It has come to this,
startling awake mid-night,
shivery hot
and built to spill,
afraid that I will never become
what I should,
whatever the hell
that is.

Yesterday I saw
my face in a window
but she looked
nothing like me,
she was not
the success story

Continue Reading Quarterlife Crisis »

Having failed—as all but the sincerest, most blessed humans fail—at the art of letting go, you are now prepared to approach your everyday life with an acceptance of how deeply and greedily you cling to it. Even after this dedicated time of jettisoning the self, this dispassionate labor of forgetting being, you cling to that being like a dying animal clings to its own pulse.

At this point, however, you may let go of one more thing: your lingering guilt at not having achieved dispassion. Spend Day 8 acquiescing to the fact that your wish to achieve release from your desires in this lifetime is as greedy as your former lust for power, outward manifestations of worthiness, etc.

The most dangerous clinging of all is the desire to relinquish clinging. Most of us live our lives chained to this conundrum, which we cannot outfox or outrun.

Continue Reading The ‘This I Know’ Chant »

Texas Jackhammer, Anaconda Bee Sting, The Brain Felch, Hung, Drawn and Head Raped: These are all terms I just made up for the hangover I’m working on. If you don’t like any of them you can suck it hard, because I can barely remember how to spell right now, so the fact that any of this is coherent is astounding. Please just refer to the following guidelines and we’ll all make it through today:

1. Do not ask me what I did last night. If you do, I will try my hardest to throw up on you.

2. No loud noises. My system is very delicate right now and the slightest disturbance could send me straight into a coma. If you need to sneeze or cough, please excuse yourself and get me a Gatorade while you’re up.

3. Please keep a close eye on the temperature. If it goes above 18 Celsius, I will break into tears. Think of the bus in Speed and that 50 mph mark, except instead of an exploding bus imagine a grown man lying on the floor sobbing.

Continue Reading Rules for My Hangover »

…a play in one act.

SETTING:

Hell – fire, brimstone, tortured souls, broken toilets, no Internet. Your typical land of eternal punishment.

In the northeast corner, between the River Styx and Wal Mart corporate headquarters, stands Satan’s office high-rise.

On the top floor of Satan’s high-rise is Satan’s executive office. On his broad desk lay plans for the apocalypse, which include the blueprint for a planet-demolishing WMD, the anti-Christ’s resume, and the recipe for Baconnaise.

Satan’s phone rings. He presses the button for speaker.

SATAN: ‘sup?

Continue Reading Apocalypse How »

“In June Afghanistan surpassed Vietnam to become, by some measures, the longest campaign in American history.” – The Economist, 6/24/10

The gang from Jersey Shore sit, relaxing and enjoying their living room, designed by Billy Joel for Kohls™.

MIKE: (taking off red framed reading glasses) Uh oh, gang. Looks like we got ourselves “A Situation.”™

PAULY D: What happened? That girl you had over couldn’t find parking for her MacLaren?

ALL: Ohhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

MIKE: Seriously guidos and guidettes. The Economist says that the war in Afghanistan is now the longest war in American history.

JWOW: This really is a situation™.

Continue Reading The Jersey Shore Kids Save Afghanistan »

With the hullaballoo over a recent diagnosis with Macular Dystrophy, Glenn Beck has become tired; the incoherent ovals on his chalkboard giving him less pleasure than usual. A bad disposition on the horizon. Terribly bad.

Glenn stands in his office, half-heartedly tracking the nation’s debt to the Obama family’s vacation spot choices for the last two years and squinting at the chalk outlines suggesting a direct correlation to the availability of credit cards to six year old children who also have severe addictions to iPhone games that involve punching monkeys. His paycheck from Goldline, normally giving him an extra little charge, simply sits on his desk, un-cashed, yet another piece of money paper flitting through his world.

Suddenly, a familiar sensation washes over him. The warmth of an idea: the single-watt light bulb over his head. Dashing to his office window on the 34th floor of the Avenue of the Americas, he inhales the smells of the city. It was lunch time, and down below gastro carts hawking everything from gyros and hot dogs to a wide variety of gourmet fare mixed up a heady scent for a hungry Anglo’s palate.

Continue Reading Look, Glenn. Look. »

Good morning gorgeous. Shhhh…don’t say anything. I just want to look at you. God, you’re so beautiful. I know you’re probably thinking “Who is this guy?” right? “Did I seriously just meet some guy at a bar and bring him back to my place?” You totally did. And it was fate. I know I sound cheesy, but I could lie here just watching you sleep. I feel like the luckiest gigolo in the world right now.

Why are you getting up? I thought we could read the newspaper in bed then head over to the farmer’s market. I’m sorry I said I wanted to watch you sleep. It’s creepy. I shouldn’t have said it. Sometimes I just say the first thing that comes into my head. I’m sorry.

I don’t understand…what do mean it’s not the sleep-watching thing? Pardon? Yes, I know I’m a gigolo. You don’t have to yell it at me. I can yell too. YOU’RE AN ACCOUNTANT! See? See how silly it sounds when someone else does it to you?

Continue Reading Yes, I am a Gigolo. »

… A daily-witnessed satire.

Drive down any street in a large Altmerican city, and you’ll see them.

Short-sleeved shirts revealing bulging biceps. Wide shoulders and narrow hips. Firm butts in tight jeans. Hard tanned chests rippling in the sun.

Carpenters. Backhoe operators. Utility company technicians. Water and sewer workers. Landscapers. Roofers. Even professional athletes. All part of Altmerica’s booming “muscle trade.” Men – and a few women – who sell their bodies for cash. Researchers at the University of Chatahoochie estimated, based on a recent study, that Altmericans spend at least $500 billion annually on the muscle trade, including all associated economic impacts.

Continue Reading Flesh For Sale »

Cream

With a cup of strong coffee and five packets of half-and-half, I can approximate the skin tone of the nine members of my mother’s family.

Milk

I never see the shadow, or the red carton flash, and even when the pint of milk explodes against the head of my wheat-haired friend, I’m late to understand what the Chicano boy means when he curses from the sidewalk of my junior high cafeteria, “Shit. Missed that honky.”

Dough

I watch my mother in the kitchen table glow of our Albuquerque home, rolling pin thumping, windows steamed, kneading flour, soda, and salt as effortlessly as Spanish and English mingle on her tongue.

Continue Reading White »

Religion Spawned Suicidal Dystopia

The Sheep Sleep, Eternal Peace Comes to Earth

A shadow falls over Earth like a cloak, blotting out light. It preys on those with less. Less knowledge, less love, less hope. It envelops us all.

It speaks of joy and acts as war. It is a call to action and inaction. It causes pain, yet is an opiate. Nefarious in actions, hopeful in words.

Desperation my friend, deliver them. For I am hope, I say it true. Deliver them to me on their knees begging so they proclaim, “Yes! I do want more, more of everything.”

I have claimed more lives than the plague. Gleefully, I was partially responsible. Cleanliness is next to Godliness came later. Cleansing was taboo, death the outcome.

The worse-off you are, the happier the shadow is, the conundrum not considered.

Continue Reading Oblivion Sweet Oblivion »