Something from My Travel Journal

. . . and then the door swings open.

I lunge forward, both fists drawn back
sharply, and lash out, my robotic synapses
flashing at the speed of light.

Suddenly, I'm through the room, only barely
able to register the mass of bloody Carnelians
I've left behind.

I'm a hunter being hunted, and I'm very tired.
(and drunk)

They've had me on the run now for close to 71oo years,
and I've been across the universe to avoid any more of their
tortuous transmutations only to be continually hunted down and
placed back in my prison.

They are the ones. The ones. They are . . .
the ones.
The ones. They are . . . the ones who have . . .
punished me to a life of eternity, by injecting me
with robotic immunoid sentries and rebuilding parts of my
body with materials culled from at least 15 of the dimensions
that human beings cannot even begin to fathom.

For thousands of years, I was their slave. As they rebuilt me, time and time again,
perfecting their skills for human rehabilitation,
I was forced to endure pains and agonies the likes of which you mortals could never
understand.

At first they called me the bringer of fire. At first they called me Prometheus. I made the leap out of my human clothing and into something much greater, more sacred. I had discovered the unfound door and unlocked it. I escaped into the dark night of space, only to be captured basking in the glow of Kappa Andromadae, a yellow dwarf in the Andromeda star cluster. That was when it all began. I had broken some of their unspoken rules. Their rules are woven into the fabric of all that exists, and I, the bringer, had set their fabric aflame.

They
took me in,
changed me,
rearranged me,
disassembled me,
and put me back together,
piece by piece, cell by cell,
rearranging me in a manner that
allowed me to walk the halls of time and space for
all eternity, but then I escaped, and I ran and that's when they caught me again.

You wonder why I'm so angry--try a thousand years worth of pain that, alone, would kill
a human being--and then as a final punishment, to be returned to the most inhospitable planet in the universe, a scumsucker's refuge--planet Earth. Or step one for me. The place I'd spent my whole life trying to abandon. I was back with the virus of humanity. It was my eternal punishment to walk amongst your number and be forced to endure your ever-evolving stupidity.

Tell me your toaster wouldn't be set to "DARK."

Wildfire

Skank is America's most horrible
disease,
and it's spreading like
wildfire.

Competence

The only thing
human beings
are competent at
is being completely
incompetent.

The Hilton Hightower Page #1

The first "Hilton Hightower Page" is now available in the April issue of The Sangamon Star.

The link:
http://www.sangamonstar.com/files/SS-04.pdf

Face it, you loser, you don't have anything better to do.

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf's Breath?

Let me tell you something about
Virginia Woolf you won't read anywhere else.

She had terrible breath.
It smelled like yogurt that's
passed through a goat's intestine.
To make it worse, she was a close-talker.

One day when I could tell she was feeling particularly
crazy,
I said,
"Before you come and talk to me up close,
check your breath,"
and she pretty much lost it
and started pulling her hair
and throwing things all over the room.
(Madness is so funny to watch.)

My point is, it's no wonder Altoids became
the breath mint of choice in England during
Virginia Woolf's lifetime.

Precocious Ferocious

Q: What would you get if you crossed Britney Spears with a grizzly bear?

A: A giant, ferocious, slutty, hairy redneck that can't sing worth a shit.

Ballish

three's company

The Clap

Reading poetry online
is a lot like getting chlamydia
from a sibling.

Fodder

In regards to the canon
of Tom Cruise's movies,
will someone take a cannon
to Tom Cruise's movies?

The Worst Natural Disaster

Consists of
6.5 billion
people.

Self-Publishing

People
who self-
publish are
pathetic writers
who have no talent
and should be ashamed
of themselves. (Bloggers, too.)

Ruins

Poetry just proves
my point.
Eventually people
will ruin
everything.

SNAP

I have the patience
of a mouse trap

Hilton Hightower's Tips on "Not" Being an Annoying Assface

Avoid others at all costs.

Hilton Hightower Says . . .

if you have ever, in any way, tried to look like your favorite writer
you are a pathetic pusbag.

You Activists

You activists are so
active

trying to use poetry
to spread your
message

Take it from old Hilton Hightower
that no one cares

No one cares about your poetry
and no one cares about your cause
and no one cares about you
because no one cares
but you.

Teaching Writing

What a dream!

To teach.

And publish those goddamn poems.

And get so famous.

Be a *ROCK STAR* poet.

My name in lights in every journal nee and high.

Keep my black t-shirt lint free.

My thin spot combed over and shineless.

And bide my time until I score with an undergrad.

Boy, I'm glad I teach writing.

Perfection

I'm not perfect.

I tried to have a friend once.

Treachery

America,

Just when you thought things couldn't
get any worse,
they went and made
soda pop
a villain.

Journalists

I've never
met a journalist
I didn't eat.

Enlightenment

A few weeks ago,
I was coming down from a three-day
cocaine high,
and I emerged from my hole in the ground
that I call my "Secret Lair."

The first person I saw
was a pathetic old man
who said, "Wow, you sure do look wise."

I said, "No, sir, you're confused. I don't look wise.
No one does. I simply look badass as hell."

He said, "What do you seek to do among the world of mortal men?"

I said, "Leave your pathetic voice to yourself you old pissbag. I
don't care about anything. I'm doomed to continue living in
this hellhole we call a universe. I don't give a damn about mortals."

He shrugged, and said, "I think I understand. This is a valuable lesson
about the overman."

I knocked his lights out and ate his false teeth.

Accolades

If you ever have a professor
who tells you that your poetry
is good.

Meet that professor in the alley
with a crowbar and break his/her
knees.

Then jump off the tallest building
in your community.

Your poetry was terrible
in a world of terrible poetry
and you sought to receive
accolades.

You are the worst type of scum.

(Except celebrities who try to cash in
on their status in order to publish
poetry that is even more terrible than
the run-of-the-mill poetry that is published
by people who actually have a brain.)

Toilet Bowl

l
i e
o t
t b
l o
w

I Hate Poetry

Poetry
is
the
lowest
form
of
violence.

eye wz

1ce win eye wz bng torchured
eye wz frsed 2 et thbtks
eye wz brnt svrly inn mi noz
eye wz hng by mi toz

eye wz nvr hapyr

Who Likes Hot Dogs?

and, and, and

Robot parts
and
English tarts
and
Combat starts
and
Ninja darts

Life in an underground bunker . . .

isn't nearly as tough as you'd think.

Ode on a Grecian Burn

Ow that goddamn burn hurts.
Goddamn Grecian burn.