The Morrison Christmas Story and Song Time

"nice teeth," i commented

I ask unto the creator, "O what shall you have me become?"
The answer arises, "Only all that you are."
I ask unto the creator, "O what shall you have me do?"
The answer arises, "All things within my boundlessness are confusion."
I ask unto the creator, "My Lord, shall I dwell with you?"
There is nothing.
"There is not perfection without me"
trickles the stream, lengthening, bowing, tensile, deconstrued, pluckable, affirming, resonance within a listener before listening's will becomes the willful reborn of it's own unknown unknowable, a shaded imp prick swolen and sweating and beaming as wide as devotion herself if she did when she could be eased into this learnable way but apart from the learned, we know that our heavenly bodies are singing but why all this ringing, or oh, is that the song?

drunken duet

Tell us, oh circular world. How could so many squares rest beneath your sky? And why does it seem normal that God has not done mankind a favor and flooded the damn hellhole, filled to the brim with gilded circles sitting underneath a moon. Yes, the juicy moon eye is blinking with laughter. The hairy shapes OMG they walk with intense intention. They were normal. Why? 'And why are you so damn passive, God. This is your own fucking creation, why don't you paint a picture that you could look at and say "Yes, this is what I intended. This is a true manifestation of my capabilities. I am the greatest." The church rose in a proud neglect, and stood up singing "Our God Is an awes..." Tears streamed down the faces of various performance artists in masterful execution. Maybe God is just so depressed by this time, hes taken enough Tylenol PM'S to cross out the eyes of empathy and understand we all have read about in his wonderful book. Yes that huge book. The dead sea scrolls of Dr. Snoose. Oh god, oh god, oh god not this shit again he said opening his eyes-the sun, of god.

I woke to the intense scream of the alarm, unaware of what the day may bring. I was living in a motel alone, no money, no prospects of money, and I was low on hope. This life seemed more than normal to me after the months I had spent living it. In a way, it was my own gilded reality. I woke every morning at eight in hopes of a job lead, listening closely to the juicy gossip that had developed between my fellow neighbors and I. Most of the time it involved an arrest or a woman losing her children, I spent almost a year in this insanity until I found my escape. His name was Matt, and he saved me.

one small step for man, one disgusting step backwards for mankind

It was haunting, a silence so distinct even God couldn't hear. Our sin seemed miles away, sweet and hiddden from the truth we were afraid to face. I woke to the smell of pork, a meat I hate and yet ate in an attempt to be whoever he wanted me to be. It was only noon and yet he offered me a beer, which I readily accepted, even though I knew my actions were none to celebrate. I thought of the man awaiting me at home, the expectations he unintentionally placed on me. The pressure made my encounter feel like incest. A moral crime God would never forgive. I felt my anxiety rise and knew I haad to escape, planning my exit as I searched the apartment I found yself in. He raised his voice long enough to announce, "Hey I'm cooking tonight, ribs and pumpkin pie. I'd love you here." I smiled a fake smile and headed towards the door, all sins intact. "I think I have to see my mom tonight, but thank you." I left the shattered apartment and never looked back. So begun my journey.
And then it began, said the pig sticking his sweet dinger into a slice of divine pump pie. Oh yes, I do remember the sickingly sweet sting of remorse sir Wilber felt for all of god's offspring. And oh how they sprung off. The beer quivered with ecstacy as it was engulfed by the pork of Teusday's beloved gesture. Turning greener than the mountain face, dark. incest revealed itself on the seventh day. a fine device indeed for all the children of corn as they wandered and waivered and waddled and fondled and bumbled and mumbled and tumbled and flipped and slipped and dipped the pinch of filthy shit that they craved.
It was a dark and sad night when dick morrison finaly realised that his diabitis would kill him that he decided FUCK IT I want to engaqge in incest sex with Brenda she has some sweet pink hot pie between her legs. Although he often looked at An AKA mawmaw as a nice sweet piece of pork, he often desired the taste of his own family's skin that he often masterbated to the thought of his own family members. Oh how he fantisised about fucking Aby's nice young pussy as he hungrily pounded his beers thinking how sweet they would taste just as her pussy would in his old senile mouth.What a fucking piece of shit MATT thought to hisself as he silently sharpened the knife ready to do gods bidding and kill the evil monster bruing within.

fritz's moment

Hey,

Umm. This is Fritz, yea so I learned to hack into Bray's computer, wasnt that hard .
Anyways, I just wanted to blog about what the fuck is happening to me right now. I just ate some of Logan's leftover Taco Bell materials the lazy son of a bitch left lyin out on the table. How could you blame me? What feline in their right mind wouldn't eat Taco Bell layin out . It was heaven, a glimpse of Shangri-La. The cold, creamy jalepeno cheese ran down my throat and left my tum beggin for seconds. So I gulfed down a few crunchy triangles and licked the bottom andd thats what brings me to my litterr box. Brady, if you read this. Im sorry for what my ass is about to do to your bathroom...i forgot what those things are called that are like places in the groun that shoots water out of the ground like a whale would. thats how my asshole feels right now. I am going to go find solitude somewhere and rest. Hopefully Brady takes me to the vet. My ass is officially on fire. I imagine this is what Mercury must feel like, sittin so damn close to a burning ring of fire. alrigght guys thanx for herin me out
bhye

A Letter of Explanation

a poem by Corey Marks, the last sentence of which is frustratingly catched in some damned mind-hook or other even when toileting and that's why it's here now.

By now, sir, you expect a second installment. What novel is worth its ink if the hero’s ship never finishes sinking, if the cold tide never tumbles him ashore into the provincial care of two strolling shepherds? But I’m not writing to beg leniency; rather, to offer warning: For so long I thought myself irreversibly singular, but I've met another who shares features almost indistinguishable from my own and with them seeks to steal everything I call my own.

When I first saw him, he was innocuous, staring from a strategic corner in a café. He learned to read lips so he could order what I ordered. One by one, he acquired my habits the way a lexicographer compiles a dictionary, noting first the most rudimentary usages, gradually adding nuance, context, until his approximation was exhaustive.

What a performance! What unnerving self-reference. His shadow-play followed me everywhere. Once, my novel in its first flush upon the page, I – we – took a train all night through the mountains, to think, to be driven further inside my story. I spoke to him then, my double, my shadow, and he listened, attentive, all nods and approving hums. The perfect audience. Then he spoke.

Imagine, never having seen one, you find yourself before a mirror. Shock, at first. An inability to fit your mind around the clear fact of your outward self, the stranger agape before you. Soon, though, you tame a stray wisp of hair. Check your teeth, the fit of your overcoat. Imagine how others see you, what they miss. The mirror becomes indispensable, a page of reference to an aspect of yourself. It pales before what I found in him. He was the book, perfect and whole.

You see the cruelty in his disappearance. I’ve returned to the mountains, scoured trains, villages. So often I want to call his name, but what name would I call? My own? I’ve asked after him on the streets, in cafés, hotels. I’ve described him, pointing to my own face. I’ve seen the glances, shoulders turning away. I’m not blind no matter how blind the world becomes to me. You must understand my negligence, why my ambitions are all postponed, peering into the yawning waves. The amputee who still feels the ache of a missing limb knows nothing of my state. I do not feel an arm still attached, but rather that it is elsewhere, perched on a desk behind a door I’ve yet to find, clutching a pen that descends a page filled with waves of script – my script –, conducting the body’s business on its own.

I implore your patience, sir, and your caution, for we are not always who we are.

sports!

Mexican slight glance head nods in affirmation (yes we are here) (yes we both love and admire kevin milwood) (yes we both miss juan gonzales) (yes, our visions are few and far between) from point a to b, somethings taking up space in between but niether of us will come to ackknowledge it. this is not unkindness, it is just the American way of doin things. In America, everything relies on boxes, boxes of moments and activities, boxes are a way of life. and even the middle aged man with a nostalgic #27 jersey reigning from '96 is turned into a voyeur as he flows through the crowd like a product on a conveyor belt conveying almost nothing to anyone except his loved ones which are few and far between the stream of thousands of products.with dreams of tettleton in our heads i too offer my bobblehead, because i know we both need it."Im just wanna get in there and get drunk"

Welcome to The Hotel Ayodhya

               The India Students Association organized an event to celebrate Diwali: The Festival of Lights. It was hosted on the evening of November 14th, in the Auditorium Building and was a 2 hour cultural musical variety-show. Most of the other attendees were young Indian students, and they seemed to be sharing a kind of ethic bonding quality among one another. I enjoyed the openness and sincerity of the atmosphere and immediately entered into a relaxed and festive demeanor.

               The most interesting part of the evening was a seven minute musical performance by a group of six musicians led by an Indian student named Sanji. Most of the other presentations at this point had been pretty traditional or deeply ethnic. Sanji now stood on the stage with five other young men, all every-day college-kid dressed, and four of the five were Caucasian. I mention this last detail because at the time it really stood out visually: the contrast was unexpected and so it made me stop and think. It was a rock ensemble: Sanji played acoustic guitar his mates were playing 3 additional guitars (one electric, one acoustic, and one classical), a drum set, and the last performer played saxophone and electric keyboard.

               A cover of The Eagles’, “Hotel California” opened up with a long sax solo: apparently an improvisation of the song’s well known vocal verse melody. As soon as Sanji began singing it was so clearly not-another high-school band cliché Eagles cover that I had to laugh. The timbre of the voice was rather Kirk Hammet of Metallica, but the medium-heavy Indian accent and overall tone-reluctance carried it beyond further comparison. The music was pretty underwhelming, but just the simple fact of the performance taking place kept spirits high among the audience, me included. Cameras flashing, the audience was politely elated as the song picked up, and even hooted and cheered during the well-known heroic moments, and even during completely new heroic moments, like when the keyboard player missed a cue and began playing the wrong section only to stop and rejoin in next measure.

               Musically, this show was a pretty absurd experience. I couldn’t help but glow at the dense post-modern statements allowed to be made in this atmosphere of friendliness and acceptance. I think most people who attended Diwali that night would agree with me when I say that serious music and tradition is great, but what it all comes down to is getting together and being happy with ourselves and with each other.

shitting

little brown dumplings my ass vomits up.

they make more sense when theirs christmas music playing.

day 1 of no grizzly str8...you'll be missed im sure.

i'm pooping right now

it looks like flower petals and gum drops and it smells like roses and sugar plums.