Monthly Archives: June 2011

bank robber stole one dollar to recieve top notch health care in prison.

The silence in in submission we endure in actuality favors the compliance of the need to become insufferable. Where words are spoken of an offensive nature, we tend to believe they were written with ourselves in the cross-hairs of their mind. The choice of words only become hurtful when we partially believe in the truth behind them. Then, there are those that promote butterfly and lollipop phrases, speaking to promote the art of feeling naked in your own clothes.

If offended, were you just too religious or simply waiting for the next asshole (of your dubbing) to come along to fuel your consideration of drain cleaner ingestion, maybe just a shot. Some people seek out people capable of supplying them with more trouble, if not to excite their own worn, dull lives. They constantly search for these theatrics, ergo constantly complain about them. Have you ever wondered why it was hard for you to turn away when a friend was venting about something? Now perhaps her/his choice of words sounded familiar, exhausting, and lack the element of surprise?

Those that offend, never intentionally try to offend. It does not count when committed  in cowardice; behind your back. They are not portraying insensitivity. They are flabbergasted by the symptoms you’ve conveyed of having been waiting for someone to say it aloud, before your heightened emotive (and sometimes annoying) responses. Like the guest that didn’t want to be at the party, and said nothing to invoke their opposite ideals, and ultimately happiness. They are factually incapable of even accepting contentment.

Men suffer this just as easily, although men do not cry themselves to sleep at night. They cry on the john, or head, consciously certain the ventilation fan is on, so as to suppress the weepings. I call this practicality, and highly suggest this method.

Men of logic do not cry, though, they are not discouraged by the injustice of dealing with women either, despite it’s dependable consistency in an unfavored outcome. They pedal on through  the strength and belief in God, finding these situations as confusing as He. Aghast, at the foolishness of humanity, and feeling embarrassed because of His creation of us in His image. If the Apocalypse were to occur, it surely would be a direct translation of God saying, “aaalright, what the fuck? Really?” Everyone has their limits. It matters little whether you received a gold medal in the Olympics, convinced someone disc jockeying is a an art, or created humanity in about a week.

Every sports game I’ve witnessed, I’ve heard this phrase shouted; “DEFENSE!”

The repetition of the phrase means we’ve taken that philosophy into the real world, regardless of the venue, and are now, habitually, prone to defensive positions. Opting to score in the dark, as opposed to scoring in front of the Referee. (suckerpunches, behind-the-back-anythings, backstabbings, whitened lies, or truths, I know you can fill this in, etc.)

All the while, the honest, tried, and true; suffer in place of humanity. Someone always has to suffer, but the impertinence of others amongst humanity, have halted their benevolence as a whole, and only their benevolence allows them to accept their demise, and impending extinction. Nice guys (girls) finish last, however, now they might not ever be able to finish.

Speak for those who can’t, for the love of what’s left of humanity, even if the words are not your own. A fair fight is ever only a fair fight on fair terms.

If applicable, cease and desist your cuntiness. (rated R)

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urban sentinel of the east, satellite of the old western night

banana peels and condoms cremate the path through the reservoir.
Be good, if you can’t, shadowbox questions waywardly.
We cough on the dust of aged halls,
junk-ill, ill of the junk that follows dawn.

The old and lived glow a degradation in regards to their living,
as a junkie craves the drop and the man, as hath been done in youth.
Cynics embark knowing their children will board the same ferry,
bountiful in; regulations, sorcery, cures, curses, errant maxims.

The toothless young woman donning canceled eyes, worn lips,
skirting cold turkey banquets to bask in rosy summer-sun chances.
Several years lost in several minutes, like kilograms of bad habits.
A ghost yearns what it does not have, a warm body to within, dance.

Sprinkled gold above legendary hotel doorknobs. Behind, a cell.
Not a flicker of an eyelid over the atomic bombs, nightbugs,
But fine faces of flatulent friends biding to collect fond flesh.
Con-artists, crooks be nothing more than they are,
nothing to lose but their touch.

Rancid muses, warm whimpers of lore lost, taxicabs, clever corners,
lit of kindled banana peels and kindling condoms.

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Fox in the Snow, Lion in the Station Wagon

Cops are required to uphold and enforce the law. Reporters are pretty much required to do the same, except, uphold the truth and enforce the truth. Pop quiz: what do you call a false statement that you promote and fence to others who actively look toward your answers and responses? I’ll let that stew for a moment, and continue with cops and shit. An honest cop is dubbed a hero, dubbed noble, dubbed dependable. As long as they are an honest cop. However, within law enforcement, there aren’t always honest cops. Crooked cops. Corruption, mis-information, tamperings-of-evidence. It happens. Figure out the answer to the pop-quiz question?

It’s called a lie. The difference between a cop, and a reporter, is a reporter is guilty until proven innocent. Why that is the general consensus, I do not know. What I do not know, I will embrace. A crooked cop is crooked when he is caught. Logical? Yeah. A reporter will go great lengths; barbed wire, ugly killer dogs, bad music, jurisdictions, aliases, etc. That’s a reporter, also guilty until proven innocent because the truth itself is widely regarded to dissemble the perpetrators, or dissemble the actuators. The truth is dangerous to both parties and only the reporter has any control over such information. i.e. 24, CIA, FBI, the West Wing, Gilligan’s Island, Arthur, etc.

“What about white lies?” Some may wonder? I will then counter with; “how can you tell a white lie from the other?” 

How? I was the reporter, and no good was derived. The cunning and equipped (friends/weapons/truths), are dominant. Those of whom can and will crush whenever they please, and that’s just the world we live in, whilst one is powerful, or whilst one’s forced to work tenuously on obtaining a GED. Sometimes, and at most times (due to my freakishly accurate memory), it was infinitely more advantageous to just not fucking say anything. I just had a thing about taking my own advice. Though, I’d never thought, or dreamed of saying this as a final statement; “The truth will not set you free, it will piss the wrong person off, most every time…

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pen & the camera

The day begins with the birdsong of an alarm clock. You never recognize the tune immediately, and yet you can never realize it’s significance, if any. The sun shines, and the moon docks, from day to day, this happens. Assimilate into a prose or a pose that promotes the product. It’s always the product. My body in this place; my mind in it’s glory.

I write, and I can never stop writing, I may go a tad bit crazy here and there, but there aren’t many choices of complacency for people like me. I don’t have good looks and media-model measurements I can aspire to inspire. So I’ll stick with the cards my wits have up their sleeves. FICTION is a fancier version of NON-FICTION, and the honest truth is; non-fiction is plain, boring, and depressing. (Can we do anything about that? ha!)

Narcissistic-ally, I’ve begun writing a non-fiction novel of allegory and rhetoric in the tense of fiction, and no one would claim my story false because my story is in fact, true. (Well, nine-tenths of it is.) Under a pseudonym. A call to arms from one who has/had understood the septic end of human relations surmised by our youth. All in all, detrimental moments have led this pseudonym to where it may, and as I speak. Bullshit is one thing, but if bullshit is served with a side of philosophy, there is and will always be something to dribble.

You can write meaningless shit about terminal illnesses, or the way the head cheerleader preferred to slurp penis over slurpees to be in. You can write poetry after googling your research and explain where the hell the L train is going. Fiction is just a more exciting take on real life. It creates a story and enthusiasm for the weak, and pushes the meek outside into the sun. Diagnosing cancer and treating it in time, picking out the best cheap wine for the picnic of a lifetime, success stories from an eating disorder, alcoholism, pedophilia. Doesn’t matter. If you don’t take things lightly, then you’re taking them seriously, things matter. When every little thing matters down to the T, you’ll be an unhappy old bitch/bastard before you’ll know it.

Bullshit was never bullshit to me, it was a healthier justification in/to the accordance of life as opposed to the bland, truth seeking mentality as a journalist. A writer of fiction will always see more truth than a journalist. The difference in fictional writers and journalists is their philosophy and trivium. A journalist will never be allowed to refute this either. A journalist works on truth and facts, not opinions. Especially not their own. Can an Atheist be angry with God?

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Hollywood Hillz

They say,
even for scum, that
it has potential. Potential
means
nothing
unless you act on it.

A cute puppy has more potential
to become a better
human than I
do.
Sometimes, you can actually feel
it when something is
unbearably idiotic.
As if your
soul
(or lack thereof)
was being tenderized by a
rampant
waste of time.
Nothing hurts a working
mind
more than that.

Working mind, as in,
a mind that constantly
has the need to best another.
That,
in itself,
an addiction. Though, if it
wins consistently,
it makes the rules.
Not unlike history is made in
accordance to those with more
artillery.
Fighting to win,
sadly reaps more benefits
than
fighting for
a cause.

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women, hungry

Starving, I picked up the Pastrami Reuben sandwich. I, then, placed it back on the shelf because the Pastrami Reuben burrito wrap caught my eye. I looked at the contents, and placed that back on the shelf, and picked up a spinach and bacon salad in it’s stead. The Reubens had the same content, but under different skins. I was never partial to bacon, but made sure to eat bacon only in front of a Jewish person. They never got angry. Worse is, they never laughed,

I decided I wanted to cook instead. I grabbed a raw chicken from the meat section and various vegetables. I wanted to impress my room mates. Then I put the chicken back, because I was so sick of chicken. CHICKEN for three months. Then I looked for another meat that would compliment the vegetables in my hands. I looked at the lamb section. I decided to put the vegetables back. I picked up the Pastrami Reuben sandwich again. Then I put it back and walked over to the frozen foods section. The employees must’ve thought I looked insane in an over-sized maroon sweater with an E.E. Cummings book of poetry under my arm. I don’t like E.E. Cummings’ work. I looked for curry fried rice. Found it.

Rice reminded me of home, so I don’t eat much rice anymore. But, not today. I read the bag, “Four minutes to warm.” I put the bag back and looked at a chicken and mushroom Alfredo pasta. CHICKEN. They’re so easy to bully. I wanted to find a veal pasta. They don’t make those. I’ve never had veal. I picked up garlic & herbs pizza dough, next to the Pastrami Reuben sandwich, which I glanced at again. I’ll make a pizza and put whatever I want on it. Only seven dollars in my pockets. Two of which, in coins. My pockets had as much change as my mind. I’m losing my mind.

I danced back to the curry fried rice. I hadn’t even looked at the soups yet. This went on for nearly an hour.

I fed on the options and feasted on choices, and I left with nothing. Just my over-sized maroon sweater and a book of bad poetry.

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Jack Kurtilick Holds Rare Maltese Anfibidorian Hostage

“…and some things in life hint to the fact everyone was meant to unequivocally suffer in due time. We all feel liberated by the sight of the ocean, though we can not live in it. We die, then return to whence we came. I may drink like a bastard now, but I’d like to call it training! How old are you? 18, 19? Breathing underwater seemed a bit more advantageous in opposition of knowing how to swim,” then Jack looked at me, sharpening his once roundish eyes,”are you sure you don’t want a drink, Daniel?”
“I’m alright, thanks.”
“There’s no shame in it, provided your laxed provisionally minimal, adherent regards towards Christian propaganda.” said Jack, pouring himself another scotch, straight. I paused for a moment because I had absolutely no idea what this drunk fucker was talking about. After gathering what was left of my mind, I understood his power; he spoke in jargon, like a doctor. No person has any fucking idea what the doctor is talking about, but the way they spoke allowed you to nod your head, accept, and receive a terminal death sentence. That’s how Jack spoke, though it could also be the half empty bottle of scotch on his end-table.
“I’m really just here for, Eleanor. The Maltese Anfibidoria or whatever the thing is called… the, ‘FISH,'” I gestured quotations with my fingers, “means a great deal to her.” I couldn’t look Jack in his eyes. I mean, I’d want to kill me too, if my ex-girlfriend sent a younger, adept replacement to retrieve a prized, rare fish at our old apartment. I, then, glanced up as a fluke due to the absence of a response and locked onto his eyes, and to my surprise, only saw the eyes of an man misplaced from another world. Donning the eyes of, what seemed like, a passionate player who’d lost a chess match. Defeated by a kid with beginner’s luck. Hand on his glass, he peered closer. Then withdrew. Then spoke.
“The ‘FISH,’ is in the back, Danny boy.” Jack said a he pointed towards another end of the apartment.
After a moment, I spoke. “Thanks, Jack.” I started what must have seemed like the most awkward exit. As I was about to round the corner, Jack spoke.
“Daniel,” I turned and faced him, “little Danny Smolensk knows where to go, if he were to change his mind about that drink right?”
“Yeah… Danny S. knows.” I nodded and gave a half-assed non-military salute, about faced. I hadn’t known at the time that I would never see Jack again. He was to vanish on a fishing excursion. Jack really wasn’t a bad guy. I liked him.

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