Sunday Morning

school seems to
have
shut me up a little

making it difficult to see old friends like
erin
or
gin

but there's still time to get lost
in domed suburbs with triple k themed
waffle huts
and
more bagpipers and fake shanes
than a man ought to see any day short of the 17th


the show is going pretty
well
it looks like we aren't going to collapse in on
ourselves
just yet

no one's disowned me

we've offended our first two customers

i'm working on a couple of articles right now
one of em isn't bullshit

give me a little more time and i might just work this damned thing out

it's time to find the little ones
and dance

kill the head and the body will die

the swine won out
as they tend to do
when you hang around too many Democrats n celebrities
all the dogs and peacocks,
rum and dynamite in the world can't end the pain

there's snow on the ground in colorado
(probably)
salt on every floor

raybanned duke
uncle
priest pornographer
patron saint to too many what don't know better

died a gambler eternal
beat back the odds on both ends

past pearly
he'll be met by revved leather
fingercymbaled jew
every type of untrustworthy new yorker
and ev'ry body 'll be shooting
paint the nimbus

don't take any guf from no angel, bubba

i don't want to know what song was playing
i just want to say goodbye

obligatory quote time:
there he goes, too strange to live and too rare to die, God's own prototype

banal sex or furthur poetic masturbations in the blogosphere

it's been another week
as each day has proven to make it
since i was seven days
old
heroin buddies came out to flash familiar as more heads came
to encourage my buffoonary in person
ones and zeroes
et al
filling pockets with sellout; maybe i'm finally in the
black
girls who don't know when to stop talking
provide me with most of my amusement
but one offs never sound the same in
print
journalism as fodder
feelings are hurt
names drug out
sharks and guns jumped as
culture war is attempted

I am a 31 year old accountant

inside jokes should stay where they are

meaningfulless gibberish to break the silence

wax. is/
overrated

woke up down

so it's buckle down and straighten up time again
three weeks passed with nary a road trip
minding a collapsed barn in Bolingbrook smashing suburban discard things with 4xxp and a camera in the fresh snow
basement bagpipers, silver tongued vagrants and unlicenced pet shops
provided a fine backdrop
but all adventures have been domestic
which just isn't the same
fat tuesday and chinese new year
passed me by with nary a titty or dragon
National Darwin Day happened but
Old Charles refused once again to rise from the punpkin path to teach good southerners the age of the universe

i can't remember what happened at the beginning of break but
i'm sure that most of it was some sort of publicity stunt
my mother turned 50
we found ourselves able to squeeze excess bodies from our basement
with a little bit of sam's food still dangling in the fridge
it's raining on 500 million people's parade and i'm not really wanted here
obstructionist
out done, i will hunt my breakfast oats like the buffalo with the same look of
bewildermint plastered on my face
for now
there's real work to be done
the kind that will be awaiting me first thing tomorrow

8:45 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit -

quote of the day and a few notes on the homeless

"duran duran asked adam and eve how come god give honkies all the nigger money"- gentleman at wabash and 10th

my favorite 'transients' (or whatever uncomely word you'd like to use for homeless persons of chicago) put on shows. the number onerest goes by the names Sir Toad or Mister Ugly and speaks perfect Elizabethan English with wild eyes and salt-and-pepper dreadlocks:

"please sir do you have a couple bucks penance for an ugly toad as me, king of the bums?"

if there is a god in heaven there is someone out there to fuck Sir Toad

---
a question

when you're about to get hit up for money, are you adressed 'hey big guy' or 'whassup big man'?

i'd like to think that it's just colloquialism but i know better and every time somebody calls me that i just feel like the fattest, ugliest piece of shit on the street

...

if you want my money,
don't call me 'big guy'

upon reading this, it is your solemn responsibility (pt. 2)

to take the Guiness from my hand before I lose the rent check

and return it promptly upon finding that I have stowed or delivered it safely

cream of stromciousness

communists are confusing me
because they're saying that if your hair gets too long
it might as well be flowin down
into your wallet
Capitalist piglet
skin leather
-bound chain around
yer neck
so that even Kim Jong Il ain't billy no more
with his pomp measuring no more than 2 inches like Vanilla Ice's 92 fade
Mac Carthy must be dreidling his fucking grave right now
cause if the commies don't take the hippies we'll have to let em back in our ports
, &
massachusetts ain't that big
, &
canada needs a new sales pitch
maybe a kid like me trying to untie a flag from his neck:
is it gettin drafty in here?

terrorists be confusin me because they're kidnapping toys
that ain't even anglo...
how's cody gonna be an 'action figure' with his arms tied behind his back
i mean
capitalists are confusing me because they keep talkin about god when sex sells and they don't know no subtlety

conspiracy theorists nfuse me
when they cynicize bout ev'rything but what little birdies buzz em
n'I know all about Freemasons but taint no Freemasons
bombin esoteric on CTA train stations
so which Kings should you be worried bout
n'even local funnypeopletheatrefagnoisemusicians er gettin too damned worried bout their god damned intellectual property rights an hair dos that no body's having any fun
and
you're
in-
fringe
-ing
on
mine

--"authenticity is key"--
see cody
see haircut

ummm

mat is migrating south to north
carolina so baeta will replace
representative capitol D.C.
by way of the motherland
a massive
eastern
block
with chocolate eggs that hatch toys
too much letters z and j
until she can get over another scumbag

if i don't use my silverest tongue
legislative
i will never hold the basement again for
insomniatic romps
of electronic game and the lifting of metal
i will have no place to write
when the typers are tied togethor
hymning sleep files
and the doors are locked to humility andsleepwear

give me
prih va cee
or give my death
give me
carlin
a place for my things
give me
alone
a place to hold dreams and tomorrow

in my case
ab ase ment
so i can prolong
sleeping alone

-----
in my head i am listening to the jello biafra/mojo nixon collaboration
"Prarie Home Invasion"
behind it i am hearing doubt

dizzlered

Current mood: pepperstuffed

i can deal with insomnia on days off, the morning news always works to lullaby
but come ten, come twelve ellen jane my grandmother's stories are
driving me deeper
under patchy covers
mat says 'sleeping pills'
but i don't think it'd be a good idea to have them in the back
of my mind
behind my face behind the fog and condensation in the bathroom mirror
every
single
day of the year

in a week i will have dooties
things to do or shirk
and ru(l)e
the calendar

i cannot
greet the sun with z
and wake in noon's swelter
there are papers to
three r
,
minds to open up
to concepts that they need to graduate
and discard

there are photographs to take

of those that will otherwise fade crumbling un-or-little-photo
graphed

how will i do this
tv asks me
if i do not have the clocks set for dreaming

my face will break out
and my legs will pour
the shakes and stutters
will be come my come ons
and my eyes
beautiful pools of chocolate shit brown
unfathomably deep
will pucker
and rupture and
wither away

there willbe no one to feed the pets
following my to the sarcophagi
filling the holes
voided by donated organs
that will pipe and play
beautiful western songs

about
open prarie sky
.
they will never see that i have become

finally blue

dream journal (that's right, i'm a 16 yr old girl aspiring to be a writer, eat it)

following a night of bad dreams, that included a labyrinthian dream within a dream within a dream where in each level Sarah was cheating on me and one where my roommates were yelling at me and redecorating, a night of odd fluff.

I went to bed at around two last night, after watching Cecil B. Demented but ended up tossing, turning, and stirring the bed for hours, much to the chagrin of Sarah who had actual work today. I ended up turning on the tv, the little 3 inch by 4 inch black-and-white am/fm/tv i lifted and liberated from the Adelphi before it was gutted. I needed the news. Apparently it was 5:00 already. Mariann Childers rocked me to sleep. I had two blissful hours without the sun's interference when Sarah had to leave. Whatever fantasies were swimming around were unable to sneak in under rem radar. I bid her a groggy goodbye and it was time for the show to begin. Literally.

I dreamt of tv shows and full-cast, musical plays that hopefully don't exist.

most of them were lost to morning, but I remember two

the first is "Lone Star", a rehashing of the Daniel Boone story where Boone is a tween fugitive running around Texas. It opens with a 'Rawhide'-like logo burning through an old map of Texas. It then kicks into the Tom Waits song "Jockey Full of Bourbon", only it's sung by a nasal, prepubescent kid. Halfway through the song, a middle-aged Japanese man sings the lyrics in Nihongo, and the last two verses are sung in whispered spanish. I'd watch it.

The play, on the other hand, was an epic-semicomedy following about eleven people from middle-age through retirement and, in some cases death, all featuring actors in their 50s and 60s including Mort and Mindy, Chicago's oldest sketch comedians (fresh off their recent two-person set at Sketchfest 2005). There's one touching scene when Mort, seperated from Mindy in 1967 tried LSD at the Greenwich Village apartment of Mark, a friend he is staying with. We watch as the two men (playing themselves as late-thirtysomethings) get under the cover togethor and their night becomes a failed experiment in homosexuality and a lesson in unrequited affection as Mark eventually recoils from Mort's touch, leaving him ultimately alone.

The show had gone up opposing the Gentlemen Callers' show at the Theatre Building and, despite the clunky set (hollywood squares-type boxes meant to look like diverse arrangements of bohemian tenement apartments), i would prefer it to the current set up

speaking of clunky, this is probably one of my worst posts yet...sorry

more found poetry

I found this one notebook a few months ago in the alley between my house and Sarah's. It was full, front to back with notes for this kid's band, mostly lyrics. Whoever the owner was, he's never named but I presume that it's JT, the sometimes guitarist, and vocalist on high tracks. Unfortunately, the band's name is never clearly stated either. This is one song (or perhaps two sons) that was never completely finished. At the end there are about 5 different versions the lyric could possibly be sung. I'm gonna call it "Dorian Grey" for reasons that will become hit-you-over-the-head obvious

you revive me with your touch
like a frayed wire
thoughts that breath and hesitate
I'll deny what we don't hear
No one cries if we don't hear
A peaceful atmosphere
If I'm having doubts you'll chase culprit out
*(May vary to lie & cast a spell again (sincere)
raven
If I have a doubt you'll chase the ______ right out

I have a doubt - chase it out

Wait before you take my hand
I wanna know if you
Realize that I ain't so pretty inside-
You paint a pretty a brand new sky
shade the morning light I need
(Could Dorian Grey stay forever)
(Dorian Grey won't face forever)
(You can't make Dorian Grey forever)
(Make Dorian Grey stay forever)
(Like Dorian Grey make/made forever)

--I like the version "You can't make Dorian Grey forever" cause of the play on words but the point is very likely moot. Both the lyrical aptitude and subject matter make me think that it's a high school kid. It's not the best body o' work I've ever seen, but by that same token I've seen much worse go platinum, and if anybody ever found the books of lyrics I wrote when I was in "Mobius Trip", I'd be pretty ripe for the picking myself

"hypocondriactic"

One of my favorite pastimes is scrounging Chicago alleys for toys, electronics, furniture, and any other discard I can glean something out of. I seem to find a lot of old yellow, recycled-paper pads filled with quick-but-urgent pen scribbles. I was gonna go on some spiel about how this is the second life of the paper, it's more okay to toss it, but that's probably bullshit romanticism and not the case at all. Yellow legal pads are cheap and usually up for grabs at any office building. They are easy to toss out because they're free.

Most of the time they're just business notes. Facts and figures. Stuff that I doubt would be very interesting even if I could decipher it but every now and than I'll find something beautiful. Somewhere in my backpack there's a pad filled with the lyrics and setlists to some aspiring musician. From their quality, I'd say he is in high school or was when he wrote them, but they're of no use to him now. As is usually the case, the second half of the notebook is all blank paper.

The one I found today had only two entries. The first was a letter written from a parent to their as-yet unborn child. I don't know if it was the handwriting, the subject matter, or the care pout into it but I immediately thought that it was the work of a woman; it was in fact written by the father. It comes in a spurt, using humor, family history, and description of the setting to adequately paint the scene but then, when he's most excited, ends abruptly. Here it is:

"I heard your heartbeat for the first time on the 12th. It was so exciting. It was me, your Mom, G-ma, & the Doc. Your G-ma had a bright smile on her face & stared @ the clock as to count your bpm (beats per min.) a habit she picked up from being a nurse. So if she gets all hypocondriactic on you it has to do w/ being a medic and picking up some of your great g-ma's habit. The doc did the same as g-ma minus the bright smile. Not so much because she didn't care but more so because this was a routine visit that she probably did 2 or 3X a day. Your mother looked like she wanted to do a back flip off the hospital bed she was so excited to have something concrete to know you were really there, other than the fact her jeans didn't fit. Instead she just sat there with her eyes popping out of her head trying to take it all in. For myself, i sat there shocked that I could really hear you, I mean I was reading & seeing pictures in books about what was going on, but finally something that proves youre really in there growing. Of course I observed everybodys reaction. All of this up to this point occured within 90 seconds. For the short remaining time that the doc held that thing on your moms stomach I sat there & our life togethor flashed before my eyes & slight tear of joy grew in the corner"

It was dated "1/18". The only other entry is a page of hurried scrawls, numbers and to-do's. Apparently, whoever this belonged to is moving, and needs to get out quick. Along with phone numbers and addressees for various utility companies are orders like

"pack everything the hell up!!!- wed, thur, fri"

and

"change of address - ?"

I don't know if he left the neighborhood, the city, or the US. I don't know his name or that of his baby. I don't know if he's taking Mom or G-Ma with him or just running. I never will, but in two pages is enough for me to wish him, his mother, the mother and baby all the luck in the world.

hopefully, it won't turn out to ba an Eric

the life surreal

sarah joyce is in her living room with my old tripod, taking black-and-white photos of "Under the Rainbow", VHS midget porn she found in an alley. Most of the sex takes place in the back of an ambulance in Budapest, featuring a variety of actors with fun pseudonyms like Suzy Cat (a normal sized Eastern European who never stops chewing gum). The freakiest part is when they unleash "Panther" a skinny, malformed, possibly hermaphrodittic monkey-child with an AlfAlfa (think "Island of Doctor Moreau"; think "Old Kid" from Invader Zim) who, for the most part hides under a sheet.

sarah sosa is on mushrooms with her roommate suffering prophetic dreams, calling up old boyfriends, people whose houses she's left boxes of clothes for upwards of a year, and anyone willing to deliver packs of cigarettes to her house.

If I didn't wake up hallucinating this morning, it would very well hurt to know that i am undoubtedly awake and experiencing this right now.

p.s. so i looked online and found a picture of Panther...if you do go to this site...it's far cruder and more insensitive than I am. Cheers.

upon reading this, it is your solemn responsibility

to take the whiskey from my hands 'before' i start acting like an asshole in front of friends, loved ones, and people bigger than me

suicidallucinations

lying on the bottom rung, nate and tania's futon bunk above me the mattress began to seep through the bars like rolls of fat, the bars began to give bending towards me at the middle i begged for them to break crushing me under an ergonomically correct pink cushion, it never happened and i got up

anybody got any lsd?