Let's keep this shit real simple tonight.
Let's just relax.
Let's just pour a drink and go to sleep.
Let's just expect nightmares.
We'll all wake up
And have a cup of coffee
Maybe walk outside
If the weather is decent
Take in a breath
Maybe smoke
Remember the nightmare
And wonder where it came from
Look around
And confirm
Where the nightmare
Came from
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Don't Pick Up The Phone
Don't call me and then
Shove food
In your mouth
And expect a conversation
Chew and exit
Put the fork down
I know you want to
Stab me
With it
Shove food
In your mouth
And expect a conversation
Chew and exit
Put the fork down
I know you want to
Stab me
With it
A Dutchman, A Bloody Cowboy and a Jockey
I will take comfort in this; On this earth I doubt that myself, a Dutchman and a horse jockey would all be at a bar. And no one else.
I had been talking to the Dutchman for about an hour about how most Americans hate George W. Bush. He didn't realize that. He and so many other Europeans were under the impression that because GWB was president, we all voted for him and love him.
"No, my friend," I said,"we mostly all hate the bastard." And I talked about American politics and shit for a while. It was good conversation. Mostly because I got to talk about how much I hate this administration. He was enlightened a bit. He was in for a convention about neurology and most of the people he talked to were people in healthcare and republicans and shit, you get the idea.
Then this dude shows up. A seemingly old man who just wanted a bucket of ice.
I filled his bucket of ice and asked if he wanted anything to drink.
"Well, I got stuff upstairs, but sure now that I'm here..."
"What're you drinking?" I was appreciative of his presence because I was getting tired of telling the Dutchman about how much this country sucks.
The dude that showed up was frail, small and kind of old.
"I was looking to drink a bloody cowboy," he said.
Ah, a "Bloody Cowboy". Beer and tomato juice.
I only had bloody mary mix and some fixings so I put together a grand Bloody Cowboy.
He took one sip and said it was the best he ever had.
He was from Arkansas and got stuck in Chicago because of some flooding downstate that was going to postpone his trip...I didn't ask the destination.
The Dutchman, now drunk on Johnny Walker Black started asking the questions.
"Where are you from"
"Why are you here"
"What do you do"
The small man was a horse jockey. He won 4000 out of 20000 races. He had a horse collapse on him and crush him several years ago. He had won awards. He showed us his scars on his chest that collapsed when a horse fell backwards onto him, breaking his sternum and ribs. He exposed the scar on his head where he had to have a part of his skull replaced because a horse kicked him so hard in the head.
He had to be at least fifty but he looked young. He also looked defeated.
"This train that got shut down is supposed to take me to the next horse I ride. But I'm afraid."
He started welling up in the eyes.
"This is my last chance, I have to ride this horse and win, otherwise I'm done. "
He put one of his prize trophys, a belt buckle, on the bar.
"Horses don't seem to like me anymore, but they're how I make a living."
The "Bloody Cowboy" was done.
We all looked at each other.
I turned the lights off and whispered "last call"
I poured myself a drink and the room was empty.
I had been talking to the Dutchman for about an hour about how most Americans hate George W. Bush. He didn't realize that. He and so many other Europeans were under the impression that because GWB was president, we all voted for him and love him.
"No, my friend," I said,"we mostly all hate the bastard." And I talked about American politics and shit for a while. It was good conversation. Mostly because I got to talk about how much I hate this administration. He was enlightened a bit. He was in for a convention about neurology and most of the people he talked to were people in healthcare and republicans and shit, you get the idea.
Then this dude shows up. A seemingly old man who just wanted a bucket of ice.
I filled his bucket of ice and asked if he wanted anything to drink.
"Well, I got stuff upstairs, but sure now that I'm here..."
"What're you drinking?" I was appreciative of his presence because I was getting tired of telling the Dutchman about how much this country sucks.
The dude that showed up was frail, small and kind of old.
"I was looking to drink a bloody cowboy," he said.
Ah, a "Bloody Cowboy". Beer and tomato juice.
I only had bloody mary mix and some fixings so I put together a grand Bloody Cowboy.
He took one sip and said it was the best he ever had.
He was from Arkansas and got stuck in Chicago because of some flooding downstate that was going to postpone his trip...I didn't ask the destination.
The Dutchman, now drunk on Johnny Walker Black started asking the questions.
"Where are you from"
"Why are you here"
"What do you do"
The small man was a horse jockey. He won 4000 out of 20000 races. He had a horse collapse on him and crush him several years ago. He had won awards. He showed us his scars on his chest that collapsed when a horse fell backwards onto him, breaking his sternum and ribs. He exposed the scar on his head where he had to have a part of his skull replaced because a horse kicked him so hard in the head.
He had to be at least fifty but he looked young. He also looked defeated.
"This train that got shut down is supposed to take me to the next horse I ride. But I'm afraid."
He started welling up in the eyes.
"This is my last chance, I have to ride this horse and win, otherwise I'm done. "
He put one of his prize trophys, a belt buckle, on the bar.
"Horses don't seem to like me anymore, but they're how I make a living."
The "Bloody Cowboy" was done.
We all looked at each other.
I turned the lights off and whispered "last call"
I poured myself a drink and the room was empty.
Piss Lady
The hours get to me, they're just a bunch of hollow empty clicks. The seconds are pinpricks and the wasted days are hammers beating on my spine. A garbage can full of crumpled up paper and snotrags are the weeks and the months require nothing more than me asking "so how much blood did I shit?" And the years? Fuck the years. The waste is bulldozer-worthy.
Today, much like every other day, I ride the bus to work. And three out of five times I manage to get on the bus with a homeless woman that stinks like a park toilet that has been shit in, puked upon and then pissed on with mold growing all around the throne. And no one cleans it for 20 years. When I get on the bus and smell this stench, I look for her and I pinpoint her. She looks like my dead grandmother. And I mean, if you exhumed the body of my dead grandmother, stench and all, add some fat, that's her.
Everyone holds their noses on the bus ride. And when she gets up to get off at the corner of Michigan and Chicago, the smell that was slightly contained by her ass is released and on days that I have a hangover I have to choke back vomiting. I pop gum and inhale through the collar of my shirt.
Today she was on the bus going to work. Many times I catch her on the bus going home. But today she was going downtown. Someone cut her hair and replaced her walking stick (a busted two-by-four) with an actual cane. Aluminum and rubber.
One night I was on the bus and everyone gravitated toward the back. Everyone had their noses covered and laughed and said "wow".
Yeah, "wow".
One guy pulled out his Axe spray and sprayed it into the little air that was in the bus and I gagged on the stench of hell and body spray. If the advertisements were true, this troll of a woman would be humping this guy's chest, but she could do nothing but drool and allow her neck to just be limp and hang and lolligag everytime the bus hit a bump. Her head is thrown back and then she tries to smile. Maybe in her mind she's on a rollercoaster back when she was a kid being happy with a father or mother next to her.
I can't imagine that this woman would want this life. And assholes like me turn it into dipshit blog fodder.
Her heart beats and she has the skill to get on the bus and pay the fare. And yet she becomes a conversation piece..
"Man this old woman stank!"
Obviously someone cleaned her up a bit because she was wearing a yellow coat that stunk of piss and sweat and rain and now she has a black coat. Still stinks but someone made an effort and then released her.
I don't know anymore. If I had any sanity of my own, I'd give her a piece and then I'd give her a mirror and my guess is that she'd like the gun to end it all.
Maybe she's happy and doesn't give a fuck.
Maybe she's taking revenge.
Maybe no one gives a fuck about this woman just like they don't give a fuck about themselves.
Maybe we should drop the equalizer bomb and she could be the next leader of the roaches.
Today, much like every other day, I ride the bus to work. And three out of five times I manage to get on the bus with a homeless woman that stinks like a park toilet that has been shit in, puked upon and then pissed on with mold growing all around the throne. And no one cleans it for 20 years. When I get on the bus and smell this stench, I look for her and I pinpoint her. She looks like my dead grandmother. And I mean, if you exhumed the body of my dead grandmother, stench and all, add some fat, that's her.
Everyone holds their noses on the bus ride. And when she gets up to get off at the corner of Michigan and Chicago, the smell that was slightly contained by her ass is released and on days that I have a hangover I have to choke back vomiting. I pop gum and inhale through the collar of my shirt.
Today she was on the bus going to work. Many times I catch her on the bus going home. But today she was going downtown. Someone cut her hair and replaced her walking stick (a busted two-by-four) with an actual cane. Aluminum and rubber.
One night I was on the bus and everyone gravitated toward the back. Everyone had their noses covered and laughed and said "wow".
Yeah, "wow".
One guy pulled out his Axe spray and sprayed it into the little air that was in the bus and I gagged on the stench of hell and body spray. If the advertisements were true, this troll of a woman would be humping this guy's chest, but she could do nothing but drool and allow her neck to just be limp and hang and lolligag everytime the bus hit a bump. Her head is thrown back and then she tries to smile. Maybe in her mind she's on a rollercoaster back when she was a kid being happy with a father or mother next to her.
I can't imagine that this woman would want this life. And assholes like me turn it into dipshit blog fodder.
Her heart beats and she has the skill to get on the bus and pay the fare. And yet she becomes a conversation piece..
"Man this old woman stank!"
Obviously someone cleaned her up a bit because she was wearing a yellow coat that stunk of piss and sweat and rain and now she has a black coat. Still stinks but someone made an effort and then released her.
I don't know anymore. If I had any sanity of my own, I'd give her a piece and then I'd give her a mirror and my guess is that she'd like the gun to end it all.
Maybe she's happy and doesn't give a fuck.
Maybe she's taking revenge.
Maybe no one gives a fuck about this woman just like they don't give a fuck about themselves.
Maybe we should drop the equalizer bomb and she could be the next leader of the roaches.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Shut Up, Redneck
"Is the bar closed?" he asked, his words were formed by an asshole on his face that some would call a mouth. And this mouth was surrounded by hair that those in the facial hair industry would call a "goatee".
"No, there's just no one here," I said as I watched baseball stats while bad club music blared out of the cheap sound system. "You need a drink?" I asked immediately perturbed by the presence of a guy who I knew was going to be a fucking dick.
"How much you charge for a JW Black?"
"9 bucks."
"Hells! I'm from West Virginia, you get that shit for 4 bucks a shot. Damn, I just got back from eating all you can eat chicken wings and pizza and all you can drink beer for 15 dollars!" He exasperated.
"Well, that doesn't change the price. I've got Dewar's in the well, $7.50." I sounded cold.
"If you pour me a good one, I'll take it," he said as his eyes lit up because a buck fifty made all the difference in the world. Thanks for the business.
"Of course you will," I said, watched a little more of the baseball scores while, like a dog he was waiting to be lead to the bar. "Let's go," I said after I saw that Boston won.
"I'm a good tipper!" he said as he took a seat.
I poured him a tight Dewar's on ice, a respectable pour and didn't charge him the additional 2 dollar "rocks" surcharge which simply means he gets a little more scotch since it's not mixed with anything.
"I used to paint houses," "I'm a smart man", "I'm a licensed...", "people don't like me because I'm smart", "hillbilly heroin", blah blah....
I stared at this man and imagined his head being smashed between two swinging logs with a shotgun up his ass. I didn't listen to any of his stories. I couldn't hear most of what he was saying simply due to the fact that the music in the bar is too loud and the last electrician to come through fucked up the volume control so I can't turn it down. Or in the case of this guy, turn it the fuck up.
He kept talking and slurping at his drink. Besides his asshole mouth surrounded by facial moss, his head was shaved and he had a gold stud in each earlobe. I prayed that he was an ignorant redneck gay guy that was just drunk until he started spouting off about his "oriental" wife who works so much she won't fuck him. Yeah, if I was a woman, I would look at this guy and my nipples would invert themselves and stretch to lengths into my chest and wrap themselves around my heart and crush it, killing me. But hopefully this woman has a plan for when this dude "accidentally" drinks too much grain alcohol and sticks his head into the blades of his lawnmower trying to cut the tip off a cheap cigar and then cuts his skull open instead. I mean shit, anything could happen.
Anyway, I digress. I'm listening to this guy as if his words are light flashes from a strobe light. I don't even bother making any sense of the man and I think he can tell. I walk away from the bar and stand in front of the television then look for an empty glass or a napkin that I can pick up.
"Damn, I got nothing," I say to myself, it was a slow night.
"Can I get another?" he says over his shoulder, to me, the bartender, the only other person in the bar, the guy that is ignoring him and supposed to be working for tips.
"That was last call, man, sorry," I said, two hours before the real "last call" was called.
"7.50," I said. He looked at me. "For the drink," I clarified, not for wasting my time or eroding my ears with your shit stories.
He proudly slapped a ten on the bar. I put it in the till and placed his change in front of him. He snatched the two bucks and left the two quarters on the bar top. "That's yours" he said smiling and then walked away.
I found a sex show on cable and watched until it was time to close.
I'm all about customer service.
"No, there's just no one here," I said as I watched baseball stats while bad club music blared out of the cheap sound system. "You need a drink?" I asked immediately perturbed by the presence of a guy who I knew was going to be a fucking dick.
"How much you charge for a JW Black?"
"9 bucks."
"Hells! I'm from West Virginia, you get that shit for 4 bucks a shot. Damn, I just got back from eating all you can eat chicken wings and pizza and all you can drink beer for 15 dollars!" He exasperated.
"Well, that doesn't change the price. I've got Dewar's in the well, $7.50." I sounded cold.
"If you pour me a good one, I'll take it," he said as his eyes lit up because a buck fifty made all the difference in the world. Thanks for the business.
"Of course you will," I said, watched a little more of the baseball scores while, like a dog he was waiting to be lead to the bar. "Let's go," I said after I saw that Boston won.
"I'm a good tipper!" he said as he took a seat.
I poured him a tight Dewar's on ice, a respectable pour and didn't charge him the additional 2 dollar "rocks" surcharge which simply means he gets a little more scotch since it's not mixed with anything.
"I used to paint houses," "I'm a smart man", "I'm a licensed...", "people don't like me because I'm smart", "hillbilly heroin", blah blah....
I stared at this man and imagined his head being smashed between two swinging logs with a shotgun up his ass. I didn't listen to any of his stories. I couldn't hear most of what he was saying simply due to the fact that the music in the bar is too loud and the last electrician to come through fucked up the volume control so I can't turn it down. Or in the case of this guy, turn it the fuck up.
He kept talking and slurping at his drink. Besides his asshole mouth surrounded by facial moss, his head was shaved and he had a gold stud in each earlobe. I prayed that he was an ignorant redneck gay guy that was just drunk until he started spouting off about his "oriental" wife who works so much she won't fuck him. Yeah, if I was a woman, I would look at this guy and my nipples would invert themselves and stretch to lengths into my chest and wrap themselves around my heart and crush it, killing me. But hopefully this woman has a plan for when this dude "accidentally" drinks too much grain alcohol and sticks his head into the blades of his lawnmower trying to cut the tip off a cheap cigar and then cuts his skull open instead. I mean shit, anything could happen.
Anyway, I digress. I'm listening to this guy as if his words are light flashes from a strobe light. I don't even bother making any sense of the man and I think he can tell. I walk away from the bar and stand in front of the television then look for an empty glass or a napkin that I can pick up.
"Damn, I got nothing," I say to myself, it was a slow night.
"Can I get another?" he says over his shoulder, to me, the bartender, the only other person in the bar, the guy that is ignoring him and supposed to be working for tips.
"That was last call, man, sorry," I said, two hours before the real "last call" was called.
"7.50," I said. He looked at me. "For the drink," I clarified, not for wasting my time or eroding my ears with your shit stories.
He proudly slapped a ten on the bar. I put it in the till and placed his change in front of him. He snatched the two bucks and left the two quarters on the bar top. "That's yours" he said smiling and then walked away.
I found a sex show on cable and watched until it was time to close.
I'm all about customer service.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Nuthin' Genius Here Pt. I
I don't get the fuck why people want to torture themselves with asshole boring jobs. Jesus, now that was genius! I suddenly sound like a gangbanger.
I often ask myself why I ever wanted to be a writer. Many will say that it really wasn't a choice at all but a curse that some are given. And while I don't want to use the word "curse", indeed, it has plagued me in many ways.
I trace back to when I was in grammar school and had to compose short stories occasionally for class. I always had the most ridiculous concepts. One story I remember in particular was about a vigilante ice cream man who rigged ice cream bars and snow cones and such with explosives not to kill kids but other ice cream men that were mixed up in some crime wave. Kinda stupid. On summer nights I would write short horror stories about aliens attacking and eyeballs that would revolt and pop themselves out of people's heads. Fast forward to high school: My stories became more violent and disturbing. I read stories in the news today about kids getting suspending for drawing "scary" pictures and whatnot and I wonder why my teachers never tagged me as suspect after I would submit a three page story about a guy fucking a severed human head or another story about a guy that would surgically remove the vaginal area of kidnapped women and throw them in a bucket and then later would of course, fuck. This morsel entitled "Bucket of Pussies" didn't earn me a high mark, but surprisingly didn't send me to a counselor either.
Anyway, my next foray into writing was when I began to dabble in love poetry when I graduated from high school. I have no idea how all of a sudden I could switch gears...well, that's a lie. I was trying to bang this chick and poem about roses can spread legs faster than a story about fucking a human head (usually). Oh well, I never did get with that chick and I canned the love poems.
In college, I stopped reading the Stephen King and Clive Barker novels and started reading Bukowski, Kerouac, Burroughs, all the beats and then later Celine, Sartre, Carver, Algren, Baudelaire. I took what I could from all of them. I began writing in a new style. Brooding, depressing and loathsome material. At the same time I was writing short stories about a guy who becomes the sex slave of an inflatable doll that comes alive.
But I kept writing and writing. And when I graduated from college, I had no idea what I wanted to do but keep writing. But I needed money and my job at a video store wasn't paying the bills. Especially the most important bill, the charges made at the liquor store. So I went to a job fair and got a lame job in marketing. This is where it all started to come together. My hate for working a corporate job, my interest in becoming a serious writer and fuckload of personal conflicts that jump-started a higher level of drinking and misery. I'll get to all that shit next time.
I often ask myself why I ever wanted to be a writer. Many will say that it really wasn't a choice at all but a curse that some are given. And while I don't want to use the word "curse", indeed, it has plagued me in many ways.
I trace back to when I was in grammar school and had to compose short stories occasionally for class. I always had the most ridiculous concepts. One story I remember in particular was about a vigilante ice cream man who rigged ice cream bars and snow cones and such with explosives not to kill kids but other ice cream men that were mixed up in some crime wave. Kinda stupid. On summer nights I would write short horror stories about aliens attacking and eyeballs that would revolt and pop themselves out of people's heads. Fast forward to high school: My stories became more violent and disturbing. I read stories in the news today about kids getting suspending for drawing "scary" pictures and whatnot and I wonder why my teachers never tagged me as suspect after I would submit a three page story about a guy fucking a severed human head or another story about a guy that would surgically remove the vaginal area of kidnapped women and throw them in a bucket and then later would of course, fuck. This morsel entitled "Bucket of Pussies" didn't earn me a high mark, but surprisingly didn't send me to a counselor either.
Anyway, my next foray into writing was when I began to dabble in love poetry when I graduated from high school. I have no idea how all of a sudden I could switch gears...well, that's a lie. I was trying to bang this chick and poem about roses can spread legs faster than a story about fucking a human head (usually). Oh well, I never did get with that chick and I canned the love poems.
In college, I stopped reading the Stephen King and Clive Barker novels and started reading Bukowski, Kerouac, Burroughs, all the beats and then later Celine, Sartre, Carver, Algren, Baudelaire. I took what I could from all of them. I began writing in a new style. Brooding, depressing and loathsome material. At the same time I was writing short stories about a guy who becomes the sex slave of an inflatable doll that comes alive.
But I kept writing and writing. And when I graduated from college, I had no idea what I wanted to do but keep writing. But I needed money and my job at a video store wasn't paying the bills. Especially the most important bill, the charges made at the liquor store. So I went to a job fair and got a lame job in marketing. This is where it all started to come together. My hate for working a corporate job, my interest in becoming a serious writer and fuckload of personal conflicts that jump-started a higher level of drinking and misery. I'll get to all that shit next time.
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