I was born in the back of a ’76 Chevrolet, my daddy was drunk and my momma was biting her tongue about my real daddy. The pleather seats were maroon, so they called me red. That was in the wilderness of Felts Woods, back in Carroll County, Va. The game warden was present and that’s why I’m still here, and not marked with a twig and stick grave marker. Shortly after the birth, with my momma stable, in the pickup bed I was placed, tied off on the dog’s collar, that old dog’s leash. Lucky was his name. Me and Lucky Puppy traveled back together, my arms around his leash, her leash around my neck. If Daddy hadn’t been pulled over for drinkin’ and drivin’ then my demise woulda been had, there in the prime, gorgeous nature of toothless ruffians, nameless wanderers and fish that practically 'catched' themselves in the beautiful splendor under the banner of heaven.
Nope, I was yanked up out of that pick up truck, placed in my momma’s lap and instead of a damned nipple of some sort, my daddy placed a harmonica between my toothless gums and my crying, on the bumpy road home, I played the saddest song, but love smudged my tune, even Lucky Puppy sang along, bouncing along in the back with out the company of the discharge of my devious soul.
Back home, home is where I found myself to be, wicked on all fours, courageous in discovering nature, saying hi to the animals, being beaten by muddy neighbors, cursed by drunken lustful whores that scathed the country side with their muddy heels and their beer stained halter tops, I paraded my ineducation while I munched on crab apples and shot my BB guns at cows and dogs named Duke. When I wasn’t being a careless urchin between imagination and landscape, I was covered in poison ivy vines and my mascara made of dirt was being made into mud by my tears of woeful torment. I’d climb trees like a feral child escaping his assailers, I’d screech and holler as my brothers of blood stalked me with a lust for my pain and my tragedy at their finger tips.
A wild child by accident, I roamed with potato chips in my back pack and a dull blade in my front pocket, inhabiting empty houses and churches, starting fires on purpose and by accident, I lost my individuality to the scorching torment of dirty knees, a dead god and a family that forgot his name in place of Lucky Puppy.
Dignity was a shallow pain that buried itself into my frontal lobe like the ‘chinky pins’ that I used to pick from the trees to feed my mouth and my imagination.
Lucky Puppy was the first to run away from home, each morning on my daily round up and choke chain trail of tears on my way to school, we’d pass this dog with a three legged skip on it’s way to a faraway lands and happiness that only dogs that skip can dream of, we’d pick her up, force her back into the caravan and turn around, only to drive her back to the land of the land of madness, free meals, free pain and all the land you can cry on. Only lucky puppy could figure her way out of anywhere, she used her Beagle sense of smell to find her way back to the emotional concentration camp, my tear stained eyes always forced me to sit in the middle of an untouched wilderness until my eyes were to dry to cry anymore, then I’d have to wade through briars to find my way home.
Looking Back now, I find that Im damned with the recollection or memory that I thought I blacked out during High School. The Hair in my eyes, the trench coat that kept my knees company, the cigarettes that kept me quiet, the friends that I had made to make me feel normal, the personality I’d developed, The beautifully rotten life that made so much sense to misery and none to me, and I just went a long with it. The cuts and tears with my artistic silent rants in my skin with knives and push pins, the sad bastard music that kept me company and the blue skinned fiends that knew every one of my secrets, my friends—Fuck, each and every one of them is gone and long gone- faraway in the silent graveyard of Sheol. Past. Present. Love. Happiness. The Present. Life. The pushover that sucks your soul out and leaves you alive and hollow, nothing to speak of- No one to talk to. The memories that rape your soul and eject your willful power to over come the notches you’ve carved on your spiritual belt. The side you allow others to see, is a broken serpent of a lost relic that coils in fear anger and despair, lashes out and is a ruiner of progress.
I am but a broke down poet, with only past recollections to show the crossers of our paths. I stagger like a stranger through a dust bowl town, memories seem to mean too much to me and I mean too little to friends, for now I’ll just bow my cap and trudge on through the lost infidelity of self demoralization.
I’m still alive. Proud I am not, but curious why. There is a spiritual wind that sweeps away ones questions once they’re asked. If they’re answered or not, is not up to me, perhaps they are the answers on your tombstone.
I care, I think, I wonder, I’m misunderstood, I put too much emphasis on reality and push too much on the unexplained explaining the unexplainable.
I know I’ll never know and I’ll never be able to extinguish the burning question of WHAT THE FUCK. . . . it hurts, and it’s bothersome, but then again, what aspect of life is not?
‘Round about the time I retired from the trees of a hapless monkey, a preacher ran over Lucky Puppy, though she was no longer the puppy that raised me -- I’d grown to be a young man, and she’d grown to be an old woman, though she no longer attempted to escape the thorny premises, she stood by me loyal and care free, unafraid of my lost child hood lacerations and completely enamored by our orphaned accomplishments, the thunder carried over her last rites, the preacher said not a word, to her or us.
With a busted gut and a gun to her head, She howled and moaned, crying to God and man.
And with a tearless sigh, I accepted the facts of life. The ruiner of reality is reality itself. All that is imaginable is able to be shot down, that which is unimaginable, is most likely at your karmic doorstep.
Life is a broken weave of stories, knitted only by regret, torment, memories and hate and painful love.
Fuck Christ, Goddamnit do I love Life, even though It’s a mother fucker.
I sure Hope once I arrive, God doesn’t mind the pranks I’ll play on him.
(1:28 am Jan 27)
Monday, January 28, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Fool's Paradise
"The fool who persists in his folly will become wise."
-William Blake
I was nearly home, about sixty miles or so, the opened twelve pack was sitting in the passenger side seat, but it was no longer a twelve pack. It had probably about nine or ten left. I picked it up a good safe distance because by the time I would've reached my planned destination, it would be too late to buy beer, and I've always been a simple kind of guy, I like the joy it brings, and I don't think midnight during the work week is a good time to start a glue sniffing habit.
The radio was up, with some pill addled sicko with a raspy voice and a unique handle on life was complaining about the same old shit. My driver side window doesn't work properly, it scratched the ultimate hell out of the glass, so I don't use it. So when I have to resort to flinging my beer cans out the window, I have to slow down from passing all of the other traffic on the road, merge in to the quiet lane, roll down the passenger side window with my car's cockpit fancies, numerous buttons I rarely touch, and then with a simple gesture, my hair is whipping in my face, seventy five miles an hour, just so I can throw an empty can out for decoration on this stretch of this once beautiful American landscape.
As a born and raised grand country boy, I too, am against the wretched machine heads that spew their wealth like trash across the country side with visions of grand accomplishment, but as far as taking your trash to the dump is concerned, I don't mind. Nor do I mind throwing trash on trash. As far as my beer cans being littered and riddled up and down the east coast major highways, I consider it marking my territory.
I decided eventually because I am breaking the man's laws, then hell, I should probably break only one at a time, So, I slowed down.
Yes, I was swerving every fifteen minutes or so, but I was using blinkers, I found my behavior completely acceptable. I had gum. One working window. The trick is, if you are drinking and driving and you fear being nabbed, one open window does wonders for the aroma in your car, and especially being an ex tobacco junkie, in my pockets and in every crevice in my dear old car, one can find gum and mints. Life has it's limits, but then again, it doesn't.
"No, Officer, I haven't been drinking and driving.
Why is there an open twelve pack and no cans?
Well, Sir, I quote my great grandfather in saying, 'Stand in the road and be a friend to man.' I gave a homeless wino outside the gas station from which I purchased these beverages who asked me for my change or a beer. I have no change, and frankly, well, I know what it's like to want and need a beer, so he received quite a few. I'm not a lecturer, I'm a man flawed just as much as he, so he, lucked out, Officer, Sir.
No, Sir, I realize I shouldn't encourage that behavior. No, I'm afraid I don't remember what he looked like, he was white, about my height.
Yes Sir, Thank you for the concern, Why, thank you have a nice night yourself."
Once Johnny Law was satisfied after groping my moral lies, he gave me my license, a tip of the hat and scuttled off in the gravel and broken glass. Once on my own again, I buckled my seat belt, checked my mirrors and generally took about five minutes to see if this clown was on to me or not, either way, I didn't care. I kept my passenger side window down and this time I opened the sun roof.
I put my car, Finney, into first gear, lowered the emergency brake, my brake lights shining into Johnny Laws eyes for about ten seconds, and then I left the e-brake on and took my foot off the brake and popped Finney into neutral. I scrambled for cd's.
It was Todd snider that I found, and at that moment of my exasperated Johnny Law, So close on my ass, that goddamned fog light still blighting my eyes, threw his blue lights on, sat for a millimeter of a second, and then his back wheels threw gravel all over my crushed beer cans, he darted off into the night, his car's wails were absorbed by the concrete, animal carcasses and the tamed wilderness, and I watched him slowly disappear into the night, Finney's clock read 10:53 pm, which meant it was really 10:48. Mysterious, devious eyes shined at me in the rearview-I cracked a beer and peeled rubber into late night traffic, a semi wasn't startled, but that driver for the bus of junior high Jesus teachers sure swerved. I started to sing along, I also rolled down the back two windows with a drunkards ease.
I wasn't far off, The beer was growing warm so I had to drink it faster, but that still posed a problem upon my arrival at my desolation unit, my palace of despair, me, this cretin of ingenuity, driven by a drunkard named Finney, to his one and only palace of despair. Hysteria has never been a problem for this mind of moral erosion.
Step ahead to Track 2.
There's a truck turned over on the highway
Flares burning out of the snow
Freezing rain in the passing lane
I got forty five miles to go
Forty five miles
Forty five miles
Man that's gonna take all night
I should have known right away that something was wrong
When I started thinking things were all right
Things were not all right
My old man's sick, my sister's going broke
They're closing down my favorite bar
I got a smoker's cough and now to top it all off
I think I'm gonna wreck my car
I'm gonna wreck my car
They say life goes in stages like seasons
I say something about all of them sucks
It's as hard to be hot as it is to be cold
You're either out of control or you're stuck
You're either out of control
Or you're stuck
So take whatever road that you want to
Careful of the ice and the snow
I ain't got time to change my mind
I got forty five miles to go
Forty five miles
Forty five miles
Man that's gonna take all night
I should have known right away that something was wrong
when I started thinking things were all right
Things are not all right
Forty Six miles later, I was pulling into my lonely parking place littered with Marlboro butts and the decaying tree that stands sickly above Finney's resting point.
11:38 pm. Fuck, I guess I didn't need to buy the beer way back when. I'll be damned.
Finney coughed up waste like the tail pipes of cars usually do, I comforted him with my ass leaning against his wing, I looked down the street and back again.
"I feel like drinking some more, but this solitary shit is driving me fucking nuts."
I patted Finney's head like he was my child, also of ancient Mule-Like decent, "fuck it," I thought.
I could still buy beer and drink it in the cozy confines of God's Lap, my grinded subconscious, my regrets and fears down there in the dungeon constructed of hollow poetry, but I figured Finney provided enough of that, So I hit the pavement, found myself at the bar whose bartenders slouched lower than the regulars, the bar that had the etchings, promises to the devil in the bar top 'for just one more drink in exchange for the queasy soul' they had to promise. Bartenders with heavy hands and high skirts, if regret was a businessman with his mouth duct taped and his hands bound behind his back, then this was the launch pad of deceit and misery. With my eyes glazed over, I stared at a rerun of a boxing match that happened before I was born, terrible music infiltrating my ears, whiskey bleeding into my beer and a smile stained on my face, somewhere in this tangled mess I consider my life, I'm alive and some kind of invisible angel makes excuses for me, or not, I slip by God unknown and unannounced, I'm free and roaming, I'm a guy with a sense of humor for a soul, I'm a guy who rides the slippery slope of loneliness. Watching Saddam H. swing from his leash is enough to drink for all the reasons right and wrong. If anyone wants to join me in the toast to a falsified life and sarcastic dreams, I'll be the loner at the bar to say 'cheers' to reality. Because I know reality will be the first to turn its back on me. I commend imagination for making me feel so blessed.
The past is old and dead. Memories of Nightmares. I function and fight. The past is a culvert running under the road of insight and the drainage ditch is what we need to reflect upon life.
"I should have known right away that something was wrong
when I started thinking things were all right
Things are not all right"
Though, Drunk, I am. I am, Indeed, Still alive. I thrive and function. I smile because I still don't understand anything and know now that I never will.
Things are all right.
-William Blake
I was nearly home, about sixty miles or so, the opened twelve pack was sitting in the passenger side seat, but it was no longer a twelve pack. It had probably about nine or ten left. I picked it up a good safe distance because by the time I would've reached my planned destination, it would be too late to buy beer, and I've always been a simple kind of guy, I like the joy it brings, and I don't think midnight during the work week is a good time to start a glue sniffing habit.
The radio was up, with some pill addled sicko with a raspy voice and a unique handle on life was complaining about the same old shit. My driver side window doesn't work properly, it scratched the ultimate hell out of the glass, so I don't use it. So when I have to resort to flinging my beer cans out the window, I have to slow down from passing all of the other traffic on the road, merge in to the quiet lane, roll down the passenger side window with my car's cockpit fancies, numerous buttons I rarely touch, and then with a simple gesture, my hair is whipping in my face, seventy five miles an hour, just so I can throw an empty can out for decoration on this stretch of this once beautiful American landscape.
As a born and raised grand country boy, I too, am against the wretched machine heads that spew their wealth like trash across the country side with visions of grand accomplishment, but as far as taking your trash to the dump is concerned, I don't mind. Nor do I mind throwing trash on trash. As far as my beer cans being littered and riddled up and down the east coast major highways, I consider it marking my territory.
I decided eventually because I am breaking the man's laws, then hell, I should probably break only one at a time, So, I slowed down.
Yes, I was swerving every fifteen minutes or so, but I was using blinkers, I found my behavior completely acceptable. I had gum. One working window. The trick is, if you are drinking and driving and you fear being nabbed, one open window does wonders for the aroma in your car, and especially being an ex tobacco junkie, in my pockets and in every crevice in my dear old car, one can find gum and mints. Life has it's limits, but then again, it doesn't.
"No, Officer, I haven't been drinking and driving.
Why is there an open twelve pack and no cans?
Well, Sir, I quote my great grandfather in saying, 'Stand in the road and be a friend to man.' I gave a homeless wino outside the gas station from which I purchased these beverages who asked me for my change or a beer. I have no change, and frankly, well, I know what it's like to want and need a beer, so he received quite a few. I'm not a lecturer, I'm a man flawed just as much as he, so he, lucked out, Officer, Sir.
No, Sir, I realize I shouldn't encourage that behavior. No, I'm afraid I don't remember what he looked like, he was white, about my height.
Yes Sir, Thank you for the concern, Why, thank you have a nice night yourself."
Once Johnny Law was satisfied after groping my moral lies, he gave me my license, a tip of the hat and scuttled off in the gravel and broken glass. Once on my own again, I buckled my seat belt, checked my mirrors and generally took about five minutes to see if this clown was on to me or not, either way, I didn't care. I kept my passenger side window down and this time I opened the sun roof.
I put my car, Finney, into first gear, lowered the emergency brake, my brake lights shining into Johnny Laws eyes for about ten seconds, and then I left the e-brake on and took my foot off the brake and popped Finney into neutral. I scrambled for cd's.
It was Todd snider that I found, and at that moment of my exasperated Johnny Law, So close on my ass, that goddamned fog light still blighting my eyes, threw his blue lights on, sat for a millimeter of a second, and then his back wheels threw gravel all over my crushed beer cans, he darted off into the night, his car's wails were absorbed by the concrete, animal carcasses and the tamed wilderness, and I watched him slowly disappear into the night, Finney's clock read 10:53 pm, which meant it was really 10:48. Mysterious, devious eyes shined at me in the rearview-I cracked a beer and peeled rubber into late night traffic, a semi wasn't startled, but that driver for the bus of junior high Jesus teachers sure swerved. I started to sing along, I also rolled down the back two windows with a drunkards ease.
I wasn't far off, The beer was growing warm so I had to drink it faster, but that still posed a problem upon my arrival at my desolation unit, my palace of despair, me, this cretin of ingenuity, driven by a drunkard named Finney, to his one and only palace of despair. Hysteria has never been a problem for this mind of moral erosion.
Step ahead to Track 2.
There's a truck turned over on the highway
Flares burning out of the snow
Freezing rain in the passing lane
I got forty five miles to go
Forty five miles
Forty five miles
Man that's gonna take all night
I should have known right away that something was wrong
When I started thinking things were all right
Things were not all right
My old man's sick, my sister's going broke
They're closing down my favorite bar
I got a smoker's cough and now to top it all off
I think I'm gonna wreck my car
I'm gonna wreck my car
They say life goes in stages like seasons
I say something about all of them sucks
It's as hard to be hot as it is to be cold
You're either out of control or you're stuck
You're either out of control
Or you're stuck
So take whatever road that you want to
Careful of the ice and the snow
I ain't got time to change my mind
I got forty five miles to go
Forty five miles
Forty five miles
Man that's gonna take all night
I should have known right away that something was wrong
when I started thinking things were all right
Things are not all right
Forty Six miles later, I was pulling into my lonely parking place littered with Marlboro butts and the decaying tree that stands sickly above Finney's resting point.
11:38 pm. Fuck, I guess I didn't need to buy the beer way back when. I'll be damned.
Finney coughed up waste like the tail pipes of cars usually do, I comforted him with my ass leaning against his wing, I looked down the street and back again.
"I feel like drinking some more, but this solitary shit is driving me fucking nuts."
I patted Finney's head like he was my child, also of ancient Mule-Like decent, "fuck it," I thought.
I could still buy beer and drink it in the cozy confines of God's Lap, my grinded subconscious, my regrets and fears down there in the dungeon constructed of hollow poetry, but I figured Finney provided enough of that, So I hit the pavement, found myself at the bar whose bartenders slouched lower than the regulars, the bar that had the etchings, promises to the devil in the bar top 'for just one more drink in exchange for the queasy soul' they had to promise. Bartenders with heavy hands and high skirts, if regret was a businessman with his mouth duct taped and his hands bound behind his back, then this was the launch pad of deceit and misery. With my eyes glazed over, I stared at a rerun of a boxing match that happened before I was born, terrible music infiltrating my ears, whiskey bleeding into my beer and a smile stained on my face, somewhere in this tangled mess I consider my life, I'm alive and some kind of invisible angel makes excuses for me, or not, I slip by God unknown and unannounced, I'm free and roaming, I'm a guy with a sense of humor for a soul, I'm a guy who rides the slippery slope of loneliness. Watching Saddam H. swing from his leash is enough to drink for all the reasons right and wrong. If anyone wants to join me in the toast to a falsified life and sarcastic dreams, I'll be the loner at the bar to say 'cheers' to reality. Because I know reality will be the first to turn its back on me. I commend imagination for making me feel so blessed.
The past is old and dead. Memories of Nightmares. I function and fight. The past is a culvert running under the road of insight and the drainage ditch is what we need to reflect upon life.
"I should have known right away that something was wrong
when I started thinking things were all right
Things are not all right"
Though, Drunk, I am. I am, Indeed, Still alive. I thrive and function. I smile because I still don't understand anything and know now that I never will.
Things are all right.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Death From Above
they say 3 percent of the people use 5 to 6 percent of their brain
97 percent use 3 percent and the rest goes down the drain
I'll never know which one I am but I'll bet you my last dime
99 percent think we're 3 percent 100 percent of the time"
-Todd Snider
The sun is bright, but the day is cold- like a fools gold paradise while staring out the window with a frosty coca cola in your hand, thinking that's is as cold as it's gonna get.
There are brutes and monsters surrounding your every movement- they cackle and taunt you with 'your mom' jokes, spitting tortillas in your face while they coax you with shallow dreams of a monster called margarita.
Then you find yourself a regular in a Mexican restaurant frequented by whitey and whitey only, having your hand shaken by a Hispanic who rolls his shirt in knots and uses too much hair gel and speaks with a lisp.
After that, You look around the room, find recovering alcoholics with their noses buried in their self help books stuffing their faces with iced tea and salsa, using their only distraction as a tool to conceal their deliberate attempt to spy on lovers, to spy on rock and roll slug heads, happy couples giving each other orgasms under the table while they stare into the reflection of each other in the sunglasses that loopily mangled for decoration yet are not prescription but at the same time they refuse to take off.
Yuppies that like to imitate Harvey Keitel with their worn leather jacket to make up for the beer gut and muscles. Children that run amok like wild Indians on the plains of carpet and tile. Native workers that stop in stride and allow the young blonde new species of human to at first step on their toes and in ten years, to finally walk all over them.
I found this monster margarita sitting in front of me, a hollow globe with a mere glass stem holding it up, "I thought I asked for a not so small one", I happily complained. Then I wished I had a diving board and my swimming trunks. Or at least a goldfish with whom I could share with this joyous blessing on a Sunday afternoon, golden with laughs and blessed with friends that threaten to kill you every other minute. In other words, a good fucking day.
Halfway into my cheese burrito a band of happy go lucky whores of God asked us if there was alcohol in those gargantuan things.
Yes.
"Which one of you is driving?"
Heads were shaken, faces uprooted to a maroon tinge due to the spawn of last minute conscience.
What did it matter we thought, we lived over the hill and down the street, This band of merry pranksters we are, we aren't out to be lectured by a simpleton who is too weak to not only be lassoed into life not only by the vague image of the American dream, but also by God, he who has taunted and harassed us all at one point or another. This spiritual snitch was bludgeoning a good day into something to think about. In other words, he was ruining the good times, and now in reflection, I suppose our actions were doing the same to his. Then this fuck, this cretin, this marvel of spirituality, stood up in his trench coat, squinted through his coke bottle glasses, rubbing his bald head, said he wanted to give us a bible, and out of the three of us, he said, "How many of you are there? Three?" Answering his own question.
Then Like beaten and wounded savage captives, we all eye each other, thinking that we are yes, too drawn in by realities pleasures and Satan's fruitful gifts, he's counting more of us or we're too dumb or drunk to notice one of us is either dead or a dumb brute, manifested with human like qualities and a similar name of that we might call our pet, if we were responsible enough to care for it.
God's Whore meets Gods accidents.
Unlike him though, thank God, (ironically enough) We have restraint. It could have gone:
"Which one of you is driving?"
"Your Mom."
"Your Boss"
"Don't worry I have a plastic Jesus on my Dashboard."
Then of course this whimsical pastor, this stunning spiritual STD handed us TWO cards for the three of us, apparently it was me who was handing them away as soon as they touched my sinful fingers. I've often surmised that I was truly damned and only the truly blessed could see this and figure it out. It gave me a Grinch like smile to know that this hypothesis was not a waste for all of those sleepless nights.
Watch what you say to someone with nothing, It's almost like having it all…
Fifteen minutes later, the Grand tale of the monstrous margarita was over, the goldfish would be dead, swamped in ice cubes and salt- Then all eyes fall on the rascal, the loon, the deedless Orton that puts his hand and picks up my burrito like a lonesome traveler crossing a barbed wire fence- taking a large bite out of it—Scattering it's innards on the table and his shirt. I was nothing but giggles.
Now on my laptop, on it sits a card, entitled, "A BOOK FOR OUR TIME" call this number or visit this website to receive your free copy of this new no nonsense bible, free of charge…
I only would have to sacrifice my name, my email, my sanity and my friends to find solace in losing everything physically to gain it all spiritually, to be sad now for however many years this old ticker has is to be happy for eternity, should eternity exist. Why not sacrifice it all? Especially for a popular myth, a solid dream of 'if'?
I declined. Loneliness is part of the game. Im not sure of life's rules, nor do I care, so long as I wake up and aspirin takes care of the headache, that's fine with me, cus I know a thought like God will not take care of Heartache- Im not sure of much, I don't know if God or the Devil exists, but I know that Misery Loves Company- So Im sure the Devil is my comrade 24 hours a day- So I assume that God is alive out there, somewhere, straddling the horizon, pleasing the peasants like Pastor Bob, the rapist of my reality.
But the only reason now that God exists is because we were created from him-God Loves a sinner, He must love me- 'Those without sin, shall cast the first stone' Those blokes must be boring- God doesn't thrive on those Pastor Bobs that pass out pamphlets at 2:30 in the afternoon, wheres the fun in that? Gods not with them, God is with the ones that put the baby in the microwave, the ones that watch too much TV and then reenact in a crowded school or shopping mall. God Loves fuck ups and Pastor Bob proved it. God was thanking us for our Deviancy personally on his Day, Sunday, while we pounded drinks larger than our heads and spoke lavishly about each other's moms and God himself because without bastards like us, God would not have his daily chuckle. We are the black sheep of reality, but the spoiled children of Jehovah. Godless our Brethren consider us. Blessed are we, those of us who bounce off the retarded morals of common man- we are the gleam in God's eyes, keeping up what is alive. Not only do we hate it, We revel in it.
Six Beers, one Red Bull and a snippet of rum later, I turned the card over, the card that pastor Bob Gave us, if we call the Number on the back or visit the website, we can get our copy of the Bible.
THE RECOVERY VERSION it says is brilliant text.
Maybe, I thought, Since God and my boys, we're all tight like that, It's him, the Man, God, Himself telling us to slow down? I mean, buckets of Margaritas on a Sunday afternoon? Since he loves us so much more than Pastor Bob, he's using ole Bob the Whore to tell us to slow down. But then again, Chaos is more acceptable than mythical planning. It's probably just a reflection from Plato or some Goddamned Everclear song.
I might be under criticism from my fellow creatures and alien peers, but if God is our ringleader, then I must remind you, remind him and all of us of Proverbs 31, 6/7: "Give beer to those who are perishing, wine to those who are in anguish; let them drink and forget their poverty and remember their misery no more."
Yeah, God's listening, and he's naked playing the bongos, thankful, finally of some form of understanding. Satan? He's just a guy that I live with. And yeah, The Man loves him too.
97 percent use 3 percent and the rest goes down the drain
I'll never know which one I am but I'll bet you my last dime
99 percent think we're 3 percent 100 percent of the time"
-Todd Snider
The sun is bright, but the day is cold- like a fools gold paradise while staring out the window with a frosty coca cola in your hand, thinking that's is as cold as it's gonna get.
There are brutes and monsters surrounding your every movement- they cackle and taunt you with 'your mom' jokes, spitting tortillas in your face while they coax you with shallow dreams of a monster called margarita.
Then you find yourself a regular in a Mexican restaurant frequented by whitey and whitey only, having your hand shaken by a Hispanic who rolls his shirt in knots and uses too much hair gel and speaks with a lisp.
After that, You look around the room, find recovering alcoholics with their noses buried in their self help books stuffing their faces with iced tea and salsa, using their only distraction as a tool to conceal their deliberate attempt to spy on lovers, to spy on rock and roll slug heads, happy couples giving each other orgasms under the table while they stare into the reflection of each other in the sunglasses that loopily mangled for decoration yet are not prescription but at the same time they refuse to take off.
Yuppies that like to imitate Harvey Keitel with their worn leather jacket to make up for the beer gut and muscles. Children that run amok like wild Indians on the plains of carpet and tile. Native workers that stop in stride and allow the young blonde new species of human to at first step on their toes and in ten years, to finally walk all over them.
I found this monster margarita sitting in front of me, a hollow globe with a mere glass stem holding it up, "I thought I asked for a not so small one", I happily complained. Then I wished I had a diving board and my swimming trunks. Or at least a goldfish with whom I could share with this joyous blessing on a Sunday afternoon, golden with laughs and blessed with friends that threaten to kill you every other minute. In other words, a good fucking day.
Halfway into my cheese burrito a band of happy go lucky whores of God asked us if there was alcohol in those gargantuan things.
Yes.
"Which one of you is driving?"
Heads were shaken, faces uprooted to a maroon tinge due to the spawn of last minute conscience.
What did it matter we thought, we lived over the hill and down the street, This band of merry pranksters we are, we aren't out to be lectured by a simpleton who is too weak to not only be lassoed into life not only by the vague image of the American dream, but also by God, he who has taunted and harassed us all at one point or another. This spiritual snitch was bludgeoning a good day into something to think about. In other words, he was ruining the good times, and now in reflection, I suppose our actions were doing the same to his. Then this fuck, this cretin, this marvel of spirituality, stood up in his trench coat, squinted through his coke bottle glasses, rubbing his bald head, said he wanted to give us a bible, and out of the three of us, he said, "How many of you are there? Three?" Answering his own question.
Then Like beaten and wounded savage captives, we all eye each other, thinking that we are yes, too drawn in by realities pleasures and Satan's fruitful gifts, he's counting more of us or we're too dumb or drunk to notice one of us is either dead or a dumb brute, manifested with human like qualities and a similar name of that we might call our pet, if we were responsible enough to care for it.
God's Whore meets Gods accidents.
Unlike him though, thank God, (ironically enough) We have restraint. It could have gone:
"Which one of you is driving?"
"Your Mom."
"Your Boss"
"Don't worry I have a plastic Jesus on my Dashboard."
Then of course this whimsical pastor, this stunning spiritual STD handed us TWO cards for the three of us, apparently it was me who was handing them away as soon as they touched my sinful fingers. I've often surmised that I was truly damned and only the truly blessed could see this and figure it out. It gave me a Grinch like smile to know that this hypothesis was not a waste for all of those sleepless nights.
Watch what you say to someone with nothing, It's almost like having it all…
Fifteen minutes later, the Grand tale of the monstrous margarita was over, the goldfish would be dead, swamped in ice cubes and salt- Then all eyes fall on the rascal, the loon, the deedless Orton that puts his hand and picks up my burrito like a lonesome traveler crossing a barbed wire fence- taking a large bite out of it—Scattering it's innards on the table and his shirt. I was nothing but giggles.
Now on my laptop, on it sits a card, entitled, "A BOOK FOR OUR TIME" call this number or visit this website to receive your free copy of this new no nonsense bible, free of charge…
I only would have to sacrifice my name, my email, my sanity and my friends to find solace in losing everything physically to gain it all spiritually, to be sad now for however many years this old ticker has is to be happy for eternity, should eternity exist. Why not sacrifice it all? Especially for a popular myth, a solid dream of 'if'?
I declined. Loneliness is part of the game. Im not sure of life's rules, nor do I care, so long as I wake up and aspirin takes care of the headache, that's fine with me, cus I know a thought like God will not take care of Heartache- Im not sure of much, I don't know if God or the Devil exists, but I know that Misery Loves Company- So Im sure the Devil is my comrade 24 hours a day- So I assume that God is alive out there, somewhere, straddling the horizon, pleasing the peasants like Pastor Bob, the rapist of my reality.
But the only reason now that God exists is because we were created from him-God Loves a sinner, He must love me- 'Those without sin, shall cast the first stone' Those blokes must be boring- God doesn't thrive on those Pastor Bobs that pass out pamphlets at 2:30 in the afternoon, wheres the fun in that? Gods not with them, God is with the ones that put the baby in the microwave, the ones that watch too much TV and then reenact in a crowded school or shopping mall. God Loves fuck ups and Pastor Bob proved it. God was thanking us for our Deviancy personally on his Day, Sunday, while we pounded drinks larger than our heads and spoke lavishly about each other's moms and God himself because without bastards like us, God would not have his daily chuckle. We are the black sheep of reality, but the spoiled children of Jehovah. Godless our Brethren consider us. Blessed are we, those of us who bounce off the retarded morals of common man- we are the gleam in God's eyes, keeping up what is alive. Not only do we hate it, We revel in it.
Six Beers, one Red Bull and a snippet of rum later, I turned the card over, the card that pastor Bob Gave us, if we call the Number on the back or visit the website, we can get our copy of the Bible.
THE RECOVERY VERSION it says is brilliant text.
Maybe, I thought, Since God and my boys, we're all tight like that, It's him, the Man, God, Himself telling us to slow down? I mean, buckets of Margaritas on a Sunday afternoon? Since he loves us so much more than Pastor Bob, he's using ole Bob the Whore to tell us to slow down. But then again, Chaos is more acceptable than mythical planning. It's probably just a reflection from Plato or some Goddamned Everclear song.
I might be under criticism from my fellow creatures and alien peers, but if God is our ringleader, then I must remind you, remind him and all of us of Proverbs 31, 6/7: "Give beer to those who are perishing, wine to those who are in anguish; let them drink and forget their poverty and remember their misery no more."
Yeah, God's listening, and he's naked playing the bongos, thankful, finally of some form of understanding. Satan? He's just a guy that I live with. And yeah, The Man loves him too.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
The Stock is Low
The stock is low in all parts of the country, and the wicked dingbats that helped it plummet are on their thrones of speed, ready to throw the book at the ones that try to bend to rules to feed their mouths or feed their addictions.
Buildings that were once constructed with pure gold have been stripped overnight by wild hillbilly creatures with a lot of rope and an overly muscular inbred cousin named Jim-Bob to raise and lower each up and down these fantastic towers—only to go home to their shacks lit only by human hair to melt the gold down- attach it to tiny hooks and then, only to swallow them in a gulp of back country old fashioned radiator moonshine. If you wonder why, it is because after four days inside the intestinal tracts of Jim-Bob, these golden trinkets will look like your great grandmothers heirloom.
The dogs outside the hut will wail, the cold wind will give the house goose bumps, and the baby will be fed a formula of powdered milk and cheap drinking whiskey, so as not to wake mother in her inspired drunken slumber.
Yes, the stocks are low and people are selling their kids and cars, houses and writing off their hired help with items they consider trash but the help calls, "muy bonita!" Soon they will break bread over the same three legged table, whipping their children like dogs because the prayer wasn't over before he started grubbing into the monthly issued cheese.
Houses across the country are being salvaged for their books, the shelves themselves, antique guitars and all things made of wood only so they can be smashed and made into a huge bon fire in the middle of the living room in a ready made fireplace made out of their grand pianos guarding the home made chimney with salvaged bullets not yet fired but already covered in blood, guarding their fire and the few remaining bullets and books soon to be used as kindling. Their mansions will be skeletal reflections of how glorious and boastful life used to be, now the idea of being rich will be reversed when one hasn't so much property he has to patrol nightly from the devious drooling beasts that lurk on the edge of the shadows their giant houses cast.
No, It's a sad state of affairs in this country so pillaged and wise. We've become the broken bums of literature and fiction that has a half drunken bottle of George Dickle in his ragged coat pocket, in fingerless gloves we carry on about peace and life and liberty and helpful hints to reach the golden age God failed at teaching us. But We don't listen to him or each other- We flaunt our flags until they're in shreds standing half mast above the rubble of our homes and emotions. The Rich don't get richer. The Rich die Quicker. Hail to the Chief, here comes a grand slam.
Yes, it sounds like an honor to live in the land where the rich get fed to that broken bum with more etiquette than Queen Elizabeth herself- to me, that would be fine- That would be an honor- to be among the rest of my thugs, cripples and freaks, drinking lemon juice and whiskey, gallivanting next to a fire at three am lit by one part Earnest Hemingway, one part Tennessee Williams, two parts Ralph Lauren. If that were the case, You might find me happy, you might find me smiling without the Irish Coffee—But here in this land of the silver tongued devils, nothing happens accordingly to the book of revelations, it actually happens in the exact opposite way—In this town Called Brentwood—The meek are lying in shallow unmarked graves across this town, under liquor stores, under houses, balled up and stuffed into dumpsters like the result of a careless sixteen y ear old nine months after her mistake. Unaware and uncouth are the endangered remainders of the meek that wallow in this town—We are, they are dying slow, quick, painful deaths by the hands that support many rings of pure gold- They stomp us to dust, suck the marrow out of our bones and skin us, only to wear the skin of the meek just to fool the 'man that comes around' when the end of the bible finally succeeds. And once it does, Jesus H. Christ himself will be kidnapped and savagely beaten by this gang of metropolitan gang bangers, these renegades of Calvin Klein, these clumsy knights of Target and Martha Stewart.
These soulful rapists will be wearing the skin of the meek only to bury the Lord's only son with the rest of us spiritual beggars and the devil will have no help in defeating these lawless creatures that run amok solely between the hours of 9-5.
Buildings that were once constructed with pure gold have been stripped overnight by wild hillbilly creatures with a lot of rope and an overly muscular inbred cousin named Jim-Bob to raise and lower each up and down these fantastic towers—only to go home to their shacks lit only by human hair to melt the gold down- attach it to tiny hooks and then, only to swallow them in a gulp of back country old fashioned radiator moonshine. If you wonder why, it is because after four days inside the intestinal tracts of Jim-Bob, these golden trinkets will look like your great grandmothers heirloom.
The dogs outside the hut will wail, the cold wind will give the house goose bumps, and the baby will be fed a formula of powdered milk and cheap drinking whiskey, so as not to wake mother in her inspired drunken slumber.
Yes, the stocks are low and people are selling their kids and cars, houses and writing off their hired help with items they consider trash but the help calls, "muy bonita!" Soon they will break bread over the same three legged table, whipping their children like dogs because the prayer wasn't over before he started grubbing into the monthly issued cheese.
Houses across the country are being salvaged for their books, the shelves themselves, antique guitars and all things made of wood only so they can be smashed and made into a huge bon fire in the middle of the living room in a ready made fireplace made out of their grand pianos guarding the home made chimney with salvaged bullets not yet fired but already covered in blood, guarding their fire and the few remaining bullets and books soon to be used as kindling. Their mansions will be skeletal reflections of how glorious and boastful life used to be, now the idea of being rich will be reversed when one hasn't so much property he has to patrol nightly from the devious drooling beasts that lurk on the edge of the shadows their giant houses cast.
No, It's a sad state of affairs in this country so pillaged and wise. We've become the broken bums of literature and fiction that has a half drunken bottle of George Dickle in his ragged coat pocket, in fingerless gloves we carry on about peace and life and liberty and helpful hints to reach the golden age God failed at teaching us. But We don't listen to him or each other- We flaunt our flags until they're in shreds standing half mast above the rubble of our homes and emotions. The Rich don't get richer. The Rich die Quicker. Hail to the Chief, here comes a grand slam.
Yes, it sounds like an honor to live in the land where the rich get fed to that broken bum with more etiquette than Queen Elizabeth herself- to me, that would be fine- That would be an honor- to be among the rest of my thugs, cripples and freaks, drinking lemon juice and whiskey, gallivanting next to a fire at three am lit by one part Earnest Hemingway, one part Tennessee Williams, two parts Ralph Lauren. If that were the case, You might find me happy, you might find me smiling without the Irish Coffee—But here in this land of the silver tongued devils, nothing happens accordingly to the book of revelations, it actually happens in the exact opposite way—In this town Called Brentwood—The meek are lying in shallow unmarked graves across this town, under liquor stores, under houses, balled up and stuffed into dumpsters like the result of a careless sixteen y ear old nine months after her mistake. Unaware and uncouth are the endangered remainders of the meek that wallow in this town—We are, they are dying slow, quick, painful deaths by the hands that support many rings of pure gold- They stomp us to dust, suck the marrow out of our bones and skin us, only to wear the skin of the meek just to fool the 'man that comes around' when the end of the bible finally succeeds. And once it does, Jesus H. Christ himself will be kidnapped and savagely beaten by this gang of metropolitan gang bangers, these renegades of Calvin Klein, these clumsy knights of Target and Martha Stewart.
These soulful rapists will be wearing the skin of the meek only to bury the Lord's only son with the rest of us spiritual beggars and the devil will have no help in defeating these lawless creatures that run amok solely between the hours of 9-5.
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