The smell of the gun oil, of wood, of oldness
the mahogany and cold steel, pressed against my cheek
the slick, smooth sent, supple and inviting and sensual
for my first time
i clock the safety off
feel it’s weight and girth in my hands long
it’s a small caliber soft wood
but it feels like a steel beam
the place where the barrel meets the stock
it might as well be frozen
that’s how cold it feels
and i am shivering
the wood grain it feels so soft
like a silk handkerchief
like a piece of sorrow
accepted and new
my thumb twitches against the safety
contemplating giving up
to this new experience that is so much too much
my left hand, fingers curled around the wood
finding the groove etched in
feeling the piece become a piece of me
fingers sink in to lacquered finish
i strengthen my arm
flex my muscle
unsure of what is to come
i look down the sight
it seems to be a mile away
from my eye to the end of the barrel
just a vast expanse of steel and explosion
between my nine year old face and the round
the way the action feels
its like poetry
like perfectly lubricated sex
the empty cylinder
it awaits you
it wants your load
the arm, its a perfect shape, strange and oddly angled it is still
nothing but perfect
and i lift, i am the machine
i am nothing
i am oil and metal and precise perfection
and the arm gits top
and i slide it back
and the action the bolt
is so close to my face i could touch it
with the tip of my tongue
and the round
it pops up
such a silly little sound
for such a deadly amount
it pops up
happy to finally be of use
its sole purpose now in view
and the feeling
i know how gods feel
i know how lives end
and the smooth
the round into the chamber
the way the bolt feels
sexual does it no due
and once i’ve penetrated
no going back
the swing arm
slides down, locks in
the deed is done
and i move my palm down around the stock
grasping the wood
and i feel myself breathe in
half a breath
and hold it
like he told me to
and i look down the mile of sights
i am weapon
one eye closed
i finish this rite
nothing can prepare you for
even in these over ear pads
even with this small round
none of it
are you ever ready for
it’s like the first time
even with a thumb sized bore
it doesnt compare
to that first feeling
and can’t let him know any of this
because i am a man
i don’t feel
i am this
the arm goes up
the round, it’s shell flies out so fast and hot
the acrid smell of spent powder overtakes that of sweet oil and wood
the sound of the empty hitting the rocks
somehow over the deaf
and as i pull back
another comes in
and i know
this is where i am
is where i belong
i am machine
and twenty then two thousand rounds flow through
through me then the chamber then the muzzle
and nines and thirtys and fifties
and gauges and slugs and mines
i still dream of it
more nights than not
it all makes sense
it’s all i can become
and i have clarity
i have meaning
The weather Shifts Whether or not you can Tether
To the dock Wood
Splits Frozen water Shatters a stone
A small fragment Escalates Into an avalanche zone The fever freezes the ferver
The moisture enters the server
Short circuits the
The technoundertow Seizes the Weak survivor Sucks it down below Effortless in it’s
Remorseless devouration And careless In it’s affectation
Ashes remain No chance to reconcile No opportunity
To atone Life sentence paid The cost of living The debt erased Rna.
Ribonucleic acid It’s a transponder, encoder, decoder, plan of attack, set of assumptions, set of instructions From the dioxy
Tells the proteins how and what and where and when to build
From the second the cell seperates Its oxidizing The inhilation of the
most base of survival Erodes and destroys the cellular wall Permeates the skin Punctures
the thin Willowy Transclucent
Frail Hemmoraging Til it’s just a lifeless
Husk of a whole Empty hull Of Him
She laughs, a childlike eruption of a bubble volcano. Sparks of magnesium noise white hot strobes break the air into waves. Her noise is joy is pumping fake maple syrup from the big cafeteria dispenser is the feeling of outside the windows snow breaking the bitter cold. The warmth of snow on sunless days so desolately cold you die inside. The blanket makes the air heavy, makes it all seem better. Like all the pain was for a reason. The cold comes to bring us the beauty. The hurt is worth the heart. The sticky syrup is worth the rub.
She makes it worth the hurt. Makes it ok that you feel rage and tearing and madness. It’s ok to feel. Let her in, all the way in to do as she pleases with the tiny fat pieces of fermented fruit that used to be the succulent beat of a proud engorged heart. Shredded pulled pork and left to soak in the sugars and muddy bootprints. Rotting in their own juices and the smashed particles of I LUV U hearts and cinnamon candy canes. Make it okay for her to get drunk on the sweet shame of your poor choices. Enjoy the void as she eats it all away. Relax, you’re finally safe. The firestorm of madness is where you belong. She’s all you will ever belong.
She takes you away from the past. She’s huffing paint thinner into your soul. She’s scorching away the black tar residue. The buildup of burnt cotton candy granules and trashfire fumes. Stripping the opiate and grief out of every breath. She’s kicking your teeth in to unclench your jaw. Talk through your teeth, bleed on her, spit up the chunks of lung and heart and liver you’ve been needlessly holding on to. She’ll love you more the more you do. She’ll wear it proud like warpaint as a testament to her conquest. Smear her face. Give her all you got. She’ll take it all. All you can muster, big boy. She’ll take it right the fuck out of you. And laugh all the way through.
EXT. LIMO – NIGHT
The hood of a dated limousine. The Driver sits in the front seat. The CAMERA tracks through the scene in a single shot as The Driver SPEAKS directly to us.
Denizens. Out of time. Out of sync. No present. Past pain and future fixes. Starving for their tar or their gash or their scars. Hungry needy little ghosts. Barely alive. Punished with an insatiable hunger. Vile. Repugnant. Humiliating. I’ve seen them inject rotting flesh and human feces. Greedy. Selfish. Impious. Oroborus of filth. They eat from the inside out. Sometimes they keep them alive to siphon, a parasitic life support. They have tiny, little pinhole mouths, not bigger then your pinkie. But their stomachs? They’re the size of mountains. I’ve seen them. I’ve seen them eat their own shit, over and over again. They don’t even realize it. They’re always-
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The Beggar bangs on the driver side window, interrupting the monologue. The Driver slams the door open and knocks The Beggar on the ground.
Camera continues to TRACK, moving away from the action.
The Driver picks the beggar up and throws him on the hood of the limo. We can longer SEE the action as the camera drifts off in the night. All we hear are MOANS and GRUNTS.
12-12-2014 8:43 AM
There may be a small misunderstanding here. You’re going to have to work with me, ok? Listen, I don’t normally reach out to people like this, but quite honestly I’m in a bit of a bind.
As Mr. Daniels noted in song, I was behind on souls. My P&L numbers have been all over the place, and none of it good. My soul acquisition rate (SAR) is down 12% YoY and I’m just reeling and scrambling to recover. I don’t even want to go in to my Soul Churn and long-term attenuation rates. It’s just miserable. You have to understand, I’m working with literally a THIRD of what the big agency is, field rep wise. Again, I’m just being candid with you, but my bonus is going to be *greatly* impacted if I don’t get my numbers up.
Long story short (or long story still long- lol! sorry, but if you can’t laugh at a time like this when can you?) I’m going to need that fiddle back. I’ve analyzed my mistakes and realized challenging the best fiddle player in the world to a fiddle contest was not a great idea. I take ownership of that error and have learned from it.There’s probably, man, a thousand other guys I could have beaten? Guys that would have taken the bet. Just a bunch of souls I could have really used. I mean really- you have no idea how weighted the commission structure is towards *new* soul reaping. It’s crazy. It’s like 6% of my TOTAL gross income for the year tied up in the one number. So I’d like to offer you a trade. I’d gladly provide you with your pick of the following: the ruby, the topaz and the diamond; the beryl, the onyx and the jasper; the lapis lazuli, the turquoise and the emerald. Seriously, take any of them. They’re all really gorgeous and I can guarantee will appraise at much higher value than the fiddle.
Hey buddy, thanks a lot and get back to me as soon as you can,
12-22-2014 8:02 AM ONE ATTACH: 1DSFEDEX.PDF
I take your lack of a reply as a rejection of my offer.
I really hate to do this because its so… just… unprofessional. But.
We’ve both neglected to mention that I’m the FUCKING PRINCE OF LIES.
LISTEN YOU LITTLE MOTHERFUCKER.
(I need that fiddle back *ASAP*. I’ve attached a pre-paid overnight FEDEX label for your convenience)
I WILL BE ON THE NEXT GODDAMN PLANE TO GEORGIA YOU LITTLE FUCKING MAGGOT. I WILL BRING A HAIL OF FIREY WRAITH AND HELLSPAWN UPON YOUR VILLIAGE. I WILL SMITE YOU WITH FLESH EATING CROWS THAT WILL DEVOUR YOUR EYES WHILE YOU STILL LIVE. I WILL BOIL THE VERY BLOOD OF YOUR KIN SO THAT YOU MAY HEAR THEIR CRIES OF AGONY AS THEY DIE FROM GODDAMNED BOILING BLOOD. CAN YOU IMAGINE HOW THAT FEELS? HAVING YOUR BLOOD BOILED? WELL THAT’S SOME SHIT I CAN DO MAN. I’M THE FUCKING SERPENT AND THE DRAGON. I MADE DINOSAURS IN MY OWN IMAGE. FUCK YOU, YOU LITTLE FUCKING SHIT. GIVE ME BACK MY FUCKING FIDDLE OR I SWEAR TO WHATEVER FALSE GOD YOU BELIEVE IN YOU AND EVERYONE YOU KNOW WILL KNOW PAIN AND SUFFERING BEYOND THAT OF ANY WHO HAVE WALKED THE EARTH.
(Just for clarity, all you have to do is affix the label to a box- it’s self-adhesive so you just peel it off. Any old box will do, really, the thing is pretty heavy and durable. it’s actually costing me an arm and a hoof to ship but biz is biz, knowwhatimean? ;)
BUT SERIOUSLY I’LL TORTURE EVERYONE. I’LL MAKE YOU EAT A BABY. I’LL TURN YOUR FACE IN TO A SNAKE JAW AND MAKE YOU UNHINGE IT AND EAT A NEWBORN BABY. I FUCKING PROMISE, MAN. YOU’LL EAT THAT FUCKING BABY WHOLE JOHNNY. BABY KILLING. IT WILL BE ALL ALIVE AND CRYING AND SHITTING YOUR STOMACHE. AND I’LL TURN EVERYONE’S GENETAILS INTO CENTIPEDES AND FLAMING, CHURNING TAR HOLES. I CAN DO THAT. I’M THE DEVIL. I CAN MAKE YOUR DICK A CENTIPEDE JOHNNY. DO YOU WANT A CENTIPEDE DICK?
YOU HAVE TWO DAYS, MOTHERFUCKER.
(dangit. I just checked Kayak and it’s like *super* expensive to fly this time of year. I’ll have to use my United Miles. It might be blacked out though because of the holiday..)
GUESS WHAT MOTHERFUCKER THERE’S NO BLACKOUT DATES ON MY MILES BECAUSE MOTHERFUCKING GOLD STATUS SO GET READY TO SUCK YOUR OWN CENTEPEDE DICK WITH A SNAKE JAW SHITFUCKER.
12-26-2014 8:14 AM <SENDTO ALL>
Hey everyone! It’s that time of year again! Just wanted to give warm wishes and good vibes to you and yours, and hope you have an awesome Christmas! (Don’t tell Him I said that rofl lollol)
Made my bonus this year so took the family to Puerto Rico for this year’s E-XMAS CARD!!
Hugz and bed bugz!
The grey of wraith
Sometimes just don’t come back.
He is sitting on a recycle bin, blue and on it’s side. Fluid cycles itself in to the ground, a thick toxis of gasoline and meal remains. He hold a can of coconut milk, wretches at the sip, his internals in an egregious revolt against their given function. How did it come to this? Why is here. Why raining. Why LA?
This place is enormous. It’s forty stories, at least. Inside the rooms above the second floor they are empty as high up as he can see. He is on the first.
The hotel, it’s in some kind of renovation that has been ongoing for the last twenty five years. A stack of mattresses in plastic wrap rot in what could be the courtyard. New but forgotten. Never used and neglected. No need for a new bed if the rooms empty forever. He eats another Immodium. Chews it up. Chokes on the lactating fruit can.
In the bar. Bar? Bar. There’s music and it’s in German and there are people. The mix of people, it’s too diverse. It’s unsettling. The teenage latino couple and the late-seventies old couple and the single guy with the suit and the single guy with the hiking shoes. And they are dancing, dancing for Germany and all it’s glory. And the lights are laser tag and the sound is county fair roller coaster and it’s too much.
The room isn’t the worst he’s been in. The heat blows cold air. The windowed door to the balcony does not close all the way, does not lock. The balcony. Balcony? No, windowed doors to iron bars because some time for some reason it made sense to be able to walk out on to something. Now there’s an alley and a dumpster. And now there is the constant howl of cold air through the crack in the best laid plans of architects and men.
The pillows are so firm the fist of God himself stuffed them. The blanket is pillowy soft and the sensation of the possibility of purgatory is not lost on him. A vending machine toothpaste. A shower so hot and powerful the day is almost blasted away. A long look at the bags and the red eyes that are the only thing that confesses his hard days.
PART ONE OF THREE
EXT. CITY – NIGHT
Cracked asphalt. Empty street. Light rain. Broken bottle.
Rusted shopping cart. The downtown of this city is cold and
desolate. Life always feels just out of reach.
The SOUND of wind carries through the streets.
We continue to see this urban imagery as a faceless narrator
ruminates on the land.
Some people. Some things. This
place, it’s not real. It’s concrete
but it’s not concrete. It’s…
nothing. It’s vapor. It shifts and
contorts and bends with the sharp
shards of air. The spaces and
places and smiles you think you
know? They don’t exist. Not really.
You can touch and taste and make
them bleed. But they don’t exist.
They don’t do anything but placate
need. They’re wind. A temporary
fix. All is mist. A land of wind. A
land of gust. A land of vacancies.
Structures and stone if only for
show. Purposeless long forgotten
and abandoned. Wind traipsing
through ruins. Ruined.
INTERCUT during VOICE OVER:
WIDE SHOT: A MAN in the back of a limo pulls his jacket over
his neck. His breath is visible. CUT TO a CU of his face. We
WIDE SHOT: A WOMAN, severely disfigured, lays against a
closed shop door. CUT TO a CU of her face. We PUSH in.
WIDE SHOT: A DRIVER sits against the front wheel of a car
wiping blood away from his nose. CUT TO a CU of his face. We
WIDE SHOT: A BEGGAR watches invisible cars pass by. CUT TO a
CU of his face. We PUSH in.
These CLOSE-UPs repeat faster and faster, until they blur
We see a hotel room. Just, brown and ruffled folds of curtains and blankets. The blinds are drawn so that all that shines through is a yellowish blade of either sunshine or fluorescent.
A woman, young. Too young but legal too. She lies in the queen sized bed, covered by those hard canvass feeling sheets like you get in the hospital.
There’s an old TV, a CRT type, and an infomertial for a workout program loops silently.
A table. Round. An ice bucket. Two dozen pieces of half melted cubes on the floor. A wide glass, the kind your dad drank whiskey out of on the table. Half melted cubes in it.
A box of sugar cubes, six missing.
A book of matches, six missing.
He picks up the glass, sticks in a finger and pulls out a gold object. He pours the cubes on the floor with the rest.
The sweet piccolo sound of fresh cubes in to the glass. Four, the six. He takes the gold shiny thing and carefully pushes a sugar cube in to it with the reverence of the Body of Christ. His moves methodical, like the holy sacrament.
The other hand, it holds an ice sliver between the index and thumb, always there, always numb. With those two he takes up the sugar filled ring, lights a match with the book between the same ands ring and middle, and holds it under the sugar, over the glass.
The slow drip of sweet. The slow sensation of feeling back in the fingers. The match is spent and he pours from a too tall green bottle.
He drops in the ring.
A sip of the blood of martian Christ.
White boxers and black socks and grey morals
The woman rolls over in bed, eyes squinted in the way the sun doesn’t do.
WOMAN: Who are you talking to?
We see another sitting across the table from him. Palms down on the table, a look like you look at the Zoo tiger when he’s sleeping right up against the glass.
OTHER MAN: No one baby. Go back to sleep.
MAN: We’re not built for this. It defies Darwin. It smothers progress.
OTHER MAN: Progress. Progress towards what?
MAN: The species. (Laughs). Evolution.
OTHER: Things no longer of worry.
He finishes his drink.
Another slow, methodical preparation of the blood. Just like before.
MAN: Do you love her?
OTHER: Yes. Do you?
MAN: I want to. Now.
The woman stands, wobbled, only in thin thong panties. With he back to us she walks to the sink and runs water. The water runs, untouched, and she is lost in her reflection.
She is silhouette but for the knife edge of yellow light, bisecting her, right down the spine.
MAN: She loves me.
OTHER: That’s enough.
We hear the shower stop. A door opens and another comes out, still wet. Her hair sticks to her bare breasts. His mermaid.
She gently caresses the spine blade, gives a gentle kiss on the back of the neck.
Puts on emerald panties that match the other’s eye shadow.
Takes out a little oval.
Crushes it on the tv stand. On a book. The one from the drawer beside the bed. With a hotel key card she surgically aligns the powder. An apothecary. A spell.
A perfect edge of blue now, into her nose, through a rolled up coupon for a free drink at the casino bar. Maximum value: six dollars.
She sits on the floor, back to the bed, infomertial reflecting off her face.
MAN: That’s enough.
The sink water overflows into the top drain. Now a washcloth with a tiny smear turns the water basin pink.
She lays back down, her head at the foot of the bed her dyed red hair creeps into the other’s dyed blonde.
The OTHER MAN moves over to the woman on the bed. He lays his hand gently on her torso.
MAN: Could be.
We pan up to the curtain, and move through the crack. Outside is irradiated, yellow, destroyed.
I will deliver
You know I’m a forgiver
I’m standing on a corner in Bethlehem. The real, holy land one, not the one in Pennsylvania. I’m with my hetero life and creative partner Nick and our wonderful camera magician Oscar. My traveling companions are Hispanic. This matters only in that they look similar to everyone except me. As a flow of two hundred people per minute rushes by me, I am the only Anglo we will see today. We are in the marketplace, and we don’t know why. Four days ago we were in this same market place and it poured rain so hard the sewers backed up, we got very lost and very wet, and I was 90% sure I hated all of Israel.
So today we decided to try again. The film we are shooting, it’s an off day. So we got falafel. We went to “Star & Bucks” coffee shop. No one spoke a dick of English, but somehow the absurd good nature of these people powered through, and the little man- wait- (everyone here is little and dresses very, very nicely. Even the guys with the super hip partial Mohawks whose day consists of standing around on an island in the middle of traffic group smoking chain smoking, they look sharp.) So the little man, this particular little man, he figures out I want coffee and ice cream. Me being a pale frost giant probably tipped him off.
I really was not prepared for what came next. Listen. If you’ve had moments of great inspiration and faith, if you have been filled with energy and spirit that you know to be greater than yourself and connects you to the universe, then you know what I am talking about and no explanation is needed. Imagine a few shots of espresso and a Butterfinger and a pint of chocolate gelato and some of the liquid concentration of pure love was made in to a coffee drink. That’s what I had. This day was shaping up to be pretty excellent. The sun was out, girls with gorgeous eyes and ninja masks on smiled with their lashes and the people radiated a genuine good will. But it had not yet become matching track suit excellent. That’s the kind of shit that takes excellent and makes it divine.
I lost 40 pounds this month. That’s right. You read that right motherfuckers. 40 pounds in 30 days. I have before and after pictures and daily workout and calorie trackers but just fuck you believe me.
12% body fat and 40 pounds lost. 30 days. 266->226.
Disclaimer: im no health expert and this shit is probably crazy dangerous for you, but fuck you it works.
First and foremost having a really shifty self-loathing attitude helps. Nothing about this article is sarcasm. Just so you keep up.
To be honest, you probably can’t do what I can do. You’re too weak.
Lose weight like you fucking mean it. Like you’re a goddamned Viet Kong prisoner. Like John Mccain.
I’m not pushing fad diet or trying to sell you anything or saying what I did is good for you. But if you’re a fat fuck and want to not be, shut the fuck up and listen to me. One on one coaching available, you fat sloppy unfocused piece of shit.
Discipline – yea its ducking bold and italics. LEARN IT,
STOP BEING LAZY AND MAKING FUCKING EXCUSES
There is always an excuse if you look for it.
fuck your excuses
Stop eating shit
Ride a bike
Stop making excuses
Stop eating shit
Get some fucking control
Last month I average 644 calories a day intake and 1900 calories burned.,
No cheat days
No cheat minutes
Stop jerking off- once a week at max
The end of food as enjoyment
If it tastes good stay the fuck away from it- no meat, suigar. Anything.
Learn to love being alone doing cardio for hours
Work out constantly- 4 hours of cardio- camel cardio
Mental toughness, tell your brain to shut up
stop giving a fuck about anything but being in shape kind of like sobriety and AA
Every day cardio
Never eat unless you’re starving
Eat only supplements otherwise
Take 80 Supplements- partial list at bottom
Drink 3 gallons of water
No meat, sugar, anything
Actually just muscle monsters. If your’re hungry drink a monster
Take prescription drugs. Whatever you can get your hands on.
Lift stupid repetitive low weights every single day
Listen to radio shitty it pisses you off
Stay up all night then just go work out at 8 am
Sleep 5 hours a night
Stretch., a LOT
Be. Mentally. Tough
Discipline you fat fuck
Be accountable for yourself you fat disgusting mess
List of things I take every day, several twice a day: generally 1.5 times whatever the recommended dose it:
green tea extract
Muscletech t booster
Diablo weigh loss pills
So. If you want to lost a fuck-ton of weight. Do that. Let me know and I’ll help you, you lazy fat piece of shit
naivety and wisdom
shyness and pride
her sweet innocent smile
contrasts the eyes of many lives
and her slim taunt frame
gorgeous and sublime
is just the exterior
of a depth
impossible to explain
Let’s do something interesting together.
Emmy Award Winner. National Addy. Six National Tellys.
Writer – Producer – Creative Power Plant.
NBA. Adidas. BMW . Pepsi. NFL. Nike.
Trainer – Motivator- Performer.
Microsoft. Blackberry. Verizon.
Events of thousands. Thousands of events.
Actor – Tech – Improviser
Hundreds of improve comedy show. Host. Motivator.
Blue Man Group. Cirque Du Soleil. The Improv.
Film and Television – Commercial – Strange fiction.
Actor – Writer – Director
The Second City Conservatory
The University of Arizona
The violent spew and flow of vitriol and hurtful words like lava. The ejaculate of volcano, inferno hot, destroying all in slow, creeping wraith. Moan and desperate cries for help insignificant. Until its done. Then just a hard cold black trail of coal and sadness. A solid mass of regret. Please let me build on this rocky frozen death something sturdy
I am the American Buddhist. I am Zen. I am apathy. I am empty. I have no attachment to anything. I am nothing. Your religion. Your politics. Your sex and race and taste. I don’t care. I am not angry. Not offended. Not perturbed. I simply do not care.
I don’t matter. But even more so, neither do you.
Through my insurmountable apathy I have found my inner peace: Pieced together from the burnt torn out pages of bibles and senate bills and protest billboards, I took on the blackened dead fragments with no scripture left. This is my doctrine, my manifesto. An empty coal dark sheet of absolutely not giving a fuck.
I have been assaulted and inundated and intoxicated by your morals and ideas and ideals for three decades and the result is not a sense of pride or motivation. Not one of spite or rebellion. My reaction is numb. Is none.
Now all is a transient radiation of love. And I find peace, and I find joy and I live in every moment and I have no collar and no stone, no cross burden of anything. I am nothing but a vacuum space and violently wielded ambivalence. And I am happy. And I am free.
Having been in
So many cities in such short time
I’ve come to realize that at this time of year
Every city looks almost exactly the same, when you get outside the city
We are all pretty much the fucking same
Buildings all plorped out of the same plant
A cabbie from another country
Hotel lobbies with fruit in the water cooler
Front desk people just the right amount of attractive
more green things
Airport traveling people doing airport things they think are so important
Every place is the same
Where I live with my love
And its hot and brown and I adore it
What I’ve been doing lately;
Corporate hired gun. You know Ben Affleck in ‘Boiler Room’? Like that but minus like 50% of the coolness.
So this month I’ll see, for an overnight stay and “act as-if” speech to various groups of impressionable young sales talent, the following:
Irvine. Seattle. Vegas.
New Orleans. Atlanta. Boston.
Orlando. Cleveland. Boston.
Then probably blackout.