Showing posts with label Listen... Volume 1 Death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Listen... Volume 1 Death. Show all posts
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Trailer #2
Here's the second trailer for the old project. You know the drill... Check back next week for more excerpts and the ilk...
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Book 1: Skid Marks
South Jamaica, Queens
February 28, 2001
0200 hrs
Standing in the thick snow, sharp needles from the cold pricking his face, he stares nonplus as the darkness increasingly swallows the bus’s red tail lights as it roars into the darkness. A loud, gurgling sound emits from his stomach as he contemplates alternative means of getting home. Uncertain whether the sound forebears flatulence, or his bowels’s response to the combination of the frozen margaritas and jalepeno poppers he consumed at the bar, he resists the urge to release.
Scouring the barren, lonely streets and white sidewalks of Jamaica Avenue, he sees none of the sights that give life to this usually busy commercial district: no open fast food stores; no people fill the sidewalks, forcing pedestrians into the street to make progress; no cabbies soliciting rides. Worst of all, at this time, it will be at least an hour before another bus comes by. "Maybe I can hold it ‘til a cabbie comes around." He considers before the pain in his stomach forces his torso forward, retiring this option.
Unsure of how long he will be able to deny his body’s demands for, he attempts to run in search of an open store with an available toilette. "Please, God, let me hold it in… just a little longer… Please." He begs. However, with his inebriation swaying the streets beneath him and the thicket of snow devouring his gait, running proves impossible.
"That snow around the trash can looks pretty thick," he thinks to himself, "maybe no one will see me if I go there in its shadow." The thought of Sincere’s expression when he explains that he used his Valentine’s present as toilette paper instills a fear that strikes down the idea.
She burns her energy as hours and days evaporate. The downpour of her efforts wash over archived articles and microfiche in search of facts and statistics. Her rage is likely to boil over misplaced jeans during the pittance of time they do spend together; there will surely be an explosion if he explains that he shat in the gift she bought him two weeks ago! The semen retention period will be extensive while her stare is foreboding, driving the wedge between them deeper, further distancing the two. Her attitude thusly ductile, he fears any additional pressures will sever their connection and set them adrift, fragments of the same ice berg diverging in life’s ocean.
Failure is not an option; he cannot risk the destruction of his relationship over soiled underwear.
He recommits himself to his quest as desperation increases. Stumbling up the block, the light from an open door greets his vision, invigorating him with hope. Hastening his pace to the light, hope becomes to frustration as he realizes it is only a corner store with no available public restroom.
"What the fuck?" He says in frustration, resigning himself to the fact that he might have to relieve himself behind one of the few cars that are parked along the street and wait for the bus with the thick, sticky liquid resting uncomfortably between his cheeks.
Looking around in despair for a secluded area, the air entering his lungs burns its way to his bowels, increasing the violence of the rumbling. "Yes! Is that… a bar!?!" He shouts, unable to restrain his emotions at the sight meeting his eyes, "Please, let there be a bathroom inside." Upon rushing to the door, brown script lettering against a white canvas forms his latest obstacle:
Scouring the barren, lonely streets and white sidewalks of Jamaica Avenue, he sees none of the sights that give life to this usually busy commercial district: no open fast food stores; no people fill the sidewalks, forcing pedestrians into the street to make progress; no cabbies soliciting rides. Worst of all, at this time, it will be at least an hour before another bus comes by. "Maybe I can hold it ‘til a cabbie comes around." He considers before the pain in his stomach forces his torso forward, retiring this option.
Unsure of how long he will be able to deny his body’s demands for, he attempts to run in search of an open store with an available toilette. "Please, God, let me hold it in… just a little longer… Please." He begs. However, with his inebriation swaying the streets beneath him and the thicket of snow devouring his gait, running proves impossible.
"That snow around the trash can looks pretty thick," he thinks to himself, "maybe no one will see me if I go there in its shadow." The thought of Sincere’s expression when he explains that he used his Valentine’s present as toilette paper instills a fear that strikes down the idea.
She burns her energy as hours and days evaporate. The downpour of her efforts wash over archived articles and microfiche in search of facts and statistics. Her rage is likely to boil over misplaced jeans during the pittance of time they do spend together; there will surely be an explosion if he explains that he shat in the gift she bought him two weeks ago! The semen retention period will be extensive while her stare is foreboding, driving the wedge between them deeper, further distancing the two. Her attitude thusly ductile, he fears any additional pressures will sever their connection and set them adrift, fragments of the same ice berg diverging in life’s ocean.
Failure is not an option; he cannot risk the destruction of his relationship over soiled underwear.
He recommits himself to his quest as desperation increases. Stumbling up the block, the light from an open door greets his vision, invigorating him with hope. Hastening his pace to the light, hope becomes to frustration as he realizes it is only a corner store with no available public restroom.
"What the fuck?" He says in frustration, resigning himself to the fact that he might have to relieve himself behind one of the few cars that are parked along the street and wait for the bus with the thick, sticky liquid resting uncomfortably between his cheeks.
Looking around in despair for a secluded area, the air entering his lungs burns its way to his bowels, increasing the violence of the rumbling. "Yes! Is that… a bar!?!" He shouts, unable to restrain his emotions at the sight meeting his eyes, "Please, let there be a bathroom inside." Upon rushing to the door, brown script lettering against a white canvas forms his latest obstacle:
RESTROOM FOR BAR PATRONS ONLY!!!
He storms into the bar, exasperation transforming to anger. "Now I gotta deal with this shit!" He grumbles, placing a crumpled five-dollar bill on the counter. "Lemme get a Snapple ma," he says to the bespectacled, curly haired woman behind the bar, "and keep the change."
A dim, yellow light catches his peripheral vision. Swiftly, he turns, catching the light thin to a sliver before as bathroom door shuts following the exiting patron. "Just a few more feet," he begs, expediting his stride to reach the door. Just then, the sound of his name, wrapped in a familiar voice penetrates his soul as he desperately tries to ignore it. Continuing to the bathroom undaunted, he feels a tap on his shoulder.
"Hey pa, what you doing in here tonight?" Asks Tanya. She looks at him with those large, perfectly round brown eyes that swell his manhood every time he becomes the focus of their gaze.
In an effort to maintain his dignity, he reluctantly stands upright and begins; "Jus tryin’ to get my drink on. What you up to tonight, ma?" The lack of rumbling accompanying the exiting words provides him a renewed sense of control over his functions.
"I was out with this guy, but he’s a dick!" She hisses.
"So wh…" He starts, slowly relaxing his abdominal muscles. He winces in horror as gas silently exits, bringing with it a trickle of thick warm liquid. Decency is no longer an option as the smell of alcohol and tobacco emitting from her mouth begin making him nauseous. This newest sensation comingling with the material lying heavily in his stomach, increases the substance’s insistance on exiting. Now all his energies are employed in delaying his body’s most deplorable function.
He utters inaudible, frail excuses as he recoils from Tanya. She looks at him quizzically. Her thick, succulent, moist lips begin to form a sentence, but the pounding rapidity of his heart and the violent churning of his stomach deafen him in his retreat.
Upon reaching the darkness enveloping the restroom door, his heart becomes heavily weighted seeing a coin slot next to the lock. "C’mon, I’m so close, not now, not now!" He implores, frantically gyrating his hips and placing the palm of his hand firmly underneath his buttocks in a final attempt to restrain the grotesque substance that will soon bore its way through.
Beads of sweat form cold on his brow; he is running out of time. As he digs into his pockets, his fingers gripping thick balls of lint, he thinks back, angrily, to the bartender whom he had told to keep the change from his last five-dollar bill. In despair, he casts his hands skyward, shutting his eyes as he leans his head against the door, conceding his fate.
He is momentarily bewildered as the door provides little protest, swinging open at his touch.
Hope overcomes him as he stumbles in, ignoring the running faucet and overflowing sink; the vomit and urine soaked toilette paper littering the floor. Reaching the toilette, he struggles with the drawstring of his nylon pants, the cold material sliding down his thighs, narrowly avoiding the cascade of brown pebbles gushing out.
Reclining, his head rests against the cold porcelain tiles, euphoric in the knowledge that he is victorious over fate’s sinister scheme. He has safely made it to the toilette and avoided soiling himself. Glancing to his left, he feels fate’s laughter resounding through every fiber of his being seeing nothing but an empty, brown toilette paper cylinder.
In dismay he hangs his head, starring downward: down past his silk underwear, down past his nylon pants, down to the thick wads of moist, black toilette paper that cling to the bottom of his boots. He quivers in terror as he comes to the realization that he has a choice to make…
That's it for this entry, if you like what you read, you can purchase Listen... Volume 1: death at https://www.createspace.com/3366451 or on amazon.com. Featuring artwork along with the stories (Check out the trailers for a preview of the artwork).
Use discount code: TG469U93 to save 15%.
Use discount code: TG469U93 to save 15%.
Coming Saturday, February 28:
Listen... Volume 1: death launch party and poetry reading
UFO
6010 Kissena Blvd.
Queens, NY
Coming Tuesday, March 4:
2
2
Coming Wednesday, March 5:
Book II: The Jungle (pt. 1)
Prologue
[Prologue]
Surprised ya made it. Don’t get scared now, ole Bubsy don’t hurt nobody. ‘Sides, ya wanted me to describe the City to ya right? Make ya feel it. Heh! New York Fuckin’ City, most famous town on terra firma. Home. Mine for the last forty seven summers, I swear. Here? Nah! This my summer home. Heh! Live seasonally in my walk of life.
Winter.
Bitter. Cold.
Stealing, competing, dying.
Woke up next to frozen bodies a few times.
FuckingJackFrost.
Shelters? Ain’t no better. More bodies than beds. Thieves. Rapists. Lunatics. Ain’t safe. Cops? Sticks. Shields. Chase. Beat. Flee. Two choices for ‘help.’ Pigs. Rehab? Jail Cell? Yearning, drifting, unchanging. No high in rehab. Bid? Meals, bed. Bathing. Smoking. Fucking. Hit the streets refreshed. Vacation! Heh! Apartment? Outta budget. Me? Sleep in tunnels from October to April. Abandoned stations. Empty platforms. Bombers come decorate. Don’t bother Ole Bubsy though.
Summer?
Heat. Humidity.
Slapping. Strangling. Suffocating.
Pass out from heat exhaustion once.
Dread.
Too hot to breathe and just fell. Can’t store possessions. Bags. Lift. Carry. Watching. Targeted. Fighting. Always wear it all. Burden. Heh! Jumped in park by gangs most times. I found this haven. Isolation in chaos. Sleep upon piled clothes. No one ever comes. Hide shit under bushes while gone. Check? Nobody. Ever. Unthinking. Unseeing. Uncaring. They’re extending Riverside Park. Change. That’s what Bubsy thinks. Fairway? First marker. Providing. Serving. Gentrifying. Soon, Bubsy gone get evicted so laughter and swings can move in. Bleach. Steal construction parts. In the meantime at least, dig? Sell metal for scratch. Heh!
This shit jar look full?
Nah, can fit two Manute Bols.
Empty in River.
Ole Henry Hurdson’s. Heh! Stomach not strong, eh? Watching waves kiss the rocks on the base of this highway works. Even waves from Jersey wanna come to New York.
Younger? Fantasize islands. Laughing, swimming, tanning. Mental escape from Wisconsin winters. Cold. Left fifty years back. Never looked back after flight. Before ya was born? Heh! Maybe. Livin’ the dream now. You not talkin’ to no liar. Bronx only connected one.
City.
Historic. Unique.
Living. Dreaming. Working.
People the same everywhere though.
State.
Caponized without: Bronx the prostate, where it begins. Queens and Brooklyn. Forever joined; balls. Where both laughter and tears drop. Thinnest vessel binds. Manhattan. Massive dick. Fucking, loving, raping. Spreading hedonistic ideals throughout the world. Babylon. Staten. Abandoned Island. Drifting, floating, symbolizing. Cum adrift in the Hudson the ejaculate of continual planetary coitus. Heh! Orgasmic eergy fertile breeding ground for interesting stories though.
City is more than potholes, pedestrians, piping steam, sewers and streets. Listen! The City is breathin’. All the time. Just gotta listen to the phases:
Inhaling three years ago when budget cuts kept street repair teams from repavin’ a stretch of road;
Lungs stretchin’ and inflatin’ when water freezes and thaws in the little crack as summer and winter dance over the asphalt for a few songs. The crack splitting with every courtesy;
Pausing as the tormented middle schooler flees, salvaging her dignity, traffic speeding to the yellow light, trippin’ in the pothole that grew from the crack;
Exhaling as the construction worker rushes the amber light, Good Years screeching along the asphalt three feet too late, as the hovering light glows scarlet above, dilatory about three feet beyond safety. A puddle of blood filling the pothole;
Inhaling again when the sirens blare curve compact cars and shifts SUVs, sculpting traffic, shaping the days’ events for hundreds of drivers and uwitting pedestrians.
Artists, barbacks, bartenders, brides, bus drivers, car drivers, children, cock teases, cops, cousins, cuckold, cuckolder, cuckolded, customers, DJs, hoes, housewives, immigrants, lovers, MCs, parents, pimps, poor of spirit, rich of experience, salesmen, students, transplants, teachers. We know them all. Even the babies. Good? Maybe bad. Searching, confronting, dying. In the gray city, all denizens rest along the continuum of hues between black and white. Human.
Watch ya step! Fuck! Knocked over the jar. Shit’s everywhere.
Winter.
Bitter. Cold.
Stealing, competing, dying.
Woke up next to frozen bodies a few times.
FuckingJackFrost.
Shelters? Ain’t no better. More bodies than beds. Thieves. Rapists. Lunatics. Ain’t safe. Cops? Sticks. Shields. Chase. Beat. Flee. Two choices for ‘help.’ Pigs. Rehab? Jail Cell? Yearning, drifting, unchanging. No high in rehab. Bid? Meals, bed. Bathing. Smoking. Fucking. Hit the streets refreshed. Vacation! Heh! Apartment? Outta budget. Me? Sleep in tunnels from October to April. Abandoned stations. Empty platforms. Bombers come decorate. Don’t bother Ole Bubsy though.
Summer?
Heat. Humidity.
Slapping. Strangling. Suffocating.
Pass out from heat exhaustion once.
Dread.
Too hot to breathe and just fell. Can’t store possessions. Bags. Lift. Carry. Watching. Targeted. Fighting. Always wear it all. Burden. Heh! Jumped in park by gangs most times. I found this haven. Isolation in chaos. Sleep upon piled clothes. No one ever comes. Hide shit under bushes while gone. Check? Nobody. Ever. Unthinking. Unseeing. Uncaring. They’re extending Riverside Park. Change. That’s what Bubsy thinks. Fairway? First marker. Providing. Serving. Gentrifying. Soon, Bubsy gone get evicted so laughter and swings can move in. Bleach. Steal construction parts. In the meantime at least, dig? Sell metal for scratch. Heh!
This shit jar look full?
Nah, can fit two Manute Bols.
Empty in River.
Ole Henry Hurdson’s. Heh! Stomach not strong, eh? Watching waves kiss the rocks on the base of this highway works. Even waves from Jersey wanna come to New York.
Younger? Fantasize islands. Laughing, swimming, tanning. Mental escape from Wisconsin winters. Cold. Left fifty years back. Never looked back after flight. Before ya was born? Heh! Maybe. Livin’ the dream now. You not talkin’ to no liar. Bronx only connected one.
City.
Historic. Unique.
Living. Dreaming. Working.
People the same everywhere though.
State.
Caponized without: Bronx the prostate, where it begins. Queens and Brooklyn. Forever joined; balls. Where both laughter and tears drop. Thinnest vessel binds. Manhattan. Massive dick. Fucking, loving, raping. Spreading hedonistic ideals throughout the world. Babylon. Staten. Abandoned Island. Drifting, floating, symbolizing. Cum adrift in the Hudson the ejaculate of continual planetary coitus. Heh! Orgasmic eergy fertile breeding ground for interesting stories though.
City is more than potholes, pedestrians, piping steam, sewers and streets. Listen! The City is breathin’. All the time. Just gotta listen to the phases:
Inhaling three years ago when budget cuts kept street repair teams from repavin’ a stretch of road;
Lungs stretchin’ and inflatin’ when water freezes and thaws in the little crack as summer and winter dance over the asphalt for a few songs. The crack splitting with every courtesy;
Pausing as the tormented middle schooler flees, salvaging her dignity, traffic speeding to the yellow light, trippin’ in the pothole that grew from the crack;
Exhaling as the construction worker rushes the amber light, Good Years screeching along the asphalt three feet too late, as the hovering light glows scarlet above, dilatory about three feet beyond safety. A puddle of blood filling the pothole;
Inhaling again when the sirens blare curve compact cars and shifts SUVs, sculpting traffic, shaping the days’ events for hundreds of drivers and uwitting pedestrians.
Artists, barbacks, bartenders, brides, bus drivers, car drivers, children, cock teases, cops, cousins, cuckold, cuckolder, cuckolded, customers, DJs, hoes, housewives, immigrants, lovers, MCs, parents, pimps, poor of spirit, rich of experience, salesmen, students, transplants, teachers. We know them all. Even the babies. Good? Maybe bad. Searching, confronting, dying. In the gray city, all denizens rest along the continuum of hues between black and white. Human.
Watch ya step! Fuck! Knocked over the jar. Shit’s everywhere.
That's it for this entry, if you like what you read, you can purchase Listen... Volume 1: death at https://www.createspace.com/3366451 or on amazon.com. Featuring artwork along with the stories (Check out the trailers for a preview of the artwork).
Use discount code: TG469U93 to save 15%.
Coming Saturday, February 28:
Listen... Volume 1: death launch party and poetry reading
UFO
6010 Kissena Blvd.
Queens, NY
Listen... Volume 1: death launch party and poetry reading
UFO
6010 Kissena Blvd.
Queens, NY
Coming Tuesday, March 4:
2
Coming Wednesday, March 5:
Book II: The Jungle (pt. 1)
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