Saturday, March 29, 2014

doing my worst to write

tomato perfume
"How I loved his smell of pizza," Rhesetia said to her meme spewing counterpart. Elamonda was not the statue Rhesetia was, but she was impressive. "Two slices. That's what he always had, down by where the police gather, cause there's always shit down there."

"Pizza smell. Two slices of that second hand food that someone called in and didn't pick up, cause they was cheap or a fool."

"He was chomping down pizza that was made in error, and he was good with that. What you make of that, Elamonda?"

"Think it started with that Pakistani clerk with the beaming black irises and straight black hair. Thin arms. Olive skin. That old piece of fall-out was in love with that pizza girl. That was why he ate bad pizza, and took a stroke."

"Hear tell that munchkin is frugal. What folks call 'arch conservative type."

"Rhesetia, do think there is something spiritual in the smell a man leaves on the bus?"

"Nothing else it could be, Sugar."

Friday, March 28, 2014

more sleazy fiction

Like most Wednesdays, I was in a bar, telling women I'm Vic the Airline Pilot.   A lot of men help their image with a title.   Ph.D is a kind.   Master's in Semantic Deconstruction will get you a nice cush job somewhere, usually.  Vic is not the sort who needs a Superbowl trophy to fluff my sense of self.   Someone in charge of Pittsburgh tried to steal one.   Had to give it back.   This proves people have to have inner strength, so not to rely on glass status symbols they ripped out of the City County Building.  You can't bust a name like Vic the Airline Pilot on the floor, like any two year old could do with the trophy.

Heck, if Luke R visits the Vatican, like old Gov Corbett just did, they'll have to lock down the papal bowling awards.    Returning to one of my nights in heat, a young women was being coquettish.  "Vic, don't pilots spread social diseases all over creation?"

"I got protection," I said, and I did.  Pack of rubbers was the least of it.   There's most of an adult bookstore in the trunk of my Corvair.

Then she zinged me again, "And how do I know you ain't really some deviant moron with a stupid title, like the IT person at a social service organization."

Well, I've never been that prestigious. Best so far, I was night manager at KFC.  It was a go home and unload the trunk evening for Vic.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Readers, comrades, this walking slide whistle is looping out another hardship case.  I keep getting ideas for books, write some of it, then get plumb tuckered out.  Off the graze. Procrastination occurs, and it gets more and more like the song ' La Cuckarocha.'   Down below is the first few paragraphs of something that isn't going anywhere.  You'll love it.

Scuzz Muffin

I am large and handsome. Not hard up for money, it is stupid not to get more of it before you need to. I've managed things more liberally, in the past, and regretted it. Never trust a person who claims to have no regrets. It's a symptom of being a serial fuck up. Can't stand remorseless failures.

Focusing on large, it has rendered possible some things rare to other young roustabouts. It was hard to make money in the old days, when peole actually did pick and shovel shit. When that went from okay to intollerable, my peers took to the service trades, and it's been a moral Tarzan flick ever since.

Parting the flood of double talk, I used to be a hired escort, in the upper earning register. If the big freezers are still running all right, you can still cop my frozen jizz gelatos for the price of a Porsche. Look at your arm for why this organic skewing of supply and demand.

Like Alfred Dreyfus' impecunious and dishonorable accuser, I'm going kiss and tell on the Illuminati. It's a dangerous and crummy thing to do. All four hundred some fellatio mavens, married, single, male and female, from out of the extremest of extreme blue books, will just hate me for this. True, true, I'm missing a few spokes in the moral spine department, but they deserve what I'm going to do to them. They used to talk in front of me as if I was a deaf mute with brain damage.
In 1993, I earned about six times the median American income level by merely standing still while painted gold. My penis was gold, as were all twenty fingers and toes. People ask embarrassing questions. I say they deserve the truth,for the cash,so, per fact, every time I had to piss I had to call the make up specialist on the phone, "need help in shithouse, some paint rubbed off." Workmanly is what I'm like.

Saturday, March 15, 2014

The Not-Too-Social Hour: Ghetto Chic Campaign

Weekend Sermon-oid

Every so often I get a jones for the Yiddish language.  It's not awfully pop these days, nor has it ever been regarded by fashionistas as 'fly,' but certain modern Hebrew American atheists get nostalgic, and sometimes talk like their great grandparents, mom and pop, and their ninety eight clannish, argumentative middle class cousins and uncles.   It feels good, sometimes, to refer to someone as a 'schmuck.'   Chuck Shumer is a schmuck.  Unless you like the fork-tongued politician.  I've been pounding the pulpit to the effect that opposing views are not mutually exclusive.   This is not an Enter The Dragon paradigm.  It's Romper Room.

One of the things that helped me become an atheist is all the crummy things attributed to persons of Hebrew origin.  "One, you can put up with.  Get two of them in the same Taco Bell, and they start talking yiddish, so us Christians don't know what they're talking about.  It's part of the doggone conspiracy theory."  This quote is a fabrication clipped out of popular unpleasantness that happens every day, around the globe.  I actually feel for poor schlamaazels who feel that their way of life has been altered by the forces of economy and culture.   Not being even a figment of a bigot, the stress of paying bills gets everyone meshugana.  Hecks, everyone, even this Red Sea pedestrian, if I may borrow from Monty Python, (thanks, write, Eric  and John C, if you don't want to be quoted, I'll take it off,) gets angry at interest groups for seeming to be a bad influence.  Zoftig Americans have gotten too soft in the head to enter into the manner of talk that settles the big tsimis.  This leaves a continuum of internecine sour halvah.

Gee, I hope this helps people better understand world cultures. I went to school for shit.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Dark Humanism: Each According to His/Her Vice Need

All the medical advice in the world doesn't alter the fact that the best way to do blow is up the snoot, using a rolled up twenty.  There are people, not many, but some, who should stay coked up.   The Fed should look into this.  People are missing the down side of longevity, while pumping moments with  Haldol.   It's like everyone with any complicity in them is walking through wet cement.  It ain't a free country if you can't stand on a soap box and explain why Marlboros are good for people.   They are good for people who don't like smokers, in the long run.

People aren't wrong because they are maniacal.  This writer is a circumspect civil libertarian of the conservative reactionary kind.  If everything in a guy or gal's life was all the way hunky dory, it would be sensible to conserve that pleasurable state of being.  There's the flip side of navy blue, in which someone's life needs improvement, and he/she isn't completely a helpless dolt.  In this rugged model, the basis for reactionary conservatism sits on a rock by the cattails, like a bullfrog, a great big one, with a white msutache like one on the late Foster Dulles.   Let's go back to coke heads.

There once lived, in a plastic split level ranch style doll house,a little cuss named Billie.       Billie is over-weight, not awfully bright, but he has useful skills.   But Billie is a brat, and he won't deliver newspapers on his skateboard unless he's is bribed with all the pink cotton candy he wants.  He is gluttenous, and people really need their morning paper paper with morning coffee.  Love how the phrase 'morning coffee' sounds like a specimen of something you hand the nurse, in a lttle paper cup.  It reflects the pathology.  If society is willing to help Billy glut himself with spun sugar and preservatives, senile pensioners get to read their newspapers.  Should Billy get diabetes, need a kidney transplant, then pass in a facility for infirmed news carryers, a chance will open for someone else to serve in his vacancy.         There are other types of Billy.   The kind that should get a cubic foot of blow in the mail, every month, from Uncle Dope Pushing Sam.          

Wednesday, March 5, 2014


Fancine could hurl a brick like a Grecian winging discus
she could copter the obelisk in the field in front of the observatory
a herd of deer watching
stone pierogie kielbasa  archery cold storage till discovered
relying on buggies

television serial killer show strangled a best loved string of tunes
screwed the whole family
in the gourd
pearl necklace breaks

we all have the right to free speech
the stars dictate communication
calico feral sound
travels  Penn Avenue snow storm