Tuesday, November 03, 2009

At the top of a secret mountain, Kevin’s thought daggers were bashing steadily, though slowly, through the madman's marble granite composite, knowing Cassandra could be dead, or worse, at the heart of this stonework cocoon. Only the Shifter himself aside the parties would ever know, the old man lamented.

His to be betrothed's father had shed any blandishments of civility upon immediately calling into question his part in the ensemble piece that had emerged.

So what can we say about kevin’s thought daggers that haven’t already been said themselves, folks, I mean, we know a crazy dramedy has landed in the corn field when van de kamps is selling for 5 bones a share and no one's sacrificing pigs in the street.

If you want to meet the right people you got to be the right people & then get in line for the 2 for 1 special at doodad’s, on Crenshaw, you remember ms. Crenshaw.

Abandoned ink café.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

one of my best friends asked me today "so have you been writing at all?" and I didn't know what to say. well I knew that the answer was "no" and then I said "no", and then a bunch of excuses & then clarifications that of course said excuses were indeed bullshit and then I thought why do I even make excuses fuck it and well then we talked about other shit. so i'm writing out of spite. yes, spite. plus some sort of righteous indignation. aaaaannnnddd ok i'm over it.

Friday, October 30, 2009

Super fast one while boss man scoots home and then hears words and then grabs phone and then phone rings and then I speak and then he listens and then bits of data travel across the negasphere to the other side of the island with long term ramifications in guam. Don’t forget to tell Edna that the babysitter is not dead, she was faking, and then the cavalry came in, as they're wont to do, and, circumspectfully, reincarnated the ghost of Walter Cronkite. I was gonna say, eh, you don’t need to know. Secrets of the trade. Not everything has to be in black or blue ink, some of it is invisible, a la man or woman or the most world famous invisible alley. It’s where everyone’s invisible, but the invisibles cannot see the other invisibles even though they imagine that they can. They’re totally wrong, but when they don’t bump into anything they think they’re right. The problem, at least for them, being, that invisibles, while solid to us non-invisibles, are intangible to other invisibles. Their particles slip through each other en route to wherever it is they happen to be going. What they are seeing is where each other either were, will be, or might have been, in another dimension or reality perhaps, per se, not to mention the possibilities of black hole emergence. Step into one of those and it’s lights out Sally, but it rarely happens, hasn’t really been seen in the land of the invisibles (but then, what has been, seen? Ha ha, don’t hurt me). In any event, don’t forget to wash your hands. Safety first. Loose lips sink ships, and the latrine on deck is a fastidious example of when keeping it real might have actually not gone wrong, but not necessarily right either. Just in some inexorable vortex involving washing machines and cow manure, but not in the way it sounds. I’d say film at eleven at this point, but with the time change, or lack thereof, this weekend, the noggin clock does get a little wonked, so we’ll leave it at adieu, see ya later, pick up a pencil or stab a key. Shalom.