as brittle as old bone|
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adam kills me's LiveJournal:
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|Monday, April 26th, 2010|
Had the lights been left off the condition of the house would have been open to imagination, being Dirty's home, he felt more comfortable with the single bare bulbed lamp being on. The lamp sputtered and hacked, an electric buzz to human ears, and eventually graced the living room with limited visibility, allowing Dirty some room for dim appraisal.
|Sunday, February 14th, 2010|
Throughout my life I've had this odd connection with orion. Not some new age, crystal gazing sort of fate and aura connection or anything. It's more of like a sense of cohabitation, the kind you feel when you stare at a birthmark or mole on your body. So wrapped up in deductive reasoning and epiphanic thinking that even your own body, the network of nerve bundles, dendrites and synaptic endings (action potential and all) creates a wonderful sense of dualism, a separation of mind and body. Orion is another faithful trait I cannot -and would not even if able- part from. The belt, the red giant giant shoulder, and that geometric form pulls all the familiar heartstrings usually plucked by family scrapbooks and photo albums.
The saddest thing about leaving the island is, and I know this is a common, cliche complaint, is the dwindling brilliance of the evening sky. No longer can I make out the hazy mist of the milky way's tail, nothing can compete with the surrounding light pollution.
Bag of marbles.
Drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, listening to rumors of snowfall. Two flakes, I hear, were seen by someone.
|Monday, February 1st, 2010|
|Sunday, May 31st, 2009|
|the brillo pad of brilliance, hammer of the dishwashing gods
keep at it.
dream of sharks eyes, their absolute focus on you. how does an idiot know he is such? what clues him in when the evidence room is bursting with flimsy reassurances and sneaky back talking? nothing. absolutely nothing. just lbs. of coke and bloody ziplocks, random weapons in a hermetically sealed stasis, that speak mysteriously in the idiots absence, conversations like low wattage bulbs in crusty refrigerators after the door has been closed. the idiot whistles a bland tune after locking up the room, his confidence absolutely firm and unwavering. blargh blargh blargh. keep to yourself moron.
|Tuesday, May 19th, 2009|
|old hat, blue and red
it's cold, but during summer.
week, one whole week,
foolish behavior's consequence,
brain waves, blue color departure and a red approach, like stars in space.
suspension, cleared schedule with no room for creativity.
watching movies older than me, younger than I, that shatters some youthful security one has in the past.
weren't these films good at one point?
what was spoiled in the time between viewings?
taste, maybe, but I consider my tastes to be less than adequate.
no no no.
the waves started to blue.
consciousness descending to a tasteless plain of being.
not thathathah matters.
can't even bring myself to read. not right now.
can barely breath regularly, much less think straight.
|Tuesday, April 28th, 2009|
|fear and tumbling
Funny feelings are stirring around my gut.
no. it's not gas.
This place has an interesting way about it that seems to manifest somewhere between the pooper and the food processor.
red brick buildings appear perminent enough to me.
It has that black friday frenzy air about it. A maddening rush to gobble up all the material pleasure in aisles three, five, and seven, the gratifying experience felt the whole, half hour drive home.
three weeks later seems a life time.
Slaves to their impulses, like coiled springs they burst forth, dead reckoning, having never been held at bay by a trigger or hook.
is that natural?
What I mean is, like those presious sale items, their purchase a matter of life and death, this place has the same ephmeral feelings of accomplishment.
the buildings are so sturdy and welcoming, beckoning the thespians in from stage left.
The buildings sure seem sound enough at a glance, then you circle around and see the skeletal planks keeping the facade upright.
actors giggling and whispering lines, while those finish remove sweaty wigs with flair.
Than there are the living dead staggering, with great performance, about the down town area with the utmost confidence in the two dimensional stage.
the dead unaware of their death.
They seem to comply with some universal slogan, some idea that they follow the guidelines according to the perfect and good life.
they prefer the security provided by the layers of dirt above their physical bodies.
They adhere to this established track in spite of the fact that the majority of performers willingly derail themselves from it with happy enthusiasm.
schedule to keep, must'nt miss their savior's heavenly return to reclaim the dead.
Who among this population stands swaying over the passion they've been committed to while gripping a knife, waiting for the thumbs up?
who has the courage to think or the responsibility to act?
Choose to Either tumble outta here, get on track and stay, Or take some sort of leap of faith, with no religious inclinations.
fail, my friend, and I'll laugh.
|Tuesday, March 31st, 2009|
|Roosevelt, my friend
My friend Roosevelt.
Froggie was the endearing name given to him.
Didn't know what to do when his cotton eyes began to peel.
Helpless, I was, wishing I had watched the hand of my mother as she deftly slid the cloth beneath the tireless stabbing needle of the sewing machine.
I miserably witnesses the end of my dear Roosevelt's sight.
Someone behind me is taking pictures of another person.
Photography is a funny thing in that everyone within this Gibson
reality confidently pursues it until their gallery laden with narcissistic images contains the inevitable gooey faced baby. Tribal inked arm crooked around protruding belly, drawing her near. The misspelled pet names that adorn the beefy wrist mere nostalgic plaques commemorating a love treaty that ended in a memorable domestic dispute. Enter banal rote, exit youthful whimsy, the horrific suspicions of all have now been confirmed. No! Turns out he was the killer after all.
I'm now playing with myself in public.
the people run screaming.
|Thursday, March 26th, 2009|
|warm, concave, double dips
There she is.
Day twelve, though, I can't tell if that's an entirely accurate count.
Especially, now that I think of it, since I have a Tuesday, Thursday routine.
Christ, she wouldn't come here everyday, would she?
All I know is she is there, will most likely be there, and has been there since, well, about three months ago. give or take, mind you.
When I enter the library my eyes fasten on her distant figure.
sitting and listening.
My optic orbs fasten to her in liquid determination, my pupils trembling in with strained effort until my lids slomly narrow. Absolute is my wanton hatred of this stranger, this female computer user.
That netted hair band she always wears seems to insist, vehemently, that forehead and scalp are transposable features.
Those bulbous Coby headphones seem to direct her actions, some big brotherly voice soothes her, gives her the verbal attention reality does not offer.
She pecks at the keys audibly slow, as if savoring the sound and feel of plastic teeth submitting to the will of her flapping fingers. What does she type?
I watch her from my computer station, my eyes obsessively flicker to her face and narrow quickly before gradually swerving, like a head on collision in slow motion, back to the blaring headlights of my waiting Internet Explorer.
Her face, so blissfully unaware of my boiling fury, frozen in a stupid grin.
Whatever anomaly the screen presents before that vacant gaze, sedated smile, and nostrils flaring in excitement smile must not require much thought.
It couldn't possibly.
I mean she sits there at seven in the morning, when I arrive, as if she had always occupied that seat.
At twelve I enter, hoping to fit some studying in, and there, at the very same computer station, she sits wearing that grin. The awful grin, an exaggerated gush of anticipation found most commonly on young boys watching the commercials between an episode of cowboys and indians. Bladders brimming with urine their body just itches to let piddle, faces contorted painfully with pleasure, the anticipation of the coming show the only active restraint, about as secure as a toothpick supporting a fully loaded parking garage. Moans and whimpers, rocking and dripping, they hold themselves retardedly at bay. Eyes going in opposite directions, fishy focus on walls opposite of each other.
That's her. With the exception of the trembling for she visibly holds the eruption.
Still as a statue she sits. When I arrive at three in the afternoon she is there, as dependable as a the family dog to come wagging his tale, lolling tongue held to one side of its gaping mouth, as the man of the house returns from a full day at the office.
Headphones, paunchy slouch, and permanent smile of entertainment.
Everytime I see her I wish.
I wish I could multiply my body or even gather a large number of people around me to take up every open computer spot before she arrives.
Watch her spirit crumble under my wickedly elongated shadow.
I would laugh at her utter bewilderment.
|Tuesday, March 3rd, 2009|
It kicked in sometime around noon.
Saint George beach, that day, was windy to say the least but the beaming rays of my good friend Raisin Bran Sunny kept me toasty with those radioactive waves streaming powerfully from his golden smile. I felt foolish in my swim wear, I always do, I think it was the distant laughter floating from the beach and the bitching of the gulls, murders and flocks of em, that unnerved me. Imagine a gang of otters mysteriously sauntering into a bar, sitting beside you on a stool, and ordering a drink on your tab. That dumbfounded feeling that something isn't quite placed right. We were in our windbreaker shorts and button up shirts, loosely secured halfway up, with our knobby knees exposed and about as visible as the face of God, stationary within the comfort of our shaded car.
My palms began to sweat profusely. I always get this way before an experience. Doubt sets in, worry over possible outcomes with nearly improbably results, sudden or gradual sickness, bad reaction, et cedera, et cedera. Dan, Bug-eyed sunglasses encompassing a third of his face, turned as if suspended in the honey light that blazed earthward and intruded into the car. His smile, made creepier by the fact that his eyes were hidden behind those insectoid sunglasses, lustfully peered at me. Matt, following suite, did the same presenting two clear pads, minty fresh he assured me. The whole scene stopped for a moment, and once again the sudden epiphany that struck me left me dumbfounded and unresponsive. This lasted until some robotic instinct took hold, the need for belgonging that curses our species, and I soared skyhigh in thoughtless panic.
We tumbled noisily from the car, Dan first, than Matt who popped the chair up for me but neglected to swing the seatbelt back, I tripped and fell on my face but cheerfully rose. We must have looked rather silly to the casual beach goer, Dan with his plethora of guesome tattoos, all exposed and enhanced by the pale backdrop on which they were designed. Matt, glasses slightly askew but looking rather determined. His air was only fouled by the brightly colored sandals, a size too small, that flopped and clopped cheerfully as he strode. Me, I resembled a tourist or a clumsy pack mule in a Hawaiian print button down. I wobbled unsteadily, my legs feeling unnaturally twiggish, bearing the groups immense amount of unnecessary baggage. Squirt guns, beachballs, beer, jug of water, spare clothes, towels, umbrellas, and orange juice, why I offered to carry it all is beyond me.
Noon came and with it an open bottle of OJ. We sat there, idlely dabbling with the surrounding sand and flapping our juicy gums over a number of mundane topics. The rolls that are fashioned by the wind in the sand began to cast long shadows though the sun stayed high. To walk was to grow as alice did only wonderland wasn't nearly so wonderful. Amazing, yes, but wonderous I shouldn't think so. The dunes, as they were, made one feel proudly significant. A giant taking massive strides through the impassable Sahara with ease. A giant, I was, and a giant I am.
My speech became oddly cocky. I referred to my fellows as exactly that. Fellows soon evolved into Gentlemen. I spoke in a brash manner and, like my fellows, became slightly anxious to explore these morphing surroundings of ours. We arose and brushed the bits of desert from our silly swimming trunks and proceeded forth into the great unknown. I can't say how far we walked, nor could I tell for how long, all I know is we shot the hell out of any inquisitive gull that got in our path. That is, until we found one headless further up, then we silently marched, sorrow searing our tropical auras with grey.
We came upon a floating bit of plastic and this promptly caused much curious investigation over the origins of and possible whole that component had been detached from. Dan suddenly spotted three beach chairs, perfect amount, in a triangular formation. We had by than reached a more isolated part of the beach and felt, with good reason, a beer was in order.
We laughed and drank. We spotted dolphins majestically spiraling upward from a freakishly shallow depth and laughed at the murderous swarm of insatiable gulls hovering over a nearby fishing ship. We plotted swimming out there, knives between our yellowed teeth, and boarding the ship, stealing it and shooting off to Mexico. The wind began to pick up, at that point, and the condition of our presently unguarded belongings began to raise questionable glances towards the parking lot.
The journey backwards, one finds, tends to shrink in length. As if home base, glancing motherly at its wrist watch, begins to worry about your absence. She attempts to find you bringing with her the entire beach as a search party, we met her halfway and embraced her, relieved by the familiarity of her face. Past the decapitated gull, the buoyant plastic, and the abandoned slipper, its partner long gone in search of help for its fallen comrade.
I buried myself up to my chest once we reached our home base. It started as an attempt to dig under the peacefully zoning Matt but, upon him becoming wise to it and repositioning himself, it turned into a full excavation. The sand that lay before my chest went through a variety of changes: Vietnam Vet stumps for legs and grossly exaggerated breasts. It was then, with the setting sun, we decided to call the beach trip quits. Much resignation followed. We packed up, gave the friendly beach a wave and piled into the car jsut as the park officer pulled up to close the area down. We thought the mint had taken its course, but we were grossly mistaken.
First scene: Passage to Hell on the back roads of Wakulla.
|Friday, June 20th, 2008|
flight leaving soon. gunna kuwrash! *insert shattering pottery sound*
belgian empire rocking my evil socks off.
finish pot of coffee.
continue fooling around with wii.
that is all.
|Monday, April 21st, 2008|
|dropping your keys from the side of a speeding boat
i remember it quite clearly.
fifteen gallons of crystal clear, bubbling H2O.
swampy blue and green backdrop displaying lake bottom plants and animals, mainly platy's, frozen in mid-sway.
it was a normal community tank filled with passive community fish, gouramies, ghost fish, tetras (neon and gold) and, of course, a scum sucking plecostomus or two.
not a bad starter set.
your face begins to take on another shape.
maybe this wasn't a good idea.
the blinking keg lights burn, brilliant piercing signals fading on impact and passing.
these lights have brief, cautionary life spans, entire galaxies fueled by car headlights.
your eyes remain frozen, mysteriously fearful of what lay in your peripheral.
shadowy figures peering out from darkened homes. arms contorted, form forever frozen in the act of
recoiling, a hissing escapes from an unseen maw. silhouette creatures, details and features lost in the umbra.
the closer they come to our passing car the more i notice their beady red eyes, gazed fixed on a single passenger.
the highway speed limit drops suddenly. you must bend to the will of the law, but instinctual fear spears and claws at your gut and spine, screaming at you shrilly, insisting you forget the speed limit and just go, as fast as you possibly can. you can't catch me, i'm the gingerbread man.
perhaps the signs had been erected for this single purpose, maybe multiple, who knows? it's almost certainly not going to be enjoyable for us. i almost can't think of it, my back stiffens, my head throbs, my ears ring. my entire body is in red alert. shit.
i can only imagine being food or some sort of sick entertainment for these monstrous humanoids, cut up and stuffed, served on a platter in a dark, musky barn full of shadowy figures. i see another precautionary speed sign: reduce speed. town ahead.
now that i look at them, slowly approaching and disappearing into the lids of my peripheral, they almost look sloppy and unprofessional. large, diamond shaped warning flags with a single, foot by foot white metallic sign, encompassing perhaps an eighth of the overall warning flag space, two digits in black and bordered by a thick black line.
"approaching town" it reflects.
we pick it up like sonar signals, directly, almost painfully, into the brain and gradually the car engine whistles and winds down to match the ordered speed.
i know better.
but i can't say so.
can't scare the fellows. the other passengers.
one, who's been texting for hours, and another who has been sighing stressfully the entire ride.
the atmosphere in here is suffocating. thick like vaporous butter and dead stiff as, say, frozen beef.
my joints creak and ache, from the lack of active motion, and my bladder sways within my midsection, a water balloon tethered by bits of generic dental floss. the howling wind, fighting it's way through the sliver of open window, beats at my unprotected body relentlessly. beach wear and a cold front.
home has so much meaning, a wrecking ball to this condemned, crumbling facade i mistakenly call bravery.
how's my face look? no visible look of consternation. still appearing calm.
hours ahead of me.
home has alcohol, bathrooms and ashtrays.
hours to go.
|Monday, March 17th, 2008|
|wet gym socks and seamen
mushrooms are better taken fresh
you could tell they shone once, a brilliant purplish hue, but know glowed a dull grey. delicate looking alien caps seemed to peer eyelessly (telepathically?) from behind the thin, transparent walls of its ziplock prison. i grabbed a nearby pen, some thing to crush and grind with. but this delicate fungus refused to change its physical shape and form, resilient to my insistent banging. eventually the bag began to rip and bits off powder leaked out all over the coffee table. i slipped the chunky bits into a cup of warm tea.
we walked to the park.
the world was new, as if a global painting crew had just slipped through before the rain had come falling.
their handmade "wet paint" signs nowhere to be seen.
welcomed our gaggle of monkeys.
willow wisps appearing and disappearing into the thin mist.
groups of bats fluttered to and fro.
|Friday, February 29th, 2008|
keep chipping away at this paint. cold cement flesh beneath. just keep hoping for fresh growth.
blind old bastards.
your grip is slipping.
see them vanish along with your appearance.
but just as they are, so are you.
for a little bit of them resides within you.
your pictures are fattening
with added skin.
regrowth. fat cells.
and now the news.
|Thursday, November 15th, 2007|
the signs speak. a buzzing sound, at first, but perk your ears up and you'll find
it's the language of birds.
|Tuesday, October 23rd, 2007|
|Sunday, August 26th, 2007|
can't stand tallahassee...or take it sitting really.
can't stand the people. those selfish selfish ingrates.
the pretentious verbosity(!) that spews forth from these gaping american maws, frothy substance, sticky and smelly. hinders mobility and honest opinion. the mixture of air, spittle and bullshit bubble it's way into the ears and nose and eyes of the speaker.
whatever worth i have accumulated in this worthless little town, it seems, is nothing but old chewing gum and bits of pocket lint to the rest of the world.
i hate hearing other people talk. i hate your wit. you smell bad. your teeth are yellow. you have bad body odor. you must use old people soap and shampoo, you dusty old thing.
i hate listening to myself type.
but i feel like typing.
i have a week to kill.
a book to read.
a back to scratch.
a receptionist to creepily stare at from the corner of the room.
my fingers wiggle with creepy anticipation.
late night phone calls.
it's like a bake sale in my mouth and everyone's coming.
you're welcome to it. coming in my mouth, that is.
|Saturday, September 23rd, 2006|
greedo shoots first...baugh!
|Tuesday, August 8th, 2006|
what a worthless bunch of ingrates the world is made up of.
a dime a billion.
my trip was great.
the people here are generally nice. except the frat fucks that stink up the street.
i saw a raccoon in the yard, my roomate came out to see what all the hubbub was about. she casually shrugged and returned to the kitchen.
the hub cap house party was amazing. the band covered one, and only one, song. murder city devils. rum to whiskey. amazing as shit. shit is amazing. the rest of their set consisted of original music. cool.
apparently, jim morrison puked in one of the corners at that house. nice.
|Thursday, May 18th, 2006|
i see that garfield is still bored and john is still horny. odie's in the corner reading hamlet and pookie's still not talking.
i heard mickey black signs unhealthy lungs.
i wasn't sure if that was true, so i flipped on the trusty computer and checked the net.
found nothing but sites with choppy titles and bits of my search words scattered int he synopsis. what a joke.
nothing ever changes on this little tropical isle. i wake up to the smell of coffee and powdered cement, i with the smell of dog shit, and i sleep with the bitter taste of fruity alcohol and the sound of disgruntled bowels.
we dig our own fox wholes and keep watch till three int he morning. at dawn we go about erasing any proof of our being. shoveling dirt into fresh wholes, burning our shit and piss.
keep a phone handy, keep a loaded gun even handier.
this monkey's gone to heaven.