December 29, 2010


I took the elevator
to the rooftop.  I
walked out of the
moving box, opened
the door, held secure
with a huge latch, and
stepped out into the
grandness of it all.  The
immense gray sky lies on
my head as a large hat, the cement
rooftop bore the weight of
my obese body, like my shoes,
and I, intense, stretched
dimensionless, tarried at
the edge of the rooftop.
Your image stood up in
my brain as I studied the
people puny, taking a
pinch of steps on the
sidewalks.  In sync with
the view, my dysthymia
shrunk into a small
crumb.  Ah, yes, that’s
much, much, better.

December 27, 2010

Redundant Killer

The Heroine
smokes Heroin.
destroys  the Heroine.
Hairoine sucks.
Harrowen blows.
Hareowin kills.
Whichever spelling,
Heroin Destroys
the Heroine
who smokes it.
(or shoots it ).

December 22, 2010

To Write is to Forget...

 You or I?
Or to enthrall
the third eye of
To realize the
surroundings of the
border of self.
Where a gentle
mist falls on deaf
skin and green and
purple trees confuse
hearing eyes.  For they
sound the same when
swayed by the wind.
Where birds bark and
cats tweet, to the third
eye, it's not
it's reality in side out.
A child skips by speaking
the language dead, Latin.
The child's innocence,
the nudeness of pallet
of his brain, impressionable
perhaps.  Definable, indefinite.
All the while, the tide rushes into
nothingness, so it effects nothing.
The third eye blinks,
blackness, then what?

December 18, 2010

Don't Read This

Please, because out of a read
you may make waste. (shit rather)
My aimless prattle and pointless dribble
may cause you to bang your head (on a counter).
How interesting can a 36 year old woman's
life, on disability (the mental kind) and meds be?
Unless it's spruced up a bit...
Say, she made out with a movie star
in her college years,
in her twenties she thought over and over
that she'd kill her father by way of stabbing,
and to wrap it up, in her early thirties
she escapes death by a hairbreath from her own hand.
What if her future buzzes before her, like a humming bird?
What if for every second her future adds up, a dollar collects?
What if her writing improves as experience drips from every word?
What if she base lines, becomes normal, not shining?
I told you not to read this.   

December 16, 2010


Knowone nose.
No1 noz.
0 knoze
Noone knows
gno won nozes
    but me.


Please speak softly to me.
The ache begins like a
bullet to the back of my brain.
Oh, hell, could you turn the
lights down, the light shoots
poisonous darts into my eyeballs.
What? Are you kidding?
Im laughing, hee,hee, as I cry.
Tears of joy, Tears of pain
Both are King of my Domain.
Like water in a light socket
or a boney ass on hard ice,
They are my love(to hate) and my vice.
Ok, calm down.  I need to rest.
It's so vital  to the smallest detail,
that I welcome the lulluby of the darkness.
Still, in my wakefullness, gentle, smoothe hands
caress me down, into sleep by way of sadness.


Six men strong hold me.
I wither into a lifeless doll.
Yet, I hear someone screaming.
The six men roll the doll
onto a stretcher.
I reclaim my body again.
I wiggle, kick and punch.
One hand, the second hand,
one foot, the other foot.
Four point restraints pinch
my wrists and ankles, I scream bloody hell.
The six men lift the stretcher
off of the ground.
Into a room I’m pushed
with one light and no sound.
I’m alone.  How long this time?
Twenty- four or forty-eight hours?
I’m spinning upwards, spinning.
I’m a propeller, I defy gravity.
I defy six wimps on top of me.
Soon, I’m not restrained.
I’m restored to my right mind.
I soar above the bullshit.
You can restrain my body,
You can’t restrain my mind.

December 12, 2010

I eye I eye I eye I eye

      Some of this information may be disturbing to some viewers.  Viewer discretion is ill-advised, unless you desire to live a crafted life by Danielle Steele or hell, a life with your eyes half open.
      Please buy a barf bag if you must.  Real blood smells alive.  Until it sits out in the oxygen for awhile, then it's putrid.  That's the test of a well written piece.  At first it jumps off the page, it smells like print and it if read aloud it's vibrant.  Let it sit through generations, in a corner of cyberspace, with cyberdust collected all over it, and let it slowly decay in its corner, soon it's as if it never existed.  A putrid smell replaces the book, where in cyberspace, a leaky cyberpipe of acidic fluid drips on the cyberfloor. It's heartbreaking, I know.  It's like euthenasia.  Just because the piece futuristicly stinks, why must it go.  To put a living and breathing, soul bearing heart wrenching ass clenching essay on the Internet and know that the essay will age into a raisin faster than I can type the next word, it's disgusting, frustrating and extremely tiresome.  God only knows I could wear my Grandmother's
knickers if my ass were not so big. (from sitting and writing worthless boobage on the computer).
     Am I an old fuddy duddy?  I've  inappropriate crust at appropriate places, I can't complain.  If I increase the volume of output in a day isn't that medically unhealthy.  I mean if I put out what society asks me to won't I crash?  Can I say early death? Divorce?  Fucked up Kids?  Gangs? Drugs? Guns? Jails, lots of fucking Jails?  
     I'm sorry, come again?  You want to look cool with the new IPad.  "I" out of IPad asshole is the whole idea...

December 10, 2010

You See It's Like This...

     The idea of an audience for which I write limits me, instills fear and devalues the truth of my voice in the piece that I write.  I refuse to believe that I stick your damn head in the oven forcefully, until a half an inch of your death.  My angry, cynical, emotional pieces compel the reader to react.  If reader, this causes a discomfort inside your luxury suite of a brain that stirs your heart or allows fuck, shit and damn to penetrate the suites security, and you shirk at the words in front of you on the computer screen what shall you do?  An enema is always a sure way to clean out the "toxins" inside your body.  You don't have to stop at one.  Keep reading, because if you read to the finish it's like eating spinach, and you just might get layed by a lovely lady named Olive. Ladies, Olive possess every toy ever needed to simulate guy sex, no, hot guy sex.
      When I write, I am the judge and the jury, and I'm accountable for simply a well written piece.  Or not.  As long as I use the word fuck in the right context, I refuse to grill myself.  For the love of God, I hardly think about of one thing I do.  For the love of fun and fury, I swim in the absurd and shit my pants.  If the smell offends your nose or your then return to the absurd, but it's absurd for a woman my age to shit her pants.  Ok, the cycle I propose leads back to reading my piece.  Look around at the setting that surrounds you, and tell me that what I write hardly adds to depth of reality you swoon in, really. 

December 7, 2010

Why You Tellin' Me?

Why you tellin’ me
What to do with my
I rolled around in the mud
For days to secure my
My mama knows
How to save my
We might as well
Throw it in the air and
See the people who take it.
The banks and stores and bills
All invisible; God only knows
Our irresponsibility.
So mama gonna watch it
With a twelve gauge vision
She is sworn to protect
So you stop wailin’
Like a child who lost
His pacifier.

A Shade of Humility Closer to Black Than Nearer to White

I am a building
I’m no architect.
When I start to
I collapse from the
the vulnerable inside.
No, I did not
 build myself
into a beautiful palace.
It took hours of
along with various mistakes.
 It took
studying other
buildings to understand.
It took a     
that not all buildings
are built alike.
I am a building
I’m no architect.
Please, a round of applause
for the modest
individuals in charge.

Temporary Insanity (How long is temporary?)

“ The worst sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them; that’s the essence of inhumanity.”
Goerge Bernard Shaw

I am thirteen,
and I fall
From youth.

I drink vodka
in the woods
I trash.

I pollute my
body pure,
with drugs.

To me, the woods
are struck dead
and gone.

I hate me and
you and them.
I’m done.

I abuse both
body and

Nothing matters.
I’m filled with
not caring.

I stay angry,
until the dawn
rouses me.
                                                                             Jessica Carnes

December 6, 2010

The Coffee Queen

     Rises above the mist caused by the breath of the mediocre.  She blesses the coffee crazed upper-class quickly and deftly.  As she swifly fills an order she parts with a morsel of edible information.  She thought well ahead when she decorated her shop, putting a couch, a chair (big), and a table for four in the back of her shop.  Not only is she a Coffee Queen, she also has a knack for conversation and if you catch her smiling, tell her so because it befuddles her.  Her heart shines like gold, she helps people in dire straights.  She also attracts characters. strange and triangular, into her shop.  The Coffee Queen keeps an open mind which is open for business 6 days a week.  Her small stature lends to her bold effect on the populas around her.  You may think she is thirty years of age, please don't rethink that. She carries a bit of cynicism around with her inside the pocket of her cute black apron.  It's funny and entertaining.  Lastly, ask to see the  Queen in her sock monkey hat.  That is an accurate reflection of her true character.  Here's to good coffee!!!

December 5, 2010

Crude Thoughtlessness

The more air I breathe
as I watch the tube
as I read Tolstoy
as I ponder Carroll’s carcass
the more bored I become
with the air as its forced
into my lungs.
I must wonder
where the boredom
Days elapsed into years
and my brain’s synapses
lacked creative lubrication.
I have surmised
that the first gasp
of air I breathed
that’s when the boredom

A Poem

Jacked up
Cruel thoughts
Dumb numb
Tears start
Sun glows
A sigh
Soul fire
I burn

December 2, 2010



20mg Ritalin taken orally
4 moderate cups of coffee at home
4 moderate cups of coffee  away from home
1 medium coffee w/1 shot of espresso


     This is a legal buzz to a gal who prefers all things down and about death.  By the middle of my day, my body buzzes to the high dangerously pitched tune of Ritalin.  Although my focus falls on random scenes of disinterest, encircling my focus is a neon water sound, persistent and very disagreeable. My skin vibrates and, my brain cells pulsate to the loud bass of the speakers turned up full blast in an extremely small area.  The skin on my head feels like cardboard at times, being folded inward.  Reading a good book, to a Ritalin lullaby, similar to a madwoman shaking one to death during a blood curdling scream, became impossible as my insides soaked in a Ritalin glaze.
     Is there any hope for your favorite hypersomniac?  Cause this recipe is killing me, landing me in the sack, by 3pm or 4pm.  However, if I dare not indulge in a Ritalin Recipe, my day will not progress, cause I will be soooo sleepy.  I will snore and snore my life away, and oh my god, I'll snooze through my final day.

December 1, 2010


                                                             day I
                                                        through a local
                                                    rag's classifieds jobs.
                                                 To my utter delight I saw
                                               "earn $1000 dollars a month
                                             from home." My honest nature did
                                          not detect a bogus offer.  I sent the $30
                                      in to the "main office"' to receive my beginner's
                                  package.  I looked for it in the mail with a naive glee
                               and it arrived seven days later.  I opened it, and read the
                            responsibilities of my new "job".  You motherfuckers suckered
                        me into thinking I might actually work for a living.  You're dogs that
                    should be put down for good.  I see you now, I know your trick.  Bite me.


November 28, 2010

A Hooker With A Veiny Pulsing Penis

      Well, I'm sure you won't find a hooker with a veiny pulsing penis in the Hairy Putter movie.  Jenna Jamison's reputation rubs the wrong way too when it comes to a hooker with a veiny pulsing penis.  She might add some quality to Harry Potter.  Like every boys substantial sexual fantasy from a very young age until the age of Harry in the movie.  If I were Emma, I'd need a fantasy Jenna Jamison to continue to return to the set of this lengthy, droll, boring job.
     I saw a hooker dude, dressed like a hooker dudette, walking down the strip with a rack in his hands.  I stared, as I watched him strut by me.  I wonder if he appreciated the irony.  Then I thought no, cause he thinks of himself as already having a rack, a set, of lovely breasts, in his mind.  I turned around, and followed this crazy and perfectly happy inside that crazy mess of his, or his head someone might call it.  He turned right on Virile Street, at the same time making the sign for executing a right turn on a bicycle. He giggled.  I overtook him.  I said "dude, what the hell are you carrying?"  "What's it to you sweetie?" "Well it looks heavy, thought I'd help you with it." I lied lied lied.  "It's a spice rack honey."  I couldn't stop myself.  "Is your name Spice?"
In the news  
A Hooker with a veiny pulsing penis held up a liquor store last night.  He whipped out his penis, and a pistol and pointed both at the store clerk.  He got away with $100 and some odd change in cash and all the miniatures.  The clerk didn't see his face.  He just saw his veiny pulsing penis.  The clerk is giving a detailed description to a sketch artist of the penis.  If you recognize this penis, please call 555-8008.

November 25, 2010

The Holidays?

I wonder what the Oxford English Dictionary says about the history of the word ''holiday".  I imagine it might relate to "holy day." Just a theoretical swan dive backwards into the annals of a history that speaks more and more meaningless volumes to the vertical peeps that drag their feet on the pavement daily.  I denounced all the holidays that people celebrate today at a local coffee shop and my friends shot the idea into tiny, but I consider them, powerful pieces.  I'm now reassembling them.  No religion escapes scrutiny.  Let's eradicate all of this silliness.  Holidays might now demarcate the day the first laptop was sold to a consumer at Walmart.  What about the XBOX?  It continues to ruin a generation, and plans to ruin another one.  The first cell phone sold (at Walmart), Sirrus radio (first purchased at Walmart), flat screen High Def (sold at...) Jesus, (nothing to do with holidays or Walmart).  I'm sure techno junkies totally jive with some of the bullshit I just slung.  Tradition disappeared when families disassembled themselves because they no longer could live in the same 40 room 15 bathroom house.  So they dispersed, and morphed into a artificial clan that thrives on superficial sincerity of emotions.  The emotions, they found on the Internet, with instructions on how to convincingly evince them. 
Me, I'm prepared to celebrate the changes in the earth's seasons.  It's only natural.  Like Winter Solstice and so forth.  I'm a spiritual junkie who could kick a techy junkies flabby ass.  C'mon, I dare you throw the first tech thing at me.  I'm all punches and kicks, plus I'll run your ass into the first firewall you hit.  Oh, god, even I'm afflicted.  Firewall.  What the hell is that anyway?
So happy fucking thanksgiving to you lost losers.  If I could mess with your electronic life I would.  I suppose I should buddy up with my enemies.  Hell no, I have a few books  to finish. 

November 21, 2010

I'm Thirsty For What Quenches Your Thirst

Let's get one thing straight.  Let's allow no clumsy hole in whatever philosophic dogma I purport in this silly piece of written nothing.  I in no way thirst for Christ's love, or for an athletes first pick to ward off thirst, Gatorade.  I at one lousy time or another sought Christ's love with fervor and a hint of failure around every turn.  I drank a couple thousand yards full of orange and fruit punch Gatorade while engaging in hardcore competition and after that finally (thank god) it dried up.
So if any of You out there, in cyber space at different cyber junctions, express thirst with any and all of the five senses, I'm asking for Your input, help, suggestions, ideas, on what quenches the most ravenous thirst currently unanswered because of a blip in Your plans, life,situation, circumstance.  Names not necessary.  What quenches my thirst?  Writing ccreatively and going to college.  Currently exp. some health problems, so no school and limited writing.
Please I beg you to perch on the edge of a limb, or stand at the end of a high board, or bungee jump off a very high bridge and let me inside your club head. Thanks, me

November 18, 2010

Meditation for the Mentally Disturbed (Dialectical Behavioral Meditation)

Leader: Technically take the mindfulness out of this excersize, because as I take you fools through this pointless feat your minds will only stay mindful on my sultry voice.  No relaxing.  Mindfullness, even of my bad hot self, requires action, and concentration.  So, Let's proceed my favorite crazy ho's.

Leader: Ok, Let's begin with finding an alert but comfortable position on your chair and close your eyes.  Carrie, not under the damn chair.  Put your stink ass, fungi riddled, pointed toenail, feet flat on the ground.  Now, place your twigs either on each side of the chair arms or put them on the table in front of you  if you can support your huge ass head.  Don't flatter yourself, your head's comprised mostly of manure and methane bubbles.  Be mindful of your butt sitting on the chair.  Your ass is growing exponentially with time.  How huge might your ass be in 2013?  Picture the ripples of fat that exist on your ass at this moment.  Embrace this picture.  Move upwards to your arms.  Feel their useless dead weight hanging off your fucking body.  Stay mindful.  Know one day wrinkles and arthritis will aflict them.  Be self assured in your mindfullness.  Now, it's time to become mindful of our breath.  Of your stomachs hitting the table you sit a foot away from when you out breathe and of your stomachs not moving when you in breathe.  Feel a chocolate cream filled donut slide down your throat, with a gulp of milk.  Feel it bottom out in your stomach.  I know what your mindful of now.  Another fucking donut.  This mindfulness experience is not a diet program.  If necessary repeat the act.  If not open your eyes and admit you sit with the same losers that you sat with when you began this venture.  Please be mindful that nothing changes except everything, so get a grip and move on to mindlessness.  A fool's playground.  

Welcome Mat; A Picturama of Another's Presence

Hello. Let me warn you, I'm certified; but I swallow pills that absorb the crazies bunking inside my head twice a day, so I'm good.  Better than most.  I always dreamed of taking that magic carpet ride that song promised every time I heard it, but finally, recently, I discovered something so much better, a super find, if you will indulge me!
I arrived home from my favorite hang place, the library, but forgot the code to enter my house, really the god damned lock. (Serves me write.  I pushed the envelope, and stayed an hour extra today.  Bad, bad Girl)  As I relish the extra hour with a crooked grin on my hopelessly ugly face, I look down and notice my Welcome Mat.  Good God, might there sit a key under the mat?  Before I bent over to peep under this atrocity, I noticed the mat's otherwise dull brown, rough surface, now contained a picturama, like when I sit on a smelly bus for the long haul and I stare out the window.  Looking at The Welcome Mat created a similar effect, of looking out a window to escape the absolute hell hole in close quarters that threatens me.
This, though, I knew, belonged to someone else's artillery.  This picturama  begged to help a certain individual, not I.  I live in an ungodly, unlivable part of a big city.  I replace my locks monthly.  The only safe place I can go is the library, a rather long ride from my abode.  I see ghosts while I'm looking out the bus window.  I see houses literally fall down, at times, I see the cruelest outcome of Derwin's Natural Selection Theory.
In this pictuarama, the snow is ample.  It's fresh not black and mutilated by traffic.  This one also provides sound.  I hear the crunch of a heavy pair of boots walking on the snow.  A dog barks, a child cries out "Mom!"  and suddenly I hear shortness of breath and notice the picturama changes to an incline.  I know the lady speaks with herself, because she tries to remember what she forgot at the store.   Oh god, she remembered.  Her little girl, sits in a changing station in the women's room in the back of a little grocery store!  Dear God, she needs her picturama.
Then I remember, picturama's maintain a life of their own.  One way they live, is to fuck with the minds of the suckers.  I never claimed I was not a sucker.  So I looked under the damn rug, and found a key.

November 14, 2010

If Jesus Had A Knife

If Jesus held a knife
while walking a
dead man's path

If the Pharisees
Jesus's will to live

To guide and show
An entire generation
shared will, spiritual progress-


If Jesus owned
a knife
and hid it in his hand

With a wreath
around his head
and bloodied to hell

Jesus would ask
for a pause
and give his captors

The damn knife.
The Pharisees no doubt
would plunge the knife

Into Jesus' body
as Jesus feels at peace
soon the knife breaks

The blade stuck in
Jesus' back
Can anyone say Judas?

November 13, 2010

A Semi-Automatic Headache

Talk about it, remain silent, it shows no mercy.  The tightness of the headache hits the target each time. In the front of my cranium, tense and pulled tight, nothing fucks with a semi-automatic headache.  7 months of consistent drilling in the front of my worthless skull. It bears no oil to the surface.  The Migrainatory Headache Rogues  founded by a Head master of a prominent, very classy, very affluent high school, uses the weapon on people he perceives who have an easy life, of fun and wonderment.  He refrains from acting out on his students, for they earn his bread and butter.  So he walks around the city, very tall and very thin, practically invisible, in a long black wool coat and pretending as if he sees nothing, yet observing the finest detail.  I enter into this when one day I walked towards him down the sidewalk with my blond locks recklessly flowing, and a smile on my face feeling as if I were on the moon.  He looked at me, and it took one wrecking thought.  The headaches started overnight.  I heard of this man, later on a social network.  They showed a picture of him.  He reeked of badness.  I heard only he possesses the ability to afflict me with a semi-automatic headache, and as it stands, no one not even him, has a cure for this affliction.  I inject myself with a potion that provides perhaps minutes of relief...but a semi- automatic does what it does best; it begins to fire again.  I believe the semi-automatic headache happened to be a bystander in the Head master's artillery, and sitting alone, it wishes no harm.  If you go to you will find his picture.  Be sure to look forwards and look depressed and mad at the world. 

the end   J.

October 23, 2010

Staring At A Crack Into Anothers' Mind Blowing Moment

...A crack sounds vulgar or illegal, whatever happened to "if you step on the crack you break...." Innocence stands right next to the corrupt, waiting for a physical blow that knocks the fuck out of the angelic.  A fall occurs.  Innocence transparent. Fades. No more.  Suddenly an infancy in the dark world of babes begins.  Finally, a thirteen year old kid guns down an innocent victim. No fucking remorse. A picture on the tube of this carnal kid holding a large gun.  Considering death penalty for the first time for a child that age.  Mind blowing.  So I ask myself, who represents the saddest form animalistic thought--kill or be killed.  I stared at this moment so long, my eyes no longer saw.  Then I understood.  A collective observation of the fatal fall, people bashing their angry heads together, soon the pain triggers a motion picture inside their skulls. A horrific, homicidal, tale of innocence fading and mind blowing evil running its course again and again. The lines are blurry now.  The big guns sit with their gray hair and bellies bursting out of their button down polo shirts with smart ties and shiny shoes, attempting to redefine evil, and categorize it.  Good luck trying to draw a crack in dry pavement.  You ancient vagabonds have no time to stare.  You are reckless.  Lay down so I can burn you alive.

October 22, 2010

One Liners by J

Jesus is technically a divine bastard.

In a relationship, the person with more power, is the person who cares a little bit less.

It takes an architect to build a bra.

Jacknuts In Charge

I yawned when some jacknut
invented Atari,
It served no purpose
for my budding character.
I remember our first microwave,
cooked faster yes, but worse, no doubt.
The concept of speed invaded our kitchen,
I yawned in front of the TV
with a microwaved mess.
I recall the first electric can openers,
because it took talent to work one,
I begged consumers to buy the hand-held one,
I yawned, after all, what were we proving?
Microwave popcorn, juice in boxes, tupperware,
remote control, copy machines, malls,
All weapons of mass destruction,
All a part of the demon we call capitalism.
I yawn, it is all I can do.