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000

Nothing here is original. All words stated, reserved, protected, and plagiarized. All thoughts conveyed. All revolutions pinned down and exploited. All lands conquered. All great and worthy inventions patented. All profitable foods copyrighted. All dandy slogans trademarked and worn out. This is the Taker Culture. Taking all there is to take. With each passing generation, there is less and less to take. Eventually, there will be nothing to take. If this seems redundant, too-fucking-bad.

001

Sun has yet to be suspended in the sky. Just a gray cloud cover for now. Dismal light gets choked off by the smog. God bless artificial lighting. Flicker. Flicker. Sitting on the bed. Legs dangle over cold floor. Smell of drool, sweat permeates the air. Begin routine. All the solutions for modern living on display. Dayquil. Tylenol. Listerine. Gilette. Crest. Combustibles for the armpits and hair. Alcohol for the mouth and brain. Soaps, creams, lotions, lubricants for the skin. The illusion of cleanliness.

Trying to think what happened last night. Oh. That's right. Nothing. Snubbed cigarettes in an ash tray keep a crunched can of beer company. Well, at least yesterday wasn't a total waste. Open closet. So many slave shop styles to choose from. It's a miracle. To step out of the house from day to day. ADIDAS endorsed by KoRn. Nike swooshtika unanimously endorsed by NBA players. Tommy Hilfiger's swell. Ralph Lauren's a nice guy. American Eagle, how patriotic. Wal*Mart knockoff brands. Fashion victims complain about their predicament but never really mean it.

The robots are up and operating just fine. Sagging glass skin lets you see the rusting cogs inside. They already gave up everything for consumer culture. Then they gave it all up once again just to pass on their name. Colombia bean offers caffeine. Sugar cane breaks the backs of the migrant workers but brings me up. Mountain Dew, elixir of our times. Just enough to swallow shit on a shingle (Pop-tarts). ©'s and ®'s and ™'s permeate our language. Bid the robots goodbye. Good luck at the factory. Good luck at the rat race. Swear to never sell out like them.

Scraping crusted snow off the car. Few months of burger-flipping for this hunk of junk. At least the robots picked up the tab on the insurance. Hands turn blue and want to fall off. Ignition is never as exciting as one might think. Parallel? Ejaculation. The reason behind any manly man's fascination with cars. Soul's coughing. Engine's coughing. Backing up and out of the nest. A little mind-altering propaganda on a plastic disk to perk up the dead morning. MTV mainstream is just fine. A few months more of taking shit and flipping burgers. Hit the parking break while driving, just for the thrill. This confident operator with no crashes on record. Not dead yet, but not alive quite yet. A few more miles per hour might do the trick. Whipping shitties in the parking lot.

Tap on the silver packaging and pull out a cancer stick. Winston. Marlboro. Ammonia. Tar. Nicotine. Thank you Truth. Thank you Phillip Morris. Thank you shitty public health movies and boring auditorium assemblies. Too bad. Don't give a shit just yet. Feeble age requirements won't stop a person with all the right connections. A cousin this week. An older friend the next. Bum a stick from one friend today. Another friend will be carrying tomorrow. Light up. Take a puff of the calm. Let the music coax you into a simple world of bling-bling, bitches, and blunts. The life of a small town rebel. Smarter than the system. Illusion of order fools no one in the right circles.

Brown brick building constructed in accordance with all the right specifications. First and foremost know that school is a public institution. Class conscious conservative Christians sit on the school board. Your petty complaints mean nothing. Budget stretched thin as paper and the football team needs new equipment this year. Deficit projected for the state economy this year, and you're going to feel the brunt of it. Segregation between teachers and students. Within the student body, all the necessary training for hierarchy is built-in. Conditioning in utero. Still don't give a shit. Sharp and keen and beyond all that.

Morning crew's all here. Zombies, ghosts doomed to wander these halls forever. Photocopier's been working nonstop since 6:30 this morning. Cock of the walk for just a little while. Cubicle Junior opens with a touch. Paper plugs prevent combination locks from working properly clear across the aisle. Pin-up girls taped next to Osama Bin-Laden in crosshairs. Pot-leaf. Upside-down American flag. Stacks of tattered text books feebly protected by book covers from the Guidance Counselor's office. Vague reminders of homework never to be done. Minimal effort expended to keep up the investment in the education system. Been this far, why give up now?

Poseurs come trickling in. Swaggering in letter jackets that jingle from far off. Worthless achievements adorn rags that will be discarded in due time. Social Security #000-00-0000. Student ID 2002-22. Team number 13. Locker number 117. Locker combination 5, 16, 32. Reduction of faces to numbers. Clones of clones of clones. More incandescent lighting. Vents breath cold, dry air down on body. Skin cracks and dries. Flakes and peels like crocodile skin. Turns purple. Feels like sandpaper. Too late to put on lotion now. Don't want to look like a pussy. Don't want to smell like synthetic strawberry apricot.

Familiars finally arrive. Wolf pack is completed. Standing in a circle. Wit is faster, logic impenetrable, talk is pertinent. No guilty person escapes scrutiny. Pseudonyms replace proper names. Talk of how one rigged a stereo system. Tales of last night's exploits in the modern-day chariot. Tales of last night's exploits with the ladies. Jokes from TV recycled. Commentary on the sheer stupidity of this sport's coach. Insecurities become more obvious with every boast. Petty interruptions. A shuffling of feet as someone comes in and needs to access their locker. Bell rings. Daily grind starts up again.

Woozy. Enter the barren room. Bored and sick and tired before things even get started. Why does the student have to be here today? Chairs color-coded to match the floor. Motivational slogans hang on the wall. Properties. Postulates. Theorems. Bell rings once again. Watch all the tardies come in. Big Brother revs up the PA. Speaker phones room to room activate. Please observe the Pledge of Allegiance. Observing, but it's not all that impressive. I pledge a grievance to the flag of the United States of America. And to the republic for which it stands. One nation. Under God. Indivisible. With liberty and justice for all. The teacher starts up. Tune out. Straight up bullshit. Straight out of the text. Can't be blamed. Never told how to teach in the fancy dancy college she went to. Can't remember who stopped caring first, students or her. Poor old hag didn't get a raise. Poor hag may not get precious prep periods once the hard-won contract goes to hell. Boohoo. Guess it's not that much of a problem.

By 3rd hour, another bulletin. Some loser just realizes they left the lights of their vehicle on in the student parking lot. Wouldn't want to drain your battery. By 4th hour, daily announcements. Results from the track meet. Results from gymnastics. Results from the wrestling match. Congratulations to the basketball team on their season. Reminder to yearbook editors. Student council members are reminded of a meeting during noon today, bring your lunch. Everyone needs their 15 minutes of fame. Chicken for lunch today. Chicken for the third time this week. Chicken patties. Chicken nuggets. Fried chicken. Processed chicken parts that barely passed federal regulations. Yummy. No worries. Cure the munchies 6th hour with another dose of the elixir and some Tato Skins. Local beverage distributor has a monopoly on products sold in this shithole.

Lunch bell rings. Hungry fiends jockey for position in long lines. Fat lunchladies wearing hairnets dole out slop. Nazi guards food like a hawk. One biscuit per head. Plastic trays. Plastic utensils. Plastic cups. Pay $0.35 for small cartons of milk. Cliques mass at long lunch tables. Shoulder to shoulder. Elbow to elbow. Some scarf down protoplasm still moving and don't care. Some distastefully poke and prod. Rat feces in the mashed potatoes. After some practice it only takes fifteen minutes to finish the rations. Stomach growls. Half wish there was a meal in that gut. Know better. Time to self. Time to think of everything in the world. Time to rid self of metabolic wastes. No doors on the temple of the porcelain god. Easier to catch smokers that way. Wonder what that pink wafer is for.

Catch sight of the recluse janitor? Big Bobby Boy uses purchase orders to refurbish his shack. Never seen him lift a finger 'round here. Stays in his office all day long. Probably jacking off. Guidance Counsellor walking past. Waiting for the next cry for help. Wishing that someone would come into his office. Obviously a child molester. College brochures and dildos of assorted colors fill his desk drawers. Tough shit going about his labyrinth unnoticed. Pariah during semester rollover. Hounded with schedule changes. Stupid rules about class limits and credits. Inevitably fucks everything up. Network technician visits the school every week. Blackouts, shutdowns, and problems are commonplace. Murphy's Law. He's made it so nothing works without him. Personalities abound.

Lunch period almost over. People getting slothful. Stomachs slowly work on clumps of grit. Small bits of fiberglass work their way into the lining of the gastrointestinal tract. Flatulence discreetly emitted from stealthy assassins. Mute red faces. Popular skeletons dipped in pale wax chew cud with swaggering nincompoops. Lovers cuddle and whisper little bits of nonsense. Kiss. Hold hands. Gaze at each other's eyes. Oblivious to and uncurteous to everyone around them. Wish they would fuck off and die. Love means nothing. Wish they would go somewhere else. Anywhere but here. Get a room. Grind teeth at the injustice of pairs. Cupid lost his shit and never recovered. Those two don't belong together.

Study hall is a big joke. Unruly proletariat in training shut up in a room with some dickweed teacher. Half get to go to "Honors." Down there it's all about dollar relationships. Hey, you got a dollar? Hey you got fifty cents? Hey you got a quarter? Lost souls partake in locker checks. Looking for gum. Looking for Tylenol and Tic Tacs. Looking for lukewarm bottles of Mountain Dew to backwash. No money. Money in pocket is always money lent. Approach the vending machine. Pretend to put some money in. Pretend to look angry. March into the office. Tell the secretary the machine jipped you. Watch her get a dollar out of the drawer. Thank you, Ma'am. Get two Tato Skins and demand a beverage. The expert goes up to the dispenser and shakes it just right to get two bottles of glowing green syrup.

By 8th hour, the lecture's been laid on thick and the caffeine and sugar have jumped ship. Mind doesn't even function anymore. Mind doesn't have to. All day long. Listen to other people talk. All day long. Just keep your big mouth shut. You will only incriminate yourself. Do not speak while the instructor is speaking. Raise your hand. Participate. A cup that is filled up but never drained. Mind your own business. Pay attention. Regurgitate all the crap that's been loaded upon you when test time comes. Word for word, the lessons have been homogenized and standardized in nationally recognized textbooks. Simplified and Generalized until what's in the notebook is vague, useless information.

Reality is fuzzy around the edges. Fades in and out. Close the old peepers for one second and it's the recoil from a shotgun every time they open. What? Where? Right here. Right now. Distant. Removed. Far away. Sometimes it feels like television. Eyes blink. Earwax builds up. Lost transmission. Not a participant, but an audience. What can be done to change the course of life when it has been preprogrammed. Wake up again. Routine questions. Have you pissed yourself? Have you been snoring? Have you been drooling? Has anyone noticed? Can't feel anything but the head. The knob on top filled with means of reception and expression. Numb hands. Flat ass cheeks. Life measured by the clock. Hands go tic toc tic toc and never seen them stop. Molasses.

The big coulda-been expounds on key points. Three basic goals in life. Make money. Make some more. And when you're done with that, make even more money. Three ways to get money. Earn it. Obtain it from relation (marriage, inheritance). Steal it. Third option not recommended. Big coulda-been a college professor. Why are they here? Big coulda-been coulda' made a lot of money if they actually believed or applied what was coming out of their flapper. Big coulda-been maybe coulda' woulda' shoulda' chosen to live somewhere else. Instead they're right here, right now. The armpit of the world. A woodtick colony. Roadmap to success. Big coulda-been might just have some credibility issues. Maybe that's why big coulda-been never reaches a single ear even though they shout so loud.

Bell rings. Stimulus. Big coulda-been's voice is droned out by a burst of cacophony. Anyone who was listening stops. Nobody has to listen anymore, so why bother? Herds pour into the hallways. No cattle prods necessary. Dash to locker. Head to car corral. Easy-going friends are hurried strangers. Push. Shove. Grunt. Ignition. Ejaculation. Near accidents that never happen. Watch out for pedestrians. 15 MPH when children present whizzes past at 45. On occasion cop wagons cower behind dilapidated roadside attractions. Sneaky bastards. Jammer on dashboard.

Coast up driveway. Park the jalopy in a snow drift. Walk in the house. Home is where the heart is. Robots must've visited the grocery store. Food products. It's their way of displaying affection. Holding up brand names for approval. 99% preservatives. Good for body and soul. To refute the value of their find is to slap them in the face. Grumble of approval. How was your day? What's new? How's so-and-so doing? Robots feign interest. Stamp up the stairs.

Homework. Busy work. Fill in the blank. True and False. Multiple Choice. Proof of purchase. Means for the teacher to control the classroom. Meaningless slop. Memory work. Nothing but a drag. Dedicate this portion of night to nothingness. Essays. Papers. Prove this. Disprove that. Solve this prefabricated problem. Patience wearing thin.

So tired of self-deprivation. Ready for instantaneous self-gratification. Playstation. Computer. Internet. Telephone. Candy bars. Music. Magazines. Fast acting remedies. Thought drowned in all this great stuff. Eyes pop out. Brain turns to much. Fingers blister. Just enough to find release.

TV dinner. Macaroni and cheese. Nothing like home cooking. Football dominates the screen. Celebrities, millionaires, pedophiles, murderers. Grunt, punt, pass, tackle. One robot in the la-z-boy. One robot actually sits at the dining room table. Dejection. Robots hardly ever talk to each other anymore. Marriage is a magic trick. Slight of hand makes the institution work. Impress ex-lovers and annoying relatives.

Head up to room. Sanctuary from the madness. Clock hits 7 and the elder sibling comes home. Went to college. Dropped out. Home now. Working off his debts. Rewind. Used to act like he wasn't worthy of this family. Comes back on his feet groveling. Fast forward. Guest of honor. Room is storage. Come in. Come out. Take what you want. His room is the holy temple. No admission. Stays locked up in there for hours on end, talking to his girlfriend. Dope-addict girlfriend. Kleptomaniac girlfriend. Compulsive liar girlfriend. Just going to run off with her and marry her and fuck up his life. Love birds fly into a window. Love birds fall from a telephone wire. Wish to be an only child.

Put something anything on to drone out the hum of his mumbling voice. Seashells lodged in the auricle. Fade out life. So tired of it all. Take a trip to never never land. The story ends when you're happy or when you die. Never will find happiness. Never will seek out death. Always running. Wonder what love is like. Never want to be in love if that's what it's all about. Being aware of only two people. Caring about only two people. Using love to excuse every action, to perpetuate every whim. Using love to support the economy. February 14. Chocolate hearts and pink roses. Eventually the flame burns out. Left with an empty shell. Left with nothing but 10th anniversary charm and 25th anniversary relic. Left with nothing but this decaying corpse that used to be your significant other. Used to be your better half.

Ceiling seems so very compelling just about right now. Fall asleep slowly. The epicenter of the universe has moved far far away. Year by year the delusion of importance fades. Stripped down. Abandoned by each and every muse one by one. Hot tears streak down the hollowed, cold cheeks. Used to be pudgy and red. Thinking of all that could have been. All that is now lost. Façade of bravado falls apart before nightfall. Golden chariot turns into a rotting pumpkin. Just enough momentum to carry the day, but no more. Midnight depression.

Dreams are for dreamers who waft to sleep on a cloud. No token gesture for those who hit the bed like lumber. Nightmares punish those who drown in lachrymal secretions. Garbled message from the subconscious. Ego wants to win. Ego wants to kill. Suppressed sexual desires distilled into a garden of phallic symbols. Copulating prefabricated gnomes with asscracks hanging out. Full moon. Polyester color palette. Daffodils and dandelions. Jolly Jack tumbles and falls into suggestive folds of the earth. Deeper and deeper into the heart of the matter. Doll within a doll within a doll. Nature of the beast revealed. Fetus hits bottom. Do not pass go. Do not collect pension. Straight to hell. Where's Jill to save him when Jack pops his top. Jill probably doesn't give a shit. And why should she? Licking her loli pop. Wondering if she's too fat to make the next issue of Cosmo Girl. Fun with subliminal messages. Classic tale of X-Y bouts for domination.

002

Blizzard. Back to the beginning. Start over again. Empty canvas. Slight variation. Nothing more. Look out the frosty window. Snow covers the car. Welcome to Starkfield. Sensory adaptation. Unsuspecting victim of body odor. Cold feet touch cold floor. Cold water splashes on face. Let the chill seep inside. Let it become a part of the whole. Step outside. Dead of winter. Scrape white paste off of car. Coax the engine to life. Breathe in. Breathe out. Ice crystals form in the nostrils. Stop fighting. Let the emptiness become a part of you. Weatherman was full of shit. Should have seen the storm coming.

Almost get stuck in the driveway. Almost go in the ditch at the corner. Bumpy ride. The posterior end feels numb in the bucket seat. The fingers feel numb on the wheel. Whip shitties in the parking lot. Make an angel in the snowbank. Can't stop shaking enough to ignite the tube of nicotine, ammonia, tar, and assorted carcinogens sticking in mouth. Pucker up and taste the kiss of slow death. Make another snow angel. Just so they can give each other company. Crazy bastard.

Fast forward. Morning crew. Wolf pack. Fast forward. Life by the clock. Life spent listening to bullshit. Memorize and then regurgitate. Yessir, massuh. Subservience transcends race, class, gender, age, religion. Fast forward. Nazi cook doles out food to the little maggots. Waiting for the next performance. The next display of false bravado. Filler material. God's little program is incomplete. Cranium of meatless puppets opens up to avert the chaos of silence with rotten mush. Is real life as bad a reflection of the movies as it seems?

See fresh meat trotting down the hall single file. Youth of America. Cartridges yet to be spent. Hope yet to be extracted and bottled. Carrier modules yet to be worn down and thrown away. Pied pipers--insane old ladies--lead them. Special presentation today. Motivational seminar in the auditorium. Unrequested privilege. Squeeze blood out of the turnip. People crowd through the doors. Hang back and wait for the wolf pack. Enter together and find chaos. Insecure persons look over their shoulders, hoping to spot and signal friends. Heaven forbid that this torture be experienced in isolation. Little kiddies already seated nice and neat.

Three massive screens propped up on the stage. The speaker is introduced. Rough audience. Buzz of a hundred conversations. High, twangy voice. Speaks briefly, clicks some buttons and an audio presentation begins. Loud music. Flashing lights. Shout loud enough and jump up and down. Hooray for multimedia presentations. Don't even get phony messages delivered in person anymore. At least we had some feedback. There is no stoppage of obstreperous commotion and smart quips, but all are drowned out by the music system. POD. Destiny's Child. U2. Nelly Furtado. Movie clips from box office hits. Using corporate culture to connect with children. The only way they know how anymore. Boundaries. Boundaries. Artificial boundaries created to make some sort of social order. Artificial boundaries used to keep everything calm and quiet. Boundaries to keep you off drugs and on task. Topic of today's discussion. Scripted interviews with children. Feeling motivated yet? Feeling nauseated yet? Older generation yet to find out that despite all the shit they dispense to dope the demographic, teens are not yet zombies.

School lets out soon afterward. Don't even bother to go home. Scheduled to work. Everyone scrambles to get home. Change into the uniform in a bathroom stall. Ben Dover was here. Suck dick. Fuck you. Subway Sandwiche Artist. Welcome to McDonald's. May I take your order? Burger King--Have it your way. Little cog in the machine of middle America. Working the cash register. Working in back. Working for a measly paycheck. Working for lint from the pockets of the plutocrats who work over the people. Earning the right to ascend the corporate ladder. Small town offers gas stations and fast-food as primary employment options. Would you like a beverage to go with that sir? That'll be $7.13 sir. Here's your change sir. What sort of condiment would you like sir?

Walk in. Rush hour. Fifteen minutes late. People standing in line. Swaying back and forth. Looking up at the 99¢ menu. Customer is already right. Gives the customer the right to be a self-serving prick. No pickles you zit-faced piece of shit. Complain to the manager. Boss glares at you. Color of clown costumes designate rank. Shotgun on the back of the neck. Shackled to the machine. Approach of each and every gullible face. Every one looks the same. Every one wants the same. Another bullet fired down the rifled barrel. Yes I'd like the Backwoods Buttfuck Barbeque Deluxe. Input the order. Soy patties are flipped. Sell the sizzle not the steak. Shredded potato mush put into baskets and dipped into fat. Comes back out French Fries. Using every part but the squeal. Cholesterol. Artificial Coloring. Artificial Flavoring. Syrup and ice put in the soda machine. Out comes the elixir on the rocks. Here's your cup. Here's your toy. Here's your cookie. Here's your Happy Meal. Thank you sir. Have a nice day.

Hi. My name is Jurgis. How can I help you? Squealing children puking this stuff up because they know better. Chicken head to go with your chicken nuggets.

Shutting down and closing up. Janitor's work is never done. Penned animals make quite a mess. Dishes to wash. Empty vats to turn off and scrub down. Antibacterial spritzes and dirty wash rags. Clammy hands. Slippery floors. Rotten lettuce on the floor. Mopped into the trap. Restock the bathrooms. Unplug the toilet. Bright yellow plastic gloves. All employees must wash hands prior to leaving the bathroom and returning to work. Overexertion. Forget the number of 15 minute cigarette breaks allotted. The beauty of minimum wage. The beauty of $5.25 an hour. The beauty of several hours worked mysteriously disappearing from paychecks. What does management say. Worked beyond the hours assigned. Probably slacking anyways. Need to prioritize. Need to be more efficient.

Change out of work clothes in the grubby toilet of the fast food joint. The price of having a car. The price of having money to spend on cigarettes and alcohol and snack food and movies. Money makes the world go 'round and its the price of admission to every fun activity. Money makes the world shrink smaller and smaller. It's been shrinking since the dawn of time. Life on a fragile robin's egg. Congratulations on the agricultural revolution. Lock the doors. Turn off the lights. Car keys jingling ward off the silence of the night. A million trinkets attached to them. Turn the ignition. Wonders of night driving. Driving through an endless row of lights. Tunnel vision. Dozing at the wheel.

Stop at the 7-11. Bonus of teenage wage-slavery. Friendly faces controlling the basic needs of life. Sleepy eyed stoner manning the counter. Can hardly even recognize. Probably just got done toking one up in the back. Probably been taking their share of the merchandise for some time. Five finger special. Purchase one tin of chew. Purchase one soda. No false credentials needed. Green backed fun ticket is all that's needed. That'll be . . . Here's your change . . . Have a good night. Standardized courtesy. A few extra bills to show some appreciation. A few extra bills inevitably go to the drug fund.

Sit on the sidewalk outside the gas station. Drink the soda. Caffeine fixes the problem for a short while. Everything gets brighter and livelier. The street lights seem harsh. Pry open the tin. Grab a pinch of wad. Stick between the lip and the gum. Little shreds of fiberglass cut the inside of the lip, allowing the nicotine to enter the blood stream more swiftly. So much for supper. This works great for night driving. A car pulls in to fuel up. Time for me to go home. On occasion spit into the empty soda bottle. Never could stand swallowing. Gotta' be on this shit for a while to acquire the tolerance. Getting close now. Roll down the window. Spit out the wad. Toss the bottle. Adds some color to the ditch.

Get home. Greet the robots. Day was fine. Should dinner be prepared? No. Don't bother. Dump work clothes into hamper. Trudge up the stairs. Enter room. Close door. Take off clothes. Go to sleep. The deep sort. No dreams enter this dark pit. Senselessness.

003

Rub eyes. Start program. Can't remember something important. Human or robot? Robot. Possibly. All that can be managed for today. Too far into the week. So sick of everything that happens all the time. Can't even follow the built-in manual properly. Automoton. Android. Faulty wiring. Orange juice goes on the flakes? Tooth paste spread on the toast? Ah fuck it. Fuck breakfast. Break fast. Been fasting for so long. Fasting because there is a gap that cannot be filled with all the food in the world. Tylenol sounds like a healthy diet. The lame song in the head provides the beat in the shower. Marching to the drums is all that keeps the joints up and moving.

Another dismal day. The social life is tired of each other already. Need a break. Need a chance to be sick of the old clunky robot family for a few days. Rejuvenation. Come to appreciate the sleek new models. Everyone's just sick and tired. Bickering. Recoil. Backlash for every word spoken. Looking into the eyes of another too long is like cocking a gun at their head. Go ahead. Feel threatened.

Teary-eyed melodramatic emotional machines. How did they get this grade? Why doesn't the teacher like them? How did they lose this game? Why doesn't the coach like them? How did they come to be treated this way? Why don't their friends like them? Just have to sit back and try not to laugh out loud. Have to tell them that crying in public is okay. Tell them by ignoring them. Leave them pretend that they're alone. People should be isolated when they're like that. It's most likely what they want. Nobody really cares. They don't need someone to pretend to be concerned. They don't want they're problems solved. They want to vent. They want sympathy. They want to be the poor, victimized martyr who never lashed back. The man who does not carry a gun believes that everyone around him will lift their pistols and fire on his adversary.

In truth. Nobody wants to see that because it reminds them that they're just the same. Scorn shamelessly applied when one back is turned. So-and-so heard so-and-so cried when he got a speeding ticket. When someone booked him in the hallway. When the teacher gave him a detention. Is that so? Say, wouldn't the people in this circle be scorned in kind were they not here? Wondering about what would be said in absentia.

Time for an anecdote. Two girls sipping diet, caffeine-free Pepsi. Phenylketonurics beware. Wish it was crystal clear so it didn't stain their teeth. Complaints. Now they've got to buy whitening strips. Why can't they make fashion-conscious Pepsi? Filling out forms for their baseball team. Positive comments and construction paper. Vacant comments and glitter. Thin veil with a smile smeared on. Meant to be said when they need a time out. As they write, they talk of the realities. So and so is a bitch. So hard to write something nice for her. The way she walks. The way she talks. The way she looks. Hostilities barely covered by this time of day. Need only to dig just a little bit. Social scale so volatile. Oh gee. Maybe its just a girl thing. Hope so. Need to live just a little bit longer to escape all this.

Oh yeah. Chronic liar. Before the polaroid fades in and the memory fades out. Chronic liar blowing himself up like a balloon. Nothing inside but hot air. Hoping to fill the gap. Playa. Gangsta. Badass. Walks with duck feet and two shoulders swinging wild. His dad knows a hundred guys from across the globe. He's got the money. Knows all there is to know about cars. Knows all there is to know about knocking girls up and laying them down. For every situation there's an appropriate story. Meant to impress the audience. Stories of falling onto concrete and surviving. Stories of the autobahn. Stories of pumping iron while drunk. Stories of pool tournaments. Rubber walls of the balloon get thinner with each passing year. Everybody too afraid to see what happens when the bubble bursts. Everybody goes along.

School daze. Just need that sweet honeysuckle elixir to make it through the day. After a while, the jitters set in. After a while it shrinks the dink. Or so they say. Sugar-caffeine metabolism. With enough time it's inescapable. That happy place seems near. Public announcement system kicks in. Because of the shameful attitude of the student body at yesterday's assembly, there will be no such activity for quite some time. Such a downer. Too bad. Too bad the student body isn't here to be entertained. The student body is here so they don't flood the job market. So they can leech of their parents' money supply and create a new target audience for corporate donkey crap.

End of the day. Feels like escape is the only option. Drive the car until it runs out of gas. Run the car over a cliff. Walk off into sunset. Live the life of a thief. Of a pauper. Of a homeless person. Of an aborigine. Any life but this. With no beginning. With no ending. But fuck escape because there's a shitload more cigs to be smoked, music to be bought, and tv to watch. Fuck escape because there's nothing to escape to. Nothing's there but this. Instead. Turn the music up a bit louder. Push the needle up a bit higher. Recklessness.

Friday nights. Robots are gone somewhere. Eating out. Living it up. Pretending that they belong to a different class. Drinking cheap wine. Enjoying their meal at Red Lobster. Robots are gone somewhere. Sitting in the movie theater. Watching Pearl Harbor. Wishing they could be at the drive-in. Watching Grease. Making that obnoxious first date last forever. Robots are gone somewhere. Rekindling the old flame. Trying out the different techniques they read about in Cosmopolitan that they bought at the grocery store earlier in the week. Paying the price for some cheap motel. Performing for the hidden cameras that will sell them back to patrons with plenty of money but no partner. Their escape.

Depression sets in early. For two days of seven, tomorrow is not a concern. No reason to put up any fronts. How long can the night last. As long as it takes. As long as it takes to fall into that sacred silence. As long as it takes to down all the brewskies. As long as it takes to pass out. A favor amongst buddies. Turn the head sideways. Don't feel like choking on vomit. When the eyelids obstruct the swirl of acrid smoke filling the room. When death comes and the gray haze sticks to clothing. Another attempt to escape this faulty machine. Step onto the linoleum floor. Ready to hug the porcelain deity. Ready to make an offering. Cut the wrists and make a sacrifice. Spew the innards. Close enough for now.

004

Rebirth. Not even death lasts forever. Time to rise up again and face the consequences. Never a moment's rest. The messiah was a zombie. Corpses still have to visit Peter and his pearly gates. Waiting for the big red cattle brand. Rejected. Inescapable. Saturday. Sleep is the closest thing to peace. Gone. Go away. Sleep is needed. Can't be deprived of it any longer. Go away. Back to sleep in this comfortable, warm nest. Smelling like sweat and semen and sweet dreams.

Saturday is all about the breakdown of illusions. Letting it all go. No shaving. Let the stubble grow. Face turns into a rough, irritating sand paper. Savor unrestricted binge eating. Scratch at pimples. Pick at scabs. Ponder over moles. Itch oneself. No need to put on a special odor today.

TV days. Fritos. Cheetos. Cookie crumbs collect in the navel which bulges through the greasy T-shirt. Have to fish them out with a finger probe. Remove and smell. Wonderful smell. Dig in to a bag of flavored perservatives with offending digit. Regular meals replaced by continuous orgy of snacking. Have to go to work soon. Prolechariot could use some gasoline. Outrageous price at buck seventy-five. Course, there's a three twenty five discount because of dead barbarians lying in oil fields. persuaded by carpet bombing. Time ticks by. Don't even bother to shower. Don't need to prime for a life inside a chum bucket. Don the uniform. Don the wage slave employee smile.

Pinioned hands and eyes peeled on the clock. Must be a big event today. Big tin can comes roaring in. Twinkie awkwardly parks in the lot. Jocks from some other podunk come in. Letter jackets of a different shade. Stand in line. Jostle. Scornfully talk of this town and all its facilities. Bulldog butcher gym teacher. Ex-marines corpse. Owns one wardrobe. One XXL football T-shirt. One pair gym shorts. Carrying clipboard at his side. Tigers. Red Skins. Cardinals. Lions. Panthers. Fighting Midgets. Grizzlies. Whatever.

Deliberately trying to confuse and bewilder. Can hardly keep orders straight amongst themselves. Set up paper sheets on trays and hand out packages of food. Little cubes of condiments. One dollar tip from the coach. Gee thanks a fucking lot. Close shop without performing half of the required cleaning duties. 11 o' clock. Don't even bother to go home and change out of work clothes. Call robots from payphone in the lobby. Won't be coming home tonight. Sleeping over at a friend's house. Or something to that effect. Cruise over narrow pothole-ridden roads in the darkest depths of downtown. Stray dogs and cats constantly stray into the path of the vehicle. Dilapidated apartment complex. Door opens and the small party's winding down. Not too late to revitalize.

By now, the situation has been pared down. A raucous sea of people lost amongst themselves is now a circle of friends. Appreciative of each other's expanded super consciousness. Or mental discombobulation. When the end of the experiment is reached, words melt. Lose their shape and shades of meaning are long shadows fading. Becoming one with dusk. The riff-raff's gone, and a veteran of the scene decides it's time to preach a word to the truly faithful. Picks up a bottle and reclines on the dirty sofa. Sofa ripped apart by playful kittens who don't know any better.

Every ideal town should have that precipice where you can break through the mesh wire gate with a sign that says DO NOT ENTER and park your car. The kind at the very edge of civilization where you can look out and see the morning glory, knowing full well that last night you took a girl out here and fucked her in the back seat of the car. And you both watched the stars lying on the cold metal hood. And if she ever dumped you, well then, at least you've got a point to jump off from. And maybe you could tell someone here what it's like when you reach the other side. If there is one. Well, towns now-a-days, if they ever have that place that's where the radio station and the TV station go. Better reception, you see. Then there's some whacked out hermit who takes the stars too seriously, and he wants to be up there too. Thinks he can own the stars and name the stars. Not good enough that they're just candles in the sky that could be snuffed out at any moment by some cloud.

Hippie. Beatnik. Out of place. Voice bottoms out as it is forced to compete with a group playing twister in the next room. Must've been taking too many downers tonight. People have been slowly trickling into that room. Jam-packed. Sweaty bodies excreting alcohol on the wall. Dead skin cells rub off and form a film of grime. Pink Floyd. Bob Marley. Strange tunes beat from throbbing speakers.

Reveling in the sweat and the debauchery. Right when everyone's reaching for a bong or a cig or a bottle of alcohol. Breathing fumes and fire and giving each other cigarette burns. Splashing some fancy drinks on our tattered T-shirts. There's a crash as an ash floor falls to the floor and shatters and no one cares. That's when the matrix camera work kicks in and everything swirls around 360° one, two, three times. Just like a person sometimes feels like their mind is outpacing their body and everything turns into a tunnel of light. Meanwhile there's that guy in the corner burning his socks with his cigarette lighter and getting drunk on wine coolers and wondering when the last time the battery in the smoke detector was changed. What he never understands is that before we all pass out, we pray to our nonexistent god for a metamorphosis. An epiphany. To make this debauchery an orgasm. To make this orgasm a revolution.

005

Just past midnight now. Decide to take a respite from drinking to scour the streets. No one's particularly sure why. Inner circle piles up into rusty dark blue van. All windows open to accommodate cigarettes. Hands hang out and hug the steel sides. Cool night air. Sticking head out the window. Screaming into the night. Announcing to the world. Feeling infinite. Wheels slow as a turn is made. Pulling into destitute parking lot of some run down grocery store. Still open. Must have to compete with those new types of K-Marts and Wal*Marts and Targets. Shopping carts and plastic bags litter the place like tumbleweeds. Miniature ghost town.

Run shopping carts into shrubbery. Just like in Jackass. Dirt on tattered jeans and aching shins. Doors open up and the cart boy comes out into the night to round up the carts. No one feels like hassling him. Decide to head inside.

Lobby. Elevator music. Black carpets and sliding doors. Mark downs painted in the dusty windows. Bulletin board no on pays attention to. Have you seen this child? Lawnmower for sale! Tenth annual nut-jingle jamboree is sponsored by. Staring at rows and rows of red metal mouths suspended on racks. Bulbous clear heads, containing plastic air bubbles full of delight. Slot for a quarter. Turn crank. Out comes the prize. Random prize. One in a million prize. Unique in each and every way as much as mass production will allow. Every once in a while, reverie is interrupted by creaking carts being pushed in from kart korral. Zombie leans over his load. Strains with effort, trying to jostle carts into place. One pulls out a hot pink tiger stripe slap bracelet. Wouldn't believe how many synthetic animals were killed in order to make that. Or azure blue cheetah spots slap bracelet. Or army camouflage slap bracelet. One opts for glow in the dark shimmer sticker with little green man alien head. Fool. Slap bracelets are the quality shit. A lot of fun can be had with sticky hands, but they don't last long. Milk run to go get dollar made into quarter. Electric hum of refrigeration devices. Keeping all those pizzas, cakes, meats, ice creams, beverages cold. Stupid old hag cashier said need to buy something. Too risky to ask for cigs. Bought some gum. Forked over a grimy, crinkled dollar bill with a corner missing and notes in the margin. Phone numbers, names, dates, bets. Holds it up to the light to make sure it's not a fake or something. Stupid bitch. Got change and rushed back out through sliding doors. Pumped in a quarter and got shiny red one. Fashionable. Slap that fucker on. Before we walk out, start to feel dizzy again. Head to the bathroom and vomit. Huge spool of toilet paper shackled to the stall. Facilities haven't been cleaned since 1976.

Wake up on the sofa. Draped in a ratty old afghan. TV tuned into morning infomercials. Should be in church right now. Should be listening to the holy gospel. The holy admonishments of the almighty lord being cast down upon all his subjects. Dusty organ. Hard wooden benches. Stained glass windows. Sacrosanct money basket being passed around. Singing hymns from The Holy Bible. Amen. Praise the Lord. Hallelujah! Should be kneeling with the robots in Sunday's best clothes. Feeling guilt. Shaking hands with brothers and sisters. Taking communion. Wafer. Part of the Lord's body. Tasty. Dear God how about an expensive car? A bigger dick? A better stereo system? Walk out and shake hands with an old man in black robes. Thank you for attending. Saved. Sanctified for another week.

8:00 am. Get up. Get up get up get up get up. Brush off yesterday's clothes. Last night's most sincere companions. This mornings most obscure strangers. Lounging. Snoring. Embracing one another ignorantly. Marionettes. Puppet master put down the strings to go take a five minute cigarette smoke, as mandated by his union. Intelligent conversations doused with the higher life. Emotional tirades choked on smoke. Strange notches and scratches on doors and walls from one of last nights escapades. Must've been wild. Don't say good bye to anyone. There will always be next weekend. Drive home. Change clothes. Dump old garments into an overflowing hamper. Damn robot too busy at waitressing job to come home and do its domestic chores.

Eating stale cardboard Cheerios in rancid milk with sugar when the robots role in from church. Creaking machine language. Beep beep boop. Blah blah blah. Is it possible that garbled telepathic messages are unwittingly transmitted from one mind to another? Maybe it's just pheromones. Maybe it's just the morning after syndrome. Maybe it's just paranoia. All the while. Nodding. Acknowledging the dominant authority. Repent. Apologetic posture. Head held low. Hiding bloodshot eyes. Go upstairs. Finish homework. Or just think. Or whatever. Damn Sundays. Nothing ever happens. Behind bathroom mirror lies abundant assortment of blood thinners great and small. For high blood pressure. For arthritis. For headaches.

006

Somewhere between TV and computer tried to do homework. Got knocked out. Wake up. Bad taste permeates the mouth. Arm paralyzed by lack of circulation. Flopping around limp. Cramp in the back of neck. TV says hello once again. Hello TV. Ought to stop watching. Slap homework together and throw it into backpack. Straps fraying. Zipper broken. Notebooks filled with doodles and etches. Small notes to self. Dreams and to-do's never fulfilled. Spiral metal forming jagged points on the ends. Text books with rounded corners. Loose bindings. Torn pages taped together. Additional artwork provided for each and every illustration. Flatulence. Nice big cock. Dialogue. Twenty plus years of abuse. Book cover nothing but shreds of grocery bag hanging on for dear life. Woke up too late. Can't even follow the damn routine.

In spite of all this, Monday mornings are zen. Everything is a great hilarity. All faces fascinating. Painfully wide awake with tension. Everything is bright even if someone gets hostile. Proper response is to get zen right in their fucking face. A derisive comment met with a senile grin. Lips speaking no words. Soul demanding no attention. Must've actually gotten enough sleep for once.

Cappuccino foraging party. Closed campus but no one cares. Dancing around early in the morning. Waiting for his ride. Ants in the pants. Jingling the key ring with all its strange decorations. Needs his gas station fix. Needs his biscuits.

Math. Teacher passes out a surprise quiz. Students groan. Brain fart. Not that this shit was easy to understand in the first place. Every answer is blank and daunting. Slowly squeeze and wrench minimal information from brain. Afterwards, teacher pretends to be nice guy. This will be curved for all the classes. Curves. The double-edged sword. If this was an unpleasant surprise. If the students don't want to lower their own grades, they shouldn't tell succeeding hours about the quiz. Breaking down the illicit connections that bind students together. Pushing competition on one another. Fighting for class rank. GPA. Credits. ACT scores. SAT scores.

Friday's blunders temporarily put on hold. But they do not hang up. They stay on the line. Press 1 to raise hell. Press 2 to fester like an sore. Press 3 to explode like a toxic raunchy blast of diarreah.

It took 17 years, but the fat, jolly man is long gone. The community hike has been reinvented and chocolate tastes much better. Skinny, anorexic marionette. Can practically see the puppet strings. Mind is a vacant parking lot. Noggin computer incapable of multitasking. Can't talk and think. Can't hold common sense and book smarts simultaneously. Has to get others to carry her stuff while she walks in the hall. Forensics. Gymnastics. Future Business Leaders of America. National Honors Society. Volleyball. Basketball. Honors Band. Choir. Fellowship of Christian Athletes. Clinging to and cherishing her last years in the girl scouts, no doubt. Can hardly find time to catch a single breath. To live. To eat. To sleep. Hyped up on diet pills. Copied down text books into her mind. Intelligent in that 25 milligram prescription from culture way. Has her pick of ivy league colleges. No reason to doubt her dedication. Orthodoxy. Want to be the elite, just like her. Thinks she's better than the rest. Narcissism. Two can play at that game.

Want to grow up to be a marine biologist or a fireman. Taking up the cause for all the wrong reasons. Constantly looking over her shoulder. Until someone better comes along, it's time to enlighten the ignorant. Self-deprivation leads to self-righteousness. Yes, this is the philosophy from the east that's catching on in the west. Haven't heard of it? Well, some of us are more open-minded. Taoism. Daoism. Buddhism. Yoga. Tae Bo. Communism. Bushido. Tree-hugger-ism. Veganism. Hmm. This looks exotic enough. Time to pry open the third eye. Fundamental Christianity. The Holy Trinity. One. The father. Wink. Two. The Son. Nudge. Three. The Holy Spirit. Chuckle. See? It's all connected! We're all connected! Feel the singularity of our purpose? See? We can be good little children if we really want to. Knot for the girls. Knife for the boys. Ask to twist a bit more. Cut a bit deeper. With every orgasm.

Scene. Fine young athletic man approaches. Fresh from pumping iron. Swagger. Arms bent at the elbows. Big knots and wads shit and move like mice scurrying underneath tanned skin. Bearing the colors. The type that sit down and invade the bubble and nudge and squeeze on in and it's no big deal. Grabs chips from open bags and backwashes sodas that haven't gone flat. She piles up her books. Gets up. They hug. They walk off. Hands stretched around the other's hip. Smirk on the faces of the two doves. Awwwww.

Once she's gone, someone pipes up. Hard to believe that those two skeletons were fucking. Iliac crests stick out an inch from the flesh. Bump and grind. And when they're done they're bruised on their left and right side. Or so one would imagine. Is there really enough meat to slap around between the two. And how much coal does it take before their fires stoked? Gee, didn't she just dump someone not too long ago. The flirtation between the new experiment had probably been transpiring for quite somtime. Really?

So now, everything that has previously been said about zen can be ommitted. Zen has been fucked over and raped by the daily grind. Tossed out onto the side of the road with all the other worthless junk. Looked at the product through plastic for a while. Never understood what was inside. Never tried to open the package. Found it to be expendable. All things are expendable. A rocket needs its primary boosters to get into outer space. But once its beyond Earth's pull, they can be jettisoned. Discarded.

Bizarre substitute teacher from who-knows-where. Crazy liquid eyes all bright and shiny. Feebly asserting dominance in that passive aggressive let's be chums manner. Southern twangy voice. Quiet down. Use indoor voices. Stay on task. Let's focus, guys. Can someone help me with the attendance? What's supposed to be accomplished today? Are these papers usually collected at the end of the hour? Large gaudy earings dance on bulbous lobes of beat read auricles. Thick pudgy ring finger squeezing through a tarnished gold wedding band. Strange people come out of the woodworks when the teacher needs to go somewhere special. The tall lanky priest with a crucifix lodged in his colon. Serving as his spine. Despot for a day. Bearded ex-FBI agent. Telling stories. Sitting back. Drinking his coffee. Reading his Tom Clancy novel. Mid-life crisis someone-or-other constantly inquiring if the class needs assistance. Refuting the ability of teenagers to work independently. The veteran brought out of retirement and into the fray. Quietly disapproving of the new teacher's handouts and policies.

Work is slow. Paycheck never seems to come soon enough. Wallet seems thin in pocket. No coins for a random prank call from the pay phone. Just mopping the floor. Looking at reflection of face with that stupid logo stamped on the forehead. Picking up punctured ketchup packets off of crumb-filled tables. No one but some fat 30-year-old hag to talk to. Stout with limp breasts and sanguine face. Ratty brown hair collected in a poney tail. Leaning on door frame, gazing into the alley. Supposed to be collapsing boxes and putting them in the dumpster. Puffing on cigarettes. Enough vile substance to choke any sort of large animal. Such a nicotine sucker. Cough cough. Hack hack. Emphysema. Bronchial tubes filled with soot and ash and tar. Don't even bother to ask for one. No fun. No fun at all. Not for a while. Damn the man.

007

Wake up in time. Primed and ready to die. Brief respite to Winter. Sweltering heat wave. Brown grass flattened and clumped. Mud puddles. Rash of summer fashion. Chicken legs exposed. Capris. Short shorts. Shorts down to the knees. Oranges and yellows and Hawaiin patterns. Petty visions of the end of school. Stars in eyes and springs in steps. No more pencils, no more books, no more teacher's dirty looks.

The sky is falling. Chicken little runs around trying to save the delicate social structure. So fragile, it just may collapse at any moment. And the meek just might inherit the Earth. Steward. Always asking in each ring. Has anyone seen the king? Structure so stable. Needs no king. Needs no steward. Everyone laughs and pretends to be nice and says fuck off. Course, there are a few sympathizers. Failed stewards of the past. Some get smart and give up. Some don't know any better. Bugged their whole life. Black eyes and blunders that could send them over the precarious edge of the world at any moment. Deep down locked up backwards and upside-down and inside-out there is some pity to be felt.

Grade fiend inquiry. So what was on the quiz? How many problems were there? What was the question? What was the answer? Takes out a small battered scrap of paper and spills ink on it as carefully as he can. Busts out graphing calculator and slowly painfully types notes into memory. Devised program to fake memory deletion screen. Information soon diseminates to him and his buddies. Constant insecurity. Says he'll do bad on each and every test. Jumps the curve everytime. What a pleasant surprise. The higher the class rank, the higher the stakes. One little slip up boy and you'll just never know where you'll end up.

Friends and facsimiles thereof.

Too early for this, but the atmosphere encourages a strange humour.

Sugary gelatin fruit candies that have ceased trying to imitate fruit with artifical flavors and colors because apparently no one gives a fuck.

Seen her before. Never seen her like this. Something in the eyes that demands attention today. Something in the smile. Something in the everything that we look for in this superficial world. Hair. Eyes. Mouth. Shotgun shell in the stomach. Struck with the faulty arrow of the blind fool. The fuck-up. Eros. White blossom in the head. Heart melts right there and then. Cocoons in the stomach unwind. Caterpillars have been eating away the insides for so long. Butterflies flutter around inside.

Hits right then and there. Irony. Thought about this last night. Made a promise to self. Was sure this couldn't be handled. Such a fool to think that running was an option. Such a fool to even think that puzzle pieces would fit together. Might have known her in the past. Can't remember. Even so, feels like she's a stranger. Construction process inside. Constructing a saint from an unbefitting model. A saint who will demand a suitor befitting of her own splendor. A saint who will deride every mistake. Will jeer at every misstep. Will reject. Will undermine the house of cards that is self confidence. Seen this happen before. Iron man turns to mush. Lift useless chunks of metal around. Succumb to cream-white flesh. Crisis. Crush.

Unhealthy preoccupation. Step by step program to make presence known to someone. Subtlety becomes an art form. Stalker. Looking for scraps of information just to take one step closer to the inner circle. Bum sifting through trash cans. Too afraid to ask for a piece of rotten fruit. Ears prick up when she's around. Heart picks up when she's around. Seems like she comes out of nowhere and there's a small jolt. Wonder if a tiny jump can be seen on the outside. Treading down that path again. Know the final destination. No power to change the course. Ride the straight and narrow. Meager sailors are we now.

Crickets. Frogs. The still night. Whirling fan. Tossing and turning. Sheets lubricated with sweat. Heat-induced insanity. Thoughts of her. Foolish. Damnit damnit damnit. Examining various scenarios of ease and dialogue on nice summer days. Shut up shut up shut up. Puts all inadequate characteristics in perspective. Worth measured by someone else's fictional standards. Nothing to drown this out. Nothing. Force pillow into face to try and stop it. Can't.

008

English. Extended literary analysis. Dingy collection of bookshelves, filled with boring nonfiction books that no one's touched in several years. Librarian stocks the place with nothing but means for research projects. No stimulating literature. Damn librarian. Hardly any checkouts anymore. Hardly any visitors. Tattered library card is somewhere. Damn librarian. Has to know what everyone's doing all the time. Constantly asking for a pass, or some sort of explanation. Glaring through those thick square glasses. Demanding all sorts of paper slips with that meek voice. Typing away on the keyboard with arthritic hands.

Prom is coming up. Faster faster faster. Popularity contest. Who's on court this year. Check the town newspaper to see the results. Mere gossip sheets. Rusty tractors, malfunctioning lawnmowers, children's bikes made in Taiwan for sale. The elite sport prom court 2002 sashes soon enough. Organizers run around in a huff. Look at them wrong and they'll sprout incomprehensible words and shuffle off to hang black sheets of paper with silver streaks. Silohuette of a couple embracing each other. Assembling a gondola. Arranging for a disk jockey. Unpacking boxes of picture frames. Purchasing $20 metal admission tickets. Arranging for a limosine. Browsing through Stump's magazine. Fitting dresses. Ordering dresses. Sending dresses back. Biting fingernails covered with flaking paint. Black tuxedos with canes and tophats. Button cufflinks and pull out pocket watch. Proletariat pretends to be the Bourgeoisie for a night. Who's flying solo? Who's taking who? Where are they going for supper? Leave it to the lower classmen to clean up the mess.

This shouldn't even be an issue. This isn't one of those teen movies. There is no pretty geek to be spruced up and become the modern Cinderella. Pumpkins all wilting in a patch of bramble by midnight. Hooray for modern fairy tales. So delightful. Foundations of childhood nightmares. Thoughts of calling her. Wishing that parasite would get off the fucking telephone for once. Maybe she's been trying to call all this time. Busy signal. Busy signal. This is hopeless. This is a faulty objective. Insomnia returns with a vengeance. Last night seems to han on like a tattered garment, reeking of dysentary.

009

Special presentation. Cover band made of students from adjacent school district come to entertain. Routine of pop music and other such nonsense. Wearing silver vests and red bowler hats. Singing ballads about teen love. O sweet teen love. Shut up. Brought along ear plugs. Squishing and squeezing them in pocket. Take them out when lights turned out. Try to stuff them in those waxy holes but they fall out. Try to clamp hands over ears. Try to close eyes and fall asleep. The sound won't be filtered out. Someone from behind is being a tease. Blowing on neck. Tapping on shoulder. Resting shoes on back of chair. Wish there was a lit cigarette between dry lips. One of thsoe strange folk upon stage tries to connect with the audience. A guy gets on hisknees hold the prospective victim's hand, and croons. A gal sits on the lap of some burly fellow. Thoughts of grabbing one of them as they run past, looking desperately for someone to play the part. Grabbing them and shaking them and screaming nonsense at them. What the hell is wrong with you? Later on they do awful renditions of Linkin Park and Incubus. How riské. Must want to satisfy the hardcore elements in the crowd tonight.

010

After school lets out, decide to cruise downtown. Going to watch some lousy local band play. Take a pit stop at the movie theatre to see who's working the counter, but it nobody's there. Just stare at the intersection for a while. Watch a small girl cross the street on her scooter with green tassles. She looks all innocent with that ponytail of hers and that Pokémon shirt. In a haggard voice, her mother calls her from the porch of some house. She slowly heads back, and is being rebuked by some banshee when the car door shuts.

Pull in at the poor excuse of a town mall. Ascend narrow flight of stairs. Knock on door and enter the residence. Dim lighting. Crucifixes. Portraits of Aryan Jesus. Bleeding hearts engulfed by wild flame. Rosaries. Knock off of The Last Supper. The Resurrection. All that good stuff lines the place. Rabbits sniffle and sit hunched up in their stacked cages. Utter some greeting to anemic couple who just stare for a second then return attention to the television. Walk through a few doors.

The loft is cold. A few lawn chairs around a mass of chords and amplifiers. Guitars with missing strings ar epropped up against the walls. Old wooden boards underfoot with nails sticking up and out of them. A drumset sits on an island of linoleum flooring with taupe and lime green checkerboard squares. Ceiling looks to be plywood. Discolored and warped by a leak in the roof. Eroded and shattered in certain places. Rotten ceiling beams exposed. Monolithic storage shells filled with paint buckets and statuettes from the nativity scene. Pellet guns and dull axes and boxes of vinyl siding and hullahoops of all colors. A small bulb overhead throbs with light. Thick dusty shades cover windows clogged up by brick and mortar. A few people sit huddled around. That wild-eyed kid is on guitar. That kid with heavy-lidded eyes is on drums. Some skinny, wirey kid with thick curly hair and glasses is on guitar. Vocalist is big and imposing. Swaying and dancing in his own fashion. Tugging on the mike chord and wrapping it around himself. Feeling the black rubber on his skin. Lashing out with it. Spitting into a bulb of metal grating and holding it so close he can smell the saliva.

They start up soon enough. Mix of Primer 55 and Hatebreed. Just what the world needs more of. Jockcore. Hands tremble in a flurry of repetitions. Picking at metal strings. Filtered through distortion pedals. Songs are all of one minute long. Most of it is disjointed and sloppy. For a moment or two they all get excited and start thrashing and wailing. Wild-eyed guitarist climbs up on the drumb set. Shrieks and schools from feedback. After a while they give it up and everyone steps out to take a break. Head through white-washed doors out onto a balcony. Nice view of the smoke stacks and rooftops from here. Almost like an airplane passenger's view of the urban canopy, only too up close and personal. People don't look like ants quite yet. Look down at all the cars in the alley. Bum a marijuana joint off the kid with the thick-rimmed black glasses. The big bad vocalist talks with one of his big bad buddies about side projects, doling out instruments to bystanders. The wild-eyed guitarist scampers off the balcony and down a metal ladder. The group makes sport of spitting upon him as he sneaks past, only to magically reapper moments later through the door. Ta-da. Spider-Man does what no other can. The drummer just sits rocking back and forth, saying nothing much. Pulls his hood up over his head and cradles himself. Puts nothing to his lips. Something altogether sinister about people who don't wear their intents and purposes on their sleaves. They're usually hiding something.

Step back inside and the vaudeville act starts up again after the key players shuffle around a bit. Not enough monetary resources and talents to go around, so all bands in the town are just reconfigurations of each other. These marionettes will probably stay up into the night practising their phantasmagoric ritual. Floor punching and head banging and acting like guerillas. Thinking that this is some sort of insane therapy for all their problems. Catharsis. Concerns about how they fit into the masculine identity. Step out and shut the door. Walk past the old folks. Down the stairs. Back to the car.

011

Today must be her birthday. A damn fine day to be born. In the summer. Morning is calm, noon is blazing hot, night is wild. Wish there was something that could be said. Called to the office at noon. Rushes back holding a bundle of silver and red and yellow balloons. Dainty card with flourishes and corny message dangling at the bottom of a string. Relationships in the institution are competitious. Who's whipped who. Who can hold and grope each other. Joined at the hip. Such a boost of confidence. Puts a spring in the step. Spawns the belief that everyone should bow down and kiss the lovers' asses. Never knew she had a boyfriend. Shares her excitement with jealous competitors wearing masks of curiosity. All dying hopes now crushed. Smothered. Nothing left to do but kick the corpse around for a little while. Throw salt in the wounds to perserve the meat.

Wilderness now just islands of scrub brush between roads, perforated by telephone poles and electrical towers. Summer heat turns into summer drizzle. Fans are turned off. Windows closed. Clothes taken off the lines. Mowers leave their task unfinished. Evacuate the swimming pool. Pitter patter on the roof.

Clock in as a member of the team. Serving to better the community by throwing cards into the deck of mismanaged labor. Serving to better the community by working for an international corporation based in who-the-fuck-knows-where. Most likely the highest bidder. The place so fearful of losing the influx of cash that they're