Naked Inn

While out in California, I had attempted to collaborate on a piece that I had entitled “Naked Inn”. Nothing ever came of it. Perhaps the awful title turned my collaborator off. Devoid of any further rambling, here is the piece in its raw form –

When Grandmother retired from the Inn, she demanded I keep it a Christian establishment. This baffled me as she considered herself a Buddhist. In her earlier years, should anyone make mention of Christ or any of His followers, she’d wince, insisting the conversation be changed. The repetition of her retiring wishes that the Inn remain a Christian establishment led me to believe that perhaps this wasn’t a slip of the tongue. Could she be stricken with madness? Events later in her life pointed to early onset of Alzheimer’s. She, however, in this moment, couldn’t be clearer.

One key to the Inn dangling in one hand, a finger on the other hand shaking inches from my nose, Grandmother howled, “Keeping it a Christian establishment means you keep it clean, Edgar! It means you follow the rules. When people check in, you get their payment right away. If they got no cash, show them the door! You hear me?” Before I could answer, she kissed my cheek, shoving the Inn’s keys in my jeans pocket.

As the Inn’s new keeper, business proved rather slow. The phone would ring, the callers surprised to hear a young man’s voice on the other end. Some feared Grandmother had died. I had assured them the woman was sunbathing, winking at cashiers, licking ice cream cones and enjoying every moment of retirement. Regardless, the Inn remained vacant for several weeks—just the creaking floors and me.

The first guests to arrive were two naked twenty-something year old boys. They were naked in clothing, money, vehicle, identification and knowledge of how they got like this. One boy suggested that had they arrived six seconds later, they could have died. How? They didn’t know. Looking at the two, they could have been twins. One, though, had African, maybe Caribbean skin.

“I don’t know what I can do for you two,” I warned. “You got’s no money.”

“You can keep us safe,” insisted one boy.

“Just put us in your worst room and forget about us,” suggested the other.

“Worst room?” That made me laugh. “All the rooms here are great. Majestic, my grandmother would call it. Plus, how the hell can I forget about you two? You’re my first guests as the innkeeper.”

“Don’t you got a closet in the cellar,” asked the African boy.

“You two are nuts. Listen, I promised my Buddhist grandmother I’d keep this a Christian establishment…”

“How does that work?”

“Not sure but I’ll tell you something…”

“What,” they both sung.

“I’ll give you a room.”


“That’s right. One! If it were my grandmother, she’d tell you to get lost, you understand?”

“We understand,” they echoed.


The boys followed me up three flights to a room with two queen beds. They both crawled into a bed each, staring at me like a long lost uncle. I offered them clothing but they said not to worry, they’d figure it out in the morning. Their eyes closed, quickly followed by intense snores.

In the morning the room was immaculate. The sheets smelled fresh, not a single trace of nakedness anywhere (other than my naked confusion). I hollered a bunch of names but realized moments later the boys never gave me their names. Clearly it was time to sit at the front desk and scratch my head.

When I’m drunk…

The words come out faster.   You see, I’ve been rather miserable lately.  Running around town looking for my right place.   Jump into the Pacific Ocean?  Return to a land where walking alone seems nearly impossible?   Ay, questions just stick their ugly monstrous cocks down my throat mid-fucking-sentence.  So, I swat them away with Cutco knives glued to my fingers and then scream, “Screw it, I’m here.  This is where I’ll be…at least for now!”  Seems to work.

When I’m drunk, I also find myself torn between the words tossed on the page and the eager individuals sending me messages on Facebook.  Really, what I wish to say is, “Shut up and when can we make love?”  But I don’t.  I just play it nice and easy.  Flipping back and forth between the massive flow of these words and whatever commonplace thing that leaves my fingertips on that social website.

The urine that builds up during the drunken process infuriates me.  I’d piss right here, in your eyes, as you read this but it doesn’t work that way.  I’d have to buy a new computer.   Who’s got money for that shit these days?  So I’ll leave you here, wondering what my urinating experience was like.  Did I moan?  Was there a knock on the door from a bunch of drunks demanding an orgy?

So, I’m on my merry way now.  Unzipping the fly.  Standing over the toilet and whistling a tune…

The Prolonged Absence

Pop your champagne bottles!   Jump through the hills!  The long and arduous journey from New York to California has come to an end.  Here I am in heaven on Earth–Humboldt county, California.

It’s taken me some time to settle in.   The first few days were rough.  I’ve had to disconnect from the memories of my super comfy L-shaped house to a solar bus in the middle of the woods.   The bed I sleep on is an inch or two too small.   The occasional hornet gets stuck in my mini-afro; due to their peaceful ways, they understand, simple mistake.  Does a man punch another man for accidentally bumping into another?  Some do…not these hornets.

More to write later.  I’m at a party and judge myself a bit anti-social.

The Gringo

“Them shrimp burritos, man, they sure as hell just melt in your mouth.”   The Gringo stood in the hallway, peering into the kitchen.   The chef, a whistling muscleman, plopped a spoonful of guacamole into a stuffed taco.   He then meandered over to the deep fryer, yanking out the plantains.

“You must have had the shrimp burritos before, haven’t you?”  The Gringo continued.  The chef nodded then pushed passed his chatty voyeur.  “Ah to Follow the Chef,” sang the Gringo.   Had the bathroom door stayed shut, he would have continued on with the song.   A hunchbacked woman stumbled past the Gringo, her breath reeking of fecal matter.  Once inside the tiled bathroom, rose fragrance permeated the air.

There upon the warm porcelain seat, the Gringo closed his eyes, humming the tune “Ah to Follow The Chef.”   Minutes later, nothing had found its way out of his rectum.   He was awoken by a pounding on the door.   The Gringo leapt up, his genitals flailing about, yanked the door open.  There stood the chef.   The two uttered their apologizes with cheeks aflame in embarrassment.

Kingston Sports Supplements

My first commercial.

Boston Marathon Explosions

My heart goes out to all affected by today’s explosions.   May we soon find a world filled with peace and love.   May we express ourselves without having to kill, maim or torture.

Boy Killer

Oh kiss me, Gertrude.   It’s been so long since we’ve held one another.   How about you yank the bed cover off and we spend time rolling around?    We can make smoothies and then share with one another horror stories.   You’ll love that, I know.

Here’s my latest horror story–

A nine-year old boy prone toward wearing striped shirts shot his parents in the head.   His father kept guns around the house.   One of those types that feared everything from intruders to those using the driveway as a turn-around station.   When the cops arrived, the boys said nothing.   At the station, he just cried.   When I got to him, the boy had clearly lost his mind.   He licked his lips.   Rubbed his legs. Maniacal laughter echoed throughout the interrogation room.   The boy needed sedation.  Whatever was prescribed to him had no effect.   He stared at me, called me his lover.   A new psychologist was assigned to the case.

Months later, the boy visits me in my dreams.    He tells me that one day he’ll find me.   Gertrude, please hold me.   Please assure me that I’m safe from this boy.

Marching Out West

My fellow readers:

Know that I’m at the beginning of a journey.   In exactly 29 days, a U-Haul truck will be parked in front of my cabin.  All my loved possessions from the past four plus years will be emptied out into that U-Haul truck.   Several days later, I’ll be marching out west to Northern California.

In this timeframe, my postings might be scarce.  Once settled in, expect to hear more from me.   It’s my pleasure to entertain you.   More so, it’s a great joy to express myself in whatever ways I can.  Time to freshen up and prepare for the day’s adventures.

Tiny Box

A tiny box is where I live.   Any time I reach for something, shit breaks.   Think it’s time to make a change.  How the hell am I gonna get out of here though?  Gravity seems to suck me down.

What are my long-term plans?  Got pictures of what my bed will look like?   How will each inch of the pavement look while driving to this new place?   On what day will someone pay me?   Will I get undercut?   Will it work out?   Are there enough people out there?   Do I have…

How I loved that tiny box!  Now, I say fuck it.  Just gonna walk, see where the road takes me.  Don’t really care what the fucking pavement should look like…just gonna see how it is as I stroll across…

An Italian Feeds A Pigeon

She went by the name Giovanna.   It had been discussed weeks before her birth to call her Gloria or Greta but it was insisted upon, by both soon-to-be parents, they take their time.  Scolastica, weak and fearful she wouldn’t deliver safely, prayed every night before her bowl of gnocchi.   Her husband, Bruno, a gourmet gnocchi maker, also worried about his wife’s health but kept his feelings hardened, never bringing them around Scolastica.   He’d pamper his wife, bathe her while singing, “Abballati Abballati”.   This would surely put a smile on her face.  Bubbles would splash everywhere.

In the delivery room, Bruno hummed “Abballati Abballati” yet all Scolastica could scream was, “stai zitto” [shut up].   Had she thrown hot irons at him, Bruno still would have persisted with the upbeat tune.   Once Giovanna was out, wailing with joy, Bruno looked over at his wife who had passed out, white as a sheet.  Scolastica stayed strong for three days, afterwards giving up on the struggle, she released hold of her body.

Bruno, the widower father he was, got sucked into a depression.  This he passed onto Giovanna, who grew up guilty, feeling as if she released a toxin into her mother’s womb.   Not a single therapeutic technique could shake this feeling.  Once she turned eighteen, Giovanna took her misery to the streets.  Moved into a cardboard box.   Pushed two shopping carts glued together, the interior filled with buttons and bread.   She used the bread to feed a pigeon she befriended.   Over time, Giovanna grew convinced this pigeon was her mother.  She stroked the pigeon, mumbling, “mamma”.   The pigeon cooed in her hands, slowly dying.

Disgusted with life’s sorrows, Giovanna gobbled a handfuls of buttons, swallowing one at a time.   She hummed a slowed-down version of “Abballati Abballati” while joining her mother in two forms, one as a human and the other a pigeon.


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