Twisted Treatises

 The following is a short conversation between myself and John Bruni. Almost nightly, I hit him with a comical version of whatever is going on the News. Fucking News. Bah.  Good Evening. Rob: "Trump has given ICE access to Medicaid records, and furthermore, access to prison records. The Swine want to make sure they don't miss any, pigs that they are. Also, some gangsters in the hood are making things difficult for ICE. See this in Reels. While part of me likes this, it's probably just a matter of time until eye scanners wait for you at every major exit...meanwhile, McCarthy is doing his best to make sure that the Democrats are blamed for the Epstein crimes by casting doubt on them a la the 'They didn't care while I was working!' argument. Dems wanted to run from it, so he says." John: "I love that part about the Democrats faking the Epstein list to get at Trump. Is that why Bill Clinton is on the list that the Democrats sat on for the entirety of Bide...

Uncle Dana and Gramma Sheila What I remember best about my Uncle Dana was watching The Twilight Zone with him. He rambled when he spoke, and he had these little ears, he kept his hair short, and if it wasn’t for the fetal alcohol syndrome, he might’ve looked like Tom Hanks. Unfortunately, life just wasn’t kind to my poor Uncle, and that’s a damn shame now that he’s dead. It was a damn shame to begin with. I know it doesn’t go good to come off pitiful these days, but the story I got is the only one to tell. I feel like I have to. No one else is really there to remember. We were watching The Twilight Zone, an episode with Elizabeth Montgomery, and he said, “Gee whiz, I’d like to have gotten to know her. She sure is beautiful.” And the only thing my 21 year old self could think was this poor guy, he’ll never have anyone. Of course, what I did was engage with the hell yeahs, because she’s a hot ticket, and who wouldn’t have liked to, right? I felt bad for him. Neither of us was very old,...

 Shakti collection. I said before self-denial was a way to collect Shakti, this life force, God Force if you prefer. More than no this and no that it’s also no grunting and moaning and groaning if you hurt like shit. Taking pain without expression of any kind is a way to collect, and since I have arthritis and osteoporosis still in my right hip, this stuff all hurts like a son of a bitch. I pushed myself harder today. I sat for forty-five minutes. At the beginning of this, I was getting 22. Stretches first. Then, finessing my legs into half-lotus, which as I’ve said, has a tendency to push my knee out of place. A good forward kick, maybe with a little help from my arm, takes right good care of it. It hurts like hell, though. Once that’s done, I practice posture, asana, which means I have to roll my bastard hips forward, which stretches the knee. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I had a rubber patella. That’s what it feels like. Big Prana in the sitting. It’s very cool. You can ac...

Get  Prince Junkie  on Paperback or Kindle here. Art by Kasey Hill I’ve deleted the same shit paragraph about six times. I wrote this to separate myself from the homeless experience. The writing helped me put my brain back together. You lose a lot of personality development if you fall that far down the spiral. It has taken me quite a while to stitch, stretch, and study my psyche and my body, which were both broken, beaten, cut, and otherwise abused by both myself and others while I was out there. Everything in my system rebelled against my subjecting its electric tentacles once more to any kind of square life. It rebelled hard. Regressions were a factor. My body’s weakness was a factor. All these things, and I with only a vague notion that they had to be fixed. I barely knew where to begin. And I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to do work like that. Or anything square. So I forced my frail, scattered ass to write. And that evolved. My studies gave Ben an advantage over me...