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The Rime of the Ancient Tinker's Bell

Dear Diary~

Today, the monster won. I really hate when that happens. Silence has become my best friend. Maybe someday soon, we will get to know each other again. I will wander off to the garage for a cigarette and wonder if you will be here, when I get back. You make me sick.

Nobody’s Diary

If I wait for just a second more

I know that I will forget

What I came here for

My head was so full

Of things to say

But as I opened my lips

All my words slip away

And anyway….

I can’t believe you want to turn the page

And move your life into another stage

You can change the chapter

You can change the book

But the story remains the same

If you take a look

For the time we had,

I don’t want to be

A page in your diary, babe

For the good and the bad

I don’t want to see

Another page in your diary

Perhaps if I held you,

I could win again

I could take your hands

We’d talk and maybe then

That look in your eyes

I always recognize

Would tell me everything

Is going to be fine

You are going to be mine

For a long time.

For the time that we had

I don’t want to be

A page in your diary, babe

For the good and bad,

I don’t want to be

Just another page in your diary

For the happy and sad

I don’t want to be

Just another page in your history.

- Yazoo (Vince Clark and Alison Moyet)

Drama is such an Ugly Thing

I am not talking about good drama, like the drama you might see at a play, in a movie, or (heaven forbid) on the television. I am referring to the drama played out in chatrooms and through bloggers throughout the world; and the drama-laced emails that go shambling down the information super on-ramps, onto super-duper byways and into mailboxes like timebombs sent from Montana psychopaths. You know it is bad when you have to leave the divorce negotiations over chatrooms and Live Journal entries to the Liars-for-Hire.

I have to get my penis out of the computer, but it seems to be stuck. Yanking and pulling with all of my might, all that remains is a bunch of bloody scars and a three-and-one-half floppy disk that will never be the same. Yet, some people wonder why I have refused to write, regulated my presence, and packed my bags for the real world.


Alice Wisdom


Once upon a time, and all good stories start with Once upon a time, there was a little old woman named Alice Wisdom, who lived in a trash dumpster stashed behind the McMall. She would spend the early morning foraging for food around the Wal-Donalds, feasting on the half-eaten hamburgers and abandoned French fries in the bottom of the sack. Around noon, she would begin wandering around the aisles of the Wal-Donalds. She would pretend to shop, and meanwhile, change her clothes, and eat from the various sample trays scattered around the hyper-supermarket. The building was so large that she was rarely discovered, and if she were, she would be politely escorted to the door and sent on her way. On most days, after eating her way through the grocery section, she would find a nice tent display and take an afternoon nap among the mannequins and camping equipment. Once, a customer, who was checking out the tents for room, awakened her. As he looked down at Alice sleeping contently, his head half in and half out of the tent, a look of shock swept across his face. Alice probably would not have even heard the man and awakened with a start, if it had not been time for her soap opera, which she watched religiously every day, on fifteen television screens, after switching all of the channels on the televisions in the electronics department. After staring at each other for a few seconds, the customer quickly zipped up the front of the tent and walked away without a word.

           Around four in the afternoon, after standing in front of the televisions and talking to all of the characters on her soap opera, Alice would venture out of the Wal-Donalds into the island of asphalt that she called her home. She would walk over to the Taco Bell drive-thru and begin presenting her sales rap:

            "Hi, my name is Alice, and I am a bipolar schizophrenic with liver disease and I am just looking for another seventy-three cents, so I can buy myself something to eat. Can you help me out, brother/sister? God bless you."

            In a couple of hours, her belly was full of cheap tacos, and her pockets rattled around like loose weights on her thighs, with all of the pennies and nickels that she had collected. Wandering back to check on her pony, her wheels, her mobile condo, the shopping cart with the spinning front wheel, just like she liked it, Alice always struggled with this time of the day. Sometimes, she would return to find her pony waiting for her, next to her dumpster, and she would dance with joy. Other times, after the bad man in the pickup truck had driven by and confiscated her home, she would spend the night crying and mourning the loss of another faithful companion.

            For a long time, Alice had tried to keep her shopping cart and belongings with her throughout the day. She would roll the cart, filled with black trash bags of found objects from one end of her asphalt island to the other. No matter where she was, the evil man in the pickup truck would find her, throw her belongings onto the ground, and then put the shopping cart in a row of carts in the back of his truck. Despite her protests and screams, the man would stoically take the cart away from her, not saying a word. Finally, Alice realized that if she did not advertise or flaunt the beauty of her pony, the man would forget all about her. Beginning to understand her invisibility, Alice began hiding her pony among the weeds and milk crates near the dumpster where she slept. Months passed, before the horse thief found her, again. She carried a magic blanket with her, which she believed made her invisible.

            “You watch me,” she said, “I will go over there to the Burger King with my blanket over my head, and even the King will not be able to see me! I will disappear, right before your eyes!”

            Sure enough, no one would see her if she walked around asking for money with the blanket over her head.

            At nightfall, Alice would crawl into her dumpster, usually carrying a discarded paperback novel, and a couple of tacos. Reading for hours by the bright security lights, while munching away at her dinner, Alice drifts off to a serene sleep. Very often, one or two of the many abandoned cats in the neighborhood visit her in the middle of the night. They scrounged around in the trash, steal a few bites of her nightly find, and disappear into the night. Sometimes, the cats curl up against her warm body and sleep.

Like clockwork, Alice awakens with the morning sunlight. Constantly worried that she might be whisked away from her bed and dumped into the back of a waste disposal truck, Alice crawls from her nocturnal sanctuary and begins her day. She talks to herself in the morning, holding long conversations with someone in her head. Maybe she imagines that it is her dead husband or one of her now-adult children, and they are breakfasting at the kitchen table. Frantically gesticulating with her arms, she acts out some strange daily ritual from her past.


            “Hey, Lady! Which way to Hogwash Avenue?” The man is driving a metallic silver-colored Firebird with large tires. He appears to be in a hurry, frantically searching around in his car, one hand on the steering wheel and a map, the other on his cellular telephone. “I am not asking you which way, Judy, hold on, would you? There is some crazy woman outside the Starbucks, here. Stop screaming in my ear for five seconds, okay?”

            “So what about it, lady, do you know where Hogwash Avenue connects up with this street?”

The driver is speaking through a four-inch opening in his car window, like a bank teller at the late night depository. Excited, Alice drops down onto her knees next to the car door, and pushes the tips of her fingers through the window.

“Hello in there! How are you?” She tauntingly wiggles her fingers inside the car like a postal worker waves letters through the mail slot of a doghouse.

Momentarily frightened by her actions, the driver jerks back uncontrollably. Alice quickly pulls her hand back from the window, and pretends that she was scratched.

“Bad kitty! Look what you did to Mama!” She begins sucking on her fingers.

“Look, all I asked you was directions to…”

Before he can finish what he is saying, Alice pulls a dirty cloth from her pocket, reaches in through the window, and begins polishing his dashboard. He drops the map and the telephone at the same time, which causes the car to jerk forward. Alice bangs her head on the windshield and then smiles at him, through the glass.

“Would you kindly remove your hands from inside my car?”

“Your cat bit me and you look worried,” Alice replies, her hands firmly wedged inside the car. “I am not letting go until your cat apologizes.”

Picking up the cellular telephone from where he had dropped it on his lap, the driver disdainfully glares at Alice. He resumes his conversation with Judy.

“Look, I will have to call you back. We are having a slight ummm situation here. If I have not called you in five minutes, call the police and tell them that I am being mugged by some crazy baglady with the most powerful grip on the planet.”

Alice’s clownish face staring in through the windshield and her death-hold on the dashboard unnerves the driver, who is visibly shaken by the interaction. Although he is in a line of cars leading to the drive-up window, he puts the car into park, and futilely attempts to use the electric switch to close the window. Now pinned to the car by the window, Alice’s smile changes into a look of panic, and she starts to scream.

“Help me! Help me! This man is trying to kidnap me! Help! Cat attack! Cat attack!”

The man quickly reverses the direction on the switch, and the window completely rolls down.

“Jesus, stop screaming! Look, I let you go! All I wanted was directions! Look, lady, there is no cat. Everything is going to be just peachy. How about if I give you some money? Will you go away then?

Once her hands became free from the window, Alice began smiling again. For a moment, she makes eye contact with the man, and then sheepishly looks around, inside the car.

“Where did you put the cat, Mister? I know that you have a cat in there with you. Here, kitty, kitty.” She raises her hands again to put them near the window and then stops. She scratches her head, and looks for a moment, like she is having a moment of lucid clarity.

“Hogwash! Hogwash? Why I know all about Hogwash! My entire life is made up of hogwash, let me tell you.”

“The street! The street!” The man yells, and then reaches out to push her away. “Get away from me, you crazy old woman!”

He puts the car in gear, backs up, and then pulls away, leaving Alice standing there, among the cars in the drive-thru.

“Of course, I know where Hogwash Avenue is! Just go right at the next light until you see a big red building. That is the old fire station and it sits right there on the corner of Hogwash and Main Street.”

The next car in line pulls up, and Alice is suddenly looking into the eyes of a woman, and a little girl sitting in the backseat, staring out at her.

 "What do we stand to lose? Everything." Alice says, as she waves to the little girl.

The little girl exclaims, “Look at the clown lady, Mommy! Look! Is the clown lady going to take our order, Mommy? I want a Happy Meal™!”

Waving and smiling, Alice steps aside as the car pulls by her.

“Well, sometimes, you can’t just say good-bye forever,” she says, as she walks away in the direction of her dumpster. “No one cares when you sleep in the rain.”

Outlaws of Fate

I know a girl who dug her skeleton out of the trash and sold it on Ebay. Since hearing her story, I have been thinking about selling my soul, auctioning it off to the highest bidder, and taking the money and running. I wonder how far that I could get on a dollar and fifty-seven cents.


            "He was not afraid to show the world what he owns downstairs," she said to the art critic, while sipping champagne in an art gallery in Soho.

            "So what do you think he was writing about, anyway?" The art critic inquires. “What do you think that he was trying to say with his work?”

            "The last that I heard he was doing some sort of treatise on consciousness, memories, and dreams, but that was before he lost his mind and turned himself into a homeless wanderer. He called himself a Tao Hobo, in those days."

            "Very interesting. What is your position on memories and dreams? Do you have any dreams that you can remember? Would you like another glass of champagne, if you could call it that? I swear it must be the cheapest headache-in-a-box brand that they could find. I am going to have to drink six glasses of the crap, just so it will taste good."

            "You know, if I was him, I would be writing about the McMall of these Disunited States of Amerikkka. I would tell the world about the New World Order with their islands of asphalt, linked together by interstate highways. Everywhere you go, there is a Wal-Mart, Wendy's, McDonald's, Burger King, Kentucky Fried Chicken/Taco Bell/Pizza Hut (all owned by Pepsi, and in the same buildings, using the same drive-up window.) waiting for you. Imagine if you took off on a Kerouacian-like adventure, and all that you got to see was fast food outlets, department stores with sweatshop-made products, and miles of parking lot asphalt."

            The art critic finishes off the last of the wine in his glass, with a dazed look on his face.

            "I can see that you feel very strongly about this, it is unusual for an artist to be so political, don't you think?" He asks, as he hands the young lady another glass of wine. "You seem to be quite acquainted with this writer's work."

            "You could say that I know him, pretty well. We used to be close, once. I think that he hates me, now, maybe because I saw so many aspects of his personality, some parts I am sure that he did not want me to see. He took me emotionally hostage, for about ten months, after popping my cherry. I have to admit that we were in love. I have no regrets."

            "What drives a man like that to go insane? I have always wondered what happened in his life that made him decide to lead the path of pain and suffering, agonizing, as he did, over the complications of society, when it would have been much easier, much more simple for him to give into the urge to turn his back on humanity."

            "He told me, once, that he had been raised by a pair of child-like alcoholics, who used him as a battering ram against each other. He referred to himself as the Stretch Armstrong toy that they tugged on, periodically, each pulling at an arm. He said that he was told that he had a gun shoved into his mouth, by his father, at 18-months-old, in order to intimidate his mother. With abuse like that, who knows what he might have become, if he hadn't found art. Probably a mass murderer, or something really scary."

            “I noticed that you resemble the woman in many of these photographs. How does it feel to be placed up on a pedestal, and shown off to the world? Don’t you have any dirty little secrets that you were afraid that he would reveal to the world?”

            “I think that you have to realize that he was always upfront with everyone that he met. You could not mistake him for anything, but a writer, with his notebook always open, and him scribbling away. He used to say ‘First, I am going to exploit the hell out of myself, and everyone that I have met, and then you all can come to my castle, eat my food, drink my beer, smoke my cigarettes, and thrive on the success of our fame.’ Besides, I have nothing to be ashamed of, except maybe a broken heart. He had a funny way of sucking the compassion out of a person. I guess that is why he was always running away. He was trying to outrun his fate, and escape his destiny.”

            “Do you think that he succeeded, that he reached some sort of higher plane of reasoning, before he died?”

            “I guess that we will really never know, although I can tell you this much. Despite everything that he went through, he always, from the time he was a little kid, considered himself to be a writer, and an artist. He said that he was jealous of the people who did not know what they were going to be when they grew up, because they could change their mind. He felt that he was locked into something, for better or for worse, that was preordained, or destined. He struggled with his identity for the majority of his life. It seems to me that he slipped through the cracks of society, and created a reality that was all of his own. I cannot say that it was something that was easy to watch. He was miserable for a good part of his life. I am not sure that he knew how to be happy. He just was not equipped to deal with the notion of contentment, for some reason.”

            The art critic grimaces, mesmerized by the conversation. Suddenly, a look of sadness washes over his face.

            “It is too bad that he could not be here to answer these questions for us. It sounds like he was quite a character, in his own right.”

            “In the highly complex postmodern world, we are not longer in demand for what Andy Warhol called fifteen minutes of fame, instead we are on a perpetual quest for fifteen minutes of privacy. I mean think about it. Reality-television has become popular as the technology evolved, to the point where anyone can be a celebrity, with talent or with none. In fact, how many people do you know that became celebrities and then decided what they were going to be talented at? Instead of being an artist, musician, or what have you, and becoming popular, how many people come off the street, appear on some television show, as the Everyman, and suddenly they are a celebrity? I believe that, in this shallow culture, we are so hungry for new stars, and stardom itself, that we do not realize how far that we have stepped away from any sort of cultural refinement.”

            “In your own words, how would you define the American culture?” The art critic asks, while scribbling feverishly into his notebook.

            “We are a nation of quick-fix addicts, who thrive on fast-food, automated check-out stands, and the easiest, most mechanized way of doing things. I know people that do not walk a hundred feet, in their day. They sit in their office chairs, sucking on outrageously enormous containers of horrible concoctions, comprised of sugar and God-only-knows-what. We have the memory-retention and the attention spans of aggressively scared primates, always on the move, and afraid that the Boogieman is going to hunt us down. Our idea of a family outing is taking our grandmother and the children on a Sunday afternoon excursion through the Wal-Mart parking lot. Let me ask you this- when was the last time that you acknowledged your neighbor’s presence, with even a hello or a wave? Do you even know your neighbors? How many times a week do you dine with friends, or attend a social function that is not entertainment-based? Even now, this very moment, we are standing in an art gallery, looking at this amazing work, drinking cheap wine, and what is being derived by the experience? Will we walk away from this conversation feeling like we have accomplished even the slightest bit of a connection with Humanity? Shouldn’t we be rushing home to watch American Idol, or Star Search, about now?”

            “I have to admit that the picture that you paint is not very flattering. After all, we are the lucky ones. At least we are standing in an art gallery and not a prison cell.”

            “What makes you think that an art gallery is not a prison? I see meanings, definitions, words and images all locked up in here, bound to their positions as indentured servants to their masters. You cannot tell me that you can smell freedom coming from these people. They are sheep being led around by the want of hay, and a warm place to sleep. We are not free thinkers, any more than we live in a free society. I have always laughed at the term ‘freedom of speech.’ Speaking is not free! If we were free to think and speak our minds, there would not be governmental censors, art critics, or even weatherman to tell us what to think. Ask any babbling psychotic on the street corner how much freedom of speech that he or she has, as they are carted off to jail or a psychiatric hospital ward in handcuffs, for disturbing the peace. Beliefs and truths are constantly being shoved down our throats, by those-in-power, who do not want us to think for ourselves. The politicians, lawyers, and advertisement executives run this world of disinformation, and it is naïve of us to believe otherwise.”

            “Let me see if I am understanding you correctly. You believe that we are not the creators of our own thoughts, and our own beliefs, that they are force-fed to us by all of these outside forces. Is that correct?”

Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, the art critic looks uncomfortable, and almost weary. He finishes off his third plastic cup of cheap champagne, almost sighing so loudly that the people around him would think that he was going through some sort of dramatic revelation.

“The thoughtpolice are coming! The thoughtpolice are coming!” She exclaims, a mischievous smile across her face, “Schoolteachers, social and health-care workers, lawyers, and police officers- they all want you to believe that they are right and you are wrong. Think of all of the paper-shufflers in this society, who are working to keep the capitalistic machinery from collapsing. I am talking millions of people sitting around manipulating numbers and lives, wasting away behind cubicles, while the power brokers become richer and their corporations become the size of nation-states. Concerned only with keeping their fragile places within society, they tear away at any social weaving that a person may have, and then blame them for not having a foundation of belief to stand on. Systematically, they superimpose their rules upon a person until there is little left of the individual, picking away at them like vultures, until finally, the person gives in to them. It is their job to persuade people into believing in them, and in their truths. Orwell is rolling in his grave, right now, knowing that Doublespeak Good is taking over the world.”

The Trial of Almond Joy and Bubbalicious

"It has come to the attention of the court that the two defendants wish to enter a plea of not guilty by reason of mental impairment, at this time. Is this correct, counsel?"
"Yes, your honor."
"Will the two defendants please rise and face the jury for sentencing?"
The quiet in the courtroom is deafening, and everything is moving in slow motion.
"By the power vested in me, I hereby find you guilty of the above-mentioned crimes, and sentence you to life in prison without bail."
Tonight, Almond Joy and Bubbalicious are going to be pulled from their jailcells and hung by an angry crowd seeking retribution for crimes that they did not commit. Without help from the time machine, life is going to be over for our two heroes. Instead of worrying about their own lives, Almond Joy and Bubbalicious are thinking about their friend trapped in the old mine fighting off the rest of the Diablos biker gang. Old Ed was a good shot, and meaner than a rattlesnake, but he was outnumbered five men to one.
"What do you think he is going to do, Joy?"
"Aim high and shoot often, I expect."
"I just wish there was a way for us to bust out of this old cell and offer the old man a hand."
Time machines and alien spacecraft are often misconstrued as the same implement of God's hand. Without them, speculative fiction would have no vehicles but a rotting Jeep from the first War to End all Wars. Instead, science took the high road, and made space travel a thing of the past. Without NASA, where would our weapons program be? Since he could not find any weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, our faithless leader has now decided to spend a trillion dollars exploring Mars to see if they have weapons of mass destruction.
Almond Joy and Bubbalicious took the stagecoach from San Francisco to Los Angeles, instead of being hanged that night, by an angry street mob. Time machines and lynch mobs do not mix together well in a story. Sentenced to spend the rest of their living years behind the chainlink fence of a mental institution, our heroes broke free from their captors, and escaped into the mountains, just in time to save Old Ed from the biker gang.
"Stagecoaches and biker gangs in the same story is just as bad as time machines, and lynch mobs, in my opinion," she says.
"What did Coleridge say about the suspension of disbelief, my darling? Reality is what you make of it. How about another drink? I am game, if you are."
"When do you think that we decided that it was okay to wash ourselves away in reckless abandon? I think that playwright Shaw said it right in Man and Superman. We are libertines, and nothing more. For us to imagine ourselves to be these great guardians of the planet is ridiculous. Like that old poster used to say- We have discovered the enemy and he is us. Maybe we have always been slaves to our desires, hedonists hiding behind plastic masks of responsibility."
"How are you going to break the news to 8 billion people that they have lost their jobs as the Smokey-the-Bear forest rangers?"
"Gently, I guess." she says. "I didn't mean to interrupt your work. Keep typing. I will just sit here and look out of the window. Don't mind me. I will be as quiet as a mouse. Tell me again why you put a time machine into the story, as a form of textual dislocation. What are you trying to do, purposely mess with the confines of the text? I am not sure that you are going to keep very many readers with that kind of attitude."
He glares at her, stands up, walks over to the bar, and pours himself another drink. She resumes throwing the pillow into the air.
"Oh, silly me, I was talking again, wasn't I? And just after I had said that I was going to be quiet as a mouse. I wonder if mice are really that quiet after all. Don't you think that to a mouse, another mouse in the nest snoring could just ruin your night? I mean I have never been a mouse, at not that I remember, so I really wouldn't know, but do you know what I mean, anyway?"
"I think that you have done way too much cocaine, sister. Look at me, I must be totally crazy because I am actually asking you for advise."
"Why don't you make the piece into a love story? Everyone loves a love story. The whole trial could lead up to Almond Joy and Bubbalicious falling in love and running away together. See how that twist works? It is perfect!

Abortion Stops a Beating

An abortion stops a beating. Stop hitting me, Daddy, I promise to be good. When you get to be old enough, you can come collect up on this beating. Then you have to go off and hide behind the country girl's skirts until you get so sick inside that your nose falls of off your face, in disgust. I have inherited your embitterment, distrust and abusive insanity. Oh, I know what it means to be out-of-control. Let us pretend that it never happened, shall we? Take that gun out of your mouth, Baby, and make a trip to Cinderella City will make me feel like I am sorry, for cutting off your hair in anger, and then beating you senseless. Some of us were born with silver spoons in our mouths, and some of us had guns put there, while in the crib.
We do not wonder why you fear sleepwalking, with all of those voices screaming out in your head. I wish you had let me die, when you were offered the chance. Instead, vainly, you forced your name upon me, and did not want anything to do with me, except as a weapon to use against her. Stop whining, my dear blame-shifter, she was just as guilty as you were, even up until the day she died. I will stop blaming you when you take responsibility for the daily verbal assault and physical abuse that you made into my home. Someday, I will begin to heal myself, and forgive, firstly myself, and if you are lucky, you. I do not expect that you will be around to see that day. Today, the wounds are too raw and too apparent seeping through the dirty bandages that I drag with me, through every night. Meanwhile, I inherit your drunk, your anger, and your poisonous hatred for anything that you cannot control.
Realizing that this conversation is pointless, falling on stone-deaf ears, I raise my glass and salute you. You are one mean rotten miserable son-of-a-bitch. Nana would have been proud of you. Ken and Jim beat you, so you took it out on me. Thanks for the memories. Now you can sit in your house and wait for the perfect moment to drop dead. Carrying a black book of debts to your grave, you will go in the hole bitching and complaining about how you were such a great guy, and how the world did you wrong. You will go to your grave mumbling about how everyone owes you money, or some favor, or another. I bet you know exactly how much money that Bryan and Channon, Jim Berry, Earl Crowe, and your family are supposed to owe you. Remember when you threatened to sue me for $100, 000, if I continued to write about you? Well, you had better have your bread-winning wife hire you a lawyer. Better yet, wander off to that mountain and die. Then your estate can flip coins for who gets to kick your rotten corpse down the stairs, and out into the garbage.
Mother, can I come back to you? Shall we suffer the same fate as all the others? Welcome to the life of a fourth generation abuser. The Lost and Found office called to inform you that they have found some things that you might want to claim, like your mind, your soul, and your love. Quit acting like a four-year-old having a temper tantrum, you sniveling half-nosed freak of nature, caged in rage. It is not always all about what you want, what you get and how you have been betrayed. You have been served notice- I am done living the lie for you. I am not making up more excuses for the bloody noses, bruises around my eyes, and scar tissue on my back. I should have had your ass thrown in the jail that you have confined me in, time and again.

4 AM Headbanging

Once upon a time and all good stories start with Once upon a time, there is a very unimpressed tattooed lady hiding in the shadows of the urban forest, waiting for her ride on the Circus train. The bus stop is just down on the corner.

"Pick up my medication while you are out."

This dis-ease is getting a little out of hand. I guess that I should have listened to that little voice in my head that told me returning here would be a big mistake. The couch is burning. The roadfever is not so bad, during this time of the year. Warmth is a good thing. It does not hurt that we have the best shower on the planet now, after waiting two weeks for the ghettoized apartment complex servants to return with parts. I have taken four showers in two days, just in case it really is a flashback to being off the coast of Mazatlan, surrounded by water, and not a drop to drink.

"I have packed my laptop and my bikini. Do you have the tickets? Where is that house on the beach, two bedrooms for $50 a month, a hammock on the covered porch? Come on. You promised. I am not being stabbed by lobster scales, so you can leave me up here for dead. Have you ever tickled a 100 lobsters to sleep, so you can boil them without them screaming, all for a Sunday brunch that you cannot even afford?"

Starting a new murder-mystery cybernovel called 'Cold Facts Avenue,' while pretending to be inspired, the outlaw-in-black wanders around the town, taking photographs of the character's eye-witnesses and forging a ransom note on a borrowed computer.

"I am not sure that you know that there is the ghost of Chocolate-the-Prostitute living in the alley behind Kitty's on Cold Facts Avenue. She shows up at Tom's Diner, sparechanging the drunk native Americans sitting at the counter. Maybe you should ask her for clues to the Missing-in-Action report that you received in your electronic mailbox."

"You are probably misleading me, all over again. I am firmly convinced that it is Mrs. Peacock with the candlestick, in the basement."

"Speaking of which, you look familiar. Have we ever met before?"

"Maybe in Los Angeles."

"Have I ever seen you on television? You remind me of someone famous."

Choking down pain relievers, sedatives and depressants with tequila, she waits in her shack for the whistle of the train. Occasionally, she hears the ice cream truck's beckoning calliope, misunderstands, and chases after the sound, buckass birthday suit and all. Freedom is the taste of an ice cream sandwich, after a midsummer streak through the ghetto of ghosts.

"I am surprised that the police have not found you skinny-dipping in the pool, yet. You might be the right partner-in-crime, for me."
"Stop staring at the ceiling, and look at me. Could you stop playing that same song over and over, and talk to me?"

"That movie 'Requiem for a Dream' was on cable, this morning. It made me want to do a whole lot of drugs, turn up the stereo and play with razor blades."

"Okay, but try not to wake up the neighbors, this time, or punch any more holes in the walls."

"It is not like they ever listen, anyway."

"If you play that song by Nickelback, one more time, I will kill you, myself."

"I like the freckles on your chest. I like the way you like me the best. I like the white stains on your chest. I love the way that you pass the check. I love my hands around your neck. I know who you are. It wasn't that hard to figure you out."

"So how was your little drive to the new suburban house, anyway? She doesn't really think that she can talk you into living there with her, does she?"

"I think that there has to be a plan to escape creeping up from the fallen pages of our epistolary book of hours. Ask Chocolate. She knows who is killed that innocent victim, Mona Leeks, that was missing-in-action. The ransom note is a forgery."

Twenty minutes pass, and still nothing happens. She looks around for the effects of the drugs. The couch is smoldering. Contemplating another shower, she throws herself haplessly across the bathroom floor, prom dress stuck in the door.

It is all in the Name

Webster's 1913 Dictionary

Ra`zee´ Pronunciation: rå`zēd´
\Ra*zee"\, n. [F. vaisseau ras['e], fr. raser to rase, to cut down ships. See {Raze}, v. t., {Rase}, v. t.] (Naut.) (raz-za)
Noun: (Naut.) An armed ship having her upper deck cut away, and thus reduced to the next inferior rate, as a seventy-four cut down to a frigate.
Verb Tense: To cut down to a less number of decks, and thus to an inferior rate or class, as a ship; hence, to prune or abridge by cutting off or retrenching parts; as, to razee a book, or an article. [imp. & p. p. Razeed (rå*zēd"); p. pr. & vb. n. Razeeing.]

Fool’s names and fool’s faces are always seen in public places and pubic spaces. Are you razzing me? In the meantime, should we raze the roof and set fire to the floors? Jack and Jill went up the hill, to fool around, while fetching a pail of water. Jill comes down the hill with grass stains on her knees. Jack has a stupid grin on his face, and does not mind carrying the pail back from the well. Jill knows who wears the pants, or drops their pants, as the case may be, in the relationship.
“How did my vanity get to be such a mess?” She says to the camera, and the mirror. “If I did not know any better, I would say that you were having a breakdown.”
The quiet is nice. It is two-thirty in the morning, and the solitude is greatly appreciated. Of course, I miss the Hillbilly Cinderella, and the frizzy-haired princess, and the road! I miss the comforts of home, with this entire episode of couch hopping and dream-hoping. Where is my office? Instead, I found a poem.

The mourning starts a day
A slip her making way
With my bald walk shack S.O.B.
I wish that they should love me
Even with a whip.

Now I need to take the pictures off of the camera and turn them into art. Who the hell is Art, and how is he related to Frank-the-Plumber from Montana? We are going without showers like that simmering summer on the Island before the monsoons came. I light a joint and open a can of soda pop. The soundtrack from the movie “O, Brother, Where art Thou?” plays in my head, as I tickle and torment the creative juices, pulling them to the surface as juicy hickies.
There is a Vietnam War movie playing in the background, and I think about all of the soon-to-be-released Iraqi war films in development. We will experience a backlash of Cuban-Iraqi love affairs after turning the Bay of Pigs into a summer resort for the accused subversives. How do you define a war criminal- by his rules of conduct, or by the atrocities of his environment? Torture chambers used to be so fashionably yet tragically hip, back in the last millennium. We are going to force you to explain yourself. Yet war is the biggest crime of all, isn’t it?
I lost my voice in a gust of wind, and it did not come back to me until I was dreaming, waking up screaming in the grips of the nightmare. She has crawled onto my chest and wants to suffocate my very last thought. I am warning you. She means serious business. There is a mushroom cloud of death coming up the road, and she smells of Happy Meals and Napalm. It is all about putting up a Waldonalds in every village between here and Baghdad Avenue. I thought about silencing myself as a form of protest until I could not breathe and almost turned red, white, and blue.
Sentenced to complete a thought or two, I find that it is not difficult to see how the writing has been stifled, almost hiccupped censorship in action. It is that self-policing that Foucault was so excited to talk about, when he could talk but now he is dead, leaving the text without an author and an author without a cause.
“I began writing as a form of therapy, and an act of defiance. Today, it is a practiced chorus of dissent, a harmony of ghosts that clings to me like a well-worn coat.”
“We will have to save that quote for the biographers. When they ask you what you want to be when you grow up, slap them with that line.”
Protesting the same war for 12 years now, there is not much left of the Left, except for some tree-huggers and crunch-berries who refuse to go home. This is the official emergency command center calling. Had this been an actual emergency, official instructions would have been given. This is only a test.
Two hours pass. It is almost four in the morning, and a bright shining lie is peeping through Tom’s cabin curtains. I am. The world’s shortest sentence is a crime, in and of itself. This borrowed box and couch, an office in the kitchen, has been a nice relapse, but where is the train? Are you packed? You still owe me a tour of Cadillac Mountain, or did you forget? No trespassing. Stand 500 feet back. Leave me alone. I only want to be with you, but I am still living with him. I don’t want to talk about it. She has a mask of cactus covering her face. Be very afraid.
The animated movie Scooby-Doo and the Alien Invaders begins on the Home Box Office network. The leopard wakes up, stretches, and jumps off the couch with a thump. He goes out onto the balcony to look for flying Miller moth snacks, and then strolls back into the apartment.
“Hi, pretty boy. Hi, pretty boy.”
Stroke. Stroke. Meow.
The movie ends, the birds begin chirping, and the blue-collar workers are leaving for the job sight with their lunchboxes and hardhats. I have a feeling that you will never understand. The moon is still out, fighting for recognition against the dull pall of the impending sunrise.
“My thoughts were so loud that I could not hear myself,” says the modest mouse. “What next? Dogs and cats living together?”
Suddenly, it is seven o’clock and the alarm is buzzing. He hopes that he will not have to play Alarm Nazi.
“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey. Time to get up, lazybones!” He screams down the hall. “Don’t make me come in there with the super soaker!”
He lights another joint, and thinks about shaving. After ten daze, the bruises on his cheek fade into a purple haze. The Apocalyptic Hipster-cum- Man in Black buzzes him and then runs off to work, as a translator, in the judicial system of the Great Abyss of Los Angeles. These are the screaming confessions of El Hombre Invisible. The pictures of his beating are grotesque. There is something wrong with this picture.

Staggering Down the Boulevard of Dreams

The conversation went something like this.
“When I got home, you were sitting out on the sidewalk, playing with parts of the HedgeHawg Boy’s vacuum cleaner and wire coat hangers. You rambled something about creating some sort of sculpture, and then started waving and yelling up at the neighbors. You made quite a spectacle of yourself.”
“That does not explain why half of my face is kicked in and I have rug burns on my collarbone and a big bruise on my thoughts.”
“Oh, that all came later. All I know is that you had decided that Hedgehawg Boy was moving out and you were going to help him, by pitching all of his belongings out of the window.”
“Ah, yes, I had warned you that the Hedgehawg Boy could not be in the same room as me and Joe Crow.”
“I didn’t have a thing to do with all that. He really didn’t seem to be that upset that you had thrown out all of his clothes and half his bed was hanging out of the window. It wasn’t until he had realized that you had let loose one of his Hawgs that he lost his shit. I left for school in the morning, and the place was a zoo, and I came home to the animals all running around OUTSIDE of the zoo.”
“Wow! I do not remember anything after having lunch with that crazy redhead who I have fallen in love with, all over again, twenty years ago. We picked up a six-pack of Fat Tire and a fifth of Cuervo on our way home from Friday’s, that gross chain-restaurant over on 120th Avenue.”
“Oh, please tell me that you didn’t have sex with her on my couch? Oh, wait, you blacked out and don’t remember!”
“I would remember if I had sex, wouldn’t I? Besides, she is already in a relationship with someone.”
“When has that ever stopped you?”
“So we were talking about how I got myself beat senseless, weren’t we? There is no point in talking about my nonexistent fantasy-laden sex life. I guess that I should consider myself lucky for not ending up in jail. That would have been a very bad experience.”
“You kept asking me why I didn’t call the cops, and I told you three or four times that you really didn’t want me to call them. You should look on your camera. You took lots of pictures, right after the big event, in addition to trying to get a second beating from the Hedgehawg Boy.”
“I don’t remember any of that. I just need a big junkyard in the back. You can say ‘Go out and play, and don’t come back until you are bleeding and not making any more noise,” and know that everything is all right. Have I told you how much that I hate suburbia, and everything that it represents?”
“Only about a thousand times or so.”
“I miss my old workspace, The Composition Department underneath the Cold Facts viaduct, where I could make all the noise and mess that I wanted. I never had to worry about noise complaints at three o’clock in the morning, when I lived down there.”
“You make it sound so poetic and romantic, now. If I remember right, you were always complaining about not being close enough to the 7-11 and never having any heat. You hated it, down there.”
“Oh, my god, I just remembered that I had my ass kicked all over Broadway, while I lived down there. In fact, that is the last time that I had my ass seriously beaten down.”
“Well, you had decided that since you had lost his hedgehog in my bedroom, he could beat you down, and you didn’t do much fighting back. I finally pulled him off of you, which is when he kicked you with his boot.”
“Oh, ouch! He just bought those steel-toed boots, too.”
“Those are the ones that he had on.”
“No wonder my head still hurts, three days later. Thank the gods that I received more Loresets™ and some kind bud in the mail, or I would really feel like shit.”
“How does your tongue feel? You swore up and down that you had bitten part of it off, the other night.”
“It just feels numb, or like I have a long hair caught in my mouth. Besides trying to find the hair that isn’t there, I keep running the sore parts along the chipped tooth, though, so it feels pretty raw. I would have to say that it is going to be a few days before I will want to eat anything more than soup.”
“You should really put some more ice on your face. It might help bring down some of the swelling. At least, you have a cheekbone, again.”
“I am such a drunken idiot. What was accomplished? Absolutely nothing. He is still going to move out without paying you a dime for the last six months, and not even think twice about it. Besides, I should be the one moving out, not him. Now, I feel like I will be stranding you without a roommate, if I decide to leave. I really wish that I could sublet the room and pay for it, whether or not I was in town or not. I would really like to see it become the office for our business, so I don’t have to keep using the kitchen cabinets as a computer desk.”
“I am really not sure how we can expect to eat until I get paid on Thursday. I have ten more cigarettes, and then I guess I will just go ahead and lose my mind.”
“How much does a carton of clove cigarettes cost, anyway? Those things are going to kill you, I am telling you. I guess that you had better decide between eating and smoking, and we will go from there. A new car, a new house, I really don’t see how you are going to pay for all of these things. Hell, you can’t even give me enough for a train ticket out of town.”
“I guess that is what you get for living on the boulevard of dreams."
"Happy Birthday, ShameriKKKa."

Revisiting Old Western Movies

Once upon a time, and all good stories start with Once Upon a Time, it was April of 1958, and Saint Bill, while sitting at a wobbling desk in Newport, taps away at the keys, in between inserting a safety-pin concoction into collapsing veins. When is Doctor Dream is coming for another visit? You will just have to wait patiently for the next fix. The walls of the hotel are stained yellow with nicotine and mildew, as the paint perspires like a teenaged girl in heat. The crackheads next door are making enough noise to keep the entire building awake. He contemplates joining them for a nightcap or a twenty rock. Of course, Saint Bill is dead, and the crackheads still remain, but that is another story, altogether.
“Hey, little girl, do you want to play doctor with me? How about some candy? Do you like candy, little girl?”
“Why do you tease me, like this?”
“I can’t seem to help myself.”
Instead, he lights a cigarette, and looks out of the rain-stained window at the gray skies. It is very bright out, tonight, he thinks. I wonder if it is a full moon. I can tell that it is going to be one of those nights. The closet midgets with their razor-sharp teeth are already dancing around the bedroom, looking for some ankles to bite.
He wonders if she will call. He hopes that she will call. He worries that she will not call. She will not be calling.
He sleeps for a few hours, and wakes up on another couch. Disoriented, he looks around for clues to his location. We seek tales from the dark side of the human heart and experience. Creepy, chilling, disturbing and moody tales with horror elements are always welcome, as are supernatural and psychological stories. There is a Victoria Secret’s in our mall and there were about 900 pair of panties and thongs worth $22,000 stolen.
“I didn't do it!”
The evidence would prove to be more important than originally anticipated.
“Do you ever have sex with someone and still keep fantasizing about them?”
“My fantasies are not a turnstile of faces. I remember having sex with all of my ex-lovers.”
“That is not what I mean. What I mean to say is that my heart is broken, and I have been officially deemed ‘damaged goods,’ by the governmental agency that regulates those things. I may never fall in love again. It hurts too much.”
“Love is just an illusion, anyway. It really doesn’t mean much, in the long terms of things. The love of humanity, the love of another, it is all part of a conspiracy to keep us in greeting cards and dead flowers.”
“I really hate when you get like this. You do not care about anything.”
The abuse manager arrives at the scene of the crime. Sifting through the evidence, he finds grossly negligent oversights made by the initial interviewers. Dressed in an all-black uniform and skullcap, he is an intimidating figure to encounter.
“Either you accept our offer of a carpet of gold, or we bury you under a carpet of bombs,” he tells the reporters in a news conference. Later, the Abuse Manager argues that population growth from immigration exacerbates environmental problems in the United States.
“Have you ever noticed that your stories never have much a hook, much of a meaning to them? Maybe you are not a writer after all. Have you ever thought of that? Maybe you have been living someone else’s dream, this whole entire time. Can you imagine a life without writing it all down?”
“It seems so easy for those other people, just look at them, with their meanings, endings and justifications for living.”
“Maybe you are not the next Annie Ricecake or Stephen Kingdom. There is a good chance that you are no one at all.”
“So I guess that you are trying to tell me that I have grown up to be nothing at all?”
“Look around you, my friend? What do you have?”
While opening a Fat Tire Amber Ale, lighting a Camel Filter from the feet up, loading his pipe with blueberry-colored marijuana, all the time glancing occasionally at the cable-wired television in the confines of a drive-up community in the ‘Burbs, he contemplates his present surroundings. He thanks the gods and benefactors.
“I guess that I could borrow the twenty-thousand dollar Batmobile and gallivant around the downtown neighborhoods looking for ghosts.”
See Dick. See Dick play with his dick. See Jane go to therapy. See Dick run. Jane is not happy. See Dick shoot up. Jane and Dick have unprotected sex. See Jane chew her nails, and worry that they might be pregnant. See Dick make a fool out of himself and go to jail. Shortly after his release, Jane checks herself into rehab. Again, Dick plays with his dick. See Jane return to society a hardened criminal. Watch Dick move back in with his parents. Spot never had it so good.
There is a segment in here about the text being a free-flowing dialogue of meanings. Blame it all on James Joyce and Dylan Thomas. The narrative wakes up and crawls across the floor and into the bathroom. The sound of dry heaving fills the small room with guttural echoes. 'The Moon is Down' is not about the violence; it's about the psychology of occupation. Steinbeck focuses on the inability of occupying soldiers to cope with the ingratitude of a "liberated" people. The flies have conquered the flypaper.
He said "Lying in bed on a summer morning with the window open, listening to the church bells, eating buttered toast with ‘cunty’ fingers." Then he saw the book Loving in a flash.
“Flipping through the pages of a Judy Blume book, I was always wondering what the big deal was all about.”
Before his sophomore entrance into classes at Drama Central High School, most of his free time during the summer was spent at the local swimming pool. The lifeguards nicknamed him “Mr. Makeout,” as he was a busy little horny adolescent. Horseplay and the dunking of each other soon led into unsupervised gropes under bathing suits.
Standing in the line to the three-meter diving board, arms crossed over skinny shivering chests, two boy-men talk through chattering teeth.
“What time does the Little Horny Day Camp bus get here?”
“Didn’t I see you making out with one of their counselors, last week?”
“I can’t remember if her name is Lisa or Theresa. She has some nice gazangas.”
“How old is she, anyway?”
“I think she is 15. She is going to be a sophomore, next year.”
“You know what they say-‘if they are old enough to bleed, they are old enough to breed.’”
“You are a sick fucker, Bobby.”
“Did you fingerbang her in the deep end?”
“That is none of your business.”
“Ah, come on! I know you fingerfucked her.”
“Shut up, you punk! What time does their bus get here?”
“How would I know, dumbass? You gonna do her again? I bet you are. I thought you liked that girl Shelly?”
“She doesn’t get out of school until three and won’t be here until four. The day camp bus leaves by then, I am pretty sure.”
“Damn, dude, you got all the angles fingered out! Get it? Fingered, instead of figured?”
“You are a real card, Bobby. I see a long career in comedy in your future. So are you going dive, or what? Come on, let’s see you clear the rope, this time.”
“I was gonna do a cannonball.”
“What are you? Some kind of pussy? Dive over the rope, you pussy! Come on, the lifeguards aren’t paying attention.”
“You are such a fag.”
“I am a fag because you are too chicken to jump over the rope? You are such a dumbass. Remember who was fingerfucking them girls, last week, bitch.”
Bobby jumps first. He grabs his knee with his right arm and squeezes his nose with his left hand. The one-legged cannonball dive does not make much of a splash, and Bobby dogpaddles slowly over to the side of the pool.
Flash forward to twenty years later, another day in June, and he could be having the same conversation all over again.
“Hand me a Krispy Kreme, and my vibrator. I do not want to talk about it. All I want to do is masturbate and eat. I am so addicted to denial that I feel an orgasm come over me every time that you say ‘no’ to me. I love when you force me not to cum.”
“Have you ever attended a Sex Addicts meeting just so you could find a date?”
“That was you standing outside the church, wasn’t it? I remember you now. What is your name again? I let you fuck me up against a car. How have you been? What have you been up to?”
“I never thought that I would see you again. Where have you been hiding? What have you been doing with yourself?
“Be good to yourself.”
“I always am.”
“You are such a total exhibitionist. What won’t you do for an audience? Can’t I just put you on speakerphone?”
“Stop looking at me, like that.”
“I can look at you anyway that I want to look at you, and there is nothing that you can do to stop me.”
“Oh, I really hate when you get like this. You refuse to listen to me. Pretty soon, I am going to be forced to call the police and have you arrested for charges that I have to make up in my head at the spur of a moment. I hate you for that.”
“Why do you always have to throw my ass in jail when I am trying to make love to you, baby?”
“I hate to break it to you, Frank, but you are nothing but a pathetic loser, and there is nothing in the world that you could do that could change that.”
In one determined flash of innocence, she spilled a lie all over the sheets like a back-alley promise to call again on a cellular telephone without a home.
“I wish that you loved me more.”
“I wish that I loved me more.”
“I hate when you do this to us.”
“What the hell am I doing to us that has not been done to us before?”
“I hate you already.”
“I despise you more.”
“Why does it have to be like this?”
“Because we made it this way, I hate you like this.”
“I hate you more.”
“You can’t.”
“I will, anyway.”
“This place is stained. I hate you, already.”
“I wish you lived with me, up my love canal. I would cook for you.”
“The next chapter includes ‘we’ six times in the introductory paragraph.”
“Shut up! Stop laughing! Fuck me! What do I do for you?”
“The hickies are sufficient.”
In your other books, you have written about the use of counter-cultural language by the advertising industry.
“Have it your way. Just do it. Where is the beef? Put your hands into all state. Now every girl can see herself through Barbie's eyes. Supersize it, baby. Good to the last drop. We are supersizing the planet while outsourcing the downsizing. There are two new wonderful additions to this year’s Christmas toy shopping list- Baghdad Barbie, wearing a camouflage green t-shirt and military pants, while smoking a cigarette and giving a thumbs up. In addition, there is a limited collector’s edition of noticeably pregnant Baghdad Barbie being released, indiscriminately among the just-enlisted Baghdad Barbie dolls. The new and improved TickleMeAllah is guaranteed to be a hit with the little ones, this year. Dressed in a removable black hood and smock. Includes attachable electrical wires, and two car batteries. Priced at $29.95.”
Pacing is the rhythm of a story. The momentum. The happening. It goes hand in hand with plotting, but the pace controls ebb and flow of the reader's reaction to the progression of the plot. Pace is a balanced mix of background, dialogue, friction, tension and action. The aim of good pacing is to make the entire story an emotional experience for readers. You say that you have a special, personal insight into the backlash mentality. How so? If you have to rely on your readers' patience while you get the story set up, you're likely to lose most of them. Start where the protagonist's problem starts, or just before that, and feed in the backlash later.
The backlash is so commonplace and so universal today that it’s sometimes difficult to remember how strange and how historically recent it is, in the scope of cultural identity. Settle down behind your lies, disguises, and any other excuses that need to be made in order to feel like a contributing member of society. Consider yourself, our dear audience, as the judge, jury, and executioner’s song, when you walk in, throw your bags down, and announce yourself on somebody’s couch.
“Let them eat fiction!” The writer exclaims, ignoring a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead.
“So what you are telling us is that this whole charade of emotions has been simply the guise so you could write a book? We may never forgive you for this!” responds the audience, “We are the silent partners in this crime!”
“Admit it, you have the postmodern blues. Just consider it an educated guess, and move along in the plot. Remind me to tell you about the history of the dislocative narrative, from Burroughs’ cut-and-paste method, and onto Kathy Acker’s work.”
“Do you always have to be cryptic?”
“Here I am, a hurricane in a bottle, uncomfortably waiting for the popping of the cheap champagne cork in a New Year Eve’s alley,” retorts the text. “Everybody loves stories. The very notion of a postmodern story relies on the decentralization of meaning. ”
And they lived happily ever after.

Old Western Movies

A Jedge in the West comin from the South
With ruby sideburns, boy
Always usin flowery languij
The grim fightin hero’s troubles
Are always private
He wants to know where ‘I fit in’
In the herd wars
Sometimes you see villains so ancient
You saw them in infancy
Exaggerating in snow
Their moustaches looking older
Than yr father’s grave
“Thanks Marshall” “I reckon”
I guess I better run on back
To Whisky Row, Colorada,
And marry an old Tim McCoy gal
Or turn off the tele vision, one
You gotta go a long way in the West
To find a good man
So close the book,
The Courier, run by Steve, is a paper
Wearing a sunbonnet.
Drive the cattle thru that silver wall,
Help ladies to their hearse,
Mouth in the sun,
That oughta do till Mexican drygulcher
Finds Redwing in the Shack
And Kwakiutls menstruate
Old Horses’ necks by broken fences
Guns gone rust
I guess the gang got shot.
Kid Dream
Hid in the leaves.
- William S. Burroughs, April, 1958

The Confines of Unrequited Love

The end. The first line in a novel is always the most important. What I meant to say was forgotten before this story ever began. She is so needy that she comes with her own ransom note. If the shrew fits, wear it. I am not saying that she was a little bit manipulative with her love. Rather, I am saying that she controlled the entire charade from behind the scenes of any authentic emotionality. She is a professionally trained spindoctor for the Thoughtpolice, yet cowers alone at night in fear of her own shadow. To say that I hate her would be an understatement of minute proportions. I miss holding her as she sleeps, after we stayed up until dawn just to continue the conversation. Even if she were here, she would not have anything else to say. So I made plans with somebody else.
I am the marketing department for my own demise. How would you like a behind-the-scenes tour of the mechanics of creation and destruction? You should not blame everyone else for making your life into a publicity stunt, when it was you and your big mouth that got you here, in the first place.
"So how are our plans to take over the world going? I went out for a bagel and a walk in the rain. My flip-flops were flapping and slapping the sidewalk, and when I came back, you were nowhere to be found."
"I am not sure how you stumbled into my writing, this morning."
"I have my ways."
"I went over the couch, pulled my denial blanket over my head, slept for a while and when I woke up, I knew that you were off to the convent for the night. I thought about you anyway. Is this part of your master plan to take over the world?"
"If I told you, then I would have to kill you."
"Have you ever seen the movie 'What to do in Denver when you are Dead?' You would enjoy it. It has gangsters in it, and lots of backdrop shots of Denver, the Queen of the Stains, and Royal Highness of the Stalkees."
"You seem to forget that I abhor violence in every form."
"Yet you were just insisting that some of us are better off dead."
"I never said that. Besides, people can die without it being violent. You should be careful what you say other people say, or they might say something that you do not like."
"How come you are always putting words into my mouth? Why do you think they never say 'you are pulling words from my mouth'?"
"Sax and violins, it is always about sex and violence, isn't it? Are you trying to tell me that you are interested in me, or what?"
"I have no idea what I mean to say. That is why I have not been writing much, lately. I have forgotten what I mean to say. Maybe I have even forgotten what the meaning to the meaning of life is."
"You used to say that the meaning to the meaning of life was asking the question 'what is the meaning of life?'"
"I think that wisdom of youth is the main ingredient of bad teen angst-filled poetry. I only wish that I were as courageous now, as I was, then. It is true what they say about becoming more conservative, as you grow older. You realize that you have more to lose, when you take enormous risks, I guess."
"They call that young, dumb, and full of cum, not courage."
"You are pulling words from my mouth like a back-alley dentist with a pair of needle-nose pliers leering down at me. How is that?"
"Ah, how cute! You borrowed my expression, and used it in a sentence! You are such a bright little boy!"
"I love it when you are completely condescending in your tone with me. It turns me on. Oh, baby, abuse me, some more. Could you be any more patronizing?"
"Stop pouting! You look silly when you pout. Besides, I was just kidding. What's the matter? You can't take a joke?"
"Ha, Ha! Very funny."
"Stick your lower lip out a little further, would you? I want to see if a bird will actually land on it, this time."
"Why are you so mean to me?"
"I am only teasing you. Why are you always so uptight, anyway? You always take things so seriously. You know that laughter is the best medicine."
"Where are you going with this? I mean, do you have an intention with all of this jibber-jabber, or do you just like to hear yourself talk?"
"Oh, great. You are frustrated with your life, so you decide to take it out on me."
"I told you that I didn't know what I mean to say. You really shouldn't listen to me, when I am like this."
"Never fear. There is gratification in fornication."
"Are you offering?"
"Maybe I am, and maybe I am not. I have not decided yet."
"You will be sure to let me know, when you do?"
"Of course, you will be the first to know!"
"There you go, being sarcastic again. I never know when to believe you."
Once upon a time, and all good stories end with Once upon a time, there was the beginning of a story hiding in the middle of a conversation between two people, right in the middle of broad daylight of an afternoon caught in a balloon. You might be surprised what you can get away with, in the name of Literature, these days. Thanks to the postmodernist movement, the text is no longer responsible for being a creation of any god-like creator. The text is an atheist now. There is no god, and we are no longer obligated to mean anything. There are no longer contexts, or even reflections of the text in the echoes of the author's mind.

Understanding Laughter and Despair

"I feel the weight of our children's past bearing down on us," Cherry says, in between narcotic nods. "We are all on death row praying for a party."

"I thought this was going to be a seminar on 'How to Tell a Joke.' Nobody told me that we were going to have to sit around, forcing ourselves to laugh, until it is a religious experience. I am not making water in my pants for your amusement." Chad replies, a look of disdain splashed across his face. "Let's face it. You are downright depressing."

"I am just breaking in my poetic hiking boots, a little. Give me a break. Some of us are hardwired to know and understand happiness. You can hear those people laughing all of the time. Most of us are so chemically imbalanced that we would not know a true emotion if it slipped out of the shadows and mugged us."

"Maybe we all should become members in the Church of Contagious Laughter. You really need to find some sort of spiritual sense of humor. I hear if you fake a smile long enough, it will eventually stick to your face, whether you want it to, or not. You can trick your body into believing that you are actually happy and smiling, which is the emotional equivalent to spending your lunchhour on The Stairmaster(tm). We could go work out on the Laugh Track! Get it?"

"Oh, so very witty for so early in the morning. What fun facts you come up with in the middle of the night. Don't you sleep, or are you one of those insomniac sorts? I have to warn you, right now. I love my sleep. If you want to spend the night pacing back and forth and making a bunch of noise, you can just spend the night, somewhere else."

"Next, you will tell me that teethgrinding and talking in my sleep is out of the question, too."

"It sounds more and more like you will be enjoying the finer qualities of the couch, my boy."

"Will I have to share it with one of your drunken ex-boyfriends who can't remember how to get home?"

"Well, not unless you want to. He is definitely assigned to the floor. He is a dawg. He likes sleeping on the floor, in the bushes, where ever he happens to lie down. He will lie down anywhere and with anyone."

"It sounds downright cozy. But you don't have any pent-up or repressed feelings for the guy, or anything."

"I think he is a complete jerk."

"I was being sarcastic. You couldn't tell?"

"It is difficult to recognize tone from a hologram."

"So that is what I am, now? A hologram?"

"I think that it is rather presumptuous of you to think that I would even tell you where I live."

"That makes me a hologram?" He asks.

"Don't put words in my mouth. You are out of control with your need to control things, did you know that?"

"Does that mean that you are not going to make us pancakes, either?"

"I think that you had better stop flirting with me, before somebody get hurts."

"Rough house is fun until somebody gets their eye poked out."

Cherry Falls and her evil Uncle HaHa

Dear Tenant/Occupant/Resident:

I will race you to The Crypt. Uncle Haha was a crazy old syphilitic clown when he died. Are you oozing now? Of course, I am. Did you even have to ask? There is chocolate syrup all over the sheets and I have honey between my toes. Could you loosen the gag a little, so I can breathe? Send back my melody.

What in the hell are you talking about? I thought we were both on the same page. I guess that I was wrong. You have not idea just how wrong you are. I feel like we are not really communicating anymore. Do you think that we should talk about it? All of my friends are so happy. They seem to copy me and move on. I need my own copymachine.

The pool is open. The parking lot has been repaved, and the playground equipment has a fresh coat of paint on it. Please feel free to vacation at will.

'Twas brilling and the slithytoves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe,
All mimsy were the borogroves
And the momeraths outgrabe.

Sincerely yours,

Cherry Falls


I love you more than yesterday

I hate when you get like this,
You hate when I get like this.
Neighbors are coming over
if not already here,
the knock is forthcoming,
when they cart us off to jail.

That Breckenridge cop is coming
to make us all feel wrinkled and old
She has promises of Robert Dingle,
Lynette Dyrant, Jenny Capra,
Clay Corbus, his 165# and a 38 inch bust
and Don Clay, wonderlust. and the fold
and a 40 inch waist of lust

Come out come out whereever you are
I swear that I saw you in 1984
in a local topless bar
Then there was a Rhidernicht
and her attitude and crust
our computer class I could not forget
she was never ever going to be as good as us.

We are another collect call
to make on Sunday
hollow promises left to keep
and stories to fabricate.
Too drunk to finish this poem,
I am forced to wonder where it began
it turns out that we are all dead, anyway
so I guess it doesnt matter that
We are interrogating our own prison.

Cherry’s Bomb Shelter Haiku Hairdo

As the sun slow dances with the horizon, the trees kick up swaying heels of leaves. Listening to Nirvana’s Nevermind, while greeting the dawn over the Queen of the Stains with a fresh Pepsi and a Camel Filter, she contemplates taking her gun outside and shooting at the passing rush-hour motorists.

“How fun would that be? It is not like they will ever shoot back. It would be just like those sitting ducks in the shooting gallery of the carnival. Boring! Boring! Boring! I am so bored that I should kill myself, just to have something to do.”
After tying up her combat boots, and leaving the gun to fend for himself, she quietly walks out of the back door of the hotel. It is already close to eighty degrees, and she quickly perspires through her clothes.

“Would you kill yourself for food?” She asks a friendly dumpster basking in the recently paved smooth parking lot. “What would you do with your life, if there weren’t people throwing their shit at you, all the time? I bet you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. Has anyone ever told you that you are full of shit? Ha, Ha! I am so funny. I crack myself up. It is okay. If you want, we can have a threesome with that tree over there.”
Although friendly, the dumpster does not reply, and she continues to walk down the alleyway towards Cold Facts Avenue.

Walking past a sleeping man sprawled across an abandoned car seat, she thinks about poking him with a stick until she remembers that she left her gun back in the hotel room.

“I really have to stop doing so many diet pills and double espressos before bed. Have you noticed?” She looks around suspiciously. “Noticed what? Have you noticed that you have started talking to yourself again? Stop it. No, you stop it.”
She stops walking in the middle of the intersection and stomps her foot on the pavement emphatically.

“Having multiple personalities means that you never have to be lonely.”

“If I stop talking to you, will you go away?”

“Probably not. You forgot to take your medicine, again, didn’t you?”

“Shut up, I hate you.”

She hurriedly crawls through a large hole in the fence to enter the cemetery, and snags her dress on the chain link.
“How many times have I told you not to wear a dress when you are out playing urban guerrilla girl?” Speaking out loud, she scolds herself while ignoring the leers of the birds, squirrels, and ghosts.

“Hello, Mrs. Adams! How are you? Good to see you, Mr. Jonathan Reese, who lived from 1919 until 1953 as a wonderful husband and father. Where have you been, Baby Jane? You look absolutely dashing in that hat!”

Casually strolling with her shoulders back and a smile on her face, she takes her time greeting all of the shadowy faces that dance around the gravestones. She could be mistaken for someone entering a cocktail party, if were it not for the hour and location of this gathering. She nods and waves to old friends. They are happy to see her. It has been a long time between sunrise visits.

“Did you miss me? How could you not, darlings? Where have I been, you ask? I have been to the far reaches of the world and back, baby! How come none of you want to go anywhere but this silly old pile of dirt? Wouldn’t be more fun to hang out in some place less, well, ghoulish, like say the mall? How about a sports bar?”

Choosing not to explain the concept of sports bar to a bunch of people that have been dead for a hundred years, Cherry skips over to her favorite place in the graveyard, and sits down.

“I hope that you do not mind if I smoke. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, or so they say.”

She pokes around in her army surplus bag until she finds the wrinkled package of cigarettes and a disposable lighter. After lighting a cigarette, she again reaches into her bag, removes a white candle, and sets it on the grave marker within her reach. Hesitating for a moment before igniting the candle, she says a silent prayer, which the audience cannot hear.

“Oh, I almost forgot! I brought us something good to drink! Tequila and raspberry Kool-Aid!”

After taking two long drinks from the plastic bottle that she has been carrying, she pours a little bit of it out on the ground, and then slowly dances around in a circle. She resumes sitting in her favorite spot under the very old Elm tree.

“It is such a wonderful day for a picnic, don’t you think?” Next time that I come to see you all, I will bring my friend Dakota. You will like her. She is just like me! Except I think that her boobs are bigger. And guess what? Next week, I get my learner’s permit! Dakota is already old enough to drive, so she has been teaching me how. We have so much fun. She is my bestest friend ever. I would have brought her with me today, but her mom is in the hospital again with bronchial pneumonia. I told her that if she doesn’t quit smoking, I was going to be visiting her here, instead of the hospital, but she never listens. She always says, ‘do as I say, not as I do,’ but I just say fuck if I feel like it. You have to die from something, I guess.”

She lights another cigarette and stares at the burning candle.

She begins to hum a song that she has never heard before, following along with the music playing in her head. Jumping to her feet, she dances wildly among the statues and gravestones.

Carried away in the moment, she does not realize that more than the spirits, birds and squirrels are watching her.

Crouched behind a life-sized statue of an angel, the little boy, his face covered with dirt, watches her intently as he sucks on his thumb. His eyes follow her every move. To him, she is a goddess. The first stirrings of his Romantic heart tickle his loins, and make him blush uncontrollably. He grasps the statue with his very being, never once removing his thumb from his mouth. Suckling, he buries his head into the cold stone flesh of the angel, only to quickly return his transfixed gaze to the dancing Cherry Falls.

He had been following a rabbit through the fence, when he heard someone calling out his name. Like magic, the rabbit led him right to her, and then disappeared behind a shrub. He watched her dancing and singing, and when she finally fell to the ground in an exhausted heap, he laid down in the exact same position as she did. He imagined that he could feel her breathing against him, and he matched his breathing to hers. Soon, he realizes that he cannot watch her, suck his thumb, and lie in the correct position in the grass, all at the same time. He takes his thumb from his mouth and jams his entire hand into his pants pocket. She does not move for a long time, and the little boy begins to think that she is sleeping.

Up on his hands and knees, he crawls slowly over to her until he can reach out and touch her. He lowers himself onto his stomach as quietly as he can, and returns his thumb to his mouth.

“Don’t you know that it is not polite to sneak up on a person without introducing yourself?”

“Who were you talking to?”

“It is also rude to respond to a question with another question. I was talking to my friends. Now, answer my question.”
“My name is Johnny Lee Rawlins, Junior, and I am eight.” He holds up five fingers.

“Aren’t you a little old to be sucking your thumb? A gallant eight-year-old man usually grows into smoking or cursing like a drunken truck driver, by the time that they are ten. Give up the thumb, Johnny Lee Rawlins, Junior; there is a whole world out there for you. And let me tell you- there are much better things to suck than thumbs.”

“Do you have any candy?”
“Hey, you have it all backwards. You are supposed to ask me if I want any candy and you have to call me Little Girl.”

“Do you have any candy, little girl?”
“No, no, never mind. Let me check. Do you like Gummi Worms? Do you even know what they are? I had a bag of them in here, just the other day.”
She rifles recklessly through her bag, until finally, she turns the entire bag upside down, dumping its contents onto the lawn in front of them.

“I don’t like to eat worms. They move around in my mouth.”
“Not real worms, silly, Gummi Worms! You can stretch them out or pull them apart as you eat them. They are the best! I know that I had some around here, somewhere. Oh, wait, I ate them, last night. Sorry, little dude.”

“Do you have any candy? My name is Johnny Lee Rawlins, and I am eight.” Again, he holds up five fingers.
“This many,” he says, and looks at his fingers and then back at her, an eager need for affirmation pasted across his face.
“We are going to have to work on your counting skills, Johnny Lee Rawlins. Do you mind if I call you Johnny, Johnny Lee Rawlins?”

“I am eight.” Instead of holding up his hand, this time, Johnny puts his thumb back into his mouth.
“Well, Johnny, do you mind if I smoke, while you eat?” She asks him, and then reaches for her cigarettes.

“Sucking your thumb is such a nasty habit. You should really try smoking. Do you even know any dirty words? What is the nastiest word that you know, anyway?”
She lights a cigarette with the flame of the candle, and then pinches out the blue flame with her fingers.

“Doesn’t that hurt?”
Pouring wax onto her hand, she gazes at him like a cat crouched before a mouse hole. Distracted for a moment, she begins to peel away at the cooling wax puddle in the palm of her hand.
“I want to feel it,” Johnny says. “What does it feel like?”

“It hurts, but just a little. Put your hand closer.”
She lights the candle again.

“I don’t believe you.” He pushes his hand in her direction and pretends to be looking over her shoulder at something. She picks up the candle and holds it over his hand. She can tell that he is flinching, and she giggles a little.
“Hold still, you big baby. Wait until you get your first tattoo!”
A solitary drop of clear hot liquid splashes onto his skin and begins to turn white.

“Wow,” whispers Johnny. “That didn’t hurt at all. It felt good. Do it again.”

This time, Cherry positions the candle over his forearm, and puts a tight grip around his wrist. One, two, three drops land on his pale dirty skin, and he winces. Two more drops make a leap to their deaths, creating a thin layer of wax along the top of his arm.

“Pretty cool, huh?” She asks him, and then, once again, extinguishes the flame with her fingers.”

“You must always remember to thank the spirits for visiting. You never want to blow out a candle. It is bad luck, and the spirits won’t want to come back and play with us. You must promise to never ever blow out a candle, not even on your birthday cake.”

“I promise,” he says, not really thinking about it. “What is a birthday cake? Can I have some? My name is Johnny Lee Rawlins, Junior and I am eight.”
“Yes, Johnny, I think that we have definitely figured that part out about you. Hey, come on! You are missing the best part. Now, you have to peel off the wax. Isn’t it the best feeling?”

“How old are you?”
“Hey, don’t you know that it is rude to ask a lady her age? Didn’t your mother teach you any manners at all?”

For several moments, they silently pick away at the waxy layer on Johnny’s forearm. Cherry listens to the wind. She catches up on the gossip of the cemetery- who has moved in, what families have had new arrivals, and the unending battles that they would wage against Rod Lightening, the devilish beast of a slumlord, who would kidnap one or two of them away each year.
Soon, Johnny is staring at Cherry again, mesmerized by her every move. She begins pulling up blades of grass and braiding them into a bracelet on her lap. Her fingers hypnotize Johnny as they dance along the surface of the ground in search of the most perfect stitch of green.

“What do you want to be when you grow up? An astronaut or a police officer, maybe a doctor?” She asks him.
“I am going to be one dumb sumbitch, just like my daddy! At least that is what my mommy says.”
Cherry giggles into her hand.
“Are you sure that you don’t want to be a fireman, instead? Maybe a rich banker with lots of cars and a summer home in Spain?”

“I like cars that go fast. Zoom! Zoom!”
“Maybe you could be a racecar driver.”
“Zoom! Zoom!”
“Don’t planes go ‘zoom, zoom’ and racecars sound more like ‘Vrroom?’”
“Vroom! Vroom!”

The Rules of War

"It is not that difficult to be wounded in a war," he says, "I have turned my purple heart black and blue with all the stories that I have heard. When I was young, dumb, and full of cum, I wanted to blow things up, so I joined the Marine Corps. They were too easy, pansy boys, so I quit and joined the Navy Seals. After that, I ran my own private mercenary business."

"What about seeing the world?"
"I just wanted to kill people and destroy shit. See the world? That is pretty funny. I was stationed out in the middle of the Nevada desert for two years. Be all that I can be? I was an overglorified hitman for Johnson, and the same Texas oil barons that rule the world, today.

"So when did you realize that it was all a big joke and you were the one being clowned around?"
"It was early April of 1967, at about ten o'clock in the morning. I think it was a Tuesday.I was in a helicoptor somewhere between the DMZ and the military hospital in Saigon. What was left of my legs was lying in a gurney next to me. They were trying to get me to sign some sort of form, so they could give me morphine. They had called in the priest to give me my last rites, and everything. It was not one of my finer moments, let me tell you."

"Is that when you became involved with the peace movement?"
"There were a lot of things that had changed, while I was tromping through the jungle, hunting for Charlie. Women were running around tearing off their bras, and guys had hair growing down to their asses. Everybody on the planet was sleeping with everyone else, and everyone else was sleeping with any one that would have them. It was a time of great social change and many of the things that our parents found sacred were just not important to us. We sincerly believed that we were changing the world."

"In hindsight, do you really feel that you changed the world, or that the world changed you?"

The Paper Trail of Identity

I think that it is important to focus on the Stalker Glossary, which we started the other day. Do you remember? In addition, we will provide a new telephone service available throughout the country, and coming to a neighborhood near you, called 1-800-Get-Even, and it is a meeting spot for stalkers and stalkees. We plan to initiate a StalkSwap, where stalkers and stalkees can swap out stalkpartners, making it easier for both parties to enjoy themselves.

“I am a professional multistalker, I mean multitasker.”

“I do not know about you, but personally, I cannot stalk more than one person, at one time. I admire those who have the skill to commit themselves to more than one person at a time.”

Sometimes it is fun to misspell words, just to watch the little red or green line appear under the word. Perspective is always a matter of opinion. Let it roll around in your mouth until you can taste the delicate bouquet.

“Call me, follow me, stalk me! That will teach me to write all that goddamned poetry!”
I am a bug light in the morgue. You really do not want to acknowledge that I exist, but every few moments, a snap crackle pop death knoll reminds you. I smell like an old couch. Suicide tastes better, each day. Harvesting body parts like a junk collector let loose in a scrap yard, the ankle-biting closet midgets of self-loathing are not taking hostages, so there is little need to surrender. They just glare at us from the shadows of the night, and sometimes, I can hear their whispers, while I sleeping. I do not sleep much in the darkness. This is not to say that I do not insist on it being completely dark, when I close my eyes, but rather that I rarely sleep during the hours of darkness. It is usually after sunrise before I can find my way into a peaceful slumber. By sunrise, the self-loathing monsters are worn out and not nearly as bothersome. Usually, I can make an escape into the Dreamworld when they are tired and less attentive to my movements.

I used to live across the street from the Death Factory and witnessed the ritualistic arrival of Death, every day and night, twenty-four hours a day. Never once have I known Death to take a day off. If Death were take a vacation, all of Hell would break loose, and what a bloody mess that would be, for the cleaning crew. While washing off the blood from the sidewalk just outside of the garage doors of the mortuary, I realized that this paper trail of identity, that we call our home, is congested with bureaucratic masturbatory busywork. Our biggest fear is being found dead, all alone, without any next of kin to collect our debts. A lifetime’s worth of expired membership cards are scattered all over the kitchen table. Someone needs to do the dishes, empty all of the ashtrays, and scrub the smell of rotting corpse out of the carpet. Remember to invite a large number of people to the wake, in order to guarantee a funerary procession.

“Today, the monster wins,” she says, her crossed legs rocking back and forth in nervous energy. “You cannot tell me that life is just one big popularity contest. I don’t believe you.”

“You do not have to believe me. Just look in the mirror. If you look out of the corner of your eye into the mere reflection, you can see the self-loathing midgets cowering mischievously around the closet door. Do not attempt to turn your head quickly and see them with your own eyes. They are much too quick for that.”
The bug light snap crackles and pops. Another day has begun.

Storms of Thunderbirds

The thunder and lightning are electrifying and exciting, as they cool down the stifling gropes of summer. Angry black clouds gang up on one side of the sky to scream and stomp their heavy-booted feet. I have been sitting in this chair for so many hours that I think that a day or two has passed in the meantime. It does not help to check the calendar. It is very late in the game. Some might argue that it is too late. I dump all of the pictures on the spycam into this borrowed machine, plotting and planning a new soundtrack, and movie. The Cirque is in town. For the first time in many years, it looks like I will miss their performance, this year. Maine is calling loudly, every day, becoming more demanding as the daze pass. Suffocating in roadfever, I begin to plot my next escape. The owner of the machine arrives home, after a long day at the gopher village. I relinquish my maniacal grip on the surroundings, put some clothes on, and wander out into the night for supplies.

Visual Orphans, Vol. 2, Iss. 2

The most recent edition of Visual Orphans, an electronic magazine from Razee Ink, is available at Visual Orphans (http://www.razee.com/VisualOrphans/orphans.html)

Thank you,
Until Now is Then, Peace,

D. J. Razee



Cherry Falls visits Slaughter City

“I often lose my clothes in the oven,” she says, “while handing out cupcakes at the cemetery.”
The idea, a mandrake root spilled from the violent squeeze of the hangmen’s noose, anchors itself to the fertile soiled mind. The abuse manager approaches center stage from the shadows.
“The tale that you are about to hear begins with a scantily-clad girl lying in a hotel bed, awaiting the arrival of her lover.”

Maybe she is wearing his favorite lingerie the matching black bra and panties that he bought her, and fishnet stockings with the seams running up the back of her legs. Use your imagination. This is your story.
She impatiently waits for the telephone to ring.
It refuses.
The television prattles on, white noise keeping her company through the night. After escaping from the prison in Nafta, Alaska, and assuming her new identity as Cherry Falls, our heroine is at a turning point in her life.
A door slams somewhere in the Midwest.
Startled, she sits up in the bed, and turns on the light. Beside the telephone and Gideon’s Bible on the nightstand, there is a Playboy™ magazine and a loaded gun. She contemplates masturbating and suicide. Always the procrastinator, she considers both options too compulsive for her new and improved personality.
“Tomorrow, I am going to stop living in the past. I am going to quit blackmailing the world for an entire day.”
History repeats itself like an angry machine gun dropped in the panic to retreat from the battle of the sexes. She stares at the telephone and the gun. She puts both of them up to her mouth, and looks in the mirror.
Yanking at the telephone roughly, she pulls it from the wall and throws it across the room. Then, she quickly jumps from the bed and retrieves the broken pieces. She attempts to push the wires back into the wall plug. There is an authoritative knock at the door.
“Is everything all right in there, Miss? Hello? Are you okay?” She can tell by his voice that he is the manager of the hotel. “I have had several complaints about this room, madam? Are you sure that you are okay?”
She picks up the gun and slides it into the waistband of her black panties. The knocking and voices in the hall cease. Trying to outdraw the girl in the mirror, just like in the movies, she sneers at herself through her giggles.
“Are you talking to me?” She asks, pretending that she is Robert DeNiro in Taxi Driver. “Are YOU talking to ME?”
She considers becoming a serial killer as an occupation. Overcome with laughter, she tosses the gun onto the bed and walks over to the mini-bar, next to the dresser.
“I am in the mood for the three J’s- Jack, Jim, and Jose,” she says out loud to the mirror, as she pulls the little bottles from the refrigerator door.
She checks for a dial tone with the hand piece that is no longer attached to its base. She seems satisfied not to find one.
“That’ll teach him not to call.”

Catcalls and Cherry Falls

Okay, so I am clearly addicted. I can't help it. Blame it on the chemical imbalance.I am a need sweatshop. Genetics. Add a pinch of childhood trauma. Set heat at medium-high and wait for it to boil. I am being a good citizen by consuming as much as I possibly can, in the shortest amount of time possible. Then there comes the meltdown. We do not want to talk about that. There is a chapter waiting to be written, if you could just settle down long enough to stop popping electronica, every few days. The Apocalyptic Hipster has finally acknowledged that I am truly an outlaw. What a Romantic notion of existence it is, when you are young and carefree-
"I could do that time standing up."

Later in life, it becomes more difficult to sacrifice one's freedoms and one's needs for a cause. After spending two years in a self-imposed prison, there is little wonder that there is anything left of the former personality. Cynicism and disdain predominate my other moods. They hogtie any other feelings and drag them around the backyard, mad circles and screams in the mud. The war movement does not help matters.

"I remember a time when you had these amazing moral virtues. What happened to that person? I have never seen you be this mean to people, even people that you didn't like. Why do you hate me so much, anyway? You used to be so caring when you would tell me stories and feed me Ben and Jerry's in bed. Life with you was so fun. I really miss those days."

"I do, too. What happened to us, anyway? I never thought that it would get this dirty, this ugly and deformed. I never wanted to hate you."

"You sure do have a funny way of showing it."

"I guess part of it is that I stopped trying to be everybody's friend. I realized, somewhere down the road, that it was not worth the effort being a yes-person to a whole bunch of really needy and self-serving people."

"I suppose that you are including me on that list? Do you think that I was being self-serving when I supported you and your work for a year, while you sat around getting drunk and pissing off the neighbors?"

"I hate when you try and analyze us."
"Get it through your head- there is no us. Maybe there never was. I have accepted it, and moved on. You, on the other hand, can't seem to get over the past. I hope that I never see you again. Why don't you run away again? That seemed to help for awhile. Please don't think that I am trying to keep you here."
"It was a big mistake coming back here in the first place."
"I could have told you that."
"Why didn't you?"
"I figured that you had to find it out for yourself."


You thought that you had lost me, hadn't you? I know that you had your fingers crossed, and were praying to your goddesses and generals. I could hear the muttering in the darkness, a buzz in the background that just keeps repeating itself, a fly trapped in a jar. If you did not notice, I blew up another machine, the last dinosaur of the lot, so the kitchen office with the scratching post seat has become obsolete, and just when the orphans were becoming so animated and visual, too! Who is that hiding on the couch, with hairballs and beer bottles all over the floor? I forgot to ask him his name or general location. Location has been promoted to general? You are not making much sense. Maybe that is the point?

Razberry Raindrops and Dakota Moon

Fate is a huntress, my lust monkey! Camped out on Abandonment Avenue with nothing more than a smirk and a promise, the shambling clown juggles, jokes, and plays musical tunes through his nose. What is a routine without a stooge? Where is the voice of reason and sensibility? (The moon looks disturbingly friendly behind those clouds.) Clowns are scary! Some people hate clowns. (Stop looking at me like that! What do you mean you want to hide behind that mask, all night? How very presumptuous you are, glaring from behind a disguise!) Time is not an easy enemy to overcome. (Were you caught having a wet creamy dream about someone in your past?)

While taking moonlit photographs of a soda-pop machine reflecting off of the recently filled swimming pool, the diplomat meets Tim, an African-American fellow that lives in the same suburban apartment complex. They languish in a conversation about the ghetto, barrio, rez, ‘hood, and the map of the oppressed in suburbia, as they saunter to and from the 7-11™, for cigarettes and ice cream. (Fuel the poor!) It was nice meeting you. Yes, it was nice meeting you. Maybe I will see you around. Yeah, maybe. (There must be an expiration date on friendships. I just know there is, and nobody told us.)

Stop stuffing your beef clogs of corduroy for five minutes, and listen to me, would you, America? Have you ever been punched in the facade by a psychic Sasquatch named Betsy Lou? We were listening to the mime and lost track of time. Stiff-arming the spirits is not going to get us invited back to the Elysian Fields again, any time soon. (Surgeried into midlife Barbiedom, back at the farm, we are in the land of murderers and thieves.) America glamorizes the fatal brewery of youth, stupidity, and reckless thinking. (Imagine waking up to a naked and drunk America, drooling on your favorite pillow, while alternately snoring to the tune of the Star-Spangled Banner, and talking in her sleep.) The sacred unbroken eggs of knowledge arrive to us from the cursed vagina, with her pubic beard and blood. Leave it to the government to fuck up a good wet dream.

Dakota Moon is a ranchhand and truthsayer. She wears a gunbelt lined with diamonds and boots made out of the hides of ten-thousand men. Her six-shooter has handles made from the bones of a thousand broken hearts. Can you hear the jingle-jangle of her spurs as she walks down the long dark hallway? She is getting closer. Closer. Heart racing, part of you rushes to the door and locks it. Part of you runs away and hides under the covers. The other part of you opens the door when she knocks. Forcing a smile to your face, you realize that there are no apologizes allowed.

The goddess of silence is a snake with a bad attitude. (Dakota Moon shoots that snake right between the eyes.) Billy-the-Kid, a concrete cowboy, rides the mechanical horse for a nickel outside the Waldonalds, while his mother shops for intellectual honesty in the aisles and blue-light specials. (Is it possible to be dishonest intellectually?) Jackoff Jill emerges from the toy section with her pants full of surprises. Holding a toy gun to Billy’s head, she steals his horse and the fistful of nickels that he clutched to his chest until Jackoff Jill dug her filthy long fingernails into his wrists until they bled. (Screaming bloody murder did nothing to help Billy but make Jackoff Jill angrier and more desperate to draw blood.)

Dakota Moon arrives just in time to see Billy sliding off the back of the mechanical horse and onto the ground. Reins in her mouth, Jackoff Jill is riding like the wind in her imagination, an outlaw racing from bank to hideout. She runs out of nickels quicker than a blue-haired woman playing the slots in Las Vegas. (Edith, let’s go! The tour bus is already full. We are going to lose our seats. Hurry up, would you? We are already fifteen-minutes late for the all-you-can-eat buffet.) Just one more pull. Just one more. Ride me, baby, ride me like a pony. Straight from the horse’s mouth, the truth slipped out of the door and made her way down the block. (If I never see her again, it will be soon enough.) Detox the Ghetto! Of course, I am out of my mind. It is dark and scary in there. (I can hear myself thinking, and it is very loud in here.)

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Cactus Jack the snake-oil merchant leads a campaign of fear and consumption, living out an action-packed philosophy of being based in inherited decadence and public displays of hedonism. (We have been cursed by an old gypsy-witch from the New West Sideshow act that passed through this one-wagon town on its way to the Promised Land.) We do not choose the things that we believe in; they choose us. America is an obese buffoon with junk food breath and homicidal tendencies. She is strung out on designer drugs and the sugar-coated sanctuaries of her over-stimulated imagination. Who owns your thoughts? Where can we rent a belief system with the built-in Chakabuster? Beware of used gods being auctioned off on Ebay. (Shipping and handling is not included in the bidding price.) No matter how New Age that you get, old age is still going to kick your ass. Down in Denver, down in Denver, all I ever did was die. (Jack Kerouac said that, in 1947.)

Timebombs and Timberlines

Once upon a time, and all good stories start with Once upon a Time, somewhere in the New West in the Disunited Estates of ShameriKKKa, there lived an outlaw named Chad Dangling, who lived off the exploits of a snake oil merchant by the name of Hal I. Burton. Chad has been blackmailing Hal I. Burton for a number of years, by the time that the story begins. The narrator promises to step back out of the limelight after a few cursory introductory words. The audience applauds without the applause sign lighting up, or the stage manager waving his arms.
“Dear Curses, oh my stars!” He exclaims, one afternoon in April. “These pain killers are stronger than I remember. Maybe I should not have taken so many of them with all that tequila.”
“Quit complaining and roll us another joint. What do I keep you around here for?” She puts her foot against his back and pushes him off of the edge of the hotel room bed.
“When are you going to go down to the desk and pay for another week’s rent? I am getting tired of all of this moving around. Explain to me again why you like this gypsy lifestyle so much? Don’t you ever want to settle down and buy a house? What is wrong with having an address, anyway?”
“The world looks much nicer, down here,” he says, while still lying on the floor next to the bed. “You cannot imagine how many dustbunnies are under the bed. There is an entire village spread across the area under your bed. It is kind of spooky. You should come down here.”
“Get back up here and roll us a joint! You are completely out of control if you think that I am going to get down on the floor with you and look at dustbunnies!”
“Maybe you should apologize for kicking me off of the bed, and I might not form a dustbunny army and attack you in the middle of the night.”
“See if I ever share my Loracets™ with you again,” she says, clearly pouting, even from his view on the floor.
“Are you going to go pay the rent, or am I going to have to, again? I hate when you make me do it. I swear that lady hates me, for some reason.”
“You are just paranoid.”
“You don’t see the looks that she gives me! I am telling you, she hates me!”
“So what? Someone else’s opinion of you is none of your business. Who cares what she thinks?”
“I just don’t want her to call the cops on us or something,” she says. “You never know what people will do, these days.”
“I will send a brigade of dustbunnies down to the desk to take it over in the name of revolution. How is that?” He sits up and looks at her, from the floor.
“Come up here, and rub my feet.”
“You kick me off the bed, and then you want me to massage your feet?”
“I thought that you said that you loved me more! Prove it!”
“I do love you more. More than having my nipples attached to jumper cables. More than eating live giant cockroaches. I love you more than life itself.”
“But you don’t love me enough to give me a foot massage? Come on, roll a joint, and then rub my feet! Pretend like you love me, anyway.”
“How about I rub your feet while you roll a joint, princess? That sounds like a pretty fair deal to me.”
“Can you ever forgive me for kicking you off the bed and banning you to the village of dustbunnies?”
“Maybe in a hundred years or so.”
“Wow, only a hundred years? Why not two? Or three? How many lifetimes is that, anyway?”
“Forgive me now, and I will forget that you just said that. I am the only one that can be mean in this relationship! How dare you!”
“Fine, two hundred and sixty-three years, three months, eight weeks, two days, six hours, and forty-two minutes from…now...I will forgive you!
“Do you always have to be so dramatic?”
“Always, my dear, always.”

Visual Orphans, Volume 2, Issue 1

The most recent edition of Visual Orphans, an electronic magazine from Razee Ink, is available at Visual Orphans (http://www.razee.com/VisualOrphans/orphans.html)

Thank you, and please have a safe holiday.

Until Now is Then, Peace,

D. J. Razee



God is a Sex Addict

Suffering from writer's envy while quickly approaching a self-imposed deadline for my Visual Orphans electronic magazine, I sit down in front of my feverish lappy for a few moments, hoping that the envy block will turn into a melting icicle on a July asphalt afternoon. I have just returned from lunch at a T.G.I. Fridays(tm) with one of my benefactors, engorged on a bacon-cheeseburger, French fries, and a cup of mushroom soup, in addition to forty ounces of Fat Tire Amber Ale(tm). Aggravated with my surroundings, while constantly overwhelming my computer equipment, I laugh at myself for a moment, while I fill my bowl up with the killer Maine kind bud, open a can of Pepsi(tm), and think about the column that I am manifesting in my head about the incredible disdain that I have for the Disunited Estates of ShameriKKKa. Yes, Virginia, there IS a Sanity Clause!

Parked off of Nowhere Avenue, somewhere in these Disunited Estates, the fugitive finds himself walking down Memory Lane. In an attempt to get at the root of the matter, the prodigal son returns to the neighborhood of his birth and childhood.

"What the hell am I looking for? How do I connect my return to Surburbia with the examination of the sweatshop? Okay, so my first job was at Target, thanks to that redheaded best friend of mine, and her Uncle Ezra Exxon, and today, I am living on the couch of a barrioesque apartment complex, moments away from being in a dumpster behind the Waldonalds, just down the block from my father's first house with the first wife, two daughters, and buying into the ShameriKKKan dream?"

"Why don't you explain what you mean by the bleeding box, that sweatshop between your legs, and why don't you supersize it, while you are at it?"

"Maybe I should tell them about the Thoughtpolice, and the desire to make us all think alike, consumerists at our spending best."

"Do you really want to confuse everyone on the planet, or just a select few?"

“I make complete sense to myself.”

“I am not sure that counts for much, if you cannot make yourself understandable to others. So now what? You are going to grow up to be one of those old kooky people walking around with three sweaters on, talking to themselves and living under a viaduct, along the river? I really don’t see the sense in that.”

“Who said that it had to make sense, anyway? I am crazy, remember? You said it yourself.”

“How about I start out the story saying that God is a sex addict and alcoholic? That should clarify things, right from the beginning, don’t you think? If I really work on it, maybe I can make it seem like I was planning this great literary coup de t’etat at the start. Do you think that I could fool anybody?”

“You will be happy to know that I have been having my share of flashbacks to our high school days, lately. Funny how those kinds of things sneak up on you and make you begin to question your entire existence. If you are crazy, then I must be totally out of my mind.”

Meanwhile back at the farm in Nafta, Alaska, we find our heroine packing up her few belongings and slipping out of the backdoor in the middle of the night. Escaping under the light of a full moon, she walks the three miles to the Greyhound stop, while carefully listening to the night’s sounds for any hint of a real or imaginary attacker. Meeting the bus at three in the morning, our heroine settles into the back of the bus, and relaxes for the first time in a number of days.

“So what is your column going to be about, this week? More disdain for the Waldonalds and islands of asphalt that we call our home?”

“I am not sure yet. I was thinking about something that relates to my own fears about the approaching election, the bankruptcy of our society by the oil barons, and our tendency to be more racist and nationalistic than we have ever been in my short lifetime, anyway. I could go on for hours and hours about the political unrest of these Disunited States, but what would it matter? It is not like there is anybody reading, anyway. They are too busy out working and being poor to do any reading.”

“Why don’t you tell a fictional story about two characters sitting in a coffee shop. Maybe they are seeing each other for the first time in twenty years. They are catching up on each other’s lives, showing off the photographs in their wallets, and meanwhile reminiscing about their youthful misadventures.”

“Whatever happened to those tight green pants that you used to wear to school, anyway?”

“It is not my fault that we turned into the Trenchcoat Mafia.”

“Hey, now! You loved that trenchcoat! I think that I still have the parachute pants and elf boots! Maybe that is what we should wear to the reunion. All of our old outfits! That would be hysterical.”

“You have always been a big clown.”

“I wonder whatever happened to that Lori Henderson chick. She followed us around for about six months. Oh, man, I just thought about something, totally morbid. Have you thought about the classmates that have died in the last twenty years? I wonder how many that there are.”

“Maybe at the reunion, we all get together in a circle, hold hands, and pray for all our lost friends and family.”

“Do you think that is before or after the prime rib and slide show?”

“Definitely after the overpriced chicken, salmon, or prime rib selection, and slide show, but before the karaoke and gift-giving ritual. By then, most of them will be so drunk that they will hold hands and hug just to cop a feel on that guy or girl that they never had the chance to fuck, in high school.”

“Don’t forget the picnic on Sunday, so all of the children can be allowed into the popularity contest, as weaponry. I can see it now- ‘my kid beat up your kid at the 20th year reunion, proving Darwin’s point, yet again.’”

“Are you always this cynical, or is this a new thing?” She asks, and lights another cigarette. “Maybe we should get some more coffee. What do you think? Do you have anything to do, this afternoon, besides sitting here?”

“I was planning on taking over the world, later in the evening, but until then, I am all yours.”

“Is this one of those things where you have to keep to a tight schedule when you take over the world? How exactly are you planning on doing this, anyway?”

“Why would I want to tell you? You would just want in on the deal, and then I would be splitting my power and control with you.”

“You know they say that it is lonely on the top. Besides, what is wrong with me? You have issues about sharing, don’t you?”

“Blame it on me being an only child.”

“I had forgotten how full of complete bullshit that you can be. At least you are funny.”

Meanwhile, back at the farm in Nafta, Alaska, the evil father has discovered our heroine’s escape plan, and is now racing like a-bat-out-of-hell to overtake the Greyhound bus. Curled up on the three seats in the very back of the bus, our heroine is asleep and unaware that she is being pursued.

“The next stop is Juno. For those of you that will be traveling on with us, the next bus will leave Gate 3, in forty-five minutes. Be sure to check around you for all of your belongings, and thank you for riding Greyhound. My name is Hank, and it has been a pleasure being your driver, today.”

Pushing the old Chevy truck to eighty, Bubba did not notice the state trooper’s vehicle on the side of the road, until the car pulled out of the foliage and began following him, sirens ablaze.

“I thought that you said that this was a story about sweatshops, and now you have the police chasing her pedophile father, who just happens to be chasing her, in an old pickup truck?”

“Don’t ask me. I just write the stuff. You mean that there has to actually be a plot? Now you are really complicating matters.”

“Maybe you should be sharing whatever it is that you are smoking. Do you really expect to make much sense at five-twenty in the morning? Where do you come up with these things?”

“I am simply a vehicle for God’s will, and well, he is an alcoholic sex addict.”

Back on the Farm in Nafta, Alaska

Back on the farm in Nafta, Alaska, our heroine realized that she no longer was going to be a commodity of the company. Instead, she is going to go into business for herself, without a pimp and without a keeper.
"Just how do you ever expect to make any money, if you are not on your back?" Her father asked her, one day, as he was groping her breasts behind the trailer, the next day.
"I am going to run away from this place and never come back, and you can't stop me."
"Who in the hell is gonna stop ya?" He said, as he adjusted his belt and tucked in his shirt. "I've been trying to get rid of your lazy ass since you were three, when I was offered a carton of smokes and a bunch of Aerosmith bootleg tapes, by that biker passing through to Sturgis."
"I don't care what you say, you ain't my daddy. Soon as I am old enough to drive, I am running away from this place."
"Until then, little girl, just you remember who owns that bleeding box, that sweatshop between your legs."
"I hate you! I hate you! I am gonna tell Mama whatchu been doin' to me, all them years."
"Now, you listen to me, you little slut, you open that big mouth of yours, and I swear to the Lord above, I will kill you. Do you hear me? Donchu think that I am kidding, either. You go saying anything to your mama, and it will be the last breathe you take, I swear to God."
"You can swear to who you want to, but one of these days, you are going to wake up, and I am going to be gone, so far gone you will never find me."
"Just remember to take your little brother with you when you go."
"Fine, I will! I ain't gonna leave him here so you can paw at him like you paw at me, you fat bear!"
"Watch your mouth, girl. You are not too old for me to put you

Mr and Mrs Death

With the angry full moon howling, a screaming button holding together the blue-black skies, Mr. And Mrs. Death win a write-in popularity contest. (P. S. Why is the moon so angry?) Maybe she is sad, because she knows that you want to marry her but cannot afford the ring. She offered to give you one of hers as a substitute, and even said that she would marry you for a bubblegum machine ring. (Of course, the moon has rings to spare, silly rabbit.) Will we end up burning the clocks, today? Time is not an easy enemy to overcome.

“I am a need sweatshop, and a slumlord to my body-temple,” the fugitive says. “Sometimes, I feel like I am a blind man staring at a mirror, not seeing anything but staring all the same. Yes, I woke up dead, this morning.”

“Hun, do not say that! Maybe we should run away and join Satan’s Circus or something,” she replies.

“Do you know what to do, in case of a fire?”

“What? Run away?”

“Let it burn! Let it burn! Break what breaks you, baby!”

“You are so cute when you pretend to be an anti-concrete anarchist.”

“Do you always have to mock me?”

“Who said that I was mocking you?”

Meanwhile, back at the Ranch, Major Hardon and a brigade of Thoughtpolice scour the property for clues, while Billy-the-Kid, in anticipation of incarceration, rushes to pack his belongings into an old and battered steamer trunk. Someone tacks the search warrant onto the front door, which is quickly saturated with rainwater. He plots out his escape route, using an old cocktail napkin and a crayon. The Abuse Manager has been contacted and is en route to the scene. Three butch nuns in habits and packing heat barricade the door. They take turns guarding the entrance of the dusty and old adobe building, pacing back and forth.

“You know things are bad when the nuns are carrying guns,” the fugitive remarks.

Flashbulbs and Flashfires

The night slips into place, along with a seething hunger, some of it is physical, but mainly it is an emotional starvation. While working on a project for a client, I find myself laughing over the "Happy New Year! Welcome to 1984!" Flash presentation that I am building, as I contemplate making an appearance at my 20th year high school reunion. Of course, that bitch Caroline is no help, nor the fact that I am going to meet my high school best friend for the first time in 20 years, tomorrow. How could I fall for an online hussy like Caroline? If you want to see what I mean, you can find her at onlinecaroline.com. Of course, now, she is rambling on about her boyfriend David, and her connection to Simon, who I swear looks just like a former KGB spy. Now she is writing to me about not being sincere enough to her, when all she does is take my gifts and give them to somebody else. That Bitch!

Anyway, back to the grind.

Miss Advertising

Oh, whew! I have finally found the map, now where the hell did the path go? Oh, yes, I remember now, it is the one with the pretty lights running along it. Thank you, Lord, for our WalDonalds spread across these islands of asphalt that we call the Disunited Estates of Shamerikkka, and please forgive us for our digressions of sin and faulty credit reports.

Click your heels together three times, and say "There is no place like home."

Toto, I don't think that we are in Kansas anymore.

The Return of the Red Eye

Ah, here it is, four in the morning, and I cannot remember my password, or how to enter back into the castle from the tunnel leading from the dungeon. One of these days, they should pay someone to stand on the corner and hand out maps, like they do in Hollywood.

Dear Curses,
Oh my stars! And stares!
Where is the damned map to the stars?

Staggering blindly through the foliage, he finds himself along a path. I wonder where this leads to?

Do you?

Visual Orphans on the Road

Visual Orphans

Volume One


Friday, 22 August 2003


at razee.com

Visual Orphans on the Road

McCarthyism- 1)The political
practice of publicizing accusations of disloyalty or subversion with insufficient
regard to evidence. 2) The use of methods of investigation and accusation
regarded as unfair, in order to suppress opposition. [After Joseph R. McCarthy,
1908-1957] - McCarthyist.

© Razee Ink 2003


D.J. Razee, Editor and Publisher


Issues 1, 2,
3, 4,
5, 6,
7, 8, 9,
10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20


by Ezine Manager

have neither mother nor father

to pity my sorrow.

I am an orphan.

All alone I bear torment and disgrace

in the depths of my soul.

Such was the pain

of not finding a good woman

who would fill this great void,

which they left behind,

with tender love."

-- When Frida Kahlo was in Paris, Pablo Picasso taught her this song, which
she often sang for Diego Rivera or for friends. It is called El Huérfano
(The Orphan).

after six years of planning and development, Razee Ink, beginning in late August
of 2003, begins an extensive North American tour! In the tradition of the bohemians
and beatniks, this tour is composed of over twenty stops along the road, each
one a potential writing and creative experience that will astonish the world.
Cyberhitchhiking has replaced the conventional thumb on the side of the road,
and the mission of this vision quest journey is to turn six years of typed words
in a box into real and circumstantial relationships, documenting the experience
the entire time. To be perfectly frank, it is a writer's dream of opportunity
and promise.

With this in mind, we are pleased to announce that we will be in your neighborhood!
Equipped witih a laptop, a camera, and a sleeping bag, our correspondent is
wandering all over the vast highways of the United States, Canada, and Mexico,
in search of a few good stories to accompany the miles. Let's do lunch! Would
you like to join in the roadtrip of a lifetime, even for a few short miles?
The more the merrier, and the merrier have already packed the circus tent
and begun the pilgrimage. Where are Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters when
you meed them, with their psychedelic-painted multimedia school bus driven
by Neal Cassady, some crazed Denverite, anyway? Maybe we should ask Tom Wolfe.
Meet me in the back of the blue bus.

This project will propel Razee Ink and its creator into the mainstream market,
something that is long overdue. As we chronicle a new wave of interpersonal
relationships, derived from both postal and electronic mail, this examination
and documentation of people who make their home outside of the Internet promises
to be a true bestseller. Prepare your release forms, collect up your bail
money, and let's hit the road! We will see you there!

Until now is then, peace and happiness.

Homeland Security Buys N.M. Town for Training

— SANTA FE, N.M. (Reuters) - The U.S. Department of Homeland Security
has bought for about $5 million the small New Mexico ghost town of Playas,
and plans to transform it into a terrorist response training center, officials
said on Friday.

Training at the 1,840-acre town about 40 miles north of the Mexican border,
could provide training for U.S. Marines in urban warfare and a first responders
program that includes testing responses to various terrorist bombing possibilities,
they said.

The facility could also be used to look at ways in which biological and chemical
warfare may affect a small town, said an official responsible for running
the training center.

New Mexico Institute of Mining and Technology, an undergraduate and graduate
school specializing in science and engineering, will run the training center,
which was purchased for "close to $5 million dollars" from Phelps
Dodge, said Lonnie Marquez, acting vice-

president of administration and finance at New Mexico Tech.

"We've been pursuing this since the town was first made available so
we're pretty excited," he said. "Our programs will be in support
of Homeland Security."

Playas was built in the early 1970s to house the employees and infrastructure
of the Phelps Dodge copper smelter, which shut down in 1999 leaving a virtual
ghost town. About 40 families still live in the town, but may have to move
once the federal government finalizes

the purchase, Marquez said.


Visual Orphans; Volume One, Issue Six

Submission Guidelines
Past Issues

Visual Orphans

Volume One, Issue Six

May 09, 2003



Everyday, I beat
my own previous record for number of consecutive days I've stayed alive.--

© Razee Ink 2003

1110 Clarkson Street #7

Denver, CO 80218


Contributor/Editor: D. J. Razee

Graphic Design: Marylee Wright

Guest Columnist: E. Damm

Special thanks to:

Michelle Meek, Valerie Carlsen, Carolyn Slappey, Lucinda Gallagher,
and Jill Friedman



Words of the Day


1. Government by the wealthy.

2. A wealthy class that controls a government.

3. A government or state in which the wealthy rule.


1. Government by the people, exercised either directly or through

elected representatives.

2. A political or social unit that has such a government.

3. The common people, considered as the primary source of political


4. Majority rule.

5. The principles of social equality and respect for the individual

within a community.

Table of Contents
Quote of the Week History from Below Word(s) of the Day
From the Inkwell Mr. Tufty's Magical Rumpus Room
Cinco de Mayo- Dia de la Independencia para Mexico, y tambien
el cumpleaños de Karl Marx.

1968- Strikes by workers and students in Paris leads to general strike
by 10 million workers.

The Lesser Son by E. Damm

My father is probably an old man now. I say this because I am an old
man, and that's the way these things usually work. I don't know for sure
that he's even still around, but I have that feeling. I can't say that
I hate my father exactly, but we're certainly not on the best of terms.
So, we don't talk anymore. Not that we ever had that much to talk about
before, since it was just him telling me what I could and couldn't do,
but sometimes I miss even that. He doesn't bother much with me anymore.
I was the quintessential black sheep, and since he's got other people
calling him father now, he's got a lot of stuff to worry about besides

I guess I'm ok with that. I don't like to think about it much. I've done
some reading lately, trying to figure out what all is going on with our
relationship, but it's hard. I found this one book that describes our
situation so clearly and close-to-home that it's spooky. I can't even
look at it anymore because I just know that it's talking about him and
me and what I did to screw things up. Sometimes, when I'm lying in bed
with those last thoughts before sleep, I even feel kind of guilty or something.
But then I just get mad. It's probably because I don't want to consider
the possibility of him being right again, and to be honest, it seems like
he was always right about everything.

Some people say I must have been a bad kid from the start, but as I think
back, I'm not so sure about that. I think I started out ok and could have
been a good kid, but I somehow turned bad early on and just stayed that
way. Couldn't seem to go against my true nature, I guess. This is not
to say that I was pure evil, I just had a hard time listening to his good
advice. I wanted to do things my way and figure things out for myself.
I wanted to take control of my life and be independent so I could make
my own decisions and experience the world on my own terms for better or
worse. If I made mistakes and did the wrong thing, it didn't really seem
to matter as long as I got away clean.

I guess you could say I was selfish that way. Sometimes, when I think
about it, doing the wrong thing felt kind of good. Other times, I didn't
feel anything at all. Now, I just feel old. Old and tired and ashamed
of the way that I've lived my life. I really wish I could have a second
chance at it all. I wish I could somehow go back to the first day that
I can remember and start everything over again from there.

On that day, my father had taken me and some little neighbor girl around
the side of our house to this high stone wall that seemed to go on forever.
Clawing and pulling his way through a tangle of vines, my father exposed
a solemn wooden door trimmed with gold. As he opened the lock with a long
and shining golden key, he said, " Within this garden is everything
you will ever need from this world, and from every tree may you eat except

Honeycomb Hibernation and the Sting

Every so often, I make the near-fatal mistake of asking myself, "What
are you doing with your life?" For most people in North America and
of my generation, the "X Generation," I imagine the answer is
pretty simply answered with a "I am raising a family, while working
my way up the corporate ladder," or "I am going to school, in
order to better myself, and find a better paying job." As a writer,
I have found myself in many occupations, to make ends meet, hobbies to
pay the bills, until I had the time and money to sit down and write down
the Great American Classic Novel (GACN). Raised under the shadow of "I
met Jack Kerouac, in 1953, while sitting in the West End bar, just down
the street from Columbia University," I grew up imagining that I
simply had to write the book, and the audience would immediately come
rushing from the woodwork, and gobble up my book. The Big Editor-in-the-sky
would read my manuscript, see the pure and absolute talent oozing from
my pores, publish my work, and send 25 copies of my GACN to me, with a
rather large check. In this childhood fantasy, I was going to experience
the American Dream through my writing.

Instead, the road to success has been a steep incline, rocky, at times
muddy, tangled with overgrowth, and much more difficult than I imagined,
as a boy. The years are slipping away, the words even more quickly. Back
in my early twenties, when the world still appeared to have a pot at the
end of the rainbow, we would sit around for hours on end, discussing the
meaning to the meaning of life. Quoting Camus, Sartre, and the Chinese
Taoists, we would chain-smoke through thoughts, nights without end. Finally,
we realized that the meaning to the meaning of life was asking the question
"What is the meaning of life?" Young, dumb, and full of cum,
we proclaimed the need to do something. Anything. To say what you meant
was not good enough for us. We needed to DO something, and further, to
do it LOUDLY.

To this end, this notion of "doing something, and doing it loudly,"
I continued to write and perform, often times despite the kinetic force
of this capitalist society. Twenty years have passed since I first placed
pen to paper, and I have little more than 800 books, written by other
people, to show for it. Did I mention that I grew up to be a bibliophile?
I have saved every word that I have written, being a packrat by nature,
hoarding them in footlockers that hide in the basement, like some wine
before its time. If anybody happens to know that Big-Editor-in-the-sky,
please let her know that I am out here, writing every day, just waiting
for her call. I am ready to write the GACN! In addition, if there is anybody
that has a "real" job to offer, I am willing to bartend, drive
a cab, wait a table, or lump a truck. Call me.

Somebody pinch this person and inform him that the American Dream is only
applicable when someone is sleeping. For some of us, it is a nightmare
of defeat. There is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, house in
the suburbs with a white picket fence, two-car garage, and 2.3 kids, for
a great many of us. Instead of writing literary classics, or painting
a masterpiece, we perform menial and redundant tasks, feeding the capitalist
machine, so the rich can become richer. In an attempt to "make ends
meet," we put down the pen and paintbrush, relegating these things
as hobbies, soon to be forgotten.

Often times, when I am up on my albeit-hollow soapbox and ranting about
the injustices of this society, a heckler in the crowd will respond with
the classic line: "Well, if you don't like it here, you can always
just leave." My response to that is a simple one. Why do I have to
leave my country, the land that we all love and honor, the land of free
thought and expression, because of other people's greed and corrupt virtues?
I am doing something loudly, with my life. I am writing these words to
you. Now, it is your turn. Do something, anything, with your life, and
do it loudly.



Attention: Artists with a flare for spontaneous creation.


Deadline for $5 entry fee per piece due by May 31st, 2003, through Paypal™,
check, or money order.

Theme will be announced on June 7th @ midnight, and contestants have
24-Hours to create, and submit their artwork, electronically, by June
8th @ midnight. Art must be original and created in the 24-hours time
limit. Poetry, photography, and digital art are recommended, but other
media will be considered, including movie and sound files. Please see
www.razee.com for more details. All artwork will appear in the new and
improved Electronic Quiver quarterly electronic and printed magazine,
to be published on June 21st, 2003.

Top three contestants will receive a FREE membership to Razee Ink 2003!!





In light of the news of the so called human cloning going on, we have
to ask ourselves the hypothetical question. If you pushed your naked clone
off the top of a tall building, would it be:

A ) murder,

B ) suicide,

or C ) merely making an obscene clone fall.

Studio of Muses

Alice's Final Wish Comes True


An Evening at the Circus


Visual Orphans

Powered by Ezine Manager

Verbal Hotel Rooms


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Visual Orphans; Volume One, Issue Five



Volume one

Issue Five



Quote of the Day

Week In History

"They have denied the truth, but the news of what
they mocked, will certainly come to them." - The Qur'an
1843- Mother Jones
is born.

1984- 33,000 West German metalworkers strike for 35-hour work week.


© Razee Ink 2003



1110 Clarkson Street #7

Denver, CO  80218


of Contents

Quote of the Day

This week in History

From the Inkwell by D. J. Razee

24-Hour Contest Call for Entries

Drugs, Guns, and Museums

Now that the weapons inspectors have grown bored and left the country,
we are busy splitting up the winnings of the month-long invasion of Baghdad,
specifically when it comes to the wealth of art that has been found throughout
Baghdad, and the other major cities in Iraq. They say that only the victorious
have histories. Well, if you rush over to Baghdad, about now, we can get
you a killer bargain, pun intended, on Persian rugs and artifacts. There
is a clearance sale on belief systems, this week, as the Crusade to End
Terrorism enters into discussions of invading Syria, soon. Where is Baghdad
Bob when you need him to shoot some commercials?

If you book your flight now, you could open your own Wal-mart sweatshop,
centrally located downtown, on the street formerly known as Sad Ham Avenue,
within a month. The vaults, that we are looting, resemble the Al Capone
escapade, made famous by Geraldo Rivera. Didn’t Jerry Rivers get
his ass thrown out of the desert for drawing military secrets in the sand?
Coincidence? We do not think so. These inside jobs were performed like
The Plumbers ransacked an office, in something we might have forgotten,
already, called Watergate. Remember when we invaded Panama, and we discovered
Noreiga’s bounty of pornography and Voodoo Dolls? Well, guess what
we found in Sad Ham’s nightstand?

How many of these masterpieces will end up hanging on the wall of some
politician’s summer home? Should we be looking for the next Ollie
North, who is out there wheeling and dealing Iraqi lives, at this very
moment? How long will it be before we are witnessing another senate investigation
of our military over war crimes committed under the safety of darkness
and espionage? You probably will not be surprised to learn that there
is a lobbyist group of private art collectors, who are just waiting to
get their greedy hands on whatever bounty might remain for the taking.
Now that we have raped the country for fourteen years, it is time to pillage.

Where are the weapons of mass destruction that we were supposed to be
so worried about? We are so busy looting art that we forgot about those
silly reasons and excuses that Cactus Jack tried to sell us, for six months.
Shame on you, Cactus Jack! Your drug-dealing and gun-running family are
not the only show in town. Ask the local warlords for a map, and tour
guide, to your favorite Disney-inspired war-torn theme park. We are pleased
to announce that McDonalds and Starbucks are opening franchises in downtown
Baghdad. Out go the artifacts and masterpieces of entire culture, and
in goes the Happy Meals™.

We promise that, if you play nice in the IMF sandbox, we will shower you
with wonderful gifts, including Buy One, Get One free coupons, and Twinkies™.
You cannot wait to get your hands on our movies, our Hollywood, and our
debauchery! We will trade you three Paramount Pictures on video, a carton
of Marlboro™ cigarettes, and a case of moonshine, for your Babylon.
Relax the restrictions you have on the ownership and export of antiquities,
so we can get our dirty paws on your history and culture. This message
has been brought to you, thanks to the generous folk over at the People
for the Ethical Treatment of Art, a radical splinter organization of those
damned animal lovers and artists.
    Alice's Final Wish Comes True $10.00
    Verbal Hotel Rooms $10.00
    An Evening at the Circus $10.00
    Flying Typers Northwest $5.00
    Goldmine Member $500.00+ per year

    Working Wage Member $24.95 a month
    Bohemian Member $24.95 a year

    Announcing this Summer's 24 Hour Contest

    Call for Entries

    Deadline for $5 entry fee per piece due on May 21, 2003.

    Theme will be announced on June 1st @ Midnight, and Contestants will have 24 Hours to create, and submit their artwork, by June 2nd @ Midnight.

    Top Three Winners will receive a FREE membership to Razee Ink 2003!!

    A Seasonal Publication in Print and Electronica

    Issue One

    Issue Two

    Issue Three: Summer Solstice

    June 21st, 2003

    Issue Four: Autumn Solstice

    September 21st, 2003

    Issue Five: Winter Solstice

    December 21st, 2003


    © Razee Ink 2003


    Visual Orphans



    Razee Ink 2003

    1110 Clarkson Street #7

    Denver, CO  80218


    She is a Drop a Dime Cinderella, who calls the Cops on every Fella

    05 February 2003

    She always tries to deny that she is part of the thought-police
    And all she does is call the cops, every chance that she gets.
    She is a Drop a Dime Cinderella, who calls the cops on every fella
    I was the first in a long-line of abuse
    That she manifests into her head,
    Working at the oldest orphanage in Denver
    Then came home, and crying Wolf!
    Go back to the hills, Billie Goat
    Where you have some validation
    For acting the Fool.
    You exploit the rights that you wish to defend.
    Deny Deny Deny
    Honesty is not your finest point.
    Liar liar pants on fire.
    Do not do the crime, if you cannot do the time.
    The biggest crime that I ever committed was loving you.
    Repeat after me, 1000 times a day, for the next year.
    I have to wonder if you ever told me the truth,
    While dancing in your mixed messages and emotional abuse.
    What kind of woman loses her virginity at 24 years of age
    And lies about it, for a year and two months?
    Look in the mirror, Princess
    Cinderella and her fellow
    Told him that she could never forgive him for popping her cherry
    Stealing her innocence
    And loving her.
    "So this is the price to pay, Prince
    I stole everything from you, but my innocence," she says,
    "And I am actually still smiling."
    You are the trap,
    That has made me regret every waking day.

    Go back to the Netherworld that you crawled out from,
    And never come back.

    A cunt is a cunt, no matter how you try to spell it.

    Foucault would have a heyday with this moment
    All the Who is watching Whom watch you?
    The thought-police are made up the incarcerated
    They call them Trustees,
    And they line their necks, like albatross, with keys.
    Refuse to look in the mirror.
    They have the law of the land, the law of our God,
    And their law in hand.
    Family never drops the dime on family
    Maybe that is why you are living in the Big City
    Where you are making a difference
    Taking advantage of the Abused
    Getting your rocks off
    Is what makes the hills get roads, right
    your path to the gold, Cinder Billie?
    The granddaughter of a 'Shiner
    Back where you come from.
    Marketing your victimhood
    It has gotten you this far
    Do it again.
    Promises are what you keep.
    Playing the know, in your circle jerk each week at "team"
    Is not thought-police.
    Heather will never forgive you.
    Neither will I.

    You are a product of your environment
    Go home, Rebel.
    Stay gone, for the rest of my life.

    You are looking in the wrong place for truth
    Or honesty
    Look at her record of accomplishment
    A mother who is completely in denial
    A father who only smokes grass
    When GrandMamaw is not looking
    (Yes, they all still live next door.)
    So do we, now.
    Please, go home, Rebel,
    And never ever come back.

    Institutions are legal functions
    that we ourselves create and must therefore control.
    Foucault is rolling in his bathhouse heaven, on this one.
    How many Louis' do you need to blow
    To feel safe and protected from yourself?

    Zoloft County, USA

    TO: Occupant, Tenant, Case Number C-23916:

    It has come to our attention that you have been wrongly terrorized by the demons that reside at your location. Please accept our apologizes, and this note as a means of gratuity. Although we have been rather quiet, the drama never seems to provide a dull moment, on this side of the world.
    Firstly, the dear woman disappeared onto the streets, then moved completely out of the space. A month later, a visit by the F.B.I. and the Denver police led to the first arrest of the outlaw. Twenty-six hours, he was back on the streets, a little more confused and a great deal more paranoid. Big Brother is watching you. He stopped talking to the dear woman, on the court order's suggestion.
    A few weeks later, while cleaning his space, milkcrates stuffed with books fell on his head, and into the glass sculptures on the floor. Angered and cursing, he is cleaning up the glass and collapsed texts, when the police arrive. He tries to ignore them. They don't like to be ignored, and kick in the door, assuming that he was in there, killing someone. They arrest him, again, and leave the door half-propped up on its hinges. The people that the police designate to protect the cat decide to ransack the space, in his absence. After another thirty-six hours in jail, he is released on time served for disobeying a lawful order, which was to open the door.
    He returns, over Labor Day weekend, to his space, books and glass everywhere, his digital camera, compact disc player, coin collection, jewelry, food and beer disappeared. He retrieves the cat, and some of the belongings before the kids down the hall pack up the station wagon and move to Shreveport, Louisiana with his belongings. As they are pulling away from the curb, waving all the time, he goes out to the Gothic danceclub, and is invited to come home with a married couple, one a rubber fetishist, and the wife, his dominatrix. From jail to threesome, in a few easy steps.
    He returns to his domicile, door still partially gripped to the wall. For three days, he hosts a crippled homeless guy, who needs help changing his bag, and cleaning the shit from his pants. With the help of stimulants, they discuss the meaning to the meaning of life, a cripple and the outlaw, for three daze. Finally, the outlaw crashes into the futon. He accepts the gift of a summer-ending cold from the wife and husband, and ends up sleeping off the better part of a week.
    Returning to the saddle, he finds enough proof-of-income to retain a public defender. He resumes talking with the woman of his heart. They cautiously dance around the reality that they have accidentally created. They apologize to each other, and spend hours conversing through the machines.
    The weekend arrives. Behaving, he has locked himself into his space, door still loose but standing. He is minding his own business. There is a knock at the door. It is his Mexican neighbor, who is covered in blood, and wants him to call in the emergency 9-1-1 cavalry. He asks why. The neighbor takes him, next door, to show him the bloodied and dying body of the new roommate. Checking for a pulse, and making sure the man was still breathing, the outlaw calls in the Men-in-Blue, and returns to his apartment. For the third or fourth time, the neighborhood erupts in blue uniforms, and blackboots, but at least this time, the outlaw is only a witness. He makes out a report, and digs deeper under the futon.
    Monday arrives with the detectives stirring him from his roost, at nine in the morning. He has another interview with them, while in the hall, leaning against the door hinges that they kicked in, a few weeks before. They leave, and reappear in force at noon. This time, they want to photograph whatever shoes he might have been wearing and his feet. He goes over and describes the scene, while getting lightheaded by the sight of all the blood. They leave, again, and the neighbor returns on 100k bond, the next day. The neighbor thanks him profusely, and then returns to the scene of the crime. The outlaw learns that there was a third party, and that the new roommate died.
    That night, his door finally falls from the hinges. The rest of the kids abandon the apartment down the hall, and he forages through the piles, retrieving one of his crucifix, and a pile of their crap. His karmic experience revolves in a complete circle. He hides in his space, for 24 hours, the door propped into position by sheer gravity. Finally, at midnight, a day later, a friend arrives with a power drill and long enough nails to reattach the door to the frame.
    So he continues to talk to his woman, against the better wishes of the Law, and he repairs some of the damage that has been created. He prepares to have a conversation with the public defender, who has set a trial date to drag his relationship out into the public forum. He asks the girl whether she will be testifying for the prosecution or the defense. She panics, realizing the damage that she has done. Ha! Ha! Now who is the joke on, jester!
    The married couple wants to get together for a slumber party. The door is reattached. He waves to his girl from their greasy spoon on the corner as she rides by on the bus. She sees him. For a moment, he is happy. She knows that he loves her.
    Never a dull moment.

    Get to the Point

    Painted Boy

    Morph Sammich

    Crouching Silver Guerrilla

    Snakeoil Recipe Merchant

    The meaning to the meaning of life is mental dishealth warfare and the offers of war for those without mass destruction, but plenty of weapons. We are playing hide and seek with the ghosts and goblins of our imagination. Everybody is wearing masks and neckties, so if they happen to catch themselves about to be beheaded, maybe by the grace of god, they will be spared losing their heads.
    “I have been known to lose my head, a time or two,” Texorcist says.
    “That is what makes you a hothead,” Jane Malady, the ideological prostitute, replies. “And a secular humanist. You have lost God’s pager number, my man.”
    “The erotic silence of the snakeoil recipe merchant reminds me of Chrysanthemums thrown from a tinker man’s wagon, discovered on the ride to the boxing matches.”
    “Remind me to have your name added to the international database of Bad News.”
    “My name means Tangle Candy Flying Southbound in Arabic, didn’t you know?” Texorcist says, while absently staring out the window. “You all are making my life into a big publicity stunt, but you can’t scare me. I have been hit so many times that war seems friendly. Do I need to remind you that a short path is not through the truth? Have you read my head, Doctor?”
    “I was just wondering about that. True anti-socials wouldn’t hide, because the remorse wouldn’t be there. My ex sounds like Bundy.”
    “I should not tell you stories before you go to sleep.”
    “I went to sleep, and the FBI was trying to find me. All because I was framed for narcing on a murder that I was framed for. It was so weird. I was shaking when I woke up.”
    “Maybe we should make naked pizza, together,” Texorcist says. “Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”
    “This is a story about a 24-year-old artist that gets sick of society, and proclaims that her home is an independent nation. She declares herself the Queen, establishes a government and imposes laws. Nevertheless, the Pirate is her man, only because he thought she was a slut. He enticed my hormones, awakened my fantasies, and now we are sleeping together,” Jane says.

    A Jester's Faux-Pas

    Jester’s Faux-Pas

    The Outlaw and the shellshocked Bombmom hold hands in the church, ignoring the others, even if there is a wedding going on, that of her best friend, who they screwed together, back when they were sixteen. Twenty years later, there are more virgins to be taken, and more screaming that they are the wounded Daddy’s Little Victim. He is the arm-twister of Justice, and the hairpuller of Truth.
    “My head is above water, but the house is on fire,” he says. “I am weeping to keep us from burning.”
    “You want like Time makes a clock envy,” she replies. “You have a relentless bedtime, curfew with the teasepolice. This howl is the ranter’s revenge, the jester’s faux-pas, just waiting to happen. There will be no screaming in the black box, no matter what color that you make it.”
    “We promise to tear down the fourth wall with explosives, next time,” he says. “You think that I am kidding. Look into my eyes, do I look like I am kidding?”
    Protect your kittymonkey from the demons crawling out from the petting zoo. There are closet midgets lurking around our ankles, waiting for the perfect Money moment to strike. It feels like Monday, all the time.
    It is a photo session for underwhere.
    “My ex used to practically ask me to move out, if I went to the grocery store.”

    Day One

    Boot Hill Jihad and the Hangman’s Noose

    Monday, 26 August 2002

    Imagine Truth to be a precious princess, surrounded by bodyguards of Lies. She is suffering from teen-age angst, feeling cock-hungry and arrogant in her white gowns. The thought-police are watching and investigating, waiting for the right moment to strike back. History are ‘lies agreed upon by the victors.’ Doublethink is the national anthem. Our anti-heroic outlaw is a real estate agent dealing in intellectual properties. What is mankind going to do when God wakes up, one day, and decides to be an atheist?
    If Anybody had taken a moment to investigate the murder of Nobody, Somebody would have realized that Anybody could be a supect in this crime of passion. Of course, Somebody grew paranoid and began looking over their shoulder for Anybody to sneak up on them. Nobody takes an unrestful nap in the city morgue. The murder weapon turns up in a bridal gown, in a gunshop, in the back of a pawnshop. Anybody’s fingerprints were all over the weapon of mass destruction. Define the hypocrisy of why Americans has bombs, but no one else is allowed pharmacuticals. Somebody has come between Nobody and Anybody.
    “Be my friend, or I will scare you.”
    “You are not only a political bully, but also emotionally incorrect. You have a severe case of mindmadness.”
    “You can make up all the stories that you want, and name our daughters Jenin, you princess-queen of the pathological liar.”
    “Welcome to Cold Facts Avenue,” she says. “My pimp is Mister Crack.”
    “To be a pimp, you have to be a burgler of psychology,” he says. “You have to break into a bitch’s head and steal her mind. It’s a damn shame, but sometimes you just have to trunk a bitch.”
    “The overt commodification of sex is less disturbing to the courts than the covert sexualization of art,” says the Whore. “The collective fictionalizing of individual identity creates a kind of carnival of passion, a festive space, at once, real and imaginary. I am just another prop in the masquerade.”
    “Fiction is not an easy way out of anything. Violence is in the mind of the actor. It may not be assumed from the broken glass.”
    The execution of the Deathrow Kitten is complete. Thieves of identity have kidnapped Truth from her protectors, holding her hostage for a large ransom. Her virginity is a political agenda of property. Intoxicated by passion, she markets herself as a compassionate person, full of hope and love. Her bodyguards of lies protected her for as long as the sedatives were in place, but once that she was out on her own, there was little that could be done to protect the world from her evil experiments. She becomes a Playboy bunny, a playmate in the sexual playground, a pawn in the institution of beauty. Continuing to be emotionally impotent is her job, her name, and her very identity.
    “I am paving the Internet Superhighway with my pussy,” she says. “I am going to turn your name over to every information gathering agency in my Rolodex, you evil bastard!”
    “It was back in ‘02, when the times were hard, Stagger Lee.”
    The screaming coming from your room was a bit unnerving, to say the least. We were worried that maybe you had killed someone in there.

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