More Orange

The most recent bastard I seen loitering near the Winnebago was this creep I think the ex-wife sent. It's pure spite on her part. She imagines I wasted her valuable ten years, and X-ing me is gonna make the whole loss for her into the same decade in Valhalla. We both lost our faith, and she's the one who is not adjusting to the void.

There was some Eastern shit between us, when we was still together. I think a lot of poor American bozos got roped into thinking they could iron out all kinks at once by meditating. There was this asshole used to come to the house and chant like a space guru getting juiced. Jamaica, my ex, had the place done up in huge pillows, everything had freak paisleys on 'em like an acid trip, and we was getting along half well, minding we both have a temper.

Jamaica was still in thrall because I was getting into acting. Okay, fuck, I told her I had a future in that industry so full of scorpians and prairie rats, and her end of that sorry career was all thumb tacks on the seat in her booth at McDonald's. By way of review, I got my first speaking role in an old sci-fick, "They Saved Hitler's Brain," and there was that 'things better left unsaid' matter that got me black balled out of film. "That boy might 'a been on to something," is what I said, and it sorta got around to the big cheeses at the studios. Seems they all know each other.

Well fuck it all, if it ain't a conspiracy to keep you from being a film extra, it's a plan on the part of a former significant other to bump your poor old ass off the planet. For spite.

Big Ten Four,

Orange Fitz, a.k.a. Vince Viccars, film extra

Taking It In The Content

Okay. Okay. I told you what I used to be, and said a hundred times I'm a retired film extra and ex-biker. Don't suppose you remember me telling you. Fuck it. Ex-wife is trying to have me killed, so what, we all got issues. But I believe the world at large has an obligation to know. To know me. Else it knows only the other side of this fat shit box called Earth. It's me against all of it. That's why I'm writing my autobiography.


So far, I got the title worked out, and I know what I want the cover to look like. Picture of me pretending to drive the broke down Winnebago I'm living in. I'll have this madd-man look on my face. Old Larry up the street is pretty good with a digital camera. Up top it's gonna say TAKING IT UP THE BACK (that's the title), and down near the bottom it'll say "by Orange Fitz." That's my name. Ma was a ceramist. It's gonna be a book.

There's this outfit that'll let you pump out your opus like pro, online, without you even having to fuck with agents and editors, and fuck 'em all, is what says. I'm glad about that shit cause soon as you try working with them creeps they want you to write some freaks and geeks into the story, like the same freaks and geeks as them. For some reason, you have to make 'em all seem likable. Can't do it.

And I wish fucked up people was my only problem. Something else, just now, is burning a hole in the seat of my Bermudas.

I'm not small man, nor a weakling. You seen some of the fight scenes I was doing back when I was an extra in some of the best biker films ever made. I was in 'C.C. and Company,' motherfuckers. Breathed the same desert air as Broadway Joe. Got to sit on his bike. So who the fuck would guess that a man like me would get stymied over the fucking table of contents.


All the cherry syup and whipped cream at Baskin Robins won't fix the trouble I'm having. Only one of my six old, rotting computers has a word program that will number the pages. The other five pooters won't even do that much for you. But, damn it, my book requires a table of contents, so y'all can mark your spot while reading my work of genius. That's what a table of contents is. It's like a dog pissing on a tree so other dogs know Rover was there first. Or else it's there so you can look shit up. Don't matter. I just don't want my life flowing down the shit pipe, same as everyone else. I'm different. I'm Orange.

So here's the deal. Soon as you upload your manuscript, the book making gizmo changes your format, and the page numbers ain't no differrent, they just is on another page other than the page it used to be on. Page 2 gets fucked onto page 4, and page 9 is where page 14 is supposed to be. The numbers is all going the right direction, from 1 to what the fuck ever, but the table of contents has the wrong page numbers on it, and your poor dumb reader will have a shit time finding his/her favorite passages. It's like felching Winston Fucking Churchill or making Edith Wharton blow a circus mule. It's no fucking good.



Now maybe it don't really matter what number is on which page, since it's your life on that paper. It's memories, and they don't come to me, each day, in any kind of logical order. They just pass through the gauze, willy nilly. Wife dumped me ten years ago, she been trying to hire a hit man to take me out for the last decade, and I haven't been called to work as an extra on biker films in more than a dozen years. Then there's the little things I need to tell, things most people do or did, but they need to hear that other people shit the same way as them, aside from me being more dynamic and fun than most people. I been in films.

Crash Courses

I see this ad on televsion for Larry Larva's House of Carpets, out on Route 51. So it seems, a father and son team run the business, which I wouldn't know about because I don't go there, but my experience for the long haul has been you never get to see the clowns in the commercials. One of the two carpet sellers looks like he flew there on a rug. The other seems to have fished himself out of Loche Ness.

The commercial makes me dwell on that stone-in-the-shoe question to the effect of was Route 51 made of antimatter from the laying of it's first brick, or did the asphalt die, and it's soul went vamonose? Why does traffic itself seem like a neat line,in two directions, of witches flying on brooms? Used car lots grow along 51 like forsythia. Virtually nothing communicates a sense of love or caring.

Last year we got an influx of super large mosquitos that reminded of Larry Larva and his unsettling family enterprise. It's the comercials on television that put the hex on me, but I've been forced to drive Route 51 for reasons too ass to trouble telling, like some crown and bridge work, also this field study I did of some of the drinking places. There are no atractive people. No ethics. No good. It's as if everything has been installed like an Edison base light bulb to make a few shekels before the Apocolypse rolls up everyone's awnings. The skeeters were these slow moving, graceless flying twigs with a hypodermic stinger and disgusting wings, cracking into your windshield till you pray for a vagrant with bucket and squee-gee.

Holy mackeral, no sooner had I managed to wipe some of the squashed mosquitos from the wind shield, using just a white snot rag for chrisake, I'm pulled over in a parking lot outside the LaNauga Lounge, there's this big flashing sign you can pull anywhere with a trailer hitch, and there's Larry Larva, looking just like he does on television, except he has an Elmer Fudd hat. So did I, which is a rat fuck coincindence since I got mine at this outlet store in some other shitted up part of town. I swear it's the same hat.

I've never been in worse trouble, dear friends. Larry Larva has been calling me on the phone morning noon and night. He put a magnetized GPS device on my Kia Sedona so he could get a handle on my moves. Dear, I never dreamed that one eighth of a rug salesman's genes are for stalking. I wonder if he had, in the first place, been I guiding force, from a distance,in my decision to buy the red plaid hunting cap. Only now am I certain that certain hats summon the devil.

So I wake up inside a burgundy cargo van, barrelling down Route 51,with the two Larva men looking down at me. Critically. I'd been slipped a rohypnol in the LaNauga Lounge. Some acrylic bimbo,over-friendly, sure sign she works for the Larva clan. It's not just Larry and his son, Clootis, it's a whole network of blood kin to the Larva clan, and a whole ant farm of dumb yokels all answerable to the Larvas. It's crude, dynastic, but it keeps large families secure in tiny cramped row houses. Soon as I started coming to, Clootis put me out again with fat, hammy right fist. My ass was hurting.


Shit, they took turns throwing shovels of dirt in the hole I'm burried in. Behind a hot dog stand along hideous Route 51. I back sassed the Larva people, and they took the trouble to know their enemy. They did their home work. You must be meticulous to sell rugs. Now I'm gone.

My book of poems, An O.K. Corral Of Poems is available now.

The premiss is that a whole lot of poems, written in groups over a decade or so, are riled up and are going to meet in a vacant lot somewhere in this pecked up slum territory I call home. The words are trigger happy.

You can buy a copy using the blue button above. It will take you to a secure web site run by the publishing company I publish An O.K. Corral Of Poems through.

Some Haiku

Relativity Haiku




24 hours
the whole nine yards runs rampant
so many years gone