Archive for the 'death' Category

Before It Gets Better

They say It Has To Get Worse Before It Gets Better.

I aim to challenge the notion.

It has to get worse before it gets better.

Do you think so? Good chance; lots of my smartest friends do. Why?

They say it has to.

First off: What is “it?” Life on Planet Earth. You know? The Future. The future of the human species; specifically related to our embarrassing little self-extermination problem.

It must get worse before it gets better.

10 years ago, a Rwandan with enough money could buy a bullet in the head — from the genocidal mob who would otherwise beat & hack them to death with clubs & machetes.

Yesterday a car bomb turned a Baghdad food market into what one witness described as a “Swimming pool of blood.”

Early this week two friends of mine checked on the well-being of their close friend — who was distraught over a damaging legal situation. They found their friend hung by his neck from the ceiling.

Death don’t take a vacation in this land.

I’m not sure how it turns out for the dead folk. But people who live through this terrible shit? We need a little rest & peace.

But peace & rest are as rare as honeybees these days.

Beekeepers Across The US Report Losses Of Up To 95%

“It may be that the honeybee has become the victim of insecticides that are meant for other pests,” One beekeeper suggests. “If we don’t figure this out real quick, it’s going to wipe out our food supply.”

“The squash crops that we grow have a male and female bloom, and the bee has to visit…to make it pollinate and produce,” An American commercial farmer agreed. “We’re going to have a hard time finding rental bees to aid in this pollination and if it’s as critical as it looks like it will be, I probably won’t even plant anything this spring.”
>>BBC 3.11.2007

Worse before it gets better? I hear it! Of the two possibilities — worse or better — Worse has all the momentum. It’s heretofore unimaginably bad. And coming to your town.

If we learn one thing from Virgina Tech here it is: Senseless slaughters have a Fat & Happy Future in America.

Unless it gets better.

But it must get worse before it gets better.

Know what? That’s about dumb as saying you need a pay cut before you can afford the rent.

Look: before it gets better it must simply get better. That’s the one possible way.

It can happen.

Underdogs win. The End Is Weird. And most days it seems like a miracle that we’ve not blown the world to chunks already.

Chronic Unemployment: the Case For.

I did the weirdest darned thing tonight. I worked.

It happens. Not often. But very occasionally my friends who own the Weathervane Music Hall pay me $25 to wash glasses when the bar closes after an exceptionally busy night.

‘Seeing ya’ll cold lazily cocktail-drink kick it while I do your work fills my heart with joy.” I told them. “This makes me happy!”

Weathervane bartenders hate to wash glasses after a busy night. But I was pleased as punch to. Did it cheerfully!

And did one smash of a job I might add: evidenced by the most recent comment — left by the boss lady herself — on my mySpace page.

I’m really not so spectacular a dishwasher. But she was desperate for one. And really I wasn’t so giddy about it. But I am desperate for money.

Speaking relatively, then — it was way frikkin awesome!!

In a small town like this finding work is purely an inside job. No one hires some jerk of the street to schlep for nickles & scuffle for a dime. Jobs here are got by personal invitation – either from the boss or a worker who is your friend.

I am eager to work. I do have a few stipulations. It must be freelance. It must. It is in my blood to freelance for money. Beyond that I’m flexible. I’ll do about anything. As long as it is not permanent I am not picky.

And I am as local as they come around here. People like me. I know employees. A few bosses even. My grueling need for cash is no secret. But work is never – ever – offered to me.

Maybe you think I could find work if I really wanted it. Let me tell you a story. Once I walked into a restaurant where several friends worked. I asked who was washing the dishes that night. No one! So I grabbed an apron & put the swab to the suds & got my scrub on. No one asked me to. I just did. Because no one would hire me to work. So I jumped in and hired my damn self.

And the restaurant people went along with it! I was hired.

Only they didn’t want to pay me. They wanted me to wash dishes from 11PM to 4AM every Friday & Saturday. But not for money. So I worked an entire weekend for free.

“Well,” I thought to myself. “Of course they don’t want to pay – I’m Mike E!!”

I’m pretty sure people think there is something wrong with me.

There is. I am an incest survivor. You may not know why that matters. Can you take me at my word? Life for incest survivors is not easy. People kill themselves over this shit. All the time; for a reason.

Post Traumatic Stress. Happens to every rape victim. Especially the children. And suicide – like chronic homelessness – is one bell-clear symptom of a big old honker Post Traumatic Stress Injury.

I feel like I have no place in the human community. Do I? Shit I can’t tend to my own human needs.

Not here in Brattleboro. I’ve lived here 20 years. Yet I cannot earn the money I need to feed & shelter myself.

There is no place for me in my own damn community.

On the bright side:

It’s kind of like blind folk whose other senses sharpen to compensate for their lack of vision. Smoldering abject poverty has worked a wonder job on my imagination. I’ve become a fantastically wishful thinker. With unshakable faith in the potency of make believe.

These are the disco-bomb best things about being Mike E.

Plus on balance my adult life spent mostly jobless & homeless has provided me more energy for art. Just a little more than I would’ve had with some dumb job for the last 15 years.

I am in the terminal grip of a stress tizzy. It is very difficult to write under such stress. I can write better. I will. I want to. But this is not about how well I write. My blog is a tool I use to improve myself in my time of great peril & adversity.

If I didn’t write I’d want to die. When I write I want to live. Write to survive. Live or die.

They say every story has conflict. That’s mine.

Over time a job you hate fills the soul with pools of stagnant misery. Perhaps the soul knows it needs art to survive. But the job rewards with money. Covers what one basically needs to be human. Suppose I had these things.

Would I write anyway?

Sure. I’d write. For hope. Because I like how the keyboard makes my fingers move. Write to make words go. Love to make words go!

I say a lot of nonsensicle scribbles. No. I mean really. Like one I wrote way back at the beginning of my blog. It goes

Go GO! Go Mike E go go Go!!

Gonna get $200


When I pass Go!

I call that a linguistic Digger. You wipe out sometimes when you write to make words go & go faster still. Hell I say a lot of stupid shit.

I’m a daredevil. What the hell?

My oracle is the reward to risk ratio. Think on this: Every year thousands of Americans die in their sleep. That’s right. Rest up! For what? You’ll never know. You died in your sleep & missed it.

No reward. Bad risk.

So what about that job? No thanks! People drown every day in those pools of stagnant long-term employment misery.

If I had a job I could still make words go. Yeah. But I want to take those words out for, like joy rides.

All the way out to the edge. To where you know it’s gonna get stranger. Where you can only go when words are your sole hope.

When you’re so poor that you haul out & steal yourself a rollercoaster. Because you can’t afford a car & sweet SHAZAM! You must have a fast way to blow town.

For fun mostly; that’s what happens when rollercoasters get left just kind of laying around.

Another Free Jar From Dr. Tweeks!

I had a dream this afternoon about my buddy MG TANK.


He was dead from unexplained causes.

I wasn’t too sad though.

Things live. Things die. Welcome to planet Earth, dig?

It’s a topsy turvey world.

Nothing personal. I like the kid hugely. But…well you know how it is.Truth told: The whole thing worked out real sweet for me.

And TANK was too dead to know the difference.

Yo TANK! If you’re out there reading my blog from beyond the mysterious beyond — you should know:


Your funeral total-way ruled!!

It was an open casket affair. MG TANK’S psychiatrist came. She’s a real nice lady. We call her Dr. Tweeks.

I stood in line behind Dr. Tweeks when we all filed past to view TANK’s body. Boy was that a stroke of fine luck & good timing! See, Dr. Tweeks paid last respects to her dearly departed patient by slipping a month’s supply of mixed-salt amphetamines into the breast pocket of TANK’s fancy funeral tuxedo.

MG TANK had a bumper sticker on his refrigerator. Yeah. Know what it says?

Yo TANK — I bet smartly you know which one I mean.

It’d be kind of like when I say, at times like these, “Hot damn it rocks to be Mike E!!!”

But in two or less words.

Tell you what dude: On account of having killed you in my blog post for a free jar of postmortem speed…I make you a deal. Tell me in the comment box which sticker I mean and I’ll give you a free pill the next time I see you.

Guess it wrong & I will off you again.

Righto then. Back to the daydream…

Tell you this: Just because that jar of speed was free sure don’t mean it came Easy.

Just as I moved to slip his funeral gift from Dr. Tweeks into my own sadly empty upper pocket MG TANK woke in a wild jolt from my daydream. Darkly disturbed at the molestation of his bon voyage stash & rudely determined to not have it be.

His fingers curled around my wrist in an icily genuine death-grip. His other hand stretched toward my neck.

“Off my cloud you dumb honky slut!!” TANK shrieked. I crammed my shirt-sleeve into his mouth to muffle his plea. It was no good at all for the whole funeral to know I’d got my hands on TANK’s last prescription. Too many fellow speed-freaks in the crowd. They’d demand to have it for their own.

And when I inadvertently neglected to cough it up the ensuing riot would pose a threat to public safety.

“Yo man!” I whispered frantically. “Don’t Fuck Around — if shit flies off someone might call the police!!”

“Cops??” TANK moaned wearily. “But..that’d be so bogus!!”

My friend wanted to roll over in his grave. But obviously couldn’t since he didn’t have one yet…*

TANK above all did not want Johnny Law to roll out & bust up his one & only funeral. He loosened his grip. Shot me a look that promised to haunt me & then spoke his last words on Earth:

See You On The Dark Side Of The Hobart Transport Portal!

“Word ’em up.” I said. Flipped the pill jar into my pocket. “Bring the Whateverz dude!!”

I strolled away giddily; like the gambler who just cheated & won. Or a little kid on Halloween who just scored the Trick or Treat candy stash from the limp grip of a neighbor –who’d been mauled moments before by a snarling & possibly rabid Mack truck.

Yeah — like thanks for the candy kiddo. Thanks for the candy!

Or maybe like me saying So Long & Thanks:


A Healthy Fear of Flight

I jumped out of an airplane once.

Why not? I had fresh pocket-loads of dough from selling freeze dry alien turds to hugely appreciative festival goers. And now it was time to blow my own mind.

I had a friend who jumped pretty regularly — as often as an enthusiast may snowboard or scream too fast near dawn down the coast highway on a Harley Davidson motorcycle.

Like a hobby.

I got wicked stoned with my skydiver friend one night. He popped in a video of people free falling. Very much in flight. Mid-air high fives & all.

DUDE! I exclaimed, Can ya smoke it??

What, he asked, like get stoned before you jump?

Sure. I’d love to know what happens when you put a roast on right before you do that mid air high 5 wildness.

He said it slows the perception of time & speed. Helps one make the most of the 60 second-long free fall experience. I related; when I would snowboard stoned it often feels like I’m cruising over Velcro. Even though I am dive bomb torpedoing down the mountain faster than a sonic-bound stolen rollercoaster. Faster than I’ve ever been. It just feels all slowed down.

Ah yes. Total control now.

“DUDE!!” I demanded. “How bout when yer shroomin?!”

Dude looked at me like I was crazy. Like his friends & him at the Drop Zone don’t tangle much with the shroomage before they jump out of airplanes.

Wonder what their Problem is?

Turns out that when you jump from an airplane at 13,000 feet you might not even need drugs — and I would never suggest such a thing carelessly. Fact is that you wouldn’t even notice whatever you were on. The added stimuli would, by my estimate, prove superfluous. Futile even.

The sensation I experienced after I jumped was the very closest I have ever brushed against the edge of the sensory overload envelope. I had no idea what the fuck was going on. Until, maybe 40 or so seconds into my minute of free fall, I remembered that I’d recently jumped from an airplane.

Remembered to breathe is more like it. Suddenly I gained mental faculties enough to look at my altimeter. Fifteen seconds later I pulled the cord. That’s all I remember. It was literally the fastest — most furiously fast — 60 seconds of my life.

Time flies when you fly.

I can’t say for sure whether I enjoyed the experience. I’m only certain that I just plumb didn’t know what the fuck. They say you can learn to pay attention better, to pull back, a bit, from the epicenter of that sensory overload envelope. Slow time down a bit, with your mind, as you fly through mid air. Take a moment to high 5 a friend who happens to whoosh by!

Probably helps to smoke a little weed.

Next time maybe.

I’d do it again, and here’s why: I do not fear easily. But fear is a quality emotion. Helps with the survival thing. Makes the toes tingle. I love to deliberately fear for my life: It’s one good way to Feel Alive!

And boy. I say: The plane ride up was very scary. I had an altemeter strapped to my wrist. The needle climbed. The plane climbed. 4,000 feet. Nowhere near the top. 4,500 feet. How long is this flight? I wondered but didn’t ask. I didn’t dare. Didn’t need to know.

It hardly mattered.

Once you’re on that plane you are committed to leap through the exit door when we hit 13,000 feet. Time slows straight the fuck down. Crawls like Vegemite down a water slide; quite the opposite of time’s impossibly rapid passage when you’re in the middle of a free fall.

On the way up a certain amount of time remains; the time it will take the plane to climb to its’ “destination” of 13,000 feet. The time that remains between now and when you have no way to know whether you will live or die.

Real time I suppose. An inescapable reminder of life’s brevity. Cold scary.

I’d do it again for the fear. Frikkin giddily!!

That and because they sew wings on to skydiver’s shirts now. So you can do better mid air tricks. Pretty soon they won’t even need parachutes. Just swoop skyward a moment before you belly-dive into the ground; you’ll pop straight up, right your wings & land on your feet ideally.

Ideally. But not always. People will jump from airplanes with no parachute and land successfully. Others will die trying. More power to them.

That’s what daredevils are for!



Phoenix Fly has risen – Wingsuit Skydiving and BASE jumping

superstar love revisited

Dear Batya,

Remember how we thought we could sell a short book of our emails? My old & fiesty friend: we were On To It! Which is why I no longer fuck with email much even; just slap this letter here, my first to you in 5 years, straight on open container speedWay!

Where everything is for sale.


They were on the counter. Flowers. No one had — or has since thank goodness — ever fired me up a bouquet from afar. Dudes: bouquets suck! In Lieu of Flowers just replenish my online gambling account. From now on. Thanks!

But one thing about these flowers was so good it changed me.

Probably I cruised up to the Godz Club — the old place to be — to smoke pot in the walk in cooler. Hits from a carved parsnip bong. Cauldrons of Alien Turd Tea. Stirred with giant chocolate speed-dipped sporks. Yep. First they got the sporks banned. Then outlawed hallucinations altogether. What next? The dreaded ‘nuclear option;’ the US Supreme Court upholds a Texas verdict outlawing possession, manufacture or distribution of make-believe. Whoa!

Did they really?

For sure they banned smoking pot in the walk in cooler. Ask anyone — the place has gone sharp down hill since. Plus they changed their name: they’re the Organo Plug Butt-crunch Restaurant & Pimphouse now.

This! After all the hard work you & me put into that hell hole?

All a friend can say is ain’t it a Shame!!


Last time I seen her Batya wore a tank-top with 2 words — Oui on her right & WIN! on her left — emblazoned with a green Sharpie across her boob-flesh. The upper & meatier parts of each. Exposed brilliantly when flashed from her tank top; a creme colored affair with miniature lace whips, dangled like hells bells, where her spine curved crater-like into the small of her back. Two words were embroidered in scorpion-apple red across the back pockets of her vintage cut-off Sergio Valenti jeans.

Bitchen Dinero.

I always thought she meant her stack of cash was bitchin’ — Super cool.

But before I got the chance to ask off she go — amid a wild chorus of woohoOz! — with whoever says they’re sober to drive, on a daybreak airport run.

Absynthies says: “That’s the coolest thing about being Batya — must be! She comes. She whoops everyone’s asses, parties harder & harder every second until she leaves — then wooshOO! Gone. Like a hundred dollar bill on a drug run.

Fuckin rock star that Batya!!”

Hero. She does the stuff of heroes.

One time Batya emailed me a few hours after her latest stunning daybreak departure. Said she jumped a straight-shot taxi ride to her workplace’s front curb. About 10AM Chicago time. To cook food for the health conscious People. Except she inadvertently switched the blender flip on while she dislodged a root of ginger with her fingers from the industrial strength high speed blade.

It was just me & her on email back then. She fired off a detailed ‘still drunk’ missive of the incident moments later from the computer at her work. I replied: “Batya: I’m proud of you!!” Then jumped on the phone to tell all our friends! Gossip? No — this is news.

“Yep.” I said. “Last thing said was she planned to commandeer OJ & Champagne for Emergency Room Mimosas. And trade lesbian sex for loose doses of opiate pain yummiez!”

Who does that? Seriously. 2 cool!

I remember another time.

“A’right you guys I just bought every Beastie Boys cd ever made.” She commanded. “So look out.”

It was awesome after that.

Awesome but like all the good things in this world — not for long. I don’t remember when Batya left town exactly. I just remember, protestation aside, I admitted I couldn’t blame her.

Batya lives in New York City and I like the way New York City moves me.

I hit the top stair and swung to my right & into the once epic hangout now known as the Plug Butt-Crunch.

“Whose got me birthday doobages?!” I blurted.

“Right here,” Absynthies proffered the boquet Batya sent me. “Smoke up Johnny!!” “Shit yes,” another concurred. “Smoke ’em way the fuck up!!”

“Give it to Mike E: He’ll smoke anything!” Absynthies said of the daffidol or whatever the shit was. She picked on me, of course, but with deliberate kindness — it was after all my birthday.

“You should smoke the card Batya wrote you dude!” Absynthies assured. “For real. That will get you high. Like Mike E likes it!!”

That good? I thought. Someone else In The Know said, “Read it.”

It read:

Superstar Love!


It was — & very much is — among the coolest well wishes offered me by anyone ever.

I read it again. Thought about it ever since.

Back at yooz like a boOmSlang 180. Batya: I’m proud to be your friend!!

From one superstar to another: Dang. We superstars gotz to stick together these days!! entire medium-size Vermont town wishes you happy birthday Batya!

The crowd goes wild.

Superstar Love (spiked with XXX make-believe),
Mike E

I did it for Jesus.

Noise – a high-pitch & spastically tuneless hum – escapes semi-inadvertently from my vocal apparatus.

Like serial killers in the movies. Except they seemingly prefer to whistle. Ever notice that about the serial killers in the movies? The way they always whistle random, agitated & tunelessly disgruntled notes while they stalk their next victim.

Then whistle off a razor-whip sizzler rendition of Love Me Do & stroll slap-happily along when the deed is done.

Like I said I prefer to hum. Leave the whisteling to Santa Claus; you know…that PacMan got munched by a ghost sound he makes while deflating late at night on someone’s front lawn.

Ahh yes!

After I knife jolly old plastic air-filled Saint Nick in the gut. Just to watch him die.


Broke-down Blues

Feel like an Alien
In a cage
at the Zoo

Got the rocket-ship
on Planet Earth Blues!!

Now I’m Trapped in Time &
I don’t know what to DO!

Got 3 eyes 2 brains
& nothin to lose

but one rocket-broke on Earth case-O’
d Green Alien Blues.

So quiet


*Shrug* I got nothing to say.

Like a bat feeds by night

I dream in the day.


Big Green Light is


my make believe speedWay!

Shit I love

to Dream about Gettin Paid!

Eye-wide Pluto ride

Deep around the Bend

Strange wind she blow


& Warm &

never again.