I am what they call in the business.
That’s it, there is nothing else.
Using things inappropriately is my forte (with an accent).
For example, one time I used a text-editor programme
to woo sexual favor, internationally.
“Did you really love her? Did you did you?”
people keep saying these things to me,
not realizing that they are completely
missing the *whole* point.
The point is not about some kind of cheap
male chauvinist pig pleasure.
I’m not like this just to declare myself —
I’m like this because I’m trying to eat a noodle with a spoon.
Only some people realize what I’m doing,
and none of those people ever give me any love.
They label me, tag me, like I’m some kind of corpse
flown into the morgue by helicopter.
They don’t realize that *I* was the one landing that chopper
on that building rooftop, precisely upon the letter ‘H’.
I flew my own body back home, thank you very much.
Don’t need you losers to do everything for me, nor your ‘lovely precious little children’.
Making love to electrical sockets is never easy,
but it is zestful, full of life and more fun than,
say, managing all your time every night in dream state,
waking up fresh. All that is so overrated, and not good.
If it’s my dream, then let me dream it.
"My pieces comprise, entirely, works of fiction. Some pieces are shorts, others tend to get a little longer. Some are straightforward and may be read evenly, while others can tend to be amorphous. You see, sometimes the writer does his piece completely lucid, sitting straight up and staring intently into it as his fingers simply glide across the keys. Other times his eyes are opaque with tears from imaginary emotions. Sentences, nay, words, barely come out as he stabs at each letter with one trembling finger, like how your mom types. Then there are the times a piece of work is scrawled from a leaking pen on a notepad in a bar after several whiskeys, as the writer gleefully tries to get everything down before the bouncers come over to throw him out for laughing like a crazy person to himself all night. The writer cannot say what is good, or what is bad. He can only write. It does not do for one to rank a piece of his work above others, just as it does not do for one to deign to strive to be published. That must be left to others, to come and ask the writer if they may publish his work, and that all of the work would be copyright (c) him 2000-2009, if they were to do so.
Some of the pieces may even seem far too real -- as though he's actually blogging about his real life, his personal thoughts. You know -- because it is a blog, some people may think that may be the case. Well it ain't, damn you, it ain't."
The man in the tracksuit shrugged over the counter. "Thanks for the info, Hemingway," he said, "but I just wanted to know where the damn ATM is."
…..you may just be one of my favorite choices when imagining who’d make the best “table of six” guests for a dinner party- interested in seeing what you’d come up with after a few glasses of wine! Imagery was excellent in this piece,by the way.