The winter arrives fasionably late

finally the snow is here
finally the bright darkness of winter
finally the clouds silence the nagging dawn

finally the bears can dream
finally the fertility succumbs to freeze
finally the tepid sunshine is quarantined


finally the dying are dead
finally the ice protects the darkened depths
finally the rough paths are smoothed with danger

Shape shifters & the nitrogen cycle

Drink a lot of little water & you’ll see farther than you’ve ever seen. Focus on the furry animals that don’t exist. They are sentient, self aware, lovable and dangerous. Their dark coats tinged with the white of wisdom & the grey of suffering. Pet them & see if you can sense whether they’re purring or growling. You’ll soon find out. You’ll be food at the bottom or feasting from the top. Fuck the food chain you’ve cast off your familiar shackles. You’re gonna shift shapes either way. Once they bite they can taste your essence. They drink the familiar & devour the food. You get licked & sucked & brought to life or chewed & swallowed & reincarnated as whatever the shit you are might instill into life. It all depends on whether you’re riding your bike with the karmic wheels sailing off the ramp or if you’re just riding the nitrogen cycle & never leaving the dirt.

Reptiles don't need knives to be born

Hi there, fresh & clean outta the hot shower. Comin' atchya live from SheBaltimore, SheBoogie, SheVegas, SheBoomBoomBoomBoom. Just sitting here wondering about my relationship with the illusion of the universe. Didn't ask to exist but indeed I do I'm screwed. Hangin' by a thread from a spider-web, trapped & trying to avoid getting spun up, poisoned, paralyzed & sucked dry. Feel free to be fucked. Freewill? If it existed she would've taken the pill instead of spilling me out of her crotch using my first breath to scream, smelling the stench, getting my first glimpse of the sharp knives of life as the scalpel cut the cord. Life as a reptilian psuedo-mammal sucks from the get-go. I would have been much better suited to the external egg instead of the living incubator. It's actually easier nestled in the nest, warm within a cold hard shell; then it is to be sloshed around in the womb as she walks around and talks and gets fucked.

Single guys & dolls

This is something I wrote for a think-tank that I belonged to. It's my thoughts on a single female friend of a friend, and the single life in general, & single chicks in general.

Certain chicks & the dicks they love.. I can't resist stickin' my spoon into that thick bowl o'chowder.  It's interesting how women & men respond differently to the scent of desperation.  To men it smells like steaks on the grill, to women it smells like rotting hamburger.  Here’s my take on that.  Women tend to view themselves with inappropriately low self-esteem, & therefore think that any guy who comes on to “someone like me” must have something wrong with him.  Men, on the other hand, tend to have an inflated sense of self-esteem.  That leads them to be attracted to any woman that somehow “really gets how awesome I am”.

This setup works very well for predatory men, & of course, not so well for desperate women.  In the case of _____’s friend, it sounds like she’s also into superficialities, which makes her particularly vulnerable to douche-bag dudes, most of whom make sure to present themselves as GQ as possible.  [And no, I’m not just saying that because I possess, shall we say, “non-traditional good looks”. Lot’s of guys who have nice clothes, and don’t have beer-buddhas, are great people.]

There is one explanation as to why her friend has had nothing more than a string of bad relationships that no one has mentioned yet: it’s possible that she’s just lame.  As a “good guy” who’s single, let me tell you: if you think Nickelback rocks & Dane Cook is funny, there’s no way in hell I’m getting into a serious relationship with you.  There are legions of single women out there that have horrible tastes in everything & no real hobbies or interests.  Of course, there are plenty of guys out there who fit that description as well.  They’re pretty much the same type of playa’s your friend’s been fucking.

Trust? (The Gorton's Fisherman)

“When you’re alone & life is making you lonely you can always go..Downtown.” – Petula Clark

Everyone likes to forget all their troubles & forget all their cares, & since I’m one of everyone (kinda sorta), I decided to take a trip down the rabbit hole.  I’m sorry, did I say “down the rabbit hole”? I meant “downtown”.  Of course, the bus stops service up the street ‘round six to nine evenin’, ‘en so?  Since it’s currently ‘bout four-twenty mornin’, I’m gonna need a special tokin’.  Good thing I’ve got one left then, idn’it?

She’s a cold one out there, so I put on my pooka-skin babushka & headed out for the wormhole.  I’m sorry, did I say “wormhole”? I meant “bus stop”.  Caught route 2.2 right on time.  Took my place with the troublemakers at the back of the bus.

Gotta love the bumpy ride and the surrealistic view out the big windows. I feel like a god with no control, looking at the creation of what I’ve created. My stomach is sickened and my prostrate is stimulated.  If I had three hands, I’d stick one finger down my throat & another up my ass, while I toss a load in my puke.  I feel alive.  I’m sorry, did I just say that?

“In the fullness of another world, there is no emptiness.” – Blue Oyster Cult

As the bus dissipates upon arrival, I stand alone in the dreamscape.  You know how that goes: everything isn’t like anything, but it’s all the same, just different.  It was there that I recognized the man in the rain-slicked yellow coat: the motherfucking Gorton’s fisherman.  My newfound friends warned me about him, but since I’m growing my winter beard, I thought we could all just get along.  I was wrong.

“Hey man, in what kinda choppy waters do you catch minced fish?”, I say. At the mere mention of minced fish, his eyes rose & glared into mine, glowing the hellish emptiness of a hollow soul.  He cold-cloca’d me in the kung-fu parking lot.  He dragged me into the alley behind Sly’s Midtown Saloon & attempted to sodomize me.  Science be praised for the lakeside chill that snapped me out of my violent slumber.  It was then that I saw the horror, with the echoes of friendly warnings echoing in my throbbing skull.

He wore nothing under the raincoat, which he spread open before me like an angry god parts an ocean.  I aimed my stunned gaze at an ocean of ice-cold hairy wrath.  His beard was replicated on his chest, squirming nipples stuck out, waving & squirming like milky worms.  His beard was replicated once again upon his groin, gross genitalia writhing out at me with an air of angry arousal, an uncircumcised cock of uncut calamari, with a beak-like helmet oozing the black ink of joyless insatiable satyriasis.

“The horror, the horror.” - Colonel Kurtz

“I fall off the edge of my mind.” – Britney Spears.

To be continued..

Guess I'm doin' fine

Well, I'm listening to Beck's "Sea Change" album, so obviously I'm a bit depressed. I've never been diagnosed with depression as a mental illness, but I know that when I look at the list of the symptoms, I think: "Isn't that life?" If you want to know whether or not Dr. Connor has diagnosed you with the official mental blues, listen to this album. If you "get it", you're depressed.

So, what is this? Some depressing blog about depression? Well, I fancy myself a writer, & I feel like writing, so in theory what I write should be good. It's my favorite time of the 24 hour circadian cycle: the wee hours after bar close & before bar opening. I'm sitting here sipping little water & fizzy water through a straw. At my computer, at home literally & figuratively. It's dark in here, but it's never dark enough for me. I don't envy the blind, but I wouldn't mind borrowing the blindness when it comes time for sleepy-sleeps. Mmmm.. sleepy sleeps. To me, heaven is an infinite bed, the comfiest bed ever, massaging mattress, sheets that caress, blankets that snuggle, perfect pillows, in the darkest of rooms, with the soothing whir of white noise, and a clock that only shows its face to show that I have eternity before an alarm never goes off. Love sleeps beside me, always there for a warm snuggle or sweet orgasmic release to send me back to sleepy sleeps, and plenty of pleasant dreams. Can I go to heaven now?

The best part of waking up is knowing that someday I won't. I don't wanna do this anymore, & by "this" I mean breathe. Now, don't get your britches in a bundle. Seriously, don't, it's uncomfortable. That's what woke me up at this time early yesterday morning, after I went to bed early like a good boy. Oh well, "early to bed, early to rise..?" I don't give a flying fuck if I'm healthy, wealthy, or wise. Color me dead, broke, & stupid & see if I give a fuck. But I'll do you a favor & end this on a positive note: the album is almost over & I think I'm gonna pass out. Pity I can't segue that into a coma, but such is life: if you're gonna be alive, you gotta live it. meh

Dream 10/21/11 AM
The dream starts out hilariously, sort of, but not, really. I’m at Kiwanis Park in Sheboygan, watching the 2011 World Series: the shittiest World Series to date. I sure as fuck don’t want the Cardinals to win. They got here solely on the failures of other teams; not on their own successes. And I’ll be butt-fucked by a beagle before I root alongside the Bush family for the fucking Tex-ass Rangers. But I do want the Cardinals to lose, so of course, in my dream they are winning.
The baseball game is over, and now there is an NFL game going on. It’s not the Packers, not that I could care any less about a football game, but a friend is telling me how awesome it is to be up front where we are, so I roll with it. I’m always up for a unique experience.

The football game ends without much excitement for me. But my friend (faceless) tells me that something special is happening: a rare post-game ritual in which everyone plays a game. The crowd splits, and someone runs down the middle. No one has tried yet, so I try to jump out & tackle him. I miss. I think to myself that I should have done what you do when you shoot a rifle at a moving target: aim for where he will be when you pull the trigger, not at him. Oh well, my shot at glory is denied, but it’s not my scene, so I don’t give a fuck. The crowd disperses & I attempt the somewhat difficult climb up the steep waves of grass (Sheboyganites know what I’m talking about here). As it turns out, I am drunk, so it is extra difficult. I think about possibly trying to get into shape going up & down these hills (in real life, I am out of shape). I think about going home to my parents’ house, which is not far away. Then I realize that not only am I drunk, but I don’t live there. So I decide to go home, which in my dreams is never my current home of over 10 years, but my beloved apt. downtown, where I spent most of my wild 20s.

Now I have a companion. A fair skinned Hispanic girl, wavy black hair, slender, in a black dress; faceless, yet beautiful. I know her, but in my dream-confusion, I don’t know how. As we make our way on a short-cut through the woods, the slope is steep & the vegetation is surreal. At the bottom of this great fictional hill, we come across a brick wall; on the other side is an urban landscape. As we go through a chain-link fenced opening, magnetism strikes & we kiss. She pulls away & does not want to explain why she is obviously denying her own desires. As we walk, a limo pulls up. It is her father, an old-school Mexican gangster. She is afraid; I am confident, but also a bit afraid.

We drive and he starts to grill me about who I am & what my intentions are. The next thing I know, I have a gun to my head. He is unhinged & distraught. Tears are in his eyes, as if he is inside himself, fighting himself, not agreeing with his actions & perhaps even more nervous than I am. I’m still confident because my intentions are pure & I am a good man. He asks me to tell him about myself, & as is often the case in dreams, I struggle to remember reality. As I tell him about my current status as a student & intern, including the many accomplishments that I have made in those roles, he is unimpressed. I remember my years at the factory, thinking that perhaps this would be more likely to impress him. I tell him that I worked hard & held a job for 15 years & he screams “YOU LIE!” “Now I know you’re lying: you are too young!” He has tears running down his cheeks. The gun is pressed harder against my temple, but I don’t think he wants to pull the trigger. Deep down, he wants to accept me. Again I scramble to remember reality, and then it occurs to me that I am indeed 40 years old, & I tell him as such.

Now I am seemingly in Mexico, but I’m not really me anymore. I am a Mexican man. The dream-mode has switched to one where I am alternately seeing the action from the view of someone & watching things as if I were watching a movie. I’m in some sort of movie theater. They brought me here to possibly kill or torture me, so I violently escape. A chase ensues. My pursuers are both Latino & white. They are your average movie flunkies. I spot a potential hiding space under a stairwell, and then behind a flimsy wooden wall of sorts. They look under there, almost leave, then one of the gringos looks again. It is your usual movie thing where it seems like he’s gonna think to look behind the wooden “wall”, but he checks somewhere else. I have escaped.

Now I am me again, in the same dream, but in a different role. I’m still in Mexico, on clandestine business. I’m watching some bizarre live show, starring Andy Samberg from SNL, but I don’t think he’s who he is in reality in my dream. After this elaborate Broadway musical-type show, he is now with me & the members of a cartel, trying to sell one of the black costumes from the show to them. It is not a good one. One of the gloves is torn & pieces of material are missing. As the gangsters point this out, he foolishly & ignorantly states that he didn’t think that it would matter to Mexicans. They strap him to a wall, & proceed to use things such as a set of needle-nose pliers to make his body conform to the flaws in the defective costume. He screams in agony. I don’t care. What an idiot. At this point, I wonder why any gringos, me included, would come down here to do business in the underworld of a foreign land.

Now I am watching things as if I were watching a movie. It is a grand celebration, a party for no reason: my favorite kind of party. I am there, but I am not there. I have a drink, as does everyone else, elaborate drinks, drinks within drinks, fruity & strong & filled with candied fruits. The leader exclaims “no wonder people escape us, we love to celebrate!” Everyone hails in agreement. Then the mood is broken. A massive bald-headed wide-eyed Negroid Zombie Eunuch makes his way through the crowd, announcing the coming of a higher authority, silencing the crowd, ending the festivities. Then my phone awakens me. My girlfriend has texted me: “Nightmare yuck”.