Do you love me?

Do you love me?

Do you run for cover,
When you hear the dumpster fall?
In the middle of the night,
Do you look outside?
Do you love me?
Do you look in the bowl,
before you flush it?
Do you love me?
Do you look under the bed?
Do you love me,
When you masturbate?
Do you love me,
When you spraypaint my name on some box car?
Do you love me,
When you drink a cup of coffee?
Do you love me,
When you get a flat tire?
Do you love me,
Looking at the list of ingredients?
Do you love me,
When I wash your clothes?
Do you love me,
When I don't come home?
Do you love me,
When I do?
Do you love me,
When I fart?
Do you love me?
Do you love my smell?
Do you love me?

I didn't think so.

Merry Christmasssssssssss..........

I'm so full of the xmas bodily fluids that I have to erupt. I shall erupt, albeit symbolically, in your mailbox. Or, it could be a "malebox," as only a life-sized envelope could encompass the image of me and Oscar Wilde on horseback, yelling out, "Ho Ho Ho, you little bastards."

This mountain's back ain't broke. The sheep have some questions, though.

You show me Oscar Wilde on a horse, and I'll show you a Santa like my grandfather. Only smaller. And gayer.

I still remember those times when my grandfather would stumble in, dressed like Santa, and shout, "Ho Ho Ho, you little bastards!" That's how I knew it was grandfather, and not the real Santa. Well, his shouts and the whiskey on his breath. Still, I knew it was Grandpa.

And he'd hurl the sack across the room, and we'd duck, as usual, and hopefully, the power of Jesus' "inert objects concealed in a canvas sack" would evade our heads, for that year. Brain injuries were reserved for the New Year celebrations -- at least in my family.

And then Grandpa would open his own present (I think he may have pretended that someone else in the family bought it for him), a fifth of whiskey, and invite me onto the porch. How could I refuse, after the gift of a carton of cigarettes. I mean the good ones. Kools. Menthols. Very festive. Very fitting around the "green and red" typical décor you can't help but run into hereabouts, this time of year.

And he'd ask me, "How 'bout a bite of the ole 'Christmas' turkey?"

I'd say, "Sure, Granddad," my eyes aglow with innocence, yet again. I guess that under some circumstances, one can regain his or her innocence. Like that time I went over a year without sex. Or, at least sex without another person. I think it should be a law that if you go a year without sex, you can reclaim your virginity in a court of law.

It's not that I want to reclaim my virginity, it's that I'd wanna lose it in a court of law on top of a lawyer. A cute little red-haired lawyer with her shapely legs wrapped around my ass.

Back to xmas.

And Granddad would pour us a glass of turkey. Wild Turkey. And then we'd light up, and the smoke would make the lights around the porch all glow and stuff, and then he'd lean over and whisper, "There's more to life than sex. There's the cigarette right after."

And we'd laugh so hard that at least one of us would fall out of our chair. Usually, it was Grandpa. But one year, I hit the ground first. That was the year that I became a man in Grandpa's eyes.

And I asked him, "What's Santa gonna bring me for Christmas this year?"

He replied, "Nothing! Santa heard how bad you were this year. You were so bad that he decided to kill himself. There will be no Christmas this year, because of you, you little bastard."

And then he handed me another drink. And lit my cigarette.

I'll always love my grandfather.

Later,

AJ

What kind of food am I?

You Are Italian Food

Comforting yet overwhelming. People love you, but sometimes you're just too much.

What Kind of Food Are You?

Have you ever?

Have you ever met that one person who fulfilled all of the fairy tales?

After the lies, after moving beyond the physical, you realize that you love this one person, with heart and soul, and all effort just bounces back. This person finishes your sentences, with better grammar than you started with?

My friends ask me, the say, "Hey, J, have you ever loved?"

Well, yeah, many times. I have loved many women, off and on. Here and there. Now and then.

And my friends ask me, they say, "Have you ever 'really' loved a woman?"

That's just mean. 'Cause I did. Once. Loved a woman.

She was amazing, to me. She was terribly flawed, like me.

She was an alcoholic.

She was beautiful.

She had red hair, and a brain. She was a lawyer. Not that it matters all that much. Just a fact.

She didn't even want to have a man in her life, but we met at a party, and she was adjusting her makeup in the bathroom, and I just wandered in and started pissing. She did not blink an eye. She just kept on putting on her eyebrows. She glanced at me and remarked, "You seem to be a nice guy, putting down the seat and all."

She was funny. She understood my sense of humor. Right off the bat, we talked openly about everything. I watched her in the mirror as she finished up her makeup, and at that exact moment, we were linked. I spent the next six weeks with her. She drew me in, and I loved it.

But alcohol will only take you so far. It only took her so far in masking the pain of sexual abuse as a child. Something she never spoke of openly, unless she was drunk.

We watched old movies on cable, and shredded the scripts, the acting. She was actually a writer, something I longed to become. She hated being a lawyer. She didn't know what she wanted to do with her life, but she knew that the very last thing she ever wanted was to be a lawyer for the rest of her life. With me, she didn't have to do anything, but be herself. And she did that.

And I loved her.

I mean I really loved her. I thought that I was undeserving of loving a woman so much, but then she would just look at me and say, "You love me, don't you? You poor, poor man." And she meant it. We could talk about anything and everything, and it was as if we were one unit. Two sides of a nice coin.

Then, I pulled away, mostly because of her addiction. She didn't even fault me for drawing away. She understood my own feelings better than I, at the time.

I later went through my own little crisis, and met her at a bar. This was after five years, and when we touched, it was like time had stood still. I professed my love for her, and she pretty much said the same thing. I made plans to get a divorce and marry her. Seriously.

Then, before I could take action, she died. Her liver bit the dust.

I've often wondered that "if" I'd done this or that, she might still be alive. I'm selfish, in that way.

So my friends ask me, they say, "Hey J, what are you gonna do now?"

I guess I'll just move around and look for that woman that I'm apparently looking for. I may never find her, but I'll still look.

There have been some women that have come close -- very close -- but I have yet to meet one that can match Corrinne (Ms. C., or "Corky" as her friends called her). I only ever called her "hon." I called her that on the night we first encountered each other. She countered with a sarcastic, "Hon." It was a running joke throughout our relationship.

She could argue quite well, which I miss. Have yet to meet a woman who relishes an argument. A lot of women frequently confuse arguing with fighting. Two different things. She would preface her statements with, "Well, hon,..."

Hence, I live my life differently now. Still looking. It's unfair, but I have to compare every woman that I meet with Ms. C, and they usually fall way short.

I suppose it's hard to compete with a dead woman.

I miss her so much that the rest of my life presents itself almost as an afterthought. She told me to write. And so I do that.

I miss that woman. I miss her every fucking day.

It's hard to understand, but it's really difficult to love a dead woman. Actually, it ain't that hard. The hard part is getting over the fact that I will never, ever, hold her again. That's the hard part.

She's dead. A big part of me died as well.

Don't feel sorry for me, 'cause I don't feel sorry for myself. All I'm saying is, if you meet that one person that you think might work for you, then run with it.

You asked?

You ask, "What happens in government when the ideal has priority over the people?"

We're living it. I wouldn't give the current administration the benefit of calling their motivations "ideals," but you can be sure that they view things in such a light.

Remember, villains are the heroes of their own stories.

Once you embark upon the path of "the ends justify the means," then you run into things like torture, murder, etc. Elimination of conscience makes all things not only possible, but necessary, and therefore desirable.

This is an unspoken truth in most religions. A person can achieve paradise by doing "God's" work. As a devout atheist, I find it abhorring, but human beings somehow become bestowed with "God's" will, and they act upon their supposed knowledge.

The end, or perceived end, justifies the means.

I have often wondered if the guys who flew those planes into the twin towers had a brief moment of conscience, where they wanted to veer away at the last minute. I think not. I think that their brains, through conditioning, probably told them that they were approaching “heaven.” The closer they got to the towers, the more ecstatic they probably became.

That was their perception. That was their reality.

We are indeed living in unusual times. In these times, our government chooses “ideals/faith-based bullshit” over science. It’s notable that the leader of our country would tout “intelligent design” as a legitimate course of study.

Evolution is fact, and not a matter of “belief.” However, if a person’s world view precludes fact, then all things are possible. For such a reality, certain things become not only possible, but desirable, and therefore, necessary.

I am troubled that we, as a species, have not evolved as much as I had assumed. I guess I have my own problems with my reality…

Ain't it funny how the brain works.

How we build our own little universes. I look around the room and see a mess of wires and noise-making devices. How did I get here?

I don't even look at myself when I shave, really. I just look close enough to not cut myself. I looked at myself closely a couple of weeks ago. That should last me about a year.

My physical appearance does not match up to my mental appearance. Is it just me, or is this going around?

I suppose I just have to accept it. Accept myself.

However, there are some things that I am eventually gonna have to NOT accept:

24 hour days
7 day weeks
8 hour work days
40 hour work weeks
Chicken.

OK, the chicken thing is a ruse.

My dog reminds me on a daily basis that life isn't supposed to be organized, scheduled, rigid. I don't like it, but I need the cash.

Insomnia. Can't fucking sleep, in case you don't know what that's about.

The brain works in mysterious ways. Sometimes, I wish that the brain would just shut the hell up.

Of course, the brain just laughs. It says, "Tastes like chicken."

Fucking brain.

I'd throw some beer on it, but it would just fan the flames.

I will say that it is quiet at this hour. I like it.

My dog likes it.

Screw the rest of you, things are OK here.

November

November wind
A vision of breath
Even the sun is chilled.

Green fading to brown
Crisp, but clean
Thoughts expose lack of will.

Like broken mirror
Fragments streaming
Reckless ending.

Words tearing
Wounded flesh
Sitting in empty room.

Rearranging chairs
Changing seats
Curtains veiling gray.

No fires
No wines
Nothing to say.

Angels
Against the wall
Sing and pray.

No loss
No lies
No more to lose.

Make my way
Up the aisle
Standing before the box.

Stained glass shadows
Benches await
Coughs breaking silence.

Celebrating
Fifty years
Walking out of deserts.

Laughing children
Crying mothers
Restless souls.

Waves beating sand
Soft footsteps
Moving away.

Extended hand
No solace
For the lost.

Howling wind
Blowing dust
From aging bones.

Forgotten
Forgiven
Finally.

A Waking Wind

Awakened from a strange and beautiful dream. By wind.

Pale woman. Red hair. Knew all of my moves. She had been abroad, but was gracing me with her warm presence. I'm pretty sure that she understands the impact of minor chords.

Blowing wind suddenly silent. No rain. There are clouds, though. 3-D clouds. I guess clouds prefer to present themselves in 3-D.

"Old man," he said to his master, "that was a narrow escape! The dogs would have made short work of you, and blame would have fallen on me. As though the gods hadn't done enough already to pester and torment me!"

The past is past, then why does it rear it's beautiful and ugly head again and again?

In the firelight, I brush her hair. It is difficult to determine which is most red. Her hair, or the fire.

What is that noise? The fire, or the wind under the door?

Her hair, spread out like flames, drew me in. I was lost. I wanted to be lost.

I sometimes wonder if my wings will fail me. Will I no longer be able to fly? Or are my wings only good for beating the fire. Red-haired woman, in a white gown. Did I forget to mention the white gown? I am forgotten. And as forgotten, so I would forget.

Woman of silence.
Woman sitting still.
Why can't she sit still?

She tries, but she cannot sit still.

She hovers above me with the knowingest of eyes.

"Put more wood on the fire. I'm not finished yet."

The wind compels me. It drives me. I become driven.

When wrestling with a pale redhead in darkness, and in the daytime, the right time and the right place ain't here.

And I have known her arms. Arms white, pale, and bare. In the slender light of morning, they frighten me. Her smell. Her barely covered breasts. On my pillow. I need a plan. With caressing hands, she pretends to wake me.

She continues to give.

Still the wind moves about my shaky bones. Still, the wind.

I part the curtains, and inhale the darkness.

Bill O'Reilly is a Shit-Eating Maggot

I'm hoping to make his "enemies list."

It's good to have goals.

Later,

AJ Nag

Who is that?

You've changed your life's path a couple of times that I know of.

I hate to bring it up, but I'm pretty sure Martha Stewart would say, "It's a Good Thing."

You've recreated yourself so many times that you occasionally appear lost. Are you a farmer? A massage therapist? A meat packer? A plumber? An actor? A salesman? A writer? A liar?

Of the choices, the latter is the safe bet. Along with the actor thing. What is an actor but a liar for profit?

Oh shit, might be an artist. Might be thinking of the mother next door who's looking through the window at just the moment when someone is 13 years old, driven by beautiful lust, sniffing her daughter's nightgown at a slumber party, and she just watches. She doesn't need a flashlight now. She can bash his brains in and get away with it.

Her daughter's nightgown might have smelled wonderful. It might have opened up dreams.

The mother still haunts. The mother unconfronted. The mother that got away.

What's a mother to do?

As a rule, women are smarter than men. But then, so are most dogs. So I'd take that statement with a grain or two of salt.

I'm beginning to think that Freud was correct. It's all about childhood and sex.

Also, Freud understood that people could change. Under certain circumstances...

Confronted with the evidence, I suppose that someone has to own up to being a nightgown sniffer.

Nothing but blue sky above...

Last Dancing

I guess it finally ended for me staring at my unshaven, bloated, and bleary-eyed face in some unknown motel room mirror. I looked bad. Felt worse. At least it was over.

I met her on a Tuesday. There’s no deep meaning about the day Tuesday except for the fact that that was the day I met her. She was just completing her daily run—blonde hair in disarray, sweet smelling glorious sweat dripping from the tip of her nose—she was too damn healthy looking to be real. She reeked of sex.

Me? I was at the pinnacle of my former unhealthiness. I knew how to drink then; drinking had been raised to an art form amongst the friends that I lived with. Residing less than three blocks from a liquor store eased the logistical burden of such a lifestyle tremendously.

At that time, we inhabited a quaint old house in Fort Lauderdale. At night, the salt would roll in on the fog and engulf us, smothering us in demented ecstatic humidity. Great drinking weather (as if we needed an excuse). We knew we were brilliant, then. We used to run the tape recorder continually so we would not miss anything. Never know when someone might be seized with some sort of inspiration—besides, it sometimes came in handy to review exactly what lies had been told the night before.

I was blessed with looks. If there is a God, (which I seriously doubt), he must have had a couple shortly before making me. By then, I knew how to (no, had perfected the ability) exploit my looks—I could look smart, competent, brave—anything I needed, in order to get what I wanted. I wanted her. Bad.

That first meeting passed without incident, fortunately, because I could barely stand up at the time. She worked with my best friend, who I shared the house with, and had merely stopped by out of boredom. It just so happened that we had run out of beer and were leaving for more when she chanced to catch us on our way out. She caught me sunglassed and past the point of no return, or at least non-returnable bottled. I put on my best smile and posture, hoping to make a good impression. It worked.

She asked about me the next day.

When we met, again it was on my own ground. A party. Halloween. At the time, I attributed her lack of costume to the notion that she was bouncing between parties and had only stopped by our dingy place out of curiosity. It never occurred to me that there might exist a lack of imagination. She was just too damned perfect for that. God, she was hot! Had on this slit skirt thing and a blouse with one of those Victorian collars. Looked like the greatest, sluttiest, horniest virgin in the whole fucking world. If I hadn’t been soused at the time I’m sure I would have punched a hole in my pants. She was bending over my record collection (this was at the beginning of the CD age) as I sauntered up and asked, “Is there anything I can help you with, ma’am?" Works every time, callin’ ’em ma’am.

“Do you live here?" she asked, disbelieving.

“Yup,” I drawled. I usually drawled to hide my slurred speech when I was drunk. Worked, of course.

“Great record collection. Are a lot of these hard to find now?”

I took that as a kind way of implying that I was more than a little older than she was.

“I don’t actually know. In fact, I don't really listen to that many of them any more.” My way of implying that I was not that old.

I reached down and grabbed up “Synchronicity” by the Police and managed to hit the turntable with it. When the first song came out of the speakers, she started jumping up and down like a cheerleader, and with a high-pitched squeal shouted “Sting! I just love Sting!”

Jesus! I thought. I never said “Jesus” until then.

Continuing in the same overly girlish voice, she remarked, “This place is sooooooooo cool!” Brains, as you might guess, was not one of her strong points. Should have sent up a red flag or something. Didn’t though.

I was hooked. We danced a little, and that’s how it started.

I thought, at least for the next few months, that my whole formerly screwed up life was finally going to turn around. I swore off the booze, surprised at how I didn’t really miss it. Started having those daydreams where you imagine that you're going to live happily ever after. Red flag time? Hell, I was so blissed out I never saw it. Too busy putting my faith in someone other than me.

Her parents hated me. No, only her mother hated me, which I took to be a good sign. I am a firm believer that if a potential mother-in-law actually likes you then get the hell out of there. Not to worry, then. Her father seemed to not exactly dislike me, only to be extremely indifferent towards me.

“He’s only a teacher,” I think is what her mother said. Those were her exact words.

Oh, yeah! Like some fucking asshole lawyer would be better for her unbalanced, not-overly-bright daughter! Like I was the one that would have her lie across a bed with her pants pulled down around her ankles while someone beat the shit out of her with a belt! Like I was the reason that she would walk in her sleep at night and wind up on the living room floor in a fetal position, sucking her thumb, crying, yelling “No Daddy, don’t!” Yeah, I was the bad guy. Sure.

“He’s only a teacher,” I can still imagine her saying. Now here was somebody I could love to hate. I did not waste any time trying to win over “Mom,” instead, I concentrated on trying to get through to this girl's brain.

Talk about a hard case, she was a past master at keeping people at an emotional arm’s length.

She let me in, a little. I like to think she wanted to open up, only she lacked the ability, the proper training. I’d be fooling myself, though. It was then that the word “love” reared its ugly head.

Love had nothing to do with it when I splashed my best cologne down around my belly button when I was sure she would be “dropping by.”

Love had nothing to do with it when we would grind ourselves together in slippery abandon.

I finally realized that love had nothing to do with it only after we had long since parted. C’est la fucking vie!

She did finally open up, once. We were driving to Miami one weekend, one of those “let’s go somewhere and get a motel room and go nuts!” kind of deals, and on the interstate I saw a billboard that said, “Silent Screams—Abortion,” or something to that effect. I think my comment was, “They don’t tell you anything about why people choose abortion, do they?”

Set her off. Wouldn’t stop crying. “Who told you?” she kept screaming. “Who told You?”

Jesus. I had to pull over. Then, I asked her the question. Boom. Couldn’t believe I was hearing me say those words. Just popped out. She answered, kind of.

“You don’t fucking know me! You don’t even know who I am! You think that because everything seems to be going good between us, that because we have a sex life, that your fucking car payments are made, that everything is Hunky-Dory! Well, let me tell you Mister—things ain’t gonna keep goin’ your way anymore!”

We had a problem.

After it faded, which was only after a prolonged and enjoyable delving into the absolute dark side of relationship hell, I quit teaching. Jesus, I was only a teacher, anyway. I had doubts, you know. I went back to playing trash guitar again, which was how I made a living during my college years, and even though I wasn’t what you would call happy, I was at least comfortable. For a while.

My friends tried to shake me out of my decline, to no avail. They would come in and sit on the edge of the bed and plead with me to get up, to go somewhere with them, to do something. Tried their best, but I wouldn’t budge. I was reveling in my suffering—raising some new obsession to an art form. After months of deliberation, and only after sinking to extreme depths of a magnificent depression—self-inflicted mood—I decided to leave Florida. Got up one morning and just hit the road. Probably possessed by the spirit of Kerouac or something. I needed to escape.

I left a letter on the phone table telling my friends not to panic, that I’d be gone for a while. I think they were going to request a resignation from the “Organization for the Advancement of Intoxication and Certain Selected Social Diseases”—another name for the household—anyway. Oh well, I supposed most of my work to have been done. I simply walked out the door and down to the coastal highway.

Made my way back to Texas, and I found myself on the edge of a farm-to-market road, thumbs up, with only a guitar in hand. No clothes, but a little cash. My brain refused to shut up. Tried damn near everything to get it to. Had a thirty-two caliber piece of shit automatic pistol, pawn shop special, in my crotch. Just knowing it was there, right next to where I used to apply the cologne, gave me a perverse tranquility—steel blue peace of mind.

Out of the haze, a pickup pulled over, grey-fendered and everything. I threw my guitar in the back and climbed in. I slammed the door on the hot West Texas dust storm just coming up, relieved to find myself in air-conditioned comfort. I desperately wanted to see a neon sign. Any sign.

The driver was some old cowboy type, scraggily-bearded, with some middle-aged red-haired barfly sitting right next to him. It was evident that something a little stronger than dust was screwing with their brain cells.

“What in the hell are ya’ll doing here?” I politely drawled (yes, again), not really caring.

“Me and Cathy was gonna kill ourselves,” he said with purposeful hesitation, “but we didn’t have enough drugs!”

Oh great! Like that’s really conducive to good mental health!

“We’re goin’ to my brother’s place in Amarillo—he’s got a bar and shit and we can drink all the fucking gin we want and won’t have to pay shit, man!”

Jesus. I was feelin’ better already. They took a liking to me (I put on my best good-ole-boy facade for them) and convinced me to accompany them on their jaunt. I let them talk me into having a “little drink” just before making a final decision, though. Big mistake. I had so far managed to avoid alcohol in my plunge. Did it all on my own. A completely natural depression.

I kept going over the story, bit by bit, looking for an alternate ending, wishing for that second chance deal. Kept on going over the final part, imagining how her mother must have felt having to clean the blood out of the bathtub after it was all over. I kept thinking, “Should have done something!” Didn’t even go to the funeral.

The dust storm had rendered the city almost completely black as I looked out of my motel room in Amarillo. Could barely see across the street. I could tell, though, that the sun was just about to go down, so I went inside. I looked in the mirror and ask, “What in the hell are you doing here you good looking son of a bitch?”

I collapsed onto the bed with my guitar and my lies, blew the dust off the industrial-strength Bible, placed the pawn shop pistol on it, and drew comfort from the knowledge. Then I started to laugh. I laughed so fucking hard that I fell off the bed, and continued to laugh on the floor. Laughed until my stomach hurt.

“Shit,” I said to myself, “you don’t do funerals.”

I fell asleep on the floor, and I had this dream:

I am lying on the edge of a body of water, undrinkable and stale, and it is very hot—unbearably hot. I am dehydrated to the point that I am feeling physical pain every time I swallow. I can no longer see anything close to me, only that which is far away. I look up into the sky, a very blue sky, and see something between me and the sun. Buzzards. Hundreds of buzzards are flying and looking down at me. I am positive that they are looking at me! I can’t run. I can’t hide. I can find no trees to seek shade under. I am profoundly and terribly alone.

Just at the moment when I expect the buzzards to descend upon me, knowing that they will pick the flesh off my bones while I am still conscious, I suddenly notice that they are making the most beautiful dance across the sky. Zigzagging back and forth, they are flying in a repeating geometric pattern. It is a pattern that I must understand, but cannot.

I realize, before I awaken, that I am not ready to understand. I am not ready to dance. I am not ready to do that dance.

Don't Cancel the Mars Mission

I desperately need to get back home. I've obviously been left on this planet by mistake. I'm sure that the beings that left me here are ready to pick me back up, but the planet known as "Earth" doesn't seem to be friendly to visitors, at the moment.

Really. What does this planet offer intelligent beings? Good coffee?

Resources? There are obviously lots of other places with concentrations of desirable materials, probably offering such goods at better prices. From here, the universe looks like a pretty big place. At least to me. To some others, not so much.

I, myself, am cheap. I’ve worked on this lump of dirt in many capacities. My needs remain simple.

I’ve clawed my way to the top of some weird heap, where I get to use my brain to make money. Why, then, do I feel like a slave, ready to break out and steal a ship and escape to some new place? Someplace where there is real freedom? I suddenly want to have some healthy farm-type pigs just so I can take them with me to this new place.

Single White Guitarist in search of undiscovered free places. Call me. We’ll talk, or pretend to. Must like dogs and/or pigs. Pigs are smart. Smarter than horses. Do pigs dream?

I had this feverish dream, when I was about four years old and living in a four room farmhouse in West Texas, around 1960, where I understood that the Earth was about to be destroyed, and that I had been deposited with an Earthen family for experimental purposes. I “felt” the launching of the destruction. To this day, I remain unconvinced that it was a dream.

I would like to proclaim the experiment a success. I saw what could happen had missiles been launched. I cleaned my plate. I washed my hands after using the bathroom. I knelt in front of the steel lockers with my head between my legs. After the fever, I felt cleansed. I sought rewards.

I attempted to cut back on masturbation.

Not like now.

Looking at the Earth now, I can see how it might look like a big mess, especially from a reasonable distance.

Why is it that these tiny creatures insist on fighting? What is it about this thing called “war,” which is abominable in all respects, that continues to occupy so much creature time? Raping the land, polluting everything, no vision of future, no respect for past, depositing money in tax-free accounts, frowning on every other aspect of sexual activity while masturbating to the beat of the drum of power…

Surely the ships can come in without notice, here?

My bags are always packed.

Take me home. This does not feel like home, anymore.

Perhaps if I met you on Mars, it’d be an easier deal. You do accept Rat Terriers, don’t you? MasterCard? Visa?

I’d love to set up house on Mars. I’m sure I would feel more at home there than I do here.

This place is pretty fucked up.

Unfortunately, I don’t see it getting better anytime soon.

I long to go home, again. I’m ready for you to pick me up. Take me home.

Dogs Can't Fly

Painted maroon birdhouse, poised on broomstick in someone else's back yard, completely abandoned. Watching, as the sun sets behind the purple profile, knowing that no bird, in its right mind, will occupy that space.

While on a beer run, stumbled on an “asian” woman at Wal-Mart buying exotic beer without a ring on her slender finger. Her lingering glance back now sits on the old newsreel. I shall have her soon. Very soon. Especially now that I am in the market for a new woman.

I sometimes need a woman. They usually appear, in some form. Usually in the form of a woman. Makes them easier to deal with, if you ask me.

Give me a fresh ride into town.

Flaws in scripts. Plots that aren't plots at all. Miserable excuses at storytelling. Pluck me off of this roof. There, at least, presents the prospect of a bit of truth.

A bit of truth might make me feel better. My feeling better is irrelevant, of course.

I have come to realize that I sometimes border on becoming a decent human being only through my thorough training by dogs. To this day, I cannot sit down without circling the chair a couple of times.

I hate that my lies, of late, are merely for profit. I used to have higher standards for my lies. Money has corrupted my lies. My lies used to be pure. I used to revel in my ability to lie. I hope that those days are not long gone.

I like dogs. I'd like to be a dog, if I could keep my driver's license and shit. And still be able to ride a bike. Oh hell, that ain't gonna work. I'm still trapped in this flesh, and I shall have to use this machine for the time being. Trapped as a human being.

I shall have to pretend to be a human being, again. And again. And again. In all likelihood, I shall never have children. That pretty much precludes me from possessing the golden fleece, don't you think?

Funny how the brain works when the body moves.

Now, after sitting in the boardroom of a money-making bank and banging out my opinion on capitalism and charity, or lack thereof in the good old U S of A, and driving 262 miles to reunite with my dog, I feel that I am not only on top of the world, but in its deepest ditch at the same time, and not exactly happy to be there, but content.

It is a "matter of fact" feeling. I am just there. I am just here. I am stuck here.

I used to know an artist, and she warned me about myself. I should know better.

Still, I am here. I’m a dog. I ain’t moving into no birdhouse. I can’t fly.

Later,

AJ

Chapter 1: The End

“He stinks.” Jerry stated this with a matter of fact tone that might imply that his understatement was somehow intentional.

“Well, yeah, he’s been dead for three days. What’d you expect?” Will peered into the trunk, took a swig of whiskey, turned, and spat out part of his chew onto the ant bed nearby. The ants were not pleased – amusing Will to no end.

Ed's bloated face seemed to stare out of the trunk like he was looking for something. There was an intensity in the furrow of his brow, reminding them both that he had once been their leader. Ed was always taking them on adventures, usually against their will, but they were helpless against his persistent pleas. He always found just the right words to convince them that if they did not accompany him, they would somehow miss out on THE SINGLE MOST IMPORTANT EVENT IN THEIR LIFETIMES.

Ed’s plans, when he had them, usually degenerated into a mish mash of haphazard mistakes and near misses. Ed was lucky, though. Well, up until recently. Now he was dead, pumped full of embalming fluid.

Will continued, “Ed, you dumb sombitch. Even dead, you’re getting us into trouble. If they catch us, we’ll go to jail fer sure.” He stuck his arms into the trunk and grabbed Ed’s feet, dragging him out without much effort at elegance. Ed’s body hit the ground with a hollow thud, further angering the ants.

“Shit,” Jerry suddenly yelled, and started shaking his right leg like a madman. “Gawdamn ant bit me!”

Will grinned and spat again. “Let’s get this over with.”

Years before, they had made a pact that when one of them died, the others would snatch the body, drive it to the country, and burn it on a pile of mesquite. West Texas was never lacking in piles of mesquite. It was Ed’s idea, but when he came up with the brainstorm, he obviously wasn’t planning on being the first to go. Not Ed. Not the lucky Ed.

Jerry, still enraged by the ant, started mashing every ant he could find with the heels of his snakeskin boots. It was a comical dance. Will watched and muttered, “Like you used to say, Ed, he ain’t overly bright.”

After a short rest, and several swigs of whiskey, the two men managed to drag Ed’s body on top of the mesquite pile. Standing there, with the sun starting to set, an orange glow settled in, along with an eerie stillness. Not typical for this part of Texas, this time of year.

It had been surprisingly easy to get Ed out of the funeral home. They waited until lunch time, and when everybody was out, they just walked in the back door and carried him out. For grins, they left two eighty-pound bags of cement in the casket. Jerry inquired, “Will, why does cement come in eighty-pound bags? I mean, why not fifty, or a hunnerd? Why eighty?”

Will mused, “He ain’t overly bright.”

Jerry poured gasoline from an old milk jug onto the base of the mesquite pile, getting it ready to set ablaze. The sun was just about to go down, and the two men took one last look at Ed’s face. Will reached over and flicked an ant off of Ed’s nose. It landed on Jerry, sending him into another dancing fit.

It was only then that they realized that neither of them had bothered to bring matches. Jerry spent a good ten minutes scouring the car for matches, a lighter, something to start a fire. “Will, why don’t you do some of that fucking boy scout voodoo and rub some sticks together or something?” Will had been a rising star in the scouting program, until he was discovered banging little Nancy Anderson in a scout tent at some camporee thing.

Ed got a kick out of it, and even got his girlfriend to sew a fake merit badge for “banging.” They even held a little ceremony when they gave it to him. Ed’s girlfriend held the badge up to his face and asked him, “What do you think?”

Ed replied, “Suzy, you have excellent fine motor skills.”

Jerry let out a loud “yeah,” and slammed the car door. He had a book of matches in his hand. Will looked at them.

They read, “Bill’s Bait and Tackle. If we don’t have it, you don’t need it.”

The fire started slowly, and then built into an outright bonfire. The two men stood and watched, passing the bottle between them. The stillness was interrupted when a sudden gust of wind sent a burst of smoke from the fire, engulfing the men as they drank.

“He stinks,” Jerry repeated. About that time, another ant bit him, sending him into yet another manic dance attack.

“Gawdamnit!”

Will spat, shook his head, and muttered, “He ain’t overly bright.”

As they drove away, Will watched the orange glow slowly recede in the rear view mirror. The dust followed them into the approaching night.

What is an engineer?

I can't help but recall a classic episode of "The Beverly Hillbillies," where Jethro is going to school (like the 4th grade or something) and he is happy to think about becoming an "engineer" someday.

So, he goes around wearing a railroad "engineer" type of hat, picks it off of his head, and voices "woo, woo" like a train whistle.

Engineering is more of a philosophical approach to problem solving, for me. Could be applied to lots of things -- software, sound, toilets...

Next thing you know, a bunch of people will proclaim that they are a "royal" society of engineers, or some such crap. As most anal-retentive individuals forming societies tend to be, I find such pseudo-intellectual frivolity a royal pain in the arse.

Bandwidth?

I hear people talking about "bandwidth." I guess it's supposed to be a good thing. Room, you know. Room for shit to move down the old pipe.

It's one o' those terms from computingland that made its way into the vernacularic universe...

Ever watch the sun come up? I mean from early on? The fading of the light is a lot like sunset, only backwards.

Note to self: Forget about the "Books on Charmin" scheme. No. Wait. How 'bout "Bible on Charmin?" People could read Corinthians while taking a crap.

"When I was a child,
I crapped like a child."

Maybe not...