her lips are moving
beautiful lips with an ugly face

the crowd has faith in her
belly shakes throughout the room
untamed wit rolls off her tongue
a steady stream of punch lines
grace my droll existence
sitting in the corner,
cornering my insecurities
ugly aura with a beautiful face
laughing at her impression
of a bed –wetting heathen child
that was once me

and forgetting her homely face
until the light strays from her
and shines back on me

eight hours of nap ago
I was broken
fixed me two minutes ago
still broken
two hours from now
same as
two minutes plus
eight hours of nap ago

Make Sense of it all.
Why can’t we escape superficiality? Two a.m., reading a comic, and suddenly I am reminded of soup cans. Hell, el Senior Diablo, evil cheerleaders, even the vendor at the Quik-E-Mart; everything is inter-linked to stupidity, superficiality, pop culture. One superfluous mass of information that we will never need to know, the useless trivia that defines our lives, and we live by it, by the book, clutching on for dear life as each shred of our mortality rips away at our sanity. Thoreau tried to escape it by living as far from civilization as he could, Warhol painted it in the soup cans; one just like the other, repetitive, unified as one but portrayed at so many different angles. Even Vasquez, through the eyes of Johnny, portrays the ever-long theme of contentment lacking from those who sweat the petty things of life. Yet even as they strive to reach such an ethereal state of bliss, always remain tacked to the nail they hammered to the doorway through their shirtsleeve on the way in.
So where does painting-by-numbers really get us? Nowhere fast. We stay in the lines, stay close to the borders, never reaching out towards the edge of the table, or canvas for that matter, in fear of the hand of conformity that will slap us down, and drag us back inside. And sometimes to have the genius, the insane must also come with it. The insane, being the ones that have been scribbling on the table all along, and have managed to get away with it. You know why? Because the hand was backwards to begin with, and too listless to manage the beautifully insane anyhow. Look at what set the standards for American literature and art. Van Gogh might have been the most tortured soul to hold a self-exploding pen and live to write about it; his severed ear boasting of a love in time never forgotten, even as it may have been one-sided.
Vonnegut obviously had problems. Tralfamadorians, time machines, pony porno, all linked together in a non-systemized way to promote an anti-war book that hardly included the topic meant for the book? Dresden is taboo, but maybe if we move our words and promises through the lips of an outsider to this world, they will finally begin to believe we were wrong, and it was a tragedy; a whole beautiful city masterfully destroyed to feed the fathom of misunderstanding that was our nation. So it goes.
Yet, things become drastic in times of war, even for the clinically depressed, seemingly unaffected Hemingway. It was supposed to be that way…we were supposed to be that way, and them, the whole world, even World War I, wouldn’t rain on our parade. Even in Hell, Johnny has no place. He moves with the invisible mass, the flushers, who always seem to stand on the edge of what they can grasp from this dreary world, and the knowledge they can attain from droning on for a few more years just to try and impress the world. But there is no affection on this world. hah.

I Love Ethel.

Redheads always have more fun,
but who collects the rent, and who always solves the mystery?

Eat your heart out, Daisy.


There is one who has made a lasting impression on my young and agile mind. What he has experienced, sticks with me just as fully memorable as it was to him. I could write a page and a half about nothing, but he has written a book on everything. He holds my heart in his words.

Hah. You think I’m dumb because I get nervous.
You think I’m simple because I say nothing.
You believe what I say, but are they lies?
You talk about me,
even when I’m not there.
I can annoy you from half way around the world,
and it is intentional.
You have made me ultra-powerful.
And when I choose to speak,
you will be more than all ears.

Lately I’ve thought about marching half-way across town in my knickers at two in the morning just to slap whoever is responsible for my server being down continuously, take over the company, and use the headquarters as a homeless shelter, since all the workers there are useless anyway. Maybe they know a little bit more about the needs of people, anyhow. Just a thought, though.

He sits on his stool, elbows on the counter near the cash register with pouty lips and an expression of sheer boredom about his face. Ten minutes till lunch time. Pantyhose and hangers crowd his work-space, but he doesn’t seem to notice. What he takes notice of is far more grand, far more time-worthy. One by one, they walk past him, strutting their long, newly shaven legs about in feathery mini-skirts and tight-assed bootcut jeans that seem to sweet the floor as they walk by, yet toes still exposed peeking through erotic wooden thong sandals accented with hot coral toenail polish that they bought in a New York shopping trip. He sees only one, though. The blonde, the beauty that catches his eye. Her youthful ass held firmly in place by the belt just below her tan tummy, with a little butterfly creviced in her belly button, half innie, half outie. He stares, and drool salivates at the corner of his mouth she runs her soft young hand through her long, golden hair, glimmering in the superficial light of the mannequin display. For a moment they make eye contact, and he clenches his fist tightly, momentarily cutting off circulation to his fingers. Only his watch reveals the truth. Seven minutes until lunch time.
She reminds him of an ex, somehow. Melody was her name, and man, did that bitch like to make music when he was giving it to her. She liked it rough, she liked it even more in that tight, underage, little ass of hers. The blonde had a better shape than the mannequin. And if there had been an underwear mannequin anywhere near the girls and him, it’s groin would not even compare to what his had grown to by watching, preying on these girls. That bitch, Melody was. That fucking cocktease. The blonde infuriated him. His nostrils flared, but his erection grew harder. He watched her in slow motion now, her ruby lips opening exaggeratingly wide to form the O’s and U’s that in reality sped rapidly out of her mouth. He imagined what she might be talking about, and also dreamed of what else would look good coming out of her mouth. Five minutes until lunch time.
Suddenly she was alone. Her friends had ceased to exist to him. She must have thought so too, or liked to believe it. Just like no one was watching, she took a pair of slutty shorts off the rack, went into a corner where she thought no one would watch her, and decided to try it on there. She knew he was watching, but she could care less, and might even have been enjoying it, in an erotic sense. He readjusted his pants, and then readjusted the angle he was leaning at so he could see her better. First off came the sweater, the rich, red cardigan sweater that hid the baby pink tank top, skimpily molded to her enormous tits, curved like ant hills on her prairie-like stomach. The erection he beared was now untamable. He had to unzip his jeans underneath the counter so that he could reach his hand inside them and fondle himself ever so slowly. After all, just three more minutes until lunch time.
No one could see him, and only he could see her, through the clothes racks that unfortunately blocked his view of her perky little ass. But not for long, he felt it in his groin he would have it soon. Now was the test. She glanced around, searching for signs of anyone spying. But who would be looking for a beautiful naked blonde through the clothes rack in the junior section? Certainly not he. He had learned his lesson with Melody. Sleeping around like a little slut, when she knew she was supposed to be his little slut. He’d show her. Eyes glued to the blonde’s bust, he was starting to get a bit of precum around the head of his cock. Something needed to happen, and fast. The blonde shifted nervously, and slipped her pants down onto the floor. The shift had caused that well hidden ass to come into full view, frilly black panties and all. Oh, and what panties they were. Just one minute more until lunchtime.
He needed release, and he needed it fast He thought about how he’d like to release it into her mouth as he started at her perky little ass. Or maybe into…other such holes. With another mischievous glance about the store, she slipped a hand into her panties. Ahhh, but what was this? We aren’t just trying on shorts anymore, you dirty little slut. Do you think that this will go unnoticed? Perhaps. But no, there will be punishment. She knew he was watching. She snuck a smirk in every other orgasm face. Yes, yes…she would pay for being such a horny cocktease. And with that last smile, she covered her exposed self and walked into the girl’s bathroom to finish off what she had started. He could no longer contain his cock, it was as big around as it was long, and he had every intention of following her in there and giving her what she deserved. Ahh, but what relief he found in glancing at his watch. Lunchtime.