Spoke to you on the phone this afternoon

Night you’re time.  Or your time.  Afraid I said too much.  Big fat smelly guy alert.  Afraid that I gave myself too much away.  Opened up to a fatal blow.  At least if I were to use literary form.  Though my dream last night did scare me.  Deeply.  Almost physically.  And just this moment I remember.  Vaguely.  A dream I had several years ago.  In Richmond.  About you.  And a baby carriage.  A hope.  A fear.  A premonition.  Who knows?  Especially with a complete lack of details now.  I did remember writing down a note on the dream, because of its vividness.  When I get home I’ll see if I can find that note.  Probably not.  But I do save most everything.  Every scribble like it’s a deposit in a blood bank.  And it is.  Role playing games.  Make me sick to my stomach.  Petty escapism.  If you’re going to do something, then do it right.  Nothing petty.  That’s a cop out.  Petty is lowest common denominator.  For the unimaginative.  The feeble minded and feeble willed.  And I’m neither.  I hope.  But, delusions would not be the newest fad.  Pump Friction.  Would I move back to New England.  A startling thought.  New this morning.  Not the ideal place.  Not a comfort zone.  But, that’s not taking you into account.  Not taking my new life into account.  My first taste of stability.  The fears and monsters of the area would surely be diminished, if not destroyed now.  Do I sound like I’m trying to talk myself into New England?  Maybe I am.  Feels like it to me.  But, then again, I’ve been wrong before.  Imagine if you will.  And not religion, too.  What are you trying to say?  Suspenders and a belt is back.  Image limited.  Wallet chain.  White t-shirt.  Boots.  Shaved head.  Intellect in reverse proportion to image presented.  It only comes around every 9000 years.  Maybe next time.  Played Trivial Pursuit this afternoon with people from the coffee house.  I the man.  I the man.  I got a lecture the other day about saying I’M SORRY.  Because I’m not sorry.  In the pathetic sense.  I am not a sorry person, a pathetic person.  I should, above all people, be aware of what it is I’m saying.  Connotation and denotation.  That whole writer thing reaching up and biting me in the ass.  Thank god I’m a waiter on the side.  Actually, if only I wasn’t.  If I actually had the time to write.  The leisure.  Lie-sure.  As much as is gained by working, ten times as much is lost.  In times inspiration has to pass by.  In experiences put off or never entered into.  In routine  Routine and writing work in opposition  At least my writing.  Live writing.  Life flows.  Pulses.  Explodes.  To limit it to time and form is to straight jacket life.  To break the legs of what you’re trying to bring to the page.  Fits and starts.  Like every subject.  Brooding boy is her on his image motorcycle.  Still no date.  That’s a guy with no personality.  Time to fetch yesterday’s paper.  Missed Foxtrot.  Hope it’s in the comics out there.  It’s very drugged.  Off, but back soon.

Back.  Miss me?  Of course you did.  Then, who wouldn’t?  Even the billions who don’t know me, know their lives are empty.  That vague, nebulous, unimaginable emptiness of soul.  Let me fill your hole.  Oh my god I look like Stevie Nicks.  Must be Mary.  Isn’t it somewhat sad, when bib boobs are your best recommendation?  Peanut butter cookie.  I hear it calling my name.  Maybe I need to change my medication.  Or begin enjoying it more.  Start making sense.  What state has the most blondes?  Bleached, or otherwise.  Like wow.  You still can’t have my Bud Light.  Here’s a thought.  There it goes.  Wave bye bye.  Maybe bowling.  Or pool.  Surfer hunting.  Like wow.  Mmmmm food.  Time to eat the cookie. Cooookie.  Cookie Monster.  Barney.  Big Bird.  Larry.  Fife.  Barney.  Again.  You only live twice.  But only when a spy loves you.  Or was that when you’re a spy in the house of love?  Or Love Canal.  Sweater girl.  Sweaty girl.  Not a bad thing.  Depending on the situation.  Bring me to the map room.  Free fall fun.  I just don’t understand.  Thank god, 12 years after 1984, I still don’t have a big brother.  Though my little brother is bigger than me.  But I’m not sure that’s the point.  Your stomach should never stick out farther than your boobs when you stand up straight.  Pregnancy excepted.  A look of fear.  Here comes the pick up routine.  More painful than gymnastics gone bad.  Or synchronized swimming.  Please explain to me how that became considered a sport.  Olympic, no less.  Bridge’ll probably be next.  Naked chicks.  Not a bad thing.  Unless it’s Ken Sullivan.  Ken Sullivan.  Both set up, and punch line.  What did the Hindu priest say to the hot dog vendor?  WOULD YOU PUT THAT UP MY ASS, PLEASE?  Or maybe that was the Catholic priest.  I can never remember.  Drugs you know.  And would you introduce me?  Giggles are humor hiccups.  Sorry.  Women shouting my name.  Normally not a bad thing.  Except they’re carrying pitchforks and torches.  Bang on the castle door.  What exactly is a crumpet?  Not fade away.  Buddy Holly.  Not a very good waiter.  That’s what happens after you plummet to your death with someone named Big Bopper.  Kill the marines.  Or at least give them a personality transplant.  Ego reductions.  London is not a country.  The caffeind is tearing up my stomach.  My empty stomach.  Been on the move all day.  No time for eats. Too skinny.  Too vacant.  She is too happy.  Must be my cynical Boston nature, but euphoria makes me suspicious.  And so there it is.  What?  No one knows.  The actual name of god.  The Word.  I think it’s Fred.  Think of god’s ego if he demands rituals attributed to him.  Brooding guy alert.  Pride is a vice, if not a sin.  One of the seven Brad Pitt sins.  did you know that he thinks Pittsburgh is named for him?  Maybe armpits.  Ireland.  The land of ire.  What exactly does that mean?  Nice butt.  But crazy redhead.

So, I’m back again.  Too often perhaps.  But I didn’t want to leave you with such nonsense and stupidity.  then again you should be very used to nonsense and stupidity from me.  One of my charms.  Maybe what I’m best at.  Very fragrant woman just came in.  Watched the Red Sox lose to the Braves 8-0 this morning.  For this, I got up early?  Missing out on all the fun again.  Just have to make my own fun, to catch up.  The cost of everything.  The value of nothing.  Youth.  Great moments in the obvious.  The artist of the month is here to take down her paintings.  They are ugly as hell.  Not ugly as sin.  Sin is quite often quite beautiful.  Really bad dyed red hair and Birkenstocks.  Anorexia girl is here for her shift.  Not insults.  Insights.  Anything that is askew is a hint as to why.  In the smallest detail disjointed, is everything.  Function is dysfunction.  Dysfunction in function.  Being in nothingness.  Oh, it suddenly got deep in here.  Hip waders anyone?  Goggles soon.  Snorkel.

Just got off work.  Later today.  Feeling like shit.  Coming down with something.  Annoying navy guy to the right, working his incompetence on another woman.  He strikes out more than Rob Deer.  Silly boy.  Sprains his arm, patting himself on his back.  In the middle of the MOST GUYS DO STUPID THINGS, BUT I’M DIFFERENT, A SENSITIVE GUY routine.  See my nuclear watch.  Exactly how many women enjoy this guy talking about how wonderful he is?  Never asking about you. Never stopping to let your respond.  We all do it.  All have our routines.  The things we say to get laid.  That we think best shows off our feathers.  Pot calling the kettle black, in an era when neither pots, nor kettles are black.  Such are the tortures of life.  Something like Chinese water torture.  In a pool of electric eels.  Watch how amazing I am.  Too bad you can’t change channels to find something interesting.  Then it would probably be like real TV.  No matter how many channels, still nothing on.  Sorry nobody home.  Feel like I’ve been writing forever tonight.  Only one page.  Experiencing the illness time warp.  The Space/Time fractured.  Broken down into slices.  Enabling you to feel as much of the illness as possible, without exploding.  Sometimes that’s a good thing.  Now, it’s not.  Time to pack up.  Head home.  Medicine up.  And try to sleep it off.  Wish me luck.  Time to hit the mail with this.  Mailing Monday.  Promise.

All I have to do is smoke this cigarette and die

But I don’t even have the pleasure of the nicotine rushing with the bullet aimed at my head.  The hole in my stomach that had me puking blood talked me into quitting.  And now I’m not sure why.  You know.  Not everything is a big deal.  Big hairy man with ponytail is nothing but a big hairy man with a ponytail.  Nothing more.  Not a person, place, or thing with the power to affect the lives of the people whose scenes he walks through.  So why don’t you suck each other off and pretend that it matters.  My father told me to find a woman who was willing to throw herself on a hand grenade for me.  Does it count if I find a woman who I’m willing to throw myself on a hand grenade for?  Hope so.  Except she does nothing but litter firecrackers.  Stealing the bonzai and my glory of death in the name of Love.  And I’ll just keep driving her to go meet the guy she’s in love with.  Look out below.  Another firecracker.  Ow, that hurts.  Did you catch the number of that mosquito?  Or why I feel like licking her asshole.  Thank you mistress, may I have another?  I can still get an erection.  I must be a very bad boy.  Put your left foot in.  Take your right foot out.  Kick ’em when they’re up.  Kick ’em when they’re down.  I once fucked Charlie Brown.  And isn’t Peppermint Patty an after dinner mint, with no pubic hair on your teeth?  Taking half the fun.  But at least I still have half fun.  Half full.  Half empty.  What’s the difference?  Either someone else has your other half, or you have someone else’s other half.  And that’s not fair to either one of you.  Cell phones for the socially challenged.  Quick must talk about work.  And the way grandma’s diapers smell.  Must have more coffee.  This is too much like reality.  Beggars and pimps. Same thing.  Hookers and politicians.  Ditto.  The cook.  The thief.  His wife.  And her lover.  One hell of a dinner party.  Don’t forget to bring the Grey Poupon.

Yohoho and a bottle of scotch.  For the little firecrackers.  Powder burns.  A nasty sore.  And people telling me WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU THINKING.  If you neglect it long enough you’ll bleed to death.  But, I’ve been denied bonzai and the glory of suicide in the name of Love.  As boyfriend calls to say MOM, I GOT YOU AN ART SHOWING.  While I’m over for dinner.  Another scotch.  Please.  So far the bleeding is only external.  And what’s next?  Mozart’s Requiem.  So, I’ll drink myself to sleep tonight in her bed.

Shitcakes and pantyhose

One might hope for some used condoms dripping somewhere in the equation, but that would be too much to handle.  For me anyways.  Its been too long without a woman.  A year and counting.  Unless grapefruit qualify as female.  Where exactly does citrus fall on the sex scale?  When its heated through, but not too hot to blister.  Well I can’t remember the last time someone else was in the room and I had an orgasm like those.  Maybe it has something to do with not being pressured to please the citrus.  Any chance of that goes out the window when I core it out to make the erection hole.  Now don’t go thinking that coring a grapefruit for masturbation is something you can just, pardon the expression, toss off.  No.  Cutting straight through at a diameter that was just right far more than shoving a knife in and twirling it in a circle.  But it was damn worth it.  Once I got over the New England Puritan Guilt of I’m fucking produce.  And fruit never goes on the rag.  When I cut the hole out.  I just had never realized that my dick was that big.  Not that big around.  After so many too many years of holding myself looking at myself.  One would think who better to know what’s up with the penis.  Turns out I had no sense of objectivity.  Only saw my dick in relation to me.  Small.  How could any woman enjoy that thing.  I guess that could be why they weren’t.  Enjoying it or even interested in it.  The erection compared to the grapefruit though.  A whole other story.  I could split a woman in two with that thing.  Jesus.  Where the hell did that come from?  And boy does a grapefruit fuck good.  Never says no either.  There will be no grapefruit tonight though.  Just me and my most precious bodily fluids.  Besides those that keep us alive rather than try to murder us a minute at a time.  What is the penis but some blindfolded kamikaze pilot and urine pump combination.  Bastard. Still my orgasm will be dripping down my chest onto the belly to pool up where the umbilical cord was my mother’s first attempt to kill me.  That’s a whole other story though.  By the way have I told you about my mother cheating on my father with her tennis instructor?  How passe?  How cliche?  How gross.  But then I think that my oedipal complex lasted about 15 minutes.  Until the next woman walked by and icky what the hell was I thinking?  But at least she could make up her mind.  Even if it was just an after school movie special decision.  The tennis instructor.  What the hell.  There seems to be a lot of that going around these days doesn’t there.

Cum dripping down my chest.  Catching on the few hairs they encounter on the way down.  It’s the best I could hope for.  Why.  Why should it be any other way?  It’s what I invited into the hall.  When I couldn’t decide fast enough. Or worse yet.  When the action portion of the brain never received the memo the other side had sent down.  Decision without action is fucking without balls.  You’re able to pat yourself on the back in celebration of your greatness.  But you can’t erase the lingering and the point is the bully that’s tapping you on the other shoulder.  Actually that’s how I became introduced to the idea of fucking fruit.  No one puts out like Mother Nature.  Always on duty.  Hustling anyone who will pay attention.  As well as most of those who don’t.  Fuck.

So.  What are you writing about?

What drives a man to fucking a grapefruit in the ass.