Saturday, July 31, 2010

I am Trying to Leave A Tenderness Moment

Last the blood I thought was hope
looping round my thoughts like blood.
Last night, your gift flew from the cupboard.

Sounds like suck but I loved you,
honestly plus kisses thrice.
Alas, the dice went all wrong,
now I sing this silly song.

Silly song is stupid till it
meets you and your new found love.
Is New found land in New Zealand
or far away as Romania?

Had a dream you were married
with your new found man.
Inside every thought there is
siding very terrible thoughts.

I wake up. Go to my computer ...

Feeling really really old.
Hope your house is good wherever
you settle and some and such.
You were cool but are no longer

my concern.

got no Soul+

My Soul was lost many years ago - before what you call continents had formed. I last saw it in the hands of a vampire, who had plucked it carefully out and subsequently cherished it.

If only that vampire knew about the properties of that Soul it had stolen.

Or what if it doesn't even matter what that vampire knows? What if the vampire is irrelevant?

I often wonder where my Soul goes -- where It trickles, disintegrates, or simply collapses. Does my Soul merely become a Dilution, over time? Or does it Concentrate?

Or does it just ebb and flow? Enjoying what is possible so far?

My hope is that this ebbing and enjoying Soul of mine will transfer through significant other souls, conveying praises, gratitude and anticipations.

Me, myself and Effingoode, though, we got no Souls.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Mysterious Evaporation of Entire Day

"It is a leap year, Holmes, it is a leap year!" entered Watson, totally kerfuffling the neat arrangement of tools that had been placed in order to properly annotate note-taking days.

"When did you first realize this? 2008?" said Holmes from somewhere in the dark. "Or are we, my dear Watson, somehow magically in the future?"

Watson had been full of vim and vigor up to that point. He had been heated. He had been almost ready to explode, like a damned blimp -- now, suddenly everything had become very, very cold.

"There is no reason to insult my intelligence like that, Holmes," said Watson, sucking in some chilly evening air. "I was only trying to set up what was going to be a
very simple, honest, funny and very elaborate ruse. For your own benefit."

A cackle was returned.

"But now that I see you don't genuinely appreciate my camaraderie, you will never know," said Watson.

Another clammy cackle was returned, and then he, Holmes, rose from a corner -- or at least what would be a corner if you were wearing 3D-heroin-glasses. "Someone has gone and lost a whole bloody day, haven't they?" he said.

"You have read it all in the news, then," said Watson, interrupted. "I - I had thought I would be the first to tell you."

"The news, Watson, is some 'entity' written by a gaggle of news coveragists. Anybody can 'write the news'. It is an ambition for a two-year old. This, good old boy, is pure intelligence."

"I am going home, Holmes," said Watson, turning away. But then he stopped, and added, "I have waited years to actually have the foundation to say that, but now I am gratified, that Holmes -- I am finally going home."

Holmes shuffled some papers with his feet and pulled out the night's edition, as well as his violin. "As I suspected all along, a whole day has gone missing. The big question now is 'Where did it go?'" Holmes pointed at the headline on the rag with his bow so that Watson could verify the truth of the matter.

Big question. Of course Watson wasn't going home. Where would he go? He was a tertiary character at best, a rotund over-fed product of endless insipid wars at worst. This guy walked around calling himself 'The Doctor'. "He is saying he has no memory whatsoever, and now he is making the bold claim that he is uncertain as to whether most people (you or I) are in fact legitimate consciousnesses at all. His case is very persuasive," said Watson.

Holmes peered out of his window at the matte quality of a brick in the wall of a distant building. "His type of cases are always very persuasive, Watson. Do you know what I really want to see, however?"

"There is something to see?"

"Even if you have no eyes through which to see, Watson," said Holmes, "you can see with the ears. Or the nose. Or of course, the flesh. You can even see with your tongue, like a snake."

"Why, you venemous swine," rallied Watson. "Come Holmes, come out of it. Come out of all this drudgery and mish-mash of a life, and let us venture forth to discover how exactly an entire day can just ... disappear."

"Evaporate ..." mused Holmes to himself as he was slowly led out into the open world.

The Source of Her Antipathy Toward Clowns

It was the kind of incident that could only happen once, at least if you live in a small town. The kind of small town that occasionally, once every year or so, gets little run-of-the-mill carnivals.

I don't want to get into it, but all I'm going to say is that she is still well known today, back home, as 'the girl who hated clowns'. More than that I cannot indulge. It just ... it got very ugly. There was a whole incident.

She is a big girl now, though, living in a real city with real living people all over, who run amuck. Of course, there are still clowns everywhere, but only little insignificant ones. Ones who will give you a red nose that goes 'parp', or maybe some clowney shoes. And a necktie that squirts a little water. Or little cross-signs tattoed onto the eyelids, so that when they are closed, it looks like they are cross-eyed, geddit? Outcold. They're everywhere, these little clowns, but she is now a grown-up and has learned how to deal with all of them.

She is even friendly with a lot of these little clowns. Being a grown-up, serious person with a real job, and self-supporting income, she finds that she can organize her schedule such that time can be divided between work and play, and have a little more put on the side toward altruism (for clowns). In the big city she is known as 'the girl who loves clowns' -- a sentiment that persists in a mature environment without any sarcasm, condescension or malice.

Fatefully it turns out that I, the narrator, am in fact a real clown. Sure, I didn't come floating in like some flotsam off some backwater village, and I was not raised by any of the those feral people who walk on all fours -- in fact, not a whole lot is actually known about me -- which precisely befits the outfit of an actual, real clown. I have the 'mystery' aura of the clown in me.

So there I am sitting at Starbucks and enjoying my latest iced venti latte (ever seen a clown squirt coffee from his necktie?), and this so-called 'lover of clowns' enters the establishment claiming to be nothing lesser than a total lover of all clowns.

"I'm buying shots for all the little clowns," she declares.

I'm affronted. Being a real, big clown, I'm not getting free shots of coffee from this individual. In fact I am pretty damn sure that somewhere in the beginning of the Constitution of The United Clowns, it is stated that the big clown is supposed to get all the shots first.

So I approach this 'madame' and, elbowing myself into front of the queue, ask her "What is the source of your antipathy toward clowns?"

At first she doesn't notice what a big clown I am -- she just shrugs me off like a little one. Then, like a real horror show, she turns. I see the little hairs slowly rise to attention on her little arms, and she is even wearing one of those fake moustaches that women magically manifest when they are caught in the act. She recognizes there is no escape.

"It is the make-up," she then weeps, stuffing her face into my chest, "the-the real clowns wear so much make-up that you know somewhere inside there, underneath, there is this suffering soul that just wants to be free, but knows, ultimately that it never will be."

My heart literally turns into butter at this (well, my clown heart), and I welcome her sobbing story into my arms. She sobs and sobs, using my blouse (yes, there are blouses for men, especially clowns) as a tissue. "There there, my dear," I evoke in the endearing sound waves of a father, "I gotcha, I gotcha. Don't you worry one little bit." Meanwhile, I notice all the little clowns looking at me, totally jealous of all the affection I am awarding her. Then I realize ...

"Wait, you're that little girl who hates clowns!"


"I remember standing there, in front of you and your mother. I pulled all my tricks. Everything I had ever learned till that point."

"It wasn't us!"

"I told you every last joke I knew. I tried to make everything fun, but you ... there was no consoling you. You're the biggest sob story in the omniverse. You went and had a whole goddamned incident. They called the goddamn cops on me -- the-they called me a Fake!"

There was a sniff and she pulled away from me and went to the cashier. "I am buying shots," she said, "for all the little clowns."

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Need a Kiss

The Artful Dodger was somehow missing again today, after about a week, so Fagin said it was now time for me to go out and make us all a living.

He gave me a big cardboard cutout, from an even bigger piece of cardboard that he keeps somewhere in his 'stash'. And he gave me a whole apple and a sharpie, and said, "These'll keep ya going for a whole day, lad." Then he gave me a few slaps on my cheek and booted me out of the apartment building.

It was daylight outside and a whole load of pedestrians were walking on the sidewalk. It would be bad, I decided, to use up the entire sidewalk as I walked with this huge piece of cardboard Fagin had given me, so I began to walk sideways, like a crab, which turned out to be very efficient.

This worked so well that I was almost half-way along the avenue block when I suddenly encountered two people with a couple of dogs each, squatting in the middle of the sidewalk and talking amicably to each other, and their pets. I noticed that these people were sort of 'talking about their dogs' but really gauging each other as sexual partners, and as such were completely oblivious to every other pedestrian on the sidewalk. They took up about eight ninths of the sidewalk, so I had to press myself against the wall (my back scraping against some old bricks). I was very polite and favored to show them my cardboard, rather than my ass, as I passed along.

Anyway, after that it was smooth sailing crabways (except for a construction worker with a running drill trying to rush past me, in the vertical, and an old lady using one of those four leg support things), till I reached the corner of seventh avenue and 24th street. By that time I was really tired, so I decided this would be a good spot to work my trade for Fagin.

I sat down with my back against Jamba Juice, and surveyed the area. This was fantastic. I had really chosen a great spot. On a hot summer day, from here, you could see just across the street all these hot women walking in and out of Whole Foods. All of them were wearing these fantastic clothes that made them look totally sexy, though if I went ahead and told you exactly what made them so sexy, well ... well, Fagin would punish me for spending. Anyway, all of them were 'hot', I noticed, under the early morning summer sun. Every single one of them.

I looked at my cardboard piece and wondered what sort of message I could write. Normally the Dodger would lemme know, but he had been missing for a week, and today I was on my own. I looked around the street for what Fagin called 'inspriration', in all our little games. I always thought of 'inspiraration' as a sort of tall tower, with spires, and I'm in it, climbing to the top. So I'm in-spire-ration. The ration is my apple, which I hadn't even had a bite of yet.

I then heard an argument between two young men on the opposite side of seventh avenue. One of the men was sitting in one of the enclaves of the Fedex-Kinkos, and the other man was towering over him. The two men were arguing about payments. Apparently, the previous day, the towering man (who was clad in such fashionable New York garment that, I noticed, even some of the hot women going into Whole Foods turned a head), had made a payment to the sitting man of two whole dollars.

"You said you only needed two dollars to get back home, yesterday," accused the fashionable man, "and I gave it to you. Why are you still here now, saying that you are a Vietnam war veteran and need funds to return to your wife in Cambodia?"

The sitting man mumbled something about daily expenses, with half-hearted accusations toward the fruit-seller on the corner of 23rd, but my focus was stolen by his sign on his cardboard sheet. He was requesting moneys in order to fund a trip to Cambodia. Eyebrows raised, I turned back to my own cardboard piece. How could I possibly top that?

Then I got an idea. I don't know where it came from. Maybe it was the distant fire-truck siren, maybe it was all the nice legs that passed to-and-fro, or the cool sound of Jamba Juice customers ordering their Jamba drinks that reverberated in my head from the marble tile, but it hit me. I knew exactly the sort of capital I should be begging for on this street corner. I wrote it down carefully on my piece of cardboard, with the sharpie,

"Need Just 1 kiss
From All You Beautiful

I mused at myself, "Fagin is going to love this when I get back".

Still haven't switched to a smartphone. In fact, thinking of downgrading to a beeper.

One reason I would walk outside of my


is to enjoy something other than computing.


I wonder what you can do with a beeper these days

with today's technology?

Like, if you're in a brothel or something, could a beeper

let your wife enjoy what you are feeling at that exact same point?


Beeper sex with your wife while you fuck a ho.


Ok, ok, i'm not that kinda guy.

I'm a guy who'd rather have a beeper 'cos

whole fucking reason I become mobile is to

leave the computer.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Certain policy decisions are often made that will then continue to haunt you till the end of your life.

Like never buying that sharpie,
when you were 5.
every other kid had a sharpie
but not you, oh no.

Or never actually having an actual teddy bear that is simultaneously named Theodore and is actually a bear.

Those crayons you wanted so badly?
In a cruel twist, they'll be your birthday present,
but then you won't actually get to use them
as a punishment for you being you.

Let us not even speak of oils.

It is known that you will somehow acquire all of these
through hook or crook, it is known, very well known.
So let me put it out there that any joysticks you take possession of
any controller pad, any wii remote

would be crippled, like a, well like a cripple

with a single faulty button.

Friday, July 9, 2010

I Got Complexes

You'd think not
being able to walk
on a street without
getting that feeling

that you're about to collapse, was bad enough.

Now I can't be seen
by any human being
without the suspicion,
or perhaps the doubt

that my dick will definitely fall off.

I'm fine when I'm alone,
no problems whatsoever.
I can prance to my heart's content
in my studio apartment.

But if I exit to public areas, my penis will drop.

Not exactly lung cancer, true.
Which is what everyone thought would be my end.
Not a heart attack, nor aneurysm;
not a bullet pistoled by some angered husband.

Can leprosy infect an isolated organ is now my big question.

How did it come to this?
I'd taken all the pills necessary
to keep my cock top notch.
All the supplements in the world, I've found

won't save me from the fear of what will happen, if I am found.

Fuck you people.