Que Pinchi Pene



G-D-Em-C (and like that)



Knocked on your door today

Looked at your window then I finally went away

You were in there fucking someone

What can I say?



How can I make you understand

I love the danger

And that's unfortunate, man



On drunken autopilot

Unlike a guillotine

I'm only cut to crash

Vainglorious in blood and wilted dreams of cash



Spoon guilty conscience

Caving in to smoky you



How can I make you understand

I love your danger

And that's unfortunate, man



No penance in this brand of doubt

Spent way too many years now with my guts out on the floor

to send prayers unto the ceiling

Invested with my every feeling...



Blues in the morning

Same thing every place I go

Got drunk last evening

But you know I do that so



how can you play me so close?

How can you hear me when I'm singing to a ghost?



How can I make you understand?

You're in no danger



And that's unfortunate, man

Drug Mule



C-E-F-G



Am



Dm-G7



Smell the ash burnin

It's winter and

I walk the earth again



Mine are some heavy boots

Each step a reckoning and

my breath's some bitter wind



I'm a drug mule

And like the setting sun

I'm going down, down, down



All I need is fossil fuels

And the all night radio

And I'll be southbound by dawn



Waitin in a truck stop

On Rt. 95

This is the easiest gig by far



If I wanted contact

I'd make a phone call

As it is, I think I'll steal a car



I'm a drug mule

And like the setting sun

I'm going down, down, down



Once upon a time

I liked my life

But that's a long time ago

How does nicotine deliver its effect?



Nicotine can act as both a stimulant and a sedative. Immediately after exposure to nicotine, there is a "kick" caused in part by the drug's stimulation of the adrenal glands and resulting discharge of epinephrine (adrenaline). The rush of adrenaline stimulates the body and causes a sudden release of glucose as well as an increase in blood pressure, respiration, and heart rate. Nicotine also suppresses insulin output from the pancreas, which means that smokers are always slightly hyperglycemic. In addition, nicotine indirectly causes a release of dopamine in the brain regions that control pleasure and motivation. This reaction is similar to that seen with other drugs of abuse-such as cocaine and heroin- and it is thought to underlie the pleasurable sensations experienced by many smokers. In contrast, nicotine can also exert a sedative effect, depending on the level of the smoker's nervous system arousal and the dose of nicotine taken.



Chronic exposure to nicotine results in addiction. Research is just beginning to document all of the neurological changes that accompany the development and maintenance of nicotine addiction. The behavioral consequences of these changes are well documented, however. Greater than 90 percent of those smokers who try to quit without seeking treatment fail, with most relapsing within a week.



Repeated exposure to nicotine results in the development of tolerance, the condition in which higher doses of a drug are required to produce the same initial stimulation. Nicotine is metabolized fairly rapidly, disappearing from the body in a few hours. Therefore some tolerance is lost overnight, and smokers often report that the first cigarettes of the day are the strongest and/or the "best." As the day progresses, acute tolerance develops, and later cigarettes have less effect.



Cessation of nicotine use is followed by a withdrawal syndrome that may last a month or more; it includes symptoms that can quickly drive people back to tobacco use. Nicotine withdrawal symptoms include irritability, craving, cognitive and attentional deficits, sleep disturbances, and increased appetite and may begin within a few hours after the last cigarette. Symptoms peak within the first few days and may subside within a few weeks. For some people, however, symptoms may persist for months or longer.



An important but poorly understood component of the nicotine withdrawal syndrome is craving, an urge for nicotine that has been described as a major obstacle to successful abstinence. High levels of craving for tobacco may persist for 6 months or longer. While the withdrawal syndrome is related to the pharmacological effects of nicotine, many behavioral factors also can affect the severity of withdrawal symptoms. For some people, the feel, smell, and sight of a cigarette and the ritual of obtaining, handling, lighting, and smoking the cigarette are all associated with the pleasurable effects of smoking and can make withdrawal or craving worse. While nicotine gum and patches may alleviate the pharmacological aspects of withdrawal, cravings often persist.



I totally, totally, totally quit for five fucking months. Five.



And now I am right back in the crapper.

3:09 bad. 4:20 gooood



woah boy.

whether you make it

with your heart

or your mind,



the main thing is

keep those wildfire emotions

in the First Amendment zone

of your vision



or it's gonna be food stamps

and welfare.

and only the wondering

game



(a great man

once said: I don't know what came over me.



Oh yeah now I remember,

it was a gallon of



Robert Mondavi

bic



sitting here in my hole



I wish it was really quiet

here like the library stacks

at I.U.



back then those stacks were my Internet



ah, I guess it's quiet enough here in my hole



and let's face it:

I get more done here than I do in the hole that is my

home



and what the fuck is up

with that

If you would be so gracious, allow me to submit the following e-mail string to the Campaign's communications team. It may be of interest, in as much as it expresses the deeper concerns of the Campaign's supporters.



(We in NH who devoted ourselves to General Clark's Campaign are pleased with the outcome, if a bit dismayed that John Edwards is getting more media time for a third place outcome that was clearly - and solely - the General's.)



Mott Cromby



mottcromby wrote:



As an ardent Clark supporter from NH, my inclination is to immediately forward articles such as



ELECTIONS 2004 - WHAT HAPPENED IN NEW HAMPSHIRE

PUTTING IT ALL TOGETHER

by Betsy R. Vasquez



http://moderateindependent.com/v2i2postnh.htm



to his Campaign's communications team, urging them to consider. But I am assuming that Moderate Independent has already done so.



I heard General Clark make a comment today about showing what a soldier can do and I am hoping this is in some small sense an echo of your most cogent and I think correct assessment of what the Rove/RNC controlled media's plan is for him.



I was at the Clark rally in downtown Manchester NH Monday and it was fervent in a way that the media of course is sworn against capturing or telling about.



Wes *will* win, but only if he goes on the patient yet public offensive against the media that will otherwise attempt to discredit him....



"staff@moderateindependent.com" wrote:



Thanks for writing and for your kind words.



We have not written the Clark campaign as that is beyond our realm - we are a news source separate from any and all campaigns, even if we clearly put the General at the top of our list. I can not say whether our staff has done this on their own, but as M/I we haven't not and can't. But you can always contact them or call them yourself - they do answer phones there at headquarters (we have spoken to them before about other matters.)



Thanks for writing,



Betsy V.



Date: Thu, 29 Jan 2004 07:01:12 -0800 (PST)

From: "mottcromby"

Subject: Re: Clark campaign ?

To: "staff@moderateindependent.com"



Thanks for your response. I will go forward and contact the Clark Campaign with my concerns. I see that they have Moderate Independent blogrolled and hopefully they are reading you.



General Clark's own comments seem to indicate that he himself is aware of what game is afoot. I will be curious to see how he performs in the debate on MSNBC moderated by Tom Brokaw tonight, in light of the insinuating, semi-slanderous tone of the story appearing in today's Washington Post, regarding his (fully disclosed) business dealings.



http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A58300-2004Jan28.html?nav=hptop_tb&nav=hptop_tb



General Clark's Campaign is nothing if not populist in the best and most genuine sense, but this fact, as M/I has pointed out, will not be enough in itself to carry him to victory if the media is allowed to distort and attempt to rule perceptions of him in such a blatantly deceptive way.



General Clark needs to start calling them on it, every time, patiently and relentlessly. If he challenges the media's blatantly partisan distortions and attempted manipulation my feeling is that most Americans would applaud him.



The General, as those of us who have met and listened to him know, is a genuinely polite man. Yet he is also at his righteous best when showing his toughness and intelligence in the face of the outrageous, pompous, hypocritical obtuseness of his rightwing media inquisitors. The notorious "Asman interview" on Fox News some weeks back comes immediately to mind.



I will be disappointed if Tom Brokaw falls into nonsensical partisan attack mode the way Peter Jennings did in New Hampshire but I suppose anything could happen, given the nature of the beast that has bought and paid for these two.



regards,

Mott Cromby

with due diligence



with due diligence uh huh

yeh you need a crafty head

to make it



I feel it's advantageous

for me living in a place

where open spaces

may obtain



where the cold night air

may move unfettered

under the black ice

sky



you know,



peoples attitudes

are also

pollution



yet the sage

feels only pity,

that dark love



that dark love



smoke one more cigarette,

crack another



soldier

blither man blither speed

song elemental particles attach

to brain you can only get them

via the correct delivery system



and hey



if the colors go bright

you must not fight

self city



welcome to the new me

the sharp smell of my late night

farts indicating

a preponderance



of Parliaments in my blood

guts heart and mind.

It's in the genes said my uncle,

a millionaire, and I reckon



he must know.

My hands have the mind

of snakes, single and cold,

tense. waiting



but only for now. and what I

have left to tell you is

only everything, only

what subsists, only



what I can show. yeh

this no waking dream, no:

simply waking and waiting, a

prelude



to the good stuff that happens

when the night draws in and cover

is near. I think my legs are warm,

they feel warm and years ago



I would have taken this as evidence

of going, of a need to go. and go I did,

have, would, but no, not in this world,

not in this world inhabited now.



all I want to tell you now is what is true,

best as I can see it. man, my images have deserted me

and any image I could offer now would I guess

be contrived. maybe that better than this.



I got no millionaire solutions for you tonight but shit

I am drinking. and that, as good as any.

I know what you want to hear.

You want to know why



I ain't riding with my head on fire out across the slow foothills and back across

that wide Mississipi

and on toward morning. she just keeps coming. or else

claims she never does. there it goes:

I never did the West much.



Had I, I would've no doubt checked the opposite

latitude, those other mountains yonder.

then cross the strait to Vancouver. nope.

just me here tonight



in a loaned hole in the ground. better,

we got our own horizon here.

I'll probably take most of tomorrow off

and go see Wesley Clark. he's in the land



tonight and he's better than one such as I and yet one such as I

could potentially codify this age.

I got a dog here won't stay off

my lower couch. what's that mean?



that univerals still obtain. I guess.

I wish my mind was ripe instead of salt.

Salt is never ripe and not quite dead it serves I guess

to hasten taste or to leaven the sea and in my other fantasy



I'd be merchant marine and just as gone. man,

all I want is a smoke. and tonight, as they say:

Mission Accomplished. I'll get you back next time

with the dream song



but tonight I just feel like crying. but no one's here

except my dog so I guess save it, swallow it, hold it down

send it back like some bizarre too emotional

Tantric reckoning:



ah women of earth you know what you are missing

and have avoided it and it is I.



Carmen long ago said I was too intense and it was

not meant



as a compliment

man if I could just hold out a little longer but I can't

started today slow and low then leveled out to a point

where the dumb shit ain't breakin my heart so bad



they have been cracking down and so now this blog shit

at work is on stealth-o-meter

and all I still wanna do is hang out down in my basement



with my laptop and do my blast furnace act for all the world

to behold and what a sad violent fact it is that poetry

is just about what you can write while drinkin



or maybe that particular evidence needs to come under review

it's all about transcribing the waking dream and the trance of that

transcribing that's what I keep having to make myself remember



so maybe tonight the dream unfolds more more more

ok, now to stealth-o-meter



so you my five to nine friends and all can know I ain't given up just quite yet

not hardly sirs

Patriots Win. I'm Still Full of Shit But It's OK



I was loitering

in the airport bar,

running away,

hidden in plain view



skein of failure.

your black hair,

aquiline hands

and teeth -



narcotic suspicion

givies rise to impossibly

solitary

blood



but I never

forgot your prayer

Kid Solitaire

Kid Solitaire



you can be a lady

and still be my man

with your crazy kid sister look,

blackout times and



innacurate eyes

running away,

you're hidden in plain view:

12 years running



from their bullshit

fallacies

Kid Solitaire

Jane Solitaire



I was at the airport bar.

You slid me the bottle

and said:

Pour

This is total fucking bullshit.



STAY OUT OF OUR PRIMARIES, YOU REPUBLICAN FUCKWIPES.



Wes Clark is going to beat the shit out of your pathetic lying dumbass unelected fraud White House resident and his nefarious fanatic handlers and give the American people their country back.



"It looks like they've finally figured out that I'm George Bush's greatest threat," Clark said.



Yes, sir.



Karl Rove, you're on notice. You fucking watch, you evil fatheaded clown. You and monkey boy are going back to Texas. You both belong in Federal Prison.

Here inside these days and days

of unemployment, disappointment, and drink



I maze out deep

on an Inner.



Some broken dog be toothfully working on a corner of a white bag of trash outside the door across the block. I shake another cigarette out for my buddy Solomon who's just entered the bar.



Soul Dog, I say, dragging on my butt, How's it hanging? And just as importantly, I say, exhaling smoke now, How you be banging?



Lowly, he says, black brow furrowing. I'm low...



His hair is wrong under the crushed cowboy hat. There's blood on his shirt and his sleeve is torn. His mouth is open and he appears to be hyperventilating.



This is all so typical, I think, and I don't even know what's happening yet. I already feel somehow involved and he hasn't even really looked at me yet.



I drink on my beer and stand up from our corner table. Now he sees me and looks right up.



You got a cigarette for me?



I hand it to him.



I can't fucking take this, he says. I am so tired of this fucking bullshit, man.



Here's a man over the age of 35 weaving in front of me, weaving as he's standing still, and the tears coming.



What's going on?



My insanity, man, he says, is my inner crutch, for a world that's outwardly disabled. I need a drink. Shit. What the fuck is this, man. What are you doing?



I tell him I just came in from Jersey and to be cool. I walk to the bar and ask for two beers and two shots of Cuervo. I walk back to the table with the two bottles of beer in one hand and the two shots in the other.



I sit down across from Solomon, who's sat down, and put his drinks in front of him. He's putting a tragic West Indian gaze out onto the avenue. There's a crust of blood under his triangular nose. He hawks a little phlegm and sucks at his teeth.



The nine to five people are coming back now, from the subway. We drink our tequilas and watch them.



The currency of no pressure, I say. Ease in to the evening. The night is the spice of this whole damn life. Are you feeling me?



Stop with the bullshit. This is serious. I'm having problems with my kid.



Sorry to hear that, man…



My wife is so fucked. She's…so fucking…fucked…



What?



She took him with her. He's gone. They're gone. I went to pick him up from school and --



Solomon, he starts to cry. I begin to think about cocaine. I also think that, though I love the man, perhaps he is not the greatest father material. Then again, I think, I may not even be the greatest friend material. Be that as it may.



Let's get out of here, I say.



And go where?



Nights where I existed outside of time a wisp of haze in the darkness of the kitchen. Two years I lived in this one fucked place and never owned a bed. What imaginings a lonely man may subject himself to. I have stories of drunken times unremarkable, typical, no less horrifying to me. Calamity always within striking distance. Like the friends you drink and run with, and lose heart's possession while in their company. Words falling out of you while you sit reeling at the bar, the stripes of wine and purple just visible in your face, in the shadows of the hard night. Rage and bitterness for everyone to see and some would partake of you. The soul's show for any to see, and to be had cheaply. Less expensive than your time at the bar. This is the story I'm here to tell you. Some stories too inner and complex to tell all at once

About the same time Zip was getting aquainted with the strange girl at the bar, Joe was in the back of a Car Service car, drunk and seriously coked up, literally sitting in the middle of an escalating catfight between his girlfriend Justeena and her best friend, Nancy Zen.



"You bitch!," screamed Justeena, draping herself across the semi-supine Joe, "I'll kill you!"



Nancy Zen cackled and landed a half-hearted roundhouse with her narrow, angular fist across the dark, maroon-rouged face of her girlfriend.



"YOU FUCKING WHORE, I'LL KILL YOU!," screamed Justeena, going for Nancy's throat.



Joe sat in his laid back state and thought about it all.





Thursday had started out fine. He'd started out the day meeting his uncle Mike for a lunch of Caesar salad and Spanish chicken at a Midtown diner just north of the old underground mall. Mike had delivered the usual complement of organic La La- but had been coy about something else.



"What is it," said Joe. "What you got?"



Mike looked over his pale denim-jacketed right shoulder. The diner was empty.



It was a safe diner, owned and operated by the Sherms, who owned New South City. This fact was known beyond saying to both of them. Joe sat up and said again:



"What you got?"



Mike reached into his tattered red backpack and brought out a toothpaste tube-sized bag jammed to the seams with blue crystalline White Stuff.



He held it enclosed, partially concealed, in his large sepia hand, as Joe gazed, dumbfounded.



Joe sat back and looked down at his salad. He took a bite and looked out the diner window at the bright, golden, October afternoon.



"Where the fuck you get that?"



"You can probably guess. I think so."



Joe reached over the table and took the bag in his own hand. Opened the Scotched taped end, flipped open the flap, dug his index finger end into the hard white powder.



He drew his finger out to suck. And felt the blue crystalline midnight feeling ride up the roof of his mouth.



"OK..." he said. "What am I paying for this?".



And here Mike gave pause, and a critical look.



Joe had a moment of wishing he could separate himself from the culture that'd raised him. It was a DRUG DEAL.



Mike fixed his eyes with his patient gaze, looking over his left shoulder where the heavy glass door had opened and shut and men in white suits had entered.



"Keep your dollars. Do you think I'm stupid? You think I don't know who you run with?"



"What are you trying to say?" said JT.



"Don't patronize me."



Joe paused, looking down on his Caesar salad, hearing the business plan mutely articulating itself in his mind.



"Yeah," he said.



"It's easy," said Mike, exhaling long and slow through his broad, Indian nose. "You got a way out."



The waitress stopped by the table and Joe ordered them 2 more beers.



"Pie in the sky," he said, smiling.



"On the table," said Mike. "On the table........"





The thing about drugs is that, unlikely enough, over the last 20 - 30 years they'd become more or less sanctioned, acceptable. Gone were the days where people got locked up and put away forever for having a key of this or 2 grams. of that.



Well, sort of. The cigaratte manufacturers now uniformly sold tobacco-pot mixed and even wholly marijuana cigarettes. The marijuana wasn't nearly as good as what you might grow in your backyard, but it got the job done.



Cocaine, heroin and other narcotics were now sold with a degree of exclusivity once reserved for Swiss watches, expensive lamps, crystals.



After the 4th big oil war the federal govt. had figured out that if they taxed the sale of formerly illegal, taboo substances and practices, there was money to be made. Black people and other minorities were now just as rountinely jailed for tax evasion as they'd once been for drug misdemeanors.



Anyway, these days it seemed like anyone could be jailed for anything. The Drug Wars had just sort of faded away, a relic of past times little better and little worse, just past.



In fact, a Drug War was still being fought. Dealers like Mike and Joe still fought on the supply and distribution side.

I

n places like New South City, there was heavy money to be made selling to the boutique dealers, and more money to be made selling under the table to whoever else wanted the substances but couldn't afford the boutiques (nearly no average-income person could on a regular basis).



Joe buried the narrow tube of dope in his backpack, first making sure he wasn't being observed. They paid the bill and stepped out onto the street. Joe zipped up quickly and flipped up the round collar of his field jacket.



"Shit," he said. "Cold up in this bitch."



"Get you a liner for that coat," said Mike. Mike was wearing 2 heavy plaid flannel shirts over a heavy knit sweater, and a winter cap.



"I got to get one."



"I'll keep an eye out for you."



"Oh, I can get one," said JT, shivering and looking sidelong down the street.



They shook hands, said they'd see each other in a couple weeks, and parted.



Zip and the tall blonde girl sat at the bar sipping tall Bud bottles. The girl was wearing a loose fitting, worn blue sweat shirt with the cuffs pulled mitten like over her hands. He couldn't stop looking at her long hands.



Where do I know you from?, he wondered.



"I saw you playing with your band a while back," she said.



"It's not really my band," he said. "Where at?"



"Dungeon 8."



The Dungeon 8 episode had happened at the end of the summer. It had been one of the first strange, strong, bad shows. One of the first where occurences had occurred.



"Hah. The Flying Boy," Zip crushed out his smoke and sat drumming his fingers upon the beaten copper surface of the bar. "The Flying Boy."



The girl sat gazing at him with her huge, dark eyes. They were probably brown eyes, but in the dim light they were black gleaming obsidian.



"I saw him," she said.



"Yeah," said Zip.



"I was right near him."



"I'm sorry." He puffed. "I'm going to need some more smokes here in a minute."



The girl produced a black purse from somewhere beneath the bar and took out a pack of Camel Chocolate Thai. The good stuff.



Zip said, "This is a welcome surprise."



She doled smokes out for each of them and they lit. They sat in silence for a while.



"How do you explain something like that?," said the girl.



For a minute he thought she meant the Chocolates. Then her narrow jawline came back into focus, the way her dark blond hair curled slightly beneath the edge of her chin.



"Well, it's like this," he said. "I'm GOD."



The volume of conversation in the bar dipped noticably. Zip noticed the bartender, a dude called Hairy Beef, looking at him closely.



Zip stared at his image in the long mirror behind the bar. He tried it again.



He let the electric guitar riffs twist and amplify in his minds ear, winding arabesques of subconscious sound. He focused on the reflection of his suddenly terribly dark blue eyes in the mirror. He let the arabesques twist and wind, projecting them toward the mirror, winding out and into it. Trying to burst the mirror. Trying to shatter the mirror.



Nothing. He was sitting, stoned, staring at his face in the mirror.



Nothing.



"To be honest," said Zip, "I've basically chalked that thing up to a confluence of magnetic forces. Freak incident."



The tall girl dragged on her smoke, still eyeing him.



He leaned in toward her confidentially. He spoke the words in her ear.



"We had that kid wired to the ceiling. It was a circus thing. Flying trapeze shit. The Flying Boy."



"Bullshit."



"I'm telling you."



"I think you did it to him."



"What's your name?"



"Casey."



"Well, Casey," said Adam "Zip" Stuyvesant. "That would have been a motherfucker. But I am telling you that that was not the case..."



But that night, at Dungeon 8, that had, in fact, been the case.



He was arching into his guitar solo, leaning toward the tightly massed crowed, focusing in for no reason on this young black kid.



Fly, he'd thought, for no reason at all, a dim, low, silent, internal whisper beneath cascading blue incandescent notes issuing from his fingers, from his amplifier. And the kid began to rise, and held, and for more than a minute Zip could feel him in his very hands, and moved him over the green haze of the crowd.

the routine is not to be suffered

but improvised.

perform subtle variations,

shift modalities,



maintain acceleration.



if the world seems too gray a place

go to high country

among rocks, trees, snow

and wish a house there.



here's where I'm at and

here's where

I'll be

1.

my head is a crust

my blood a ruse



my beard a wallet

for this bullshit mouth



2.

it was words off the cusp

now I have to go back and ask

why a crust?

why a ruse?



It's not a crust at all. But the time today makes it feel like one

It's not a ruse at all. It's the opposite of ruse. Which is why I call you thus



3.

if I was alone

I would be drinking more



or would I be?



or would I be writing more



one thing though

if I was alone



I would be much more subject

to whims of my own insanity



instead of yours



4.

one of those late 30's guys with nothing

not even self-respect

how did he come that far



oh fuck I could write that novel

but I hope my time now is a torpedo

toward the opposite

manifesto

Ice Fishing



what you need merely is the proper width of ice to bear you and the weight

of sled, auger, bit,

bait, traps, cooler full of cheap beer and hope;



strong daylight and a span of hours unchecked:

nothing more is required.



sans skill and corporeal

fortitude.



or else what you need is a passion for the known and a passion for the unknown

or else the dual mind possessed by all true creatures

or else what you need is a taste for the intelligence of men



or maybe you need none of this.

anyway,



you stand suspended upon a hand of ice over hidden murky waters

believing in the silent long pickerel,

the simple gold and russet perch and most of all the nickel bass



all hidden nimbly and appearing curiously in refraction, though by you unseen, as deft bronze shoes

drifting, slowly falling, waiting only for the peculiar twitch in their senses

brought on by your shiner bait which also drifts and falls; this twitch moves their blood and moves

their lives and yours as it moves them

toward you, moves them

toward the hidden barb at the end

of the line



there above them you stand in the thin cold wind and white sunlight

buried in your layers of fleece and flannel, wool, Thinsulate,

a beer standing in the crusted snow at your feet

and maybe the last wisp of a pungent smoke tangs your cold nostrils

as you feel your beard frozen into bristles from your breath and this takes just a second -



yeah you stand there after setting the traps

and lines,

sending your wishes into the cold covered water,

into the cold blood of the fish



wishing like only mammals can:

quietly



thinking about anger like far country you walked in once

back in your drop of ambition

before your eyes changed

and too the world but now



in the white smooth expanse of this pond long

and born in a valley of white pines

you stand up from your slushy bit born hole



to blow life back into your fingers

with your breath

like everyone else's

on the planet



and now the scaly quarry's drawn up

be it pickerel, bass, or crappie:

it spasms like an embodiment

of some visible telepathy,

a cold creature of purest form.



you have your fingers then

in the great mind of something.

don't be afraid to call it God.



ten minutes later you crack

another beer

GWB



after the last critical infusion of bullshit is when my shit really started to get rolling. first i reinstated the pact with my main man DickChickenWarriorLiarShitHeartfromHell (of humanity undisclosed)



i told him always be true to me and i will not let you down. now bring it on. in response he quietly slipped a razorblade into a child's milkshake. then a handful of snot massed blood



and what looked like brains. some say brains look like gray jelly. but not American soldier brains. they look like apple pie a la mode except the ice cream is black and comes from under a desert



then he (DCWLSHFHOHU) snarled and then i knew it was the time. so i went to the craft



in my action suit with codpiece and i did some deck maneuvers and then i said they all died for freedom the great uh yeah whatever I mean I fuck you now asswise with my hands and then i want this shit put on tv right away with a sign behind me saying. and I want



the cash from some tax cut rolling into an electronic account. on the Street, bitch. in a Red State. oh i'll take the nifty fifty million billion year and dollar annuity for me and all my friends. and all your grass i'll take that and then an elderly person will love me some more. and the motherfucking



banal telepathy of stupidity i'll take that too like I take your Media, bitches

(who cares what you think?)



yeah bitches, I point my finger,

you piss

your pants. simple. I point



and you

kneel



[No fucking way, McSatan.

You kneel, Presta-Tex.

You fucking kneel.]

























* VOTE CLARK IN '04 *

Stump Sprouts



verse 1



I been thinking back

To the time of us

what we did not have

I was so lost



I want to see you on Sunday

At that place Stump Sprouts

Wear your red dress

Your wedding best



verse 2



In your mother's house

Jars lined up on the floor

Ripple leaves and whisper

Summer night on the screen door



I nearly lost my mind

in a Georgia jail

That was my payback

For giving you my hell



bridge

Please don't be sad

God's only teasing

Nothing is hard

Everything's easy



verse 3



I woke up Thanksgiving Day

Hit the road with my Gibson

Got thrown out of an Exxon

Started up Route 70



walking next to the guardrail

schizophrenia, shattered glass

I threw away my coat

I threw away my ax



verse 4

Saw a woman in a black gown

Fetal shoes in the grass

Cops got me next exit

Overdosed on the past



Later on in the jail cell

I reached my edge and ambled off



Till they strapped me in a chair and the cop dude yelled I don't care if you think you are Jesus shut the fuck up or I'll have this big hillbilly bastard fuck you up and good. With his broom handle plus your lower intestine accessed through your cornhole. you piscses yankee bitch. ok that was never said

The Soldier Grill was a weatherbeaten bar in South City. A street lamp lit the hardscrabble sidewalk in front. A bench made of stacked cinder blocks and a board sagged just right of the door for patrons or anyone else to sit on.

Jake sat on the bench clutching his head in his hands, looking down at the thin trail of goo he'd just puked up onto the ground between his sneakers.

It was weird. He wasn't drunk. He hoped he wasn't getting sick. He'd have to go hide in the woods again if that happened. His last time around with the flu he'd lost control of the trick badly.

It was still early. The smoky neon clock behind the bar had read 8:20 just a few minutes ago, when he'd walked out, citing a need for the purchase of cigarettes. Which was, in fact, a present need. He fingered out the soft pack of Blacks in the left breast pocket of his thin flannel shirt and shook out the last one. Lit it.

The unfiltered tobocco-and-marijuana smoke burned the back of his throat. It had been a bad pack, old and dry; nonetheless, the old syrupy feeling began to percolate from somewhere behind his eyes. Blacks were the best, the least diluted, contained the best combination of weeds. He had a greenie left in his wallet, and since he'd need another pack and the price of a pack had recently crept up to almost 9, he'd be needing more money soon, and that meant working the trick again. If he could.

I hope I'm not getting sick

The pitted blue metal door that was the front door of the Soldier banged open on its painted blue hinges and a short blonde girl stepped out and immediately sat down next to him. Beizart quickly wiped his bottom lip with the heel of his hand. He glanced down to make sure he hadn't puked on his shirt.

He didn't know the girl but he'd seen her around. She wore a green bandanna in her hair as a kerchief. Pink color was high in her smooth, oval face. Her eyes were a deep loamy brown, he saw now for the first time.

I thought you'd left, she said.
Felt sick all of a sudden.
Are you leaving?
I don't know. Need more smokes.
Come back in, she said. I've got a new pack. I'll buy you a drink.
Don't you care that I've got puke on my shoes?
I've seen a lot worse.

His reputation by now preceded him. In an age where nothing surprised anyone anymore, it set him apart. They said, it happens when he plays guitar, some seriously bizzare shit. A girl in glossolalia, levitating, her hair floating around her head like spiderwebs. A flying boy, twirling by the ceiling, screaming in tongues along with the music. They wanted to know what it meant.

He took a long drag on the smoke, exhaled, and flicked it away, as he followed the blonde girl back inside.