Forbes / Gleason

(The Oneness)

I sent innumerable stories to the great American/my buddy John Forbes, and he produced so many fine drawings based off of these that we felt compelled to create this site to showcase them. Because, as we all know, there is nothing more American than flaunting your gazpacho.

      Recently my father and I were discussing a PBS documentary on Ancient Rome, and towards the end of our conversation he remarked- "Son, it's depressing yet strangely reassuring to know that for thousands of years people have been acting just as idiotic as we all are now." I pondered this sentiment for some time after our talk was over, finding it both cynical and profound. Generation after generation, perpetrating the exact same crimes- it is oddly comforting, in truth. And then I drifted off into a reverie, envisioning a man donning a toga, intending to head out to the agora, instead wasting valuable hours reflecting on how often a discarded cigar looks like a severed finger as it rests in the grass, how in porno 'Exotic' usually just means 'Hispanic', listening to the seagulls cry out like children shoved in the back as their faces were pressed up against glass doors. I saw Archimedes in an alley, snoring in a pool of his own sick, two haggard, homely chaps hovering over him, handling their members, bottles of 5-hour Energy drink scattered all about. A woman in medieval dress, possibly amidst the Spanish Inquisition, high on deer antler spray out in a garden, attempting to lick the paint off a plaster gnome stationed there or perhaps suck the lipstick off a flattened, trod on cigarette butt. Might the great Winston Churchill have awoken one morning with the top half of a pipe cleaner emerging from his urethra as I had last Thursday? A gentleman of Tudor England is in the lavatory shaving- he draws blood and faints, falling to the floor with such force that it leads his neighbors to summon the authorities, as happened to my friend Eric this April passed. Florence Nightingale, Gary 'Big Hands' Johnson, Mary Baker Eddy and myself enjoying peyote and a jug band comprised of a piano-playing toad, octopus flautist, opossum on Moog, the singing goat and a petrified negro mouthing Jew's harp on a stump. Nero, fighting through a cough syrup-induced paralysis, lounging in a shanty filled with an ungodly number of feral cats, paying ladies of the night to sniff narcotics off his phallus. General Cornwallis stumbling drunken off mead, sandpaper tongue dangling from his maw, taking a header down a staircase, bruising his buttocks- exactly as I had done the weekend prior. Alexander the Great and Chiang Kai-shek in a stolen, hail-damaged El Dorado crashing through a wall, encountering a room full of musky ladies receiving fecal facials, then going to Showbiz Pizza and engaging in heavy petting with Ralph the animatronic wolf from the Rock-afire Explosion. For these are the mistakes that every single one of us make, and because of this reckoning from this day forth I shall look to the past to reconcile my wrongs, knowing my sins and those of my ancestors are one in the same.

If I had a penis I would love that penis in ways in which no one has ever loved a penis before.
If I had a penis I'd stop wasting all of that money on toothpaste.
If I had a penis I would stroke it until it became long, stick it in my anus and roll around on the carpet as if I were a wheel in attempts to frighten my cat.
If I had a penis I'd never let it reduce my belly button to a lowly cum receptacle.
If I had a penis I would force it to read Les Fleurs Du Mal, Mallarme, Rilke's late poetry and Gautier so we could disgust those loitering in the park with our conceited literary banter.
If I had a penis I'd wine and dine it during a romantic trip to the Champs Elysees.
If I had a penis I would clothesline midgets with my erections.
If I had a penis, and if that penis wore dentures, I would hope that that penis would flip those dentures around in its mouth in order to entertain my children.
If I had a penis I'd utilize it to pull off the most ultimate break dance move ever to hit cardboard. Yes, that's right- the Uber Dick Spin.
If I had a penis I would never disgrace it by forcing urine out of its mouth.
If I had a penis I would learn how to throw its voice so when it boasted about itself people would not stare at the moving lips inside my ultra-tight pantaloons.
If I had a penis I could tell them all that I loved them- and I could prove it to them too.
If I had a penis I would hope there would be less hair around it than there is around my mammary glands.
If I had a penis you could bet that I would definitely have dick breath.
If I had a penis I'd create a list of people I would like to penetrate with it. Number one on that list would be God.
If I had a penis I would ask it to stop pointing at my wife, and I would beat it silly if it ignored my pleas.
If I had a penis I would lend it to Brother Koresh for use as a firearm so he might defend my fellow Branch Davidians and I against the invading infidels.
If I had a penis I would create a shoe horn-like device to aid my penis and the penises of others in their quests to avoid unfortunate zip-up injuries.
If I had a penis I would wash it, trim its pubis and tie pink bows around it as if it were my own pet poodle.
If I had a penis I would take it off and freak out all of the other kids during pick up sticks.
If I had a penis I'd hope there would be a pair of testicles attached to it because then I could tea bag the foreheads of all of the ignorant twats hanging out on the corners of my neighborhood.
If I had a penis I'd ask it to help me do my chores. Perhaps it would be up to helping dad stuff the giant codfish he caught and mount it up over the fireplace. Or maybe, instead, it might like to help mother can all of her elderberry preserves.
If I had a penis I would call it 'La Pimpinela Rosada' (or The Pink Pimpernel).
If I had a penis then I'd know I have yet another useless appendage.

On Old Men

      Those dying remnants of our nicotine-stained planet, sporting their fir-brimmed derbies- minds lost in the '50's- explaining to you how woman is made out of sawdust, out of cardboard. How she has not a single nerve in her body. 'I kissed her because she was the only other person in town with lips. And, 'cause I wanted to repay her for borrowing her Chap Stick.' Donning suspenders and Bermuda shorts, clad like a munchkin- only thing missing is the lollipop. Basset hound cheeks, salt and pepper 'stache teeming with remnants of a pimento loaf sandwich. Strange aroma of fecal matter and English Leather surrounds him, juicy turd in a plastic sack rests at his feet (or perhaps it's a pickle?). Always armed with his catchphrase ('That guy's got more bad ideas than Hitler!') or willing to muse on about children living in traffic. Dentured-overbite- straw-like hair flowing off of his back, out of his ears. Concave glutes.
      That bevy of Ed Asners leering at you from across the room, sneering at youth- ogling Puerto Rican girls in your neighborhood, uttering- 'Oh if only I were twenty years younger...' as the ladies stroll by. Issuing obscure racial epithets post-laugh off. This one tells you he would always give them three when they'd ask for two, he'd give them five when asked for three, he would hand over seven when asked for five, and he'd always present eleven when they requested seven. But you have no idea what such numbers signify. Stopping you in the middle of the walkway to gawk at a pigeon carcass, to discuss how he sees rats everywhere he goes. Attempting to form a Mutual Depreciation Society. Saluting squirrels and strays- praising Victorian morals. Brandishing a cane, a pair of knuckledusters- yet still the man might just be blown over by a strong gust of wind.
      Soon all such fellows shall pass. And as the demons flay them, roasting their corpuses on kebab- despite the beasts' well-developed tolerances- even they shall become nauseated by the stench.

      Is there a sight more sorrowful than a lowly pedophile sitting alone in a park, no children seemingly in all of creation, ogling a barren swing-set, an empty merry-go-round, a sandbox filled only with sand, I asked myself as I strolled by a fellow reading a newspaper before a jungle gym. The answer is one I could not easily ascertain. But then I thought back to that fellow I spotted earlier in the day eating buffalo wings off of the grounds underneath that pigeon poop covered bridge- to the grossly obese person I saw being dropped off in front of the local Chinese buffet. To that time I spent in the Outback, when I observed a young man getting kicked to death by wallabies, when I awoke to find his carcass being chewed upon by wombats. To those days in Africa, when I witnessed a fellow explorer getting trampled by a rhino, his body lost to a swarm of Desert locusts. My childhood- oh the look that must have spread across my face as father emerged from the bedroom in a negligee and garter belt, hose attached, clad in high-heels, lipstick and rouge, whenever I would have friends over. To the parents of that baby that looks shockingly like the Great Leader Comrade Kim Jong-il. The sight of a burning chicken coop, a most brilliant flaming pudding, dropped upon the floor- a slab of veal in chunky tomato sauce. Bloody shoe tracks painted across linoleum, echoes of yet another dead john in yet another filthy hotel lavatory- the bodies strewn across pavement after an old lady has jumped the curb in her automobile, striking all pedestrians in sight- a trumpeter without his trumpet, a bugle-less bugler, a flugelhorn player without his flugel. There are many sadnesses in this world, I recognized, as I twiddled the razor blade-like whiskers on my chin, as I ogled an abandoned pork hock resting in the grass, ants crawling through its every crevice, its every orifice. And perhaps ranking them is futile.

      Yeah I sit around sometimes and worry about that day we're going to lose in 4317 when the Gregorian Calendar expires, but I'm not letting this ruin my life. Because these are the types of issues the universe hands you- an endless series of little headaches, vexations one must trudge through on a daily basis. For we are living in times when even the greatest of ideas is greeted with a casual cynicism. Where people pick their noses and then touch their iPhone screens- where we send emails, texts, and IMs to people in the same goddamn room as us. Where thugs often rough up the blind, clowns sometimes kill. Where men in pornographic videos regularly have sex with their stepdaughters even though they know such action will jostle the familial core like a bull tossing an unsuspecting jogger in the streets of Pamplona. It is an age where we give fancy titles like Yellow Sunshine and China White to narcotics but all of the little girls seem to be named either Laura or Jenny. Where one might refer to something as 'Ashkhabadian bedinka.' A realm of digitized genitals, of vaginal gristle- where adolescents strategically tear their jeans in order to become more fashionable. Where Roman Catholic Popes once enjoyed a 'Running of the Jews' and the majority of the call girls won't let you barf in their cunts. Where we send our children to institutions of higher learning only so they can contract syphilis and gonorrhea. Where there are 55,000 different varieties of potato chip, but try finding anything other than a chocolate or strawberry flavored dildo on the 'net. Yes, it is a world of innumerable offensive truths, and you can sit around all day and struggle with this, but such waste makes one a party to the mass psychosis- and who's got time for that?

      Last night at Clade Memorial Hall on the city's northwest side I attended my first satanic ritual, and let me tell you- it was stupendous. The event was a symphony of rape and sodomy that certainly would have made the inhabitants of Pandemonium proud. One could witness the usually bored socialites I mingle with pleasuring themselves with sheep, roosters, pigs, ducks and other barnyard animals next to an effervescent fecal matter fountain. The night's orgies were so lustful that all in attendance were compelled to talcum powder their rectums afterwards. And there were chicken carcasses strewn everywhere. It was wonderful. The time existed as a tribute to the four crown princes of Hell- Satan, Lucifer, Belial and Leviathan- and prompted me to scream out 'Shemhamforash' over and over again.
      Upon entering the establishment we were greeted by a very comical jester who was adorned in a maroon mask and mauve leotard. The gentleman's purple hirsute testicles were squeezed painfully from the bottom of his excessively tight one-piece. He led us down a series of passageways littered with shrunken heads, painted pentagrams, back-projected videos of a multitude of mutilations and, unexpectedly, an endless line of lava lamps. In a nook of one of these halls I spotted what appeared to be some sort of rabid, growling winged dog (perhaps Cerberus?) taking respite. It was absolutely magnificent. We came to a room where innumerable forest denizens were dressed up as if they were young children, playing together with balls, bells, sticks, stones and other such youthful implements. A woman entered, dressed as a Gorgon, and started pummeling the beasts with a large club, then dicing them up with a paring knife. The creatures were skewered for kebabs and then roasted over a flaming cauldron. Our chef referred to the unappetizing brochettes as 'Barquitos' but I knew better and was not biting. There was also a juice bar there where one might sample deer semen, horse phlegm, ox drool, squirrel jism and various other secretions, all served to you by a fluorescent orange unicorn in acid-washed jeans.
      We were taken to the ceremonial chambers by a group of ladies clad only in garter belts and bustiers. As we entered the women proceeded to the west end of the room where they began contorting themselves into many unusual shapes, finally gathering together to form a human altar. The fellow who would perform the ritual (a gentleman whom we later came to know as the mysterious 'Doctor Ragu') wore a stag's skull and aegis over the top of his traditional black robe. A gong was rung, and the Doctor began the Invocation to Satan. Now, despite what you may have heard about Satanism's promise of total freedom, it is not all right to chitchat during the actual ritual. I was chastised openly for this. And I was scolded when I started smoking too. But I never allow such admonishments to affect my moods. The Doctor drank from a chalice, staring at the symbol of Baphomet. Then he called forth the four princes of Hell. I couldn't quite tell if this worked or not, but others around me seemed most certain that it had. At this point the Doctor performed the benediction and conjured lust- which I know pleased each and every last one of us. Certain requests were uttered by members of the crowd, with various shouts of 'Shemhamforash,' and 'Hail Satan' interspersed. Then, the Enochian key was read, and the Doctor uttered- 'So it is done.' By the time the cloven-hoofed beast fellow emerged from behind a curtain for the insemination rite, everyone had gone into hysterics.
      First I saw an elderly woman slip out of her red beaded corset and look on in splendor as a gentleman dumped a vat of cat urine onto her chest. Then a bowl of goldfish was emptied out over the head of a wealthy aged fellow- we all watched as the aquatic creatures sucked air, and expired. Next a pile of very manly lesbians commenced to sex each other in front of the throng. It was a fifteen Tyne Daly sandwich- a Total Pussy Explosion. As I looked on I could not help it- I came. We had been instructed to bring any number of area ragamuffins to the ceremony, and at this point they were unleashed. Someone had dragged along a hippy dumpster-diving Christ doppelganger, I guess as a joke, but that vile Doctor Ragu did not enjoy this man's presence at all. He scourged the sweaty Jesus look-a-like, then stripped him down and bid him to rest upon a massive ream of extra-glassy insulation. The Doctor then began injecting a strange serum into five very confused, portly Hispanics and hurling pork hocks at the buttocks of many of the assembled miscreants. My cohorts and I were grabbing handfuls of rotting innards and flinging them at a mustachioed fellow who resembled the Hamburglar while several others rubbed down a vagrant with goose liver and sicked a mangy bulldog upon him. Two muscular Fu Manchu'd nudes were guarding a glass case wherein the preying mantis mating ritual could be viewed, and men in horned Viking helmets were coming around to disperse gourds filled with goat's blood for us to imbibe. It was then that I noticed a fleshy beast, possessing only a lower jaw and feet- with highly sharpened toenails- perched atop a rather healthy pile of hair. Shemhamforash- what a vainglorious sight. A fellow dressed as a gryphon had erected a tribute to the Zodiac in a corner of the room- here one was able to observe our 'invited' outcasts being anally raped by Taurus, double-penetrated by Gemini, mounted and devoured by Leo and quite literally stung by the Scorpion. I believe it was at this time that the barnyard animals were allowed to roam freely. I stuck my dick into something extremely tiny- I am not sure what it was.
      Being that this was my first satanic ritual- or Black Mass, if you will- I do not want to claim any expertise in this area. But if they are all like the one I was present at last night, if they are all as dedicated to absolute depravity, to lasciviousness, to indulgence- then I think one would be a fool not to attend. For I have never witnessed such an extravaganza of evil, of diabolism- it was something these mortal eyes were truly 'blessed' to behold. My ego was indubitably fulfilled.

      My darling I have seen mongrel men, savages, their villages lined with rotting decapitations on poles, howling to the skies, crying out in the night to their serpent-god. Ravenous Bushmen, feral boys, with gingerbread in their eyes and hands of candied yams, cannibalizing one another under a noonday's glow. Confused fellows of foreign lands, acting as if they'd recently awoken from cryogenic freeze, toting everything they own in satchels dangling from their nipple piercings. Druids as tall and mighty as a toenail, pummeling mites with miniature staffs. I have glimpsed a horrendously pale bared thigh through the crack of a bathroom stall and a bruise on that thigh, the color of which mirrored the surface of Mercury. I have seen scarlet-colored beasts wielding medieval torture devices hell-bent on emasculation and necromancers in pigskin flesh suits and cow skull masks rhythmically pumping their loins atop bloated crapulent sorts down by the local cemetery. Seventy year olds, sporting that hot latex bondage look, and videos of ladies barfing on cocks with chimpanzees smoking in the background. Nuns wearing lipstick on their privates, pickles gliding nonchalantly betwixt their breasts, and several extremely advanced cases of testicular gangrene. But I have never in my life seen anything quite as beautiful as you tonight.

'Boy Dies While LARPing'

      Joey's dead. Yep- and this time I think it's for real. Attached by umbilical chord we plummeted to the earth. But I was the only one play-acting. In our game Joey's life was worth about three hundred and fifty hit-points. In real life, well, we don't know for certain- but in the game just three hundred and fifty hit-points. That's why I don't think Tony killed him on purpose.
      Why did he die? Well as an earthbound sea anemone he was absent from his natural habitats. Clad in crawfish knickers, faux-mollusk scale briefs- a clamshell helmet- items all meant for the aquatic realm. Still, one had to admit his get up was pretty much awesome. He never really learned to wield his cardboard shield though, and our boffer construction had become rather lax- Tony basically whacked him upside the head with a barely padded steel pole. But this is all neither here nor there- for our world is one filled with an endless number of perils. When you consider the sandstorms, meteor showers, spontaneous whirlpools- arbitrary towers of flame rising from the earth. The radiation spheres, the walls of thunder- the fact that one might plummet into a vortex, a void, within literally nanoseconds. The gigantic space vultures- electric sharks- elephant-sized dragonflies that secrete toxic ink- slithering hydras and other venomous beasts. And I've yet to even mention our warring factions.
      This planet is connected to seventeen blazing suns, to fifteen luminous lunarscapes. Here I, the great King Herold, dwell in my crystal castle- shaped like a sphinx- pondering the laws of the sacred tapestries. In the year 75 A.D.H.D. I became Protector of the Scarlet Cube, which radiates the eternal life force, holds the secrets of the mystics, and contains the lipstick of the Atalantean Guard. Tony and his forces are constantly trying to break through my sonic containment fields in order to pilfer this cherished relic. Luckily though such a feat is made cumbersome by the fact that the chap is dreadfully overweight. We would often begin campaigns by thanking him, or Lord Folderol/Ingwie Newtson/Darth Himmler- whoever he was playing that day- for his contributions to the obesity epidemic. He did not enjoy this. And for the past year he has been the lone member of our monster camp, with my King Herold and whomever Joey wished to be that day on the side of righteousness. I think that's the reason he got frustrated and struck Joey so hard. Actually, he told me that was why.
      We did at one point have more participants in our game but they all eventually fell by the wayside. Perhaps they thought our contest too eccentric? Maybe they grew tired of playing goblins, orcs, elves, trolls- slaves mostly- next to my King Herold? I'm uncertain- but we definitely are the types of nerds other nerds wish to avoid for fear of soiling their reputations that much more. I never lived down the time when the wafting scents of the dairy plant tour made me upchuck all over my shoes in 1st grade. Also there were all those bloody noses I endured in class, resulting from my chronic pickings. My parents say I am a habitual hallucinator confused by where dreams start and reality ends. And that I've got the A.D.D. As for Joey, well, he stutters quite badly. Or better- he stuttered quite badly.
      We tried everything- we attempted to revive him using dragon's breath, the nectar of a weeping willow. Essence of eel's spleen- all types of elixirs. We placed him in the resurrection chamber and left him there for over an hour. But absolutely nothing worked. I cut the umbilicus and floated his body, placed in wicker cask, down Gunjeroo's Bog, which is where the creek by the big sewer duct runs in this dimension. Also, the wicker cask is more like a cardboard box here. Details. Tony asked if I thought Joey would ascend to the heavens but I responded no chance because there are no Gods in this realm.
      Upon arriving home I shelved my false beard and armor, my headband, boots, cloak of invisibility. My innumerable cans of anti-goon spray, slug stunners, balls of gaseous light, my scythes and lances. And now I hide, acting like nothing has occurred. We had all died during campaigns- Tony, Joey, myself, the others who played in the past- but never as Joey had done that day. You know, like in the real way. When they find him all I'm saying is I don't want to read headlines like, 'Boy Dies While LARPing,' or, 'Role-Playing Kills Teen.' I have never enjoyed such terms- 'live-action role-playing'- B.S. This shit is for real! Though I do know that tragedy tends to bring people together. And that such attention might lure more participants to our game. This would be nice, because of course now we're down to only two players.

      There are so many people walking these streets with murder in their eyes, looking like they've killed before. Violence brokers running their fingers through the eczema scales on their chests, scraping the glaze from that open wound above their temples- atop their skulls there rests a ball of yarn unwinding, clumping, dangling over their visages. Men screaming to ladies on the boulevards that they make love like smooth jazz, listing the innumerable number of food products they'd eat from their buttocks, as the hoboes ejaculate sludge down in the alleys. That titmouse of a man wrestling the underwear from his crotch, clenching his moistened trousers, wavering across the pavement with his pet pickled sow- boasting loudly about his most recent body-waxing. Another claims that the FBI has microphoned his mud flaps in order to listen to his flatulence- still another insists that a child's sidewalk chalk drawings are actually alien pictographs left by beings from far beyond the Kuiper Belt. These fellows suffer from the world's most dreadful disease- that wretched ague of idiocy- from the cradle to the grave, from ass to appetite, from pupa to moose. Women who smell like men, men who smell like women, women-men who smell like mewomen, standing in their baklava balaclavas, singing nature's homage to primitive wisdom unto the divine cobra. To all of you, I do scoff, as I take yet another bite from that hot dog, minus the bun, which I discovered resting atop of a gas station urinal.

Insinuendo

      I knew I was on to something good that night I first met you, when you told me you dyed your pubis to get the grey out of there.
      We were attending my favorite summer concert series, Reggae Cumsplash- you were standing amongst those lavender ladies waving their peacock fans, enshrouded by men who would forget their love for women if they did not constantly holler and catcall after them as they maneuvered through the crowds. (It's unnerving to think just how fucked up this shit pit of a city would be without legalized abortion, isn't it?) When I first set eyes upon you I realized it was time to emerge from my flaccid world of flaccidity, from that room at home where I constantly handle my hose, to take a chance, to converse with you. And during these discussions you made me feel like the cock of the walk- one who truly should be bred to the finest stock.
      On our first date I exposed myself to you on multiple levels. With your cubist nose, your elfin boots and your fantastic tales I found myself wanting to cling to your utters like a calf. Soon you would feel the pulsating Pegasus in my pantaloons and we'd adjourn to an abandoned, cushion-less couch in the alleyway, to the subway, where a stray high heel had worked its way onto the tracks, and to the park, where we'd incorporate a discarded, half-yard long summer sausage found on the grounds into our coital frenzy.
      And tonight, as I await your arrival, I have wiped all the excess hair off of my toilet and amassed innumerable improperly chilled wines in the greatest of anticipations. As you commence to toe my genitals beneath the kitchen table I shall ask that you please pause so I might dash to the wardrobe. I will re-emerge from my chambers with a cabbage leaf, threaded through a rubber band, obscuring my privates- a lubricated goat at my side. While grooming your vainglorious crotch mop with my tongue I will listen on as you sporadically mutter 'oil my taint' in feigned ecstatic misery. You are licking my lesions, swimming in my chest hair- my serpent, my drawn Beretta throbbing in your hands. Upon taking my dangling participle between your lips you shall notice strange fluids leaking from my suspicious package. Suddenly, a light spray of tzatziki materializes- almost magically- across your breasts. After this evening, my sweet, I am most certain you will refer to me as your twelve amp, three hundred gigahertz, thousand kilowatt lover.
      Our affections shall be the stuff of legend, my darling. A wonder of nature, miraculous anomaly- like how my friend's penis went digital in '89- it's been pixilated ever since- or how just one letter separates rectal from recital. Epics will be composed regarding our ardor, for what's more in this life than love?

Dear IN Soon Hwan,


      Once again I find that robots are feeding children space pellets in my neighborhood park, snake charmers are building the origami dog house while sniffing lines of Crystal Lite- Burbank- 1985, and that the Greek God of antlers is hung like a bowl of gelatin. Pungent as an ocean of cocks- burned in Iceland by a hot vaginal gyro straight off of the kebab. Now hiring- friendly feces, and Alfie Romero lets white boys spit in his fudgy choncho. A veritable cabbage roll Christ retarded repetitive Spanish beats yeah! for those genderless doubting nay-sayers who get high off their own abhorrence. A steady diet of little smokies, dead baby chicks found in the streets, and glands glands glands. The constant affirmation generation gone gangrenous while watching the Animusic 2 dvd. That out of body experience in which I was sleeping while watching myself sleeping- joyful like a baby on a swing- cheerio, and bugger off now.


                                                                                                        Sincerely,
                                                                                                        ........................

      P. S.- I Love You- Winky

      I don't know why we're out here watching our son tightrope the edge of a sidewalk when we could be inside making sweet white-hot fresh dewy love. It's hard to say why we'd be sitting on a bench staring at a bag lady in front of the McDonald's wearing everything she owns including her pots and pans or the man with the face red as meat no sclerae throwing sunflower seeds to the pigeons when we could be in our room winding rubber bands around my testicles until they appear as if they're about to burst their sac. I picture myself in a hospital gurney both laughing and crying simultaneously. Why are we talking about how the pizza shop by the carwash smells like it's selling slices topped with motor oil when I could be licking the tzatziki from your pita moiling my face around in the wet cave betwixt your breasts applying spittle like a salve to your throbbing hemorrhoid? Why discuss the bills when we could be discussing the subtle differences between the odors of our rectal juices or why the sweat between my ass and balls often reeks of nacho cheese? While playing the board game I can only imagine Miss Scarlet tying me up with the rope in the Billiard Room- while watching the movie I can only envision spewing a green toxic sludge from the tip of my phallus like that which Chevy Chase was exposed to in Modern Problems. I see miscreants on the train humping air and I think I'd be doing that too if she didn't consider it cheating. You don't want me to become one of those under-sexed penitents wearing a hairshirt living in a tree wound so tightly that I walk pelvis forward like I've had the butt removal surgery occasionally sneaking off to the House of Ass to pantjaculate in my ejacupants do you? Then know this- when I reveal these secret longings to you, they mean something. Though that meaning can be obscure.

The Sad Satanist

      The Sad Satanist listens to his downtrodden black metal melody, deadening his pain with cannabis- scraping guacamole from a halved, misshapen skull. Neighbors heave their household wares at him as he carouses the walkways- their yard sale bought toaster ovens, their three-legged end tables- children break into his apartment at night, spray-paint '666' on his genitals as he rests. Reflections on a life of misery- the party clown that keeled over from infarction at his seventh birthday party- the arrest for pulling the plane's emergency hatch over the Atlantic, attempting to toss grandmother's ashes into the waters below. Screaming demon tattooed on right forearm- jet-black Mohawk spiked- clad in sheep leggings, beard growing up to his eyes. And as he ogles those bookshelves- filled with LaVey, with Crowley, writings on Gilles de Rais- the images of buxom black magicians on his walls- the painted pentagrams at his feet- the hides of deer, fox and horse, horns of elk and ram scattered about- he dreams of a normal life, one lived without the satyrs. Of Wednesday night whirlyball- of strolling the streets in a surgical mask. Propositioning fellows on the weekends- 'I need a guy for tonight- I freaky- nothing wrong.' Eying pregnant joggers or the old men watching pigeons peck at chunks in a pool of vomit. Yet he knows this is all mere fantasy- for once one has witnessed the light of darkness, it is impossible to turn away.

I Recycle

      You see me as a man completely encompassed by a chaos of his own invention. A collection of cliches, with nothing but the shirt on his back, standing knee high to a hamster with a singular undescended testicle, floating through life on an oil drum raft in a sea of liquefied manure. Working at a rubber-band factory, taking judo classes at the local YMCA, hanging with my tiddlywinks club on the weekends. Looking on as law enforcement has my dream car towed away. Indulging my hospital fetish through a delusional parasitic infection, through fake scabies, dreaming of my mother's saggy paps, a.k.a. the last set of nipples to touch these lips, engaging in hobo sex occasionally in cardboard boxes. You see my home- a couple of magazines lying here and there, innumerable white walls and shed cockroach legs, a rumpled chair- you tell me it reveals a barren soul, a depth-less existence, a sad simpleton wallowing in his own patheticness. Well I may not have any idea why a port-o-potty company would call itself 'Honey Bucket' or when the term packaged goods came to mean just booze, and I may not understand why so many assholes sport the honkey faux reggae look or why my neighbors hold clandestine meetings out by the garbage bins in the alley. I may not fully grasp why so many living people smell like death or why on the wholesome family television dramas youngsters get impregnated by a kiss. I may not be able to explain to you why there's at least one stray sock on every sidewalk I roam or why 'it is what it is' is such a popular phrase amongst imbeciles, but I do know this much- just because I'm not looking for new and interesting ways to utilize my fecal matter, that does not mean I'm not environmentally conscious.

      As the wife and I grind pelvis on the dance floor, anus clutching genitals like a vice grip, she fails to realize that it is the glossy sheen of the shimmering surface that does stir my tumescence. For the woman has been frozen in such fog all throughout our relationship- in fact, my affection for the inanimate dates all the way back to childhood, wherein I first fell for a fountain and its jutting waters as a lad of five. At sleepovers I would wait in utter anticipation for someone to challenge me to make out with my pillow- as a teen I literally loved my automobile, dreaming frequently of the machine catching fire and the only way to put it out was through inseminating the tailpipe. As I grew older I would go out to the garage and wedge my turgidity between a pair of grease-caked license plates I had long before meant to be-rid myself of- I would observe dogs urinating on hydrants and feel as if I wanted to expel a different kind of fluid upon them. I'd sex the spiral staircase- lick the ribbing of a gondola- wrap my legs around a pillar and hump it dry- caress a cinder block, rub it against my chapped, chafed lips- partake in intercourse with the mighty oak tree- and I would often ask, 'why is there such little demand for male pole dancing?'
      My wife, she is not so much a person as a sound. And that sound is nauseating- she is a car alarm, a worn brake screeching against a collapsing wheel. A belch. When I first met her I felt certain she'd be the one to show me there was more to life than plying your wiles to household appliances, to traffic cones, but as the coitus commenced, whilst caressing the woman's pudenda, I could only imagine rubbing a crevice between two panels of aluminum siding or petting the tack of a jib. She makes me feel like an anthropomorphic slab of beef- not something smooth, sleek and steely- something capable of being bathed in morning dew. And yes most certainly I have tried to 'reprogram the brain computer', to purify my sickly mind, but my mutation persists- for I have found a soul in these objects, I feel a fusion between us that the woman and I shant ever achieve. On trips downtown I fantasize about having my buttocks impaled by the spire of the Wrigley Building- I dream of tonguing every pane of glass on the Thompson Center, the Trump (for there's no silly monogamy in this game)- I straddle the rails of the DuSable Bridge- engage in foreplay with a banister at NBC Tower, until security escorts me out of the building. For there is a level of acceptance here, a sense of self-awareness- and though my spouse gives me little more, as long as she and I stay together I feel as if my psychic wound might remain protected.

The Class Fieldtrip To Outer Space

      The class fieldtrip to outer space seemed like a good idea at the time. When parents pay billions of dollars to give their children the opportunity to view the final frontier, you'd expect they would instill in them at least an iota of respect for the experience. But I guess these adults were just content shoving their little demons off as far away from them as possible.
      The plan was to board the Ark of the Million Years, that galaxy-famous laser-powered interstellar sailship, and head towards Sirius, where we'd rendezvous with the white dwarf. But our troubles began well before we even reached the Oort cloud. On voyages such as these one might peer out the windows of the craft and view total darkness- an absolute void- for miles around. It's surprising how often you find yourself staring at a starless sky- it's quite bleak really- and with a cabin full of rambunctious youths, of jokers, of pranksters who become mettlesome when bored and restless, well- I think you understand the difficulty. Even on Earth such scamps struggle to occupy themselves with their skate parks, lawn jarts and rumpus rooms, and none of the above was available here.
      Now clowning around in space isn't the same as throwing a dirt clod on the playground or finger-painting with one's shit all over a bathroom stall- though a child did do that on the vessel as well- because such gags can be quite costly whilst traveling towards infinity. When the boys and girls weren't mocking me for my artificial hand they were banging on the portal of the Command Module, nauseating the crewmembers with their nonsense speak. They'd recalibrate the calibrating antennae and flush their toys and knick-knacks down the space toilet, constantly overflowing the mechanism. This led to a shortage of drinking water, which of course resulted in several urinary tract infections- so many of the children got them that we didn't have enough antibiotics to go around. After the sixth such incident I remember screaming- "who's gonna fix it? Are you gonna fix it? I don't see a space plumber around here, do you?" But my anger only riled them up that much more.
      A couple of the imps smuggled fireworks on board, which I luckily spotted and confiscated before they had a chance to set off. Many cheated on their exercises- quite important in a weightless state- so they grew corpulent, and they wouldn't eat their beef jerky or their freeze-dried ice cream or drink their Tang so despite their flabbiness they had become malnourished. Every time I turned around they'd be trying to pry the lids off the units where the cryonically preserved Martians were kept, and a few of them were huffing nuclear propellant- frying their brains and leaving us with barely enough fuel to return home.
      One night a bevy of the bastards bulled their way into a mysterious closet labeled 'WIVES.' This turned out to be where the crewmembers stored their sexbots- standard equipment on longer missions such as these. The robo-women were licking, slurping the youngsters as I arrived on the scene- flexing their digi-mandibles and lapping at their faces, secreting goo all over their bodies. The children had begun to scream. The captain arrived and subdued the automatons through use of a plasma taser. I observed as each of the androids, one after another, shorted out. And as the skipper turned to go I could not help but notice a tiny teardrop falling from his right eye.
      The kids spent most evenings engaged in zero gravity pillow fights or hide and seek, and it was one of these contests that led to our greatest misfortune of all. They had somehow found a way to override the access codes to the room where the oxygen tanks were kept, and a tank ended up rupturing. The insulation around it ignited, creating electromagnetic interference. The commander decided to shut down the Service Module, even though doing so left only a slight chance we would make it home. He powered down to the lowest levels possible and started our direct abort trajectory. The ship lost pressure though after encountering interstellar dust, and we all began losing consciousness. I experienced a freefall vision quest wherein I met many older versions of myself through the kaleidoscopic-fluorescent lands of Alpha Centauri. But then suddenly a clan of creatures with immense craniums from Tau Ceti interrupted our radio signal and proclaimed, through use of commodulators- "it is abnormal of you Earthlings to deliver yourselves to us for these vital anal probings. Such action is appreciated." We pretended that this indeed was our intention, nonchalantly asking them if they would also repair our ship. They agreed, so we all lined up enthusiastically for our examinations. After these were over though no one felt elated.
      I don't believe it will surprise you to hear that upon returning home, I was fired. I am now seeking other employment in the education field, preferably in an administrative capacity. Still, there is a chance I may be asked to lead a class fieldtrip to outer space at my next school. But since I now thoroughly define myself as an ageist, I will think twice before doing so.

      I am a man of simple dreams- of Lamborghinis, of sexy ladies in thongs- cocking an occasional love tunnel- of finding a libidinous companion that I might smother with my intense affections, that I might destroy, suffocate with my insane jealousies. To brain mine enemies- see them beaten bloody, cigarette burns and branding irons- to let them feel the touch of La Mana Nera. Of donning a goose feather headdress with an antler horn emerging from amidst its plumage, a scarlet codpiece and a pince-nez, a suit of golden chainmaille and a worn-down sheepskin duster. I wish men and women alike would sing my praises, uttering words like, 'hey you look like the wind hey you look like a gazelle hey you look like a sailboat.' I want them all to say to me, 'hey you look like the wind after it has mated with a gazelle on a sailboat.' I would like a mobile symphonic orchestra, augmented with ocarina, contrabassoon, corrugahorn and friction harp, which would follow me every place I go and play my theme music, a groove that sounds strikingly like the intro to Barney Miller. I long for a grand estate shaped like an octagon but with curved, sanded walls so no shadows might fall on its interior, and inside of this estate I would like a vainglorious sun parlor with maple and wicker everywhere, fine draperies and rugs as well. In the garage I would require a mobile fleet of amphibious Sea-Doos that would take to the tops of the waves and to the various pavements. I would purchase a Jacuzzi that juts powerful gusts of water so it might double as a bidet, and a fourteen-foot open-ended penis pump that would not only work to enlarge my phallus but also allow me to ejaculate into the toilet while resting in bed. Yes, I am a man of only a few, simple dreams, and the way I figure it is, if I cannot have just these few things, then I may as well be dead.

      When I first saw you my eyeballs almost popped from their sockets. You were screaming out the answers to the Wheel of Fortune questions at the gyro place- you were sitting next to a man who appeared to have somehow shit the front of this pants. You wore a thousand pounds of makeup in attempts to obscure your extreme pulchritude, but I saw through. Like a magnificent fever dream during a NyQuil-induced coma, you were- like Amii Stewart in that tripindicular 'Knock on Wood' video, oh the wonder you held. I could tell immediately that you had more soul than Cornelius Brothers & Sister Rose, that you were the most beautiful thing on two good legs, and that if you had a peg leg you'd be the most beautiful thing on one. Your conception was the finest idea conceived since whoever first sopped up their leftover gravy with bread- upon the moment of your birth you became the greatest invention since the urinal cake. I approached in a state of manic nervous magic, fearing rejection, filled with panic, paranoia, sweat mustache forming upon my upper lip. I delivered to you my most masterful of lines- 'Are you afraid of reptiles? Because I have a pinkish, a purple, a brownish little turtle in my pocket that is eager to meet you.' Cut to a montage, replete with laugh track, capturing the early days of our romance- a series of sequences that reveal the monologue to be our preferred form of discourse. I tell you I was once the tallest member of a dwarf motorcycle gang called 'Santa's Slaves'- you speak of a gentleman you dated who came too quickly and let his dog watch you partake in intercourse. You're sporting a midriff- I gaze at your exposed flesh and a wet spot forms on my auburn jodhpurs. I am massaging your shoulders, trying to angle my tongue in such a way to overcome your French Resistance. Perched naked in a tree, clad in innumerable items pilfered from the 'Intimate Apparel' section at Target- puffing cigarettes, enrapt in post-coital bliss. You, my love, are the only ride more thrilling than Coney Island's Chute-the-chutes. While listening to you I find myself incapable of judgment- all my convictions washed away in the gentlest of rains. I've heard that shooting cocaine up one's rectum gets one twenty times higher, but I don't need any extra kick when I'm with you (I did pop a couple of goofballs, some red devils, though before you came over tonight). And upon that day when rabid beasts shall whirl asunder and dismember me, eyes focused on a deathly sun, it is your name that I will be crying out to the stars, my sweet.

      By evening I found myself boozing it up with Billie Holiday, Pee Wee Russell and Buddy Berigan in the Golden Lily, but by morn I awoke in the hoosegow, lost in some Podunk town in some Podunk state. We were enjoying the melodies of the Melodears, featuring Ina Ray Hutton- I felt like the bee's knees, the cat's meow chugging giggle water with the greats. Buddy suggested we go to this fish restaurant nearby but I said horse feathers you're all wet 'cause there were rumors that Jimmie Lunceford had been poisoned there, which ain't hotsy-totsy. We instead headed over to Artie Shaw's to shoot guns, drink hooch and talk Communism with he and Teddy Wilson. Soon after our arrival though Shaw started verbally abusing his wife- Margaret Allen, the second of his eight spouses- and that ain't hep so we scrammed. Billie posed that we hit the Hawthorne Inn but Pee Wee said wishful thinking 'cause that's where Capone took Fats Waller after kidnapping him and he didn't want the mob breathing down his neck. I pitched Tommy Dorsey's place but Berigan gave that the high hat since Tommy had recently socked a guy for hugging his wife and Buddy's a hugger. Somebody mentioned the Savoy and Russell exclaimed, 'Now you're cooking with gas,' 'cause he wanted to jitterbug with the hoofers there that were real easy on the eyes. Bingo and Astaire were around, wheeling along Connee Boswell. Louis Prima was in the place as well. He wanted to go gambling and womanizing, as per usual, and though I aim to please Billie was with me and I don't gamble. We went downstairs and smoked blunts with Louis Armstrong- a guy next to him had a tie around his arm, spoon sitting in the middle of the table. The cat was shaking his legs like he had the ants in his pants or the heebie-jeebies. Woody Herman's wife Charlotte had gotten a hold of some of Cole Porter's painkillers so we tried those on for size thinking it would be good, clean fun. After popping 'em though I became frightened out of my wits- what a drag, and just when I was feeling like the Big Cheese. Luckily Lester Young had some barbiturates handy, bringing me back to square one before I upchucked in my loafers. But then I really let my hair down, mainlining morphine with Charlie Parker and ingesting something illicit I'd purchased from Benny Kornegay, who later became Ella Fitzgerald's first hubby, out on the corner. I'd taken everything but the kitchen sink, and at the time I couldn't have cared less.
      But now I'm in the slammer, feeling like death warmed over, ossified- framed by some bozo bluenose looking for a fall guy. Unless of course I did whatever they're accusing me of- it ain't like I remember much. And I see hay swaying outside of my barred windows. Where the heck am I- what's the big idea? Still, I want to let all my famous pals know that when the moment of truth comes these lips are sealed- I won't rat, I won't spill my guts about last night's adventures. See, I'm no pushover. They won't find out a thing about it- unless, of course, they peep what I've written here.

Let's Make Love Tonight

      I spotted you at the Cash 4 Gold store donning a faux fur, tattered grey sweatpants with holes at the knees. You were toting a sparkling silver purse- you were clad in a white hoodie underneath the aforementioned pelt. This whole ensemble lent itself to make your body appear shapeless. Your lips seemed formed in a permanent frown- you looked as if you smoked perhaps a carton a day- you have nice hair but no soul, at least as far as I can tell, and your mind might as well be constructed of cardboard. Myself, I know I look good in my denims, my American flag t-shirt, what is left of my hair pulled back in a pony. You are the kind of nymph I can picture myself frolicking with, and I commence to imagine you unmitigatedly naked whilst loitering there.
      I ask you out. On the night of our date there is a scent of burning leaves or perhaps people wafting through the air- I stroll by the shady drug dealer types, folded arms covering flamboyantly hued athletic jerseys, as they cling to the walkways. A conference of geese meets by the gutter- seagulls pace all about, and a dead pigeon rests near the neck of a broken beer bottle. A discarded condom lies unfurled atop the welcome mat before the local ATM kiosk. I enter a liquor store to procure some ripple- behind me a gentleman trips into the establishment, the sound of dry skull crack rings out against the linoleum. I picture his head exploding- redness douses all of creation- a bottle of meat-flavored Old World Style Ragu has burst in aisle seven.' A souse purchasing multiple .40s leans up against me as we pause in the checkout line. Wheel-less shopping carts line the route to your apartment. I finally eye the van with the trash bag windows that rusts out in front of your home. I push the buzzer for a while but then come to the realization that the mechanism, it is out of order. The sign reads 'Beware Of Dog' on your gate. Beware Of Dog- Dog Knows Karate- Dog Now Replete With Biohazard Ejecting Rectum- Dog Preparing Molotov Cocktails- but little do I care- I hop the fence, only to land in a rather healthy pile of excrement. I scrape shoes to pavement all the way up to your door- a series of brown smears now leads to your complex. I notice a couple of spatters of bird dung on my scarf as well, as I am left to linger in the filthy entryway of your abode.
      I sense you are blessed with extrasensory perception when after only five minutes you saunter down the stairs. I propose we go to the Acapulco to enjoy a couple Pacificos, but you suggest we skip this. Your dwelling reeks of fish. You are wearing a leopard print blouse and capris, mauve cha-cha heels and a feather boa. I am clad in a button-up jacket with a jaguar on it- so we have the big cat connection. Out of your sweats you are a Goddess- plump in some spots, withered in others. Features a bit twisted, hairier in some places than one might desire. A jowly, haggard deity, you are. You possess the kind of pointy breasts that one automatically pictures himself being impaled upon- your hips jut out like I would like my penis to be, but alas, it remains small, even after you push the tip of your tongue up one of my nostrils. Soon it becomes clear that our love shall remain unconsummated. I offer you a free uterus massage or two, but you refuse, suggesting instead that I leave. I walk out into the predawn, feeling like a traced outline against the sky. And I am once again left to ruminate that there is nothing as unforgivable in this life as when they let you know that they just don't believe in you, even when you have given them every reason in the world not to.

Metal Saved My Life

      Having experienced the beautiful music of AC/DC, I knew that 'nailing hot chicks' was what life was all about. But I had never partaken in sexual intercourse with a woman- only the fellows seemed prone to these charms. Thusly, I could not get over the idea that I might be gay. And I didn't want to be gay- I mean, how could I tell my mother this? Would I feel compelled to make one of those contrived coming out videos, where I'd be forced to hug her? I can't stand touching that woman! Then I remembered a film titled Trick or Treat, starring Marc Price, a. k. a. Skippy Handelman from the hit television show Family Ties, in which a boy tries to rejuvenate his favorite Satanist rock star by playing the artist's final album backwards. It seemed to work in the movie, so why couldn't it succeed in real life? I decided to listen to each and every one of Rob Halford's solo records, and his more enjoyable stuff with Priest, in order to break that gay spell. And you know what- it worked. Halford scared me straight, and because of this I went out and actually had sexual relations with an extraordinarily unattractive female. Then I decided I might as well attempt this method in addressing the rest of the issues affecting my life. After listening to Ozzy and W. A. S. P. backwards I totally stopped imbibing alcohol. Motorhead and Megadeth's records got me off of Quaaludes, and Quiet Riot and Dokken- especially Don's soundtrack for A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: The Dream Warriors, the film that featured that puckering flesh- helped me quit shooting the smack. I ceased to eat extravagantly after listening to Udo Dirkschneider, Testament and Crowbar, and my excessive grooming stopped after I reversed Napalm Death. Also, following that initial brush with coital pleasure, I realized I was a sex addict, and Kiss helped me get through this. That's why I'd have to say- and I don't think I'm being overly dramatic here- that metal saved my life. So thank you dark lords of distortion, and keep the power chord alive.

      you're living like you're in one of those Skyy Blue Vodka ads like you're grade-A USDA prime cunt you're choice you're select running daintily in high heels towards the bus wrapping your lips around a soda bottle suggestively ogling all of the other attractive teens in public engaging in eyeball masturbation the boys taping their testicles up to augment their bulges yet still they suffer from common shrew penis hyperkinetic syndrome giving voice to everything you think don't worry we'll sort it all out for you cool towards learning religion relations you die of embarrassment every time mother drops you off at school (you've got secrets) looking dangerously skinny in those skinny jeans (get a sandwich) clad in faux bondage gear whale tails and tube-tops leopard-print everything pierced everything bedazzled vajazzeled preening more than a mud-dappled pigeon you're at such an advanced level of sexual experimentation of drug experimentation one might think you would have reached some hypotheses or conclusions by now cutting class to do some cutting some petty thievery poppin' a squat drippin' it dry watchin' images of your love montage over and over in your mind oh the failure you glare at the telephone you experience a transmutation of your fear vibration CHERNOBYL NITRO VESUVIUS you lose your shit destroy the restroom and cry as you watch your toothbrush fall into the toilet

      I have in my possession intelligence that I know could cost me my life and the lives of those that I care for. So when I decided that the truth could no longer be concealed- that this classified information needed to become unclassified- I knew they would come after each and every one of us. And come after us they did. It all began with a barely suspect plastic shipping container- inside there were dials, meters, cables and panels. Supplies, raw materials for what I hoped would become an anatomically correct, anthropomorphic love-bot. But the components added up to little more than a tracking mechanism sent for me by the guys with the polished black shoes and their iniquitous secret polizei. From then on their advanced technological equipment was in my home- they used their mind scanners each evening to stimulate my retinal lobe and placed tiny improvised explosive devices under the packages of cotto salami and other luncheon meats that rested inside of my refrigerator. Agents utilized their disintegrator pistols to shrink my testicles down to the size of the common ball bearing, rendering them barely visible to the naked eye. Late one night, while I was wrapping up some pressing business, some urgent matters at the gas station I work at, they had me kidnapped and thrown into an unventilated room with a cast iron door. They called this enclosure 'The Fart Chamber.' It was here that I first learned of their experiments in curing atomic radiation sickness through the use of Jenkem, a hallucinogenic drug made from fermented human feces. I spoke of this discovery to my friend Jerry and within days he 'leapt' from a moving Ford Pinto, shortly after trying on a pair of lysergic acid washed jeans 'donated' to the local Village Thrift. The press said he died of natural causes- Ha! Clandestine physicians surgically implanted a miniature hydrogen bomb beneath the flesh of my right buttock. I have been walking with a limp ever since. They also showed me a series of diagrams outlining the adventures of Qoaung, a diminutive fellow of Asian descent who they had funneled into my body during the emergency procedure I had after breaking my penis on my honeymoon approximately fourteen years ago. He had been gumming up my insides all of this time. Yet through all of this I have persevered. You have not gotten the best of me yet, industrially organized paranoid bureaucratic structure, and once I hand over the microfilm I have in my possession to the man in charge, I promise you this will all come to an end.

      You see them everywhere in this city- those overly tanned, tightly appareled elderly women crying out for young anal sex in the streets. Eventually they are bedded by the mongoloid male they met on public transportation who has three very distinctive tattoos- number one: an eagle with elk horns, fire shooting out of its eyes; number two: a pair of dismembered breasts (perhaps legs?); and number three: 'Rockin' Like Dokken.' Within a month the fellow will move into the woman's home along with his ADD-riddled seventeen-year-old man-child.
      Or those heavy-set black men with their legs up in the park, boulder-like testicles dangling freely from ultra-short shorts. This fellow here is drawing pictures of women getting eaten out by rodents, of ghouls pouring sugar down sweaty ass cracks, licking sweet congealed morsels out. It appears as if this gentleman aspires to be a second Pedro Bell.
      At Sacramento and Milwaukee you spot El Machismo standing outside of La Casa Del Vaquero adjusting himself, performing a re-zip. He is ogling the shirtless men fighting a block away. He screams- 'Le golpeo de nuevo- le golpeo de nuevo' ('Hit him again, hit him again') and then notices a soiled glove lying amongst a pile of cigarette butts on the corner. He tries it on. It is a perfect (though excessively pungent) fit.
      From which alley has this tigress emerged? Reeking of dung heap, gob of brown sputum on her wrist- her excessively large buttocks, viewed in shadow, make her appear as a centaur, or perhaps Calibos. She has just bleached her hair and is now ready to profess her love to the fellow who delivers alcohol to the neighborhood grocer. Upon entering the store, the bag boy reveals to her that she might find the gentleman outside, loitering in the back parking lot. She waits for hours, but the booze peddler never shows.
      Or what about those well-dressed Latter-day Saints, trying to mesmerize you with their good book, with their bigamy? Or perhaps the septuagenarian on the corner who is constantly rubbing himself, ogling sunbathers lying in the grass. Yes, the fellow who lives like porno. Did you see that lady leaning against the 6 foot wooden Indian in the smoke shop, licking Chicken McNuggets as if they were toes, or the one clad only in bra and bikini bottom, strolling up Western? Perhaps you may have spotted that graying longhair who is always riding his bicycle on the sidewalks, trolling for young girls?
      To many the presence of such souls is a sign of the impending apocalypse. But I believe they are very much mistaken. For in my mind these individuals signify that the end has already begun.

      One would think you were the last great wonder of evolution, sitting there in your big chair, eating your Frosted Fecal Flakes, your Unicorn Urinal Cakes, entering the club and ordering champagne enemas for all around. Acting Jamaican- suburban dreadlocks reek of peat moss- carrying rumba box and shake shake, smoking spliffs, chugging fish tea. Your personal ad reads, 'Kung Fu Motherfucker Speaks to Horses.' You claim your high-fashion underwear modeling career was sidetracked by photographers whose styles aped filthy-chic Guess spots and Coors Light commercials. I say it's because you are hirsute, and you've got a face like a badger. Giving voice to an endless, empty string of pretensions- chiming on about how in your religion there is no concept of enemy, how time is just a meaningless word. Eating obscure nuts and berries, babbling about the birth of the hermaphroditic twins. Eyeballs painted on eyelids and prayer shawl- you say you're getting into your zone, but you have no zone, and that meditation shit you do ain't real. Try focusing on your problems, analysis and conclusion- don't meditate. Don't worship at the altar of the winged tortoise or skull, don't trust in snake-stones, in toad sweat, in chance. It's time to sweep all of your sweeping generalities to the curb!
      I wasn't a rich kid like you. I never got to go into the cages at the zoo and pet all of the Bengal tigers on my birthday. I was mauled by a tiger once though as a youth in Delhi. Still I look pretty good for a guy who floated over here on an oil drum raft with only the shirt on his back. No one would ever accuse me of having ambition- in dreams I'm always scooting around in one of those motorized wheelchairs. I started out with nothing and I have nothing left. Give me lemons and I'll just stare at them- give me a ham and you won't end up with ham salad. Despite my never-ending quest for anonymity I believe that when a man's getting beat up by the cops all the time you know he's on to something good. Yes, this life has proven to be the death of me- I end every evening paranoid, coked up, pacing the living room in a bathrobe, loaded .38 in my pocket, pondering how something like five hundred different companies could be making money manufacturing breakfast toaster strudels. But hey- at least there's no self-deception in that! Maybe you're not so wrong though- for life is all about what makes you feel big, isn't it? That collection of myths, that set of lies that help us get through the day. But the question is whether we're deluding ourselves just a bit too much.

      Tonight's Secret Dining Challenge is- Hobo Rectum! We have asked three celebrity chefs to prepare a meal with rectums carved from several slaughtered derelicts as the main ingredient for five dinner guests. It's an aromatic feast! And whomever fashions the finest dining experience this evening, determined by the votes of our guests, they win a baker's dozen- yes, that's right- thirteen nameless tramps that they can train as sous chefs or household menials. Or, of course, they can always slice these drifters up and utilize their rectums as ingredients in hearty soups, stews and casseroles. Now- let us begin!

*****ADULT CASTING CALL*****

      You stand on the bed, arms raised to the ceiling- I put my head beneath your dress and lap blindly between your thighs, parting the honey colored hairs I know to exist there. My nose whistles amidst your pasty folds of flesh. As I knead your doughy buttocks your musculature quivers as if enduring shock treatment. You are wearing a party hat- the production we are working on is titled 'Birthday Rim Job'- the camera pauses abruptly upon the indecipherable tattoo on your right shoulder. The gentleman in the director's chair cries out- "Cut!"
      By the third take I am bathed in rain from your armpits- not an inch of your thighs is exempt from my salivations. As I massage your tender briskets, your tripes, a dripping paw emerges from a cushiony roll around your gills. Your skin has taken on the texture of tree bark- your nipples ejaculate a fetid, curdled milk. Strange reek of equine rectum wafts through the air, perhaps due to your drooling sphincter. The scene now possesses all of the passion of that time you were fondled by your uncle who has leprosy.
      During the climactic sequence you oil my red-rimmed orifice with your tongue, clawing at my excoriated testicles. My genitals have grown so unwieldy it appears as if they have procured cast-iron implants. It is one hundred and ten degrees on set- a blood blister burns upon your left index finger. The cameraman asks that I peel off the camise that obscures my ever-jiggling man-breasts. Almost immediately he realizes his mistake. Too hirsute for shaving scene, unclad I appear part Yeti.
      But it is just another day, just another two to three dollars. And it beats working as a day laborer, or perhaps at The Shack-KFC-UPS-TCBY.

Still More Excerpts From My Diary

      My wife gets offended because I cry out- "Engage!" shortly before every ejaculation. She says it isn't very charming. What does the woman think- does she think I have a choice? I absolutely cannot discharge unless I'm channeling Patrick Stewart!
      To out-duel the kissing booth next door, I've opened my own personal blowjob stand in the garage. And so I could under price my neighbors, I made all the cock sucking free. That's right- it costs absolutely nothing to visit my garage for a hummer. If you are homeless, that is. Yeah- if you're a vagrant, you get your knob slobbed for nada. And that's because Jesus is the guy working the booth. Yes, it's true- I have summoned The Son Of Man from The Heavens to get all the bums off, for I believe he owes it to them for having so obviously forsaken and abandoned them all their destitute lives. I don't know if the guys next door heard that Jesus is running my booth yet- that's hard to say. But if they find out and try to trump me- I'm going to make Christ blow all the invalids I can wheel down here as well.
      It's an awful feeling that first time your old lady tells you she can no longer have an orgasm without coke. But as the years wear on, well- no wait- that never gets better. Because cocaine can get very expensive- and from there on out, you never feel like you're wearing the right cock.
      Oh man- just answered the door buck-naked again. And I had a fifth of gin in my hand, and half of our pet ferret's torso dangling from my ass. Luckily it was only our neighbor, asking me to turn down the Sepultura record a couple of notches so he could take a nap. What a break- I was worried that it might be our ferret's mother!

How Do They Make It?

      How do they make it, these vastly inferior sorts, strolling the walkways in their chartreuse monochromatic cotton/polyester blend sweatsuits and matching knock-off Crocs? Issuing catcalls from their lime green crotch rockets, their sky blue, rusted-out pickup trucks with neon track lights? These hirsute ape-men, not a tooth in their skulls, smelling as if they are fresh from the dumpster or drowned in English Leather, trying to pool their money for a lap dance or two? That fellow on the train with the prison tattoos, duck's ass permed in the back, ejaculating his face full of mucous onto the empty seat next to him? Those ladies in their beige Bermudas, sporting Depends, repositioning the figurines in their life-sized nativity scenes, hunting for the perfect windsock or roach spray at the Discount Mega Mall- hanging at Cash America Jewelry & Loan because they believe in a concept of success through osmosis? The man in the mauve muscle shirt constantly masturbating in your back alley- the guys shooting albatross, combing through piles of refuse under a neighboring bridge- or the fellows harvesting scrap metal, hanging a little brain- donning ass-crack exposing hip-huggers, teal headbands dangling over their eyes- smoking a grit amidst a powwow in the parking lot, wearing their Run DMC t-shirts (you ain't tougher than leather) and their urine-stained gauchos? How do they make it, I ask myself, as I attempt to straighten my magenta doo-rag, as I retrieve my incessantly baggy jeans from the floor. As I scrape yet another incrusted scab from my pock marked visage. The answer is one I will probably never know.

That Beautiful Man

      He was born on a waste site for slag, misshapen skull carved from a wound-encrusted, fecund womb. By day two he was handling anything and everything like a greasy-haired, dirty-digited ragamuffin scamp let out of the orphanage for a weekend. Grappling his testicles or perhaps an orb-like structure around the pelvic region approximating the size of the common cantaloupe, turning in the streets to eyeball all of the ladies, to ogle elderly ass outside of the neighborhood group home, maneuvering his facial muscles in such a way as to suggest he might be trying to mouth a pea resting betwixt someone's gluteal cleft. Using a urinal cake culled from a convenience store lavatory as deodorant. Clad in a soot-covered, stool-scented toga, donning a single moccasin, chugging Max Ice tallboys or jars of formaldehyde by the dumpsters, attempting to comprehend the lifeless pay phone, the child's rendering of a floppy-eared bunny that looks astonishingly like a pair of ovaries. Screaming at the youth in the morning- "What are you going to learn in school today, huh?! Aphrodisiatics? Coprophagiola? Necromance-mectomies? Ha!" saving his sob stories for the adults- "I'm sick in the head. And the only way they'll let me back into the hospital is if I get wasted." Rubbing his feet on the curb, kicking a discarded bra across the boulevard, dicking his fist in a burnt out automobile. Watching the douche bags performing mini-bike tricks in the square- silly 'staches painting upper lips- playing Frisbee in the dog shit filled park. Leering at the couples as they caress each other's buttocks, as they engage in that eternal struggle to assign some importance to their existences. For though he may appear to be that gray-faced specter, that distorted figure of dreams, unlike most he could never be accused of sacrificing his principles or his convictions.

An Airing Of Pretensions

      You seem to be leading the honkiest existence one could ever dream of. I'm a native. You're a nativist. I'm local. You must be on tour. It's about to get raw in here. Attitude- that's what I've got. You're the type of person the assailants wish to grab onto during a hostage situation. If I was your high school guidance counselor I would have advised you to go out into the world and be anybody, just don't be yourself. Roasting weenies on a beach- talking about how nature smells so 'natural.' Writing pamphlets on how not to make your dog feel ashamed about his bowel movements. Always tuned in to your webisodes- I don't fuck with that Internet shit. I'm off the grid- out of reach- untouchable- an outcast. The maps I use are made by Rand McNally, not Google. You probably never even heard of them. You're so wrapped up in your own self-image you can't see the forest through the leaves. Reciting those positive adages everybody clings to as a crutch to actual language, to actual feeling- hey, it's not a breakthrough moment if you have one every five minutes. Me, I'm hip like beat poetry- ask me a question and I'll feed you a line. I'm like this- zip zam- genius- record this shit- write it down. I'm in the rhetorical room reading about the latest idioglossia, philatelist. Check my exophthalmos. You're looking all confused- that's the mystique. You say you like my style, you want to get to know me- fat chance. I don't do interviews, just ask my publicist. And where are all your little friends tonight anyway, your little buddies, Los Paquitos, as I like to call them? You know- your sycophants, your peons, yes men- those cats always finding subtle ways to make reference to their economic or social status. Probably at a drugged-out leather party, cocaine cut with Drano and baby powder. Well while you were drunken, comatose, urinating in the middle of the boulevard last night I was home swallowing a string and passing it through my bowels. I'm about experience- you read about it in the paper. My opinions are actually facts yet to be accepted by those with obsequious mentalities. And as the ambulances, the fire trucks arrive to pick up your carcass, freshly perished at the local fitness club- yeah, death by treadmill- I hope you've finally achieved enlightenment. Either way, at least you won't be talking about the weather for once.

      I have been locked up inside my house licking dollar bills ever since I found out that 90% of U. S. currency has cocaine on it. Picking at my scabby skull, plucking the hairs from my back- wearing the same beer advertisement tanned supermodel t-shirt the past ten days- occasionally going out, listening to the 'Lonesome Loser' on eight-track in my '68 Chevy Beater. Hanging with Puerto Rican Pete and Big Junior, their chihuahua named FEAR. Begging loitering, loitering begging. Doing a little bit of bird watching (double entendre). Peeing outside because nature loves the taste of my urine. Scratching 'Consumer Christmas is a Toilet' into all of the walls because it's so damn true. Passing out up against a light pole, sleeping one off in the D.M.V. Resting beneath a dangerous fire escape that looks as if it might plummet from its stanchions and crush everyone below. And I warn them- I tell them all- touch me and I'm nitroglycerin- a lycanthrope- justice shall truly be administered. Yet still I awaken to a bloodied, brutalized rectum.
      I could lead a better life. I could get a job working for the number one butt pump manufacturer in the galaxy. Buy a speedboat, a yacht- perhaps a Carmengia. Smoke cherry-flavored cigarillos, sip cognac and chambord from a brandy snifter. Put brilliantine in my hair, undergo a wretched facial reconstructive surgery. Wax my mustaches, manicure my hands- the stench of my eau de toilette wouldn't allow them to breathe. I'd go everywhere clad in mauve ascot and cufflinks, a double-breasted sharkskin jacket with lime green lapels and epaulets- tight teal trousers resulting in offensive pant protrusions, outlines from my veiny balls bulging through. Such success could reawaken my sexualities- the sound of my lovemaking would equal the noise of a thousand mangy mutts panting ponderously- I'd don purple prophylactics for no discernible reason. But then I remember- my aspirations are not of this world- I ask for no reward, no glimmering prize. And I don't mind dwelling amongst the vermin. Because for every winner in this world/desert there must be a loser, and I'm proud to be one of the failures.

On Fathers

      Cursed by the Gods these Titans, these Olympians amongst mortals hang in their packs like geese, flying in v-neck formations- stench of smoke, stale booze wafting all around them. Kicking dogs, contemplating their packages, their coiffures in every window's reflection. Graying of face, sagging around the waist- a curlicue mustache marks one's pride. And as these pillars of strength rummage through your sock drawer, looking for funds to take to the track, their mission is two-fold: for this is also a lesson in man's depravity, in humiliation. Like when you brought your first girlfriend home- how his x-ray eyes peeled off all of her garments, those continuous invitations to sit on his lap. Leaving all the restrooms reeking of mincemeat pie, forcing Mothers to purchase t-bone steaks with food stamps. Misunderstood genius scratching his ass up against a light pole- exhibiting a fiery hatred at the mention of 'Brothers'- one drink and we emerge into his world of violence. Cool, detached- spreading that incommunicative disease all about- except for when they are relating their epic tales of what it takes to build the proper gentleman.
      In their youths such chaps feel as if Hell is staring into a son's eyes. They embody his weakness, his disappointment. He wishes to sever these roots, protect the endangered species known as 'Fathers.' But with the crushing blows of time- attitudes carved from a dreadful fear of death- he is overcome by remorse. For whether they be found resting against an oak tree, sleeping next to a gutter, or rinsing their dentures inside of some seedy group home, Fathers will eventually cry out for our help.

      I believe I have seen you someplace before. Perhaps loitering in the post office, in the DMV, in the lobby of the local police precinct. Drinking nail polish, paint thinner or mouthwash, snorting toothpaste on the train platform, underneath a neighboring bridge. Hawking for midges- the gnats, the insects that inspect you- your pants acid washed, though only around the ass. I could easily see you becoming my wife, if of course you weren't already another man's wife, and I weren't married to my work. I love you like cats love shadows- you're libel to become impregnated by my thoughts- and when you glance back at me and flash that snaggle-toothed grin, my heart sores like an ankle swollen.
      As we banter I begin to sense that you are the type that takes comfort in stereotypes, that perception becomes your reality. We might deal in vagaries for hours on end. You mutter something about trans-vaginal mesh implants then quickly grab onto my hands, whisking me through the walkways- past a fellow sleeping in his car- into the local Subway chain- by a dead or dying lady calcifying in the entryway. You grope at my belt buckle near the restroom- you push me through the door and I scarcely avoid tripping into the can. You possess the prowess of a mountain lion- this is a close encounter with a being truly unusual, for certain. A prostate massage commences, putting the fond in fondle- my pubis is a jungle you shant easily escape from. You coo like a giant, anthropomorphic, featherless pigeon as I caress you. You are pulling my hair so vigorously it feels as if I am about to be scalped- we're going at it so rough and tumble I am afraid one or the both of us might throw out our backs. You have bitten some pink from my nipple- a rivulet of blood flows across my chest- you endeavor to claw out an eye, and momentarily my excitement wanes- yes, a brief loss of scromentum. You make love as if you're having a seizure- your convulsions might prompt one to call the paramedics. It is as if you have been exposed to toxic nerve gas or radiation. We lay clad scantily on that feculent floor- you staring at the ring on your finger, me dreaming of the office- until I again feel that familiar burn in my phallus, that yearning for discharge.
      You know most people are like trod on newspaper floating around in these streets- frivolous and useless, they don't know where they are going or where they have been, but it sure has gotten them dirty. And I don't know that we are any different from them, or that we should long to be anything more.

      Like many in this city I am often compelled to take long journeys via public transportation. On these occasions I like to have a line or two prepared for miscreants on the approach, aiming to harass or bribe, or to sell cheap pornography. This trip's little tale read: 'In this day and age of middlemen I, Daniel Gleason, the creator of Chinchili Chili Cheese Fries, those great-tasting cheesy chili potatoes made with real Brown Velvet Chinchilla, am a lone source of innovation.' It is a strategy I utilize to out crazy the crazies, the ne'er do-wells on the make, who force one to wonder at that ad on buses that claims 1 out of every 140 people has schizophrenia. For on public trans it seems as if that former number should be much higher. The woman sitting next to me is the spitting image of the mobilized corpse of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis- she is swathed in so much makeup it appears as if she is in drag. An older chap with sunken in cheeks asks if he can bum a cigarette off of her, and I drift into a reverie on the impact of the cessation of smoking in society at large upon conversations between strangers. Nobody's asking for a light any more, unless they're a character in a 60's French New Wave film or a prostitute or a prostitute in a 60's French New Wave film. A woman boards with a face like pounded mutton, complexion of a gourd, donning the most vainglorious, lustrous platinum blonde wig these eyes have ever seen. She is ogled by the frog-eyed man in the over-sized suit and a fellow who had previously been mumbling to himself at the rear of the vehicle. Someone screams, "I do love him, but I ain't in love with him," into a cell phone. Another admonishes his device, crying, "I'm going to kick you in the dick so hard your testicles are gonna wind up in your ear lobes!" This is the most disconcerting string of words I've heard put together since a hiring manager uttered, "We'll keep in touch," towards the end of our phone interview the week prior. Outside I spot a fellow clad in a robe standing in the middle of Pulaski, seemingly prepared to expose his person to the populace. Not far behind a man engages in the covert action of alley urination. A couple of juvenile delinquents are engaging in delinquent juvenility, chugging Tampico with their feet up on the seats before them. I wish to warn these chaps that youths who carry knives often tend to stab themselves, but an elderly Russian man approaches instead, wondering if there is a conspiracy behind their mismatched socks. He receives cold, silent glares in response. I daydream, basking in my smallest triumphs, meditating on a belief that any kind of cowboy culture is inexcusable, and then realize we have arrived at my stop. As I attempt to disembark a reprobate on the grift approaches, so I do a little improvising, telling him that I am the genius poet/lyricist behind such rock n' roll bands as 'Feelings Horse' and 'Man Tits and the Comb-overs.' It's hard to say whether he believes me or not- I mean, he doesn't ask me to autograph his ass or anything- but he does slowly amble away. Thusly, the scent of victory wafts through the air, or perhaps it is the overwhelming stench of Lysol and pickled testicles that usually prevails here.

Our Leader

      He was half fish, half extraterrestrial yet all man. He was as spiteful, conceited, reckless, hateful and incestuous as a winged bull. Whether one would spot him forcing the flesh from beast, roughing up a missionary, sniffing out raccoon tracks or waiting on the return of Squirrel he would always have his faithful pigeon, with its over-active bowels, resting upon his shoulder. For our leader was a frivolous man, a dangerous man- a real shit- yet the prophets stated, 'He with the antlers shall lead us,' so, thusly- and alas- we acquiesced.
      Ours was a land where man mated with marsupial- where hellhound traipsed around in kilt- where more than an occasional eunuch was heaved from the ziggurat. Where meals were taken at the Table of Destiny and everyone cavorted with the trusted jackalope. My people and I would take part in an athletic contest that our forefathers claimed was based in myth but appeared to be nothing more than a cheap rip-off of perhaps baseball or soccer. A polytheistic folk, our idols included the Elk God, the Sacred Bear, and the Reptilian Deity, who our leader very much resembled. But mostly our culture was based around the regenerative rite- the worship of the love wound- the understanding of sexual geometry. Where the polydactyl lass became queen- where one would suckle another's guava if he were allowed to slap that person with his sweaty cudgel. And of course in this way our leader received the most attention of all.
      But the age of his priapism had ended, and one night a glitter-eyed vixen unintentionally placed our people in peril. For in her disappointed gestures the trollop made our master question his divinity (not that any of us believed him to be divine, but, well- details). With his cream-drained genitals only able to tickle the pubic fold our leader's mind entered some strange, hologram-filled kaleidoscopic prism, where he claimed to have a vision of himself riding the Jehovah Spaceship. He bid us all to leave our homes, to pilgrimage to the land where the lion with the fleur-de-lis on his forehead rested. Many protested, but later succumbed due to rumors that the man possessed the power to turn souls to vapor. As we strolled through those realms, filled with rhino, mollusk, crustacean and grasshopper, we listened as he talked of the invisible conscious light, of harnessing the spirit of Osho. And many began to think our leader insane.
      We came upon a land that reeked of burnt toast, where beings dwelt in squalor untold- conditions almost as disgusting to behold as a sink full of hair. Dogs of foreskin, of mange and lice attacked us but we defended ourselves proudly. We met with a red stag who tested our fortitude as well, and we scared many a species of bird back up into the trees, despite their flexed plumage. Also warded off were a gang of hairy-pawed marmosets and timber wolves, a gaggle of snails and earthbound jellyfish, and an irate elf who sported golden knickers. And these feats left us very, very much fatigued. But as all of this occurred our leader did little to help, standing bewildered in the middle of battles, seemingly lost to his thoughts.
      My fellow citizens and I were left in a spiritual abyss. Far from home, disoriented- lost in some strange wilderness/sty. Our leader hypnotized- in a world of hallucinations- he swore himself to be a descendant of Jupiter, the missing link, a changeling who resided under the foot of a sphinx. He turned to me and declared that he floated down the Euphrates in a basket. I asked him to be quiet. He screamed- 'It's Raining Skulls,' then ran off into a nearby forest. This time no one would follow.
      Now we sit, and we starve. And we await death. Too tired to even copulate. The last eunuch has been toasted and skewered, and soon we all shall be no more. And I know I speak for every last one of us when I say we cannot wait to reach that other side, that realm of the departed, where our leader most likely precedes us. For Gods, let him feel the hell of our thousand stones upon his flesh- feel them as if he were still amongst the living! Oh Sacred Bear- oh Reptilian Deity- Vaunted Yak- let vengeance be ours!