Luch in Iraq 2005 the Iditarod

On Dasher on Dancer on Prancer on Comet on Cupid...the reason your sled ran aground is because you're racing it in the DESERT! You took a wrong turn at Luxenburg. Luch who is this guy? You need to boss your troops around a little better.

Luch in Iraq.

Okay, you're not guarding anything. Now what are you doing? Call me crazy but it looks like you're staring at this guy's ass. I know it's been a long time without a woman but come on. And on another note. Those roads look a Hell of a lot better than anything around here. In fact I have a pot hole in front of my house that swallowed one of those little yellow school buses a few days ago.

Go on do what you have to do

In this perverse place.

In this, the end times.

As I gaze out across the sea of tears in which the wreckage of broken dreams sit half submerged and rotting, bashed up against the rocks of hope in a storm of your making, as the last grain of sand falls and my lease expires—yes I’m sure, I see my signature there in warm Jello—I get up as if to go but I can’t feel my spine so for the moment I stay. You hand me a beer and it slides through my finger tips and the glass bottle breaks on the edge of your heart. I try to glue the bottle back together with small talk; I want to save the feeling the booze gave me the first day I met you but that too is draining into that sea. I have to go I say and when I touch you on the shoulder you flop to the ground; a cardboard cutout just like me. I upright you, dust you off. We need kindling I say. But nothing ever lived here you say and I know you’re right nothing could live here. I dump over my filing cabinet and crumple the contents around me. Go now I say and you make to go. They were only dreams you say as you disappear over the ridge. But they were mine I yell but of course it’s too late you are someone else now. I strike the first match and drop it into the mountain of words around me. Nothing. I strike the second match and drop it. Nothing. I take out my flame thrower and this time there is fire. As my world burns up around me I think of sticking my fingers up inside you, the fire now at my neck feels like your kisses, the sizzle is like your whispers in my melting ears. I wonder who you are now as I burn. It is then that I notice some of my dreams are missing amongst the wreckage. I thought I noticed something in your back pocket as you disappeared over that ridge. I hope they treat you better than you treated yourself. The fire is the only thing I see…burn baby burn.

It’s the little things that matter most.

The globules of toad spit on the green blades of grass were illuminated by the sun and looked like the glitter on a pimp’s cape. I pressed my morning hard on against the screen in the back door and the hinges creaked like the spine of an arthritic chamber maid. The air had the faint tang of burning oil and rotting fruit in it and I gazed up at the ever expanding hole in the ozone layer. My inner factions agreed it was a beautiful world gone bad; a magical place smogged under by the corporate Jesus freaks and their belief that paving everything under would make it easier for them to drive their gold plated Hummers over on their way to the Pearly Gates.

I sipped from my coffee and looking into my mug I saw my reflection in the rich black beverage. It sort of looked like the velvet Elvis painting on my dentist’s office wall. I thought how I was ever so gradually drifting towards the ultimate blackness, the closed eyed decay that strips the meat from our bones, that leaks the images from our brains, that dries the love in our hearts. At all costs I would battle this blackness. I would charge it with my lance again and again and again until it lay defeated at my Burmese Jungle booted feet. Yes, you ask but what if I failed to slay the beast? Well, I had a plan for that too. A second more scientific way to attain immortality and it went something like this: I would record my every thought, jot down the sequencing of my DNA, store it in a computer and shoot it off in a rocket aimed at the next galaxy. Surely some mad outer space creature would run across it one day whilst out jetting inbetween the stars in his pimped out Vlectan 350 (Yeah the cherry red one). What would then go down next would be the locking of hard drives, the spinning of my digitalized brain stem and then the rebuilding of my soul in stainless steel. But as is my nature I digress…

“Come on,” I yelled to my Chihuahuas who were chasing squirrels out onto the road in front of the daily precession of exhaust spitting automobiles as they careened towards the elevators and escalators of the city.

Splat!

A cloud of gray fur and exhaust hung in the morning sky.

“That’s all folks,” I said.

* * *

With a strong eastwardly wind at my back, which caused my cotton madras shirt to billow out like the sail of some wayward pirate vessel, I made for my Cherokee via my cracked brick sidewalk. With my hands shaking I threw open the driver’s side door and jumped inside. Nestled firmly in the cracked leather seats I pounded down on the gas and ripping up fists full of gravel I shot out onto the road and was officially on my way.

The route to work would devastatingly routine and to brace myself against such banality I would need to make one stop before I reached the downtown and my office and this side adventure would be located in-between the four prefabricated walls of the nearby Seven Eleven. You see my caffeine levels were running dangerously low and if I was to brace myself against the predictability of yet another humdrum day I would need the help of my little caffeinated friend. My veins weren’t rattling like oyster shells in a muffler but my mind wasn’t fully evading the stillness that threatened to take it over, wasn’t running from the Reaper’s sickle; the cocksucker threatened to slice it in half like a honeydew melon if I slowed for even a moment. I had to keep moving, every single molecule of my compressed soul demanded it.

As I opened the door to the Seven Eleven the stale air conditioned air poured over my skin like a some sort of crazy industrial soup. I could feel its staleness clogging my pours. I shivered and proceeded forward.

The Pakistani owner behind the cash register winked at me and patted at his stringy comb-over. I nodded. Yeah, it was weird but the fuck if I know what their traditions were and so focused in on the miniature city of coffee makers on the counter in the far corner. There was enough caffeine there to jump start Walt Disney’s cryogenically preserved corpse.

As I passed the aisles I could help but take in those that occupied them like stuffed animals in a wealthy industrialist’s study. There was the usual down trodden; the state workers in polo shirts and khaki slacks, with the clickers going off in their heads; 5, 735 days until retirement. Click. 5734 days until retirement. Click. 5733 days until retirement. Click. I wondered if that was really a life or if it was just a replica of one.

An elderly black gentleman in a blue striped seersucker suit and a Panama hat was leaning over the counter scratching madly at instant lottery tickets. “Muther fucker,” he said, straightening and then tossing the tickets in the trash can beside the cash register.

A fat little boy ran by me, his legs jiggling from under his short pants, Snickers bars piled in his arms. I thanked God that recent reports indicated Americans did NOT have a weight problem. It was good to know every other person I saw wasn’t obese but rather I was seeing things.

This place was weirding me out. I needed to get my coffee and get the fuck out of there before I became one of them, before I lost my identity and was sucked into the anonymity of the everyman. This was the kind of place no one ever left. If I came back in ten years all the same people would still be there doing the exact same things. I needed to get out sooner than now. I ran towards the coffee machines.

I fumbled with the cups and lids trying to find a match.

“Why the fuck don’t they label these things,” I grumbled.

“That would be too easy.”

I started at the dirty floor and worked my way up, taking in the long tan legs, the knee length navy blue skirt and jacket, the curvaceous hips, the creases of her nether place, the swelling breasts. I locked on her lips and canvassed her eyes like they were an open bank vault filled with the green emeralds and I was a safe cracker.

“Gorgeous,” I said.

“Thank-you,” she said, shyly looking away.

“Right,” I said. “Can I buy you a coffee?”

“I already have a coffee,” she said.

“How about a Danish? I hear the cheese Danishes are very…uh, fresh.”

“Thanks, but I don’t eat refined carbs.”

“Me either I prefer the unrefined carbs, you know roughage and all.”

“I bet you do,” she said and turned, making for the cash register.

I was desperate. She’d stolen my heart in nanoseconds; dipped it in her coffee and taken a bite out of it like it was powdered donut. I needed to wrestle my heart out of her throat with my tongue, to join our souls at the hips, to wrap myself around her like a boa constrictor and never ever let go…unless of course I found someone hotter.

“Hey,” I said, lightly tapping her shoulder. “Here.”

I thrust one of my business cards at her. She took it and glanced at it quickly.

“A writer,” she said, “I’ll remember that.”

I wanted to follow after her but suddenly I felt like I shouldn’t. Something wasn’t right. I was being WATCHED! I could smell the smoke from the eyes burning through the back of my shirt. I turned on my heels like a gunslinger and there he stood; prim, proper, stuffy. In short all I despised in a human.

He hurried to the counter and stood beside HER! He slipped his reptilian hand around her hips.

“Cocksucker,” I said under my breath.

“What is that?” the guy asked, looking at the card in her hand.

“That guy is a writer. He gave me his card,” she said turning it over in her delicate white hands.

“He couldn’t do anything important,” the guy said loud enough for me to hear.

I turned; my eyes two molten replicas of hatred’s own. I looked the guy up and I looked him down. The cut of his suit was perfect, aerodynamic, possibly designed by Divinci and let loose in the computer terminal of some space age tailor. If he had a propeller up his ass I’m pretty sure he would have been able to fly with little to no wind resistance.

Be quiet,” the woman said.

I shuffled up towards the line behind them scuffing my Burmese Jungle boots on the ground so as to cause a distraction but just as I was about to get in line behind them the fat kid with the Snickers bars butted in line in front of me.

“Hey kid I was in line first,” I said.

“Were not,” he said, chocolate on his lower lip.

“Look free Ding Dongs,” I said.

The fat kid turned and I stole his place in line.

“Hey there’s no free Ding Dongs,” he said.

“Someone must have gotten the last ones. Maybe if you weren’t so heavy you could have beaten the last person to get the free Ding DOngs,” I said.

The guy in the suit turned towards me.

“Was that necessary?” he said in possibly the most condescending voice I’d ever experienced.

“Actually it was. I’m concerned about the kid’s weight. Three or four more years of pounding chocolate like that and his parents will have to roll him around on an industrial dolly,” I said.

She looked at me and smiled; her lips like great merlot filled zeppelins. I puckered involuntarily for the need to lock lips with her.

“Are you mocking me?” the guy said.

“Of course, it is after all my nature,” I said and winked at her.

“You’d better get a grip on reality pal. You’re nothing in this world. I’m somebody. What you say and what you think don’t mean anything. I make the wheels turn,” he said and swiped at his slick back hair.

“Tricycle wheels?

“Do you see what I’m driving out there?” he said, his face reddening.

“A milk truck?”

“Not the milk truck you idiot. That BMW, the 760Li Sedan. Something you will never have.”

“Stop it Peter,” she said. “You’re being a complete ass. I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to be sorry. By your definition I’m nothing and that’s just fine with me because by my definition you’re nothing.”

“Whose next?” the Pakistani store owner asked, his comb over hanging in his eyes.

“Go ahead,” she said, gesturing me around them, “I need to get something else.”

I set my coffee on the counter and fished the small leather bound notebook I kept my cash in out of my pants pocket.

“And the Snickers bars that kid back there has,” I said.

I paid and made for the doors.

“Hey mister,” the fat kid said.

“Yeah?” I said turning.

“Thanks,” the kid said looking guiltily at his candy.

“No, I’m sorry for saying that stuff I was worked up over something else. I was husky when I was your age. I mean I didn't have the rolls thing going on but I can sympathize. I know it can be hard...I was a fucking idiot.”

“I don’t want to be fat,” he said.

“I’ll tell you what. You know where Bruno’s Gym is down by the mall?”

“Yeah?”

“Meet me there at five. We’ll work on getting you into shape,” I said and guzzled from my coffee.”

“Okay,” he said.

In my car I turned the key in the ignition. There was a sharp rap at my window. I looked out. It was HER. She had something in her hand. I rolled my window down.

“Here,” she said, handing me her card.

“Let’s get a drink tonight after work,” she said.

“I can’t I have a date with the fat kid at the gym,” I said.

“Are you going to stay there all night?” she said with a smile.

“No?”

“Eight o’clock at McDuffy’s?”

“Right,” I said and she was gone.

I rolled up my window and slammed my car in reverse nearly taking out the fat kid who was busy unwrapping a Snickers.

I didn’t know where any of this was leading but I knew I’d done at least one thing right this morning and for me that was one more than I usually got in during the course of a day. Yeah, there were blue skies on the horizon and yes I would probably fuck things but I had that moment and really that’s all that really mattered.

I waved to the fat kid and tore out onto the highway.

The Last Seven Searches That Landed People On My Blog

nudist people in gym

nudist people in the gym

through flesh it sheers hidden amongst it's peers.

volkswagen bug yellow with purple flames

nudist blog

atomicblueblog.blogspot.com

knickers hairy

*It seems I'm hitting it off big with the nudists. If I write nudist on here ten more times will I get a lot more nudist searches? Nudist. Nudist. Nudist. Nudist...

*I don't even want to know what the person that typed "knickers hairy" was looking for. Yikes.

Luch in Iraq 2005 - Guard Duty II

Again, I'm going to have to ask what you're guarding. I don't think anyone is going to steal those pebbles. Of course I'm no expert in matters of the desert but I know you've been complaining a lot about the heat. So let me offer you a little advice. Perhaps if you removed the winter coat and camouflage bib your body temp might drop 20 degrees or so. Just a suggestion. Of course I'm no expert but...

No, I'm not drunk. I always stand out in the rain smoking a cigar... 

Billy Barue former WWF superstar?

It’s not personal. It’s life.

Some people hide behind words because they are cowering little shadows in the light of the day, in light of what they are, in light of what they want to be—bent over a dream and taking it hard from reality. They live in corners of their parent’s basement, stroking IT (EGO to Id mayday) and when they peak at other’s WORDS, and there are no fireworks for them, no girlfriends amongst the mildew, only their calloused hands to Internet love, frustration causes them to lash out from behind thick layers of poorly chosen words; somewhere over the border, where it is safe to be young and naive. You don’t have the time. Tic. Tock. Cut me open and see the rings of words that go back until I was a seedling, the drought years, the years of heavy rain, the scars that cut through to the core of my dusty soul.

I remove my EGO and stand bare in front of my words, my modifier dangling for all to see. There is nothing behind my words that I don’t place in front of my words. Nothing up my sleeve, nothing in my hands but you watch closely and abra fucking cadabra I pull it out and you wonder from where. Scratch your hater head and I laugh at the hollow sound that indicates the absence of anything worth spitting on. Come close and I will let you in on a little secret…that’s it…a little closer…you are nothing to me. Now go, grow, prove that there are walls outside your basement bedroom. I don’t hate you. There’s nothing there yet to hate…please make me hate you someday.

*To all my blogging clique you showed me much Internet Love (Copyright Superbadass 2005) and Kerouaced is an elephant that never forgets.

Check out my little buddy Cuke. http://coolasacucumber.blogspot.com/ She needs the Internet Love because sometimes the world shows its big yellow teeth and threatens to swallow you. She's got words...

Luch in Iraq 2005 - Guard Duty

Uh, what exactly are you guarding way out there? Tumbleweeds? And for God's sake stop rubbing your rifle and saying, "Oh, Billy Barue."

Used toupees for sale - the whole scary story

My friends know I’m the kind of guy that would give them the toupee off my head if they suddenly found themselves without hair, had a cold scalp or needed a spare coaster to set their beer on…not that I wear a toupee but you get the point. You don’t? Well let me explain.

One fine fucking Sunday morning I threw my duffel bag in my Cherokee and made for my gym for a late morning workout. I prefer Sundays at the gym because the hipster, latte sucking BMW drones are safely out of town visiting their summer beach houses and rubbing their faces up against the oily newsprint of the Wall Street Journal. Only the hardcore gym junkies forsake Jesus and vacation and make the pilgrimage to the only place in which they worship, a place where they can gaze into the primordial sweat that pools in the low sagging parts of the floor and see the ugly fading flesh of their once youthful faces staring back at them. No one really defies age. We all lose to that cocksucker named time, who is holding us up in the air by our jock straps and mocking us.

The gym business isn’t a pretty one no matter how much pastel paint you cover it with nor how many juice bars you try to bury it under. You can line the walls with posters of spandex clad beauties and change the mirrors to funhouse mirrors so the slobs will look at themselves and see long lean impressions and believe that the box of Twinkies they pound on a daily basis is A-O-Fucking-Kay but the ugliness runs much deeper, runs like a swift moving stream of puss to the doorstep of every business’s whoremaster--THE BOTTOM LINE--and in the gym it pimps out its stair steppers and cast iron dumbbells to anyone that will drop a cold hard dime in its calloused palm.

* * *

So, I made my way into the gym that Sunday morning and parked under a massive oak tree so the birds didn’t have to exert too much effort when shitting on my freshly washed vehicle.

Inside the dimly lit gym there was a small but dedicated group of odd balls working out on a variety of machines. It was good to see that not only the “perfect” people liked to test the tensile strength of their abdominal walls and grind their joints into arthritic knobs.

“Hey, what’s up?” the guy behind the desk said.

This guy was all neck and about one pineapple short of a full smoothie bar. He was the type that gnaws on rusty chains and farts out ten penny nails as a hobby. I’m sure the zits as big as acorns on his shoulders were just left over teenage acne they couldn’t have been a result of a pharmaceutically enhanced physique. Or am I just being naive?

“Right,” I said and made a B-line for the locker room. Talk about protein drinks and tanning booths, the outreaching limits of his conversational repertoire, tended to put me in a fitness coma.

In the locker room I threw on my gym shorts and T-shirt in record time, thirty-two seconds to be exact. I know because I timed it with my stop watch. You see I always spend minimal time in the locker room because there’s a certain element that lingers there and feels that there’s no need to wear a towel to cover up their nudity. I’m no prude but when I’m sitting on a bench tying my shoe I really don’t fucking appreciate your dick swinging in front of my fucking face as you walk by on your way to the showers. Get it? Got it? Good.

After a quick warm up on the treadmill I headed over to the free weights and began doing curls while checking out the ass of the aerobics instructor that was giving a class across the gym. As my luck would have it she did a full spin and caught me staring. I smiled. What else could I do? She gave me the finger.

“I thought you were someone’s ass that I knew,” I said, setting down my barbell. “Bitch,” I said under my breath.

I turned towards the cardiovascular equipment when I heard a strange raspy breathing. My first instincts told me that it was some wild beast that had stowed away in the air-conditioning ducts during the night and had just managed to remove the last of the screws in the vent cover and was now running madly about, blood and saliva spilling from its long yellow fangs.

I was wrong.

On one of the treadmills I noticed a guy that was about fifty-five laboring like he was carrying a fully stocked mini-bar and two top heavy pole dancers on his back. His skin was the shade of a pickled cow’s tongue and his lips—Mic Jaggeresque--looked like they’d been wrapped around a bottle Yoohoo since birth but the thing that stood out most about him was not something mother nature had brewed up in her kitchen, no, not this jet black toupee. It was obviously not his natural hair but some strange chemical concoction developed in a laboratory and sewn together in a doll factory. No matter what type of super adhesive held that skinned rat’s ass to his scalp and no matter if it would stay put during the roughest of Tsunamis I knew it was a phony.

I watched in fascination as Mr. Toupee seemed to lose more and more steam and gradually began bending at the waist. I was about to go over and ask him if something was wrong when suddenly his legs folded up, his body crumpled and he flew off the back of the treadmill.

Generally speaking Mr. Toupee should have landed on the thinly carpeted floor behind the treadmill but on this day there was a special bit of padding awaiting his flight and it was in the form of a two-hundred and seventy pound woman clad in full body, rolls hanging, spandex.

“Umph,” Ms. Spandex said as Mr. Toupee knocked her to the ground and then laid across her ample bussoms; she screamed, she bucked, she spun, she whinnied like a quarter horse. “Get off me you pervert,” she cried.

To the untrained eye it looked as if Mr. Hairpiece was trying to ride Ms. Stretchpants like some sort of pie eyed pervert but I knew better for I’d witnessed the debacle from the onset.

“He’s got a hard on,” Ms. Stretchpants yelled.

With a mighty heave Ms. Stretchpants kicked Mr. Hairpiece off and his gigantic hard on was exposed…of course to the trained eye it looked a Hell of a lot more like a Walkman than a penis but what the Hell do I know? I only own one so my experience is limited but I know I can’t play a cassette tape on mine and stick a headphone jack in the end isn’t something I’d advise.

“I just got attacked by a dead guy,” Ms. Stretchpants cried. Her eyes shot out like helium filled golf balls and she began kicking Mr. Hairpiece in the side and the leg.

“Whoa, stop it,” I said coming up to Mr. Hairpieces defense. “He’s not moving.”

I set my gym back down and felt Mr. Toupees neck for a pulse. Nothing. Suddenly Mr. Hairpiece shot up and bucked and churned. His hairpiece came dislodged and flew through the air like a hairy Frisbee. Then he fell limp again in my arms.

“Someone call an ambulance,” I yelled. “I think this guy just had a heart attack.”

Mr. IQ at the front desk began rapidly dialing the phone. A semi-circle of the few gym members in attendance that day formed around me.

“We need to do CPR,” I cried.

Ms. Stretchpants took a step back. “He violated me,” she said, crossing her arms over her breasts as if protecting them from a giant nursing baby.

“He was out cold,” I said.

“I’ll help,” Mr. IQ said.

Thank God that dim bastard come over when he did. I wasn’t about to look lips with this guy even to save his life and besides they were so big I didn’t know if I could properly seal them anyway. Mr. IQ pulled out one of those respirator type pumps, placed it over Mr. Hairpiece’s mouth and pumped it twice. I preformed the proper chest pumping and we were in business.

When the ambulance arrived Mr. Hairpiece was semi-conscious and breathing on his own again. I later heard he died on the way to the hospital. Rumor has it he was grasping for his hairpiece.

Ms. Stretchpants tried to file a police report against Mr. Hairpiece but I intervened and made it out like she attacked him on the treadmill and gave him a heart attack. She backed down.

When I got home I dropped my duffel bag on the floor and flopped on the couch emotionally drained. I opened a beer and turned on the television when out of the corner of my eye I saw my Chihuahua Flea batting something black around on the floor. My first reaction was that it was a varmint of some sort, possibly a mole. I grabbed a Golf Digest off the coffee table and made to splatter the little beast but then I realized what it was that Flea was batting around. It was Mr. Hairpiece’s toupee. It must have landed in my gym bag and Flea had rooted it out.

“Get back,” I cried.

I got the fireplace poker and picked the toupee up with it. It was more hideous than I’d imagined but after some time alone with the little fella I became somewhat used to it and even managed to hold it in my hand. I petted it like an alley cat.

“Nice hairpiece,” I said.

I put the hairpiece on my Chihuahua Flea but it made him look too much like Hitler. I spread it out on my coffee table and set my beer on it but out of the corner of my eye I kept thinking I saw a tarantula. My other Chihuahua Uma and I played fetch with it for a while but it caused her to hack terribly so we stopped that game. Eventually I put it on the Beethoven bust on my mantle and it sits there to this day and every time I look up at it I think of Moe of the Three Stooges.

Living life in a slow Hell

You will find yourself with a mouthful of tongue, her hips grinding against your crotch and the de ja vu will hit you like a steel plated backhand. Same theme club a few months earlier, ditto on the tall and blond, minus the tattoos and you--much more passionately--mugging down this time. You will notice two of the same tube top bartenders and they will gaze at you with tabloid eyes. Snap. In the moment you will be THAT GUY. You will always be THAT GUY.

No one will want to get to know you. One drunken fuck up and you’re out.

I thought you were funnier she will say and you will reply that you can’t always be ON all the time, that you’re not Robin Williams except on paper and then only sometimes. So you drink more to be ON more and soon you are ON less and less.

You will call and the phone will grow cold; icicles on the antenna. Reality will mesh with fantasy. They will confuse you for who they want you to be, the guy in the words, your words, the persons you create. The God you always wanted to be. You really will start wearing Burmese Jungle boots and you will brawl and you will drink so that you can live up to a someone that was never even born, their someone, the one with words for eyes.

You will come to find yourself wandering amongst these words; lost. You will reach out and they will stomp your fingers and watch you slide off the edge of a paragraph down into the open pages of a dictionary. More and more you will identify with the words; flesh melding with ink. Soon you will be nothing but words and a sneer.

You will most definitely come to know that you will die but it’s something you’ve been putting off because you’re not sure if you’re alive anymore. You pinch yourself to make sure you’re still there and what you grab will feel like the pages of a book and you will get your first tattoo and it will be your name and a sentiment like: to my biggest fan. The tattoo will look just like what you would sign on a dust jacket at a book signing…and you won't know who or what you are anymore.

Fueling up on cocaine and whiskey

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This is not a bad hair day. This is a bad hair lifestyle. You don't just wake up one day with a horrible fro like this. Why did he kill that actress? Did she get tangled in that mess and then the gun just went off? That would be my guess and a damn good defense to boot. 

I don’t belong here

To understand the writer, you must become the writer and I don’t mean turning into someone that just willy nilly drops words down on a page, dons a smoking jacket and yaks about Joyce in a fake Cockney accent. Those aren’t writers, they are actors; the cocksuckers that think it’s romantic to be on the outside looking in. The ones that want to think their words matter in a world that imbibes the inane like some sort of orgasmic elixir. The writer knows that his words don’t matter that every day is a hellish struggle to get people to notice, to prove to himself and others that his life isn’t a huge fucking waste, that when he looks up through the grating and watches everyone above walking passed that the small guttural cries that are emitted by his words are worthy of just one of those passersby looking down even if in the end it was only to spit.

To be born with the soul of a writer is to be born flawed, to suffer a paper version of hell with REJECTION stamped in big red letters all over it. To realize that in all likelihood life will pass you the fuck by and you will give your best years to the bottle or whatever vice steers you clear of the edge. Just one step too close and your footing gives and before you know it you are lying on top of Hemingway and Poe and Thompson, their pens sticking through your vitals, their ink mixing with the last of your blood.

The writer searches for love through his words and this is of course foolish but inevitable in his evolution. No one will love him for his words; this much the writer will find to be true. The contrary is so. They will poke him with sharp sticks through the bars and jeer and brand him an outsider with a hot coat hanger and then they will drift away. At first relief will wash over the writer but then he will realize with no one to read his words that he doesn’t exist; only his empty cage will remain.

Perhaps there is one saving grace for the writer but I hesitate to mention it for it is an unlikely scenario and hope should not be spent entirely on it. I speak of a muse; a woman with LOVE tattoed on the small of her back. Between her long red flint nails she will hold the key that unlocks the desolate cage in which he exists but it is a sketchy proposition to trust all hope on one person, for after all you, the writer, are made of words and words are highly flammable and with one click of her flint red nails you will go up in flames and burn burn burn. .

Writers are all lost but we know exactly where we’re going. From the moment we are born we are all on the fast track to dying but for those that search for the words to explain this downwardly spiraling journey there is much more to life even if, in the end, it is all in our minds. I am running. I am tripping. Watch me fall…

FDA Probes Reports of Blindness With Impotence Drugs
Most Incidents Involve Viagra; Some Reported With Cialis

Evidently beating off won't make you go blind but taking these little blue beauties just might. What do you think? Is it worth it? Yeah, it probably is...read it here: VIAGRA

Nor sought in your embrace the answer to my plight but looked only with envy at the ham sandwich sitting on your ivory white shoulder. Do you mind? I asked, licking the mustard off your earlobe.

Gargoyle Eyes

You stood me up; leaning against the wall outside your front door like a garden rake with a barbed wire bouquet digging into my bleeding palm. You looked through the peep hole with your gargoyle eyes once at midnight to see if I was still propped properly, wanting me to fold up my soul like a lawn chair, tuck my paper thin heart in my billfold like a losing lottery ticket and make for the horizon where the stars in their yellow nighttime underpants where licking the foam off the Guinness sky. I’m here. I’m still here, I cried but still you didn’t come and so I left. And you know as I drive along this highway and look through the hole rusted in the floor of my Oldsmobile I see your gargoyle eyes staring up at me. I think about reaching down, risking my digits to touch your stone cold stare but suddenly the reason I’d lost floats up in my cup of coffee and I drink it in. Bitch, I say and pour the rest of my coffee down the rusted out hole. I look in the rearview mirror as your stare rises up into the steam cloud that forms in the cold blue morning sky over the lonely highway. I drive all day and all the next night not for any reason other than I want to get away from you. I ain’t ever coming back gargoyle eyes. You only get to stand me up once. Sweet stony dreams my love.

Luch In Iraq.

"Sir, I think those cases of Coors Light are about two clicks to the north. "
"Good work private. With enough Coors Light and God willing we'll win this war."

See Ya

You of course do understand why I shut the door, barred it with a railroad tie, propped a Buick up against it, and stacked cases of TNT at the base. Is it really that hard to figure out? No, I won’t be lying on the other side. I’m not your doormat. I know you’ll be lying on your side; it of course is your nature. There will be moments of doubt as I’m cruising down that highway mad on animal tranquilizers and lust. I will look in the rearview mirror and claw at the vinyl, I will ooze down between the seats and come up with a rattlesnake in my teeth but I ain’t ever coming back to open that door. So babe, the last time, was really the last time. Stick your tongue in the keyhole I dropped some acid in there, that’s the last trip you’ll take on my dime…