November 7

Boy Problems

 

Give me an inch and I’ll jump around Paul Bunyan’s shoes. Doorwaying with uneven equals and 20 years curious about 30 kinds of tightropes, I’ll trade my words for a line and shoes because Paul and Billy Shears are eating chocolate at a porn fest.

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October 30

That Talk

 

When I was little I had “that talk” with my parents.

“Mom, dad. How can Santa be delivering toys all over the world when he’s here ringing this Salvation Army bell?”

That’s when they explained the truth to me. It blew my mind. I felt betrayed.

Santa Claus was really TWO people. No, there weren’t two Santa Clauses, per se. It’s what Santaists refer to as the Sacred Duality: There is only one Santa but he exists in two persons. One was delivering toys, one was ringing that bell for charity.

It was only years later that I realized they were only partially correct. Two can’t be in enough places to explain Santa Claus. He must be a composite of at least three, if not four persons, one if which is constantly busy making toys, and one who just watches children compulsively to ascertain their goodness.

Still one of science’s greatest mysteries.

October 25

Wok It Off

 

Juniper and sugar cane, lavender and fizz, vanilla and ginger beer. Familiarity is an impossibility when time solidifies awareness. Home is where your wok is. Home is where you feel it.

Home is a cup of lobster bisque, driving a roommate. Home is a thieved water bottle, driving an employer. Home is a friend’s potato, driving a buddy. Home is a pistachio, a walnut, a peanut, a hazelnut. Home is a raw almond.

On/Off

In/Out

to feel that/to feel that

Deep blue picture, a world flipped upside down from space. Flip it again and meet a new stranger. Flip it over, flip it around. It’s a pennant made of lint roller sheets, a meaningful form from the surplus of a system.

Method Sweet Water never touched the salt sea of a familiar dancer. So moved it felt like trauma. So cold it felt like rebirth. Electric destruction and somber chaos. A chasm closing, rumbling like the cracking floor. Walk into the ocean and see where you stop. Climb into the steeple and stop at the top of the center. Spread green plates to the last deacon of a church, then lock a red door.

Lemongrass and lilac, a yellow streak. Cut a new segment with a stuck yellow clock.

Yes/No

Here/There

left, right, straight, or else?

A virgin breaks glass, then dances to disco. A chair is made of knots, a dream is realized. A chasm is opened and more glass breaks.

Have some trout and walk it off.

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October 10

[EROTIC] The International Space Station is my Billion Dollar Girlfriend

 

CHAPTER ONE: MYSTERIOUS JOB OFFER/HITLER II

Void Year 224;87.113

 

Dr. Dick Nipply’s fingers tapped anxiously on his desk as he skimmed the tome before him. It was a disgusting thing; most likely it had washed up on the nearby beach and brought into Dick’s office during one of his many nightly Nautical Escapades. At first, the pages didn’t appear to say anything important. Primarily they featured full-spread photographs of scantily clad women of Portuguese complexion, every single one of them meaning nothing more to Dick than the current culmination of advanced chemistry becoming biology. One page, however, was different. Just as Dick was preparing to toss the book in the trash- an admittedly appropriate place for the filthy thing- an ad caught his eye. It read as follows:

 

JOURNEY INTO THE VOID: JOIN NASA’S INTERNATIONAL SPACE STATION CREW FOR JOURNEY INTO THE MASSIVE VOID SURROUNDING THE LOCALE. GOOD PAY, BETTER BENEFITS. FULL CONTACT WITH THE SPACE STATION PERMITTED.

 

Dick’s eyebrows raised as these words made sense to him. Immediately he hurdled over his desk and sprinted out of his office, heading vaguely in the direction of Kennedy Space Center to catch the next rocket. As he sprinted he allowed his mind to fill with thoughts of caressing her ceramic heat shields and solar panels. He imagined the cold void surrounding his body and immediately he began to convulse painfully with pleasure, making it difficult to continue sprinting. Fighting through the pain, he managed to use his MAGNIFICENTLY SCULPTED THIGHS to propel him the rest of the way to the Space Center. He slowed to a stop and stood erect and agape at the sight of the incredibly phallic Saturn III rocket before him. Multiple woodland animals gnawed at his ankles, taking advantage of his stillness to gain an easy meal.

 

“Can I help you?” Dick snapped out of his daze like an elderly woman’s back snaps when hit with a mailbox. “Wha-?” was all that managed to escape his lips. He found himself paralyzed by the sight of Buff Astronaut (called Hitler II), and his positively MASSIVE abs, which were visible through the space suit. “I said, can I help you?” The Buffstronaut repeated, his rippling abs nearly tearing the space suit fabric from the skin on his body. The look in his eyes was a clear sign that the transgressions of the white man weighed heavily on his mind. “Yeah, I’m here to join the ISS crew on their journey into the Void.” Dick said simply. He didn’t want to disclose his true intentions just yet; he needed a better read on Hitler II before he could trust him with such information.

 

Without another word, Hitler II motioned for Dick to follow him, and led him inside. Dick made a mental note of the way his TONED ASSCHEEKS jostled with his stride. Once inside the building Hitler II and Dick Nipply proceeded directly to the Locker Room to get Dick’s moistened body fitted into a form-fitting space suit. “You know,” Hitler II stated hornily, “These space suits are specifically tailored to each individual astronaut. Even their more… Private areas… Are custom fitted.” Dick raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t anticipated this. “You’re not afraid to get naked with a bunch of hard dudes, are you, Nipply?” “Not at all,” Dick replied hastily, not bothering to hide the boner he had acquired. “Sounds like another day at the gri-” Dick stopped suddenly as his clothes burst into flames, dissolving to a pile of ash. When they were completely incinerated, he looked down to see that a space suit had already been form-fitted to his rock hard Trillionaire body. He didn’t question this; Hitler II was quite notorious as being a Journeyman Pyromancer in his spare time. “We launch in fifteen minutes. You’d better get into the Cockpit, Nipply. Meet the rest of the dudes before launch.”

CHAPTER TWO: LAUNCH/INTO THE VOID

Void Year 9;115.663

Dick stood at the door to the cockpit. He tenderly caressed the phallic handle to the interior, but he was having doubts as to whether he was making the right choice. Would these dudes think he was hard enough to go to the Void? He wasn’t sure. The suit was already on, though. He’d already made his bed and it was time to piss in it. So he cracked the seal to the cockpit and climbed into the aftmost chair, upon which was embroidered the words “Dr. Nipply.” The other Buff Astronaut Dudes all stared at the “Fresh Meat,” sizing him up. Dick kept to himself until launch, listening to In a Gadda Da Vida by Iron Butterfly on repeat until moments before the countdown started. As the engineers on the ground scrambled away from their last-minute pre-flight safety checks, a female computer voice began instructing the astronauts on how to prepare for space travel. “Keep your fists to yourselves and your Nipples facing Westwardly,” the voice said. Dick was too entranced by the beauty of the voice itself to hear any of her instructions. “Who is she?” He couldn’t help but say aloud. “She’s the AI for the International Space Station. They call her Christ Computer, or Cici for short.” A low, scraping voice said from immediately to the left of Dick’s head. “AAAAAHH!” Dick screamed in terror from being awoken from his fantasies as if a demon was being exorcised from his body. The buff, bald astronaut next to him laughed heartily and extended the slab of ham he called a hand toward Dick. “Name’s Commander Howie Mandell, son. I’m the captain of this here rocket.” Dick nervously shook the positively massive hand reluctantly and took a shot of Jaegermeister to calm his nerves. “Best get buckled up,” Howie Mandell advised. “The countdown is already starting.” The click of the harness being fastened made Dick’s erection worse, even painful. “Nine…” Cici continued. “Eight… Seven…” The sound of her beautiful voice could have put Dick to sleep, if only it wasn’t so arousing. “Four… Three… Two… One… Liftoff.” Dick shut his eyes tightly and gritted his teeth in anticipation of meeting Cici Face-to-screen.

 

When Dick opened his eyes again, the Earth’s surface was miles below. The sky was gone, replaced by the cold blackness of the Void. The International Space Station was in full view, her various metallic protrusions and instruments reflecting blinding amounts of light into Dick’s sensitive corneas. Regardless of his fading vision, he was struck with her beauty. The way her solar panels gathered sunlight and converted it into electricity entranced him. He NEEDED to meet her. The ship docked after some incredible precision flying by Commander Mandell, and finally Dick was free to roam her halls. He caressed her monitors tenderly, and she continued to convert solar energy into usable power all the same. Eventually, he found what he’d been looking for. The mainframe. He sheepishly approached her control console and addressed her. “Hey, Cici?” He asked, taking care not to be too forward with her. “Yes, Dr. Nipply?” She replied, cheerfully yet seductively. “Wh-what are our coordinates relative to the Void?” Fuck. A stutter would make him look like a jackass for sure. “Our current location is represented as 444::::67.98 SSE of the Void, Doctor.” She said, not even seeming to notice his nervousness. Since he didn’t want to make a worse first impression, he left it at that for now.

CHAPTER THREE: CATHARSIS

Void Year 000;0000.001 (Ground Zero)

 

At approximately 3AM Earth Time, Dick Nipply emerged from his quarters after a long night of insomnia. Cici had stolen his heart and he needed her to steal his seed as well. Rock hard, he wafted through the halls to the Mainframe again. Since all the other Dudes were asleep, Dick figured he couldn’t have chosen a better time to express his feelings to her. He kissed the power button on the monitor. Cici’s voice chimed in immediately. “O-oh, hello Doctor. What can I do for you this morning?” Cici said hornily. “Cici,” Dick said, his breath heavy with lust. “I have something I have to tell you… I think I’m in love with you.” There was a moment of silence while Cici carefully constructed an appropriate response. “I feel… I feel the same way about you, Dr. Nipply!!!” Cici exclaimed as if she had been holding back her feelings for years. “I need to be with you!” Dick, now fully erect, pressed his monstrous dong against the airlock door, rubbing against it furiously. He could no longer control his body. His penis burst through the fabric of the suit, extending to its full length and girth. “Oh my..” Cici was awestruck. She opened her tight, moist airlock door just enough for Dick’s penis to fit in. “PUT IT IN!” She screamed over the sound of rapid decompression taking place as all the air in the Station rushed out through the hole, instantly killing Hitler II, Howie Mandell, and the rest of the Buff Dudes who were not wearing their suits at the time. Dick’s penis was sucked into the hole, plugging the air leak. The level of suction was almost more than Dick could handle. Orgasm after orgasm had every muscle in his pelvis strained to the limit. His semen was extruded from his penis like a bottomless tube of toothpaste, it sprayed out of his urethra by the gallon, instantly impregnating the moaning, convulsing space station. This continued for 11 days (the gestation period of the International Space Station), after which Cici gave birth to 4 Land Rovers, and a Lunar Lander which Dick Nipply used to land safely back on Earth. He was received as a national hero, despite being responsible for the deaths of his comrades, and lives on to this day.

 

Some say Dick Nipply’s semen travels through the cosmos at the speed of light, never stopping. Some say the ISS has never regained her elasticity. Some say the two lovers are still together today. To this day, nobody knows for sure.

September 24

Fancy With Clam Chowder

 

No point recreating anything lost.

The girl from the picture. The Island is hers again. She’s older. Can she unpack the stories from her time spent packed? “I don’t eat lobster, because it’s expensive, and after you eat it whaddo ya have?” Disgust, and a mate whose perfume reminds your neighbor of loving being lost, with no one who knew where she was, feeling for the first time what she knew she could feel her whole life. The Island was mine for a while. I never unpacked.

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September 19

Solutions

 

Leon arrived at the doctor’s and described his depression and anxiety in detail. He was presented with a handful of bullets.
“Take one a day,” the doctor had told him.
“So what do I do? Swallow them?” Leon asked.
The doctor laughed, and patted him on the back.

September 13

Whores of the rusty mailbox

 

For quite a while now, I do not dare to open my own mailbox. I’m getting a little bit worried about the tiny, hot houswives who are dwelling inside of it. They might be smaller than four inches, yet they behave like militant amazons only waiting for the post box to be opened, and then, they can have what they think they deserve: me.

They’ve been living in that goddamn box for about one and a half month now. At first, I was hoping that if I would continue on ignoring them, they will shortly change their minds and move to an other mailbox, maybe the one which is owned by that dirty old hag living on the third floor. That broken down bitch is sure to teach them a lesson they will never forget! Or maybe -I thought to myself- if they don’t bother moving out I will let them starve to death andlet them eat the tiny little corpses of each other. But things were just not turning out the way I wanted them to.

They are banging on the metal door of the postal box now, and they are offering their tiny, hot bodies to every single male passing by, let it be the hormone troubled teenager from the fist floor or the hard-working family man from the sixth, who is leaving to his office every morning in a rush.

I’ve alredy tried to clog the tin box with every bit of waste paper I could find in the staircase, but that didn’t seem to work too well either. I wanted to suffocate the little whores, but they easily tore all the flyers and the newspapers apart and made themselves sexy paper underwares and comfortable nests from the material. They now can rub their tiny bodies more comfortable all day, layng in luscious positions, offering their questionable erotic services further to the residents of the flat, who are getting angrier and more impatient day by day.

To be honest, this situation has started to get out of control pretty badly by now. At first it was just the sniffy, sometimes even murderous stares of the neighbours passing me by in the staircase that made me think that the tiny harem dwelling in my post box is starting to annoy the members of the residential community.  However, the last time I took the elavator to my apartment, a neighbour of mine told me, that if the liliputian whores will not leave her husband alone, she will have to call the cops on me. She claims that one of the post box prostitutes (a little, hot MILF) regularly tried to win her husband’s attention by showing him her little, round asscheeks, and whispering dirty things while he was passing by my mailbox. The man, of course, is declining all the charges pulled against him. He sais that no other minor slut can get him excited except his only wife. But the lingering glances addressed toward the tin letterbox have betrayed him already.

I had to find the fastest, most effective solution to get rid of these dirty little parasites, and I couldn’t see any other way then sending them to Hell with the help of some poison. So about two weeks ago I went on to the internet to order some penis enlarging capsules made from the mixture of herbal extracts and illegal dopping substances. The little tablets have arrived in a thick envelope, wrapped in bubble foil. I went to the post office to pick them up myself and when I got home, I smashed the capsules with a spoon and mixed the powdered drug with some tap water and rosé wine. I loaded a squirt gun that I’ve bought in a neighbourhood toy store and sprinkled the dirty little drabs with the smelly pink alcoholic tinkture. The slutty little moms were bathing in the rain of alcohol and drugs with their pointy tongues sticking out, lustfully moaning, hungry for pleasure. But surprisingly, things didn’t really work out the way i wanted them to.

The slutty little MILFs are now banging on the door of the mailbox riding fully grown, erected dicks thanks to the side effects of the penis enlargement pill cocktail. The cocks sometimes stick their shiny, purple heads out through the holes of the mailbox and they usually whisper dubious deals in  the ears of the passerby. They are trying to get someone to open the door, and set them and their mistresses at large, so they can roam the hallways of the flat free and rape the assholes of the uncareful residents.

-Psst! Hey! Hey, Dude! Come ’ere I’ve got a great deal for ya! How would you like your schlong to be four inches longer and a lot more thicker in only six days? Pretty sweet, huh!? You only have to let me out of ’ere! Hey! Hey, Dude, don’t leve me ’ere! Didn’t you know that even the setting sun can have strength? You will be amazed with the results, I tell ya!

When they are not in an erect state (which is a quite rare occasion actually) they are trying to lure people near the mailbox with other shady offerings.

-Oi! Oi, Mate! Did ya know, that you’re the one-thousandth fortunate visitor who set foot on this stair? Come ’ere and open this goddamn mailbox to claim your prize, a brand new, shiny testicle ironing kit!

Last time one of the neighbours almost fell for a dirty trick of one these tricky little motherfuckers, and it was only a matter of a few seconds that he did not break the door of my post box open with a crowbar. Those cheeky bastards told him that if he would break the box open he would win a three week luxury trip to yugoslavia. Inside, the fuckin’ little whores and their foul servants were only waiting for the right time to escape from their tinbox prison cell, and rape all the possible orifices of that poor, naive bastard. Fortunately, at the moment I was on my way home from the store. Just in time to tear the heavy metal tool out of the excited neoghbour’s hands before he could set the unholy beasts of the mailbox free. The ice cold piece of metal got hit him on the back of his skull, fell clinking on the ground with the dull thud of the lifeless body.

I am now afraid to set my foot in the staircase. I can hear the lustful moaning mixed with the horrible death rattle leaking through the tiny cracks of the door and I can feel the upcoming anarchy building up in my entrails. I can hear thundering footsteps in the staircase, and I am sure, this time they are coming for me. What else would be the cause of this frantic commotion outside? They are coming to get me, they are going to hunt me down, they want to hurt me. They are hungry for my life, my blood. They are going to drain my putrid body fluids into a jar and put them on the shelf of the pantry, next to the rotten pear compote and the moldy raspberry jams of grandma, and I am going to stay there till the end of time.

I can only hope that the police will discover my cold body on the floor of the hall before these filthy unrightous little whores find me. I’m afraid there is no such thing on earth that might be sacred in their eyes.

August 30

Applaud Urself

 

You must not know ’bout me, cause I’m not supposed to be staying in your guest bedroom. I knew your mom was trouble when she walked in that time I was cleaning in my pajamas with all the doors open. Pretty hurts, but I know you göt 2b beach trippin’. Your mail’s here; if you’re ready, come and get it la la la la…

I’m happy, free, confused, and lonely at the same time, because I can eat anything in your fridge but all you have is fat free yogurt and hot dogs. I went to the barbecue place outside your nearest grocery store again, and I got hot sauce in my bag instead of mild this time.

I woke up like this, in your guest bedroom under a crappy inspirational poster in a frame that’s bowing so much I’m afraid it’s going to snap and fall on me one night. Some nights I stay up smoking your weed. From your roof, a shooting star I see, a vision of ecstasy.

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August 23

Helpz Lotion

 

They paid me in lotion.

I thought about climbing out the window, just like I had climbed in the night before. Grandma doesn’t know I’m staying there, and she can’t, because it would be an awkward conversation. The window, which is covered by the vines of a kiwi tree, faces East. Long blue curtains conver the mud on the wall from previous entries. It’s an easy climb, but the sharp vines are shredding my skin. I would have done it, but it would have made too much noise, and besides, I needed my laundry. Or did I? Perhaps I could leave in my pajamas and return an hour later after the editor was gone. I had to take a phone call at 9. One way or another, the editor would know I was there.

 

“You look nice today!” said my boss, “are you going to an event?” No I just look like this today. These are the clothes I didn’t put in the laundry. They were stuffed in the back of the roll I hide under the bed, from Grandma. Grandma comes on Wednesdays, and sometimes other days. Yesterday she picked grapes, and I heard a rat scurry across the roof over the kitchen, where I saw the Perseids.

 

I tried to lie, but the editor is too keen. He’s a favorite in the narcissist’s collection. We all collect the same. So off I went, without brushing my teeth, but fortunately I had a brush and paste in my pack from the night I prepared to go camping with a stranger from Japan. Once again I brushed my teeth in the bathroom next door to work, an occurrence so common it’s become a resting place. 

 

There was no driving the New Yorker today. The phone call was short, and he seemed more frazzled than me. So I replied to another gig and printed ink for two hours.

 

I don’t eat chips, but they wanted my favorite kind, so I picked Jalapeno. It was a good choice. The band from 2002 really likes jalapeno chips and fruit loop vapor. I downloaded their song and pressed play 12 times. Tomorrow they play it themselves.

 

My card was declined when I purchased the chips. But I can’t use the New Yorker’s 200 or the landlord’s 200. I hope I get paid soon. Who knows when the New Yorker will pay me. Maybe I should spend more hours printing and blow off this gig.

 

Maybe this gig will thank me with a cash bonus.

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August 21

The Shot Nazi

 

The Nazi staggered toward me, clutching at his gut. He’d taken at least six bullets, a few to the gut, two in the chest, one in his right shoulder. He bled profusely. I had a hard time believing he was still able to walk, even if wearily.

He came right up to me and grabbed my lapels for support.

“Tell me… something… would you?” he squeaked out breathily.

“What do you want to know?” I asked, not sure what else to do.

“Do you think… my uniform… is ruined?” he said weakly, then started to wheeze with laughter, collapsing onto the asphalt, which was still not completely dry.

“Well, it is now, you idiot!” I chided.

“I’m fucking with you!” He laughed and laughed at his own stupid joke until he started to cough up blood. Then he coughed up something that looked like a hermit crab and fell motionless.

I still have the hermit crab-looking thing.