While I'm at it, some stories.

As long as I'm making this blog, I might as well put it to good use. I really doubt anyone will ever read these words, they are just mine. What's to say they've ever existed if right now, and surely I'll myself at some point look back at this and read it over, is the only context and mine are the only eyes that will ever see this rambling run on sentence? Grammatically: incorrect. Anyway, I thought I'd make this a depository for old short stories I wrote, a place to keep them so they don't disappear. Maybe when I'm 75 years old and waiting for death and the world isn't physical it's wires and the internet I'll scan through these old writings and remember what creativity was like. Maybe that will make me depressed so I'll turn off my mind with the watercolor fingers of the future.
Also, I apologize for my apparent distaste for the concept of paragraphs.

1.) January 2008
After neatly arranging all of the colors upon my bookshelf, I was much chagrined to discover my lack of fingers. Fingers had always been generally helpful in regards to the day to day occurrences, and their sudden disappearance came as quite a nasty little surprise to me. After discovering that it would be virtually impossible to simply make due without (I could not even sew my own feet string!), it became painstakingly clear that a search of some type was in order. A failed attempt at discourse with a tall glass of water or cactus full of milk set me on my way very parched, and the neon green which made the ego-centric decision to seep and ooze from the cavernous ceiling was unbearably scorching. While one always has the power to wish away anything, the problem lies in the foundation of that gift, mans inability to wish back, to desire return, to make amends for a previous distaste. Accordingly, the sight of the arachnids was a bit peculiar, for they must have arrived of their own accord, my mind being innately unable to dream them into existence. While leaking a vibrant first impression to be accredited to their impeccable attire (excusing the third spider from the left whose bowler cap was a sconesworth flat, a recurring problem that had earned him a great deal of grief from the operator), it became fast apparent that this abundantly propped assemblage were searching for state reparation in the nounal vicinity of tax collections. Now my feelings on the matter of taxes is a very personal one, and I for the record feel no moral obligation to hand over my well deserved playdough to a coarse mob of arachnids, bearing in mind that stealing from the blind has never been easy. Even worse, I had no fingers with which to fetch my wallet, so the same spider too lazy to add zest to his own felt hard hat decided to bury his long hairy arm into my pocket, and the ranch dressing he had forgotten to clean off his greasy claw smeared on my coat, very perturbing. As all of this took place, I realized I had not executed my power to dream, and I shut my eyes very hard (so hard in fact that they were open, although mostly on the eastern continents) and created a world devoid of any gentlemanly spiders, be it for better or worse. Sadly, I dreamed too hard, and the room was suddenly white and empty. Karma I realized is a tricky beast whose existence is most likely not evident anywhere other than the faulty human mind, but then again I’m now sitting in my empty white room with no door, a prison cell for tax evasion and I don’t even have fingers, so I suppose I am just trying to call attention to my own mistake and warn that it is never wise to dream too forcefully.

2.) January 2008 (also)
Your sidewalks may be sweeping, but my luggage is weeping, tenderly; my shirt has not yet determined whether or not I will return again, and I’d like to know now but I promised long ago to leave the decision making to it. One particularly morbid tree, jealous that I had leaves and it did not, hissed cruel words at me and made verbal jabs at my upbringing, and while my mother may have been a bear that is no excuse for a vocal vasectomy. Rain clung to his branches but the beads did not fall and eventually he was an ocean, and my revenge was certainly exacted when I sailed around him over the course of the next three years surviving a complex wave of mutiny that left me pleasantly alone surrounded by towers of rations. Waves were harsh and I was no seaman, but I’ve always had a penchant for learning with the tide so it was only a matter of time (everything’s eventual) before I was hunting Moby-Dick, but I had the literal leg up as my limbs had never suffered defeat at the hands of a great white. While my journey went fruitless for many long years, a Judas of sorts titled Ishmael boarded my vessel in the life of night unless dusk was dead and disappointed Ahab, perhaps Ahab had disappointed he. Quid pro quo, I suppose? When I had captured the beast with much gratefulness to the secrets I had been sold, I sliced the whale in very thin, transparent slices of meat best served raw atop any number of fruits and/or vegetables and was proud of myself, for truly I had done the captain a service. If he had caught the slick watermelon himself, then what purpose would life retain? How fulfilling would the whale in his arms have been if he knew there was no whale (although that terrific beige beast knew the foxtrot like no gal you've ever seen) left to be hunted? Queequeg, essentially. Truly, to enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself. If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable any more. A wise man whispered such an utterance into my eyes, and I let it ring through my mind on the proverbial Sunday, and the literal Wednesday, and by the time that Friday has passed and sometimes begun I remember that everything is relative.

3.)August 2008
Pencil thin moustaches,
And dexterous fingers that dance off welcoming bodies, young boys eager for candy.
Taffy, ocean born, tendons and ligaments stretch and resist departure from sweet supine spine, stuck between teeth.
I paint eyes on my walls, I’m always being watched. I’m a star and I’m so fantastic.
Your body is a dying field, my plastic shield, and we sacrifice at the church of smokestacks and veal, but the meat is bruised and left in the sun. I left it there.
Her camera fingers photograph phosphorous, his radioactive loins are brimming with parasites, a paragraph body with parenthetical flaws, shiny azure claws that tear at the flesh of transient whores. By the pier.
Wrap your life in a roll of tape, but make it transparent so I can see. I’d subscribe, I wouldn’t take my eyes off of you, television dinners unthawed while I touch my leg but pretend it’s yours by forgotten shores and by that beach you had no limbs only acquaintances.

4.) January 2008 (I think I wrote this on a plane ride from New York to California, when there was really bad turbulence, and I was very irrationally convinced that I was going to die.)
The cities bustling but I’m lying as still as a stone, I’m not moving just shouting. I stand posed, very statuesque in nature and it could not clash more with the wild contortions of my mouth as I hurl words into the night sky like a plane undergoing turbulence and some kid in the back isn’t sure if he’s going to make it through but he’s always kind of wondered what it would feel like to be pretty sure you’re going to die so he just kind of hums “Homeward Bound” to himself because Paul Simon knew his stuff and while he thinks retrospectively of what his life wasn’t, he’s willing to forgive those various shades of mediocrity the moment he pinpoints a few exact moments in which he felt actually fulfilled and happy because they might have been few and far between but they were exceptionally worth it and I keep yelling and a guy walking buy with a big mess of hair asks me if I can please quiet down and he’s definitely a better guy than I’ll ever be and in all likelihood a whole lot smarter but I don’t listen cuz’ I really think it’ll do him some good and he starts getting angry. I mean real angry. It wasn’t that I didn’t listen it’s just that I didn’t let him finish I just kept yelling words, some of them were real some weren’t but that’s everything anyway, but crud was flying from my mouth all over the place and some of it hit him in the face and I’m standing there posed like some sort of bird with one foot folded up behind me and my arms all posed out zen like right? I look ridiculous there like I’m chewin a steak on a ledge. So anyway a cop car comes blaring by and it goes so fast I feel like I can see the red and blue from the lights 20 feet behind it, like the colors are just lingering in the air reminding me that human fragility means me and if I had been standing in the way I’d have been toast. And the cop car comes to a screeeeeching halt like seagulls spying your burger and the cops hop out of their car and their wearing the most beautiful uniforms I mean really really perfectly pressed each crease casting a perfect shadow from the hot hot sun and they look so good you could almost believe this was real life or something and they start running after some kid and the uniforms bend and fold and I can’t take my eyes off them and I realize there is no way Spartans or Trojans or Napoleon’s French ever looked this amazing…really a testament to the modern world. These cops end up chasing some kid, he darts for his life all throughout central park dodging behind trees and making a mad dash here and shootin’ like a rocket to the other side and eventually they catch up and shoot him straight through the chest and puncture the heart and funny thing is turned out to be a case of mistaken identity but the kid stole some pack of candy or who knows what and got scared shitless and just kept goin’. But I guess the point I didn’t try to make is that I never stood still as a statue, I just can’t do it I’m too fidgety and I always have been but I am on an airplane right now and if the captain said I was sinking sinking sinking I’m not sure how I would feel. I’d be upset. At myself? The cities a strange place, kinda stinks right? I like it, I wonder if James Joyce would have?


5.)There was another one I was hoping to find, but no luck. Maybe it's still around somewhere.