Friday, June 26, 2009

true magic

This work is about a time I had a broken hand, and how the brokenness transferred from one hand to the other. It is also inspired by the works of Shooby Taylor, which, on the Internet, may be found if you google 'index of pheezy shooby' (not as a phrase).

For some reason I had broken my hand,

you know, how some people sometimes just go ahead
breaking their hand?

It was not capable anymore,
to reach anything.
It lived, as a person (if a hand had personality)
for some time in new york, ny 10010.

then magically, there was a fix.
"Wait," I said, very very carefully,
"I thought it was my right hand that was broken."

So why was the right now performing better than daddy's daddy?

The answer could only beg in my face. "What about the left? With horns?"

I had to laugh. Since my ears were enveloping my own brain.
"Now we will finally be able to simultaneously blow and speak."

Thursday, June 25, 2009


When they first met him he was in 9/11, in the morning before most people woke up. nevertheless, broke up.

He was making people float back upstaris.
(that's baby talk for on top of the Towers).
He was making them float back there.

"I don't want to see them like this," he told his good friend.

His good friend looked back at him. "You have to accept how it is like this. Let it go man, let it go. Nobody will see you. Nobody will see you let it go."

One of the people actually floated back up.


"Someone said they sho fucked us for sho," in the background, said his buddy to him.

"Ok, some sho fucked us, for sho, then, let that be. "Why are you boasting that, like an ass?"

"I'm not boasting. I'm calculating splats."

"You cannot lift anyone to safety."



painfully real things that must be deleted to move on

i moved all the pictures into an 'archive' folder.
on a yearly basis, i visit this archive probably, oh,
whenever I get drunk now. which is becoming a variable.

why would i visit this infernal folder?
to masturbate, of course,
mentally, about this one photo of her
absolutely happy and pleased,

stretching herself out over a gare bench.
gare, in french means a station.
her mom is probably taking the picture,
unless she lied to me, and it was taken by some boyfriend of hers.

it's not a concern of mine.

another really good picture of her is ...
is also in this folder, that i must delete.
i can't archive it anymore. that is not the kind of man
that i project myself as.

she sent me letters. one that literally promised
that androids do dream of electric sheep.
she also gave me a puppy on a tricycle with a basket at the back.
she now speaks of taxidermy for the dog, in her journals.

how do you refrain from verbal descriptions of items,
and focus on memories?
well one of the memories is where she put a bunch of posts on mymymyspaces.
then i deleted them when i got angry.

she was cold to me, on a forum.
so i deleted her stupid posts.
then she emailed me about how much
time it had taken her to think each one up.

that, apparently, was the basis for our break up.

i tried to tell her that anything she posts is permanently registered in my brain, but, obviously she thought i was shitting her.

"but it's true. i really do want to be in blindfolds with you."

and your bizzare throwing of the whore on the bed. and i was sartre (before his mind exploded) and her, simone.

her horribly outdated fascination with picasso. what else would one expect from a communist precinct? then there was a time i called her a peasant.

to be honest, i'm not sure why she indulged me. my belief is that it was probably playing one of her higher games, to which i am not privy.

this certainly makes it easier to delete all of her.

The Reason For My Long Beard

When I was but a boy, I saw the Blue Angel.
Her photograph, of course, just her photograph.
Then, on a night of great despondence
regarding the ability to ever find true love,

She said something to me.

At this point my entire life had gone astray.
I had killed some prince or something in some
rudimentary village, and hence was not allowed
to go beyond certain Boundaries.

I didn't tell her that I killed a prince at first.
I waited, until I knew she was really my Blue Angel,
then snuck a small cavern in the cave of my infinite
secret caverns, where I sneak my secrets.

I showed it to her there.

This did not seem to affect her, and she continued heroically,
but I knew it meant a lot to her, and I could only observe.
She came to visit me, and I remember for unprecedented reason
they let both of us into the terminal, and I was able to watch

as she returned to her home.

After that, I was left to my own devices.
We spoke again, of course, frequently,
yet I was always left feeling incapable,
for some reason.

My sadness would pour into all my illusions,
those days. Random women on the road,
the sort of anonymous harpies one may find
at perhaps a random forum.

I sent her a lot of emails.
I even waited until 2012, and sent her
a trick from Grand Illusions for her birthday.
(Sending a trick of my own would be crass).

The difference, of course, between Eisenheim
the actual difference, between the master and me,
is that I messed up in the middle.

I don't know how I did it, but I lost her.

Equal spending on robotics and paupers

My dream is to resolve some major human fears:
(exclusion, impotence, extinction)
via pathways that free up the boundaries
promulgating such fears.

i can do this because i've suffered it.
except impotence. i'm very potent, i promise
(and this is how i pretend to be personal).
but really, i think i really can.

how wondrous that two enemies find themselves
equally aligned -- yet not in the way that samurai are aligned.
more like how a peacock may be aligned, with a baby seal.
who wants to be the peacock? who wants to be the baby seal?

the us is afraid of exclusion (no, it really is),
and, at the core, so is iran.
both are impotent - one in terms of product,
the other in terms of ideology.

at this point, the extinction ratio is zero:0.
until you contemplate the overall effects.
then basically, not only do these two creatures die,
but all of us.

let all the pixies of the rest of the fucking world
pay close attention.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

refinidefinitions and such

Broken eye connected to mind,
delivering all sundry serotonin.
Amongst your pills for 'courage rogaine'
you forgot how to fight if you were to go blind.

Do you always find the available sublime?
Or simply patter pointlessly contrived?
Do you really think my shenanigans
something you could ever offend?

Who the fuck are you anyway?
In namespaces, I never see your writings.
To be honest I don't see you posting more than little brays
in the same trite disorganized ways expected from your institutionalized stays.


The pill at the top of the world
will swirl down to the trench of your guts.
What havoc over there can be wrought?
Nothing but images of 'Splurts!"

I know all your grandpeepulls fought
for whatever heritage you find fit to cavort.
Just Clauses in memory with your name, though
signed all over documents like they'd fucked

you all over once and twice.
Masturbated over treaties and such.
Their dick and cunt juices layering docs
now your accountants beg for excel ziplocs.

But the software will be too expensive
for the kinda partays you bitches iz throwin'.
Don't throw the vase at me again man,
ok, shit, your pill's down the drain.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Bring in the Mussels!

"You can do it easily," mom would say, at the playground device. What do they call it? Monkey bar? "Look," she would say, and she would lift herself by the hands.

I broke into tears. "I can't," I cried. "I'm not like you. I don't have the same muscle."

She would get so irritated, and go and call my father. There was an inner monologue inside me about "how now this will be *really* scary".

Father would come over, calmly as he always does. He would put his hands on the playground thingy, and raise himself, until his chin was over the bar.

I would begin crying, at that point. "Don't tease me!" I would yell at them. "I don't have the muscle," I would sob, "I just don't have it." My father would then let go of the device and go and stand next to my mother. The couple would look at me as though I was born in Hell itself.

"How could you not have the muscle?" they would say, looking at me like two penguins, with their beady parental eyes.

"I have .. different muscles," I would tell them, then, and I would begin to swing on the elaborate construction. This terrified my mother. "Stop it," she would say, but I would persist in my swinging. At this point my father would just shake his head and go fiddle with his awesome stereo system that he spent years buying through hard labour. But mom stayed there, making sure I did not let go, and periodically, at intervals of every fifteen minutes or so (in terms of space and time) would say very emphatically, "Stop it! Stop swinging like that!"

But I had to show them. I had to show them my different muscles. So then, at one point, in time and space, I smiled at my mom, and as my body swung forward in the elaboration, it disappeared.


I woke up miles away, in a desert. I looked upwards to recognize the time, but there were three suns instead of just one. I cursed at me, and rolled my own bloody eyes. Then I started out, into the desert, with nothing but a horizon that reflected some far away ocean. My father took us there, when we were kids. It was the first time I ever saw the ocean.

On my way, there was a girl, too. She kept bugging me about calling her transparent, and then finally one hot night I broke down and asked if she would rather be opaque?

She had a really nice laugh. "Why would you spend that much time talking to yourself, when you could be talking to me?" she told me, that balmy night.

"I'm not an egoist," I replied (I didn't have any other cache). "And I'm not a narcissist."

"Are you psychotic?" she teased. "A psycho?" She had these very nice, very teasing lips through which she said them. One time she even teased that I had bitten them a little to amateurly.

This made me very angry, on a September the Thirteenth, when one of the three suns in the sky eclipsed another. "I'm not psychotic," I had said to myself, quietly that night, then went ahead and stared directly at them all, like I always have done.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

laser death

This is an old poem from when SONY began doing it’s blu-ray thing.
as i walked into harry’s apartment
my shoes came entwined in strands
of vhs and betamax.

harry, harry! i screamed into blue darkness,
feet gathering a black mass — trudging!
harry! what on earth has happened?
deep in the center, shrouded in a sickly interlaced glow
hunched harry. fiddling with buttons,
seven remote controls.

harry, harry! what on earth has happened?
harry’s horrid grin cornered round his head
threatening some evil demise to my techno innocence.
“i’ve just transferred all of my vhs and betamax
to dvd.
all of it!”

such purity in his intent. such nobility in his victory.
so entrenched in the fruit of his labor, his hunched form.
gathering my pockets, i took a breath of preparation, then
unleashed my terrible onslaught upon this wicked harry’s person.
harry, harry! but the dvds are going out!

we’re all moving on to blu-ray now,
you poor dear!

on lonely nights, when no one will answer their phones
i uncap a bottle of black and savour sweetly …

harry bursting from his apartment,
like some demon of black vhs and betamax
that streamed about his body on the streets,
“goddamn you SONY!”

impatience of the self important shit

"Well what if I explode out of the bar cursing at them? how'd you like that?" he exploded from her front door.

"Who the hell are they?" he said, and picked up a brick. She stood in the doorway, staring at him. He slammed the brick into the side of his head, and blood began spurting, and then everyone who had been watching in the neighborhood just went back in, and he became woozy, and just collapsed in the middle of the road.

Before the lights went out, he wondered why the hell he had to go ahead and use this unexamined brick to smash his head with? Shit someone could have had AIDS on this thing, or cancer or something.


"Will you save me?" he screamed, seeing her simply stand there like an idiot in the doorway. Then a motorcar ran over his head.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

The Cohobitator

Several months ago:

(1:29:04 AM) FinalCoho: Name a worse company than PayPal. That's right. You can't.
(1:29:14 AM) riverfr0zen: enron
(1:29:14 AM) finalcoho is now known as FinalCoho.

Now, in Dolby Surround Sound:

(11:58:47 AM) riverfr0zen: i feel a very big asperger attack coming on
(11:59:08 AM) riverfr0zen: i thought the wave was over, but it is just beginning.
(11:59:48 AM) riverfr0zen: witness the universe converge at this juncture ...

(12:02:33 PM) FinalCoho: who the hell is this
(12:02:54 PM) riverfr0zen: i wonder the same thing about you.
(12:03:02 PM) riverfr0zen: why are you even in my buddy list?
(12:03:08 PM) FinalCoho: FreeloadingCoho (12:02:45 PM): i wonder the same thing about you.
(12:03:29 PM) riverfr0zen: what is a Coho?
(12:03:47 PM) FinalCoho: that what it says your screenname is
(12:04:25 PM) riverfr0zen: i don't see what is happening
(12:04:46 PM) riverfr0zen: what is your password to the internets?
(12:04:50 PM) FinalCoho: Its telling me your screenname is FreeloadingCoho
(12:04:59 PM) FinalCoho: i bet that isn't true
(12:05:05 PM) riverfr0zen: and you are a FinalCoho?
(12:05:06 PM) FinalCoho: are you running some kind of hacks
(12:05:21 PM) FinalCoho: lol, no i'm not
(12:05:28 PM) FinalCoho: funny though
(12:05:29 PM) riverfr0zen: i am hacking a lot of honeypots very simultaneously.
(12:06:04 PM) riverfr0zen: we are somehow caught up in this cohoverse
(12:06:07 PM) FinalCoho: ok so a quick google search tells me that the 2 of us are a victim of a (harmless) AIM Fishbot scheme
(12:06:19 PM) FinalCoho:
(12:07:09 PM) riverfr0zen: i don't know if i should subdue it, or simply let it continue.
(12:07:22 PM) riverfr0zen: it is rather amusing
(12:08:09 PM) FinalCoho: yes it is. This happens like once every couple weeks
(12:09:02 PM) FinalCoho: 2 random people are auto messaged somehow and the screenames are switched to a generated fish name ending in Trout Coho or Salmon
(12:09:09 PM) riverfr0zen: it is somewhat worrisome in that one does not know who one may be connected to. it could be a little kid, and one may cuss or swear at it.
(12:09:44 PM) FinalCoho: that goes with the territory of being online in itself
(12:10:34 PM) riverfr0zen: the only resort is to always be on one's best behaviour. but how long can that last?
(12:12:04 PM) FinalCoho: random person + ability to remain anonymous = personality swap
(12:12:33 PM) riverfr0zen: like the switch tyler durden speaks of
(12:12:48 PM) FinalCoho: precisely
(12:12:53 PM) riverfr0zen: it would be hilarious if you got connected to yourself
(12:13:02 PM) riverfr0zen: through this fine social system
(12:13:07 PM) FinalCoho: haha
(12:13:25 PM) FinalCoho: do you visit sites such as Digg
(12:13:49 PM) FinalCoho: i believe i read that it stems from similair social websites
(12:13:50 PM) riverfr0zen: i did in the past. not so much any more
(12:15:16 PM) riverfr0zen: i usually freely slap on my username for aim in all sorts of places. being a little tech savvy, i don't feel very threatened by what may hit me.
(12:15:50 PM) riverfr0zen: plus if the screen suddenly says that all the data is being deleted, i can simply revert to the latest revision.

(12:16:58 PM) FinalCoho: that sounds a little too cliche , like a computer virus from a hollywood movie "Deleting Data" with a skull and crossbones
(12:18:20 PM) riverfr0zen: you mean unlike a non-cliche computer virus with no presentational aspects? it just quietly snips things here and there, leaving the user befuddled over a slow and progressive scale?
(12:18:41 PM) riverfr0zen: a little bit like alzheimer's, i imagine

(12:20:59 PM) FinalCoho: most malicious things that people come across in today's internet are not really a virus but rather just intrusive malware that gets embedded into windows to detect user habits for browsing and advertising
(12:21:49 PM) riverfr0zen: i think the larger problem is that most people on the internet are intrusive malwares :)
(12:22:06 PM) FinalCoho: they don't know how to get rid of it because typically you have to go into safe-mode or the windows recovery console. Yeah that too, people suck
(12:22:46 PM) riverfr0zen: why do the antivirus guys not hire psychics?
(12:23:12 PM) riverfr0zen: if i was a big, rich antivirus software company, this would be my area of research. prescience.
(12:23:44 PM) FinalCoho: psychics do not exist
(12:24:04 PM) riverfr0zen: i agree on that. they claim to, but they probably don't actually.
(12:24:11 PM) FinalCoho: nobody is more spiritually inclined than the next
(12:24:59 PM) FinalCoho: it's like some guy who claims he has telekenesis because he sits on his farm in kansas and a piece of corn fell over
(12:24:59 PM) riverfr0zen: i'm not really talking about spirituality so much as the pre-occurence observational capability
(12:25:51 PM) FinalCoho: it's a fallacy
(12:25:56 PM) riverfr0zen: ha ha. when it was probably just a butterfly in hanoi that did it.
(12:27:15 PM) riverfr0zen: are you sure it is not even remotely possible?
(12:27:33 PM) FinalCoho: only if you recently watched the butterfly effect
(12:27:38 PM) riverfr0zen: i mean, we do get close with people such as kurzweil, etc
(12:27:55 PM) riverfr0zen: i didn't see that one. is that with jim carrey in it?
(12:28:17 PM) FinalCoho: no, that was with Ashton kutcher
(12:28:28 PM) riverfr0zen: that is probably why i didn't see it.
(12:29:11 PM) FinalCoho: I have not heard of kurzweil
(12:29:20 PM) riverfr0zen: but the butterfly effect is something that scientists have spent a lot of time on. it's not as trivial as just some movie concept.
(12:29:33 PM) FinalCoho: i am guessing there is a large age gap between us
(12:29:36 PM) riverfr0zen: kurzweil, who believes in transhumanism
(12:30:25 PM) FinalCoho: interesting, i am reading his Wiki page now
(12:30:35 PM) riverfr0zen: that very soon, it may not only be so cliche as 'machines take over', but that we *become* machines
(12:32:14 PM) FinalCoho: i doubt it
(12:32:26 PM) FinalCoho: something cosmic or a virus will kill human population before we get that far
(12:32:47 PM) riverfr0zen: that's a sort of glass half-empty view
(12:33:49 PM) riverfr0zen: i don't find pessimism to be as productive as optimism
(12:34:12 PM) riverfr0zen: it has its uses, but for me, it is not the state to exist within.
(12:34:57 PM) FinalCoho: have you ever heard of the theory of Lon Timing
(12:35:09 PM) FinalCoho: one time i lon timed
(12:36:23 PM) riverfr0zen: no, please educate me. is it like, a perjorative expression towards asians? like the silly 'me love u lon time' thing.
(12:36:24 PM) riverfr0zen: ?
(12:37:25 PM) FinalCoho: Hahah
(12:37:31 PM) FinalCoho: no but that is a great guess
(12:37:57 PM) FinalCoho: its a theory where sometimes you are time traveling and performing activities watching yourself from a third person point of view
(12:38:39 PM) FinalCoho: like when your stuck behind a volkswagen on the highway but your the one driving it
(12:38:58 PM) riverfr0zen: like some sort of astral projection variant
(12:39:42 PM) riverfr0zen: i imagine that people who play a lot of grand theft auto may somehow develop this trait
(12:41:13 PM) FinalCoho: i don't see the correlation
(12:42:29 PM) riverfr0zen: because that is exactly what you do in that game -- your viewpoint is stuck behind a (possibly) volkswagon as you drive through the highways
(12:42:56 PM) FinalCoho: do you play
(12:43:15 PM) riverfr0zen: not grand theft auto, no. but i play other games.
(12:43:35 PM) riverfr0zen: i'm learning chess right now. i'm horrible at it.

(12:46:21 PM) FinalCoho: yeah, i only like playing digital versions of chess where it tells me the available movements per piece
(12:46:53 PM) riverfr0zen: heh, yeah, that's how i started. since i didn't know how the pieces are actually supposed to move.
(12:47:29 PM) FinalCoho: watch out for those bishops, those guys can do some damage
(12:47:44 PM) riverfr0zen: i'm still on training wheels, though. using an app that won't let you make self-destructive moves, and where you can undo.

Ghost Story VI

This is part 6 of a Ghost Story. Part 1 is here, and Part 2 here. Part 3 is about lesbians. Part 4 is here. Part 5. Part 7. Part A8E.

Their interview was very quick and short, but to Emma, seemed like years. She had argued with her father the whole night after coming back from the stadium, then in the morning he apparently wanted to take her to 'see some professionals'. "This is just going to explode in your face," she told him, and he had left the room silently, as he always had when she was being a baby. The silence was supposed to imply finality. And true enough, when they finally met the Wisconsin Paranormal Society, everything had played out just as she expected. It was just two guys getting high on little gadgets and electronics. At least one of them seemed kind of cool -- when they were all finally introduced, she had looked directly at Peter, and he had just rolled his eyes. That was kind of cool. Ehud, on the other hand, had made her take a Voight-Kampff test.

"How is it that you make things just fly around?" insisted Ehud, staring directly into her eyes. He stared ... medically ... at her. "Did it happen before your periods?"

Emma spat at him. "What the hell kind of question is that?" she asked. Ehud looked at her father, and made a small motion with his hand, indicating that everything was okay. "This is normal," he said.

Beatrice began sobbing, at that point, and Ehud gently took her hand in his. "It's fine. This is how it generally works," he told her. Harry, who had been trying to keep hold of Beatrice's hand all night previously, and even into the drive over here, watched this intently. He began to wonder why it was so easy for Ehud to do that, and yet, why was everything that came out of his mouth treated like garbage by her? As these thoughts settled into his mind, Ehud's Voight-Kampff test continued, and Ehud began asking Emma questions that most people would probably find totally obvious. It was like: "Why do you wake up in the morning for?" Or "Is the homework in school really difficult, or is there a larger problem?" After some time, Emma was responding to these bizarre questions quietly, and even promptly, often with sentiments of disgust at the interviewer. It seemed like each line of this inquiry was yet a bigger insult to her very fabric of being.

It was only when Ehud asked "So what is it that you see, which is strangest?" that she finally put her face in her hands, and began crying. "Bobby," she said. "I see a little boy named Bobby, at school."

Even Peter stood up, then. Ehud looked carefully at the girl, and asked again, his face now a frown: "Wait. What is your name again?"

Emma looked at her mother first, angrily. Then she looked at her father, with equal hatred, but more accusingly. Then she turned back to Ehud. "Emma. My name is bloody Emma!" she screamed.

Ehud began shivering, and a large boil began to appear in his throat. Peter, who had already stood up, hurried over to his friend. "Uh, Ehud. Why don't I continue this interview, and you go and try to research the databases?"

His friend was very grateful for this."Y-yes," he stammered. "I'll just go and look into it now."

Peter looked at the rest of Ehud's Voight-Kampff questions on the sheet of paper, and then he threw them aside. He looked at the girl, directly into her eyes. "You actually see this little boy, named Bobby?" he asked.

The girl was also trembling by now. She rushed into Peter, and squeezed him as tightly as she could, her tears dowsing his t-shirt. "I've been seeing him for years now!" she cried."I keep telling them and telling them, but they never believe me!"

Harry, at this point, seeing what was happening, exploded angrily. "I knew it!" he yelled, suddenly, and charged into the two, separating his daughter from this crazy man, "I knew you were looking at her strangely when we first walked in!"

Monday, June 15, 2009

Wasted Passengers

the Ridiculous is everywhere.

When I was a child, too young for many fears, yet old enough to identify the failing points of fear bearers:

I was on an airplane. I was shaking my head as a loud drunkard hassled stewardesses for more drink. There were supposed to be video games on this flight, but there weren't. So, I was stuck unable to read my comics in peace because an unshaven chimpanzee somehow got through security.


The Ridiculous sat down, next to me. "You don't want that window seat, kid," he said.

"I do. I like it," I replied, as indignantly as only a child may. "This is the only place where you can escape this mundane reality."

"Worth a try, worth a try."

My eyes became beady. "This isn't your seat. What happened to the old lady?" I asked. Who was this man? I tried to rise and yank my head back to see the line for the restrooms, to see if the old lady with red hair was there.

He laughed. "I am the old lady, pal," said the Ridiculous.

"No." Thoughts came into my head about evil kidnappers.

Whistling, he fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out a mess of orange strands. "Aged spinster red," he smiled. "Does the trick, most of the time." He stuffed it back in his coat. "Least when you don't want to be bothered by irritating little babies they bloody seated you with." He settled back and closed his eyes, napping.

"I'm not a baby," I said.


"I'm not! You - you wanna see a real baby?"

"Sure," said the Ridiculous, eyes still closed.

I waited till a stewardess passed us, and then nodded very slightly, like a spy. "There. That guy there - wailing bloody murder just to get another little shot of ... whatever."

The Ridiculous opened his eyes and looked. "That guy?"

"Yeah," I said. "He's such a pathetic little baby, he won't shut up! I can't even read!"

"You think that guy is a fool?" said the Ridiculous.

"He is," I replied, angry.

He shook his head, and though he was already smiling, I could see an *additional* smile settle into his face. "No, little guy, no."

I didn't say anything, and just looked at him. This was one of my child tricks.

"You think that guy is a dumb little chimpanzee? Doesn't know what he's doing?" said the Ridiculous, daring my child stare.

"Well, what would you say?"

"I know him," said the Ridiculous.

"What? You do? Well ..." I said, uncertain, "so what is his problem?"

"He is operating on a principle."

"Pfft," I laughed. "Yeah, right."

"He," said the Ridiculous, turning and facing me for the first time, "knows his place."

"No he doesn't."

"He does. And he knows he'll need to be really, really wasted before he feels alright," he smiled at me.

"That's dumb - he's making too much noise," I told the Ridiculous.

"No. See - he knows that they won't give him more drinks, unless the condition goes overboard. It's airline policy."

"That can not be airline policy," I told him. "They wouldn't have a stupid policy like that."

"It is," said the Ridiculous. "That's why you have to be loud and obnoxious, to really get through to these guys."

"But - but why does he need to get so drunk?"

"Because he's terrified of the flight," said the Ridiculous, beaming.

I looked around myself, around the cabin. "Of this?"

"The fear of the flight, to him, is so much greater, that he will surpass the boundaries of the norm simply to escape it!"

I looked at the drunkard. He was getting quieter now. They were coming in and serving him the drinks, and I watched his head gulp them down. Slowly, slowly I watched ... his neck get looser, his head roll back. I turned to my window, and I saw the layered clouds.

When I woke up, the pilot was saying we were about to land. I looked up at the Ridiculous, but there was just an old woman sitting there, with crusty fake red hair, giggling into her old womens' magazine.

The Baby Steps Man

When I was young, I'd be sitting there,
under that tree at the whateverpalooza.
Mocking the idiots in the place.

I would laugh at people's tattoos
right after they got them.
Tell old people the corndogs'll kill 'em.

Now I find I'm much older.
Cannot just stand around at Whateverpalooza,
mocking away from my admittedly Ridiculous beard.

I have to move on to a new Plane.
Go 'Beyond'. I have to find a whole new set
of people to mock.

Contemporary (2009) yuppies is too broad.
Because everyone these days is basically a damn yuppy.
So I find the people who go 'niche'.

This progression, however,
is also not just about changing the subjects.
It is also about changing The Predicate. Me.

My modus operandi (doesn't it feel just so much better written out in whole?)
must evolve from the mere sideshow at that carnival,
where my true love once broke up with me,

and Soar to new Heights.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Back To Save The Universe

Someone is laughing at some midgets on reality tv.
It's me. I'm laughing at midgets. Why?
This would be a nice train of introspection but
an oyster just spat a pearl in my eye.

Am I being random? "No, who says you can be really random?"
Thanks, mom. I scoop the pearl out, sacrificing an iris.
The pearl is carried, by my miserable cyclops impersonation, to Him.
He removes my jelly from the equation, sprinking sugar over the sidewalk.

Don't go to school, then they'll send the fat bitch from the opera,
cryin' out like there's some kind of mythology in this shit.
Being random, I stole one of Opera's old age gums.
They chased me trying to find the tone till their sun finally come.

Now I just walk uprooting trees and dentists,
if you're a dentist, just don't ever plant a fucking tree.
I throw economists into there, into the mix,
trying, hard as I can, to make it more fun.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

snap crocodile

What I like about Sumerians is that they were basic.

There wasn't all this shit I keep having to wave in my hands
that motherfuckers like to call culture.

They're like, little brainless shits trying to imagine
some kind of 'forward direction'. They like sepulturas.
But rhyming and shit.

How many meters more?
Someone has the rum.
Tick tack cadence,
ah old Redbeard was yum.

What I like about Sumerian poetry is the innocence by which they do their daily escapades. "I'm going to just go out and farm, yo," says an ancient Sumerian man, in the middle of the day. "Want more wheat."

Only the overlay of hundreds of years of general happiness is left to us to be tarnished by the *actually designed*. How but to muse at these people who are so advanced that they have let themselves, their actual beings, become facilitators for their accessories.

"Hello. I am trying to facilitate my accessory. Please let my dreams come true."

Why the fuck not?

Real Challenges

Your mother will be so happy
if you Believe, in God.
Imagine, if you believed.
How happy your mom would be.

Don't try to distance yourself
from the womb that ejected you.
Star pilot, your mother would
only be happy if you flew

yourself into the embrace of God.


"I am not a Believer, but also
not a murderer," I declare.
So then, an agnostic? I hear.
"No," I breathe, "run more diagnostics."

If you are not agnostic, how can you
tolerate, all this time?
"Because I have tolerated, all my life,"
I explain, and my irises pour.

"All kinds of adversities, I have faced."
And who did you think of at the end?
"My mother."
Then why not fly into the embrace of God?


Let her live out her last years, knowing
that you accept His Divine Salvation.
Do this for your mother. Your mom.
Can you not even do that, in all

the sordid seeds you've sown of life?

I laugh. "Why is the decor so melancholy?"
I shout into the emptiness. But then,
from the emptiness, comes a Being.
It comes to diagnose me. To examine. I smile.

"Mythology is important," I laugh, "don't get me wrong."

I put a red nose on the Being. Then I become a deer. Then the Holiday Season came too soon this Year.

Transportation of Love -- Part Three (conclusion)

"aren't you going to smite me?" asked the gnome.

he sucked hard on his latte. "no, gnome. i shall not smite thee."

the gnome looked frightened, even at this.

"you know, when i smite, i am really, actually, smiting myself. you see, gnome," he said, touching it to give comfort, "i have found something new. a new - vista - shall we say."

"but - but - i have failed!"

"no, gnome. you have succeeded. you are actually a very sweet gnome. here, uncover thy hat, that i may rub thy baldness."

the gnome uncovered his hat to reveal the shining mollusc of his pate.

"how nice it is!" he said. the gnome started dancing in front of him for his pleasure, as he rubbed its baldness.

"i must admit," said the gnome, "that i am rather verging on paranoia from your new turn. look, my knees are still shaking." the gnome displayed its shaking, dancing knees.

"it gets verbose too!" he wailed, laughing. "what happens when you press the baldness of the head?" he raised a finger to press it.

"ah ah ah" said the gnome, shaking a finger. "that's the covert smite button. and, if you remember, we said we're not smiting."

he released his finger from its poised position. "yes ...", he said, "... we. i like that ... we ... and not just me." he sucked hard again on his latte, aiming for the bits remaining between the ice.


they were sitting next to each other, as equals. the gnome was illustrating its ability to fish.

"what is this place?" he asked the gnome, looking around the serene plateau, lavished with green bundles and the occasional sprinkling of color. a red here. a yellow there. sometimes they liked to smear themselves in their positions, creating variations of opacity over their backgrounds. "it's pleasing on certain levels."

"you just sit, you see," said the gnome, "and you can get fish."

"can you touch the opacities?" he asked.

the gnome shook his head. "no, just leave them alone."

"but i would like to finger the beauty!" he wailed.

the gnome took a biscuit from their tin, and gave it to him. "no fingering, dude. but you can marvel."

he took offense to this. "i don't marvel, gnome. i am marveled at."

"mmm. who was it told you to stop smiting, anyway?" asked the gnome, munching a biscuit from the tin.

he took the gnome's hat off and rubbed its baldness. "twas my soft rubber toy. back at home."

the gnome nodded. it liked the soft rubber toy. sometimes, when the winter was harsh and they had to burn their beards for warmth, the soft rubber toy used to give them cookies. the soft kind, with melted chocolate chips.

Transportation of Love -- Part Two

Part One

"how's the project going?" asked the soft rubber toy.

"not very well," he said, squeezing it for comfort. "just seems like no one is really motivated." he squeezed it again, soothingly. well, it was soothing for him, at least.

the soft rubber toy loosened itself from his grip and made its way to the fridge. "well, maybe you're being too forceful, you know?"

"what on earth are you talking about, woman?" he said.

"i really wish you would stop assigning gender to me," replied the soft rubber toy, making its way back to his hands. it was sipping on a banana daiquiri. "i'm not some cheap floozy, you know."

"i know, i know. that's what i like best about you."

"yes," said the toy. "but really, i think you need to rethink your approach."

he took a sip that the toy offered him. the daiquiri was cool and refreshing. he relaxed a little more. "my approach? you really think so?"

"yes. you know, sometimes your personality can be a little overwhelming. people need space to breathe."

"but, they're just gnomes!" he protested.

"doesn't make a difference. plus, all that smiting ... it can be very demoralizing."

he squeezed the soft rubber toy again, thinking.


"but smiting is what i do," he pleaded. "i am, therefore i smite..."

"it's very uncreative," said the soft rubber toy.

this made his eyes bulge. "uncreative?" he got off his seat and started pacing. "uncreative? but - but - i am the creatOR! i create! nothing i do can ever be called 'uncreative'..."

"i understand," said the soft rubber toy, nodding. "what has happened is, your wiring has just got a little muddled. the green wire, which should normally deliver to the -"

"wiring?" he said, cutting the toy off. he peered at it, his entire body rigid. "i told you, i'm not a gnome."

"yes, but-"

"i don't have 'wiring'". he lifted a finger, in an arc pointed at the soft rubber toy.

"see! you're doing it again! just smiting away whenever you hear something you don't like!"

his demeanor didn't change. "as i said, there is no wiring..."

"well, there's no wiring in me either!"

"oh?" he said, paused.

"after all, i'm just a soft rubber toy! only sponges!"

he lowered his hand. "well," he said. "i'll concede to that. and maybe, 'metaphorically', my wiring could-"

"yes! yes! 'metaphorically' your wiring could have gotten a little muddled!" squealed the rubber toy.

"yes," he said. "'metaphorically' muddled. i can handle that. 'metaphorically'."

Morning-Level Radiation

did you reprogram my cellphone, teleporter?
shapes the nasty toothed toothiness into ze bed of calm.
no, o dental manifestation-a-rama, i squeak.
who is sending me these crispy packets, then? it demands.

my mouse emanation runs to search through the twilight litter,
allowing at least ten more cycles on the imagination pills.
it's out there, scraping for your answer, i squeak to monsieur headache.
i don't care for your common buttonage, mr. 'let me jump through space and time one more time', he says.

i don't care, period, i squeak, avoiding his thumbs down,
leaping over the knuckle and snowboarding down the hairy arm.
pretty soon, it will be time to bungee off this damn ass.

comment appele tu? la voiture, est-elle dans votre garage?
ou est le bar de mer? pouvez-vous l'acheter?
ou pouvez-vous l'acheter?

mousey-me returns with the relevant details, but it's all
in chinese cuss-word encryption. as i meet my rodent around the os coxae,
becoming one, i swear asiatic at he who does not floss,
landing on my feet to warmly welcome morning-level radiation.

Transportation of Love

Written in that curiously uncapitalized form of the internets, Transportation of Love may be a tale about a project manager, or 'God'.

"how can," he said, "how can i ensure that when i emit my love, it will really be processed properly?"

the engineers blinked, which was a mistake. they were smited. new engineers came up.

"are you legit?" he asked.

they presented their credentials quickly.

"have some hidden psychological problems?" he peered at them. "some deep seated issues?"

"no," they replied, unanimously.

"good. what i want -- what i want is direct transportation of my love to anyone who needs it."

the honest engineers nodded, unanimously.

"i want everything to become beautiful, all at once. i don't care about the 'necessity for evil', if you bring that shit up, you're visiting hell with those last guys." he stuck his thumb backward, indicating where the poor engineers had gone.

"you what? ah yes. conditions as they have been so far. just make a way to assure everyone alive that they are being taken care of. make them really feel it. what? betrayed love? **** that, that's a tired concept. we have better paradigms. now go, do you job."


"what about free will?" asked someone in the background.

"yeah, no problem," he said. "it's a finite process."

the someone looked blankly at him.

"what, why are you looking at me like a dumbass? get to fucking work!"


he was signing documents when one of the gnomes came up to him. he looked around the room. it was warm and cozy. he liked this. this was good. they were all making the most efficient way to transport his love. everyone was working industriously, which was the best way for things to be.

"yes?" he asked, adjusting his glasses. the gnome shuffled his feet nervously. "out with it man, what seems to be the problem?"

the gnome did a little half shrug. "well," he said, rolling his eyes to buy some time, "well, i mean, 'seems', i mean. 'seems' may not be the best way to put it ..."

"you see these down here?" he asked the gnome. the gnome looked down and nodded. "these are documents. and i'm signing them."

"yes," said the gnome.

"that's my work. that's what i do. they don't sign themselves, you know."

the gnome shook his head along with him. "no, they don't."

he looked around the office. everyone was busy doing their work. there didn't seem to be anyone who could help out.

"do you need a translator?" he asked. he put his pen down to make the gnome feel more relaxed. it seemed to help a little.

"no," said the gnome, "but only - i mean, it 'seems' that the question of free will has come up again."

"you what?" he asked, distracted by the appearance of new documents piling up on his table for signing.

"free will," repeated the gnome.

"whale, wasn't it? some kid's seaworld fantasy?" the paperwork was really starting to pile up.

"err. no. that was 'free willy'. 'free will', on the other hand, er, is like, er, when the people can decide for themselves. er."

he looked at the gnome, and then around the office. everyone was busy working, and didn't seem available to help out.

"do you need a translator?" he asked. he watched with concern as a stream of water slowly seeped down the gnome's pants, and formed a puddle at its feet.


he smote the gnome, and cursed and then smote the urine stain on the floor that had remained.

"doesn't anyone here speak english?" he asked.

"i don't," said some wise guy in the back.

"not in the mood for cheekiness, thank you," he said, straightening some of the new papers that were appearing. "someone just got smited for his inability to communicate properly, i'll have you know."

the gnomes all stared back carefully at their work, which made him feel better. "now, what is this free willy that everyone seems so uptight about?"

they all looked at each other questioningly. no one seemed to know.

"well," he said, exasperated, "isn't there a memo or something - yes, i know, i already smote him. i would appreciate it if you didn't always try to demean everything i say," he said, peering at one of the gnomes sitting nearby, "it makes the whole work environment very negative."

the offending gnome sat back down and stared at its monitor.

"right. well then, i guess no one knows. no free willy tonight, in any case," he muttered. a new piece of paper arrived and he picked his pen up, and got back to signing the documents.

there is a part 2, but you will have to wait.