Exhaling

I lay dozing , dreaming really, at the cusp of wakefulness and being underwater, because dreams have that slowness about them, even the fast action dreams, everything is slow---and, when one is there, on the edge of the dream ice, ready to roll in and under, I hear the telltale sound of heels tap me away from the edge. I bolted upright and saw her: black sheened panties, black heels, black bra, she walked to the bed and slowly dove as if the bed turned to cream, thick and white and so was stopped from going under. I pounced onto her buttcheeks, biting, scratching her inner thighs, looking out of my right eyes corner at her right eyes corner, both eye corners staring, sleepily at the other, her shoes, black and shiny at the end of long pale soft legs, glided in the air, in a back and forth motion, dancing, I saw them out of the corner of my left eye as I buried my nose into her scent,she arches her back and I trace an exclamation point along the slit. She arches higher.I bite harder.I lunge for her neck, now I'm on her left side, her head turns to me, she is smiling.Her eyes look bigger than they are.Lips are fuller now. This is the case of all primates when aroused. I tell her this. She laughs and I graze my upper teeth against her spine, where I bite the panties off with one pull and with hands now more like claws turn her 135 lb. frame over, spreading the legs to an engorged pussy, pinker now, fuller now, I ask what she wants and strike with my torso , placing my face next to her face, playfully biting her lower lip then down , down,down, with a directness that elicits a gasp from her, I envelop her clit and lips and pull,right thumb glancing off the bottom of the clit, furiously, she begins to buck...she says I look sexy doing this to her, I smile there pressed against her swollen sex, she moves in tighter circles now, hips and mound of venus pressing into my face, harder as I flick faster and in circes, she moves as if her bones were filled with a hurricane, I open her reddened lips, edges the color of bruised violets, exposing the hood of her shiny, wet nub. It retracts as I caress it, lick it, all 8,000 nerves of it, sending out their "MayDay, MayDay", their Halleleiuias, their Amens, and she comes, the belly taut then bunched, the mouth a maw now, hands clasping my head moving in my familiar religious manner, she says shes cramped in her hip but wants me inside her and when I climb up, and slap it against her engorged humidity she pulls me inside her and its then I 'am aware , for the first time, ever, that reincarnartion is real.I see her eyes and I "know" as truth I have seen her soul before, she scratches and the pain makes me fuck harder, grinding into her, her lips are larger than I have ever seen them, her eyes all urgency, all hunger, delight in the knowledge she has found everything she has looked for.The poem made flesh, the flesh made a fire, the fire engulfed them both, from the loins to the mouths , biting and opening against hot skin, salt and fragrance, eyes connected by cords older than either of their countries, older than them, older than even books, even stories, and as they moved , he inside her and she around him, a yin and yang, as one, the past came up from below and settled, perched on the colors of their eyes.And, the animalness of it all forced him to position her on her knees as he entered from behind into her extraordinary tightness, an unbelievable silkiness, the musk of their union flaring his nostrils, and he moved with grace in and out of her, faster and faster , not trying to hold back, not thinking of a deterrent, letting go, being consumed by her as he also ate of her, motion in tandem with motion, past galloping with the present, animal with human, and even this, this part of her that determined her name, her identity, he knew that he knew its feel before, its feel , so unlike any other he had ever known and with this thought he erupted inside her tightness.And, the pain at the tip was too great and he exposed himself to the air as his wife collapsed onto the bed, her bones absent of any wind, any force, any violence, by all definitions:spent.He screamed a limbic scream, against the end of life, against the gamble of waking, and for the sheer joy being inside her brought him, for she was his fetish and icon and life. As his cum drip onto her pink and white cheek , he fell onto her, exhaling as if he had kept his breath inside for 40 times a million years.

Mother Bird

Mother
When she was younger: tall, long ,blonde hair big green eyes, fine cheekbones,highset. You see the pictures and she's hot. She was graceful. A drug-addicted ballerina offstage. Large pupils or needle point pupils she was the embodiment of grace, elan, finesse.Even 10 years ago she still jogged, she exercised. She had a vitality that was missing in her younger years. Jump forward to now: The first thin you notice is the pallor, the sunken cheeks, the circles. Next, you notice anger, it soaks her every word. Her gesticulations remind you of a crane---an agitated crane, a cartoon bird. She sprinkles her phrases with "fuck". If her monologue were food, it would be very spicy. She tells us she is on a cereal diet; yet, included in her bizarre foodchoice, are various pills:percocet,valium,soma,codeine,oxycontin,flexeril.As she talks I'm reminded of Mutual of Omahas "Wild Kingdom", my mother is a crane,some wierd were-bird. Her taxonomic classification is blank. We stare at her for hours as she speaks in a clipped, ornithological manner. In squaks, in chirps. This isn't right.My mother has turned into a heron.An egret.A tall bird.So, I ask, this is what a steady diet of Wheaties and opiates will do to a person?She answers in a flurry of epithets.This should be sad, but she has her hair pulled way out, her nose is a beak, she looks tropical now.As she curses her head moves as if shes pecking at the air. As she gets up, feathers fall,slowly,in suspended animation, to the hot,California earth.What the fricken' fuck? "Mom, you're losin' your feathers."

The Tree Scar

Walking home thru a park, an Eastern park. Trees with terra cotta foliage, with squash colored leaves, rucksack leaves, rust , sun hued fallings. And, of the sun: it's weaker now, as if a wall of gauze was erected between earth and it. It comes slantwise now. Everything seems to slant. Squirrels are in impossible poses, upside down on sides of trees, following you with their black eyes, jerking from one spot to another, as if reared on cocaine infused milk. The old people, backs bent to pull the detritus on the ground into large piles, and as the rake and shovel, more leaves fall, one tangerine colored leaf fell right onto an old mans pate.It sat there and he did nothing. Eventually, it fell of it's own accord. Me? I'd leave them. Natures way of saying, "Makeover". Everything seems fragile. Leaves would actually twirl at the end of a branch and fall. Limbs lay on the ground in front of a tree with a strange scar that ran the length of it. Not even a scare really, just a hands width strip of bark , gone. Why? Everywhere around the tree, I saw no bark, and the tree just stood there silent, it's cambium cold and pea-green. I placed my hand on it. Cold. No sign of violence. Just a strip of bark disappeared. Maybe the squirrels are that hungry.

ellipses

The hand sewn to the golem lump
the ancien fate of a sad,brave hagiography
to the wall , to the well, to the casino
all the lights are no match for our darkness
we flit from one scene to another
slowly, or frenetically
it doesnt matter
the stitches above our extremes
unravel in slow motion
fly like miniature ravens, letters
feet left here, hands on an anonymous cheek
we guard our fowl, and hunger thunders inside us
forget and a wake of feathers on a trail
into our minds
more parts and days and songs forgotten, fallen to the wayside
discarded. we forget the meaning of us.
in the nothing, even tears stop
and all is nothing, the end of the end.
the world and its jots
its smiles and people have dissolved now
roll into the cave, sewing with prayer the leper-self
into the long-awaited tomb
a strange Goshen
i'am a hero, to save my loved ones the pain of me.
without fanfare or parade, minus medals ,I wait.
the ellipses is erased now. Period. Full stop.

The last apocalypse

Self-murder. Suicide. There are a million and two books dealing with every aspect of self annhiliation. There are proclamations and handwringings galore. There are advancements in science, in medicine, in self-help, better drugs, easily accessible porn, women, travel, pills, fight clubs, children, movies, entertainment--there are things to salve ones demons, ones cravings for the end of this monotonous dread, the excruciating mundane nothing. The big zero that Life sometimes is. There are religions. There are a number of ways to escape, momentarily...but none as thorough, as forever as suicide. Momentarily. Alcohol, for example, lasts a few hours; more often than not it only aggravates the emotional state youre in. And, if you happen to be not quite right with your existence? It will plant mines, it will decimate you, it will turn you against you. You become your own worst enemy. The more your drink, the more often you drink, your inner fortress becomes undefended, the enemy at his pleasure seeps in, takes over and hoists his flag, which is your soul in tatters. You lose. In the end, a fight against oneself ends with both parties defeated.
At the outset, the onset of adulthood, we form prejudices that will dictate our future if we dont abandon them when theyre not needed anymore. In our teens we feel insecure, anxious, angst-ridden, fearful. Suspicious of self. By adulthood, we should be past this, otherwise we become almost fated to madness or self-death. At 25, I had a son. I ditched my desire to die the day he was born. What would hound me, for the rest of my life , is a desire, if not to destroy me, to question me, to berate me, to bitchslap me whenever I do something good for myself or for others. I have often wanted the luxury, the dubious luxury, of being able to plot my own death. I have yearned for this. Why? I cannot tell you. It isnt logical.
A few years ago, I befriended a man who struck me as my doppleganger. We discussed life, art, literature, ideas...and death. Every time we met, the big questions were discussed. Life was so serious as to be something to laugh at. I know now, the laughter was a bank of fog obfuscating the reality on the ground: my friends fortress was over-ran. His flag, gone. In its place, Deaths...which is always our soul. After his breakdown and asylum stay, I related to him my own experiences: half a dozen stays in sanitarioums, asylums, locked down for attempting to kill myself. Drugged. Psychoanalyzed. Despairing. Reaching the nadir each second. Every moment of my existence a Kursk, a D-Day, a mayday alert, cacophony, pandemonium, a din that nothing could squelch. Until my son. I told Carlos of this. I'd see his eyes and see myself reflected, myself from before my son, myself when myself was my own worst enemy. I wanted to save him. I wanted him to get better. To escape himself. I know his mind, because, it is my own. Call it madness, call it a chemical imbalance, a curse, a malady---anything you want---whatever it is, it is the worst emotions one can imagine, the absolute assuredness of knowing that one does not belong...anywhere. And, that ones very skin is enemy territory. You live inside enemy territory each second, waiting, despairing, death seems the only option. For years. One week of this is enough Hell to last a lifetime. A lifetime of feeling like this is beyond comprehension. I really cannot explain to someone who hasn't felt this, what it feels like. Just know that it is torture. I'm not being flippant or insulting when I say that a life lived in this manner is no life, it is a holocaust, it is a genocide, famine, war, plague, and apocalypse distilled inside each cell of ones body. It dictates ones actions, which all lead to one place and one place only. After the alcohol, the travel, the drugs, the doctors ,after everything and anything cease to work...only a miracle can save you. Nothing else. Hearing of Carlos' death smarted me, hit me worse than any death before, even my grandfathers. Because, I 'am Carlos. He is me. The thing that afflicted Woolf, Plath,Sexton,Byron,Nietszche, Styron, Thomas, Kurt Cobain ad infinitum, ad delirium, ad nauseum, etc et al is the same strange blood that afflicts me. For 13 years I have kept the enemy at bay. I have the faces, the love of three children and , for me, this is enough to fight me. I have a wife, this is another powerful deterrent. Their souls fly from my castle. Yet, the axe to chop down the flagpole lay at its base. It is a fixture rather than something to fixate on. I notice it, say Bonjour to it, 'Allo, Privet and leave it at that. There is other work to do than to attack my fragile self. This is key. I think the trauma that people like Carlos and I have experienced at our own hands is akin to PTSD. In fact, Ive had every doctor diagnose me with it. Am I a veteran of a psychic war? Am I a veteran of possibly the least understood battle? Have I survived the last apocalypse? Today I have. Tears fall from my eyes, hot and easy. There is a grief for my friend, for his pain, for the pain his family surely feels, for my wife who knew him longer than I did. This is the first time a friend of hers has passed away. In a sense, even though many friends and family have passed, Carlos' death is the most deeply felt because he was a brother, a comrade in arms, we had seen the exact same battles, been in the same war, the war that never seems to end. The war that is always waiting.Today, this moment I salute you, Carlos. For trying. For fighting. You are a brave man. A man not less than any other. You did fight. You did try. For this, for your memory, for our camaraderie, I salute you, even though I wished you had kept going.Even though, I know that there is nothing anyone could have done. When I was mad, when I sought my own demise, I felt, as sure as the sun rises, that my exit from this world would alleviate the suffering of my friends and family.I was sure of this . As I'm sure you were thinking the same thoughts ---but, just as I was more sick than wrong, so you were, Carlos. Sick. So many of us miss you. I understand. Too much. Thank you, my friend, for sharing your life with my own.

My Technicolor Coat of Ailments: A Travelogue

At this moment I have back pain, right kidney pain, insomnia, acid reflux, depression, a numb left shoulder , a crackling left elbow, allergies and diarrhea. Its past 2am. Im on an anti-depressant, an Oxycodone 10/625, a benadryl. Ive coughed up funky black and yellow sparkly goo. My left shoulder, the blade rather, tingles nonstop. I want to read Yeats, The Second Coming.
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.

Shit Knife

The Inuit didn’t fear the cold; they took advantage of it. During the 1950s the Canadian government forced the Inuit into settlements. A family from Arctic Bay told me this fantastic story of their grandfather who refused to go. The family, fearful for his life, took away all of his tools and all of his implements, thinking that would force him into the settlement. But instead, he just slipped out of an igloo on a cold Arctic night, pulled down his caribou and sealskin trousers, and defecated into his hand. As the feces began to freeze, he shaped it into the form of an implement. And when the blade started to take shape, he put a spray of saliva along the leading edge to sharpen it. That’s when what they call the “shit knife” took form. He used it to butcher a dog. Skinned the dog with it. Improvised a sled with the dog’s rib cage, and then, using the skin, he harnessed up an adjacent living dog. He put the shit knife in his belt and disappeared into the night.

Che, Murderer of the Drug Addled

So, Augusto Pinochet has passed away; his soul flies like an Andean condor to a heaven where Franco and El Duce have tee time at noon. The media in the world attack him, as they should. Pinochet was bad. He is to be reviled, ad infinitum. But, there were worse murderous idgets. Che Guevara,for example. A strict moralist, he would have shot all of those who sport his image on baseball hats and t- shirts.Odd, most of the people I know who love Che, smoke pot. I have no problem with people who smoke pot. To me, it's boring. Theres no drama in pot. I like drugs with drama, melodrama, action, fisticuffs and weeping.I like drinks. Pot is too utopian,too flat line,too lowlight,too nothing. Its too much like the grey that permeated communist states.
Humberto Fontova, described Guevara as "a combination of Beria and Himmler." Anthony Daniels once quipped, "The difference between [Guevara] and Pol Pot was that [the former] never studied in Paris."
If you don't know, Beria was head of the NKVD,the Soviet equivalent of the Gestapo...only the victims of the NKVD are in the 30-60 millions.
Che, while never killing more than many thousands, including whole villages of every man, woman and child for the crime of being "capitalist"( if you had one too many cows or pigs or ears of corn, this would get you a quick dirt nap by Che) The NKVD did the same under their de-kulakization program---kulak is the epithet the Soviets gave every peasant who had more potatoes than their neighbor.
Che once said that the Soviet system was the most humane in the world. You cannot call him ignorant. He was educated. He was a true believer. He knew of the purges---6-11 million dead for speaking their minds, he knew of the Gulag system,(untold millions dead--30 million is a good number, Che knew of the state orchestrated famine where 6 million died of starvation. When asked what to do
with the peasant problem, Stalin is known to have barked: kill them all.
Che had drug dealers and users executed en masse. Homosexuals were lynched on his orders.
Pinochet?Under Operation Condor he had 3,000 dissedents murdered. Another 30,000 arrested. R.J Rummel, expert on genocide and a sexy survivalist Kris Kristofferson look alike prof . at the University of Hawaii gives the estimate of 73,000 deaths by Castro. These arent military actions. This is for speaking your mind, smoking a doobie, drinking too many beers and sucking a strangers face in public, being religious, being an anarchist, not wanting to work or laughing too much. In short, not following the law set down by the handsome lad from Buenos Aries could and would get you imprisoned or killed. What I do not understand is this:
Why does one murderer get a t shirt and his own place in popular hagiography and another one is "Hitler-lite".
It has to do with looks. Che was handsome.But, so is Richard Ramirez. So was Horia Sima, the head of the fascist Iron Guard of Romania. He was hot. No, Ches record is as sullied as Simas', as rotten as Pinochets'.,,or worse.
Handsomeness and communism.Communism, even though it killed far more people than fascism,is still seen in a positive light.Well, if not "positive" than "excused". Like communisms blueprints are correct but the builders...well, they built wrong.People dont look at communism as being inherantly false and murderous. But, it is.Heaven on earth is a very persistent but infantile idea.
Utopia.No more hunger.No more oppression.Brotherly love. O.K. What about no more diarhhrea, no more rent and longer erections?
And, I want to get paid millions .But, reality says nyet.Reality is a bitch.And, what communism does from the start is to deny reality.Lies.
Like Che, Communism is handsome..purdy...but, in reality , a mass murderer.
Brad Pitt with a cocked beret and a garden full o' cadavers.Che's motley army of admirers run from the drug addled to the academe educated,from the movie star to the rock star.An image.Communism deserved the end that Che had: a violent death.Ceucsecu got it. Unfortunately, bigger fish got away.
This rarely happens to murderous thugs like Che. Usually, they die peacefully like Idi Amin,like Stalin,Mao etc...
Trust me, if Osama looked more like Omar Sharif rather than an Amish Mexican basketball player, thousands upon thousands of Westerners would be converting to Islam, wearing his visage on dirty t- shirts and naming their pets after him.
Alas, we have Che.

The Shaman

The shaman

He sat on the ground and sighed. Blood was dried and there was a metallic tinge to the air, nothing stirred. No wind. Trees stood like soldiers. The wind from last night was dead.Gone. If one were watching him, one would notice he did not move for hours on end. He not stir when mosquitos lit on his skin by the hundreds. When large yellow flies bit his arms he sulked deeper into his sadness. Yet, he did not move. He was akin to the death around him.
Then,
from out of the forest, a banging, a crashing and a reindeer floated into the clearing, nostrils flaring up . Prancing. Still, the man sat . Smelling him, the stag stopped and turned , nostrils hurriedly opening and closing. He snorts. He paws the ground. A raven caws. But, not in the normal corvid manner. Lately, the Soviet ravens mimiced wailing, weeping or sobbing. And this is what moved the Chukchi to raise his eyes : a strange sniffling and crying. his eyes are puffy and red.He is tracing something into the ground. A look of infinite sadness wrenches his face as he takes in the reindeer with green moss drooping his antlers as if it were hanging from a living xmas tree. The man opens his mouth, inhales and caws. The deer jerks to the left and seems to hover above the abbattoir, disappearing into the distance, until he is but a fleck on the horizon. The man slowly moves his eyes around to the trees, searching for the raven.He calls him with raven sounds. Clouds scuddle across the sky. The wind picks up, and directly above him, he hears the hybrid caw and sob of the raven, which turns his eyes skyward to see the raven outsretch his ebony wings and propel forward into air and at the same time drop white steamy liquid in one long tendril, the wieght of the liquid, moving with gravirty, dancing, forming into another rope, into 3 different ropes of white , millimeters from each other, like stark white stalctites aimed at his forehead but instead of driving into his skull, piercing his grief wracked grey matter , the ravens gifts splatter at once on the poor mans forehead, splattering him in white. The sobbing of the crow slowly disappears as it sails over the treeline toward the beautifulKolyma region. Gone. But, there ! Do you hear that? Sobbing. On all trees are ravens, all with beaks open, their variegated plaints and dirges wafting over the air, over the tableau of death. There is work to be done. And then the more important work: waking from this nightmare. Wails rent the air...and then sobs. Corvids are known to be almost perfect imitators. They mimic toilets flushing, machine guns, motors, cats, dogs, Chinese, thunder, water running, anything and everything.
As if paying their respects some of the assembled corvids: crows and ravens began to whistle Chopins funeral march. Duh, duh, duh...while others quietly sobbed. The effect was unsettling to say the least. Our hero walked to the shovel and began digging right where the ashes of his bed used to be. While digging, halfway through, he realized burying the dead in the ground was very un-Chukchi, but very very Russian. He looked at the half burned bodies of his parents. There lay his Chukchi father, his arms gone. face a charcoal mask. And, lying next to him, on top of his disappeared arm, is his Russian mother. Amazingly her body was intact. Her skin looked fresh, her face sooted but content . Her cheeks almost shone. He bent down to gaze more at her brilliant skin. Why wasn't she burnt like his father?Perhpas she was gone when the fire started and lay with him afterwards? This is too much, he thought. The corvids flew from their perch to the ground . Hundreds of them, crows and ravens looking askance, walking jerkily among the dead reindeer without touching any of the flesh. He went to caress his dear mothers cheek, yet when his fingers made contact with her skin her entire body collapsed into ashes.
What is to be thought in such moments? he stared, of course he stared. At where his mother once lay and where his fathers corpse was. The corvids flew off, disappearing into the sky, dots on the horizon.All, except one, which lay rolling on its back in an anthill, a white mask over its face. Dizzy, vertigionous, fazed, awkward, he stood directionless. What to do?Where to go?
and the crow, it said somethig, what?did it really say this?no.Yes. Mosk-va! Mosk-Va!
And, without knowing exactly why he placed one foot in front of the other , walking towards another world, another place, towards Moscva.

Pisdets!He whispered.

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Jose, Can You See the Man with the Dildo

Jose , can you see the man with the dildo

You git off the Q line at Brighton Beach and walk into Little Odessa , your ocular videocamera pans everwhere, panoptic, panorama, soak it in, be the bread, this is the vodka:Cyrillic signs, women selling piroski, dubious men selling pirated dvd’s of movies still in the theatre, people here have different genes.You are not in New York any more.According to Vitali Vialiev,"Spiritually, linguistically and psychologically, Brighton Beach is not part of the USA. "We don’t go to America. We have nothing to do there," its residents like to say. An American, arriving there by accident, stands out and gets stared at - like an Eskimo in the streets of Abu Dhabi. (Brighton Beach, by Vitali Vitaliev,Travel Intelligence)

The men , for the most part, have thick lips and sad baggy eyes. Everyone seems tired and sad, but still theres a sarcastic smirk right below the surface. The women are stereotypes: huge, roly poly "babushkas", old women wobbling down the street, faces looking more like brown carved apples, bags in both hands, eyes darting from you to the street, half quizzical half nothing. Then, there are the Slavic beauties sashaying down the sidewalk, heels, high cheekbones, pursed lips. Young toughs standing, smoking, no neck, chains with Orthodox crosses, piercing you with a beating from their narrowed eyes.Kitschy Russian music wafting from restaurants, old men with grizzled faces, sitting on buckets, smoking, drinking tea with jam, playing chess in their ketchup stained Russian Navy tank tops. Trash is everywhere but noone pays it any mind. I don’t feel like I’m in America anymore. All around me is tangible evidence that I’m not. But, according to Russians, neither is this "like" Russia.
The buildings look older here, plaques are either in Rafi script or Cyrillic, Hebrew or Russian. Even the ice cream man is Russian. Nowhere else in America have I seen a non Hispanic icecream seller in a truck.
Cars slowly pass by, Russian men hanging out the windows, the Russian 50 Cent or Kelly Clarkson blaring from the speakers.
The boardwalk, though, is where it gets wierd. Its where good old American perversion meets the Old World. Hasids scurry past, holding up their skirts or pants, men with fistfulls of misplace fat wearing Speedos, their bellys swelling over, bitchtits sweating, spindly legs carrying the whole shebang down the promenade. They look impervious to my stares, my open mouth. Women, too, are wearing tiny bikinis when they should be wearing a tent. White cellulite hangs from arms, midsections,necks, derrieres,even ankles. Mullets thrive here. Lapdogs, too.Hang left at the boardwalk and you enter mostly Russians, go right and it’s mixed with African Americans, Hispanics and noise. Its dirtier, louder, drunker. Go left. Stay clear of the Americans. If you wanted Americana, you’d visit Omaha or Dallas. This is not your papas America and things will go from strange to whacked, from different to not too far from a David Lynch story.
On the beach, people are lolling, splayed. Burning themselves. Russians love to get brown.In addition to the Russians, the Ukrainians, the pasty Jews are Hispanics, Congolese, Cameroonians,Lebanese, etc. Spinsters with National Geographic physiques , conical bosoms and zip code hips, amble by, darker than a Maya. Men a million years old cruise by with walkers, nearly the hue of a walnut table or a Hottentot slattern. Young women, men, kids, even the shaved poodles have Hawaiian Tropics tanning lotion clinging to their skin like alive cellophane. There are alot of the white paper nose strips, there are sunglasses ala CHIPS on people who probably cannot see through their glaucoma. A man plays "If I were a Rich Man" on a violin, a kid races out of the ocean with a small crab cage, he measures it and throws it like a baseball back to the fourfeet of water. A man sits in a canvas white kilt, his belly gently laying on top of it, he rests on one arm, like a girl posing, only he is not a girl, nor a boy, he is close to 60, he is nondescript, except for this white kilt . He is looking around, as if he is waiting for some one, suddenly he lifts his leg to reveal a 14 inch black strap-on. It bounces and points towards me. I can’t believe it. Not 20 feet away are 2 women, early 20’s, kicking a ball with all the concentration of a couple of ADD posterchildren, theyre not so much kicking a ball as displaying their wares, they kick with outstretched legs and, as they do so they look at a group of muscled men, to see if theyre looking. Theyre not. Oh, but the man with the white kilt is. He smiles. He lifts his leg, I can see the silhouette of his faux equine cock. The girls startle and stop kicking. They whisper in each others ears and look back at freakboy. He is all smiles and opens his leg for a wider shot. This isnt just your average American exhibitionism, no, this is whacked. This is too European, too artsy, too staged. Eventually, he becomes bored flashing his faux member or he has another beach to haunt, either way he leaves, with a strange leer spread across his face.I’m reminded of the passage in Neil Simons, Brighton Beach Memoirs, where the character, Eugene Morris says:

Seems like Brighton has always been a little twisted. Yep. Twisted.

Notes on the Austro-Hungarian Empire, or dessert in a cupboard

scrambled thoughts on dessert in a cupboard

Johann Straus number 2 was the most famous musician of his time; he was, in a sense, the Michael Jackson of his era, no, thats not right, he wasnt black, fucking whacked out, a pedophile, melanin confused, the definition of batshit crazy, no , ok, Strauss numero deuce was like, well, he was like noone today, celebrity was different then.Examples are aplenty if ye need them.The cult of celebrity that we are all members of, to some extent, didnt exist then.... in a time of European intellectuals and artists delving into their pauper, peasant roots, Strauss was no different, taking the folk songs of the Austrian and Hungarian peasants and re-tooling them into classical music; though,his music proved to be immensely popular . Very popular. His waltzes and marches had the world humming. The music of a dying epoch, a diseased empire. Vienna at this time was abuzz, indeed all of Austria-Hungary swooned and reeled with artistic eruption. But, at the edges of empire, disparate groups sought independence and/or a new society.
Serbian nationalists, Croat patriots, Magyar neo-Huns, communists,socialists,anarchists,pan -Teutons, jihadists, Czech nationalists,Italian supremacists,Pan -Slavists, Zionists,etc,et al.....out of this ethnic and political goulash came great ideas(Jung,Freud,...) foul aberrations(Hitler,Anton Pavic, the Ustasha, the Hungarian Iron Guard) music(Strauss' all, Brahms, )writers galore---Felix Salten(he, of Bambi and soft porn fame, Joseph Roth, Musil, Karl Kraus, Geza Csath, Jan Neruda, Strindberg, Krleza, and art: Klimt, Kokoshka, and others, Egon Schiele, Adler, Martin Buber, Schnitzler, Ferdinand Porsche, PEZ(Haule , I think he was who invented PEZ), KAFKA!!!, Max Brod, Hrabal, Herzl, the list is exhaustive...coffee, the best absinthe, dances, pomp and more pomp and circumstances beyond ones wildest imaginations---well, perhaps not Freuds or Jungs.
And, before the attentat by Gavrilo Princip on the fateful day in Sarajevo was a decision by the deranged archduke(no capitals,please)to commit suicide by disregarding the advice of his closest aides and military advisers. Instead of hundreds of bodyguards in a place where most of the citizens wanted you dead,for one reason or another, the good archduke brought under a dozen men and his wife.. To a region newly captured,that had just thrown off the Ottoman Empire after 500 years,a region teeming with revolutionary groups, with nationalistic groups, with every kind of violent person swarming with other violent persons the gaudy archduke paraded in an open motorcade before pissed off Muslims, wrathful Serbs,mad anarchists, zealous communists, Slovene patriots under the influence of one too many cappucinos; nine assasins lost their nerve when the first assassin, regaining it , attacked...firing five shots, hitting Franz Ferdinand in the jugular and Duchess Sophie in the tum-tum.The surprise is that everyone was surprised.I think, more than anything, Europe was saddened that its best dressed, youngest, most melodic Empire was now dead. Kaput. The song was over. The end . The ornate, gilded dancehall was silent as a tomb.As Eddie Izzard says, it all ended with the flair of a sunken flan in a cupboard. Only this flan, turned into World War 1. The brocaded, mustached Empire of Austria- Hungary had disintegrated and it took Europe down with it.

New York is next to Sierra Leone

new york is another country Fellini said NYC was like a huge spacecraft with reps from all social strata, color,creed...then shook up and its denizens released:, dazed and mad.this is New York sayeth Frederico Fellini. Another artiste, this one a Spanish wordsmith , Lorca, says this: New York is something awful,something monstrous.I like to walk the streets, lost, but I recognize that New York is the world's greatest lie.New York is Senegal with machines. It is a different country.Bored and angry, bored with being angry ,angry at being bored...this is the common facial expression, the attitude of all and sundry.If somebody does show emotion, one has to assume their cheese has slipped off their cracker or they're new, like me.New Yorkers are devoid of human qualities. They don't react.They seem "tough" to some naive Americans and Euros but, in reality, it is all fluff. They seem brash, brazen, bulls in a china shop who never quite break anything. Its this action that is stillborn in a facade that is New York. Yet, I love the fact that I could be killed by a car driven by a person who cannot utter an understandable sentence in any form of English---not even a pidgin, a creole a patois a slang riddled syllabic sewer ...no, they speak in Pashtoon, Manx Gaelic, a Siberian neolithic Turkic language spoken by humans with four tongues . They stand on subway platforms and no one, not one person will notice say, a Linda Blair spazzin out, a rape, an alien invasion or a stampede of butterflies with diaphanous wings laced with turqouise veins...but, theyd notice money. growing from the cracked sidewalk...so strange how all the Diasporas here meld into the attitude I've just described.A cab driver from Amman, Jordan, nonchalantly missing a semi by a nano-inch, casually describes Bedouin relations with Circassians; the Galway bartender with eyes lacking life, muttering about his wifes recent heart attack, his eyes looking aquatic, slightly filmy,milky. The barber f. Cote d'Voire who smokes like an ebony Jack Nicholson constantly contemplating suicide in his slow monotone French accent. It's the ones who exhibit life, who smile , who nod, who jump...these are the recent arrivals, the ones not"cool" not New York yet....New York hasnt levelled their zest, their inner Zorba and/or Dionysius...these are the barbarians,still all beating heart and elan..... Brendan Behan said he loved New York because its the place hed least likely get bit by a goat. He loved this joint for what it didnt have.Likewise, I like the fact I will never get poison oak or ivy,leprosy perhaps ,ok, but never attacked by a puma...just a man in Pumas. Some Columbian academians the other day strolled thru the park pointing and causing a brouhaha over what they deemed a peacock(a female turkey).Cute. Funny, that a hundred years ago and theyd probably all know the diff. twixt a cow and sheep, hay bales and a pile of worthless grass.Ah, but then history and industrialization happened with a mechanical thud and they migrated to the urban areas., to the Bostons, the Philadelphias, the one and only New York...abandoning the pastoral, the bucolic, the natural for the manmade, the pandemonium, the thyroidal bee hive called Gotham. Am I bitter?No. Frazzled? A tad. Fate has thrown me into this spaceship and I'm only now beginning to acclimate myself to the frenzy. Give me a week and I'll be bored and angry with it all. Or, more likely buying a ticket to Senegal.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:40 AM 0 comments

Possessed by Lenin

Possessed by Lenin

So, she tells me she just returned from an Orthodox monastery in Ukraine where she and her sister looked for some kind of help with a lil' problem.Nothing major, nothing out of the ordinary, just her sister is possessed by V.I. Lenins spirit.Maybe it is a job related injury---she is a medium.Things like this happen to mediums. Lenin is not a good spirit to be possessed by. Let me diminish his smarts: He was not intelligient, reading, university doesnt make one smart, on the contrary, its an expensive conformity. I know of nary a plumber , logger or farmer who have started wars.No, its always, the college educated. Germany, prior to Hitlers rise to power, although mired in penury and inflation, occassional bouts of cannibalism, rampant prostitution to make ends meet, suicide en masse etc..., Germany had one of the most educated populations in Europe and the world.Yet, Bach,Beethoven, Goethe and Rilke and Franz Kafka , Kant and Schopenhauer meant as much as one of Adolphs butt cheeks. Their education meant nada.Some of the most astute, sagacious people I have met were uneducated at university.Nietzche was right: we do need to destroy all the books, all the profs, all the schools and start over.Decorum, protocol are offal from the educated. I'm all for civility but not for the sake of human lives.Being civil in the face of gross inhumanity is akin to co-authoring said inhumanity, right?Right. Example:Sudan.All the so called pacifists make excuses to not get involved.Governments make hollow declarations, threats defanged.The U.N. is all smoke and mirrors and handshakes and kowtowing to fascist Islamic heads of state.Bottom line. And, still people die.As they have since '83, '99, fill in the blank, maybe nobody really wants to get involved to save Negroes.Look at Rwanda.South Africa was able to exist for decades.Whats needed is a goddamned united front against bullshit.Someone needs to get possessed by Churchhill and whip some Muslim ass.Invade Sudan right now.The worlds leaders need an exorcism. Seems as though theyve been possessed by the spirit of the middle class, the "safe" caste, the cadre of "dont' upset people, don't get involved"
A shame. Goddamn, let the spirits of Crazy Horse, Michael Collins and Richard-the-lion-hearted possess me!!!Pizdets.I'd bomb Khartoum in nanoseconds.And Paris, for shits and giggles.
Back to the Ukraine: So, she and her sister were blessed by Orthodox monks after a rough nights sleep on concrete with dish cloths for blankets.And Lenin. Apparently, he is rude. He just interrupts.No hour is safe, no place is holy. I asked if the voice showed any sign of feebleness, retardation,illnesss. "Oh, Bozhoi moi, God no, very bright and quick", she said. Strange. Because a year before he croaked, Lenin had suffered a couple strokes and was rendered a second grader..a lil better than a mo-mo, a tard..Which would make her sisters possession more strange.I'm wondering how did Vlad get better. And, why this middle aged woman from Russia?Why not talk to a peasant?Zuganov?A hedgehog?a Berkely hippy with a stuttering problem who carries a rotten leek for good luck?
Baffling. No exorcisms occurred there in the monastery. The women left and paid for their visit in a most proletarian manner: with a Visa.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:43 AM 0 comments

Venus febriculusa

006

I love the smell of Venus febriculosa in the morning My mind is again caffeinated and racing, a hooligan mob darting from a burned out car to the police, from one thought to another and, yet, in my mind these thoughts all have an umbilical cord tethering them to the same mater/pater: theyre all familial...siblings..Yes, born of my grey matter(which, by the way, does look like a horrific nest of grey vulvae), my thoughts now seek independance and run off on their own or together sewing mayhem and sowing oats to produce tada! more thoughts.here, let me capture some of the buggers and tell you what I see:Oh, ho,ho!Surprise, surprise:They all have the same look,carbon copys of one another,the same wickedly gleeful look,and these thoughts convince me that I' am thinking of Venus febriculosa,aka, cunnilingus.Now sex.Sex in general.Am I a sex fiend?A maniac?A satyrnalian?I do not know.All of my life I have been captured by the thought of women(did i steal this line from Pasternaks poem?)I have been a devotee of their winsomeness, their foreignness,curves,smells.I tried the gay thing and it didn't work.I felt too much like Narcissus.At the tender age of six I did things with a girl my own age that most six year olds do not do.I'll only say this involved tongues, insertions and a peculiar frisson at the whole affair.From fifteen to I -do- not- recall I had many lovers, more lovers than people that live in some Icelandic villages.Over 100,over 200. And, we may stop here.We will.I have always had this lust for more and more sex.Insatiable.never satisfied.In the past this lust was characterized by the desire for all women.Since my first marriage(25-30)it is a lust for more sex with the same woman.Only, I had never had a woman who could keep up, alas I became a serial monogamist.Until now.You'd think that after 35-40 times in five days I'd be satisfied.Oh, but no, I want more.Just her.Yet,my body feels cartoonish: this fiendishly prolonged horniness won't go away.Do i need a goddamned hobby?More exercise?A shrink?I have read everything on the net about sexual addiction.I'am not a sex addict.(I can hear the hackneyed slogan,"Denial is not a river in Egypt.")I'am not denying anything.I just think I was born with too much, a surplus if you will, of testosterone.An average day masturbating: 5-10, once I onanized myself 12 times.I love sex.And, trust me, it is not about the end result, the liberation of France, the explosion, the bellowing like an Angus steer followed by copius amounts of silvery D.N.A strewn onto a pale stomach to resemble a very shiny archipelago.No, it is the work before that interests me.The cessation of time and space outside of the lovemaking, the fucking, the whatever you want to call it, has never been lost to me.It baffles me.This act, on one hand so beautiful, on the other, so ridiculous.I will admit that a huge part of my fascination with the Ol' In -Out In- Out is watching the other squirm and shriek like a victim in Butryki Prison.I love watching them cum.I really enjoy this.Much more than listening to Chopin, eating cajun food, playing rugby, boxing, reading, writing. And the taste of women!Jesus !The closed fist of her sex.You teasing it to open.Its becoming swollen and wet,a moving orchid.The lubricity, tightness,tartness and musk.So animal.So mammal.So godlike.Human.I think philosophers would not have been philosophers had they shagged more often than ,oh, once every lifetime.Nietzche looked beyond horny.Kierkegaard was virtually a monk.And, not just the existentialists.The whole lot of them, especially the venerable Professor from Tubingen:Kant Herr Kant needed her cunt..you get the picture---although the picture of Kant bumping uglies with anyone is nauseating--- This thought is haunting me like a bipolar poltergeist with seperation anxiety.Egads.The lot of them:Spinoza, Hegel,Hume,Berkeley,...oh, Richard stop.Marx in a threeway with Engels and Kant and perhaps some Bavarian slatterns,some opium,Munchen lager,apertifs of moans in that oh so romantic German tongue. No, it didnt happen, thus we now have Das Kapital.And, London has the Teutonic hippys bones.Of course they had sex.Maybe not enough.Maybe just the generic kind:where you just go at sex like you go at a pizza:laborious,mechanical,boring.Of course I've never had sex like this,i have been with women and men who prefered sex like this but a good roughing up usually dredged them out of the doldrums, recued them from their malaise,oh, God!Why do i compare and contrast women?Am i grading cattle?No, it is human to do so, right?i mean everyones been with a person who wasnt a virgin, yet lay there like a mummified Aztec behind glass,everyones been with that special someone who, honestly, if they left your horny ass, you could have had more fun with a hatchet, 17 dead snakes, a worn copy of anything by any Bronte sister and a jug of lukewarm water in a graveyard .Right?Right.Then, you have those doozies.They fuck .As if they were bred to fuck.Later, you are with someone better and you realize , no, you were just horny.This new person is actually good, then you meet the best.The one .Her.Or him.Time goes by, youre with more Aztecs, more pizzas, another wow!, then, you meet the deity, the demigod of sex.everything she does is holy.Her resilience is otherworldly.Her stamina frightens; yet, is matched thrust for thrust,moan for moan.You've found each other and you get married. I think this blog is a warm up exercise for my ACTUAL writing Sex.The joyous, galloping union of phallus and lacuna, cock and cunt, saliva and sweat, pan-optic eyes and verbiage being sexy or even bizarre(Once, a Palestinian woman ,while in the act, she on all fours, smoking a joint, in between puffs decides to tell me that ,"...last week I spoke to Satan in an alleyway behind my club."--what?I asked.She then repeats this inanity.needless to say I lost my appetite...which is in marked contrast with my early years when women said even more bizarre things and it seemed as though these outrageous asides brought on orgasm quicker,why the change I do not know) Sex.I'm sorta going in and out of subject.So, yes, finally i have found someone to keep up with me.At the expense of sleep, victuals,entertainment,the outside world,cinema,etc.. we do it constantly.24/7, or 24/5 rather.24/6.And, as I age I find that intelligant conversation stimulates me, that fetid piffle , dismal drivel always makes me flaccid.Lately, the conversation has been at 11.The best.Ergo, the sex is also at ...11.and, they feed on each other, dual parasitism.Like us.She tells of her experiences I become aroused, she talks and gets misty eyed and again: arousal.Ad infinitum.Talk, talk, talk....that old aphrodisiac, the salacious quality of gab.I'm in need of a cold shower now.

On why cannibalizing hippys sounds good

On Why I Suddenly Feel Like eating human flesh

On why I suddenly feel like cannibalizing dirty hippys....

My first day in Dantes seventh layer of Hell. I've decided to quit smoking, yet cannot remember the reason why.My neurons are exploding each nanosecond,every pore is agape and shrieking.My body chemsitry is experiencing a physiological Bolshevik Revolution.Dopamine levels have plummetted.Insulin is not being suppressed.Adrenalin levels are seeking balance.No, its much worse than that.This first day without nicotine is like 400,000 Mongols are running amok inside me,it is the entire Wehrmacht in my veins,a million cellular Mansons --- I'am your own personal Chernobyl.I'am confused and spacy.I feel like I have Downs Syndrome, Alzheimers,Parkinsons,A.D.D. and the severest case of Tourettes .Fuckingoddamnhalfwitmotherfucker has become my favorite word.I want strangers to know what I want....ten minutes ago.I want friends to leave---only, after theyre gone I want them to come back.Then, leave again.I've cleaned the house and messed it up again.I'am a 200 pound hamster created by Phillip Morris and my choices.23 years of gagging,hacking,coughing,sputtering,spewing up all manner of dead creatures,of being fatigued,winded,smelling like a Third World toilet.

I want to kill something large.Ants wont do.Birds dont have enough blood.I want to annhilate a herd of wildebeest.I want Arma-fucken-geddon.

I want a cave.I want T.N.T .I want planes loaded with bombs.I want eject,rewind,pause.Fuckin Spice Girls....yeah, I tell ya what I really really want:

I want a goddamned cigarette.A Gaulloises,perhaps?Sure,times 20.A Marlboro,Camel,Kamel,Winston,Woodbine,Sherman,Raleigh et al

generic Arapaho reservation -made fags...I dont care.A cigarette butt.Anything.A nice cigarette and cigar boullaibaise.Distilled Turkish Specials clam sauce over tobacco fettucine; A Winston Light pizza.A fresh pack of smokes,unopened,you stare at it like its your lover and its been many moons since youve done this,you start by kissing the object of your desire,oh yes, then undo ,unwrap make naked,then part,opening the insides and unlike coitus,your first motion is to pull out(do not "pierce"the cigarette,I tell you it will not work),then fire,then that initial inhalation:Nicotine like the angel of Life to every famished cell.Nicotine: a cross between the philanthropy of Mother Teresa and a bucket full of orgasms.

.I'm chewing gum.Trident. I hate gum and people who chew it.Even if gum tasted like Sapphire gin or Glenfiddich it'd still look moronic. Each chew brings up visions of cattle masticulating their cuds:Looking vapid,retarded,so uncool,so anti-James Dean.Its how I feel at this moment:Half momo, half psychotic.I sit here shaking my knees ,chewing ferociously,dreaming of sexy paleskinned cigarettes.Oh, but theyre sirens.They mean harm.This is where I'm supposed to ask to be tied to the mast,right?

This goddamned gum tastes like Barbie hair.My house smells like a bar.A gaggle of hippies trudge down the street:smoking .I will mug them for a cigarette.It all makes sense now.I will eat their nicotine laden veins ,I will scrape the tar from their frazzled lungs with a clam shell,boil it down and shoot it into my spasming circulatory system.Theyre going down, every Medusa headed ,bongo beating organatron will perish;afterwards,basking in post-nicotine ingestion bliss I will wash their vegan and patchoili blood from my hands,dry it,cook it and snort it in lines resembling a topographic rendition of the Andes. Oh, yeah.But, first...first I have to remember how to tie my shoes.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:46 AM 0 comments Links to this post

the wait

the wait

She lay there on our bed panting, her tattooed white skin, sweat- sheened and mottled by weak sunlight coming through the windows of the bedroom. My cum is spread across her taut stomach like a silvery archipelago. Im still hard as I get up to go look at the purple and white Chugach Mountains to the east. Fireweed is spread all over below the snowline. The purpling of the abundant flower forecasts the first snowfall of winter. All the mountains turned over a week ago and still nothing. Still the wait for the end of green, of color, of light, youth and frenzy Still the wait.Each day preens itself slowly,achingly.

The effects of the heroin are subsiding and I can feel my erection more keenly. I stroke my cock and tell her Ill be back with fresh drinks. As I pour the gin into our glasses I realize were out of tonic water so I look in the bottom cupboard for more. We seem to be out of everything lately.Shell just have to drink it straight.Like I do now ,from the bottle.There we go, come into me, I say to the turquoise bottle. "Come , come, come."She is yelling for me to hurry. "Theres something in the yard,hunny, a bear I think,hurry,its gonna get me!" Iwalk back to the room and peer outside to see a bull moose.

Do you have a gun, I ask

Dude, you cant shoot the bear

Its a moose, I tell her

Stillin that case, come back to bed

Nah, I want to look at him for a little more

But, Im horny,she tells me

My cock hangs flaccid as I turn to see her rubbing herself,inserting two fingers deep inside her pussy.

Looking back at the moose I see him eat the Red tulips I planted months ago.

Hey, hes eating the tulipscan I shoot the bastard now?

I feel her hands around me, shes kissing my neck, two fingers enter my mouth and I taste her sex. "Come fuck me again, she whispers."

The moose is now eating the begonias,the strawberries and red cabbage. He moves to the ferns,leaving one lonely head of cabbage, its petals or leaves ,whatever theyre called are pulled back from the head, so that it resembles an orchid painted by Georgia Okeefe or even dozens of swollen labias. She gives up and returns to bed.

Fuck it,she tells me. Fuck you, then.

I sip the gin slowly and stare at the purple cabbage. I instantly want to save it from the moose. And, as if reading my mind, he lugubriously walks over to the cabbage and swallows it whole, leaving a hole in the cold cold ground the size of a toddlers fist.

I point my finger at him, as if its the barrel of a gun . "Bang." I want the moose to fall, to die for his sin. Instead he lifts his heavy head and walks away from the window and back into the Chugach.

The last of the gin goes down my throat; my cigarette is down to the end and I crush it out in a broken ashtray that says ,"Welcome to Alaska."

Shadows have come into the room and I turn to see her in the fetal position in the last patch of light

You awake?Nothing. I look outside for the last time and see snowflakes drift down,covering the earth in a mantle of white.

This is it, I say,Kaput. Finis. I feel sick from all the white; it is so clinical,so funerary. I have to look away.There she lay,in half darkness now,in the fetal position,her perfect ass beckoning me.I crawl onto the bed and move my face to her pussy which looks like a closed bud of a delicate flower. I bend to it and inhale through my nostrils.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:47 AM 0 comments Links to this post

Incessant(why is rain always incessant or driving?) rain and wind.Strong,lusty ,gusty gales;electricity dead, thee walls tremble. Looks like Spielberg is directing.Wind so strong it pushes water on the street likea huge invisible broom. Telephone cables dance and sway; in the distance police lights,overhead a dark grey and black mass of cloud resembling funerery shrouds; it's chaos,albeit a light version,wheres the fuckin candles?The alder trees across the street bend at 70 degrees. On the drama scale: 2

1979,Northern Ilinois, in the warpath of a tornado: in the basement watching trees fly by;drama scale : 10

I grew up with warnings of the apocalypse and warnings from pulpit and podium of Communist invasion, the end of the world,Ragingorak as the Icelandic sagas call it, but what I saw that day was hellish,the aftermath was sure sign that the Furies traipsed by with vitriol and vim,Paul Bunyan had a bad pcp trip, a v.w. bug lay upside down on a roof,a brick schoolhouse looked like a Dresden factory,the ravens sounding like Germans.

A flood in Redding,1987: another bug,floating down the river called Interstate 5. A week of sirens,helicopters,evacuations,canned food and quik candlelit romps and bacchanals lasting 24/7. Drama scale ? 4. A measly 4. Siskel and Ebert(now Roper--who the hell is this guy,eh?) would be mixed on my drama of the Northern California flood amongst white trash drug addicts...prolly cause Keanu would play me, in that monoemotion of his, like he just ate Opium cake for breakfast and downed it with Valium punch:What, ok,like I will rescue you..like can we fuck then?)

This week: poison oak.Drama scale ? A million. It is off the goddamned charts. Do not laugh or call me histrionic,melodramatic. Yes,do. Call me that. This is natures way of saying to me"Youre petty life is now dictated by diet leprosy,leprosy-lite...good day!

Shazam!Your skin is covered in welps,lesions,macabre red raises,blisters and a model of the surface of Mars. You are a red crocodile. And now the burning itch:On your lovely gnarled cock,your eyes,arms,legs,belly,chest,neck. Diet leprosy. Ive always had an on again off again relationship with Mother Earth,but now I want to commit matricide. My umpteenth time with this dermatological savaging. Done. We are kaput,momma. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Fuck the redwoods,the dirt,the ocean,pretty flowers,rivers,sunrise,sunset,Ayers Rock,The Nile,the Gobi,the taiga,all of it. Concrete, cement. This is love. This is holy now .Cover up the old hag. My way of casually saying "Pthwt!"

I want to bap hippys on the head with a tractor tire,drive a semi thru Manhatten bitchslapping babyseals,drinking pure Chernobyl nuclear waste,injecting rare civet pancreas blood into my neck,wear Saudi crude for cologne----my way of saying Hiroshima, mon amour.

Yes, terra madre, you give me this and more you have given me: sleepless nights on the Pacific chasing tuna,puking and delirious,watching whales rise up with famished eyes as if I were a knish with legs;sharks and gills and scales and a desert of wawa rising and falling ....for what?The grizzly in Alaska who kept me locked in my truck for two hours as he growled and stood trying to eat his beloved knish with legs;all the near death experiences with rattlesnakes, black widows,horses falling on me, bulls chasing me, rabid bats,wilddogs chasing me into the boughs of an oak,fleas, ticks,rats,bird shit,heat,cold, rain,sleet,snow,flood,drought.Flora and fauna are no funna.We are done , you and I. And, when I rule the planet I will pay you back a million fold. Oh, yes! Paybacks are a motherfuckin bitch. Highrises in the Grand canyon, a parking lot in the Amazon, nuke the Galapogos,poison the wells, stripmall the Yukon. In a thousand years when you recover you will shake us off. I know. I do.You always come back .The human race will be paying for my sin.In this sense I 'am the anti-christ.But, I'm okay with this:my body will be dead:Buried in a steel box,in a vault deep inside a nuclear bunker made out of polyurethane and plastic dildos. Poison oak free:a smiling bag of cfc's,msg,gmo's,nicotine,alcohol,exhaust,pollution,formaldehyde. I will look down from a heaven sponsored by multinational corporations and send you my love.