Monthly Archives: June 2011

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.”


“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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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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