The stupid shit that happens

MM394

2010-10-06T11:56:00.001-07:00

He undid
his du-rag
at Bleecker
and ten,
fluorescents
lengthened
extensions.
A white
T-shirt, dark
at the arms
wrapped
baby boy,
grinning in
every direction
from his new
nylon toy
and daddy's
unraveled protection.

2010-04-26T11:59:00.000-07:00

Chronically volatile
thoughts
piercing through
a bubble
filled with
jelly and germs
awaiting
an opportunity
to worm and wiggle
their way
cell by cell
into
cracks and crevices
of aged skin.

Renormalization

2010-04-20T12:31:00.000-07:00

Zing went
the silly
string theory
of my heart
but you
can’t restart
time that’s
already
stopped
beating in
alternate
unison
canned in
limbo and
spewed at
unoccupied
spaces.

2010-04-20T12:30:00.000-07:00

Functionally
dissed
I missed
and cut
my lip
on the knife
eating a slice
of a peach
in the pit
of despair
at an age
where
we’re
supposed
to be
civilized.

2010-04-06T08:20:00.000-07:00

My spiritual adviser,
Kevin says,
“the answer is
right in front of you,”

so welcome to the hotel California,
I have a confession:
I don’t dance to remember,
I dance to forget.

Remember,
this is not
specifically for you
but I did
used to love
those boys
of summer
and Spring
keeps fucking
with my head.

Wait,
forget everything
I just said.
Fill’r up and
let’s go
for a spin
you and me,
let’s dance to
Bowie instead.

2009-10-29T14:23:00.000-07:00

Irrational
suits in
sadness
wander as
a point
person pulls
his hair
through thought
less
days after
day

Super Soldiers

2009-10-16T12:44:00.001-07:00

The re-education
of
psychotronic
mannequins;
experiments
on
plastic.
Mind control
reform
for the
common man
or
world peace?

In the Ward

2009-10-14T19:45:00.000-07:00

Rubbing noses and
robes with
elbows high –n-
mighty,
fingering tiny
cakes with
no feeling to
the touch.
An encore on
the floor,
scuffling muffles
the chatter.
Frozen as
the lights
come up,
silence.

2009-09-12T08:55:00.000-07:00

Chronically volatile
thoughts
piercing through
a bubble
filled with
jelly and germs
awaiting
an opportunity
to worm and wiggle
their way
cell by cell
into
cracks and crevices
of aged skin.

Friday Afternoon

2009-08-07T17:02:00.000-07:00

Bow-head
whale
flying through
the air
on a
whimsical
thought
of
the ultimate
super power.

2009-07-28T17:27:00.000-07:00

Kung Fu youth,
utilizing
euthanizing
feelin’ goooood.
Verbalizing
paralyzing
sock it to me.
77 in the shade and
goin’ nowhere but up.
Simulated
stimulated and
the pipes are bursting.
Carry me home
on your Kung Fu
Sword.

2009-07-07T16:54:00.000-07:00

Tuesday Night

“May I have a ‘T’, please?”

“Oh, yeah… there…are… THREE OF THEM!”

(I can sit alone watching the Wheel and drinking a beer while you hide in the closet. Come out, come out, wherever you are, rings in my head. How silly of you to hide like that.)

“I’d like to buy a vowel, Pat.”

(Just once I want to hear, “I’d like to buy a fucking vowel, Pat.”)

“I’m sorry, Marge, there’s no 'you'.”

Lunar Screams

2009-07-07T07:56:00.000-07:00

The moon hangs suspended within its own silhouette. She can only hold on for so long before letting go and falling into the darkness. The air rushes past her long, lean body, as she watches the white, glowing moon becomes the size of a distant star, insinuating a pin prick. Unable to move or turn her head, she can’t see the black abyss below. Blinded by darkness she’s consumed by the sound of the wild wind. Her eyes are bulging in terror as the arch of her back strengthens in an effort to resist the pressure. The wind suddenly flips her over. She tries to open her eyes but the wind is too much. It enters her mouth in between silent screams, suffocating and spinning her out of control. A second attempt proves more successful but what she can’t see becomes more terrifying than the falling. There’s nothing below.

'Brimstone'

2009-06-18T13:39:00.000-07:00

Finally a finished piece.

I Survived the Bizzard of '06

2006-02-16T14:23:00.000-08:00

When Amimals Attack

2006-02-06T09:44:00.000-08:00

Pressure. Pressure is what caused him to throw the first punch. The pressure to be brave, be the strongest, the pressure to win. But it was a wild one. The pit of his stomach told him it was too late to will his fist to retract and he hoped his opponent, El Diablo, would be just that fraction of second slower. However he knew by the look in El Diablo’s eye it was over. Everyone knows that when you throw a wild punch it’s over one way or another.

El Diablo felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand as he saw it breeze by his face. If it connected he was a goner. But it didn’t connect and immediately instinct took over. Three jabs deep into the left ribcage. He grit his teeth and hit even harder, pummeling his opponent and enjoying the sound of air pushing out of him with each hit.
“YEAH, MOTHER FUCKER!”
“YEAH, MOTHER FUCKER!”
“ESTOY EL DIABLO!”
“EL DIABLO, MOTHER FUCKER!” he roared while the saliva drooled and foamed out of the corners of his mouth.

Severe pain from cracked ribs along with the screaming and yelling crowd made it too difficult to focus any longer. Lights and people were spinning in his head. If only they would stop shouting. He closed his eyes and collapsed down to one knee. Another hit and he tumbled to the floor. The last thing he heard was a man’s voice scream,
“Get that animal off him!”
It was suddenly peaceful and he was flying. Soaring like a bird through a deep, warm, red canyon. His body floated toward the red rocks and then circled into darkness.

Scratch Fiction Tag: Who you calling a mud flap?!

2005-12-28T21:31:00.000-08:00

“I’ll tell you a little secret,” she said while exhaling a long drag off her Virginia Slim Ultra Light. Her voice had gotten deeper over the years. I looked on anxious, yet with hesitation.

“You see, I really wanted to be one of those Hula girls.” She laughed, blowing smoke in my direction and looking away. “You know, dancing on the dash, looking them in the eye, gliding along on the open road. I loved wiggling my hips and swaying back and forth in sync with the bumps and swerves in the road, all the time playing my Ukulele. I bet you didn’t know I was musically inclined." She paused here for just a few seconds.
"Anyway, it just seemed so… so exotic, ya know?"

“But then one day someone told me I looked like Anne Margaret. The thin waist, large breasts, long flowing hair. And my profile. There was just something about my god damned profile, he told me. And, well, I suppose I believed him.
“Just sit here, like this for a minute. Just one minute, won’t ya darling? And take off that ungodly grass skirt.”

“Ann Margaret, I thought to myself. Huh. Well, I suppose I could think of worse comparisons. So, I downed my PBR, dropped the skirt, lei and the only instrument I ever learned and took my place on the black rubber. I arched my back, pushed out my breasts as far as they would go and never looked back. Or forward for that matter.”

"Did I settle? some have asked over the years. I don't know. But there is one thing I do know for sure... Yosemite Sam's got nothin' on me."

She laughed her smokers laught after that, and lit another Slim.

The Wait

2005-11-09T11:45:00.000-08:00

He always comes in the middle of the night with little warning and just the right amount of nerve in his veins.
She always knows he’s there before the knock. Senses him, smells him, hears the sound of his distinctive pace climbing the cement stairs.

He stands at her door in the dark breathing heavily, the warm night feeling thick in his chest. Leaning his head on his arm against the door, wondering if this time he won’t have to knock.

She sits in the dark waiting for flesh to connect with wood. “He always hesitates”, she thinks to herself, a mischievous grin creeping to her lips. The waiting is almost as exciting as the taste of booze on his lips. “One of these days I won’t answer.”

“One of these days I won't do it”, he mumbles, going through the motion, hesitating, imagining her on the other side, waiting. He stuns himself with a smile every time. Making her wait is almost as exciting as her tiny frame pressing against his.

Three short knocks, as always. Barefoot, she hurriedly tiptoes across the room, waits a few seconds longer then turns the lock.

Hearing the snap commands him to stand tall and move in closer, the tips of his black cowboy boots already crossing the frame.

She swings the door open faster than anticipated. Her white slip glistens under the light.

They both take a breath and apprehension turns to assertion.

“What took you so long."

2005-11-05T20:30:00.000-08:00

Bright white sugar can
old and rusted,
but still a man,
standing the test of time.
Tough to open
tougher to close...
rotted out inside,
or is it so?
Let me cleanse the
tarnished trenches,
fill with the sweetness
it so long desires.
The purist of cane,
natures choices, everlasting.
Everlasting.

The Blues

2005-10-08T20:16:00.000-07:00

He sits in the middle of the night smoking cigarette after cigarette wondering what his life has come to. How he can begin again. Nothing inside these four walls has the answer. He rises, paces…turns the television on, off, on and then off again. He picks up the phone only to realize there’s no one to call. A voice in his head tries to calm him but only makes it worse. Anxiety, terror… the fear of losing his mind… are all he can process. There’s no sleeping now, for the unreasonable fears of what could happen already crept in. He could awaken, snap into reality and find himself wandering the streets, barefoot, naked, not remembering his own name. He worries if he thinks it; it can happen yet is unable to control these extreme images flashing before him.
His heart is pounding as he moves from corner to corner of the small room. One voice in his head reminds him of the bottle. The bottle in the kitchen cabinet. In the cabinet on the shelf. The bottle with the little blue pills. The tears come now, tears of yet another voice, the voice of resistance. The first voice is strong, calling him a coward. Saying if he had any pride, any self respect, he’d do it, take them all. He goes to the kitchen, to the cabinet, to the shelf and retrieves the prescription bottle displaying his name. Opening the bottle he pours the entire contents into his left hand. Holding them brings comfort. "Take them, you will finally be at piece" the first voice now calmly reasons. "There will be no more suffering. No more worry or anxiety nor insanity." But the tearful voice tells him he cannot. It reminds him of the people he’d hurt, how no one will find him in time to save his life. And isn’t that really what he wants… to be saved? The battle ensues, one voice pitted against the other. He walks to the bathroom mirror. Two faces are staring back through him. A face of torment, pleading for the strength to take all the blue pills and a face of desperation, pleading for the strength not to. Disgusted with who he sees, he moves to his desk, still holding on to the comfort. He’s tired of the pain, tired of feeling hopeless… tired. He places most of the pills on the table one by one, still clutching several in his hand and crawls into bed, sobbing. He can sleep now. For now, at least, the struggle slowly fades into the linens. Exhaustion has saved him.

Tripped up

2005-07-21T19:44:00.000-07:00

At first they wanted me to feel how they saw themselves. So a smaller radiator floated before me, waiting. My living room was coming alive. I put my hand through. It felt like air, only creamy. I ran my hand over the top stroking the floating miniature sized radiator's ridges. Something distracted me and poof, it was gone. But the golden velvety couch with pillows that I never sat on were calling out. The pillows were breathing almost, pulling me. I slowly lied down, starting at the end crawling towards the top and gracefully taking comfort in the couch taking me, surrounding my body. The burgandy pillow shifted fluidly, creating a face. The white pillows moved in unison like waves as much as they could. I lie there for a spell feeling the pillows welcoming me, allowing me to relax. I let my body go limp in their arms, the burgandy pillow and I talked some. It listened to my story as I cried it out. But then the couch, the radiator, and the pillows went dead on me. No more response, no comfort. I begged for the radiator to float before me one more time. Saddened and crying i went to the bathoom to look in the mirror. Please, i begged, find somthing beautiful in the there. You have to. Crying harder and longer, pleading more desperately I think, you HAVE to find something, just one thing you see looking back that is beautiful. I could not. My eyes are drawn, my nose is swollen, lips small, there is nothing naturally beautiful about this face. Cry cry try cry cry. Go back to the couch and see if they will come to life again. One last time. Help me float into fantasy. I will wait.

2005-06-23T07:40:00.000-07:00

When I draw a blank I do it so
carefully and precise, no one
can see or appreciate it but me.

About Me

2005-05-20T12:25:00.000-07:00

What you should know about me
Is that I’ll never fully trust you
I’ll never believe in your love.
That you’ll stay forever.
Everyone leaves eventually.
What you should know about me
Is that I’ll never completely let you in.
I’ll always hide parts of myself
Forcing you to leave eventually.
You will never really know me.
I just thought you should know.

Welcome. And remember... no touching

2004-05-20T12:59:00.000-07:00