accessibility

is bullshit. yeah, that's what i said, fool. cuz 11 years ago when i was walking the streets of riverside wearing a trentcoat and carrying a black dagger, some dirt bag approached me wanting to sell me a bag full of porn. i turned him down of coarse, butt not after having to brandish my evil dagger. that's the truth. some cholos almost forced me to pull it out; they were challenging each other to through a full unopened beer can at me. fortunately, the one the others were pressuring to throw the can at me, somehow sensed that i meant business had i been pushed. i had a black dagger and cashmere dark grey trench coat after all. shit, i wouldn;t have messed with me. well, i probably would, butt that's just me. i'm a fucking baddass. i'm so badd, you hafta spell badd with two dd's, for a double dose of my pimping. yeah. so when you try an come to me saying that illicit and illegal shit is more accessible and the reason for our failures, i say bullshit. bullshit.

The Apocalype is here

Hunter Thompson is dead by his own hands and Bob Dylan is now making country albums with his own hands. Fuck. When did the apocalypse happen? When did even the rich man’s security come into jeopardy? Was it September 11th that did it? Was it W? It can’t all be heaped on him, can it? I mean a good deal can. But he dodges shoes. He’ll soon reach Chuck Norris status. He’ll appear on Conan O’Brien and do bits with him. That is in the near future. But sometime in the last fifteen years the apocalypse, the literal biblical apocalypse, came to pass but we all missed it. So if you’re poor or a minority—or both—don’t worry; you’re not the one to blame. It’s everybody else that will presently put to death in some horrible fashion as yet to be determined. If you’re one of the lucky ones, your life will be spared butt both of your ears will be chopped off and you will be sterilized.
When did we become a race of inbred wankers? After all its only a gang-raping bunch of inbred wankers that would not pay attention and consequently miss the entire apocalypse. Butt shit, why would grease soaked, semen stained, sister screwing inbred wankers care about the fucking apocalypse in the first place? They’re not even self-aware. A small fern is more self aware than inbred wankers are.
It’s you lucky ones that have to suffer. At first you won’t care or notice those missing. They will be insignificant people. But soon you will notice friends and neighbors missing. One of them might escape and come back for help. Then you will see them with their ears missing and hears graphic tales of forced sterilization without any anesthesia. And these things you will try hard to quickly forget and say to yourself that these former people had committed some unimaginably heinous crime. Then you came to believe that they deserved their scars and punishments.
Butt one night, when things are quiet and peaceful you will find yourself hogtied, raped, beaten, and forcibly sterilized on your dining room table with your own kitchen utensils. And you will come to the bitch of all realizations that you live in America, and that you are in hell…

crack rock city cont.

i believe your status in society should be determined by how well and how quickly you can find and buy certain kinds of drugs in a city completely unknown to you. That would straighten things right out. when i roam the streets for drugs, in any city, it is as if my entire body and soul are transformed. my sense of sight and hearing become more and more acute. i walk by other pedestrians as if they are shadows; insignificant and harmless forms. and while walking across streets, through alleys, and looking behind dumpsters, i come across a tiny clear plastic zip lock baggy. i reach down to pick it up and open it. i lick my small finger to catch up the residue from inside the baggy. i taste it. so from this road sign i cotinue on, knowing that i am ever nearer to ecstasy. a rush of adrenaline courses through every vein and capillary in my entire body. my pace quickens. i cross another busy street and scan every person on the other side. it is then that i see someone, make eye contact, with someone just like me. he asks me the time. i busy myself by looking at my cell phone; every motion as spontaneous as if this weren't planned. and yet somehow it was and is. we make eye contact and we both know. we walk in the same direction with purpose, as if we have known each other for years. because we have. we each have played the opposite role more times than we care to admit. i've played the role i'm playing today even more. more times than i have shat even. and yet i still cannot slow the adrenaline and excitement. i am helpless to this rush, this chase. and that makes me more adept to the subtleties of our friends and enemies all the same. that is why i act instead of just reacting. when i act it is instinctual. thought is not required and is dangerous. it is dangerous because it is much too slow. we retreat to a nearby park which is adjoined by a catholic cathedral. this place is cool, he says. after all mike had been running these streets for 37 years. mike insisted on rerolling the joint i had rolled and ready. he told me as he rolled a "super joint" that his wife was home with his 3 week old baby boy, and his 3 year old girl. he tried time and time again to sell me some of the crack, cocaine, or lsd that he had so he could pay rent this month. his 1300 dollar a month rent. he needed only 17 more dollars, he told me. and he could give me a good deal on 10 or so tabs of acid. well shit, i thought. what could be better than doing a highly dangerous and potent psychedelic drug and roaming these fine shit-filled streets?

i awoke sitting on a velvety heart-shaped red shag couch. there was a small asian person of indeterminable sex talking harshly to someone somewhere nearby. i think the asian was a waiter or butler of some sorts. the asian person kept saying, "now who dumb, you muva fucka!" and whipping a man harshly with a switch of some sort. now the asian person went into a tirade about ordering drinks, i think, i couldn't make out most of what it was saying. my head was surprisingly light. i wasn't seeing any tracers, however, and i was somewhat puzzled by that.

the back lakes (gene & oso)

there is no meaning these
dayys-

we pretend there is in our music & culture & society-
butt we have no culture.
what we have is not a society.

we are all big overgrown infants--
the rest of us- the disaffected-we are children--not babies butt lost children wandering, starving, killing, fucking, lying, stealing & all the while hiding from ourselves cuz our hearts are broken-
we fight to have our lives mean anything butt mostly end up casualties to our environments.
we can only hold out for so long until the lying, the stealing, the fighting & fucking darkens our minds to life's possibilities cuz our lives don't have potential.
our possible achievements become monuments of violence & apathy.

fuck you for thinking i am invisible
I.will.make.you.see.me.

i run this delicious fantasy thru my mind butt in the end the rich & powerful still oppress

we havent changed their minds & we are lost to our violent fantasies

crack rock city

where the cocaine rocks never comes smaller than a walnut and the crack rocks are as plentiful as there are street people roaming and ranting. it takes discipline to roam and run the streets for 37 years. that's how long chris had been hustling. chris saw me and chased me down, asking ridiculously benign questions. the answers i gave weren't that important. it was my demeanor. my tone of voice, my subtle facial expressions that no one but chris would have picked up on. and the fact that he was high as a kite on speed or coke, he was a very astute man. but i am a shrewd man.

i needed more insight into this man's character before i would venture off into darker--and somehow even dirtier streetstreetsfeaturesafter getting properly acquainted I love

liminal spaces

Things are just so fucked up lately. I can’t tell my head from my ass and my ass from my elbows. But asses and elbows have never been a strong point for me. No matter; let’s get to the heart of this matter. Let’s get our heads straight and try to breathe evenly. My morals will not be needed for this exercise in truth. I can rarely go on one of these trips without my morals seriously sucking the life out it. Typically one of these trips just ends with an overwhelming sense of shame and foreboding for what might have been if only I had more faith. I can’t sleep tonite. It’s too fucking hot and a bit sticky. The last time I had one of these trips I prostrated myself on the dirty floor of my apartment in between the couch and the bed fiercely gripping a broken cd rom drive and a knife. There was a clear and eminent threat looming just outside. Lucky, though, that I had covered every window with tin foil so that evil creatures and such—like the evil demented though seriously wounded cat demon that had been after me for some time now—would have quite the trouble breaking through my set of defenses. I had to remain alert, aware, and poised for attack to protect my soul against this evil demented and seriously wounded demon cat. It had been following me for some time now. Always at the base of the stairs when I would cautiously open my apartment door and look out. The demon cat would snarl, raise up its back to show me he was thinking of me and give out a bloody screech. The demon cat, once it had my full and petrified attention, would pace back and forth at the base of my stairs, waiting for me. He was waiting for me to make any kind of move; he had me. I was his prey and he was beginning to feel impatient. So—like I mentioned earlier—I decided to prostrate myself in between my bed and couch, and wait for the demon cat to make his move. The little evil screeching fucker surely didn’t count on this. He already had me by the hair of my scrotum, but I would not give up so easily. I had to fight in any way I could. Violence had always been a good friend in the past, so that’s what I figured I would stick with now. Fuck anyone that would even think to dare to take away my moments of peace. I can only be at peace when the fucking demon cat had decided to get out of my life, at least temporarily; though he always comes back. None of this so far can coincide with on of those suicidal guilt journeys that some believe are what their god would have us do. Guilt and shame and such are for those with infirm minds and bowels. It keeps them busy in between changing sessions and simply wishing death would come riding in on a white horse to deliver them home. But fuck guilt, and shame too. They only lead to a quick and certain death of the senses, the mind, and the body. I don’t have time for meaningless bullshit like that. Self-excoriation can only take you so far; it does not in any way lead to any sort of enlightenment by any means. It is only when you—as executioner—lay down your weapons of self-affliction that the path leading to enlightenment can even be seen, let alone reached and walked upon.
These dark valleys that I stumble through. The various sorts of self-executioners that walk about wearing hoods and capes black as death. They actually smell of death as well, but a description so short is inept at describing these. What death smells like is not quite like the rotting flesh of a dead or dying animal. These walking dead reek of guilt and shame. That is what death actually smells like: guilt and shame. Hatred and anger are of course by-products of death. These executioners go about lashing out with animus, but this is simply an attempt to hedge off the guilt and shame. Denial is quite the bitch here. It is their lifeblood and the oxygen that they breathe. Survival—for lack of a better word—depends greatly upon gripping tightly to denial and pressing it hard and close to your chest. This is a memorial for where one’s heart used to reside.
I think I enjoy walking amongst the dead and dying. Not that it proves that I am alive, not by any means. That is certainly not the case. Fuck, I don’t know. I can’t take much more. When I walk amongst the dead, I sometimes feel more at ease, relieved and heartened in a demented way. I can’t be happy in many situations at all. They all lead to this reckoning; this reeking stench of death, but with the intentions of bringing to God’s love. That is all I want, but when I go after it all I find is death. So why not, then, search after death? I have indeed, tried everything.
There is one thing that I know for sure. It is that love—in all its simple glory—can fill in the gaps that crack open and exist because of our fear and hatred and guilt. The only mistake is that the way to love is not through fear or hatred or guilt. Love is what I want. I would worship it if I could. When I worship love, I am worshipping God. I am talking to Him. I talk to Him. Not the god of fear and guilt. I know what love feels like and I know what its absolute absence feels like.
But I thirst for this enlightenment, and for God’s love, and for love. What is stopping me from finding it? Have I even been looking, let alone searching? I cannot say. One thing I can say is that I cannot run and I cannot and will not hide. Fuck this guilt and shame and fear. No more, no more. Is that cowardice or is that just a human being?

powdered bug dust

something in the development phase...

“I can’t help this feeling of abandonment,” I said, afraid of what the reaction, or really the lack thereof, would be. “All my life, I’ve been alone. There’s no one I can turn to for answers. A father, an uncle, a mother, an older sibling. There has never been a single person that has ever filled this role for me.” I stopped, thinking this was an adequate, though entirely brief, explanation of my life and feelings. But this was a risk that I seldom took. First to express my emotions or feelings, and secondly to think that anyone would or could empathize or sympathize. I was lost. I wandered through this hopeless desert. I had nothing with which to tell what direction I was travelling in. The heat scorched me to my bones, drying out the marrow and stealing any trace of life. But nevertheless, I walked in darkness. There was no rising and setting of the sun in the east or west or any direction. No hints or clues. And despite the fact that I wandered in darkness, there weren’t either any stars with a fixed position. There was never a way of telling where I was or where I was headed, that is to say that I could say I was headed in some sort of direction with some sort of destination. Whether I was standing or sitting still, whether I walked, or wandered, or ran; it mattered not. All I had was the past that continuously haunted my every waking moment and dominated my dreams when I was able to doze off into restless and paranoid sleep. Often I woke not being able to move any muscle in my body. I could open my eyes and look around, but I couldn’t turn my head or neck. I couldn’t move my arms, or even wiggle my fingers and toes. And somehow the illusion I had while I was awake; that I could move and walk and run and scream, kept me from losing my mind. It was during these paralyzed fits that I felt my psyche slowly slipping away. It was movement that helped make this illusion so powerfully effective and that somewhat kept my mind intact during my waking moments. I could sense that something was terribly wrong with me and my surroundings, but I was too distracted by my lack of rest and peace. My head was barely above water. I struggled to take in a breath of air with my head raised to the sky, but half the time took in a mouthful of water instead.

did you know you have to show your id now to buy cough syrup in the bedamned grocery store?

some quotes from angels in america:

respect the delicate ecology of your delusions.

life is a painful progress. longing for what you left behind & dreaming of what's ahead.

up in the air just like an angel. too far off the earth to pick out the details. big ideas are what you love. america is what [you] love. i hate america. i hate this country. nothing but a bunch of big ideas, and stories and people dying, and then people like you. the white cracker who wrote the national anthem knew what he was doing; he set the word "free" to a note so high nobody could reach it. that was deliberate. nothing on earth sounds less like freedom to me. i'll show you america; terminal, crazy, and mean. i live in america. i don't have to love it. you do that. everybody's got to love something.

i didn't see any damned demons!!

what the hell, dammit?! no demons, no psychotic visions of apocalyptic wastelands, or even any hellishly introspective nightmares. i cannot even describe my disappointment. what a damnable let down. i was hoodwinked, bamboozled; i fell for betsy's beguiling ruse. what a bitch of a situation. when i'm promised visions that tear at the very fabric of your mind that's what i bloody well want and expect. and i can't take any magic mushrooms or other fun chemically powered substances cuz i need a bloody temple recommend for my roommates wedding. what a jip.

robert smith, creature of the night

last night robert not only made eye contact with me butt smiled at me. it was a transcendent and ethereal moment, and i think now i'm pregnant. which is fine of course. i just wish stevey were there to share the moment with me. butt holy shit dyke that was a good concert. i just wish i were smoking whatever the hell this one lady was. hijole de la chingado wey...

how do you wanna die?

my grandpa, grandpa blur when he was drunk and bly when he was sober--he was always drunk though, died on st patricks day in 1987 of a massive heart attack while defecating. so that's the way i've decided i want to die and by the time i'm 35. also i used to want to be buried with a virgin mary statue with her arms outstretched over my grave. butt in the left hand of the virgin would be a bucket with my cremated and cemented remains. i recently decided on a better way to be buried butt i can't bloody well remember right now.

i hate mormon dances as well. they make me more suicidal than binge drinking and aging transvestites on santa monica blvd in la that have horse faces. not a pretty sight.

i will punch you in the ovaries

i hate mormons. the dirty rat slag bastards. i hate utah, george bush, george bush, and shit like that. i hate cops with the heart and soul of a mexican lover. jess. can't come up with anything else right now. now i'm even cooler than i was before--thanks to stevey and betsy--cuz i'm blogging now dammit.