Tag Archives: freestyle

Money Jungle

✌🏼Peace✌️ ❤️Love❤️ 🤘🏾Death Metal🤘🏿

Speaking in Tongues

Ho! Pigs! (Ho!) Me! (Ho!) Ego! (Ho!) Mustache! (Ho!) Turbocharged! (Ho!) A word that means sex! (Ho!) 

Dunananat-nat-nannanananananananana! Woosh!

(toots scoop!)

✌🏿❤️🤘🏽✌🏼 ❤️ 🤘

So Easy

It would be easy. With this stuff here. I hit it like ⏩ Papp! Papp! Papp! ⏪ I make you unnerstand. CUZ I’M DEVLISH when it comes to dat! I wear the horns in this here relationship!

✌🏿❤️🤘🏽✌🏼 ❤️ 🤘

Flames Go Higher

The FLAMES are rolling down Santa Monica Boulevard. Pink scarves trail over their shoulders, leather chaps frame their denim clad buttocks. It’s an army, all with cowcatcher mustaches. The light turns green and it’s time to GO! They’ve got soul, and they show it by coordinating pounds – fisting pounds – as they ride. One potato, two potato. They peel into Hollywood, ripping the pavement as they go HIGHER!

✌🏿❤️🤘🏽✌🏼 ❤️ 🤘

Bad Dream Momma

“I got off with her in, like, 3 minutes. I mean, she was that hot. So, I blow out like … ‘Money? Say huh?’ … And I run downstairs straight into the Den Mother, the madame, the old crow. ‘She loved your monkey! Now pony up!’ I cold-cocked her with my pimp stick and said, ‘When you wake up, it’ll just be a bad dream, momma!’

✌🏿❤️🤘🏽✌🏼 ❤️ 🤘

English Girl

The last picture I have of my parole officer is this: he’s lying in the grass next to the Tower of Pisa in Italy. The tower is leaning. He is lying in the grass with the Tower over his shoulder. His pants are down and his cock is out and stiff. He looks like he’s comparing the arc of his shaft to the lean of the building, as if using it to measure the curvature by some geometrical theorem. Or maybe he’s saying he has the Tower of cocks. In the picture it is late, dusk, and I assume the tourists are gone. The real story is in who took the pic: the parole officer met some ENGLISH GIRL who, apparently, turned him on to things he had never heard of in his 27 years on the job.

There’s a message on the back of the pic:  🍆Keep Up the Good Work!🍆

✌🏿❤️🤘🏽✌🏼 ❤️ 🤘

Stacks O’ Money

🎶One here, one there. Slip this bill in your G-string, lower that drawbridge. I’ve got mountains of honey, sugar.🎶

🎶I bought the magic beans, gave them to my girl. She planted the boogie tree and the fruit grew. Then she gave it all to you-know-who.🎶

✌🏿❤️🤘🏽✌🏼 ❤️ 🤘

Midnight Creeper

J. Weatherbee was armed with a can opener. He jimmied the lock on the back door and entered the kitchen. The remnants of house party food were cooling on the counter. He reached for a spatula caked in cherry filling. Laughter seeped in from under the door. J. Weatherbee snatched and ran. Through the door, out the back gate and into the woods.

His behavior had earned him the name MIDNIGHT CREEPER. No party was safe. He could throw his own party with everything he had stolen. A full kitchenette squirreled away, hidden in Jack McCormack’s back woods.

✌🏿❤️🤘🏽✌🏼 ❤️ 🤘

Already Died

She ALREADY DIED, so when Mark called to say it was over, that they should just be friends, Kim could acquiesce. This was because she was a ghost now. Kim’s body was in bed and the spirit was in the kitchen, but its arm reached through the wall to the phone in the dining room and the other arm stretched across town to Mark’s house where she could message his throat with her cold, translucent hand.

✌🏿❤️🤘🏽✌🏼 ❤️ 🤘

Kiss the Devil

Host: “Ok, everyone, it’s time to play … KISS THE DEVIL! Archangel Gabriel is our first contestant. Welcome, Arch!”

Archangel: “I will not kiss the dark one.”

Host: “Well, you’ll sure be tough to beat now. Folks, meet our next contestant: Ozzy Osbourne!”

Ozzy: “Uh … uhh … Sharon!”

Host: “She’ll be along soon. Our final contestant, a bow-tied neo-conservative from Bob Jones University, is Douglas Christie!”

DC: “Yes, hello. I’m game as long as the devil isn’t a Black man.”

Host: “Yikes! Was this skit terrible from the start?”

All three contestants: “Yes!”

✌🏿❤️🤘🏽✌🏼 ❤️ 🤘

San Berdoo Sunburn

I’m in a body cast due to an unfortunate bank safe accident in South Carolina. With my one good finger I point at things and tap to the songs on the radio. But why would I ever feel sore? After all, I’m going cross-country with my girl, Courtney. She’s driving, and I’m pointing and tapping. She can be a pain in the ass, but I love her. In fact, that’s her name, Love, but she’ll be changing that soon. I plan to propose. I just need to get out of this body cast and get to LA, where my pale skin will probably burn up in a heartbeat.

✌🏿❤️🤘🏽✌🏼 ❤️ 🤘

Wastin’ My Time

List:  Reading, watching TV, jacking off, computer, food, junk food, drinking, sleeping, moaning, weeping, trying on clothes, thank you notes, writing in low light, counting money, calling accountants, praying, braying, loving, leaving

✌🏿❤️🤘🏽✌🏼 ❤️ 🤘

Miss Alissa

She was a friend of a friend, and we were never properly introduced, and she had a thing for McCormack and people said she drank too much (What fun!) and I tried to get her attention telepathically when she was nearby, Health class in high school, where my only contribution to the classroom discussion was reading condom directions incorrectly, and I considered dropping my history class to get into hers but then realized I was stalking too close with my voodoo dance.

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Money Jungle

Corpse Ash Dance

            It’s time to hold both hands to your face and think of the worst things you did today.  Did you lie to a coworker with your feigned interest?  Did you rape somebody?  Was your bill unpaid?  Think of these things with closed eyes and hands flatly praying.  Lay hands and bless your head.  Pressure will boil the sludge in you.  It tickles your throat and wants to come back up.  Remove your hands and regurgitate the hours.  Live another day and repeat.

            I charge my captors with the theft of my precious minutes of my youth.  You had the wrong man.  I was a nice person when I met you – you, a promising and attractive jailer.  People warned me.  And I said, “Yeah, yeah.  I’ll sign here, there and everywhere.”

            But ah, ho hum, we move to a new present, new presents, new president.  And we build Babylon onwards and upwards to reach the god we made to love us.  And if we find the wrong god, we’ll still believe and climb higher.  The one we made up has to be up there somewhere.

            Stab City, HELL – Dateline Infinity – Two youths, 13 and 13, dialed pi into a rotary telephone naked while a surrealist painted the scene with one hand while the other was embarrassed, caught red handed by a cop in a bunny suit on Quaaludes bought from Rush Limburger in the back of a new drug store that only sells non-salt margarine made in Belize by teatless young milkmaids who dial for pies delivered from a Rotary Club.  The police had no comment.

            A filthy confession:  This all means something, as the sections inform each other and enlighten to my general disposition.  I want to say things that make sense, but since nothing does, I say things that don’t, to speak truth.  It’s my job.

            This is a story about a man who was murdered, the woman who killed him, the family that covered it up, the man who loved her anyway, the town that couldn’t wait to forget it all and the man who wouldn’t let them.  The end.

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Trash Talk

Birth of Sasquatch

… Like in a movie, the writer types and concentrates hard and then he rrriiiipsss the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and sets the last page down on a stack of paper that is at least one whole ream and that’s when the writer’s editor calls him on the phone and the writer says “yeah, yeah, I have it now, I’ve just finished, I’m taking it down to UPS and overnighting it to you, it will be there tomorrow morning, on your desk, bright and early” and as the writer sets the manuscript down on the passenger seat of his 2004 Subaru and fast-draws his seatbelt across his precious body he feels a sense of accomplishment and then pulls away from his log cabin and goes down the winding drive to the main road. Suddenly, an eight-foot-tall Sasquatch steps in front of the car and the car’s bumper taps the Sasquatch’s shins and it gets rageful and punches a hole through the engine block of the Subaru with one paw and punches a hole through the chest of the writer with the other. The Sasquatch takes the manuscript because he has heard that after humans take shits they like to wipe their asses with expensive paper and the Sasquatch thinks if its good enough for the humans …

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… Or it’s like when you watch a movie about a journalist breaking the big story but she lives in a small city and her editor thinks she’s an asshole because she never gets her work in on time but when she does it wins all the Pulitzers so why the editor is pissed is a mystery, maybe he has hemorrhoids and needs to use baby wipes when he shits, but anyway …

The journalist lives in a rustic/modernist loft above the city that she writes about, the beat she covers, the stories that are under her purview, and the journalist is sitting at a sleek writing table in front of industrial-strength windows and there is a purple, floofy couch behind her with looseleaf papers and news papers and an iPad strewn all over it and the journalist is listening to an audio recording, transcribing a quote and playing back the audio to see if it matches what the source said, and she types and types and then there is a call from the editor that the journalist lets go to voicemail because he’ll understand once he sees the fucking story, the important thing is to get it all down on paper even though nobody uses paper anymore (eww paper) …

She takes a shit and uses her bidet and as she does, checks her phone. There is a message from the editor saying “this better be worth it” and she thinks you betcha boss man it will be, just give me a sec and as she’s about to leave her bathroom and rush back to her desk and click SEND, there is a knock at the door and she doesn’t want to answer it but maybe it’s the super coming to fix her kitchen sink so she says “hold on a sec” and then the doorbell rings again …

She opens the door and before her stands a Sasquatch wearing coveralls with his name, Maurice, stitched in cursive on his breast pocket and he’s carrying a toilet plunger and he punches his hand through the journalist’s chest and watches as the life drains from her eyes. The Sasquatch proceeds to the bathroom, rips the bidet out of the wall and carries it off like in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest …

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Or its like the writer for the new Netflix show who is on set to take notes from the producers who feel that the show needs a new love interest and they want it to be hot and steamy but the thing is the show is about Sasquatches and their lovemaking has yet to be told in any media whatsoever and the writer doesn’t know what to write and he is at his wits’ end (which admittedly isn’t very far) …

This writer wears a helmet and body armor because he’s heard of the Sasquatch-on-writer crime that strikes whenever some bullshit cliched character shows up on a TV show or in a movie: the serious writer living in a cabin in Vermont, the overpaid journalist working some backwater like Utica, or …

The writer for the new Netflix show, he’s a nerd and he likes things that are meta. I’m not sure how I’m going to murder this asshole but I imagine he could get killed through the only open part of his body armor which would be the butthole, yes that’s perfect, all the Sasquatches take turns on his butthole, and now Sasquatch lovemaking has been told through this media so problem solved …

But maybe a more fitting end is that this writer turns into a Sasquatch but not from a Sasquatch bite but from having a Sasquatch take a shit on him, you see the reason there are so few Sasquatch sightings is that to make a new Sasquatch a Sasquatch has to shit on a person, and then that person turns into a Sasquatch upon the next, full toilet flush …

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Money Jungle

Beast

The tank is empty and the Beast still goes.  It still wants to.  Even though it is itchy.  Beleaguered by lice, no doubt.  Lousy with doubts, besieged with guilt, wandering with a keening yawp in the night, waking up not remembering.  Not sleeping soundly, soundlessly escaping through cracks in the window, ceiling, floor.  Slipping out like a thin slice of nostalgia after too much wine.

The Beast is out, wandering the night, saying nothing.  It isn’t embarrassed as it is in daylight, choked in a suit and tie, paw nails trimmed, hair matted down, fangs clean and gleaming.  No blood, just protein, unsaturated fat and lean carbohydrates in a perfect concoction.  Blended, a swill drained into the gullet and absorbed quickly.  There is no flavor to be savored.

Beast, now out and about, cool, eluding the authorities, that Beast.  The Beast in cigarette ads, beer ads, selling whiskey to children.  The Beast embroidered on the jackets of bad women sailing down the boulevard on the backs of choppers, in El Caminos and Eldorados, leaning up against street lights.  Aghast mommies in passenger seats sailing by with their driver daddies who close windows and tighten their grips on pistols.  The Beast has nothing to say.  He doesn’t speak their language.

During the world’s waking hours, the Beast transforms into the Monster that survives under fluorescent lights.  A Monster that thrives in air conditioned nightmarish echo chambers, fraught with doubt, the whole beehive communicating through stress chants, ultrasonic wavelengths emanating from their receding hairlines.  They communicate using the monkey chatter of clenched, ground down teeth.  “Ggggrreeeeeaaaattttt, mmmmmmammmammannnn.”  Another and another and another, casualties picked apart casually, dissected and evaluated for cost-growth strategies.  Let down.

The Beast and the Monster fight.  The Beast, while winning, has the cool humility that any hero strives for.  He knows the war will always slide his way, he feels it and knows it, he can bide his time until the sun goes down.  He knows he has always been there and always will be.  The Monster had to be invented, taught, shown how to work and how to feed itself.  The Beast laughs.

Beauty, as she is sought after, is affectionate, perfect, unattainable.  When she passes by, the flowers perk up, forked tongued serpents smile and grimacing frogs blush.  She is the distraught modern damsel in the clutches of corporate King Kong, hanging from the thirty fifth floor from a martini glass, wondering how it got to this point.  Going with the flow.  Not rocking the boat, biding her time.  Ready to be rescued from no particular distress but the boring, inarticulate present that surrounds her.  Ready to be whisked into eternity, past, future, limbo, hell, ecstasy.

The Beast, the Monster, the boys in the band, the man in the tie, they are the underdogs.  Beauty is up there, they toil.  The Beast will win her, he knows it, in the end.  The rest get the script, memorize and highlight, study inflection, and wait for action.  High infidelity occurs in the first and second acts.  The intermission is infinitely short, photos are taken, some go home.  The Beast is backstage, resting.  He idly twists his mane into a lock like a finger pointing to his heart.

Curtains up, the Beast has claws out, ready for riposte against the thrust of the Monster’s pen.  Beauty swoons.  Beast jumps; it is impressive.  Monster does the robot; it is not.  A dance number.  Two clowns sing the chorus part.  King Kong farts outside and the doors are closed, biohazard warnings are issued.  The Neighborhood Watch deputizes the ushers, they douse the audience in pepper spray like cologne in a college freshman bathroom.  Someone’s boss says, “Weeelllll, IIIIII nnnneeeevveeerr!”  The teeth-grinding sound scares the animal act away, the manager hangs himself with his widow’s pearls.  The Beast looks around for Beauty.

Outside, Beast is cool.  He turns away from the melee, clearing his head, smoking a banana peel, cooling off.  Beauty’s gone off.  It may not be the right time.  He finds himself in an all night diner that serves the Monster Mash Special, plays nothing but Andrew Lloyd Weber.  The Beast sits in a booth and orders black tar pudding.  She will come to him, in the end.  He knows it.  He grabs a lock of hair from his chin to use as a quill, dips it in the blood red monster mash and begins writing a love letter on the back of the playbill.  He never stops, the sun never rises.

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Trash Talk

24 Hour Revenge Therapy

10/3/06

You work out to build the muscle underneath your tarp of skin, piling it so high that the covering stretches and fat has no choice but burn up or join the mound of flesh.  When everywhere is muscle you will be complete.  Finished.  But you can’t go home.  Home is waste, fat, temptation.  Stay here.  It’s 24-hour now.  Think about the woman who looked at you as less than a man.  If she could see you now.  How about that guy in traffic?  Bet he didn’t think much of you when he cut you off.  Blue Pontiac thinks your Pacific-Northwest-gray Nissan Sentra (wearing worn, indecipherable bumper stickers, college parking passes from the Clinton years and a too-big-to-ignore/too-small-to-fix dimple dent on its bumper) is a waistoid vehicle blighting the traffic real estate.  Do overhead presses and imagine throwing your hunk of shit car at his head!  I’d tell you to imagine throwing it over a cliff and washing your hands of it’s “fix me” lights, but that’s too high-concept for you now that testosterone is the junk to your hungry bones.  Just get your revenge while expelling stress while inflating muscle. You know, multi-task.  It never has to end.  When you need sleep you don’t have to leave.  Sleep in our beds, tanning all night long. For food, why spend all that time, money and gas buying food and eating it?  We have protein smoothies, which can be consumed through straw, IV drip or “other.”  You never need to separate from us here at Global Fitness.  We bring the world to you.

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Money Jungle

Modern Man

I am a shaved ape. They buzzed off my fur; it is still sticking in clumps to my forehead. They asked if I wanted gel and I told them to spread it all over my body.

Because I wanted to be a sexy modern man. I looked like Goose from Top Gun. I looked sexier than Richard Greco in a banana hammock or a greased up Hasselhoff. Sexy hairy bitches wanted me to lift them up where they belong. They wanted to practice dirty, hairy dancing. They wanted me to bust the ghosts of former lovers, be the kid to karate chop their old apefriends.

I was elected president of The Hair Club for Primates. I said the corny line that everybody says: “I’m not just a member, but I’m also the czar.” Then I said, “I could tell you the secret ingredient of our product, but then I’d have to kill you. And by kill you I mean blow you up with a nuclear warhead shoved into your urethra.” Then I said, “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, so get to your local pet store first thing tomorrow for the early bird special – one California condor and a bucket of worms.” (I was also the pitchman for Pets Mills Stores and I was able to work suggestive advertising suavely into my monologues.)

I got sent to prison for jaywalking on an airplane tarmac and kicking in the slats of a Cessna 182 when it crossed my path. Don’t even ask me if the thing that nobody wants to happen in prison happened to me. That’s a foolish question. I wanted it to happen every time.

Once I was out, everybody wanted to know me. I got a reality television show where I acted the fool, let my hair grow back, punched walls and said really racist things about other primates. I won’t even repeat my slur against orangutans.

It was around this time that my popularity inexplicably waned in the States. That’s when I found out that I was big in Japan. They had me all over their TV: variety shows, pro wrestling circuits, sumo wrestling matches and sushi evaluations.

From there I went to Germany and drank the entire country under the table. To Turkey for a bath and a hookah, to Egypt to swing from the Sphinx’s nostrils, to Finland to record a neo-glam album about snow and suicide, to England for a rousing discussion of the importance of Sherlock Homes in defining the characteristics of the detective in modern literature, to Ireland for a discussion about how fucked up the English are, to Denmark to stick my fingers in dikes, to Holland for hash and hoes, to Mongolia to make funny faces, to China to jog along the great wall, to Tuva for throat singing lessons, to India to lose some weight and pray to a cow, to blah blah blah.

I wrote about all of this on my blog. Upon my triumphant return to the States I was lauded as the new Mark Twain. My wit and wisdom were unparalleled in human history, but it was awkward as I am not human.

I devolved back to my Sasquatch ways and hid up in the Pacific Northwest. I wrote letters to world leaders and to other primates. “Kofi, keep it real.” “Koko, eat your meals.”

My posse and I hid from humans and partied. We have all the fool’s gold a man could want. We have the costumes that Walt Disney developed to fake people out. We have the bananas. We have most of our marbles.

Blah, blah, blah.

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Poetry? Oh-No-etry!

Telemental

I wait for the sun to explode,
sitting here, carbon monoxide and smoke detectors fully operational,
counting minutes, folding laundry.
One coffee, two coffee.
I look outside to get some sun; it is still in the sky.
I blink and it is gone.

I place hand on heart every morning,
pledge to get blood work done.
I count saturated fats, line up calorie columns.
When hungry, I tell my body
to adapt.

When my mind tells itself to quit working,
it makes these sounds:
You’re better than this.
Other people are making more money.
They’re younger and faster . . . catch up.
You will never be free.
And I tell my mind to stop thinking
and just work.
The sun is in the sky.

Somewhere there is war
and I don’t care.
There is work to do,
and miles to go
before hand eclipses heart
in tribute to a new song.

I wait for the moon to rise,
folding minutes into hours
One whiskey, two whiskey.
I look inside for some glimmer; the heart still out of my hands.
It beats for an instant and is gone.

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Trash Talk

Little Triggers

Don’t play this at work loud on your laptop speakers because it’s not safe for work unless you’re in the space capsule orbiting Earf …

I believe the Earf is flat like a titty, it looks round until she lies down, she wishes it was a globe or a pear, millennia ago it twas, underwire scaffolding, good days and bad days, a bad titty is still something we would like to see, don’t forget to pay attention to the North Pole …

Don’t play this at work on your iPhone speakers in the john or on it, your boss at the car dealership is already tired of your shit, the smell and the frequency, hessa gonna bust you down, you can’t be trusted to sell the Mazda 6, you’ll be downshifted to Mazda 2, a two seater, you and another stall and that’s it, no room for a urinal even …

I think you saw the curse words coming and you couldn’t move, like the engine sound of a car speeding in the opposite direction while you’re walking down a busy road at night in the rain and you hear the sound of wet rubber compressing against wet asphalt that sounds like SHLEEK while it passes, it isn’t wise to look at the drivers so many of them today are looking down so just trust that God Fate and Autopilot are smiling on you this eve …

Don’t hum this while some song is playing, don’t let it compete with a preacher, don’t let it complete another’s thoughts, don’t let it do heavy lifting without a back brace, don’t upon it place solvents or oil-based stains, don’t with it lace strychnine or bonnets, don’t attach upon it useless grommets, decorative or functional Shakespearean sonnets burnished or furnished may appear for inspirational purposes only, be it copyright or wrong …

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