Did You Read The Fucking Thing?!?!?

What glories would ring if all at once, every. single. fucking. Person. who made follies of the mouth, truly foul, ill-informed descriptions and definitions of words, could define themselves as mutes. The end of bastardizing language, and the beginning of God's pure tampon inserted deep into Earth, clogging the bleeding pit of ridiculosity that exists within the mind of a dullard. Tears of politically correct retards and fagots would fill the streets, as the circus of lawyers would abruptly pack their mobile homes and scurry from mob-beatings delayed by progressive mothers and the politically correct muzzles of justice. Oh no! It reads as arrogant and insensitive to generalize a mass of human as such!

Oh whoa is me, and whoa is the world. Yes, Mrs. Brown some people are morons, and yes, it could be their environments or upbringing to blame, but this does not change the importance of reminding morons how dull their wits and how many shits (none) are given about their attempts to decipher reality. With censorship of the idiot, reality itself would be a little more real, and for the sake of arguing existence is a good thing, it would make the world better.

Can you see it now? The day pundits and politicians opened their collagen lips and collaborative schemes to reality, or the correct use of words, would be the day skies would open and Jesus Christ himself would return to the world, slaughtering and saving the tongue all at once, choosing syllables over antonyms, leaving parenthesis behind to perish as meaning ascended. Oh! Just one day! Just one, when the phrase “shut up” was adhered to, and all the bitching and bickering and whining and hissing turned off with the right tightening of a hose's handle! It would be a stroll through the neighborhood without Bill or Martha telling you where to put the newspaper or the exclamation point! Can you imagine how this day would be? It's excites me to think what would or could happen without rules and the critics of writing and of cynics, an open discussion celebrated in the assumption of education!

Oh, glorious day we have found you! For there are no more fucks given about who is offended and who will need mended, because the faces of pussies, and cowards, and wimps, and those who want to just hear themselves speak...or argue, will be sown shut. Say what you want tomorrow, but for just one day, let every person say what they mean and mean what they say, for just one day, lets open the lines of human interaction and actually be able to handle it.

War would be taboo instead of being called nappy-headed hos, and television without commercials would discuss human rights more than race, people could speak of violent Muslims and not have their heads cut off by advanced sand monkeys, or indicted by advanced “civilized” pale monkeys, all of them, “hoo-hooing and caw-cawing” about insensitive remarks as they sentence another cracker Swede or Netherlander to a death sentence.

Every fucktard who complains about art, every person hired by a company to make bad things seem PR-friendly, every marketing whore bore deep within the bukkake of sales and every person who uses a word to misinterpret things purposefully can just shut. the. fuck. up.

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The Greek Tower

Red beams burnt 1:00 into Lukas' eyes; fate's silent alarm reverberated through his bones, deaf yawns and high-pitched buzzards in his ears faded into numbing buzzes...familiar to those who take trips outside the realm of Parental Guidance, but Lukas had not traveled in just over a dozen years. Greece was restless. Elders paced across nights, searching for ways to raise their children, who grew into nightmares for abandoned tourists, spending wasted bills and hours on unfamiliar phones canceling cards and numbers that create a stolen identity.

Outside Lukas' cottage, ancient tongues sprayed from the mouth of Hades as rip-tides battered Cape Tenaro. Bottles shattered against rock, messages within disintegrated into nothing more than wounded words. As Lukas emerged from the warmth of blanketed mounds, an irrepressible gust kicked in his front door, uninvited dirt and unwarranted papers rushed inside, knocking over Lukas' dresser, shattering mirrors and tearing through screens.

A path unveiled itself to Lukas, from the foot of his bed into the pit of the storm. He toed the line carefully barefoot, across splintered wood planks then course and battered stone stairs. Once in the yard, Lukas felt soothing moss under his heels, until he looked to the light-tower and witnessed torrents so fierce, the light within had extinguished. As caretaker, Lukas knew it was his duty and his alone to replace the light, so he solemnly climbed the summit he feared to be his grave.

Winds penetrated what he thought was impermeable stone, whistling in dull and ominous tone as the handrail creaked and conducted the chills of the dead surrounding the cape, swirling in foam and cast into the unknown of a frigid December night. Shards of broken windows sliced into Lukas' cold feet, causing feeling and blood to return.

Lukas fumbled in the dark, searching for tools to fix the light, as howls from the world swirled around the point and demanded attention. He finally viewed the clouds above, and for the first time saw the Mediterranean from his world without glass casing below. In the distance, fishing vessels toppled and collided, as changing waves swallowed lives and turned over from every corner of his fear, Death greeted Greece in this New Year.

A Western Suicide

Look around, there is nothing here for you dilapidated cowboy, your boots are caked with cow shit, and the dip in your lip makes your breath smell the same as your soles. You don't farm, you don't produce, you have a big truck you can't drive, and you are as on point as your pointless bumper sticker.

You act tough and drink hard, so hard you kiss your toilet at the end of the night, and hug it in the same pathetic manner you hug your opponent to the ground. Go spend some more money cowboy, get those new boots, get the designer jeans all of the urban cowgirls like to much, as they sing terrible songs by men as feminine as they and sway back and forth like denim dipshits with developmental retardation, cackling and laughing at red faces that pray for them to take a wrong turn into a ditch.

Go on and rant about freedom cowboy, talk about the niggers and the fags, in soliloquies of Jack Daniels and dur-d-durs, because God knows driving a forklift horse is so difficult, only a white man can pull it off. Go on cowboy, get-R-done, tell hunting tales to city kids who had guns and knives pulled on them by real animals, convince them how soft they are, how rugged you are cowboy. Get a new tat about it and flex it off in public, tanned in December, because real men act like superficial women.

How's the cattle in Columbus? Or the corn around the corner? Did you till it, did you bail it? I'm sure you did, and I'm sure the free housing and everything else momma and pop give you along with the $200 dollars under the table is a flat rate for all real farmers. Go on cowboy, ride your bicycle, I mean motorcycle, because every hard ass has a leather jacket and 25 grand between their legs.

We've all tried to understand you cowboy, you are as American as they come, as American as American cheese or cellophane, microwaves and cheap plastic imports. Bright lights and mud wrestling, tent cities and coolers in open fields, caked in shit. Just like a stable aren't you cowboy?

Drink up cowboy, because the cowgirls love a man who can piss himself in public then run his lip to a stranger, laughing through rotted teeth and dull wit, always ready to fight and even more ready to be held back. Size is scary, bigger is better, just like the truck, with a bed full of cow shit, parked in two spots when it isn't driving in two lanes or hitting curbs when it turns. Here's a loaded revolver cowboy, do the one trick, where you spin it around back and forth, as the barrel points inward to your face and gut over and over, take another shot like a real cowboy, bottle of whiskey in one hand and hand cannon in the other. We're all waiting to see.

Smoking Out The Rabbit Hole

Modern political debate since the 1960's circles around the violent clash of philosophies, sinew, and tidal waves of upheaval, sweeping Revolutions throughout Latin America, The Middle East, and all of Africa signaled a time to many that the world was going to change.

Unions and empires crumbled as fists of children around the world raised, and proud cultures and neighborhoods defiantly stood their ground, protecting their ways of life against outside forces and nations seeking land, labor, and resources to exploit, this is nothing new; human History has shown us how terribly wrong the experiment of teaching the concept of sharing is to infants. In two generations, the face of the world has changed, there are the living and breathing who have seen it all, the Depression, death, war, Polio, drug cultures, shootings, attacks on the country, attacks on civilians, Communism, Socialism, McCarthyism, internment camps, terrorism, media blackouts, repressed expressions, assassinated leaders, rotted through politicians, Madison Avenue swindlers and a loose bundle of problems rolled out over time.

The entire world was at war, and in that peace came the most destructive weapon created, Crippling Fear. People feared to live in a nation where their beloved President was murdered in cold blood, as he promised to change the world, he seemed to be the last who executed in a positive light. Fear of nuclear war, has turned us into a nation willing to destroy any country seeking nuclear power. We break their economies, we starve their children, their scientists are killed, their leaders are threatened, their lands become infested with spies, we carpet bomb their cities...because we have to.We created a demon we battle everyday, and the battlefield has been in the backyards of farmers, seen through the show windows of markets, waiting inside piles of limp bodies and skin turned cold.

In today's world, units can sweep into a palace, silently silencing guards and a target within minutes, a missile could be intercepted in the split second of a button pressed on the keypad, and acts of war can be stored on a USB file double-clicked. Forget days of untrained pilots manning million dollar projects, we live in an age where unmanned planes can be armed and driven, over your families and your friends by a power source. It is for our protection, just as cameras are just monitoring our streets for our safety, as the war on Terror was for our safety, and the thousands of young men we sacrificed for revenge, not a cause, to make a statement, not a difference, were to keep us safe from cavemen.

The world had more color before, everything wasn't charcoal or pewter, black or metallic, sleek and fogged, by empty promises of eternal safety for America and for steel. Our kids don't play in the yards, they sit and play video games, eat McDonald's for their safety, from perverts and pedophiles, who are everywhere, like underground spiders waiting to crawl to the surface and smother the Earth. Every breath of fresh air in this country is followed by a look over the shoulder, flashing lights and a fine, fine executor.

We must be protected from drug lords from Mexico invading our land like the cockroaches and people they are, refugees of a business deal and a handshake called free, and a trade that changed it all. The world is in upheaval all around, buildings burn, people are hungry, they are poor, they are desperate, everywhere. Money is tight, people are rioting for money, killing for their money, rampaging in the streets, stomping out highway projects and public offices, and we are here, in America, safe from it all.

We cannot fail, we are a machine, we are the greatest Democracy in humankind, look at George Bush and Al Gore, George Bush and John Kerry, John McCain and Sara Palin, Mitt Romney and Barack Obama, we built faces that emerge from mountains, and points highest in the world, the best place to look down on those all over. We rant and rave, and debate and we change things, we change how people think, we change how people understand us, we give them Democracy, we give them freedom, they feel it when they see assault rifles and flack jackets. We have the greatest economy the world has ever seen, where useless baskets can turn into million dollar machines, and buildings are rebuilt every twenty years, our fuel is our great craftsman ship and our drive to better the world, with apps and bright lights, plastic computers that create illustrious worlds of endless possibilities and falsity.

Things have progressed so much since the times of our fathers and grandfathers, we would never fall back into times of despotism or torture, debtors prison or coercion. Sure there is the IRS and Guantanamo and free speech suppression, but this is America, so love it or leave it, hippies don't belong in the street, cargo does, and it's your own fault you didn't pay someone to do the paperwork right, because after being taxed on food, gas, cigarettes, beer, inheritance, for social security, medicare, property and schools, in cities and state funded projects and federal projects, and sure you were taxed for the clothes on your back, and there was a tax for shipping the finest goods and services to this country, but who doesn't do their taxes every year? You deserve to go to jail if you don't pay income tax, because we are broke and need more, and we need to borrow more, because if we don't spend more we can't grow or prosper, or spend enough money on military and defense contracts to keep us safe.

Because our grandparents survived the depression and the war and the disease and the heartache and hardship, and they survived boat rides across distances and worked hard in coal dust and fiberglass threads, they were safe, they survived, but for some reason they always remind me it is their last Christmas or their last 4th of July, always talking about how they are lonely or blind, but I just ignore them because old people do that.

The Humpty Dump

The wide grin of a dealership's owner raises high atop wooden scaffolds, wavy blonde hair frays from beneath an oak top-hat as his story-high eyes hypnotize the daily sedated. Sparklers and fireworks ignite, mounted into wooden boards of the sign, fools become customers in loose and gawking lines, innocent bystanders are struck and turned into the "target market". They stare at the spectacle, as brass instruments scream into the distant sunset, forced by brass musicians whom insist. A lovely lady poses and presents a limp silk curtain, holding behind it, the inventory of dreams. Her soft legs prance and tangle on coat tails, abandoned at the cheek, cut off by net leggings for all to be drawn. The catch of the hour smiles between false and seductive, unquestioned talents are admired by all.

"One at a time" her felt gloves brace each consuming shoulder, a slight dash of comfort and conveyor-belt welcome into a vast, humpty dump.

Used salesmen greet the colorful and eager families into a new world...with half-empty bottles of scotch and browning pant-legs, loosely secured around ankles, as a pile of Chevy's burn in the distance. Warming extensions of sporadic vomit and obscenities towards invisible fathers echo over blowjob slurs behind unplugged Pepsi-machines and stacks of VHS tapes, molded into castles. Flags rise high above and praise "Fujifilm" as CEO's laugh and banter from a drawbridge made of VCR re-winders. As new arrivals walk past the triumphant tower, at least thirteen feet high, bodies in bandanas constantly grow, tossed out the backdoor of a game of roulette, only a slight glitch in their idea of the chairman.

Children enthralled to see the lot, so excited they bellow and cry for their mothers, who worry and clutch at their husbands, whom grin and accept their new vacation, continue into the wastes, excited to see the variety of food.

To The Lost, Drink Up

Down the back alley of an existence that should never have been thought, trickled streams of stale rain navigate over worn gravel, where they pass beneath rubber souls and disingenuous leather, mixing with the booze and the sewage and the piss, where glimmers of forget and hours of delayed regrets release silhouettes from a smoke filled room, inhaled through a splintered board, dangling by the fibers on the outside looking in a hole in the wall.

Laughter in bursts crowds dead air, as the shrills push and swirl behind force and tradition, no matter how drawn and undeserved they may be. A babbling rosy-cheeked orator squints and sways, toasting his own demise with a belly of joy and a grin peeled far back by blind illusions of happiness and respect, successes and points, truths and paychecks. Acquaintances stare in solidarity, as their blank faces erase self-indulgent thoughts, of screwing and soaring, beyond the orator, or the leaking ceiling or the piss or the bullshit, searching for their own prayers to be answered by their own Gods, whom tend solely to their own piss and shit, while they scream "Fuck God!" within.

Inevitability wades in the air, jumping from lips of passersby and newsboys, punishing sidewalks with repeated paths of late trots and obsessive stares at wristwatches of gifts, and wristwatches of bankroll. Pressure from time opens the cracks, breaking the manly successes of dried dirt mixed with water, where sprouts of reminder of the final dance and last appointment are ignored by "closed" signs and "will returns" battered and tested by swift winds carried through canals of windows, locks of bricks, and the will of the old man we've all come to know, cold and impatient, kicking us along like a can of soup, someday admired by the seeker whom treasures another man's trash and will not waver in the spit of a critic.

In the eye of the stream, where tires are busted and dreamers sleep in filth amongst cans of garbage and trash, trampled so relentlessly that it adheres to it's place, though it struggles to float away, a hypocrite bellows and judges, screaming for the attention of humanity, praising it's glory and it's tale.

The braggart accepts the fact of the matter, but refuses to knowledge what the matter was before he took credit for it's explanation, cursing all who question the latter, but he stretches higher into heaven, stacking a ladder on top of a soap box, balancing his act on stories of stilts, pivoting finally on thin pity and the merciful child, whom the braggart tossed a coin, though he relies to steady and overlooks, down upon the crowd who through him a coin, pondering the questions looked over without study and observed for the fate of a debt, a curse or a deal, sometimes for fame, and others for a warm meal.

Rats scurry along the canal, beaten with paddles, by paddies, into patties, they slide into panties, and sneak into parties, only to be greeted and festered by other rats, snickering and such, fitting into the traps of flames, or quakes, or the stakes and retribution, the loan sharks and long shots. In an instant they scatter from sirens, beatings, lashings, electrocution,  hangings, sprayings, in an instant they scatter, chased off by loud buzzes, or loud hoofs, or sticks in the night, cracking over "leaves!" and leafs pleased to disperse.

Seeds fall then spread, then plant just like had a year prior, and will again in a year again, into soil rotten, by the spoils of victory, and the blood or the liquor, or tears, or the come from the years of strangers and seamen, floating into anything unknown, from one port to another; decades of silent communication amongst whores unfamiliar in but one place, itching to find the sailor who on the ground trotted, beating paths as they met others in the service, hoping to be serviced, as the brakes to the morning snap and fail, all sacrificed to find the nearest watering hole, where echos of laughter peer from dim lit rooms, filled with smoke and braggarts, and piss...

Edit This, Bitch.

Before you send praise, doubt, and even credit,
Please keep in mind that I refuse to edit.

I'll drag and drain, complain, and brag "Yeah I said it"
But I'll never erase or re-type, I must reiterate, "I will never edit"

I'd rather be a creditor than and editor, I'd choose infection over correction,
I'll take my typos, chicken-scratch and questioned lines,
Take your opinion, complaints and whines.

No matter how bad, my gramMer or Prose,
Something bores me about backtracking what flows.

Some writers want fame, perfection, or a "mastered craft",
It's all just a crutch, lame, like arm-floaties and such, just use a raft,
Because all they completed was a pure thought deleted,
Readers could have reminisced and some may have laughed,
If they weren't safely guided to shore by the Math.

Subtracting taboo, hoping to multiply an audience by refusal of division,
Congrats on the neutered and snipped, and the overly-respected "revision"

Sometimes I make a point, others I set a mark,
Sometime I jot just to be stark.

So how do I explain my shame to a reader?
Why I'll never find fame or be seen as a leader?
 I don't, because planners are plotters, and in my book, a plotters a cheater.