Man on the Moon It's the man on the moon Saying goodnight to you Oh how it shines He's a good friend of mine He's a good friend of yours Even many miles away I hope he comes soon It's the man on the moon In a night of despair Only one light is there It's the man on the moon Saying goodnight to you If you're holding my hand As the earth turns to sand I see your face I see that look on your face Don't you know that Space is the place If you look to the sky Look him straight in the eye And as strange as it seems If you wish all your dreams Will come true after all *** have some balls and just be real and tell me your name, but don't send me emails attemping to appear intriguing and mysterious. cotton-y fuzz and all.

what does that mean? i mean, other than what it obviously means.

He called it the Carrock, because carrock is his word for it. He calls things like that carrocks, and this one is the Carrock because it is the only one near his home and he knows it well.

I have no idea what's going on.

he? beorn the skin changer?

it's been four years, he revealed. he's in san diego, then tomorrow in DC, then on to Bern, Switzerland. does anyone know the song Jack's Shadow by Nick Cave?

I've met Mr. Mould. He's sexy. WOOF! He DJ's a big gay dance party once a month in DC and he hangs at the bars. Sadly I'm not his type. LOL

yeah, he's gone techno. he's playing at homo-a-gogo here in oly later this summer.

we are all slaughtered or driven down and captured. Really it is enough to make one weep, after all one has gone through. I would rather old Smaug had been left with all the wretched treasure, than that these vile

ideas that we spend more time in the past than in the present. honestly, with its sepia tint and fuzzy interconnections, the past sometimesvappeals more than the high-definition present. the past is where flaws (fatal or otherwise) blur into the ether and all of the reasons and rationales for escape are no longer apparent. more romantic but ultimately not tangible or, in most cases, relevant.

Salient question, he asked, how did you know it was me? Better question, I replied, why were you testing me?

it's either been four years, four days, or four life times.

I have no idea what you people are talking about.

at least it probably isn't ass sex.

You saw the way they looked at me. The bottom of the mower was smeared with blood, particularly around the grass-exhaust, which was still dripping. He couldnt even open his mouth. He lay in bed looking at the ceiling, his throat dry and his heart beating fast. If you bring it to me around noon, Ill put it on the windowsill where I can look at it once in awhile. He worked until three oclock that afternoon, and at eight that night he asked her to help him back into the wheelchair again. Didnt your mother ever tell you that the most expensive is not always the best? Because this had cost him too much. And then, sometime later, he heard the stealthy noises he had been afraid of: the low, momentary scuff-and-scurry of the rats. He spoke rapidly, urgently, eyes flashing, riveted on her face. He was positive in that moment that his life might change in some way if he was able to say it in the next twenty seconds.

free your mind roll with it and if you have something to add, by all means

Each house took most of a day to set up. He often looked frozen, a tiny articulate glacier. I could only see progress if I left and checked in on him later. He worked with absolute precision. The houses never fell down until the end of the day when, suddenly animated, he blew them down in a flurry of cards, clapping and laughing. -- "I'm going to beat you to death with your own asshole," he said. He spoke so quietly that I might have though he was talking to himself if he hadn't been staring me in the face. "I mean it." -- But the next moment, as he clung to the boy's feet, they both soared into the air again, and, although now far enough from the fire to escape its heat, the savage, finding himself lifted from the earth, uttered a scream of horror and let go of Rob, to fall head over heels upon the ground. The other blacks had by this time regained their feet, and now they crowded around their chief and set him upright again.

it sounds like willful insubordination in this coffee house. they’ve turned down the stereo and the chit and chatter of the rat catchers and hobos sloshes against the bad art on the walls like water in a kiddie pool. the girl behind the counter is pierced, vacant, disarmed. she said nothing to me when we exchanged money for fluid. i felt the urge to tell her that god is not yet dead, but definitely suicidal. it would have been wasted breath. i am stoned and lost, staring at the window’s wet reflection in the surface of my cooling coffee. the outside world is slick and plastic, a human fog reigned by excited neon, sodium oxide, mercury vapor. light that cycles with the alternating current, displacing human perception, placating the mind like a luminous lullaby. there is a reason the cubicle farms of the corporate world rely so heavily on light from fluorescent tubes. i could shit right here, right now. i could foul my pants with extraordinary force and jump to my feet screaming. no one would look up from their conversations. that is the tenor of this place. the yegg i was sent to meet has not arrived, will not arrive. i take a cold sip of coffee and decide to leave. the bathroom is windowless, and the backdoor is guarded by an ancient yakuza foot soldier. i have only one real choice here.

Tammy is having a hard time lately. In the last month they broke into her house two nights in a row. A week later her sixteen year old son totaled her car. And a few nights ago he came home late with a broken jaw. "You could see it was broke in half, just hanging there. It scared my nine year old so bad he started crying. So it was trip to the emergency room, surgery, the whole deal," she said. See, her son was hanging out with a new girl for a few weeks. What he didn't know until after the broken jaw was that the new girl is 19 years old and has a 19 year old boyfriend. Tammy's pressing charges on the girl's boyfriend, who threw the punch. The girl wouldn't give the sherrif her boyfriend's name, so Tammy is gonna press rape charges on the girl too, because she was having sex with her 16 year old son. We sat down to eat. I was having the nicoise, Tammy ordered fried chicken, baked beans, and bread. She complained about gaining weight. Her tight white jeans and her black t-shirt allowed parts to escape. "To top it all off," she added, "my a/c is broken and it's hotter n' hell in my house." She looked at me. "Well, in my mobile home, I mean. I live in a trailer." I knew this already. Tammy enjoys revealing to people that she lives in a trailor park. She tells you, then she looks into your face, your eyes. She searches for signs of shock or disbelief, longing to see in your expression that you'd never in a million years guess that a girl like her lives with her two sons in a trailer park.

10:15am: Pierre wakes me with soft fingers on my cheek. I smile up at him. His black suit is perfectly pressed, he wears it like a military uniform. When he sees me awake, he hurries off to fix breakfast. 10:25am: I stand in the bathroom, before the gilt-framed mirror, watching the man on the other side of the glass brush his teeth. He is a tall, thin man, almost skeletal, with deep set eyes and a smooth bald head. It is barely correct to call him almost skeletal, his skin is so thin and his bones are so evident. 10:55am: While urinating I run one long finger (from the unoccupied hand) down my tailbone, into the split of my ass and just barely to my anus. There is hair there softer than any other hair on my body. I fill my nostrils with the vapors from my finger, my eyes closed, my mind focused on nothing else. I imagine being between the legs of a woman, my nose buried deep in her furry mound.

11:05am: From my armoire I extract one of three red satin robes. Today it is the red robe with the white marabou trim along the collar and the cuffs, and sweeping along the floormost hem. It is my favorite. 11:25am: I am in the dining room, seated at the head of the long mahogany table. Across from me, above the console containing Mother’s silver, is a large mirror in an ebony frame. The frame is intricately carved with scenes of negro children locked in mortal combat with a variety of jungle animals (tigers, crocodiles, great apes, etc.) Pierre arrives with my scone, fresh from the oven, clabbered crème, and a small pot of Darjeeling tea. He brings with him the scent of Bacon, and I share a secret smile with the man behind the glass. 12:00pm: Having eaten the scone and clabbered crème, and I now sit and finish my tea with head in hand, elbow on table, scribbling drawings that would make schoolboys blush. 12:30pm: Pierre retrieves me from the dining room. He offers me his elbow, which I take, and leads me to my favorite poolside lounge chair. I sit with my ankles crosses, my robe pulled open to the belt. The sky is clear and though the air is cool, the sun warms my bare ribs. 12:43pm: Bacon walks backwards from the garden door towards the pool. She is wearing full wetsuit, gloves and hood, and large flippered feet, which necessitate her backwards stride. With a moderate splash she enters the pool, which must be sixty degrees or less, and begins to swim laps.

1:09pm: She has pulled herself from the pool and now lays on the concrete across from me. I imagine the rise and fall of her breasts under the heavy rubber skin of the wetsuit. I think back to the scents of this morning, and picture myself inside her. With one hand I extract my thin penis from under the flaps of my robe and begin to stroke it. Oh, to no avail! It has been years since I have seen an erection, on myself or on another. 1:12pm: Bacon has suddenly left the pool. 2:59pm: I wake suddenly and realize that I had been asleep. The sky has turned a mysterious color, somewhere between purple and green. I cannot see the sun. A sharp shiver rolls like seismic activity through the dry joins of my bones. I try to stand but I cannot. I call out for Pierre. 3:62pm: Clearly they have arrived. I have watched their ships land for the last three hours, one after another, great silver disks that fall directly and with great speed from the sky, slipping to a stop inches from the ground. I have seen hundreds, maybe thousands. I picture their passengers oozing from various portals, assuming the shapes of well known and trusted humans. 902:B It is over for us. I would say goodbye, but to whom? Mother? Oh, she has long passed away; the terrible accident in the bathtub. No, no, sweet boy shouldn’t be in here, no no no. I see now, yes. Oh yes, Mother, you had to be different. :33x I am so.

it's been years since they broke up, but it's not the love or companionship she misses, it's the fucking. it's the night in barstow, on the second floor of the Super 8, that she summons when she presses her vibrator hard and deep into the folds. he had packed four, rarely worn silk neck ties.

"Tell me...When you were a kid, were you afraid of the bogeyman?" "Uh..well, yeah, I guess. I guess EVERYBODY was. But...?" "I KNEW the bogeyman. THE bogeyman. Knew him personally. He pretended to be our school janitor, back when I was in third grade. But I knew, see? I knew he was the bogeyman. His eyes were like nails in yellowed ivory. They gave him away. If you ran in the hallway, he'd grab the short hair at your temples and pull it. Funny sort of pain. Made you feel sick." "Ouuh. Don't talk about sick..." "He brought coffee to school, in a flask. I stole a glass test tube from the science room and ground it up with a mortar and pestle. It was easy. He was Number One. Nobody suspected me. The Bogeyman was gone. He couldn't scare me anymore. Pretty soon, I realized he'd left a vacancy, as bogeyman. If I didn't fill it, somebody else would!" "Hey, where are we? It's...uuk.." "Jeannie Tucker was my first proper assignment as bogeyman. A big, slow girl around fifteen, none too bright. We went up to the gravel pits together. Her eyes looked like butterscotch. She was Number Two." "Hey, leave off with all the numbers, huh? I ain't feeling so good. I mean, numbers, numbers, what IS it with you?" "Numbers are important, friend. Everybody has a number...and yours just came up." "Huhn? HEY! WAIT! What the hell's all...cuuguuhh" "One hundred and sixty-five."

...you know,talking of mould remminds me of Tia,my cat.left a big bit of very mouldy old toast in my kitchen at 6 a.m. as a present for me,its what cats do.

The time will come when, with elation, you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror, and each will smile at the other's welcome, and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you all your life, whom you ignored fo another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.

...you dont want to buy pre "firestarter stuff",its junk...you or I can do better than that.

Um...

...dont you um. me...

She held out the urinal. From outside came the steady soft creak of lines and rigging, the slow flap of the sails in the first faint breezes of the freshening trade winds, the occasional cry of a bird. An anticlimax, but things could worse. At the time, deeply afraid for Ians sanity, he had been less concerned with what Ian had said than how he had said it only now, as he whipped Mary ever faster toward Little Dunthorpe in spite of his own deepening pain, did the words come back, haunting in light of Colters tale: If she looked more dead. The fifth was still burning; he put it out with the already blistered heel of his right hand as he stuffed it in. Some, like Lopressor, the hypertension drug his father had taken during the last three years of his life, he knew. So what are you going to do, lie here and suffer for a book that would sell half as many copies as the least successful Misery book you ever wrote, and which Peter Prescott would shit upon in his finest genteel disparaging manner when he reviewed it for that great literary oracle, Newsweek? just a little at first. Then she twisted the nozzle off and walked back along the hoses length, looping it over her arm. The two men wept in each others arms like tired children, while in some other room Miserys child, a boy now almost a day old and still unnamed, awoke and began to cry.

I'll fookin um you anytime I want, mary!