Showing posts from 2004


Every morning he followed a routine. He would lie down on his back, bind a dictionary to his head with duct tape, and perform 2300 sit-ups. Six-pack? He had an entire case. He let his fingers move softly over the hard ripples, scrunching them up and down. To his right was a box of Lucky Charms next to a mini-fridge. He poured milk and cereal into the crevices and valleys of his well-defined abs and ate hurriedly from his stomach.
Something was going on.
He could smell it.
He wasted a bit of time examining himself in the mirror. His smooth golden skin stretched taut over muscles and tendons in high relief, like a suspension bridge of flesh or the US Pavilion erected exclusively for the 1974 World’s Fair in Spokane, Washington, about 320 miles west of Seattle, near the Idaho border. He flicked his left nipple softly with a thumb to make it erect and thus symmetrical with the right. And, of course, it felt good. Turning and flexing, standing sideways and doing some pelvic thrusts to w…


Things I don’t do never get done.


Buffets get me as excited as R. Kelly at the Kid’s Choice Awards.


Some of my best friends are in bands I hate.


People never know if I’m dead or not so I decided to make a quick appearance at the show. The glitternazis were out in full form, acting like they hadn’t seen me arrive and admirably stayed in character all night by ignoring me completely. It took a long time to get a drink even thought the bartender kept looking at me. My friends kept acting like they didn’t know me and would whisper something in his ear and then she’d look at me and laugh so I smiled back and waved.
I looked around the smoke-free room at all the people who probably wouldn’t fuck me and drank a warm half glass of beer somebody left on the bar.
The guy sitting next to me still hadn’t turned around or taken a break from his rapt attention to the band so I drank his beer, too.
The band seemed to have come equipped with a bunch of the same song played different ways. They were just okay, though they had some good musician sex faces. Nobody in the crowd seemed all that worked up, either, except the one guy who started lo…


I want to be on the Coast Guard, burn drugs in a bonfire, and then stand really close.


I think it all started way way back when we lived in the country and burned our trash in an outdoor incinerator.
I would toss aerosal cans in the inferno and dive behind the garage.
My father would question me sternly on how bits of metal shrapnel came to be embedded in our garage door.
One day I thought I should learn how to smoke since it was supposed to make you look so grownup and attractive.
I filled a cardboard toilet paper roll with wads of Kleenex and PopTart boxes, lit it up, and inhaled deeply.
I must have swallowed a foot of flame.
I fell on my back for about twenty minutes wondering why I'd never noticed the earth's spinning rotation before.


Drive some soup.
Heckle the sunset.
Imagine my mother dancing.
Galaxy sit-ups.


The dead body didn’t move. It just laid there.
A cell phone in its pocket began to ring.


In Sonora, Mexico, at an altitude of 7,000 feet, archeologists discovered a lost city of bee-hive shaped huts filled with nine-foot tall mummies dressed in saffron robes emblazoned with blue pyramids and white dots representing the Mayan time-cycle of 25.000 years.


I could feel infinite creation peering over my shoulder.
The potatoes steamed in the sun at my feet.
For a second the golf club’s dark silhouette stained the clear blue sky, then an after image as I swung mightily, powered by teen muscles and a manly grunt.
Time slowed into Zeno’s paradox.
Eons seemed to pass, the earth slowly ground away at its orbit, lumbering, spinning, hurtling through space.
The edge of the driver met the soft skin of the potatoes.
There are certain discoveries one makes in life that simply can’t be fathomed until they are experienced, like the lightening storm created by a fork in a microwave, or a broken arm from jumping off the roof with a bedspread as parachute.
I had never played golf or roasted potatoes.
A bubbling cauldron of carbohydrates, this devil’s brew gushed straight into my fresh young face, scalding my investigative innocence with a burning epiphany.
Hot potato.


The puppy was suffering from an impacted anus so my father picked it up, put the puppy’s head in his mouth, and blew.


The older I get, the more casual I am with fire.
I squirt copious amounts of lighter fluid on the grill, unleashing roaring balls of flame that lick hungrily at the neighbor’s carport. I’ll pick up a crackling log and swing it all around, clumsily writing my name in the air. I take the batteries out of the smoke alarm and leave paper grocery bags on the stove.


I found my mom crying down by the river.
There are certain laws in the universe, like stuff hurts and things suck.
Grade school teachers don’t pee, boys don’t hold hands, and my mom doesn’t cry down by the river


I don't smoke cigarettes because they make me look too grown-up and attractive but I sure miss pop-out cigarette lighters in automobiles.


Sure I’ve had my problems and made some mistakes and no, it was not a meth lab, I was camping---but there eventually comes a time when you have to take one final honest look at yourself and feel even worse.


One of the main reasons we wear pants is to keep skidmarks off the furniture. We start off naked in cribs then waddle around with a pacifier in our mouth and diaper around our ankles. We go through our teens visiting each other’s cribs, going to parties with pacifiers in our mouths and our pants around our knees, until they drop as low as they can go. Then we start growing up, an ascension takes place: our pants rise up, climbing higher and higher the older we get until at last in old age we strangle on the waistband.


I’m sitting in my Hover-Round at the edge of the Grand Canyon watching the sunset and reflecting on how badly I have fucked up my life.
So I’d like to be Mike.
He’s everything I’m not. Even his name his spelled different.
And he’s still young enough to fuck up his life so it’s not hopeless.
He’s healthy, intelligent, and very good-looking.
I hate him.
Which just proves how wonderful he is.
His brain holds all sorts of arcane stuff from to pooter programming to Chaos Magick to Jean Genet. Of all the people I know and (I know almost everyone) Mike intrigues me, challenges me, and mocks me. He invigorates me.
He laughs at my jokes.
I highly recommend you try Mike out as a friend.
You won’t be disappointed unless he won’t fuck you.
I can tell Mike anything and he won’t call the cops.


I can dislocate my entire body and squirt through a keyhole, provided the keyhole is large enough to accommodate my squirting body.
I string the house with barbed wire and remove all the lightbulbs.
My secret swimming strokes also were used for creating four-dimensional snow angels, or more precisely, snow demons.
I can write underwater and not get the paper wet.
Ninjas had to live off the land and be survivalist outdoorsmen, so sometimes I sleep with the window open.
Map maker—I drop breadcrumbs wherever I go.
Anti-thirst and anti-pee pills—ninjas distrust water—anything obvious and free
(You can tell poisoned water by how your reflection looks.)
I get ready to see in the dark by sitting in a closet for 24 hours before the mission.
I use WD40 for squeaky hinges—or pee on them.
Pour salt on sleeping person’s forehead; fakers will react thinking they’re being poisoned; real sleepers won’t.
Use dirt near restrooms for making gunpowder.
I could tie you up so that any attempt to escape w…


I thought of something so intense I would never have to think of anything again but I forgot what it was.


Before I was born I would sneak out of my mother’s womb and float into the dark woods behind our house. I swam through the pungent mud and rolled in the overgrown grass.
Later, years after I’d fallen out of her into my own life, I would wait until everyone was asleep, sling a tiny scrap of what I thought looked like a loincloth, and dangle on tree branches out in the dark woods behind our house.
I wasn’t Tarzan.
He always appeared too beefy to be swinging around on stuff.
I was a sinewy, jungle panther boy.
One night I as hung in the throes of death after single-handedly saving the entire Amazon Mountains from marauding Eskimos, my loins began to tingle. The sleek muscles that entwined my body could barely ripple, soaked with fatigue. But I had saved my people; I could ascend to the gods in peace.
The loincloth barely clung to my wiry hips, and I grew aware of my nakedness. Cool air flicked at my nipples. A heartrending ache began to build within me, an agonizingly sweet pain that…


It was a cold murky doom cookie day, full of muck and mire,the kind of day only a Jabberwock would like if they existed.
They don’t but the day is still there.
I don’t have a fireplace so I curled up in front of the sink.
I was soon mesmerized by a cupboard because I also don’t have a television.
It doesn’t bother me not having a fireplace, but with no TV I have to talk to people, like my friends.
Especially friends.
What is a friend? A friend is someone still there after you puke.
Friendships would be easier if they didn’t require both of us.
And all the time saved could be used for studying string theory and paranormal research.
If I had a skateboard I would be skanking a goofy foot pickle stand on the flippy flop peak tube if you know what I mean, because I don’t.
So I drink water.
To whoever invented water, I say: yeah!
Fire good but water better.
Sure I’m wandering, but in just a minute I’m going to swim up my stream of consciousness and spawn in the point pool.
Which is this…


I don’t do drugs because of what it does to my friends.
It makes them look really weird.


I don’t just point my finger; I stick it in and swirl it around.
I do the math so I know when things don’t add up.
I’m not just in bed with the enemy; we go to out to dinner, too.


My meat stirs.
I turn off the alarm clock before it buzzes.
I step out onto the balcony, take a big gulp of fresh air, and stand ithyphallicly in the sunshine.
I’m close. I have my finger on the button. The boulder has been rolled away.
I have gathered up all my failures and lost chances, unrequited loves, should-have-could-have’s, and missed opportunities and soaked them in wasted irrational hope.
I am going to release the Beast at last.
In the bathroom is a cupboard; in the cupboard is wine rack; the rack is filled with jars, some full, some empty. I take out an empty jar and pee into it.
After writing the date on it with a Sharpee, I carefully select a full jar and carry it into the next room. A measured amount is poured into one end of a Rube Goldbergian labyrinth of glass tubes and flickering flames. Secret stuff is punched into a keypad, some Enochian phrases muttered under my breath, and the room begins to hum, or buzz, like a swarm of bees.
I can barely contain myself! Ever…


Feeling unusually anthropological last night, I decided to go observe humans in one of their natural gathering spots, preferably one with a happy hour.
I ended up next to a ancient woman preserving herself with gin martinis. A three-foot beehive of tarnished gold hair tipped dangerously over her left temple. Mounds of make-up covered her skull—bugs stuck to her face like a fly strip. Every bone, tendon, and vein bulged forth from beneath her tanned skin, her thin frail body barely enough meat to live in. A cigarette was plugged into her pouty red lips, I guess to stop her from deflating any further.
Soon we were talking about the striking parallels between modern UFO phenomena and ancient Vedic and Sumerian scriptures when my ears began to buzz like the bell-ringer you get from some quality crack Things like don’t bother me. I like being dizzy, too. So I rode it until it began to dawn on me that I wasn’t where I was anymore. I mean, I was where I was (I had to be) but not where I’d b…


I spend all my time not doing things.
I look in all the papers for all the moves I refuse to see, and all the shows I won’t attend, all the things there is no way I’m going to do.
Then I make a nice day-by-day calendar of all things I won’t be doing.
If you're not doing anything maybe we could hang around together forever.


I'm half bi.


The Big Bang is God’s Orgasm (GO), impregnating Him, Her, Me, We and Everything Everywhere and In Between with Being.
From atoms to matter to plants to animals to people: spirit infuses all.
Matter tries to contain, smother and devour life.
But despite each hungry bite, potentiality escapes and expands, leaving crumbs of infinity on matter’s dense lips.


I miss masturbating to scrambled cable sex.


It’s useful to click through all the perspectives whenever you remember to:
you in a chair, CLICK, you in a chair in a region, CLICK, you in a chair in a region in a country, CLICK, you in a chair in a region in a country in a hemisphere, CLICK, you in a chair in a region in a country in a hemisphere on a planet, CLICK, you in a chair in a region in a country in a hemisphere on a planet in a solar system, and keep going….
you can see the swirls and waves of weather; the pockets of unrest and war; the lurching devastation of rain forests; the path of disease cutting a swathe through life like the cursor in an Etch-A-Sketch.
Beyond that are ancient and unnameable archetypes and intelligence.
Why else do you think it’s the viewpoint four out of five Gods prefer?
You can only learn so much from beneath the bleachers.


People think I’m being funny when I’m not.
If I ever fall dead in front of my friends they’ll just laugh and say get up.
One day, after an entire wall of lockers fell over onto my sixth grade girlfriend crushing her flat so that blood gushed out of every orifice onto my feet when a bunch of us pushed the locker up, I waved the kids over at recess, stomped on a ketchup packet, and laid down on the playground so that the red splatter looked like it was coming from my open mouth. Everyone laughed.
Then a dog from across the street ran over and licked up the ketchup.