boning strippers

 the dark side
leg crack
smokin weed i grew in basement
guns, rap, blackjacks and ass smacks
humility is sharing who i really am
fat hookers..real fat hookers
i’m a fat bastard and i like fat hookers
that smoke weed
smoke pole
smell my nasty nuts
smell my darkness
nothing wrong with a little testicle odor?
nothing wrong with waking up to poontang dragging across my lips
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb

the magical power of repetetive power

repeat after me a lot of thymes just over and over do something like something like something like
chicken in a bucket with a soda pop can
blue blew put a color lame sexual practices practices
sexual practice practices sexxual pver and over and over practising and practicing the sexual practices of sex.

paralysis by analysis

aurges a child, with a neighbor family on the other side of the wall, Lou stretched  high as he could and chirped, “Big fat Fay; Little skinny Bill; Pee-pants Roberta; Grouchy Sandy.” to the fat mother wife.   I can’t write music, so I can’t sing the tune to that for you.  But it’s been something about him I’ve always remembered, and mimicked at seemingly (to me anyway) appropriate times.  It seems intimate.  I look forward to expressing my love for you to you – instead of being mad all the time.  What a drag.  What a drain.  But you give me a glimmer of hope.  We’ll see how it goes.  All I know is that I spent the happiest 5 – even 6 – years of my life with you.  You’ve “made me happy” as no other human.  You put up with my moodiness and you listen and consider (usually) what I have to say.  But when you drink, it’s all about you.  Now I don’t think much of myself, but I do like a little respect, just like anyone, as a human, or creature, deserves.

Exclusion freaks me out.  I’m claustrophobic.  I’ve tried to face it by making myself stay in an uncomfortably full elevator.  I can actually do it most often now.  But the last few days I’ve had to claw my way out 3 times.  The last 2 times I was hep to it so I

Why are there faux pauxs?  I don’t get so much of this life.  I feel so disconnected. 

We’ve never been this fat together before.  We’re both overweight.  Granted, him more than I, but I’ve got a big rubber fat roll on my belly – and I had abs not 10 years ago! – So in a way, we’re experiencing each other in a way in which we never have before.  It’s awesome when you look at life from different perspectives.

I was a nasty little girl.  I mean I must have learned stuff way before my time that I have no recollection of.  Was I molested?  I’d hate to just imagine that something happened and it all be a ruse, but something must account for it.  Or maybe I was just “advanced”.  At about 5.  It was those books Hazel kept down in the bottom drawer of her dresser in their bedroom.  I’d found then.  I could read.  The horrible perversion that was there.  I know now that it was probably really literary pornography – in a very ill way.  What does that do to a child?  Do you have a memory of seeing a butt pressed against the top window of a hangover camper – the driver & his passenger (the parents) totally unaware?  That was probably my young butt.  Maybe that’s why I have such a big butt.  It bumps into things and I’m surprised.  If any ones there, I have to joke about, ‘oh, I guess I thought I could get by that!”  I remember once my mother, Hazel, and I, went to see “Conan the Barbarian” starring, of course, Arnold S (I don’t want to bother spelling out his name, you know who I mean – he was kind of hot at one time – in a (hheee) barbaric sense -  Writing is so cathartic.  So relaxing and fulfilling.  Satisfying.  I really do wish I could do more.  But it’s those urges I need.  Plus a little help from my friends.

 

 

Its alright

 excuse the ‘all about me” context. but its alright.
my brother is “out there”.
my mother is broken up
|and this was never her problem]
these fucking things
this all about “what about that?”
he has prostate cancer and he doesnt deserve it.
of all the mixed up crap
it should be
my other brother
criminy. its all right.

hell 2

  it was a grey haired bar. all the cocktail waitresses should have had grey hair. they had become a bit long in the tooth for the profession, but they had a place at the grey haired bar.
  economics and sports were discussed over bourbon and beer. wine flowed from little bottles and breathed the air at the grey haired bar.
  confession had left a bitter taste in my mouth. i had really expected to feel better afterward, but i guess i should not have confessed my bitter feelings about religion and god in general.
  the bartenders name was Vicky. she had back problems and a prescription for vicodin.  i ordered a rusty nail and two vicodin.
  “I’m out of vicodin” she said. “i have these little morphine pills. 15 milligram”.
  i dont know anything about morphine.
  “gimmee two.”
   she gave me a handful.
   “no charge. i don’t like them.”
   i wrapped them in a napkin and stuffed them in my pocket.
   i like my rusty nails light on Drambuie but i didn’t complain when Vickie put too much in the first one. she must have remembered on the next three. they were great.
  i was on the Internet soon enough, looking at morphine pills. conventional wisdom had me squirting powdered pills mixed with water up my ass. I’m talking way up my ass.
  ‘PAST THE ANUS.”

just keep typing

you keep me.
you keep me typing never a false move.
never a misunderstood motive.
every response appropriate.
i am addicted
addicted addicted to humanity.
you should see my grandson running along side the car as i arrive.
see him meeting mickey mouse.
see him getting dirty and getting me dirty
you sumbitch.
he can say “sumbitch”.
he crawls under his tricycle
with a phillips screwdriver and say’s (perfectly enunciated) “piece OF SHIT.”
YOU SHOULD SEE and yes
i’m there

i know dead people

i used to wonder what it would be like to know a dead person.
all the playboy bunnies were older then.
i did not masturbate to pictures of naked women till later.
it was penthouse. a woman was bent over.
i tore scars into my dick over that one.
my initial masturbation phase was dry and violent.
i discovered the instruction pamphlet for tampons.
i used that before penthouse.
the silhouette of a woman inserting a tampon was as erotic as anything  i’d seen.
timing is all and everything.
lately i dream of crippled women. shaved clams. old women with hair died jet black.
and then.. dead people. people pariah. dont bring them here.
but wait now he’s dead.
oh yes we loved him. lets have a service. lets lionize him.
what have we learned?
let us worship the memory
of the artist formerly know
as asshole.

its a rainy day

 but it hasnt rained. we picked avocados after a breakfast at arts after turning in the jeep for a tune-up. the many old cars that we try to keep running vs the cost of a new car ..i dont think its even a question of which is more economical,
   but even my non consumer wife is talking of buyiing a new car and i still cant see what i’km typing. fuck the typo’s fuck wordpress..this is as aggravating as working for a living. working to provide transpotation to work working to provide sustenance to work. working for the opportunity to pay taxes to keep the ecomomy moving .
  typing and not being able to see what i’m typing. aaarrrggg.

what’s with wordpress?

 so, i havent blogged in a while and i’m trying to write and now there is a box over the space i’m writing in. at the top of the bow it says “publish”, and my words disappear beneath the goddamn thing while i’m writing and i’m having a bad day anyway (a bad day in america..no bombs or ak47s akakakaking its just a bad day because i took my car into firestone because it has an oil leak. they want to replace the timing belt and the water pump because they cant find the source of the leak and i say..no..i’ll take it somewhere where they can fix an OIL LEAK and i go to pick it up and they say “oh, its still in pieces and you cant have it back and i’m trying to blog about it, but i’m not a typist I’M TRYING TO WRITE WITH MY WORDS DISAPPEARING UNDER THIS FUKKKKKING BOX.

something broken

 i have an orange picture of a tree.
perhaps you’ve seen it.
my parents had it when i was a child,
and i could see my last name spelled out in the weeds beneath the tree.
ahh. tree’s grow from trunks. truncation. branches die. branches survive. branches start anew.
somethings is broken and i’ll ask this:
is the straw that breaks the camel’s back any more imprtant than any of the previous straw’s?