Jet Setters; Or, The Successful Man

Men who blame little things on others rather than embarrass themselves.
Men who breathe loudly when they read books about business.
Men who wake up in a bad mood every morning.
Men who pay more attention to their cell phone’s mood than their wife’s.
Men who order too much food and eat half of it.
Men who have one tone of voice.
Men who finger the pages of travel magazines for their wife’s sake.
Men who have an opinion on everything.
Men who say one thing and do another.
Men who have the power to enact change in the world.

Dime

A seriously hot female. Eyes, legs, tummy, hair, tits, smile, butt, everything, all perfect.

Ten cent coin. Can buy you a few extra minutes at the parking meter.

To rat on someone to the authorities. A cheap move that’ll get your punk ass shot.

Ten bucks worth of marijuana. Gets the job done.

A defensive play in football. Great for when the offense is using four wide receivers.

An assist in basketball. Teamwork makes the dream work.

A thousand dollars. Not bad for a day’s work.

A very precise point. If you can turn or stop on one, you’re good.

Hobo Cigarette

Hunt around bus stops and by park benches and on sidewalks outside of clubs and under barstools and in ashtrays outside of offices. After long enough, you’ll find enough cigarette butts. Like fresh snowflakes, each one has its own irregularly smushed and wrinkled shape.

Unwrap each one, one by one, and collect the few remaining flakes of unused tobacco. It adds up quicker than you think.

Get some rolling papers. These are cheaper than dirt and sold at your local gas station or convenience store.

Roll your gathered tobacco flakes into their happy new home.

Enjoy yourself. You deserve it.

Models

Models models we got models which models ya want? Models to flaunt models to daunt models with so many specs your current wrecks will be perplexed. I expect ya know the specs so I’ll show ya the rest. We got the best, they got the hottest effects. Lots of models to hold to ya chest. Here’s ten, eleven, and then eighteen that’ll make you scream because it seems these machines are your dreams. Models to model. Models to cuddle. Models to coddle and fondle. Pay up and you’ll get laid up, you’ll stay up to date. These models are great.

Take A Break And Walk Around

That night, all of the framed portraits and photographs hanging on the walls of his house began talking. It was deafening. Older versions of all of his relatives – older versions of himself – pontificated with each other until everyone was yelling.

He got caught up in an argument with his thirteen year-old self. Then his grandmother in the seventies.

Finally he had to leave and take a walk through the suburban streets. Out where he could think in silence, he realized something. If the house was so full of noise, was it really a home? Or more like a zoo?

Slippery

Walking briskly down wet pavement, she slipped and fell. As soon as the blood droplets started to form she looked away. Blood reminded her too much of her own mortality. But she forced herself to look—at the small cuts slanting this way and that, at the dirty asphalt rocks that knit their way into the flat part of her knee, and after awhile she forgot about the disgust, the fear, the anxiety.

She looked up and around to the grey sky and down to the wet pavement. She smiled that she was alive enough to breath, to bleed, to feel.

Things I am thankful for in no particular order

Health, both mental and physical

Great friends, ones that have been on journeys with you in the past and those that are currently on the one you’re trekking on now

Family that’s there for you no matter what

Music

Logic

Spirituality in the least expected places

My dog, who is getting older and older and getting more and more white hair on his big dog face every time I see him

The ability to see outside of myself, my situation, my self-constructed world

Mindfulness

Bright colors

Dexterity

Warmth in winter

Guilt-free relaxation

Ability to learn, to create, to do

Grace

Honey, will you say a little something for grace before we dig into dinner? Mom just asked me.

Oh jeez. I don’t even believe in god. I can’t say that though. I don’t think I even remember that meal prayer I used to say religiously—hah—like the pledge of allegiance before every meal when I was a kid. Something about bless you oh lord…

Honey?

Um. I stared down at my plate.

I am thankful for health, friends, and family. Let’s take a moment to think about what we’re all thankful for. Amen.

Great grace, honey, Mom smiled at me.

Thankful

Son, did you give grandma her meds?

Yup. She can’t have solids yet right?

Only broth for now.

Okay, what about mom? Is she still having her anxiety attack?

No, she drank some water and is calming down in the closet.

That’s good. Is there anything I can pick up at the store for you?

Yeah, can you get me some Nyquil or cough syrup? I think I have the flu.

Oh, no not you, too.

I’m afraid so, son. Your old man is…well, old! Hah.

It’s been a rough year, hasn’t it?

Yes, but we’re all here. That’s important.

Christmas Letter

Dear Santa,

This Christmas I want a world without global warming because I’m scared my property in Florida will be submerged if carbon dioxide levels continue unchecked. I’m appealing to you because all of the talking heads, politicians, psuedo-hippies, and green engineers can’t seem to do anything about it, and maybe only Christmas magic will make the threat disappear. In any case, the joyful Christmas spirit will live on in me regardless of what happens to the world in the barren non-Christmas months. Oh yes, can you make gas prices go down too? My Porsche only takes Premium.

Love,
Robert

Work As Usual

As the researchers came back to rinse their plates, Sarah, the cook, tried to act as she always did. “Where’re you headed today?”
Last night she had refused to talk, had left when the food ran out. Her wedding ring was missing and her father had had a heart attack.
This morning she felt guilty and her ankle ached from falling, drunk, from the step of her trailer the night before. The researchers were themselves, the Sierra Nevada were themselves, even the frosted morning was itself. If only Bishop were closer to her distant, struggling father.
The milk needed refilling.

Eagle Ritual

We sang until our lungs fell open and released seas of joy to cascade into our knees. The first eagles appeared soaring high above the gentle tree-covered hill, and their numbers swelled until the sky turned dark and the blue spaces between their golden feathers became fairies who dripped sun onto our heads. Our ancient song made us dance, as it always has. The eagles screamed one after another, filling the holes in our song to make a blanket of sound that kept us warm as we waded into the river. When we were all submerged, the ritual was complete.

A Confident Woman In A New Dress

And in the middle of all these strangers, she felt a certain shyness. It seemed every direction she turned, another pair of eyes was just looking away, and it made her feel as if her new dress was perhaps a mistake. The flower print felt conspicuous in a tangle of gray overcoats. Her bare legs shivered, one at a time. She was late, so she put her eyes on her feet and strode through the crowd. But a man in the crowd saw her and tapped her on the shoulder. She stopped, looked up, and fell into his gray eyes.

24 Magazines

It’s business week, and, without going into details, I’m an entrepreneur. I know it’s not in vogue in the recession, but don’t be mad that I jet across the Atlantic monthly (it’s o.k., I’ve got a fortune). Time is money, and it doesn’t take an economist to figure out that maxim. I’m an esquire by profession, and both my car and driver are in style. My girlfriend, a real cosmo New Yorker, is good at a whole lot more than good housekeeping.

People, listen: you can’t just sit and watch the world spin; you’ve gotta live life with some glamour.

Thanksgiving

Mom and dad are drunk and passed out at the table. Uncle Will says not to expect any Christmas presents from him because he “put a whole goddamn paycheck on the Raiders game and the goddamn Raiders couldn’t get a first down if it meant getting head from the goddamn Virgin Mary.” My older sister is hitting on our greasy neighbor (who’s only over because my parents feel bad for him) who has been eye-fucking Aunt Cindy all night. My little brother spilled half the cranberry sauce on the carpet, the dog licked it up, and they both have diarrhea.

Shakes on a Plane

“I’ve never flown on a plane before.”

“Oh really? It’s fun.”

“Is it scary?”

“No, it’s kinda fun.”

“I’m scared.”

“You can hold my hand.”

“OK.”

“We’re going to take off soon.”

“Oh Jesus. Why is the plane moving?”

“We’re going to take off soon.”

“Oh Jesus. Oh Lord.”

“How’re you doing?”

“Oh Jesus.”

“Hey look, we’re already in the air.”

“Is this really happening?”

“It’s happening. You can keep holding my hand.”

“OK.”

“What’re those bags for?”

“Sometimes people get sick and throw up in them.”

She closes her eyes and puts her head back. “This is some bullshit.”

Two Writing Strategies

Hemingway didn’t write descriptive scenes because he didn’t want to imagine settings because he was perpetually drunk. He wanted action and connections. Nuances could go to hell for all he was concerned.
I’ve heard of a writer who believes verbs are killing the English language, and wrote a novel without verbs. The book was two-hundred pages loaded with the static description of a train in motion, from the people huddling inside the frosted windows to the smoke blowing off into the blue night. She was probably not drunk.
I think they’re both right, though I think both their books suck.

Hot and Cold

I hate warm weather. I love it right now. Cold, dreary. It’s excellent.

How can you love coldness? The sun is so beckoning, so warm.

It can still be sunny if it’s cold.

Fine. But summer is warmth! It brings better moods and longer days and better fashion!

You mean skimpier fashion. What about long coats and fur hats and boots?

Fine, well summer has more colors and flowers and life.

Winter is cozy. It bring people together, and the snow has been compared to a “wonderland.”

But you freeze in the snow.

You burn in the heat.

Hmph.

Hmph.

Wonderland?

One foot in front of the other.

“That’s right, you must jump.”

Terror grips me. I am so far off the ship, and so far down the plank. There is no turning back, so I jumped.

But I do not hit water. I hit air. Cold, black air. An endless tunnel with operatic voices surrounding me with their music. And after many moments, I fall like shattered glass onto none other than a large bundle of petals. I am tiny, apparently.

“Is this…wonderland?” I venture.

“But of course not,” a large alpaca says, grazing on umbrellas stalks, “you’re in Kansas.”

Itchy

Steve itched and itched until he could stand it no longer. He gave into the primal urge—the urge to scratch. He scratched everywhere. His arms, his legs, his back, his torso, his head, everywhere until he realized...he had scratched his entire skin off, but not in a grotesque way. No, he was a whole new person, a whole new creature! He had shiny blue scales that lined his bones like armor, and were smooth and cool like a pistol. And he was no longer itching! Hoorah for dino scales! Now he could rawr with the the kids in the playground.

DNA translation

“I see it!” the small ribosome said, “Look at mRNA over there with her cute G-cap.”

The big ribosome came booming over right away, “yo, tee, get over here and see what my A-game is all about.”

“Oh, I see you, bringing your A-game, and tell you what, I got a pretty excited amino acid here, ready to get super polypeptided up!”

“You bitches, you know you can’t do that without me,” butted in Peptidyl Transferase.

SHIFT!

“Aha!” PT said, “now you, tRNA, can move to P and then to E and get the hell outta here!”

“You got it!”

A Cold Walk

My extremities were so cold that I could no longer feel them, but I supposed that if I took an average of my entire body, I’d’ve said I was warm. So I kept walking.

“How long ‘til we get there?”

I shrugged. I didn’t know, so it was better to keep walking than make up some arbitrary number to keep this child entertained.

“Hey! I asked you a question!”

I stopped, squatted down and looked the little girl straight in the eye.”

“As long as it takes for a hufflufugus to turn into a minipony.”

“Ohhhhhh.”

And we kept walking.

Practice

Momma says eye have to practice righting because I’m not very good at it. She says I need to expand my vocabruary a bite more. ‘Cuz I’m a groan kid now. I’m getting big, all right. Yesterday, I ate fore types of peetsa. Anyway, I’m supposed to practice righting, write? So I guess I’ll right about my feelers. And how I feel write now is really exited. Why, you axe? Because tomollow is spearit day for school, and we get to dress up in lotsa bright colors. I’m gonna be a superheroe. Anyway, that’s it four now. Catch ya later.

They Are Coming, Wrap Yourself In The Quilt

Quick now, wrap yourself in this quilt, they may not see you. It’s your mother’s quilt yes, the seams are torn and it smells like dust, but you must escape. Trust me, I know your mother intimately. Do you hear their steps on the drive? Someday yes, this may be over and maybe we will all return to how you remember it, but now is not the time to trace the patterns of your mother’s needlework. No, you may not get the sewing kit! Come back here! Please, get in the quilt, we must hide you. They are coming now.

christmas sweater

christmas sweater with fake jewels
you’re on my body
during school
with a kitten staring out of my chest

your sleeves are too short
you stretch into my armpits
with your dusty christmas cheer

are you happy now
that you hold me like a fever

the eyes
of passersby rub up and down my torso
caressing the cartoon christmas
on my sweater
no better season to wear you

found in a box
today you find your platform

you glow up around my chin
and fog my glasses with hot cocoa steam
you make me dream
of ill-fitting outerwear
that’s you

A Trilobite Older Than God Himself

“So this trilobite fossil is over 250 million years old.”

The kids oohed.

One piped up, “Is that before God was born?”

Before the teacher could answer, another answered, “No, God was born after the dinosaurs.”

A lively discussion erupted around the table. Assertions were made left and right.

Finally, half-giggling, the teacher got their attention and said, “You know, as geologists, we don’t really talk about that too much.”

Later, the same kid told everyone in response to something else, “That’s because the earth came from the stars.”

Again, he was corrected. “No, the earth came from the sun!”

Monday (These days mean nothing more than a Set Of Seven Stories)

Gerald walked into Vibe Music with a dimple in his cheek. He only had dimples when he smiled. Everything was on sale. And unlike the pesky new franchise stores popping up in the middle of town, when Vibe Music said everything, they meant everything. Somehow you could never overappreciate the value of open honesty over cold capitalism. He found a Pink Floyd remaster and fished out his wallet. He already owned every song but a true fan shows their love no matter what. And maybe they had turned out something different this time. It was so cheap he couldn’t resist.

Tuesday

The inside of a cloud is freezing cold and bitter. Ice so frigid is burns rakes against your skin, as you, the cloudclimber, attempt to resurface and reach the summit. For that is the most difficult part of being a cloudclimber, child. Falling in. Once you’re in, there’s nothing around. It’s dark in there. Clouds look white because they reflect all the light right back out – on the inside it’s a cold, black, jagged hell.

That is why you must never fall into a cloud. Its delightful, wispy shell has lured many a marshmallow loving adventurer to their stormy death.

Wednesday

Potato sacks filled with green beets sit on the dirt curb of a dirt road.

The road shouldn’t consist of just dirt. Perhaps it doesn’t, perhaps it’s just dirty. It’s in the middle of a middleclass suburb.

Watch Mary Soccermom drive along it to drop her retarded child off at special school. She doesn’t stop to notice the sacks of beets. No one does.

No one is willing to sacrifice their soccermom lives and see the beets. Or notice that only this one section of road, in between Fifth and Sixth Streets, is roiling in filth.

But the beets notice.

Thursday

Sometimes the blue wind flows within the trees with all the richness of a tasty deep-noon sky and I look at this petit hill and ponder. Inside of every acorn is a large tree. But inside every large tree are hundreds of acorns. Which, then is more special? The acorn, which can hold inside it a tree thousands of times its own size? Or the tree, which can produce thousands of these tiny miraculous things?

When the wind blows hair into my eyes I smile. When it rains hard, I smile. Mishap isn’t anything like injury. It is a pulse.

Friday

Susan, come get this file from me.
As soon as my nails dry. Yes Ma’am, right away.
Susan, what do I pay you for?
To paint my nails, stupid bitch. I understand Ma’am, I’ll be right there.
Tell me, why does my husband cheat on me?
I’m sorry Ma’am?
Frankly. I feel it must be related to me, so out with it.
Because he likes to taste me. I’m not quite sure what you mean, Ma’am?
Oh, fiddlesticks Susan, fiddlesticks. Everyone here knows. Look at them.
Well you hired them all, Ma’am, you are the boss.
So it would seem.

Saturday

Freedom reigns eternal.

Nothing enters dystrophy without first desiring it. Not a leaf, not a pillow, not a bowling pin. Everything must be dead. At the end of his life, he too would be dead. But he would have to require it. He would have to need it, to feel it. He wasn’t sure what would have to change for that shift to arise.

He bit an unripe apple and held the brown, grainy goop in between his teeth. He swished his tongue slowly through the pulp, which warmed up as he held it in his mouth. Then he swallowed.

Sunday

I must lay my weary head. Before I do so I must count woodgrains on a table, or mold a sculptural representation of angst out of playdough. This way only truly will I sleep the sleep of hollow tubes, will I dream of Georgian fissures swallowing my viscous self, will I encounter small beasts larger than the elegant imagination can hold.

I must do these things. Otherwise…

I am not oh-see-dee, no perhaps I have a personality disorder though. Come and diagnose me, oh thou with a doctorate. You just try. I will be sitting here with my playdough.

A Dedicated Writer

The writer sat on the ground for he had no chair. He used a candle for it was nighttime and he had no lamp. He steadied his elbow on his knee for he had no table. And he drank nothing, though he would have appreciated some strong black coffee. He wrote on toilet paper because he had no other medium. And he wrote with a piece of burnt wood because he had no pen. And soon his back started to ache, his feet went numb, and he eyesight became hazy and weak. But he wrote because he knew he could.

An Unforgiven Dinner

Verily, my dear.

Pray tell, what do you speak of?

Forsooth, I vouchsafe the importance of this treaty.

Prithee, dear wife, I do not know what treaty you doth speak of.

I crave your pardon! Methinks you forgot the guinea fowl?

Fie me! You, sir, are still tiffed about the foul fowl?

Perchance…

Apologies! Apologies, for godsake. Apologies, quoth I mayhap a dozen times.

(Silence).

Out upon it! I will not stand for this any longer. I pray you find faith in my hands once again.

‘Twas a sorry site, my dear. But yes, good. I shall forgive thee, methinks.

Various Snippets of Various Conversations in the dark

It’s super dark out.

I don’t seem to remember the stars actually twinkling that much.

Twinkle twinkle little star…

What do you think about this one: If I were a meteor, I would shower you and sparks would fly!

Oh, yay! I just saw one!

Where? I keep missing them!

This would be really romantic if we weren’t lying on wet grass.

There’s another one!

My toes are popsicles.

Wow, yeah that one was raging.

Does Orion’s left shoulder look a little reddish to you?

I thought I saw a slow one, but it turned out to be a plane.

Apples and Peanuts

An unlikely couple.

He, a Legume from South America. She, a Rosaceous from Turkey.

She, a fearless individual with a red-fierce outer skin deceiving the world about her soft-pale insides.

He, inseparable from his twin, within a brittle shell that cracks to reveal an equally rigid inside.

She loves pies and cider; he loves baseball games and M&M’s. Sauce was always an option for each, but rarely did they mix.

Beneath these stark differences developed a fertile ground for wild romance.

As cupid took aim and shot the slice of apple into the butter of peanuts, the marriage was consummated.

Accidental Pierre Menard

When he finished reading Borges’ story “Pierre Menard, Author of Don Quixote”, he shook his head and chuckled. At his desk inside, he began writing. Each day he wrote – something new every time he sat down. Today the story took hours to work itself out, like a snake unkinking and stretching in his mind.
The next morning his friend called.
“Why did you send me that story again?”
“Again?”
“You wrote that months ago.”
“No, I wrote it last night. It took me hours. Wait... I remember! Did I really write the same story twice? What are the odds!”

Schizophrenia

I’m hearing really really scary and bad things. I hear them and I see them.

Reality check!

They are monks, medieval monks, with hoods and cloaks. They have bleeding faces. And they are in this room. They are lining the walls!

Reality check!

They tell me things. You’re a useless good-for-nothing no-good. You’re worthless. You’re an embarrassment to yourself and everyone around you. No one likes you. If you think they do you’re stupid, they’re just pretending.

Reality check?

They’re touching me! One of them just touched me! It’s cold and slimy! GET AWAY. AWAY. REALITY CHECK. I’M TRAPPED.

This is spastic

Andre-- for some reason I don't have Harley chris and lukes email saved, please forward this to them.

Yo kids. Tonight was legit. And tho I was so drunk I shudnt have remembered my own name, I remembered the lasting impression of how insufficient self expression is when covering ones face with a burka. I will fight unroll you get reimbursed by Stanford for providing me this cultural experience. At every point in the evening when i felt i had something important or socially-relevany to share, i took off my burka. This experience has been markedly influencual. Thank you all!

A Bit Of Ore

Saul Dirtson clutched the grimy bit of ore in his fat fingers and walked between the ruts dug into the main street. He had happened across it the night before when he was out near the mines looking for the shapes of bats and making up poetry to recite to the stars. On his bedstand, it glimmered as he dreamed. Though he had grown up in a town that shoveled every hour for beautiful minerals, this was the most exquisite and unexpected rock he had ever seen. Now he walked to find someone who could tell him what it was.

Pants, Marbles

I got up today when He picked me up and put me on. He forgot the belt, and all day I was caught in a struggle between friction and gravity. My legs were rolled up sometime in the middle of the day, and when it grew dark, they were rolled down again. Eventually, She took me off and I got to sleep again.

Laughing, he flung marbles at each wall. They bounced off at every angle and came together again in an instantaneous explosion above his head! Lightning flashed and silvery fragments fluttered down all around, splashing into the carpet.

The Sleeping Warrior

The warrior lay sleeping in the valley as the winds charged down the mountainsides. His bronzed arms lay like knotted vines across fallen chunks of granite; his massive chest rose and fell like the waves on an uncertain sea. Soon it began to snow. White flakes flecked his beard and his exposed forehead changed to a bright shade of red. As the night carried him around the world, rising snowdrifts hedged him in.
Later, as morning came, a bird flitted over his head, first landing on the snow, then hopping across his frosted breastplate, leaving its claw prints on both.

Gangsta Rap

The hustle the grime the grit the tenacity the swag the money the loyalty the slang the style the rhymes the beats the airtime the bounce the legacy the remixes the respect the metaphors the rags-to-riches the cars the sense of humor the truth the dance moves the irreverence the exaggeration the confidence the thug passion baby the creativity the tall tees the crisp fitteds the sex the impulsivity the self-reflection the hate the game the battles the movies the graffi the reputations the hooks the gestures the simplicity the Gucci and the Luis V and the Patron the lifestyle.

Question Everything

Does wisdom really begin in wonder?
Why do you ask me this?
Is time really money?
Oh well.
Is laughter really the best medicine?
Maybe.
Do good things really come in small packages?
Whatever.
Is hay really for horses?
Umm.
Is honesty really the best policy?
Yes?
Is life really a journey, and really not a destination?
No?
Is necessity really the mother of invention?
Gahhh.
Is fact really stranger than fiction?
Propeller.
Does every picture really tell a story?
Titanium.
Can man really not live by bread alone?
Maybe, I guess.
Is knowledge really power?
How should I know.

Public

Some people have a problem just being in public. You look at them and their existence just doesn’t make sense to you. You wonder how they operate. You wonder how their lineage survived natural selection. Try as you might, you can’t imagine any situation in which this person could be remotely smooth or charismatic. You want to help them out, but not if it involves getting anywhere near them.

I imagine these people only ever hit their stride when they’re on their own, on their computer, in their room, writing vague diatribes about how weird other people are. Fucking weirdos.

Dear Sleep

Dear sleep,

I missed you last night. I had homework to do. But I finished!

Did you miss me? Tell me that you missed me. Tell me that other people don’t dream dreams like what I dream.

I’ll see you soon. I’ve been thinking about tonight all day. I had to drink some coffee just so I could stop thinking about you.

You know I need you. Sometimes I wish I didn’t but you know I need you. My eyeballs feel weird and I have no appetite when we’re apart for a while.

I’m going to bed. See you soon.

an affair

the place smelled of musk and lime

scents reminiscent of that sweet time

and oh, the time it was, so utterly divine

but as usual the clock must chime

and chime it must, and chime it did

but we lingered, we waited

waited for the sign, so inflated

with pregnant pauses that hibernated

in the space between us.

but we still did not move, we did not budge

we were too scared, too old to misjudge

but the place smelled of musk and lime

of the things we do against spare time

of the things we do, partners in crime

Rationalisation

Rationalisation: cognitive striving for consistency with reason.

There is usually a negative connotation assigned to the concept of rationalization, as often times it can act as a defense mechanism or a means to conceal the true intentions. This is one type of rationalization: one that allows the individual to avoid an unfavorable situation or to go through with one where an individual has something to gain. The other type is positive rationalization, which is used to convince an individual against “bad” habits or cognitive behaviors. This type needs to be much stronger than the former in order to be effective.

The Conference Table

The CEO bit into an apple and made a face. He had just brushed his teeth and now there was that awful bitter taste in his mouth. The woman across the conference table thought he was grimacing at her and subsequently became insecure about her outfit. She smoothed out the creases on her shirt, but was doing so around her chest, so the CEO thought she was flirting with him. He was torn between condemning the unprofessional behavior and encouraging a little office romance—so he settled for something in between. She blushed deeply. Then they did it on the table.

The inside of a Key

What goes inside of the thing that is always put inside other things? There’s a title for the property such things, and it is the Russian Doll effect. But few things have this capability, simply because it is difficult and cumbersome to put multiple of the same object inside each other. They mustn’t be the same size, yet as they grow smaller they must appear the same. What goes inside of a key that doesn’t demand or consume physical size?

Promise. Of what is beyond.
Power. To get there.
Entitlement. Over property within.
Love. If it’s that type of key.

Time Isn't

Time is an evolutionarily advantageous construction based on memory that allows creatures to better predict the future and survive.

Without the ability to remember, there is no time. If there is no past, there is only now.

And if there is only now, always, then nothing is changing with respect to time because it is always now.

Life is frozen still without memory. Such life is very soon death.

To survive, we must know how to exist in Now successfully by remembering past Nows so we can recognize when similar Nows occur and act fittingly.

Without life, time doesn’t exist.

Dinner time

I can’t eat until I write eighteen things I learned in school today. Mum said I actually had to write twenty but I’ve already done two, look.

1. Acrylic paint doesn’t actually wash off.
2. Mum likes her jewelry the color she bought it.

I think if I was a fairy I’d want to give myself a tail, a large orange tail soft as a unicorn’s. Then I’d want to fly. But Mum says that’s clichéd. I don’t know what that is but it’s bad because it means I’m not creative and I want to be an artist one day.

Another Place

I’m flying through nothing very fast, then I land. And I land far from here. Far geographically, certainly; but also far emotionally. Where I land things are different and I too am different. There isn’t, anymore.

Now I have landed.

The plastic store signs are dirty and colorful. Japanese-looking stylized scrawl punctuates each store-front board’s ragged proclamations. There are no people here, yet. I think they will come soon, bringing noise and energy and liveliness. Perhaps not liveliness, I may be beyond that. I feel happier. Happier because I feel safe. I am lost, but secure. And that feels wonderful.

An Awkward Tale

Here’s an awkward tale from my day. I was taking some photos of a Welsh poet, the National Poet of Wales no less, when an old man barely sturdy enough to perch in a motorized mobility chair sets himself up in the front row. With the ungainly fragility of a freeze-dried newborn calf he makes his way delicately from his transport and into the seat. At any moment everything could go wrong. With offered and entirely necessary assistance refused in favor of upholding nebulous notions of contrived masculinity, he at once plops into the seat. With pride, he carefully farts.

Up And Away

I became aware that my butt was sagging into the couch. The computer was boring my eyeballs out and my stomach had settled in my abdomen like a mound of pudding. Yes indeed, this was relaxation. No, indeed not! I threw my computer aside! I leaped up, jumped around the room on one foot for no reason, held my bloated head in agony for a few minutes, and sprinted down the stairs! Freedom in the rainy day! Responsibility, what’s that? Not quite yet, first I must do a somersault, then another, then a jog step, then a spin walk move!

My first doo doo.

My first doo doo came out before I did. Yep, I released my first poop inside of mom. And then she released her first Michael into the world. It was a medical emergency whose name I forget.

I was born surrounded in my own poo. My mom thinks it makes me happy to hear it looked more like weird mustard than like poo.

I bet my dad thought it was really gross and really learned what love means, beyond what he learned in Disney movies. I’m not sure if he ever even watched those.

My parents are pretty cool people.

Nearby.

There is a water bottle sitting on my shelf filled with orange vodka. The vodka is flavored like skittles candy. When you drink the liquid you at once hate yourself for absorbing such an absurd substance, and wish you had consumed more.

How fortunate! There is more!

I might have another dose. It’s like medicine, except different in every way.

Underneath the orange vodka is a dinosaur. The dinosaur is named Terry, and he’s fairly docile. Sometimes he wakes me up in the morning with a quick nip on my nose. He’s only about the size of a house cat.

A Mechanic Explains His Tattoos

My tattoos are of maps, for I am a cartographer. When I see things, I map them. For example, I work at a mechanics shop, and the other day three girls walked in. After talking to them for ten minutes about their muffler, I could draw a map of them. I did not show them of course. Maps, to me, define things, but retain their beauty. I could write a million novels about those girls, but the description would still be cold. Maps are the opposite; they’re faithful. For that reason, I have drawn onto my body maps of ink.

An Essay To Write

An essay to write, a monster to fight

A dragon to slay, a torch to light

The things to learn

The world that madly spins and turns

In endless successions of sunrises and sunsets

That we seldom see

Caught up in the tangling nets

Of all the infinite things we try to be

On our way to the sea

That someday not too long now will swallow

Us down to the chaos where the fish tumble

Are these things hollow?

Am I surrounding myself with traps that make me stumble?

Are my eyes blind to being,

What am I seeing?

On the radio

I’m waaaaaaaaaay dniheb the dampened dam and fortress of foundries...

...the best luck of them all results in

one

tingle

of

charm...

...and then the astronaut went KABLOOOOOOooooooie to the moon...

...But the cigarette posting did not hold,

and much,

if not all,

was lost...

...thoughts come in waves, in centuries of peaks and white surf...

...every now and then I fall flat on my supple face but

sometimes I find that I have fallen into

a pillow...

As the wheels played round and round, they could no longer pretend to be listening to The Radio alone, locked in her room.

Miss Margaret

Emotions spun around the room like the tails of multi-colored birds as Miss Margaret and Mr Scott sat across from each other in the teahouse.

“My it is a lovely day,” Miss Margaret twisted a ringlet of brown hair on her pinky finger.

“Why yes, it is,” Mr Scott said, sipping his tea absentmindedly but pointedly during the period of expected response.

“Have you spoken to your wife?”

Then Margaret smiled like a peacock with pride and feathers, all aloof in the forest—trees and vines feigning nonchalance. But he was not fooled. No, he was not to be fooled.

The Crux Of The Mall, Or, Goldfish Love

“Chlorox is undoubtedly the answer to every problem.”
I listened for the source of the godlike voice and thought about my goldfish. It was having relationship problems. I didn’t think Chlorox would help.
I stood in the crux of the mall, in each direction stretched an esplanade of polished floors and tropical plant medians. The spectacle was confusing. I was searching for a gerbil.
“Buy Chlorox now. Now now.”
Climbing an indoor palm tree, I yelled, “GERBIL!” My goldfish could probably hear from back home as I shook coconuts into the crowded mall. Oh the things you do for love.

Feminism

“There still exists a dichotomy between the two culturally-created genders, and despite the so-called progress we’re seeing today, men and women are not equal. In the workplace, in virtually every realm, women are subordinates to men. Women deserve to be treated fairly, with respect, and as whole individuals. Women are not just vehicles for breasts. We are not just pita chips and hummus or carrots for ranch dressing. Or strawberries for chocolate fondue. You need to learn to appreciate everything. And I mean it. Learn to eat us as a whole.”

“PMS-ing much, honey?”

“Shut up, Bob.”

“Want chocolate?”

“…yes.”

Outline For A Delicately Argued Presentation

1. Cinammon Rolls
- Drizzled glaze
- Curled up
- Sticky fingers
2. Snoring
- Mine
a. Loud
b. Unintended
c. I’m sorry
- Yours
a. Angelic
b. Sometimes annoying
- Comparison/contrast
- Whatever
3. Dawn
- Beauty
a. Sunrise
i. Story from when we slept outside on the beach
b. You, even in the morning
- Sun
a. Metaphoric value
b. Warmth
c. Threat of sunburn
i. Sunscreen
ii. White skin
- Anticipation of breakfast
a. Cereal choice
b. Something else?
4. Conclusion
- Morning the best time of day
- Why I like you
- Things to do
a. Breakfast picnic
b. Walk to statue garden
c. Other ideas?
- That’s all!

Wanted: Best Friend

Looking for a best friend replacement.

Desired Qualities (heavily recommended, but not necessary if you feel you can bring more to the table):

Doesn’t talk too much

Has hair that doesn’t thwack people in the face

Makes jokes that are actually funny

Knows how to repair pants that he/she has borrowed, worn, and ripped

Likes to do things I do sometimes

Knows how to care for plants without killing them

No flaking on commitments

Likes cheese (this is the one deal breaker)

Won’t eat my food without me looking

Hasn’t murdered anyone and doesn’t plan to

Isn't Frank David Smith.

Qu'est-ce que je fais?

Le matin de demain est certain—oh, putain!

Je me sens un lapin qui n’a plus du bon pain

Mais que’est-ce que je fais? Jamais été née!

Non je serais le plus riée, je ne serais pas trop gai

Je pense, je rigole, je vais à mon école

Et je ne serais pas rien, rien qu’une babiole

Mais ça ne fait rien, rien rien RIEN

Ça c’est serieux, verité, la mienne, la mienne!

Mais alors, que’est-ce que je fais? Jamais agirai?

Non, c’est bête, morbid, et il faut déraciner

Tout ce que j’ai dit et rien que j’ai pensé

Rien plus.

Translation:

Tomorrow morning is certain—oh, fuck.

I feel like a rabbit who has no more bread

But what do I do? Never been born?

Non I would be the most laughed, I would not be very happy

I think, I laugh, I go to school

And I would be nothing, nothing but a trifle

But it doesn’t matter, nothing, nothing, nothing

That’s serious, the truth, mine, mine

But what do I do? Never do anything?

No, that’s stupid, morbid, and I must uproot

Everything I said and nothing I thought

Nothing anymore.

Coincidence?

A man stepped on a piece of gum on his way to work. He cursed as he tried to scrape it off by dragging his foot heavily on the concrete, gleaning annoyed glances from passerby’s. But it wouldn’t leave, so he decided it wasn’t worth it. The gum collected more and more debris as the man walked on, and oh boy, did he grumble. As he walked into his office, grumpier than ever, there was a great hubbub. Apparently a man had been knifed upon entering the office just a minute before.

The man reconsidered his feelings about the gum.

Someone Pillaged The Pie

The pie was sacred: made from the blood, sweat, and tears of the people, and some god-awful denizen rose out of hell to steal a piece—a piece that would have caused eyes to drip tears of delirious satiety. And this abysmal excuse of a human being didn’t even have the mental capacity to eat the glorious thing. No. Instead, he or she placed it on a plate, zapped it, and left it in the microwave. And THEN, he or she covered it with half a calzone, the inviable hybrid of pizza and hotpocket, and four chicken nuggets. I am disgusted.

Hollywood Clonestars

The clone intrigued Jimmy. He had never seen one before. It danced exactly as he imagined Halle Berry would, had hair like hers and kept throwing glances at him, sultry Die Another Day looks that drew him towards it like a tractor beam. He knew the whole scam behind clones; they could charge double or triple what normal girls could, and they were everywhere in the last year. And deeper than that, he felt as if they were fake, as if the skin and tight clothes would disappear. But when she touched him, dancing against him, he forgot all that.

Rehab

It was cold, so I got bored. No, when I get bored I get cold. Don’t know which causes the other. I was bored, and cold too, and there was some activity. It was an activity happening. And I don’t know what activity it was, because I wasn’t paying attention. But there was a writing on the wall. There was a writing on the wall it said “Be in Jesus”. And I thought, how. But it didn’t say more than just that. Be in Jesus. I think maybe someone changed the letters around. But I don’t know. I was cold.

In some bar

“These are rough times, Jerry, the roughest.” Toilet paper was stuck to his upper lip. I don’t think he noticed.
“That’s original, Bol,” I said back. “Where’d you come up with that?”
“They told me, that’s where.” Bol had an easy way about him, for a top-heavy ex-cowboy from west Nebraska. “They told me and I listened because I’m coy.”
You’re coy. What? “You’re coy?” I said.
“I mean,” he chewed his bottom lip, “I’m savvy. I know what’s up.” He squinted and his eyes disappeared behind a pockmarked visage of leathery wrinkles.
“Then you know you can trust me.”

Dismantled hundred

It is a terrible way to start.
So is the.
A is equally bad.
Sun sets. But is a cliché.

Some strawberries with red wine.

Often nouns start awkwardly.

Adjective nouns verb adverbly.

Words paint literary portraits.

First second first second.

Sound pumps musical iron.

First second first second.

A
B
A
B
C
B
C
A.

Means that all the lines rhyme with each other.

Means:

A
A
A
A
A
A
A
A.

There are tarts
That taste like farts
And I throw darts
From moving carts
But easy-marts
Have such slow starts
Dismantled parts
And crimson hearts.

Fashion Pirate

The pants were purple and she was brown. Sixteen tubes of toothpaste and her teeth glowed white, just as promised. The color combination made her resemble a Cadbury chocolate bar when she smiled – fully a glass and a half. The echo of chameleonist norms rattled the inside her head when she listened. They either moved in sync or out of sync, waves slamming the burnt coast or receding from it, yet they were there and it was they she fought. An orange blouse on her back and bright green beads on her ears. This was where wars were won.

Tired Building

The air smoked.
No cigarettes necessary.
There was so much haze already inside the cavernous hall
that it simply propagated itself.
Like rabbits, the wafts intermingled and
bred,
spawning new blue-grey curls
of carcinogenic vapor.

Cement floor looked up and
winced.
A foot had just slammed
down
on
it.
Hundreds had.
When you’re the floor it’s hard to look up
without getting a bunch of feet in your eye.

The walls drooped away
from the sky.
They were slowly falling
towards their bases
as fast as they could compress.

The building was tired.
It had been here
its whole life.

The Thrift Store

Watching hope filter arched
Ringlets through
Gilded mesh

Snippets of delinquent garments lie
Here.
Tossed and carried,
Alighted and harried,
Divorced and married.
Such is a store
Of thrift.

Brandishing plumes of garish steel
Sits one.
It peeks and retreats
Blindly perceiving
Mildly conceiving.

Ten cents is nine cents plus one cent.
Nothing except a cent can be added to cents but sense.
Yet he dispenses with sense and spends immense
Cents

Which, add up if given the appropriate
Time
And
Effort
And cause. Superfluous, casual, experimental, raucous, traditional, particular,
Eccentric,
Ego-centric,
It is here,
On a shelf.
Ten cents.

Blitz

Henry, flatten your hair!
Okay.
Okay what?
Yes, mother.
Don’t be such a disobedient twit, Henry.
No, mother.
No what?
No I won’t be?
Be what?
No I wont be, Mother.
Good Grief Henry, you’re enough to make a grown man cry.
Sorry, Mother.
Tell me about yourself.
I’m a lawyer now.
I don’t care, why haven’t you been in to see me recently?
I’m busy.
What on Earth could be more important than your mother?
Nothing, Mother.
The doctors say I haven’t more than a month left.
I’m sorry.
Heavens to Murgatroyd Henry, it’s not your fault.
No, Mother.

Steven Marmo: The Bar Fighter

I left the bar behind, won’t fight no more
I left the bars behind, won’t fight no more
That life is gone, got somethin’ new in store

I bought myself a bike, I ride all through the city
I got myself a bike, ride it all through the city
That’s right, these nights it’s just my bike and me

I work all the day, my job it leaves me mad
I work all the day, my job it leaves me mad
I’ve been fightin’ anyone since I was just a lad

The bike’s my enemy,
The street’s my greatest friend.

It is autumn

The air around us is impregnated with the crispness of the leaves, falling ever so wistfully to the ground, and amber skies still glow down warmly, but with a bit more dew-forward refreshment. The dark marches into the blue with less hesitation, like a blanket sweeping over the daylit sky. And for awhile, we will lament the passing of summer—the eternal sunshine, the warm nights. But soon we all take comfort and cosy with autumn and her bosom of fires in the lounge, warm cider, and cold company seeking warmth of friends. It is autumn, and it is good.

A Trip Long Time Coming

As she sat across the travel agent, she couldn’t help but notice how cheeky the decorations of this place were. Cut outs of flamingoes and toucans were pasted up on the otherwise sterile walls accompanied by streamers and tinsel, and the sound quality coming out of those outdated speakers was enough to make a dog whimper. This place exemplified her hometown, a place she’d been living for thirty-five years.

“Would you like to pay with credit or check?”

She handed over her card.

“Thank you. Enjoy your trip to—where is it again? Let me check.”

Anywhere but here, she thought.

Elegy For Lost Thoughts

It started when I realized the moon was not a painting and as the night grew deeper my thoughts came more elegantly, drawing from me deeper and deeper levels of self-awareness. Alas! they are gone. Had I been able to capture them, they would have lived like fireflies, which I could have summoned to outline the faces of those around me or where I was treading, for they dissipated the shadows that obscure myself from me. But on my return to the mechanical light of my room, those thoughts began to flee, leaving only the inane matter of daily life.

Charge Of The Writer Brigade

The Writer Brigade charged through the room covered in blue velvet and the hall made of mirrors. They ran shoulder to shoulder with sharpened pencils pulled from behind their ears and self-assurance plaguing their faces. At last they burst into the garden, where the rest of the army was already embroiled with the enemy. They crouched on the outside, taking potshots with bits of gravel and occasionally charging, gesticulating importantly, to where no one else was. But when the battle settled and decades had passed, it was the Writer Brigade’s fame that surpassed all others, because they wrote about it.

Closet Monster Part I

When I was little, I was convinced there was a giant monster in my closet that would come out whenever I’d fall asleep. In the darkness, I’d always try to make out a fuzzy outline, a form of some sort. I was never sure whether or not it was mean and ugly or cute and cuddly, but I knew it was there. Many years later, just when I thought I had outgrown that childhood whimsy, something bizarre occurred. It was a rainy autumn night, and I had just gone to bed when a soft knock fell upon my closet door.

Closet Monster Part II

“Hello?” I said tentatively.

The door creaked open slowly, tentatively, but with purpose. For a disappointing moment, there was nothing but darkness.

Then, a vague outline made its presence known. My hand went to my table lamp, but a small voice said, “Please. We are comfortable in the darkness.”

A giant fuzzy creature wearing a fedora and peacoat stepped out onto my carpet.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, my dear. I represent the closet monsters, and we have been waiting for you.”

“Me? Why?”

“Why? To become a fuzzy closet monster, silly!” He extended a fuzzy paw. “Come with me.”

Drive Thru, Part I

After a long night partying, Steven was craving some greasy fast food. As usual, the drive-thru line was quite long around 1:30am. After all, Burger-Burger was the only place open 24/7. Why was the line moving so slow, he wondered? By the time he got to the speaker, Steven was ravenous.

“Crackle Hi, welcome to Burger-Burger crackle my name is Alan, how crackle help you?” the muffled speaker voice said.

“One double cheeseburger, a chocolate shake, and extra large fries with special sauce please.”

“Anything else crackle?”

“Nope. That’s it.”

“That’ll be—”

Silence.

Steven tapped the speaker.

“Um, hello?”

Drive Thru, Part II

The speaker crackled.

“Josh I told you crackle that nothing crackle happened.”

“Oh, your crackle just happened to thrust crackle her crackle.”

“Crackle. Look, dude put that knife down.”

“You don’t get it crackle I loved crackle and you destroyed us.”

“Josh, you’re taking this too crackle. Josh! crackle think about crackle you’re doingAHHHHH.”

Silence.

“Crackle Hello.. Sorry crackle delay. Alan is on break. I’m Josh crackle helping you tonight. You wanted one double cheeseburger, one strawberry shake, and an extra large crackle sauce?”

Steven gulped. “Chocolate Shake.”

“Thank you. Your crackle will be $5.35. Please drive crackle window, sir.”

That's like, my worst nightmare

“Oh my god, Stacy! Don’t look now, but that girl is like totally wearing the same costume as you.”

“That bitch!”

“Who would have thought that like, someone else would come to the party as a playboy-bunny-slutty-disney-princess-ladybug?”

“Slut. She like even has the same shade of lip gloss!”

“She doesn’t even like, look good.”

“I’m going to have to like, totally take control of this situation. I mean, I’m entitled to my own costume, right? I like, totally thought of it first. She’s like, totally going down.”

“Totally.”

“Oh wait, Stacy? I think we were just looking in the mirror.”