Straight from the edge of ruin.

See, morey is not, as is, some who are. Not at all. morey is what is as morey, and not at all restrained by what is, or protruded by what is, or confined by what is, human. The morey bothers humans because he shows no respect to them, and no respect to the things they respect, and all humans have that one thing they respect which, if one should disrespect, a little button is depressed in that person's head and they go into anger mode, like when you're a kid at school and somebody disses your mom and you have to fight them for it. You don't know why and you're getting mad, but you're building that anger, it isn't exactly there but you have to put it there because somebody just insulted the woman you love and you know not how to react... Like when morey disrespected Hemingway. That could have bothered me because Hemingway understands what it means to have light shine through leaves outside quiet cafes, he understands the drink and the insanity and the smoke, the gun and the fist and the horn; Hemingway knows the silent moments in which man is imperfection incarnate and is dipped in a selfish solitude that makes God grasp at him with a curiousity akin to the God in Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions who just had to know what his human once in a world of robots would say when he came sliding down the mountain to wade below in the river spring. But the disrespect is not grounded! He doesn't know Hemingway, but morey knows know and is of not knowing that which is unknowable, so that he can paint and ride bikes and smile queerly to the derelicts of worldly 'burbs. Anywhere, anyone, any time, morey can drink in a character and like it without ground. See, he respects nothing. No value or tradition or religion or constitution, but if morey likes you it is for something as simple as a chemical cocktail and a series of events, an acid flashback and a circadian mistep, sugar you didn't want in a coffee you can't return because you're already at work, but it turns out being the best coffee you've ever had. And on that groundless ground in the wake of uncertainty, morey, that flittering thing likes and dislikes without reason, just passion, dividing heaven and hell on a cunt hair decision and riding insanity to divine inspiration that is the lohan. Be so enlightened as to see without seeing, to take texture from afar the way you take colour, the way your eye extracts it from a distance that could only be spoken of in a paranormal tongue by the born blind that hasn't the concept to take colour from distance. Live and let live. Do not understand morey, but hear him, the way you walk out of a hairdresser with the same haggard trot after she guessed your sign and that of your friends, told you how you fuck up and why and when, things nobody could have known, and nod to astronomy but pass it by, take and absorb and move on, like what you must do to the teachers and cops and faculty if you know who you are, and accept the morey as a commodity. Cause I've thought it over and that mother fucker ain't human. Nightrious Sat, 09/06/2008 - 09
Apr 17
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The Sturgeon

Sturgeon

“YOU LOOK GOOD!” This horrible queen named Shane yelled at me from the cabin hatch of the boat. There was no reason for the volume but maybe it was the only way he could hear himself above the ever-present white noise of his internal scream. He always screamed.
There were five of us on Jim’s sailboat and I was sitting at the stern, soaking the fungus-infected toes of my left foot in the water. With no wind we were barely moving, a tiny trail of wake behind us. It was very quiet.
I’d just gotten done with a short lecture on how although Lake Michigan wasn’t the ocean exactly, it was still a questionable environment, and although it had no sharks other prehistoric shit did live in it, like Sturgeons.
These Sturgeons, I informed my captive audience, had been known to attack humans, and although it was usually small children and babies that were pulled from the shallows to their deep and no doubt gruesomely prolonged watery deaths, the occasional adult male had also been known to fall prey to the ugly beast. They never eat women, I said pointedly, they don’t like the tits. I said this cause there no women on board and none of the guys that were, liked tits either. They nodded in agreement with the fish.
Shane was stoned, making him vulnerable and paranoid, and had pulled his feet from the water and retreated to the cockpit. The subsequent flattery he directed at me served to deflect and change the subject. I went along with it.
“Well actually I always look good,” I responded, “It’s just that the awareness that I am probably the most fundamentally and in all ways, spiritually, physically and mentally, beautiful human being that you could ever to dream of coming across in your life is a concept so complex and overwhelming that to even ponder the possibility of its factuality would set in motion a domino effect of cause and effect so staggering that it couldn’t help but utterly undermine the fragile house of cards of thought and belief without which you would hardly be able to face the break of day. An all consuming and chaotic whirlwind of doubt and confusion would so undermine even your most basic human functioning you would be left bedridden and stewing in your own filth. Fact,” I added.
“WTF?” said Jim.
I usually didn’t rant like that but I was drunk. I was also annoyed by the queens on board and decided to jump into the water for a swim. Before I got wet though I performed a take-back, a take-back was when you said something you’d like erased so you just pretend you didn’t say it by saying something completely contrary. It was a trick I got from my sister who frequently spoke out of turn.
“I said, if I may repeat myself, thanks man it’s probably the new Ray-Bans” and with that I slipped over the side.
The boat still wasn’t moving but Jim turned it into whatever wind there was, (sloughing the sails), and dived in also. The other three stayed aboard, Steve, Jeff, and Shane, fearing the Sturgeon’s bite I suspect.
I paddled away from the boat and floated on the surface of the warm water. The sky overhead was as blue and cloudless as it had been for the last month or so? It’d been a great summer for outdoor activities and wildfires.
I’d kicked my way a good distance from the boat, I could see Jim scrubbing at the hull, and the heads and arms of the others lounging aboard.
The surface of the water was covered with little carcasses, the remains of some non-indigenous invasive species. All these idiot creatures would make their way into the Great Lakes through the Saint Lawrence Seaway, only to end up as beach litter. Alewives, Zebra mussels, AIDS infested syringes.
I felt a sharp pain in my foot, not pain really, more like an intense vibration, electrical shock. Some underwater fuck had bitten me, some freak fish. I kicked my legs hoping to scare it off. The water splashed and rippled around me.
I paddled back to the boat, not using my legs. I didn’t want to re-engage the hostile fish or whatever. over to Jim, “Scrubbing off those floaties?” I asked Jim, referring to the little carcasses stuck all over the hull, who was doing just that. “Yeah, I don’t know what they are” He says, “Some lower order, maybe junior Sturgeon spawn,” He smiles, “I think you scared the girls with that fish tale.” He nods above.
“Well, actually that story may have been fortuitous. Some thing did just bite me,” I awkwardly stuck my foot of the water, causing my head to dip under for a second.
“Fuck Morey, you’ve been ravaged!” Jim hollered as I resurfaced. The boat tilted sharply as the boys leaned over the side to see what’s going on.
I pushed against the water with my hands, keeping myself afloat as I inspected my ravaged ankle. The flesh is ripped open and I’m pretty sure I can see bone, lots of blood. It’s bizarre that I don’t feel anything. Jim is kicking his legs and looking around like he’s expecting to see Jaws. I look up at the three horrified faces peering over the side of the boat, “Sturgeon,” they whispered in unison.
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