zombies and shit

two fucked up things of mine are part of zombie summer. Thank you to xTx! Go and eat brains


Someone reject me, quick before I lose hope

what the hell is the point of being a fish if you aren’t allowed to smoke? I mean, really , if there’s no there there then why bother, right?. I decamp from your tree and move to Tupelo where the news tells of a Rhinoceros escaped from the zoo terrifying the poorer residents of the town’s outskirts communities where they live in mud huts and shotgun shacks. To feel clean, even, straight, I shave my head and get a tattoo that says “There is No Magic” across my forearm. The tattoo artist has a lisp and almost misspells my ink. I want to gut him and hollow him out and live inside his body drinking cheap whisky all day. Instead I look for a job sweeping up after eyeless men in a bar downtown. It is my job to maintain the dank. It’s a decorating choice.

Someone reject me, quick before I lose hope

Artifice mentioned Oprah Read This in a good way


The panic is getting to the point that I cannot control it. Xanax, valium and bourbon are my medicine. I want a fedora. When it rains my blood bubbles and bone chips go around the room lighting candles. Several dogs are following me.

Maybe they will make me into glue when I am dead.

I hope to see a new movie soon.

Fuck your bloodless coup.

I’m somewhere dark, bathed in cold and being beaten. Someone is kicking me in the side, slamming a hiking boot into my ribs over and over, creating small stress fractures that are destined to build into a series of serious breaks. A shattered rib could bend inward and puncture a lung, but I can’t worry about that right now. Someone else is punching the back of my head. They’d be going for my face, but I have my body curled up like a fetus. I didn’t take this protective posture on purpose; my body just did it on its own. I’m bloody and sweaty and awash in the techno music pouring from the bar these guys carried me out of and all I can think of is her dead smile.

Last night I read Beyond Good and Evil and wept.

Then I drank and wept some more.

I don’t want to tell you the story of how I started drinking. It isn’t one of those cute, instructive stories that teach an important object lesson and gently inform about the human condition. The whole thing is largely pointless, lacking even sturm und drang. If I told you, you’d likely be bored by the whole thing. You wouldn’t learn anything, and nothing would be illuminated.

how dumb am i?

So, I’ve been sticking tiny bits of the novel I’m writing in my blog posts.

I decided to just make a new page and stick the first 5k words up for the world (all 12 of you) to see. It is here. That tab that says “nothing”.

Read it if you want.

Use the comments to rip it apart.

Go crazy.

Whiskey and blood is a good mix.

There’s a moment in a movie ( I forget which one, but I think it was Kurosawa) where this old man is dying. There is a cherry orchard. The old man is musing. He has spent his entire life looking for a perfect cherry blossom. It’s only now, now admits, that he realizes that they were all perfect. People turn their eyes away from the horror and look for the beauty without ever realizing that they are the same thing.

I listen to Ritchie Havens in the dark and wonder about the things I have forgotten.


“Common sense. Fuck.” Macgregor took a deep pull from his beer and slammed the bottle back on the table. The room was dark and the air was more smoke than oxygen. It was one of those dank bars where sad old bastards drank during the day. Macgregor was sitting at a small table in the corner. Across from him was a man who called himself Billy Watkins. Billy looked like he belonged in a Jim Thompson novel. He had a long, angular face marked by what appeared to be a dueling scar running jagged down his left cheek. His shirt was sealed by snaps coated in mother of pearl and his jeans bore oil stains. When Macgregor had first noticed him he had been clomping across the room. His worn down boot heels had echoed and sprung as he walked. There were a hundred just like him here. Macgregor would have ignored him had it not been for his left boot. That was the thing that Mac had noticed. As the man walked every other step made an odd, hollow noise. Mac had looked down at his boots and seen that one heel was different than the other.

“What’s up with your boot heel?” Mac had asked.

“That one’s crystal,” the man had said.


“My left boot hill. It’s made out of crystal. It’s a long story.”

“I bet.”

“My name’s Billy Watkins,” the man with the crystal boot heel said.

“Macgregor. Call me Mac. Buy ya a beer?”

Then they were sitting at the table talking like men who had known each other for years.

“Common sense. Fuck,” Mac said.

“What do you mean,” Billy asked taking a puff from his cigarette.

“What’s the shortest distance between two points?” Mac took another drink, sat his empty bottle on the scarred table top and lifted his hand to get the attention of the bartender.

“A straight line I guess.”

“okay. That’s common sense, but it’s wrong. ”

“It is?”

The bartender brought two more beers and took some crumpled bills from Mac then vanished into the shadows.

“Yeah. I mean, sometimes it is. If the two points are on a sheet of paper then yeah, the shortest distance is a straight line. If they’re on a curved surface, like this planet, then that isn’t necessarily true. Sometimes the shortest distance between two points is a curved line. That’s non-Euclidean geometry.”



Billy took a long pull from his beer. “So, where you heading?”

“What makes you think I’m heading somewhere/”

“You just look like a man on his way somewhere.”

“Guess I must.”


They talked for a while. The conversation meandered between weather, politics, sports and the other crap men in bars discuss when they don’t really have anything in common. After an hour and several beers Macgregor excused himself and went back to his motel.


Whiskey and blood is a good mix.

She wakes me and says hallelujah

It was fucking hot. I meant to shave my beard, but couldn’t stop. Now I’m bald. I look like I escaped from an insane asylum.

My aunt gave me the new Stephen King book. It’s called Blockade Billy. I hadn’t heard of it. I think it’s about baseball or something.

I don’t care for the thing that is stalking me. It is a perfect engine, as the movie says. My first memory, and forever I thought it was real, is of a shark devouring a boy on a yellow raft. Blood spurted in arcs through the air and the screams coated the beach. I saw JAWS on TV when I was 12 and realized that my earliest memory was a movie. Still, that shark is stalking me. There is no shark like fear. I avoid lust and eat cold spaghetti from a can while drinking Ten High bourbon and flipping the channels on the antiquated TV set bolted to the dresser.

I no longer know my name, so I use a different one everywhere I go. Cullin is the name I gave at the front desk. In the bar I was Macgregor because it reminds me of Highlander, and I think there can be only one. Just me and the shark.

She wakes me and says hallelujah

Twak has an argument

I wish I still had that gun

We are watching you. Your every move is known to us. There is no reason to fight it. Relax and accept your fate. You are guilty.

“She wakes me up to tell me she’s gone” But I already know that.

Jack Strauss thought he was out when he realized that he still had one chip. He took his seat and continued to play; eventually winning the main event. Moral: you are never really down and out unless you pull the trigger.

After two days the phone does ring. I don’t recognize the voice on the other end, but we talk about sharks for twenty minutes before I hang up. Later that night I find all of my old skin cells hidden beneath the bed. They are plotting a comeback, creating a difficult chess strategy to first defeat me then take control of the continent. My toenail clippings are in on the plan but my liver is the leader.

I drink a liter of bourbon and pass out. My dreams are about rusty coat hangers and trickles of blood.

At three the phone rang again and I stumbled from sleep to answer. The voice on the other end said something vague about the ocean, then hung up. I muttered under my breath and fell back into dream. Whales screaming and nursing mothers.

Do I drink? Yes I do.

Can I insert a novel, a bit at a time, into my blog posts without telling anyone that that is what I am doing? Is it fair to the dozen people who read this damned thing? Does it even make sense to do so?

I want to shave equations into my head.

I want to eat a neighbor.

I wish that I still had that gun.

On a serious note: I may run for congress. Everything I have ever said here may be a problem, but what the hell. I have good ideas.

Life sucks.

There are burning houses and bare bones everywhere.