Sunday, November 8, 2009


Void of Romance

"The Costco hashbrowns - I can never get them to work."

- Matt Eckert and Scott McCarron

"I've never had a problem with them."

- Jaime Christensen

"Jesus, they do work. What the hell was I doing wrong?"

- Matt Eckert inside his head as he watched the hashbrowns cooking nicely.

Nixon's ghost came to me last night and told me "There is no audience."
There is no audience.
The lights began to flicker red and blue like an ambulance. Nixon began waving a flag like the finish line at Indy.
"There is no audience. All past conversations will become null and void. There is no audience. No people watching your every move. Make up stories. Pretend that small Swedish men are logging backyards in Indianopolis. Erect large towers of false idols. Listen to devil music and chant on and on OOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM. There is no audience. There's no hot eighteen year old in the front row with nice tits. There is no interview with Rolling Stone magazine where you state, for the record, that you've been off drugs for eighteen months. There is no ex-girlfriend watching your priceless moves in a bar, drunk, getting laughs from eighteen year olds in Indianopolis. There is no audience. There is a TV, there's ghosts on it, like me, and they will tell you, if you meet them, there is no audience. Forget what you see on the 11 o'clock news about eighteen year old hookers shot dead in the backseat of a Ford Taurus. There is no audience. When you comb your hair in the mirror and recite lines you will say to your coworkers. There is no audience. When you masturbate, alone, in a room, with the blinds down. There is no audience. When you wail and moan to the seven seas. There is no audience. Make campfires out of girlscouts, tear down brick walls in Croatia, send a note in a bottle, attempt suicide, dance in your car, order off the menu, call a friend, spin a globe, read a book, share a good memory, drink nine shots, rub up on a hooker, steal a book, live a life somewhat dull. There is no audience. When you visit a home full of seven strangers, with seven aching hearts and minds to spill all over the world. There is no audience. When you fall down a well, when you kill your wife, when you...There is no audience. Plant a hole in the ground and stick your head in it. There's your audience. There is no audience. No one will listen to you crying at 3 in the morning. No one is going to change your sheets. No one will know when you die suddenly, in a car accident on Route 7 because your heart decided to not beat. There is no audience. Pretend to care, pretend your whole life that someone is watching you. There is no audience. Send Hallmark cards to friends in Deleware, be sure and let them know that you're barely alive and keep singing the same tired thoughts in your head, make sure that they know that you're starting all over, that you've "grown" and have developed the human capacity of forgetfullness. There is no audience. Hide in your living room, underneath a table, alternatively crying and screaming, pretending that there is no audience and that no one will see you. You're in pain. There is no audience. Open a bottle of Drano and go through all the motions so that your audience will see the drama, get the neck up to your lips and then think twice. Because there is no audience. Go on Oprah and Ellen and speak about your miserable life of abuse, hope that someone cares, hope that your abusive father/mother/brother/batmobile will give you a call the next day and explain to you how they wronged you. Hope that the nation, at large, will identify with your problem. Hope that the 11 o'clock news will report that misery has finally been quenched by your admission. Hope that a pig is flying over a Subway near you. Hope that Christ comes down and says a prayer in honor of all the truths you told the world. Hope that we spill your messy saga all over the world. Hope that starships are sent out to distant worlds alerting the universe that you've been wronged. There is no audience."

Nixon is a funny guy in that way.

There is no Sense

Namibia...I have lost my heart in Namibia...God help me. There are spores as tall as trees and they all tend the garden behind the Arby's. Namibia. Soon, marching families of gypsies come to me. Namibia. Bring water and trees. Namibia. We spent hours baking cheese. Namibia.
Little miiiiiiiiiiisssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
Send sovereign states to the third world in search of new constitutions to write. Disect small children for goverment grants. Spend it on blow. America.
Ah, God loves a good joke. But, does he love you? I don't know, funny sometimes, but....I keep seeing circles in the leaves, the trees, the general atmophere...and I wonder...what a mad, mad scientist.

Later, he ate nachoes and watched Becker.

July 12, 2004
Renton, WA


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