Friday, February 29, 2008


Cassius waited for two hours like the caller had suggested.
just before 7, the payphone rang.

he didn't answer. for some reason, he didn't answer.

and he never saw his wife or children again.


August was a peculiar little boy. He was never in a hurry unless everyone else wasn’t. If he was suppose to finish a job at a certain time you better tell him well in advance. Then, cross your fingers and say a prayer that he gets around to it. Now, if you felt that something wasn’t that important, but he did. Whoa Nelly! You better brace yourself for a tongue lashing like you never seen before. That boy had a temper on him. He had a saying when you wanted something done that only he could do. You would come to him and all he would say is, “That’s a shame.”

That could be why they shot him one night. Rumor has it he looked down at the gaping wound in his chest and said, “Well, ain’t that a shame.”


Pit-Oolong Garn, death-dealer, bringer of life, contrarian.  He/she is all things to this planet.  With one breath, he/she spat up a corner of this galaxy, perhaps all galaxies as far as we know.  Chirl-Bevin, planet of criminality.  Chirl-Hexus, planet of soul matter.  Chirl-Toolong, planet of so-called lesser gods.  Chirl-Zeno, planet of smoke.  Chirl-Anoxis, planet of children.  All these and many more uncharted Chirl planets were created from a whim.  But these five are the ones on which you will be tested.  Throughout the coming months and years – it is written in the Great Dar-Julos – you will shed your flesh of disbelief and become what is known the wide-stretching Lusion over.  The Hyron-Garn-Systolis, the greatest of the Systolis race who will, by her stripping of this husk, bring about a new kingdom to this galaxy.  A fist cloaked in tattered rags is as strong as one clad in stone.


Thursday, February 28, 2008

She waits

She watches, and takes another sip. The girl on stage finished her dance, and scrambled for the bills that didn’t stick to her body from the jello wrestling earlier in the evening. This wasn’t what she thought she would be doing to pay for college, but it was fun.


i got a free sprite today.
while it may not seem like much, i have tio say that there is something to be said about the refreshing taste of an ice cold drink i didn't have to pay for. it's tastes a little sweeter, a little crisper, and i took a little longer to drink it so that i could savor the sensation.
so the next time you're having doubts about your thirst, just remember my little tale about the sprite i stole today.


Busty Asians.  That’s how it starts.  Busty Asians and lots of explosions.  But not real Asians.  They have to be American born.  I’m NOT being racist!  I simply know what I want.  They need to have huge racks, preferably all-natural.  That’s why they have to be Asian-American.  You know because we put hormones in our cows so they’ll produce more milk, in turn causing all of our girls to develop larger chests.  I read it in Scientific American!  Yes.  Yes, I did!  Do your own research then!  Trust me, they said that!  Plus, most real Asians have those tiny raisin tits and I don’t like the sight of it, personally.  I’m NOT being racist!  Will you let me finish and stop accusing me of shit?  Let me finish.  I swear, you’re not going to believe where this is going!  Okay, so start off with busty Asians and explosions.  This image fills the screen.  Fills it.  It overwhelms to audience.  Then, credits while busty Asians fly through the explosions.  Alright, that’s all I got.


Wednesday, February 27, 2008

First contact

I enter, and the first thing I see are heads. Rows upon rows of heads, human heads. Mounted like deer or some other wild animal, in a perpetual state of shock. I shake my head, and they are just animal heads. Still freaky, the heads seem to stare at me. I hear the click and chink of a shotgun being pumped. A voice behind me says, “So, I hear you are taking my daughter out to night.”
I try my best to not soil myself.


the signs warned that the amusement park was closed, but my father kept driving. my brother and i were both scared and excited all at once. it seemed very possible that our old man was going to break into the park and let us ride all the stuff by ourselves, just like we'd heard michael jackson would occasionally do.
as we got closer to the main gate, it began to rain. lightening struck somewhere inside the park, and we could hear the metal it hit vibrating along with the sound of the idling engine and raindrops.

"Get out of the car" he said, never looking back at us.
"It's Raining!" we both said in unison. "We want to go h-"

"Get the fuck out of the car and walk up to the gat!. I'm not playing."

slowly, and in tears, my brother and i got out of the car. as we slowly approached the gate, it began to open.

dady didn't leave until the gate had slammed behind us.


The first meeting of The Kill Squad did not turn out as I had hoped.  First of all, nobody in this group has a killer instinct.  Death Dog brought brownies.  He brought brownies!!  I hate that!!  My opinion of him has hit a new low.  Choker proposed a book club, Throatcutter wanted to start a newsletter and Reaper felt like our first course of action was to apply for non-profit status.  Am I nuts or are these the most pussy-ass of ideas?  I want to disband this group and just start all over.  I’m taking Ned with me though.  He was the only one without a code name and the only one that thought we should start by actually killing people.



Tuesday, February 26, 2008

We’re going down

“We’re going down!” I screamed. At once, I felt ashamed. In my attempts to be the world’s first handi-capable airline, I had booked the first flight as hearing impaired. I went all out. All the stewardesses delivered the air safety speech in both American Sign Language and Central American Spanish Sign Language. Here I am screaming, and no one can hear me.


I finally managed to convince the president that the robot's were harmless to humanity-
just as i was programmed to...


Gunner – Whatever happened to the other guy in Wham?

Fab – George Michael?

Gunner – No, the OTHER guy in Wham.

Fab – There was ANOTHER guy in Wham?

Gunner – Yeah!  The dark-haired guy?

Fab – Oh!  See, I thought that was just his boyfriend.

Gunner – Why would George Michael put his boyfriend on every album cover and in every  video if he wasn’t in Wham?

Fab – Look, I know what you’re insinuating and I’m not gay.  It made sense at the time, that’s all.  A gay man’s mind is a complete mystery to me.

Gunner – He was even playing guitar in the video for “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.!”

Fab – Not very convincingly, if you ask me.

Gunner – So, George Michael just called HIMSELF Wham.

Fab – Sure, I’d buy that.

Gunner – Why would he do that?

Fab – Why did “Frankie Say Relax?”  Why did people wear parachute pants?  Why did that song “Too Shy, Shy” make me want to punch things?  These are unanswerable questions!

Gunner – Oh!  Andrew Ridgely!

Fab – Huh?

Gunner – The other guy in Wham.  Andrew Ridgely.

Fab – Oh!  Sucking dick in a bus station for money!

Gunner – What?  What are you saying?

Fab – That’s what the other guy in Wham is doing these days.  That’s what happened to him. 

Gunner – Jesus, you’re a class act.


Monday, February 25, 2008

Alone in a balloon

My balloon floated high above the sea. It was carried on the wind toward a destination that was known only unto the wind. I bought my ticket days ago. My food ran out yesterday. The old man who I purchased my ticket from said this balloon was my ride to a land of unimaginable wealth, happiness, and women.

I think he lied to me.

round on the ends, high in the middle (178)

Love TKO played in the background.
i sat at the bar and listened to the song, and over that, the chatter/whitenoise of the people that were still around pre-last call.
i waited there for my contact to arrive and give me thee word of how to play the next leg of the race.
there was a chance that i'd made a mistake getting involved with these people.
shit, i knew it was a mistake, but the money- the money tasted great.

Six Months on a Leaky Boat played in the background as i waited outside the brightly lit children's diner- the kind of place full of video games and animatronic animal's that danced for you on your birthday.
i gave pause, and turned to see where the song was coming from. someone was enjoying the oldies station, that's for sure. the song turned into a strained, pitched-up ghost of it's former self as the car got farther away from me.
i used to love that song, but i'd not heard it in at least twenty years until just this moment.

Jocko Homo. I'd always thought that it was called We are Devo. i was wrong.
it was cold for this time of year. i waited in the park for just over an hour before the lady sat next to me and slipped me the package.

i'm going to ohio


Well, we’re certainly seeing the dregs of humanity tonight, huh?


What do you mean?  You think it’s not going well?


I think this turn-out is for shit.  That’s what I think.


We’ve got, like, over 35 people here!  How is that a bad thing?


Quantity does not equal quality, Bob.  That’s a credo I stick by.  If that were true, The Polyphonic Spree would be brilliant.  But, you know what?  They ain’t.


With these kind of numbers we could actually stand a chance against The Freedom Committee for once.


Look, I’m not even about to consider that Midwest branch of the Army of Evil, okay?  So, that’s what?  15 out of the running right there.


Jesus!  You aren’t going to get anywhere with that kind of negativity!


I’m a supervillain, Bob.  I’m supposed to be negative!  That’s my contribution!  And it’s not negative, it’s realistic.


You can’t count them out like that!


The fuck I can’t!


You’re telling me we can’t find a spot for someone like Combine?  That guy’s a mountain!  And he’d got those . .  those . .


Combines.  The word you’re looking for is combines.  Yes, I see it.  I really do.


But he’s got them all over him.  He could mow down most of these do-goody crimefighters with one swing.  Even Red Razor.


Don’t tell me what he could do to Red Razor, alright?  Me and Red Razor are archenemies.  Trust me, he’d put Combine out to the pasture he left in Iowa.


You’ve just got to give some of these Agricult guys a chance!


What?  Say what?


They’re called The Agricult. 


Oh.  God!

Ditch Witch is a serious contender, I’m telling you!


Sure, sure.  Ditch Witch, right.  But who else is in that cult thing?


Um, Boll Weevil.


Uh-huh.  And he can do what, exactly?


He, uh . . . destroys crops.


Specifically . . .


Cotton mostly.




But he’s got heart, which is what you’re lacking in spades these days. 


Fine.  Tell you what.  Sign all of these yobbos up!  The fuck do I care?  Just tell them to fill out the forms completely.  There’s no callbacks for this one.  They have to be available no matter what.  On-call, you understand?


Yes.  Yes!!  You will not be disappointed!


And, wait!  Tax forms!  Tell them to fill out the 1020’s in full! 




Jesus.  Why did I leave the law firm?


Sunday, February 24, 2008

Candy castle

They all laughed at me. Everyone. Don’t kid your self you did too. You all said it couldn’t be done. The Bible says to not build your castle upon sand, but upon stone. Mine is built on stone, and shall never be torn asunder! My castle built of candy will last forever with its foundation of stone.

Rosario (179)

She heald up a copy of Rent and a gun,
and said,
"One of these is goin' in your head"
"You want to dance or you wann be dead?"
I blew the gun like a whore blows millionaires
I'd rather have no head than fill it with
psuedo-sappy, feel-good crap-
that's just the way I play it.


What obligation do I have to the fans anyway?  Do I really have to arrange the set list to reflect their tastes?  Jesus, if I have to play “The Hollow Man, Parts I-VII,” I think I’m going to fucking projectile vomit on the first row of this stadium crowd.  That’s not me anymore!  It’s something I wrote when I was in my early 20’s.  It’s who I was, not who I am.  That song is 35 minutes long!  It took up an entire album side back in the day.  Hell, the first part alone is 11 minutes.  What was I thinking?  Why can’t I play something from the new album?  CD, whatever!  Am I gypping this capacity crowd if I don’t play even a third of “Hollow Man?”  What about “King Hornblower” or “Threshold’s End” or anything off of the “Wormhole” album?  How about putting those to bed?  Would this audience riot or something if I actually played “Statuesque” from my latest release?  I’m touring because of that, you selfish bastards!  Not in support of “Peach Cobbler Man” or “Shiva the Destroyer” or “Village in the Reeds” or any number of useless, brainless singles I released 30 years ago!  I’m doing some great shit now, in my 50’s.  Don’t you fucks realize that?  No, you don’t.  I’ll just make the drummer do the solo from that Dutch soundtrack we did back in ’71 – the shit you have to hear to legitimize the $200 ticket price – while I sit under the stage, change my shirt, grab another guitar and stew for seven minutes until it’s finished.  I don’t know.  Maybe I just hate rock ’n’ roll, if that’s even what we’re playing anymore. 



Saturday, February 23, 2008

Tori Spelling (180)

she offered me the choices of sex or a bigger television.
i think you know what i picked...

i haven't been dissapointed yet.


Red. Crimson red flowing down my chin. It happens every year about this time. Almost like a pulse. I bite and a squirt. I could use a napkin, but who cares about being civilized at a time like this. Plus, I will just eat another chocolate covered cherry.


             The patron saint of mattresses, St. Wendell, felt at odds with the other saints in Hell.

            “You guys seem to really have your shit together,” he exclaimed.

            “This again?” replied St. Marco, the patron saint of discount furniture as he lit a cigarette from a nearby, smoldering rock.

            “No, really,” Wendell barked, “this is something I’ve got to figure out.  Why is that I feel so out of place here?  You guys seem to have it really figured out.”

            “Well, we’re all in the same place, if that makes you feel any better,” chimed in the patron saint of bad investments, St. Clement.  “If anything, that should put your mind at ease.”

            “Clement, man, you deserve to be here,”  Marco snapped.

            “You’ve been riding my ass for 700 years now, Marco, and I’m about sick of it.  Get off my back!”

            “Fellas, listen,” Wendell interrupted, “give me some insight.  What’s the secret?”

            Marco took a long drag.  “Wendell, I’m going to throw you some clichés your way.  Just see if you can pick up what I’m laying down.”


            “Play to the hoop.”


            “You’ve got to leave the past behind.”


            “Flip the script.”


            “If a frog had wings, it wouldn’t bump it’s ass a’hopping.”




            “It’s Klingon.”

            “It’s a fucking INXS album,” yelled Clement.  “Marco, shut the fuck up!  Listen, Wendell, you want to know the secret to being here?”

            “Yes!” Wendell pleaded.  “Of course!”

            Clement reached into his robes for the first smoke he’d had in 150 years.  He grazed the tip on the edges of flames shooting up next to him.

            “You’re in Hell, pal,” he said to Wendell.  “Just don’t tense up when they shove the spiked glove up your ass and try to hum some Carpenter’s song when they push you facedown into the Republican pit.”

            Out of the brimstoned air, they heard, “Guys, it’s time!”

            Clement punched Wendell in the arm.



            “Good luck, kid.”



Friday, February 22, 2008


i was in my normal place of employment, but it looked different.
the place was cramped, and it had an odd look as if it were sepia toned of if the lights had been moved and wattage switched.
It was an extremely busy time there and as i made my way through the mob of customers, i heard her call me. i hadn't heard that voice in years.
what i saw when i turned to look frightened and surprised me.
i had not figured out that i was dreaming yet, so i was really disturbed yet happy as well- there she was.
she was in traction. she was covered in scars and bandages and strange braces and hardware from a cronenberg nightmare. she started to talk- i believe she asked me if i was alright, but the sight of her like that shocked me so, it shocked me right out of the dream.
i was tempted to try and contact her to ask her if she was alright, but i was too afraid to let her back into my brain.
she'd always been more trouble than she was worth...


That nigga’ there was Stovetop.


What’s with that outfit?  What was he, a mortician or something?


Naw, man, this was the early 80’s.  If you weren’t a Rasta or some Jheri-curl faggot, you were a Rude Boy.  Got that name from how he used to cook up his heroin.


Who’s that?


Nancy Peese.  Called herself Piece ‘cause she was the only girl in the group.  That there was her boy, Henk.




Yeah.  He was the muscle.  Went by Low.  Didn’t have sense God gave a goose, but that fuck could roll, man.


Why’d you call him Low?


Loved Bowie, man.  Especially his Eno period.  And there was no way I was calling him Hero or Lodger, so . . . ‘Kay, standing next to Low was Gerkin.


Looks like a fucking douche bag.


Don’t be hard on him for his looks, man.  So, he didn’t bathe a lot.  So, he liked that punk rock shit.  Don’t judge a book.  Hella’ back-up.


Well, that leaves you.  I thought you said there was six of you.


Here.  Look at the picture again.


Okay.  Alright, I don’t see anything.


Look close, man.  Real close.  See anything in-between one of these guys’ arms, behind us?


Whoa!  I didn’t notice that!  Who’s that?


That’s Boozoo.  Well, his eye anyway.


What was up with that shit?


Didn’t like having his picture took.  Far as I know, the only ones that exist are his mug shots.


So, what do I do with all this new information?  You want me to track down all these guys or something?


No.  All these fuckers are dead.  ‘Cept for me and Boozoo.


Wait.  This is all you got for me?  I’m supposed to track this dumb fuck with only a picture of his fucking eye?


You said you were good, man.  That’s all.


Well, I’ll tell you one thing, given all this shit you’re giving me.


What’s that?


You look like the gay brother of the guitarist from Gene Love Jezebel in this picture.



Noted.  Just find Boozoo.  And make sure he’s dead before I get to him.


Thursday, February 21, 2008


i was asleep when the dream came, a dream about the girl i nearly had. in my head, therehad been an explaination as to why she had suddenly given me the silent treatment. in the dream, someone knew the answer and was just about to give it to me.
of course, this is when i woke.
i was a bit shaken by this dream.
i thought i was done with the whole thing, but there is a limit i suppose.
there is only so much rejection a person can take... i guess.


The Rittsdale Mall was completely without power and therefore pitch black, yet I continued to shop there.  Everybody in town did.  That was Rittsdale’s mystique.  Their prices were pretty low, too.  I guess if you’re not paying to light or heat the place, businesses can charge the bare minimum and still turn a profit.  And they had the greatest stores.  A Spiffy’s, an Excalibur Records, kiosks with everything from novelty ties to saddle soap, one of those D.I.Y. clothing stores, a Goliath’s and a food court with just about any restaurant you’d ever heard of.


The last time I was there I accidentally took a woman’s basket of “cold fries” from Frigid’s.  It’s not like a I meant to do it or anything.  It was an accident.  I mean, how often has that happened in a food court with no electricity?  It was innocent enough.  But from that point on, I saw how easy it was to steal whatever I wanted, as long as I was aware of the locations of the infra-red cameras.



The honor system does not work.




Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Capitan Jonas Springling

Capitan Jonas Springling of the HMS Lost Hope stood on the bow of his ship looking over his territory. Capitan Springling turned, and went below deck. His first mate asked, “Sir, any sign of them?”
“No Wilson, nothing. I count that as a good thing. All bandits, pirate, and general hooligans have fled west. It is almost like the old west. People fleeing to a place where they will be more accepted. My job is to keep the unwanted people out of the east coast of the nation.”
“You do an excellent job of it all, sir.”

“Thank you Wilson, now take us home.”

chk spllng (183)

spelchk failed to pick up a small erorr, so society fell. i guess it could only be blamed on human error- the fact that we are so lazy that we need spell check. some may have thought that it was just a smll wy to assure that you could type at the speeds that were comfortable to you without having to notice every small mistake. some, tough, used it as a crutch.
these people are the reason the cold war is back on, china is marching the streets, and the plague is killing all of out childrew.


I guess the happiest thing I’ve seen in a long while is Pete in his barber shop, laughing it up with another fat man – a customer – who sits in Pete’s barber chair awaiting a haircut.  These two men in their 50’s are almost in tears and it causes a smile to race across my face.  Two portly men sharing a joke so powerful that it makes it impossible for the transaction to take place on this below zero night.  Their bodies shake, and they glance at each other’s hysterical faces in the mirror, causing them to guffaw even more.


With this simple image that I see through the window as I wait for the light change, it makes me realize that no matter how bad life is, seeing it from whichever angle, there has to be hope out there as long as two fat men can laugh so hard in a corner barber shop.   


Tuesday, February 19, 2008


she wanted me to go and hear henry Rollins speak at the Carver theatre. i couldn't go becuase i had work early the next morning, so, as i cleaned and locked up shop she talked about how cool Rollins was.
she told me a story about Rollins and his hate for Morrissey. she said that there was an indident where Morrissey went to hear rollins speak and Rollins berated moz in fron to of the entire audience. if there was ever a reason to hate Rollins, i had it now.
as she prepared to leave she mentioned that she was going to see a film about Joy Division.
"I hate that stuff.' i said, as she left. i don't really, but you know- whatever.

Wooden swords

The boys sword fought all across the front lawn. Dodging and diving back and forth at each other, each boy gave the appropriate wails when he had been stabbed.

Wooden swords wouldn’t hurt them, their mother thought. Maybe a smashed finger perhaps, but nothing more. The day would come for them to leave for the academy. She would let them go proudly, but would cry once they were gone. Boys rarely came home once they left. She would be strong that was her duty.


Brushes flick against a tight snare drum.  The crisp bite of the high-hat on the two and four ushers in Abe Tummler.  His white loafers skid in time with the drummer’s take to the ride.  His stage presence is wider than the spotlight that tries to take in his mountainous 350 lb. frame.  If all the rimshots and snare hits were silenced, the audience would be able to hear the swish of his green polyestered legs slapping together as he dances.  But even if the drums weren’t there, they wouldn’t be able to hear this over their screams and applause.  Yet none of this seems to phase him.  The glitz is just part of the life.


A snare roll crescendos with the applause and firmly snaps the crowd to attention as Abe confronts the smoky microphone.  Even the clinking of the highballs on the tables fall deaf as the house waits for what song he’ll start off with.  Abe holds the silence, milking it, knowing full well that he was the crowd by the short hairs.  An uncomfortable lull falls over them.  A woman in the front row giggles a bit.  A waiter near the back stops serving.  All attention is pulled to him , like an overfed black hole.


He closes his eyes and drops the dangling cigarette from his lips.


“Mother,” he whispers.



The room is still.  Smoke is the only living thing in the The Happy Chozzer tonight.  No one moves, nothing is said.  He still has them right where he wants them – a place there even he doesn’t want to be right now.


Monday, February 18, 2008

Kite Chasing

Timmy and Jonas ran through the field chasing their kite.

Father had given the kite to Jonas, because he knew that Jonas would share with his brother. The two had flown the kite for hours near the Cliffs of Pestilence. The Cliffs were close to a mile above the ocean below, and the boys were careful to not get too close to the cliff’s edge.

The wind caught the kite, and pushed it further inland down to the ground. Just as the boys stooped to retrieve the fallen kite, a giant ZR-53 Flying Dirigible Battle Station shot up over the cliff. Its shadow chased the boys across the field.

Timmy called out to Jonas, his voice barely made it to Jonas’ ears over the noise of the giant props that helped push the ZR-53 across the sky, “Jonas, I want to pilot one of those one day!”

“Me too!” Jonas called back. They stopped and watched as the dirigible made its way across the sky.


Dr. Giggolo is quite possibly the nastiest villain you’ll ever encounter.  And that’s saying a helluva’ lot.  There’s some sick fucks out there.  Skineater?  That’s one direction of nasty, I guess.  Dr. Giggolo doesn’t like the taste of human flesh or anything.  He’s just a fat, nasty shitbag.  And he’s constantly surrounded by these super-hot, sex kittens.  His bodyguards, the Cooze Guard.  Probably the most deadly thing about this degenerate is his back-up.  Sad, really.  He’s all show, that douchebag.  Dressed up like a dirtier version of Larry Flynt, except with a Lone Ranger mask.  Talk about a poorly thought-out concept for a supervillain.  The only reason these half-naked chics hang around him is because they’re on the payroll.  Yeah, his dad invented edible condoms.  Figures, huh?  Still, if you find yourself up against Dr. Giggolo, make sure you’re bringing you’re a-game.  That Cooze Guard don’t play.  No!  He’s a real doctor.



Alright, Aries, man up.
We have a lot of work to do in light of the recent controversial beef recall. This is just what the so called vegans have been waiting for- further proof that food is mistreated. And while the debate rages on over when food becomes food- at birth, when killed, when cooked and seasoned to perfection with Lowery’s seasoning salt and a dash of onion powder, etcetera- one thing is for sure… someone has to pay! Heads will roll over this, and eventually, those heads will be boiled until the delicacy known as head cheese is prepared.

Taurus, as you know, your greatest joy and greatest shame in life comes from your need to watch people undress while hiding in hedges, bushes, and cheap plastic topiary. Not many people know about your secret, and the few you have confided in have shunned you. You have tried to break yourself from this invigorating yet disgusting habit, but nothing has worked so far. Take this week and think about ways you could better use your free time. Then, when this doesn’t work, continue to Peep It Real!

People are constantly underestimating your complete willingness to explode their heads using only the power of your mind and an unlimited blackness that consumes your every thought. Perhaps a small demonstration is in order…

That tape your ex-boyfriend made of you is online. It has been sent from site to site so many times that the only way it could be traced to you was If someone you knew saw it and recognized you. The chances of that seem fairly slim, seeing as you were much younger and you were in a whole different state when it all happened. And yet, guess what I just saw online?

Leo, you’re familiar with the Golden Rule: do unto others as you would have them do unto you. You have lived your life by this rule, and it’s gotten you nothing but trouble. Since the mob found you and your family in witness relocation and murdered them all before nearly killing you, perhaps it’s time you did unto them with extreme prejudice! Sunglasses provided by Rayban.

Your record collection is chock full of lily Allen, Amy Winehouse and their ilk. You say you like their soulful sound- that it reminds you of Motown. Here is a tip: Buy some #$&*% Motown! Motown sounds exactly like Motown, because it IS Motown! Poseur.

Libra rhymes with Zebra. How about that? Are you a zebra? Huh? You live in Africa and run from lions? Are you black with white stripes or white with black stripes? Huh? Answer me, Zebra! Libra Zebra. That’s your name. That’s your new name. I’m just kidding, look, I’m not your dad but you have to do what I say so go to bed. Your mom and I need to… talk.

You pride yourself in the fact that you are surrounded by many friends and loved ones. In fact, some people envy you this. But as you sit in your fancy house with your kind of hot wife, there is something you should do: Keep an eye on the people that claim to love you. They’ve been hiding a terrible secret from you: you suck… hard. So hard.

The stars are telling me very good things about you, Sagittarius- you’re a good person, you care about those around you, and you give of yourself openly. It’s time that you did something for yourself. Take a day and make some art. If you’ve always wanted to be a painter, paint something. Write that poem that you hear in your head. Today is the day that you do something special. Just don’t let anyone see your sissified painting, Vagittarius!

You love your man. You’ve been together so long that it doesn’t seem like you were ever apart. Yet, sometimes your mind drifts to the caramel-brown coffee making man at your favorite coffee shop. Sure, he’s a bit heavy set and sometimes you don’t exactly get his sense of humor, but there is something about his sexy crooked smile and deep dark eyes that makes you want to do the devils business with him atop queen-sized bed covered in rose petals and single serving butter packets.
All signs point to yes, you nasty thang, you. Drop it like its hot- and covered in butter!

Hey, Aquarius. You like aquariums? I though you would, since you’re an Aquarius. I thought I told you and Libra Zebra to go to bed? Now I’m going to have to spank you, and in a completely different way than I spank your mom. If only you had a magic Radio Flyer™ to take you away from all of this. you could fly away from me and my drunken rage. But you don’t have a magic wagon, do you? You don’t and you never will. Never.

The charts have been checked and rechecked to make sure that the prediction that this months star alignment have shown was true. After much soul searching and a much meditation I have concluded that you, Pisces, suck worst than Sagitarius!

Sunday, February 17, 2008

it takes a worried mAn (186)

Almost everyone had dies, and the others were dying.
it was a hard job, but we swept through the crowd dispensing hot rounds into the hearts and minds of the American people.
"Women and children first!" i heard the commander yell, as i took aim at an elderly woman struggling to hide beneath a car.
this was not a fun job, but over the last few weeks i'd felt myself becoming more and more detatched from the actions i was taking in my capacity as a soldier.
from town to town, taking out citizens with fire and lead. it was tedious work.
some would fight back, and we'd lose good men.
on some occasions some of the boys would decided to torture a citizen that had the nerve to fight for his or her life.
the commander discouraged this, though.
"Always take the kill shot." he told us.
"don't make this any worse than it has to be."
still, it takes a certain type of man to kill for a living in the name of God and country, and it takes a totally differnt type of man to do it and feel nothing.
but the type of man that did it and started to enjoy it- that was the man i was becoming, andd i didn't like it.
i didn't like it at all.
at night when some of the men were comparing their personal tallies, i sat quietly in bed and thought about my family. my Sister, my Dad.
they both lived in the southeast.

they were probably killed weeks ago.

This is how war should be

I have said this before, but it bears hearing again my brother. Why should war not be fought where people do not have to lose their lives? Look at the Olympics, countries pitted against each other hosted on different soil every four years. Who cares if you don’t have a swim team, make up some asinine sport and add it to the roster when it is your country’s time to host. The country with the most metals wins bragging rights for the next four years. If they want to make it interesting the winning country can take over the bottom country. The catch comes when people only have this style take over every four years. How many countries are there on earth? There are at least a couple hundred. One country can’t win every time. This could take forever! There could be a layover system so that all these smaller countries don’t get gobbled up. The first four years are a probationary period. If they are last a second time, they are then absorbed into the winning country. See wouldn’t
this be better? Instead of killing millions of people the fate of a country would rest in the hands of a few people.

No pressure guys.


So, there’s just this one house out here . . . where are we?  What did you call this place?


“No Man’s Court.”


Like “no man’s land?”


Like what?


“No man’s land.”  You know?  That expression?


Yeah, never heard that one.  This is called “No Man’s Court,” so . . .




So, there’s no correlation, is what I mean.


Seems like the exact as “no man’s land” out here.  This is the only house as far as the eye can see.


Yours, maybe.  There’s a wonderful duplex in the distance there.  Just sold it to a nice Native American family.


That’s . . . . that’s a plateau.


Well, it's located on Plateau Avenue, if that's what you mean.

That’s not what I mean.  That’s a plateau.  It’s just a big slab of oversized rock.


Call it what you want, Professor Genius, but the Silverheels seem to like it.


“Silverheels?!?!”  Like Jay Silverheels, the guy who used to play Tonto.


I don’t really follow basketball, so I wouldn’t really know what you’re talking about.


So, the Silverheels live on this plateau.  A plateau – a natural land mass – that you’re charging them for.  That’s sad.


Hey!  Plateau Avenue is an up-and-coming community.  Worth every penny.


So, if I move in here . . . in, uh . . .


No Man’s Court.


Yeah.  If I moved in here, what would be the point?  There’s nothing around for miles.

Well, there are the Silverheels.


Okay, the Silverheels and . .


Look, I have to admit that this isn’t the ideal place to live.  In fact, I’ve got a better place for you that just opened up.  Come with me.


Where are you going?


Just follow me.  Alright.  See this?


Looks like a giant sinkhole.


Now the house is looking better and better, isn’t it?



Saturday, February 16, 2008

Caring, Listener, Dragon (187)

i had a dream where i met a girl and she liked me.
we spent a great deal of time talking about our lives and what we wanted to accomplish.
in the dream, you took a real interest in my hobbies, dreams, hopes, and goals.

i recognized the girl- i knew her, until i woke up.
the next day was torture as i went about my normal day hoping to run into her andd trigger the memory.
she never arrived.

later i started to think that maybe my mind had created this caring listener from traits that i had latently longed for in a women.

anything was possible, i guess.

the next night i dreamt about dragons.
they weren't huge fire breathing dragons. they were actually small children in nice cloth halloween like costumes. they actually looked more like pajamas than dragon costumes.

none of the children were black. this concerned me.

Picture time!


or Click

Whichever you like. It's pretty easy. One soul Two soul Three soul Four.

Much like a Dr. Seuss rhyme, stealing souls is as easy as the click of a camera.


On the third Wednesday, she’ll appear.  The street’ll be covered in poppies.  We’ll make sure of that.  It’ll be a sunny day – hot – but it’ll be snowing.  This is June we’re talking about.  All the lampposts’ll be draped in black silk.  All but one.  It’ll give off a green light.  Another thing we’ll take care of.  Thirty-five Pomeranians’ll be scattered throughout the yards – headless.  We’ll make sure that a high-pitched siren’ll be going off in the distance.  It’ll be blaring that Queazy Yakuza song.  The 42 minute one.  Nothing but wailing guitar feedback and howls.  And there she’ll be, center of the street, dressed in a blue checkerboard dress, carrying a basket full of straw.  She’ll be blind-folded with a red scarf.  The scarf’ll be a loose-toothed corduroy.  She’ll be singing an old Negro spiritual, though we haven’t figured out which one yet.  She should answer to the name of Glenda, but that won’t be her real name.  You’ll have a conversation about baseball.  Whatever you do, don’t talk about balks.  She’ll give you a red, metal heart.  You’ll walk away.  In thirty-eight years, we’ll do this all over again.  We hope we’ve made it all clear enough.


Friday, February 15, 2008

Note to self (188)

For future reference, i should stay away from anything with the prefix "Ghost"


Jessie’s left elbow won the competition.  It was unanimous.  The models had been whittled down, week after week, by the top surgeons in the field of amputation.  Out of the eight finalists, Jessie was the one that always stood out.  Her shoulder blades, once taken off, were clearly one of her strongest features.  Famous fashion photographer, Grant Humes, even stated that he’d never seen an amputated body part look so “fierce.”  While Francine’s pinky toe and Carmela’s index finger were the digits that snagged the most attention from the judges, Jessie’s final photo shoot revealed a side of her that made the other models jealous.  There was no hiding it.  In the end, it was between Belinda’s cheekbone and Jessie’s left elbow.  Ex-ampmodel and deciding judge, Darnique, had the difficult task of choosing whose body part would move on to win a modeling contract with Geo Modeling Agency and a $100,000 gift certificate for full reconstructive surgery of all body parts lost in the competition.  But Jessie’s elbow was the clear winner.  Clearly it was a case of outward beauty versus the hidden.  And when it was all said and done, the competition was about how much you were willing to lose in order to win.


Thursday, February 14, 2008


i hold steadfast if the belief that anyone invloved with the gazelle is a loser. he is a smelly man- often smelling like the cheapest bourbon. he is not a smart man, and he'll launch into a racist tirade if he doesn't get what he wants.
he wears a Cosby sweater, gold gazelles, and a leather union cap.
i hate this man and an currently looking for a reason to fight him in the lunch room.
anyone that wants to help me be in the lunchroom ar noon.
that is all.

Torn from my dark heart

This day shall see the rise of a new power. Rivers will run red. The sky will darken. Old women will use air freshener as mouth wash. The ground will dry and crack, and demons will emerge.

From what depths they climb we will not know. They will carry with them the hopes, dreams, and fears of all mankind. Like fire their arrows will fall upon the populous. Men and women running and screaming. There will be no hope for man. Valentine's day is upon us. Pray to whom you must few will make it out alive.


We opened The Pop Stand in the 70’s, around ’75 I want to say.  Punk wasn’t quite punk yet and rock had become so bloated.  There was definitely a weird gap to fill there.


It started with whoever wanted to play, I guess.  The Bowery was an utter shithole back in those days and yet there were some serious musicians hanging around.  I believe a band called Chump Change was the first band to play there, dressed in these money-green pullovers.  They played a thirty minute set, all one note, strummed in time with the drummer.  Odd, I guess you’d call it.  We had them in just about every week starting out.  Each night they came in with another chord they’d learned.  Later, I found out they were just going a half-step up each set.  Haven’t heard anything like it since. 


Oh, The Pop Stand had a lot of people come through who later went on to become household names.  Jick Diver was a regular.  Back then he wasn’t doing the one-man band thing though.  Not even playing music.  Just a street hustler.  But he hung around the Stand.  Members of Shirley Jackson’s Lottery were all in different bands back then.  Um . . . let’s see.  The drummer was in Smallpox and the singer and guitarist were in, I think, a band called The Famished Hogs.  And these line-ups pretty much changed week to week.  Norman Urn, before he called himself Norman Urn, would usually be playing the Space Invaders game we had in the foyer.  That guy would blow $20 in one night.  And he still had a drug habit to support.



You know, regardless of the garbage strike and the junkies and the constant smell of piss and vomit in the place, I’d give anything to go back there, if just for one hour.



Wednesday, February 13, 2008


“Breakout? Are you crazy?”

“Well, I feel it’s time.”

“This isn’t the Breakfast Club, or even Prison Break. People could get hurt, or even killed.”

“I know.” He scratches his nose and glances into the next room.

“When is this going down?”

“I say less than five minutes.”

“How are you going to do it?”

“She will leave in a minute.”


“Oh, I will just walk out.”

“She won’t be happy about it.”

“I have planned on it.”

“What do you have planned for it?”

“To not be here.”

...tape (190)

When someone dies during a fit of rage, a curse is created.

Got it.

That curse touches and kills everyone it comes into contact with, whether they were guilty of the original crime or not.

I understand.

Julie was a teacher of English in japan and she had a studdent in her class that had gone to the ghost house on a dare. Julie came home, I live next door to julie, now I'm cursed by proximity.

That's all cool.

But could you stop fucking up all of my vhs with images of yourself being killed please, Japanese Ghost Girl?
Either go ahead and kill me or leave my tapes alone.

Got it?

(formatting dedicated to sll.
love you, boo!)