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.

Life for a train, trite remarks from a silly child in pale blue pajamas tucking himself in between sheets decorated with clowns.  Go away, come back, stay a while, I believe youre the primary cause for this ride being so bumpy, would you mind hoping off? Yes, right now, youre a lumpy bed and I cant rest like this.  Fetch me those berries in the backyard. Yes, but they aren’t poisonous, she lied to you.  Now sit there and watch me get high, cup your hands beneath my chin in case I puke, I don’t want to spill any on the rug. Atleast not right here, I sit here too often and the smell would bother me.  Throw the food scraps where? What bin? Just stuff them between the couch coushins, but be mindful of my booger collection. Lets see if youre immune to fire. Just sit there quietly, don’t chide me friend im doing my best at covering you thoroughly.  You look so pretty, you should wear more orange.

I have a lot of problems, the undiagnosed, armchair problems that berate the mind of lazy talents. One of my problems is that I think too much and do too little.  But there is a more pertinent problem facing me at the moment. As the sun fills my bedroom turned office with dusty heat, I am forced awake and it is before noon—an aberration. Haphazardly I throw my left arm near where, nightly, I normally put my glass of water I use to dampen my mouth--which is vacuumed nightly by an illusive bully as I sleep off the effects of cyclically drinking. The empty slap says the water is not there.  It often isn’t, as more things slip through the deepening fissures in my dilapidated mind.  After many blind, hearty jabs I know for certain that I cannot prolong my time in bed and, unfortunately, must begin this day.    I grab the poorest looking clothes nearest at hand so as not to be classifiable or typically fashionable.  Then I look about my room dozens of times trying to collect my thoughts among things that are not mine.  This daily unconscious ritual is married with oblivion and I take an especially long time in this cramped space I habit when I visit my family.  Sitting on the bed to lace up my shoes exacerbates the unfamiliarity of my temporary abode, the firmness of the child’s bed from which I just arose is forcing me off the side and I struggle to escape my baneful hut.  To the cupboard I saunter, the encompassing black in my eyes from my morning headrush receeds just before I smack into the dining room table.  My diet has changed, it’s a “college thing”… or whatever. I’m a fucking vegetarian and it’s been easy so far, except when I visit my family.  Here I eat pasta and cereal, my choice this morning is obvious.  I sit at the table with tousled hair and a sallow face wondering who will be the first to greet me this morning. At one point I knew the schedule, but that wasnt a conscious effort.  My family dog saddles up beside my chair and I rub his head and watch the hair float until it leaves the sunlight shining through the back door and ceases to captivate me. Some lands in my bowl but I shrug it off and continue eating.  I’ve spent too much time starting at the Ansel Adams photo on the kitchen wall and my cereal gets soggy, I gag at the sight of it drooping over my spoon.  Soggy cereal the worst, I ceaselessly avoid all things attached to the adjective “soggy”.  Soggy cereal and mouth boogers: two morning gagfests.  I always get the mouth boogers when brushing my teeth, it must have something to do with having my mouth open for so long, or maybe my tooth brush jars it from the back of my throat. I yell to see if anyone is home, forgetting that my sister may still be asleep, but no one answers.  I inspect the cul-de-sac through the bay window in our front room and confirm that  no one is around before I step outside to see if I dressed wisely.  November is bright, even brighter than summer, but summer always comes with sunny expectations.  I act surprised by the weather as if this was something new for Concord, like when people marvel at how early the dark sets in during winter, like it wasn’t something they had experienced every damn winter.  

The Lecher

Im an angry old man who fantasizes about raping young girls. I don’t remember anything before the age of 16.  I was in the war and I think I killed something, but it was chaotic so I cant be certain.  The people at the pharmacy think im harmless, but they’re all idiots.  I killed my wife, but no one knows it. She was 10 years older than I, but she deteriorated much quicker.  Her forgetfulness got on my nerves, so I poisoned her with every chemical under the sink. One or two would have been enough, most likely, but I didn’t do any research because I was afraid of getting caught.  I know from watching Law and Order and CSI that they can catch most people nowadays, everyone leaves a trail of some sort.  I miss her now that she’s gone. Even an annoying presence is more agreeable than none at all.  Watching her die was the worst thing Ive ever experienced, even more horrifying than the war. I don’t like lying, but thankfully the police didn’t ask many questions; as far as I can discern, Im well liked by those that know me.  You probably know someone like me, we are everywhere.  We want to enter your home in the middle of the night and take something meaningful from you.  Your children, your wife, your aged dog.  We are the people that make you start, the ones that make you check the lock on your door twice. The reason that your children cant walk home from school anymore.  I’m salivating at the thought of doing harm to you. Thank you for letting your guard down, otherwise we may not exist. I don’t dislike you particularly, I dislike it all. Im not a misanthrope, im just post-modern.  I am the latest incarnation of evil, I am art, but I am also human.  Reason led me to evil. My creative urge led me to evil. Your shapely figure, and my lack there of, also let me there in part. I will save you from the torment of time with my callused, clean  hands.  This is a thankless job, and I am an underappreciated artist. I want the aliens to come quickly. Your life will finally come into perspective, you will shrink.  I will dance gaily at the sight of something higher than myself. The aliens will be my God, but until them I am yours.  Things unfold slowly, and I sit here and wait for the right time to leap into action.  It takes a lot to move me.  An adroit sensibility moves me. The outline of a hefty cock in a nice pair of pants moves me.  The electrifying sensation I get from the sublime moves me.  The slightlest semblance of originality is my ecstasy.  Listen to the sound of me beat my cage.  Give me the freedom to find my other self.  Give me circumstances different then these and I will behave. Something different, a different set of conditions so that I can prove to myself that I am not evil by nature—so that I can prove that I have no nature... that none of us have a nature; we are just the product of our unique enviroment, some unfortunate, others better off.  My mind is always active, it never quiets. It disturbs me, I am disturbed. We are all accountable. I’m just as guilty as everyone else. Anihilation wouldn’t be the worst thing ever. Let the non-humans live, they did nothing wrong.  Goodbye, I’ll speak with you on facebook.

Facially Fucked

Faster faster faster. Muarice was facially fucked. Outside his Grandparents house on their ranch a dog wandered up from the main gate that leads to the cow pastures and ambled coyly about the driveway Maurice tied his shoes on the bench just outside the sunporch on the left side of the house. The dog was covered in a thick layer of his own oil and had been lost for some time, but Maurice was too far away to notice when he called the dog over.  He resumed tying his shoe as the dog sauntered towards the bench.  He was staring at his mud-caked sneakers delicately finishing the final knot on his right sneaker and he could hear the click of the dogs long nails on the pavement as it neared him.  He stood up and grabbed the bottle of bug spray resting on the window ledge behind him and began casually putting it on his arms, watching the greasy, grey haired old dog sniff the potted plants near the door that lead into the sun porch.  As the boy innocently reached down and lifted up his thick white socks to spray his ankles in a mist of chemicals redolent of the mid-west, he noticed the dog tearing into the plant nearest to him. He had already sensed that it was a mistake to call the venturesome mutt over to him initially and now he wished the dog would go away. He could hear the clamor of his family, who had now finished up their breakfast and were preparing to come outside.  He quietly asked the dog to leave and pointed up the road, he feared that if he was caught near the dog he would be asked to fix the flowers, for which he didn’t feel responsible.  Gesturing didn’t work, so he bent down to shove the dog away.  Maurice had his hands on the dog’s rear-end and was steering it away from the plants, gazing backwards towards the door for the incipient arrival of his family.  He turned his head forward and met with the dogs teeth. The dog quickly turned to nip, like nippy dogs do, and went for the nearest bit of skin, which was the boys face. One of his upper canines were lodged inside Maurice’s right eye socket and as he leapt backwards a sizeable portion from the right side of Maurice’s face was left in the dog’s mouth.  The beast lunged again. Maybe it had a taste for tender boy flesh, as so many do; or maybe Maurice still appeared threatening, gesticulating wildly and screaming his head off; or maybe it had caught rabies from the Racoon it had cornered the night before.  For the face again, it got hold of his nose and gave him a butcher’s rhinoplasty.  Emmet, his father, kicks the dog across the face. Im dead youre dead we are all dead. Emmet is probably a rapist himself. Not only does he hate his own son, but he hates it all. He hates you and me. Im not really affected by it, because most things don’t affect me. Im in a wheelchair and I can barely breathe on my own. No one cares, so why should I?  Maurice is my friend.  I don’t mind that he spits on me when he talks emphatically. I don’t mind much. Maurice showed me his penis once, he layed it on the table as we ate, like a limp zuchinni.  It was huge. If I could get erect, I would have been so.  He expresses his menial desires to rape someone, and does so without a speck of spit.  He wants to, badly.