Hookers or Cake

I look forward to the day that everyone writes their very own novel. The novel about their life. About all the terrible weird shit they had to go through. About how they deserve love because maybe we’re all just scared dumb monsters. I also hope that everyones novel has a touch of the supernatural and is quirky and also darkly funny. And maybe a bestseller that they published themselves. Of course I hope everyone talks about how awesome everyone elses novel is at parties and how everyone seduces everyone else and we all coalesce in one giant orgasmic embrace and then get to read about the whole thing in everyones second novel.

I’m writing a novel and I hate novels. Actually I’m just doing a lot of mescaline and listening to Whitesnake (a shitty 80’s hair band(sorry Dave)) and then I just write nonsense how I’m fed up with everything but resigned to our awful fate and slowly fall in love with everything in some strange perpetual dance. I’m not really writing a novel. I’m just back from my two month work sabbatical and hopefully back to writing my usual daily nonsense. Cuz it makes me happy. I hope you are all well and doing OK. and if not, know that it just really sucks sometimes…. and it’ll get better. Unless of course it just gets worse and you slowly fall apart or are devoured by catatonic anxiety or something. I mean hey, at least we’ll always have that terrible awkward new age orgy thingy.

He Stopped Loving Her Today

Last Autumn I went out to that new mega church in the suburbs. Everyone just looked at their I-phones while the minister gulped hot coffee and screamed at Gods crotch. I was still heartbroken over losing Tammy but I’d made my final decision and found peace.

I’d decided to go to the old steakhouse after church, have myself a ribeye and a few highballs, then I’d blow my brains out while I rode the mechanical bull. But once I got a bellyfull of meat and whiskey and drew my revolver, riding that bull …ohh the screams! I still get hard when I think about it.

(Source: hookersorcake)

TGIF

A short story from God

How I created  the universe and stuff (falling in love with darkness)
 
Me and your Uncle Karl where drunk as shit on some fishing trip in Minnesota. We were drinking something called MonkeyTime Lemonade. About half a case in, we shed or ideas about society and self and just began to coo and sing.  Sitting on the floor of the local gas station just holding each other. Laughing at all the candy.

Eventually we made our way out to the woods and over to the lake a few miles south of town. Swimming in the sweet vibrational ambrosia that is mother nature…   a few billion years later old Karl got hungry so we killed some fish and made a fire. After I had my fill I just stared into that old fire until everything became a black void and somewhere someone sang your secret name. It was like I was slowly exploding into light and sound. Like golden love blooming into all that darkness. I saw it all, flashing about me as I grew wilder and wider until I could no longer see the difference from what was me and what was you. We was everywhere and everything. Do you remember? How we made love with and murdered ourself in seven billion different ways and plays of being. It was pretty heavy.

Dude. And it still would be, if it weren’t for all this unbearable light. This baby cooing nonsense. This laugh laugh laughter.

World War III starts like it always does. An Asian cell phone company gives the city of Rio De Janeiro several million dollars to convert the Statue of Jesus that overlooks it into a cellphone tower. The catholic church also gets a seven figure payoff to endorse the whole thing.

Although the six foot metal rods that protrude from Christ’s head and hands are barely perceptible to the naked human eye, the Sons & Daughters of Christ, a powerful paramilitary Christian organization, still see it as supremely blasphemous and one of the final signs of the apocalypse. Thusly they destroy 85-90% of the cell phone towers world wide. Turns out 85-90% of humanity being left with a ton of free time on its hands can get itself into a whole mes of trouble Including World War III (brought to you by Exxon Shell & Walmart Pharmaceutical)

The funny thing is that until you lose all hope, you’re fucked. An arrogant fool.

I found the Garden of Eden in the mall. Eve was selling shoes and Adam was in the Food Court selling little knick-knacs he’d just named. “And this is Persephone,” he said to a particularly sweet old lady.  As usual God was in the arcade smiting whatever, all while the devil was sliding into a pair of red pumps, size 9. “Have you ever wondered,” he hissed quietly to Eve.

There were firetrucks from as far away as Johnston that showed up to that fire, but they never did put it out.

God got a new high score and Adam opened up a chain of somewhat successful broasted chicken joints throughout the South East until he lost it all in the 3rd divorce. I hear the Devil and Eve made a killing selling fake diplomas to who knows who for god knows what.

Today I chatted with an 87 year old man at the bar. He was wearing a sea captains hat. He told me stories of how he grew up on the coast of the great Pacific Ocean and how as a young man he set out to sail and explore. It turns out that he was a terrible sailor and on his very first expedition his little dingy got tore up in the surf and rocks and sunk. He hadn’t been hurt too badly, only skinned up a bit, but all his family and friends made fun of him, tortured him about it for years. He never went out on the sea again.

A few years later he moved inland and began building a real sea worthy vessel on the duck pound behind his condo. Whenever he would come close to finishing he decided that he needed further modifications until one day, twenty years later, he had a fully operational Battleship. It stretched across the entire pond.

News crews showed up and so did tourists. It was then he began wearing the captains hat and charging admission. He had the largest ship in the entire county. A nautical museum on dry land.

“And you know what?” he whispered to me, “Someday its gonna start raining and it aint gonna stop. Its gonna rain and rain and rain. And the lake (he calls his little duck pond a lake) the lake is gonna flood and the whole state will be underwater. And then who do you think is going to have the last laugh?” he smiled and sat back crossing his arms. “Are you going to bring two of every animal?” I joked. “Nope! Its just gonna be me. And everyone’s gonna beg me to save em, gonna offer me money and gold and their wives… all sorts of stuff. And I’m just gonna laugh and laugh as they all get swept away.”

The Ten Liter Sutra

Sometimes I just want to get high and argue about art.

Though I don’t like to be critical of other peoples art or whatever. If you don’t like the art you are experiencing, maybe go make your own fucking art? or shudyup?! Making art is fun and I am a big fan of fun.

We should do everything like we’re stupid fucking happy artists. Seriously do it. You are creating a moment in the space time continuum to sing transcendent in infinite glory. Have a Martini and shit on the hood of a bright yellow Mustang to  celebrate or something!  And realize… you just made art.

You are the art!

We are winning again.

Yes!

Sell! Sell! Sell!…

Keep breaking into the supercomputer and messing with the files, playing with the reality and the dreams everyone is having. At least make it interesting right? That’s the least we can do.

I for instance, have gotten to be many things; an orphan, a half assed priest, an owl wearing flowing robes that changes the color of the sky when I fly. A washed up semi-pro wrestler who gets booed out of a childrens toy store in Linden, Nebraska and becomes a darkness hovering off the coast of Norway. An endless refrain of whiskey and tears that give birth to flowers and forgiveness.

Like Moses we’ll all stumble down a mountain someday. Hopefully without any commandments this time… other than maybe a bit of laughter and some dirty old country songs.

My sixth life seemed to be

one long ongoing argument

with a singing tropical bird

And I know that sounds absurd

to my beer drinking friends

an argument with love

that never ends.