Maude's Cafe = Dec. 3, 2011

School almost over...finals...gotta' make my vampire killing kit for shop class...bought a coffee with the last dollar on my PayPal card...waiting for friend to loan me $1,000...could be a game changer...save my credit and feed my cat, maybe...hungry...was doing truth tables for logic math...found out sometimes stuff is true...been doing the play "A Christmas From Heck" at the AcrossTown Theatre...story about a dysfunctional family...I play a character named Austin, but really I'm playing myself...it's type-casting...why "dys" instead of "dis" in dysfunctional? Doesn't make any Goddamn sense...wondering if he still loves me or if it was all a gag, or maybe a misinterpretation--I mean, a 'mys'interpretation...spellchecker gags too...got an empty coffee cup here...put it out on the FaceBook that I was accepting free coffee all day...been here all day...got an empty coffee cup here...well will you look at that, sometimes stuff is false...

painting at Maude's coffee shop in gainesville, florida, the known center of the universe. it is a picture of a freak with boobs (for eyes) and a second set of hands painting a painting. in the painting's painting, the painting is screaming, "please stop", and that is the nature of my life. drinking an old milwaukee purchased on a tab that to me seems never-ending...until matt finally takes a look at it and says, "you know, Tom, it's maybe time to settle this up." i always pay, but never timely. but i always pay. never timely. that is the nature of my life.

i almost have everything i have ever wanted. that is the nature of my life. someone said, "i could use a blow job right now," and really, who couldn't? i want everyone to have a blow job.

my heart is broken for no good reason. i almost have everything i have ever wanted. i have friends, lovers, stalkers, a roof over my head...i play the victim even when there are victims worse than me, people missing hands who set themselves on fire for something they believe in, to have such conviction, i don't have that. fuck that. i'm not setting myself on fire unless it's an accident and then i'll be screaming, "no! no!" i'll go out like a chicken. a fucking yellow chicken. fucking fucking, go out fucking like a yellow chicken.

dystopia. does that mean anything? let me check the big book...spellchecker doesn't believe in it. turns out it's true: oppressive control systems. yeah, that sounds right. i am being conspired against. by me. i'm keeping me down in the art...just below sea level. the air is just above the water line. i remember a guy who told me, "i'm gonna' dunk you under four times and only pull you up once." i said that.

and man, i can not tell you how beautiful he is. what a mystery. i love a good mystery. seems to me that if you solved all the mysteries, we would be living in a buffet line at a chinese restaurant run by indonesian purple jews. even i don't know what that means. is everybody just trying to get a blow job?

when you are that beautiful, something is bound to go wrong. all the beautiful people i see on television or in magazines, when i see them in person, they look like shiny rubber monkeys. they sprayed them down with mace on black friday, and nobody ever made it to the two-dollar waffle-maker. pity.

the cause of every motion
is a force of some kind
including the one
besting gravity
at her own game
allowing the expanding cosmos
to speed up instead of
slow down

maybe the big bang
is really the big suck
instead of an explosion from a singularity
some inverse function of darkness reached out
to one point from all points
at the perimeter of infinity
and sucked singularity outward
into the universe we know today

a cosmic dustbin
in the vacuum of space

i introduce
the next act

broadway dave and his magical hand-dancing
and saunter off to the toilet

there on the lid of the toilet
is this white thing

i'm thinking it's a crack rock
and i pick it up with my fingers

like it's some delicate china
and nibble on the end to see

if it numbs me or what
and i realize it's a piece of grout

that fell out of the wall
in this laboratory of science

and some of my tooth
chips off as i flush...didn't even pee

and rush to the stage to introduce
the banjo player from some other town

who played it raw and real
his teeth were chipped too.

in the news
it was reported
that Buddhists
purchased 600 pounds
of live lobsters
and released them
back into the sea

said one of the Buddhists,
"even if they are recaptured
they will have lived a longer life.
they suffer as we suffer."

and i thought
how beautiful, wonderful
that these lucky creatures
would have more time
to procreate

and make many more
delicious delicious lobsters.

i have always thought
the way to go was all in

the half-way people
just get in the way
half-way, by the way

and you have to kick those fuckers
out of your way, all the way

when you run out of gas
push a little further

when you get too drunk to drink,
just have one more

besides, gas is more expensive
that fun ever was

an empty tank means something
a half-way tank will never understand

half-way never mattered
one way or the other

and fun is more expensive
than one more beer ever was

they were camping
no! you stupid girl
don't go off on your own
crap, she's dead

jenny is going to look for her
i'll go with you
no brad, you stay here and keep an eye out
i have a knife, don't worry

brad waits. no, you stupid dude!
oh shit. he's stabbed
and beheaded

jenny goes into the darkness
no jenny, he's right there in the rafters
she finds the first girl mutilated

the monster pops out
she screams we scream
ahhhh, shit!

she drops the knife.
he's right behind you
oh shit, she tripped

she's up again, the monster
is gaining on her

she just makes it
to the car

killer's beating on it
with his fists

her hand shakes
she can't get the key in

oh, thank god, she's got it in
shit! car won't start.
can you believe it?

oh my god!
killer jammed his claw through the roof

she's screaming we're screaming
killer's screaming

car starts! thank the Christ,
the car starts!

she guns it
killer goes flying off the back
or so we thought

oh shit!
he's there in the back seat.
how'd he do that?

ahhhh!

long story short
she survives
and the killer is completely dead

oh shit!
killer is alive again

he grabs her and screams
we scream she screams

she dies.

same thing happens in
Camp Monster from Hell II, III, IV, V, VI,
and the reboot franchise, Camp Monster 3D I, II, III, IV,

after V, it started to feel gimmicky...

when you're writin a poem
you can't just write stuff
you gotta' do some metaphor
you gotta' say stuff is like other stuff

like you gotta' say
this poem is like a turd
or this poem turds...
you know, somethin poetic

otherwise, you're just writin stuff
and writin stuff ain't no poem
it's just you bein a dick

    I had a profound moment of clarity during billiard therapy last week with Doctor Robert.

    We were shooting a game of straight pool and I came to a moment where there was a shot which required me to lean so far over the pool table as to make properly holding the stick virtually impossible. I reached down and picked up a bridge (we used to call it a granny stick back in the old days) and set it on the table. A bridge is basically a stick with a metal hand on it that creates an extension of your arm. Doctor Robert said, "No no no no no, you dumbass."

    "What?" I replied.

    "Put that away. You're not using a bridge for this shot."

    "Why not?"

    "You don't need it. Just shoot the shot with one hand."

    He had told me many times how to perfect my shots, how to hone the craft of precision. Now suddenly, he asked me to throw all that advice away and go for something wacky. "One handed? That's not gonna' be in line with the advice you've given me. Why would I go for a one-handed shot when I could use the bridge and get stability?"

    Doctor Robert looked at me with a quizzical eye and simply said, "For fun."

    Fun. Fun. That had honestly never occurred to me.

    "Tom, it's play pool. We're playing. It's a game, man. Now shoot the stupid shot."

    Sometimes we forget life is a game. We forget to have fun, or that life can even be fun. Hell, it should be fun. I reached out with the stick over the green of the table, wobbled and wavered a bit, took aim, and popped the cue into the nine. The nine dropped in the pocket. I felt a sense of satisfaction. I knew I had stepped across another hurdle in both my pool game and my life.

    "Good shot," said Doctor Robert. "But you should have used the stinkin' bridge."

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