The Wraith - The 6th Joker Card

A pressence can be felt by those who have followed thy epic saga as told by thy Insane Clown Posse. It is a presence that is synonymous with thy crumbling of time itself. Thus emerges a being so powerful that he can exist between both the land of thy living, and that of the dead. He goes by many names but is known to thy living only as Thy Wraith. He walks upon worlds forgotten, and descends from Heavens; fade into gray to witness thy death of all mortal things, so that he may guide thy departed upon thy path that they have chosen. Only now will we truly understand thy meaning of thy saga, for this saga all along, each Jokers Card, is actually none other than... thy echo of our lives.

The Wraith leads you to where you will go, Shangri-La or Hell's Pit. The Wraith:Shangri-La is called that because it is the story of the path to Shangri-La, and Vice-Versa.

The Amazing Jeckel Bros. - The 5th Joker Card

Emerging from the Dark Carnival like phantom smoke drifting into the minds of men, they are the Amazing Jeckel Brothers. A chaotic duo of juggling masters, Jack "the sinister" and Jake "the just" juggle the sins of mortal men. The price of admission to their show is a mere human soul. When death creeps around and life decays, the departed spirit will begin its journey. A vision of a candle will begin to form like a distant dream with billowing smoke rising from its eternal flame. In this thick haze the deceased will begin to see an image of Jake and Jack Jeckel juggling red balls between themselves. Each ball soaked in fresh blood and pulsating like an erratic living heart. For every sin committed in a mortal's life another ball is added to their unearthly performance and the harder it becomes. The deceased will witness sinister Jack throwing Jake curves in a vile attempt to see a ball drop. For if they should fumble in their act, a pit of infinite evil shall open beneath the feet of the viewer and cast the soul into an eternity of pain and suffering. Success on the other hand, opens the gates of Shangri-La and grants one ascension into pure enlightenment and peace. Jack and Jake Jeckel rest in all of us for they are the very fabric of our being conscience and soul. There is no escape from their Juggling act because there is no way to escape from ourselves. Only in death will we realize this as we twist and spin to the other side?

This all means this. You pay your soul to see their show. Each ball is your sin. There is 1 for your greed, and 2 for your lies. Jake is juggaling away, while the sinister Jack is tossing curveballs to Jake, trying to get him to fumble. For if he shall drop a single ball, The Wraith will lead you to Hell's pit. If he doesn't fumble, and the act is perfect, you will be lead to Shangri-la. The more you sin, the more balls, the more chanc for Jake to fumble.

The Great Milenko - The 4th Joker Card

From deep within the Netherworld of shadow walkers comes yet another exhibit of the Dark Carnival. He is the master of the art of using magic without magic. He is a Necromaster... the craft of using magic through the dead. Dead meaning both physically and mentally. This spectacle shall be witnessed only by those who are meant to see it. Look deep inside of your soul and ask yourself... Do you hold a ticket to witness the show? The answer lies within yourself. He is the fourth to rise. He feeds upon one's own greed. He is powered by one's own jealousy, lust, and temptation. To envision yourself with something that rightfully does not belong to you... that is the illusion cast by him. To act upon this vision and seek it out at the expense of another... that is the magic cast by him. Continuous dreamers of profit at the cost of another are pledged and haunted by his wizardry. Others are content and satisfied with what they can achieve by themselves and have not the urge to tamper with another's well being for quick gain. They see him only as a hoax and see no illusions or magic by he. It is simple... He is you. His illusions are your evil thoughts. Your evil acts are his magic - yesterday, now and forever. You and he are the fourth to rise... You and he are the master of Necromancy... You the dead and him the magic. Together, you and he are The Great Milenko.

do zombie's poop?

The Riddlebox - The 3rd Joker Card

Time flows like a dark horde, consuming all in its path. Man lives his life in the blink of an eye. Just as day becomes night, all life fades into death. In death each person will be judged for his deeds performed while alive. There are the few who walk a life of purpose, and there are those who trod the path of greed, their souls host to demons. Time slows near each person's end. Those whose deeds were evil grasp onto life as long as they can because, though they don't know what awaits them in the afterlife, they feel for them it is a horror beyond words. Time stops in this world, as the heart becomes still and the soul leaves the body. In the afterlife time is eternal, and even death is but a new beginning. For you see, when you step into death your soul steps upon the floor of a dark chamber and you look to see it empty, except for a strange looking box on an old wooden table. On the front of the box, you will see a painted question mark faded with time and a twisted crank handle on its side. Turning the handle, a sharp melodic tune will fill the air. For the evil ones this sound will be a deafening noise reverberating off the walls and building into a climatic terror. But the surprise is when the music stops as you slowly turn the handle... and then the top of the box pops. For the few, they will see a vision of God with a golden light warming their souls as they step forth into eternal peace. For most they will see a fog seeping from the box, stripping their sanity, as they witness an image of hell, spawned and formed fromtheir own evil; a hideous reflection of their demented souls. The floor of the room begins falling away as they plummet into a bottomless pit full of shadowy creatures, forever to be lost in a sinister void. What will be in store for you is the mystery, but if you take a look within yourself you will find the answer. For now, you still have time to change the outcome of... the mighty Riddle Box.

The Ringmaster - The 2nd Joker Card

The day has come, the time of reckoning. Who will perish in dreaded hell and who's soul will be content within the pleasures of heaven? Looking past the words spoken with a wicked tongue and looking past the evil deeds done in one's life, but instead looking into the conscious of man. What is the real evil that seems to plague mankind? Who are the real demons that walk this earth? Is it those whose minds have become devious because of a lifetime spent inside of a caged hell, or is it those who invented this caged hell years ago and done nothing to help destroy it yet? Who's guilty, Frankenstein or the doctor that created him? The sword, or the man who has slain with it? Which is the real evil, the man who kills another for food or the man who does not share his food to avoid the killing? While you sit in judgement of a criminal, you may very well be the one who's guilty. Guilty of greed, deception and hate. Those who are rejected at the gates of heaven, shall be dragged off into the pits of hell. Viciously torn from this life by the non-living, the phantoms of the dead. These beasts take the form of a demented carnival, that of a wicked, dark, circus, led by one. One who was created by your own evil ways. One who will judge your very fate. The one known only as... The Ringmaster.

Tiny TIm and Vince

Mmmm, Yes.

This pilates ball feels scrumptious on my Ass.

Like my Ass just got ordered and served hot from a piece of baking stonewear. The pilates ball placed an order for my Ass and got it. Got the whole thing; my whole Ass.

I like the way the pilates ball holds me, gently, pushing me up, uplifting me.

I love the delicate equilibrium of the amount of 'give' that it delivers to my ass--so delicate that a slight rest or resignation of any of my bodyweight onto the top of the table is given a significant response. Habitual posture is for breakfast, along with peanut butter, a banana, some not-what-I-would-call-burnt toast, a few chunks of cooked chicken-eggie, and a short glass of milk from a cow. A female cow. What the cows are drinking for breakfast, heck, I don't know. S'pose I could ask, but they would probably just resent it.

This is why I don't live in a barn. That isn't true, it's just that barns are just uncomfortable, at least when they are outfitted for cows. I only drink organic cow milk. You can taste the bleach and oher chemicals in the regular stuff. Organic just tastes like cows' titties. Who's titties the cows are tastin' on, well, that is a mystery.

I like how sitting on this ball makes me engage my whole spine, relax my neck, abs, shoulders and lower back. My heart melts away with a deep breath and my body remains, solid, strong, like an ancient pillar, with an infintesimal past and infinite future, climbing forever closer to heaven in every direction.

I'm going for a bike ride, ride by some cows.

The Carnival of Carnage - The 1st Joker Card

It was a soft gentle night.

In the little town of...of, well, your town.

The gentle breeze swept the streets,
creating that pleasant howl that these kind town folks have enjoyed for so many, many years.

The wind chimes sent their peaceful melodies into the ears of the sleepy residents, but the unusual was approaching in the distance.

Something evil headed toward this small town as the residents slept.

Something crept, slithered, and crawled its way through the quiet streets.

Guided by the moon light,
these frightening strangers set up tents and rides, shows and games, there were savage jesters, and wicked ringmasters.

There were horrid freak shows and sights only the impending doom will witness.

They brung with them the carnage that they had lived with for eternity.
The morning is a new day.

The people of this town will unwillingly witness the show of their lives, only rumored to exist.

They will be the next to die, helplessly,
at the Carnival of Carnage.

On Dickens

“There was this man,” began Courtney.

“There was this man,” confirmed Francis.

“He was wearing a hat,” explained Courtney.

“Well, it was raining,” protested Francis.

Courtney frowned and gazed down at the device in his palm. This was going to be more difficult to explain than he had anticipated. Francis saw Courtney’s expression and drew a similar one across his own face.

“What kind of hat?”

Courtney brightened. “That was just that – it was a most peculiar hat. It was as round as his head and entirely black.”

Francis shut his eyes and looked as if he were putting forth a genuine effort to picture the man’s odd garment. “I can picture the black…” he began.

“It matched his style of dress exactly,” Courtney quivered, his wide eyes darting around as if expecting the man to appear again, in the same fashion as before.

Francis’ frown deepened as he failed to draw the idea of a formless black mass over the entirety of an equally formless man. After considering the result for some minutes, he concluded that he would be fit to envision this man perfectly if only the snakes and bursts of yellow proteins stopped swimming under his eyelids.

Courtney’s eyes narrowed, and he went on. “Looked like a government man. Thing is, he didn’t talk like a government man.”

“And he had this hat…” added Francis helpfully.

This is your mind on awesome

On Distance, Part II

The room is yellow and everyone in it is slowly going mad because of the hum of the lights, especially the ones that don’t know it yet. The teacher wears a long monochrome skirt and the kind of sweater that art school girls wear when they want to look like teachers. She lectures about William Blake, or William Wordsworth, or William Morris. I turn to speak to Sylvia, but she’s reading Dorothy Parker. I stare down at my paper for a few minutes, write, “Does this sentence remind you of Douglas Hofstadter?” next to “This sentence contains only one non-English kryxor” and “No language can express this thought without ambiguity.”

The teacher mentions cinnamon, and I cock my head. Supposedly, humans naturally look up and to the side when trying to recall an image. I wonder how one might try to recall a scent. I experiment with facial expressions and angles, exercising my futility muscles. Frustrated that I couldn’t call the olfactory sensation of cinnamon to myself, I turn the page of my notebook and list recognizable odors: cinnamon, lime, pennies, apple blossom, almond, Denver, grandma, yellow curry, old books, Appalachia, my car, Sylvia’s car, chalk, baby powder, banana, banana nut bread, pound cake, Puerto Vallarta, toothpaste (baking soda, not mint,) mint, butter, coconut, Rubber Gloves Studio, orange, Santa Fe, peach, plum, pear, the subway, blueberries, new shoes, cranberries, cantaloupe, chili, garbage bin, red curry, Austin, acrylic paint, oil paint, sawdust, rust, carrots, semen, clove cigarettes, cough drops, lavender, white wine, red wine, sunrise, noontime, cider, myrrh, oatmeal, nutmeg, oregano, Houston, pine, pumpkin, summer rain, winter rain, rosewood, Orlando, beer, strawberries, cookies (grandma’s?), dogwood, sycamore, oak, cigarette-soaked clothing, aspen, redwood, Paris, Milan, Zurich, playing cards, felt pen, basil, jasmine, socks, moist tortilla, damp stone, wet dog, leather, ex’s laundry detergent, cut grass, ammonia, chlorine, dog food, hospitals, cat food, airports, interstate gas stations, Mississippi River, moonshine, burning leaves, tires, singed hair, lemonade, camels, chapstick, sex, home, and coffee.

I try to coax each of them to leap up and into my nose. Then I dig in my backpack for a box of crayons. I’ve tried this before – but eleven years don’t vanish without some stubborn will of sorts. I open the box near my nose and draw it in. Drawn out. Draw! –up

Give Me Ultimatums or Give Me Death

Ten times I swear to God I’ll burn this house right down right down I’ll turn this mess into the biggest tent-fuck you’ve ever witnessed yes Sir. Then I’ll pull down my sunshades and my sunblock over my nipples and the last Sunday I seen before I started worshipping sex, coincidence, and a fine flapjack breakfast. If those neighbors don’t quiet down I’ll burn their goddamn car into the ground like that couple whose vehicle was hit by the loose-swinging powerline, the electric cable in the electric storm whose sheer electric content melted the goddamn car straight into the goddamn ground, rubber puddles around the island. True story. That’s what I’ll do. The last time I made a threat like this is was the idlest damn thing you’ve ever heard but the time before that I did it and they didn’t even see me do it and their goddamn yellow tape couldn’t keep me out and their goddamn red tape kept me from ever getting involved after the thing already happened I swear it. I’ll ruin you. I’ll ruin you. Do you see? You were made a fool of.

On Distance, Part I

Claustrophobia isn’t a concrete jail cell, isn’t a glaring courtroom. Claustrophobia comes later: repeat visits to the courtroom, to the lawyer, being caught in a legal loop that seeks to inconvenience one out of wanting to commit another crime. There are rules in a courtroom. There is little fine print in jail.

Physical movement doesn’t equate with freedom nearly as often as it should. I felt more joy listening to tall tales in a cold, colorless steel bunk than I did listening to State rabble for a sixth time in the sixth location. In the police station, a massive man grown weak by the daily four hundred calories of starch and xanthum gum mumbled my direction, Free your ass and your mind will follow. I said, “I’m one step ahead of you, mate,” but he had already fallen back asleep, snoring like a chainsaw and chest heaving like chain gang, great big effort.

There are a lot of folks who need some sort of anchor to keep themselves from reeling off. Some folks see that same anchor as deadweight. Most of us, thank God, can’t help but find it playing both roles, and know when to let the damned thing fall off. It’s not a rare case, either, that the anchor holds tight as a barnacle, and there isn’t a thing can be done to set yourself loose. Sometimes, you’re the anchor. I knew a woman once, serpentine grip and a special talent for letting go. All it took was some time alone and she ran off like wet paint. I’ve found work is a fine cure for worry.

Some of my state-ordered community service involved a fair amount of physical movement, loading and unloading furniture and estate sale remnants into trucks that belonged to Habitat for Humanity. Once, while I groaned under the weight of a marble-slab coffee table, a seventy-something man loosed a gleeful cackle at the enormous sum signed to him by the strip mall contractors who had purchased his property.

“My friends, they said, ‘you’re going to cry when you move out,’ they said. I said, ‘I won’t be crying when I cash that check.’” He put his hands in the pockets of his oversized pants. “I’ve lived here since nineteen forty-one, since I was a boy. Own that one across the street, too.” I nearly drop the table, or do.

To have a legal obligation to be rooted to the city is a sin; to live a lifetime on the same block without some oppressive exterior force is a low-down shame. Laziness, is what it is.

junk

tiny is as tiny dew
tiny is as tiny poo
-william s blur-o's
"the latest greatest cereal
start your day right
with some confusing
sugar flaked rounded
food circs"

ipu upu

With the supreme success of the 1st Toilet Moment Pooping Party (pictures developing), we have decided to make the parties a by-weekly affair for your derriere. The next party will be a real whomper and we have a goal to raise at least 75 pounds of SOLID doodoo, squirts will not be accepted. Also, Shelly will be bronzing turds until midnight for a small fee. All proceeds will be donated to the candlelight vigil for the late Harry Bottums who unfortunately passed wind Monday morning. May he poop in peace.


October 24, 2009, 9P.M. @ The Floyd House

Woof Woof

stroke it
shake it
cleanline break it

BUTT.