The Goreng

Surely I must be better by now. Ten hours since the last time a fist had met the side of my face. Cuffs were usually rusty here, financing the decorum of the detention center was of little interest to the men that managed this place. For three months my routine had been similar. Ice cold water pour from head to toe, a screaming man, his fingers grinding into my skull as I was dragged by my hair into a room filled with the smoke of cheap cigarettes. The sickly plumes infected the wounds instantaneously.

From the far side of the plane I have never expected my fate to be so violent, so honestly deserved. At first I was disgusted with my treatment, the severity with which I was captured. Walking down the street, a bag of rambutan tucked in a plastic bag, the sugars dripping onto the uneven ground. A mean tire screech and hands from all directions.

When they sat me in the chair that I am in right now, I scoured my mind, searching for memories of guilt. At first I had found nothing. The first month I wanted to yelp, to find the people who would miss me, the media making a campaign for my release, my death finding justice in the people that had confused me for someone else. I was a scapegoat, I loved this place, nothing would ever be done from my hands to cause any harm.

Who is your son? Who is your daughter? Imagine if they were in this place, then how hard would you hit me? If I was your wife, would you deprive me of food?


It is late now, and I need to share my secrets. I ask them to tell me what they want me to say, they tell me that I need to remember a number. One that I would never know that I knew. They told me to think of certain places, a snowy walk after a flight was cancelled. Running away from old men in Morocco. The numbers would come back to me they said, all this time I had been carrying a code, one that made me guilty, the walking weapon.

A tooth drops off the tip of my tongue and a series of numbers scatter onto the floor. When the lips seal, a dark voice traveling on a twisp of carbon tells me, surely you must be hungry, as you are all the same. An appetite is an appetite. A growling stomach must first be satisfied before you can be a human. Right now you are anything but human. You are bored, apathetic and trying to conceal the assortment of delectable lies you would have told us.

So eat. Consume and enjoy.

What Marvin didn't realize

Where was the incident occuring where the blood dripped in the wrong direction. It was defiance of gravity, and the disobendience to a higher power frightened Marvin. He was scared, enraged by the life he had been leading. Enjoying fewing things, he devoted most of his cold heart to the sonds of gongs. His house was filled with them. A careful pathway had been cut through the apartment to make room for his peculiar collection.

He would purchase them at auctions with a rapacious hunger. The opponents around him felt they had no choice when he bet. His foul language and unkempt manner was protected by what everyone enuciated with fear, the handicap. Marvin took a certain relish the word. It did not bother him, but rather amused him in the way the people around him tried to make themselves feel safer by making names so safe. The way people called dead bruised and battered baby cow into a nice cut of veal. You could ignore the viscera that sprays everywhere when they fled them. Marvin of course had taken years to have developed the skills to imagine. How could he possibly see things when the use of his eyes had conformed to permanent darkness?

The vibrations are what helped him. His many drumsticks were nearly worn away. The method took an impossibly long time. To Marvin, it seemed short. He had spent his entire life frustrated, what was a little more pain for such an incredible award. One that would make everything perfect, different and loving.

The first gong was small, a brassy touch and smell. This particular one being purchased in nepal. The wood had the residue of hashish, the religious variety. The first vibration was young and small. It usually took thirty seconds for Marvin to be caught in the pulses of the metal disc. For other people who would stop by, it would take them longer, for Marvin capabilities of sense were very heightened since one had been taken away. An extreme way to try and make amends.  However, he was still fearful. He proposed that the noises were first an impulse. A support system that he had designed by the grace of a higher force.

Marvin was being tested. However the new things he would discover with his vision would shock him, appall him into retching his lunch across the counter of a pricey restaurant in a town with tall buildings. Silver Spires filled with those who never suffered so decided to design there own. Trying to be comfortable with a sense of entitlement after being ridiculed by simply being stuck in a cubicle during the daylight hours.

The following gongs increased in circumference. Marvin began to feel strange. He would wake up and feel something intense and raw. When he blinked and looked into the milky maw of nothing, something began to happen. What was the color. It reminded him of the cold touch of metal. It danced inside the fragments of what could have been the ability to look beyond the tips of his fingers. He went and put on music. As it played the lines appearing in his eyes starting to move around. What was this? Everything had begun to show it's own vibration. As if to show them that the thousand ignored objects were also in plain sight of sight.

The fences in the front of the yard would greet him in the morning. The handle of his skin twisting like a snake as he slowly ambled to work. The way his co worker was in the wrong place when he walked into the office.

Gary, was on the ceiling, typing on his laptop computer. He drank the coffee, which clung to the inside of his cup. The brim of the mug smiling with a mouth filled with hot coffee. He began talking and the coughed lightly. Blood began to trickle out of his nose and dropped down onto the floor. Why was the blood only following the laws of psychics?

It was strange, Marvin tried to cover his ears, but once you open the invitation to temptation it is only fair to accept the consequence. What Marvin did then was shut off yet another part of his heart, when perhaps he had been missing one last instrument.

DJ MENACING NATURE IN THE HOUSE

CALLING ALL NJ LADIES!!!!!

This coming Friday, one weekend only, experience the club experience you thought was only in your dreams. Well take that dream and capture it in a sick Ed Hardy hat, pour in a combination of Audieger's sexcellent MEN'S COLOGNE & Sport's drink. That is how sick this concert will be. You will be able to keep your blow out sexified as all of our facilities and corners are stocked with the latest axe products and sweet alcohol filled face drying designer cosmetics that you would find on clearance at DAFFYS!!!!! (HORN HONK HORN HONK)

The night will start off with DJ dropbackparkituptogetdown,

He will spin his classic #1 hit, I got a Hewlett Packard in heaven. After playing that song at increasing volumes sixty four times straight, we guarantee that your ears will literally be spewing blood and maybe a few chunks of gray matter. It will be painfully awesome, try it with a red bull and ciroc vodka splash! Oh you got that right! It is going to be really really hot in the room. Proper ventilation and adhering to fire codes is gay. We threw that pussy nonsense right out the rational window, We decided to put giant steam and fog machines! What is not being able to see your own hands and suffering a claustrophobic episode resulting in seizure. But to make sure that it is warm enough to rock your very own Kohl's Sweatshop guaranteed tank top. You can rock any religious memorabilia you have around your neck to pay homage to a myriad of saints and virgin Marys. FUCK!


Did we mention romance? Well all you trashy gurls and buyz (Our apologies!), look no further. The girls will be able to express their interests by competing for the number one spot in a w-tshirt contest followed by a bull ride in bra and then a farting contest! Gross but neat!!! The guys will be auctioned off and then sent to local organic farms to be grass fed and then fed to Connecticut. We will provide semi-to not so much-private alcoves, so that if you are inebriated enough to try and do more than make out on the dance floor, the frumpy folks will have a chance to watch you and hate you for what you are but also sort of envy your blind ignorance! It's gonna be a rager!


Hungry? Their will be plenty of food for all those feeling eager for a gnosh. We have a buffet set up featuring all premium Energy drinks. MONSTER, ROCKSTAR, 5 (7) HOUR ENERGY, BOOTY SWEAT, will all be served up in a heaping dish of jello mixed with vodka, that you can chow down on until the sunlight hits your crusted over make up and early signs of rosacea will be setting in as you head back to your 350 Z with some cutie on your arm. She may turn out to be underage or your cousin, but at least you will have a full tum tum!

DRUGS?!? We almost forgot to mention all the illegal substances you will be able to consume. If one is feeling the need for Alprazolem, Zoloft, Trazodone, Lamictal, Abilify, Diazepam, Klonopin, Adderall, Atavan, or one of the many other treats on the market, we will have a doctor writing prescriptions right on the premises! OH no, feeling pain and need to shake that sore muscle contraction disorder from the anabolic bummers? Look no further, we will have twelve MRI trucks in the parking lot. Just stuff your dome inside one of these things and then presto, in your hand will be a month supply of schedule II opiates! Hooray!

All in all, we hope you can get some time off from Abercrombie and Fitch or planning your next trip to Senor Frogs to make it to this epic and completely forgettable event. Dance the night away, Sweat enough chemicals to make DOW jealous! Punch as many people in the face as you can. We must remember life is short, so do as much ridiculous shit as you can! Put your entourage season three DVD box set down and get your ass on the dance floor!

holler.

Yoga Defector

He is my strength. His words are our gifts. I bow for him. My eyes will thirst from any piece of advice he affords me. Waiting lost like the stray of all dogs, I need his attention, to tell me I have plans, what my future is. His kingdom is built on the grand ideology of all people rise. My face barely grazes the floor as I salute his sun. His fire is heating the solar panels of my back, as I promise, and I do not know why. My skins breaks out, my stress goes nowhere, It is his perfect ideology, his malleable crony that I have become, to have others tell me that I will never be one, but deep down, the more I adapt all of his opinions, soon I will be no one, I will be everything he needs.


I needed to be there earlier than usual. Fearing about my weight, I would peddle as fast as I could. Running through green, anxious for the end of red. Colliding with metal, silver and red with my blood. A wet puddle seeping into open wounds, a ramshackle helmet. Bruises and obscenities as I throw my bike to the local repair shop to board a train. I swallow five pills, five pounds off and five thousand more brain cells screaming, no vinyassa for a hollow mind. Blood on my hands and rushing to the room, stumbling in, with olives for pupils. Brick with wood as he comes in, adorned in the casual nature of a long haired middle aged guru. Thirsty for words and a living cause for frustration, I transform under the perform of how much I can do as long as it is good for the collective.


Running away from friends, dismissing those who wanted to share hearts, and falling to every person in a mess of sweat and sunken eyes. This is a famine of independence, empathy, and self reliance. It is not his words that are the issue that makes this equation of the utmost national security, it is the willingness to be fooled because you wanted to be created in something new. The only person who can eliminate foolish fears is me but I want it to be my leader. More pills. More words. More articles and criticism. A self criticism as my usual wardrobe has grown to large for my waist. Feeling my stomach, analyzing it for any fat. Even subcutaneous fat is unwelcome, but it will be there, that is the reality of someone needing to survive. Imagine the people who are deliberately not fed to be eliminated. As a Yoga Defector I am the height of arrogance, the paragon of insecurity, the perfect loser specimen to self help gurus. I am the wet dream of the Marriot Conference room head set $500 a day Mr. Fix it and nothing can stop me. 


The downward spiral is not something that can be foreseen. Your world understands that the oceans of your tears are about to set on fire like the Cuyahoga. The artificial Juche with which you live by and close to is singing in dialects that are tongues whom the Pentocostal is afraid to utter the phrases that I will sing on the muggy streets of a city that I have created with a fetid brain. Holes grow bigger, money is spent, and I drink. I drink till the bile in my stomach cries to my fingernails and spills onto the asphalt of the street, a warm body underneath me and I am unaware. More wretch and bile, dyed hair and kiehls in the shower. We will overcome, I will destroy and die alone on the hills of the layers of skin that I have shed to milk from the unfocused eyes of those who consort with me.


Recognition. I know what is happening, dragged away from the mat and the universe that seems more enjoyable when you are on your head has revealed as much as it has taken. I am lost, and turning my own converts. Mirror masking the man who was the ultimate Anti-Hero. Play the man at his own game, hiding from him, realizing that I am the fool, he refuses to accept my Autonomy and exile begins post haste. The rest of the diplomatic team is dismissive as well, for the fallen jester does not get the laughs when the blood is real and not false. He turns his false love to false hate. Eyes that burned with ardent fervor, now burn with destructive hate. Turning to all the wrong alter egos and wandering lost it is no wonder that anger is incited all over the valley. Chet Baker no longer wants to sing to him. Wine no longer has grapes, but instead the rubbing alcohol that is his blood stream. Anyway for me to not find fault, is the Cu chi tunnels that are growing longer, more narrow, the recessive traits eviscerating the competition to be a kind person.


World travel will not stop it. Conversion will not stop it. Meditation does not do any good. Legal and Illegal drugs secretly fuck behind close doors. No matter how hard he tries, his longs collapse but won't fill with air. It is always hot and stagnant and his belly erupts with non-growing pains. You can run anywhere you want to, but their is not a light in sight. A port has closed, rusty fences block everyone from the beach, and when he tries to find someone to blame. I find the he is me, the hammer and tools in my hands for the pillbox I have created. For so long I have wanted to say I hate you to my Grand Marshal. The cure I realized, although long and hard, requires me to look in the mirror, and to see that I have not defected from Yoga but from the milk of Human kindness.

Pretentious Pornography

Curving over the edge of my bed, stricken with nausea. I remember the slope of the street. The city's sharp hills and barometric pressure creating congestion in my nose. It wasn't in the nicest area of town, why would I expect it to be anywhere else. Writhing from remembering, I reeled over onto the floor as he led me to a series of offices, abandoned by the failed dot coms. I sat in a puffy orange chair and tried to pretend I wasn't there. No confidence and certainly no self esteem, I always wanted to believe, but now I am asking and I receive, for a small price.

Naked and alone and the couch. This is a cold place in the city. You cannot wash this off of your hands, I can see this in his smile. The lack of his patience for me to become a fake and empty unit, a vessel to be filled with cliche lines and to pretend this is nothing more than smut would be a lie to the both of us. It will haunt me for the rest of my life, steering me towards the wrong direction. The actor, the humanitarian, and the scholar all fall into the paper shredder. Amateur Amateur Amateur, during my Amateur times of doing Amateur work. An expert of nothing, a lover of no one, a heart pumping with no blood but a forced ejaculation.

My mattress begins to curl around me, pressing against my ribs. I try to yell for help, but I lack the vocal chords. I reach for my medicine, but I remember that I quit so long ago. So many faces spin around as if the house is caught in a tornado of portraits. As they spin, the mariachi band begins to play. Several ingredients are called for in the end of this.

Running with stealth, trying to hold the contents of my stomach inside me, a yellow plastic container is right where I left it. Shivering and shaking, I purge on the container and all over the floor. I feel the steady cam looking nowhere near my face, one thousand instruments playing my favorite song. Stumbling up the stairs and trying to see what I do not want to see. The gaunt cheek bones, the pastry white skin, and the shivering mess that is someone when they no longer even trust themselves. Reaching out the last of the gumption in my being to fight the greatest enemy any of us has ever known.

I salute to the queen, and bless the sages of whom have been very helpful these past few months. They provide a illusory curtsey and join the wallpaper again. The empty bedroom of my family groans in the cobwebs and the wind that New England tends to have around the months. As spring ushers out the new plants, I grab a couple in my hands from outside the window, hoping tendrils will fly out of my wrist and joining the earth I will bear fruit and do at least one of the goals I had when I was here.

Dearly departed, we are gathered here to say goodbye, says the worn out stuffed Monkey. The polar bear without a nose lowers his face to let me know he will miss me. A vine wraps around my ankle from the window in my bedroom, and tries to pull me outside. Fool's games. Childish games for those younger than children. Simply a shoestring, tied by myself to my own ankle. Tired of being the living liar, lying back down on the bed.

Empyting the canister, feeling wet and dry of skin. I close my eyes and it begins to spin again. Oh the things we do for friendship, the things we do for money. Dearly departed, what was wrong with you? You give up on everything, what happened to the spark? Surely you need one now, and you are reluctant to look for it. I see my face, dark circles around my eyes and a tear to fall down. I roll onto my stomach.

The wood from the floor ruptures massive arms grab me and as I fly towards the concrete, I wonder, suppose that shoestring could have pulled me out of the window, then what?

Rock Candy

 The arms do not lengthen the same way as ours. Whispers do not evoke Paranoia in the average soul. Narcissus cannot find a pool in which to see his reflection. All this time and the ocean seems more devoid of fish. It has been twelve days since the first speck of paint chipped off the side of the hull.

Fan the fingers up as you inhale, oxygen hitting you in the back of the throat. A diaphragm playing balloon inside of the body. Think thick coats of Blue unprovoked by gravity. A perfect place for a seed to be planted and a root to connect with the ground. One would think? Perhaps? Perhaps not? What does ground those who are not the others? Overtime it is thick coats of sugar incorporated.

Back in 1492 or 1942 A small firm was established in an undisclosed location (Currently, The City of Quartz, California). The company had no good ideas for an innovatine project. Men and Women toiled over productivity and innovation. Something fantastic! Something Wonderful! Only describable as divine! The smartest and most wicked of them all beheld a rock. When he picked it up in the park, no one seemed to give him a second glance. This park did not own the rock, The people certainly didn't have a stake in the composition of merging minerals. He picked it up and rubbed the rough and smooth. They would not have to pay a cent for the actual product.

Late in the evening, The Smartest and the Wicked went back to the park, there he filled a burlap sack with the stones of various sizes. He would have to drag them back to the company. As he pulled, he noticed his girth being unhelpful with the movement of stones. Each time he pulled, he felt a small hardened poke underneath his skin. Stopping only once, because time still has yet to be controlled, he felt around and realized his body was providing him with muscles.

As he arrived just as everyone was getting to work, the beheld the most beautiful man they had ever seen. The women and the men fell in love with him. His every curve and lineation glistened to the hot yellow burn. Inside he took his seat at the front, a prediction of those that sat underneath and the to right of the water cooler.

Outstretching a paw, a rock bedazzled itself upon the audience. They smiled, laughed, and cried all wondering what the right response could be. A bowl of a hot sticky liquid pranced upon the table. Drip drop drip drop, the rock came dressed in a thick coat of sugar. Air kissed Sugar. Turns out that Sugar was frigid to air. They never spoke again. The rock now looked like a delicious candy, with a promise of a surprise every time!

He handed one to each and every one of his colleagues. They bit into the sugar, delighted. On the second bite, nerve endings split through the teeth as daffodils. Many screamed and quivered to the unrelenting pain. Palming one lady's head in the fingers of the muscle man, he pointed her eyes towards the box, opened on the top and currently occupying his other hand as he dropped more candy inside.

"A surprise every time? Perhaps this next one will be different!,"

Each time she popped another rock into her mouth, now gushing with the rouge juice that tastes like rust, a laugh developed in her demolished maw. She loved the product! It was a success. With each bite, the uncertainty was so compelling, even though the result proved the same.

Rich in no time and meaner and more enjoyable. Wine was drunk. Love was made. Tickets were handed out and never paid. Everyone walked around rubbing their jaw. Hoping that maybe one of these bites would reveal the answers to their pain. So bite and bite they did.

However, where we are at sea, never have our eyes laid upon sweet. Salt is the taste engrained in our hearts. Deep down at the bottom of the sea, large fallen rocks covered in black plants. Fish swim among them, the last of their kind. Hiding from greed and safe but not on land. The entire world has tasted demand and the gut of the issue. Whales swim around to dismiss the great beast. Muscle firm and parting the seas. The rock can only be helped if sugar is only remembered by name.

A road between two.

I remember how much I used to think about you. In the town where I was young, a winding road between two swamps. Each time the weight of the vehicle pushed to the right and I asked and received the most delightful visions of you in my head. You smiled at me as you reached for my hand. When our fingers interlocked I would tell you,

"I want to be good,"

You would smile and disappear as quickly as you touched me. Now I am anxious for that memory. Someone has tough callused hands around my ankle. A bag is over my head. Nothing is visible and I am so scared of what is about to happen. Who used to pull on my ankles? A teacher once did that with such love, I assumed she was my wife, if I ever knew what a wife was.

These hands are different, they do not like me, they want to hurt me. Other pairs exist in this room. I understand why they want to do this, it makes sense, it doesn't mean that I do not want to run away. The sock shoved in my mouth is making my jaw ache. Bitter fetid tears are falling from my eyes and my nose can smell the iron of my blood mixing in between the muffled sobs.

Ushered and placed in a chair, leather straps go around my forearm. The hat is pulled from my head and I am staring into eyes that see this everyday. I sputter as they rip the tape and then pull the sock out. No words come out, as I make a face, trying to feign confidence. There was that road. Where was that road? Does anyone know the way to go home? What happens when they do this to us? Crying, I bow my head and I feel the initial pressure of the clamp on my pointer finger. The tear is so shocking, like the north sea on family vacations, feeling like I should smile, instead I say,

"Forgive me, Forgive me, FORgive me, FORgive ME,"

A piece of paper has words written on it. Words were meant to be read, but read aloud? I do what they say, it sounds as foreign as Mandarin but I am speaking my native tongue. How many people are going through the same exact moment right now? How many would try and reach back to the time they were young and they felt the soft skin and all the impending mistakes of being on this world for two decades. Remember the sharkskin paper of books being carried to be a productive member of what? A club? A lie? A reason to hate, no one to say good morning to.

As my head is bowed, like Mishima on the day of his reckoning, except I have no one who loves me. People will never be given the grisly, instead a rehashed story that grown ups tell other grown ups when they can't face their own conscience. Granted no last meal, I cannot see the road between the two swamps and I know why.

We have a choice, even if it isn't between life and death.