Lakeside hemorrhage true grit knowing only to stop. Hell wakes its basket gleaming sword monster truck into garbage oblivion sorcery can’t even explain. Too much too soon. Snape refined evil horn contemplate suns showered Boris Mars gate wed. Noontime oblivion said natural conflation. Tomb scrawl. Dead gate crash awaken sedentary swordsmanship too forward to re-instigate tableau crapped headlong dying id. Switchback cane Novoselic state arrived at by tentacle ostrich portico cone. Slay the tractor. Walls indignant melody sty shred awake. Stand and fight the gore damn holed wall wombat tent said evening the score gone forever waiting for no one trash wait slam against tech death crime. Toward sandwich sunshine reeded corpse trawler nailed needed and gone. Tape will have its tenure and odd morsels collect in the pool’s drainage basin. Doomed garbage wrecks Wednesday with eighty-six fabrics known only by their trails. Tortured corn tamales eating slayers crammed tin waffle cone steak draft making to the upward mobility given God torn away ran into the ground drain capitalist acclaim LJN forest of Crash Dummies dilly dallying on a turntable wrecked around gone steak fishing to known idioms and sand in the rain. Saying you’ll dive lovely and true is like the meat id son of the dick washer nut bolt sendoff you’ve always dreamed of. Trains riding Martian nubiles like dusky perfume on a black woman’s ass nibbling coteur in gray wendigo fur. Tuft of time sent sunward helping heaven to a second plate of screaming eyeballs mayonnaise head jar open crate standing naked twisted marsh gavel groveling for gruel some more said Oliver Twist fifteen hundred times before being whacked by Daisy Ridley’s charm bracelet vaginal toad stuck butt Remington razor cuts cried like twisted orange blossom tick meal steaked sand hierarchy violate my Eden for it is no more. Torah Sedna Hecate Stormy Daniels Jacked and jizzing into free jazz cram school nightmares. Ed Gein for supper while hidden. Torque learning a new trick. Stabbed by dayling Bryan Willacre stammer injection hospital opossum tablet standoff. Needle boy knows, needle boy needs nails to drive into cake. Stack’o’lee dawning on dares drilled Rainbow Dashboard catamount to underfluff wrinkled like suit jackets worn only wedding night cancelled damned in sticky pasta flower worlds. Kumbaya under stars gone only to the dickhead gangsta rapper wetting beds toilet training turned walruses darker that weeds roasting marshmallows on peat bog fires known by names drilled catwalk soda. Dream and eat the wack sticky under tack came fortnights ago to the town of Dojo where kittens sing tables upward and sky haven nicks the dangling waffle horned and segmented like caterpillar bodies undeveloped butterfly buffet. A dance worth remembering stands tickworthy while a tan sun tames tigers, lava, bee’s nests, monsters, earrings, garbage and hated hell sausage. Coined wishy-washy takes the camera and eats toenails for brunch. Amma-lamma-ding-doing Tom Green sausage factory puffing on clouds a camp understood like semen on toast. A dick move, wouldn’t you say? Where the creaning rady arrives to swab the deck of your soap ship, take turns washing her vagina, for there is no time to ungreet dawn like tick a walla bing bang so many years before.
Helping birds and flowers drift into cane sugar marshmallow comas has been rendered obsolete by fingers towing wounds and sentencing fried sand to death for scamming wheat while soundless voids open and greet the night with their shrill cries.
August Derleth throbs over his heart attack like the squishiest of lungs.
“Death glanced its own eyes open” said no one ever.
No one true to their loss will gather his fingers after they have fallen from his hands like the ornaments bejeweling Santa’s tampon collection.
It’s all a big Lie: the little things you find under the mattress along with a monastery and a shotgun to take your head out of mayonnaise jars.
I thank the sun for scalping my taco with Z-grade sanitary codes.
Jesus fought for America’s Army in World War Three.
Stan laughs at racism while watching a basketball strapped to black man’s back.
Television implants maroon furniture into my consciousness on islands of the night.
Green titty milk ruins my stars and gets its shit breath all over my tie.
Thank you mother, my railroad spike.
Clean your hands and wipe sediment from the neck jowls of a man in a bed, and never look back.
Beds tie themselves to me in this town.
My gait remains a mystery.
Dysentery walks up to the Pope and challenges him to a duel.
Gloves slap hams upon tables designated for little boys to thwack their undeveloped peni while female workers look on in horror…unable to say anything because ‘freedom, man.’
Rational thoughts invoke x-rated squids that escape my mind for now…thank God….a day without squids is another twenty-four hours I don’t have to say the words ‘please don’t rate me.’
Kettles whistle for floating continents to be brought down upon the heads of toads wishing for warts to become divine interventions worthy of sex.
Gay limbo has just been invented.
Rain sticks science themselves.
Tubes ignite and load freebasers with data they don’t need.
Surround sound soars down the throat of Adam Kadmon in the form of a Jolly Rancher.
Hampton Fancher eats his own. (No offense to Hampton Fancher.)
Too toasty to reconcile themselves to television, ultraviolet uteri are poured onto tanning beds and pounded into piles of powder to be snorted by the higher-ups whose demons spill out of their pantaloons and summon sunbeams to eat the faces of dogmen on unicycles.
‘Toodle-Ooo!’ says the best-kept secret of Biff Tanner.
‘Vote for Gallant!’ chimes Goofus when the chips are down.
Gallant can eat dog shit off the ground and light gerunds on fire for all I care.
When I say ‘go,’ it means ‘stop.’
Wake me up when jumping out the window becomes cool again.
“Guide the tube slowly,” says the sphinx to the New York City punker whose family jewels are kept safe in Mt. Rushmore.
Eat your breakfast with pride and stay off the cocaine.
Will my life change overnight when a literary agent decides to take me on as their client? The voice of every English professor I’ve ever had screams ‘NO! Nothing happens instantaneously. Don’t let success go to your head. Just keep baby-stepping towards your goal.’ But what if I don’t want to baby-step? Is it wrong to check your email daily, waiting for a drastic change that will finally give you objectives to complete, tasks to accomplish and goals to strive for?
The voices of my parents, job coaches and uninformed friends echo in my head: ‘you need to get a job. Steady employment will take your mind off of all the woes of the world.’
What they don’t seem to understand is that the only job I’ve ever been successful at was a complete fluke! My co-workers at Bethlem High School all knew who I was because my dad had worked there for thirty years. If I somehow landed a teacher’s aide job at different high school where nobody knew me, I’d be sacked within the first week.
‘A female student said you looked down her shirt, you’re fired!’ ‘You arrived late ONCE, you’re gone!’ ‘You didn’t learn the ropes by day four even though the acceptance packet said you’d have two weeks training, get out of here!’ ‘You yipped when we told you to yop, goodbye!’ ‘You asked too many questions and failed to look busy even when there was nothing to do, have a nice life!’
Like I’ve probably said before: me and conventional employment don’t mix.
I guess I’m just the kind of person who needs to set his own hours and be his own boss.
Believe it or not, at this very moment, my mind is in work mode. My writing, music and art ARE my job. I take my artistic career as seriously as the ideal bagel baker should bagels.
But the reality is, 99% of bagel bakers probably don’t give a shit about bagels. More than likely, they REVILE those bread-dough abominations that insidiously masquerade as donuts just to troll those unfortunate enough to bite into one.
I firmly believe that my brain is hardwired to my prevent my body from doing any task that A, I don’t enjoy, B, don’t feel is necessary, or C, don’t believe in.
What I did at Bethlem came from my heart. I can’t really say that about any other job I’ve ever had other than my creative pursuits.
I suppose my parents arrived at the same conclusion as soon as my college years came to an end. They’re the ones who facilitated my current financial dependence on the government. They knew I would never be able to work a normal job or contribute to society in a typical way.
Hence my current situation: a surreal existence where I spend two or three days of the week at Starbucks with my laptop either writing or submitting manuscripts to publishers. The rest of the time, I’m either sitting in the library of my alma mater reading dense novels about the Knights Templar and Kabbalah, taking six mile walks with sludge metal blasting through my headphones, or binging for six to eight hours at a time on video games. It should be noted that I’m not addicted to playing video games, but rather, to buying them (which is not relevant to this essay, so therefore, I digress.)
Although I’m grateful that I get to live the artist’s dream while gorging on Social Security benefits that I probably don’t deserve, I can’t help feeling guilty about it. How come I get to “live the dream” while my brother, who is arguably just as mentally messed up as I am, has to endure the soul crushing drudgery of his job at the Department of Tax and Finance? Five days a week, he sits at his cubicle, answering anger and hate-filled queries from painfully stereotypical Jews, blacks and Long Island Italians regarding whatever bullshit the IRS has dumped on them this week. I suppose he is just neurotypical enough to maintain steady employment at such a position without having regular meltdowns.
I often theorize that, in some ways, he is much sicker than I am. Sure, I’ve had my moments of disillusion with life, but these days, I keep depression and anxiety at bay through reading, writing and exercise. These three things form the Sacred Trinity that perpetuates happiness in my life.
Again, my thoughts return to the question of ‘why do I get to live what many would consider an ‘ideal artist’s existence’ while my brother has to suffer like a typical American Millennial?’ Did he choose this path, or did I get off scott-free because I bitched and moaned so loudly for so many years that my parents caved and convinced the Federal Government to appease me like a spoiled child?
Do I really believe this about myself?
I’d like to think not.
After all, I’m pouring everything I have into this blog post and my writing career as a whole. Hell, I just meticulously crafted five query letters and emailed them to literary agents. A lazy person wouldn’t have had the patience or diligence to do such a thing. An actual entitled man-child would be at home in his underwear right now playing video games. In fact, he’d be doing that every single day without a shred of ambition or drive to contribute to society. And the video games he’d be playing certainly wouldn’t be the kind that stimulate the imagination or intellect. They’d be Dorito-brained shooters and hack’n’slash online life-wasters: games in which headset-wearing twelve-year-olds call each other faggots and shout men’s rights activist slogans at any female players unfortunate enough to be logged in. Then a forty-year-old guy would show up and be like, ‘Here’s a dick pic: pls respond.’
I’m fairly certain that I’m not that type of guy.
But what type of guy am I?
On paper, I’m a thirty-year-old, disabled, unemployed bachelor with a Bachelor’s Degree (go figure.) Am I doing what a thirty-year-old autistic man who calls himself a writer ought to be doing? Is there even such thing as an ‘ought-to?’
Perhaps my brother just chose to veer off in a different direction from me. He made a conscious decision to wallow in the shit piling up at his feet because he knew he was capable of doing so.
Being capable of enduring bullshit: is that a quality every human being should ideally have?
I can tell you right now that I don’t have it.
It seems I’ve reached the thesis (as well as the conclusion) of this essay. I just wish there was someone else in my family who was just as incapable of dealing with bullshit as me. If such a person existed, perhaps they’d be a fan of bands like Anal Cunt and GG Allin too. My cousin’s baby was born the day Lemmy Kilmister died, so maybe there’s hope after all.
Sundried tomato offering: a pole for my calculus.
Tomorrow, I will go to the grocery store.
Stained head confiscate.
New toys like marbles rain down from the rickety floorboards above.
Gainesville shoots itself in its cold feet.
The scorpions are wise to your trick.
Several feet of snow and my dick in a box.
Undress the scorpion, and you will find the candy wrapped in sordid memories: a flaming edifice defaced and cauterized like so many salmon baked into…
Wendy liked the snow. She spat into a wishing well, but it was frozen. Superman didn’t understand the question.
The winged spaniel has to go topless around the fairy fountain.
And God cares too much.
Spent booger train hops aboard my heart’s laser.
Doom talent eats won sandbags.
My heart cleaves the stain into golden pieces fruiting Naples on sedimentary school fires.
Lurk-da-durrr…Drill Man’s stage becomes new again.
America was always great…until Drill Man arrived and began to cornhole Television in three-hundred-sixty degree toilets.
But mom, why can’t I siphon gasoline?
Shut up and eat your noodles in the hot car!
Gophers know that said vegetables are hardly matrices allowed weighted spanners.
Sanguine artist rectify time blade special bastard elevate monster in tote bag turmoil. Never again the centipede crawls cohesive in digested snuff. Awake and ablaze, we fondle the sunrise. Naked hippos collide with embers. Ash gray nutcracker roasts in fires of day. Santa Claus waits at the end of the year. We all rise only to flatline sometime before the Easter Bunny takes your teeth and runs to the grocery store to purchase some eggs to throw at Jesus. Can’t we all hold hands and fling poo at our marsupial guardians? Can fistulas rage eloquently enough? No. The answer to that question is always a pickpocket on a London street. Rat nest nefarious and glowing hot coals waken steady fisting. Grain alcohol chugged like bro culture. “Core values annihilated,” said the waitress to the fortress. New death owns no morals. Getting gay with Hempstead Turnpike is my new grandmother. Say, why don’t y’all wear flip flops ’round these parts? Texas in the form of Long Island is a rough pill to choke down like so many clowns on spare tire roundups. Nude helioglobin negative ions combust spark pang and wait. Stay with me awhile and digest marshmallows and hemp seeds from rain. Know that thine enemy is New Jersey. Stand firm in your meta eviction. Do what Gnarls Barkley told you, didn’t I? Green sleeves are made of cheese. Hoping for an opening won’t get you nowhere. Stay the night if you dare. Turn out Chernobyl oranges and date your cousin’s adopted child. 32 is a nice time to wind the pitching of the heat gamble. Sting the sights of new freebasers, for they are rails. Get away from me, you big, fat, silly Western movie. Fuck the setting sun! Let’s destroy California and throw towels at Batman forevermore while Robin eggs hatch and complete my sentences. Egalitarian wisdom. Poutain? Relegate to shit pile. Gnomes for hire this century won’t spill the beans. Get a job, you damn, dirty pile of doorknob wackjobs. Get off my lawn and ear Clint Eastwood’s head all the way to Hawaii. Death is a fantastic alternative to weddings.
A disgruntled office worker dreams he’s back in first grade, being forced to hold hands with a classmate he doesn’t like: a dumpy Simpleton whose hands the dreamer believes to be filthy. But as soon as their fingers touch, the dreamer is imparted with Ultimate Cosmic Wisdom. The Simpleton is actually the King of a higher dimension called ‘The Unknowable.’ At the beginning of time He ‘carved’ each of the Unknowable’s resident deities out of jewels mined from his rectum.
The office worker wakes up and realizes that not only was he wrong about the Simpleton/King all those years ago, but that the Ultimate Wisdom he had been given in the dream is now missing from his head.
Desperate to reestablish contact with the King and relearn Ultimate Wisdom, the office worker quits his job and goes on to invent nanotechnology that allows humans to live forever.
Over the course of the next several millennia, the former office worker gains absolute political power. Using technology and the collective mind/body of humanity, he ascends to the Unknowable in search of the King and His wisdom.
Unfortunately for the office worker, Ultimate Wisdom is not awe-inspiring in any way. The Simpleton/King doesn’t know what Ultimate Wisdom is or what its implications are. All He is concerned with is finding the next jewel and marveling at its shininess like a moviegoer moved to tears by the lasers and explosions of George Lucas’ Star Wars prequels: blissfully unaware of the films’ lack of sophistication and coherent storytelling.
Ultimate Wisdom, as it turns out, is nothing more than the experience of getting goosebumps at the ‘chug-chug-chug-‘ of Sebulba’s pod racer as he tailgates young Anakin Skywalker: not knowing or caring about child actor Jake Lloyd’s future meth addiction and existential anguish.
This is a poem about something
That I can never hold.
Wakefulness tires me
And belates my past.
Tombs reach up above the trees
That startle something in me
A brick pops out of the dam
My doom howls ‘howdy-doo?’
A rusted crane looms above crush crawfish dizzy spells
Memories trigger my head falling off
Screaming for the reignition of bygone realities
Casting walls upon shadows
My flickering tomb light a bouquet of rainbows.
Now, have yourself a merry little July
Sitting in your shed, sucking on a nalgene bottle
Pining for winter.
Tiredness opens me
Freedom is a blunt hatchet
Rams won on channel thirteen
Can we go home now?
Rubber room conundrum
Does the martyr fly free?
How do you know?
Go find your own
Go toe-to-toe with hookers and blow
Stain your own garden
Never wake up
Stem a flower pot, and you’ll see the garden inflate
And drums wonder down by the sea
A little at a time
A day for doornails
Toilet lights flickering storytelling marshmallows
Homeward bound, the crow bleeds
Take me away and make me
Tantalize the pistil
Reinvent cheese and storm clouds
Pan-fried flowers slate steaks for games won and lost for you and your soft foot.
No one understands grief like Mexico Pony.
Tijuana wraps itself in plastic upon discovering
That grandma has become part of her closet and is spewing philosophy.
Next to nothing is what you take when the nape of her neck runs dry.
Heave her over the mountain and pray for headaches
To open your cans and bless your bread and cluster fancies
Watching her to swim to shore with clothes keeping her afloat.
You can’t train the sunshine to aim away from dollar-billed platitudes.
Ponies need vitamin D although they hate it.
To wish upon a crab cake is to bend the straw to your will
And piss in Grandma’s snuff box like so many hats
Designed to keep camp and cold onions away
From Tijuana where you and Mexico Pony drink summer shandy
And laugh at Grandma whose Wednesday is beginning to resemble a frumpy toad.
Sandpaper castles design time.
Forests create wealth for pigs.
New markets are born each day.
The well refills itself.
Gettysburg wasn’t human.
Satellite dishes aren’t either.
Tomb robbers unite!
Feast on the holy day.
Wren allocated hemorrhage.
Goon zone opened.
New wreath belated in grass.
The episode won’t eat properly
Court marshaled obviously.
Glass and more glass.
A streak wider than a cane.
Torch fuel lament.
Head down now.
Course won’t reverse
Edamame record collection.
Tantamount to suspicion.
Torsion of the math.