photons

The stars tonight,

connected dots to outline,

the curvature of lights descent (down her limbs).

The Delicate softness I drifted upon.

Blue blood was a mystery until those marks were made. The shoulders of proof, it wasnt a dream.

And the statues were just crewed attempts of elegance,

in this regard.

the showers of earth bound flame illusions,

reality shrieked in waves of vibrations,

all light tilting inward.

these forms,

only the oceans mist could explain,

the wind danced upon her hands.

And I whispered.

Girl, I ache for your photons,

flowing through me.

I want to breath you in,

sleep in your warmth.

Count how many times you breath.

the experiments of the physics,

I'll record the data.

we'll just drift.

And when it all folds in on you

collapsing gently a little at a time

breathing stops and collides

like that moment of emptiness and fullness

then it hurts, hurts all through you

taking little bits of all you know

and then turning inward

softly like silk

but ripping you apart

beautifully

beautiful pain, ripping away

but you want to run away, to hide your scars.

But if the light will shine true, it cant be that way,

just a sting and a trickle at a time thats all.

Just a harsh biting down, then release.

Soft like silk in that translucent lace.

But they dont see,

to them, its just a harsh painting,

soft colors blending together,

its love and fear, pain that wont go,

until you let it.

Then its love of pain and fear.

--------------------------------------------------------

There seemed to be a million miles between her ankles and toes,

the hint of a glow in her eyes.

In dreams we walked together the entire night,

not talking just walking side by side.

The stiff cold didnt effect us, it went unnoticed,

except for the pleasant wisps of breath escaping her lungs.

I could feel the red and blue radiating from her temples when she yawned.

The secrets in her foot steps,

tell little stories like the gentle sway of her hips.

Fog roses around her feet guiding us in its direction

And I knew if I woke up her warmth would fill the cold blankets.

If the moon would just rise, it would bring her to my arms.

so I could gaze into her eyes and see the shadow of her soul dance.

Then I would try to keep time, count the steps, feel the rhythm of such wonders.

But for now, i'll just wait, try to wait out the cold.

a pot to piss in

 Out of complete boredome harriette severed her fingers, cutting them off one at a time with a pair of fingernail clippers. She had been going to school to become a nail technician, each day she would come home feeling like her mouth was full of Styrofoam teeth, this sensation was caused from breathing in the nail polish and nail polish remover fumes. She had done so many nails in practice that she was getting dizzy spells, like minuet acid trips, that sensation that your spinal cord has sprung a leak, the ground droops downward in front of you as you walk. Harriett had come accustomed to this feeling, it was there everyday. it wouldnt go away for atleast 2 hrs after she had left the salon. Her hair had been dyed a thousand times as well, it felt like mircrofiber toothbrush bristles. She let the hair stylist practice on her, so she could pick up on what they were doing. But it was her dream to be mediocore, it was her destiny to be nothing but a manicurist.

After work she would get in her ford focus, to make that lonely drive home. she had bought her car shortly after high school, half paid for with student loans when she was going to community college. But that was before she realised what her dream was. And since she had racked up all the debt from going to college for 3 yrs, all the while working in the mall at a trendy shoe store. She would drive home and hide in her lonely bedroom watching re-runs of old sitcoms while eating ice cream, then moving on to vodka and orange juice, then eventually large gulps from the half gallon bottle. It was lonely, she was only half way there..

Well, actually how it happened, the whole life dream thing, she had a "friend" that worked at the salon three holes in the wall down from hers. This girl, this cosmetologist, or solonist or whetever she was, a hair technician, a hair engineer, a barberette, whatever, she was making bank, thats the point. She had a brand new mazda xr7, a hot ass boyfriend, another boy toy on the side, a studio apt. all to her self, along with a wardrobe to die for. This chick had the works and all she did was play with hair all day.

Harriette, still oblivious to this girls luxurious existence, went in for a hair cut one day. Harriette hadnt had a new hairstyle in quite a while, she had been working her fingers to the bone trying to get by. So on payday she decided she needed a bit of pampering, a haircut would do. So while harri was getting her "hair did" she started talking to this girl, her name was stacy. Stacy told her life story, then about going to cosmetologist college, then how loaded she is now. As harriette looked in the mirror admiring her new hair do, she saw her future flash before her eyes, in extravagant color. Right then she knew what to do.

Well harriette couldnt afford tuition to become a hair stylist, so nails was the next best thing, plus she could move up. Harriette droped out of community college a while ago, it was a waste anyway she figured. Now 6 months later she was about to graduatte as a manicurist, so she needed a job. At the salon where stacy worked harri picked up an app. Stacy was their making out with her new, or one of her many, boyfriends. Harriette blushed with jelousy, then the day dreams flooded her tiny head.

But harriette couldnt find a job, no one was hiring, no one called, she talked to her professors, they just told her to keep trying. Nothing for weeks, then months, then finally and interview. Harriette did everything she could to get this job, everything, she blew the last little bit of cash she had to make an impression. Then the inevitable, nothing happened.

Harriette got some cash from her mom to buy some dinner, but mostly harriette wanted booze, and lots of it. She was going to binge, binge until she forgott about all of this. She drank till she passed out, woke up had a bowl of shredded wheat, then started taking shots. Harri figured she had a 3 day supply at this rate, that second night though she never went to sleep. She just kept drinking, even when the local tv channel went off the air, she just stared at the screen waiting for it to come back on. Now she was just sipping straight from the bottle, she had been all day, and now all night. But then it happened, she blacked out, for some time. Harri woke up with the sun pounding her eyes the birds rippingout her ear drums with their churps and the wind beating her head in. so she started again, this was the final bottle, it was still half full.

In this daze harri had no idea what time it was she was just gone, starying into space. Next to her bed was the little box she kept her nail supplies in. her body was numb now, she couldnt feel anything.

Finally she thought, finally im free from this. Harriette decided to do her nails, why not, she was offically a grad now. She worked on them for a while doing her best, trying to show herself how good she was. Lost in the creation of her new nails she reached over for a drink. She took several long gulps, while thinking about what she would do next to her nails. Then looking over to see where to set her bottle down safely, she noticed, the bottle looked funny. But she was too cought up in her creations. Suddenly the room started spinning, the floor started changing colors. Her fingers grew long then shrank. "what the fuck" harriette thought, grabbing the bottle, to finish it off. Before taking her last gulp of the almost empty bottle harriette held it up, a cheers to herself, and her nails. Then the true nature of her drink was revealed, harri realised her mistake. It wasnt a vodka bottle, it was nail remover. Looking down at the floor harriette now realised she hadnt been sniping at her nails, she was snipping at her knuckles.

the fall of fall

 It was 7am and the sun was sluggishly lighting the horizon. it was that time of year when the sun slowly leaves us to deal with the darkness and cold a bit more each night. The trees slowly falling asleep, shedding leaves, the grass becomes that unbearable brown color. And no matter how hard you try the sky is always gray. It was at this ungodly hour of reluctance, that the world felt the need to throw a few more punches, a kick or two to the ribs. And everything just begged for a concussion, to digress before the blackness of unconsciousness.

Elsa was getting ready for work, Steve had already left. So she had the place to herself, she sang bee gees songs as she made a Denver omelet, and sipped some coffee down. Elsa hadn’t felt herself for some time but today, she felt better then she did when she was herself. Elsa felt luxurious, Steve left a note on her pillow. The note was very vague, but the intentions of the note screamed out at her. She was to be ready by 8pm sharp, dressed to kill as instructed. They had been a couple for long enough so she figured it was that time. Time to have a nice gold ring put on her finger in a candle lit room, with champagne flowing and love in the air. Elsa's imagination ran wild while the sun crept up lighting her kitchen.

6 months earlier and 90 miles away, in a small town called Hartford a man in a mask walked into a bank. Pulled out a gun and left with a bag of cash. The police said they had leads, but this was just a ploy to hide the police chiefs incompetence. The police chief was named lawrence, he was 50 had been a cop for 30 yrs. But in Hartford the worst thing that had ever happened was a 6 yr old girl getting ran over by her mom as she left for work. So Lawrence was quite clueless, still he needed to prove himself and this was his opportunity.

The man who robbed the bank some how slipped away, completely unnoticed. He had been planning this robbery for yrs, then one day it was time. He wasn’t on the run, he just gradually made his way out of town, camped and fished for a few weeks then moved on. The man who robbed the bank, his father owned a factory that produced anti-depressants. His father was a bit of a scientist and a doctor to say the least. But the robber was suited to acquire the family biz. He failed, he went to college studied, was at the top of his class. Then he got mixed up in a little bit of criminal activity and gave up the ghost. His heart broken father abandoned him. Of course our little crook didn’t care, he just moved away got a job at a steel mill.

rob made his way into the town, Elsa's home town, it had been six months so he felt like all was clear. He bought a small car, one that was crappy enough to not draw attention, but still a descent get away vehicle. Rob found a studio apartment and moved in. Elsa on the other hand was planning a wedding, they were to elope next Saturday. Then spend the next week and a half on a cruse ship in the Rivera, it took six month to plan. Steve had been saving for years secretly.

On the other side of town two fat smoke stacks bellowed out puffy white clouds. Men in hard hats and white cover alls walked around, like they had work to do. It was the morning shift change, the early chaos that slowly drones in to a day of endless automation. Nothing seemed any different then any other day.

Lawrence really had found some leads, he had been doing his homework. Hartford was a small enough town that almost every person could be accounted for, so it looked like the odds were on his side. Lawrence had tracked down a few transaction that seemed suspicious enough. He had found his way to Elsa's hometown, with his snout stuck to the ground. He had found a place to strike, and he was ready to go in guns blazing.

On his way out to his car, rob saw a young woman through the window on the first floor of the apartment building he just moved into she was pretty he thought. She had a feminine glow to her that made him stare for a moment. I think its easy enough to assume this is Elsa, so it was. Rob was just going out to get some things from his car to get ready for the day. A block away Lawrence watched.

Ten minutes later Steve came home unexpectedly, saying their had been a breach at the plant, he needed his hazmat suit. Elsa was glowing, just to have the sight of her love, but still was a bit struck with concern. Steve said it wasn’t anything big, that’s why he was helping, he said no biggy. "I’ll be home for dinner, so don’t worry." As Steve stepped out the door he saw a shot gun pointed right between his eyes. Guess who? It was Lawrence. Now somehow Lawrence with his stellar intellect tracked down Steve as the robber, since all of a sudden he had deposited a bunch of money in his bank account. Steve had to be his man. But the truth was Steve had been hiding his money in a safe he had hidden in his work shed. When the wedding had been set, he deposited this money into his bank account. Coincidentally the very next day after the robbery.

Rob upstairs from his window saw the cop, he almost shit his pants. But when he noticed the gun was pointed at someone else, he felt like the sliest fox ever to live. So here was the dilemma, playing out right in front of him. Surreal like on a movie screen.

As Lawrence pointed his gun, with the snarl of a starving beast waiting to dine. The sirens sounded, the breach wasn’t just a breach. It was a nuclear melt down. Just like the meltdown steve felt in his head as the gun went off. Elsa was right behind him following him after a hug and kiss. Elsa got to taste a bit of it, as brain fragments, blood, bone hair showered her face. Her screaming mouth filled with Steve's head. She swallowed it down, thinking "now your inside me forever my love."

Seconds later the nuclear plant followed suit, and exploded like Steve's head.

                   Dark spheres and all their question marks.

They said we would never make it to mars, let alone out our front doors. But here we were, staring at a field of rotting corpses, the ground had turned red. Stones here and there in peculiar rows, fallen down burnt trees with half eaten headless rabbits. Strangely enough we had gotten used to it, to all of it, we didnt even notice.

There had been tales passed down for generations, going so far back we didnt even know where they came from. But somehow we believed them, every single word of it, every single tale. It was like the trails we walked down everyday with our callused feet, arthritic hips and limps. Like fingernails and eyelashes, we didnt understand them, their gloomy whisking.

There was a man though, that knew it all. Not the source but the information. He would recite it to us everyday, every hour, every time we looked at him. It wasnt until one man pulled out all of his eyelashes and fingernail publicly as we watched that it occurred to us. 

Maybe its all a fairy tale, maybe this wasnt earth, maybe those things arent feet, fingernails, eyelashes, arthritis? So what were they?

Over time, it was decided, that we had forgotten where all of this knowledge had came from. But we hadnt forgetten the knowledge itself. Maybe, that reciting man made it all up, maybe he was just crazy, maybe he had just stood there forever doing what he did? Maybe time is relative and perspective is just a way to cling to what we think is truth? 

So, what would that matter anyway? Would anything change?

Then it happened, the ground turned red, people started dying like seconds ticking away on the clocks. Then someone suggested that we destroy the clocks, burn the trees, eat the heads of all the rabbits. So we did, thats how we became Martians. 

Like that experiment, the one where the guy makes the dogs salivate with a bell, life was like that. It had become instinct some said, to walk the paths, drink from the fountains, eat from the tin cans. Dance in the smoke filled rooms with mirrors.

But, now the ground was red, the fountains greenish moth soup, the trails hidden by burned and fallen trees, headless rabbits everywhere. 

So all instinct was lost, all knowledge forgotten.

Is life better on mars, maybe.

B--------(-->-)--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------[

In 1672 an Italian writer wrote a story about a man who could see other dimensions and his own at the same time. It was described as a story where, "the future, the past, the present, and the potential is scene as a smeared pool of ink." Of course the book is banned, it was deemed absurd and perverse. One critic states, "its like surgically making a penis into a vagina, then a penis could be inserted into the former penis that is now a vagina." But the critic was actually the writer pretending to be a critic who had seen the future, past, present but lacked potential, that writer had just invented marketing hype.

Although the Italian writers name is unknown rumors spread like wild fire. Everyone was looking for the book, the writer. Everyone wanted to know about this whole penis future present past potential surgery. Word had leaked that he could be scene wearing a green jacket in the red light district. Many men were lynched, laid, or held hostage in the conquest for the writer. Questions were being asked about the length and depth of the writing itself. Even a reward was posted in the streets for the writer and his ink.

Then atlast a page surfaced, hand written, the ink a bit smeared from moisture. 5 paragraphs and 3 sentences, on this page. At the top of the page 4 symbols were drawn in red, but the meaning or origin of these symbols were unknown. 

The person who had made this page public was a poor servant boy dressed in rags and green slippers. The servant boy said his master, who the boy was very loyal to, had told him to let everyone read this page. The handwriting was stunning calligraphy, the paper hand pressed, probably Persian. What was written on the page was baffling, confusing, and beautiful. 

The first paragraph was very descriptive, the second erotic, the third imbecile, the fourth breath taking, the fifth bleak and hallowing. But the last 3 sentences we where the trouble began and ended. It was a confession, a lie, a spoof, a falicy of the worst nature. Some of the words contained syllables, letters, the sentences had punctuation at times but it was all just made up, eventually published, then banned.

 I found a letter in the bottom of and old desk. The desk had been abandon, there wasn’t much left of it. But what do you expect when its out in the middle of the desert getting covered with bird shit. I pulled out a drawer, I was looking for firewood, kindling, something. The drawer was kind of stuck so I yanked, it came out shattering like I had hit it with a semi truck. When I looked inside where the drawer came from i found a picture. The picture was black and white, it looked ancient. The woman in the picture looked young, maybe in her twenties, probably just married, just graduated, something. Then I saw a scrap of paper in the drawer hole, it was old, brittle, I thought it would turn to dust if I wasn’t careful. This is what the paper said:

I buried you in the old oak grove

for the trees to have your bones,

to make their leaves.

So I could see you again.

And the bedroom floor looks like autumn,

if leaves were pictures.

Yellow streaks and dark smears, from age.

Just how you left us.

Sometimes I stair at the sky,

hoping to hear you call my name.

But its always cold wind blowing through my hair.

In the graveyard past all the unmarked graves,

I'll wait for you.

I'll wait for you.

Mercy quotes

while strangers prepared their graves.

Like distant eyes across a table.

Glasses clinking on hardwood shelves.

“her eyes are blood shot, colors lose their luster in time”

and mercy waited on a dirty park bench, smelling the forest fire,

she had started.

Screeching tires, gravel skidding, pavement heat burning eyes,

43 strangers had stood in line never making eye contact.

Words are better said in text by cold machines.

isolation supplies bitter and silent comforts.

Mercy sat in the morning, watching her breath,

“i am frost.”

embers in her forest fire die.

Distorted window pains, traffic documentations.

As strangers avoid eye contact out side the dentist office.

The distant humming traffic like waves on a shoreline.

“A stained handkerchief in a thrift store coat pocket?”

Mercy rolled her eyes, ripping the pages from a

novel.

The forest floor creaked under foot steps

the sun glared into cold eyes.

matchbox rhythm schemes in an old coat pocket.

“you can be free as ash in the wind.

set fire to the one thing you love”

mercy whispers.

(this is old but i feel like it belongs here.)

loosing your maturity

 19 34 56 29 33 10 11, the numbers you marked on the sheet, the numbers they called. Your flooded, you made it, the top notch. Its all yours. You call to claim it, they want your name address, I.D. social, everything, all you want is for them to admit you won this bitch but they wont. Its just pulling hairs, their turning grey as you let them pluck it. Pluck those chords, pull them, blood, cells hemorrhage. Its all just archaic blood cells. You dont have anything but paper with numbers. Just numbers.

So you wait, wait for the snow to fall, wait for the cave to become a cow. Your knuckles raw, your teeth falling out. You won fair and square that lotto is yours.

Julia walked onto the platform, heels and all, gown of red, dunce cap. They hand her a roll of paper, 5 people clap, just like they did for the other 29 before. Bland colors, an ocean of red, white grey, its all the same. That paper, you waited for for 13 fucking yrs to get, its your gateway, you paid your dues. It your turn for the world to want you, for you to conquer, conquests hear your roar.

4 kids, fat, grey, "I want my parties back, I want a whore, she'll fuck tonight if I get her drunk first. Ya I slept with her" "His Money stole all her love." "Our kids are just their own problem."

And you might have all the money in the world but your just an empty weak fragile little whole for the world to stick its raging cocks in. and you love it all the attention all the liquid. But youve rejected your family, they've rejected you. Which is all fine in the meantime cause how could this go wrong, ive got my helmet and seat belt on, and half a bottle in me.

Emptiness is all you are.
rinse and repeat.

pail moon sonnetts

Helena staired out a window from the upstairs of her granperents old house, watching the moon and the shadows in the trees. Its this time of year that the wieght of the seasons bare down on her full scale. Her eyes feel like theyve sunken to the back of her skull. And all she can think about was the words exchanged in a park lastnight. She had been walking, because of boredom, and the feeling of restlessness. Its common to her, when summer feels like its coming to a screaching hault that she needs to take in all that remains of it.

The stars feel the sky like dark angel eyes mismatched size and distance. Its strangely silent, warm, and the light of the moon hits the leaves making strange shapes. Laying in an opening, where the sky is exsposed she stairs trying as hard as she can too see how far out there she can. The clouds with there menacing grace texture the light from the moon. She wonders, dreams, thoughts scramble, shes lost..

foots steps on gravel from a distance, the direction is hard to place. The sound is there then moves somewhere else. Wind hits the leaves of the trees, skewing sound even more. Helena swears she just heard a sentence, her name in it. But she doesnt know anyone around here. Then deciding it was just her paranoia she goes back to her thoughts.

Again foot steps, words, foot steps words.

Helena wokes up shaking, disoriented. How long has she been here in the grass, the moon has moved across the sky. She was dreaming about a man in a black suite reciting poetry, about the moon, grass, leaves her. To her left she sees the figure, slowly standing up. He whispers "good night sweet soul". Takes two steps and vanishes into the shadows of the trees. Walking, as fast as her weak rubber legs would carry her, without drawing attention she walked home.

For hours helena has been focusing on her dreams, thoughts, everything, trying to place the mans face. She didnt see his face, but she knows it. Reaching into her jacket pocket she finds a piece of paper. On the paper is an outline of her dreams written in his hand writing.

Warren was growing old, brittle, gray. He could feel the grinding in his bones everytime he moved. He felt like a skeleton, stuffed with dust covered with pressed paper. His shoes were over 50 years old, the brand didnt exist anymore, the leather was outlawed when he was 20. warren still wore suits, bisiness suits, like what you see in the old films from the 30s. His jacket had an inside pocket he had custom sewed in. he carried a leather bound notebook in it, he bought in france. Most of the pages were filled with poetry, some empty, some tatters, crumbling like ancient tissue paper. Warren had an old fountain pen he bought with the book in this pocket as well.

It wasnt very often warren would remove the notebook from his pocket, but when he did he would write furiously. When he slept he put the notebook under his pillow, it never left his side, even when he baithed he put it on top of the toilet seat. Warren would dream about his poems, the poems were like a script. He would act them out, shoot colors from his eyes, lighting words from his mouth. But there was one poem he would re-wright over and over. It was about a girl he found in the park, sleeping in the grass. The moon made her so vivid, he wanted to touch her but was afraid.

Finally half atleast, since he first wrote this poem, before he ever recited it. He decided he would change it, make it a bit different, he had never changed one thing, not even where the words sit on the page. Warren decided he would whisper into her ear the poem into her ear. Warren wrote the poem, then wrought it again inside the poem.

That night in the dream, warren kissed the girl on the forhead. In the dream he was allways 20, so felt none of the creaks or grinding, it was his only exscape from it anymore. Then he wrote the poem on a piece of paper, recited it gently warmly into the girls ear. Put the paper in the girls pocket kissed her again. Then walked into the shadow.

Helena laid in bed, reading the poem over and over. Finally she went back to the park, went to the same place. Helena then read the poem outloud, softly. A figure appeared in the shadow, gently walking towards her, then whispered. "your awake, why do you have my poem? Whats your name?"

bladder function.

  Wake up, fingers hurt, im lost, im not bleeding though. Im looking for the carnage, it around here some where. Maybe its the sunset. Just neil and that bottle, what a bitch. Filled me up with errors. I threw things broke them. I feel cold I fell asleep in the swimming pool dodging bullets, paper chairs, syringes  little puppets in wheel chairs.
         the misses started her menstrual cycle, she just bleeds standing still, dripping down her legs. Her brown hair is a big mess perched on her head. "im hungry" she whispers. So carefully, I gut the french maid, I cook up an arm, a leg. i need the strength, im going hunting walking in the snow with polar bears, pitch white. Anchors over my shoulder blood drips down my cheek.

        I put up a fight last night they tell me. "We wouldn’t do a thing "you said. "You were mumbling about writing, Neil, center fold, abortions. Then you stopped dead center of the room started shaking, blood running out your nose. I thought you would piss your pants," she said.

"Nah I dont pee unless I want to, I still have a bladder to controll atleast." I replied. "I dont care" I yell," I dont really, I dont!" But still conviction is a matter I must uphold. "So eat a chocalote dog shit dick!," I yell. As the cherry covered waffle cops carried me out the door. The night air has a tinge of conspiracy and cop turd odor. "Im not paranoid" I shout as they touch my dick, put me in the car. You can pee in the toilet in your mind he/she whispers as he caresses my ass, setting me in the car. Ball Breath, is his name he has a toupe of rainbow colors, a big red beady nose. Shoes way to big, way too red. His pockets are filled with miniature hamburgers, toy cars, barbies and condoms. He likes to put his dick in his own anus and cum in a balloon, then dine on the contents.

          So there I am, in a cell, what the fuck. Neil young sits next to me singing about big bird. I want to tell him how I just started listening to his music. I want to say "hey man wanna jam?" but hes old and grey. Plus he would probably slap me. Then piss would run down my leg. like that 3 yr old in the grocery store yesterday. I think she was being "potty trained", so they say, no diaper. So her perents thought she was a BIG GIRL, took her too the store so she could piss her pants, make a splash. She splashed alright tears and all, that will make a big girl out of her, it would out of us all. Fatty!

         " finally," I rolled my eyes, walking out, the sunset making red flares on the sky. I had a tube of tooth paste, I was so ready to cook it up for dinner I couldnt wait, what a feast. Got in my hot rod, burnt asphalt and refugees as I sped home. I felt like that guy with the big gloves in that one movie. I saw robot ant hills on my way home. Their little dancey, dancey, poo poo walks. What a guy, what a guy.

         When I got home all the water had been replaced with urine. So I did the best I could to drink the blood of heyzues. I didnt have any french maid legs or arms. so I just ate the left over dog rotting in my colan with a side of toothpaste.
         After that the misses got home. She said,"oof im tired, my feet hurt, my head hurt im famished"
 So I said "well. Let me take a load off ya, put yer feet up." My erection raging, it works as a foot stool. Shes got that dark curly hair, the kind thats so dence it looks like an afro.
         " Mmmm," she says.
"Yep dont worry," I say, "I got this. Want some roast pigmy goat, its been marinatin all day in urine?"
          She says, "Nah i'll have some apple thou." "That a girl," I say.

I prepair a plate of apple de la apple le tu, her favorite. She says "berdabew". Eyes droopin, what a perdy bird, I think. She eats picking at it with a tooth pick little crumbs at a time. What a gal.

         Later on when my eyes are crossed I carry her down the hall to the bedroom. A little poof of a fart slippin by her gutter with each step. Put her in the bed, slowly, slipery hands, take her cloth off little at a time. If Im not carefull, i'll get excited, you know, but balls o da blues is how I am for her..

        I go back to my cupatea in the kitchen. Pickin my teeth, I helped her fall asleep, she was breathing heavy when I finally put that blanket over her, sweat on the back of her knees, breath warm like a fernus.

           But then I wake up, hands shaking, eyes broken, head hurting. I look in the mirror as hard as I can but im not there I can see the wall, the towels, the garbage can, my clothes from yesterday when I showered. I pick things up, move them about, but the mirror doesnt reflect. Then I get that notion, the one back in high school, when my first love, who liked the beatles, which is un healthy, made me watch that cartoon. It flashes back. Nowhere man in his nowhere land...... just alone empty glass of air..

9/1/11 "hold on to your butts!"

the window chamber maid whispered a 6 syllables sentence with her hair in the wind. In the morning twilight I could see what she wrote in the sky. The stars were hidding, in there six figure darkness parterns. In her eyes moving pictures telling stories about the back drop of her thoughts. 8 steps then lingering at the door, in a pause, lips twitchen then she walked out. It wasnt apparent for the next four hours. then, blaring distant sirens told the stories. The Doppler affect has its way of making you notice the distance expanding.

Awakening with gray finger nails, eyes blur, still hanging on to what was just there. Sweating but cold, room closing in. the clock tells lies about what happened while you were slumbering. And its just a dull ache, in your feet when you try to walk, its like everything bellow your knees are still in that dream. Her smell still in the back of your throat, you can still feel her the way she was beside you. But now shes just a dull memory.

Dense forest, trees so close there limbs message one another. Roots texture the ground, sparse grass, ferns, birds sing. Fast forward micro burst. Its all gone dust 10,000 yrs of tree dna strains gone. Oxygen has turned to acid, lungs can suck it in but it burns, heat rises upwards singing hair. Fast rewind micro burst, huge leaves everywhere, sand ground rumbles, volcanic ash blizzard rivers of red heat. Wings on your back you jump everything shrinks as air increases under foot.

6 syllables, I saw her jaw move in slow motion, words come out like a roar. 6 syllables but I cant make them out. Smile, sly look in eyes behind the windows. And im obsessing over nothing making all of this out of one little movement.

These strange creatures have there way of capturing you, making you go back to that moment, so you can try to linger in it. Try to figure out what the subtleties of her hand movements and eye contact meant. Even the way they walk is elusive. Everything about them is magic yet devastating at the same time. So hard to grasp and not go mad trying to dissect it all. "Oh well, oh well, oh well," says jack white, or "she met me then led me, and I ate what was fed me, till I purged every word in this song." im glad that guitars aren’t like woman.

("now for that trip down hill" -Raisin Eyebrows)

Im going to search for some specimens, capture them, disect them, scientificly and see how this works. I need to bait this trap though, i'll work on some stink bait. Bitches love the stink.

Lonerus Wolfius  your horror scope for the day:

your personality type has been identified as an INTJ. Your rare less then 1% of the population shares this type with you. your basicly a mad scientist mastermind or something. Also, neil young and van morison are god. which is why you might experience writers block.

god damn it how am I suppost to work with that. I could freeze this shit, make bricks and a shit igloo. Become a shit inuit, hunt shit whales. Fuck this is obcerd but I need to finis filling this page with fecies. Its a total train wreck writing 2 paragraphs at the same time. Stink loves the bitches yo. Oh ya shit again... when I get all obscene this shit flows like a hip hop mc with Augsburg. Fuck penut butter in my bed, penut butter in my head. Penut butter makes nice firm shit for igloos. Its the shit inuit version of escimo ice cream. "Also, neil young and van morison are god. which is why you might experience writers block." fucking asstrome, what the fuck. Writers block causes written diareah, well except it doesnt flow you have to force it out. I can feel my minds sphinkter slowly tearing as I purge each letter from it. And I still have half a ways to go. God damn it henry this was a bad idea, hopefully tomarrows page goes better this is pathetic. Now I really do neet to shit, hold up, i'll document...... 1 min later.. it was a dud.. I cant write I cant shit.

So I will attempt to rhyme. Orange... fuck! I cant even do that wait.. orange fuck like a … damn.im getting close tho, so close oh yes oh yes oh yes. Wait I think thats cheating. I cant fake an orgasm to fake not having writters block. What a fucking degression. Then neil sings, "from hank to hendrix". Damn what a fucking bad ass. Thanks neil for finishing my page,Your a god. Fuckoffimdone

editor's note: i didn't bother editing the end its rubbish so let it be rubbish. also writer cant type when aggravated.

8-30-11 and 8-31-11

8-30

 I woke up with her eyes burnt into my skin. Everywhere I looked I saw her pupils, like cutting daggers stealing my breath. But I didn’t ask her name before I was woken up by the thunder out side. I had just been thinking the day before how much I missed the rain. As the rain poured from my viewing post just inside the threshold of the door, I looked for the rain drops to spell her name. But there were no puddles for the drops to write in.

Sometimes days will pass and I realize I haven't had a conversation with anyone, sometimes just a few sentences are exchanged, that's it, doesn't count. But its been a long time since words have convened like heavy bricks building a castle, no just sand and bits of grass, dead bugs, ash, empty beer cans, dead birds, seems to be all we toss these days. Or just simple piles of dog shit, not even bullshit, just half digested balloon striped dog shit.

---

Helena prances about a half dead kitchen, shes tired its apparent in her eyes but not in her walk and smile. She gives little hints of what the warmth between her legs desires but shes got livestock to tend to. So it just comes out as a slip. like when your staring at a plate waiting for Jesus to make his body into bread and his blood into wine.  you haven’t eaten all day or much the day before. That one little drip of saliva that falls onto the bleached table cloth, sanitary. Making a dark Grey blotch and the fear turns your face read your head full of iron sparks. Since you don’t want anyone to know you don’t care. But you just want Jesus to stop his verbal masturbating and fork over his fucking bread and wine.

Then you think about the things you would do to that poor Helena, shes can be a raging bitch when he mouth gets warmed up over some event. You tune it out, listen quietly, like you have had soooooooooooo much practice doing. All those girls, those significunt others, trained you at. Your desire burning just waiting for her to shut her fucking mouth so you could fill it with your tingling cock.. but Helena is just a statue, a picture behind a sheet of glass in a frame. You cant touch.

But you wonder if she wouldn’t mind, at least, as much as you would if you could just take the frame apart, secretly, to feel the warmth hidden inside. Then on those nights when the bantering gets a little heated, she scurries off, trying to skip out the door. lingering awkwardly, dragging on the conversation.. then you wonder, does she think about you when she fucks the leprechaun? Maybe, he wont make eye contact with you, maybe she said your name while he was throwing his hotdog in her moist passage. And now he has to pump it up with a prescribed, device, a prostivac, since he cant afford the pill that does the cheap trick.

Then there’s that shape shifting creature again lurking in effervescent in my dreams. Sometimes she chases me with a chain saw, then when I quivering with fear she gives me the most loving handjob. With a little kiss on my earlobe, if I wake up shes gone, if I don’t she turns into a wraith prying her way down my throat then eats my heart a nibble at a time. I wake up either shaking off. the expection of  her to be there, its just an ice sickle lying there in empty space, barbed edges scoring my skin. Her name is lodged in my throat but its not a word just a razor blade threatening to cut if I materialize the words.

I’ve forgotten how to wander, I have left the streets un stepped upon for too long. My left leg, shin onward, turns into a lead hammer to remind me every other time I return. The asphalt of the streets carries a strange green hue with arrows saying “move, move, move!” but I know these streets, I know there names, there arch, there return policy. So I look away, avoiding altogether. I walk in the grass the sidewalks, the fenced in arenas of empty dust, carcass, roaches.

Then when my head feels so empty theirs nothing left to find, I pick up crumbs of past cooked meals I served. But it just brings me back to where I started, a dull lulling shell, of pity self defeat. But now that I know this can I build a weapon, hunt it down. Those little rabid squirrels that eat us away from the inside. Set traps with poisoned peanuts, apples with razor shards, flowers waiting for them to mark there funeral when they’ve died.

And the sparks of dragging old metal scraps around on these concrete devastation. Are they just instant or will the light start a fire, that makes an nuclear reaction to wipe this clean. will radiation wash down all the cancer in the throats of the sewers.

    8-31

A blond woman 5ft 2, and drunk out of her mind stands on a stage. Love shack blares from the speaker and she bellows “get out on the highway..” shes so out of key that its like nails on a chalk board. But most of the inebriated dim whits, infected, have no idea, they just stare at the pair of double ds stumbling around behind the microphone. The bar is smoggy, cigarette smoke, alcohol breath, and desperation pouring out of everyone's exhaust pipes. Its like swirling green fog around a pond full of herpified half dead peranas. But still the drunk pair of tits pipes on, and on. My fucking head hurts..

at the end of the bar a drunkard buys shot after shot for the dried up puss tunnel hes trying to stick his dick in. the bar tender paces cleaning imaginary s s to avoid getting to close to these living dead. No wonder my head hurts, pulsing throbs of needles.

Finally out the fucking door, its over. I wander home talking back and fourth with some shadow I cant see his face but I know him well. Hes a good friend I only have a few so its not hard to guess who he is. I burst through the front door wander to the couch, wait.. detour... piss time. As I walk back that old scum bag apears, the one I dread. Hes all friendly, or pretending, he becomes less and less like a person each time I see him. Shrinking a bit, eyes sinking in a bit, intellect falling down. A walking piece of shit if your not carefull he'll leave brown stains with his drunk stagger bouncing off walls as he goes.

     He starts touching stuff, my stuff, my guitars, he goes to my room hes so fucking drunk he cant stand. Finally ive had enough I tell him to leave. He gets to the back door ready to go drive home but he can barely stand up. I take his keys, tell him to walk his stupid ass home. I just want him out the door so I can lock it, lock him out. He gets mad at me, but I dont fucking care, he grabs at me. Suddenly were at the wall outside my room. He bounces into the picture on the wall, the old one from my great granma, smashing it, glass pictures every where. I grab him by the neck, its like hes an inflatable maniquin, my fingers grip tight. He starts walking like hes going to leave, he steps on my ukulele smashing it to bits, knocks over my epiphone taking a chunk out of the side.

Then the mother fucker goes for pinky, like hes going to drag it on the ground, drop it something. I fucking snap, his face hits the wall, my fist hits his face, blood on my knucles, over and over I pound his head into the ground. His head goes flat like and inflatable toy. But hes not dead, I throw him out the door like hes a child he smashes into the stairs more blood. But still hes alive, anamated atleast.

The cops come, they take him, im going to jail, hes going to die, im not sure what the fuck is going on.. its just gray and foggy. I walk into take pinky out of the case, kiss her, “i love you... I miss you”... I wake up...

            so of course after this I have to bust pinky out, and play her. After I finally fall back asleep, get up do whatever, coffee, shower, blah.. set up to record run throw a few takes with the dot to get it flowing. Left side done, bust pink out, amazingness, she takes complete controll. She channels riffs, fills, whatever from me. The songs giddy up, I dont know where those parts came from. towards the end but I had to back off a bit or the song would have went somewhere else alltogether. If pink would have had her way she would have re wrote her own version of the song I could feel it coming out of her.

      I dont understand this, I have a dream about my guitar, then I can feel her pulling things out of me as I play. Maybe shes jelous, maybe im being dramatic, but I felt something pulling. God I love that fucking guitar. What a whife..... I cant wait to throw down more tracks with her, write new black these out tracks, see what she does on the marooned recordings..

the funny thing about the dream is I didnt care about anything, the uke the cops, whatever. As soon as he touched pink I destroyed him. When I woke up im not sure how I felt, it was pretty intense but I wasn’t mad or shook up. I just had to walk around and catch my breath a bit. Make sure pinky was where she was suppose to be. Then I watched a movie, went back to sleep, woke up got ready. Then pinky took advantage of me... recording naked...

a page a day

i was listening to a henry miller interview and he was talking about a friend of his that wrote a page a day everyday. henry said " imagine what you could accomplish, 365 days in a year that's 365 pages."  then he went on, instead of doing it all in one mad burst, like i do, you can be consistent and not exaust yourself. so heres my page a day i guess.