-The Socially Inept Editor-
Rewired
-Grammar and Spelling-
CIB Man
-HTML Reformatting and the Guy Who Kicks Rewired in the Ass to get
Gopher Done Every Month-
Mr. G
-Things I've Talked About With People Over the Last Four Weeks-
Masturbation
Pornography
My Fears of Nonexistence
Religious Irrationality
Penis Size
How Hairy An Ass Can Get
Love
Alcohol and Drugs
My Inexplicable Phobia of Muppets
Why Men Have Nipples
Secret Societies Controlling the People Through Institutions of Society
The Existence of Extraterrestrial Life
Life After Death
Animism
Medication
What One Would Do if a Disease Swept Over the World and Killed All of Humanity
Except Him/Herself
X-Girlfriends
-Contributors-
Claire
Star-Gazing Dreamer
Charley
Patchwork
Raingirl
cereal killer
Moshe Benarroch
Lioness
John Curl
Mr. G
Jeff Weston
Lemming
Cap'n Nemo
NEEPatorial
by Rewired
It's about 5:43 in the morning on Sunday right now -- the fifth of April, I do believe. I should've e-mailed this a few hours ago -- actually, a few days ago, but I'm fashionably late, as always. Staying up this late reminds me of the old days when I'd stay up all night and drink two pots of coffee and scarf Ritz crackers and write and draw. Now I'm older, fatter, and have more down-to-earth reasons to be depressed. Not that I'd bitch about my personal life -- no, not me. Now, have I ever done that?
This is the largest issue we've ever done -- fifty pages of all-new material. Our first issue only had about eleven pages. We came a long way in a year and a half. Sheesh. Fifty damn pages. Mr. G'll flip when he sees this. Everyone will. They'll freak out and think we'll have no material for next issue, but that won't happen; we always have material.
My car broke down -- wheel bearings or something like that. It's fixed now, and I can drive again. Yippee.
Well, I suppose I should try to get some sleep. We're all going to the mall tomorrow.
We've got a good glob of writers this time around -- and it's all new stuff, not this ancient stuff I've been printing lately. I'm actually very impressed with this issue. We got Moshe Benarroch from Israel writing some poetry for us, telling of his experiences. Cereal Killer wrote his usual whacky stories, a few by help from his sister, Star-Gazing Dreamer. Patchwork from Pennsylvania has also returned, having sent me some stuff through the PO Box. My friend Phloyd's friend, Cp'n Nemo, wrote us something as well. John Curl wrote some stuff, and even our own Mr. G wrote us a piece, inspired by an old Throwing Muses song. And my friend, Claire, also wrote something. Bout damn time.
She's joining the army. I'm bitching.
Women.
I Hate People
I hate people. I really do. Nobody cares at all how much they hurt others. We
may be the human race and all civilized and shit, but our actions are still so
primitive. I saw some senior picking on this little freshman kid. I felt bad,
cause the kid was almost afraid of this senior who thought he was just monarch
shit. And I got mad cause this guy is an asshole and now being an even bigger
asshole, and because of the fact I like to voice my opinion, of course I said
nothing to him. He just looked at me with this expression on his face as though
he was looking at a cockroach crawling on his food. Stupid preppy bastard. I
hate preppy bastards. The ones in the "popular crowd" that think they're just
the og mutha-fucking shit bi-atch. Because all they really are is a bunch of
poser fucking idiots that think they can get away with anything and constantly
brag about their thriving social life. Aanh. I HATE THEM. I'm sure most of you
agree, but if you happen to be a preppy bastard, then fuck you. Don't get me
wrong, not all preps are bad -- just the preppy bastards. I hope they all die.
Thank you.
Alien Abduction
I turned to channel eleven and there were about six to eight people all
muttering their fright and wanting to leave because the electricity went out.
The elderly person goes outside to the truck, and the guy holding the camera in
this event yelled that he pissed his "bleepin" pants. In an attempt to start
the truck, he realized that the engine was dead. So, he lifted the hood and
everything was melted together. They went back into the house, but before
doing so, saw something crawl into the attic window.
They took a trip up to the attic, and there was a red laser beam coming
from a door. They shot at it and then approached it. It was an alien, and he
was lying there hurt, probably dead as far as they could see. The being looked
really neat. It was the traditional-looking alien with a big head, gray body,
and huge, slanted eyes. The family all went downstairs. Several people got
nosebleeds, believed to be a sign that they were previously abducted. Minutes
later, several spots of lights traveled through the glass on top of the door
and struck one of the women, knocking her out for a long while. Then the
women's husbands went to get help, and the women and the child sat helpless.
The electricity, though the circuit breaker was fried, flashed on and then off
again. One of the women began complaining about a burning mosquito bite that
turned out to actually be a red triangular marking. One by one, they realized
that they all have this, and it hurts more and more as it goes. The little
girl still remains calm and doesn't have anything wrong with her. She says,"
It'll stop hurting in a minute!" And, to everyone's surprise, it does. "How
did she know that?" one of them asks.
The dishwasher, then the blender turns on. They begin running out of the
house, only to find clothes and a broken gun lying on the porch. The clothes
belonged to their husbands. Now they were really frightened. There are aliens
walking toward them through the trees in the backyard, a dull red light behind
them. They run back into the house to find the phone ringing; no answer when
they pick up. Ice cubes fall out of the fridge. Tommy McPherson, the camera
man tells us his name and turns the camera toward himself, and says how scared
he is and he wonders what is going on there that day. At exactly 11:29, Thomas
takes the camera into his brothers' room and when he turns around,
..........the alien shuts the door, comes closer............and turns the
camera toward Thomas, frozen in his place.
Experts say that the video taping of this slow and steady process of an
alien abducting an entire family is accurate as far as they can tell, and that
when they found the tape, there were fuzzy moments and even hours. These were
revealed, with technology, to be the aliens when they were burning their lasers
through the cows in the yard, earlier in the evening, and the men had watched
from a distance. One of the aliens looks up and starts to stare at the men,
but the men ran into the house in terror. There was also extra footage of the
dead alien in the attic as they dragged it back into a room and locked up the
room. Freakily enough, the girl turned to her father and said, "I think we
should go downstairs now." Her calmness told everyone to listen.
I think the footage was scary. I wouldn't want aliens to take over my
family and to approach me in an enclosed room. That would scare the shit out
of me, you know? Anyway, the family was never seen again, and this is supposed
to be a true story. They haven't proved it untrue, and the family would have
gotten nothing from acting during this entire thing, though if they were
acting, they did shitty jobs of it. A new break thru or a shitty acting job?
Either way, it fooled a lot of experts.
Self-Pity
Self-pity gazed at me through empty eyes.
like a friend
The night was fun, and I enjoyed being with her for some time. We'd talked
quite a bit the night before, and we talked about everything - I told her all
about my life, which was a rather short yet suprisingly complex story. Yet the
encounter was just missing something. Her body, it held no warmth, her eyes, no
fire. Passion wasn't there. Chemistry wasn't there. And I was trying to enjoy
myself, I was trying to make myself enjoy it, make myself like her and, maybe,
in the end, even make myself kiss her. Yet she felt more like a friend than
anything, and the night ended and I never called her back. I've hardly thought
about her, only in passing. Still I focus on my ex, the one I lost, my beloved
Amy. Would I ever find someone to replace her, anyone who could make me feel
those emotions again? Someone I could be intent with, who I could spend the
rest of my life with?
Love Affair
Sour kisses mixed in tainted love
An unfinished story that I never finshed
"Don't worry ma'am, I'm a police officer."
"Oh, thank heavens! It's so nice that you can always feel safe because a
police officer will always be there," Sara said with a sigh of relief. "I feel
so safe with you here."
"Yes ma'am. But you're tresspassing on my foot," the police officer told
her.
"Sorry," she said for lack of a better word.
"Now I must kill you."he said as he pulled out his revolver. He pulled back
the hammer. He started to pull the trigger.
"NO! Please don't kill me! I don't wanna die! I'll do anything! Please! Don't
kill me!" she screamed in fear.
The police officer saw the advantage in this. He could use her to his
advantage. "Ah, fuck it!" he thought. He pulled the trigger.
Letters to L____
Part I
WARNING: The following is an unedited letter of minor importence meant to
confuse you and complicate your mind. Massive use of drugs while reading this
document may cause it to make more sense, so please, feel free to load yourself
up on chemicals. Not for the feeble-minded or sane. Do not use as toilet paper
or burn in a sacrifical ritual to any horned god with a pot belly, hair like
bozo the clown, who smokes cheap cigars and snorts pixie sticks. Failure to
yeild to these warnings may result in spontanious combustion or a whap on the
hand by my tall dark man resembling a Q-tip with a spoon up his nose and a
perverse little grin. I'm not kidding, woman, don't fucking mess with me - I
know what I'm talking about. Oh, that's how it is, is it? You don't believe me?
Well, fuck you, man - FUCK YOU! GODDMAN IT TO HELL YOU INSIGNIFICANT
TURD-BRAINED ANAL WORM! HOW DARE YOU ATTEMPT TO MESS WITH ME, THE KING OF ALL
MADMEN, THE GREAT BELZEBUB, LORD OF THE FLIES, uh, um, nevermind. Forget I said
all that. It made no sense. Uh, just be careful. Enjoy the letter, or hate it,
but please don't puke. I would feel real bad.
neepneepneepneepneepneepneepneepneepne
L____, Why I'm deciding to write you after - what is it? three years? - of
knowing you I don't know, but I'll stop questioning my motives and just keep
writing. I've got strong coffee to my left, by the printer, a lava lamp in
front of me, and a stereo above me blaring Alice in Chains. Right by the stereo
is that bottle of medication I haven't touched in roughly a month. If my
parents knew I'd be toast and probably get kicked out of the house - but that's
what parents are there for, to suffocate you with their parental wing, to try
to run and control your life. Damn, they're just like thr fucking government.
Now the fucking CD is skipping. It sounds kinda funky. Next song now - it
stopped skipping. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, God. So you're not sure if you
believe in him, huh? I guess I'm not sure, either, but I just say I don't
because I really don't see the need for a God. I mean, if he exists he's not
really doing much for us anyways - the world is chaos and we're always warring
with each other and walking into fast-food resteraunts and shooting people for
no reason. So God just made us and left us here to rot? And then, after we die,
he tells us whether we live in the euphoric land of heaven or the burning
flames of hell for all eternity? I'm sorry, I just don't buy it. That's why I
say that if God exists he must be the biggest asshole - he created us, gave us
no clues as to why we're here or what the purpose of life is, and tells us
where to go when we die. Isn't that an asshole in your book? And I don't really
see a need for a God. Why did one being have to create everything, huh? I say
the universe is just some big dream that we all share, and when we go to sleep
we just have our own, personal dreams, living in our own, individual universes.
The world is chaos because of us, not because of some God, and we choose what
kind of afterlife we have, not some Supreme Being. Does that make sense?
Probably not; I'm just babbling here. Yuck. This coffee is terrible. I'm going
downstairs for some cider. Cider is good. Hot cider is even better - well, this
is warm cider, but it will suffice. Where was I? Oh yeah - what is the purpose
of this meciation anyway; this shit that my parents want me to take? It'll just
numb my mind, and there's much better things I could take - like alcohol or pot
- that would be much more interesting. And most of the time I don't even want
to take that stuff. Only sometimes, when I'm really bored, would I get that
burning desire to poison my mind with something, and I've tried no drugs, smoke
cigerettes only when I'm really depressed, and have only touched only a little
alcohol. And while we're on the topic, what's the damn purpose of male nipples?
Do we feed our young? NO! So why are they there? See? If God exists, I've got a
list of questions I'd spew at him. But I'm pretty sure he doesn't, so I'll
never know why I have nipples. I can live with that, though. Maybe someday I'll
get answers. I haven't drawn in a long time. I drew a few eyes this week, and a
couple Beezles, but that's about as much as I've drawn in a whole buncha
months. I've been writing a lot more, but even lately I haven't been doing
that. I just write some shitty poetry in my notebook on break at work and when
I get off work I rent a movie and drive around in my car for four hours before
coming home, having some Pepsi, talking to my ex-girlfriend, and then, finally,
watch the movie. Then I fall asleep and wake up for work and write down my
dreams on this little pad of paper on a chair next to my bed. Do you ever
remember your dreams? My dreams have been having these bizarre sexual overtones
I dare not speak of, though in a way I just did, which doesn't count because I
didn't give you any details. Well, I'm about to: (**cencored - sorry!**) Ooo, I
just realized some symbolism I didn't notice before: in women, I tend to look
for the perfect one, and even when most of them looks good i focus on the one
part of them that is mildly displeasing and concentrate on it, making an
association with that displeasing factor with the whole of them and resultingly
making the entire woman displeasing. Hrm. Interesting. That's why I can't keep
a girlfriend! Ya-hooo! Now I know! Now I got more hot cider and I'm listening
to Sublime. Good band. I have the sudden urge to write five pages on my
ex-girlfriend, bitching and whining about how stupid I was, but I'll refrain
because I don't think you, or anybody, really wants to hear about that or even
cares about it at all. I've got my exam for Psychology tomorrow (well not
tomorrow now as I'm writing this but probably tomorrow then as you're reading
this - confusing, huh?) and I should be studying for it, so, of course, I'm
not. Some things never change, though I am doing better now than I was doing in
high school. Yet in many ways I miss high school, but in many ways i don't. I
miss some of the people. I miss the art room. I don't miss much else. I hate
work, but it's getting easier now that I'm actually talking to some of the
people. There's this girl, R____, which is pretty cool, and this guy D____ and
I talk a lot, mostly on the universe and other weird philosophical topics. And
there's this kid J__ who needs to switch to decaf - and you know I'm a pusher
of caffeine, but this kid just needs a fucking seditive. Have you noticed that
I have completely failed to use paragraphs in writing you? You now have a
little over a page of solid words - beautiful, isn't it? All of it's bullshit,
of course, but what the hell else am I supposed to type? Some profound and
amazingly lengthy philosophical statement which you'll read part of and then
use to wipe your ass with? No. Please don't use this document as toilet tissue.
I will get very upset. You know what makes me upset? Every time I like a
musician he dies. Curt Cobain? I finally gave his music a chance and liked it
and what happened? He died. The lead singer of Sublime? Got to like his stuff
and , splat, he died. It just sucks. Life sucks, man, especially when people
die. If someone tells you I'm dead, don't believe them - because, for all you
know, I just faked my death. I'd be living undercover, up in the mountains
somewhere living off the forest and pondering the mysteries of the universe,
only to return years later to startle family and friends and baffle
authorities. Wouldn't they all be suprised? Hahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahhhahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahneephahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahah....
ack... I'd like to live happy life someday. But what does it take for a person
to be happy? For one, I'd have to not think, because when I think I get
depressed, and when I get depressed I drive around in my car and drink coffee,
and then I get more depressed and then I get more depressed and then sometimes
I smoke and if I get too depressed my lungs will cave in and I'll die and that
would just suck but not really because i wouldn't really die i'd just stage my
death hahahahahahahahahahah
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahneephahahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahadoubleneephahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahah...
heh... thfft... burp... *fart*.... boing... boop...
antistringloofianostriphorialotizinemorgnoofblapdooptrignadvaginasplorbnigglepuss!
For the lack of god I'm bored. I think it's better for you that I stop
writing now.
It's 12:03 and I'm writing you again. Why? Like I said before, you just can't
question things like this. They're out there, I knwo they are; they're watching
me now, and they're wacthing you as you read this. Look around - can't you see
them? Can't you feel their eyes on you, watching your every move, taking in
every detail of every movement you make - how you breath, your body language,
where your eyes tend to glance? They're always watching you. They'll never
leave you alone. And they're after you- they're plotting aginst you at this
very moment. Who are they, you ask? Who do you think? I can't say their name.
To say it would be suicide. It would be pulling the trigger to the gun they've
been holding to my temple for my entire life. To mention it would be mindless.
I shouldn't have even brought it up. Nevermind. Forget i said anything. Where
was I? Oh yes. Perhaps it would be nice to tell you how my day went. Well, i
got driven to work by Ed, who I had to wake up over the phone, which is a
tremendous feat. The reason i couldn't drive myself is because my car is in the
shop. You see, they got to it. 'They' who? Don't play stupid. You know exactly
who I'm talking about. THEM. Anyway, I got into work just on time, put on my
stupid red apron, clocked in, fixed myself and went about my daily work of
bagging. I was running on at least a cup of coffee, like most mornings, and,
like most mornings, I could've used a few more cups. But then it happened.
The most amazing thing.
She smiled at me.
Now, it wasn't just one of those cute little "hello, who the fuck are you?,
I'm just smiling to be polite" smiles, it was one of those, "hello, if there
wasn't people around I'd pin you on the register, rip off all your cloths and
make mad passionate sex to you" smiles. Her name is Katie, and I've talked to
her now and then, but she never said much to me, and i never said much to
her.
Later that day, while on break, she approached me, looking over her shoulder.
When she saw no one was looking, she handed me a manilla envolope, smiled, and
quickly walked away. I opened up the envolope and saw the most amazing thing
I've ever seen in my life. It would've knocked your socks off.
Oh yeah, it was just like the other day, when that other thing happened: I had
fallen asleep on the sofa, after having watched some Beavis and Butthead reruns
and eating some pizza. Well, it miust've been three o'clock when I came to. I
looked up to find three oriental-looking men in black suits peering down at me
- wellm they appeared to be peering down at me; nbot that I could see their
eyes through their shaded spectacles. That's "spectacles", not "testicles."
They took me under the arms and dragged me outside, where a black caddilac was
waiting. It was a clear night outside, quite warm indeed. They finally spoke,
saying something like, "we have vital information to spew fourth to you that we
need you to tell the world, for a time of great tragedy is upon us, when the
world will be taken over by" blah, blah "on the date of" so-and-so, "and you
must tell Linda Milliff that she mustn't" and so on and so on, "because if she
does her forehead will increase in size and fuzzy animals all over the world
will flock to her in order to attach themselves to her buttocks by any means
nessasry." Did I ever mention my ass is hairy?
Oh, and i came home from work one evening to find a cow in my room. It was no
special cow, just an ordinary, everyday, stinky, mooing cow in plad underwear
smoking a Cuban cigar and holding a seonce, calling upon the great horny god...
er, horned god.
You know, the best cappacinno isn't really found at the coffee shop - no, if
you want real quality cappacinno, you have to go all the way out to the
Middlefeild Dairy Mart. They've got the best fucking cappacinno I've ever
tasted anywhere. You've gotta try it. It's superb.
I'm getting fat.
Can you fathom nonexistence? I just can't. You see, my friend, D_____, thinks
that when you die, you just die, and your consciousness dies. That means you
cease to exist; you're nothing. Once in existence, something can't fade out, it
can only change form. Energy cannot be destroyed, and I see consciousness as
energy. Can you imagine how it would be to not exist? I can see cutting off
sensory perception - cutting off the ability to smell, taste, feel, hear, see -
but can yiou image not thinking, not being? I just can't bring myself to accept
the absense of the existence of my being, of my consciousness. If your not
"conscious", your still "unconscious", like in a dream, and that's still a
level of consciousness, a level of being, a mental state. Something that once
was cannot simply cease to be, can it?
I dubbed Marcy Playground from [Phloyd]. Actually, I'm listening to it right
now. It kicks major ass. I've been practicing acoustic guitar, and I've been
looking for some good acoustic music to learn, and it'd be cool to learn how to
play Sex and Candy, Poppies, or really any of the other songs. Ever hear of
Creedence Clearwater Revival? They're an old band, but they've got a lot of
good tunes. Might learn a bit of them too.
Doesn't the possibility of a worldwide secret society controlling the earth's
people through the elements and institutions of society scare you? What if some
secret sect set up religious institutions to simply confuse the masses and give
them something to believe in and have faith in and breed ignorance? The whole
monetary system, the constant warring going on between people, the conflicting
religions, the governments, Jerry Springer - they're all products of some
massive conspiracy to keep mankind in chains.
Drunk people are funny. Me and this guy from work when to a bar the other day
to meet this friend of ours, R____. In the end, we had some Pepsi's we got away
with getting for free, short some pool and talked with this drunk guy at the
bar about drunk driving, ecological deterioration of the planet, mutating
diseases and the Gaia Theory. Ever hear of the Gaia Theory? It states that the
planet is actually a living organism, and that the heart of the planet is the
rainforest, and when you cut down the trees in the rainforest you're killing
the heart of the planet, and so the planet, in response, sends out diseases to
rid itself of the parasites destroying it - namely, humanity. Eventually, it
may cause ecological disasters such as tidal waves, earthquakes, erupting
volcanoes and terrible storms to destroy humanity before humanity destroys the
earth. We'll be gone just like the dinosaurs.
Scary thing to think about.
I've always been interested by the nature of reality. How do we know that
anything really exists outside our heads? We don't exactly experience the whole
of reality - I mean, think about it: we can only see certain colors, hear
certain sounds, taste certain tastes. Why should our perception of reality be
any more different from that of, say, a frog's? It's reality is no more real,
and no less - it is merely different. There may be beings somewhere out there
in the cosmos that live in a completely different climate, breath completely
different air, see totally different colors, hear a different range of sounds,
and can taste different things. Hell, maybe they can taste colors or hear
tastes. What makes their reality any more or less real than our own? So, does
that mean reality is subjective? Thinking that what we see is more real than
what anything else sees is rather arrogant, doncha think? And arrogance goes
hand-in-hand with ignorance, does it not? So could reality, in truth, be
subjective rather than objective? Does a species, under normal circumstances,
share a base form of "reality" which is then distorted and interpreted by the
perception of the individual of the species?
Or, even more arrogant of a theory, is this world my own making? This God so
many believe in and which I refuse to believe in - am I him? Is the world my
dream; is all this my creation, my fantasy? Are you all figments of my
overactive imagination, figments that could disappear at any moment if I were
to wake up? If so, into what reality would I awaken - a reality much like this
one? Perhaps it would be greatly different, but it would have to be somewhat
like this world, at least in a symbolic sense, because a dream is no more than
symbols and memories from your actual life. Unless I created that theory up
myself and it holds no real credence.
Yet that is a rather arrogant theory, and is irrelevant to life, for I
shouldn't be wasting it like I am, waiting to wake up from this hell, but
rather live it and make it better for myself.
To shape this dream. Or my part in the dream.
Because it is still possible that this reality is a dream, but not one in
which I am the only dreamer - no, in this reality, in this dream, every
conscious being is a participant, every living entity a dreamer trying to shape
their fantasies in a land where they have to coexist with other fantasies of
other beings. So life is game ruled by a rival bunch of programmers, each
having equal potential for control but some realizing they can control their
lives - and others - more than others.
Or it's late, and I'm babbling.
Either way, it's irrelevant.
Everything's irrelevant.
Even the fact that everything's irrelevant is irrelevant.
I like that word: irrelevant.
Irrelevant.
What does it mean, really? Fuck, I'm tired.
To Be An Ethnic Minority
When you speak about your past
when you speak about other things
when you shout
if you speak politely
if you cry
if you object
if you laugh
If you criticize out
whatever you do
Dick
To Charity
Your name suggests a great virtue,
The semi-adventure-type thingy of some guy named Harry
"I am Blurb. I will destroy... "
"What will you destroy Blurd?" Harry asked.
"It's Blurb! Get it right. Say it again with me! Blurb!"
"Blurb" Harry repeated.
"I said say it with me, not repeat after me. There is a difference, you
moron!"
"I don't like your tone of voice, mister. I'm gonna leave you alone to think
about what you have done. You're grounded. Go to your room!"
"Wha...?"
"You heard me. Go to your room."
"You feeble minded moron! I should kill you for that!"
"You're mean." Harry whined. He didn't like people to yell at him.
"Damnit!"
Blurb beat the shit out of Harry. Harry didn't seem to mind. All he said the
whole time he was being pounded was "neato". Blurb soon gave up and left.
"What a strange person," Harry thought out loud. He shunned it off and started
walking around again.
After a while, Harry ran into Blurb again. "Damn, it's you again. But you are
the brightest person in this entire town, so I guess I'm gonna have to use your
help."
Harry thought for a while, and then said, "Sure, that sounds like fun."
"What the hell are you talking about? I didn't even tell you what we were
gonna do yet. Oh, well. Okay, this is what we're gonna do. First, you are gonna
take me to where we can get some weapons. Then you are gonna help me take over
the world. Oh, and I know what you are thinking, so don't even bother about
telling me not to use 'gonna' so much. Okay?"
"Neato," was the only response Harry could come up with.
Together, they took over the local army station. From there, Blurb worked on
strategically blowing up places while Harry was in charge of getting food.
After seeing how dangerous Harry and Blurb were, the entire world gave up.
It's been accomplished. Harry and Blurb have completely taken over the world.
They are both sitting on their thrones in an abandoned Coca-Cola factory now
used as a capital. Harry was really enjoying himself. He looked over at Blurb.
"Isn't this fun? Hey, what's that button on your neck?" he said as he pushed
it.
"Pop" went Blurb's head. It flew up into the air and fell onto the floor,
bouncing twice.
"You idiot! That was the self-destruct button!!!!" Blurb's head emitted, and
with a final sigh, he was dead.
"BOOM", the entire solar system was destroyed, along with every other
dimension.
The Winter Night
2-1-98
I look around tonight and see
I should mumble more and talk less. Sometimes my voice can be heard too
loud. Then again, many can't hear it and therefore I am not loud enough. If I
could be heard for just one minute by all the people in the world, I would be
happy. If I could be influential enough that people would listen to my voice
and understand what I'm trying to say, I would be thrilled. I may not be a
good speaker (I mumble, I can say stuff that makes no sense even to me), but I
do have something to say; stuff that has sculpted me into who I am, and that
can't be all that bad of a thing. I grew up as one of those quiet children,
sitting back, watching everyone else have fun. Sure, I had fun too, but it was
mostly by myself or with my brother (don't get sick thoughts-- fuck you if you
did), and we played with hotwheels and Barbies. I never had that many friends
because the children in my school liked to destroy their toys or play with them
so much that they looked old. My toys always looked new and I couldn't abuse
anything. My room had organization. When I had a birthday sleepover party,
five or six girls spent the night, and my room was a disaster after they left
and they hated me. I was possessive and emotional about things, so I blew up
at all of them and hated that they made me play the grandmother or the baby
when we played "house". It was an issue in that age to want to play the mom,
and I had to either play the mom or not play. So I lost the friends that tried
being my friends and never tried to make friends with everyone else. I had one
best friend that I did everything with, but we're no longer friends either.
She was a liar and wanted too much from me to believe the stories she made up
about herself and other people. I finally had enough of her by sixth grade,
and stopped being friends with her because I had two other friends. As long as
I had one person to hang onto, I could always get rid of my other friends.
Anyway, none of the children in my school really listened to me. They never
realized that I had a logical explanation for the "odd" way that I behaved. If
I had something logical to say, nobody listened; they'd ignore me. I'd try to
talk to my parents, but they just say stuff to get me to go away, "that's nice,
dear." They're all buffoons. Actually, they're not, that's just one of my
English words that happens to be in my head from the vocabulary sentences I
just did. My point is, if people would listen to me, like people who are
oblivious to life's importance, and lived life as I do instead of in a
paper-doll world, we could get along. None of these barbie-doll children with
credit cards and an "as-if" and "whatever" hand-talking attitude, that go to
malls all the time and buy trendy clothes with their allowances and credit
cards. Darn. I wish I had a daddy with a credit card who let me take it to
the mall to purchase myself a new wardrobe. They hang all over the freaking
mall and talk like they own the world. They think that whatever they wear is
going to make them world-famous and cause them to have the world kissing their
feet. Guess what? They're wrong!!! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!! Why won't these
fucking people listen to me?
DREAM
talking in your sleep . . ."
Let the process happen.
Know that the pain will pass,
- Mel Colgrove, How to survive the loss of a love
Let It Go
antipoetry
What if the Soundtrack to Life was Written by a Ska Band?
I have often wondered about what seems to be a rather trivial point: What if
the soundtrack to life was written by a ska band? I don't necessarily mean
like a soundtrack to a movie called Life, but rather, as if we went around our
everyday lives, there was a soundtrack to accompany us. I believe that if the
soundtrack to our lives was written by a ska band, things would be a little
different.
For instance, I have yet to hear a really sad, depressing ska song. There may
be exceptions to this, but I have yet to find any. A ska soundtrack to life
would help to create a more positive atmosphere, since the music's general tone
would be upbeat and bouncy, even while dealing with depressing subject matter.
The forward tone of the music would help us to be assertive, yet not
overbearing. The more laid back tracks would be perfect to listen to after a
hard day's work or slack.
Granted, some people would find this soundtrack rather annoying and develop
migraine headaches. These could be the crazy people. Every society needs crazy
people. If it proves too much for them, they could be send to camps similar to
the ones that the Official Tormentor of Rewired proposed in her "My Plan for
World Domination" article in Gopher #9. They could have a country soundtrack.
The really bad people could have their soundtracks changed to Yoko Ono
records... Wait, that would make them crazy... hmmm. At any rate, this topic
does make you stop and think. Would life be really different/better/worse if
our soundtracks were written by ska bands? Ponderous...
Me & Jonah
(part I)
The water is cold, cold enough to break the skin of the boat, the skin of me,
oh, it's a little too much. We started days ago. That was good, when we started
out, leaving port the way you do with the engines throttled full and there were
good skies and I was saying to myself, we'll get lots of fish this time out and
I think I was planning to take the money and get a new truck. One time I made
seven grand on a trip after it
was said and done.
Oh, I hear such beautiful music, it makes my heart break, like the ship, was
broken, across the rocks.
If I could move my leg along the slick deck, if it weren't already gone to the
place where legs go, when they're sick and tired, I would move along the deck
and examine the possibilities.
One needs possibilities.
Occasionally I listen. I listen very hard, straining, no, harder than that. I
can hear a whole lot of things. Sometimes I hear the engine sputtering. Like
it's going, I think, excellent, then we'll continue on to the Banks and nab
fish and I'll be out with nets and I'll have my gloves and this is very
important, I'll be looking out over the bow and can see the ripple of the
surface of the water as waves come towards us as if we were cutting through the
lines of a great symphony, like the one on the radio at the moment.
The light of 12 Pound island is a laser. I shiver every time it slices across
us, and am slivered into pieces the way you take an egg and sever it into equal
sections with wire, the wire in an egg cutter like they have in kitchens. I try
not to look at the light. Then I look at the light, trying to fathom a purpose.
I remember its purpose, to guide, that's what it does. Everything is being cut.
Time, I have seen, by waiting
for the swivel of the light of the light house, is a paradox. Perhaps
everything cut up is a paradox.
I remember once, I was traveling the length of the coast, in a car, a nice car
I had, it was a 2002, one of the older ones, and in driving I could sense that
the ocean was cut up into pieces from my view in the car. The landscape in the
winding road slid into view, then broke to allow the ocean. It was cold, like
now, very cold, and the ocean doesn't freeze, not like lakes and ponds, but
around the edges it did, and steam rose from it, as it struggled to remain in
motion. There I was, in motion, struggling to remain in
motion. I think I was running away from something, from some situation. I don't
believe I was running for ever, like, trying to actually escape, I was running
for the sake of running, to clear my head. And the water, as I wound around the
road of the coast, puzzled me with its distinct personality. I must say I felt
fear. So large, so much. Like now. Except I don't want to think about that
exactly, I'm just going to try running, in my head, until my head clears. If I
could reach the radio down in the galley, I would turn it up. Although it's
pretty loud right now. It was left on before we went belly up on the rocks. And
the rocks cut too, oh yes, I found that out. But we didn't sink, that we would
have, we were speared on the jagged points. It is useless to mention this. Even
if I had grabbed the log book from the cabin, in some miraculous foresight, of
the time at hand, and a pen too -- I speak for the fishes who taunt me. I am
telling them. You then, are the fish. You are listening safely in the tide,
warm enough with your fatty insulation from the icy salt.
Blasted radio I hate you I really hate you! Why don't your batteries run low
so you can stop tricking me and keeping me listening as if I were tethered to
you, with long cords of stainless steel cable never capable of rusting, always
closer to the infernal speaker and the commercials, ugh, I think it's the
commercials which get me. I would like to go down to Demario's for some new
vinyl house siding! I
would like to open an account at the Cape Bank! But I can't, you see? It's very
simple. No need to get upset about it.
I think it was an argument with a girlfriend.
When the spray comes in over the railing, I can feel it against my face, but
it seems to have calmed down, the water and the fish are quietly listening.
I always liked when, in the summer, you went into the freezer and it made your
whole body tingle. That was great, although it does occur to me that there in
the winter, in the snow, when the snow gets caught between your gloves and
coat, just at the wrists, it burns. I guess I liked that too. I'd take either
right now to be quite frank.
If I were named Frank, I would no longer be named Mikhail.
My father named me this, you see, and my mother grudgingly agreed. She wanted
to name me Frank. No, I believe she wanted to name me Boris. I don't think I
would have liked to have been called Boris all my life. There is something
absolutely grainy about it, the sound of it, in my ears, with the sound of the
water constantly moving, the sound Boris does nothing to please me. My parents
say they're from Moscow, but I know they're really from the Ukraine. Just like
them to name someone Mikhail rather than
Boris, not Frank, not Joe. But I'm from Leicester, not from where they're from
and even having to carry around a name like Mikhail, although not Boris, has
always been a heavy load. I was ruddy cheeked. Maybe the cold is in my blood,
and it fires the area below my eyes with constant streaks of red. I have no
mirror now, but if I did, I would check this tidbit of a thought, to verify
it.
Let's see, if I were speaking to salmon how would the story differ from one
told to tuna?
I have given up on the fish. I don't think they're listening. I'm speaking now
to the lighthouse, yes, it will surely listen. My words will be absorbed by the
light, and in being absorbed, redistributed over the whole water. I am
imagining other sailors have done this too, so that there are layers on top of
layers. The waves bump them so they mix, and we have one story mixed into
another, like paint spilled, or like something else, something I can't remember
at the moment.
There are many things to remember. I have tried to remember them all, but have
settled for select things, pulled out at random.
Let's see, there are so many. Here's one.
I am seeing that place I'd rented right on Agawam Beach. It was a cabin, sort
of a cabin, that was open to the air, I had it for the summer, it was open like
it had no windows. It had slats which were hinged at the top and held open at
an angle by a pole, you could lower them if you wanted, when it was raining or
whatever. I had the place all summer. And there was a small foot trail down to
the beach, and I spent time drinking wine and playing guitar and I would
sometimes build a fire on the beach and cook what I'd caught. I had this girl,
Maria, who used to come to the cabin. And we had great sex there, in the cabin,
on the beach, the kind of slow sex that went with the tempo of the waves, like
we weren't in any hurry. I spent alot of time thinking about things then. Oh,
what sort of things did I think about? I wasn't a teenager, but I wasn't grown
up either. I guess those sorts of things. Why is insurance so important to
everybody? Why
did peasants pour vodka down Dostoyevski's father's throat so he died? If I
were Nietzsche, and I walked into a bar, how would I explain my philosophy
without being beaten up? Why did I say those cruel things years ago to Boris?
Why don't people say what they mean, or why don't people keep it to themselves,
or why don't people spend more time laying on the beach with a guitar smoking
some weed? I really felt I
was getting to the bottom of enormous burning questions. I imagined I could
impart this knowledge to my fellow man. I told Maria and she laughed. I didn't
mind. People are always saying, oh, these are the best days of your life, like,
since you were like, three. Maybe those days on the beach were mine. I don't
know. They kind of embarrass me too. Those days, the best ones, which I look at
now. Now. Not now. I don't want to think about it right now. The fire inched
over the wood as if it were alive. That's what I remember. I thought the fire
was alive, those nights. And I thought the ocean was too. I could understand,
rolling sand between my fingers and toes, why the four elements were chosen. I
tried to play an Earth, Wind, and Fire song on the guitar for Maria but I was
never very good. My fingers just don't seem to be able to move around in a
musical way. It's as if they're glued together. I can only strum in a dirge
sort of way. Maybe it's my Russian blood. I've heard my Uncle warble out some
terrifically mournful Russian songs. I've forgotten alot of my Russian, but I
remember the songs were always about some worker for the people sacrificing
something. Ah.
What I would like is something to do. When you're doing things you don't have
to think so much, and it would take my mind off the ocean.
When you have bad thoughts, like very bad thoughts about hurting or being hurt
it's sometimes best to let them flow right through you, as if you were
transparent.
So I'm opening my eyes again, although the lids are hurting quite a lot on my
eyes, and the eye balls themselves are aching with the cold, I look at the
water, as if I were transparent.
Like the fire. Every bit is moving. Every tiny jutting bit of it is moving of
its own free will. This is an enormous animal I am surrounded by. It is angry,
maybe it is angry with me, oh, tell me, what have I done wrong, won't you tell
me, why go on punishing me this way! The radio is good. I like the radio, it
takes away my attention from the water. I'm listening to the announcer's voice,
I know the announcer, I mean, I know every thing about him because of each
subtle intonation. I know where he went to school, what he had for breakfast,
who he's sleeping with, what his goals and pet peeves are. He doesn't like the
toilet paper roll put on so the sheets hang close to the wall, I can tell that.
And he has trouble sleeping, and he has a few bills he can't seem to get around
to paying, and he sits in the morning and wonders sometimes why he doesn't just
pick up and move in with his cousin who has this great place in North Carolina,
where he can finally get time to paint and maybe even sell some of the
paintings of forests and portraits in a small gallery. That's what he's always
wanted to do. His dog is very sick. He's worried about him, he doesn't want to
have to put him to sleep, after all, he's had him since he was a teenager. I
hope
he plays a song I like. Even if he doesn't I forgive him. Oh, why doesn't the
water forgive me and transport me to the shore so I can get that vinyl
siding?
Wait, I think I rushed my interpretation of the radio man. I mean, I believe I
was thinking of different tones, in his voice, and now that I'm listening
harder I can tell some stuff I didn't have right in the first place. No dog,
first of all. He is not the sort of person who has a dog, maybe a cat. Maybe
not even a cat. Certainly not fish. I don't want to conceive of fish at the
moment, who don't even have the decency to
listen to me. A cat would. A dog would. No, the Radio Man is indeed sleepless,
an insomniac. That much was correct. He does not paint ideal scenes. He is not
an artist. But he does dream of escape. Like me. And why does he? That is a
good question.
Maybe he is trapped by forces beyond his control, as if he were bounded in by
a huge raging expanse.
When I was traveling across Alaska, with a backpack, and working for a while
at the fisheries there, hoisting huge salmon onto conveyor belts, I was
distinctly aware of many hedgings and expanses. Becoming conscious of the
gravel beneath my feet, and the mosquitoes, and the north winds, I sought to
follow the footsteps of Jack London and see the whole wide world. My eyes, so
pained now, had wings. I
wanted them to fly the entire way around. Tagging behind, I could pick up the
pieces of my journey. But there were large chunks of time when I was only
concerned with solitude I was never able to find. I was continually interrupted
from more than a half hour of aloneness. Once I was out in the woods in Alaska,
and I had walked three days out of Juneau, and I thought, my god, I am going to
get away from things
now, I'm actually going to be alone like I've never known before, and then
maybe I'll get to the bottom of myself, and I'll be like the Indians and have
known and be visited by Mother Nature herself and understand everything I need
to. So there I am, having pitched tent for the night. I'd put out the fire. I
laid down on my sleeping bag and was so very much at peace and content like I'd
never been able to know before, when I can hear this sound in the distance.
It's this whizzzzing sound. It's the sound of bombs falling in miniature. Then
a great big BOOM, and laughter. Oh Jesus, what the hell almighty Christ is
going on? Out of the tent with my flashlight I walk over a rise and see below
me a truck and a few kids -- oh I don't know, they were my age -- and they
were drinking and yelling and shooting fireworks. Out in the middle of nowhere.
In the middle of everywhere. In the middle of my god-damn solitude and peace
and quiet and diplomacy with Mother Nature. I was mad. I was livid. I shouted
WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? and the guys they stopped and they looked up at
me, and one of them said Hey dude, what are ya doing way out here? And I said
TRYING TO GET SOME PEACE OF MIND. Hey, they said, come on down we got some beer
and some good tunes. And I went down and had a beer with them, and we talked
and they were working with a logging company. I liked them, we got along. I
suddenly understood that seeking this solitude was impossible, that it wasn't
meant for me, and you know I just sorta gave up then, seeing them there. So
isn't it sort of ironic, I think, that now I've got it, when I don't want it.
The captain went over the side in an inflatable lifeboat on the first day. He
said he was sure he could make it to 12 Pound Island and the light house.
I mean what's it about?
I have questions. I'm not sure what they are exactly, but I feel them in
there, nudging the insides restlessly. Often I like to sit outside, on the
porch I have, and drink a beer and smoke some, and the questions go away for a
while. Sometimes they get so big and so bad, that I feel as if I'm slowly being
swallowed, like Jonah was in the whale. Maybe he was swallowed up right away,
so I'm more like being
digested. That's what people imply, I guess, when they say `what's eating you?'
Questions, I have some. I would tell you what they were if I knew them.
What was the story, the one about Jonah, being swallowed by the whale. Wait.
Let me think. Yes, God told Jonah to go to Ninevah as a messenger, to tell
Ninevah it had gone sour and that God was going to punish them. But Jonah
didn't do that. He ran away, he got on a ship, going somewhere, a place whose
name is too long and too biblical for me to remember at the moment. Oh that I
could. That the tiny details would come to me easily. I could be on Jeopardy
with an ability like that. Anyway, I don't recall where Jonah was going, but
the important part was, he was going there on a ship. God was pissed off. Made
a storm. And Jonah lay sleeping in the ship, and a sailor shook him awake
saying, Why are you sleeping? We're about to be smashed by the storm, don't you
have a God to pray to? Oh yes, says Jonah, I have a God to pray to, the one
that made the land and yes the storm too. Made the storm? they said. Well, tell
him to make it go away. I can't do that, Jonah said, he's got to punish me I
guess. Punish you? They conferred. Sacrifice him, the sailors said, throw him
out where his God can get him and so we can survive. So the sailors said
prayers and took Jonah and threw him overboard. And in the water a great beast
waited, sent by God, who swallowed up Jonah, in whose belly he stayed three
days and three nights. It was a
great beast, OK, let's get that straight, it does not actually say a whale, but
I prefer to think of it as a whale, so abide me will you? Jonah prayed and
apologized I guess. Afterward, he was vomited up and went to Ninevah to preach
the end because they had been very bad. But everyone listened to Jonah, in
Ninevah, when he said God was going to destroy them in what, forty days. So
everyone in Ninevah went and fasted, and threw away their clothes and wore
sackcloth. And they repented. God saw that Ninevah was changed, and he forgave
them and didn't destroy them. But Jonah was upset. I guess he really wanted to
see Ninevah
leveled. And this is the part I don't understand so well. The thing I can't
figure out is the gourd. I can't figure why Jonah wants to die either, but I'm
going to put that aside, at least momentarily. Let's just say Jonah wants God
to kill him. But instead of killing him, God makes this gourd, which hangs over
Jonah, which shades him from the sun. Can you figure this out? A floating
gourd? Out of his gourd? And this isn't all. Jonah still wants to die, and he
gets used to the gourd being there, and Ninevah being there, so God creates a
worm that he places in the gourd, which makes it shrivel up. End of story. Does
this make any sense whatsoever? It starts nicely, with the part about the whale
(how I started on this whole thing) and ends up with a floating gourd and a
worm.
Maybe Jonah wanted to die because he could not escape God. He was, in a sense,
stranded. He sat out in the desert after saying what he had to say, and God
wouldn't leave him alone, bothering him with floating gourds.
when you dream distant into yourself
when you dream distant into yourself
Dumb Quotes
"If you could have won, you should have." --- Okay, let's say that I am in a
situation where I am competing against a guy who needs to win the game or else
he would have had to deal with his wife leaving him, or losing his job. The
entirety of his life depends on this one game, and I am supposed to win this
game because of this particular quote? What if the guy would go insane and
kill someone if I won? What if he warned me that my boyfriend would have to
die critically if I were to win? This quote apparently doesn't take head to
death threats.
"Holding the mile record doesn't make it any easier to run the mile." ---
Actually, if you compare the endurance of someone who never works out to the
endurance of the person who holds the mile record, it really is easier for the
record holder to run the fucking mile.
"The superior man blames himself. The inferior man blames others." --- I
wouldn't blame myself for the stupidity of others. Am I to blame myself for
these stupid quotes? NO, it's the fault of whoever thought it would be cool to
show the quotes on our school bulletin-thing.
"I never lose a game, I just run out of time." --- Sounds like a personal
problem.
"The main ingredient of stardom is the rest of the team." --- What the hell
am I? Chopped liver?
"He's as honest as the day is long." ----->That's not much of a character
reference. What does he do at night, rob delicatessens?
"Two heads are better than one." ----->Not if both are stupid.
"Don't count your chickens until they're hatched." ----->Anyone who counts
chickens before they're hatched is counting eggs, not chickens. Pay no
attention to a dummy like that.
"God helps those who help themselves." ----->That may be, but the courts are
rough as hell on shoplifters.
"...as easy as shooting fish in a barrel." ----->At close range any fish you
hit will be blown to such bits there'll be nothing left to eat.
"Speech is silver, silence is golden." ----->Huh? Would you remember Martin
Luther King Jr. if he hadn't spoken? ----->Poor Rosten's Almanac:
"Silence, if practiced long enough, will leave you with no one to talk to."
"An apple a day keeps the doctor away." ----->I once knew an accomplished
hypochondriac. At the age of twenty-eight, he decided to eat nothing but
apples. He kicked the bucket before he hit twenty-nine: pernicious anemia,
aggravated by pectin poisoning.
"A rolling stone gathers no moss." ----->But what does an inert stone gain
from all the moss it accumulates? No one has ever explained this.
---------------------------------------------------
Kids say the Darndest things:
A four-year-old boy visiting a farm, seeing lambs for the first time: "Why,"
he said delightedly, "they make them out of blankets!"
..............................................
"What's your ambition, young man?"
"To be a skin diver in the Navy."
"What if you were swimming and suddenly saw a man-eating shark?"
"I'd tell him, 'Go find a man; I'm just a little boy."
.............................................................
Nuisance Thoughts
I wish she woulda kept my flannel
Legend of the Toilets
The year was... gee, I don't know. This year, I think. The time was... how the
hell should I know. I wasn't there. But I think it was somewhere in Ohio.
"Why don't I tell the damn story!?" he screams at me. I tell him to shut up as
I punch this sheet of paper. It crinkles. Again he annoys me.
Tim was on a mission from a higher power. This "being" came to him in great
need. The "being" was from underground, you see. The Great Gopher came to Tim
last week while he was on his way to his mailbox. He popped right up from the
ground.
Tim was angered because now he would have to fill the gaping hole in his
driveway. Tim was ready to start yelling at this giant gopher when he spoke.
"Are you the one they call Tim?" the Great Gopher asked him.
"There are some who call me that," he said to him, "but my parents call me
Timothy."
"Well, Tim, I, the Great Gopher, have a mission for you, the one they call
Tim," the Great Gopher told him.
"A mission. Wow, that sounds so important." Tim was amused.
"Tim," the Great Gopher asked of him, "I need you to place toilets all over
Ohio. They must be randomly, but spread out."
"Okay," Tim responded. After all, he didn't have anything to do this week
anyway.
The Great Gopher left Tim to carry out this mission, so Tim started on his
way. It seems kind of odd that Tim had not questioned the Great Gopher's
request, but he was so bored he really didn't care what his motives were. But
I'm sure you're wondering why the Great Gopher needs these toilets, but I can't
tell you now because it would most likely ruin the ending. But you will find
out soon enough.
So Tim, with the trench coat, sunglasses, soul-torn face, and messy hair walks
along the road to his house. He finally finished placing all the toilets around
and needed a serious time out. He needs rest. No one can survive on caffeine
alone for an entire week. But before he can rest, he must fill the gaping hole
in his driveway. He peers inside. The hole seems bottomless. He drops a pebble,
but no sound. It never hits bottom. "Damn," was all Tim could say.
He decided that he would need some construction equipment to fix this hole,
and that it could wait for a few more hours, so he went to sleep. Tim didn't
really like sleep, but it was a necessity to life, so he had to compromise. He
sleeps only a few hours per day, and sets one day aside for complete rest. Not
the healthiest, but he enjoyed it that way. Besides, all the good television
shows were on while most normal people slept.
At one o'clock in the afternoon, Tim wakes up. The alarm clock that he had set
for six a.m. was still going off. He slams his fist against it and it stops. So
Tim gets up, takes a shower, puts on clean clothes, and makes himself scrambled
eggs, but he isn't hungry, so he ended up throwing most of it away. Tim is on
his way to check his mail which has been piling up for the last week and a
half. He has walked the same route to the mailbox each day for the last eight
years. He walks out of the side door to the mailbox, down the driveway and
through the front door. He didn't like to have a routine like this, but it was
the most efficient and he didn't like to waste time outside on a cold morning.
But today, as he walks back to his house, sifting through junk mail, he doesn't
look where he is walking and falls into a deep hole. "Where the fuck did this
hole come from!?" Tim asked himself, not realizing that it was the Great Gopher
who made the hole and he had forgotten to fill it. It just goes to show you
what can happen when you procrastinate.
Now Tim was in trouble. He has fallen into a deep, dark hole, with seemingly
no bottom, and he had no way to get out. Eventually, after bouncing his bum on
the sides, he managed to slow himself down. But his ass hurt.
His eyes had adjusted to the darkness now and he was starting to understand
where he was. Everywhere caverns and tunnels branched off from this hole.
Endless tunnels going in every direction. If he was to get out of this alive,
he thought he might as well try one of these tunnels before he falls even
further down. So Tim, with the trench coat, soul-torn face, messy hair, and
sore ass, kicks off of the wall and latches onto one of the millions of
underground tunnels. Pulling himself up, he notices that these are not
abandoned tunnels.
Tim didn't like to be dirty. And all this falling and bouncing had made him
very dirty. This angered Tim. Staring into the tunnel with his night eyes, he
sees little gophers scurry about. One of them comes up to him and says, "You
must be the one they call Tim."
"Yes, I am Tim. I didn't know that you could talk, too," Tim says.
"We only talk down here. We fear the surface dwellers so we don't reveal our
secrets. But you, our master speaks highly of you," the little gopher said to
him.
"Is your master the Great Gopher?" Tim asks him.
"Why yes, he is. I will take you to him if you wish. Most likely you are
wanting to get out, back to the surface world. I am truly sorry for the hole in
your driveway. You see, we are very busy and haven't had the time to finish it
yet."
"Oh, okay. Well, if you can take me to the Great Gopher, I will be very
pleased. I want to get home so I can wash up," Tim asks of the little gopher.
"If ya would pick me up and put me on your shoulder, I can direct you to the
Great Gopher's chambers." Tim picks up this talking gopher and places him on
his right shoulder. "This way, about 140 feet," the little gopher directs him,
"then we will reach it. You are very fortunate to have found this tunnel, for
any other would take longer and is more confusing. You can get lost very
easily. By the way, were you the one who dropped a pebble on Frank's head?"
"Sorry." Tim says with sorrow.
As they walk through the valley of the shadow of death (oops, I mean the
tunnel), the little gopher explains to him how they labor for the Great
Gopher's plan. Each gopher has a specific job and no one knows about the final
plan.
"Another ten feet and you will reach a staircase. Follow that," the gopher
points out to him. As Tim walks up the staircase, he sees a faint light ahead,
growing steadily brighter. Ahead of him stands an archway leading into a large
cavern. They step inside.
"Tim! Why, what brings you here?" the Great Gopher exclaimed.
"The gopher on my shoulder."
"No, I mean... what brings you to the hole in the first place?"
"I fell." Tim answered.
"I have brought Tim here in hopes that you will help him return to the
surface, master," the little gopher tells him "It was nice to meet you, Tim. I
must take my leave now." said the ever-polite gopher. Tim returned the
good-bye as the little gopher resumed his task.
"Truly sorry about the hole. I will send workers over to fix it immediately."
the Great Gopher told him as he motioned a group of little gophers out.
"Franklin," he called, "escort Tim here back up to his home. Tim, my assistant
will direct you back up. Is there anything else I can do for you?" he asked.
"Well," Tim replied, "I was kind curious what this is all about."
"In due time, Tim. In due time you will find out everything you want to know.
You see, secrecy is the essence of our survival. We can't just go around
telling everyone our plans. If I tell you , then someone else will want to
know, and so on. But I assure you, you are in no danger, my friend."
"I understand," he said. His curiosity was still unfulfilled. "Well, could
you at least tell me why you need the toilets?" he inquired.
"A means of transportation," the Great Gopher answered.
"I see," Tim replied, but the did not see. The Great Gopher's answers were
riddles. Riddles not meant to be figured out. "Thank you for your help, Great
Gopher. I must leave now. Perhaps we will meet again, sometime?"
"Perhaps," the Great Gopher replied.
"Good-bye" Tim spoke as he followed Franklin, another little gopher, into a
nearby tunnel. Franklin was small compared to the eighty foot Great Gopher,
but when Tim saw him with other little gophers, he was larger. Almost twice
the size. Having been with the Great Gopher, Tim had not noticed the size
difference.
"Franklin," Tim asked him as they walked through an endless tunnel, "why is it
that you are larger than the others?"
"I am older," was his reply. "When we become old, we gophers must leave behind
the surface world for good. Humans tend to fear larger animals, and their fear
scares us."
"Oh."
"Well, it's okay. I prefer to live solely down here. We have safety down
here."
"I'm really beginning to understand your culture now. It's amazing how you
live down here. A whole unnoticed society."
"Well yes. It was the Great Gopher who began all this. Without his guidance,
we all would have died," Franklin answered.
"Why is the Great Gopher like he is? Is he a magical deity?"
"No, he is just old and wise."
"Hmm" Tim was amazed.
"Up here," Franklin said, pointing ahead, "that tunnel will take you back. Be
careful, it is very steep. I must leave you now, for this is too far for my
safety. I cannot travel up there."
"One quick question. Does Big Foot really exist?" Tim asked.
"No. That was actually my cousin George, trying to walk on two legs to scare
away campers from one of our tunnels."
"I figured." Tim said as he took his leave.
Tim returned home with a splitting headache above his eyes. He takes two
Advil, runs a shower, turns on the television, and goes to lie down on the
couch. He fell asleep immediately.
In waking up a few hours later, he notices something different. Something was
wrong. He glares around the room, but it was not there. He gets up and walks
into the kitchen. Everything was as he left it, but an odd smell teased his
nostrils. Suddenly he noticed the source. On the table, hidden by mounds of
newspapers and half-empty cereal boxes, sat one of the little gophers. In
front of him was a plate with food on it.
"I hope you don't mind, but I made some filet mignon." the gopher said to him
apologetically.
"I didn't know I had any," Tim responded.
"It was in the fridge. In a Chinese food take-out container." the gopher told
him.
"No wonder," Tim replied. "That explains a lot, "he said to himself. He had
wondered about its contents for weeks.
"I seem to have made too much. Do you want some?" he offered Tim. Tim
grabbed a clean plate and a fork and took some.
"Did you rehear this on the stove?" Tim asked curiously.
"Yes. And, by the way, you're out of cooking oil."
"Oh," he replied. They enjoyed the meal together, and when they finished Tim
asked the gopher what brought him here.
"It was very important that the Great Gopher is planning to take over the
world, the little gopher replied. "by the way, my name's Bob."
"Are you sure about this?" Tim questioned him.
"Yes. I have always been named Bob."
"Not about your name, about the plan to take over the world."
"No. I am not sure. But the signs are there."
"It was a good idea you came to me. But I doubt that the Great Gopher would
try anything like that."
"You're right. But it does make you think," Bob answered.
"The Great Gopher doesn't seem that diabolical, but I will take this into
consideration. Dew?" he offered. Bob accepted. Tim looks out the window, "Nice
day, huh?"
"Yep," Bob responded.
"You know what? Even though I doubt your paranoia, I will go out and
investigate. I admit, there was a lot of secrecy yesterday. I wouldn't worry,
though." Tim calmed Bob.
"You're right," Bob said. "It's getting late. I must get going before anyone
notices I'm missing. I have to get to work."
"Good-bye," Tim said as he left. Tim went back to finishing his Mountain Dew.
After that, he went to pee, and then on to investigate whether or not Bob was
right about the Great Gopher's plan. He puts on his trench coat and a pair of
old work boots. He was still mad that he got his good sneakers dirty. He put on
a cap and sunglasses to hide his identity.
The hole was still there, although most of it had been fixed by the team of
gophers the Great Gopher sent over yesterday. Apparently they all had working
hours. Probably nine to five. He peers inside and searches for the tunnel that
led from the Great Gopher's chamber. At last, he found it. Climbing down, he
swung over and barely landed in it. He started walking down it, not giving his
eyes a chance to adjust. Eventually he could see the chamber ahead of him.
"Hi! Hi! Are you Tim?! Hi! Hi!" a very small, childlike gopher yelped at him.
Tim was like an idol down here.
"Hi there. What is your name?"
"I am Shelly! I love you Tim! You're a hunk!"
Tim was not a hunk. Far from it. But to the gophers he was. "Well Shelly, can
you tell me something?"
"I'll tell you anything you want to know!" his admirer said. Now that's
something you don't see every day; a lovestruck gopher.
"Do you know what the Great Gopher is planning to use the toilets for?" he
asked her.
"Can I tell you a story?! I wanna tell you a story! Can I?! Can I?!"
"Whatever," said the increasingly annoyed Tim(he's not an increasingly Tim,
and he's not an annoyed Tim. He's an increasingly-annoyed Tim).
"There's this one goph... that's short for gopher. Goph. So, like there's this
one goph... well, actually only a few of us say goph, but I say it. So this
gopher named Greg, who knows this other gopher named Jim, who is kinda, sorta
seeing Jennifer, who heard that Mary knows this other gopher that I don't know
the name of who knows another named Joe that supposedly went into one of the
new tunnels, and before he knew it, he was smack dab in the middle of a
freeway. At least that's what I heard! I gotta go now. Kay. I gotta go to
school!" she said, and walked off into another tunnel.
"Odd kid," Tim thought to himself. Nobody had any clue what was going on. Tim
started walking towards the Great Gopher's chamber. Peering inside, he noticed
it vacant.
Tim studies the area. A tunnel in the real leads to the Great Gopher's
sleeping chambers. Others lead to and fro throughout the entire area. This
seemed to be the center of the colony. Tim walked around, but nothing looked
specific. Then he noticed it. On the wall behind a small table he saw a seam.
He pushed the table aside. Studying the seam, he realized that it was actually
a hidden area. Like a safe. He pushed it, but nothing happened. He dug his
fingers in it and pulled, but nothing happened. He was beginning to think this
was just a crack in the structure, and was ready to give up when all of a
sudden his foot sank in and it opened. A panel in the floor was the key to
opening the Great Gopher's safe.
Tim looked inside. A small stack of papers laid there alone. He reached in,
pulled them out, and placed them on the table. He sifted through them. Notes,
drawings, journal entries. He sifted through some more. A diagram of the inside
mechanisms of a toilet. Odd. Then there it was. Written on the diagram was a
small note. "With added mechanism, toilet should work in reverse with pipes
able to fit average young adult gopher."
"It wasn't a riddle. When he said means of transportation, he meant for his
subjects," Tim thought to himself.
"Rebecca! Is my lunch ready!?" the Great Gopher called from his sleeping
quarters. His voice echoed through the tunnels. Frightened of getting caught,
Tim shoved the papers back in, being careful of their order, closed the
safe/hidden area, and ran. He made it up to the surface without being seen.
He still didn't know what the Great Gopher was going to do, but he did know
what the toilets were for. But why?
So Tim decided to call his future girlfriend: Alison Wonderland. (Yes future.
It is feasable if you think about it) She has gone through a lot of things like
this, and maybe she could help him understand what's happening.
"I met the Great Gopher once," she said when he asked her. "I was fighting
Barney. After Barney ate Bob the Lizard, a giant, twenty-foot tree frog named
Slater ate Barney, and the Great Gopher ate the frog. Then he left."
"Do you think he could be planning to take over the world?"
"I don't know. Ask smiley face," she said and then hung up. He called her
again.
"How do I get in contact with him?" he asked her.
"Drink a half full, not half empty cup of coffee," she said.
"Okay," he said. "Bye."
"Bye," she said and then hung up again. She left him with more questions than
he started with.
"How the hell does one drink a half full, not half empty cup of coffee," he
asked himself. He goes into the kitchen to brew up a pot. He looks in the
cupboards, but there wasn't any. He couldn't figure out what had happened. He
had a whole pound can of Maxwell House, but it was gone. Nowhere to be found.
He walked into town, but all of the stores were closed. And on a Thursday, no
less.
All of a sudden, he turns around and nothing was there. Only white light. "I
didn't die, did I?" he questioned.
"No, you didn't die. I brought you here," a voice behind him states. Tim
swings around and before him floated a large, yellow smiley face.
"You must be smiley face," Tim said.
Yes I am."
"But I thought I had to drink a half full, not half empty cup of coffee to
reach you. What gives?"
"You must drink a half full, not half empty cup of coffee to reach me, but I
can reach you whenever I want," the smiley face told him.
"Oh."
"So I hear you need answers."
"Yes," Tim responded.
"About the Great Gopher?"
"Yes."
"The Great Gopher knows no fear. Born in..."
"I don't need a biography," Tim interrupted," I want to know if he is capable
of attempting to take over the world or something to that effect." He paused a
moment, and then another question popped in his head, "Why is everything closed
today?"
"Religious holiday. Go figure," the smiley face answered.
"And how come I don't have any coffee at home?"
"Your friends stopped by while you were away planting the toilets and they
drank it all."
"You seem to know everything," Tim acknowledged.
"I don't. I have been watching you, though."
"Why?" Tim wondered.
"I cannot tell you that now."
"Oh."
"The Great Gopher is capable of many things. But to take over the world,
probably not. Although I am not completely sure. I doubt it, though."
Tim's questions were answered. Then he came up with more. "What could he be up
to then?"
"Maybe he wants to try McDonalds food," the smiley face said way too
seriously. He didn't have much of a sense of humor, but he had some.
"If you have been watching me, there's something I want to know. Did my
Giga-pet die?" Tim asked him.
"It died in it's shit after two days."
"Damn."
"I must leave now. I hope I have provided you with the answers you need. Good
luck," smiley face said as he disappeared. Tim was back in town.
It has been two days since Tim's conversation with smiley face. Nothing has
happened. There has been no sign that the Great Gopher is going to do anything.
Tim went back to his semi-normal life.
Jason Carson walks along the desolate street. He looks upon the hill ahead of
him. A porcelain figure stands on top. An old, thrown-away toilet stood there
alone.
"Honk!" A taxi cab honks at him and he gets out of the way. It stops in front
of him. A man steps out. The man looked well off, probably has a lot of money
on hand. Jason focuses on the man's wallet as it sticks out of his back pocket.
The cab pulls away. Jason follows him as he starts towards town. His hand
reaches gracefully towards the wallet.
An unknown gopher crawls through the pipes. Ahead of him, the light from the
surface reflects throughout. He reaches his post. Peering his head out, he sees
a man reach for the wallet of another. "You!" the gopher screams. Jason turns
around. "I wouldn't do that if I were you!"
Jason and the other man look at the toilet. They walk up to it. There was
nothing inside. The voice seemed to come from the toilet itself.
"God is dead," it said. They stare blankly into it.
"Yes. God IS dead. Oh great toilet, tell us of the truth. Tell us of
retribution," the two of them say together. This spread throughout Ohio.
Churches were abandoned and left to rot. Everyone eventually gave up on the
thought of 'God' and turned to the toilets for advice. Answers were not given
to them in particular, but people learned to live for themselves. After Ohio,
the ideas were spread all over the world. God died.
Every now and then, people still look upon the toilets for help. Through more
spiritual means versus actual words, people are still lead the way to
salvation. The toilets were placed around for guidance, and they still guide us
through our lives.
Worry and Super Glue
A loud screechy voice over the intercom. You stand as do I and move toward
the gate people throng around us one last kiss and a soft good-bye with a
whispered "have a nice trip" A lonely cab ride home to an empty bed. A lonely
time ahead as I wait for your return. And I worry.
Who is he flying to? Whose arms does he seek? And when he has her will he
think of me? A piercing ring and I pick up the phone - not me, lover, but my
friend. Soon I say "so nice to hear from you" with a gentle good-bye and I
hang up the phone. And I worry.
Is he really coming back? Will he still want me? Is everything he said to me
strong enough to hold? A noxious buzzing and I wake from another sleepless
night. Days it has been and no phone call. Should that matter? In the evening
I sit and write a letter never to be sent. Where could it go? A letter from my
heart to his, a gentle love note and a simple thank you but the heart has no
mail box. And I worry.
And I convince myself it's for nothing. I truly believe in him, in us; I know
he does too. An incessant rapping on the door. I stand to answer it. He came
home late last evening. But no, his friend is there and tears sting my eyes.
A gentle "I had to tell you" a whispered "he's sorry". My world softly shatters
on the cushioned floor. Bound to happen, I knew. As I watched the lights on
his plane I foresaw it. And I don't worry anymore.
Left to me are scattered memories. A fragile heart and an empty tube of super
glue I used to put my life back together. A shadow comes over my place in the
sun. I turn and look up. Expecting a cloud. I freeze. He says a gentle
hello and whispers "I've missed you " And the super glue fails and the hurt
turns to anger.
A Timely Tale of the Bird That Shit On My Floor
Who is playing the radio next door?
As I am now scared to death
I got up and walked to the door
I gazed into the night
I ran inside
And then the window was open
Somehow all this made me happy
I was very amazed that he speaks
This poor old Raven spoke merely a word
Otherwise it was quiet
Still, the Raven brought me a smile
I sat questioning him
I wonder, I wonder
Oh, it racked my brain
Oh, it racked my brain
Get the hell out of my apartment
And the Raven, still sitting
Friday Composition
No, you can't beat...it was a dark and stormy night. It just paints a picture
clearer than I can describe. So anyway, on this dark and stormy night, George
decided he needed to take a walk. Don't ask why he decided to walk in the rain,
don't question why he would go out at night, just accept it. Okay, I guess he
grabbed an umbrella... no, that might be used as a weapon, he'd never be that
smart. Okay, he grabbed his raincoat before he left and put it over his warm
sweater and black corduroys. Yes, he wore black and didn't carry a flashlight,
and wasn't wearing any reflective materials. Basically, he was a speed bump
waiting to happen.
George just went for a walk, on a dark and stormy night, with a raincoat over
his dark clothes. For no reason. Wait, there has to be a reason. Even George
isn't that stupid. all right, he was walking out in anger and frustration after
having fought with his wife Enith. His guilt of losing his temper in front of
his one and only love caused George to go for a walk on a dark and stormy night
to work out his problems, and he only thought of the raincoat because it was on
the door rack on the way out the door.
So, George gets two miles down his lit street (Did you think it would be dark
too? How's this guy supposed to see where he's going?) Footsteps could be
heard, echoing off the antique houses and clattering against the pavement.
George stopped, the footsteps stopped. Every ten feet George stopped. Okay,
this is where we find out that George has a nervous habit of switching feet
and has to stop every ten feet to switch from his right to his left, and the
opposite the next time. What the trailing follower didn't know, is that George
was also hard of hearing. By now, whomever (you know this person's dangerous)
has got to be thinking about how scared George is, noticing he has someone
following him and was out on a dark and stormy night- I just thought I'd add
that in case you didn't know. You know every killer has a thrill about scaring
their victims and seeing them writhe in pain.
Anyway, this is where we read George's thoughts, "I wish I wouldn't have made
Enith so mad. I'm scum. I'm fetal debris of pond scum. Concentrate. One left,
one right, one left, one right. Ten steps. Okay, one right, one left, one
right, one left..." Yes, by now this got to be pretty boring. He decided it was
impossible to think of anything any more educational, so he settled for the
fetal debris below pond scum part. "Okay, I'm going home now," he thought. On
his return trip home, he walked past the bushes in which many killers, should
there actually be any out at night when it was dark and stormy, could be
hiding. But, of course, there would never be any psycho killers lurking in
bushes on a dark and stormy night , that would just go beyond normality, and we
live in a pretty normal world.
In this here normal world, George kept on walking and nothing came out of the
bushes to kill him, because the killer was actually the person next door
walking from his car to his house. Then again, many things would prove that we
live in an abnormal world, in which case we would then have to describe in
detail how the psycho killer stalked George all the way to his house and gutted
him, placing his liver in the mailbox and his body in a tree in the front yard
for the entire neighborhood to discover in the morning.
If you really believe we live in a normal world, you deserve to die, because
you're just pulling everyone in this society down with your ignorance.
If not for your
I would walk
I would walk between countries
if not for your smile
I would be walking in spain
if not for your smile
what would have happened to my poems
Airwalk sandals
I sit in my beat up car on my way to work at the video store. I drive the same
route to work every day. But today, I decide to go a different way. It's not a
faster route. In fact, it's about the same length. Why I took this route, I
don't know. It just happened. There was no difference, just a different road.
But somehow, fate made this route the most important turning point in my entire
life.
I stop at the stop sign and look around. Children dance and skip to the sounds
coming from a small boombox sitting in the grass. Jason Spitz, a teenager in
the grade under me, rides his skateboard into a tree. He always was a clutz.
For some reason, a laugh doesn't come out of my mouth. It never got the chance.
Apparently, someone else saw this, and was distracted enough to drive her car
into mine. Crash. The sound of breaking fiberglass and crushing metal ring in
my ears. We both get out of our cars to survey the damage.
"Ohh! I'm so sorry!" she says. I look at her for the first time. Her beauty is
astonishing. Her eyes seem to hold in them everything good in this world. Her
lips are the kind that beg to be kissed. A little pouty, but not too much. Her
slender body is shown off by her tight jeans and bare midriff. I can see her
manicured feet through her Airwalk sandals.
"My god, she's beautiful," I say to myself.
"What did you say?" she asks.
"I uhh... I said 'it doesn't look that bad'," I told her. I hadn't realized I
spoke aloud. I was glad she didn't hear me clearly.
"That didn't sound like what you said. It sounded more like 'thank god, she is
beautiful'. "
"Actually, it was 'my god, she's beautiful'. That doesn't offend you, does
it?"
"No. It's a compliment, why should it bother me?"
I had to change the subject. My mind went back to my car. It was a wreak.
There was no way I could get to work. I'll have to call the somehow to tell
them I wasn't going in today. "You don't happen to have a cell phone on you, do
you?" I asked her.
"As a matter of fact, I do. My mom gave it to me in case of emergencies. I
think this counts as one." She reaches into the glove compartment of her car
and pulls it out for me. I call work and explain the situation. Then I call
home and tell my mom to send someone over. She uses the phone next and does the
same. My car was trashed and her car looked like it was going to need a little
work. It'll take ten minutes for anyone to get there, and we couldn't go
anywhere, so we ended up sitting on top of my hood talking. We talked about a
lot of things. Most of the conversation ran through my mind and right back out.
The only thing that really stuck in my mind, was her shoes. The Airwalk
sandals.
I don't know what it was about the shoes, but for some reason I was drawn to
them. How her toes wiggle around when she is frustrated. How the canvas lays
across her skin. I don't know what it is about them. Maybe it was her feet.
Maybe it was because of how she kept moving her feet around since they were not
on solid ground and I was just looking at them because they were a part of her
and if I looked too long at her face I felt I was going to move over and kiss
her. Probably the latter. Damn, she was gorgeous.
My dad came first. The police just after him. We filled out a report together
and then the cop said we could leave. No one was coming to pick her up and she
was planning to walk, so I offered her a lift. I dropped her off at her house
and left. I thought I would never see her again since she lives in another
town. I showed at work an hour later and continued on with my day. As far as I
know I will just go on with my normal life.
Two weeks have gone by. I can't concentrate on work or school. I just keep
seeing those shoes. Damn. She was beautiful. I left work early and went to look
for her house. Wait, What am I doing? She probably doesn't even remember me,
she might have a boyfriend, and how do I even know she would be home? I don't.
This was a bad idea. I turned around to go home, when I suddenly realized what
driveway I pulled into. There she was, walking out of her house. Her gait was
so graceful. Damn, she saw me.
"Hi. What are you doing here? You're not here for money are you?" she asked.
"Oh, no. I don't really care about my car. In fact, you put it out of its
misery."
"If that's not why you are here, then what brings you to this town? And in my
driveway, no less," she inqusited.
"I, uhh. I was just in the neighborhood, and stooped by to see how you
were."
"Yeah, right," she said, "so why are you really here?"
"I was wondering, umm, would you like to, I mean if you're not busy, like to,
umm. Gee, it came out so much better in my head. Umm," I was babbling. I had to
just get it out. "Would you like to get some coffee?" I blurted.
"Heh," she paused to think, "sure. Let me just tell my mom I'm going out." I
was actually surprised she agreed to go out with me. She gets in the car and we
head off into town.
I am driving along the road and a car with daytime-running lights drives by.
Only one light was working. "Paddidle!" she says as it drives by.
"Damn, I never get those!"
"I didn't know you knew about that," she says to me.
"Yeah, well, my sister taught me about it."
"Ahh." We go on driving without much conversation. Just the little stuff like:
"What road is this?" or "I didn't know they closed down." And finally we reach
the coffee shop and we walk up to the door together. Closed. Damn. "How about a
movie? By the time it's over, they should open up." We saw Chasing Amy.
We were laughing our asses off coming out of the theatre. How often do you hear
the word 'fuck' used eighty-five times in one movie?
When we got back to the coffee shop, it was just opening up. We timed it
pretty well. We talked for hours. I talked, she listened. She talked, and I
listened. We talked about school, and friends, and music, and other interests
of ours. The caffeine from the Swiss mocha kept us both attentive. Eventually,
we had to leave because the coffee shop was closing. It was getting late so I
decided to take her home.
I sit here in my car in her driveway. We had such a nice date. Slowly, without
any words, we inched closer to each other. My lips tingle with anticipation.
Slowly, she parts her lips. I close my eyes... and then, without a reason, I'm
hit on the head with her sandals. She hits me. Ouch. Harder, harder. Ouch. I
can't fight back because Mom said it wasn't polite to hit a girl. The blood
stings as it runs into my eyes. Ouch. And now, as my life drains away from this
gashing wound in my forehead, I fall limply in my seat. I'm dead. She beat me
to death with her Airwalk sandals.
I know, I know. "Why the weird ending?" Why the weird ending in such a deep,
meaningful story? Because you didn't expect it.
by Claire
by Star-Gazing Dreamer
by Charley
Its body was weighted with unreasonable sadness.
It was hallow self-serving self-created sadness.
It moved slowly as if trapped in a dream.
I spoke as if in mourning.
It repeatedly drugged itself into a senseless, sad world.
Self-pity buried its own ambitions.
by Patchwork
Oh, Brad, let's not park here.
Oh, Brad, let's not park.
Oh, Brad, let's not.
Oh, Brad, let's.
Oh, Brad.
Oh.
- from Laugh Day by Bennett Cerf.
by Raingirl
2-12-98
Oh god do i adore you so.
you come late at night
and haunt my dreams
I hear your footsteps coming down the hall
and I feel the butterflies in my stomache take flight
So often you hurt me, the words you say,
or the ones you don't that I long to hear.
But lately love is silent
You've never professed a thing to me.
Everything is just understood, no explanations needed.
There are times when I hate you.
I hate you for possessing my heart and then leaving me cold for months without
coming home
I know there are others
But it matters not to me.
I believe that you see me as a quiet sanctuary who always has open arms and
knees spread, waiting...
When you are near your spell makes the world stop, everything dies.
And you are the sun, the rain, the universe (the only nonpolluted air I
breath)
So, eventually, you enter my room like a breeze.
Are you really there, or am I dreaming again?
Soon I'll be able to taste the salt of your tender skin.
Death is welcome now, I'd live in heaven forever.
Leave the world behind, leave this hell.
You resemble a god,
you fuck like a god.
Who are you really?
You beautiful, unearthly creature
who comes to me in the most dismal of nights.
In the most horrid of dreams.
You comfort and soften
hard days, the ones that last an eternity.
They're so filled with people and shit.
I can'y escape the curse of life.
You see my soul.
Passion and lust overwhelm all.
And the drugs, they work slowly.
Do you realize it's been four months!
Do you expect me to forgive you?
Of course
Because I always do.
Weak, detached exhistances
I think I laugh when you're dying.
If you feed a goat marijuana, does it get high every time it belches the
marijuana back up to chew it again?
- The Official Tormentor of Rewired.
by cereal killer
- Marcy Playground, Sex and Candy
by Moshe Benarroch - 1997
they say you only speak
about the past
they don't listen
they say you are a screamer
they are impressed
they say you are a weeper
they say you are a liar
they say you are a clown
of concern for the future
they demand you mind your own business
you both come out
bald.
and you balder.
- The Official Tormentor of Rewired.
by Star-Gazing Dreamer
by Charley
Yet, I will have none of you.
Your good nature spreads weakness.
In your shadow lies dependence.
Alone you are not a virtue but a curse.
You should make a companion of self-reliance.
To preserve independence
One should seek you in the hands of miserly men.
- Dennis Leary
by cereal killer
by Lioness
all I ever need to know
about these skies, about these lands
all I wish to see, they show
the moon that shines so bright and clear
in this midnight sky
whispers its secrets, confides in me
as it's floating by
a chilling wind brushes past
giving me its winter cheer
pushes my hair around my face
tells me things I like to hear
endless snowflakes fly around
drifting to and fro
confessing all their parts to me
smiling as they go
This winter night is mine to keep
to carry with my strife
it's memory will fill the air
with calm and peace and life.
by Star-Gazing Dreamer
by John Curl
in her sleep. I
listen for a while but
it is very garbled.
"Lover," I finally
say, "you're talking in your
sleep . . ." The words
are difficult to
pronounce. I force
my eyes
half open just as
she says, "Lover, you're
the body begins a process
as natural as the healing
of a physical wound.
Trust that nature
will do the healing.
and, when it passes,
you will be stronger,
happier, more sensitive and aware.
by Patchwork
by Moshe Benarroch - 1995
antipoems for antipeople in antibooks
antipoems for anticritics for antireaders
antipoetry for antiassholes in the antimatter
antielectrons in the antiatoms for antideaf
in my antiadaptation to the literary world
in the antigroup of the antiliterature
antipoetry for antieditors for antiprizes
for antilectors for anticorrectors for antipublishers
and it is not because I don't like poetry or
because I don't like critics, it is because,
like any other antipoet I only know
how to write
by Mr. G.
by Jeff Weston
for Liza
by Moshe Benarroch - 1992
into a dream-balloon somewhere
and I don't know what you are thinking
I don't love you
you scare me
when you repress your feelings
when you hear without listening
you scare me
and I don't love you.
By Star-Gazing Dreamer
by Patchwork
I wish she woulda kept my letters
But she doesn't what to be reminded of me
Which means I'm not a pleasant memory.
If I had one more chance, maybe I wouldn't screw it up
But I missed my chance, and it makes me think,
If I died today,
I wouldn't have said what I need to say.
I shouldn't have burnt her letters
But I still got a few
I miss the times we shared
and yes, I miss her, too.
Shouldn't have let her go
Should've let her know
How I really felt about her
If I just would've woke up and realized at the time
That I needed her.
These days there's a lot going through my head
But the thought of her overtakes my mind
Pesters me, bugs me all the fucking time
Why didn't I try a little harder - damn it,
why didn't I try at all?
Why oh why all this madness?
Why does all this burn?
Why all the bullshit stinking
poetry all about her?
I read her letters
I look at her pictures
I listen to her music
and I ponder.
I regret.
And I drink.
by Lemming
by Cap'n Nemo
June 24
(Ode to Studyhall Boredom)
by cereal killer
improved vastly by Star-Gazing Dreamer
(I still don't like either name)
As I sit here weak and weary
The sun is gone, it is dreamy
Sip my coffee, it is creamy
Suddenly I hear a tapping
As if someone gently rapping
Rapping at my apartment door
Alas, it is just a radio on the floor
Playing in the room next door
Only this and nothing more
Is it the ghost of my wife, or more?
Of course not, I had no wife
There was never a Mrs. in my life
"Is that you Jen?" I cried
But the rapper should have lied
"No, you asshole," and nothing more
Certainly not Jen next door
She was too kind, and never swore
Nameless here forever more
Afraid to take even one breath
I was scared, pissed my pants
And my mind was in a trance
The door opened, very slowly
And I screamed, "Holy moly!"
Standing in the doorway: the root of my fear
Oh so hideous, oh my dear,
It was a gopher, with all my beer
That it is and nothing more
Echoing the footfalls unto the floor
"Who are you?" aloud I screamed
Silence; painful silence was deemed
I so much wonder who was rapping?
Oh, wait. That was Coolio. Who was tapping
Tapping at the door to my apartment
I do so wonder who had been sent
I opened the door and there was no merriment
Darkness there and nothing more
However so bright
I couldn't find a light
I had absolutely no sight
I doubted, I dreamed
I feared, it seemed
I wondered, who had it been
I wondered, was it "Jen?"
Nothing more than an echo: "Jen"
Merely this and nothing more
I was afraid and had to hide
My mind ran rampant
This was an entrapment
The tapping came again
I hoped upon hope it would be Jen
Could it be a creaking; my window?
I surely didn't know
My heart beat... was it a foe?
Tis the wind and nothing more
It was just the wind, as I was hoping
And then came more than I thought
A bird was what it brought
With no respect he showed
He didn't say hi; that blowed
With beauty, sitting above the door
All his little poop fell upon the floor
Still he just sat there, above the door
Perched and sat, and nothing more
Even though my day had been crappy
This happiness was very nice
Through all my life, I've only felt it twice
I was beginning to wonder who he was
And maybe even what he does
Dear ugly and stupid thing, I want to know
What is your name, and when you'll go
And why don't you fly to and fro
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore"
The circus will be here in a few weeks
I should take this thing, this bird
This heavenly creature so absurd
That sits above my apartment door
And poops so nicely on my floor
Was he possibly trained?
Why was he not famed?
And so oddly named
With such a name as "Nevermore"
You would not think this thing is a bird
He sat there; his feet were bare
He looked so lonely perching there
Did I expect that he should have a care?
He shall be gone in the morning
And I shall again go into mourning
That my life will be yet still boring
Then this bird said, "Nevermore"
In my mind there was a riot
He seemed so lonely inside
His emotions he tried to hide
But his sadness shown through
And I knew what to do
Throw a brick, stab him in the eye
Take his pain away and let him die
I sat and waited for him to say good-bye
Of Never-Nevermore
So I had to give him a trial
I picked him up and tossed him on the couch
I swore I heard him grouch
Here sat this sorry bird
Who only muttered but one word
This was becoming a bore
This sinister bird of yore
Did I miss something- was there more?
Meant in croaking, "Nevermore"
I stared into his face so grim
I sat and looked and realized
A new matter materialized
I had been wrong- this bird was a female
And she shit all over my mail
I turned on the blacklight
Very freaky was my sight
This psychedelic bird gave me fright
She shall press, ah, Nevermore
Who is the cause of this blunder
The Raven was sent
By someone hell-bent
Sent to fly through the rain
And to drive me insane
Alas, I think I know who it had been
It must have been one of my dead kin
Tell me Raven, has my sister seen my sin?
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore"
From spewing I had to refrain
My stomach churned
Wouldn't stop till I learned
No, you must tell me something
You must not tell me nothing
Oh, the hatred, it was not Jen
My kind neighbor it had not been
No, it was not beloved Jen
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore"
From spewing I had to refrain
My stomach churned
Wouldn't stop till I learned
Till I learned where she came from
Till I learned why she turned me numb
My head, sister, what have you done?
I'll chase you away, make you run
Get off my couch and away from my rum!
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore"
Unless you want to start paying rent
Leave, you bastard, leave!
Is that your shit on my sleeve?
I swear, in my mind you are laughing
On my couch you are ralphing
I said to get off my couch
You're just a bird, I should make you crouch
Don't... don't peck me! OUCH
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore"
With an ax, she was hitting
My furniture she was splitting
Wasn't this very fitting
She just sat there dreaming
Oh, I felt like screaming
This bird knew life- the core
She could make me no longer a bore
She pulled out an uzi; my lifeless body fell unto the floor
Shall be lifted- Nevermore!
by Star-Gazing Dreamer
by Moshe Benarroch - 1992
if not for your anger
if not for your screams
if not for your gaiety
the fields
unshold
looking for spines
to fall upon
stumbling and falling
like an ant without a nest
like a sun without people
I would be walking naked
from cafe to cafe in paris
collecting fume donations
if not for your joy of living
from bar to bar
eating shrimps and calamaris tapas
looking for cheap shoes to wear
instead of worn boots
what would have happened to my poems...
by cereal killer