Visions of June (Where are we now--Parte tres)

Things were quiet these days and in the lobby of the small town therapists office I could feel that quiet completely wrap around me. Normally it is unsettling; the quiet is something to be broken. In the quiet I could see just how little of me, of June, their is left.

But today in the warmth of Jeff's office it was just comforting. A new sensation that I was not accustomed to feeling when silence held up its mirror. The last few weeks had been a tight rope walk over an alligator pit and so I slept much of the time. The candle on the dresser was down to just a nub of wax with the buried wick. My usual response letting everyone else deal with, fix and appease. The night when I lost myself and allowed Sam to walk through my door changed everything. She was something I could control only letting her in when I needed a release, when the nights grew longer, the words wouldn’t come and staring at the blank page left me with such frustration that a call for help to Sam always let the juices flow. She was what I always imagined I would be, I was so envious of her, she was beautiful, feminine and seductive with a brass set of balls. But on that night, she changed something in me and I lost control. So now I sat here listening to that familiar music Jeff always plays waiting and debating whether I should tell him. Not sure I have fully admitted it to myself yet, so how could I come clean to him, to anyone.

Jeff’s office always felt comforting; It was the warm embrace of an old friend. The low hum of Bob Dylan filled the antique decorated, oriental rug waiting room, with bits and pieces of it revealing little clues about the doc. His taste in music tipping his hand to hippie college days, no doubt pot smoking and philosophy talking. And the taste for old and expensive showed the educated man he had become, enjoying the fruits of his pricey education and PhD. All of this I took in, twisting it around and turning it over to form a complete and intimate picture of the man that sat across from me every week picking and pulling at my insides, gently though, always gently.

Sometimes sessions with Jeff were less satisfying than others, but there were times when they felt deeply satisfying like a soft game of cat and mouse, foreplay with words. His consistent boundaries lit up around himself. I could see through the barbed wire and every now and then caught him off guard, not standing erect at his post, that fence would drop, and a soft smile would cross his face. I was good at that better than most. Good at picking up those very subtle subconscious queues from people. The small smile that slips out at inappropriate times, or the insecurity that shows in someone’s eyes when they are unsure of themselves. Maybe it is the tone of your voice or the way you play with your ring toying it between your fingers when you are nervous, what ever it is I notice and this makes me very good at seeing people, really seeing people. It also makes me lonely. Today in his waiting room I know that Jason is the only one that really sees me and even he only sees bits and pieces putting me back together like a jigsaw puzzle in his mind.

the short thought continued:

today,
as I grow older,
i find myself holding a golden bow and arrow.
With this I contemplate all things possible threw weapons.
A few slides of my wrist
and twists of my fingers;
pyramid scheme type wordplay,
and random,inconclusive pointing in all directions...
the question had to arise:
is his mind now a star?
Still armed,
I pray that it isn't,
but then again
what do we control in our lives?
besides dissilusional visions of
these
our haunted minds.
miles from the woman who birthed us
with no concept of time
I bask in the awkwardness of tonight,
ripe with denial.

Fission

rebels in the rain

chapter 2: show time

hometown heros

Rufe-snow smelt like gasoline,which always tickled the arsonist in me. The aroma hung on the whole city really,from the trains or exporting companys littered in and out of the city. My house was three blocks from a cemetery and the church my father was the minister at as well. But the story isn’t about me,,or anyone person in fact. It’s a renissance of drug use and alchohaul abuse,mental and verbal inflictions on dear colleagues and peers.Its the savagery of rome during the reign of nero mixed in with the introduction of penacilan into an emergency ward in the early 1900s. Richland High,which has since moved(?) is in north richland hills,texas.a small suburb for the working class republican. Recession proof and stocked with ignorance,it was acultural melting pot for the geneticalially anemic.The choices around town are bowling alleys,going to church,parks(until 11) and gas stations(ha how fucking lame is that?people really hung out at gas stations).Then there was option four,introduced to me by a few of my friends and often rumored as the pass time of the older folks,PARTYS. Now not just partys,bashs to be exact. Go all night,tap the keg,pop a bottle of codene,smoke your brain out,steall 5000 dollars,bash girls heads into the cement,bash mens heads threw doors,make napalm,custom plays,get arrested,what ever sounded fun that day,but this was all before senior year.Kiddie stuff. And then that magical year rolled around;the year that made men out of idiots,that started a revolution,that to this day makes no sense.

There were segregated groups around the halls of richland,for whatever reason. The FJOA was my gang,scrawny and good hearted,we were a band of scotch Irishmen with a taste for ales and bud,we often partied alone with are wenchs,and were the most organized and rich with traditon. Our quote unquote rivals,aka comrades in crime,were the Richland G’s.Almost a mirror image of our group but just with a keener since for drugs and a rougher edge that led to a few people getting bones broken. Underneath us,in younger grades,were protégés from each side,,which spawned several copy cat groups which fail to make my memory. There were packs of women like wolves and several packs of wolves tramped from our group to theres. Sibiling rivaly for brothers at different edges of the sword. But in the end,each side stood up for the other,wether in law enforcement or school officals,everyone was on point and in que with surrounding s and a vast network of communicating heads that circled information around school faster then wild fires. I remember disposeing of a bong before the drug dogs even got to school because of different people we knew and would literally just tell us when where and what was going down,and who was the targets.(it literally was the Nixon administration threw school)Not to say a few comrades didn’t fall,but on the all in all,there were stout numbers of success. I would dare to say in high school 75% of my friends sold drugs and 22% of the rest of my friends took drugs so there was a constant networking of that as well.One kid in particular would come to school with xanyx in the seem of his shirt and were ready to pop right out and sell.The first time I ever took pills was at school and I kept tried to desperately to keep a journal but half way threw my first class my writing became eneligable and more or less a breakfast wish list. We were all a mess,and spent every night of the week more fucked up then the rest,our breaks were on Sunday for blunts in the park,and everyone just passed out after that or had work. Simple times across Tarrant county those opening days to life.

I had at one time been the prototypical pastor boy,good hearted clean shaven with no taste for mischeif,outside of breaking and entering. Never to steal anything,just to be byself for a second. I had met all these gentlemen,or the janitor crew,in early 2003 while at a pep rally for the high school. We had it all,the valadictorian,the quarterback,the baseball god to the insanely athletic kid who fancied him self a ninja. The soccer-poet-heroin addict,and the biggest/loudest kid in school. The thesbian guitar ace,and his counterpart who tried to be on the same wave lenghth;the big redneck with a mouth full of dip,and the creepiest kid ive ever met. The black cloud starring as the chong of the group;and our beloved cheech who has sense passed on to roll doobies with the big dude. I never had a nitche though,no desernable feature...no art,no music no theatre. No anything really except attempting to be funny and as grungy as the health board allowed. I rounded the group out,I thought,may as well be the smalls charecter from sandlot.

So many stories come to mind...driving around downtown ftworth,wine drunk at 4am,trying to find a good place to break out the seeds and stems. So many fights,and less memorable nights,with dirty whores and packs of ciggarettes that crippled us for life. Inadvertent drug use due to the juggalos down the street,luckily no babies at least.ALl the while I cant help but think,these were the days where I truly had a family. I have my real one,but there is no loyalty there. My parents would send me down the river due to their convictions and belifs,due to laws and regulations. Rules and restrictions. Itd take a lie detector test,or a couple drinks,to get what youd like from we. No galavanting around the corpse,no beating around the bush;cold hard facts,that yes,this is infact more than a brotherhood. A cosmic connections of irregulated forces all hell bent on earth domination and advancement.

people are whom you make them be,if ive learned anything,the only real way to live is to be free.free of form and labels, and the stable sense of things. Though as these days are gone,we all press on,and will be reunited some day. away from the boundries of govermental or religous law,sharing jokes in the outdoors..

Future Janitors Of America

The Dragon (occidental)

The Dragon (occidental)

Behind the thick blue-green light
The white blue-green light,
In front of the window
Build in the seams,
sown up tight in the corners
On the red-yellow gold of glass stained into the window
Where the sun peered in coldly
Was the image of the devil,
The devil as a dragon
But that dragon as a star
And that star in the sky
But a sky not just dark night
Crowned and crowded
With blank starlight
But a sky of heaven.
The star all heavy and falling down the
Lead paint stain of red down the front
Of the cracked window
A star failing in orbit
Ruined but not exploded and wasted from age
But simply faded…
All away.

I took the fire from heaven
Back from where it had departed.
I took the fire from heaven
And carried down
Down the mountain side
Like Moses
But more Maimonides,
It was a heavy load.

In the last suicidal moments in the desperate day
I moved with the monster-fiends
Too long,
I danced with them too long
With the sharp knife legs
And growling bony bony skin.
I stayed too long,
And singed my flesh
And scorched my limbs
And broke my bones
And bruised my hands.

I carried down the fire
Back out of heaven
And illuminated
The sky.

reading: new york buried in crushed snow

                    new york buried in crushed snow

       snow gets dirty so fast

        someone is coughing

                 in the next room

    interrupting this poem.

        Snow is falling outside - and already

in my previous crumping footsteps

        shows - a certain pattern 

                   of spots of brown - shit,

    i've trodden on it,

                    borne upon my airy clouds

 that to me seem hard slow and compressible_but

         to the inhabitants below, an endless crystal dream

 imagine if our sky

                   was suddenly covered , the planet encased

      like a Christmas ball turning the lights

             of the solar system all prism

          as it hung , glorious.

               Imagine if someone stepped on it! New York,

                            buried in crushed snow.

Peter Greene 2010.

Worlds Apart

I fucked your daughter,
General,
on a tiger skin rug!
She moaned like a lion off the barricks of a south indian ocean
as the Blue whales hummed and we conceived two daughters of our own.
We laid down and watched the port hole sway as the clone waves shook our hull;
and as night fell,we traced galaxys in circles around our open mouths,
legs
and doors.
could we be anymore in love?
or is this anguish for now,
Darling...
we are worlds apart.

that wasnt me there, that was you

enough of tough and sensitive hipster zitstained crunchy headed hug-a-lugs
where we wind up cracked on storys-deep sidewalk thoroughfares,
or flattened on carkey funeral store pilings of what used to be broad harbors for freight,
or smashed on wintergreen memories and seroquel nightmares—
—the kind you cant sleep through—

i drove home the regular way today
past the brokedown dollar store,
the overloaded gas station mob front—
—where driving across the railroad tracks into the ghettofabulous humdrum of decay earns the suited thugs twenty cents more a gallon, courtesy of your dumb ass—
past the upturned fingers of the courthouse,
the bowling alley slash drive-by motel,
the cliche chic barbecue joint in the village,
past the kids killing time on the way home from high school,
with my window rolled down in the chill,
and the music turned up,
just so someone would notice me for once

you cant and i dont claim to and neither does anyone else ever really want to die,
so we go and throw ourselves headlong into whichever wind might this time blow
cause it’s easier to push sometimes than to be strewn along with everything else—
mindless and heavy-headed, thumping awkward sorry across other people’s backyards with kick-canned sorrow—
for tomorrow,
we might not have the strength,
so it pays to play yourself ahead of the game,
when you can.

just watch out for the intersections

A few poems...

tic-toc


If I could only steal some time, some unquestioned, no explanation time to disappear, WRITE myself straight off the page.

To drink wine and, loose track, smoke and get high
To fuck on dirty mattress's in seedy hotel rooms where no one cares
if you come or go.

to write and drink, and fuck and love and eat Chinese food at 3am,
and puke it all up again.

If only i could shed this skin, peel it away from me and cast it off,
to run and hide
to kiss long and hard and watch him write and go mad and sleep and love

to see me through HIS eyes

if only i could find the time to steal it back again to not wish it away, to stop begging for tomorrow and forget about yesterday

there i would find ME staring back from the lonely place

there...i would just be





YOU

I hope this doesn't seem crazy to you, i don't think it would, i think you, you would understand the scratch, scratch, scratching that goes on inside the prison of my mind

i think you could understand the noise
though my eyes are so tired now and they fight me with every word my brain won't quiet and even the shadows in my room breath tonight

i'm not crazy, no
therapy yes, crazy no, not so much anyway

I do it all i am ordinary walking through the street
I cook, and i clean, i do dance classes and recitals and playgroups and football and college visits and girls scouts and cub scouts, i even do small talk
I knit scarves for my kids and fuck my husband like a porn star
but in the quiet hours, in the silence of the room when the chaos has gone to bed

the scratching and the words these beautiful words that paint pictures with every breath
well, they won't let me sleep and so I thought
I would write you, because you might
Understand






Meditations

in the quiet now
and the soft warmth of false falsehoods the floodlights switch on to illuminate the raw misgivings of a childhood never had

quiet now
this body lay so longing evermore for something to ignite the embers that linger
choked there,
in the ash and nub of yesterdays had, and tomorrows that never come

calloused minds and suffocating to do's that dull me to the very core

acid driven days of illuminated colors,
to touch the hand of God, Allah, Mohamed, Buddha and feel that universal oneness

clouded thoughts that fill my lungs like glue making it impossible to suck the life out of the air
the dulled and deadened that lurk in the days filled with glassy eyed misconceptions
never really see if seen at all

the poet with the wide eyed grin and clit like mind rising with the X-stacy of this fuck...lost to it now in the moment of swirling thought that strokes at my brain as if to bring me full and ready
alert
and
waiting

Titans (from Ch 14 of Mythic Creatures) by Jesse S. Mitchell

Titans (from Ch 14 of Mythic Creatures) by Jesse S. Mitchell

Leah guided me to bed last night and left.  I do not know where she went but none of this is really about her anyway.   So tired, I fell down into the mattress, and faded into the dim light all around me.  I awoke this morning a million little specks of being, not entirely held together. I awoke this morning alone.  I awoke a spirit unfleshed. I am clothed.  I am a bit of everything.  I am an old familiar song.  I am a sound drifting through the floor.  I am a flickering light behind your eye.   A specter gliding through the walls.  My eyes and my ears and my fingers numb and wobbly and barely conscious. My mind lost, completely lost now.  Beset on all sides by madness, a special madness, my madness.  I walk outside and the sun burns bright and high in the sky, like a blazing fire, burning me.  I stare up into the air and watch the fire burn…watch the sun fire burn…hot…hot and dazzling…hot and brilliant.  The clouds, like shadows, gather round and shade the light so provocatively.  Little balls of dust and seeds and leaves and things float by me in the soft breeze.  I cannot be sure as to the solidness of my surroundings.  I feel ethereal.  I feel like an angel. I feel like a ghost.  I feel like a monster.  I am a human being.  I am human but a human…a human smiling at heaven as if he knows it…knows all of its tricks.  I do.  I do know all of the tricks.  The blood ran so red.  The blood ran so free and red so many years ago…the blood…so much blood that now when I think of home all I can think of is red red red…all I can think of is blood, bloody blood.  I look at the sky and let my eyes burn.  I let my eyes be burned by the orb of air consuming fire.  Burn them out.  Burn them right out of my head. Burn them out.  I can still see.  My curse.  I will always see.  I am cursed, you see.  Madness and lucidity.  Quiet.  Quiet. Silent the streets are today.  I look back down at the Earth spinning, revolving below my feet. I can see into the windows of the buildings along the street.
    Breathing this air is like breathing in poison, hot gas, molten iron.  Breathing this air makes me choke.  Like everything is filled with ice, little shards of broken frozen ice, the air cuts me and fills me up like concrete.  The sunlight burns me.  The heat makes me feel coated in drying mud…cracks all over.  Everything surrounds me and pulls in close on me.  Like Yggdrasil surrounds the trunk and gnaws the roots of the tree of life, the serpent waits and constricts around me in all this natural air and glowing red-hot sunlight.  I burn all over…this is a sign of something…it is the way it happens that makes me think this is a sign…a message to me.  I am not meant to live like this.  I step (it feels like a stomp) out onto the street and make my way through the maze of grey-faced building fronts staring at me with their greasy window eyes, frowning their wrought iron doorway warnings at me, standing up so high behind the running human mob.  The castrated Uranus and all the other bloodied titans grimacing at me from behind our movements and bicycle riding passers-by.  I cannot walk through this maze.  I am filled with concrete and steel and wooden legs and bloody lungs and twisting mind and fear from warning and cold things…I am filled and dying.  My feet land hard on the ground as I walk past the shoppers and workers.  My face is twisted up in confusion and pain.  I cannot seem to move quietly any more.  I am loud.  And Heavy. I am loud and heavy.  I ripple when I walk and shake in and out of all this dream or reality or whichever one it is…I am much too heavy and the look of my face draws away the eye.  No one can see me now.  I am much too… No one can eye me out here.  Dare not to speak my name.  Bu I do speak it…over and over in my head…a constant chorus, a refrain, a repeating mantra praying its hot-breathed sighs to a heaven frozen under and over…hard as glass.  I speak my name to myself, all alone in my mind…echoing as I walk…I say it because it soothes me.  I am uncomfortable alone.  I am uncomfortable with others.  I need peace.  So I calm myself as I walk through the monsters and the graveyards of monsters…a grey tomb etched out of the sky looming dark over me…casting shadows I can never hope to see through.  The world surrounds me.  I breathe hard.  Lines and words wrapped around me like a band of leather…like strings and strips wrapped around my arm…like tefillin…all up my arm.  Place before my eyes…in the center…a box of heaven…open it up and let the law scroll out and read back to me the word…line by line…the case against me.  Oh strapped and cut and twirled in string and reeled in, caught in this net…I made this thing I am trapped in, I made it with your eyes…with my hands and your eyes and words words words.
And you shall love the lord your God with all your heart
With all your soul
With all your might.
The little red car that nearly crushed my left foot rushed by so fast…so fast…I was almost knocked flat by the wind.  My hair blew and bounced.  My face felt so tight and dry in the wind.  I walked to the closest window to look at myself but I swear I could not see me…I could almost…almost…catch a glimpse but the light would change and the background noise would ripple the whole scene and distort…just distort…I swear I could not make out my face.  I rolled my feet over the soft rocks, the smooth tiny stones at the edge of buildings.  I stood straight and quiet.  I waited in the open air but nothing happened…so afraid of not moving…cannot hit a moving target but nothing happened there for a minute but best not to take chances…to take those kinds of chances…test the fates…got to get moving.
    The lines of everything seem out of place and stunted.  Nothing seems as settled as it did the last night or the night before that…what is coming of the world?  Why the spaces so strained?  Everything flogged and fogged up and boxed in and turned around.  I walk down through the maze, the wilderness, my fingertips gliding along the limestone cement walls of these mad buildings.  My fingertips dusty, leaving trails, leaving trails so that I can find my way out of the labyrinth…fight my monster and follow my chalky bread crumb hand prints out…oh to my peace and freedom.
    I turn the corner to a familiar street.  My pace quickens and my heart flutters its last flutter and the beating beat of my rapid pulse slows.  The cool iron rail, ribbed, spines, wrought iron, bolted into the side of the revolving Earth, feels good under my palm.  All the beauty in this world right below my hands, like words, words raining down from the golden clouds, raining sleets of steel glass, puncture holes in my skin, dotting with red blood, with words all in lines…perfectly lined up lines…straight as sticks in row rows rows.
    I pull madly at my hair.  It hurts.  I do it again.  I pull it up in places just so I can smooth it back down.  All this awful rushing around.  The sight of blurred insanity, the smell of the terrible coming apart…coming apart at the seams…at the weakest spots.  The only way to destroy a thing is to get right at it in the weakest spots and tear and pull and yank and torture and torment.  I toss a loose bit of crumb-covered paper in a wastebasket.  The sun glows red through the hell of a sky above me.  The glass in the windows reflects the ugly heat back at my pinched, pulled skin.  I cannot stand the way I feel.  The sweat comes rolling down my brow like water, waves and waves of hot sick water…the tides…my tides…ruled by the moon…some heavenly body too far out of my reach to petition, I cannot make a case for myself to any heaven...too far away...held too far away...the distance...the distance makes me a monster.  A wounded animal biting at the world in rough frustration.  Too many horrible years terrifically piled one on top of the other…high up to the watchful hands of that which damns me…dirty things and awful days piled up up up to make a great scene…a great stink…a tower…a tower of Babel.  Disperse me, confuse me, make my ways undone, make all these things my hands have done come to naught…don’t let me build build build.  The laughter I hide deep inside myself comes bubbling up.  My face cracks wide open.  I know that this is all there is as I pull my hair…hard…I pull my hair winching and laughing as all these lunatics skitter around me.  Breaking like waves of water on a stony beach.  I walk in strides too large and almost falling over, my hands all twisted up in my hair and pockets.  I am Nimrod, builder, hero, hunter.  I will shoot my arrow into the sky.  I will make my mark in your stars.  The laughter is too much for me.  My feet can’t carry me along.

William S. Bonnie & Mr.Moon (actual "story" circa 2007)

A televison humming over the sound of wu-tang clans enter the 36 chambers,put a delightful twist on this cozy studio apartment in down town of North richland hills; a suburb with no downtown. There were neumorous clothes strewn over the furniture and floor,shoes under the couch and by the door,porno mags and videos were all water damaged from spilt wine and whiskey bottles atop a brazillian oak coffee table,that if polished,would have a fine finish. The inhabitants were William Bonnie,a disillusioned cyclopse stripper (eye patch style) with an extreme obsession for the wild west(*so much so legally changed his name to that:seriously man?) and a taste for all thing dangerous…and/or symbolic. Though he dressed like a gentleman and preffered scotch when eating at sea side diners,he was human being that did not deserve a place in the rat race,but he had a neuce around it and was holding on for dear life. Then there was Mr.Moon. Imagine this perfect child;son of an Olympian and Professer. The brain to explain quaintum physics with the brawn to rip a small child in half.coupled withthe skin of an armadillo and teeth of a bull shark,he began writing poems in middle school that led to three suicides and numerous other attempts and in high school scored perfectly on an SAT while on three hits of acid. Hes like the gengis khan of drug use and learning.though by some grand mistake of society,or public school systems or god for that matter;these two prophets were destined to do what ever it is,somehow.It was night time in the loft,and the boys were watching travel channel.(theres a vibration on the table:William reachs for it and reads the following text message:I ve got the low,get henry.)

“How could it have been that obvious?”

Prelude:

Me and the moon man were on a world tour down in missisip. We had plenty of drugs and gin to get us threw the night,we had only come to see the jazz band.They were universally known as being cute and spunky,and we were already thrashed in that 1928 speeder,hugging the cliffs over the crocs lair. Scared and drunk we slowed down,and cussed at each other until we cried,but he was less scared then I,and coasted down that jagged edge. We arrived at Rimbys the jazz parlor to see the band,and immediately ordered a couple of kissers when we walked in,they weren’t strong enough to make us see straight so we sat down by the front. The band came to the stage,the lead pianist was tall and boney and high on some sort of upper,grinding his teeth as the melody of the sweet piano donged in. The bassist was clearly tired of the lead pianist act but respected the music so,that he was forced to stay.The rest of the band was less apparent thatn the bassist but more open about it as well. The moon man was pouring some cough syrup into a cola under the table and nudgeing my leg with his like I shoulda,but I didn’t. The entrancement of the notes slapped my tounge over my cavities to rest on my ulcer sored gums,the moon man slouched deeper into the chair until he made such a stir the woman besides us moved. I took the cola from him and proceeded to drink it myself.Slower than mr.moon did of course. The pianist drove his fingers threw the ivory creating a rough hole that cunt threw the tip of his cuticle,rubbing the skin off his prints.He smiled the while as he continued the destruction of his fist,blood now trickleing out over the keys and dripped down to his knees. His band slowly fated as the rumble of the piano broke the ear drum of every listener in tow,as he created a devilish symphony that made his pale skin glow. Mr moon was cheering wildly on the floor and I could hear my self standing on the table screaming,but everyone else was deaf or shocked. I even threw up on some patrons at the table behind us I was so exited,and they didn’t move,covered in vomit they still didn’t belive their ears. Mr moon staggered up now that the piece was over,the vomit couple now dabbing themselves dry,and like the others still whispering question marks as murmers to the lovers at their sides. I was thinking about fish and what had happened to the sea when the pianist grimmishly came up to me and began rambleing inncessiantly,and mr moon chimed in: “Hello pal! We liked your piano strokes,but we don’t want to know ya.” I knodded and crossed my arms behind my friend as if to back him up,the man left. We then got into the ’28 speeder,Senor moon chose a vinyl,and we hit the dirt high way.

Chapter 19876:
Highways came and the morning was slow,we had woken up drunk at this coffee shop,named mellow house or childs corner…There was a newspaper stand outside and a police man next to that. He was a nice fellow. We walked in and demanded to be seated where the other police were because of the encounter outside,luckily there were two in a booth caddy corner to the wall.”Gentleman” I said as I approached them with my arms wildly open.Perplexed the watched with curious intent.”How are you guys today” I said as I came to a stop and sat next to the one with a moustache. Then the one with the moustache replied:”who are you?” the one with a moustache knodded as if agreeing to the question. I stared for a second as if they should know,and then threw my hands on the table and yelled:”toms kid!”. They then proceeded to draw their weapons and pistol whipped the few remainng teeth I have out. Mr moon,taking offense to this,jumped behind the counter grabbing a hot skillet and spatchula and then proceeded to leap over the counter to where the blues stood and burned one on the top of his head while bashing the crown of his skull in and cut the iris on the other one with the spatchula and then proceded to jump on his chin. By this time Im on my feet making my way to the door spitting my teeth on the floor and I see police officer three coming in to assist me when I grabbed his gun and in a short struggle shot him in the knee and then called hima nancy for crying,I still haven’t decided which was worse. Back in the speedster we didn’t stop until Arizona.

In the devils playground sex is wildly overblown as something sensual and unique to spouses in general. Mr moon was a deviant for the woman,I mean I had known the man for years. An argentinan fellow with a taste for extreme expansion and dancing and consequently romancing. He taught me all I know about mechanics and the Olympics and he gave me a recipe for a mence pie to die for. He was a meantor to me as I was a sensai to him. We gave each other hope that one day the world would be fucked up with love. We ate strawberrys every afternoon in Arizona hoping to see planes fly by with scrolling letters,hoping one day we’d find wives with big enough breasts to fulfill are dreams.One summer day in the devils playground,we were in the back yard of this girls house over off I-5,making napalm when her boyfriend came home,and questioned who we were. Mr moon took offense to this and challenged him to a dance off while the man foolishly turned him down,the woman consequently had sex with mr moon after. While the two fucked I took a stroll threw her channels with her boyfriend crying on the couch next to me,clutching a pillow in his grips.”its over man” he constantly repeated “and this is my house,why couldent yall have left?” I continued to scroll and asked the guy for a beer.He was a nervous wreck but a generous host. Moon came out several hours later and announced that we were leaving,and that all would be right in the household,the man shook our hands,it was a strange scene.

17 plus 17 Lost at Sea

17 plus 17 Lost at Sea

17 years surrounding this world
Going back and forth
Making rounds
Plus 17 lost at sea
Losing all sight of shores
And dry land
Snows and poplar trees
And mountains
And valleys below and green ribbons grown out too long and ripe
And the aching sounds the dust makes
In prayer to heaven
17 years at a time
Purgatory
Pressed against the wall
Red eyes watching your every move
Like a Trotsky staring from out his
Sanctuary
Hidden is plan
17 years of sin waiting
To get into the paradise
Prison built by Czars
And Princes
None of us remembers
Here lost upon the ocean
That we cannot drown ourselves in
Only come out cleaner and damper and shivering
17 years making our rounds
Back and forth around this
World.

Dealing with a Difficult Dad

At some point in your life, you will go from being the child to being the adult in your relationship with your father.  In the past his wisdom, strength and fortitude would provide comfort and confidence, but now only provides confusion and anger.

 

Learning how to deal with this changing relationship and behaviour is one of the most important relationships a modern man must manage.  Gone are the days when you had to do everything your father told you to as his word was gospel.  Now they are replaced by a series of confusing, angry and desperate pleas for understanding and acceptance in a world that they do not understand.

You will find as you grow older that your father’s insane rants no longer inspire feelings of awe and reverence, more so they now inspire feelings of unease, helplessness and suspect armchair racism.

Simple modern methods and tasks that a four year old could master in a matter of seconds are now sadly beyond the understanding of your father, as he stubbornly clings onto the old way of thinking.

Try as you might to impart your current world wisdom and knowledge, it will be thrown back in your face with accusations of deliberately making things more confusing than they should be, or withholding facts a common occurrences.

There will come a point when much like an lion, head of his pride for so long, now having to fight off younger and stronger challenges, so too your father will attempt to secure his future by going toe to toe with someone many decades younger than him.  This leaves you in the position of having to combat a man who is used to dominating you. 

Your options are either beat up a man pushing retirement age or let him win the argument and accept your position as the beta member of the pack.  Either way you’re not going to be in for much fun as trying to explain to the Police why you beat up a man in his 60’s isn’t going to win you many fans.

Simple arguments and incidents can now turn into a full on war between the generations.  As the following true life example shows...

It was just another normal evening as I relaxed and watched some TV.

Then my father came into the room and spotted something was wrong... So very wrong.

It was at this moment that his sanity snapped.

Picking up the offending cushion he charged me like a demented hippo on acid.

Not sure if what I saw was real or some form of waking nightmare,  I sat motionless in intense confusion.

Not having the same issues, my father continued his charge.

Shit just got real.

Oh my god!  This is real!  He's actually attacking me with a cushion!

But this makes no sense?

Surely this is some sort of joke?

Chances are you will now spend the next 30 minutes just sitting there, not able to move as you try to process the events that have just transpired.   Yes, you were just attacked by an old man doing his best Christian Bale Batman voice impression.

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