Legalities
Produced by:
Pali Productions Inc.
http://Pali.Ca
Published
by:
http://Smashwords.com
Copyright by:
Steve
Glickman © 2010
SteveG@Pali.Ca
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Originally published as paperback ISBN# 0-9688658-5-2, 1998.
THAI burgers (same-same but different)
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN BETWEEN AND THE DIFFERENCE
SOME SONGS ARE UNFINISHED, OTHERS JUST END TOO SOON
BEAUTY is the INHERETED ABILITY to CONCEAL PAIN
LOSSES ARE LESSONS (but I missed my porn the most)
THE GREAT AMERICAN TWENTY MINUTE FUCK POEM
“NARCISSISTS! NARCISSISM!” UNTIL I’M BLUE IN THE FACE
SUNK INTO A PROFOUND BLAH-BLAH-BLAH
THE GREAT WESTERN WALL OF INDIFFERENCE
IF YOU DON’T LAUGH, I’LL FIDDLE WITH YOUR TWINKIE
Chapter 1
All41&14llA
NOT DESERVING HIS MILK
Winter.
Wander. Wonder.
Gaze upon the glaze, eyes searching backwards for some kind of explanation. As buckshot claims another beautiful day and blood trickles down legs not thighs in another victory for death - the cold lover. The impersonal action of grasping at god to help pass through the revolting door.
To turn around and face the eclipse of the flash. To watch carefully as eyes dark like the barrel of a gun pick you out as their enemy and no justice, no god, no higher power appears on time to insert you out on your behalf; and at the end of the chase finally admit that deep down inside it and deep down behind all the pride:
The inherent beauty of facing the hunter with questioning eyes.
EEEeeeeeeeeeee……..
Love my wings, as I leap.
A full moon streaks behind black trees looking for its shadow. A big bull moose pulls his head out of still water to greet a heartbeat. Drift through salty dreams with lungs full of leaf shit. Look in, and LOOK OUT!
Rich
people get away with murder.
Karma balances across four
dimensions.
Bent to the wind pulls he who sees his calm as separate. From the grave I breathe. The odometer is about to roll over, on us. Watch carefully as all traces are erased away. The nest’s messed, the countdown is about to blast off. I’ll sob, for eternity; with the curse of a coward, spying on dreams. Armor that snaps like fascia, ugly without an explanation.
Another doomed chance to love unselfishness, to continue to do wrong; to long to do something different. Only money for company. Skin subjected to years of silence. Typing it all on the line, and the pain is still totally misunderstood. I can’t put two thoughts together; but is that my fault? Uninvited out of the masquerade. A sex object rusting, mold in the creases. Fungal inflection. Inspection. Imploding introspection. Imperfection in detention.
In this universe of greed and there are only two hands to touch me. Changing my mind more times than god, only my body remembers. Wh?i’ll energy is given to things which suck away all my energy. Death to take me away each night, shake me awake every morning.
They come from a planet where they care about the planet.
“Dis”courage’d: My lonely soul, and other things that go bang in the night.
The
roots rot as the sun sets.
Around towns clowns frown.
Better
than any reflection.
Share two cups.
MRS. JYDE
What kind of cruel moon goes down right after the sun sets? It’s my head buried in a book, while the looks keep on coming. He crawled his way across the ocean, looking for a grain of sand to forge a thirst.
They aren’t bottles, and they certainly aren’t soldiers; they’re just tombstones for my sunken spirit, thank god. Shriveled, half erect penises to fuck my mind. Sometimes the something that someone says to somehow strike some strings inside. Paying no mind to minding my own business.
Kiss my scars, I can’t find them. Losing face offensively victimized trauma coming apart at the seems. Without attachment to celebrities, nationalities, teams, trends, technologies, charities; shrinking into gods mistress. Distress signals coming from way down deep in the bowels. Warped shit to fill the war ships. A trickle down crap shoot to beat into oblivion. What will it take for me to relate to the way of the whore world?
Slightly off ballast, surrounded in a sea of smog: A stiffy to hide under the sheets. Given up to smoke; demons running to their own destruction. Go on and get gone. “I’m not looking for recognition,” comes the rejection; refusal of affection, the remains of revelations, a bitter body growing a great big head. Inflated egos escape the stratosphere and puncture the zone. “Blablablah” on the blackboard. Self defeating retreats to the wet pants classroom. Watch them run to gather guns. Just once, once again.
The first lesson in humility: how to use stones as shovels. It gave us the soft bulb to grow brains. This I will repeat: It gave us soft bulbs to grow brains. Just a bunch of cave dwellers with no use for jaw mussels. Grey matter filling the palace of red beliefs; the master race marching in step with the grand delusion. It is funny, says Venus to the flytrap. Some great big plague to take us back to our roots.
On some dusty path a boy dies with half his back blown out. “I lived…” he whispers through bloodshot tears.
“I lived… I did.”
Yet these cowards hide behind the familiar, the mirror, the untrue Self, the marching in numbers. Pretending to know there’s little they don’t know, not even aware of the sacrifices; only relating to the power struggling. It’s just a lot of broken hinges; taking turns turning me down.
So familiar with the forming of loss; their little devil long before I knew what it meant. Pushed back into my own prison, my butt was the butt of their sick jokes. My privacy was their personal property. Perhaps there’s something there where their touches there didn’t touch? I don’t get my own drift either. Sick of hiding, caught crying in public like a beached whale. A machine built to self destruct without a trace, it wants me more than I can stand; as I hit rock top.
The contract was drawn on toilet paper. Paper, pork, beef, poultry, shit, steel, pigs, cattle, sheep, pain, and trees. Preaching from a stolen soapbox.
I’ve got a hunch I’m deformed.
THANZI
Fucks a lot for the experiment. Don’t angst me is why. “SHUT-UP! Shut-up!” and shut-down.
The clouds float over, like brains; like treetops.
“So what’s is all about, Steve?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh,”
…and they leave, thinking that I haven’t answered. The anarchists and their bonding while the crumbs keep crumbling apart. Every page needs a naked woman. The apple was masturbation. Thy most abnoble cause.
We are living in Roman times, my friends: Great golden pillars of desire. It’s the critical mass reaching its throw away point. Reaching back, far back; deep into the attic’s static. A great big stink to interpret. No symmetry in this stinky city, like so much baby talk: The message mocks the medium. But we are the chosen people goddammit! And stop worrying, there are bigger problems nowadays. The robots get all the glory.
“I’M TRYING TO BE FUNNY!”, he’d yell at me,
“WHAT’S YOUR EXCUSE?”
MR. DEMANDING DOES PORN
love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear -
rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love -
fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear
rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love -
fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear - rage - guilt - love - fear
… and what’s your favorite kind of smut?
Quite real; really quiet. The who I am cut in half by the how I am.
Resentiment.
Magnenemas. Agrimnesia.
I look into the crystal ball and see worms.
Y2K
One mighty sneeze and the blood stops flowing. Each finger curling inward to scratch a paralyzing twitch. Imagine the worst scenario and then multiply it by 2000. Imagine everyone’s imagination competing for solid ground. There goes the rattle, a pratfall for some sick stunt man’s slick representation of all our preset gritting of teeth.
We’re about to learn a lesson in slapstick ambulances. Those who can count are all facing backwards. Deep in the cave, the laughter is silenced for a long time. Crosseyed nomads weave through the bottom line, waiting for their stomachs to digest bullets. From out of nowhere came the antiprice.
Thrice scorned, angry eyes around the conference table. The finest silk succumbing to pissed off polyester, cotton caught on barbed wire. Easy pickings for the farmers, fur for those precariously balanced on the top of the food change. A flood of zeros to wash away our credit in the evolutionary bookmark. A boom to show the true color of all previous ones: An unprecedented correction of bulls markets, bearing down on everyone’s crystal balls.
Forecasts call for a breakdown in every form of communication; blue suits falling like the legal erosion of our legal system. Bad debts like bad breath at a welcoming party.
Such a beautiful sucking, sounds of the hounds; chasing the complacent. Milking the money machine for all it’s worth. Less than the guessing. The leaving is the only thing that stays the same. The gain of pain surpassing any uprising.
POETIC THING.KING.
A long dramatic pause followed by nervous laughter. Jesus was a chick. I had to loose my life to get control of my life; follow the shape of a tear.
I showed her the way to the possibilities of needing less. As we learned to leave aggression behind to propel us into loss of intensity. Those wearing fur returning to face farms. Those eating flesh return to eat earth, or worse yet some mad cow cannibal pellet. Perhaps as an open pit mine.
I ended up ending it all and moving back to the evidence of castration, to think of circumcision; getting fatter by the day. Her projection of our paths attracted each others orbit, yet left us both unsatisfied. Only those that know love know what it is that’s missing from the emptiness. Proportionate to the amount of bleached leather. Their cup killeth mother. Grooming the proof of truth.
The ultimate complement: “you make me feel like I can write!” Fallen, in love. In a shaky voice I’ll rattle off the battle. Assault and battery of the senses. There is more art than artist. Instead of finding truth make truth.
A long dramatic punch to flush out the a-priori guilt.
IN.VENTING.
Ear eye cum, pain in innermost layers. Self recognition in hopeful eyes. Head first into the tears, tiny hands balled into years of memory loss. Listen to my heart howling, that moon is ME as it winks. I can take the pain without flinching, but the hope plays on every string. No matter how fast I run, the burden of proof moves ahead to burn; while I just lust for wetlands.
Trapped, alone, the paper become my pearl. Sitting in public trying to compose a story, dripping confidence out of every invisible hole. Who’s coming to diner? Just my prick. Bad omens all over. I’m already working on my next life, while waiting impatiently for my feast and a fast ending. My love has been the open road, read to a closed door. So far gone even I don’t know it.
Deprived of only one thing: Help! Woman’s reflections in the poster insist on playing the losers against each other. Playing the part of the eyewitness; crying eggs from my nest as the best are rewarded for sleeping out in the heat of the spotlight. Under the water mother earth sobs, her ocean a wide unblinking eye staring off into space. God eat god. It’s erogenous from here on down. A division of the obvious, as the media skips like a broken retort. Whomever said that the possibilities are endless never came here: To go smoothly through the funeral pyre.
The beautiful people gather to compare notes, while I just sit and fake it. Secrets that force the face to betray itself. It pleases me to let them go to pursue the top. Conflict is beautiful to those who don’t need to be the victim. Almost as stupid as a drunk trying to make sense to another drunk: “…my parents …”
Everyone looks so doable that I want to write.
AT.TENSION.
Like someone’s taking notes, they smoke their cigarettes down to the matches. The conversation drags around about as uselessly too. At a small table in the corner Tom Thumb can be seen sitting on his hands and pouting. His girl is getting all the attention because her bra strap has fallen down her shoulder. For the fourth time he counts humorlessly, letting the ashes fall, thinking; perhaps they’ll cover me in my shame. Hiding darkly behind the analysis of futility, caught in the spotlight of sound, squirming under his own scrutiny.
“Ahem” announces Prince Uncle, “I’m really honored to tell you about our next…” and papers are rustled as if they and only they will make whatever it is happen. “So please…” and with impossible slowness, surging with adrenaline, sweat, coffee, smoke; and somewhere just below the center, jism; and with infantile slowness, the giant starts to unfold his legs, just a little, mind you, just starts to flex his toes in preparation for the long march to the stage. Nerves of steel, he wishes, bend for me now; they’re all watching, and he already starts to perceive their optic nerves extending out of their skulls, thirsting for something agreeable. Come on nerves, haven’t I been good to you?
“No!” comes the answer from the corner. “no, no, No, NO!” Exactly like that. Some heads turn to find the voice that has lost it’s control; it’s conformity.
But the biker doesn’t budge. Shit, he thinks, I was just starting to enjoy her movements. Watch this. And he takes a deep breath, not even trying to hold it.
The giant stops, suspended like a fly in soup. Drifting around the silence with eyes bugging out even more than usual…
MY DOG DIED AND I CRIED
I love you, but you hurt me: And the beats go on. It’s not just about pain, rain is the reality; but half of us believe in compensation, and then that becomes reality. The trigger comes from all the jerking, jerking off too much.
With all the people gone, the sex dead, I finish off the half empty glasses and wait as my thoughts turn to the apocalypse. Hot blood hellbent on total destruction. The seal strains to conceal pain and lack of originality. One day soon I’ll be able to accept that it’s appealing only to those with too much selfishness. A tunnel that leads far into itself, or perhaps only another expression of poor lighting.
In another galaxy, some corkscrew looses his mind. Others circle around to wonder about reasons. Not invited into her hereditary, I’ve grown limp in my rather obsessive attempts to fuck it all up. Small talk made all the smaller by sexual tension. My liver loves trigger losses, watched intently from their alien sandbox. It really takes no time to rhyme.
He punched me in my tummy.
A phoenix sits exhausted on this toxic perch, while below bellows fires from the catharsis of stagnation. “Let it all come down” and watch with wonder while the very last thoughts are snuffed out like a good wish gone bad. Knowing it’s hopeless to push against the wind, the child in the tunnel finds another ancient name; but unable to get anyone to listen, he slides.
I’ll see myself through.
THEY DID DIDN’T THEY?
Preternaturally.
Corruption Incorporated.
I only remember
wanting it to end.
Focus pocus.
Loneliness is a bitch.
My
truthometer needs a good cleaning.
Bound between vision and
insight.
“When things were slow, I would write in my diary. But there are
only so many times you can write about writing in your diary.”
Robert
Young Pelton – The Adventurist, p122
“Irony gets tiresome, ironically.”
Paul William Roberts –
Empire of the Soul, p234
“The future will be better tomorrow.”
Dan Quail
“Literally beyond his comprehension.”
Barry Lopez – About
this Life, p141
“Lust, trauma, god, gray, confusion.”
Steve Glickman –
like panicked ants, p14
“In many cases a true war story cannot be believed. If you believe
it, be skeptical. It’s a question of credibility. Often the crazy
stuff is true and the normal stuff isn’t, because the normal stuff
is necessary to make you believe the truly incredible craziness.”
Tim
O’Brien – The Things They Carried, p79
SOUNDS GOOD TO ME
A prisoner in the schmooze club. Undergoing internal interrogations for adopting foreign attitudes. Held beyond reach by my own psuedonames. “The gift is that of imagination,” thunders god from his rainy towers, “I’ve got a big surprise for those challenging the ability to change. You think you got me by the short hairs, but soon you’ll find out that my price is higher than you can count. Upside the head, I’ll downsize the lot of you. Stop lying. Stop cheating. Stop reassuring. Stop being mean without meaning to. Start to heal. Start to feel yourself feel real. Really! God how I hate how you love the sound of your own voices!”
And with a puff of smoke, a funny odor, and the sound of a balloon popping – backwards, we stick our fingers in our ears and our dicks in each others mouths; for glory.
Beside his time; way beside. Dodging the dark knight in the dark night. Inventing resentment; looking in the basement finding nothing left. Smoke curls up the life expectancy graph. I’d like to tank all those responsible: me! Just another Jesus nailed to the crossroads.
As physical becomes fucked up, psychological symbolic, sexual unacceptable, sensual susceptible to pseudo science; I cry wax tears. Nothing normal in torn pockets.
Peering into my own headlights; the assurance of superiority enveloped by the appearance of a void. Writing, waiting witlessly while wishes are whittled away to weak kneed (need?) whimsical wimps. No soundtrack to curb my suicidal drift. Would you like to accompany me out as I come up once again for an assault on air. Faster and faster to escape the screaming from the backseat.
Chapter 2
THAI
burgers
(same-same
but different)
SAME SHIRT, DIFFERENT DAY
Last panics before leaving; twisted visions of baby powder, missing wallets, lost tickets, cheap seats, etc. Is it rude to change socks before boarding? I think she thought so; but so what? I'm here to be me! Maybe she wants something without such a soft shell.
Home, not surprisingly disappeared into clouds seconds after take off. The on-board tv screen shows us as a little white dot with wings, while my town looks like a little white dot flying past the window. Where have I been that allows me to let and go so easily?
Flying over the northlands, if we left just a couple of hours later we could have watched the sun rise all day. And we don't even have a name for that place opposite the top of the head. The balls and the anus get all the glory, while that other place just sweats and sweats. Planning the next move backwards. Silence only valuable to those that deserve it - the real observers. Otherwise it can be another vice to pull on the fourth leg. They can only look the other way for so long before the tailor deflates into this jungle smell.
The bomb craters look like freckles on a young face; and somehow the sun reflects off the mist to blind like a magnifying lens. I traveled all night for 24 hours and it's still the same day. Lost and found at the same time.
The rivers look like asphalt, and visa-versa.
PLAYING TO THE THIRD PERSON
I overheard the locals talking to each other today. I know that it's rude to eavesdrop and it really doesn't help the situation, but there it is.
And even though it's been more than a couple of days (figuratively, not literally) I cannot for the life of me remember once when I caught them listening in on us. All the reading, believing, seeing, and eating (my vices) don't change this dank state of affairs. What we want from them and what we take for granted seems as obvious as a blind man's fart, yet there it is.
Diesel burning through a hot Thai night.
Here people say whatever they want, that's their right just as caution is their duty, right? Anyways, it's not pretty when silence rules between the rulers, even if it's just walking down the street with ears wide open. But here, here those same easy introductions are forced. Forced because desire has drowned out our own demons. Trust not technology; writes the writer from his dark corner, so there it is.
“Adventure appeals to ...?”
“Do I become strange by ...?”
"I’m unable to finish my thoughts…”
… and there it is.
NOT ANOTHER NOISY NEAR MISS
Wheel, what's it come to? Earnest Hemingway would roll over in his grave if you brought him to this place. Each tourist has to make at least three requests while the locals fall right in step behind the chaos; inviting it in with each breath. Yet I see myself writing from behind the verriest tourist smile. It just don't seem to make any difference when what owned would make a nice photograph for them; while they can't help but get in the way of the scenery.
Lost in place, left on earth; that elusive last paradise for those restless mighty American dollars. Cheap seats, retreats to the other side of yesterday. The ignorancients slink to and fro, hither and yonder, up and down the freshly worn in walkways, looking for a bit of kiss and tell; while I like to take in all that their bikinis have to offer.
A culture crash. Divide infinity smoothly by infinity and you have one border, one line dividing, one mind lying, one machine grinding to a halt, one smile trying, one more day tucked away into an overexploited, underprivileged, roundabout development.
I bought a camera to capture the drone of the engines, but it broke before I could get it out of the bag. Now listen carefully...
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The privacy of paradise has been interrupted so that we can bring you this important commercial message: There's nothing funny about an inconvenience if it's in conflict with it's contribution. The show has got to stop before it goes off the air forever. I feel a chill calling down my spine. I’ve got to get myself some timetable to destroy. The fat American photographic free for all; frantic, fast paced, alcoholic, and at last glance, andromic. If geography is either male or female, than these tourists bring with them the great European condom.