forget your robot past
tis but a 'glimmer' in
present evolving fast.
speed by which you crashed
just means that as a pilot
next step is more training.
isn't training fun?
it is the involvement
in activities, and tasks.
there is no end of twilight
years slowly just seep
into comfy shoes, your boxers.
your boxers, at first
then a cape;
soon you're flying again.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Why She Wore Her Ridiculous Spectacles to the Congressional Hearing
'Coming Soon' ...
-------
'In 3D' ...
-------
cool whooshing graphics about sound
-------
the Ridiculous is everywhere.
.
It was bad enough that Fiona, 13, had cut her off completely. Where was she going to get material for the kind of motherly banter all the other girls expect their leader to provide? But now the baby was doing it too.
"You have to eat now," she said, with actual tears. Begging, twisty tears. Please. Please. "You have to eat right now, because mommy has to go in fifteen seconds."
The baby just turned away, refusing to eat from her hand.
Then the doorbell.
.
Fucking limo. Isn't government about people? Why the hell did Congress need her to arrive in a damn limousine? Why couldn't she just drive over in her own car? If she was able to do that, at least she could try spend some time to try and talk some sense into Fiona while dropping her off at school. And she could sneak a snack into Baby's mouth as he cried out to her not to leave him 'all awone' at Playtime. Instead, she crept into the vehicle, nodding at the old crusty assholes who were going to be staring at her legs till they got there.
-------
An assistant neatly slided a crisp maroon folder sporting a pewter embossing that read 'CRISIS PLAN' onto the desk that Congress had given her. The prunes next to her were complaining about the quality of the desks and such, about the all scratches, the horror of no velvet lining or something. These seniles are going to die so soon, she laughed to herself. At least in that, there was a little pleasure. In the fact that they were going to die, and she remain. Then, in the corner of her eye their bald and balding heads drooped, flaky fingers taking the 'opening of the book' (just like their mothers taught them), and opening the Plan, to read -- and so did her head droop, her full head of hair, in unison. All of the executives in the company do everything in unison. It projects.
.
The Congressional Hearing commenced.
-------
She smiled to herself for the first time in the morning. These men around her were actually scramblin' trying to figure out what the price of oil had to do with a 'charity event for The Deaf'. According to one of the guys (the one who was going to die first) 'clearly there was some data mishap' by FedEx via Google in the delivery of this Plan. The codger was trying to tell all the Deaf People that some kind of Xeroxes or something must have been crashed into by a faulty gear in one of the Fords. "And gears, I mean," he said, standing there, "those could have been made in one of so many facilities. Mitsubishi, it coulda been them."
For the first time, she actually looked at the CRISIS PLAN in her hands. It read:
.
"Sshh. Follow the instructions to a tee. Do not do anything else. Do not say anything, do not question -- no matter how stupid We look. Just DO the following after that guy who's talking sits down:
Turn the page. NOT YET. WAIT, then do it."
-------
'In 3D' ...
-------
cool whooshing graphics about sound
-------
the Ridiculous is everywhere.
.
It was bad enough that Fiona, 13, had cut her off completely. Where was she going to get material for the kind of motherly banter all the other girls expect their leader to provide? But now the baby was doing it too.
"You have to eat now," she said, with actual tears. Begging, twisty tears. Please. Please. "You have to eat right now, because mommy has to go in fifteen seconds."
The baby just turned away, refusing to eat from her hand.
Then the doorbell.
.
Fucking limo. Isn't government about people? Why the hell did Congress need her to arrive in a damn limousine? Why couldn't she just drive over in her own car? If she was able to do that, at least she could try spend some time to try and talk some sense into Fiona while dropping her off at school. And she could sneak a snack into Baby's mouth as he cried out to her not to leave him 'all awone' at Playtime. Instead, she crept into the vehicle, nodding at the old crusty assholes who were going to be staring at her legs till they got there.
-------
An assistant neatly slided a crisp maroon folder sporting a pewter embossing that read 'CRISIS PLAN' onto the desk that Congress had given her. The prunes next to her were complaining about the quality of the desks and such, about the all scratches, the horror of no velvet lining or something. These seniles are going to die so soon, she laughed to herself. At least in that, there was a little pleasure. In the fact that they were going to die, and she remain. Then, in the corner of her eye their bald and balding heads drooped, flaky fingers taking the 'opening of the book' (just like their mothers taught them), and opening the Plan, to read -- and so did her head droop, her full head of hair, in unison. All of the executives in the company do everything in unison. It projects.
.
The Congressional Hearing commenced.
-------
She smiled to herself for the first time in the morning. These men around her were actually scramblin' trying to figure out what the price of oil had to do with a 'charity event for The Deaf'. According to one of the guys (the one who was going to die first) 'clearly there was some data mishap' by FedEx via Google in the delivery of this Plan. The codger was trying to tell all the Deaf People that some kind of Xeroxes or something must have been crashed into by a faulty gear in one of the Fords. "And gears, I mean," he said, standing there, "those could have been made in one of so many facilities. Mitsubishi, it coulda been them."
For the first time, she actually looked at the CRISIS PLAN in her hands. It read:
.
"Sshh. Follow the instructions to a tee. Do not do anything else. Do not say anything, do not question -- no matter how stupid We look. Just DO the following after that guy who's talking sits down:
Turn the page. NOT YET. WAIT, then do it."
-------
The sick old man was finally made to sit down after trying to say that it was probably 'some chinaman's precious one child' that swallowed a dangerous substance which could have been the cause of a Licensced Interpreter not being around to convey what he damn well meant to say.
.
Calmly, methodically, automatedly and with precision, she turned the page.
.
Spectacles shaped exactly like Dick Cheney's ass, reading 'DICK_CHNY' in glitter on top. Not surprisingly, the message below read: "Wear it."
So this was why she couldn't be a good mother to her children. For this.
-------
Now they called upon her to talk. Said it right there in the Plan, as they called for her: "When they call for you, you stand up and read from below."
She stood up. She looked up at Congress, wearing those ridiculous glasses, and said "Th-these things sometimes happe-" oh for fuck's sake they'd put jelly around the rims, for wobble.
"Hahaha," read the plan. "Now just pretend you've been attacked by an environmentalist, and curl over, and collapse. Don't worry, there's a cart waiting."
Her heart beat. She pleated her skirt. She cleared her throat, looking at the piece of paper.
"Fuck no," said the paper. "Do not say a fucking word! Fall."
"Ahem," she spoke into the microphone. "Ahem.
Once my lover, now on my face.
What a cruel thing to dephase.
What a stunning way to con your friend,
on a hunting trip with a bad end.
...
Oh you creep --" but her swelling breasts were quickly met by smothering and crispy hands.
"Shut yourself up," said geriatrics around her, "shut up." And then -- then there was no more song. Only darkness like a doused salmon. She didn't fall over, but she wore the spectacles.
.
It was all over the news. Even the President had seen it, and called them some Ridiculous spectacles. And it was all over.
Except for the ride back home.
The sick old man was finally made to sit down after trying to say that it was probably 'some chinaman's precious one child' that swallowed a dangerous substance which could have been the cause of a Licensced Interpreter not being around to convey what he damn well meant to say.
.
Calmly, methodically, automatedly and with precision, she turned the page.
.
Spectacles shaped exactly like Dick Cheney's ass, reading 'DICK_CHNY' in glitter on top. Not surprisingly, the message below read: "Wear it."
So this was why she couldn't be a good mother to her children. For this.
-------
Now they called upon her to talk. Said it right there in the Plan, as they called for her: "When they call for you, you stand up and read from below."
She stood up. She looked up at Congress, wearing those ridiculous glasses, and said "Th-these things sometimes happe-" oh for fuck's sake they'd put jelly around the rims, for wobble.
"Hahaha," read the plan. "Now just pretend you've been attacked by an environmentalist, and curl over, and collapse. Don't worry, there's a cart waiting."
Her heart beat. She pleated her skirt. She cleared her throat, looking at the piece of paper.
"Fuck no," said the paper. "Do not say a fucking word! Fall."
"Ahem," she spoke into the microphone. "Ahem.
Once my lover, now on my face.
What a cruel thing to dephase.
What a stunning way to con your friend,
on a hunting trip with a bad end.
...
Oh you creep --" but her swelling breasts were quickly met by smothering and crispy hands.
"Shut yourself up," said geriatrics around her, "shut up." And then -- then there was no more song. Only darkness like a doused salmon. She didn't fall over, but she wore the spectacles.
.
It was all over the news. Even the President had seen it, and called them some Ridiculous spectacles. And it was all over.
Except for the ride back home.
-------
[work in progress]
Juri Beeyotches! Bring on the Bosintang!
Guys, this is my ode to Juri from Super Street Fighter IV. Please be happy for me, I gots me a woman again!
---
sick of all the peoples' pets sick of wasted meat that could be eaten
if not for some dumb brain deciding
this was some kind of dwell point for the soul.
tired of saying hi to you
then seeing your gormless face
stare in a circle between me
and your stupid pet.
repeatedly, expectantly,
as though just cos you spent time with it
i may magically acquire similar sentiments
through osmosis or psychically or something,
you know what, why limit it to animals?
i went to see a stand-up comic and was not amused,
which is fine, sure not everybody has the same sense of humor.
there are some people in the world who cannot laugh.
lots of them are starving from malnutrition, others not so much ...
repeatedly, expectantly.
ok, i didn't rush into stage and eat the comedian,
but i doubt it'll be funny again.
they say i've somehow broken it, and can never laugh
in my presence again. they can never laugh in my presence
again.
no, guys, i'm talking about eating babies.
kind of the same way these people treat pets.
why do people treat their babies
just like they treat their pets?
instead of the other way around?
would grill faster.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Walking On the Street
Saturdays are about walking on streets.
Looking mean, scowling and complaining
about society these days and dissing
tiny children in front of their single mothers.
She suddenly says we need to join a club that
provides benefit for these damn pedestrians.
Then, on the second-hand, she says "Just wait here."
I been telling children they look like their mothers
for like twelve years now, waiting for her to return.
Gimme a break, and a venti
ice coffee 2% milk while you're at it.
And some new shoes -- no -- sandals.
A pedicure too.
Saturday is so fucking awesome
somebody had to highlight the event.
Looking mean, scowling and complaining
about society these days and dissing
tiny children in front of their single mothers.
She suddenly says we need to join a club that
provides benefit for these damn pedestrians.
Then, on the second-hand, she says "Just wait here."
I been telling children they look like their mothers
for like twelve years now, waiting for her to return.
Gimme a break, and a venti
ice coffee 2% milk while you're at it.
And some new shoes -- no -- sandals.
A pedicure too.
Saturday is so fucking awesome
somebody had to highlight the event.
Look, I hate cynicism as much as
I love Conan.
Light On the Keyboard
Under the back/forward button
there's a light, glowing.
This is in case there's clouds
or some kind of smoke, or haziness,
I'll be able to reach the keyboard,
to type. I'll be able to type and type and type.
It is a landing path for a jetfighter that carries
other planes, onto a carrier
in the ocean.
there's a light, glowing.
This is in case there's clouds
or some kind of smoke, or haziness,
I'll be able to reach the keyboard,
to type. I'll be able to type and type and type.
It is a landing path for a jetfighter that carries
other planes, onto a carrier
in the ocean.
Problem with Emulating Chuck Palahniuk
When I tell a girl that I’m emulating Chuck Palahniuk,
there is a sort of noticeable cringe. A shiver not of pleasure but disdain.
Like Chuck did something really bad to her in her childhood.
There’s a ‘Catch 22′ of course, because
she’s all about details, but not devils.
She wants to know how well whatever activity bodes,
so that she can participate as well.
She’d love to write whole passages detailing joys
of tomorrow’s sun, in its splendor unchallengangeable.
Even if it rains she has a lot of instances within which
to witch just some kind of good soap.
They call me a racist, and I admit that.
They call me a spineless prawn, and I can withstand that too.
She says she doesn’t care about me anymore, and that is logical.
But when she asks to delve into ways of delving care logic,
That is not my strength.
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