Thursday, October 23, 2008

Playing House

The key was hidden under the welcome mat as always, so I let myself in like so many times before. The Crane’s didn’t have children or any pets so their house was pretty tidy. There were only a few plates in the sink from breakfast that morning. All of the appliances in the kitchen were stainless steel and the counter tops were marble. Coffee cups were still on the kitchen table. I helped myself to what was left in the pot. It was still a bit warm.

The newspaper was opened to the business section so I read what the market was doing out loud. I made comments in between each paragraph to recreate a conversation that happened hours earlier. It was mainly one sided as Mary would usually just agree with what her husband was saying to humor him. As long as they had money she tried not to think too much about it.

Making my way into the living room I picked up the remote as I sat down in Milton’s leather La-Z-Boy recliner. Pictures from their latest vacation sat framed on the end tables. They went skiing a few times a year. I was never interested because I don’t like being cold. From the photos they looked quite happy in below freezing temperatures. Then again they were always happy.

With my feet propped up I turned on their oversized flat panel TV. It was on a cooking channel. That seemed fitting since Mary loved to cook. There were always delightful smells coming from the kitchen when you walked in their door.

There was one main hallway in their house and it went from the living room towards the bedrooms and bathroom. In the master bedroom there was a king size bed that was properly made, two bed-side tables, two dressers and a sitting chair. Everything was black and modern. The bathroom was on the opposite wall of a large walk in closet, Mary’s clothes on one side and Milton’s on the other.

Milton mainly wore solid colored suits and had an on going rack of polo shirts. Mary was very stylish and all of her clothes were organized by color and garment. Blouses, sweaters and blazers were on the top rack and slacks and skirts hung on the lower one. Below the racks were rows of assorted heels, flats and boots. She had a very classic look. The more I thought about it she reminded me of my mother.

I skimmed through her clothing and laid out a few different outfits that caught my eye. Once I finished in the closet I made my way to her dresser. An oval shaped vanity mirror hung on the wall above and a leather bound jewelry box sat on top. As I opened it a beautiful pair of pearl earrings and necklace were the first pieces that I noticed. Gently pulling them out I sat them aside and closed the box.

Then I checked each drawer of the dresser. I found what I was looking for in the first one though, a pair of black stockings, a black strapless bra that was adorned with lace and matching panties. This is where Mary differed from my mother.

The outfit that I chose consisted of a white fluttered-sleeve tie neck blouse, a black high-waisted pencil skirt and “Shiri” satin oxford pumps. After I was dressed I went in to the bathroom and helped myself to Mary’s cosmetics. I applied a light weight foundation that promised lift, moisture and radiance. The mascara she wore was zero smudge and lengthening. My lashes now had volume. There were a lot of different lips sticks to choose from but I thought the Apricot Sun hydra luster wasn’t too over powering and brightened my complexion.

When I was finished I stepped back into the bedroom and inspected how I looked in the full size mirror. I walked back and forth and did a couple of turns. Everything was perfect. I looked and felt beautiful. I was a new man.

I had spent a lot of time getting ready so I decided I should probably start dinner. First, I needed some music. Mary had an old fashioned record player in the living room. Scanning her old albums I found the perfect one, My Fair Lady. I dropped the needle on “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly” and couldn’t help but to dance through the house singing the words, imagining I was Julie Andrews on Broadway.

Dinner wasn’t hard to get started. There was some ground beef in the freezer and I found some penne pasta noodles in the pantry. Once I had the water boiling I started setting the dinner table. The record had stopped playing so I walked back into the living to flip it over. When I came back into the kitchen I heard someone unlocking the front door.

It was Milton. As he stomped through the house I could hear him say “Something smells good!” I quickly slid back into the kitchen and started tending to the food. He walked right by me without looking up. He went straight down the hall and into the bedroom. From the back room he yelled “Your car wasn’t in the driveway. I didn’t think you were home.” I didn’t say a word.

I could hear him moving around, probably changing his clothes. A few minutes went by as I put the finishing touches on dinner. Milton finally emerged from the back room wearing one of his classic polo shirts and a pair of khaki shorts. I looked up from the stove with a smile and said “Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes, honey.”

Saturday, August 30, 2008

At least they're consistent

Cigarette smoke doesn’t remedy blurry eyes
And bottled beer doesn’t fill empty hearts
But lungs are full and so are stomachs

Can’t see the next mistake and won’t feel it either
Smoke burning holes in lungs like money in pockets
No will care until morning

When she takes the money and they wake up with nothing

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

No Sugar, No Cream

I could here her screaming from the upstairs. The TV was on and I was relaxing on the couch watching a documentary on Hitler’s Obsession with the occult. This had been the norm for some time now. She ruled the upstairs and I ruled the couch, sometimes not just during the day time hours. From the way her voice was muffled she was either in the bedroom or in the bathroom with the door shut. Considering the size of the apartment there weren’t any other options.

We weren’t married , but we were just as miserable. She had stopped talking to me in a normal tone of voice about 6 months ago. Now she had three different ways of communicating with me. Yelling, talking down to me or a fake sweet voice that she would do when she wanted something. I’m not sure which one I hated the most.

She usually just spoke to me like I was the family pet that had just taken a shit on the living room carpet. So I usually reacted like a scared animal by either snapping back at her or just running away. When I left, it usually meant I was going to get liquored up so I wouldn’t care what she would say when I came back. I’d just block her out while I tried blacking out.

The Nazi’s were marching across the screen when she started barking again. It cut to Hitler giving a speech when I decided to mute it and try to hear what the fuck she was saying since she currently sounded like one of the adults from the Charlie Brown Cartoons. As I strained to listen I was still staring at the screen. I started to realize that the noises coming out of her mouth were matching up with Hitler’s lips. It seemed appropriate except that she didn’t discriminate against anyone but me, especially when it came to spreading her legs. I sat mesmerized for another few minutes before I decided to make my way up the stairs to see what her fucking problem was.

As I got to the top of the stairs I couldn’t tell where she was because both the bedroom and bathroom door were closed. I sat and listened and could hear her gasping and crying in the bathroom. “Fuck is she really hurt?” I started thinking to myself. I tapped on the door.

“You Fucking asshole what took you so fucking long!?!” I immediately started to tune her out.

“Waaa! Waaa! Waaaa! Waaa! Waaa!”

I started realizing why Charlie Brown was so depressed.

When she calmed down I decided to open the door to see what the problem was. I popped my head in and was violently struck in the ear by a small, hard object. It bounced off of my head and landed in the sink.

Who throws a toothbrush?

While she spewed obscenities I realized that she was sitting on the toilet and her pants were down. She started scolding me like an animal as usual, but this time she was the one who had taken a shit. I’d been yelled at for many reasons over the last 6 months that weren’t my fault, but this time she was right. This was all me.

I forgot to buy toilet paper.

I started thinking back to the last week trying to remember why I hadn’t made that purchase. It was still very clear in my mind. That night as I was picking a cart out at the front of the store this amazing blonde walked in the door. She wasn’t beautiful, she was hot. It was porn star shit. She didn’t have the kind of face you just wanted to kiss. It was something that you wanted to fuck. My cock wanted to destroy her uvula. I wanted her measurements tattooed on my forehead.

We both proceeded to shop and I tried to move through the aisles as incognito as possible. My thought process was we had both started shopping at the same time, so it wouldn’t appear like I was following her if I just stayed at a distance. Sometimes I’d go to the aisle before hers on the opposite end so I could walk by her from the front and catch another glimpse of those fucking missiles.

My plan seemed flawless and overall I think it would’ve worked if I hadn’t skipped the same 5 or 6 aisles that she passed over. Apparently, I wore out my welcome when we reached the Napkins/Paper Towel/Toilet Paper aisle because she abruptly turned around and said “Fuck off pervert.”

It felt like the time my mom had walked in on me masturbating to my cousin's picture in the family reunion photo album.

Obviously embarrassed and caught off guard, words would not come out of my mouth. With one head down and the other one managing to somehow stay at least half way up, I quickly pushed my cart on by and straight to the check out line, without any fucking toilet paper.

So little Hitler was screaming again and I started to laugh as I reminisced about my only moment with a porn star that I will ever have that didn‘t involve a computer screen and monthly subscription. I turned around and started walking back down the stairs to find some form of ass wipe. The kitchen seemed like a good place to start, but since I missed the entire aisle containing any paper products we were out of napkins and paper towels as well. It was summer time so I couldn’t seem to find a box of tissues either. I could still hear her doing her best dog in heat impression in between sobs and it almost sounded like she was speaking in tongues, maybe she was reading from Mein Kampf or Acts Chapter 2.

And then finally, there it was, the solution. It was just sitting in the cabinet between the tea and the extra bag of sugar. I quickly grabbed it and ran back up the stairs to remedy the bitching.

I didn’t even knock this time. The door slammed against the wall as I kicked it open and with a maniacal laugh I tossed them at her feet. I must’ve looked insane because as I stared at her she was cowering on her toilet seat so much that she almost fell off.

“You’re welcome!” I smiled and walked down the stairs and out of the apartment.

As I was getting in my car I could hear her screams once again. I had never heard them from outside the apartment before. This is what it must’ve sounded like outside of Ed Gein’s house I thought to myself. And just as I was shutting my car door, through all of the sobbing and Charles Schultz gibberish she let out one last cry.

“Fucking Coffee Filters?!?”

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Memory Retrieval

For obvious reasons, these poems make me feel like I'm in Sunday school or in a training session at some lame ass job. So I decided to make the content anything but. Enjoy!

Finally, they were alone
Underneath the covers
Crotch to crotch
Kids ruin everything


Always on time
Nothing to come between them
A look speaks a thousand words
Let’s do this!


First time?
Everyone should try it.
Let’s just do it once.
C’mon, you know you want to.


How come?
I promise you’ll like it.
Now that’s what I’m talking about!
God! Why are you gagging?

Monday, August 11, 2008

Sweet Nothings

Sorority girl

Fuck that, I think you had me

At “That girl’s a cunt.”

Bruce Lee: A Haiku of Exceptional Physical Feat

Knee deep in pussy

Up to elbows in assholes

Life is Yin and Yang

I've also included a list of facts that you might not have known about Bruce Lee:

Physical feats

  • Lee's striking speed from three feet with his hands down by his side reached five hundredths of a second.
  • Lee's combat movements were at times too fast to be captured on film at 24fps, so many scenes were shot in 32fps to put Lee in slow motion. Normally martial arts films are sped up.
  • In a speed demonstration, Lee could snatch a dime off a person's open palm before they could close it, and leave a penny behind.
  • Lee could perform push ups using only his thumbs.
  • Lee would hold an elevated v-sit position for 30 minutes or longer.
  • Lee could throw grains of rice up into the air and then catch them in mid-flight using chopsticks.
  • Lee performed one-hand push-ups using only the thumb and index finger.
  • Lee performed 50 reps of one-arm chin-ups.
  • From a standing position, Lee could hold a 125 lb (57 kg) barbell straight out.
  • Lee could break wooden boards 6 inches (15 cm) thick.
  • Lee performed a side kick while training with James Coburn and broke a 150-lb (68 kg) punching bag.
  • Lee could cause a 300-lb (136 kg) bag to fly towards and thump the ceiling with a side kick.
  • In a move that has been dubbed "Dragon Flag", Lee could perform leg lifts with only his shoulder blades resting on the edge of a bench and suspend his legs and torso perfectly horizontal midair.
  • Lee could thrust his fingers through unopened steel cans of Coca-Cola, at a time before cans were made of the softer aluminum metal.
  • Lee could use one finger to leave dramatic indentations on pinewood.

Burn Baby Burn

Got laid in the baptismal
Wiped off with a choir robe

Dined on unleavened bread
The communion wine flowed

Paper airplanes out of the Old Testament
Origami from the New

So many different uses from stories about a Jew

Baptists say I’m evil
Charismatics think the worst

Athiests are probably jealous
Because I wrote this poem first

So I’m probably not going to heaven
I hope I don’t go to hell

It’s probably just made up anyway, but only time will tell

Saturday, June 28, 2008

Fortunate Son

I could hear Creedence crackling through the record player in the house when he started talking. I can’t quite recall what he was saying though. It might’ve been something regarding a study he had recently read concerning heroin over doses or maybe he was explaining Hegel’s theory of Absolute Idealism to me.

The bottles I had just pulled out of the fridge were cold in my hand as I passed one of them over. He in turn tossed me a cigarette. We were both enjoying things our parents had always told us not to do.

Through the whole exchanging of goods the conversation never stopped. After I took a quick shwig of the beer he suggested that I try some years earlier, I stood there and listened as he continued with his story, briefly interrupting himself every few sentences to comment on Fogerty’s song writing ability.

And then out of nowhere it felt like the ground was starting to shake, maybe a 3.2 on the Richter Scale. I choked on my cigarette and almost dropped my beer as I entertained the thought of earthquakes in Georgia. I quickly regained my composure. The tremor seemed to have only affected me, but in all reality I had barely moved a few inches. He didn’t even notice and kept going.

This convulsing of mine was like a scene out Highlander. Something had changed within and it affected me not only physically, but more importantly, emotionally and spiritually. It was a quickening of sorts. Thankfully, it didn’t require any beheadings.

In a matter of seconds my perception had been altered. I was no longer guarded or anticipating the preconceived notions of how I was told our relationship was supposed to work. Nothing had really changed in that moment yet everything was different. It had been a gradual process that finally led to a stunning revelation.

We had evolved.

Neither of us ever noticed it before, but we were always reminded of it at the end of every visit.

Not only was he my best friend, but he was also my Father.

Saturday, June 07, 2008

She Loved Me To Death

They were both sitting across the table from me equally distracting my attention from the other in their own little ways, but I had a thing for both of them. At least that‘s how it started. We were all talking and I was imagining as if they were both competing for me and maybe they were. I was almost positive the prettier one actually was, the other, not so much and that’s exactly why I wanted her.

I was making them player paper rock scissor in my head and I was turning a quarter in my hand under the table trying to flip for it. Both of their hands kept making fists and the coin felt double-sided. I had to make a decision though because supposedly three’s a crowd. I’ve never actually minded, but I had a feeling they weren’t going to go for it.

I needed a deciding factor.

The lights might’ve gone dim and I think that I could see my breath when my plan finally formulated in my head.

“My favorite serial killer has always been Ted Bundy.” I said.

They kept on talking amongst themselves as if I hadn’t said anything.

Maybe they didn’t hear me, so I repeated myself and then launched into a full monologue explaining my admiration. They were all ears.

“His playing the victim technique was genius and once he made his move it was as though he had been trained by ninja masters when it came to the art of invisibility and his ability to blend in. I will admit though, as his bloodlust grew he undoubtedly became sloppy in his ways and maintaining his flawless execution took a back seat to his need to exterminate a human life. I don’t think any one will ever come close to matching his unwavering resolve for his final goal.”

Without missing a beat the lesser of the two spoke up.

“What he really was lacking was accountability. Obviously, that would be hard to come by when your passion is rape and murder, but I can definitely see why he’s your favorite.”

The prettiest girl didn’t say a word, but I think I could see her eyes welling up. She wouldn’t make contact with either of us for the rest of the night. We took her home.

The previously disinterested was now all mine and honestly, it kind of scared me, but this is what I asked for. She insisted on coming back to my apartment and watching the latest installment in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre series.

I’m not sure what was louder that night, the sound of a gas powered chainsaw tearing through flesh in Dolby Digital surround sound or her mimicking the screams of Leather Face’s victims as she rode me in the darkness.

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Bad Timing

It happened so fast.

Florida, where everyday is summer. Exploding through the sandy grass barefoot trying to catch one another until we fell victim to that which laid in wait, sand spurs and fire ants. You heard my screams and saved me from that which no one else would. The only thing he said was “He’ll live.” You were always there. I knew no other and wanted nothing. We were on the brink of disaster, but now I believe in miracles, even if they don’t last forever.

The grass was blue and so were you, because you still weren't complete. We thought it was what you always wanted, but you still haven’t figured that one out. You both trained us to fight in your own ways. Damaging words and breaking boards were weekly occurrences. Knowledge of how to use our rage most effectively was in instilled. People now fear our actions and intellect, even each other.

The heat was sweltering and I knew nothing of this place, but I was never your favorite so I learned how to adapt. Flourishing after just a short time, I grew small branches. More than a decade later, they are strong and sturdy. They tower above the rest, even you.

London was a flash and you left me in Budapest. He was stranded on the mountain with a gun in his mouth. His name inscribed on each bullet, hand carved. You wouldn’t save him, it was impossible. You probably would’ve pulled the trigger if given the chance.

My finger crushed as I blocked the trigger that I considered pulling for myself and we both collapsed in pain. We wailed and mourned the loss and that which might have been. Our tears saturated us, but caused us to flourish once again, without you. He’s always there. I know no other and want nothing else.

We were on the brink of disaster, but I still believe in miracles, even if they don’t last forever.

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

7 Years

When he came to he didn’t know where was and there was a naked woman on top of him. She was facing the other direction so he wasn’t sure who she was, but he could here her tits slapping. He figured she liked him since she was moving up and down on him like a piston pumping faster and faster trying to make his engine rev harder and harder.

It was barely running though.

After she blew a head gasket it was all hugs and kisses. Then she asked for the cash. He paid her what was owed and told her to leave. He stumbled to the bathroom, slid his ring back on his finger and washed the night off of his face. He stared into the mirror half expecting someone else to be looking right back at him.

When he was younger and his parents were the church going kind of people they made him attend Sunday School each week. He learned about all of the different characters in the Old Testament, Prophets, priests, Kings and even ordinary people that were called by God. The punishment that the people received who disobeyed God dually frightened and fascinated him.

After learning about these stories he would always be on his best behavior on the ride home from church. He even tried not to back talk his mother for a few days, but by the end of the week he would usually forget about the punishment that God cast on people. The next Sunday though he would get his weekly dose and be good again for a little while. He always figured that’s why people went to church a few days a week. They had a bad memory and needed to be reminded why they should be good. It made sense to him.

Along with going to Sunday school there was another memory that stuck with him from his childhood. When he was 12 years old, him and his friends would ride their bikes to the biggest hill in the county. It was across town and about 20 minutes from his house on bike. They would get up really early on Saturday mornings and ride out to it and all day long they would peddle up to the top of the hill and come screaming down it as fast as they could, like they were little engines and their feet were pistons moving up and down, pumping faster and faster making them reach top speeds.

Once they reached the bottom of the hill they’d throw their hands up in the air and the wind would blow right through them. Years later he realized that those Saturdays spent on his bike were the most alive he was ever going to feel.

After riding up and down on that hill all day the boys would all ride back to their houses for dinner. One particular Saturday after being out all day he came home and his father was standing in the kitchen staring off at nothing. He tried talking to him, but he was unresponsive, so he just leaned in the door way watching him. Every once in a while his father’s eyes would dart and his head would jerk and his focus would be in another direction, but there would never be anything of significance there. He was so terrified that he just stood there watching him for half an hour waiting for him to finally acknowledge him or to at least utter a word. He never did. So the boy finally decided to slowly walk past and go to his room

He laid awake all night wondering if his father was going to be there in the morning just staring at the walls. When the sun came up the next morning he could hear his mother making breakfast in the kitchen so he cracked his door and looked out. His Father was sitting at the table reading the paper, drinking coffee and his mother told him to come out and eat before his eggs got cold.

Everything was normal.

The next week at Sunday school God’s wrath was being exemplified through King Nebuchadnezzar’s fate. He apparently pissed God off so bad through his lack of humility that God struck him with a fever that made the proud king go crazy for 7 years. His young mind started working, maybe that’s what happened to his father? God was punishing him.

His relationship with his father was never strong, so he’d never know of his father’s potential wickedness, but that night along with many other similar occurrences stayed with him through the years.

As he stared at the bathroom wall he counted the tiles and contemplated the color scheme. Blue and black seemed a bit dated for this kind of hotel and who ever tiled this bathroom should’ve gone a couple of rows higher on the border. His eyes then moved to the shower curtain. Paisley was a bit staunch to him and he didn’t think that it matched the tile. Each time his eyes darted he couldn’t figure out how long he had been looking in that one direction, seconds, minutes, hours?

He wanted to look in the mirror once more and see his face; look into his eyes, but he couldn’t control his movements. It was unlike a seizure because his body control was precise. He just wasn’t running the show anymore. Once his eyes finally honed in on the mirror he was hoping he could figure out what was going on by making eye contact, but the only person he noticed in the mirror was the maid standing in the doorway staring at him.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Six Words Long

About 6 months ago a friend of mine told me about Hemingway writing a 6 word story. I was intrigued and impressed. Then my friend Matt posted about this same story along with a great article from Wired magazine a week or so ago.

Well, I went to the most solemn bar I could find last week, drank Guinness, watched re-runs of M*A*S*H and The Andy Griffith Show and wrote some 6 word stories. Here they are.

Next in line, gun in hand.

Seven letters, one word, game over.

I don’t have a condom. Shit!

Boy meets girl, win-lose situation.

Two girls, one cup, OMG! WTF!

She was beautiful, all 450 pounds.

Big Brother, Patriot Act, Non-Fiction.

Half day, home early, whose car?

Head on collision, no drivers involved.

Friday, April 11, 2008

A Perfect Disgrace

My friend Matt Debenedictis wrote a book! It's been put out through 174 Publishing. If you're not familiar with Matt's writing then you need to check out his blog.

Matt and I've been friends for a few years now, but over the last year we've really connected when it comes to writing, whether we were giving each other props, talking about other authors or making fun of shitty writing websites.

I read this particular story some months ago when he first finished it and it's fucking awesome. I'm yet to get a copy of the published version, but I'll be picking one up in the near future.

Check it out!

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Dodging Bullets


He looked like I just told him his father was gay.

“Cannibalistic Infanticide?” I said.

“Yeah, well, what the hell is that?”

“It’s when parents eat their young in nature. All kinds of animals do it, chimpanzees, elephants, lions, even cats and dogs.”

The term “Morning Sickness” came to mind as I watched him stare down into his coffee.

“How does that even pertain to working for a company?”

He seemed bothered.

I knew I was going to have to enlighten him if I brought this up.

Damn it.

I took a deep breath and proceeded.

“Well, the last company I worked for brought me in, took me under their wing, like a mother would with her child. They trained me and even raised me up in their organization. I worked long hours and committed most of my time to see them succeed, became one of the pack, so to speak. It was right about that time that I wanted to advance in the company and I brought some new idea’s to the table, started showing my strength. They felt threatened, cut me off at the knees by dispersing my responsibilities to others and ultimately fired me. It’s similar to the way a cowardly animal would act if they sensed a more dominant animal around, even if it’s one their own who will never turn on them, destroy and consume, fire and absorb.”

He finally responded like a normal human being.

“Well I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m not sorry, but do you understand now?”

He shook his head. “Yeah, but it sounds kind of brutal.”

This guy was a good liar. Why else would he be here?

“It usually is. It’s like a big game of Monopoly!” I laughed.

I could tell I concerned him.

The coffee in his cup had to be getting cold by now, but he nervously raised it to his lips for one last sip. After he placed the mug back on his desk he pushed his chair out and stood to his feet. I mimicked his actions.

I could see it in his face before the lies started to spew.

“Well, thank you for coming in today Mr. Carroll. I’ll be reviewing your resume with our HR department and we’ll get back to you later this week.”

This prick didn’t appreciate honesty and he sure as hell wasn’t going to hire me."

Fine by me though, I don't need anymore ammunition for my dysfunctional work place analogies.

We extended hands and firmly shook.

“Thank you for your time and the great opportunity.” I said with a smirk.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Three in a row.

I’m sitting on my father’s leather couch. He’s upstairs in bed, sick. They called me two days ago to tell me he’s dying. “They” are his personal assistants.

They found him passed out at his desk in the late afternoon. After being rushed to the hospital it was discovered that he had heart disease and was quickly declining. You didn’t have to be a doctor to know that something was wrong with the man. He’s smoked a pack a day and has consumed a fifth of Jameson since he was 16. What did they expect?

I expect that “They” were looking forward to him dying. Maybe their name might show up in the will. It won’t. Neither will mine, but that’s not why we stopped talking.

A nurse has been coming down every few hours to inform me of my father’s health. It’s always about the same.

“His vitals don’t looks so good.”

I told her she could stop with the reports. Just let me know when he dies.

This bad news seems timely since I just lost my job a few weeks back. That job felt like a bad relationship. Stress, lies and sneaking around, they kicked me out, so to speak because of my drinking. They called it “downsizing”. How do you downsize a VP?

Bad things often happen in threes. This is number two. I’ve been wondering what was next.

Maybe my liver will go out due to my marathon drinking. Like Father, like son. I don’t blame him though, at least when I’m sober.

He did give me my first drink when I was 10, started stealing his cigarettes when I was 12, got laid shortly after. You’d be surprised at how much pull you can have as a pre-teen with adult substances. You’re probably not surprised though.

I stare at the family portrait that hangs over the fireplace. Mom died 5 years ago. William is upstairs at Dad’s side, just like in the picture. I sit here and think about getting more fucked up than I already am.

I’m thirsty. The man’s liquor cabinet is stocked as always. “Jameson on the rocks”, just the way he likes it. I snag a smoke and step outside on to the balcony that overlooks the ocean.

I guzzle and puff and remember that there is a God or a being or a theory. The nurse rudely interrupts my moment to inform me that my father has passed.

I finish my drink and put the cigarette out on the palm of my hand.

Thursday, February 28, 2008


She watched too many sitcoms, He read too many books

Son played too many video games, Daughter only stared at her looks

Always looking else where, never at each other

All awoke one morning, not recognizing one another

Tuesday, February 05, 2008

Red and Blue

Loose lips sink ships, and
You have everyone talking
There’s no more life boats

“Stay the course!” You said
8 years later, duck and run
There’s your legacy

The race of all rats
Pick your poison wisely, please
For it is your fate

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

And then there was one...

Suddenly, he’s awake.

His mouth is dry, but the room is not spinning. He drank last night, but not too much. Still, he should’ve had a glass of water before going to sleep.

She’s lying next to him, so still that she could be dead.

He stares at her back as his eyes adjust. The light creeping in from behind the curtains show that her body is slowly moving up and down. The smell of her skin in the morning is his favorite. It smells like slumber.

He misses her when she’s asleep.

Quietly he slides out of the bed and plants his feet firmly on the carpet, sure to close the door quietly to not wake her.

The coffee maker relieves itself into the pot which reminds him that he too needs to create an exodus of sorts. Cigarettes are strewn across the counter like pick up sticks, he loses the game by moving them as he plucks one out of the pile. Coffee and a cigarette is how he usually starts the morning, "Breakfast of champions..." he slurs as he fires one up.

The view isn’t much from the apartment. It overlooks the parking lot of the grocery store next door. In the morning while he’s trying to wake up he tries to guess what each person has in their bags as they walk out to their cars. Morning doesn’t usually come too early for him.

He notices a family wearing Sunday’s best walking across the asphalt. The father is carrying two bags as his wife holds two little girl's hands. Their dresses have flowers on them and they’re yellow and pink. It could be Easter Sunday. He has no clue.

“I bet that’s a ham for dinner tonight and maybe a gallon of milk.” He mutters.

As he takes a drag off of his cigarette he watches the family drive away in their SUV. The smoke pulls hard breaking free from his lips. It vanishes before his eyes.

Moments later a teenage girl walks out with a small plastic bag. She almost gets hit by a minivan as she walks right out in to the parking lot with out looking. She throws her hands up and repeatedly mouths the word "sorry" as she sprints out of the way.

“Now that has to be a pregnancy test.” He laughs to himself. “I can spot that a mile away.”

Coffee grounds cover the bottom of his cup. The cigarette is down to its butt. He decides to go in and wake her.

Even though he wants her to get up he still tries to be as quiet as possible. She likes to be greeted first thing with back rubs and kisses. Glasses of orange juice are also welcomed.

He makes his way to the side of her bed, tripping over some shoes and cursing under his breath.
She shifts in her sleep. Finally sitting down on the bed next to her she slides towards him due to his weight pressing down on the mattress.

He places his hand in the small of her back. She squirms. His hands feel cold and dead.

While sitting there in the dark he hears a clicking sound, maybe it’s a popping, like someone cracking their knuckles. He slowly looks around the room for any sign of what might be causing the noise. There it is again. The noise seems to be coming from the corner.

Next thing he knows he’s on his feet staring into the dark corner of the room. After hearing the popping a third time he gets down on his hands and knees. There appeared to be some sort of beetle climbing the wall. He didn't think that a bug that small could’ve made that loud of a noise until the beetle stood upright on the wall and made the noise again, like some sort of battle cry.

It startled him so much that he swatted at the beetle and knocked it to the floor. The beetle began making the noise over and over, louder and louder. He cupped it to the carpet with his hand attempting to quiet the strange bug.

Everything went silent.

Just when he thought that he had killed it a small pain shot up his middle finger. At first the pain felt rigid like something had bit him or was sawing at his finger, but then it felt hot and then eventually numb. He grabbed his finger with his other hand only feeling something oval-like on the tip.

He walked quietly to the door to go in the other room to tend to his finger all the while the biting, burning and numbing continued through his hand. By the time he made it in to the other room his whole arm was numb. As he stepped into the light he realized that it was the beetle that had bit his finger, but now he was to the knuckle.

He went hysterical trying to smash and pry this insect off of his finger but it appeared to have not only a solid grip on his finger, but also a shell harder than that of a turtle. His whole side now seemed bloated and was void of feeling.

The beetle slowly consumed his middle finger and when he made it to the palm of his hand its mouth enlarged like a snake's mouth and started swallowing the rest of his fingers. The man had never seen anything like it. It’s stomach digested the flesh and bone instantaneously.

The burning and numbing sensation continued to take over his whole body. Little by little he lost all energy and even the power to talk. By the time the beetle had eaten his hand he had fallen to the floor in a paralyzed heap of mass waiting to be consumed by a small bug that appeared to have a monstrous appetite.

While watching the bug devour his arm the only thing he could think about was how it never changed in size despite it's mass consumption. The only thing that expanded was its jaws.

After consuming his arm it began eating into his chest. He knew that she slept oblivious in the other, so the man tried mouthing her name, but his lips were too numb to even move at this point.

Moments later, without being in any pain, he died.

An hour later his entire body was gone, as though he had never existed. After finishing his meal the small beetle scurried to the corner and quietly made a popping noise.

This savage ritual of predator devouring prey all quietly happened while she soundly slept feet away.

Another hour passes. The apartment is still.

And then suddenly, she is awake.

Friday, January 11, 2008

It's better than being compared to John Malkovich.

This girl at work told me that I was “well-rounded” today. What I think she means by that is that she thinks I’m pretty normal considering I was raised going to an evangelical church. What I think she really means though, is that she thinks I’m hot because of my haircut, but only within a day or two of me getting a haircut which is actually a lack of a hair cut because I shave my head. Her interest in me is strictly above the forehead.

She’s married and her husband shaves his head sometimes. Since he’s going bald it’s her favorite look for him to have. She’s pretty much just fantasizing about her husband when she looks at me, which means she’s probably not fantasizing about either of us, but about Bruce Willis.

What generated this conversation was me wandering the halls looking for a couch to sit on to finish reading the book I’ve been reading for a long time now. I’ve been on a three month hiatus from reading this book because I went crazy.

If you don’t know me in real life you didn’t know that I went crazy. Actually, if you knew me in real life you probably didn’t know that I was going crazy either, well maybe three of you did, but this isn’t Live Journal. I’m not going to talk about that. What I will talk about is the fact that I’m not crazy anymore and I finished my book today, but not because I found a good couch to sit on.

I read it in my cubicle. The walls were gray, but the story was vivid.

What’s coincidental is that not only do I share the same haircut as Bruce, but he also starred as the main character when this particular book that I finished today was made into a movie.

Can you guess the book? I’ll give you a hint, actually, another hint.

“Yippy Kiya Mother Fucker” is not one of his lines.

Typing in my sleep...

She’s sound asleep. Maybe they should call that “making sounds in their sleep” because that’s what they’re really doing. Heavy breathing, snoring, grinding teeth and muttering lost words under their breath.

I lay here and stare at the ceiling. I toss and turn and even try the old spoon.


She has a digital alarm clock but I still hear ticking.

Ideas race through my head that only entertain me while I drive down a congested interstate, have shampoo in my hair or when I’m trying to sleep at 3:17 am. It’s the nature of the beast right?

So what idea’s come to mind? The sacredness of sex. How important a job it would be to know when everyone is to expire(die) and something else that I thought I would remember in the morning but obviously I already forgot.

It must not have been that good.

The people upstairs always sound like they’re moving furniture. How many times can you rearrange your apartment? And why do it in the middle of the night? Maybe they’re herding goats from one room to another. Maybe they've converted their living room into a wrestling ring and they're practicing Gorilla Press Drops!

Regardless of the goat roping, Wrestle Mania or the ticking watch I still can’t fucking sleep.

I have a feeling the real culprit is my mind.

My imagination creates sagas within itself without ever giving me enough time to write them down. Bastard.

Don’t feel like you’re missing out though. At 3am, it’s usually about a renegade army of ants looking to overthrow a dictator that looks very similar to M. Bison from Street Fighter 2.

Goodnight, I’m going to bed.

Tuesday, January 01, 2008

Robert Allen Zimmerman

I watch as he pours another one. Jameson on the rocks. My glass is filled as well and we sit at the table that he bought before I was born. We ate dinner at this table. I did home work here. Lectures were given here, but tonight we sit here drinking whiskey and listening to Bob Dylan.

"Have you ever listened to Bob's first album? What about Highway 61 revisited?"

"Yeah, I've heard them both. Free Wheelin' is my favorite though."

"Just listen to that." He says as he gestures towards the speakers. "That was 1962."

"Yeah I know."

"I know you can't understand…but..."

"I understand."

"But it was 1962! There was nothing like this."

"I know."

"But you can't know."

And he's right in a sense. I can't know because if you had only heard Elvis and The Beatles before and put on a Bob Dylan Record it definitely was going to change you, for better or for worse. I would never have the chance to experience it the way he did.

When they renewed their vows back in '88 that's what I heard them say, "for better or for worse". Like him, I did experience that.

But she never liked Bob. He would get dirty looks when he played his songs on the guitar and get the silent treatment if one of his records ever got played in the house. So I never heard him growing up. But naturally, I found him on my own, just like he did back in '62.

It all came full circle though. Because here we sit at 4am with full glasses and a broken volume experiencing his songs together, like it was the first time for both of us.

Oh God said to Abraham, "Kill me a son"
Abe says, "Man, you must be puttin' me on"
God say, "No." Abe say, "What ?"
God say, "You can do what you want Abe, but
The next time you see me comin' you better run"
Well Abe says, "Where do you want this killin' done ?"
God says. "Out on Highway 61".