Friday, January 27, 2006

The Artist

“ So kid what is this website you're maintaining? This... blog?”

“ You seen it?”

“ Yeah I read it every now and again.”

“ Well, it's a collection of paintings.”

“ Paintings? They're just a bunch of stories.”

“ No, they're paintings. Every word, every sentence, every paragraph is a brush stroke.. a burst of color. Interplay between light and dark – chiaroscuro. And the page itself is a blank wall where all of these paintings, all of these canvasses, hang for the entire world to see. To enjoy or to hate or to ignore or to piss on or what have you.”

“ Paintings of what?”

“ My life.”

“ Are they real?”

“ Yes... No.”

“ Which is it? They're either real or they aren't.”

“ None of it's true yet at the same time all of it is.”

“ OK Edward Nigma, what does that mean?”

“ It's physics.”

“ Physics?”

“ Conservation of energy. Those stories didn't just spontaneously generate. They came from somewhere. They came from my life... from my experiences. Converted from one form of energy into another. A cathartic metamorphisis of raw emotion, be it pain or joy, into an abstract collection of words that tell the tale of said experience... or any similair moment experienced by anyone under similair circumstances.”

“ I don't get it.”

“ Maybe I'm not explaining myself very well. I'm hungry.”

“ And you publish these stories for complete strangers to read?”

“ Who better? These strangers have no idea who the fuck I am. There are no preconceived notions except those I place on the page. No stereotypes except those I allow them to formulate in their heads. No boundaries except those I create for myself to adhere to.”

" Playing God?"

" No. I stay within the realms of the true. I cannot write fiction. I never could. Yet some of the settings are fictitious. The characters are real yet names are changed. None of it is chronological. Yet it all happened. What tale I tell depends wholly on my mindset... or what's playing on my radio."

“ Sounds fun.”

“ It is. You should start a blog.”

“ Nah.”

“ Why not?”

“ I ain't got time for that shit.”

Beautifully Broke

Matters of money, as with matters of love or getting fucked, will invariably ebb and flow. “ Feast or famine,” says my buddy Kenny with surety and conviction in his voice. In the meantime I count my crowns and pesos piled up in neat little rows like Bob Cratchett in the cold counting house through fingerless gloves in dumbfounded disbelief like some fucking dumb-ass idiot glancing at his pitiful excuse of a paycheck. I lay in bed watching MTV and VH1 as celebrity spender’s and trust-fund bitches jetset to exotic locales, snort coke, and wash down pills with chilled Cristal and my fridge is bare. I’m getting skinny now you know. Perhaps it’s the hours of blank jogging on my treadmill as my downstairs crack-head neighbor who looks like Grace Jones tippety-taps the ceiling with a broom. My cheekbones protrude and my veins stick out as if I’ve been reborn at sixteen years old. Too bad heroin-chic went out a decade ago. God, I hate being hungry. All I can afford at this point is my gym pass and a bottle of Ancient Aged I shoot alone as my landlord quietly listens by the door checking to see if I’m home cause I’m 2 months late on rent.

Saturday, January 21, 2006

some thoughts jotted on a napkin

The bass line drowns out my depression and all else as I sit and gently stir my Red Bull/Vodka under the neon black-light hullabaloo circus. She dances seductively-trashy maintaining eye contact hoping my gaze will flit down to her glowing French-manicured fingers as they outline her mound which “aches for me so.” Licking of lips, witty pick up one-liners, and a quick wink. Hoping. Tempting. Wanting. Waiting for the green shit to be thrown up on the counter, mindful of the no-touching rule, one… two… three… four… fueling men’s dreams…give or take a five-spot or a rail of white shit or a shot of Patron or some Oxycontin. Dealing in pleasure and false hopes and one-night-stand hot threesomes with her and her girlfriend trippin’ on Ex as the trance/techno ticks the time away. Double up rubber armor donned in awkward haste racing to beat the premature ejaculation thinkin’ about Mother Theresa and rotten road-kill dead-dogs whom were once loved but now gone, lost, and forgotten. My cousin sits awestruck hypnotized by round ass and tan lines jiggling like Jell-O fruit salad which he swears he’ll toss. He’s a filthy motherfucker, my cousin, that’s why I love him. My wingman. My dog.

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

The Snowman

The snowfall is as thick as a supernatural fog. In the swirling clouds I see shadows. Faces appear to me, jump out at me, like fun-house phantasms and then dissolve as quickly as they came. Perhaps they recede back into the cavernous emptiness of my memories.

Silence. The only sound is the cruel whistling of the wind and the occasional flip-flap of my hood. The world is dead as my soul is dead. I stand alone. Like Rip Van Winkle I’ve awoken from a hundred year ethereal sleep only to find desolation. Only to find deserted streets. Vacant eyes framed in brick peer down as I gaze up at the breathing, zig-zagging sky. My legs tremble beneath me like I’m tweaking. Lucid lithium dreaming. I feel dizzy. The strength and vigor I once knew as a youth has escaped me. I think it runs through the trees with the whispering dryad ghosts.

As I walk on I can hear the soft crunch of the snow beneath my feet. Can the dead who rest in the ground below hear my footfalls? In their shadowy slumber through lidless sockets, they see pitch black - even blacker than black my glimmering shadow floats by as a distant train billows smoke into the nuclear sky. And the dead forever grin through lipless smiles.

Friday, January 13, 2006

Cognizance City

Dying mumblings of an old man send me west. Four hundred ticks beyond the desolate Necropolis, the city of dead words, lies the bustling port-city of ideas. This is the meeting point- the crux. It is the final edge, or rather the beginning, or rather the still-beating pulse of this land: where reality gives way to the fantastic... or vice versa. The silk roads converge here. It is here where the world's mysticism is reinterpreted, repackaged, and then carted east by sharp toothed merchants to the dry outlying wilderness. It is here, in this sprawling city, lie scattered large halls where scribes exhaustively record and transcribe all thoughts, fantasies, passing notions, and ideas into infinite volumes. Materialization of pulses, these ideas, that float and hover around us unseen... into words. These texts are sent north, to the great royal libraries in Seraphim, to merely gather dust and be forgotten and then to ultimately die.

Or so I was told as a child... Or so I was sung as the flickering candlelight made the shadows dance and play.

I arrive into the city at dusk. All around me are the sounds of commerce. Shrewd exchanging of hands. This is a mercantile city, an ancient city, where might is measured not by the sword or by gold, but by thought. I arrive penniless and defenseless and my mind is still ill at ease. The journey was arduous and my caravan is exhausted. Yet I push on. I progress deeper into the metro-bowels and my bewilderment increases. Blank faces. Everywhere I turn I find emptiness, completely void of conviction or direction. No purpose. Something has alarmingly changed. Distrusting eyes weave in and out of the shadows. The occasional glint of firelight off a gold tooth or an ornate buckle draws my attention away from the task at hand. Strange men with even stranger smiles beckon me into dark alleys promising fame, fortune, and earthly pleasures. " A girl for you? We have young ones too, cheap, one great idea and she's yours for the night. Or do you like boys?" I ignore them and turn away pretending not to hear.

I seek something but I know not why. Or how. Something rare and coveted... inspiration. Before he passed the old man said I might find her here. “ In the heart, by the great hall, where only the wealthiest men - the thinkers, languidly sip wine and play chess.” These were his final directions, cryptic instructions. And here I am in the center of the city and I find only inanition. A deserted hall. Deserted streets. Empty minds. What once existed now doesn't. Or perhaps never did. Or perhaps the tales of old lie. Deceitful fables intended to mislead and fuel dreams and spawn hope. In fact, this entire city is a lie.

Or perhaps, just maybe, I am in the wrong place.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Fellatio

“ We call them nodders. You know what I'm talking about. You’ll almost always find them standing in the front row during team meetings.”

“ Nodders? What, as in “nodding” off to sleep?”

“ Hardly. As in nodding in complete agreement. They hang-on to every word... every fucking syllable... uttered by the boss. Ass-kissers.”

“ Example?”

“ O.K, I witnessed this just yesterday in department meeting. So J____ says: ‘ Hey guys, we’re down 20 basis points. Unacceptable. You hear me? This is totally unacceptable. This has to change immediately... ’ And P____’s sitting there in the front row nodding away like a fucking baboon with Lou Gherig’s disease.”

“ No shit.”

" Then J___ goes on to say: ' For the next two weeks we'll all be working mandatory overtime. Until the job is done.' Again, more nodding. Fuck! P___ - what a cocksucker!"

" Fucking lame man."

“ Tell me about it. Then J___ finishes this bullshit diatribe with: ‘ ...and all of you are a bunch of dickless shit-head faggots. I should do us all a favor and fire your sorry asses.’ And there’s P___ nodding his head yet again fucking agreeing with him!”

“ What the fuck?!? Really?”

“ I swear to God!”

“ *chuckle* I call bullshit dude.”

“ Well, um... yeah... all right, the last part is. But it COULD have happened."

Friday, January 06, 2006

Nowhere Man

Another chilly day as we huddle outside on smoke break in a tight circle shooting the daily shit. And there you stand outside of our circle with an oxymoronic expression of rapt attention and feigned disinterest. Like a dog craving the affections of its master you crave to “belong” to our group. To any group. You cautiously wait for the ideal moment to jump into our conversation: to throw in your worthless two cents. Of course, the moment never presents itself. Perhaps the conversation doesn’t suit your tastes. Or perhaps, you simply don’t have the courage. You’ve realized you have absolutely nothing of interest or value to say. You’ve accepted your role, and it’s a dismal one.

Or maybe, WE’RE the uninteresting ones. After all… it’s your world.

I watch you sometimes. You’ll often sit alone dreaming of bygone days when you used to get by with your now faded good looks and repertoire of witty one-liners. We rarely talk. But when we do I’ve noticed the course of our dialog is always carefully steered back to the same tired topic(s) again and again. You. Yes, I am well aware of how much you may have bench-pressed in high school. Yes, I am aware of the fact you used to drive a Lexus. That you hold two degrees. I realize you fuck a lot of women. That you are a fixture in the club circuit. That you have connections all over town, including with the mob. And that you can easily hook me up with any drug of choice. “One call, that’s all.” I’ve heard all of your two-bit stories.

And I don’t believe you.

You tell me things you think I’d want to hear. Like a skillful salesman you establish common ground. You align your interests with mine. On the fly you tweak and modify your personality. And just as quickly change your story when you speak to the next guy. You’re a disingenuous fraud and a fake. A half-baked fabricator of senseless ridiculousness. You are a hollow man. A sham. Smoke and mirrors, lipstick, and glam. A picture-perfect specimen of an aging fucking loser. A nowhere man. You belong in the Smithsonian behind glass right next to wax sculptures of club-wielding Neanderthals, Australopithecines, and various other genetic dead-ends.

I honestly think it’s time you get a fucking clue.

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Glimmering below

Machete in hand I hack away at the never-ending onslaught of prickly vines and leaves. The steaming jungle buzzes with life. Although I can’t see any animals I know they’re out there. I catch movement. Dark figures dart and bound about in the shadowy canopy above. The shrill call of hundreds of birds and giant cicada’s drown out my thoughts. Perspiration bleeds down my face into my eyes blurring my vision. My feet sting with an unholy pain. Dirty water, sweat, and a ponderous army of flesh eating bacteria slowly march into my raw exposed blisters that have turned into cuts that have turned into lacerations. Soldiers call this “jungle rot.” I shudder to think how my feet will look when I remove my boots. I quickly force these thoughts into the back of my mind as I numbly tread on.

The hours endlessly drag. I stop to rest mindful not to drink the microbe-infested water. My shirt is soaked through with stench and grime. I remove it and toss it into the river. I watch it drift away caught up in the current. I can’t help but wonder if gigantic crocodiles resting far below in the river’s murky depths silently watch me with their cold, un-gazing, reptilian eyes. I splash cool water onto my face and onto my chest and shoulders. I subconsciously welcome one of these prehistoric killers to suddenly jump out of the water with a loud splash, snatch me up in it’s gaping, powerful jaws, pull me under, and death roll me. My wish is never granted. Under my breath I curse God as I continue onward.

I arrive into a clearing. Scattered about I see crumbling statues. Below my feet is the ancient foundation of a once glorious temple erected by a once glorious civilization. I inspect the sculptures around me. I can vaguely discern ornate patterns and tales of love and hero’s and loss long ago chiseled into the stone faces. I see your eyes, or rather a fading memory in the nondescript, weather worn rock . Decrepit monuments that once represented your beauty, now corroded to dust and tangled up in spider webs, moss, bird droppings, and animal piss. Another structure, an old pillar, represents your heart. Another sculpture, of a woman, represents your dreams. Another, of a shield, represents our solidarity. I pause and look up into the sky. Heavy, dark clouds begin to gather. I hear the muffled boom of thunder break somewhere far, far away. I turn around and the statues have vanished. I see only jungle. I wonder if you even existed.

I wonder if I even care anymore.

I gather my breath, blankly shrug, and limp away. The bowels of the jungle enfold me. The ganglions, nerve-clusters, and gray matter envelop me and deeper into the darkness of my mind I wander.

Sunday, January 01, 2006

Creeping

Everyday when I return home after a hard day's work I typically find an empty house. Just the way I like it... as I am a loner. Everything is exactly the same as when I left earlier that morning. Just the way I like it... very messy... as I am a slob. For instance, the coffee maker is still turned on, and has been for days. The dishes are piled up in the sink. The T.V is tuned to CNN and the toilet remains unflushed. A solitary stinking log abjectly floats there with thoughts unto it's own. Every single object has been left undisturbed and untouched. The pizza continues to slowly rot in my fridge. The thermostat is set to 72. Just the way I like it... as I prefer the air cool.

Yet I know you were here during my absence.

Subtle clues only an anal retentive, overly-observant asshole such as myself or possibly a crime scene investigator would pick up on. Fresh tracks in the backyard. Greasy fingerprints on the countertop. Some of the books on my bookshelf have been misplaced. The bedroom door is cracked whereas I always leave it completely closed. A pen is missing from the coffee mug on my desk. I count 9 whereas I always leave 10 in there. The bottle of whiskey I keep in the freezer has been placed on the second shelf. I always keep it in the door. Someone has been sleeping in my bed. It smells funky.

I know you were here you fucking piece of shit. I know you've been rummaging through my things. Prying into my life.

Perhaps it's my fault for leaving the back sliding door unlocked. Perhaps it's my fault for graciously allowing you to stay at my place at one point or another. Now, like a stubborn case of herpes or genital warts, you just won't go away. You keep coming back. And you're sneaky about it too. Cautious. You try to cover your tracks. You try to leave no clues. But I know you were here - your work is sloppy.

You've stayed your welcome. And unless I take decisive action I know you'll keep coming back. You see... to you, it's now an expectation. You EXPECT my door to always be open to you, and your loser friends, and you no longer even bother to leave a couple of bucks on the counter or a “thank you” note before you leave the way you used to. You think you can just show up at my place anytime and simply "hang out" free of fucking charge? Well guess what asshole, you can't. You're no longer a part of MY inner circle of trust. You're no longer a friend. In fact, at this point I deem you an enemy. I think perhaps it's time I start dead-bolting my house and once again assure the sanctity of MY domain. Perhaps it's time I board up the fucking windows so your prying, beady RAT eyes may no longer keep tabs on me, or what I'm up to, or who I'm with.

Maybe it's time I move to a different neighborhood.

OR maybe... just maybe, I think it's time for YOU to go the fuck away and never come back.

This ain't no peep show.

Fuck You.