NOW

Is the future and I'm barfing black joy.

Three Towering Office Buildings

Three towering office buildings sprout limbs and uproot themselves. It’s a Wednesday afternoon and the employees of Borizon Family Research are out lunching together at the nearby mall.  Every one of them eats shit infected burgers and they puke so hard their lifeless eyeballs rocket from their skulls. This is fortunate, because their work place has found them. The food court is torn in half like cheap bread and the ineffectual workers are picked up and tossed back into their workstations.

Mitch Ronson awakes in a heavy sweat. He gets out of bed determinedly and packs a few articles of clothing into a dusty duffel bag.  Into a large suitcase, which he joking calls his “valise”, he tosses his children’s laptops, his wife’s jewelry, and his dad’s collection of rare sports cards and other autographed memorabilia.  He heads west for San Francisco and spends a few sleepless hours in a deceptively clean hotel.  In the morning he sells his Subaru to the first used car lot listed on Google, and the contents of the “valise” to a pawnshop in the Mission District.  Before hopping on Bart he withdraws all but one hundred dollars from his joint account at Bank of America.  He takes BART to SFO, nervously eyeing his duffel bag the whole way. A talkative blonde with wiry, dog-like hair sells him a one-way ticket to Amsterdam and he is gazing pensively through the murky window of a 727 plane only three hours later.

After checking into a hotel, he goes to the nearest smoke shop and smokes himself into an anxiety attack. He spends the next nine hours thinking continually about his decision. In the bathroom of a McDonalds he verifies that he is not, in fact, transparent, and that no one knows who he is or what he has done. He vows to leave in the morning for a place more alien.

He travels South-East Asia and then heads to South America with maddeningly alacrity. Enmeshed by his new life, his family rarely surfaces in his thoughts. He simply doesn’t have time for reflection because he is never bored or unhappy for long enough.  Eight years later, while walking through Bolivia, he rolls dumbly down a modest mountain and dies.

Sadly, I'm Mitch Ronson, and I've not died, so my mostly factual recollection is incomplete. Eventually, I met someone in Nicaragua that became fond of me, and I of her. We drank heavily together, laid in the sun, and laughed idiotically every night, even when fucking. After being married for 17 months, her silent presence pulled overwhelming guilt from my mental wastebasket and I was ruined. As of now, I'm back in America, living in Sausilitto and working in the city.  No matter what, I'm a fool because Kelly left for Utah 9 years ago with my kids that I'm legally forbidden from seeing and she remarried. I should have kept a journal while traveling, because I barely remember it all now, sitting in my 1 bedroom apartment, nestled in a newly built complex. Sitting down to collect my regrets has been cathartic, but I've been compelled to die since my fleshlight arrived in the mail, and I'm so tired of whimpering through my 40's.

Fact

The last 10 things I've posted have been lying in my documents folder for a while. I'm afraid my computer will crash and I'll lose everything, so I'm backing up my thoughts on the internet. Goodbye, no one.

Hi, My Name Is Junior Doyle

Hi my name is Junior (J.R.) Doyle, I publish deeply anxious tidbits of thought. I let my mind rush, my blood gush, my fingers redden; basically, I let my spirit deaden, and then I let you read it. I smoke tons of weed, take strolls, banter candidly, take pictures randomly and sit, sit, sit.

I don’t really let my spirit deaden for you, I deaden my own spirit because I don’t know what else to do.  When you’re stuck, what do you do? Which way is out when you can’t move? In Falmouth, England, County of Cornwall, slouching on a couch with red eyeballs.  

Shhhh it?

  

It's Just a Memory, No One Will Ever See It.

One hit and im deep in the muck. Its not an effluent sort of muck, much more colorful, but not very lustrous when you’re all alone.  Just kickin’ it around my nana’s flat in London.  A tall place, more narrow than anything. I’ve become very familiar with it at this stage, I’m glad that I can carry it with me in the future deep inside my memory.  Pages I can turn to reveal mouths agape in the middle of speech I cant recall.  Try picturing where you grew up, you’re the first home, the first school you went to? Could you draw an ariel map of it? What did the inside of your cafeteria look like? Try and remember an average scene, like walking through the halls with things on your mind. I remember walking next to my cafeteria, which doubled as an auditorium, after a performance I’d put on with the rest of my class. It was unusual to be at school during night. Although, there was always the book festivals atleast once a year. I was walking towards the main entrance to the cafeteria, my friend Floyd was in front of me with his parents behind. He still had his lion mask (although maybe I was the lion and he was a different, yet equally typical animal). The mask was dangling across his back, held by the string around his neck.  Try and remember something even more mundane, like maybe going across the grass between the 2 and third wing when you knew you should walk around along the path like everyone else did.  Middle school was a bore. I remember making friends in Mr. Abramson’s math class. He was a P.E. teacher, and a shit math teacher. I don’t remember learning anything mathematical that semester, I believe it was the 2^nd half of my 7^th year. Nevertheless, I was in the highest Math attainable by the end of 8^th year. I considered myself gifted by that time, although I only paid attention to things that caught my interest. Most information just fell away, or was never allowed in. 9^th year, freshman year of highschool. I had gotten over the chaos of my new schedule by this stage. It was warm, but I don’t remember if it was in the beginning or the end of the year. I was sitting in Class with Emilio and Ian, the former I haven’t thought about in years, the latter still shows up in my life now and then, namely when I go back to my parents place. Matt Santola was there too, he showed up at the creek when we already had the weed on us, most of which I think I paid for. Inhaling smoke deep into my lungs felt unnatural, and I didn’t get high. I forced a change upon myself. I acted like it took me to the same place as the 3 other guys, but it didn’t. When I met up with Michael Sterns and his Mom, I was totally immersed in my character. I was probably with them because I was afraid not to go home, or perhaps instructed not to by the other guys. Michael’s was on the way home, but I could have been picked up. Michael and I were at his new school; De La Salle was private, expensive and its field bordered ours at the back with only a narrow creek between it-- at which creek I had smoked weed just moments before. I was soaring around his school, lauching myself from its benches and bugging the hell out of Michael. He was convinced, but that’s only because I had even convinced myself. I was fucking highhhhhhhh. But I wasn’t that kind of high--the protracted zombie, or the blabbering pseudo-intellectual. Nor was I the chilled out its all cool and nonthreatening sort of stoned that I would come to love. I was like a child playing airplane, arms akimbo, but totally faking it. Now things truly get fuzzy. Some classes here and there that I couldn’t care about, nor pay attention to. Actually there was 2 years of French where I became friends with Ryan Wansley. He helped usher me into the same sort of place I am now-- hanging around the weirdos. I still cant speak any francais. But I can do other things, like smoke a bowl and play with my fragmented, discontinuous mind. There was Thayer’s English honors class, with Megan. She had the body of a 18 year old at 16.  She tried to show me her nipple ring in the back of Thayer’s class, but I had a boner so I had to pretend that her boobs didn’t interest me and remain in my seat. Thayer taught brilliantly, he showed me how effective a bigger lexicon could be. I never missed a point on his vocab tests, but I struggled with the essays. I’ve never liked doing things people ask, I prefer doing as I feel. At the time I felt like masturbating, getting into myspace and smoking weed with my growing circle of friends.  I guess that’s where am at now too, minor qualitative adjustments made. 

Our Lord Dogdemon the Antichrist

 As he fumbles found hairs between his blunted fingers

He realizes that he is old and tired of living, for life won’t change until he dies.

Anxiety grips his chest, and upon standing he becomes dizzy.

The dog begins to bark at him, which alarms his wife—

Mother of their two children and Grandmother of four more.

The aged antichrist vomits blood on their black tile floors demonically.

The dog stops barking to inspect, tongue first, like a snake.

His wife grabs the phone and calls their oldest son, a surgeon.

Panic, Panic, Panic.

Coincidentally, their boy surgeon arrives as the ambulance does.

Police are inside, hopelessly affecting an earnest resuscitation,

The dog’s eyes glow livid with dark power.

In a bed of acrid blight

The demon thinks,

Upstairs,

Out of sight.