Sunday, September 30, 2007

circumnavigate sir cum navigate

"I prefer those things to navigators!" said random septuagenarian across the way, the aisle; through the bulky headphones next to me, 80's boy, watched Cadillac commercials on the television attached to the roof of the plane. The bathroom was cozy; it belonged to me for two whole minutes; it was mine; and its blue hand foam by the sink, mine. In a complimentary magazine, above a bag I used once when I was little, I read an article about an artistic savant jazz pianist-He's only 15!, a new trend in philanthropy-It's better to give!, about the succulent lamb kabobs in Istanbul after the death of Constantinople and the Orient Express providing "luxurious transportation between Paris and the Ottoman Empire." I like the word 'circumnavigate' and 'impressive white edifice adjacent to the ferry dock.' Heybeliada means "Saddlebag Island." Turbulence. I asked for no ice in my water but he "obviously didn't care," said nice lady. Cold water in my mouth makes me uncomfortable when it is not very hot in my immediate surroundings. Understanding the-formation-of-zodiacal-dust-cloud's-orbiting-veil-of-interplanetary-particles-formed-primarily-by-asteroid-collisions-and-debris-from-comets feels nice to try, but the clouds look like cauliflower more than anything today, where albino vegetables do not have pink eyes, according to Webster.

Monday, September 24, 2007


Dada destroyed itself quickly because it says everything is fucked. It's about annihilation. Surrealism came from it. Picasso was progressive; got bored easy. Most of his abstract art to me looks like shitty 7 year-old art. He was a leader of movements. Shows how things have been different for the sake of it for a while. Some painters paint to ward off demons, in deserts; landscapes, with skulls and cacti. No one ever sees what they paint or put together and a lot of it goes unnoticed like bears' craps in woods. Sometimes professional art gallery people drive through deserts and find what these painters made to show them off in a gallery as the next raw ingenue; these miserable sand hermits who did it to feel and nothing else. This is the explanation I had last night from a guy who refuses to acknowledge what's going on in the pop world of art; overflowing in simple, flat, colorful anime oil paintings, with young girls opening their pink glossed mouths ever so slightly looking stoned. The nerds that used to get picked on in high school are now the ones with the money, because of computers; they no longer want Venus with a bulbous tummy; they want impossible cartoon looking girls with purple hair and abnormally big cartoon tits; hot librarians are all over the streets now in woolen skirts and horn rimmed glasses. I see parallels everywhere. I see recurrency; it all comes down to whatever feels good and keeps us from giving up hope. Happiness is the new anarchy. I'm tired of sacrifice. Hedonism's good in small doses. Hedonism makes my brain crackle for water and my guts feels tired.
Self-destruction doesn't solve anything if it is only a threat.
Cooper, the one-tentacled-octopus-nymphomaniac, saw extremes as being dramatic for the sake of it. "Small doses are nice," he thought, "preservatives blotted and sifted to be a little less filling; a little less bloating and catagorizable. Isms are dated. Even pieces of isms are dated. Jisms more like. Jisms after beating off in the path oft beaten; bread crumbs to the ginger bread castle." Cooper liked fairy tales and masturbating. He was glad that he had at least one tentacle left to beat off with after surviving three consecutive shark attacks in one year; eight years prior. "It was all a bunch of excess and I didn't even know it," he thought, ink seeping suction cups, oozing. Fish swam by in schools, all silver.

Thursday, September 20, 2007


Hey. Like my pearls? Yeah, you in the yellow cardi. You. Mr wicker sunshine. Damn you've got white teeth? Don't you ever drink coffee? Smoke? I know I do. I drink Tab and wine too. My teeth look like corn. Hey. Whatcha drinking? Is that a mojito or something? That's classy. My dress has seagulls and a sunset on it. Do you like the beach? Me too. I love the beach. Hey. Is that your sister behind you? I like her hat. Ask her where she got it. Nice. It looks European. Hey. Who's that lady talking to back there? That guy looks rich. I bet his watch cost a lot. Like thousands of dollars. I bet he smokes cigars. Do you like cigars? Me neither. Hey. I'm bored. You guys wanna play a game? It's called Из окна видно, как хорошо одетые пожилые люди торопясь идут с востока на западуда они идут Они идут на концерт какой концерт концерт классической музыки! What? Oh. Sorry. I meant to say Yatzee. Silly Tourette's. Wanna fuck?

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

i like you all effortless like


I like the way that you're pleasant to be around. You are one of the most pleasant people I know to be around. Around me, when you're near, things are not bad if they seemed almost bad before. Thank you for not being rotted internally or externally and for having a face and voice that makes babies alligators smile and then bite little baby fish who swallowed little babier fish whole before they were bitten. Call me often and I will never say, 'Oh shit, it's Him, I don't feel like talking to that jerk right now, he pisses me off and always has shit spewing from his mouth." I will never say that about you. Unless you transmogrify into some crazy lycanthropic, peeing on corpses you tore apart when you transformed into a wolfman, creature, and even then I will still give you hugs when you feel bad for ripping into throats in an altered state of being. Actually, yes, your face usually has hair on it so it is not that far fetched to imagine you as wolfhuman, eating flesh and having an upset stomach the next day because you normally don't eat meat. I'll give you pepto and draw funny pictures of you in dresses with giant breasts in your beard holding ten tubs of ice cream with policemen in the background doing circus tricks for clowns. We'll frame the pictures and sell them on ebay starting at 99 cents and then at the last minute 25.70 from kittysunset64. We'll sell 82 pictures and make enough money to buy a baby alligator we can share. You can keep it the first two weeks in November and the entire month of your birthday.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007


some lacked real ambition or skill. some were too idealistic mouths running like noses. some unindependent with too many why's and where's and who's. some unripe, making bitter turns on the tongue in bites, bananas green, bunch plucked prematurely from a branch of apes mouthing O for the sake of it alone.
others speechless without books to quote. others too afraid to cross the street, staring. others would sit in the same spot and moan at the slow death of boredom in their legs without a single attempt of adjusting to a more comfortable position.
she wanted someone who would never cash out and become useless to her. she was tired of cashing people out. she wanted an incongruous consistancy in romantic relationships. she needed to know that she would never again disappoint herself because she was selfish like that and liked to be responsible all the time.
at least most of them had nice penises. good penises. strong penises. some two-toned or foreskinned penises. sex was always best in times inapproprite, times such as 7:42, 9:36, or 11:11. 1/4 times. 16ths. physical times of fundamental qualities. in units.

Sunday, September 16, 2007

a realm in variance of perspective

I'm in an elevator to the top floor of my new executive position job to meet my new boss, hoping to charm him with my charisma and sweet smile. I meet him in his suit; his partner is Christian Bale as Patrick Bateman from the movie of Ellis’s book "American Psycho." I have personal romantic relations with Christian (or Patrick) at first, but leave him for the top honcho who is the most attractive man I have never seen in my life. Christian/Patrick is not surprised. A little tiffed and pissy like large family youngest children get, but not surprised. We remain friends. In both relationships; flashes of sweet frolicking bed smitten type cuddling. No hot sex; but it's implied that we've been intimate many times before. Lying in bed with the handsome new man I've won over, the perspective changes. I am Patrick Bateman in my suit walking underneath a muddy bridge, shoes sticking and getting sucked by mud. I find two girls in wheelbarrows on the verge of death, naked, barely breathing. It's implied that these girls ended up there by a drought; there had been no rain and they were dying of thirst; mermaids, with feet. I walk up to the first girl, a pale brunette, mouth something spiteful to her feeling angry, cut her throat with a razor, one long clean line from one end of her neck to the other. A bright red showers her gray chest, her perfect breasts, blood pouring out of her throat as she makes a final gasp, unmoving, a small twitch, a jerk, eyes glazed, open. I stare at her as she bleeds--hating her. I walk to the other girl in a wheelbarrow, legs dangling, just a few feet away: a blonde, staring at nothing, unblinking, breathing shallow. I tell the girl it’s her lucky day; that she'll be spared; that I feel merciful. I fetch a dirty wet rag and wring it above her mouth, water grazing her lips as her throat constricts gestures of swallowing. I tell her she should tell people I spared her. The perspective changes, I'm walking towards a lunch bistro to have cocktails with my work associates, I see them waving, smoking cigarettes and chatting over scotch and barely touched plates of food. I sit down and have a martini before returning to work. I am no longer angry. I feel nothing.

Sunday, September 9, 2007

San Francisco

San Francisco's a cool city. The downtown area is a long stretch full of places to spend money. The streets have steep inclines in some areas. Too steep for motor scooters or segways perhaps. Too steep for elderly types who you find dead in a power outage heat wave for sure. Too steep for out of shapes, skateboarders, skinny women in high heels. There are very steep inclines in San Francisco. Even more than in Seattle, which also has steep inclines in their downtown area. Both have many Starbucks. Every other place is a Starbucks. Everyone's breath smells like Starbucks. Except the doorman at the hotel. His breath smells like a warm blanket because his eyes are nice.

I didn't bring a coat and it is cold here. The news paper predicts the temperature to run between 60-90. That's a thirty degree difference. And that's the HIGH. They say it stays that way because of the ocean's water temperature being consistent and the breezes coming off the top intercepting any sunshine or cold. That sometimes in the summer all of the sudden it's hot, then cold, and if you drive down the road to visit your granny, five minutes away, it's cold there even if it was hot where you were. This talk had nothing to do with small talk. I was cold when I got to San Francisco, before I bought warm clothes and a shawl. I wanted to know why.

If I were an asshole I'd say, "Thanks nobody, for telling me to pack warm clothes and a scarf or something," but I won't do that. I'll just let myself feel stupid for not knowing about the weather in San Francisco beforehand. For not doing my research. I don't mind recognizing my own stupidity. I like myself that much.

There are a lot of rainbows everywhere too. Not the kind that come from rain that are really pretty to look at in the distance in the sky with fabled pots of gold at the bottom either. I've seen women with very narrow hips and pretty faces with caked on make-up. They had uptight looks on their faces. Mean expressions. I deconstruct the women, wonder what they'd look like waking up next to me, if their voices would transmography into a tuba. I'd ask them if they wanted coffee and they'd say, "Yes, please, thank you." They'd tell me about their asshole father and their very nice mother in her very nice pink slippers, curlers, her warm breasts. We'd go for pie.


The boy with brain damage from a boating accident sleeps behind me in one of the twin beds. Ryan. The 31 year-old boy with the mentality of a spoiled 14 year-old sleeps behind me and I am in a Marriot hotel 20 floors up, rooms 300 something a night normally, but the father, a contractor, is in a club with an annual fee. He gets expensive rooms cheap.

They want me to fix Ryan, which is not easy with so many outside factors (coddling especially) influencing his societal incorporation as an independent self-reliant adult.

At breakfast yesterday, at a very nice place with views of dream set houses in dimension 18 of Heaven World, Ryan wanted pancakes, and the seaside restaurant with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge didn't have them on the brunch menu, whereby he insisted we eat at another place. We almost did too, until I convinced him to settle for the Lobster Benedict.

If I'd had it my way, I'd've pulled him aside and explained in two different ways how the world does not revolve around any one individual. Instead I had to overenthusiastically say, "Mmm, LOBSTER. I bet that's delicious! And look how expensive it is!" and make him believe it was his idea to want it.

It worked. It almost always works. Even outside of work. People are stubborn and selfish a lot. Male people especially. Obstinate creatures. Generalization? More like generealization. I'm funny.

Last night I met Lena for the first time in our three years of friendship. We had two cocktails a piece in the hotel lobby, on couches, by a fireplace, surrounded by seas of marble . The bill was 51 dollars with a six dollar tip. Expensive drinks. Can't say I didn't really know what was coming though.

Lena introduced me to a drink called a Sidecar. Brandy and lemon with a sugar rim. Not bad for a sweet drink. Perfect if you want to rollie pollie through life. As if the alcohol alone is not enough to shrink the pants. But some people don't really care about that, obviously. If they only knew how good it could be if they'd lose a few. They wouldn't have so many 'why' questions relating to negative social and interpersonal circumstances.

That, and mind blowing orgasms. There should be an elective in schools...or maybe not. The pervs would have a field day with that. Fucking degenerates. Never mind.

A humanitarianesque friend in Houston (Bob) and I were having a conversation about a girl who liked a boy. She was sad about it because he seemed out of her league, untouchable, and she was lovelorn, obsessed from creating her own rejection without any real rejection from the boy. I told Bob that maybe the girl could drop about twenty pounds or so, that her confidence would help her, her looks would improve and help her.

Bob (who's been binging on Ben and Jerry's more than ever lately) said I was mean for saying that. That I was an asshole. I know it's because he's struggling to come to terms with his own recent weight gain after being skinny all his life, but come on. Be defensive. Do it. Dumbass. Live in your denial and surround yourself with a lot of the same.

If people are real and they don't respect your shit, they are evil. There's a way to label how evil they are, a catagory from many catagories as an outlet for contempt. I've been friends with Bob for years so I can't dislike him for anything anymore, like family. But his weaknesses are obvious and hurt me more than him, since he won't let himself see them.

Such a burden sometimes, when the truth is so blatant and obvious, but like hell to some people, who run from it, or wear blinders like those horses who shit all over 6th street. Those poor horses. The truth would destroy them as well, I'm sure.

Wednesday, September 5, 2007


Leaving the Austin airport with a bag full of turkey barbecue and its various accompanyments today, I forgot to pick up a plastic fork, had to fully realize eating potato salad, baked beans and coleslaw with one's fingers is not that easy on an airplane full of people, and no matter how you ball bread up or flatten it, it does not make a suitable eating utensil.

Regardless, I ate the turkey, as nimbly as I could, using my thumb and forefinger like crab pincer chopsticks. I'm civilized after all, and civilized animals eat with eating tools. This was my struggle with the awareness of another facet of my conditioning today. Humiliation in disregarding human tendencies of food etiquette.

I also made the mistake of walking to, and using, the tiny airplane toilet without my shoes, sticky piss covered floor and all wondering if anyone else holds their breath when walking into the lav after someone comes out right before them, to let the first whoosh of whatever personal smell waft out. Like in traffic when car's billowing black smoke from missing catalytic converters drive by, or when walking past some morbidly obese person with pit stains at a convenient store. Inhale, wait. Exhale. Inhale slowly.

It'd be different if smells weren't related to memory, or didn't have flavor. Someone passed gas somewhere around me on the plane today, and it was not much different from the inescapable movie theater POW fart . The kind where you either want to vomit or pass out. The kind you can taste.

A buddy who just dropped 25 after a breakup says his farts don't smell anymore, so now he's constantly passing gas without anyone even knowing. Funny to wonder which is more rude. The smell? The noise? A combination being the ultimate social and even intimate faux pas. "Anyone can do it quietly if they really try," I've heard. "The ones who make noise force the air out of their bodies and that's what's rude."

I dated a boy, for years, in a small southern city with limited options, who would not only pass gas at every opportunity, but pass gas on me. Sit one me, hold me down. So in a way, I'm traumatized from it. I Hate it when people do it around me. Hate them for it. Want to throw up on their face.

I think I'm entitled to that discrimination as emotional indignation, fully warranted--aside from conditioning, or cultural taboos, which I suppose have a lot to do with it too, but I can think of a million other issues to be more open minded about without deconstructing origins of human decency.

Fire ants for example. I'm sure some of them are really nice and only really mean ones who have had bad days put those stingy red whelps on people. I'm going to find some fire ants tomorrow and kill them with kindness. If that deson't work I'll give them sincere original compliments and offer to buy them 98% fat free frozen yogurt cups with unlimited toppings. After that---FIRE ANT ORGY.

After that, if they are still mean, and my vagina has whelps all over it, I will eat the fire ants with my crab pincer chopsticks, one by one, until there are no fire ants left, but one, and it will run for president, at gunpoint, against Hillary, and that guy who is just black enough to be black without even being black at all, according to purists, minorities, and a very lonely fire ant.

Saturday, September 1, 2007

This is a poem titled "I am swewling mouthgful of rabbits into your face"

ghis is what I'm thinmoinmhg in my paranoid thoughts. I'am undoubtedly fucked up beyond your comprehwnsion of what are thge possiblities of what is possible of the human condition of possib;lity. IAM WHAT FORDSAKENS THE SOUL OF WHAT YOU ALWAYSIMAGINED IN YOUR MIND. bUT IT'S MLORE TYAN THAT. i TOTALLY UNDERSTAND WHATYOUR MINMD THINKS. wITUYOT THE REAONISIBLIY OF WHAT YOU SEE ID THE MOST IMPORTANT THIUMNHG. This is me when I'm drunk and intoxicated. shit balls of faoth and these cocepts which bind isd bin attachmnents shitheals of gaads. OR i HAD A KLITTL MARIJANS ANDTHN SURRUCUMS AD AND NTHEN D. iN THE MOMENT THE MOMENT OF THE unicorns, I am swewling a mouthgful of rabbits into your face, the uyoung fludfyy kind, etinhg away atn your feeble attemps of loving gumdropd s anfd gfabva benas from some cult cl;assic . I want to devastate your every cavity with more of m,y shit and piss thatnn you've everb been able to fathom ypou fucking pircfe olf shir scoundrel nitherfucmimg call me , call me, AND YOUINMWILL ALWAYDS nvere undettsnd therxe practical jokes aBOUT SQUIDS AND PRACTRICALITY AND MORALITIS ISSUES, AND ASNY OTHER STUPID SHIT NLIKE WHATN i'M TRYING TO CONVEY WHEN i SPRAKMTO YOU.

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