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Black Tongue

My tongue, she was a black tongue, twice this week. The first time I was hung-over and talking to Alyssa while I bathed. The water was too shallow. When I’m severely hung-over I feel the need to pamper myself with a bath. I was busy watching my stomach respond in jerky fashion as I breathed. It wasn’t just the fat, but the way it always seems somewhat quivery when I’m hung-over, it has always fascinated me. Alyssa was asking me questions. I was stuck on my gut. Chin touch chestish, mostly. I responded and Alyssa seemed concerned, “What’s, -- You’re tongue is black, let me see it, you’re tongue is black!” I stuck it out, “It’s black!” Alyssa promptly went to the internet like a good little me, to find, the remarkable remedy. With my weak arms I raised myself just high enough out of the tub to see the remarkable feature. Indeed, my tongue was black. I wasn’t really impressed, but neither was I concerned. I was feeling so low, and with the proposition of my shift getting nearer and nearer my mind was on just how shitty it was to be 28 and hung-over hours before work. Twenty-eight years, 10 years drinking, hung-over in the tub with a sickly, twitchy stomach countless times before, probably with a black tongue but rarely noticing it on account of absent girlfriends or apathetic ones. Plural generosity sing Singular insecurity.

Alyssa came back after 5 or so minutes. I was sweating too much for a guy whose dreams themed water lapping, water want. She informed me nothing was wrong, black tongue was benign enough, she said it had something to do with, “Paleod, umm, pal-ido, I don’t know but they say it’s nothing to worry, to worry about”. I don’t remember how I responded. I think I probably just got up, out of the tub, too hot. I dried myself with the smallest and ugliest of the three towels. The other two where mismatched, but they were both what I would consider my good towels. The towel on the towel bar was stinky, had been for a while. The towel on the floor was still folded but the underside was soaked, presumably from the party the night before. I remember seeing some asshole of a beer flipping down the stairs. And I might have just filled in the blanks, but I seem to remember some stranger wiping the liquid up with the good towel, still folded.

I brushed my teeth, paying extra attention to my tongue. I remember thinking it sure was a good thing I didn’t throw away my 1 ½ year old toothbrush, because of its special tongue-scraping head. The toothpaste frothed and foamed to a purplish black, almost grey, between the toothbrush bristles. It poured down the corners of my mouth. I’m a child when I brush my teeth, the paste, it goes everywhere.

I went to work. I was late by five minutes. 50% of my coworkers didn’t care, 50% of them did. 75% of them shouldn’t have. Work was nice. Surprisingly, I felt capable and partially healthy.

Skip ahead many hours later, about a day and a half later. I woke up at 8am and I had some literally nightmarish and strong diarrhoeal pains. I forced myself from a dead sleep and made myself remedy the situation. Pooping when mostly asleep on the seat is awfully hard work. 30 minutes later, I went back to bed, but not before I took one of the remaining “Pepto-Bismol” tablets that sat on my TV. The other tablet I then recalled taking just before I passed-out, at the end of the party, the night before. So, I woke up this morning, or afternoon rather, and I went to the mirror and began to brush my teeth. My toque, she was black--- Again. This time I was concerned. I thought my liver had ruptured or some malignant bilirubin was vile, or blood’n’bile had piled so high up my digestive tract that it went into my mouth as I lay sleeping. I brushed it away. I quickly walked to my computer and did a thorough web-search. Sure enough, bismuth was the culprit, time the antidote. I use to adore Pepto-Bismol, and all its digestive remedial properties. Black tongue doesn’t hurt. Truth is you can’t even taste the inky film. You can’t feel it either. But you must know sooner or later that a black tongue can’t possibly be anything but a bad sign. A black tongue, that’s gotta be a sign from God or something, your body saying, “Fuck, enough with the poison!”

Always seeking evidence in support of our own ideals is a mean-trap, and a very wide-trap; "O' harmony"; the life, the plan, life's plan to hunt the supporting and the re-confirming only perpetuates our ignorance. We deny the weight of enemy information. They must have faulty eyes, our enemies. We escape meaningful experiences--- too busy, running back and forth between point-A and point-B, checking and re-checking our formulas, ensuring the eternal congruence of such egocentric information. Yes, we're reassured.

Rambling like specific humor

If you want to beat a cold, if you want drive off the offending virus before it sets in, you need look no further than garlic. Yes, real garlic, but powed, powed, powdered. I am a doctor. I recommend all of my patients eat garlic. I recommend it because I am certified. Garlic pills, high in Allicin, will make your ass stink and your gums swell and spray blood on your teeth when flossing. Being certified, I am allowed to recommend all kinds of things, and people will trust me. Trustworthiness isn't really an erratic factor, reliant upon individual personality or character, rather, it belongs to the proud certificate and diploma holders-- for, the more you know, the more likely you'll learn to sink by all you've learnt.

The more you tell lies in the mirror, the more likely you are to trace and cheat--- unacceptable.

The less Christmas joy in your life should be consciously off-set by the amount of hopefulness and cheer you put forth into all of you pre-Christmas endeavours--Jesus shouldn't suffer, acuz of you!.

You should talk with people that want you. few people. like you, barely there.

The less sincere your sister is the more blunt you should be. The ruder you become the less likeable you seem, the more you "seem", the more you "are",-- outside of yourself, from alternate perspectives, and then you respond to those perspectives directed at what you seem and slowly what you seem to be you align with.

Everyone seems confused, no, no, not me. I'm certified.

Confusion is a state that necessarily relies on employable knowledge.

I don't know anything. I know words are better than people. I know letters (ideas, symbols) live longer than people.

But then you meet someone better than anything and they disappear after a few moments. I look at startling beauty several times a day and then with a simple misdirection of thought, hideousness slides to the surface.

I've felt my face melt, my mind tingle and my aimless virtuosity roar-- my affinity for summoning forth equality; the equal worthlessness in everything 'cept happiness and dogs.

These things happened to me. These things happened to me; these hot-cold events, these potentials, these rubber bands.

The magic proof is the encapsulation of event to chemical: memory, thought, force, God--- shouldn't we be awfully amazed?

Everyone's getting older and more alone, becoming more alone means becoming more of what you must inevitably become, the acquisition of individuality, dead-set personality, distinguishing character. Not all of it is bad, just inevitable, and we happen to usually think of inevitabilities as frightful, if not outright insulting.

We're powerful, we interact, non? No, we correspond. But sometimes, for the luckier percentage of humanity, our correspondence is just sweet enough.

bird done in by its more tender insticts and/or bad luck

"comfort kills" or something obvious? 

Messier and Gretzky, in love. 

I can't sleep and I am moving out at the end of this month. I can't wait. True, its further away from work, school and the gym BUT I will be away from all that I need to be away from. I will not be forced to breath the expired air of others. I will have a large room and another large room and a just a room. I will make chocolates and sing Christmas carols all alone or against the back of Aly face pressed sleepy tween her shoulder blades. If the snow ever falls I'll be happier than I've been in years...even without a safe future.

Seethe Apparition

Maybe if I had a room of my own, a place
of my own, where I could be reminded less
and less of your stolen hearts and your
feeble slurs, I would celebrate the pros, the
Professional, and more: the kindly benefits of
having you dear, but yes, until such a time
the guilt of debt reforms itself, until I
despise every mismanagement on your part
because I'm unjustified in complaining;
I'm a hypocrite if I peep about neglect or
respect or communicative responsibility.
If I whine. A Louse if lousy. O' t'is true
I know the heights of your generosity but
I a;so know too frequently, your broken
trenches and bare heart. It's not a matter
of 'love of hate' but a matter of shame
and a blurred line between what perception
of you I am able to bring to mind at will
in the selfish morning and boorishly
against my will come night. You're not
wrong because of my irresponsibility;
my financial and general inabilities.
You're wrong because I can't tell you
how dreadfully wrong I feel you are, and
the justice in my mind can't absolve you
from this serpentine sentiment I too often
project towards the apparition of you

American Football
(A Reflection upon the Gulf War)
by Harold Pinter

Hallelullah!
It works.
We blew the shit out of them.

We blew the shit right back up their own ass
And out their fucking ears.

It works.
We blew the shit out of them.
They suffocated in their own shit!

Hallelullah.
Praise the Lord for all good things.

We blew them into fucking shit.
They are eating it.

Praise the Lord for all good things.

We blew their balls into shards of dust,
Into shards of fucking dust.

We did it.

Now I want you to come over here and kiss me on the mouth.

free thanksgiving sunday

I think should put this resolutely the ignorance oif the man who puts the sign up indicating that native canadainas need to leave their current lives behined and litter less often can be misconstrued to be a simple statemnt about racial but the truth is you could cut out an asshole and put it solid gross in a old yogurt container and use that if you want lesss mess. And your neck is slunking and your jaw is slunking.
 

A Man Like Me Ain't

A man like me ain't used to much in way of effort and gain; I balk often and act little. I get the fear'o'death jealousy when I back-room witness the success of others. The success-dream they have, they share with all the world, whether the fragile egos of so many are able to accept this primitive fact is only important insofar that the very denial of acknowledging such a basic drive creates psychic problems in most individuals with "higher-ideals". The truth is, we all have, at some basic level, unless impaired at birth or by life (learning), the will to not only survive but the will to thrive. To thrive is to desire more than is required for basic survival and attain more than is needed for basic success; the will to thrive is conceptually infinite.

As natural as it is, I believe the will to thrive is unholy; that which I consciously refute on an almost daily basis, for Glee and Joy and Arrogant Me, in the 'bigger picture' it's very obviously unimportant, right? What does God care about nice-tits, sugar, and lotteries? Yet these assertions also now partially disturb me for they intimate the unimportance of our intrinsic success-drive within the 'bigger-picture' which implies that the importance of a 'bigger picture' is virtually nil, which further implies that the existence of the 'bigger-picture' is also very unlikely.

The life-specific epidemic that is the drive for thriving success has from birth slimed its way into my very being, as it has likewise done to you, but most probably, unlike you, it has teased me for every convoluted idea that's pertained to Holy-justice and morality, for every spider I refused to step on and every first-step I've felt to be too blithe to take. I can read great thoughts by powerful men and feel a World of honeyed-ideologies swarm my head, "hallelujah,I'm a bum!", but I can barely follow their almost convincing truths under my heavy blanket. A cowardly man is a man is a man is the man who's afraid to admit he's more or less regular and his species-first/individual-second normalcy that he's so reluctant to reveal is universally, humankind's very own insatiable ambition. We are born knowing greed as a tool of gratuitous survival, for to have more and more-- and more in store, is to never have less; more is simply less risky even if it causes our consciences to *wince (in some more than others). A regular guy goes out and seems pathetic, shallow and aimless to the more cowardly man, the poser of higher ideals who follows bright ideas only in soap-bubbles and eyes-closed day-dreams.

Is it better to embrace the diffused greed and lust that is disgracefully unacknowledged by my mind or better to resurrect it; to accept it as the reality of being born and living, at this time, in this place, thereby removing the stressing battle of fantastic thoughtfulness and evil (empty) authenticity? Is there a better measuring device than success--- isn't success by definition the only measure?

*(To feel guilty, rightly or wrongly, that�s the very crux of another problem)

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Close-Up of Piggie, a playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada 

Horse from See-Saw, a playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada 

The Creature Springy Deal, a playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada 

The Creature See-Saws, a playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada 

Elephant, a playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada 

Ducky, a playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada. 

Wormie, a playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada 

Piggie, a playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada.  

Horse-Ride, Playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada. 

Horse-ride, A playground, Irma, Alberta, Canada. 

shimmery shoe 

censor assholers treasonous Sheikhers

The latest law proposed in Britain, pertaining to the prosecution of those who sympathize with the extremist-Muslim views against the West, is a dangerous one. This law threatens to charge anyone who expresses their support for violence against the West with treason for expressing their views.

Free speech, the expression of opinion is under attack; in this case the view just happens to be particularly despicable and spiteful. I am not condoning the things that come out of these asshole’s mouths, the way they blatantly celebrate death and violence but I am standing by their right to express their concerns and hatred -- or anything else for that matter that they feel they need express. I believe that many of their views are extreme deviations from what might be have been originally grounded in honest and informed objections to Western imperialist tendencies, i.e.; war, theft, greed, murder, exploitation, etc... These deviations, once they get to the point where they praise counter-attacks and support rancour and violence are no longer rational; they’ve then strayed too far, but I repeat, to emphasize this notion: if you go back far enough most of the arguments and complaints have a semblance of genuine legitimacy. Besides, whether the argument is legitimate or not should not hinder the right to express it. I think that the ability to objectify hate is an innate right; natural and universal.

To condemn a man for his words, ideas and opinions is absolutely wrong. A man’s words should be listened to, then agreed with or disagreed with, then respectively shared or debated, liked or hated, nothing more. To punish and censor ideas, any ideas, is the greater sin.

6:03 am, July 29 '05 (east), Jasper Avenue 

6:02 am, July 29 '05 (sw) 

6:02 am, July 29 '05