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Once more, for Bebe Zeva

"Now I am going to throw up."

A cartoon hand extends a quarter into the bathroom.

Thanks!

Nicole admires the quarter, thinking it looks nice.

What does it mean?

It means one-quarter.

"I like it, Ziggy, but I want emptiness instead.  Can you do that for me?"

I'll try.


Ziggy is drinking heavily when the word "suicide" enters the frame, then leaves it.

"What happens out there?"

You don't want to know.

I came to this McDonalds for the wifi and from here I'm watching it all go down.

Ziggy is taking a birdbath in the Cherry Cola.  Then Ziggy is drinking heavily.  The bath is made of stone and cut marble.  What happens before is arbitrary, or maybe not.  Ziggy and Nicole are rape victims here for reprisal.  The dining area looks like Ziggy's living room.  Very foreign.  Aliens exist.  Ziggy's mother rapes him in his own dining room every day.  He's thinking now would be a good time to quit the "victim" habit.  Maybe he could if he knew this word "rape".  Unfortunately for him, I've redefined it.  Fortunately for me, it means great literature.

Ziggy sees images from Gummo (Harmony Korine, 1997) and he's thinking.  "Pain" and "suffocation" flash in his mind like lightning.  "Fear" lingers.  Being a child star he knows the feeling, not the word.  Now that he has a word to attach his feeling to he might feel better, he hopes.  Maybe not though.

Look, Ziggy.  I've deconstructed Catholicism for you.

He doesn't understand yet.  He will.

Knowing that fear is the crux of great art, I also know that I need Ziggy to keep being scared.

Fact is, Ziggy is scared because his mother uses fear to control what he eats.  And also when he eats.  And also how he eats.  When the mother's control fails society rises to compensate.

I want Ziggy to know he should go to a Chinese place and eat there.

I want myself to know I never wanted to be a writer.

For now.

For my 9th birthday my family got me a Nintendo 64 computer entertainment system (with Super Mario 64 (a videogame by Nintendo Entertainment Japan))

The year was 1999.

Let's just go ahead and call Nintendo the greatest computer entertainment platform developer of all

time.

This is a poem I wrote today

Hipster

Millennial aged children 

Broken fags

Art becomes void

Schoolyard losers so fucked they

 cant see anything more worthwhile 

than starting a band to get 

laid

For these priaprismic perpetual

Horny mongoloids "art" means

"Let me fuck you."

Hipster

Advance praise for Kyle Bern's AMERICANGULAG

"...kind of poetic genius...something very strong..." -- Matthew Stokoe

"The voice of a generation..." -- Bebe Zeva

AMERICANGULAG

A novel.

Coming soon.

My Father is the Devil

My father is the Devil.  THE Devil.  Satan himself.  My mom's a nice person.  That makes me 50 percent Satan, 50 percent a nice person.  An outside observer would never know.  When I'm awake I do pretty normal shit, like read books and lay around praying for death.  It's only when I'm sleeping that the beast runs wild.

I do all types of wild shit in my sleep, like invent methods of torture that don't exist yet.  I won't scare you with details but I'm telling you, my subconscious is totally fucked up.  My dreams are where my truly Satanic self comes out.

Being part Satan has its advantages.  The Hell I occupy while unconscious carrier over into my waking hours enough to allow me to express myself in really sick ways.  On the other hand I'm plagued with disturbing thoughts, like, if I sacrifice small children to Satan (my father) will it bring Eric and Dylan back to life?  Times like that I have to remind myself it's just my father talking and my mom would never approve of such behavior.

Now I'm awake.  Thank you, mom.  Thank you, God.  I'm shotgunning my third cigarette of the morning and my eyes are blurry but fuck I'm awake.  If you knew how much this hurts you wouldn't be alive.

Behind the Scenes of That Last Story

M: Let me see what you did here.

K: Yeah, for sure.  You know how much I value the input of my, you know, favorite editor.

M: Don't call me that.

K: Sorry. So what do you think?

M: You have drugs and lots of them, which is very you.

K: You think?

M: The camera angle shit isn't you, but you've done it so much it is now.

K: Thanks.

M: Come to think of it none of this shit is you, but it's not like anyone reading it will know the difference.

K: That was my thinking.

M: You get bonus points for the Columbine reference.

K: Bonus points?  That was the whole reason I wrote it.

M: I get that, but you have this tendency to write like you're trying to get to some sick punchline that only makes sense in your head.

K: You know me.

M: No one but you and I will have read the authors you're stealing this material from.  I say run with it.

K: Cool. You're the best, Matt!

Place of Interest 9,000

A shitty motel room.  Shitty and gray.  Fucking PCP.  It's been days.  I ask her for the third, fourth, fifth time, what's wrong.  She still stares at the spiraling ceiling fan which I see as a camera spinning around and around spotting all this gray in this fucked up room.  Static from the TV set tells me its not just the drugs or my imagination, Satan is here for real.

Outside it was crystal meth and night.  Lights in the night, neon, zoom zoom fast, we couldn't keep up.  Now we're here.  Dusted.  I can't tell you how much gray there is.  Too much.  I burn a hole in my middle finger lighting a cigarette.

What's wrong, six seven eight.  The camera zooms down, spiraling, locks on her pupil.  It widens.  A different shot from somewhere else in the room shows all the gray, gray clouds, gray static, gray gray gray dancing over her white body with the jeans halfway down and her hand on her crotch.  Switch back to the extreme close up of her pupil.  Offscreen:

"Dylan Klebod broke my heart."

Then she asks for more dust, or crystal, I don't hear right.