holed up in my zombie bunker…

…hundreds of feet underground, stocked piled for survival, entertainment and communication to last a thousand years and armed to the teeth; I wait for the first undead to rise, for the first of the flesh-eaters to begin gnashing their teeth, for the end when all my preparations will be rewarded by the sweet ecstasy of watching the un-living masses that blindly wander the crowded streets of this intellectual wasteland eaten so unceremoniously by the living dead. zombies will be my vindication, and deep beneath their daylight tombs I will build anew in the catacombs now under excavation. a society of the truly living, wise enough to know that life has a way of righting itself and the mindless, droning, slack-jawed, mouth-breather idiot parade would only be tolerated for so long. flesh be damned, let pestilence eat pestilence and blood pool in the potholes of the rust belt. i have endured the stupid, the rude and the weak-willed nearly every second I have been here and nothing would please me more than to watch them all flayed alive on the monitors down here that have been spliced into their traffic cams, atm feeds and security cameras. i hope to edit together one of the first documentaries of the apocalypse. while money will be worthless, I’ll be rich with accolades for my foresight and timeliness.

So anyway, my eye is mostly healed (though the white hasn’t filled all the way back in), I have stripped the trim, lights and hood ornament from the Ghia in preparation for her new paint job and I have survived another week in the service of the normals. Tomorrow I take a break from participating in the village festivities of watching paint peel and actually scrape it off the exterior walls of my mother’s building. The work is more annoying than difficult and I’m curious to see how the natives will respond. My guess is they will all gather around and watch the paint chips fluttering to the ground as if hundreds of years have passed in mere minutes. They will proclaim me a time traveler and make me their king.

I witnessed a pastoral phenomenon I think worth mentioning yesterday during my binging. Looking out over the valley well after midnight as an angry thunder storm blew itself out, I watched fireflies (hundreds of them) cascade across the glen behind the house while lightning danced across the sky in the distance. It was quite moving, a powerful series of thoughts and ideas unraveled and wove themselves back to together in one of those divine revelation sort of moments. clarity I have not know in ages tore through my mind. then it dissolved into the background as tuna casserole changed its flight plan at the last second on the funshine skyway and crash landed into yarksville.
I think the strange, yet intense, contradictive themes of my pre-bed activity contributed to the strange-ness of my dreams. what started as an innocent test drive of a car I will never be able to afford, spun through a second act where I was trapped at a buffet with a thousand yodelers and ended with me trying fruitlessly to have sex with a giant, rather guile-less, marble statue of a beautiful, deity. she whispering encouraging words and making as to let it happen, then moving in such a way that the nearly impossible feat became infuriating. the cruel coy act felt vaguely familiar and when I woke up I was both frustrated and exhausted.

and the record changes, tonight my dinner consisted of nothing but pan-fried perogies & onions sided by sour cream and apple sauce. it was amazing. nearly perfect. ended by homemade brownies. thanks ma.

I am not writing. I feel like I am mourning the death of a pet or preparing to get bad news from the school principal. an angry badness lurks nearby, misery is with him.

the taste of love lost still ingers on my tongue. it is bitter and dry way back in the back of my throat.
i smell change, but it reeks of unwanted familiarity. i’ve stopped and enjoyed these roses before. more thorn and bee sting than longstem lovely.
i have buried so many treasures as of late that my map is mostly x’s.
my art knows my playlist by heart and refuses to listen to the wails of sad sacks and their broken promises while my promise is being broken and stuffed in a ziploc baggy full of children’s aspirin.
ka is a wheel that keeps on turning, but my fate seems to have gone flat.
i’ve been on this ride before, it wobbles a lot, goes around in circles for a while then the bar goes up and you can buy a picture where you’re the only one not smiling.

i’ve got a quarter and a turkey leg is a dime, i don’t need your two cents. save it for that tease of a goddess, you’re next, good luck.