Is this shit dead

They said it was done but I started a new, I'm too live for your crew, learned how to life it from nancy drew. The hop hop vocabulalry doesn't help but neither does your breath, feel the pain in my breast, as I caress. every one of my breaths. I'm alive and no force can contain, the dude with a such a big brain, that conservatives say its a shame, that i dont rep for them on the front lines, my telepathy is like proximity mines, you get near me and I'll make your insecurity shine, like bonds son when daddy did his deed, Im not here to give you what you need, but Ill still save the day like Willis Reed, come through in the clutch like robbert fuckn horry, when I hear your sob story, I forget it quick like the brother of joe torre, takn you into the next age Im a digital feed, they nick named me the iron steed, cause not even broken bones can slow down my ultra hyper speed, pretty please... can you slow down and stop being the worlds greatest living entity, ill have you blind foldn like 'i dont know where they sendn me', youll get it good plenty, when I burst cats at the scene like bruce Lenny, the fourth side to the double album got you playn sitar, Im a rock star and I smash guitars!

A Very Artistic Video that I Made

Procastinating

Got some work to do. Got a lot of work to do. Dug myself a hole, and I am trying to get out. TIme ticks, it erases. Why couldn't things be easy, like when my dad broke both his wrists in the snow storm of 98. I stayed home all day and played donkey kong country 2. 7 hours of laboring on a paper. I think not. 7 hours of Donkey Kong 2, fuck yeah. THey asked me if I had been doing that the whole time. I said no. I said that I had stopped for a period. I did go to the bathroom atleast once. Running down the hall. Could I run down the hall now? Wow, I remember playing till I just couldn't take it anymore, like I was going to shit my pants. It was torture. But golly, it felt better the more I waited. I would here "don't worry its not going anywhere" but why. After a dehydrated day of social inadequacy, what could be better than drowning your sorrows in a fistful of keebler cookies and hours upon hours of video games. I was a good student I guess, but I don't remember studying, just doing homework occasionally on the kitchen table after dinner. Nintendo would call my name. Games like River City Ransom, prevented me from concentrating in class on some days. I faked sick so I could go home and play Mario Kart for Supernintendo. Ah that perfect comfort space. On my couch with shoes off, sipping soda, and eating popcorn. Tv and video games were everything to me. Its easy to see why I would sometimes prefer to sit home on that saturday night, or find a guilty pleasure in playing old video games, eating cookies, or watching that hour of family matters on a sunday afternoon. To say that those games didn't significantly alter my subjectivity would be ridiculous. As a matter of fact, I can see that in a rather overdetermined world, where cause and effect is always a bewildering process, megaman and Donkey Kong influenced me more than my teachers. I fed into the exoticism of Thailand when M Bison smashed me through a native woman's statue. I learned gender roles from the princess, and sexuality from Chun Li. Let me not reify, they probably just helped either justify or reject my father's opinions on the subject, but beating up homosexuals, women, Latino gang members, and the homeless in Final Fight had to have reinforced some exogenous hegemonic influences. And yes, on the bay stage, there are dudes in yellow jackets sleeping on the bench, which you often beat up unprovked. And ofcourse there was that message, stay off drugs. And not only did you stay off drugs but you beat up potential drug users. Regardless of the exact elements and processes we can safely say that beat em up side scrollers, especially final fight, were of a revanchist nature. Cody Hagger, and Guy, took the city back for the decent, heterosexual, white, male haggar. So the leader of the gang was a guy in a wheel chair, not a Jamacian drug dealer (see Seagal). It really didn't matter. Yes, yes, at the end you climbed a penthouse and avoided falling chandiliers (an icon of the rich), but realistically what most people would probably remember is the first stage or two where you kick the living shit out of people hanging out on street corners in a city plagued with urban blight. Everything is boared up. These people aren't human (well neither is your character), but the punching off the screen phenomenon that these games were often crticized for is pretty signficant. Why even see your opponent, when you can kill them off the screen. Another interesting thread is the lack of blood, pain, or permancy your enemeies experience when you smash them with a weapon such as a pipe. Your enemies, your other, simply gets knocked down and pops back up. The fading phenomenon of the mad gear gang is especially intersting. You have injured, and killed someone, but no you don't have to deal with the body, or contemplate what you have just done, they dissapear in seconds. No dead body disposal. This gang member is an insect, literally indistinguishable from the rest of his kind, ready to respawned at the next possible moment. When the city is saved, you are faced with the same task again. The city is never safe. A constructed demon is always out there to kidnap your girlfriend, wife, or daughter. Life in fear and stick to consumerism. Keep on pumping those quarters into the machine.

I hope to do this more completely at a later date

A Whale and a Seagull

A whale and seagull
are spending time together
in the sea, the one
with whales and seagulls,
when the whale groans,
"I've a thorn in my fin."

"How'd you manage that?"
asks the seagull.

"Building a swingset
for the little ones,
the little whales. Can you
pluck it out?"

In the sky, the sun
is tired out. The sea
is too big to heat.

"No, I can't pluck it out.
I stand on your back
all day, scratch you
wherever there's an itch.
Isn't that enough?"

"It hurts," cries the whale,
freshwater rolling down
his blunt whale head,
disappearing like a leaf
on an autumn forest floor.

"Besides," gulls the gull,
"it's too dangerous. I'll be dragged
under when you turn over,
or slapped comatose
if you flinch."

"I will be so still"--
the whale.

"No thanks."

"Fine, could you scratch
around my blowhole, please?"

"What are friends for?"

There is no wind. All the seaweed
swimming on the surface gossip
about the good-for-nothing kelp.
A bottle floats by, a bee
inside tapping on the glass. And
when the seagull scratches his buddy's hole
he is blown straight up
into and through a cloud, right
to the face of the tired sun,
who feeds and dresses his wounds
and joins in when the seagull
points and laughs at the grumpy,
thorny whale.

Whatever's happening beneath our feet

Grass grew up to our waists,
tickled my thighs and the hair
on my calves, while you stood,

bent in half, touching your toes
and letting the green blades
lick and taste your soft face

like they were tongues of the soil,
or the Holy Ghost planted itself
and hit an underground vein.

In this dream, you only bend
and I watch. You let the grass
slip inside your mouth

and now you can taste it,
whatever's happening beneath
our feet, deep down,

and I wonder why
six eight and four
are suddenly consecutive, and how

a blade of grass won't cut your gums.

The thing about independent wrestling shows

The ring was square
in the middle of the hall,
red white & blue ropes
letting us know where we were
lest we forget. The boys
and their fathers cheered
the Patriot, masked
in the colors of the ropes,
handing out miniature flags
to the lucky ones
in the front rows. They giggled
at the fat brown man's
hairy back, and when our hero
slapped the villain's flabby ass
the crowd flared
like an office fire.

"Terrorist!"
the children screamed
at the fat man, stage-named
after a spider-hole dictator.
They were seconds from spitting
at his foreign flag.
"You stupid Americans,"
he declared
in a fake accent.

The thing about
independent wrestling shows
is that there's always
a retarded boy
a foot taller and twice as old
as the ones around him,
waving a flag in the air,
believing it's all real.

After Mass

The car won't start after Saturday Mass.
Before, it rumbled to its spot
but now we see: it's out of gas.
Mom taps my shoulder. 'Take this can,
or canister, whatever it's called,
to the Exxon down the highway.
Be careful down the icy hill--
it's dark--wish you had a lighter coat--
lighter in color, not weight, I mean.
So, walk there, take your time,
try to stay beneath the trees
and their skinny limbs, away
from the road's shoulder. Or better yet
take the side streets, the backroads,
as much as you can--because that coat--
no one will see you until you're on
their windshield. You know what?
Wave your hand as you walk,
in the air like to a song that's slow
and full of joy. That way you'll be safer.
That way people will see. Here's five bucks,
we only need a gallon or so
to get out of this lot. Let the man
there fill the can. Try not to breathe
the fumes, or get any fuel on your hands.
You hear me? Let me give you a kiss.
Take your time. We'll be waiting, just like this.'

There's a Hess, I'm surprised she doesn't know,
half a mile closer. That's where I'll go.

Supple Tees

Would it be a sin for a christian
to be a millionaire or billionaire
and keep the money to themself?
and not tide? But spash
their money away, away
in like a mattress they sleep on?
Or in a flour jar, or in the whole
that is sunder the wood-working table,
write beneath the vice? Would it hurt
the christian's sole if they put the money
in a bath tube and pretended the bills
was the water, and the coins
was soap? Would he go to hell
if they took the millions dollars
and bought a golden bell
to live in? With a gold doorball
and even gold couches? What if he lived
in New Jersey? If he bought a whore
with all the money, and used like
silver condemns, and even if
she became his wife, yes, he is dammed,
but I'm having trouble
with the supple tees.



(Adapted from this message board post.)

I think I almost died

The lighting was off in the lunch room,
in one corner;
I could tell with one eye
and thought I had cataracts
spontaneously forming.
Anna straightened my change
so the bills fanned rigidly.
My wrist was tight. I snapped
my watch off, rubbed the skin
with a wet hand: sweat or tea?
Tea the puddle told me
next to the sugar shakers
and milk dispensers. Only tea
for now, but still my mind felt stifled,
smothered with a pillow. That shade
inside, though I saw the overhead glow
of electric light, remained until I sat
at my desk, by the wall windows,
by the morning light
reflecting off of everything
I'm hidden from.

A blank look

All I ever wanted
was a blank look, a curious gesture,
a Parkinson'd knee,
an adjustment of posture,
a spot of blush below the eye
glowing like a firefly,
a quaking breath
uncontrolled and muffled,
an ankle bouncing in place
like a dropped superball,
a sweat scent, foggy,
condensing on the window panes,
a fingernail tapping the beat
to some jazzy bloodsong,
a heartbeat I'd never see
but hear above the slushy street,
maybe feel if I had the nerve
to reach out a hand
and confirm what I'd always suspected.