Monthly Archives: October 2011

so give us a joke then

I removed a benign melanoma I had, kicked it’s ass. I won but I’m wounded right now with an inch wide stab wound. I don’t like needles so I cauterized the wound instead. I felt like I was removing a bullet lodged in my back. Honestly, I just wanted to drive a sterilized pocket knife into my back. Watching everyone else stab each other in the back is worse than doing it to yourself. But I lived. I always fucking live. They will too. But my wound is flesh, theirs of metal.

I believe I’ve come to terms with my honesty. There are lots of things I want buried of course, but the fact I’m alive means I can joke about it. Maliciousness can come and go. But when they leave, a tiny bit of it stays with you. Dark is much simpler to be within than light is. Only the strong-willed persevere and find the light. It ain’t me, babe, but I couldn’t care less.

Everyone has a chance to win me over. And I try not to have opinions because they’re often jokes to lighten the morale. I try to have jokes instead. Good things happen, bad things happen; something always happens. It’s illogical to fret over the things that make us sweat. Once you start taking something seriously, something you can’t crack a joke about, that something matters. You’ll find yourself arguing and stressing over something you’ll find trivial later. So give us a joke. I won’t care if it’s a bad joke. I’ll know you’re just looking for a smile. Let everyone else scream, as if we need anymore of that noise, anyway.

The kettle of mortality and birth can be spilled by the slightest misstep or exaggeration. Are your bounds of flesh or of metal. A Ouija board spirit named Gomez said that to Marina and I. Finally, I’m no longer a ghost.


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Topic of capricorns

May her smiles eternally shine brighter than the sun,
Always warmer than any imported whiskey in my lungs.
Rode bicycles down a single solitary lane,
In a blouse and big blossomed blue eyes,
Ne’er the skies could ever be more blue,
Almost making up for the days ethereal beauty could be true.

Lion hearts in the most honest of realms
Underneath many moons and many yawned nights.
Expectantly awaiting the next morning’s eccentric sun.
Seaming the days of past with the days of now to reignite
Candor in the things we used to believe were fun.
Helixes of honesty and haughtiness may glow in her light,
Endurance prevalent ever-danglin’ in yay or nay in the long run.
Never will her heart settle on complacency,

Jaundice, or any sort of pointless stressing conniptions

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mirrors have seen many things

my love is tardy but bold
my vessel only ever punctual
almost a quarter of a century old
my heart beats as if love was still functional

I may be fickle in my dating and mating leisure
a fool whom watches clothes dry on the line
however I see naught tidbits of pleasure
in trying to make every woman mine

barter your hearts amongst each other
denounce thy loneliness aching within thine bone
my taunted fickle heart only beats for one lover forever
and patiently watches your dominoes topple the next down the row

Mine will know the days
(Whomever mine may be)
where two listless hearts could dance
to a single loving beat

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kitty cat clause

they cuddle and play with you because you’re
but when you want something
or heaven forbid
need something
they lock you

I can only save you from being alone
when i’m ’round and at home
believe in me my son
I love you most dear
but your kitten eyes must see clear
for you ain’t th’only one


Filed under fiction metaphor, non-fiction metaphor, poetry

you can’t be angry at him, and not believe in him

I don’t read blogs often. I’m always afraid the way they arrange their words, their prose would desensitize my own. The ones I’ve read tell me things I don’t care to pay attention to anyway, really. I know that sounds mean, but I just don’t have an opinion about their day. I certainly don’t write into my blog the way I do because I think it’ll attract readers, it’s a place to let my thoughts go. So I’ve got the same view when looking at others. But I found one last night (while searching for something completely different), one that chronicled all the things I don’t normally care about. I read years into this person’s posts and I fell in love.

She sounded like the part of me that died long ago. (That’s bad writing, right? ha!) But she made me feel that all the unfortunate things that had happened to her, was undeserved. A person so sweet hit with all the bitters, yet she held, and I mean grasped on for dear life, this bright and positive outlook. I had no choice but to fall in love, and I fell deeper with every posting I read. I didn’t hold on for dear life like she did.

In a secular sense, she chose faith while I chose fear. She passed and I didn’t. You know why they have ribbons for colon cancer and liver cancer and other cancers except lung cancer? It’s because people believe they deserve it, that they did this to themselves. It’s not the cancer that kills a lung cancer patient, it’s the guilt that kills them. Guilt told me to let go and fall into the dark. (Yes I’ve become a better writer because of it, but it is expensive. That whole sadness and despair thing as inspiration is bullshit, don’t believe it. The art was already there, your ability to live tells you how you’ll translate it.)

I fell in love with her through her blog because it showed me how beautiful I could have been, had I have just held on a tiny bit longer. When you’re dead, you can only be loved, but you can’t return it. Maybe her words are the fingers reaching down to pull me up, and she’ll never know how happy her little fingers made me.

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tolerance is a sign of intelligence

There was a sense of safety I felt I had when I was in gloom. The best way to describe it would be to say it was mechanized. A self perpetuating gloom gizmo lethargically inducing the same expected results.

For instance, the apartment is fuck-filthy and far from poo-perfect in terms of sanitation. But I come waltzing in with my obsessive compulsive disorder (partial to perpendicular angles) and scrub the sin off everything. I also believe it’s a great trait for a maid to have, except I’m not. (I did want the reciprocation of proper sanitary practice, but that’s besides the point.) The point is, I expect them not to.

As far as the overcast in my heart goes, I expected them to leave me alone as they have, as I’ve made clear; their inadequacy in making me feel any better. However, I selfishly did not even think about the lengths they’d have to put up with. And when my own best friend (of whom is also a roommate of mine) finally scolded me, I felt terrible. Well, on top of what I’d felt before.

Everyone always expects me to be the fun guy, the guy that made everyone else feel better, but even the clown can get tired of his own jokes. My face had grown sore from the smiles it’d shine. It felt as though it had shone for too many moons and I thought the gloom would give me a break. That was selfish thinking, because fake smiling hurts a fuck of a ton less then a real friend’s hurt. I’ve got to go back to work.

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ivy campus playground

it sucks a ton
to dumb down a word
and there were more syllables

it is terrible
that it must be done
and there was less confusion

waiting for a bottle of wine
to aerate
while I smoked a cigarette

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Another Sunny’d Day

I had an interview scheduled for 11:30 today.
I was waltz-in for the job.
I helped feed skid row last night the night before
came home
went to bed
so I’d be tip-top for the life changing event
set 4 alarms of 4 of the most
to go off 2 hours ahead of the appointment
rested in peace
The glorious Tuesday morning sun bursts
through my window
with warm embrace
greet the day
my day
And embraced
my alarm ready smartphone
so tight,
so warm,
so hot
the battery drained
on my alarm ready smartphone
the annoying songs
did not play, even
an hour and a half after my appointment
it was not so a smart phone
the sunshine danced like a child
it screamed 4 annoying songs
and looped
Where are his parents, I wondered
I took a morning shit,
Then I went to the bathroom
and took a mourning shit

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Cats, Dogs, Sex in the City, and a Band of Brothers

[Author’s note: the parts crossed out, were part of a dictated conversation from 2 separate authors notes. It also got really filthy and crude, so skip ahead to the uncrossed, boring parts.]

The bare minimum only sustains and postpones any progress in your life. That came to me in a daydream while I was on a mystical journey inside a Vons/Pavillions. (I was following someone.) Have you ever seen the movie, Once? It was a good movie but I couldn’t stop staring at the ginger lead character. It just struck me as strange for no reason. Then I thought about Cosmo Brown from Singing in the Rain. His character had pizzazz and charm and a great attitude, and was hilarious, but he was a ginger. He’d never be allowed to bang Kathy Seldon. Of course, I wouldn’t be allowed to bang Kathy Seldon either. (For those of you who don’t know, I’m not a bigot, I indiscriminately hate all races.)

Sometimes, I shock myself with 9volt batteries. Sometimes I shock myself when someone points out my race after I’d forgotten. I’m not even sure what-the-fuck race I actually am, and never could grasp how seriously some take it. I mean, I realize there are obstacles I’ve to jump over every now and then, but I’ve always had to do that. I’ll still never get to bang Kathy Seldon.

[Tell me one good reason why it’s important to classify by race and I’ll tell you it’s another reason why the human race is still a joke. Your footprints shall cease and your existence will be forgotten by the tick of time.] That’s probably what the Earth would say, and say it with a smoker’s cough.

I’m not like that. I’m nicer and more passive because I probably can’t kick you ass in a bar-fight. Not like Blue Mama Earth can with her Hurricane swag and believe me, that ain’t her only trick. IF you do manage to kick her ass, I’ll have been waiting with an empty beer bottle to less-confrontational-ly throw at the back of your head. So you wouldn’t see it coming or possibly wrestle it out of my hand. While you’re curtains are closed and the intermission music montage is playing, I’ll rudely talk shit about how you beat up a woman and how I defended her honor and win everyone on my side, and simultaneously distracting the patrons by bringing your limp body onto a stool next to me and buying you a beer. Hopefully no one will realize my cheapshotdickmove of throwing a bottle at the back of your head to end your tyranny. I’ll probably end up drinking your beer in the next ten minutes after the cloud of pointless aggression settles, and leave with the second prettiest girl you came with because I’m a simple man. She’ll probably have empathized with my performance of being a hero who fought smart, as opposed to have fought dirty. I will have become drunk enough to forgive her for being your friend, and fuck her mercilessly into a puddle of jelly or pudding of some kind for a hard 4 minutes.

(Again, I’m a simple man, aim too high and it might miss the sky. Where others feel inclined to impress, I say it ain’t the real me. If I’m not good enough, I’m okay with you cutting me from your cast and crew right then and there, before we take the two-month downward love spiral because I can’t keep up with all my lies and gradually revert back to my copacetic self because you have failed to inspire any changes in my life to better fit into a snug studio loft within your heart.)

4 minutes is the bar price she’ll pay for me to pound her little pink cigarette case with the fury of Apollo until it flattens into a black and blue Goodbye Kitty credit card, and baby, you best believe my tongue is going in that naughty little water park of hers and it’s thirstier than Dracula with a conscience. I’ll probably dig my shovel in her backyard too and try to say the exploding passion or whatever made me do it. Hopefully, this pink taco massacre takes place at her place so I’d be able to go through her things to find a memento. I’ll even learn a few things about her besides her name because I probably nodded to whatever sentences I found no substance in that came out of her mouth like music coming out of a shitty speaker in an elevator.

At her place, I’ll be able to slink out quietly in the middle of the night and walk home through the rained-on empty streets reflecting the city lights with a bluish hue from the pearl white full moon in the cloudless black sky.

If she’s owner to those butt dimples just above the waistline of those shamefully tight cock-ready jeans, I’ll ride her like a military dad. I’ll ride her anyway, because it’s a fucking free ticket to fuck like fucking lions, fucking Nala like a naughty slut, primal, raw, and claws baby! The poor bastard that rustles in the bushes that disrupts our fuck-ageddon, is going to get clawed into pieces! (Lionesses actually does the hunting, and the male just waits because he’s the man and still ready to bone down or eat glorious meats. If a safari jeep showed up, I think I’d be able to fuck it up, depending on it’s tranquilizer dart supply, my tolerance from to opiates as a fucking lion, and whether the guide is on his first week which the other guides should have warned about interrupting my bang time.)

I’ll probably have beer munchies and when the opportunity arises, I’ll fuck her and eat simultaneously until I’ve banged every organ out of her body. She better be good at screaming bloody murder in savage ecstasy, or good at faking it because I love a good performance. It tells my cock her cunt is hospitable and my cock’ll think, “it’s nice in here, I hope my master lets me blow a fat fucking load of spicy happy-sauce somewhere in, on, or around this place. Hile, Black Angus, Hile!”

4 minutes because it’s ultimately what one asks for when asking in a bar. Personally, I’ve never picked up women in a bar. [That I can recall.] The process itself dissuades me and the prize, the 4 minutes doesn’t present any reward worth a flying fuck of mine. I’m not a guy that high-fives my homies because I got a drunk little cock-gobbler to release my snake into her garden. There’s no thrill of the catch for me either because persuading a drunk chick to leave with an asshole is not a very difficult thing to do in L.A. It’s like kicking a kitten. All one has to do is omit the idea that this woman has ideas and opinions and feelings that are worth a damn on occasion, and make sure you seem decisive and in control of most aspects of your life while you flirt. Seem is the keyword, fellas, and you’ll be fucking her fooled meaningless flesh in no time. Oh, and make sure she’s had a few so she can omit the women’s lib thing and men are bastards mantra they sing at their tea parties, and mistake your cockiness for charm. Then high-five your ego, toast your glass of self-glory, and give yourself a wall-street applause because you’ve lowered the points on humanity’s stock.

Now, you say, “It’s survival,” and I’ll say, “I’ll toast to that! What kind of world are you surviving for again? Man, I was just in the bathroom, and this drunk dude was pissing in the urinal, got it a couple of times, and I’m pretty sure he fell in dick first at one point. He didn’t even wash his hands, and now he’s gonna go bang that random chick he left with. I’m sorry, what were you saying? Right, survival…”

Bitches, don’t think you’re innocent too. (I don’t mean bitches in derogatory way, I’m punching fellow cocks brutally, and I didn’t want you feeling left out without a cute pet-name.) Every time you let a cock take your castle, the cocks gather and cock-a-doodle-doo his glory, encouraging and inspiring other cocks to do the same. And they can, baby. My loves, my ladies, no matter how many times you’ve watched the episodes of Sex in the City (as I have, no joke) or ran from these raging cock-wielding assholes, an asshole will always find you. It’ll be your fault, because men don’t think, right? They react like dogs that hunt in packs and want your tasty treats. They follow suit of an alpha dog, and when he’s banging a bitch, the others will be banging soon too. Men follow the alpha in their packs, but these leaders have been in a moral decline. These men can’t find a woman’s love precious, and I’m sure the feeling is mutual.

Listen up boys. You stupid cocksuckers!

(I wanted to leave it at that cause it sounded cool and might win some women back.) Deep down, I do care about where our illegitimate children are raised. There are very few good guys left, the ones that mean it when they say, “how you doin’?” and they’ve become harder for the good bitches to find. It’s just as hard for these good pricks to find good bitches. We all know the drill when one of the boys is down for the count because a girl put him there, pick up a 24-pack of she’s a bitch and you can do better, and hit the town. If he’s really down in the dumps, the fifth of “you aren’t gonna remember shit in the morning because I love you man, Band of Brothers, no man left behind!”

All the while, she’s communing with her friends that thought there was something off about your boy. They don’t know exactly what, but will give an answer vaguely close and neutral ensuring her that they know what the fuck is going on. Most of the time, their “omelette of knowledge” is foundation’d around something they’ve heard all their lives from hearsay, probably from someone older. They feel it necessary to take control with a “mama knows best,” approach, and to the trained eye, only goes to show what little progress they’ve achieved in life. They just don’t know what a good guy looks like, so good guys look a little off or unbelievable. It’s not threatening to us pricks, but their defense mechanisms. The fangs only come out when you do something wrong. Bitches are like cats. They will do what they want, and there’s nothing you can do. You push, and it will hurt.

Cats, dogs, pricks, bitches, Sex in the City, and a Band of Brothers. Gentlemen, you’re in a pack with the wrong kind of leader. The wrong kind of leadership leads nowhere. Remember when Joey from Friends got his own show? Neither do I. Ladies, you don’t give the puppy a treat when he pisses on your rug, but sometimes a girlfriend of yours does because he’s the cutest puppy ever! Your rug is still pissed on but the only thing the puppy knows is that he got a treat even after juicing your rug. I’ve got to start closing my blinds now and locking my doors. What next?

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it’s a wonderful life

I find movies are funny when they pitch that It’s a Wonderful Life archetype. Prioritizing a lesson in appreciation of life’s trivialities before it’s too late. I appreciate the philanthropic sentiment of the gesture, and concur it’s forwarding, however, I, personally have yet to be convinced of the message’s proclaimed affect. A spoonful of sugar really helps the medicine go down.

In a war, intelligence is the only weapon all sides can attest to being the most critical weapon of offense and defense. I can’t help the way my mind processes. It’s prone to over analyze things until they become satirically stygian, and I’ve lost faith in humanity. This happens quite often, and the only way to slow it down is to drink. I know that’s a terrible solution, but I’m without health insurance for fancy pills or a therapist to tell me what I already know. Maybe love is the answer, but it’s too expensive for me, and possibly more venomous.

When my fingers aren’t firing like machine guns on this keyboard, I’m out smelling the roses and holding the door open for you. If you’re being a prick, I’ll tell you a joke with plenty of hoke. I’m Dr. Jekyll and I see the beauty in humanity, that it’s a wonderful life. But in the back of my mind, Mr. Hyde says I’m wasting my time, and waits until it’s time for him to write. I’m both these people. Yet I don’t know which one I really am; the blood and bones or the immortal words of the night.

What little intelligence I have, terrifies me to death in the morning.

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