HOODWRECK

hongos

Wed, 15 Aug 2012 01:42:00 -0400

I wrote this after I did a lot of mushrooms. It blows.

And for all I know “me time” is actually a factory where middle-aged women are pumped out of, blue tooth in ear, fully geared up for yoga.

And for all I know Chris is high as shit watching some show about ancient aliens er some shit about to turn into a zombie waiting for me to slip up and let my guard down so that motherfucker can eat my face.

And for all I know time travel is actually just watching Forest Gump when you’re super high.

And for all I know it’d be real fucked up to get abducted by aliens who were real drunk. They’d be dropping their extra-sensory scalpels all over their alien piss covered floors. It’d probably look like toxic antifreeze, then they’d perform surgery on you. Maybe that’s why our veins are bright blue.

And for all I know I think I’m addicted to quitting smoking.

And for all I know David Byrne knows something I don’t. And by “something I don’t” I mean Pangea, tides, evolution, noise music, DJ nights, then some more evolution, and eventually getting so college drunk that the only rationale behind your next move is “fucking any fucking port in a fucking storm.”

And for all I know there are some ponds and streams and rivers and waterfalls out there. I swear I saw them in the background of a commercial.

And for all I know cigarettes actually make you live longer. People who smoke only die out of choice.

And for all I know if you got home right now I would look over at you and say, “Thank God you’re home. I am so high.”

recolección

Wed, 15 Aug 2012 01:32:00 -0400

LAZY BONER PICKING V. CULT GUMP RASH

The side effects of hexavalent chromium don’t include any of the following: night terrors, habitual addiction to picking, weight gain, or cigarette shaped finger blisters. Most of these symptoms are manageable. But, picking. Picking is a touchy issue. The general rule is, “DON’T FUCKING PICK AT THAT.” So, you don’t. Then there are agonizing hours of wanting to pick. Waiting until no one is around and looking at it in the mirror or the light of the bathroom behind closed doors. Still not picking. You could pick it and no one would know, not a damn soul. Just you and the flickering fluorescent toilet. But you still don’t pick. “It’s dark out now but in a few hours you can just call a doctor, make an appointment, do it right,” is reason enough for idle hands to poke and pry at some other area. Fuck with your nose, your ears, your eye gook.

At night the picking makes up different words you’ve never heard before; abyss, regret, ordeal, tickle-me-pink. You pick in your sleep and dream about blood under your nails. Maybe, you wake up with clammy hands twitching with teenage hope that your head might be close to falling under enough of a cloudy dream state that they can roam free, picking everything freely, even spots that don’t want to be picked. Then it’s light out at SIXAM. The sun seeps in at varying angles through the blinds until you realize you should walk to the doctor. The whole slog over, the sidewalks are crowded and you know can’t pick in front of these decent, law types. WHAT WOULD THESE PEOPLE THINK OF YOU PICKING? So don’t. Just walk calmly, covering what you can with loose clothing. Since there is a long way to go, a potential picker might consider dressing the wound with Listerine, or peroxide, or Taaka, or an over-priced-acid-induced-new-age-natural-vegan remedy that some chiller in Berkeley is fermenting in his in-laws basement. “THROW IT THE FUCK ON, MAN,” would be decent last words, right?

So, eventually you’re writhing in the waiting room, waiting for the receptionist to turn her head. Then you can at least pick without guilt. She does but you still don’t pick. Just watch her work on whatever the fuck paperwork is so pressing. It’s like she doesn’t even care about the picking. “This bitch doesn’t even know what picking means.” That in itself strengthens some inner resolve not to pick. I’m not going to pick because she thinks she knows I’ll pick. The waiting game goes on and when your name is called it’s only like seconds between the receptionist and laying naked on an imitation leather twin sized cube stuck behind more opaque objects. The last hurdle is a beige guilt-free pick zone. Totally off radar, as they say. Some might wonder where the hell the hidden picking cameras are. Not me. I know. I will never pick. I will wait for as long as the doctor wants me to sit still. I’m a good American and patience is a virtue. It’s only about ten fucking pick-free years before the white coat motherfucker strolls in so casually that you know he has never had anything to pick at in his life.

“So, describe to me again what the issue is.”

“Wooool, I got this rash.” I roll over and point it out. Doc sighs. He is embarrassed. He doesn’t want to look at me.

“Have you been picking?”

“No. Not once.”

“Suuuure,” he might have sighed again but it was actually, probably some picking disgrace complex growing in an ever pick eager state.

“Let me get my gloves and have a look.”

Some powder that may as well be smoke from Dante’s Inferno falls unto the rash and really fucking burns, man. Doc snaps some gloves on. He adjusts my body through a series of prods and pushes. He is now comfortable with my awkward, very un-loungeworthy stance. Then after some shameful moments in which our eyes actually met, I’m semi-gladly groped by non-allergenic plastic gloves and I finally feel the latex just picking and picking.

el consentimiento de la realidad

Sat, 04 Jun 2011 16:49:15 -0400

In Telfair’s sophomore year of high school, he developed a compound to aid lucid dreaming for a science project he titled Consensual Reality. It took six months of self-experimentation before he found his perfect chemical equilibrium. During trial runs Telfair often slept for days on end. Finding more of an allegiance with his unconscious mind, he eventually became addicted to the dream pills. Slowly he built a tangible existence in a dream state and a consequent permanent waking discomfort. Ever since Telfair’s bout with consensual reality, his scoliosis spine forced a crooked stance in almost every position he could contort his lanky body into; in fact, the only time he ever looked comfortable was while asleep.

The Telfair Museum of Jurassic Technology in Los Angeles had been dedicated in his father’s name. His father, Elliot Telfair, had pioneered the ‘self shrink’ theory, a concept that involved shrinking all living organisms on Earth in order to conserve resources such as food, fossil fuel, etc. Since this and most of his other theories had been labeled to radical for mainstream science in time he became discouraged and withdrew from the scientific community. With not much else to do, Elliot sought out a surrogate mother and nine months later Jack Telfair was born. In his early years, Jack excelled in school and was considered a child prodigy by most, if not all, of his teachers. But, he was not exactly a model student, Elliot often received phone calls from hysterical teachers saying that Jack had disappeared completely during recess, or lunch, or on a trip to the bathroom. Apparently, Jack didn’t like any of his classmates and wanted to be as far away from them as possible.

Telfair had graduated valedictorian of his high school and later his college. He went on the get his masters and his doctorate, his brain was overstuffed with college words and college concepts. But his synapsis synapsed to quickly and he felt a great disconnect from the world around him. Telfair finally retreated to the vast database of extraneous knowledge that was his mind, dedicating his time to what most considered bizarre projects.

He stretched conventional laws of science in every direction and his eccentric inventions often gained widespread press coverage. He turned city buses into hoverbuses and public staircases into touch-sensitive keyboards that played music for commuters as their feet made contact with individual steps. A local laboratory with loose ties to JPL noticed his small celebrity growing and asked him to work with them on some projects. The laboratory was a highly secretive satellite location and most, if not all, JPL personnel were unaware that it even existed. Their funding was listed under ‘Other’ in JPL’s yearly budget, with $19 million allocated to projects like ‘The Space Toilet’ or $26 million for ‘Massage Parlor on Mars’. Etc. Apparently no one noticed.

Years passed leaving Telfair a neurotic middled-aged man, the term consensual reality resonated during chit-chat around the water cooler while he stared blankly at the lines in his palms and dirt under his fingernails. Recluse was an understatement when referring to Telfair, he rarely spoke to anyone unless it was work related. As is the case with most introverts, strange rumors surrounded Telfair and were circulated throughout the office. I heard he was an android. I heard he was cloning himself. I heard he doesn’t like pizza. Partially out of curiosity, partially out of jealousy and partially out of boredom, his coworkers would break into his office and encapsulate his office supplies in Jello and steal his intellectual property and research. Every morning like clockwork Telfair would arrive to an office in which a colleague was unveiling whatever Telfair had been working on the previous night. And resentment grew. While most vent to a spouse, a friend or the guy behind the counter at the local liquor, Telfair’s nights ended in an almost empty apartment that housed only a mattress and an aloof cat. Finding no consolation in the cockroaches and white walls, Telfair was forced to create something that would lift him from his depression.

Embracerol is a white powder that when inhaled induces euphoria and acceptance; or the ability to embrace one’s surroundings regardless of what they are. Telfair had invented another addiction to further supplement the lucid dreaming pills. At first he used it rarely or in times of great need but by his third month into the drug he was snorting it every ten minutes. When the erratic behavior was noticed by his coworkers, they conspired. They had found the answer to removing him from the scientific community; they set up cameras and tape recorders around the office and under the ruse of genuine interest in Embracerol got Telfair to detail his creation and addiction to the substance on tape. The evidence was delivered to Human Resources and Telfair was fired that same day and was immediately blacklisted from his current employer and all other respectable scientific organizations.

After his dismissal from the firm, he walked the nine miles home over the pedestrian prohibited bridge back to his apartment. From under his bed, he pulled a box marked In Case of Reckoning which contained all of his savings (over onehundredthousand dollars), a gun, a lifetime supply of Embracerol, some photographs, The Inferno and all basic survival gear. He took the Embracerol and left it in a dish for his cat, walked outside and hailed a cab.

It took nearly ten years after Telfair’s withdrawal from society before he began to feel lonely. By this time he had bought a plot of land, built what by traditional standards would be considered a mansion powered all by Tesla technology. Since it was over a hundred miles to the nearest neighbor and over two hundred miles to the nearest grocery, Telfair built a chicken coop and installed an acre large garden which had provided nutritional sustenance for nearly a decade. He had never met his neighbors but the real estate agent told him they weren’t exactly friendly and had once threatened to shoot her while she was showing property. So, Telfair avoided them. The last conversation he had was over six years ago and was held in Morse code. Through a series of long and short beeps he contacted his old job.

“Hello, Jack Telfair here. Thought you guys might be interested in a magnet powered teleportation device I am working on. Matter is guided through a small laser beam leaving little room for error, tremendous technology. Also, I haven’t touched Embracerol in over two years, been very productive. Very. I hoped that maybe my innovations might be needed back at the lab, if you wanted to reconsider my dismissal. Please get back to me soon, I have been getting very lonely. Over.”

“Telfair, we have absolutely no need for you or a laser guided teleporter. We do not have time to waste on decoding the diatribes of a recovering drug addict. Please do not contact us ever again. And if you do, please do it over the phone. If I could, I would bill you for the precious time wasted translating this conversation.

Over and out.”

III

Zinsser’s birth was anticlimactic at best. Forged from various homegrown and mail order organs and skin grafts, he looked like a jumbled, patchwork version of Telfair. One arm longer than the other, one grey eye, one blue, lumbering with a vacant stare. Telfair had taken a small sample of his own brain and grown a duplicate in an incubator. When he implanted it, he believed that Zinsser would awake to be his intellectual other and together they would change the landscape of modern science.

For the first year of Zinsser’s life he paced slowly throughout the expansive property, breathing heavily through his mouth. Telfair often sat him down for language lessons but it appeared that the homegrown brain had only developed to the maturity level of a fifteenyearold. During lessons he would chew gum loudly and throw bits of chalk at Telfair while his back was turned. By his fourth year of life, he had a decent grasp on the English language but nothing of interest to say.

“Telfair, hurry come into the backyard, I have to show you something!”

“Oh, yes, have you been working on the Van De Greer generator kit I ordered you?”

“No, three chickens are fucking at once! A fucking chicken threesome!”

And on.

Telfair put all of his efforts into expanding Zinsser’s mental capabilities. For his fourth birthday he gave Zinsser paint, canvas and a lesson on California Impressionism. After three weeks in the art studio, Zinsser emerged with a canvas covered in feces, he titled his great work of art A Painting by Zinsser.

Telfair’s gift to Zinsser on his fifth birthday was a rift in gravity. A slight alteration in Newton’s Second Law had allowed Telfair to create a concentrated area of what he called light gravity in Zinsser’s room. The lower gravity caused Zinsser to have a permanent erection. It was strictly nonsexual as Zinsser was a virgin, even to his own hands and thoughts.

Telfare’s gift to Zinsser on his sixth birthday was a satellite that used radio waves to transmit binary code into space, specifically to extraterrestrial life. Zinsser worked ceaselessly for seven weeks, two days and nine hours arduously formatting his ultimate human truth into the appropriate platform for its transmission across the lightyears. His final message read ‘As a long time cereal consumer, I believe I have found the most effective consumption method documented by our species thus far. To avoid excess milk toward the end of the bowl while conserving structural integrity (i.e. firmness) of our human breakfast food one must consume equal parts milk and equal parts cereal throughout the meal, adjusting the ratio for anticipated remainder quantities with each bite. I hope my revelations will optimize your morning experience when our species is hosting yours for sleepovers.’

Telfair’s gift to Zinsser on his seventh birthday was a puppy and a small black box labeled Canineversation. The device translated human language into a series of ‘barking’ noises that could be interpreted by a dog. After three days of being subjected to Zinsser, the dog hung itself with its own leash from the oak tree outside Zinsser’s bedroom window.

And on.

It took one whole decade before Telfair stopped giving Zinsser birthday gifts. Zinsser, too lazy to climb stairs and Telfair, no longer able to look at his failed experiment without tears of rage welling in his eyes, claimed their separate floors in the mansion. Now Telfair spent his time in the upper floor of his home, staring at the vast pristine beauty surrounding his estate and eating large quantities of a new stronger, strain of Embracerol he had synthesized. The only evidence that Zinsser was still downstairs were the occasional sounds of experimental noise music, made with a yardstick and saw, floating around the house. Telfair would scream and stomp wildly until Zinsser’s erratic orchestra ceased, then go back to his window and stare. Zinsser, having the backyard as part of the downstairs spent much of his time stomping on tomatoes in the garden. He would often wait for the chickens to have sex then piss on them. Sometimes he would paint Zinsser brand modern art with feces.

One day during an especially lengthy music session he noticed the absence of Telfair’s stomping. Under the assumption that Telfair had finally began to appreciate his music, he hurriedly finished the track and made a copy for Telfair. He drew a picture of three chickens fucking with his feces on the cover and excitedly climbed the stairs to deliver the gift.

A strong smell radiated from Telfair’s room as Zinsser pushed the door open. He found the old man stiff and pale in a chair facing the western windows. Hundreds of little orange bottles of Embracerol lined the bookshelves, floor, desks and window sills. Some empty, some full. He stood for a minute that felt like an hour, unsure of how to respond. Then, Zinsser pried the mostly full container from Telfair’s stiff right hand and poured the entirety of it into his mouth. Instantly he forgot the disturbing scene he had walked into and was over taken by strong feelings of euphoria and acceptance. For the first time he noticed the breathtaking view from the second floor, he walked over to the western window.

And on.

más por venir

Sat, 22 Jan 2011 04:44:00 -0500

The dial doubled decibels and drowned out the howl on a block notable only for noise. The sun forced into the filth of the floor at a forty-five degree angle, burning any ants trapped in the myriad of magnifying glass, broken or in bottle form. Blood frosted the peaks of the ridged glass ranges sprawled across the linoleum floor. The most desperate of ants braved it, deranged by the southern summer sun, trying to find the zenith of their Everest. Telfare didn’t mind. In fact, he liked the fuckers. Through four foster homes, eight girlfriends, seventeen apartments, three colleges and an infinite amount of bottles his tiny insect ecosystem seemed the only permanent fixture in a ephemeral life.

The snow of blood was Telfare’s own, an early morning dream had left him sweating cold bullets on a sheet-less bed. He had found himself on a shore he had known in early childhood. The shore where he had last seen his mother. Her clothes too small and her face painted bright red around the lips and bright blue around the eyes. She had handed Telfare a book that seemed twice his size at the time. ‘A Boys First Book of the Stars’ was etched in gold lettering on the cover. He accepted it not understanding the implications of the gift. His mother walked North purposefully crushing the wet sand with pointed heels, while her figure obscured into a red and blue dot and eventually to nothing. Telfare sat waiting alone until dark. The sun set and he matched the pictures in his new book to the new twilight.

Now, in a dream he was an adult on the same shore, holding the same book that was still twice his size, making it a good eleven feet tall. He tried to find the patterns of the book in the sky but they were cryptic and unrecognizable now. Telfare grew tired of the dream game, threw the book into the tide and walked along the shore. It grew darker and darker and he grew uneasy. He found himself overcompensating and walking twice what he considered a casual speed. The wet sand began to pull at his shoes like quicksand, pulling him under. He panicked, using all effort to pull his feet from the tar-pit, he fell short of breath. In the distance he spotted a white pinprick that stood out against a black chalkboard horizon. Telfare slowed his pace and held twitching limbs still as he approached the figure. The man stood motionlessly facing the sea. Telfare leaned unto the mans shoulder.

‘Rare night, so clear you can see all the stars.’ Telfare blurted out without meaning.

‘A Boys First Book of the Stars’ the man replied.

Telfare’s spine snapped straight, he took an awkward step back and back again and fell on some inconsistent mountains of sand. The man slowly turned around to reveal a mirror image of Telfare’s current self down to the miss-matched shoelaces and all, except he held an urn between his haunches. He popped it open and ashes dispersed three hundred and sixty degrees around them, like a tornado, up and into the ocean air.

‘Who are you mourning?’ Telfare screamed over the increasingly loud wind and tide.

‘Us! We are wheels within wheels and nothing more!’

cinta número uno

Tue, 21 Dec 2010 06:15:00 -0500

FOUND TAPE. TRANSCRIBED TAPE.

B: What is your favorite texture?

H: My favorite texture is an extra shiny see-through sheen.

(INAUDIBLE)

B: Okay, so, how many times do you need to be reminded of forty ounces before you know that forty ounces is forty ounces?

H: The only time I need to be reminded about forty ounces is when I’m getting some Hot Cheetos and I remember the eighty ounces is.. is ten times?

K: Are you recording?

B: I’m recording a very important tape… This is the sound of someone crunching Hot Cheetos. Jalapeno. Hot Cheetos. Jalapeno. AD 2012. Ten. Twenty twelve. Hot Cheetos.

H: One, two, three, four, five, six, six six.

(INAUDIBLE)

H: holy shit.

(INAUDIBLE)

B: Hanne is radiating fertility.

AUGUST 26TH 2010

H: Today we have a very special guest with us, a certain Elizabeth Megan Hole. This is a very special experience. This woman has never been interviewed before. ELIZABETH MEGAN HOLE? WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? WHAT ARE YOU FEELING THIS VERY SECOND? Go!

B: Right now I wish I could cover a toddler in caramel. Like apple candy. The end.

H: If you were to have a little girl right now, what would you name her?

(INAUDIBLE)

B: Sixty nine. Sixty nine. Sixty nine point seven.

H: The news is that we are going to be dead soon and the world will end, how do you feel about twenty twelve?

B: Uhm.. I don’t know, honestly.. I think we, uh will uh, all combine back into the spirits we were at one point, like uhhhh.. (INAUDIBLE) jesus church and the latter day saints.

H: How do you feel about Sergio? Sergio had a theory that the people show conformed would become dead but everybody who believed freely would become one and that the world would not end but it would change. How do you feel about Sergio’s theory?

B: It makes me think of (BACKGROUND NOISE) it makes me think of Oscar Grant and how his life would have been if he lived in Europe.

H: Oscar Grant did grow up in SAN FRAN-CIS-CO CAL-IF-ORN-NIA.What if he lived in Oakland? WHAT IF OSCAR GRANT LIVED IN OAKLAND? Do you think his life could have been alternated?

B: I think if Oscar Grant had spent his nubile days in Oakland.

(INAUDIBLE)

B: I see it really as, uh, it’s a lot like, uh..

(LAUGHTER)

H: New question. Today there has been news of an android acwoss. Acwoss? (LAUGHTER)

H: There has been nude ..

(LAUGHTER)

H: There has been nude? There has been news of an android running acwoss the Bermooda Triangle screaming at the top of it’s lungs. Do you think this android has anything against us humanoids?

B: 1000% I think that it’s android screams are..

(LOUD BACKGROUND MUSIC)

B: Absolutely, I think if you look at it and dissect the noise’s, and uh, it’s um, something that goes way, way back to the Cretaceous Period. It’s a problem of, uh, there’s certain noises that Homo sapiens respond to and one of them is definitely the ‘Android Cry’ which is something that J.P.L. (Jet Propulsion Laboratories) nick-named it, it’s not my name for it. But it’s actually a huge problem with Earth’s colonies on Mars.

H: But the scientists have definitely called evolution incorrect. If evolution is incorrect then uh, is it correct that asteroids entirely made us? Completely made us?! Completely designed us?!

B: No, no, no… This is retarded. This is where the scientists fucked up is they didn’t read the mother fucking Bible. The fucking Bible. I mean there is silverware and there is science. It’s the same shit.

(SCENE MISSING)

H: Twist. Twist. Twist. Twist. Twist. Twist. Twist.

(INAUDIBLE)

B: Was I saying words right now?

(SCENE MISSING)

(INAUDIBLE)

D: GOO GOO. OH, I can only crawl.

H: Where is my forty? I think that’s my forty.

K: GRINDCORE. I WANT GRINDCORE AND I WANT GRINDCORE.

(INAUDIBLE)

B: I’m really just trying to do my job right now.

H: Welllllll… My forty is gone.

D: They’re three thousand forties in this house.

B: I don’t want to take your forty.

H: If you lived in a world of forties?

D: A FOURTY TREE

B: IF I LIVED IN A WORLD OF FORTY FORTIES, EIGHTY FORTIES, A HUNDRED AND TWENTY FORTIES, A HUNDRED AND SIXTY FORTIES. Hanne, uh where is my forty? Can somebody find my forty?

no me he sentido bien en mucho tiempo

Wed, 15 Dec 2010 06:58:00 -0500

buzzards circle overhead. three black birds circle, sway and stager midair, like they mighta been drunk. like they mighta been drunk, like i were drunk. when i was young, ma told me that these were the serpents of the sky. here to help usher a plague upon the damned. the omen birds. ‘them foul, they only bring a storm and other kinda bad’ ah heard shrieked through them paper thin walls anne from that large lonely bed for all the twenty one years ah can remember being alive. anne ah got tired. of god. of god anne ma anne all they asked. then ah came down from the fogged up hills ah left down into the barren valley. ah walked for miles, ah did. anne the skin shyly escaped from out the bottoms of mah shoes to meet the hot asphalt it had never knew at home. mah feet recoiled in their dilapitated homes on a count of the heat. anne ah walked for what most men would call a century. i walked anne i walked. then ah noticed there were some corpses laid out in the road. in a row. some road kill. down the way ‘bout a quarter mile. they jus’ sit and bake on the asphalt in the southern desert sun. so ah squint anne try anne make just about out what type of cadaver i were comin’ up on. but it’s too hot and the texture of the air warps just above the scalding asphalt which distorts mah line of sight enough that ah can’t make out so much as a horizon. so lost is the picture that some might call it an oasis. anne some might call it anne illusion.

totalmente jodido (aún en curso)

Sat, 11 Dec 2010 15:12:00 -0500

REALLY OLD. NOT FINISHED. JUST FOUND.

HERE

I felt the shivers move from my left leg to my left arm then to their corresponding right parts. Fuck, it’s cold.

Hey, it’s cold in this aisle guys, let’s move to the canned food section.

Hold on, I want to get some microwavable lasagna.

Everything went dark. I could hear noises like thunder, or gunshots, or nuclear war, or something outside so I fell to the ground. I started a chain reaction; everyone followed. I looked around at everyone laying on the white tile floor and realized I was laying in something that looked like vomit, and smelled like vomit, and well, I guess it was vomit. Someone ate some bad shrimp, or pasta maybe. The generator kicked on, the store was half powered.

Attention Lucky shoppers, we seem to be experiencing some sort of emergency. We ask that you calmly stay low to the ground, and make your way to the southeast corner of the market where you will find an emergency exit leading to the parking…

The voice trailed off and the sound of coughing boomed over the intercom; I tried to listen to the sound. Does he have the same cough I have? No point. The mongoloids around me had fallen into a loud, frenzied mania. I lounged for a while on my back, waiting for stucco patterns in the Lucky ceiling to form shapes. Mob mentality had set in, women screaming, children crying, men stepping on me. I noticed a green mist filling the upper atmosphere of the market. Wait, what the fuck is going on here?

I’m crawling toward the southeast corner of a supermarket I’ve never set foot in before. The man to my left has two scarves on and is crying hysterically. The outside of the market looks like a seizure inducing strobe light. Scarves stands up and tries to make a run for it. His wet eyes meet the green upper atmosphere and start to decompose. He makes it about twenty paces ahead of me and falls to the floor. Thirty seconds later I’m crawling past a soon to be dead man; decaying, convulsing and wearing two scarves.

I’m at the southeast corner of the store, I’m looking out the double doors, I’m dreading walking outside, I’m under an orange sky, I’m looking out across the bay, I’m eyeing a black truck in the parking lot, I’m trying to remember how to hot-wire a ’67 Chevy, I’m feeling someone tap my back, I’m digging around in my purse for that .22, I’m not finding it, I’m following someone to the Chevy, I’m sitting behind the wheel, I’m watching the owner run toward me, I’m starting the car, I’m panicking, I’m digging under the seat, I’m holding a gun, I’m watching a man approach the truck, I’m aiming, he’s dead.

I’m gasping for air in my bed. My eyelids feel to heavy to open and even if I wasn’t exhausted I wouldn’t want to get out of bed anyway. First thought of the day is it’s been four months to the day since I had sex.

Hey! Wake up! Hey, can I use your car?

I see four orange walls materialize around me. A figure is standing over me.

I just had a really weird dream.

Me too. So, can I use your car? Or not?

It was a really vivid dream, it felt like it was really happening. I killed someone.

Yeah, uh, weird… I just have to go pick up some stuff from a friends house, I’ll be back in like twenty minutes.

The keys are on my desk.

I puke. The electricity was shut off three days ago. I don’t know what I’m puking into; it’s dark.

THERE

Someone is shoving my head into a bathtub full of vomit. Later I’m in an ocean of dead fish trying to swim to the surface. Even later I’m sinking into a black tar pit, it’s steaming. I feel hot grease burn my left arm and move to the left side of my face. I open my eyes wide with anger and focus on older woman with sagging breasts, grey hair and a worn slip. Her cleavage hardens my already hard morning wood. She is overweight, she is the bane of my existence, and she is smiling at me.

Mornin’ darlin’!

God damn it! That grease is burning me!

Well, maybe you could move your bed out of the kitchen, or maybe, you could cook yourself breakfast. Or maybe you could get your own place. You are 52, you know? Or maybe if you had a wife…

Shut your hole of a mouth, I don’t need to hear this shit first thing in the morning.

Yeah, you never can, whether it’s morning, noon or night, honey!

MOTHER!

I stumble down the floral print doublewide to the bathroom. I make sure to piss on the toilet seat that morning due to mother’s cruel and abrupt method of waking me.

This wallpaper is nauseating, mother.

Don’t I know it, child. You’re mad if you think I wouldn’t change it in a heartbeat, but, you know, all I got, well, all we got, is your father’s pension.

Why don’t you get a job?

Come on kid. I’m 75, I’ve got no experience in any field, it’s been over 30 years since I’ve even set foot in an office.

And you scream at me for my laziness when it’s clearly your genetics that have cursed me.

HERE

I’m in the food stamp line. I found a pair of old headphones in a free box last week, they don’t work but I wear them anyway. It’s a new strategy I’m trying out to repel unwanted conversation, it’s not working.

FATHER!?

The man in front of me in this endless line for free food believes I’m related to him. I stare straight ahead listening to my headphones.

Father, it’s you! Can I have a cigarette? Do you have any change? I just need bus fair, I have to get to Berkeley to see my wives.

I stare straight ahead listening to my headphones.

I was just a child. You put needles in me. Now I only need bus fare and a meal. I have to see my wives, you owe it to me.

He was shaking uncontrollably, licking white residue from his upper lip. I stare straight ahead listening to my headphones.

Ellis, we can help you at window three now, rang over the loud speaker.

Red tape.

I’m back at home. I’m broke. I’m sitting in the dark on an orange couch with Shark.

I wasn’t eligible for food stamps.

What? How is that possible? What if you whore me out on the Internet?

What if we divorce the bottle?

We won’t do either.

Prove it.

I search skynet for possible pyramid schemes.

THERE

Mother is still nagging at me so I turn my walkman up as loud as it will allow me to. I dig through my drawer and pull out a zip lock bag. It’s only 7:46 am; I’ve got time to jerk off before work. I do and wipe up with her sweater. I check my Internet accounts, nothing new. I post another ad.

Instead of using up lots of water and energy cleaning your dirty underwear, how about you selling a pair to me? You get to be green, and have an extremely generous donation for your wallet! I’m seeking a very attractive girl to sell me your extra well-worn and extremely dirty underwear. Send picture with response. Please be able to meet in person for trade, public place is ok. Serious replies only.

It’s after eight now, I’m some how running late. It’s laundry day so I hurriedly stuff all the sweatpants and button downs scattered around my floor into a pillowcase and set it in the hallway. Off to work.

HERE

Well, this sounds promising.

What? The slave guy?

No, that guy is old hat and he’s a prude, I e-mailed him four times. I’m talking about this guy.

…

Oh, wow. What are you going to say to that?

Shit, I don’t even know.

How many do you need? How much per pair? Where do we meet?

THERE

He was scheduled to show up at 10AM. He always left to work one hour early. On his walk to Gino’s Pies and Hotdogs, he detoured down Fifth Avenue and collected flyers from the windshields of parked cars. This week it was a sale on RV’s at some dealership out in Pleasanton. He held hundreds of the advertisements between his palms, straightened them and wrapped a red rubber band around the stiff pieces of paper. Next Sixth Avenue. An opening of a club on Webster St. this Friday night, lots of women and an open bar. He wrapped a blue rubber band around these ones.

Isaac, this is your third late arrival since the start of the year, it’s only April.

Save it. I’m a parking lot attendant, Mallard. I don’t see any cars in the lot at this hour, do you?

Are you suggesting your not needed here?

He laughed to himself.

With the way you guys operate, I think I’m the only reason Gino’s is still in business.

Don’t matter if there’s no cars or a thousand, you were scheduled at 10 and it’s 10:17. Now, I’m not a mathematician, but this is real elementary stuff. I have no choice but to write you up.

He stuffed the pink piece of paper with his collected flyers and zip lock bags, shot a wad of snot onto the sidewalk and took his place in the tiny wood booth of Gino’s parking lot.

HERE

She walked through the sliding glass doors, six pockets full of receipts. Rex followed twenty paces behind. They made their way to the sporting goods department, separately. Rex hopped onto a small pink bike, rode to a red shirted worker, put on his autism façade and touched the small mans face sensually. Ellis pulled out three receipts from the left pant pocket; Coleman 150 watt lantern, a box of thirty fishing hooks and some sort of gas for a portable stove. Rex voice was now loud enough to hear from men’s ware to electronics. The monotony of the shopping trip was broken and the mongoloids were gathering like moths to a light. She lit the 16th cigarette of her last pack. Rex was six isles over lying on the floor, convulsing. The Alka-Seltzer was just now starting to foam from his mouth and the crowd kept growing. She fumbled around and tried to match the numbers on the receipt to the items on the shelves, eventually found all three and made her way to the front of the store. She did her best to look concerned and stopped to check on Rex. The red shirts were crowded around him and he had began to cry hysterically.

I know CPR, Mr. Jackson, I can help, I swear!

Shut up Brittney, this man has epilepsy CPR won’t help him.

Put a wood spoon in between his teeth! Ellis yelled from the crowd.

My husband has seizures! I know what to do! I can help! Screamed an overweight red-faced woman from the back of the crowd as she dropped her pool noodles. Pool noodles pushed her way to the front. The situation continued to escalate. Children were crying, mothers were clutching husbands, husbands were thinking about sex.

Ellis was walking to the front of the store, almost to the registers now, she stomped her cigarette out under a company telephone. She picked up the receiver, punched the in the numbers to access the intercom.

Fully fucked.

The words rang through the store.

Rex stood up and spit the foam from his mouth.

Thanks, you guys were really a great crowd but I’ve got to be moving on. Have a lovely night, all of you. He took a bow.

You asshole! Pool noodles howled. Various other insults were screeched as he made his way to the exit. Ellis reached the counter and waited for a redshirt.

Can you believe that guy? Faking a seizure like that? She asked the bewildered employee.

No ma’am can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it. What can I help you with tonight?

I’ve got some returns, just these three things.

All right, would you like cash or store credit?

Cash, please.

Okay, so that will be $73.28 in exchange for the three items. Twenty, forty, sixty, seventy, one, two, three, and twenty-eight cents.

Great. You have a good night and watch out for the lunatics who wander in at this hour.

Ha-ha. You have a good night, too.

Out the doors and around the corner, under the string of streetlights, across the street and under a dark freeway. Ellis sees Rex and his shit-eating grin from a block away.

Cheshire cat! I see you!

Huh? Rex asked as he handed Ellis the Canadian Mist.

Hey, is the whole seizure thing necessary? Really?

No, not at all, but isn’t it fun? How much did you make?

Only like seventy bucks. Should we hit the next shop? Do you have more Alka-Seltzer?

Wow, only seventy? Don’t you need seven hundred? That was supposed to be the gold mine.

I know, but what else can I do?

We’ve already done this three times tonight. What about that Internet creeper?

Let’s finish this bottle.

THERE

Isaac’s mother, Bee, grabbed the white stained bag set out by her son that morning and took it to the laundry room. She meticulously sprayed each and every stain on every article of clothing; every week there were hundreds of new stains. Isaac wasn’t exactly neat, particularly while eating. She remembered a time when she had taken her son to an Italian place in the suburbs. They had just got out of a science fiction movie and Isaac was explaining all the flaws in cinematography and how Artificial Intelligence is only an invention of the paranoid human mind. Froth had started to form around the corners of his mouth as he stuffed his cheeks to the brim with breadsticks. He was shouting that man could never outsmart Artificial Intelligence if it actually did exist when the food finally arrived. Harrison Ford is an awful excuse for an actor, he added. Isaac’s temper surfaced when he tasted the Zuppa Toscana. He gagged and spewed soup into his mothers face.

Waiter! Waiter over here, now!

Yessir, what can I help you with?

You call this soup? This watered down horseshit would make Masaccio turn over in his grave!

Sorry, sir, would you like me to get you something else?

Ha! Let’s see, would I like another arbitrary array of over cooked garbage thrown into a bowl and pissed on? No, but thank you.

Isaac pounded the table with his fist repeatedly; marinara and soup filled the air and fell back onto the couple.

Leave my sight, you piss ant. And mother! You bring me to this circus posing as an Italian restaurant? Have a grand time removing the stain of this oil-based piss from my Sunday shirt.

He poured the Zuppa Toscana down the front of his shirt.

Bee was spraying that very shirt with Shout now. The soup had been gone for ten years now and new stains had formed around the underarms. She finished spraying, threw it in the washing machine, reached back into the pillowcase and pulled the next dirty garment. In her hands was a cotton woman’s thong. The sight of them, filthy and blood-stained, caused her to gasp as she dropped them to the laundry room floor.

According to her calculations, it had been about thirty years since Isaac had been with a woman. The soiled underwear puzzled her at first, but Isaac’s mother, after some contemplation, decided that her son must have raped and killed some poor innocent woman.

THERE

It’s about 2:30PM now and I’m sitting in the Gino’s parking lot. The midday sun hung around ‘til 5PM on summer days. Every pore on my entire body is dripping with salty sweat. My uniform feels like it is probably about 40 layers thick and I have about one half of an hour before Mallard returns and I have to get back to my post. I head to the Gino’s bathroom and undress. There is not enough toilet paper to dry all the moisture dripping off even my face. I use what’s left and redress.

Mallard passes the booth and gives me a nasty look from the corner of his eye as he walks in the front of Gino’s. Fuck him. I go back to carving a woman’s figure into the wood inside the booth, I measure out her anatomy to fit my liking, her name is Sparrow. I grudgingly had to admit that Sparrow was the only naked woman I had seen in over twenty years, maybe thirty, I haven’t been keeping track.

About four blocks from here I can see one man with a blue beanie and one man with a red beanie headed toward Gino’s. Wow, it’s getting close to 4PM already? The flyers are in my bag under some ziplock bags and citations written with Mallard’s pen. I dig them out.

Afternoon Isaac!

Scram, you ingrates.

Come on, kid. We gots a message for you.

Horseshit! Get out of here.

No look, I’ve got it written down and everything. Red Beanie handed me a piece stationary, the logo at the top read Babies ‘R Us and the body of the message was in very neat cursive and read

Mr. Isaac Tronofski.

I have observed your work habits at Gino’s for the past six months. Please forgive this intrusion but my company is looking to hire a new team member and we often scout out new employees long before we deem them adequate to contact. My associates and I have had an eye on you; in our observations we noticed you

have great interpersonal relationships with co-workers and above average

intelligence. We would love for you to come in for an interview at a mutually

convenient time. Give me a call as soon as possible to set the meeting up. Ask for

me, Mr. Behr.

Mr. Behr.

Behr & Lyon Inc.

Phone: (510) 632-9595

Fax: (510) 632-9526

Who gave you this?

A man in a suit came by last night when you wasn’t working. He axed us if we knew you and ‘o course we’d say yes, so he told us to give you this piece of paper… Hey what’s it say anyway? What’s the message, captain?

Yeh! Aint you goin’ tell us?! Blue hat chimed in. We’d held on to id for all dis time for ya, you should ad least tell us what we was holdin!

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Please you mongoloids, someone has finally realized my genius and I will soon be out of this dump forever. Just one phone call away. Yeah, you know what? It’s time for you guys to scram, here’s your flyers.

I handed the ones with the red rubber band to Red Beanie and the ones with the blue rubber band to Blue Beanie, along with two dollars to each of them.

And. Hey! I’ll check Fifth and Sixth Ave tonight, if every car isn’t flyered you guys won’t be getting any more work from me. You hear?

I watch them walk off and prepare for the conversation I’m about to have with Mr. Behr. I think of various ways to demonstrate my intellectual dexterity, to be charming, to prove that I’m above my current employment. I pace back and forth in the hot sun going over the conversation again and again. I couldn’t ruin this opportunity, it could be my chance to finally get out of this dump. No more Mallard, no more Red and Blue, no more long miserable hours roasting in this wood shack. Okay. I pull out my brick of a phone, extend the antenna and punch in the numbers.

Thank you for calling the Oakland Zoo, how can I help you?

Hello miss, I’m calling for a Mr. Behr. Can you transfer me to him?

Um, you’re calling for a Mr. Bear?

Yes, it’s about an employment opportunity.

Sir, there is no Mr. Bear here and I don’t appreciate the call, one more and we will have your number blocked.

Wait! No! I swear it’s either Mr. Behr or Mr. Lyon, they contacted me earlier this week and gave me this number to call..

No use, the line was dead, the receptionist had disconnected. I looked up and saw Blue and Red Beanie across the street laughing hysterically. Hyenas.

I’ll just call back.

Oakland Zoo, how can I direct your call? It was a males voice this time.

Hello, I’m calling for a Mr. Behr.

I’m sorry, there’s no Mr. Bear here, sir. Can I help you with anything else today?

Well, can I have the extension for Behr & Lyon Inc?

Sir, I think someone might be playing a joke on you. I have to go, very busy over here, have a good day, thanks for calling the Oakland Zoo.

Blue and Red are still staring at me with that shit eating grin. I don’t understand it, why can’t they ever leave me in peace.

Alright, chickenheads! Get out of here, get! Don’t you have flyers to distribute?

I grab the broom from the wood shack and walk quickly toward them.

Are ya gonna hit us fatty?!

Yeh right, he’d hafta catch us first. He couldn’t if he tried. He must weigh, about, uhm, what? 300 pounds?

Thas the two of us both, aint it?

I finally reached them and swung the broom wildly in their direction.

You’s crazy, fatty! Come on, let’s git outta dis dump!

I walked back to Sparrow. Took a customers money, gave them a slip of paper. Did that again and again and again. Those punks really got to me today, I thought they’d never leave. I’d been doing the flyer thing for almost three years now. Before, I had tried just giving them money to leave but that only worked for twenty minutes or so until they came back. I tried calling the police but they never seemed to side with me. So I started the flyer thing, it works, they stay gone for the entirety of my shift. Maybe because the work requires that they travel some distance from Gino’s and by the time they are out of flyers, they don’t feel like walking back just to pester me. Who knows?

Oh, fuck. I get it, Mr. Bear and Mr. Lion. At the Zoo. Shit heads.

HERE

You know that four people, in the history of all mankind, have been decapitated by an escalator?

What? No. That’s horseshit…

No, I swear, I read it in the Encyclopedia of Death.

That’s not even a book. And how the fuck would you get you head cut off by an escalator? It doesn’t happen.

Prove it. Did you know that Jack Daniel, like as in the alcohol, died from a toe infection. He kicked something while he was mad.

What was he mad about?

I don’t know. Maybe Jim Beam slept with his wife.

Did you hear about that Russian guy? Who died like last year? He bet two whores that he could have sex with both of them for twelve hours straight, he did and got like four grand.

How do I get into that business?

Well, he died one hour afterward, his heart failed, I guess he over dosed on Viagra.

Hey. Let’s walk this way. Less traffic.

Alright. So, wait. Stop for a second. I want to go over this again. The deposit box, or whatever the fuck it is will be unlocked from 9:02 until 9:04 and it’s by all those pallets, at the southeast corner of the store. It’s 8:43 now, I’m going to go buy some microwavable lasagna, then, well, you do your thing outside and I’ll do my thing inside.

Wait, my Murphy’s Sense is tingling.

Your what?

Murphy’s Sense. Like, when something fucked up is going to happen, I get a sharp pain in my asshole, it’s called Murphy’s Sense, it’s an extrasensory thing. Doubt you’d understand it.

Well, I think I understand but I also think you’re just being paranoid. A pain in your asshole?

Forget it, let’s just go.

felices fiestas

Sat, 27 Nov 2010 02:21:00 -0500

ROUGHLY FIVE MINUTES AGO

Inside a blue and white house was a green room. Inside a green room was a yellow desk. Inside a yellow desk was a drawer. Inside that drawer were three envelopes and nothing else. The first was marked ‘Mother’ and the second ‘Father’. Both held their respective obituary. Both were still sealed. Both were over ten years old. The third envelope was marked ‘Y2K Fund’. It was two thousand and ten. It was a Thursday. It was Thanksgiving.

ROUGHLY ONE YEAR AGO

i wake up in a hangover haze. looked up and looked down. saw the vomit and piss adding to some stained sheets. good. sit up and cause the first vomiting fit of the day. it only takes one trip to the bathroom to get up all of last night. good. back in the bed i stare at the ceiling waiting for the ceiling stucco to form words, pictures, something. nothing. i fight to wrap the to small shoes around the to big feet and head to the corner store. down san pablo, south through chernoble. an RV is parked on my side of the street and a dog sits ears up watching me while listening to two people fuck in the back. i stop and the dog and i lock eyes for a second. a woman approaches from behind asking for a smoke. hesitate then offer her shorts and by the time i do she is pantless taking a shit in the gutter. good. i walk to my local neon sign and the door buzzes when i open it. mange looks up from the register and smiles. the boss sneers and walks back to his office. it’s only three pm and i’m already shaking so mange offers me a drink from his styrofoam cup. straight ancient age. we shoot the shit for a while. he gives me a sandwich. it smells sour. we smoke a cigarette. drink some more. shoot the shit some more. all of the sudden its closing time. good. boss walks out and murmurs something like ‘get a job’ or ‘fucking alcoholic’ or ‘you were an accident’ on the way out. so mange and i finish the minimal closing procedures on our own. have another drink. another cigarette. then we raid the scratcher case. mange hands me a stack as thick as a deck of cards. i cut the deck and put half in each pocket. under his breath he says something about losing this job someday or something like that. i say something like that mouth breathing mongoloid couldn’t fire someone with a can of gasoline. mange twists his face trying to look confused and says he doesn’t understand. yeah, i don’t know. let’s go.

mange walks out and i follow. it had rained earlier and now it’s hot and humid as hell outside. he starts the rubiks cube of closing the myriad of anti-theft gates. i light the last pall mall in the pack and think about how rain usually cleans out the streets but here it just wets decades of dry feces embedded deep in the sidewalks. so the thick air smells and tastes like piss. i get queasy again. even the rain here is dirty. good. now i’m blowing chunks into the gutter next to a picture of a dolphin that reads ‘don’t litter; drains to the bay’. good. mange stands over me.

why’d you puke into the bay?

i don’t know.

we walk around the block to mange’s car. i hop in through the passenger window and sit on some broken glass. the door hasn’t worked since some kids broke in and stole his stereo a couple months ago.

why don’t you get your fuckin’ window fixed?

why don’t you get the fuck out of my car?

the car pointed east and we sat in silence for 23 minutes. mange and i circled familiar blocks seeing the same neon signs over and over again and finally passed one we hadn’t stopped at before. the door buzzed when we walked in. the face behind the counter smiled. we redeemed the poor man’s currency from across town into real currency and mange questions why i always win about as half much as he does. i blame my bad luck and ‘the worst hangover i’ve had in ten years’. he buys it. then he buys me a beer. i guess he feels bad. good. we drink. we drink more. we walk down to the lake. we throw things at birds. mange falls asleep on a bench. i talk to mange. he doesn’t talk back. i head home.

home through chernoble. the hot, heavy, piss filled air. passed the human shit sidewalks. my vomit passes underneath on it’s way to the bay. i pass the dog watching me while it listens to people fuck. good. i head up the steps of a blue and white house. into my green room. i lay in my bed with the spins staring at the stucco ceiling for awhile waiting for picture to form or words or something. something doesn’t come. i stuff my unredeemed scratchers into an overstuffed envelope marked ‘y2k fund’ and pass out with my clothes on.

ROUGHLY FOUR MINUTES AGO

Delirium Tremens fingers reach into a yellow desk drawer, seeking out one of three envelopes. After some hesitation, the hand decides on the envelope marked ‘Y2K Fund’. The hand sifts through six months of stolen scraps of paper and settles on one titled ‘The Lords Lotto’ with a pixelated depiction of The Last Supper to scratch off. It seems appropriate. It is Thanksgiving. She takes the ticket and stuffs it into her right pocket and heads to the corner store. The door buzzes when she enters. Mange no longer works the cash machine here. And the boss still sneers in her direction. She trades the ticket for twentyfive dollars.

ROUGHLY TWO MINUTES AGO

my right palm is pressed against my forehead and it is cold outside and my left hand is holding a twenty two dollar bottle of wine.

RIGHT NOW

In a blue and white house. In a green room. In a yellow desk. I open a drawer. I open two envelopes marked one is marked ‘Mother’ and one is marked ‘Father’.

el miedo al espejo

Thu, 30 Sep 2010 03:49:00 -0400

you’re not me. the mirror glanced back overshoulder. a dead pan double take. you’re not me. that phantasm fought swiftly but spoke slowly, the dead dilated gauged gaze searched, swirled, spun, finally set. set, straight unto me, connecting to counterparts, like magnets. it may have been the first time they had noticed each other in a decade. the twins aged and aged and aged heavily and transfixed an empty eye toward one another. the decline of a reflection. you’re not me.

es lo que te hace querer ser otra persona

Fri, 17 Sep 2010 04:55:00 -0400

black red and hazel

red white and black

i knelt on pews

pressed purple knees

on hot

hot concrete

i asked

i begged

pickin’ at gnats

with gnawed nails

floating on the foremost layer

of the lowest of my good times

i felt my last

line go slack

veinte más uno costumbres

Fri, 10 Sep 2010 04:00:00 -0400

well he a came in a cussin anne screamin’ anne ah stood, ah sat, ah had myself a cigarette, ah paced, ah drank, ah watched, ah lost interest. it were something ah had seen in the many in my time anne this time it wern’t much different. i looked down a crooked nose at a crooked man speakin’ some crooked speech up at me. ah looked down anne ah said ‘most of the problem here is that ah have less words than ah have got thoughts anne ah have got a lot more times where ah don’t like to talk compared to when ah do anne when ah try to make somethin’ of it all ah can’t find nothing. ah can look at all of it, sit anne unnerstand it, but when ah try to absorb ah feel like a sponge in death valley, there aint much here for me anne then you try to break it all down anne see that big picture all those folks was talkin’ about this whole time anne you’ll see it just all breaks down to particles anne don’t mean much of anything.’

en el supermercado local

Thu, 15 Jul 2010 05:05:00 -0400

I’m so broke I aint even got a coin to flip on the Shrimp Ramen versus Beef Ramen issue anymore.

Yeah, man, well, just smoke this shit, then no shrimps, beefs or what the fuck evers even matter.

Okay, just wait ‘til we get a block or two from here, they have some kind of satellite police station at this market.

Oh. Didn’t you hear?

Hear what? That bird?

What? No. About the layoffs, the police layoffs?

Naw man, I thought you were talking about that bird over there.

Ellis’ eyes followed Henry’s finger to the Eastern side of the lake shore and found a giant bird similar to some prehistoric predator that could have easily caused her species to go extinct in it’s own time.

What in the fuck is that?

Look, just, uh, focus for a second.

ALRIGHT. ALRIGHT. What’s so god damn pressing?

Okay, fine, alright, so the Oakland police department laid off like a hundred fucking cops. Right? And they are laying off a lot more next year. So, they are short staffed. Or whatever. They posted something on the OPD website, listing all the calls that they wouldn’t respond to anymore.

And?

And. Well, they aren’t coming out anymore, not for for burglary, grand theft, extortion, vandalism, loud music, exposing another to poison, injuring a power line or whatever, stealing someones dog.

Wait, what do you mean? Not coming out?

Like if you dial 911 about any of those things, they won’t show up.

Oh damn. So, like, uh, what can we extort?

I don’t know, a bank? Or do you extort a person?

Uh, wow, that’s like an ‘Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader’ question..

Yeah, fuck we might as well just steal someones fucking dog, it’s more straightforward.

Wait. Why did you bring this pig shit up?

Oh, right, well, if they aren’t coming out for robbery, they aren’t coming for smoking weed on the street.

Shit, why didn’t you say that in the first place?

Don’t know, let’s get high.

quinta avenida y la calle once

Wed, 07 Jul 2010 23:57:00 -0400

‘ey man, listen would ya?

yeahyeahyeah. i’m listenin’.

okay, so i was sayin’, there’s this market on my block, you know, up north.

yeah, so?

well, i think this place is like, uh, the epitome of not giving a fuck.

hah.. oh really?

yeah man, i was walking down my block the day before i came down here, and uh, there were these fucking pigeons covering the entire sidewalk, you couldn’t even see the pavement and there was this smell, right? something like fish and a dead body.

so like a dead tuna er what?

right, a dead fucking tuna but you could smell this shit from my house, a whole fucking block away and i’m walking to go get some smokes and i haven’t had one in way to long so i’m already thinking ‘bout how i can’t deal with any horseshit right now. so, i walk passed the place and all the rat like birds shoot straight into the air and i look down at whatever they were feeding on. it’s a bunch of pig ears and bones and cut up livers and shit like that, shit that the market just throws out on the sidewalk. on top of that it’s all on top of on a layer of pigeon shit. they’re eating shit on top of their own shit. the sidewalk is entirely white with it. so, right now, i just cover my head, thinking all these fuckin’ rat birds are going to shit all over me and i’m hunched over covering my face walking through the birdshit and i feel this wetness hit my right leg. well, when i look down its blood and it’s all over my pants and when i look to my right it’s the back of an older asian woman holding a bucket walking back into the market. so, these pants are the only ones i got without holes in ‘em but now they got blood on ‘em. so, now i’m thinking, how the fuck am i supposed to get a job?how the fuck can i go on a job interview? with blood and holes all over all my clothes?

i donno man, i’m toooo stoned for this right now..

cualquier día de éstos

Tue, 06 Jul 2010 06:24:00 -0400

FULLY FICTION

she sat outside. on the street. on macarthur boulevard. she thought about reaching for her phone, then realized there was no one to call. so. she let that same hand that reached for the phone fall to the pavement below. her pale skin seared on the hot black asphalt. and. well. she ignored that. and stared straight forward.

I can deal with this on my own. She looked all the way over to her left and it hurt her neck to twist her body in such a way. And the Planed Parenthood sign behind her was almost neon and she thought of all the young mothers who sat on the same spot she sat in and felt the same way she did. She thought of how the sign was maybe a little in bad taste. And how it made her feel uncomfortable. What a thing to feel. This was the first time she let herself cry in over one whole year. But it wasn’t crying. It was something more like bawling. She couldn’t believe the amount of liquid she had stored up behind those eyes. It fell to the asphalt and evaporated quicker than it came. well. planned parenthood is closed. and now what. she had laid down. and cried. stupefied for what felt like an eternity. but was really only about forty five minutes. stood up. looked back at what she had came for. and. realized she wouldn’t be able to get it. so she walked off. and. reached down for her phone.

Hey.

Uhhh.. heyy, wassup?

Uhm, well, Planned Parenthood is closed. And, uh, I don’t know what else to do.

Go to a pharmacy.

You know I can’t afford that.

Hah, uh, well, I can’t either, but I have some coke, if you want it. Jus come over….

she hung up. she headed south down telegraph. thinking about how she didn’t remember much about the night before. thinking about one of the only memories she did could pull out of her head. thinking about how she took a piss and watched the cum that came out with it swirl around and around in the toilet as it flushed. thinking about how she didn’t remember how she got there but she knew that she didn’t want to be there. thinking well hey there might be a pharmacy down this way. she had hurt her leg a couple days back. and. well. she had been limping ever since. so it may have only been ten or so blocks. but. it took her about an hour. And the sliding doors opened. It was the first favor that anyone had done for her in a while. The pharmacy is in the back. She walked passed a few familiar faces and hoped the sunglasses and hat worked as a disguise. Maybe no one had recognized her. She didn’t make eye contact. So, that helped. She couldn’t even try to form sentences right now, not even to the closest of friends but definitely not to some oakland party fuckers she ran into at walgreens.

the man. the man behind the counter. gave her the drugs. and said he recommended she take all of them at once. and with some food. well. alright. but. how will she get home if she spends her bus fare on some fuckin’ food? well maybe. she’ll walk. further south there is a burger joint. and i mean way further south. but she figures they’ve got cheap burgers. so. why not. she hobbles even further down telegraph. the blocks go by. the streets go down in number. she’s got $3.25 in her pocket and that should be enough. and it’s about time to give up. but. she spots the pink and blue building. jus one more block. but. she gets to the window. and. well. it’s $3.75 for a burger. so. she tries to sell the rest of her cigarettes out front for the remaining fiftycents. and. that doesn’t work so well. so. she is sitting there. she is digging though her purse. she picks up her phone again. she doesn’t want to look at it. but. she does anyway. she hopes to see a missed called from the boy who done this to her. but. there is nothing. so. she tucks the phone back deeply into her purse. hoping it’s deep enough to forget about. and. she realizes there’s really not one stupid fuck on the whole planet to call for help.

Scene Missing.

Would you like a bag for this, miss? the woman behind the counter asked. She was short, a little stubby and beamed a faux smile up at the girl. Just as everyone did in retail. And. I guess. Not in retail, too.

Well, she did a quick scan of the shop and realized that not one table stood vacant.

Yes, please ma’am. A bag would be great. The Girl replied turning her head back toward the counter. And she forces the same same faux smile back.

i’ll jus walk down to the lake and eat this. this sandwich. i’m pretty close. and then. then i’ll take the fucking pills. these fucking pills. So, she limped East. East down Grand. Her legs hurt more with each step. But, well, she kept going. On that walk she thought about how adrenaline releases itself in ‘high stress’ situations. And about how she felt that. That adrenaline was the only thing keeping her putting one foot in front of the other. she only made it about half way to the lake. and in a sense was grateful she didn’t make it. the lake always smelled like it was rotting and sometimes it smelled like human feces. so she sat down. again. and not by choice. but because she had to. her leg was acting up. so she grudgingly dropped down. on a staircase. took out the sandwich. it wasn’t good. not good at all. in fact it made the girl a little nauseous. but she ate it. suppressing that gag reflex.

When she finished she realized she was sitting on the steps of a church. A quite famous church, in fact. A Catholic church. And well, she happened to be a Catholic herself.

so. the girl walked in. pills in hand. it was silent and still inside. she was completely alone. finally. what a contrast from the streets she thought. she breathed in deep. she found the bathroom. and. pressed the pills from the aluminum sealant. she looked in the mirror. at her face. it seemed a little older than she remembered it. she looked down into her hands and saw two pink pills. more pink than her palms. and her palms were pretty pink at this point. she thought about how when she swallowed the two pink pills it would kill the inside of her. The water was motion sensitive in that bathroom. So it ran as she stood. And she stood for quite a while. Staring at herself in the mirror. She thought about what a waste of water that was. The words any day now popped into her head.

sooo. i popped dem pills. rite there, in the bathroom of dat church. while i looked at myself. in dat mirror. and i took some other pills. jus to be sure. to be sure i got rid of that kid and to make sure i got real high. i mean real, real high. high enough to git rid of feeling how i did about gittin’ rid of dat kid. i done it to. i forgot all about it. and i prutty much feel down dem stairs, straight on my ass afterward. i looked up and i was in dat room. de room wit all the pews. I felt I should call my mother. But. Then I remembered. One time she saw me chewing my nails and she grabbed my arm from me. And told me to hold the molding ‘round the bathroom door. ‘Hold it, child. As tight as you can.’ Then she slammed that bathroom door shut with all her might. All my nails fell out. I cried and cried. She jus told me to rub dirt on it and walk if off. I mean, I guess, I didn’t really bite my nails after that, ‘cept when I was really drunk. And. Anyway. There was this one time I broke my leg. And she told me to rub dirt on it and walk it off. And, well, there was another time. One of my front teeth got punched out. And, well, she told me to rub dirt on it and walk it off. And well. That was about the standard. For all things that went wrong. So, maybe I wont call her. Well. Then. I felt I should call my father. But. I know he would say. ‘Get the boy who done this to you to handle it’. And I would have to explain to my Father. That. Well. The boy who done this only has a dollarandfiftythreecents to his name.

If you aren’t familiar. There is a part of a Catholic church. A room filled with little candles. A whole room for lost loved ones. And folks who died in the war. And for dead celebrities. And dead popes. Or dead whoevers. And they all get their own candle. You’re supposed to light one for the whoevers you’re morning. I lit one for the baby dying in my stomach. I sat and thought about what the little thing would have looked like. Acted like. I sat and thought about what it would have been like to have a child. I sat and I said the Lord’s Prayer. I stared at the flame. And it got a little blurry. Then I knew I was crying again.

i looked at the bloody stumps that were my fingernails. i guess musta been real wasted last night to chew em all off like that. i walked back out into oakland.

alright so. the side effects. supposedly. are something like. nausea. vomiting. weakness. breast pain. bleeding. etc. and. so. i’m walking home. pretending i can’t feel all of what the package told me i should be feeling. and it’s three miles home. but i don’t know if i can force this kind of distance. not today. i already felt like hell. just don’t vomit. the instructions said not to vomit. in bold. so you know they were serious. i grab my phone again. hoping. well. hoping that the boy who had done this to me had called. or anyone for that matter. but. no one did.

i was to queasy to make it home. so. i tried to fake it. i pretended i felt great. i even smiled. and i faked the put one foot in front of the other thing. you know. walking. well. for as long as i could. and when i couldn’t anymore i laid down on a bus stop bench. i had the spins. and my vision turned hazy ‘round the edges then dark. so dark i couldn’t see anything.

it wasn’t long before a man woke me to say ‘I HOPE YOUR MAN LAST NIGHT WAS AS GOOD AS MY LADY! IT WAS ALL FIREWORKS!’

Oh, right. Last night was the Fourth of July. Still though, what the hell did he just say? And I went back to bed.

Hey. Hey, wake up lady.

My eyes were too full of sleep to focus on the figure in front of me but i cold tell by the voice it was the boy who done it to me.

Listen! You can’t sleep on this bench, okay?

I tried to say go away. But no words came out.

What? What is the problem?

I can’t get up…

Oh. Okay. Well. Do you need help?

Not yours.

Are you mad at me?

I’ll give you two guesses.

Great art is horseshit, buy tacos

Mon, 05 Jul 2010 12:00:00 -0400

“There’s nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don’t live up until their death. They don’t honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can’t hear it. Most people’s deaths are a sham. There’s nothing left to die.”

burn that shit

Fri, 02 Jul 2010 22:46:00 -0400

burn that shit:

Is Oakland burning yet?

East side. Chicken feast side.

Fri, 02 Jul 2010 05:52:00 -0400

East side. Chicken feast side.

Slow Days and Long Nights.

Mon, 28 Jun 2010 05:23:00 -0400

Slow Days and Long Nights.

Queer and Moaning in East Oakland

Tue, 15 Jun 2010 16:31:00 -0400

Queer and Moaning in East Oakland

purgatorio

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 18:47:00 -0400

It’s about 6:20AM, I wake up in a hangover haze pretending that I’m not still wasted from whatever the fuck happened in the past twelve hours. Just hobble over to the toilet and puke out all of last night. Luckily the violent vomiting episode wakes Jon up so I don’t have to.
Shit! Why didn’t you wake me up, you fuckin’ cunt? Do you know what time it is?
I continue vomiting, I notice the chili cheese fries coming back up, something that looks like corn and then it all turns bright yellow. Of course I know what time it is, why is she asking? To emphasize how late we are? To remind me that I slept an hour longer than planned?
This bile is burning everything from my digestive tract to my chest cavity to my nasal passages.
Stop bitching; we only have seven minutes to get to work.
I vomit for what seems like eighty years but is apparently only 3 minutes. By some act of great fortune I’m already wearing my red and yellow uniform, but why? No time to try to pull some memory from last night’s belligerent drunken rampage. Four minutes. We run down the stoop and into a half working car, I try to smoke two cigarettes before arrival and make it through one and a half before I’m vomiting again in the Golden Arches parking lot.
Jon runs in and yells sucker right before she opens the door and advances to timecard puncher seconds before she would be considered tardy. I finish the second half of my Camel hoping that it will somehow cover the smell of bile, chili cheese fries and corn or whatever that shit was. I instantly feel that debilitating thick air of a workday enter my lungs and draining me of all will to live the second I walk in. On a good day it usually takes about three of four hours before I got the fear. Today was not a good day.
You’re late. Again.
I know, I’m sorry, you know, my car is…
Stop. He interrupted. I saw you puking; you were literally three feet in front of the restaurant.
Half of my head was frantically digging through my high school years trying to find one of the lies I told my teachers in the same situation and the other was hitting that half screaming QUITQUITQUITALREADY. But neither came out.
…Sorry?
That’s not going to cut it this time; I’m going to have to write you up again, this will be your third.
What does that mean for me?
Well, your prospects aren’t great. Once you’ve have you’ve had your third write up you get a citation.
And?
Then once you’ve had three citations you get a warning and after three warnings you’ll receive an admonition for review. Then you’re really in hot water because after three of those you’ll…
I sort of entered some kind of meditative state at this point; my supervisors voice had a sedative and almost monotone quality to it, similar to Bob Ross. I stared at the froth forming at the corners of his mouth and began to contemplate the plight of the Native Americans. Who was the real hero of the Battle of Little Bighorn? Custer or Sitting Bull? I mean if you look at the Black Hills War and other events leading up to Custer’s Last Stand, you’d have to side with Sitting Bull.
Lee handed me my citation and pointed toward the window. Working window is some cruel and unusual punishment that is only fit for prisoners of Guantanamo Bay. Jon got grill that day meaning little to no social interaction, at least with the public. In this place, isolation is a dream come true.
Welcome to the Golden Arches. How can I provide you with excellent customer service this morning?