cockroaches?? wtf was i smoking?!

cockroaches.

The tower rose. As the builders continued to place metal upon metal, piece upon piece, the tower rose. It rose, at first, to nothing more than a few feet above ground. A few feet above the cockroaches, as they scurried beneath the metal. But as the builders saw elevation take place and the possibility of building a structure up away from the cockroaches, they hurried. They placed more metal upon metal excitedly. Look, they would gesture to one another, look below-- the cockroaches diminish with each new piece. The more pieces they placed, the higher the tower rose. The higher the tower rose, the less visible the cockroaches became. Soon, nothing below them was visible. Soon, the tower rose up above the clouds where the air was thin and the sky was cold. Soon, there was nothing beneath the builders but sky. They were God-like. They had built the tower higher than any man-made point and even above some made by nature. They continued to build. Why stop now, they argued. In time, they forgot what it was they were trying to get away from. In time, they forgot that anything beneath them had ever existed. All they knew was the tower, and that something had initiated them to build upwards.
But down below the cockroaches did not forget. Down below, the cockroaches were left behind as they watched the builders disappear into the sky. The cockroaches wondered what was so great about the sky, and what could possibly drive the builders to build in that direction. The cockroaches wanted to climb the tower and explore the sky, but they didn't. They were too afraid. The only thing the cockroaches knew was the ground, and they knew they belonged to it. Will the builders ever return, they wondered. Why did they disappear into the clouds? After some time, the cockroaches knew the builders would not return. Every once in a while one would fall to the ground in a terrible accident, and his body would splatter across the concrete like an egg. But no other builders would come down after that. It was almost as if they had let one fall, and considered it a small price to pay for the direction they were heading. What was so great about being in the sky, the cockroaches wondered.
Sometimes, not often but sometimes, a few of the cockroaches would get angry. They would circle around the foundation of the tower and think to themselves... if we just disassembled one leg, they would think, if we just disassembled one leg the whole structure would fall...

fever.

i'm eating my own face. all the babies everywhere are dropping their pacifiers in unison. every day it seems the stink grows. i don't even know who's watering it. and the people in the institution, they think i'm one of them. i only listen because my legs are too tired to run. spew your feces. spew your mess. it's either too mundane for me to care or too caring for me to sustain. when i see your face, all i see is a caricature. when i hear your voice, all i hear is monotone blabber. i try hard to pay attention but the image twists into a vortex. you need to shock me to maintain my focus. everything is blood red now. everything is bleeding into each other. the images... the sounds... the feelings... what feelings? a hole is burning in the middle of my retina making it seem like a damaged strip of celluloid. the stench of burning failure and the audible shattering of dreams welcomes you like a bar-room jukebox playing too loud. whatever happened to the notion of peace and sanctity? even behind my back i can feel the chaos. it isn't so much about what was said, but that it was said at all. i can't believe the strength of all the leaders throughout the history of time, with all their power and all their ability and all their resources didn't amount to shit. it doesn't matter. it's almost completely ruined anyhow. nothing much left to do but sit here... and eat my own face.

Damsel in Distress... or Big Momma's Angry Now...

Barack Obama's like The Ladies Man: a smooth talker but all he really wants is to get in your panties. He's always talking about change, but change in what? Paying for universal healthcare? Fuck that shit, I want my gynological exams done free. I'm all for a black president but not when there's a more qualified candidate.

Hillary Clinton's like the Wicked Witch of the West. Or was it East? Whatever. No one seems to like her on a personal level, but no one really seemed to like her husband on a personal level when he was president and the country seemed to be doing okay.

John McCain... who cares about John McCain. He still thinks he's in 'Nam. I don't want an eighty-something-year-old president who's found on the White House lawn at three in the morning in his underwear hiding from "the slopes." I shouldn't say that, he's a war hero. He's still an old fogey, though. Don't try to relive your glory days on my dime.

What is it with all these strong-ass breath mints nowadays? I put one in my mouth the other night and nearly had a brain hemorrhage. I wanted fresh breath, not a subdural hematoma. There should be a warning label on each pack: Warning: Fresh Breath Will Only Occur After Five Minutes of Intense, Mental Anguish. Cops should use them to subdue suspects instead of a taser. Don't SMint me, bro!

Happy Mandatory-to-be-Sweet Day.

Her.

That beautiful girl
with the devious smile.
Her soft, pale skin
and her hair so wild.
When I look in her eyes
no matter how brief
my breath becomes stopped
until I remember to breathe.
When she smirks to the side
I wonder, why grin?
Why arch those lovely lips
to the side of your chin?
What makes you smile?
What makes you laugh?
What makes you sad?
And can I follow that path?
Many have followed
I'm certain of this
only to hurt when she leaves
for a different interest.
But the pain can be worth it
when the prize is such bliss.
Suffering is the hangover,
the intoxication- the kiss.
I know nothing about her
except the glimpse from her eyes
of the volumes of heaven
encased in the body inside.

i have made a silent compact with myself not to change a line of what i write. i am not interested in perfecting my thoughts, nor my actions. beside the perfection of Turgenev i put the perfection of Dostoevski. (is there anything more perfect than The Eternal Husband?) here, then, in one and the same medium, we have two kinds of perfection. but in Van Gogh's letters there is a perfection beyond either of these. it is the triumph of the individual over art.

-henry miller, Tropic of Cancer

Power. History. Personal Vendetta and Agenda.

you gotta question these motherfuckers sometimes. who would want this job? the economy's bad, housing is plummeting, gas is outrageous, healthcare is a mess, there's a bloodbath going on overseas, immigration is a problem, homeland security is demanding, the dollar is falling, pro sports have been tainted, taxes are aggravating, education is struggling, the united states is seen as a threat to world peace, and the media is hypercritical. yet they fight tooth and nail for the job. why?

i always find it uneasy to watch a black family versus a white family on The Family Feud. almost like there is some kind of unspoken symbolic social statement going on. i never know who to root for.

Lakers acquire Pau Gasol for Brown, Crittenton

that's sick! my mind is blown. that's sick! my mind is blown. that's sick! my mind is blown. that's sick! my mind is blown.