"Mother Water"

This is a bit more of my creative writing. And yes, I have been published in literary journals, in case you were asking. I published a short story in a single literary journal. There were a lot of  unknown names in there, but there were also a couple of big names – Gary Snyder and Allen Ginsberg. I remember at the bar afterwards Gary Snyder said he liked Journey Through the Zone. That was my story.
Anyway, is this better as prose or as a poem?

The sea. Once again the sea. Again and again the sea. Always again the sea. The sea from which we came. The sea to which we will return. Our mother. Mother water.

Or:

Mother  Water

The sea
Once again the sea
Again and again the sea
Always again the sea
The sea from which we came
The sea to which we will return
Our mother
Mother water

It does make a neat little very short poem. As prose it would have to be part of a larger work or possibly a microfiction or flash fiction story.
And if you are looking for influences, check out Samuel Beckett. Maybe James Joyce too, who knows? Beckett for sure though.

"Sad Song"

This a bit of my creative writing here.
Is this better as prose or as a poem?

The years. The long years. The sadness of the years.

Or:

The years
The long years
The sadness of the years

If you make it poetry, it’s almost a perfect little encapsulated haiku. If fiction, it would have to be part of a larger work or it could be a three-line microfiction flash fiction story.

A Short Play: Sit and Shit or Squat and Scat?

Sit and shit or squat and scat? It’s that eternal question that vexes us all.
This is from a play I wrote called Sit and Shit or Squat and Scat? A bit of scatology for your edification and evacuation. I hope you enjoy it.

Latrine One

The latrine opens in in a resturdant called Designated Shitting Streets. Clay and his swirlfriend Baby are seated on wooden stools. The four stalls of the room around them are defecated with tasteful modern fart.
“Do you love me Baby?”
“Oh Clay. You know I will always be your Clay Baby.”
Good afternoon, sir and welcome to Designated Shitting Streets. Are you ready to ordeal?
“Not yet.”
“That’s fine. No need to hershey. Fecal free to look at the menu until you decide.”
“Ready to odor now?”
“One smear for here, please.”
“I see, one smear for here.”
“Anything to stink with that?”
“I’ll just have squatter. That’ll be fine.”
“Ok, one squatter.”
“So it’s one smear and one squatter, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Anything for dessert after you’re done?”
“What do you have?”
“Pooper and squatter.”
“Pooper will be fine.”
“Thank you sir. Your ordeal will be ready soon in that nice clean white room on the right. Don’t forget to poo in the loo when you are done. Thank you for shopping at Designated Shitting Streets, sir, and have a good day please.”
 

Eat the Rich

“Eat the Rich,” an anthem for the London riots.

Eat the rich.
Their gated communities are our smorgasbords.
Roast them on our pitchforks over our torches.

Prune the limbs that have grown too heavy
for the good of the tree.
It’s simply good social hygiene.
Groom ourselves free of those greedy bloodsuckers.

How would you like your billionaire done?
If taste tells anything, they’re chicken.

Bad Moods

Leaving Me

Jewel looks up at me, sad eyes blinking at the sky. “Leaving me, leaving me, leaving me,” she says. “Everyone is always leaving me.”

My Life

That’s it. That’s all there is. My life. My sordid life.

The Years

The years. The long years. The sadness of the years.

The Preterite

Like Caesar, like Jewel, like the Zone. Doomed, all three. Destined for the footnotes, for the archives.

Notes

Jewel is a hippie chick who lives in the Zone.
Caesar is Jewel’s pet California Condor.
The Zone is in California. Jewel lives there.

References

Lindsay, Robert. 1979. Meandering in the Midzone. The Thief of Love on the Loose in the Last American Frontier. Unpublished fiction.

“Road to Nowhere” Talking Heads

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cYFFc5ZyRQA]

One of my all-time favorite bands.

Saw them at UCLA in February 1979 at the beginning of the punk explosion, when punk was truly cutting edge. The Talking Heads were the shit then. No one had heard of them, and anyone who had was hip.

They did “Psycho Killer” and it brought down the house, except it was outdoors.

There were UCLA students in the crowd. Some sat behind us. Guys who looked stoned and were already feminized and pacified, warm, floppy shells of men, though feminism was hardly even born yet, but they were students, and college will turn the best of men to school pusses.

The women were sort of masculine, as they must be when the males are feminized, otherwise you have a half-filled whole, and nature abhors a vacuum. To complete the circle, the female must become masculine to the very degree that the male has become feminine.

A guy named Lao Tzu figured this out 2000 years before, but even he was too late. It’s so obvious. It’s the way of the circle. A half is never whole. The male and the female are each halves, broken humans. Only through linkage can we fill in the colors and make the circle whole to set the wheel spinning so the cycle can go on. A male is empty without a female, and vice versa. Joined, each is made whole and the emptiness is filled in again.

Heard this in a coffee shop the other day, Starfucks. Well, at least they play good music.

The guys working there were feminized, as they always are in such places. The chicks dig the feminized guys, but the probably never fuck them, the danger necessary for sex that the female requires being lacking. Once again, an unfilled whole. Feminine plus feminine doesn’t fill in the circle with the Number 2 pencil. It just makes a half moon.

I was listening to the song. I was sure I’d heard it before. Some guy my age was in there bobbing his head, along with his daughter. She couldn’t have been much more than 13 or 14, but she was looking at me in that way, half hate, half stare can’t stop, so I knew she was a woman-in-girl, true girls having no sexual world. The guy was a square, but he was bobbing his head. I was moving to where the sound was coming from, where they lurked. We were all bobbing our heads to the music, but no one said a word.

I thought it was Talking Heads, but I wasn’t sure.

Googled it and there it was. 1985, a bad year, but there was lots of sex and tons of drugs, so really, no matter how fucked of a year it was, the palliatives always alchemize it somehow golden, which is all you can do to a shitty year. 1985, in three years David Byrne’s band would break up, true genius being a flash in the pan of youth, as Weininger notes.

The real geniuses are always young, and the greatest bands flash and burn Roman candle-like and smash to bits pretty quick, the Super Collider Reactor of multiple geniuses being too much for the temporal universe of flesh and blood, so they go out in fire not ice, but they are kind enough to leave us the greatness flashes, like those human images burned into walls after Hiroshima, daguerreotypes of genius before they go.

We’re on the road to nowhere, says the song. Well sure we are.

David Byrne says its meaningless and silly, the song.

Like Hell it is. Bout as vapid as the trails of life. Where do they lead? To the bones, or increasingly, the urn and if you’re lucky, a hole in a rock.

We’re on the road to nowhere.

Where are we headed? To nowhere, to death, to a personal Black Hole sucking away whole universes in a pinpoint, at Warp Speed, faster than light.

Well, of course.

Meaningless, my ass, David.

What’s left to do? All there is to do is dance. Get up and dance to the music, fools. For too soon we drop our last.

No Country For Semi-Old Men

Or, Why I Am a Dirty Old Man.
I’m 51 years old, and I have a problem.
Since age 47 or so, I can’t look at young women anymore! I mean, they look as great to me as ever, but I can’t look at them! If I do, they get pissed. I’ve even had some complaints issued to me.
Honestly, I am not really thinking about having sex with them, and they don’t want to have sex with me anyway. What am I thinking about then? I don’t know…often I am just admiring them. A beautiful young woman is such an incredible object of beauty! All beauty contests have contestants that are about 18-22 years old, right? Why is that? Because the female at that age is the most beautiful she is ever going to be!
I am not only admiring her. I am also thinking. I’ve never married and I have dated hundreds of women and girls in my life. Though I’m kind of a hermitic writer type these days in my middle age, as a teen and young man I was quite a bit different.
I had many friends, including female friends, and was something of a social animal. A social wild animal, actually. On weekends, I would make the rounds of parties, sometimes going to 7-8 different parties at a time. I threw parties at my place and hundreds of people would show up, live bands, kegs in the backyard, plus half the place would be frying on LSD. Most everyone who showed up knew me too.
I was totally insane regarding females, and my goal was to have three girlfriends going at any given time, plus any “side-jobs”, pickups, flings, and whatnot I could run on the side. It was a totally insane existence, but it was a blast. It was like this great big game that never ended.
So I had a lot of experience with girls and young women. I knew a lot of them, was friends with a lot of them, dated a lot of them. I was always around women, because I preferred them to males.
So when I am looking at nice looking young women, especially White females (because that’s who I mostly had experience with), I am thinking about the young women and girls I used to know, I am thinking about old times, and I am reminiscing. Often a particular young woman reminds me of one I used to know or particularly one I used to date or an old girlfriend.
“She reminds me of Natalie – Linda – Tami – Tracy – Linda – Glenda – Colleen – Janet – Rhonda – Jeannie – Debbie – Maureen – Cindy – Becky – Nancy – Kelli – To – Ann – Virginia – Diane – Theresa – Sandy – Joanie, on and on”…Get it? I’m just looking at her and sort of going back to 1978 or whenever. I’m not thinking about screwing her at all, and I’m not even really thinking of her in a sexual way.
I’m also admiring her like I admire a great Roman statue. She’s a work of art.
There are other things I love about young females. I love their joy of life, the way they talk, their excitement, their happiness, the way they laugh…as we age, too many of us, male and female, become grouches. We are just not getting off on life anymore, or not much anyway. A lot of young women really love life, they are really getting into it. Combined with their beauty, they joie de vivre is a delight to behold. And once again, it tends to bring me back.

And All The Young Girls Loved Teacher

Repost from the old site. This is sort of a literary exercise, but it’s also just written to piss people off.
Of course, the fact that I used to teach school as a young man is totally irrelevant to the contents of this post. Any relationship to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
I’m getting a lot of criticism these days and I guess a lot of people hate me. That’s ok. Hopefully, if I keep publishing posts like this, even more people will start hating me.
Teacher had fun. He had fun and fun and more fun. There were Young Girls all the time, from age 13-18, and many were beautiful. He was 26-33 years old, and he loved teenage Young Girls just like any normal man does. He never got any complaints for looking at the Young Girls or even participating in the flirting that they endlessly started.
The truth is that female students, especially aged 17-18 and in particular Hispanics, loved to flirt with Teacher. Teacher loved it! He loved it when the teenage Young Girls looked at him and flirted with him! They loved it too! Everyone was happy. Everyone but the feminists.
The Young Girls would come up to Teacher and give him their phone number and tell him to call them. He would take the #’s home and think about them at night alone in his place and dream and have wild sexual fantasies about sex with 18-yr-old Young Girls.
Teacher sat in the library one day in Compton. The seniors were Blacks and Samoans. The 18-year-old Black Young Girl kept staring at Teacher. “How old are you?” she asked. “Thirty-two”, he said. “I’ve been looking for a boyfriend right around that age,” she said, and that was that.
One day, Teacher was 27 years old and 13-year-old Young Girls still looked pretty great to him, just like Lolita. Teacher is now 50, and as he has advanced in age, 13-year-old Young Girls looked more and more like little girls with each passing year. But back at age 27, a 13-year-old Young Girls was a delicious and wonderful object of fantasy.
The class in Harbor City was yelling at Teacher. The gorgeous 13-yr-old White Young Girl in the back of the room wanted to have sex with Teacher! They were all yelling!
“Hey! She wants to have sex with you!” the students yelled. Teacher looked over at the beautiful and well-developed Lolita, and she looked at him and nodded her head enthusiastically, while still looking embarrassed and shy.
Teacher got up out of his seat and risked his very job. He walked towards the Young Girl. “Really?” he asked. “You really want to have sex with me?” She nodded her head enthusiastically with the same embarrassed look. Teacher laughed. “Where?” he asked. “Where are we going to do it?”
“The park! The park!” the kids all yelled. “She wants you to meet her in the park after school so she can have sex with you!” Teacher looked back at her and she was nodding her head once again. “Well, I don’t know,” he said, chuckling, and went back to his desk and started reading the cheap, tacky detective novel from the 1940’s.
One day Teacher taught 10th grade in Lynwood. There were mostly Hispanic Young Girls in the class. It was early in the morning. The Young Girls were all about 15. Teacher was bored and so was the class.
Suddenly Teacher looked up. There was a sea of panties flashing him in class! Around 6-7 of the 15-year-old Hispanic Young Girls had gotten together to conspire to flash Teacher. They had hiked up their skirts in a way that you could see their panties, and yes, they were all wearing panties. Teacher tried to ignore it, but he could not. He kept looking back.
Then the Young Girls all started calling Teacher a pervert! Teacher thought this was most unfair, but the mind of a female is unfathomable in the best of times.
Teacher was teaching Hispanics again, assimilated ones this time, in La Puente. He was 32. In senior class, the Young Girls kept coming up to Teacher over and over, 17 and 18-year-old Hispanic Young Girls, and asking to have their work checked or have notes written for them.
Most of the reasons were completely phony and were just ruses to get next to Teacher. The Young Girls would get right next to Teacher and violate his space totally and try to almost rub up against him with their phony requests. They especially loved to bend over and wave their tits nearly right in his face or up against his body. Teacher went along with it; he was having a blast! A great time was had by all!
Teacher was 29 years old and it was a White middle class school in Hacienda Heights. The class was freshmen – 14 year olds. Teacher walked down the aisle, and as moved by, the Young Girls reached out and tried to grab his ass as he walked by, but they would always miss on purpose, and then giggle to their friends about it. After a while, Teacher figured it out, but he just let it happen.
In Gardena one day at the end of school, Teacher, age 26, felt a hand scratching his back and turned around and see a 15 yr old Black Young Girl back there with a most peculiar expression on her face. Teacher said nothing about it and went back to his business.
In Industry again, the 18 year old Hispanic Homecoming Queen Young Girl was in love with 32 year old Teacher and everyone knew it. She had been giving him the eye for a while and he had been giving it back to her. They had had talked about a few things.
She got up from the back row and sashayed all the way up to Teacher, flirtatiously spoke to him for a bit, and wiggled her way back to her seat. The whole class ooooed and ahhhed and whoohooed. The Homecoming Queen wanted to fuck Teacher! Yay! Everyone was cheering. Teacher never did anything about it, and has been kicking himself ever since.
As you can see, female students are quite sexual and love to strut their stuff in front of an attractive male Teacher in all sorts of ways. Teacher never took any of them up on their offers, but he did give it some thought.
This experience directly contradicts the notion parroted throughout our society by the male-hate propaganda of bigoted, chauvinist, maniacal feminists and their vaginized male allies that Young Girls and young women are perennial victims, and older males are perennial abusers.
It’s quite clear that a lot of females aged 15-20 or so do “want it” with at least some males aged, say, 26-50. Now whether it’s a good idea to pursue that or not depends mostly on the laws.
For Teacher, you need to wait until she graduates, even if she is 18. If you have sex with her before she has graduated and she is 18, you won’t get arrested, but you can lose your job and you may also lose your Teacher credential. It’s considered unprofessional. If she’s 18 and she has graduated from school, I assume you can date her. If you do this a lot though, you may make people at the school or in the community mad.
This post has been linked at the excellent Entitled to an Opinion blog.