IT

Table of Contents
Table of Contents.........................Pages 1-2
Introduction...................................Page 3
Chapter One..................................Pages 4 - 19
Chapter Two..................................Pages 20 - 26
Chapter Three...............................Pages 27 -31
Chapter Four.................................Pages 32 -35
Chapter Five..................................Pages 36 - 38
Chapter Six....................................Pages 39 - 52
Chapter Seven................................Pages 53 - 63
Chapter Eight................................Pages 64 - 69
Chapter Nine.................................Pages 70 - 75
Chapter Ten................................... Part I Pages 76 – 111
…...................................................Part II Pages 112 – 128
…...................................................Part III Pages 129 – 135
…....................................................Part IV Pages 136 -186
….....................................................Part V Pages 187 – 200
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Chapter Ten.....................................Part VI Pages 201 – 225
…....................................................Part VII Pages 226 - 268
Chapter Eleven..............................Pages 269 - 646
Chapter Twelve..............................Page 647
Chapter Thirteen............................Page 648
Chapter Fourteen...........................Pages 649 - 656
Chapter Fifteen...............................Page 657
Chapter Sixteen...............................Page 658
Chapter Seventeen...........................Pages 659 - 668
Chapter Eighteen.............................Pages 669 - 673
Chapter Nineteen.............................Pages 674 - 682
Chapter Twenty................................Pages 683 - 684
Chapter Twenty – One.....................Pages 685 - 691
Chapter Twenty-Two.........................Pages 692 – 701
Chapter Twenty – Three.....................Pages 702 – 724
Afterward...........................................Page 725
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INTRODUCTION
I will begin this in the customary fashion I would any date. In Times New Roman 13
Point, double spaced. On December 24th
I will have another year clean and will need one thing.
A woman I love in my arms. One who has read this book and who does not think it is either:
a. working manual
b. a license to kill
See, I love my life. It's just, every thought I have is valid enough to stick on the page. If
you think you can handle that, you are either:
a. nut
b. addicted
If you answered “d”, nun of the above and “c” is filled in with “true dat”, then give me a
yell: ozenoz@live.com. I accept unsolicited manuscripts which have not been copywritten, or
righted or are leeward vessels in progress not perfection..
Submissions must be five foot to six foot, and preferrably filled with juicy details about
former lives. If these criteria are not followed, then blindness and blandess will be the resulting
quotient, rendering our date: a rack of lamb, yet uneaten.
If you are between the ages of 19 and 22, please drop me a line:
dabroken@hotmail.com. Entries must be filled with juicy details such as Skype address,
favorite porn star and how many shots of Jack it takes to make a Jack o' Lantern smile. P-p-p-p-
lease no High School stalkers if you can help it. Smoke em' if you got em. Just not all of em' at
once. By the way, morning O.J. and the Simpsons are best served pulpy and cold.
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Chapter 1:
Catty
“Sometimes the fucking answer is to not do the drug”, said the corpse to the thriller.
“Sometimes the Depakote is the answer”, said the corpse to the future drug.
“Sometimes the job is the answer”, said Advait, the Nurse Practitioner (in not so many words).
Maybe it's me but if the answers were that simple, they wouldn't be answers. After all, we are
all human, and perhaps a little white horse... (ellipsis)
“Take that!”, said the horse pill to the filler for the drug addicts emotional pain.
Take that. I am writing on it. After all, the book transforms the writer and if it's the way, well as
former LSD addict Richard Alpert put it in not so many words...
I have to make amends. I am a former atheist acting on it. Messianic Judaic complexes
worsened by an “Am I Evil?” Catholic remarried only (not by her own hand) mother who wants to play
matchmaker for the eclipses of my ellipsis.
“That being and same thereof and to..” the priest who married her didn't say about my baby's
momma who isn't a baby.
“Joel, he's six years old, and you need to take your medication” my mother says in my head.
She has another new new husband, a doctor. Sue me doctor.
What do I call this chapter? Chapter one would be regret and shame and loss and degradation
and guess what? It's just chapter one. I love it.
“And you know what else”, the old sketch from Saturday Night Live fag says in my head in my
own voice “I am thspecial!”
The specialist of the best-est of the best-est son. The best-est son? Well I hope Shane Malachi
4

Michael, my son, thinks that his Grandmother (who prefers to be referred to as Mom- Mom) thinks so.
One day I will get to see him again.
“Again. Again” the echomaster ™ unplugged ™ voice effects pedal for my mind declares
openly against my own will as the Depakote plotting continues. It is the way of the way of the way...
“Saaave YOURSEEELF!!! FROM ALL THE LIES OF THE....”
Beautiful. All the Lonely people where do they all come from? Do they come from my
apartment left behind in San Diego? No cause that was just a room where I snorted crystal
methamphetamine in between smoking shit and drinking shit and shitting... (myself). LOL. The text
message didn't come in right there, but do I vibe the woman behind it.
Baby's Mamma. Mam -mam. LOL.
What do you want? I want Rock and Roll. Long live.
I played guitar in that basement apartment until my fingers were covered in callouses so thick I
could knead them out to about two inches from the tips. I could play thick strings on that damned
acoustic at 225 double time on the mixolydian noodling over Trey Anastasio in between sessions of
“wood burning”.
“Yeah right,” says the asshole brother in my head named Asher Brooks. A brother who is not
one of my own father. My mother was widowed by mine at age 22. I was 3. She denies having any
selfishness issues, but the bitch ain't got it through her damned head yet that when she taught me to be
selfish, it was so I could (“motherfucking” says the would be – stepdaughter in my head, and not my
half sister by adoption) S-U-R-V-I-V-E.
Oh well. There are two types of chords as Joe Pass said. “Major, Minor and Chromatic”.
Agree to disagree with everyone including the Risperdal that is making my fingers shake at the
moment as I simply try and fend off the step dad who gave me his last name so has a complex about me
“out-doing” his kids. The thrice divorced fag-git who beat me bloody at 11 and kicked me out at age 15
5

for being a normal kid. Fag-git KYW News Anchor who needs to get a taste of his own “chase you out
of the house screaming at me...” as he probably did from my mother.
Wow. Spell check just tried to complete mother in the previous sentence with a motherly fucker.
“I'll fucking KILL YOU” he was screaming at the top of his lungs when I chose to go out on my
own and meet a girl I probably could have married. Had I had the balls to tell him that he should watch
his fucking step. But how do you do that?
Tears in my eyes, thorns of another time from a journal I wrote when I was 15 after being
thrown out. My shaking hands right here because of the Risperdal. I guess it's time for that too. I have
been refusing the Depakote for a week now and am fine. Drug Addict.
“Your no doctor” step dad Brooks wrote in a text to me earlier with some “fatherly” advice.
Let me get really misguided here and just tell him to bend over.
“Norton! I know that you know that I know that you want to fuck me!”
SO GET IT OVERWITH YOU FAT FUCKING PIG.
Sense and Sensibility. The wife I never got because I was too short on funds to get the ring and
make the right way in the Michigan I knew. I was a 22 year old kid. In Ann Arbor. Living. Living. But
enough about me. You know anything about life? Cause I ask myself, if I can face tomorrow, let alone a
whole year of this shit. “Is there something I could say to make you change your mind?”
Never thought I'd have to love this song. Union. My love was wrong. Crabby days gone by, I
have to admit that it's what I need. A divine precept brought on by the Rabbi who just dropped off my
computer. My rabbinnikus. LOL.
If it were only the wave of the past and not of the future. I need a new and updated system,
cause the present one is Able- Disabled version of the economy. I have to economically stimulate this
addicted ass so, off we go to the races.
The answer is in the mix. The mix that is playing on my computer. Spanning from the mid
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seventies to the late- to- mid decade that began the millennium. The time when I had a year clean.
Right now, time check. (count, count)
Well, four months clean and sober from all substance abuse on the day before my adorable little
sons' sixth birthday this coming Saturday. I haven't seen him...
“Leaves begin their color change...”
In the mix. Not.
“Live From New York, ITS SATURDAY NIGHT!!!”
If I could ever abstain from my violent aggression towards those with apparent wisdom then
maybe I could go back to the group meeting that I love over at that church in Bethlehem. Where I am.
Again. Wherever you go, there you are.
“The seasons change and they tell me where they go...”
October Morning Wind. The day that I drove away from Jessica's life. DA man out of the life of
the girl who I intentionally impregnated far before our time. That's just the growing pains of a
“yunkie” as the Mexicans I leave behind in my thoughts from San Diego would tell me. Or the more
recent Mets fan who was the House Manager at the shelter where I was staying over the winter. The
winter that nearly killed me. The winter I thought I knew all the answers.
I thought I was smart, thought I was right. Thought it better not to fight. That the time would
prove her wrong. But I don't know. It is the way of the time to stand up and be the abandoning father
that I became. The way is the way is the way is the way.
That is the war in my head anyway.
It's all a mystery. “God grant us the serenity...”
When am I going to stop grinding my teeth and wanting a little blue chunk? A little piece of
heaven. A little more Depakote than I took tonight would do the trick. The sex I want is for the tips for
the tips. I want the ananda, sat shit and all. If only it were that simple. If only. I am so far from the
7

home I once knew that it is going to be a long ride home if I ever go back.
And while I'm on the topic of geographical location changes, lets just say that cost of living is
complete bullshit. It's all relative. Cost of living is based on the exact square footage in the environment
you wish to be in. It's political the way in which it is adjusted. So I have no reason whatsoever to go
back to the sunny place where I know I will not be comfortable. Bad joke, but here I don't live on the
fault line. I love in a cheap house shook by the sewage system every time a truck passes. In a house that
can't stand up to the fire test with me living on it's third floor if I were to get in the middle of a cigarette
battle.
I am living in a three bedroom house with eighteen bedrooms made for people like me. People
who don't even like themselves (though they do love...) let alone me. LOL. Anyway. My friend my
friend he had a knife, a statement of his former life. When he was easy. When life was too. Or maybe
just when she had her legs spread open for the time of my life. Sat Chit Ananda. Pure Light Bliss. A
little chunk of blue.
Like that “who's who” nomination I got in 2003 only to not even fill out the form and mail it
back in. Never realized truly what an honor it would have been to be published there that year. I am
who's who without the money for the stamp. Trying to mix up a bad batch of rhymes and guitar and
juice flowing on the computer learning how to make well... this.
Hmph.
Hump back whales like me have to hump back whales like me. That's what she told me today,
that Jessi bitch did. I have to say if she'd let me just be a hump “backed” whale then maybe she would
understand, but she doesn't know the Joel from San Diego or the girl he fell in love with.
Those evil natured robots, they're programmed to destroy us. The women of the world. If those
evil robots win...
Then I know she can beat them. My ex girl in the San Diego I know and afford. The affordable
8

side anyway. And the milk from Hawaii, damn. Hula hula to you. Auto complete just finished the you
in that sentence with youRSEEELF. Haha. Uh huh.
Technology isn't what we think it is these days. It is a bunch of ill mannered programmers who
think that they can destroy my psyche more than it is already by formulating mega multi – millionaire
nations which won't give me Social Security. Or welfare. Or food stamps. Or the right to claim that I
never will because I am too smart to claim that I should, even though I have been hospitalized more
times than an ailing 73 year old with hips from fucking and sucking the grapes out of garden hoses; like
Buster Douglas. Not that I know. Buster. As Mam-mam would say. Ooof. That one hurt.
(done to Whitney Houston)...
“And Ieeeyiiii will aaaalwaaaays love glooo...”
Glue in any form. Huff and puff and blow this house down on the other side of town. If nothing
else this book will make for great dialogue. Have fun with the beats and the rhythms. They are emitted,
admitted, taken backward, refitted. Omitted the shame you acquitted me sane to release the remitted.
Like an idea, this crime. Give me six up, Tao, the line. Spinning faded and hated, delegated, degraded
the tainted love you created, infiltrated and made it easy to be what I made. And shit nigger, you paid it
the time, should have been you kill her, fine. But you turn whatever to wine so with this, Mike, may I
find. That it's time, time, time for the last rewind. For ugly tore up bitches on my useless dime. She
packed up my belongings that ho', and left em' on the corner for the po' to pick me up. See what I’m
saying? Guess I got fucked.
Punctuation ain't my forte. But spitting all over the keyboard is. And jizming. And jazzming.
And the Ming dynasty may have been right. What is love and what is hate? And why does it... matter?
Is to love just a waste? And how... can it, matter? Oh.
I love Jessica with all of my heart and I will never get her back. I got her back though. In the
rappingest sort of spit game you can shake on. I can shake my pepperoni pizza freckles on over there
9

and go nikki spiffin in lickedy dick, or not.
Did somebody steal her heart away? God, you're the only one to mend my heart. Everybody
gives a smile and says to let her go. I don't know if I can be that strong. Quote. Robin's Song. Union
with John Corabi being crabby like me. I been cryin' here cause its not me.
“I can't stand this pain without you,” do you feel that I ask myself “Did you really feel the way
you told me...”
Tears and thorns in my eyes for the answers I cannot surmise of the dreams and on and on...
“Did you cry those tears or were you joking?”
Yep. I do still. Over success. Cry a lot. But I have an interview I eeked by for the first time (not)
in Excel and Word and Data entry for a quality control in the mix for ATnT customer service with the
casino. Jackpot? Nah. Just the chips are all blue and so is the book I carry to the meetings every night
where I drink like a sieve and smoke. And sieve and sift the wisdom I cannot find from the second half
of this book, which is the book. The good book. The one I cannot read right now, because I will realize
that I was there all too soon with someone else when I should have been by the bedside watching my
son come out of that big huge...
“Pieces of my life they keep falling down on me...” October Morning Wind. Also a Union song
from the album of the same name.
“I can't wait for that again. To hear it.” I thought to myself as I raced home as I raced through
turnstiles on Christmas leaving an Encinitas Drug Study for a Caraprazile research. Sue me. So
anyway.
“I love you too.” she said. How do I accept that it won't happen again now? Do I accept that at
all? Is it all in the first step from me or is it step by step on the journey of a thousand miles like I took
before I left the Dunkin Donuts I stayed up in all night Christmas night when I arrived at The
Allentown, Bethlehem, Easton airport. Meditating with Amma and praying that the sunrise in India
10

was my sun rising with my son to meet his father soon. Which didn't fucking happen. Yet. And it's been
118 days. It's fucked up.
“Is it me, or is life after High School?” says the monologue I want to write adapted from Silver's
begats and be gotten begats on Facebook. Is there life after High School, cause I can't stand this
bullshit. I made friends with no one my entire life. And no one answers me all the time. He says some
pretty fucking funny shit too. Now then, back to business. (adjust tie)
Is it me or are the faithful departed just that, the faithful departed?
“Beware of STD's I guess” I tell myself.
“Fag-git” says the would be 18 year old stepdaughter from the 16 year old mother who raises
my son everyday from the depths of my despair. I can't stand it. Tabloid, sex, drugs, strychnine,
anything to push away. Crabby. My old meth buddy knows the man himself. Knows him well enough
to get some sympathy from the city of Brotherly Love, which is indeed so very close that I can't yet
bring it in on the KYW I should be listening to while typing this out. Daddy News. That's what Asher
said when he was about three. My sister, I will leave her out of it. She's only 17. And born the day
before me. So I've got a scorpio for a baby momma who is eleven days younger than me and on the
cusp, a sister who is 15 years and one day younger, and a horoscope from the jackpot lotto, I figure.
Jackpot. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you all. Baby. Not.
“Smoke my hoochie, say that I'm the devil...” screams John Corabi from Motley Crue, “TELL
THE TRUTH!!!”
Since 1977 I tell myself from the annals of the next half of the book after the poetry I can access
in the mindless babble in the e– mail account that opens up my mind in the later stages of the “business
toke”. He was a great seducer, the KYW News Anchor.
“SMOKE THE SKY!”
“But I'm normal,” says the junkie in my kind mind of thoughts racing. Not kine. Not kine.
11

Strychnine. A lot of it. Enough to take my feeble ass into a near death psychosis from it in the year
nineteen-ninety eight. In the year two thousand!
“I WAS FUCKING THE FAT PIG...” I was “in love with”.
“Isn't that thspecial?”
“Listen, the snow is falling...” next song in the mix. Another person who my old
methamphetamine corrupter buddy writes to from the rat infested, cockroaches being “eaten by the
spiders” that line the walls. That was the apartment down the hall from me in San Diego. Reminded me
in the video at points today of the man in Michael Jackson's “Stranger In Moscow” video. I was the
homeless guy in the winter after, this past winter.
“Between London and...”
Thank you Yoko. For being my friends hold on tight at Christmas every year. He is truly the ties
that bind me together at times, but that's fucking scary cause I won't even be at his funeral soon. Get
clean and sober, man. And then maybe you won't be the “Weird Fishes” from my mix. Radiohead. All
of this is my music from you big buddy, I love you. I love myself too, so “Ha”.
“I don't wanna be your friend, I just wanna be your lover...”
Forget about your House of Cards, bud. Forget about mine? Every day I can, which is only
weekends and holidays. Including paid ones. But that's after the interview. Kill shot. Sale?
Account investing interest in stock bearing prices way below the market value can be sold to
pin point consumers or no? True. Can be shelled out to raise the capital in the following state:
Pennsylvania; without falling under Regulation D Rule 506 Securities Act of 1933. Maybe I'll
use a Nevada Corporation like the Merlino Family Did with Trump in Nineteen - ninety seven.
Summer of love at Galloway National Golf Club. Love ya. Caddy around there and you'll pick up lines
from me like:
12

You know what snowflake? I'm NO-flake.
Let's write a book about something I researched.
Snowflake issued by thousands every year. Right Sugar?
“Reach out to the community with a soon to be web based compendium of knowledge. “
“Well who fucking cares social media its ass and make it do the twirly whirly while you get
standing ovations.”
It's that simple. Not gonna do it with a pen and paper. Gonna do it with a book. An e – book.
Then blogged on JoelBrooks.US also revealed on.. (blah blah blah)
13

Wow. Business Plan.
Synopsis: Contort every business deal I never watched go down and imagine that they did and then:
I. Capital
II. Risk
III. Equity
IV. Strategy
V. Terms
VI. Growth
VII. Residuals
VIII.Ownership
IX. Unknown
X. Projection
XI. (Condom)
XII. (Herpes)
14

“Crest Group”
My teeth are yellow, I've got nicotene stains on my fingers. No hairbrush, no toothpaste and no
comb. But yet I talk a mean (Takamine) game. Oh soy and fruit polish, take me back to the days where
I ate vegan at Rose's having a Fourth Avenue Jones for a shower at the beach consortium for lust and
rust in L.A. Woman blues. I wandered from Jay Mohr's “Looking for the Funniest Man in America” in
Venice to the tune of “..it's one more day up in the canyon...”
Only I wouldn't be the woman and get down with the hues of the black and yellow, and fucking
hello my name is the OZENOZ SHOW©. “And it's one more night in Hollywood, ” for the cameraman
fag who tried to fuck me.
Think. Think.
Intro then:
Then first thing most people ask when you mention you are starting a business is capital.
Don't let it get you tongue tied. When they sling out “what kind of capital you starting with?” Tell
em “D.C.”
That will stump em.
If you ever have had the thought of being in business for yourself, you're in the right place.
But you have to make sure you are making sense or you'll sell yourself short. And no matter what
business you are in believe me, it's sales.
The top of the food chain all have one thing in common, they all sell themselves well.
Think of every new contact you make as a rung in the ladder of success. The more rungs you
successfully attach, the higher you go.
A friend of mine who moved to Hollywood to get into the music industry there once told
me: make as many contacts as you can every day and call them as often as possible. He does the
15

sound engineering on major motion pictures now.
But hobnobbing with the stars isn't what I'm talking about. Sure it helps, but when I say
contacts I mean:
You are standing at the corner cafe ordering a morning latte. You strike up a conversation with
the counter person. She's a 22 year old singer/ actress who is performing this Wednesday.
Talk about it! GET HER CONTACT INFO!
Let her know you are in business for yourself, and that you will be seeing her around.
Especially if she is cute. And when she has a good voice, the neighbors will agree you made the right
choice.
No, but seriously.
How about a book?
Step One: A group of college kids go up against a local mob capo as they try and make their mark.
Step Three: It's a story about a group of college age kids who share their summers on the golf course.
One is an upper middle class orphan who is “make your own snuff tuff”. Gets introduced to the sex
drugs and rock and roll of the “lifers” and... He continues to be a seasonal caddy until he drops to the
streets when former band members from a music group are making it out west. Travels.
One is an Om Buds Man dropout who creates his own company when the economy goes south.
He develops the marketing to create an empire capable of using its going public money to make a bank.
Another is a caddy/ members son from the club. He makes it a profession and helps arrange the
loops which could make or break his friends.
And finally there is the female of the group. She becomes a restauranteur who eventually is
poised to buy the club spot, also in the hands of the members son/caddy.
Of course there is the caddy master, the other player who arranges the dark deals which are
spinning behind them all. And in the forefront of the action the mob who would oppose.
16

“Who is the hero?”
Caddy For Life.
“Who is the love story?”
Caddy/ member/ restaurant female
“Who is the villain?”
Need to develop.
“Villain?”
A local up and coming mafia capo out of control with his upper level contacts. He's budgeting
his way into every market – in the end gets cut out.
Leaves room for a sequel: plot development.
With:
The Bank vs. The Casino
the label vs. the hit man
the restaurant tied into the caddies marriage
him on the road and...
Now the bodyguard and the restaurant girl with him taking the time and her (almost) but
he ends with avoiding the hit. The bank opens it's own casino in the town. The girl stays with the caddy.
Ozenoz ® survives, and she is pregnant and has: E.T. The two fingered corpse baby.
Now for a golf plot. Loopers®. Delves into the caddies life on tour and how its time for him to
bust out and maybe take on the real loves of his life... business and his family coupled with the politics
of a.. I dunno but TOUR. Maybe a professional tour of his own? Relying on his wife's restaurant
complicated by a baby and all of the factors (sounds drab...)
Maybe the second should be two bodies? The Bank. And Ozenoz ® Followed by Loopers ®.
Develop: college kids.
17

“Hi this Joel, I'm with CREST GROUP, I was wondering who's the GM over there?”
“That will be Jim Mcdonald.” said the nasal secretary.
On the way out, I thought. Hope he's good for it.
“Can I speak to him?”
The obligatory click alerted me to the fact that I had gotten through the gatekeep. A brief pause
ensued, followed by the review of my pitch in thought.
“This is Jim.”
“Hi Jim, this Joel from CREST GROUP How are you?
“Busy.”
Typical car lot GM.
“Where you from?” he threw me a bone.
“ Crest Group, we are a marketing corporation set to turn the tide on how its done. Who is
doing your marketing these days?”
“hmphh...”
Time for the pitch. This was gonna be quick.
“Jim, are you interested in getting some entry level stock in our company at a cheap price? We
are offering at $2, and you can sell at ten but you are gonna need a banana boat to move it all.”
“Do you have any literature you can send?”
Close dammit. No, PITCH. Like the nigger you be.
“Are you near your computer?”
“Yes.”
YES! An in for this one time only out of the other fifty calls I have made this morning. Better
than the three fifty at the telecredit gig though.
“Ok, I want you to type in double you- double you- double you dot Crest Group dot com. Like
18

the toothpaste.”
“OK.”
I turned on the charm.
“Give you a guided tour here...”
If my father were to die of a heart attack today because of all of my bullshit, I would be soon to
follow. Soon followed by an aneurism and the realization that there is life after homelessness, though I
don't know yet what it is. I just don't know how soon I can get that to happen so I can get S.S.D.I...
List of things that I don't know:
The speed of the fist flying at my head at age ten.
The speed it takes to develop a mental illness diagnosis from untreated abuse.
The speed it takes for a mother to decide to ignore the abuse for the “greater good”.
The speed it takes for her to deny any and all abuse for the “greater good”.
The speed it takes for the other forces in my life to deny that they in fact need counseling.
The speed at which they will when I make it BIG.
The speed junkies last thought as he turns blue from a fix.
The speed at which my thoughts get out of control as measured by religion or psychiatry.
The speed at which other people will judge me as trash from being chronically homeless.
The speed at which this book will prove that I worked hard for the status I don't have.
The speed of light in it's purest sense.
The speed of light.
The speed.
Speed.
Spee
Spe
19

Chapter2:
Catheter
“Power to the music in the streets!” Motley Crue reminds me.
It's that time of night, and I am on the prowl for it baby. I am getting taxes.
“Yeah that's right T-A-X MONEY, biznatch.”
And that's when I call it quits. With this joint. I am moving into a row home on the south side
ASAP. Find one available? Not yet. In San Diego it was a room at seven-fifty a month. I figure eight
hundred for a house with three floors would be cozy and kind. I will find my shit. Been there before.
Backyard. Living Room. Space. Outer and inner peace with my chanting and bare boned of a buy in the
works. I will make the credit happen. I will make it happen because I did my homework.
See cause I'm a functional addict. One with the freedom to be mother fucking great. Weight set.
Computer. Hmm... Budget? Lets see...
29K a year.
Figure I can keep it to 12K for the bills.
Leaves 17K.
Food 4K.
4K Shane
Leaves 9K.
“K.”
4K Savings.
Leaves 5K.
5K Upkeep and Home Improvement.
20

Then with my “hobby” wiring in an extra Grand a month that's another 12K.
12K. Oh what to do.
“Do you realize? That you have the most beautiful face.” What a line.
“Do You Realize?” sings The Flaming Lips.
That toothpaste is bad shit. It's hard to make the good things last. It's just an illusion. Cause and
effect. Pride and prejudice. Token hobbit furry toed fevers and sweats in manic reactions. But instead of
saying all of my goodbyes realize that happiness makes me cry. And cry. And cry. Yet they tell me it's
depression. Then when I'm happy about it, it's fucking mania. Except for the fucking. I have to look out
for STD's. And for other peoples toothpaste.
I am quitting smoking. It's 4/20 and I have to stick on a patch in the morning. ON 4/22 I will go
without. On 4/23 my son turns six. That's when I clean up for good. Every time I want a cigarette I will
just call myself a catty fag and turn the other butt chic. What a way. What a way. I thought that I would
just step aside and that the time would prove her wrong for sure. Damned fool I am. Stand up and be a
man.
“Surrender, I just wept in regret at this moment..” It's all a mystery. A novel idea yet to be a
Sherlock Holmes, which reminds me I need one of those kinds of glass pipes for my pot... luck. Yeah
luck. I don't know where the sunbeams end and starlight begins... my son. The test is over.
Dada. I wish I could be the dad of my dreams. Who's your daddy? I am. Nat. The Boston
Gaston or was that gassed on in the midst of truck driving school I flunked out due to not maintaining
my mental intelligence... no illness. Illness. Prime example. Bi-Polar, Schizo affective with Psychotic
Features. I have to say that my regimen is OK. Except I still see ghosts. But Ghost Adventures calms
my soul.
“The Bastan gassed on..”.
Could have been the way she combed her hair in the morning for about thirty five hours or for
21

the light in my eyes when I see the Shel Silverstein back cover and know that is what I am going to
look for life... look like for life. In. Like Flynn. Not Lynn.
“It rips my heart out, to see you living. You gave me money in exchange for pain...”
I hope that I'm not feeling so much pain. Or I'll turn back to Jack. Tennessee sour hash, and
some cow poop. No, just the stuff growing on it. “You been in da shit boy?!”
I hope the introduction to the book I have in front of me is OK, cause this shit sure ain’t.
“Ha ha ha ha ha...” the joker declares.
Til death. Til death. Do us part. It's back ass-words on my ass back words.
“Get your ass back here!”
“No.”
A typically typical six year old. Then again that was the one act Luscious Flynn should band
together with their name and make it for the Hoffelmyer White Castle burger King slut piece.
Dissertation? Jewish Princes often have shmutz on their faces when they are leaving for work. And I
stand by them.
“It's me myself and I, til death...” Motley Crue jizms in my face.
“Shazaaam!”
“Two Dollars!”
“Three!”
I want my stock options before the cloud lifts. Pink cloud often reminds me of the stock I have
sell on the investors lingo.
“Three quarters final.”
Damn that CREST. Ayers. Over on the Mayflower. Bought a business in Connecticut a few
decades later his with son. I saw the book at the Lehigh library here. It fell apart in my hands. Dust to
sustenance. Til death. Shoot me into outer space. When I am dead. They will. My ashes.
22

“Standing on the moon.”
On the dusty flag I kneel on will be the man on the fumes. Gassed on Gaston. Motley. Definite.
“Hilarious!”
Winston, King of Prussia I lay this shit on you. Winston, toke of pissers, I make it all doomed
for you. I don't wanna be any part of your stupid motherfucking disease. I just don't believe I guess.
Did you ever feel like there never was life after Twitter, let alone a whole year of Eminem
raping pregnant women on the 12th
floor of the Hilton San Francisco before the Time Travelers Ball?
Me too. Me toothpaste.
Welcome to the... soundtrack of my life. Coming soon to an Ozenoz® near you. Ozenoz® is
dead.
“Situations critical...”
I am fucking sick. I am fucking sad. I am mother fucking sad. I am a mother fucker. I am a bad
ass piece of it. Toothpaste on my Winston. And Hooch in my pipe. Too wet. Danks.
Wet? Rocket fuel for schizo affective faceoff dilemmatization of the nation in facing the
abrasion of the raising indications of the reason for my...
“Patience,” the would be step- off Dad would say in my mind but I'm afraid I'd be writing down
my in ability to be human. Smoke my hoochie. Say that I'm the devil. Or was it the Depakote?
I can't fucking take this shit. Or that shit. But I can take the doctors advice. That, is just
common- sense. Something I have been lacking for some time. A lot of common penny for your
thought self will run riotous observious tie you to your your chair and rape the shit out of your truck
fucking, ass smelling finger to the sky. Buddhist proverbial nonsensical rappingest, gamingest
bullshit. Power. Cords. Chaim. Joel. No. L'Chaim.
“Bitch, you ain't a Catholic”
“Lickedy dick in the lickedy split for the trickedy dick for the...”
23

When it's time I will smoke the sky. One hit. In the morning. One hit at night. That's what the
Doctor prescribed, but of course I didn't let him know I had addiction problems, and then didn't follow
the script I conned out of him. Stupid Volcano I never owned. Hawaii here we come.
“Wierd Fishes” playing now.
Women. So here's the real budget for now:
$102.50 from Welfare
$70 rent
$2.50 transaction fees
$30 left
$14 bus pass
$16 left
$14 coffee and fellowship
$2 left
$2 left.
Of course T-A-X money coming from being unable by the Judge to pay my back or forward
support for Sean. John. Shane.
Take my little nigger to see the lama I will. If he doesn't spit on me. I stink enough as it is. An
atypically – a typical day.
I've got big calves. Big like a division three all American defensive midi. One who used to have
the most bad ass face off in the books. Just no stick skills. On the wall. In the wall. Or around the wall.
On the fly. In the fly. Fly ball, grounder. Get grounded Joel. Get grounded and get on the wall on the
house we pay rent on and will lose the deposit. Lax. No L-A-X. Fly Gaston, fly. And cry some more.
I miss it. The flight of the condor. The flight of the bird I saw in the tree on the campus in the
24

middle of the deepest freeze in history. The winter I flew home and stayed outside. All winter, but for
the churches that sometimes allowed my schizo ass to stay in. Survival. Listen to my doctor from now
on. I almost died. And tell them all I'm an addicted chump. Tell it to the judge, the counselor, the
meeting, the stock bearing holders of the...
“On again, off again, on again...”
And cry. And cry.
“Stuffed. Stuffed. Stuffed.”
Take a bow. But don't bow out. Just back. And not in black. For no real reason. Depression hurts
my head. With headaches. My nose burns. That's from the blue crystal given to me by the McDonald's
GM. I think to myself as I publish a living lie to my screen. A living lie on the way if I don't admit it's
fucking real. Real bad.
But it gets better? 3:40 and no time for an interview, or a meet and greet. A meet and greet to do
quality control for ATnT. American Telegraph and Telephone. Stop. I miss you Shane. Shaney. Shady.
Crazy. But I can't stop. Stop.
“We are all psychic.”
“No” he says.
“I have to say”
Perhaps chapter two is shorter than chapter one.
Perhaps I am shorter than 29K.
Perhaps. Stop.
Ouchie.
Ouchie.
Let it be.
Let me see.
25

They tried to shut me down on MP3, but it feels so empty without me.
“I don't wanna be your friend...” Radiohead declares.
But when. Stop.
26

Chapter 3:
Smack
Down in Barrio. That's where I am going to go. Back to the hoe and the hole in the wall next to
the duck who is gonna fall by the hand of the friendly TJ natives next door. That is if the fugitives from
the warehouse don't run our direction next time the feds are overhead.
Down to the chicken shack where I lay my rack, and fuck the Jack, I'm going for smack. On my
future grandson.
“Kai, stop it!” she says with a moldy lust for her ex, or was it two?
The nineteen year old is cute, almost as cute as she once was in the bath time photos she appalls
me with every day. She can't even walk to her sister's house on Banker's Hill with me without having
such bad back trouble that I wander off in my thoughts of another time. A time then converted to
dollars and sense. That's not cents, that's sales.
Women are like credit cards, they will give you something, but you gotta pay it back with high
interest. And just because you are carrying doesn't mean you can swipe it.
Under the bored walk, that's where we'll go. To watch another movie in the living room, while
she makes deals with herself about how at least her sister can accept her because of me, and because of
my failure to appear with the six figures yet, and because of my future ability to do so she will get her
ex. That's E with a capital ex to cheat with on his time off from his wife. While I consort with my co-
workers on the best way to treat our former coke-addicted pedal to the red face Benny slapping
goodfella of a boiler room boss.
If I can just hold out on the articles of incorporation, and build further within my fucking
contract, I can supply the capital. My big twenty sales ain't buying a truck man, it's buying a one
percenter. One hundred- ten ninety niners and fuck the world, it's pay hard to play hard ball.
27

Outside the marketing capital of the world. A republican national convention of wisdom and
beach bums sailing off to my capital one. I can fill the rooms with justice, with an easy swipe of the
keys. One four hundred dollar five hour session and we've got work for the crew. The crew?
A Lehigh Valley coke dealing smut king who is fucking everybody but his Nanny. Nanny for a
Padre for a wedding down the beach row where we sip drinks and face the sun as it sets on the empire.
The empire he doesn't even have the motivation to jam his foot in the door to take a piece of. Let alone
actually build a simple website for a non-using client.
Or how about the Graphic Designer. She'll give me art, but she'll shark the board so fast that my
COO by association will never get out out of that pussy. He's just too fucking fat. And when his wallet
is, he'll run to me again and again, and again.
He already does. Sharpening his skill set has been my main mission at every ten ninety-nine job
I landed in the eleven months of working in two thousand - ten. Before, during and after sex with him,
I'd cry and balls hurting, ask him for the money to buy a hash brownie at California's Finest. Because I
left behind my gold mine to get him another dinner with the smut king of the homeless shelter. Or is
she a queen. Better not ask, she's from steel town. And she wants me to drive him to do this on his own.
Of course now that he's driven by me, he steers his own course, but only after I put away my six figures
and my Upper Class T to drive home a spike. Or five at the sushi bar next door where I partied with
crew that wouldn't take me on anymore after I bombed at Del Mar. I think the answer was apparent,
and not a parent when I stepped outside the Real Estate lawyers office and met with Dustin Hoffman.
He ignored me, and I ignored him. And then I ignored my job and sat in the veranda and smoked my
fucking brains out about the non-crew who had a wife waiting in the wings. Trying to convince her I
left behind putting him to sleep at parties while he sat on a D.U.I and her five months pregnant.
Isn't life grand? No, but the next five sales could have been. Much more than. My co-workers
were all in new cars, and driving me like I was chauffeur material with sin tax error at the end of it all.
28

The end all be all was the meth. I gave up, gave in, and gave out. I couldn't take the bland blend of mild
madness, I needed full blown insanity. Perhaps that would kill the game. No, just kill me. Just me.
I wander off about how I'm never gonna have the time to edit this piece or that piece, but then
again, where's my peace? Not in the piece I carry, like the would be step-off Dad adopted tricky dick
father figure to create non-oedipal complexes of coke addiction and drugs and rock and roll. Coca Cola,
them Casey Jones has got big balls. And falls in the Niagara blown wind tunnels of Gulf War veterans
coming home to the press call. Let's pump up the killing fields with a shot of Jack and double the coke
bag tonight, bitch. That's PATSY for patty cake, patty cake, bake my hand, I'm off to the races again. If
you want the Buddhist in me, it's called Mount Bromley is on the tee and I'm not Cracker Joel who is
going to be your caddy for the day. I am the motherfucker who took on the loop of death, and told
himself he would make more than three-fourty for seventy - two holes and a runner up because of the
choked four footer in the member guest. But that is just a Verizon Wireless deal in the making, so
forgive and “Fugged aboud it.” Bitch.
Led me down a long and shameful road, one I didn't have a car to traverse because the Brooks
Dad thought it would be a good idea to sell the two cars he promised to me one after another so I
couldn't have a ride to the golf club by anyone other than the members who know how damn good I
am. Member who? No, I will tell them now. Look out, cause I am motherfucking Ozenoz®.
How about when I came home from Phish Tour and ran into the KYW TV news studio in front
of the cameras before Bush got elected and yelled out to the cameras in the icy studio (I snuck in
behind Ukee, my D-U-D's member guest champion partner) “they just bought a seven - fourty-seven
and put arms in it! They are fucking coming!”
Here in my thoughts at I run a “Mink Golf Club” they will tell me what, that somebody is gonna
whack my ass for publishing how the nigger hating bitches they married wanted to be members at the
worlds club. The club that now by force of will and sustenance has the gall to put a token pawn in
29

place, the first “black” member faggit who allowed them to get major events. Fucking racist pigs.
Racist pigs I allowed to rape me of my dignity for so long while I hid in the shadows.
Just like the morning of election day after the body got dumped off at Fox Chase, and another
body was being dumped off through the woods near the caddy shack. But then again, it was four -
twenty as my KYW News time D-U-D announced on the radio as they went back up to their Lincoln
Town car. I left that next morning for tour in Atlanta a week early. But I didn't have money. I just had
the mob to do deal with, and a fag-git father behind my back who taught me that I was a lot like him.
Bend over bitch.
If I only had a brain, I would write it all down and sell a hell of novel through my experience
strength and hope, but that will cum until the cows come in. Or maybe just my therapeutic fat hippy
wife I end up with will. Fat chance, big chips, and bag of dip. Body bag. Oh dip.
How about brooder and his M-A-D paints? I hope his Ryder Cup doesn't match with Williams
penchant for bumblebees, cause that fat pig had the smelliest cunt in town for an entire season, and
never played in the mixed.
“Poison apples biatch.”
When you asked me to caddy with an eyebrow and a wink to the fat fucking pig caddy bitch
master, I left for the anti- Jew establishment. There I took on penny packer and john, honey well, let's
get real. He played with acres of love on acres of land. All fifteen thousand spent well, cause oh my
aching shoulders he needed to pick up, and I needed a pipe in my mouth to fend off his dark Amish
strychnine daydreams of outer and inner sanctum. Fucking Germans.
So I won't smack the poor little possible grandson, she'd never let me near to that as I supervise
the demo and construction crew redoing the chicken shack. I won't ever go near smack. Until it goes
near me, and then I'll be as dead as the guy who just drove a nail in my coffin by knowing something
about construction that I don't. I have to supervise my sales team, and I can't keep her from being sold
30

on the drugs coming from all sides, even though grandma is one of Bill's buddies. All the bud in the
world won't change anything but the name of the group, my blissful budding fallout. You have an omen
aura, it's not Shane. There are subtle differences, but it's a budding fallout.
31

Chapter 4:
Abortion
Dear Baby Momma,
Keep it real. Reel in the big fish and you can get fucked up the ass for life by the hooker slut
who fucked the rockers at your row home on the south side. While you had a golden brown tan and a
hit or two in your system to let you know the next hooker would be your son''s mother. Tube's not tied?
You're fair game. Let's put some misery in another little one's life. Oops, you tied em', not that the
doctors you see can tie their fucking shoes, so keep off bitch. You ain't my hooker no more. That's just
the fat pig you pay rent to in blow jobs to keep the little men and women together including your crack
whore mother with no teeth in that Northampton country club of a house. All 2500 square feet of
dysfunction and end my next two marriages playback.
Track two of Ozenoz® CD: Blow Me. If Haywood, J.A. Bloughmie was in the phone book his
name would be Charlie. The target of your affections in between your nigger lovers and white trash and
fat checkbook pimps to woe your soul into forgiving your addicted ass. I will publish this, and may it
keep my third marriage together.
And barking up the wrong tree? As for that, “Hi my name is Brooks and I am a sex addict.”
E.T. herself wouldn't touch you unless you french kissed her like every other slut in this county
remembers from your drunk pieces of life you feebly throttle our son's world with. And the world may
never know why he lives a double life. Believe me, they may never know. One at your world, and one
at mine. LOL. Get a grip, or the club cracker is gonna fall through the cracks of the spades table again
and trump Trump's middle man who needs to take his money back.
Yeah, when I don't get cut in, I cut. Not like you, Jessica, I cut out the golfer. When he asks for a
caddy to read his putt out over $435K, a beach house, a Toyota and a cigar, I don't help unless there is a
32

grin in his death do us part. So til death do us part, and may it come soon for you. So my Nanny gets
paid more than her fucking crack addict my son calls Nanny now.
Oh yeah, and Mom-Mom, she is a Nanny. Because her doctor husband isn't too keen on the fact
that she has her hands so deep in his pockets. She's fat, hurt, and poor. But he's deaf, blind and mute so
I guess they make a good match. Til death do us part.
“Hey you, you want a bad joke?”
“Nah, man.”
“Two chickens crossed the road. One got run over. How many made it to the other side?”
“Fugged aboud it.”
“ Both.”
“Hmph.”
“There were two hungry Tijuana natives standing nearby.”
“All about the green. Hey, wash my ball will ya?”
“Don't stand on the green when he putts,” the lawyer told me as Natale from the old country
stood over his putt at Galloway. Know what I did? Read the putt. And then stood back and watched him
sink it.
33

So Asher, my old lost and found reader half brother, your lawyer talk doesn't bother me. Get
tough, kid. When the world holds you down, don't drink. When it makes you cry, say live and let die.
Live and let die. Or maybe you are just too young as of yet. Nah. Just inexperienced, I fear. Or maybe
you are just half like me.
But the other half ain't no other half, so let's get to the rock. If I had a pebble of wisdom for this
chapter it would be: Carly. You are too young to know much of anything. Period. You were, and always
will be a part of my life. Not. You are E.T. The long fingered chimp who rendered me unconscious
when I got beat down by the police and wailed on the pavement with my brains in the back of a
shopping cart. Fucking addicts.
Fucking Mentally Ill Anonymous.
Just fucking.
Stupid motherfucking disease.
But don't take it from us.
Take it from the fuck.
What the fuck.
It's only a buck.
Buck.
Take it as luck?
Cut the umbilical cord.
Throw away the afterbirth.
Don't smoke it.
She looks like she is gonna die.
34

His name is Malachi.
He looks just like his Dad.
No, like his Mom.
35

Chapter 5:
Period
If it's not one thing, it's another. Two packs of electronic cigarettes a day. I would double space
the puffs to save the money, but It's just not us. US. A word I have come to loathe.
“Let me take you back,” the lingering voice performs it's acrobatics in my wandering mind “a
voice from the death that awaits.”
A voice from the death that awaited me. I met her in a bar in some Queens dump neighborhood.
Don't ask me which, she tells me it was that way, and I believe her. Believe me, she's buried right in my
backyard.
The Rolling Stones' Honky Tonk Blues screaming from the radio, I spent half the night wishing
she was mine.
“She blew my nose and then she blew my mind!”
It's just the way it is, that night. Later she fucked my brains out and screamed at the top of her
falsetto screaming crying out for help. Help only Satan himself would have tried to apply. Twelve steps.
Twelve traditions.
“Tradition! Tradition! Tradition!,” the old musical Fiddler on the Roof reminds me of the other
faithful departed. The one I couldn't leave alone either. Pray for the souls of the faithful departed. The
faithful fuck me in the ass until I won't let it go departed. Killer. That's me.
Us in the U.S. We call it removed from the misery of the criterion of the governmental programs
that attempt to save me from the sickness in my mind. A brood of catching M.I.A's at will and...
“Norton, I know that you know that I know that you want to fuck me!” Eddie Murphy screams
out the window stand up on my tele. Vision, something I cannot brave to the scariest parts of my
journey. A journey that took the very life force out of me. And saved my only son the will and the life
to force the hand of his soon to be mother. Of a stillborn fetus in the hands of a bloody doctor.
36

“But not yet,” says the us in me “It's not the time for Gods' will.”
Not the time for Gods will. Time for my morning jacket. Time for a little action, a sweet piece
of death. A sweet piece of the pie. A sweet little golden nugget taken from the nuggets of wisdom that
line the strip. The strip clubs, the forced avenues, the fair walkways of post- Venice Beach blues and
Led Zeppelin dreams of the California Girl(s) who just don't get it. They don't know that I am the man.
The man who will do them tonight. I step onto the front porch, and get assaulted by the non- swamp-
cooler air.
“Ahhh, Vegas.”
Somewhere in the distance, I hear the bells ring. Jackpot.
“Off to the morning wisdom and teaching the doors of the rooms to flow with the glow of
another dew.” he spews in my mind. No marshal in sight. No mothers today. That would be the
influence of my time left alone in a Tennessee jail to rot in solitary confinement for an illness. An
illness created by them.
“us...us...us...and them...em...em...” the man downtown says in my mind.
“I am not em... in... em...”
I can be the rapper Ozenoz® sometimes too. I can be the words of wisdom.
“Token truths of gratitudinal dismay. Oh what day, is it mother-fucking gray? Oh she won't be,
but just for today...”
Just for today I will keep my thought on my new and soon to be dead associations, people who
aren't smoking two packs a day and who have learned not to kill for their meals.
Yes, I am an eater. I like pseudo flesh pies and hamburger Ala Margaret, but not Ala Jane Doe.
It's gotta be a good butch with intellect and brawn for my sinewy cashew nut Chinese food.
“Cashew chicken...takes a lick-in and keeps on tick-in...” we whisper together, drooling openly
on the 10am March 100 degree sidewalk walking down Trout Lane somewhere near Nellis. More near
37

the end of the strip than the strip steak I'll have tonight.
38

Chapter 6:
Shorts
If you haven't started already, please fill in the blanks.
Bag step One:
A group of caddies encounter the field of dreams as the local mob takes over the golf club.
Bag step two:
As the summer progresses, it becomes apparent to the golf club that the mob isn't moving
outside of the city limits, they are here to stay. A movie deal is in the works with the local club amateur
gone pro after his country club championship win. A new golf course is being built, and the table is set
for the wireless communications battle on the table. But it's bullets that are flying at the local
politicians, and golf balls that are flying at the scriptwriter as he sells his family, and possibly his very
soul to make the deal. The war between factions of the mob moves in for the kill at the black denial of
all minority race connections involved; the club has lost it's grip. As the war winds howl in the Oval
Office built from the convention held on site, the club follows through.
Or maybe that is a novel idea to find out some well researched “bullshit” as my half sibling
related former father would call it, and really make a career of this writing. Fucking assholes. Let's see
what else can I do? Writers Market this shit, and get my home office running from that damned tax
money, and maybe I have a running shot at the long jump. Bad joke. Get it? Long way down if you
39

want to rock and roll.
“We are the dealers, we'll give anything you need.”
How about a Financial Director who is worth his stuff? Or a GM who isn't trying to bank on the
salesman who is trying to break the loan. The state of the credit union address says that “seven fifty
credit score”, tenured, dual house owning/married professors shouldn't be denied a Toyota Corolla.
Maybe that's just a solid dose of the politics it takes to navigate the hallowed halls of the dealership.
If you want my advice, you'll read no further. If you want a car, you can do one of two things:
join the Armed Forces, go postal, or both. Take it from a former lending Account Executive. But that's
our job, to talk like that.
But seriously, navigating the car dealership shouldn't be such a harrowing experience. Treat the
salesperson as your friend with the details, your Financial Director as your accountant, and your GM as
your ticket to the world. The first approach you should make is the front desk. Be your own advocate,
call ahead and line up the shopping for your new set of wheels. This will enable them to know you are
a serious potential, and line up the best possible match for your experience: the knowledgeable
salesperson. The person who can tell you all of the gadgets, the quirks, the gizmos and first date or
Autobahn dreams you have in mind. So make an appointment, even if it ticks off the spouse. They will
thank you later.
When you arrive at the dealership, be patient with the appointment schedule if it's off.
Interpretation: schedule at least two hours for your visit. If you are set on the make, make it a one stop
shop. If not, don't plan a day of different dealerships as this will preempt what we in the industry called
“spontaneous buyer power”.
After you have test driven the vehicles and made your pick, discuss openly with the Sales
Person your financial situation. This is not where they try and make their money, this is where your
40

experienced salesperson gets paid to do the better job of getting you a deal.
At this point, you should relax and take a load off. The GM will bring the deal home with both
the salesperson/liason and the Financial Director. That's where the money from the markup on the car
goes, straight from your pocket into your specialized assistant in the GM, and your personalized
accountant, the Financial Director.
“Hey, what the hell it's only a bell.”
That's what the stock says to me as I drip with sweat over moving this stuff. From packaging to
shell out, it's not the way it was intended. Or is that just dutch door action? Swedish meatballs, in need
of a hangover like a junkie with too much stock in Disney, I hope that this isn't the 3-D movie of the
future.
Then it hits me, that's right. Just like when Compaq went from $4 to $110 or some coercion
thereof in 1990-91, I have the chance at this. Is there a reason why 3-D is all that and a bag of chips?
Yes. Because of the following.
In tech stocks, we all need a solid dose of reality which is that IBM bought the technology
initially created by a talented team of geniuses at The University of California at Berkeley who are now
ready to cash in again on their hard work. Holographic disk data storage. With the capability of lifting
unobtainium off the exchange, and moving terra bytes in terra form; put me to sleep again my sweet
mistress.
And that's it, it's there for the taking folks. Institutional Business Technology. So break out the
geek squad, here we go again.
41

If only I had never left the grounds, and become a player. I have to say, I have seen very few
pure drives in my days as a caddie. From non-amateurs, the likes of whom I will name at will. Joel
Otto, in 1997 at Galloway National Golf Club in New Jersey hit one 420 off the tee on the Pine Valley
signature hole. He took my advice on the trick putt, not. Hat trick? No, he scored with par for the
course, if memory serves. Then prodded by the pressure Dornhoffer put on me to set up and hit the
miniature golf course trick putt, I hit it and it fell long and left. Uphill back and two balls left. My own?
The next pure one I can think of was the hit man. I will leave it at that, because he really was. It
rhymes with far, and call it a bogey. I told the mafia man that he had “jail on the left, it's safe on the
right” to which the Don barked “Give it a good whack!”.
He did, and turned and replied to me “Right down the middle!”. Should have took it as a
compliment, but hey I'm not gonna drop the soap anytime soon, so what the hay it's only a day. On the
golf course.
Which leads me to the assumption that it takes a pure thought to really hit a pure shot. Pressure
players hit pressure shots,and I am a pressure player. Unless death is on the line, I'm gonna fix your
spike mark and press before the ping on Tiger Woods. Williams needs to get some balls and stop
screwing around. That's just my take, pressure players need pressure. And I need a good bag, not a
good body, Fluff would retort. Or perhaps snort to the mimicking cries of a saluting Life and Death of
The Party KISS anthropological piece similar to this one. If someone doesn't drop trough and catch
some tees, rest in peace. Piece by peace, that's P-E-A-C-E.
“Hello, my name is Cracker and I'm a sex addict.”
“Hi, cracker”
Right next door to me, well, go get em' Tiger. Now.
42

If there ever was a was
It was in the fuzz, the buzz
And what a fuzz the buzz was
If there is an is
It was in the fizz
And what a fizz the biz wiz is*
If ever there was a will
It was will in the wall
And what a will it walls
Fill the fuzz with fizz and wiz*
The wall will fuzz the biz
Fill the wall with wiz and was
And kill the pill with a chill
Off the sill with my fill
Of duals and tools and fools
And get my fill of gold and sold and fold
My socks and put them away
For the time is now
And now is the way
43

She was my roommate, but not for long. I'd had it with the act. Dark hair gone gray almost
entirely from pharmaceutical school. Tight pierced nipples always just hiding with a waggle of her
sweet ass that she wanted me.
“Fine, turn away so I can't see your piercing hole get loose” I quipped awaiting her arrival from
the laboratory where she worked for the University of Michigan.
The door clicked and in she came. Tight sweater, cheeks red from riding her 105 pound 5'6”
frame home on the Schwinn. Not a drop of sweat.
“Hi Troy,” she quipped “how was the day at the fine dining waiting job?”
“Better than an acute regimen of autopsies I suppose.”
She blushed at the “cute” part of acute I thought. I couldn't help but think of the moment I had
with her in the back of the store at the coffee shop where I had met her. She had been the manager, but
always patting me on the ass, and ultimately asking me to move in. I had wanted to kiss her so bad, it
was like a magnet between us. Rounding the couch, she shot me a look from the end of the couch
where I was sitting, growing harder by the minute.
Time to ask.
“You wanna fuck?”
She blushed and retorted “Yeah I wanna fuck the guys at the lab all day long.”
No clue what that meant. She sat down next to me in a huff. She looked so damned cute when
her cheeks were all red, hair wind blown.
“You look like you just did.”
44

“Did you paint your room yet?”
“No.”
Then there it was, the magnet. She looked far away, and then straight into my eyes. This was it.
We leaned in at the same time and our lips touched. She slid her wet tongue in my mouth and rubbed
like a pulsating demon. I was so hard it hurt, and she was instantly there to appease. She reached over
with her hand and started to rub. Then right away, began fumbling for my zipper, all the while trying to
continue with her hand.
Her tongue slipped from my mouth and our eyes met. The electricity between our eyes could
have powered Manhattan for a week. I cupped her tit in my hand and groped the way I had dreamed of
for months staring her in the eyes. We kissed again, and it was off with the sweater. She slid her hand in
my now open pants and grabbed my hard cock and squeezed lightly to let me know she wanted this
again. I reached for her khakis, and felt between her legs. She gasped and undid her own stuff, sliding
both the pants and the silk panties to the floor over her fit athletic legs.
Her pussy was hot and wet as my hand slid over her and my fingers up into her.
“Two! Two!” she ordered.
45

I have to say that I have not grown a beard, got weird and moved into the mountains. And
neither had Marshall Mathers on New Years two thousand and three. Yes, before the war and what can
I say if I didn't come out of my closet, well. Hello my name is Frank, and the guy scares me.
On the night before the Time Traveler's Ball being held in San Francisco by The String Cheese
Incident I found myself faced with a Hilton scene. There to scope out a room for the night at The San
Francisco Hilton, I saw an impeccable drama unfold before me. Impeccable, and unpeckable by the
frantic pregnant woman who unfolded herself and her life in front of me. I was enthralled, blue balled,
amazingly not called.
She was cute. “I'm PREGNANT!” she cried, tears dripping on the Hilton lobby floor “Eminem
RAPED ME!”.
The concierge tried to console her, but it was to no avail. She wouldn't stop. Marshall this, and
Marshall that until the mothers of America couldn't help but feel she needed help.
As we stood outside and watched the ambulance pull away with somber faces, I couldn't help
but not ask him.
46

Tax Money
$160.00 Ray
$100.00 Mom
$100.00 LG go Phone with $20 talk time
$100.00 Printer/copy/scan(fax) (?)
$100.00 writing books/subscriptions
$400.00 hotspot and time (?)
$20.00 backup flash drive
$20.00 Printer paper and ink
$50.00 headphones/extension
$50.00 netfix
$200.00 Office
$360.00 cigarettes
___________________________________________________
$1660.00 + tax
47

Step two:
When the sniper in the rafters took out Ozenoz®, he felt a psychic connection to the rapper. The
phenomenon is proving itself all too real now. Fans of the former global rap star are starting a cult of
sorts with the trading of live shows. The live shows that were fed by the sub audible messages the
rapper was prosecuted for during his studio success from the chart topping debut album. Then the
dreams begin, the sleepwalkers, and ultimately; the killer turns serial.
SQL:
With the Ozenoz® fan murder spree ended, a small town reporter takes on the cold case files.
When the files turn out to be corrupted with subliminal and sub audible messages, the tips begin
pouring in. Then the murders begin, always preempted by a phone call to the newsroom. Hours of
frantic research bring the reporter to the crime scenes before the police, but never in time for the killer.
As the time ticks down on another riddle of rap and raw footage, the killer and the reporter slip deeper
into a psychotic mess that may claim the lives of an entire city.
48

Psychic (new project) Step Three:
A league of underground policemen set out to demarcate the law of their own invention. Now
that pot is legal by the standards set by California State for use by adults, they are intent on proving it is
“the devil's weed”. The law was changed on the premise that it would cut out the middle man, and shut
down the cartels violence. It is not proving itself to do so, and violence due to competition for the
truckloads of crops that can be moved has become the issue.
Using Mexican connections, the rebel police contaminate some of the supply being legally
transported for mass consumption by Californians with pesticides. The weigh in stations set up for
tariff reasons by the State of California at the border are bought, but not the checkpoints for drivers.
The supply contamination is caught, via a truck moving illegals by a San Diego former dealer whose
business has forced him to change his dirty dealing. One of California's finest, he has been moving
some of the crop to one of the few center city stores in San Diego which will move large quantities so
that it can be consumed by the underage population. An addict himself, he swerves on the double take
playing in his mind at a weigh in station, and both the contaminated crop and the illegals are found.
This alerts local Mafia that their crop is being messed with by the same force that aimed at their
people before. A shakedown ensues in Tijuana, vying to find the source of the illegal border cross. It
leads to the farm where the crop was being grown, and the mass mutiny which insued due to the alert
that the owners had turned the wrong way with pressure from their backer. The backer is pressured to
eliminate the problem, in light of the criminal charges possible, and he does so. A member of the rebel
police group is caught by the bought Federates while doing border cross patrol in San Ysidro, and
beheaded.
The league of police are even more steeled by this act. They form a corporation, and begin the
marketing of their own mass product to be distributed in the U.S. This time they pick American
49

growers crops and package their marijuana cigarettes as “US” Indica and Sativa blends. Slowly buying
up the market, they begin to contaminate the product with something more sophisticated this time. PCP,
a drug which causes psychosis.
People begin jumping off of buildings, attacking complete strangers and wreaking havoc. On
Wall Street, a trader goes postal and stamps his trades for the day with an all out assault
that hits home the point with the president of the corporation. But the trade isn't stopped, and a shell
corporation steps in to hide the loot. Before long the trail is offshore and the trail, cold. At this point our
hero steps outside to enjoy a cigarette, and is hit with an idea. The top is in on this to enforce the
Federal law.
He makes a few phone calls to encourage the proper pressure points over some pints, and
syndicates his research in the local pot growers manuals. His response rate cuts the flow of the
corporate funds from the policemen, and now the hunt begins. Armed with little but whits and street
savvy, he makes his way through the turnstiles of the arena he knows the best. As a marketing
executive he took on the challenge of sore losers who couldn't manage their own business and turned
them into sore losers who couldn't manage their winnings. Time to do it again.
Michael reeks havoc on the stock market with a merger of his own marketing company and the
Mexican backers, offering peace as no reward for the heads that will soon roll. Dreaming of the hits,
the Mafioso head flies in to meet with the local board member who has it in the best to make bank. The
merger is set for the following morning, and call centers in place from the marketing firm, Michael
issues the scripts that will make or break his company.
50

I'm a short genius. Time for a cigarette.
I just reached for my phone and hell a hell of thought. What if I get a sponsor like Jim?
Just for today my thoughts will be on my new associations. People who haven't smoked the
whole cartridge of their electronic cigarette in half a day, and who have found a new way of life. So
long as I swallow that way, I have nothing to smear. Oh what the hay. Just for the pay. Relapse.
Recovery. Then bitches and snitches and hitches and ditches. Guess I'm in for the same old fruits of my
labor. Fucking a- right I am. Fucking a – lab rat right I am. Gross, net and quantitative consumption of
Fritopf Capra's the Tao of my anal retensiveness. When I get up, the whole couch goes with me.
Because I farted. Fart sniffers.
Will I die of this disease? Will I feel that no matter what people will say I will die of a disease?
Does that cause me dis-ease? Why am I so diseased? Who else is diseased and are they easy? Can they
be easy and not sleazy? Am I just looking for a fix? Or am I catching some ray of tax money dream
51

hopeful wishing seam of tired cum shot ream? Will this get published? Will it get read? Will I make it
through another day of drama and Dramamine dreams and fart fixations as I type out my adult world
and pray that it becomes a reality?
As I sang in that Tennessee jail cell long ago, “Only God knows why...”
52

Chapter 7:
Cricket
Living in a world so warm, I wrote a beautiful song with no tune for the vocals/lyrics, and
moving open chords for the melody.
It went as follows:
(BROKEN TAKE ONE...TWO, THREE, FOUR...)
Cries out in the night that it's passing him by
He just can't seem to find a real good reason why
Guess it's only in dreams he can take off and fly
Seems so real, he can taste it, he just has to try
And he says:
I have been BROKEN
WORDS HAVE BEEN SPOKEN
I am in HELL
PLEASE BREAK THIS SPELL
It's the way that she left him he really can't get
He feels like the loser an untimely bet
Past together meant nothing, it's really that set
Yet the truth bears a child he still hasn't met
And he says:
I HAVE BEEN BROKEN
I AM IN HELL
53

One more turn at the wheel that is still spinning round
He just knows he can fly, yet his feet touch the ground
Where the music is boundless insanities found
Binds the deal, seals the fate around which it's wound
And he says:
I HAVE BEEN BROKEN
I AM IN HELL
I HAVE BEEN BROKEN
I AM IN HELL
At the beginning of its first fully amped live performance, the audio blew back a rift of
feedback that ended the first chorus, and ultimately the song.
“Please excuse me, I don't mean to be rude...”
But fuck my old keyboardists, my old guitarists, my old soundboards, my old computers. They
all belong where they ended up. In the pile of memo's and e- mail's I just don't have the time to respond
to. Not that those are existent at this pint. Or that pint, half pint... double shot of Jack on the Ripper
over easy with ham and sausage on the side. Moon's over Miami and West Beach is partying with The
Culture Club fag-gits. The easy way out? Never. Always hard. And you been had, I don't sing like a
canary, I sing like a tenor with baritone so far in range Vedder sounds like the rocks in his mouth are
pushing my opal wisdom...(ellipsis)
54

“Freezin...” I rested my head on a pillow made of concrete every night in Los Angeles when my
rotted out feet couldn't make it to the beach where they should have been soaked. But I counted on
friendship meaning something, but psyche rock and scar tissue that I wish you Saw III is all it
amounted to. Cracker Joel is back on the mic, and if it's time to put it all behind me then I should write
this like it's the first autobiographical sketch I have ever attempted.
But the fact of the matter is “that baby tonight...” I am falling in love again.
Dance like no one is watching, which at this point would be a good thing. Cause if I spam the
different inflections of my fuck this and that's criss crossed with my rolling tobacco blues all day to
baby momma and parental half pints and “cc” units it gonna kill me.
“In fista cuffs if dat be true den what up as I step in da room.”
“Cause baby tonight...”
Write. Well from where? How about three days after landing?
It's December 27th
and I am in California clothing. Barely able to walk and stay cold in the
fifteen degree weather as Uncle Samantha decides whether they can travel my luggage to me from
Charlotte. U.S. Airways got a delay in crew and footage, but shit happens and I'm neither here nor
there.
“All my life I've been good and now...”
It's fifteen degrees and I have no help. Can't find the nearest shelter. Can't cash the four hundred
twenty-four dollar check in my hands, and am broke otherwise. I have been since six am on December
23rd
without any drugs and I am about to fall as I pass by the middle mark of the bridge on my way
towards City Hall and the North side of the Christmas City.
Two nights prior after coming into town to my white Christmas, I encountered prank drivers
screaming at me to “suck some dick for some crack!” etc, etc, etc.
“Live pop culture. It doesn't matter if you love him or capital M...M...M...”
55

Malachi Michael, I thought. I love you.
Enough at that point to almost lie down and fall asleep on the bridge. To which, there would be
no wake up call. Just an eternal sleep. I walked to the nearest Quality Inn and told the woman at the
front desk.
“Look mam, I just flew in from San Diego on Christmas, I have a check I can't cash and no
where to go. I am broke. I have no where to go and have been up for over a hundred hours. My mother
said she will pay for a room if you will accept her credit card by phone. If you don't I'm gonna walk out
that door, lie down somewhere and go to sleep and never wake up due to hypothermia.”
Needless to say twenty minutes later I was in a cold bath, teeth chattering my way to get out of
shock. Emotional and physical. I'm guessing that the anxiety that caused me to call my son and his
mother and tell them I didn't fucking care that I was going back to California was pretty motherfucking
called for. But the world is a fucking cruel place, so it is because “you need medication.”
No what I needed was a bed and a meal. I hadn't eaten since the airport on Christmas. Except
for the Twenty bucks I spent at the 24 hour Dunkin Donuts from the account that made money from
my blog while I was allowed to sit and try and figure out how to survive winter homeless in this alien
world. Alien world that my relatives lived so very close by to. So close that I could have froze to death
to make us all feel better. To make it all go away in historical chronological events in the life of an
addicted slut who holds me hostage. Her name:
“who's yo mamma, who's ya mamma, who's ya mamma”
That's the person who saved my life. The one who gave me birth. The one from whom the
umbilical cord could take the choke hold and not survive if I am not careful. But I won't let up, cause
Momma won't let me fly, but she won't want me to sing either. Hopefully she does let me write and
right and rightly write.
Well, page count here is at forty-eight and I have no idea what is in my head anymore but teeth
56

chattering. Seeing as it's spring, I take this as a sign from God that I need to be thankful and write more
in the morrow. In the morrow, things will be different. May the tomorrows of evermore be brighter and
brighter for the equality of the life I want for my son. Not. I want him to have so much better, but I am
so fucking helpless. I love you Shane Malachi Michael Ruch. Even when you think I am not thinking
of you, I am doing something I hope will lead to us getting time. Time being the thing that God most
meant for us to leave alone in his name. Correction: his many, and vast meaningful names. Amen.
I blink and it's the morrow. But not the Morrow I want. I want one I can slide off a mountain on
and land in feet of powdery bliss that fell from the sky. But that is just the snowboard/ski tech speaking
in me. Joyride for the twister that landed on me in Tennessee in my mind. No that one was real. It's one
of the reasons why Ozenoz® landed himself in Oz.
I was driving through Tennessee on November 13, 2002 when suddenly I was attacked. Four
twisters had merged and were ready to strike. As the huge mass of blackness descended on my car, I
prayed to God “God, I am gonna die and no one will know just how cool this looked”.
No one does, as he told me on my twelve step support phone call last night.
The tornado that landed on my Honda Civic known only as “the sweet little Habib” pushed her
from five miles per hour to fifty-five miles per hour in neutral. No hands on the wheel, that was God
steering as Old Nashville Highway running straight out of the Bible in my belt let me drive on. I call
this: how to go from zero to sixty in neutral. But let's just put it in third gear here for Habib and hit the
rest stop.
I was there for one reason, to accost the girl who led me down a long and shameful road. The
one who caused me to do time with Tennessee murderer Percy Palmer. With him in mind, I set out to
send off letters to my boys the night before. I sent Percy the key to my West Chester University
Hockey House key. They key to the place where I lived. Cause you see, the whole of my twenties was
spent being told I was a fucking caddie when I was a student. Without the tuition, minus the parties and
57

minus the bullshit from the STD's I would have had to avoid. But that's hairpiece material, and I'll
leave the herpes where she lies. In her husbands arms, the fucking cunt who told me “Troy, don't
meditate” on August 19, 2001. On September 10, 2001 I pled not guilty to public intoxication for being
aware that something terrible was coming that had caused me to be silent while I held my meditation
that night on MTSU campus. On September 11, 2001 Buddha died in the first tower and so did my
dreams of release anytime soon. I was truly fucking out of my mind. I decided to let them know in the
infirmary that even though I pled not guilty to a misdemeanor or four, I was ready for psyche help and
that entailed solitary confinement in the nicest of environs you can imagine for the next four months.
“Tai Chi...” they called me. But I was holding the forms. You can get the most benefit from your
inability to stretch in a solitary cell when you take your anger out on the guards who are scared of the
death sentence next door. Don't worry about me, though Mom and Dad, as you told me on the phone
while I was in there, “Joel, they care. You have a problem and they want to help! You did something
WRONG!”
When I got home to run a mink golf club, I was told I was Penn University Law School
material. Of course that was from the same chump who sold me a peyote like mushroom that caused
me to end up in the bad graces of my parental units in the first place. When I was eighteen, so fugged
aboud it. It ain't me, it's the world and the way they view me. Ain't that right Percy?
“Mr. Palmer is concerned with a thousand dollar question. Just like ROGER he's a crazy little
(eighteen year old) kid. I've got the time if you've got the inclination, so cheer up Palmer, you'll soon be
dead. The noose is hanging, at least you won't die wondering, so cheer up Palmer, you'll soon be dead.”
I used to sing the old Phish Acey Deucey Bag tune to him on the row. Nashville gave him triple life for
the three lives and the thousand dollar question is, Bon jovial... eighteen and life?
I called him killer. It was “killer this” and “killer that” for the next while, but as his inside track
on being prepared for trial I hope to God. He saved his own life by not flinching from a white jury after
58

all that bullshit. After all, I was locked up for a misdemeanor I didn't commit.
“Hey Brooks! What'd you do?” cell four asked me one day.
“Broke a car window by accident...” was my response.
Until they shoved their helpful needle in my ass bone so hard that still hurts from it to this day.
As I told the nurse in there before she stabbed me as hard as possible with an anti-psychotic “I'll
fucking kill you bitch!”
Perhaps. Time will tell. Til death do us part? Oh killer, let me count the ways. Soap on a rope.
Soap with some dope. Soap in my mouth. Hung jury soap in my mouth. Needle in my ass soap box
blues and five – oh to count the ways to them cell block two's. And three and four and...
Get on the door, we've got a drug trade and it's cumming in my finger food. Til death do us
part, Mommy and Daddy cause jails institutions and death are all a part of your fucking treatment plan
for me. How bout a good dose of fuck your house doctor? Doctor, doctor give me the blues, my son's
got a bad case of ideas that could be normal but I abused him too much blues. So fuck you bitches.
Fuck you. Ladybug.
My only friends as the late Kurt Cobain said were in my head. And they brought with them the
chi to fill my cell with ladybugs. Red all over the walls with wings and black dots and screw this shit,
I'm a fucking Tea Kwon Tao. Expert my ass, this shit is Kung motherfucking FU and jit kwon tao and I
am fresh out of a University of Michigan sublet where I fit like a glove with my graduate student
roommates so “HA!”.
Beat my head against the cement wall some more while mom - mommy calls it therapy. Percy,
you have no bail bond, killer. Mine is four hundred dollars. Less than a cup of coffee a day for life in
the slammer. Of course there could have been the option I got delivered to my jail cell in the mail. Well
option one was: pay back my roommate for the ex – tangled up in blue fiancee's phone bill to her
59

husband in Virginia Beach. The roommate went C.I.A. ,so I took it as a compliment. Second option was
be my own lawyer. If I had known it, I would have declared Habeus Corpus, but they were too busy
giving me therapy to let that happen. But the third and final of the two options was the one my fag-git
D-U-D said was all delusion.
A letter arrived from Texas Justice, the television program. It said that the three thousand dollar
fine I owe now and the years probation would be waived, it was a funny and silly enough matter for
Percy and I to sit at the table and fight it out on the tele. That's right, for the price of a cup of Starbucks
that cunt mam-mam shoved past her dick sucking lips (as she hoped I was training) I could have been
bailed out. And then flown to Houston. And defended myself on television with my tangled up in glue
ex lover, no matter what the verdict: paid and OVER.
“Joel, you're delusional, this conversation is over.” Fag-git news anchors. What do they know?
Better know their son's better than to dump em off at the county lockup for being troubled by a girl.
But of course, had I never gone through all of this shit, I'd never be as old and experienced as I
am. I barely made it today, and I will continue to take everybody else's personal inventory until they do
mine for me. That's my creed, motto, life, wisdom and cricket. Speaking of cricket, I miss my old
phone number. I could have received countless (and cunt less) untold phone calls from everyone but
people who like to be referred to as family when they are assholes. Nah, just kidding. They know
better. Or they had better know better. Or else they are going to get a solid dose of my delusional reality
coming straight at their motherfucking twenty - two packing asses. Get some real caliber. I got guns
down below you have never dreamed of.
I swam with the phishes that taught me how to trip my way to the infirmary and out the door.
So don't think this means I am sane, this book. This is a lot like the Irish in me saying “you pull a gun
on me and I'll twist your neck in my vice so fast I'll be reading Omerta in the State Hospital for a
quarter of the time the self defense in this book proves I need”
60

'Course that's just Texas Justice, and if you pull a forty, we are both dead. Cause I'll drink you
under the table, shove the bottle up your ass and shove it in and out at a medium pace. Like the wooden
putter whose grip I ruined before popping the cherry of that young and future heiress to a billion plus
on my California King size non – waveless. Living the dream baby doll, living the dream.
Crucified again. Speaking of necks and vices, I need to go bum a Newpimp one hundred. Cause
them days got worse than when I was fifteen and told “fuck off you little shit you are homeless”. Nah,
I'm still just classified (and not by my full blooded C.I.A. Ex roommate) as homeless. The Gandy
Dancer wouldn't accept my application now, nor The Hotel Schmethlehem, but that is
mayhem neither here nor in the complimentary near four diamond self will run riotous published copy.
Copy? Cat, I think you are just plain nuts, and dog if you ain't, you best be getting the fuck out of my
way, cause I love staties and they love me. We're a happy family. I'll wind up where people get strapped
in not so they don't eat their own hands. I'll do just fine for about a year til they let me out and I have to
come back to a step by step process of novel writing. Novella? Short. Newpimp.
“It's me myself and I...” the Crue tells me for for the final time in this mornings adventures.
Perhaps the I should move back to the warmer climate, head to the Barrio with my Cricket,
work at the ampitheatre and see free concerts, sell newspapers on Sundays, get a sales job and fugged
aboud it. Or maybe I should go on a rampant free spree of lies and bland truths that get whipped
around like the S&M mistress I need so badly.
“You know, I've lived a few mistakes and I stand by them...”
Til death do us part. Do us part, please vengeance on the grace of the divine mercy of the Lord I
hold on to. Getting held by the system, that enables me to collect the welfare basket. The ask it all and
tell nun who you want in the rooms of a respite bed “fugged aboud it” with Greyhound traveler's
dreams.
61

It was New Years eve when I should have let Kali go, but Troy still hung the patches from Phish
Tours Summer and Fall in his closet, and she was fucking hot. So I went home, me and my alias soon
to become my new identity. I should have moved in with my Starbucks manager, but she was too busy
lopping off my head and smacking my ass while avoiding getting fucked at the lab while I was told
“Don't marry Kali, she's Robin”. And of course the red face Schwinn riding miserable Pharmaceutical
Corpse cutting beauty was love at first bite, so being struck by lightning was my natural relationship.
(from due course of punishment at the hands of my sexual and mental abuse as a child)
Memories I am not supposed to have Mam-mam, but I fucking do. Now sell that to my editor,
Troy. Try and try again to ask myself, did I deserve the abuse, or was it love? Maybe I should have the
church instilled values put in place by not running from one woman to the other when it is true love.
Dumb ass. I will have to put some white out on the screen here, and relate that one to my therapist
cause damnit, I never rode my mam-mam's boyfriend while he fucked her from behind. She never took
off her sweater in front of me to reveal the teets that confused my pee-pee, that's all in my humble
genre stricken imagination.
Fuck yo' genre nigga'. And sue me doctor. Sue me, and the pharmaceutical tech, the counselor,
the therapist and the ring you don't hold over my head step- off D-U-D number five hundred eighty two
point four since I was three. Ahhh Crickets. And drums. And space. Nah. Just
“crickets...”
Chirp.
Chirp. Chirp!
Chirp, chirp?
62

Chirp. Chirp, chirp, chirp!
Chirp, chirp, chirp chirp!
Chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp chirp.
Chirp?
Chirp, chirp.
Chirp, chirp, chirp!
Chirp?
Chirp!
63

Chapter 8:
“What if God was one of us?”
He is, I tell you, God is one of us. He's wandering around Penn Station putting coins in the
pockets of the weary traveler who can't make it to his home on the beach cause he stretched himself too
far trying to caddie at his Philly home course. He is on the Staten Island Ferry at four am when the
Bankers are at home, and my interviews at New York Life don't count, but only because of my poor
hospital stricken credit record. But that's neither here nor at Jamaica Hospital. That's where I should
have left to go into an art loft in NYC “& why, see?”
Because I met an intelligent Jamaican who had a non- jerk chicken for a husband who she told
(before CNN ireport voted me “young people who rock”) I was a young people who rock who needed
a loft at seven “fiddy fo' da mont'”.
I have to say, I should have, but the staff didn't think I was an award winning actor trying to
make in the big “C”, they thought I needed the big “See? Move in with your mam-mam so she can
force feed you OUR drugs and act like the abuse never happened at her hands.”
I took their overpriced advice, much to the dismay of my San Diego compadre who
interviewed me, and well the rest is credit history. Health care sucks. Just remember two things: don't
use drugs and listen to your doctor. Tell your doctor you don't need feel good medication and listen to
your shrink. And when your pee -pee shrinks, it's because “jerk chicken isn't bad, it's da shi' nigga'
wha?!”.
Not and Naughter. Back in Black, I hit that and that at the top floor of a not so flat. Top floor of
the Empire State, capital building but it ain't fate. It's a state motto and I'll say I learned about “lions
and tigers and bears” all day. Nah, just Indian psychiatrists who have a shampoo bottle up their ass
about being beaten intellectually by someone who thought they had talent. I got stopped at JFK
International airport for kissing the ground goodbye before getting on this plane. That's not just bi-
64

polar. That's schizo- affective with psychotic features. So just chill, until the next episode. Biznatch.
But I'm talking crazy here, and the poetry is probably losing some of you so let me give you
some back ground information. I have wandered off into New York City to leave the recovery home
that is telling me I owe rent. Mam-mam is working together with my boss to keep me from working
hopefully permanently and put me in the hospital for mental illness. And mental illness is working
together with the illest chillest, baddest gas attack that ever was a fact in the black. Black and red. Bug
yet? Me either.
This was after beating number one at eleven, beating number two at twelve and uh oh...
“ass fucking at ten o'clock!”
“Roger capo, we have a bogie”
“Co-ordinates Charlie. Delta. Delta. Delta.”
“Oh fuck!”
“That's what she said.”
Dogfight at Nellis Air Force base where I spent the time after riding a bicycle from the
Tabernacle outside of L.A. All work and no play. Makes Jack and dull toys.
“Bogie, take that boogie out!”
“Eat it!” says the cock pit to mission control.
“Houston, this is gonna be Texas Justice biznitch.”
“Hey Charlie, do you eat boogies?”
“Breakfast, lunch and dinner my six year old freckled monster of death.”
“Eat shit and die...”
That's a kill shot. Nothing but net. Unless you ask my former C.I.A. Trainee roommate who is
also on my credit history. Before the ass fucking, great to eat shit while on sex line phone calls. That
ended my relationship with “Niles”. As roommates, you psycho twisted Air Force One pilots. I don't
65

know what you'll be doing in your Air Force One, but I'll be snorting Ritalin and trying desperately to
have good sex with the “used to be underage” when I was twenty- one year old who frequented “Niles”
“Frazier, pipe down,” he'd quip when I was throttling my mojo for the garage crew team
sports: bong icing, Yeungling (Americas Oldest Brewery) and smoking Valuum through cheap former
rocket fuel metal pipes.
But that's just me. And Wilson, King of Crush ya, I lay this shit on you. If you are a fish head
you know what I am talking about. Don't blame me, I'm just sexy and needed more company than a
catholic school girl who didn't understand that all of my friends knew I had just come back from Mount
Trexlor Manor and The Dark Side of the Moon. Of course the alternative to my wood floored two
bedroom on Church St. would have been High Street. It nearly was at the recovery home D-U(A)-D
dropped me off at after blowing $400K in insurance coverage on my mental plans for winter 1998-99.
But in the year two thousand with a couple of thousand hours of guitar under my belt I could have had
it all. Keller Williams, The String Cheese Incident, my former life, and my respect. No choice, all of
the above.
The recovery house Dad dropped me off at was under the elevated Market Frankford line in
Germantown. Gunshots at night. A relapse from the owner with a new gay lover picked from his
plethora of fresh meat members ended the house shortly after I moved out. I had no choice but to stop
the bleeding. But to go back to the insanity? Insanity.
The best part of me is always from them,the parentals, and when I claim otherwise just ignore
the bullshit and realize I'm digging my own grave. I have been digging it for so long, I could strike up
conversation with the U.S. Embassy to Jules Verne at the center of the earth sometime soon. But that's
neither here nor there. It takes more than three licks to get to the center of a guitarist like I used to be,
so maybe that fifth of Southern Comfort coupled with a pint of Vodka, five beers and some pot wasn't a
good idea that season of caddying.
66

No blame for the game, it's not tame it's just shame I can't claim cause it would drain the game
from my name. And I'm no rook, I'm no pawn, I'm no queen, but I sure as hell want to marry one.
67

(@@@)
392-3000
(@@@) 666-2213
69

Chapter 9:
OM
This is a story about a young man who was thirty three years old and almost died after getting
clean. It's gonna take a lotta re – OM ing to get this all out, cause it still scares the shiznat outta me.
And nigga' that is the truth.
I was at an Encinitas Drug Study in California. The study paid for my lab tests to come later,
not. The drug gave me a stable head to leave with, not. The drug study gave me the money to buy
everybody christmas presents and the means to get them to everyone. True. It also gave me enough for
my rent money at the fag riddled, crazy porn star schizo freckled old man establishment on El Cajon
Boulevard. False. I was ready to jump off the meth train and get back in my sons life and move home
to Bethlehem, praying that his gorgeous mother would take me back. Both true and false. Praying that
she had changed. True. Ok, put your pencils down, time up.
Seven AM Christmas morning. I say goodbye to the people in the study and go out front to my
chauffered ride on the Cloud Nine shuttle to the airport. Serving the greater metropolitan area with
vans and limo's, I had booked and paid down a ride to the San Diego Airport for my 10AM two legged
flight to arrive on the East Coast, not, at 8PM December 25th
.
My good friend, schizophrenic George of the urban jungle and I said goodbye. Everyone else
was looking at me like I was nuts. Leaving southern California in the dead of winter to a place where I
had no home and no idea what was left for me. But they accepted all of the presents I had told Jessica
were for the kids, and saw me off gratefully. I grabbed my bags of presents from the wonderful team of
associates there at the study, my army bag packed in the long insomnia the night before and headed
wearily into the shuttle.
70

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