Negative Energy

It’s got me spooked off my heels.

It’s the goose bumps on my cheeks. On my arms.

The blood tingles. The pin pricks jumping under my skin.

The feeling someone’s there but no one is.

Like right now there’s a tingle on my neck or is it a loose thread off my t-shirt?

A swipe at my sense of center keeps me discomposed.

This empty house. A negative stir. Desperation to kill for.

I stutter when I type or is it the caffeine in my eyes?

On my tongue.

Someone let a bug in the house!

Gotta kill the devil. The white devil. Ho! How’d that slip out?

Maybe not a devil say the neighbors across the stairs but a lonesome imp I agree.

A playful son of a bitch running around in my home laying down a bogus shadow.

(Don’t get angry with me ~ I write what it is.)

This is what I felt when I hit the first key and when this . . . thing was slapping me insane.

Now . . . dissipation. It’s gone . . . and the air feels like it was never there. Again, an empty house but it feels different this time. More at ease. Maybe it was just a running phase.

Great timing too ‘cause my woman just got home.

9.21.05 
Victor Millan

@NDREW WHO?

Big full moon rising supersonic fast leaving your desiccated stomach hung low on the ground in the middle of the little big custard horn.

Rising t’rrifically drunk w/the Mexican chivas revolutionaries and their shiny well-groomed satellites skimming a desperate whistle for the quick payola and a Cuban cigar.

Now me,

going full outta sight to fill up a hollow scoop in near space where I can be alone for a while. Where I can hover in pagan magnitude inside a yellow t-cup w/a fastened vibration and a Tommy Lee drum solo.

@

Orbiting hawkeye of the goddess Diamonijk in synchronous line w/the #2 pencil axis made of wrinkled faux teak. In line w/the bent nickels n dirty dimes scratching the Cadillac paint off an elated 90° compass wink.

Directing the cosmonauts w/an abandoned horizon on their melodramatic way out

their sobering and lonesome hatches.

Giving them sample size freebies of Kazakh vodka so they’ll have fresh stories to rehash

w/1st morning’s

bad breath

blink.

Black market cigarettes.

Cough kopf.

@

Orbiting within spitting range of the rose garden neighborettes tanning naked for the ca$hola and the petrified llamas imitating the Peruvian spit.

Hawkeye on the Gemini custard like I know nemesis does to me.

Hawkeye oxygen frozen to the marvelous stare

and the art form T  .  .  .

2000 
Victor Millan

Fart Mines

The gaseous rush.

The rotten, sulfurous-egg pucker burner.

The secret farts left hanging behind in camouflage pockets like potent mines laying in wait to swallow up some poor unfortunate tit as he walks by with his beat on and inhales them and forces his throat to gag.

My dad was one of these sick individuals that would silently lay fart mines in supermarket aisles, especially the freezer section, (so they’ll keep)

and said,

Whoever sniffed it probably deserved it.

And that’s that.

That’s that.

You know, I’ve always questioned the logic behind that statement but, whatever. I thought the shit was funny anyhow. Simple minded and funny.

Watching people’s faces pucker up n frown and go whooo! as they smelt the exhausted bacteria in the egg.

That’s that he said.

12. 28.98 
Victor Millan

Lisping P. o. S.

So I was watching tv and Mike Tyson was sitting in front of a panel of distinguished shitheads pleading his case that he was not a disturbed ear biting bulldog like we all knew he was. Keeping his fingers x-ed that they'd reinstate his supplicant ass. Ali was there, trembling that shake that’s trapped him so well.

Float like a butterfly ~ Sting like a bee

The prettiest black man in his hey day ~

kicked everybody's ass except for a handful and ugly Spinks in ‘78.

There’s that famous picture of him standing over Sonny Liston bitching him down; but now-a-days the tremors got him paying his dues for being the greatest.

Magic was there too showing his support for that lisping piece of shit.

And the Peppers sang ~

does anybody want some Magic Johnson?

And then  .  .  .  just my dumb-fucking luck,

Tyson speaks ~

with that little annoying screwed up voice he has

Look, I fucked up.

I . . . I know I fucked up . . .

. . . I mean . . .

and he went on with that miniscule pussy willow voice of his

and the Nevada Athletic Commission went nuts for it and opened up their arms 4 to 1

and said welcome home son but don’t make us look bad

and he got reinstated

and they were all happy except for me and the 1.

We were ready for the straight-jackets.

10.98
Victor Millan