NEEDLING

21h36
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah... I’m fine.”
“Cause I heard a noise, that’s why I came over and checked on you.”
“I’m alright.”
“I heard this noise, like a big empty spank, something like a snubbed-in knock... almost hidden even...”
“I punched the wall.”
“You what?”
“I don’t know but all the sudden, I just punched the wall. I was heading to the kitchen needing a beer and as I turned into the living area from the hallway, I looked at that wall and for some reason my body contracted and my right hand tightened into a fist and my left arm moved forward as my right shoulder lowered leading my arm into position and I knocked the shit out of that wall.”
“You all right?”
“Yeah. It felt good, actually. Real good. Then I got myself a beer and the world was a better place.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah...”

21h42
I feel the touch of your chops all wrapped up against mine. Now that’s some pure American lyrics by Satchmo himself, a saint if saints exist, maybe even a god if the universe is a fair place. That’s my desire. Can’t nobody say it like he could however hard they try. Dreaming sitting here drinking my Mexican beer thinking about this woman I met the other night. She was a smoking and a drinking and a talking loads of shit. I liked that.

21h53
You got any short story subjects? I want to hear them right here, right now. Need to get my ass published in some slick magazine, then maybe I could stop working forty hours a week for minimum wage, and just sit at my desk, drink and write whatever came in my hands and head. That’s not what I’m doing now, rest assured, it does happen I have something to say that might be more interesting than the phone book. Not often, I admit, but sometimes it happens. The spirits touch my head with their malefic fingers, and out of my own human fingers comes out some sort of readable narrative poem or even a short story. Sometimes. Not often... and that’s the problem, the tragedy, the malediction of my humble life. Maybe I’m looking for some devil out there, preferably a low-end back-street minimum-wage pathetic devil who wouldn’t mind dealing with me and my worthless soul in exchange for a couple descent stories and a drink.

22h04
Was thinking I could move down to Central America just south of Mexico or something like that. Belize or Guatemala. Some country where Homestead is still a viable existing practice, and just set up business on the beach. What business you ask? The business of living first off, then the business of producing something which I could sale for a much higher price right here in Freedom Land. The land of the free and the stupid, the land of the right winged Christian fundamentalist hypocrites, the land of free speech for a few agreeable elites... Amerika, the beautiful, the remote bubble, the isolationist island-continent... and who cares about Mexico and Canada, they can do what they’re told to do or else. Economic enslavement. I’m loosing myself within this pint of English beer and this CD of pure American music, the very same music that helped to spread the idea of freedom – ironically enough – throughout the world a few decades ago. This was then and this is now. Now, what we export isn’t Satchmo’s musical creations, but mass produced sameness, globalized economy based on hatred, violence, and righteous pretentious ignorant ideologies with one single interest: The Bottom Line. Nothing else matters. And what’s worse, the rest of the world is buying right into it. The European upper-crust elite wants nothing less than to become American stock market money makers. The upper-crust Chinese businessmen and women want nothing more than to bow down to Americans and Europeans so they can make millions and we can keep purchasing cheap sneakers and cheap toys for our kids while millions of their population die of cancer from our factories dumping shit in their water supplies. Who cares? There’s not an innocent soul around anywhere in Amerika, Europe, Asia, or anywhere else. We’re all guilty. Point. Period. End of story. George Wanker is the leader of the free world... meaning free to rape you in every which orifice we please. You’re here to serve me. The old European colonial mantra is still alive and well. Doing all we can to keep it going as long as we can. So help me god.

22h45
Louis Armstrong is a god, simple and right down, no arguing. That’s how it goes, that’s all I can say. Basically, that’s the way it is. Satchmo is on... inside the pantheon whether we like it or not. He is God. And who am I, you ask, to declare Satchmo God? I’m no less and no more than any of those evangelical horse’s ass preachers popping up like mushrooms after a good rain declaring Jesus everybody’s savior and their pocket books the beholder of salvation. I’m no better or no worse than any Rabbi or Imam or Catholic priest, though I lack a little in education, I admit. I’m just a humble fuck face just turned thirty three – the magical number – and I don’t barely know my right from my left, that’s all, but at least I know my nose from my ass, which is a lot more than I can say for a lot of folks. What else you need to know?