199X: Nineteen Ninety-Ten

April through June

David Thomas Jarecki

199X: April through June

April 02, 199X

A Time for the Savings of Daylight

I used some vacation hours to take the day off work so that I could defend myself in court against charges of publicly perceived immoral vulgarity. I was guilty. I was sorry. I decided to leave a thought for the day on the calendar at my work station for my shift buddies as I reflected upon the possible consequences of my crime:

Live like an Ogre and you’ll die like a Viking

It was too confusing of a statement for them and they vandalized my station and the calendar upon which I wrote it. I guess that I’ll see them in Valhalla. April 08, 199X

A Theory

Now a train. Never a station. Views get derailed because Koran down-sizing banal made everyone die at the turn of the attack from the survivors inside. This world (my damn IT) is thy word of forced Bibulous gallows. The reverend is on the prowl to continue this known level of history for the spirit of all trains departing today. The station deduces the situation for the natives. Created for the patient! Relax me in the yard! Create a European escort! Where do one go through time slow…slow rugged pur…purportedly sullen. Awe me God, awe me feckless literary merit. April 22, 199X

Courageous Cowards

Century scavengers tried digging to the core of the Earth to find a life beyond their own expectancy. They started in Kansas and came back above ground in Toronto. (They couldn’t go through with it.) I give them my gratitude for their fear. I offer them my haircut, a brand new jeep, and respect for their unaccomplished feat. Throw a jagged edge sharpener and watch them try to cut out your destiny for you. Laugh around their mistakes

of chance stupidity or realistic sanity and you are more scavenger than cynic and we are running right along this human journey with these courageous cowards. April 26, 199X

Flick of the Week

A review of the movie I saw this past weekend evening: It started out great! I paid for mine and my new girlfriend's tickets with a ten dollar bill and got change for a twenty. The lady behind the concession counter (Miss Bottomtrouser) put just the right amount of butter on my popcorn and offered to put the salt on for me. Nobody sat in front of us to distract our attentiveness. No jerk-off ruffian losers sat behind us to kick the back of our seats and toss kernels about. All mothers and fathers in the audience decided to leave their babies with the nannies. The bellboy wannabe walked up and down the aisles only three times. The sound quality was great and the picture was as clear as clear could be. I got a hand job from my new woman during all the love scenes. My feet didn't stick to the floor (amazing!) when I got up to leave the theater. There was no line for the pisser and we got free mints upon leaving the building. I didn't get laid afterwards because of the time of the month that it was. So I give the feature three and a half stars out of four. I highly recommend it for the seriously bored gregarious. May 05, 199X

Lisa

I long for Lisa to come back across the bridge to the home where she belongs. It seems like only yesterday that the universe decided that the grass was greener on the other side for her. The new village of happiness forces her to remain where she has fled. Since I am known abroad as a trained assassin it would be too obvious if I were to go over the river and through the woods to her great great grandma's house and practice the art of arson. Just recently I decided that it would be best if I left Lisa alone with her new afterlife. All I’ll say is that if she ever needs a baby sitter for our never born kids I'd be happy to oblige.

May 15, 199X

The Gobi Brothers

The brothers Gobi: Ron and Gorde. Ages: 22 and 29. Interests: 19th century janitor history, aerobics, precious Italian jewelry, gumball distribution, and phone sex. My travels with them this year were just as interesting as they were puzzling. Yes, they were an excellent essay for any artist—doth they move and move and move, Anglo-day and Saxon-night. They do this almost always through exactly what is considered to be a constantly evolving art gallery. There was some friction, though. Ron refused to cater to his sib and took up harmonica singing. Gorde took control of their company and became the gumball godfather of the Upper Peninsula by making offers that everyone could chew. No emotionalism was practiced by either brother toward either brother. No nation extension between them was complimentary or likely. What a connection of blood be for then? Huh? A trillion masterpieces are eternal and this is dime-consuming? Real life, my jugular, arrives and evolves. There’s so much real life that I am forced to swim in the sand, one-hundred degrees to join Gorde-the great sugar toother! I did continue to listen to Ron’s harmony. Mediums are uncomfortable, let me tell you. Eat this category for yourself and you will see first hand. Yummy loco, I dine with these sandy brothers because they are Gobi! And I am only… May 15, 199X

An Enslaved Magician, A Dizzy Owl

From the ceiling, I see a dark, grainy, black and white photogenic hallucinatory atmosphere surrounded by a circle of incense sticks framing a blind-folded Houdini spinning an ancient pottery wheel while slowly moving his crusty hands to mold a live owl that is bound to the spinning wheel by 17th century spiked straps. Hooting in agony for mercy the sound pierced the prisoner magician’s ears the same way the WWII barbed-wire that enslaved his own ankles to the desolate floor. Hope was not the décor of this dungeon. “I must help the magician, help the owl...help them!” I suddenly went from the dungeon to the ceiling of my bedroom. I yelled down to myself while hovering above my sleeping body, frozen in the contained vision of myself in bed struggling through this terrifying nightmare. I knew that I could hear me! But, I remained a deaf comatose

inert insomniac. Suddenly…numb sleep… a shadow of myself floated above me screaming from the ceiling down to my frozen frame. Sweat emerged from my sleeped brow in the darkness of my nightmare, shaking now vigorously, moving slightly while trapped in the dungeon crying for the magician and the owl. “Come on now! Wake up!” My voice from the ceiling above was vocal enough to command an army; my body below was a million pounds of slight tremors in this time of horror. “Come on now! This is as real as it is! Come on, this mare is as real as night! Come on, the alarm rings soon and this dream depends on your life!” May 20, 199X

Nightmares

Have you ever captured appalling imagery like my previous mention of a comatose midnight vision? Undeveloped photography of days amorphous transform into lowly moments reflected at night. The idea seems interesting. It’s nice to have uncertain vibrant rainbow entertainment during slumber. But it murders the soul when color becomes diminished, distorting your senses, reducing your mind to a single grey unobtrusive cell at the mercy of proponents beyond reality in a thunderstorm surrounding your horrified facility. Whether you are amused or annoyed or indifferent, you cannot claim your fear doesn’t influence your lifestyle. The foreplay of all night scenes aggressively angers the unknown motivation exalting the arcane while transparently organizing distant stages of your daytime thought process modest around the edges of your mental territory--the eschewal of your fantastic appreciations. May 25, 199X

The Paradox of Lobotomies

There is still no true blind neighbor camaraderie in this dysfunctional incubator boob groove that suffers from the inability to grow and evolve our planet towards true un-programmed unity. Even the evil trenches of a mad dictator refuse to let us progress and goes unchecked to paint the world black and white! Why do the easy street apple bums, New Yorkers, New Yorkers, wall masons and vagabonds cater to spin control reporters? Happy Memorial Day from me to them! I’d also pledge my undying greed if I hadn’t smoked it up in my white crack pipe outside their black caviar

crescendos last night. Tis almost the half way point of 199X and this was supposed to be my happy new jeer! I galvanize me judgment so they can glamorize their succulent monster prowl from jaw to jaw through outlandish imagery in the suffocation of spirituality through deceptive teaching against all the heeby-jeeby boogieman beliefs outside of our windows--invisible or maybe not even there! This is a great deal of fiscal jargon for all lobotomized ears and minds that lay on the brink of blasphemy for the sake of being there when the blade hits the hair that pushes stubborn through the scalp of zombie gourmets feasting in excellence foregone, ignorant as well as acrylic to the aftermath ending of this nothing asteroid transformed to a wasted babble toy! A choice self-righteous died-again lobotomized Christian met me on the afternoon metro to sing the song of the skeptic about the upcoming holocaust. It was apparently scheduled for next week in what he called Negro neighborhoods (problems he created in those areas had backfired to injure his fiscal concerns on stock market street). I told him “the bread is my body, the wine is my blood. The world is our oyster! Eat, drink and be merry for your first born son will become a multi-sexual! He’ll be a half Hindu/ half Jew and his lover will be an African Muslim. You’ll be ostracized from your Aryan country club after a liberal lesbian legally marries them!!” This man’s fat, whiskered mug lit up red as he jumped from his seat, pulled out a gun and shot me in the chest. I started singing a lovely, lovely song of acceptance from his Bible as I fell to the floor and bled to my death that would eventually transform to become our birth. May 31, 199X

Mother Nature’s Child

I hear the waters of life wash upon a road no-place near the ocean as I inhale the simple behemoth bird during its impeccable journey to my lungs through my heart to my soul to my mind and then out—my complete being existence only for my daydream delightful enough to become the nuance of embraced emptiness, a peculiar road damned by its own presence, the incorrigible livelihood of spruce supplements in angelic loveliness beneath a rain of leaf drops covering my naked meditation in the middle of no-where, my house upon an orange unpeeled-peeled yet already tasted—eaten fruitless, beckoning from the dead, bouncing about as though it never existed it joins the company of all things like you and me and you and everything that makes up our human reality, everything that is natural liquid

washing up on desolate roads, everything that is a smoked behemoth bird, eaten fruitless orange, eccentric comedies for everyone peaceful or not beneath a forest that is but isn’t occupied by serene treasures and the infidel that is prodigal me. June 01, 199X

Why Herzberz is a Legend

At Manuel’s club, Herzberz played tonight. And when he jammed, the crowd was always sure to undergo undutiful exhibits of seasonal creationism! For the First Act, Herzberz did some stand up comedy in which everyone was hysterically judged by their races, genders, number of limbs and religions. The women on site became defensive about their issues while men were placed in an oak frame as beautiful portraits of sense and sensibility. The ladies’ tempers erupted after the first hour of the show and attacked the stage with table their table taken butter knives. (His record has shown that Herzberz’s shows do not promote pastoral scenes.) The men in the crowd calmed the females down with sticks of butter and Herzberz returned to the stage for Act Two. He started to sing…and sing he could! He possessed the ability to seduce women with just one note. And when he crammed a bunch of notes together…all sweaty crotched women became his! Realizing this, the men in the crowd became territorial--they attacked the stage with the various concealed weapons that they snuck into the club. The women, in love with the chauvinistically talented Herz, threw themselves in front of their crooner of the hour. Not wanting to slaughter their own wives, the men returned to their chairs and drank a complimentary round--on the house. For the Third and final Act Herzberz came out naked and sat cross-legged at the center of the stage and began reciting poetry; Whitman, Ginsberg, Frost and Herzberz himself. The audience became one and couples started caressing each other right there in the middle of the club! The misdirected anger of the males had transformed into love thy stranger as Herzberz slipped his way into the orgy he had started. “Lock the doors Man-well…we have another successful show!”

June 07, 199X

About Propaganda

A deposit to my checking account would be a very nice thing for you to do for me so that I can save up for rations to feed my weary army who fights against the oppression of propaganda because they are sick of tyrant leaders who suck money from their pockets and claim that it is used for common idealistic interests but secretly spend it on their own feeble entertainment. If I can't find a way to get the rations that I buy with your money to my team I might have to buy me a nice house with a basement theater. You can come on over and we'll make popcorn, order a pizza. One way or another you know that I'll take care of you. June 12, 199X

Judas Away from Algebra

I met Judas away from distraction of algebra and he gave me tickets to the sunset strip along with some complimentary passes to a play, a date for the evening, and multiple recommendations for kick ass restaurants in the area. What a guy! The curious one that I am, I tipped him thirty pieces of silver and went on my way. June 24, 199X

Stained Homage for the Dead

In the clapping atmosphere of June, Solin, my friend and guru man died in a sewer behind a microchip factory that sold American babies for upwards of six trillion dollars. He was the first male to have an abortion and never forgave himself. I wish I could have sold him a succulent cheese cake or a sunset alive in his bones, but he was addicted to the fumes of the seepage below and crawled on his hands and bled on the pavement. In the days following we held a Solin funeral and lots of overseas black clothes designers made millions as people flocked darkly to the death of a humble saint corrupted one final time in his existence.

June 26, 199X

My Lobotomy Fund Raiser

A lobotomy. Come on now, a lobotomy! A low bot of me! A lobotomy, a lobotomy, a lobotomy… Come on people, a lobotomy for me. Let’s think about this with the vigor and attentiveness of a collective slew of editors. A lobotomy now, a lobotomy later, what does it matter to the market? If you’d like to contribute to the creation of another easy wallet theft victim zombie like you already unknowingly do, like you unconsciously are, then help me lobotomize me. Help out, right here! Right now! Dial our number, talk to my over-sexed operator, become a tax deductable giver, spit some money into your receiver, give me the medical reason to exist as a liar. The world needs more zombies and I volunteer, like a quadriplegic alligator, to add more zombism to the world. Your money will not be spent on a new edition of ordinary people destroyed by a contract drawn up by adult siblings in a magical kingdom. This lobotomy will not be a political cartoon! That is unless all else fails and I call Kevorkian as an alternative to zombiehood. I really don’t think that strong-hearted men need any more hassles. I don’t want this to become a suicide born of your resistance to help fund my lobotomy. Come on now, kick some coins my way! UPDATE: A famous (I’m excited!) bologna factory has just called in to pledge $5,000 under the condition that I will sign a document before my lobotomy that will donate my corpse to them after I die. SURE I WILL! Who wouldn’t want to become a supernatural sandwich? I’d love to haunt your stomachs before searching the sewers for my final resting place. And now, for a break in the action, Ardon Mano’s singing robots will perform some songs from their off-Broadway production of “Fiddler on the Roof.” (The robots sing and dance for fifteen minutes.) Thanks Ardon, you’re a true addition to night garbage creation of beauty in life’s useless surprises.

Now I’d like to tell you a little bit about my past so that your hearts can be warmed by my humane travels. Doctor John Lennon helped deliver me to this world and forged my birth certificate with the name “W.C. Fields.” What a clown! I grew up nowhere near the slums of Los York, Illinois and gave blood monthly to help pay the rent. When I turned seven I stopped because I realized that I was young and obligated to screw around and completely fuck up my parent’s hopes and dreams for my future. We got tossed out of our house somewhere around 1985 and I started sneaking on freight trains frozen in their travels for petty thievery and after school lolly gagging, barely making enough for football card money. In 1988 my partner in crime, John “Cork” Corkinzinsky, and I got caught by some fleeting officers. After that, Cork and I began spending our Sunday’s as altar boys on the prayer! Before High School, in late 198X, I became a manic-depressory and I digressed to where I am now—begging for a lobotomy. That’s my story. So cough it up and don’t fell sorry for me. This will be the lobotomy of an infirmary dodger willing to conform to the sick rules of the city if you let me let people create the me that will be. Listen to this: All sasquatches are extremely large and hairy, failed lobotomies wandering the forest. This is a strange fact that many superb mannerists like yourselves do not know about. What would you do without the elusive Big Foot to discuss with your pals over doughnut and coffee? Similar to this above nugget, there are many unknown facts about lobotomies that most average hair jobs are unaware of. Here are some of them: In 192X three brothers named Nick, Jeff, and Artie Stucknard opened the first “lobotomies only” clinic. It was closed later that same year by the government because they almost turned the town into a town of walking graveyard money that took away from United profit. Early the following year, congress passed legislation that put a ten year freeze on all forms of lobotomization. Suddenly, Illegal zombies started popping up all over the place as the public went way out of their way to defy authority by having lobotomies by the dozens. At this point the government began administering officially sanctioned mass lobotomies. Whatever was handy for the underground amateur lobotomists was used including pencils, coat hangers, and construction paper and television. They ended up repealing

lobotomy prohibition after only two years and socialized the entire process unbeknownst to usa. Please welcome, once again, Ardon Mano’s singing robots. They will perform another “Fiddler” wash-out. (The robots dang and sanced for I don’t know how long.) Thanks again Ardon, you are the true stigma of concealed advancement in nothing. UPDATE: The bologna factory has withdrawn its donation because it was unaware that the government once abolished lobotomies. Sigh…. A lobotomy! It’s only a lobotomy! All that I want in this world is the money for one to be conducted on me by an orchestra of seven to eight surgeons! No emotionalism! No discussed procedure! Just, slit, cut and prepare my mind for some bullshit input. Lobotomy, I long for you maniacally though not everyone is as professional as you are on human relationships. Some researchers say there are better options for my conditions but won’t tell me which of the separate six is best for my life. I want to father seven-hundred infants and give eighty-eight percent of them the same treatment by becoming a lobotomist myself. Do you want a broader explanation of why I feel what I feel? Lobotomy. I think I’m ready but I don’t know the half. We happily plagiarize the past and ourselves and a million others in our cast without even consciously researching or feeling anything! I think that I want to be saved from being someone born with the strong yearning to be somewhat respectfully uncomfortable with everything. I want to be a zombie like the rest of the world that gains the utmost pleasure from walking around the directed block. If I cannot raise the funds to do this with your help then I have no choice but to endorse another course. On my own terms I will aspire to resume my lost childhood rituals which were once astonished by the independent colorful inspiration that manifested from just one slight tilt of my head to look up at the open and clear blank skies above.

199X: Nineteen Ninety-Ten

July through September (Part 3 of 4)

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May 2009

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