose that our ideas and lifestyles are for the better of humanity but if that was true, we’d all be in a reality of tranquility and prosperity. Since we do not, a collective, generalized view of humanity is impossible. Humans are everything they define themselves as and everything they obviously are not. One cannot become that which will be the causation of peace because humans don’t want peace. We are upheld as flawed and egocentric. Our only faith is in our own beliefs, which all too often exclude individualism.

So, as you go along with your day, understand that you were conditioned to be different and that all of your thoughts are influenced by forces that are out of control. Peace exists but is constantly disrupted and exploited for capital gain. You are wholly influenced by survival. You are nothing like me and should be…you fucken narcissist.



On Cynicism
I left my apartment wondering what, if anything, makes someone special. Even the greatest geniuses of the past are only important to their specific, esoteric forte. What I mean is that a breakthrough in Physics only means something to scientists. A virtuosic musical composition may entertain the ignorant, but the social value placed upon said composition is defined by musicians. Certain religions only focus on ideas concocted by intellectuals of their faith. As far as nobility is concerned, perhaps there are only good intentions in focusing attention on a narrowed perspective. We are all guilty of ignoring things that don’t interest us.

The hard part is being one of those people with a different philosophy on life. It is true that most people don’t even know what Philosophy is. These people think that a philosophy is mere idealizing…which is a shame. There is nothing philosophical about the layperson’s “philosophy” of don’t eat yellow snow. In these current times, Philosophy is gone. Propriety is defined as doing what is socially acceptable, yet, socially acceptable behavior is entirely subjective. All too often, we look to television for a certain sort of guidance, but I hope that reality tv doesn’t define humanity. I hope that the sparse amount of music on tv doesn’t encompass the collective unconscious’ understanding of Music.

I always abstain from citing examples in my writing because no single example is an accurate paragon. Plus, anyone with half a brain knows that what tv shows is not only a tiny fraction of what is out there, but it is slanted/ affected by temporary social trends and all too influenced by profit. We are shown things that sell. I mean: Is football truly popular or is it just something that has made enough money over the years to be a constant influence on tv? Let’s face it: Football was popular long before most of us were born. We were born into a world of sports heroes, celebrated monotheisms, and idealized beauty. Even if one’s taste is contrary, we were all told as children that apples are good for us. We are given lists of things to tolerate and things to not. There are certain forms of music that are appealing because we have heard decades’ worth of popular music in those forms.

And, it is true that non-invasive catharses are far from reprehensible. There is a fine line between positive and negative cynicism. We have all been in situations where expressing distaste for a popularity is beneficial and accepted. The opposite is equally true. The old adage of not saying anything when nothing nice is opined rings true, but said ringing may annoy a wiser person. All too often, naysaying is shunned and demonized, but how can something so natural be wrong?

History is spotted with instances of good ideas turning sour. We would not be here today if objectivity had ceased to be. Often, great philosophies are carried on by followers of philosophies. Up to this point, mortality is the burden of all. A great thinker changes the world but ceases to change it in new ways after death takes her/him. In my most clarified and logical moments I think that there are those that know what is better for humanity. Not because they are smarter, but because they want to. Most people don’t want to rule the world and/or be super-famous. They want a fantastic world where prosperity and synergetic serenity are feasible. They are content in the ease of a simple life. Others power thru books searching for that which will lead them to an insight that betters humanity.

It would be inaccurate to say that humans haven’t come to many conclusions that are magnificent. The opposite is also true. The greatest philosophies are only fragments of the framework upon which civilization rests upon. To read the greatest thinkers lets us know that they knew/know that humanity is always in flux. Philosophies are never exclusive because no single individual or group can know exactly what humanity needs. Are there those that believe they know? Unfortunately, yes.

I don’t understand those folk. Humanity is great because it is so diverse. Without diversity, the world is colorless and completely silent. An apple may be nutritious but if a group wants to think that apples are wholly reprehensible, so be it. If one wants to smoke cigarettes, who am I to impose my opinions otherwise (no matter how much scientific data supports my belief)? All too often, coexistence takes a backseat to intolerance and close-mindedness. We let belief systems obfuscate our perceptions of humanity. Why some justify distinction over understanding only seems to bore me. Anyone that reads Philosophy books knows that if you think you are infallibly correct, you are probably wrong.

Each new idea can only serve to make the framework stronger. Our capabilities and strengths grow exponentially as evolution takes us into the future. Humanity advances in such a way that even the greatest of breakthrus are dated steppingstones…reminders that, in the past, humans believed in inaccuracies…reminding us that some things we believe to be true now won’t be true in the future. We may philosophize certainty, subsequently, but it would be folly to think of certainty as stability’s equal.

There will always be a portion of reality that is unable to be understood fully because with each new person born, another possibility arises. We don’t know what the next song to change our lives sounds like yet. We don’t know what physical limitations one will surpass tomorrow. All too often, the stubbornly wise become jaded. Perhaps most do fit into archetypes but it is wrong to pigeonhole someone into common limitations. Perhaps that is exactly what begets philosophical revolution.

The greatest thinkers are those that have admitted to themselves and accepted the realization that they have been proved wrong. It is ignorance that leads anyone to suppose that they are bereft of ignorance. I also think that it is stupid to suppose that ignorance leads people to consciously sabotage the lives of anyone else. Unfortunately, language barriers lead to confusion. Even cultish religious groups aren’t as close minded as the media portrays them to be. They are just too many that think they are right and that to question their certainty is reprehensible. Humans value certainty too highly. Yeah, it is comforting, but if your certainty is disconcerting to others, how can you be so certain of it?

Perhaps we covet esoteric certainties because flux leads to the lack of concrete certainty amongst the collective. Even the surest person knows that no 2 people are exactly alike. Some may believe in their monotheism subjectively pure, but they can’t deny that not everyone believes the same thing. The next person I meet may have never even heard of all the contrary opinions and beliefs I have.

I don’t suppose that anyone desires chaos. Tho, I am certain that my supposition is ignorant. I realized yesterday that “evil” is a weakness. Evil stems from idealists unable to affect a majority positively, so they go an opposing route. There is only idiotic logic behind causing chaos because synergy excludes your ideas. Unfortunately, such rude behavior can lead to wealth and power, but all evil is manifested thru the lack of homogenous distribution of power and wealth.

Older generations lived under incomplete philosophies (as we all must). Due to the lack of certainty, many of our ideas are justified only partially…yet that fraction is enough to lead to an educated justification. Think of a scarf. It may be warmer without tiny holes, but thanks to those holes, one may breathe thru it. Older generations may justify their distinctive biases and younger generations may only see arrogant ignorance in their elders.

Maybe younger generations demonize the justifications of their elders too much. Millions died long before it was realized that the Earth is round…that doesn’t make those people wrong. Their justifications were accurate even if their beliefs were wrong. It is common of the youth to see older ideologies as completely wrong if partially wrong. It is also true that older generations treat youth ideologies as unworthy of consideration because of the ignorance the lack of wisdom leaves.

Yet, wisdom leads to arrogance.

It is not about right or wrong, for we are all inherently both. We are all somewhat misled. We are all leading the impressionable and ignorant. I think that we, as humans, would be better off working toward a single goal. Call it Peace. Call it Ineffable Common Sense. When we see it in shades of this percent vs. that percent, this political party or that political party, this nationalism or that nationalism…we are willing ourselves to neglect the whole. We are assessing the ‘I’ in humanity as justification for narcissism. Our similarities are far from focused upon. We know it is wrong. Why we do not idealize ‘we’ as an ‘us’ only confuses me. It seems that we do not believe in an us. Maybe I’m just misled by some into thinking that we is not us. I must be, for now that I look around, all I see is us.

An Odd Occurrence Is Life

How one second of life seems so limitive and then not so much.

Convinced of hope and convinced of despair. Ridiculous. I sit around waiting for all conversations to falter…to become incomprehensible. Maybe they talk to be heard. Sometimes, a conversation is better than sex. Talking so that anyone within earshot can hear.


Most people are lost, so there is a lot of talk about college. It is the only hope left for any sort of economic stability. We learn, but not to learn. We learn to make money. We learn to appease our families because, for generations, offspring are set to do right by…we were born just to do well? To become the one person in the family that revalues instead of devalues?


Coughing is contagious. Sometimes, I’m convinced that the contagiousness is just a cognitive susceptibility to idiocy. Who are we if not the underseen, overevaluated, quasinormalic and ripe?


The Ska people surface and I’m fucking sick of all extremists. I’ll never be able to go back in time to only listen to Ska. I think back and there was a good fucking reason I didn’t. The similar sounds. The overlapping plot lines. So usual. From afar, it seems esoteric and tapered. Idiosyncratic. No. Everyone covets their individuality. Can’t look like that person but can’t not look like a Ska person. Musical extremists have their guidelines and they refuse to accept that it is all bullshit. Seems they are born of a mold. Exploiting themselves and one another…


The punkers are no better.

The Metal kids are all the same.


Music is a lifestyle but finding a lifestylist outside of a concert hall is next to impossible. Me, I have a varied taste. Certain things grab my attention. Others repulse me. I don’t care how a band sounds or what they’re talking about. Maybe it’s a mood that strikes me. Maybe it is their lyrical approach. A very few are truly unique and then others just copy what they can. Surely, one can make a decent living and be very happy just creating music that fits into that mold. A Ska band that is definitely Ska probably isn’t all that unique but they may convey a message…an idea that super-Ska-band-X didn’t convey.


Give me something bizarre and off the wall. Other times I want to hear nothing but a gross sounding Hardcore Punk band or a shitty basement recording of a mediocre Death Metal band. Other times I’ll trance out to Classical.


Are my opinions unique?


Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad all those saxophone, trombone and trumpet players have a medium, but they get too much credit. Seems that playing guitar is typical. We’ve all seen Metal bands sweep pick labyrinths across a fret board and, anymore, it’s pretty boring! But have 2 kids harmonizing okayish with a couple horns and they are fucking amazing?


And, if Ska is so damn special, why isn’t it played on the radio?


This morning, when the rain started, it created a fog over the melting snow banks. Torrential downpours that leave underpasses flooded mid-winter scare me. All I can think of is a 30 degree temperature drop and all kinds of death. This may be a bit speculative, but news reports predicting…that is all they do…predict. Nothing is…unless it’s murder, crime or political procrastination. X amount of people will die of whatever while Y amount of people will lose their jobs waiting for the government to fix itself.


It’s a number problem…the economy is. Hire mathematicians instead of aestheticians and the country will be fine.


Oh, the business world! Someone else’s headache, I say. My generation finished high school into a reality that was declining. Nothing was set up all fucken perfect for us. I was left to rationalize the expansive idiotic side of mass stupidity. I was left in shoes to fill that were too big when I was full grown.


That was a bit of symbolism for those that aren’t much more than enemies of logic. What is wrong with logic? What is wrong with nobility? (Logical nobility vs. noble logic.) Oh, fucking Ska..Ska, Ska, Ska, blah. Lame as Punk lagging behind all sorts of Metal bands incorporating complex songwriting techniques. The Ska people bop along in a metronomic fashion while they act so fucking happy, but they aren’t.


Musical artists lay in the bed stains of other bands’ recordings. Don’t act coy. Even I noticed how Punk sounded too good to be considered Punk and how the industry standard sound was a producer’s idea of a good cd to fuck to. All our heroes trusting non-band members into changing their music for an allocated better. If there is one genre that needs to be personified and slapped, it’s Punk. Punk used to speak out against sexist Pop music but not anymore. Let the government fuck the States into atrophy but don’t say a fucking thing. Incorporate all kinds of keyboard/synth layers and multiple guitar parts for a 3-piece band that have to hire fakes to play on stage those parts that producers love to cum to. All those harmonies that caused a band to spend months in a studio..fuckers.


The underground Punk scene is daft. To say the least.


We search for atavism.

We long for activism.

A new radical to idolize. We’re stuck in an era of segregation and Pop Country music competing with Pop Gangsta Rap…seeing who can degrade women more. Emo has left everyone apathetic and passive for it is that it’s not my problem. I wasn’t born to remedy the sick. I wasn’t born to affect the world. Set things straight. I was born to ingest all that humanity dictates as popular like some radio dj.


We turn on the radio and these fuckers sound so cool, but they are only as cool as Modern Rock. Modern Rock all sounds the same and is written by novice pussies that bend to a producer’s will so that they can stay fucked up all day long and keep their model wives drugged. A dj introduces another ballad from a Modern Rock band too high to learn anything from 80s Hair Metal and we change the station to womanizing women and the quintessential man’s man…hunt, kill, fish, beer, asses, tv, cars, pollution…on and on in a cartoonic fashion until we find ourselves bopping along to dance music completely forgetting what it felt like to get a bloody nose in a mosh pit.



We think…and it hurts. Thinking too long leads to the acceptance of reality television’s direction. If it is reality, are humans ever going to exploit the intelligent instead of the moronic?


These local bands are just like the pro bands. They don’t say anything outlandish. They all behave themselves. Sure, they party and get lost in sexualization, but they adore the straight and narrow. It is the Pop Punk influence. They all wait around for a new mindscape to think inside of…because someone else thinking outside of the box merely expands the initial box that all have come to understand as The Mold. So, here we are, tongueless mimes in boxes with segregative walls as bias holds sway and clout bubbles burst.


The Ska people diminish and never evolve. Punkers can’t convince each other that they aren’t dead. Emos all gave up like those body mod people that cover their tattoos and take out their piercings because culture means nothing to some. Death Metal people are wrong. Metal has all went lame. Country and Rap are Pop and Pop has always sucked.


Who has convinced us that what we know is the truth…older generations that encourage what they’ve come to know as the truth? Lazy cunts? Lethargic assholes? Our misunderstandings of those that do everything in their power to remain mysterious while everyone perpetuates nihilism?


Maybe one day that lyrical content of humanity will encompass all the thoughts that are cerebral and not of epiphany. Brilliance is a flashlight in a well lit room.



My Genius Is Bigger Than Yours!

The problem with the legal system is the tight-lippedism. Some guilty parties are actually victims. What if someone stumbled across some drugs and sold them dirt cheap to a narc fuck face? Neuroscientists would agree that humans lapse common sense from time to time. Money rules over all and everyone has done something illegal at least once…even if they didn’t know it.


It is not so much the offense, it is everything else. What if someone is a serial killer buff? They could have tons of information on murderers and rapists and if they stumble upon a dead body…maybe the finger would be pointed at them. The authorities (or ‘shitheads’ as popular slang suggests) reach for answers. As long as someone is guilty…well, you know. Shitheads do their jobs. If there isn’t work, they’ll make more work. Nothing is more pathetic than an out of work cop.


Don’t get me wrong, cops are brave people; they just draw the line too close to bullshit. How can one disturb the peace when they are part of that peace? Cops are the ones with the power to take money from people. Take freedoms. If a car is built with a stock radio that is too loud, then blame the manufacturer. I’m not sure what loud is. I’m often confused by the other people. Why would someone assume that I’m crazy? It seems rude.


These shitheads drive around with their job security and health care and they don’t understand what it’s like to struggle. Sure, we all want something more than we can afford, but to want food…to know that if you fall down and break an arm that you will pay those bills for years. So much for the greatness of life.


Should I blame the United States? Me. A citizen. Born here and I will stay regardless but these areas just outside major cities are fucked up. Corrupt cops exist for a reason. What that reason is, nobody knows. The fact remains that cops go out of their way to find someone breaking the law. The easiest time seems to be at night. Most stores and parks are closed. The only thing a person can do is get stoned and drive around, gas station to gas station…and prices of that have been rising so much. Fun is either illegal or unaffordable.


When I started to drive, gas cost 87 cents a gallon. 8 years later it is 2 dollars more. If a person spent $40 a month on gas back then, they would be spending more than 3 times that amount. In those eight years, minimum wage has risen only slightly and nobody gives a shit. One would think that people would protest, but no. These apathetic dreamers of tomorrow. Strung out on the idea of being famous. Me, I just want to be a success at life so I don’t have to kill myself to end the torture and stress of this limited life.


What for sex? The hippies believed in free love and they were just as crazy as a Vietnam vet. (Not at all) Nowadays, with television condoning the spectacular side of socialites and the upside of money, sex isn’t free. Condoms are a dollar a piece and they come in packs of three. Every girl wants financial stability, but so does everyone else. Maybe it is where I come from. I look at those people that stepped out of high school into a stable job and I absolutely hate those fuckers. They don’t know how hard it is to find a well paying job. It’s unexplainable. It physically hurts…the fear of being destitute. The older generations grew up when it was prosperous. They say go get a job as if one can just go into a store or building and get one. Hiring processes take weeks and that first check won’t come for about a month. See. The system is designed to start people in debt.


Luck strikes in small doses. A job that pays $10 an hour only grosses $400 a week (not to mention that circumstance works some people less than 40 hours a week). Taxes take away 22% of that income, $88. So, you’re looking at roughly $1250 a month, without medical insurance. A decent apartment costs $500 a month or more. $750. Car insurance is $120. $630. Utilities may cost $150. $480. Gasoline, as we have found, can cost over $100. $380. A budgeted food intake costs about $30 a week. $260. Phone bill. Clothing. Soap. Towels. Detergent. Pepper. Saturday night six pack with a friend so I don’t become a hermit and all that money is gone before I even have a chance to think about falling in love. That’s aiming low. Things cost more than expected. Each month something comes up that takes away $50. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Holidays. Medical bills. Pets.


Some would suggest getting a part time job for a few years until I top out at a whopping $13 an hour. At my job now, we’ve taken over 200 applications for one job opening. Everyone is struggling. People are dying. I’ll pass a hooker on the street and I just wave. Is prostitution legal somewhere in the U.S.A.? Yes. Should I sell my body to afford a new car? That is an extra couple hundred dollar. I read about a symphony downtown. I would like to go, but I can’t afford tickets or nice enough clothes. Fuck.


Nobody is better than everyone else. I look at those that are wealthy and I wonder if they know what it is like to sit under a vent connected to a busted furnace blowing cold air. The winter carried over into the spring. Another month of thick bills and cold nights. At least the dog has a fur coat. Who else has a fur coat? Drug dealers. They keep wads of cash and nobody sees the appeal of having disposable income.

This area isn’t worth struggling to enjoy. The people are rude. Dumb. Everyone is following popular trends in music, television and movies; they simply suggest sexism. Idiotic bullshit and they all convey the same asinine message. All the magazines have women with thong bikinis on with their asses on the cover for children to see. Women making out with other women right there on a convenience store shelf. Everyone is finally using the slang and they couldn’t be more oblivious to the fact that they are talking differently than they did just a few years ago. Everyone apathetically degraded one another and it’s okay because reality television shows reality…right?


Fuck no. People that go onto those shows are fools. They account for less than one percent of the country and when foreign nations tune in to American television, that is what they see. Sexist bigots flashing money and death, hate, death, hate, death and more death. Sport stars are using steroids and nobody cares. Whatever happened to the love of the game? People used to be passionate about sports. Now all they care about is their million dollar salaries while people kill each other to buy food.


One day it will all be okay. People will smarten up again. Something highly intellectual will affect pop culture. It’s how things adjust.


The problem with relapsing is that some good can come out of it. I can go into it thinking that it will only last 7 days. One week. I just needed to exit reality for a bit. No biggie. But there is a time after the 5th day when I want the buzz to go away. All I could ever want would be to just be clear headed. That 3 month sober clear headedness. Somewhere off passed withdraw and the staring. Being unable to not overhear everyone else’s conversations.


It’s Friday the 13th. Random people. Random thoughts. After so long, all coffee tastes like an old pot, unwashed all day. An economic crisis can’t last forever. It can try. It is fun to look forward to the future. It is healthy. Everyone knows that health care will be free one day. Some say that Asian people are smarter than Americans because they know more about their technology than we do. Maybe that is true.



It is sad to think of all the people that will die before things fix themselves. The people that can’t see the things fixed in the future are those that get drunk everyday and spend their only 3 dollars on lotto tickets rather than condoms. The ultimate solution is to win even $100,000 and find some hottie and bang her in a trailer out by the lake. If the jackpot is won, get a house on that lake with lots of land. Enough to have a bonfire. Hallucinations.


The problem with small talk is that it is limited. Weather. Sports. Pop music. Tragedies. Racist jokes. Sexist jokes. Hollywood and how everyone will always love the most fucked up stars. That’s how people are. So, is it best to be that fucked up star? Such a goal for a regular person like myself. Should we laugh when they falter as I may have? They relapse and make it look good. I relapse and scare children…


And it gets weird. Something ends and the shitheads still have the upper hand. All in all, I think it is wrong to degrade cops. Though, at times, it is better to let them know that their mistakes are fucking things up for some and the reverberations are causing good people to involuntarily fuck up and break laws.


All compassion is gone. Good is a reflection of the bad and worst. Maybe what needs to be done is already done.


When I get myself in the 5th day sobriety longing, I just drink more. It’s legal. I’ll forget why I wanted reality and just phase out for a few dozen hours. Circumstance takes me here and there. I procrastinate and fail constantly. People may blame the pessimism and lack of self esteem on the drugs, but it’s always been this way. I just want an adventure out of life. Something to do instead of being treated like shit because I can’t small talk my way around the sun.


Some won’t ever get it.




One thing that remains certain is that when anyone is dead and gone, their problems go with them. Black sheep. The marked one used the same utensils as the next person. A small town sucks in the ones that want to leave the most and keeps them within pissing distance. Rubber bands. This place is worse than that place which is worse than somewhere else. All energy moves toward the negative spectrum. At the end of the negative is death. Everyone acts like everything is fine until they are behind closed doors. In the winter, doors stay closed. Just like the little girl that waits for her prince to take her away to everything she deserves. A world where money doesn’t matter. She grew up poor enough. Then there is the boy that puts all of his logic into reason, but that fails. If he were only born a prince, then he could rescue some hopeless beauty. He is no prince. Nobody is destined to be anything. These options exist for said people. Limitations persist. One day we all must fall into allocated roles. Utilizing mundane talents to fulfill an employer’s will for 30 years. Maybe job security does exist. Maybe one day we will all breathe easily. Someone will always be there to remind us what reality isn’t. Nobody believes in the fantastic or supporting those that are. Reality is waiting for everyone to give up and accept the fact that they aren’t extraordinary people. Nobody knows any extraordinary people. These fenced off robots in television screens. Actors and rockstars are not human. They are robots built by the government to entertain the masses.


Deep within the Hollywood hills there is a factory. From the very inception of television, leprechauns have been building these robots to sub-human perfection. It is all divisible by nothing. We’ve never seen these leprechauns for they are allergic to the sun. One may argue that they grew up with someone that is now famous. Answer…lobotomy. Skilled surgeons remove those deadly parts of the brain that control feelings. Motor functions remain in-tact and anyone could memorize a few thousand words. One could act upset and be horrible at it, but if the other actor acts surprised by this upset other actor, then the cycle continues. Television has a hypnotic power that is never talked about. The way the colors move across the screen and into the eyes of anyone watching is witchcraft. Hundreds of years ago, during the witch trials of where-ever, when they burnt witches to death…those witches never died. They are still alive. Sure, they look deformed but that makes them all the more potent. They are the ones that help breed the leprechauns. Witches invented television. For hypnosis. Nobody every puts two and 2 together. It equals four. Actors portray the lucky. Luck doesn’t exist. These fictional lives are unobtainable. Everyone’s story is pretty much the same. We all struggle to become equal to those that are robots. That is why everyone loses. It is the reason for unemployment lines and mental institutions. It’s why alcohol is legal. Drugs kill brain cells. They make everyone dumber than brainless robots.


In this world, we are taught to make fun of those embarrassing people. The ugly ones. The ones that are corporate tools and don’t even know it. Like the child television star that was never cool in the first place. The majority of the world labeled him a fag. Idiot. Lame. Loser. Then, he grows up and does drugs and fucks sluts and now he’s a fucken hero. An artistic standard. No, wait. Fuck that guy. The crowds just go with the flow. 90 percent of music is structured the same exact way and there is no room for musical genius in the world. Remember 9/11 when those towers fell in NYC? Television shut down. It censored itself to show people dying. The unfortunate leaping to their deaths. Ever since then, there has been a gag order on all art. Economic crisis!! Economic crisis!! Someone has a lot of fucking money that they aren’t spending. Financial stability is the holiest grail. More money is equal to more stability. Money is like food. People are starving to death and other people would rather keep food in their pantry so that their grandchildren’s grandchildren don’t go hungry. Pretty soon, there will only be 10,000 people with any money. The Grand Canyon is actually a burial site for all that will go hungry and die. Suicide. Murder. The futility of human ignorance. The witches laugh as leprechauns take a break to eat their pussies. Orgasm!! Orgasm!!! All compassion is lost because they stopped showing it on television. The robots do as they are told.


Air conditioned shelters. Why are these important? That’s easy. Global warming is heating the Earth. If human ignorance doesn’t kill us soon enough, that will. What causes global warming? Phantoms. These lingering dead things use pocket knives to tear open the world’s ozone. It has nothing to do with aerosol. Phantoms are invisible, that is why we don’t see them. They know about the Hollywood robots mimicking religious hogwash. Religion was made to keep people occupied. Something to argue. Politics too. Fuck! People will argue about anything. Alcohol. Television. Music. Anything. Most people are liars. Most don’t believe anything they see or hear…read or write. Noticing certain things. When food isn’t consumed for a long period of time, the brain goes all speedy. They call it delirium. How dare a brain move at anything more than 10 percent! Smarter than robots?!? We don’t need food. We eat food to sustain jobs. The hungry are the meanest people of them all, next to nicotine addicts. Give me food and nicotine. I need them to kill my kindness and compassion. Fat people. No one should ever eat a large pizza to themselves. Now it is dragging. The story gets boring. People turn the channel. Don’t we all wish that everything had commercials to remind us to think about sex constantly? Sex with robots. Lucid brain donors. Existence started 137 years ago. Nobody knows how we got here, so we just made a bunch of shit up. The leprechauns filled in the rest.


The Earth is actually a prototype scheduled to be destroyed in 47 years. There are these beings that are 13 meters tall and four feet wide. They are yellowish with holes cut into them. They have 2 mouths and no eyes. They live on the planet Nofanx. It is right next to Mars. The government has never released the pictures. There are a lot of things we don’t know. Dragons occupy the continent of Disten. It is in the Pacific Ocean. It is capped with a water proof dome and sits just 20 meters below the surface of the water. World leaders meet there and talk in the language of the Stupid Fucken Assholes. They laugh at wars they set in motion. They talk of who will be the next to be killed…citizens. Earthlings. Mutilate a random person and send them flying across the skies in remote controlled crafts. People use cameras to photograph these “aliens”. Nobody has ever said anything about the fact that all aliens are human-like. They all have a torso. Lame. Nobody would believe it. Sometimes creative juices stop flowing, for whatever reason. Nobody is actually talented at all. Nobody is human. Can’t trust a one of them. It is all recycled crap. The depression sinks in. Some people just like a bland sense of humor with partial wit. The birds are bright and happily marinating in Italian salad dressing. Too tired to get too drunk. Now that childhood has ended, the past can regurgitate and mean something completely more.






Back in my early twenties, I spent a lot of time going from coffeehouses to coney islands drinking too much coffee and writing. Much of what I wrote was destroyed in an act of artistic purging that I think of as a forgetting. What remained was a handful of stories, essays, and journal entries on some CDRs. This book is the collection of those writings. I didn’t have much respect for formal writing back then. My mindset was that I was an artist and I wanted to write abstractly and fuck you if you didn’t like it. Some of what follows is gross, confusing, baroque,abstruse, and offensive. I wanted it to be that way. What I figured was that if I started out writing the weirdest stuff in the weirdest way I could muster, then even if my talent developed into something more scholastically and intellectually respectable…it would never be too standard because I had started out doing something odd. The tough part is that back when I was writing this stuff, people didn’t appreciate it or get it. Looking back, I can’t blame them but it did fuel me in both good and bad ways. What I did was unusual so it scared off anyone that wanted to read normal shit but it wasn’t weird enough to really impress the weirdest of people. So, I found myself writing crazier and crazier. Back when I was writing this, I didn’t really have a clue how to write. I had a natural inclination to do so and an arrogantly rebellious attitude when it came to learning non-autodidactically. Some of these writings are at least a decade old. They all fit together, tho. As I was collecting the stories for this book, I nixed a few findings because they weren’t old enough. This collection is a glimpse into who I was. It’s both indicative and not indicative of my other books and future books. The only way I can think to explain it is like how a band can get together and make a bunch of songs before they really develop a sound all their own. Some bands release a cd of those misguided, shot-in-the-dark kinda songs. This book is like those recordings.

  • ISBN: 9781311153036
  • Author: Zachariah Bennet Douglas
  • Published: 2015-12-11 16:20:10
  • Words: 44944
Tomorrow Tomorrow