back, not for any community's sake or anything, just need to upload some stuff i've been writing. i moved to paris to study culinary arts and i've been writing everyday. i'm working on something big i don't want to give away too much on and a couple of freelance shorts for other people. only going to be using this in case something horrible happens again and i lose my computer.

writing about cooking here:
[link]

uploading fiction here.

Fuck me you fucking goat.

Yeah bitch ride me hard or I’ll punch you out

Bring it asshole I’ll cut your throat

In the throes as they say as they usually are, a fifty year old lookin twenty five year old native woman riding some fat white fuck covered in a cancerous outbreak of hair follicles in a wife beater stringing across his fatty shoulders; through paneless windows, I pass by. an alleyway that states in gold that word is bond d-jizzy. some iron maiden squealing through the busted coneless speakers, through walls that don’t secrete, through stone, water and earthly bile, while dallas rips on the tv for the deaf, the fellow daily mutes, breaking patterns of silence for phone calls and awkward collisions

Homeward bound, sans cats, dogs and gorges, I brush past a chain wrought terrier thrashing, a suitor holding him/her down as tom selleck and santa claus, degentrified, choking on inevitability of you know, laughing as a bandit-style, bank robber five year old princess choked at the cheeks by a red bandana, pink sandaled, sandals the size of my citrus soaked papercut fist, poledancing sober round a parking sign swinging ahead of me tripping slightly regaining movement, the last moment, seeing the black black headed bandana belonging to me

"Yippy kay ay, mister! wanna play cowboy?" Smiling with hope that someone will bring that to the table as mom stares on hugging hotel cement like their worst best friend, reminded distinctly, painfully of my sisters, thanking something out there that their paths are in a different park

"sorry, kiddo. maybe some other time.”

Slip past dignified pressed cotton blanched with stretched flesh, kinetic, divots in skinfolds, bare fangs glistening like grease covered similes, bright big brown eyes, sure to fall for, men with classification and wit pallor, in search of that old tv show that did rectangle film swipes of the scariest shit you ever saw when you were seven years old right after your mom showed you terminator and buffy the vampire slayer with matt Dillon; a fear that you feared and hungered for like Alvin Schwartz staining your mind with ink spat pages of black and white fury under the penlight, under the sheets, hours before the first day of the grade two

and there's the job that i've kept, climbing ever so slightly, arbitrarily towards raises of an hourly quarter, meagre yet amusingly fulfilling, there's the scars on my hands from ovens and knives, numbly learning recipes for overpriced food for overpriced clientele and incredibly lonely people, though even in that loneliness, we'll never relate

Walk backwards near the place of the OCD conductor who serenades the deaf with renditions of the ninth, crouch down, thighs hurt minutes ago you were throwing change into an empty guitar case for the acoustically inclined,

Guy-Spare change?...girl-hey I love your shirt

It ain’t nothing to fuck with...I don’t have much man I think a few quarters. Maybe a buck

Girl goes real quiet and starts lookin for a place to piss

That’s cool we’re trying to get some beer money.

That sucks man.

Yeah whatever, Man we saw ghostface killah for free in Austin texas...

Fuck off are you serious! That’s amazing!

Yeah dude we’re all about more fish.

Oh come on, what about the champ on fishscale...

Girl walks off to hit up anyone who makes eye contact anymore...

hey man is that a CV pin on yer hat?

Wha?

Choking victim?

Yeah shit my bands played with them a few times

Shiiiiit! That’s amazing I’m a big supporter of the LOC and the CV and the-

Morning g, we don’t stop, you’re death will be sweet if you wanna be a cop

So I toss him a smoke and squat pavement for a while as tanned young colonialists walk by staring at stores they will never shop at, thinking so about the pre-homeless –jaywalk, the behind the back rush, the deaf, blind and jaded approach, not hearing the story...holding an acoustic stripped of particle board, replaced by peeling stickers, he scratches at below the elbow, not cuz of addiction, because the man is a beer drinker and a smoker, but because of the burn scars ripping his body and skin into red over salmon fractions; blasted by a steam grate in chicago, used all the money that he saved on surgery, earning money for a beer so I dig deeper in my pockets pullin’ out a ten, man got kicked out of his house cuz his family owed 30 grande to save his itchy skin and with cracked teeth he tells me of looting beer stores on a door, new Orleans and ninth mile in Detroit, showing me nine millimetre size wounds on his arm compliments of a crack dealer, scars screaming red skin taught, and a love story unfolded:

fucking gorgeous and covered in dirt, met in Austin TX swillin forties on a cement block, goin with her to Halifax and then to MASS to work on a cherry farm to make enough money to take her to Europe and marry her the love in the eyes of the two looking at each other, needing each other more than the forty, swilling it in I walked backwards thinking of this summer, just passing middle age, dying slowly, in the throes as they say, with long legged kicks of heatwaves and thrashes of electrical storms, reminded vaguely of a crevice in flesh, a wound, stitchless, never healing, perpetually open, and then there's the summer

the summer i've spent silent, barely talking, from work into ragged scratches of sleep, alone, letting pass by me without any excitement or really anything at all, sinking with each collapsing second, standing back up spitting and walking, smoking each carbon filter into the next until the sun splits my thoughts, the day wanes on, the streets wax oblivious, alone, repeating the mantras, sleeping through evenings, repeating each day until at some point i'm sure i'll give in

been writing a ton.
going to submit some noir fiction and autobiographical stuff.
have a new featured story and other things like that.

hopefully, i'll have some links for the places i've been published up and running soon.

i'm going to take this writing business and make it D.I.Y. i'll be selling my stuff on the streets of montreal and flyering like i would for a punk rock show.

this guy mindmasher said some pretty key stuff about the business way of lit on DA. i'm going to keep this account open just for easy access purposes and so i won't lose any of my work.

that's about it. i don't even know if anyone checks this out anymore.

in bourbon and butts i trust,

joel

i think i have two cavities
and an addiction to nicotine

i feel gross
mind body and soul