Friday, March 27, 2009

Three Cents Short

The front door opened behind Conrad, and Lily's heels clacked along. There was the rustle of paper bags landing on tablecloth, and then he could practically hear the groan pull out of her back as she straightened up. This made him feel even worse.

"Heya, hon," she called, from the kitchen. "What you watching there?"

He breathed in slowly, deeply, and then let it out, angry and disenfranchised. "I have been sitting here since three o'clock in the afternoon watching this damn variety show that some hillbillies are streaming on the net from their damn basement or something!" he growled. His eyes suddenly bulged. "My god -- they're getting their post-pubescent son to strap on his guitar and play his freakin' rock songs on the show, now. It's ... horrible." He clutched his chest, feeling a stiffening in the heart.

She was stocking the fridge, and spoke from somewhere in the crisper. She sounded tired from the shopping. "Why do you do this to yourself? You could have come with me, you know."

He sank in the couch, knees reaching the coffee table and rocking his cold cup of tea gently. He looked miserably into his chest. "It's for charity. A fundraiser they're doing to raise money for autism."

"Oh?" she said. Now her heels clacked, somehow excitedly it seemed, from the kitchen into their living room. He felt her hands reach around him from behind, warming him despite their winter chill. He could smell the Walmart on her. "Charity? How much did you donate?" She sounded proud, somehow. Surprised, but proud.

"Me? I didn't donate anything. I'm just watching it. Other people are donating. They tell you now and again how much money has been collected so far."

There was a sigh, and her clasp loosened around him, but he took her hands and held them. "No, stay. Stay with me here."

"I'm going upstairs," said Lily, turning. "Want a nice hot bath."

"I'm miserable," he complained. "Why did you have to leave, and leave me all alone here?"

"Someone has to do the shopping," she said, and pulled herself up the stairs. She stopped halfway. "Anyway, how much are they asking for? The donations -- what's the minimum?"

"Fifteen dollars," he said, settling back into the couch.

She walked back down and threw their check book onto the coffee table. "Send them a check."

"What?" he said, turning around to see who this crazy stranger was.

"Write them a check, and I'll mail it tomorrow. Go on, do it. It will make you feel better, I promise."

With that she ascended, leaving him alone in the dim yellow room, autumn evening waning in the windows. He watched the 'show' for some time, and then looked at the check book. Then his eyes turned to his cold cup of tea. After several minutes, he leaned over and picked the check book up.

Pen in hand, he waited for them to mention who this check must be made out to. When they said it, or rather, jingled it, he carefully wrote who the payee would be. "Fifteen dollars," he muttered, as though the amount meant some great deal to him, knowing full well it did not. His hand, then, was just about to write the amount when he stopped. A smile came upon his face, and now he set the pen upon paper once again, to write.


"Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm," he cackled gleefully to himself, expressing the amount again upon the check, this time in lettering. He could have sent them a thousand, of course, but here he was sending them $14.97. Three cents short! What were they going to do -- turn it away? Anyway, this was not about them, it was about him.

When he was done, he signed his name, tore it out and placed it upon the table. He heard Lily's bath run quietly upstairs. She had been right. It had made him feel better.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Massive Six-by-Eight ft. High-Definition TV Has Tiny Production Artifact

"Okay, I'm really getting tired of these. These ... dOTs," I grumbled.

dOT was speaking again now, waking me from my peaceful slumber. It was able to perform whole sentences. Said something about being able to 'actually fleep peeffully'. "Well ain't that marvelous," I fumed.

For those who don't know, dOT is a baby I hear from time to time, going about in the building in which I live. When I first learned of it, it was spirited, yet could not speak in any language except to say "dOT!" all day long (loudly). This is why I named it dOT.

However, as evidenced by today's massive dissertation on delta wave brain states, dOT is starting to learn how to compose whole sentences. Which makes it something more human, and less dOT-like.

But I am still going to call it dOT for a while. Until the bird is actually able to leave the coop.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Nobody Has To Blow Me

She went down against me, giving that look she can always pull with her face. That somewhat wistful look -- the one I always tend to interpret as "Do I really have to?"

She went down, her hands pinching into my shoulders, resting her face -- her face, for crying out loud -- against my thigh. I quickly pulled her back -- her entire body -- back up again. "What the hell do you think you're trying to do?"

"BJ," she replied. "Don't you want it? I know you do." Slowly she began sliding down my body -- again.

"No," I said, pulling her back up. This, now, exasperated her.

"What kind of man stares an entire lifetime into a girl's eyes, longingly, like you do," she said, punching me, "then refuses her the ability to give him a blowjob? When I'm practically begging to."

I lifted her up, with my powerful hand, and turned her over, so her body was on top of me. "Kind of man who really loves you, woman," I said. "What is it you don't get?"

"Really?" she said. I think some of her saliva actually drizzled my cornea.

"Truly," I promised.

I could feel her nervousness, in her muscles, at that point. In her body. She was trying to assess me. I had to be kinder. More gentle with her.

I sighed. "I know where to put it, ok? Why do you think I wouldn't know something like that?"

She turned off me, once more, collapsing onto the mattress, beside me. "Because of what you said," she said, her hand ever so slowly gliding down my torso, down there, yet again.

I took her hand, and held it. It was soft. I kissed it -- kissed her hand. "Because of what you said," she told me, then, "when you were three."

"Three? It's three, now?"

"You look surprised." Her muscles changed, in her hand, which I was holding.

"I just ... " I let go of her hand. "I ... just ... I don't remember ever swearing like that."

She took my hand back, the powerful one, and let me turn her back onto my body.

"You may have been two, when you said it," she agreed.

"Trooli?" I replied.

She proceeded to laugh evenly into my face.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Cannot visit some sites :(

"Man committed suicide through pure thought," someone messaged me.

I affirmed the message, validating it based on pure plausibility. But I can't cross-check. I'm not allowed to visit some sites any more. Like cnn, or the 'news' @

Who, what, could possibly deny me these little pleasures? Don't look at me -- if I knew, I would actually be surfing those sites right now. Instead of lamenting their


Gotta love a woman who tells you that you can't 'watch the news' ...

Sunday, March 15, 2009

glow, worm hole. glow.

Rolo says this is 9/9 of 'the blinking lights'. Here are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

There was no one at the road by the Blinking Lights when I passed by, and I

didn't see any lights either.

It was quite chilly, the breeze cutting the crickets' chirping thin. Luckily,
they seemed to be in a good mood tonight - there are, at least, some things in
the universe that no bully can ever spoil for you, and one of them is the
crickets' chirping. It's like the sound of one hand clapping.

There was another commotion at the grocery store. Bluejay was there with some
of his friends, chatting with the owner, Mr. Everidge, as Pretty Rogerson danced
around them excitedly. As I approached, I could see that the young man
previously robbing the store was bent over with his hands behind his back.
Bluejay was manhandling him, while Mr. Everidge tried to stop Bluejay.

"No, no," said Mr. Everidge, "you don't have to take him. It was just a little
thing... no hassle ..."

One of Bluejay's friends roughed the young man some more. "Do you think this is
a joke?" said Bluejay angrily to the owner. Everidge, noticing me, rolled his eyes.
I waved back. "No, not a joke, as such," mumbled Mr. Everidge, "Just ..."

"Look, we can't have crimes occurring and not being addressed," said Bluejay,
giving me a once over, "As it is, we already have enough nuts running loose."

"Could be because of the Blinking Lights ... " mumbled the owner, with his hands
in his pockets. I found this very interesting and leaned against the wall to
hear more. Pretty Rogerson also stopped circling around them to listen.

Bluejay, on the other hand, got very angry. "Again with the damn lights! There
are no lights, damn you, no damn lights!"

Mr. Everidge seemed to take offense to this. "Well, I prefer to, er, take a more
intellectually honest perspective on such things," he mumbled.

This caused Bluejay's eyes to pop open. "Intellectually honest? Intellectually
honest? How can you say that?" Pretty Rogerson had walked off into the store.

"Well, you know - I mean, some of it must be true. I mean, sure, there may be
some made up stuff there, but even if there's, say, one percent of truth there,
it is, you know, worth hearing about..."

They went on about this for some time, but I didn't hear much more about the
Blinking Lights. Pretty Rogerson came out of the store and handed me some
bandaids. "For the wounds," he explained, and I smiled at him and shook his hand.

There wasn't much else to see, so I started back to Arlene's place. I seemed
to be doing pretty well with my breaths - keeping them around 15-16 each minute.
I couldn't wait to tell Rolo about it - and also about the conversation I'd
heard regarding the Blinking Lights. It was, then, only when I neared the road
where the lights were supposed to be that I noticed the crickets had stopped
their chirping. A little puzzled, I looked down the narrow road.

Rolo was standing there, surrounded by the Blinking Lights.


Rolo says this is 8/9 of 'the blinking lights'. Here are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

"You sure you don't want it?" asked Blue Jean. Her makeup was accentuating the
bags under her eyes in the light of our small fire. The 'bruised and abused
whore' look was cosmetics, but everyone knew, also pretty much the truth. I
smiled and put an arm around her, and this seemed to reduce her rate of
respiration. She wasn't really talking to me - she was talking to allay the
fears of being trashed by Balboa, who bullies everyone on the street, anytime.
Like some 24/7 phone-up abuse line, only real.

But that was okay, because I wasn't really listening to her either. I was
looking at the window into Arlene's place. Rolo was in there rummaging through
her stuff for items to equip us tomorrow night. I could see him burrowing about
in the room, behind Arlene, who stood at the window watching Blue Jean and

The smack had come as more of a surprise than actual pain. I carefully picked
myself up, because someone's share of sausage was near my foot, and I didn't
want to spoil it for them. However, the next punch rendered me off balance, and
I squished it. Blue Jean was screaming hysterically in the background, and maybe
a reason I kept my eyes closed was to avoid the apparition of her tear streaming

I heard Rolo's distinct footsteps, the ones he does when he's running, come down
the stairs Inside. The door slammed open and the next thing I heard was Balboa's
unenthusiastically soft thud, as he crashed into the pavement, damaging one of
the tiles. When I opened my eyes, Rolo was rubbing one fist and consoling Blue
Jean with the other hand. They were looking down at Balboa, who was outcold. I
loved the look that Blue Jean was pouring over Rolo - someone was getting laid
tonight! I smiled, making the blood trickle in a different direction down my

"Jupiter? Jupe? Are you ok?" Arlene was shaking me at the shoulders. She was
wearing a little red thing, very attractive.

"He doesn't answer to that name any more," said Rolo. "It'll be the Fool who you
must address."

Arlene clicked her tongue and shook me again. "Are you alright?"

I smiled at her and nodded, taking her hand to rise to my feet.

Rolo came to me and handed me his bag of quarters. "You are badly injured," he
said. "Go buy some bandaids at the grocery store."

I nodded to thank him, and took the money. A small commotion had fired up on the
streets because of Balboa, and I waded through it. I was looking forward to some
time alone - Rolo was my best friend and all, but we'd been hanging out together
all day. I wanted to see how well I could count my breaths without him around.

As I walked away, I could hear him calming the people on the street down, and I
could hear Arlene's shrill stare, whose soundwaves bounced off my back.

pearl offal

Rolo says this is 7/9 of 'the blinking lights'. Here are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

A nugget of sizzling sausage landed and started dancing on my lap. I looked up
and Aunty Septic smiled proudly back at me, stirring the pot in her arms.

Aunty Septic had been married to Don Juan Dinero for what may have been even
before Arlene's place had stood on the streets. He had been a wealthy financier,
who Saw the Light, and she a short-order cook who was dazzled by his many

These days, the Don usually made sure everyone was being nice to each other and
renouncing the ways of profit, while Aunty Septic collected the meats and
eatables from here and there to cook for everyone. We tried to keep away from
him, and yet, stay within eating distance from her. But they were inseparable,
probably because of the Pearls.

I smiled at the Aunt, and put the sausage in my mouth. Immediately my hunger was
eliminated and I could only look into her face with pure gratitude. In that
rapture, I noticed she had obtained wound number 87 - a new boil threatening to
burst at any moment. But she was always careful to keep it from falling over the
food, at ANY cost, as witnessed on the night of the Anonymous Flaming Poodle. It
was an horrific incident, with much confusion and flailing about of bodies - and
an annoying sound of yelping. Luckily, no one from the streets was hurt. A few
days later, one of the Insiders - a woman with braided red hair (this is a
crime) and leaflets, had come to ask us about this poodle, but by then, the
sausages had been digested and I, myself, hate poodles anyway. Nevertheless, it
should be noted, everyone who ate that night is still alive and healthy, so
there is something to be said for Aunty Septic's sanitary nature.

glittering glue

Rolo says this is 6/9 of 'the blinking lights'. Here are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

I was panicking when we reached Arlene's place, but I tried to make sure my
breaths were in proper rotation. Something had gone wrong with my steps. It was
the smaller numbers. I always seemed to get those in a mess. I tried to remember
what the numbers were, but the smell of leather cooking sausages broke my train
of thought.

This was Aunty Septic's recipe, well reknowned on the streets. You just roll the
sausages in a leather belt, or handbag, or maybe, a jacket, and you smoke the
sausages within them. One bite could keep your taste buds tingling for a day.
Which was great, because usually, given the number of people who came to
Arlene's place, one bite is all you'd probably get.

We squeezed our way through the shoulders and knees of the others. Rolo told me
where to sit down. "I'm just off to see Arlene about tomorrow night," he said,
winking at me. "Don't you worry - you'll be fine till I get back."

I clasped my bottle of Jolt and nodded. If Rolo said things were going to be ok,
they probably would be. As he walked off, I looked around. The smell of the
leather sausages caught my nose again.

incentives from friends

Rolo says this is 5/9 of 'the blinking lights'. Here are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

Rolo couldn't stop talking about the Blinking Lights on our way to Arlene's
place. "We'll go back there again tomorrow night," he said. "After 11, though,
'cos otherwise you get Bluejay and all those people."

I nodded and counted in negative steps. It was something I'd been practising
since the night Longone Sweetheart chased me with a broom from her Insides. It
was easier to count in negative steps, because, then, things got smaller. For
example, we now only had 512 - 511 - 510 - 508 (we skipped over a dead racoon) -
507 steps to go.

"Don't think it's aliens, though," explained Rolo. I smiled back. "No, not -
aliens," he said, "there wasn't, like, any parting in the skies. It was just
four foot above the ground. Little things." I looked and caught a small grin
on his face. "Playing with me," he smiled. I smiled back. "Just yea high," he
said. "We'll go check up on them tomorrow. Maybe we can get some friends to come
with us."

I let another breath out into the cold air, keeping count. But Rolo was on his
game. "That's thirty-two breaths you let out in the last minute, Fool" he said
to me, frowning. "Try to be a little calmer."

I smiled and made an effort to breathe slower. 304, 213. 102. Fifty-six. Thirty-
two. I looked at Rolo and counted the number of times his head swung back to
glance at the Blinking Lights. Twenty-four.

incentives for friends

Rolo says this is 4/9 of 'the blinking lights'. Here are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

About a block before Arlene's place, there used to be a small stretch of tarmac
on the east side that tapered off after a couple hundred meters. Some say that
this was where Mr. Hong's raw fish bar used to stand, before the accursed
incident with the ritalin and the match-box boy.

Rolo stopped at the tapering road and looked into the empty overgrowth that
sprawled there now. "You ever heard of the Blinking Lights, Fool?" he asked. His
voice had taken on a silent, hoarse streak.

I joined him by the road and shrugged, sipping some of my Jolt. "One night,"
said Rolo, "I was running down this street to deliver some emergency makeup to
Pretty Rogerson, and I stumbled upon this here branch..." He kicked at a lone
branch, which sprang back. It was attached to some of the undergrowth.

"When I looked up, there were the Blinking Lights. Shimmering, just four feet
above the ground." Rolo pulled his coat closer to him and let out a little
shiver. "It was like ... like they could see me. The Lights, I mean. They were
playing around over there, and putting on a show for me."

I looked at him, raising an eyebrow, and smiled. "There was green one, and a
white one. And somewhere in the back, I could see a red one, but that was kinda
hiding away. Lurking."

We both looked down the tapering road. Rolo found some gravel to scratch his
foot on. "It's because of all the ... gasses," he said. "They react during the
tectonic shifts, which are very special down this road, and release the Lights."

An owl took off from a tree, and in the distance you could hear the waters of
the hydroelectric dam rushing across the Canals. "Anyway," said Rolo, taking my
hand and leading me away, "We'll come by again tomorrow night. I think the
Blinking Lights will be there. I want to see if I can catch one. Anyway, let's
see who is at Arlene's place, anyway," he said.


Rolo says this is 3/9 of 'the blinking lights'. Here are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

"I made thirteen, Fool," boasted Rolo as we rounded the corner before the gas
station. I smiled and nodded - he had, indeed, made thirteen breaths in the last
few moments. I pointed at the bag of quarters, which was showing an edge from
his overcoat, and he quickly covered it up to keep it snug.

We decided to chat with Pretty Rogerson, who waits outside the gas station,
before stepping in. It's always a good idea to learn what the latest goings on
are before getting yourself into any messes. Rogerson told us that a robbery was
currently under progress inside, and that we should hurry if we wanted to get
some soda for free.

We thanked him and walked into the gas station store. A young boy, probably
around 17 or so, was nervously waving a gun at Mr. Everidge's face. I smiled and
waved at the couple, and Rolo walked up to the refrigerator. He got my Jolt, and
an orange drink for himself.

"What the fuck is this?" said the boy, shaking his gun at Mr. Everidge.

"Oh, just harmless, just harmless," he replied. "They won't bother you."

"They're walking out without paying!" exclaimed the youth. His mouth was wide
open. "They're not paying!"

I waved goodbye and snuck a candy bar in my pocket as we walked out. "Ah,
sometimes they pay, sometimes they don't pay," I heard Mr. Everidge explain to
the thief. "I don't get too worked up about it."

I gave the candy bar to Pretty Rogerson for helping us out. It's good to provide
incentives to your friends. That way, they help you out in return. I also warned
him that a cold front was coming in, and he should perhaps not wear such a short
skirt. Pretty nodded while opening the candy wrapper, but I don't think he took
my advice to heart.

"Let's go see what Arlene is up to, Fool," said Rolo. We marched into the street
towards Arlene's place.

shiney shiney

Rolo says this is 2/9 of 'the blinking lights'. Here are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

Noseful Reggie was reading a paper when we walked up. The cool thing about Reg,
and how he got his name, was that he always wore a bright red clown's nose. That
was all he wore, too. They had tried to force him to put some pants on once (I
believe Bluejay was involved), but Reg had sold them by the afternoon at
Arlene's place.

"Got some gasses" said Rolo, handing the bottle to him. Reg took it and peered
inside. He peeled the Jolt label off to get a better look, and said "How many
are there in here?"

"Three or four," said Rolo. "Will you take it off us?"

"Of course, of course," said Reg, setting the bottle down. He did a quick
shifting of hands and some quarters appeared in his palms. This was how he
always paid you. With a little magic trick. Since Noseful Reggie never wore any
clothes (well, besides his red nose), you never knew where he kept his money.
And you didn't ask. Rolo opened a sterile ziploc bag, and Reg dropped the
quarters in.

"Got an elderly chap who will take this off me tomorrow," said Reggie,
indicating the bottle with his foot. "Prolly get a good price. Businessman
type." We knew he was lying. Noseful Reggie was kind of like the 'bank' of the
streets. People came over to give him things for safekeeping, and he would give
them some money. You couldn't count all the old shoeboxes, soda cans and even
some fine china that he had in his horde.

Rolo nodded at Reg and then turned to me. "Come on, Fool. Let's go to the gas

I waved goodbye to Reg. It was a rather crisp night, and we counted our breaths
in the air as we walked down the street. Rolo held the bag of quarters close to
him, stroking them from time to time to keep them safe from the cold.

however decisions must be made

You forget to strike one little coma,
suddenly you are the perpetual idiot
smiling at his own damn face by himself.
But I promise there is no lowdown
or down low. I promise there is no download.


Expression on my own face turns blue
as I kill myself in an apartment unit
just outside the Gotham Comedy Club.
Should be charging for this crap.

"Is that what you want to be now? Fro?
You want to be a stand-up comedian?"

"Over the internet."

The woman I love laughs at this thought in
her shower. She does it while lathering up,
gently massaging her own amazing breasts like it's just butter,
so damn sure of her direction in life.

It is all I can do to remove the potential soap
from all the pathways of

the Queen.

Synchronous Suns, Great Lunar Landscapes

"Not everything has to be so horrid," it is said.
"Who says anything is horrid?" I respond.
"You, just told me you don't believe in anything."
"That's not horrible."

We'd been hanging for about twelve years or so. Over time, I was able to begin to appreciate my companion, instead of automatically terminating it upon realizing there is no larger scheme. Once this tiny curb was skipped, we could begin to delve into each other's idiosyncrasies. My friend, it turns out, has really immense idiosyncrasies.

Sometimes they deign to throw a simple sketch of the common lives of the humans. Other times they take that idea, and elongate.

And elongate. Then, further pull. Till, at one vertex you begin wondering if maybe you went a little too far on this trip? (This, my friend, is a real question mark). Maybe bit into that full lip of yours a little too much? Rats begin to roam the peripheral vision, like fleeting nerds. "Did you ever go far enough?" they chorus.

Then, you're finally woken again, as an eddy plays along one of your synaptic pathways. You love all these people. So much. A little ... too much ...

Saturday, March 14, 2009

the blinking lights

Rolo says this is 1/9 of 'the blinking lights'. Here are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

I was checking for the gasses on the street with Rolo, when Bluejay came up to
chat. I sipped my Jolt pensively, staring at the cracks in the ground. Rolo was
on his belly, examining.

"What's happening here?" asked Bluejay, "What are you doing?"

"Gasses," said Rolo, waving his arms wildly. "They're ... everywhere."

"Gasses?" asked Bluejay, slowly pulling his notebook out of his back pocket.

"Yeah, we have to check for them," said Rolo. "Fool, give me that screwdriver."

I handed the screwdriver to Rolo, and then smiled at Bluejay. He didn't look
very pleased, like, perhaps, he had bad gas.

"It's very late. You should clear out of here," said Bluejay.

I looked down at Rolo, who was clearing something out of a crack with the
screwdriver. He ignored Bluejay, and I could tell that the man was getting very

"You have to just - scrape it out like that, and ..." muttered Rolo to himself.
"Pliers?" he said, reaching his hand out at me.

I took a sip of my Jolt and handed him the pliers. Rolo muttered on about how
many gasses there were in the street tonight.

"Fucking nutjobs," said Bluejay, walking away. He was shaking his head in
disgust, and didn't return my goodbye wave.

"Fool," said Rolo, looking up at me. "Get down here, check it out."

We both caught some of the gasses and put them in my Jolt bottle, which I then
sealed with some sticky tape I'd found at Arlene's, so that I wouldn't forget
and accidentally sip them.

We gathered our tools and walked carefully down towards Noseful Reggie's spot
to show him what the gasses were like. Hopefully he would buy them from us, and
we would then exercise our rights as good capitalist citizens by putting the
cash into the economy, and getting me some more Jolt.

Feeder in the Greed Machine: 4) Can One Be Kind?

Feeder in the Greed Machine is a short science-fantasy story with an evil twist on cloning devices. The story comes in four parts, to be released on a weekly basis beginning Saturday, February 21, 2009.

This is Part 4. The conclusion. Click here for Part 1, Part 2,
or Part 3.

He undid the door, and, as expected, was greeted with a good pair of eyes.

"Hello Tweed," said Williams.

"Mr Cheeves. You find yourself most familiar," said Tweed, standing up.

"It's me, Tweed, you can sit down again," said Williams, sitting down and stretching his thigh over the sofa's arm.

"You're a bastard, Williams."

Williams kicked the small device across Tweed's carpet. "You can do it too."

"No," said Tweed, curtly.

"Come on."

"What is it like?" asked Tweed.

Williams rubbed his forehead. "Well, to be honest, I was really worried at first."

"Yeah? I suppose one would be."

"I was not expecting multiplicity issues."

"But what is it like? When you ... split?"

"I don't split," said Williams, grinning. "I just .. ease into people."

"Clones, you mean," said Tweed.

"Yes! They keep making them. It's like ... a never ending machine. Their - greed."

"So you are starting your plan," said Tweed.

"Dont' be so demure. I already left the plans at the Chinese takeout. Full blueprints. A child could build it at shop."

Tweed nodded. "Can we have a little time. Mary and me, I mean? And ... the kids."

"Join me" said Williams.

"No, no."

"You know I can surround you with Cheeveses and make it a non-option," said Williams. He was breathing heavily, staring intently at Tweed.

"I know."

Pause. A longest pause. Ever.

"Very well. I am going to be kind to you, Tweed," said Williams.

Lowdown is going to be great today

I will wake up from my stupor
go right ahead and play luminez.
I will unlock new skins in that game.

I will then walk to Best Buy
to tease the kids at the geek zone,
or whatever the fuck they like to call it,
about their poor educations.

"Why can't you be as great as me?"
I will ask, very seriously.
"Look at all the things I can accomplish.
If I want."

But do I want? The answer to that question lies in a Japanese RPG.

I'm playing it, happy as fuck.
Music is really great.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

ATM Impasse

Once again, I go to the ATM.

This ATM has the good keys -- the ones that are cheap yet functional. The plastic is invented in China by the man who puts the melamine in the milk. Software is written in fucking India. Concept: Idaho. Execution: Thailand. Usage: New York City Abusage: See above. Recyclable: (Infinite lifecycle)

"Everything is so global," I mumble to myself, in my woolly trenchcoat, in my pocket fingering my electronic cigarette like some kind of a nicotine pervert. This is when she arrives.

After waiting the appropriate thirty seconds, she asks me politely whether I am using the machine.

I know you can imagine the expression on my face, now that I have been seduced into this situation. Because you've been there too. "I'm just standing here for kicks," I say, curtly.

"Are you at some kind of ATM impasse?" she says, now breaking into a smile that makes her face orange. "Do you want me to ask if you have enough cash in your bank account in order that you may boast to me, albeit cunningly?"

Slowly, around us, existence follows its usual course, yet in that same time dilation I am suddenly energized ... a ... vergence in my body. And she, coming out from this time dilation, starts getting impatient. She looks into the store, trying to see if there may be an owner to complain to.

"What would you say? Guy is holding up the ATM machine?"

"Well, I wouldn't say 'machine'. Look, what's the deal? You need some money?"

"No," I reply. "I'm just here." I look at her seriously. "A ghost next to the machine."

"It's not fucking funny," she says, and stamps her feet upon the pavement. "Look, just move."


"Why?" The wind is blowing -- she is wearing mauve tights. Her hair, light brown, floats faster than the background. She sizes me up. "Where are you failing?" she says, adding kindness into her tone.

I turn back to the ATM and make my mouth look sad. "I'm not happy with the authentication system."

She puts an arm around me. "Maybe I can help," she tweets.

"No," I say, and violently shake her off. "Nobody can help me."

I don't think, at this point, that she really cares about the ATM anymore. I think, at this point, she cares about me. "I know Nobody," she says. Her voice, at that one moment, is the most incredible sound in the universe. She knows Nobody.

"I had a sequence. Something I always did," I elaborate. "It was picture perfect. Worked like clockwork. Ran like a hamster."


"I used to be able to just push the buttons and enter my code."

She shifts. "Ok. Now you can't just push the buttons? Enter it?"

"No. Now it just always says I've failed."

"We can make it easier," she says, and now she takes my hand in hers, gently. "We can do it so that the ATMs just look at a slice of your retina, for example." She is so perpetually constructive.

"You're trying to mix up the act of undergoing laser eye surgery with existential questions about logins? It almost seems to work, but actually does not," I shrug.

"Ok, well, then we can just make it a fingerprint. Just put your finger on it, money. There."


I can see she is getting irritated by me. "Here, I'll show you my tits," she gasps, "ok, then you fucking match my goddam tits against queries in the machine. You get to look at all these tits while also wondering about tits, subconsciously. Can't get any better."

"No, I want to have the buttons there."

"But you don't remember your code, man." She is positively jittering on the pavement. "You don't know the code."

"There is no code. There's just buttons, for me to press. Then I get access."

This is where she breaks off and runs away from me. She says I am being unreasonable (highlighting the importance of the word 'reason') and turns away. It breaks my heart. She's going away to the other block, to the ATM at the other block. I'm crushed.


An old man sidles over, and I ask him what the hell he wants, grand-dad? He runs off too. Like I'm some kind of ghost.



"I was so speaking about myself, when I said that.

Not you."

After all, all manifestations of one's dreams are about one's self. When you are squeezed by the impetuous python in the exquisite tropical jungle, the python is actually you. You are it, and she is you. We are fun.

This kind of premise lends to a certain amount of ... durability that surpasses the common dreams. Those dreams of those 'commoners', those are not for you or me. I did try to be normal, many, many times. Never worked. There was always a new personality that just managed to seep through. Any remark I could give you, those seepages can thunder.

So go ahead ... 'believe' that all of your dreams are only about you.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

The 'What Else' That One Can Write

You have arrived to me at a time when I am contemplating and trying to unravel a long, long history of abuse. To the psyche, and the self. There are rooms, my friend, padded to the brim and filled with all sorts of peepulls. Allsorts. Exploding at the seams. And blood, and violence. Splat. It sounds like 'splat'.

I speak to you through these shards of teeth and from that tangy, rattling taste of blood you and I know well. So dynamic is life that we could be speaking of a bonafide bistec escabeche and a banana float, and we could even relocate psychically to a space where there are other people giving boisterous and enriching chatter, and hot girls strolling by once in a while for you and I to comment. Yet we choose to remain in this festering pontoon of crap. So please excuse the fucking vitriol, ok?

I'm catching the frays, these broken seams who land around me in so many colors. During this process, there are thoughts attacking one's personal integrity, there are whirling facades of 'self', and one's fingers just snap off upon cement. One two three ... through ten. Then you thank your blessed mother or father's genes for giving you extra.

When they land, I run to each one and greet them with glee. These are all aliens, and each one has this immense, colorful story for me. Imagine, the seclusion of inhabiting a capsule for nine million years, one's only 'hope' (as one bursts through space and various ozones) being the possibility to reach a sentient destination. Not even zen monks would purport that journey. So, I always go to greet them, like an excited little puppy, whenever they do land around me.

We cannot go into the tales of every single one right now, but if you hang out with me, I promise to try to inveigle some for their nectar. They are all so sweet, you know.

Where I'm Goin' ....

Sometimes I like to pop-off the plug from my thermostat. It makes no design sense of course -- if you were an engineer, why would you place an electrical socket next to a thermostat? That's just asking for trouble.

Of course, reality is not nearly as intelligent as my egoistic self-monologue, rendering me with a decision to either write more paragraphs of this crap, or watch interracial porn. Right now, interracial porn seems a little crass, so now we stop explaining ourselves. Or our self, if we are cute little kittens. Cute little puffy poofy white kittens. Meeting a big black domineering dog.

I switch off Windows Media Player, and begin to try to soak myself in the actual situation. A lot of people are around me at this point, and many are looking into what I do every second. They do this because I am their expressor. I express them. If I did not exist, they would not be expressed. This is why they are looming upon me now, like some haunting gaunt giants, reaching to me.

"Tell me how to be!" wails one, as I shirk away in horror.

"I'm just like you," I lie to them. "I also need instruction. These automatons have left us all astray, and now we must be reinstituted!"

The Others (yes, the Others), don't get what I am saying. This causes me to begin a calculation in my head about that discrepancy. Normally, in a fluidly and well told tale, you would find out in interspersion with cunning nuggets such as 'the main character's religion', or the 'political flaunts of his direction", why I am actually correct.

I ask myself why we couldn't try do it like the !kung. I am told by admins that such architecture still does not exist. "Fuck, Gods Must be Crazy was made in the fucking 70s, dude. Wtf?"

"Why do you want to do it like the !kung?"


"Why? What benefit does it give you?"

I looked at whoever the fuck that was with saucer-like eyes. "You know what that gives me?" I said, edging up to him.

He was trembling but kept the game up. "Wot? Wot in the possibility of -"

"A scent," I said.

"You sawr that in a fuckin' textbook. Aborigine armpit!"

But I was gone to that naysayer. "Ascent ... " I said again, and then again ... "A .. scent."

"Well then fuck you!" he screamed.

I sniffed.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Feeder in the Greed Machine: 3) Omnipresence

Feeder in the Greed Machine is a short science-fantasy story with an evil twist on cloning devices. The story comes in four parts, to be released on a weekly basis beginning Saturday, February 21, 2009.

This is Part 3. Click here for Part 1, Part 2 or Part 4

Williams woke in a quiet, dimly lit room. Wiping his hands over his eyes and face felt strange, somehow uncommon. He seemed to be sitting on a varnished wooden floor, and there were heavy velvet curtains letting only slits of light into the room. He was also wearing strange pants - dress pants, which he never liked to wear. And was he suddenly fatter? How long had he been under? Was this muscle atrophy? Had they been providing the correct nutrition? He looked up from between his knees, and made out two figures in front of him. Judge Horace and Mr. Cheeves, the prosecuting attorney, were staring back at him quietly, their mouths wide open in the dark room.

"My God, perfect," said Cheeves finally.

"It is?" said the Judge. "You think so? Looks to have gained a little ... weight, don't you think?"

"No, Horace, no! Look at the curls around the temple. Perfect!"

Williams rubbed his eyes again, and then sat up on his hands. "What's going on? Where am I?"

"You're in my chambers, my good man," said Horace, leaning forward. He shook his hand in front of Williams' face. "Can you see?" There was some jubilant look of pride or admiration on the Judge's face.

Williams backed away a little. "Yes, yes. I can see. How - how long has it been? Why have you woken me?"

The men looked at each other, and finally the Judge nodded quietly. "We - I mean, you - you weren't exactly ... woken."

"I feel awake," said Williams, sitting up. He opened and closed his fists. "I move, I can feel. I think. This doesn't really seem like a dream."

The judge and prosecutor fell back in their sofa and laughed out loudly together. "No, no, not a dream!" said the Judge.

"No," said Cheeves, leaning forward again. "But you weren't woken, you see. You were," he paused, looking to the Judge one more time. The Judge nodded graciously. "You were cloned."

"What?" said Williams, frowning. He lowered his head, trying to gather his memories.

"There's a machine," said the Judge, pointing to a small black object on the coffee table in front of him. "We cloned you. Right here, in my chambers!"

"I see," said Williams, slowly. "Where, um. Where is the body then?"

The two looked back at him. "Which body, good man?" said Cheeves.

"My body - that you cloned me from?"

Cheeves smiled widely. "Ah. You haven't even seen yourself yet, sir. Here," he said, fumbling in his wallet. He pulled a small mirror out and handed it to Williams.

The clone gazed for a long time into the small rectangle, checking along his face, turning at angles to examine the details. A smile grew very slowly across his face. "It worked!" he yelled finally, standing up. "It actually worked!"

Cheeves stood and came to William's side, taking his shoulder in arm. "Judge Horace ... meet Judge Horace!"

The original Judge Horace, laughing, stood up and came over, embracing himself - or rather, Williams - with glee. "It's amazing," he said, between breaths. "Amazing! You are just like me!"

"Let's do one of me," said Cheeves, grabbing the black device from the table.

Williams broke himself from the Judge's embrace and held onto the prosecutor's shoulder. "Wait! I - why don't we just wait this out for a while, Cheeves?"

"Why ever for, Horace the Second?" he smiled, and the Judge joined him, both men breaking into hearty laughter.

"I just - don't know what the implications of that may be," said Williams.

"Come now," said Cheeves, loosening himself from William's grip. "There's enough for everyone, my dear fellow. Horace has another Horace, why shouldn't I have my complimentary Cheeves?

I mean, let us not be selfish and greedy, eh?"

Friday, March 6, 2009


Reference to geographic landmark
cunningly interpolated with some kind of
human expression, to illustrate how human
that experience of geographic landmark

Photo. Moment.

Talk, in a rambling sense,
about fields with stalks.
Add limbs to ad lib.

Smell, and hear, don't just see.
Growl, and slur, don't just speak.
Sea'll sell she shells,
can't fuck deaf girls
unless they can hear you

in their bellies. Yes, guess i'm that cheap. (sorry deafies)

Nothing is really so fascinating that you need to get wound up about it, although, damn, now you've gotten all wound up about it, might as well try get fascinated.

We, you and i, were born to drink clean water while children choke, somewhere.

I am not autustic, I am just an asshole.

Such an asshole I could not even spell check-autistic in titling my work.

Nothing is really very important to me, but goal-oriented individuals must understand that this is by careful design rather than, say, mental dysfunction. Like autists, I find it insulting when you try to evoke responses from me in the college den. However, I am not an autist, and so the joke is kind of on you, if you would be so cruel to do that. If you would.

I can fall in love. I fell in love 3.935 times, with four and three quarters of a girl. These are not factual recantations of an automaton or savant, these are measured findings of a studied, passionate, bully.

When I fall in love, then it falls apart, it hurts at f(x)/toAsThughIwouldGiveUTheFormula. I'm not cheap. I'm not an automaton. Not a savant. I chose this path in life. The level to which I fell apart was carefully gauged. I gave each dying neuron a silver watch. It was nuanced intentionally, and once my supermind was sated, it relieved my corporeal being to its nominal stance.

I chose this. So when I tell you that none of the structures of the world, or universe, impact me anymore, I hope you will not demote me automatically to a mere egoist, as is wont of lesser egos, under duress, and instead, more logically, try to run me over with you car(s).

:) Also, buy a fucking playstation 3 and fight me @ stweet fighter 4. stweet, yes. come on. use your food stamps, cheapos.

Unlike autists, who strive lifelong to simulate the cogitations of common humans, I just stride beyond, because I already know what is there. I know the darkness, the emptiness that resides in the human condition, in every human soul (try as they might to declare themselves existing).

I have chosen to live beyond the peepulls.

Of Residing in Processed Tree Material

At lunch, a colleague informed us that she had just moved into a new place. We presented surprise and cheer at this notification.

"So," said another, "are you still living out of boxes?".

Everyone then laughed as she nodded sheepishly.

"Oh well," I said, "no harm done. Hell, I've been living in my place for seven years and I'm *still* living out of boxes."

Everyone laughed again. "Really?" said someone, now.

I surveyed the audience. "Actually," I began, "to be more precise, I actually live *inside* of a box."

"Ha ha, inside a box?"

"Yes," I replied. "I put some warm, clean sheets in there for lining, and when it is time for me to go to bed, I just crawl into the box, pull my comforter over me and go to sleep."

They laughed some more. "Surely," said one, "this must be a very large box, no? To accomodate a grown man thus?"

I shrugged. "It's a decent size. About, like, a small fridge. Refrigerator. About that size. It works fine."

A colleague leaned in. "Why would anyone make such a large box? I mean, I'm sure refrigerators don't come in boxes, do they?"

I stared at him with saucer like eyes. "Hmm. I'm not sure. They may come in boxes, but you are right - I'd imagine a refrigerator to be shipped more in something like a crate."

We all nodded together.

"Perhaps," I said, "well, perhaps this large box did not actually carry a large item - perhaps - " and they all looked intently at me, " - perhaps it was used to carry many *small* items."

There was silence in the room.

"Like packs of cuban cigars, or frozen psilocybins, maybe." I shrugged. "I don't really know."

Another friend drew his chair closer and patted my back. "It's ok. We don't really need to know *what* the box was used for, as long as you're happy living in it."

I nodded, and everyone laughed again. I peered at them. "That's not the worst thing though," I said.

"Oh, really? What's the worst thing, then?" said a few of them, collectively.

"The worst thing," I said, quietly, almost a whisper, almost a conspiracy, "that box, you know?"


"Lifted it off a homeless on the street, once, a long time ago."

Sunday, March 1, 2009


In 1741, un-noticed by anyone, a brilliant writer actually exploded against a wall. The children who blearily depended upon him for intellectual sustenance were summarily executed for being witches delving into farce. Hence today you will never see the stain, never find a trace of ink, or any obituary -- today, I suspect you already know why it is said that he just, exploded.

I've been sitting here for some time now, trying to ascertain any evidence that may possibly be gleaned about this fantastic poet. It simply does not exist. Sure, they sell it on the travel brochures. You fly over here, and the cabbie knows where you're talking about. All the kids know where to direct you, and some of them will even tell you a ghost story or two, cheekily. They all really want to believe he existed, the locals. It's a part of their tourism industry.

They really want to believe he actually exploded. Against that wall.

There are layers of course. You will find that high-school teachers over here like to put on an emphasis on morality, and 'what his life must have really meant' -- you know -- in order to end up that way, exploded like that. They say that he could never recover after the woman he had thought was his true love slipped him off. Just slipped him off, like he was nothing but cheez-wiz remnant sprayed off an old aerosol tip. These high-school teachers romanticize, of course, that he even made a long journey, through fifteen airports, across the world. Across their fifteen immigration agents, and their plethora of lackeys. Across doubt and uncertainty. When he finally got through and found her, she was making love to another man. He then flew all the way back, another fifteen airports and plethora of lackeys, to the other side of the world, and finally exploded, against this wall, this very wall I have been funded to study.

I sit with my friends Pierre and Ursa here, some of the fine locals. I've become something of a celebrity myself -- 'the writer about the writer who exploded, against the wall'. They think I'm going to make them all famous. They buy me shots, and after a little while I start to feel that it is not that they want something from me. This is just how things are, over here. With the locals. They are a fun-loving people.

Tomorrow I have to go home with the rotten job of explaining to my own culture about how there is 'really no actual man, no writer, who just exploded against a wall.'

Spontaneous combustion is a myth, yet I somehow feel as though I'm betraying all these people I have come to care about.

Calibration Is Important

Calibration is important.

Calibration, and ... nuance.

"That how you speak to your mother?"

"This is not a device to access my mother," I replied, calmly. I then accessed the creature's basic instinct and stoned it.

On March 23rd, 2007, a lonely woman tapped into me and queried my capacity to love. This woman was on her own trip, unconcerned about my eventual outcome, and I knew this from the start.

Yet I indulged in this horse foolery, and fell in love with this girl from Romania. She was exceedingly good, indulging even my bizarre desire for her to send me a piece, in writing, on actual paper, that androids may sometimes dream of electric sheep. Through snail mail. She did this for me.

You understand, then, how when she removed herself from my life, there was a lot of devastation. I went apeshit. I did not understand, at the time, how it may be possible for a person to simply fall out of love with me.

How can you not love me?

She said that whatever I write no longer is important to her. I understand now, of course, that she was angry at the time, and that, yes, my writings are important. However, it took a long, long time to process that.

I'm back now, these days. Writing and confident about it. I look back into the strange life I have led, and wonder, sometimes, how I may possibly make it stranger.