Thursday, December 31, 2009

The Fires Of Darian

In abandoned buildings, holes form allowing eerie whistling winds no man should hear. Same goes for souls.

Boredom is a unique and special jailor. It promises no release and brooks no pleas. Time warps to a crawl and afterwards, when asked how long the sentence, the answer's always "an eternity". What makes the boredom cell so scary is the feeling an invisible hand is slowly squeezing the spirit out of you like a leaky tire.

Then you can end up flat.

Darian was flat. He didn't draw much anymore, just doodled. His pool of pity didn't allow much inspiration. "What's the point of drawing when you can't have friends?" As in times before the shelter, his self-talk resumed with a vengeance. He ran away from the shelter - from himself - continuing his lifelong running and it had only been a matter of time before he ran out of places to go.

Wounded and desperate, his darting eyes had spotted this empty haven safely outside the prying eyes of shelter dwellers. He hated it but his pride demanded its love. Like any abandoned place, Darian rummaged through looking for scraps of life. And as always, none were found. No matter. It was anonymity he truly sought - and that he got. And hated.

Ruler of hell, stood he. Like a character out of a Shakespearian tragedy, Darian mockingly hailed his domain of debris, his realm of rot, his kingdom of cockroaches. In simulated adulation, he held out his arms over the vast nothingness he surveyed. His piercing eyes went beyond the walls to all spots in the world both open and hidden - and found nothing there either.

Darian had cracked under the weight of his torment. So adamant were his attackers his pain was not real he retreated to a fulltime job of death for the first time in years. It had been a minor miracle of timing he even got it and for once Darian assumed the gods must be smiling on him for doing as they wished. He wasn't human anymore, he was leftovers. Shuffle along, be happy you're a janitor and "productive". But this lie could not stay buried regardless what worldly gods decree.

In the shelter, Darian's inner dream came true, meeting Cassie, a social worker whose ethereal spirit alone heals the soul. But needing her wasn't part of the bargain and when time came for her to move on, his bitter jealousy ate him alive. Now, in karmic revenge, another woman faced Darian: Vickie, the anti-Cassie, a "corporate creature" bent on destroying him. She immediately sniffed out his independent spirit and using her position as supervisor did her best to make his job a living hell.

He couldn't understand: why the miracle of getting this job only to be faced with this witch??

Awash in guilt, Darian could not stand up to her, failing himself yet again. Embracing his martyrdom, he refused all comforts. He cursed himself as he wrongly assumed Cassie would want. Any indulgence must be wrong if it helped this worthless being to live. One thing he didn't do was pick up the bottle again, which surprised even himself. None of it, however, cleared his guilty conscience

He drifted into temps jobs and that's where he found himself at that moment, in a windowless white room painstakingly placing tiny electrodes into tiny holes in circuit boards to be soldered later. At break times, he'd stood apart from the others outside, staring into nearby trees he imagined leapt from a Monet painting, seeing a hidden poetry there; wondering what planet he was on. Every fiber, every cell in his body wished to rush into those trees, to explore their secret, to throw himself upon the mercy of Life.

Twenty feet to paradise and yet unreachable in a lifetime.

Back inside the salt mine, Darian listened in crushed despair as co-workers spoke of the advantages of the solderers, how they got more hours and more pay. People to be valued. Darian was never one of the valued people. He was the bad guy wanting to burn everything down so he could live. Love never seemed so far away.

"Dear God, what have I done to my life?"

Suddenly, the door burst open, each head in the room instinctively turning with the energy rushing in. Darian almost died. Cassie! She found him! Ushering him out the door, she fed his soul once more, explaining this was no place for him, that he deserved to nurture his soul and come back into the fold of dreamers. "Yes!" he grinned, "Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!" Just like before, Cassie triggered a string of Yes’s within him, always saying the right thing, knowing the right answer, giving the right amount of love. Saved at last.


Despite the spiteful words in his head, Darian had indulged himself in his empty hell-hole by buying himself car magazines, a passion of his youth. Nothing could be further out of his reach than a car but as a child he drew amazing, fantastical cars several stories high capable of doing anything his dreams desired. But when Darian awoke from his Cassie dream, the sight of the magazines inflamed him. She's gone, you idiot! Get that through your head! He flung the periodicals across the room, landing between rusting cans of hazardous waste.

Flames. Roasting flames encircled Darian, no here gets out alive! His soul ablaze, he fled into the night, swallowed by the darkness. How much longer could he run? Where did he have to go?

Downtown Dallas was on fire last night -- at least, its trash cans were. Six or seven of them, to be more exact. That's what firefighters say. We saw four for sure -- the first one around 9. The trash can at the corner of Griffin Street and Ross Avenue was smoking. I was driving home from work and doubled back to make sure I'd seen what I'd seen. Sure enough -- thick, opaque clouds of smoke pouring out of the can.

Then, there was a flash of light just down the street toward Lamar Street -- sure enough, another waste can was ablaze in front of the CVS. For a few minutes, it just burned. Then the fire engines sounded and rounded the corner; and within minute, it was out.

Some waiting at the West End DART station gathered across the street for a better view. "I'll tell you what," said one man, Don Willis, who had missed his bus to watch the action, "whoever is doing it, before the night's over, they'll do it again." He was right.


Monday, December 28, 2009

Screaming Yells, Funky Smells, It's Eviction Day In The City

Bagged up clothes, faded hopes
Left in a discarded rush;
On the ground
There's a feeling
of despair;
Coughing parents,
Sickly children,
See their icy breath;
And on every street corner you'll see:

Screaming yells, funky smells,
It's eviction day in the city!
Time to die, suicide,
Soon it will be shelter time!

Families thrown out
And the cop cars
Swirl a bright red and blue,
As the looters rush
Home with their booty

Hear the banks laugh
Counting money
In their limousines,
Dark tinted windows
Don't see:

Screaming yells, funky smells,
It's eviction day in the city!
Time to die, suicide,
Soon it will be shelter time!

Now you fell! Go to hell!
Have fun in your shelter grime!
Life's not worth a single dime!


Friday, December 25, 2009

Foxy News Reports On The Detroit Flight Terrorist

We distort, you deride.

ROMULUS, Mich. — A Nigerian man who said he was an agent for al-Qaida tried to blow up a Northwest Airlines plane Friday as it was preparing to land in Detroit, but travelers who smelled smoke and heard what sounded like firecrackers rushed to subdue him, the passengers and federal officials said.

Flight 253 with 278 passengers and 11 crew members aboard was about 20 minutes from the airport when passengers heard popping noises, witnesses said. At least one person climbed over others and jumped on the man. Shortly afterward, the suspect was taken to the front of the plane with his pants cut off and his legs burned, a passenger said.

One U.S. intelligence official said the explosive device was a mix of powder and liquid. It failed when the passenger tried to detonate it.

In national emergencies such as this, Foxy News assembles only the finest assortment of legs anchors possible. So impressed was I, I felt it necessary to masturbate transcribe their efforts for SNL posterity. Even on short skirt notice a peerless panel of airheads reporters comes together to bring us up-to-the-minute propaganda developments. Here, in our moment of crisis, we are comforted by the three ho's pros of Bimbo, Empty Suit and Asshole to deliver us the laughter news we need!

BIMBO (hiking skirt): Like, Oh my God! We're all going to die!

EMPTY SUIT (plastic smile intact): Now, Bimbo. Let us manly men calm things down like the Bible tells us to do: not all of us are going to die.

ASSHOLE (pissed - as always): This is clearly Obama's fault! No way this happens under McCain! Hope you're happy America!

BIMBO (crossing legs like a cheerleader in the stands): Like totally his fault! Did you see how it was a Darkie who did this just like the President! OMG! [Yes, she literally said "OMG"]

ASSHOLE (more pissed, face looks like he's taking a dump he can't quite finish): Can't trust any of them! Want to tell me it's a coincidence they're both from Africa! Folks, don't be naive about this!

EMPTY SUIT (expression never changes from one of self-congratulation): I'd like to be fair about this - because fair is my middle name - and be the first to deny any conspiracy theories the President was involved with the alleged terrorist or fist bumped him in any way. Just to repeat: I'd like to go on record saying the PRESIDENT was not INVOLVED WITH the alleged TERRORIST.

Insert your own caption here

BIMBO (jiggling assets): I heard he had an atom bomb! He coulda blown up a whole state and left us with only 39!

ASSHOLE (getting Beck-ien at this point): Obama wants America to die!! He's fiendishly manipulating American patriotism to rally support for his failed foreign policies and deviant plans! That's something you never saw the previous President do!

BIMBO (hiking skirt again): Like, Oh my God! We're so all gonna die!

EMPTY SUIT (eyes furtively checking out Bimbo's legs. Finds he needs to cross his own) Just to recapitulate: We at Foxy News are denying all not-yet-PROVEN reports the PRESIDENT is IN LEAGUE with DARKIE TERRORISTS.

ASSHOLE (in hemorrhoidal rage): I'm sorry! I just have to speak the truth! We can't be fudging the facts in times like this. Obama is practically inviting them to come over here! If Michael Jackson can turn white, why can't he? Any true patriot would!

EMPTY SUIT (stiffening, clearly has mr. woody on his mind): You're right, Asshole! That's a fact no one can deny! I'd sure like to see the liberal media try to spin that one! I bet they'll try to spin it hard! Real hard! Hard as they can possibly get!

BIMBO (tossing legs up in the air): Please, somebody protect me in the Biblical way!

EMPTY SUIT (jumps on her in patriotic defense): God's will be done!

ASSHOLE (taking over the set, spitting nails and grabbing the camera for a close up): Get Obama now! Hang him high before he kills us all! All he wants to do is spread lies and foment hatred and whistle at white women! I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to fake it anymore! Obama is a raging, out-of-control traitor looking to incite violence against anyone who disagrees with him! Get him! Get him before he takes away all our women!

Asshole, Empty Suit, Bimbo
These photos require no doctoring!

More Foxy News babes here!


Somebody once sang this to me

First White Christmas In DFW in 80 Years (Photo Essay)

Harry the intrepid photographer was Harry-on-the-spot as snow came down in gusts up to 40 miles an hour. Not a lot had accumulated on the ground as it was still too warm but it was getting colder by the minute and I actually started to slide while standing still in the wind. By the end of the day I was half popsicle and my thin, artistic hands were in dire need of extended warmth.

Although it wasn't open, my first stop was the Japanese Gardens.

Courtyard behind the gate

Snowflakes reflecting the flash

Next I headed downtown.

Crossing the Trinity river. There's huge
developments along its shores.

I found shelter under an eave

To my surprise I came upon this passageway

I found myself in this courtyard. The tables in back
are from the famous
Riscky's Barbeque.

Then I found this inner passageway off the courtyard

All the places inside were closed, including this eatery.
Through the windows in the back you can see the outer street.

Back on the streets I'm
reminded who runs this country

Wells Fargo Tower. It has
a twin tower a block away

Angel from Bass Performance Hall. The Bass brothers
are oil billionaires who basically rebuilt and revitalized
downtown Fort Worth

On the way out of downtown I found
these pretty Porsches all in a row.

I went north to the Stockyards

Wind was blowing like hell without protection
of tall buildings like downtown

Horseshoes are embedded in the sidewalk

This is me taking a picture of the Stockyard saloon
through the glass. You can see my reflection.
If you'll notice you can see they use saddles for seats at the bar


Wednesday, December 23, 2009

You Say You DON'T Want A Revolution?

You say you'd hate a revolution
Well, you dope
Keep saying it's the only system!
Poverty is our evolution
Well, you dope
Human greed does all the fixin'!
But if you say love is perfection
Don't you know I'm gonna stomp and pout!
Don't you know it'll never be not right!
Stay blind, ya pork rind!

You say you got a real solution
Well, you dope
We'd all love to diss the plan!
No future in God's retribution
Well, you dope
I'm taking while I can!
But when you give money
to lobbies with minds that hate
All I can say is the line's so long you'll have to wait!
Don't you know it'll never be not right!
Stay blind, in your bind!

You say you'll keep the air pollution
Well, you dope
Who needs air when you're dead!
You say you'll vote your institution
Well, you dope
We love to keep whores in your bed!
But if you go carrying pictures of O-bam-a
We'll make war on an Afghan mama!
Don't you know it'll never be not right!
Stay blind, lose your mind!


Tuesday, December 22, 2009

The Pharaoh Eats Mexican (Photo Essay)

On my last journey to the ancient granaries I merely visited an outpost, one of many throughout the kingdom. But today I visited the temple granaries, the largest in the land, cascading one after the other holding royal bounty to be kept from the masses (think Wall Street bonuses). This is where the high priests come to feed their bellies - as well as their insecurities. For by deigning their lives as more worthy in this world, they hope to make it so in the next. The reality, of course, is the opposite.

From a distance we see the complex,
spanning on both sides of the road.

We begin to feel how massive the storehouses are.

Soaring to the sky

Across the way, even more granaries,
holding the wealth of an empire

We go up the bridge for a better view

Note my small shadow

Having no gold, the peasants are taxed for their grain.
Trains ship in the ill-gotten grains.

Uh, not exactly bullet train worthy.

Looking back at the first elevator

I decide to check under the bridge
but along the way I notice this at the bottom.


I'm at the foot of the elevators,
my camera unable to capture their full scope.

I cut through a chain link fence
to check between the elevators.

I find a friend, bent by a thousand winds.

As I depart, a peeking sun reminds me
there is nothing new under its watch.
We've been down these roads before
and the time for harvest draws near.

So why does the Pharaoh eat Mexican with such glorious amounts of grain to supply even the grandest of orgies? Because the grains stored in these granaries are grains of sand, or proppant, used in frac wells that pull out natural gas. If the god on earth wants to grab a bite, he'll need to hit up El Puerto down the road.

In fact, the entire area was Hispanic, complete with gauchos on horseback in the street. It's part of a borderless community within a community, but that's a whole other essay.

If want to see the entire set of pictures, click here.