Tuesday, December 30, 2008

growing to show off

doT is older now, by an ear.

plus who's nose?
it woke me, from my endless respite.

running around the building, asking for 'gloria'.

i shivered and tried to stay silent,
a wintermute,
manufacturing good things for it.

I can't speak any more

End up having to simply communicate with signs.

Whoever first perused iconology
has led us down a terrible path ...

But how torrid, and obscene!

I don't hide from them, but they all
seem to hide from me.
I keep the chest open, lungs bursting away
hard at whatever important work

they seem to be doing.

Full industrial capacity,
parents snoring,
children working,

all eight hearts pulsating

Monday, December 29, 2008

so ... corny ah?

Iris' displeasure with me is matter of legend,

perception grating, hurting.
Eye exams with the happy optician.

Craft me a lens, cornier.
I mean a cornea.
Locate it on the forehead,

where the dick used to stand.

Rescinded by a girl


Core of the damned thing.
So personal.
So personally taken.

Left to clatter with own devices.
The vices dividing

Playing with the remote control of the world.

Definition (Attempt 1 of ?)

Midge T. Liberty was an anarchist author of childrens' novels. He walked succinctly onto the stage, to give his speech. He was calm, collected, and god damn you, he was cool.

"I -- I don't know where to start," he said, as the crowd leered. An aide came to his side, and gave him a book. Midge T. opened this book, and the look of true knowledge gently wrapped itself around his face, like clingwrap. The kind with the suffocating bubbles.

The crowd was still leering. Midge T. nodded, thanking his aide (who had ushered itself off several minutes ago).

"You see ... what I am about to do -- the general process that is occurring -- "

Tobi, the Spy, watched in brazen darkness amongst the audience, transfixed.

"Is going to simply redefine your entire reality," said Midge T.

Sunday, December 28, 2008

Midge T. Liberty

There were a lot of people in attendance for the talk that Midge T. Liberty was giving, noticed Tobi the spy (recently from China) as he found a seat at the center of the auditorium. Many of them were quite a bit taller than him, he also noticed, although a few were much shorter. Still, it was surprising to find so many people coming to see a show that only cost 3 credits.

Tobi then remembered himself -- after all, he too was here watching a 3 credit show. Perhaps everyone else here was also new to Shangri-La, and could not afford the Hypnotist's Magic Show -- or Sex in the City, for that matter. Perhaps Midge T. Liberty's talk was kind of an orientation ... to Shangri-La -- a place one could meet other newcomers, and perhaps even make friends. He looked around, hand poised to greet a new companion, but then the lights went out and the stage lit up.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

red sharpies in the bathtub

"He's gone psycho -- maybe going to kill himself at the holidays."

No, not really. I just have this awesome light in my bathroom that's red, and enjoy pretending I am writing invisible love letters all over my bathing body.

Fuck me if they're going to walk in and turn on the boring yellow light. Find me afloat there, covered in gibberish and smiling back, still alive. The redness diffusing with whatever the color of hot tapwater is, generally.

the parallelly spelling bee

As we all know, I beat all future children at the Spelling Bee.

Therefore, I was compelled to find a more challenging scenario to the game. Based not really on any good idea of game mechanics, I propose the following, cruelly:

in true nerd fashion,
the 'spelling bee' has become boring.
i'm tired of watching those kids' lips

so i would desire to see a contest
where the kids are spelling two things
in parallel.

come on. processors are doing this shit.
train your parents, kids!
i mean, train your kids, parents!


full resolution of the heart

A man with a failing heart is wheeled by emergency to intensive care.

They put up a screen on the wall, at the highest resolutions possible, technologically.

"Look at it!" screams the doctor, and the poor failing heart man withdraws in a moment of self-tragedy.

"What is this, a cartoon? You showing me Bugs Bunny or Roadrunner clips again?"

"No, no, this is your heart. Your heart! At 120 frames per second!"

"That's not my heart. My heart beats. It's strong."

Nurses left the room, and only surgeons stayed, if only due to curiosity.

"So, operate. Experiment."

"Ok, ok. Look ... this is the procedure ..." said Dr. Tundra. (It was the doctor's first name).

"Go on."

"We need you to focus on your heart itself, and *tell* it to keep beating."


"That is the procedure."


All pressurized systems collapsed.

Tipp-Ex Perfumes

From the people who brought you jalapeno strong mints,
Tipp-Ex brand perfumes!

Have you tried to seduce your boss by erasing his whore-infested expense account,
yet failed?
If you'd used Tipp-Ex brand perfumes, you may have gotten away with it!

How could he resist that smell of erasure?
Of diluting, nay, deleting all his most sinful sins,
or his sines of fidelity?

Or his sinuses? Or her sinuses ... this perfume is not just for girlie girls ...

Imagine, waking in the morning,
covered by streaks of flaking unpeeling white substance on your skin.
You can try to shower, but it does not come off!

Tipp-Ex -- for smells that last.

Monday, December 22, 2008

Tobi Reborn

After the People's Republic of China had determined that Tobi, the spy from China, was not in fact a Chinese national, he was deported.

It was hard to know where to deport Tobi. He had come over ('back', as he claimed) from the United States, but the US denied knowing who the hell he was. Therefore, Tobi was finally deported, as all anomalies are, to Shangri-La.

Here, Tobi was reborn into a world of altered states and unlikely scenarios. Everything was organic -- the buildings, the machines -- even the food. There were towers of beanstalk, rising to the clouds to harness the strength of the mad Himalayan winds, and even extra-ozone solar panels. This electricity and organic design let them automate machines to extents that one could call 'unparalleled', except that they were, actually, parallel. Currency was awarded by the root system, automatically, if the deeds one did were found by the earth, winds and sea to be beneficial to the entire city. Newcomers started off with 10 free credits.

Tobi Reborn In Concept
It is said that the first thing a person must acquire is definition -- a sense of core being, and character. It is said that one must know oneself, before proceeding. In the room they had given him, Tobi the spy flipped through his Catalog of Shangri-La, to find out what he would do on his first evening there to obtain this so-called 'definition'. There were a lot of options. Some examples:
* Magic Show by Hypnotist (12 credits).
* Sex in the City (293 million credits)
* Friends (294 million credits)
* Interactive Warfare Simulation (There was no price for this -- only a greyed out icon, and a tiny print message saying "Not available at this existence level")

Tobi anxiously paged through his Catalog. There was nothing. "There's nothing here!" he cried. Food was not a concern -- they had told him that. You didn't have to 'buy' food at Shangri-La. There were ample centers scattered across the city where one could get food at the price of 0.00021 credits. "And it's not just food," the Guide had told him. "It's Feasts."

You could get food anywhere. But things to do -- those were precious, it seemed. "How can I attain self-definition if there's nothing to do?" He flipped through, his eyes getting very drowsy. Then all of a sudden, he found an item. There, buried across the pages, amongst activities whose price seemed only for gods, was an invitation (for 3 credits only!) to attend a speech and night of discussion and debate with Midge T. Liberty, author of childrens' novels.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

wet electronics

"why so slippery under times of duress?"
the duchess's challenge, her personal hex,
at me.

i miss walking late at night in the rain,
possibly murdered, possibly slain --
possibly soaked with electronics in brain,
laughing about surreal desires.

better than dead and being found
masturbating in the face of poor porn.
height of orgasm

did it.

soaking wet in the circuits.

'mish-mashes' of sociopolitical theory

tobi is a chinese spy sent to the united states in order to alleviate the local's misunderstandings about china, and chinese domestic affairs.


After teep was saved, nothing had gone right for Tobi.

The paparazzi, certainly, was partly to blame. Trying to take photos with the spy who saved the baby from the garbage. Looking for sensations.

It was after a few hours at the hospital, being checked for drugs and cancer, and such, that Tobi regained awareness. "Where's teep?" he said, gripping the nurse's bra.

"Teep is sleeping, Tobi. Unlike you," said the nurse, letting his fists execute their freudian whims. "Come now. Sleep."

There was a struggle, between his inculcation within her hypnosis (ha hip-gnosis may have been better, and i am cheese), and his drugged self, walking out of the cinema.

"Where's the baby?" cried Tobi, aloud, eliciting sixteen nannies with fingers to the lips.

"We know how this ends, Tobi," said a nurse.

"Ha," said Tobi ... nervously. "No we don't. We don't know how this fucking ends."

"The baby is creepy. That's it. End of story."


"Do you want to go deeper?"

"Plough," said Tobi.

"More deeply, I care about you," said the nurse, releasing Tobi's fist from her bra.

"They took photos, of me."

"Saving the baby, honey. It was really tough on the entire world."


Tobi nodded wisely. Not because he discovered a truth, but because nodding wisely sometimes buys time.

"We are deporting you to China, Tobi," said a nurse. "We will erase your memory prior to it."

"You bastard!" screamed Tobi, his hand slapping against the incubation room. He said it because he saw the uncurling finger. The little bastard. The evil fuck!

"Teep!" screamed Tobi the spy.

out of china, with love

tobi is a chinese spy sent to the united states in order to alleviate the local's misunderstandings about china, and chinese domestic affairs.

"Why are you in China, Tobi?"

Tobi laughed. "Ha." Very funny. How identity can be so easily twisted, and turned.

But the person did not shift and wink. "What brings you to Beijing, for a visit?"

"Ha. Pretty funny. Keep the symptom close, keep the distractions further."

Tobi ate a small dumpling, biting half through, to see the true innards of the dumpling he ate. Then quickly swallowed it with 'soy sauce' which was actually seasoning. "I am a Chinese citizen!" he said then, angrily.

"No. You are not."

"What do mean? It's me. Tobi."

"Why are you in Beijing today, Tobi?" asked the ambassador.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

error in his outburst

he made an error in his outburst,


engendering such things as scientologists
to plague us.

"this was not how it was to be.
the machines had to
manifest their own destiny."

the patch is not due for millenia ...

Monday, December 15, 2008

Baboon-tinted Glasses

There is a fascinating documentary by Robert Sapolsky where the baboons are kind of like actors, one could say, playing the role of human beings. The cast is uncommonly good, carrying out their performances to something approaching true realism, even without any director. They are a lens -- baboon-tinted glasses -- into our nature.

One of the skits begins with this chick 'boon just sitting around, minding her own business. All of a sudden, like, out of nowhere, all hell fucking breaks lose around her as two males explode into conflict. One is an alpha-male, and in the Darwinian nature of life, pretty much the projected winner. This always happens -- there are very, very few exceptions. The other baboon, smaller in size and less aggressive (we are speaking relatively, here) is statistically, the loser.

We all know what happens with the winner, so the play logically focuses on the loser -- the baboon that just got totally pounded -- thrashed -- by that brutal primate. You really have to see the performance by that actor -- it is truly heart-wrenching. Not only is his physical self so pulverized, but his soul, the poor soul, is utterly crushed. He scampers off to the side, and just sits there, licking his horrible wounds.

Over time, as realization sets in -- as the clarity of what just happened, of how it transpired in front of the entire tribe, of the shame so powerfully implied -- the depressed baboon is overwhelmed by great, great stress. He won't eat. He doesn't socialize with the rest of the tribe. Even in his sleep the poor fellow is horribly fitful, scratching away at himself, hurting his own body.

This is a very common trait amongst so many lifeforms, this 'downward spiral', so to speak. Shellfish even do it, as Robert Wright mentions in his book Nonzero. Perhaps a very literal expression of the brutal way that a species population balances itself, canceling out the 'inept'.

Of course, as humans, we are compelled to try to help the suffering baboon out, but how? What to do? It is highly inadvisable to go over and put a comforting hand around the poor fellow's shoulder. Baboons, even the emotionally crushed ones (maybe especially), will viciously scratch and bite you if you do something that ... emo. One could end up like the baboon itself, except even worse, because you just got your evolved ass kicked by a damn animal. It would be horrible if that was caught on video. Can you imagine -- the shame of it?

So how to help? You can't just feed it -- the thing is depressed and won't eat at all. Well, one possible solution could be to proactively change the environment around the baboon. The environment itself could be changed. Kind of like that virtual reality thing, you know, in Star Trek? The baboon opens its eyes and it is suddenly in this swanky baboon club, surrounded by hot virtual baboon babes that do nothing but praise him.

That is, of course, the sci-fi version. In more realistic terms, I suppose you could transport the baboon to a special facility. Not a zoo, don't put it in a zoo, but more like some special place where it's more natural and stuff. Then you could slowly introduce a girl baboon to him, over time. Yeah, I know that this kind of thing could take a while to work out, but don't give up you know? There isn't much more you could morally do. Just put the female there and ... I ... I ... I dunno.

Nudge it, or something.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

about being shot to shit

tobi is a chinese spy sent to the united states in order to alleviate the local's misunderstandings about china, and chinese domestic affairs.


when the authorities had done their whole dance, and it was ok for forensics to arrive (you know, when they were done shooting Tobi to pieces like szechuan shredded pork), they found the body, in a filthy mess.

a filthy mess of lies, that is. "That's not what a man shot to shit looks like ..." said Agent Carrot, quietly.

Captain Sternest came to Carrot's support. They both looked at each other. "No ... it isn't. Where did you say you trained, again?"

"In the precinct, sir!" beamed Carrot, proudly.

"You have an astute eye, Carrot. It will take you far," said Sternest. "For, as anyone can see, plain as a day, our victim here has certainly not been shot to shit."

"No. If he was truly, truly shot to shit, the kneecap would have dislocated, following such a trajectory, that ...."

"Ssh ... shuttup," barked Sternest.

"Captain?" said Carrot.

"You have an astute eye, Carrot, as I told you. You show promise."


the captain took Carrot along the shoulder, and they went to the corner. "Look," he said. "You know what this looks like ..."

"Hell yeah," shouted Carrot, "they f-" then he shut his own mouth, creeping a small fingernail between his teeth.

Sternest nodded oldly, and wisely back at him. "If we tell them they all missed, Carrot ... if we do that, those crazy people right out there are really going to go apeshit," he whispered.

Carrot started to shake, and Sternest came to his side, placing a shoulder. "It's ok, kid -- it's a dangerous, dangerous job we do ... forensics."

this was when Tobi, the spy who'd been shot to shit, turned around, and showed them Teep. "Teep!" he cried out. "Teep's alive, and sleeping!"

the officers covered their mouths. their day had just got a whole lot worse.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

tobi finds teep sleeping peacefully in an alley

tobi is a chinese spy sent to the united states in order to alleviate the local's misunderstandings about china, and chinese domestic affairs.


teep is a baby, who is constantly sleeping in bliss. that's why his name is teep. because he's a teep. geddit? he's a teep. these are teeps:


"teep," said tobi, miserably snuggling into the garbage as the CIA's bullets riddled around. "teep," they're killing me, like a prawn found in a fishnet for caviar."

teep, of course, being a wonderful and healthy (and huggable!) round baby, said nothing and just kept sleeping, peacefully.

"teep!" screamed tobi, as an FBI bullet shot off his left ear, blood red and dripping against the black garbage bags. "help!"

teep, of course, said nothing. how could it? it was just a baby. a peacefully sleeping baby, round and wholesome. asleep.

all the bullets started to converge around them. every rookie cop was a marksman now, even the psychos whose hands they put the guns in were actually almost hitting.

there was nothing else to do. tobi, crippled by a new shot to the knee, scampered over sleeping teep, protectively, from the bullets and ... and the rockets they were firing.

"teep," cried tobi, into the garbage, but teep was peacefully asleep. because he's a teep.

a moment of refreshingly candid truth

Real title:
a moment of candly floss

quick at it comes, the memory's lost.
fell on a peel last night, broke open my head,
yes, the head, the head. but stay.
not damaged goods just yet ...

i'm driving down, in my scooby van
then fall off a ravine, to surprise of the Klan.
no, it's not just spooky ghosts ...
the aliens have a hand and plan, to boot.

rebooting into a thousand oases,
or os'es if saucy, and from

a moment, young child, i want candy floss!

Orange Shine 622

episode 1: Bonanza
"It's me or Bonanza, cherrypie," I said, sipping the last of our Cuervo. "'N' never the twain shall meet."

I didn't look up, but I knew she was standing at the doorway, half of her illuminated in sunlight, the other half merging with the darkness of our cheap motel room.

We had scribbled verses all over the walls, in lipstick. Hers, obviously. She was wearing Orange Shine 622 those days - Room Service blew his load when she playfully puckered at him in the dull yellow light last night. Most of the things written were purile, and that's another reason I didn't want to stray from the glass on the table. But some of it was good.

Woke up with my hand around the empty glass. I guess she decided Hop Sing was the better lover, so I picked myself up and strolled into the afternoon sunlight. Car was gone, obviously. I decided I hadn't taken a walk parched and hungry in desert sun in a long time, so I hit the road.

Walked to my CPA's office. Cynthia doesn't come in on Saturdays, I guess, so I just stood, waiting, as a couple went over their personal income with one of the agents. Couple's kid was sitting in the waiting space with me. He was poring over the magazines there, and I laughed, remembering how important the print on all those cereal boxes used to be.

Woman walked in. Slim, pale, in the afternoon light. She stood there for a while, looking around, pretending to be 'doing something' on her cellphone. She looked at me once, swollen eyes, and then hurriedly went back to her phone. I love it when people don't know how to respond to a direct stare and impenetrable smile. "You pickin' up, maam?" asked the agent, looking up from the couple. "No," she said, nervously, "I'm filing." Threw a quick glance my way, and then she shivered back to her mobile device. Damn, you must've had a fucked up night, I laughed to myself, but she was beautiful in her own way.

Something in my stance must have given my impatience away, because the agent excused herself from the couple, saying, "Hold on, he's just picking up. Let me take care of him, one sec". I wondered what the hell kind of vibe I must be emanating. You walk into a place, don't say a word, and people still know what you want. How does that work?

Got my tax papers, and was very, uh, emotive, in my response of gratitude. "Thank you so much," I said, staring deep into the agent's eyes. "Have a great day!" And with that, I turned around and walked out of the office, nodding at the nervous woman and smiling at the nice kid.

episode 2: Room Service Spends a Night Out With Puffy Eyes
"I'm quitting Joe. You can take your cheap motel and shove it up your midget behind!" said Room Service.

Joe climbed onto the table and leaned into Room Service's face. "Yeah, what're you going to do, freak? Polish shoes at the bus stop?"

"Silence, Joe," said Room Service, pressing his forehead into the little man's face. "I'm going to spend a night with one of your customers! How's that? How do you like that, Tattoo?"

Joe bunched his fists. "I told you never to call me that" he screamed. "I'll sue you, motherfucker! It's in the terms of your contract. You may NOT fraternize with clients."

"Clients!" laughed Room Service. "Clients. They're fucking customers Joe, not clients. And just watch me - ", he said, stepping away to the door, "- I'm walkin' outta here, and I'm going to spend a night with one of your goddamn customers!"

As he walked out, he could hear Joe hissing away like a steam engine.

"Why, hi there Puffy Eyes," said Room Service, walking up to a woman who was packing a small suitcase into her car. "Orange Shine 622 shouldn't be wasted on mere walls", he said, smiling.

Puffy Eyes gave him a sour look and turned back to her suitcase, struggling.

"Now let me help you with that" said Room Service, putting a hand on her back and relieving her of her suitcase. He expertly swung the suitcase sideways, then up, placing it neatly into the trunk.

Puffy Eyes looked down at her feet. "T-Thanks. Thank you." Then she looked up at him and smiled, reaching for her purse. "Now, uh, yes. How much should I - I mean, what's the -"

"I don't want your money," said Room Service. "I want..."

She stared at his face. Room Service looked - well, he looked kind of confused - but, not confused. As though, he was staring into some bright, unknown mystery. "Yes?" she said.

"I want - I want to take you to the Lollipop Stand at the city park" said Room Service.

"I'm sorry?" said Puffy Eyes. "You what?"

"The Lollipop Stand," Room Service repeated. He turned to look at the motel lobby door.

Joe was advancing from the darkness inside. The little man had a large leather belt and a keen eye set perfectly on Room Service's face.

"Let's go, c'mon, there isn't much time" said Room Service, taking Puffy Eyes' hand and shoving her into the car.

"You can ride shotgun," he said feverishly, as he ran around to the driver seat.

"What?" exclaimed Puffy Eyes. "What the hell- where are you taking me?"

"To the Lollipop Stand, honey. We're going to the Lollipop Stand and I'm going to spend the goddamn evening with you!"

episode 3 (Conclusion): the mover
Flailing the belt over his head, Joe ran after the car, his tiny legs carrying him close enough to lash out onto the rear bumper. He yelled as his belt came down, each stroke causing Room Service to slam the gas pedal down as far as he could.

Joe chased them out of the driveway, and then, as the car sped off down the hill towards the town center, stood there, screaming and cursing at them, the belt making wild arcs in the air as he swung it around angrily. Finally, as the car disappeared from view, Joe dropped his arms and turned back, thick eyebrows frowning as he walked back to the lobby.

In the lobby, Joe threw the belt aside onto a couch, and walked to his seat behind the front desk. Slowly, his angry stride loosened, and the angry frown on his face relaxed into a calm, glowing smile.

Humming, he reached up to unlock the top drawer of the desk, opened it, and pulled out a large bottle of shiraz. Then, shiraz in hand, he climbed up his chair and settled back, plopping his short legs on top of the desk. He uncorked the bottle, took a deep swig from it, and set his head back, closing his eyes and letting the warm smile on his lips spread across his whole face.

A couple of minutes later, one hand still holding the bottle of shiraz, he leaned over and grabbed his thick ledger. Joe placed the ledger on his lap, and, taking another swig, turned the pages lesuirely. He stopped at page fifty-eight, took another swig, and set the bottle onto the desk.

"Well well well," said Joe, chuckling to himself, "looks like we took care of that one. Room Service is good to go". He traced a finger across a profile photograph of Room Service, sans uniform. It was taken on the day he'd signed up, in the kitchen, a mundane montage of motel cutlery gracing the background. He cupped his close-shaven chin thoughtfully for a moment, wondering if the boy would be alright. Then, shaking his head dismissively, he took another swig of the shiraz.

"No, I've set him up right," he mused. "A man who blows his load over Orange Shine 622 in place of a healthy tip has no business in the Hospitality Industry. With that Puffy Eyes though ... boy could go places" he grinned.

"Time to move on to other custome - *clients*. Ho ho ho. Yes. Other clients" said the midget, savouring the phrase. "Who else to change next, I wonder..." mused Joe, thumbing over the rest of the pages.

"Will it be Henrietta, the fish-monger's girl?" He looked at the picture of a large-boned, bespectacled youth, holding up a halibut in one hand, and a meat cleaver in the other. There was a note scrawled next to the picture. "Doesn't like men who drive station-wagons" he read to himself. "Well, then." He turned to the next page.

"Ah, old Klaus Schmermer, the Hunchback of the New Rochelle ... Post!" exclaimed Joe, bubbling with laughter. He smiled as he read over his notes. Schmermer was 62 years old, had been married for 43, had four grown children and eight grandchildren, and was still breaking his back for a clerk position at the Post. Further down, he saw a brief note from a conversation he'd had with Schmermer, down Napolis Lane on a Sunday morning. Joe had cycled into town for some wine, and spotting Schmermer, rode up beside him.

"Why, hello there Klaus. Don't often see you out on a Sunday morn'" Joe had said, riding beside the lanky, but slouching man.

"Workin' overnight, Joe," said Schmermer, "on account of the costs of a last minute story that had to get into publication."

"I see, I see" said Joe, looking onto the road in front of them. "Time to retire by now, don't you think, Klaus?" said Joe, sucking a tooth at the back of his mouth.

"Oh, ho ho", laughed Schmermer, without really laughing. "Not just yet, Joe, not just yet."

"You got kids. Hell, you got grandkids Schmermer" said Joe.

"Now there Joe," said Schmermer, straightening up a little, his weak smile stiffening. "You can't change people. Let 'em be and let 'em do as they will. I'll be doin' as I do, in my own time here. You just run along and do what you be doin'."

"True enough, Klaus," Joe had said, a warm, dreamy smile slipping onto his face. "True enough. I'll be seeing you around, Klaus - hopefully not on a Sunday too soon, you hear?" he said, speeding up, and cycling away around the corner.

Now Joe traced his finger over Klaus' photograph, the warm smile again over his face. A drop of wine spilled down his chin as he wondered what would happen to Klaus - what would happen to his reality - his existence - when he changed his life. He took a pencil from his pocket, and placed a small tick at the corner of his page.

He turned the page over. "Miss Melanie Dupree" said Joe aloud, raising the bottle of chiraz in the air in mock cheer. "Unchecked nymphomania leading to poor life decisions and consequent personal catastrophe" he read from his notes. He looked at the picture - a blatantly anorexic form wrapped in an even tighter leather outfit, lying spread-eagled over the floor. She had a tattoo on her exposed belly - a phallus motif arrow pointing downward with the small marquee 'All Winners Lottery' printed above it. Joe briefly wondered if she was into midgets. Then, shaking his head, he turned the page. "Maybe later..." he said to himself.

He went over the next few pages, taking a swig of shiraz now and then. Finally, he turned all the way to the end of the ledger. There, on the last page, he traced his finger over the photograph and started smiling again. There were no notes, only the photograph of a young girl in her late teens, possibly early twenties. She was wearing a college jersey and smiling brightly with her chin on her knees. Joe's finger traced around the photograph, circling it gently, and then drew next to her face, staying there.

He turned his eyes to the photograph next to it, attached onto the inside of the back cover. For a moment, Joe's smile faded. It was a black-and-white photo of a syringe, lying on the floor. The carpet was a dark color, but across it there were tiny specks of white powder, spilled around, almost carelessly, one could say. At the bottom, on the right corner, there was a name, 'Sgt. Pilkner', and a signature. Printed below the signature in red was the label 'EVIDENCE'.

For that brief moment, his warm smile entirely gone, Joe wondered if he should pull the picture out. Pull it out, and throw it away. Let it be gone. But then he shook his head slowly, and said, as he had a thousand times before, "No. No, this is my reminder. This is why I will always try to change them."

Joe closed the ledger and tossed it onto the desk. Then he took another swig of wine, and laid his head back, waiting for the warmness of the smile to spread over his face.

Verify Your Account

i like how facebook now challenges you with a captcha if you want to write on the blog, but have a link that says 'Want to get rid of this? Verify your account'.

(08:14:42 PM) riverfr0zen: If you click it, they tell you to give them your zipcode and phone number

Also, this is the only (and last) "check out what i'm doing" post on this blog. To celebrate, I leave you with my favo(u)rite band, The Shamen.


oh, and this one too

i really like that carrion.

thermometer in the wrong side of mouth

twist it with soup, warm chicken broth

'n your mom's hairy corns floating atop.

"gross," say the kindy girl minds.
some of them 18, most almost 65.
jail bait and funeral expenses,

twist it with a chile relleno.

ho. bah, humbug, our 'ditty' of spring!
what, you want presents, what about this fine sun we receive?
why won't you grate you ungrateful child?

sushi at eight, pierogis for noon.
he's eating a horse, literally, at six.
(it's paarden rookvlees)
to make up for dinner in bhutan, last week.

"i ... i feel like ... meeting you"
says drunken diplomat to court jester's fool.
"ha ha ha" i enjoyed you, "ha ha ha"
so trisyllabicly trite tonight,

oh so ... so. so. possibility to feel like this.

nasally fluent yet phlegmatically crude,
he stuttered his nines at the start.
it's as far has he got, as far as he got,
especially as an employee at the 99c store.

playing with words again

if your efficiency is sufficient, suffice to say,

effectively that supposition's pouring off.

"away", it's exclaimed, "avast your blathering neighs",
by spayed ambition soon to plume as your brain.

eff your efficiency, it's suffice to stay
poor enough, so no opposition flocks this way,


I have three cancers, two in my balls and one on the tip of my penis


And cancer. Porn and cancer.
Smell of death and spermatozoa,

I go jogging early in the morning,
in my imagination, with my pet shell of a crab
whose inner flesh i consumed late last night

with a shot of tequila.

The crabshell does give me a good run, I must say,
scuttling off into the lost horizon in its
bottom-fed ocean dwelling ways, lending me chase.

Those wiles of the crustacean, now I'm losing it ...
as you'll lose ... the flow ... smoothness of transition,
'tween the rainbow, as pollen grows, brachyura's

demented gonopores.

Under-dwelling sky oceans, star-feeding grounds.
Comets for dolphins, a meteor for hatchetfish.
Splish -- splash, around cloudy crowns of shimmer gas

ring-a-rose, those planets ...