Breet?

* Arf
* Arnie
* BXET-R2
* CB-3D
* Choco
* Chunky
* Clink
* Dancer
* Deefour
* Fiver
* G8-R3
* Gadget
* Jawaswag (aka, Toughcatch)
* KT-10
* Mod-3
* Neufie
* Nine
* P2-D19
* Pip
* PR6-3
* Q9-X2
* R-0
* R1-G4
* R1-T4
* R2-4B
* R2-A5
* R2-A6
* R2-B1
* R2-B3 (aka, Cappie)
* R2-B4
* R2-C3 (aka, Seecubed)
* R2-C4
* R2-C9
* R2-D0
* R2-D2 (aka, Artoo)
* R2-D5
* R2-D6
* R2-D609 (aka, Thirteen)
* R2-D7
* R2-D9
* R2-KT
* R2-K7
* R2-L1
* R2-M3
* R2-M5
* R2-O
* R2-PU
* R2-Q2
* R2-Q5
* R2-Q8
* R2-QU
* R2-R9
* R2-RC
* R2-RD
* R2-S4
* R2-V0
* R2-V6
* R2-X0 (aka, Patchwork)
* R2-X2
* R2-X9
* R2-Z1 (aka, Fweep)
* R2-Z13 (aka, Plug)
* R2-Z4
* R2Z-DL (aka, Toozy)
* R3-A2
* R3-D3
* R3-K8
* R3-O1
* R3-T2
* R3-T6
* R3-T7
* R3-Y2
* R4-A22
* R4-B11
* R4-D1
* R4-D2
* R4-E1
* R4-G9
* R4-I9
* R4-J1
* R4-J9
* R4-M17
* R4-M9
* R4-M9
* R4-P17
* R4-P44
* R4-S2
* R5-A1
* R5-A2
* R5-D2 (aka, Mynock, aka, R5-G8, aka, Gate)
* R5-D2
* R5-D4 (aka, Red, aka, Skippy)
* R5-D8
* R5-H6
* R5-K6
* R5-L4
* R5-M1
* R5-M2
* R5-R5
* R5-X2
* R6-A1 (aka, R6-S1, aka, Shootfirst)
* R7-T1
* RD-RR
* Shiner
* Shorty
* Sneaky
* Sparky
* Tenfour
* Tonin
* UV-002
* Vape
* Watto's astromech
* Whistler (aka, Xeno)
* Zero-1

Working for years around noisy machinery can make you feel uneasy even in the most beautiful and quiet of moments.

You have to block out images of towering piles of pots, pans, crates of M-80's and stacks of free tickets to Slayer concerts.

Run
2
Buddha, kid
Run
w
your
hands
clamped
firmly over your ears

r u n

Stuff saved as drafts in my Blogger dashboard...

One page stories

Time travel when you sleep and you get to correct the days mistakes

Csgucscsugcs
I think I'm done.
Thank you for playing.
Where do I go to return this?
Lament...
Anthony Stark
Colleen
Kevynn
Chico
Dawne
T
China
Jane
Trinitee
Maria
Bella
Rosa
Judi
Reynaldo
Dad
Denny
Milo
Harry Cash
George
Jack
Jerry
Dennis
Joe
Sindy
Brandy
Patti
Yellow Sabbath..
I am Iron Man
without the armor
or the technological affinity
My Best Christmas Ever...

Might of written about this before. I know that I have, but I think that it was in one of my notebooks. Maybe I wrote about it in a magazine or school paper. Somewhere.

Back in the day. When I was young. When the top of my head probably came to my fathers hip - my father and I went down the street to the Xmas tree lot. This was a REAL lot. One of the ones where you actually picked a tree and a bundled up gnarly neanderthalic man sawed it off for you and lugged it to your car. Not one of the drugstore parking lot lots. Something that you didn't do in combination with grocery shopping.

It was cold. But Southern California cold. So that means, like...60 degrees. My father and I had trudged deeper and deeper into this mini-forest looking for a nice, full tree to take home. I don't know where my older brother was. Probably playing Atari or watching football. Definitely not dating girls. My brother was a very late bloomer.

We found one. Not a girl or a late bloomer, but a great-looking tree off in the distance. Looked huge to me. Gigantic. As we approached it, I realized that my father wasn't around anymore. He was behind me, crouched down on one knee and had his hand placed on something by the ground. I crunched back to where my father was and heard him speaking in a strange voice. A tiny, soft voice. My father's eyes were misty. He had stepped on a baby rabbit. It was probably no bigger than my hand and was jerking spasmodiacally on a blanket of pine needles. My father was softly saying that he was sorry. I'm so sorry, so, so sorry...

I kept on looking back from the dying baby rabbit and to my father's now alien face. I couldn't figure out what was more of a shock to me - the little thing dying before me or the glimpse of actual emotion on my father's face.

My father eventually barked an order at me to KEEP ON GOING. I did, because he was my father. My father told me to not stop looking back. I did, because he was my father. I didn't ask any questions. I did, because he was my father.

We got our tree.

Do I remember how it looked that year in the livingroom?

No.

Do I still remember that tiny, twitching rabbit?

Yes. Perfectly.

Best Christmas ever?

Yes.

Why?

Because I'll remember that one for the rest of my life.

I want so much and I want the world to go away
In what way, I don'y know
my world?
the world I had?
the world that I have?
You can't start from scratch if you've alway been starting from scratch
or
you can't start from scratch when you never had an itch to fiddle with?
Like a declawed cat in front of a scratching post or a eunuch at an orgy.
Jimi Hendrix with webbed hands
me with a brain
Would Chewbacca without H Solo be co-pilot Jesus?
Would Goblin exist without with Jane Goodall?
I'm sorry.
I've never known anything and was sorry I pretended that I did. I hope that I didn't harm you to a poi

See? This is shit. Complete shit. I'll be back later. even with all of the mistakes. Seriously - I'll be back.

My lifedseddsedrfrefrgtyhfrdaswfghnkjlhgftdx nvmbjhg vdxcbnm/,l;kjhg fbvdcvbnm,./;Lb fzcnm.lj vckmjlh zvcbmkja dsbvnm,.fxz

Sorry - cleaned the keyboard with my sleeve.

I was going to write something about how my life somehow mirrored the Bush administration's handling of everything involving planet Neptune and especially their political stance on Jem and The Holograms.



Today was old bruschetta tough. The rain cost me money. I couldn't work because of it. You rained TODAY, rain? Seriously, give me a break, Lucy Gods. Do you have to pull that football back ALL of the time? Amputate my legs. That's the only way I'll stop trying to kick field goals. WAAAGGGGHHHH!!!

LAST YEAR AT THIS TIME, I WROTE THIS......



Friday, May 25, 2007
Found the post - difference is that now I fully admit to a lifelong's worth of depression, addiction and Restless Leg Syndrome...and Quadsexuality...

(so this is a repost or a repost of a post...)



Tuesday, September 27, 2005

I Don't Know If This Was Written For Fat Free Milk - But I Found It In An Old File...

John Constantine…

Waking up can be a mistake. Some days, I feel like I’ve made a bad choice. People who die in their sleep may be geniuses. Maybe they found out something in dreams that I never will. Maybe they had a divine moment of REM clarity and said holyshitfucknowigetitwhatthehellwasithinking? Then they’re done. Pop goes the cork. Bright burns the light. Sink the ship. Fries are done. Game Over, Ms. Pac Man. Fireworks. Smoke in the air. The crowd leaves. Holiday over. Laughing all the way to Narnia, Hogwarts, Orange County, Krynn, Hoth, Middle Earth, Oz, Hollywood, and to that place where The Brothers Lionheart went.

I’m quiet now. Maybe I cashed in all my emotional stocks way back in the 80’s and 90’s. I’ve made some bad investments. Now, I just seem to float around, all gossamer-like. Kind of like the one, thin spider web that seems to stick to your face no matter how much you claw at it when you go out in the back to water your lawn late at night. I won’t go away – but I’m not as big as I could’ve been. Just a bit annoying. Making my presence known. Not doing any real damage. Somebody once compared Jimi Hendrix to the thin wire filament of a burning light bulb. The light that burns twice as bright, burns half as long. That’s how I feel. Like the slow parts of a good movie. Radioactive waste. I know I’m still young, but you really should’ve known me before. I was crazier. I fucking either wanted to be left alone to scribble away in the darkness, to think, to break things,or wanted to question and tear the world apart. Now, I wish that everything was quiet. Silencio, por favor. I don’t think. And when I do. It passes through my brain like caffeine. All energy dissipates as soon as it’s fleetingly conjured. I smile a little, but always look like I’d be happier somewhere else. I wish I knew where that place was. It’s definitely not in front of a computer screen anymore. It’s definitely not outside. Definitely not inside my head, or out of it. What makes me feel happy now? I’m not depressed or anything. I’m just talking. I know that a lot of my biggest changes have happened in small amounts of time and sometimes the smallest change can happen in a long time. I know that if love and life played by our rules, that we’d all have that pretty, little picture in our head be a reality.

Slow, progressive, Earth-shaking change was cool back in the day. Spending a couple years here or there, doing the same ass things - but making adventures in the meantime...was cool – but, we were a lot younger then. What happens when the amount of time starts stacking? What happens when the amount of decay overpowers the fresh growth?

You get the fuck out of town. Okay. Where, and for how long? Guess you have to find out along the way, eh? Change yourself? Duh. Whatever. Instant change is like ramen noodles. Unsatisfying and shitty.

This might not make sense – but like I care. Keep your snide, little comments to yourself, or go visit a clever BLOG. Say what you want. Just don’t be funny because I’m doing all of the fake, unreal cleverness here.

You know why I liked Bukowski so much? Because he was honest. He was ugly. He was fake. He was the poetic John Merrick. He was sad. Depressed. Brilliant. A pig. He wanted to be left alone, but needed love on his own terms. He went postal before postal was postal – but he went postal on paper. That last sentence makes sense if you slow the fuck down.

Jumanji’s in my heart, but the Hellraiser Cube’s in my pocket. I don’t know what to do.

I really do wish that I could meet Han Solo and have a drink with him. He’d understand and just say a coupla gruff sentences that WOULD MAKE SENSE AND SUM UP THE WHOLE DEAL. Then we’d have more blue drinks served in Tupperware glasses.

After work today, I was at a stoplight and saw the mayor of my city walking across the crosswalk. I said hello to him and he said, Hi Kevynn! That’s nice, even if he is a politician.

I like my cats, my friends, toys, comic books. I also like porn, threatening mean people with violence, and fucked up music. I’m writing about absolutely nothing.

I need to live on a ranch and just make all of this stuff go away. Trust me – I’m not trying to be all complicated and deep. I’m far from that and I don’t want your sympathy. Your condolences are like cheap crack. It strings you out in the end. No caloric value to it. Ample amounts of empathy does not make a healthy diet. I need direction. Something other then TAKE A LEFT AFTER THE STOP SIGN or GET A NEW JOB. I need something…I need it like Dracula does. I’ll know it when I taste it. I used to watch my mother suck the marrow out of chicken bones when I was young. I tried it a couple of times. I remember her chasing around a couple of geese that I thought were pets. I remember her chopping their heads off with a cleaver, Wally. Feathers floating in the air and headless bodies flapping.

People talk too much. They need to just stop for a bit. Most of my days are just one, sticky, continuous conversation ball thrown at my head. Too tired to dodge em’. I just let it roll down my face. Nodnodnod yesyesyes. Bump on the head. Everybody just calm down, shut up, and leave everybody else alone. Walk around, play with your kids, walk the dogs – but, still…shut up. You’re about as original as…ME. Which isn’t much. I’m an ungrateful bastard. I’m the ugliest beautiful person you’ve ever met – but we all deserve to be hunted down like Frankenstein.

He’ll tell you…

Waking up can be a mistake.


eye

got
an offer
2
buy
this
blogspot

hmmmmmmmmmmm..........

y?

It is sad not to love, but it is much sadder not to be able to love.

I'm living Pinocchio's life before he knew that humanity was possible.
I'm living the life that the story books never told us listeners -
About how hard it is to be a boy and what being a man really means.

lielielie to yourself
time passes
along with your nose

Gepeto's dead?

Now what?

What changes?

time passing
along with your nose
along with your nose
along with your nose
along with your nose
along with your nose
along with your nose
along with your nose

along with your long nose

Don't Make Me Boo You In The Atticus, Finch...

Wake up and get out of bed.

Whatever you're doing now, don't make a habit of it.
Take more walks.
Skate.
Read outside of your room.
Offer to walk a friend's dog.
Restring your bow.
Mani/Pedi.
Soup Plantation and The Los Angeles Times.

Only you can get yourself out of this pickle, Dill.

So...wake up and get out of bed.

We'll take it step by step.

Sloooooowwwwwwww-like because you're not too bright and usually scream when the sunlight hits your fragile, pasty head.

Fat Free Milk

If books were spontaneously created and based on our morning's forgotten and previously-dreamed ideas, than librarians would...QUIT.

God, what I wrote last night was GREAT. I had it in my head for an hour or so and it was so good that when I woke up I DIDN'T rush to put it down because...it was GOLDEN.

THIS WAS NOT IT.
...
....
.....
......
.......
.......
........
...........
.............

.
..

Writing is difficult sometimes

A lot more difficult when your current life is more drama-filled than you would like and the heart and soul slowly grinds like tectonic plates.
One of these days, many years from now when I’m wheezing away on my deathbed and watching my life flash before my eyes for the last time – I’ll soak in the life that I saw and say…
God damn, I’m glad that’s over.
And die.

Aranoid Pandroid...

My energy?
Mount Vesuvius.
Outcome?
Pompeii.

When I Trip The Wire...

You get a picture of where I've been
I'm disappointed
and distracted
I hate
where this day ended up
It's best to be drunk
than to be with drunks
But I'm sober
Which is always good
But not tonight

Sometimes everybody else

fucks you up

NEVER FORGET...

Choo Choo
says my train of thought
I've never followed it but
please give me time 2 slow down

when Zeus
visits mortals
when Osiris paddles
when R2 BOOPS
when Betty does too

Choo Choo
says my heart
I never paid for this trip
I can't pay 4 it

when spiritual leaders
play peek-a-boo
when Roy finds Roger
when words become sentences
when 1 does 2

Choo CHOO
blares my heart
and it hurts
but I paid for this
it's late
i need 2 sleep
and the cat is killing moths while i write

2day was hard
i'm making 2day soft

choooooo choooo

i have no idea what i'm writing about or saying
but
I DO know WHAT
i'm feeling

please
give
me

















time.

Logan
Is
Four Years Old...

What’s your name again?

Kevynn.

I thought your name was “Sexy.”

Ummm…what? Nooooo…

Sexy people always have bad hair.

...Sometimes that’s true, yes.

Tom Waits - Take it with me

Phone's off the hook
No one knows where we are
It's a long time since I
Drank champagne
The ocean is blue
As blue as your eyes
I'm gonna take it with me
When I go

Old long since gone
Now way back when
We lived in Coney Island
Ain't no good thing
Ever dies
I'm gonna take it with me
When I go

Far far away a train
Whistle blows
Wherever you're goin
Wherever you've been
Waving good bye at the end
Of the day
You're up and you're over
And you're far away

Always for you, and
Forever yours
It felt just like the old days
We fell asleep on Beaula's porch
I'm gonna take it with me
When I go

All broken down by
The side of the road
I was never more alive or
Alone
I've worn the faces off
All the cards
I'm gonna take it with me
When I go

Children are playing
At the end of the day
Strangers are singing
On our lawn
It's got to be more
Than flesh and bone
All that you're loved
Is all you own

In a land there's a town
And in that town there's
A house
And in that house
There's a woman
And in that woman
There's a heart I love
I'm gonna take it
With me when I go
I'm gonna take it
With me when I go

Snails, brittle stars, sea spiders and some marine worms...

dont care about work
dont care about dental plans
or taxes
or presidents
or Oprah
or Dennis Quaid's children
or Darfur
or The Panchen Lama

Snails, brittle stars, sea spiders and some marine worms

wear the same shirt everyday
and know that being on the computer often is a a waste of time
and that iphones, pods, tunes and pee freelys are nothing but jokes
in the grand scheme of things

Snails, brittle stars, sea spiders and some marine worms

sometimes cry when Sigur Ros plays
when memories flood parched circumstances and realities
when clothes don't fit anymore
and what you knew versus what you do now
don't do anything but blow doubt into the ventricles of your tired heart

Snails, brittle stars, sea spiders and some marine worms

sometimes play ferociously
think floating thoughts
wish earnestly
dream the impossible
hope for the best
and cry salty tears

if every silent
worldly thing
had a voice
about everything
then nothing would be said
about anything because
the majority of God's children
would rather talk about
Snails, brittle stars, sea spiders and some marine worms

and

nothing else

Where The Yellow Fern Grows...

I made friends with a dog that I thought was homeless tonight. I took care of her for a bit and was concerned/freaked out, thinking that I now had to do some investigative work or take in a dog that my landlord would never let me have. Ends up that that her owner doesn't keep an eye on her too well AND it ends up that you should never give a dog chicken when you have no dog food around.

Because now she won't leave. She's been outside my kitchen door, bedroom door, back gate and front door. I've been in this type of situation before but usually it's not a dog but a person that smells of cheap perfume or a friend that needs a place to stay for a month but ends up eating all of your food for the following six months. I'm doomed to these type of situations eternally.

In my past life I must have been Mother Teresa or....ummm...Doctor Doom.

The New World...

In sunshine
I squint and seek shadows

In darkness
I wish for illumination

When I write
I write like an asshole

Ummm...that's it.

To My Own Private China...

I dig all day and get very tired.

I know that I can work harder but I'm lazy, wistfully nostalgic and have a hard time focusing. When I finally put myself to sleep for a bit and wake up the next morning, the first thing that I do is go into the backyard to see how much progress I made the day before.

The hole is always filled back up AND has mounds of dirt on top. Who keeps on doing this? It happens everyday. I don't know whom or what does it but it's frustrating. Give me a hole. Just one day - all I want is a tiny ditch, a grave, a concave mark of progress. Maybe I need to be patient, maybe I need to take my vitamins with regularity, maybe I need a partner or to hire some cheap labor, maybe I need a better shovel, maybe I can transform myself into a Constructicon?

One day though, I'll walk into the backyard and a perfect grave will await me...and suddenly my eyes will flutter, my Coke can will drop on the grass, my legs will give, the world will fade to black and then......

Cocoon...

I can't recall the last time that I got out of this sprawling, ghost-infested, sad, sad little place.

Time to go.

Try Harder...

MINE...

(used with no permission)

ELVIRA
No--I’ll grant you, that’s foul: well played lad. But, no, this rank bouquet is far more pungent. Smells like sweat, tears, blood and longing, accented by strangled desperation and stunted ambition laced with a sticky film of broken, useless dreams.

SGANARELLE
Oh, that! That’s poetry!

POET MODERATOR
Ok, Roger, thank’s for kicking off our monthly drunken poet symposium with that wonderfully concise, reading. I want to welcome everyone tonight to our monthly poetry clambake where we all have the opportunity to share, through words, the joy and tribulations of what, our dear late founder Kevynn Malone, once described as our lifelong relationship...with alcohol. Though friends hurt you, lovers betray you, leaders lie to you and your pets die, there’s always one relationship we can count on in this world.

Snapping of fingers.

The Don Juan Project

The People On The Bus part one...

Me.

I was eighteen. That was a long time ago, I think. Maybe not that long. 365 days pass and then we allocate another point to the internal and external atrophy system. I was on a bus. The rest of my high school class that I recently graduated with was slinging down tequila shots in Mexican resorts while I was trying to not take poops on The Greyhound. My graduation present was getting kicked out of my house. My father and I had actually been getting along pretty well for the last couple of weeks. For us, at least. I was eating leftover chicken when he came out of his dark bedroom and into the dark living room and then walked into the dark kitchen that I was eating at. He plopped down an envelope with my name on it. Inside was a card with his signature scrawled on it, along with a check for three hundred dollars. Three hundred dollars? Wow! He didn't get me anything for graduation, not that I expected anything, and for birthdays, I might get twenty-five or fifty bucks if I was lucky. I expressed my gratitude, thinking that maybe this was a combo-graduation-birthday-present-thingy. He told me that it was for moving expenses. I asked him when was I moving? I had twenty-four hours to leave, he said. Oh. He walked back into his dark room, and I sat in the dark kitchen, not really feeling particularly hungry anymore. I threw the rest of my food away and went into my dark room. Looking over a lifetime's-worth of accumulative teenage crap. Where the hell was I supposed to go? What the hell was I going to do? Did I really have to leave?

I did. By noon the next day, I'd thrown away mountains of stuff that really didn't seem as important to me as they did the day before when I had a place to keep it, and the rest that I deemed essential enough to keep got stored in a friend's parent's attic. I floated around the next couple of weeks at a couple of buddy's houses. Tried to stay out of everybody's hair. I didn't try to figure out what to do, because I had absolutely nothing to do. Where the hell would I go? I'd always told my father that I was going to get the hell out as soon as I possibly could but never really thought about what that meant. It meant money. A place to stay. A steady income. I ended up homeless and would sleep in parks or stay up at the only twenty-four hour donut shop in town. I'd smoke, write, and wait until dawn. Wander around maybe, until a buddy got home.

After a couple months of this crap, I finally decided to get the hell out of Dodge. I was losing sanity points. I bought a round trip ticket that was good for one year from Montclair, California to New York City. This was great because this meant that even though I didn't know what the hell I was doing, I could stay in one place for a short time if it suited me, go back to a bus station and get a new series of tickets printed out, and everything would be cool. My father, of all people, dropped me off. He was really the only one who could take me. He seemed sad, and this perplexed me. If he was so sad, why didn't he just let me stay for a few months, stop being the ass that he was, I would stop being the ass that I was - and then I'd get out as soon as I could when I was better prepared. I waved to him as the bus pulled away. He had his hands in his pocket and looked very old. I didn't know what feeling old was yet. I just felt scared. Confused. Unreal. Like a character in a movie or some cardboard cutout in a poorly written story. We were heading to Arizona, it would take all night, so I tried to make myself comfortable and quiet all of the hard voices in my soft head. I turned to my left and smiled timidly at the man next to me. We eventually introduced ourselves…

Oh, Kundun...

One cent for every hour of my working minimum wage is yours.

god(s)bewithye

I am messy
Disorganized
Moody
Distracted easily
A five year old
An idiot savant
Nerdy
Remorseful
Hopeful
Hopeless
And remorseless
Stuck
And marching forward
I am
Spirited
And vicious
Everything
And nothing
When
My heart
Keeps pumping
Maybe this tells me something
Or maybe
Nothing at all

Enders Game...

I had a joke about low gravity, dropping things on your foot and The International Space Station - but I lost it. I think it was lame anyway.