Put in Earplugs / 10.10.16 / 8:18-8:38

When I can’t sleep and it’s too late for pills and too early for coffee and the initial financial panic has subsided and I’ve rattled through the sadness of trying to remember my name and SSN, birthday and address, etc. etc. just to prove I’m not lost to the wilderness just yet and convinced myself of my place and time by reminding myself that M. exists and she’s mine and we have dogs and all three of them are in the next room and when I can’t be so sure that my mind is right even though I know – for shit sure – it is mine (or, at least, as sure as I can be without knowing anything to the contrary) I close my eyes tight as I can, so tight the blackness becomes kaleidoscopic and I listen hard past the murmur of the street and the constricting scree in my eardrums (too many shows and too little sense, it seems) and my own heart pounding for reason and breath for the sound of one or more of them breathing or coughing or snoring or rustling or something, anything to settle this moment among the money I’ve built up to be present and I know that I could just get up and look but my eyes are shit in the dark and besides, that would be conceding too much to the disorientation, conceding too willingly to the crazy. No, no. Actions are not allowed when the mind is a rustle of leaves on the creek and so I listen for as long as it takes and when I hear I can shape and remember and be at peace that, at least, I haven’t invented everything.

That I’m not alone in the universe.

That I’m loved or, at least, accompanied.

Not that that sense me to rest. Not that gives me much of anything more than a sense that when I open my eyes, today, I will not find myself in completely unfamiliar surroundings.

So I try and think of words. New words. Good words. Long words. Words of the day. Words of the year. I try and think of sniglets or portmanteaus or onomatopoeias – well, not onomatopoeias but the word onomatopoeia which I tend to forget from years of murmuring crude in the trenches. I try to think of words that would impress college girls back when I could impress college girls at all and mostly without being a middle-aging creep yearning for the kind of sex a young man could have if he could only get over his whole love, love, love bullshit and get on with doe-eyes and palimpsest because he was thin and smart and (literally) scarred.

Mostly, I try to think of polysyllabics but, mostly, I only ever end up seeing the word “salad” over and over much like I did this morning and I know or I think or I hope it’s a sign that I’ve grown too soft for my own good and with a little bit of greens thrown in over Budweisers and fries I might get back to my working stiff frame but it doesn’t read that way in the slightest.

It reads like stupidity and panic and stroke and emptiness raised up from the void to swallow the young hope I still reserve – when no one’s looking – whole.



Look Closely at the Most Embarrassing Details and Amplify / 9.27.16 / 6:45-7:15

My nipples have always been a little weird. A touch too puffy and surprisingly offset from the center of my chest so that when I reach a particularly egregious stretch of physical inactivity (as I have recently) they all but disappear into my armpits.

I used to be able to lick them.

Back when I was at the peak of my fat kid I saw a picture of Trinity Loren sucking her tit and I thought that was sexy as hell and so I tried it thinking – I think – that if I succeeded a. some girl would find that just as sexy as I did and be totally turned on by the fact that I could emulate a doomed pornstar and, I don’t know, do me? or b. I would turn myself on beyond belief thereby equipping my future masturbation sessions with a dissasociative ace in the hole.

But that didn’t happen.

All that happened was some sad fat white kid licked his nipple in the shower on sunny SoCal afternoon and got really stoked and then really sad because a boy with manboobs is gonna be a boy for a very fucking long time and I was, I was even after I discovered bulimia, anorexia and sexual intercourse.

But that’s another shame for another day.

Today I’m talking about my nipples and how much I hate them and will until some displaced tropical malady takes them or I finally go as Pink as I wanna be and then I know I’ll miss them.

Because they are a delight to pinch and flick and wet and feel harden in the winter.

So maybe I don’t hate them.

I just wish they were in a better place.

Assemble Some of the Elements in a Group and Treat the Group / 9.26.16 / 6:55-7:25

It’s been twenty-one years since my time in the hospital and I’m beginning to forget which is a shame because I always thought that was going to be my formative event. My definitive era and maybe it is. I don’t know. Doesn’t really seem like it, though and any reasonable man would take that distance with a great sense of self-satisfaction and congratulate himself on his growth out of the destructive indulgences of youth.

But I have never been a reasonable man and so I’m clamoring with all this unexpected and unwanted time on my hands to piece together the names and faces that populated those seven days.

The only one I can remember, for certain, is Jason.

Jason was a red-headed schizophrenic with a cowlick and a lisp and we hated him. Eh, maybe hate is too strong a term for medicated, adolescent disdain but the kid was a royal pain in the ass from day one. Always getting up in your personal space. Always spitting when he spoke. Always sucking up to the staff as if they gave a flying fuck about his wants or needs.

He was also a savagely sloppy masturbator. I think he might have been compulsive but who am I to judge that now? I’ve been known to lose whole days to porn and humorless erections but at the time there was something about the way he handled his dick that was just downright unsettling.

We only spent one night together. I’d been ousted from my room on account of a new kid needing to utilize the restraints and bunk up with the kid and as soon as it was lights out the motherfucker went to town. Huffing and puffing and hissing spit as he jerked off under his rayon blanket. It was hideous. I could barely keep my own erection for his merciless assault. I don’t think I did but maybe. At that point, I was more than used to jerking off in company. Three years in a dorm will do that. Hell, when I used to live with Josh and Bonk we used to have masturbation contest. Josh always won which was something he was unduly proud of and I always lost which – a few years on when I was finally fucking – would prove to be something of a burden.

Sometimes, you just need a quickie, you know?

Anyway, I remember getting up at some point during his rabid little marathon to go to the bathroom and when I switched the light on, I came find the room was positively drenched in cum.

It was like some German shit. Total bukkake nightmare. Cum on the mirror. Cum on the tiles. Cum on the can. Cum was fucking EVERYWHERE, man and some of it was still dripping and warm like he’d been marking his territory right up until we said goodnight.

Admittedly, I was somewhat impressed. This kid was Peter fucking North. Of course, I wasn’t going to admit that and no quiet nod to ejaculatory prowess was going to keep me from bugging the fuck out and wailing on him in his bed (dick still in hand) growling “What the FUCK, man? What the FUCK?!?” over and over again.

He just laughed and pulled the blanket back daring me to come into firing range.

I didn’t.

I left the room and headed straight to the nurse’s station to demand I be moved somewhere less grotesque.

“There’s cum everywhere. I can’t handle it.”

“Well, it’s that or you can spend the night with a violent psychopath if you’d like.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Go to an Extreme, Move Back to a More Comfortable Place / 9.24.16 / 6:25-6:55

So, you’ve decided to kill yourself.

Fair enough.

We all die sometime, so why not get the jump on the motherfucker and make your death your own?

And before we go any further, please know that I am not here to stop you. I don’t know you from Adam and really haven’t given a shit that you’ve made it this far so why should I care if you go any further?

I don’t say that to be demeaning, mind you. You’re a person, after all, and all people – no matter what they may tell themselves after dark – have some reason for being, some impactful qualities no matter how incidental or inane. Everyone’s touched someone, for better or for worse. Everyone’s impacted each day in some way unless they’ve gone full shut-in and even a shut-in’s gotta eat, pay the rent, the utilities, etc. etc. So it really doesn’t matter how far removed you think you are from the species by allowing yourself to be alive at any given point in your life, you’ve made a difference to someone.

You’ve certainly changed the course of my day.

I guess it’s like that butterfly tsunami thing. In fact, it’s exactly like that only, usually, our impacts on the day are far less invested in mass casualties. Still, the impacts are there and they fan out exponentially. Some would say they go so far out into the world that they come back in one way or another. It’s certainly possible. Maybe that’s karma. I don’t know.

What I do know is that you’ve lived to this day and, in so doing, you’ve made a difference any time you did…well, anything really. It might not have been a big “D” difference like planting a tree or killing a man but difference is difference and your simple existence has done it day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year and it will even after you leave here in a bag or a box or whatever means of disposal you prefer because someone’s going to have to deal with the dispersal, internment, etc. etc. and that person exists and so they take the actions of your end onto their proverbial wings and fan out into…

Well, I’ve never much cared for metaphors but I trust you catch my drift.


See what I did there?

Puns aside, my point is I don’t know you and I never have and so who you are doesn’t register at all with me but what you’ve done probably has.

Do Something Boring / 5.24.16 / 10:26-10:56

I am sitting in a room.

I am sitting in my room.

I am sitting in my room considering my sheets.

I am sitting in my room considering my sheets and wondering just how long it’s been since I last cleaned them.

I am sitting in my room considering my sheets and wondering just how long it’s been since I last cleaned them and I don’t care.

I am sitting in my room considering my sheets and wondering just how long it’s been since I last cleaned them and I don’t care and that makes me worry about what kind of person I’ve become.

I am sitting in my room considering my sheets and wondering just how long it’s been since I last cleaned them and I don’t care and that makes me worry about what kind of person I’ve become or if I’ve become any person at all.

I am sitting in my room considering my sheets and wondering just how long it’s been since I last cleaned them and I don’t care and that makes me worry about what kind of person I’ve become or if I’ve become any person at all or maybe I’ve always been the kind of person who didn’t give a shit about sleeping on clean sheets.

I am sitting in my room considering my sheets and wondering just how long it’s been since I last cleaned them and I don’t care and that makes me worry about what kind of person I’ve become or if I’ve become any person at all or maybe I’ve always been the kind of person who didn’t give a shit about sleeping on clean sheets and that seems exceedingly likely to me considering what a “man” I’ve always been despite my best of intentions.

I am sitting in my room considering my sheets and wondering just how long it’s been since I last cleaned them and I don’t care and that makes me worry about what kind of person I’ve become or if I’ve become any person at all or maybe I’ve always been the kind of person who didn’t give a shit about sleeping on clean sheets and that seems exceedingly likely to me considering what a “man” I’ve always been despite my best of intentions which are or were…what exactly?

I don’t know.

I can’t remember.

It’s just a silly thing to say, I think.

A silly thing to say, I know.

A silly thing I say because I don’t know and I don’t think about who I am or was with any clarity anymore.

A silly thing to say because I know now that I didn’t think with any clarity before.

A silly thing to say and yet I say it all the time even though I know it’s silly or perhaps because I know it’s silly and so what if it is a silly thing? I can say something sometimes. I can say something silly all the time.

I can say silly things if they please me and could say them with even more regularity if their silliness pleases the peanuts.

But am I really saying something silly or am I trying to say something silly or am I lying about saying something silly and if I am then why am I bothering other than to set my brain of course from the very real and round and off-puttingly brown stain I keep trying to cover with pillows rather than just get off my ass, strip my bed and go to the Laundromat.

Accretion / 5.22.16 / 8:58-9:28

So there was nothing, right?

And then everything.

Or, at least, the formulation of everything. Fragments, movements, impetus, etc. whatever.

It doesn’t matter.

I mean, it matters, sure as my skin bubbles in the sun and skies grey and dawns fade and love is perfect oblivion but tonight – as most nights – I’m not concerned with the temple of progression no matter how minute her infractions.

I want to know what was or, really rather, what wasn’t.

The void.

The nothing.

The cock that called the flash.

The hand that held the gun.

No no no.

This isn’t about God.

Or is it?

Let’s say it is. Let’s say God made all that is and was and will be forever until…is there even an until? It seems like the Catholics wanted there to be a final scene considering how judiciously they sold me on the rapture but I don’t think their end times are really playing on a universal level. They just want people to be like them so that heaven is a place as palatable as the ground we trod before we decided there was a god, not just a god, but THE GOD whose temper was mighty and unjust considering the thrills HE designed with the instrumentation of loins and will and…honestly, I don’t want to get into debating the merits of Christianity here because there’s only so much time in this session and we all know there are some discrepancies in the scripture so, yeah. YEAH!

Let us suppose that there is a god or GOD or G-D and let us suppose that his image is a simulacrum for cosmic agency (why not?) or the powers that be and will and accrete and concede and everything, everything, everything.

Let’s just say the universe is the workings of a relatable being because nature is a distance and science is a fog and let’s just say he’s a man for the time being because my projection of omnipresence needs a gender and my relation to form is limited to what lives between my legs.



It doesn’t matter.

The argument is wasted.

But the considerations I’m trying to assess is what was before and HOW was there a before. ALWAYS is not an answer. I don’t believe it. And the big bang is great and all and CERN is doing their thing and I will always be fascinated when they come out with another Biggs and shit but that still doesn’t answer a goddamn thing about the time before everything.

The emptiness before the millennia.

What was before there was a was?

What preceded the zero hour?

Ask Your Body / 5.21.16 / 8:23-8:53

I am fat but one day I will be thin and you will always have been.

From the first light until the abyss.

That constancy must be challenging.

That omniscience? Shit. It’s a wonder you aren’t a fucking lunatic feeding off the flesh of your children like Saturn or New England. It’d drive me crazy after the first month, let alone millennia.

I mean, infinity’s a motherfucker if ever there was one and here you are once and ever. To be and have been and always as always is until everything and everyone learns to cease which I’ve heard, recently, is a very real and future tense possibility and that terrifies me though I know I should be long shuffled into the ether before all that is was and – at that point – I’ll just be (if I can still retain a sense of singularly in the monolithic singularity) electric dust on the clouds in the vacuum ebbing and returning shifts and shadows like nothing, nothing, nothing before or since because each every – though united – is unique, so…

Is that what happens, then?

Is nothing the pitch?

Who knows?

If you don’t, then what good is omniscience?

I can understand if you’d rather not say because oblivion worship is rather passé and your dime and dozens are very much invested in the clouded cornerstones but FUCK I need to know tonight.

I need to understand that living is right.

Because sometimes it feels like a sham and I’d gladly take my exit if there wasn’t some notion of now and forever consequence.

So what is it, then?

Where does it end?

Where did it begin?

Burroughs intimated that you pulled the trigger but before that, there had to have been something. All the everythings can’t simply happen with a reasonless blink into being.

So what?


Are you the egg or the chicken or the farmer or the dell or what the hell?

When I was a boy, I believed earnestly and effortlessly and then my mother told me she was going to die but she didn’t and then she told me everything was going to be fine but it wasn’t and so I learned about fear and I learned about death and I learned about lies well before my time and all that knowledge has made me a mess of a man who might as well have been excused already but since I am tied to bodies and breaths and life I won’t so immediately because I’ve always held fast to the idea that the great grace would survive but if it doesn’t, then what?

Was it never meant to?

Is this whole matter happenstance and if it is what came before and what is bound to come after?

Where does the infinite begin and when can it end?

I’d say this is the real question and it is but the fear that keeps me up late and foolish is the wondering of where it began.

There was the big bang, right?

But what WAS before that?

And if there wasn’t, what was?