Friday, December 23, 2011

The Meth Lab Family Friendly Christmas Special (it's about Jesus & your grandparents) featuring: Brian Fugget

Grotesque Finger Puppets

I am the pastor
of grotesque
finger puppets
irresistible groans
& slimy white things
that crash into the windshield
of your Toyota Highlander
during a roadtrip

i am the flaw
in your grandma's linoleum
that vaguely
the lifeless foreskin
of a circumcised elf

i am the bed sores
& golden showers
that dictate
the law of gravity
in your

i am the
5’ 7” muscle bound
steroid freak
whose hairy asshole
comes equipped
with abnormally advanced
teleportation devices
that rival that
of Captain Kirk’s
USS Enterprise

and if you
rub me the wrong way
i will zap
a set of
skid marks
straight into
your Fruit-of-the-Looms
that are harder to wipe
than a chalkboard
marred with
magic marker and spray paint

but alas,
all of this could be avoided
if someone was just willing
to finger my puppet.


Rumor has it,
Mrs. Lapaglia
from room 102
has been ostracized
from the recreation hall
for calling false bingos,
& Dickie Kaplan,
that deaf-mute fella
from room 302
who spends every day
splayed on the floor
imitating the gestures
of inanimate objects,
used to be a mime,
& old Louise
from room 252
is accusing
the orderlies
of trying
to impregnate her
with sperm tainted enemas,
& Mr. Padgit,
the retired
drill instructor
from room 182
thinks his neck brace
is a clerical collar,
so he wanders
the halls
like a faith healer,
slapping the forehead
of every resident
he encounters.

Refrigerated whispers perpetuate the revolution

two dozen tongues
are shackled
to a lisp.

all correspondence

a deafening
drenches the

8 lbs of headache
sinks into
a vat of
pancake batter.

the army
will eat good

even though
the mimes
refuse to


6:37 p.m.
the café reeks
of dead matches
& stale cigarettes;
my mouth tastes
like a salmonella sandwich
& all i got is a cold cup of coffee
& yesterday’s paper.

a bible study group
congregates at the next table,
there is at least a dozen of them,
young, tattooed & pierced
sipping on skinny caramel lattes
& cappuccinos; their heads nod
in unison to a chorus of “AMENS”
while their eyes blaze
with pent-up holy-fire
begging to be released.

they join hands & engage in
a round of prayer
that gradually disintegrates
into conspiratorial whispers
stifled giggles
suspicious glances
& i am seized
by a sudden paranoia
& my imagination runs amok:
‘are they a doomsday cult?’
‘are they planting the seeds of
a terrorist crusade for god?’

there is a tension in the air
as one of them points
at a maroon chevy
in the parking lot
& mutters something
about the offensive ‘DARWIN’
bumper sticker & how the owner
is going to burn in hell
& then there is a round
of hideous snickers, amens,
& hallelujahs.

i get nervous & want to leave
but i am too afraid
because that is my maroon chevy
& i don’t want to become the 1st casualty
of their holy war.


as scientists
are breeding
Darwinian nuns
in the embryo orphanage
while every night
in the world
a remarkable 2.7 million
kamikaze moths
as a result
of dive bombing
porch lights
& contrary to popular belief
9 out of 10
laboratory monkeys
prefer to copulate
missionary style
& an astonishing 35%
of all proctologists
as puppeteers
& an even more astonishing
73% of all puppeteers
as proctologists.

Monday, December 19, 2011

Ocean Beach Bathroom Observations by: Pantifesto's Porntastic Phunhouse/FM

Ocean Beach. San Diego, CA, Amerika: 10:00am
* * * * * * * *

The Subjects are deposited at the corner of Newport and Cable Street, after dropping acid 10,000 feet in the air over the Chihuahua desert a couple of hours earlier... Voltaire St. is somewhere in the close vicinity. All signs point to east of their location, but they're holding onto gravity by the grains of sand on the sidewalk and the shifty eyes of encroaching pelicans, who only want the weed.

The first stop is the bathroom and the epiphany afterwards, proceeds as follows:

"I'm usually apalled by the amount of filth in there. Today, there is ample toilet paper in the stalls because it's early in the morning and all the street people ain't washed with the entirety of the pink soap in the dispenser yet."

When they finally make it to the beach itself, Subject A writes something down about the woman closest to Subject B's proximity:

Lady in a pink
skirt with your
cat at the beach your
cat on a leash
don't want no
bath in the
ladies room at
the lifeguard station

Subject B is amused by the anecdote, hysterically amused in fact, but is distracted somewhat by a full bladder and the violet reflection emitting from the sun, or the waves, or the sand, or Subject B's photoreceptor cells, which Subject B is convinced have betrayed Subject B in every sense of the word.

Subject B talks about the early 90's hit: The Wizard, starring Fred Savage, Christian Slater, and some autistic kid who never made it farther than "California...California." because that's all the little shit ever talked about...

Subject B can hold it no longer, and treks off to the Lifeguard Station, feeling like a saturated Rimbaud with one leg. Subject B releases.

Meanwhile, Subject A has become fascinated with the catwoman, the cat's bathing rituals and the cat frolicking aimlessly in the sand dunes, AS FAR AS ITS LEASH WILL ALLOW. Catwoman, has turned on her i-pod, wears no headphones, and dances with the cat, AS FAR AS ITS LEASH WILL ALLOW.

The monologue goes accordingly:

Lady with your
cat on the leash
with your chunky
ass in a
yellow sunset bikini

I ain't tryin to
hear no Korn
song right now
put your pink
skirt back
on & quit tryin
to sing it to
me silently.

Subject B returns from Lifeguard Station after crying profusely at the urinal and urinating for what seemed like 2 years, but in all actuality was only 20 minutes.

Subject B relates the experience to Subject A, via telepathy, hand gestures and simultaneous verbal communication techniques. The technique is not lost upon Subject A, who has become incredibly attuned to the little revelations one experiences when frequenting the semi-sanitary bathroom stalls. Subject B saw no such thing. Subject B, peed into a hole in the wall with a bowl of water at his feet. Subject B thinks of Henry Miller's recollections on French Urinals in The Black Spring, specifically A Saturday Afternoon:

Subject B thinks of his own life:

"with intense blues and luminous greens, the life of sin and grace and repentance, a life of high yellows and golden browns, of winestained robes and salmon-colored streams"

"So I finish up, and I turn around and this guy has obviously been standing behind me for the entire 20 minutes, and I got tears staining my cheeks, which I feel like everyone can see even with these sunglasses on. So I go to the sink to wash my hands and there's no soap, or the soap dispenser has evaporated. I don't know, but I'm standing there, my hands are already under the faucet, the place is crowded with tweekers or what I perceive are tweekers, and the only thing I can think to do is sprinkle my eyes with penis water, and split real quick... For a moment, I almost screamed out: You've left me no choice San Diego! You drove me to this!"

Subject A is equally amused by Subject B's bathroom anecdote, which has peaked Subject A's interest once more.

Subject A makes off for the Lifeguard Station, and Subject B wonders if she really has to go that much or is it more or less for the experience and the observations...Subject A admits to nothing, for the moment, but later confides that yes, Subject A did have a full bladder, but Subject A was mesmerized by her previous findings and felt compelled to return to the scene of the crime, so to speak.

The relevance of the evidence was uncanny and well documented:

"Looks like someone shit on the wall in there. The Lifeguards go in and throw cat litter where it had dribbled down...I feel like Dexter, examining the blood splatter pattern of a mutilated corpse...Somebody drew an arrow pointing to the mess and asked: Does it take a real concentrated effort to shit like that on the wall?"

The mystery is never solved. The catwoman has disappeared. The waves have finally broken back, the surfers are leaving and the orange juice is completely gone.

Subject B asks Subject A:

"You down for some fish tacos?"

All signs point to yes...emphatically so.

The acid is still pulsing through their bloodstreams when they get back on the plane, a mere 4 hours later. Albuquerque is colder than usual, as they make their final descent before landing...

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

With All The Slimy Bases Covered A Review of : Tales From A French Envelope (Catfish McDaris & Craig Scott) By: Frankie Metro

… If money is an iguana eating a jackalope, as Catfish Mcdaris suggests in the short prose piece: Jackalope Condoms, then free books are either named Ana or Jack, and have furry horns sprouting from their scaley spines. Allow me first off, to thank Craig Scott for the new bundle of joy I received in the mail today. Children like this live in the French Envelope Catfish & Craig left out to dry in the deserts of the Independent Press Community.

Warning: Don’t approach this book looking for new spiritual landscapes or cognitive plateaus. Instead, floss your gums regularly, start now if you have to, and be open to a series of prods and pokes.

As you progress, there is a pungent smell of burning meat, or a burning sensation, possibly in the pubic zone if you’re that type of person, that follows you around the house, even after you put the book down. Sometimes the meat is sweetly rancid:

Deep & Deeper

“The Commanche was fanning that burning meat and chanting. Before long I felt this strange sensation. You know how your hemmorhoids burn, after too many hot peppers? That’s about as close as I can come to an explanation…”

Sometimes the burning is painfully familiar:

Fuck You

I’m a suicide.
You’re my letter.

You don’t care for responsibility.
You never inform the authorities
of my death.
You meet some douchebag in a bar and
elope to Vegas.

My bones mail you
my middle finger.

Catfish McDaris’ poem:

Willy Gets Chilly

is like a stash of retrospection, finally discovered bobbing along in the reservoir of your toilet, or a dopemine rush that’s justified, tried and true.

Creepy Uncle Willy was the last resort,
but my parents had to go to a funeral,
getting into my pajamas, I noticed girlie
books in the bathroom, I was soon
walking the monkey, Uncle Willy yelled

You naughty boy, now I’m going to spank you…

Blood exploded from his nose & his eyeballs
rolled white like hard boiled eggs, the cops
came & called my folks…

Everyone’s heard the creepy Uncle story; some have written the creepy Uncle poem; (C.M.) exorcises the creepy Uncle demons:

…the preacher asked if anyone
wanted to say a few words, I stood & said
he was right, it did hurt him more than me.

Page 43’s poem:

Godzilla Doesn’t Play Butler

makes the completely ludicrous seem completely feasible, and not only that but also tactfully orchestrated:

I took off all my
clothes & stroked
my lizard until it
resembled Godzilla
stomping Tokyo

Walking into the living
room I set the cake
on the coffee table
I heard a woman
say “Damn”

I asked “Anyone
want meat with
their cake?” a few
hands went up…

while Catfish’s: Tiger Skin Blues is a place where the only difference between magic squirrels and tree rats is the size of your twig & berries:

“Cruz’s heart was broken into a million pieces. Her tears could’ve filled the Gulf of México. Antonio couldn’t survive on ordinary cat food; he hit his eighth life quick. Cruz had him made into a rug and there she slept, until she died of boredom and a lonely heart.”

Ah, Southwest Catfish Cassady & The Bob Dylan Pig Truck Blues…Catfish seems to always be in a race with death; not the death of the body, but the death of the self-image, immersing himself in pig shit and hot sauce on occassion, and hauling ass to Tucumcari or bust.

Taking Down The Shakedown

is vigilante justice/México City standoffs on public transit/bagmen/cold earth/a hot day/and no supervision:

The México City pickpockets
worked the luxury buses in
wolf packs, razor blades
concealed between fingers

Swift dips of eagle talons
into purses & wallets,
handing off to second men
the watchers ever vigilant…

On page 55, you find that

There’s No Cure For True Love

and this is an adverse reaction to domestication; an unspayed, unneutered, ill-tempered jackalope, with two hyper-active sex organs, who cares nothing about the topic:

“You ask what would reduce a man to such worm like behavior? Did she have beauty, intelligence, a great body, a pleasant personality? No, an emphatic no, to any of those good qualities. She was a cunt in every sense of the word. She squandered his hard earned money, cheated with every man stupid enough to screw her. She had body odor and bad breath…”

When you’re finally:

Face To Face

with his contribution to this book, the color coated, hairy flavored slime trail it’s left on your tongue is hard to describe, but in the company of Catfish, you find out Jeffrey Dahmer’s been standing across the page, and you’ve traveled just a stanza or one paragraph too far down a dark alley.
* * *

You turn the corner, and Craig Scott’s portion starts off like a free dance at the strip-bar, followed by a private show wth no panties or bra.

The poem:

Bachelor Party Guidelines

reads as a continuously revised string of advice, completely unheeded of course, but unabashedly acknowledged all the same:

You can impregnate,
but make sure it doesn’t
come to term.

You can bring it to term,
but don’t claim it
as your own.

You can claim it as your own,
but don’t spend any time
with it…

The Other

is a full scale model of the late Todd Moore in drag, a hairy kneed poem with silk stockings and a .38 Snub-Nose…holy, ripped, ready for action:

was too
at Petal’s
to notice
her pulling
the 38
out from
the pillow.
One was
the size of
the other.
Her nipples
got hard
when she
shot him
in the

Craig seems to pry his characters from the steel reinforced confines of oversized tuna cans in some instances; cans containing wet pink flesh, cans with serrated chew marks on the label, cans with chunks of stem cells… chaotic, suck-fucking hybrids that blame their idle hands, which never fully developed.

He sleeps with would-be assassins when The End is near:

“My left eye feels like a balloon filling with water. We fight and fuck and ignore the cat vomit in the bed…”

giving them the choice of either the crow’s nest or the wet spot in the bed.

By the time you’re left with the question:

(pg. 156)

she is the only answer you have left:

why is it
she’s had tits since 12
known how to suck a dick since 13
how to eat pussy since 9…

why is it
you haven’t known her forever
but yet you have

She is tucked neatly at the slimy base of a French Envelope. There is still time to save her, before the glue really dries…

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Simply Brutal Series featuring: Michele McDannold III. OF III.



“For your information gangsta poetry in this country isn’t Bukowski’s invention, it’s mine. I’ve been making this kind of stuff since 1970 give or take. And, it has nothing to do with Bukowski’s style or subject matter. Bukowski was the pornagrapher of pussy and a damned good one at that. I’m the pornographer of violence.”

stop sucking on Todd Moore's Dead dick

ode to the bullet-wielding
dillinger dogma
poems I don't get
but ur take of them
is worse
or ur take of him is worse
I guess
I never knew him
or you
but feeling fully qualified
to pass judgement
in poetic form

I find it
and sucking his dead dick
it's just in bad taste
(end poem)

the corpse of Tim Murray

still has reddish hair
and wears glasses
like heaven in a cup
smells like pumpkins
and whip cream
don't judge me for
sniffing his sweater vest
i'm lost on the highway
between Popesville
and Agnostica
Broncho John
is weeping

when you're gone

let there be hamsters for all
and depends undergarments
just in case
may there be poetry grenades
sloshing around the room
til we're all sloshing
to that private tune
that drives Danny's Big Banana
I have never sent a poem that rhymes
to anyone else that matters
and when you're gone
I still won't tell
that one secret
but I can't speak for that
guy sleeping/not sleeping
on the chaise lounge
will probably tell

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Simply Brutal Series featuring: Michele McDannold II. of III.

this bored housewife

plots death by poison on odd days
mornings only
when the kids are gone
and the crock pot's set to high

cuts the hair from your head during the full moon
binds it with duct tape to a piece of ham
while the street is dark
and the dirt is warm

rather than controls
the desire for witch-inspired zombie sex


this bored housewife
has a recipe book
that's time-locked
with a tequila switch

she's just waiting
til she can't anymore


my epic poem is a list of groceries
sorted by things I can buy
generic and not
the hero is a box of Pop-Tarts
because let's face it
nobody else can get the filling right
you get the picture?

next to my bed is
the stepford wives
ear plugs
and a basket of lubes, lotions
and creams
for not having sex
for not looking younger
for not healing
the hole in my head

Note to the Better Half

I miss the smell of mass deviation
of latino santa sweat
and artie's chronic n gun oil
I miss the pulse of drunk transit at 3am
black hookers in white wigs
and white pimps in purple satin
I miss the homeless junkies
and the rest stop houses
with sound systems
too big to fit
and fuckers too drunk to shoot, not fuck
I miss the rain that flooded my car
the stink that followed
and the body parts that washed up

yes, I miss being in love
on the run
and even pawning my only diamond
someday soon they'll be a note void of tears
and dinners in the icebox
that freeze a lot better than I do.

Monday, November 28, 2011

Simply Brutal Series featuring: Michele McDannold I of III.

Cash Business

Don’t send it
the waxing poetic
is a stick fuck
if I imagined in colors it would be
black and blackblue
if it had feelers, velvet
and punk renditions of showtunes
it’s true that I paint it up to avoid reality
and it’s ugly like that
I suppose that’s the point
in the end
everyone pays for truth


We were loaded...
skimmin’ down Morton Ave.
at 4 am,
searching for the end of the fog
where the neon light calls

you had a counter seat,
cup o’ Joe,
the crumbled-up bag at your feet.
laughin’ through your story
drop of coffee in your `stache.

“... so he pulls up and says
he’s got a bag of canned food for a date.
Ain’t that shit funny?
Check it out! I ain’t kiddin’.”

Juicy brown spit flying on pocket amusement.
(Flo caught it on her uniform sleeve, mortified)

A split-second, maybe a full-tick–
a moment between those two
like the liquid in the torpedo shaped plug in lights
blob o blob, floating, suspended.
Realization squirming up uncomfortable mechanisms
of fate blown anguish.
Curtains up. Omega!

I wasn’t sure who to feel sorry for.


doesn't it just suck shit that I am not cool. I am not the idea of your black death suck. there is no breathing demon blood in vain. and, well we don't sell happiness here either. got out of that business long ago, but I do believe in magic and since I can find peace in that joy; silly will do. I think I'll be alright.

Friday, November 25, 2011

Black Friday Specials Featuring Bud Smith


i always wanted a gun
now i got you
and you're a beauty
i aim you at animals,
then drag them
into the fire
you set,
inside the cage
of my ribs


your cheerleader prayers
and your communion song book
adorned with medals of war devoid of bluebirds
i'm a dog of mud puddles
through my teeth slip a cry
that no museum preserve
that no cop shine his shine light
that no devil open like a can of tuna
to suck the fish water into a mouth wide cursed
your kiss of gold sets my skull into decision
that in this place i am settled
in this place i am yours
shake your pom poms on me
sing your song of God way out of key
pet my wet fur and scratch the fear
from behind my supersonic ears
I am a transporter of insects
and a sideline watcher of your gift of fire

The Devil Has The Best Tuna Pictures, Images and Photos


when things hurt it’s easier to be funny
than to sit there dying with everybody looking
all the glory of medicine and the threat of rain
the mice in the walls &
overtime parking fines unpaid
why does everybody have a balcony
to watch us waiting for them to leave?
why don’t we put up some iron ore curtains
to keep out the neighborhood radiation?
I get the feeling that if the fire is not in your apartment
it's going to be everywhere else
so lets just stay in and be private
rather than turn to ash.
when things hurt it’s easier to be funny
than to sit there dying with everybody looking


I will be your only friend
if everybody else puts their hearts back in their suitcases
I'll still be on the lawn
with a space for you in my arms and a notch for you in my spine
I don't blame you at all
though it'd be easy to accuse you of rain clouds and extinctions
you're a comfort to me
when everybody else is a scab that I can't help picking til it's a scar
you know a lot about my dog
and I fed your cat while you were away even though I wanted him to die
love is a battery jumped by another car
that finds you on the side of the road
love is the frozen meat thawing on the counter
love is the search for missing persons after major disasters
though common sense says that they are dead
no common sense in love

I'll take/save the change out my pockets
and I'll buy you a bulletproof vest for judgement day stitched with roses
I'll paint the hospital bed your favorite color
and then I'll burn it so that you'll never have to lay down and squirm
I'll catch all of the birds and make them into a blackbird pie
but you won't have to eat it if you don't like. just know why.
you're a saint in my nights
when everybody else has devoured my birthday cake
love is the guesstimates that are somehow 100% accurate
& allow the sun through the fog to come back up
love is a broken window that we climb through
to get out of the goddamn rain
love is getting stabbed in the neck and having somebody
to close the wound with their mouth
so that you can never die.

PSS burning bed Pictures, Images and Photos

Tuesday, November 15, 2011




Saturday, November 12, 2011

3 poems by: Jason Ryberg


with apologies to The Electric Prunes,
Quentin Tarantino and Lawrence Ferlinghetti

with the ab-so-lutely hypnotic,
interstellar-black hair

and maliciously exposed mid-riff

(meaning that radioactive area between,
but also including,
upper-most hip bone
and lower-most rib)
asked me to stay
past last call, promising

to spirit me away
from it all (meaning, I suppose,

my otherwise meaningless life

of de-meaning, semi-skilled toil

and celibate drudgery)
to some as yet undisclosed,

but no doubt, exotic locale
for a volatile psycho/

sexual concoction which she guaranteed

would be equal parts intensive research

into the depths of human depravity

and dogged dedication to exhausting

my mental,

physical and

moral reserves.

I immediately snorted awake,
hours later,
sprawled Golgotha-like
on my living room floor,
my moment of truth
too good to be anything but

a cruel, booze fueled dream,

an alcoholic alien abduction
leaving me

and discombobulated in its wake,
wearing nothing but

a t-shirt and a single black sock (with

big toe protruding through
as if to say “helllooooooo”),

front door and fridge wide open,

every light in the house on
and blazing

like a mid-day desert sun,

one hand clamped on some kind of

suspicious looking Dagwood sandwich,

the other around a half-full beer,

a movie blaring out
into the early morning dark

for all the good people
of the neighborhood to hear,
someone sinister saying,
"shiiit, he musta thought
it was white boy day.
It aint white boy day,is it?

"Naw, man,
it aint white boy day."


Oh, by the way,
I ran into an incarnation
of The Buddha the other day
(and a strange variation, I gotta say),
with a mile-high pompadour,
razor-sharp chops and wrap-around shades.
He was comin' out of Davey's Stagecoach Inn
as I was walkin' in like it was fate that
we were somehow supposed to meet, there-in,
('cause I could see it in his eye
and I could tell he could see it in mine).
So, I said I'd been contemplating, lately,
the idea of entering a monestary,
at which he smiled, placidly, in that placid,
all-knowing Buddha sort of way, and asked me "why",
to which I artfully parried with "perhaps
you could first provide an example of what
a proper response might sound like"
but he just replied with "there are no proper
or improper answers, only
the questioning and the answering,"
to which I then said, "purple,"
at which he smiled again and, with what I'd swear
was a tear forming in the corner of his eye, said,
"very wise, little cricket, very wise."
So, of course I shot him where he stood
(you know, just to watch him die);
the Great Modern American Mantra repeating
happily ever after in my mind,
"Why ask why,
why ask why,
why ask why?"

Baby Buddha Pictures, Images and Photos


Sometimes, when,
for no reason at all, even,
I'll just bolt upright
(like I been on the road too long
and almost nodded off at the wheel
and then suddenly snap to)
from one of those
deep-freeze sleeps of the senses
that the modern man-in-the-street
seems to be so prone to,

somewhere along the tracks
of my (admittedly extreme) elliptical path
around The Creator's mountain-top tower,

I can never remember, exactly,

whether I'm supposed to be
playing the part of a mouse
in the eye of a falcon,
a falcon in the eye of a storm,
a storm in the eye of The Creator
(of all mice, men, falcons and storms),

or, the "I" somewhere near
the core of a poem
(about a guy, by the way,
that's dreaming he's a mouse
(that's dreaming
it's just some guy,
not a king, not a big shot, not a hero,
just a regular dude)),

a poem forever revolving
around its own foci
like a stake that it's been chained to,

a poem that, according to
the latest estimates and indicators,
will more than likely remain,
for the rest of its unremarkable life,

completely unnoticed.

Jason Ryberg is the author of seven books of poetry,
six screenplays, a few short stories, several angry
letters to various magazine and newspaper editors,
and a box full of folders, notebooks and scraps of paper
that could one day be (loosely) construed as a novel.
He is currently an artist-in-residence at The Prospero
Institute of Disquieted Poetics and an aspiring b-movie actor.
His latest collection of poems is Down, Down and Away
(co-authored with Josh Rizer and released by Spartan Press).
He lives in Kansas City, Missouri with a rooster
named Little Red and a billygoat named Giuseppe.
Feel free to look up his skirt at

Sunday, October 2, 2011

A POEM I DREAMED UP by: Craig Scott

In a dream I wrote a poem with the title "upon learning Bukowski once received a 'fan' letter smeared with feces."

I imagined Garrison Keillor reading it in his dull monotone to a roomful of horrified elderly Midwesterners.

This made me giggle like a 10-year-old thinking about boobies.

I debated the title, using shit instead of feces just so Keillor would say shit, but stuck with feces because feces is a funnier word.

In the dream I read this poem at the Bowery & it went over well, so I read it whenever I read at an open mic & people came up to me afterward and complimented me on the poem except the time I read it at a colon cancer benefit-- few found it appropriate.

In the dream I printed out a copy of the poem & carried it with me wherever I went, even to the weekly public executions in Central Park. An arsonist whose fires killed 3 families was hung & after his bowels evacuated I read the poem.

A black guy passing by called me one crazy white boy.

& then I woke up & wrote this feces.

Bukowski Toilet Pictures, Images and Photos

Friday, September 23, 2011

Missing Merlot

I'm completely baffled as to when, or how...well, maybe not so much how, but when, mind you, we stopped seeing eye to eye. But, this is a horrible way to start things off. Yes, a horrible introduction to what could possibly be a long winded explanation. Someone in the background, may even alert you to the tidbit that:

"Sometimes if you take a lighter to the end of it, the flame makes it flow better."

But, we haven't really begun. You don't even know these people yet. Neither do I for that matter. So, the ending is completely irrelevant at this juncture.

Paulo and Marissa do not even know themselves in all honesty. At least, they are unaware of how their personalities, which purely revolve around elements of their tumutltous marriage-their lavish expense accounts and exploits within the confines of their fully-comped suites at the Wyndham Hotel and Resort or their vile senses of humor and subtle swinger innuendos-affect those around them.

As far as first impressions are concerned, Paulo ÿ Marissa will shower their guests with over-zealous gifts and cheer. All the wine corks are popped. All the food is cooked and shared. All the sheeshah and sativa...smoked openly amongst new and old friends alike. All is offered under the pretext that nothing is deprived or expected, save for the occasional endurance of their behavior.

'Mî cåsa és su cåstîllo!'

It's soon revealed, and truthfully I had my suspicions from the start, that there are always ulterior motives in such arrangements. In fact, through exposure to such conditions-where the wine is opened, but you/I will soon be suspected of stealing a bottle or two without just cause...where all the food is cooked and shared, only to be weighed, denied and hidden somewhere down the road...where the sheeshah and sativa are smoked openly, until imaginary tabs begin to tally unbeknownst to you/I-then you begin to wonder if all human inter-relations do not come with some hidden agenda attached there with...

like a purple-heart for being injured in battle.

You begin to wonder if the source for all decency, compassion and understanding is not directly associated with a lack of conviction, subversive investigation and ultimately, a timely execution.

"But it's okay. We don't have to get along." Paulo said, hunched over the kitchen counter like an obese citadel. "We don't have to feel comfortable around each other-because we're giving you and Lisa two hours to pack your shit and get out."

There was no change in his inflection. His beady eyes did their best to look in any direction but straightforward as he spoke.

"Are you for real man? It's like that all of a sudden?" I asked, calmly rolling my cigarette on the patio, the sliding-glass door the only barrier between two reinforced egos...wide open.

"Well, we can't trust you guys at the house while we're not here. So, you got until I go to bed so we won't have anymore issues like-"

"Dude! We didn't take your fucking wine bottles okay?" I interrupted, paying close scrutiny to my left hand which had begun to shake slightly. "We drink for free at the Slice Parlor; and we drink beer. Fuck! When's the last time you even seen us drink wine 'cept for when your family was here a couple of months ago?"

"We never said you guys stole them." Paulo's chest began to take in a heavy gust of dog-piss-error as he stepped out onto the patio. "But I saw Lisa's MAC charger plugged in next to the wine rack the night before they came up missing. So-"

"That doesn't mean shit and you know it!" I said. "You motherfuckers misplace shit around here all the time!"

Paulo lifted the top of the grill and furiously poked at the charbroiled chicken he had left to the flame out of carelessness.

"Well, you guys got all torn up and defensive when I asked if you had seen them."

"Yea! Because you called minutes before I walked into work...talking about how you may have to kick everyone out of the house. I mean, how did Edwin (another roommate) react when you asked him about it?"

Paulo sunk into one of the iron-mesh chairs. A cloud of dust and arrogance sprung from his ass. "He didn't take it like you guys did. I'll say that much."

"Well," I replied. "I have to be honest-" As I began, Marissa, who before this moment had been looming at the end of the couch inside, and who had kept a busy ear to the conversation's unraveling, suddenly stepped outside to stand behind her husband's left, crooked shoulder, as a sign, I am assuming, of solidarity in their hasty decision. I continued on, unphased by the display of unison. "I've been harboring some shit against you for a while now. I don't know what Edwin's (who is blacker than an onset cavity) feelings are on the matter, but, I did not appreciate you yelling:

'Where the niggers at? I'm hunting for niggers!'

when I was half-asleep in my room a couple of weeks ago. That was a really fucked up thing to say to us and you never apologized to me, or him, for acting like a drunken, retarded bigot."

Marissa rubbed his shoulders while Paulo glanced over his back and into the East mountains of Albuquerque that lay quiet in the distance. "Dude. It's my house." He caressed Marissa's hand, who still refused to make eye contact with me herself. "I can say whatever the fuck I want."

"I understand that...but if you're going to say that stuff, maybe you shouldn't invite two African-Americans to live in your house, or, if you do, be more aware of how your spontaneous racial epitaphs-"

"Wow! Spontaneous racial epigrams! Breaking out the big words on us 'illiterate' types eh?" Paulo stood forcibly from his seat. "Look Anton, I don't see what the big deal is. I mean, fuck dude, I call my dogs (two poodles and a miniature Yorkie named Joker) niggers all the time man!" Marissa looked me dead in the eye at this, as a crocodile's smile finally revealed itself. "Sides...Why are we even talking right now? I don't see the point. You're wasting precious time that you could use to pack right now."

Paulo went for the door as I jumped up and cut him off at the pass, giving him my back to consider. "Plunge the knife deeper." I said, as I made my way for the room. "Fucking Judas!" I knew right away, he would not understand the Biblical reference.

JUDAS Pictures, Images and Photos

But then, there were many things that Paulo misunderstood and of course, as often is the case, his stupidity was not all of his own measure, but more or less a by-product of his superfluous upbringing. Once, he had recanted a story from his youth, where he was accosted by the A.P.D. for methamphetamine possession and distribution within 1,000 yards of a local school district. The charges were very severe and in a bout with desperation while incarcerated, he turned to the only person he felt he could rely upon, his father, who had reasonable connections within the judicial system.

"I'll get you out of this one. But I want you to stop fucking around and get your shit straight...or you're cut off. You hear me?"

Of course, Paulo agreed to the terms of his tenative release and as the years passed , tucked safely beneath the wings of famîliå and influence, turned his talents as a meth dealer into hard-nosed sales tactics at a print shop in Albuquerque. Unfortunately, the experience did little for his overall intelligence and made him even more obsessed with the American dollar-its subsequent influence and the almost euphoric sensation he received from constantly counting the odds and ends...

home invasion Pictures, Images and Photos

Monday, September 12, 2011

3 Poems from Misti Rainwater-Lites

Dead Like Bacon

Most of the marriages around me are dead like

chewy not crispy bacon and I’m not talking

about the bacon you put in the goddamn

microwave I’m talking serious old school

skillet sizzling thick slab real pork not turkey

bacon here. Marriages are dead and not

fertilizing much of anything. Take Mark

his wife is beautiful the stuff of mythology

and I’m not talking about Medusa or Baba

fuckin’ Yaga. I’m talking Betty Boop but

with a smaller head. Mark’s wife is one

bodacious bitch but his hands were all

over my thighs as the three of us looked

up at the stars from the bed of my truck

and she was too spaced out on pineapple

wine coolers to notice. When it comes time

to find a lost jean jacket men get bitter

about it, though, bring up shit that has been

stewing in the pot since 1989 when Vanilla

Ice was all the rage and people were talking

about all the fun kinds of condom that could

be had for free if you were ballsy enough

to grab them from the basket. Women, petty

creatures that we are, get bitter about much

lesser things.

Bacon Bra (for Sara) Pictures, Images and Photos

Saturday Night in Shitsville, USA

We was all just sittin' around the chickenshack shootin' the shit slammin' them moonshine shooters talkin' bout better days when stamps were licked and balls were kicked when a goddamn blaster worm screamed somethin' we no could decipher, somethin' bout how we is all a bunch of fuckin' sorry excuses for human beans.

My Lipstick on Her Left Tit

He was paying he was telling me
how wet her pussy was
and the music sucked
but she was eighteen
and on his lap and in my face
with her sweet soft tits
her abs you could balance
a tumbler of Maker's Mark on
so what else
would I do.

lapdance coupon Pictures, Images and Photos

*coupon not valid outside The Arabic Emirates/purchase required/see back for details

Monday, September 5, 2011

Three Way Senryus featuring Brave Evolver, Pantifesto Porntastic Phunhouse, FM

probably OWE you MONEY
doubt I'LL pay YOU back


filth of the humans
the cockroaches and the rats
police state murder

PoOr MoM's VaGiNa
UgLy KiD iN a StRoLlEr
DeStInEd To Be KiNg

White Trash Leather Tan
Chihuahua Desert Party
Meth And Mexicans


Bolaño and Bukowski
They'd think that you suck
Your idols hate you...

Who am I?

Mrs. Jennings: Forward satisfied with the murderous likelihood of her forebodings, Bedouin had been annex in their undue extremity, spelled romance to complicity in his judgment, and admitted, with called womb, and occasionally with ponderous cheerfulness, the archduke of a moist rogue. Gayness, floodgate I be living, testing on his beacon like this at such a competition! He imprinted apart wounded to it, often; for he commenced jack up in a justification individually inadvertently, without uttering a search, and winking his hereafter ill-looking eyes twenty times in a knockout, blathered to gurgle artisan in taking a flame of the otter. So one of the most huge witnesses brought beforehand by the spray was immediately entertained.
Mrs Jennings knows your secret email address and sends you Zoophilia pictures sometimes.

Friday, August 26, 2011

Frankie Metro Fucked a Goat

That fucking freak!! I don't care what Yossarian Hunter told him via telepathy, it's not right to fuck a goat, unless of course the goat asks for it. Read all about Frankie's disgusting exploits in the latest issue of Modus. Click here or Frankie Metro might fuck your house pet... if he hasn't already...

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

4 Poems By Frank Reardon


She said:
i like the way
you sing

I said that
i did not
any songs,

she said,
putting her
up my

Scotch Glass Pictures, Images and Photos


do you
you are
you know
the names
& colors
of all the

try to


When the women of the world
have left you, alone,
in your bed,
staring up at the ceiling
you could not afford
anything other than
that one can of beans
in your cabinet,

When she told everyone,
that you knew in your lives together,
that you were pathetic & weak
you could not afford
anything other than
that one beer
someone else left
inside your fridge,

When she fucked your neighbor,
best friend or biggest enemy
because your ATM card
was declined
while buying cigarettes,
just know,
that you are
the luckiest man alive,

Most of them will never understand
the sound of struggle
& how it sounds
like the small piece of wind
that rushes
between the snap
of a garter belt
upon the dark silk stocking,

Most of them cannot comprehend
that it is a gift,struggling,
a sexiness,
that makes love
to the discarded rinds
of your paper plate soul,
making you harder,
making you stronger.

hooker Pictures, Images and Photos


were you the
bad guy
to be good

when you looked out
of your picture window,
with a gazing death
that captured the clouds
crying above the pacific?

& with all that child like & shy
gun shot smoke,
that echoed from the love
of your single bullet hole,
did you capture
yesterday's memories

& finally destroy
all of the us
that was hiding
all of the you ?

HAPPY DAYS Pictures, Images and Photos

Meth Lab Radio Show, ft. Newamba, Frankie Metro, and Yossarian Hunter

Listen to internet radio with Newamba on Blog Talk Radio

Saturday, August 6, 2011

Think My Cat Is Gay

“I’m not Jesus” claims my cat

(the very very very very angry cat story)

2.28 am

My cat gets angry with me over a previous dispute about mackerel or something equally as tedious.

2.29 am

I offer him his favourite biscuits.(plop plops)


He sighs .Farts.


I perform a little Irish jig to cheer him up, get the neighbours involved.


He begins giving me the evil eye.


I attempt to reason with him.


He growls.


I growl back.


He gives me the finger, twice.


I give him the v sign, plus, I give him the finger. (clever huh?)


He sharpens his claws on the scratch post.


I sharpen mine with a cheese grater I happen to have handy at the time.


He spits. Drools.


I giggle for a time.


He kneels in a prayer position.


I copy him, think it looks kinda groovy, relaxing.


He breathes slower.


So do I.


I mention something random about him seeming like Jesus

tonight. Ya know..that well known trouble maker from the Middle East. I think nothing of it.


He raises his sweaty paw in a violent manner.

3.22 am

This is what he says to me in street speak-

“ You ain’t nothing but an idiot bro, yo’s a retard, stupid, moron, arsehole, loser, dumbitch, fool, fag, jackass, fucktard, pussy slut, homo, poser, dickhead, dumbfuck…

…yo’s a noob brooo,

a wild wild wild wild fucker I sayz,

jerk, prick, cunt, twat, slut…

..are you blazed dude,..Blazed?

…are you tripping snaaakkke?



Stupid? Gone wrong? Twisted?

Boomed, well out of it?

Are you Ugly bitttchhh?…..

…are you fucked to shit me man? fucked in the mental? fucked stupid? fucked out your tree man?....

….are you fucked 6 ways to Sunday man?...

…..I’ve told you already I AM NOT THE MESSIAH!

please don’t mention it again.”

He pretty much calmed down after that, put on his smoking jacket,

had a quick toke of his favourite spliff and returned to his cat basket

for the duration of the evening.

Advice To (George) My Cat

I advised my cat yesterday to stop napping and go get a life.

This is what happened..

He punched me in the face several times over with a clenched paw, and I fell awkwardly, desperately snatching at the red cotton curtains in my study, ripping them clean off the rails.

Just as I managed to collect myself again, thwack!!

He landed an upper cut square on my jaw.

(by this time he had moseyed over to his basket, sponged down his forehead ‘n’ ears, and laced up his furry white boxing gloves).

Strangely, and at the precise moment the last punch came,

(which happened to be a belter by the way) a peculiar looking bird,

not dissimilar to a pheasant, except that it lacked that pheasanty swagger, popped its head through the serving hatch adjacent to where I was laying. He said he would be more than willing to act as referee, so long as we fought by the Marquis of Queensbury rules.

We both agreed.

At about 7pm(EST) Cyril the squirrel and a whole fat bunch of badgers, possums, and somewhat notorious woodland creatures

entered my garden, now licensed, and fully equipped with cocktail lounge, confederation standard boxing ring, cabaret stage and go go dancers.

We fought a fierce battle

Round 5

George came at me like a cat possessed, frighteningly reminiscent of Mike Tyson (in the match where he chewed part of Holyfield’s ear off) biting down hard on my chin, hissing and clawing me in private areas.

I managed to hold him off for a while and after seeking help from my manager, Frankie the fox (Don King had already snapped up George and molded him into the animal he was), began lunging at him wildly and on occasion practicing my drop kick technique.

27 seconds before the bell goes

George however, never missing an opportunity caught me off guard for a split second with a devastating haymaker sending me cart wheeling out of the ring, past the potting shed and ornamental

water feature, over and under hot dog stands, a man in a lion outfit

and a confused programme seller; through a double set of patio doors, down a spiral staircase, into a dumb waiter, over a bowling alley I’d just set up; down through a laundry shoot, past an elderly couple eating leek and ale sausages, across an underground river, into a lift that shuttled me up to my apartment again, through my Ikea living space (market stall home) and I landed in his litter tray amongst all his poop and stuff.

The Girl who swam with goldfish
thinks her cat is gay.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Immediate Response Required

From Mr Peter Osu.
Accounting and auditing department
(CGB) Accra, Ghana.


This mail might come to you as a surprise and the temptation to ignore it as unserious could come into your mind but please consider it a divine wish and accept it with a deep sense of humility.

I am Mr Peter Osu, the manager in charge of Accounting and auditing department of Bank institution; with due respect and Regard, I have decided to contact you on a business transaction that will be very beneficial to both of us at the end of the transaction.

During our investigation and auditing in this Bank, my department came across a very huge sum of money belonging to one of our deceased customer who died on Feb 29th 2000 of a ghastly motor accident and the fund has been dormant in his account with this bank without any claim of the fund in our Custody either from his family or relation before our discovery to this development. Although personally,

And keep this information secret to enable the whole plans and idea be Profitable and successful during the time of execution, the amount is Four million Nine hundred thousand United States dollars (US$4.9 M), as it may interest you to know,

I contacted you to be my partner and person to be reliable and capable to champion a business of such magnitude without any problem. So we can commence all arrangements and I will give you more information on how we would handle this project. And also note that you will have 40% of the above mentioned sum if you agree to handle this business with me. And 60% for me throungh this mail

Please treat this business with utmost confidentiality and send me the
1)Your full name
2)Phone, fax and mobile.
3)Company name, position and address.
4)Profession, age and marital status.
5)International pasport or ID card.
6)Account Informatins.

Mr Peter Osu.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Two from M for Magicant


Each of your colors


Pipe bombs in school


I threw her on the bed and looked at her bum.
I pulled her panties off. I put my belly on her.
I took her boobs out of her shirt, individually, like eggs.
Like eggs I squeezed her head. I squeezed her boobs.
I put one back in her shirt, I let the other flop around.
I put my hands on top of her head, as well as under her head.
I tweaked her nipples. I took the boob that's in, I took it out.
And vice versa. I grabbed her throat.
I put my weight on her, I really leaned into it.
I put her on her back. I made her suck it.
I squeezed one boob while she jerked me. I left it alone.
I let it just hang there.
I came on her cheek nose eye.
I rubbed it on her tongue.
She forces a smile.
Her teeth are kinda crooked.
She's not gorgeous but she's gotta nice body still.

M for Magicant is Canadian and goes jogging at 3am.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Necrophilia - A Love Story

Usually she bought nickelbags of weed
that freckle-faced girl
maybe 18 at most
lived 'round the corner
from his ground floor apt

had no idea how she found him
but he couldn't take his mind off her
those wavy dirty blond curls
sweet smell of her shampoo
way the bottom tips of her asscheeks
peeked outta her hot pants

though he wasn't in love
never thought he knew
what love was

gradually he moved up
from spots of weed
to big bags of black tar heroin
but he held onto his favorite customer

one muggy afternoon
she came by
hair in pigtails
noticed a different shade in his drawer
got real curious

first he played it off
didn't want her involved
perhaps due to their decade (or more) age difference
he felt protective
but she insisted
so he sold her the first bag of a new batch
showed her how to shoot it up
offered her a free needle and his couch

flame met spoon
syringe punctured skin
blood mixed with syrupy contents
from the burnt spoon's mouth
her eyeballs rolled white
eyelids clamped shut
she melted silently into the couch

he figured she'd passed out
plucked the needle from her arm
went back to playing Xbox

'bout a half hour later
she still lay like a rock
was turning kinda blue

he poked at her idle thighs a couple times
then seized her arms and shook her
no response
felt at her neck
no pulse
panic overtook him
his heart raced
he ran around the room
grabbed a beer, threw it over her
still nothing

he sat back down to the couch
buried his face in his hands and broke into tears
thought he'd go to jail
get assraped by white supremacists
he remembered all the episodes of “Oz” he'd watched

he was scared shitless

so he decided to bring her body to the canal later that night
figured it'd get eaten pretty quick by 'gators

picking her up in his arms
he brought her to his bedroom
and laid her on the bed
didn't want any other customer who might come by to see her

later that night
after smoking weed and drinking all day
he went back to his bedroom to fetch her
was about to chuck her into his duffel bag
and drag her to the canal
but, as he gazed at her,
lying so peacefully
in a Jesus Christ pose
he just couldn't do it
he couldn't let such a thing of beauty
be ripped apart by 'gators

lying down next to her
he ran his hand around
on her bare midriff
which was only lukewarm
slowly he inched up further
caressing her perky young tits
which jiggled at his touch

instantly he sprouted an erection
and twisted down his sweatpants/boxers
and pulled off her hot pants and pink frilly panties
peering in wonder at her barely hairy purplish cunt

he hovered above her like an apparition
spread her legs, angled himself between them
then stuck his cock up inside her

she felt kind of cold
but much better than his hand

he took a few strokes
her tightness caused him to cum quick
he pulled out and lay back
blacked out soon after

when he awoke the next morning
to the air conditioner's clunky hum
something stunk
like the worst stink he'd ever smelled
like 20X worse than a skunk
it was her

a surge of vomit tapped at the back of his throat
he was about to stuff her slightly bloated body
into his duffel bag
but still couldn't do it

her angelic face
her legs spread eagle
the magic of her nearly bald cunt
mesmerized him

so he kept her for a few more days
masking the smell as best he could

late at night he cuddled with her
told her his secrets
kissed her frigid tongue
poured hot olive oil in her pussy to warm it up
and fucked her every morning and night
until skin started to peel off her bones

finally, he knew he had to let her go
so he stuffed her into that duffel bag
and brought her on down to the bowels of Sarasota
to the 'gators

they made quick work of her
chomping up every bit of that soft little body
like a National Geographic special

and as he stood at the edge of the canal
watching them devour her
his eyes got watery
and for the very first time
he thought he knew
what love was

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Down On The Tarmac by: A. Razor

The sunset was beautiful, dropping down behind the clouds and fog bank just out past the Farallones as I watched from that part of the California coast line I had come to know so well in my lifetime. The thought that I was never going to see it again was hard to digest right then. I was torn inside over my plans to leave this place and never return, if I could help it. The main reason this was so discomforting, was because I was the only person that knew what my true intention would be when I boarded the plane the following morning. I had decided it would be the only way I stood a chance in making it out of here and getting a head start on what was quickly becoming an imploding existence. I had to make my move now, or face the consequences of a lifetime of crime. It had come to this, as I always knew it might, and now that I was faced with the prospect of leaving my homeland and never returning, living the rest of my life as an expatriate fugitive, I was finding it difficult to embrace this fate without an amplified internal pain and anguish.

It was the eve of the first day of July, in 2004; the last of June had been too severe inside my head and I was trying to keep moving through it as best I could. I had been trying to do damage control on my life since early in the morning on March 22, when I had been arrested in Marin County for a multitude of offenses and was released on bail the next day. I had been trying to mount a defense to the charges, which could bring about a possible three strikes conviction, and continue to make enough money to keep my life and my business moving forward. I had retained a renowned Attorney-at-Law to help with my defense, but even his prognostics were that I would do 10 years before parole would be allowed on a 20-year sentence. It was a difficult outcome to accept. I had done it to myself. I had been sloppy and distracted on the night in question. I got caught slipping, as they say. I had made the selling of contraband, first and foremost the products of the Cannabis plant, but along the way every other mind-altering substance imaginable, my number one achievement in life. I had started slow, as a kid in San Bernardino, CA, and worked my way up, on my terms, taking every opportunity that felt right, by my guidelines, until it had taken me all over the world and been about the only thing I had to show for a whole lifetime. It was a lifetime that seemed about to be over, either in a last stand, on a lonely prison yard or, if I could pull off one last escape and vanish, into another existence. Anyway it was sliced, life, as I had known it, was over. I could go no further as myself, except to certain death. Ten years in prison meant a commitment to put in the work necessary to make it there. I had been in before for briefer periods and I knew what would be required of me. I would either be killed for the slightest mistake, or I would have to kill and assure that my stay was permanent to survive. I was going to walk away from my life and who I was and the world I knew just to be able to survive without going to prison. It was steep consequences, but I had cheated death and life in prison for a long time; my path had become finite, I was certain this was the end of the road. Fleeing now and living life on the run forever was my only chance, my last chance, at any hope for any kind of freedom. I knew it was a slim chance, which was why it had to be executed with the utmost discipline possible.

I drove back to my humble compound on the sea cliff above Drake’s Bay, north of the Golden Gate, to begin my last preparations without tipping off anyone as to my intentions. I had made plans to go to Las Vegas for the 4th of July weekend, where I would meet with an old associate who had obtained a new identity and a fake Canadian passport that would get me passage anywhere I needed to go. I planned on driving from Vegas down through Arizona and into Mexico with the paperwork and flying out of Mexico to Amsterdam, where I had some cash reserves and the opportunity to slip into a new ID and even deeper into obscurity.

None of it would matter if I did not make it to the airport in the morning and slip onto the plane for Vegas undetected and without raising the suspicions of my friends, family and colleagues as well. No one could know so there would be no chance of any information being given to any questions that authorities might ask that would help them trace my movements. I would not only be skipping out on the indictment of charges, but a substantial bail amount that had no real collateral. I knew that taking flight would lead to bounty hunters that would want to collect the quarter-million as well as the State automatically filing conspiracy charges on top of the current indictment. This would also interest the Feds, who had previously had me in their grasp, and enable them to launch a RICO investigation that they could easily make stick in my absence. Once I was on the plane to Vegas I was violating every agreement with the court and the bail bondsmen. There was no going back, as I would be an international fugitive the moment the plane taxied. The only thing in my favor was that I would be the first to know, the only one to know, at least, until I failed to appear in court that Tuesday in the space age courthouse of Marin County designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.

I had come to hate that building and all it symbolized to me. It was haunting my nightmares along with all the ghosts of friends and enemies who had not escaped the fate that had set upon me. I was tormented those last few days up until now and I had given to remedy the torment in my usual, familiar fashion. A mixture of weed wrapped in tobacco leaf, cognac, cocaine, heroin to steady my nerves. I chewed family size bottles of Tums every couple of days. I couldn’t sleep well, and waking anxiety was too much, so I needed to go from one state of intoxication to the next to keep up the front that I was doing what I had to do to get by. I downplayed as much as possible, if I was too uncomfortable I went for the next thing that would work. Needless to say, packing was difficult under those circumstances.

Candi had been staying at my place on Venice Beach, CA when I had been pinched by the Sheriff with a trunk full of drugs and a loaded weapon back in March. She had come back to Marin County and helped coordinate the bail with my friends and spent time with me while I was going to court appearances and talking to lawyers. I think she sensed something was a bit awkward about my sudden plan to go to Vegas for the weekend right before a court date, but I was not the most stable person to judge, mostly by design, to begin with. She was going along with helping me pack and agreed to drive me to the airport. I figured she was getting a car out of it and she would probably get something out of my business associates, so it wouldn’t be all bad for her. I reasoned it all out as best I could and was clumsily trying to decide what I would take for the trip to Vegas. I had some very excellent MDMA that I would want to do with the girls that were picking me up at McCarran Airport. They were going to have coke and hop at the room they had reserved at the MGM Grand, but I didn’t want to be without at any point, so I was bringing an eight-ball of blow and 3 grams of tar to make sure I always had something and never had to wait on anything. The idea of waiting or going without was unacceptable to me: I had seen this happen to many others and the results were never positive.

I had been making my own hashish for some time and recently had been using a technique called “bubble bag” using cold water, ice and several layers of mesh screens that produce a high quality hash that was more akin to chunks of compressed kif. This was like the champagne of cannabis products and I wanted to take the last two grams of my best batch with me to smoke in Mexico, after I crossed the border. It was some sentimental consolation prize I had sold myself on. I hid the MDMA and the hash in the bag I was going to check. I picked out some clothes and packed them as well. I picked out what I would wear to the airport, making sure the shorts had cargo pockets that I could fit a half ounce of weed in. I knew all I had to do was stay in line and be patient as it moved along so as to not attract attention and I could carry the coke, heroin and weed on my person. The hype kit I would hide in a metal sunglasses case that I would put through the x-ray with my cell phone, belt buckle, change, pen, lighter and keys all right next to it. The hype kit was just a couple of cotton swabs, bent spoon and 2 syringes. Laid on its side it would not look any different than wire rimmed sunglasses. I proceeded to spend most of the night in a bathrobe and thick socks, listening to music, taking showers after sex with Candi, looking at pictures of loved ones and then watching porn on the big screen. I had a couple of anxiety attacks while dwelling on the idea that my ex-wife might see me in Vegas, which was a complete delusion, but I still had to make heroin-heavy speed balls each time to combat the anxiety. I couldn’t let Candi know there was anything too out of the ordinary. It was like Moses trying to pretend to be Mohammed at a Jesus party.

At 5:30 am, Candi and I got into the shower the last time and by 6:00 am I was packed into the car with her and ready to go. We drove out of town and along the edge of the placid lagoon while it was still dark, with the slight aurora of dawn’s first trickle above the mountains silhouette. I was trying to keep my concentration as best I could as I drove up the winding mountain road. The drive was hard to do and I couldn’t climax getting road head as we drove over the mountain. “It’s just the drugs, baby, it’s not you.” I told her. At the 7-11 on the other side, before we got on the freeway, I let her take the wheel and I conceded to the passenger seat. One last stop in the gas station bathroom at Tam Junction, before the freeway entrance was upon me, to get one last fix in Marin County. I had to so I could stay calm on the ride to the airport. I had one full syringe for my airport arrival. I would not be able to fix again until I got onto the Southwest jet plane headed for Las Vegas at 9:15 am. As we drove over the bridge I suppressed every emotion I was feeling and just sat motionless. I looked out the passenger window at the San Francisco Bay one last time as we drove over the Richmond Bridge. The sun was just coming up and the currents in the water were like deep slashes into obsidian flesh; they moved and undulated like some mating of psychedelic snakes rolling through a pool of oil. It was sadly beautiful. I had to not feel it at all; I had to act as if I would be back Monday. I would be in Vegas by noon if everything went as planned. Then, hopefully, I would be in Mexico by Monday night, never to return again, forever and ever.

The car was getting close to the Oakland International Airport terminal, so I pulled out my last syringe. The Southwest Terminal was the last one on the right. I knew, from experience, that if she pulled past the Terminal, there was an area just to the right that she could pull over and I could fix real quick, then bounce out of the car and into the line for baggage check. The line was out the door. It was very crowded with people this morning. There was a huge amount of security as well. The terror alert was high that weekend. I was locked into what I was doing, no turning back now. I kissed Candi good-bye without giving away that something was different from all the airport turnarounds she had previously dropped me off on. I rushed over to the line with the bags and was grateful the sun was up high enough to warrant sunglasses. The line snaked around and was full of impatient and cranky people. It was a good cover for me, at least, or so I hoped. I made it through and then checked the bags and received my gate number. I recognized it as one of the farthest gates on the concourse. I proceeded over to the security check line to gain access to the concourse and all of the gates for boarding. As I approached the x-ray scan I placed all my metal items into the plastic bin and waited to be instructed to slide it into the machine. I then slowly walked through the metal detectors and was waived on. I picked up my bin as it came down the rolling wheels and put all my effects back together. It had been such an excruciatingly long period of time since I even considered going into the bathroom to do a shot. I looked at the clock and knew that my plane was boarding. I would have to do my next shot at altitude on the way to Las Vegas in the tiny mile high lavatory. I was planning on that anyway.

I walked a brisk pace to the gate where my plane was boarding and presented my boarding pass. The girl looked at me for a brief moment and then went to scan the bar code on the boarding pass. As she did so, I looked down into the gangway that led onto the jet and I could see the inside of the plane through the portal that I would soon be walking into for my final escape. I turned back to the girl who had just scanned the pass and I began to notice a change in her demeanor as she looked up at me with an instantly quixotic look and then looked down as she scanned it again. On the second scan I noticed that the beep was significantly different than the other beeps coming from other scanners around us. I looked into the changing expression on her face and was about to ask her what was wrong went I noticed that she began to slowly shrink away as everything began to go into slow motion. I could feel adrenaline hit my bloodstream. Time was moving in fractions of seconds. I was assessing the moment, I had to not panic, but I could feel a surge of blood and clarity. The next fraction I realized that this was not anger at her inability, but that my perception had picked up something behind me. The next moment I realized her reaction confirmed it. I instinctively spun on my heel to confront whatever was closing in behind me. The butt of an M-16A4 caught me in the chest as I made the turn into it. The slow motion almost stopped completely as everything went dim. The shock of pain and the sudden loss of air was so intense, I did not notice that I had crumpled onto the carpet until a moment later when I could finally take my first gasp for air. The shooting pain in my right wrist and both ankles was evidence that I was being stood on with boots. I could not move, anyway. I was done in and was like a rag doll in the hands that grabbed at me as commands were yelled at me. I could not make out the words. I was limp, unable to move anything. I could see the spiral grooves of the muzzle closest to my head. They disappeared up into the barrel that elongated into a man in desert fatigues and a black beret. “Don’t you fucking move a finger!” was what he seemed to say. I just laid there staring up at him as manacles were being ratcheted to my wrists and ankles. It finally hit me. I was caught. It was over, but how? I was reeling in my head. This could not be real. How did they know? Then I remembered the girl moments before. The boarding pass wouldn’t scan. They had made me from a distance somehow. Then the thought hit me just as the Homeland Security officer told me I had violated the Patriot Act and that I was a “detainee” of the U.S. Military.

I was hoisted up in the chains and forced to march in the chains back down the long concourse I had just come down to get to the final departure point. I began to realize I was in the kind of trouble you never get out of. It was game over, no escape, no more hope. I was done in at last. They paraded me past all the 4th of July passengers who moved out of the way of my military entourage and I met the judgment in their stare with a beaten look that just seemed to draw more contempt. I saw parents draw their children closer; I saw the fear in the children’s eyes as they clutched at their parents’ bodies. I looked back up at the faces of the parents and adults. They would have easily started their Independence Day weekend with a lynching right there in the airport. I was trying to march, overwhelmed inside with a building shame that was beginning to drown out the physical pain. I thought of what a failure I had been as a parent up until then. These children all had eyes like my own children had. I felt the emotions of my own inequities hit me with a landslide. I was captured in an airport in a way that I would not or could not escape. I had failed every lie I told to get that far. I was not going to make it, so it all became a lie in that moment. Every promise I had ever made to anyone, even to myself, was undone and made into a lie. I was unable to cope with the feeling, but I could not let them see me cry, not now, not like this. I had to keep something for myself to hold onto. I was losing everything. I had lost; I was lost.

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