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08 March 2012 @ 03:01 pm
Lay out the tools.

Sanitize the digit. Tool ready. Pen uncapped and prepared. Notebook turned to correct page. Correct day. Correct time. Strip inserted and prepared. Everything clean, sanitized for my protection. All systems are go.


The tool does the job, from a pinprick comes a bloom of red. Squeeze the digit from the bottom up. Watch it grow. Have enough? Touch the strip, set the technology ablaze with life.

The results come back. Always a three digit number. Always. The results are recorded in the notebook, forever to be cataloged and reviewed at a later date.

Consult the chart. Read the arcane gauge. Prepare for the alchemy to come.

Swab and strip are set aside, ready for disposal. The technology and tool are returned to their case, ready for the next use. Now is time for alchemy, for medieval techniques to do the job my body no longer can do.

Roll the vial, warm the liquid and mix the sediment into useful life. Swab the top, sanitized for my protection, destroy the germs that have grown since the last use. Open the needle, uncap and prepare. Pull back the plunger, saturate the liquid with air and pull back. Watch the liquid fill the chamber. Slowly, like two lovers meeting after a long absence.

Pull back the correct amount. No more, no less. Except for me. Always a little more, because I believe in the over/under and you never know if you'll wind up over, or under.

Pop the air bubbles. Embolisms are bad, mmmkay? Not that I'd care, but a few others might take exception. Pinch more than an inch. Easy to do on me.

Swab the skin, hold the needle, and lock a target.


The needle finds its mark. No flinching. There's no pain when you stick a needle into dead nerves, unresponsive flesh. I have major surgery to thank for that. The miracle of modern medical science that's turned me into what I am now.

Press the plunger, watch the mixture sink into the subcutaneous tissue and enter the blood stream regulating things that my body should be able to when it's healthy. Except that it's not healthy anymore, and will never be again. I am not whole. I am diminished. I am missing pieces. Many, many pieces.

Break the needle, cap the syringe, dispose of it all. Return the tools and medications to their rightful place, to stand as silent as sentries until their next call to service in the next few hours.
21 January 2009 @ 03:46 am
Who am I? What am I? I’m the chosen one, the "threat", The Timekiller, Liz Phair's Supernova, the Liu Kang, another Weasley in Gryffindor, the Return of Optimus Prime because Rodimus was a passive-aggressive pussy, and I’m about to change, right before your eyes, from Doctor Jeckyll into Mister Hyde. What can I do? I can leap abstact concepts in a single bound, I’m faster than Booger on an Omega Moo, and I’m strong enough for a man, but made for a woman, most times. I’m a phrase turner, a pop culture wizard that can accio left field references like Pinhead can summon chains, all while I use my mental bludger to send the metaphorical quaffle right to your brainrack. I might not say anything specific but by the time I’m done you’ll at least know I’ve said something. I’m not a serious man, and I’ve got no serious plans to rage against machines, or make some scathing critical social commentary because there are those who can do that better and I’m not gonna give myself papercut stigmata and crucify myself on the cross of my own self importance just for your entertainment. I’m not gonna make a concerned effort to memorize my shit because my mind can’t take it. My thoughts are on speed and got A.D.D. and it’s gonna switch between "Is this set I'm spinnin' hot enough?" to “Do they like the shit I'm spoutin' up here?” to “Damn I need another Beer” to “Damn that girl’s hot - I wonder if the drapes match the rug?” I got ideas brewin’ up here like Juan Valdez and I’m not gonna stick a screaming creation back into the womb just to show I’m serious about deliverin’ a monologue, because this isn’t Shakespeare it’s a slam [cue the Onyx sample here], and I’m layin’ eggs like a mother alien here and one by one they hatch and latch onto your face and burrow into your brain and when you least expect it, my words are gonna creep on you like a phantom and take your ass out like it thought you were Nancy Kerrigan and you’ll be clutching your forehead screaming “Why?! WHY?!?!” meanwhile my shit’s gonna be skatin’ around the corner, like it was an edition of Family Circus and Not Me was making his escape like Papillon. What I’m gonna do is pull off some crazy juxtaposition like Dr. FRANK-EN-STEEN in his lab doin’ the monster mash and make people stamp their feet and go “Did he just drop a reference to Stone Cold Steve Austin next to a Thoreau quote?” And yes I did, and I’ll do it again, because your guess is as good as mine when the only point to this is to introduce you to me, give ya the warning that I’m here now, and while there’s oohing and ahhhing now there’ll be screaming and running later.

Never Miss The Mantra:

Get Down

Drink It Up

Bring It On

Take It Off
12 November 2008 @ 02:27 pm
Slate grey skies,
neither dawn nor dusk
sunrise, sunset
day or night.

the border between days
is bland.
the same color as the borders
between states and nations.

These skies belong to us.
the way we live
is not for the sun's brightness
or the moon's cool embrace --
But for ourselves, at our leisure,
in our custom.
Not a biological clock
broken, forgotten.
Time now kept by
the heartbeat of the universe
and the clockwork celstial.

13 March 2008 @ 11:02 am
The world died, and no one cared. This is the way the world ends. This is the way the world ends. This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.

And when the whimpering was over, there was..silence. No one heard a thing. The animals continued for a while, and in some cases do continue, but when there is nothing but brown and dead grass and reeds from which to feed is not the kind of feed that suits the taste of a migrating animal whose next stop will be somewhere warmer, somewhere more temperate where the world is still at least warm to the touch if not cooling like a corpse from the inside out. The blue skies, were brushed over rapidly with grey skies like the glassy eye from a bloated body fat with flies and maggot-eggs and the most evident evidence that mother nature had shuffled off this mortal coil was when the rivers and tributaries had ceased to flow, the beat did not go on like a Sonny and Cher ditty, and with stagnant waters came stagnant fish. However the fish found no place to go, except belly up. The stank the rank and fish-fed funk became the new reek of the week which in any case is far better smells than the refinery’s finery ever offered. And when the whimpering was over, there was..silence. And man, in his stupidity and virility, made the decision that life would go on just as it had always done. Never mind that there were no longer wind to float the eddies, there was no true sunlight to warm the day anymore as much as there was muted glows behind cracked storm clouds which were pregnant in precipitation but gave nothing but still birth to the world. The only hope to man was science, and not even the same kind of science that would allow a man to fly to the moon – nothing so advanced. No, this was the most basic of science. The sciences that were left to kindergartners in our day and time as we chased far more advanced theories that would do no more than one day find us locked in dark rooms with dead monitors staring back at us like row after row of blinded prophet with no vision. Steam..it was all the steam. Boil the water, force it into a pipe smaller than what you boiled it in. Let the pressure build..regulate..watch…valves to hold back and to release and to provide a constant level…by god..it was the kind of thing that could bring life back a dead world. Oh dear lad – Mother Nature might have died, m’boy, that much is true but that didn’t mean that her children would die, or even starve. No, our tribute to our great rotting mother, even turning black and gangrene around us, will be our ongoing survival. We are her legacy and we shall be worthy of her strength. And so, over the next five decades, our society continued on. We Continued on in the steam, and the use of it. And now we have almost everything we ever needed converted to run on steam. There are who run on more dangerous game, but they don’t last long. I fear nightly for a new mercury explosion or some other such substance. We have, by far, returned to a more homestead style/frontier era pattern of life that is melded with our own technological level. Frontier law applies as well. The only time we see a constable now is when something major happens. There are no more police cars roaming the streets. The neighborhoods and homesteads patrol for themselves. Prowlers, mostly, looking for resources to take away from you. Food, water, steam equipment. If it’s yours and you catch it in their hands, their life is forfeit if you can make it so. Then you are entitled to your own back, as well as whatever they carried with them. The leavings are left to waste management, who uses the bodies in cremation, in order to power his own. Quite a near, tidy system we’ve devised here. You sit there in your comfortable future world, smiling quaintly at what we go through, but you haven’t been here for the plague, the shamblers, or the prowlers. Thank God you never would be either. You’d just as much as liability as an asset, so I wot. So go on, and read on, and remember your manners true.

For even though the world has ended in a whimper..ended in a whimper..ended in a whimper...we still find a way to live in a civil manner. You mind yours and see if you can, too.
24 October 2007 @ 05:28 pm
The slightest chill crisp in the air, sunlight well past its apex and fading by the time I walk home from school. The sound of kicked rocks and leaves crunched underfoot. The acrid smell of diesel in my nose as buses pass me by. I could've taken the bus home, but why?

Then there was her.

We'd been friends for years, and we used to walk home together more often than not. We were never a couple (though we made a hamfisted attempt a few years later, and what a mistake THAT was) then, though I put my arm around her shoulders and let it act as a buffer between the violin case she carried like a katana on the back of her backpack and the back of her head. She put her arm around my waist and held on for dear life. We didn't walk fast, we didn't walk slow. We just..walked. We talked about everything. We only lived a couple of blocks apart, so somedays, I'd walk her home first and loop back around to my place. Other days, she'd walk me home first, and I got to hear about walking home from school with a real live (cute) girl from my mom. She always wished we'd get together. She liked her. That much was apparent.

I stood in the doorway this afternoon, and watched the sun fading as it was well past its apex and fading, smelled the crisp chillness in the air. I sipped coffee, and sighed wistfully as I remembered those days and could almost see a pair of ghosts walking down the street. One big guy with a back pack slung over a plaid trench coat that had his arm around a girl's shoulder, who wore our high school's varsity jacket and a violin case strapped to her backpack like a katana.

I guess we never forget the little joys found among all those years of changes, confusion, and angst.
Current Mood: nostalgicnostalgic
Current Music: "Get it Together" - Beastie Boys (with Q-Tip)
29 June 2007 @ 09:43 pm
    The end of the day and the start of the night collided so hard they bruised the sky; irritations of reds and oranges gave way to blood bruises of blues and purples, graduating to the inky black of deep tissue damage. Were it a collision of anything but the celestial, the wounds would've been fatal but the cosmos has always found a way to recover from death in the Mobeus Strip of eternal fatality and constant rebirth.
28 June 2007 @ 06:23 pm
Okay, so that does it for all the stuff I have archived elsewhere. I've got some stuff lurking around on my various laptop or desktop drives that I'll get around to posting here in the next couple of days, then it'll be on to the new and works-in-progress stuff. I've decided to make this my digital web-based repository. So unfortunately that means you folks will be exposed to all of my work: the good, the bad, and the ugly. It'll mostly be one of the two latter ones there. Apologies in advance. Updates coming within the next couple of days. Talk to you all soon.
28 June 2007 @ 06:22 pm

Walkin’ out of  class

And step outside into a day

That’s too warm, too bright to be Feburary

Today, it’s spring – only if it’s just til tomorrow

I start walkin’ to the back forty where my chariot awaits

Wondering if Moses was just a college guy on his way

To his car when he picked up a few stragglers.

As I shuffle, I look down in the mud and half in and half out

is a tampon, sticking out of its wrapper, half in and half out

And I just gotta ask myself – “Is it used?”

They say that winter’s almost over, because a groundhog could see it’s shadow.

I personally don’t agree, because it’s just not that easy

and when I look over at the geese convention lounging poolside,

They seem to agree with me.

Old man Winter isn’t done yet

Just because there’s some grey in the temples and beard,

and a tremor in the hands.

For now, I just keep walkin’

and enjoy the spring.


I can’t draw

But I still have a sketchbook and pencils.

Because the desire’s there, if not the talent.

I can’t write, but I still have a journal, a pen, and some words.

Because the desire’s there, if not the talent.

These things preserve my humanity

Reminds me why I work

Go to school

Why I endure the shit I endure

To get those small increments of bliss

Without these things –

Why? Why Continue?

If it’s not for these things

I cannot love

But I still have

Heart, soul, an touch anyway.

Because the desire is there,

If not the talent.

28 June 2007 @ 06:20 pm

I am a big fat resplendent digital Bacchus

I stand with my feet in the pod, my head in the gutter

A one man oasis in the desert of the real

With sex appeal

Your wish is my keystoke colon double backslash execute command

Ready to fulfill any impulse, any desire

With a rock hard 10 inch 1.5 megabyte data pipe

Fed to you slowly with a spoonful of honey

And a smile like the snake with an apple and a wink sayin’,

“Go ahead Eve..just take a lil’ byte…this apple’s awfully juicy.”


There’s no shame ot my game I come correct

Can sort your harajuku fetish by province and dialect

In a world where moral standing is lying down

And human connections are scarce to be found

You could do worse than to find me in this alternate reality

Where flesh is currency and souls are on credit.

Just remember that when your ass is in debt

When your escape is at hand and your release looms

That I’m the 18 year old nympho cheerleader Jill

That you jacked out with in the chat room.