Half blind, spitting straight into the wind. a story, by Joshua, 1/16/2017

  • half blind, spitting, straight into the wind, by yosh dow

    my car was towed at 3am that morning, i was very sick from drinking and taking other things the whole morning pushing overflown wheelbarrows of concrete around on single planks making a path throughout a muddy foundation

    on top of crying and whining and bawling because of the car ( and the not being able to see clutch that night ). no class, low-class, whatsoever, everything was hanging out all over the place. sheer absurdity. unbelievable.

    i made it through the work day with the promise of the retrieval of my Xanax RX, money, weed, concert tickets and ID recovered from the vehicle currently impounded. faked it enough to borrow a car from my angel of an Aunt, mothers sister.

    drove to Gettysburg , you know because it was”on the way” to lancaster, not really. not allowed to get near or in my impounded car at the dealers lot , my Subaru wagon, repossessed by the dealer for non-payment. no Xanax, no weed, no money, no concert tickets (show was sold out).

    i have one friend in lancaster (i hate pennsylvania) . i manage to track him down and get to lancaster, didn’t have my “meds” that day, regardless of my disease, i was on these things regularly to no avail so this sudden cease of dose was an incredible undertaking. so getting stoned on reefer amplified my situation and my feelers grew to excess. i was living through hell, a dank, swampy, swirly, buzzing, jungle like hell.

    so i held his couch down after i got to the chameleon club as early as i could to try and score a ticket from someone. spent my only borrowed 25$ within 5 minutes of being in line to a kind lady who had an extra ticket to spare.

    the only other time i had attended the “chameleon club” was in about 2002/03 and i was carried out the door for being a ‘mosh pit shark’, causing disturbance, etc –

    the club was very small, smaller than i remember. small in that whole, ‘the walls are closing in on me’ sense. that frozen but sweaty, stuck in the same position for over an hour rebound anxiety you get comfy with because you’ve got no other choice.

    they opened with immortal and the only thing i could really hear the whole entire set was the outlet of my own yelling and screaming over top the band . it was miserable

    it was spiritual , and it hurt


show & tell, a thing. 1/1/2017

show & tell, a short thought. by joshua dow

Often times i make the attempt to involve you within my intellect. A large part of me has a desire for thought connectivity. I want to just open the valves and let everything out, let my thoughts run away with words. Discovering some new band, seeing some cool art, for some weird fucked up reason i think the other person might have an interest, and in return i only feel the disconnect that follows rejection. my biggest fear, rejection. something i never allow myself to deal with, rejection. i stumble around on a plane of endless, timeless, worthless information that my bones ache to share with someone. uncovering layers upon layers of topics that pique my own interest, unselfishly wanting to share every broad stroke with the broad that sits beside me. Though the attention span gets so bad sometimes that the focus is completely lost within minutes, or has just completely moved on to the next. just breathe, i think to myself. there’s always next time, i tell myself, wanting to make it all about this time. Considering myself an open mind, a kind soul, a loyal heart. Being told I am rude, mean, asshole’ish. In one ear and out the other, lucky to make it through the first ear. Face stuck in the fucking cell phone – I demand attention, because i’m a fucking genius, goddamnit. Pay attention to my ideas, my thoughts, my expressions. You might never witness something so genuine, so pure every again. Though i digress… My insides prune, my face wrinkles and my teeth slowly rot. Never could i share my feelings fast enough, for who knows when i’ll go. Never could i share my feelings period, really.


Motorcat, a short. 10.3.16

Motorcat, a story by yosh dow

Where is the cat and who made the last unusual noise.

There are times I am just not sure. There isn’t a big desire to speak about in first person. I am staring away from the computer screen as I type this. The cat eating my leg brace laying on the floor full on attack mode. The paranoia has gotten me right now .

For how long though?

There is or there is not a correlation between feelings and events. Do physics prove the laws of attraction. Is this kitten attracted to the couch. It keeps trying to scale the thing, sort of dance around the corner like a boxer. The black cat just jumped 5 feet in the air, okay 4 feet in the air straight up because the kitten came at it, full lunge. Theo jumps to a roll and places the entire tip of my suede wallabees in his mouth. Brown earthy looking Clark Wallabees, flat top\e front. Theo feasts upon it and my brace, back and forth between the two, The little mini (right now_ feline is going banana’s , so lively. Such spunk. Theo is not a cranked enough name for this powerhouse. He’s on it. Motokitty. MotoRkitty. Lemmy. Or Bonzo. But she suggested Lemmy, after his name was decided on Theo in an unspoken but certain agreement, (I presume).

PISS STEAM, a vision. 10.30.16

A vision – by jesu mikael

Woke up, opened eyes, no stretch, no yawn. First thought – to use, second thought – to use, third thought- or not to use. No noise isn’t good noise. Silent feline presence is not good feline presence. She still manages to smile, to grin, to contain her beauty with lips sealed shut. Mouths sealed shut, brains dismounted, ears sealed shut, nose sealed shut. Eyes wide open, I can see how bad it smells. My eyes can hear how piercing it sounds. Two eyes taste humid city slicker vapors. No worse than thick, heavy redneck county air. Bless one, bless not the other. Foam coagulates the toilet bowl. Piss steam rises and hits each nostril, left one – bam, right one – smack. Not before passing right through distinct moustache hairs, ginger hairs at that. A map, illustrated lies subtly beneath the surface, shown through the computer screen where it once be illuminated. my two eyes crossing, blurry vision. No need for any vision. Nothing to see. Lids of my eyes hardly open, playing a sequence, rolling a drawing, captured somewhere between the grid of a world drawn in front of you with never ending straight lines, and the inner workings of a mind left to wander. Idle hands, dull face, grey face, looking sickly face. Watched while I lay asleep and she adores. All gone on with eyes shut, mouth propped open and snores between breaths of first floor apartment air.

Directly out of an electric rotating fan, mere inches from my face. Drying out my mouth, as gunk builds and builds. Drying out her eyes, thirsty eyes. Thirsty for liquid, for solution, plain ole thirsty. Ill actually take a water type thirsty. Robin thicke type air with blurred lines style vision. Unprecedented thirst for vision. Lucky enough to be able to cultivate a vision. Where life can be anything you choose. Life can be the vision you have inside your head. Vision requires control. Self control, controlled environment, routine, maintenance, responsibility. I have a vision. Fortunate enough to have a vision. A vision with no attitude, a dream that doesn’t fight back. Lucky enough to not have to fight back, physically. Fighting back mentally – another story. Fought enough battles mentally to destroy a physical army of 300. A battalion of men. 300 Men. 300 humans with male parts. With a chunk of females thrown in to counter-act any perceived sexism. Because females have vision too. There was never a line drawn between male and female. Only in your mind, only in your vision.