A brief spike in traffic

For 3 days running I had over 100 views to the site, akin to a miracle.  I’m not that interesting, so it must’ve all been for recent Jeopardy! contestant Rachel Lindgren.

It’s my duty to warn you thirsty nerds AGAIN that smart women are not a solution to anything and being a sapiosexual is a road to nowhere.  If she’s smart while you’re enamored (subtract 25 IQ points for each boob and asscheek) you’re in QUADRUPLE the danger of being manipulated.  Not that I overly give a shit what happens to you, you’re probably better off than me.

I believe this blog is now 10 or 11 years old, which means little because I rarely posted after 2009, was it?  It has brought me neither joy nor grief, certainly no money or gavina.  I don’t read my own shit so I’ve forgotten most of it, except to remember impassioned movie reviews about Batman (pointless) or politics (far more pointless) and cussing out my wage slave job while doing nothing to improve my lot in life.

Two things happened in the last 5 years which changed the entire arc of my  inclinations, I got out of the shit job and I “discovered” whores.  Also, my father died  at 73 of natural causes, if you count lung cancer as natural.

The whores saved my life.  Once I was getting laid fairly regularly all the Mysteries of Womanhood evaporated, which was bittersweet, but poetry is either written out of your system or it burns you from the inside out like drinking bleach.  Poetry IS drinking bleach, usually for the reader. 

The women’s humanity made me less of a misogynist, and it even seemed a few of them enjoyed the ride beyond getting paid.  (I haven’t been laid in over a year due to health problems so that’s on pause.)

I’m closer to 50 than 40 now.  I’m not better than I was in 2006, but like to think I’ve learned much the last 10 or 11 years.  I wouldn’t trade my scant “life’s work” of writing for falling in love.   

Here are the final lines from a long ago poem.

I know it’s coming, death or a balloon.

The slitted eyes of a petted cat.

Tell Death

Life is a dagger of ice
melting to blameless water
before you can fight back.

Tell Death I’m going to steal his car.

“now, now”

stabbed in the dark like razor burn
the highway waits outside like a whore.

pretend each Tic-Tac is a cyanide pill
rubbing the rooster
raw.

paint this:  cyclones of barbed wire slicing though lines of sight.

the maid speaks only Spanish.  I don’t know if she cares.

“Loud pipes save lives,” but so does smoking them.

the grass in the desert is the grass on the mountains in
the ears of the mountains the grass is there like hair.

Falcons swoop on lonely advantage, over snowflakes
cartwheeling down on cursing thrones.

Another endless goddamned day awaits endlessly, fed
through a straw like baby food.

Fear is a whole-body cast that missed the diaper and
pissed on the whole show.

We don’t know what to do, ever or now.

Slicing.

Complainers

broken over the knees of phantoms
bleeding resentment
angry at what can’t be changed
angrier at what can,

not giving a fuck or taking one
hearts afloat in bitterness
like sponges at a high school car wash
raising funds for the funeral of hope.

they don’t want to hear it
they already know it
they’re eating themselves
with needless rage,
fine,
except they always
chew so loudly.

What does this have to do with what I just said?

Had Damocles been Enlightened
he would have laughed at the hanging sword and ordered more
chicken and boys,
living in the Moment, knowing
no difference
between life and death, except that death involves
more floating.

Of course, an Enlightened Master would not admire power the way
Damocles the Flatterer did in the first place.

Without human weakness
there is no Story and life would be a boring dance of white-robed
saints.

I like swords.

hail satan

“You would never say, ‘Hail Satan’ would you?” I ask David.

“Hell no.”

“Not even as a joke?”

Gravely: “No.”

I didn’t let up.

“Let’s say there was an emergency and you needed a cab,
and the only cab in the city had SATAN written in huge red letters on the side…
would you literally ‘Hail Satan’ then?”

“No dude, I owe the Big Guy my life.”

“But God knows what’s in your heart…”

He ignored that. Told me his story. Brain tumor. Surgery. 40% chance to live.
(Obviously, he made it).

So there we both were
He a Miracle and me a shithead, both of us working the
same stupid shit job for no pay, legal slavery.

Somehow I don’t feel like I owe the Big Guy.

In fact, I wish a cab would whisk me to Hell right now
with David’s tumor behind the wheel.

how could it be worse?