Chance Meeting With Jesus
Written some time in 2002

I decided to go for a walk one morning because the devil was nagging me with pictures of my parents have sex on my birthday.
Passing the same litter as everyday, I felt comforted by the familiar color schemes.
Then something predictably unpredictable happened:
While transversing the woods, I came across Jesus.
I asked him, fumbling with my note cards that had been written by an Armenian 4th grader lusting after rabbits:
'Do you feel angry with history for this most egregious of miscastings that makes all the people who would love you hate you because your followers are evil?'�
'No,'�no anger,'� he said back to me.
I offered to help out, to kill all his followers, but he said it wasn't necessary.
He thanked me for wanting to help and ensured me the menace of Christians would end soon.
I then came back into town and entered a gas station.
I shot the clerk dead.
I then went to the gas station kitty-corner and got some milk out of thirst.
On my way home, I was hit by a sudden guilt streak, so I stole into the woods and feverishly buried the empty milk carton.
That put it all to rest.
I came home intending to write down what had happened.
Then I would analyze it and analyze the analysis like a good fashionable Virgo.
But I got distracted by the need to sit in a chair all night waiting to get myself a glass of water to enable my writing process.
I ended-up watching some TV and going to sleep.
Now, I might have missed something,
But I think it was a good day.

Self-Introduction At the International Comptrollers' Conference of 2005

I slept
In a bed of tempered satins
I dreamed
The Sun rose and set without me
I slept
I dreamed
Integers continued the same cycle of affairs and betrayals
Envy still drove a train around the frozen universe
Deep blues and pastel purples shone from atop me as an icubus sat near my gall batter
This reality is plastic
One flows into the other like a wedding wine yin-yang
I dreamed or I remembered or I was and so I will be again
In different tenses and times styles and textures all it came to pass was becoming
A language imperfect
A thought knowing only where it is
I continued to sleep
I awoke
I continued to sleep
I awoke
I continued to sleep
I awoke
I awconktined

Sixth Grade
Does the date matter; it's a reference to the past, ah'� but it does like Plato

When I was a boy I had a certain weakness or vulnerability that coated my skin.
Lying beneath it twas a focused fire seldom known to ourstory. They, the shiny ones, they would say to me in the school yard 'you are ugly.'� Then, I would say, 'Oh yes, I am quite ugly aren't I? Thank you for letting everybody known how ugly I am.'� Or sometimes, they you would say 'you're a loser,'� and I would say, 'Aren't your parents divorced, I'm so sorry. That must make you feel very alone inside. Let me know if I can help you. After all, I feel very sorry for anybody who would randomly tell another person they're a loser. How broken and weak you must be inside. Please, anytime brother, let me help you, because I love you.'� It always seemed natural to me to flaunt my flaws, to dare others with a dark look to salt them as they would. I did it not so much out of logic or morality, but out of a love of that feeling of power, because that's what vulnerability brings is power, and none of them ever realized that, they always tried to obtain power through pathetic reactionary defense, shameful self-promotion, shallow competition, and conformity alike. While I with burning aloofness made them all eerily wander in their heads with confusingly fear at whatever it was I was doing there. A threat I was, an undesired ally of everybody's true self, a dangerous thing to be. It's like being Hitler's brother, which is to say the brother of that one pop figure who is voted worst of all pop figures for the convenence of the census bureau just like the two minutes hate. This is how it was, and is, and will remain. This peaceful piece of writing has no natural ending because I'm too tired to write a whole thing-to-do about it, so I depart with a simple unrelated five line poem:
I am a schizophrenic no doubt
I eat people who eat trout
I varnish my salad fork under a harvest moon pie I stole on the way out
I stabbed the man eating the trout-eating clerk did shout
Do you know what the fuck this is all about?

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