Thursday, July 28, 2005


“There is this recurring dream I’ve had since childhood. I had it again last night.”

“Yes… tell me about this dream of yours… what do you remember?” He’s impeccably dressed in tweed. I remember thinking to myself: “a bearded shrink dressed in tweed? Wow, how utterly fitting and… perfect.”

“Well, I’m standing on a beach….”

“Yes… go on.” He leans forward giving a well-rehearsed pensive look as he casually and half-heartedly pushes his glasses higher on his hooked nose.

“I’m standing on a beach all alone. The sky is red and the sand is black. Littered all about are dead horseshoe crabs. They lie on their backs with their stiff, spiny legs forever pointed skyward. There are hundreds…”

“Uh-huh… what else do you remember?” He’s writing something in his legal pad. I wish I knew what he was writing. I wish I knew what was wrong with me.

“The stench... is unendurable. It reeks of decay, sulfur, and salt. I hear the waves crashing upon the rocky shoals. They’re easily around 30 feet high.”

“Interesting…. What color is the water? Do you remember this?”

“Yes, the water is black; black as obsidian. The sky is blood red and the sea is black.”

“mmmm…” More scribbling.

“I gaze out toward the horizon… out toward the wide expanse of the ocean. It’s so large and limitless. I feel vertigo except the feeling is not caused by standing at a great vertical height, but by standing on a horizontal axis that stretches on and on forever and ever. It’s a reverse vertigo. Would that be called horzigo?”

“Heh, Heh, clever. Why I don’t know. I’ve never … ”

“So beyond the waves… out in the black churning waters of this strange, unnamed ocean I hear the most horrible sounds - like the echoing songs of whales but corrupted. It’s so dark, words cannot describe the horror I feel upon hearing this sound… so primitive. It’s the ear-rupturing wail of the nameless ones. Prehistoric leviathans that patrolled the savage oceans when the Earth was young… before the age of mammals… before the age of man, which is but a mere drop in the elusive eternity of existence. Long ago, before recorded time, these beasts ruled the seas, as their scaly brethren ruled the lands. I cannot see them but I know they’re out there… hundreds of them. Some closer to my vantage point than others but they are all out there waiting…. “

“O.K Hermes I need you to slow down…. What are they waiting for?” He’s interested now... or worried. He uneasily shifts in his very expensive chair. The only sound in the room is the creaking of the rich leather… and the far-off honking of some very impatient, very pissed off cabbie somewhere.

“Me. They wait for me to wade out into the tumultuous waves. They possess teeth the size of my open hand… eyes the size of your dictionary sitting on your desk over there. The smallest of them is 100 feet in length. I cannot see them as the water is too dark but I see their silhouettes. I see their serpentine necks as they unnaturally circle. I undoubtedly sense them. I can also sense the killers.”

“The… killers?” He nervously clicks the end of his ballpoint three times. Why only three times? Why not four or two? Is this some sort of code? Will a group of large men dressed in white scrubs suddenly burst out from the back room, syringes in hand?

“I see their dorsal fins. They’re sharks, sir.”


“ Prehistoric sharks easily 300 feet in length. Not Megaladons either, these creatures remain undocumented and un-cataloged. Or perhaps they never existed… the terrible stuff of nightmare. MY nightmares. The killers feast upon the nameless ones. Or they simply murder. They kill with glee and the sky is filled with the screeching cries of the nameless ones. These screams can be heard in heaven where the angels debate and bicker amongst themselves. The Killers will leave the gargantuan carcasses afloat whilst their offspring come out of hiding like grotesque schools to feast, always cautious for the nameless ones hunt the younglings who in turn feast on their deceased brethren. Perhaps this is why the ocean runs reddish-black, I don’t know. The killers… they too wait. They forever circle… with cold eyes forever fixed forward toward the dry land while an army of parasitic worms attach themselves to their sandpapery skin and drink their thick blood…”


“And then? What happens next Hermes?”

I turn away and gaze out the window. I see the park across the street where some children play. Such a beautiful scene. It’s so peaceful. One particular boy catches my attention - a beautiful little boy with black hair, brown eyes, and olive skin. He’s sitting by himself in the sand next to the merry-go-round, his knees raised to his chest and tears streaming down his face from a scraped arm. He’s by himself dealing with the pain and the confusion and the abject horror caused by the sight of blood. Where the fuck is his mother or father? Why is he just sitting there by himself?

“ *Ahem*, Hermes?”

“ ... Yeah, what happens next? Well... nothing... yet. I will walk out into the black ocean. It’s time to face my demons. Night has fallen and the water gently stirs...

...and I am still completely alone.”

Monday, July 25, 2005

I've got nothing...

I've been busier then a Girls gone Wild camera-man at Mardi Gras as of late. Consequently, I don't have anything new or fresh at the moment. However, I did submit a guest post recently for my dearest friend Jasmine over at her crib as she is away preparing to take the Bar exam.

So if you're interested, give it a read, let me know what you think. **Click Here**.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

Wisdom of the Road

“So Dave, why do you love your wife?” I ask, mindful of my tone, cautious not to piss him off. It’s not every day you find yourself sitting at a bar shooting the shit with a real-life, honest-to-fucking god Hells Angel.

He raises the bottle to his lips and takes a long, hard drink. I can hear his swallows over the jukebox in the corner belting out ZZ Top and Ted Nugent - and also over the laughing, yelling raucous from the colorful cast of rowdy characters partying all around us. He finishes his beer, slams the bottle down on the weathered wooden bar, and then looks at me out of the corner of his eye as he wipes his mouth dry.

“Kid, let me tell you a few things about me 'n Denise. I…”

He pauses mid-sentence and fixes his gaze on something behind me.

I turn around ever so slightly, trying really hard NOT to look too obvious; trying to appear smooth and undercover about it as though I'm turning around to crack my neck or to stretch. I'm way too curious to not know what it is that's caught Dave's attention yet at the same time I don't want to ignite some fucking powderkeg or create a scene. Remember what happened to the cat... Hermes. I don't see anything out of the ordinary except a tired-looking biker bitch decked out in… get this… assless chaps and a black, leather studded bra. She's in the corner booth wrapped all over some 360 lb bald fuck monstrosity covered in tats.

“What… what’s going on?” I ask.

“Nothing. I thought that son of a bitch over there was giving me the eye.”

My mind starts racing. I automatically start crunching the numbers... attempting to determine who would win in a knock 'em out, no-holds barred brawl between Dave and the fat fucker in the corner. Possible scenarios, outcomes, advantages and disadvantages, and countless other factors and brutal possibilities flash through my brain.

It’s the way of men, sizing mother-fuckers up.

Dave would have won. I'm quite sure of it. Dave is 6’4” and 290 lbs... possibly even three bills. However, unlike the fat fuck in the corner, Dave is ripped. He’s toned, honed, with balls made of stone... a killing machine. I have no doubt he’s killed, too. I know this because there are certain things a man can sense. Also, certain details he’s been willing to share with me in the past insinuate, and insinuate only, he’s made fuckers disappear. Dave gives off that vibe. Take no shit, take no prisoners.

“Kid, There are five things I give a shit about in this life and in this order: my Harley, my patch, my brothers, my kids, and my old lady. Denise respects that. She shares my… Hey buddy, another couple of beers over here… She loves the club. She loves to ride. She’s a fucking knock out, don’t cha think?”

I pause. What the fuck am I going to say? I’ve seen enough movies to know he COULD be fucking with me… testing me. If I agree he might think I have eyes for his wife. If I disagree, I might completely disrespect him… questioning him. The last thing you do is disrespect an Angel. "Damned if I don't... "

I turn and look him straight in the eye and say with confidence, assertion even... “Dave, I don’t know what I like more, your lovely wife, your bike, or our friendship. It’s like picking a favorite child.”

Dave simply nods.

The barkeep brings two more ice-cold Lowenbrau’s. Dave slides one of the bottles my way and says… “ Drink up kid… this round’s on me.”

Monday, July 18, 2005

In her aspect...

We met on a beautiful, sunny day sometime in March. I was at the park, in an argyle sweater, slacks, and a long red scarf sitting on a bench busily jotting down this and that into my notepad absorbed in my thoughts, plugged into my i-pod, in the company of ducks and selfish squirrels, whom hoard twigs and nuts. I spied her quickly approaching me, leading… or I should say led... by her Black lab. I smiled and asked her about her dog. The usual fair: his name, age, if he’s a mutt or not. She smiled back, the eye contact was strong, the conversation flowed and I think I made her laugh at some stupid joke or glib remark, a seemingly insignificant chat, small banter that invariably led to me asking her for her number, and proposing to buy her dinner. Of course she agreed. Funny how you don't ever see these things... what I mean is... how small and inconsequential the truly profound seems at first.

“It was a glorious campaign and a brilliantly decisive victory. I personally drove back the Egyptian pestilence. I personally reclaimed Syria and Phoenicia. And I, Nebuchadnezzar, crown prince of Assyria, did this all in the name of power, and glory… and Babylon. It was a day that shall always be remembered and revered in our annals. The mighty Pharaoh Necho was crushed beneath my foot as I would crush an insignificant insect… his vaunted commanders eviscerated and laid out under the dry sun to feed the vultures. The spoils of war were numerous: the indispensable reclamation of our city-states, the utter destruction of Necho’s army, and most of all, the division and redistribution of their coffers… Egyptian gold, cloth, and the material possession of highest value, women.”

I flew out to Chicago to see her after 2 years of noncommunication. It was a rainy day, opressively wet and moody. The weather invariably matched my troubled mind. I was in horrible spirits as a friend had recently died and I was absolutely in no mood to reminisce about the “good old days.” All I could do was sit on the plane, trying not to weep, blankly staring out the window at the passing ground suicidally far below. I couldn’t help but wonder if I could somehow jump out, would I tumble and roll for twenty feet upon impact or would my horizontal velocity have sufficiently slowed that I would land flat with a sickening smack, and perhaps even make a hole in the ground as you sometimes see in the cartoons? Such troubled thoughts - such a fucked up mind. It was definitely a hard time.

" And then there was you... "

She picked me up at the airport with the brightest, whitest, most infectious smile I’ve ever seen. Her blue eyes sparkled with the kind of natural enthusiasm you'd find in children around Christmas. Upon seeing her my mood melted away like snow on a sunny day, in fact I couldn't help but laugh with relief and glee as she jumped up and hugged me, wrapping her legs around my waist. We kissed and embraced. She held me oh so tight… the slow, lingering embrace you'll usually find in airports or shipyards when soldiers are sent away to fight... or upon their return home. She was up to date on recent events and sincerely apologized about my friend. We drove back to her place and she pointed out landmarks and places we mutually knew, as though she owned the entire town and seeked my approval. I listened and laughed at this and that, the whole time counting down the minutes until when I would lay in her warm bed and she’d hold me while I slept.

“ You were an Egyptian beauty: a unique flower. Blessed by the gods with blonde hair and blue eyes, you stood out among the captured “slaves” as a single cloud stands out in the never-ending blue sky. My commanders quickly singled you out and brought you to my tent before the soldiers could defile you. You were presented to me in dancers attire adorned in shiny beads and shells, barely covering your ivory skin, with a veil concealing your mouth and chin, only your hypnotic, haunting eyes could be seen. I cued my musicians to play a song my mother used to sing to me when I was young that always filled my soul with mystery and sadness… and passion. You began the ritualistic dance of your homeland. Your perfect hips swayed to the tribal beat as your hands and smooth arms interlocked like serpents, the whole time your icy eyes never once leaving mine. You cast your spell on me in that trapped moment in time, conquering the conqueror. Allaying the warrior-king with your haunting beauty. That night, by candlelight, I took you as my wife… as my concubine. I swore I would keep you encased and defended as the single greatest treasure of my kingdom. I would build monuments, gardens, and towers in a feeble attempt to replicate what I saw, that savage beauty of yours that continued to haunt my waking dreams. Ever as it would seem… forever.”

She rides me, bucking her hips with eyes closed, teeth clenched, and nails raking down my chest. The orgasm hits her hard, square in the face, as she leans back, round breasts raised in the air, golden hair brushing against my thighs with her hands rested on my calves. She screams aloud, all of her inhibitions gone, and quickly reaches around and rubs her clit as she finishes coming in racking sobs and shaking fits. I watch this beautiful… thing… this act… before me. The guttural sounds she makes combined with the sensation of her body on mine and then the drugs that insistently tug… push me over the edge, no turning back. I begin to madly thrust. I quickly sit up and grab her waist and hold her close as I pound her hard. My balls explode. I lick her neck between groans, rubbing my starving hands all over her back, tasting the salt as she massages my cheek, runs her fingers through my hair, and finishes riding me, milking me dry. I stay inside her as we both sit and gaze into each other’s eyes - basking in the fulfilled satisfaction a hard orgasm brings. Like gems, they shine in the twinkling approaching dawn that peeks at us through the drawn blinds. Her gaze for the briefest of instants appears distant, as though she's recalling a memory stored away, old and ancient. Then she leans in and whispers into my ear the sweet words I’d been dying to hear since that day we met way back in March, alone in the park. Muffled words I can barely hear beneath the swirling of the sands and the wind and the beat of faraway drums.

“ Thank you..."

"Thank you for finding me after all of these years.”

Wednesday, July 13, 2005


Imagine yourself at the edge of a cliff at the edge of the world in the company of shadows; pale faces flickering in and out of the darkness who wail with the wind to a tragic melody only known to them. It seems there is no sun, nor is there a moon, only the accursed gray glow pitch black offers to spur one onward into an illusionary web of optimistic determination. The wail of the wind mixed with something else… what is it…? The sirens? No. My advice is to heed not their call as they languidly sit before the distant oasis you think you may see, but in truth, you don’t. One more step and I guarantee you’ll be meeting your maker much earlier than you expected… the drop is enormous. You’ll be dead before impact.

This barren wasteland lies at the edge of comprehension, reason, and fleeting imagination. I’ve seen it not. This place is hard to find… and very few seek it. It is rumored you might find it fifty ticks away from the great barrier reef of waking dreams, where the nameless ones wander headless and heartless... grotesquely floating over a sea of murderous faces too numerous to distinguish. These faces, looking skyward, blanket the ground amidst the spiny barnacles that have broken off the lumbering, mythical black whales of heartbreak that forever patrol the cold oceans. These whales: great, grotesque leviathans 100 ft long and weighing 50 tons - their melancholy song it is said, so intensely loud, can rupture eardrums. Like icebergs that quietly float in the night, blocking out the moon, these creatures of myth obliterate any chance of spying the gray sand and shimmering faces down below, where no souls dare to go.

This cliff you stand on is not a natural structure but once a skyscraper of old, crafted in glass, metal, and stone. This barren wasteland you think you’ve traversed isn’t a wasteland at all, rather, it was once a great city, long ago filled in with red dust, it’s contents forever hidden, it’s treasures lost. If am army of laborers were to take up shovels and dig, in about three decades of painstaking work, they’d finally uncover the rotted innards of a once glorious civilization… a city on an island. They’d find rusted mechanical monstrosities, a never-ending sea of stone, rubbish, and metal, and then there would be the bodies. Hundreds, seemingly millions, rotted away, decayed ghastly eyes frightfully gazing toward the sky… decayed eyes searching for a god that never came… a sad lot truly.

Listen. There it is again. Shhhh. Block out the wind and the sirens and the tempestuous, sad voices, do you hear it? It’s the faintest whisper of a noise. A muffled ringing singing a hundred feet below, deep in the bowels of the smoky red ground. If you could turn invisible, into a phantasm, and phase through the dirt and travel the necessary distance in search of this sound you’d be led to the skeletal remains of a decrepit concrete structure. This structure is hollow inside - the insistent sands not allowed in. This building is twenty stories tall, partitioned into rooms; living spaces it appears. At the very heart there is a wooden table. On this table sits an antique device. The ringing you hear originated here, in this dusty, dark, airless apartment. This machine created by man, has rung for centuries and will continue to do so even after you’ve left, lived out your life, and crumbled into dust.

Saturday, July 09, 2005

Friday night lights

A weekend night at the club. My boys and I, ten shots of Patron, two percosets, and a pack of smokes. I feel like a king. My ears ring, the angels sing. My ding-a-ling is aching to be unsheathed, thirsty for a drink.

I spy you across the floor in a slinky black dress bumping and grinding up against some roided-up meathead. You see me and then quickly whisper something in his ear. You point at me and he turns and stares. He's trying to scare me... and failing miserably. I've seen it all before, more times than I care to recall: the posturing and hollering, the huffing and puffing. I swear nary a night passes where I don't have to break a chair over some motherfucker's back on account of your sorry ass. You know I'll do it too, I don't give a shit. The poison in my blood runs thick. I'm lit and oblivious.

I'm motherfucking Fred Astaire or Ali and I'm ready to dance, asshole, ready to beat you senseless. I want to see you shit or piss your pants. And believe me, asshole, you will. I offer you my personal guarantee and some guidance... I'll lay you gently down to sleep, like a father laying a baby in his crib, and I pray your soul to keep, cause it you die before you wake, I think the courts my life will take.

And if I don't get arrested or eighty-sixed, after I break whomever you send my way into teeny-tiny bits, I'll probably want to smack you up, or slam your face into a door. But I won't because my mom taught me better than that. She taught me how to be a gentleman, to never hit or grab. Besides, I already fucked you over right? But you think YOU won, you think you had YOUR way with me. You're so deluded and arrogant.

I bet you think this poem is about you... don't you?

Starfucking whore. You just won't go away will you? You're a stubborn Herpes sore. You'll do whatever you can to fuck up my shit. You'll never admit your overdramatic, alcohol-fueled fits aren't a wee bit extravagant? If you haven't already instigated a fight, alternatively, in a drunken stupor, you'll stumble over with your pack of girls and in slurring, non-sensical ramblings and ravings and waving of arms you'll tell whomever I'm with that I'm an evil son of a bitch. You'll tell my entourage the story about how 2 years ago I told you I loved you and I adored your kid, with the sole intent of fucking you in the ass and jizzing all over your store-bought tits, and how that entire time I had a loyal, sweet girlfriend. You'll succeed in embarrassing both you and I, and with a gentle smile I'll have to politely explain that I haven't the feintest idea who the fuck this psychotic broad is or why she's saying what it is she's saying. And the whole time in the background my friends will be snickering and laughing.

To quote Byron: “Sweet is revenge - especially to women.”

Friday, July 08, 2005

Bouffant Buffoonery

Why is it when a woman reaches a certain age she’ll inevitably cut her hair the same boring, generic way? You know what I'm talking about. If you ever dine at Marie Calendar's, the Sizzler, or any Las Vegas buffet I’d bet you a buffalo nickel you’ll find a table full of blue-haired beauties that all look the same... a Barbara Bush daisy chain. This hairstyle defies ages, eras, gravity and logic. When I was a lad, oh... twenty years ago, old ladies had this universal "do" even then, way back when. Now I‘m a grown-ass man, and they STILL sport the same coif. I don’t mean to scoff. I used to theorize it was the style that was popular when they were young, and this is an attempt to relive those by-gone days... well, if that's the case, why have old ladies sported this same drab style for the past century? Perhaps it's a low maintenance alternative? Last I checked, retired elderly women have plenty of time on their hands to style their hair and impress their friends. Perhaps it looks fuller and rounder? A perfect compliment to the blue eye shadow, soft slippers, and the string of pearls. Women do tend to lose hair as they age just like men. I don't know, perhaps I’ll never know. I guess this will remain an eternal mystery. The acquired mastery of the curling iron and blowdryer escape me.

Friday, July 01, 2005

The people in your neighborhood

We were living in that posh downtown apartment, the same apartment that almost broke us - that tiny, ordinary, overpriced, 7th floor apartment. It was the one with the stunningly amazing view of the entire twinkling, teasing, winking town. You fell in love with that view from the outset, on our very first walk-through, when we were posing as husband and wife. You fell in love with the view, and I, the materialistic fool, fell in love with the status living in this apartment afforded... even though we couldn't really afford it. That apartment, so generic and plain and un-extraordinary, gave us bragging rights. It was a flimsy mask I wore with pride.

That was yesterday.

“Where do you live?”

In this city, this is always the first question anyone ever asks - these four words. So empowering.

A complete stranger, some pretentious bitch on the subway: a coked-out "model" knee-deep in the scene, and her own bullshit, gives the usual line of questioning... "So where do you live, on what street?" Then she THINKS she instantly knows ME wholly.

“Yeah, I'm on 73rd.”

Cue the flashbulbs as they rat-a-tat-tat in her hollow head, fucking braindead; a sqeeky wheel, the hamster needs to be fed. Neurological connections attempted to be made... “Oh bourgeoisie. Most likely pulling 5 figures. Barely getting by, vying for his piece of the pie... but he’s kinda cute... but broke. I don’t roll with that”

“Yeah, fuck you too bitch, like I give a damn.”

It’s definitely all about the space; where you hang your hat. Who’s got the nicest flat. Who’s got the hippest pad. It’s all about the latest technological fads, plasma T.V widescreen DVD’s, MP3’s. It’s a portable, compact, plastic, blue-tooth world…

Makes me want to fucking hurl.