Put Your Hand Near The Bug (we are so much like him)

10.17.06
3:36 PM

The Rite of First Refusal

Prepare the tear-stained cannons.
Fire sorrow in salute.
Dark and brooding; the candles’ flames are blue.
The rain stings your face.
Sharpen the dolorous dagger.
Bring your tears as offerings.
Your reward will be dissatisfaction.
Uncertainty.
Sleeplessness.
Regrets and questions.
Unasked and unanswered.
Unimportant and unremarkable.
The silence heard is yours.

I found out today I was put on hold for a booking. What that means is that I should keep the day of the shoot (10/25) open. Usually, the term used is “on hold”, but today I was told that I had “the right of first refusal” for this thing. That got in my head. It sounded awesome and archaic, like something inscribed on the inside of a sacrificial victim’s skull. Then I thought, what if it was “rite” instead of “right”? Then I wrote this.
I don’t write poetry well. I remember something I wrote in 8th grade or so…it was so laughably terribly ATROCIOUSLY bad is gives me goosebumps to this day. I think there was only that one though, a fact for which I am VERY grateful.
One of the only things worse than bad poetry, in the literary world, is bad poetry that you yourself have written.

6.6.06
8:49 PM
So this resident calls me (not for the first time) to complain about some damn thing. She says, “There is something VERY wrong here…” in a don’t-think-you-can-put-one-over-on-me tone of voice, then she pauses for effect. Never one to waste a silence, I ask, “Something specific or is it just a feeling of general malaise?” and she hangs up on me. If trying to clarify a vague statement made by some cantankerous bitch in a smarmy fashion makes me an asshole, well then fine, I’m an asshole, but at least I’m not a whiny resident at a shitty, badly run hospital. Ha!

Also, I did this…

Party Time
Or
Inchoate Darkness

Bawls out party time.
Tying my dick around my neck party time.
Impregnating the dead party time.
Pissing down my leg, off my toe and onto an ugly baby party time.
Ejaculating into the milk only to discover it isn’t milk, but a whole lot of ejaculate party time.
Wolverine in the South Hamptons party time.
Duck Tuxedo party time.
Note to self: Don’t order the cheese fries from Steak & Hoagies party time.
Sitting quietly whilst reading a book party time.
Considering buying Hitman: Blood Money but hesitating because I spent a lot of money on Chris’ B-Day and if I keep spending money I’ll never make any party time.
Considering buying those Dragon Fastback’s but hesitating for the same reason party time.
Hand cramping from writing so long party time.
The stabilizing force in the Universe is the scaly shit in between my toes party time.
Incomprehensible immigrants party time.
Deep-seded spelling error racism party time.
Intercontinental Rock God party time.
Running out of ideas party time.
Erectile dysfunction party time.
Time not fucking moving fast enough party time.
Baboon Rape Party party time.
Marilyn Manson has lost his mind and ate my balls party time.
Waste of paper party time.
Going to stop this pretty soon party time.
Twiggy in make up party time.
Backflipping Dixie Chicks party time.
Getting Up to Get Down party time.
Chex Mix party time.
Cheerios in Beer(ios) party time.
Pie stand party time.
Impromptu poetry party time.
Oleous discharge from the Anus party time.
Revisiting backflipping Dixie Chicks party time.
Sussingham cell phone party time.
100 pizzas party time.
200 Cigarettes party time.
At least $4,000 (four thousand dollars—it looks bigger spelled out) coming in soon party time.
Crossing guards, fingers and legs we break $10,000 (make that ten thousand dollars) party time.
Latoya (yes, for real, Latoya) is gone party time.
So am I party time.

Party T. Guyet

Reflections on the past few days...

Weekend Recap/Welcome to the Fungle/__________
Sleepy duck fluff tickles my nose
I smell something funky…it’s my clothes.
The weekend was fun, except for the sun.
That fucking fiery ball…thinks it’s SOOOO tall.
You’ll see what’s what when I cover you in sack cloth.
Pissed off, ripped off.
Tired.
Wired about Phil
can’t wait to chill
‘pop’
somewherebetween12th&13thonthird
Thank you B lady for the chill suggest
Now we got the card back, that’s off our chest.
Now that we got cool breezy
Everything’s easy
The summer will please we
Can you turn down the music?
What music?
All I hear is cool.
A bit trepid ‘bout the kisses though
Make a man go and blow
a load dans his pans…whoa.
Magic lips, magic hips, magic tips,
flip the script, Strength, RESIST.
Fretting like a member of F.I.G.A.
Try not to be a chauvinist pig-a.
Welcome to the Castle ___________
You mean so much to me, __________
Did I say _________ ? I meant ________
Drink the Chrism of Life
No worries, no strife.
Clear skies, smooth sailing.
Take a look over the railing.
What a view.
What to do?
Who to do?
Who NOT to do.
PG not PJ, PG not PJ
Change your ways,
spend your days fighting
who you are
who you were
who you want to be
who you want
*******************
I know I usually use my web page for this kind of thing, but I think this is an apt capsulation of recent history.

After arriving home at 5:14am and being woken up by the Sun at 8:32am, I wrote this reaction to the Sun then returned to sleep.

Fun in the Sun
The Sun is bad
He hurts my eyes
He pours his angry
From the skies
Yes, I know that I've been drinking
But, guess what, I've been thinking
The Sun is full of hurty rage
Pinioned in his celest'l cage
He looks on down
And starts to frown
And raises the temperature gauge
MY shit is bananas

4:48 on a Mobius Strip
the labored breathing
of the biased Jew
the confused ramblings
of Joe Franklin
the painful songs
of the 30's and 40's
the inexplicable churning
and grinding
that comes from all around me

this is not saturday night/sunday morning
this is 4:48 on a mobius strip
people kill themselves all the time
for Joe Franklin
if he claims enough of our souls
he will live again
he ought to be stopped
but i am lulled
lulled
LuLLed...by three L's
/^\
I had left my notebook at the hospital so I went back over there today to find out that one of the operators had a heart attack and the head of the dept. is away for four weeks. This means a lot more work/money for me. Then...things will be better.
Like a record with dust in its grooves.
I'd say I'm on a 23 degree slope.
"with your long blonde hair and your eyes of blue
the only thing i ever got from you
was sorrow"

Prepare yourselves...I have created....

Puppyhands
( or how could one so simple be misunderstood
by Guido Paparazzi


Every time he enters a room it glows with the heat of an oven filled with baking bread.
His smile is as bright and as volatile as a million exploding suns.
The light from his eyes pierces your soul and that of at least four people standing behind you.
His heart is a big as a country and could easily cause a giant to throttle if he tried to swallow it.
His presence makes peoples’ lungs and duodenums explode with sheer joy.
His books are full of paper, covered in words.
His shoes are full of feet, with toes.
His love melts butterflies.


All of these things are important and beautiful, like him.
All of these things are valueless and pock-marked.
Because of his hands.

Because of his hands which make infants giggle, toddlers cavort and all concurrent developmental stages gibber and become engorged.


He has Puppyhands.
And because of this he is exalted, reviled, vilified, scorned and magnificent.
His hands.
His Puppyhands.
His barking, drooling, nuzzling, urinating, defecating, loving Puppyhands.
The more he is loved.
The more he is unloved.
His hands smell of Puppies.
A silent tear spilled from his eye onto his furry, yipping, growling hands.