D>Pollock's "last day on a deserted island ". also "The Now Life" and/or euphoric recall

              How thirsty I was on the third day. I washed up on the shore,  I squeezed the seawater out of my salted flannel. Much to warm a cloth for the climate. I chewed on jellyfish when I was famished. They had the consistency of six-pack rings. How I desired a comb, to push back my crusted hair. (in the crustacean period, I was a land amphibian). I shall dehydrate on to my deathbed. I wanted to strangle "Sting", for writing that stupid Police song, "Message in a bottle", the only agony he probably ever had to endure was another "happy ending", at an Asian Massage parlor.
             How did I end up here? And what would become of me? How I longed for anything that may have presented itself as "dismal" in the populated world. I craved sidewalks, desired dentists, and yearned for one - legged prostitutes. When the evening approached the temperature cooled about fifteen degrees, and I was able to poison my digestive system with inedible berries. They held my appetite over until I spewed them out over the rocky cliff.
             Then, just like in the movies and television shows, I began vividly hallucinating. Talking to myself and even smelling old familiar scents. Like mom's homemade apple pie,  dad's hippie nagchampa , or sister's sweaty vagina. Then I thought to myself, "I can't just sit here and quickly bake to death, I must do something!"
 So I decided to use all my resources to form a monumental "HELP", that could be read by a plane or a helicopter. But no one would find me and I would die. THE END
              Isn't it funny how when the seasons change we become overwhelmed with nostalgic vibrations. Almost euphoric recall.  Something overcomes my senses. I feel as if I have become born-again for a couple of days. Trees and flowers blossom to the first thriving of the year. Cycles and depth to the shades of green cypresses. True I pranced up and down these southern fields of barley. I was once young, dumb and naive to the vices of man. I chose not to acknowledge the injustices of society in my adolescent years, I looked the other way while peers of mine became meter- people, lawyers, and real-estate secretaries.  I chose psychedelic drugs over college, and if I could go back I wouldn't change a damn thing. For I value my present perspective and interpretations, no matter how abstract or obtuse they may seem. Life to me isn't something that happened over the past thirty years, nor is it whats going to happen over the next ten years, it is simply something that is happening now.

D.Pollock, White is the color that sets itself up for disappointment, "Blue", is the color that was her name in a dream.

             White is the color that sets itself up for disappointment. Tender are the years upon which days seem short and naive. I drew the tip of my  delicate finger inside the  wavering of a candle flame. Then once in a supermarket I touched the pretty cacti.  Cafeteria perfume convinced the mentally challenged of their afternoon naps. I on the other hand would not remain so lucky. ( the stock - market would recover, But I wouldn't, ha ha ha.)           The elderly would hold the secret to all my premature misfortune. Being deprived of a sexual drive they hold a key to life in their eye!( A restless fire that shall never die). Lust and desire, are not the designer drugs the thrill - seeking heart requires! Just a constant steady source of painful sunsets diminishing upon a foreign horizon.
                  In a dream I knew a woman once. Love was the title of the affair we were engaged in. She smelt like lost sad flowers. I think her name was  "Blue". She had a fascination with things that I didn't care for, until I knew her. Like Audrey Hepburn, Hallmark movies and Tupperware. She is no more than a mirage, a daytime obituary. Sofas, and mediocre movie references filled our conversations like, "what was your favorite scene from the Graduate?", when I replied "it was the music", a sigh pervaded from her desolate upper lip. Like someone stole her childhood  from her.  And I'm sure that someone did.
                  It's hard to really love someone, it's almost like it has to happen by accident . Desire is the premise of lust. Love is the the premise for permanence and companionship. Neither of them I know too much about, I just pretend.                 

D. Pollock fiction, I Henry Winlebaum the 3rd, and the Sabbath I would not recover from!

              Oh yes "Lunar eclipse", was my middle name, back in the apocalyptic era. I was thirteen going on forty- seven. I would hit puberty much later on than my peers. My name is Henry Winklebaum the 3rd. My father's name is Sylvester. He died in the first World War. Well let me tell you a little bit about my self. I was born in a lower middle class slum north of Trenton in 1894. My mother Pusnaut, ( a German name)god rest her bee-hive, was a hard -working single mother. She made us walk uphill both ways to the taxidermist's office every other Sunday.
                 At that time I was rather partial to imported jam and shoes. I yearned for a pair of boots. My brother would beat me with a tire iron on the Sabbath. One February morning when my brother was about to finish me off, a starry look developed in his eye. "Henry", he said. "I've got an idea"! I would never be a virgin again. I was born with a vagina!  There was nothing I cared for more than a New Jersey city Street in the dead of winter. When the slush morphed  into the shade of dead pigeons. I would scrape food scraps off the peasants work-clothes. I acquired a ripe passion for filth and embalming fluid. I would become a necrophiliac later on in my teenage years. My lazy eye would fall asleep in the midst of my masturbating sprees! Grandfather would sit me on his lap and recite the fist three chapters of "Little Women" by heart.
                   We were the poorest family this side of the sewer. I would lick rusty nails when I yearned for flavor. Sleep was a commodity as well. I would talk similar to a pirate at my own leisure. Oh the liberties of the youthful! I would find love at the age of sixteen. Her name was Tatty, the poodle next store. She had one hell of a nose for trouble, and how she would wag her tail with at any glimpse of excitement! Well anyway I'm writing this auto-biography from six-feet under, for soon it would be the Sabbath and my brother would beat me to a bloody pulp that I would not recover from!

(D. Pollock) " A young man on the el spit on me"

     Stress filled and gender specific was today. Wreckage of the past, along with vacant hotel lobbies. When it comes to the truth one tends to be lost, and especially if that someone happens to be me. Roaming around downtown Center City Philadelphia has become a chore. Too many assholes trying to save a buck or checking everyone's inventory but their own. Not to say I'm perfect, perhaps I'm far from that, however one strives for progress not perfection.
             On the El today I was spit on by a young man for not allowing him to use my cellphone, a travesty? No, but I suppose that was along with the top few worst things that happened to me today. Perhaps searching for the perfect Pajama girl is a waste of resources. But it's definitely worth writing about. You know this whole facebook thing can be a notorious hazard for the dreamer with an elaborate imagination, not that reality is anything to relish.        It is true that one cannot purchase a decent perspective that would make his or her daily routine more tolerable.                     I cannot honestly say I've had a good day in the past 5 years, and to all my haters, there you go. At least I don't hold resentments. The only person I set out to harm is myself.
Justice for the wicked? Perhaps in a karma - filled world, and I don't believe this world would fall into that category. The brutal truth is that the majority of people on this god- forsaken planet are disillusioned in their own little corner of the world. Filled with their own instinctual sense of finances, and self grandiosity. Although I must add that this is only the majority of people.   So there is that small percentage of selfless individuals out there, and to all of you, I truly honor your effort. , and I'm sure you"re all out there busting your ass for little to no recognition.                                               I  sincerely apologize for coming off a tad bit bitter, I think it was the young man on the El that pushed me over the edge.

D. Pollock (auto-biographical) Walnut lane, the downward spiral through the eyes of the Crimson Goddess.

          Alarming was the discovery, the past I took for granted. When the past was present, I dared to piss it away. Steady ex- girlfriends were inevitable. The frequent stream of booze and cocaine blinded my eyeballs with pornographic delusion. Cockroaches envisioned in the corner of my eyes were multiplied through sleepless hours with bad, dry to no taste in my mouth. Not to anyone's suitable knowledge my time at that one bedroom apartment in Germantown was weaning down.       
             I sobered up one sultry Summer afternoon picturing her surrounded by ivory doves, laced in a thin threaded white dress with sequins. Her eyes and face that smiled bit the sordid hair right off my narrow bird chest. Mocking was her grin. For she would smile at me no more. Days, Months ,and years would pass. No word from the crimson goddess, save only from the deep grey clouds that descended upon my dreams.  Reality would remain twisted with cruel truths yet to be reavealed. The clown of death told one to many quirky jokes upon my carnivorous lifestyle. She disappeared into a surrealistic abyss of B- movies and old friends. She had to remember where she forgot them, I on the other hand would eternally be recovering.                         Years later I ( the man in this story) woke up at a rather strange hour. It was about a half - hour before the early bird would even be able to catch the worm!  My usual routine of checking my 1997 style answering machine then deleting the collectors electronic messages was in place, when there came a knock to my Kensington row home door! I naturally reached for my dulled switchblade, it was her, the crimson goddess! Turns out she happened to be in town for Heroin! She became a Junky! This was perfect for my ego, for I could supply her with support and suboxone in an attempt to nurse her back into my arms.
                        Truthfully I love this woman and this is all speculation, she never became a junky and I never referred to her as the crimson goddess. She was simply a Woman that I (D. Pollock) cared for and still do.  No matter how hard I try to get her off my mind, I just can't until someone new can temporarily fill the void that's draining my mind, body and soul. True there comes a time in everyone's life when their forced to either move on, shut up, or die. I prefer to have my cake and sniff some glue. Although I must say now I feel more accomplished  than I ever have in my twenties for one odd reason or another. Maybe it's due to pure abstinence when it comes to drugs and/ or masturbation. But maybe that's too personal for you. Maybe we  prefer to hide from our truths, I know I used to. It makes one feel uncomfortable maybe?  No wonder society and families are ordinarily dysfunctional. I suppose this country won't be satisfied until the divorce rate hits 100%, as long as the queers don't marry right? Well that's another story.
                        Stay tuned for some more pillow talk. Sorry for straying away from settling down with the pajama girl.