an i d
the ideal dio
the real deal
the real dio
the I’s of dio
the upside of dio
upside down dio
dio, right side up
I’m drowning in a stream
of consciousness, sucked in by the current
events section of the daily paper
where the cover story will be continued
on A-10, and still is a continuation
of the same story we’ve been telling for eons.
It seems history is just a substitute sleeping
at the teacher’s desk
while the kids make paper airplanes
and conduct pencil fights.
It seems construction and destruction
are both born of Father Time
and Mother Boredom.
It seems that all the seams are fraying
and unraveling as I begin to struggle,
and pants will soon be pulled away.
Heckles will follow
if they don’t see me turning blue
or crossing the fine line between funny and tragic,
it’s magic though,
how every time I thought I found a quarter
on the floor, it was hidden in my palm
the whole time, and I was just wasting
precious seconds moments before death,
but it still hasn’t come yet,
no, I’m gasping for breath
trying to find my way to the bank
for a much needed soil deposit
on the bottoms of my wet shoes.
I’m drowning in a stream
of consciousness, but I’m not ready for the flash.
Not quite yet.
I laid the girl under the desk and wrapped her thighs around the legs.
I am not infatuated with the idea of a woman
waiting for arsenic to pull her cheeks up over her eyes.
Honestly, I catch
between my lips and
the price drops.
Smiling at the pictures in the hallway? The south wall. She could
something if I hadn’t come along.
In the early evening she washed her arms with lavender soap, the clocks backward the hands it goes, what are you doing standing the rain with your legs spread, come inside, you’ll catch your death.
Best naked thoughts
deserve blankets of silence
to let their bodies
shudder among another
against each other;
deep slivers of mirror:
Who shall I belong to?
off in the
for I am
in a mirror
Vegetable tray workdays
have no nutritional value like celery,
what’s up doc,
hadn’t seen you in a while,
guess it’s the apple intake,
the snake in the garden
took care of the worms,
they squirmed through the dissection.
Larry’s erection is hidden
below the conference table,
company fables spread like brie
on a water cracker,
it’s cooler if you save it for lunch,
we talk too much
and always run out of carrots first.
Dry mouths collect
speckled white in the corners
like the rims of Ranch dip containers,
keep pouring it on,
we’ll make healthy tasty,
and fuck hasty,
work harder and smarter
and faster too while you’re at it.
Hands need to be dirty,
fingers soiled by tuna overflow
from over-stuffed sandwiches,
there’s not enough jobs
to divide all these riches,
let’s make some more.
Snacking never works for most
of the hunger pains
and leaves the palate bitter
like a radish
like the last man standing
after a meeting
thinking what a gigantic waste of time
it all was,
how things will all be
back to normal
How we aspire
to the middle-upper
crust of life,
and luxury of
fake tits and
famous for their
husbands hide in
working hard, hardly
furious and eager,
at the thought
of wives, fake
bits and magazine
people to put
the bullshit into
The covenant of God is quid pro quo
I am in love with myself ten years from now
The danceway is tarred and smells like Lucifer shadow
The neighbors gamble with leathered gypsy kings.
The malleable serenity of a universe unwinding:
The dwindling inertia of letters and numbers
Consider suicide in a world without ledges
Consider the fantastical parabolas of adolescent love
The fogs gently overcast graybeards and their farces
Ten years from now I will be a gypsy and neighbors with god
The austerity of grey matter:
piecemeal invitations into wisdom
Music of memories wrinkle deep in the twilight
I know the best places for swimming in the puddles of joy
The city looms bold but is nothing more than wax prisms
Ten years from now dancing I will be in love with god.
Now my soul they will lay
upon the humming hearth
Before flames that lick and lighten
this mournful mortal scourge
For thoughts coalesced
in a pale and painless tryst
Seeping out through the holes
nailed into trembling fists
No savior am I, nor
martyr, nor servant
Bright-eyed and hopeful
as the blushing Mary virgin
Though lacking the purity
that would accompany such
Thine virtue a vice
to betray my sordid love
For the famine that flourishes
in the thrum of my breasts
The hungry heaving of lungs
that swallow eager for breath
Upon the hearth my messiah,
this flame I shall feed
And transcend from wanton child
to wild deity between knees
We hung our beliefs on crosses
and ornamented them
like Christmas wreaths on front doors
with big crimson bows,
the color of splattered sheep blood
reminding the angel of death
to pass over.
There they clung firm to wood splintered
by the fist of a pissed off father
locked out of the house
by his bratty little imperfect creations
snickering in the window
hiding fears behind porcelain veneers,
the cover ups for teeth
knocked out the last time
he got drunk.
And so too do they cover up
the chips in the paint,
the evidence of violence documented,
while they add another layer of homeliness
above the welcome mat
jealously collecting dirt
on its trampled message.
No one can hold me as you do
in the the way you do
with the words,
of your petting
holding my eyes
in one single hand, in one
and unique place where you,
dear, know very well.
Even when this makes
no sense at all,
I see and I feel
and innocent tone
of every metaphor in your literature.
Because for me, you are like
that someone gets
pressing the last key
in a piano song.
Fat Barry thought the plan was fairly foolproof. He got the idea from the electronic cigarette he’d started carrying to help him quit smoking. The cigarette operated on water vapor. You’d have to pour in a liquid mixture of nicotine and water into a chamber which would heat it on a low heat, and when you’d inhale it would produce much the same effect of a cigarette, the calming ease of adding nicotine to withdrawal along with the exhale of a smoke like substance. It didn’t feel so much like smoking though, the vapor was a lot lighter, and Fat Barry often missed the burn in his lungs, but he knew it was healthier, and it helped remove a lot of the guilt that often came with watching anti-smoking advertisements showing black lungs and people with tracheotomies. However, the whole purpose of this spiel is not in fact to sell you on the finer points of how health risks are reduced by switching to vapor smoking but to inform you that this is indeed where Fat Barry came up with his plan. It was while he was attending a meeting with the new staff at his new joint, Fat Barry’s Pizza, two days before their grand opening that it hit him. He was refilling the chamber on his e-cig while stressing about what would be the new restaurant’s it factor. Sure, Fat Barry was proud of his grandmother’s sauce recipe, and he felt the list of ingredients were extensive and exotic ranging from the traditional pepperoni to the more rare elk sausage. Still, pizza was one of the most competitive food markets, and Fat Barry wasn’t sure how the place would become a success without something a little extra special. Anyways, he was staring at the bottle of liquid nicotine when it seemed so certain. He’d just figure out a way to infuse this nicotine into his pizza sauce. Was it unethical? Maybe, but Barry had read studies on the e-cigarette’s website about how nicotine as a drug is only mildly unhealthy, about as much as coffee, and that it was truly the smoke and other chemical additives that made smoking dangerous. After thinking about it a few more moments, he knew he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to try. It was just too good of a plan. He would quite literally addict the public to his pizza.
Fat Barry skipped out of the meeting early leaving his assistant manager Carl to finish instructing the staff on plans for how the opening would work. He went online and ordered a case of the nicotine solution to be overnighted before using what he currently had at his house to work on a recipe. He needed the nicotine to be noticeable enough to have an effect but not noticeable enough to arouse suspicion. Also, he wanted the sauce to taste as close to his grandmother’s recipe as possible. All night long, he mixed nicotine, tomatoes, and garlic using his favorite wooden spoon along with his favorite stick-free sauté pan. He made five pizzas in all utilizing five different batches of sauce. The winning sauce had the effect of smoking half a cigarette per slice Fat Barry estimated, but he couldn’t get rid of this bitter aftertaste the nicotine kept leaving in the pizza sauce. Still, it wasn’t terrible, and he figured he could always just add more garlic to the next batch he made for the grand opening.
Critical reviews of the restaurant’s opening weekend were one-sided and not in a good way. Every local paper’s food section reported of the pizza sauce’s hard to stomach bitter flavor. One diner, Joan Singletary, commented to friends over dinner conversation on opening night that the cheese and sauce in her mouth had tasted like that awful Nicorette gum she had used to quit smoking a couple years before. She said you never forget a flavor like that, and even still, she couldn’t put two and two together when she was at a happy hour with colleagues from work the next evening and decided to bum a cigarette from a smoking stranger at the bar. In a month’s time, she was back to that same pack and a half a day habit she’d tried so desperately hard to quit for so long before finally succeeding.
In fact, the only success opening weekend had seemed to achieve for Fat Barry’s Pizza was the ability to return former smokers to their previous bad habits. Another ex-smoker, Bill Severenson hadn’t had any nicotine in his system in over ten years. He ate at Fat Barry’s the second night it was open. Two days later, Bill decided smoking a celebratory cigar with his best friend who’d just had a brand new baby boy couldn’t hurt. Bill figured he had really liked the inhalation of cigarette smoke all those years, and since cigar smoke is too thick to inhale, and the nicotine is absorbed through the capillaries in the mouth, it couldn’t hurt to smoke cigars instead of cigarettes. Bill never did smoke a cigarette again, but he did become an utter cigar enthusiast. He bought a humidor and even subscribed to more than one cigar smoker’s magazine. When Bill’s wife left him almost a year to the date after his dining at Fat Barry’s Pizza, she said it wasn’t the constant smell of cigar smoke in the house which caused her to leave him, he had always had a bad attitude, but mixing that cigar smoke in with said attitude proved to be the right catalyst for her to find a good lawyer.
Then there was Kate Anderson who’d said it felt like she was a character inside her own movie when for no reason on the way home from her first dining experience at Fat Barry’s she watched as her own hands maneuvered her car into a parking space at the Stop-and-Go around the corner from her apartment complex, and continued to watch while shouting a muted, no, no, no, at herself as her legs moved towards the doors and then straight to the counter where her mouth blurted out seemingly completely out of her control, pack of Parliament Lights please to the Arab man working the register. She hadn’t had a cigarette in six and a half years and couldn’t explain the sudden urge she couldn’t resist. She’d never known or suspected it to be the pizza.
Neither had any of the other fifteen former smokers who’d all become current smokers again after sampling Fat Barry’s nicotine pie during his restaurant’s opening weekend. One Jerry Ruiz, who’d quit when his doctors warned him of the pre-emphysema condition his lungs were in, picked up again after dining at Fat Barry’s and would die five years later of complications with actual full-blown emphysema, but still no wrongful death lawsuits were filed against the pizzeria, and Fat Barry never had any knowledge of all the damage he’d caused these former smokers.
What Fat Barry had an acute knowledge of was that the ledger sheets on the office computer’s Excel files were still in the far red a year after opening. It turned out that while the nicotine in Fat Barry’s pizza made people go back to smoking, it certainly didn’t do much for bringing in repeat customers. The bitter flavor in the sauce was enough to turn anyone into a one-time-only consumer, and even after Fat Barry stopped using the nicotine in his sauce when he realized it wasn’t working after being opened six months, the damage had already accrued. Fat Barry’s Pizza was closing in on its dreaded lease renewal and seemed destined to become another empty restaurant with an unlit marquee, and a For Lease advertisement in the window.
That was when Fat Barry devised another plan. He would lie about the numbers on the excel file, back it up on to a scan drive, and then burn down his business and try to acquire a quite inflated insurance settlement. Of course, like the whole nicotine pizza sauce plan, his insurance scam didn’t quite turn out how Fat Barry had envisioned it. Three nights before his lease expired, Fat Barry could be seen on a security camera of the used car lot across the street from his place of business leaving the same said restaurant with a gasoline can in hand as smoke was starting to pour out of the roof of the building. The jury at his arson trial only needed fifteen minutes of deliberation before returning a guilty verdict.
Fat Barry is set to get out of prison on a parole agreement a week from today. He will have to meet with a parole officer once a month for the remaining seven years of his fifteen year sentence. Prison was a truly awful place, and Fat Barry still has no clue what he will tell his family when he is inevitably reunited with them about his experience. However, prison wasn’t all bad. Because of a law passed by the state legislation banning all tobacco products from prisons, Fat Barry now hasn’t had a cigarette in over seven years, not even of the electronic variety, and what he told the parole board to get out of jail early as well as what he told his remaining friends and family was a totally true statement. He could say unabashedly that he felt like a completely changed man.
Story #3 in the Song Series. Based on this song by Kaki King.
Jessica says she’ll wait for me.
Her lips work tenderly at the birthmark that sits just below my right earlobe – a faint sunburst smattering of caramel upon otherwise fair skin. She’d once referred to it wryly as a bull’s-eye, teeth gleaming blunt and white in a predator’s smile. For months I’ve had the sense that she will someday devour me; however, as her tongue darts swiftly between her lips, a pink, plush serpent poised to trace the shell of my ear, it dawns on me that, perhaps, she already has.
She is all of the things that I have waited the entirety of my eighteen years to find.
I am entranced by the sweet sort of dominance that her mouth promises, warm and wet as it sweeps languidly down the slope of my neck, teasing, antagonizing. Foreplay, in her opinion, is an act of galvanization. It is flippant and aloof, while artfully maintaining a sense of precision and portended destruction.
If the five-dimensional being
creating my universe
through rapid eye movements
during bouts of unconsciousness
were to wake up suddenly,
I wonder whether he’d call it
a fucked up dream
or a nightmare.
Thinking I young, supple and good looking…. deserve best the porcelain legs laid by lady before me but never know how to properly say:
ill let you fall gently, killing off the foundations of your web, as I practice with even the smallest of spiders.
is cold when i wake up
in the morning
there isn’t a warm spot
or a glass of water
to be found
so i lay there
frozen and beat
laugh at me
it is the
of that, which
feel as though
my parents requested that I see a shrink when i was twenty-four. it was the last chance they said. they’d said that before. but something in their eyes told me that this time really was the last chance.
so i agreed to see the shrink.
she was a middle aged woman with a nice set of tits but her face was nothing to look at. bending her over her desk was probably the only option.
interrupting my day dream, she asked me when the last time i used was.
“i don’t know.”
“you don’t remember?”
“not what i said.”
“what are you saying?”
i noticed the picture on her sky blue walls. it was a family picture. typical family. a husband who looked like a pencil pusher. belly sticking out and a gray mustache, no beard. probably beat her when they were younger but after he got laid off the first time and she finally got through school and started making the money he took his position as the taker. i could tell his ass was sore from the face he was making in that picture.
three kids. one boy, two girls.
“i’m saying i don’t know.”
“so you don’t remember?”
“lady, i don’t know.”
“was it yesterday?”
“yeah, i used yesterday.”
“was that that last time?”
“i don’t know.”
her oldest daughter looked like a goer. maybe if i bent this bitch over on the chair i’d be able to stare at the daughters face. no, that wouldn’t work. her dildo taking husband is sitting next to her. i wouldn’t be able to maintain my erection … i don’t think.
she was getting annoyed, but it wasn’t my fault that she was a fucking idiot.
how could i tell her that i didn’t know the last time i used when i hadn’t quit. the next time is the next time but it’s never been the last time. plus, i was amused. i saw her son giving a blow job to my dealer last night.