by Tomorrow's Man
April 2002
Ughday 0 April, 2002
There we go. A day to whine at Sunday's early evening, Monday's bright early smile, and anyone who finds this cusp appealing.
Wah.
Tuesday 2 April, 2002
A soft, round tip when
you need a point,
some attention can make
it hard again,
rub the sides and it pyramids,
lick around and around and it ice-cream-cones,
give it surface friction but never
directly to the tip,
slide the pressure around and
slide the pressure around and
around slide the pressure and
the poetry
will flow again.
Wednesday 3 April, 2002
Super-goodly long man is time you make nice big happiness for him, smile knees behind mega-happy ears good time -- with "Smiley Fun Time Condom" and in all right places give powerful yielding! Is such tasty thing!
Thursday 4 April, 2002
Focus on the future, focus on career, focus on acheivement, focus on success, focus on family, focus on children, focus on propagation, genetic propagation, focus on religion, focus on politics, focus on education, education not intelligence, focus on physiology, focus on diet, focus on strength, of body not character, focus on propriety, focus on pleasing society, focus on becoming a moral leader, not honesty, just morality.
I can't even focus on the screen.
I have a better idea. I'll just cast my shadow across the sun, and then everything, everyone, can focus on me.
Friday 5 April, 2002
I was born from a dying sperm whale's last belch at the bottom of the ocean, floated to the surface and lifted upon swamp gas burning as will o' the wisps, ridden across the slipstreams of the savannahs of the southern hemisphere to finally pop against a baobab tree and land with a plop in a kangaroo's pouch, raised by the dingoes who tore the marsupial limb from limb in an orgiastic, feral dining frenzy but spared me because, even though pre-natal, I growled just like them.
Saturday 6 April, 2002
Got my big show tonight...big pain in the ass, workin' with them thar Alien monsters as stage hands...droolin' all over and dissolvin' the gol-darned stage...heck, just last night Macky the gaffer slipped and fell inna one o' them drool puddles; ate right through his back before we could hep 'im up, leff nuttin' but a pile of fizzin' organs and the front o' big Mack's bowling shirt. There goes a fine 7-10 splitter, I tell you what.
Nope, I had my way, I 'druther work with them Predators any day. Ugly's sin, and tend to rip folks's spines out during the show when they gets all ornery, but ain't no damned acid drool to mop up ever' five sekkinds!
Sunday 7 April, 2002
Performance = intercourse. If you do it right. And I'm a master of stage ejaculation. Words, of course, not semen.
Y'know, the human male will, on average, ejaculate 19.6 gallons of semen in his lifetime (but he'll only learn about 200 different words).
Somehow the sheer volume of that self-propelled love-juice impresses me more than the 250,880,000,000 sperm that come wriggling out in the mix.
Maybe it's the image of 19 plastic gallon-sized milk jugs lined up on the back porch and brimmed to the top with milky off-white, with a twentieth, about two-thirds full, shimmering gooily in the sunlight, that makes the '19.6' so sublimely impressive.
I really don't have much more to add...just wanted to share that little factie about good ol' fashioned baby batter. Oh, and my reading went very well.
Monday 8 April, 2002
Monday is Hell.
Work is Hell.
School is Hell.
Breathing can be Hell, smoking Hell as well.
Cars are Hell, SUVs big smelly Hell.
Commuting is Hell.
Dealing with parents - Hell.
Dealing with strangers - Hell tripled.
Sex is Hell. Love...well, 'nuff said.
Aging is Hell.
Eating/dieting/getting fat/denying yourself your favorite foods, all Hell.
Anthrax: Cynically boring, if potentially deadly, Hell.
Listening to morons, i.e., most of the population. Hell.
Getting a Katrina and the Waves song like 'Walking on Sunshine' stuck in your head, only to have it replaced by the 'Macarena': Eye-gouging-with-toothpicks Hell.
Batteries dying in your walkman is Hell; batteries dying in your walkman on Thanksgiving Day when you have no recourse but to drink your aunt's sucky weak decaf and listen to your 31-year old cousin go on about how awful it is that he set a goal of making half-a-mil a year by the age of thirty and he's only pulling down $350K right now and on top of it he's discovered Christ and wants to tell you all about his pathetic, mysogynistic, elitist child-molesting religion: Hell in an Itchy Handbasket.
Your favorite CD now skips: Hell.
She sucks. She doesn't swallow: Really Can't Complain Hell, but Hell just the same.
Mark Sandman of the band Morphine dies of a heart attack before he's 45: Still Not Over It Hell.
Diarrhea: Slippery, Stankin' Oozy Brown Hell. Sometimes with corn in it.
Dead pet: Hell for both of you.
S/He won't lay you, but yer a really great friend: Frustrated Masturbatory Hell.
Warm weather seemingly on hold til next year: Hell Freezing Over.
Insomnia: The Ultimate Worst Hell Ever. Ever. Except for the stuck Katrina and the Waves song.
Tuesday 9 April, 2002
4/8 11:16 PM.
Weather that does know if it will kill with a scorch or a snap.
Wine that flows burning like the first time I lied to my mother.
Fatigue, caused by bitter hilarity.
Evening stretching out like a whip across my shins, snapping back minute after minute.
Desire wrapped into a triple-ply Hefty garbage bag, knotted thrice, and tossed into the dumpster atop the old kitty litter.
Synapses firing like a drunk walking - careless, free, laughing at the pink leaving his lungs in bellows.
The gazing eyes of a dying cat, road ruin, more confident than yours have ever been.
Barking anger and weeping from next door, the side with four children.
Fingernails chewed down far enough to cause cuticle and tooth to bleed.
Blankness in heart and mind, and only 50 or so words to explain it.
A Monday evening in Spring.
4/9 12:01 AM.
Wednesday 10 April, 2002
ìThis is a day after someone gave their child to a vacuum cleaner with teeth,î he said, holding the duckling in the drill press.
I rotated the quill feed slowly, lowering the drill chunk that held the 1/8î bit. ìThe lightning outside wishes it were sand. The sand wishes it were glass. The glass catches the lightning, and creates a circle of dreams.î The duckling in the drill press, the sixth we were about to handle with seven more to go, tried to shiver from his grasp. The tiny bird was powerless in his grip.
ìThese storms never stop coming. In me, these storms never stop coming.î He said. ìIím pouring. Always.î He giggled.
The bit met the table block. Noises arose from the duckling. ìNo one will ever understand what we do, you know.î We nodded to each other as I raised the drill chuck, the hole neatly bored.
He handed me the duckling. I lifted the riveter, and with a metallic chonk sealed the tiny suit of armor in which we had ensconced it. I placed the little devil to the floor so he could walk around a bit and get used to the metal atop his little feathers. He espied his five steel-clad brothers and sisters and waddled over to them, quickly adapting to his outfit. The half-dozen of them gathered at the open door, clinking and clanking against each other, waiting impatiently for us to take them on their daily stroll.
He picked up the seventh as I gripped the quill feed. ìItís raining,î he said. ìBut only on the outside.î
ìIf one can see the outside, then one should never have a problem also peering in.î I replied.
Ducklings clinked and clanked at the screen door as lightning wished to be glass to be sand to beÖ
Thursday 11 April, 2002
I remember spending about year as Dale Bozzioís left nipple from the Fourth of July, 1979 to Memorial Day, 1980. I tell ya, that girl knew how to have a fun time, fun time...
Friday 12 April, 2002
Gots me a case o' warm 'n shakd' Natty Lite a bent rusty two-foot tire iron piercing punched sideways thru the left side of my sternum a new pair o' lathered-on 10W-40 hotpants tribal tracks of Max Factor's finest crayoned from shorn eyebrows to bronzed testicles (all three of whom're snug in a leather model 310S 24" locking clamp vice-grip specially made by American Tool Companies, Inc.) fire ants eatin' at the clover honey in my bellybutton and a mugwumpin' Jack who sez "jizz! jizz!" then jumps for joy as I buckle and ride this pogo yoyo from here to MontrÈal, here I am a-come come comin' so whatchoo up for, cowboy, angel, hm, whatchoo got trickd up that silky red sleeve?
Gots you a present for me?
Saturday 13 April, 2002 -- Montreal Notes
So late so late so late 2 or 3 or 4 am
But nothing better than being somehwere, like this quirk-brimm'd country that where nope I don't understand a word being spoken in this bar; seventeen others sipping at their beers and no one utters a word of English, not even me as I decide, based on the Midol-muscled susurrus of slurred Quebecois, to alter the pattern of my syllables and sounds as they penguin off my tongue and into the Arctic of conversation; to witty, as "canoe canoe canoe" [d]evolves into "nouka nouka nouka" with repetition, I'll create my own susurrus from this American voice...
...I'm interrupted...a gak of "Sir bartendah sir!" has wrecked my inchoate reverie, a ghastly tourist and from Boston no less, and I have nothing left to do but down my Labatt's and make my way to the men's room where it smells like a dill pickle has been beaten badly and left for dead.
Sunday 14 April, 2002 -- Montreal Notes
3:43 AM
my bedtime story is something about golden rivers and glistening glory, the cluck of ducks and moo moo of stuttering cows...I think I smell a rainbow, and it smells salty and needing to be lavishly bubbled in hot, hot oil...my bedtime stories are being whispered to me by a choir of deep-fried french fries chanting a melody in counterpoint with an oozy goozy cartel of baby-smile white cheese curds beneath a blanket of golden poultry gravy, turkey, chicken, duck duck goose, aaah such golden slumbers, Paul McCartney must have been singing about poutine......
Monday 15 April, 2002
From about the ages of 15 through 25, I had a recurring dream about being in dark and roughness, like a spider in a sealed coffee can tossed down a mountain. Inevitably, the rolling stopped, and I would just lay there weeping, feelings my breaks and bruises.
The first few times I had the dream, what happened next woke me with a scream: I was actually in the trunk of a car, which had come to a stop. The trunk opened and I was blinded by sunlight. My eyes, burning, focused just enough to see the man smiling at me, holding a large pistol to my face. He fired; I awoke, screaming.
As the years went on and I began to lucid dream, I could never get out of the trunk...and I always knew what was coming. Instead of preventing my face being shot off, I could only crawl my broken body further into the back of the trunk; the guy would just laugh and shoot me five, ten, fifteen times, along the length of my legs, torso, and head. I never knew how many times I would be shot, and clip size didn't seem to matter.
I never awoke any other way than by the gunshots.
Tuesday 16 April, 2002
TWICE...YES, IN TOPEKA...BUT THAT WAS YEARS AGO...I FOUND OUT SHE WOULD DO THINGS IN BARS WITH COLLINS GLASSES THAT WOULD SHAME DE SADE...GOT INTO A SITUATION ONCE WHEREIN SHE HAD TO GNAW OFF HER OWN HANDS...GOT NEW ONES, LUCKY FOR HER THEY WERE ALREADY PROSTHETIC...BUT THAT WAS LILY OF COURSE...SWEET COUSIN LILY WITH THE HYPNOTICX ASS AND THE BLOOD OF A SALAMANDER...SWEET COUSIN LILY, THE DYNAMITED-HOLE-IN-THE-BRIDGE TO THE TRAIN CALLED LOVE...I NEVER DID GET OVER HER......
Wednesday 17 April, 2002
Doesn't it suck that I find you beautiful?
Thursday 18 April, 2002
Forward crack; slice through air, whistling, glory rise. Intensity, full of lung. Copper flavor. Spin round, sigh. Heat's arrive. Walk by.
I'm naked.
Friday 19 April, 2002
I watch television to remind myself that I am superior. I am intelligent. I am more greatly knowledgable than a good 67 or so percent of the population.
That said: I love Poland Spring water. It's yummy, certainly yummier than the subtly piss-colored, not-so-subtly copper-flavored tap water that substitutes for a diuretic/stool softener within twenty minutes of sucking it down (no need for Ex-Lax in this town...just have a glass of water). I saw this commercial tonight for Poland Spring water, and I quote it here:
"...Poland Spring natural spring water; pure, clear, pristine. This is the new one gallon clear bottle...our new one gallon clear bottle delivers the pure, fresh taste of Poland Spring, exactly the way nature intended."
?
It did? Nature intended us to receive its bounty of pure, clear, pristine water in clear plastic jugs that will not decompose for 750 years? Did I fall asleep in ecology class? Did I miss Earth Day again? Are Birkenstocks really made from the poisonous by-products of the processing of carbon black, the material that goes into tire rubber? (Assuredly not....)
(Maybe George Carlin was right...maybe the planet put us (humans) here just because it needed plastic....)
Since Nature intends for us to get our water in plastic bottles, perhaps it intended for us to get our Big Macs in styrofoam all along....?
[Note: Check here for Poland Spring's "Clearly One Gallon" ad:
They're proud enough to stream it over the internet...]
Saturday 20 April, 2002
In some future life, I think I'd like to live on a button...I'd like to be some miniscule creature that needs to climb across the tiny pores and irregularities in the wood, or plastic, a creature that lives its lifetime trying to reach the other side of the world, transcendance through traversing the diameter, arid desert when we're out in the sun, cataclysmic typhoons in the washing machine, and of course the Four Deaths, the huge, lurching bundles of string from hell's open pits at the center of the world, creatures unimagineable living among the dark fibers.
Survival to the far rim would be far more thrilling than most things that will happen to you tomorrow.
Sunday 21 April, 2002
Steve...hi Steve...this is Brian...Brian, this is Steve...Steve, that is not Brian, that is Raul...Raul, this is Steve, Brian, and Theodore...Theodore, meet Jill, Jill will be holding the fruit...yes, Steve, I'm afraid it has to be Jill; Steve, please, just ready the paper and do not whine...Brian, Raul, if you will, please set the donkey on the blue plastic...no, no, not the teal plastic, the dark blue plastic...thank you...now Steve, the paper...the paper, STEVE, do not make me say it again...Jill, if you would, first the banana...thank you...oh, yes, that's the ticket...Theodore, the balloon please....
Monday 22 April, 2002
Why anyone would want to jump out of an airplane beats me.
Unless the airplane is full of bees.
Tuesday 23 April, 2002
Today I am gypsy music, I am honey calm in summer heat oozy and sweet, I'm a golden mudhole attracting tongues, I call to thirst but offer no salt, I'm a heart-throb rhythm's bouncy beat, your chest is thrubbing to me, your feet stump-stomp to me, the tap-tap-tappy on your desk on the wall against your wife is all boom-boom beat for me, beat of me, gypsy beat and honey thrummm, I'm drippy, sticky guitar string strummm, I'm rock-hard candy, I'm rocking out, I'm rocking out and ready to eat.
Wednesday 24 April, 2002
Longing for Springtime...
I love listening to women talk about their thighs in French. Even if they are not necessarily happy about their thighs, just that they are using the language and its inflections, coupled with the occasional gesture of open palms outlining the figure of their lower torsos and hips (usually as a sign of the thighs being too big...I think), is enough to make my day; of course, then there is the body language of their muscles tightening as they pinch their knees closer together in an attempt to make their thighs and hips look smaller...now that's a language I can decipher.
Thursday 25 April, 2002
You know you want to play with my cotton ball. You want to touch it, because it is soft and it makes you laugh. You think my cotton ball is puffy and white and would feel like a kitten on your lips, and you are right. Here, I will let you touch it. You can touch my cotton ball. But you have to let me touch your cotton ball, too.
Friday 26 April, 2002
Run run run, long way to go, making my Bowie eyes, glint in gray and blue at you, state lines cross my forehead, I'm traipsing mountain ranges, climb thru the valleys of OhiO's Os and drink the Mississippi, I'll pee it out in the Colorado and change the sceme of things, Call me Wet Willy, I'm paying a visit and using my Visa, "Charge!," said the elephant, "My trunk is packed with happy!"
Saturday 27 April, 2002
Wasn't it Earth Day recently? Did the Earth approve? I mean, calling it 'Environmental Day' or 'Pollution Day' or something makes sense, but 'Earth Day'? I makes me think I should be jamming about five billion candles into a cheesecake the size of the moon...ah, the mystery is solved; not cheese, but cheesecake...the moon is the Earth's Birthday dessert.
Well, now everything makes sense.
Sunday 28 April, 2002
Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday and wishes of drinks in your hands and sunshine on your head and friend's claps on your back and greenbacks pushing out your pockets and strippers vying for your lap and your cares lined up and shot as your stress is tied and bound and thrown in the trunk of a chevy strapped to a weather balloon and floated up to burst against the molten prickle of the sun, happy birthday to you.
for BAH
Monday 29 April, 2002
Monday again. Back to work in this godforsaken Springtime. 47 degrees today. Of course.
Okay, re-evaluation time. What do I do with my day? I work. Work work work. Also, sometimes I eat. Sometimes I shop online. Sometimes I take 2.5 hour liquid lunches, during which I challenge strange (not unfamiliar, I mean STRAGE) dusky-complexioned female tourists I meet walking down the street to come with me to Grendel's in Harvard Square and go shot-for-shot on a bottle of Tres Generaciones tequila, after which we stumble out of the bar, smash the empty bottle against the closest ambulance then quickly scatter ourselves into the nearby gym, coming out after an hour of aerobics and upper body strengthening to wrap ourselves in taffeta and tin foil, hit the sauna at the YMCA on Brattle, where we shout "We're burritos in blankets, microwave us!" until we get thrown out in a soaked state of liquor-and-sauna induced dehydration, go grab a bottle each of San Pellegrino at the 7-11, then perform "Porgy and Bess" in mime on the street corner until one of us feels hungry and we get a couple slices of Pepperoni from Pinocchio's then run into Winthrop Park after we're done swallowing the pizza in two huge triangular bites and wait for the security guard at the Peet's Coffee across the street to turn his back at which point she bends over in her leopard spandex stretch-ons and takes down the zipper that goes right down her coffee-skin buttock divide, revealing smooth underwear-free mounds and a lightly pulsing circular smile, and I insert as much muchacho as I can until she starts wailing like a Mexican banshee on angel dust and I kiss her quickly on her Kundalini, run back to work, and stare down my one good eye in the full-length wall mirror in the private men's room.
I also do some secretarial work.
It is 46 degrees out now. Springtime.
Tuesday 30 April, 2002
"Have you been psychologically reductionist today? Perhaps it is time to have that talk with the toaster."
I sense my computer thinks I'm too into myself.
Wednesday 1 May, 2002
Mayday! Mayday!
I still haven't figured it out...is that good or bad?
Thursday 2 Man, 2002
I feel no sympathy for that guy at the bottom of the stairs, the one burned all over his face with his left leg twisted underneath him as he painfully tries to turn over; I have no sympathy, because I watched him as he walked backwards up the big staircase in the middle of the building holding a large bowl of steaming hot chicken noodle soup, walking backwards so that he could get a last word or glance in at a cute little coed before he tried turning around and wrapped his legs around themselves and took his stupid, stupid tumble.
I watched a person two months from getting their MBA at Harvard, we're talking the cream of the American genetic crop, walk backwards up a staircase with a bowl of hot soup then fall and spill it all over himself.
I felt no sympathy for him. Instead, I walked over and kicked him.