Disjointed

Breaking waves of painful cognizance,

And the infinite breathing in and out,

Closes her animal’s eyes, pushing from

Behind her lids like sledge hammered love

Into her vision where all is blurry, all is so

Lucidly confusing, and the only thing that

Keeps her from folding, giving in, is her

Rapturous passion for this life, and if

Existence is a masquerading ball, then

She always forgets when to kiss goodbye

And leave.

The lugubrious river of syrup-delusions,

Pours over the sedatives fusing each

Chemical vice with the appropriate helter-skelter

Mechanisms of quantum theory, as if she

Exists in a universe right next door, a duality

Of being, but this painful throbbing in her

Sea-swimming head, keeps her from making

That leap of faith to another philosophy,

And the bending ocean of thought

Compares to nothing aside from wine

Through her veins.

Take away these strains of solitude,

For there isn’t a hundred years to

Giver her hope for facing the daunting

Future, which is cloudy as her visions

Of lust and passion.

She can’t find a way home,

And her mind quivers in a tunneled communication

With the Other Side,

Where she knows everyone’s name.

Congratulate her as she takes a knife to her vein

Slicing them, but it is not warm blood,

But cold water that bleeds on the floor,

Liquid from her imaginary body of an anguished lake.

The Center of Descarte's Soul

             

My forehead itches in anticipation,

For the longing to begin, the inauguration

Of sensing the past before all prescience

Can distill the mind’s juices pouring

From some mystical eye in the center

Of my brain, shedding its calcium like

A bad tooth, a histrionic showing of its glowing sphere

Of inexistence chasing me down through

The fields of stars in my head; stricken shills

Of neurons bouncing on ballooned glial cells--

Dendrites aching with each introduction of

The dopamine triggers produced by this

Tiny pine cone and the spinning thought

Injures my ignorance of my

Possession of this second-sight to be reignited again,

From the mere presence of the mammalian pineal gland.

You spoke of terraformation, against the raging tides of fashion’s beauty that has yet to speak to you in subversive tones. But yes, Generation X. You can’t but help to hear them speak to you in those ways of rebellion. You smile and wave them inward, inside the wildest heaven awaiting them beyond the speculation of death, for now, we are alive, and although thirty something now, we now have the podium. And why is it that those of the rebel spirit have automatically gone underneath the ways of the approachable conservatism? Watch as the catechisms of the religious scheduled realism seer the branding on some poor kid’s arm involuntarily just to score some pain killers. Hear the tearing of a heart obsessed with retrospection of the early nineties when the confused abstractions of a new day screamed across the sky; and the razing walls all around your late eighties drama with the purposeful days of watering stills. Pacifism into the living breaths of the congress firing into the educated, loyal, but awash with the coming nineties where they had their time with DXM and marijuana through the bongs of love and bonding and hope. Now listen to the Filth Pig preaching into the Reiflin nothingness, for the epiphany of the subdivisions hiding away in the fall’s leaves while the single bested ties landing gentries of Russian lies, and the jingles of America shine against the signs of the times while you and he and all the rest find residual lugubriousness; but, to mourn the decent deserves was only a play against the business sacraments addressing the politics as a quick and able redundant and exhumed lay a way on the calling of ennui. Are you bored yet? Following the monkeys while the calling comes into the brave and simple to deserve, and there you are, trying to figure out why you are alive right now. Alive and speculating in loquacious bleeding to the ones to talk to while you sleep in the groves of drug enlightenment. You talk in your sleep. The allegory of last meeting with a girl regarding your charm as though it were the best story ever told. You say all about the reasons that your current love is nearing the best ever delivered to you, and although you spend all your days thinking of the next best love to come, you wonder why you are even loved in the first place. Why me? What have you done to see that there is something strange going on tonight. You watch your friend, he is wild and bright. You don’t know why the only thing separating you from the rest is the enlightenment of creating your own world, your own dreamscape for her. Now what has happened before when the glued eyes have saved your life? The furies are breathing down your neck. It might do, but the world listens to your heart bleed, and watch the psychedelic walls melt for him, and he doesn’t care anymore, for the only thing that really matters is the reality that everyone else is experiencing; but, is that the way to live? To live underneath the covers of something so unexpected and godforsaken lovely while a thorn in the side of Jesus. Here is a game to play now. The calling of the best deserved In place of my personal drive to expose the onset of the living, and the bizarre thing is the two things that have regarded me as being a benefactor were my dreams and my fantasies bending time and extinguishing all alluded cries for some victory to come. Now the simple prop. Watch the loved ones crumple the poison ptomaine. I write my tome for you, mio capalavoro . Now the occupation has begun to submerge in the dignity of the Rapture. Theologians smile in the fear of a complete outcome in a crazy time of deception, while the rug is shaken into the fireplace. Meaningless outcomes of 2012. The negro will be President again.  A puppet, a misconceived antidote for the harbored ghosts we’ve all felt kneeling at our feet to support the other races, while the races of black and red and yellow smile to the new found glory in the way that the White’s feel guilty for their sins. Awe, isn’t that too bad. Listen to the glory of the united front of educated men and women without jobs that they are qualified for. Listen to the glory of those sleeping times. Fly away into the barren night and smile while we take your picture—grin brightly against the sun’s ethereal rays. The pearls of wisdom fall out of your mouth like the waters of Niagara Falls into the valley below where Houdini smiled for beginning the trampling of the waved intoxication’ s fertile entertainment and Spiritualism of the eighteenth century had nothing to do with the paranormal. The ectoplasm out of those Medium’s vagina was all a hoax. Believe it or not, says Houdini, but it is true, and the only answers of all time lie in the convoluted ways of your heated brain. Let him help you create a  world of your own, and help me terraform the gentle Universe of my life.

Terraformation

Terraformation


You’ve held them tight with arduous hands,
Relishing the redolent scent of their hair,
Praying for the cacophony of the bond between
To dissipate into a carefully woven dreamscape,
Where there is no up and down—but side by side
Forever.

You screamed in spheres brighter than any morning,
Of worlds you’d create,
Terraformed from nothingness, luminescent hues of green,
Your love resembled divine prescience—you had it all,
But now this fortitude is mere dissonance of a barren moon,
And you begin to dream.

Mannequin Tears

Mannequin Tears

“How could you do this to me?” Christy said, annoyed more than hurt by her boyfriend’s infidelity.
Tom coughed before putting out his cigarette, “I told you, I didn’t do anything, it was all her.”
“She jumped on top of you?”
“Sort of.”
“Come on, who the hell do you think I am, Forest Gump’s little sister?”
“Ok,” he began, “it was the last party that Sean threw. I was kind of drunk—among other things, and I started to dance with “her,”…..
“Misty?”
“Yeah,” he said, aggravated that she interrupted. “ ‘her.’ We were dancing to some really fast up-beat song, I don’t know, I guess I was getting a little more drunk than I realized, because she was all over me before I could tell her ‘no.’ And I’m a guy, you know, it is difficult for us to say ‘no.’ For one thing, look at me, I’m not the most prettiest subject in the kingdom, you know.”
“You are…were…to me.”
“Right, that is why you always said that I looked dumb in every shirt that I wore, in every pair of pants.” Tom said.
She touched his hand, desperately trying to find some kind of feeling in her heart, something other than anger. “You know that I didn’t mean it. But, come on…continue, I really want to know what the hell happened.”
“First of all, the only reason that you found out about the whole thing was because I let you borrow my phone to take with you to the supermarket.”
She sighed, “Yeah, so?”
“So,” he said, “I know that you have cheated on me many times.”
“Right, sure I have,” she said with affectation.
“I know damn well that you did, and if I just wouldn’t have given you my phone then none of this would have happened. You know, I knew all about you Spring break trip. I saw the pictures. I saw them, you and that Jamaican dude kissing. He was grabbing your tits, too. I saw.”
“That was Tyrone from school, he wasn’t Jamaican, and he wasn’t kissing me, he was telling me something in my ear, plus he didn’t have his hand anywhere near my breasts.”
“Ok, fine, but I know there were other times. Can I continue now?”
“Please do,” she said, lighting up another of her own cigarettes with her pink bic lighter, exhaling slowly, histrionically, as if in a movie.
“Ok, so we were dancing, and then the lights went down and a slow song came on. I think it was R.E.M’s ‘Drive.’”
“That’s not really a dance tune.”
“But, we were dancing to it, kind of. She kept grabbing my ass. It felt….”
“Good?”
“Yeah,” he said, now smiling half-heartedly, “it felt good. Whatever. That’s not the point. The point is, well….then she kept kissing my cheeks. Then she started sucking on my ear lobes.”
“And that was the point you broke down, right?” Christy asked.
“Yeah, because you know damn well that is my weak point. The whole mouth to ear thing.”
She took a drag of her cigarette, “Yeah, I know all about that, remember the one time I made you cum just by licking your ear.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Ok, well, you know that you liked it. And I thought that it had to be me to be the one to give you that response, but I guess I was wrong. So you and this “Misty” girl, at least that is what your I.D. said on your cell, went somewhere and fucked right?”
“No, not really, first we danced some more, and then Pete Libby walked up to us with a plate covered in pills. He said, ‘here have a dose, on the house.’ I asked him what they were, and he said they were E. So, not having ever done that before…..”
“You went ahead and took a pill…dumb ass.”
“Whatever, you probably would have done the same in the situation I was in.”
“I doubt it, I’m not a whore.”
“Yeah you are.”
“No I’m not.”
“But oh, to the contraire my dear. You know that you have a thing for my best friend, Lou, eh? I know that you fucked him a few weeks ago. He told me.”
“Now where the hell did you get that from.”
“I just said, he told me,” Tom said confident that Lou was telling the truth. He had to have been, why would he make up such a lie in the first place?
“No, I didn’t. That is ridiculous. I don’t even think that he’s attractive.”
“And you actually find me attractive?”
“Yeah, kind of.”
“Kind of, good answer,” Tom said in low esteem.
“Anyway, let’s not even worry about that whole thing, because it isn’t true at all. In fact, I think that you are probably making it up that he told you that in the first place.”
“No, not really.”
“Yes, really,” she said, “You got to be kidding me, he has a gut.”
“Well, I’m ‘skinny as shit.’ That’s what you said the other night when we were laying there in bed, and then you laughed because you could see my ribs.”
“Maybe I did, but you are a bit um…gaunt.”
“Well, Misty didn’t think so, because after we took the E, she said that she found me irresistible, so we went into the J.C.’s bedroom and kissed a while. She had some weed too, so we smoked and then kissed some more.”
“And then you fucked her?”
“No, I never did that. All we did was kiss.”
“Right. Well, needless to say, this is over. I’m really sick of being cheated on. First it was Stephen, now you. Why do men do this to me? Is there something wrong with me?”
“You are bland and a whore.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m serious. You are all in it for YOU, too. This relationship was centered on you and your friends. Now that I have a few friends of my own…”
“I wouldn’t consider J.C. a friend, or Kieth.”
“They are better friends to me than your friends are to you.”
“Really, how so?” she asked, surprised that he would even challenge the tenaciousness of her friendships.
“Well, for one thing, Carrie always is saying things about how you suck because you have so much money and you always free-load at restaurants.”
“Whatever, they always offer to pay.”
“And Mary said that you were the one who scratched her CD because you were jealous that Joe gave her the flowers instead of you.”
“That was three years ago.”
He sat down on the park bench, pulled out his pack of cigarettes, lit another one, and said, “Well, she obviously is still pissed-off because of it still.”
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you and her,” she said, sitting down next to him so that she could look him in his green eyes. “You can both go to hell.”
“Alright, then should we just go back home or what?”
“You brought me here because you had something to tell me,” she said.
“Yeah, I was going to tell you that I was sorry, and that it will never happen again.”
“Really?”
“Really, but now, I realize how selfish you are, to think that I don’t deserve any friends. My life does not revolve around you.”
“I know.”
“Yeah, you know everything, right.”
“Well, I am a bit smarter than you are.”
“Just because you have a high IQ isn’t analogous to being highly virtuous.”
Christy frowned, “I am sorry that I have been this way with you, and I’ll work on my issues. You just have to promise me that you will never cheat on me again.”
He opened his can of soda and took a drink. “Listen, don’t turn it around that you are forgiving me, because I don’t care anymore.”
“Maybe you never did.”
“Bullshit.” He said, in obvious defense, “You were my world, you were everything, at one time.”
“Now, what?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Ok, then, go give Misty a call……” Christy said, watching him get up and walk away, but he will be back, she thought. He’ll be back because I’m the only one that really cares about him. I’m the only one who ever will care. Skinny idiot. Then she put her head in her hands and pretended to cry.

Familiar Patterns on the Table Cloth

Familiar Patterns on the Table Cloth

Ashley’s mind seemed filled with cryptic sand-figures waiting for the waves of pleasure to wash her away. She thought of sadness sometimes when she drank her anesthetizing wine and smoked mind-numbing marijuana, sitting on her porch, with music playing softly against her sensitive ears. What was it like then? To cry? To feel sorrow for something dark and strange—but for now, I’m happy, and I am about to fly away with him carrying me. We will go to the beach, together, now that I’m in shape again, looking good. Maybe I will flirt with some other guys, just to make him jealous, crawling up my sleeve to hide away from the envy he felt inside his cataract-soul. She took a hit of weed, holding the smoke deep within her lungs. She felt it; the feeling of leaving for a while. I will never feel sorrow again.
Chemicals and mind-numbing depressants held her up to the oceanic waves; they were coming. She could feel her patterns in her life, waiting to be forgotten for all time—to be soaked in the thoughts of her new pageantry of this life, so rich with maturity.
The phone would ring soon. It always did. She was never lonely anymore. Someone was always calling her, to go out, to do something. She wanted to do something for good. To get so high that she would never touch ground again. Her friends were of the gregarious type. Socialites and party-goers, always ready for the next good time. Riding in cars, smoking cigarettes, singing along to Dave Mathews Band, going to concerts, and movies. Eating more and more, while their stomach shrank from diet pills. Speeding along in cars. Never dreaming. Awake. Never sullen sleepers, they would parade around the town, shouting to boys and asking for directions to the next big get together.
After the parties, they would go to get coffee; eating like bovine fools; hearing the Musak and smiling with each lounge act singing their way into oblivion. They would always be remembered. They were ageless, young and proud, never giving in to any thoughts of reaching into time. Never giving in to the threat of aging.
She sat on her porch and waited some more. Putting down the bowl and lighting up a Camel Light. Maybe she would give him a call; maybe she would wait until tomorrow, make him shiver in complexity—he had a tendency to do that. Always wanting to know where she was, what she was doing, wrapped up in his complex web of attaching his spider-wire anchors to her. Nah, hell with him, she thought, tonight I’ll light up the town—feeling the grip of another boy’s tender hands around her waist; that made her feel even better now. I wonder what that ripped thing that works at that restaurant is doing tonight, he was my waiter a few days ago—I wonder what he feels like inside me. I wonder what it would feel like to fall asleep with him inside me? That would be so sexy.
Oh, hell, I’ll give my boy a call. He is at least good for something. She picked up her new cell phone and called Allen, the guy that she met a few weeks ago, decided to use him as her boyfriend.
“Hello?”
“Hey, honey,” she said in with a smile displaying the unctuous affectation of her cracking veneer.
There was the sound of a girl laughing, “Hey, how’s it going?”
“And who is that?” she said, angrily for the reason of being defeated.
“That’s Sarah, she’s a good friend of mine.”
“How long ago did you meet her?”
She could tell that he was smiling, having the one-up on her now, pinning her down to the mat of sexual ponderings. “Oh, about four days ago,” and she could feel him laughing. That made it the worst. Just the feeling of him giggling about his new found girlfriend.
“Um….is she just a friend? Or is she more than that,” she said, in a forced-light hearted tone.
She could hear in the distance, “Sarah” laughing and asking him to come back to her and have another beer in the kitchen, or something like that. She was imagining more all of the scenarios going on over at Allen’s place. They both being naked. They both clothed and ready to tear one another’s pants off. They both holding shot glasses and toasting to the death of Ashley as his girlfriend.
“She’s, well, you know….a new friend, that’s all. There is nothing going on between us.”
For a second she believed his sincerity. Not many guys ever put her down, she did have really nice tits and a great ass and a pretty face to go along with her beautiful assets. And she thought she had a good personality too. She could be wrong, but that didn’t happen too often. She couldn’t remember the last time someone cheated on her. It was always her being the clever fidelity-smasher.
“Right, well, I guess I’ll go and leave you two alone,” she said, hoping for that quick response of giving in to her again, of saying ‘ok, why don’t we meet up.’ But she didn’t get it.
“Cool, talk to you what, tomorrow?”
Exact type of thing she didn’t want to hear. “Damn you, Allen. I thought you really did like me? We had a great time the other night, didn’t we? You said that you loved the way that I kissed you and the way that I felt in your arms.” She was seeking sympathy, not empathy. She wanted him to fall down at her metaphysical knees and say something like ‘yeah, you are hotter than this girl.’ But maybe she wasn’t. That frightened her. She felt for sure that she was the best that he could do. She poured herself another glass of wine, thinking that the conversation would last a little longer, maybe drawn out for another half an hour, maybe hearing some begging on both sides of the field. “I’m sorry, baby, if I hurt you feelings the other night,” she said, “Is that what is going on, it is all about that little comment I made to Sue about you being “dim witted” or whatever, you know that I was kidding right?”
“Yeah, I know, and I forgive you.”
She knew that this forgiveness was a sign of him saying “goodbye” for good. “No you don’t. You are mad at me.” She was hoping now for some sentiment, any sort of feelings exhibited by him.
“I’m not mad at all, bye.”
“Hey, why don’t you just…” but he ended the call before she could say, “go to hell.”
So, she put down the phone, and felt weird. Not bad, just weird; she wasn’t defeated, not by a long shot, in fact, she thought, I’ve still got him tied around my finger—I bet he can still feel my tongue doing that thing that only I know how to do well. She took a sip of her wine and lit up another cigarette, just then reminded that she should really get some more teeth whitener, maybe even the real expensive kind that got her teeth sparkling in a few hours. That was always convenient. But her heart started to beat faster; that must be the diet pills. It couldn’t really be that feeling that I got when I was fourteen, could it, the feeling of loss? I always have more joy to extract from this world once a supply went bad, tainted, empty—and I still have all this weed, right? I should be getting a call here anytime soon, maybe from Joy, or Liz. Maybe that guy that I gave my number to last week will give me a call. We were both drunk, but didn’t he say that I was really cute or something. They all say that, whatever.
The phone rang.
“Hey Joy,” she said, looking at her caller ID.
“Hey, how’s it going sweetie?”
“Not bad, think that Allen just dumped me, though.”
“You?” No way.”
“Yeah, I really think that he thinks he can do better than me.”
She could her Joy taking another sip of beer. “It’s Friday night, I’m sure that there will be plenty of guys walking around holding up a sign saying, “I want you, Ashley, I need you to suck my dick.”
“Come on, I’m serious.”
“Oh, shit, girl—you know that I’m just trying to make you feel better. Anyway, you are always the one that makes other people feel good. You really do, you make me feel really happy when I’m down. You have that quality.”
Ashley felt a sudden boost, like an endorphin rush. She always got that jolt of energy from a compliment. She loved to be complimented more than anything else, well, aside from good sex with a ripped dude.
“Thanks,” she said, “Now why don’t you get over here and we’ll smoke some pot?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I was just calling you to ask you if you had that twenty bucks that I lent you the other day.”
“Yeah, come over here and get it; you can stay and chat with me,” she was starting to feel rejected again—no she wasn’t, this was just a little scratch in the record.
“Can’t you meet me somewhere? Tonight? How about…”
“How about at Players? We can all meet up there, have a few drinks?”
“Nah, I don’t think that I want to go out.”
“Well, then I’ll come over there.”
“No, you can’t.”
“What the hell are you talking about, ‘I can’t.’ We’re like best friends and everything, right,” she said, taking a good drag off of her favorite brand of cigarette followed by gulp of wine.
“There is someone coming over. You know who I’m talking about. It starts with a V.”
“Vicky Shuster? Fuck her. I hate her, and why the hell are you hanging out with her in the first place? I thought we were like the bestest of friends and everything.”
“You know that I like you both, I just want to see her for the night, she is having guy problems.”
“So AM I! Don’t you remember?”
“Yeah, but you can always do fine by yourself. You know that. You are prettier than she is, and she never has a boyfriend. You always have someone up your sleeve to call.”
Ashley was really feeling kind of down, so she lit up the bowl and tried to alleviate the feeling. This was new to her. Feeling low. It felt kind of good anyway. Yeah, that’s what it feels like, she thought, it feels good. Everything feels good.
“Well, ok, I guess I’ll just hang out here by myself.”
“You will not, you know that. Trish wants to do something anyway.”
“I thought that she was hooking up with that guy tonight?”
“Seth?”
“Yeah.”
“Probably not, he is giving her the cold shoulder.”
Ashley thought….hmmmm…I bet I could fuck him tonight, if I really wanted to. Why not? Sharing, isn’t that what friends are for?”
Ashley smiled and said, “What is his number?”
“You got to be kidding me,” Joy said.
“No, I’m not, give it to me.”
“How in the hell do you think that I know it?”
“Because he gave it to you the other night at the party.”
“How do you remember these things?”
“Because I’m smarter than you are and have a better memory.”
“Right,” Joy said irritated, “Ok, here it is, ready?”
“Yeah,”
“883-1498”
“Thanks, got to go.”
“I’m going to tell Trish all about this, you know.”
“No you won’t.”
Joy took another drink of beer, “why’s that?”
“Because you love me, dear.”
“Sure, sure, sure I do. I’m actually kind of sick of you.”
“Come on.”
“I’m serious, you are kind of selfish. Egocentric.”
“Oooooh, big word coming from ‘miss I can’t pass history 1 better give Ashley a call.”
“Got to go. Bye.” And the connection was cut.
“Fuck you,” Ashley said to the fuzzy sound of rejection emitted by her cell.
I don’t need her anyway, she thought, I think I WILL give Seth a call. Actually, I think that I’ll go take a shower first, get all ready for him. I bet he’ll come over in a second if I ask him too.
She stood up, put out her cigarette, and walked inside her apartment. She stood there for a second, just to catch her balance. She was feeling pretty good right now. High and drunk. At least that was certain. Everything else wasn’t so clear anymore. At least not tonight.
She walked to the shower, took her clothes off, unstrapped her bra, took off her panties, and turned on the water. She waited until it felt just right. Then she smiled as she looked in the mirror and saw the beauty that she had become. And as she walked into the shower, she felt the cryptic patterns of her life, her addled sand-sculpture wash away into the pleasure saturated utopia of her early twenties.

sex and drugs

A Story Written for My Youngest Child

“Ok, baby, what are you on now? You are dry as the Sahara, and your lips are all chapped. I bet is is that damn Meperidine again, huh?” Gerald Poolskate asked his wife, Linda Riverstone Poolskate. He knew that she was on something, because she was usually ready to fuck by now.
“Nuthin dearrrr..”
“Slurring, huh? Where’s the bottle? I wanted to have some sex tonight.”
“I don’t like sex, ‘cause it makes me feel like a liwtle girl and I don’t like feeling like a liwtle girl no more, and the whole banana peel that you slipped on years ago, remember that one time when you wore that big ol’ grumpy hat…..What was I talking about?"
Gerald smiled and searched for the bottle. He was so sick and tired of his wife taking this damn pain medication. He wanted to take it from her and throw it down the fucking toilet where it belonged. All of it and the rest of the opium poppers out there. He was sick and tired of those dumb fucks breaking their fingers on purpose just to get narcotics, and coming into his clinic. He was a nurse. They always asked to see the doctor right away, because the pain was “So fucking bad..man…I think I’m going to die!” He always said the doctors gave them what they “needed.” Although it was becoming clearer now to the medical community that the law was cracking down on doctors who prescribed the medications just to fulfill their patients wishes so that they would keep coming back for more.
“Here it is, right where I thought it would be. It is your little back pack. Forget about going back to school honey. You are all fucked up drugs, every other night. What you do in the day at your job at Perkins is your own business, but when you come home and make some decent dinner—of which you’ve not done in ages—and fuck me good, those are the times that matter. But, you don’t even want to fuck no more. I wonder why? You junky bitch.
“Who you callin’ junksky?” she babbled through her haze of a narcotic, similar to morphine but works for a shorter duration.
“I went to medical school, hun. Remember you always wanted to marry a doctor?”
“Yeah, I remember.” She said in more of a groan than anything. A groan from the lands of euphoria deep inside the mind, where there is no reason to commune with the outside world. Just dig deeper and deeper; throw your soul in the gutter. Throw your life in the gutter. And you just want to dig deeper and deeper, just to find them again, but after digging for years and years, you find nothing, but tolerance to the work.
“Well, I’m not a doctor, but you settled for me anyway. I loved you. I really did. Your hair, your white skin. Those eyes. That thick black eyeliner you always wore, and now I’m wondering whether or not that was to cover up the heroin dark circles under your eyes. I even loved the way that you talked, all raspy from smoking too many cigarettes. I just loved you. That was ten years ago. Now, I think that I really know what I’ve gotten myself into. This is a mess. Just a mess. I gave you three days to come clean and tell me where this shit was. All I had to do was look into your little red back-pack, filled with books that you were going to take to Penn State as a returning student. You are thirty five years old, baby. And you look like you are forty seven. Come on. I think that I can do better than this.”
“No you can’t. You don’t know how bad you smell.”
“Smell? Cologne honey.”
“That don’t cover it up.” She said.
“Ok, well, you have so many flaws and a character so tainted with junkyhood and lies and stealing. I’m so sick of it. I think the only reason that I stayed in this relationship was because we had good sex. Now it doesn’t even exist.”
“Whatever, can you get me a smoke.”
“Here,” Gerald handed her a Winston Light.
“Just be here with me, Gerry. You really don’t smell that bad, I am just trying to find some way to make you stay with me, but it is like, I’m married to two people. You and the drugs. The drugs are good in bed too. All I have to do is lie here for hours and hours, staring at the television or the floor, it don’t matter.”
“Honey, I still love you, but you really need to get cleaned up.”
“I know I do, but I know something else. You are leaving me for some bitch named Kelly Aubuchon.”
Gerald smiled and brushed her hair away from her delusional eyes, that were peering out through her delusional brain. “Don’t be silly. I am all about you.”
“Well what about those stories you’ve just written, about Kelly and you and Wal-Mart or somewhere doing things with each other that we have not even done. The hand-stand fuck? That is some kinky shit.”
“That is fiction.”
“But fiction is reality in the sense that reality is fiction, and the town went beep beep beep.”
“Shut up.”
“Ok,” she said as she rolled over and went into a coma.
“Now what? “ he asked himself. “I guess I can go down stairs and call up Cindy. She’s the Kelly Aubuchon…heh..heh…”
“What’s that, baby?” She said, through the murky opiated waters.
“Nothing.”
“Okie dokie, but maybe, maybe I’ll go to the methadone clinic next week.”
“I really don’t care anymore.”
“And I really don’t care about you anymore.”
He didn’t really care about that threat at all, since he knew damn well that she depended on him for everything. So he didn’t reply. Instead he went downstairs to get a drink and make a phone call.
He pulled out his Android and called her up. “Hey,” he said after she answered.
“Hey, this is Gerry , right?”
“Yeah, and this is Cindy right?”
“Yeah, I was thinking about you all day today.”
“And I was thinking about you,” he said, also thinking about his wife upstairs, sighing in her pain-killed sleep.
“What are you wearing,” she asked.
“Nothing, you?”
“Not a thing aside from your cum dripping down my firm titties. You like my little twenty five year old tits don’t you. You want to fuck them. You want to lick them, suck on their hard little nipples, huh? I bet you want to see them, huh?”
Gerald’s cock started to grow, “Yeah, let’s meet up, shall we?”
“Where?”
“How about at your place?”
“My parents are home.”
“Oh,” Gerald said, “How about that motel down by Perkins?”
“Sure.”
“Great, “ he giggled like a little girl, “later.”
“Late.”
The conversation ended, and he was about to make a very firm decision, whether or not to fuck some other girl other than his wife. He stood there on the linoleum floor of his kitchen and pondered the thought of a divorce. That would mean allot of bullshit. The lawyers, the papers. Shit. What was he to do? He gazed up at his room, listening to his wife snore, thinking, drugs don’t do much for relationships do they, honey? I’m going to get laid. Sex is better than drugs, well, sometimes drugs are better than sex, but right now, sex is better and right now, sex is better than you.

Blast from the Past!

This is a "story" that I wrote eight years ago. Those drug addled days, yes...


hey.
Dec 14, 2003

Life is Strange
by---
Saddam Hussein

To be perfectly honest with you, I'm not sure if I ever was depressed about that whole thing with that girl; I mean, I don't know if I actually cared about her anyway, and she did call the fucking cops on me. I haven't really told you the whole story, which is funny and deserves to be told in extensive elaboration later in a novella, perhaps; this is a brief version(and edited, of course):

It was the second time I spent time with her. We got drunk, and then she took off her pants, whatever, that part is irrelevant, so we had really good sex, and then she falls asleep on me, but I was feeling unsatisfied in some kind of way, so I thought that I would spend some time alone thinking, only with drugs, since she had this bottle of hypnotics, a sleeping-aid, next to her bed, which I've known to be quite fun, but causes memory gaps, and I knew this, so I took three, sat there for a while, drank another beer, found my pants, went outside to smoke a cigarette, and locked myself out, since the door locks automatically, and had to pound on the windows for her to let me in---------it was hard to get her up, but then after a few agonizing minutes outside in the snowy landscape of this Amish state, she came to the door, and after that, I don't remember a thing, except her body and face started to look like this other girl whom I've a mad crush on, K., and I acted in accord with my perceptions by apologizing to "K." that I slept with this other girl, and was very sorry about it, won't you still love me, K., etc. I guess she said, "who the fuck is K.?" I don't remember what happened after that, but she says that I did a lot of shit, like break her dishes, and kick over her plant, and throw her painting, because I said that it sucks, and take more pills, and then she called the cops on me, because I was "touching her" and "putting my weight on her, but 'not in a malicious way'," but I can't remember anything, it is all a blank; I'm sure that I didn't rape her, I wouldn't do such a thing considering my morals and likely impotence at that point, from the drugs and whatever, but I swear to God, I did not rape that girl, I'm an adulterer, but I'm no rapist. Then the cops brought me, without handcuffs, to my apartment, and he told me that I needed to go to bed, and that I was extremely drunk, or whatever. Then I pass out, and then get a call from the girl, and she is all pissed off, but I didn't know what the fuck I did, how could I be responsible for my actions? I was hypnotized, baby. We emailed each other a whole bunch of times, and I got really depressed because I kept feeling worse and worse about the whole thing, and then, Christ, she says to me that "I'm upsetting her because I am beating myself up over this, and I sound 'depressed'." And, she, "still can say fairly easily that we can still be friends."

And then she told me that her coffee was not actually the Columbian Roast, but Folgers's decaffeinated crystals, or whatever, and that's about that. I think she's crazy.

---Saddam
success
Dec 7, 2003

Let me tell you what, Pablo, I never want to go to another English graduate student party again. To make a short story shorter, they were stuck up, I got tired of telling those who talked to me that, "hey! I'm an English major and I like to rreeeead," so I changed my introduction to, "I am an aspiring adult film star." They turned around and walked away; I mean, can't one be in porn and also be intelligent at the same time? i.e. Gauge with her extensive vocabulary. "Your cock is so big that it makes me distraught." A grammatically sound sentence with a little high-school vocab test kind of influence going on, eh?

Basically, we then just left that scene because L. said that she wasn't feeling well, lying of course. Later on we went to some party where the conversation most prominent had something to do with the argument, which some art-chick made that people shouldn't use toilet paper. That got old too, so we left. I think that we then just dumped DC at his place and went back to L.'s house. I'm a very, very happy person today. She makes me happy, and she gave me an ambien. Well, before going into further details which would ultimately render me feeling like I'm in high school again, I will say goodbye, talk to you later.

"I'm teaching Pynchon studies at San Narcisso community college." - JAK

I don't know, I just like this article I wrote and have decided to post it....why....Hmmmm....

I seem in a trance sublime and strange

To muse on my own separate fantasy

--Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Mont Blanc”











And then a Plank on Reason, broke,

And I dropped down, and down—

And hit a World, at every plunge

--Emily Dickinson, Number 280







Lucidity came to me when at last I succumbed to the vertigo of the modern

---Louis Aragon



As I’ve stated in my recent article, “Living with Schizoaffective Disorder,” I myself am inflicted by this disease, or as Emile Kraepelin called it: “cancer of the mind.” He was speaking specifically of dementia praecox, or what we know now today to be schizophrenia, but to include schizoaffective disorder in this description— also very similar to schizophrenia—is not unfounded. All people suffering from a schizophrenic illness have at one point exhibited what are called “negative” and “positive” symptoms. Negative meaning “lack thereof,” and positive, referring to symptoms present in the mentally ill that are not exhibited in the general population, such as hallucinations (voices, tactile, olfactory, gustatory, and visual). A visual hallucination is one of which a person sees something that isn’t there at all, whereas an “Illusion,” something that everyone has had one time or another is actually seeing something that is there, but the mind projects a false interpretation upon the subject in view i.e. a shadow that looks like a person who is following a person, but isn’t actually a person at all. This is an example of an illusionary experience, which we all have had. The two are hard to distinguish to the layman because of the close connection between the two symptoms, and so is the case for the “delusion.”





By saying a person is “delusional,” means that he or she has held, with absolute conviction, a false belief interwoven in his or her belief system that cannot be shaken no matter how much effort is made by outside influences. Often times this word is thrown around to refer to being “out of it,” or “foggy in mind,” where in actuality it means something completely different to this popular misconception. The correct terminology for this state of consciousness is “delirium.” As with schizophrenia meaning “multiple personalities,” it has no relation to the word being used. Having multiple personalities is known as “multiple personality disorder,” a very rare illness. And “delusion,” is often used incorrectly when the word “delirium” should have been employed. A delirium involves a quick change between mental states (for example, from lethargy to agitation and back to lethargy). It includes changes in alertness, changes in feeling and perception, changes in level of consciousness and awareness, changes in sleep patterns, confusion about time or place. These have no direct relation to the word “delusional” which, as stated before, means to have false beliefs. Since we’ve that clarified, I’d like to move on to discuss what a delusion is exactly, and why it is such a devastating component in the schizophrenic spectrum of illnesses.





There are several types of delusions, being the bizarre delusion: a delusion that is very strange and completely implausible; an example would be that aliens have removed the afflicted person’s brain. The non-bizarre delusion: a delusion that, although false is at least possible, e.g. the affected person mistakenly believes that they are under constant police surveillance. A mood-congruent delusion: any delusion with content consistent with either a depressive or manic state, e.g., a depressed person believes that the news anchors on television highly disapprove of them, or a person in a manic state might believe they are a powerful deity, (this does NOT mean a multiple personality), but a sensation of grandiosity that persuades a person, willingly or not, that they are something “more” than they actually are. And mood-neutral delusion: a delusion that does not relate to the sufferer’s emotional state; for example, a belief that an extra limb is growing out of the back of one’s head is neutral to either depression or mania.

In the schizophrenic spectrum, the bizarre delusion is usually exhibited, whereas in the non-psychotic state, one exhibits a non-bizarre delusion—one that is believable through a false veneer, but once examined closely, turns out to be a belief that goes against all “truth” as we know it. I experienced the bizarre type of delusion during my psychotic break from reality. I thought that I was Jesus Christ delivering a message that would be carried out through my dog by E.S.P. and delivered to the police who had come to arrest me, which I thought to be the Romans coming to take me away to be crucified. This sounds insane, yes, of course it is. But at the time, in that particular moment, it seemed all too logical because of my false interpretations of the world around me. I was not, however, in a “delirium” since I knew where I was, and not floating in and out of consciousness as would someone in a fog after having a head injury, a state that the word delirium is correctly applied to.





I just thought that, on behalf of the rest of the mentally ill community that has to put up with stigma and false understanding, I should make an effort to clear this matter up. There is a difference between the two words, and although referring to the human mind are not closely related. That is all I can think of off of the top of my head, but if you’ve any questions or wish to discuss this matter in fuller detail, feel free to email me at stan_flannery@hotmail.com. Thank you for reading this and I hope that now you’ve a better understanding, if you hadn’t already known, of the differences between a “delusion” and being "delirious."

Here, have some disease

For Christopher Columbus


He stood on his mountain and sang,
Songs of deliverance and rape and torture,
He sat down and prayed to his lord:
His gold and his silver.
He cried out to his slaves,
To lay down and give up their arms,
For they were to be cut off,
If not an ounce of rare metal was
Derived from the mines.
And he dreamed of sickness
Being the greatest soldier of all,
Taking care of the heathens—
Taking care of his swelling dignity