A Rambling Rampage

Continuing the tradition of my other journals and placing the non-prose entries in a separate place. Good for those who prefer to dabble in non-prose and abstract commentary.




From Entry #27:

And it's as if I'm watching
from the back of the room, lounging in
the shadows, waiting for the time to streak through the light
to the other side of dark.
I'm waiting for my time to shine in my
tarnished gold threads and break it down for the audience,
break the molds, dance on fire like a stripper high on coke.
I beg you to come to my freak show-
walk, run, swim, skate, fly or even luge!-
as my show will rattle your bones
as I beg myself to forget my falls
and expose the lies of "innocent".
Yet what if the exposure makes the fallen flush in bliss?
I'll host the world's largest block party
and still break it down for the audience.
No more dreams for the flings of a lifetime
as I rot in my cubby in the meat locker.
No. I want to run through the Forbidden City,
camera in tow, and capture the lovemaking
as two superpowers collide in the greatest showdown on Earth.
And I want to be there, capturing it all on my little chips.
Then I'll throw every last chip in the pool,
calling the shots and scream into the night "That's it! They're out!"
cutting through the frozen silence, shaking the city's gongs.
I want to dance and flip across the city and scream "I am the greatest!" as my predictions come true.
I crave to celebrate my intuition and spend my nights in the exotic land partying till dawn.

But I fear my dreams, my desires
will crash me headfirst into the depths of hell
as people pray for my brutal death
and curse me for my sacrilege.
Why curse me for purging so many years' worth of
bullcrap that threatened to rip me to shreds?
And what if I get the greatest, most shameful photos,
bringing me money and shame in terrible tandem.
They'd kill me! I know it!
String my ass up high on the Wall and leave me to die.
If you must, just grant me one wish.
Let me hold mi amor once more before I'm sentenced to starvation for my sacrelige.

From Entry #34:

Welcome to Beijing!
How can we help you today?

First hook me up with a cozy nook,
a bottle of Jack, and
a good place to print pictures.
Three point five weeks is a damn long time,
and my cards won't last.

Lusting after athletic bodies
with that snazzy camera
and drinking away your desires?
Pity! What a shame!

Au contraire, I am but a deceptive
youth wandering the streets of Beijing,
seeking my fame from the camera
and drowning in the amber cure to
ease the pain.
You haven't a clue what I plan to find.

But your skill will kill!
Who would you want to ruin in this
vibrant community so full of life?

Does it matter I'm going to crush a couple
superstars to pay for my degree?
Bills are mounting, and with this ring on my finger,
I must uphold my end of the deal.
See it? See it? A sparkling diamond.
I don't want the athletes
I want what they have.

Is it wise to seek that in the
dance halls of Beijing, where nothing is known?
Only seen...you see, my dear,
they've done nothing except play in the summer breezes-

And deceive how many?
Listen, do you believe they are the one true pair,
star crossed in the Forbidden City?
Do you realize what I must do?
My destiny lies here in the stadiums, the streets,
the clubs, the hills, the valleys.
My camera is my sole solace
and my greatest enemy,
so hook me up with a room so I can hide
until the world descends on me
after a night of snapping photos
of them grinding and swivelling as if no one was watching?
I'll catch them on the last swim and see my way out
as I'm tried and hung.

Wreck them? But why?
What do you know about them?
The lovers have a future I see in their eyes.
Look at your pictures. Look in their eyes.
What will you gain in wrecking
the greatest love story this world needs?
What destiny will you fulfill
in your evil deed?

Not a pleasant one for damn sure.
I didn't choose to force them out.
I got plucked from the crowd by a shadow,
and they dangled me in the air,
mocking my skills with this camera.
See these prints?
It's as if Pulitzer himself made love to me,
and I birthed this groundbreaking shot.
Don't reign me in,
as I'm the one set to break the icy ground
of the Olympics.
One test, and it'd be done.
I'm so damn close to sealing the deal on these two,
knock them from their high horses.

The prints...damn you, young lady!
My groin weeps gazing upon this photographic nugget
of erotic treasure, catching
the sweat on their arms as they seek to fuse their bodies,
their souls. My, you're dangerous!
Go ahead and have the suite of your choice, my dear,
and we'll ship the Jack by the case.
Need anything, just ask. Just Beijing in that magical light.
Maybe Pulitzer will bless you with another child
of those men in the pool.
My, what a blossom!

From Entry #71:

Coasting by on scant sleep,
measuring doom by the capful,
I shuffle cards and make a choice.
Something needs to give.
So I go about my day with a ounce of luck
and not a fucking clue as to why
I made foolish choices robbing me of time.
Clean the trash heap sloppy fuckers
toss willy nilly to the depths of my sanity,
yet in the end, sifting through the heap reaps
us plenty of rewards.
So much for folly.
We made the money for real.
What's up with that?
So 'midst the messy patrons
and the co-workers falling for each other
like cinder blocks,
I did my thing, pondered my next moves
and hoped a miracle would save my ass.
Karma tank's half empty, and I'm prayin'
it gets me to the next stop so I can fill it some more.
I hope. I hope. I hope.
But in the end, I find the truth
in a day rife with games.
As people bitch about swapped out vowels
and fair traffic blocking entrances to homes,
I have something, the one thing
keeping me going as I hang on for the end of the ride.
I have the strength to go on.
Let's hope I have a safe landing.

From Entry #91:

Skin me alive,
yet you refuse to live in your own skin.
Toughen it up with
injections of titanium.
What's the irony of the day?
I see it in your face.
Hide behind the turquoise walls
that are threatening to crumble.
I know it.
I hide with you,
yet I'm on the side where the wall
is crumbling at our touch.
You live in a fantasy world of
blue irises and hyacinths
populated by wasps
the size of golf balls.

So what can you do
as they poke your paper skin?
Will you cry that they're hurting you
or reach for the Benadryl?
Or maybe (just maybe)
you will bear the pain
as the venom slides through your veins,
tingling all the way?

In my mind, I see myself
as one who dares to reach for the wasp,
hold her in my hands.
While you back away, I wish to go forward
to pull the poor insect from the
man-made trap and say
"Everything's going to be alright."
Who will guide them
to be the Simons of the world?
Even that man can put in a good word or two.
It takes time, and we're here to help
not just the scribes.
The readers also need our hands.

I walk cradle the wasp,
urge her to grow
and regenerate her stinger,
teach her how to use it.
Will you allow me to do this,
or will you erect navy walls around me
as I offer this wasp some guidance
to help her buzz about with zip in her flight?

What will I do
to thicken my skin
as I watch yours degenerate
like a compost mountain?
You dominates my features
yet departed my mind.
I'm trying to even it out,
but you strive to encircle all you meet.
Let them go. LET THEM GO!
Let them grow. LET THEM GROW!
But if you want to hold them back in the sweetness and light,
I cannot object but simply walk away
to find someone that will help me
help them grow,
because through helping them I thicken my own skin.

From Entry #137:

See your ad in my spam
and I wonder why you would dare to advertise
your faith when promising me money.
Who are you, you Christian Lenders
offering me financial salvation?
I'd rather die a broken women in debt
than accept your contributions.

I could not accept the money
coated in blood of the innocents.
Who'd you rob of life
to get me these greenbacks?
Your ad says you lend based on
"Christian principles".
What are those? I'm confused.
Do they permit the murder and plunder
I see you committ to drop a few bills in my hand?
And when I would be back on my feet,
why would I back you back?
So you can slay more souls who disagree
with Jesus Christ?
Do you even know what I am?
Do you know I hate you for your deceitful soul?
Do you know I know you for the blood on your hands,
the blood of a person with the courage to not believe.
I won't accept the money.
Your bloody hands shows how you stole it.

And I watch you on Sundays
tread in the green and white pool
begging for donations so you can
swim in the dough?
Brainless bastards feed you heartless heathens.
Your lending does not justify
the money in your hands.

And your money reeks of the deeds
you pulled to get it:
a mish-mash of bribery, murder, robbery and rape
to plunder thousands of those who don't follow your beliefs,
and now you offer the money to me to
see if I convert.
Holding your money,
I feel the fires of Hell
wrap their arms around me.
Fuck this! Take your bloody money!
I'll let Hell take me under
for I touched your sin.
Color me a traitor, but one thing's for sure.
I know how you got the money to loan
which is why I refuse it.
I'd rather die starving.

From Entry #169:

You're asking me what's worth
fighting for?
With so many variants, I say
"Not a thing."
I say it to ward off the Christian terrorists
bent on conquering the world.
I say it to fend off politicians looking
for an ear-pleasing sound byte.
I say it for reporters aching to
advance their careers.
I say it to celebrities 'cuz
they're too dumb, anyway.
But in the same breath, I repeat the line,
adding the crucial not
people never seem to add to that damn, damn question.
I stand in the square with my drum major lungs shouting
"But I know for damn sure what not to fight for!"
Ticking off my fingers, I count all the ways:
fashion innovations,
designer babies,
and fuckers who try to spread democracy
against the people's will.
These are American values, not the world's.
We locked our minds shut after "the greatest war".
The men who died in Normandy fought for shame,
though how were they to know 'midst
the propaganda stream?
They died so America could encroach upon the world
a set of lackadaisical values
and hidden malicious intents.
How were they to know
'midst the propaganda stream?
Who were they to predict
the wrath of Truman, Marshall, Ike and John?
These men preached the glory of the American dream
exclusive to a nation craving isolation.
I feel for those men as I look at the mess
called 21st century America
with its declining military might.
Hey, Bush! Wanna fight?
I have more combat experience than you!
Had you shown up for Guard duty
you might have had a clue!
Someone please pluck his head from his ass
and show him how pressing our ideals on others
is not worth fighting for!

From Entry #218:

All I ask from you is one thing,
one ear, one moment, one mind.
Do you not know what you do to me
or where exactly you stand.
My lover(s) shall encourage me
no matter my foolhardy dreams.
My friends shall kick my ass as needed, as wanted.
My acquaintences shall give me feedback,
in neutral terms tell me what's wrong.
All shall talk to me
to keep my flighty ego in check.
Your silence is my praise,
letting me run rampant with an arrogance
wrapped in pink tissue paper.
Your words keep my head in its proper place,
and it's your responsibility to let me know
when I'm being a jackass.
So, I plea to you this one thing.
Talk to me, please,
so I'm not left drifting.

From Entry #222:

I point at myself and say 'racist',
and only then can I call you one with a clear conscience.
I point at myself and say "Yes, I am"
while you drape your tolerance mask o'er your face.
Give me gas, a blowtorch and let me burn the mask
glued to your face.
You call for a shredding,
a banning, a lockdown on who we are.
Tell me, Tolerance Preacher,
how many people have you violated this week?
How many acts of ignorance did you committ today?
Tell me, more, Tolerance Preacher!
Tell me more!
Tell me how you hide your hate in butter cream frosting
which you plan to knife all over the globe.
And you plan to smother us in the frosting
while we drape our symbols of pride on us,
be they turbans, chastity belts or sheer brainpower.
Tell me, Tolerance Preacher,
why do you don your mask?

I see your veins cracking your
dried plaster sheath,
cracking your mask.
Why does your resilient mask crackle
every time I speak?
Why do your eyes smoke over
as I chip the veneer further and further,
deeper and deeper
to the pulse of rockets and missiles?
You aim to destroy the turbans, the belts, the brains.
Why don't we ask you the one question more?
Why do you play two roles?
Am I the only one in possession of enough balls
to admit my faults?
Am I the only one who can see
how much you want to be like me?

And how the smoke flees your eyes
when I grab the spatula of frosting
and stalk you, grabbing your neck,
shoving balls of frosting down your gullet, your trachea?
Those eyes-what gorgeous scleras!
I watch you bug out as you choke on your own propaganda,
the shit I see you truly don't believe.
Once you begin to bloat, it's time for me to go
so you can finish the job of wallowing in your putrid filth of piss and butter cream.
It's not my job to make you see the light.
I'm just here to reflect on how at least I take some responsibility before I say

FUCK YOU

to the world.

From Entry #245:

The Real Versus the Ideal  (18+) There's no stopping the derelict from giving up hope...or rejecting it. #1184303 by Elisa: Snowman Stik

From Entry #275:

Gazing upon blades and blades
she selects the one with the cherry handle.
Admiring the gleaming titanium on the lengthy beast,
she sets it on her bed.

CLUB TIME

Pull up her tresses
in a ponytail tighter
than a latex dress like the clubby
skanks pass off as attire
on a Saturday night.

Who wanders into the club
with a blade to pierce the masses,
draw and quarter that binge drinkers and loose'uns
so their spare parts can be sold on eBay?
The katana knows.
It knows the market value of those silicone discs.
Want to know the retail? The cost?
Ask the sword,
for the sword knows all.

The sword, withs its cherry handle,
knows so many many things.
Once upon a time, it swaggered through the hills and valleys
avenging the death of its lord.
Now the sword pays homage to its lordess
by dancing into the abyss of poison
and sweat.

Its lordess wears no mask,
no black cloth to cover her face
so she blends in with the painted masks
of the burlesque revelers.
She sees no other need to hide her face.
They will see her eyes anyway.

Scanning the blacklit cloister,
she pats her trenchcoat,
muttering prayers with an edge in her voice,
chanting to no one for god's demise.
The katana answers with a cool
nudge in her side, a kiss to the
future love handle, a cherry-wood press in her ribs.

On a platform stand a herd of victims,
ladies awaiting their rapes
in flimsy skirts doing little to cover their twats
and tops which serve no purpose.
Sweat rivers down their stomachs as they
await, frozen and O-mouthed, for
prince charming to come.

And then ninja and katana jump into the fray, swivelling, heaving, falling into the groove
of the beat beat chanting 'Draw, quarter, draw, quarter' as they look on
at the waste in their midst.

Tiger-eyed and sable-irised,
they stalk the platform.
Draw, quarter, draw, quarter.
Waves of honey and chocolate hide them,
concealing the silver glitter and tan blanket
encased in a shirt with more material
than a dancer's whole outfit.

Drop the coat on the floor
and retrieve the blade, the sword of malice
and let them dance as they may.
The Miami ninja is back on the scene,
but this time, she's not here to play.

The katana joins its lordess
in hitting the platform,
leaving scratches in the plastic sea below.
Lift one, raise two, shouler three swing four-
the counts of a ninja in battle
to the 'draw, quarter' beat.

Awash in glitter, ivory flesh and swirling lights
of a pastel-neon nature
the ninja swings, lopping off a chocolate wave
which flutters to the floor,
and a blondie trips.

Swing one, strike two, sliver three, thrust four.
The katana moves to its rhythm
of uncorking the Crimson River to run
parallel to South Beach.
The warm trickle interrupts to groove
of the hustle and flow
just the way the ninja likes it:
liquor bottles crashing to the floor and the music stunned speechless.

With a twirl and a whirl
to the girl with the curls
the katana and lordess strike the final blow,
a surfer's S on her circular face,
three strokes to the eyes and three along the
escargot lips, genetic mutation a la Jolie.
Red tears slip down her slipstream face
to her disco ball tube top.
The ninja smiles, her sable orbs twinkling like acetylene
as she descends the platform, heading for the door.
The salty breeze slips into the room
reeking of Crown Royal and Tanqueray.

The ninja has made her choice, writing it in the sand in red ink.

From Entry #287:

A Conversation With a Past Me  (13+) Ever wondered if your writing was influenced by a past life? #1184300 by Elisa: Snowman Stik

From Entry #324:

What you see here today
is an ode to the past,
a time of critique and delving,
plunging further into the depths of your mind.
As 2006 draws to a close, I see
less and less and less
of the depth I once knew.
Spam in blue
of praise and little to do
with improvement of a piece.
Know you have done your job wrecking this site.
Fuck it.
YOU PRAISING MODS HAVE WON!

And you lay waste to the innocents-
hundreds upon hundreds of jaundiced,
rotting corpses with drab gray flies
buzzing around their latest meal-
A FEAST!
You find me still struggling to shine
and slink closer, not bothering
to muffle the circular saws
ready to slice off my arms.
You wouldn't dare.
Oh, you would.
Bribe me, drug me, do as you may-
I wake up and find you have sliced my hands.

And with hammers and nails you attach them
to golden crosses to parade around the corpses.
All I can do is stare at the bleeding stumps,
mourn this loss
and wonder what I can do.
Will I be able to stick the pen in my mouth
and continue?
How much can I write when my jaw
spasms, cramps, locks, rips through my face?
I write and scream and cry
until I'm blue in the face,
yet you're not listening.

Thankfully, the jaundiced are not all dead.
They look at me,
and I'm about to come alive.
One wrenches the pen from my lockjaw
only to trigger a drooling waterfall down my face.
What can I do now?
The blood cakes at the stumps,
and my jaw no longer works.
All I can do is stare on,
shadows dancing 'cross my eyes
as I beg the still living to help me.
Fit me with something so I can hold a sword.
If I'm goin' down, I want to be swingin'.

We stand at the foot of the hill of the blue bastion,
shielding our eyes from the glare of the sun,
our corneas begging to die.
We stand, stagger-stanced, waiting for the chance
to invade, strike, impale you
with rusty hammers and nails.
Suffer, you bitches,
swathed in sky and royal blues.
We will your glimmering crowns
from your heads, smash the diamons
with our hammers, sell the shards to the poor
corpses whose skills you killed
with kindness.
I raise this as a challenge, all ye mods.
Want us to knock your crowns off your heads,
or will you surrender them on your own?

Either way, those who seek a writing and critique emphasis WILL WIN!

From Entry#359:

And everyone files into the room,
looking how to kick their game.
Everyone comes here to kick their game.

So here I am, slingin' my booted feet
'round the room. You ready?
I'm ready.
We're all ready to kick some game.

On the wall is the deejay,
hands on the wheels of steel
kickin' out beats as if we gotta die to them.
Crank that Firestarter, baby! Crank it!
We need a violent to feel the flow.
'Nuff of this raunchy booty dancing shit.
That ain't no way to kick a game.

Dotting the floor are the wannabes,
dressed in flimsy cotton shirts,
waiting for the barkeeps to spray them down.
They seduce you with benevolent curves,
hip swaggles and Chica-ba-whamp!
making Shaft spin in his grave
(and he ain't even dead).
Currently they kick the easiest game.

In through the door stride
the old school swingers,
back from hiding ready to debauch
and bribe their way to the spotlight.
In their tasseled garb they sway their hips to say
"We're the queens, bitches! Out our way!"
The shogun showdown's about to be thrown down.
Which group will kick the sexiest game

Don't ask the sulkers dotting the tables,
the bar, the benches, the floor boards.
None those chumps seem to give a fuck,
but I see the resentment ghosting their eyes.
They sulk, saying leave me alone
yet eye the dance floor
and almost wiggle in place.
I know that look.
I used to have it.
Sittin' on the floor ain't kickin' game.

Then there are those like me,
wandering the place,
handin' money over fist
while downing the Garra.
We play with fire
and wear fire suits
so we never get burned
and outlast the bitches.
We're the shot-callers
in the shogun showdown,
cackling like crows
as they're playin' the game.
But we know the score and raise a toast
to knowin' the only way to kick some game.

Kick it! Kick it!
Swing it! Swing it!
Swig it! Swig it!
We know how you flow.

Shoot it! Shoot it!
Throw it! Throw it!
Wing it! Wing it!
Now we throw our hats in the ring, callin' how you'll flow.

In the grand scheme of things,
we know who'll fall down
in their paltry attempt to kick some game.
We're too old in the head
to get caught up in this shit.
We play it chill.
We know how to kick the game.

From Entry #384:

Too old for this,
this wussy ass pretense
but am I old enough
to weather this storm?

I wander Chicago,
a landfill with streets,
and am greeted by men
who don't know who they are.

Two of them share a house
in the southwest corner
of the sprawling city,
the tragic dancing among the suburbs.

Another holes up
with sycophants in a church
across the street from the men
in the two story house.

The men wage a war
no army can stop
like insurgents in Iraq
under Ahmadinejad's control.

The neighborhood knows nothing
until one surreal day
when the two story house
is ransacked by the churchees.

Then there's me,
in a bar with mi amor
called up to the stage,
told to make a martini.

I have no time to
figure out the bar,
so I scrape by and move
as fast as I can.

The magical elixir
brings the crowd to their feet,
and mi amor hugs me,
reminding me of hope.

There is no hope
for the men of the house,
as their gas range sits
wrecked in their front yard.

The neighborhood rots under
the piles of household possesions
and paper waste unfurled
by the "innocent" sycophants.

So what's to be made
of the cultists' destruction?
What does it say about the men
who now have little left?

What secrets lie in the church,
waiting to bust out the doors?
While others cower in fear,
I tread to the building.

Linoleum, once white
is now smeared in yellow-beige,
a legacy of oily skin
and emptied bladders.

I see the fear the Al Sharpton-dude
extracted from the sheep.
Time to face him down.
I will not buckle under this man.

I remember when I just browsed
the internet, finding so many people
showing bravery in trivial times.
I looked on and sighed.

Their "bravery" showed they
were not strong enough for
this task and never would be.
This is not a job for thin-skinned folk.

But in taking down a monster alone,
am I too strong for the world?
In a land of ostriches and sheep,
I just might be too much for them.

As I stalk the bastion
of brainwashed fear,
I will show my strength in frightening way.
Maybe I am too strong for them.

From Entry #418:

What are you going to buy at the store today?

Oh, a little somethin' somethin' to commemorate the past.
Maybe I'll get a spool of yellow ribbon
or a window decal with the tragic date.

Why not put the money toward funding a scholarship,
contributing to the memorial,
planting a tree?

I want to keep the memory with me all the time,
so people don't forget how we Americans suffer.

But what gets me is everyone's desire
to drag this through the mud like ain't no thang.
Your bumper stickers, t-shirts and all that other crap
won't let us forget when we must move forward.
And that's what I don't get.
Why do you buy into this game
of commercializing tragedy
so a schmuck can get a buck?
I guess I'm just confused
or perhaps old-fashioned,
but buying mini-shrines doesn't work for me.

But you don't seem to be expressing any grief!
What the hell is wrong with you?
Where on Earth is your emotion?

It's running like hell
from the strangling ribbons
and overdone airbrushes
on the rear windshields of trucks.
Everytime I look around, I see people frozen in grief,
not willing to move on
and afraid to find answers.

Yet you're looking at statistics,
saying it's not that many lives.
But these are human lives!
Have you lost your mind?

Not yet but damn near
due to the mass control
of propagandic inkflow
and memorabilia cashflow.
They're not strange bedfellows
by any rules of the game.
To watch them sex so publicly
is what makes me wanna ralf.

You really can't be that into conspiracies!
What would these people gain from
prompting us to mourn?

Oh, they'd gain a lot!
It helps that most people don't see it.
The media plays the head games that make us cry
then run to buy out the t-shirts.
A few of us on the outside
know when to steer away or to look beyond
the flashing images,
read between the crawlers' lines.
It's symbiosis central
with the players on the field.
We'll never be able to beat 'em
since y'all seem intent on joining the
mass circus know as the media-
market bed romp.

And there's no way that you could ever prove that
with your point oh statistics
and provocative slurs!
I grieve; you grieve
but deny that you do.
In that case, fuck you!
I have shopping to do.

Go right on ahead,
for I know the score.
You have no idea how
those motherfuckers really work.
It sickens me like it should
you, and I'm trying to clear a path
through the smokescreen mirrors
so you can see what I mean.
Even if I do it, you'll never want to believe.
I'll fight for your children,
but I fear it'll all be in vain.
I'd ask for god to help me, but I
think he's in cahoots with these
brain twisters.
I just refuse to give in.

From Entry #425:

Pause and gaze at vengeance for a moment.
Realize you're lost and aim to find your way.
I'm not in this spot to shoulder the blame
for anything that happens; I don't have that power.

The waves keep cresting, flirting with adrenaline
as we look to the water, eyes fixed on the torrent.
The tsunami is too much for one soul to fight.
It makes cowards of many, but I'm only soured.

Then there are those with screeching wails persistent
who demand so much in the pettiest of realms.
The damage of their images is what they lament.
I can only vomit in reply since I've given up that game.

Do as you wish, for your downfall is imminent.
I took my losses long ago, and I haven't been the same.

As the water flows back, I ponder your soul
washed up and abused by your own ministrations.
Is it just me, or did you make it too easy?
You are the only to blame for your arrogance and strife.

I've known my arrogance for some time,
and now I accept it as who I am as a whole.
But you veiled it as justice or whatever you called it.
That doomed manuever cost you your life.

You claim you kept yourself under control,
but you could not reign in your lust for the spotlight.
Popularity snuck in and swallowed you whole,
yet your Kryptonite is Idealism's knife.

Now that your self-denial has taken its toll,
you are an emotional slave, the wife of the life.