Where is the career you paid for? Who ties your tie? We'll park your Benz, while you visit our town. We'll serve your drinks you'll buy a tee shirt with the name of my isthmus and pay ninety bucks for the image of certain Labrador Retriever whose pate reflects the absence of any color what so ever.

I am not angry at my lot in my life. I have made the cliche that I will lay in. All attempts to re-acclimate my self to social interaction fail like foam insulation on the space shuttle.

Who can I write for? I can only hope for her. Your IPOD breaks and your gut gets fatter. Belabored key strokes like a brain bleed. Outside tables in the rain, getting soaked with smiles. Shes married now and high school still feels like yesterday.

Your first album is considered a plastic classic, and you still try to bump a four track dub tape on your first date. Living in '96 dreaming of '01 and wasting 08.

Rotten luck is someone elses when the precipice doesn't scare you. Revel in the inevitable come down, benzos are a fluffy blanket. Ensconced in the throes of a delirium some enjoy. Being the guy that works better with the sharp clarity of a hangover half baked out in the sun.

You've read this a million times, like you hit the snooze every 9 minutes every few months it seems that keyboard throws up.

Fuck.

I can't right write now. Click back later.....

I wrote about making ends meet versus making ends meat. Now I am grasping at straws?

Or is it grasping for straws. I picture a man drunk at a bar. I am not that man, for now he is hypothetical. I have been that man, but digressions in my state of mind are like land mines in Sarajevo; fuckin everywhere and liable to blow off the arm of a kindergartener picking daisies for her foster mom.

Wars a bitch, and it seems I digressed and you stepped on one. Grasping for straws. The man at the bar, sits placated and besotted. He notices a pubic hair on the rim of his highball glass. Its not a high class establishment, but the fact he knows its short and curly; places one across his ass. He's been on that stool through four and half reruns of Sportscenter and god knows how many games of Keno. God does know, hes sure, because he prays to him to hit the 3x multiplier, on six numbers outta a twelve point game.

Keno is more than a digression, it is in its all encompassing drunk gambling glory a literal land mine. Arms and legs blown akimbo, mine land on the carriage return.

He stinks but he doesn't want to make one. He mastered the drunken path to the head, pretending that chairs jumped in the middle of his left step stumble that no one seems to notice. He has in the past, even gone on to pretend to straighten a picture that was set on all four corners in the first place, just to keep the left step stumble in the minds of anybody that may be casting the next season of Dancing with the Winos, also known as Drinking with the Downtrodden, Downcast, and self abusing.

That one shattered your femur, and blew your patella through your quadriceps, now if you can manage to crawl to the edge of what used to be this semantic playground without hitting anymore you may be able to pretend that you care enough to keep reading what I am prattling on about.

His bar napkin, was picked apart as soon as the glass sweat enough to make it damp like his forehead. He doesn't want to pick the pube from the rim. It seemed happy to live life on the edge, even if the edge was a minuscule promontory above the lackluster effervescence of his well whiskey and Sierra Mist. Fuck that it didn't seem happy and neither was he, he was just to lazy to try and scared it may fall and ruin his BEVRIDGE.

The bartender was no where to be seen, probably out back huffin a quick butt, since it'd been like 8 years since you could smoke one inside anywhere in the godforsaken Commonwealth. He figured he could do it himself, it was just a reach that he'd stretched a million times before. He just had to angle the stool on its first two legs, stretch, snatch, rock back in retreat and polish off the rest. But as your protagonist prodded, the divine antagonists plotted and promised themselves that no fuck that drunk would ever be allowed to balance as long as they were on watch.

On the second rock forward, he knew he that maybe in trouble. The floor sticky with schwill of the rest of his kind, proved a tricky surface; and although quick to notice he was relatively slow to react and on the recoil of the third rock the stool flew out backward, toward the pool table. His propensity to overact a mishap made the proceedings look that much more foolish. He managed to grab a handful of straws, only after knocking over the fruit caddy and the Keno tickets into the ice well. Chin forward he smacked the bar rail, biting his lip more in aggression than embarrassment and due only to the force with which he was trying so hard to make the incident look to be more an accident than the daily repast that is was coming to be, he started to bleed.

Down for the count on the floor he spilled more pints of blood, bitter, blow, and account balances upon. He figured that he'd usurped the position that his father held; Dad's proclivities proved disastrous for his progeny. Covered in whiskey, he realized that he fell grasping for straws, and with a giggle prayed to the let the embarrassment subside and while he was at it hoped for his numbers to hit in the last of his three plays.

We slink now, like we used to fuck, under the radar.

Blip. Blips, prancing. Parlaying past distrusts into platitudes.

MARY's TALL bliss punctuated by a staccato pulse of endings. Pearing nicely with the fact that you can pick an orange in January the Citrus states level the branches and as they sink with weight. I wait.

People say I'm crazy I got limes in the bowls of my booze.

My memory sways like the pendulous breasts of fantasy. My cup size changes but I seem to always have my fill. Like a drunk trying to impress his friends on Guitar Hero, I always seem to find a happy Medium.

Not a little feat, small hands and pristine blue eyes are rolled into a precocious post natal canolli. Faces pressed like my past metaphor to nursery glass; coping with the fact that the future connotes a collective "We" rather than the presupposed "Me".

Granted, we in the past were as cohesive as, say, a popcorn ceiling and a bouncy mattress. But in retrospect butting heads creates a coat of arms for the clash. Alas, if only a patch, at least it bears the scars. Besides, bearing them proudly beats producing a weak bandage. Squirming in fits she'll force your tourniquet's twist. Heaving your emotion like the sun's rays concentrating through a magnifying glass; to live for a little one's dependence belies the notion that living for oneself is what life is all about.

I hope someday, you'll cry uncle to yourself,think of me, smile, and remember 18.

We aint never had nuthin close to a future. She was a waypoint, I stepped on for a cold minute. Her minutiae blinded me, like the glare off mud flaps with chrome vixens scissoring their legs.

She wasn't a vile cunt mind you. She was good in bed and kept me warm. For the most part I was satiated, but her mood changes were the seasons and even though I deemed myself a haggard veteran of her cold shoulder spells, her face this instance disgusted me.

I have played two years upon her like pavement. I shoveled god's white shit off her face just to move. My stagnancy made her putrid, my serotonin levels failed her and her friends. I will never hate her. I will arrive to fuck her face when she feels better, when her winds shift, eschew the gelid drizzle and her limbs explode in color to suffocate me in their verdant embrace.

I leave friends with her, to watch. I leave enemies with her, to rot. People to me belong in the corral of my memory to buck and be broken in the serenity of my senility.

The chances are that I will be dead before Al Zimer spots me. He seems to me to be a garroters twat that twists the soul of those that dared to live too well, too long. Sundowning, whilst some drown.

Some know that when I go on sabbatical I return with herpes. I have loved every woman that I kissed. And lied to them all.

Much love to East Hartford.

I am representative of the student body. I pine, like oak to be laid out in bliss, to Split Sundaes and go bananas.

I saw an Eagle on the chalkboard of freshmen Algebra. Granted, I had a head full of acid and some fuck freaked me out with a Wonder Woman Pez dispenser during homeroom. Jesus turned his head and peered at me. I almost punched the sociology teacher, I had to sit in the back in my own pew.

Lord knows, I didn't stink although I made one as the heretic in the study halls. Me and a mulatto kid made hell. He later made it real when he punched me for being racist. I'm not really. I just had a shaved head and a red tie with doc martens, and I idolized Edward Norton and for that matter, Edward Furlong. Maybe i JUST liked the fat guy who is in Earl nowadays.

For the most part i had no friends. I was an underachieving stoner with a penchant for the dramatic. Dissect the sentence and see what is true today. Lets just say i don't smoke weed.

Rock on gold dust woman. I took the drugs as a guinea pig. I peaked at halftime, I geeked at mass. I played a role and now I'm just bored.

Of writing this and my past. The FEW chore will hold
pee poll
like the COCK us in I OWE YA
Hoey Jinds questions a fact he can't
\ DEE SIE FER
Go into SHAWK
like ANNA FA LAK TIC
cause i rip shit the quickest and the baddest DIE A FER RECESS
like a student in the garden of kids
I flip ish so quick the lip be on the top of the lids

5 days a week

She was mouth breather who's lungs sounded like the floor of a movie theater every time she breathed in. Her aura reminded me of using baby wipes, perhaps of those people who blew their nose on them while on the toilet and, not wanting to waste paper, went on the wipe their ass.

Tom Robbins said that their were two kinds of people in the world, "Those who thought that there were two kinds of people in the world, and those that knew better." I had, as of then, had yet to make up my mind one which one I was. Usually, there were only two groups. People that could stand me to a degree, and those who hated my guts.

Lately, I have found myself in the latter half of Tom's description. I found a select group that was completely able to lie to my face while pretending that they could stand me, those whose level of adulation rivaled that of a serf to a king, and those who could stand me in small doses, doses as small as those of arsenic that a beaten wife feeds her drunken husband for years until she had had enough and outright killed him one night.

My affinity for long sentences had been quelled for awhile due to machinations and delusions of grandeur. KISS. Keep it short and simple, or Keep it simple, stupid. I have tried to squeeze every ounce of meaning from single words, while letting my verbosity wane like New Jersey. It is my understanding as of this writing that being loquacious is not tantamount to being verbose.

The early ninties seem a life time away, and yet somehow, 1997 seems like yesterday. I suppose that the styles have changed some. The music has. Maybe when the music on the radio starts to suck, you're too old. As if one were a gator in a fishtank and then released, never to grow bigger.

It takes only a role of the dice for some executive to make the next big thing in music. What if Herman's Hermits became popular first? Would John and Paul have become relegated to nasally harmonizing about Mr. Brown's lovely daughter? Rhetorical questions in writing are nothing more than filler I assure you, but I am rusty so bear with me.....

To the left, to the left....

For awhile I thought making ends meet was making ends meat. Like those packages of baloney ends for sale cheaply at the deli counter in a Market Basket. Now I know its making ends meet. I have never started anything so I don't know how to finish anything, so I can't seem to make ends meet. Ends meat I could do.

When I started writing the Inklinks on the old site, I didn't know what a blog was, so they weren't a blog. This is a blog solely because I am writing it in a "blog adminsitrator", therefore it is banal and my words can flow out like any other mint in the fecal-tainted cosmic communal mint bowl of life.

One should always wash their hands after making water, ends meat too, I suppose. Then you can take a mint, but use the tongs if they are provided.

At the crux of it, I have difficulty writing sober and since I'm not as much in my cups as I used to be, I more often than not find myself staring at a blank screen. When I was always high or drunk, I found myself arc welding words without a mask. Now when I wanna write, I have tricked myself into thinking I have to get fucked up first, and when that happens I do it to get fucked up and not to write. I can still weld, but the light blinds and I give up quickly.

So when they ask me why I don't just write for a newspaper, or freelance I tell them that I don't have enough money for it. I'd have to morgage my soul for a pound of drugs and a river of booze just to take a crack at it, in hopes that I can make some money and keep the cycle going.

The cycle will no doubt kill me. But when I eventually hop on it, I will have no worries about burning out because it will be inevitable. I will have fun while it lasts, maybe even make enough money to be wealthy. Although I will continue to be morally bankrupt, at least I won't have to worry about making ends meat.

I couln't help myself.

Beer and cigarette apocalypse she said holding her lower lip between her teeth. A slight smirk and a shift of gears. The fact that she moves like chess pieces, deliberate in her actions and yet unsure of herself, sauntering to the counter in what I consider a negligee; she wears what she thinks is proper.

We've thanked men for printing words on the ass seats of short shorts, these are the kinds of billboards that eschew the Marlboro man while juicily divulging Vicki's secret. Sweet melons of ripe young asses over which I am the old hat of the USDA. Long since past the time I inspected them, I am relegated to the clipboard and merely mutter approvals to the ones who can ink them with their post-teen stamps.

I'm not old. But I am pretty fat. I never had the ability to conjure up conversation, just the ability to make them smile. Like a third down back, that gains a few yards but never really moves the chains, I am only useful to myself. The sparkling ability of cutting back quickly, upon a right knee that doesn't work. Back pain since I deck dove for the Sox in 04. The only thing that I have managed to grow is deeper in debt and a semblance of a neck beard.

I see flashes of hope in what seems to be the open flu of my future. I can manage to dry the kindling of my spirit and strike the match to the tinder in time to look up and smirk into the deluge that has nonchalantly snuck from clouds that gathered from the Berkshires of my declining work years.

I took her up on the offer for a drink at lunch and I like how she drove. I took my drink as my lunch and tried to see what she was driving at. It turns out she was driven to finish high school, and go to college to feed her kid. I was driven to be a drunk at her age, when I had all ever needed and complained because it cast a sultry shadow on my future.

I took my stamp out and patted her on the ass to say she passed. The others would have pasted her as rejected, and in my years all I see is her shelf life extended, like her arm when i shook her hand until the next time.