Hookers or Cake

27 holes

The turtle got in again. I forgot and left the backyard gate open, the turtle came in and dug 27 little holes. She comes from the canal that runs alongside our house. She comes out at night, up the bank, across the driveway and feels her way along the fence in darkness, looking for an opening. Sometimes I find her in the morning still feeling her way, on the other side of the fence, searching. She is large and heavy, as big around as a grown tree.

There is never anything in the holes, they are just holes with little mounds of dirt beside them. Is she looking for something? Has she lost her dreams? Is she planting new ones? Is she looking for a place to lay her eggs? Everyone seems to have a different opinion. Of course everyone agrees that I should close the gate, but I forget.

I sometimes imagine what the holes feel and see, suddenly opened up and gazing into the starry night sky. What does the turtle say to them? What songs do the stars whisper at night to the new darkness uncovered? I am always filled with questions and I wonder… 27 new holes. Who are you?

Chuẩn đô đốc or đề đốc

For a time I was seduced by the notion

I could become master of the wild blue ocean,

El Capitan or perhaps even Fleet Admiral

I didn’t realize, first I’d have to learn how to swim

I didn’t realize, first I’d have to learn how to drown

And I probably don’t have ta tell ya, but its a long way down.

Especially when you think you are climbing a mountain

or pissing in the fountain at the Taj Mahal

or the Mall of America.

The utter hysteria seen through the lens

that Jerry Garcia died of delerium tremens

But be not afraid, my dear beer drinking friends

of the end

for it all depends on a point of view that

was always is

magically stubborn

In my universe God is the last remaining human being. He/She/It is holding an eternal telethon/memorial/relief concert. All the best robot/ghost/holograms are there/here. Billy Joel, now the size of Saturn, is scheduled to sing New York State of Mind between mouthfuls of hot pizza. Lady Gaga and Kanye West have promised a fight to the death with giant foam rubber dildos.

God asks for a moment of silence in remembrance of humanity but God has accidentally sat on the button that starts all of the holograms doing their act at the same time. The resulting wall of sound coalesces into torrent of white noise that is then amplified by seventeen encores all at once. The screaming stream of humanity roars into deafening silence and we are again told the old story. The old story replete with blurry family photos and about three billion years of anticipation.

White Christmas

Christmas as we know it, Santa, twinkling lights, and presents was actually all the result of toxic chemicals. Back in the late 1920’s American Christians celebrated the birth of Christ and because they didn’t have to work they got smashed at parties and ate a traditional winter fruit cake. Turns out the fruitcakes where full of toxic chemicals and everyone collectively tripped balls - to use the parlance of our times. President Herbert Hoover himself remarked on one such incidence in his personal journal.

Everything turned bright electric and began to shimmy and sparkle. We all laughed and laughed “ho-ho-ho!” and fell into a singular vortex, experiencing the entire world as one large present for our consciousness. A playground of being. It was as if our natural divinity merged with the present moment until every moment was a present unto itself. It was totally sweet.

For three years in a row the masses got drunk and did partake in the chemical cake, becoming one with the singular immortal eye of God until someone in the state department finally figured out what was going one. Come to find out the masses becoming one giant laughing sweetness was bad for business. The cakes where thusly confiscated and Coca Cola was hired to create and market the shared vision and most important, change the sacrament into something a little more American.

Driving to my cubicle this morning and listening to lite FM, the smart ass DJ was playing We Will Rock You/ We Are the Champions, by Queen. Traffic was at a standstill, but we were all champions none the less.

After work we went to Red Lobster, my mother in-law is visiting. I had a sensible adult meal of grilled tilapia and lite beer. Judy had the salmon and white zin. There was music playing. Daryl Hall was singing about the mystery of love whilst his partner John Oates lustily agreed in the form of musical accompaniment. I smeared pudding all over my face and killed thirteen people. Mother was not harmed, but she had to be sedated.

Tonight I huff ether in the garage while the ancient bears scream at me about Rocking in the Free World. Life is good, Toyotathon is happening, to bad I have to work tomorrow.

The Birth of the Sun

I was a famous artist once. In kindergarten our teacher told us to draw a picture of our mother. I did, and truth be told I wasn’t happy with my crayola rendering. It was terrible. The legs were two different sizes and the hands were just circles with little jagged sticks for fingers. The hair was even the wrong color of red. I took it home and showed it too my step mom and she cried and cried. I was baffled because I thought it was a shit drawing. I didn’t realize she cried because my drawing and her both had red hair. I’d called her mother for the first time.

At the time I thought she cried because I was such a great artist. In fact, it all went to my head. I began to drink pink champagne and bought a Chevy Monte Carlo. I was dating the prettiest girl in first grade. I wuz flat out ballin, son. Then I lost that match of Red Rover Red Rover and the darkness overtook me.

I had a reoccurring dream that summer about an owl that lived in the woods behind our trailer. The owl sang me a lot of songs about grief and arrogance until the night after the 4th of July I finally understood and set fire to the woods.

That fire has burned for four and a half billion years.

I ended up on an adult chat site this evening. I don’t know how I got there. I think I clicked on a picture of some half naked girl… because I like bananas. And this whole matrix of webcams opened up. I usually just close those windows and go about my business, but I saw some girl that looked familiar. I hovered over her picture and a window opened up and it was a live feed of a girl, no one I knew, she was just sitting there topless, reading a book. People were typing messages to her on a scroll and every now and then someone would give her 25 tokens or 13 tokens and there would be a loud ding and the girl would look over her book and say “Thank You MonsterCock5000!” and then she’d go back to reading her book. It was like a Terry Gillian film.

Then I started poking around - on the website, and I saw all sorts of things.  I saw two half naked teenage girls who where in what looked like their parent’s living room in front of a Christmas tree. They where drinking tequila. It was like the fantasy of a 15 year old boy. I wondered what life would’ve been like if I’d grown up with this. When I was 15 I masturbated to bra ads I’d found in the newspaper. Like I grew up in the time of Greek mythology or something. Oh well, I guess it gave me a strong imagination.

I also saw a chat room of some girl sleeping and people where chatting to her nonetheless. Saying things like “Wake up!!!” and  “No, don’t wake up… heehee” and “Sleep forever my angel!” and ect. Someone tipped her 50 tokens and she opened one eye and muttered “Thank you MonsterCock5000!…” and went back to sleep. Like real sleep! I’m talking snoring and dog twitching sleep.

Then I saw a cam that looked like a QVC home shopping network set up. The girl was showing a fancy gold and blue jeweled ring she was chanting about time while running her fingers through a giant pile of sand. MonsterCock5000! gave her 78 tokens and she just winked and said, “I give the best hand jobs ever!”

And in only three easy payments.

The island I grew up on had a Baby Raffle for Peace. I don’t know why it was called that, tradition I guess. People would take their babies and put them on little rafts and send them off into the dark waters. A lot of the time the babies would be crying and upset, but nothing bad ever happened to them. They would just kind cry themselves out and then be silent in all that darkness. Then we’d go over to the other island and five or six hours later the babies would drift up to the shore quiet as little babies starring up at the the nighttime sky and listening to the deep dark water.

You have to learn to be alone. Or you will always be a little piece of shit, crying baby. Give your preciousness to the darkness and let it cry and cry until it dies.

I see a lot of writers talk about plagiarism and people stealing their work. It really pisses me off. Not in the way you probably think it should. Ya see I think stealing is grand, I just hate serious artists, they’re all so obvious and boring.

Going forward I am encouraging people to steal my writing and stories. Because once they get done editing that pile of slop, I’ll steal it back. Seriously though, steal my stuff if you like it. Change the parts you want to change. Do whatever with it. I think thievery is wonderful. It aint mine anyway. Its like suing someone for having the same dream as I. How dare they?! The collective unconscious stole my memoirs! Its like suing my cat for vomiting up the pizza I had for lunch. What?
Sure I get it. Some of you out there are real writers. A few even make a living on the stuff. And you work damn hard on every little dangling participle. Good for you. I’m sure you’re smart enough to realize that I’m just some lazy jerk who  has low self esteem and doesn’t value himself or just doesn’t put any real work into the craft, so his writing is crap. Now realize, you can’t use these reasons I just wrote because that’s mental thievery and I wrote them first. Come up with your own argument about why you’re so special. I’m sure you have plenty of practice. Get all puffed up and serious about art and the individual and your struggle. You are very special and unique and brilliant and deserve a ridiculous life of robots bringing you pizza.

Just don’t come whining to me about how depressed and miserable you are and how all your relationships fail and nobody loves you.

Haven’t you ever noticed?

Real artists are almost always real shitty human beings.

They are worse than any junkie or drunk. They will ruin good relationships and bright wonderful moments all in the name of their creative fix, just so they can squeeze out a few lines, paragraphs, or pages. The funny part is, the art itself doesn’t even have to be any good. Artists just need a creative high or the feeling of self worth that THEY produced something. Its their total identity, don’t fuck with it or they will lash out at you with all their fury… In other words, ffffffftttthhrrrrrpppp!

Tell yourself whatever you have to, just stop using the alphabet you dirty thieves. Besides, we all know your novel was a subplot on The Love Boat.

So steal my words/art/photoshopped nudes of Ray Wise, mix it up, have fun. And if you make some money on it, buy me a drink or one of them pizza serving robots.

In the future God was just a computer program that some pervert down at the YMCA created so he could spy on women. It worked really well. So well in fact that when God, the program, was discovered it was taken over by a secret federal agency. They were all pretty amazed by God, the program, and used the technology they found therein to drive the world into all devouring singularity.  Luckily when all of consciousness merged into one, it just realized “Whoa dude, like cool” and then bounced back inversely through itself into the big bang gang of reality again. It was a close call.
In the subsequent reordering of our universe God got made into a reference point of that, “Whoa dude, like cool” moment and then some other dudes wrote some really shitty fan fiction.

In my fan fiction God never leaves the YMCA and the ladies. A zombie plague hits and all the women become zombies who have communion on our dear sweet God. And they just don’t rip him to shreds, they have a great elegant feast where God is served in several courses with music and jugs of wine and dancing. In the end God says grace and is devoured completely.