Friday, February 24, 2006

Goodbye, Mr. Greenjeans, goodbye

Mr. Greenjeans is dead!
Mr. Greenjeans, is dead!
Mr. Greenjeans is, dead!
Mr. Greenjeans... DEAD!!!

Rachael Ray killed him. The bitch.

It seems her Foot High (ultra simple) meringue Pie has suffocated Mr. Greenjeans.
How was he to know one could overdose on violently whipped egg whites?
It's Rachael's fault.

She must be stopped.

Visit this site please (even its the last thing you do):

Dear Charles Ives,

Hey Chuck,
just sitting here in this internet cafe sipping a fat free machiato, so I thought I'd drop you a line. I'm trying to decide on my next great art project. My inspiration is going to be... umm, well... I don't know what it's going to be. You see, there isn't a lot of turmoil or emotion in my life, I just kind of go with the flow these days. I was thinking I should try to live homeless or something... you know, to get some material for my art. Boy, things seemed so simple back in art school. You could just throw a bunch of garbage up on a canvass and ensure yourself a good grade labeling it in the right genre ("professor, this piece is postmodern" "very good A+"). But having the life of an artist is harder than I thought. Anyway, I have to go update my myspace account now. Jimmy took some funny photos of me mooning cars with my camera-phone.
The Artisté

Thursday, February 16, 2006

A New Character

Mr. Greenjeans waited a while in line at the Atlanta Bread Company. He looked around with his eyes wide, his mind turning, and his stomach churning. He had never been to an Atlanta Bread Company before, he was an Atlanta Bread Company virgin. Suddenly, the line dwindled down and he found himself facing the moment of truth at the cash register.

"Can I hell-p you, sir?" the cashier asked.

Mr. Greenjeans froze. He had no idea what he wanted. He quickly scanned the menu for a high-fiber bran bread, but he rapidly realized the Atlanta Bread Company didn't have many varieties of bread. This occurrence knocked him off his lounge chair of thought. He would have to think on his feet and be impromptu.

"What kind of smoothies do you have?"

"Huh?" asked the cashier.


"Oh, follow me."

Where was she going to take him? Did they have a whole big room for smoothies, with fresh fruit and juice? After all the crowd of people must be here for a reason. Mr. Greenjeans gladly followed his guide down the counter to the other side-- the smoothie making side. The cashier opened the fridge wide, grabbed three unfriendly bags of frozen fruit, and read from them:

"Strawberry, banana, blueberry; strawberry, banana; and mango, peach."

Mr. Greenjeans liked fresh fruit, but since that was not an option, he decided to get some anti-oxidants with his frozen drink. He disappointedly ordered the strawberry, banana, blueberry. It was six dollars. He felt he was being taken advantage of by a bread company which did not have much bread and that served frozen food. Mr. Greenjeans felt like the restaurant reminded him of a food factory, that was over-priced and impersonal. He began to get agitated.

But then he looked around the crowded eating establishment and saw many people who had been taken advantage of. This feeling of being part of larger group was soothing to Mr. Greenjeans. The classical music they were playing in the background also worked to ease his distress.

After all he was there for the free internet anyway.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Speechless, With Fury

Here I sit, alone at the keyboard.
Rick Santorum, on C-SPAN, in the background.
My mind is active with ideas,
my body is in peak condition
to move, to move-- to act.
But my mouth stays snapped shut--
what is it worth?

Passion's pleasure falls short of
the mindful dult's solipsistic advance
schmoozing in the lobby of despair.
Our ears always filled with waves of words--
abundant, decadent rhetoric.
Seizing the celebrity advantage trend
as a twin wails at childbirth.

I am speechless, with fear.
Self righteous competitive gains
deafen our communal spirit.
We all spew meaningless malice--
braggarts of maggots.
Rejoice in our own choosing!
Speak often of simple satisfaction!

For fury's future may be violent;
and darkness will be speechless.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Get ready!!!

Oh yes there will be more to come, there will be more to come. Time is now our messiah instead of our adversary. I cannot wait. I cannot fucking wait. It's gonna be grand. It's gonna blow our unsuspecting, simple, rapidily expanding minds. It's gonna be like Matthew Lillard in Scream, all over again. The old standby cliches will be rendered obsolete and we will be forced to sit back, relax, and.... get ready...

Tuesday, October 18, 2005


Stand up please. Walk over to the X on the floor. Yes, stand there relaxed. We’re going to take a few pictures. Ok, thanks. Now I’ll need you walk over to the grey console with the red light. Good, now lean forward and place your chin on the pad. Stay still for a moment while we do a quick scan. Great. Your physical and mental data is being processed to enter our virtual environment. Welcome. You’ve got mail. Goodbye.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

A Lesson

These sad and dreary rainy days mesh into one epileptic memory. Today, I will return to my Opa’s house. I will sit in his old and rackety rocking chair, leaf through a book, a newspaper or a magazine, while my Oma, stares at me thinking of her sleeping lover. Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I see her smile; a smile of pain, a smile of love an eternal smile of heartbreak.

I cannot imagine how she feels. Can I? Maybe I can, but I don’t want to. Is my resemblance to him that uncanny? I am sick, I am a monster. I am an arrogant, youthful prick. Fuck me and my thoughts. She is old, lonely, beautiful and fragile, like a porcelain doll.

She will recall stories about my Opa, stories that I have heard countless times and I will sit and listen attentively, as if hearing the stories for the first time. I will stay with my Oma for as long as she needs. Even when she says “Go back to school, you need to be with your friends, I will be alright”, I will stay for at least another hour. I have gotten so much from my Oma and Opa and have given so little in return. I try my best though.

When I back my car out of the driveway and see my Oma standing stoically on the porch, arms waving me home, I will begin to cry. I will feel lonely and begin to worry that I have already wasted thousands, millions of opportunities in my 21 years of existence. The hour ride back to school will be filled with a lot of distractions. I will play a mix tape extremely loud and sing, no shout the lyrics to every song. I will think of beautiful, elegant, well crafted things to say to my unattainable crush. I will play games with the license plates of the cars as they make their way to a better place, fast. I will cry one more time.

When I get back to school, I will call up a few friends and we will hang out until around 3 in the morning. We will hate the first person who leaves because they will have sparked the mass exodus, of stoned, drunk or just plainly tired kids, back to their beds. Why don’t we all just sleep together? We could keep our cloths on. Why are we so good at repressing our desires? I will be the first person to leave.

God how I miss him. Five months have never seemed so long. I only think about him at the most inopportune times, like when I am drunk or when a teacher calls on me because it appears that have been dreaming. Well you know what; I have been dreaming and don’t interrupt, motherfucker. He was the only Adult who truly understood and helped me with my depression. Why didn’t I write him the letter, the one that was already written out in my head? And why didn’t I give it to him on his 91st birthday? It’s too late.

I hate going back to my Opa’s house. It used to be my only sanctuary, now when I visit my Oma, I feel that I need to bring a friend for support. Today nobody will keep me company but I will keep my cool, for Her. My Oma deserves that, after all she’s the tough one.

Sometimes I just get so lonely that it is unbearable. I often close my eyes and forget about everything; all my cares, all my worries, all the good, all the bad, this world and that world. When I open eyes, my eyelids feel heavy and internally I feel a oneness with the world. I smile, showing all my teeth.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

# 1, from a drunk

white man dances
there s something special in the air tonight
black man free
Let me fuck you please

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Untitled 1

Menstruating men running down the street while priests fall into a guilty sleep
a womb of thought aborted
my life controlled by thoughts of mediocrity
the fog of the bay area drifts away as the last beat dies
a home not worth looking for
a path
a lie
no zen
just a lunatic drunk
the chains of our heart fight to keep us apart
fight to keep the divisions
perpetuate the current
fought to keep a dream alive
fought to keep my hands clean
inaudible words spoken without meter without rhyme chaos of conformity uneasy feelings about sexuality a repressed child i was
sleeping in my dreams unable to sleep
a life i thought i wanted no longer
the east coast died the night i told it to

Saturday, August 13, 2005


Hands are soft, at birth.
Pillowy, puffy, new.
Innocent invisible fingerprints.
Our minds expand--
gorging on linguistics.
malleable minds,
thrusting consciousness,
quenching intellect.

Then off in our outer space...

A wrench calls out!
The hammer wants to play;
and pound, and pound, and pound,
away all day.
Building your home;
a callus forms--

Biologically brailed anatomy;
unreadable, blind.
Rough, ruined, skin.
Dead surface, alive.
Numb digits
signs of ticking time.
Leaving prints behind
But we want it all
the lists run long.
Life forever supple?
Evolution's gentle gift...
ignoring conscious progress,
burning passion callused.
Hearts heavy,
hands hard.