...

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Dust plumed from under my off-white sneakers—creeping up to discolor and slightly dampen the color of the orange neon socks, which might have looked odd against my brown tanned ankle. The front door creaked. Ajar, paint-peeled, and rotting, I pushed it aside. My pupils dilated to perceive a whicker chair, an antique ice cream cooler that I used as a makeshift air conditioner, a screen-cracked television, a generator, and a half empty bottle of cheap vodka. I am a pessimist.
I yanked the chord on the generator, plugged in the ice cream cooler, opened it’s lid, set my ass upon my chair, and allowed the cold air from the cooler freeze me instead of the Fudgesicles. Home.
Contentment. There is so little of it nowadays. I am a poor man, and my possessions mean very little to me. I need nothing to live comfortably and I enjoy the fact that no one is dependent on me for anything. I haven’t spoken to a human in five years or so. But couldn’t say with certainty exactly how long it has been since my concept of time has been somewhat tainted.
I have found that all I need is within myself.
My gas station was about six-and-a-quarter miles down the gravel road. Every morning my boots crunched against the gravel.
Every morning my eyes scanned the ground for items of interest.
Every morning I breathed in the dusty, perfect air.
Every morning I arrived at my gas station at exactly 7:oo in the AM.

Purpose.

I wet my lips in the current. Mountainous, deceptive, and guiding my vessel with uninhibited valor. It wound across and down so that my eyes could Laugh without obvious grief. The goddess of the River, so riveting and tall, rose with an invitation to gaze into the wonderlust soul of an unsuspecting vagabond.
And the Grooves and Crevices in his heart sparked a fire within me.

Didier's Confession

‎"...So the thoughts and premonitions echoed and then whipped past me into the coils of humid wind. And by the time I swept into the last curve of the coast near the Sea Rock Hotel, my mind was as clear as the broad horizon clamped upon the limit of a dark and tremulous sea..."

My Breakfast Adrenaline Rush

A Reunion of China-Made Pitchforks.

Surrealistic pillow cases envelope a tango weary frame as cascades of sea rounded pebbles flow amidst easily snapped family ties.
Once upon an 8:47 pm, I claimed to be a diver--weighted soles and filtered oxygen and cosmopolitan game shows competing for sterilized feathers and pressure resistant cardigans and unannounced northern aggression.
Commentators commenting upon commentaries given on one sided jailbird blue soap boxes.
I was a selective audience, prerecorded laughter... synthesized applause spewed out of my diet pilled force grinned least favorite orifice. Spins and practiced foot movements, hands creeping incessantly toward the grooves of a wanted pat on the back and a wig-like congratulations. Dentures clack like prepackaged electrical rulers, and lace deteriorates with enlarged snowflake despair...
and the dorsal finned father-in-laws devour the fingernail chalkboard toupees in search of a shag carpet comfortable place to lay their stain glassed cherry flavored brains.

self-defense.

It's more than an occasional hazard... you run the risk of conceiving a bastard. a droll spoof of a tragedy of awkward mediocrity performed upon the plains of Serengeti.

A diminutive figure in a filthy loin cloth
Is en route to your house just to knock you off

A sad pygmy who takes small steps
Who weeps while he snuffs you
Who sits on your chest
The art of self-defense

He weeps while he snuffs you
He sits on your chest
To him you're no different from all the rest
A sad, sad, sad, sad, sad pygmy

un-tie-toald.

The wind plucked him up like a pickpocket snatching your grandfather’s silver pocket watch, and sat him down rather violently into a dungeon of deterioration. Flabby appendages inched through the thick air like the tendrils of a strangler fig—it was discombobulating. Tiny beer bubbles raced to the surface of their glasses, suffocating, reaching for the air that was just beyond the deflated pale lips that moved slowly to the rim for a taste of liquid social skills or maybe consolation. He glanced to his feet and willed them to carry his gangly frame toward the bar where he knew he could find sense and order in his otherwise befuddled mind. Draining a mug in seconds, turning and surveying the scene around him—his senses were sharper and more comprehensive than before.
It was a bar in Nevada. Somewhere near Vegas, he suspected, blaming his assumption upon the presence of enamored nicotine-stained fingers and the empty wallets of the washed-up gamblers who trickled out of that devious and dripping city—those whom were at last content with having just enough bucks to satisfy their sticky dry throats.

the ideal realm

i feel that i am gradually becoming who i am supposed to be.

Aristotle believed that there is a perfect form of everything that we perceive to be reality... we are just imperfect copies. we were an accident--god just burped us out unintentionally. He believed that we can never reach our full potential; we will never become any more perfect than we are. I disagree with this. I feel that our lives are the span of time in which we have to find ourselves--our true selves--and become in-tune with our perfect versions.

i am still pondering this.

a short tale

he had a witty brain and knock knock knock went he upon the brass-hinged door using his left fist. the wind certainly chills me, thought the man as he tucked his scarf deeper into his coat. a scuffing and scraping heard he from the opposite side of the oaken barrier, straightening his posture and bow tie he lifted his chin in a stately manner. the door creaked open and a stench of yeast and sweat met his slightly upturned nose. i am here on behalf of your dearest son, droned he, and observed the man's eye widen in surprise and hesitancy. the one who had opened the door was dressed in usual hunter's garb--woolen tights encased thin shaking legs, an unraveling brown tunic (a small metal pin in the shape of a star was attached to his breast), and a crudely-made leather cap lined with fur.

i am here on behalf of your dearest son.
what has that foul tween done? something that deters him from coming here in person...oh, it must be shameful.
shameful indeed.

you see, began this late caller, your boy has committed a most ghastly crime. in his excitement at the games he forgot himself, and proceeded to impale his opponent repeatedly, thuk thuk thuk, until the red ran freely and scarce a soul was left in the place--they fled in panic and disbelief. i, dear old man, stayed and washed your son's stained breast and dragged the limp one out for burial.
woe is me, wailed the hunter, my position is surely in jeopardy due to my own seed's impertinence. i shall have to hide myself and my frail wife, for we are surely now outcasted!
this one late-night caller drew the deepest of breathes, and stated loudly, this dispute shall be dealt with man-to-man! your own son has acted rashly, and i shall do so as well! he withdrew a rusty turkey-carver from his breast pocket and pounced upon the hunter with zest, eyes all a-gleaming and teeth exposed. the scarlet ran once again, leaving the frail old one without fingers or a tongue.

tripped on a rythmn

the forest where your legs meet
growls and hides like a werewolf on the prowl.
the grime under my fingernails begs me to caress it's hair;
run my fingers through its hide.

brain doctors

something wrong with me?
my apathy deters me from getting a medical opinion.

no title.

he flicked the spiders away
that encroached upon his quiet place.
he consistently kept them at bay
except for one brave insect which he allowed
to crawl along his knit brow
into his ears and across his thighs.
the spider found passage into his cranium
through a nostril, though he protested in vain.
then the crawler whispered in hushed tone,
'i will multiply, terrify, and birth in your bones.'
the man collapsed in agony and cursed his naivety.
'alas, i am undone!'
and he spun his hat and twittled his thumbs
and cringed as the intruder scuttled
over his veins -oh it caused him much pain.

homeless veteran

she chose battering rams,
i chose defense.
tepid functions
and ironical flight.

he always sat in the back
conscious of eyes, drilling.
the ramparts were failing
my archers, fatigued.
reactions crumbled and souls grew thin.

the beginning

i feel strange...
i run like a rat, so inject me with your potions.
a lab animal in circular motions.

i feel strange...
i am the tread wearing off your tires.
spinning out of control, you forgot the goal.

i'm the grey in your father's hair,
and the fabric that always seems to tear
when we grow to large for the costume.

decipher the antagonist....
beating flesh with a severed fist.
we're here and we're looking for you.
pews and funeral dues, veils mask the traitor.

public transportation

dump the pump
worn treads and throbbing heads...
i'm just transit junk.

see the sea
drowning lungs and cut out tongues...
i can't decide who i'm supposed to be.

leslie.

take the ones who make you feel insecure
under the stairs, beware, they are impure
so pretty in the face of their system.

in my head i plead with reason
their treason leaves us with foil blades
our empire fades and we're doomed to toil endlessly.

you sigh constantly.
i toil endlessly.
you sigh constantly.
i toil endlessly.

in unity we have become alien
unidentified fragments of inability
i foresee escape and you walk audibly.
i love quickly.
you walk audibly.

sabbah

i've been swallowing spiders,
drinking backwash and befriending liars.
and i can't help but smile
because the fog burned away.


hectic, hectic, hectic, call the medic
medic, medic, medic, medication necessities.

she's been wallowing in sheets,
saving the cows and clothing their feet.
and she can't keep a steady beat
there's larva in her brain.

practice makes murder perfect

memorize those fills, young man.
make your fingers bleed, you need to improve!
bend to make the sounds, match the tones.

content to a point of lament

throw out your chills
heat the pills, pay the bills
ive finished my books
filled all the nooks in my blood
strung my guitar and carried the trash
splashed water on my face
this isn't my place.