Wednesday, May 28, 2014


Marcio is the crier, Calvin is the stoic, Karl is the depressive. Lysander is the doctor, psychiatrist or psychologist. Rya is the nurse. there's nothing to do at the hospital except wait for a future ruling. it's a boys' night during the day. the only thing they'll allow is cards. the three men play a boy's game on an oversized stool as wood table that is lowered one step too much but can't be fixed. they have to make do. they aren't happy about it. they're never happy.

Calvin sports a stogie, Karl a cigarette, Marcio tried it once and spit it out. no drugs of course except the prescribed ones, but a loophole clause in the contract somehow allowed smoking in the facility. the air in the place is constantly sucked up by a rolling cloud of doom which pervades the ceiling but this is the result of the inmates running the asylum for one rule at least.

Calvin: it's Spades today.

Karl (immediately): i want Go Fish, something light, my ADHD is virulent today.

Calvin: fuck that! i want to be stimulated in some form today, i'm a man, no more kid's games, the world doesn't revolve around me, i took care of fish when i was a kid.

Karl (immediately): okay.

Marcio rarely speaks. he is a deep deep deep thinker. he often stares at the ceiling the entirety of the day, the others are jealous that he can consume himself and kill time so easily, he stares at the hypnotic beat of the whirling ceiling fan, thinking up schemes, planning escapes, going on adventures far far far away, and desperately needing answers to far-reaching questions which are as wide as solar systems. he is amenable to anything, just don't get on his bad side.

Rya joins them always around noon at the table with lunch. she is a sight for sore eyes for the three, and these three have eyes terribly sore from experience and from the smoke. Calvin never makes that known, Karl smiles humbly, and Marcio gives her a hug. Rya looks on the boys fondly, but she looks a beat more at Marcio after his embrace.

Rya paints her fingernails red while the boys play, she always does that.

Rya: Spades? Hearts?

Calvin shuffles the deck harshly and pulls out a card. it's the Queen of Spades. he gazes at it for a long time. he thinks of a female, and of the darkness of the spade. his frown becomes more pronounced. his brow furrows into farmland. he enters the memory in a way even Marcio could not achieve. Calvin takes a puff from his stogie, drops the card to the floor purposely trying to make it look accidental, then slides it, pushes it, forces it into the middle of the deck.

Calvin: all men are idiots.

the meals don't come free, y'know. each day Lysander has a private talk with each patient in his office, door closed. who knows what they talk about? the three boys discuss amongst themselves what their separate conversations are about to see if they can reach a consensus. they do. it's all the same thing, only it's different for each case. Lysander wants to know what your plans are for the future. the hospital is a crutch, not an institution. they closed down those lifelong institutions in the '20s 200 years ago, the states decided they couldn't fund them anymore. fucking money ruins everything. it would be so simple to lock people away forever in the funny farm and forget about them as society roared on, it's a win-win. thinking on both ends could stop. Marcio will never stop thinking. The Great Gatsby. One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. Marcio loves to read, he is a voracious reader, that's another trick of his to kill time in here, he learned it from Karl, who does his reading silently.

when it's Calvin's turn, Karl and Marcio sit on the couch together looking out for each other. currently on tv is a lame morning show. on another channel is a lame promo for old reruns of cop shows on USA. another channel has a lame war. so helpless is the watcher and not the doer. the watcher can only watch, the doer does the stuff that the watcher watches. especially in this space, people are helpless, hopeless


boredom pervades this space more than smoke. boredom can actually kill, smoke can't. a tall lanky babe in tight jeans enters the facility through the automatic swinging industrial two-doors. she does not notice the two on the raggedy sofa, she is too busy screaming about her ex-boyfriend and pushing buttons on her phone and crying. Marcio and she would have made a good couple, but it is not to be. in another minute, Lysander will have her transferred after a private meeting with her in his office, door closed.

Marcio: what did you talk about?

Calvin: glad you're still able to speak, but you wasted your breath on a question you already knew the answer to. isn't that what they teach lawyers to do? SOS, same old shit, and i need a real SOS to get the fuck out of here, i can't take it anymore. i know outside is worse, inside is security, but i want to die free.

Marcio and Karl in unison: i've been thinking...

Karl (eyes closed): you first, please...

Marcio: i've been thinking. i think i have a solution.

at Karl's turn, Calvin and Marcio sit next to each other in front of the blank tv. they are the world's softest prison gang. the little girl who got her yarn-spinning needles taken away from her is staring at the two virulently. there's something wrong with this child. she starts to spin a tale of her woe but it just comes out as another ranting complaint about the shit of life. the two feel sorry for her but know to keep their distance from her. one minute she's docile and plaintive, the next she's the evil seed. she is misunderstood like everyone in the world is misunderstood, but her tendencies are such that she will be misunderstood and alone the rest of her life. Three Stooges are on. the boys have tendencies, too, tendencies to observe, take in, and apply vignettes to their own lives. Marcio does not want to be alone like that. Calvin has a more doomed outlook, he doesn't want to be alone but concedes it's a possibility. the girl is already gone, forever alone, she doesn't see the Stooges up there on the stage for her to distract herself on like the boys do, she wails but she is behind permanent soundproof glass.

Karl closes his eyes as he rejoins them on the couch. the three birds in search of birds. the girl disappears.

Calvin: same old shit?

Karl smiles and immediately entrances himself with the Stooges.

it is Marcio's turn. Marcio enters the office. Lysander's bald head and whiskers turn around to face him.

Lysander: what is the meaning of your life?

Marcio does not take a dramatic pause as usual, he jumps right in there: Doctor, i have a plan. we all do.

Lysander: do you? well amen. i don't have to take out my cards and offer suggestions today?

Calvin and Karl knock on the door and come in.

Calvin: yeah, we got plans.

Lysander: i see. something not too drastic i hope.

Karl: the Stooges are over, and we needed to do something with our bodies, that's why we're here.

Lysander: come in, come in, three's not a crowd when it's my favorite boys' choir.

Calvin: we're going to join a monastery.

Lysander: all three of you? together? that is ingenious. pledging to a monastery is not like pledging to a frat, it is a scary prospect and usually done alone, which makes it scarier. going in as a three-man tandem will lessen the burden on all three of you collectively, each will hold his own weight on his shoulders to distribute the load evenly. loneliness will be quelled, lessened at least. this is quite clever. once again the doctor learns from the patients. i will be sad to see you go, but i won't be sad to see you go and thrive. you scoffed at me when i mentioned the monastery before. the monastery is the first item on my suggestions cards.

Marcio: we have given up. this is the answer for those of us who are special. we have given up, but this is the solution. we still have to eat, sleep, pray. we still have to be somewhere. we will never be somebodies, but we have to be somewhere. some bodies. we would stay here forever but we can't. so we go to the second option. i don't believe in God, i will make the perfect monk.

Lysander: might have a hurdle clearing the psych test, but i know a guy down there, one of the monks is a former psychologist, or psychiatrist, who eschewed the constant grind of listening to the inane problems of his patients to opt for the quiet life of a monk. i'll ring him and see if i can't perform another loophole miracle. the monastery is the haven for miracles after all. you're good kids, you'll thrive down there.

Calvin smiles internally.

Karl smiles.

Marcio thinks..........he is smiling.

Rya takes her ear away from the door at the last minute as the boys exit, she pretends to be fiddling with a banana in the food tray, brushing off the dirt as she drops it to the floor accidentally purposely.

the three sit on the sofa. Calvin stares at the offed screen in a disgusted mood. Karl takes a quick glance at the cover of the book Marcio is reading. Marcio is reading Thomas Merton.

Calvin: this is just going from one prison to another prison.

Karl: this is going to be the hardest thing we ever do, but it will be worth it in the end.

Marcio: this is gonna be cool.



Monday, May 26, 2014


i don't have a lover, but i'll play along.

1. do you prefer your lover a) fresh from the bath and perfumed b) freshly bathed but no perfume c) clean but not right fresh from the gold tub of cheese d) stanky?: stanky, musty, sweaty, musky, smelly, like Oscar the Grouch, au natural, really really natural, unclean, with visible stink lines, dirty inside and out, yeah, the way nature intended.

2. do you maintain your body for sex with respect to facial hair, body hair, pubic hair, fingernails, and toenails? i'm all about respect. respect for each and every living thing. the only thing i maintain are my pubes. i curl them, perfume them, and add a tiny red bow to each one before breakfast.

3. do you maintain/prepare according to your lover's preferences? yes. of course. i'll do whatever she wants. i love her and will change myself completely for her. i'd die for her. one time, she did ask me to role-play as Oscar the Grouch which was a bit weird. had to lug the entire heavy trash can onto the bed...

4. do you have body adornments---piercings, tats---for sexual reasons? does your lover? no, i have them cos i want to stand out in the crowd. i have this thing where this dude inks the fuck out of me for four hours in a smelly cave and it stays inked forever. i also have this thing where the dude pierces the fuck out of my skin and it holds metal. it's quite a trip. i look so different from any other human out there, unique and special. i'm the only one in the world who has this.

5. do you choose condoms, lube, cosmetics, or other sexually-relevant items based on how they taste? do you not use them because of the taste? no, but i have a lot of sexually-irrelevant items like a ball and a can of coke. wait...nevermind. i have a refined palate, everything tastes good to me, especially you.

6. is there a taste or aroma that turns you on or that you can use to turn on your lover? garlic. we get off on the stuff cos we're goths. to our species, garlic is taboo, forbidden, deadly, and dangerous. we are like dogs in heat whenever the annual Garlic Festival rolls around.

bonus: do you prepare a room for sex---mood music, candles, scent, cleaning it or anything? tell us about it: NIN is the greatest mood music of all time, especially "Closer". of course there's gotta be candles which smell like Oscar the Grouch's trash can home. i clean but i don't do windows. and the piece de resistance: Burger King baby! i use those dollar Burger King burgers to buy anything like in those commercials, i don't carry cash and coins in my pocket anymore, i barter everything, we're back to a barter economy, that will save the bad economy. now my baby does get a bit sore when i come home from work and there are no more dollar burgers cos i bartered them all, but we just use the stuff we got from bartering with the dollar burgers to barter to get more dollar burgers!



Wednesday, May 21, 2014


Zeve stands there under a pool of blood and with the angriest, most indignant scowl furrowing his brow. Ariun steps out to see what has happened, what she has caused. although always stoic, she breaks for a second when she surveys the scene. she looks at me open-mouthed, not enough to lock eyes with me, and quickly to the searing stare of Zeve. her lips are sealed. she is quiet throughout. she doesn't look at me again, just stands there waiting for something.

Zeve (wagging his finger furiously at Ariun's face): you'll hear from my lawyers, bitch! and my lawyers' lawyers! you think you can get away with this?! that anyone can?! this is me we're talking about, ME! (he pounds his chest.) i run this school, and this place, and the world! you were dead the moment this prank popped into your low-class head! i am so speechless i cannot talk!

a couple of bulky goons happen on the spot and lift Zeve by the armpits to drag him away. he leaves a trail of spotted blood and drips as he exits. Ariun doesn't look at me again. she closes the door in haste.

i am a bit shocked. i'm immovable. i don't know what to do next, what to say. am i out of the room? out of the commotion? it seems i am, it's not here anymore, it's another here, there. my feet must have led me out without me knowing, my cured feet.

the next day, Zeve committed suicide.

those two weeks ran slow, they went in slow motion, because they were singularly motivated by one thing: my healing and hers. we worked as a perfect tandem to solve a mutual riddle. it will never be the same again. the cloud of what-ifs and uncertainty rain upon me forever like what i want the weather outside to be. it's ironically sunny. and Ariun, too. i wonder how she feels? no one saw this coming. i did because i'm a writer, an artistic type, not meant for the corporate world. was it pressure? the emptiness of power? no love from Dad? we'll never know. there is a note but it's just a note. how can one note explain an infinite life? is it wrong that i don't feel guilty? is it wrong that i feel guilty? i never liked the guy, but just then, i started to fall in love with him. i loved him, because we are all one. one love.

life continued without my blessing. the days forced themselves through. i am wide awake as i go through this blackout. i don't remember anything i'm doing. another test, lecture, stroll in the park, i don't stroll anymore, nothing to stroll about, nothing to stroll to. life isn't a walk in the park, this has been made all too clear on a cloudy day.

when it is time to go to bed, i relish that. i sleep so much because i don't want to face my four-faced bedroom wall. i imagine there are rings coming from my bedroom as i approach it late at night lugging two brown grocery bags by the armpits. i fumble in my pockets to locate my keys whilst holding two lugs of weight. please keep ringing. i'm almost there. don't stop. stop. it stopped. too cheap for an answering machine. i'll never know who it was. all the cans have spilled onto the floor in the effort. the meaningless effort. but what if they weren't rings? they were street noises, mere street noises. the phone rings. i pick up. it's that lady

reminding me to do something about my student health care or i'll be banned for life.

it's Mom checking up on me.

it's Ariun.

everytime i crawl out of bed and begrudingly put on my shoes, i feel only pain. i feel no pain, and that's 'cause of Ariun, she fixed me, but is she fixed? who fixes the fixer?

i should call her up. i call her up. but i don't know her number. her home number. oh, her office number, she'll be there. i don't know the office number, never had to actually call it, they called me. i'll leave her a message, something to soothe her as she did me, something to take her mind off the horror of permanence. i'll sing her the Sore Feet Song. i can't sing. i'll play her the Sore Feet Song off youtube. i hope she likes it.

things are on a tangent now, they exist but at an angle, nothing is straightforward and upright anymore. i whistle waiting for the bus but it all comes out flat like my feet. i have to protect my beautiful mended feet from walking. i can whistle. every human can whistle. a song bug bores through my mind offering the comfort of melodies and yet the strangeness of a concept, it demonizes as it accepts, it dooms as it caresses,


college will pass, but Zeve never will. again. neither will my other friend who did the same thing. i tried to stop this finality, but you can't stop the finality with finals. you can only stop finality with fliers. i was gung-ho about the Suicide Prevention Club at my school, thought it was the only club worth joining, but playtime is over. games are games, life is life, and never the twain shall meet. Mark Twain's witticisms do not help. they can, but only in my mind, privately, for no one else to see, as i analyze it all.

some time later, time passed, past my pasttimes, i walked past a pole covered with a blanket of stapled fliers, all grimey and gluey and feathery from the rain. i noticed that one of my fliers of the suicide club was on there amongst the others. that had to have been Zeve's work, he was the only one i gave the fliers to, it was still a new concept for me, an idea of mine generating a seed in my infant brain, i hadn't told anyone else about it.

the police later determined after massive tests that the piece of paper the suicide note was written on the back of was one of my fliers as well. it was too faded to make out, a microscope was needed. that's not true, it's just that i wrote the flier with an invisible ink marker. no, it was clear robust smelly black marker, it's just that in my head i didn't really want to go through with it. the suicide. club.

i wondered if i had planted the idea in his head, that he was a walking bomb and me the fuse. the path to hell is paved with good intentions and made slick by infrequent rain on dangerous campus streets. it's not safe to go outside and walk at night or at day.

Ariun called me finally. she was that first lady all along with the robot voice initiating this whole procedure in the first place. i needed to do something corporate to save my position at this school, this school where i am to get a degree in non-corporate. that was the only way Ariun and i could have met, by following the rules.

Ariun has been crying, i can tell. when she speaks to me, there's not a hint of sadness in her voice. it's all gone. she is as stoic as ever. she's not cold, she's a warm person, the warmest ever who made me feel better. i let her words sink in before responding. i don't respond to her, just listen. Mom always said it's better to listen than to speak. when you are so agitated to speak, respond, comment back, you miss what the person on the other end is actually trying to say, you are too quick to filter the other person's buzzwords into your steel philosophy and too ready to attack-mode and protect your ideals. that's not listening, that's an echo chamber. that's not communication, that's masturbation.

Ariun takes a quiet pause and tells me:

"the tacks were meant for you."


Monday, May 19, 2014


1. what is your astrological symbol? does it fit you? Aries. i always thought it did, but these things can fit anyone at any time, that's why they've lasted so long. i don't consider myself a ram, more a sheep. i like to ram things, but i also ram into things.

2. list 3 positive traits of your sign that pertain to you: honestly, the only one that makes sense is the passionate one. i mean i'm not courageous, positive, or lively. is there a goth version of the calendar?

3. list 3 of the worst traits that don't pertain to you: indiscipline, confrontational, and tendency to leave projects halfway. i am very disciplined...when the project is worth caring about. still haven't found that project, though, and i'm too lazy to search. i'm the opposite of confrontational. i take the long way from school---2 miles to my house---to avoid the bullies. the bullies enjoy the dice, wisteria, and pecan ice cream while i have to settle for freezer-burned vanilla in my home fridge. turns out they meant fag as in cigarette. once i start a project, i complete it, no matter what. goodbye..............................................................oh fuck, there's more questions.

4. what is your Chinese zodiac animal symbol? California Chrome

5. The Theory of the Five Elements, which element are you in relation to your animal? fire. i used to smoke.

bonus: tell us something interesting about your Five Elements Chinese zodiac: does this still pertain to me now that i don't smoke? there are other rarer elements, like Gum, Patch, and Cold Turkey.

bonus bonus: what cartoon/comic character best describes you? take the test and share the results:


now that makes sense. i played Charlie Brown in a kid's play. nowadays i don't need the skullcap. right before i'd kick the football, i'd ask Lucy for some advice. i'd give her 5 cents. i'd ask her to analyze a bitch, a hypothetical bitch, who would remove a football from someone just as he's about to kick it...



Friday, May 16, 2014


well you know what's gonna happen here, right? it's what always happens with me. whoever is the Kentucky Derby winner becomes my pick to win the Preakness two weeks after. i know it's not fair, everyone wants to choose California Chrome, but the game creator does have certain rights i suppose, he has the corner office and the upstairs suite with the chocolate shower. two more reasons: i'm from California, so yeah, surfer/skater connection, Hollywood always up to no good, freaking out whenever we get a few raindrops, etc.. and: call me a bleeding heart, but i want to see another Triple Crown. i know it's not gonna happen...but what if it DOES this year? what if it does? without hope, life is death. to win this blog game, simply choose a horse that's not California Chrome


the winner of this blog game is the one who chooses the horse that actually wins the race this Saturday. the winner gets three comments from me to your blog place, all within the next thirty years. good luck and we'll see each other again for the results, hopefully sooner than thirty years from now. check the comments for my entry and use me as a guide. use me. it's gonna happen this year. the curse will be broken. i feel it. what? California Chrome has a cough?


Wednesday, May 14, 2014


i loved that my foot was wrecked. i loved it because it became my focus, my singular point of attention. school was worrisome, boring, and heavy, it gave me new assignments to fill and unanswerable questions to question all in the name of corporate advancement. i mean, the whole thing was stupid. i didn't want any part of this, i wanted to fly away. but i couldn't. or i didn't have the stones. i didn't have enough stones, enough weight in me to be a person of weight and stature, a fully-formed man who could make decisions on a whim and stick by them for all time. i didn't know who i was. still don't, but here at home it doesn't matter. over at the pot of boiling oil of college where recommendations mean jobs and Ivory Towers are built everyday, everything mattered, every decision you made, every class you didn't take, every credit you upgraded because you slept with the professor, this was building your portfolio for the future. it was all too complicated, i was just a guy who liked to read in the rain, did that automatically preclude me from a calculus major? yes it did, there was no fucking way i'd survive university math, i'd draw doodles on my napkins as the entire-chalkboard-sized equation was being formulated in chalk, i would get bored with the maths teacher's standard business haircut quickly. but was i then automatically an English major? thing is, reading books for enjoyment is one thing, taking essays on those books for grades and your career destroys the experience, it kills the initial loving of books.


none of this mattered anymore, because all i and Ariun concentrated on was the tending and ultimate full cure of my foot which had been slashed and bruised and battered without me knowing. i didn't notice my foot because my head was so constantly filled with thoughts of the futility of college and the inability to sprout wings. i was smart, but too smart, i focused on too many things, ran them into the ground with overanalysis, and i was left with mash. i needed to rub a carbon into a diamond for two weeks to where at the end of the two weeks i would accomplish something tangible and worthy, to where i have the finished diamond in my hand, all of the thinking leads up to a gem. i sure would enjoy this coming time...

the weather cooperates as well. we have our first thunderstorm downpour since the Great Flood, eroding the beaches and hiding the sun from view. the sun is a magical orb which keeps us alive. we still don't know anything about the sun, but we know without it, there would be no us. we are scientists who pray to the sun as our ancestors did, hoping it will stay so we can stay. i adorn my broken backpack with the hanging-chad zipper and go to visit Ariun for our first official school-sanctioned medical appointment, and i couldn't be happier, i'm getting out of the house.

the streets are so awash with the river that they lose their markings and turn into moorings. the streetsigns are no good, the streetlights have deactivated and electrocuted. does red mean stop anymore? is it my turn to go or the car's? i swim past the intersection to the grey building where grey-brown-haired Ariun will be despite the rain, hardworking and always prompt and reliable. i slipped finally coming into the office on the front mat ironically. survived the hurricane only to be felled on the very destination. that triggered a daymare: my mom wanted me to print out her church program. i hated doing it because church is a fraud. mom said it was only a little thing she asked me to do each week. she was right but i was right. she always wanted me to do it on my busiest day when i had the most amount of busywok. if this was simply the next day, the argument could be nullified. this happens every week. but then, this is the only time i speak with my mom face-to-face...

...Ariun: hello son, care to join me for our date?
me: you're too easy, you harlot! is this all anybody has to do, call up for a visit? those aren't business cards, they're business cards!

Ariun and i have this strange thing of nonsexual tension where we both know nothing will ever happen between us so we highlight that fact each and every time we try to make everything sexual. this was the strangest relationship i ever had because we started talking like old friends after only having met a week ago. the best friends are fast friends.

Ariun: let's take a look (removes the bandages). hmmm, not the best. it's a lighter shade of purple, but it's not progressing. i used the strongest solution, too. i think we have to start the search over at square one in a different ocean.

me: that's the problem with true patience, nobody has it anymore. we want solutions at the speed of the internet, but most real problems take lifetimes to solve. what good is a riddle if the answer is on the other side of the bubblegum wrapper? i'm here for the duration.

Ariun: good to know, i've cleared my schedule until i get this cured. i'm staking my long reputation on this one. dammit but i'm the queen of the foot and no one will take my crown. my name will be uttered in the Indian spirituals, Ariun whom the witchdoctors came to when the witchdoctors had a problem walking.

me: ah, so you're Indian?

Ariun: we all are native to the land. let me try the purple stuff. want some Sunny D while you wait?

Ariun took some tests and some x-rays. i had to go to serpentine lairs for the x-rays and be fondled by other people who weren't Ariun. that was uncomfortable. i wanted to get back to mom's comfort soup. i was still in my salad days but i melted easily in front of older mature women rather than the next youthful bimbo. shhhh, Ariun is back.

Ariun: i tried the orange stuff as well on a model, but nothing. thing is, i'm still not entirely sure what you have on your foot. it's some sort of alien growth without a name in the medical journals. i'm pretty certain as to what family it belongs to but not the exact term. once i know this, i can prescribe the right-colored stuff as the salve. for now, let me do some more homework, you do some more college homework, and i'll pencil you in for tomorrow. i'm used to pulling all-nighters, all-nighters are in the air here on campus, i'll be okay. i will ken this. let me undress you and dress you with my eyes scanning your foot as i replace the old stinky bandage with new bandages that smell of fresh cream and care.

me: wait, why not let me rub some of that orange stuff on it as i sleep tonight? you said you tried it on a model but maybe the model is a floozy. i'm the real deal, it could work out of chance.

Ariun: i'm hesitant to just give you an untested chemical to use as a layman, but you're not a lame man, so here you go. sure, go nuts. this will save me three pizzas tonight if you luck into discovering the right salve. orange you glad i'm giving this to you to try?

the orange goop didn't work but i was happy for the new dress. there's nothing like the smell of new bandages in the morning straight out of the package at the doctor's office fastened tightly with a new shining prick pin. i feel secure and snug and loved. my foot is nice and tight and healing. it only heals when it's tight, tight, tight.


Ariun: how are you holding up? do you need crutches to get around campus?

me: it's only been a day. it's okay, i swim. also, i don't care about going to classes anymore.

Ariun: i'm running on no hours of sleep here, and i'm thinking of three new colors. if i get them confused, it's the lack of sleep talking. after you, i'm gonna sleep on this here exam table, use the roll of white paper sheet as a blanket. speaking of sheet, here comes the brown stuff. it looks like shit. it smells like shit.

me: are you sure it isn't in fact shit? man that's bad. it's like trash that went swimming in the road and waited to dry off first before presenting.

the brown stuff didn't work, and my foot was now dipped in poo. Ariun washed off the poop with pee, she smeared light yellow stuff on my broken foot bone...but to no avail.

me: maybe we just have to let it sizzle in there for a week or so. maybe there isn't always an immediate solution.

Ariun: there never is an immediate solution. everything takes time, anything that's worth anything anyway. okay, let's meet up here again in a week to see if the yellow takes. i'll miss you.


these two weeks are a delight. a joy. it's all about the cure of my foot, that's the only goal, the only test i take, the only lecture i attend, the only tv show i watch, the two of us locked in a death struggle working together for a common purpose, the eradication of bandages and crutches. my foot, my foot, the mystery of my foot, keeps us both up at night, i sleep well but Ariun doesn't, she doesn't eat, she doesn't drink, she drinks a little to take the edge of, until she has figured it out using the calculator and the calculator in her brain.


it's the end of two weeks but to me time has stopped and has started again from the beginning of these two exact weeks. nothing has mattered before or since, this is a singular time for me when time stopped, when i had a quirky relationship with an assigned woman who took it upon herself to take care of me when mom wasn't around anymore. Ariun cared about me. nobody else did. my friend who committed suicide didn't. Zeve didn't. mom did but she was far away so she didn't.

Ariun: pain?

me: always, i'm human, but my SORE FOOT, CLICK HERE, RIGHT HERE AT THIS LINK seems to have stabilized.

Ariun: the wait is over, the journey complete...

...both of us are sadfaces...

Ariun:...anyway, i've eliminated the rest and kept the best for the best patient. it was pink stuff, like all of my clothes. of course. the answer is always staring you in the face, it's always within your reach, but it takes time and patience to calm down, take a breath, and see it, really see it in front of you. that's where patience comes in. i've waited a long time for a case like you. i've had to wait forever to find a legendary reason for my job, something that would become a fable, and i did, i removed the nail from the lion's foot.

pink stuff worked like a charm, and instantly, too, no need to wait, no need to be patient, instant cure. my foot bone healed instantaneously and the red scars turned to pink again, my pink skin. the purple scars turned red first before reverting to pink.

enter Zeve.

Zeve works at some highfalutin station on campus. he is in charge of the entire student body's health care. that is quite the trophy position for someone so young. Zeve is not much older than me and is a student like me, but he's a grad student so it's okay. i'm sure his father is the college president or something. i never asked him, but i'm sure that's the case. Zeve struts into the waiting room of the foot office with bermuda shorts and sandals on exposing his perfect, non-slashed, pink healed toes. this is typical of students at a hot California university by the beach. Zeve's just one of the guys at the end of the day, he wants to go surfing all the time but his job prevents it. he can't surf.

Zeve (knowingly): oh hello you two, just the two i wanted to run into. (yeah, sure.) i've been going over your papers and since your papers are incomplete the grace period is over. we give each student two weeks of free health care because we are generous and kindhearted. after that, you have to sign up properly or it's cut off. well, you are officially cut off. no more foot care, no more body care, and no more headcase care for you. it's over, buddy. you won't be seeing Ariun again. i forbid you to see her ever again.

Zeve thinks i'm crazy.


suddenly the air indoors is muggy, and the outside cool winds can't penetrate. faces are stern and sallow, even Ariun's usually bright one. she internally takes stock, closes her eyes, then opens them again and looks upon me with straight lips and accountant's eyes. i'm just another number again, another number in the college system, a bureaucratic filing stamped with a big red CASE CLOSED.

Ariun: thank you, sir. if you continue having problems, contact Zeve, not this office. goodday.

and with that, she slinks under the brown door with the closed screen and is gone. forever. i am left to overanalyze again, quiet in a room with Zeve my favorite person in the world. Zeve glances at me with his trademark sated smile and satisfyingly takes off his sandals revealing his bare handome feet (i must say).

Zeve: off to the beach! got a new board for the occasion. ah the life of a beach bum.

notice how he said got instead of bought. i found the beach bum thing tacky. really tacky. if you're gonna be an artist like me, be a real artist, not a corporate artist.


just then, a rush of pointy metal thumbtacks rushes from the threshold doorsill opening of Ariun's shut office door like a stream of water from a downpour campus street. it perpendicularly slashes into Zeve's path straight out the office like a holy cross, destined to cleanse. Zeve is fitfully taken aback and falls to his hands and knees with a thud, the soles and bones and toes of his once prisitine feet pricked with red dots of blood, from tan skin to gushing polka dots. the prick is pricked.

screams Zeve: MY FUCKING FEET!!!



Monday, May 12, 2014


1. my favorite month is________because___________. September because THIS, CLICK HERE, RIGHT HERE AT THIS LINK.

2. _________a fresh breeze. my undies could use a fresh breeze.

3. i love a good________. twirl in the hay. i'm halfway there now that i live in the barn adjacent to my parents' barn. i got all the hay in the world to myself. man cave is situated. i'm ready to entertain the farmer's daughter.

4. ________is a breakfast treat for me but_______is what i want for dessert. cereal is what i eat for breakfast, but i want Juli for dessert. our Cinnabon date.

5. the hobby i enjoy most______. stinks

6. ______, oh my! Dick Enberg, oh my!

7. i understand_______to my sanity. i understand blogging is detrimental to my sanity.

8. private________inside. private sex should never be about getting inside. it should be about kisses and hugs. and it should be done in public. FREELOVE!!!

bonus: what is the second pic from up above there? how would you use it? his name was Hearty. he was gonna replace Cupid as the official Mascot of Valentine's Day but the test audiences did not take kindly to him...



Friday, May 9, 2014


there was an old woman who lived in a shoe,
except she had only me, the fates said no two.
the kind lumberjack father passed into the giant's gob
and experienced god and told us about god.

now only us two lived in the shoe,
my mother the spinster with her favorite cat, me,
and me the medieval page making a go
at living a quiet solid noble life free.

two against the world, our treehouse the bunker
from all of the catastrophes of flood and from fuckers.
mom and i huddled together for warmth,
one blanket between us, tattered and torn.

"i need new shorts," i mentioned one day,
they were stained all to hell, but i was too embarrassed to say.
instead she got me new shoes because i needed them,
or my feet would have developed sores the next week again.

"i want to taste ribs," i mentioned one time,
"but don't go through all the trouble for nothing me."
she got just what i wanted---those tasty burnt ends---
and made sure to buy each of the new sauces three.

when i was a sprite, she laid out my clothes for me on my hay bed
and tells me, the lad, that a man must have shoes,
spinning her silk at night while i slept
so i can venture into the world comfortable, with no abuse.

the real world has never been real to me,
i have forever locked the door to a real me,
i make sense of the universe in a fantasy
where my mother is an eternal entity.

in the shoe, for winter has come early,
the two of us hug each other close,
viewing the window, a bright sheet of pearly,
not looking at each other but close.

i never want the old lady to swallow a fly...


Wednesday, May 7, 2014


at college i was looking for one thing: a way to distance myself from my surroundings. the experiment had failed, i hadn't made any lifelong interesting friends, friends who could outvocabulary me, no friends at all, college was simply high school with a campus. the rest of life would always be high school, no matter how long and smart and mature i became. the only thing i held onto were my grades, high school smarts had transitioned to the next level, but with high school, 4.0 matters more because it's reflective of a general curriculum, your star is put on the board and you are recognized as the big fish in your little pond. here, everyone had a 4.0, 4.0s are boring, it's impossible to stand out because the pond is as big as a campus. an A in high school had purpose, it led you to campus. in the midst of campus, an A is a very specialized thing that inches you along a very specialized major. no one else can commiserate with the A like your high school chums did from the vents of their hurt locked locker homes. only those who are partaking of your very specialized field that you choose can appreciate it, that one campus kid over there lost in the math cloud thinks your English A is the first of a quadratic equation. it's meaningless to him and to you as you're finding. it's all nothing. it doesn't lead to anything anyone anywhere anymore. high school is for homies. college is corporate.

in high school, i could escape after getting tossed in the dumpster to the lost worlds of a Dungeon or Dragon. here, you must have a little school with your distraction. the one thing which flashed red upon my answering machine that wasn't my parents calling or a wrong number or school-related were the updates a kind lady's voice would record for me. little old me, i was important enough for a complete stranger to take the time to leave a message for me at my little shithole of an abode in the middle of nowhere going nowhere. i felt special for the first time as an adult. this was school-related but not school-related. i needed to complete at least one medical checkup to make them sure i wasn't crazy.

my dream/nightmare/dream last night, the snippet i could remember anyway, was my father getting his foot bitten off by a huge lion. the huge lion was in our house because he was our pet. the expression on my father's face was one of horror. it was horrible. made more so by the fact that this was our family pet. that made it hurt more.

i gather my papers i worked on all night and zip up my light red backpack. i put the backpack around my shoulders and go outside without my beanie. such a beautiful day! the rain is falling, the skies are grey, and it is so cold my head turns to ice. i walk slowly to the designated area because i want to take it all in. this place is a slave to the beach, so any morsel of precipitation is a miracle which must be savored. this would probably be the only amount of moisture we'd get for the year. it's the only time i ever felt moist in my life.

i make a note of how frazzled i am, and how fragmented outside is. the air of commerce fills the currents of students running to their next class. i can tell which students are male and which are female from the running boobs. they race in an orderly line all over the place, like this is the first time they've stepped foot on the campus, which it is. but the seniors display the same behavior, only the seniors do it out of four years of giving up and giving in. the freshmen are dazed, the seniors dazed, confused, and resigned. i acutely feel the sense of lost and lose and loss because i am a part of this, i am completely directionless. should i next take the class on Nietzsche or Sartre? Nietzsche is preachy but Sartre was smarter. or is it peachy? i laughed again remembering the funny little professor man who taught the Sartre class. he insisted on pronouncing Sartre SART.

should i ride the BART? walking is faster, or it's the same time. by the time i waste time waiting for the BART it's the same as if i had just walked the entire way. my foot hurts but i don't feel it.

i'm walking in slow motion as i speedily see Zeve from the frosted window of the place. is this the right place? hope so. or maybe not. maybe i don't hope so. Zeve is standing there lasering me down with his stern eyes and crossed arms. his hair is slicked back perfectly. his white work shirt is perfectly tucked into his blue slacks and black rope belt with the shirt displaying just a hint of french puff all around the muffintop area between the penis and the navel. Zeve's aura is corporate from birth, it's his divine right to supervise others and milk them for his bread.

Zeve: you're late as usual. do you have the papers? i've got clients.

me: where is the nice lady who left the messages on my machine?

Zeve: it's just me here. i don't have time for your English-major dreams, i work in the real world. stop puffing and start huffing. we have to complete your profile or you are banned for life from attending any more classes. i take this more seriously than you as is our roles. delusions and bonbons are for the unemployed.

me: i wish it were as simple as me being a toker.

Zeve (breaking the zipper of my bag as he takes out and shuffles my papers): what is this? what? SUICIDE PREVENTION. CALL TOLL-FREE. IF YOU DON'T HAVE A QUARTER FOR THE PAYPHONE ASK A BUM FOR ONE. where are your registration papers for student health care?

me: these are the fliers i made for a club i want to join after i form it that's suicide prevention. aren't the colors watery? it's the most important club a campus can have, more important than the anime club or even the Young Republicans. because without life, there is no anime drawings or manifestos. once you kill yourself, it's all over, you go to hell and can never type and write and draw and inspire again. a heartbeat is lost, a soul which could have written that different lyric or cured heart attacks or sang a lyric which cured heart attacks is gone forever forever forever never never never to return and be seen again. my friend committed suicide. it was my fault because i was still young and didn't have the sophisticated college words yet to inspire him to live and fuck the world in his own way. i have to live with that for the rest of my life. i wanted to join him. but my guidance counselor said i had the grades to create a future that didn't involve french fries: it was either college or becoming a guidance counselor. i lived, i live now, but i live with the responsibility of telling the grim tale of my friend. please understand, this is all that matters to me now. i will never qualify for insurance because i am fucking crazy. go on, keep those fliers, spread the word, i hope to see you at the first meeting by the elm tree. under the elm tree's shade if it's sunny.

with that i turned around dramatically and let Zeve see my back and my open wrecked backpack. i wanted him to change for once, but he didn't. his face was aghast but not out of taking inventory but because this confirmed to him that i was a freak. i turned around to witness his face. wish i hadn't.

Zeve: the cost for operating and maintaining a club on campus is a silver dollar a day. do you have that kind of money? remember, sir, if you don't file your papers on time, you may be asked to leave. you will be forcefully expelled. i'm afraid i have to go now. i'm not afraid of anything. don't call us, we'll call you. we won't call you. we'll only call you if we think you are in imminent danger of harming yourself or others. we won't call you again.

my foot stings. it has gone from stinging to scratchy to red to i don't want to see how red it is to there must be gushing blood because i am moist again to stinging. there is a grey building which matches the sky on the other side of the intersection. i take my chance crossing the middle of the road. college students and adults don't use sidewalks, that's kid safety stuff. i hobble my way to the center of the highway right on the dotted yellow line. the podiatrist is just inches away, or feet. my feet. my foot fucking hurts, itches. a car nearly runs me over. i almost die. i had to do an impromptu backflip over the car to avoid death. i never knew i could do that. your real abilities only come out when you are about to die.

i made it to the office up one or no flights of carpeted stairs, through the elevator, and plopped my poor puppies on the chair of the waiting room. the waiting room was empty save for black wallpaper, a single lamp, and two watercolors, one of water and one of colors. no i think i blacked out. when i came to, nobody was there helping me but five minutes later a wooden window screen zipped open and a nice lady yelled NEXT.

i knew she was nice because she had a nice voice.

Ariun was an army brat tomboy through and through. there would be no sexual tension here, just a doctor and her patient. i smiled at her and she smiled at me because we both knew this to be true. her hair was a frizzy ball of mauve, her glasses pink and her hairbow pink. a long detailed doctor's robe filled with intricate gadgets and pens lay on the hook on the back of the door of the room where we did business. i wish she had put it on, no i don't, i liked her in her casual wear. i could see her pink shirt and light-pink pants hugging an impressive body, it's clear she worked out. she was healthy at any rate with nice breasts and a savory butt. and a polka-dot belt. and sensible shoes. all the while i scoped her like any of the wide-eyed freshman babes licking their lips to enter a sorority, but all the while we both knew what this was. this was a business arrangement, a mission between colleagues, a workplace romance without the romance. i am sad about this, because i am a man and she is a woman, but sometimes things don't work out. it worked out perfectly, for the first time in history a man and woman are just friends and the weight is lifted off.

Ariun: do you feel that? (gleam in her eye) i feel a weight being lifted from my shoulders.

me: you have very pretty shoulders.

Ariun: why thank you very much (mockingly but sweetly so). let's see if we can lift your weight. what's wrong?

me: everything. but i think it's my foot. Ariun, is that Spanish?

Ariun: i'm from here. (takes off my sock sexually) oh fuck. Houston we have a problem. your foot is wrecked all to hell. look at that.

i saw it for the first time. don't know why i hadn't noticed it before. too busy with busywork. busywork isn't work. work fulfills and leads, busywork stifles and kills time. it had been there so long the original slash across my ankle was bleeding for the second time over the scar of that first cut. the scar was already formed and died and became a fossil layer.

me: what's that bone called? that bulbous ball bone in the middle of one's ankle?

Ariun: it's called a bone, from the Latin for "that which holds up." in medical parlance, this is referring to the skeleton. but we both know that this right here right now is holding us both up. it's red.

me: no, it's purple.

Ariun: let's first clean this up. i address the wound as i would a golf ball. both are balls. we've got work to do.




Monday, May 5, 2014


1. ever invented something in your mind you thought would be commercially viable? no, but my Italian bff did. he had this thing in 4th grade that he knew would land him on Easy Street. he'd be Scrooge McDuck swimming in his gold coins after this: a telephone humidifier. he figured that when people went to use their landline phones, the grease and oil of their fingers, palms, and ears as they handled the receiver and talked would accumulate over time. simply press an extra red button on your dialpad to send cleaning fumes all throughout the phone case, receiver, and long coil. the gas would come out of those tiny holes in the listening part of the phone where you place your ear. it would be quite the show, a large puff of white smoke would envelop your phone for awhile there. tell me what you think of this, and i'll relay your comments when i visit him in Italy.

2. painter? drawer? photographer? ceramist? potter? sculptor? silversmith? go on, share your art with the world: potter here meaning clay, not the other stuff, right? just making clear. without the other stuff, there is no art.

i don't want to brag, but before i typed stories on a blog, i helped a certain young woman with her pottery, see the pics above. i guided her hands as she handled the clay, and we made the most gorgeous long, bulbous jars of clay. they all ended up looking like huge dongs. speaking of which, afterwards we would make love, not fuck, make sweet love. this created quite a stir, everyone wanted our autographs. i couldn't sign because i was a spirit. i am still a spirit now. RIP.

3. fiction? poetry? make up plots? are you a writer? yes, yes i am. i am a writer. i will always be a writer, always have been. i always carry around 3 or 4 original plots in my mind at all times, much like the condoms i carry around with me just in case. my work is here on this blog, please take a look at all of the original stories i have conceived of and give them your harsh review, i would appreciate that. all i can ever give to the world from now on is my stories because i can't drive a car for the rest of my life because of my anxiety. i hope one of my ideas is turned into a watercooler tv show one day, like Seinfeld or 24 or The PJs.

4. musician? sing or play am instrument? i play my instrument, but it only lasts for a minute tops. i used to play the organ. i wish i knew how to rock out on an electric guitar. also wish i could sing. i was obsessed with Smashing Pumpkins 50% because they are the greatest band in the world but 50% because i wanted to BE in the band, i wanted to write Billy-style songs like that.

5. write computer programs? my beloved father was the greatest coder of all time. RIP. back in the magic '80s, stuff like the original Prince of Persia game for PC was magic indeed. those early bit-graphic games were revolutionary and would craft smiles into the most hardened of cynical burly programmers my dad worked with. i'd smile, they'd smile, and we knew we were living in the golden age of video games. then that E.T. game came out and we rethought our priorities...

6. woodworker? baker? sewer? what's the last thing you made? i wish, i look up to those people. i fell in love with that burly man in the plaid shirt with the beard who makes all those things out of wood with ease on PBS. maybe it was just the Cobain plaid shirt. i'm still in love with Martha Stewart. that she's now a hardened jailbird who doesn't give a fuck anymore makes her sexier. you never leave prison even after you leave prison.

the last thing i made was a friend of mine smile. i made her smile. that's worth more than any clay jar.

bonus: what's the last pic up above there? write a caption:

THE PICKLE PETER, OR COCK CUCUMBER: when your lover loves the kink but is still a vegetarian... cut up these two cucumbers into a nice salad with honey vinaigrette, walnuts, and raspberries. makes the perfect meal to share between the both of you. then, when you cum in her mouth, everyone is assured that the cum will be green. environmentally-friendly cum.



Friday, May 2, 2014


my ankles are stinging so i'll make this short. tomorrow is the Kentucky Derby. in the comments box below, predict which horse will win the race. the winner of this blog game is the one who correctly chooses the winning horse tomorrow. i have always gone chalk with these things, i always choose the horse who is the favorite according to the "experts". i have never won once with chalk, never. also, the Kentucky Derby has been an especially wonky race over the years, the horse that ends up crossing first always seems to be the one NO ONE was looking at, the 80-1 shot, it's always the one getting the least amount of talk. so this year, i'm going purely on the name, not the odds. i had to pick Uncle Sigh because that's an inside joke between Juli and myself ;)


thanks for playing, good luck, and we'll reconvene sometime in the near future for the results. the winner of this blog game gets 3 comments from me at your blog place. will the Triple Crown Curse finally be broken this year? no, no it won't, it won't ever again, but it's cool now, right? it's like the Cubs...