Slight chances pass by in Fleeting
moments like enemas
sorting the shit from the truth
like red socks in the white laundry

You find it tough too.
barter your feelings? For basically nothing
comes that quickly and stays strictly

Well. The following is an experiment. Writing hammered produced the last piece of shit that I wrote.

I deleted it. Drunkard that I am. I didn't delete it cause I was drunk I deleted it because I was drunk when I smashed the keys and wrote it.

I need to know where to put in semicolons. I place them randomly for effect when I use them . So tonite I will start sober.

Drunk or sober, I don't know when to use them.

This is already tedious and mundane. One single, solo, cup. One single Solo cup. Filled with Blue label Smirnoff and Raspberry seltzer. Two ice cubes. Strong. Let me mix it.

(To go the fridge and micks a drink: continue reading.)

(To remain sober: sit there, open a new tab in the browser, bitch about the new Facebook layout, stalk an old fuck, click LIKE on something witty, close the tab. Open a new one, then go fuck yourself to Redtube or Yourporn.)

Rasp. Berry. I think of a succulent summerday filled with a berry that speaks with a smoker's haggard growl. A fullflavored Parliment stuck to the chapped lower lip. Like the progeny of my friend Amanda and one of the Fruit of the Loom guys.

Thats kinda stupid. Pretentious maybe. More than likely you don't know Amanda. Its even more than likely that you know that none of the Fruit of the Loom guys are berries.

So it was a stretch. I need music and the AC is cold. I have no blinds and people stare at me, whilst I am writing, from the dumpster when they toss away their garbahge. Thats french for rubbish, which is Anglican English for trash, which is what this is. So I contemplate throwing the computer out the window.

(If you want me to throw the computer out the window : Stop reading, fly to Florida, come to my house, and fuckin make me. Seriously. Come to Florida. I am lonely, and shouldn't have pounded that giant cup of booze. I have very few friends left, and the ones that remain are growing very tired of me. I have come to the realization that this is a very weak premise and have written myself into a corner without the wherewithal or literary intelligence to escape. These parentheses bang on my temples like a migraine, and I am starting to prattle. I wish I knew how to use semicolons as I am sure they would no doubt be helpful in this jag of verbosity. Lord help me now, I have a problem with booze and I am so scared of dying alone.........)

(If you want me to keep the computer where it is, and maybe mix one more little drink: continue reading.)

There seems to be a problem now. The bent desklamp already melted the ice cubes in the new drink. I have just typed for five minutes and erased it all with distinctive clicks of backspace, instead of holding it down; writing my initials in the dust of the dresser all the while.

All the while? yikes. Have I regressed or digressed seeking egress from thiss? All the while should go at the front of a sentence. Random sentence time! RANDOM SENTENCE TIME!

All the while should go in front of sentences.
Age should breed intelligence, not reticence.
These are random sentences. Not meant to rhyme. My favorite GNR song is MY MICHELLE!

The fucked up thing is that I would drive like this but I can't write. Truthfully, I don't believe three random sentences require a declaration of randomness. Obviously I have found the music and am now more enamored with the songs than typing.

Nothing seems to be making sense. O sm sctullsy...
I am actua;;y.....
I am actually wearing a spaghetii....spagetii...
I am actually wearing a s[aghetti//////// FUCK.

I am actually wearing a spaghetti stained wifebeater
and listening to November Rain.
)SEE A MONTH AGO(

Wait the solos coming up. WOOHOO.
Meber///nmever has a p[wrson
....neber...
never haas a [erson///
person done such a wonderful rendition of the aolo...
solo air guitar in a desk chair. O?? O??
I!!!!
fuckin naired ot/////
I fuckin nailed it.

To listen to second solo keep reading...to bail out now with your pride is useless.

I smell cigarettes and I want one. But I dont smoke anymore. If i pack a chew, maybe///

I did and I calmed down. To read this the way you do I have to break lines with sideways v the letters "BR" a slant and another sideways v. Its like this
but you cant read it cause its computer speak.

(To read what I write after listening to anotner song: continue reading)

(To stop npw...now...TOstop now: STOP readoing)

I picked CAnned HEat.

Going up the country I sit on a rock baked in the sun of a random Lower cape beach. Rocky as shit with no waves and tourists on the jeyyt...jetty. Youve gotta a home as long as Ive got mine. I miss the cape and I feel like a beaten wife leaving for the winter. I'll return in the spring, cause the bastard husband called winter should be incarcerated for another few months, only to be let out again with the icy winds of November.

I'll run into another door.
I'll fall down the stairs.

The bottles dented/

tHATS the gamut I run.

(To wake up in time tomorrow: Go to sleep now)

I slapped the shit out of her for fucking with my time to write. Distressed by ambient lighting and fighting for creativity I push commitment to the periphery like the Gravitron. She hates my moustache, I hate her bedbugs. They draw blood like a kindergartner. Sepia based with a smattering of pink. Gangly legs, one eye bigger and green hair. I suppose she makes me feel this small.

I was relieved when she left, but missed her when she was gone. Know that drill? Carbide bit twisting into your lower lumbar. A two month virgin hating his empty bed and dream fucking his body pillow.

The cold she gave me turned into the flu. Busted sick and bootin into the same dirty toilet I sullied with shit a scant second prior. I know this knot. It was tied before. Doubled over sweating and seeing pictures of the past.

Straighten in the mirror shuddering with the last bucks of sickness. Don your work pants. Button your shirt. Call the office every sunday asap. Work with your cowardliness. Gargle water and toothpaste. Have you spat out disgust and stared at your scars?

Broken teeth open brew bottles reaping what you sowed ploughing fallow ground faux smiles and quick quips garnering snickers like fat kids on Halloween. Interstitial, divide your peccadillos for consumption by your friends. Those that laugh, knead, like dough, your friendship.

Do anything but remove booze and nicotine.
I need kick and snare in the monitor please.
Sober. At the meeting with half a stale sandwich,
no cheese.
I need kick and snare in the monitor please.

Third shift work. First shift drunk.
Second shift dropped gear. Tree.

In the kick and the snare, on the monitor these
blips dance prance and parlay. See?

Do nothing but install rules and strict routine.
I need kick and snare in the monitor please.
Wasted. Feelings fleeting, drunken egress,
yes please.
I need kick and snare in monitor please.

A fifth sipped flirts. A quaffed quart plots.
The liter sicks the spins. Stop.

I need kick and snare in the monitor please.

I am trying to force it. Press it, place it, put it here. Write it down, tie it up, force it out. Need it? Roll it, make it supple. Foist it, cram it. Trying to kick? Wrap its legs and tickle its toes.

I haven't cut myself off. It was more of a battlefield amputation. A rusty bonesaw and sepsis are more pleasant than the phantom ache of a missing appendage. Try taking the guitar solo out of your favorite song and listening to it on blown speakers. Then put it on repeat for thirtysix hours. An I SCREAM headache without the waffle cone. No jimmies. No sprinkles.

A game of Jenga so perilous, with all the middle slats removed; the top leaning so precipitously. Its my turn and I wanna flip the table to lose, because I can't stand to slide out the one thing that's holding me up. My one and only load bearing beam.

Malleable, picking up habits like silly putty does funny pages. Pliable. Lathed to specific instructions, and left to rotate inconsequent.

I got stuck there. No buses running, the T is closed. Red lined. There's snow emergency when immerging from the throes just pins and needles. Cushioned falls, taking the edge off, rice cakes instead of a steak dinner. Mission failed, on I go. Tying one on.

Remember when you could turn a walkman up loud enough to hurt your ears? Remember a walkman? Tapes. The purported savior of transportable music. The sober offspring of the besotted 8 track. Heralded.

Fuck a discman. Tapes. Analog. Wearing out a tape was a sign you knew all the words. Knew to get to your favorite track play it to one spot on the A side. Flip. Crackle. Listen.

Cats need 40 gig Ipods. Way too much music. As many portable songs as people at BHO's inauguration. Keep the change. I am too young to be a dinosaur and tapes came out when I was three.

And if you want some fun, sing

OBLADIOBLADA...llalalalalala.....

Life goes on.

Sunburned and hammered he stepped to the pavement. Wide brimmed hat and shirt 10 years older than he was. Expensive sunglasses given as a gift that he didn't deserve, winter's pasty paunch dangling above his swimtrunks. He grimaces. Figures its as good a day as any. Chinch bugs by the storm drain, a trollop in the sprinklers. Sprayed but not drenched. He giggles. Solo cup filled to the brink of explosion with a potently clear effervescent beverage, he can manage to meander loaded through the nascent southern evening. As the hoi polloi are garnished up north with rock salt and snow shovels, he is armed solely with a palpable aura of relacksayshun.

He left the brown liquor in a dirty snowbank just as Elizabeth's Islands were reaching winter's menopause. Hopped a bus to Logan with a tall boy and a pint of Black Haus. Stumbled through security and waited for a 65 dollar direct flight to America's phallus. Overserved on the plane the college freshmen next to him pulled her oversized handbag closer. Not to worry sweetheart. No threat there. He was harmless as he sung to himself.

I know its hard to keep an open heart.......when even friends seem out to haunt you.........

Heatstroke or sun poisoning? Stained wifebeater and empty fifths of flavored vodka. Lawnmowers with mexicans and pink hairdos sticking above steering wheels of late model Crown Victorias. Route 19, the carotid artery through which the blood of Pinellas and Pasco pump, runs down to the Skyway. The Gulf Coast his sandbox, he waits for the bus.

They sing.......

After all the jacks are in the boxes, and the clouds have all gone to bed, you can hear happiness standing on down the street, foot prints dressed in red...........

Winter. I have had problems with her in the past. When shes just cold enough to rain instead of snow I despise her.

Grumbles of the booted brethren donning more layers as armor against the onslaught, aren't heard through ski masks. When I ran from her, I booked it. Quickly. Southern latitudes assuaging the soul, kneading broken spirits like dough early to rise for a jaunt on the shores of Caladesi Island.

Pockmarked, riddled with the fresh scars of November. Fresh skin glaring like birthmarks. Lips chapped. 2 sweaters, sweatshirt, winter parka. Wool hat.

A smile? Fucked if I know why. But yes, I'm wearing one like that wool chapeau. I am turning a corner. Blindly. It may be the pints that are proffered by my beaten brethren, the lads that stand in the shite weather for a living; who congregate to quaff for warmth and hobby, and yet I think it may be something more.

It's the junkies itch of the warmth to come. Boat rides. Elizabeth's Islands. Hurling invectives at wildlife for the irony. Throwing oneself off houseboat rooftops into warm water instead of into the windscreens of moving vehicles.

I will watch through the glass of her zoo enclosure as she sits silently. Patiently. Shes wait for the turn of the key to do the two stroke into Broadway.

These new scars cahn't wait to ask for the first dance.

Soon. Real soon. I'll have something to write about, until then I write about this.

Wait until it gets colder. I'll drink less and write more. More or less, I'll drink and write. Sure. I wonder if the FPL has a policy against hip flasks or my tripping septuagenarians down the library stairs for the paltry contents of their bill folds and poggabooks.

Maybe not against the hip flasks but I'm relatively sure that there is something in the bylaws about cracking the hips of town elders.

Now I'm onto it let me tell you about the collection of riffraff and roustabouts stuffed into the computer lab of my new office.

(Falmouth Public Library: finally I have a deadline to work under as i get signed off in ten minutes)

In this millieu, this veritable pressure cooking of Falmouth's old and retarded; we currently have a loudmouth bitch on a cellphone call with Overstock.com. Fuck her in the mouth. She makes me angry. (I have to hurry know time is running low)

Then there is the young lady with a mild to severe retardation behind me screaming out the name of the emoticon everytime she sends one to her halfwit friends. SMILIY FACE!

SMILY FACE WITH TOUNGE! SAD FACE! :LAUGHING FACE:!!!!!!!!!!!!

I wonder what it would be like to share an open mouth kiss with her

TIMES UP.

How often does the hatred of something seep in the pours of your being? Does it consume you when you have to swallow a visceral reaction because of social mores?

How often do you wear your socks and/or your underwear for more than one day? How often do you eschew pertinent bills because you need money for the weekend?

How often? How often do you write?

How often do entire summers pass by like DVRed commercials? How often do you realize you left the collective months of June, July and August in the NW gut?

I fail at life more often than wireless internet connections and when you left me in July... I learned not to finish sentences.

How often are you lucky to be alive? How often are you hungover at work? How often do you think that best has past you by? How often are you a jerk?

How often in cocaine important? How often do you do it? How often is sobriety a chore? How often do you choose it?

Debit cards for bar tabs? Singles for a juke box? September around the corner? October brings the Fall? Standing on the precipice a pitcher for last call?

How often should you call her and hang up on the last ring? One more shot for winter?

End of Summer?

THINK OF SPRING.