Trent Disco: Messages Sent Via Complex Electronic Equipment

Urine Pants

2006-11-05T12:53:00.000-08:00

I have no opinions; pills signal chemicals in my brain to tell me how to feel. Outside my apartment rain seeps between cracks in the pavement. As the road becomes saturated it begins to smell like chemicals, petroleum harvested from graveyards of those long deceased. We burn our ancestors and draw hopscotch lines on their charred remains. Teenage dreams reverberate from a television several walls away only to be interrupted by the stench of stale urine as I bring my hand to my face to scratch my nose. I briefly consider maturbating to internet porn after returning my hand to my pants. There is a vice on my head, the fierce numbing grip of an outsider. I am terrified of time and measurements, of quantitative analysis and standardization. Pour my fluids into a beaker and drill for my marrow. Take me apart and process me into syrup so that I might seep through the cracks that run deep in the pavement.

Nude Man

2006-04-04T18:34:00.000-07:00

In downtown Portland there lives a man who spends the majority of his day nude, sitting high above the street in his apartment window, looking out at the world below. Yesterday he was sitting cross-legged, taking pictures of his penis.

childhood memory

2006-03-27T16:05:00.000-08:00

After my Father finished mowing the lawn, I ran outside. I walked along the tracks that the mower made, staring at the ground, careful to remain inside the lines. I pretended that I was carrying miniature people inside my body. I visualized a pilot and his crew standing behind my eyes, making sure that I stayed on course, and that all of my systems were functioning properly.

Dead Refrigerator

2005-12-13T19:56:00.000-08:00

My refrigerator has stopped working. Things are rotting in there. My perishables have perished, a buffet for microorganisms. I still open my refrigerator from time to time, even though it's dead. Nervous habit. It's insides, lit with yellow light and covered with moisture, reek like the river Styx that sometimes flows between my crotch and thigh.

A shorn Scrotum

2005-12-13T11:33:00.000-08:00

There is nothing more unnatural than a scrotum without hair. Sexy ... I think not, more like a soft wad of freshly chewed gum. To shave one's scrotum is to strip a lion of his mane.

Time for Making Business

2005-12-13T02:24:00.000-08:00

Late to the office again. I have to get back to David about the Final Documents on the Peterson transaction; Richards will have my ass if that doesn't fly through Finance Committee.

To Do:

1. Follow up with David.
2. Fire Helen.
3. Lunch at Pastiche
4. Tickets to Borneo

Renaissance

2005-12-12T14:13:00.000-08:00

I awaken this morning with the sun and the cocks crowing at the purple sky. The faucet is on in the bathroom. I turn it off and sit down on the toilet. I can see myself in the faucet's chrome hardware, hunched shoulders, stoic growl. I move my body to alter the shape of my reflection. It's uncanny how malleable we become, superimposed on mass-produced plumbing fixtures, mirrors into drugged out worlds and early morning thoughts. These are the every-day muses that support human introversion, echoes on bone and sinew.

I fart out a fist full of shit and again my classification is obvious, a generitype covered in geometry and equations, surrounded by sharp corners and cold tile; time will not stop for my thoughts. I turn the faucet back on so as not to interrupt the flow.

Calling in take-out

2005-12-11T13:09:00.000-08:00

Why the ordeal every time we order pizza? There's just no need. I hate to call; you hate to call. We have established this. Why struggle to cross an infinite abyss. Pizza is delicious and you taint it with your selfishness. The word is pompous if you live in Utah, it may be idiosyncratic anywhere else. But I digress. Tony Pepperoni makes a pizza worth giving everything for. His pizza forces atheists to their knees, so clearly was it birthed by a higher power, too perfect are its sausage foothills and pepperoni basins.

That's it ... I'll call. Oh, you called already. I claim victory. I am a firey hot warrior.

Prophecy

2005-12-11T11:51:00.000-08:00

A storm in the sky is less than a half gallon away from a cyclone in the toilet. There are Japanese people out there. Hunker down young soldier; the world is a matchbook covered in black grease and stale breath. Search for Souza, the gay wizard, two tablespoons of fossilized blood closer to a manimal than science can prove.