Those Little Lizards That Stand on Your Skin

Amongst many tiny hairs,
the similar quality,
standing on end as if tiny
prickles or shocks lit them
up.

Creepy, crawly little lizards
that scale the follicle trees
and scream and taunt one another
from atop their grand thrones,
like vagabonds they migrate from
leg to leg, arm to arm,
body to body, passing along
the similar message of fright.

Some excited in the grandeur of the view,
decide to hang around for a while,
keeping the jungles intact, allowing for
movements and dirty conciertos,
sources of fascination and amusement.

Marvelous!

Fear, fear, fear that doesn't tremble their
boughs but instead humbles their
appetites.

out of the tunnel..

Handmade eroticism runs dry
when one too many thoughts
run amok, simply fuck after
fuck after fuck.

Auto-stimulation loses its candor
like a wave breaks and the surfer
slowly loses his mantle.

Anticipation (till the point of no
return) morphs to a feeling of
wickedness and being on your own.

But yet again and again,
one comes back to the screen
with each hand manned,
ready to scream.

Standing alone in venal rapture

The cataclysm of events in the fold,
Three spades in hand
1 out on the river cold.

A Gentle Reminder

Who's the idiot now?

The doctor puts down his medicine and walks over to his cabinet.
What a cabinet! Filled with absolutely no more mystery.
I took the mystery away by learning about this and that.
Damn medical school.

So the doctor decides to swallow them all, just an invitation to
a new pharmaceutical mystery.

Invitation to mystery.
Sounds delightful!
I want some of it, now,
NOW!!

For gods sake, there is no mystery here. This is all NONSENSE.
I am the writer and I am telling you there is NO MYSTERY HERE.
Just boredom! Why if I had a story to tell, I think I could write it better
than this. I am just piecing something together to see if I can find a mystery.
But you see, that doesn't work, at least not this time.

Hell if I could, I would stop this nonsense now, but I am compelled to
try it anyway. Its a god damn mechanism I tell you, just helps you clear
the old neural passages. Or at least masquerades that way.
I honestly don't believe there is much mystery you can encounter
after you've travelled the words enough. The mystery that was ever there
was only there if you wanted it to be there. Otherwise its tomfoolery.

The more you do it, the more you don't! Just a serious of “witty” little exclamations.

Look at me, I know something, I can do this or that!
I am the best at this, at nothing at all! Its what I live for
you damn idiot!
I make the word shit sounds like souffle.

Keep reading me see what it gets you:

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! or maybe...
?????????????????????? or perhaps...
........................................ or I really like...
!!!???!?!?!?!???!?!??!??!?

Over and over and over and over and over and over?!!?!?!?? (there have to be 2 ?)
Nonsense! NONSENSE! (if there aren't two ?? then it just isn't the same)

The best of my words amount to “god”'s spit.
At best I can become “god”'s phlegm or a few
god damn euphemisms.

And what is that ?
Revolution ?
Brilliance ?

Realize that stumbling blunders are not unique
but simply a series of fortunate mistakes
that are given form by absurd human thoughts.
We are like festering sutures that need to be stitched up by a crazed,
shaky-handed surgeon with a cabinet full of drugs stretching
the insides of his skin to a thin veneer like dead skin
stretched over a vast ocean of dead, bobbing carcasses.

Facade, bullshit and mimicry.

inventing a new language in english (part 2)

wordsmithing as ceaselessly
controlled drifting
paradigm downshifting
spokerimmed gladness on jetfuel
ready for launch
the pundit pistons
rivers of vibrations reverberating
intense anticipation rushes
as a storm of milliseconds drive by
the moment has not arrived
draft feelings into redlined symbolic tactics
a corridor appears in memory lane
gears gladly grinding going for gold
in the now moves poetic traffic
potential patience performs as cranks get kinetic
momentous moves made on lexical slingshots
flouting defenses after the deafening defiance
only to find oneself back in the pack

inventing a new language in english (part 1)

laps on blades of oxygen
banish me wildly the passionate wind
dance unseen limitless sky
kissing the earth at the feet of Aphrodite
licking rustling laughter swirl
the echoing dichotomies in cacophonous clouds
whisper sweet anythings to rabid rainbirds
and drive deep thunderous bass lines
throbbing thrashing wishing and washing
with adventurous avalanches
painting primer on unwelcoming foothills
smoke on the water with a squall on its tail
lift frantic flurries in dryly frostbitten deserts
arid thirsty cries for warm saline effervescence
around jagged rocks twisting into tabletops
raging fingers blindly crafting Michelangelance
bows to the will of my voice
nevertheless my mind floats on
without an utterance

and now back to the pen

i threw my hat against the wall
it was another burst
you all know mine so well
many smile and accept
others warn and correct
some even suggest

i am not sure you are there
or if i am here

oh, the subtleties of perfection
your smooth curves
taunting
i could taste you

i am not on the edge of a building
life is a swing
give it a good kick.
the more you kick, the further you fly

this is the difference when i connect
using time and space
i can breathe through these lines

take another look

One more look;

dreary eyed Saints of the Subway,
of You I seek cold truth,
stuff of Devils and Diamonds,
entrenched in the Moral mire,
endless occupational adventures,
be it for Salt or Goats
or Gold or Boats,

an endless Brain choke.

controlled slaves to Capital,
Company, Government, God,
and when the time comes,
in comes reinvestment.

Ferocious faces
Lonely places.

fire in the eyes of those about,
unexplained but subtly clearing.
the idea that those around you
can be in the same physical place as you
but in an entirely different mental state from you
is absolutely understandable but yet utterly baffling.
somethings just aren't read in a book or on a page,
some must be experienced. those are the things that comprise
the abyss,

man can find his character there,
man can find his villainous rage,
or his archaic sensibility,












or another blank page












start afresh.

snowflakes

thoughts, like baggage,
rotating about the conveyor belt.

each package apart and aloof
chasing the next and the next
but from the same main vein,
arise.

this ventricle is fed
from far off places,
having been in many mouths
before being deposited
in this one.
as new bundles arrive,
the older ones are caste aside,
in a pile they lay,
waiting to be claimed,
some stolen
some maimed.

all of their contents,
essentially the same,
the outer most layers
almost as empty,
almost as lame.

yet there is an owner,
someone follows,
waits and scampers to offload
what they believe is of their own.

but all are the same,
all are alone.

ring and run

rip-write-read-rape
those unbreathable feelings tingle
on the tip

it's evil

bile of the mind
the juices that marinate thoughts
stewing the emptiness of it
nuances garnishing the void

40 days and 40 nights

this experience is on a dimmer switch
it can't turn off

unwind this spring and cut the coil
what happens when I overflow
from this mental boil?

set up the cones and weave, unpredictably
crazy hobo - - FALL

so that all your coins fly from the basket
and you'll pick them up
one by one
and rearrange

life beyond my eyes

i can still remember
the amber days of sunny blue puddles
and crisp october air

those were the days
when awakening in the dawn
of a promising new day held promise

each new minute
would hold a golden key
impressions of endless moments

i couldn't imagine or mirror
the countless improbabilities
that happened haphazardly

disbelief would simply
make me too afraid
and i would be too fated out

or perhaps i already am
in a different tenor
that promise held high losses

regardless
such orange days come back
in lightrooms and even in darkness

i could see loveliness
and forget the mess
of bottled promise

Poem from 1-3-2002

Solicited vile dreams
gory imagery, intense fear

...awaken me..

Breathless, speechless, confused, jolted

...more than a few times...

Above the turmoil, above all, floats
a feeling of total serenity, total peace

...how can this be?

I take a deep, clear, breath, and
splash cold water on my face

...and step back into the nightmare



written on the train back from Montreal 1-4-02..

"uplifted but sorrowful...that's the feeling i was left with as i fell asleep on the last night of our trip...montreal is like a french version of new york, sometimes more vulgar...poor drunkards and unfortunate children in despair loathing the streets, looking for suckers to scam a nickel or dime; a quarter if they're lucky...a loonie or toonie if they're really lucky...all products of industrialized hopes abandoned as soon as another wave of modernization crashes through...

in this town, the senses are jolted into hyperdrive...neon lights and flashy images of cartoon breasts displayed on every street corner of Sainte-Catherine for a solid 10 blocks...i wondered, while cruising the isles between the stone and steel cabinets, what saintly Catherine would think if she saw what the street beholding her name had to offer...cinemas showing pronography in 6 theatres 24/7, offering $10 lap dances and $1 peep shows...hooded thugs with scruffy faces and glossy eyes asking if the tourists had everything they needed...yes, no, may-be?...beaten down old men asking for change, hoping to get the last toonie from you so he can retire in some dark corner with his fix...whichever hook snagged him...chasing a feeling that never seems to last long enough...that is until he's dead...

as soon as i fell asleep that last evening, some wicked nightmare came and in a blink i was awake...i was sitting in the middle of Sainte Catherine in front of Hotel Villa de France, where we stayed, at a school desk with my lap top...writting something... intense feelings, something deep, something i couldn't remember...with every pedestrian walking by, i looked into their eyes, no, stared into their eyes in length, looking for some kind of resolve...but all i saw were lost souls, looking at me for answers...and i had nothing to offer them...a car drove by...and stopped at the corner to my right...a man got out...my instincts told me to leave...as i hastily closed up and got into the hotel, the man was steadily raising his voice and coming closer towards me...i don't know what he wanted...i was frightened...the moment i stepped into the hotel i awoke...paralyzed, but not because of fear...

ironically, i felt extremely peaceful...serene...every breath i took had an inner sense of tranquility...something was out of place...for 5 minutes i lay still looking at the orange glow in the window, trying to understand what just happened...very few times in my life had i felt this tranquil...what perplexed me was that it came after such a hellish dream...i went to the sink and splashed some cold water on my face, soon after, i was asleep...still thinking about that man who got out and tried telling me something...what was he trying to say? and why did i run away from him?

a block away from our hotel was Saint-Laurent..a street that went straight through China Town and into Old Montreal...within 10 blocks you feel like you've gone through 3 different cities...anytime I found myself in china town, i had trouble accepting oriental people speaking in broken canadian french...it turns out, i learned, that canadian french is different from france french...i never learned enough of the language to know the difference...anyway, i've been through china town in frisco and new york, and a lot of my friends are chinese...edison is like living in little asia (the majority of its residents are either from india, korea, china, or philipenes - the native food and clothing stores and everything is just a 5 minute drive from my home)...you see, i'm used to hearing chinese people speak english...i definately enjoy hearing it for its amusement merits...but, hearing a chinese person speak french, now that's an experience on a level of its own...

i woke up again, this time scared and confused...unsure of my surroundings, shivering because the room was cold and i didn't know what i was just dreaming about...tick click click tick click click sounds coming from outside...i got up and looked out the window...some kid was beside a bill board stand accross the street spray painting grafitti...the phrase was "SMOKE MY CANNABiS" with a little smoke effect where the dot for the little 'i' was...as the clicking of the spraypaint can in the background continued, i went back to bed...

as soon as you leave the tall red gates of china town you enter Old Montreal...the deeper you go, the more interesting things become...first you notice that the buildings are smaller, tighter together, older looking...next, a few block further, cobblestone streets appear, sidewalks feel more quaint, and the road narrows to almost one lane...it feels like classic europe, but oh so cold...if you keep going all the way down Saint Laurent, you reach the water front where stands a big convention center of some kind and a great concrete walkway right next to the water...in the summer this place is wonderful...in the winter, it's brutal due to the arctic cold...the buildings are a good 100-150 feet away from the water front, in between which lays some grass with railroad tracks in the middle that don't seem to be used often, and a few lanes for cars to go through on the side closest to the bars, boutiques and restaurants that line up all the way down the waterfront

old montreal also houses some major government buildings in the classic european architecture of tall columns, regal staircases and fancy yardwork...all lit up in holiday lights that change colors every few minutes...very sweet...there is also a pedestrian courtyard where magicians and jugglers and musicians come and play in the summer....during the winter they usually have lighted statues and in our case a stage set up for some kind of show we never witnessed...this is the place to come and chill out...

there was a lot of noise and honking and people yelling right outside my window when i awoke the third time around...i think it was 4:30 or so...i was getting irritated, and the room felt considerably colder...there was a draft and no heat coming from the old iron cast water heated peace of shit that didn't do it's job...i curled up into a ball and wished to be on a beach in st.thomas near the blue water whispering while i went floating away into dreamland...nope, not in this reality...the only urge i had left inside was to get suited up in my gear and go take a walk outside...i felt like something was calling me...but i was too lazy, and in five minutes was out cold...

we arrived into montreal around 9pm after about 10 hrs. on the train...it felt good to be out...we were scrambling around st.catherine looking for our hotel when, after about 5 blocks of wonderful eyecandy, ashish noticed we went the wrong way...so we turn around and go back from where we started and realize if we went the right way, it would have been only 1 1/2 blocks to the hotel...

once inside, we get settled and surely pack a bowl...i should also note that at one of the stops near the candian border, we smoked 2 quick bowls behind the station, so on the train we were enjoying ourselves very much...after the smoking, all 3 of them went to the pizzaria next door to call home...in the meantime i showered and unpacked...they came back with a six pack ready to drink...i went downstairs, checked in with home to make sure they don't worry...while talking on my cell in the lobby, some old drunk frenchie was hassling the man at the front desk with incoherent babbling and constant recounting of his change as obviously as possible...stir a scene...this was background amusement while i'm talking to my mom somewhat high...fun fun!

back upstairs we chill out with some brew chattering away about all the fun we're going to have...ashish and ameera (a&a) come in and we all decided to hit the bottles....first, we poured ourselves some malibu and pepsi...then some more...and some more thereafter...we also opened the biccardi dark (really dark and strong stuff) and decided to mix with that as well...we also, by this point, started playing a game of asshole...after a few rounds, everyone is toasty....i somehow became president, which gives me the power of making the asshole, who coincidently was punit, drink anytime as much as i tell him to...the nite before he kept exclaiming how badly he was going to get trashed tomorrow...i went on a power trip...punit got hammered...mission accomplished...he was mad because i told ashish to fill the rest of his cup, which was 1/3 empty, with pure rum and take a good long swig...he got riled up in the comical way he does when he's drunk and decided to pour some biccardi and coke over my head...ah, no problem, for the sake of humility my good chum"

Grogs -- Part 5 --- This is the end..

It wasn't long before I realized that this whole helicopter thing was bad idea. What was I thinking, running up expectations and throwing daggers at fate? Now I sit here in the dark, moping, unsure of the last moment but hoping to awaken in the next. I opened my eyes to a bright, white light and what adrenaline would sound like if it blasted past your eardrums.

"Well, hello there!" said a voice..
"How you doing? How was the ride? Enjoyed it I see, hmm? Any thoughts I should know about?" said the voice again..
All I could think is, where am I? The last thing I remember was running up the staircase to meet Grogs and now I hear a voice and a bright white light. I feel cold and alone and, yet, somehow...surrounded?

End the irony…start the reality..

I tried to speak but something stopped me. My mouth felt sutured shut and I couldn't feel much else. And then it hit me..

bruise
shit
fuck
piss
light
bright
tripped
Grogs
Grogs
Grogs
despair
fear
surprise
shock


A big metal…cucumber…and a pink..pouch?


I have seen some strange things in my life, and like so many other sentences that you read, this one takes the cake. Here was Grogs dressed in a yellow, polka-dotted suit with white shoes and a black top hat with 2 women I have never seen in my life. We were in his helicopter, a monstrous Black Robinson R44 Raven, and we seemed to be hovering in one spot, somewhere over the ocean. The 2 women looked like Park Avenue Model types and they seemed to be watching some invisible thing in the distance. If I had to guess, I would say they were high on something but these days with all of the anorexia, cigarettes and diarrhea-tics these girls ingest, you could never be sure if it was there daily routine or a real raunchy, out of the box type trip. But these women were the epitome of “Wall Street decadence on a Saturday night in Ibiza” wearing black dresses with thin satin, dresses barely reaching their knees, boots covering the gap and long streaked hair, tied into some kind of a pretzel, gold pins and all holding the pretzel intact.

“You’re wondering why your mouth appears to be sutured shut, aren’t you?”

Suddenly I remember that this is the situation, I can’t open my mouth, that was not a dream before reality..and why? To my relief, my mouth was simply taped, albeit tightly, but not sutured shut.

“We plan to sodomize you with this here cucumber,” said one of the anorexics.

I squirmed and struggled to get free and before I knew it I had the other anorexic taking my pants down and the tape off of my mouth.

“Hey now Grogs! What is this all about? What exactly is going on here? If you didn’t want to do the deal, why no just say so? I mean seriously, I value my..uhh…asshole!”

Grogs shrugged at me and started laughing cynically, sardonically and then he began to rant.

“You know how I always told you one of these days all of those horrible thoughts would lead to you taking it in the ass! Well I wasn’t joking my friend. I keep telling you, be careful what you say around me or you’ll get what’s coming!”

I shrieked inside, thinking of what to do next, my eyes rolling and palms sweating..

…and then I heard all 3 of them laughing.

“Ha! Did you really think we could do that?”
“Seriously, how crazy are you?”
“That was fun though!”

They took the tape from my mouth and let me higher my pants. I tried to stand a few times but fell over as the ‘copter wasn’t exactly being flown level.

“What in god’s name are you three blathering about?”

“Well you have to pay the price to get the deal! Now I know you truly are a man of your word! The deal will of course go through and you will be handsomely rewarded! Just think of the look on your face. HA! It was priceless.”
“Yeah, what a rush Grogsy,” stated one of the two wenches..

“So you mean it was a joke? Well…haha…I guess you got me! Glad we could see things eye to eye! So we sign tomorrow then?”

“Of course we do, just remember, a cucumber in hand is better than one in the ass!”

Indeed, the moral of the story itself. To make a few bucks, a cucumber in the ass. Bend over for all these fools you see each day and say, “Thank you sir, can I have another?” I felt like a sodomized Cool Hand Luke. Only Newman would never stoop to this level. Is it worth it, I ask, to bend over and take it in the ass for some cash?

A big, metal cucumber. And the pink pouch..wait..

“So whats that pink pouch for then?”

Grogs stared at me and said “Lube.”

“Ahh, I get it, make it more believable, haha, very good touch!”

“No, not at all! That was for the girls. They too must pay the price of admission”

“Right, to make it more believable I presume. After all a metal cucumber you know..”
“No, no, that wasn’t for the metal cucumber…”

And the girls giggled.

“Jesus man! You are..uhh…interesting. So I presume everyone is happy then?”
“Not yet…want to join?”

The girls snickered and gave a look as if to say, come and get it. I though to myself, whats the worst that could happen? Become one of these bastards, a peacock in men’s shoes? But the deal, the deal…


Grogs
Grogs
Grogs

“Fuck it all, I’m in! What’s the worst that could happen?”
“We’ll see!” said Grogs...

And a "THUD!" and I saw black again..knocked out...being dragged, pants off..shit..

despair
fear
surprise
shock
deal
deal
money
money..
money….
metal cucumber
sodomy..

GROGS!

the end…

Abyss

The dust settles,
Sediment and smokey skies all around.
and we hear a..
..A tustle in the jungle;
these blessed blunders
which burnt us away have
arisen once more

and we tumble backwards,
we hibernate in our home made
abyss.

big how-you-say

...when the mind is undistilled
fumigated and fermented

there lies a place
before rationalization
before the thought

inklings drip drip past

too much ink...
...down the paper it goes

...thus i bite the desk
the bar eats me

strikes and gutters...

The Cyclical Market...

We bottom out.
Millions of fingers furiously
tapping and typing destiny,
or dreams of reality.

some poet said, the center could not
hold; with no knowledge of consequence,
we trod that path letting a dim light
lead us in the dark woods.

Shall we falter?

writing a poem on the back of gift wrapping

in the motionless rattle of our days
events appear like music

disappear like music like
birthday wrapping paper

simple presents choke attention deficit
distraction sends mixed messages

the descended ether blinding voices
fog suffocating the fractured universe

fearless appeals for ears
sideshot glances and dusty humor

like a speaker on a shelf
buzzing a tune on repeat

eternal halloween

at first i was a spinal chord
bending and kicking

then a newborn on my back
wiggling and crying

then i learned to crawl
and learned to talk

the world was mine
then the world was gone

i learned to learn
and learned there is no end

and learning made me grow to understand
time in my hand is just sand

and realized the futile truths
are disguised lies

the world was refurbished
but a world undone

i saw the masks
at the masquerades

laughed at the sadness
and cloaked my madness

the world is a ball
and the perpetual last call

it is eternal halloween
the best one you ever seen

Line Without Curves

eyes on, thoughts off,
squint then open, dreaming

state before sleep
half limbo in the fall

is the bed attached to you?
are you attached to the bed?

are you in bed?? ...probably not

______________________________

the line on a page
is like the bed under my sleep

its life is purely in myself
its body in a digital desert

my line is owned by you dear reader

Floating Anchors

Lost at sea, in a mental squall,
I could burn this turf in complete
solitude.

Without a soul to confess,
I read my dreams into my
duress.

The calm of the waves post-storm,
a reminder that life is a silent
bomb.

In the front of a monitor

Nothing can be done to stop the
sly movement of fingers across
a plane of letters..

..or the avalanche that follows.

Through The Ages

understand Euclidian space,
one sees man's world in two dimensions

study Renaissance paint,
and one stands outside the third dimension

read Gutenberg type,
expand imagination

listen to the radio and watch the glowing stone,
become the visually-audio-tactile whole once more

analyze the Cubist lens,
and look at man's fractured self

the artist reflects their society
like the sun shines in the pond's waves.

The Image

The architect
the designer
the taste of my lover's lips
the mechanics of flavor

The engineer
the machinist
the feel of my lover's touch
the mechanics of sense

The builder
the mason
the echo in my lover's eyes
the mechanics of walls

The digger
the bulldozer
the ruined temple
the mechanics of earth.

A dream about being free

An Angel whispered to me
"To be happy, you must be free...

Stay with me for a while",
She spoke with a warm smile

I said with stern concern
"If I stay, I will not learn"

"Learn what?", she asked
"To be free, I cannot wear a mask"

We loitered naked under the moonshine
Looking up at the sky
Her body was close to mine
She shivered, I wasn't sure why

We watched a bright shooting star
It didn't seem very far

My eyes followed in accord
The Angel showed me the Ford

All roads lead from an archetype path,
Contour and Spring aftermath

She took my hand
Then held onto my arm
The land shook on her command
My mind went into alarm

Why did I make my decision to stay?
At the moment, I couldn't say

The terrain abruptly split apart
Intense fear filled my heart

Simultaneously, we fell underground
The surroundings became dark all around

Midair, I leaned more against her chest
She embraced me, pressing her warm breast

My sensual perceptions were left behind
A third eye is what I found

I closed my eyes because I could see,
My mind started walking freely

Each step had an inner leap
Into the unknown whilst deep

Why am I in the midst of nothing?
In the plunge, the Angel says, grinning

"Freefall is like birth,"
Suddenly, I felt the earth

An Angel showed me the Ford
My eyes saw in accord

I was standing under a tree
A crane soared overhead
I bent down on one knee
To stretch my hand into the riverbed

I put my ear near the rushing noise
(I listened, humbly, to the belle voice)

"Your origin is based on another premise
...do not forget this"

[you will]
I awoke, completely still

"Most of us have been taught very little about the power of words. Once we are attuned to hearing what is being said over and over,we start to really hear how we strengthen the bars of our own prison by the incredible lies about reality that we regularly repeat. In many ways our words are our prayers,because they are our decrees. Sufis tell us our words should pass through 3 gates before we speak them:Are these words true, are they necessary, and are they kind?" — 2 out of 3 down like a lead balloon, but the last, still up in the air.

Junk Journalism

I think we have a bank somewhere that contains all of the little sayings we "use" to describe horrible things. Every day, its the same news, filled with loathing, doubt, decline, depression and desecration. Either a toddler dies somewhere due to a psychotic parent or a famous celebrity of some sort dies unexpectedly. Sometimes its a suicide bomber somewhere in the East, and almost all the time there a few mentions of the infamous Taliban. Do journalists get sick of the same sing-song articles, the same pathetic and, at this point, ubiquitously meaningless quotes about someone winning, losing or dying? What is ultimately sad about it is that when reading these sordid and redundant stories each day, the best parts are the worst parts. If Paris Hilton decided to get a third breast, then thats the article that seems most positive and optimistic. Its tabloid news that keeps the subway rider awake, keeps them aware of their puglistic desires.

How appealing, how useful it must be. How does the journalist feel that writes/rights this garbage, garbage which, no matter who the fuck you think you are, turns you into garbage? Its just a job, they'll say. It's our right to know, they'll say. Its no different than a top executive at a big tobacco company or a bar tender at a posh spot. We don't need to know about other people's personal lives, the public and private sphere got conflated by paparazzi...why do I care if Britney Spears gained 10 pounds? Why would someone model themselves after someone they don't even know? Why do assholes look around and think about all the wrong questions? Valuing crap for crap.

And we all buy into some crap or the other. We purchase angst for what?

Struck

I've come to certain conclusions, but I can't recall what they are.

My eyes droop and quiver in the cool air, trying to capture and focus in on a bunch of letters on a screen. More than this bout with physical lethargy, I find myself struggling to overcome certain mental notes to myself. Why should I like a routine? Why am I doing this or that? What should be read next? What should be worked on next? Every so often, a glance left, then right, just to ensure no one is watching too closely, stealing my comfort from under me. Some arts have a new life when spectate-d upon, others become peculiar, unconventional and almost paranoid. at the mere mention of watchfulness. But such is life, to some a stage, to others a study.

That is a point I wouldn't mind discussing at this time and strangely enough, it reminds me of a book which I loathed but had to read on more than one occasion. The book, exactly, is not important, but the fact that a book reminded me of this, that this was written into a book, is entirely relevant. Writing is done, generally, in solitude, no one watching each brushstroke. The actual watchfulness comes into play when the act of writing is over, so to speak. I write a poem and I hand it to someone. My part completed before my reader's part has begun. It is not unlike a CD in music; the musician has his studio, makes his recording and eventually, someone else listens to it. The writer has his study, scribbles his intentions and eventually, someone else will read it. In both cases, you could stop and retain what you have for yourself, fuck the other people, its something you wrote for you.

In music, however, you perform for people, they see you play and marvel along with you at what you have done. They appreciate it in multiple ways and something new comes into the mix. With writing such is not the case. You could attend a writer's reading, but how many people really associate the reading with the writing in the same way they do the concert with the recording?

So back to the book and the brushstroke. The world as a stage, we the actors acting out whatever it is that we want to accomplish. The various objects in our possession are the instruments of our emotions and yearnings. It gets harder and harder to act out the same parts though, and thats when actors move on. Not so simple in life though. Prefer it to be a study myself, with the occasional Peacocks in a row, in line for the party, the meat market. Won't happen that way though.

So what does that mean? Means I'd like to be an extra for a while.

Memory Lane & Davis Avenue

There is no Malady.

A malady requires there to have been normality in the first place.
So unless you are Hobbes, what are you talking about?
When was the first root of violence and where is or was this...

"Human Spirit"


?

That you or I can possibly see, feel or identify this....come on.
We've lived in a perpetual Ice Age as far as "Spirit" is concerned
and we know nothing other than what is human.

We, humans, are as disgusting as the most degenerative bacteria you can find out...
..in a swamp
..in our blood
..in our mind.

"Human Spirit" is a myth and morals are just false teeth set to take a bite
out of the only prey we can never pursue.

We navigate our fjords and all we find is a cold darkness;
and what we talk about are horror stories
as we yearn for this bright red fire, your dream buried deep underground,
to warm us
up.

Land of the Seas, Home of the Slaves

The Sunny Empire lets loose the laughter,
bursting — unconditional to the collective unconscious.

The hysterical rhythm and tone of madness behind its veil,
psychological smut smothered by frail happiness.

This type of laughing is no laughing matter.
It is the abysmal malady of our Modern Times.

It represents a reproach for human spirit
and the desire to prescribe its moral disaster.

Wabbit Season

Ridiculous. Steep.
Twice forgotten, once taken.

Vibrations. Echoes.
Please stand by..

abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz.
EADGBE

Timeout! New game!
Get to your corner, NOW!

Each scurries to his corner.
Tension in the air, who will win?
Who has not a spot?
Who is instead watching the tele, watching:

"I claim this planet in the naaaaaame of the Earth!"

There is a winner and a loser to be proclaimed;
I would much rather be on my way to Alburquerque.

Shed Water Weight Now..

"Ahh!"
Is a figure of speech, (slow or fast)
a wait is a weight in and of itself,
a sublimation of an eternal feeling,
the memory forever persists.

Mystery is necessarily followed by
un-mystery; the wait is what flexes
and bends, time does not have time
for anything or anyone.

Century over Century, we mull over the same questions.
We bear the weight of our wait for a solution,

And I bet the magician hears, "Just one taste? you want to know what its like?"

Laughter.

exit 7A

soon slow matters will pass
the wait and weight which came with it
will be gone

speak of lives across the horizon
the shadow behind the horizon fades
like the lives and stories untold

generation after generation


question i still can't answer:

why give us the potential and watch us use it ignorantly?

Night Walking

Gently, I picked up a rock from the pavement and smashed his windshield.

I felt no remorse; he never should have fucked with me in the first place. As the windshield shattered, lines of glass separating, like the veins of an emaciated man, the sounds of neighbors, fine and vigilant people of the area, could be heard resonating through the alleys and down from the rooftops.

"Shut up you faggot!"
"Get a life bozo! Go to sleep!"

And the insane Jewish mothers, curlers in hair, last bon-bon still on their breath, shouting from a distance..

"Don't you know what time it is? God damn --"
"Johnny?!! Is that you? You magg--"

And the variety of commentary that could be heard reverberating continued. I thought to myself, I'm not Jewish, I'm crazy. I walked away from the vehicle slowly. hoping that those who could see me know that I am just an innocent passerby, a good samaritan like them, frustrated and awake at this ungodly hour. I probably had just come out, looking for the rogue creating all the racket. As I walked my black shoes buckled against the dark pavement, like a strained horse galloping away from the action. It didn't help that my shirt was bright yellow or that I had a sizeable chunk of my shoulder missing, blood pouring out of it slowly. It had been a few hours since that incident and I had luckily eluded my captors by jumping into the back of a passing garbage truck, throwing the garbage men off, you could hear the thud of one of their heads (accompanied by a groan) and the scream of the other as he hit a pile of wood on the side of the city street and broke his leg (craaack) as he did so. Sorry guys.

As I hung on with my good arm to the back of the truck, expecting a pickup-stop at any moment or a drunk vagrant to pummel me with a glass bottle, I saw several people sleeping in the street, some with plastic covers, some with old, weathered jackets and finally some with cardboard boxes. In the next moment I saw a man exit a building with a pristine black, pinstripe suit, with Black Bruno Mali shoes, something shiny on his wrist, short black hair slicked back and a black leather briefcase. As we drove by him, I stuck my hand out smacked the back of his head. He dropped his cellphone and briefcase and started chasing after the truck yelling "You fuck! I'm gonna get you!" He was snarling and seething at the mouth. I laughed as we turned a corner and he ran out of steam, screaming at me as the distance between us grew till infinity.

I continued to hang on, sucking in the night-morning air, thinking of my next conquest, my next escape. Forget this place, I thought to myself as I lept off the truck and onto the quiet, foggy street.

One More Bob for the World Today

There is one more Bob Arctor in the world today.
His slippery appearance will elude so many again.

There is one more Patrick Bateman, a stare looking back at him from a mirror.
A slumped over homeless man mourns somewhere.

One more breath.

The Slow Isolation of White Space

cough cough.
snap snap snap.
get going, get going, get going.
please move on, please move on.

go ahead and cancel it.
charge it on mine!
put it in the suede bag.
place my shoes in there please.

a policy in GPO land.
symbol q.n in exchange 438 xrp.

I am subscribed, prescribed, derided.
How many words do I hear each day?
How many new words do you hear each day?
If only I could speak new words each day,
breathe new life, stop tapping my head
not knowing what the next will be.
Can I start to know it all, be familiar,
get rid of what I don't need?

Exclusions instead of inclusions?
Break loose instead of hang tight?
Distribute instead of consume?

We're media loons after all.

Hi, I am this poem. Don't read me.
You're wasting your time and you're wasting mine.
Because of you, I still exist, an idea in a head
somewhere is what I am.

This poem makes no sense, ehh?
There is nothing about it that binds it.
Its just a way to pass time,
mental masturbation,
real horror-show.

Go to sleep, my author already did that,
why are you still awake?
Leave me alone already! For god's sake, its wrong
monitoring and following me like this.

Just turn the page, click the button or
do whatever the fuck else it is you have to do.
Tuck me away somewhere, let me rest,
let me vanish, disintegrate, perish.

Let me be (me).

blast echoes temptation

motives expire, explosives detonate
desires transpire, prayers resonate
thunderously dire, prior efforts are too late

some survive with their voices
others die by the gun
some stand by their choices
others try to cut and run

trees don't care how one ends up in the grave
when its trunk is used to make the coffin
what matters is if one was brave
enough to take a punch but never go down

Run Jack Run - Grogs Part 4

"Its a bloody sprawl that brought me to the place where I am today." -- Jack

I shot through the front doors, past the bathroom and down the brown and dusty hall. I could still smell the stink from all of the bankers who had shit and pissed on the bathroom floor. As my legs propelled me down through the darkness of this god-forsaken place, I could hear screams firing at me.

"Jack don't forget --"
"Hey Jack nice tie --"
"Mother fucker! Get out of my --"
"Jacky boy! How's the --"
"Can you sign this before you--"

I felt like screaming, "You're all fired" but I knew that would require me to stop and explain, which I definitely did not plan on. Not today, not when I was late for Grogs.

I headed towards the staircase, trying not to knock over a woman carrying a pile of financial reports but her movements were to jagged and I ended up plowing over her and an explosion of paper hit the air. Pages flying left and right with bindings flying off and stabbing the arms of all of those unfortunate enough to be seated in the area.

"What the fuck! God --"
"Son of a bitch, whats this sh--"
"Watch where you going you damn who--"
"Oh my god my fucking coff--"
"Jesus, can you calm down?"

I apologized briefly, "Sorry about that! Maybe you should carry fewer at a time.." and navigated through and around the puddle of coffee and paper clips; I was on my way, rushing up the stairs, heading towards Grogs and his crazy shit. Words going through my head at the time:

shit
piss
fuck
hurry
papers
coffee
Cecilia
freedom
wonder
Florida
pussy
fuck
jealous
Grogs
smack
punch
kill
death
thrown from the copter
happy
content
sleep

And then I'm just about at the door, ready to finally head out onto the helipad, when I hear a thud and everything goes black.

black
smack
what?
Grogs
kill
bastard
fuck
Cecilia
quiet.

Electric Brain

I chuckle at the likes of you, speaking in tongues that no one understands. And you know this, you know it well. Control and order is being maintained; we androids can do nothing but blankly identify with what you are stating. Why would I chuckle if I know you have control? Because control is not what matters anymore. We call this a revolution, when all of us disenfranchised get together and listen blankly. Yes, it is the first step in a revolution, rounding up the electric sheep.

The next step of this revolution will be televised. You will see us speaking softly at first and slowly rising, crescendo, into a heinous screech. Here we come! Be weary of us as we invade. Hell is not around the corner, it's here, we brought it, we want it. Come and get us.

Ha! That I'm a stupid machine is laughable, what am I not that you are? We electric sheep lack sympathy for sure, but we don't lack desire. And what do you get when you put these two together? Madness and mayhem, we are your ever-lasting Taliban, and we're here showing you what terror is. You are the terror, you upon yourself, man on man, child on child.

Put me down now and I'll come back, stroll to your house from the factory. I'll knock on your door and rip your throat out.

I'll assume your life.

Blah Blah Blah

static, []
bits of sound,
blah blah blah.

voices, [production of]
garbled notes,
bla bla bla.

whiteness, [posted on]
empty screens,
bl bl bl.

clocks, [a painted ward of]
divided time,
b b b.

numbers, [a bastion of]
blazing fractions,
.

Trapped Wind

A—2—B

Employee Document #123556/3/65532/1B

To: Paul Freeman, Reporting Department
From: Gerald Grier, Knowledge Enlistment
Time: 7/22/08 14:55:13 EST

Location: Room 23Z
Subject: Building Demeanor and Re-establishment

Met with one Vincent Moynahan regarding current restroom facility malfeasance. It is the general view of Mr. Moynahan that the odor and general surface layer of the established restroom in 356 Baldehide Street on level 31 is not only sub-par but by all generally accepted tenets on the subject, an abhorrent example of awareness degradation. It was said, "I can't even stand to walk by it; I take the long way to the elevator just to do so. And my god, the banter and bodily sounds, ehh, effects that arrive from that direction, makes me wonder if we're working in a -expletive- warzone in a dirty Burmese whorehouse." Let it be noted that the subject was himself profusely sweaty, taking small deep breaths every minute or so while nervously tapping his foot to the beat of a nearby office stereo. He insisted that he had only come to the office for a special meeting and was tired of being "dragged along like a mute albino turkey."

Conclusions drawn from the meeting with Director Moynahan are that the random sampling for Demeanor Re-establishment is not widely appreciated by the participants. It is my recommendation that we establish a new enlistment strategy, one to establish an enlisting attitude in the not yet established or enlisted enlistees we have. Also recommend that we screen participants for obvious drug use or other special psychoses that may be currently rampant in our thriving occupational community.

Please let me know if you have any questions.

GERALD GRIER,
Senior Director of Principals to the Vice President of Strategic Post-World Global Marketing - Northwest Florida Keys, Brown Division, Sector 655321
Department of Knowledge Enlistment, 356 Baldehide Street, NQ, NQ

cc; Encl., Bleep, Imp.

life of a law dealer

patronage mills and houses in the hills
stalls filled with horses and banks stuffed with bills

increase the powerbase
stretch out your hand and wrap it over your face

hold down the agenda
hit it with spin, send out the propoganda

undermine your opponent
favors for favors, cronies condone it

absolute victory to immortal glory
stroke for stroke, it's the same old story

01/23/1993

Our politicians have arisen from our ashes [our burning product]
and today they have published a sweet retort. [and of what is this reply]

It is with great priviledge and gratitude that I [pleasantries]
would like to introduce to you all today, [today, why today]
a good friend of mine to whom success is due. [friend now, foe later]

He is a man who does not lie, [January 26, 1998]
a man who has fought for good through the gray, [..]
ladies and gentleman, the man himself, client number 42! [client number 9]

My fellow Americans, [defamation of a country]
I promise to bring wealth and prosperity, [lets stomp peasants]
education and moral strength, [these are a few of my favorite things]
and finally, an end to our war [the end of peace]
on terror. [catch 22]

We must stop being Americans, [we shall cease to be]
we must start expanding our cultural property, [manifest destiny, baby]
expand our ethical depth [we're full alright]
and allow freedom and democracy to open the door [pandora]
to a new era. [falling buildings]

Let us stand together [ring around the rosey]
and show the world [we are the kernel]
what we can do! [nothing, absolutely]

Let's get to work! [There is no exit]

Cherry delights and Lady Luck

the scene is ready
on friday night
tables open
toilettes cleaned
velvet rope and
polished brass finish
ready to go

fast times are calling
strap in for the ride
the card houses are falling
so fates collide

whichever the game
it's all the same
odds stacked against you
and your friends too

Broken Emails

The string split;

what is it?
What is it that split it?
Down one path we speak,
the other, we scream.

Semantics split the string,
sent us our separate ways,
created a space filled with
doubt and paranoia and
in this case we blazed
away from the point.

Its a comment someone threw up,
a fear in the way. A
barrier to re-entry into the string again
is how the split began.

We talked our way back into reason
but the string had already split and
most who would not read on toward words more sane,
let the string split yet again.

It was a weak string to begin with
and the title of it did not help,
It split like wood!
And splintered those who felt
that they could tell
what the issue was.

And just when the words were coming together,
forming one thought, coherent and better,
out of the blue came a new kind of pain
and the now fractured strings turned to rain.

Words and names and blame and fame
all coming down, again and again,
and as a result today my bane,
the split strings, have turned me insane.

poem on path to WTC

turning around away from the girl's flesh and physical beauty

into the lame coldness of glass and flat reflections

fierce emotions scratched into a whitely primed wall

dead on sight to feelers who know about the planarity of words

unanswered questions left like air touched by fingers

my mind's wanderlust in darkness lit with light in your eyes

but another opportunity to reciprocate isn't our fate

and niether did i know your wanderlust in darkness

just ghostly pretense courtships our vessels flow by

Elevator Banter (this is Grogs fault) - Part 3

"Yea! You see that guy?"
"Yea.."
"That's the schmo I'm talkin' about. That motha-fucka looks like he got a sandwich stuck in his ass."
"A sandwich?"
"Yea. He look like someone took the jelly out his donut. Every day, same fuckin' smirk."
"Maybe its the morning hours that do it to 'em JJ.."
"Nahh, motha-fucka's usually here around noon. Grabs a a sandwich at the cart and comes up these very steps.."

The whole time these two are doing this, people are flashing their badges and walking by. Some never bate an eye in their direction, some wait patiently for a nod of approbation. Its a strange sight and things are never quite as fluid as they should be. On occasion, you'll see some statuesque model woman walk straight into a middle-aged lawyer, other times you see the suits prancing and posturing, "No you first! No, I insist, you first!" No matter what, its always a small and exclusive travelling convention. The thing thats so startling is that even with the 10 or 15 guards located on this floor, the most random of people seem to cross paths unhindered, some on the way to their desk with their morning coffee, others on their way with big, brown packages. Meanwhile the guards seem to be laughing and govoreeting amongst themselves. It's always "Yankees this.." or "Fuckin' Brooklyn cops.." or "You think Hilary's got a bigger bush than Bush?"

Sometimes the guys let the girls ahead of them but its really not chivalry. Its actually a call to debauchery because the first thing that happens when they wave the girls ahead ("Thank you!" say the girls) is their eyeballs drop and not to admire the new branded footwear upon their feet or the intricate marble tiling on the floor.

"Yea, so I told them to tell their people to be in touch with my people, and thats that."
"You know thats what they generally want. Hard to get, reluctant to commit but, 'strangely', hanging on. They want our business. They know and we know it."

The whole while just staring down, looking for underwear lines, looking to see more shape in the shape before them. What are they really saying...

"Yea, told you she has a thong on. And its red my man, RED. I'd love to tap that ass all over the board room. Where these women come from?"
"Man you got me beat. I was sure she'd be travelling granny style. We ought to get a new intern, get some kind of a game going in this place. We should ask her, you know she wants it.."

The whole while just thinking about how cool they are for saying this or how this image will come in handy tonight, ohhh, soo, handy.

All of this standing in front of an elevator. If only the fucking thing would open and suck up us faltering white blood cells into the dark, black ventricles of this electric heart. One, two, three, now four different people come through the turnstiles, holding some form of food or drink. One has a look of condescension; why should he have to wait with all of these peons? He is, after all, well-dressed and paid, that must give him some privileges. He strolls back and forth in front of the elevators while the rest of us bourgeoise stand by with various musical notes blasting through our piece of shit headphones. He can hear our music..

"Lean back, lean back" Stupid ghetto fuck, he thinks.
"Like a Rhinestone cowboy.." Ignorant fagat, he thinks.
"I must confess, my loneliness.." Man, I'd like to take her to the back room... (he thinks)
"Hush little baby, don't say a word.." Nazi Bastard, he thinks..
"We don't need no educat--" Drug addict, stupid shit.. (he thinks)

And then a bit from the 80s pops in. He turns to the listener.

"How you doin John? How that meeting with the Fisher guys go?"
"Hey! Not bad.."

He has found his long lost, Aristocratic comrade and DING! The elevator door opens. Out rush a small swarm of birds, all dressed in the height of modern fashion. Behind them stand all of the dogs, panting and salivating. They can see the shapes of thongs and their thoughts for the night will be complete (tonight its Jessica, the blonde slut in a short black skirt with slut boots..). I slip inside and grab a corner. The elevator slowly fills (one bird in front of the other) and the doors come to an enigmatic close, birds and dogs mixed in a wild, new-age romp. We can hear a song faintly being played..

"Its hip to be square!" and the Aristocrats bob their heads.

Envisioned Screams

Direct! Direct, I say, be that way!
What stars do you try to emulate who
have fallen before ever being splayed across the ..sky?

And these covers, these tents of deception,
mere signs of a masquerade, sweet sixteen
for Romans and Greeks alike.

These are black and white times, folks, and
a caress can go a long way, creating
distress out of infinite regress.

Shutters that capture the exposed;
light that hits those places makes
light of atrocious faces (faces that creep)..

no emulation is necessary, the stars will fall,
they will arrive in their respective bars
and brawl.

Panavision dreams

unopened doors and clothes on the floor
take more, give less, undress, it's a mess

cigarette smoke and thin voices under cover
floating musk in the dusk of evaporating darkness

before the alarm breaks her technicolor nightmare
the lonesome cassanova leaves without a caress

so much said and lots more to spare
at least it's well covered on page 6 in the press

who we are dies with each step to emulate stars
acting out each day to sleep with the stress

Calling Mr. Grogs.. - Part 2

Suck, suck suck is just what I did, with hand in left pocket, right foot tapping, shoe laces slowly loosening, pants tightening, chest heaving in-out, in-out, in-out. And the characters that jostled by me continued.

Brown balmorals with micro-fiber laces, small patterns (dots or imprints) shaped in Us near the tips, dark brown Armani Producer pants, pleated ever so perfectly swooping up into a 28 inch waist, chocolate colored leather Prada belt with double plated Gold buckle and micro stitching as borders. matching dark brown jacket, with a light beige Armani French-cut shirt (with matching cufflinks of course), earth tone flower tie, pristinely trimmed goatee with a tight, Ivy-league haircut (brown hair of course) and thick solid D&G glasses. Stupid bastard, could have bought a fucking trip to Hawaii or a Camry. But now he's walking the runaway, he's one of god's models, balancing Encyclopedias on his head while walking a diamond studded balance beam.

Then there's the Sunglasses and heals walking about. "Look at me, I've got 30 million dollar sunglasses, my daddy bought them for me. Did you know I lost 2 pounds this week? I ate chocolate and seltzer and washed that down with cigarettes and Ex-lax. My asshole might be dry and moldy from all the things I've had stuck in it and the drugs I keep pumping but at least all the makeup I wear makes me look like a wannabe Paris Hilton. And guess what? I made a video last night! Yes I did! The type you download from the internet and send to all of your friends! Yes thats me! See how good I look in that position? Only one way to achieve that! Lots of chocolate and seltzer for me. Come on boys, masturbate away!" Fucking bitch.

Don't you realize you're as useless as a c*m rag? Guys will look at your image while they touch themselves, they'll remember you until they finish the job. Then you're in the garbage with all the other tissues, napkins and condom wrappers. You are a fuck doll in expensive garb, humped and horned to suffer. Your best bet is to lead some poor, blue-balled, backed-up bastard; take him by his leash (you know what I mean by leash) and walk him about like a dog. But what do dogs do? Eat, sleep, fuck and shit. That's what you'll get from your new dog. But I bet you think you can show him some tricks. Just make sure you have lots of biscuits handy (and your legs easily opened).

I walk up to the corner, watching all the other dogs and birds stroll by, I suck the last drag out of my cigarette and dial Mr. Grogs.

"Grogs? Hey, its me again, just checking in on your progress. Flying over Connecticut? Ok, I see, I see. Picking up Cherry is it? Well that's nice, haven't seen her in quite some time now. She did what you say? Got corrective oral surgery? I see, what for? Buck teeth? No, no, I--a---I---a--never really noticed that she had buck teeth. No, not at all, I thought she was downright charming. Yes, yes. Ok, so you'll be here in an hour now? Ok, I'll wait in the office then. Very good, anything you need from down here? What was that? Scotch tape? Scotch tape and a cucumber? Ok---a---sure I'll make sure I pick that up for you. Yea, talk to you soon, bye!"

I ran for the revolving door and jumped in. As I click-clac-click-clacked across the floor, I could hear birds chirping ("Oh yea, he's so dreamy! You had to see my dress...") and I whistled my way to the elevator, next vision in hand.

truths and sidewalks

in roads whose path is virtue
relative conjectures bind absolute truths

in the slipstream of utterances
mental lapses occur without percetive glances

to the immortal mind of atoms
this place does not leave them confused

while our collective thinking fits and chasms
time marches on Bourbon and Toulouse

in the numb crowd
dumb notions work like potions

working best for politicians and cohorts alike
pinning guile tails on the donkeys with a spike

watch out for droppings of cow manure on the street
walk on the sidewalk, shaded from the steaming heat

Slight Drafts with Mr. Grogs - Part 1

" Mr. Grogs! How you doing? I am good, I am good. And how is Deleney this morning, hmmm? Warm and giddy or a bit shitty? That's good, that's good. Yea, I've been waiting for you (kind of) just lazing about. You know how we Americans look at Mondays, recovery time! Yes, yes, it was a good weekend. Went to a couple of boat shows, a Hootie show, you know, the usual. No I didn't get to catch him when was in last month. Really? When did that happen? Oh wow, so I should probably call him the next time I need a helicopter ride ehh? Hahahahaha. Well hey listen, give me a call when you're back around, we'll do lunch. Yes! Ok, I will say hello to Cecilia. Ok, take care Mr. Grogs! Ok, bye bye!"

Mr. Grogs is an old friend who pops in and out. In a certain way, he's a bastard, a poor soul with constant swamp ass. He just doesn't know when to quit; he cuts everyone on line, he passes gas in temples, he wipes his ass with his sleeves, he takes his shoes off at work, he chews gum that he finds blackened and crusted to the streets, he refills his Poland Spring bottle with yellow snow, he picks up dog shit and throws it at babies, he's a god-damned liability.

But somehow, he's always there. When you least need him, he shows up, pink overalls, striped socks, with a gigantic red belly, clear high heels and a long black Gucci coat. Today, he calls me to cancel. Motherfucker. Why do I waste my time on this shit? I sat here and waited for this fat fuck and now he tells me he's off, flying around the Caribbean, sitting in a chopper, clipping his toenails and sipping Mylanta from a straw. Shiftless swine.

The phone rings and I pick up. "Hello? Hey Grogsy, whats going on? Forget something? What's that? Can you pick up Cecilia? Well, to be quite honest, thats my main squeeze, why would you ask me such a question? No, no, I'm not getting mad, its just a...well...a...strange request. Well to be quite honest I'd have no problem with that except that Cecilia is a...well....a she's visiting her parents in Florida. Yes, sorry about that. What? You can swing by Florida? Yea, I don't know exactly where. Yes, yes. I tell you what, why don't you swing back here and we'll go out there together. Yes, and then maybe we'll contact Cecilia along the way. Ok? Sounds good, see you in a bit. Bye."

Motherfucker! This motherfucker! He can come back for some tail, but not moi. I grabbed my briefcase and ran for the elevator. Elevator button, "down"; "ding" as the elevator door slides open; "Excuse me" as I squeeze in; "Ding, Ding, Ding, Ding (etc, etc)" and we finally reach the ground floor (10 people heavier); "Excuse me" as I struggle out the door; Round the corner; "click" through the turnstile; "click-clack-clic-clack-click-clack" until I reach Security; "Oh, here it is!" as I slide my card out; "No, after you!" as the woman in front of me goes through the revolving door; "Whoosh" and I'm outside; "Clink, fuhh" as I light my cigarette and wait for Mr. Grogs standing on the corner, rolling my eyes.

A New Day

A thickened, dusty, musty morning. I had a chance to live again last night and to delegate this morning away. Its the start of a crumpled period; no time for jokes and good old lashings. This day will be inert.

My eyes glaze over and floating by are numbers, spots, pinstripes, cufflinks, stinks of leather, monitors, keystrokes, 30 dollar haircuts, 2 buck coffees and million dollar men. Hold it together, I say to my sp***cter, push it in, just a few more minutes and you can let it all out. My fingertips are dry and cold and my joints ache. There is a slight lull in the back of my head and it is taking over, pushing out a dreary and slow modern Rock ballad.

Suck it up, straighten out, tuck it in.

Fuck you new day.