Thursday, March 30, 2017

liable to bring the dromedary to its knees

ellsworth, the nighttime security, walks the perimeter of the graveyard, on the dirt trail between the cut grass and the edge of the woods.

he doesn't see greyson emerge from the woods in the shadows.

(catches pants leg with rake handle, causes a start)

what a graveyard need a security dick for? what you don't want me to walk up on?

you know everybody takes the good stuff with them. we put the best among us in the ground.

anyways. dont eff with me on my freaking reconnoiter.



you ain't never been but the briefest shake of a leg, anyhow, greyson.

(greyson walks off, scanning the surrounding brush for empty bottles)

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Le Beaux Aux Follies

"Golfed the sinker. Single. First and third."

"Usually, you're a goat for chasing such a far out pitch, but that kind of skill bears it out. So instead he looks like a first-ballot Hall of Famer."

"Total limp-wristed delivery, making like an air foil or some other such. Depleting the ball's momentum.  It drops completely off the map!"

"Here comes two RBI, skip."

"Knock one in so we can go get our hotdogs."

"All those sunflower seeds. It looks like the bottom of a birdcage around the batting coach. Maybe we should lay down some newsprint so its easier to clean up."

"He gets caught stealing, he ain't riding in the bus with us tonight."

This is overlapping dialogue in the style of film legend Robert Altman. Presented here, the effect is a list instead of a mileu like Altman used often. The film presented isn't a film at all, but a treatment from the back of my mind called "Stickball", which is about amateur players being drafted after a strike by the players' union.

The Player Hater Whitepaper: Screwing, to the Screwee

I have my Confuseus moments at times.  You see there is an ant-farm on desk, not quite two feet in length.  Sometimes, as a lark, I shake that ant farm, just to watch their ordered lives turn into chaos.

Monday, March 27, 2017

912: Snake-eater.

Puff.

"You are number two. Don't make eye contact while you do your business. That only angers me."

"Being second of only two, you are therefore both the runner-up and the worst."

The downpour. Fat Mike's Drive-Up. The smell of sizzling taco meat.

"Constant motion.  That's better."

Forgot the catsup packs.  Only use the fancy, b*tch.  With the picture of the bottle on the side of the package.

Back into Fat Mike's for the catsup.  They say I have to buy something to get the catsup.  I'm getting angry.  I think of complaining to the BBB.

"Sitting in the sunlight is giving me a headache.  Get your horrid self off of the gear shift so I can move the car."

"I'll tell you what I need: I need my aviator glasses, with the solar dampening near the top of the lenses."

(Fat Mike pees in the Men's room without shutting the door first.  Everyone on Beechtree Drive can see him from the back and his awkward posture while he relieves himself.  It looks, from the back, like he is trying to gently coax a baby bird down the urinal drain.)

Smoke wafting.

love them characters: Polly Problemsolver

Young waste of black man.

Raised to have impossible ideals by people beaten up by life, mistreated.  Statistics.

What dignity of the man!

Wants to go to a club.  Feel the mass-hysteria with the rest.

All this negativity.  You would think I didn't like this one, but indeed I do, for things would be great if he had his way.  I believe it.  Courteous, thoughtful.  Not the smartest of them, but far from the dumbest of the bunch.  But he is too meek to dictate terms, though he will speak up when something goes against the rules.  And he likes the rules.  Lives by the rules.  And how else to live a good life, but by the rules?

Polly Problemsolver.

But wholly a different kind of man than the man Abaddon1215, with in fact, a gulf and a pit between us.  Luckily I'm writing the character as a background object, so I'm not burdened with giving him a victory, solving that query of what he would do if he were in charge.

In the context of the story, he would have to ball his mother-in-law to be put in charge.  He won't.  He's a sexually hidden character, making us wonder is he too young to have developed sex in that brain of his?

Time runs short for Polly Problemsolver to find his own penis.  He's in baby-making time, and not making any moves to make babies, save for going to the club.  Going to the club does not necessarily in and of itself make any babies.

Uplifting for me to write of one so different, with it in mind, that despite our differences, we are friends, or would be friends in a better world.

Don't ask about the name.  I make no pretense of making a realistic name, like what kind of slave-owner had his antecedents in cages, being the original Problemsolver, the name sake, as it were.  Alas no.

The being searching for his identity in the modern world will not be burdened by tethers from the past!

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

the valley of the shadow

Lord show me what I fear, so I don't fear it no more.

Careful what you ask for, little shaver.  As in the tale of the monkey's paw, you'll have zombies at the door.

These petty anxieties add up to a rime of sweat at my temples.  And yet I will not relent, lest they should overtake me, growing into substance.  Which would be a real drag.

Petty anxieties.

Pretty anxieties.

Pixies beseeching my soul, threatening to reach up and drag me to hell!  Beckoning upward, to reach the light of this daylight world!

My intellect my only armament-scant solace, that!

Monday, March 20, 2017

912: everyone is suddenly a blue dog?!?

The 1960's called, and they want their foreign policy back.

I had a haircut and a shave.  Spiffed.  Suitably spiffed, in my own terms, and ready for love.

I think of Confuseus pounding his shoe on his desk, swearing all the while to bury the greatest nation on earth.  Better pack a sack lunch and invite some friends, boy.

We don't roll over for nobody.  Not even the Leftist Minority, loud as they are.

Don't worry; Donald will win handily in 2020.  Still wont shut them up, but still.  Less ammunition for rogue talking points.   Dems working alongside KJU to undermine the American government.

A leftist dogpile of selective outrage, poured out on our elected officials; democrats destabilizing America.

And none with a clear argument.

And I shaved again since that time I mentioned above, where I had the haircut.  I likes shaving.  Recommend it.  Hair cutting once took a periodic role, almost religious in its implications.  Beset on all sides by the Walmart jokes?  Cut your hair.  It was like that.

I cut my hair as if shedding the collected filth of the world, and I always felt like I came out of the experience of the hair cut, in a word, fresh.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

The Weekender: alone with your mad thoughts

Man, you are like a living, breathing Pink Floyd album!

Sitting there, easy chair, hard feeling.  Man, them thoughts burn a hole right through you, if you let it!

I should have took you to golf.  I should have, I know.  You know I worry about you.  I might be the only one that cares.

But I can call you back off of that ledge, now, can't I?

That girl and what she did.  Shut up!  I can't take anymore!  You'll drive me mad, too!

A sound?  A counting?  I've heard it before, too, in the night, when the house is silent and still, the sound comes to me through the ringing of white noise.  It's the heart we both thought we lost, and it beats still.  It lives.

No, I'm not trying to scare you.

We shouldn't play with dead things?  I must disagree, and I know you don't agree.  You think so much on those dead epochs and bloody battles.  I don't have to tell you.  You know the substance of all your mad thoughts: these things that consume you.

Maybe something dead wants to play with us?  Okay, maybe I am trying to scare you, now.  Sit down.  You're lying; you don't have to bathroom at exactly this very moment when the hour is getting late and the talk is getting heavy in its importance.

Imagine a heart, drained, but still beating away, lying on the cold damp earth beneath this very house!  Disembodied, yes!  And why?  Because its just an emblem, my friend; the owner of that heart is long gone.

Very well.  If you must.  I've become tiresome.  I've worked you into a fervor at these hints of the past-a dead past, that is. 

I'll give you your peace, if only until you awaken again in the morning, in the cool, silent house.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Feeling intimately the circumference of her circle. Bad advice, I wot.

Where does she get off telling me, like she a math teacher. I'll show her numbers that don't add up, and even imaginary numbers, theoretical numbers. She don't want to get in my radius, lest I get my hands on her diameter, feeling intimately the circumference of her circle. If I wanted warmth I'd have looked elsewhere, or donned a pair of wax wings for which to fly towards the sun. "You come to my center, you enter, the winter." A man is too crazy to have a regular relationship with a companion, don't you think? That's why we cry over obscure subjects, or if we drop a piece of pizza. Imagine the cheese sticking to the floor, and all you pick up is a piece of cooked dough with some marinara gore on one side. Or a snow globe shattered on the floor, with snow falling between the rough-cut floor boards, to the place were pencils and pennies and paperclips go. "Rosebud" he says up top, in the chair. Nobody under the floor but us chickens.

The perfect bracket.  You try.  God laughs.  I wouldn't even spare a try.  I can't do too much glorifying of student-athletes, because I like for them to "keep their feet on the ground", not be broke celebrities.  The lost productivity!  My bathroom!  But I'm sensitive in some areas, like a city girl-a mousy type.  The office has a pool, a dead pool!  Win a pizza!  That self-same pizza I had last night, and none to be the wiser, but Dad.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

From whence a thrill may yet come....

sourpuss. as of the eating of those odious yellow citrus. all I will say.

Chris Matthews and the hysterical vomiting.  The machine takes in and then outputs based on its input, like manipulating a prize horse's diet to control his poop.  If Barry Obama sent a thrill up his leg, then I ask, ala Hannibal Lecter, where does Donald Trump thrill him?  Perhaps, yet, a good wrenching of the scrotum to wake up the man in the bubble.










Jesus getting the Heisman. Crazy shit, man. Blew Twitter up.  We didn't even know Jesus could ball, but we're all sure, if he did......

Heisman material, all the way.

At the mercy of the Lunar Calendar, and feeling a bit fagged.  Bloodsteve Boll is now a raider.  Raider Bloodsteve, anti-Nazi warrior.  Feathers and eye-black and all.

No-flap warrior, here.  Master and Commander.  Maybe I should forget all this self-denial, buy a six-pack and go fishing.  I DON'T do it.  I deny the placid toilet rim my essence!

A caffeine buzz can overcome a manic low.  I just found this out.  Booyah.

9/12: Sunspots

the livid inflamed hand, like something from a Dali painting about onanism.  fingers stitching and fumbling about.....

I have horrors, but this one does not permeate the surface of my psyche; so it is not that I lack fear, but simply that this vision does not provoke.

So I am not without fear.

Just not afraid of a sickly hand.  To be perfectly clear on the matter.

....reaching high into the air, hoping blindly for something....


Sunday, March 12, 2017

I have the right to expect absolute privacy.

Not only, Mister Comey, do I have a "reasonable expectation" of privacy, I expect absolute privacy.  That last is conditional I know, and probably only achievable under specific circumstances.

But I do.

Saturday, March 11, 2017

The weekender: Being for the Benefit of Kyle Busch.

All things serve the Kyle Busch, converging on his effeminate frame like flashlight beams trained on his person.  Cruising along the North Carolina secondaries at 140 mph in some pussified ricer V6.  Life must be pretty good for the Kyle Busch.

He is ruining my Saturdays by "slumming it" in the feeder series simply to gain extra stats for the record books.

There must be a hard limit on cup ringers appearing in the XFinity series.  I don't want to watch those guys taking wins from the up-and-comers.  As someone said a few years ago, they say "where is your trophies?".  Kyle Busch came down and got them, I guess.

They squeeze out drivers like Steven Wallace, who had a long run of good showings on Saturdays, and then disappeared because, according to the smoke screen of Cup regulars in the field, it didn't appear that Wallace made his breakthrough.

But for the Cup drivers.  And Eliot Sadler.

And after an XFinity championship, only one more year in the series, after, and that only part-time.  Keep the line moving, pls.

I say this not to hate on the Kyle Busch, but improve the dynamic of the Saturday shows.  Kyle is a champ after all, and before he was a champ, you know he had the determination to become a champ.

But on Saturdays he is being a chimp.

Thursday, March 9, 2017

nougat candy bars and doodoo pancakes

caramel sticking in the roof of my mouth

Zero bar from the fridge.

Cold cola from same, no ice.  Cola black like my unconscious mind, seemingly hiding things from the world around it.

Delicious murk.

that stickiness in the back of my throat from the sweet soda.  If it aint good and cold, it won't kill a strong thirst.

the stupid blood smell of hot metal coming from the lawnmower and the grass hasn't been cut but maybe once in a year.

and once again I'm the little butterball that smells like sweat and ass with a torrent of flies hording around me.

I wasn't free, even then.  Diminished rights.  All that.  Beholden to others.  The weakling pup follows the pack at a distance, while the strong run point.

Todash.  The chimes end.  The black sky.  A rain of snowflakes. 

My teen years this time, and my teenage love burned like a witch by the mayor.  Still smell like ass and sweat.  What was she thinking?  Did that turn her on?

I'm yelling "THIRTEEN!!!" and my old counterparts are coming out of the bleachers, here and there, one by one, and starting to fight alongside me.  My betters realized they f**ked-up by giving the wrong guy the death sentence.  I vow to stick that executioner's axe straight-up his ugly a**.

Because I have friends.  And some of them are Vulcans.

At the end of the day.

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Twon.

he threw his bike chain up and it landed, laying across all four of them power lines--

the power lines said "PA-YOW!!!"

he drank his RC cola and tossed the 12-ounce bottle onto the stones of the driveway, where it shattered-not into a million small pieces, but only several big dangerous pieces.  Kinds good enough for suicide.

then his uncle ran out the house smelling of the malted beverage and shot him in the shoulder(I touch my shoulder in illustration) and the opposite arm(I touch that, too) and severs the seminal vesical, which is a specialized man part used in reproduction(not like boards or glue, but the very pathway through which the baby sauce is squirted along and through, over and under).

life-altering injuries.

but this is esoterica.

I will not back-up for all the world.  I will brook no regret in this matter.

I'm told, every time I have an "episode", it causes a small amount of brain damage, which will ultimately accumulate, causing early-onset dementia.

The clock ticks, my friends.  You must decide when you stop believing me.  I cannot decide for you, or tell you, for even without memory, I'm probably will still be an interesting writer and your good friend.

Movie Idea: If you see Titty, pray for death!!!

If you see Titty, pray for death!!!

Three exclamation points-just like that.  The emphasis collides with todays disposable-ness and indifference.

The solitary clockmaker turned terror of the old west.  From whence did his value of human life go, never to return?

Men.  Women.  Children.  Dogs.  Pigs.  Horny toads.  I killed some of everything at one time or another.

The ticking of a clock, for him, is like the rattling of cans to the rabid dog.  A call to action!  Bullets always tell the truth!

He will bomb a stagecoach, chaining the corpse of the driver at the controls and sending the whole works into town.  The whole town is leveled by the shock wave.  And in the middle, the coach and the horses burning like tiny candles on a birthday cake, but in a sea of deranged building lumber.

Goodbye town.  They should have been nicer to him.  Their own fault, you see?

Everyone that sees him thinks he is a doctor or a dentist.  Won't drink.  Trim facial hair.  Best hotel suites.  Feather beds.

Brigida is the damn devil, boy.

Cyrian Hindis?  How does Kevin Spacey look with a soul patch.  I don't know.  I'm not a casting director.  I just write roles.

Monday, March 6, 2017

From the Blake(and Jim Morrison. And Ray Manzarek).

When the doors of perception are cleansed....

enlightened realizations?  an epiphany each and every moment?

or do you just know too much?

Ever wish you didn't know something-a something firmly wedged inside your head, troubling, haunting?  Perplexed and psychotic, pointing your wood at the wrong things, scattered intentions, like straws in the wind.

The Lizard King lamented, or perhaps just mockingly noted American hospitality.

These and other matters, I attend to continually.  Not opening my own perception.  My perception is already too wide.  I get like an entire star field on my scope and lack the capacity to zoom.  So it's difficult to appreciate the one, I wot.

Human suffering is fleeting.  Every stone on the earth will outlast that much, friends.  We, as mortals, are fleeting, and our waters will eventually drain out of us leaving only a smattering of stinky dust.

So we are, without our lifewaters, stinky dust.  You heard it here first.

How the hell does anything ever get done around here?

Sunday, March 5, 2017

The Colossus: The Man Tihwih

He woked as the sun woked and rose.  He give kisses to him papoose and squaw and depart.  He took him bow, so they thought him to be look for deers and other game animals.

But him not.

Him depart on spirit journey, for he had felt low within himself, and knew he needed something extra, like a regular dr pepper instead of his diet dr pepper.

Him get to hill and sit in the mid-morning sun.  Him think on himself, and wonder if anything more could fulfill?  Could it?  Would it?  He was at a loss to think, what him want, what him need?  Him not know.

He go beyond hill, to the Place Not Seen Often.  There him surprised to find plenty, just laid about on the ground, as if waiting for him.  He took of this, and partook of this.

The smoked turkey drumstick tasted like ashes, and did not scarcely satisfy.  The battery was dead in the handheld Nentindo system, so he could not play games.  There was no cellular data service for him perfectly found iPhone.  The buffalo skins wilted at the touch, like burned paper.  The tin of rat asses were spoiled.  He spat them out like lukewarm gruel.

It all tasted like ashes, and that was why a dream was so far away and gossamer-thin; so you could not see its flaws.  For you would see its flaws up close, as it were.

Tihwih travel back, three hours through the woods, away from the hill, to see once more him papoose and squaw, who he now missed, though at the hill, they were the furthest thing from his mind.

Saturday, March 4, 2017

F.U.D. isn't just ur uncle Elmer.

F: Fear
U: Uncertainty
D: Doubt

Niggling questions.  And the questions always niggle, and few among us listen for the answer, therefore our populace is perennially misinformed.

Gross opinions dominating the news cycle.  It makes me sick.

I hate Scott Pelley.  In particular.  Constant F.U.D. from CBS.  I remember the morning show people talking to Morgan Freeman, knowingly smiling at one another after saying, "You ready for the election?"

Married to his own granddaughter.  But here I belittle a man known for just having a good voice.

Not a prophet or a king.  Just a face on a movie screen.  And now will the media-created and sustained celebrity class overtake the impotent political class?

Will Miley ever get an ambassadorship from the State Department?  Gaga for health and human services?

And the Dems learn the wrong lessons.  So their own "common core", their own programming, is leading them astray.

It would take someone outside of politics, like a real Donald J, to fix the system.  But he rightly must be held accountable during his reign.  Schumer misunderstands, that Trump isn't maintaining the swamp by appointing billionaire executives to cabinet positions.  Schumer and company ARE the swamp.

They all preach to their own choirs.  Any expansion of the base is anomalous and unintentional.

Friday, March 3, 2017

love's little mass: a secret bit ensconced in the soft flesh

I says: each woman has her own beauty and her own good secret that is worth waiting to hear.

I go further still.

I must choose my words carefully, now.

I feel the chill of the night air around me and the beckoning blackness, beckoning me to take my shirt off and dance!

The twilight grotto!  Bones of things in left in cages, animals for the butchering, the trading, the awful malingering of the star beasts!

I fear I bit Jonbo on the neck and blacked out, awakening in the asylum, where I always knew I would wind up if I ever really spoke my mind about all these mad thoughts in my head.

Charlie Daniels gets to a good part, and I slow down to listen.  He begins with a Robert Johnson idea and makes it his own, puts his own thumbprint on it, and he will then, too, be forever remembered for his own words, instead of some trolling by a guy like me.

"C'mon back you son of a gun if you ever want to try it again."

"In America, did you ever think we could get it back together again?  Well we darn sure fooled ya."

 

Thursday, March 2, 2017

More Bad Science: Recursion

A recursive is a self-referential component in an expression.  If it recurs, or has subsequent iterations, it refers to itself, as in the original expression.

Donald J.  The man Jesus.  Abaddon1215.  Lions, all!

Recursives in a world of Facebook likes and reTweets.  These fly atop the quicksand of digital data.

In the third world: Confuseus tries.

variable public return=true

futnuckery extends class blog {

abaddon1215.blog = futnuckery
}
variable private return value {

confuseus.dictum = sandboxed.value(range = 0, 16)
}

abaddon1215 = abaddon1215 + 1
blog.write
add blog.post

debug = unnecessary

"I'm like a bad penny.  I always turn up."

turnitup.rocknroll
volume = 120%
airport.noisecomplaints = fallson.deafears

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

The Player-Hater: Meander, word of the day.

to dwindle away like sands in the hour glass.

to recede like the shifting tides.

a slow walk for a heavy ass.

talking extinction, babies.

Conveniently used in a sentence, that is:

"Do yer and yer wifed watch the elebin of the clock?"

"Yar, meander."

the life draining out of us.  corrosive chemicals always boiling away, and our brains with the little sparks and Bucknasty's Ma waterdish empty again.

Time is ever fleeting.  All things will surely one day cease.


nine-twelve: rodan's tinker

a native American child, sitting in the timeless dust of his ancestors, playing at toys.

while the sun spots, burst and stretch pure energy, high above his head!

-This disguised musing of paranoia brought to you by Abaddon1215.  Don't move on unless you are ready.  Let no harpy command you to do so.