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.

HELL LOW, SAY LOR
said the grizzled whore who was my aunt. SAY UNCLE,
im sure she was a piece of ass in her day which couldn't have been any day LAST WEAK.

MY FATHERS BROTHER HAD A mCgRUFF DEMEANOR
AND WHEN HE COPPED
HE WOOD END SHAYRE
he bumped his head straight nightly.

I don't know what any of that means. I've been writing things in my sleeps lately. Not a sonambulant scribe mind you, just writing things in my dreams and remembering them verbatim when i wake up.

I had a three some with an 8th grade girlfriend and the girl who stamped reject on my V card. It was a good dream, but then I fell asleep.

Sip fifths and skip forth
slipped discs in discourse

I missed this
by choice
A faulty foundation
shoddy construction from the
Onset to Tesno

A Balcony at an INdian WEdding
drops revelers
faster than
a fixer drops a twist
and it breaks faster than my lines
in a trailer

A Moment of bliss and a WElcome INterruption
gathering clots
like groupies seek
autographs

I'll sign my name and say
there is something left.

Promise me I will marry like metal fuses in an auto wreck; twisted and melded into an unknown form. Let me dance with a niece like a lime tangos with the effervescence of a fresh liter of tonic.

Abstain from capital punishment when Im convicted of forcing carnal knowledge upon May. Kneading my semi-flaccid member into her waning daylight and splaying a nut upon her multihued fresco, grant me a reprieve, because Junes post-coital nature lets me know its all a sham.

We can wander amicably into summer and treat happenstance like cohorts greet each other in postcards; short on words due to the lack of space, conveying our meaning in innuendo and wanting to fuck because of the postscript.

Treat my day to day like having to turn the stereo down on my favourite song. Add a u to words that can accommodate one to let people know you can b in the right if you really want to b.

With Julying to me as always, Ill try therapy, and waste my energy and credit on trying to paste it all back together. Her days and temper have been growing shorter for weeks now and my will to lie is surmounted by feigned indifference.

Cooked alive in that car wreck, grilled to the steering wheel because I was wearing a seatbelt on you insistence. I screamed for my mother while the steam from my last breaths fogged the spidered windshield.

Ill divorce August and cite irreconcilable differences. She can take half of my money, cause I aint got shit. Double my negatives, because I was this tense in the first place. Triple my bets that my rebound with September, ends in the grave that my car became.