Turner Odorizzi

there is only so much air, we can't all have some.

[gunthersthompson]

Let's say that you want

to be smoked. I smoke such

a mound of cigarettes with you,

ashen lungs, a dumb drunk pile of me

tripping over my overcalculations,

over and over because I always talk too much. If you wanted to be smoked

I would smoke you, hoping with hesitating

that would hope you smoke me, dissolve me with your fire, in your hands open up to me,

just so that

I could feel what it's like for cosmic calculations to turn everything into nothing and to be wrung out in all the best ways like drying yourself in soft tangerine sun.

I would never ask you to smoke me

or vice versa. But if I did, with nothing but blind wishing truth in my eyes,

it is you who I would want to smoke me.

[gunthersthompson]

Just Fucking Beautiful

Sweet leaves and hydrocarbons look like a fluorescent bulb mixed as a witching concoction. Symbiosis and electromagnetism are like

poison and hybridization in the air.

Neutrons. Non- feelings expunged as a plague.

On the other hand, you have corporations. Uncomplicated.

[gunthersthompson]

Musing 8

Whose voice is a disconnect in the world? Are there any real signifiers of intention, or can we safely say that there is nothing all that special about the voice of a written thing versus the mind and pen through which it was etched? I think a lot about the way in which we give the voice of an author authority, but why? Ezra Pound was declared an insane, incapable, and completely incompetent traitor by the American judicial system. But his poems, especially the Cantos, still speak volumes to me and hold their place in my mind as books do on a shelf. I write and I hope that you who reads does not instate a voice upon me, for I promise it will not be the right one. However mad it may seem, the work of me does not exist as Me and vice versa. A separate block gives both credence and gives us all some much-needed room for critique.

[elizabethellenfastmachine-deact]

order chapbook here!

[gunthersthompson]

G.I. Joe/Jane

G.I. motherfucking Joe has two eyes, chestnut and almond-shaped.

G.I. Joe (Jane or Phyllis) has two breasts, worn of child's teeth, but strong. G.I. whoeverthefuck is not tall but is lithe and ripe in beauty (doesn't do her any justice).

She (now you know that Joe is a She)

is the towering Colossus of Lazarus, a resurrection of a fine female ideal. But, she knows, that a real American Hero (no trademark) doesn't need the comforting blanket of a gun, even on safety.

The real women; The surrealist woman; The postmodern female;

all

a

revision

toward

greatness.

[gunthersthompson]

Light (3 Parts)

Sitting on the porch with my forearms resting soundly on an angular chair, I am faced with a large beam of light. Faced with sinking sky and the type of light intertwined with human muscular tissue. Singular, moving, overly sensitive to regulated bowel movements and crudely descending. Murdered light fainting like a victim: a wild Bluebonnet in legion form astride a Texas highway.

The light of the sun dies, and, for a few sluggish moments, waning bright gasps. In death throes, complex black sweeps over the horizon, allowing star specks to wriggle through. Now, I am greeted by tiny guide lights, some dully dim and others like watchful eyes, carefully observing land below. My arms lay folded softly against cold-hardened thighs as the same cold inspires comfort in the rest of me. Unfortunately, the stars all wave their last winking goodbyes, taking bright existence with them.

The zombie morning creeps as if exiting a grave; It's claws tear the void away with geriatric calm. My hands are forced back to the arms of the chair, but now I'm also fully clutching the frame, like the penultimate and quiet seconds before a meganuclear explosion. The invading forces are fully triumphant when their god (the sun) stands at a grotesque right angle, and the Pythagorean association of my porch to the god brings me full circle.

I feel nothing but anxiety.

[gunthersthompson]

Musing 7

How connected are the parts to the whole? I often think about this predestined notion as I drink coffee; usually it happens in the morning or sometime after one in the afternoon. Beans make coffee; Coffee gives caffeine; Caffeine runs a violent course through the body, straight to the brain for an electric jump start. Inevitably, writing works much the same way. Words cave to sentences; Sentences give way to paragraphs and pages; Those paragraphs and pages form a narrative. Parts and wholes in a perfect symbiotic relationship. It’s a shame that this mutual benefit has almost caused me to drown in liquor and give myself cancer through cigarettes. I am my own parts, simply imperfect and wholly flawed.

[gunthersthompson]

Postmortem Character Assassination

It had been two days since I had dug the grave and left that throng of trees. As I drove, Collin came back to me in subtle ways. I saw him along the highways driving through Lubbock. Occasionally, I saw him standing by the signs, telling me how far I had left until the next city, but more often I heard him when the music started playing because he always controlled music in the car, even if he knew I hated it. His piercing eyes were running through the speakers. He would stare out of the window when he played something, always like there was some other, better place where he wanted to be. In those moments, he was so quiet that the air became sickness, every molecule tied to hardy misanthropy. I tried my best to see his self-destruction become a past problem. I don’t know if either of us knew that it was like we were riding in a hearse, unaccompanied but forced to acknowledge the fact that the reaper was ready.

The road was dead, the lines dead with it. The radio was hollow and robotic, so I switched it off.

The first town I came to after Lubbock was Roswell, just a few miles across the Texas border and the first introduction to the New Mexico landscape. Though it didn’t look different than the adjacent part of Texas (it had the same waving beige-green grass), it felt different.  People in Roswell have a claim to fame with an alien crash. Every time I had been there before I was just passing through with my parents, but in the car now was just silence and me. It wouldn’t be hard to accommodate aliens and I even thought about driving to the crash site just to see if there were any beams waiting to extract someone. In the moment, I knew that I was hungry and that, by my estimation, these were not people I could stay with long. But the Roswellians would do for the time being. I chose the first restaurant that I came to, parked over toward its side, closest to the building, and thoroughly swiveled my head to make sure They hadn’t caught up to me yet. My luck was still high.

“Do you serve beer?”

It caught the waitress off guard and she just stared back at me with a tilted catch of the teeth. She worked harder to get behind my eyes and see what kind of alien I was, sifting through a number of reasons.

“It’s only 11:30, hon. Are you sure?”

“If I wasn’t sure then I wouldn’t have asked you. Just give me the cheapest beer that you have.”

She nodded, took the rest of my order, and then brought me the coffee, water, and beer that I had ordered and planned to drink in a quick succession. Glancing towards the kitchen, I could see her whispering something into her coworker’s ear, stopping and cutting short when her eyes found me. A slow smile after. I noticed, after burning my tongue on the coffee, that a lone paper was hanging lazily on the precipice of the booth-seat. There was a big coffee stain washing over the front page, but I could still make out Dallas Morning News toward the top. There was a mention of Collin as “Texas 20 year-old Found Dead and Buried in the Woods” on the third page but nothing about me anywhere. The feds were hiding something. They just didn’t want to tell the public. I was sure I was still in need of escape.

 The waitress had put me in the front corner of the place, which I liked, and had left me alone long enough to doubt myself and shred the paper before stuffing it carefully into my pockets. She didn’t notice my hands or ask me about the paper, but instead asked if I wanted food and continued to smile while I stared back.

“Can I get you anything to eat? We got a chicken fried steak on special today, mashed potatoes and green beans on the side. In my opinion, it’s the best thing on the menu.”

“I’ll just have scrambled eggs. I don’t eat red meat.”

Her smile appeared again, more plastic this time, and she scooped up the menu I hadn’t looked at, “You might be in the wrong part of the country then, hon.” I watched her look over her shoulder twice; I could have sworn that she winked when she said that last bit but couldn’t be sure. She was working with the feds.

I went back to quietly sipping the coffee, water, and beer, all three tasting equally bitter on the tongue. Collin hated coffee. He loved red meat.

--------------------

We were behind a diner, some little place in Lubbock with a combination of SUVs and massive trucks in the parking lot, waiting on a dealer who had flaked twice that day. Collin was tapping his feet and I, not wanting to start something, glanced over to get him to stop. His eyes were focused and contracted, like the eagle closing his wings to chest in a steep dive towards the water. He was an eagle. He continued to tap his feet and I gave up. A car cloaked in a scratchy, dingy kind of grey pulled up, handed off a bag, and then twenty minutes later we were on the couch, chopping up rocky particulate into powder, preparing said powder into an infantry of lines. Spartan hoplites in proper phalanx form.

“Hand me that twenty-dollar bill; I don’t want to use a five.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to argue with you, I’ve waited all day for this coke and I don’t want to fucking argue.”

I handed him the twenty and, like an illusion, the lines vanished. He fell back to the couch, smiling for the first time in something like forty hours and sniffing harder every few seconds. We just looked at each other for a little bit, breaking silence with a stronger silence and bridging gaps with cocaine. He frowned, “Why do you look so scared?”

--------------------

The sky was fine and the wind mild as I stepped out of the little cafe and onto the gravel of the parking lot. I thought I saw an eagle though the two little girls standing on either side of their grandpa shouted about flying saucers. He laughed, explained that God made humans, and only humans. They seemed to take him at his word.

There was still purpose in my stride, and, as I patted myself down to find my cigarettes and the ever-elusive lighter, I began to formulate the next stage of my flight from the law. I considered a fast break towards Colorado and the mountains as well as a beeline to the coast and Californian sun. But, like it was fated, a car cloaked in a familiar scratched gray went past at a relatively low speed for being on an empty road. I was adamant, to myself, that it was the same car I had met with Collin: the same peddler’s car who had sold him the fatal bag and forced me to say goodbye to a man.

My car was quicker than his and he didn’t seem to notice that I was following him, even as I hit a few of the same exits and pulled the same routine of changing speed. He didn’t drive like a drug dealer. New Mexico’s slack speed limits helped, and, within only half an hour, I was in a hot pursuit, hopefully towards vengeance. Collin’s voice tramping around my head telling me “Do it, do it. Kill the fucker because he killed me.” I agreed and stepped harder on the gas, coming within the normal buffer zone of about two feet behind the guy. Suddenly, I broke and swerved as his tire popped, the black shreds throwing back like fingers and hands outstretched from a grave. Most of them missed, but one of the biggest ones had smashed one of my headlights. The commotion threw the burning cigarette down to the floor, next to the pedals; It slowly burned the plastic piece in front of them.

­­­--------------------

Collin was never one to hide himself or his problem. I saw it on a daily basis. Every time he was driving, his eyes narrowed, and, like he took it as a challenge, he sped up to meet another car, lingered long enough for me to clumsily reach for the wheel, and then proceeded to take a bump as they looked at him like a hyena. He was a hyena in the car. A laughing poacher with contempt for those staying inside of their own bounds.

“Good god, do you see that guy? He was trying to lecture me through the glass.”

I met eyes with the man. An older guy that didn’t look angry. His brows were crunched and descended, eyes pleading even in the glare between us. He looked, to me, like he was concerned. Collin lapped at the window and threw as much of his bag that he could manage up onto it, then slobbering globs of cocaine with gusto. He was a spectacle and he was central to the experience. The car was the rest of his pack, and, with it, he was spreading across the Texas savannah.

The old man broke, fleeing a scene apparently. He must have seen the two tires rolling towards us looking Machiavellian. He must have anticipated the fact that there was something very tense about the air at that moment. The left tire clipped the front headlight and left it only slightly fractured with a bulb still functioning. The right hit dead on with the steering column, denting the hood like a crater. Six inches of the black rubber had broken the shield wall of the glass; Collin’s nose was broken, but only slightly.

“Goddamnit. I paid forty fucking dollars for a broken nose.”

--------------------

Parked and breathing as steadily as I could manage, I watched through the rear view mirror as an older woman, probably 50 or so, slumped in awe near the back tire. Had I chased some kind of ghost simply because a dead man demanded it of me? Maybe the drugs weren’t only his problem but mine too. Maybe it was possible for a thought-osmosis to occur in which I started to imbibe the paranoia and frantic neediness. I ran my hands over my face a few times before I decided to continue on the current route, even though I had little to no idea where it would take me or if there was a gas station within a few miles. My sureness was split. My hands were shaking. I was in desperate need of the Sunday paper.

As it turns out, I was on my way back to Texas. The closer I felt to Collin (moment by moment and foot by foot), the closer I was to some kind of absolution. His voice started as I passed the same cafe from earlier, growing virulently until he seemed to materialize in the passenger seat, his phone and notebook clutched under a white knuckle grip.

“So it wasn’t him, big deal.”

“Easy for you to say. You get to be dead and I have to deal with it.”

“Not my choice, friend. Don’t you want to just leave all this shit though? We always wanted to drive to the coast and live there. I feel like you might be limiting yourself because of your dead friend.”

If I cried would that make me crazy? I thought of crying but couldn’t picture it with the road taking up most of my view. Growing bigger as I came toward it, there was a sign detailing the friendliness of New Mexico. According to it, New Mexico was the Land of Enchantment, though I couldn’t feel anything all that enchanting about such a place. I didn’t need enchanting but did need bigger. Everything is bigger in Texas. That’s what the litany of signs and mottos say. The headlines are bigger.

“We both know that you didn’t kill me, bud.”

Only miles from the next town, which was Texline on the New Mexico-Texas border, I was finally relieved of my friend’s ghost and comfortable that the passenger’s seat was empty. I could breathe easy again. I probably wasn’t crazy.

The welcome sign for Texas finally popped up.

As soon as I got to the first diner on the outskirts of town, my hands trembled. I needed another drink if I was to keep myself going because, despite how tired I was, I hadn’t slept in somewhere over 35 hours. There’s a certain fear the grips you after that much time. It’s a tigress who doesn’t want to mate, yet can’t say no. It’s a blank stare that, instead of being snapped back to focus, continues ad infinitum.

I walked into the place and the waitress bubbled at me with a very similar demeanor to that of the lunchtime waitress. Different state but the same calculated smile. I tried to smile back, but she forced me to frown.

“Just y’all?”

Had she just addressed me like there were two of us standing there? I looked around which confused her, and then sort of backed away for fear that it was some kind of trap or sting set by the police.

“Did you just say y’all?”

“No, hon. I asked if it was just you and then you went all loopy on me.”

“Oh, okay,” I told her that I was embarrassed. I wasn’t. I wasn’t convinced in the slightest that she didn’t say y’all. “Can I have that table over there, in the corner?”

--------------------

“Just y’all?”

           “Just us”

           Collin responded to the waitress and smirked, receiving one back in the process. He asked for the corner booth and she led us there, a slight hesitation in her arms as she laid out the menus. She looked back to Collin.

           “Let me know when you’re ready.”

           She walked away in triumph and Collin made sure to lean back and spread his arms over the whole booth. He was confident in the corner and never had an edge when we sat there. The diner where we found ourselves was dimly lit, like most Texas diners, and smelled like fried food. We sat there and stared at our menus for a few minutes before he even said anything else. He never looked at a menu that long. As I followed his eyes, I could see there was something hindering his vision. He blinked too much and grew a confused unfunny smirk on his face.

           We finished eating, left the place, and then made the choice to keep driving even though it was completely dark outside. I was standing against my door with a cigarette burning and feeling full and complete. Collin was rifling through the glovebox hoping to find the bag that he had stashed when we thought the cops were onto us. Finding it, he poked his head up and swiveled around to look for cops. Something was worrying him because he didn’t take any from the bag and he kept talking to himself. He never talked to himself.

           “Let’s go out to that cabin, Lee said he would meet me there and I don’t feel like going home anyway.”

           “I know, we already agreed we would keep going. Are you okay? Seems like you turned manic all of a sudden.”

           He snapped in defense and snarled as he replied, “I am FINE. Do you have to ask every five hundred feet? I told you before we got here that I was fine, and I’m telling you again. I’m fine. Please just get in the car so we can go, I think I saw some suits watching us before we went in.”

           I hopped into the passenger’s seat and made sure to check for the suits. There weren’t any cars in the lot except for a beat up Ford truck and a red Pontiac Sunfire that seemed to have only recently been pulled from the mud. There weren’t any other cars or people, and I began to feel like we were heading towards something weird. The car started fine, but began to chug a bit as it sat near idling, like it had run out of willpower or energy. There was a smooth quality to the blackness that took over the whole window and, as I rolled it down, nothing but silence to be heard from any direction.

           “Isn’t this where junkies go to kill themselves?”

           “No, not all of them.”

--------------------

           The waitress brought me a water and a coffee, but sort of scoffed when I asked about beer, saying that they only had Lone Star and Coors Light. She backed away from me when I almost snapped; I was clearly shaking in the hands. I slumped into the corner and threw my hands over each side of the thing, feeling like I was very close to something. There was a newspaper on the table that I didn’t notice when I sat down and this time it was out of Austin. The front page was clean of coffee but spread fear through me as I looked at the smiling portrait of Collin’s face. This was not a real picture of him. No mention of a killer anywhere. The feds had seized this one too. I could not help but think there was a massive conspiracy at play and I was at the center of its web. The beer could not come fast enough. Over and over again I scribble notes in the margins decrying the agencies and the government, and slowly my scrawl began to look more posed.

“You always did have some killer handwriting, chief.”

He was back and seemed bigger than when he was junkie-slumped in the passenger seat, also looking happier without the black pillows underneath his eyes.

“Do you think they will try to say I did it? You put it up your nose, so I don’t really feel like taking the fall for that one. I’m not a goddamn killer, Collin.”

“’Course not. Believe me, I am fully aware of the fact that I made my own bed. I don’t even think they would have half a mind to question you, honestly.”

“Either way, they’re coming. Do you see that white SUV out there?”

He paused and calmly searched the lot before seeing what I had seen. His head came back down and his neck stiffened.

“I see it.”

“They’re already here.”

The waitress peered over the counter, craning her neck when she heard buzzwords like ‘killer’, small town intrigue and gossip painted over her. She saw that I was seemingly talking to myself and made her way to what I assumed would be the phone around the corner. Collin and I made her when she walked back there, waddling like she was fleeing from something, and my blood started to course faster, my vision bored down into a tunnel. The feds were here and she had to tell them. She was a rat; I was marked and done.

“You better get her before she gets to the phone.”

I made a run for the back of the place, tripping slightly over myself but steadying and running firm through the back hallway, confused when I finally reached its end and not seeing a phone or the waitress at all. To my left there was an office. Somebody was humming inside. Papers were shuffling and I could hear the click of a phone. It sounded like an old phone, the kind that nobody had anymore. When I kicked in the door, the waitress from before trembled and shouted at me once before I could slam it shut. She wasn’t alone. I saw the man at the computer that wasn’t apparent when I first bust through. He didn’t look scared. He matched my eyes.

“I don’t know what you just told him, but I can’t let you call the police. I didn’t do anything; I didn’t kill him; He killed himself and I ran, which I shouldn’t have, but I did.” I flicked a switchblade off my belt, felt my hands shaking badly, and waved it at them like a cornered animal.

The old man spoke first: “Son, I don’t think you know what you’re doing. You’re from Texas, aren’t you?”

“Born and raised.”

“Then you know that, like most of us here in Texas, I have a Desert Eagle strapped to my side here,” he motioned toward the hulking thing on his belt, “and I am in no way afraid to use it if I have to. Please just put that thing down, boy.” I could tell that I was done. I was a turkey in the oven now. Everything about the room started to come back into vision and I wasn’t looking down a tunnel; I was staring at two people who had the means to end me.

“I’ll put it down when I know you aren’t going to try and put me in jail for something I didn’t do!”

Collin rested himself with both palms flat on the desk and started to take an overview of the situation. He shook his head at me and started laughing, cackling. He was every bit as alive as I was.

“You aren’t going to let this redneck shoot you, are you? Holy fuck, you are an idiot. Is this how you want to die? I guess it might be better than going with the two suits in the parking lot.”

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up! You are why I’m here!”

“This just makes you look crazier you know.”

“Son, this is the last time I’m gonna ask you. Put it down or I’m going to shoot you dead.”

I had almost forgotten where I was and, in my own blindness, didn’t see that the man had pulled the hammer of the gun back to its ready position. My nose picked up the hint of chicken fried steak and my brain began to run through some kind of checklist. Collin, my life, every single shitty thing I had done. Hundreds of bags of blow. Two beers in two diners, one with and one without Collin. Chasing an old woman like a raging devil down the New Mexico highway.

I almost dragged my hand to my side and capitulated but hit a wall when, again, I saw Collin perched over the man’s holster-side. He was sullen now and didn’t seem to have much hope in the awkward frown that held his face together. Above the frown, he raised a key to his nose and then fell back, dragging cords and family pictures away from the desk as his body slumped in finality to the floor. My opponent’s eyes hadn’t moved and his wrinkled forehead grew lower and lower, getting ready for a quick movement. He was poised. I was shaking and faltering, my vision going in and out while Collin flashed dim and then bright at the far corners of my mind. I focused on the man’s face and (against my own will) forced the knife into my pocket without ever breaking eye-contact or a sweat.

“Please. Please just fucking shoot me.”

--------------------

I don’t have any way to order chicken fried steak anymore. The doctors in this place are supposed to be really good, though I don’t know what that means. I’m locked away in the back hallway of the place, as far away from the kitchen as I could be. They let me write in my journal every day between noon and one but can’t seem to corroborate my side of the story when I have to meet with the doctors.

           They always tell me that most of that didn’t happen. Collin had been dead for a time before that, so it couldn’t have happened that way. Essentially they’re accusing me of writing fiction, which I still think is ridiculous. Do they always tell the insane that they are just making it up?

Sure felt real to me.

[therearenogreenstars-deactivate]

God Damn! You’d think this place was built of holes Festooned with shaking folks and all our dreams. I dropped the cigs like a medication Not worth the pain. But ‘My Sweet Lord’ was not And never was – stolen. Fucking squares. . - A - ve Maria - indeed. In sports just as in life. In games as in A war. From young and to the old. The South… They know not what they do. - Arbitrate Between the sense and the sense - less alike.

[gunthersthompson]

This is just gold.

[gunthersthompson]

Musing 6

Reading about Plato and persistence can be a troubling thing. How would these ancient philosophers see the day? I see the day, in its current state, as post-rain clouds covering a multitude of areas in the sky. There isn't anything troubling about this, though I imagine that it is a bit too simplistic. Simplistic and vain, because the personal view is often conflated with what we perceive as a modicum of the "universal truth". If vanity is all that the personal ideology has, to itself, then where might truth come from? Then, isn't literature an iteration or comment on this? Literature just might be a key to a gate, one standing as a blockade toward accessing the pool of "universal truth". All that I really know is that I am tired today, and I just want to have a beer with Plato.

[gunthersthompson]

Journey to the Old Gods

But there is a new lantern that comes ahead, down and hanging from a low- hanging branch. I hit my head on its broadest side. It teeters, but then settles and sits.

There, just a few miles from that, from it, from whatever-the-fuck dogs the illuminated mind, dogs my persistence toward the eagle that is my happiness, is an ever-changing illusion. It is a reversal of present clouds and satanic panic.

The road is dented with at least a hundred feet, it’s a few hundred feet, poetic feet, do you need more? If it rains there, the water will gather in solace among those many footprints. Around me, there are colors ten-fold; I am knee-deep in the psychedelic visual. Overhanging leaves with pronged fronds fanned out all multi-colored. What a fucking sight! The smell of not perfume, but cologne, insisting and unshakable. There is a breathable color to the air that is not apparent.

There is a flash of undeniable destiny.

[therearenogreenstars-deactivate]

even memoirs are fiction

[gunthersthompson]

Memoir,

Sweet like a rotten apple. Even my greatest moments

Are fiction.

[gunthersthompson]

(Needs a Title)

Dead men, around on no aim, petting all the deer along the slope of their nose. Dead men, flailing in no hurry, cooing all the flowers as they lay at the bank of river froth. Dead women, mixing throughout dead men, running through the air, free toward unbridled freedom. Dead women, now surpassing dead men, I look up to the mass ascension, and salute.

Dead men, wading in a lake of confusion, now missing the dead (not dead, but very alive) goddesses who now live faithfully on high.

Glowing women, looking down in their own reverance,

Beauty are beast.

[gunthersthompson]

Fruit

Suppose the apple quickly drops, pounding into ready and open hands. What was the speed, the perceived ferocity? No apple, rotten or otherwise, is baroque in complexity.

Maybe, in the moment, you caught the apple, tossed aside as all fruit of doting trees. Terrific and despondent, a shining mark of surreal human decay.

Fuck the apple, in the end. Does the apple bring flowers and a smile? There is no night, apple, or edible ration that can permeate the stomach of spectral void.

[therearenogreenstars-deactivate]

Frank:

He is frank.

open, sincere, or undisguised in manner or appearance.

St. Francis de Sales 

confessors, the deaf, educators, writers, and journalists

to frank

stamp an official mark on (a letter or parcel), especially to indicate that postage has been paid or does not need to be paid

[gunthersthompson]

Musing 5

So, I keep wondering about drugs and their affects, their uncanny ability to make you one thing and another, all in the same instant. Cocaine is a rabbit, but one afflicted with narcissistic intent. Molly, a dehydrated gazelle never wanting to stop it's own bounding over tall grass. Weed, a fucking sea turtle, just because I feel strongly that turtles are badass. Drugs are not so sad, nor hopeless, as our previous generations and brainwashed parents wanted us to believe. I have to thank Drugs, at least for some of my most important fuckups. Would blame be a better word?

[therearenogreenstars-deactivate]

So, chess is just for you, huh? You of such high and noble neuron-ic activity. Learning to think as a computer does,   every day,   endlessly analyzing the positions,   finding the ugly moves,   the ones the computer didn’t mind loving. We learned a lot that day.

So, chess is just for you, I guess. The way you play chess is the best way because when you play,   you win, right? Did it bother you when the ENIAC spat out punch cards   detailing just how fucked we really are? Are you still trying to live up to that image?    Delusional. It’s been long since the machines won.   We are all losers, here.

But, I guess, chess is just for you, huh? I can’t see why. You are no Grandmaster. You are no brilliancy. You are no bright spark in the cathode tubes. You’re a fraud.