I Hate Some Things

There are some things I hate in the world. Like I hate scratched lenses in my glasses. And I hate the guy who didn’t clean up the dog puke in my hallway. I hate when I have to buy something I already own but don’t have it close. I hate that there is no place to find books like the books I like with a simple search. I hate litterers. I hate most dogs. I hate crawling through 3 football fields of sewage to freedom. I hate people who diss Harry Potter. I hate that I can’t cut my own hair well. I hate that everybody’s afraid to cut my hair. I hate feeling immobile. I hate bleeding all over my drum set. I hate drinking Nyquil. I hate chicken dip that I can’t stop eating. I hate crafting blog posts and nobody reading them. I hate papaya. I hate the name “Beatrice.” I hate smelling bad smells. I hate sticking wild boars with spears. I hate the names of rappers. I hate that I can’t fix my car. I hate how people compare books and movies as if they’re similar. I hate my jean short cut-offs. I also hate cranberry sauce. I hate dens of thieves.

Sad, Soulful Music

I want to make sad, soulful music with my acoustic guitar. No major chords. No sing-song melodies. I want to make it to express my failures as a man and the miseries of the world. Thumb plucks and rattling strings. My gravel voice and coal raking fingernails. Just to release some of the heavy, burdensome emotion that threatens to burst inside. Climb the heights of craggy cliffs of feeling to be dumped over the edge in low, strained harmony. Thrash the waiting steel and basswood until it changes into a steady streamline of sound. Scream and moan for the pain of existence.

And as my fingers stretch and contract, flying like live things over the neck and body of my guitar, I will feel satisfied and revealed like a mighty river released from a dam or a secret shared. Alone, I will be finished.

Archenemies

I feel lucky to not have an archenemy constantly spoiling my good times and spurring on my death. I’m happy I can sit quietly and think on the great void rather than hatred and malice. Some are not so lucky. Take my friend Phillip of Kingsbury: He has two archenemies, William Hamleigh and Waleran Bigod. They’re constantly plotting to ruin his priory and steal from his pence box. They don’t seem content except when they’re trampling Tom Builder on horseback and hurting women. It’s a wonder Phillip gets anything accomplished on his cathedral at all!

1,000 Tongues

At church, the images can be frightening: like 1,000 tongues. Can you imagine 1,000 tongues singing? Disembodied tongues, flopping around or traveling industriously ala Thing from the Addams Family? And then singing too?! It’s enough to scare a fellow. And what if they weren’t organized? Just a bunch of tongues falling wetly on top of one another and clawing for space like a big bucket of slugs. Terrible, frightening images.

Letter to mewithoutYou Concert Venue

Dear mewithoutYou Concert Venue,

Thank you for offering your space for an interesting band to play last night. You should know, however, that flashing lights in my eyes does not add to my concert going experience. I’m not talking about a little flash, flash, blink, blink. I’m talking about how every time the band builds to a climax, I’ve got popcorn eyeballs having to stare at the floor or squint the crap out of themselves because of random sweeping can-lights or whatever. I wished I had a hat on. Yeah, looking around you have stoned out hipsters staring through the sun-like laser show but little me after one beer turns into a crinkle-faced anger pot wishing I had some un-dilating drops.

I go to concerts to see and hear so maybe quit it with your crazy spinning ceiling light sabers. They look like they’re alive, sortof. You shouldn’t light up the crowd for the band’s sake. You should light up the band for the audience’s. What if I spilled hot coffee on you while you were trying to mow the lawn? Think about it.

Sincerely,

Eric

Alien Abduction Poem

When aliens come to take us away, my toes will worry what happens that day. Will they pull at us? Will they poke us with forks? Will they boil us with potatoes and a side of pork?

When aliens come to boil up my toes, my shoulder blade will worry more stronger than those. Will they move me in circles? Will they split me in two? Will they cover me in caramel and call me Da-doo?

When aliens come to caramel Da-doo, my finacee won’t worry what happens to you. Will they conk her small noggin? Will they tickle her pits? Will they stick her in the freezer and serve her to kids?

When aliens come to freeze my fiancée, I hope they are quicker than prayer time on Thursday.

But I like her well warmer and eager to play, but frozen and eaten, I’ll take her that way.

Subway Dogs

I, personally, would be terrified if all the rats in the New York City Subway system were replaced with wild dogs. If that happened, I’d move away. Just imagine being surprised by a dirt-black crazy-eyed dog staring up at you, head slightly tilted as if asking for permission to jump up onto the platform next to you. Then a train comes rolling through and he disappears into a dog-sized hole in the wall. That would be something I could not get used to.

Every so often you’d be taking the train home late at night and you feel a thump, thump, thump and then howls and cries trailing off behind the train car. Oh yeah, that happens sometimes, I’d tell the horrified tourists. Just a pack of wild subway dogs we surprised. I guess a few made it under the wheels. We can expect they’ll be leaping maniacally at the windows and snapping ferociously at the your children when we stop soon. Yep, there they go.

All of it wouldn’t be bad though: no more gross rat tails trailing behind subway animals; a lot more random old people being dragged screaming into the depths of the subway; system; greater emphasis placed on carrying raw meat with you at all times, perhaps.

Letter to My Screaming Neighbor and her Rotten Child

Dear Neighbor,

Why do you persist in screaming at your dumb kid outside of my apartment door? It happens every day and it makes me mad at you and when I get mad I don’t feel as good as I could be feeling. It compounds with my negative feelings towards the barking dogs and unemployment and family members and makes me want to close the window and put a towel under the door. Well I don’t want to close the window because it’s not hot enough for the air conditioning and your 4-year-old really doesn’t need to be scolded for asking questions about the tile in the hallway. Really. Yeah, he’s a piece of crap kid and he’s got red hair but give him a break when he cries for his dad on the way out the door: you are a raging, ludicrous, failure of a mother, after all.

Have some respect for others when you leave your ridiculous apartment and walk your scummy child down the stairs. Everyone’s hears you and hates you when you don’t.

Your Neighbor,

Eric

Michael Jackson Shamone

I once had a car that had both a cd player and a tape player. It was fortunate because my cd player was sketch and quit playing all the time. That was when I switched over to the old school tapes. Never bought a one; just wrote home about it and in my mailbox the next week were old school tapes galore from my parents’ house care of Mom.

Among gems like John Denver and the Fugees was a smattering of Michael Jackson and this has made all the difference. I got intimately acquainted with Thriller and along with it one of the most moving and emotional chains of music that I have ever experienced. I don’t know music. I don’t know albums. What I do know is a well-crafted progression of songs that you can sing to driving late at night and remember the next day. I do know artistry and I do know how hard it is to create something beautiful.

Among the many notorious events concerning Michael Jackson, in the press and among the public, I am happy to remember his music, along with those wheel-pounding, screaming shamone sessions above all else. What a great gift to give. What a crazy life we all got to watch.

Sad Dog Story, Piteous Really.

I hate it when dogs start whining and barking and crying. I hate it so much I could kill those stupid dogs. Why don’t they understand that people just want to sleep? Or that they could be happier if they just stop crying and go to sleep? Or that they won’t get shook if they just shut the hell up.

Once I ruined a dog because it was crying for a few hours in her cage and on the way out the door at 3 in the morning to find some 24-hour drug store to buy some ear plugs, I shook the junk out of the cage this dumb old dog was sitting in. Now it hates that cage. Won’t go near the thing so I hear. I feel really bad about it now but I don’t think I could have not done it that day. It sounded like a real baby and that made me more mad.

I would now like to deflect your criticism with a con-is-really-a-pro observation, as one might use in an interview in response to the question, “What is one of your biggest faults?”: The only reason I couldn’t stomach the tough love, training whatever we were doing for this new dog was because I feel too much for the pain in this tiny creature. It was torturous to sit and listen to and so my only option was to lash out. At the dog?

This is a true story that I would rather didn’t get around.

Bear Coat Invention

Live Bear Fur Coat, genetically engineered to live docilely as an outer garment. With hollow tubes for arms, you can slip right in and cozy on up. Just don’t forget the muzzle!

Ever get spray-paint on your fine fur things? Does it seem like everywhere you go, you’re getting blood thrown on you? Why not try a Bear Skin Coat, complete with live bear! Real organs pumping blood throughout the coat will keep you warm through the toughest winter and also give you a friend for company. When you’re in from the cold, just set the bear-coat on the ground and watch it pull itself around with its teeth! How adorable. These bear coats are also thick enough to keep you warm but not make you look fat.

Live bear coats. The answer to all the critics!

I Went Fishing

If I were a fish and I got caught, I would sit in my bucket and think on life. Probably about all the other fish I had eaten and about those times I swam past a rock and didn’t look closer. Maybe other things but those two would take precedence.

Before the death rattle, I would be happy I was no longer able to vampire my way through the ocean. No more mama fish without a baby fish coming home because of me. No more upset stomach because of fish guts and fish tears. I suffered along with you small fish and this is a fitting end. Glob, glob.

As I suffocated slowly I would also consider the many rocks gone unexplored. Adventures in floating and swimming that could have taken place. Rocks perhaps hiding female fish that knew how to have fun but also be serious and help with my issues and baggage. And, oh. Oh, the fish eggs that might have been fertilized. Hidden yes, and now forever hidden, the little Eric fish that would have looked hard through fish eyes and not made the mistakes of their father fish.

To be a fish on this day and to die in a bucket. Sweet irony of the fish world. Funny, sad fish gods! There’s fish blood on your hands humans! And fish in your fish stomachs!

No Title

The eyes, they burn.

Running

When a run comes to take my breath and spill my fluids, I stretch my body and hope for the best. The run takes me out into the neighborhood, past places I don’t want to be, but farther than legs would go otherwise. I appreciate that about the run. The legs, they pitter patter and bend and curl around pavement and torture and pull apart muscles and send pain to my head. The run tells me to keep going even when I’m done. Sleepy task master of my thoughts and body she is.

Air Creatures

A billion little creatures slip silently through the air. They hover through the air as a fish in water only they cannot be contained by glass. No glass has ever stopped these creatures.

The creatures have knives and chains and float around spoiling for a fight. They have heavy boots and creature eyes. With creature swiftness they form a fighting triangle and attack desk lamp light bulbs and trash cans ruining their contents and taking their casualties.

Creatures unlike what you’re thinking about with rotten, hanging arms and ten-gallon hats roam the air. We breathe when they want us to.

Letter to my Teeth, on the Day of their Hurting

Dear Teeth,

Oh teeth, are you listening? Why are you hurting me? I have cleaned you with paste and brush for many, many years. I birthed you from the womb of my gums and now you reject me. Steal my thoughts from precious food. How cold and disgusting you are. How disloyal. How spiteful. Why don’t you just curl up and blacken like dead things. Why couldn’t you just chomp and cut food without shooting, stabbing messages of hurt through my body. You make me hate teeth. You make me eager for old age when I can gum food, my beloved food friends, without you in the way. You make me want an ice skate and a rock.

Teeth, if you had tears, I would like tears to be coming from your eyes if you had eyes.

Your friend,

Eric

Trashy Tuesdays

I went on a run and then a stroll on this Tuesday evening and happened upon some choice trash that I feel like sharing.  First, I found two card tables, only slightly water logged, that I noticed between clutching at my heart and spitting up lung.  I made it a point to come back and check them out before I finished my run and decided that one trashy dirty collapsible table was enough for me.  It’s now drying in my hallway.

Another fun thing I found was a little dead mouse at the end of a driveway.  It made me think of how small dead things at the ends of driveways like the one I was passing by were.  And how sad.

Being as it rained about 6 inches this morning, I felt like I shouldn’t touch the fabric love seats and baby toys with rainwater dirt splashes all over them so I went home after a quick loop.

Now, the only things left on my list of “what I want from the trash” are a big shelf for my back yard, tools of any kind, shampoo bottles with a little bit left, old magazines, drywall and a grill.  I need that grill!

Idea for a Film

A spider is crawling onto a desk just as a young woman sits down.  Her reaction upon seeing the spider is to cry out and run away.  Using a slow motion effect, one can see that spit flies from the girl’s mouth, along with a scream, coating the spider’s eyes and back area.  Limping away, the spider finds a hole and crawls into it.  We follow the girl back to where she is standing on a chair telling her boyfriend to that he must go kill the spider that she assumes is still waiting to scare her on her desk.  The girl is wearing socks with ruffles, like a little girl.  The boyfriend takes off his shoe and disappears into the room.  The camera zooms in on a file that reads “Human Essence Half-life Toxic Testing Study” along with another pair of ruffled socks on top.

The spider wakes up from a fevered sleep and stretches its legs.  Upon inspection, he learns that his legs have turned into bones and are covered with skin!  He lets out an audible noise that no spider has ever produced and realizes he has a voice.  He finds on the ends of his leg, he has smaller legs that he can move individually.

The Man/Spider has a sudden urge to harm all humans and sets off to bite and strike fear into them as only a small naked talking man/spider is able.

Valkerie Dream

I’ve never seen the movie Valkerie or however you spell it but I had a dream I was going to kill Hitler and it was as action-packed or more action-packed than what I think the movie might be.  The farthest I got on my missions was a frontier town looking place where I had to run up a ramp and light some Germans on fire with my blow torch.  Before that, I had to organize my Army bag, which was very similar to the backpack I carry now.  I hate Hitler.

Thoughts One Could Think On and Not Be Wasting Time

My sinews are aching with the small tears of exertion. 

From the hallway comes immigrant-lungs-meeting-cleaning-supplies coughs. 

Ingested onion taste coats my slimy food breach and clouds my blog thoughts. 

Birds, they peep and then get out of my strangle range.

Magnificent force, the force of gravity…the force of the grave.