Friday, March 23, 2018

Post Title

Flavored Band Aids

Picked up a box of those new EXTREME "flavored" band-aids. I’m not sure how they work, but if you place one over an open wound, you can “taste” the "flavor" of that particular band-aid. So far I’ve “tasted” coffee, coleslaw, horseradish, Swiss cheese, grape, escargot, Cola, hot mustard, bread(?), spinach, pizza, banana and thyme. It’s all very interesting but I’m running out of discreet places to cut myself.

Donald and Sherri at the Membranous Lounge, St. Patrick's Day



TELEVISION CUT-UP (random words from random channels):

I have freedom to live now. But if you work at it you can find it again. Plastic preschool and naturally fertile soil. And then off line. I’m gonna feed him like family. Information as it comes in. One officer opened fire. So damaged it had to be torn down. Killed while doing his job. You love your job, right? We guarantee the best prices. Focuses on machine learning. Epic fun is just a kid-click away. Girls from ten dollars. I can’t accept that. Trying to get ready for Easter? Under an early weather alert. That was a mighty nice thing you done, Grandpa. How many of you are there? For your information I’ve been putting on makeup since I was twelve. Do not miss out ladies and gentlemen. My compliments to the management.

Kooky snowbirds Ronda and Lizzy

Carol was poking around in the muddy field behind my house and found my old ColecoVision game console. Inside the rusted remnants, she discovered a tooth (incisor). It belonged to my friend Adam - god rest his poor, tortured soul. He gave me the tooth (pulled it out himself with needle-nose pliers) to seal an agreement we'd made. The deal became null and void after Adam was shot to death in Chelsea on February 4th, 2002. 😊


Trixie the swimming chimp!

Monday, March 19, 2018

I Found a Tumor On the Bathroom Floor



She is simply there, wearing a large black hat with an awning. I knew her once, a long time ago. Or rather, I knew a younger version of her. She’s in her early 60’s now, ravaged and depleted by a life of raising kids. Her name is Estelle.
     We used to work together at Bobber’s Fish Emporium. I can still smell the clams.
     “Estelle?” I ask her, already formulating what I’m going to say.
     She smiles and shakes her head. “No, sorry. My name is Kimberly,” she informs me.
     “Oh, I’m sorry. You looked like someone...”
     “Don’t we all?”
     An ostrich walked past us with its muddy dinosaur feet.
     And there you have it.
I chopped up the Sermon on the Mount with a razorblade and snorted all the words through a hollowed-out felt pen. Jesus’s words dripped numb in the back of my throat all day. Tomorrow I’m gonna freebase some Kierkegaard because snorting Kierkegaard is a waste. In the meantime, stay hep! because...

Monday, February 19, 2018

DOOF




Doof sometimes wore sandals with black socks and he liked to believe that he was surrounded by  invisible angels, fresh from Heaven. They floated around him, observing his behavior, and taking notes. Doof hadn’t masturbated in years because of the angels. They would note when he committed an act of self-pollution (as his mommy called it). They would write it all down and show it to God. That would be really embarrassing.

     Doof stuttered like no other. Before almost every word, Doof would go “Ahahaaaaaaah.” For example: “Ahahaaaaa buh-buh breakfast!” and, “Aahahaaaaaa luh-luh lunch. It was a riot. He took a lot of teasing and ribbing in school. Doof would be a senior in the fall.

     Doof lived in a dark forest of pine trees and when he walked across the property, the pinecones crunched under his big rubber boots. The sound helped him in some vague way. It connected him to the Earth. He used to suffer from vertigo and when he had an attack he felt sure that he was going to fall into space and get lost in the universe forever. That would suck.

     He couldn’t smell the woods anymore because he’d lived there for so long but he knew the pine smell was there. He could feel it. It was a large but benign presence. Like the angels that followed him around.

   Doof lived with his mommy in a log cabin. It was an old vacation cottage that Doof’s mommy had renovated into a cozy little house.   On the other side of the pines was a small lake, Lake Leonard and people went there to swim or hang out. Sunbathe or whatever. There was a little stand that served hot dogs and French fries.

   Very often people would go hiking in the woods behind the lake and they would wander onto mommy’s property. It was a problem. Doof suggested KEEP OUT signs, maybe a fence or loud, vicious dog. Mommy had dismissed Doof’s ideas, probably forgot them as soon as she walked away.

     Mommy thought Doof was a big dummy. Any ideas he came up with were automatically rejected. Mommy thought everything Doof said was stupid.

* * * * *   

Doof, after pacing in the front yard for three hours, sat down, leaning against a pine tree. They didn’t have a lawn. Instead, pine needles blanketed the ground. Doof never had to learn how to work a lawnmower. They HAD one and they kept it in the tool-shed out back. Sometimes, when he was bored he would unscrew the lid on the gas tank. Then he would cup his hands around it and breathe in the fumes. Then he’d stagger around the yard, dizzy, strange blue lines in his blurred vision. Then he’d remember the posse of Angels hovering above him. Writing down his shit. He was sure Heaven was holding a dossier on him, full of every crude, stupid thing he’d ever done. Those Angels were tough. They didn’t fuck around.

     Doof, now dealing with the misery of a gasoline hangover, shambled into the tiny log-house. Mommy was at work; connecting little black plastic pieces to other little black plastic pieces. Doof went into the bathroom to look for aspirin. His head was killing him. Like a railroad spike through his gasoline-soaked brain.

     There was a knock on the door.

     Doof stood there, waiting in silence.

     Whoever it was knocked again, more forcefully this time.

Doof staggered into mommy’s bedroom to get her gun. It was a nine millimeter handgun she used for protection. She kept it in the nightstand, in the drawer. He opened it and there it was. Doof picked it up.  It felt good in his hand.

      He went to answer the door. They started banging again;  harder, faster, like it was an emergency. He tucked the gun into the back of his waistband.

     Doof opened the door.

     A couple was standing and sweating on the doorsteps. The woman was very pregnant, her countenance twisted with pain. She was gasping for air. Her face was wet with tears and sweat.

     “Please,” the man said.  ”My wife is going into labor. My phone is dead. Can we come in?”

     Doof shook his head. “Ahaaaaa nuh-nuh no.” His mommy didn’t allow strangers in the house. She was strict about that.

     “Are you fucking kidding me?” the man yelled.  “We’re coming in!” The man began to help his wife across the threshold.

     Doof pulled the gun out. “Aaaaahaha duh-duh don’t!”

     The couple stopped, looking at Doof with expressions of shocked incredulity.  

    “You gotta be shitting me,” said the man. “We need to use your phone! That’s all. You have to let us in!”

     “Ahaaaha  uh-uh I ahaaaa cuh-cuh can’t. Doof pulled the trigger, shooting the man in the shoulder. The woman screamed. Doof shot the man in his left eye. He gasped and fell to the floor.

     Then Doof shot the wife, hitting her throat. She gurgled as she fell. He pulled the trigger again, hitting her chest. Then the back of her head.

     They were dead. Doof looked at them. He had killed them both. He felt bad for them but he’d had no choice. They tried to break in. It was an open and shut case. It was self-defense.

     And then something happened. The woman was wearing gray sweatpants and a spreading stain of blood appeared between her legs.

     Oh shit. Even dead she was still having her baby. The angels were floating above them and he was pretty sure they were giving him demerits for killing the couple. He had to make good now.

     He had to deliver the dead woman’s baby. And it seemed urgent. He kneeled between the woman’s legs and pulled her sweatpants and underwear off. The sight of her bloody, dilated vagina made him want to scream and throw-up at the same time but he didn’t, he couldn’t. The woman’s belly moved slightly and for one irrational second Doof thought she was coming back to life. But no, it was just the baby struggling to be born.  That was when Doof decided to just reach in and yank the kid out.

* * * *

Mary-Ellen Richter parked her green Gremlin in the dirt driveway beside the house. Work had been terrible today. Her back ached. Her job was simple and repetitive but it was still hard. The first couple of days her hands had bled while she assembled endless components. Now her hands were tough, calloused. They looked like a man’s hands. Mary-Ellen lit a cigarette and climbed out of the car. She planned to pour a huge glass of Strawberry Hill and relax into a bathtub of hot water. She took pleasure from small things.

     Then she heard a baby crying. It was coming from the house.  She raced to the front door, pulled it open.

     Doof was on his knees, holding a bloody, squirming infant. Two dead bodies lay beside him in a huge pool of blood. Doof was covered with blood. The dripping umbilical cord was still connected to the baby and the dead woman.

     Doof finally turned and saw his mother.

     “It’s not my fault!” Doof yelled. “It was an accident!” He had lost his stutter.  The angels rejoiced.

     Mary-Ellen backed out of the house and walked under the pines until she could no longer hear her son or the squealing baby. He had put them both in another tough spot. That simpleton. Idiot.
     Doof was such a doof!

Saturday, October 7, 2017

My Last Halloween




My urine looks like root beer. That’s a good bad sign, I think. It ain’t from eating rhubarb. My doctor once told me, “Your organs are not happy...” and I rushed straight home and put away a quart of whiskey. I already have hepatitis. The whites of my eyes are yellow. I was putting a brave strain on my liver and kidneys and (probably) pancreas. My pee was now brown. The end was near, thank Manson. I’m feeding the champion within with beer and bourbon. My abdomen is swollen. My face is decorated with ruptured blood vessels, little Braille scabs that describe my disordered life. I look like a Wolverton cartoon.

    I don’t sit at my kitchen table anymore. Sitting there makes me feel like a sack of puppies about to be drowned. I don’t need that. I patiently await my hemorrhage on the loveseat. The cushions are pocked with little burn holes. I can’t afford to smoke anymore. Cigarettes have become too expensive.  Lung cancer was taking too long anyway. I used to cough like a helicopter. There was this girl named Colleen. An anorexic albino, she looked like a vaporous, woeful ghost. Pale and spooky and willowy. We only had sex once. She said intercourse with me was like fucking a fishing rod.

     I used to know a coke-dealer named Ivan, a big Russian with a mustache and a laugh like galloping horses. I once bought a gram from him and gave him too much money. Those were the days. Ivan noticed the error and gave me the extra twenty back. He said, “Honesty is the best policy,” in his deep dark forest of an accent. I thanked him and returned home to find that the coke had been cut to within an inch of its life. Colleen laughed about it for hours. That was the start of her nervous breakdown.

     I haven’t had company since Colleen left. They were all her friends. I didn’t like any of them but at least they drank. We used to stand around the kitchen table, filling our livers. I felt a reluctant kinship. I felt like a character in the AA book. One night three people had to race to the bathroom to puke. We were drinking bubblegum vodka. The smell got to be obnoxious.

    Why are all these sour memories crowding in on me? I pour another shot of bourbon. I don’t know why I don’t just drink straight from the bottle, hobo style. Etiquette? I’m only an obscene animal with a thirst like a plummet. I urge my liver to fail. The next time I piss I want it to be inkjet black. I want to drown in my own blood like Kerouac and W.C. Fields.

     They’re dead and much happier than I am.  


Thursday, September 7, 2017

A Mess (from Bleak Holiday)


Photo by H.K.


A MESS

“You are a mess, my dear,” she said in her Russian accent.    
“I know.”    
“Your organs are not happy.”    
I had nothing to say to that. The tests had come back.    
“You’ve been drinking today,” she said.    
I nodded, embarrassed.    
“Do you know how I know that?”    
I shrugged my shoulders.
   “Because I can smell the alcohol.”    
She sighed and said, “If you keep this up, you will be dead in one to three years.”    
I nodded. “Okay.”    
She shook her head. For the first time since I’d been going to her, she looked sad. Usually, she was all business; firm, implacable. My doctor.            
“It’s too bad,” she said.    
When I left her office, I thanked her.    
On my way out, I grabbed a lollipop from the front desk. Grape.    
I walked straight to the liquor store. I bought a twelve-pack and then raced back to my building.    
In the hall, I passed the woman who lived across from me.     
“Hi.”    
“Hi.”
Boy, I wanted to fuck her. What was her name again? Erin? Sara? I was pretty sure it was one of the two.     
Hi was the only thing we’d ever said to each other.    
I went into my apartment – beer cans on the floor, rotting food on the stove.    
I threw off my jacket, carried the twelve-pack to the couch and turned on the TV. It was one o’clock and Gunsmoke was on. I cracked a beer and the show started. It was a good one. An outlaw comes back to Dodge and visits the wife who’d thought he was dead. She’d been a grieving widow for years and now he was back.     
By the second commercial-break, I’d opened another beer.    
I thought about eating. It had been a while.     
But I didn’t feel like moving. The pain in my side bothered me too much.    
When Gunsmoke was over (the ending was satisfactory), I went into the kitchen. The kitchen floor was gross: crumbs, stains, muddy boot prints, cigarette butts, what looked like blood...    
I opened the refrigerator but everything inside had gone bad, either crawling with mold or way past the expiration date. The milk looked like cottage cheese. I checked the freezer but everything looked awful to me. When did I buy frozen tacos? Jesus.    
I returned to the couch, my beer. Bonanza was on. The remote control felt like a theoretical object in my hand but I changed the channel anyway.
On one of my many PBS stations, I landed on a documentary on dromedaries that was soothing enough and boring enough to allow me to think and drink.
I dozed off after half an hour. When I woke up I changed the channel again. The Big Valley was on and I thought about writing. I’d started several stories but didn’t have the energy or enthusiasm for any of them: a story about a woman who seduces strange men with her headless, parasitic twin. A story about a snuff filmmaker who feeds children to starving pit-bulls and films the results. A man and the woman he loves drink ice tea together one summer afternoon, and when she leaves his apartment she is hit by a car and dies. When he returns from the hospital, distraught and in shock, he finds that the ice in her glass hasn’t melted yet and he saves the ice in his freezer and becomes obsessed with preserving it.       
But I didn’t feel like writing. I drank another beer. And another.