Nothing but A Greed Inbound for Assholes

I am a man of simple principles. More of a love and hug than a rub and tug type of guy, but when I met her in the early spring of 2008 I was intent on not getting serious. I told myself that she could keep me warm as I slept in the back of Benny's old Ford Explorer. The most expensive thing I owned was the sleeping bag I passed out in, it cost me more than the conveyance that doubled as my homestead, and canoodling closely in my cocoon of sleep with a little extra lithe filling could help me keep the windows fogged. With our exhalations sticking close to the glass and providing privacy for our predilections we could plan when to plant our feet on the frosty ground and face the day. As you can see, the best baked breads of broken men often end up Rye, and I got Carawayed sewing my seeds for the future on land left fallow for a reason.


How deeply do I fall for complacency and revel in a rudderless existence, passionately kissing the macadam with the force of an 8th grade make out. Clicking teeth, gnashing molars pushing my body to besotted extremes. Eleven years later we were still together. We took breaks for the first few winters, and you can read here about how I took the cure down south, only to hook back up with her in the Spring. Eventually we were together full time year round, and I began to hate her with a vehemence that seethed over like milk from a forgotten double boiler. Spraying forth an angry froth solely because I settled, I could be angry at no one but myself and instead of dealing I devolved. Crippled with addiction I battled daily to plant the same brand of boots from 11 years earlier, and eventually she made the decision for me.

No one likes to be dumped. You don't dump me, I dump you. I was supposed to the end this on my terms. Where did she get the gall to do what I should of done at the end of that first Summer. How on earth did she get the balls to do what I said I wanted and knew I needed but never would have done. I find no recompense in rifling through the piles of clothes that do nothing but remorsefully remind me of how much I really loved her the first few years, before the rank reek of stagnancy clung to our relationship like a seasick hand on a stanchion.

During the nascency of our demise, I was afforded the luxury of going away to attain a sobriety that had been missing for over 20 years. About 50 days into having a clear head I came back for a date to see if we could work things out. I asked the world to let things go as they should, and after hanging around longer than the breakup actually took I limped outside to catch my breath. I'm so angry at her for dumping me, but so relieved to be single again. The tickling trepidation of being on the market again so close to 40 has invigorated my soul. It's time to decide if I should rebound with another rub and tug, or hold out for love and a hug.

The shredded Iceberg lettuce of authors

In a recent discussion with a friend and after mentioning that very few living creatures are able to live at either pole, I took stock in my temperate surroundings. Modestly middle class and enjoying a comfortable existence I queried of us both of why neither of us could rest in a comfortable median when it came to being healthy. Rationalizing my destructive behavior has been my forte for most of my creative life. Oh how wonderful to be a misanthropic artistic force, my twisted machinations of the written word being my proudest accomplishments. The world must see how miserably productive I can be.

Yeah. So?

So what to do when the engine starts knocking like the tail end of the best bender you believe that you've ever enjoyed. Alliterative prose filled with the best metaphor you've ever created, comparatively placed on an alter next to the best fix you've ever copped. Being a man of a pretenious comportment I may tell you the written word has been my mistress since puberty had me chasing similes for a quick dry hand release. With the deft cunning of a predator in its natural habitat, I osmotically acquired the ability to astound myself with loquacious verbosity. Smugly proud of vacuously empty sentences stuffed like a club sandwich with big words being the condiments. I love to giggle at the fact that people never say, "I had just had the best ham on rye, the mustard was so good!"

No one ever wants to answer the door and see themselves. They long to see a desperate friend they can give advice to. Imagine opening the door to see yourself and having to take your own advice? I can think of very few things more disgusting than that. Gross. I only like to fix other people and then surreptitiously slink back to the bottom of my own destructive proclivities and settle smugly like sediment. So you can take my advice, use it, and prosper or don't. I don't care I'm fuckin perfect.


My engine is hewn from a single block of the purest iron, forged pistons that unfailingly gallop toward an unreachable redline. An incomparable workhorse of perpetual internal combustion. My engine will never knock, ping, or lose timing. Impeccable design and forethought created this design whose blueprints have no equal.


The fuel is prohibitively expensive and although varied, increasingly difficult to find. Knowing that, one can see the crux of the issue.

If an engine isn't running it's almost impossible to know whether or not it's destroyed completely or just out of gas.

Turning a double play on eventuality aka A dirty play at second.

I have a feeling nowadays that I'm perched upon the crest of my usefulness. A ruined soul with aching bones strung with frayed sinew. In a world with an attention span that grows ever shorter I feel as relevant as a ten year old meme. Self marginalized and more than slightly out of fashion I find myself fumbling clumsily to buckle up before the crash and flash of white hot heat. Never grounded but somehow tethered to a timeline that has me playing second fiddle, out of tune and touch, my schtick hackneyed and overplayed, the gap between me and the rest is unbridgeable.

I believe you can trust implicitly if you believe that you deserve to be hurt. Covering all your bases so when fate comes sliding in with her spikes up you can either jump or apply the tag. Defensive by nature but nurtured to be reactionary I live a life of enjoyable destruction. In a world where most habitual behavior is becoming passé, my staunch advocacy of living life in altered state has done nothing but entrench me forever deeper as the relic I am. If left to my own devices would already have been. Nothing but the past, a byline in a stock obituary. My goal nowadays is to keep my heart beating for those few who believe this septic bloodline should continue. If I'm blessed with children, I hope to place a matriarch atop my sullied crest and give her space to grow the name. Should I ever be matrilinerally traced back and lauded as the foundation the credit will be given to my wife for being the one who cobbled these genes into something worthwhile.
The lineage so far is tattooed with the ink of serious missteps and unforgivable slights.

Eastside of Anywhere

Living on the east side of anywhere provides you with ammo automatically. Your limbs and torso are varnished taut with the ability to ignore your surroundings. If your eyes wander and connect with a happenstance that doesn't concern you, stray your gaze to the nearest object and study it like you care. Dismiss or engage.

The latter we won't climb, the missing rings prove tricky to those who lack a predisposition for conflict. Personally I enjoy it, but it's one of the negative things I'm working to eradicate. The eradication of my predispositions is proving to be my main job lately. Childless and middle aged, my bathroom mirror glares at me with my old mans reflection. The limey fuck, ginger headed, and mad angry gritted his teeth when shit was gonna go down. Missing him as I do, I'm thankful our process taught me to protect my kidneys and liver and that a shiner was makeup for men. After all these years I have become solidly certain that an Usher can live without a heart, and lately I've been asking myself if I have been.

Static in mild inebriation. Standing base level with a glow they know now we pass on. It's like being perched atop a cupola without regard for the gale blowing NW at fifty. Stiff gusts broadcast your infelicities as you save yourself from the big fall, content you climb down and amble placated from the rush of adrenaline. The quick come down always bears grizzly consequences leaving nothing but questions and sets you forward querying whether or not a competent tumble to death would have settled things fairly for the cosmos.

Steady on my feet and thankful my infernal machine ran out of fuel, I know the plummet wouldn't have been celebrated. Those who love me find me from time to time with my head above the waves. Treading water with the unwavering confidence in the shift of tide buoyantly bobbing me back to shore, i always bet my life on the ocean. I sat down at the table of life with a 2 and 3 off suited and now find myself all in on the bluff. I've raised the stakes every round and the table read me before I stacked my chips. The world knows I'm lying and when they finally call me on it, I hope to leave the table dejectedly affable. Busted with a crooked grin.

Deadbolted Derision

This slut I've called Winter just recently flashed her gash for the first time in months, beckoning her devotees to proffer their personal habits in her honor. Kids copp and use in places where we used to party. Beach parking lots stocked with beaters full of twists and nodds, fighting odds to stay breathing. They again bequeathing and bowing to this frigid whore. Won't be long till my truck door is frozen shut as I drop my coffee cup, sputter and swear at this weather here. The nice months fell behind the headboard, and it will be slight while until I look under my bed. Dustmites and deadbolted derision, clenched jawed and white knuckled until I finally fuck this up completely. Sometimes it seems that utter destruction is woven into my khakis.

A personal account of Creepinsons. A smile and a dagger.

I was diagnosed by my good friend at work, and, feeling that he was patient zero, he felt implored by his integrity to tell me that I had contracted it. The first symptom was increased apathy and the increasing general dislike for small talk. A smile, and then a dagger. You see? He asked that with fervent zeal. You see?? You see?? You're fucked. That's the give away. You hate these people and their smiles. You've got it. Hence I was diagnosed. I pleaded. I begged. Tell me whats gonna happen. Nah man your fucked. Its too late. You'll see.

The second symptom became apparent somewhere during the next week. It was like an arm placed its wrist on your neck nape, and large knuckled phalanges felated your skull. The heinous head massage let your muscles slack and you knew. The only way to get ahead was the death of those ahead of you. I created fantastic scenarios where my fellow brothers met the reaper. Guts torn apart and stepping over a gurgling brother, grabbing a sweeper and cleaning gum wrappers, I step on their throats and fight the throes of life. Stamping out the last vestiges of their staccato breaths, I wonder if I can get their vacations, or the very least their lockers. I have a lot of winter overalls and can use their hangers. Fuck man, sorry. Those beneath me are concocting their own murderous machinations. I have to stay one step ahead of the reaper.

The final symptom settled over me like a December fog. It coddled me maniacally and I began to talk to myself out loud. Every female was subject to a lecherous inspection and the positing of their supposed sexual abilities. It was a visceral consumption of all social mores. Objects degraded with the finality of a pig tailed wrangled headboard smash. Discarding the conquered, I surveyed the landscape for the next happenstance.

Since my diagnosis, I have taken the certain steps to consider myself almost cured. I have nothing but a garbage pail mind, and finally in 2015 I have decided to stop throwing away the recyclables. Now, I take the time to fill at least three different bins. I know others are afflicted and they don't know how to fix it. Find me and I will help you over come what has come to be known as Creepinsons. Together we will either fight, or, as the silt settles, revel in it.

Collusive Devolution: A litter hates the bitch that bred him. Volume II.

I isolated. That was a bad sign. Benign beginnings, staunchly huddled in fleece lined work pants, twisting in a dope down comforter. Coming forward, focus folding neatly like origami, calmly casing my next fix like this tourist town's native apex predator. With the hindsight that being only recently rested out to dry provides, I surmise, my incisors dripped in late June with a certain salivation. That frothy dementia steeped and stewed in predilection, stretched in every direction, crucified to the cross that we afflicted bear. Our pinned pupils belie ingrained integrity while our hands steal what our loved ones have worked for all their lives.
Gauge, length, volume. I knew that math would be the death of me and indefinably I found myself fixated with the prick that my recent conclusions regaled as the pinnacle. Red meant go, plunging deeply, wholly mired in the collusion that was the mainstay of those that were heretofore, only glanced at in my periphery. A tome of mystery opened to its resolution, and while I reveled in the devolution, I was ensconced in the degradation of its denouement.
There is a conductor on a steam train, but who feeds the boiler? If I knew his title, he'dve been there tending the furnace, metering the coal into the inferno. If I knew his name, I would've implored him personally to let the coals settle beneath the cusp of an uncontrollable conflagration. Things being as they are, the engine detonated on the floor of my shower. Where, curling like an ampersand, and splattered like an asterisk, I implored God to let me slither from the wreckage without being identified.
As the months pass I find solace in being one of the many people blessed to live. A derailed coupling that only defines me as a passenger, and not as sole survivor. Identified in interview as one out of many even though grievous injuries remain.

JOhnny Stubtoe

I don't know why. I'm really not sure. Why exactly doesnt my wife toss me the fuck out? Im sure I smell like the ass end of a sewer, I rip butts on the sly end of a bender whilst wearing shorts that havent seen a wash since a Sabbath in June... Breathe son. Its August. Despite my short pants walking themselves tawahads the gahhbige can, I know I can relate towards one reader at least.
ok. more than likley none at all, i grow there in the dank. strutting roots in the dirt, sauntering like i have more than one lapel that isn't bent under my collar, spinach driven between my front teeth, teetering like a tike without a flipflop on a boardwalk.
Im a guy nowadays that makes retro seem before midnite. Im up most nites till 4. Tossing street trash at my twenties, the shadow of the facade that drapes my thirties hangs like a collage in my teenage bedroom. Blacklights backliting tears and hospital corners proffering cleanliness, rubbing one out after prom, crying before my mother died and being dry when she did.
Sputter cough, sputtacough, choke, choke, run.

dull cLEAVERS and Amends

Rifling through the hydrator in the fridge, grabbing a beer, and celebrating sobriety is a monumental occasion. You weren't Kurt when high, you had to search, and ended up in every degrading situation that you used to regale as another townie's prophecy. Destitution mixed with exhilaration, a smattering of self satisfaction coupled with foxhole prayers. You're coming up on a thirty day key tag, and stepping in inches towards what others call normalcy. But a jagged wound remains, sans stitches, plastered with the plastic bandages of a neglected first aid box.
If you've been busted at the seams for what seems a lifetime, the wave crashed and sucked back to sea, the visceral remains around you're ankles against the suck. Nerves tingle, everything's raw like the butchers back room. Ribs cracked agape, bones saws stripping ribs. You're voyage has turned old friends into the detritus,the marrow bones vacuum sealed and sold to the dogs.
Coming to terms with a destructive fuck up, to you, is like courting a fifth grade lover. Can you stand me? Check yes or no. If you can, would you like to hang out. Check yes or no. The trick is being prepared for the no, while expecting the yes with ruddy cheeks and feigned confidence. You've tackled every shit situation in you're whole life alone, and this is another one. Yes, Nancy, you're just saying NO, but the people need their pound of flesh. You wish that they'd take it in neat amounts, but they need it in jagged clumps, excised with a bread knife. You've shit your soul, and kicked with confidence but its not enough. They want you face down, boot to neck, curb to mouth and screaming. You're sorry, but they need blood and part of you thinks they all deserved a quart. Coming to terms with their blood lust you realize you need it all to prove them wrong.

One track mind? Wish it was four track time. No cracks or breaks.

I wanted to take a second to see if you still read. What I typed last time was two past petrified. If you do. Still reeds standing placated by the lack of bluster. Bottles quivering empty to be recycled by the flag pole as the stars and stripes stand stagnant. Straddling the chasm? Trying to reclaim the past? Posit this. Everytime your curser blinks, your cursor winks like a miser slinking with his shekels past a slightly cracked door. Another feat ahead seeing the feet be clad in another we'd be glad, be glad if she peaked at her past type. Run on. Go ahead, barefoot, I dare dare you. The tautness of your twenties, glimmering in recollection like a sunset, fading like my wardrobe. The permanent press. As we squirm towards egress, pack and squeeze into the cracks of these facsimiles. In the past we seized. Grasping. The chances, trying to be Frank, while be Francis. All types of cancers lurking in the shadows the metastases splitting their tumors like a pack of thieves. All we breathe is apathy, and you can see it. In the air and in our purpose, the snacks in our lunch box to the Fireball in our Thermos. Being the blanks, to the gunfire in the skirmish, looking crooked with a beer belly at fucks with six packs, Its the firmness, so tight, with which I'm critical, the truth declared illegal rumours rampant deemed admissible. Another missive full of favorite words like penchants and proclivities, the barrel over dams, the bland we find inspid. These bent and crooked knees, tendons fraught we the fears of failing. We quake and quiver and when they snap and roll, its the nothing. Not the pain, the leaves us flailing.

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