Bear Attacks

There are those among us who are born to wear dungarees that have seen better days, and those who are not. Some of us enjoy the subtleties of a gentle decline in the fabric through everyday wear, while others seem to find a certain macabre pleasure in the deliberate practice of rapid erosion with either stone, brick or razor. And in the American culture, where immediate gratification and avarice are key, many aspire to purchase with plastic currency, pre-torn/worn and thusly ruined accessories and are willing to pay exorbitant amounts to so so.
Still others are simply in possession of these decrepit articles purely by accident; statistics show, there are an inordinate amount of dungarees that are being mangled by the common North American black, brown and grizzly bear (otherwise known as Ursus horribilis). Of course, as a result of these attacks the wearer of said article, generally is consumed, and what remains are used as bear markings, known as scat, which in turn warns fellow dungaree wearers not to tread unawares near those locations. It should also be noted that those who do indeed escape these horrific bear attacks, tend to suffer greatly with tragically frayed dungarees, which though very trendy in the fickle American Xer-subculture, are subsequently and prematurely rendered completely useless after only one wash cycle.
In a scientific case study provided by four regional community colleges - Spring of 2010, it was proven in at least 5 known triple-blind, double gold standard cases that bears became receptive to not digesting nudists. The case study involved interviewing nudist camp attendees, streakers, and exhibitionists. After interviewing two hundred fifty-seven nudist candidates, 5 overall were selected to have hidden cameras secretly placed in their environments. During the two year intensive study, no bears were seen, though one nudist was described as having "a very frisky kitten."
The lack of bear and bear-like activities, according to Rachel McCutchin, a recent associates degree recipient in veterinary sciences, proves that not wearing bluejeans in the presence of bears is a stunning discovery.
McCutchin then went on to say that should an actual bear approach any individual, that though the traditional methods of "lascivio mortuus" or "playing dead", may still be effective, dropping ones dungarees was by far the best means of deterring a bear attack. To prove that fact, McCutchin expressed her heartfelt gratitude to her alma mater and simply stated, "I am going to the Appalachian Trail, with my bluejeans and a camera."
That was some two months ago, and we are still anxiously awaiting physical proof from Ms. McCutchin.

I'll Take a Manhattan - Hold the Cherry Juice (redux)

Recently, I have had the ridiculous idea of backtracking some ideas of my debaucherous times in the city of NYC. Many of these moments are faded memories hidden behind some foggy residue of hedonism and what I like to refer to as Bohemianism. This is no attempt by myself to relive or glorify my past, but perhaps to gain some insight as to where my attitude on life came from. Many of these unremarkable pieces have no titles, and to stay true to their form, I will not label them, nor will I alter them entirely. Enjoy.

Incidentally, my handwriting is so bad that I may, though certainly not embellishing on what is original, may have to by no choice, have to alter some of the original context. Not editing, but guessing.



If you fall down from a glass ceiling, you break a metal floor.
Devil's eyes, an angel's heart can claim - no serenity.
Eventually, the persistent screams become surreal whispers.
Lies determined truths by judgemental farces,
and the burning steam is cracked by icy myths.
What is the person who should live though dead?
Where does my temporary casket lie, but in my broken bed?
Buried in some joke of freedom, I laugh myself to tears.
I burn my flesh on fuel call knowledge and ignorance.
Stand with me o' my favorite nightmare of bliss.
She calls out lovingly, baring no kiss for me.
Oh, wound myself on broken years and healing tendons.
I laugh through freedoms eyes, becoming a haunting burden.

She smiles - her blinding white and sharp death.
The blood of "years gone by slowly", eroding her like acid.
Squirming, I watch liquid love pour from my soul.
Harmless though devastating, I pour it into her,
and she reels, licking her salty lips hungrily.
It is my soul that she wishes to devour.