Automatic Brand Leprosy

Okay, Get Started.

As a water-critter is attracted to the metallic flash of a Coke can, so he is drawn to Damp Hallucinations. He vomits Stunted Stories based on the paltry Parlor Tricks his brain plays. Again and again (and again). Macabre poisons leaking like twists of Black Taffy, blurring like the panic of a slithering newt dropped into a soft, gurgling garbage disposal. There is a hole in his brain that leaks 90-proof pus and frames of black and white pornography. His choppy dreams are made manifest in the tacos he builds but never eats. Tacos bitter and cheeseless. The blood-red smear on a paper plate reveals a caustic truth. Salty schizophrenic American vibrations shed iceberg lettuce like the molting armadillo sheds dry carapace on Arizona macadam. In the end it is the story and not The Scribe that will survive. And he has polyps.

No good. They are taunting you. Get Serious.

He is a Human Carcinogen. A Visiting Nurse came to call on him once and he drove her away with his noxious flirtations. Trying to get her interested in his nonsensical Television Programs. He is an accident waiting to be tested and evaluated. Her name is Alice, like The Goon. She cannot relate to him as he itemizes his fears but she dutifully writes each one down and down and DOWN. He likes this one TV show about Inches. It’s about the measurement, that’s all it is. For hours. But it’s Really Funny, he tells her. It’s called “Inches.” She tries to give him a smile, standing there in her Blue Gown, holding a Huge Clipboard pinned with a list of all his insecurities.

I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?

He stands in line with five or six Others, waiting in the rain. Nobody talks. It is too early for mosquitoes but he feels one anyway, stinging his naked arm. He lets it fill up its gas tank and then he smacks it and is met with a Miniature Murder Scene. The Color of his Blood makes him grow faint and he gives up his place in line to sit down on a wet bench. He carries a book about Hiroshima that has nothing to do with The Bomb. Not even mentioned. He reads it there in the rain, letting the rain rape the pages. Each raindrop contains a Curious Face. Yes, the very Weather is staring at him in millions of ways. He folds the book and puts it back in his pocket to get back In Line.

So what happens next?

A Church Bell sings through the drizzle. He feels something Strange once in a While and writes it all down in his Daily Planner. There is no RISK anymore. He has gentle memories too but they get SHORT SHRIFT in favor of bloodshed and pestilence and maniacal guesswork. He’s a Thug and a Prostitute.

You’re wasting my time with this silliness.       

Yeah, I know. Time to hang it up. The End.

    

   

      

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My Story In HERE COMES EVERYONE!

Sheila had one too many at last night's celebration

I wrote a story about Old Hollywood in all dialogue. You can read it HERE!

Bob

Hobble

This afternoon I walked two miles in stifling, tropical heat to keep a therapy appointment where I discussed my desire to develop a new persona. On my way back I ran into my old friend, Hobble (he has a wooden leg) outside a 7-11. Hobble’s sweaty face was decorated with silver spraypaint; he had obviously been huffing. He was enthusiastic and friendly when he recognized me. “Hey hey hey!” he said, smiling with his silver lips. He was fidgety and stuporous and started babbling at me. He was mostly incoherent but talked a lot about time-travel, Rita Moreno and radio repair in Germany. I listened to his manic rap for around twenty minutes and then told him I had to get going. That it was good seeing him again. He insisted on shaking hands and then he hobbled around to the back of the 7-11. I looked at the silver spraypaint on my hand and then headed home. I started thinking about a new persona again.

A cyst is a sac-like structure filled with liquid, semisolid, or gaseous material.

Outside my building, down there in the parking lot, I noticed a man with a bristling red beard and he was wearing one of those big yellow sleeveless ponchos, even though it wasn't raining (yet—it would rain later that day—the man was prescient!) and there was a large hump on his back and I figured he had a backpack, like he was on a long journey or something but then the hump started to thrash and scream (it sounded like a chimpanzee scream) and he swatted it with a sawed-off hockey stick and the hump relaxed (if that’s the right word—it fell still anyway) and the man looked around (real furtive like) and kept on walking (quickening his step like the guilty do) and I wondered, what on earth did he have strapped to his back? What was under the yellow poncho? I considered calling the police but it was too late, he was gone. It was none of my damn business anyway. 

"This tastes like radishes."

"It's sole."

"I know what it is, or what it's supposed to be but it tastes like radishes."

"Time tastes like radishes, not sole."

"Wait, are you saying thyme or time?"

"Are you saying sole or soul?"

"I don't know anymore."

"Me either. Pass me the sodium chloride."

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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!

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.

Mushrooms 

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...