Eyemilieyes Eyestevez

Dungeon Majesty

Devastina

barbarian mistress

tougher than a troglodyte hide

two headed battle axe

cleaves skeletons in the musty caverns

rage as you do but 

careful around Mystika's

classy skinny skeleton slave

Boney M

Mystika--she takes life away

just as easy as she gives it

and her clothes are woven

with spidery silken threads

made of mystery

and darkness

a very

necromantic

kind of lifestyle

a beast nearby polymorphs into

Shakuntala, half elf

warrior child of two divorced worlds

she wills upon her foes a natural disaster

she does whatever the fuck she wants

because she is--I am pretty sure--

chaotic neutral

over her shoulder Latiza sends

2 x magic missile pow pow!

you said you go to wizard school?

psssh

double magic missile is in Latiza's blood

a part of her body as much as her beguiling

blazing eye balls

these four vanquish foes so bad

every night the dungeon master

weeps himself to sleep

majesty of the dungeon;

matriarch rulers of fate

you may pretend to roll the dice as though it were your master

but you bad-asses are not fooling anybody

purikura girl

purikura girl
transcends something

every time she

goes in

the purikura

how do we collect
this stuff

even though

we are the ones

who make it

create
a perfect
capitalism











spider queen

hatchlings in the lair
deep underground

dear reader,
I know what you are thinking but
her lair is extremely
well decorated

spider queen has the keenest
spider sense

also
the keenest
sharp spider mandibles

spider queen every day
your dark elf spider minions
engage in a never-ending war with the scientists over

who will control

all humans

I hope it stays that way because
there is no good or
evil in this world
only spider queen

ggggg

huge red emeryville electric E

burns in the night

I follow it home
down wood street past

the burnt out train station

burnt out train station once

MC Hammer did a music video

inside of you but now

you are as old and greasy as

an old crow

your wings have been clipped,

burnt out train station and

people build condos in your name because they

hope you can spin in your grave fast enough

to power all their units

now that is

sustainable

MC hammer

tried to hire all his friends but

he could not keep it up

& now he is

broke

burnt out train station

I wish you could fly but

I would never make you wings

of wax

time to

go out to the field and
gather the worms
close by




time two

the next time it
was not as good as the
first time

usually it is
this way




times two

every week we did
the multiplication speed test
everyone had to
do it

I came in last
every time

this embarrassed me

I think
I went slow because
I could not concentrate
and I could not concentrate
because I felt embarrassed

also--
I was not fast at my
multiplication tables
& that did not
help

still we had
to do it

most things
were this way




two times

I watched as
two times he
hit her

it took four before
I could come back to my body




old timer

I shouted to her out
the car window but she
was hard of hearing &
in the middle of
talking to
whoopi goldberg

I looked back and I
noticed whoopi
standing right
there

whoopi probably
thought I was yelling
at her




old timey

noah would say this
a lot he
liked it when stuff was
old-timey




old times

stuff is not like it
used to be but
I can not remember
exactly the way it was

some white guys
feel oppressed

really, though
we are jealous

jealous because we are
swimming in the guilt
of what it means
to be who we are

the more you try
to ignore the guilt
the tougher it is
to live with it

do you
live with it?

maybe if I start calling myself
"oppressed"
it will go away










one last one before sleep

i can not believe
i fall for your cheap tricks,
john darnielle

you are like groucho marx
if groucho was sad
instead of funny

still I feel the way I do
when I hear you
on the stereo
at 1.38 AM

lisette and vivian outside are
arguing about a lighter

i dont mean it as a joke but
i just had deja vu

Tim #3

"Dude, it's like 30 emails a day, and I try to be nice and reply to everyone with a touch of personability. Sometimes I screw up, sorry.

Tim"


CURSES!
-hopes
-dreams
-fantasies

DASHED!
ALL DASHED BY TIM

how could somebody do this to me
how could someone not see
my genius
my beautiful, glorious
GENIUS.

MY GENIUS THAT RADIATES
LIKE A MILLION TINY RHINESTONES
AS THE SUN IS SETTING
OVER NORTHERN CALIFORNIA

you will regret this, tim!
one day I will be so famous
one day I will have a car
I am going to drive it right up to your house
I am going to have the coolest sneakers
I am going to deliver to you the latest issue
of Atlantic Monthly
that month it will have my face
RIGHT ON IT,
TIM

and you are going to regret it!!!
you will regret it then!!!

Guest poem by Noah T.

Kestrel friend,

Wicker-wired pebble caster

Pattering across the billowing wastes

Leather flap encumbered and jangling

Of your master’s key.

Spread your puffy willow throat

And cry the way I told you,

The way the skyburst oysters do

In my father’s country.

The winds smell of persimmon and ivory,

Swaying the rough-shinned date palms

Whispering outside our door

Like anxious matrons.

Poems to mythical entites #3

Elf Queen

please do not
lead me astray

elf queen you prepare me a feast
but I am the one you want to consume

elf queen you rule
from a wooded throne
and I
am an intruder
in your queendom

please grant me safe passage
through these woods

I am so
clumsy
in the presence of your
elvish grace

please forgive me










Cockatrice

there are an estimated
47 distinct ways
to be killed
by a cockatrice

always they are
turning people into stone

be wary of a cockatrice's hiss
it will hiss one third of the time

normally
hissing has a ten percent chance to begin
the petrification process

If it is a new moon
and you are not carrying a lizard corpse
the chance to die is one hundred percent

if you are turning into stone
you can eat a lizard corpse to stop it
even lizard from a tin can works

better open that can
quickly

Chess

"HEY! SUGAR TONGUE!" I hear someone shout outside. Sugar tongue is the name of the punk who lives upstairs.
"SUGAR TONGUE!" I recognize the voice as Elliot Rhinestone. He must be back from jail. He used to live next door but he's been gone since some time last month.
"HEY. HEY SUGAR TONGUE!" I go out to greet Elliot. The dog is barking at him.
"Hey Elliot! How are you?"
"Oh, man!" we hug each other. "How you doing Douglas?"
"Doing well. I haven't seen you for long time. Jake over there told me you got sent to jail."
"Yeah I kicked that motherfucker out. He's sellin my shit and stuff while I'm gone. Now I'm on parole at the house over there next door. I got papers and everything. I gotta clean up cause my PO is coming over. Tryin put some boards up now. The cops know the situation. They come over there--it is no problem cause they know whats up with me."
"Honda! Quit barking. Sorry, Elliot."
"Hey that's okay. That's good. You want the dog to do that. She knows I'm an intruder. She's just barking cause I'm black."
"I wish she wouldn't bark at our neighbors."
"That's okay. You know these--these people," he gets close to talk quietly and eyeball the other house next door. "These people over here--these blacks. They up to shit you know? She knows it so she's barking at them."
"Uh, alright."
"Yeah anyway you oughta come over some time. Jake got the fuck out and its my place now. I had to get him good. I socked him a good one and said 'get the fuck out!' He's gone now."
"Okay, sure. I'm headed up north right now to type up stories. You still got a chess set?"
"You know it."
"Lets play a game before I go."
"Yeah, alright Douglas I'll do that."

We head over to his house and I wait on the stoop while Elliot fools with the breaker so we can have electricity. A man with dreadlocks comes up on his bike.
"Hey brother"
"Hey how's it going?"
"Not too bad," he says. "I see you are wise," looking at my shoes.
"Huh?"
"You keep the asphalt out."
"The asphalt?"
"Yeah bad energies comin from being out on the asphalt" he looks at me with a knowing stare, as though he intends to see if I can interpret the second meaning of what he is saying. Perhaps to put it in a different terminology; I notice he intends to see if I am "down".
"Oh, yeah. Sure."
He takes out a glass pipe and smokes methylbenzoylecgonine.
"You dont mess with drugs do ya?"
"I'm too broke"
"That's good...That's one way."
"Sure."
"You know the government. They call them 'controlled substances'. Think about why they call them that."
"You mean to say they want to control us with them?" I say.
He looks at me.

Elliot comes back.
"Hey man do you think I can have another cigarette?" says Dreadlocks.
Elliot starts shaking his head as he pats down his own person looking for the tobacco pouch."Man. Man! Shit." They simultaneously begin to speak in a language perhaps only angry black people can understand. Elliot is looking through the house for the tobacco. While he does this he cacophonates something which--in my interpretation--is to the effect of "How can you always ask these things of me! How taxing it is when you take and take but give nothing!" and the dreadlock man responds with a sonnet of "I'm sorry I asked you for the cigarettes; I'm sorry I was ever born; please give me a cigarette."

Elliot and I head inside and sit down.
"Yeah shit we gonna have a good game this time. Grab that chair over there Douglas. Pull it up here to the table."
"Who was that guy?" I say
"Man I don't know. He always talkin in riddles or something and smokin shit on my porch. I can't stand that guy."
"Oh."
"This a good opening. This a English opening right here. Dangerous, though."
"Yeah, uh, ok." I move a pawn and the game gets underway.
"You want some beer? Here Douglas have some of this. We'll split it. You talked to Danelle Cyrus at all recently?" his bald head is sweating. There are droplets of sweat on his head.
"No. Not since she left for Berlin."
"Yeah she needs to come back so we can take over this place. I got some serious plans. I'm painting this shit tomorrow cause my PO is coming. Man I went over to your house and now I don't recognize nobody."
"Yeah it changes a lot. I am getting out of there. I'm moving." Elliot takes my knight.
"Yeah you sort of in a bad spot right now. Gotta make some decisions about this chess game right here. Hey if you want you can move in here with me. I need someone around when I'm out most of the day."
"Thanks, but that's okay. I need to distance myself from that house next door. Also I don't think I can live in the same building as Linda."
"Hey man, that's our duty as spiritual warriors. Only thing you can change is yourself." He takes a bishop.
"I feel you. Still, I need to get outta there."
"Hey I talked to Worm. She said she might live here but I don't know."
"Hah! You know Worm? What did you think of her?"
"Well...I don't know how to say this."
"Oh come on."
"She--hmm. She likes to be in control of things."
"Yeah, that's for sure..." Elliot is at this moment kicking my ass in chess.
"Hey, no, you can't go there. Look. The bishop's gonna get your knight if ya do. Don't do that. Gonna getcha." He's skilled enough he's basically playing both sides at the same time. "See that book right there? My brother gave me that one. '500 famous chess games'. I cant tell you how much I appreciated that. When you locked up getting those strategies down is nice. Nobody fucks with me because I am a tactical master." Finally Elliot completely destroys me in the chess game.
"Good game there Douglas. Yeah you play very offensively. You make some good moves when you aren't even trying to play, you know. Still you got to work on that defense."
"Yeah. What have you been up to?"
"Oh man. I'm inventing all kinds of shit over here."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Lemme--hey listen. Let me share with you some of them. Tell me what you think."
"Yeah? You really want to tell those ideas to a white person? We're gonna steal it!"
"Haha! Hell, you're right about that one. That's why I'm telling it to you though. You the white man. You think some motherfucker is gonna let me patent this shit? You gotta help me out Douglas."
"I'm not in a position to do it."
"Okay so my first idea--you know how people are always getting carpal tunnel? Look at this." Elliot shows me a keyboard screwed to a wooden pedestal on the ground. "It's a keyboard you use with your feet! It's so relaxing. Hey, I was using this last night and it is so relaxing. You put some roller balls on your heels and you just roll your feet around like that and type with it."
"Thats great!"
"I know, right?"
"I should get going. I need to get outta here."
"Hey look at this. See my door? I hooked up a security system." There is some sort of harebrained device with an electrical plug coming out. The device is hanging just above the door knob. "Look: I just plug this thing in and there's this screw through the door connecting the whole thing. Anyone touches this and 'pow'! Nobody is going to fuck with this."
I head north on Shattuck as the sun beats down. I wish I sent him a letter in jail. It would have been good to send him a letter in jail.

trapgar

this is going to be about apgar later

poems to mythical entities #2

emilio you are not an
actor you are a
fucking shape shifter

i watched mighty ducks #1
73 times

still i do not know
your secret

emilio cardiac arrestevez
emilio depressedevez
emilio "i'm the bestevez"

you laugh at me
while you fly around in your
green space car

emilio-
lets go get sushi
and not pay

vaosan
you have more HKs than carter
has liver pills

people say nasty things about you but
its just because you clear all the shit
realm first

already i know
you know
you already knew that
already

WHAT IS THE BLACK SMOKE MONSTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

G. tincture

I am writing on the
typewriter

all day
in the next room
mark and ruth were
making:

MUSIC WITH YOUR ROMANTIC PARTNER
- 2 parts recording
- 5 parts arguing
- 1 part shouting sadness
- 2 parts vague accusation
- .5 part silent introspection
- 1 part retaliatory threats

in a small closet start with the recording
stir in arguing, adding gradually

separately, mix:
shouting sadness, vague accusation, silent introspection
and retaliatory threats

add these contents
periodically
to the original mixture

shake vigorously

I do not watch LOST any more
I don't need to

"You want to be a sad, lonely drunk?
fine!" she shouts
all inside a closet
of a closet
in a closet

Millions of dissapointed west oakland residents

http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_qn4176/is_20090402/ai_n31517411/

So its true! As reported earlier this month by the East Bay Foot- "The literal bread basket of the east bay", the Semifreddi's dumpster, is relocating to Alameda. perhaps this is in hopes that the body of water separating the island from Oakland will act as a moat to keep out barbarous dumpster thieves. We all know for certain the punks, at least, are allergic to water. It's become so chic to get bread from this place I hear even mayor Dellums is worried about withdraw symptoms from his alleged foccacia addiction!
And remember! You heard it hear third. From your source of news staler than a loaf of Sourdough Batard, Zakrekt--Lair in the Underdark.

The end of an era. r.i.p.

tim #2

i sent tim
another email today

"SUBJECT: Dear Tim
------BODY--------
Tim, I have another poem for you, Tim.
It is called "tim" and I wrote it about you--Tim."

after that i pasted in TIM #1
i hope tim likes TIM #1

oh.

i wash em
max fills em
and hana caps
the beer bottles
in our kitchen

we take a sip of it
tastes like coffee

"that is because
there is coffee in it

could use
more hops, though."

oh.

just then ruth busts into the kitchen
"i have rode on freight trains from ohio to tell mark
i am in love with him"
"oh."
"where is he?"
"he is on a date in berkeley"
"i just walked here
from the damn train yard
where the damn
is mark
damnit!"
"when they left they only
said they were going to berkeley"
"so,
at this moment
mark is on a date
right now
as we speak?"
"yeah"
"oh."
"yeah"

"...can i use your cell phone?"

i wash some more bottles
the red stripe bottles
they are too short
we have to put them up on a can to cap

this beer is going to turn out great

Special report from Oakland, California

By William Orr

“I can’t wait to leave this fucking place,” reported Desiree Rousseau last Wednesday from her bedroom of the Apgar street punk house. “Everywhere you go, everything is ugly. There is no beauty in this place. There is only death.” The bedroom was decorated with a canopy of dry leaves, and a nineteenth century photograph of a woman bleeding from the eyeballs. Oakland is a strange place, indeed. Maybe Desiree is right about the whole death thing, but if that’s the case I must think death & decay are more beautiful than she does. Allow me to continue you on a tour through this gorgeous city in this weird & wonderful way I am being introduced to it.

First off, a great place to go is the landfill. This is the crop of land just behind a failing horse racing track where people build wonderful things for public use, like a hot tub and a skate park. Then, somebody comes along and totally trashes it beyond repair. Bummer. Sometimes, I am told, the City is this certain “somebody”. Latest (still functional!) projects include a wonderful treehouse, and a free library that doubles as a dwelling for the friendly homebum who runs it. You would think the guy would get kicked out, but you would be wrong because that dude has ex-Up Against the Wall Motherfucker Anarchist-street-gang-member-turned-lawyer backing. Pow!

The next place I was taken was a never-ending stream of houses where people occasionally host parties. You might not believe it, but one of these houses was (allegedly!) Hell itself. I’d never been, but it turns out Hell is one tiny cramped bedroom filled with strangers, lit only with one blacklite, and the radiator turned as high as it can possibly go. Also you cant leave because you just moved here and you don’t know where the fuck you are and the people that brought you feel like staying. Welcome to Hell.

To explain to all you Boston area residents out there, Oakland is actually a lot like San Francisco’s Somerville except, unlike Somerville, Oakland has enough self respect to tell you it isn’t fucking part of San Francisco! Also unlike Somerville, people actually want to live here.

If you MUST go across the river, however, it turns out downtown hotel lobbies are great public drinking spots. Once you have enough guts you can head over to one of the nudie booths in the (worker owned!) Lusty Lady. If you’re not too shy, they let you bring friends into the booth which is a great way to save money. In the small ones you can cram three people in there, and in the bigger booth at the end you can fit five. If that’s not your thing, some place there is a great burger place with a name I forgot. I also forgot where it is. Maybe there are some other stuff you should check out, but I wouldn’t know because these three things have really been what San Francisco is good for so far.

Other spots you can go are the gallery openings every month on Telegraph street. On rare occasions this is where you can spot three guys lighting American flags on fire and shouting obnoxiously. “They do this every month,” alleged an annoyed cigarette smoker on the scene. Actually, maybe it’s not so rare to see them. “Okay! Sure!” shouted a well-dressed man, reaching for a burning flag as all three men began to boo him. “I’m George fucking Bush! I’m pulling down your stupid flag.” Presumably, he worked for the gallery it was hanging upon. The whole event was a great opportunity to light your cigarette if you forgot matches at home, but art aficionados were left wanting more from the performance. “That really is a bit passé, with a complete lack of understanding of the fundamentals of performance art. This happening lacks spontaneity or originality, which are the very elements that make a happening a happening. The viewer does not feel affected by this whatsoever. I mean, come on,” said an unidentified well-educated man who’s sharp criticism and artistic vocabulary make him a highly respected art appreciator.

The art in the openings are always pretty good, and there is a great fry shack just across the street from the gross punk house where the exclusively-male inhabitants are wondering why no chicks want to move in. An ongoing investigation has, at time of press, yielded no concrete answers.

The final place was first described as a “fucking hellhole” by my wonderful tour guide at the moment, a punk named Dirt. “We are going to go to a rave at this fucking hellhole called the ‘flower shop’” she says. As we drive up and over the bay bridge we listen to a tape of Dirt’s goth radio show. Inside the truck are myself, Dirt, a quiet boy with chops who drives named Wacker, and Tank Girl, someone who’s body exists on this physical plane, but who’s actual essence exists as a pioneer into the fray of some other, yet to be explored, metaphysical space.

“I hope you are ready because this place is the deepest fucking hole in the Bay Area and we are going to go right into it,” explains Dirt. The goth radio show tape has bled in some sort of a way that you listen to not one, but both sides at once. “Are you ready for this place that, for the last ten years, has been the kingdom of Raver Shit Trash?” Joy Division comes out of the right speaker of the truck, backwards. “I’m ready for it,” I say. When we roll up to the warehouse Dirt pisses in between two cars. “Hey, if you guys want to give me a dollar or two this shit is a benefit for a program for kids in the neighborhood who don’t have anything to do,” says Dirt, buttoning her pants.

Dirt leads us through the back gate and across a path of pallets flanked on each side by airstreams and other semi-permanent housing. Inside there is a tunnel leading between two rooms, each presided over by a DJ. In the larger room there is a tent pitched on the ground, and another on the ceiling. The DJ in this room lords subtly from the mouth of a computer part & monitor filled room straight out of some anime where a 15 year old computer genius is in the process of actually turning himself into a robot. Above him an endless video is projected that is the stream of consciousness from a Windows 95 computer just seconds before its death. Some people here are dancing in a way that suggests they might be a cyborg. “This is really more of a psychological hellhole,” says Wacker. “What do you think?” Dirt says to me. “I think we should fucking dance,” I say.

Soon a troupe of women dressed in blue and black and holding bicycle wheel parasols assaults the dance floor and performs a choreographed sexy dance about bikes. A woman accuses the DJ that techno music is “totally played out.” For a moment he argues he has a “new” kind of techno, with beats that are “dark and heavy“. He argues this as his three extremely long dreadlocks flap around behind his right ear. She is unconvinced.

A girl offers me some drugs from her purse but I politely decline so I can start this very report, live on the fucking scene! You might think its impossible for a paper publication to say its reporting “live”, but I say it because I’m pretty sure this stuff is going on every hour of every day, so it does not even matter what time you read this article. Even when a guy in a Russian hat and a tooth missing starts poking me about “HEY YOU THERE! Guy in the corner. We’re all like fucking equal man or what ever. It doesn't even matter man, because we’re like all black or white...” I am reporting live on the scene for you, the reader. Even when a cute girl named Krista wearing a beret and black parachute pants comes over and tries to start conversation I pay no attention. I do it all for you. If you asked me about Oakland: “You mean they shred like THAT?” I would tell you:
“Yeah, they shred like that.”

tim

i sent my poems to a lit mag
and the guy wrote back to me:
"Thanks for letting us consider some of your work,"

can you believe it?
he thanked me
for letting him consider my work
i must be a truly great writer

to an editor
it must be a privilege to receive my
robot manuscript
in the internet e mails box

i am going to get so big
i will be really famous
and make money
really, any money at all
would be nice right now

but right there is when things got hairy:
"Thanks for letting us consider some of your work, Michael."

i
am not Michael.
apparently, though
it is a good thing to be Michael
this presented a problem

"Looking forward to the read.

Best,
Tim"

i decided
to play it cool

"OK-- thanks much Tim."

i said.

maybe he will not notice
i am NOT Michael
until after he accepts the poems

i am eating thai
and drinking an old heineken
i found in the fridge of the
children's museum

i have eaten little enough today
that the one beer is getting me
a little drunk

old heineken
tastes worse than heineken

please send me some money, tim

carter's little liver pills

I.

in downtown brattleboro vermont there are about two streets. one of them is main street. the other one is called elliot street. on elliot street theres a huge billboard of an old man with a wooden stick pushing along a wooden hula hoop like some sort of kid. only kids do that stuff. only a kid would push around a wooden hula hoop with a stick, okay. when you are walking down the street you might encounter some kid and this kid might push their hula hoop right into you because they were so absorbed they just were not paying attention. the person who does this will always be a kid an old man would never play with a stick and a wooden hula hoop like that. under the old man on the billboard who was not a kid although he was pushing a wooden hula hoop with a stick it said- "the morning after taking carter's little liver pills."

This thing is big. if you have ever been to brattleboro you have seen it, no question. if you asked someone from brattleboro about carters little liver pills they would tell you about an old man pushing around a wooden hula hoop, no question. there's no question if they would know about it because its so big and so old everybody has seen it. Ask an old timer--even they know it since they were a kid. do a google image search its going to be right there. everyone knows about it.

II.

tonight I was at amelia's house reading a cartoon porn from 194o or so. one of them, the first one, the thing started out- "OK we're gonna start this story with some guy cavortinging with a deer". it is from 19forty this thing is like an antique or something. its a like a johnny ryan cartoon except its from '42 or something. this thing is an artifact. it is an artifact and it was all about a guy, lonnie, having sex with deers. a woman named suzanne is fucking her man but he is preoccupied he says "hey where the hell did lonnie go. suzanne would you help me find lonnie," and she says "ah shit, okay." because really she does not give a crap about lonnie she just wants to fuck this dude right now but you know he is concerned so she has to help him really. she rides off and finds lonnie quick and sure enough he is having sex with a deer. suzanne thinks to herself- "damn, well this guy is fucking deers. I bet he would get me off as I am an extremely attractive, self-confident cowgirl rough and tumble bad ass woman." but the guy does not even care about her he just loves his deer so much.

anyway that is not the point. the point is the other story is called miss loose leadpipe i think that is what it is called. miss leadpipe is from arkansas and she goes to the big city- L.A.--los angeles. she goes there to become a movie star and ends up having sex with a guy who promises to get her a gig. really to some extent she does not care so much about the gig and she just has an insatiable appetite for sex. this guy blows his load twice he cant even handle her and just then some bigwig comes into the office--he's called mr. nips mc schnozenstein. nips mc schnoz is like "bartleby the scrivener what are you doing in my office!!!!". nips' gigantic grimy nose can smell sex from a mile away anywhere along vermont avenue. leadpipe is quite pleased about that because this other guy--the first one--he is totally spent. useless.

nips mc schnozenstein does not lose a beat he pulls out his hammer head dick and in a minute they are doing all manner of fuck acrobats all over the page before mr. spent can barely even get out of the room. soon nips blows it too. miss loose says "shit!" so mr. schnozenstein grabs both of her butt-halves one in each hand from below and puts her cunt up to his face. his gigantic schnoz hits her clit in just the right way and she has a quivering quaver orgasm. just then the bellhop comes in with a telegram for loose. "what the fuck are you doing in here!" says an enraged mr. schnozenstein to the bellhop as though schnoz thinks he is some sort of angry elephant. however before the bellhop can say anything nips mc schnozenstein has a natural premonition through an itch on his gigantic nose. here is what he divines- the leadpipe family back in arkansas are getting their mortgage foreclosed by bank stooge beardery sweet tooth. any minute now the leadpipes are going to get kicked to the curb by mr. beard tooth. not a word comes out of the bellhops mouth before nips is already saying "how much will it cost" to the lovely lady the fair miss loose leadpipe.

miss leadpipe charters the next plane to arkansas and the two fuck in the back of the stage car all the way to the airport. she gets home and the first thing she does is set ten grand down on the leadpipe family kitchen table. that is even twice what the mortgage is. you know what though miss loose could not give a fuck. she has got it fucking made. she has got some clit nose dreamboat to throw cash at her and make her a movie star in hollywood. who cares what a driveling bloodsucker bankman beardery sweet tooth is. let him have his money.

anyway the point of this is somewhere in the story somebody says "my! that miss loose leadpipe has got about more of a libido than carter has got liver pills!" i thought that was funny. these days who could make sense of that unless they have been to brattleboro. you need to be at least maybe seventy six years old to make sense of it. i dont think carter has many liver pills any more. seems like hes sold off his whole stock because i will tell you i cant find them anywhere. my! the druggist has got about as many liver pills than carter has got liver pills! that is none because carter sold them all.

III.

When I got home that night I looked up this old website I used to post at where teenagers draw porn on the computer and put it up on the internet. It works like an internet message board but instead of threads or topics there is pictures instead. It is really great; it is a very popular one. I could recognize some old timers--people from the good old days still drawing away. There used to be a pretty big furry contingent but that seems to have mostly died down in favor of hetero anime porn. How yiffapointing, am I right! Ha ha anyway I drew some queer folks going at it. I figured it might spice things up but now I am thinking maybe I should have made them fox people. I can not say I was ever very involved with furry culture but I would be glad to know it is still going strong.

I also saw some of these folks have started a whole porn website where they draw comic books and put them up and people pay by the month to read them. I read one of the samples. It was about a boy that pays so much tribute to the mystical forces of internet porn that internet porn sends ambassador tiny porn faerie to fulfill a wish. This faerie is really pretty cute. She has got little wings and a faerie heart wand and a U S B cable tail--it is really very adorable. Anyway, she takes one look at this guy's porn and immediately notices he is into tiny, micro sized girls. She is like: "Hey you and I should totally do it!" She does not even have to wave her wand or anything; how perfect. They are getting each other off and everything is going great but then he comes and she gets shot off all the way to the other side of the room. When he finally finds her she is so dizzy she has little swirly eye balls.

IV.

There was a guy named Xod on that message board and I remember him especially fondly. It seemed he was sexually excited by just about anything of his choosing. No matter what anyone would draw he just loved it. I could never tell if he had this amazing ravenous insatiable horniness or if he did it to support people. Sometimes it did not even matter if somebody’s picture was sexual or not "wow. I think that lamp shade is totally hot! I am imagining wearing it on my head right now. It must be such a sexy lamp shade because I am incredibly turned on by It." that is the kind of stuff he would say. He would write that stuff on every single picture up in the place. It was astounding. It did not even matter to him. Xod taught me a lot about sexuality. He taught me sexuality is something that is often weird, inexplicable, totally crazy--and that's OK. No matter how weird my own sexuality was I knew it could never be as strange as this guy Xod. Nothing fazed him. Nothing could gross him out and everything turned him on. It was really a beautiful thing and I very much admire him for that. He lives in Athens, Greece. I do not think I have ever met anyone quite like him in flesh and blood. I never knew if he was for real. What matters is what he taught me--that's real--and I am grateful for it.

Magic Pens

My mom used to take me to the mall when I was a kid. In the mall there were always these guys who would sit in a stand selling something like magic pens or glitter tape or magic trick sets. We would go up and they would show us how their stuff worked. The magic pen guy had a bunch of drawings he had done with the pens. You could draw in one color then you could draw over it and the color would change. He did a drawing for us and flirted with my mom as he let me play with the pens.

Whenever my mother brought a man home I would always hate him. It was some sort of instinct I had. It did not really matter who he was or what he did. Still, I would hate him. He would give me lego set or a dino cup golf or something--some sort of peace offering. Always this toy showed they knew little about me. It would be for an age group I had outgrown or a something I did not have an interest in. I am certain I must have liked some of the gifts these men gave me, but I do not remember. What I most remember after recieving these gifts was feeling an overwhelming sadness wash over me. This sadness was an innate knowledge that for a time my mother was prepared to ignore this man's flaws and whatever misery he might bring us. To her it was at least better than suffering the terrible loneliness she felt when she was by herself. It was also the sadness of knowing, at my age, I would never be able to fully articulate this feeling. In a couple months he would be gone and the whole thing would repeat again.

I remember during a dinner party wearing Christmas stockings, skating around our dining room playing hockey with a man. I was maybe five years old. His goal post was a door at one end of the room and the other end was mine. "You're dead meat!" he said. I remember him saying this--I had never heard this saying before. I could tell this man was playing with me to get closer to my mother. Maybe the man thought playing with me like this would make her think he could be a good father.

Now I am able to spot a crappy boyfriend in an instant. If you were to ask me "should I dump my boyfriend?" I would tell you. Nine times out of ten I think you should probably dump your boyfriend. If you are asking someone: "should I dump my boyfriend?" this is more often than not a signal your boyfriend sucks. Usually the person who asks this question already knows the answer but is not quite ready to say it aloud--really they are wondering how to dump their boyfriend rather than if they should.

When I was twelve my mother asked me "would you be upset if I stopped seeing John?". I told her she should try to make it work because I thought if it did work she would be happy. I regret playing along with the game. I know now their relationship was doomed to failure and he was abusive and shitty and in any situation you find yourself asking a twelve year old for advice about your relationship you should probably end that relationship.

I hope I do not imply I am any good at all at being a boyfriend. I simply feel I am very good at identifying shitty boyfriend red flags. Really, though, the average man is a scrotum pig and for this reason we are not very well suited for dating. My personal experience has demonstrated--for the most part--we are miserable worms who don't really deserve any of the love or affection given to us. Once we make this realization we will have begun to learn how we can start deserving that love.

Noel Trapper

I used to live with noah
but I dont live with him
any more

now from across the country
he gets emails from me
in the middle of the night

"SUBJECT- ohmigod

--------BODY--------
http://catpurrsonsplace.blogspot.com/
-------"

it is 1.15 am and I cant
type the letter p

when I want to write p
I have to find a p

copy and paste
it.

it is 4.17 pm in
Brookline, Massachussets
and Noah is asleep

I miss him.













barbasol

theres a can of barbasol beard buster
in the smelly bathroom

the guy used a can of barbasol
to take the dino D N A on the plane
in jurassic park

they dont let you take
barbasol on the plane
any more

Ghosts

everything physical
requires three dimensions

everything mental
exists in at least four dimensions

ghosts
need five



















Poem

maybe I should write a poem
right now

never mind.

















Talisman

I am late
for the game of talisman

the board game
called talisman

I should get on my bike
and go

I hope this time I am something cool
like the wizard

not something stupid
like the bard
or the theif

lame.

MALAHKREKT

I am getting on

my feathered broom

riding off

into the night

the night

which is as black
as a wet black sock somebody left
on the ground
at civic center bart





























I fell asleep

I was lying down
in my bed this afternoon
and I fell asleep

when I woke up it was
eight pm

last night I was going to sleep
I could feel myself start to drift off

certain I was not going to come back
certain I was going to die
in this bratty apgar punk house
where my testicles are turning
into mush

my roommate met a girl
tonight at the punk show
they were fucking loudly
top forty hip hop on the stereo
to drown it out

"did I fall asleep?" says Echo
"for a little while," says Topher

every time I felt myself start to drift off into death
I'd stop it just before I passed the point of no return
I experienced sleep paralysis
four times in a row

"I'M THE AMBASSADOR"
said e-forty
as I desperately tried getting my brain
to connect with my sleeping body

when I am experiencing sleep paralysis
I am awake
the thing in my head is awake
but my body is not awake

when I try to move I move my metaphysical self
it passes straight through my flesh
I can move this second self around the room
but I cannot move the body that houses this metaphysical being

when I experience sleep paralysis
my limbs are bound
my body sinks deeper as water
fills my lungs

I can sense someone close beside me
they have come to harm me in my sleep
my spirit moves about the room
I can see everything,
everything except this person

all the lights are off and the doors are locked
and the walls
are on fire

I am trapped
inside

one time
I had been watching a lot of X files
and I was certain this person
in the room
was an alien

I now know
what it feels like
to be abducted by aliens

still, when I woke up
I was too lazy to get out of the bed
and write my last goodbyes

today what I am most afraid of
is dying in a place
as dumb as this one

Twenty one

"Do you know, Douglas, how long I have owned these panties?" says Dirt.
"No, I do not," I say.
"Five years--and THEY are not destroyed but the powers of acid are destroying HIS--peter's--brain, that little fucker. I have power and I am using my power to destroy his little brain. AS WE SPEAK PETER IS OUT ON THE STREETS OF OAKLAND LIKE A CONFUSED LITTLE BOY." She takes a moment to let the gravity of her words linger in the air. "Douglas. Do you see this thing? This means nothing to me. Maybe some day it will," says Dirt, holding up a blue tennis ball thrower arm for playing with dogs.
"I am going to go find peter," I say.
"I want to go too. Let's go for a walk."
"I wish you would stay here."
"The thing about this, Douglas, everybody here knows me. I am friendly with all my neighbors." Suddenly she whips the tennis ball thrower around threateningly, holding its point just inches from my throat. "Nobody is going to fuck with me."
"Okay, sure. On second thought I think I should make a phone call." Dirt glares at me, clutching the thrower tightly.
"What are you writing in that notebook!"
"Nothing--just a second."
"I can see you writing."
"poetry. I am writing some poetry."
"I read that article you wrote a while ago with me in it."
"Really?"
"Yes. You aren't a very good writer."

I go into the next room and look at my watch. 3.16 AM. I call three people who I think might be friends with peter. Nobody picks up. I call up Rejan Barét over on the East Coast. It is now 6.27 AM in his Brookline, Massachusetts bedroom. The phone rings three times. Rejan picks up. Before saying anything he takes one moment to himself to wonder what sort of idiot would wake him at 6.27 in the morning all the way from Oakland, California.
"Hello?"
"Hello Rejan."
"What's up."
"I need some advice."
"OK."
"Three people took some acid. One kid is lost somewhere out on the street. Another wants to help me look for him. The third is asleep, on acid, in person number two's bed. She wakes up periodically to puke everywhere."
"Are you on acid?"
"No. Also, as of now it is my birthday today."
"Oh! Happy birthday, Douglas."
"Thank you."
"This is number twenty one, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is."
"Okay, well. If I were you I guess I would go out looking for this kid. Don't look too hard. Look for maybe...twenty minutes. After that go to the bar and get a drink."
"That sounds good."
"Happy twenty one."
"Thanks, Rejan."

Baltimore, Maryland

When we roll up to the punk rock venue the neighborhood seems ready to see us leave, but accepting of their fate.

One punk rocker waits outside for us like a herald of strange news to come. More and more people show up. As we start our circus it begins to thunderstorm. Some young brat punks try to get some middle aged woman to buy them beer.
"Make sure to get what we said. Make sure not to get the wrong stuff for us," they say, holding up some large bills.
"Alright," she says. They hand her the money.

One hour later water is pouring through and forming puddles all over. I am standing in a doorway watching the rain come down. The middle aged woman has not come back and the brats are bummed.

I take a break in the door jam to watch the rain right outside. A man walks the alley towards me holding an umbrella and a plastic bag.
"You wanna buy a pencil sharpener?" he shows me the bag.
"No, I don't need one at the moment."
"please, man."
"I'm sorry."
"Do you think someone inside would buy it?"
I turn to look at three completely drunken bro punks shouting at each other.
"I am not so sure."

In the other room a small water fall is cascading over a circuit breaker and other miscellaneous imortant-looking electrical equipment somewhat affixed to the wall. It forms a puddle immediately behind our stage curtain. This puddle might possibly electrocute anyone that steps into it.

Whenever we go out on the Baltimore street everyone we see is very friendly. The sort of kindness we received from the residents of Baltimore was unsurpassed. Tomorrow a man named Robert will lecture us in homebum sermon style. As we eat hunks of watermelon on the street he urges us to remember always: we must take care of one another.

Later we will go to Red Emma's bookstore where folks are nice and Georgios buys a sandwich with a euro bill. Tonight, though, the punks who rent this concrete garage are at least grateful for our presence. "I am so happy so many of you are staying here tonight," one of them says to us. "Maybe you all can keep the rats away."

Self-destructive internet dreamboat #3

(written about 38 minutes later from S.D.I.D. #2)


It apears
my dreamboat
has left the building

a girl named Brit
started hitting on me
and that is where
I lost track
of the S.D.I.D.

Brit came up to me
stated she was hitting on me
asked me
if I was gay
she was drunk

she bought me a drink
this was the first time
somebody has bought a drink for me

actually that is not true
but at the moment I forgot about the first time
somebody bought me a drink
so I was very excited

Brit talked about
Hannah Montana's sexual relationship with her father
and some book about something or other
I promised her I would check out the book

she would stand on her toes as she talked
rubbing her breasts on me
as she brought her body up towards my ear

Aaron Cometbus had reviewed her zine
she was extremely excited
certain she could use this cred
across the nation, on tour
to make huge wads of cash selling zines

"Aaron Cometbus reviewed my zine
he said Eggplant and him discussed the thing
over coffee
do you have any idea?
those are the two biggest zine writers
in the whole Bay Area
and they talked about
MY ZINE
over coffee
you know how like
you're in a metal band
and when you go on tour there's like
this huge pit every time
but when you get home
there is nothing?
It is going to be just like that,"
she explained

somewhere during all this
my dreamboat disappeared
I went looking for her
to no avail

maybe its more fun
to write about her like this
anyways

I AM LOSING

my hair
the other day
I looked in the mirror
Sid was cutting
my hairs and
she said:
"do you have a receding hairline?"

I looked in the mirror
my hair grows like freaking
Danzig's cowlick
and I am losing
my fucking hair

some cultures believe
your power is stored
in your hair

I am losing
my powers

Sid; is this haircut
the last haircut
I will ever need in my entire
LIFE?

am I going to be
an increasingly bald
powerless sorcerer
for the rest of my existence?

I wanted to ask Sid all this
but I was too scared

some day I might
have some poor soul
trim the lifeless wisps
of my manhood
to make myself feel better

to make myself feel
like I am a normal person
who needs haircuts
just like everybody else
am I turning
into my father?
that fucker!

"Hey can I take your picture?" says Josh.
"Sure."
"What are you writing about?"
"I have a receding hairline."
"You do?"
"Look at THIS."
I show him
my receding hairline
"Do not worry.
Mine is like that, too
it's been like that
for a very long time."
"I'm not so sure."
"It is materlineal
does your mother have a brother?"
"Yes, but he is a junkie."
Josh looks at me.
"No, it means I never see him," I say.
"What about her father?"
"He's not bald."
"Well, there
you go."
"Oh," I say.











CRUDDY

I wrote this poem about you
but really
I could have written this poem
about anyone
and I am headed south
around lake merritt
towards eleventh street

while I move I am thinking
about what I will say
when I get there
"hey. I was nearby your house and--"
I have not called
and I do not want to seem
creepy

in the end I think the worst thing
you can do
is make an excuse
a creep
always
makes an excuse

while I move I am wondering
if all boys think about this
or is it
just me

I get there and all the lights are out
upstairs, your room
is as black
as the sweater I am wearing
the black sweater which I found
discarded on the ground

I head north on Campbell
and I am
a dumb looking white kid
on a brightly painted bike
in a neighborhood
that does not
and should never
belong to me

this is not to say
I should not live here
but even that
simple silent act
might open a floodgate
of white trash

we all know
the real white trash
lives in a condo
and I
am the smelly trickle
that proceeds their gushing grossness

I stop for a moment
on Campbell street
at the house your friends bought
watch them in the night
stripping the floors

I remember helping them--
pulling out carpet staples
with a pair of pliers
screaming
about how I was some sort of eagle
hunting my prey

you were in the house
banging noisily at a crowbar
with a metal hammer

I think about how
Daniel Johnston knows
unrequited love
makes the best kind of art
as I head home across peralta

just how do we know what we know
anyway?

I could have written this poem
about anyone
but really
I wrote this poem about you

self-destructive internet dreamboat #2

(Update-- 11:59 that same night.)


I went down
to the shit town
San Pablo street
punk rock venue
across from the burnt out fry shack

standing right outside
on a carpet of cigarette butts
was my suicidal internet dreamboat
I was about 76% certain it was her

she was very short
I pretended not to notice
her stare at me across the distance between us
as I wondered
if she had gotten the message
I sent earlier in the day

right before I came here
I was at Sam's house sitting
on the couch looking at
furry nudes
with his roommate, Jamie

at that moment
that was her--Jamie's
chosen method of procrastination

I have seen Jamie
on OK cupid, as well
though we have yet to talk about it

we looked at enormous
anthropomorphic
chameleon
breasts

they filled up half the whole screen
as Jamie's kitten
climbed into my lap
and began to clean itself

I guess I should stop writing
this crap
and go talk to my dreamboat

Satan is my only friend

We would lay in bed, falling asleep to Calvin Johnson's baritone voice. It took Beth a really long time to go to sleep because whenever the needle got to the end she would roll over and flip the record over or pick out a new one from the milk crate.

When I first met Beth she was making really obnoxious puking noises on top of a car in a sea of cans.

"Lissen," Sarah was saying to her. "I mnatta DYHKE urenithinghk, budeye think your cute." I recognized Sarah as the desperate freshwoman from New Jersey who lived down the hall. I had been going to art school for one week, now.
"WHY DOES SOME STUPID GIRL ALWAYSH WNAT TO KISS ME!" said Beth.
"I thigure kiynda cute. Lejzusst maegout a lidtle," said Sarah.

A sexually frustrated guy was sitting on the car, next to Sarah. He was looking at the two expectantly, eagerly, silently.

"I DONT WANA FUKGING KISS YOU."
"Lisn--jisst for a liddle bit. Juskisme. Juskimi--kiss. Me. Keysme."

Sarah was trying to proposition Beth quietly, trying desperately to bring as little attention to herself as possible.

"YOU THINK I WILL KISS YOU BECUS I HAVE SHOREDARE? YOU THINK I WANT TO KISS EVERY FUKGING GIRL I SEE?" she shouted, taking another huge gulp of whiskey.
"Haylesson: I jusink yo're reely cute, ohkaye? Wyontroujis kiss firra whyle?"

Another guy had come up: "MAN girls just kiss each other because they like it when guys watch, FUCK," he said to the car top voyeur. "MAN they just want us to watch them to get our dicks hard, SHIT. They love to fucking tease our cocks; so, they kiss each other."
"FUCK YOU!" said Beth, and she went back to making loud puking noises. From this, my eighteen-year-old self could tell she was very special.

Later a friend, Katrina, would actually introduce me to Beth. We went out onto her porch all together and sucked pot out of a magic lamp shaped bong. Beth had a jet black cat named Ludwig and three roommates. Their names were Ruth, Frank, and Bob. Bob was the best because he was the only one profoundly bothered by living in a shitty Mission Hill apartment with three genuinely crazy people.

It was one of those apartments where the stove had paint marker graffiti all over it and somebody had taped a bunch of broken shit all over a wall. They put up all their empty bottles of hard alcohol up over the cupboard and most of the place was a long hallway barely big enough for one person.

I remember coming by one night when Bob was out of town. All of Beth's roommates were in Bob's room cackling wildly as they epoxied quarters onto Bob's hardwood floor.

Ruth also had a boyfriend: Robert. Robert would live there about half the time. The other half the time he seemed to spend in varied mental institutions after various misadventures. Just about every time I would come by there would be some story about the latest crazy thing Robert did. Whenever I saw Bob around school he had huge purple rings around his eyes. I would always very happy to see Bob.

"Hey Bob!" I would say.

"Luhrm," he would mumble, if he said anything at all.

That night when I first met a somewhat sober Beth I got her phone number and Katrina walked me back to my dorm. Katrina insisted on coming up. We started kissing and she wanted to sleep over because it was late. I said "alright."

She took off our clothes and got on top of me and fucked me. Maybe in that moment my dick wanted to fuck and my body just did not have the guts to tell her it wasn't what it wanted. Still, it felt like shit. Some things you lose, some things you give away. At the time I was too confused to know which one it was.

The Saturday after that I called up Beth and we went to the movie theatre to see "Shortbus". We sipper her mason jar all the way there, through the movie, and all the way back. Shortbus is a great movie for a date. There is this one scene where three guys sing the national anthem into each other's butts as they are munching the butts. In my mind if a date does not find that completely adorable the relationship is probably not going to work out.

Beth handed me her jar of whiskey and I took a sip. It seemed like most of the time Beth had a jar of whiskey.

We got back to her room and we kissed. I put my hands in her cunt and gave her a quivering orgasm. Her unshaven pubic hair was as soft as a kitten's butt. It was the most wonderful cunt I had seen in my entire eighteen year old life. We fell asleep listening to "Lonesome sundown" on the record player.

On the next Monday I went to school. I went for a cigarette break during class and she was out there.

"How was your weekend?" she asked.
"It was great, actually. I was--"
"--you fucking ASSHOLE!"
"Oh."
"FUCK you."
"I thought you said you did not want a relationship!"
"THAT WAS MY BEST FUCKING FRIEND YOU DICK."
"I thought it was all going to be okay."
"THAT WAS MY BEST FUCKING FRIEND DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THAT MEANS?"
"I did not think it mattered."
"LISTEN: I KNOW YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS STUFF BECAUSE YOU ARE YOUNG AND STUPID," she was two years older than me. "I AM TRYING TO BE VERY PATIENT WITH YOU BECAUSE I KNOW YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE ANY EXPERIENCE YET, BUT THIS WAS VERY STUPID. WHAT MADE YOU THINK THIS WAS GOING TO BE OKAY? LISTEN, FETUS. THIS IS THE REAL WORLD AND THIS IS THE WAY IT WORKS, OKAY?" She yelled at me like that for a while until I went back inside. Later in the day I came back out for another break and there she was again. She cussed me out in front of some art school smokers.

After that Beth would not kiss me any more. At the time I believed Katrina held their friendship over Beth's head. I think to some extent this really was the case. You could even say Katrina's plan worked because we had sex again and I would call her up sometimes if I wanted to have sex. It never felt much better than the first time. However, when I think about it now I can't be certain the interaction I had with Beth was consentual, either.

The last time I saw Katrina she was wearing a German hiker's hat while she moved out of her Jamaica Plain apartment. She told me she was going to start a farm in Asheville, North Carolina. That is where she was going to raise her three unborn children. The kids she was going to have with a thirty six year old man she met two weeks before on a trip. They had been having unprotected sex in his kitchen since they met.

Some months after that Katrina sent me a thanksgiving card. It was a hand turkey she made herself. Last I heard about her was from a girl I met at a roller skating party here in Oakland. She said she was living with Katrina in Brooklyn, New York. Katrina was doing just fine. I never asked about the kids.