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.

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.