I was walking my dogs around the neighborhood.  I stayed along the shady side of the street.  I noticed a light-skinned black girl—a woman— in attractive rosy, revealing gym attire, walking briskly in my direction on the other side of the street.  When our paths neared she crossed the street, heading towards me. There was no reason for her to cross at that point, I thought.    She wants to soak it in.  She wants me to soak her in. It's all becoming clear to me.   You're a virile bull with a flaring nose-ring—you're the inspiration behind emblems.  Stallions beseech you; your only faults cause earthquakes.  Yea, you're carrying shit—you're altogether dignified.  You'll clutch her bountiful clusters under a waterfall.  Wipe the peanut butter from your mustache.

As she approached, she smiled and I quickly went through my repertoire.  So, what? So, uh, you from around here?  Nah, too brutish.  Methinks—Ah, idiot!  We should work out—One of my dogs started barking and moved aggressively and she swayed away.  I didn't know what to say.

"She must be racist," I said.

Got some melatonin on my walk last night—that shit's expensive.  

I was like, "Yo, that shit's expensive!"

And she said what?

And I said, "Yo, that shit's expensive!"

I only got up once.  

Only one chocolate chocolate 

I was wearing suspenders over a get-up with thiner suspenders.  The larger suspenders were of a fabric with two red strips with white running down the middle.  The thiner suspenders were a few blue rubber bands.  I had on a white dress-shirt tucked into baggy gray slacks.  I've been wearing rubber bands on my wrists.  I often take one off and play cat's cradle when I listen to others share.

I was back in college.  I was living in the campus apartments, in a single room—it felt good to be out on my own and the sun was out—where my bed was on a sort of metal spring, but like on the branch of a tree.  I was on the fourth floor, and my room had no walls. When I would lay on my bed, it would rock and sway like a hammock and I was in constant fear of falling off if the bed were to turn 180.  If I laid still, I could even out the bed, and —oh, and my room had no ground either and was adjacent to the sidewalk and this Asian dude walked by as I was trying to lay still not to fall off.  So like, I would be laying on my bed, and he would be walking on his sidewalk next to me, and we were perpendicular.

I was very tired and sweaty and I was tired of always trying not to fall off, so I put on my Real Madrid jersey, the white one with the purple strips, and thought I don't care if it evokes hostile feelings from Americans, I have to tell the RA about my fear of heights.  She was a feminist.  She didn't listen to me.

The president was in town, with his family and cabinet and associates; he was at the college to speak.  I walked past his room in my complex as I was sneaking into rooms and searching for another bed.  He was with his wife and son, all three had just finished getting dressed and were in front of a bedside mirror fixing their cufflinks or buttoning up.  I was very sweaty.

Then in class I wanted to hear this guy speak.  I sat down indian-style along the gym mat with the others.  We were behind some rows of empty chairs.  Another guy came to sit down and asked me to move down so he could see the speaker's face.    He wasn't going to get a view from behind that chair and he was going to ask me to move again; if he did, I was going to let him have it.  When he did again, I said, "That's my breadbox!" and my voice came out strange and unattractive to the girls by us, and just made me sound disgruntled.  Me and him were dressed the same as the speaker—I thought I was being original.  We all had on thin white undershirts.  He had a better build than me, but I had a good build too.  One of the girls next to me didn't like the speaker, and said what does this have to do with the book?

So I said the hell with these people and I left.  I walked down a flight of steps into a grand lobby hall and I thought I should still say hi to the president and be respectful.  He was seated like at a Senate Hall and he took me around the podium and introduced me to some older presidents.  I made sure to say all their names as I shook their hands.  Their skin was old and their bones were frail.

Remove tray from carton.

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Cook on High 4 minutes. 

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Recover.  You're doing good.

Continue cooking 3 1/2 minutes.

Let stand in microwave 1-2 minutes.

The willingness to be willing.

Remove cover.  Enjoy.

Hi all, welcome to Writing 97A with EatKhash, I'm your hostess with the mostest. Check out my jeans—any chick writers in here?  Hey, that's cool and I'm Matthew McConaughey. The older I get, the more I stay the same.  Seeing how I'm "unemployable" in their view, I thought i'd stick my finger up their butts, and impart some learnds I have acquired, free of charge, in hopes of helping you spew some of that cool attitude.

Today, I thought we'd start off with some exercises to help free your mind waves.  Hmm...I'm kind of stuck here.  See, writing is two things.  The other thing is, writing should be like flipping channels.  Your mind is a TV, see, full of commercials for products, and people advertising themselves.  A lot of people sit there and write lengthy novels or linear storylines—that's gay!  You should be flipping channels, people!  You should be creating scenes that last but one to two minutes, long enough to fill a gap in your mind till you start thinking of some product to buy, or want to buy, or have bought and now have to pay for...or food that you want to go out and buy...

Here, class, let me give you a scenario that you can work with...(winks) yea, you too...see me  after class...for extracurricular sex!  Did I say that part aloud?  I'm holding my brain like an Introductory Greek Philosophy lecturer, and I see a scenario with a father, son, mother, and Donald Trump...go!  

How do they all fit in together?  What do you see in your box?  Or for you, your lopsided box...jeez, what'd you do to your hair?  Are they all characters in the scene, with dynamic roles?  Or one of them could be a subject, or be alluded to; for example, I'm holding my brain again, son asks father why he's not rich like Donald Trump.  Work with it, mold it, put pomade in it, wrap it with a tissue and shove it up your butt—we'll see what you got after my smoke break.

(aside)

-So you got a boyfriend?

-...—

-Ah, it don't matter.

Okay, pens down.  I got my laser beams on you, Nerdilinger.  Let's see what you got.

bla bla bla, bla bla bla—Ah! I see you have the father and the son in a conversation, like let's say, over a typical breakfast table with basturma, lavash, and eggplant caviar.  And Donald Trump and the mother serve as subjects in the boy's conversation with his father.

bla bla bla, bla bla bla—(laughs) undermining little bastard, isn't he?

I like this part.  Read this part aloud—It's okay, I'll do it.  Son asks the father, "Dad, what's it mean to be wealthy?"

- Well, son, being wealthy is to have enough money, property, and assests to live comfortably everyday and be able to pay...bla bla bla, bla bla bla...and buy non-essential luxury items.

- Is Mommy wealthy?

- Well, son, she spends like she is.  But I'm no Donald Trump.

- Is he wealthy?

- Yes, he's very wealthy.  In fact—

- Well, why didn't mommy marry Donald Trump?

See that?  That's it.  Everything else you wrote is junk.  This part—slap on a punch line.  Cut to Commercial.  That's it.  I gotta pick up my ointment.  Here's my address. (winks) You, I'll see later.  Tell your parents you're studying with the girls at a cafe.

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Add one tablespoon water;

recover.

Cook on half-power 9 minutes.

Let stand in microwave 1-2 minutes.

Don't be impatient.

Carefully remove cover.

Eat.

I'm canceling my movie streaming thingy account.  It's pointless.  I have the attention span of an...umm—I've been 8 minutes into Mary & Max for the last month, and 4 minutes into The Hunt.  I notice I can't keep up with the subtitles anymore.  And this one time, I was at Dennys alone, and I got an 8oz steak and told her to make sure it was medium and she said of course.  But a few minutes later  I realized I wanted my squash and zuccinni steamed not sautéed, so I told her, and when I got my steak, upon the first glance I cut it before she could leave and couldn't help but express my frustration, and ultimately sent it back—which I seldom do because I don't want the guys in the back to dip their balls in my food.  So I sat there mulling that over.  And I think that happened because I modified my order and so I didn't have earphones and this assclown in a nearby booth kept referring to being on set loud enough for others to hear so I turned on Max and Molly louder and tried to follow it while I ate my balls-steak and vegtables but I noticed by thinly slicing my celery, carrots, cucumbers and turning it into a mini-salad with my steak, I was getting tastier results.  Oh, and it was Christmas evening, which is kind of loserish, but a good source of protein

- Oh no!

- (background voice) C'mon you lazy bums!

- It's...it's—

- Pinche huevos, it's the Brownie Crunch guy!

- (background voice) ... Hit the backstock!

- Marisol, you go.

- Fuck you, puto.  Last time that fool almost bit my arm off.

- (background voice) ... Well then check the inventory—let me see that checklist...

then doing shit

i can't admit

I'm not really wallowing.  The shame of some things from a few years ago is finally starting to sink in, the weight of it that makes it feel real, and wholly mine.  Straight-up ruiner, I was.

Mr. Wiener, the Story of an Otherwise Distinguished Gentleman

Met a pear of a woman half my size at a Donut shop.  She's sporting sweatpants and slippers. She's my competition.

Don't get a divorce; get a donut.

I got another cashmere beanie in the mail.  It's charcoal gray. This one's 100%. I don't fool with wool, I says to her.  I wanted to try it out, but really I wanted to show it off.  So I walked down the street, and I put it on.  I couldn't properly discern any reactions from passing cars.  I walked down another street.  I thought I heard a whistle.  I pricked up my ears.  Somebody honked—I was in his driveway.  

Hmm...he didn't broach the subject.  

Mind you, I don't appreciate surly supermarket workers.  Do your job and get more Brownie Crunch from the backstock.  Actually, the guy was really nice and super chirpy and super middle-aged.  I don't know what's worse.  I felt bad about only buying a couple.  I mustered up the jolliest voice I could, "Oh! Any more and I'll eat it all at once!"

Some like it hot,

some like it cold

some like it lukewarm,

oh baby,

some like it old

some like the night

don't like to fight

some hold up the peace sign

oh baby

don't want to fight

i like my babe

when she's awake

when she is sleeping

i know she's dreaming

of random things 

throughout her day—

ooh yea!

cause we jammin—

i mean,

some like it hot

some like it cold

some like it lukewarm

and i like my babe

i wonder if she dreams

that she's a princess queen

or does she dream of an old dog

she used to have.

i wonder her grandmother

did she look like her,

and her ancestors

did they fight with the Soviets?

ooo yea!

Some like it hot

Some like it cold

Some like it lukewarm,

oh baby

We'll never get old.

E. Khash Live at the Sands (1966)

...Oh this cat,

had a mouse

this mouse 

had some cheese

and baby I got you.

So smile, take my hand

we'll go walking in the sand

Your cat will follow us

all the way back to

...your house

Then into your room

cause ever since I've been loving you

I no longer put pomade in my hair.

Before me you had your pets

Your home was a mess

living like packed rats in a can

this cat 

had a mouse

this mouse

had some cheese

and baby I got you!

So smile take my hand,

We'll go walking in the sand,

We'll let the air out of your room,

Kitty will find her way back to you—

Oh, my words sound good in your ear!

The tides of time 

no longer howl your name

You'll never roam alone again, 

my dear

"What can I say, the guy's a loser."

They're all against me.  

They're so against me they're indifferent.  

Throw an apple at their heads—

a drive-by fruiting.

Loser, ha!

-(Vinnie Baguette), Sir, they're here with the guy.

-(Chad NewBrunswick) What guy?

-(Vinnie Baguette) You know, the guy—the guy with the thing.

-(Chad NewBrunswick) No, which guy?

-(Vinnie Baguette) That bastard.

-(Chad NewBrunswick) Fat Bastard or the rat bastard with the simulcast?

-(Vinnie Baguette) Fat Bastard.

-(Chad NewBrunswick) Show him in.

-(Vinnie Baguette) C'mere you sonuvabitch—

-(Chad NewBrunswick) Christ, I meant help him in; he's got no eyes.

-(Vinnie Baguette) Here he is, Boss.

Enter Fat Bastard

-(Chad NewBrunswick) Where's the money from the sandwiches?

-(Fat Bastard) You didn't have to blind me, you sons of bitches.  I could get you the money—you didn't have to do that.

-(Chad NewBrunswick) I apologize; that was an oversight.

-(Fat Bastard) Mother Mary and Heaven, I can't fuckin see!

-(Chad NewBrunswick) Look, what's done is done.

-(Fat Bastard) I can't piss without running into a wall.

-(Vinnie Baguette) How do you wipe your ass?

-(Fat Bastard) Fuck you, you rat bastard!  

-(Vinnie Baguette) Watch it now! You the Fat Bastard.  

-(Chad NewBrunswick) That's enough, both of yous.  Vinnie, get the car.

Exit Vinnie

-(Chad NewBrunswick) Where's the money?

-(Fat Bastard) I can get it.

-(Chad NewBrunswick) For your eyes, I'm going to give you a week to find your way around to getting it.  You're lucky to be alive.  You're lucky it was just your eyes.  (passing Fat Bastard as he exits the room)

- (Fat Bastard, sobbing) How do I get out of here?

- (Chad NewBrunswick, pauses) ...I'll send Vinnie to come get you.

Exit Chad NewBrunswick

- (Fat Bastard, under his voice) ...sonuvabitch!

excerpts from my upcoming screenplay

(Establishing Shot)

Fade In:

-...That Fat Bastard, he's eating more sandwiches than he's selling—That's why he can't pay us.

Dissolve To:

(Ext. Street, Favor on Vinnie Baguette)

-Where is the money for the sandwiches!  ...Rat bastard.

-Fat Bastard.  His name is Fat Bastard.

-Fat Bastard.  Whatever!

(Intercut)

-And check his wallets, too.

-Uh, sir?  He's only got one wallet.

-Well then, check that one... I'm working with idiots.  And where the fuck is Jimmy?  Has anyone seen Jimmy the Bitch?

- (Eatkhash from Boston) Have you checked the baaaaars?

Cut To

(Int. Office, Mahogany Furniture)

-Sir, we gouged his eyes out, like you said.

-What do you mean, "Gouged his eyes?"

-We gouged them out.  We took 'em out.

-They're gone?

-Both of them.

-Let me ask you something: Are you a seeing eye-dog?

-(laughs) No...why?

-How the fuck is he going to get my sandwich money if he can't see!

-But, Boss, you said—

-I meant threaten him!  You took the poor guy's eyes out.

-Oh, jeez, Boss...when you say it like that...

-Go on, get out of here.

-So you're not mad, boss?

...

Hope everyone is okay. I heard on the news the birds have started attacking. Get home safe to your familes, your pets

Don't run over your neighbor's gnome

been sleepeating a lot, as of late.  mechanically spoonfeeding myself cold beds of buttery rice standing upright, chewing on big chunks of chocolate half-asleep in bed...mmmh mmm... then doing it over again a couple hours later

Emily didn't wear jeans.  She walked down the block and she scraped her knee.  Her dress is blue or green.  The sun is out and yellow in the top like in a picture-book.  There's white circles on her blue dress, like polka dots.  Her dress is blue now.  There's blood on her knee.  She rushed off down the street.  She fell and scraped her knee.  There's no green with the polka dots.  The sun is beaming a tad smudge orange, but big beaming yellow, with little pieces of chalk and charcoal...There is now green on the street, the bushes surrounding her and lining the street.  The gravel is gray, the sidewalk.  When she fell she turned over her hands.  There's little pebbles and gravel, scrapes on her skin, some red some dirty.  The sidewalk is coming like a train on the first TV.  She lost her balance.

My brain feels broken tonight.  Like a loaf of molasses bread cut up in portions with a tiny spring coil inside.  Some of the sections are uneven or slightly out of place.

There's whipped butter on the side. Sex and eating.

Hello, I am unable to answer the phone right now.  Please leave your message and I will get back to you shortly.  Please don't hang up without leaving a message.  Don't be shy—You go ahead and you leave that message.  I won't judge you if there is a break in your tone or a crack in your voice; I won't look upon you like a rat trapped in a cage.  Otherwise, you hang up now, it's like knocking on someone's door and walking away as he opens it.  He's likely to say, "Hey, Goober, what the dilio!"  And you'll be there awkwardly embarrassed, "Ah, shucks... Gee, Bill, I thought I'd—

Hello, thank for calling. I am away from the phone at moment.  Oh, I could be doing a number of things: I could be moving furniture, I could be caught up watching a shoplifting debate at a hair and nails accessory store, I could be buying celery sticks—You know, people tend to give celery a bad name.  Yea, I've heard 'em, they walk around giving celery all sorts of bad names.  That they're crisp, no doubt—but you know, I've tasted those thinly cut farmers market sticks, that are both crisp and refreshing.  They go well lightly with hot wings sauce, and some people like them with peanut butter, but I person— 

You have reached—Yea, hold on, The Donald... No, an important call.  I thought I made that clear... Yea, as the sun.  Very clever, Donald.  No, not the duck; I said the quail!  Because it tastes like chicken... No, I don't want the chicken—

I'm as sick as an elephant.

...and you can really tell when an elephant is sick.  I mean, he uses up a lot of toilet paper!

(Get off the stage!)

I don't feel the age I am, or I is.  I feel much younger.  I've wasted a lot of time—changed my brain, as it were.  The obsession surrounds me, the triggers more frequent, and the dreams intense, vivid the longer I'm clean — more surreal even.  Options are open, I guess.  I can sense it amidst the fog of cravings, more so even, as though with an uncanny familarity with the swings of its prowess, its clenching desperation.  I think I'm getting sick again—I mean the onset of a cold.  I've been taking longer walks at nights.  The evening quickly turns chilly; though tis nothing compared to the national average.  I never dress warmly enough, believing the season does not yet warrant it.  It's already January.

I took some alka-seltzer nightime cold, fizzing, to help me sleep.  I noticed it made me kind of lulling, more poetic, whereas a few minutes ago, If I was eating baby carrots I would be chewing them fast and angrily...crunching them, so to speak, with my foot racing.  

I don't want to be crunching them babies angrily

No! we no want to Crunch! the babies...

A pimp treating his hookers to Chinese

- (on the phone) ...Bitch, if it itches, I'm gonna scratch it.  Yea, whatever.  Yea, on Tuesday. (hangs up)
- (Girl 1) Who that?
- That ain't none of your business.
- (Girl 2) It was his dermatologist.
- Don't go getting in my business.  Acting like you know things and shit... And what you doing?  Girl, you better get in on that egg flower soup.
- (Girl 2)  I'm writing a poem.
- A poem?  Phssh, let me see that shit.

     Are you loved, daddy?
    Is your heart fully full?
    Can I, maybe baby
    still worm my way
    back into your soul?
  

   ...Shit, you a modern day DMX.
- (Girl 1) DMX is modern, stupid.  
- Girl, don't you be gettin' familiar. I'll hammer yo face in that soup, you hear me?  You'll ride the lightning back out on your ass.
- (Girl 1) Sorry, daddy. 
- Hand me that hot sauce.  And none for you—I don't need you stinking up your date.
- (Girl 2) Shit, they be stinkin' already.
- (Girl 1) Uh-huh.
- Irregardless; I need you hos on your best behavior tonight.  I'm putting my name out there for you. (picking the peanuts out of his kung pao)  Need you to be like Pretty Woman—whatcha' giggling about?  (to Girl 1) What's she going on about?
- (Girl 1) Don't know, daddy.

- (Girl 2) That ain't a word.

- What ain't?
- (Girl 2) Irregardless.
- Huh?
- (Girl 2) It's regardless.
- Whatcha' mean?

- (Girl 2) You're supposed to say, regardless; not irregardless.

- Say what?
- (Girl 1) It's true; one of my clients is a high school lingustics professor.

- (Girl 2, giggly) He bi-lingual.

- Bitch, what the fuck do a linguistics teacher know about wordology? 
- (Girl 1) Well, he still be all educated and shit.

- And he be giving you grammar lessons on my dollar?  Nah, see II ain't about to be given no lectures by a flimsy-ass poet and one teacher's pet.  Here's what your poems should say:

   I want my money.
   Where is my money?
   Don't make daddy angry,
   C'mon, daddy, pay me.

You see that play on words, bitches?  Ohhh, pay me!  Let me tell you a couple of two things: you better be jotting them thoughts down on your own damn time, feel me?  You want to be a busy beaver, you do that shit on your own time.  (to Girl 1) And you ain't got no clients.  Clients...Shit, my dick wants to laugh. Those my clients, and that my beaver.  I mean, it's good for beavers to be busy, ha-ha, ya' her?  All right, we good; I ain't paying for y'all to get fat.  Let's go before China-Chang get back. Yo, grab that fortune cookie.

chp. 2

Dean came by with the list of missing containers, a slew of items in the inventory to sort through, then cross-reference with the checklist: numerous pages with an itemized list of props from movie sets that were placed in the metal containers, then shipped.  Apparently, the containers were missing, or was it the props in the containers?    I don't know—How could those big metal boxes go missing?  I stared at the pages in front of me until I felt a sharp, dulling blankness. The air conditioning was cold. I took out a pack of strawberry yogurt and a banana from my lunch pail.  I had forgotten to pack a spoon. I dipped the banana in the yogurt, but when I set them down the weight of the banana tipped the cup over and I smeared some yogurt on the papers with my hand.  Dean passed by again, eyeing my desk.

"You wouldn't happen to have a spoon?  I forgot my spoon, " I chuckled, embarrassed.  "I was in such a rush this morning—"

"We need to get those papers to the paralegal;  she's expecting them.  I told her we'd have it by lunchtime.  It's important—so you should do your snacking later."   I thought I heard him mutter, ...or breakfast, as he walked away.  

He probably thinks I woke up too late in the morning, and am eating on their time.  I tried to wipe off the yogurt from the paper with my hand and tipped the cup over again and smeared more yogurt on my desk with another part of my hand.  There was a strawberry bit on my forearm from the lid wrapper.  I licked it off and wiped down my arm, then the paper stuck to my skin momentarily when I put my arm down on the desk.  Now it would be sticky, always slightly sticky.  I grew more frustrated, so I dipped the banana in the yogurt again and took a bigger bite while I sulked down into my chair with the cup in my hand.  Then I took another bite of the banana without the yogurt and it didn't taste as refreshing and I threw both of them in my wastebasket.  Half of the peel was stuck on the side of the basket and I was still chewing like it was a chore.  There was no bag lining the inside of the trash.  I shouldn't have mentioned being in a rush, especially not to him. You try some light-hearted banter with this guy and he uses it as a platform for your performance evaluation.

chp. 1

Sink softly with the night that swallows you.

No, none for me, thanks, I'm Mr. Weiner. And here's a story

of an otherwise distinguished gentleman.

I often wonder how long it takes the heart to find its place. I often consider all my previous mistakes. I'm a jolly good fellow with a belly full of wine! I think people laugh at me when I leave.

If I left, my cat would miss me. My neighbor Al, he doesn't know me. Our empty chats together are a point of pride. We talk about our lawns, sprinklers, street parking, etc. I wouldn't want to cut that routine. We sometimes just exchange greetings in the evenings with our briefcases.

"Greetings, Bill."

"Greetings, Bob."

He must have divorced the step-mother of his daughter. She moved out. I think he's on better terms with his first wife—I notice her car more often. Some mornings I sip my coffee and spot another woman doing the walk of shame from his house. He works out. If I looked like him I'd wear a bandanna and a sleeveless shirt and do my sets near the stairmaster. I wonder what he's noticed about me.

He wanted me to go halfsies on a white fence. I'm not going to do it but next time I'll ask him about the materials and hardware stores.  I imagine he might say we can just paint the wood white, and then we can go from there.

I think my neighbors judge me.  My mailman— I put cash in an envelope and send it to my psychics,  for the week's lottery picks.  When I see him at my doorstep, I slide the envelope out.  I can see him smirk through the slit in the door.  I don't know what he's so smug about—he carries my mail.  He's 53 and he has monster calves.  He wears baggy shorts and sneakers.  It doesn't look right.  He probably has kids, and has to support his wife, and he's running around all day riling up everyone's dogs.

There's a fat woman in one of the houses.  She never comes out.  I see her small sport utility leave for work in the mornings, then it's parked again.  She lives alone, but midweek there's a maid service vehicle in her driveway.  Sometimes I see pizza deliveries being made at her residence.  In my evening walks I linger as I pass by her house.  It's like she's not even home.

There's never any barbecues on the block; in the holidays, no Christmas lights.  The kids don't come around on Halloween.  She never puts any decorations out, or any lights. I like to put mine out when I see Al outside setting up his Santa Claus and inflatable reindeer.