At Death's Door.

I've just realised that I have lived across the street from 3 different funeral homes. Now those are some quiet neighbors; a polite bunch at that.

Head Hurts

I have the largest headache right now. My sleeping patterns are quite irregular now, and I don't like the idea of wasting the whole day, or night. Every time I think about working on the book the pain increases. I'm still going to try only because I'm running out of time, and I'm a sucker for anguish.

Peter Sellers Makes Me Happy

I just finished watching Being There, with Peter Sellers. A lovely, quiet film which I had not seen since I was little. I was a big Peter Sellers fan growing up, still am, and I first watched this on in my double digit years. I wasn't as aware of life as I am now, so naturally, I enjoyed it on a much different level now.

What strikes me as odd - allow me to point out, I haven't done drugs in years, not even swallowed an aspirin - point being, for reasons beyond my comprehension, after completing, well, really while watching this movie, I had the sudden urge to roll a fat joint, smoke it, and watch this thing all over again. It's just a soothing delightful piece of work.

I miss Peter Sellers.

The First Time I Met the Devil

It wasn’t raining. It was the second time. I looked out the window; the rain visibly shattered everything around it. I was among friends; we had gathered there after school on the final Friday, beginning winter break, but where I lived, winter break only meant heat-filled days without the protection of school’s central a/c, the comforting insulation, and the shade coma that was the roof and four walls.

That second time the sun was down, the moon ran high, but the night belonged to rain – rain and the devil. I looked out my window, noticed a shadow that had not been there before. Being an insomniac since infancy, I made it a point to know my shadows. The trees were like yarn, flagpoles like shattered gravel, but there was a new one. It was humanoid in shape, and arrogant in posture. It wanted to stand out from the rest of the darkness, because it wasn’t just darkness. It was light of the soul of darkness.

But there it stood, dressed as a man, with the pride of a demon. His eyes never wanted to show. All that sailed through his ocular pits was black, and perhaps a faint twinkling in the back, but that could have either been rain, or a reflection from my side of the window. He peaked from beneath a tree branch, looked right at me, and dipped his head, thinking that I knew I owed him something, but if I did, believe me, I didn’t.

But the first time, no, I don’t expect to ever experience anything closer to that first time.

Sparks

I've enjoyed Hemingway, Graham Greene, Camus, and the ones that are supposed to be considered important. But, I'm not going to love them because people think I should. So far they've lived up to their reputations at one point or another. Dickens, at first a chore, but I first tried him at a young age - 10, I think. I had to live a little before willing to take him seriously.

My college advisor kept pressuring me to pursue education because I am Hispanic. That career is as close too a "sure thing" as one can get around my area. I grew up living that life, and did not enjoy it. I adapted to a nocturnal convenions at a young age.

There was alot going against it, but I avoided a full commitment to it, because at hear there was no love; only dead weight with a brain.

Motivation

Any time I'm down, whenever I want to quit, I go back and I read Greg Rucka. I relive the experiences fantasized when ripping the next Michael Moorcock story that had been written a decade before my birth, and yet still destroys any modern day word stringer.

Warren Ellis is my window to and through the future. Rucka keeps me grounded. Moorcock encompasses all that is good and bad, and is the nucleus for my purpose.

Women To Know

To any interested in female leaders, Victoria Woodhull. Looker her up.

Selling Soul Insurance

Currently reading the biography of Kate and Maggie Fox. They introduced the sensation of spiritualism into America back during the 1850's.

One part that keeps itself with me is the knowing that after Lincoln's assasination, and shortly before the Civil War ended, spiritualism became a novelty instead of the need to know more about the unknown. It became a way for the loved ones of the fallen soldiers to escape rather than discover. I guess it this has just been a trend for America since nearly the very beginning.

Coming Around

Sundays. I have never had an affinity towards Sundays. Maybe it's a forced Catholic thing, or because as a kid, and now out in the working field, you know it's your last day of freedom. When I worked regular wage jobs, I enjoyed working Sundays. I didn't like being home. Nothing was ever on television - not like anything good is on now - and the day itself just seems too quiet. It is the day God supposedly rested after all. The whole thing just seems eerie.

Been sitting here, workng on an art project, a photo reference piece which is coming out as my best ever, but I still hate the fingers and the face, which in turn makes me hate the whole thing. It's all good, or none of it is good.

Sometimes I find that I push myself too hard, so much that I always end up nowhere, staying in the same place. It's like running on a treadmill, only instead of sweat, it's frustration pouring out of me.

I applied for a freelance gig at the local newspaper, one which I can find at least two misspelled words in the damn headlines every week. It's a piece of shit paper, and a disgrace to journalism anywhere. I keep saying that I want to work there to gain experience, but really, I yearn to tear that place apart from the inside out; get some real writers in there, and editors that actually read the news pieces before sending them to print.

Shoot me, stab me, kill me, just don't fuck with the words that I love.

Bleeding Gut pt. 2

Checking back. It turns out Coca Cola released a statement claiming that they have never done business with the Sudanese, yet they refused to name their ingredients. Pepsi is the company that buys from the Sudanese. So if Ukec is serious about his threat, Pepsi will crumble while Coca-Cola reigns supreme.

There goes my hopes for embalming soda circles.

Checking In/Bleeding Gut

Haven't been in for a while, as if anyone reads this anyway. I'll tell you why - I just stopped caring. I had to sit back and look at things for a while, had to wonder where I stood as a person, a writer; still I'm the only one who thinks I am any kind of writer, and came to the conclusion that I don't care. I don't care what anyone thinks, feels - though I am embellishing a bit, but still, there are very few people on this planet whose opinion I care for.

Things of note:

John Ukec Lueth Ukec, the Sudanese ambassador has threatened to make gum arabic disappear from the American world. Gum arabic is one of the main ingredients in soda. It is transformed into syrup and is used to fatten up the world. He has made this threat because the U.S. has sanctioned him and his country with accusations of genocide, and supporting the Janjaweed militia.

So if America upholds its sanctions, no more soda; the U.S. could take a step back towards good health, and sheer insanity. Racism, greed, name any sin you want, America is full of every one, and the thing that will tear it apart, forching its people to rip and claw each others' stomachs out is the loss of soda. I can see it now, thousands upon thousands of people killing one another, propping the dead upon embalming tables with bleed tubes acting as straws in order to suck that last bit of lasting sugar out of a corpse's gut.

Selfish Humans

When was the last time you sat outside and allowed a city speak to you; heard the wind moan, and the leaves crash? They spill their guts out because so few dare lend an ear. Everyone pushes their ideas of how to save it, fix it, but not let Earth be Earth. It has no need, really. Slowly, it will gain its vengeance, quietly it will kill all of humanity. Earth will do what all living things are programmed to do - survive.

Why I Would Love

So many decisions to make. A new week, because the last bit of hope comes through. it doesn't happen often, but when it does, fuck if you don't love it. She liked it that way.

Tears to Ashes

The streets were painstakingly quiet, the choir was definitely singing from the streetlights. I loved living in the city, but I missed the stars. They were rarely visible from street level. Unless the night was the aftermath from the forth of July or a city-wide blackout, you never saw them.. Back home, where the grass stayed green and dirt, instead of gravel, still established some streets, the one thing I could always count on was seeing stars in the night sky.

Downtown reaked of drug enhanced misery and government failure. I was still four blocks away from home with no transportation private nor public thanks to the Bolivian Bomb Parade that erupted between two rival backdoor plastic surgeons working out of motels down the block where I live.

I walked past two men, one black, one hispanic, both wanting to make a deal. Their handoff was horrible, but it didn't matter. Police never came here unless they wanted whatever the black guy and the hispanic were pursuing.
A shadow twitched in the darkness near the street corner.

She seperated herself from the cloaked backdrop and posed like a Peruvian model in Hawaii, but her face cried desperation encouraging death. She could not have been older than fifteen. Her skirt was shorter than a military private's haircut and as loud as the sun in a room full of mirrors.

"Hey, mister. Need some relaxation?"

She was trying too hard. Her pimp had coached her well, but she needed to shorten the line delivery.

"Aren't you a little young to be out here all alone?"

"I'm not alone," she turned back, alluding to a shriveled sad species of a dog. The gray color of the tle fur was either natural or this thing was really fucking old.

Neither sad creature looked like they had eaten a decent meal in weeks. There were bruises and welts parading down her neck, past her shoulders. I checked her bracelet laiden arms for tracks, but there weren't any. Her sunken eyes suggested she was in the midst of a yayo crash. Her coarse, discolored teeth implicated some dabbling with crystal meth.

"Is that your guardian?" I asked about the dying heap of saliva that was her canine protector.

"He's my angel. Right, Angel." Angel lifted his raggedy head, but promptly returned it to resting on top of his paws. "So, how bout it? Can I help you relax?"

"How much?"

"Twenty for a skull fuck. Fifty for soemthing deeper. Eighty if you want Angel and me to give you a show."

I nearly vomited on her generic brand stilletto boots upon which forced something else in mind. "Here's a hundred," I yanked a c-note from the wad in my pocket. "Angel can stay in my kitchen. We'll get you both some food."

Back at my apartment, Fiona and Angel finished off some chicken that I had been saving for tomorrow's lunch. Her stomach was bloated after three pieces..She was cheerfully pale in the light as she was pleasantly shaded in the shadow-strewn cloud on her corner. I noticed more bruises healing along her wirey legs.

"I might need a minute, let the food go down," she said. "Thanks,by the way."

"Not a problem. But, if you really want to thank me you can give me some information."

Fiona's eyes exploded nearly through her skull. "No way - No - No way. I'm not rolling on anybody." She jumped out of the chair and headed for the door. I grabbed her by the arm, gentle enough not to completely frighten her, tight enough for her to realize I meant business.

"All I need is a name. I can handle the rest."

"No," Fiona insisted. "Angel," she called. Angel pushed himself up to four legs. He started to growl. I pulled the silverware drawer open and pulled out my silenced .22, then pointed it at Angel and checked if his soul lived up to his name. .

"ANGEL," she cried. Fiona tried to run to him, but I wasn't letting go. She didn't have enough strength to tear away. She barely had enough to struggle. "You killed my fucking dog, asshole."

"A name," I reiterated.

"Fuck you. What're you gonna do, shoot me next? Then what, huh?"

I looked her square in her eyes. She wasn't scared, she wasn't angry. She was just getting by until someone finally came along to send her up to her newly dead dog. She had given up on life a long long time ago, but business was still business and my rent was overdue.

"Then there's just one more dead hooker, and the world moves on. Or, you can give me a name. You come with me, I make sure what you tell me is legit, then, you go to my friend. She helps out kids like you, kids in your situation."

"Fuck that, I'm not going to no foster home."

"It's not a foster home. It's just a place to help you until you get back on your feet. You won't be told how to live; it's just food, a place to sleep, and a roof over your head,  and protection. The real kind of protection."

Fiona thought it through. It seemed to good to be real, I'm sure, and she had probably been lied to all of her life. "It won't be any worse than how you're living now," I assured her. She was about to speak, but I needed to enforce one last thing. "The drugs stop, though; understand? You stop using - completely."

The remainder of her soul clawed its way past the despair that had cemented itself within her for so long.

"Victor," she finally complied.

"Victor what?"

"They call him Big Vic. He's over on 13th street, near the porn shop; that old loft on top of the herberia' store. His mom's like a mexican witch or something, a - a..."

"A bruja'," I finished.

"Yeah. Whatever."

I called some friends from the police department, enquiring about Big Vic. It turned out he was a pimp speacializing in underage prostitutes and dealing narcotics. The address matched Fiona's information. Then, I called Nicole. She came over. I introduced her to Fiona, then she asked why I had to shoot the dog. It would take some time, but eventually, Fiona would warm up to Nicole. Nicole wasn't the type to quit on anyone.

When they left, Fiona thanked me, but she was still drawing a blank, but it was a fortuitous blank. She had no idea what was going on, she could sense that she was finally on her way to being free.

I made one more phone call that night. It was to a local group, some old friends that owed me a favor - a big favor from back in the day. By the time the morning sun bloomed above the clouds, Victor's mother, the mexican witch, was well on her way out of the United States, and Big Vic himself was reduced to an ash skeleton.

Breakfast tasted twice as good that afternoon.

Being Here

Dawn was never the same after the first snowfall in over 100 years. The grass never clung to my toes like it did that soggy, melting morn. It was only one night - one night of the purest white over the ground and the warmest coat around my heart. Even the air resembled a freshness sensed only when the biggest surprise anyone never expeced wound up on their bed, or when someone held their first child for the first time.

I sit on the ground where warriors once clashed, and where the Ku Klux Klan held one of their first rallies. I walk the earth where gold used to be the blood in the veins of the streets, and where birds of every creed and code have perched at least once on the branches older than any generation living now.

If I did not know that there was another world outside of this town, I wouldn't feel so bad being here.

Guts In the Water

I've been trying to work around this one dream, but everything I throw at it comes back as crap.

In a nutshell:

There's a group of native americans performing a ritual. There is a car-sized whale straddled between two gigantic trees by ropes. They are chanting, and a selected one raises the longest scythe I've ever seen. He slices the stomach open and all the entrails rain down into the lake.

I've been working on my book again. I've been thinking about other things again, and with that new ideas are popping up like rats in a leprosy colony. I'v been throwing out new ideas every day.

It took me an hour to get water.

Dream Gig 48: Slicing Clouds

There I was, not paying attention again; restless and lost without the ocean by my side. I walked too many miles on anything that wasn't grass for all those years, and now, I was back in civilization in the midst of the self made problem solvers. All I wanted to do was look outside the window and hopefully have the clouds slicing their way through the sky, and past my vessel.

I wasn't awake. I never had been.

Destination W

Women.

Women?

Women.

I know nothing about women. I grew up with five of them, and I'm just as clueless now as I was back when my aunts dressed me up in little girls clothes, and made pigtails out of my - then dirty blonde- hair.

What does that tell you? Since I can't say what I don't know about women, I can tell you what I see about women, but to see what I see I suppose I'll have to open up a bit.

There is a connection that I can seemingly make with women, and more that I do not. This doesn't keep me awake, by the way. I'm not trying to solve the mystery that is women; I stopped thinking about that a long time ago. The answer would have never made me any happier, so I didn't bother.

I never stopped listening. I can say that. I don't like speaking, yet I can speak more to women than men, and I will listen. I have listened beyond the realms of pain, having nearly collapsed from overexposure twice. I fight to listen, I am cursed to listen.

I say I fight because lately the voices have become broken records speaking in harmony. Details are always a bit different, but pulling back and looking at the little things, it's the same old stories.

Older women and I mesh splendidly, for some reason. I am easily frustrated with the eighteen to twenty-five year old crowd. They always think they're eighteen, with some exceptions, naturally.

My best relationships have been with older women.

...to be continued.

To the Bone

Scientists break speed of light
Last Updated: Friday, November 10, 2000 | 11:57 PM ET
CBC News
Scientists have finally exceeded the speed of light, causing a light pulse to travel hundreds of times faster than normal.
It raced so fast the pulse exited a specially-prepared chamber before it even finished entering it.

The experiment is the first-ever evidence of faster-than-light motion.



The NEC Research Institute lab

The result appears to be at odds with one of the basic principles of Albert Einstein's theory of relativity, that nothing can go faster than the speed of light in a vacuum, about 186,000 miles per second.

However, Lijun Wang, one of the scientists from the NEC Research Institute in Princeton, N.J., says their findings are not at odds with Einstein.

She says their experiment only disproves the general misconception that nothing can move faster than the speed of light.

Continue Article

The scientific statement "nothing with mass can travel faster than the speed of light" is an entirely different belief, one that has yet to be proven wrong. The NEC experiment caused a pulse of light, a group of waves with no mass, to go faster than light.

For the experiment, the researchers manipulated a vapour of laser-irradiated atoms that boost the speed of light waves causing a pulse that shoots through the vapour about 300 times faster than it would take the pulse to go the same distance in a vacuum.

Light travels slower in any medium more dense than a vacuum, which has no density at all. For example, light travelling through glass slows to two-thirds its speed in a vacuum. If the glass is altered, the light can be slowed even further.

The NEC team produced the opposite effect. Inside a chamber, they changed the state of a vapour in a way that light travelling through it would travel faster than normal.

When the pulse of light travelled through the vapour, the pulse reconfigured as some component waves stretched and others compressed. As the waves approached the end of the chamber, they recombined, forming the original pulse.

The key to the experiment was that the pulse reformed before it could have gotten there by simply travelling through empty space. This means that, when the waves of the light distorted, the pulse traveled forward in time.

The NEC researchers published their results in this week's issue of the journal Nature.
______________________________________

My interpretation is that the vapor became solid enough to reflect light within itself, allowing this secondary light source to find its way back on to the scanner ahead of itself.

They gave a soul a body.

King Pig

Tapping hard, he tapped; could have pounded nails through wood. Quickly, heavily, and there would be cracks on the keys before the sun ascended amidst the clouds.


Robots. Maynard loved robots. He thought it awful amusing when that golden colored group scattered, frightened to scrap when their censors registered Maynard - - beast.

Tapper harmed his left pinky; feeling it snap as when it made contact with the "shift" key. He cursed an admirable amount. His neighbors figured is world had just came crashing down around him - sharp shards, bridges obliterated. The walls shivered as if the pulse of his apartment flatlined.

"That was a rumor," Maynard exclaimed.

"Hey, I'm just the messenger here, buddy," said a cool and comfortable, delightfully devious British govenment-employed magician Devin King. "Tap, tap, tap,and his brain crumpled away, absorbed back into his blood. Swears to my mum."

"King, you know damn well about the law, swearing to yuh mum like that."

"Then, I'd be a pig caught licking his own sausage by a pack of wolves then, wouldn't I? Trust me. Believe me.

Or don't."

Echo of Honor

It ran all night, no intentions of stopping, no desire worth clinging to; madness was not looking too bad.

It began with the monks. Tibet was another world, truly a different dimension. Back home, hearing the parrots cackle and shout at three in the morning. Bats, they come if you sing. A whistle, and a lizard is your friend.

The monks - no judgement, only duty and honor. A duty to forgive, but most of all to learn; to learn by living. They breed life through the gardening. They give back to it, as we all will, when we all die. Our last breath is a gift; one last song heard through its echo, or another hurricane stimulant thousands of miles away.

They harmed no one.

Damn. Madness. Nothing shocks me anymore.

The F-Word ....Then Fuck

I heard echoes. They sprawled all across the gravel tube. Life didn't care that she was standing next to me. My natured paranoia was a rampaging beast; nonthing was safe.

She stood there, longer than ever before; always just passing by, through - going and going, but I gaver her chances, every chance that leeches twitch when blood falls. Her skin never broker. My thoughts always missed it was because she had already turned her head away from, and the day away from THAT moment.

But it's never about one particular moment, but the collection of moments in between jealousy turbulence and regretful emptiness. Now, we should never mistake regret for learning. Everyday, there will be a new punch in the face or tickling fingers.

I don't wait very long, and I play second to no one, not even THAT moment. It doesn't hurt more than it continuously tries to awaken you with gentle backhands, but after a couple or more sets, until it infuriates someone.

But tonight, she kept looking. Her words curved intenionally, with my labeling of "buddy", and something so horrible I've forbidden its embedment within my mind. I know it wasn't the f-word. I don't think it was the f-word.

Dead When They Fell

This storm is no one's friend. Our oxygen is gone, too much flew through the air this night. The one that never ended until lave washed everything away, singed anything friends that I ever knew.

The earthquacke stripped them from the earth, away from me, and away from a goodbye. At least they were already dead when they fell.

Nathan Skye

It was cold all over the world except at the top of Skye Towers. Nathan peered downward; Miyan rested on the other side of the high rises patio, idley smoking a cigarette, and cherishing every puff of the gorilla adrenaline laced nicotine. The feeble masses commuted back to their homes, while the groups affected by the mutated outbreak of photodermatosis prepared for the carnal festivities and loathesome lounge singers that only the night could provide.

Nathan had only the sky as his limit, and in two months his astrological research team would pierce the daytime indigo plane, and the legacy of Nathan Skye would reach infinitesimal notoriety...and Nathan could have cared less.

"You seem different today," Miyan said through the carbon soaked smoke. "You're almost - normal."

Nathan looked to the clouds, and even past them, into the next realm beyond the universe. "My mother died this afternoon."

Within, Miyan was shocked. The information meandered from her ears to her brain, and the further it coursed, the more she realised whom she was talking to. "Coming from you, I really have no idea how to react to that news."

"I'm not telling you to gain a reaction."

"Good," Miyan stamped out the wasted cigarette, "because I'm still numb. You're not exactly the warmest guy around. I think you've muttered five words to your entire staff - ever - you ditch your own birthday party every year,and when you're not in your office making oodles and oodles of cash, you're out here, staring at the neon-lit, concrete skinned behemoth that is this city. A city which you've kept alive practically on your own.

"You hardly ever travel, you don't date - come to think of it, I've never seen you being intimate or even remotely flirtacious with any woman or man. Not that it's any of my business. Just saying.

"How're you holding up? You don't seem to be, uh," her hands searched for the word, "mourning, per se'."

The flashing gas giant on the right held the attention of Nathan's eyes. "We were never very close."

"Get outta here," Mian feigned shock.

"She was one of the parents; nothing was ever good enough. In school, I'd bring home low A's, she'd want perfect scores. I started the Skye Foundation back in Texas, she wondered why I hadn't though national, not that it mattered. I stopped trying to please her a long long time ago. But I don't think she ever figured it out. Still, there was always this voice nagging at the back of my head, and now - now it's like - like this gigantic weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. It's - it's weird. Unique."

"What about the funeral?" asked Miyan.

"I made arrangements well in advance. All of that business is taken care of."

"You going to the funeral?"

Nathan relinquished a powerful sigh through his nose. "I don't know. I suppose I should. It'll show some of the troops that I've not completely abandoned my humanity."

Miyan stared at him with geekish concern. "I don't think any of them have ever thought you were human. Ever."

Nathan released a calm smirk, and continued staring at the future.

Hiding Out

I've been stuck in this swamp for months. No a.c. No human contact. And all the alligator threats I can deal with.

That's the problem with doing what I do. You start to rack up a portfolio, you do good work, and many more people than you ever believed existed in your underbelly of the world suddenly know your name, and for one reason or another are after you; be it to employ you, or kill you because you bumped off someone near and dear to them.

To those on the vengeance trail I say, take a number.

I like that there's no people, but it seems to loosen my grip on their instincts. I can't watch them walk, eat, or think. I can't study them, know them inside and out, and predict a human's next move.

I stopped being human a long time ago.

Loner

I've lost all will for friendship. You reach that point in your life when you just don't need them anymore. I don't care for the human race to begin with, and those that I did feel akin to slowly chipped away at whatever was left of my tolerance.

I like experiencing my friends in small doses. Anything longer than two hours, and there's a bodycount.

My Kinda Guys

I've been thinking about it, lately.

I'm looking at vampires and werewolves, and noticing the slight incongruities among their social status.

Vampires are the aristocrats, the regals of darkness. They live in castles, dine at the fines restaurants, and yet, will suck the blood from anything with a heartbeat.

Werewolves are the blue collar workers. They're stuck with the untrimmed fingernails, shaggy hair, and bad breath. My kind of evil. The kind that works for their kill. They don't hypnotize their prey. It's a hunt for fun, and catching the scared little morsel makes it taste so much sweeter.

Vampires grow tired of existence, some werewolves don't even know they're alive, at least in wolf form. They're human side awakens, wondering how they wound up with a mouthful of human hair, and skin beneath their finger nails.

Things You Just Don't Share

I swear to Heebus, and all the nothing associated with that name, the first movie I ever remember seeing was at a drive-in theater, and it was a gay porn. My town once held a drive-in that supported both classic mainstream films - - and porn.

Emphatically, I'm leaning towards being between 4 and 6.

No. It wasn't the good kind of gay porn either.

Tease Me A Movie

For years, my favorite ones were those that showed the least. Now, there's interesting ways to do traliers; making them worthy of its own timespace.

When the original Matrix teaser showed, I was working booth at the theater. Just an image, a question, and the audience was mesmerized. You felt like this movie was going to be something special.

It also pays to have an excellent narrator. Some people remember trailers for because of these voices.

And boobies.

The Corpse of Sex is In My Basement.

I know the secret that can turn this planet into a lesbian kingdom. These carefully strung together words will blister the foundation of sexual intimacy for generations to cum.

It's too gross. I can't tell you. However, it is an obvious little head-shaker there.

It's Official

I believe I am the most hated man on earth, and I could not be happier. Except that I receive no e-mails from anyone that is worth a lick to me. Just science news, writing stuff, and the spam's not interesting anymore. Hasn't been since 1867.

I've alienated myself from anything that has called me a friend. It is just me an my work now, and that's something I've needed to do for quite some time. I don't even know what my job is. I just show up, do stuff, clock out, work out, eat, eat, and eat, write, write, and write.

Maybe I'll ask a question tomorrow.

It's Been So Obvious

The internet is the greatest invention for schizophrenics everywhere. It's their recess. Anywhere, everywhere, anyone anyday. The government needs to market this thing out medicinally. It'll make millions.

And I have the proof about when it all started. Nice.

Dream Gig: Home Invasion

There was going to be an after party. I wish someone would have informed me so I could have pretended not to be home. There was a knock on the door long after I had drifted to sleep. Too many friends and excited girlfriend. I wished she had told me she was going.

Apparently, my place was the halfway point between homes and the party. They pleaded for me to go with them, butI consistenty denied their requests. I focussed on my girlfriend, and everything was normal. Her kiss was normal, her touch was the same - I wasn't left with much to worry about. Eventually, everyone left.

Later in the evening, one by one, they came back. How they got in the house, I didn't know, but there they were, asleep on my floor, on my couch - I was playing denmother again. The only one not there was my girlfriend.

Damn You 80's Rock

Tesla: Man out of Time.

I've been trying to read this thing for nearly a decade, but it's been pushed back every time after a numerical blizzard of times. This is the farthest I've ever gotten on it, and it's something special. I'm glad I kept it.

I have his autobiagraphy as well. I may try it, but I think I'll need a break after taking in all of this information. Go back to some quick fiction.




Tesla was splitting the seam of our universe right before our eyes. He was reaching mystic status - an inter-solar planetary neurologist.
__________________

Mechanical Alzheimers.

I'm kicking around new story ideas. That's what I do when I'm not working on my older, or in progress story ideas.

I'm trying to feel how machines age. How they may become obsolete after one day of bein the latest thing, or the hottest gadget. Now, I'm throwing in some personality that was supposed to have been erased, and mixing it up with some brains exploding, guns blazing, and maybe the disapperence of a loved one.

One crossed wire, and bam. Splatter city.

Awake and Delerious

What stage do we enter in the morning? Do we consider life in stages or a whole? Is death a stage, but before that would murder be considered a prelude to it, or another stage, a different level all together.

Cases could be made for both. For some people, such as cooking, the preparation is a stage, then the actual cooking, where as others would take both and count it as one. When you look at life, what stage would you consider yourself to be in? Are you living or are you twenty? Are you in the stage of alertness, or is it just the afternoon?

What happens when the corpse that was murdered at the lake, and dumped in the water winds up in your shower the next morning?

I'm taking these stages of writing, of living, and implementing them into writing. In this case I'm in the second life of my first creation. I'm in the fifth level of a world where I can easily overshadow any cock hugger that has seen their words printed on fine paper, and placed on marketing bookshelves around the world. How much can we want before what we want becomes meaningless? Sometimes we learn the value of what we do before the world even comes close to understanding what we are, for they will never know who we are. We won't let them.

Why do we surround ourselves by things, when the greater part of the universe wraps us in its cool, ever evolving cloak of infinity every day, every hour, in the middle of every thought?

Only when we understood how gravity worked could we learn to fly. Only when we learn to fail can we begin to succeed. After we realize what we are, can we begin to know who we ourselves are.

It is late. Not so late that I'm willing to shoot Nyquill into my veins, and enter a neon green coma. It is late, and in a year, maybe two I could be dead. When we die, who's going to be in the casket?

Dream Gig

I'm somewhere in the Alps, maybe off the port of Norway, but definitely somewhere luxurious, colorful, and rich. Myself and a few others, most of whom I'v at one point worked with or for are hosting a party at a hotel of which we've been entrusted to look after. We have clients of all kinds arriving for the weekend, but there also happens to be a rock festival in the area, and we're holding their acts.

Now, the party guests have arrive. Problem was we were unprepared, or so we thought, but as we walk up the red carpet stairs, we see everyone in a cheerful mood, being served cake, drinks, and never none the wiser that there are reckless, long-haired hooligans roaming around the same quarters as they. Appapretnly, we had all worked things out earlier.

The chandaliers were crystal, and the hallways were filled with gorgeous artwork, aged but well kept marble walls, and the echoes of money. Lots and lots of money.

It's a Big One

Already one disappointment. I'm watching the trailer for the new film, Primeval, and am quickly entranced by a few tag lines, a serial killer with over three-hundred victimes, and has never been caught, and is still at large - based on a true story. Quickly, I start doing some research.

IT's A FUCKING CROCODILE. A 25 foot crocodile, but a damn crocodile none the less.

American cinema. I piss on you with battery acid.

Countdown Deez Nuts.

I'm sick of new years related material. It's always a countdown list, a best of, a year in review, and all of them cover the same shit over and over and over. How many times can I watch Gerald Ford die without envying him because he doesn't have to put up with this pointless garbage.

Even then, the stuff that is covered is the most useless and ignorant pile of rhino dumps around. Which celebrities were wed, which other dozen ended up divorcing, who's on the dick end of the public opinion, and who deserves to be shot in the head the most amount of times.

Three days of this shit - three straight days. I've felt iodine tainted enemas that are less painful. It's a new year. Let's get on with it already. We already know how large a cyclops cock last year sucked.

And people wonder why I've thrown my television out the window.

A Thousand New Tomorrows

Can you feel the turning, the grinding of the gears at the core of this realm. The earth is shifting once again, pushing us into the new dawn through its temporal womb.

Or, it's Sunday, and tomorrow's Monday. However you wish to see it.

Woes of a Bodybuilder

I thought I was over this, but apparently not. I've been bodybuilding, seriously, for the last three years. The results are significant, and honestly, I'm in the best shape of my life. But, I'm a bit over six feet, weighing three-hundred pounds when everyone tells me I don't look it, that I look more like I'm two-hundred and fifty, twwo-seventy-five, give or take. I'm nowhere near what I would like to be, but that's why I work out, to get there.

No matter where I go, even at the gym, people can't help but stare. I go for coffee, people are looking, I'm working out at the gym, and I can see tension in the eyes of other guys, but for what reason - I'm clueless. I just keep my headphones on, mind my business, and follow proper weight room etiquette. My friend, Kevin, who is much more massive and muscular than I am experiences the same awkward moments, as I'm sure do others in our situation. But, we have only ourselves to blame. We work out because we love it. We love the pain, the gain, and everything else that comes with it, except the gawking, but that's just something we deal with in our own way.

Ragmop GN

Currently reading the Ragmop GN by Rob Walton. Interesting dish, covering about every era that has ever existed on the planet.

This is the kind of book that could only be written in current day America, though how long what little freedom Americans still possess remains is very speculative at this point. I'm pretty sure the majority of U.S. citizens are unaware that Habeus Corpus is no longer existant.

If Walton had written this book four or more decades ago, he would have been arrested, deemed a communist, and secretly executed on pay television in front of a British audience. He goes that far, and I commend him. He doesn't leave any of his political, religious, or idealistic views to be guessed - he bares them out for all to comprehend be it through talking dinosaurs, couch potato angels, and trucker gods.

It's a Chuck Jones cartoon punched and beaten into Orwellian picture pages. I fear for my life by just reading this sort of book. Plus, Walton has created the first heroine in nearly ten years that I've developed a crush on - - Thrill Kitten. She takes no shit, and can dish out a mean mule kick to a man's junk. Plus, his rendition of the pope has a mean pimp-slapping backhand.

Snowed In

Here we are, Christmas Day, celebrating the birth of Christ, even though he wasn't even born today. That's how special he is.

What are we doing today? Today - - is a work day. I'm re-writing a book completed almost two years ago. I was shifting through its pages, and realized, this book reads like a wrote it two years ago. It was horrible. I'm trying to re-complete it, and I have less than two weeks to do it. Plus, I have a stack of books that require reading because once the semester returns, I'm back in the classroom, both teaching and studying.

Why am I typing this then. I think only about two people will read it. Go away.

No Direction No Limits

In Baton Rouge I was Handy, who worked odd jobs around the city. In San Marcos I was Jessie, walking around, bouncing in clubs, being Jessie. In Cyenne, Wisconsin I was Glenn, a top paid bartender who'd never taking a mixing class in his life. In New York I was Chisel, breaking bones for people with loose pockets and loose lips.
In Fresno I was Sal, the surfing hippy that disappeared when the waves stopped coming.

Back home, I was born, and I told them all that I would disappear. Not a bad life.

Holiday

Lydle never knew flesh could feel so good, so elustrious, and never fading from his fingertips. The snow outside wasn't the last thing on his mind. The tree of lights just didn't occupy the same importance as usual. History was divided in two, and no one could mediate because everyone had picked a side. It wasn't black and white, no, it bled right into charcoal gray, and when the ashes fell, it was the earth that kept them, used them, and there he was Lydle, breathing them again.

There's a holiday for you.

Rapture Street

No one comes out at night. I'm in my front yard, staring at the park across the street, dark, no lights at all, and I keep expecting rotting corpses to be walking in the shadows of trees. It doesn't help that there is a funeral home right beside it.

At night, the street is barren. I'm looking down the road, no one about, nothing alive. It should be cool, but the damn humidity has obliterated any chance of us ever expecting any semblance of a winter. It has snowed two times in just under 110 years. It's agonizing, but it's home.

I Never Did.

I would never have believed that wasing up on the shore of Canada, naked, and still with money could lead to prosperity.

Again.

Sometimes you want to give in. There are mornings when you try to do good, do something for yourself, for the ones around you, and another rock is thrown in the road, only this rock was the last thing protecting the world from an avalanche.

I think about my death everyday. Now I'm just waiting to see what happens.

Zen Spectator

It's strange watching the two empty houses in front of mine just sit there, unkept, unlived, empty, and waiting for warmth of human bodies. The pain peels and depression sets in. The roof loses the will to lift the sky, and the kitchen is thinner and thinner everyday.

The yards are the only things alive in the house. Yes, in the house, but outside there are flowers still blooming, and grass still growing. They're waiting, but I don't think for people to occupy the load on the yards' back. It think they're waiting for the seasons to change so that they can go dormant, take a break from the outside world for awhile.

back to watching Beerfest.

Pleased To Meet You, Ms. Grant

I have no idea where this came from.

*********************

Ms. Grant fought to keep the loneliness from taking her some place where she didn’t really want to end up. She had spent enough time by her husband Dean’s side that she figured she had earned the extra space on the bed. The last thing she needed was to wind up right next to him in their burial plot mere months after his passing.

The pancettas were clearing the way nicely for the roses to take top spot in the garden. This was her life now, and nothing else came close to it, not cooking, baking, pottery, painting, none of it stood up to the wonder of growing living beings that could potentially grow up to be some of the most beautiful things ever sprouted from planet earth.

A rumble from up on high shook Ms. Grant, as if it wasn’t just a message for the town that it was going to rain, but it was a message for her that it was going to rain, and to protect her blossoming children of the green. Ms. Grant pursued her digging for the moment, but another rumble thrashed the clouds around and gray swept across the sky, almost pouring from a cup of space and stars. The gray convinced Ms. Grant to stop and call it an afternoon. She placed all of her tools in the garage, cleaned up, and made some tea.

The window invited her for a show. She sat on the chair left to her by her grandmother nearly fifty years ago. It was a comfortable old thing, red velvet with gold rhinestones outlining the entire frame. Ms. Grant went to great lengths to ensure that the chair would last her just as long as it did her grandmother. That time was almost here, but she chose not to think about it.

It was amusing to see how Ms. Grant could ignore the inevitability of death, seeing as how it rang her phone nearly every day. Before Dean passed away, a friend of theirs, Geena Halloway was introduced to the six foot drop, and after that Dean’s good friend Hector Gacias came down with pneumonia. Had he been younger or healthier, his chances of surviving would have increased, but because of his old chain smoking habits, and a kidney that spent its last ten years hanging by a limb courtesy of decades of alcohol abuse, his life wasn’t meant to be extended.

Everyday, it was as if Ms. Grant was losing people. She still thanked the almighty for keeping her daughters safe, and marrying quality men, and for producing the greatest grandchildren in the world. Now if only they’d stay away from her garden whenever they visited.

Despite living alone, Ms. Grant never felt like the house was empty. The days would go on, her television programs would show, and the news continued to be depressing. She stopped watching it regularly shortly after Dean’s funeral. Occasionally she would tune in, watch a few minutes of it, but it was always too much for her; too much violence, destruction, sadism, all of it - - too much. Watching the news made her appreciate the small community she lived in. New York, Los Angeles, Detroit, all those large urban areas, always with their gangs and their gun fights, police abusing their authority, priests enacting and unforgivable sin, sometimes right within the house of God himself. It disgusted her, nearly to the point of tears, but she was stronger than that. Being married to an ex-marine, and the daughter of a coal miner, made her not only tough, but patient as well.

You're No Fun When You Sleep

It's the end of the world because Kirk Douglas said so. I've been saying it for nearly a decade, science has been proving it for longer than that. The world is warming, the waves ar growing, and the ground is being raped, and all I can think about is how much miss the cartoon "Exosquad."

The theme song, I can't recall for the breath off a burning kitty (never mind --found itover here.) but it was much more intelligent than any average Saturday or weekday five-thrity, six in the morning animated program. It was highly political, characters died, characters that the writers and performers had made you care about.

I was thirteen or fifteen back then. What the hell did I know? I want it on dvd.

At this moment Earth is rubbing its plates together, recycling the core at its center through spewing lava out of volcanos. Beautiful when you think about it. It's still a part of our doom, but at least our end will be glorious and colorful.

Oh, it will be utterly blique, decimated, and decayed by the time we're through, but the reaping, the cleansing, the annihilation that will commence will blind us by its brilliance.

Flesh On Wednesday

There's a charming sonic boom crushing all of the wildlife outside. The tank treads are tearing up the streets, I'm sure, and tomorrow, I'll awaken to a crowded city, police and firetrucks flashing along, doing those waving motions with their arms and blocking every good chance there is to make a turn.

There are days when you have to let the enemy have one - and ONLY one. If you don't compromise with the thing that is blocking the air, then you will not know what it takes to tear it apart from within. Getting inside the heads of some people, it makes you yourself wonder how far you can go with this life. You experience so much in a short time span, it's honestly - - it is honestly what I think warp drive feels like.

I will shed skin straight through to my skull to get what I want right now. Sometimes, it is the flesh that is the obstacle.

Electoral Text

I've come to realize people do not vote because there's no physical response, no action oriented response according the voters decision.

American Idol: people sing
Last Comic Standing: you see people abuse television

...and those are the only two I can think of, I'm sure there's more, but I'm not that depressed.

My solution for future Presidential elections securing larger voter turnout, and full endorsement by the public.

The two candidates each pick three sports, those that are capable of being conducted in a one-on-one contest - basketball, tennis, etc. at least three will be necessary, but if there are more, even better.

The candidates have chosen the three or more sports. The public is allowed too choose, through internet, which should be accessible to all phones by the time this type of action comes along, if the election sports event is to be decided by one sport, or more sports, single elimination, or two out of three.

People don't need to go out of their homes, and they have something to look forward to on television later on. They can purchase their alcohol, do their drugs, drive their fast cars on the way to the booze and pills.

I was anticipated more bloodshed, but I can't find it.

Drug Chug

I miss drugs. Not true. I miss weed. I did alot in my youth, slowed down in my teens, and early twenties. Now, it's just a whiff here, or a friendly breeze there.

But again, if I were on drugs as much as I'd like to be, I'd miss the absolutely ludicrious things I observe while being sober. I'd miss the amazing reflections one can see while looking into the saliva bubbles that babies make. I only stumble across beaten bums, and not dead ones with syringes sticking out of their eye sockets.

There's a fast lane on my left hand side at all times. I never noticed it before because I was always on it. Once I swerved to the right, I began to noticing the sunrise, and the solitary confinement it takes away as the night disappears, like a vast gorgeous dome being lifted, welcoming in the rays of something brand new as they are emitted from something that's been around for billions of years.

I've been laying off the science lately. I need to get back on track.

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.

Inside Killing Air

The dogs didn't care for the fresh meat behind the window, despite being able to smell it. They have no concept of self, but they know when something is inaccessible, and pointless in venturing to, unless they had thumbs for throwing bricks, but they didn't.

They're interest trecked towards the twenty minute old dead man at the curb's edge. He had been the last to fall after the grayest clouds of the coolest nights passed over the city's seemingly endless stretch. The lights in the buildings stayed on, while those that had closed their doors hours earlier remained silent, nearly deaf, and completely devoid of life. The breeze swam through the vents, tagging the unknown killer with it, spreading throughout the buildings, and around the corners of the city blocks. Parents awaited their children to come home, loved ones waited for their spouses, and these dogs were waiting for their owners, but since they never showed, they figured the first meal they found, was the one that wasn't moving, and smelled like what they ususally found in their bowl.

There was no undead magic working that night. No corpses to be reanimated, no biblical spell realing in the atmosphere. It was an unlikely phenomena rearing its ugly head, and taking up nature's course for ensuring the Earth's survival as a planet, and as a cargo holder for whatever species are strong enough to live on it.

No one ever expected survival to be so painful, really. Their nerves seized on the spot, every muscle feeling like a conductor for acid and electricity that had nowhere to discharge. It just stayed, causing their eardrums to explode, blood pouring down their lobes, their eyes swelling, some bursting out of frustration, even fear.

The worst part, no one screamed. No one cried. No one heeded warning. They couldn't. Their voice boxes had melted, sinking down their throats, everyone choking, drowning in the remains of their own insides.

Pretend I'm Dead

My meaty carcass has rarely left my bed all day, save for nature's tendencies.

I finally caught up with Greg Rucka's Queen and Country series, at least the ones I have, I'm still missing one collection, then I can begin Gentleman's Game. I'm now working on Kazuo Koike's Path of the Assasin. I'm really enjoying it, more than Lady Snowblood, not as much as Lone Wolf and Cub. It will take something monumental to top Lone Wolf and Cub, for me.

Back to bliss, and my attempt to will myself into a coma. Nods to you, Gilbert Hernandez. To others, read Sloth if you get a chance.

Where's This Going?

Could a person relax, and still sweat, ache, and be bruised, thus being their own personal form of relaxation. By standard definition, it's not even close, or is it? Relaxing is to be at ease, to me, to be calm, secure, and transplacent oveer any situations that may come.

It can be more than a hammock strung between two trees, more than a soft bed, with warm sheets on in a cold December. Personally, I find myself relaxed when I am stressed from working on a passage, wondering how a particular character will succeed their dilemma, and in that mode, I am ready to tear down the world with the rage that's boiling within.

It is that anger which fuels me, and reminds me of the blood circling in my veins, and the air transforming the oxygen as it enters my body into the carbon dioxide as it exits, which, if enough of it is subjected to an individual, could kill them. So, if I collected a jar of my own carbon dioxide, breathing into an airt tight jar every time I exhaled, could I create a poison-gas bomb?

Now let's see who's going to be snooping around the site after those three words were typed together.

Such a sensitive time now. A land of pussies, really. Uneducated, ignorant, selfish pussies.

The Sun Never Touched Here

It was cold, but when was it not? No one in Killyn had seen the sun in twenty years. The beams of the golden myth echoed through the clouds, but never did the solar source touch the town's earth. The landscape was desolate, with the only green eminating from the painted buildings, or the rotten water.

Himnia perched herself on the well's edge. She scoped her little town, encompassing all of its dreariness, and the depression that kept the day to day chores from being so boring. If there was no action to be done, what was there to live for. She would never see the sun, she thought, she would never touch grass blades, and her skin would forever be pale, allowing her to hide in the snow, and maybe, just maybe she wouldn't tell anyone where she was, and would wait until the sun finally decided to show itself before ever telling anyone where she hid her soul.

Chomping at the Bit

What's the point of playing with an orchestra if the band already has a keyboardist? I can see where different twists could be applied, but as I'm watching Dream Theater'sconcert dvd, and they are accompanied by an orchestra, all they're doing is accentuating the keyboards. I'm not rhyming, so don't expect a reason out of me.

These past few days have felt like tornadoes, spewing urine out of their rotating vortexes, stemming from a puddle of bile found at the center of the earth, which its splattering over everything on the earth, person, car,...everything.

Even the food's bad these days. I'm so sick of eating. Every two to three hours, eat something, eat something. Damn my lifestyle choice. Why couldn't I have worked with plants, or learned how to weld? Instead, my dumb ass had to be a bodybuilder, and a writer. The bodybuilding is going great, the writing, while I'm enjoying what I'm producing, no one else is able to sample the greatness and controversy that could be my mind-children. But, we persist, persue, and decaptitate any editor that comes withing five sentences of my work.

To all you editor's, don't make me too angry, I won't have to urinate down your neck stumps.

Got A Letter Today

There you were, sitting in the shadow of nature, with the children of your resting place in your hands as your eyes scanned the planted ink, folding and flipping the pages.

Did it make sense to see the clouds, travel through the air, wish for the ocean to be as blue as you'd imagined, only to have it fizzle out, becoming steep canyons, or snow topped mountains?

You know it did, and you know the sacrifice is worth everything, and more, so much more. Don't look back, just look up.

Duplicate Envy

I envied the copier machine mechanic. For all that is in line with everything else in the universe, and to those who have seen it, heard it, or if there is just something off about you...Where the hell was I?

I envied the copier machine fix-it-guy. I stood there, standing in line, a bunch of nicotine craving hags in front of me, wanting that next cup of coffee to be running through their veins already. Staring around, looking like lost children, because there was only one copy machine working. We had four, but only one graced us with its actual capabilities.

In my arms was on piece of paper, and I needed to make one-hundred and eighteen twin syblings for this thing. And we only had one copy machine working. An occupation funded by the city, by taxes, by the government, by this world, and we only had one copy machine working.

The copy machine's first aid had arrived, the med-tech, the lifesaver, the techno-molder. There he was, working with his toy, one which he's become to know very well. One he's nurtured, looked after, and knows it by name. "Damn this piece of crap," he slurs to it, but smiles after.

He fixed things. He made things work again. He was able to work with his hands, and get things done. It never ended, always travelling, and new rooms, but the same toys. Maybe a few twists in the gadget myth, but exact enough. He travels, and he fixes things.

And then I made my copies.

Bellyache Inferno

No one seems keen on me lately, but that is so fine, so perfect, I love the emptiness, keeping it clean, and ready for positioning. So close, very close, but things must go beyond close very soon.

It's another day, and it's hazy, I wasn't sure what was normal, or routine, or even familiar because the schedule was still in effect, but never mentioned, wanted, or allowed to remember.

Here we are, dumping again, and watching our dead swirl into the streets, link with the pipes, and we truly become one with the city as we are transported all along, out more, touching others, all mixing, something new will be happening.

Revolution In a Diner

Four roads, and I'm walking again, and another four roads will send me to the bend, the one that turns, spins, and doesn't stop until the gravity dies.

Received some information the other night, but always feeling like a fax machine can wear somebody down. Sorry to stomp on your scrotum on the way out. I was aiming for the crack.

Just Because (I think I've used this title already)

They were not there in the morning, when she kissed Vell a good day. It wasn’t there before the meeting, when her department was scrutinized for the Hall Pass add they had decided to run during the Rose Bowl. But, there they stood, tall, elegant, green and other colors on top of her desk when she had returned from her secret cigarette break. If Vell knew she had been smoking, he’d rescind her second credit card, and that was a backup plan she needed in concrete.

Layla had seen the tips of the petals far away, as she exited the conference room, but paid no mind. No recognition, no notoriety, keep it quiet, she thought. After a few congratulations and pats on the back for not losing her cool, and telling Humphery it was not her department’s fault, rather the idiots over in time management, that secret society Humphery believed he was so brilliant for creating, Layla streamlined for her desk.

“Damn you,” she cursed Vell later that evening.

“What?” Vell acted delinquently.

“They were beautiful,” she admitted.

“Half as you,” Vell confided.

“Why?”

“What did the card say?” Vell asked, sipping tea.

“Just because,” she smiled. It was that smile, the one Vell strided for every day for the time they loved one another. Every day for the time he loved her, which that love had begun six years ago.

“Just because,” he reassured her. “And from now until the end, never mind all holidays and anniversaries,” of which there were more than a stars count of, “It is always just because. Just because you are the most wonderful person, the most precious being, and the most glorified leech I have ever had the pleasure of giving flowers to.”

“GLORIFIED LEECH?” she exclaimed.

“Those flowers aren’t free, you know.”

Torn

I had plans for this Saturday. I have many books that are unread, and feel that I have abandoned them, and are urging me to relenquish them to a used book store soon if I do not attend to them. These were the books I planned on looking through this Saturday, but once again, my friend spoiled it for me.

I don't like having friends (sometimes) most of the time. This one imparticular, whose sole reason for calling upon me, other than my unoubtable likefulness, was because he hates being alone. His wife attended two baby showers today, a great feat for any person, and I applaud her for having such strenght. Meanwhile, friend was left alone, and he hates it. I tell him, "You have dogs. How can you be lonely when you have dogs." But this is coming from someone who will sooner save an animal from a bullet than a human being from wrongfully injecting themselves with a mislabeled vile containing the Aids virus.

I love my friends, and no I do not consider them a burden, merely a monkeywrench in the cogs of my selfishness.

You need someone to bail you out of jail, I suppose.

Jigsaw Thoughts

I screamed at the wrong one. I screamed and their eyes are no longer in the sockets, rather, they're hanging, dwindling from stringed meat that used to be stems. Your flesh is ruined, purple and dry, cracked as the ground of wasted depleted earth.

I didn't laugh for over an hour. I didn't want to think about it, nor was there a reason for me to go back and apologize. I did what I had to do, and now your lips are the shards of flesh you pick from your brow, and place gently on the table, forming a jigsaw puzzle.

Been S.O.L. Lately

Internet accesibility has been rare, practicully nill, but the ideas continue to flow. Once things return to normal, this board will erupt.

Carry on.

The Fridge Has Food

The piece below me, I'm very happy with. I'm late on unleashing it, but its out now. The story I made up when I first saw it on the page.

Watching Newsradio. It holds my favorite boss Jimmy James, played by Stephen Root, a fine, fine character actor. Phil Hartman was splendid, and the entire case allowed one another to apply personal feelings into the act, it was practically like therapy for them. I still miss that man. Comedy is so different without him, without many, many people.

John Candy, I adored his comfort approach. Rodney Dangerfield changed me because I knew I didn't have to be an innocent to be a good person, with George Carlin, Damon Wayans, and oh, thank the night for Dave Atell.

I have so many people in my life, and I'm ignoring a good chunk of them. I've taken personal care into reasons for that, sort of a tune up, reality check if you will.

Now I like it, and don't really want to go back. No one new has broken my daily surroundings, and I'm all for going out of these formal regularities, but I don't care if I do or not. I like me right now.

Silently Knocking

Here it was. And there they were, speaking between their windows. These homes are into one another. The only thing blocking them are their fences. The ones ripped from the ground every night, usually two.

Horses walked these streets once. Horses that carried great, knowledgeable men and women. They knew how dangerous it was then, yes, you horses. The damn things would have run, had it not been for that reign around their heads.

The new reign is here.

After Work

Yes. The Three Stoges are welcomed in this house. Me thinks of me grandpap when me sees it. That, Sanford and Sun, and other things.

Fell in love with an Office Depot, other night. I almost came in the staplers aisle.

Back in a few.

Hurricane Butterfly Lost Between the Lines

I saw you breathing for the last time, on the floor, alone, surrounded by the ghostly footsteps of strangers with their own lives, living them, losing them, and forgetting the important things.

You struggled, and lost, fought, and lost. It wasn't your time, yet, the similarities were uncanny.

Spirit appeared, and you were scared. You didn't even know you had one, but there it was, there it sat, watching you lift your wings, tap you heart, breathe your final breath.

Did you know it was you? Did it know whom you were?

All that remained was the road within the room without a light to guide you.

Mercy Day

A butterfly found its way into the building today. It was injured. Its wings had been folded backwards, accidentally. It was on the ground, slowly flapping, flapping, then fluttered every now and then, frustrated and frightened. I wasn't sure what the more merciful action to take was, pick it up and take it outside, or leave it indoors. I picked it up, it tried to shake itself loose. I placed it in a distant corner, away from the busy feet of everyone. I figured, had I taken it back outside, a young twerp would have planted their foot on top of the lost creature.

It's not like butterflies live that long anyway. And that's another thought for another hour.

Shallow for Some Rain

1827 November, 2

Phillip could not join me tonight. Lady Fingers had some special on the mead, so he be over there, gettin' all kinds of drunken. I called Leslie, he wasn't too intoxsicated,yet. He could at least hold the tools.

The dirt had recently settled, but only took about twenty minutes to pick through. The the boards were well secured on the casket, but luckily Schirelda, me crowbar, she's tougher than any hunk of wooden plank.

One push, but the cover simply splintered. I had to hammer Schirelda with the shovel to get a good fix on the damn thing, but got it off, I did, eventually. The corpse looked like my aunt Sonya, but she was buried four towns over. I'm not saying she was still in her box, but I'm saying she is four towns over.

Taking A Walk

Walking down the street as it cries, and the wind desperately attempts to console it. Another woman lost her world in the corner of Herrera and Buscamier. It was only for a night, only for her sick daughter, and only for the thrill of the kill.

The crack in the wall speaks volumes, instigating an urge I have not felt in years. A primal need, a beastly yearning for something more than straightforward madness, no, something else; whatever is behind the trickling blemish on the force of man.

Things haven't been the same since the corner store changed owners, and these newer ones covered up the dog with the droopy eyes, holding the snowcone, with some tacky colored paint, the kind that the sun will eat and shit withing half the summer.

I'm coming for you, grass in the sidewalks, flowers in the sewer grates. I'm coming, I'll find you. The shadows of clouds spread over the rooftops won't even be allowed to breathe until you are safe, and until the voices of the dead are long removed from the corners of their demise.

Whitman

Whitman walked down the hall in between the men and women, through them even, but don't tell them, they'd never believe you. It's not that Whitman is/was a ghost, it's that Whitman was Whitman, and no one held any inkling of who or what Whitman was.

Sarah was crying, Whitman noticed. She sat there, in the middle of the hall, nested near the center floor closets, right between the water fountain with the chewing gum on the spout, and the other fountain that only spouted warm water. She wiped her tears on the sleeve of her pink hoodie, then wiped her running mascara with a tissue she picked from her purse. Whitman urged to ask Sarah about her troubles, but no one ever heard Whitman. He could yell until his voice cracked, but no one had ever heard him; not since that night.

It was a night Whitman replayed in his mind like the sun rises once a day, and even revisited more often than celebrating anyone's birthday. He could hear the men with knife-knees stalking their way up the stairs. The window was nailed shut, the door was only wooden, and the rest of the children had stopped screaming long, long ago. In fact, he had smelled burning meat earlier in the evening, shortly after the screaming ended. They were all out, and Casey had been killed when she returned from the grocery store. Whitman saw it through the window. The meat she had bought was still outside, thawing on the sidewalk, next to the bloodstain that used to be Casey.

Sarah ushered herself up from the ground, swung her purse around her shoulder, and like everyone else that day, walked past Whitman. Her tears had stayed, and a smile had won over her expression. Whitman turned around. Sarah was in the arms of her boyfriend, Chaz, or Chad, or Bill; one of those.

Whitman let them go, and continued down the corridor, persuing the attention that he never hoped to need, but now desperately desired. It was the only way he was going to transition from obscurity to memeory, reaching existence, and abandoning it as soon as he arrived.

Fake Muscles

Looking back on the Gregg Valentino documentary, the man is still full of shit, refusing to admit what his true errors. Steroids did not make his arms erupt, it was the synthetic oil Synthol, and he refuses to cop to it. Steroids will allow your muscles to grow to their full potential within the confines of their expansive, but limited fasicles. It gets into your blood.

Synthol is metabolized after its injection into the muscle itself. It is a fatty acid. Synthol provides size as does steroids, however, it will not give definition. It's like loading a water baloon with cow eyes.

He made a mockery out of something I love. He paid the price, physically, financially, legally, and he now looks like an overgrown midget with camels for arms.

The documentary was subpar, revealing nothing new, and very little truth. Damn you, TLC.

Garth Marenghi's Darkplace.

Currently watching Garth Marenghi's Darkplace. My humor has not been tickled by any series as much as this since NBC cancelled the tragically underrated Stark Raving Mad.

Darkplace came out in the 80's and is cheesily bad, thus cementing its place in the cheesiest, and I dare say greatest decade in the history of the 1970's through the 1990's.

Less Talk, More Squat

Currently watching a documentary on Gregg Valentino. He used to have world record holding arms. Once again, it focuses on demonizing steroids, which when abused, are lethal, but like anything else, when used in moderation are subtle, but effective. Look at them as to eating cake. You eat a little bit of cake, occasionally, there isn't much to worry about. You eat an entire cake more often than not, of course trouble stirs.

I've been lifting weights, seriously, for almost three years, ten years overall. Myself, I've never messed with anything that can't be bought in the open. I drink my protein, take my vitamins, use green tea pills and glucossamine with msm. I eat what I want, but I know what I eat, and how much I eat. It is not enough to know what food I am consuming. I need to know where it came from, how it was raised, any little detail. I have noticed great changes not only in my body, but in my health. My mind, on the other hand, its the same bear trap for decadence and culture it has always been.

I do not consider myself a body-builder because I don't have the time, but when I am weight-lifting, I am in another world. I am in a pleasant domain where all my worries are beyond my attention, and happiness comes when I can barely breathe because my last three reps tore my breath away from my lungs.

Gregg Valentino abused steroids, and his arms went from spectacular genetic abnormalities to to absolute sludge when they exploded, yes, literally exploded.

Recently, I had the pleasure of spending time with Gustav Badell, an award winning bodybuilder from Puerto Rico, who will once agian be competing at the Mr. Olympian in Las Vegas. He was well-mannered albeit a tad short-tempered. I asked him about any experiences he may have had with steroids, though he'd already discussed this in an article in Flex magazine a couple of years ago. He spoke about his own tampering with them, but it was short-lived because he wanted nothing more to do with that lifestyle. People that sell steroids are linked and cornered with the same dealers that sell cocaine and angel dust.

Mmmmmm. Cake.

Gerald's Streak

There are few times when Gerald will ask for help, but they usually involve him soiling his trousers. Luckily, his six year old niece is still naive enough to accept lollipops and power rangers dvd's as payment for the deeds.

The last prostitute Gerald hired ran screaming and cursing out of his house, dark streaks dripping down her backside as she jumped in the cab that almost ran her down.

It's Dead Around Here

It's been a lonely Friday.
Even my shadow had better things to do.

Lifeless Trek

It was not a long walk, more of a slow death. There was no sun, no moon, and clouds never existed in this part of the world. There was a sky, or at least, something to point up to, a place that my hands could not reach.

There were no turns, twists, meanderings, or transitions. I could spin myself dizzy, stumble and wind up exactly where I started.

Room For One More

My best fiend's girlfriend is having their baby right now. My best friend is becoming a daddy this night.

No one take this night away. Just - just shut up. Let them enjoy it.

Sunday for Mrs. Aptree

Mrs. Aptree was not a vile woman, never spat at the birds, never kicked the sand into the sea, though, to tell you the truth, there's bit of a second side to that view altogether.

Mrs. Aptree walked more than a mile to get to her local store. The store with the fruits, spices, and the special kinds of onions she liked with her turkey and ham. Baked, though, none of that instant-sliced nonsense. The whole damn bird.

The watermelons were best at the middle, Mrs. Aptree had learned long ago, in her younger times, when she joined her mother at this same store. And while the store has gone through many changes itslef, expanded things, the truth remained that the best watermelons were the ones in the middle.

The first melon: Too many bumps
The second melon: Shell is all wrong

Mrs. Aptree slid over to lift the third watermelon. Her hands trembled just a tad when she raised the fruit, but she kept it in place, until she looked down and see a gigantic emerald flashing it's unexpected brilliance at the old woman.

It was an awe-inspiring thing, was this emerald, in the middle of the store with the spices and chicken. Ms. Aptree had only seen in them at the bank, lastly on the anniversary of her mother's funeral, when she visited the bank to speak, in the confines of their vault, to her dead mother, and rearrange her jewelry, which contained emeralds, but they were for flash and style, small things that fit on clothing. This, this emerald would have to be double bagged, no doubt, in order for someone to leave with it from the store. One bag, it would certainly tear through, scratch on the pavement of the parking lot.

Who Had the Grooper?

Attended my first body-building competition. Much more interesting than I thought, and much funnier than expected.

Highlights include: Monstrously oversized men in tiny pink panty-tights.
Mr. Greenwood let's you know what he thinks.
Met Gustav Badell. Heard he was an ass, thought he was cool.
Some of the most gorgeous, and a few of the most
frightening,questionable women I've ever seen.
Met Randy Couture. Very cool, very nice fellow.

ATE AT HOOTERS WITH RANDY COUTURE AND GUSTAV BADELL...

Borning Morning.

Typing this while working at an inservice from work. This has been the most boring morning that I can recall since all the roosters across the street from my home, that loved cawing at five-thirty in the morning, mysteriously exploded.

Re-modeling

Just looked at my revised site. It frightened me. I'm worried.

I'm Proud of This One

Going to be playing with this site, now.

Batman I Did