Grinning Death

I'm outside, nesting in my backyard. It is near midnight. I'm wondering where the zombies are right now. I don't mean the junkies, or the pariers, I mean the real undead zombies (or dead, I know you fools have your geek outs on issues such as the proper cabinet for a zombie.

I'm curious because the air is dry, so you could smell death, even without the wind. I live across the street from a funeral home, so that may have something to do with it, plus next to the funeral home is a park, with trees scattered about, and when the moon hits it just right, horror movie gold.

There is a Michael Myers victim's home. It's just the type he would break into before jabbing that knife into someone's gullet. Even right now, I could look up from my screen and have been blinded from the bloodied grinning teeth grinding by my eyes.

Around me are so many alleys with no lights, so dilapidated are some streets, you'd think they were abandoned, but they are not.

That space right next to you. The one without any light what so ever; it holds something. It holds many things. Pray that they do not get a hold of you.

Migraine Season

Anyone wanting to switch lives at this moment? Perform a ritual, hype up the voodoo, or use electricity, whater suits your needs, just make it happen.

Watching a promo for three nights of Harry Potter films. Glad I never read the books or watched them. Any wizard that doesn't have at least one rotting corpse as an assistant isn's worth their weight in alleged-paganism.

Bah. Slobbering dreck. Him and Dan Brown.

R.I.P. Dave Cockrum

Another great from the comics industry was lost recently.

Dave Cockrum spent six years in the navy before being given the chance to pursue his artistic talent as work. He found a job with Warren publishing, then inking Murhpy Anderson's art before being handed the reigns to DC's Legion of Superheroes, and Marvel's X-Men.

He died from complications of diabetes.

His artwork was some of the first I ever experienced in comic books. It was rich in expressions and the action on the page captured the mood of the story well. He's another great one gone too soon.

R.I.P. Dave Cockrum. 1963 - 2006.

Lost, Walking On A Window

The only problem with staring through a window, the window can't talk back. Sometimes a reflection would cross, maybe pause a moment longer than the spectacle's platform and have enough time for a wave, but that was all. Turning around only presented an empty space where the last friendly face you'd see for seven days once stood.

But there she was, and there was her mother, both sipping coffee, mother taking it easy with the cigarettes this day. Laila quivered at their odor, and greatful she was towards Mal when he quit the habit. She compensated him generously, the lack of nicotine increased Mal's endurance, so Laila was actually able to orgasm after Leno's thank yous, but before Conan's monologue.

Bordering Laila was her mother, and another damn window.

Doomed To Be Together

The sand welcomed our bodies, and the ocean decided not to be a stranger to our feet. She looked to the moon, peering into the orb, hoping to see the future, but happy with her present, and with this moment.

"It's such a beautiful night. The waves crashing, the stars shining; it's all so majestic," searching for the last word, as if any other word would have ruined the evening entirely. "How could you leave all of this behind?"

Her love shared the hobby of stargazing as he answered, "You go where life takes you." He loses the stars to focus on her personal beauty, and not just the morning sun smile, or her lost in eternity eyes, but everything, her kindness, unrequieted respect and love, and a mind that makes the quickness steel traps obsolete. "If I hadn't left, I would've never met you. We would not have taken that tour of the cheesecake factory, and we would not have ended up here tonight, this majestic night."

Her hand was alone, so he joined his to with it as he kissed her shoulder. "We've been together, what, three years? Just about?"

He nodded. "And believe me, that is an accomplishment for both of us," he nodded.

"Worthy of Ripley's," she added.

He stared into the crashing waves reflected in her eyes, accentuating their brilliance. "It's been an amazing three years. Three years that I would not give up for anything."

"Anything?"

"Almost anything."

The radiance stunted and sterned. "What's almost anything?"

"I'd only give it up for a lifetime with you." He kissed her cheek, soft and warm, the way he felt when she held him sometimes.

"I thought neither of us wanted to get married?"

"Doesn't mean we can't spend the rest of our lives together. Who needs a damn ceremony and a piece of paper saying I love you. The only people that need to be aware of our love are you and me."

Her head tilted as she nearly gawked at him. "What're you saying?"

"I'm saying that since you and I are the saner side of a double headed coin, I am willing to pledge, vow if you will, my devotion to you for the rest of our lives." She continued to gawk. "If you'll have me." He finished speaking, but before he had, somehow he had slipped a pair of rings out from his furthest pocket, and positioned them right before her eyes.

"Of course. Yes. Yes," she had to shake her head, and really wanted to pinch herself, but holding his hand was proof enough that she was wide awake, and that the ear to ear grin on her face was indeed very, very real. "These beauties will definitely get my mother off our case about getting married."

"Well, why don't we meet her half way."

"Explain. Explain now or perish," she insisted.

"I'm saying, your parents, our friends, we all have dinner, I'll cook, and not only do we break the news to them about our little commitment, but we actually exchange vows. You write something romantic, I write something brilliant," and she smacked him on the back, "and we make it official. No priests, no hefty expenses for anyone, and you and I will continue living our life."

She looked to brightest star farthest to the south, not knowing it was south, only caring for the vibrant colors the star birthed around its space. "Sounds so simple doesn't it?"

"Yes. Yes it does," he replied.

"We're doomed, aren't we?"

"Yes. Yes we are. But we're doomed together."

MOVIE REVIEWS: The second one got me banned from being on the PTA

Mystery Men:

This one is reliable. Greg Kinnear is the best, Geoffery Rush delivers the goods. Another notch in William H. Macey's resume in the I Can Do Any Damn Role I Want belt.

Hank Azaria is welcomed on the big screen anytime.

Oh, and Tom Waits.

Foster's Home for Imaginairy Friends presents: Good Wilt Hunting:

Eduardo was coo in this. I wanted to kneecap the farmer for making Wilt do all that work. This movie works better in small doses. It made me want to sniff lines of crushed Sweet Tarts.

The Underground of A Gravel Ocean

In my elementary years, I had grown fond of lunchtime. Wave after wave of folding tables, and ends touching ends. We'd merge from the serving line and were shown a seat by teacher, and were expected to comply. It was an overall first come first serve, so if you stood in line with your friends, you were pretty much guarenteed to eat together.

This cafeteria was the same place we played when the rain forced us apart from the outdoors. Board games for most, while in the back, far off in the darkest coner, the hustlers were being born. Card games and dice, lunch money and allowence, all with an edge, attitude, and most importantly flow were welcomed.

My sentiment towards pool began back in those days. It stayed with me to high school, when by that time, the game of pool had drifted from the shiftless carpetting, and pulsating volume of youth to the teen centers sponsored by different religions to the glass stained walls of the most smoke infiltrated bars. The town was small enough, you knew someone who knew someone about anything and anybody.

Wherever, whenever, you showed manners, respect, maturity, you were in. I myself had been privileged to many pornoes because of uncles and understanding limitations. If you walk into the pool hall with two hundred dollars, and the bills haven't been payed, you have two options, three really. One: you say hey, and walk the fuck back out. Two: Think about hanging around, look at the bar, tell yourself, I'll have one beer and leave, then shake your head clear of the illogical, and walk the hell back out becaue you know for a fact that after two minutes, your sleeves would be rolled elbow high, and you would be circling that green monster, that envied turf of social establishment. These tables could make you a legend because legends have played on these tables.

There would be no going back. There may not be any money left at the end of the night. You notice and understand the hinderance, obstacle, the limitation that has been served to you.

Once, in high school, one young fool didn't listen to me. He did not adhere to my warning, a warning stating the limitations of my patience at that time. I was in a foul mood. I had entrusted a friend to cut my hair, and I will only say that he botched the job, so I settled fora mohawk. I mohawk I did not want, and would be removing the following day, and I didn't care how.

Circumstances led to me sporting this mowahk for one day in school. I was a londer, and kept very few friends. I would listen to whomever was willing to speak to me, but I never expressed any interest in carrying a conversation. I was only open with my closest friends. We all sat together at lunch, and the rows resembled my elementary lunch tables, folding ones end after end. It was something familiar.

On this day, one boy thought it was humorous to be passing back and forth, messing with my hair. He touched me once, I warned him. He came again, I warned him again, assuring that it was the last time his hands would be anywhere near me.

Let me pause and tell you, I despised being touched back then. Unless it was by a woman caressing me, rubbing her legs over mine, and over other areas, and if her lips traveled over my body, and she allowed me to return every sensual deed in full, I didin't have a problem with it, but under any other circumstances, I loathed all human contact.

The idiot swung arond for a thir try only for his face to make contact with my food tray. Hard enough to break a nose, though you'd probably find a crack in it afterwards.

His nose didn't break, but the tray did, right across his forehead. The blow sent him to the ground in which after I bluntly stated, "I warned you."

I was given OCS (On Campus Suspension) for one day, and was close to being remanded to a special ed unit for the "troubled" kids, you know, the ones that weren't bluffing when the told the teachers they'd kick their ass.

We had a meeting, and it disturbed my mother greatly. She is very consciencious of her appearence, and of her reputation, and to her, having a son in the EDU (Emotionally Disturbed Unit) was unacceptable, and if I had actually been thrown in there, I'm sure she would have written me off then and there instead of waiting another fifteen years to do it.

Dust On the Leaves

Things have slowed down, life is seeping instead of flowing, and darkness lurks outside the window. The mood is deeper than the hour, and as the light that once spread overhead across the sky is now confined behind a night born veil with slits that let the light blink at night.

If the leaf wasn't sharing the same heartbeats with the earth, then blind fate would shrug out of concern, for the leaf traveled on a curious pattern, but not today. The leaf was on time, en route to destiny.

On the block where the leaf landed is history. Bad history. Bloody, grim history. Every person that ever lived and breathed and died in this city has walked this block. It is the center street in town. Nearly every murder here has occurred on this strip.

Long gone are the KKK parades, and the vigilantes that frequented, even ran a few brothels, one of them being his headquarters, nearly a half dozen weapons caches hidden in the walls, and underground. He died on the block. He always said he wanted the dust of this street to be blown across his bones. That man had a plan.

Sky Is My Mind

Did it care or matter what went on here, just so as the music is over, and the bodies are burnt? It watched with ease as flesh seeped to ash, and breath became fire. It was the thrill of the morning, that odor, mixed with pride's perfume that made existence something special, and sleep a rare and wasteful occupance.

It's not a crystal clear image, and is not meant to be. It is the collmination of all the new things thought of and created over night, and that which supports this rock we spin on, and yet, never move, but always shift, phase, and eventually end.

Most of the creations in this phase of tangibility move, smell, something controls something else, as the sky controls me. The rain is shelter to my burning heart, acidic soul, and exposive capabilities.

Even blood can fill the sky.

Mirror Roads

Once there was a board, a billboard hanging on the door. Years before that board, there was a mirror. The mirror was expected to remain the length of the breaths taken in the house.

One day the mirror was kicked, and its one might presence that could unveil the world, and the things behind it, showing them directly in front of someone; all of that was gone, and now smaller, deadlier pieces of a time once grand, now a moment scattered around a universe, and each one could have its destinied made any time it wants, but for now, the whole of existence is to centered outside the mirror.

What Crashed Above

It happened for the second time. In my life, this has officially happened twice3. I've had one of the greatest things I've ever written, and it is gone. I blinked, it left, and now I'm here, writing something over what was the best of my evenings.

This white surface is so damn sensitive, and the darker colors are scaring it, so it's not accepting any other branding atop its seemingly infinite hide.

Since I'm here, I may as well finish, for you see on this paper were words I often use, sometimes in the same sentence, most often their broken up.

Stuffing

Been fidgeting with many things, lately. Stories, ideas, more ideas to make more stories, and it all ends up being nothing. Great, professoinal, secured potential nothing.

But things have slowed down for me, things on the brink of extreme disruption, delay..delay? No. There is no stopping now, forward or nowhere, all or nothing, and I can't walk, my back is near shot, and I'm not taking any time off soon, and I torture myself into being that way, and I love it, and now is the time it will all hit the fan and stop, or lose the ground beneath, slip into space, allowintg the momentum to carry us on from then until the end, and the end is when we decide. It is always when we decide.

But I really don't feel like cooking for Thanksgiving.