Sunday, November 2, 2008

Silver Fish Diatribe

Blake addled the dynamite charge with seconds to spare before witnessing silence. The silence of what could have been. Of the detriment, the addled fortune in smoke and shards, just bombing down on all around. What could've been. If it had blown. But he is set free for now. By his brilliant adjustment of wire and code. A puzzleman known to have decoded a language for squid by studied sub sonic electromagnetic sound. A true find. Shedding light on animal communication all around man. Open the doors of awareness. At any moment, any one, anything can be speaking to you. When you're in your home, the dust mites and the silver fish are whispering secrets to you. This is how Blake found out about the explosive.

Thursday, October 30, 2008


The ergonomic dishwasher spat in my face.

The tide plays games with the moon raker.

When that leaf hits the ground, the kiss will lose all meaning.

Where does that hound dog get his rythm?

Instinctual salamander flips the page of a book and tears the corner. Your brother is tremendously bothered by this.

Burning panther fur will add 2 years to your life from a bioflanidic aroma that triggers a synapse that fights aging.

Word on the street is, an ambilical cord is poisonous to the alkalinity of fish, if liquified. Only one man has tried this. And the reason for his experiment is another story all together.

Don't forget to flush one gray hair down the toilet the night before a big competition.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008


Where the sounds of a porcupine,
ribbit tides in my spin.
The spike clock drive big stock,
and the workhorse soon wrinkles.
The sweat that collects in the
concrete drain will be pressed
by new eras which take heavy slumber
a top one another.
The sweat will be harvest.
Will be oil for a new eon
when lamp light it the least
of man's worries.
Where the sight of a porcupine
spike belt makes you stand up
straight and produce
a little quicker.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008


The brawling and the gloom. The distant wedge of cabbage holding the door open against the breeze, debris, twisted sun air. I assume that is cabbage. Can't pull this rowboat all by my lonesome but I must. Three fish slap at that transom upon each bump of rock and sand. I thought this breeze was a joke when out on the surf. Catching sustenance and weathering spray. This breeze, will pass, I had assumed. Luckily the capsizing occurred close to shore, and my catch was tied so tight and nifty, supper was not lost. Can't pull this rowboat all by my lonesome, but I did. Dropped lightly on the grass to the side of the cottage, and confirmed with closer proximity that the lady indeed used a head of cabbage as a door jamb. In the kitchen, the lady was entertaining guests, her aunties. Nagging her on bringing about nieces and nephews into the windy world. The lady nodded at me and said I could only get it poking with a sucking for starters and until she got around to it could she do bend to the sucking and get it poking. That shut up her aunties. Slapped three fish on the table and retrieved the cabbage and let the door slam. I'm hungry, I announced, let's get the stove burning and get on from this dilly dallying. Her aunties get nervous when I'm demanding and don't do much talking. The shutters slap and the stove simmers smoke from a spill from the night before, but the sun is still present and the wind is still vociferous.

Monday, July 28, 2008

Dehydration is a Sin

The pond water dissolved
the rough patched tongue and satiated was the necessity of genuine thirst. Damning the roots is arbitrary fascism.
These cells of yours are not of private ownership, do tend to with care. Hydration is the natural order of things and kin to the solar wind. Arid lands are indeed cursed. Rabid warlords privatize the watering holes and breed centuries of misconduct by men. Lend that sun blistered hand to un-announced generations. Drink a cup and pass the chalice, for if you halt the trickling baton, know, just know, dehydration is a sin. Beware pile driving your efforts into a task so neglectful that long in refrain is the quench. Do not maintain the heavy conscience. Proceed in drenching the Oasis Guard in gritty oil and lighting the impending light to draw fellows the lap their rough patched tongues. The honorable war is for the essentials. Dehydration is a sin.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

White Foam

The rusted jeep prowls the yard of the plant that churns up a white foam in the river beside it. The red brick industrial machine lies elusive to those who gaze upon the colossal from the other side of the chain link fence. As productivity heightens, fish farming in the water declines. Water levels reach new levels of impurity. The hungry class walks by the fencing and can't help but notice how happy the boy is who plays in the yard with a yellow ball, under the supervision of a fellow in the yellow jeep. Birds do not circle his head. This is the boss' son. No one has ever been fired from the plant. In fact, no one has ever seen anyone exit from the plant. Many a teenager has attempted to sneak into the plant and see for themselves, what is life like in this beast? Each attempt results in a wicked chase helmed by the fellow in the rusted jeep. And then, no one ever sees these teenagers again.

White foam continues to ripple the river and slow its flow as though absorbed with sap.

Profits soar.

Friday, June 6, 2008

Turban Tan

The drippy man, who emerges from the lake, is pink from sunburn. His bald head, pasty white, which he soon wraps a towel to keep the top spot of the noggin shielded from the harshest UV rays on that part of the continent. Ozone terrorism peeled cancerous sections from long lost friends of his, whose carcas remains brushed over with sand scattering and layering in the desert breeze. The drippy man stands proud in his turban, and pokes each leg one at a time into tattered jeans and does the same with a sea green sweater, stitched with the image of a light house. The drippy man, still not quite dry despite the wicked sea breeze slapping at his back, has a taller shadow with the help of his make shift turban. He sighs as the keys in his pockets scrape his leg. He hates thin pockets. He hates feeling things bouncing around, knicking his flesh, as though the condom thin layered pocket is about to rip and spill his essential possessions.

The drippy man had a little nightmare before this so called vacation. He dreamt that in the face of rugged mountain bandits, his bald skin was scalped and red tissue adorned the tip of his head, the opposite look from his turban tan. He awoke and looked in the mirror. Left unsure whether he could truly blend in with different cultures. The throbbing lack of confidence for undercover games sunk his efficiency and reputation. A disguise leaves it's revealing mark, just as undergarments leave indentations on the waist line of a once naked man. The turban tan line disturbs what most assumed was thorough immersion in a terrible land, sleeping in poppy fields and assassinating drug lords. It only increases the occupation nightmare. Gagged, blindfolded, and chained, left in a drippy cave or basement, only guessing from the sounds of light water trickling and voices in an unintelligible dialect. And left to wish with all ounces of desperation, that he should have removed his turban more often when wandering in the sun. And he fears this line is more prominent in the wet glistening drip that hits his forehead and spreads a sheen on his head as a whole.

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

Sammy Levi's Bones

Sammy Levi's Bones

by Jeff Phillips

A cabin. Harsh winds knock at the shoddy piecing together of logs. Snow fall outside. The cold draft prevails. A bearded fellow, in glasses, wraps himself in a flannel afghan.

FREDS BALOU: I can never quite get down to business. Which is why I only vacation in the wild as opposed to thrive and survive amongst it's blows. Some may say the corporate agenda is a vicious jungle of it's own, but goddamn friend, that's been stated by a bunch of fucking pussies. Corporate games are cushy. Once you set your blackberry down on the nightstand, silenced, and pour yourself a glass of scotch, vino, ale, vodka, or whatever your goddamn choice to forget is, you have nothing to worry about because your digital security system is on and your guard dog is on the clock. The art of forgetting. Long has civilization designed it's strengths to get to this point. The wild animal can never comfortably forget because of the art of predation. Neither could our homo erectus ancestor. Eons beyond a long millennium rotated new dawns and danced new thrills in technology until we got to this point. Eleven months out of the year I hide out in my metropolitan penthouse, with state of the art security, protected with precise heating and air condition systems. The cleaning lady does well to sparkle the place and give it that touch of pristine. The other one month of the year I renounce running water, electricity and protection so I can remember what it's like to feel alive and awake. In the mountains, I hear wolves, grizzlies, and mountain lions. Harsh blizzards, avalanches, and sandstorms talk the naked rant of a jealous god, as though every creature still offends. Let us not be led into temptation, the temptation I touched upon, the art of forgetting. Slumber is the biggest sin in the wild. And for that matter, the well kept city. For every hour, minute, second, dancing molecule, nature is not witnessed. The subconscious is a feux, distorted back drop and insomniacs have the right idea. Why do you spend 5 minutes in line when they make your latte? I stand behind you, wanting my black coffee but have to wait for you to describe your beverage of choice. But neither of us have won that coffee. So easy to toss our salary to a sales kiosk and immediately get what we want. I respect the hungry wolves, that exist with raw critical thinking, and fight for their food. A pack of them can communicate with pagan precision and also can shut the fuck up in the same act. It's as though they pissed in a tavern bathroom where the wall announced Zen Sarcasms on the fact that you can actually learn something when you're not yackin'. But they got this born into their cranial wiring. I wish Sammy Levi had that instinct. A slick Jew who was my business partner, whom I convinced to join my monthly retreat into the uncivilized mountain scape. A day light hike found awful consequences. Sandstorms blew in from the north uninvited. We both hid in the shelter of caves until it passed. I thank God I chose the right cave. A day later when I emerged, I felt my way about the crevices in the cold moonlight and had to rely on the art of touch to feel about the dark cave depths I periodically got lost in. I froze when I touched what felt like wet bone. I froze until dawn ushered some light in because I thought I heard inhuman breathing. When the light peaked with more exposure, I saw shreds of Sammy Levi's North Face jacket and back pack. His canteen crushed like a beer can. I chose not to touch again the wet bones scattered amongst pockets in the rocks. I crept away from Sammy Levi's bones. Away from the slumbering grizzly bear, in his thanksgiving coma. Crept back through the calm of day light, through arid terrain and built myself a fortress with pine branches. I went on hiatus and allowed my stocks to sink with apathy. Stocks cannot fight off big bears and hurricanes. I have a hard time pretending nature don't exist for twelves months straight. I feel better if I respect it and give her time in the spotlight to scare the living piss out of me. The shiver of wind aligns with the universe with greater conscience than a Walgreen's electric blanket. And for me when I do shut some eye in a humbled mountain shelter, I dream in color. And can't tell the difference between that and waking thunder. I have a hard time getting down to business which is why I never built my own home and my log cabin is an unfinished piece of shit that cracks beavers up with silent giggle fest. And good ol' Freds Balou makes a fine stew from Sammy Levi's Bones. And it warms my belly and I respect this rare method of staying warm because in way, I'm burying my friend. Maybe not in the ground, but his remains I had second thoughts about just leaving, and it was easier to touch the second time because the blood had dried.

Saturday, May 31, 2008

Sunken Ruby

Rudolph: Where's it housed?

Adolph: In the deep tide. I tossed it over.

Rudolph: Hasty fellow.

Adolph: Couldn't bear the heavy nostalgia.

Rudolph: She gave it to you years ago.

Adolph: When my feelings were much more raw.

Rudolph: Still there's been decades.

Adolph: And a deeper hole.

Rudolph: The pain the oyster feels to make a pearl, I'd think you'd at least appreciate that and move on.

Adolph: The pain I felt to paint her portrait, and she burned it in the oven to roast a suckling pig.

Rudolph: She found function. All you found was sheer avoidance.

Adolph: I couldn't bear it.

Rudolph: The economy won't forgive this easy. Emotional signifcance does not overshadow the worth. If you sold it to the Mongolians as was advised, our empire could have persevered.

Adolph: That ruby sunk the face of our empire long before. I hate her and it clouds my ability to strategize. We cornered our selves.

Rudolph: You cornered your self and with it, incarcerated the movement you started.

Adolph: My stomach pains me.

Rudolph: You should eat.

Adolph: I carved off a chunk of ruby and swallowed it, the day before I threw it to the Caspian Sea. Every morning I feel it trying to digest, but the gash worsens.

Rudolph: My god.

Adolph: I cannot digest a morsel ever again.

Rudolph: So the bitch won.

Adolph: No, we go down together.

Friday, May 30, 2008

Live Stuff, New To Witness


Infinite Broil

Han: The deep dish has no flavor.

Jas: This morning we drained that tank of MSG.

Han: Who saw about the refill?

Jas: I thought that was attached to your responsibilities.

Han: Task master pile driver grunt. Piss poor assumptions. No! NO! No! That was attached to your goddamn responsibilities.

Jas: Judith mentioned you were doing it.

Han: I didn't even know it was low!

Jas: People don't seem to notice the deep dish is flat.

Han: Deep dish is filler without punch of taste, even you know that.

Jas: Even I know that...

Han: Mediocrity always seems to prevail on your shifts.

Jas: You think I'm a ree ree?

Han: No comment.

Jas: Take the easy way out chief.

Han: You have 30 seconds to finish that deep dish or your butt is getting fired.

Jas: When the tanker comes to fill the MSG pool, I will spike it with gasoline.

Han: You plan to burn the place down?

Jas: No. No flame. Just poison.

Friday, May 23, 2008


God: Take a shot of me.

Chad: It won't focus proper.

God: Can't handle my good looks.

Chad: No, I'm sure I can, just have to play the knob here.

God: I must have broken the camera with my good looks.

Chad: Naw, you ain't that good looking.

God: Come again?

Chad: Nothing.

God: You don't honor me, son.

Chad: I do, I do, I was just joshin.

God: I've taken humor out of nature, what does that do for your equation?

Chad: Leaves me rather speechless.

God: What do you think of me?

Chad: I love you.

God: Honesty is what I ask for at this point.

Chad: I love you.

God: My thunder and lightning are in the off position, I won't strike you down, speak as though to your hombre or buddy.

Chad: Well, you're opacity is low due to your omnipresence, therefore getting a shot of you is impossible. And it's frustrating.

God: I really want a photo.

Chad: I know you do.

God: This moment is priceless and you're ill-prepared.

Chad: My equipment isn't capable of handling.

God: I knew you wouldn't be able to handle me.

Chad: It's my equipment and you're low opacity.

God: It's excuses.

Chad: I find I can't talk to you.

God: Most can't.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Kangaroos Drowning Dogs

Wounded Bandit: The rancid outlook of your survival does not fare well in my brother's woods.

Crippled Crook: And dare the triple threat of my balls to challenge this assumption?

Wounded Bandit: Best wishes puny sally.

Crippled Crook: You'll wake with a dragon fly stuffed in your jammies.

Wounded Bandit: What a suggestion! You assume I still wear the footies of a kiddie. I sleep buck naked now pops.

Crippled Crook: What do you say about those dapper slippers Queen?

Wounded Crook: Easy enough to drop a stock of bank notes on subtle fashion. No biggie when you're a stealthy victor.

Crippled Crook: Don't hustle those bills too quickly for your own fast twitch, wouldn't want a hundo to rip a paper cut on your index finger.

Wounded Bandit: Pipe tight the water hole shut.

Crippled Crook: This is just where this discourse belongs. Fragile. Icy. Riproarin'.

Wounded Bandit: Simmer the challenge and focus on necessity brosef.

Crippled Crooks: Comes smooth from the lips of a second rate.

Wounded Bandit: I read in the news that the winner of the Continental Wiener Wurst Eating Contest suffered a rupture in his belly and spilled guts into the Golden Bowl.

Crippled Crook: Study nature, gimpy, for you can observe the dog chase the kangaroo bearing his wicked bite. And the dog might have more endurance for foot speed, but the kangaroo knows how to buy time by luring the doggy to a bog. Wading in the murky splash splash, the kangaroo pins the doggy head under the ripple's density and soon revels in the choke, gurgle, and gone limp doggy in the flotsam.

Wounded Bandit: Notice how I've called you doggy from the get go?

Monday, May 12, 2008

The Green Park

{Dream Log 5.11.08}

Leaving the apartment complex, where the landlord hollared at me. He was doing some work, and I tried to help organize his orange extension cords, tangled and littering the hall way.

"Why do you feel the need to help Squirt!"

Down the creaking, wooden steps, I held Magdalene's hand. Outside the warm sun, and chirping birds freshened me up. Passing by the elevated train tracks, I noticied a park I had not seen before. Stretching down for some ways, luscious greens, hedges, ponds, ferns, palms, moss, contrasted with singing vibrancy next to the brick and concrete surroundings. A glorious patch that seemed to extend and open a portal with the urban stage. A deep valley to disappear from the city horns. Small yet expansive, it soothed the idea of retreat. I pulled Magdelena closer, brushed aside her brunette curls and brought my lips to her ears.

"What do you say we grab some take out and have a lovely picnic in the park? I've never, after all this time here, explored the little patch of greenery by the train."

Magdelene tightened and froze.

"No, no, my friend told there is a problem with gangs hiding in that spot."

"Well, let's put an end to that problem."

Thinking I would dial the police to get it patrolled, I pulled out my cell phone and flipped it open.

"Do you think stationing police here will make it feel any more peaceful for me?" She asked.

I did not have an answer. We walked a little further and watched sail boats on the blue sea.

Sardine Lethargy

Rookie: Why is one of your legs fatter than the other?

Novice: You always get your kicks out of pointing out defects?

Rookie: Just curious. Never seen anything like it before.

Novice: I was raised not to feel shame and hide my legs in baggy pants.

Rookie: So you flaunt your deformity by wearing short shorts?

Novice: And you flaunt your pock marks by not wearing a mask?

Rookie: Didn't mean to pick a fight.

Novice: Didn't mean to be on the defensive.

Rookie: You hungry?

Novice: I could use a bite.

Rookie: Take our lunch.

Novice: I didn't bring one.

Rookie: We can hit a cafe.

Novice: No, can't do that until this first pay check clears.

Rookie: I have some cans of sardines. I'll share.

Novice: I will use a twig to stab a little sardine to pop in my mouth. My fingers are a little muddy and I don't wish to spoil the contents of your can.

Rookie: I will help you find a good twig. And I will find one for myself because my fingers are also muddy.

Novice: Well, it's the work we do.

Rookie: Muddy work.

Novice: When it needs to get done.

Wednesday, May 7, 2008


Clone: Down right just snatching mate.

Imposter: Thanks.

Clone: You ever let me wear your shoes, I show you how to dance real.

Imposter: Just the same, thanks, not interested in flashin' a flaw.

Clone: Not a flaw if you know you're bad.

Imposter: Strange advice, let's get back inside, I burn bad.

Clone: You're pink.

Imposter: I already knew that. I can feel it.

Clone: I never burn.

Imposter: You coming in or not?

Clone: I think I'll take off a bit down the street, maybe I'll swing back in awhile for supper.

Imposter: Knock, this door will be locked.

Clone: I hear ya mate.

Clone: No doorbell?

Imposter: No doorbell, not in this city.

Clone: Right mate, a ding ding ring ring will bust a train of thought.

Imposter: I like that you understand, means your head is in the game.

Clone: The true bread is not from the ground.

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Exit Strategy

George: That explosion really dunged me up.

Jorge: Don't let it get to you... get to you friend. That's when it gets bad.

George: Wasn't expecting him to be that sensitive. Really dunged me up.

Jorge: I understand it dunged you up friend. What a fucking experience. But don't forget I paid for your ticket to get the hell out of here, which you tore up and made a show of it flittering in the wind, friend.

George: That explosion really dunged me up, goddamnit, don't fucking blame me now.

Jorge: Meng, you could have not been here for that explosion.

George: I'm not like you.

Jorge: I'm not like you, friend.

George: We both value our lives but approach consequences differently.

Jorge: Surely you learned something from what you got yourself into.

George: Don't have time for this kind of talk.

Jorge: What is your exit strategy now?

George: Goddamn chief, that explosion really dunged me up.

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

The Smell of Citrus Devastation

Tank Navigator spits his saliva on his palm and rubs his hands together. He gripes that no lotion could match the powers of saliva to moisten dry desert hands. He continues to needle his fork into the flesh of the gar, ripping scales, and twisting the sea meat from utensil to his mouth. He made sure to spit on his palms before commencing with this meal as to not perfume his hands with fish stink.

Tank Navigator perches him self on the top tier of guns on the man of war vehicle prowling the desert when he takes his meal. His immense militant pride permeates his ability to breathe, eat, sleep, shit. Talent, he believes, will fade with any amount of time off. His capabilities in reasoning are shrouded in the fog of battle. He's a warrior in the truest sense. Foggy social judgment further plunges him into the survival mode. He tugs at his beard to be sure no bits of fish remain, to limit his smell, and hide from the birds. He rips a sheet of paper and uses half to wipe his lips.

Tank Navigator next wraps the ripe orange in the other half of the sheet of paper and will eat it later. The orange has such a pungent scent, he'd rather eat it closer to the oasis well, so he can rinse off the citrus and avoid the birds. The smell of citrus devastation is an ignorance that forfeits lives.

Tank Navigator is thin in waist. He's a grazer, and can survive days in the desert with only chewing gum and moist ivy to suckle at, contained in tight plastic and carried in black canvas, out of the sun's depleting shine. He knows how to identify non poisonous desert moss and squeeze at the roots for hydration.

Tank Navigator is truly on when stumbling across native camps. He's a savage to the extreme, and his aggression is truly frightening when in this mode of pillaging for loot and coin, burning towns to the pits of desert ash, taking the dry brush and weed with it in roaring flames fanned to intensity by the night wind. Tank Navigator would kill his "Ma" if forced to for survival. He wanders the desert alone, and has lost touch with the communal and team like army ways of life. Everyman for himself he'll growl as he hides in mud for days to track down an ambiguous enemy. Earth savy at the hunt, Tank Navigator will curse the Jew and yawn in the same breath.

No bite is too slow for him as he savors the flavor and allows his body the glory of digesting small grams of nutrition. He makes bibs from sheet metal covering his body, again protecting foods from staining him with scent. The world isn't safe like a zoo, he'll tell you, and again he'll grunt something about every man for himself. His lust for war has him more content than a Zen Buddhist.

Tank Navigator has devastated tribes and blood lines of kin. A dark id gets darker with the wielding of a blunted axe when out of ammunition. Powering down raging canyon rapids in a tattered cheap raft, all sense of right and wrong is null and void. He'll chew several live hens, one after another if surrounded by enough water to bathe off the blood scent. But if residing in the dry desert he's careful to hide the scent of prey.

The sun is on course to set, and the end of the bright blaze for the day will tap Tank Navigator to his most awake and alert, for dark night is when all the wild comes out to play and dine.

Friday, April 25, 2008


The sunshine took a trip over seas.
In a wooden box, on a wooden vessel.
No true contact until the
next glass vessel left port in return
with a glass box encasing a glass sheathe;
preserving fingerprints of the sun.
The sunshine arrived at its destination,
in mint condition and brought much
needed light to the land and industry.
But while the sunshine set up shop in the
new world, the old world attempted to
nibble at the ripened corn.
The corn still grew, but had a loss in flavor.
The corn eaters anticipate the return of the sunshine.
In the meantime the corn eaters have become
bean eaters, for beans suffice with
moon rays.

-Dedicated to Alicia Dorr; we miss you-

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Carpathian Cat

The twisted Carpathian Cat
doesn't like the jungle anymore.
His red whiskers look as a
hellish gray in the full moon glow.
Night is his time to pounce.
The robust trickery of the soft,
elusive, feminine bottom.
His achievement at truly tracking
and penetrating the butt cat
inspired the Gods to spray
the jungle flowers
with an aphrodisiac mist.
The Carpathian Cat doesn't
like the jungle anymore
because his lust drives
him mad.
The resulting effort of his
self soothing launched a
desert city whose chief
industry is gambling and
distraction from the potential
pains of natural arousal.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Cellular Conspiracy in Favor of Gluttony

I've been trying this thing; where I actually eat healthy. Cut out the deep fried shit, the mono sodium glutamate, slabs of red meat, the intensity of sugars. Focus on the whole wheat grains, the greens, the vegetables, the fruits, the white meats; in general food stuffs that the human body processes with ease and utilizes efficiently to power a vibrant man to do his life's work.

With each attempt to put the above into practice, my body screams with cravings. Each cell, each atom joining together in a violent protest and rant. In conspiracy with these biological hooligans are the images and sounds pounded and absorbed into my sub-conscience over the past quarter of a century. KFC and Dunkin Donuts rip forth all consuming invitations, festering from the inner depths of the brain region responsible for emotion. Joy is biggie sized in my whorish run to 7/11.

Each thought in the direction of natural diet, bounces back with maximum withdrawal for the empty calorie American soul food. The temper tantrum and pseudo bar fight of a cellular conspiracy, fiercely addicted to chimichanga burritos, crab rangoon, White Castle, Pizza Hut Express, breakfast sandwiches are amplified, crippling.

Each cell gets its fix and goes into a coma. The lazy boy recliner takes precedent over all other potential activities. Today I sound my right to behave as a true American. My Ben & Jerry's pint awaits me and I will descend upon it with relaxed animal instinct for desert.

Friday, April 11, 2008

Doe eyed Sanskrit

I decide that this is the last pitcher of Leinenkugels before chimichanga time.

The sudden enchantress enters the tavern, followed by a shaggy fellow.

She dons a pink (or orange, one may not be able to discern in this dim light) sweater. Her brunette hair is pony tailed up and bouncy. The bouncy I find cute as it moves up and from and back to the pink (or orange) sweater.

Our eyes meet briefly as I look to the bartender to order my last pitcher, and she, her first for the night. Her eyes, a deep brown, the eyes of a gorgeous doe, sad and soft.

I join my pals off to the side and we fill our cups.

I don't know the details of her connection with the shaggy man she arrived with, therefore I shy away from "hitting on her."

In the next few minutes as we down the Leinenkugel remains, she periodically looks back at the paintings above me. Our eyes meet again several times. I'm startled, unsure whether she is looking at these paintings as an excuse to "check me out" or as an excuse to gauge whether this creep behind her is "checking her out." Or whether she is honestly interested in the paintings themselves. All I know is, I can't help but make eye contact with her. It is thrilling. It is intoxicating. I can easily see where a man can grow addicted, looking deep into her soft brown eyes. And drifting in for a kiss.

The chicken shit that I am, I leave the bar upon finishing the last of my cup, so that my pal and I can get our fill of chimichanga to soak up the swill.

On the walk out the door I think that I would like to write her a love note, in some sacred ancient language. Perhaps Sanskrit.

Thursday, April 10, 2008

{Dream Log 4.10.08}

The circles in snow, widening with each reckless rotation, padded into a thick, slick wintry surface. Doing "donuts" in the parking lot with a beat up car became joyous horseplay. Mindless and nostalgic, we had nothing to lose.

Myself and three females, all bundled up, waiting a long stretch of time for the coal fueled choo choo train to arrive. Between running "donuts" with the car in the parking lot and waiting a top a wood rotted train platform with rusted iron, we still saw no signs of a train light breaking through the blizzard haze in the distance down the whitened track. The track disappeared under the accumulated snow, so did our hopes for the train to arrive that evening.

We climbed over a chain link fence and invited ourselves into the old, vacant train depot.

We spent the night in the control tower. We spread our jackets and scarves to make a pseudo blanket and huddled close together for warmth, in the nude, with skin conducting cozy. Myself, three women, passing time in a shared dream, anxious for the train to take us to our shared destination.

Monday, March 31, 2008

{Dream Log 3.30.08}

I lifted my pet bunny, white silky fur, to my face so I could kiss him on the nose. He spoke in a calm voice.

"Set me down please, I'm thirsty. Please pour me a bowl of water."

I grabbed a bowl and ran it under the spigot. The tap water was dirty, looked like dish water with floating clumps of oatmeal and mushy brown rice. I dropped the bowl in the sink and reached for a new bowl. I filled it up with the remnants of my Dasani water bottle. My bunny lapped it up and squinted his happy eyes. I remember the lingering fondness for this bunny, and deep rooted sense that I would lay my life on the line for his survival.

Interpretations are invited.

Tickle the Panther

The party took him all the way to Vancouver. Into an abandoned Sushi and saki place, once called “the Squirm.” Now left barren and empty, with a few dusty chairs in the corner. Sam was ready to join the club. He did his research. Found the group that would suit his tastes, and after much self motivational speeches to his own face in the mirror, Sam bought himself a plane ticket to Vancouver. Two suitcase were his companion. One was filled his regular street clothes and toiletries. The other, just barely fit his costume.

The costume was a different story. The costume was very important to his involvement with the group referred to by itself as Paddington Underground. The thing he found in his research was that Paddington Underground forbade two of the same members. And if you know anything about Paddington Underground, you will know that that means no two persons can wear the furs of the same species. Paddington Underground also forbade fake, Halloween-esque costumes. The group demanded authentic furs, and the furs were not to be purchased. Part of initiation is proof that you were the one who slaughtered the animal you were about to possess in the groups ritual. Proof most often came in the form of camcorder footage of the murderous hunt.

Sam saved his money, and was able to pay local gang members to help him break into the zoo, where he first offered the lone panther five pounds of ground beef, drenched in sedatives. The panther’s hunger was by luck alone satiated by the beef, so he left Sam alone. But the chemicals began to take effect rapidly and the panther fell into a slumber. That is when Sam approached the animal. The kill was sensual. He felt the furs, and allowed himself time to become intoxicated by the animal’s naturally occurring, pheromone saturated perfume. Then he had the animal carried out by his gang member friends. Alone, in Sam’s own basement did he drug the animal some more, to induce the animal’s death. The objective was to not spoil the animal’s fur. The fur was to be preserved.

When Sam first arrived at the festival in “The Squirm,” all eyes were on him. And very soon all hands would be on him, for the panther perfume was also preserved, etched into the fiber of each pore. The hooves of a most gorgeous doe were the first to caress his left leg, slowly sliding up to where the tickle began to loosen him up and make him feel like a true member of the club.

A Bright Red Hat

Malarky was dishonorably discharged from the marines after a quarrel with his superiors. The quarrel came to blows and ended with Malarky’s jaw being cracked, of course Malarky did not instigate any physical harm towards his superiors, as the records say he did. But when you have the word of three commanding officers against one fucking little shit ant of a man, well there is no second guessing the odds of who is going to win.

Malarky got out of the service, and the only thing keeping him from imprisonment for assaulting a superior officer was the mercy of a colonel who knew Malarky’s dad, a purple heart war Veteran. The colonel shat his pants with glee however when he imagined the pathetic skeleton of the man Malarky high tailing it home with his tail between his legs, telling his daddy he was a failure at serving the family dream.

The first thing Malarky did when he was kicked through open gate onto free land was piss on a mail box. He recited a rant against the USA to himself, in his head, with all thoughts ceasing when a metal rake scraped up against the side of his head.

“You’re on private property,” hissed a red bearded fellow.

Malarky sprinted off. It was miles between the basic training camp and any sort of civilized township. Scattered homes of confederate loving country men well equipped with weapons and rakes and hatred for fuck ups.

Malarky was always getting kicked out of organizations. Classroom, baseball team, golf team, cross country running, student council, drama club, the school bus, parties, bars. It was as if Malarky wore a bright red, ten gallon hat, with the words “I am a fuck up, chase me out before I catch” stitched on the fabric. His father coerced him to serve the country. And the alienated young man agreed that his marshmallow social skills needed to be hardened. And just as he thought he was shaping up, Malarky finding some pride, some courageous marble solid core to his own being, that bright red hat with the stitched words, “I am a fuck up. Chase me out before I catch,” flew right back a top his skull.

Officers started picking on him. And Malarky was now a man with a bit of a back bone, ready to lay down his foot for justice. But his foot was repeatedly kicked out from under him.

Malarky drank some bad moonshine the night he got out. A little too much of a beverage poorly brewed. He died of alcohol poisoning in front of the same gates to the same basic training base he booted from that morning. Inebriated, he staggered 4 miles on dusty road because this time he had the spirits in him to pick the fights he had been accused of picking. With his legs swimming in booze blood, he knelt recklessly to scoop up large stone. Like David fighting Goliath he cocked his arm. Before the guards could pick him off, his diluted blood failed him and he fell face first to the dirt. Before anyone could race out to see who this nut was and what business brought him here, Malarky stopped breathing American air.

The basic training camp could never successfully train soldiers from that point on. Not due to any disease of reputation, but because there is a ghost, subliminally making a mark. In the night’s cricket song Malarky can be heard faintly shouting around the perimeter fence. His dissatisfaction echoes in the ears of those who cannot sleep. The nare du well has taken off the bright red ten gallon hat which projects “I am a fuck up. Chase me out before I catch,” and placed it upon the roof of this base, which became the culmination of all his rejections. Fights broke out, and sicknesses feigned. “Get me out of here,” thumped in the hearts of all of the trainees. Each night the crickets would get louder, and so would Malarky. Louder than the American flag that flapped.


A Caucasian man sits at a table in a Chinatown restaurant. His family, wife , young son, and young daughter eat lo mein while the man is engaged in a cell phone conversation. Between the man's phrases we hear a garbled and unintelligible audio response on his cell phone which lies on the middle of table, speaker phone enabled.

Man: Sitting in some dark basement freezing.

Man: and it’s not just-

Man: I would like to go to the lake.

Man: It’s not just some gook!

Man: The absurdity if it.

Man: Seriously, duck dumping, not hot.

Man: I’m not getting some kick.

Man: Um.

Man: And it’s up to 30 bucks!

Man: It’s absurd.

Man: It’s wrong.

Man: The rainbow is substantially more expensive.

Man: In terms of food quality, this is-

Man: If April showers bring May flowers, what do May flowers bring?

Man: Poor people!

Friday, March 28, 2008

Dishonorable Discharge

Feathered and tarred in urine, Casey picked himself up off the ground and hissed at his comrades. Casey cut in line for the bathroom.

A line that on this Navy Destroyer reaches over 40 some odd men in the middle of the night, woken naturally by the need to take a piss. Cutting in line made any man an enemy in seconds flat. Selfish old Casey didn’t think about it before taking the risk. Fatigued and bit drunk he wiggled his way forward claiming “emergency!” That is precisely when Duncan spun around and gripped his hand around Casey’s throat. Casey spat in the face of Duncan and wildly kicked his legs at Duncan’s balls. Duncan pile drove Casey to the iron floor. Feverish with embarrassment and humiliation, Casey whipped it out and pissed into the air spraying at least 10 men in line. Casey received considerable bruising to his cock within minutes, and the 10 men now drenched in the urine of Casey now took their turn hosing him down. Duncan, a man of golden showers as it was, had no issue stepping into the line of fire to clamp Casey down, and force open his mouth.

Feathered and tarred in urine, Casey bi-passed any sort of formal Dishonorable Discharge by bureaucratic officials. The men he offended took to erasing his existence. In the black of night while Lieutenants and Sergeants slept and watch men buzzed on marijuana, Casey was tossed beyond the plank, over the edge into the dark depths of the Indian Ocean.

Feathered and tarred in urine Casey drowned and was never even reported missing. In the nights that followed, Duncan, in his own histrionic bellowing re-enacted the incident of Casey, to pass the time in line behind 40 some odd men making their way to relieve themselves in a trough.

Friday, March 21, 2008

Wild Turkey in a Blizzard, Bad.

The Chef never stops wearing his bear skin during winter. He is always cold, even while cooking, bent over a brick oven fire. The surrounding woods have lurking creatures, and The Chef has developed within himself a potpourri of understanding on the complimental relations between certain herbs and meats. The Chef is a meat eater. Meat for three meals a day. The Chef lives in the woods, 30 miles from one of the finest, five star restaurants in the world, Frowals. The Chef spends most of his time in the woods, hunting, gathering herbs, experimenting with different savory concoctions, testing them out on his audience of wife and young son. If a woman and a small child devour it with glee, it will surely be a hit on any menu. The Chef is head chef at Frowals, chief inventor of everything on the menu.

Thanksgiving approached and The Chef was hell bent on setting up the most succulent of all Thanksgiving meals. Wanting to set out of the finest white meat, The Chef was after a muscular turkey, none of this fat dark meat shit for him. The Chef draped on his battered bear skins and ripped his way through the forest to seek out the fastest turkey. The turkey that gave to the quickest chase, would be the one with a greater concentrate of fast twitch muscles.

On his sojourn, snow flakes began to drop from the sky. Big fat, fluffy snow. A blizzard ensued. Massive, cold, biting precipitation made for a viscious hunt. Eventually he came across a huddle of wild turkeys. He charged towards the cluster, not realizing the mean spirit of wild turkeys. They all perked up and went from the defensive to the offensive with greater speed than a fast twitch muscle. The Chef slipped in the freshly fallen snow, and crashed to the ground. Down for the count, the wild turkeys, seven of the them to be exact, jumped on their victorious opportunity. The Chef was attacked with beaks, partially protected by the bear skins. Thanks to the bear skins he was able to retain some strength against the sharp pain of many pecks. He reached up and snapped the neck of one turkey. That turkey was defeated, how ever his hand received a bitter lasceration, dripping bright blood onto the snow. With his other hand he was able to snap the neck of another turkey. He killed off two of the slower turkeys, and was encircled by five wild turkeys. The turkeys stopped for a second to consider the danger that was posed to them but realized they still had the advantage. In the few seconds of truce, The Chef took off running in the opposite direction, pistol ready. The turkeys gave chase. It wasn't long before the fastest turkey caught up with him. With split second reflex, The Chef spun around and nailed a bullet into the face of the alpha turkey. This was his dinner. The Chef stood his ground as the last four turkeys charged at him. He pegged them off one by one.

The first turkey he shot, the fastest, was dragged home by the fist of The Chef's bloody, pecked up hand. The blizzard soon buried the remains of the the other six turkeys, which would have been tasty enough to send off to second rate restaurants. The Chef prepared a practice feast with the speedy turkey. Baking the rascal stuffed with a mash of turnips, breadcrumbs, onion, carrot, wild rice and twenty one different herbs. The Chef and his family ate the hearty beast and bellys filled to the brim with satiating glee. Pleased, The Chef, son, and wife took to the woods the following bay, prepared with pistols. The goal, to defeat three alpha male wild turkeys, the ones that displayed top notch speed. Frowals would then prepare the three in the exact recipe conjured by The Chef in his practice meal, for a wildly successful Thanksgiving buffet.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Plus and Minus Poems

Plus: Plunge

Gorgeous weather follows
You like a tail of the
Best karma.
Aura of the pleasant.
Your rainstorm clears out
What blocks my joy.
And in your absence,
I thirst for the freshness of your fog.
You haunt my dreams; I'm stirred awake.
I feel my nerve endings go in circles.
I can't help but fear the worst,
Because when your face fades in
My mind's eye, my vital charge
Sinks to the bottom of the pool.
Waiting for it to be stirred by the
Swirling dip of your toes.
Down in the pool
Where I bob in anticipation.
I see you plunge from the sunlit
Water weave into the cool density
Of this existence where gravity
No longer exists
Suddenly we are lighter than
we could ever imagine to be.

Minus: Cringe

She claws a greasy bag.
Grease has stained right through it
To where I can the contents in
Residue only.
She reaches that big hand of hers
Into it.
The rustle noise drowned out
By her caucophonous gab.
A pile of food is thrust into her mouth,
And the intensity of her gab
Becomes all the more obscene
As her speech works through sliced potatoes.

Later she will leer at me
Through a secret window.
The beast, will pop out from around
The corner, bellowing
Desperate affection.
A gender role reverse of predation.
Passing by she will touch my hair
With those greased up talons.
I send out my apology
To every girl that I may
Have gazed upon for a moment
Too long.
I realize the cringe.

Hyprocitcal Nature of the Under-Rat

"As I'm just trying to make it in the world, eat a couple of square meals a day and sleep in warmth, so are the little gray ghosts, shivering through the walls and nibbling apart the kitchen. I see them scurrying off, coming from our beds, when I come through the front door. What were they doing in there? What microbes did they transplant upon my pillow? I see them attempting escape from behind the refrigerator. Our eyes meet. The little gray ghost is crippled with fear. He's like you or I, wandering within their limits of nature for the comfort of food and sheltering. As much as I believe I care about living souls, I am ready to squash the infestation. My xenophobia has higher authority than my heart. As the higher-ups, the social elite held many down in the protection of their own comfort, I am returning the favor to the little gray ghosts below me. Not only am I gleeful at the progress of my power over them, but I am disgusted with myself for setting traps of torture for the fearful, innocent eyes. With that phone call to the exterminator I sold my soul for a little safety and comfort. I am Bush. I am Stalin. I am Hitler. I am a man. I am a mouse. I am dust fighting dust. "
-Excerpt from a journal entry I wrote back during the summer of 2005.

That experience seems somewhat fond in comparison to my recent exposure to... do I dare announce it to the world? Quite embarrassing, but here it is, I will be honest, don't judge, it's an epidemic, increasingly more and more common and could happen to you very soon if you make fun... my apartment building is in the midst of fighting a little infestation of bed bugs. I feel like the kid who got sent home for having lice in grade school. That was also a big fear of mine as a kid, to be told during a lice check in front of the class, you got lice. Here I am, as a grown man, with actually a very clean, sanitary apartment, finding I caught some bed bugs. A very uncomfortable feeling if you ask me. "Don't let the bed bugs bite" is not so cute.

I woke up a week ago, and found a few little blood spots on my sheets. Strange. I have no cuts. Why would I be bleeding in those places? Do I have the goddamn stigmata? Tired, I shrugged it off as, maybe I had a bloody nose and thrashed around in odd, difficult positions. A couple days later, I noticed I had two red spots on my hand. I passed them off as a possible chemical burns from photo chemicals. Then one morning, I awoke to a little bug crawling on my chest. I crushed it and flushed the speck down the toilet. Curious, that night I investigated online. To my horror, that little bug matched a sketch of a "bed bug." I looked between the mattresses, and to my increasing horror, more bed bugs, hanging out in a little community of at least ten.

I investigated all of the procedures to take in the event one has bed bugs, to the tenth degree.

Those mattresses are history. To the curb. Along with the sheets. And pillows.

Luckily my old roommate left her mattresses, which have not been infested because they are right up against the heater, which is generously cranked to the max by the building engineers, and as I read online, bed bugs do not like heat. So I still have a bed.

Vacuumed the fuck out of the place. Called my apartment management company right away. They were good, they brought an exterminator out promptly and sprayed. They will be steam cleaning the carpet to suck up any eggs, and also re-spraying in a couple weeks if there is a "hatching." Evidently the apartment below me had a big bed bug infestation and I probably got it from them. By my bed there is a slight crack in the corner where the walls meet, and old paint is dried and cracking in spots. Cracks large enough to fit the edge of a credit card, which according to the Internet, is wide enough for a migration of bed bugs. We have found an entry point. The apartment below me has also been sprayed.

I did a shit load of laundry tonight.

Do not freak out and shun me, if you hang out with me at my place you will not get bed bugs. They have been exterminated. I am writing about this little mishap so I can laugh about it and move on, and I hope you'll with me.

So now, in my Chicago apartment dwelling experience, I have experienced rats back when I lived in a basement apartment in Wicker Park a few years ago. Big ass nasty rats. I saw a few cockroaches when I lived in The Manor in Rogers Park, in that doomed storefront where eventually it wasn't legal to perform in, and wasn't legal to live in. I must say out my experience with different apartment pests, the bed bugs will haunt me the most. They are vampires. They suck you're blood in the dark of night, while you sleep under the moon and city lights seeping through the blinds. Rats, I do not want them in my home, but I see them as living beings doing what they gotta do to make it in the city. Cockroaches have a gross underbelly with all of those little arms squiggling, and they will never be welcome in my abode. But if I see one on the street, I wish him a solid crumb. Bed bugs however, I have no feelings of humanity towards them whatsoever. I feel an inner blaze that would have the potential of reigning terror on the world population of bedbugs. Bedbugs are soulless. They should fuel the pits of hell. I never want to see another bed bug ever again. I would rather sleep in a field of cow shit, then to lie down with a colony of bed bugs. I can accept getting rats back when I did, I was a twenty one year old, constantly drunk and living in filth. I can accept getting a few cockroaches when I did, I lived in an old storefront with an uneven floor and a gaping whole in the wall where pipes were exposed.

But now, when I have finally learned to do dishes and clean regularly, to live in a state of adult cleanliness with impeccable daily hygiene activity, in a pretty nice mid rise apartment building, paying a pretty get fucking bed bugs?!

Fuck bed bugs.

I am laughing about them now.

Tonight I sleep the sleep of victorious kings. Fresh sheets. Fresh bed. Free from lurking vampires in the cracks of night.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Gelatinous Mint

Two deaf mute women sat at a table with a small child. The child shrieked and banged spoons on plates disturbing the peace of the place. But the deaf mute woman were without the proper senses to equip them with awareness of such a thing as disturbing so they could put an end to it. No one felt it was their jurisdiction to say anything, thus they sipped their coffee and the child carried on.

Zoning out.

Gelatinous mint.
Soothsayer of doctors.
Your brain will fix itself
if you lie in bed and remember
your dreams.
A trinity of ambition
will wake you and retire your sleepy
eyes and tendency toward catatonic gorging
with another complicated veil to
stiffen the train of thought
and spin a tick tock
gobble of a time
well spent doing nothing.

The Alejandro Maphers Outreach Team

Eyes frozen. The ravine blurred in the frigid sight of the amateur stunt devil. On a pair of rickety cross country skis, the amateur stunt devil jumped to a glide down the steep, steep ravine. He could not see where he was going. Balling bodily, he became a boulder of a man with less control then a tipped rock off a cliff. Tumbling, breaking every bone and slapping every internal organ, stirring up the soft top layer of snow into a wicked avalanche. The amateur stunt devil lost all of his points.

Washed up Olympian Alejandro Maphers was in the midst of enjoying his brown ale when his CB radio crackled the report of missing skier. Alejandro’s sense of adventure resided in these rescue mission. After years of obtaining Gold medals pursuing the Bi-athalon in the winter Olympics, he grew addicted to being a world hero. After he was kicked off Spain’s Bi-athalon team for blood doping, Alejandro Maphers felt he had to prove his worth to the world that he was still a man of power, action and solid character. He jump started The Alejandro Maphers Outreach Team, and established this rescue squad first in Colorado, and then branched to other world class ski locations throughout Scandinavia and Canada. Alejandro Maphers has dedicated his life to training an elite group of skiers, in the fittest of conditions. They are ready to survive in the harshest winter wilderness for days. Shooting guns and Nordic skiing was all that Alejandro Maphers was ever good at, so how natural that without the arena of the Olympics he would invent another avenue to apply his talents. He utilized Nordic skiing as a way to plunge into and explore the dangerous arctic terrain, and of course guns were needed to fend off packs of wolves. Most have forgotten his blood doping scandal, but there will always be the wicked that seek to see this legend fall and judge him at the corner of every life test.

The amateur stunt devil is one more test. If that battered body isn’t found within 2 whole days, well, there will be some judgment passed and gossip stirred about the decline of Alejandro Maphers.

Alejandro snaps on his thermal underwear, jump suit, boots, goggles, and steps out into the blizzard. He charges through the freshly fallen snow, skating his way on a pair of rugged Madsus. Detective, paramedic, and ranger of mishaps in extreme winter sports, he knows he has everything at steak in this mission. By protecting the illusion that thrill seekers are safeguarded, he ensures that his sponsors will forever support the Alejandro Maphers Outreach Team.


The troubleshooter exists in his chemical world. Cloaked in a heavy, yellow radiation suit, he spends days straight plunging into the high pressure task of fixing the overworked wiring in the battery center of an ill designed space station. Chemical leakages dance around him in the zero gravity hub of the information technologies where battery acids concoct the spark that keeps the place, buzzing, flowing with oxygen, aqua vitae, and toilets purging waste into the dark vacuum of space. The troubleshooter takes 3 pills a day with a full glass of water, and twice a day he will drop an effervescent tab of high concentrate nutrients into distilled water. He sleeps very little in a plastic tomb that buzzes him awake when tech trouble is detected. He is permanently on call, and will always be called for the space station was slapped together in haste to win the race, and again we must mention, ill designed. The troubleshooter will have one day off coming up this month. He will be dropped off to the planet Earth by shuttle and has 24 hours to do whatever the hell he wants. When inquired as to what he wishes to do on his day off by a colleague, he responds in a detached, hoarse voice, with eyes cloudy, trance-like and fatigued, “I want a big hearty breakfast: ham, bacon, egg and cheese on a biscuit, sausage links, some chocolate chip pancakes, a big glass of orange juice, and a cup of coffee. That’s all I feel like doing goddamnit!” A smile begins take lighten his eyes, for the pleasure of the sheer contrast between his work-a-holic drive towards burnout and his insatiable love of breakfast keeps this man from stagnation.

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Pig Dog

The king of the beasts is embodied by my friend. People call him Pig-Dog. Pig-Dog has a massive appetite for everything in life. A borderline food junk and sex fiend, his social life persona resembles the least likely candidate for an executive. In the morning he rinses off the grime of a weekend’s gluttony and play, to splash on a little aqua aroma. Pig-Dog fits in a large suit that makes him look bulked up for war. His softened fat tissue is pulled tight and his broad shoulders project a massive defense. Don’t tackle. Don’t talk. Don’t touch. Don’t look this man in the eye. He will burn you and rip you apart for the good of business, but you’ll indeed lay your talents to the ground for his battering ram. Donate your glory to the bank book of Pig-Dog, for he needs a new jet ski and five star plate of ravioli. This is just the beginning of his raucus party. I guarantee there’ll be a bucket of chicken for everyone he’s ready to embrace as a friend. It’ll fatten you and slow you down, and you’ll forever fuel his herd.

Don’t alarm your mother for she is in conspiracy with Pig-Dog. Pig-Dog was a vagabond mooch until your mother kicked him to the curb and wouldn’t make him lunch anymore. The rumble in his belly gave him wings and he out ran you. Who would have thunk, you say?

Who would have thunk indeed, good luck out running him now. His pampering and sudden starvation made him strong . He burns to protect and ensure pampering by his own accord and power. This is the game we all face in poverty and prosperity. When the riches flow into our pocket we’re sluggish. When the pockets are empty, we’re too hungry to look our neighbors in the eye.

The damnation of a whole generation who trended boxer briefs, breeds this knowledge: having cake and eating it too is a toxin for a good belly. Struggle, struggle, choose one extreme or the other. The elephant ears from the carnival gave you such bad gas and delayed you from loosing your virginity in high school, Pig-Dog! Stop revisiting the lusts behind your shy, gassy acne, and run as the stud of a frog. Steal the prince’s chick and ride her hard. This is the glory of being a Pig-Dog. A beast with an un-apologetic appetite. Regarding his tiny cock, he just pops pills and pretends differently. This allows his sexuality to take momentum as a windy flurry, and wrap around the newspaper to mold its rising dance.

Then Pig-Dog asks for a large cake and it takes you out of it. Suddenly the sound of his voice makes you shudder and lose your appetite. Pig-Dog saunters and asks for something not on the menu to go with his large cake. His elephant gaze knocks the working baby to bend over backwards, and so you have to wait longer in line. You’d stab him in the back but so much blubber pads it and blunts your blade. In the end, he’d just turn around, smile, and give you a hug, further delaying the wait time in line. So you’re the fiend when it’s all said and done. He buys you a bag of cookies and you can’t stay mad at him forever. Don’t tackle a Pig-Dog if you don’t want him to lick you because that is exactly what would happen.

What I’m trying to tell you about Pig-Dog is that somehow he was born with an atmospheric intravenous flow of the fattest mocha latte with sugar buzzing crème and cinnamon twigs. His fat cells become lighter than air. Each pound of indifference is an atomic power plant to churn his ambition and magnetic reward. The only way to lock him out of his home is to aid his journey and allow him to trust you beyond friendship to the heights of an economic battery pack. If you detach, one his bright bulbs will go out. And Pig-Dog is the kind of man who wants all of the bulbs on his Christmas tree to burn bright year round and on every birthday. Have you ever embraced the most generous glutton; a benevolent carnivore, Buddhist republican? Take a good look at Pig-Dog. Cut off your head in a photograph and glue stick Pig-Dog’s photo on top of your neck. You’ll see the irony and unbalance, but it’ll make you laugh and spring your abdominal cannon loose enough so you can stand taller and make a speech. Pig-Dog is every man’s ally only by being your enemy. In the end he is most powerful because he sparks envy. You’re the clearest sinner. You could have easily listened to his flaws and broadcast the truth within your promising consciousness. But you bury your mind in the sardonic fever in that glass of water. It burns the gluttony that brews in the mucus of my belly. I plan on swallowing a nickel to dissolve the incumbent with dominion over digestion. Downing a shot of rum and doing sit ups does not tickle the real thought behind why I am sick. A terrible indigestion, a subtle pain in the head, and a general malaise pins me in the sanctuary that forgets to inspire. Let us crumble the dry cactus into a warm glass of water until I can truly taste the sweetness of decay. Not a sour decay, but a decay of new beginnings. A heavy and light mold swept away by its own multiplication that breeds a real instability for itself. Blast that rich trumpet into the caverns of nutrition, and let the people come out from the mountain. All those people hiding from the economic rule of Pig-Dog. I guarantee they’ll relax in the sunshine. No more of the deep stress of finding yourself lost amongst tunnels of rock. The clearing and expanse allows the mind to operate without anxious interruption. A damnation of intent and spicy cleansing of the gunk, shouts a man. The mountain can fall into the sea and re-collect as this sediment, burying the fish and forcing nature to reinvent biology. Just take a last real gulp and pass a stone. Pig-Dog’s kidneys throb after eating with the mountain men.

I realized my true feelings on Pig-Dog when I grew aware that he was hurt; poisoned. By seeing the emotional pain seep from him, there resonated a deep fondness for what lay beneath his physical drives. Seeing his pupil’s fade with light, I knew I was seeing beyond animal and mechanical, beyond the grip of science. I remembered when I once made fun of Pig-Dog behind his back. He overheard and I saw that his feelings were hurt. I saw then how meaningful my friendship was to him, and I tested it by pushing the boundaries. Pig-Dog is real, he’s not just an Id driven sock puppet. You just have to get to know Pig-Dog like I have.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

{Dream Log - 2.26.08}

{Dream Log - 2.26.08}

Descending the gargantuan office building, the elevator flashed a view of the outside air, spitting sights at the same rapid rate as the descent. I had just finished kissing a young lady in my office. She was of petite nature, light brown hair the color of rich sand that seemed to fly in the sun, with the cutest bangs, and firm little breasts that pressed out against her pink button up shirt. Her legs in panty-hose wrapped around my hips as she offered me her lips. At the base of the tower I realized I had forgotten my brief case up top. The elevator went bust at this time, and as I knew important work laid waiting in that case, I charged up 75 flights of stairs, but this was fine because I had to do something with all of my adrenaline from my kiss with the lovely temp that came out of nowhere, Chantelle. I made it to 75, sweaty with a racing pulse and panting breath. I strolled into my office, and to my surprise, Chantelle was waiting for me and held out my briefcase for me to receive.
"I figured you'd come back for this," she whispered in a soft but pleasantly raspy voice. She smiled a smile that haunted me with glee.
I thanked her and wrapped my arm around her waist. I pulled her to the window and we gazed out at the city.
"The elevator is shut down because of the immense winds," I mentioned as I wiped my sweaty brow with my tie.
"Yeah, I felt some wicked sway! I was frightened."
As she said this my eyes fell into her deep brown cornea. My trance was interrupted by a rumble of thunder.
In the distance, dark clouds, massive gray stained with the blackened burn of storm, were brewing up and puffing momentum towards our tower.
"Come," I said, "I'll give you a piggy back ride down the stairs."

Monday, February 25, 2008

The Puddle of Paul's Pathological Pickle

One of the many things I enjoy doing when I'm acting in a play or film, is to journal as that character, mess around with potential subtext and stir up the sub conscious to flesh out a personalized perspective on the given circumstances of the piece. Below are a week's worth of journal entries I wrote from the perspective of "Paul" while in rehearsals for the Daniel Mac Rae play, Division & Shame. In the play, Paul experiences the bitter end of a marriage.

Day 1-

This whiskey doesn't mix as well with the apple water as it used to.
The juices of the apple always calmed the fever and the tingle and made me glad to be.
But she burns whatever lovely goosebumps erupt, tall and solid, from the fever.
The apple has lost all meaning and I want to chuck against the wall and leave it.
The grotesque fruit lump will stay there to be seen.
Viewed. View it you horror face and see that I am capable of it.
The apple has vitamins that no longer work magic on me.
I can't digest it.
The acidity; how I never came to this realization before astounds me.
I was punch drunk but now I'm piss drunk.
Whiskey I keep on pouring into my belly.
I think I have an ulcer so bad that my lower back hurts.
I'm a bad bitch in the dog house. No it ain't right. I'll pretend Jane is soft and cuddly.
Let us hope in God's name I don't upchuck the little of the apple I consumed in the dolly's face. So I can duck at least one more fury session.
Gettin' hard, that's my one goal for now.
See you all tomorrow, if I can make it out of this freezer alive. Haw haw. A love. Fuck it.

- Paul

Day 2-

I can smell her perfume on my old sweater.
She got me this sweater for Christmas two years ago.
It was never really something I'd ever pick out, but I was gleeful nonetheless upon receiving. Because I realized, I'm a family man. Getting a sweater as a gift was something pleasant, and it signified a bit of adulthood. A child on the way and realizing that its people, not the materials that bring out joy.
I can smell her perfume on my old sweater.
I am drunk with nostalgia, and throw on an old record of Elton John.
I can't stop thinking of the gorgeous times and it makes these cold times sting even more.
I'm tossing a lot of my energy into hating and too much loving churns up with it. So I can't commit to the hate, the love is too rancid to embrace.


Jane's drowning.

Jane has a place in my subconscious. She is my angel and my devil.

What are you telling me to do? Speak up.

Day 3-

GRACE: Where'd the fishy go? Is he hiding ? Where can he hide?

ME: There's no fish in there.

GRACE: What?

ME: Yeah. He died. Remember?

GRACE: You think it's no big deal and you don't have to tell your wife?

ME: I told you.

GRACE: No you didn't.

ME: Think back with that little brain of yours. I told you two days ago. I specifically told you.

GRACE: No you didn't. I would remember that.

ME: Forgive me, you must have been hopped up on Vicodin and how silly of me to expect you to be cognizant.

GRACE: What a terrible thing to say.

ME: Well, you automatically act as though I'm terrible. I'm just now acting the part you want me to play.

GRACE: Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up.

She knitted me into her life, into the warm fabric of her life. However, she made the awful choice to knit me using yarn. It's fucking unraveling.


Day 4-

Grace hasn't been home to cook for me. I know she's over at Tim's. Cooking him some potato salad, watered down and dosed with an overload of cayenne pepper. For dinner tonight I went to Pizza Hut express. I am shamelessly plugging their product. The great taste of a personal pan pizza, saturates my blood with a greasy narcotic like feeling. I am making an effort to not complain about Grace. When I am with friends I bite my tongue. I have the indigestion from this pepperoni pizza and may just throw up in the sink. If that's the case, I will leave it and see what she says.

I have this wallet photo of her. I drew a mustache on her face.

God I am like a 10 year old.

Dysfunctional ulcer load bearing quiver panic.

My power animal is a beaver. I work work work work on a tree. But this tree I have chosen has fallen on my face and crushed my teeth. What are the ramifications? I am unable to go to work on another tree.


Day 5-

A bundle of snot bubbles and pours slowly like a green syrup out the left tunnel of my nose.

Hallucinogenic cough syrup tripping spiral sleep patterns and baby sweat from my feet.

I wake up once in the middle of the night and feel the wet nose of my old family dog Alexander nudge my left hand. Alexander whimpers. I roll over and he licks up the sludge from my nose.

Miss me Alexander. I like that you'd miss me.


Day 6-

Our first Turkey Day together was a smash hit. We went to her brother Sam's Wisconsin cabin. It was cold but we burnt a lot of wood in the wood stove. It was just me/Grace, Sam/Jessie. Two couples. Burnt turkey but fuckin' juicy. Tasted like real cooking, like we really hunted and tossed it in a fire pit. It snowed. We drank lots of stout and wandered through woods. I made out with Grace in the snow, in the dark of a path on a wood's trail. I felt like a kid, running around and playing. She was snug in a hat and scarf and looked so innocent. A blank slate. I want to spend the rest of my life with this woman. The snow was thick and stuck.

Here's a life lesson: Snow melts.


Day 7-

Just staring at the empty television I just chuckled and wolfed down popcorn drenched in butter. My arteries danced and sang praises to the evolution of what is healthy. The absence of cold chains makes for a healthy water fall dynamic that doesn't stop and that is exactly what flowed forth from the television screen. A sprinkler of blood that trickled on my feet. No this wasn't a dark horror show, but warm and electrifying my feet into dance motion. This dream signifies the echo of heaven where my father plays and children blossom lightly, and the love of a woman is not an egg shell to be walked on and hurt by its fragility. We are not fragile in this land. We are an organic wink of liquid that has no purpose and doesn't push one. We rejoice in letting go and the soil fluffing creation of moments. I like this dream and will do whatever it takes to stop the waking slap of dawn.


Sunday, February 24, 2008

Lagoon of Serious Dementia

Along the banks on the Lagoon of Serious Dementia, Adolph Hitler had once straddled a beached whale. He shed a single tear, but the analytical shepherd charged with keeping watch on this political prisoner, could not truly deduce whether this tear was actually caused by harsh sea breezes. His read on this man in the actual moment of that potential unveiling of vulnerable emotion, was obstructed by a blinding orange red sunset that blasted apart a whithered silhouette, an etching of the spinal curve of an ex-dictator bent and thinned by a daunting prism. His own horrors cast back at him from his own synapse tap dance. Trapped and controlled by a determined psycho-science torture driven inquisition, the brute was forged into a fidgety meek. The world rendered the demon dead but powers that be held on to him and wished to hush his presence. So much information was to be probed in the laboratory from his extreme psyche, and adapted into softer form for American economics. The questions that the leaders in this treatment asked of themselves was, is there any humanity in exploitation, and if so can it be compromised into a mutual exploitation? The supposed deceased Hitler journeyed on as the oblivious instructor in a top secret examination in economic control. The study faded as clear results were never disclosed. New scientists inherited oversight and steered new directions for the confidential project. The 1970s saw the wildly nearing end of Government funds for the observations done on a remote island as hallucinogenic pharmaceuticals were applied to "deepen" the window into the political prisoner's psyche. Navy rejects continued to patrol the island to ensure the elderly Nazi never left the island, as well as the analytical shepherd, i.e. Nazi sympathizing psychiatrist. Both minds were diluted and on the verge of catatonic schizophrenia. In the murky waters of the Lagoon of Serious Dementia, Adolph Hitler for the first time looked directly into his own eyes in the liquid reflection. He forgot everything he had done, or ever wanted, and slipped into a catatonic state of walking coma for several days. In those days he sauntered mechanically, and no signs of personality or spiritual presence inhabited his movements. He hung close to the Lagoon and "tragically" drowned when he dozed off into his own reflection. The warships departed their surveillance and orbit. The analytical shepherd was deemed harmless and ditched to spend his final days tripping on magic mushrooms and spreading fingers into the sand stained by the odd odor of a blue whale carcass. A pointless excerpt in history, do not trouble yourself with inquiring its accuracy. You're best to believe this is a delusion of grandeur and laugh at the beastly illusion.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

All Hallows Feast

Winston gripped at the tree to grapple his way to the tip top of the tree so he could snag that last ripe fruit above. One last ruby red lump standing out with brilliant luminosity, tingling against the brown, arid world. Winston drooled. His dirty paws ransacked at the old bark which crumbled as dust as he slid back down the trunk, defeated. "That tree is done," he hissed. He pawed at the tree furiously until every fiber of its wood became dirt, and the base of it came crashing down. With it, the ruby red fruit that tickled his buds and sent every cell of his body screaming for nutrients. The fruit bounced into the hands of a sudden stranger. Winston glared. The stranger took off running. Winston was faster. Winston was not merciful. The stranger had already gnawed the ruby red to nothing. Winston sized up the offerings of the rugged landscape. Cannibalism was invented.

Friday, February 22, 2008

The Embarker

The Igloo Oven is my own personal playground for words. A recess for my own experimentation with language. I'm a big fan of setting pen/fingers on keyboard in motion and running the stream of consciousness wordplay. Strange scenarios, beasts, figures, and lands emerge through this bridge of dreams and literature. In many ways this blog page will be my workshop, for bouncing and charging new fiction projects through the form of : dream logging, ranting and raving, pointless diatribes, poetry, essays, parables. A lot of what I'll spew into this page will be mud, a linguistic Freudian potpourri, but I'm hoping some sort of raw, nutritious vegetable will sprout up and ferment some mind ballads and visceral tales.

A poem to start things off:

A brittle fever,
dusts the mind's
lucidity of grip.
Over the turn
of events that must
be relinquished: the
tide has got to sweep
him to his success at
the dawn of a new
development in his
thought and manner.

Don't let him fight
the fever too quickly.
Unclasp his hands and drop
his melting body in to the
riptide of experience.