Tonight I’m keeping the radio down low, only one light on and I’ve padded the floors and walls with all the towels and blankets I can find. I’ve even demolished my bed, placing it’s mattress and box springs guarding the hollow walls carefully, my clothes hung up over windows, over my drawing table and bookcase, just to absorb all the noises so that the visitors don’t hear me and come creeping by. I’ve turned off my phone, and I’ll sit in the dark, slowly drink with a pair of socks stapled around each beer I have so as not to reflect light or have a sound reverberate off of the can. I’m even typing this under a black sheet. The Light that is on, I find it under a winter jacket, I trace the lines that stream across the floor, using it as a fenced in haven to locate my necessities, the beer, the drugs, and the gun, the stolen credit card and all of the money from my bank account, I withdrew earlier today. My money is set aside in case things get hairy, if I have to throw my record player out the window and make a run for it, and the credit card is to be used for gas as far and as long as it’ll take me. The gun of course, is not for the visitors, it’s merely from protection from the restless screw heads that meddle in my trash, peek in my windows and gnaw on my doorknobs. A basic and original creation, they are a simple mix of cold blooded drunks and mopey renegades with light fingers. Basically useless, they are, smart as a junkyard dog and five times as slow.
If worse comes to worse, and I wind up being accosted by the visitors and the local drug store ruffians, and if the progress of the night looks bleak, I might save my bullets, block all exits to this house and turn the stove on, cover the downstairs with siphoned fuel from my neighbors jeep, and just set the place on fire, that seems to be the most reasonable solution. Lives will be lost, but sanity would be gained, and perfection would be just around the block. Of course, not until I’d sliced deep gashes into every two tires in a 3 block radius, because when it comes to survival, one can never go far enough.
There’s no greater joy to see the flaming apocalypse in your rearview mirror as you pull out onto an empty road, smoke some Jamaica imported Hashish, crack a beer and turn on the radio to listen to the madness as it unfolds, pop tiny blue pills to keep my eyes open, because I figure if you’re gonna face apocalyptic madness, you might as well be mad yourself, in a nuclear winter, no one wants a run in with someone who speaks perfect English and wears clean clothes. Savages will reign and the meek shall be buried in a shallow trench, if they’re lucky.
The howls outside my window still seem distant—I can not tell if it is the wailing of the winds or if it is the caravan of the moaning visitors, or the crazed life ridden fanatics already starting multiple fires miles from here. The crying adolescents, the burnt pregnant wives and other drunken slobs piercing the night with their materialistic souls going up in smoke. Damnation before eternity, they recite the Good Book and trample each other while trying to escape.
The visitors are not a bad Race, they are a mute origin-less species that may have existed before, in this world or in another, I can only catch glimpses of them, through the corner of my eye, or in the swift swivel of my head and neck. They never stay for very long, a threat they are not, but a pest they are, in a moderate crowd I do not catch them, but by myself and with creeping eyes alone, they stupefy me all hours that the night and day the clock has time for. I have outgrown weary of this being spied upon by shy recessive spirits of uneffusive circumstances, I am attempting to camouflage my body and mind and spirit from these calculating ethereal introverts, these bastards of imagination. And might I add, an entire village in rubble ruins and also in flame is a lot of work just to remain stable. But to create happiness, to meddle with Utopian sincerity, one must be a bastard to one race of people, a liar to others, a loser to some, and a mindbender to a chosen few and eventually a destroyer of all, only so that the utopia can be constructed of hell and lust, tears and bones and the inability to further your emotions because you’ve already seen it all. The succubus of lethargy, being too lazy to hate is the key to understanding the point of life. It makes you feel better when you allow your enemy to pass you in the fast food line, his devil is shamed and your soul warms itself, regardless if the Great Spirit has become your spiritual Lamprey or not- you shed a devious grin and an altercated vision of another mans point of view.
The house is still quiet, since I’ve begun this passage, I’ve rubbed garlic on my neck and urinated a circle around my tent that houses me, my alcohol and my typing machine, thank eternity, I haven’t heard a peep, nor have I seen a mangled mess approaching me through a beer glass reflection or the corner of my eye. Things seem quite calm at the moment. I pray to the predecessors that share my last name, and have a marble mailbox and a pine home; thanking them for the retribution my sinful sanity has provided. No fire is necessary here, not yet, anyway, my narcissistic gluttony has proved its worth, my trigger finger is now relaxed and the wailing has ceased.
Though transfixed I am, with the itches above each temple in my head, I am reminded of horns or antlers, I am stubborn to wistfully believe that I am man, animal or an un intend creation, modeled after a failed belief, survivor after a failed conception between God and beasts, a remainder that still smiles in the dark, a suicidal delight that lightning wouldn’t even touch. Bereavement is wept with miscalculated sorrows on the same scale as I was produced, as also when I die.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
FORTUNE TELLERS MAKE A KILLING THESE DAYS
“…The ‘KEEP OUT’ Sign was pushed aside, we went out and stared at the autumn leaves and danced like Gods among the stars…”
-Joe Fiction
My Canine teeth are sitting in an empty beer mug that’s now full of whole milk; I’m cleaning off the blood stains off of the wall with detergent, warm water and Colgate, the old fashioned kind. Though my right eye is swelled shut, and my glasses have been shattered and left deep cuts around my eyes and their brows, I’ve used Gorilla glue to patch up the gashes, I’ve got a magnifying glass held up in the crook of my elbow while I gently caress the mixture onto the spatter on the wall, I told my room mate Joseph we should just repaint the entire downstairs, not to mention re carpet it as well, he claims too many questions will be asked, too many bills will be raised and too many philosophies will be captivated, not to mention we will probably be publicly flogged and stoned in the cracked streets of the red white and blue Lennox Village, and that would mean bad press for our mothers, who will eventually have to come down off of their opium high to say to the press that they are sorry for the wretched souls their DNA has brought forth upon this earth. Public humiliation is far worse than being stoned to death- One still lives and limps on, with a target on his or her back, being ridiculed by a ten year old with a leash around his waist, and at the other end, an obese Barbie princess with blue hair and a Marlboro hanging out of her lips, rotted with cold sores. Fiendish howls by wolves in human skin, causing your heart to palpitate from shame. Yes, Death is far better than Humiliation.
As the glue pinching my wounds together locks together, Joseph is outside, in the backyard, bleaching the concrete and setting the rubble, trash and aftermath on fire, we’ve tossed in about a can and a half of incense, to mask the smell of bodies burnt, just in case there are any retirees around these parts, but the air is calm and quiet now, I think we’re actually in the clear, but a neighbor gets nosy, then, sadly enough, well, we’ll just have to take his or her head, fingertips, teeth and toes and bury them in an undisclosed location, Joseph, he’s in the construction business, so he knows where the best places are to bury problems. You just find out where cement and concrete are gonna be dumped two nights before, the second night, you dump the problem, cover it with lime and the next day, cement is delivered. Problem solved. If you forget the Lime, then God be with you, because once summer time arrives, it’s gonna smell like a mortuary without embalming fluid and potpourri. Joseph’s got it covered, the Bowie knife, the shovel, the lime and even the concrete, all I have to do is supply the jokes and beer just to keep things deflated.
Once the fire got roaring, he called me out there, he had two towels in his hands, the tossed me one and then we began to strip, we threw our clothes into the fire, and we even threw some more kerosene in, just for safe measures, then we rifled down a shot of Old Crow, and threw our sweat and blood covered towels into the rising flame as well. The cool night air grew stinky as we sighed and tossed our favorite shoes into the blaze; we took a few steps back and then took another shot. Joseph had to pull me away further because I didn’t notice I was standing in the smoky whirlwind, my nose was swollen and my eyes were rejecting vision altogether, I’d like to say that they were burrowing into my skull, but I got no keen introspection to back that up, I was just a smoked turkey with morbid sweats and blood under my nails. Joseph said I should probably slam my fingernails in the car door a few times so that they’d drop off, so I could eliminate the blood under them that has accumulated. I declined and rested my fingertips in a mixture of peroxide and iodine, and for every shot of Bowman’s vodka I take, another shot goes into the mix, just to help polish off the agony of another.
Now the cackle of the fire and the silhouette of the bodies Joseph describes taunt my ears as the soundtrack of White Zombie renders my imagination unstoppable, with my eyes sealed shut, I feel my ears are wide open, and even though I don’t hear any sirens, I feel like we should extinguish the fire, bag the ashes and empty it into the cloudy marsh of rainwater and sewage that are less than a block away from our scorched home. He says the bones, especially the heart(s) needs more time to break down, chemically, in the fire, and to be patient, in the mean time, he opens a beer for me and himself, lowering the paranoia level with his choice of playing “HANG ON TO YOUR EGO” by the Beach Boys.
I say, “they ran with ole’ Charlie Manson, The beach boys did…”
“Fuck, Aint that a coincidence, you want some more White Zombie, then?”
“No, this is cool.” I blindly state.
My knuckles are swollen and bruised; I hold the beer bottle to them more than I am nursing from it. Life is certainly funny; after White Zombie and the Beach Boys came a lonely ballad of Dan Reeder singing Damn, You should’ve wrote a Book in A cappella, it was slow and soothing, as my nerves released their grip, my eyelids felt soothed, I slumped down in the frozen chair in front of the blazing fire, I didn’t know what part of me need to be warmed, revitalized or what part of me needed to get under the nurturing influence of deterred cold denial and the ruthless drink. So my body relaxed and my frown eased itself into a flattened smile, I sighed and spit blood into the fire and put my broken canine tooth into an empty bottle and hid it in the trash. I figured having a broken smile was far better than a full fledged frown and anyone who is willing to accept that smile will be a veteran of spiritual warfare, a castaway of someone else’s dreams.
Their lives and souls are far too fragile and cryptic to judge, because everyone knows he who is riddled with sin he can not judge anyone more than he already judges himself. Sinners we are, and as Sinners we stick together, the tightest band of honest thieves you will ever meet, the reformed spiritual gangsters we are, we will never achieve perfection and we know that, we mope in reality and succeed in tragedy, trouble is our neighbor and sorrow is our friend, and we cant help but to be the red cross of those that trespass against us. Weep not for us brothers; our sins are there to help guide you through your own.
-Joe Fiction
My Canine teeth are sitting in an empty beer mug that’s now full of whole milk; I’m cleaning off the blood stains off of the wall with detergent, warm water and Colgate, the old fashioned kind. Though my right eye is swelled shut, and my glasses have been shattered and left deep cuts around my eyes and their brows, I’ve used Gorilla glue to patch up the gashes, I’ve got a magnifying glass held up in the crook of my elbow while I gently caress the mixture onto the spatter on the wall, I told my room mate Joseph we should just repaint the entire downstairs, not to mention re carpet it as well, he claims too many questions will be asked, too many bills will be raised and too many philosophies will be captivated, not to mention we will probably be publicly flogged and stoned in the cracked streets of the red white and blue Lennox Village, and that would mean bad press for our mothers, who will eventually have to come down off of their opium high to say to the press that they are sorry for the wretched souls their DNA has brought forth upon this earth. Public humiliation is far worse than being stoned to death- One still lives and limps on, with a target on his or her back, being ridiculed by a ten year old with a leash around his waist, and at the other end, an obese Barbie princess with blue hair and a Marlboro hanging out of her lips, rotted with cold sores. Fiendish howls by wolves in human skin, causing your heart to palpitate from shame. Yes, Death is far better than Humiliation.
As the glue pinching my wounds together locks together, Joseph is outside, in the backyard, bleaching the concrete and setting the rubble, trash and aftermath on fire, we’ve tossed in about a can and a half of incense, to mask the smell of bodies burnt, just in case there are any retirees around these parts, but the air is calm and quiet now, I think we’re actually in the clear, but a neighbor gets nosy, then, sadly enough, well, we’ll just have to take his or her head, fingertips, teeth and toes and bury them in an undisclosed location, Joseph, he’s in the construction business, so he knows where the best places are to bury problems. You just find out where cement and concrete are gonna be dumped two nights before, the second night, you dump the problem, cover it with lime and the next day, cement is delivered. Problem solved. If you forget the Lime, then God be with you, because once summer time arrives, it’s gonna smell like a mortuary without embalming fluid and potpourri. Joseph’s got it covered, the Bowie knife, the shovel, the lime and even the concrete, all I have to do is supply the jokes and beer just to keep things deflated.
Once the fire got roaring, he called me out there, he had two towels in his hands, the tossed me one and then we began to strip, we threw our clothes into the fire, and we even threw some more kerosene in, just for safe measures, then we rifled down a shot of Old Crow, and threw our sweat and blood covered towels into the rising flame as well. The cool night air grew stinky as we sighed and tossed our favorite shoes into the blaze; we took a few steps back and then took another shot. Joseph had to pull me away further because I didn’t notice I was standing in the smoky whirlwind, my nose was swollen and my eyes were rejecting vision altogether, I’d like to say that they were burrowing into my skull, but I got no keen introspection to back that up, I was just a smoked turkey with morbid sweats and blood under my nails. Joseph said I should probably slam my fingernails in the car door a few times so that they’d drop off, so I could eliminate the blood under them that has accumulated. I declined and rested my fingertips in a mixture of peroxide and iodine, and for every shot of Bowman’s vodka I take, another shot goes into the mix, just to help polish off the agony of another.
Now the cackle of the fire and the silhouette of the bodies Joseph describes taunt my ears as the soundtrack of White Zombie renders my imagination unstoppable, with my eyes sealed shut, I feel my ears are wide open, and even though I don’t hear any sirens, I feel like we should extinguish the fire, bag the ashes and empty it into the cloudy marsh of rainwater and sewage that are less than a block away from our scorched home. He says the bones, especially the heart(s) needs more time to break down, chemically, in the fire, and to be patient, in the mean time, he opens a beer for me and himself, lowering the paranoia level with his choice of playing “HANG ON TO YOUR EGO” by the Beach Boys.
I say, “they ran with ole’ Charlie Manson, The beach boys did…”
“Fuck, Aint that a coincidence, you want some more White Zombie, then?”
“No, this is cool.” I blindly state.
My knuckles are swollen and bruised; I hold the beer bottle to them more than I am nursing from it. Life is certainly funny; after White Zombie and the Beach Boys came a lonely ballad of Dan Reeder singing Damn, You should’ve wrote a Book in A cappella, it was slow and soothing, as my nerves released their grip, my eyelids felt soothed, I slumped down in the frozen chair in front of the blazing fire, I didn’t know what part of me need to be warmed, revitalized or what part of me needed to get under the nurturing influence of deterred cold denial and the ruthless drink. So my body relaxed and my frown eased itself into a flattened smile, I sighed and spit blood into the fire and put my broken canine tooth into an empty bottle and hid it in the trash. I figured having a broken smile was far better than a full fledged frown and anyone who is willing to accept that smile will be a veteran of spiritual warfare, a castaway of someone else’s dreams.
Their lives and souls are far too fragile and cryptic to judge, because everyone knows he who is riddled with sin he can not judge anyone more than he already judges himself. Sinners we are, and as Sinners we stick together, the tightest band of honest thieves you will ever meet, the reformed spiritual gangsters we are, we will never achieve perfection and we know that, we mope in reality and succeed in tragedy, trouble is our neighbor and sorrow is our friend, and we cant help but to be the red cross of those that trespass against us. Weep not for us brothers; our sins are there to help guide you through your own.
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