Bits of skin nailed on.
Category: Writing and Poetry

(two very different sides of the same coin)....

.. ..

theresa's website was fairly deceptive.
when It asked me to join her network
her message talked of cummings
and a love for film
but when i got there
i see a shiny dildo sticking out of her mouth
and a list of positions she's held.....

.. ..

.. ..

------------------------------------------------------....

.. ..

Creature comfort....

.. ..

.. ..

and you
take me down to kindergarten
control, feeling up sophistication,
erudite detachment.  You
are the feline, im not allergic too
and even when the world liquefies
over and over, you are stable glass,
me poured over the slide, steaming
to solid.  the night of the creeps
just creeped out spastic hallways
bed sheeting to calm, even brilliantly small,
waiting for the next, no cohesion
is fine like sliver, you make me your pet.
and when
i saw the ink gleaned from
your imagination, in form of american typewriter into
message, it was 2300 miles away....

illuminated plastic carbon pixels and you
were typed words, synethesiac and insane,
around tired eyeballs.....

1:11 PM - 30 Comments - 50 Kudos - Add Comment

fuck everything about fucking usair, they are cunts
Category: Writing and Poetry

*writer's note for cock fucks that run usair*
fuck them and everything they're about.
it's good to be back in cali...
now for the inflight rant. 
cocksucking typical fucks,
booking flights home on orbitz,
sumtimes makes you lose sight
of the actual carrier that will
be taking you home...we got usair,
it opened me up, and bled the bile
of decayed memories
right out my gut.

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

"us airing our laundry"


we stomp onto usair waves flight
who gives a fuck,
the only important thing here
is remembering,
viscerally,
what these cocksucking fuckers
did to my dad's retirement.
the longlasting effect
of 9/11
beyond the destroyed life
and ruined families,
in the aftermath,
was the destruction of major airlines.

rise of the phoenix, air bus
shuttled into the new way,
now it's gas,  stuff my body
into that second piece
of luggage, it might weigh
over fifty pounds.

i squeeze into my center seat,
fucking pissed,
over the memory,
of watching my father come apart
at the seams
for a corporate bailout
signed into law by bush,
making his retirement dissappear.
to save the already dead airline.

we sit there.
vibrating
sucking in pressurized air
dropping out the sky
every little while
from lack of cushion,
lack of atmosphere,
in a
737,
for sure,
handled by my dad
countless times.

no upgrades to usair's planes
just the reminder
of 90's luxury.

a blurred voice
pokes through the
condensed atmosphere
of the cabin,  the captain's voice,
deep like a son's hate
mumbles his way through a hello.
run-on lines in the contours
of a tired pilot
treated like a sales manager
at sum fast food restaurant.
cocaine nose
dived, blinked
into
just another fucked up story.

we find cruising altitude,
sum nonforeign woman
squaks out the options
of beverages
for our trip back west.

water
juice
coffee.

i look over at Her.
fucking typical.  nothing can save these people
they're pulling on arms and legs
of the healthy swimmers
as they drown.  cunt
fucks.

the nicked dinged beverage cart
lumbers up the aisle.
no ice avaliable.
the juice is lukewarm.
the coffee lukecold,
i aske Her for a sip
just cause i know.

i slowly imagine my dad back in the cockpit,
the job he loved,
did well,  kept people alive
hurling through the sky in 500 tons of metal
going six hundred miles an hour,
gravity defying hero worship,
how he spoke clear over the intercom
how he hit landings like a good dj
made mixes,
no one noticed.
the craft of blending.

me, my brother, my mother
smiling, weightless,
sitting in the cockpit
before take off, just watching
dad
get ready. 
the memory fucking sours and bleeds
into a blank present,
one that includes him working
some meaningless job that is slowly
turning him
to jaded decay.

usair was still dead
already dead
the evaporated soul stained
in the hourglass of one fine morning
in september.

and then this over the intercom
"we are now offering twenty five thousand
free miles on your usair visa mastercard
if you purchase it today.  our flight attendents
will be coming around with applications for your
usair visa mastercard credit card, thank you
for choosing usair"
this is the fucking captain fucking saying this.
i sit there with my warm juice.
fucking flight attendents start walking down the aisle
with usair credit card applications.
dumpy flight attendents reduced to
telemarketers
bump down the aisles with handfuls
of usair colored applications.
i look over at Her.
we don't even smile in horror,
it's so fucking pathetic.

9:22 PM - 40 Comments - 56 Kudos - Add Comment

i do not drive on my day off for fear of falling in love.
Category: Writing and Poetry

more is...more.

im nicer
when my teeth ground
in a dance .
i was more nice
when happy
was like a meal .
i talked more
when being destroyed,
had little to do
with rubble .
i talked less
when you had
my attention
in the palm
of your mind .
i hated more
when i loved
i raged less
when the day
ding donged
the front bell .
i thought more
when my heart was blank,
post it notes
to the future .
i loved more
when i was naked
with all my clothes on .
i dressed you up more
to the tune of jaded nuance .
i was torn
when i stayed in tact .
i hid more
when the light washed
those dirty clothes .
i exposed more
when god blinked
too long

1:57 PM - 34 Comments - 62 Kudos - Add Comment

uneasy gore
Category: Writing and Poetry

then the fighting started.
slit eyed murder, bodies slapping
against tree trunks.  craft an accent
throw a priest in the corners
let him dip his hand into your soul
take a bite out your eucharist
see the aftermath as we run around
each other, posturing to fly first.
i want my blessing in latin
my america in the middle
the chorus to come with validation.

secure the right to give up.  pause
with your left hand, use your right for volume
use all fingers to lick delicious
dripping off, your off you got,
call it learning. later, slack the face
retire from heaven
resign from god
keep the change
accept the blank,  tear through
the verses,  we are fucked, scriptually,
we know resentment, carnally,
zip whip electro wands find no Christ
buzzing in our diaphram.  that christ needs
singular lexicon, unconfused hair color and
and and the depressed trigger of logic,
let brain waste out
the rear carnage,
drip sweet faith,
watch the ink stain this temple and you're
you're greasy stigmata, matted hair fervor, wild tongues, cordial cordiality, four star love, kleenex tears,
keep that.  all of it.  use your express card to see me burning in hell to make sure there's a heaven for you.

12:47 AM - 47 Comments - 60 Kudos - Add Comment

bummed.
Category: Writing and Poetry

he stood there
steaming.  right
out the charcoaled pits of hell.
his skin sooted so black it purpled
peeling off in flakes.
his pants legs
decayed to streaming scraps.
neither hand worked
gnarled fists stunted,
a dazed bounce
no vacancy
in his eyes i was watching
a small dog shit in an alleyway
beside chin chin's
when the aftermath of this man
produced out some hole
underneath wet garbage
near the disassembled care
of hollywood
nightmared into public
i wanted all his stories
and voices
on me, in me
right that second.
it was selfish.
i didn't want
to not exist
to him.
his face so sweet in its madness.
a lucid zombie
here to kiss our eyes
with the picture of terror
over how easy
getting lost
was.

6:56 PM - 48 Comments - 88 Kudos - Add Comment

eat your fiber. optics
Category: Writing and Poetry

offline stumped in cyber
logs, the raw footage
amateur grain
barely a sprout
needing a
byte we will need three grand
it will be grand, the story
is this, life was always going
to go into a hole,
    back online the smiles got wider
ruined throats reveal a tired larnyx
done with talking done with breeding words
forgiven of thought to bleeding
ulcers perforated stomachs hovering
cells, two by four punching into
work, like socialists like social lists
composed, saved, back up
rebels into nine to fives, drawn
weapons firing off shells.
take a deep breath, rewind back to reel one
the real one ready to remind you why
you were write
a glaring utensil filling in lonely blanks
waiting for the eighties to come back
before dying in your fifties
from pot smoked stews
cooking on the stove top
loose stuff stuck against the roof
of your mouth.  the blood pan
in the brain dry and creaky.

8:37 AM - 36 Comments - 55 Kudos - Add Comment

on mushrooms pt.1
Category: Writing and Poetry

1

            turn  of
the key

when the magic           mushrooms
into bar clouds
       the coin topped      over a beer's mouth
a reminder to come back.

the percocet
will dilute       
 your equilibrium
          and for the fine
feeling of fried
be sure

2

slowly walk around the parking lot
become glued to a device
it will take the glancing blows
      strange pains and noises
that side
effects your center
the affects laid center
clipped scenes scattering universes
      put that mag
a zine, or total consciousness
away.  it's not street legal
much like digesting absinthe
making that man holding a candle
behind a drunk singing
      take on me
at his bar seat, with a motorcycle
helmet, on, important.
           it's not karaoke night.
it's not even night.  it's morning and you've been up 18 hours
soaking in chemicals.

3
 

times
the sound of live
and once inside the buzz
take your shoes    off
operate, from two stories back
    inside yourself
three characters deep
produced from pros
scribbled in margins

thirsty and growling
these internal wails
that keep the party     roped in
don't let go of the
seams to you, him, her, and god
this juicy black orb
of night
needs a little bit
      of You.     

9:57 PM - 35 Comments - 52 Kudos - Add Comment

care? a walker stringing silhouettes

the pastoral elegance
framed and framed
black and white
out for consumption for
diseased patronage
hand cut
serene hate and ash
bury all sharp edges blurred
     perfect and helpful
cargo, authentic and
mary without a cherry
no one wanted to notice
still intact
in bloom
sweet rot stuffed in strummed
banjos, pleasant smiles
enjoyable toil
stacked up past
reaching the ceiling
freed animals
milling about scrap
collages colored in
by musing shadows
tripping over type
write words, wilt
in halls, in eyes, bagged heads
dangling from truth
breaking the seal,
wet and slobbering
for the future
in denial over how
to compete
with reconciliation.

9:15 PM - 28 Comments - 32 Kudos - Add Comment

that place. ____ place
Category: Writing and Poetry

i would take sum
for some.

9:06 PM - 29 Comments - 36 Kudos - Add Comment

after seeing a doe eyed girl and neck hung rabbit on a grassy plain

early developmental
social skills
in yawning alarm
meant for the faces
of decaying pure
stretching out the young
into new, sometimes,
it's not this
but rather the aftermath
of a traumatic scene.
perhaps a neck hung rabbit
staring deadly at your back
it's not wasting away yet
it's frozen with blacks and reds
a look of relief. the neck not fully
released. the girl prone with expression.


the hung rabbit doesn't make me sad
in fact i feel empowered by its leering posture
the girl almost unconcerned, her hair parted with the idea of dead breeze,
small flower weeds held out to some invisible entity
in her clutched hand
off frame. the shivers raised
and parted me, reminded that stiff
grassy plain
it's not so plain.

i feel emotionally connected to the characters in this scene.



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


also. check this out...


clickity clack on the stat ack.

1:36 PM - 31 Comments - 64 Kudos - Add Comment

after a single piece of spice went against me.
Category: Writing and Poetry

upon realizing
that we would need to
enter a room
that possessed
the capability to calm
through monotone colors
and the odor of disinfectant
we all sneered.

after contemplating
the success rate
of flu vaccination
and the reemerging trend
of crowd control
we deduced
that we weren't really sick
but just forgot that anybody
was really well.
that we weren't wishes
falling down the hole
hoping to splash in the hidden pond?
no. the sum difference
in all of this
was two tablespoons
of sizzling neurons
tangled in the brain


upon realizing
one's imagination
didn't double as reality
we slowly backed away
from the table
taking stock
of the vivid flash
of disappointment
on each other's faces.

now
and then
when we watched commercials
for minutes
it turned into a sad riot
of laughing to hide tears to hide
what seemed to be the accepted
convention of insanity
by very small doses
everyday
over the course
of an entire life
until rendering you adapted
and when cracks in the shell appear
and you look at the circus
for the first time
it all seems easier to take
than the first eighty four times.

and we weren't good
at rope ladders
at traveling the tunnels of your mind
or coping or fingering the truth out of adolescence.



after realizing that the cast and crew
is probably dead and that we
are probably dead and that life lived
is still probably a form of dead
for sum. and that sum is some
unfortunate condition. everyone cheered.

after realizing we would need handlers
we decided to put on an extra coat
and wait for it to dry.

1:18 AM - 35 Comments - 62 Kudos - Add Comment

sell death.
Category: Writing and Poetry

or

_________




i would like to kill you
now. know
you
were never welcome
but slipped in
with God, totaling
the vehicle. in?
sure, its merely sanity
a stupid thing
a poorly written novel
with compelling plot points
well paid
mimics
of something very
very close
to _________,
a jarred = librium
enough space to double


shoot immobile targets
with hair
brained ideas, chirping with the birds
around the crown
cartooned buffoon, take my single

space, a shrink wrapped tonsil
quivering and inflamed and choking you
with its existence.
and
we don't know what _______
is anymore. and when we say
compelling
we mean compelling
in that it makes us
want to wilt
be dried,
stuffed
into a memory book
of poorly thought out
ideas.

1:39 AM - 46 Comments - 86 Kudos - Add Comment

sick shine

motel sixes atmosphere smelled
like universal studios theme park ride
the land before time sit through and
stinging air, it is because the personnel
are on meth. it is because we were done
with a day of goodwill
shopping. the click click click
of metal hangers shuffled through.
it is because she told me
that it is not normal for her not to
remember the lost moments before she
goes to sleep. the anatomy of nightmares
just on the other side. she paced the space
hardwood floors, chilled air, sting in the air
from shook-up cans of disinfectant.
lets get pepped.
200 milligrams of caffeine
per serving
millions of customers. Maron just
told me about metaphysical books
i told her im not into self-help books
she told me showed me her notebook
with big looping scrawl in red
about the newest author that saved her
i told her save me a seat, she punched up the room
i punched up a smile
and went, emptied the trashcan, put new
liner on it and filled the womb with ice.
im still not pepped up
and Arizona still pushes the sun
on us, drug feen skin blushing
under the buzz. and she says im a freak
and i say that's what you need.
we decay socially. all hesitancy flies out
our well air-conditioned room
bits hiding under polyester/nylon blend
of 43.98 a person
and one small pet. one small pet.
surely must be clean
the fluids bounce right off. better be careful
if you pull out on this bed
the semen will bounce right back into the vag.
this is why i love her. this is why we forget
the world. why we drone down broadway
at 5am, post vomit, post anaphylaxis, dazing
towards the dennys. ready to give the freeze dried hero
serving coffee
a zombie audience, minus the hands
minus the lucidity, plus the intense fervor
of delirious conversation.
she reads books differently, i want to wipe
the light
off her
mouth.
she ducks
a lipton tea bag in and out
she uses a spoon to press the tea
against a fork over the cup, draining the caffeine,
i sit and watch, she would never know.
i sit and watch.







     the small tv, dead, glares with reversed countenance
         trapped us
         in dull shine
         we don't need them, we have twin copies, house
         of leaves and God
         is an equals sign.

2:13 AM - 43 Comments - 68 Kudos - Add Comment

miss’d
Category: Writing and Poetry

the table dance left us speechless.
i wanted more.  but couldnt account
for why.  we hadn't asked for it.
two hundred pounds shaking
around importantly.  i missed seizures.
i exchanged eyeball looks
with a fellow horrified person.
not even good natured smiles could cure
what had just been done.  we didnt
know who this person was.  i was
on a business meeting.  we were discussing
marketing strategy for texas barb-que
and a small yellow colored pig
thats the clients mascot.  it looked
like a thing to violate with your enemies
genitals.  copy writing deviance with
declarative sentences.  and proper punctuation.
i'm disgusted by our competitors pitch.
it involves a banner that reads, best barb-que.
a member of our team has disguised his morality
as curiosity and hacked into their weakly defended
mainframe.  it was so pathetic that we referred to it
as a mainframe.  she took the contents and we
incubated a response to their approach
over appetizers.  then.
this person jumps up on our table
and dances.  im so confused
that by the end ive forgotten what we are doing.
mustard based pork bbq reminds me of second place.
we miss the project.  two days later
our entire unit is fired.  the dancing mass
is still in my head.  the receipt for our memories
tacked on a spongy wall.  forever.

10:37 PM - 44 Comments - 85 Kudos - Add Comment

the universe microwaves radiation under the tongue
Category: Writing and Poetry

acid,




She wants me dead. I can tell.
I'd taken acid this morning.
Blotter. On tiny squares of paper. Purple in color.
It is quickly turning into a bad idea.
Earlier, in my car, on PD level, by the carwash ran by extremely tall Mexicans I think I've seen a goblin hiding behind the rear tire of a Mazaradi A purple one. It is obviously a metaphor. The Goblin's face is liquid gas. A swirling look of innocuous hate. I quickly move towards the elevator lobby. It takes me eight minutes to make the fifty-foot walk. At points, each leg seems to be moving on its own accord and in different directions. It's very difficult.
The ceiling of this parking structure shakes like a metro line is housed directly above it.
A large Indian man seems extremely pleased to see me at the elevator. I put my hands up in defeat and turn away.
I make it to the 10th. I grab a coffee. Pouring three containers of half-and-half into the steaming contents. I take a sip and immediately dump the rest of the cup out like a whip. The small grains near the bottom don't go down the drain. I watch them sit and dry out for a moment. Then I spin around, abruptly, and with purpose. Tim stands there staring at nothing. I look at him so wildly and uninhibited he's actually nice.
"Good morning Caleb."
"I don't see the relevance of working on Wednesdays, Tim. And. I've found that half-and-half is clearly rotten milk diluted with antibiotics to stunt the growth of consumers and office workers. I wouldn't be surprised if this is in collusion with medical doctors. Private and common practices."
Tim laughs through the eccentric talk.
"Well, doesn't look like it's stunted your growth."
"That's what you think Tim. Fortunately, I can hide my tragedy."
Then I'm off. The hallway reminds me of a shadow on reflective steel.
I take the opposite way to my desk. Counter-clockwise.
I try not to slow down as I trudge. I feel like I should be mad and jaded but don't understand why.
Each passing hole, leading into an assistant's office, turns me inside out. I silently mumble useless obscenities aimed at making the whole place morph into Disney world. Fuck Disney Land. Clearly, the less classy location. The specific word, 'clearly' is now all I see in my mind. I don't know what to do with it.
I get by Tammy's office.
Her eyes are spaced too far apart. Her mouth a slick mess of manipulated skin.
Tammy is the owner's executive assistant. And she wants me fucking dead.
I duck by.
I get up to my desk. Assistant A immediately knows something is wrong.
"You ok dude?"
"No."
"What's up?"
"I'm tripping balls."
He cracks up.
"Yeah, yeah. What's new?"
I'll tell you what's fucking new. I just saw your face melt away then reconstruct itself into a puzzle depicting Salvador Dali on the space shuttle Colombia before burning away upon re-entry.
"That was sad."
Wait a minute




.





Four hours later.
I can't move anymore. Both hands plastered to the keyboard. I've just been tasked with coordinating re-shoots for one of our "shows" about a girl who can't get fucked.
"The list isn't that long. But we need all the actors' on-set by 8AM East Coast time."
Jesus.Was that English?
The phone keeps looking at me with this sly grin. Overhead, the wash of fluorescent lights keep dimming and intensifying, making me sick. Assistant A can't shut the fuck up. What's her name beside me just did an incantation for the Wiccan new year. The saddest part about that is I know her antics have nothing to do with my current chemical composition. But rather, just one of her many multi-cultural rituals. They bleed together. We could see Armageddon tomorrow for all I know. Or. Just as easily experience a transcendentalist euphoria that involves blood shed but ending in epiphany for all cultures.
"Uhhh."
When are the reshoots?"
It is hard. Making that sentence happen.
It seems like it was hours ago he had told me about this event.
"It's on the email. Huhhu."
Assistant A always laughs when he's annoyed. It's endearing usually. But, right now it makes me feel like I'm listening to fat albert after the magic ended for the show.
"O."
The phone rings.
"Would you mind getting that?"
"Quartz post."
This whiny, unhappy voice sulks out a diatribe about needing the boss for a conference call. I immediately distance myself from having the capability to make that happen. She continues with a deeper whine. Like her life sucks and all of this Hollywood crap is ruining everything. I can feel the octaves of her noise on my ear drum. A disjointed, shrilling nightmare reminiscent of shaving metal.
Out of nowhere.
"Fuck."
Then.
I can't talk anymore.
I think I have a handle on what's happening to me but I don't.
Silence from my end.
She sounds like she might burp up tears.
"Are you there? I really need to see her."
I look around desperately. I feel at my tongue to make sure it's still there. It is. This incredibly, slimy thing that gives me shivers.
I hang up.
"Who was that?"
I leave the office and go to the bathroom. Halfhazardly pulling at my pants.

1:06 AM - 35 Comments - 62 Kudos - Add Comment