we were sitting in a circle in prison

and me and the therapist in the snake skin boots were asking her about something completely different when she went off on

"how ever since i was little the first thing i looked at when i saw a guy was his package"

like an Olympian swimming team, the therapist in the snake skin boots and i crossed our legs.

"i tried to see his penis or balls through has pants. i was obsessed with it."

"sometimes, with kakhis, you can even make out the head if they are wearing boxer shorts," Miriam chimed in.

"GAP kakhis," the women all sighed in unison.

she had a university of michigan sweater

and skirt that left everyone on the bus looking at her bruised legs and pink and white striped panties. mid-way up her thigh someone wrote "xxx" in sharpie. Me and the old man across from her both looked at each other and nothing needed to be said. we both realized we'd fuck her, and then both realized it was completely unnecessary. this took place with a sigh.

anyone fucking this girl just seemed over the top.

red ring of death, part deaux

got a new 360 about 1 and a half months ago. it froze three times last week and greeted me with those lively red flashing rings this morning. this and windows crashed on both my computers. if i ever meet you bill gates, i will crap down your throat.

waiting for the ATM at the bar across from the tattoo parlor

"you guys aren't getting it, (smashing cigarette into table for emphasis) we'd be on stage playing with this giant white screen projected on us"

"we'd be completely white washed"

the girl i think is the drummer says:

wouldn't we be blinded by the projector?

"god, that's the whole point. don't you see what we're going for here? we'd be blinded by the whiteness"

just like always, no one gets it.

"my friend says he can do all these rad 80's transitions that will be all over us and the stage."

i finally get my 60 dollars, grab my receipt and exit the bar.

last thing i heard was:

"we need this to take us to the next level"

that's me

"that's me"

he said both into the phone and at me. it was a one of those 'last night's party' books that are a photo journal of the exploits of hipster douchebaggery.

his photo looked nothing like him.

the background was just plain black and he was standing there in the center, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and giant white-framed sunglasses covering his dilated pupils.

"you're famous now"

i said. he just kept tapping his finger at himself on the page and starting calling someone else.

i continued my fruitless search for a book by Benjamin Guedel, an artist even powell's world of books hadn't heard of.

thank god for amazon.

b.m.

I shit black again and wait about 10 seconds before it shuffles down. For twenty years I’ve known that I get closer to the final shit with each black tar dump. Cells that should stay put don’t. Cells that should be living and dying inside me aren’t. They’ve jumped ship like the rest of me wants to but is too preoccupied with what people might think to do anything heroic or otherwise.

The blood doesn’t even hide anymore. It’s visible on the porcelain now, just like it always has been on paper. Red on brown on white. I swear I could shit better than anyone who calls himself an artist could ever paint. When’s the last time a painting took someone’s breath away because of the suffocating smell?

It was buffalo wings this time. Sixteen buffalo wings in Caribbean Jerk sauce, an impressive amount of alcohol, and a handful of fries. Empirically.

Unempirically it was sixteen buffalo wings in Caribbean Jerk sauce, an impressive amount of alcohol, and a handful of fries and sense that if I hold it long enough, block it all in, squeeze as hard as I can, then I can stop the decay--I can keep what’s mine.