Tuesday, November 6, 2007


I used the then term 'electric shithouse' today to describe a sense of pleasurable pain.

It didn't make sense to anyone but me, and there were complaints, and people asking, "wHY'D YOU DO THAT that makes NO SENSE, WHAT's a SHIThouse, and how CAN IT BE ELECTRIC?

I changed it once after that to 'electrified shithouse,' then to 'electrified shitstorm,' maybe finally. It describes a nerd's bloody knee after falling off a Segway. I liked electric shithouse. I thought it was cute.

Maybe I'll name a book of stories Electric Shithouse. Stories that will never make sense to anyone but me, and a few really intuitive crazy people.

I'll bury it in the dirt and water it and a nonsense tree will sprout, with fruit so tangy no one can eat it but me and my offspring and whoever I kiss a lot whose DNA I alter with survival-instinct-strengthening-sour-resistance-no-nonsense saliva.

Today the girl in the kitchen with cold sores said, "On the phone my mom told me that I was beautiful both on the inside and out when I told her about dating a handicapped person."

"That's nice," I said, "My mom told me that men will love me, and that I should marry a rich one."

We both kind of laughed at that.

I haven't been getting enough sleep and it's giving me wrinkles more than the stress or booze or cigarettes.

I slept a lot yesterday and the wrinkles were gone; three weeks worth.

Now I'm fresh again to seduce your father if he is bored with his w/l-ife and can buy me a goat farm on a vineyard on another continent somewhere; even Africa. Maybe not Africa. But I'm serious about the goats. They are feisty and their eyes say so much of nothing in horizontal slits.

A man who smelled of yeasty chum was nervous and asking me for coffee.

"Come meet me, coffee, anywhere, you can buy your own if that makes you comfortable, bring your boyfriend, coffee, I want to get to know you better, give me your phone number, you're interesting, you must be interested in me as more than a friend if you think I'm hitting on you, coffee."

The whole time I wondered who he must've rolled around in. Some not-that-great, I guess. Perhaps someone who feeds penguins at the zoo and soaks their feet in milk.

The dark birds huddle on the power lines, fly in clustered circles, huddle, shit, huddle.

"Mama had a lotta babies," said the brain injured boy, driving himself to karate.

They want you to look up so that they can blind you in one eye, oblivious to suspicion of espionage, thinking only, "bugs, berries, shit, bird, air, air, air, egg," or more, "*** ^^^* * ^^* *^^ * * ^* *** ^^^**** ^***** * ^^ **^ ^^ * * *^^ * ^^^^*** ** ^^^ ****^^ ** ^ ^^^ *****^^^^*^** & ***^ ^***, " I thought.

I only understand a little bird though. I could be wrong.

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