Anger and TV news anchors

Anger is not my strongest emotion, but I try to give it a little exercise once in a while:

Fuck television news anchors. I fuck television news anchors. I fuck them over and over again. I, fucking, hurt them. They are chosen for their face shape and given grave responsibility, and then they proceed to fuck that responsibility like I fuck them in my mind. They fuck their responsibility to inform America of what is really going on. They fuck the facts. They read from their fucking teleprompters, and then they go home and sleep. I would beat them in my rage. I would beat them with my fucking fists, those prissy pretty fucks. They enable ignorance. They sleep at night. I fuck them in their sleep.
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Problem/Solution/Com- plication

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-Illustration by Patguy
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Dance with me?

The lights are out tonight, so we dance down the black street. No one knows why we dance or why so awkward our passion. Black trees reach for our guts with hooked fingers, and demons-once-pumpkins smile, sweet with decay. It is Halloween season, the season of dying. The street leads to the cemetery, a bordello for necrophiles, who beat each other with shovels over the fresh dirt, determining a very sick alpha male. The dead no longer dance, as far as we know. If they do, it's the horizontal mambo.

Humans. Gross, nasty humans. We are always dancing: even asleep we dance. The beauty of the dance is that it ends, and what lies beyond the cemetery is the name of the song that we dance to, the ultimate musical fusion.

Who? What? Why? So What?

Who?

The very hurt

What?

Erect barriers to get through life without exchanging warmth with others -- and may even use violence to protect those barriers.

Why?

Cold is an excellent treatment for pain.

So what?

Hugging fellow bus passengers will get you hit in the face.
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Two minutes at the corner store

Today I went to the corner store and bought milk, pan doble fibra (double fiber bread), and on impulse a Hershey bar with almonds. I bought the milk to symbolize the maternal, the fourth ingredient of the cheesiest macaroni dinner. I bought the bread to poop with less detritus. I bought the chocolate for the pleasure of the impulse and the deferred pleasure of its sweetness. I did not intend universal themes while shopping at the convenience store. However, I was once infant and child, I poop, and I can create and savor pleasure. And my life continues, miraculous and filled with doubt.
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Problem/Solution/Com- plication

Problem: Death of your jogging partner

Solution: Embalming, puppetry

Complication: Finding a puppeteer who is also a blimp driver.
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Caregiver

Sure, if I'm drinking a bottle of warm bourbon out on the concrete patio while my roommate's great aunt sunbathes in her 50's era bikini, talking about soluble fiber or god knows what because a bead of sweat has defied gravity and found its way out of her leathery stomach wrinkles, taking with it my complete and undivided attention, I AM going to get that weepy, dippy, drippy, happy feeling. That's how I'm wired.

Sure, if I plant my tomatoes, my string beans, my carrots, my cucumbers, my bell peppers, my parsley, my oregano, my basil, my poppies, and my cilantro in the cracks in the hard-packed dirt behind the baseball diamond, I AM going to check for sprouts every day. That's my understanding of nature.

Don't fuck with me. I work in a nursing home.
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Seen taped to a suggestion box

The problem as I see it is how to get beyond the good/evil duality and how to occupy the center position between good and evil in as many life circumstances as possible. Suggestions welcome.
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Who? What? Why? So What?

Who?

Hundreds of wicked, deformed people

What?

View me through one lens, the lens of judgment.

Why?

Paranoia is a kaleidoscope in reverse.

So what?

Oh, so I'd like a footlong meatball marinara on wheat with the pepper jack cheese, not the triangle white American.

Toasted?

Yeah...yeah.

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