Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Sea of Rage

His hunger never abides, and his fury consumes him. His own rage frightens him. He knows not what he might do or kill if he can't control it. It is, of course, a battle he cannot win.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

See to Shining See

It takes a moment to find Calliope. Urgency predicates motion.

I stopped bringing the newspapers from the porch into the hallway. They remain unread regardless. In fact, I migrated the newspapers from the hallway back onto the porch. Manifest Destiny. I scatter them in the evening when I return from work, and I hear them stacked again in the mornings as I lay staring at the ceiling.

I recall mornings watching the stars die; of course, then I threw the newspapers back towards their Deliverer. Change doesn't change much.

Sometimes I think about reading as I lay my wearied bones to rest on salvation army couches. Beds abound up the stairs. Big, soft, expensive beds. I'm no longer comfortable with comfort. One day I'll trite someone to death.

The thought of reading does occur. I can't remember the last thing I read consciously. Words fill pages that scroll in accordance with the movements of my fingers. I absorb; I accept; I link. Changes little changing.

Closing the eyes is the hardest part. They don't like that. They resist. Then they flitter about, searching for occupation. Words are like food to them.

I'll feed my porch instead.

Monday, October 9, 2006

can't see my tale




These three words are, in and of themselves, relatively benign. But imagine if you said them slowly and surely, one after the other with a sense of urgency in your voice and a half-eaten growl in your throat. If you almost choked back a tear on the last one. If you left a baroque pause between the first and second while you lit a cigaratte and looked angled at the floor.

France has surrendered for less.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

tails of the apocalypse

Bukowski, we miss hating you.

Give us a thirst to match our drinks.

Monday, August 28, 2006

lampshade of the apocalypse

There's a moment when you first stumble down the stairs in the morning and collapse into the kitchen, the lights still struggling with varying definitions of cogency, as you peer into the cupboard to pull out the last clean coffee cup, that you stare through the pending doorway into Africa. In the distance, Kilamanjaro roars. Lions purr beneath the marula trees.

I like to live in that space between my nose and the cabinet door.

Friday, August 25, 2006

jail's not so bad; it's the rape that gets you

There's a brief moment, when you're soaring through the air towards a poodle, surrounded by some two to four odd tons of steel and american plastic, when the thought, "Fuck." might cross your mind. This thought tends to be quickly interrupted by other thoughts, generally spewed toward you from people not yourself, asking questions in that "oh-not-so-asking" sort of tone, in the vein of where and where not your arms should be held and directed, and what sorts of things are being recorded and on what media, and how long you can expect to rot in what sort of hell after you kicked so and so in such and such a place.

Then, the awkwardness of the one phone call. It's a quandary. Sure, you could call a lawyer--but I've seen enough tv to have seen commercials. Fuck that. Besides, I saw the video of myself kicking the so and so in the which and when. Lawyers can't save you, they can only milk you, and I was born without teets. So, why not call a New Zealand operator? Ask to be connected to China? Ask that operator to connect you to Moscow? And if someone hasn't slammed a receiver into your forehead, try calling the International Space Station.

Then, there's the awkward bit of avoiding all of the people that you know as you wait for a hearing; dodging phone calls and drop-ins; making up lies and burning underwear. Following that, a not-so-dank as you might expect spot of time in a window; wishing you had a really good story to explain your existence in this place in the world. "Poodle murder with malice aforethought" doesn't carry the same weight as attempted armed panhandling.

Time passes. Herodotus keeps one company. Sometimes.

Don't drink and drive a Cadillac.

Friday, July 14, 2006

this country does noT exist

The moon was gold like violets in February, and the grass green like radishes pulled from the dark recesses of the fridge. The air smelled of diamonds--coal burning in the microwave; and life breathed down my neck with the self-importance of a forced whisper during morning vespers.

Rain falls like similes.

I like the like creatures like morning likes dawn.

Words and intentions fail.

Sunday, May 28, 2006


So, in a bold move yesterday morning, Jen tore into the guest bathroom (adjacent to the guest bedroom, where my cousins were sleeping) and assaulted the trash can. Then, selecting used tampons one-by-one, she carried them into the bedroom and laid them on the beds.

Rejected Personal Description from Yahoo

Introductions are best done at 15,000 feet in a C-130 preparing to dive into an agressive landing pattern over Baghdad. Two reasons. First, you can't hear anything besides the roar of the engines and the sound of pressure dropping out of your ear drums. Communication transcends language as you try to express agony and/or humor via poorly contrived hand signals, which inevitably convey meanings you do not intend to people whom you've never met. Second, explaining the rationale behind said attempts at communication is rarely anything less than hilarious. Otherwise, introductions are bound to be boring and uninspired.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

elastic vengeance

It comes in those moments between 3:15 and the wailing of the next door neighbor's newborn tapioca child. It creeps up your pant leg like a twice dead grandmother with a bayonet between her cold, dead hands--except you aren't wearing pants. A cold sweat would make things right; but, instead, you feel the knots in your stomach boring chimney holes and preparing to hibernate through the winter that is your discontent. Hot flashes like oranges thrown whole into blenders splatter across your peripherals. It hurts, excepting that it doesn't. You wish it hurt, because that would be better than feel grandma's M9 poking into your chest with less than enough force to tickle but more than enough to remind you that things are very unsettling. Visions of diapers, green mush, swimming pools, inflatable rafts, and endless dying childhood innocence embrace you with the sticky taste of buttery entreat. It's all fading faster than you can bolt upright in bed. Cinnamon and sulfer in the air. Black eyes learing from behind the curtains. Skin crawling on top of your own.

It doesn't occupy reality in the same way as the baby's screams. But it's there. Go back to sleep. Dream of horses and Gilgamesh. Fly with the dolphins. Don't look back, and never wake up.
Currently listening :
You in Reverse
By Built to Spill
Release date: 11 April, 2006