I piss in the shower.

June 6, 2008 at 9:37 pm (Uncategorized)

And the time was such that even if the helpless were given all that they were in dire need of, they could not accept it. I accept that. Though it’s a truism of sorts, the poorest are the most charitable because they are the ones who understand need the best, and I accept that. The irony rings like the bells in university towers. Children coming up, some coming down (from the latest drug,) making their path towards their approximated fortunes. So much thought is put into the unknown that it makes the thoughtless laugh and perspire at the same time. God, let there be enough fire for us all to burn in.

The times were such that even the best of friends were apt to lock into a struggle for position on that great social ladder. The times have stayed such since the times of old before consciousness was foretold in chronicles quite bold. Times change, but the chronicles merely vary, people are basically the same. I love them. I even love me, though it takes some assistance.

044 slippin out the house, unnoticed
045 watchin my back just in case
046 things go awry, looking for that spy
047 around the way, the type of fool that plans
048 the type of fool that hands you your papers
049 focused on your reaction, looking for hesitation
050 and now you’re locked into this game with all the frustration
051 that’s involved, while I’m looking for my reasons
052 to survive, a life exciting and uncertain
053 sort of pointless and without direction
054 a silly youth’s perfect predilection
055 so tell me now if you’re ready..
056 I ask the peoples to accept me
057 but they act like they special
058 but they can’t prove it even if
059 their lives depended upon it
060 and they do when I start running through
061 fuck, you know what imma do
062 imma go insane on you and your whole crew
063 I do it to often, but these walks they calm me down
064 so out my house I jet, looking for some distraction
065 to get me out this situation
066 see the thing that gets me down isn’t the lack of patience
067 its the utter lack of conscience on behalf of my nation,
068 my mother country, my patron
069 I love her dearly but she corrupts me
070 and I’m no pretty flower
071 hell, I piss in the shower

Heh, I do do that occasionally.

-

072 on a collision path like racers on the slippery track
073 rubber is burning, my people’s are turning their heads
074 in our direction thinking that this shit should end quicker
075 before it gets so dangerous that we all crave liquor
076 to pour on the floor quicker for the homies gone in the
077 struggle with the godless universe’s conditions of attrition
078 the energies predicted the trajectories of your collision
079 assuming you understood the physics behind this sort of thing
080 that is, which you did if you did and didn’t if you didn’t
081 I can’t tell, so why bother to try to trigger
082 a reaction from your end, what is planned will happen,
083 or it won’t. Let it happen as you act and react,
084 and accept that as a fact.

-

085 had to make the moves quickly
086 time running out, the mind fuming out
087 the ears of the child stuck in years
088 of his own lack of self respect
089 stuck in his self made trap of the reject
090 from society’s soft spots, the type
091 of cat that claws away at your pussy
092 passions, making moves on the most entrenched
093 of passages, dodging gunfire from multiple corners
094 making a joke out of sandbags and covers
095 straight taking bullets
096 if I don’t last long, its because my aim is attuned
097 to the fast life, I measure it in seconds
098 this shit is meant for comrades lost in the becons
099 of the devil on the block or the corner
100 taking advice from the people least deserving
101 making their thanks heard on records absurd.

-

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The Pigman’s Journey

June 6, 2008 at 8:28 pm (Uncategorized)
Tags: , ,

-note: originally posted for ennuiLA, an up and coming publication by a close comrade in the struggle, later removed because it was unfit for the struggle, now to be posted here because it’s funky like your mother–

EnnuiLA,
if I wasn’t the Hyde to your Jekyll, I’d be
The Jekyll to your Hyde,
let it not be raw, phonetically my puns I draw, like the arrows out my case–meant your blood to draw, I’m drowning in this stinkin’ flood, and may I mention it’s my own damn fault, my bank account overdrawn and finally I’m neck deep in the mud, the type that makes you nauseous from fifty feet away, the type that is putting out my breath with fifteen cubic inches of clay, the type that leaves you in mad disarray, what exactly did I say? I said that madness is upon us and little can be done except to pray to that old god the sun, and the fucker you know he lies, and for unfair advantage constantly he vies. Those fees like forest fires you will never get to extinguish, the sun is drawing ever nearer, sun setting on your puny forest, who’ll win the battle? It’s like Adam trying to remove his own Adam’s apple–god damn unrealistic, and dangerous at the same time. Who will see the end of this god damn rhyme? (Maybe old man Time)

So much for lyrical introductions, let me begin with a piece of silence interrupted, the type that makes distinguished ladies in concert halls turn to look at you with that shockéd gaze, the same type that you know is associated with much alcohol consumption, the type I call the asshole dysfunction. So, since the rhyme and reason of things has been disrupted I can get to the main issue on my palette-tax evasion and jetting for freedom.

Bank accounts– can’t count on em’, though you can surely count what’s not in ‘em. I know the natural numbers, and this shit ain’t supernatural. It goes 0, -1, … n, where n means you are headed straight for credit hell. God bless multiple credit cards and shuffling credit, it’s sort of like gambling for safety every twenty two seconds. Can’t sleep at night because the teardrops, sweat and urine are wetting your sheets, sheets so wet you could bend prison bars, and keep that in mind as it might come in handy when the time comes around to slip out the fudge house in a dandy, possibly the same house that brought clout to strange old birdman. A game for the criminal with the white collar, how to get the hell out before you get turned out? I don’t know but give me a holler, it probably involves graft and lots of swimming but I have another idea altogether.

See, my mind state in this affair is that I simply do not care, call it what you wanna. Some refer to it as ennui, and it sort of sounds like in your eye, but I prefer to stay out of it, because I stay in hiding.

See, I need to be patient, I’m sitting in the basement, watching TV the–arguments are baseless. I’m sitting here facing this virtual reality that makes us so selfish, having emotions opens us up to the painful, so instead of intensity we cash that in for ennui. Sitting in the basement listening to tapes, and reminiscing on the days when I had my own fate in own my hands, got on the street and stuck out own my hand, and had fortune not shone my way, I’d probably have made my own way.

I used to let petty things like this here possible incarceration drive us away and draws us apart, but now I let it not tear out the sinews of my heart. I let it take just a piece, piece by piece, till its beat shall cease, till my last rhyme echoes off the ceiling of the bottom of this building, till my shrill screams hit you like a laser– performing surgery on you to lower your capacity to see, so that it’s all a blur– just like me.

Tired of sitting in the basement, I get out–impatient. Failed at my assignment-needed to stay put, needed to stay quiet, needed to lay low, needed to take my time, wait it all out and then I’d preserve my freedom in the basement, but feeling that clock- tick-tick-tock my life away, and feeling how the sweat beads form rivulents down my spine, I can only say that this claustrophobia must be a sign of the times. If I wish to not disclose my location, it would be wise to conceal my occupation but seeing as my occupation is like the housefly–common and more prevalent during the summer, I guess you can limit me down to the states where it’s hot enough to dip yourself in a chlorine-laced bowl of water. I’m headed elsewhere.

Whether it be the great white north or towards the center of the earth (and these need not be conflicting categories), I’ll leave for you to ponder, but lets rest assured we will both be in the dark as far as this issue is concerned. Me–due to my proclivities, you–due to your reader’s ignorance, both blissful like that first hit off the H– throwing up in mama’s place.

The womb was warm, but the streets are cold and dark and seedy, they remind me of the dim light emanating out my tv, just sitting there–a pigman in anonymity–it was so easy. No longer can it be that way, my true nature will lead the way as the gremlins haunt the usual haunts, looking kind of wet, trying to roll the latest cigarette, smoke em since they got em, I collect my coins for the bus stop since I gotta get to going, the bus arrives, I wish it were a Boeing but I’ll settle for a mule. I got something in between–megabits per second. It should handle the hurl.

This was the tale of this little pigman’s trip to cyberspace. Peace! ‘Till our next embrace.

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Super tired

May 17, 2008 at 10:31 pm (Freestylings, Nonfiction)
Tags: , , ,

Super tired, all over with being wired, though a part of me still dreams of those furious fires, while resting in the rocking chair of the retired.

I always ask for explanations, as if someone has them, and I hope they do, even though my better reason points to the fact that they don’t. So tell me if in reason I am wont, maybe you can provide assistance where the others failed, its as if fools trapped themselves in a contest with an asteroid belt with horrendous forces pointed in their direction, ain’t no chance for a deflection from the impact that these rocks pack.

I am well aware that wisdom cannot be gained from a book, though the glosses are plentiful and even enlightening, such things are for light weight thinkers, the type that think that mere words can capture the essence of all being, the type that believe the reflections from their own mirror are something other than themselves, seeing in it all a bigger fool than “myself”, and don’t call it I, fuck em all.

I’m not an atheist, though I’m fully convinced that I don’t know anything in the way that I want to, and I am never satisfied even though most my material means are sufficient for my material needs, ya hear, and these things have stayed that way since the day I was born, thank my father, my literal father, boy, and as far as my Father, may he bless himself for in His realm I must always be but a happy slave.

So I stay tired and am more than reticent to accept your explanations, been raped before in the spiritual sense, so don’t even bother making your sly advances because I could give less of a fuck for your salvation and your beliefs of what is my spiritual situation, all I know is that this is not the best _possible_ universe, Leibniz be damned, and that since that is the case I’m not sure if life is even worth living. Romantics aside, I’m probably still on point, for if the human being isn’t special then he’s just a speck of dust and nothing he does is that relevant as fuck, right…

Maybe you can’t believe it but I used to shed tears over this sort of thing, Beethoven and all. Now I just drink and reminisce and think, realizing nothing of importance per se, but connecting subject to predicate nonetheless, honey, and even making the occasional paper or coin of money, and you realize this shit is funny. Though for me it is nothing but a tragedy of large magnitude, a family thing which hurts to this day, G. So I reminisce and let it be, while making moves that run in the opposite trajectory, having things be directed properly with the proper velocity and the appropriate acceleration, fuck it, this is my life’s situation, so I’mma plan with the tactics and the fitting strategy, so that you can react to it and make synchrony happen, buddy.

–2355, PART II

More postings of the same variety, right…

So let me express
what I can’t caress
this girl she stays at her distance
always minding her own damn business
and what can I really say, except to penetrate this thing, OK
and so I make my attempts and conquer, but it is of no consequence so why bother
the trees they grow so high they remind me of the infinite, so tight in circumference and in consequence
I wonder where all of this is going, but if I am to follow my path through the forest such that it will come out in the needed direction and will avoid all negative deflections from this simple man’s predilections, then I’ll love life and its hapless rays of happiness, treading on the territory long banned for us little citizens, and I have to do it lest I forget my rights so sovereign, a white man in a white land just thinking about his white hand’s right to white work in this white turf. Yeah I know the double standard, so get me high enough so I can die for it, I don’t love it so much that I need to procreate for it, and for the Nazi fuckers, I’m ready to be turned into a coat for it, so let’s do it, let me get my broken cross for it.

Fuck a chilly chap that fakes the funk, fucking with a skunk when he really needed to rock like a punk does on a rugged record sounding like it was ripped from four different sources, each from the other until the final product sounds like a porcupine scratchin’ the record, djigga srkatch, djiga what? Exactly..

What do you want from me? Whatever it is I can’t really care about it since the reality is too real for me to bother even as thousands suffocate in the ruins under China. Ain’t that chilly but at least it’s honest, fuck a liar, since he makes most his profits as a product of his personal misfortune, and then proceeds to exploit that slight advantage to keep promoting an impossible visage, he rots in hell even during his temporal duration, so it’s not like I forced myself on him, right, so why bother with the pulpit preparation?

And so to quote some cats: “What’s America without greed and glamor?”

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cryptic posts

May 15, 2008 at 10:36 pm (Nonfiction)

Cryptic posts, they don’t stop, I have little time for that sort of slop but what little time I have I devote it thoroughly to this activity not quite so surly. Tell me how I’ve made a mistake if such things help me make the time pass when the time is so slow that things that normally would make me drop to my knees and pray have me now communicating my disarray to people as well as God in an international internet communication crypto-comm mission. Yeah, I said it, and believe me it’s not as fun as fishing and that shit is fucking boring isn’t it? Whether we agree is no issue to me, so let me go on to the next issue, buddy, a family issue. Aren’t those the funnest, and fuck your grammar, buddy, and aren’t those the ones that tear your heart, aren’t they funny?

Tell me why every day some new pressure must mount as if the totals were not building up as high as mount everest on this amount, and for that matter, on this account I’ve actually been free of a charge, so judge me not, my peoples, whoever you are these days, I don’t even care– not to mention _know_. So fuck your presence intermittent and uncommitted, fuck a phantom that displays pixel passions, the type that has me gnashing my teeth in hell when life is somewhere on the level of purgatory, a constant slog story. Where is the gun, where are my balls, where is my(the) temple? Where is my shrink, right?

As far as I remember, I retired the bitch and made her go chill on some APA retreat where they talk about the endless minotaur maze that is the mind, making no progress because those with the degrees are just a degree less lost than the rest of us as far as these issues are concerned. And yes, I know the statistics and I know what comes with it, and I’ve read what is supposed to be proper these days, and I still feel like I’m lost in the maze, so what the hell?

No one is expected to explain, though the ones with the alpha status are allowed to make some noise but up until a point because even the lowest on the pecking order know how to raise their nose up towards the sky, blue blood and all, sitting on a cracked, stiff wooden chair, thinking it’s a throne, looking out for their human rights on the screen of their mobile phone, calling the politeness police, thinking this shit is cease and decease but it isn’t and it never will be when passions are raised towards Hades or Olympus since the time is drawing nearer towards that date when things will be coated in sugar and plums, pie and baklava’s, when there will be little time left for that last gasp of those who make a pass, assuming such exist, which at this point is not an issue except a for that always ready cocked fist.

So how about chillin’ out?
How about it?
Well, this is a cryptic post so I take my liberties with and for it.
So uckFay ouYay, itchBay, uvenileJay eelingsFay ANDay ALLay.

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modified

May 9, 2008 at 8:29 pm (Freestylings)
Tags: ,

No need for introductions, thank Newton for the fluxions.

–1947

Words on the paper make me think about glorious rapiers slashing through the misty forest chopping up the greens like so much potatoes for the porridge, and with this culinary violence I aim to mince no words, though I may miss the sound of fifths or thirds, or what time may have you think is mandatory, I do it with that spice and gory glory so unwelcome in this our porridge’s story, which now heated will offer us with an excuse to dine…
“As if we need that and not more wine! Fuck a porridge!”

Excuse me–and I hate to be a bother, but since the sun is still underground I would find it proper that you remain calm and sober, at least until the break of dawn, lest when the sun comes up you find yourself facing down, trying to clean up what remains from your sleeping gown.

“There is reason for my crankiness and thirst for alteration, and that is that my brain is still hurting from the evening’s celebration.”

Understood but why not ask calmly? “fuck a porridge…” this ain’t exactly a restaurant, you see, and I spent time working on it for you and me. Apologies, if offered, will quickly be accepted but I insist that then with your wine the porridge will also be digested and in due time your head will be redirected.

“I’m sorry. Now can I drink so that once again I may think?”

You may, but don’t you fool yourself, my boy. There’s employment always to be found in fool’s errands, but it is not from lack of work that you chase these red herrings. Why seek what cannot be had by having what should not be sought so often that your self gets muddled in the process? said I as the porridge plopped into a pithy plate. The wine was poured, it was from the red grapes of grandpa’s vineyard, an eye opener if I ever saw one, and I’ve seen a plenty, the boy himself requesting naything except the silence of his quarters as I leave him to his own devices the porridge now cold but seasoned with plenty spices.

2021–

–1920
Gotta stay modified like some shaved wolf in a woolen coat, trampling freely over grass with impunity, a paid vacation from brutality, traded my suit for tenpence a hair but now I run with a glint of despair, looking for that land of milk and honey– all I need is stinkin money, but the fare is more expensive than what hair can get me, need to impress, need to pay fees, for nothing in the world is free, and for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, sheepish fellows now rockin that wolf fashion, scaring and scarring neighbors and children, while I graze on grass with broken down feelings, tell me what makes us fellows so easy to sway, and why it is from ourselves that we stray? Run away but stay sly, fly my son, fly so high to that never ever land of broken promises, the lies they do caress and the image at times fails to impress, but ain’t that the f-ing premise?

Gotta stay modified, like a silly boy with too much pride, like immorality its not what but how you do it, ebbs and tides if not flows and perturbations, of this our sinful nature, are to be analyzed if there is to be hope of figuring out this mess of man, and even then we should be prepared for a change of plan, before these things get entirely out of hand. Like some madman on a stomach bender, my palette–ever so tender in its hues and variations, understatements and overt arrangements… Freedom escapes me as the clock cuts down all finite competition, and as it does, I stare and listen.
1940–

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Intentio Brevis

May 6, 2008 at 8:01 pm (Uncategorized)

The plan for the post: some carefully selected autobiographical details from the day, some freestyling, and probably no hint of scene 8 (I’m not feeling this story at all, it feels forced, as if I pushed myself into some place where I really don’t know what to do, and thats some real shit. That said, I’m a stubborn bastard and have decided to finish it. Just not now!)

Somewhere in the back a sweet jazz cat’s horn is playing, and a piano provides light accompaniment. I sit and ponder. Drama, drama, drama. Makes me want to move to a solitary island to spend the rest of my days chewing on tropical fruits and living off the land in complete abandon. I remember getting a ride through the Shasta mountain range, where often times you would see a property or two stretch for miles. Miles and miles of grass and rocks interrupted only by the occasional tree and that single, lowly and lonely shack of a house where the owner lives or at least lived. I imagined this to be paradise–with a shotgun to boot. It is also a good place for brutal crimes, I suspect. People really need to chill. The moment you drop the pride, you drop 90% of the bullshit. The other 10 you can bear with, and the real shit, you should deal with. Its a god damn shame when grown ass adults preach the concept but can’t practice it.

–1924

The water in the pool ripples violently around the lily’s petals. The lily is part of a whole constellation of flora specially cared for by the park authorities in the old Abernathy pond. Abernathy is the artificial pond extraordinaire of McKinley park– oval shape, the axes maybe 20 by 50 meters, hard to tell at this distance. It features an exquisitely mosaicked floor on which through the crystal clear water the onlooker may witness the sight of thousands of coins of various denominations and quantities spread out roughly evenly throughout the pond. At it’s central point, the pool is crowned with a fountain featuring what looks like Venus and four little angels, pissing as usual. My vantage point is the presidential chair in my office, on the fifth floor, about 100 meters from the park entrance, and maybe 150 meters from the pond itself. My binoculars are very powerful but unfortunately have only one magnification.

Truly magnificent sight, these ripples. As I dart my sight with the binoculars gently across the whole pond it seems as though these ripples were not an isolated incident. The whole pond is rippling, as if a high frequency vibration were shaking the ground below the pool, the effect being comparable to a glass of water placed on top of a spinning washing machine.

I take my eyes off the binoculars for a minute and look back at my desk. It still radiates that feeling of permanence and stability, not to mention holding the piles of unfinished work, none of which seems to be vibrating. I touch it all the same just to make sure that the tiny vibration which escaped my sight will not escape my touch. It might have been tiny enough to have managed to escape even that, but then again I figured if it was so tiny, it might as well not exist.

I am about to return to the sight of the pond when a violent knock on the door comes to my attention. Clara! That bitch.

–1958

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Online a’gin

May 3, 2008 at 12:09 pm (Nonfiction)
Tags:

Got tangled up in this web again. A world wide conspiracy to connect computers. Octupus-like with it’s tenticles of corruption, spreading “information.” Rats everywhere. Everywhere! A man cannot even run a decent scribble-shop without interruption from the information generation. And to think I had just managed to overcome the symptoms of web-separation anxiety. I could have been free. But since I am a slave, you get the latest post.

The sea-coast was humid, as it should be, and the relatives were fuming, as they will be, and I was studying which surprised me. I must now interrupt this broadcast and return to “real life,” harboring the assumption that this is somehow a parallel life outside of life. I’ll be back though.

-Y.K.

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Don’t you know?

April 24, 2008 at 10:42 pm (Drafts, Freestylings, Nonfiction)

“Know what?,” you might ask. I’d prefer that you didn’t though because then it shows that I don’t know if you know what I know you should know, you know? Exactly my point, assuming a point was to be had, or made. And I’d much rather make one than have it, and after that give it up freely like some uncaged bird, wrapped up in sea-weed, for all to observe (ya heard!)… Why not.

Simply silly is my mind state of today, a most meteorologically pleasing day, spring came before the first of may, and managed to wipe away a good portion of those gloomy thoughts of yonder years that plagued this silly mind to the point of tears on not one but maybe 10 occasions plus or minus a smidgen and a heavy head placedon some train tracks, just waiting… But enough of that, the sunlight breaks through the raindrops and the trees have come to full bloom, the youth are actively preparing for the coming months’ many celebrations, and my soul is vibrating with the pangs of passion and elation.Maybe I am describing mania? Maybe not. If this is what they call being high on life, It’s enjoyable even if trite. So, lets get high tonight.

Upon reading something strange I realized that 4/20 passed and was not even noticed, hell I wasn’t even vaguely reminded of the supposed significance of the day up until right now. And this despite the calendars, cellphones and computers to prompt me along the way. I guess the reason is that it’s about as significant as St. Patric’s day and for the same basic reason(ok).

More bullshit I pile.

–2207
“Stunning, a stunning specimen. The finest of its class, where’d you get it at?”
“Nowhere special. But why do you say that? What are the distinguishing features?”
“Well, you see this here engraving?”
“Mmhuh.”
“Well, upon closer observation through this looking glass, you can see that there is actually an engraving within the engraving. You have to see it at an angle. Go ahead.”
[Fumbling, unsure what he's looking at.]
“Well, I think make out something, but really I can’t see what you are seeing. Are you sure about this?”
“Yes, of course, completely. Just turn the pen a little bit and you should see the reflection come off from within the grooves, but keep in mind that these are very small, and scattered.”
“I see something. I think it’s the letter A. Em, no, its an electrical tower, or oil rig, or something like that.”
“Maybe you should see an optometrist, you might be having a hard time getting that thing in focus, here try this one. You know, I do have a good one’s number that I can give you…”
[Gives it some thought. Looks at the shape again.]
“Ah. It’s a Tee Pee. How bizarre.”
“Yes, truly odd. They used to call ‘em the Indian special. Only 12 ever made. Capone had one. I think so did Nixon.” Terrible president…” [he mumbled] “And unless its a really good fake, then so do you.”
“Truly amazing. This is a strain on the eyes, but I think I make out another one. A buffalo.”
“Yes, not incredibly imaginative, but quite intricate, not to mention expensive.”
[rubs on eyes]
“Oh, really, here you go.” [hands him the optometrist's business card] “this guy can really help you out. A real professional.”
[puts card in shirt pocket]
“What kind of money are we talking about?” [looks back into the glass intently]
“You could probably find buyers who would dish out 5 figures for this sort of thing, but of course you’d have to know how to advertise it. Otherwise the worthless becomes simply priceless.”
“Yes, well what sort of five figures. 20, 50, 90?”
“It really depends. There won’t be immediate demand, and it would have to be vouched for, and ultimately it is the buyer’s market but if I was you I wouldn’t settle for less than 30.”
“Thanks a lot. I gotta go, I guess.”
“Yeah, no problem. Let me get you my business card. If you ever need someone to vouch for it, or if you want me to talk to some people with taste, we can have something arranged.”
[reaches for the card before the man pulls it back]
“Oh, I forgot and here’s my cell phone on the back.” [passes the card back. takes it, puts it in his shirt pocket]
“Thanks again for everything but I really have to get going. Pressing matters.”
“Of course, good bye.”
[The bell on the door chimes. The door closes.]
2242–

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Clear Head.

April 20, 2008 at 7:01 pm (Drafts, Nonfiction)

Healthy as can be again, ain’t it swell. Well, it ain’t swollen, and that’s for sure. My head, you silly mammal, my head is clear again. These three days of half-conscious recuperation have been refreshing, if strange. Naturally nothing productive has been done save the reading of a book and some new music downloaded off those tempting torrents, if we accept consumption as negative production and wink mathematically, that is. Other than that, sleep and medication has been the vibration in this here nation. Looking back I must laugh.

Scene 7

Andre is crossing the intersectons with increased speed as the traffic seems to dwindle at each intersection. In fact, it seems as though the population density is dwindling in terms of both pedestrians and motor vehicles. The change in horseback traffic is zero, but then again what horse-riding occured in —–, probably died out around 1967 in some bizarre incident involving large amounts of blotter acid, a flower-pot, a motorcycle and two unaquianted midgets where, of course, that combination is just highly probable and not certain. That said, the population present, in whatever mode of transport, seems to be headed _away_ from Andre’s current direction. All the better, he thinks, as he does a rolling stop through O street and jets off towards the N street intersection.

The wind sweeps away what small portion of the grime it can, and in enough time it will all vanish. Nature keeps working in its cosmic frame of mind, wiping us away one at a time, a molecule at a time if it deems it necessary, but never giving up, never sedentary in its habits ingrained all throughout its mighty frame, Nature takes care of all that we call fame. No street washing machine could compete with that, but on this morning, and at this time, on this our L street, one is attempting to do just that. Surrounded by four police cars, two in the front, and two in the rear, this vehicle brings the power of many street sweepers to the fore. What Andre would have noticed, had he read the news, was Mayor Verrazzano’s new campaign against crime. The noble Mayor’s late night flash of genius was the idea that should the inner city be scrubbed more often it would not be so awful, and that the correlated increase of police presense, firepower and vigilance and not to mention soap might result in a correlated increase in office presense for the mayor, possibly spilling into a new term or two. Verrazzano was hardly clear of suspicion when it came to connections with various criminal outfits, but other than those rumors he had a clean media image, and his policies were certainly cleanly.

Despite the fact that Andre didn’t read the papers, most of his age-peers living in —– were by now well aware of the situation and would vanish from the apropriate street when they heard the roaring sound of the machine, or else face the swift arm of the law, or water hose as it were. Occasionally a highly delusional or intoxicated indivdual, always the the sickest and the weakest of the tribe, would stay on the street and get promptly booked and bagged off to the county jail for the appropriately imaginative charge that awaits such derelicts. Soon after the noise vanishes, the wiser, fitter ones reapear, and the grime in all it’s street splendor follows quickly. A minor and expensive nuisance it may be for the population living grimily but that’s democracy, baby.

The N-street intersection features a stoplight and four empty crosswalks with shining little green and red men who clearly intend to do their signaling duty even when no one could possibly notice. It is in moments like these that the law is at it’s most just. The intersection is also empty and Andre waits, looking through his rearview mirror, only to see his last neighbor from the back vanish into the last intersection. Andre is all alone and waits for the change of lights. He looks at his watch and his heart sinks deeper as each second winds by. The wind blows throught the empty streets with that special whine and whistle that only wind can make. Had there been anyone out there, they surely would have been chilly. Inside the vehicle, its hard for Andre to keep his cool and soon the cigarettes, foot tapping and lip-biting resume at their now automatic pace. Andre plays with the radio some more, and finds that he can no longer stand any of his minimal choices and starts rumaging through the glove compartment to find a CD. He locates one only to realize it’s an empty case and turns the radio off again. Surrounded by a cloud of smoke, shielded from the elements, he awaits the light, in silence.

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Sick

April 18, 2008 at 7:32 pm (Uncategorized)

I’m feeling sick, and am fairly certain it’s some sort of virus. I blacked out repeatedly last night. Can’t post much more, good night.

-Mr. Kadaffi

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