who fiddled while what burned?

Thank God the trigger  our Peace-Prize Prez has an itchy finger upon isn't a hairy one. 

Sweet Zeus – what is this maniac thinking? Better inquiry: who has what on this man? There must be polaroids of his mom blowing a camel while DP'd by cocaine-crazed Saudi sheiks in the hands of a nefarious group of part men, part lizards who require the blood of young humans to be spilled en mass and catastrophic mayhem in order to subsist. If he does not their bidding, those images - plus more fit for neither man nor beast to lay eyes upon - shall reach all major news outlets and worse yet: TMZ and Yahoo! News and Twitter feeds the world over. That is the only explanation – unless he is a replicant engineered and trucked out by rogue ritalin habitués of DARPA under strict orders by the Security/Military/Banking/Monsanto/Complex to cause the Jenga tower of Babel to collapse so they can don their polished armor,  strut on in and be perceived by the hot chick (who sat at the desk in front of them and could never get with) as “heroes”. I see no other logic, other than that. Perhaps if we brandish Occam's razor, and vie for the most simple explanation, we may conclude thus: they are power junkies who could care less if the planet burns to the core, so long as they get their fix, and let those within light-shot of our planet who might give two shits know that they are in command. Yes sir.

how to wreck a perfectly fine day...

Walter Sickert, The Camden Town Murder, or What Shall We Do for the Rent?1

“I'll just go into work early.” Those words did it. Annihilated an entire universe and sent a wonderful and turbulent and sometimes sad and sometimes hilarious but always lovely history into a frenzied tailspin...I cannot determine whether or not recovery is possible.

Perhaps some context is in order. I laid on the couch, my freshly dried clothes scattered about me from where she had tossed them after taking them from the dryer. I liked the warmth of the fabric. I did not like the bubbling and shlurping going on within my gut. I put forth the effort to make do and act in good spirits; this was, after all the first day off work ushering in a four-day weekend for us. I didn't want to feel lousy, but I did. Then she launched into a chipper and innocent reminder: “don't forget my birthday wednesday. We're going to dinner.”

“what time?” I asked.

“around seven”

I thought about my hours of work, and determined that I could pull it off, but I knew that there would be much work to accomplish-- that I couldn't just “cut out early”; that I'd have to go in early to finish early. But that's not it: the way I said it – like it was a hassle... that's the part I didn't mean for, but no matter, the die is cast. My stomach groaned and the following are

some of the words I vaguely remember her saying: “I prayed you'd...never mind. That is just who you are... Unbelievable... You don't give a shit about me (possibly anybody, I can't recall whether or not she said that)... (after I asked her to forgive me) It's not about forgiveness... This is the worst day in my life... I better get out of here before I say something I'll regret...”

Those words punched into my spirit like ice-cold blades. 

Then the universe ended.

Here's the kicker: why did I say that? Had that universe-ending trigger phrase been implanted into me from the beginning and was awaiting just the right opportunity – the proverbial perfect storm upon which spring into action? A trojan horse of a statement that the destroyers had crafted and engineered for this exact moment in time? My primary reaction yields an obvious clue: I immediately knew as the words commenced forth from my mouth the scale and magnitude of the damage they were about to inflict. An overwhelming sense of sadness and regret seized me (and now as I write this very thing a Déjà vu transpires – I have seen these words, this scenario, before- perhaps in a dream...) Though I may hold the state of my stomach accountable, I hold myself in contempt. She is correct. I do not give a shit about anything nor anyone. My entire gig is awaiting the gran-finale, and killing time in the interim. But: just because I do not give a shit about anybody, especially my crazy brown eyed sweetheart, doesn't mean I like hurting people or seeing people hurt. I am no sociopath. I am no sadist.

So that's it: I hurt her, and I wish I hadn't.

I apologized a few times. I went out and bought some ginger-ale for my stomach and some flowers for her.

The flowers are drying-up laying on their side, untouched on the counter in the kitchen.

I noticed the rings laying on the table.

I have killed the universe.

Our Dear Humbugging Leaders

 

Our humbugging,   

terrorist-making, arms-dealing, human-trafficking, drug-pushing, black-ski-mask-wearing, drone-striking, property-stripping, child-molesting, country-invading, organ-harvesting, future-destroying, speech-gagging, peeping-tomming, nothing-but-bullshitting, home-invading, marshall-law-invoking, false-flag perpetrating, insider-trading, torturing, bullet-stock-piling, poisoning, conning, pretending-to-be-untouchable, human-sacrificing “Powers that Be” are doing what they’re doing “for our own good.”

If you believe it: I have a planet I've for sale.  

a call from a porn star

At work
one night

I answer the phone
from an unknown caller
“Hi” she says.
Yes?
“Do you know who this is?…” she asks.
No - do you know who this is?
She laughs.
“Kylee Carr (sic?) - porn-star, blond hair, blue eyes.”
O.K ….(then I maintain silence - I prefer the awkwardness)
“...eh - yeah - I think I have the wrong number.”  she hangs up.



I resume my business, and imagine
she is now in the process
of calling
the right number
I am certain
does not belong to her dad. 

another word for possession: property

 

...don’t you dare take your eyes of the youngons and the lame around the castle walls, particularly at night: the inbred genetically fucked pedophillic psychopaths have a penchant for snatching them and doing things unfit for print…  No sir – you trust a politician, wall st. banker and media-man about as far as you trust a drug-pusher: with a healthy skepticism and under the assumption that if your not looking they will seize your daughter and your wallet from you…hell, some of the more brazen ones might give it a shot right in front of you – and mumble they are helping you – an ol’ pal – out…indeed.   

     We are living in stupefying and maniacal times, daddy-o: when criminals don’t run wild in the streets – what’s the point?  They get involved in government.  They don’t rob banks, they own them.  Now that’s progress.  You don’t have to risk your hide and your manhood by piloting cessnas into back-ass war-zones and unload your firearms to a gang of motley desperados…Hell no: you can become the prez. or one of his right-hand cronies…  The president of these hallowed Vile States is the grand-duke of drug pushers, the mightiest of the gun-runners, the most formidable pimp, and the most untouchable racketeer on the planet – save perhaps some musty eurotrash royals stuffing laudanum in their brandies and painting their vile faces with lead-based poisons…why do they all look like reptiles?...Anyway – you name the crime, they’ve got the market cornered…

An Inaugural Speech

 

     “I am the front-man of this gawd-awful dump of a nation, the drones prove it is so.  Strike while the iron is scalding and the fuel is in the unmanned aerial missile.  Death from above!”  Raises both fists into the air. “I just thought of something - the prince of the power of the air, isn’t that fitting?... Anyway,  I told the pimply-faced ‘pilot’ (holds back a chuckle)  ‘Good job, squirt, you pulled that trigger like a man and now we will invite you to the White House kiddy orgy, sponsored by BBC and the Sandusky trust.  Trust me  - I am an old pro at this carnival-political- weird ritual stuff.  Kill a kid to save a kid, that’s what the vampire royals say…and you know I roll with that fast crowd’.”  Feedback from the PA that pipes in to every house, cell-phone, laptop, car, shopping mall, airport terminal, and office-building.  “Listen up, you slaves:  I am going to pry your shotguns from your cold dead hands – which is the way I prefer it, because quite frankly I am annoyed by your very existence.  But I promise to put them to good use, perhaps fork them over to those classy Mexican drug cartels that my Bank Handlers love working with so very much, or those lovable bad-news  al-Qae·da or Qai·da or Cia-duh or however it’s spelled rapscallions burning down the middle east and north Africa right now… Oh – how I love it – the blood, the carnage…”  (Later on, at a secret meeting on the outskirts of town: “My name is BS and I am a blood fiend (the circle chants “hello BS”)..  I rolled with the commies in the eighties…I am a closet Face Artist (nothing wrong with that, eh? Elevator eyes as the brows furrow up and down at a rapid pace)… I assassinate people around the world and get a Nobel peace prize – I am a regular James fuckin’ Bond!!! That’s what my coked-out yahoo Wall St. handlers like to call me.) Back to the speech:  “So – how should I cook this rotten maggot-filled carcass of a morbidly-obese country?  We can’t even dine on your flesh anymore because it’s all blubber, botox, chemicals of unknown composition, pharmaceuticals, dirt, plastic, cheap Wall-mart perfumes, deodorants, weird drugs, bath-salts, and shitload of genetically altered foods—we take a bite out of you creatures and we’re asking for immediate acute shingles and violent chronic diarrhea….”  The crowd roars.