X. FISHBOWL DOLL

It’s one thing to collect and another thing to recollect. Though recollecting is like electing certain memories and displaying them at the foreground of particular irrepressible . . . illustriously imposing images summoning up the endless unnamable procession streaming flawlessly through one’s bluesful agony of fishing a sustained flow of events through the patchy clouds of time’s revolting burps, the distortions of everyday visions often get raised to another level of perception . . . Or deception . . . However, collecting crow’s feet is neither expensive nor suspenseful hooey. Never tensive . . . Positively not offensive. I am convinced. Some might say that’s defensive. I get the point, but that’s not the point, but fuck those. Collecting old crow’s feet is so fucking relaxing and affirmative hobby that I can’t see any qualitative substitution to this sedative initiative. I said old crow’s feet. Gotta be old, bit and experienced to qualify for my collection. Though my fish bowl doll, who lives down the hall is a different story.

. . . .

This is the first page of the story. I charge a subscription of $36 per year for access to all my stories. There are 15 stories currently on my website -- ogoart.com -- and I will publish a new one each month, together with -- from time to time -- some excerpts from my novels. To subscribe, go to my website at www.ogoart.com and click on "Writings".

IX. CRYIN' MAN - SELF-INTOXICATION

It’s all cool. Keep crying. I know . . . It’s maddening, isn’t it? Pressure is a privilege. Better embrace it. Like in tennis. Not exactly. But still . . . Only madmen can be really calm. Self-regulating, and self-reproducing can’t be a walk in the park. This thing called sensitivity could set you up for an intensified failure, but . . . Don’t get me wrong, I actually envy you for all those tears and not only for that . . . You are so lucky.

. . . .

This is the first page of the story. I charge a subscription of $36 per year for access to all my stories. There are 15 stories currently on my website -- ogoart.com -- and I will publish a new one each month, together with -- from time to time -- some excerpts from my novels. To subscribe, go to my website at www.ogoart.com and click on "Writings".

VIII. CONFESSION

What’s more significant than myself . . . Only the idea about myself. The indisputable datum of my eternal thereness can be commensurable only to my immortality. The prerogative of being immortal constitutes the leisure of practicing infinite scrutinizing and contemplation. Leafing through this heavy album with color reproductions is like gazing through a tiny window at life’s cruel, laughable affair, overpopulated by those harnessed participants glorifying and promoting their incurable fears while flirting with death’s noseless grin and finally falling into death’s unforgiving grip.

. . . .

This is the first page of the story. I charge a subscription of $36 per year for access to all my stories. There are 15 stories currently on my website -- ogoart.com -- and I will publish a new one each month, together with -- from time to time -- some excerpts from my novels. To subscribe, go to my website at www.ogoart.com and click on "Writings".

VII. DEADLINE EXCHANGE

She calls me Blogo. Bold, brilliant and brief . . . I am a special sort of thief. I steal time from their lifetimes. (While drinking wine.) I claw . . . the fervent core of my gray tofu dough. Longhand . . . I suffer the rectangular face of the white paper. I tend to unleash some hormonal, sometimes ammonia scented, dish of adjectives spiced with mega-dental but mental-microtonality wish. Sometimes I wish my pencil were not a sharp moon-driven wish. I stubbornly try to suppress the obstinate pressure of time spoiling the taste of my wine . . .

“Listen. There is this sort of competition. You gotta pay admission.”

“What’s that . . .”

“It’s all about some recognition.”

“What’s that . . .”

“Acceptance.”

“Are you sure . . .”

. . . .

This is the first page of the story. I charge a subscription of $36 per year for access to all my stories. There are 15 stories currently on my website -- ogoart.com -- and I will publish a new one each month, together with -- from time to time -- some excerpts from my novels. To subscribe, go to my website at www.ogoart.com and click on "Writings".

VI. NOR BECAUSE

Nor because . . . her heart used to beat listlessly like a dryer. Inedible jelly slowly gathers in a slimy puddle between her legs. The searchlight remains focused on the pulsating stream of naked, pink worms crawling upon her wide op-en genitals. She has grown bigger in the past hour or so.

Nor because . . .

The most obscure of her deeds had a purpose. Her frozen pupils . . . conceal nothing. The absence enclosed in the broken witnesses of light will eventually deteriorate into a double hollowness. Two nights ago she was serving three glasses with transparent ice cubes. How transparent were they . . . Were they transparent enough to conceal any minor suspicion about . . . Did she play with the naughty little bubbles clinging to the sides of her glass? Or maybe she was amusing herself with the pale pink lipstick print she left at the edge of the glass. Not much left on her semi-open lips. Cold blue . . . The shadow of her lips has fallen silent. The scent gives off stronger and less subtle smell.

---

The intimate beauty of the flesh is unhindered by the absolute stillness. Anonymous indifferent mass, resembling something I haven’t known well . . .

. . . .

This is the first page of the story. I charge a subscription of $36 per year for access to all my stories. There are 15 stories currently on my website -- ogoart.com -- and I will publish a new one each month, together with -- from time to time -- some excerpts from my novels. To subscribe, go to my website at www.ogoart.com and click on "Writings".

V. POINTFUL

So old am I that even the sequoias were getting sick of my state of being. So, I got sick of them. On the other hand . . . different meridians were not drawn for any other reason than fuck’s sake. The age of the big discoveries wouldn’t have happened if men had no balls. No balls – no poles. No North, no South . . . The world would have been like a big round tongueless mouth. Undivided zone with scattered homeless bones. Not that right now the situation is much different but at least the Earth has been sliced up into semi-neat, complete deadbeat suite, unsuitable and stuffed with a human stench, mincemeat bench . . . on stomping bare feet, some drying wheat in the sea of downbeat full defeat . . .

Wow . . . Roaming could be as nutritious as some heavy pig meal dining. That indisputable conclusion has indeed a lot to do with the meridian division of this fucked up world. A one-balled man could still be bold enough to take a deep . . . rum soaked, stinging puff from a slow-burning tobacco stick and . . . cross the loss of this prime-time years. Right . . . what’s next . . .There is a dead fish in the sand. It’s still a dish . . . Yes . . . The subject is still meridians. The beauty of those is . . . they can’t ever be parallel. How exciting . . . the boundless curve of roundness . . . Most painters paint it with their eyes shut – fewer do it with eyes wide open. Let them . . . Who cares. Texture isn’t a shabby content of painterly surfaces. Skin too . . . One major reason for the generous sperm donor to go through the pain of crossing meridians and slide up and down on their concave edges has entirely to do with chasing after the most adaptable and tough tribe of species, well-known as the race of pussy-holding eggs. Or . . . eggy pussy-holders. Whatever. Another word is women, indeed. Melt the untouched butter cream over the low heat of her sugar bowl or heavy-bottomed pan and when melted stir in the sugar-egg mixture and the passion fruit juice and . . . keep cooking gently stirring constantly, until thickened. Then off to another meridian.

. . . .

This is the first page of the story. I charge a subscription of $36 per year for access to all my stories. There are 15 stories currently on my website -- ogoart.com -- and I will publish a new one each month, together with -- from time to time -- some excerpts from my novels. To subscribe, go to my website at www.ogoart.com and click on "Writings".

IV. SOMETHING SUBSIDIARY

She might think:

This thing . . . yesterday . . . So far away. It’s made out of too many departures and fewer returns. Real farewells take place in silence. Yesterdays are lived by two large opposing groups. Remainers and departers. Their mirrored gestures seldom answered. Most of the time not really. The footsteps of those who leave have a different stretch and charge in comparison with the cramped, anguish-bearing expressions of the men left behind. The smell of tar-smeared boats, seaweeds and gutted fish stings the hidden tears at departure time. The silver shields of choppy ocean water one can see inside those humid eyes of suppressed sorrow. Certainly above everything else . . . the ancient snake of time uncoils silently, invisibly, imperceptibly treacherous . . . Hunting horns of half spoken unfinished words. Hands, arms, and bodies trying to touch one another. Colors, full of grayish light. Ardent grace of shared somberness. Palm trees . . . flat-palmed and waving. Summer nights demand departures . . . Glances get so soft. So full of dying sunset spillage. The joy of sadness reigns and seize the moment, feeds the lantern of unstaged reactions. To reunite the chariots of no returns is a paradoxical hoax . . . Embalmed illusions. Soon death will reconfirm and seal the deal for all departures. But waves will dominate the ocean. As usual . . . the cooling streams of shapeless plankton will ring the bell for very basic breakfast. And then the widened nostrils, lips in search of different lips, a forest of sun-burned and salty stares . . . An agony of love gone numb before the last good-bye, takes place. Thick lace of real human fear. The fateful moment fate awaits.

This is the first page of the story. I charge a subscription of $36 per year for access to all my stories. There are 15 stories currently on my website -- ogoart.com -- and I will publish a new one each month, together with -- from time to time -- some excerpts from my novels. To subscribe, go to my website at www.ogoart.com and click on "Writings".