My bladder’s
about to burst! its poisons from drinkin’ too much watermelon juice I picked up
from one of those fancy juice bars earlier today. Would serve me right too for
letting them rip me off @ the cash register, same as they do for your $4 or $5
coffees imported no doubt from some hard to get to exotic jungle. But they taste sooooo sugary sweet and bone depletingly good.
Oh man, gotta
piss gotta piss but I didn’t come here to talk about this as I put the Kegels
to the test. I came here because I miss you; your mournings and your laughters.
My soul aches when I think of the weeks that rush by that I don’t sit
down to write for whatever reasons and I just . . . age. Then, when I do
start, Writers Block peeks in n blinds it all up til I give it the boot right
in the ass and kick it to the curb with my old habits and shames.
My next door
neighbor’s walking up the steps right now and we say “hello” every time we pass
each other by. Yes I wanna do her but I don’t know if she’s got a
girlfriend or not. KnowhatImean?
She looks like
the clam eating type. I know, it sounds like an awful thing to say but seafood
I don’t like. Pink Floyd I do.
What one’s got
to do w/the other, I have no idea except that she’s blonde, in her
mid-20’s and not necessarily all that great looking.
Go figure.
But why would
one try to figure it out when it’s so natural.
So primal.
Man.
Woman.
Opposites
attracted to differences.
Go do
what the animals do so beautifully. Go fuck!
Go fuck well but don’t throw the gear shift into
Reverse when the car’s in motorDrive and don’t call someone else’s name out
when you say you are true.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Feels good to empty the bladder. Get the
watermelon juice out.
Feels good to be empty minded and waste a
whole day lying in bed watching Star Trek: TNG reruns.
Feels good to smoke a bowl when my chores are
all done and also when I’m the pig in the sty throwing lots with winded devils late
arriving upon my shoulders.
Feels good when I touch myself like a master
the way no one else can.
Feels good to go off on a writing spree and
while I’m @ it, might as well smoke one now if not for the children then at least
for a bit of peace in the Middle East.
Forget it.
Ain’t gonna
happen. Peace I mean.
This is the beginning of the end.
How cliché. How
empty and dramatic. The Beginning of the End.
Now, although I don’t
subscribe to the prophecies of Armageddon that are printed in The Holy Bible or
in Nostradamus’ obscure predictions of rulers, anti-Christs, or other shitheads
raining hell, fire, and std’s down on earth;
I do believe in the Mayan calendar where it points out a cycle of
life ending on December twenty . .
. 1st I believe. The year’s 2012.
That’s what some
of the people that’ve studied their type of writing have said. And like I
said, The Beginning of the End. From now til 2012. Maybe nothing will happen
maybe some things will only shift, that’s all. Maybe our days and nights will
keep on til there’s nothing more to inspire the dreamers and reclusive sages on
their lonely roads. Til then who knows?
However when
Hitler was a teenager.
t.b.o.t.e.
When men began
copulating with animals.
t.b.o.t.e.
When humans with
extreme wealth or inside connections claim Godly preference or status this
is t.b.o.t.e. ~
The beginning of
the end.
And speaking of
Godly ~ To hell! with the
Catholic Church.
Maladies to the moth
infested, tilted head w/a crick, push-cart riding, god-dammed Pope John Paul
George & Rin . . . just kidding . .
. I love the Beatles.
To hell with all
organized religions. And if I offend you sheep then to hell with you too.
I just cannot
see myself being led around from the nose by another human being in a costume
with a nifty hat or caught up in their precepts & rituals when it comes
time to my spirituality.
Some people need that crutch I guess.
I’d just rather
be the wolf than the sheep and there are a lot of you out there.
Sheep I mean.
I see you.
Thinking you
need a strange person to lead you in personal spiritual matters.
The sheep get taken
from behind by slick men and then comes the dick disease. And then the
deceased.
We all
need a crutch I guess. Mine just happens to be herb. And I will never
understand why alcohol is legal and marijuana ain’t. Well, I do understand but
. . . I never will. The argument’s there but that’s for another page.
So I regress to
about an hour n a half ago when I was sitting deep on my broken down sofa
looking at the rolled up lint linting on itself right on my pajama pant legs. I
was just sitting there, on pause. My eyes, glassy and defective were rolling
back n forth between the lint and the television set which was turned OFF.
The equalizer on
my stereo was slaving away its LED’s fascinating my easy going mind.
My brain felt
burnt out and exhausted from my 8-5 bullshit doing me killer harm. Felt like a mossy
stone was napping inside my head. Like all the electrodes and equations had
been squeezed out of it in a press. And I imagined that this is what
Keith Richards must feel like all the time.
Regress.
My breath’s
stinking badly from my crutch and my speakers are sexing Pink Floyd but
there is no seafood involved.
Only Jesus was
left unsaid.
I believe in
Jesus but only as a man, much like David Blaine ~ an illusionist, a man who
knew how to manipulate the elements and was a master of misdirection.
And maybe he
knew some things about healing w/herbs too.
Now, if Jesus was
just a street magician w/a big mouth talking a lot of shit about being
the son of GOD and resurrecting so n so over there ~
Back
then that kind a boast coulda scared a lot of people into maybe .
. .
crucifying
his dumb ass.
Victor Millan
