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Friday, January 23rd, 2004
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6:28 pm
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Can anyone get me a job in New York City?
This would be a very good thing, if possible.
It would also make me very thankful.
current mood: shrek
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(24 stains | stain)
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| Sunday, August 17th, 2003
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3:12 pm
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One-stroke painting with the ghost that lives in my studio apartment.
I get in a lot of fights with the ghost because of what he is thinking about. He is always thinking of very mysterious things he could do. I saw him pawing at a cucumber once, planning to offer it to my fridge in a kind way. This doesn’t make any sense. It is very mysterious. His hands go right through everything but it doesn’t stop him from trying. He is very inflexible about it. God forbid he come to terms with the cold hard truth. He will never be able to touch anything again because he came up from his grave like wet tea kettle smoke. He came out of his grave like the fart of a best friend. He should realize that both of the things i just compared him to are not able to hold ANYTHING. Because they are MISTY. In order to hold solids you have to be solid.
He’ll give up on something and then start passing through something else. It is incredibly depressing to watch. His eyes glaze over with hope at each new object, one time he got so excited when he saw my belly button that he came an inch away from a conniption. He went at my stomach like a bat out of hell, but sure enough he basically went right through the thing like a falling down party. If i could have fucked up his face i would have. Why, out of all the things in this piece of shit, would he think that maybe, just maybe, my belly button was the answer. That my belly button was the thing he could finally caress, pinch and cradle. Or whatever he wants to do with whatever.
He is like a piece of shit. A really retarded piece.
He must have been totally stressed this one night because he was frantically slapping at about sixty beer cans on the floor of my apartment. One by one he would go up to them and i damn near cried with joy at every milky white hand i saw break through a pabst label. I almost died when i saw him negotiating with one of the cans and again towards the end when i saw him do tsk-tsk fingers at a very crumpled can he refused to touch. I love it when he’s picky because it makes me feel choosy. If i could make a recipe for oblivion i would add at least one scoop of that right there, that memory in a measuring cup.
Since then i have been arranging collections of things on the ground whenever i get under the weather or have masturbated so much that all i have to show for it is what looks like a bead of sweat from a hermit crab on the tip of my meatus. The opening of my penis. The space that is between us.
He can’t speak but he can sing three songs, his death rattles and how he tells the rats to scatter. One he saw in a movie, one he saw on tv and one he made up in his see-through head:
1. "I've written a letter to Daddy
His address is Heaven Above
I've written dear Daddy we miss you
And wish you were with us to love!
Instead of a stamp I've put kisses
The postman said that's best to do
I've written a letter to Daddy
Saying I...love...YOU!
Now when I'm very good, and do as I am told
I'm mama's little angel and daddy says I'm good as gold
And when I'm naughty and answer back and sass
I'm mama's little devil, and daddy says I've got the brass. "
2."What would you do if your son was at home
crying all alone on the bedroom floor
cuz he’s hungry
and the only way to feed him is to
sleep with a man for a little bit of money
cuz his daddy’s gone
somewhere smoking rock now
in and out of lockdown
i ain’t got a job now
so for you this is just a good time
but for me this is what i call life"
3. "Through the years i’ve seen mice grow old
as old as a rocking chair
through the years i’ve lost my bones
and longed to touch a chair
For many moons i’ve wondered how
i’ll ever find a friend
But now that mikey’s on the couch
i know he’ll be my friend
Through many years i’ve seen things that
i care not to write down
but since i’m here and petting cat
i swear to tell you now
i’ve seen a man buy three paperbacks
and girls walk down the street
i’ve seen someone riding a bike
and something someone eats
i’ve seen a baby touch his nose
and tony feeling grand
i’ve seen mikey’s little toes
and two ceiling fans
now that you’ve heard my little song
i beg of you, just sing along
it’s easy as not being me
and listing off the abc’s
begin again where you begun
so you can sing what i have sung
follow my lead, pay attention please
our voices together will be the bees knees:
i’d like to express my extreme point of view
i’m not a christian and i’m not a jew
i’m just living out the american dream
and i just realized that nothing
is what it seems"
He carries with him the putrid smell of six feet underground. It is beyond compare. If forced i would only be able to tell you how the scent would feel if i was pulling it out of a bag: "Square."
He carries around the clothes he was buried in. Teetotaler shoes under his great grandfather’s christening gown. A baseball cap with the brim rounded and frayed. Gloves that once belonged to the very oldest of townspeople and an ankh necklace imbued with the color of pregnancy.
He carries the last haircut he was given by his mother, which is fountain coke short with four hockey stripes on each side.
He carries with him three hearts of romaine lettuce which will never rot. He carries with him eighteen sprigs of rosemary and a snuff tin filled with the finest of white castle snortables.
He carries with him what he thinks is my cock and balls. Back in the real world, back on planet earth, back on a shortstack of ribs it’s just two milano cookies tied together with yarn hanging down between them just so.
He carries with him a history i will never understand. That sentence is not revolutionary. Because it pisses me off, because i will never hear about it, because it doesn’t contain me and just has an aftermath poking at the cigarette butts in my ashtray.
Because he really did go in my stomach. Because it was the only place he had ever lingered been tangibly contained since he "crossed over." Because the only thing he’s eaten in a mysterious amount of years are bits of both my intestines, the ileum that connects them. The colon somewhere close. The six inches of anus that everyone has feeling in and the million inches after it that can only be felt during a colonoscopy.
After a cup of barium. After a gellyball ultrasound. After a joke about tarry lungs by a male nurse who’s shirt remains inappropriately buttoned. After drinking only clear liquids and solids for two days. After a fleet enema that you couldn’t drink yourself. After a fleet enema from a tube up your nose that you had to swallow ice cubes in order to ease down your throat. ("break in to children’s hospital / cry it out / don’t fuck with me" in cursive on an astronomy handout) After laying on your side watching your mysteriously hairy ass on a giant screen. After watching a movie the nurses made with a snake camera that slides around your insides like that chihuahua stuck in a butterball turkey five years ago.
Then a metal tongue with hooks collecting samples you would never eat at larry’s market. Then a little farther up eighteen scientific screams, a sudden recoil, a tiny ghost in it’s favorite place scaring the shit out of everybody but me as it freestyle strokes in a bile close-up. One of the nurses comes to and asks if we’ve been Punk’d.
I had to end it seriously because it’s seriously ending. If you catch my whiff. I asked the biggest pieces of shit i took yesterday if it wanted to watch "While You Were Sleeping."
As usual he turned to me and mouthed the words: "Very Best Love."
As usual i said to him in my most ambitiously retarded voice: "My heart burns there too."
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(39 stains | stain)
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| Saturday, January 25th, 2003
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12:52 pm
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be careful on that street
be careful of the boxspring
on the sidewalk next to
the mattress breathing |
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(28 stains | stain)
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