Programming

 

somethings happening

 

One thing that i’ve learned for certain in my 40 odd years on this rioting planet: when you butter your bread on both sides, your fingers get really greasy.

 

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pisces=scorpio>

pisces vs. scorpio>

scorpio vs. pisces>

pisces x scorpio>

pisces<scorpio>

pisces>scorpio>

pisces+scorpio= bang> >

 

my life in a nutshell.

 

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i’m running through plainview, running like an old lady… i should have the word pussy tattoo-ed across my throat (using CASTROL 40 weight motor oil instead of tattoo ink).  i’m trying to jog off the office.  because, i sit at a desk the majority of the day, i’m amazed at my lack of energy when i actually do hoist my ass up from my ergo chair and move around.  there’s a life out there that i’ve become too tired for.  where does it all go?  i thought that exercise was supposed to give you energy.  not true.  is there some vampire- other than my state issued computer or the parasites swimming in the contaminated water supply- that’s feasting on me without my knowledge?

but, i don’t want to look outside myself for an excuse as convenient as it may be.

as i run, i consider taking hydroxy-cut.  i consider micro dumb-abrasion. i consider being sliced to bits and fed like chum to the mutant fish up at Cemetery Shores. i wonder if my authentic self is being replaced by cheap and disposable robot parts forged by underpaid, undervalued, pagan-yellow people.  i think about my friends; my life’s a sideshow.  in the park, i see a boy that looks like r.b.- my high school senior ‘love puppet’. for seven short months, he took my mind off my divorce and my dying mother.  took my mind off my life.  that long, curly, blonde viking hair and those germanic features.  but, we aren’t dating anymore.  we broke up around new years.  so, happy new year.  when i told my therapist about him, she looked at me in all seriousness and said, “maybe you shouldn’t be telling me this.”

“17 is the age of consent in Ohio. and his adoptive mom really digs me.”  i realize that only creeps know the letter of the law in their state when it comes to the various ages of consent.

my therapist’s expression of blank horror, alone, was more than worth the price of admission to her pony show.  oh, i don’t know.  she might’ve said something like “maybe we need to talk about certain aspects of your emotional maturity and what a 40-year-old-soon-to-be-divorced man would possibly have in common with a 17 year old boy?”  it would’ve been valid.  but, she didn’t.  she just pursed her lips and suggested that i not reveal anything more and, going forward, that she preferred we not discuss this particular aspect of my life.  this is how i look at it:  most people don’t develop past an eighth grade mentality, anyway, so what’s the difference?  what did r.b. and i have in common?  we shared a love of the old norse gods along with levay, crowley and sex magic.  we were both into survivalism and wanted to try to take a trip to alaska.  he ignited my latent love of learning, knife throwing,  pot, anarchist activism, philosophy and weird music.  he was infinitely more stimulating than my peers.  what did my wife and I currently have in common?  two mortgages, a miscarriage, hospital bills, house repairs, car repairs, a failing sex life, a crop of nosy neighbors and a couch to spend my remaining years watching TV on.  i realized that adulthood had turned me into a semi-soft turd with hard convictions and a flabby soul.  jogging around like the idiot i was, i realized growing old sure sucked the life out of you when you weren’t looking.  maturity?!  i laugh at the so-called maturity i hear so much about but see so little evidence of.  if the bickering over neighborhood parking spaces or the invisible-dividing-line-that-dare-not-be-crossed drawn down the center of my work department, squabbles over sticky notes and gas dusters, are any indicator of the maturity level of “adults,” i shudder to think what the future holds.  but, i also believe the future is now.  so, i’m holding on to my iphone, because i’m in for a long, boring grind-down!

i circle around the path and run by the kid again.  r.b.’s adoptive-mom really wants us to get back together (even though she knows how old i am- she’s old-school out of west virginia).  maybe if i got back together with him, she wouldn’t have to pimp him out to pay for his food like she’s been known to do.  but, i guess, he really is getting too old for her clientele at this point.  i hate that it comes down to that.  she calls me at least once a week… she’s lonely, and her boyfriend’s no comfort to her. i think she might want to fuck me, too, but she knows i’m a little soured on the female of the species right now; thus, the situation with her son… who’s still a little androgynous.  the thing is, when r.b. was with me, at least adopted-mom’s boyfriend kept his hands off the kid.  he actually told him he didn’t want my sloppy leftovers.  he nearly made it impossible for us to see each other.  i think that’s the biggest reason for our breakup.  talk about a fucked family dynamic- i suppose i didn’t help.  maybe i did.  probably.  she’s told me that she wishes she had the guts to get away from her current redneck sonofabitch du jour and be the lesbian that she knows she always wanted to be.  she tells me that she really respects me even though i broke r.b.’s heart (how i did this, i’m still not entirely sure) and a small desire to stab me still lingers.  she’s quick to reassure me that it’s only the smallest of desires at this point… one that diminishes with each passing week.  she comes from a different world.  and, realistically, what place is there in this brave new poop-o-sphere for a blind, hillbilly, albino, closeted lesbian-witch other than that big ectoplasm filled garbage can in the sky or an alterna-geriatric chat room in some virtual warehouse?  if there is such a thing <i suspect there is> because there’s a freakin’ chat room or dungeon for every other gogdamned depravity.  his so-called mum notwithstanding, the end came when i caught him dining *very intimately* with another boy at the winking lizard.  man, i lost it: i made a complete scene.  felt like an ass-hat afterwards, but r.b.’s problem was/is that, for all his good qualities, he was/is disingenuous.  and so, he’s out.  blahbuhdeeblah.

distracted, i continue my run up the embankment and onto the bike path.  a bicyclist swerves.

“watch where you’re going, douchebag.”

i didn’t see him coming.  I don’t say sorry.  he was going too fast anyway.

ah, columbus’ metro parks… the filthy outdoors where the creepiest critters collect in refuse studded thickets.  berlin park was flooded last year when the monsoons hit- the sewers overflowed into the geographic bowl that contains the athletic facility and fields.  i saw on the news not too long ago that a number of guys on local softball teams were getting infections from sliding into home, hospitalized with weird rashes, blood infections and respiratory problems!  i wonder if the secret cocksuckers that haunt that park are getting infected knees and nose bleeds?  gosh, i hope not.  what a tragedy.

a young couple with a baby is set up for a picnic at one of the park’s filthy concrete and rebar tables.  a song from their radio… a late 80’s song… reminds me of the early part of me and my soon-to-be-ex wife’s relationship.  a time when i was confident, self assured and happy.  songs like this have a dreaded effect on me these days.  it takes all my strength to hold in my blubbering, babyish triggering.  i’m ready for my throat tattoo now.  maybe that’ll make a man out of me.  then again, probably not.

 

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i’m sitting here at work anxiously waiting for the phone to ring so i can help the helpless find their way to the middle of the shitpile.  it’s safest in the middle (read:muddle).  it’s so nice today, i wish i was naked and rolling in the mud.  or naked riding my bike.  or naked hunting for eggplants in a farmer’s market, or naked at one of our nation’s great theme parks, or naked having a picnic on the statehouse lawn, or naked in a leafy glade with a bunch of naked wood sprites and water nymphos.  dream, dream… i can always dream.  it hurts no one to dream my dreams of nakedness.  not that i’m obsessive or anything (how about naked egg-juggling in the oval?).  i really wish i was naked taking a nap in a dry, sanitary cave.  now, that’s wild!

i just got ahold of s.t. regarding l.m.s modest needs and he seems to think he’ll be able to paint l.m.s wagon by the weekend!  i told s.t. that l.m. wanted it to be multi-colored since he’s a child of the long gone, and all but forgotten by those who lived it, psychedelic era.  that’s when he was listening to the greatest music ever written (pre-woodstock) on his crystal fucking radio and calling people on a tin can with string.  and going into photo booths and shaving or some silly shite like that.  oh those were the days.  my goodness. l.m. remembers being bitten by a bore, he was gouged and he was (al) gored?  and that was way before any of that stuff became “cool” and “in fashion.”

i spent the morning cutting recipes out of the food section of the COLUMBUS PISS-PATCH and gluing them into a steno book.  what’s happening to me?

 

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Columbus Ohio is an overwrought, self-absorbed football town.  The center of the town is the university; the center of the university is the BUCKEYE FOOTBALLER.  And then, while they slept one night, this little cow-patty port became exceedingly diverse with sizable Somali and Hispanic populations.  Up until recently, there were more gays per capita in the city of Columbus than anywhere else in the United States, save San Francisco.   Columbus will forever be a cross section of the entire United States.  A test market full of perfect, fat guinea pigs.

 

 

apres moi le deluge

 

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> so this is how it is: I listen to my co-workers blather on and on to each other about their favorite TV shows like Prison Break, American Idol, and Desperate Housewives.  And FOOTBALL FOOTBALL FUCKING FOOTBALL like there’s nothing else in life worth squirting over.  The Ghost of Woody will never stop skullfucking me.  I don’t like watching clothed men playing with balls, and I already work with desperate housewives- I don’t need to watch them on TV, for fucksakes.

I’ve got a new counselor- she’s about 80 years old and her house smells like cat piss.  She bowls a couple of times a week and rides a bright red bicycle.  Her place is across from Frankling Park Conservatory.   She has a hearing aid.

This war’s heating up again.  I’m just trying to get ready for what’s ahead.  If it’s not terrorist attacks, it’s bird flu.  We had a floor meeting this morning and the big topic of discussion was the pandemic bird flu.  It’s scheduled to arrive in Columbus in October and the governor is panicking, bless his heart- that big ugly man and his frail homely wife.  They are talking about what happens if the city is quarantined.  I’m looking forward to it.

I hope the plague hits during the Michigan vs. Ohio State game; that’s all i can say.

I’m listening to Christian radio again today.  I’m learning how to dress myself according to what god wants; I had no idea that god doesn’t want men to wear baggy pants or oversized shirts.  By the same token, he doesn’t want men to wear tight fitting clothes either.  It’s a fine line with god.

He demands that we all wear underwear.

God doesn’t like writing across your ass- I don’t think I’ll be buying pants with text back there anyway, hell… I hate ornate embroidery on the pockets, so I’m safe.  I don’t want to anger god further, because he doesn’t approve of my life anyway¬| so I’ll follow HIS dress code and hope for the best.  I’ll also eat the foods he recommends.  Like cheese and cow¬| not the best for the old colon, but pleasing to the lord.  I’ll drink lots of wine and pretend it’s his blood for good measure.  I’m getting my plan fully in place.

 

I didn’t know that you were looking to faith-base your wardrobe, but am glad you’ve finally decided to turn your clothes over to Jesus.  Here’s a few god-tested and approved suggestions:  Don’t wear anything with “too many” pockets.  Nothing good ever comes of someone with more than 4 pockets in a pair of pants.  What are they trying to hide?  White shoes always look good. As for big belt buckles, yes, I hate to say it, but they’re no longer “in.”  Huge belt buckles are.  Bigger is deader.  God does not like funny slogans anywhere.  Try a simple “Amen” or “On your knees and PRAY” if you really must have something displayed on your unmentionables. 

 

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there are butterflies in my stomach

and bats in my bonnet.

take a shower and go to bed, or go to bed dirty just like the rest of the world?

i’ve been probed by a professional and have been faithfully rendered by t.v. so now i’m bottom’s up with a wad of garbage that someone told me was food stuffed in my mouth.

spending time in the eye of the militant infantilist, there are ways of getting us to talk.

there are ways to put them down.

aim for the head.

move a centimeter a day if necessary.

where are the whites in my eyes?

haven’t we already been crop dusted to death?  slow and mindless… all in a daze work.

no more fingernail clippers anywhere, ever?

let the pain rain down on those who stand to gain from the spreading stain.

all with blood all with blood all with blood.

 

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this woman i work with has lent me cd of songs about a bitter divorcee… it sounds like blues traveller fucked dave matthews in the eye socket using tom petty’s shrivelled old dick after licking stale beer from jimmy buffet’s flip flop. but then again, it’s just the first song.  jammin. i’m hungry… hungry for beer battered puppy dog tails.  i’m starving… starving for cowboy uncut veal… with a side of cream cheese.  are you hungry yet?  what about sesame seared filet of worm with a delicate sauce for dipping?  my stomach is really growling now.

i threw away a dozen pair of pants.  realistically,  trying to replace my demonic interests with jesus, finally.  started with my playlist and all my external stimulus.  even my.provacative clothes.  glad i still fit in my size 33’s, but i like my clothes more baggy these days.  i’m practicing humility.  i’ve found that being humiliated is always a good start.  and i’m probably wearing my clothes more baggy than god likes, but he knows i’m not trying to hide anything but my lustful body.

there are cookies and doughnuts here in the office for the staff on a near daily basis.  the last six months have been a battle of comfort foods… me just eating like a starved, zoo kept pachyderm.  i am still working out even though i haven’t felt like it; taking care of the temple, so to speak.  at this time, it’s more difficult for me to summon motivation for healthful activity; exercise does not come as easy as falling off my rickety, puckered wagon.  i want a body like the red head on the ninth floor- his back’s a perfect triangle.  how much more time do i need to spend looking in the mirror and being self absorbed to get that way?   i wonder if god will start punishing me for my vanity soon, too?  i will never have the amount of ass that ginger posseses, though, so why wreck myself over it.  some people are just born with ass, charisma, blessings.  i wasn’t.  perhaps more lunges or squats would help- sqatting to pee doesn’t count.  i’m getting a gym membership within the next several months.  probably at THE DIRTY PLACE.  they’ve got a small work out facility on the job site, but it doesn’t have steam rooms or a pool.  THE DIRTY PLACE has a jacuzzi too, however, i’m skittish about using it… especially since i worked at THE DIRTY PLACE and know how it’  custodians routinely neglect it.  why… they barely acknowledge the hot tub exists unless there’s a mess of logs bobbing in it or the water turns orange.  yeah, the poop and bandaids look real pretty floating in that boiling mush of teal foam.  ships lost at sea.  nobody swims in the pool.  lots of people grope around in the jacuzzi.  nobody uses the weight room either.  groping is not allowed in the gym.  i tell myself that i’ll go to work out only.  i won’t linger,  i won’t loiter in the sauna.  i have to get control.  i wonder if NEWSCENTER 4 would pay me for a story about that place?  a ‘from-the-inside’ look at the trashiest ‘fitness club’ in columbus.  i’ll put that on my BUCKET TO DO list… a fantasy list that includes creating a line of garish and frivolous hand-bags made from dyed swatches of paris hilton’s hide.  how many fashion forward clutch-bags could you make out of a twig’s skin???  now, there’s a riddle to ponder.  maybe i’ll make just one good suitcase.  save an alligator.

all this talk about body image and mayhem is making me hungry.

it’s lunch time anyway.

GO BUCKS!!!!!

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didjaaskmethiskwestiononcealreadyahissosorrytohabnotgibbenyousuhansahyetbutiislahklytosaythatafteryolastphonecawlahwasabitworriedboutchooisposebutsinceyourstabilityispartiallyintheformofcommunicationwithonewhogoesbythenameofpersephoneisposeyoutaintgotnuffintoworryboutifnshesgonnastickaroundfuhdelikesofyousowiththatfirmlyinmycrawirelievemahselfoworryinboutyounoneyousealsogotdatfineshebacatcreatchuhinyolifetoososhucks.

 

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F,

I don’t have real good news for you. I guess I’ll get to the point my lymphoma has returned. It is in my left lung area. I will be starting chemotherapy on Tues.(6/5).  I will be at St. Francis Beech Grove.  All my therapy will be at the hospital this time. I don’t have all the particulars as yet, I will let you know as things develop. I hope you are doing well. Talk to you soon.  Love……..Mom

 

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He sat there with his eyes burning- he had a job interview in two hours and wanted to lie down.  For the past two weeks, he endured fitful nights with little sleep.  The tiny pink pills that his psychiatrist prescribed for him were no comfort.  Yes, they made him sleep; however, the following days were spent navigating volatile moods, sullen retreating or callous outbursting.  He felt more shoot ’em up than ever.  One of the side-effects in the page-long microprint disclaimer.  Should he fire her?  She wasn’t exactly what he was looking for in a psychiatrist.  She loved to prescribe and wasn’t very knowledgeable about the occult arts or even human nature.  There were tiny scraps of useful information that fell from her thin, unadorned lips, but little of it was revelatory. Each week she arrived at their sessions late with some new physical issue- a cast on her arm, a lurid, purple bruise on her face.  She was a ‘horse person,’ an equine lover.  In his estimation, these were among the strangest people.  He asked her about her ailments, discretely of course.  Each of these was blamed on her avocation.  The foal stepped on her foot.  She fell from the mare while riding.  Etc.   Yeah, right, he thought.  It took him a while to realize that she reminded him of his mom in an offhand way.  But, more square.  Maybe that’s why he was so amused by her afflictions because it was a way of secretly feeling like he could get back at his mother for all her slights through this ironic bit of schadenfreude.  That bitch called ‘his mom,’ his biological link to the feminine, was dying anyway.  So, why give her a second thought or take any more pleasure in her demise than he already had.  It just seemed greedy.

For a while, he toyed with this therapist/mombot… for amusement and study’s sake.  Then, like anything else, the novelty wore off.   The therapist revealed herself to be nothing more than an ill-prepared prop, searching for answers about him as much as he was for her.  A dumb dance.  After four laughable sessions, she still didn’t know what to do with him so she gave him the pills hoping to buy more time to figure it all out.  Or to get paid that kick-back she was due for prescribing the shit.  The horsey therapist even admitted to his wife that he was one of her more perplexing cases.  Good luck, said the wife as she left the office knowing he would only take the pills for kicks.  He seemed to be stalled in adolescence, living for the next good time.  Now, all he had left was hope that God would somehow intervene.  He was told if he petitioned hard enough, just maybe…

As his reality shattered, he sought to understand how it came to this?  As he moved about their house, getting dressed, he noticed one of her shirts there; feeling the lightweight cotton, he held it to his nose.

 

Her.

 

His heart constricted… what was she thinking right now?   She was at work.  He was unemployed… a former business owner who sold his livelihood for a mere fraction of what he bought it for.  He knew she was broken just like him.  At low ebb, they were more broken than ever.

You need to take the weapons out of your house.

They owned one gun- a .357 magnum and a stock of hollow points.

Who was he now?  Chronologically, he was five months away from his 40th birthday and spiritually further behind than he’d ever been… further behind in his self-understanding… in his understanding of what truly lived in the hearts of people, in his own heart.  He thought he knew.   But he didn’t know anything.  He became more of an idiot as he aged.  His brain was like a piece of cheese on a relish tray after a few hours, congealing and sweaty.

 

He lay on the bed counting breaths in hopes of calming his mind.  He imagined gathering energy from the center of the earth, as he had many times before.

He needed to summon up the energy to deal with that gun but his body was heavy.  He’d just lay here for a little while longer.  Breathing.

God..  where are you?  Fuck!

 

 

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