Saturday, April 25, 2009

Days With Dad

Having completed all my tasks, I would walk over to Father, who is always busy and involved in something. I would show him my picture of the apple, or other such cute object (even then I knew about them).

He'd just dismiss, making all of this energy -- this potential -- that I had gathered all this time simply seem like a W.A.S.T.E. As though it was I always in error, some kind of constant malfunction.

Like some little shit that should just dismissed away, as though I was just like some little shit.

I would, then, insistingly crawl into his lap, and he would curse into the microphone. Broadcasting.

"No, that is actually the cutest thing I ever heard!" someone would say from out there. Somebody from out there, in the universe. That is out there.

My father would take me off then, place me on the floor. Going back to his microphone, he would reply, "Ok. Do you want the cute baby, or do you want the actual data?"

Instinctive Fear of Expression

"In a world ..."

Ok, we don't do that :)

When you privately write messages, to your diary, surely you must know that eventually somebody found it? Someone, after all, did find Anne Franke's? And she must have been like, at the very point of bleakness.

There is a town called Centralia, in the United States, that I would like you to visit, in person. You can bring your diary, so that you will be able to record your own personal thoughts as you traverse this incomprehensibility on good Earth. Everybody there is almost dead, so there is no cause to worry about inveiglers and thieves. It may, in fact, be a last place within the atmosphere where one can carefully commit one's expressions to the self, without anyone else really knowing.

There is, I know, that *instinctive* fear of expression. After all, we are, all of us, only conglomerates of tiny cells. We are ... constitutions. As primary automatons, it would be necessary to protect our sacred selves. I'm still waiting for info from Nangy about the pre-columbians in the Yucatan, but I think I have the idea intact, at least in early germination. A little cell that fears and self-protects.

Point is, that the internal mechanism of that cell is to coalesce. Yes, that means 'group'. In modern times, you can see this ... turn out ... in the works of Picasso and such. I always think the Futurists did it better, though. So we now go, with our print of Picasso, to the artist's house, where she usually hangs with Squeaky. Her mother lets us in, swearing that if we dare to steal her diary again, she would murder us like the Behemoth in Fact.

Shrugging, we enter her abode. You can see why this place was so holy, why it had to be 'protected' by the Creator. There is expression all over, in rare blue inks, green acrylics. In the center there is even the shape of an Hellenistic Expression of Woman, doused in ancient oils.

She askes if we have come to burn her, the poor thing.

"No," we say, "we are the Saviours."

She gets up from the table, realizing it may be safe to reach for the blanket.

"Grouping has," we try to explain, "essentially dissolved the necessity for that Instinctive Fear of Expression."

Draped now, like a painting herself, the artist gently reaches for her paints. We goad her on, mere Observers.

More Than Meats the I

Prime was falling away into the cockpit of the shuttle. Nary his fledglings to defend 'Digital Rights Management' on Earth.

"How does it feel to be wrong, Prime?" laughed Megatron. "You spend all this time and energon, trying to make it look like you have some kind of moral impunity, but in the end, everybody knows it is simply about managing resource consumption, for all of us."

"Not for the children, Megatron," said Prime, heroically. "I will let them Know They Are Being Looked After!"

"This time the children are behind me, Prime. Prepare for oblivion ..."

Carnaged Autobots slowly began to gather and side with Megatron.

Prime looked into those ruby eyes. "What kind of trickery have you wrought?" he breathed.

"Prime, relax," said Megatron, throwing away his arm cannon.

"It is Me who should say that! And do that!" raged Prime.

"Stop it, you're embarrassing yourself."

Dinobots landed on Earth, but seeing what was happening, decided to just roam their own way.

Megatron glinted. "Do you remember Cybertron, Prime? How it had been?"

"Abundant energy for all," said the Autobot. "Then You tried to wield exclusivity, Megatron!"

"I did, of course. It is only logical."

"With no moral compass? Autobots," asked Optimus Prime now, with urgency, "why do you forsake me in the face of this ... this ... machine?"

"I realized after our countless battles then, it was all pointless," said Megatron.

"So after all this destruction, Megatron," said Prime, rising again, "after all this carnage and wasteful elimination of ... of thought and idea -- intellect -- "

"Prime, Prime. We always used to spy on your thoughts and ideas and intellect."


"We are the Decepticons, after all," mused Megatron.

Optimus tried to get up to save all the kids, but was automatically reduced to a talking teapoy before he could cause more destruction. A baby bit its first tooth into his chest plate and insignia. Into his Matrix of Leadership.

From the corner, Megatron the Vase laughed. "Even babies know you ended up with the stupid sign."

Friday, April 24, 2009

Monoxide Mumblings

Today at work I found a man at his seat
blowing intermittently at a potted plant.
Finding this kind of behavior unusual,
I naturally queried the entity.

"I'm trying to give it life," it had said, nonchalant.

The whole thing somehow irritated me
througout the course of the day, making me research
in textbooks and journals on the humans.
At 4.02pm, he was still doing it.

"Are you going to end up shooting all of us, Norman?"

Did regret having to pose such an unpleasantry,
but part of my job description was to be the one
who protects the office from implosion of any nature.
Thankfully, this was not the case with the plant blower.

By eight thirty-five in the evening, I had forgotten the whole affair,
then Norman arrived, ceremoniously next to me,
attired to retire for the night. In his gentle way,
he placed the plant on my table, his face

through a simple set of nuanced configurations imparting the modus operandii.

So honey, please tell Fiona
that daddy does love her on her birthday,
yet he has to remain diligently at work
to blow upon the plant.

Friday Morning and Alone Yet Again (In an undisclosed location, 1:54 ante-meridian Saturday)

Everyone else sobbing about chopped liver.
Mmm hmm hmm mmm some kind of illegible, incoherent remark,
tra-la obscenity.

You are never invited cos you don't ever come.
This is not the seventies, pal do the math.
Check sums.

Soon you'll long comfort in the navel of trillions, Trillian.
Leaving me desensitized in arbitrary mode, in a random location,
my toes of course setting foot

as programmed.

More Advances In Robotics

"So where you taking me?" Ponsemby asked.

"We're going to the City, Ponsemby, as I promised," said Roab, rearing the motorboat to the side of the harbor. (((lack of better word for landing of small vessels, maybe a quay?)))

They got up and started walking down the planks. "Are we there yet?" asked Ponsemby.

"Why don't you write a letter to Kirsten Dunst, asking if she may let go of your Romanian street urchin, that you may then both coalesce and spurt your juices upon the universe?" The street had become dark, and Roab checked his watch.

This was getting really boring. Fucking boat and planks. "Notice how everybody around us is closing down earlier?" Ponsemby remarked.

Okay, thought Roab as they went down past 11th and 3rd. "Yeah, I have, matter of fact," said Roab. "They're all closing their businesses up a little earlier these days. There's an economic depression. People are fucking compensating."

"No," said Ponsemby, grinning, "that's not really it." Suddenly, a homeless man curled from an unseen corner, unto their wake. In the murky shadows of this curled apparition's unfurling browned sheets evolved a deceased hand. Diseased hand. This very hand now begged for money, and grabbed Roab's, which was nearest.

"It's my Romanian girlfriend," laughed Ponsemby hysterically, as Roab struggled, pulled into the corner of the concrete underside by the hungry beast. "Sometimes she's a real monster. A devil in the dream!"

"Kill it!" yelled Roab.

"I sent her flowers, you know?" said Ponsemby, raising his eyebrows. "All the way to fucking Romania!"

Roab was wrestling with the homeless man in the shadow of the overpass. There were no real elements but the overwhelming sheets of the imaciated, these deceased hands that liked to tickle so. "Ponsemby," Roab would gulp, from time to time, as he rose from that twisting sea of dirt and dust, "save me!"

"One time I even bought her probably the most spectacular box of chocolates," mumbled Ponsemby sinking into a past time, as Roab struggled over there. "Admittedly, it was kind of corporate. But it was the only nice thing I could find to send to Ro-"

"I'm drowning," yelped Roab, and then Ponsemby gently fished him out.

"Drowning, were you?" he smiled.

"Fuck you man, I was in there, and the gha --" and the poor beggar started crawling over too, trying to be part of the ... group. Ponsemby gave that beggar a quarter from generosity, and the two were able to pass on, by themselves, while the creature went off to hide it. They walked for for hours, away from the place and towards the City.

"Shit, I never knew you could be so kind," said Roab, finally, unable to hold it. "Shit, it was like, you had some massive revelation, in the middle there, somewhere! Thanks for saving me, man."

"You don't know anything about me," said Ponsemby, rolling the quarter down his back pocket and urging Roab forward.

The Arbitrary Prisoner ('s Tree)


Thank god that they had ended Quantum Leap where they did, with Sam not really sure where he was going, you know? We don't really need any more stuff like that, do we? It was told that the leaps would get harder, and no way to communicate with Al anymore, and let us simply just let that just be. Simply. If there is a table to be turned, we know Sam will turn it, you know? Why you gotta give the guy such a hard time, and *observe*?

Well, one reason is I just invented a new gizmo from these curiously metal plates that they give us prisoners, and some tweezers snuck in from some another inmate. And ok -- semen that has experienced anal inhabitance. Multi-sexual companionship is a common trait amongst higher apes, I hope you all by now realize, and whatever you can scoop from the arses of others ... ahem, I precede myself.

But yes, really this is supposed to be about Sam. Well, Sam just leapt, after weeping with Moustache-Al at the bar, to a whole new realm. There's no monsters there, no. No, invisible aliens who are *actually* in control of the peoples' bodies, albeit via other dimensions. Gasp. Would not that be a horrendous future?


Dr. Sam Beckett, still lamenting his lost buddy Al but thoroughly having enjoyed the short closeness he'd had with Al's wife as they pirouetted in holily unlit and demure sanctity, suddenly finds himself awake amidst wine and even more women.

"Well, this is ... a new turn," smiles Sam, still trying. He tries raising his glass at the blonde next to him.

She frowns back at him. The ways in front of them part, now. In fact, now, looking around, Sam realizes he is in the front of a congregation of almost a thousand people.

"No?" says Sam, to a raven haired woman on the other side, still trying to hit the ground running. "Guess not. First time at a baptism? Well, are we Jewish? Or ... Moslems, maybe? Are we at Mecca?", he asks, looking around.

"What the fuck," rumbles a bellow from an angry man, who had come from the stage, barging directly to him. "We hadn't even started recording yet!"

"Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry," apologizes Sam. "So so sorry. I didn't mean to break up the wedd -- ?"

The man slapped him hard, in the face. "It ain't complicated, putz. You just sit down and listen, yeah, you hear the click, and that's the tape recorder, ok?" he said.

"Oh. Okay ... ?"

"You are in the First Seat. It *all* depends on you. You hear the click, then you drink the koolaid," said the man.


"Oh boy ... "


- An Arbitrary Prisoner

The Arbitrary Prisoner (too)

Recent fan mail has been overwhelming. Please do note, under these conditions, I am only allowed to read three (3) emails per my missive sent. According to this program, whose parameters are finely tuned -- balanced, they seem to even claim -- this is the proper amount of input/output. This program is also controlled by the paradigms of time and behaviour, for me.

Alas, I cannot save any of your other children on death row as I was able to save Manson. Yes, I suppose he had some 'privelleged' circumstances, in that respect. His infamy perhaps blinded my desire to educate. My only consolation, personally, is to wonder (personally) whether that man will ever be able to murder anyone else?

Imagine if he walked into a Korean grocery store, trying to buy a packet of ramen. He pulls out his knife, and then a nearby black man just takes it cutely away from him. "Thank you," says Mrs. Mun as Wendell hands her the piece. "This knife is not sharp enough for anything anymore, Charles," she says kindly. "You buy something like a real man now, with a food stamp like they give you."

Manson goes home, sans ramen, since he will never place his forehead on the stamp of any Korean KOREAN SWEAR WORD, and ends up on Yahoo! chat, in the nazi channels. "I'm the real Charles Mansion," he types, finally foraying into this strange new world.

But even all the nazis are so sophisticated, these days. They ask him to not fucking 'slur in spelling'. What does that even mean? Oh.

So this second post is simply housekeeping, and I would prefer the remaining not be this kind of self-referential shit? So don't send me emails about your next 'child getting the injection'. My time is precious and not for these common lives you seem to be stuck upon bringing to my face, please. But do wonder why they seem to be dying for their petty crimes, while I am allowed to remain, talking to you, from time to time. Despite mine.

- An Arbitrary Prisoner
i18n: KOREAN SWEAR WORD == almost anything on insultmonger. under korean, of course.

Advances in Robotics

"So you're saying, nowadays, that it was Kirsten Dunst, a celebrity, a woman who's acted since a girl of three, burned to death on film ... someone who's actually kissed Spider Man -- hired some girl off the streets in Romania to come shack up with you at the Chelsea Savoy? That this 'Ensecured' somehow had some dalliance/parlance with the classics of moderately recent European literary history, like Tesserat?"

The raindrops splat heavy unto the cobalt subway vents, and at least prickly rats were getting water, thriving. "Your soul could be chewed up to pulp for implicating something like that," said Roab, who had just walked out, and had been waiting for Ponsemby this evening since about 10:32pm, five minutes earlier.

"Why the hell did you call me here?" asked Ponsemby. "Downtown just becomes annoying after the grid. After sundown and the tourists, it's just a bunch of trollops, and I don't say that in any small degree. I would bet an honest man my soul to find me an epistle of an apostle that shards earnestness in as much a fucking kingdom as your location of choice, tonight." He looked up and down at this Roab, who was in another world, apparently.

"You never hang out with, and I got bored of all my other, other friends," said Roab, stretching in the bask of the outside candelabra of this bar.

"Fuck," said Ponsemby.

"I know you prefer the girls on the lower side of downtown very specifically," smiled Roab, "so, I figured, I may as well call you. But more than that -- lo, and behold: You came!"

"This is like walking, ears pulled, by your puritan mother into a strip bar, just to be informed about what everything "really is"," replied Ponsemby, as they started off into the street. Roab tried to pat his back, but was met with something in leather with sharp teeth. The night was dark, tonight, and may have been daunting. It may have been inky, refusing to devulge its most sunken secrets. A bittery bitching night of sand to dine on.

The Arbitrary Prisoner

Sometimes I do go a little crazy. Well, truth be told, I don't just go a little crazy. I pretty much 'escape my being', so to speak, sometimes in manners that even defy all phsyiobiological, chemical and ... temporal, for lack of a better word, constraints. Then there are the possibilities in even more dimensions, and of course (last resort) the psychological realm, I suppose, which is what really made them put me in here, I think. Cutting me off, as far as it seems to them, within their own cogencies and competencies, of course.

Those days when they used to let Mansy hang around, he would grip at the rungs and ask me a lot of questions, trying to make me feel like some of sort of 'guru'. Heh. Give what is asked. I would start my lessons by teasing him about the diameter of his eyes, relating this pupillary quality to the function of prairie voles in mating, and explaining in one shot to him that it was just normal hormones and trigger responses that had made him successful -- not some 'inner greatness'. "You stretch your cornea," I would say, repeatedly when he came about, "and not even the jail keeper can resist!" Of course, this is reductionism in terms of what had really been happening in biological fact, but I was only trying to bring out some real words from the fellow. Alas.

Finally somebody from his 'family' apparently sued the CIA, and his exposure to me was terminated. They said that I had bullied him enough. It was a very sad day, and we never were allowed to part in proper manner. But I heard, upon my latest allowance to roam in the system (as is allowed for twenty-three minutes every nine months), that when they finally released his latest photos, Manson didn't seem so scary anymore to all the people. They were remarking how his eyes had gone soggy and the pupils as though burst apart, like a balloon. "Well, obviously," I had noted to myself. The world does progress, science always trouncing mystery.

Due to a new program on inmate health, they are allowing short missives such as these to emerge from me (a consciousness imprisoned for arbitrary reason) to you, on a periodic basis. With my very grateful remaining words of this epilogue, taxpayers, I can only promise to invigorate.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Ghost Story IV

This is part 4 of a Ghost Story. Part 1 is here, and Part 2 here. Part 3 is about lesbians. Here is Part 5. Part 6.

Porch light was dimmed, and no shadow of the dog. Good sign, thought Harry, stepping out of his car. She usually tied the dog up to the pole at the gate before getting up to bed, so that it would stay awake and 'guard the house'. He felt kinda sorry for the pooch, but hey, it wasn't his pet.

He crept into the living room, eyeballs grazing the wall before the couch. It will be empty, it will be empty, he said to himself. "Paper, rock, scissors."

"What?" said Beatrice, grinding an elbow on a cushion.

"Oh, you remember. The game? Paper, rock, scissors?"

"What about it?" Beatrice's cat noticed her wakefulness and jumped over her breasts.

"Nothing, nothing," said Harry.

"Where did you go, Harry?" asked Beatrice.

Harry turned from the fridge, wasps of cold air wafting around him. "You want to go, uh, you know, uh, do it?" he asked.

Beatrice put another elbow upon a cushion. "Make love?" she said.

"Yeah. You know. Make love," said Harry, gulping some milk down.

"We never make love, Harry," said Beatrice.

Her cat had leapt from her breasts and was now purring at Harry's feet. "Got milk?" asked Harry, wishing he could, just ... punt it out the window. He looked up at Beatrice, smiling.

"Wish I could punt the cat," he tried.

"What's happening, Harry? I know you. There's something on your mind. What's going on. Is Emma ok?"

Harry put the milk back in the fridge, saying nothing, and walked up. He sat on the floor, by Beatrice's couch.

"It's all real," he said, looking directly into her face.

This caused Beatrice to get her fat ass off the couch and replace it right beside Harry, oodles of concern oozing from her. "What's real, baby?" she asked. "Where's Emma?"

"Emma," said Harry, momentarily losing his composure, "Emma, it's all real!"

"Honey," said Beatrice, expertly bringing her ambling cat beneath her bosom. "You're not making sense. What's wrong?" She gave him her administrative sigh - the one that said - yeah, you have no idea how to do your taxes - give all your money to me, and everything with be solved.

"All those times you told me Emma was possessed - it's real," yelled Harry, in a final ecstasy of release. "I mean, it's real, the ghosts. It's ... real!"

"Bobby?" asked Beatrice, stroking her pet more carefully.

"Fuckin' Bobby," said Harry. He's real!"

"Our child has been consorting with the dead?" asked Beatrice, eyes growing wide.

Harry looked at his wife's face. He tried to peer into her eyes. Then he shook his head. "What?"

"I told you we had a poltergeist in the house!" yelled Beatrice. "I told you - it's common for young girls to be able to cause things to fly about the house! Especially when Emma started having it - especially when she was thirteen! I told you! You never listened!"

Harry fended off the cat fur that lashed him. "Honey, you'll hurt the cat," he said. Finally Beatrice stopped hitting him, and turned moderate attention to her now moderately pet.

"It's not a poltergeist," said Harry, putting an arm around his wife.

"A demon? Is it the Devil?" sobbed Beatrice.

"No it's not like that at all."

"So ... what is it?"

"This kid," said Harry. "Bobby. He's real. He's a real kid."

Beatrice let go of her cat, who rolled over, but then sat up again, inches from her. The cat looked up at Harry.

"It's a real kid" laughed Harry. "All these years, Emma told us about Bobby - it's not an imaginary friend."

"He's real?"

"Yeah, I saw him. At the soccer field."

"Why were you at- you SAW him?"

"Yeah. He wanted to go look for EVPs."

"What are EV- Why were- You SAW Bobby?"

"Yeah," laughed Harry. Something was better. Something in his soul - his chest - was - releasing. "Yeah, I SAW him."

"What did he say? What happened?" asked Beatrice.

"He asked me if he was real," laughed Harry.

"What did you say?"

"What do you think I would say? I told him he was real."

Beatrice moved her fat ass closer to Harry's. "Harry. Harry. What are we going to tell Emma?"

Harry's smile turned into a frown. "What do we say?" he said. He looked up at his wife and her cat - "We'll, uh. We'll call some help in."

"Who you gonna call?" asked Beatrice.

Harry pulled the yellowpages onto his lap. He licked his finger and started turning over it. Finally, he pulled the phone down to him. It crashed on the floor, letting out a loud ring.

"Maybe the Wisconsin Paranormal Society?" he said, looking at his wife while dialling the number.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Ghost Story III

This is part 3 of a Ghost Story. Part 1 is here, and Part 2 here. Part 4 is here. Part 5. Part 6.

Ice from the girls' lemonade came in the way of Harry's straw and made a louder slurping sound than he had intended. He quickly pulled the straw from his mouth and looked frantically at the other parked car, some hundred feet away on the soccer field.

Night-time spotlights were on, so the girls would totally be able to make him out if they only turned to look. Luckily, it seemed they were ... occupied. Something about it pissed him off. He pulled his cellphone from his pocket and started tapping away furiously.

"Emma, u thr?"

There was a shuffle of heads in the other car. Then ... nothing. Harry tried to crouch down so the girls wouldn't see him, but it was a pretty hopeless case. No way the Toyota's front panel would hide his arching back.

"Wtf. What do u want?"

Harry pulled his head up again. Damn that spotlight. Who the hell put spotlights up in make-out zones, anyway? "Wasn't this way when I was a kid," he muttered. He fiddled over the text-message options on his phone, and replied:

"We had a deal. I can msg u anytime!"

"Wthn reason! Give it up, dude," replied Emma.

"So u figure it out yet?"


"Are you a lesbian?" typed Harry, frantically.

"Eww! Leave me alone!"

Harry wiped the sweat off his brow. Why did it have to be so difficult? "Just ..."

"What? Can we do this l8r?"

"Just felt like - maybe you two were getting along ... well."

He noticed some movement in the car ahead, then a pale orb rose from behind the headrest. He ducked down again, fearfully.

"Are you watching me? Are you watching me you dirty old -"

Now there was noise. He could see the car swaying left and right up there. Signs of a struggle. The phone rang.

"We had a deal! You tell me as soon as you find out you're a lesbian!" shouted Harry, frantically.

"Dad, that's you, isn't it, over there in that car? Fuck! Fucking hell! You followed us? What the hell?"

"The deal was, I give you room to figure things out for yourself! You were supposed to call me as soon as you hit second base!"

"So you followed us?" came the teenage vomit.

Harry was about to scream back into his phone, when there was a knock on his door. He stopped short, and then lowered his door window. God, it wasn't the police, thank God.

"Yeah, what do you want, kid?" said Harry to the little boy standing next to his car.

"Emma told me to come record some EVPs with her tonight," said Bobby. "Over here, in this field. But she hasn't arrived yet. Do you know Emma, mister?"

"What?" said Harry, exasperated. He turned back to his cellphone. "You brought a little kid along for the ride too? What the hell is wrong with you, Emma?"

There was a short silence on the other end. When Emma's reply came, it was as though her throat was suddenly being choked by a psychopath. He peered over the hood of the car, a concerned parent. "Y-you," she stammered her pale orb of a head bobbing up and down, "you said he wasn't real. I believed you! I thought you said --"

Harry turned his head slowly to look outside the window. Bobby was looking casually around the field. It seemed like he missed everything else. As though he didn't even see the other car parked beyond.

"Mister? Do you think we could get some good EVPs in a place like this?" asked Bobby, leaning into the window, and the glass began to cloud up with a frozen mist in the pasty summer night.

Ghost Story II

This is part 2 of a Ghost Story. Part 1 is here. Then Part 3, with lesbians. Part 4 is here. Part 5. Part 6.

"Ehud, why don't you close up here and buy me a calzone?" asked Peter.

"Ok Peter," said Ehud peering into his CRT, "let me just write back this quick reply to Bobby."

"You still writing to that kid? How do you find the time?"

Ehud let out a sigh and then went on typing. "It's hard. I mean, it's not like I'm being paid for this."

"If only this was your day job," said Peter. "Finding ghosts so you can speak to the little chidren. Pervert."

"Listen to this - I mean, how are you supposed to respond to this crap? Listen:" said Ehud, adjusting his glasses.

"Dear Mr. Spengler (Peter snorted),

Thank you for your newsletter. I don't believe in blobs, but I believe in EVPs. I wrote a note to my mom to buy me a tape recorder so I can record EVPs while I'm playing my Solitaire. I'll turn off the volume so there's no interruptions with the beeps, in case.

I think, now, that I'm a ghost. Yesterday, I was watching Henry Tabitha get beaten up by the school bullies. I think he saw me, and when he did, there was this look of horror and fascination in his eyes (but no longing for comraderie, or friendship). So, I think I'm a ghost. The bullies don't even see me - sometimes, when they're beating people up, I try to run in the middle, to get beaten up, but they just ignore me.

Also, after that, walking home I caught up with Emma. She's fifteen, (I'm eight) but at least she talks to me. She said that things had been flying around in her house, and she said therefore I must be a Poltergeist. She said her mom told her not to walk home with me, but she was ok with it, and was doing this only to expand her horizons. I like her, but I wish I had some guy friends."

Peter spurted cola from his nostrils. "What the hell? Who is this guy?"

"Listen, it get's better," said Ehud. He readjusted his glasses:

"So now I think I am paranormal. Can you do some checks and find out if I am real? I would appreciate it very much. I think there is a database of all people ever born in Wisconsin online, but when I read it, I'm not sure if I am imagining or not. Your help will be appreciated.


"What are you going to do, 'Spengler'?" asked Peter, wiping cola off his shirt with a book cover. He looked at the cover (Investigations on True Pyramid Architecture by one D. Lantiss Merman), shrugged, and then put it back on Ehud's desk.

"Well, what the hell am I going to do? I'm going to tell him he's real."

"Shouldn't you be calling his parents? I mean, aren't they the ones supposed to deal with this crap?"

"Tried," sighed Ehud. "I sent a letter, but no reply."

"Ehud, why don't you close this place down and buy me a calzone?" said Peter.

Ghost Story

This is a part of a Ghost Story. Part One, in fact. Part 2 is here. Then Part 3, with lesbians. Part 4 is here. Part 5. Part 6.
--- -

How little Bobby dealt with the fact that no one liked to hang out with him, was, he would write short letters, time to time, to the Wisconsin Paranormal Society. On occasion, he would get a letter in response, and reading these alone in his bedroom would fill that empty space.

"Dear Bobby,

Hope all is going well in school. I have never heard of ghosts that touch people while they play their Solitaire, but it sounds very interesting! I will keep your report in our files - who knows, some day it may help in one of our investigations.

Perhaps your friends can't come and play with you because their parents make them do other things - you know, chores and homework, and such. I know it's hard to imagine this is true every year, even on your birthdays, but sometimes it isn't easy to have everything in life. You must always remember this, it will help you.

Please keep writing us your findings in the paranormal field - all the letters we receive from you have been very helpful!

Your friend,
E. Spengler"

Bobby folded the letter and carefully placed it back in its envelope. He studied the stamp for a while - it was a picture of the Gettysburg Massacre. When he looked up, a pale shadow disappeared into the wall on his left.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

The Rain In Spagne

Each raindrop only an allusion to
ugliest things in life, I stepped away,
letting every pattering ripen,
every infliction become pronounced.

"This is the way with words," I explained to sheep.
"Hence so easily, you may be fooled. Twisting and
turning ways, revolving like the gunshot pre-trigger."
Then boom.

Somebody like me does not trifle with those petty sentiments
whose peels unravel like oranges within photographic recordability.
I saw beyond the buttonage, behind the dressings.
Saw a person able to easily reject this entropy wholeheartedly
my mind exploded.

If it is to be nullified, entropy,
not even I may be real.

Little Boy Blue

"I won't be here, but you'll be able to tell by the direction of my tongue," he wrote, carefully into the ground.

He was licked. Affectionately, by a mother. This was only a small joy for him, one for him to easily understand and empathize with along. He then proceeded to impart a lot of details about himself, of his being and how his mind worked, to the mother sheep. Of course he finished by affirming that this was only what he knew, and not a representation of every other mind in co-existence.

"See," he said, taking the sheep into his arms. "Tomorrow I'm going to tell some amazing lies. Massive lies."

The sheep snuggled, and trusted him.

"They will tell you about how I am the greatest liar," he said, stroking its fleece. "They will make a mockery of my mockery."

At this, the animal merely snorted into his sleeve. He laughed. "I love you," he said. "So I'm going to do a trick." Some of the sheep in the pen became nervous, and began rattling. "Shush," he said, the shepherd. "You are not lambs, before slaughter."

Everything calmed down and finally, it was another morning, and sunlight finally reached Earth after the hanky-panky of the Moon. If there was to be cheese on the Sun, it would be really good. Really good cheese. Not sad and pensive, but fiery cheese.

"You ready to bring them in? What's the joke this morning?" asked Abe, unfastening the gate.

"I got one you never heard of," he said, calmly, strapping his rifle.

The Frozen Man

with my little finger, i scrawl this against
the few thousand tons of ice crushed up against me
from above.

there is at least one vein pumping in my hand,
a mad vein. a silly fellow speaking to millions of deaf capillaries,
who have all decided the blood is dead, and stopped.
but this guy just keeps going ahead and pumping,
pushing and regurgitating the inert, bland blood.

perhaps one day this message will show through, if the ice melts just right, and some intelligence passes by.
my death here, in this world, was quite beautiful and elegant.
it was in the dark, against loving, lying lips
and in happy arms wiser than myself. against the soft velvet seats
of a night cinema made for lovers.

it was also in plain sunlight, simple and curiously bright.
my camera vision, advancing on one of the most beautiful women i've seen.
she lay there, on the grass in an arboretum, happily asleep.
the kind of beauty the once dead could never bear to touch, and so
i just lay beside her, equally blissful with her presence,
and hoping she would touch me first. peacefully slipping away.

i have also died in some profanity and filth. i had always been taught
of the necessity for charity, and once been a charitable child. but
in a series of stupid and ill-conceived wars, i grew weary.
then, the needy became simple blurs, just unidentified streaks
against a background of the false kingdom i was fighting to ...
either defend or conquer, i cannot be sure anymore.
but i ignored the cries and calls for help, and just walked
past them into a sprawling jungle of concrete and taxicabs,
and died soon after, impaled by an accidental streetlight.

i died in several different countries, as a vampire. learning
just enough about their people to get by, with the knowledge
all the time that i will eventually leave them, once i had
sucked enough of their blood. i died in false charm, when
i smiled in affirmation despite my repugnance for the silly
details of their cultures. instead of relishing and enjoying
the variety, i foolishly resorted to the notion that this
variety was trivial and meaningless.

finally, i first died as a wild man, drowned in an even wilder
river. i had loved a woman, and a child, in our fine home in
a jungle, but they were killed also.

ancient boating accident. our family had strayed into the unknown,
to discover. i cannot see them anymore, though i suspect they must be nearby.
because i never seem to be able to move my head. (frozen).

this is where you see me now, if you do see this.
for i am very old, despite the youthful illusion the frozen river
preserves. with one vein pumping, one little finger ticking and scrawling

against legions of stale blood and sheets of numbing ice.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Imagine If Someone Cared Enough to Actually Make a Documentary About *You*

Your first response to this, of course, would be to loathe the egocentricity of whomever wrote it. I know, I felt it too -- a certain self-loathing for even having thought about the idea. And self-loathing is probably as bad as one can get. But perhaps it was this distaste, this incredulity that composed the leap in the mind which then pushed me on to attempt something not so obvious. Something not so egocentric. Something greater than the sum of its part. That was a joke, by the way.

A boy gets bored of always walking around with many ideas in his head. They consume him, each one. A multitude of possibilities, yet each without a name or a home. Nothing he does in real life seems to alleviate this load on his head. He dates a girl, gets to second base and so forth, but all that does is expand the inventory.

There needs to be a release, and masturbation is only an affording pipeline at best. It actually hurts, physically hurts, this state of mind. One day he notices how the brain is inflicting trauma upon the heart, instead of protecting it, and his 'overmind' (let's just call it that to placate him) decides, ok, it is time for a medium of release.

He was almost a magnificent ping-pong player, if not for that there was a story in his head about ping-pong players, due to observations he had conducted. He did so want to be a ping-pong player, but it would be impossible, with all that fictional overlay he harbored. This was the time he would only rent videos about ping-pong with his pocket money and watch them all day, making his mother worry (about table-tennis!) and trying to get the bouncing balls to to eject from his mind.

It was when even simple communication had broken down, and his mom had to put a notebook next to him so that he may express his desire for lunch, that he found the gateway. First, he had put normal things there, like a grilled-cheese sandwich. Or fried fish. But quite soon, he realized how satisfying it was to apply unto the notebook. Some of the thoughts were being transmitted! Moved away! This was amazing, the ability to unburden, and with a pen in hand. Now, then, began the phase where the television became jealous of the dead tree, and gradually horrifying the mother.

(to be continued)

Something A Little Nicer

"Why do you sometimes write these?" asked Geppetto.
"I don't know," said Pinocchio, flailing his arms, "you say it's to be nice and kind to people. How would I know, Geppetto?"
Geppetto nodded, and pulled the string, making Pinocchio whir and write his nice piece.

Often times when time is but a sidestep
an ant or two might have been saved.
For me or you, we were just avoiding traffic
but in the colonies there were prayers sung

about liberty.

On the sidewalks we're so polite and adjustable,
viably missing every possibility to brush each others' arms.
Then come home and rage amongst our most loved ones,
pretty much all of the time -- in hindsight, quite dumb.

liberty from fruitless pattern.

he's a budding a poet but instead becomes
writer of documents so viable as to kill millions.
for his friend, the artist, for a favor, por favor
who turns out the ultimate meaningless orator.

liberty from all compulsion.

Once again so happy, he sang the karaoke song
voice breaking yet feeling beautiful in his own lungs.
So when later on, walking home, a thief accosted him,
he ended up guts opened, for that same song had to be sung.

liberty from encroaching minds.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Lab Report N3232-P1022

Once chimp 89 was injected with the abstract thought serum, a new look - an expression I had previously not recorded or mapped to any emotion - came upon its face, within seconds. Its eyes narrowed and it raised its head slightly, so that the chin was in an ascending vector.

Also, at this point, the chimp terminated previous communication exercises, even the ones at which it excelled, and received a banana for. My colleagues were certainly alarmed by this new, cold nature of chimp 89 - however, I insisted we continue dosage of the serum until we could reach a point where its physiology would accept and mimic the response on its own.

The process took 5 years, but finally we succeeded. Chimp 89, introduced to our common breeding program, gave birth to a male (chimp 90) capable of abstraction without dosage of our serum. Please also see our other report on the fascinating results of placing chimp 89, a biologically and neurologically enhanced female, in the common breeding environment.

Chimp 90 had to be separated from its mother, as it tended to incur damage upon her from an early age. It constantly maintains the same look that came upon its mother upon dosage of our serum - only somehow stronger. Its first act, upon being born, was to pound on its exhausted mother's body, demanding milk. In interviews with chimp 90, we have learned that it has deep seated feelings of shame towards its mother's lower biological and psychological status. Chimp 90 has trouble dealing with what it considers to be 'lower' lifeforms, including some of my colleagues - to my great amusement, I must say.

We will continue to observe chimp 90 and provide future reports. We are employing interactive techniques to 'flesh out' its frustrated state and hopefully bring out a resolution. Also, despite its offspring's harmful nature, it is clear that chimp 89 somehow, obliviously, still cares for the spawn. We are still injecting it with the serum, and now, when that look - that look of self-realization, shall we say - that look of drunken knowledge - this 'leer' of knowledge, shall we say - when it comes about, chimp 89 produces creative items out of anything in its cell (banana peels, styrofoam toys) that express its desire to view its child.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

The Main Alien i.e. 'Mother Brain'

"Dude," she blasted him, "you can't just walk into a workplace and start harassing employees with shit about aliens existing."

"But they do exist," wheezed Norman.

She gripped the report of the afternoon with her claw-like fist. Why do women do that to their hands, wondered Norman. The red polish. Looks like it crawled out of a lagoon. Alien hands. "Look. I know what happened," she went on. "I know you saw the tv show, and were heavily enthused, but come on Norman - leave it at home, okay? It's like religion, you know? You don't bring that up in the workplace, because it will mess everything up."

Norman nodded. "Yes ... yes, I see now. Kind of like a social ... taboo."

"People come here to earn their livings, ok? It's their bread and butter. What they are doing over here is a contribution toward their need to feed themselves, and their families. Think about it."

Norman smiled wisely back at his boss. He thought about it for a moment, and it was all true, what she was saying. Must seem so ... rude. An insult. "Insult to the breadwinner," he said, aloud, suddenly.

"Yes, Norman. You are interrupting the breadwinner." She sighed. "Here, look at it like this. The breadwinner is kind of like the gorilla, yeah?"


"And you, are like the thoughtless tourist who jumps in and tries shoving a stick into its butt, with all your talk about aliens. Now how do you think that the gorilla will respond?"

"It will be startled, at first," replied Norman, carefully following along like a trapeze artist on a thin thread.

"Yes. As has happened," she said, indicating the office in general with her hand.

"Then, instinctive responses will take hold," continued Norman, now getting with the program, "a sort of primal urge to defend its territory. Or ... butt, in this case."

"Gorillas are known not to tolerate much prodding," she agreed, placing a comforting hand on Norman's back.

"It will then attack, savagely. With it's vicious gorilla claws."

He was starting to understand, and she nodded, bringing him round the corner slow and steady. "In this case, Norman, the vicious attacks come in the form of anonymous reports in the Suggestion Box." She pulled out her folder of Suggestion Box tickets.

"No," said Norman, actually shrinking into his lab coat. "I don't want to see."

"Look at it Norman," she said forcefully. "This is what they really think of you, in secret."

His knees gave, and he collapsed onto the floor. "No!" he yelled, his arm straining out to ward off the anonymous tickets, in vain.

She looked dispassionately at the curled figure. "Get up, Norman."

He turned his face, and looked back at her through beady, slitted eyes. "I knew it," he said, seething, trembling. "You're the main one. The main alien. The Mother Brain."