Crazy Butterfly,

Crazy Moth

If Crazy was all moths’,
baby I’d be a bulb, like 80-watt!
I would give shop-talk
something to squawk
about and I’d chalk
my own crooked outline,

I’d rip the shadow
and do the James Brown
half walk off
the stage with it, son,
ima’ rage when the time come!

See spots? hell I see flower pots
with leering sunflower skulls on top!

I want to sing the world a
hybrid of Imagine and Hurt
turn the hysterical mob up
to full blown tangent, demand it!

If I was an episode of Crypt Keeper
Tales, they’d a never aired it!
If Crazy were a punishment,
I’d have three sleeves of demerits’,

so let’s take the concertos’ out
back and blow the angel kiss,
see how weird the symphony can get,
fantasia meets heavy metals freakiest .

I’m Always ready for all that and more, shit,
I was born crazy, practically inherited it!

If ghetto life were an asylum
I be the asshole warden,
the tremens jittery janitor
and the public enemy #1 up in it!

Come unlock the red devil.
The truth is like the shallow
to the grave to the shovel.

Un-muzzle me I promise,
I’ll quiet down.
I’ll do better.

(by promise mean never)
(by never mean ever)
(by all means not)

What In The Holy Demon-Fuck Is Going On Around Here?

It is getting to the point
where aliens
would be a blessing,
and that is when
you just know
there is nothing out there
but star dust
and inattentive,
or too damn proud God(s)
but most likely nothing,
but particle after particle
of cold steely space
that creeps up every old woman’s
spine just before
she makes a final,
upward arch.

Even Cassiopeia
had to break her back, once.

It is getting really fucking ugly
in the desert oil states,

and the opposite but parallel offices
where the next moves are made

are looking an awful lot like
where paedophiles and terrorists
go to dream and play and pose
next to pictures of Satan

like at some fucked up,
godless bacchius carnival,
where babies roast on spits and women
are ripped apart for sport and pheromones.

It’s getting a lot like
Mad Max Fucking
Or Home Alone redux’d a la David Lynch.

Soundtrack is Badalementi fused
with Dj Bl3nd,
touch of the 9”Nails.

Something to keep the fuckers
up on their cross,
my guess.

I’m tired of the end of Spartacus.
Rudy needs a new Jersey.

I’m picking up for the Kids in the Hall.
I’m wondering where the fuck we are.

Killing over paper, oil, and hate.

That is what the fuck
is going on
around here.

That, is where we fucking are.

This is Why I Do It

A flash of brilliance

is worth a thousand scorpions,

is the weight of
a gallon of your best friends laughter,

is the Beelzebub of Ghostbuster caught demons,

is the Houdini prestige,

is a marble in a mason jar,
tumbling from creak-heavy rocking chair,
onto creak-heavier hard-wood floor.

The sound of the shatter
is the alarm clock
the blade of evil light
the day job
the departing whore
the piss-heavy dog
waiting at the door,
to take you out,

back into normalcy.

Back to a quiet,
saturate hell.

And anyone tells you different
is a shit, a liar, an idiot,
or some kind of religious.

Hell & Uniformity

First Job

I remember the best and the worst of it.
The thing I hated most was the smell.
It had literally the miasma ghost odor of
every local butcher, medical lab, mechanic
and who knows what else, as its clientèle.
They washed the blood and shit, the vomit,
the grease and the chemicals. I remember thinking
the ISO 9000 and whatever on the sign looked
so Very Assuring coming in. This, compounded
by the sad and quiet Asian ladies who pan faced,
with no sympathy for you and you all fear of that deadpan,
worked the clean garments out on the other end,
in a complex splatter of trolley-style racks
that held all the shirts individually, then uniformly
by the dozen, forming clean corn rows of cotton
and polyester urethane. I hadn’t read Conrad yet, so
I didn’t know about it all yet. I had this yellow tape
player, and I remember listening to Radiohead, Kid A
and it was so fitting. “I’m not here, this isn’t happening”
then the guy yanks me on the shoulder and grabs the
thing and then and there I heard the gnawing movement
of the ornate trolleys of clothes above us on endless
shuffle, the massive washers, the cranes that hoisted
the denim dirty bags in the back, back with the little
elfish shop keeper. Reality kicked in fast. The fumes
made you high I swear, but not the good kind I had
enjoyed, more like the shitty time when I smoked
too much hash after eating a pizza sub from the Mr. Sub,
I remember it smelled just like BO and I wondered how
I could’ve ever enjoyed them, and forever associate
this factory and that smell on a submarine or pita.
The shop foreman was an ass and the manager
was better but he always treated the recent immigrant
types like shit, which in turn made me with my limited
understanding of life and heart felt connection to
The Autobiography of Malcolm X, associate labor
with cruelty and baseness for awhile I think. I found out
also that the manager, the little elf man with his ZZ Top
beard and short, stocky but frail due to limb stride,
had a sick kid. Here’s the thing though he said the kid
had leg Perthy? I have looked and I even googled it years later.
Was he a liar and a racist little elf or was he some rarer,
more susceptible to rarer, less-documented disease? My
biographers will have to ponder this and other mysteries.
(Postscript: I obsessed over this detail and gave it
one more university effort and it turns out he likely meant “Legg-Calves-Perthes”
syndrome – the French threw me off.)

The thought of nobody really ever giving a shit
kept me digging just those extra, necessary feet.
If I ever get out of this life alive, let me
have a night or two by a fire to tell you some more
of these wretched & beautiful work hazard stories.


The Electric Ginger Kool-Aid Acid Test Experience Or How To Avoid Death By Gingercide, by Red Vickerson

The Electric Ginger Kool-Aid Acid Test Experience
How To Avoid Death By Gingercide, by Red Vickerson

The Argentine and I had been friends
on the surface for years, but secretly we
tried snubbing the other out like
Spy vs Spy on mescal or a sadistic,

Red-Headed road runner facing off
against a better looking (somewhat)
version of the Javier Bardem villain in Skyfall

(But no less dark and certainly as deadly. )

Little did the mad southerner know,
his usual concoctions, (likely some type
of hybrid new age tantric majick mixed
with the older school brouhaha of
dark variety I suspected but could never prove)
all the while, it boosted my tolerance.

Because you see, when you’re a red-headed-
Bastard-step-child living in an anti-ginger world,
you build a certain second skin, see.

You learn to Suspect interference,
to anticipate anti-Ginger sentiment
at every turn and to remain

Ginger proud
On the outside
at all times.

I took to parading my belief’s
as a humorous shtick in around
2005 and flipped quite the return out of it,
not to mention a back log

of information on hundreds
of involved parties in public displays of “G-Hate”
I became like the Stasi or the KGB, or G-Men
and kept similarly laborious notes.

I invested in a new phraseology;
Gingerfictation, Gingiduce, and
Ginscrimination namely.

To which he even playfully executed
a response of late
Which included full on Gingercide;
the ultimate party gift!

The gingerier the better!
And how fucked that gingerier
is an accepted word!

(see http://hernanjmonzon.wordpress.com/2013/03/23/how-to-kill-a-ginger/ )

I spent hours re-watching every red-head
Coded film (2,227 or so)
and found all the necessary algorithms
of hate to confirm my suspicions;

a worldwide plot to eradicate us
has failed time and time again,
because we are the chosen ones,
and must mobilize, as my weekly
pamphlet and webcast
“The Red Truth Diaries” explores
in more detail.

(see “The Red Mailbox: Stories for the
Formation of a New Red Initiative”)

In the end this endless war
will undoubtedly burn
but will be forced to take small and minor place
amidst the greater atrocities of oppression in history.

But we will keep absorbing souls,
and gaining freckles for each one,
like vampires, in the folkloric pop culture
Et al. public subconscious long after every
Other demon has been vanquished, extolled,

We. Are. Le’(Gin)gion.

(drinks anti-freeze, absorbs another soul,
Moves on, cackling like Ron Howard
During the 2001 Oscars saying yeah bitches!
A Beautiful Mind is an allegory for my people!
When I use Albino’s I’m really saying

We will rule one day,
and forced Gingrifying will
take place in every city.
A mass, unconsentual
Gingrification, indeed.
It will be like when the Christians
Fucked the Jews out of Rome and
Ieverything went to shit, but more epic.

And it will be me and the Argentine there
laughing, piss-poisoned-drunk and only
to willing to encourage mayhem further.

Such it is, being the Red Other.

Blooper (Meta-Self) Rant

Something about a good blooper reel for a show you love.
It’s like being part of the family, seeing them laugh and flirt
and kill the tension and keep the momentum and fall apart,
and reveal little inside jokes. It’s the ultimate peek show.

The proverbial meta-televised fifth business.
They taunt the extras jokingly and make fun of the other
Actors, outdoing one another in bravado and ingenuity.

It’s like seeing the kitchen staff break rank
and station and jostle with each other during
service lulls as you head for the bathroom,

or out for a smoke, or just to wander (if you’re
like me and plate check Before ordering);
I’ve worked a few restaurants I know how it can be.

I worked one that had the whole kitchen
outfitted with hard working El Salvadorian
guys who weren’t citizens yet? They worked
them like it too, you can count on that.

Funny thing was wait staff had to
band-aid tats and take out piercings, cut
hair and be white and fairly cute

to cater to the family restaurant image
they were attempting to operate under.
All along a bunch of hilarious jokers
and generous ‘others’ getting ridden
like slaves, while the douche bag who hired
us all sat up front eating amongst the diners
in the middle of lunch like some goddamned
aristocrat. It was enough to make me quit one
night when I had had and done and taken too much.

There’s something exhilarating about
quitting a bad job. I compared the owners
personality to drift wood, I believe.

Life as News

Life & Byline
(my life is a daily newspaper)

Today’s (coded) Headlines;

A whisper strewn like a bag of marbles
on your hard wood and crawling
to your toes, kid, so be safe.
Buy extra socks!


My Creativity is Matt Damon’s Character in Good Will Hunting!

It twists and turns and
makes fun of the asshole at the bar
who just wants a degree to be a dickhead.

I have drunkenly sung Pulp’s
Common People at least twice
In some random neighbourhood.
No future shows planned or booked though.

Other News

The country is falling into
piles of pawn shops and palaces
Peppering the the top of the pile are

Idiots kicking bigger
holes than their buddies in the
sand just to be tough!


The disease known as heart seems
To have won the right to speak later
today at the woman debate.

The testosterone rebels are of course
planning action and have no intention
of being “pussy whipped or any of that gay shit”
one source noted.

Personal Ads

The woman from Fight Club with her
nitrate and her loneliness.

The gushy feeling from the
jersey solidarity scene in Rudy.

The theme song for Cheers.

World Events

A butterfly is introduced to
corporate rock and goes back
to being a caterpillar.

A bunch of animals get further encroached.
Something dies that gets put on a different
endangered “tier”.

Snakes get shot in fields.


Chicken catching has been declared
the least responded to job posting, ever.

(Additionally, only 9 percent of first day workers return.)

The people who run Money Mart have
bought all the temp services, and
essentially own the new market.

Someone somewhere, gets richer.
A junky does the funky down the street.
This is metropolitan life, after all.


Don’t go out.
Plenty to do right here.

Time Storm

S. Heffernan

For C-

When I was young I believed in everything.
Angels and demons and everything in between.

I believed I would be a legend,
I believed I was chosen for a spell.

Music made love to the frozen neurons and
I even dreamt of super-powers like invisibility.

It got pretty complex, pretty distinct.
A perfect world.

For awhile I dug serial killers.
I’m not ashamed to admit it.
The paperbacks stacked around my room.

I had a mattress back then,
even the frame of a bed was
too constricting too much like the construct
I was so fucking cliché but it felt real, so eat it.

I can get a little obscene.
No show is too small though,
I’ll perform at your bah mitzvah or your
divorce party.

Even if you’re a forgotten celebrity.

I had one of those IBM processors
from the late 80’s
with the interchangeable font-balls?

View original post 153 more words

Hero Retardant

If you want you can have it but it gets hazy mid-way thru.

My behaviour is unfit for anyone expecting to run for office.

My social-carbon-retro-hetero record is marred.

Now I’ll never be married.

I just May have invited a new style,

but you’ll be damned if

you’ll get

your hands on it.

You can’t get in here without a pass.

The pathology needs one part meltdown,

a sliver of suicide tendinitis,

(acts up)

on you when you practice the art of

dancing without the crowd,

within them, around them, then thru.

All you want is them and all they want is you,

you and you

don’t seem to pay any more attention

and more; no more.

I picked up a few ya basta’s.

A few tickets got pirated and ticket masters

rightly shaven left from the Right

downloaded, at the right

time, uploaded in the right hand.

All you want is money,

we’re flipping switches on.

So the dance can keep,

the dancer keeps watch.

Keep the joints ready on a mat

in rooms like quiet, praying Muslim.

Hindsight Bias?

You’ll think you saw that coming.

G. Inja, esq.




I’m the Inja starts with a double G.

First ones genius Blue,

next ones redness and

Green, too.


I don’t roll up in nothing

but my goddamn feet,

I walked here like Nietzsche

and Hardy before me,

See, spot,  Run!


I set off topics like you pretend

to shoot guns, rapidly

and at my best lethal.
I count up my references

and citations

you balance & multiple accounts.
I worship no altar but truth,

you bounce around in a
souped up coup,

trucked -in jumpy castle

stadium’s for angry teens.
I disinfect the herd and

re-place with new spleen

every line gets a second and third screening,
every fourth has hidden meaning,
each pedestal is just a staple in a stack more
like the first,
a haystack of Forster
a forest of whores
a showdown?


Maybe with my Shadow-run
maybe with my shadow, and son,
maybe for a battle summons.

But never for mere money alone.