Thursday, December 30, 2010
Scholastic Songs of Discovery
Songs that filled her with life,
Music beyond the furious strife,
To set the motions free,
To heal with the wounded knife,
So we may finally see,
The mountains through the mist,
Of histories finest forsaken myth,
That the churning of the soul is real,
To cut forth dimensions in time to kneel,
Kindling the hope of lesser riffs,
Through the lonely world of music,
You’ve cast aside like a gem,
Held tight in a ring
You’ve never given him.
Heart felt music was new to him, the playing of cast iron songs felt over a sea of pure reckoning, of furious balancing—a place to hear the beauty of destruction. The howling of wolves; the playing of space and time, beyond what we know as a reality so caught up in dancing to the tunes of romance—here he sits, remembering eons ago, lonely with a pipe and feeling the creeping lunacy of it all spin its fine web around his head. He can’t sit still. The watermelon has been smashed in front of him; the cars were caught in a catapult of rotten eggs, flower, water and sour kraut. They’d throw with spoons at moving trucks, the owners got out and spread their words of illusion, all coming back to him now, hearing that golden riff playing backwards inside his cortex, like Mozart to his wine, this was the euphoric play with anti-matter’s absent headache. He felt good, once and for all, the bic lighter was his best friend, a cheap set of headphones were his girlfriend now. She was gone, in the distance of making out on a worn-out couch, or in a car, shirt off, in the shallow waters of teenage lust, and ptomaine tastes of flesh and spit and conflagrations of warm deceit. The era was here; he knew he could trust his friends. They would camp in the mountains, where they would be free—he could remember some T.S. Eliot then, and remember that for all time, he was sailing now, listening and listening to the rhymes of nature emitted from a sallow set of earphones; he was hallow and anesthetized. He was hollow; cadences of crickets would bother him until the day he fell from the floor decayed like rotten potatoes, walking around sifting through the rough roads of memory, all the while in love with the thought of amphetamine flowing casually through his thickened blood—that was heard from the gallows of pain and delusion to strike him like a bolt of lightning straight from the skies of hell. Satan smoked his weed with him, hearing his own sounds emitted from the player to play the saddest simple solos cast in a degree of solitude, for he, and he alone was the only fan of all this racket, the sounds of his heart ticking in beat with God’s penurious rays of heat, and ill-reputed rebellion struck him; was he good or bad? Was this right or wrong? The feelings breaking through the doors, while change through the hall, dropped by swans in love with the economical chances of spring—spinning their wings with the roulette table of death, we now hear them sing. So he would camp soon, high in the woods of a hero’s Mind; the place of redemption from schools ugly impression, getting picked on by rich kids and throw to the wolves by the bullies. There he was free; and he was popular, even to Mary, who would wait until he came, and then they would talk and talk, of suicide, of life, of all the states of being in between love and hate. It was a Romantic time in his life, he knew this, and wanted all to fade away for once. Forever. Girlfriend, lost again, another one spiraling into the fading sunset of her little room in her little town with her little family above, singing about beer and cocktail parties they’d been to. She could leave now if she wanted, but did he really want this? Or was he playing a game with himself now? A ‘catch me if you can cataclysm’ that no one could ever untie. Running now, not jogging to the medicine he’d take for life’s rich time.
And Sandra would sit, hands held over a folded book, some Stephen King novel she’d read many times before—just waiting for him to come back to her. She wasn’t sad. Not really. Just mixed up; confused with life. At fourteen the road was simple; now all complex and riveted with tightened romance and bereted incontinence. She felt torn apart, but not really. She felt held together in the arms of another boy. But was that possible? Her seeing herself with someone else, this was so new to her. Her skin and her sexual drives to conquer marriage and have kids and grow old with him, sitting on rocking chairs, feeling the strife of death nearer now. Nearer now than ever before, she saw one day when he was going crazy, driving at speeds he should have been thinking of only in dreams. But, he was speeding towards a tree, at least in her imagination—reality spun a different web, of course. But the End was there, being thrown off the edge of Niagara Falls, being pushed of a cliff—to sink into the ground like those characters of that haunting yet comforting book. Now the sounds would repeat and repeat: “He’ s with another, so why shouldn’t I?” These were not voices, not talking of someone else in her sturdy head. These were simply tones of being, drilling comforting thoughts in her elated head—thinking now of school and Tony, not the same old Gerald, he was camping somewhere now, with his friends now. Yes, he was smoking pot and doing whatever else they did there. “Way ‘up’ in the mountains” he would say, where Joy and Mary used to sing along with the guitar of Bradon, while Gerald and Stan would hide in the trees, spying on the elders smoking their marijuana, which some fat guy called a “weed salad,” cause it had all different types of dope in it: home grown, kind bud, brick, etc. He’d tell her all about that, and the time that Adam’s heart stopped. Playing of course, but real as hell at the time, while he and Brandon and Adam walked through a fern field that looked like an Elf lawn, leading up to a cottage where the “magic points” were. He said they’d sit by the fire and the time would “switch,” for him at least. He would see them all fade away, then come back again, as Doug Stingland walked down to the creek with them and smoked a glass bubbler Kurt had brought along, that had stickers of swastikas, and then they’d listen to Lords of Acid singing Macho Man. Yeah, that all came back to her, as she opened the book again and began reading all about the time that “Captain Trips” gushed around the land—literally gushed, like water from a pump: the “Super Flue” it was called, killing almost all of humanity, aside from some main characters, including Judy and Randal. Judy had a baby on the way. She was Judy, and Gerald was Randal now, only she was sick on being alone, and his brain was sick on drugs.
Sandra decided to pick up the phone and call someone who cared. She decided to call Tony her “best friend,” that is until the last Fair, when she and Gerald got together. Tony and she would do all the things that a couple would do, aside from the physical distractions—that is, go to the movies, and talk and talk and talk, often from the side of the pool he had in his backyard, which was only three houses down from her. He had his friends, too. Just as Gerald did, only younger and more in tune with having fun in reality. Diversion with a twist, that is, for Gerald who was so used to getting into trouble or doing drugs or this year, both. Tony was tall and strong. Probably he could have kicked the crap out of Gerald, and Gerald knew this; he knew this with a passion. He wished he were strong; physically fit—but smoking grass and passing out in an apartment’s bathroom after drinking too much Milwaukee’s Best, didn’t promote a healthy muscle tone. Tony was big too. She didn’t know, but she suspected in all the right places. She could tell this when they would sit on the side of his pool and speak of the time that they went to the movies and held hands. That was great, she thought, as she opened her cell. The number was on her phone still, she had never forgotten it either. Why would she? Gerald and her had only been together for…whoa..six months now, seems like an eternity for a young girl. Seemed like forever for Gerald. Gerald seemed to peer down from the mountain top assuring her that he was being faithful; telling her in a soft tone that he was being good to her. He would never again pick up the couch she was sitting on, with strange strength, and throw it against the wall. She put down the phone, believing this now to be the truth. Her astute sense of credence was in full gear now; she could see him there, Gerald, doing whatever he was doing, just having a good time, maybe with that Adam kid. Boy he was cute.
Adam was cute, in fact, he was so cute that Kurt even thought he was attractive. Damn fine, Kurt would think, as he looked into Adam’s eyes as they walked down to the creek, with the flashlight in his hands. No, no, he was not homo. No way. That was a strange feeling that came over him, especially that night, when the moon was low, and the sounds of the river finding him was placing him in the fearlessness of persuasion—to ask and receive, to bend the rules and descend on the time of primitive faith: the time to cut away the modern beliefs of reason, and an era to sing along to the harmonies of nature’s everlasting systems of belief that held no signs of progress, just continuous sounds of cicadas buzzing away, as he stared again into the eyes of his friend. But now he saw the bond between; so strong, they would be best of friends one day, playing video games at eighteen and singing along to Metalica in his basement Kurt would wreck the place in thought and complaint about some guy he worked with at Denny’s, some guy named Mark Shooter. Kurt was sure that Mark was giving him the “look.” That look that he wanted to bear his child. That homosexual look. Ah! He would scream as he busted another beer can against the washing machine. That is why I took that turkey and rubbed it against the floor drain before putting it in that omelet. That is why I spit on his toast. That is why…
Calm down, Adam would say, sensing something deep within Kurt’s soul, something mean and dangerous, yet calm and pacifying as well. This feeling of belonging, to someone, to something was so gratifying to Adam, who was lost, yes, hidden though prominent in the group already as the New Found Savior, of what? Of shit? Of lies? Of painkillers up his nose, one day, somehow eating all the shrimp he could feast upon with dextromethorphan in his mouth, mixing around like a new testament leper coughing cherry blood from his decaying mouth. Adam really did love them all. He cared more than all they knew, but Kurt was special to him, hiding in their own world of mushrooms and lysergic acid, and speaking to the dead as though the Dark Side of the Moon was their anthem, sung before the cosmic ball game would be played, mixing all of them together, side by side, all these tender fools, holding on to something in between the laughter of hedonism and the coughing of suffering. Adam would watch this all take place, all these shadows upon the beer splattered wall in which Kurt was engaging his act of homo-phobia—tossing and turning inwardly. The money was calling as well. He could feel the coins drop into his hands, someday, all the while Mary was waiting for the magnetic force of her pen to drive the songs she would sell and exchange for happy looks from strangers.
As odd as she was, her shoulders hunching like Richard Nixon, her eyes set on something outside the car, hearing the smoke, actually “hearing it.” This was synesthesia at its finest; she could tell that the misty smoke to play ten years ahead of her, her songs of this lust, of not feelings for anyone aside from the poetry anymore. “The words, the fucking words,” she would mutter underneath her breath as she took the cracker and did some more nitrous. But these chemicals were so simple to her now. She was three years older than these old chaps, almost finding solace within her new group of “friends.” Those she found in Town, where she worked at the Uni-Mart. These simple mind-altering substances were nothing but a sham to her now. She could hear the birds outside. She could taste them now. Delicious. Her delicate palate soaked up their flight patterns when as she sat in the backseat casting her spells on them all, feeling the frightening sense of dying from no air to breathe. But that was all the fun. That clinging to the limb with two fingers, waiting for the subtle wind to deceive her—asking her to carry her upwards, instead of down to the rockets screaming across the barren skies of the moon. The darkened moon, silent moon, goodnight lunacy, only for now, only for now; she thinks as she offers them a suggestion.
“Let’s go outside and listen to Brandon play,” she said, as they all nodded their heads and opened the car doors. They saw not one, but two of him now. Brandon strummed on his guitar, always on the outside, but inside he could feel the gripping sounds of silence, and this always pissed him off. He hated quiet. He wanted it all, to be singing in a four star hotel lobby, to sing on stage in some worn out bar someday. He was a double high fidelity and needed a leer jet to shuffle him off to different directions, both of him, business man and party dog, he knew he had it coming. All of the distress of being known to the world, the world in which Gerald saw his future, as he called out for him to play some Nirvana. Brandon agreed wholeheartedly, since that band had it all one day. Those of the next generation never knew that. Generation X these kids were, high on themselves and change, the Clinton attitude of hearing Brandon play ‘All Apologies’ in perfect tune with Cobain, and then he broke off into Kurt’s favorite REM tune at the time, “Half a World a Way.” He thought that Stipe really bared his soul, that is, if that rich fuck had one in the first place because he was in that gentle place where the highest force would take away Brandon’s soul, leaving him without the only thing he ever wanted: acceptance. But, he played on. Remembering the times when they would all play baseball thinking that they were stars. Now he had that chance. He was good. His father was a great guitarist as well. He even had a studio set up in his room, with a synthesizer and all. A perfect place for a kid to grow up in, alone, in a room of music, scratching his head as to why those fools never let him in. The ordinary place where they all had driven themselves downward into a hole, a place with no cocaine to buy them women, with nothing but downward spirals into normalcy. But Brandon also had another side, a side hidden away from them all, even that of Adam, who knew Brandon since his toddler days when they would pretend that they were circus clowns. Brandon was still a clown. He was still the guy that called out to Jim Thorp when he was on Dextro. Those first days of the drug. Those times when they would all say ‘we all cool’ and stare at Gerald’s patterned shirt. It was all without a say one of the greatest times in their lives. Driving away the demons they’d all carry with them forever, until the love of their soul-mates would carry them into another eon away—a calm day when their babies were first blooming inside of their love’s wombs. They would all throw away the torches they’d set so carefully; back in the time where everyone wants to be. Young and alone and filled with the music of Brandon’s urgency.
The speeding feeling of doing something about this hole in her gut was pulling her to that phone. Just one phone call. He was having some kind of life up there, while I sit here with my friends on facebook—simply dreaming of the times when Gerald and her would spend, the happy days. Those that they were bombarded by that cow when they were staying at their trailer at the Fair. They were inside, thank goodness, but that bovine creature was outside breaking free through the feelings they felt for one another. That memory of Tony fades away into the night of holding Gerald so close that their heads seem to become attached, like conjoined twins, so near, but so far away. Like the Pacific to the Atlantic, both oceans, but the distance between is vast. Sandra would recall the times when they had his birthday party. On New Year’s day. A beautiful time to be alive. Fourteen, he sixteen, not seeing the need of prescience stalking her now. She wanted to know what would ever happen of him; what would ever become of her, that is, if things remained the same—but they never do, the same sad echo always played along with the music, but the song was never the same. It was like a CD played backwards then forwards again, playing the currents of an ocean machine set on high, for her to drift off into sleep. She could hear the waves crashing, but into which irritating beach this time, which confused jetty? She was mixed-up, in a blender of feeling him next to her holding hands at the prom, or maybe she would be off with Tony, spending time in the woods behind their house, kissing, as if for the first time.
It was these days when the first time was always now. Gerald was not playing the same songs over and over as he would in the future of his long life of illness. He was discovering them for the first time. He was seeing through their eyes—and the petrifying power of it all made him stand up next to the smashed watermelon and breathe, just breathe in the thought of freedom to exist underneath in the fallout shelter of a charmed life.
Songs that filled her with life,
Music beyond the furious strife,
To set the motions free,
To heal with the wounded knife,
So we may finally see,
The mountains through the mist,
Of histories finest forsaken myth,
That the churning of the soul is real,
To cut forth dimensions in time to kneel,
Kindling the hope of lesser riffs,
Through the lonely world of music,
You’ve cast aside like a gem,
Held tight in a ring
You’ve never given him.
Heart felt music was new to him, the playing of cast iron songs felt over a sea of pure reckoning, of furious balancing—a place to hear the beauty of destruction. The howling of wolves; the playing of space and time, beyond what we know as a reality so caught up in dancing to the tunes of romance—here he sits, remembering eons ago, lonely with a pipe and feeling the creeping lunacy of it all spin its fine web around his head. He can’t sit still. The watermelon has been smashed in front of him; the cars were caught in a catapult of rotten eggs, flower, water and sour kraut. They’d throw with spoons at moving trucks, the owners got out and spread their words of illusion, all coming back to him now, hearing that golden riff playing backwards inside his cortex, like Mozart to his wine, this was the euphoric play with anti-matter’s absent headache. He felt good, once and for all, the bic lighter was his best friend, a cheap set of headphones were his girlfriend now. She was gone, in the distance of making out on a worn-out couch, or in a car, shirt off, in the shallow waters of teenage lust, and ptomaine tastes of flesh and spit and conflagrations of warm deceit. The era was here; he knew he could trust his friends. They would camp in the mountains, where they would be free—he could remember some T.S. Eliot then, and remember that for all time, he was sailing now, listening and listening to the rhymes of nature emitted from a sallow set of earphones; he was hallow and anesthetized. He was hollow; cadences of crickets would bother him until the day he fell from the floor decayed like rotten potatoes, walking around sifting through the rough roads of memory, all the while in love with the thought of amphetamine flowing casually through his thickened blood—that was heard from the gallows of pain and delusion to strike him like a bolt of lightning straight from the skies of hell. Satan smoked his weed with him, hearing his own sounds emitted from the player to play the saddest simple solos cast in a degree of solitude, for he, and he alone was the only fan of all this racket, the sounds of his heart ticking in beat with God’s penurious rays of heat, and ill-reputed rebellion struck him; was he good or bad? Was this right or wrong? The feelings breaking through the doors, while change through the hall, dropped by swans in love with the economical chances of spring—spinning their wings with the roulette table of death, we now hear them sing. So he would camp soon, high in the woods of a hero’s Mind; the place of redemption from schools ugly impression, getting picked on by rich kids and throw to the wolves by the bullies. There he was free; and he was popular, even to Mary, who would wait until he came, and then they would talk and talk, of suicide, of life, of all the states of being in between love and hate. It was a Romantic time in his life, he knew this, and wanted all to fade away for once. Forever. Girlfriend, lost again, another one spiraling into the fading sunset of her little room in her little town with her little family above, singing about beer and cocktail parties they’d been to. She could leave now if she wanted, but did he really want this? Or was he playing a game with himself now? A ‘catch me if you can cataclysm’ that no one could ever untie. Running now, not jogging to the medicine he’d take for life’s rich time.
And Sandra would sit, hands held over a folded book, some Stephen King novel she’d read many times before—just waiting for him to come back to her. She wasn’t sad. Not really. Just mixed up; confused with life. At fourteen the road was simple; now all complex and riveted with tightened romance and bereted incontinence. She felt torn apart, but not really. She felt held together in the arms of another boy. But was that possible? Her seeing herself with someone else, this was so new to her. Her skin and her sexual drives to conquer marriage and have kids and grow old with him, sitting on rocking chairs, feeling the strife of death nearer now. Nearer now than ever before, she saw one day when he was going crazy, driving at speeds he should have been thinking of only in dreams. But, he was speeding towards a tree, at least in her imagination—reality spun a different web, of course. But the End was there, being thrown off the edge of Niagara Falls, being pushed of a cliff—to sink into the ground like those characters of that haunting yet comforting book. Now the sounds would repeat and repeat: “He’ s with another, so why shouldn’t I?” These were not voices, not talking of someone else in her sturdy head. These were simply tones of being, drilling comforting thoughts in her elated head—thinking now of school and Tony, not the same old Gerald, he was camping somewhere now, with his friends now. Yes, he was smoking pot and doing whatever else they did there. “Way ‘up’ in the mountains” he would say, where Joy and Mary used to sing along with the guitar of Bradon, while Gerald and Stan would hide in the trees, spying on the elders smoking their marijuana, which some fat guy called a “weed salad,” cause it had all different types of dope in it: home grown, kind bud, brick, etc. He’d tell her all about that, and the time that Adam’s heart stopped. Playing of course, but real as hell at the time, while he and Brandon and Adam walked through a fern field that looked like an Elf lawn, leading up to a cottage where the “magic points” were. He said they’d sit by the fire and the time would “switch,” for him at least. He would see them all fade away, then come back again, as Doug Stingland walked down to the creek with them and smoked a glass bubbler Kurt had brought along, that had stickers of swastikas, and then they’d listen to Lords of Acid singing Macho Man. Yeah, that all came back to her, as she opened the book again and began reading all about the time that “Captain Trips” gushed around the land—literally gushed, like water from a pump: the “Super Flue” it was called, killing almost all of humanity, aside from some main characters, including Judy and Randal. Judy had a baby on the way. She was Judy, and Gerald was Randal now, only she was sick on being alone, and his brain was sick on drugs.
Sandra decided to pick up the phone and call someone who cared. She decided to call Tony her “best friend,” that is until the last Fair, when she and Gerald got together. Tony and she would do all the things that a couple would do, aside from the physical distractions—that is, go to the movies, and talk and talk and talk, often from the side of the pool he had in his backyard, which was only three houses down from her. He had his friends, too. Just as Gerald did, only younger and more in tune with having fun in reality. Diversion with a twist, that is, for Gerald who was so used to getting into trouble or doing drugs or this year, both. Tony was tall and strong. Probably he could have kicked the crap out of Gerald, and Gerald knew this; he knew this with a passion. He wished he were strong; physically fit—but smoking grass and passing out in an apartment’s bathroom after drinking too much Milwaukee’s Best, didn’t promote a healthy muscle tone. Tony was big too. She didn’t know, but she suspected in all the right places. She could tell this when they would sit on the side of his pool and speak of the time that they went to the movies and held hands. That was great, she thought, as she opened her cell. The number was on her phone still, she had never forgotten it either. Why would she? Gerald and her had only been together for…whoa..six months now, seems like an eternity for a young girl. Seemed like forever for Gerald. Gerald seemed to peer down from the mountain top assuring her that he was being faithful; telling her in a soft tone that he was being good to her. He would never again pick up the couch she was sitting on, with strange strength, and throw it against the wall. She put down the phone, believing this now to be the truth. Her astute sense of credence was in full gear now; she could see him there, Gerald, doing whatever he was doing, just having a good time, maybe with that Adam kid. Boy he was cute.
Adam was cute, in fact, he was so cute that Kurt even thought he was attractive. Damn fine, Kurt would think, as he looked into Adam’s eyes as they walked down to the creek, with the flashlight in his hands. No, no, he was not homo. No way. That was a strange feeling that came over him, especially that night, when the moon was low, and the sounds of the river finding him was placing him in the fearlessness of persuasion—to ask and receive, to bend the rules and descend on the time of primitive faith: the time to cut away the modern beliefs of reason, and an era to sing along to the harmonies of nature’s everlasting systems of belief that held no signs of progress, just continuous sounds of cicadas buzzing away, as he stared again into the eyes of his friend. But now he saw the bond between; so strong, they would be best of friends one day, playing video games at eighteen and singing along to Metalica in his basement Kurt would wreck the place in thought and complaint about some guy he worked with at Denny’s, some guy named Mark Shooter. Kurt was sure that Mark was giving him the “look.” That look that he wanted to bear his child. That homosexual look. Ah! He would scream as he busted another beer can against the washing machine. That is why I took that turkey and rubbed it against the floor drain before putting it in that omelet. That is why I spit on his toast. That is why…
Calm down, Adam would say, sensing something deep within Kurt’s soul, something mean and dangerous, yet calm and pacifying as well. This feeling of belonging, to someone, to something was so gratifying to Adam, who was lost, yes, hidden though prominent in the group already as the New Found Savior, of what? Of shit? Of lies? Of painkillers up his nose, one day, somehow eating all the shrimp he could feast upon with dextromethorphan in his mouth, mixing around like a new testament leper coughing cherry blood from his decaying mouth. Adam really did love them all. He cared more than all they knew, but Kurt was special to him, hiding in their own world of mushrooms and lysergic acid, and speaking to the dead as though the Dark Side of the Moon was their anthem, sung before the cosmic ball game would be played, mixing all of them together, side by side, all these tender fools, holding on to something in between the laughter of hedonism and the coughing of suffering. Adam would watch this all take place, all these shadows upon the beer splattered wall in which Kurt was engaging his act of homo-phobia—tossing and turning inwardly. The money was calling as well. He could feel the coins drop into his hands, someday, all the while Mary was waiting for the magnetic force of her pen to drive the songs she would sell and exchange for happy looks from strangers.
As odd as she was, her shoulders hunching like Richard Nixon, her eyes set on something outside the car, hearing the smoke, actually “hearing it.” This was synesthesia at its finest; she could tell that the misty smoke to play ten years ahead of her, her songs of this lust, of not feelings for anyone aside from the poetry anymore. “The words, the fucking words,” she would mutter underneath her breath as she took the cracker and did some more nitrous. But these chemicals were so simple to her now. She was three years older than these old chaps, almost finding solace within her new group of “friends.” Those she found in Town, where she worked at the Uni-Mart. These simple mind-altering substances were nothing but a sham to her now. She could hear the birds outside. She could taste them now. Delicious. Her delicate palate soaked up their flight patterns when as she sat in the backseat casting her spells on them all, feeling the frightening sense of dying from no air to breathe. But that was all the fun. That clinging to the limb with two fingers, waiting for the subtle wind to deceive her—asking her to carry her upwards, instead of down to the rockets screaming across the barren skies of the moon. The darkened moon, silent moon, goodnight lunacy, only for now, only for now; she thinks as she offers them a suggestion.
“Let’s go outside and listen to Brandon play,” she said, as they all nodded their heads and opened the car doors. They saw not one, but two of him now. Brandon strummed on his guitar, always on the outside, but inside he could feel the gripping sounds of silence, and this always pissed him off. He hated quiet. He wanted it all, to be singing in a four star hotel lobby, to sing on stage in some worn out bar someday. He was a double high fidelity and needed a leer jet to shuffle him off to different directions, both of him, business man and party dog, he knew he had it coming. All of the distress of being known to the world, the world in which Gerald saw his future, as he called out for him to play some Nirvana. Brandon agreed wholeheartedly, since that band had it all one day. Those of the next generation never knew that. Generation X these kids were, high on themselves and change, the Clinton attitude of hearing Brandon play ‘All Apologies’ in perfect tune with Cobain, and then he broke off into Kurt’s favorite REM tune at the time, “Half a World a Way.” He thought that Stipe really bared his soul, that is, if that rich fuck had one in the first place because he was in that gentle place where the highest force would take away Brandon’s soul, leaving him without the only thing he ever wanted: acceptance. But, he played on. Remembering the times when they would all play baseball thinking that they were stars. Now he had that chance. He was good. His father was a great guitarist as well. He even had a studio set up in his room, with a synthesizer and all. A perfect place for a kid to grow up in, alone, in a room of music, scratching his head as to why those fools never let him in. The ordinary place where they all had driven themselves downward into a hole, a place with no cocaine to buy them women, with nothing but downward spirals into normalcy. But Brandon also had another side, a side hidden away from them all, even that of Adam, who knew Brandon since his toddler days when they would pretend that they were circus clowns. Brandon was still a clown. He was still the guy that called out to Jim Thorp when he was on Dextro. Those first days of the drug. Those times when they would all say ‘we all cool’ and stare at Gerald’s patterned shirt. It was all without a say one of the greatest times in their lives. Driving away the demons they’d all carry with them forever, until the love of their soul-mates would carry them into another eon away—a calm day when their babies were first blooming inside of their love’s wombs. They would all throw away the torches they’d set so carefully; back in the time where everyone wants to be. Young and alone and filled with the music of Brandon’s urgency.
The speeding feeling of doing something about this hole in her gut was pulling her to that phone. Just one phone call. He was having some kind of life up there, while I sit here with my friends on facebook—simply dreaming of the times when Gerald and her would spend, the happy days. Those that they were bombarded by that cow when they were staying at their trailer at the Fair. They were inside, thank goodness, but that bovine creature was outside breaking free through the feelings they felt for one another. That memory of Tony fades away into the night of holding Gerald so close that their heads seem to become attached, like conjoined twins, so near, but so far away. Like the Pacific to the Atlantic, both oceans, but the distance between is vast. Sandra would recall the times when they had his birthday party. On New Year’s day. A beautiful time to be alive. Fourteen, he sixteen, not seeing the need of prescience stalking her now. She wanted to know what would ever happen of him; what would ever become of her, that is, if things remained the same—but they never do, the same sad echo always played along with the music, but the song was never the same. It was like a CD played backwards then forwards again, playing the currents of an ocean machine set on high, for her to drift off into sleep. She could hear the waves crashing, but into which irritating beach this time, which confused jetty? She was mixed-up, in a blender of feeling him next to her holding hands at the prom, or maybe she would be off with Tony, spending time in the woods behind their house, kissing, as if for the first time.
It was these days when the first time was always now. Gerald was not playing the same songs over and over as he would in the future of his long life of illness. He was discovering them for the first time. He was seeing through their eyes—and the petrifying power of it all made him stand up next to the smashed watermelon and breathe, just breathe in the thought of freedom to exist underneath in the fallout shelter of a charmed life.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Before the Time Stan Got Ball Cancer
Before the time that Stan got ball cancer, and Gerald, his long time friend was drinking his life away they were both going to the same school together, and used to smoke pot outside behind the pine trees during lunch, go camping, fishing, and driving way out into the middle of nowhere, turn the music off and listen to the sounds of nature. One time during their senior year, Stan turned to Gerald after they had reached their final destination at the Full Moon Spot, their camping site of the summer, and said, “Hey, why don’t you try some of this shit? I got it from Jerome, it is called crystal methamphetamine.”
Gerald pondered the thought, staring at the bag of white powder, “I dunno man, that sounds rather risky. I heard that shit’ll kill your heart and your mind. Don’t we both want to go to college? Party and shit? Drink beer and screw chicks like you wouldn’t fuckin’ believe?”
“Yeah, man, but what do you really have to lose now? Your girlfriend dumped you the other day—outside of Dean’s old place, where Dean and I had robotussin bottles in our hands, and were throwing them into them into the fire we had set with the gasoline. Oh, you probably don’t remember what we were doing, cause you were too busy crying your ass off like a little baby.”
Gerald punched Stan’s shoulder, “The bitch dumped me, not you. You don’t know how it feels, although you did have that number with that Christine Young girl from the Grove. I remember the time when she “dumped” you, or to be more exact, chose to screw someone else other than your scrawny ass.”
“Don’t remind me,” Stan said.
Gerald smiled nullified, “You said it first, dickhead.”
The birds were chirping away, seemingly in tune with their argument, or what to outsiders would seem to be an argument, but in those days, they both used to call each other nice names like, “asshole” and “mother-fucker”. All in play, but convincing enough to give other kids the impression that they hated one another.
“Naw, man, just let me pack this pipe up and we’ll smoke it. I’ve been smoking it for the past week, have I been acting any differently?”
“Honestly,” Gerald said, “yeah you have been, you’ve talking really fast In class all smart and shit, like you actually were smart or somethin. And you’ve been doin your homework too.”
Stan smiled, “Yeah, that’s because I’m always high on this shit. It’ll do wonders for your self-esteem as well. You know what they say don’t you?”
“No,” Gerald said, curiously.
“Well, I don’t either, but Honku, why don’t you enlighten us!”
They both laughed and laughed at the inside joke. Had to do with the time last month when they were in Dr. Arnold’s science class and Stan was drawing pictures of fish on his notebook and showing them to Gerald; they both wanted to get the hell out of there and go fishin’. School sucked in the late spring. All you did was feel your bones aching for freedom. Advanced Oceanography probably wasn’t the class for either of them, a little too above their IQ range, although recently Stan was doing a good job with the topography maps of the ocean floor, you wonder why. But, that day, when Dr. Arnold asked Stan where the Mariana Trench was located, in the Pacific or the Atlantic, Stan said, “I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t, fuzz brain. Enlighten us Honku.” Honku was an Islamic smart kid, who knew everything that had to do with anything, well, academic. Gerald and Stan were pretty sure that he knew nothing about how to down a bottle of Robo without puking by turning on the faucet, holding your nostrils and thinking of the ocean.
“The Pacific!” Honku proclaimed, as though he had just found Dr. Arnold’s G-spot deep within his anus as he screwed him in ass.
“Right you are, Honku
As Stan sat their next to Gerald, he started to imagine he was peeking out of a periscope in their little submarine of seclusion, when he turned to Gerald, pulled out his glass pipe, packed it full of white shit, and handed him the piece. “Here you go Honku, why don’t you en “lighten” us.”
“Yeah, I think ski season is finally here, call that dude,” pointing at Stan, “for your lift tickets.” He said as he lit the pipe after two attempts at flicking his bic.
It tasted kind of like gasoline mixed with rotten eggs. Not entirely a bad taste, in comparison to the crystal Tussin they had bought the other day at CVS thinking that it would taste better than the cherry flavored.
And if you don’t know what I am referring to when I say ‘tussin’. I am speaking of the generic Robotussin, which contains, no kiddies, not alcohol to get you drunk like most moronic straight-edged assholes think, but dextromethorphan, a dissociative that made you feel high, but not high, drunk but not drunk, but a completely new and distinctive feeling, and it made you hallucinate like a madman.
As Gerald took the first hit, he could feel his heart go TICK! DUM! TICK! DUM!, feeling though as it were about to burst through his chest cavity and stick to the plush ceiling of the car. But, it felt gooooooooooooooooood! Too. Oh, yeah, did this shit feel good. He first felt that everything was clear. “Hey, let’s play chess or somethin’!” he said at first, thinking that he would certainly play like Bobby Fischer. And Gerald was a bit smarter than Stan, so who knows, maybe he would kick the shit out of him. That would be fun, since Stan always beat him in Basketball and caught more fish. “I’ve got a chessboard.”
“Let me hit this pipe first, then you hit it, then I hit it again, calm the fuck down dude!”
Gerald grinned a gleaming white grin, having not had the luxury of tobacco stains to scare away the girls on his incisors yet. “Alright then, take your hit.”
Stan did so, and when he let our the smoke he exhaled through his nostrils. “OH, yeah, baby!” Gerald said, “You look like a fuckin’ dragon. No, you really do! Hey, how much did this shit cost you?” Gerald asked, as he could feel his head tingling like there were tiny acupuncture needles pricking his scalp, but it felt good. Ever so good.
“Well, Chef, we call him, Jerome that is, cooks the shit himself. It takes allot of work, I guess, although I have no idea how it is done, but he sells it to me pretty cheap; like fifty for half a gram.”
“That’s not bad, how much do you have with you now?”
“Got an eight ball. Stole some money from my paps.”
“Ah, good job, cause we gonna need all of this shit as possible. I want to go hike down to the stream. Hey, got your cell, let’s call up some of the gang. Karen, and Donnie. Let’s get them up here for a good campout. That would be fun as shit, eh?”
Stan laughed, “Yeah, just take it easy, I’ll think of something to do, just give me a chance. Pass me the pipe, you’ve hit it twice in a row now.”
“Here,”
“Thanks,”
Gerome then got out of the car, and shouted, “I am God!”
“There you go kid, there you go.”
Slowly the camera moves away, and points into the sky, directly at the sun as it shines its waves upon the dry Earth below. This would be the first of a long stretch of days for these two Gents, that is, twirling their fingers around and spitting out Copenhagen in my fiction stories.
Gerald pondered the thought, staring at the bag of white powder, “I dunno man, that sounds rather risky. I heard that shit’ll kill your heart and your mind. Don’t we both want to go to college? Party and shit? Drink beer and screw chicks like you wouldn’t fuckin’ believe?”
“Yeah, man, but what do you really have to lose now? Your girlfriend dumped you the other day—outside of Dean’s old place, where Dean and I had robotussin bottles in our hands, and were throwing them into them into the fire we had set with the gasoline. Oh, you probably don’t remember what we were doing, cause you were too busy crying your ass off like a little baby.”
Gerald punched Stan’s shoulder, “The bitch dumped me, not you. You don’t know how it feels, although you did have that number with that Christine Young girl from the Grove. I remember the time when she “dumped” you, or to be more exact, chose to screw someone else other than your scrawny ass.”
“Don’t remind me,” Stan said.
Gerald smiled nullified, “You said it first, dickhead.”
The birds were chirping away, seemingly in tune with their argument, or what to outsiders would seem to be an argument, but in those days, they both used to call each other nice names like, “asshole” and “mother-fucker”. All in play, but convincing enough to give other kids the impression that they hated one another.
“Naw, man, just let me pack this pipe up and we’ll smoke it. I’ve been smoking it for the past week, have I been acting any differently?”
“Honestly,” Gerald said, “yeah you have been, you’ve talking really fast In class all smart and shit, like you actually were smart or somethin. And you’ve been doin your homework too.”
Stan smiled, “Yeah, that’s because I’m always high on this shit. It’ll do wonders for your self-esteem as well. You know what they say don’t you?”
“No,” Gerald said, curiously.
“Well, I don’t either, but Honku, why don’t you enlighten us!”
They both laughed and laughed at the inside joke. Had to do with the time last month when they were in Dr. Arnold’s science class and Stan was drawing pictures of fish on his notebook and showing them to Gerald; they both wanted to get the hell out of there and go fishin’. School sucked in the late spring. All you did was feel your bones aching for freedom. Advanced Oceanography probably wasn’t the class for either of them, a little too above their IQ range, although recently Stan was doing a good job with the topography maps of the ocean floor, you wonder why. But, that day, when Dr. Arnold asked Stan where the Mariana Trench was located, in the Pacific or the Atlantic, Stan said, “I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t, fuzz brain. Enlighten us Honku.” Honku was an Islamic smart kid, who knew everything that had to do with anything, well, academic. Gerald and Stan were pretty sure that he knew nothing about how to down a bottle of Robo without puking by turning on the faucet, holding your nostrils and thinking of the ocean.
“The Pacific!” Honku proclaimed, as though he had just found Dr. Arnold’s G-spot deep within his anus as he screwed him in ass.
“Right you are, Honku
As Stan sat their next to Gerald, he started to imagine he was peeking out of a periscope in their little submarine of seclusion, when he turned to Gerald, pulled out his glass pipe, packed it full of white shit, and handed him the piece. “Here you go Honku, why don’t you en “lighten” us.”
“Yeah, I think ski season is finally here, call that dude,” pointing at Stan, “for your lift tickets.” He said as he lit the pipe after two attempts at flicking his bic.
It tasted kind of like gasoline mixed with rotten eggs. Not entirely a bad taste, in comparison to the crystal Tussin they had bought the other day at CVS thinking that it would taste better than the cherry flavored.
And if you don’t know what I am referring to when I say ‘tussin’. I am speaking of the generic Robotussin, which contains, no kiddies, not alcohol to get you drunk like most moronic straight-edged assholes think, but dextromethorphan, a dissociative that made you feel high, but not high, drunk but not drunk, but a completely new and distinctive feeling, and it made you hallucinate like a madman.
As Gerald took the first hit, he could feel his heart go TICK! DUM! TICK! DUM!, feeling though as it were about to burst through his chest cavity and stick to the plush ceiling of the car. But, it felt gooooooooooooooooood! Too. Oh, yeah, did this shit feel good. He first felt that everything was clear. “Hey, let’s play chess or somethin’!” he said at first, thinking that he would certainly play like Bobby Fischer. And Gerald was a bit smarter than Stan, so who knows, maybe he would kick the shit out of him. That would be fun, since Stan always beat him in Basketball and caught more fish. “I’ve got a chessboard.”
“Let me hit this pipe first, then you hit it, then I hit it again, calm the fuck down dude!”
Gerald grinned a gleaming white grin, having not had the luxury of tobacco stains to scare away the girls on his incisors yet. “Alright then, take your hit.”
Stan did so, and when he let our the smoke he exhaled through his nostrils. “OH, yeah, baby!” Gerald said, “You look like a fuckin’ dragon. No, you really do! Hey, how much did this shit cost you?” Gerald asked, as he could feel his head tingling like there were tiny acupuncture needles pricking his scalp, but it felt good. Ever so good.
“Well, Chef, we call him, Jerome that is, cooks the shit himself. It takes allot of work, I guess, although I have no idea how it is done, but he sells it to me pretty cheap; like fifty for half a gram.”
“That’s not bad, how much do you have with you now?”
“Got an eight ball. Stole some money from my paps.”
“Ah, good job, cause we gonna need all of this shit as possible. I want to go hike down to the stream. Hey, got your cell, let’s call up some of the gang. Karen, and Donnie. Let’s get them up here for a good campout. That would be fun as shit, eh?”
Stan laughed, “Yeah, just take it easy, I’ll think of something to do, just give me a chance. Pass me the pipe, you’ve hit it twice in a row now.”
“Here,”
“Thanks,”
Gerome then got out of the car, and shouted, “I am God!”
“There you go kid, there you go.”
Slowly the camera moves away, and points into the sky, directly at the sun as it shines its waves upon the dry Earth below. This would be the first of a long stretch of days for these two Gents, that is, twirling their fingers around and spitting out Copenhagen in my fiction stories.
Daddy Gave me a Meth Pipe
Daddy gave me a meth pipe. It was really pretty. The colors, man, the colors were so specially rainbowy, you know like the land of Oz and shit. You know if you listen to Dark Side of the Moon, smoke some dope, and watch the movie The Wizard of Oz, the music seems to, I dunno, flow, baby, flow with the movie? Well, that pipe stayed in my room all the time. I would have friends over and we would get really high on meth, and talk about all kinds of shit. My dad was getting really religious at the time. Everyone called him Mr. Cook. Maybe because he baked a mean bunch of brownies, but I know why really. He cooked up the best meth in the fuckin’ world, dude. That shit, tasted and smelled like rotten potatoes, or some shit. I guess I just can’t explain it really, but when you took that first hit. Man, it fucked you to the ceiling, dude. He would read us some of the Book Of Revelations, talkin all crazy and shit about the angels with four eyes, or ten faces or some shit. Really weird. Mamma had already been dead now for at least, um, maybe like twenty years now. I don’t know, I’m twenty five now. But they all said that Daddy killed her. I don’t blame him; he said that she was all crazy and shit and messin up his life with her blamin’ him for spendin all her money on drugs. Drugs are fun, man. Come on, dude. That pipe would rip your head off, and make your ticker go BEAT BEAT BEAT! And you’d feel so gooood about yourself. Almost so good that I did some homework onetime. Did some report on Martin Sheen. Did you know that he’s one hell of an artist too? He can play the guitar, or maybe that is Willie Nelson. Man, those days are still a blur. Shit, they still are! I want to be a cook like my daddy someday. He’s the best. I want to toot on that pipe some more. Let’s go down to the basement and do some dust. The shit smells so bad. That means it’s good. But it is summer, and Mr. Fordy is out back weedin dem flowers and such. He’ll smell it. He always did whenever Dad used to smoke meth out behind the bushes. Guess he and Mr. Fordy used to do it together, but now, Fordy is in the PTA or some shit, has a young kids, all good and shit. But, let me hear a Praise Jesus! For He is a comin down the road like woody the woodpecker. Speaking of peckers you should see mine! Big as this pipe. That reminds me, I better call up my friend Joe Brigandi, who is probably playin with his Pipe tryin to suck it himself and shit. He gotta get over here and hit this glass piece my Daddy gave me last summer. Then we’ll watch the Wizard of Oz and smoke some dube. Damn, I’m losin weight though. Guess I always have been skinny, but now I don’t weigh more than a hundred and one pounds. And I’m six three. Oh, hell, the world is goin’ up in a plum of smoke…so says the Book that Daddy reads me. Praise the Lord!
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
huh?
This is our time Generation, X’s time; so fuck ‘em and follow the leader into a ptomaine timed—you know: the wicked witch’s switch, the only thing that always gets reminded of the best has no purpose in this experience, nothing does. Welcome to their world. Lost finality and surrendering to a despot that has no significance whatsoever, or at least we think, so take my torch and light yourself on fire, because I no long er give a shit about the right and wrong ways in the repeated empty ones following your car. Let’s all jump into yours, cause I ain’t seen nothing wrong with putting that ham in those omelets. And honestly, I ain’t never seen not tricks up her sleeve, in fact, there is nothing, nothing but Time tickin softly in the distance, beyond the hills of Coprolaliia—sickening stenches of the final song in life, but we are so beyond that now. We’ve died more times than a cat, surrendering our position like Napoleon, but marking our way though the lands of excess like Ghengis Kahn. Remember the shaking truth, that we are not IT, we are simply pawns, you know, in the game and all that shit—but honestly, where does it come from and where does it go? Human thought and talent, which I’ve coined as “the splendid weakness,” for the momentary shin of the moon takes us into the furthest finality—a histrionic loquacious side show of the unreal this is pretending to be. I have no outlook on this writing, in fact, I have no prescience at all. Nothing but forked roads and hellish mountain peaks to contend with. I am you. Fake all you want in your amphetamine high. Nothing but that, you seem to be now. Now hear those birds, they don’t look down from heaven, and they know what they wanted this to be. Go to the water, and drink that—yes, and dream sister, in a cold heaven. Sprouting wings is nothing but a deliverance of the “me” “me” generation beyond us. Born in the ninetees. What have they done? Do they really need this? This contemporary hell—and yeah, it is comin—and you feel the goosebumps all over your skin as you holler the instances of a coming, well you know it, a demagogue. It will be a disaster, but we, we are the ones who are to be free. And I don’t need a heaven. In the place I should be is me, and I am breathing water. Look at that tempting moon? Leave it a Palin artifact. Leave it aside, your drowning along with that gentle fuck over there. What can be said of the subconscious. Lies and distrust and delirium tremors…..a seizure of beauty
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Big Joe and His Bag
Big Joe, assistant manager of Wal-Mart now for the past fourteen years, stood along side Abby, checking to see if she was checking the customers out in an orderly, genteel fashion. He was sent by the store manager, Bill Franks, to see to it that every cashier be “watched” for at least a half an hour by a manager, just to see if “everything was in working order,” in other words, no one was stealing any money, since someone had been recently, just sneaking a hundred every now and then. The cameras were always turned off, just to save Wal-Mart a few extra bucks, they didn’t want to hire any security to watch the tapes anyway, and God forbid if any of the managers—who were busy with their odds and ends—would watch them. For Christ’s sake, they were too busy fondling their own stacks of cash. The store manager got paid about two hundred thousand a year; the assistant managers were paid roughly sixty thousand a year, and the customer service managers got about, well, about twenty thousand a year, while the employees, if they were lucky, just as Stan Flannery was, got a wopping nine twenty five an hour. The money distribution was a bit lop-sided, wouldn’t you say? Maybe that is why people were sneaking a few extra bucks every now and then. A good 99 percent of the cashiers were honest people, having been “scanned” by a six page test for employment, to see if there were any character flaws in their poor ass characters. But there was that one percent, of whom Abby was thought to belong to that “wretched group of greedy bastards,” as Bill Franks would say to the members of the board meeting—just to show that he had a good ol’ common man vocabulary. That is why Big Joe, who weighed in access of three hundred pounds, was standing, a little too close for comfort, next to Abby, who was nervous as hell at the moment he walked up to her.
Poor girl was scared out of her wits. Picture it, this big fat dude, wearing a tie and a tight blue button shirt, with the first three buttons unfastened, just to show a little manly spirit, with a bunch of chest hair protruding rudely out of the open area—and he was staring through his shaded glasses at her dealing out cash. Girl had a hard time counting, it is a wonder why she didn’t get fired her first day at the joint; man, it was easily close to two hundred bucks that she handed out instead of ones. Shit ain’t easy when you are borderline retarded. Well, let’s not say retarded, let’s just call her dim. Yeah, that’s the word for it. Anyway, Jim wasn’t really watching the money at all, but her little money maker, jiggling with just the right amount of baby fat. And those little elbow shaped titties. The girl was nineteen, purely legal material, but Bit Joe didn’t really care about the legal part at all; he hadn’t been laid in at least five years. After his wife ditched his fat ass for a guy that actually had been able to see his dick, he was without a vagina to stick his tiny cock into. No, it is not true what they say about all fat dudes, that they have small cocks, but in Joe’s case, yeah, he certainly had about a thumbs worth of virile flesh to contemplate the innards of a moist pussy.
He was sick and tired of being able to say a word to these fine pieces of ass. Christ man, that Stan Flannery got to talk to all these beauties, and they actually liked it. Like they were flirting or something, something he hadn’t done since college, of which he dropped out after having drunk too much Miller Light and threw a burning couch out of his three story apartment window. He didn’t like Mr. Flannery, and he suspected that he had a thing for little Abby here; he could just see it in his eyes whenever he looked at her, well, gazed at her and her little tits, and fine ass. She probably didn’t know it—she was rather obtuse, but Joe believed that she was probably very wise in the bedroom, after having been in college for a year; and man, she hadn’t even succumbed to the freshman fifteen! Girl was thin, with just the right amount of padding in all the right places. Thing is, Big Joe would have taken just about any of these girls, but Abby was the one that he really wanted. Damn right he did. He wanted to bury his hand up her pussy. It was being spread around that Stan Flannery fist-fucked some girl that worked at Perkins. Stan was the center of allot of rumors. Someone said that he was gay onetime and that one took off like a Greyhound in heat. Another person said that he had a big cock, and then everyone wanted to know, but no one ever did, ever would—Mr. Flannery didn’t want any part of the highschool fun-night crowd. He wouldn’t have minded to fuck one of those fifty year old ladies. Fine bitches knew how to screw, he was sure of that. But, poor Mr. Flannery lived at home. There was a time when he used to fuck the shit out of his girlfriend in his bedroom, but after they broke up and he realized that his parents heard every moan of pleasure, he decided that he should probably resist having any girl in his room for that particular activity.
But, Big Joe had his own place, with a whirlpool. Damn, the dude was a swingin motha fucka, or at least wanted to be. He needed some play, and he needed it bad. So, while he stood their watching Abby, he decided to take a chance and blew in her ear, just softly enough for her to mistake it for a draft. But, then she turned around, and smiled. That was weird, she thought. Then Big Joe whispered softly, “you and me baby, we should take this good thing on back to my place tonight.”
It was a good thing that there weren’t any customers around, since Big Joe was kindly blew off by her ignoring him. “I said, let’s go to my place.” This time with a little more force of the vocal cords.
“No, I don’t think so, J.C. asked me out for dinner tonight.”
“Hmmm…..J.C. Jesus Christ..hahahha!” Big Joe bellowed.
She smiled, turned her head and went back to her work.
“Baby, you know as well as me and all the rest of the “higher ups” that you’ve been sneakin’ a little extra change here and there, right?”
“What?!”
“You’ve been a stealin’ huh, baby?”
“No way, man.”
Big Jim grinned like a Jack-o-Lantern with a candle shining through, revealing his ten teeth he had left from too much chewing tobacco. “You come back to my place and we’ll just forget about the whole thing. And don’t try takin this to Frank, because he’s gonna be there too.”
Thing was, she was guilty, well just a bit, because she had a little thing going. Yeah, she had taken a few hundred here and there, but her big caper was to take the gift cards that she had put money on, and then give the customer one that wasn’t charged. She had made approximately a grand selling them to her friends for half the price of what was on them. She stood and thought about calling the Wal-Mart “high ups” higher than Bill Frank and Big Joe. But then, if they found out about her little heists, she might be put in jail or some shit like that, so what the hell, she thought, it really couldn’t be that bad. Maybe a blow job or something, no big dea.
“Well, alright.”
“And believe me, I know,” he said with a wink. “I’ll tell you what, meet me back here at seven. Deal? Just meet me out in the parking lot, on the other hand, meet me next to Bed Bath and Beyond, there we can leave without any one being suspicious.
Then Big Joe walked away, thinking, damn I love having a little power.
At Seven
When the hour rolled around, Abby grabbed a box of condoms, “just in case” if they wanted to you know. Then she got her purse, made sure that her dress was on right; I mean, she wanted to look really good. They knew, yes they did. This sucked, but it was a way of getting out of getting fired, or even worse, jail time. Poor bitch didn’t want to miss college. She loved her classes, even bio chemistry, a class of which her father made her take. He was one of those science buffs, thinking that perhaps his daughter would turn out like him. But, she thought that English was the way to go, but isn’t that what Stan got his degree in? Yeah, she thought, but he can write like a mother fuck. Anyway, let’s get the fuck out of here. So she put on her shoes and walked out the door of her house. Luckily her parents were out at the Olive Garden eating pre-made pasta, with canned alfredo sauce.
When she got in her car, she put on some Taylor Swift, and sang along to ‘Love Story’. She sometimes wished she were Taylor Swift, well all the time, the girl had all the money in the world and got to fuck whoever she wanted. As she pulled into the Bed Bath and Beyond parking lot, she immediately saw Big Jims BMW, sitting in the handicapped space in front of the door. Bastard, well, maybe he will be handicapped some day, and have to ride one of those electric motorized carts in the stores. Fat fuck.
She parked next to him, got out of her car, and walked over to his window.
“Get in, babe. We gotta long way to go, but we gotta start somewhere. Do you wanna be startin somethin?”
“I suppose, yeah, I guess I do,” she said.
He smiled that infamous pumpkin grin, and said, “Yeah, babe, let’s just ride, and ride and ride.”
“Ok, let’s do it.”
“Good attitude. I’ll even add to that money that you’ve taken ever so kindly, and a couple of gift cards, wink, wink.”
“Right, let’s do it, you sure look good tonight.” Now she was trying, good girl.
“Get in or I’m gonna whoop some ass,” Jim said, smiling even wider, his penis starting to grow its maximum length of three inches.
She walked around to the passenger side of his car, got in and Jim hit the peddle, speeding all the way to his house. On the way there, a couple of cops saw him, but when they realized who it was, they just gave him the ‘ok’ sign and paid no attention to his radical speeding.
They pulled into his drive way, and she noticed that a Mercedes was parked near the door. They got out of the car, well, she did, he took a little time, then he flopped on the ground. “Shit!” He said, embarrassed.
“Oh, I’ll help you up!” She said, still hung up on the fact that this dude and probably allot of other guys knew about the money.
“Thanks, babe,” he said, as he brushed off the grass.
“No, problem,” she said, “I really want to see the inside of your house.”
“Yeah, and I want to see the inside of you.”
“Your wish is my command.”
He grabbed her ass, putting one finger up her ass crack. “That’s the spirit!”
And so they walked inside to see an eager Bill Franks sitting on the couch, masturbating. “Hey, I thought you’d never get here. Take a look at this shit.” He said, pointing to his cock. “That shit actually works, Extends is the real deal.” He was speaking of the penis enlargement drug you can buy off of the television; Ron Jeremy was the spokesman.
“Whoa! That’s big as shit. I feel like a mouse.” Joe said as he pulled his own rock hard, well, pelvic thumb out of his pants and started to stroke it and down. Simultaneously, Abby walked over to Bill, knelt down and sucked his cock as best she could. He didn’t cum, even after she made it extra sloppy, with saliva dripping down her neck. She ripped her shirt off, revealing beautiful teenage tits, wearing no bra, of course. Then her pants came off. Before Joe could say “fuck me!” she was riding Bill like a bucking swordfish. “OH YEAH!” she screamed, a little too loud to be a representation of what she was really feeling. But it worked anyway, as Bill pulled out of her tight little cunt and blasted a good Extends load all over her sweet little face.
“My turn now, baby.” Joe said, as he was already naked, he grabbed the little hooker and made her suck his tits. “Yeah, suck my titties. Yeah baby, suck em good. Now bite my nipples. Oh yeah, now down to my belly button. Stick your tongue all the way in there…….oh! yeah! Now lick my cock….”
And so she followed his command. “MMMM……are you going to cum soon?” She politely asked him, “I want to taste your sperm, Joey.”
“You got it,” and so Joe shot a big load of white spunk down her throat.
“Oh, yeah, that tastes like……boy….” She said.
“Baby, let me just lick your pussy a little bit..”
“Well, ok, but I think Bill shot a little cum in there, so just be careful not to taste that…”
“Oh, never mind that, Bill and I get together every couple of weeks and do the same thing. I know what he tastes like already. He tastes ok, but not as good at J.C.?
“What??!”
“Yeah, hasn’t he told you, he’s bi. And he loves fat dudes. Well, honey, I’d let you stay longer, but ski season is finally here.”
“Whatever that meant.”
“Here’s ten “more” bucks,” Bill said, putting on his pants. “Call a cab.”
And so she did, wiping her brow to get the dripping sweat off, not from doing these dudes, but from getting out of a very sticky situation. She got into the cab and told the dude to take her to Bed Bath and Beyond. In the meantime, Bill and Joe got out their big bag of powder cocaine and snorted away until their dicks had shriveled up and they couldn’t stop talking about getting their hands on that Wendy girl, and they all knew that she was taking more money than Abby. She was going to get painted white. But first, they were determined to finish off Big Joe’s big bag.
Big Joe, assistant manager of Wal-Mart now for the past fourteen years, stood along side Abby, checking to see if she was checking the customers out in an orderly, genteel fashion. He was sent by the store manager, Bill Franks, to see to it that every cashier be “watched” for at least a half an hour by a manager, just to see if “everything was in working order,” in other words, no one was stealing any money, since someone had been recently, just sneaking a hundred every now and then. The cameras were always turned off, just to save Wal-Mart a few extra bucks, they didn’t want to hire any security to watch the tapes anyway, and God forbid if any of the managers—who were busy with their odds and ends—would watch them. For Christ’s sake, they were too busy fondling their own stacks of cash. The store manager got paid about two hundred thousand a year; the assistant managers were paid roughly sixty thousand a year, and the customer service managers got about, well, about twenty thousand a year, while the employees, if they were lucky, just as Stan Flannery was, got a wopping nine twenty five an hour. The money distribution was a bit lop-sided, wouldn’t you say? Maybe that is why people were sneaking a few extra bucks every now and then. A good 99 percent of the cashiers were honest people, having been “scanned” by a six page test for employment, to see if there were any character flaws in their poor ass characters. But there was that one percent, of whom Abby was thought to belong to that “wretched group of greedy bastards,” as Bill Franks would say to the members of the board meeting—just to show that he had a good ol’ common man vocabulary. That is why Big Joe, who weighed in access of three hundred pounds, was standing, a little too close for comfort, next to Abby, who was nervous as hell at the moment he walked up to her.
Poor girl was scared out of her wits. Picture it, this big fat dude, wearing a tie and a tight blue button shirt, with the first three buttons unfastened, just to show a little manly spirit, with a bunch of chest hair protruding rudely out of the open area—and he was staring through his shaded glasses at her dealing out cash. Girl had a hard time counting, it is a wonder why she didn’t get fired her first day at the joint; man, it was easily close to two hundred bucks that she handed out instead of ones. Shit ain’t easy when you are borderline retarded. Well, let’s not say retarded, let’s just call her dim. Yeah, that’s the word for it. Anyway, Jim wasn’t really watching the money at all, but her little money maker, jiggling with just the right amount of baby fat. And those little elbow shaped titties. The girl was nineteen, purely legal material, but Bit Joe didn’t really care about the legal part at all; he hadn’t been laid in at least five years. After his wife ditched his fat ass for a guy that actually had been able to see his dick, he was without a vagina to stick his tiny cock into. No, it is not true what they say about all fat dudes, that they have small cocks, but in Joe’s case, yeah, he certainly had about a thumbs worth of virile flesh to contemplate the innards of a moist pussy.
He was sick and tired of being able to say a word to these fine pieces of ass. Christ man, that Stan Flannery got to talk to all these beauties, and they actually liked it. Like they were flirting or something, something he hadn’t done since college, of which he dropped out after having drunk too much Miller Light and threw a burning couch out of his three story apartment window. He didn’t like Mr. Flannery, and he suspected that he had a thing for little Abby here; he could just see it in his eyes whenever he looked at her, well, gazed at her and her little tits, and fine ass. She probably didn’t know it—she was rather obtuse, but Joe believed that she was probably very wise in the bedroom, after having been in college for a year; and man, she hadn’t even succumbed to the freshman fifteen! Girl was thin, with just the right amount of padding in all the right places. Thing is, Big Joe would have taken just about any of these girls, but Abby was the one that he really wanted. Damn right he did. He wanted to bury his hand up her pussy. It was being spread around that Stan Flannery fist-fucked some girl that worked at Perkins. Stan was the center of allot of rumors. Someone said that he was gay onetime and that one took off like a Greyhound in heat. Another person said that he had a big cock, and then everyone wanted to know, but no one ever did, ever would—Mr. Flannery didn’t want any part of the highschool fun-night crowd. He wouldn’t have minded to fuck one of those fifty year old ladies. Fine bitches knew how to screw, he was sure of that. But, poor Mr. Flannery lived at home. There was a time when he used to fuck the shit out of his girlfriend in his bedroom, but after they broke up and he realized that his parents heard every moan of pleasure, he decided that he should probably resist having any girl in his room for that particular activity.
But, Big Joe had his own place, with a whirlpool. Damn, the dude was a swingin motha fucka, or at least wanted to be. He needed some play, and he needed it bad. So, while he stood their watching Abby, he decided to take a chance and blew in her ear, just softly enough for her to mistake it for a draft. But, then she turned around, and smiled. That was weird, she thought. Then Big Joe whispered softly, “you and me baby, we should take this good thing on back to my place tonight.”
It was a good thing that there weren’t any customers around, since Big Joe was kindly blew off by her ignoring him. “I said, let’s go to my place.” This time with a little more force of the vocal cords.
“No, I don’t think so, J.C. asked me out for dinner tonight.”
“Hmmm…..J.C. Jesus Christ..hahahha!” Big Joe bellowed.
She smiled, turned her head and went back to her work.
“Baby, you know as well as me and all the rest of the “higher ups” that you’ve been sneakin’ a little extra change here and there, right?”
“What?!”
“You’ve been a stealin’ huh, baby?”
“No way, man.”
Big Jim grinned like a Jack-o-Lantern with a candle shining through, revealing his ten teeth he had left from too much chewing tobacco. “You come back to my place and we’ll just forget about the whole thing. And don’t try takin this to Frank, because he’s gonna be there too.”
Thing was, she was guilty, well just a bit, because she had a little thing going. Yeah, she had taken a few hundred here and there, but her big caper was to take the gift cards that she had put money on, and then give the customer one that wasn’t charged. She had made approximately a grand selling them to her friends for half the price of what was on them. She stood and thought about calling the Wal-Mart “high ups” higher than Bill Frank and Big Joe. But then, if they found out about her little heists, she might be put in jail or some shit like that, so what the hell, she thought, it really couldn’t be that bad. Maybe a blow job or something, no big dea.
“Well, alright.”
“And believe me, I know,” he said with a wink. “I’ll tell you what, meet me back here at seven. Deal? Just meet me out in the parking lot, on the other hand, meet me next to Bed Bath and Beyond, there we can leave without any one being suspicious.
Then Big Joe walked away, thinking, damn I love having a little power.
At Seven
When the hour rolled around, Abby grabbed a box of condoms, “just in case” if they wanted to you know. Then she got her purse, made sure that her dress was on right; I mean, she wanted to look really good. They knew, yes they did. This sucked, but it was a way of getting out of getting fired, or even worse, jail time. Poor bitch didn’t want to miss college. She loved her classes, even bio chemistry, a class of which her father made her take. He was one of those science buffs, thinking that perhaps his daughter would turn out like him. But, she thought that English was the way to go, but isn’t that what Stan got his degree in? Yeah, she thought, but he can write like a mother fuck. Anyway, let’s get the fuck out of here. So she put on her shoes and walked out the door of her house. Luckily her parents were out at the Olive Garden eating pre-made pasta, with canned alfredo sauce.
When she got in her car, she put on some Taylor Swift, and sang along to ‘Love Story’. She sometimes wished she were Taylor Swift, well all the time, the girl had all the money in the world and got to fuck whoever she wanted. As she pulled into the Bed Bath and Beyond parking lot, she immediately saw Big Jims BMW, sitting in the handicapped space in front of the door. Bastard, well, maybe he will be handicapped some day, and have to ride one of those electric motorized carts in the stores. Fat fuck.
She parked next to him, got out of her car, and walked over to his window.
“Get in, babe. We gotta long way to go, but we gotta start somewhere. Do you wanna be startin somethin?”
“I suppose, yeah, I guess I do,” she said.
He smiled that infamous pumpkin grin, and said, “Yeah, babe, let’s just ride, and ride and ride.”
“Ok, let’s do it.”
“Good attitude. I’ll even add to that money that you’ve taken ever so kindly, and a couple of gift cards, wink, wink.”
“Right, let’s do it, you sure look good tonight.” Now she was trying, good girl.
“Get in or I’m gonna whoop some ass,” Jim said, smiling even wider, his penis starting to grow its maximum length of three inches.
She walked around to the passenger side of his car, got in and Jim hit the peddle, speeding all the way to his house. On the way there, a couple of cops saw him, but when they realized who it was, they just gave him the ‘ok’ sign and paid no attention to his radical speeding.
They pulled into his drive way, and she noticed that a Mercedes was parked near the door. They got out of the car, well, she did, he took a little time, then he flopped on the ground. “Shit!” He said, embarrassed.
“Oh, I’ll help you up!” She said, still hung up on the fact that this dude and probably allot of other guys knew about the money.
“Thanks, babe,” he said, as he brushed off the grass.
“No, problem,” she said, “I really want to see the inside of your house.”
“Yeah, and I want to see the inside of you.”
“Your wish is my command.”
He grabbed her ass, putting one finger up her ass crack. “That’s the spirit!”
And so they walked inside to see an eager Bill Franks sitting on the couch, masturbating. “Hey, I thought you’d never get here. Take a look at this shit.” He said, pointing to his cock. “That shit actually works, Extends is the real deal.” He was speaking of the penis enlargement drug you can buy off of the television; Ron Jeremy was the spokesman.
“Whoa! That’s big as shit. I feel like a mouse.” Joe said as he pulled his own rock hard, well, pelvic thumb out of his pants and started to stroke it and down. Simultaneously, Abby walked over to Bill, knelt down and sucked his cock as best she could. He didn’t cum, even after she made it extra sloppy, with saliva dripping down her neck. She ripped her shirt off, revealing beautiful teenage tits, wearing no bra, of course. Then her pants came off. Before Joe could say “fuck me!” she was riding Bill like a bucking swordfish. “OH YEAH!” she screamed, a little too loud to be a representation of what she was really feeling. But it worked anyway, as Bill pulled out of her tight little cunt and blasted a good Extends load all over her sweet little face.
“My turn now, baby.” Joe said, as he was already naked, he grabbed the little hooker and made her suck his tits. “Yeah, suck my titties. Yeah baby, suck em good. Now bite my nipples. Oh yeah, now down to my belly button. Stick your tongue all the way in there…….oh! yeah! Now lick my cock….”
And so she followed his command. “MMMM……are you going to cum soon?” She politely asked him, “I want to taste your sperm, Joey.”
“You got it,” and so Joe shot a big load of white spunk down her throat.
“Oh, yeah, that tastes like……boy….” She said.
“Baby, let me just lick your pussy a little bit..”
“Well, ok, but I think Bill shot a little cum in there, so just be careful not to taste that…”
“Oh, never mind that, Bill and I get together every couple of weeks and do the same thing. I know what he tastes like already. He tastes ok, but not as good at J.C.?
“What??!”
“Yeah, hasn’t he told you, he’s bi. And he loves fat dudes. Well, honey, I’d let you stay longer, but ski season is finally here.”
“Whatever that meant.”
“Here’s ten “more” bucks,” Bill said, putting on his pants. “Call a cab.”
And so she did, wiping her brow to get the dripping sweat off, not from doing these dudes, but from getting out of a very sticky situation. She got into the cab and told the dude to take her to Bed Bath and Beyond. In the meantime, Bill and Joe got out their big bag of powder cocaine and snorted away until their dicks had shriveled up and they couldn’t stop talking about getting their hands on that Wendy girl, and they all knew that she was taking more money than Abby. She was going to get painted white. But first, they were determined to finish off Big Joe’s big bag.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Vlad the Erector was born on April 1, 1973, which is subject for argument. There is little known about this obscure porn star, the reasons being that he killed numerous porn queens, of which was hidden from public by the adult porn companies, including Jill Kelly and her amorous ways of revealing the truth behind the life of the porn star.
Vlad the Erector was born a poor man, we know this. There are no birth records, all that remains are the whispers heard from Peter North and other well- built porn stars who admired this evil sinful bastard.
The visible features in film are ephemerally escaping from availability. Partly due to the tremendous size of his penis being virtually unaccepted by natural man as being “fake” with “no material proof” that a man could---a white dude at that---have a four foot cock. But, oh, yes, he did.
Vlad would fuck a girl until she was unconscious and then slowly insert the entirety of his huge member through her intestines, in through her rib cage, and finally watch with salivating tongue dripping, ready for the Pavlovian bell to ring so that he could taste his victim’s blood mixed with vaginal fluids, as it exited her mouth. He especially loved fucking a girl in the asshole, because he could taste her ass residue along with the sweet taste of fresh blood.
It is said that he was so well built sexually, that he made women faint, and dudes too. He was a murderous bastard. It is also said that he would fuck six women at a time, by fastening a pointed blade at the end of his cock and inserting it through the abdomens of several women standing side by side.
Vlad died, eventually, from having too much blood loss to the brain. It is often said that he is one of the most evil men to ever exist. But, it is this evil that has kept him from entering the lives of couples eager to screw because they are too fucking fat to get it up. And that is what the porn company is for, eh? For ugly people and masturbation. And, who the fuck wants to think about such a huge cock? Possibly you, because you have read this entire load of shit!!!!!!
Fuck you,
Stan Flannery
Vlad the Erector was born a poor man, we know this. There are no birth records, all that remains are the whispers heard from Peter North and other well- built porn stars who admired this evil sinful bastard.
The visible features in film are ephemerally escaping from availability. Partly due to the tremendous size of his penis being virtually unaccepted by natural man as being “fake” with “no material proof” that a man could---a white dude at that---have a four foot cock. But, oh, yes, he did.
Vlad would fuck a girl until she was unconscious and then slowly insert the entirety of his huge member through her intestines, in through her rib cage, and finally watch with salivating tongue dripping, ready for the Pavlovian bell to ring so that he could taste his victim’s blood mixed with vaginal fluids, as it exited her mouth. He especially loved fucking a girl in the asshole, because he could taste her ass residue along with the sweet taste of fresh blood.
It is said that he was so well built sexually, that he made women faint, and dudes too. He was a murderous bastard. It is also said that he would fuck six women at a time, by fastening a pointed blade at the end of his cock and inserting it through the abdomens of several women standing side by side.
Vlad died, eventually, from having too much blood loss to the brain. It is often said that he is one of the most evil men to ever exist. But, it is this evil that has kept him from entering the lives of couples eager to screw because they are too fucking fat to get it up. And that is what the porn company is for, eh? For ugly people and masturbation. And, who the fuck wants to think about such a huge cock? Possibly you, because you have read this entire load of shit!!!!!!
Fuck you,
Stan Flannery
The Conversation Fear
A loquacious day, talking for hours
Bends the hands forward,
By the clock’s lonely tower;
So we unsheathed our verbal sword,
Following the words slowly poured,
Into our minds, into our heart,
Falling for nothing now,
Cupidity’s poison dart.
Not speaking of anything,
Hands all aside,
Our mouths nearly frothing
The bantering tide,
Was all we have now,
Just fear, the less jarred,
Falling for ages,
Handed to us addled
The unctuous life paddled,
Through the searing talking page
Bends the hands forward,
By the clock’s lonely tower;
So we unsheathed our verbal sword,
Following the words slowly poured,
Into our minds, into our heart,
Falling for nothing now,
Cupidity’s poison dart.
Not speaking of anything,
Hands all aside,
Our mouths nearly frothing
The bantering tide,
Was all we have now,
Just fear, the less jarred,
Falling for ages,
Handed to us addled
The unctuous life paddled,
Through the searing talking page
notes from the hypo manic
One positive note of having an affective disorder is the seemingly unbounded creative powers that you develop during a manic phase. I feel as though I could write and write, all through the night and all through the day (a habit of which I still practice during hypomanic episodes). I refer the word hypomanic to mean “mild” or “short-lived.” “Hyper” manic sometimes denotes a psychosis, but not always. Sometimes someone in this state of mind feels no boundaries and can create so much material—and often, quite good—that it seems uncanny witnessed by someone in a balanced state of mind. If the manic episode is controlled, it can be beneficial. Many writers had bi-polar disorder or even schizoaffective, but they created such fine works it is strange that there wasn’t “something else” producing them. The human mind remains mysterious, the great unknown. Why are there people ruined by mental illness, but some benefit from it? God works in clandestine ways. I feel that I have benefited from the illness in terms of creativity, and bending my perceptions so that I can write from a slightly different angle, but there is also the problematic truth that the disorder ruined my social life, my vocational, and stole my motivation—however, luckily not my education. Amazingly, and I thank God for this, who else is there? But my intellect has been preserved almost one hundred percent. After what my brain has been through, and what I’ve put in it, I’m surprised that I can even think. But I can, so life is a beautiful thing, I’m just taking a different route to wherever it is I’m going. In fact, I would even give you all the opportunity to experience the manic phase one time, and you would see, that there is a reason that no one wants to take their lithium; it feels great.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
I'm numb, baby
‘If consciousness can be compared to a searchlight beam, we might all say that manic consciousness tends to pivot rapidly as it shifts focus from one object to another, whereas schizophrenic consciousness actually slips out of any anchor point, floating about unstably among vary points of view.’
--Unknown Author
“I feel so numb, so numb. I almost feel sentimental. No you don’t understand.” Charles said, seeking nothing but the unknown feeling to be conveyed in some way, in some how.
“I know what you are thinking, at least man. And I know that schizoid personality disorder is being eliminated from the DSM IV. Not a bad decision considering that the schizoid personality does not always denote a pre-morbid state into schizophrenia. Man, I’m with you, dude.” Big Joe said in comparison to his usual inward thinking strategies, when he himself became schizophrenic, but just for the voluntary instance. That is, when approaching that “dreadful chamber of hell”, he called, well, Danville State Psychiatric Hospital.
He walked in to talk to his friend, who was all wrapped up in thinking about himself. Poor Charles didn’t know why his friend was coming to see him; man, was he disturbed; man was he enlightened. But Big Joe was here anyway. Thankfully, being a friend, a confidant—yeah, like the Golden Girls song. Blanch was ringing the bells and Dorothy was playing clarinet.
“Hey man, can you go out side?” He asked in pleasant urgency.
“I guess so, I have to get a pass. I’ve been pretty good lately. Been up to my heals in working with people. You know, trying to make them feel as though they have a right to speak to the world in an unworldly fashion. Make sense of themselves, instead of fools.”
Charles tapped his fingers on the steel pipe next to him. The place, however, was not all steel piped. It was glorious as it was built, glorious. The place had beautiful towers and beautiful fountains, and great windows to see out into the world. But it never had the sense of caring. Back in the early 1900’s they were still building mental asylums as though they were beautiful castles of light. That they were the place to go if you were in a savage struggle against the world, and the place, yes, the place itself was to take you out of this world of hell. It was to deliver you from evil and set you on your two feet. It was supposed to be Heaven. But instead, inside, it smelled like a barnyard. A disgusting pig-pen of mud and shit. And the patients used to roll around in their own piss and feces. Reality was the worst horror.
Eventually Charles came back with a pass. Thank goodness. Big Joe could get out of this mess. It was killing him.
“Well?” Big Joe asked.
“Well, what? I’m cool dude. I’m as fine as when we were two years ago, drinking at the parties. Doing DXM. Holding our stamps in our hands. Kissing and touching and yeah, fucking those hot chicks. Now you’re are what, married or some shit? You should be ashamed of yourself, those golden monkeys have no place on your aluminum shelf of distress. They don’t make any sense on the language filter you’ve used with me. The band of silent frogs of remorse. You know. the ones who understood ‘Kiss of the Spider Woman.’ Yeah you know. All them faggots and shit. That is real, man, that is real.”
“I know, dude, I know.”
“You do, huh? How come that stupid grin comes over your face when I talk about inward material? You probably don’t have any idea what it is really like, right? You should never. This place is hell. Check out the boogie man behind you!” Charles proclaimed to the earthly walls.
“What the fuck, who are you!”
“Oh, dude, that’s Brett, he’s a sociopath, he won’t hurt you. I mean , damn the kid went nuts when he was eighteen. So did I, but never so severe—that is, if that is possible.”
“Hey, man!” Brett announced his presence.
“Hey.” Charles said. “We are about to go outside man.”
“Really, that’s cool.”
“Later, we have to go.”
And so, Charles grabbed big Joe by the arm, who was mesmerized by the guy that he saw, somewhat similar to himself when he was younger. But now at twenty six, those days had passed. It was a bit traumatic. Made him numb as though he never wanted to see that—in real life, not a movie. But real life, where the personal savior came to play as though they governed all. As though the spirit holding them all together came to him a flash. He felt them. He knew them. He walked the halls with them, smelling shit, tasting urine, but did not care. This was his time to feel them. To feel nothing. To realize that Madness was but a fork in a salad. A gem in the brimstone. A lie among truth of fiction’s warm embrace. The sun without the son of man. Everything, the boy felt for him now.
Charles had to drag him outside, as though he was trying to be welcomed to the motel.
“Hey man, what do you feel now?”
“I don’t know; I just kind of feel….well, nothing at all,” Big Joe said, examining his growing gut.
--Unknown Author
“I feel so numb, so numb. I almost feel sentimental. No you don’t understand.” Charles said, seeking nothing but the unknown feeling to be conveyed in some way, in some how.
“I know what you are thinking, at least man. And I know that schizoid personality disorder is being eliminated from the DSM IV. Not a bad decision considering that the schizoid personality does not always denote a pre-morbid state into schizophrenia. Man, I’m with you, dude.” Big Joe said in comparison to his usual inward thinking strategies, when he himself became schizophrenic, but just for the voluntary instance. That is, when approaching that “dreadful chamber of hell”, he called, well, Danville State Psychiatric Hospital.
He walked in to talk to his friend, who was all wrapped up in thinking about himself. Poor Charles didn’t know why his friend was coming to see him; man, was he disturbed; man was he enlightened. But Big Joe was here anyway. Thankfully, being a friend, a confidant—yeah, like the Golden Girls song. Blanch was ringing the bells and Dorothy was playing clarinet.
“Hey man, can you go out side?” He asked in pleasant urgency.
“I guess so, I have to get a pass. I’ve been pretty good lately. Been up to my heals in working with people. You know, trying to make them feel as though they have a right to speak to the world in an unworldly fashion. Make sense of themselves, instead of fools.”
Charles tapped his fingers on the steel pipe next to him. The place, however, was not all steel piped. It was glorious as it was built, glorious. The place had beautiful towers and beautiful fountains, and great windows to see out into the world. But it never had the sense of caring. Back in the early 1900’s they were still building mental asylums as though they were beautiful castles of light. That they were the place to go if you were in a savage struggle against the world, and the place, yes, the place itself was to take you out of this world of hell. It was to deliver you from evil and set you on your two feet. It was supposed to be Heaven. But instead, inside, it smelled like a barnyard. A disgusting pig-pen of mud and shit. And the patients used to roll around in their own piss and feces. Reality was the worst horror.
Eventually Charles came back with a pass. Thank goodness. Big Joe could get out of this mess. It was killing him.
“Well?” Big Joe asked.
“Well, what? I’m cool dude. I’m as fine as when we were two years ago, drinking at the parties. Doing DXM. Holding our stamps in our hands. Kissing and touching and yeah, fucking those hot chicks. Now you’re are what, married or some shit? You should be ashamed of yourself, those golden monkeys have no place on your aluminum shelf of distress. They don’t make any sense on the language filter you’ve used with me. The band of silent frogs of remorse. You know. the ones who understood ‘Kiss of the Spider Woman.’ Yeah you know. All them faggots and shit. That is real, man, that is real.”
“I know, dude, I know.”
“You do, huh? How come that stupid grin comes over your face when I talk about inward material? You probably don’t have any idea what it is really like, right? You should never. This place is hell. Check out the boogie man behind you!” Charles proclaimed to the earthly walls.
“What the fuck, who are you!”
“Oh, dude, that’s Brett, he’s a sociopath, he won’t hurt you. I mean , damn the kid went nuts when he was eighteen. So did I, but never so severe—that is, if that is possible.”
“Hey, man!” Brett announced his presence.
“Hey.” Charles said. “We are about to go outside man.”
“Really, that’s cool.”
“Later, we have to go.”
And so, Charles grabbed big Joe by the arm, who was mesmerized by the guy that he saw, somewhat similar to himself when he was younger. But now at twenty six, those days had passed. It was a bit traumatic. Made him numb as though he never wanted to see that—in real life, not a movie. But real life, where the personal savior came to play as though they governed all. As though the spirit holding them all together came to him a flash. He felt them. He knew them. He walked the halls with them, smelling shit, tasting urine, but did not care. This was his time to feel them. To feel nothing. To realize that Madness was but a fork in a salad. A gem in the brimstone. A lie among truth of fiction’s warm embrace. The sun without the son of man. Everything, the boy felt for him now.
Charles had to drag him outside, as though he was trying to be welcomed to the motel.
“Hey man, what do you feel now?”
“I don’t know; I just kind of feel….well, nothing at all,” Big Joe said, examining his growing gut.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)