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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nom de guerre

the mornin’s Meaning Only a(rgh)nnoyed.
Deafening yella sun ate busy eyelids,
nutriciously nosy, nonyabizzness honks o’traffic o’
tardy birds, bees, tulips, flies, tries, thieves, But
plop’d stopped in Bear’s bed most o’Bear eves.
Bear nag’d my snorings, likesame, graced.
fried four frantic eyelids 4 breakfast.

tired red sun withered and deaf over the eyelidless.
tardy Insipids 4ever tardy.
the Bear and I paced with hungry gaits and queried
claws. prance’d, scowl’d, howl’d.
Bear packed leftover eyelids, left a Bearless room,
and left snorings in melancholy Grace.
doth haunt, taunt, rolling rock’d
dauntless ticker of mine, undock’d,
Bear snores, vestiged n’reverbed an alarm clock,
conceive the mornin’s Meaning Only unBearably a(rgh)’d

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Duck Tales

…she then in turn, was ultimately right. The truth of the matter was that Daniel loved the bottle, more than diabetics could love cake. The way he saw it, the bottle didn’t give the best blowjobs nor did it feel it had to stop time to shave it’s cunt once a week. It was honest, politically neutral, stood by him, never nagged, didn’t act different around his friends, and never asked Daniel to Google anything. Ridicule was meant for one to better themselves, but, to Daniel, there was nothing wrong with him so long as he was functional. The bottle looked good tanning at the polluted sunny beach, dancing in the moonlight, intoxicatingly, and was open to a three-way. Even a gang-bang and he’d be allowed to watch. When Daniel would have a bad day, it didn’t jab unnecessary words of consult, it just held his hand. He was smitten.

Daniel then wiped the mascara from his face and took a hit. “Some people have problems kissing you,” he thought as he looked into the mouth of the bottle, “but our kisses always feel like first kisses, making the grass greener.” Daniel didn’t believe in fretting over things that had no direct effect on him, it was much easier. Others would be surly and he wouldn’t mind, as long as they took care of their shit.

He rubbed most of the mascara off, but the remainder smudged. The shoot for the commercial had given him enough rent for half the year. He easily overlooked the smudged mascara that made him look like a heroin-addicted femme fatale in the music industry or a trashcan raccoon. Daniel put the rest of his belongings into his blue travel bag. Fitted t-shirts, a second pair of jeans, and a thin leather jacket for effect; as far as he was concerned, these were the essentials because they always had a wardrobe person that dressed you, a make-up person to paint you, and a director who did everything he could in order to not worry about his rent. All Daniel needed was clothing he could wear from the location back to his apartment, and just-in-case shirts for that renegade droplet of mustard or sweet and sour mix.

Daniel’s apartment was a duplex studio glued together in minimal fashion by exhausted paintings acquaintances had given him, an expensive infomercial cutlery set for limes and celery stalk, ashtrays with NFL logos, his double-sized bed on the second floor, and a bookshelf littered with classic titles he’d never intended to open. The apartment was on 5th and spring in Downtown Los Angeles, the Rovand building, a few blocks from skid row. Daniel took another hit from his pint of whiskey. The real crime, even he, acknowledged was his apathy. He didn’t care about the homeless, the view his apartment had, the T.V. commercials he filmed, his unread books, NFL ashtrays, or stainless steel cutlery set. The things Daniel cared about were how his hair looked on-screen, how much booze was left in his blue duffel bag, how many cigarettes were left in his pack, and a girl with legs who knew how to walk. A knock at the door.

“Mr. Daniels, your cab is ready.” said a male voice on the other side. Daniel zipped his bag, took a hit from the bottle, then placed it into the side pocket of his duffel bag. Daniel opened the door of his dressing room to find a short, blonde assistant wearing a “Duck Tales,” t-shirt. Bag slung over his shoulder, Daniel smiled in acknowledgement and walked to the elevator. He put on his trendy dark Ray Bans after noticing he had been squinting since the door opened. The assistant followed.

“It’s a great living isn’t it?” said the blonde assistant.

“If it works, I guess.” Daniel replied, not turning his head.

“I wish I could do it, but I get nervous in front of the camera.”

“The camera’s just an eye with a great memory. Don’t worry about how well it remembers.”

“You sound like a pro at this stuff.”

“Maybe.”

“Are you?”

“I just didn’t want to worry about rent.”

“But you’re on T.V. People know you. Chicks love that.”

“There’s a script, I don’t really care about cellphones. Chicks will love anything for a while. Take it easy.” Daniel said as he entered the elevator. facing the assistant. He pressed the button for the lobby.

“Is that the secret? Not giving a shit?” said the assistant. The doors began to close.

“Maybe. How would I ever know?” When the doors closed, Daniel took another swig out of the tilted side pocket of the duffel bag. He disliked elevators. He disliked not being as curious about life as much as the short blonde assistant who wore a Duck Tales t-shirt.

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quickstopshopptopcyclops

Daniel, then, questioned the possible outcomes his situation had harnessed. He thought about all his school chums of the past. Kenny was a successful drug dealer with no aims or aspirations to conquer anything besides making rent on time. Alan was simultaneously the premiere floral and compost adviser in the garden section of a Hall-mart, and Kenny’s number one customer. Marcus had a career as a high school nurse. He received a prestigious education, a prestigious degree, from a prestigious school, and now, at most, with vigor, applies band-aids and prescribes sleep in the nurses’ examination bed for an entire class period. He does so with undefinably prestigious passion. Even Daniel’s first high school girlfriend Kimberly, (which took place during Senior Prom, only) became a police officer and an internet wholesaler of unnecessary (ninja) equipment, and homemade jewelry. During high school, Kim tried out for both the cheerleading squad and the football team and stole a spot in one of those. She still, and has never never held a pom-pom. Daniel thought, all the things you could been could be found in the town you never had the intention of naturally dying in. The yearn for a meaning or a greater purpose in the world, only meant and amounted to how persuasive your excuses were.
Daniel stood brooding in the pick a cart, any cart section of the market lobby, brooding over the accomplishments people he knew had made, and decided he could get over his silly inclination to drink, and accomplish the goal. Daniel changed the ringtone on his cellphone to one that would encourage him, as he placed the Alcoholics Anonymous pamphlet into an unused shopping cart. “Baby steps, baby. That’s how accomplishments happen,” Daniel thought, “how pathetic would I look if I couldn’t fulfill the only goal I’ve ever wanted to accomplish?” Bells were not rung, not a single toast was made, and not a facetious soul cheered or tackled.

The cart he unknowingly claimed with a pamphlet had a wheel that steered slightly to the left, but angled the cart sideways to compensate the piece of crap. “It’s no trouble,” he thought, “There! Now I’ve conquered this bitch.” And that’s when his cellphone went off. Confused at first, Daniel then realized the improbability of anyone else with “Paranoid Android,” (by Radiohead) as a ringtone was strong, despite his intention of having “No Suprises” instead. He reached for his phone in his back right pocket, brought it up to his face, and saw digits to a phone number calling. The number wasn’t saved among his contacts so it only showed up at a number with a vaguely familiar area code. “Hello?” Daniel asked, with one hand holding the cart at course-compensating angle.
“I knew it was you, I saw you in the parking lot,” pause. “I can’t believe you still have the same number! It’s been like, ten years!” said the male voice in a dizzyingly enthusiastic manner.
“Yeah, my lucky set of numbers. They’ve always reached to me, in a way.” Daniel said dryly as he looked at the different sauces that were meant to change the way the fish tasted. Daniel believed everyone he ever knew were like fish with many kinds of sauces lathered on them which was meant to suppress much of the distaste they initially came with. He placed the sauce jar back on the rack. Daniel was always a black coffee, salt and pepper, on-the-rocks, kind of guy. He thought, “if some fucker took seven measly minutes to ponder then invent these things, how rude would I be to suggest they should’ve done this or that, instead? That’s like telling the bartender you liked his idea for a drink, respected the faith he had in it’s glory, and then telling him not to quit his “day job,” as you slowly finished his drink.
“Haha, you’re funny! I was afraid what they said was true about you
Hollywood types; you say what the writers say, and laugh when a casting director has something you want,” said the voice, “and plus the drugs and booze therapy that EVERYONE ELSE has to pay for.”
“I haven’t gotten to the drugs yet, but, the year doesn’t end for another six months.” said Daniel, after realizing he, and the world lurked in the birth-month of the first and only love he’d ever had.
“Yeah sure, what are you getting in there? Better be some fuckin’ sour cream and onion potato chips. I’m coming in to make sure.” After realizing the caller’s identity,
“Son of a bitch, I don’t believe it. Kenny? Is that you?”
“Yeah, baby! If you’re not in the Chips section, I’m gonna fuck your mom. How’s she doing?”
“Good question.”
“Sorry, I forgot. Come say hi and hold hold my hand, faggot.”
“That’s rude, even for you.”
“I said I forgot!” Kenny pleaded. “Sorry!”
“No, the other thing.”
“Oh. What, you went fag in Hollywood?” Kenny used fag in his daily repertoire, despite it’s context, though he did have shining qualities. He despised animal abuse so much as to not wear leather. Like a vegan. Kenny had no problem eating them.
“No.” Daniel couldn’t stand arguing with him over political corrections. They never ended, though each of Kenny’s points became less and less sensible. The problem with it, Daniel thought, was that Kenny believed every word he said.
“Whoooooa there, Mr. Hollywood, I’m just kidding. It’s fine if you’re a fag.”
“Things don’t change around here, do they?” Daniel said as he placed a bag of sour cream and onion chips on top of the twelve pack of the cheapest beer he found, which was on top of the Alcoholics Anonymous pamphlet. Drinking was like a camera lens filter, blocking or accenting the malicious and unnecessary elements of the immediate world for the photograph. Daniel drank to filter out the idiocracies and hopelessness of life.
“What? Everything’s changed, man. Hey, I see you.” They hung up. Daniel looked around and found Kenny. He was wearing fitted jeans, dark blue running sneakers, a plain white T-shirt, and his football Letterman from high school. Outside the new lip-ring, Kenny dressed like Kenny.

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