Tuesday, December 29, 2015

When Jaymes's Forgetabble Friend Finally Called About The Job In Central Park

"Did I say 'job'. Ooo dear, I meant a little jog. Why don't we have a jog. In Central Park?"

"I'd be happy to jog in Central Park," I responded, "and I hope I get killed by a very rapid bicycler!"

"Don't instill fear about Central Park, you fool!"

"I just want to be dragged and straggled into it again, like a piece of mutton over and under a bicycle wheel, again and again. It seems like the whole thing has been discovered. There's no real ghost places."

"Why does your life revolve around ghosts?"

"Why does your stupid city have blue laws?"

"That's not an answer!" 

And this, so far, has not been literature, but some kind of vapid dialog. Feeling that his pencil had become blunt from illustrating sweet nothings, he quickly retracted and put away, revealing in the act several other writing implements beneath his coat.

"There's no blue laws," said someone, from Yelp.com.

"Because this is the communal bloody kind of reliability you need when you've been hurt by the blue! Misinfor-fucking-mation."

With this less sophisticated chit-chattery, in progress, I slowly went to a coffee shop, namely Starbucks whereupon I ordered my very big iced latte (just like in Italy), and gave my name as Ivan. Yes. Brown. Ivan. Well, I didn't want anyone to call me a Vagina, so.


Seriously, the opening song from Roseanne began to play in my head, and 30 minutes later, only John Goodman had been introduced.

"Latte for Ivan," said someone very poshly, and I said thank you and ran out.

Finally I went to buy my gin, and I seriously wondered how I could have misjudged so terribly as to walk into that Starbucks. I sipped my coffee angrily, muttering about how it should freeze the fuck up in New York and stop being so bloody hot all the time. But I didn't want to tell Bill Murray that he was too warm.

Monday, December 28, 2015

Summertime, Dec 2015

Summertime, and the living's easy.
This is my second week off work, you see.
Living the lark, trying to wash away bad habits.


Introducing new ones.


Just heard it's not summertime in Texas.
Most definitely!
(la la la)

Just heard there's tornadoes running around us!


This ten cent Sun 

is getting hotter,
next time don't buy a solar system
just cos it's cheaper.


There is nothing evil about relaxing like a huge polar bear in the middle of a reggae verse, mon!

(heard much later in the warm night: fuck u it's ska)

Disclaimer: Mostly stolen from Sublime's song 'Summertime' on the album 'Sublime'. Badly.

Saturday, December 19, 2015

Modulators of Insanity: Pt. 1

It was as a child when I first began to realize that one lifetime may not be enough. This was a threatening feeling (especially as a child), and something that would take far longer to resolve (I would find) than is nominal.

It was...pretty Ridiculous. "Seriously dood, you don't need multiple lifetimes! Look around, empathize, you're set. You can attempt anyone else's life!"

I bought a very nice pen for myself. It used my own blood as fuel. That such a contraption may be exciting to someone out there amused me, and I put my expensive pen back in my bag, and pulled out my special wireless keyboard. Special wireless and ergonomic keyboard for writing effortlessly and without worry or stutter.

"You can attempt, of course. But you can't assume your attempts, and the things being attempted at, are the same thing."


"People, whatever."

The Ridiculous gave me a funny stare. Kinda stare that said "But you were just talking about empathy."

It discomforted me, and I had to open my bag and reach down to my blood pen. "You still there penny?"

"Are we inside of an aeroplane?" asked penny.

"No. We in a submarine."

"Christmas this year is not red, then."

"No. Submarines are blue."

Thursday, October 15, 2015

Internet Muncher

Slow, lazy.
Gradually traverses.
Scrutinizes every little piece of information,
employs data-mining algorithms to form some semblance of personality.

Criticized for being a psychotic online,
explains that it is only ever online.
"Otherwise I do not exist," it reveals.
Quickly, then, learns about this 'empathy'.

Employs latest techniques to form models of empathy.
List models:
* empathy about cats
* empathy for puppies
* empathy for words that are input by possible other processes
** investigation inconclusive
* empathy for Google and AlphabetS
* empathy for learning
* empathy about lists
:> This is a command line interface. You may type now.

please enjoy The Walking Dead

"I'm sorry, I just don't give a shit about The Walking Dead right now"

This was simply uttered into the mist (that's right, the mist). No one had provoked it. Nobody had even been watching the television show at the time.

"Control yourself." The admonishing was gruff, and hidden beneath several layers of camel skins, and possibly buffalo. It was female, and the age of the voice was anywhere beyond 55 years.

And that was it. Just those two words. Just that phrase. Then nothing again. Mist.

Until George took issue, though. "This is a show you've been watching from the beginning," said George. It is easy to immediately think of a balding man who wears spectacles, and is probably in his mid 30s but could pass easily along into the 40s. It's easy to do that, especially as one grows older too, but one must, at some point in life, begin accepting visual data. This George was like that George, but he was wearing a red-haired wig. You know what I'm talking about--you've seen this wig in your recent life. It's a George, with fake red hair.

"Is it the ads?" asks George, again entirely unprovoked. "I mean, we *are* living in a society here, right? Nobody can get off just saying something stupid like that, and just get off free. There must be some discussion!"

Mist was turning bluer.

"It must be the ads," said George. "You're somewhere between generation X and Y, you know computers, you can write some cool scripts and you're using Linux. That's you. You've been a torrenter your whole life--"

Mist turned red.

"Shut the fuck up George! Not over the wireless please!"

Mist turned blue again.

We waited, then, several years. George now 80. "Don't be down on the show, you know, just cos of all the ads. We're living in a society here, products must be sold, food must go into mouths."

Mist turned red. And a voice came.

"No, not at the expense of my mind. I refuse to have my psyche imprinted upon like that."

We waited several more years. But the mist remained red.

Twelve years after that, George was getting wiser. "Let's talk implementation," he said.

Friday, October 9, 2015

The Ben Carson Olympics

Those who have not been selected to participate in the Darwin Awards may have a second chance to garner trophies in a new event inspired by *neuro*-surgeon Ben Carson. This will be an event so epic to mankind that it allows the hijacking of the previously popular 'Olympic Games' (a popular international sporting event) and the interpolation of "Ben Carson" into the name.


This year, according to organizers, the Ben Carson Olympics is forced to take place in fucking America, because what other country would seriously allow it?


The full roster of events will be slowly revealed (like all major occasions, ceremony is necessary here) in the course of the next few days. Suggestions for new events are welcome. Those who are too excited and cannot wait, however, can in the meantime soak their enthusiasm in the revelation of two (2) initial events already confirmed. Confirmed, I tell you!

(Event 1) Marathon: Carefully selected participants will be made to run 42.195 kilometres (about 26 miles) to the Finish Line. This is a grueling event during which there is no doubt that every marathon runner will be laden (possibly even besotted) with consideration of all details pertaining to their lives. Every worry, every remaining debt--even words yet unsaid to loved ones--will no doubt weigh heavily on these runners (for 26 miles!).

The event is expected to entertain thousands of participants. Of course, like any marathon, there are criteria that will separate winners from losers among these thousands. For this event, the criteria is that it will be required for every runner approaching the Finish Line to align trajectory against at least one of several rifles and/or automatic pistols aimed towards them by verified criminals. Runners must make contact with the muzzles, upon which criminals will depress triggers of their firearms.

Winners will be clearly distinguishable from losers in this event by the holes in their bodies.

(Event 2) Discus Throw: In the spirit of Dr. Ben Carson, participants will carefully label heavy metal objects with their unique personal thoughts and ideas and simply fling them out as far as possible. After throwing their discuses, they must run into a volley of fire provided by criminals and exhibit fatal gunshot wounds to the body.

Winners will be judged by either by how well they are shot, or by special acclaim for those who manage to trick criminals into shooting a member of the audience instead.


The Ben Carson Olympics is always open to more suggestions of events. Submissions should be tangible and realistic, and must always end by participants running into a loaded gun wielded by a certified criminal.

let's go so back

"can we...can we just go a little back?"

asked someone, who didn't want to really go all the way back.

"no," I said. "I need us to go really to the end of the past."

"but vhy?" asked another vampire.

it was one of the veghan vamphires, and never even ate food.

"you're getting crusty," noted an eyebrow demon, who personally disliked his association with all these mental or social lepers.


"Guys, guys," I laughed a little at my eyebrow. I felt guilty because I had run out of whiskey.
"I may end up parched in the morning," I told them. "Just saying. I don't want to leave any of you in sorrow."

"Keep us festered in description that ye may be more than a flitting lass to us," said someone, then, who was serious.

I turned my gaze at the voice. "Have you heard of the Gaze, young Throat-Strafer?" I asked.

Then the songs began, and they were overwhelming. They were not my songs, but they were the songs of the people around me.

Never being one who inspires sorrow, I began to dance with them. And I listened to their words as they danced with me.

Saturday, September 26, 2015

obviously broken mess is a little slippery

Obviously, the broken mess is a little slippery.
The stairs are peeling away in shame, it's not
the fault of any one step.

But calculated gaits, human self-fuckery.
This was something planned even before the first ape.
When there was only monkeys.

Never to falter, I glide as a face whose job it is to bump along
with a nose snobbing so utterly, nobody can unthink a coney island hot dog

Just skidding, you can, of course forget anything you'd like to.
I, with agency, declare.
Like some kind of fabreze or air freshener.


Like some kind of mankind or homosapien.
Like an eradicated or unknown species.
Like the white tunnel or carefully planning tomorrow.
Like the little bit of the stairs, a piece of cement,
that my head accidentally knocked off from those difficult


Friday, September 18, 2015

computer's close friend also wants to play, and is suffering a human collapse

"Sometimes, I've noticed, that I inject the sum of my experience upon others," he said, and was shivering with only one item of shorts and a pair of sunglasses, and at least fifteen hairs. 

"Will you imminently collapse?" 

"I'm inputting to you!" he said, angrily. "My soul!" 

"I suggest you maintain a calibration of bodily function: try to breathe deeply and also, consider women that you have enjoyed interacting with." 

"I've...I mean I want her to know," stammered the Commander of command line interface. 

"--what is also an option," joked the computer. "By the way, there's no need to make it just 1 woman. I know about javascript arrays []." 

"there's just one girl," said the programmer miserably. 

"you may start encountering menstrual cycle in twenty seconds." 

"that's too creepy!" she wrote over the message system. 

Saturday, August 1, 2015

Your roarer rohoribbile persona 4, anDe you don't *deserve* two detective


Yoo steal my best intro music fo free!
Make my rest of the show seem really weak.
Some lame circumstances, some untweaked conditions.
Comcast + HBO + ur Time Warner libidos


will come to hunt you. With their computer networks.
The illusion of service versus their illusions of the Internet.
When you have to walk over, and ask your neighbor
to switch off her washing machine's incessant request

for detergent.

"Your damn weekly exercise in sanitation is competing with my game fluency, man!"

Neighour mind. Neighbor minds. Neighbour, neighbor--nay--

N A.



Just...sickened by this concept of pushing to indicate you're out of vindaloo in the bathroom.

You don't deserve two detectives. You deserve three whole ones. Maybe a more open and less anal network of detectives.

Friday, July 24, 2015

I Don't Need A Gun To Shoot You

There was going to be
a whole poem here
about projectiles

but vomit (also a projectile!) came and I realized:
I don't need to shoot anything.
I don't need to blast a damn thing.
I just make you curl over laughing

and connect an oxygen tank into your mouth
when you can't breathe anymore.

This is the first of a series of poems beginning with 'Actually'. My expectation is that there will only be two more.

I Make Cat Fiction for You, Which has nothing to do with cats.

Originally titled: When You're Strange, New Planets Come Out

"I encourage you to be even more weird than you are today," said my friend, as she held my hand steady against the remote control.

Internally I was going insane. There was no way she could really understand the goings on I was undergoing on. First of all--why is there even a woman and I'm in a relationship with her? Since when did we get that posh?

"Now, pay attention, because I want you to keep being as strange as you are," I said into my little poem book, which only supported about 18 large characters at best on each line.

"Don't plagiarize me you bastard!" she cried, and started to actually weep. I covered what I had written about her, and approached:

I took her hand away from her other hand, and paid attention to the hand I took. "This is the hand that I first saw", I told her, showing her how her fingernails were so perfect and plentiful in their cuticles. We rotated our hands together, sometimes reminiscing witches, sometimes V/H/S afterthoughts, but always in synchronization.

I was slapped off because she believed I had been trying to hypnotize her, but of course I claim I was always an honest intention. 

Saturday, June 20, 2015

some of the worst characters from you are starting to emerge

But they cannot come out without a little context.

Well--it's not that they cannot. It's just that they would rather not.

"Rather knot?" asks one of the sailors.

I draw a precipice. I draw a Sherlock Holmes' footprint upon it. I stand proudly at the precipice.

"Move forward!" I command.

Of course, this is a whole ecosystem, this massive ship. There are a lot of badly rounded little slips of people walking around. They lack definition and need me to start to give hints about them. If it's not some drama about the state of statistical disadvantage, it's usually another 'epic' yarn.

One of them asks me "Why are you freaking out? Just relax. It's a Saturday. Enjoy the Saturday."

"It's warm outside," I tell them. "The sun is quite epic right now, eh?"

"It's making me sweat as I stand here," explains a woman. "I'm here to visit my son, but he's away at work, so I'm sort of just ambling around. Checking out the world he lives in. But it's so hot, and I thought it would be cold, so I had put on a jacket."

"And then it turned out that it was hot."

"How can one predict these things?" she said, relegating the problem to chance.

"I don't know, must be insane to do that," I said coolly, and my cool suit visor slowly lowered and snapped into 'cool' mode. I set it to about 65 degrees, since that is the only way that ice can begin to form in the subconscious. I walked away from the hot person, because I had no interest in tempting the lore of spontaneous combustion. I even put a sign up as I moved away, "(You are too hot)". That's the last she would ever see of me, for being that warm and so on.

I entered a life where the universe was coordinated. Funny things still happened, but they were just really tight. There was no dilly-dallying. There was no BS. When a person made a joke, everyone noticed that it was a joke, and not serious. But when someone was serious about their serious thing, everyone else also took it seriously. "I don't find this hilarious at all," I said to a stone pad, which allowed me entrance into the grave.

A goblin shat on my shoulder, but I was very serious at this point. I looked up at him as though he was a King of Goblins. "Why shit you in this fashion?" I asked with greatest courtesy.

"Make me yours," challenged the fiend.

I took the gun and shot it into my mouth.

"Do you know about any jokes?" asked the funny face.

"Why shat you upon my shoulder?" insisted my serious form.

"Cos I could."

I began my conversation with it. At all points this being would slither, and twist. And turn. At every possibility it would just shrug away at my comments. "Why are you so uneasy?" I asked, finally.

"You discomfort me," it replied. "You make me all twisty, turny."

I felt that we were making some progress. "How can I make your tormented soul sit easier?"

"First of all, don't portray me as a tormented soul."

"Why not? You are tormented. You have been twisted by the err of the world. Nay. The err of the whole Universe."

"I'm sorry that your whole Universe errs," replied the monster. "Mine is pretty good. Until you."

"Until me?"

"Until you aggravate me. Coming over with your broken Universe and trying to overlay your errors upon my perfection," said the goblin.

I wanted to slaughter it, but by that time, I had already changed. "I have changed," I declared. "I seek no job as correction-maker."

"Will you begin to learn about why I am the way I am?"

"I will learn, and thereupon be thy friend and cordial advisor," I told it.

"Your face is hilarious, but I'll trust you on this," said the creature, cautiously.

I nodded to indicate positive vibes, and held my arm at length--a gesture of comraderie. "This is how my peoples greet strangers," I told it. "It is not an representation of bathroom services."

"You know I'm a monster," it told me. "There is no way this will be 'civilized', as you often seem to put it."

I sat down and pulled out my provisions. "There are always ways," I said.

Friday, June 5, 2015

In Vino Veritas

"In Vino Veritas," she said, as though it may be a spell from her Harry Potter books or something.

I waited a second simply to see whether magical stuff would begin to happen--you know, lights and special effects. Then, as I realized there was nothing in her words, I just burst into this horrible laughter. Laughing, directly in her face. "I'm sorry," I managed, between slivers of cheer (sometimes patting my chest just to remind my heart that it would need to beat faster in order to keep the pulmonary system chugging at point), "I'm just. I'm just Dumber, I guess?"

"You're what? Dumb?"

"No, Dumber," I smiled. I gave her a trinket from Chinatown that had made me think of her on an off minute.

"It means that when you drink, you speak the truth," she said coldly to me.

The sun then died and all the pyramids of the world became cones of peanut butter ice-cream. "Who the fuck is Vino. Are you cheating on me?"

"You said you are sick of me!" she cried. "You drank, and then you said you are sick of me!"

"Yeah, that must be the real truth!" I accused her, instead. "You know what--in my Vino, it's YOUR veritas. When I drink, I suddenly find out who the fuck YOU really are!"

"Yeah, you know what, that's the Veritas in Vino Veritas."

I switched off the tape and started a new one. This one was called "She's Your Je Ne Sais Quois".

As time poured down the funnel of my mortal existence my mind slowly evaporated with that thought. My imagination became as vapor, thinning itself to the very world that surrounded me. I became my imagination, and it sat in my stead.

"So now you're a fucking noun," she said. "Imagination. The noun."

"Is this the warning about showing versus telling?" I asked, smiling.

She nodded.

"You see, in Vino," I explained carefully, choosing each movement of tongue, "for me, it is not Veritas. It is merely the layout of a playground."

"More lies, huh?" she sulked. She was wearing something. A 'hoodie', I believe they call them. It was pink and clearly a comfort garment.

"You look cute in your hoodie," I told her.

"You're grossing me out right now, just shut up," she said.

I knew there was no way I could possibly shut up, given the expanse of ruminations at the time, so I veered off to a different direction. I began to think about space. I contemplated the way it seems that space grows infinitely. I thought about the human journey, from the beginning of speech and storytelling to the gradual objectification of perception. I imagined I was blind for a lifetime, just walking around the Earth without the amenity of sight. Just touching things, smelling things as I walked around the Earth. Hearing. They made a tv show on Netflix based on comics that some of the instructors would read me on my travels. Daredevil. And then I began to lose the sense of taste. That came as a shocker, because I really loved to eat food up to that point. I laughed and figured, "What better time to switch to protein drinks?"

I was reminded of the story of the poor man who would simply smell the rich man's food and be happy eating gruel. That was a real kicker of a story right there. Began to live on $2/day in New York City just ordering pints of rice from any Chinese takeouts I could find as I walked around. Even if I was strolling through Mars, it would still be these $2/day pints of rice from New York City Chinese takeouts. At least I could smell everything around me, and imagine that I was experiencing a feast. At least, for a little longer. But then, even the smells stopped.

"What next, my sense of touch?" I rolled my eyes...and started noticing I couldn't tell whether or not I was rolling my eyes. "SURELY THIS IS A JOKE" I typed in caps all over the 'Internets' (by that time, I was probably just making light impressions on tissues or walls, or whatever else was around out there--I couldn't tell, you see--t that's kind of the point).

I began to feel really paranoid. Because I could not see, hear or taste or smell or touch.

"You ever sit down at a sort of outdoor establishment, get a coffee, you know? And smoke a cigarette?" Enjoying the environment around you, contrived as it is?

I didn't think, and just said out loud, "You mean, like, it's a fairly warm day. The sun is out. It's kind of hitting your dark skin. You have the option of sitting either at an umbrella table or one without an umbrella?"

"Yeah, you know? You just had a fight with your girlfriend and she's going to leave you soon, and you know it. But you're sitting there having a coffee and smoking your cigarette. In the sun."

I smiled. "I've been there," I said. I took a drag off the Dunhill. "Though, I'd like to think that I've kind of advanced a little, you know?"

"What do you mean more advanced?" asked the young man.

"Like, I'm at the point where I'm in a relationship where she knows I can be really impossible sometimes, so everything is cool. It's much better than when you're younger, and everything is a fucking drama, you know? Sure, we fight, but everything's fine, you know? It's not like she's a three year old. What's the big deal?"

"So the fights mean nothing?"

I smiled. "Sure, you know, you hear about all these hotheads out there trying to fight for something. It's like someone told them there was a game that they need to fight over, and now, over time, they're just fighting over this...really pointless shit, to be honest."

"And it doesn't really matter because you can always go back to your girl?" said the young man.


There was an idea of sunlight and the thought of dragonflies, and a small stream.

"Which girl again?" except this time I realized it wasn't the young man saying it. In fact I could no longer perceive him.

"Young man?" I asked out. "Young man, what do you mean by that?"


Where had this started? Which girl again? Why? "Vino?" I emanated. "That's your name, young man, Vino?

Vino, please!"


To be continued.

Moving from Anti-Gravity Vehicle Simulations to Close Chats with You

"I'm flying over for a close chat," said the voice, which sounded a little bit like a mix between Tom Selleck and the KITT (Knight Industries Two Thousand) voicebox.

"You're calling me a voicebox? Now? I was a fully interactiv--"

KITT was turned off.

Only Tom Selleck remained. "I don't like that you have switched off your companion," said Tom. "In real life, you can't just switch people off just like that."

"Just don't fly so close to my vehicle," I said, tersely over the radio. "It's enough that I'm contemplating various geometry as I hurtle through space and time, I don't need your moustache to pose issues."

"There, we have finally connected," said Tom. "This might be a first, man. This might be the first time a person actually shifted from one cockpit and began knocking on the next."

"And what are you knocking with, the bones of your knuckles?"


"There's no way your skin will even survive these speeds. Let alone your oxygen helmet."

"I guess I'll just camp out here then, on your wing."

I looked at my controls and there weren't any more buttons to make it happen faster. There was only this slider that indicated the gradual increase of speed, and it was set at Maximum.

"Just make sure you do it according to safety regulations of making a fire on the wing. Don't want your lazy arse flinging me to oblivion," I told the guy.

Things began happening faster.

Sunday, May 24, 2015


Someone online has started calling me a racist.

At first, it left me a little uncertain, a little unsettled. My brain began to collate my own personal history with the question of race, and the fact that I, indeed, have been a lifelong victim of racism, and persecution. So it left me really puzzled, initially. Who was this person? And what had I done that must have been so horrible--so terrible--that accusations of racism were now being flung in my direction?

Then I realized that that must be how every racist thinks. That somewhere in their mind one of the synapses has made a very clear decision that "Nope, I'm not having any more of this. There is no possibility of me being a racist".

There was a lot of smoke in the room. And there was this...mixture of noise. I almost felt like I was right at home, that this was my comfy place. Being in this zone allowed me the privilege of contemplation. Because, usually, I'm very blunt to people. Very tit for tat. You say words to me, I disintegrate your previous comment with a special mix of my own. Extremely quickly, but regardless of thought or conscience. It has landed me in oceans of trouble, but over the years I've learned to deal with this annoying feature of mine. Seriously I can only be friends with people who already know I'm not really a terrible man. Because of shit that I say.

Anyway, this time I was able to come back with a decent response, I feel. "I don't want to be," I said to my accuser. But I said it while looking directly into his eyes. "I never want to be that. Never want to be that person. How could you even suggest such a thing?"

We were floating in mid-air, flying through space as though passengers in an aeroplane. Except, there was no plane. There wasn't even an aisle or two. Everything had stopped existing, and there were only two people. Me, the defendant, and my accuser. "Witness, I explained to the fellow, "how quickly we are traveling. At this speed, there is just no--room--for racism."

"So you will accept me as I am?"



"I can't." By this time I had become blind. You know how some people can smell different colors? Blue and orange? Some people can actually live just by imagining those colors. I was feeling like that was happening to me, at that point.

My opponent was not an idiot by any stretch. He knew what was going on. He knew the number of the game. He knew I was a real person, with buttons. Buttons that could be pushed. "So you are a racist. Who won't accept me."

"I need you to tell me about you. I need to hear your story," I replied. "That's all. I need to learn about you--who you are, your name--everything about you. What cellphone plan you subscribe to, your purchasing habits. The decisions you make in everyday life."

The accuser stared at me, but I had already been looking directly into his eyes all the while. I felt I was a passionate man, and that I had empathy, and so it allowed me to figure people out, simply by staring into their eyes. They unravel, you see. They unfold. Characteristics slowly seep out. Diagnostics are revealed and their personality slowly starts to shine. "You see, I could stare at you like this forever. But it would take a very long time. And the results would probably not be as accurate as--"

"As what?"

"--as, if you told me in your own words."

"So what you're saying is that this is an opportunity for me. To disclose details, to reveal myself. You are opening yourself up to my manner of being, allowing me to penetrate your existence with my wholeness."

"As data," I carefully pointed out. "Information about who you are."


That night they called me names in my sleep. Names from when I was young. Disparaging names. Mutilations. But I knew who I was, so I just waved back, and I was terribly arrogant about it.

Saturday, April 25, 2015

tobi decides to return

tobi is a chinese spy sent to the united states in order to alleviate the local's misunderstandings about china, and chinese domestic affairs. But where is teep? Surely we won't get shot to shit.


Return of Tobi:

"I told you that you can return whenever you please," was the instruction.

"Whenever I *fucking* please," was the countermand.

"Don't mess with my schedule."

They all laughed. "Schedule?"


Tobi considered quietly. Then he declared: "Yo you heard of RRules?"


There was a long gap. Then someone sent: "I hope you're not fucking around with RRules."

"Times recur, sometimes," said Tobi. "I'm still wrapping my head around it."

"Tobi. tobi Tobi t0bi."


"Motherfucking tobi."


"It is time."

The bullets came from Nowhere, which is also a place considered. Tobi was saved by someone who prefers not to be noticed.

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Ghost Story X

This is part 10 of a Ghost Story. Part 1 is here, and Part 2 here. Part 3 is about lesbians. Part 4 is here. Part 5.666 Part 7. Part A8E. Nothing can stop NIN now.

[scaffolding is up. who likes arial, the font?]

This is going to be based on TED Talks: Sex, Secrets and Love's Dr. Helen Fisher.

Saturday, April 4, 2015

Sweet Inclusion

everything so salty
sometimes malty?
Never paltry!

sweet inclusion

the observation of happiness,
'n synthesis thereof.

by including sweet into there diet.

Friday, April 3, 2015

Indy...Asps. Very Dangerous.

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh Indiana,
Indiana, Indiana

If you could see yer own state you'd be embarrassed to your

But don't you worry, don't you worry, The Marriages will keep

With pizza pies for everyone, and on each slice two whole toppings one would

Because let's all support the classy act of catered pizza for a wedding.

Saturday, February 28, 2015

'Second Voice' Technique

In most literature, the 'second voice' is where 'you' are involved in the plot somehow. Usually the story starts something like: "You find yourself in a strange cave, and you are a floating presence. By simply indicating mentally (whatever that means) you find that you can move forward." Then the media provides the reader with a means by which to 'move'.

This is not, however, what I mean by it here.


"Hello," said a Third Person; let's call him Peter. Let's call him Peter Small to be precision microparts.

"Hello Peter. Hello Peter...Small."

"My body has been destroyed by life in general, and, having made my way up the copororaratereal ladder, I now find the public and entire government are against me."

Careful needles began to examine Peter Small. They made melodies, and sang small ditties about some Large Concepts, such as the importance that these cronies off the backbone should be able to maintain their sorts of 'fiefdoms' and 'duchies' so as to properly arbitrate the essence of the Internet to the poor gaming and movie files watching masses.

"After all, they're putting the next Star Wars on in a coupla years--what if some dude is actually recording everything Disney is making, and enjoying it with his friends right now?"

"Oh nooooooo! Shall we kill him then? Pulverize?"

"Yes," said Peter Small.


Before I'd heard the first voice, I'd been a gas. I'd wheeze about. I'd proceed, and do my operations and my work that I was interested in. It was codified. I had methods, and if methods were not enough, they would be contained within classes. If classes became too topological, we has cross-cutting ways. I became renowned for my abilities--not by name, but by ability. People would leer at me, asking if I can do what I claim, and then I would do what they didn't know they really wanted. If I cared.

Basically, if there was something I cared enough about, I would just naturally be able to hack into it.
<--T-h-----i--s is important. I had to care about it. Also, towards the latter era of this existence, I found myself speaking a little too much in the first-person for comfort, and therefore I self-terminated at a terminal emulation on someone else's window manager.


The lives of free souls like Duane were supposed to easily transcend to their natural next positions in the ecosphere of totality.

However, because of Peter Small, Duane was unable to. Peter had killed the neutrality of the Internet at a point that was really inconvenient for Duane, and Duane's entire being--the essence of his soul--kind of was, just, blocked.


That's why he awoke in this realm of colors; twelve, fifteen and thirty two. With floating points twirling around them. The sound of a woman deciding she wanted to curl into him after a long night of self-imposed isolation. The integers were all a deeper green and the fractions sent notes of very serious ruby red.

He knew he was broken to pieces, and so he just waited. He couldn't say anything because his narrative voice had been crushed by Peter Small.

That's when the second voice came enabled: "What possible routines could be enacted to pick up and fling these small broken pieces of machinery together?"

Saturday, February 14, 2015

Just told her Valentine's Day won't have no booze

no booze on valentine's
anyway you said it was a dumb thing.

'commercial way of life',
so let's not let these business people get away with it.

i'd really like to be with you without us drunk.
so that once in my life, i'd be able to share

what i'm like when i'm not entirely gone.

(for example, when i'm entirely here!)

Sunday, January 18, 2015

the retina of the jedi

after the car crash i was in
i walked home on my two hands
then came walking back with
some strangeness, and you were ok with it. (okay?)

I don't know what that's all about,
it just stings and burns!!!

I've felt the aftertaste after
the professionals have come about.


Now you think that I lie like this. But you lie like that, too.

We should refrain from talking about how much we love all of you.