Life Is Better (Spoken Word Video)

LIFE IS BETTER
By: Tyler W. Simms

To feel is to heal and to create self-willed fuel for being. Living is the art of embracing the honesty of becoming, embracing humanity at itself.
Within all is the center of everything. Our soul is the universe. Fear is invented and pushed like an insurance policy. Fear embellishes the selfish glory of narrow cultures. The fall of each empire is not failure in terms of human survival.
Pride is the fragile failure.
I will embrace what is. I will enjoy the possibilities that may never become and that is also okay.
The Stranger, burdened with so many opinions is becoming obsolete. This is my lofty hope. The culture is accelerating with the potential for profit at the expense of the willing participant’s health in a charade to validate feelings. Substance addiction is a loaded business on every stage of its shameful existence. We run on feelings and fear drives us toward the need to feel more, to feel better, to feel the best we can, or at least, to just feel okay with anything. I know I have had my reasons to befriend The stranger. If it taught me anything it is that consequence is of no importance in a given moment to a polluted mind. So the solution to the problem is a double edged blade, offering healing to those who want to heal. I suppose profiting off of addicted humans at their lowest state of self-worth is good business. A closed loop of repeat customers, guaranteed. But there is a real life outside of surviving for a living, it is okay to live in the moment and to feel whatever we are feeling. The way we feel in any given moment is valid. Who are we to change what is real. I do not think that punishment is always the answer to the human condition, as profitable as that has also become.
The Stranger never existed.
Neither did the evil in the woods or the monsters in the closet. Neither does belief. The actions behind the hopeful knowing determines its validity. An example is currency. It’s value is an idea. The belief in the idea is what makes it actual and accepted as a truth capable of saving us. Fear is an invention that keeps things afloat like an inflatable raft full of enough emptiness to keep our beliefs from drowning.
What would become if we ever rethought our beliefs? Team spirit and nostalgia, perhaps…
A fragile system drives an economy that stumbles around a straight line in an attempt to convince the flashlight that everything is fine, if all else fails we humans have trauma response built into our design…

Humans will survive no matter.
We should all make the filthy rich surrender to reason. Not frugality necessarily, but decency.

The Stranger. Didn’t The stranger make a killing on the beach, (A. Camus)? Poor guy… I liked The Stranger. Society created The Stranger. Therefore society became a problem for The Stranger. What good does punishing our own creations do? It was a thought provoking movement, this stranger, stationed in the prelude of the real story. Oh that stranger, tied up in a mad tourniquet, just for the violent hope of being in love with the want to become accepted through a flagging plunger of the never-never land whatever. What a character, almost irrelevant to the plot of the Iliad. How foreign The Stranger might seem to my children’s children. I hope it will read something like Genesis 19 to them. That would be such a beautiful gift to give to the future of humanity.
Today, the stranger seems to be cutting holes in our crumb pockets. How beautiful will it be if we realize the true treasure of the universe: the inherent joy that simmers within us all. What a tragedy to stifle the potential of a smile and a positive perspective, a kind deed, a thoughtful gesture, etc… Maybe the oceans or the wind or the cowering silence or social media will eventually convey the truth and everyone will realize just how dumb it is to think in terms of winning and losing. I hope it will be felt as suddenly as Hiroshima but with an opposing polarity of impact upon the human spirit, an epiphany that makes the scales of justice obsolete. Then there can be justice. Justice is life in the form of each new breath.

If only Zarathustra spoke to a Christian audience. Then it wouldn’t be relevant anymore to weigh sin and condemn good people for bad societal parenting. It wouldn’t be necessary to condemn bad people because they won’t exist if they ever discover how inherently good and amazing they are. If each knew of their own miracle and understood their own value, wouldn’t it be more compelling for everyone to live righteously. I think of an impact that will be joy if it were to go viral.

Self-Will is Joy.

If only fear were severed at the heart of a humbled struggle for power. If greed were contemptible then crime would be contemptible. That is, if effort were measured in the ability to survive instead of earning comforts in a rigged race for luxury. How much respect we would have for one another, people of every genre, if we were no longer competing for gains. If we were no longer measuring our worth in comparison to the Jones’s. What if we were all on the same team. What if we shared one bank account? As unrealistic as that may be, would anyone be without? What if we shared one account and every person was allotted an amount of spending per day? Then what use could we make of time in our newfound life of security. We could work our jobs or we could go to school and pursue knowledge. Find our own way without the threat of losing our shelter and access to food. Perhaps there would need to be an order and a way to take care of people on a global scale that doesn’t look like the corrupt political rising of communism in China, which became a nightmare. We don’t have to mislabel world peace, communism. We can call it whatever suits the idea. If humans could think of a way to solve our problems what would that be? What would motivate the slacker generation to be productive? What would ease the stress of the workaholics in panic-overdrive? What would feed the hungry and house the homeless? What would reduce crime and take away its appeal?

Im not sure how that could all be worked out. But the idea is something to start with. Something to start asking different sets of questions.

Unfortunately. The extremely wealthy wouldn’t like this idea, because they are, after all, better than us. Yet, if the majority of people think that something is good and fair and should happen. Then we can turn those assholes inside out. The reality is, that they could still live a luxurious and lovely life. Everyone could.

I dare say that COVID-19 will not destroy much of anything. Change is happening. Unfortunately, the sick have died and will die, but it is our privilege to prevent suffering when possible and ease the pain of our fellows. It is our responsibility to create safe systems to protect one another.
This change seems to be dragging us all along by the successes of certain industries in the name of public safety. So, we adjust our methods and we establish systems that keep everyone safe and we move forward. We should be proud of ourselves as a society. At this point we should be looking forward. It was a hurdle. A hiccup. Now it is time to address all of our social immaturities. Racism, needs to be humbled and remain only in the minds of those too stubborn to accept the truth. It is content of character that defines an individual. Color of their skin or clothes or eye shadow means dick.

Self-will is joy.

The failed goal of hedonism is not a failure if we can have the courage to change the things we can actually change, like the way we choose to treat one another – not just the way we spend our monopoly money, but the way we interact with one another. I don’t think we have to accept what we cannot change. We can still know serenity, even if something inconveniences our needs. We can still choose to breathe.

Although I still think we should unify all the bank accounts and send everyone in the world a debit card. Credit would become obsolete. Work would be the noble and honorable thing to do. And it would all be self willed. Peer pressure would take on the responsibility of coexistence and survival. People are inherently good. We would all show up for each other’s needs. It is unnatural to slip and fall off of a dangerous ledge. We would caution and protect one another. We would har no reason to steal. No reason to take advantage of each other. We would be taken care of. Everyone’s needs. And we would all have enough to treat ourselves. And we would have time to enjoy our families and friends and lovers. We could afford our medications and drugs and alcohol. People would start charities and give to the ex-“wealthy” because they wouldn’t know what to do with the extra paper. We could indulge in learning and hobbies and recreation. We would all work. It would be a privilege to work if the bills were dealt with. Jealousy would go out of style. Life could be good for all.

When there is clean up after an occasion where everyone was blessed, if it was announced at the proper times that volunteers were needed to help following the occasion. In my experience it is rare that there aren’t enough hands willing to help. I think there would be a shift in perspective.

Capitalism is control. Control is an illusion. Like power. Power is a dick contest for the weak men. Women should take the reigns anyways. We can achieve, universally, the freedom of life that is also love – That is also God – That is also, always, already been this moment.

If we can love ourselves and share in that love then I believe that we can fill our senses with contentment. A feeling that was formerly vain like the vision of alchemy. It has been screaming at us all along, from Jesus Christ to Adolf Hitler. It is obvious to me in everything, between outbursts of laws and opinions and logic and stimulus fables alike. Time has never seemed to be a factor we are hurdling. Control of the matter, in the name or the honor of anything, has gained us an amalgamation of hard lessons and pain and scars which have only proven our stubbornness to learn from the experiences.

It is not about right and wrong.

Evil is not a balance to good. Good is king. Good is the ocean. Good it the earth. Good is humanity. Bad is a trend. Evil is a mosquito.
Pain and suffering are a natural part of life, yes. But pain and suffering are not a requirement to know and appreciate joy and love and peace and warmth and comfort and friendship and even happiness.

We fail one another and therefore ourselves each time we burden our weariness with a life of denial. We fall back in line and listen to the height of fashion and wealth and lie to ourselves, as if we are somehow saving our mother planet through our consumer choices. Recycling discarded resources is good business. The containment of our messy wastefulness is important. How rude is it to damage the life cycles of other living things that are harmonious to earth’s ecosystem. Rude. Plastic is not the problem. Plastic should be respected for what it is and contained for the sake of its containing abilities.
I hope there is a universal epiphany, or at least for humankind that there is joy within us all. Joy is not made up by people. It isn’t a condition of circumstance or comfortability. Joy doesn’t need bragging rights to counter misery like the facade that capitol-happiness offers. It isn’t a weapon of manipulation like fear is. The joy in our spirit is inherent in human beings. I think for human beings as individuals, and more importantly for us as a whole; for our survival, for our wellbeing, for our coexistence. I would say for our success, but success is another loaded word.

Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Goodness, Gentleness, Faithfulness, and self-control.

FOR OUR SUCCESS!

Just do your thing. All will become as it should, logic aside.

Blue

Three months remained in my prison sentence in Walla Walla Penitentiary. I stitched a hackie-sack out of a shirt sleeve, and I brought it with me to big yard. That was the day I first spoke with a black man while incarcerated. If the institution didn’t segregate its customers when they arrived then every white man would have a black cell mate, and the racism wouldn’t exist to the awful extent that it does. His name was Blue. Blue kicked the bag like it was gonna hurt his foot. I told him to try and loosen up his legs, to try to have fun with it. Just allow yourself to look a little goofy is what I told him. Blue cared about his physique a great deal. He was a tall dude, ripped like a UFC fighter. He had stiff legs when he kicked the hack and sent it flying away from the circle. I told him he was trying too much.

He would listen to my critiques. Perhaps, because I was good at it. A lot of the inmates would listen to me in this respect. I learned that Blue was in prison on his third strike for robbery. He never used a weapon. He was serving a lifelong sentence because of his repeat offenses that were considered violent. I am not sure if he ever committed any violence when he had robbed people. I think he just intimidated people in general. He said he liked prison. I think he didn’t have a choice.

We kicked the bag around and every few kicks the pebbles and sand from the track would fling out of the poor stitching and we would have to fill it back up grain-by-grain. It was a nuisance, but it did not stop other inmates from joining our hack circle during big yard. It was something new and different, and it was fun.

A couple weeks into the daily hack circles, Blue showed up to yard with a gift. He had sewed a new hack out of a laundry bag and a piece of denim. It was sewn proper, and it kept sand. This was a real treat, and we had a growing group of men out there, every day, laughing and feeling the easy-going vibe that a hack circle offers.

It gave me something to feel apart of. All of the men who joined were excited about it. They didn’t talk about it. You could just tell. I became popular and guys started giving me shout outs and props of respect, because I was good at kicking the bag around and teaching guys how to become friends through it. It was nice making friends, although it was the last thing I could have possibly wanted. Becoming known in prison was a scary thing for a nineteen year old kid who had just gone through puberty.

***

I was arrested for stealing a purse out of a shopping cart. The woman was loading groceries into her car. It was a cowardly and chicken-shit thing to do. I was withdrawaling from heroin. I had become addicted to the drug, and I didn’t yet understand the nature of what I was going through. I just knew that I needed some money and that I couldn’t afford my growing habit on my wages as a cook. So, I stole a purse and a man chased me and managed to write down my license plate number. When I was confronted by the police a few weeks later I had heroin and cocaine on me. In fact, I was in the middle of fixing up a speedball shot when my driver’s side door opened up and there was a gun in my face. I remember looking up and realizing that I had been boxed-in by undercover police. There were four or five unmarked cars and six or seven officers with their weapons drawn on me. They had me. They had a case too. I was guilty. I admitted my guilt by taking a plea bargain. I didn’t have a real attorney so I was sentenced to a year in prison plus four years of community custody, and a lifetime of limited opportunities as a felon. It was considered a violent crime even though there was no violence. I didn’t know that at the time. I was just scared to death. I was extremely sick throughout all of the fast moving court appearances. I was never allowed to speak. I was ushered in and out and directed where to signed and when to say guilty. I did as I was told. What was technically a Theft 1 became a Robbery 2. “My” attorney told me that it was way better to spend a year in prison than six months in the county jail. At that point in time, that logic made sense to me. I didn’t realize the difference was a lifetime of being categorized as a violent criminal and all of the awesome benefits that that entails. I was just a teenager. I was locked up in the county jail and facing a prison sentence, and I was withdrawing from heroin so badly that they put me on suicide watch with the madmen. One of the guys on suicide watch would piss under his door and throw his shit at the guards. He was as lunatic. Once a week they would hog-tie him to a steel loop on the floor of the shower room. They would douse him with powdered soap and hose him down with a high pressured hose. I could watch that entire occasion from my mat on the floor of the “Suicide Pod.” I remember the guards really enjoying that event. It made me feel worse than I did. I will never forget the shrieking screams of that man being hosed down. After my Plea Sentencing, they shipped me to Shelton Corrections Center where I stayed for about six weeks. Then I was chained, hands and feet, connected to a group of other men, like a link in the chain, and we were loaded on a bus and shipped to Walla Walla Penitentiary. It was a six hour bus ride. None of the men in orange jump suits and shackles said a word the entire trip.

***

I was sitting in chow hall at Walla Walla one afternoon shortly after I had arrived, and I was thinking how strange it is that the institution segregates inmates by race before the inmates have even had a chance to make their own judgments of an individual’s character. They segregate people by race when they arrive. The prison only cells up blacks with blacks and whites with whites and Mexicans with Mexicans and islanders with islanders and natives with natives.

I remember looking across the chow hall and thinking how strange it is that the entire enormous cafeteria was color coordinated, small round tables, in clusters of race. If I could choose to be any race while being incarcerated it would definitely be Native American. They get all the privileges… As they should.

***

I was born, and I had white skin. I was raised by my mom and her boyfriend, Charlie Bassie. He was a black man. He was a Crack dealer and a junk fiend. When I was about seven or eight years old, I walked in on Charlie, my dad, injecting heroin into my mother’s vagina. He yelled at me, but he wasnt able to slap me in that moment because his hands were full. It was a scarring memory. One of my first authentic memories in life. I haven’t been able to shake it. Charlie was really mean to me and creepy to my little sister. I hated him. I never hated him because he was black. I never hated him because he did drugs or profited off of my mother’s body. I hated him because he was an asshole. I hated him because he would beat me and he would touch my little sister. If anything, being black, made him seem cool in my eyes.

I don’t remember much of my life before Charlie. I know that my mom had ran away from Alaska with me from another former shit bag boyfriend of hers. Then she had hooked up with this guy who sold used cars. She always insisted that she had played that car salesmen like a fool. The car guy got her pregnant though. That is where my sister, Calantha, came from. We never heard from that guy again. I doubt it was his decision.

Once Charles, the African American boyfriend, took over my mother it was all shitty. I remembered that she always screamed when they would have sex. I think Charlie must have been one of those freak-dick type of black men.

Charlie ruined everything good about my mother, I think. Again, not because he was black, but because he was a controlling, violent, and perverted asshole.

Eventually Charlie and my mom were hooked on crack and heroin. That’s when things at our apartment got really terrible. Especially if they started in on the malt liquor. Their drug habits were viscious. They were always fighting. There was always violence. I stood up for my mom a few times and Charlie would slap the piss out of me.

I remember the last time I ever saw Charles. He hit me so hard that my left eye was swollen shut and I had a knot on my head from hitting a corner of the counter top. I ran away with my skateboard after that occasion. I had nothing else to to stay for except my sister. I couldn’t save her, let alone myself. I had nothing else to say to them. I didnt want their shelter. They never had food.

I stayed at my friend Isaiah’s house. Isaiah’s mom was a junky too. She was a sad loner and she didn’t seem to care about anything. I never really saw Isaiah’s mom when I was there. There were people that always hung out there that nobody liked, but they were intimidating and much older than Isaiah and I, so we put up with their shit.

I remember one time those assholes talked Gene and Kraut into doing a beer run. They got busted. I had taken an entire bottle of dramamine that night, because I heard that it made you “fry.” I felt like I was gonna die that night. It was frightening over at that house. Probably worse than the crack den where my mom stayed. What a fucking shitty transition into adulthood.

I remember that I received a phone call on the land line over at Isaiah’s house from my grandmother, Truth. My mother’s mother. I had probably been staying at Isaiah’s for three months at that point.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Elliott, this is your grandmother speaking, honey.”

“I am aware.” I said like a stiff little prick.

“What are you up to? You sound beligerant.No one has heard from you in weeks. Even though we know where you’ve been, we have been so worried about you.”

“How in the fuck could you know where I have been?” I said, annoyed. “Anyways, Grandma Truth, what do you want?”

“Oh, well, honey. We have been trying to get ahold of you to let you know that your mother has court on Wednesday the 6th. Which is in three days, honey.”

“Court?! What is it this time?”

“Yes, honey… Oh my goodness, you don’t even know?”

“Know what?” I asked. “What the fuck are you talking about, Truth?”

“Please, Elliott, honey, don’t swear!” She said sternly with a bit of contempt in her voice. “You sound like your mother.”

“What do you expect, Truth?” I asked sincerely. The frustration not gone from my voice.

“Elliott, your mother was arrested for sexual trafficking and intent to sell heroin and crack-cocaine. She has been in the county jail since about three days after you dissapeered.”

“You make it sound as though it were my fucking fault. It is her own goddamn fault! She is a junky whore!” I was screaming the last sentence and my voice shattered into a sobbing shit-show of emotion at the snivvelling word, whore. Thats when my composure was gone. I wasn’t tough. I was broken. I was homesick for the sickness that was home, and I had nowhere but shit boxes to go. A few places without power, where drunk fuck offs would piss in the corners near where I was allowed to sleep. I fucking lost it, fell apart.

“Elliott, Honey, Baby boy, My sweet child, it is not your fault. I was not implying that… Listen, Elliott, there is more.”

“More?!” I asked sniffling as if that were an absurd impossibility. Inside, I knew. I knew… of course there was more. My mother is the centrifugal force of tornado-like destruction. “Let me guess,” I said trying to resume my anger to keep the tears away. I knew I was going to get major crap from the jerks that squatted at isaiah’s for crying on the phone to my grandmother about my, ‘mommy,’ the word they were mocking me with in the backround of that phone call. I thought about just hanging up.

“Let me guess,” I said loudly for the jerks in the room behind me to hear, “she has a loud applauding episode of the clap. What, she got cheese on her clam? I am not surprised, and I do not need to know about her disease infested flappy-trap.”

“NO, ELLIOTT! Shame on you for saying that! We are talking about your mother. Your mother is a very sick woman, Elliott. Please speak with some respect, please, at least try to with me. She is my daughter. Please… with me.”

“My bad, G-Truf.” I said. My grandma Truth was there for my sis and I each time, ‘ mommy’ was locked away in a cell or in a trap house. She would abandon my sister and I for days and weeks sometimes.

When she didn’t have us kidnapped and starving on some shitty, litter box floor in a crack-fogged room, while flipping tricks and spinning minds, she would have some random puke face with a dick teach us some discipline. “They need a male role model. They need discipline.” She would say. That was interpreted in sll sorts of shocking ways. Then the men would slap her in the face, with a fist occassionally.

She was a busy business, my mother. She should have charged men cash for the shit she did. I never saw any money from all that hard work. I only saw her blank expression, eager and desperate for another wash of the spoon or another hit off the brillow. She was mostly paid the scanty crumbs of cocaine freebased w/baking soda, or black tar heroin rinses from used syringes. Her needs were the eclipse of my stomach, and Calantha’s stomach. What were we supposed to eat. There wasn’t ever any food.

“Elliott, after your mother was arrested, the police obtained a search warrant for your house.” Grandma Truth continued. A long silence ensued…

“That is not my house!” I pulled the phone away from my ear, suddenly very frustrated again. I was tempted to hang up again. I poured myself a glass of warm Canadian Whisky into a rinsed out cup of noodles styrofoam. I took a salty pull and a bit of the alcohol went down my air pipe. It burned and I started coughing madly. I could here my grandma yelling for my attention from the cordless landline telephone. Again, I though about hanging up the phone, but I put it up to my face. I closed my eyes and exhsled the burn and a few more quick tear drops fell from my eyes.

“Elliott, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Elliott, I am going to get straight to the point before you hang up on me and I never hear your voice again. Elliott, The police found some sort of drug lab in your ma’s house.”

It was quiet for a curious moment.

“Elliott, her fingerprints are all over everything. Honey, your mother is in big trouble. She wrote me a letter and asked me to find you and beg you to attend her trial. In her defense, honey, she has been in county and off the smack for about three months now. She is thinking clearly. She is very emotional and apologetic and desperately broken. She misses you most of all. She even apologized to me extensively for years of manipulative abuse. Elliott, your mother is going to prison for a long time. I want you to think about that. Good night, child.”

Then my grandma Truth hung up on me. That was curiously impactful. I sat motionless. Thinking: my mum has always been in and out of jail. That is expected and accepted as a part of her life process. Each time she gets cleaned up in there and she is so sorry, and legitimately, sincerely, sorry…

Sometimes, Some People Are Just SORRY.

Mom never went home. Neither did I.

Shortly after my mother was sentenced to fifteen years in prison, my mom’s parent’s took custody of my sister and I. We went to live with G-Truf. I guess things were lots better, but, things just didn’t really feel like getting better. I was an angry kid and rebellious beyond reason. It ended up being a real miracle for my sister, a sad and disguised miracle… at first. Her childhood became somewhat normal and she came to life slowly. She was younger and needed the love and security of a sober and clean household. For me it was a shit show. I was a total problem child. I was a teenager that had been ruined by the trap life. My grandparent’s didn’t know how to deal with me so they sent me to a private christian boarding school in Yakima, WA. It was a very pentecostal, charismatic sort of place. I learned how to pretend on the outside and get away with almost anything I wanted.

They expelled me eventually. Then I turned eighteen.

It wasnt long after, I was arrested on some reckless charges. I was off to prison just like my mommy… I guess I missed my her. I missed my mother before she ever had a chance to ruin it for me….

***

On my way out of the chow hall, I saw Blue and he came at me like a brother and I received and exchanged a natural sort of hand shake with him. A shake that would appear smooth and cool. Almost rehearsed. I liked Blue. I considered him my friend. He made me a hackie-sack out of a laundry bag and an old pair of his state issued brown demins. The two fabrics stitched together in an ‘S’ shape with dental floss and a piece of guitar string. The brown side remained brown. The laundry bags were white originally, but laundry bag half of the bag had been soaked in ink. Cell-made ink that was made by collecting the sut on the bottom of a steel bunk. It was made using a baby-oil candle with a toilet paper wick through the center of a hot cocoa packet with an aluminum foil lining. So it was a really thoughtful and time consuming investment that Blue made for the hack circle I had started up. I just happened to be the one entrusted with the hack. I thought it made perfect sense and I really appreciated the gesture.

That circle gave me something to look forward to.

The circle.

It didn’t seem to be an issue that guys of every tribe, gang, clique, and brotherhood participated in this same game at the same times. Normally, in other sports at yard, it was colors sticking together; otherwise, it was blacks vs. whites, etc. I felt good that I was able to be myself around other people without being labeled as a traitor to my own skin. I guess hackie sack is the one exception to those unspoken and violently martyred segregations put into affect by the institution itself.

I was a good hackey.

Blue was one of the core men involved in the circle. I thought he was cool. He was always casual and chill. He formed his words well when he wanted to. He showed up to yard one day with that custom new bag that actually held sand from the track. He handed it to me and said, “Ey, Kid,” (Kid was what everyone in the joint called me, because I was a teenager and I still looked like a kid; I really was just a kid then.) “Ey, Kid. Check it what I made this here. I dig your skills and I think it’s cool what you brought to the yard with the circle. So I figured I made it to you if you want it.” Those were his words exactly.

It was the fucking coolest thing. I was so grateful. It was the only kind gesture I had encountered since I had been incarcerated. That bag had a way nicer stitching job than the one I had made. Mine lost sand so fast that it almost wasn’t even worth the effort.

The hack circle officially became a thing at big yard. In such a small world of racial politics, violence, and self-hatred it became this sort of acceptable thing for any race to join. It was an open circle. I cherished that bag. I used it a lot. I got really good at it. It kept my mind occuppied. I used it in my cell all the time too.

I got to know blue a bit just hacking for 20 minutes or so each day. He was struck-out by the strike three law. So he was locked away for 25-life for unarmed robberies. He had been sent to state two other times in his early 20s for similar crimes.

One day he said that he would run by my cell sometime soon and talk some business with me. I had heard that the blacks had recently came-in on some decent weed. Too good for prison, I had heard. It smelled up the whole unit.

The blacks went about smoking weed a little differently that the whites did. The natives had sweat lodge and drum circles and other privileges that they were able to get their high on at. The blacks were blatant about it, they didn’t get caught though, because they would sync their smoke times together. Just like how they control our movements. The blacks would blaze up, all at the same time, in different cells on all tiers and that is why the whole unit would smell like chronic occasionally. The white guys were more private, in general, and sneaky about smoking shit. When an individual wanted to smoke it was at their own risk generally. Which meant that they would make custom, ‘bounty blowers,’ out of scented lamp oils and deodorant sticks, rubbed onto toilet paper, and packed into toilet paper rolls. They would blow their smoke through such a device.

So when Blue showed up during an open movement one day and my skinhead celly was not there, (my celly was in another cell getting tattooed), I was happy to invite him in. I thought of Blue as a friend. There was specified time each day that the inmates could freely move around their floor. We were allowed to use the phones, to make collect calls, and take showers, and mail letters, etc. This is when all the drama and politics took place. Shots get fired. Missiles. Kites. Snitches. And people with something to hide, sweated in fear of their court papers’ surfacing. People tattooed a lot during this time. It was not allowed to be in another person’s cell, but it happened during this time every day, consistently. You can’t change a person. You can take away everything but what is untouchable in their soul.

I welcomed Blue into my cell that day, and we chatted for a while. He said he would stop by again sometime soon. I said that was totally cool.

Roach was a lieutenant in the Aryan Brotherhood. He was one of the shot callers. ‘SS’ bolts tattooed on the side of his neck and shit. Scary mother fucker. Roach liked me. He told me he would look out for me. I looked very young after all. I didn’t even grow hair on my face at that point yet. I was skinny and undeveloped. I did drugs and never learned how to take care of myself during the most important and formative years of my adolescence. I was at high risk of being turned into someone’s bitch. I would have killed myself before I ever would have let that happen. I would do anything in my power to defend myself. I was always on guard.

Roach had told me, “Be careful of that ‘nigger,’” his words, referring to Blue. Roach said, “Niggers like that’ll fuck a young white boy. On the streets they want to fuck your Sweetheart, just to disrespect you as a white man. And lust after her for that beautiful milky treasure. They try to get white girls pregnant and tear apart families. In here it is the youngsters that they wish to ruin. They are just the unfortunate product of bad societal parenting. Intergenerstionally, this consequence of the white advantage, these men in here, and the ones blasting the ghettos to hell and abandoning all their children slong the way. Now, Kid, I’m not talking about the black race. Im talking about this gutter breed of darkies that our brotherhood likes to call, ‘niggers,’ if you haven’t noticed, that is also what they address themselves and one another as. Ignorant ‘niggers'” Roach said. “Just be careful, kid. You can’t trust a ‘nigger.’ It ain’t really their fault. They inherit that hatred. Then society confirms it their entire lives. It is their only defense against the cruelty that has happened to them as a race. They mock it. It is very ignorant and sad if you ask me. It is very sad.” Roach shook his head. Then he gave me this look that let me know that I had been warned. I thought about that interaction a lot over the next couple of days.

Besides hackie-sacking, I lifted weights with my celly. He was a big dude named Sean. He helped me feel a bit safer. I knew him from the streets actually. He used to be my dealer’s dealer. We had met a couple times. Then he walked into my cell one day with a bed roll. We became friends. I was so skinny. He pushed me to eat more and he had me pushing weights in the iron pile as well as doing workouts in our cell with a five gallon bucket full of water and a braided twine handle. We got creative and had a whole workout routine that we would do in our cell.

One day, out on the iron pile it was particularly hot outside. I took my shirt off during big yard for the first time since I arrived at the institution. I have a big dent in my chest. Pectus Excavatum is the medical term for it. Like, my ribs go inward and it looks different. Well I instantly regretted taking my shirt off because this dude started making all sorts of noise about how weird it looked. He called me an alien. He acted like a pirate the next couple times I saw him. He would say, ‘ARRRRR,’ he was looking for his sunken treasure chest. He was trying to get others to think he was funny or something. He was just an old trailer trash greaser. Nobody likes the boisterous man too adraid to think for themselves. Most of the inmates had that in common. It was very uncomfortable being publicly humiliated.

I knew that I could not allow this man to disrespect me like that. I had no choice. I responded quickly and without emotion. I stabbed him in the neck with a golf pencil and it stuck. I followed with a series of solid punches and the guy went down on his back. Right when he got ahold of me and I was about to get torn apart, a shot fired from a guard tower and there were goons all over us, apprehending both of us and taking us both to the hole.

That was my first experience in the hole. It was just a one man cell that you only get to leave once a day for thirty minutes to do laps or let some energy out somehow in a big open room, no hackey sack. None of my papers or books. Just thirty minutes a day in a half-court sized gym with concrete floors and chain nets on the basketball hoops. I would walk the perimeter and stare at the stale gray colored everything. I’d let my imagination go wild.

They can take away all my shit but I am still my shit. I will never let the man get me down. While I was in the hole, I started reading the holy bible. It was the only book that was offered to me. Some pastor handed it to me through the bars. He asked if he could pray for me. I didn’t realize he was talking about right in that moment. His prayer was very emotional and it touched my heart. Enough to open my mind up just a little – let some light shine through me. I had never read it, the bible. I never payed any attention at that stupid boys school in Yakima. The staff of that place were all pretentious assholes. I decided that I would give reading the old, original big book a shot. Surprisingly I found a lot of very useful shit in there. There are all sorts of nuggets that are valuable and still applicable… I chewed up the meat and spat out the bone. I decided that God might be real.

I began losing my grip on reality. Solitary confinement quickly ate away at my sanity.

I became a holy man in no time.

I was alone in the hole with only that book to make sense of. I slowly decided that there had to be something to the words in those texts. I let that something tug at a secret part of me that revealed a forgotten and perhaps unknown part of me, connecting all of me to the spiritual world, which my solitary cell became. It seemed to close the gap that temporarily caged me out of Earth. I liked certain books and sentences, and not because of the Christ saving us all thing. That was all very sweet of him or whatever. He didnt really deserve to be treated so shitty. The things he talked on that mount were what the human spirit is inherently all about. Everyone recognizes it in themselves and some confuse this miracle of life that everyone has with it somehow being that jew’s idea, once upon a time. The jew that really got his shit kicked in for no reason at all. It wasn’t his idea. He was just talking plainly from the heart. It was documented and then it was used as a tool of manipulation to control other people and scrape their earnings without having to do any labor. Im guilty of that shit too I guess. Im no judas. But I have robbed peter to pay paul and I was the dude who filmed the porno with Mary Magdalene. That woman sucked my cock so fucking blessedly. For real though, there is some useful shit in that book! I mean that. It breaks it sll down. For real though., there is done super whacky ass shit in that amalgamation of cannonized law books and pretending of spiritual masturbation. Sone gnarly desert cactus trips tslking about wild creatures and at the crux there was a neverending singalong in the sky with diamonds. Lucy come down now. Stop playing with your dingus behind the pulpit. Eat simething. Get some rest and hush now baby. Job was a bad ass. Stubborn and foolish as hell. So was king David. He just wanted that jezebel pussy. Little man syndrome who rigged a fight with a giant retard cslled goliath. Solomon was brilliant, actually. Much respect for king solomon. No sarcasm. That is a given. He was a womanizer. But he was also a fucking gangster that played so hard he crushed the mould he made. Then crushed the one he had commissioned. Solomon holds the all time king crush-it record. Jesus was pretty awesome though. Honestly. What did he do that would upset people? Why are people pissed at him. Be pissed at saul. That snake in the grass who glued christianity together with bogus tales. He was an educated writer and master of religious knowledge which he used to parallel the old law and weaseled his own little new set of, well no shit, sort of rules to live by. Positive reinforcement being the new drive. Smart move really. But fuck all that.

We all knew what is up. But we are all too fucking system washed to change the sinole things and make everything beautiful for all. Not just the super crafty. Fucking saul…written and mailed to clueless peasants of the filthy ancient asscrack of the known world. Simple folk desperate to survive another day.

***

Here is a letter that I wrote while I was in the hole:

I spoke with God today about my overwhelming lust for Miss Henckel. Miss Henckel is about five feet tall. She has very long red hair. She speaks with an ugly nasaly tone. It is enough to piss any guy off. Henckel’s face is very pale. Her teeth are not good. She has a groady mole on her neck and she has a crooked hook nose. She has no grace or cooth or class or tact. She is a mongoloid. Her ass is lumpy and strange and she limps down the tier with the clash and clang of keys on her hip, a mockery to my indigence. The worst part about Henckel is that she is a pompous cunt of a cop. I battle internally with my resentment of police and correction officers alike. Miss Henckel is everything that I hate about women. She is always sneezing and coughing up lung butter. She chews Copenhaagen snuff. Fucking rowdy. She is always itching in between her inner tube fat rolls. Henckel is a complete frumpy bitch and a savage loud beast; however, she is the only woman I have seen in months.

I can’t get my mind off of her unkempt body. I find myself salivating and day dreaming of her salty fat pussy. I really would like to savage her with all of my bottled up passions and emotions. Fuck her real horrorshow.

What can I say? My standards have fallen to the gritty bottoms of the power hungry, maximum security, correctional officers pick. I am in a concrete wilderness and I am surviving as I know how.

After speaking with God today, I feel as though God may fancy Miss Henckel’s phat pussy too. I told God that he gets first dibs, being God and all. I told God, “She is in rough shape, but I am sure that she has some ample experience sucking penis.”

I decided after my conversation with God that I will let Him have his way with her first. Then I want to hear all of the details of how God struck down his red-headed daughter-in-law with his holy bat. Then, when the timing is right, I will make my move and come a thousand pathetic premature ejaculations all up on and in Miss Henckel. I know that I will have to play my cards just perfectly. After all, Henckel is my only chance at some trim for the rest of my mortal eternity. I am sure that I will check myself out of this institution long before God or “The Man” choose to show me some grace.

***

One Can Only Be Broken Down So Much Until One Breaks Himself Down Completely.

***

Ah… Miss Henckel. What rank fuck around I’d love to give her. Root her through real thorough and true true…

Time…

What a mother fucker is time.

I have given up on time completely. Why should I keep track. What benefit is time to me?

I will spend my every last breathe from now until then in this place of prescheduled monotony. Every day is exactly the same. I have no need to know nor care of the hour of day, or day of week, or week of month, or month of year, or year of years totaled since the birth of calendar seasons. The hourly paid employees of the penitentiary tell me when to shower and eat. They try to assert that they can decide when I can’t poop or pee, but I will shit when the movement conveniences my bowels. I stopped pushing and flexing my abdomen to hurry my trots along, why? I just let the shit fall when and where it wants to. You can accurately label me depressed…

I have given up on time and now I have one less thing to stress about.

My institutionalization is almost completed.

***

Tomorrow Miss Henckel works again. I salivate in eager anticipation of her chunky folds. Jingle jangling on down the tier she struts with her language of disregard and discontented self-abhoration. The lowest of self esteem. Even the other guards talk about how nasty she is. I chimed in with em one day. I said, “Yeah, I bet it stinks like moldy vagina infections and shit.” The correction officer goons scoffed and laughed a bit. I knew they thought I was on their side, but I was drooling inside. How dare those ignorant idiots think of me as a shallow, picky sorta, snobby poff. Never. I like pussy to be real ripe and spoiled-rancid like. The riper the older, the dirtier, the, stinkier, the better for me… Those idiots thought of me, making a real rude sort of comment, about Miss Henckel, out of disgust?!

Oh, if those poor idiots only knew how much I wanted to cut their fucking heads off and set them up like puppet dolls, and just to watch me and old Miss Red, from their dead-eyed purply stares. The thought of it brings me a nice warm sort of joy. I even spoke with old Mr. Voice about it again just now. Old god voiceMR. Sr. thinks that the juices of miss heckles trappy flaps give a stink that is as pure as the holy spirit of decay isself. Ha, how fun that would be: I would place their stupid rotting heads on the coffee table, facing miss heckle and I. Just set them up like dolls, squish-sitting their dumb nuggets atop their leaky little flesh-necks.

Oh, I can imagine it now, even here within this concrete tomb. Here where I plan to die, deep within my own mother’s strung out vagina. Way up in here, lost in the dark. Like a big wet loogie, spat out the tip of my step-father’s black cock. I am imprisoned in this dank hole. Where the Strongest men go mad and the weaker men get turned out by other, even weaker, men.

Oh, Miss Henckel. I can see her now. She is naked on that sad old lucky boy couch, the ripped up and busted in half sorta fuck-hard kicker. Miss Henckel, Spreading her curdy stems, Her gaping floppy-lips and dark red forest of unkept raunchy, messy-pie-yum-yumms. Oh how I imagine the scent so strong that it gives me the most glorious involuntary upheavey sort of gag tears. Oh, Yes! What foreplay! I would gag and absorb the bacterial disaster with such delight. If she would just allow me to feast on her despair and lowly-esteem, even just once in my life, before I take it away from me. I would surely make her feel beautiful. Perhaps even enough that she would invite me into the boiler room again. This fantasy is really what has been getting me through. It is ongoing and is truly quite a steamy affair within the confines of my unchecked madness.

It just seems so unreasonable to be all cheat cheating on miss henckel with my thoughts on the appropriately acceptable type of women I was so fond of in the former existence that I was so fond of. I think I called it living. Here, I do not live. It would simply be wrong to go parading around my memories, preying on the bodies of my former lovers. NO NO NO. Miss Henckel deserves my devotion. Even if no one else will ever love her the way my mind worships her, I will give her all that I am and more than she can ever understand.

What business do I have thinking of a life that no longer exists anyways. My life is over.

Well, I am guilty of occasionally reminiscing here and there. Sometimes I will get an envelope containing the written words of people I once knew. It seems so long ago

***

When I was put back into population, things seemed a lot different. I no longer felt the need to control… anything.  People suddenly knew me and had an unspoken respect for me. They knew that I was not going to take shit. I had stood up for myself. I stabbed a fat dummy with my golf pencil and keft it stickig out like a trachea thingy. People stopped making jokes about me having stolen some candy from a candy store and shit. They said shit like that to me before because I looked so young. That all stopped. I was, The Kid, I was no longer just, ‘hey kid.’

A couple of weeks after I got out of the hole Blue showed up at my cell during open movement. He announced himself and I told him he could come in. He walked across my cell in two or three aggressive steps and grabbed my head  with both of his big black hands and started licking my face. I resisted by trying to break free with all of my might. Adrenaline hit me and I was flailing to get away from this fucking giant dude. Blue slapped me hard, really fucking hard across the face three times. It left me dizzy. I tried to reason with him but he kept going. He ripped my shirt of my back like it was tissue paper. He was so much fucking stronger and bigger than I was. He pinned me down against the bottom bunk with my face smashed into the pillow. There was a furious rage that was too much for me to break free of. I fought as hard as I could. I yelled like crazy, but Blue made me look like a rag doll. I was just a kid. I was only five foot eight inches tall at that point. I grew four more inches since then. Blue was easily six foot three. I barley weighed 120 pounds at that time. Blue was well over two hundred. Yolked and shredded without an ounce of fat. He was a monster. A demon. Blue had my face buried in the pillow with his elbow against the back of my neck and my arms bound behind my back and he pulled my pants down and started hacking up spit and flem from his nasals and spitting on my ass crack. I was begging him to stop. I was hysterical and frightened and fighting like hell to break free. I managed to slip one of my hands free and I swung it wildly. It sent his rage to a whole new level and he Hit me on the back of the head.

I don’t remember much after that. I remember laying face down on a hospital examination table. I was in the prison’s infirmary. They stitched my ass up with fourteen stitches they said. I had a meeting with the prison suits and they tried to reason with me. They wanted me to tell them who did this to me. They wanted to put me into protective custody. PC. No way. That is where the rapists and cowards are. I clammed up and went back to my cell. I didn’t tell them who did that to me.

Roach approached me a couple days later and said that he had heard about what happened. My celly had found me unconscious on the bottom bunk, on his bed. My shirt was ripped and there was blood all over. My pants had been pulled up but I was a bloody mess. I was ordered not to report it. The brotherhood asked me who did it. I told them that Blue did it. I never spoke a word of it since, until now. Until I wrote this.

I never saw Blue again.

This event shaped the rest of my time incarcerated in Walla Walla. I had to live a lie. I was terrified of the African Americans in there, but I knew in my heart that the segregation and all of the violence and racial politics that went on behind the walls of that penitentiary existed because of the rules of the institution itself. I knew that it wasn’t the inmates that created this hostile environment. I knew that the hatred and violent acts such as I had endured, were not happening because the inmates were all raised to hate other races. I knew that, just like myself, most of the inmates in that place were raised in public schools of their respective generations and that racism was not something that was encouraged. Even in the small town that I had grown up in, which consisted of mostly white people, it was not okay to hate or discriminate other people because of their skin color. I could have easily been persuaded into the belief that the trauma I endured in prison happened because African Americans were inherently bad people. I knew that was not the case. I spent the rest of my prison sentence thinking about the institution. It was the institution that segregated its inmates. The inmates are celled in together based on race. It was the institution that created this hostile environment among races. Humans are raised by a society that teaches them to follow and trust the system that they are subjected to. When humans make mistakes, commit a crime. They are punished and caged. They are segregated by race as they arrive in their mother institutions. Therefore, as inmates of such a twisted system, the caged humans simply follow the structure of their government.

Inmates learn to hate one another, because they are never allowed to know and understand one another. They are never given the chance.

I asked several of the inmates after I was attacked, why it is that the institution separates by race when they arrive. The response was unanimously the same. The answer I kept getting was that each time the penitentiary tried to desegregate their customers, race riots would break out and it would be total chaos. This was boasted of proudly by the ones who answered me.

The institution perpetuates its negative effects upon society.

Human beings are inherently good. It is content of character that defines an individual, not color of skin.

The Stick Boys Venom


-Tyler W. Simmms

I realized how bad things were about to get for us all as soon as D crouched down and started creeping along the row of laurel. He went panther and put off a frightening vibe the way he crept along in step with Mike on the other side of the bushes. Mike was walking around our party without his shirt on, chest puffed out, head held high, pompous look on his face. I couldn’t sync my wide-eyed breathing with my snare roll heartbeat. The coke rose in me. So I danced among my friends to the rhythm of my trickling bladder. The surges of dopamine absorbed my brain and fueled the psilocybin progressively toward a crux that would inspire new adventure and tales from the venom in the sticks. Our frightfully entertained saucer eyes saw everything. I was sweating as it happened, but I didn’t realize that until after I grabbed my shroom crew by the sleeves and pulled out my car keys and we were Screeching out of there with no lights on, heading the opposite direction that D and Shauna went. That night changed abruptly. The sound of a skull crunching under the swing of a 2×4. The way Mike locked up straight and stiff like he had been electrocuted by
high voltage. The way Mike’s 40oz beer bottle shattered in front of him before he toppled face down in slow motion, his arm flinging that 40oz as a reaction to the shock. The way Mike landed on broken shards of glass with his face. The hurried steps in the gravel. the tires squeeling. The car door slamming. The Pinto Rallying into the distance as we fell into the terrifying silence that had muted the party for several deafening moments. The pool of blood that was growing rapidly around Mike’s body, specifically, his head. On your marks, get set… The women’s Screeching and screaming in horror was the Go that put my mushroom peaking buddies and I into motion, and we all piled into my Cobalt Blue 73′ Super Beetle. It took me a second to start it up which gave my friends time to pile into the Bug. We dipped out of there with no headlights on and raced to exit the county forest road before the police or ambulance entered it. We made it to hills above our town, and I pulled off on Old Jemtegaard Rd. We sat there squished in a little scared ball of traumatized psilocybin snifflers. I don’t remember hearing any
of us breathing for the longest time. We were clenched and stiff and our eyes were wide open. Then a firetruck drives up the road we had just gotten off of.

“Oh shit!” Someone said in the back seat.
Then another fire truck.
“Oh Shit!”
Then an ambulance.
“Oh Shit!”
Then a cop… “…” Another cop… Another cop… Another ambulance… Two more fire trucks. The Skamania County Sheriff… then an unmarked cop car… Unmarked car. cop… cop.cop.cop…
“Oh Shit!”

“Oh, Fuck!”

“What the fuck jsssst…?” I heard Gene say from the rear passenger
The scene started over again. D creeping along the laurel with a 2×4. Crack!!! I jarred awake.
Another trauma sleep re-run. Sylva rose with me as I sat up soaked with sweat. All my muscles were tight. I had been holding my breathe in my sleep. I was about to be full-on dope sick in a couple more hours. By the time the sun came up I would be tearing my skin off and browsing through Sylva’s purse for cash. That dream really had happened a while back. My OXY dealer got knocked. So the only thing I could maintain my habit with was heroin. Sylva kissed my concave chest and laid her head down, sweetly,on my shoulder. She gave me a soft and breathy, “I love you, Baby,” before closing her eyes and easing herself back into sleep. Sylva knew about my habit but she wasn’t involved. I kept up the image of normalcy out of respect for her. We had a don’t ask, don’t tell thing going on. I knew she didn’t like what I did to myself. I also knew that she didn’t like fucking around with Bassie either, But she kept that up so that she would keep from resenting me too much, I think.
I didn’t let it get to me though. My junk problem had become too demanding and time consuming to pull off, whilst keeping my woman happy and appeasing my parents and keeping my full-time job as a cook and taking thirteen credits at the community college. Typically, I was able to buy a nice loaf that would last me the stretch between pay days.
Recently I started poking myself with that sticky tar and I was beginning to lose control of my routine. My system. My plan. I had huge fucking plans. Gene and I had already set part of the operation into motion. We were producing top notch psylocybin tablets that were really strong. white pills that bruised indigo blue if you squeezed the gel cap. We had a method that worked. The state had recently passed a law allowing the controlled prescriptions of psilocybin psychiatric treatments for clinical depression and anxiety and PTSD. We had a great connection to a doctor who had been buying from us for quite some time already for his own tests, even before the law passed. Now that it was legal for these guys to prescribe, The doctor was still buying from us and he was now purchasing for several other clinicians through us. We were on the ground level of something huge. When Marijuana was recreationally legalized, the people on that ground level got filthy fucky rich and are just collection cash like the dope man, only FDCC Insured and totally legit stream of income. Gene and I were breaking ground on the psilocybin front. Gene wasn’t and opiate addict though. He was becoming increasingly stressed about my flakiness and appearance. I really had to figure something out soon.
I peeled my ass out of bed and quietly got dressed. After waking from that same shit dream in a pool of detox and anxiety, I couldn’t fall back to sleep, no fucking way.
I needed to make something happen, and fast. I had to be at work by 7:00am way out at the resort. It was already about 3:30am.

“Same fucking dream again.” I said to Kraut about a half hour later. Kraut had been sleeping on the living room floor over at Isaiah’s place. Kraut and I had a lot in common at that point in time. Only he was a little further down the drain than I was. Head start on the needle was the difference. I knew it was a mistake, but I wanted to feel the ultimate sedation or whatever. It really did feel fucking incredible shooting up heroin. I knew that drug addiction was not in my long term future. It was just a youth thing I was weening off of. A phase. I could still justify it easily at that point in time. A real horror sort of memory. It had been several years since the night saw and heard Mike’s skull crack. Mike owed D like five hundred bucks. Mike was older a bigger that D was. Mike wasn’t intending on paying D. D was a coke head. He pushed the shit too, but that night he was into it deep. Sipping on a fifth of Canadian Whiskey, I remember D leaned up against that rusty old tractor in Gene’s mother’s driveway. D- was glassy and swaying a bit. Every so often he would load up a little rock in his straight hitter and burn that shit into the brillow until it was hot and dry. D lived to freebase. He took an angry hit of a big off white colored rock that he held between his fingers to show us guys stream talking around that tractor. D pulled it and was holding in the numbing cloud that came out smelling like burnt marshmallows, corn chips, and hair. It was as he released that hit that we all saw him, Mike. Mike arrived, by himself, to our party. A party which had become an every weekend event up at Gene’s mothers place.

Gene’s mother, Sally, never seemed to care much about anything. She was always real friendly with all of Gene’s company. Gene and I had been best friends since the sixth grade. Sally was my second mother. Sally and I were tight. We always got along. She would even buy me things we she would venture into town every so often.

They lived way out, way way out. That night, like I mentioned, we were just having ourselves a fun time out under the summer sky. It was our biggest turnout of the summer. There was about sixty kids up there. Trucks were parked all around the gravel junk lot in no specific sort of way, headlights on and tail gates down. The smaller cars lined the gravel county road that the driveway met up with.

“Yeah, that was a fucking fucked up thing man.” Kraut replied.
“Whatever happened to Mike? I thought he was dead for sure. I was certain in that moment that we had just witnessed a manslaughter.” I said.
“Oh definitely. He died right there in that moment. He was dead man. We all saw that shit.” Kraut said.
“I heard he died several times in the ambulance. That they kept ressucitating him back to life with paddles and shit.” I said.
Kraut was still in a haze but the topic woke him up. He claimed to be completely out of junk, but I could tell he was lying. He had no sense of panic or urgency in his demeanor. Greedy fucking German bastard.
“DId you know that his 40oz cut his fucking ear off and punctured his eye ball and sliced his face into flaps of skin. They sewed his ear back on but he is deaf. They replaced his eye with a glass one. He has a gnarly scarred cleft lip. I guess he has to manually massage his face muscles on that side and manually blink his eye lid, or it will just drip and drip. Fucking nasty, huh!” Kraut was high. He knew I knew that he had a wake up shot at least. He wouldn’t even offer me a fucking rinse, that prick. That fucking dick head.

Roaming Candle (Explicit Sexual Content)

Roaming Candle

-Tyler W. Simms

After our day of riding gravity and chair lifts, my brother and I had decided to drink, and I will never forget what happened that evening. We started that evening with a few micro brews at the only tavern on the mountain. We ended up meeting two women, proud snow-bunnies. The four of us hit it off. We all seemed to be on a similar wavelength. 

The woman I was drawn to and who became my date for the evening seemed cool and exciting. Her name was J-.  She was short and fit. She was mischievous and cynical and full of fire. I kept having these eye-locked moments with her. Her face would glow hot like an ember and my cock would grow warm and heavy. It was a natural attraction. The timing of our introduction was ideal.

The other woman’s name was L-.  At first, L- seemed sort of obnoxious to me; but she seemed to get along with my brother well. L- had glowing red hair and a tiny nose. Her mouth was big and beautiful. She had tiny round teeth that were evenly spaced. She smiled and laughed a lot, exposing a lot of upper gum, but her gums were healthy. L- had huge tits, and she was bigger and taller than J- was. L- was the loudest human in that tavern, but she was very fun. She made sure nothing became awkward. I could tell my brother liked her. I liked her too. She was gregarious and goofy. I appreciated her lack of self-awareness or lack of concern. I don’t think she cared what people thought at all. 

Both J- and L- were crass and vulgar and they didn’t care to filter anything that came into their minds. J- and L- invited my brother and I to a party at a cabin within the same community in which we were all staying. 

We found our way to the party by following the noise. There must have been forty ski-bums there between the ages of eighteen and forty. Mostly earthy-type folk with squinting, happy-eyes. There was genuine, and joyous laughter arising from the buzz that took hold of the group with each sip of cold, bottled beers that were held in gloved hands. The party consisted mostly of shaggy, stoner-ish dudes. There were a few chubby women with pull-over sweat shirts, drinking Coors Light, smoking Marlboro cigarettes, belching, and kicking everyone’s ass at beer pong. Some of those women were rowdy and could surely drink any of the men under the table. 

I hung out with J-, and we drank near the bonfire. We became closer and more deliberate in our conversation. She pulled a fifth of Canadian Whiskey from her purse and we went pull-for-pull for a while as our belligerence set fire to humor and irresponsible tendencies. J- had on a white beanie and had stark black hair, blue eyes, and an infectious smile. She was excitable and kept biting her thin lower lip while looking at the erection in my eyes. Our crescendo of lust was fun and harmless. We got drunker and drunker until we were fucking plastered. We started making out with intentional freakiness. I breathed her air and licked her teeth and tongue. I liked the way she tasted and kissed me back. She tasted of apples and fire water.

It wasn’t until we found ourselves in the privacy of a little cabin bedroom that shit got wild. J- and I were all over one another. It was great. We were both massively wasted and were laughing as we sloppily removed our clothes. She had a nice body. She definitely took care of herself. She had small breasts with puffy nipples, which aroused me. We eagerly stripped the other’s clothes. She got me naked first and was on me. She sucked my hard cock passionately and I came sort of suddenly. She lapped it all up. 

Then I took her panties off and saw her neatly trimmed little bush. That excited me again. She turned around and bent over on her knees, and I thoroughly licked her little ass crack. Something about the way her pussy and ass tasted and smelled had me raging hard again. She was yummy. That wild, stubble-sweet pussy and that shadowy salted ass, scrumptious. 

All was good so far. 

I entered her from behind and she gasped for breath as she was inhaling. She made the sexiest little submissive cries. I thrust slowly and went deeper with the crescendo of a natural pace. I went as deep as I could after a few strokes and hit a dense spot that resonated like a subwoofer upon impact. Her body squirmed with pleasure each time I headed it. Her spine would twist and bend and react to the euphoric waves like some sort of puppet or an exorcism or something. It was really hot.

She became louder as the intensity increased. I held her entire neck in one hand with varying grips of intensity, and I grabbed a handful of her black hair with the other hand, tugging on it appropriately, and she loved it. She looked at me over her shoulder, staring into my eyes with a powerful lust and glowing hot cheeks. There was a carnivore in her fuck face. She started backing up into my thrusts, encouraging me to let her have it. I started pounding furiously. It felt like I was plucking a big tendon in there, that dense spot would resonate with a twanging vibration that carried its sound through her angling back. The subsonic reverberations gave chill to her sweating skin, and her toes curled. 

The 909 rhythm became an 808’s gush, gush, gush,   

   *Gg-g-g-UUUUUSSSSSSSHHH*

It was all very intense. Then she asked me to stick something up her ass. She wanted me to continue fucking her pussy, but she also wanted something in her ass. So, I kept my cock inside of her, still from behind, and I began looking around the small dark room. All I saw besides basic bedroom furniture was her open hand bag on the floor. I fumbled through it and found a travel-sized hair dryer. I also found a bottle of cucumber melon lotion. At that moment I doubt the lotion would have even been necessary. Everything was already soaking wet. I arched over her back, my stomach and chest on her back, and I placed the hair dryer and lotion on the bed under her tits, between her elbows which were propping her upper body. Her back was arched up and her forehead was resting on the red fleece blanket. I placed the hair dryer in front of her face as a suggestion. 

She said, “Yeah.” 

Then I put my arms under her shoulders, hugging her back from behind, and I locked my hands together behind her neck. It was doggy-style with a headlock. I was still so hard and I was as deep as I could be inside of her. She was limber and little.

After a moment, I unlocked my fingers from behind her head and with her helping me, she turned around slowly. We managed to stay attached the entire time. We were face-to-face at that point. I was sitting on my knees. She began riding me on my lap. It was so hot.

That is when I noticed her sexy little arm pits that she didn’t shave. They looked trimmed, but she kept her arm pits natural. She had little course patches of dark brown hair in each pit. Something about a woman’s body hair sends me into deep space oblivion, like an on-switch. J- and I fucked so passionately, it felt as if we had been lovers for years. We were synced and truly feeling one another. I smelled her hairy little arm pits over and over with each breath, and I told her that it turned me on. 

She shrieked with excitement. I was rubbing her soaking wet asshole with my left hand and dipping my fingers into it, each finger, one at a time, sometimes two, and I was working on the third. Everything was wet and slippery and gushing. My right hand was holding the back of her shoulder by the under arm as my thumb rubbed her pit hairs. We were kissing and she was riding me like a sprinting pony. We were on fucking fire. I licked and suckled on her nipples, giving each one a firm bite and Tug. Her nipples went sharp and hard as I blew on them after wetting them and pinching them with my mouth. The hairs around her nipples were subtle. I found them sexy too. I noticed a slight trail of hair from her belly button downward. I found that sexy too. 

She straightened her back and lifted her arms. She ran her fingers through her black hair from front to back, and she pointed her elbows upward then to either side as she pulled her hair back. She leaned her head back and pushed her chest out towards me. She was arching her back and grinding her clitoris on my pedestal. I squeezed her ass cheeks aggressively in each hand and pulled them apart and then squished them together, apart, together, apart, together, etc. I did this while I put my face into her hairy arm pit, and I licked and sucked all the scent and the sweat from each pit. I breathed her scent in. The tips of the hairs were on on my lips, perspiring under my hot breath. It was a moment that felt so beautiful and pure. It was emotional and in the heat of it all a single tear fell down my cheek and I nuzzled it into that furry arm pit. 

I rubbed on her asshole and she kept grinding her clitoris with my hard cock inside of her. Every few seconds she would raise up off of me and sit back down. Taking my hard cock into her with such purpose. I could have filled her up at any point. I was focusing all I had just to make it last longer. I held her close to me and we looked into one another. We were ferociously horny, and we had the hungry, animal-like eyes. It was a primal goddamn engagement. I was rooting through her good. We both knew how good it was. With her hairy pit still on my mouth, I had to squeeze her down onto me and hold her tight against me to prevent her from moving. I would have come on her kidneys if she had moved at all in that second. My cock was pulsing, and I knew that I was already oozing cum inside her. I was flexing as hard as possible in order to resist the orgasmic urge of release. I wanted to prolong that sex. I wanted to discover her body’s every nuance. I managed to hold back, barely. Her pussy was gushing with all of our juices. They were dripping off of  my testicles and onto my lean and muscular, white, hairy legs. 

She pushed my shoulders back onto the bed. I fell back onto the bed with the push and was laying on my back. Her hard nipples were grazing my chest for an interim moment before she got off of my cock. 

We’d separated for the first time since we’d started fucking. I stretched my legs out and was still laying flat on my back. She turned around and sat her furry little pussy down on my mouth. My nose was in her ass. She started sucking my cock again. Trying to choke all of it into her throat. She gasped and gagged each time she made it about two-thirds of the way down my shaft. I am pretty certain she enjoyed my dick. I think just as much as I enjoyed her sweet, wet pussy-pie. I knew by the way she sucked me so passionately. 

“Will you keep stretching my ass with your fingers?” She asked.

“For sure.” I replied. 

She continued sucking on my cock and on my testicles. I played with her little asterisk of a butthole and kept working in multiple fingers. It took a bit but I got all five fingers, up to the knuckles, into her asshole. As my mouth drank and salivated with her gushing wet pussy. 

I enjoyed sucking on her chubby furry labia wings and clitoris. I enjoyed it so much that I came. I came, and I came hard. I came so fucking hard into her throat and she savored every drop of my orgasm. My body quaked, and I had an involuntary convulsion, and I let out a weird little whimpering sound. My vision was colorfully fuzzy, and the heat wave rushed every cell of me with an intensity that left me tingling all over and out of breath for several moments 

“Holy shitcicles.” I said, gasping for an unreachable yawn. 

After a moment, I gathered my senses and told her that I still wanted to give her an orgasm also. She said that she wanted anal and clitoral stimulation. She said she was so close and had been almost the entire time. So, I propped her up on her knees with a few pillows under her belly, so that her ass was in a good position to relax and open up. She was ready. I guess some people just like it in the ass. Her ass was hungry to be stretched a bit with that hair dryer tip. She finally relaxed enough, and her ass opened up. It was agape on its own. So I added some lotion to it and started pressing the blower tip of that little-hair dryer. I was holding it as if I were blow drying her sopping wet ass out. I began pumping it in and out, slowly at first, holding it like a pistol with its cable wadded up in the same hand. She rubbed her clitoris and made loud angry moans. I tried to be as smooth and rhythmic as I could be. This was a first-time experience for me. I had put my cock into women’s asses before, but I had never hammered a gaping asshole with a hot air gun. 

Then… 

She said she was about to cum, but she wanted me to plug the hair dryer into the outlet. She wanted to feel hot air blasted into her butt as she climaxed. She was very excited about the idea.

I suppose I was still pretty drunk and post-coitally retarded or something.

I obviously wasn’t thinking that through.

I complied. 

I plugged in the electric appliance that was in her ass. She flicked away at her clitoris. I could tell she was about to cum by the way her body was tightening up. She gave me the signal, which was closely followed by a high-pitched orgasm squeal. 

I pulled the trigger!

It was fascinating to watch her butt expand further to allow the air to vent. 

It didn’t last long though.

Just a second or two into that stupid act, her bowels let loose. The hot air released butt guts in streams. 

It happened fast:

The heat wave popped her ass-bladder.

She shat poop water into the hot electric hair dryer that was in her ass. The hair dryer… 

*POPPED WITH A SPARK! *

(*zZrrraPssts*)launching her off the hair dryer like a champagne cork – shock-diving off the edge of the mattress,

landing on the baseboard,

shouldering the wall with a, “thud.” 

She face-planted on the dinghy bedroom carpet.

Her eyes were wide open, and she had a startled look of confusion on her face.

She was drooling.

For a moment her legs were stiff, and her feet remained on the bed. Then she relaxed from the electric current and her knees crumbled to the floor with the rest of her rushing, curious orgasm. 

She was electrocuted straight in the ass. She laid there on the floor breathing for a moment. We both had her runny poop all over us. 

I asked her if she was alright. 

She lifted herself and looked up at me. Then she vomited onto the side of the bed and floor. 

I asked her if she was okay again. 

She hacked up a gnarly, cottage-puke-loogie and spat it at the wall. 

She said, “That was intense.” 

Then She burped and farted at the same time while stretching and rubbing her eyes. The fart sounded like a Harley Davidson. 

I handed her shirt to her and when she grabbed it, I got zapped by her static electricity. I think I screamed. It startled a little squirt of piss out of me. 

That really happened…

Forager (Part One)

It was a sunny morning. It was September. Mushroom season in the forest country. It had been raining steadily for many days with breaks of sunshine periodically between the late summer showers. The conditions were perfect for my foraging endeavor.
I had a backpack with all my appropriations for urban survival. I wished I could ditch my bedroll. It made my back tense. My neck was aching from the angle of my earth lean. Perusing the beds beneath the timbers. I couldn’t set my pack down though. What if someone saw it and decided to steal it. My life was zipped inside of it. Or what if I got carried away in my tailing of a mycelial hunch and forgot where I had left it. The risk was too great for my comfort. My search was too important to even take a break. Eventually I would come down from my excited hunt and would have to retreat with my mangled finds back down into the city and figure out how to continue my shameful surviving. If I were to ever find a safe place to set my things down and relax, I may never wake up. Maybe that is why I am reluctant to accept help. I could lose my progress. After all, I had given up everything to know this endless pursuit. This circular mockery of what I am. This stubborn rebirthing unto a pariah’d isolation. I shutdown this logical sort of thinking in a hurry. I couldn’t risk changing until everything was perfect. They could be wrong after all. Everyone. Everyone but sad defeated me.
Perhaps I am stubborn and stupid.
Besides, my stagnant travel pack that was beginning to smell of something awful; the homestead strapped to my shoulders, my home, my security pouch full of ground scores and stale snacks and miscellaneous cables and broken electronics that I had yet to find a home for or someone willing to trade me for a shot of street glass was all I really had besides myself. It was worth throwing away. Nothing more. I wasn’t going to give up my pointless strife yet though.
I found a rabbit trail and a snail led me down the hole into the forest. I had a shopping duffel for prized morsels, empty and eager to be filled.
The forest always welcomed me with an open heart and embraced me with its curious treasures feasting upon the dead of limb and leaf. Fungi. My fascination for fungi was one of my distractions. It was a seasonal hunch that would take me on these foraging journeys. I always found fungi. I always filled my duffel. I never seemed to find the right ones. There were a few times that I did indeed find what I was looking for. Never had that happened while I was actually looking for them.
I feared the day that I awake to what I had become. To move forward would be to accept all I had lost. Everything a man could dream of was once upon a time, all mine. That life was still alive and well in the recesses of my constant charade of aimless wanderings and daily nothingness. Boredom and apathy compelling me to distraction. The storm would surely come with this winter’s bitterness. The cold and the concrete would surely force me to get help this year. Last year was a fluke, and the year before, and the several years before that. None of those years mattered though. I kept reminding myself that the only thing that really mattered was the present moment.
So I walked on, off the trail, off the road commonly traveled. Into the valley and over the mountain and across the plain and into the cedar gulch. I walked through protected forests near the city. If I wasn’t dependent on the orange heroin and the plastic insulinsecure energy then I would take my life on foot to the ends of the Americas and hopefully I would find a new home sonewhere inside of myself. A home that didn’t look so suspicious and frightening and lonely.
Then, like a hallelujah moment. I found it. The heavenly royal psilocybin flush of psychedelic mushrooms!
I finally found the answer, the cure, everything I had been searching for. Finally. I can unload my bags and set up an observation station and daydream as I gaze into my perfect new world of happy futures. I could relax. I got down on my knees and studied the way the earth erects those little phallic peoples. I got so excited and I just thought that I knew for sure what I was looking at. Yes, I knew these. Undeniable. Verifiable. Guaranteed. It was a for sure certainty. That color. It means happy. It means new worlds of wonder. It means hours of self actualizing thoughts towards a changed and enlightened mind. I had been looking for these for years and I found them. I knew it was the day. It was just right. I had found a couple the previous year but nothing like this. I barely obtained a fizzling of the body last year. The year before I had struck out and missed the opportune foraging days. It had been at least five years since I had found these glorious beings. This little tribe of smurfs. This colony of unified psychiatric healers. I was so excited I almost forgot to extract these samples from the ground properly. I gloved up and began cutting them one at a time. Slicing them slowly and just at the right spot, near the base of the stipe. They had just began to open up and release their magical fairy dust. Their semen. Their asexual method of reproduction. They pollinate the ground with their near invisible mystery spores. The colony spreads a little more each and every year. What a find! I spent many hours drooling and extracting just the right ones; not too many, so as not to kill off the colony of future generations. Amazing find. A crop. Beautiful. With each slice I would examine them one at a time in utter amazement. I would watch each one turn a neon, iridescent sort of blue where each had been cut and anywhere my gloved fingers may have touched them, glowed with a brilliant blue. The color made me thirsty. These blue spots were actually bruises. And I believe it remains somewhat of a mystery why they do that and what exactly is happening. Though many a mycologist and scientist have written technical theories about the nature of this psilocybin phenomena, I am pretty sure that they are all nothing more than educated hypothesis. They are quite the gift from our Mother Earth. People have been tricked into thinking these creatures are wicked and psychotic inducing witchcraft of the devil. I know and anyone who has had a spiritual-like experience with them knows that these morsels are a wonderful thing that invents new channels of thinking and give potential for mental and physical change if taken respectively at the proper time in the proper setting at the proper dosage. They have the potential to make new connections in the brain between receptors and synapses. I am no scientist. I am a mere amateur forager of these wild examples of life upon death. There is a documentary that is very well done called, “Fantastic Fungi.” Paul Stamets. A revolutionary in the mycology field reveals the truth about them and debunks some common misconceptions concerning their uses. Admittedly, even Stamets says that people have yet to uncover their true potential upon the human psyche and spirit and body and mind.
All that aside. I gathered a sufficient amount for my purposes. My plan to escape my lack of living standards and finding my way back to reality through the confrontation of a dramatic spiritual escape. I may have worshiped that colony that day. I was so excited to find the means to end my ridiculous surviving. It was becoming increasingly more and more difficult to avoid my feelings. My tolerance was not reflecting well on my health and appearance in these matters.
I had a bag full of enough psilocybin mushrooms to treat myself and two or three friends, if I could find any to partake with me. I hadn’t had many friends for a number of years. I had acquaintances outside. But not many of the people I know outdoors were worthy of the title, friend. I cleaned up the area where I had posted up, hovering over that colony all day. I started walking.
As I began walking back toward the city I realized that I had gone a lot further than I had intended. In fact, I had never been this deep into that forest before. I trusted my sense of direction. Though, if I didn’t hurry I wouldn’t make it out of there before dusk settled. I did not feel like spending the night out in the forest alone without a tent or a tarp. I had a blanket and a whole pack full of unecessary items. I might as well be carrying a giant bag full of garbage around considering the situation. So I high stepped it and made haste through the shrubbery and thickets.
It was getting dark and the creatures could be heard stirring about all around me. My crystal clear energy was almost completely worn off and My face had an angry look on it. I still didn’t recognize where I was and began getting very angry. I turned my anger on the forest and began cursing it as if it were the forests fault that I was so careless and foolish that day.
It was almost completely dark and I did not know where I was still. I had a moment where I panicked. Then I got my wits about me and started yelling. Then I remembered that I could whistle super loud. So I started whistling like a freight liner. I kept hoofing it loudly, steaming like a tea kettle as I stomped through the weeds and sticks. Eventually it was completely dark. And I could not see the hand in front of my face. I had given my lighter away earlier that day as a trade for a single cigarette and had no means of making light or fire. It began raining through the trees. The clouds must have settled in and covered up the moon too. I just kept trekking to the voice of my instinctive sense of direction….
To be continued.