Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

I just read the Prez’s tweets (so he got mixed up with role vs. roll! ) about Stormy affair.

I stand by him.


I too was blackmailed by a porn star back in 1988.

It was awful.

My attorney paid her ($12.98 in tacos!) which I reimbursed him for but did not know he had paid her.

I then had her sign a nondisclosure form, not knowing any of this was going on, but my lawyer said it was all good, it would never surface, even though I didnt know, cause I didnt but I kinda did.

I may have slicked my tater dickie in her mustard hole but I dont know, it was the 80s, who remembers back then!!

So here it is, 2018, and people are all like, HE MUSTA KNOWN!!

He’s the Don, people, days from now, you’ll have moved on to something else, like you did when he made that great impression of that retard (psst, we can use that term now since we have one now as Prezadent!!) And said GRAB DA PUSSY!!! And other things.

But we all remember how he is making America great again right??

America is so great, she’s peeing blood. That’s good right??

In America, a non white individual can walk into a Waffle House and have the police called on them.


And anybody can be sucked out of an airplane, realizing their greatest fear!


To get to the dream, with all those great jobs Trump and his supporters like to moo about, you’ll need five.

Unless you want health insurance, then, 10!!


Yes, moo supporters, I can love it or leave it, or I can exercise my right to hiss and bite the fat man and his demon whores.


And if he can tweet, so can I!!


And no, America didnt elect him, a shitty college with no football team did.



I get bored, the TV is on, barking orders from across the room.



She, the lady in the commercial, wonders as she embraces some guy, we don’t know who he is, but we assume he doesn’t have a rubber either.


I try to settle my brain into something, a lullaby by The Blue Oyster Cult.

Random noise, outside, the man across the street screams something at his girl friend.

She’s not wearing pants.


He shrugs as he gets in the car and takes off, leaving her standing there, dancing in the rain showers.

Faceless groups pass by, an interesting scene, Hallmark movies you wouldn’t believe, legends in their own demise.

There’s a message in a bottle floating down the street,


A bit too late, it would feel.

I close the curtains, the sirens of a police car somewhere sounds close.

There could be a knife fight.

Heaven is closed for the night, come back tomorrow.

Good night world….

Mr. O’Mallery goes to the bar.

It has been a hard week of womanizing, drinking,fighting and some work down in the mine.

He orders a bottle of whiskey.

Irish of course.

“Mr. O’Mallery are you be drinking when your wife is at home nursing seven sick children? Ye should be ashamed!” Mrs. O’Mallery said angerily from the bar’s swinging doors, her eyes missiles.

He smiled, quickly, like a fairy tricking a saint.

“I’m just finding my spirit, love…” he said, drinking his drink.

“Ye better find your spirit quickly or ye be losing it soonly!” She growled revealing a hard round baseball bat from the pleats of her skirt.

He finished his drink quickly and left.

Mr. O’Mallery found his spirit very soon.

He was soon seen nursing seven sick children back to health.

I am a homeless bum

Posted: July 16, 2017 in Uncategorized

I have officially been without a roof for a week.

I work, I bust my butt for $8.80 an hour, a union job.

They take out $84 a month in dues.

Figure it out.

I love my town but I’m shivering.

You have probably come through my line.

I was happy.

By the way, I was faking.

Maybe in a week, I’ll,have a house, a bed, a pillow even.

Last night I had enough for a hotel room, a shower,it made enough to make me feel like a human.

Tonight, I sleep outside, a bum, but you’ll come through my line!

You’ll think I make a million how I make you feel.

I wear a mask, I do it well.

JACK KEROUAC: Where are you now? 


A Retrospect of my life in words and pictures


Dr. Andre Costello

The world begins to slowly move away from the body, traveling through space, time is a different matter.

The lady at the bar laughs and pours us another drink, in the name of humanity.

“War is not an option?”

A statement?

She didn’t exactly know.

We stood up and she disappeared into the setting sun.

The sun, a blazing orb of yellows and reds, burned my skin but into the desert we went, my head held high and the body rejoiced in delightful agony of pain, running from the feet, up the spine and into the brain.

July 12th, 1993: Angie is dying, one minute at a time, as we all do.

She did it exceptionally well.

Hagus De Morus, trapped spirits on this world, overlooked a dreadful mass of humanity, the villains of the world; tax lawyers, used cars salesmen, angry youth trapped in globs of human waste trying to swim upstream like broken salmon.

“Here we should give up!” she once more appeared and said, smiling.

I had wanted to give up miles before, days in.

She wouldn’t let me.

We did not see the setting sun, as the world ended behind us, one minute at a time.


the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Jack Kerouac, where are you now?

Trapped in some shitty after life, writing about the cause and effect of madness on the road with some long dead hooker who we never learn represents our mothers, our daughters, our sisters, our nieces, the long lost love inflection we met in high school but never had the balls to ask her out?

Are we the same way, different time?

Did we see the setting sun against the dying of humanity, or are we just mad, insane, completely utterly, sitting on the street corner watching the dogs and fights and the fucks and the loves?

“Cigarette?” the executioner asks.

I shake my head no.

“Good, those things will kill you!” he says smiling through broken teeth, rotting flesh falling from his face, to gather on the ground.

I bought a ticket, someplace, any place, the madness of my mind, my eyes, seeing the world as a twisted mold of disease and war, the painted hookers of 7th Street disappearing from my view as the bus hit the highway.

Gary, the lover, the fighter, the writer, was dead, in the ground, killed by society, drug of choice, life, a killer, no one gets out alive.

I tried to find my way back to that “other life” where I was happy, floating above humanity in a balloon, sky high, now, here in the blood, the mud, shit of society, looked down upon by those high up, those not realizing that some day soon they too could be down here.

The highway kept moving forward, pulling us down the line, further apart from the lovers, closer to the edge, the cliff, would we go over in a blazing ball of fire.

I’m just a dreamer who is dreaming his life away.

I dreamed the other night that we were together again,

We were walking along the beach hand in hand, we laid out the blanket, a place where we could be lovers.

I dreamed we had bought a big house, a place to start a family.

I know it’s just a silly dream, but I didn’t want to wake up.

When I did wake up, I felt the blues.

An empty bed.

We were lovers, I wish we were still lovers,

I want to see you again, hold you close, kiss those sweet lips once again.

I shall miss you my love, more than just sex, the way we held each other in delight, our sex merged as one.




The Last Time

Posted: March 6, 2016 in Uncategorized

The machinery watched over us, the workers, in hateful love.

“Someone has to oil the gears!” it had said once.

The youthful old men of the town were dropped into the pits, ground up into a paste, to be fed to the masses at supper time.

I was locked inside myself, another night of sleepless dreams and a shot of rum straight into my brain.

“Were are dead yet?” the machine asked, chugging away.

I shrugged.

“I don’t believe I am but I could be mistaken!”

I arose from my spot, my dinner, lunch, whatever it was, left untouched on the table.

“Doctor Grace will not like to hear you didn’t touch your meal! It was your favorite too, broken glass sandwich with a glass of souls!” the nurse said frowning as I tried to move towards the couch.

My soul was dying, I could feel it, slowly but surely, and soon, maybe a thousand years from now, I would catch up and die.

“Tell the good doctor I was not hungry this evening, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps later on I shall, no, I will have a cup cake!” I replied.

She sighed and moved away to check the other patients.